DARK CONVERGENCE

DAVE GROSS

Cover by
MATHIAS KOLLROS
For R. Scott Taylor, who blazed the trail.
 CONTENTS

MAP............................................................................................................................ vi

THE FIRST HARMONIC..................................................................................... 1

THE SECOND HARMONIC.............................................................................25

THE THIRD HARMONIC.................................................................................46

THE FOURTH HARMONIC............................................................................70

THE FIFTH HARMONIC..................................................................................90

THE SIXTH HARMONIC...............................................................................109

THE SEVENTH HARMONIC........................................................................133

THE EIGHTH HARMONIC...........................................................................153

THE NINTH HARMONIC..............................................................................171

GLOSSARY............................................................................................................179
MAP
 THE FIRST HARMONIC

Precision is the opening theorem in the proof of perfection.

Nemo

The wagon creaked as the team pulled it along the muddy path winding
south from the Dragon’s Tongue River. The horses snorted plumes of mist
in the cool autumn air. A pair of half-shuttered lanterns glowed on the
wagon’s front posts on either side of the drivers’ seat. Their yellow light
reached just beyond the hooves of the lead horses, barely illuminating the
leafless branches of the surrounding woods.
Canvas tarpaulins covered the wagon’s bulky cargo, except for a giant
mechanikal limb lying on top. Lantern light glimmered over brass gears
connecting the upper and lower lengths of the steel-and-chromium arm. A
double-pincer formed a clawed hand at one end, while a ruin of mangled
gears and axles jutted from the other.
High on the driver’s seat sat two hulking figures, their cowls pulled low
over faces muffled by scarves. Through the wool, the driver whistled “The
Last Maiden of Caspia” as he held the reins loosely in hands encased in
blue steel gauntlets. The passenger sat silent and still but for the jostling
when the wagon’s wheels dipped into ruts and bounced over roots.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

The driver’s eyes widened as he spied something moving onto the road
ahead. He stopped his whistling.
“Uh, oh.”
With a sound of ratcheting gears, blue-white lights appeared on the
path before the wagon, moving in two distinct figures. Two humanoid
shapes stepped forward, glowing panels set into their legs, arms, and
torsos. On each head glowed a single unblinking eye, brighter than all the
other lights upon their bodies except for one: a stylized icon of a woman’s
face on each chest.
The driver reined in the team as six more figures stepped into the
wagon’s path. The interlopers remained ten yards away, stepping back to
maintain their distance as the wagon slowed and halted.
“Who’s there?” The driver opened the shutters on the nearest lantern.
Light shone on the steel bodies of the intruders.
They looked like fanciful suits of armor inhabited not by men but by
brass mechanisms. Heavy steel blades jutted from the backs of their right
hands, a compact battery of six firearm barrels on the left. They raised their
left arms in unison, pointing them like pistols at the driver and his passenger.
“Halt!” called a flat, mechanical voice.
“I just did,” said the driver. “You can see I don’t want any trouble.” His
voice echoed deep and muted, as if from inside a steel helm. He turned
toward the sound of coiled springs and heavy footsteps approaching from
behind the wagon.
An enormous machine emerged from the woods to block his retreat.
With every step of its four crustacean legs, its internal mechanisms
whirred and clicked. Lantern light warmed its chromium-plated surface as
it turned its ovoid torso to keep the apparatus on its right shoulder trained
on the driver. A rack of razor-sharp saw blades fed a whining compartment
inside the contraption. At the end of its left limb, a symmetrical pair of
heavy pincers clenched and released—an operative version of the arm lying
on the wagon’s bed.

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“Step down,” said one of the clockwork soldiers. The tenor of its voice
was the same as the first speaker’s, but its cadence differed. “Make no
sudden moves.”
The driver looped the reins around the brake and raised his armored
hands. “I promise you’ll have no trouble from me.”
As the driver uttered the code phrase, Artificer General Sebastian
Nemo emerged from behind the tree where he had been hiding. He
flicked a switch on the side of his storm armor. A dull thrum rose to a
high whine as lightning flickered on the galvanic coils on his back. Tongues
of electricity cast the bare branches of the trees into stark relief against
the night sky. Nemo’s white hair floated on the static field, his blue eyes
brightening as the charge increased.
At the same time, five heavy blades crackled with lightning beside him.
Six blue-armored soldiers rose from the concealment of the camouflaged
ditch, dry leaves rustling as they slipped out from beneath the tarpaulins.
Just off the path behind the wagon, Storm Chaser Caitlin Finch and
another half-dozen Stormblades appeared. The men held heavy storm
throwers at their waists, the storm chambers keening as the guns’ coils
glowed brighter.
A brilliant, white flash rose to the north. An instant later, a heavy
impact shook the ground, followed by another. A gradually accelerating
rhythm thundered up the path behind the wagon.
The wagon driver shrugged, his hands held high as he spoke to the
clockwork intruders. “Now I’ll keep my promise, fellas, but I can’t speak
for these other folks.”
“Lower your arms and surrender,” said Nemo. He activated his tempest
accumulator. Lightning leaped between the weapon and the voltaic coils
of his armor.
“He means you,” said the driver. He pointed a steel-clad finger at the
clockwork soldiers while keeping his hands raised.
Half of the clockwork soldiers fired on the wagon.

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Slender projectiles shot from the batteries on the backs of their hands.
They broke apart to form dozens of tiny missiles that swarmed their
targets.
The driver covered his face with both gauntlets and dropped to one knee,
presenting the smallest possible target. The projectiles tugged at his cloak
and spit sparks from his armor as they formed a buzzing cloud around him.
Up on the driver’s seat, the passenger’s head jerked backward. His body
slid sideways onto the seat and jerked as the swarm continued to ravage
his corpse.
The remaining clockwork soldiers turned toward Nemo. Before they
could fire, a blue-white circle of runes flashed around his outstretched
hand. Three white arcs lashed out to wrack their mechanikal bodies.
Simultaneously, five more arcs lanced out from the storm glaives to shock
and burn the clockwork soldiers. Their metal bodies twisted in spasms
before clattering to the ground.
At the rear of the wagon, the enemy warjack turned to target Nemo,
seemingly unaware of the rising light and thunder approaching from
behind. As its monocular lens fixed on his eyes, Nemo felt the prickling
sensation he always experienced when a fellow warcaster was near. The
feeling remained faint, and his adversary remained hidden.
She may not have revealed herself, Nemo thought, but she was surely
watching.
Stormblades fired lightning into the chromium-plated warjack. The
white-hot arcs scarred its chassis and twisted its pincers, but the apparatus
on its right shoulder continued to whine and spark as a steel saw blade
clicked into launch position.
“No you don’t!” Finch ran forward, thrusting her staff like a lance. Its
crackling head unleashed a wave of coruscating energy across the warjack’s
body. The whine from its saw-flinger wound down.
“Get back, Adept!” bellowed Nemo.
Finch backpedalled.

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The thunder arrived, and with it came twelve tons of steel and lightning.
More than twice the height of a tall man, massive arms pumping at its
sides, the blue-and-gold Thunderhead charged the enemy warjack. White-
hot energy surged out of its lightning chamber to cascade across the coils
on its back and shoulders. From there the lightning leapt down to feed all
of its power into a pair of massive steel hands.
Nemo guided the Thunderhead with his thoughts. It grabbed the
enemy and heaved it up off the ground, only to turn and smash it down
again. The impact deformed the warjack’s multi-jointed legs and sent a
shower of dirt across the path.
Clicking and halting, the enemy reached up with its pincer hand. Before
it could catch hold of the Thunderhead, the larger warjack lifted it again,
smashing it down even harder than before. The saw-flinger cracked open.
Steel discs, each two feet wide, spilled out onto the ground. The chromium
warjack coughed, its limbs moving in short, erratic gestures.
The Stormblades stepped out to cover the fallen foe. One of them shot
the twitching pincer arm a single time, watched it twitch again, and stilled
it with a final arc of lightning.
“Careful with that!” barked the wagon driver. He stood and pulled back
his hood to reveal the golden face of a Stormblade helm. Raising the beaver
to reveal his black-bearded face, the driver turned to Nemo and said, “Sir,
didn’t you want to take it intact?”
Nemo’s bushy white eyebrows leaped as he recognized the speaker.
“Blackburn! I told you to put volunteers on that wagon.”
“Yes, sir,” said Blackburn. “I was my first volunteer.”
Nemo fumed. “That job was far too dangerous to risk my senior officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It would be one thing if I had an entire company at my disposal, but
with so few—”
He fell silent and watched as another Stormblade stepped up to
examine the fallen passenger. The infantryman pulled back the fallen

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figure’s hood to reveal a burlap sack, on which some prescient jokester had
drawn a frown and large X’s for eyes. Straw spilled out from holes in the
front and back, where the buzzing projectile had passed straight through
the stuffed head.
“My second volunteer,” said Blackburn.
Nemo started to say something more, but he closed his mouth and let
the sour twist of his mustache demonstrate his displeasure.
He didn’t want to reprimand Blackburn in front of the troops. Nemo
knew the morale value of Blackburn’s willingness to assume risks he would
not ask of his men, but he had enough mutiny on his hands with the storm
chaser he still sometimes thought of as his “apprentice” despite her having
risen to the arcane rank of Adept.
Turning away from Blackburn, Nemo barked, “Finch!”
Finch straightened from where she had been leaning over the defeated
warjack. She ran to Nemo, holding her staff—her “tuning fork,” as she
called it—a trifle higher than necessary to avoid tripping. It was one of
many awkward gestures that prevented Nemo from thinking of her as a
grown woman rather than a girl.
Caitlin Finch was not only an adult, she had also proven herself time
and time again, especially in combat. She was already becoming known
as one of Cygnar’s finest arcane warriors. Nemo only hoped she would
survive her increasingly daring behavior on the battlefield.
Finch moved to stand before Nemo and saluted. “Sir!”
“The Devil Dogs lost four men recovering the first of those warjacks.
What were you thinking to move so close to this one?” He raised an eyebrow,
hoping the gesture would be enough to make Finch reevaluate her action.
“Sir, I was thinking it was about to cut you in half with one of those
spinning saws.”
Nemo could hardly object to that point.
He and Finch had examined the first of the captured warjacks
together before leaving it for the mechaniks at their impromptu camp.

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The saw-flinging apparatus was perhaps its deadliest feature. He wanted

to know more about those who had created such a weapon and what they
intended to do with it.
Even so, Nemo could not allow Finch to take unnecessary risks in a
misguided, if laudable, effort to protect him—no more, he admitted to
himself, than Blackburn could demand volunteers for a job he considered
too dangerous when he could take it on himself. Recognition of his own
hypocrisy did nothing to assuage his concern for Finch’s safety. “I require
your obedience, Finch, not your protection.”
“Sir, if I may speak freely—”
“You may not.”
He knew what she intended to say. She’d been telling him for months that
he should leave the fighting to the junior officers—the younger officers, like
her. While usually Finch couched her advice in courtesy, she had increasingly
skirted the edge of insolence, even daring to mention his own paternal
attitude toward others under his command. If he allowed her to continue,
she would soon join the Devil Dogs in referring to him as “the old man” or
even less respectful monikers. While he could tolerate a certain amount of
informality among mercenaries, he would not let it creep into his army.
“Yes, sir.”
Nemo looked up to the night sky. The heavy clouds of the previous days
had dissipated. The stars twinkled through the gauze of a few wispy clouds.
Artis, the smallest of Caen’s three moons, fled from Calder, the Lord Moon.
The Baleful Moon, Laris, had not yet risen above the concealing woods.
A more superstitious man might have taken that for a good omen, but
Nemo was not searching the sky for a heavenly portent. He could still sense
the presence of an enemy warcaster, even though he could not see her.
“There!” cried one of the Stormblades. He pointed eastward, through
the naked canopy.
Nemo ran to join the man, wincing as a muscle spasm caught his back.
He had spent the entire day preparing this ambush, and he had ridden

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hard the day before with a scant few hours of sleep. It was no wonder his
body rebelled. Anyone would have experienced the same, he thought.
Even a much younger man.
Nemo looked where the soldier pointed through the tree branches.
Flying east toward Calbeck, a V of seven winged women fled the area. The
smallest of them led the way, her body seeming even smaller in comparison
to her expansive wings. The larger figures, their own size conversely
exaggerated by their tiny wings, shielded her with their bodies, each in
turn gliding behind her in a perfectly synchronized rotation.
By old habit, Nemo raised a hand to hurl lightning after them. With a
weary sigh, he closed his fingers to form a fist. It was no use. By the time he
could release his spell, they would already be out of range.
Finch appeared by his side.“You don’t think she knew it was a trap, do you?”
Nemo smoothed his mustache as he considered the question. “She is
certainly more cautious after her encounter with the Dogs,” he decided.
“She wouldn’t have risked these troops if she knew for certain. Yet she
committed only one of the type of warjack we have already captured, not
one of the other models our scouts have spied in the village. Also, she and
her flying guards remained out of sight during the confrontation. She must
at least have suspected the possibility of a trap.”
“At least we have these clockwork soldiers,” said Finch. “Maybe now we
can learn why they all have the Face of Cyriss on their chests.”
That was the same question that gnawed at Nemo’s imagination.
The various cults of the Maiden of Gears usually struck him as cliques
of harmless intellectuals: mathematicians, engineers, mechaniks, and
astronomers. There were aberrations, as evidenced by the Witchfire Affair
some years previous, but nothing to suggest that Cyrissists posed a threat.
Nemo had never imagined them to be capable of fielding an army, much
less of capturing a Cygnaran village so swiftly.
“Sir,” said Blackburn. He cupped a few brass objects in the palm of his
gauntlet. “I dug these out of our second volunteer.”

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Nemo leaned close, squinting to see them in the light of his storm
armor. At first glance they appeared to be clockwork toys shaped like weird
insects. On closer inspection, he saw they were half-cylinders connected
by a tensor spring. What appeared to be wings on either end were actually
tiny blades. Between them, like the proboscis of an evil insect, perched a
sharp drilling cone.
Nemo took a pouch from his waist and held it open. Blackburn poured
the queer projectiles inside.
“Clear the wagon,” said Nemo.
The major already had his knights dragging the fallen machine-men
toward the rear of the wagon. One of them lowered the tailgate while the
others untied the ropes securing the tarpaulins. They pulled away the canvas
to reveal a shell of chicken wire formed roughly in the shape of the enemy
warjack. They rolled the decoy out to make room for their new captives.
Removing the light cargo did nothing to jostle the war wagon, with its iron-
reinforced bed of oak planks designed to bear a load of many tons.
Nemo once more guided the Thunderhead. It lifted the defeated
warjack with an attitude of tender care and carried it to the wagon.
“Stand back,” Nemo warned the men. As they moved aside, the
Thunderhead laid the warjack on the wagon’s bed. The wagon sagged, its
spring suspension groaning under the enormous weight.
With the larger cargo in place, the Stormblades began laying the clockwork
soldiers into the spaces between the warjack and the wagon’s sideboards.
Lightning had mangled some of them almost beyond recognition, but a few
remained essentially intact. Their flickering lights suggested their power
sources remained operative, even as their bodies were disabled.
“Sir?” Blackburn offered Nemo a perch on the driver’s seat. Nemo ignored
the major’s proffered hand and climbed up unassisted, hissing as another
back spasm punished him for his pride. Blackburn climbed up beside him.
He released the brake and slapped the reins. The team strained against the
greater load, but gradually the wagon moved south and then east.

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“What is our next move, sir?”

“First, I want to know more about these clockwork soldiers,” said
Nemo. “When our reinforcements arrive, we’ll be in a better position to
demand a parlay.”
“And in a better position to drive them out of Cygnar.”
“Exactly.”
From the initial reports of their scouts, Nemo knew as well as
Blackburn that they were currently outnumbered. Capturing another of
the enemy warjacks, along with these clockwork soldiers, provided Nemo
with a slight military advantage as well as the intelligence he required to
understand this new threat—and to drive it out of his country before it
became more than a distraction from the crisis in the Thornwood.
The Cygnaran camp lay less than a mile south of the Dragon’s Tongue
River, just beyond the border of the riverside village of Calbeck. Nemo
nodded with satisfaction as he saw the rest of his advance troops had
finished erecting the tents.
A third of the structures glowed with lantern light, while another third
were concealed with foliage. The remaining tents served to muddy the
difference between the decoys and the inhabited tents.
Deception was their first weapon against an unknown force. Deception
was almost all they had until reinforcements arrived.
With Cryx forces continuing to threaten the northern border, and the
alliance with the Khadorans still unstable, Nemo had been able to divert
only a modest force to this new emergency. As soon as the Devil Dogs
had turned over their captive machines, Nemo had sent riders to summon
more troops and warjacks. In the meantime he meant to be prepared for
any further surprises.
He had only to look up to see the structure that had caused such
concern.
The tower dwarfed the riverside community. Its graceful lines married
art and utility, clockwork and abstract design. The tower’s four arching legs

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planted it firmly in the center of town. Between them, an incomprehensible

conglomeration of giant gears and axles plunged into the earth. Their
constant grind and clatter echoed across Nemo’s camp, even at a distance
of half a mile. From the tower’s northern and southern sides, the glowing
Face of Cyriss gazed down upon the countryside. Atop the tower rested
a globe covered in six tapering shields, like a flower bud nestled inside its
leaves. Now and then a crackling ribbon of voltaic energy climbed between
the edges of the “petals,” the promise of some imminent bloom.
The wagon halted near the engineers’ shelter, a large canvas tent that
glowed with the lights of portable forges and storm chambers. The tattoo
of a rivet gun competed with the chug of a steam engine for the honor of
the racket most likely to prevent the camp from sleeping.
A tall, muscular woman stepped out to greet the wagon. Her salt-and-
pepper hair stood up straight on her head, thick as a hedgehog’s spines.
With every other step, her mechanikal left leg squeaked and hissed as she
put her weight upon it.
“What have you brought me, ’Bastian?”
Nemo bristled at Sergeant Mags Jernigan’s contraction of his given
name. Seeing his reaction, she grinned, revealing a broad mouth full of
tea-stained teeth.
Nemo wished the veteran mechanik would address him by rank, at
least in front of the soldiers, but he had long since surrendered in their
eternal skirmish between propriety and, well, Mags Jernigan.
Nemo reached into the wagon and lifted the detached head of one
of the clockwork soldiers. Except for its now-dimmed eye lens, it looked
more than ever like a stylized helm. “What do you make of these, Mags?”
Wiping her hands on an oily cloth, Mags beckoned to the nearest
Stormblades, who lugged one of the fallen soldiers from the wagon into
her tent. There they laid it upon a heavy worktable as Mags’ assistants
removed the half-reassembled shin of a Firefly warjack. On a larger table
behind her lay the disassembled pieces of a warjack similar to the one in

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the wagon, missing only the arm that Nemo had planted as a lure atop
the tarp.
Mags circled the table like a coroner examining a murder victim. She
wore a sleeveless shirt under her leather apron, revealing tattoos of cogs
and gears on either shoulder. The designs on either side converged toward
the center of her flat chest in an increasingly complex pattern of clockwork.
Mags’ eyes narrowed at the symbol on the fallen soldier’s chest. “That’s
funny. The Maiden of Gears.”
Nemo nodded. “Cyrissists.”
Mags peered into the brass cogs of the soldier’s torso. She hefted its
blade and firearm assemblies with an appreciative grunt as she felt their
weight. As she let go of them, she clutched her swollen knuckles and hissed.
“Are you all right?” asked Finch.
“It’s just the arthritis,” said Mags. “This close to the river, I can feel the
damp in my joints.” She touched, first through the rag, then with her naked
hand, the lightning scars on its integral greaves and pauldrons. Behind her,
Finch craned her neck to see what the mechanik was doing.
“How long since you took them down?” asked Mags.
“Half an hour,” said Nemo. He set the soldier’s head on her worktable.
“The only heat I can feel is from its burns.” She touched the still-glowing
symbol of Cyriss on its chest. “Is this the power assembly?”
Nemo nodded. “That is as good a guess as any. It glows with a light
resembling what I’ve seen in other Cyrissist devices.”
“It looks a bit like your work, old man. Have you been copying the
other students’ work again?”
Finch gasped and swallowed a laugh.
“Relax, kid,” said Mags. “I’m just being amusing.”
“I am not amused,” said Nemo.
“No, you hardly ever are. That’s the problem with you,” said Mags. She
winked at Finch. “Try not to catch what he’s got, kid. Especially in this
outfit, you need to learn to live a little. Before you die.”

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Nemo scowled to warn Mags that he was in no mood for levity. “What
are your first impressions of the mechanisms?”
“Well, there’s obviously a clockwork element to the motor functions.
But there’s no way these boys are just wound up like spring toys.” She
twisted and pulled at the Face of Cyriss on the soldier’s chest, but it
remained fixed. “These power units on their chests don’t look big enough
to keep them going for any length of time. The one on the ’jack you snuck
into camp earlier has already faded. Either they don’t work for very long, or
else there’s another power source in there somewhere.”
“Perhaps the power comes from the tower,” suggested Finch.
Nemo opened his mouth to disagree, but he stopped himself. The rest
of the new enemy’s technology was so advanced that he could not discount
the notion of power fields delivering energy to the nearby clockwork
soldiers. “An interesting idea, Storm Chaser.”
Finch tried and failed to hide a smile at his praise and his use of her
title. Nemo tried to ration such compliments to avoid inflating her ego, but
this one slipped out.
“Now you’re talking magic, I can’t keep up anymore,” Mags said in mock
complaint.
“Here’s something more mechanikal for you to study,” said Nemo. He
tossed her the bag of spring-loaded projectiles.
Mags stepped forward to catch the bag, but her mechanikal leg
screeched and held her back. “Dammit!”
Nemo also reached for the falling bag but gasped in pain as another
back spasm struck.
Finch caught the pouch before it hit the ground. She passed it to
Mags, shaking her head as her gaze flicked between the mechanik and the
warcaster. “Should I summon a nurse?”
“Finch!” they warned her in unison.

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Aurora

Aurora’s bodyguards crowded her as they fled the Cygnaran ambush.

Sabina flew especially too close. Aurora felt that at any moment the razor-
sharp tips of her broad wings might shear through her lieutenant’s shorter
brass wings—not that losing the appendages would cause them to plummet.
The wings provided only guidance. Aurora and her bodyguards flew by
virtue of Aurora’s own enhancement of the arcane displacement fields, the
same gravity-defying devices that reduced the load on Convergence vectors
and allowed certain of them, along with servitors, to hover above the ground.
Through years of study and experiment, Aurora had discovered the
means to miniaturize the displacement field emitter and enhance its range,
installing the improved devices in both her bodyguards’ clockwork vessels
and her armor. Thus equipped, she and the clockwork angels could soar
high above the surface of Caen. When she had presented her invention to
the Constellation, the convocation of the wisest minds in the Convergence
had bestowed a new title upon her: Numen of Aerogenesis.
Aurora banked, diving to escape the “mother hens,” as she had
sometimes thought of her winged bodyguards in the weeks since arriving
in Calbeck. A pang of guilt spoiled Aurora’s mischievous delight at the
unspoken comparison of her bodyguards to the birds whose filth stained
the streets of the town. Her elite clockwork angels were peerless in combat
and unquestionably loyal. They were nothing like the dirty animals pecking
for seed in their squalid yards.
Foremost among Aurora’s bodyguard was Sabina, one of the most
veteran warriors of the Convergence. For well over a century she had

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fought for the Maiden of Gears, mastering a number of clockwork forms

in defense of their subterranean temples and striking down the druids who
sniffed too close to their buried secrets. Sabina had long played the role of
doting aunt, training Aurora in the ways of combat, listening patiently to
her complaints about her strict optifex mentors, and finally accompanying
the fledgling warcaster as her First Prefect for the clockwork angels on her
earliest missions.
As much as the unexpected foiling of her rescue mission, Aurora
blamed her ill temper on the weeks she had spent in the village, which
reminded her all too sharply of the dross and disorder of life outside
the pristine subterranean chambers of the Convergence. Even soaring
high above the ground, she imagined she could still smell the wood
smoke from the cottages, the filth of stock animals, and the decay of the
riverside vegetation. When she had first arrived in Calbeck, the clamor
of blacksmiths, carpenters, and stonemasons filled her head with tumult.
When the villagers saw what she brought with her, the noise of their work
turned to the chaos of panic. She had done what she could to minimize
casualties among the villagers before confining them for their own safety.
Hundreds of feet below her, the village resembled the scale model
Syntherion had created as part of their battle plan for the attack on
Calbeck. Every bend of the Dragon’s Tongue River, every stand of woods,
and every building in the tiny community was just as the Forge Master
had rendered in miniature. Aurora smiled to think of Syntherion, whose
cold and enigmatic demeanor made him seem so unapproachable to
others. She understood him better than most, appreciating his unwavering
perfectionism.
“Numen, please!” called Sabina. She dove after Aurora. The other
bodyguards followed close behind. “We cannot protect you if you insist
on escaping us.”
Another of Aurora’s innovations, the clockwork angels were magnificent
beings, over seven feet tall and modeled on Aurora herself, albeit taller and

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with less magnificent wings. She had chosen only the most skilled warriors,
and each had already fought at her side in over a dozen battles.
When she had first unveiled the angels, Directrix remarked on the
resemblance between Aurora and her bodyguards. “Do you not think it
self-indulgent?”
“Self-reliant,” Aurora had dared to correct the iron mother. She restrained
herself from noting that no one understood self-reliance better than a girl
whose mother had abandoned her mortal body when the child was only
three years old. Now Directrix pressured Aurora to go into the priesthood,
rather than helping her daughter join her in clockwork perfection.
Another prominent Convergence warcaster still remaining in his
living body was Axis, known as the Harmonic Enforcer. The fanatical
warrior had joined the Convergence when Directrix spared his life after
eliminating the other leaders of his radical sect. He had since proven his
loyalty countless times, often in battle at Aurora’s side. Axis’ erratic temper,
however, led many to question his sanity. While she saw him as a beloved
if unhinged uncle, Aurora was unsurprised he had not been chosen to take
on a clockwork body.
Yet Aurora deserved the transfer. Her innovations alone should
have earned her the honor. Each time she saw others receive a perfect
clockwork body, she seethed with resentment. Axis sought to soothe her
disappointment by reminding Aurora that her youth was the reason the
Constellation had not yet chosen her. In time, he said, she would have what
she desired.
Sabina drew up beside Aurora, shaking her head in exasperation. As
they circled the upper tower of the astronometric nexus, the Baleful Moon
reflected off Sabina’s perfect, chromium face.
Before her bodyguard could speak, Aurora dove again, this time
hurtling through the scaffolding toward the great gears and axles driving
the tower’s geomantic stimulators deep into the earth. She folded her
wings at precisely the right instant to pass through without touching the

16
 DARK CONVERGENCE

support pipes. A mischievous smile tugged the corner of her mouth as she
heard the tip of Sabina’s brass wing chime against the iron.
The astronometric nexus was as complete as necessary for the mission,
but Aurora had ordered the servitors to leave the scaffolding in place. She
hoped its presence would provide the illusion of an unfinished construction
and thus inspire less urgency in the Cygnarans.
Despite Aurora’s capturing the entire population in one swift action, a
mercenary company had discovered their presence sooner than calculated—
worse, they had captured a vector and two servitors. The Cygnaran Army
had responded even more quickly than the most conservative projections
of Aurora’s mission schematics. When one of her clockwork angels had
spied the Cygnarans transporting the captured units across the Dragon’s
Tongue River, Aurora had hoped for an unexpected opportunity to recover
her captured forces. Instead, she had fallen into a trap.
Now the enemy commander counted another Monitor and a squad of
reductors among his captives. The loss of the clockwork soldiers stung the
most, for they were no mere automatons; they were human personalities
enclosed in clockwork vessels. To lose a vector or servitor was to lose a
machine; to lose a clockwork soldier was to lose a soul.
Though the Cryx had been destroyed or driven off and the mercenaries
had returned to count their coins and bury their dead, Aurora knew that she
now faced a far greater threat: the nescient savant named Sebastian Nemo.
Even before capturing his most recent prizes, the Cygnaran warcaster
had apparently studied many examples of captured or salvaged Convergence
technology over the years, turning that knowledge to the improvement of
his nation’s weapons. It was thus no surprise that the latest Cygnaran war
machines glowed with the same voltaic light that supplemented the spring-
wound gears of Convergence constructs.
Nemo had proven as crafty in the field as he was learned in the
workshop. While at Sabina’s urging Aurora remained to the rear of her
ambush force, she had still been surprised to see Nemo personally spring

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

his trap. If he had left the matter to subordinates, Aurora would have
swept down with the clockwork angels to defeat them utterly. Yet once she
saw the arcane runes of his spells and the devastating power of his chain
lightning, she hesitated.
At the sight of the Thunderhead running up behind the wagon, she knew
her strike team was too small to take on a fellow warcaster—especially one
such as Sebastian Nemo. While his age might fool some into discounting
his battle prowess, Aurora knew his most dangerous weapon was his mind.
Aurora consoled herself with the knowledge that she had lost another
Monitor, not a different model of vector. Nemo would have no new vectors
to study if Aurora could help it. The man was dangerous enough without
allowing him to unlock more secrets of Convergence technology.
Aurora led her bodyguards in a dwindling spiral until they swooped
beneath the legs of the tower. In the shadows of two of the tower legs stood
the Transfinite Emergence Projectors, Aurora’s battle engines. Behind a third
leg lurked the titanic Prime Axiom. Aurora smiled to imagine the reaction
of the Cygnaran troops if she were to reveal the colossal. Part of her hoped
that would not be necessary. Another part hoped very much that it would.
Aurora rose, curling her wings to rise and stall just as she flew onto the
aerie Syntherion had built for her. An instant later, her bodyguard landed
to either side.
Four of them took up guard positions at the corners of the observation
deck, where the automatic stairs emerged from the tower legs. Beside the
stair openings, lift tubes rose into the upper reaches of the tower.
In the center of the aerie, a curtain of rippled steel concealed the central
pavilion. At a gesture from Aurora, the veil descended to reveal her personal
sanctum. She stepped into the pavilion, Sabina at her side. Moments later,
the veil rose back into place.
Aurora set her polynomial staff in a chrome-and-brass rack suspended
from the ceiling. Once in place, the weapon’s shape combined with the
intricate shape of the rack to form a work of abstract art.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

The day’s exertions had left Aurora filthy with sweat and grime. She
longed to feel clean again, to scrub away this daily reminder of her imperfect
human body. Even more than that, she wished to wash away the memory
of failure and retreat. She moved to a steep tub and opened the brass water
fixtures. Steaming water poured from the tap.
A pair of modified accretion servitors rose to hover beside the tub.
Unlike clockwork soldiers, and like the vectors, servitors housed no
human consciousness. Instead, a series of brass cards dictated their default
behavior. These servitors had been designed long ago by Aurora herself,
both as an exercise in programming cards and as a personal indulgence.
A chirping sound at the veil announced a visitor. Sabina went to a panel
hanging from the ceiling, pressed a button, and listened.
As the tub filled with steaming water, Aurora walked to a circular dais,
beside which stood a featureless brass model of her body. As she set foot
on the topmost tier, four more modified servitors floated down from their
perches in the ceiling. Two of them descended to grip her armored legs.
Their whirring screwdrivers unfastened her chromium boots, and she
stepped out of them.
The two other servitors grasped her steel-and-brass wings. With a few
economical ratcheting motions, they detached the wings and drew them to
the ceiling, where built-in appendages reached down to tighten screws and
probe for damage.
“Numen,” said Sabina with a smart salute,“First Prefect Pollux and Prime
Enumerator Septimus to see you. Shall I tell them you are indisposed?”
“Not at all,” said Aurora, raising an arm to allow a servitor to grasp her bracer.
“But—”
“Send them in.”
Sabina turned her unreadable face back to the panel and spoke quietly.
Aurora shook out a cascade of dark brown hair as the servitors removed
her helm. They floated over to set it, along with the rest of her armor, on
the brass replica of their mistress.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

The first visitor to enter was Pollux, First Prefect of Aurora’s reductors.
His mechanikal voice box was already engaged as he entered the chamber.
“With the utmost respect, Numen, I must protest the use of my soldiers
in this highly danger—”
With a click and a whirr, his voice fell silent as his optic lens fell upon
Aurora. The utility pincers pulled away the armor from her legs and hips.
Pollux froze, his reductor’s body as still as a statue.
“Do continue, First Prefect.” Aurora handed a servitor her utility belt
and the skirt hanging from it.
His vocal apparatus clicked on and off several times. Pollux turned his
head away from Aurora and remained silent.
“Don’t just stand there,” said Enumerator Bogdan, pushing past the
stationary soldier. The tail of his vestments whispered across the chamber
floor between the clanking steps of his battle armor. He had left his
weapon, shield, and helm behind. Inside Aurora’s pavilion, he carried
on his belt only a blowtorch, spanner, and the other tools with which he
repaired troops and vectors in the field.
An abstract sculpture above Aurora’s bed caught Bogdan’s attention.
His gaze flicked to the next in the series. He smiled as he admired each in
turn until at last he saw steam clouding the sculpture hanging above the
bath. His heavy eyebrows shot up.
He turned slowly toward Aurora as the servitors removed the last of
her armor. He slapped a hand over his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Numen.
Your guards said we should enter. I had no idea you would be—”
Prime Enumerator Septimus stepped past the veil on four mechanikal
legs. His consciousness resided within a chassis similar to those of the
enigma foundries, clockwork priests tasked with salvaging the souls of
fallen warriors. Three pairs of human-shaped arms lay folded in serene
gestures on his lower torso. To either side of his essence chamber, which
illuminated the Face of Cyriss, two shoulder units housed his personal
astronometric nexus. Their geomantic calculations informed the priest of

20
 DARK CONVERGENCE

the relative positions of the moons, the sun, and the planets at all times.
Between them rose a sculpted neck and a serene, androgynous abstraction
of a human face.
Aurora stepped down from her armory dais. “Well?”
As she walked to the bath, Pollux continued to turn his neck rotor to
avoid seeing her nude figure. Bogdan peeked through his fingers as Aurora
stepped into the water. Prime Enumerator Septimus appeared oblivious
both to Aurora’s nakedness and to his colleagues’ discomfort. “Our scouts
have not yet reported the return of the units you assigned to recover the
lost vector.”
Aurora sank down into the bath, hoping her face betrayed none of the
irritation the clockwork priest’s question aroused in her. She delayed by
sprinkling bath salts into the water.
An impatient clicking sounded deep within Septimus’ chassis.
“No, Prime Enumerator,” said Aurora. “The transport of the captured
Monitor was a trap. My bodyguard and I narrowly avoided a confrontation
with the enemy warcaster.”
“What about my troops?” Pollux stepped forward, still averting his gaze
from the bath.
“The Cygnaran ambush captured them along with the second Monitor
I bought to free the first.”
“Oh, no,” said Bogdan. The priest pulled at the fingers of his gauntlets,
abandoning all pretense of looking away from Aurora’s naked body. “What
a catastrophe!”
“It was a calculated risk,” said Aurora. She drenched a sponge in water
and used it to soothe her aching neck. “Nemo himself participated in the
ambush.”
“So it was he you spied across the river,” observed Septimus.
Condensation from the steam beaded on his immotile face.
“Nemo must have been the one who sent the mercenaries to search the
Wythmoor for our forces.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“I cautioned you against scouting so far from base,” said Septimus.

“Would you prefer I left the Cryx unchecked? The last thing we need is
for them to burrow up into our geomantic translocation chambers.”
“Instead we leave our own troops in the hands of this Cygnaran
warcaster?” said Pollux.
“Mind your words, Pollux,” said Sabina.
The reductor’s head swiveled around to face Sabina. “What would you
say if it were your clockwork angels who had been wasted in a rash and
useless action?”
Sabina’s brass wings bristled on her shoulders. She and Pollux were
equals in rank, each the First Prefect of their respective forces. Only Sabina
enjoyed the further distinction of serving at Aurora’s side.
“No, Sabina, he’s right,” said Aurora. “Believe me, Pollux, no one feels
the loss of our troops more keenly than I. Still, our mission comes first.
Nothing must imperil the Great Work.”
Bogdan raised a diplomatic finger. “Perhaps we could offer an exchange
of captives? No doubt the Cygnaran commander would be eager for
us to release some of the citizens of Calbeck. You can placate him with
negotiations.” He smiled with the confidence of a bureaucrat who has
solved a complicated problem for his leader.
“This commander is General Sebastian Nemo,” said Septimus. “His is
one of the foremost scientific and tactical minds of the Cygnaran army.
When was the last time you read an intelligence report?”
“I confess, Prime Enumerator, in attending to the readiness of the
troops and the ongoing calibration, I may have fallen behind in reports of
external matters.”
While Septimus scolded his subordinate, Aurora stood and reached for
a towel. Bogdan stared sidelong at her.
“Enumerator Bogdan,” said Septimus. Even the mechanikal nature of
his voice could not disguise his disapproval.
“I—I—Forgive my distraction.” Bogdan cast his eyes to the floor.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

It was an effort to keep her amusement off her face, but Aurora secretly
reveled in the effect her informal audience had on Bogdan and Pollux.
Their discomfort underscored a truth she had long suspected: Even
after transference to his clockwork vessel, Pollux felt uneasiness at her
immodesty; Bogdan remained a slave to his flesh; yet Septimus, over two
centuries interred in a succession of clockwork vessels, had sloughed off his
carnal impulses.
The flesh was vulnerable, imperfect. Aurora felt her longing for
transference more keenly than ever.
She stepped out of the tub and dried her arms and legs before cinching
the towel around her body.
“Numen, please,” said Pollux. He stepped closer, his optical lens fixed
directly on her face. “Will you negotiate for the return of my reductors?”
Aurora returned his monocular gaze. She admired the fervor with
which he spoke for his troops. His custodial instinct reminded her of the
protectiveness that Sabina showed for her.
“No, Prefect,” she said with some reluctance. His voice box clicked, but
before he could protest, she added, “To petition for an exchange so soon
would give the enemy an impression of weakness. But I promise you, when
the time is right I will make every effort to recover their essence chambers.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Pollux nodded and stepped back.
“The iron mother has entrusted you with a great responsibility, Numen,”
said Septimus. “May the Maiden of Gears guide your calculations.”
Aurora smiled as she nodded acknowledgment of his blessing. She
knew perfectly well that Septimus or one of his minions reported her every
move to Iron Mother Directrix. Insofar as the iron mother was the current
leader of the Convergence, that was only proper. But it was also infuriating
because Directrix was her mother, whose control Aurora felt she would
never escape.
“We all understand the pressure on you must be a great burden,” added
Bogdan. “If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to call upon me.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“Thank you, Bogdan.” Aurora suppressed a shudder at the priest’s

latest effort to ingratiate himself. Bogdan’s talents lay in mechanika, not
diplomacy.
Like Aurora, Bogdan had long awaited the Animus Corpus Procedure.
Her favorable report to the Constellation could only improve his chances.
For her own continued failure to earn transference to a clockwork
vessel, Aurora blamed the intercession of her mother and her insistence
that Aurora join the priesthood. Much as she valued the role of the priests,
from the common optifex to the enumerators and all the way to the lofty
fluxions, she had no desire to join in their slow custodianship of the people’s
minds and souls. She had no wish to be a mechanik or a philosopher. She
would make her mark in the Convergence in a different way. She would
lead her people both in technological advances and in battlefield triumphs.
“Whatever you decide,” said Septimus, “I implore you not to place
yourself at risk again. Sebastian Nemo is a dangerous foe. Do not
underestimate him.”
Behind the clockwork priest, Sabina inclined her head to nod agreement.
Aurora felt a brief, irrational sense of betrayal. Her subordinates were
aligning against her. “I do not underestimate Sebastian Nemo,” she said.
“His trap was designed not to capture me, but to take my measure. What
he failed to realize was that, in studying its design, I have also taken his.”
“Do not be so certain,” said Septimus. “You may be more brazen, but he
is better tempered.”
“Your metallurgical comparison is not lost on me,” said Aurora, thinking
again of the sounds that had greeted them upon first descending upon
Calbeck. “But I will take my lesson from the carpenter: measure twice, cut
once.”

24
 THE SECOND HARMONIC

Mathematical principles bind reality to consciousness.

Nemo

“Yes, what is it?”

Sebastian Nemo sat up, wincing at the pain he still felt in his chest.
His hand drifted unbidden to the crescent scar inflicted by the Cryxian
stalker that had struck him down. If not for the intervention of Victoria
Haley, Nemo surely would have died among the stark trees of the
Thornwood. His fingers slid along the ragged edges of the scar across
his belly.
Nemo had survived only by a divine miracle—or rather, by several
miracles. The concerted efforts of several Morrowan priests had finally
healed his grievous injury. Despite their assurances, he knew in his heart
he would continue to feel the pain of the wounds until his dying breath.
Until then, they would not stop him.
He swung his legs over the side of his cot and felt the cold grass beneath
his naked feet. The startling sensation reminded him that reinforcements—
and the relative comforts of their supply wagons, one of which he hoped
contained his carpet—had not yet arrived.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Torchlight slipped in beneath the tent flap. Nemo pinched the bridge of
his nose and squinted at the shadow of the soldier standing outside. “Well,
what is it?”
The man’s feet shuffled. The tent flap opened. A fresh-faced soldier
peered inside. “Begging the general’s pardon, I didn’t say anything,” said the
young man. “Sir.”
Nemo’s lips tightened, but before he could frame an admonishment, he
realized the guard was not to blame. It was the sound of his given name
that had pulled him from slumber. No one in camp—except brassy Mags
Jernigan—dared address him so.
“Sebastian,” he thought he had heard. Whatever else dissolved with the
memory of the dream.
Was it Wilhelmina he imagined had called to him? Madeleine? He
struggled to picture the faces of his wife and daughter. It had been so
long since he had seen either of them, his memory transposed upon
their features those of others—lovers, apprentices, colleagues, friends,
and enemies—a ceaseless parade of faces briefly glimpsed, then
vanished.
Mina had died of rip lung a few months after taking Maddie and
abandoning their home. He had not even been present for her death.
Instead, he had been far afield, defending Cygnar.
At least, that is what he had told himself in his younger days. Now he
was able to admit that what he was really doing was avenging the death of
the brother who had died while under his command. Decades had cooled
his need to punish the enemies of Cygnar, to prove himself worthy after his
great early failure. What remained was a highly ingrained reflex to serve his
country to the best of his ability.
Some mistook it for duty. Nemo knew it for what it was: an old habit,
one he could never shake.
Even when Maddie had been returned to him, it soon became obvious
that Nemo could not care for her while remaining in the king’s service. He

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

sent her to be raised by his sisters in Shieldpoint, thinking it for the best.
When he visited, he found her sullen and uncommunicative, even though
his sisters’ letters described the girl as lively and brilliant. Once she came
of age, Maddie left home and swore never again to speak to the father who
had chosen war over his family.
Nemo had sought her out, of course. He had listened in the darkened
reaches of the high gallery as she defended her dissertation on ancient
literature. When he had learned a young man was courting her, he had
made inquiries until he was assured of the man’s character and that of
his family. He had anonymously sent gifts on their wedding and on the
birthdays of their three children, two boys and a girl, until he had learned
Maddie always discarded them.
He had almost spoken to her, once, long after her own children had left
home. Standing across the street from Maddie’s rare book shop in Corvis,
he had glimpsed her through the storefront glass. The rain had melted
her image before him, but he could see that she had spied him. He had
hastened away, feeling guilty as a peeper. He had not returned since.
The only immutable image he retained was of Maddie’s blue eyes, fixed
like a pair of pole stars in a dissolving sky.
“Do you require assistance, sir?” asked the guard.
“No, nothing. Close the flap! You’re letting in a draft.”
The very fact that he had dreamed told Nemo he had slept longer than
expected. When he was at work on a technical problem, he could go for
weeks without more than the occasional nap. After the hard ride from
Point Bourne and the hasty preparations to lure more of the clockwork
intruders into a trap, his body was exhausted.
If only he could still his mind long enough to let it recover.
As he pulled on woolen stockings, Nemo mused that his trap had
been only partially successful. He had hoped to observe the leader of this
clockwork army in action. After her brief encounter with the Devil Dogs,
however, the flying warcaster had become cautious.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

The technology permitting the warcaster and her winged guardians to fly
astonished even Nemo, who had first examined the peculiar science of the
Cult of Cyriss from items salvaged from one of their abandoned, subterranean
temples. Studying them had inspired some of his own refinements on
devices like the mighty Thunderhead. The similarity between the Cyrissist
devices and his own voltaic creations instilled a deep curiosity in Nemo, but
the defense of his country left him precious little time to pursue his interest.
War came first.
Nemo accepted the fact that he would sleep no more that morning. He
donned the rest of his clothes and stepped outside.
“Where is the mess?” he asked.
The soldier indicated one of the camouflaged tents. “Sir!”
“I will don my armor when I return. Have an attendant ready.” He
walked away as the soldier saluted.
Inside the mess tent, one member of the kitchen patrol added flaked
oats and dried apples to a boiling pot, while another patted out discs
of dough for griddle bread. A third spied Nemo’s entrance and began
preparing a pot of tea.
“You’re up early, old man,” said Mags Jernigan. The mechanik sat alone
at the center of a long mess table.
Nemo took a seat opposite the mechanik. “You’re up late, old woman.”
“You can’t call me that,” she said. “I was born twelve and a half days
after you.”
“I’d forgotten that.”
One of the men came over and laid Nemo’s silver teapot and a plate of
biscuits on the table. “Would you care for breakfast, sir?”
Nemo waved him off.
Mags commandeered the pot and poured for Nemo. “I’ll never forget
the birthday party they threw for the two of us after that battle at Bleeding
Rock Gulch. I bet Stryker a hundred crowns I’d get you drunk before the
night was over.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“I’d forgotten that, too.”

“That’s because I won!” She guffawed and slapped the table, causing the
biscuits to leap from the plate. “It’s a wonder you remembered your own
name the next morning.”
“You exaggerate.”
“Not much.” She snatched one of his biscuits and took a bite before
returning it to his plate. “You and me, we just remember different stuff.
If I gave you a pencil right now, I bet you could draw the Storm Strider
schematics from memory. But I’d also bet you can’t name the tavern where
we first shared a pint.”
Nemo shrugged and sipped his tea, pretending that he didn’t care while
his mind struggled to come up with the name of the tavern. It was no use.
Mags was right about their different memories.
Her anecdote reminded him of the sight of her in a sun dress, showing
off shoulders dotted with freckles instead of tattoos. He could almost
envision her as she had looked thirty years earlier, before she’d lost her leg
to a Khadoran mortar and her breasts to cancer.
“Me, on the other hand, I can still remember when you were too polite to
stare at my teats.” She poured herself a cup from the teapot reserved for his
exclusive use. If any other junior officer had made such an insolent breach of
protocol, Nemo would surely have torn a strip up one side of him and down
the other. “It’s a pity you’ve developed an interest only now they’re gone.”
“I was looking at your tattoos,” said Nemo, almost as embarrassed as he
was annoyed. “When did you first get them?”
“About a year after the cancer,” said Mags. “I prefer a nice set of gears
to the scars.”
“They make you look like one of those clockwork soldiers.”
“Still the charmer. You’ll turn my head.”
“Do all Cyrissists wear such tattoos?”
Mags blinked twice but then chuckled. “So I went to a meeting once or
twice. That doesn’t make me a cultist.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Nemo frowned as he considered her answer. There were many casual

Cyrissists in the Strategic Academy and in the Steam & Iron Worker’s Union,
and there were even more among the stormsmiths, so Mags’ admission
was hardly shocking. In his experience, however, people volunteered more
information to silence than to questions. He stared into her eyes.
“Oh, come on, ’Bastian. The Cyrissists invited every mechanik and
arcanist at one time or another. Hell, I hear they even invited you a few
times.”
“And I attended one of their receptions. How many did you attend?”
“Four,” she said, raising her cup. “It wasn’t—if you’ll pardon the
expression—my cup of tea.”
“Why not?”
“Not nearly enough strapping young men who fancied old, teat-less
mechaniks. You’d think for all the years I’ve put in, the army could fit me
with a mechanikal pair.”
Nemo sputtered, drawing hot tea into his nose.
“Or at least a better leg,” she said. Her tone turned serious. “You could
help me out with that, if you wanted to. Put in a good word for me again.”
Nemo sighed and nodded, trying not to let the guilt show on his face.
He’d promised Mags he would cut through the red tape at logistics and
move her name to the top of the waiting list, but the truth was that he’d
forgotten. There was always a more urgent matter demanding his attention.
She assumed he’d already interceded, and he felt too ashamed to tell her
otherwise. “I will,” he said. “Just as soon as we have a moment’s peace.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Mags bobbed her head, but her smile never quite reached her eyes. “So,
about this Cyriss thing, there’re a couple of boys in the shop who know
more than I do. You want me to send them your way?”
Nemo blotted his mustache with a napkin, grateful that the gesture
allowed him to cover his embarrassment, both at her crass remarks about

30
 DARK CONVERGENCE

her missing breasts and his chagrin that he had not done more to help her
acquire a better prosthetic. “Yes, after our briefing.”
“What briefing?” she asked.
“The one you’re giving on the clockwork soldiers,” said Nemo. “It takes
place in the map tent, and it begins in an hour.”

Despite himself, Nemo savored the sound of Mags running back to the
workshop, but he winced at the squeals her old mechanikal leg let out
at every second step. He could have fixed it himself, if only he could
find the time for something less urgent than a threat to the country.
Soon, he promised himself, he would make that time. Hell, he would
make her the finest mechanikal leg in all of Cygnar. Despite their merry
war, Mags was more than a friend to him. She was the closest thing he
had to family.
That thought brought a pang of guilt to his stomach. How many
promises had he made—and broken—to his family? Mags was right to
give him a hard time, even if she took an indecent pleasure in tweaking
him.
Nemo sometimes wondered why he surrounded himself with
incorrigibles like Mags Jernigan and Ford Blackburn instead of more
disciplined soldiers. He knew the answer, even if he didn’t like to admit it.
“Irritation forms the pearl. Your best ideas always come after someone
has made you grumpy.” That’s what Mina had always said to him, back
when she still loved him.
It felt like a thousand years ago.
Nemo shook away the nostalgia clouding his thoughts. It was crucial
that he focus on present issues, not his past failings.
While his small company awaited reinforcements from Point Bourne,
Nemo felt vulnerable so close to the Cyrissist force holding Calbeck. Part

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

of that, he realized, was purely a psychological reaction to the extraordinary

sights of the past two days. The enormous tower in the center of the village
made an intimidating sight. That anyone could erect such a huge structure
in secret was nigh inconceivable.
Nemo had employed a mercenary company to investigate reports of
unusual warjacks in the area, but until the Devil Dogs’ captain, Samantha
MacHorne, showed him what lay on the south bank of the Dragon’s
Tongue River, he could never have imagined an enemy force had established
a foothold in his country.
Nemo found his tent flap open and Caitlin Finch waiting beside the
frame that bore his storm armor. She had already donned her own armor,
and she didn’t see him at first, as she covered a yawn with her hand. She
turned the gesture into a smart salute once she saw him standing in the
entrance.
Nemo turned his back without a word. Finch knew what to do.
Despite his constant improvements, his custom armor remained
awkward to put on without assistance. Finch fit his boots, greaves, and
chausses into place, securing and double-checking that the recessed latches
and conductor assemblies remained flush with the armor’s surface.
Nemo donned his battle robe and allowed its skirts to fall to his feet
before raising his arms to receive the breastplate. After securing the
gauntlets, vambraces, upper cannons, and pauldrons, he braced himself to
receive the weight of the arcane turbine. These days, it was always heavier
than he expected.
Nemo activated the turbine and felt its static field run invisible fingers
through his hair. His mustache bristled, and the last grains of sleep
evaporated from his eyelashes.
Finch stepped back, her face stark in the blue-white glow of Nemo’s
electrical aura. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Briefing in the workshop,” he said, checking his timepiece. “You have
just enough time to grab a quick breakfast.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Nemo waited a few seconds before entering the map tent precisely on time.
He was satisfied to see Sergeant Jernigan, Storm Chaser Finch, and Major
Blackburn awaiting him. They stood between the partially disassembled
body of an enemy warjack and a dismantled clockwork soldier. Beside each
of them stood a glassy cylinder, the larger one dark, the smaller glowing a
steady blue-white.
“Go,” he said without preamble.
Mags held a meaty hand over the soldier. “First off, there’s no power
core. No firebox, no storm chamber, no nothing that I can identify,
anyway.”
“But how—?” began Finch.
“Finch,” said Nemo. “Listen first. Ask questions later.”
“You always pick the feisty ones, don’t you?” said Mags.
“Continue, Sergeant.”
“Here,” said Mags, peeling away the back plate of a clockwork soldier.
“This is definitely a power junction. No, before you ask, it isn’t a generator.”
“Where is the power source?” said Nemo.
“This.” Mags touched the blue-white cylinder she had removed from
the soldier’s chest. It glowed as brightly as it had when Nemo had first seen
the clockwork soldiers. “The big ones we pulled out of the warjacks have
already faded. I’m guessing they keep the soldiers ticking way longer than
the big units.”
“How long?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that without a proper workshop,
more samples, and more time. For the warjacks, I’d wager we’re talking
hours, not days. Definitely not more than a day or so. These guys? Like I
said, there’s no way of telling in this field workshop.”
“How did these warjacks capture Calbeck if they can operate for only
a few hours?”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“I don’t got that figured out just yet. Their power junctions look like
they’re receiving power from more than just this unit.”
“Receiving? That suggests—”
“Yeah, the main power source is independent of their bodies.”
“Transmitted from the tower?”
“Seems the most obvious possibility. Anyway, there’s other interesting
stuff.”
From a small crate, Mags lifted a clockwork soldier’s head and connected
it to a brass-and-chromium module she had removed from the chest. She
picked up the glowing cylinder. One cap glowed beneath an etched Face
of Cyriss, which Nemo took for the front. On the back, he spied a contact
plate that matched one on the box.
Nemo took the cylinder from Mags. “The power source?”
“It’s more than that,” said Mags. She gestured to the matching contacts
on the box and cylinder. “Give it a try.”
Nemo fitted the cylinder to the box. As they made contact, he heard a
faint hum from within the chest module. The ocular lenses on the soldier’s
head remained dim and blank.
Nemo set aside the cylinder and fetched a pair of narrow pliers from
Mags’ worktable. He removed the head from what he was beginning to
think of as a spinal axis and began clearing lightning-twisted metal from
the aperture.
Finch picked up the cylinder and hefted it. “Could this be a sort of
cortex?”
Mags and Blackburn shrugged. Nemo offered only a noncommittal
grunt as he continued to work on the head. He cleared the blackened
conduits that seemed least integral to the connection and reassembled the
head, spinal axis, and power exchange. At last he retrieved the cylinder
from Finch.
When he fit the cylinder to the power exchange, a voice box in the helm
squawked. The ocular lens flickered with blue-white light.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

A choppy sequence of sounds burst out of the voice box.

“What did it say?” said Blackburn.
Nemo shook his head. He hadn’t caught the words either, but he was
certain they were words. He inserted a finger into the neck, feeling for a
dull black membrane he had spied earlier. It trembled as the voice spoke
again.
“Spare me,” it said. “I submit to lawful capture.”
“You can hear me?” said Nemo.
“Yes,” replied the voice.
Nemo gestured for the rag on Mags’ shoulder. When she passed it
to him, he draped it over the soldier’s glowing eye. Despite the unusual
circumstances, there was no sense allowing him to see his captors or the
contents of the workshop. “Who are you?”
“Platon, reductor of the 7th Priority Task Force of the Convergence of
Cyriss.”
Convergence, thought Nemo. So that is what they call themselves. More
astonishing was the notion of an artificial creation capable of coherent
speech. Nemo suspected there had to be more to it, but he asked, “You are
a mechanikal construct?”
“My body is, yes. But I am a person, not just a servitor or vector. Please,
inform the Numen of my capture. It doesn’t matter if my body is destroyed.
Just keep my essence chamber intact.”
“Servitors are the small floating constructs, then? And vectors are the
larger machines?”
The voice barely hesitated before responding, “Yes, that is correct.”
“Sir!” A guard stood at the tent opening. Beyond him, Nemo saw the
messenger panting nearby. He had traveled far and fast. He hoped that
meant reinforcements were coming.
Nemo waved the man in and accepted a sealed parchment before
dismissing him. He broke the seal and read only the first few words before
he heard the whistle of incoming artillery.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“Cover!” Blackburn pulled Finch down. Nemo and Mags dropped,

sheltering their heads beneath the map table.
“What about me?” cried the captive. “You have a duty to protect
prisoners of—”
The first shell struck far across the camp. After the explosion came the
patter of raining earth and the shouts of the injured. While the sound was
clearly that of an incoming mortar, the explosion had a different character.
Whatever weapon had just struck, it was nothing like the Khadoran
mortars Nemo had heard all too often before.
“Mags, stay here. You,” Nemo pointed at the guard. “Secure this tent.
No one enters until I return. Blackburn, assemble your knights. Finch,
you’re with me.” He clutched the message in one hand. “We can’t wait for
these reinforcements to arrive.”
“Do we withdraw until they do, sir?” asked Blackburn.
“No, Major. We attack.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Aurora

Aurora oversaw the attack from the southern edge of the observation
deck. Sabina stood at her side, the rest of her bodyguards behind them. Far
below, Convergence forces fired on the Cygnaran camp.
Even as she stretched out her thoughts to direct the Ciphers in their
bombardment, Aurora sensed the tension in Sabina. Aurora no longer
joked that her bodyguards were wound too tight. Those who had resided in
clockwork vessels as long as Sabina found such puns more pitiable than witty.
“Numen, Storm Lances to the east,” said Sabina.
Aurora saw them. A dozen mounted knights rode out of camp in
an obvious attempt at a flanking maneuver. With their lightning lances
ignited, there was no missing them in the early morning light.
Rather than draw back the Ciphers, Aurora reached out to one of the
heavy vectors. She changed its servipod mortar from bombardment to
flare mode and fired a shot directly over the cavalry. A blazing white flare
descended toward them, less to direct additional fire than to remind them
just how visible they were.
With the remaining Ciphers, Aurora continued punishing the camp
with a combination of anti-personnel and trench-breaking mortars.
The bombardment shells fell among the tents, flinging shrapnel in all
directions, felling soldiers who failed to reach shelter in time. Elsewhere,
the penetrating shells left enormous craters in the ground, hindering
movement.
A shell fell directly on a tent, blowing scraps of canvas and a cloud of
sod into the air. Aurora noted no sign of furnishings or human remains

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

in the brief explosion. Another tent exploded nearby, equally devoid of

contents.
“I knew it!” she said, turning to Sabina. “There was no way Nemo could
have moved such a large force so quickly. He seeded decoys throughout the
camp.”
“You were wise to probe the defenses, Numen.”
To the southwest, the storm lances spurred their mounts to a
gallop, heedless of the warning flare. They rushed toward the seemingly
undefended eastern quadrant of Calbeck.
Aurora diverted her attention to the light vectors she had hidden
beneath a thick bramble. The servitors had done excellent work laying
camouflage upon the heads and torsos of the three-legged machines.
Aurora first took control of the Diffusers. The vectors’ articulated
arms gave them the appearance of Galvanizers, a similar model dedicated
to repair—but that impression was as deceitful as the foliage concealing
them. Aurora targeted the enemy through the Diffusers’ sensors, calculated
the optimum course for their projectiles, and fired their spring-propelled
weapons. The homing ripspikes flew out in perfect trajectories, blasting the
shield out of one man’s grip and impaling two of the other riders.
Aurora’s mind next leaped to the Mitigator, physically distinguished
from the Diffusers only by its upper chassis and ranged weapon. Its hurlon
chamber hummed as the bolas spun inside. It flew, whooping, toward the
cavalry, its razored net enveloping the legs of two horses, shredding the
animals’ flesh. The mounts screamed and fell, pulling their riders down
with them. In their struggles, they only tore themselves more dreadful
wounds.
Under other circumstances, Aurora would have let the vectors charge in
to finish their work. She could hear the eager tension in her angels’ limbs as
they leaned forward, aching to join the conflict. Yet this was not an assault,
Aurora reminded herself.
It was only a test.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

The shriek of a chain gun rose from a trench at the edge of the Cygnar
camp. Aurora felt a flash of irritation at the realization that her servitors
had failed to locate both the trench and the presence of a heavy gun. What
else might they have missed?
The anger barely warmed her cheeks before transforming into a pang of
guilt. She knew full well the limitations of the servitors when she assigned
them the task of scouts. Unlike vectors, which she controlled directly, or the
autonomous clockwork soldiers and priests, servitors were limited by their
situation response algorithms. They could harbor only the most succinct
lists of conditional commands encoded from the small brass sheets fed
them that provided their instructions. Even the most advanced servitors
could not approach the ability of a living soul to comprehend what it saw
and relay that information in a cogent manner.
Aurora should have sent troops to scout the camp before mounting
her rescue operation, but she had focused her attention on the ill-fated
recovery mission. The result was poor intelligence on the camp, as well as
the loss of another Monitor and eight of her reductors.
Even without First Prefect Pollux to remind her, Aurora knew she had
no one but herself to blame for these mistakes.
“Numen, Commandos,” said Sabina. She pointed west, at the edge of
the same woods where Nemo had ambushed her strike team.
At first Aurora noticed nothing, but then she perceived the faint
movement of men through the woods. If not for the autumn’s stripping of
the leaves, they might have been invisible from the observation deck.
“Shall I warn Prime Enumerator Septimus?”
“No,” said Aurora. She had ordered the clockwork priest to keep those
troops in reserve while she used the vectors to probe Nemo’s defenses.
“We’ll keep the soldiers in place behind the Ciphers. I want to see how
these Cygnarans react to the reflex servitors.”
Confident she would hear that reaction when it came, Aurora returned
her gaze to the east.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

While the surviving cavalry withdrew out of range of the Mitigator and
Diffusers, two of the storm lances dismounted and ran back to the fallen
riders. One needed help to walk, but both had slipped out from under
their fallen steeds.
Despite their efforts, the rescuers couldn’t free the horses from the razor
nets. Aurora kept her face still as the fallen horses thrashed, the blades
digging deeper into their legs. When the futility of escape became clear, one
of the rescuers raised his lance and fired a mercy shot into a horse’s skull.
Aurora flinched. She cast a surreptitious glance to the side to see
whether Sabina noticed her reaction to the animal’s death. If she had, she
betrayed no sign of it.
After euthanizing the second horse, the rescuers fled on foot. If she
allowed them to retreat unchallenged, Nemo might think her weak.
She returned her attention to a Diffuser, targeted one of the retreating
men, and fired. A homing ripspike cut through his chest and dropped his
limp body to the ground.
As the lance fell from his hand, something twisted in Aurora’s gut. She
couldn’t decide whether it felt just or pathetic that he was the one to die
after saving his men and dispatching their horses.
In either event, she had not given the appearance of weakness.
A flash of lightning drew Aurora’s gaze to the center of the Cygnaran
camp. The Thunderhead was on the move. As it tramped through the camp,
two pairs of smaller warjacks fell in beside it. Aurora recognized them from
the identification plates she had studied. They were Lancers and Fireflies.
The former would extend the reach of their warcaster’s spells, while the latter
could fire bolts of lightning, like the Thunderhead and their controller.
“Where is Nemo?” said Aurora. She squinted down at the field but
couldn’t spot him.
Aurora imagined the hand of the goddess had directed Sebastian Nemo
to this first substantial conflict with the Convergence. Prime Enumerator
Septimus had told Aurora that Cyrissists from several factions in Caspia

40
 DARK CONVERGENCE

had made repeated overtures to the Artificer General. Such a keen mind
would have made a splendid addition to the leadership.
Or a splendid triumph to the one who defeated him.
“Here he comes,” said Sabina.
Nemo and his assistant emerged from behind a long tent. A platoon of
Stormblades followed, their glaives igniting as they ran.
The Thunderhead leaped the trench, followed an instant later by the
Fireflies and Lancers. The smaller warjacks clutched sizzling electro-
glaives or war spears in their right hands. Upon the Fireflies’ left arms were
mounted storm blasters, lightning already flickering along the weapons’
coils. The Lancers held up their shields and ran past the other warjacks,
exposing themselves to a charge from the Ciphers.
Aurora would not be lured into another trap. She reached out her thoughts
to direct the Ciphers to retreat. This time, Nemo could come to her.
With his apprentice at his side, Sebastian Nemo leaped the trench
behind the warjacks. For an instant he seemed to hover above the gap, his
hair lifted and illuminated by the lightning arcing from the coils on his
back to the head of his mechanikal staff.
The brief image caught Aurora’s breath. Twice now she had glimpsed
her enemy’s snow-white hair. Once she had even been close enough to see
the deep lines in his aged face. She wondered how someone so old could
appear so vital, so full of physical power.
The Stormblades followed the warcaster over the trench, glaives or
storm throwers in their arms. A moment later, trenchers poured out of
their concealment, carbines held high as they ran forward at angles, leaving
room between them for the chain-gunner to cover their advance.
As the vectors withdrew, Septimus ordered his obstructors into
position before them. Once they stood before the vectors, the clockwork
soldiers interlaced their scalloped shields to form a shield wall. There
they stood with teleflails raised, ready to smash any who approached
their line.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Aurora returned her thoughts to the Ciphers, adjusting their aim to fire
upon the advancing Cygnarans. Explosions rained dirt and sod over the
Thunderhead and Fireflies, but none landed a direct hit.
A quiet whirring told Aurora that Sabina had magnified her vision as
she peered down at the warjacks. For the thousandth time, Aurora rued
her mortal eyes. She should have brought a spyglass, but lifting it to her eye
would only remind her bodyguard of her fleshy body.
“Not even a scratch,” said Sabina.
Another bombardment servipod volley obliterated a pair of trenchers,
painting their nearest comrades red and black.
An explosion in the western wood drew Aurora’s attention. Another
followed, this time with the agonizing crack and scream of a felled tree.
Amid the clamor of snapping branches came the cries of the commandos
who thought they were approaching undetected. The reflex servitors had
performed their function, detecting their movement and flying straight
toward the men to explode on impact.
Nemo raised his weapon. Beside him his apprentice raised her own,
guiding lightning from the warcaster’s galvanic coils and directing it to the
Thunderhead before them.
A blazing circle of runes appeared around Nemo’s body, slowly rotating
as he filled himself with arcane power. From both his staff and his empty
hand, lightning leaped skyward and vanished. The voltaic storm reappeared
at the far end of the advancing Cygnar line, where it shot out from one of
the Lancers.
The bolt shot into the nearest obstructor, raising the clockwork soldier
off the ground in a hideous dance before leaping to the next. The second
soldier stood firm as the lightning blackened its shield, and still the lightning
traveled along the line. Before it was done, two obstructors lay jerking on the
ground, while the others closed the gaps to retain their shield wall.
Before Aurora’s mind could process the swiftness of the attack,
Nemo’s storm flashed again, this time from the opposite Lancer. The

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

chain lightning coursed from the warjack to demolish five of Pollux’s

reductors.
The Fireflies shot next, lightning arcing from their storm blasters.
Each of them shook another pair of obstructors, blackening and melting
their armor. The defenders stood fast, but Aurora knew they could not
withstand many more such attacks.
The Thunderhead raised its arms, blue palms open toward the nearest
Cipher. Electrical arcs leaped across its galvanic coils, coruscating down
each blue arm to converge at a point between its extended hands. There the
lightning massed for an instant before leaping toward the Cipher.
Superheated rivets popped off the Cipher’s body. One of its arms jerked
and spun away. It flew across the field until its piston-spike sank deep into
the ground and hung there, trembling like a banner.
“Such power,” said Sabina.
“I have to get down there,” said Aurora.
“Numen, you have just seen what he can do. You must stay well back.”
Aurora leaped from the observation deck. Her spreading wings caught
the air and guided her course even before the hovering field took hold.
Her bodyguards leaped after her, their own mechanikal wings barely
contributing to their flight.
As she dove toward the conflict, Aurora mentally reached out to summon
the Mitigators from the east and the Monitors standing in reserve. The vectors
responded instantly. Aurora could almost feel their razor bolas and ellipsaws
clicking into place. They would make short work of the Cygnar infantry.
At the sight of Aurora and her clockwork angels descending from the
astronometric nexus, Septimus signaled most of his troops forward.
With First Prefect Pollux at their side, the reductors held their ground,
swarm projectors raised to shoot at any who came within range.
Thick-chested eradicators moved up to defend the reductors. Aurora
could almost hear the heavy blades of their protean bucklers as they
snapped out to turn the shields into deadly weapons.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

The reciprocators followed close behind, their own shields ready to

interlock to form another wall or to guide their long halberds over the
eradicators before them.
“Numen, please fall back,” cried Sabina. “Allow us to defend you on all
sides.”
“No,” cried Aurora. “Nemo showed what he can do to us. Now we will
show him what we can do to him!”
Aurora led her angels in a charge on the Stormblades. As she raised her
weapon, they fell into attack formation behind her. Years of training and
combat had honed them into a unified weapon, with Aurora at its point.
The knights raised their glaives too late to save themselves. Aurora
whirled her polynomial staff in deadly configuration, smiting every man in
reach. Most of them fell, skulls staved in, limbs shattered or severed. Those
who survived fell to the angels’ binomial blades.
Aurora flew on, sweeping back across her own front lines before the
Cygnaran forces could counterattack.
“Numen!” cried Sabina. “We must withdraw now!”
Aurora threw her an open-mouthed smile of disbelief. “Are you serious?
After what we just did to them?”
“Numen, look!” Sabina pointed.
A cloud of dust rose from the southeast. Around the eastern woods
came a line of charging storm lances. By themselves they were a formidable
but not insurmountable force.
The true threat followed behind them.
Infantry and wagons came behind the riders, along with several heavy
warjacks traveling under their own power. Even at a glance, Aurora could
see they were stocked, charged, and ready for battle.
Nemo’s illusory army was rapidly becoming all too substantial.
Aurora silently calculated her odds based on the existing information.
If she unleashed her full forces, she would surely overwhelm Nemo’s
present forces, but not before the Cygnaran reinforcements arrived.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

She weighed the danger of launching an immediate strike against the

likelihood of depleting her forces so badly that she could no longer defend
the realignment node against the rest.
In her hesitation, Nemo’s trenchers fired a withering volley against her
troops. A few previously damaged by lightning fell, but more reciprocators
remained standing, shields locked. The reductors and eradicators stood
ready to charge on her order.
Or to retreat.
Aurora reminded herself that she did not need to destroy Nemo to
defeat him. Time was on her side.
She altered course, flying low to call out to Septimus, “All forces fall
back in formation.”
The priest obeyed, relaying the command to the first prefects, who
passed along the orders to the prefects of each squad.
Aurora shortened the aim of the Ciphers’ mortars and released another
barrage. This time she left a line of craters just in front of the advancing
enemy. Like the earlier flare above the cavalry, it was not an attack but a
warning. She had drawn a line in the battered earth.
The question was whether Nemo would cross it.
Across the field, Nemo raised a hand. He barked out an order. She
could not hear his words, but she saw his officers relaying it down either
side of the attacking line. It reached either end so swiftly that Aurora
realized with a shock just how close she had come to defeating them.
She cursed under her breath, but it was too late to change her mind.
The Cygnarans withdrew to their camp. If she were to pursue, she would
have to deal with an uncertain number of reinforcements as well.
Aurora flew back to the realignment node. She had begun the skirmish
as a test, but she could feel the desire for victory rising in her belly. Stopping
the Cygnaran attack was not the triumph she had envisioned, yet keeping
them at bay was one more step toward the success she required.

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 THE THIRD HARMONIC

The power of understanding transcends the inexplicable.

Nemo

As Nemo returned to camp, the chaos of the Convergence attack

subsided, but a rising excitement at the approach of reinforcements took
its place.
The storm lances arrived first, their galloping steeds raising a veil of
dust before the wagons and infantry that followed. Spotting Nemo, they
changed course as he gestured in the direction of Major Blackburn, who
had just replaced a frantic guard with a steady field medic to oversee triage
of the injured. Once he saw the effort was in good hands, Blackburn went
to greet the reinforcements and assign them their stations.
Nemo returned the Lancers and Fireflies to guard positions, giving
himself a wider field of options in the event of another attack. The
Thunderhead he directed to rest across the lane from the mechaniks’ tent.
The warjack’s armor had suffered only light shrapnel abrasions, but he
thought he felt a hitch in its step on the way back.
Unless, he thought sourly, he had only imagined imperfection lay in the
warjack and not in his own waning strength.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Regardless of whether the defect was real or a psychosomatic product

of Nemo’s own fears of aging, he wished to be certain the Thunderhead
was in sound shape before fielding it again. Despite its impressive armor,
the warjack’s galvanic functions sometimes proved more fragile than the
mechanikal innards of its steam-driven counterparts. It required a certain
amount of extra care and attention.
That thought reminded Nemo of his promise to look into acquiring
Mags Jernigan a new mechanikal leg. Like the Thunderhead, she could use
a little maintenance.
But for now it would have to wait.
The damage to the camp was not as bad as Nemo had feared. Half a
dozen tents had been shredded or blown down, but only one contained
casualties. The surviving storm lances had returned their steeds to the
paddock the troops had constructed in haste a day earlier. There the new
arrivals joined them. The men tended the horses while their captains
determined the new chain of command beneath Major Blackburn.
Among the lances rode a heavyset man with a pale, pockmarked face.
Rather than a sword, a heavy spiked mace hung at his side. Nemo saw
a stylized human figure surrounded by rays of light—the symbol of
Morrow—emblazoned in gold on the knight’s white plate armor. Behind
him rode a younger knight bearing the banner of Morrow.
When he spied Nemo, the rider and his ensign rode toward him. They
reined in their steeds, dismounted, and saluted.
“Artificer General,” said the knight.
“Chaplain Geary.” Nemo shook Geary’s hand, glad to see him if for no other
reason than to welcome another whitened warrior to the camp. Unlike Nemo’s
thick mane, Geary’s hair had thinned so much that the man kept it shorn close,
giving his ruddy pate the appearance of a fuzzy peach.“Something tells me you
came not simply to help but also to examine my captives.”
Geary shrugged with an apologetic smile. His chagrin surrendered to a
grim expression as he practically spat the word, “Cyrissists. Ever since the

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Witchfire Affair, I’ve always said they would show their true colors one
day.”
“So you have,” agreed Nemo. Considering recent events, he felt no need
to dispute the knight’s assertion, although he had never before shared the
depths of Geary’s distrust of the cult.
To Nemo the Cyrissists had seemed an unorganized society of eccentric
intellectuals and craftsmen. In worshipping a goddess of science, they
appeared merely to celebrate their professions—and, frankly, themselves—
more than posing a legitimate danger to the Morrowan faith, much less
to the public at large. That an isolated faction of them had once served
a darker cause had never alarmed Nemo. After all, even the church of
Morrow counted traitors, murderers, and worse among its faithful.
The moment Geary had learned that alleged necromancers were found
among the Cyrissists, he could barely contain his animosity. Nemo admired
the man’s passion, but it seemed indiscriminate.
“May I see them, these clockwork soldiers?” said Geary. The rims of his
eyes were startlingly pink against his pale skin. He had sometimes been
mistaken for an albino.
“After I have finished inspecting the reinforcements.”
“Of course,” said Geary. “Of course.”
Nemo led Geary through the camp, Finch at his side and the ensign at
the knight’s. Nemo saw Geary nod approvingly at what he saw all around
them. Nemo was also pleased to see how efficiently the soldiers responded
to the recent attack.
Both those who had accompanied him to Calbeck and the newcomers
had already repaired or removed the damaged tents. No wounded were to
be seen, for they had been carried into casualty tents designated by Major
Blackburn.
To the north, trenchers were already at work expanding the defenses. To
the east and south, Nemo saw at a glance that rifle and commando officers
were mustering their troops for an envelopment action after consulting

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with Blackburn. All around them, the camp continued to grow as soldiers
dug latrines and erected additional shelters.
“How many storm lances, Finch?”
“Ten, sir, not including those we already had,” she said. She had lowered
the goggles to protect her eyes against the dust. The pressure on her nose
altered her voice so slightly that no one who didn’t know her well would
have noticed.
Nemo considered doing the same, but he thought it discourteous when
Geary had no such protection.
As they walked through the camp, Finch counted off Stormguard and
Stormblades—noting how many of them carried the heavy lightning guns
known as storm throwers—as well as riflemen, grenadiers, commandos,
medics, field mechaniks, and support troops.
“Look, sir!” Finch pointed at a wagon piled high with crates along with
a warjack covered in tarpaulins. The distinctive storm blaster of a Firefly
jutted out of its concealment. Above the curved line of its shoulder, a trio
of distinctive rods projected above the load, bobbing where their wielders
sat concealed on the wagon’s tailgate. “Stormsmiths!”
Nemo nodded, hoping for the best. Ideally, he would have summoned
veteran crews, men and women who had fought beside him before. After
the conflict in the Thornwood, however, he feared too few of them survived
for him to be choosy. He would have to make do with whomever the Lord
Commander had seen fit to send from where his forces were recuperating
in Point Bourne.
Many stormsmiths were not only brilliant but also disciplined,
professional, and reliable. Yet a troubling fraction of the most talented
arcanists and mechaniks were also somewhat, for lack of a better term,
“eccentric.” Some of the latter sort simply lacked basic social graces,
and their behavior was annoying at most. By comparison, however,
some could make Sergeant Mags Jernigan seem the epitome of military
discipline.

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“Who is it, Finch?” Abandoning his own pretense at courtesy, Nemo

lowered his own goggles and blinked the dust out of his eyes. “Can you
see?”
“No, sir. There’s too much dust in the— Look, they were able to spare
us another warcaster!” Her enthusiasm dwindled as she and Nemo heard
the figure she indicated calling out verbal orders to the warjacks. “Oh, well,
a journeyman, anyway.”
The young man walked between a pair of Stormclads, heavy warjacks
wielding massive swords. The Cygnar banner fluttered between a pair
of smokestacks chuffing out clouds of coal smoke above their shoulders.
Unlike the Thunderhead, the Stormclads enjoyed the benefit of galvanic
energy only in their powerful generator blades. They still moved, like most
warjacks, by steam power.
Nemo sighed. He supposed it was better to receive a journeyman than
no warcaster at all. Still, he would have preferred to have Victoria Haley or
one of the other veterans at his side.
Noting his expression, Finch whispered, “Try not to scare this one off.”
“What?”
“Try not to scare this one off, sir!”
Nemo’s eyebrows arched, but before he could form a smarting rejoinder,
Finch waved the young man over.
The journeyman directed his warjacks to stand aside, allowing the
wagons and troops that followed to pass unhindered, before hastening over
to salute. He hesitated between addressing Finch—to whom he should
have reported—and Nemo—whose presence often awed the younger
officers into confused breaches of protocol.
“Lieutenant Benedict, Journeyman, reporting as ordered, sir! And sir!”
Before Finch could respond, Nemo said, “How many actions have you
seen, Benedict?”
“I served as a trencher for three years, sir. When my talent emerged,
I was sent to the Strategic Academy, where I graduated last spring. Since

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then I participated in two skirmishes against the Cryx in the Thornwood

this summer, sir. I saw a lot more action than I expected in Point Bourne
during the invasion, but I wish I could have joined you on the march north,
sir.”
“You wouldn’t feel that way if you’d been there, Benedict.”
“Yes, sir.”
From the reports Nemo had read of the horrors at Point Bourne, he
knew Benedict could not have experienced a more harrowing trial. Nemo
hoped for his sake that the present conflict would prove less terrible than
the action against Lich Lord Asphyxious. He started to ask why Benedict
had arrived without his master, but he already knew the answer.
“Field promotion?” asked Nemo.
“Yes, sir.” Benedict did not flinch, though the reason for dispatching a
lieutenant rather than a captain was almost always the same. His mentor
had died in action, leaving his journeyman to take his place.
“Were you allocated these Stormclads at Point Bourne?”
“No, sir. Most of my experience is with light ’jacks, sir. The Lord
Commander sent these because he thought you might need them, sir.”
Finch snorted as she failed to suppress a snigger. Nemo felt that
if Benedict’s worst quality was a preponderance of “sirs,” he would do
perfectly well.
“Very well, Benedict,” said Nemo. He stopped himself before giving the
man orders. Instead, he turned to Finch.
“Take these big fellows to the mechaniks for inspection,” said Finch.
“Report back to me after they’ve been cleared for action.”
“Yes, sir!” Benedict’s salute was as crisp as a freshly ironed collar.
Finch pointed him in the right direction, and Benedict thanked her
with a grin and a nod. Finch’s freckles seemed to lighten as she blushed.
Nemo watched the journeyman return to his Stormclads. Benedict
sneaked a glance back at Finch before directing the warjacks to follow him
to the mechaniks’ tent.

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“I can’t even tell anymore,” said Nemo. “How old do you think he is,
Finch?”
“Pretty old,” she said. “Twenty-eight, at least.”
Nemo sighed.
As he returned his gaze to the spot Benedict had vacated, Nemo started
at the unexpected materialization of three storm callers standing in mid-
salute before Caitlin Finch.
“Jimmies!” cried Finch, returning their salute with a non-regulation
flourish.
The stormsmiths wore identical long blue coats and held their storm
rods at identical angles. Nemo groaned inwardly as he recognized their
relatively young faces.
These three he knew all too well.
Most stormsmiths were considerably more experienced than journeyman
warcasters. They were among the most adept practitioners of advanced
mechanika, their ranks filled by the most proficient mechaniks and arcane
mechaniks, including those specializing in storm sciences. It was rare to
encounter one under the age of thirty, but now and then a prodigy emerged.
These three had graduated from the Strategic Academy together.
Or rather, Nemo often thought, they had somehow escaped.
“Baker, Smith, and Hurndall reporting for duty, sir!” cried the one
Nemo thought was Hurndall. He looked different now that his long blond
hair had turned bright blue.
Nemo frowned at the notion of a Stormsmith Smith, but he knew
remarking on the unfortunate name would only evoke some shaggy
dog story with the punch line “Smith.” Instead he narrowed his eyes at
Hurndall. “What the hell happened to your hair, Stormsmith?”
“During a recent visit to the Order of the Golden Crucible in Fharin,
sir, there was a slight misunderstanding. It actually makes for quite an
amusing anecdote, if you would care to hear—”
“Tell me you aren’t the only stormsmiths Stryker could spare.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“No, sir,” said Baker or Smith, whichever one was the ginger. “Four
more are coming with the Storm Striders. Pond and McCoy are with the
Fireflies. Jones and Troughton and their assistants have the storm towers.”
“How many Fireflies and towers?”
“Two of each, sir,” said the other one, Smith or Baker.
That was something. In fact, it was more than something. While Nemo
might have quibbled over his selection of storm callers, Stryker had sent
much more galvanic armament than Nemo had imagined he could spare.
He hoped the Lord Commander hadn’t been rash in depleting his garrison
while Cryx remained an unchecked menace.
Nemo released the specialists to Finch. When she dismissed them
with a warning to have their gear ready for inspection within the hour,
their precisely sequential salutes and “Yes, sirs!” caused Nemo to raise a
suspicious eyebrow. He could never tell whether these pranksters were
insolent or just mentally peculiar.
As they departed, Nemo asked Finch, “Jimmies?”
“Because their first names are all James.”
“I thought one was Gerald.”
“Honorary Jimmy.”
Exasperated, Nemo turned back to Chaplain Geary. The Precursor
knight stood a respectful distance away, but his eyes gave away his eagerness
to see the captives.
“Come.” Nemo beckoned to him. “Let us start in the workshop.”
As they returned westward across the camp, Finch pointed toward the
map tent. “Sir.”
Standing beside the guard were four mechaniks, their fearful eyes fixed
on Nemo.
“Of course,” said Nemo. “Mags’ Cyrissists.”
“Cyrissists?” said Geary. “You have some in your army right now?”
“If we disqualified them, we’d lose half our best mechaniks. Besides, the
king has granted them the right to practice their religion freely.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

“The Cyrissists are not a religion but a cult.”

Nemo stopped himself from pointing out that the difference between a
cult and a religion was one of perspective. The Menites, once the dominant
religion in all of western Immoren, still considered the Church of Morrow
a cult, and a heretical one at that. The Crown’s endorsement of a temple in
the capital city surely elevated the Cyrissist movement above its previously
marginal status. The question was whether it was a friendly or enemy
religion. The actions of this Convergence sect were clearly supporting the
latter answer.
Nemo wanted to question the known Cyrissist mechaniks without
Chaplain Geary present, yet he had promised the knight a look at the
clockwork soldiers and the captured “vectors” and “servitors”—terms the
mathematical part of Nemo’s mind found intriguing and oddly appealing.
If only he had been able to study the constructs in less trying circumstances,
he would have found the prospect exciting, perhaps even relaxing.
“Sir,” said one of the mechaniks, “none of us had anything to do with
what happened at the workshop. We were already here.”
“’What happened at the workshop?’” said Nemo. When the men looked
at each other rather than answer, he turned toward the man standing guard.
“That’s a question, soldier. Exactly what happened at the workshop?”
“There was a disturbance, sir. That’s all I know. Major Blackburn headed
that way shortly before you arrived.”
“Keep these men here.”
Nemo didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. He ran toward the mechaniks’
shelter, barely able to keep himself from breaking into a full run. Geary and
Finch followed close at his heels.
Guards surrounded the workshop tent, including fresh troops who
had arrived with the reinforcements. Blackburn gave orders to one of the
arriving lieutenants when he spotted Nemo, then ran to meet him.
“Sergeant Jernigan and two of her assistants are missing. So are all of
the captured clockwork soldiers, along with those cylinders you showed us.

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Two guards on the western perimeter have been killed, torn to pieces by
those little saw-projectiles we faced last night.”
“What of the vectors?”
Blackburn turned his head at an inquisitive angle.
“The enemy warjacks, man. Are they still here?”
His head bobbed in understanding. “Yes, sir.”
“What exactly happened?”
“We’re still gathering reports, but we know a squadron of clockwork
soldiers struck the workshop during the attack from Calbeck. From the
footprints, we see they retreated to the west, presumably to return to
Calbeck. I have rangers tracing their steps.”
Nemo thought of the known Cyrissists under guard at his map tent.
How many more were present now that reinforcements had arrived?
“How do we know our own people didn’t take the automatons and
leave voluntarily?” Nemo glanced at Geary. He hated asking such a
question, especially in front of the Precursor chaplain, but he needed the
answer.
“We’ve found prints leading from and back to the western wood. They
look like they came from more clockwork soldiers. There are signs of a
struggle in the workshop, including a small amount of blood.” Blackburn
emphasized “small amount,” perhaps in consideration of Nemo’s friendship
with Mags. “I don’t think our people gave up without a fight. More likely
they were captured.”
“Did no one witness this kidnapping?”
“None that I’ve yet found, sir. There was a great deal of confusion
during the attack.”
“What of the commandos you had covering the west?”
Blackburn’s face hardened. “The survivors report seeing movement on
the way back, but they had their hands full returning the wounded. They
encountered more of those floating spheres, different from the ones you
captured. These flew straight toward the men before exploding.”

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Homing mines, thought Nemo. What a fiendish implementation of the

technology!
“I want that village surrounded,” said Nemo. “Enlist all the new troops
you need, commandos first, but use others if you need more to cover the
perimeter all the way to the Dragon’s Tongue on either side.”
“Yes, sir.” Blackburn returned to the men at the workshop, dispatched
two as messengers, and set off to the west.
Seething, Nemo watched the major go. He had taken the morning’s
attack as a probe meant to test his defenses. He was beginning to accept
the likelihood that the entire exercise was one great diversion to cover the
rescue.
He had misjudged his enemy. Mags had paid the price.
“General, if there is anything I can do…” Geary left the platitude
unfinished.
Nemo shook his head. He tried to resist the urge to inspect the
workshop personally. Blackburn was as competent an officer as he had ever
had. Yet despite his complaints about her crass behavior, Mags was one of
his oldest friends. He had to see for himself.
“Wait here,” he told Geary. Finch followed him into the tent.
The damage appeared less terrible in reality than in his imagination.
A box of parts had fallen to the ground, spilling gears and screws across
the flattened grass. Tools lay scattered across a table where they would
normally have lain in neat order. A trail of rags led to an overturned box.
Perhaps the attackers had used the oily cloths as gags or bonds for their
captives.
Nemo found the bloodstain on the corner of a heavy table. Blackburn’s
description of it as “a small amount” seemed an understatement as Nemo
imagined it had come from his friend’s head wound. He knelt for a closer
look.
Finch leaned over his shoulder. Her gasp of concern piqued his own
fear of what the evidence was telling him.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

He spied a few fine fibers stuck to the bloodstain.

“Finch, hand me a needle probe.”
After a brief search, she slapped the tool into his hand. He lifted the
hairs from the blood. Under the shade of the tent, he couldn’t make out the
color. He cradled the discovery in a cupped gauntlet and carried it outside.
The hairs were not black, but even in the full morning light, he could
not discern whether they were grey, blonde, or light brown. His eyesight
was not so poor that he required spectacles, but he had taken to wearing
assistive lenses when reading anything longer than a short letter. “Finch,
fetch me a—”
Before he could finish, she handed him the magnifying lens she had
brought out of the workshop. He scowled at her presumption before
raising the lens and examining the hairs.
They were thick, short, straight, and undeniably grey.
“Morrow preserve her,” he muttered.
Finch reached for his arm, but he withdrew from her touch.
“We still have the—what did the prisoner call them?”
“Vectors,” said Nemo. “The prisoner!”
He ran, and Finch ran after him. Chaplain Geary hurried after them in
a futile effort to keep up.
The guards and the mechaniks stepped aside as Nemo rushed into
the map tent. There on the table lay the reconnected head and voice-box
assembly.
“They didn’t get them all!” said Finch.
Nemo frowned at the storm chaser’s exuberance. Seeing his expression,
Finch calmed herself and added, “He claimed his leader would exchange
prisoners.”
“It’s true,” said the head. Nemo realized he should have done more than
cover its optical lens with a rag. The captured soldier could still hear.
He went to the table and removed the essence chamber from its
power junction. He paused, uncertain whether residual power allowed it

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

to continue hearing. He decided to examine it in detail later. He stepped

outside the tent.
Chaplain Geary arrived, puffing from the exertion. One look at Nemo’s
angry face prevented him from speaking.
Nemo turned to the guards. “I want these mechaniks separated and
isolated. Double the guard on this tent, and keep these men under visual
observation at all times. Have someone bring the devices I left on the table
to the mechaniks’ workshop.” He walked away, still formulating his plan.
“What are we doing, sir?” asked Finch.
“We’re going to interrogate these Cyrissists, starting with our remaining
captive.”

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Aurora

Aurora paced the circumference of the observation deck. Her bodyguards

hastened to keep pace with her, their heels clicking on the deck. In Sabina’s
absence, they remained silent unless Aurora addressed them.
Despite her best efforts, Aurora could not see the scouts her angels
reported creeping up to the very edge of the village before being driven
away by her troops. One had reportedly come close enough to speak
with some of the prisoners inside the schoolhouse before a reductor
patrol spied him. Somehow the ranger still managed to escape, even
through the doubled guard of obstructors and eradicators along the
perimeter. She felt a grudging admiration for the man’s feat. Perhaps
the legend of the Cygnaran rangers contained more truth than she had
ever realized.
With the village surrounded, Aurora no longer felt the need to
conceal her strength. She had already directed the Transfinite Emergence
Projectors to step out from beneath the shelter of the realignment node.
Permutation servitors orbited their gun platforms like moons, ready to
dart forward and intercept enemy fire.
She moved the Prime Axiom out from behind the riverside leg of the
realignment node. Aurora felt the dull thrum of its massive displacement
field as it glided across the streets. The titanic construct knocked the
corners off of houses as it passed, its massive drill vices held safely above
the rooftops. Those same drills had bored the pit beneath the node,
allowing the optifex to install the realignment conduits and the geomantic
translocation apparatus.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Aurora guided the Prime Axiom to trample an empty salt house for
the benefit of the spies she knew had surrounded the village. She wished
she could hear the gasps of the Cygnar forces as they witnessed its sheer
physical power.
Nemo’s reinforcements had arrived sooner and in much larger numbers
than she had expected. The forces of Cygnar had earned their association
with lightning in more than one way. Still, there was no cause to despair.
Aurora reminded herself that the present Cygnaran forces still numbered
little more than half the strength of her Convergence army.
She could not help shuddering at the ferocity Sebastian Nemo had
displayed in response to her probing attack. Even before she revealed
her reserve, the man had to have understood that he was grossly
outnumbered. Rather than withdraw from her attack, Nemo had
responded with a swift and direct assault on her forward units. In such a
brief exchange, he had destroyed or disabled a surprising number of her
most valuable units.
He had not done so without losses, of course. Aurora was pleased with
the effectiveness of the Mitigator and Diffusers. And the reflex servitors
had caused shocking casualties among Nemo’s fearsome commandos;
she wished she had requisitioned more of the deadly mines for perimeter
defense. Unfortunately, they destroyed themselves in performing their
tasks. She would have to place the remaining dozen reflex servitors
carefully.
A hiss at the southwestern lift announced Sabina’s return from the
upper chambers. She approached Aurora and bowed. “Numen, the last
of the essential construction is complete, but the optifex have only begun
the preliminary calibration. They cannot give a definite timeline for the
realignment.”
Aurora filled her lungs with a cleansing breath. She had miscalculated
in provoking Nemo. Even outnumbered, with his reinforcements he could
prove a genuine threat to the operation.

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She needed to change her tactics. She had more than enough prisoners
to exchange for her captured vectors, servitors, and soldiers, but she
hesitated to offer them too soon after the morning’s skirmish. Aurora
wished only to deal from a position of strength.
A triad of clockwork angels landed on the eastern side of the observation
deck. Sabina went to receive their reports while Aurora returned her
attention to the expanding Cygnar camp.
Long gunners continued marching into the Cygnaran camp from
the direction of Point Bourne. At last report, hundreds had swelled
the ranks of Nemo’s army, along with trenchers, commandos, and
the rangers who had already dissolved into the woods and hollows
surrounding Calbeck.
Aurora made a mental note to increase the flying patrols across the
river. She doubted even the celebrated Cygnaran long rifles could reach so
far with any accuracy, but she had been surprised often enough for one day.
“Numen,” said Sabina. Even through the mechanikal voice modulator,
Aurora could hear the trepidation in her tone.
“What is it?”
“Prime Enumerator Septimus requests your presence in the village
below.”
“Does he?” said Aurora. The clockwork priest should have presented
himself or requested an audience with Aurora, not summoned her. She
saw her mother’s hand in this latest provocation. Was she testing Aurora
or simply undermining her attempt to succeed at something other than
the priesthood.
“Numen, there is something else.”
“What is it?”
“This morning, before the strike on the Cygnar camp, Septimus
requested the service of four wings of angels.”
“For what purpose?”
“He refused to say, so of course I turned him down.”

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“And you did not tell me?”

Sabina cast her gaze to the floor. Her brass wings drooped. “He
suggested that it was unnecessary, and that distracting you would only
endanger the Great Work.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“It was less his words than his demeanor. He seemed to imply—”
“Yes?”
“Or perhaps I simply inferred that he would make trouble for you if I
reported his request.”
“You answer to me alone, Sabina.”
“Yes, Numen, I know that. I— I wished only to protect you.”
Sabina’s excessive vigilance was one thing in combat, where her duty
was to shield Aurora from harm. In political matters, it was becoming
increasingly maternal—and Aurora had little patience for any behavior
that smacked of mothering. “You will protect me best by keeping me
informed of everything, including these hints of intrigue.”
“Yes, Numen. Please forgive me.”
“See that it doesn’t happen again. I have placed great trust in you.”
Perhaps too much, Aurora thought.
“You honor me.”
“What do you think Septimus wants to show me?”
“I don’t know, Numen. Enumerator Bogdan delivered the message to
one of my angels. She says he seemed more excited than usual.”
Aurora thought about sending Sabina in her stead, or—better yet—a
simple soldier to summon the priest to the observation deck. Such a
gesture would provide a smart reminder that it was Aurora, not Septimus,
who led the mission.
Alternatively, she could make Septimus wait, perhaps descending
the astronometric nexus tower via the automatic staircase and walking
through the streets of Calbeck. Perhaps in the time it took for her to arrive,
he would begin to dread her displeasure as much as he feared her mother’s.

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No, she decided. While the clockwork priest’s summons might itself
be a political maneuver, he was certainly wise enough to support it with
a meaningful occasion. Perhaps he had intelligence to share. It was even
conceivable that he genuinely required her guidance.
“Where is he?” asked Aurora.
“In the temple.”
Of course, thought Aurora. He would call her to the one place where his
authority was more obvious than hers.
“Very well,” said Aurora. She went to the eastern edge of the observation
deck. An unbidden surge of annoyance prompted her to run, throwing her
armored body over the edge to plunge downward.
“Numen!”
With a swift calculation of distance, time, and the acceleration of gravity,
Aurora spread her wings to enjoy the tug of air beneath her razor-sharp
“feathers,” but only for a few seconds. As Sabina cried out behind her, she
activated the displacement field and glided down to the streets of Calbeck.
She landed lightly, but her wings raised a cloud of dust from the street.
Her sudden appearance startled a patrol of reductors. Upon seeing her, the
unit prefect bowed. The troopers followed his example. Aurora ignored
them and walked along a street of empty shops.
Sabina and the rest of her bodyguard landed behind her, silent but for
the scrape of their brass wings closing.
The sweet smell of ale wafted from the open doors and windows of a
tavern. Aurora’s soldiers had previously used the building to house captives.
Some sought to ease their fear by drinking, several to the point of sickness.
Aurora had approved Pollux’s request to relocate the prisoners lest they
kill themselves with fighting or excessive drink.
Such fragile bodies we are born into, thought Aurora. She could hardly
wait to be shed of hers.
And yet she enjoyed the smell of malted barley. The thrill of the brisk
autumn air was another sensation she would miss. Even Forge Master

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Syntherion’s most advanced creations did not include olfactory or tactile

sensors approaching the sensitivity of human organs.
Such simple pleasures were a sacrifice Aurora was more than willing
to make in the pursuit of perfection. She was content to enjoy them
for a short time longer before leaving them behind forever. If only the
fluxion directive—and her mother—did not insist on delaying her
transference.
The reminder of the frailty of the village residents gave Aurora another
idea how to deter an assault from the Cygnaran army. “Sabina, tell Pollux
to have the guards release the prisoners for exercise at the base of the
realignment node. They should be in groups large enough to be visible to
the Cygnarans.”
“Yes, Numen,” said Sabina. She began relaying the order to one of the
other guards, but Aurora added, “Deliver the message personally.”
“Yes, Numen.” Aurora heard a tone of wounded contrition in her
mechanikal voice. Having lived all her life among machines, she knew the
sound of sincere regret, even filtered through an artificial voice box.
With her remaining guards, Aurora approached the temple.
In architecture, the building appeared purely Morrowan from steeple
to decorative buttress. Septimus had directed his servitors to erect a large
Face of Cyriss over the church doors. Through frosted glass, the features of
the Maiden of Gears glowed blue-white. Although the priest had left the
stained glass depicting acts of the ascendants in place, the goddess’ icon,
and the reductors standing like paired statues at each entrance, completely
changed the character of the building.
Inside, Aurora found Prime Enumerator Septimus standing near
the altar, his mechanikal hands reassembling components of damaged
clockwork vessels as his almost musical voice intoned equations of praise
to the Maiden. Beside him, Enumerator Bogdan stood attentive before
a row of tools, eyes closed, lips moving in the ritual calculation of the
goddess’ orbit.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Behind the altar, the Vault of the Enkheiridion had been torn from the wall,
replaced with the Face of Cyriss. The holy book of Morrow lay open at one end
of the altar. Otherwise, the trappings of Morrow remained in their accustomed
places throughout the chamber: pews, candles, fonts, and a choir.
As Aurora approached the altar, she saw the lightning-twisted bodies
of six reductors lying at its foot, along with the arms and lower body of
a seventh. An eighth stood at attention to one side, its chassis marked
with the fresh cuts and seared weld marks of recent repair. At the sight of
Aurora, he made a clumsy bow.
Accretion servitors hovered over the steel husks of the other reductors.
They had already removed four gleaming essence chambers from their
chests. Two of them worked together to open a fifth.
Three miserable-looking people sat behind the rail of the choir, flanked
by a pair of vigilant reciprocators. The clockwork soldiers held their
scalloped shields to form walls on either side of the captives, their halberds
held ready in an unspoken threat to any who dared to leap the rail.
The prisoners wore the heavy leather aprons of mechaniks. Black grease
highlighted their fingernails and smudged their faces. Two were men, one
tall and bulky, the other lean with a pox-scarred face. The third was a
woman whose muscular shoulders bore tattoos of gears and pistons.
“What have you done, Septimus?” Aurora had already apprehended the
situation, but she wanted to hear the clockwork priest admit what he’d done.
“Numen, I used the confusion you inflicted on the Cygnaran camp to
recover our lost comrades. In the process, my soldiers were able to recover
all but two—”
“Whose soldiers?”
The prime enumerator’s voice box clicked off, the clockwork equivalent
of a man’s biting his tongue. When the ambient hiss returned, Septimus
said, “Convergence soldiers. Under your command, Numen.”
“And do I understand correctly that you sought to enlist my clockwork
angels in this unauthorized mission?”

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Once more, Septimus clicked off his voice modulator rather than speak
in haste.
Enumerator Bogdan stepped forward. “The fault is mine, Numen.
In relaying Prime Enumerator Septimus’ request, I may have expressed
myself poorly. Any confusion is entirely my fault. I beg you to blame me,
not the prime enumerator.”
There was more than enough blame for the two of them, Aurora
thought. But she would not be fooled by this transparent effort to make a
scapegoat of the lackey.
Aurora stepped past Bogdan, her sudden motion forcing him to retreat
so quickly he almost tripped over his own robes. She looked down at
the holy book. Septimus had left it open to an illustration of Ascendant
Corben, patron of alchemy, arcana, and astronomy.
She wondered what Septimus was scheming. To Cyrissists, Corben
was the most sympathetic of the ascendants. Many converts had come
wearing medallions of Corben before exchanging them for tokens of the
Maiden of Gears.
The twin gods Morrow and Thamar had been revered as Cyriss-inspired
savants long before humans discovered the existence of the Maiden. Thus
it was little surprise that many continued to worship Morrow even as they
delved deeper into the equations of the perfect deity.
Aurora turned back to her bodyguard. “Take these prisoners to separate
confinement in the village.”
“Numen, if you will permit me to explain,” began Septimus.
“You are here to direct the troops as I command,” said Aurora, “not to
second-guess my decisions by taking prisoners without my orders.”
Septimus rose an inch on his silent pistons before bowing his head. “As
you say, Numen.”
Aurora stepped close, whispering into his aural receptors. “And if your
action prompts the enemy to attack before we have completed the geomantic
realignment, it is you, not I, who shall have to answer to the iron mother.”

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The clockwork priest bowed deeply as he skittered backward on crab-

like legs.
Aurora turned to her guard. “Now take them. See that they are treated
as humanely as the citizens of Calbeck. Let no one but me or one of my
designated guards speak to them.”
The reciprocators stood aside at the approach of the clockwork angels.
Wordless, the prisoners filed out of the choir box. A clanking piston set the
rhythm of their shuffling pace.
The faces of the men were slack with fear and shock, but the woman
could not tear her gaze from the automatons. She stared at the quiet action
of their limbs, the steady glow of their lenses. There was no fear in her
countenance, only awe and longing.
Aurora recognized that look.
When the woman stepped out from the choir, Aurora saw that her
mechanikal leg was the source of the noise. She reappraised the rest of the
woman.
Despite the strength of her arms and shoulders, the woman’s body was
failing her in more ways than one. Her flat chest was proof that she had
lost more than her leg, and she moved with a caution that suggested she
suffered great pain in her joints. Judging by her greying hair and the lines
around her eyes, Aurora guessed the woman was well into her sixties.
“Bring that one to me,” said Aurora.
Behind the alter, Bogdan whispered something to Septimus. Aurora
turned to see the clockwork priest nodding his mechanikal head. As he saw
her looking at him, Bogdan said, “I meant only to suggest you question that
prisoner personally.”
“Leave us,” said Aurora.
Septimus bowed. “I shall collect these recovered essence chambers
for the enigma foundries,” he said. After a pause he added, “With your
permission, Numen.”
“See to it.”

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Septimus gestured to the accretion servitors, who collected the six

recovered essence chambers and followed Septimus down the aisle toward
the entrance. The salvaged reductor followed them.
Bogdan hesitated beside the altar. His eyes sought Aurora’s permission
to remain behind, but her returning gaze told him he would not receive
it. He scurried after Septimus as the reciprocators escorted the priest, his
salvaged soldier, and the captive men out of the church.
Aurora turned to the prisoner. Her clockwork angels stood to either side
of the muscular woman, ready to grab her at the first suggestion of attack.
“Name?”
“Sergeant Margaret Jernigan, Chief Mechanik,” she said. She stared at
Aurora’s wings, her lips parted in admiration.
“Show me your mask.”
“I haven’t carried the token in years.”
“But you embrace the truth of knowledge, science, and Cyriss,” said
Aurora. “It is by the blessing of machine technology that you walk, is it
not?”
Jernigan nodded a reluctant affirmative.
“Your body is failing, as all bodies do. I can see some of what you have
lost already. How much is there that I cannot see? You don’t have to live
in pain.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you expect me to—”
Aurora cut her off with a gesture. “The Convergence values minds, not
bodies. Those who prove themselves worthy, and those who fall in battle
for the Maiden, can leave behind their broken husks and live in perfect
clockwork vessels.” She indicated the nearest angel, her chromium body
standing a foot taller than Aurora.
“‘Those who prove themselves worthy,’” Jernigan recited. “You make it
sound like you want something from me.”
Aurora nodded. “What price would you not pay for perfection?” she
asked. “For freedom from pain? For immortality?”

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“I won’t hurt anyone,” said Jernigan.

Interesting, thought Aurora. She had expected something more along
the lines of refusing to betray her people. “You have prayed to Cyriss before,
haven’t you? You know the promise of eternal transfiguration.”
Jernigan nodded. “Life inside a machine. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Are you sure you won’t show me your token?”
“I haven’t carried one in years,” said Jernigan, but her eyes dropped to
her chest.
“No?” said Aurora. She suspected the woman’s devotion—or at least
her hopes—ran more deeply than that. She had noticed how the clockwork
tattoos upon Jernigan’s shoulders converged toward the flat chest hidden
under her apron. She raised her voice. “Show me your mask.”
With a grimace, Jernigan unfastened her apron and peeled down her
dirty tunic to reveal her tattooed chest. Cogs and axles concealed the scars
of her mastectomy, but nestled in the center of them all lay the unmistakable
face of the Maiden of Gears.
“Cyriss has guided you here,” said Aurora.
“What, so you could capture me?”
“No,” said Aurora. “So I could reward you.”

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 THE FOURTH HARMONIC

Magic rooted in mysticism embodies failure to graph scientific principles.

Nemo

A murmur through the camp first alerted Nemo. He and Blackburn saw
the nearest soldiers staring north. Turning, they had their first glimpse of
the colossal.
It was easily the size of a Stormwall but without the smokestacks of
its Cygnaran counterpart. The familiar blue-white light radiating from
points all across its body marked it as a Convergence machine. Even if
there could have been any mistaking its identity, the glowing Face of Cyriss
removed all doubt. The giant construct’s arms ended in trios of enormous
drill points, each large enough to render a heavy warjack into scrap metal.
Two massive units above its shoulders appeared to house some unknown
weapon. Nemo noted the circular apertures, but he could not deduce the
contents from the unusual shape of the apparatus.
“I’ll send another rider to Point Bourne,” Blackburn said without
tearing his eyes from the thing.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Nemo nodded mutely. The very fact that the Convergence could field a
colossal warjack elevated the current standoff from a skirmish to a threat
against all of Cygnar.
“Sir,” said Blackburn. He pointed to the base of the colossal, where a
haze of dust blew away from the three mighty arches that served as its legs.
“Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.”
“Morrow,” Nemo whispered. “It hovers.”
By creating Cygnar’s mighty colossal warjack, Nemo thought he had
ensured the nation’s dominant position in warjack technology for years
to come. Even the creation of similarly sized machines by the other
countries and factions of Immoren had not diminished that advantage.
The Stormwall remained the pinnacle of military power.
Or Nemo had believed until today. One glance at the massive hovering
machine told him he was years behind, not ahead.
Nemo held out little hope of the Lord Commander sending any
additional reinforcements, let alone a Stormwall. “Perhaps we can avoid
a full-scale conflict,” he said. “The fact that they are revealing a colossal
suggests they wish to intimidate us.”
“Or that they know our rangers have surrounded the village and would
have identified it at any moment,” said Blackburn. “They couldn’t have kept
it a secret for long.”
Nemo nodded again. One of the things he liked about Blackburn was
the speed with which he comprehended the most likely cause of any tactical
situation. In some ways, the major reminded him of how Nemo himself
might have turned out if he had not divided his life between military action
and technical research.
By that perspective, Mags Jernigan might have represented his other
half. Nemo hoped her Convergence captors were treating her more gently
than he had treated the clockwork soldiers. The revelation that living souls,
not mere mechanikal constructs, inhabited their bodies continued to gnaw
at his belly.

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 DARK CONVERGENCE

Nemo and Blackburn continued on their way to the tent where they
had confined the Cyriss-worshipping prisoners. Chaplain Geary stood
outside, chatting with the men standing guard. “Ah, General Nemo,” he
said, gesturing to the tent flap. “Shall we?”
The mechanik sat on a three-legged stool. A pair of Stormblades stood
behind him, their weapons deactivated but no less intimidating. It was
perhaps excessive to assign this duty to two of the elite knights, but Nemo
had found the very presence of such men a useful method for softening a
subject before interrogation.
“Sir!” The mechanik rose to salute. The Stormblades clamped heavy
gauntlets on his shoulders and pushed him back down on the stool.
“What is the Convergence?” said Nemo.
“Sir, like I said earlier, I don’t know. I never heard the term before. I
was as surprised as anyone to see the Face of Cyriss on those clockwork
soldiers.”
“You had seen such soldiers before.”
“No, sir. Never.”
Nemo removed the token the guards had taken from the prisoner.
It was a lozenge-shaped pewter fob, slightly smaller than an ascendant’s
medallion. On its back were stamped interlocking gears. Its face bore the
countenance of Cyriss, the clockwork goddess.
Nemo recognized it because he had been given a similar token a few
years earlier, in the first of several attempts different branches of the cult
had made to enlist him. He had even attended a meeting, which differed
from the awkward social gatherings of his academic and technical
colleagues only in the opening and closing invocation of the Maiden of
Gears.
“That’s not what your friend told us,” said Blackburn.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Nemo restrained himself from looking at Blackburn and giving away
his ploy. The other prisoner had said nothing to indicate this man was

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holding back information. Still, it seemed too soon for such a bluff. Rather
than retreat from it, Blackburn turned to Geary. “What is the Church’s
view of this cult, Chaplain?”
“We opposed the decision to permit a temple in Caspia. For all his
many virtues, King Leto has been a most permissive monarch. After these
shocking events, I can only imagine he will reconsider his gentle treatment
of the cult… and its members.”
Nemo watched the mechanik’s face for a reaction. He was frightened,
surely, but the implied threat to his cult did not seem to shake him.
“It’s all completely harmless,” said the man. “We meet for stargazing and
to discuss the circuits of the moons and planets. Most of us don’t even
believe that the goddess resides on the planet Cyriss.”
“What about you?” said Geary. “What do you believe?”
“I still go to church. I still live my life according to the teachings of the
Enkheiridion. The society is just… I don’t know…interesting. Like a hobby.”
“What do they promise you?”
“Nothing! I mean, they teach how to live in better understanding of the
world around us. Some believe the goddess will come to Caen one day, and
we must be prepared to perfect ourselves for her arrival. But I really don’t
know much more. I’m not even a member of the awakened.”
“What is that, some sort of inner circle?” said Geary. “These cults always
entice the weak and selfish with promises of inclusion in elite groups.”
“It’s just what they call you when you’ve devoted yourself completely
to Cyriss. But like I said, I still go to church—real church, the Church of
Morrow—with my wife and our children.”
“What I want to know—” said Blackburn. He stopped to listen to a
commotion outside.
“Stop him!” shouted a man.
The whine of storm weapons sounded outside the tent.
“Stay here,” Nemo told the guards. He and Blackburn left the tent.
Outside, the reinforced camp rang with shouts of alarm.

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“Over here!” cried a man near the map tent. Storm glaives rose and
ignited as a squad of Stormblades ran toward the disturbance.
“No, here he is!” Another voice shouted near the mess tent. A deep
green illumination filled the structure. A moment later, the tent swelled as
a sudden gust blew through it without disturbing those to either side. The
canvas pulled up, tearing away from its stakes to rise like the wings of an
angry giant hawk. Dust and dead grass whirled up to form an obscuring
cloud.
Blackburn ignited his glaive. Nemo switched on the voltaic generators
on his armor and felt the electrical field lift his hair and bristle his mustache.
Behind him, Chaplain Geary lifted his mace and looked to either side.
By the time they reached the mess tent, the sudden windstorm had
subsided. Stormblades came stumbling out from the tent’s interior, choking
on the dust suspended in the air.
“What is it?” demanded Blackburn.
“An intruder, sir,” reported one of the men.
“Only one?” said Nemo, making no effort to disguise his disbelief.
“We aren’t sure, sir.”
“Where did he go?” said Blackburn.
The Stormblades looked around, still blinking in the dust.
“There she is!” cried a guard from the direction of Nemo’s personal tent.
She? thought Nemo. Perhaps there was more than one intruder after all.
They ran out of the dust cloud to see more Stormblades rushing
toward four more galvanic halos bobbing over the crest of a tent. The auras
surrounded the heads of a familiar staff and three storm rods.
Finch, thought Nemo. And her Jimmies.
As they ran out from behind the tent, Finch pointed at one of the
Jimmies. The young man stopped and planted his storm rod in the ground,
holding it tight as lightning danced upon its head. Finch directed the other
two to spread out. Her armor was already engaged, the crest of her staff
crackling with energy.

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“Where?” demanded Nemo.

As if in answer to his question, a figure ran out from behind a tent. The
gusting breeze followed the intruder, but it died as the figure caught sight
of Nemo.
She was small, barely more than five feet tall. Her dusty black garments
concealed her shape, but the eyes above the scarf concealing her face were
decidedly feminine. She carried an absurdly long, wooden-bladed axe in
one hand. The shaft of the weapon was a gnarled staff, its head almost
dragging on the ground behind her like a ship’s rudder.
“A blackclad!” cried Chaplain Geary. “An assassin!”
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Nemo. He triggered
his tempest accumulator, his own eyes squinting at the glare from its
coruscating lightning.
A dark cloud appeared above the woman. She glanced up, surprise on
her face. The winds whipping her black cloak were no longer of her own
making. Nemo saw balled lightning form over the three points formed by
the stormsmiths’ rods.
“I want her taken alive!” he bellowed over the rising gale.
The intuition of long experience told him that no lone assassin would
dare attack him inside a heavily armed camp. It was suicide, and blackclads
were not known for throwing away their lives. Whoever this intruder was,
she wanted something other than his death.
“Down, boys!” cried Finch. The winds carried her voice away, preventing
at least one of the stormcallers from hearing the command. The cloud he
and his cohorts had created snapped with lightning.
The intruder crouched, almost vanishing into the folds of her heavy
black skirts. Then she leaped away, nimble as a cat. An instant later, a bolt
of lightning fell upon the spot she had vacated, leaving only a black mark
where its white finger had touched the earth.
One lane to the left, green radiance reflected off the nearest canvas
walls. A pair of tents bulged as another vortex rose up beneath them.

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One flew away, its contents scattering across the grass. The other lunged
across the avenue like an angry phantom. It fell upon Finch and the
nearest stormsmith, pulling them down and dragging them across the
ground.
One of the other Jimmies cried out. Nemo saw his storm rod fall and
caught a glimpse of the intruder pulling back the butt of her weapon as the
young man fell stunned to the ground. Once more the blackclad looked
toward Nemo. Even at a distance and through the swirling dust, Nemo
saw the startling green of her eyes.
In an instant, she had vanished again.
“Stormblades! Escort formation on the general!” Blackburn turned to
Nemo and added, “She means to kill you, sir.”
“No, she doesn’t,” insisted Nemo. “And I said I want her taken alive.”
“But, sir—”
“No excuses.”
Finch and her Jimmy clawed their way out of the windblown canvas.
They looked up as another whirlwind rose among tents twenty feet farther
away.
“After her,” Blackburn ordered the Stormblades. He shook his head at
the ones who stood nearest. “Not you four. Remain with me to protect the
general and Chaplain Geary.”
Finch and her stormsmiths also chased the whirlwind, but Nemo
sensed a ruse in the swirling wind. The druid had to know how visible it
was. She must have run in a different direction.
“Alive, I said,” he reminded all nearby.
Before anyone could cry out, a dark figure flew at them from the side.
The Stormblades began to raise their glaives, but the woman leaped to
run up their extended arms. She jumped off one man’s heavy pauldrons,
somersaulting toward Nemo.
Blackburn shoved his way in front of Nemo, deactivating his glaive even
as he raised it to strike with the flat. He stopped his blow as he saw the

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blackclad fall to the ground in a three-point landing. She bowed her head
and laid her weapon on the ground.
She looked up and tugged off the scarf concealing her features. Her face
was deeply freckled, in contrast to her bright emerald eyes, which Nemo
now saw were flaked with gold. An errant lock revealed hair the color of a
maple leaf in autumn. Her tiny face gave the impression of an adolescent
girl, but when she spoke it was with the husky voice of a grown woman.
“Sebastian Nemo,” she said. “I have come to warn you about the foes
you face.”
Stormblades rushed up, their hissing weapons ready to strike. Blackburn
waved them back, but he remained between the girl and Nemo.
Nemo patted Blackburn on the pauldron and stepped around the man.
He gestured for the woman to stand. She left her axe on the ground, but
Nemo noted a long curved dagger hanging from her belt beside a variety
of druidic talismans. “And to lead my soldiers in a reckless chase through
our camp?”
“They would have delayed me from seeing you,” she said. “My message
cannot wait.”
“What is your name?”
“Bronwyn.”
Finch and her stormsmiths ran up to witness the exchange. The ginger
one picked leaves and tufts of brown grass from his hair.
“General Nemo,” said Chaplain Geary. “You mustn’t listen to a word this
savage says. The Circle Orboros has sworn to wipe out all of humankind.”
“Not all of humankind. Just the rotten parts,” said Bronwyn. With a
gleam in her eye, she added, “Like fat priests who live like parasites upon
the labors of their fellow men.”
“You said you came with a warning,” said Nemo. “That would have been
more useful before the Convergence had occupied one of our villages.”
“‘The Convergence,’” said Bronwyn. “Is that what you call them? Still,
you do not know the full danger of their intentions.”

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“Why would you warn us, druid?” said Geary. “Why should we believe
a word uttered by a minion of the Devourer Wurm?”
Nemo wished the man would be silent, but he had no wish to shame
him in front of an outsider. He looked at Bronwyn and said, “Answer the
man.”
“There is an expression among the Dhunians,” she said.
“Trolls and gobbers,” scoffed Geary.
“Chaplain,” said Nemo.
Geary bowed his head and stepped back. Nemo hoped he would remain
silent without further reminder.
“The Dhunian people,” said Bronwyn. “They say, ‘the foe of my foe is my
friend.’”
“That’s not only a trollkin saying,” said Nemo.
“A reminder that the Dhunian people are not so different from your
own.”
Not “our” own, Nemo noticed. While human, the druids had turned
their backs on civilization, causing many to think of them as a breed apart.
Nemo had often wondered whether that division was a conceit created by
Menite priests or the druids themselves. In either event, it appeared the
feeling of estrangement was mutual.
“So you have come on behalf of your Circle?” said Nemo.
“No. Most of my brothers and sisters would as soon watch you and the
Cyrissists destroy each other. After you are dead, they would be content to
mend the wounds you leave upon Caen.”
“But not you.”
“These Cyrissists are not like the others you may have encountered.
They do not beg permission to build their temples within your cities.
For centuries they have prepared their forces in secret, rarely allowing
anyone a glimpse of their clockwork creations. They plan to reshape the
world to suit their schemes. To do so, they will desecrate the arteries
of the world.”

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“You speak of ley lines?”

“You know something of the natural system of the world?” She nodded.
“Wherever these Cyriss-worshippers control the ley lines, they can harness
the flow of natural energies.”
“And deprive you of those same energies, yes?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “If their scheme would harm only
you, why would I come to offer warning?”
She certainly made no pretense of altruism, thought Nemo. That was
a mark in favor of her honesty, or else a calculated effort not to appear
insincere. Still, the presence of a single druid made Nemo wonder how
much the Circle truly feared the Convergence. “Our arcane forces do not
depend on these geomantic energies. This enemy would seem to be a far
greater threat to your people than to mine. Why does your Circle not fight
against them?”
“This is not the only ley line that passes through these southern lands,”
said the druid. “Many more cross the territory you claim as your own. Are
you willing to allow them to plant dozens or hundreds more of these towers
all across your country, knowing that each one can power and sustain an
army?”
There was no need to answer the rhetorical question.
Nemo wanted to hear much more from this blackclad, especially since
she claimed not to represent her Circle.
“Let us continue this conversation inside. Blackburn, have the troops
restore those tents.”
“Yes, sir.” Blackburn retrieved the druid’s long axe. Bronwyn made no
objection as he hefted the unwieldy weapon.
Another shout of alarm rang across the camp. Everyone looked around
for its source, but Finch spotted it first. She pointed toward Calbeck, high
above the ground. “Look!”
In the no man’s land between Calbeck and the camp, a lone clockwork
angel flew toward them, trailing a long white banner.

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“It would seem the Convergence would like to parlay,” said Chaplain
Geary. “Necromancers and savages! It would be far simpler to wipe them
out.”
“More simply said than done,” said Nemo. “Fortunately for you, it is my
decision to make.”
“Of course, General. I meant no disrespect.”
Nemo nodded to Blackburn. “Dispatch a man under banner of truce,
and see that our guest is comfortably settled. She’s not to be disturbed
until I return to continue our discussion. In the meantime, I’ll prepare
our terms for parlay with the Convergence, and then we’ll hear what this
winged warcaster has to say.”

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Aurora

Escorted by a guard of reciprocators and clockwork angels, Aurora

stepped outside of the temple with Mags Jernigan. The mechanik’s artificial
leg squealed with every step. By contrast, Aurora’s bodyguard moved with
the barest whisper of metal.
With a gesture, Aurora released Jernigan into to the custody of the
reciprocator prefect. “Take her to the staging area.”
“What does that mean?” said Jernigan, more fear than defiance in her
voice.
“Don’t worry, Margaret,” said Aurora. “Soon it will all be over.”
In the short time they had talked, Aurora had developed a certain
sympathy for this peripheral-cult Cyrissist. Between her mechanikal
aptitude and keen intellect, she was a fit candidate for indoctrination to
the Convergence. Aurora even liked the brief glimpses of crass humor the
woman had demonstrated. If Jernigan had found the opportunity to prove
herself earlier, she might already be serving in an optifex directive. More
likely she would be leading one.
A clockwork angel descended from the astronometric nexus to land
nearby. She approached and bowed. “Numen, First Prefect Sabina awaits
your orders on the pinnacle.”
Aurora nodded. When Sabina had reported an hour earlier, Aurora had
sent her away to await her pleasure. She remained irritated that her most
trusted subordinate had failed to report the prime enumerator’s scheme.
Sabina was the last person Aurora would have imagined Septimus
could turn against her. If he had somehow managed to influence even her

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personal bodyguard, then Directrix’s reach extended further than Aurora

had imagined, even into the field.
As the reciprocators led Margaret Jernigan away between double ranks
of shields, a squad of reductors approached, marching double-time. At
their side jogged First Prefect Pollux.
“Numen!” he shouted, running toward her. The clockwork angels drew
their binomial blades at his sudden rush, but he did not attack. Instead he
threw himself to the ground before Aurora, kneeling with his steel head
bowed low. “I just learned of your secret orders to Prime Enumerator
Septimus. Forgive me, Aurora. I never should have questioned your
dedication to securing the lives of our captured troops.”
Startled and confused, Aurora controlled her expression. Unlike the
alloyed visages of her clockwork subordinates, her face could betray her
emotions. She gestured for Pollux to rise.
“You understand the importance of this mission to the Great Work,”
she said. “The Cygnarans will not suffer us to remain within their territory.”
“But Numen, our numerical superiority, not to mention the power
radiating from the node—”
“—are here only to allow us to complete our mission. You must be able
to move the troops the instant I give the word.”
“Yes, Numen, of course. Nothing must impede the Great Work.”
“The enigma foundries will retrieve all they can, but we must be
prepared to suffer losses in the likely event of another conflict. Until then,
let us hope the Maiden guides my negotiations with the enemy.”
“Yes, Numen,” he bowed. “Thank you, Numen.”
As Pollux withdrew, Aurora watched him march them through the
muddy streets and wondered just how the first prefect had heard of “secret
orders” she had never given. Only Septimus could have initiated the lie, but
surely he would not have delivered it himself. Perhaps he had sent one of
the optifex to insinuate the idea into her officers’ minds—or perhaps his
second, Enumerator Bogdan.

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But to what end? If his motive was to undermine Aurora, why would
Septimus cast away the advantage he had earned among the troops by
subverting her orders?
Capturing the Cygnaran mechaniks was the most provocative action
the Convergence had taken since occupying Calbeck. If Septimus’ team
had rescued the reductors without taking hostages, the action would have
remained beyond reproach. To take credit for the rescue, Aurora would
also have to accept blame for the kidnapping.
It was an elegant trap.
With a start, Aurora realized she had already taken the bait. By not
correcting First Prefect Pollux, she had allowed him to assume she had in
fact given secret orders.
Only a priest as experienced as Prime Enumerator Septimus was
capable of such subtlety. This time, however, he had underestimated
Aurora. She saw through his scheme, even if understanding had come late.
Gripping her polynomial staff, she ran forward and leaped into the
air, wings spreading. A hiss of chromed steel and brass told her that her
bodyguards followed close behind.
Even in her rage, Aurora calculated the spiral path around the
southeastern leg of the realignment node. She pushed the arcane
displacement lever to its utmost position to eke out every ounce of speed.
The clockwork angels strained to keep up.
Aurora landed on the observation deck. The instant they saw her, the
guards bowed.
“Where is Prime Enumerator Septimus?” she demanded.
The nearest guard glanced upward. “He retired to his meditation
chamber, Numen.”
With a shrug, Aurora folded her clockwork wings and stepped into the
nearest lift, standing dead center, directly beneath the emergency hatch on
the ceiling. Two of her bodyguards entered and squeezed in to either side
just before the aperture hissed closed.

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Aurora moved the control lever up. The cylindrical chamber rose,
guided by a combination of pneumatic pressure and rack-and-pinion
mechanisms. After a jolting start, the lift ascended with increasing speed
until it slowed at the control room level. Aurora lifted the lever again to
continue the rise to the next level and Septimus’ meditation chamber. The
lift slowed again. This time she waited for the doors to hiss open.
“Stay here,” she told the guards.
Aurora walked swiftly down the plain steel corridors. The door to
the prime enumerator’s meditation chamber stood between two masks
of Cyriss, each as tall as one of Aurora’s bodyguards. Sensing her
presence, the door emitted a soft chime. Aurora waited, yet it remained
closed.
“Septimus?” she said, knowing the door’s audio conveyer would deliver
the message to the room’s occupant. She waited with rising impatience. At
last she snapped, “Override, Aurora, Numen of Aerogenesis.”
With a whisper, the doors opened to reveal a dark chamber. As her eyes
adjusted to the dimness, Aurora saw the universe.
The stars performed their steady migration across the black hemisphere
of the walls. The instant Aurora recognized the constellation known as the
Hunter, she saw the whole familiar pattern. Astronomy had been one of
the first subjects she had mastered as a young girl, instructed by the most
learned priests and a constantly changing battery of tutors drawn from all
reaches of western Immoren. No scholar was too good to be summoned
before the human progeny of Iron Mother Directrix.
In the center of the room hovered a sphere representing the sun, its
surface glowing brighter as Aurora stepped into the room. Around it
orbited the planets, just high enough not to strike a visitor on the head.
The Eye of the Wurm floated near Aurora, while Lucant hung close to
the sun. Across the room, Cyriss passed across the constellations. Between
them, Caen followed its celestial path while orbited by the moons Calder,
Laris, and Artis.

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Beneath the sun lay the prime enumerator’s seat, a concave stool
surrounded by alcoves for his four mechanikal legs. It was unoccupied.
From the ceiling above Septimus’ seat hung a cluster of tubes and
cables, terminating in a small panel on which rested the communication
apparatus. With its single black key, Aurora knew, the prime enumerator
could send and receive coded messages to the iron mother.
That such a privilege was forbidden to Directrix’s own daughter still
pricked Aurora’s pride. Hating the sight of it, Aurora turned away from
the device.
A clockwork vessel stood to one side of the chamber, unlighted and
unmoving. For a second, Aurora wondered whether it was a ruse, the prime
enumerator himself pretending to be his own spare body in a pathetic
effort to avoid a confrontation. But no, such a trick would require that he
conceal his other body somewhere else. Besides, it was absurd to think of
influential priest employing such a childish trick.
Aurora crept closer to the clockwork priest’s vessel, its head bowed in
prayer toward the stars depicted on the wall. Its multiple human-shaped
arms appeared deceptively gentle. If they were anything like the arms of
the enigma foundry on which Septimus’ vessel was based, she knew they
could crush steel as easily as remove an essence chamber.
Aurora reminded herself that it was the mind, not the body, that
endangered her. She leaned closer to look for any sign of activation. She
couldn’t see the essence chamber.
As she reached around to feel for it, the door hissed open behind her.
She turned to see an enumerator standing in the doorway, battle helm
secured, tuning rod in hand.
“Numen,” said a hollow voice from within the helm. The priest set aside
his weapon and removed the helm. It was Bogdan. “What brings you to the
prime enumerator’s sanctum?”
“I might well ask you the same question, Enumerator.”
“I came to report on the progress of the calibration.”

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“Then you may report it to me.”

“The initial survey of the geomantic flow is complete. The project
lead reports a twelve percent deviation from the previous maps. She has
ordered the gross adjustments but requires the assistance of additional
optifex directives to complete the task before nightfall.”
“See that she receives them.”
Bogdan bowed. “Yes, Numen. Nothing must impede the Great
Work.”
Aurora pitied Bogdan. He had risen above the rank of optifex by proving
himself both in the bureaucracy and upon the battlefield in clandestine
actions against the Circle Orboros, yet his rise had halted against some
invisible ceiling in his progress. Denied a clockwork body, he could not
expect to rise to higher rank.
Aurora knew something of the frustration that weighed upon him.
Perhaps his hopes for transference had driven him to ingratiating himself
with one who could influence the fluxion directorate evaluating his worth,
someone like the prime enumerator. “What do you know of this rumor
that it was I who ordered the rescue action this morning?”
Bogdan’s eyes widened, but he nodded as if expecting the question
to come eventually. He was one of the few who knew Septimus had
commandeered the forces responsible for the mission. “I only just heard it
myself, Numen, from one of the optifex above.”
“And you were present when I discovered Septimus had been
insubordinate.”
Bogdan cast his gaze to the floor. “Yes, Numen.”
“So you knew it was a lie. Why would Septimus permit such a falsehood
to spread?”
“I dare not speculate.”
“Did you correct the mistaken belief among the optifex?”
“It seemed best not to exacerbate the misunderstanding or to intrude
myself into whatever… ah, confusion, may have occurred.”

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“How circumspect of you, Enumerator.”

“I have no wish to interfere in matters between my superiors.”
Aurora thought for a moment and swept out of the medication chamber.
Bogdan bobbled his helm for a moment before retreating into the corridor
to allow her to pass.
She returned to the lift. Her guards had scarcely joined her before she
raised the lift lever again.
The lift carried them to the pinnacle of the nexus tower. Here the
corridor was a narrow passage between the enormous gears of the
astronometric reconfiguration actuator. They would remain still until the
node was prepared to serve its ultimate purpose.
She walked to a ladder at one of the four corners, but she did not
climb its rungs. Folding her wings as close as possible, Aurora activated
her arcane displacement field and rose to the tower roof. There, the teeth
of a motionless rotor gave the impression of crenellations on a high
battlement. Sabina stood near the tower’s edge, beside a tripod-mounted
spyglass.
Aurora moved to stand beside her.
“Numen.” Sabina bowed her head.
Aurora responded with a curt nod. In light of more recent concerns
about the loyalty of her priests, Aurora had all but forgiven her lieutenant’s
relatively minor transgression. Together they looked down from a new
vantage.
The Cygnar forces now surrounded Calbeck except where the
Dragon’s Tongue River wound to the north. Nemo had withdrawn his
tents farther south, maintaining the trenches his infantry had dug upon
arrival.
Aurora noted with some satisfaction that they had withdrawn the
mechaniks’ tent to a more remote site, between a small pond and a sparse
stand of trees. Even if she had not assigned her winged scouts to identify
the correct tent, she would have recognized it by its heightened guard.

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In addition to hundreds of fresh infantry and cavalry, the Cygnarans

now had more war machines. Besides the Thunderhead, Lancers, and
Fireflies the Convergence had already faced, Aurora saw a pair of massive
blade-wielding warjacks the Cygnarans called “Stormclads.”
“Numen.” Sabina offered her the spyglass, already pointed toward the
eastern woods. Through the naked branches, Aurora saw another warcaster
leading a pair of Fireflies. A pair of arcanists followed in a cart hauling
covered cargo. Aurora did not need to see the contents to know that it
was an artillery device its operators used to call down lightning from an
artificial storm. Most of her forces were not immune to the effects of these
electrical attacks, so Aurora made a mental note to reserve her Modulator
for these self-proclaimed “stormsmiths.”
Perhaps two hundred long gunners and trenchers had already dug in
to cover the arcanists on the eastern flank. A similar number had secured
the western woods, where Sabina reported sighting another group of
stormsmiths, but no additional warcasters.
“How many scouts?” Aurora asked.
“It’s difficult to say,” Sabina said. “Comparing notes with Pollux, I
estimate somewhere between a dozen and three dozen rangers. It’s hard
to know whether each sighting involves a different scout. They are quite
elusive, even when spotted from above.”
Aurora nodded, her eyes locked on the Cygnar base camp. There she
saw a pair of stormsmiths carefully drive a large, long-legged machine
around the tents.
The Storm Strider resembled one of her vectors in some ways,
especially in the crustacean motion of its four legs. Even from a distance,
Aurora noted how its limbs strained under the mass of its enormous
spherical weapon. If it had benefited from a displacement field to
reduce its weight, the machine might have glided as effortlessly across
the field as one of vectors. Unlike Convergence constructs, the Storm
Strider carried a pair of occupants, one of them gripping a steering

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apparatus while the other clung to the rail of a catwalk encircling its
voltaic globe.
When it reached the nearest side, the smiths directed the Strider to
crouch before lowering a ladder and descending from the observation deck.
Sebastian Nemo emerged from a nearby tent, followed by his apprentice.
Together they ascended the battle engine. The apprentice took the controls.
The Strider lurched forward, obliging Nemo to grab the railing.
As he turned his head to shout at the driver, Aurora could barely
suppress a smile. “I know just how he must feel.”
“Numen!” Sabina protested. “Won’t you reconsider this business? The
only reason he would insist on bringing his Storm Strider is—”
“I know, I know,” said Aurora. “You fear he will assassinate me. But you
forget the hostages.”
“Actually, Numen, I was about to say he wants to provoke us into
revealing more of our own machines. Remember, he has used our
technology to improve his own before.”
“You’re right,” said Aurora with a sigh. “But we must meet him on equal
footing, as much to demonstrate our strength as to counter any treachery—
not that I expect any. Nemo will learn little enough from observing the
Transfinite Emergence Projector. He has already spied it from a distance,
and he won’t see it in action unless…”
“Numen?”
“Unless we fail,” said Aurora. “And then he will see the capability of
every one of our war machines.”

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 THE FIFTH HARMONIC

The goddess of perfection will inhabit the vessel thereof.

Nemo

Finch guided the Storm Strider over the center trenches while Nemo
peered across the battlefield. The enemy warcaster and a single guardian
approached the neutral line, but not on a vehicle. The winged warriors
glided forward, their impatient progress confirming Nemo’s hypothesis
that their wings were superfluous to their ability to fly.
They had not come alone.
The Convergence machine resembled nothing so much as a watch
tower built upon the carapace of a titanic crab. Composed of the same
peculiar alloy as the enemy warjacks—or rather, “vectors,” Nemo reminded
himself—the battle engine crawled forward on two parallel rows of many-
jointed legs. They moved in the synchronized manner of a centipede, giving
the tower the appearance of gliding across the battlefield.
He thought it curious that the Convergence commander had agreed
to his outrageous demand that he meet her atop his Storm Strider, but
perhaps the spectacle amused her. He had offered the condition expecting
her to reply with a counter-offer, yet she had simply accepted it. Perhaps
 DARK CONVERGENCE

she’d had the same thought he had: if the negotiations failed, having the
Storm Strider on hand would make the swift destruction of her enemy
that much easier.
Nemo welcomed the opportunity to view the Convergence construct
at closer range.
The Storm Strider lurched slightly as Finch over-reached to cross a
crater left by one of the artillery vectors.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Steady on, Finch. You’ve nothing to fear.” Although she had never
operated one before, Finch had picked up the Storm Strider’s controls with
impressive alacrity. While it was not his custom to let it show, Nemo was
perpetually impressed with his storm chaser.
“Right you are, sir. The two of us alone facing this warcaster and
her lieutenant and a war machine of unknown capabilities. What could
possibly go wrong for us?”
“Try to be less amusing when we enter negotiations.”
“Yes, sir. Caitlin H. Finch. The ‘H’ is for ‘Humorless.’”
Finch had become more inclined to whimsy since the recent clashes
between Khadoran and Cryx forces. He had seen such gallows humor
before, and he had to admit that a little levity was sometimes better than
the fatalism that afflicted some veteran officers. Even so, he worried that
the appearance of the “Jimmies” might have incited a deeper streak of
idiosyncrasy than he desired in his adjutant. “Silence will be your most
welcome contribution to the exchange.”
“Shall I at least make an intimidating face?”
“Finch…”
“Understood, sir.”
As the Convergence machine drew near, the last traces of caprice
drained from Finch’s face.
As their winged foes hovered near the construct, Nemo noted once
again how the enemy warcaster and her bodyguard differed. Apart from

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standing a foot taller, the guardian was obviously a construct. The eyes
of her too-perfect face glowed with the same radiance projected by the
vectors and other clockwork soldiers. Her mechanikal nature was evident
at every joint, especially the abdomen, where a complex central axis joined
the pelvic unit. Nemo suspected the juncture allowed a wider range of
motion than a human body, and certainly much greater power.
Of more concern were the razor-sharp blades upon her forearms,
similar in shape to the brass wings spreading from between her shoulder
blades. Perhaps they were ornamental. At best they could provide only
a slight advantage in guidance, but more likely they were weapons or an
unorthodox extension of her armor.
Despite the confounding design of the clockwork angel, it was her
mistress whose appearance arrested Nemo’s attention.
Even before they drew close, Nemo felt the warcaster’s extension of her
thoughts across the battlefield. He fancied a pair of great, invisible wings
stretching out behind her clockwork ones, long feathers dipping down
to touch each of the vectors on the streets of Calbeck behind her. For a
fleeting moment, the woman reminded Nemo of Victoria Haley—perhaps
because of her proud bearing, but beyond that he couldn’t explain why. He
felt an ineffable familiarity about her presence.
He sensed that the Convergence leader’s connection to the vectors
differed from that of other warcasters he had encountered. Her touch
seemed both lighter and purer. He wondered whether that was because of
the nature of the vectors or because of the warcaster. Perhaps, like Haley,
she was a prodigy—or an anomaly.
While she appeared short compared to her towering bodyguards, the
woman was a good six feet tall. The silvery armor left only her face and
shoulders exposed. Her platinum-white helm concealed her hair, but her
eyes were bright and blue as a welder’s flame. She grasped a peculiar staff
in one brass gauntlet. The weapon bore superficial similarities to Nemo’s
tempest accumulator, yet it had a more elegant design. It did not crackle with

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galvanic force as his weapon did when activated. Instead, he saw in its power
modules the steady blue-white glow of the enigmatic Convergence energies.
Nemo felt a grudging admiration for such a fine-looking work.
Nonetheless, he was certain his own weapon, which he had designed and
constructed personally, was more than a match for hers.
The warcaster’s most breathtaking features were, of course, her wings.
The partially exposed gears at the major joint revealed their clockwork
construction, but some other invisible propulsion must have been
responsible for their flight. Nemo noted the telltale sheen of a personal
power field around both the warcaster’s body and her wings. He knew she
must have detected the same defenses surrounding him and Finch.
As formidable as these Convergence figures appeared, Nemo wondered
whether he should have delayed the parlay longer, giving himself time to
consult further with the blackclad Bronwyn. What the druid had told him
already was too full of vagaries and likelihoods. What he wanted were
more facts, facts that he could gain only by close encounter, whether in
negotiation or combat.
Finch pulled back on the Storm Strider controls, turning the battle
engine forty-five degrees west as they had agreed. The enemy battle engine
halted less than ten feet away, turning forty-five degrees west as well. Nemo
noticed with some chagrin that their opponents remained hovering a good
four feet higher than he and Finch stood. The storm chaser anticipated his
desire and raised the platform to put them on equal footing.
The Convergence warcaster smiled at their adjustment, not quite
enough to offer insult.
“Artificer General Nemo,” she said. “Long have I admired your work.
I am Aurora, Numen of Aerogenesis. This is my lieutenant, Sabina, first
prefect of my clockwork angels.”
“My adjutant, Storm Chaser Caitlin Finch,” said Nemo. “You have
intruded on Cygnar territory and taken captive subjects of His Royal
Majesty King Leto. Why?”

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Aurora’s smile broadened. “Straight to the crux of the matter. I should

have expected no less from the most eminent nescient savant of our time.”
“‘Nescient’?” said Finch.
“It means ‘ignorant,’” Nemo said.
Finch narrowed her eyes, but she remained silent.
“I assure you, the term is not a pejorative,” said Aurora, still smiling as
though she knew perfectly well it would offend. “We use it in reference to
those who advance human understanding of science without awareness
of the Maiden’s guiding hand behind their actions. It is the greatest
compliment we can offer to those outside the Convergence, because to
arrive at the truth you must first escape the dark wastes of superstition,
mysticism, and the treachery of petty bureaucrats who see all progress as a
threat to the established order.”
Not for the first time, Nemo was glad he had refused Chaplain
Geary’s entreaty to attend this summit. Still, he knew when he was being
purposefully distracted.
“I ask again: Why have you captured the Cygnaran village of Calbeck?”
“Now you do surprise me, General. I thought you had come to discuss
an exchange of prisoners.”
Nemo had not forgotten. Yet he had not expected the issue to lead
their discussions. “Very well, let us discuss it. You have three of my
mechaniks.”
“You have one of my soldiers,” said Aurora.
“And how many citizens of Calbeck do you currently hold prisoner?”
“None,” said Aurora. “We are not their captors but their liberators. As
your scouts have undoubtedly already reported, we have come to free them
from religious persecution.”
“Now you are insulting both my intelligence and the reports of my
scouts who have located the prisons spread throughout the village.”
“Is it strange that the people should seek shelter at the approach of a
hostile force?”

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Nemo sighed, disappointed.

To reach their true goals, politicians often opened negotiations
with hyperbolic demands, but he found them as tiresome as—well, as
tiresome as politics. Since he had first glimpsed the advanced design of
the Convergence vectors, Nemo had dared to hope he was dealing with
someone more akin to an engineer than a politician. “I want proof that the
captured mechaniks remain unharmed.”
Aurora nodded, but a fretful V formed between her dark eyebrows.
“They are unharmed, are they not?”
“Apart from a minor injury or two, yes. And my soldier?”
“We have his essence chamber.”
Aurora did not so much as blink, but Nemo saw her thoughts registering
his use of the correct term for the repository of the soldier’s mind and
personality. “One does not equal three,” she said. “Which of the mechaniks
would you prefer returned?”
Nemo bristled at the implied threat. “Your soldiers were defeated in
action. My mechaniks were kidnapped from their workshop during your
unprovoked attack.”
“Your very presence here is the provocation,” said Aurora. “Still, I do not
wish unnecessary conflict.” She turned and whispered to her bodyguard.
Nemo could not overhear her words over the electrical whine of
the Storm Strider. By comparison, the deep throb emanating from the
Convergence war machine seemed relatively quiet.
“My first prefect will return to Calbeck now,” said Aurora. “You will not
take that as a sign we are breaching the truce?”
“Why does she return?”
“To relay my orders for a gesture of goodwill.”
“If this is a ruse…” Nemo considered the possibility that this Aurora
was not the true leader of the Convergence; perhaps she was the lieutenant,
and she would attack the moment her superior escaped the range of the
Storm Strider’s weapon.

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With a subtle gesture, Nemo signaled Finch to activate the lightning

cannon. The enormous sphere began revolving, lightning moving from
nodule to nodule. Nemo’s eyes remained on Aurora as he felt the lightning
begin its dance at his back and upon the Strider’s legs beneath him.
“Numen!” The first prefect stepped before Aurora, spreading her wings
to shield the woman with her body. Simultaneously, an aperture on the side
of their battle engine opened, releasing a spherical object with a pneumatic
fwoop! The size of a cannonball, the globe flew out to hover between the
lightning cannon and Aurora.
Despite its artificial source, Sabina’s voice conveyed such sincere
concern for Aurora’s safety that Nemo set aside his fleeting doubt about
their identities. He signaled Finch to power down the cannon.
“Please, Numen, don’t order me to leave you here.”
“With your permission…?” Aurora looked to Nemo.
“Sir,” whispered Finch, “I don’t like the sound of that. Perhaps we
should—”
“Patience, Finch.” He nodded at Aurora. “Send her.”
“Go,” Aurora said to Sabina. “Tell First Prefect Pollux it is time.”
“Numen, if they hurt you—”
“You will slay them all single-handed.” Aurora said. “I know.”
The clockwork angel leaped away, wings turning but not beating as she
flew a spiral around the battle engine and soared back toward Calbeck.
Nemo looked for any sign of the device that allowed her to fly, but he could
not spot one. It must be internal, he thought.
“What is it you expect in return for this goodwill gesture?” Nemo
asked.
“Only your attention for half an hour, or more if what I say interests
you,” said Aurora. “No doubt your Morrowan counselors have already
filled your head with lies about the worship of Cyriss. I wish to offer you
the truth. As a man of science as well as mechanika, you are uniquely
qualified to make your own judgment on the matter.”

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“You will forgive me if I consider your opinion with a skeptical mind.

You have already offered me a ‘truth’ about religious persecution.”
“Forgive me that clumsy preamble,” said Aurora. “Diplomacy ill fits
me. Like you, I suspect, I am more inclined toward science than oratory.
Fortunately, the true worship of Cyriss comes only through critical thought
and an inquisitive mind. Cyriss is an enigma only insofar as the world is
one. Those who seek to comprehend the world as it exists, rather than as
they wish it to be, are her purest followers.”
“Now you sound less like a diplomat and more like a druid.”
Aurora coughed. “If you think that, you know little of the Circle. At
best, they are mystics and savages. At worst, they serve the Devourer Wurm
and thus worship death and entropy. We are their opposites, striving to
understand the mysteries of the universe rather than enslave ourselves to
incomprehensible rituals.”
“Now you sound more like a priest.”
Aurora’s smile broke into an affectless chuckle. Something about the
ease of her laughter reminded Nemo of those few acquaintances who
had slipped past his gruff demeanor and shed their fear of him. He had
encountered the effect most often with those young colleagues who
reminded him of the daughter he had hardly known. It had come to him
most recently in the form of Caitlin Finch.
“If sometimes I recite the words of our priests, it is because I was raised
from birth among the Convergence,” said Aurora. “Most of our members
join later in life, when they find themselves frustrated by the answers
offered by priests and kings. When they are ready to stop searching for
manufactured meaning and instead begin to seek natural truth.”
“‘The Convergence,’” said Nemo. “What is the significance of that name?”
“Other sects also worship the Maiden of Gears, but the Convergence
is dedicated to the purest worship of the goddess. One day we shall unite
with Cyriss and live within her wise protection. Until that day, our priests
study the secret equations of the world for the clues she has left us.”

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“What clues are these?” asked Nemo. “I presume you mean something
more scientific than druid’s runes or the writings of the Enkheiridion.”
Aurora raised an eyebrow, apparently recognizing the bait he had laid
before her for what it was. “As my prime enumerator—your Morrowan
priests would call him a ‘vicar,’ I believe—stood within the rededicated
temple of Cyriss, he took pains to preserve the Enkheiridion. While we do
not share your devotion to Morrow and Thamar, we recognize by certain
ciphers and diagrams in their writings that they are among Immoren’s
most influential nescient savants. So are certain of your ascendants and
scions. Ascendant Corben, for example.”
Nemo steeled himself against another wave of flattery with the
implication that the Convergence considered him in a category with the
gods and their most revered servants. Yet also he saw the direction of
Aurora’s argument.
“Are you suggesting that Cyriss is the deity of human progress?”
“That’s a narrow but not invalid description,” she said. “Considering
that you view the Maiden of Gears through a veil of misinformation and
half-truths, it is actually rather astute.”
For the first time in decades, Nemo felt patronized. His hands ached
as he realized he gripped his staff and the Storm Strider’s rail hard enough
to whiten his knuckles. He released the rail and made an effort to hold his
staff more loosely.
“Not bad for an ignorant savant,” Finch whispered beside him.
He turned on Finch, angry to be mocked from both sides until he saw
her face. She raised her chin in a nod of support. Finch was not disparaging
but defending him.
Nemo paused to subdue his irritation. Aurora had said she was raised
among the Convergence. If she had demonstrated the talents of a warcaster
early, no doubt the priests of her order had nurtured her themselves—and
perhaps sheltered her from the rest of their society. The Convergence as
a whole apparently remained isolated from the world. How much more

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isolated had Aurora been? Perhaps she had meant no offense. More likely
she simply lacked the usual social graces, like a less clownish version of one
of Finch’s Jimmies.
As Nemo’s irritation wrestled with a sudden pity for the Convergence
warcaster, Finch’s gaze fell on something beyond the enemy battle engine.
She nodded toward it. “Sir.”
Turning, Nemo saw the Convergence soldiers had formed a line of
prisoners before their own ranks. Clockwork soldiers bearing shields,
halberds, maces, curved blades, and stranger weapons stood behind a
row of women and children. Squinting, Nemo sought some sign of Mags
Jernigan among them. There she stood near the center.
“What are you doing?” said Nemo, his suspicions once more heightened.
He braced himself to vent the full power of his revenge upon this winged
warcaster if her soldiers executed the prisoners.
“What do you think I’m doing?” said Aurora. She raised her staff. “I’m
offering my gesture of goodwill.”

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Aurora

Nemo’s eyes widened as Aurora raised her polynomial staff to signal

the release of the prisoners. His weathered hand relaxed its grip on his
own weapon as he saw them begin to walk away from her soldiers.
In the relaxing sinews of his fingers, Aurora saw that Nemo had been
poised to channel every last ounce of his power into a storm of retribution
had she ordered the prisoners to be executed rather than freed. She never
intended to commit such an atrocity, but she had to admit to herself that
she had staged the release in a deliberately provocative manner. Thinking
of the scorched ruins of her troops, she decided she had gone as far as she
dared in her effort to keep her adversary off balance.
She had managed to anger, soothe, intrigue, and frighten him in a far
shorter period than she had hoped possible, although she regretted her
graceless argument of “religious protection.” She never thought he would
accept it at face value, but she had underestimated his impatience with the
give-and-take of diplomacy.
It was time to alter her tactics, at least for a short period. Nemo seemed
intrigued by the little she had revealed about the Convergence, but she had
hoped for a stronger reaction. There was much more she could safely tell him.
It was time, however, to let him ask before she revealed more. Until he
resumed control of their conversation, Aurora decided, she would draw
out the parlay. Every minute she gained was another minute closer to the
success of her mission.
“I like your Storm Striders,” she said. “The mechanikal elements are a
trifle crude, perhaps, but for raw power I have seldom seen its like. Is this
another of your contributions to the Cygnar arsenal?”

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Nemo’s attention remained on the line of women and children moving

across the field. Small children held their mothers’ hands or clung to their
skirts as they picked their way across the trampled ground.
Soon they reached the area where Nemo’s arcane storms had torn her
troops and vectors to scrap metal and churned the dirt beneath them. A
small boy stumbled over the lip of a crater left by a Cipher’s shell. He fell,
slid, and clambered back to his feet with a brief smile before his mother
called him back to her side and gripped his hand tight. The other women
picked up the smallest children and carried them across the furrows in the
earth as they approached the battle engines.
Aurora saw Sebastian Nemo’s gaze meet Margaret Jernigan’s. The burly
mechanik winced and offered an apologetic grimace as she looked up at the
general. In the exchange, Aurora perceived something different from the
relationship between a commander and a subordinate.
That was promising.
Nemo cupped his hand and called down to her. “Tell Blackburn to send
a rider with the package.”
While Nemo watched the captives walk toward the Cygnar camp,
Aurora inspected his assistant.
Noticing she was under review, Caitlin Finch raised the goggles to her
forehead and stared back. Her nostrils flared in defiance, but she spoiled
the effect by blowing away an errant lock of sandy blonde hair. Despite the
woman’s youthful demeanor, Aurora revised her estimate of the adept’s age
slightly upward. The storm chaser only seemed so young while standing
beside her aged general. She was still just a few years older than Aurora,
making her high station in the Cygnaran Army—known more for its old
men than its young women—all the more impressive.
Aurora recalled a rumor she had once heard from an optifex assigned to
parsing intelligence reports. Apparently Sebastian Nemo showed special
favor to certain female officers under his command. There had been
speculation the aging warcaster harbored a weakness for young beauties,

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a foible that could be exploited by a Convergence agent provocateur. After

witnessing the interaction between the general and his assistant, however,
Aurora decided there was little likelihood of a romance between them.
Their body language more resembled that between a precocious daughter
and her judgmental father.
On the other hand, the weary look Nemo had cast upon Margaret
Jernigan was full of possibilities. Were they former lovers? Even if they
were only comrades-in-arms, Aurora’s plans for the mechanik were doubly
dangerous—yet potentially twice as rewarding.
Aurora had little personal experience with familial or romantic
relationships. Everything she knew about manipulating others she had
learned as the bright star at the center of a small system designed to raise
her as the perfect child of the iron mother.
Aurora had never known her father. By the time she was three years
old, her mother had earned transference into the most advanced clockwork
vessel yet designed. Years later, Aurora would recognize that fact as a proud
achievement, but she could not remember receiving a gentle touch from the
woman once named Viana, who took the name Directrix after transference
into her first clockwork vessel. She could not even remember the color
of her mother’s eyes or hair, only the emotionless chromium mask she
had adopted as her face. Aurora could barely remember the scent of her
mother’s skin, skin that had long since burned to ash.
Instead, Aurora’s memories were filled with an endless series of
questions, demands, tests, and exhortations to strive harder, achieve
more, and excel in every endeavor. Her optifex tutors had trained her in
mathematics, astronomy, and mechanikal and clockwork engineering.
Her early education had inspired Aurora with a desire to increase the
knowledge of her people, to make her mark in technological achievements
she would then demonstrate on the battlefield. By the time her mother had
decided she should join the priesthood instead, it was too late. Aurora had
already decided her own future.

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“A good first step,” said Nemo, returning his attention to Aurora as

the female villagers and Margaret Jernigan continued their passage to the
Cygnaran camp. “Still, His Majesty will not be satisfied until you have
completely withdrawn your forces from Cygnaran territory.”
“Territory,” said Aurora, glad to return to present issues from past
memories. “Boundaries. Are we not all children of Caen? I don’t mean in
the religious sense, of course. Metaphorically, are we not all residents of the
same world—not just of this planet, but of the entire universe?”
“I am aware of the Cyrissist interest in geomantic and astronomic
principals,” said Nemo.“But this sounds more like philosophy than science.”
Aurora heard the whisper of brass wings. She watched as Nemo and
Finch looked up to see Sabina return to hover by her side.
“Perhaps you wonder why we who worship the Maiden of Gears also
revere the nescient savants who have not embraced our faith.”
“I presume it is because you appreciate any advancement in scientific
study.” Nemo made no attempt to mask his annoyance.
“Yes! Forgive me, General. I don’t mean to talk down to you. It is rare
that I have occasion to explain our ways to outsiders.”
Nemo’s face froze for a second. Aurora wondered whether she had
confirmed or contradicted some hypothesis he held about the Convergence.
Or about her.
“To us,” she continued, “there is no difference between science and
spiritual devotion. Our priests are astronomers, engineers, mechaniks, and
mathematicians. We strive to uncover the secrets of the universe, not to
conceal them with parables and sermons designed to preserve the decaying
establishment.”
“You want change,” said Nemo. “But what will you change?”
“Everything!” said Aurora. “Everything that can be improved. The more
we understand about the systems of the world, the better we can make life
for everyone.”
“Everyone? Or everyone who joins you?”

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He had asked just the right question. “No one has to join us to benefit
from the advances we achieve. You yourself are proof of that principle. How
many of your military designs have proven to have applications benefiting
society at large? And how many of your own technological achievements
are founded on the knowledge you gleaned from Cyrissist temples?”
“No one shared those achievements with my people. We discovered
them only while investigating criminal behavior—including signs of
necromancy.”
Aurora nodded, maintaining an expression of reluctant admission.
“Not all who gain knowledge are well suited to employ it. The Convergence
rejects the dark sorcery of the Cryxians.”
“Then why would anyone look to your hidden temples for secrets
related to cheating death?”
Aurora hesitated, knowing that her next words would shock the iron
mother and all the members of the Convergence leadership should they
learn she had spoken them to an outsider. “In the past—the distant past—
certain misguided members of our order studied Cryxian technology.
Anyone who pursues such subjects is not guided by the Maiden but by
their own imperfect understanding of her ciphers.”
Once more, Sebastian Nemo’s face grew still. Aurora knew she had
surprised him with her frank admission.
“Striving for perfection is no guarantee of success,” said Aurora. “You
must have experienced failures of your own. Have you not learned as much
or more from them as you have from your triumphs?”
“Are you admitting that your ability to store a human soul inside a
clockwork soldier is based on Cryxian necromancy?”
“No,” said Aurora. “Necromancy is the antithesis of the Cyrissist
philosophy. We are dedicated to preserving the uncorrupted noumenon,
what you might think of as the ‘mind and soul.’ But yes, there was once
a rogue forge master who dared to study Cryxian helljacks and liches.
When her transgression was discovered, she was cast out as a heretic. Our

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process, the Anima Corpus Procedure, is in no way related to necromancy.

It has been perfected.”
“‘Anima Corpus Procedure,’” said Nemo. “That sounds exactly like a
term for raising the dead. I know more than one priest who would cry,
‘Necromancy!’ upon hearing it.”
“The difference is that our methods do not destroy souls but sustain
them for transference to a clockwork vessel. Thus, we preserve the minds
of our greatest scholars and philosophers so that later generations are not
deprived of their wisdom.” Aurora nodded past Nemo and Finch, toward
a rider approaching from the Cygnar lines. “As you have learned from
your captives, those are not mere automatons but living minds within the
clockwork bodies.”
“What of your vectors and servitors?” asked Nemo.
“No doubt you have already disassembled them and found their
interface nodes and computational engines,” said Aurora. “Unlike the
vessels reserved for human noumenon, the vectors and servitors are pure
machines.”
“Which you can control exactly as I control my warjacks, yes?”
“Not exactly,” said Aurora. “My control over my vectors is far superior
to your connection with your warjacks. My machines are also free of the
undoubtedly charming quirks for which yours are famous. They perform
exactly as I will them. They are perfect.”
There were, of course, some differences between a warjack’s cortex and
a vector’s interface node. And Aurora was keenly aware of the limitations
of both her vectors and of the Cygnaran warjacks, whose arcane semblance
of human thought the Convergence fluxions had declared abominations.
Once the Great Work was complete, they would be eradicated.
Despite her determination to share as much truth as possible with
Sebastian Nemo, Aurora deemed it prudent not to volunteer that fact.
Instead, she watched his white mustache twitch almost imperceptibly as
he processed the information. She imagined hundreds of thoughts vying for

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prominence in his mind. Surely a brain as abundant as his was its own form
of Constellation, an assembly containing multitudes of specializations.
Nemo was not only one of Cygnar’s foremost warcasters. He was also
a master tactician, an engineer and mechanic capable of overseeing and
correcting the efforts of his country’s greatest specialists. He was a polyglot
of sciences: kinetic, electrical, hydraulic, and arcane. What a treasure
his mind would be, if only he could be enticed to join the Convergence.
Perhaps where others had failed in their overtures to the famous Sebastian
Nemo, Aurora could succeed.
“A moment, please,” said Nemo. He gestured to Finch, who lowered the
Storm Strider into a crouch as the rider drew near. Unarmed but clad from
head to heel in blue storm armor, the man stood in his stirrups and raised
a leather satchel above his head. Finch took it from him. The rider saluted
and wheeled his horse around to return to camp.
Finch passed the satchel to Nemo, who opened its clasps and peered
inside. He lifted an essence chamber in one hand, weighing it. “This is the
intact mind of a man?”
“It contains his natural thoughts and emotions. His soul, if you will.
His noumenon.”
Nemo returned the chamber to the satchel and secured its clasps.
“Think of it,” said Aurora. “You have glimpsed only a fraction of our
technology, but you must see that it is far beyond your own. That is no
slight on you, General. That is the difference between one brilliant mind
locked inside a prison of—what?—seventy years?—and a hundred
brilliant minds working in concert over centuries.”
Nemo passed the satchel to Aurora, but Sabina intercepted it. She
turned away, shielding Aurora with her body in case of a booby trap.
Sabina opened the satchel and examined its contents before turning back
to nod at her commander.
Aurora’s eyes were on Nemo. After he released the satchel, he rolled his
knuckles with a wince.

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“Do you feel the weight of years upon your bones, General? Now
imagine that weight lifted. Imagine your mind secured within a body that
feels no pain, one that can be replaced or improved at any time. Knowing
what you are capable of creating now, think of what you might do in
another hundred years.”
“How old are you?”
“What?”
“You look no older than my assistant. How old are you, Finch?”
“Twenty-seven, sir.”
“Are you older than twenty-seven?” Nemo asked.
“I…” The question took Aurora by surprise. “No. I am twenty-five, but
already I have more accomplishments—”
“Why do you hesitate to abandon your human body?”
“I don’t. I am eager for the transference.”
“How old must one become before having one’s noumenon transferred
to a clockwork vessel? Is it an honor reserved only for the aged?”
“The Fluxion Directorate believes, in their wisdom, that all souls should
mature in their birth bodies before making the transition.”
“You do not share their opinion, do you?”
“The selection is not without its imperfections,” said Aurora. “Even the
Fluxion Directorate can be swayed by sentiment, and there is a political
element—”
Sabina leaned close to her ear and spoke in a mechanikal whisper.
“Numen, perhaps we should return to the realignment node.”
Sabina had just allowed her to make any excuse she wished in order to
withdraw from the unwelcome turn in the conversation.
“Should I continue this discussion with someone else?” said Nemo.
“Perhaps you should confer with a superior?”
“I speak for the Convergence,” said Aurora. Her jaw clenched so tightly
that she almost hissed the words. “But we have said enough for now. You
may return to your camp.”

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Nemo’s gaze fixed on her eyes, weighing and judging her.

“Enough!” snapped Aurora. She flew upward. With a superfluous
sweep of her wings, she threw a buffeting wind down on Nemo and his
assistant before wheeling back toward Calbeck.
Sabina caught up a few seconds later, the satchel clutched in one
hand, the naked steel of her sword gleaming in the other. When they had
withdrawn out of hearing range, she said, “Numen, why did you release so
many prisoners? It weakens our position.”
“It also places a strain on the limited resources of the Cygnaran camp.
And there are other reasons I need not explain.”
Aurora glanced back to see Nemo’s strider returning him and his
assistant back to their camp. The general peered back at Aurora. He had
lowered the goggles over his eyes once more. With his white hair floating in
the galvanic field of his armor, the round lenses gave him an owlish aspect.
The Transfinite Emergence Projector followed Aurora and Sabina back
to Calbeck. The battle engine needed only the slightest gestured command
to obey her wishes. She wished that all of her forces were equally obedient.
“Apologies, Numen. I wish only to protect you. The more I understand
of your plans, the better I may serve.”
“Then take a watch upon the tower pinnacle,” Aurora said. “Keep your
eyes on the Cygnaran camp. Soon enough, you will see the rest of my plan
unfold.”

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 THE SIXTH HARMONIC

The machine is corrupted by the deficiencies of flesh.

Nemo

Upon returning to camp, Nemo sent Finch to return the Storm Strider
and order the Jimmies to perform one last inspection of both battle
engines. He wanted them ready for action on a moment’s notice. Despite
the indeterminate results of the parlay, he could not shake the sense that
another attack could come at any time.
He shuddered to think what he had learned of this Convergence.
Despite Aurora’s protests to the contrary, he shared Chaplain Geary’s
concern: the entombment of souls within clockwork bodies amounted
to necromancy. His skin crawled when he thought of these technological
equivalents of iron liches.
As Finch maneuvered the Storm Strider delicately through the growing
camp, Major Blackburn approached Nemo.
“Our troops have completely surrounded Calbeck and dug trenches to
the east and west. The false transports have completed their assignments,
and we’ve seen no indication that the enemy has detected the ruse. Scouts
across the river report no sign of Cryx or any Convergence emplacement
 DARK CONVERGENCE

apart from the power station already secured. A small group of rangers
remain there, reporting by visual signal on the half hour.”
“What of the camp?”
“The workshop and other key tents have been moved farther from
the front lines. We’ve placed the refugees in tents just south of the main
camp,” he said. “Chaplain Geary was eager to confer with you after the
parlay, but I left him in charge of the physical and spiritual well-being of
the villagers.”
“Well done.” Much as Nemo valued the chaplain’s counsel in private,
he wished another conference with the druid without Geary’s presence to
divert the course of his inquiry. Blackburn was as perceptive an officer as
he was brave. “What about Mags? Sergeant Jernigan.”
“She’ll have a goose egg, but Geary healed her first thing. The minute he
was done praying, she insisted on returning to duty.”
“And you let her go?”
“I left that decision to Geary. From what I heard as I got away from
their argument, he was losing.”
Nemo suppressed a chuckle. Considering how Mags treated her general,
he imagined the Precursor knight never stood a chance. “Very good. Meet
me in the map tent in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” Blackburn saluted, but his eyes lingered on Nemo’s face.
“What is it?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, when was the last time you ate?”
Nemo began to ask Blackburn whether he was a storm knight or a
boarding house matron, but he stopped himself. It was not the first time
Finch or one of Nemo’s other officers had to remind him to eat.
To them, it was a matter of self-preservation, Nemo thought. When he
went too long between meals, he was more likely to tear a strip up one side
of a subordinate and down the other.
“That will be all, Major.”
Blackburn snapped off another salute before retreating.

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Deeming it best to take the edge off his hunger before questioning the
druid, Nemo stopped at the mess tent. At his appearance, the infantry
soldiers already dining stood at attention.
“At ease,” said Nemo. He waved off the private who leaped up to clear
a table for his personal service and pointed at the soup pot. As the soldier
began assembling a tray, Nemo shook his head again. “Just the bowl, a
spoon, and a hunk of that black bread. No, a smaller hunk. What do I look
like to you? A skorne titan?”
Behind him, a young soldier tittered before stifling himself.
Nemo turned to glower down the table. The diners fell very quiet. For
a moment, the only sounds were the clack of spoons on bowls and the
cautious slurping of soup. With one last slow survey of those assembled,
Nemo took his soup and left the tent, suppressing his own smile at the
effect of his disapproval. One might have thought he’d trained a storm
cannon on the troops by the way they cowered under his gaze.
He sopped the bread and chewed on it while walking to the tent where
he had left Bronwyn. As he approached, he saw a pair of soldiers standing
outside the tent, one holding the gnarled staff of the druid’s axe-like
weapon.
Eager though he was to question her, Nemo didn’t want to begin the
interrogation with a bowl in his hands. He wolfed down the remaining
bread and soup and thrust the empty bowl into the arms of a passing
soldier.
Nemo entered the tent to find the druid sitting, not on the stool they
had provided for her but on the bare ground. With her head bowed,
her black cowl concealed her face. She had her fingers entwined in the
brown autumn grass, not tightly as though she were clinging to the
earth, but gently, as though she were feeling for some subtle message
from the earth.
Nemo took the stool for himself. As he sat, the druid looked up at him.
“What were you doing?” he asked. “Communicating with someone?”

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Bronwyn shook her head. “Simply meditating. I am glad to see you

have returned alive. Few of the Circle return from their clashes with these
Cyrissists.”
“What else can you tell me about them?”
Bronwyn shook her head. “Little is known. Occasionally we have
uncovered one of their underground temples. We drive them away, or else
they kill all who try to do so. When some escape to warn other members
of the Circle, we return in greater force only to find them gone, their lairs
abandoned.”
Nemo’s experience had been similar, but without the military conflicts.
“What have you learned from the machines you captured?”
“We destroy them,” said Bronwyn. “They are abominations.”
“But you could learn so much from studying…” Nemo realized the
druids did not appreciate technology as he and the Convergence did.
“Have you found evidence of necromancy among the temples to Cyriss?”
The druid frowned and considered his question. “No,” she said at last.
“But their mechanikal soldiers, they were once human beings, weren’t
they?”
Nemo hesitated to share what he had learned of the Convergence with
another enemy, even though the druid had only been helpful so far. “Yes,
they were.”
Bronwyn shook her head. “It is wrong to halt the cycle of nature in this
manner. There is no life without death, no renewal without decay.”
“You worship change.”
“That is one way of looking at it.”
“So does this Convergence warcaster,” said Nemo. “Or so she says.”
Bronwyn wrinkled her nose as if detecting a stink. “Change is only good
when it renews the world.”
“Well, I agree with that sentiment,” said Nemo. He had never subscribed
to the notion of change for its own sake. Even advancements in human
knowledge were good only so long as they remained in the custody of those

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who applied them for the benefit of others. That was the key difference
between Morrow and his sister. Thamarites strove for personal, not shared,
advancement. After his interview with Aurora, he suspected she had more
in common with the darker twin.
“How have your people dealt with these vectors before?” said Nemo.
“Surely you must have some experience to—”
A terrific report sounded from the southern side of camp. Nemo
pushed out of the tent to see a plume of smoke rising near the new location
of the mechanik’s shop.
“Keep her here,” he told the guards as he moved to gain a better view.
First he spied the massive figure of a Stormclad staggering away from the
source of the explosion. Its right arm was gone, along with its battle blade.
A web of voltaic energy cascaded across its chassis before vanishing. At
least someone on the scene had the good sense to move the warjacks away from
the blast, thought Nemo.
The pale smoke cleared enough to reveal the ragged chassis of the
Thunderhead. At its feet lay the fallen body of the second Stormclad.
Nemo lowered his goggles to spare his eyes from the fumes.
Another deafening report shook the camp. The explosion blasted
Nemo with hot and noxious wind. Nemo recognized the sound as a firebox
explosion. The walking Stormclad fell forward, propelled by the explosion
of its own fuel reservoir. Red and white coals showered the nearest tents,
setting them ablaze. A cloud of black smoke billowed from a point near the
original detonation.
The clamor around the camp grew louder. Before it could dissolve into
chaos, Major Blackburn’s voice called out orders for rescue, fire control, and
enhanced perimeter security. His nearest officers took up the cry, relaying
the orders to their lieutenants and then to all the soldiers throughout the
camp. The rest were shouts of coordination, not panic.
“Injury here!” cried one man.
“More buckets here!” shouted another.

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Waving a path through the smoke, Nemo followed the sound of

Blackburn’s voice until he found the man.
“Another attack?” asked Nemo.
“No, sir. Not as far as we can ascertain. Initial reports suggest a
malfunction on the Thunderhead.” He turned his head to cough. “Either
that, or else—”
“Sabotage,” snarled Finch, materializing beside Nemo.
Blackburn nodded.
“Casualties?”
“We’ve pulled two mechaniks from the fire, but the second explosion
drove us back. As soon as fire control has—There, they’ve got another one.”
A pair of soldiers carried the unconscious Mags Jernigan out of the
smoke. Her blackened arms trailed across the grass. Where her mechanikal
leg had joined her knee, only an angry red stump remained.
A cold hand clenched in Nemo’s stomach.
Blackburn snapped, “Get her back to Chaplain Geary on the double!”
“Sir,” another man called out to Major Blackburn. He carried another
burned figure over his shoulder. The singed robes hanging from his blue
armor identified him as the journeyman warcaster, Lieutenant Benedict.
“This one’s still alive, but barely.”
“Take him to Geary as well,” said Blackburn.
“Priority?”
“This man first,” said Blackburn. He glanced at Nemo for confirmation.
As a commander facing the likely prospect of a battle, he had to place the
life of a warcaster before that of a mechanik, no matter his personal feelings.
Much as it pained him, Nemo nodded in support of Blackburn’s decision.
He pulled a cloth from his belt pouch to cover his nose and mouth.
As the soldiers threw a few last buckets of water over the steaming
hulks of the Stormclads, Nemo appraised their condition.
The Thunderhead appeared to be the source of the initial blast. Its
galvanic coils were blackened and half-melted. One arm dangled to the

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side, while the other lay on the ground ten yards away. Deep rents in the
chassis made Nemo fear the damage might have reached the cortex, in
which case the warjack would be a total wreck.
Nemo mourned the damage almost as much as the wounds he had seen
on Mags. Every warjack with which he connected felt more like a living
creature than a machine, this one more than most. He had practically rebuilt
the Thunderhead from top to bottom after the battle at the Temple Garrodh.
While that experience gave him confidence that he could do so again, it
would require many days, not hours, to make the warjack field-ready.
The question of how it had exploded troubled him deeply.
Four years ago, when he was first developing the lightning-powered
warjack, Nemo had twice destroyed a prototype by overcharging its
galvanic coils. Yet he had solved that design defect, as well as the problem
of providing sufficient shielding to the warjack’s cortex. To cause this recent
model to explode would require far more than a mechanik’s error. Finch
had been correct in her initial reaction.
It could only be sabotage.
Despite the damage to its firebox, the Stormclad that had escaped the
second blast appeared salvageable. The one on the ground, however, was a
complete loss. Fortunately, its sword arm remained intact. It would take a
great deal of effort, but the mechaniks could affix it to the other Stormclad.
For the Thunderhead’s explosion to have caused so much damage to all
three warjacks, they had to have been standing close together—far closer
than safety protocols permitted. Whoever had done this knew that much
and had arranged them accordingly. It was becoming increasingly clear the
saboteur was one of Nemo’s own troops, making the act not just sabotage
but treason.
“Bring the reports to the map tent,” Nemo said before leaving Blackburn.
Finch followed in silence.
They made it less than halfway to the map tent when a dark figure
rushed toward them, cloak swept back like a pair of black wings. Finch

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raised her weapon to defend him, but Nemo merely scowled as the druid
skidded to a halt before him. Behind her came a pair of guards, wide-eyed
and breathless. “Sir, look out!”
“I came to offer help,” said Bronwyn. She stood at ease, eyes half-lidded,
breathing as easily as if she had not just sprinted away from a pair of armed
soldiers.
Nemo glowered past her at the guards who had failed to keep her confined.
One of them wore the druid’s pouch and dagger at his waist. The other held
her gnarled axe. “How long has she been out of your direct custody?”
“No more than two minutes, sir!” said the first man.
“They are not to blame,” said Bronwyn. “I would have been here sooner,
but they proved most vigilant, then swifter than I expected. It took some
time to elude them.”
“You say you wish to help,” said Nemo. “What help can you offer?”
“I heard the screams of the injured. If you will return my pouch, I can
assist in treating them.”
Not for a second did Nemo trust the blackclad. In any other
circumstances, he would have liked to see how easily she could escape
detainment after he had her clapped in irons. Yet he knew the druids
wielded powerful healing, both natural and mystical. While Chaplain
Geary spent his prayers on Lieutenant Benedict, perhaps Bronwyn’s care
would improve Mags’ chances of survival.
“Give her the pouch,” said Nemo. “Take her to the casualty tent. And
try not to lose her this time.”
“Sir!”
Nemo and Finch returned to the map tent, where Blackburn joined
them to report a total of six casualties, three of them serious. All but the
journeyman warcaster were mechaniks, and all of those but Mags were the
newly arrived field mechaniks.
Finch pursed her lips at Nemo’s frown. “Do you think they targeted the
mechaniks?”

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“I think they targeted the Thunderhead and Lieutenant Benedict,” he

said. “But yes, it’s possible our mechaniks were a secondary target. If so,
it might mean they hope to fight a battle of attrition, reducing both our
capacity to field warjacks and our ability to repair them.”
Blackburn nodded agreement. “There’s been no sign of infiltration,
except for that druid.”
“She escaped her tent just now,” said Finch. “Who’s to say she hadn’t
slipped away earlier and returned to give herself an alibi?”
Nemo admired the young storm chaser’s reasoning, but he had already
considered that possibility. “I was with her just before the blast. Even if
she could have done her work while you and I were away, it seems unlikely
she would remain in camp after arranging the explosion. Besides, I doubt
any druid has the mechanikal expertise to cause such an overload. Even so,
Blackburn, have your men examine the tent where she was confined. See if
there is any indication that she escaped and returned before the explosion.
Also, replace the men guarding her in the casualty tent.”
“The casualty tent?” Blackburn raised his eyebrows.
Nemo briefly described the druid’s offer.
Blackburn nodded, but his face betrayed his incredulity that Nemo
would allow the stranger such liberty.
“Speak up, man.”
“It’s nothing, sir,” said Blackburn, quickly schooling his expression.
Nemo struggled to contain his temper. He realized he wasn’t angry
with Blackburn. He was angry with himself, frightened of the suspicion
that continued to take shape in his imagination.
“What the hell was Benedict doing with the Thunderhead, anyway?”
he demanded.
“He had just returned from leading the Fireflies into the east woods
with the decoy wagon. Shortly before your return, he and Sergeant Jernigan
repositioned the Stormclads near the Thunderhead. The mechaniks we’ve
questioned can’t explain why.”

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“Mags ordered them moved?” said Nemo.

“I don’t know that for certain.”
“So it could have been Benedict who ordered the warjacks moved?”
Blackburn shook his head. “That much is unclear, sir.”
Nemo released a sigh, but it was no relief. Uncertainty coiled like an old
spring between his lungs.
“Scouts?”
“All accounted for, although there were a few close encounters with the
clockwork guards. The enemy numbers nearly a thousand, including these
vectors and servitors. There appear to be even more inside. We’ve spied
entrances at each of the four legs surrounding the tower. The angels and
their leader also fly out from a partially concealed deck just above the arches.
Below that is the drill—probe, engine, or whatever it is—that they’ve driven
into the ground. There’s no telling how much more room they have below
the surface. We’ve seen sentries at the top, also, just below that orb.”
“What of the released prisoners?”
“All confined in shelters to the rear of camp,” said Blackburn. “We’ve
sent riders to the nearest villages to commandeer additional supplies. Until
then, the mess officers have been ordered to tighten rations by one quarter.”
“Camp security?”
“Another inspection is underway. Initial reports suggest there’s been no
breach, but I will replace the guard on the druid and personally inspect the
tent where she was confined.”
“Very good. Dismissed.”
Blackburn saluted and left the tent.
“You’re worried Mags sabotaged the warjacks, aren’t you?” said Finch.
Nemo scowled, but there was no denying that she’d guessed his concern.
“There’s still a chance it was Benedict, but the timing points to Mags. The
problem is that we need Benedict as well as every mechanik we can field.
Until I know which of those two I can trust, I can’t depend on either of
them.”

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“Maybe it was neither of them,” Finch said. “Maybe it really was an

accident.”
“Impossible. There are only so many people in this camp with the skill
to have caused that explosion.”
“I’ll vouch for you if you vouch for me,” said Finch.
Finch’s feeble joke did nothing to allay his concerns. He saw in her
face that she didn’t believe the explosion could have been an accident,
either.
“Let’s pray they both recover,” she said. “If one dies, we may never know
the truth.”
“Bite your tongue—” Nemo began. Finch’s remark had given him an
idea. He took a pen and parchment from the table and scrawled a hasty
note. He sanded the wet ink, blew it clear, and folded the paper. He
handed it to Finch. “First, take this to Chaplain Geary— No, don’t open it.
Afterward, check on your stormsmiths. After you’ve received their reports,
join me in the casualty tent.”
“Yes, sir.” Despite her crisp salute, Finch cast him a concerned glance
before leaving the tent.
When she was gone, Nemo sat and closed his eyes. He let the weight
of years and memory hold him down as he counted the seconds. After
five minutes, he stood and parted the tent flap with the tip of his staff. He
walked out into the afternoon sunlight, carrying the weapon rather than
leaning upon it.
Soldiers saluted as he passed. He ignored them all the way to the
casualty tent.
Inside, the tent was divided in thirds with heavy tarpaulins for walls.
In the central section, four mechaniks lay on cots, their arms and faces
bandaged. Two tried to rise to attention as Nemo entered, but he waved
them down. “At ease.”
From the tarp to the right, Nemo heard Chaplain Geary intoning
prayers to Morrow. A medic stepped through the canvas barrier holding a

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tin tray of soiled bandages. Nemo winced at the sight. He added his own
silent prayer that Benedict might survive.
He went to the partition on his left. Even before he touched the
partition, he smelled the noisome fumes gathering behind the tarp. As he
opened it, he saw Bronwyn crouching beside Mags Jernigan’s cot.
The druid had peeled away the bandages and laid lines of damp,
crushed herbs along Mags’ horrific burns. As Nemo watched, Bronwyn
took another wad of chewed leaves from her mouth and laid it upon the
back of Mags’ burned hand. No matter how potent the druid’s craft, Nemo
feared Mags would soon need more than a mechanikal leg.
The druid had built a little fire upon the floor. Above it simmered a pot
of water infused with Morrow-knew-what. Bronwyn cast another handful
of herbs upon the roiling surface and used a bird’s wing to fan the steam
toward Mags.
The mechanik lay half-unconscious. Her lips moved, and she moaned
some barely articulated word Nemo could not decipher.
He paused in the entrance. Bronwyn turned to look at him. “Close the
flap. We must not let the healing vapors escape.”
Nemo stepped inside. “How is she?”
“Very bad,” said Bronwyn.
“What is that vile concoction?” He preferred his potions and tinctures
prepared in a laboratory, not in a druid’s cauldron.
“It will help her sleep.”
“I need to speak with her.”
Bronwyn sighed and laid the wing over the mouth of the simmering pot.
“Her burns are very deep,” she said. “I could do more so close to a ley line,
but that machine tower is interfering with the natural flow of energies.”
“We will drive these invaders away.”
“By then it may be too late,” said Bronwyn. “Even if she survives, the
node may be damaged.”
“How?” said Nemo. “How can they do that?”

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“Not even our most learned potents know for certain,” said Bronwyn.
“Wherever we have fought these Cyrissists, they have left the world
wounded. We can feel the weakness in the land.”
Nemo cared little about the effect the Convergence had on the
blackclads, and it must have shown on his face.
“Wounds upon the face of Caen harm all who live upon it, whether or
not they know how to draw the power out of the land. And do not forget
that the Convergence forces use these powers to drive their machines. Are
you not concerned about what they hope to achieve with the harm they
wreak upon the world?”
Nemo was indeed concerned.
“This winged woman,” said Bronwyn, “what is she called?”
“Aurora…” murmured Mags.
“Mags, can you hear me?” Nemo reached for her hand, saw how little
skin was left, and changed his mind. The slightest touch would likely bring
her only agony.
“’Bastian.”
“Did you speak to Aurora in Calbeck?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said slowly. Nemo couldn’t tell whether it was reluctance or
injury that drew out the syllable.
“What did she say to you?”
“She said she’d release the women and children,” said Mags. “And I
could go with them.”
“That’s not all she said, is it? What did she promise you?”
“Noth—She didn’t promise me anything.”
“Mags, you weren’t the only one hurt in the explosion. Four of the
mechaniks are badly injured. Benedict was hurt worse than you.”
“Benedict? He’s still just a boy.” Her voice cracked.
“Why did you move the warjacks so close together?”
“After I saw all those machines in Calbeck, I just wanted to be sure we
were prepared…”

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With every word, Nemo heard more and more falsehood in her voice. “I
know it was you, Mags. What I don’t know is why. What did they promise
you?”
The tarp parted as Chaplain Geary stepped into the room. His eyes
narrowed as he looked down at Bronwyn and her simmering potion. They
narrowed further as he saw Mags Jernigan was awake.
“How is Lieutenant Benedict?” Nemo asked.
Geary shook his head. “I’m sorry, General. His wounds were too great
for even the divine power of Morrow to mend.”
“Forgive me,” groaned Mags.
Nemo whirled on her. “What did they promise you?”
Mags lifted her ruined arms an inch or so before her strength failed.
Nemo had his answer.
“A new body,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Tears streaking her burned face.
All at once, he understood. Like him, Mags had long suffered from the
infirmities of old age. She had given her leg for Cygnar and her breasts for
no good reason but the indifferent cruelty of cancer. The military life had
always rankled her. How much had she resented him for failing to speed
her requisition for a better leg?
The last pity he felt for her injuries melted away, replaced by rage. No
one could sympathize more with the indignities of age, injury, and disease,
not to mention the perpetual weariness of one who had devoted an entire
life to the army. But one thing Nemo could never forgive was a traitor.
He turned his back on Mags and pushed his way by the canvas divider.
Bronwyn followed him out. “What do you want done with her? Whatever
you wish, I will do it.”
Nemo looked down at druid. Was she asking whether he wanted her
to kill Mags? Or was that some dark fancy born of his own impulse for
retribution? “Let her sleep. I want her fully recovered and fit to face court-
martial.”

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Bronwyn returned to Mags’ chamber.

Nemo walked out of the casualty tent, Chaplain Geary at his side.
To the guards outside he said, “Place Sergeant Jernigan under guard. No
one other than the druid or the surgeon is to speak with her without my
express permission.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they walked away, Nemo remembered he had asked Finch to meet
him at the casualty tent. Yet he hated the thought of remaining another
moment near the traitor—he could no longer think of her as his friend.
The very idea that Mags—Sergeant Jernigan—had been turned
against the country of her birth by this death cult—the betrayal made it
easy to embrace Geary’s perspective on the Convergence—was too much
to accept.
Anger fragmented his thoughts. He felt a vein throbbing on his temple.
Like an overheated warjack, he needed to vent before his fury harmed
him. Yet there was no time for a personal retreat or even the reprieve of a
soothing cup of tea. Instead, he turned his attention to the other matter.
“How is Benedict?” he asked the Precursor.
“Recovering, although it will be days before he is fit for duty.” Chaplain
Geary cleared his throat. “General, while I am glad to have been of use in
your interrogation, I must tell you that I do not care for perpetrating such
cruel deceptions on our own people.”
“Nor do I, when they can be avoided.” He looked across the camp
toward the north, where the great Convergence tower rose high above the
village of Calbeck. “You will be pleased to hear that the time for deception
is over, Chaplain.”
Geary nodded, his hand straying to the mace at his hip. A counselor
during peace, he was a battler in war. He would fight beside the storm
knights, by turns slaying foes and healing allies.
The priest coughed as Bronwyn emerged from the casualty tent. The
druid ignored him and spoke to Nemo. “She will sleep now.”

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“I appreciate your warning, Bronwyn. You must return to your tent

now. The guards will keep you safe during the battle ahead of us.”
“I will be of no use to you in my tent,” she said.
“Are you saying you prefer we release you?”
“My people may not fight beside you in this battle with the Convergence,”
she said. “But if you allow it, I will.”
Nemo fixed his gaze on her, wondering what secrets lay behind those
bright green eyes. He made his decision.
“Finch, ready your stormsmiths. I want the Striders on either side of
the front line, and send word to both flanking teams. Chaplain Geary,
report to Major Blackburn. You will fight with the storm knights. I want
all units ready to move within half an hour.”
“What about me?” said Bronwyn.
Nemo beckoned to the guard who held the druid’s long axe. He took it
from the man and handed it to Bronwyn.
“You will come with me,” he said. “Help us bring the storm to Calbeck.”

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Aurora

Beneath the astronometric nexus, enormous gears jolted into motion as

Aurora and Sabina returned from their inspection of Calbeck. Unlike the
animal clamor Aurora had heard when she first arrived in Calbeck, this sound
only seemed chaotic. As she listened closely, Aurora perceived the mathematical
precision of the hundreds of different clicks and whines. In its way, the apparent
cacophony was as beautiful as any symphony, as holy as any equation.
“Numen!” cried Sabina. While her chromium face betrayed no
emotions, Aurora heard the exultation in her lieutenant’s mechanical voice.
“The realignment has begun!”
Unlike her lieutenant, Aurora could still smile. Even as she allowed
herself to do so, she thought ruefully on the manner in which Sebastian
Nemo had turned her words against her. Her smile froze upon her face, as
cold and reflective as those of her clockwork angels.
Aurora wondered whether she was truly as transparent as Nemo’s
barbs suggested. Verbally, she had always been able to outmaneuver others
with great ease. Yet most of those around her, she understood, were minds
encased in mechanikal bodies, devoid of the fragile human senses that
confused and injured their emotions. Beyond them, she was surrounded
only by insensate machines, beautiful in their functional perfection, but
incapable of offering challenges.
Even as she recognized her disdain for others who continued to await
the honor of transference, like Enumerator Bogdan, Aurora could not
understand why she must share their fate. More than anyone, she had
proven herself worthy of a perfect physical vessel.

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Still, there was something about Nemo that allowed him to strike at
her heart—or, more aptly, at the very core of her thoughts.
Did he possess some special insight into her psyche because of his great
intellect and achievements? After all, he and she were not so different in
that regard. Aurora’s own title, Numen of Aerogenesis, was proof of her
greatest accomplishment: flight. Was that not every bit as worthy as any
technological advance that Nemo had made for the Cygnar forces?
“Numen!” cried Sabina.
The tower loomed before her. Aurora banked, veering away before she
could strike the southeastern corner.
She shook her head to dispel the useless recriminations that plagued
her mind. Focusing once more on the sound of giant gears—the sound
of progress toward completion of the Great Work—Aurora performed a
perfect barrel roll and swooped beneath the arches to fly up into the shelter
of her aerie.
Her officers awaited her arrival. To either side, her clockwork angels
stepped in to flank her. Sabina took her position two steps behind Aurora’s
right shoulder.
Prime Enumerator Septimus stood before Aurora, Enumerator Bogdan
just beside and behind him. No other enumerators or optifex joined their
leaders, for they were all devoted to the operation. Only in the event of
an attack would they emerge to tend the vectors and clockwork soldiers
defending the site.
First Prefect Pollux stood beside other first prefects of each type
of clockwork vessel: the shield-locking obstructor, the eradicator with
protean shields on both arms, the reductor wielding a swarm projector
on one arm and a retractable blade on the other, the javelin-launching
perforator, and the deadly reciprocator with its massive protean
polearm. The clockwork soldiers greeted her arrival with a perfectly
sequenced bow. The observation deck shuddered as they moved their
feet in unison.

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Prime Enumerator Septimus stepped forward. “All troops prepared for

battle, Numen.”
Aurora had not informed the others of her scheme to compel the
Cygnaran mechanik to sabotage Nemo’s warjacks, and the unexpected
explosion from the enemy camp had set them on high alert.
Jernigan had acted even sooner than Aurora had anticipated. That
showed a miscalculation on her part, perhaps, but none of her advisors
needed to know. In any event, the fervor with which Pollux led his troops
in a formal bow suggested she would continue to reap the benefits of
Septimus’ diversion of the credit for rescuing the captured reductors.
“Well done, Prime Enumerator,” she said. “The Cygnarans may attack
soon, but if so they will do it without benefit of their most powerful
warjacks.”
Septimus said, “With or without those machines, it is best we are
prepared. This Sebastian Nemo has proven most aggressive.”
“Indeed,” said Aurora. “Yet now we are well prepared for such a
response.”
The prime enumerator inclined his graceful neck. “Your stratagem is
most cunning,” he said. “The iron mother approves.”
His phrasing alarmed Aurora. “You communicated with her while I
was in parlay?”
“Of course, Numen. The iron mother gave me explicit instructions to
keep her apprised of all contacts with the enemy.”
“Of course,” repeated Aurora, her resentment growing.
“Now that the realignment has begun,” said Septimus, “we need only
remain a short time longer before withdrawing from this site. No doubt
you shall return home to receive the full accolades of the Constellation.”
“As shall you, Prime Enumerator. No doubt.”
Septimus inclined his head and withdrew several steps. As he did
so, Enumerator Bogdan stepped forward. “Except for this morning’s
casualties, all vectors and servitors are ready for combat, Numen. They are

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arrayed as you directed, throughout the village. The Prime Axiom stands
guard before the Cygnaran central lines with a Transfinite Emergence
Projector on either flank. Wherever you fly, vectors await your command.
Three optifex directives, each with three accretion servitors, stand ready to
support the vectors. The fourth directive remains with the astronometric
nexus to monitor the realignment from the control room.”
“Very thorough, Enumerator.”
“Numen,” said Sabina. “The clockwork angels stand ready to defend you
in combat.”
“I want four trios with me and four to either flank, First Prefect,” said
Aurora. “Set one trio on the tower roof, and have your two most capable
trios report to me on the pinnacle for special orders.”
A faint click from her voice box indicated Sabina’s surprise, but she
said, “As you command, Numen.”
“Prime Enumerator, where are the steelsoul protectors?”
“They remain on guard throughout the realignment node, Numen.
Shall I assign them to the field?”
“Take one to support the front lines,” said Aurora. “Station the others
here, one by each lift.”
“It shall be done, Numen.”
“Return to your stations,” said Aurora. “Not you, Enumerator Bogdan.
You will escort me to the control chamber. I wish to observe the realignment
process.”
“As you command, Numen.”
Bogdan led the way to the lift tubes. After whispering a command to
one of her subordinates, Sabina followed at Aurora’s heel, two more of her
bodyguards trailing at a more discreet distance. Three other trios went to
the remaining lifts to meet them in the tower above.
The lift brought them to the control level. Aurora folded her wings
tight to navigate the narrow passages. Bogdan scurried before her, opening
the control chamber door before standing back to usher her inside.

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The optifex manning the various stations had exchanged their battle
helms for goggles with tinted lenses shielding their eyes from the steady
glow of the control panels. A few had donned elaborate multi-specs, their
transferrable lenses forming shining petals around their eyes.
Bogdan led the way, swatting aside those optifex who remained so
engrossed in their work that they failed to notice the arrival of their leader.
They bowed and stepped away, or when necessary pressed themselves into
shallow niches between the machinery to allow Aurora to pass.
One relatively spacious corner of the chamber was dedicated to a large
sphere representing Caen. A chromium-plated Face of Cyriss orbited the
globe.
Both monitor and shrine, the sphere depicted the planet’s seas in
brushed steel. The known continents were etched in brass, while the
fathomless reaches of the globe remained blank. Dark lines indicated rivers
and lakes, while glass filaments formed a blue-green network across the
globe.
Those were the key to the Great Work: the paths known among the
savage druids as “ley lines” but which Convergence engineers understood as
the network of geomantic power. When the worshippers of Cyriss brought
them into proper alignment, they would bring the goddess to Caen itself,
where she would establish a perfect, permanent order.
“Here, Numen.” Bogdan turned away from the globe and indicated a
mechanikal board with his staff. Most of its surface was filled with gauges
and dials indicating the depth of the geomantic probes, the heat stress on
the main axle, the current torque ratio, and other critical values.
Bogdan indicated a vertical groove on one side of the panel, a thin sheet
of brass slowly rising from bottom to top. As the tower’s probes drilled
deeper into the earth, intersecting with the flow of geomantic energies,
the Node nudged their course into a new alignment. As Aurora watched,
another card clicked into place. At a glance, she calculated its progress.
“Twelve percent?” she asked.

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Bogdan peered up at the panel, squinted for a second, and nodded.

“Precisely, Numen. You have a keen eye.”
“How long before the realignment is stable?”
“Approximately seventy-nine minutes, Numen.”
“An auspicious number.” Like all true worshippers of the Maiden of
Gears, Aurora saw the hand of Cyriss in every prime.
They left the control chamber and returned to the lift, which Aurora
ordered to return to the observation deck.
As they descended past the level containing the prime enumerator’s
meditation chamber, Aurora turned to the Enumerator. “Tell me, Bogdan,
are you present when Prime Enumerator Septimus communicates with
the iron mother?”
“No, Numen. I await him in the corridor.”
“And then he confides in you, does he not?”
Bogdan winced. “Please understand, Numen, anything the prime
enumerator shares with me…As my superior, he expects my utmost
discretion.”
“As he should,” said Aurora. “No doubt he shall reward your loyalty the
next time you petition for transference.”
Bogdan relaxed and bobbed his head.
“How long have you served the prime enumerator?”
“Why, it has been almost seven year…” Aurora could see in his hesitation
that he understood her implication. Septimus would do nothing to elevate
his minion to equal standing with him.
Bogdan cast a glance at Sabina before returning his gaze to the lift floor.
Without looking at either of them, he said, “Of course, if I should ever hear
something the Numen of Aerogenesis should know…”
Aurora smiled. Nothing more needed to be said.
They stepped out onto the observation deck. Bogdan saluted Aurora
and took his leave, descending the automatic stair to join his optifex
directives below.

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“Numen,” said Sabina. She stood close and inclined her head toward
Aurora. The gesture was beginning to annoy Aurora, since her first prefect’s
height made her appear like a mother leaning down to speak to a child. “It
is my duty to protect you from all dangers, not just in combat.”
“You will tell me not to trust Bogdan.”
“No, Numen. I know you do not trust him. I would suggest you tread
more carefully when you seek to pit him against the prime enumerator. If
he tells Septimus what you have said, surely the prime enumerator will
inform the iron mother.”
“Do you think I fear her?”
“No, Numen. If you feared her, I would have no need to caution you.”
“Don’t worry too much about the priests,” she said. “There is no more
concentrated source of gossip and intrigue in all of the Convergence. It
is precisely because of Bogdan’s weak position that no one will take him
seriously if he speaks of my inquiry. He has more to lose and far less to gain
by informing on me than by confiding in me.”
“If you say so, Numen. Your calculations are far more precise than
mine.”
“Numen!” called a bodyguard. “There is motion among the Cygnar
forces.”
Aurora went to the southern edge of the observation deck. Another unit
of infantry dashed forward to occupy the nearest trench. It was difficult to
discern movement at such a distance, but by the way they carefully dropped
down, Aurora had the impression the trench was already full of soldiers.
To either side of the trenches, the Storm Striders moved forward on
crablike legs. Between them, Nemo and his assistant guided their light
warjacks and—to Aurora’s surprise—one of the heavy warjacks she had
thought destroyed in the explosion. The Stormclad moved with a slight
hitch in its step, but it appeared intact despite discoloration on the shoulder
of its sword arm. Aurora wondered whether Margaret Jernigan herself had
repaired the machine. If so, Nemo might have another surprise soon.

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Behind the warjacks, the remaining Storm Lance cavalry galloped

eastward toward the woods. The soldiers concealed there were already in
motion, moving steadily forward through the trees.
Looking west, Aurora saw similar activity. There was no sign of the
stormsmiths. It was possible Nemo meant to hold them in reserve, but
Aurora did not like it.
“It could be a feint, Numen,” said Sabina.
Aurora knew that either the sabotage or some other event had prompted
Nemo to strike before her mission was complete. She had kept Margaret
Jernigan far from the realignment node. There was no way she could have
learned Aurora’s time frame.
Unless Septimus had told her.
“It’s no feint,” said Aurora. “He intends to drive us from the village.”
“But we outnumber his forces. Is he mad?”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘mad.’”
“If he is angry, he will make mistakes.”
“Let us hope so,” said Aurora.
Whether or not Septimus had betrayed her, she had made enough
mistakes of her own for one day. Now it was time to prove herself beyond
any doubt the prime enumerator could place in her mother’s mind. If he
would not allow her to delay him long enough to complete the realignment,
then she had one unshakeable course toward a complete triumph.
She would take to the field and kill Sebastian Nemo.

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 THE SEVENTH HARMONIC

Human souls are the divine equation of consciousness made manifest.

Nemo

Nemo raised the tempest accumulator above his head, and his army
leaped into motion. All of his officers knew what he wanted: a swift,
disorienting strike to the center, followed by a tactical turn directly toward
the Convergence tower. Nemo was certain the weird structure held the key
to whatever the enemy forces wanted in Calbeck. If he could bring it down,
they would have no further reason to remain.
Or so he wagered. He ran forward, ignoring the complaints of his
aching back.
On his right ran Caitlin Finch. Her earlier jocularity had vanished,
replaced by the grim determination Nemo had so often seen on the
battlefield. Lightning flickered up and down her weapon. The instant
he wished her to augment his control of the warjacks, she would be
ready.
On his left ran the druid, Bronwyn. He could no longer discern her
expression. The moment they had readied themselves for the advance, she
had raised her hood and covered her face with her black scarf. She dragged
 DARK CONVERGENCE

the weapon behind her, blade upward. Nemo could hardly imagine her
wielding it in the melee, but he had seen the power of her spells.
To either side they were escorted by storm knights. Major Blackburn led
the Stormguard on the right, leaving the left to his Stormblade captain and
the storm gunners. Mace held high, Chaplain Geary ran with the captain.
Behind him came his ensign, holding the Precursor knight’s banner high
so all would know where to find the chaplain.
Nemo cast his thoughts wide, running the salvaged Stormclad and the
Fireflies up the center, resisting the temptation to let the light warjacks
outpace the heavy. He kept the Lancers as far as possible to either side,
giving him the widest possible range to channel his spells across the field.
Beyond the Lancers, the stormsmiths drove the Striders just close
enough to support the warjacks with their lightning cannons, but far enough
to either side that they could make a quick dash to the east or west flank.
Against such uneven odds, Nemo needed the ability to shift tactics swiftly.
As they ran across the field, the Convergence soldiers formed ranks
to stop them. The foremost bore odd scalloped shields. Nemo saw the
purpose behind their design: With a click audible even across the field, each
crescent-moon shield locked into the next. The result was a continuous
wall of steel held before the soldiers, each of whom also wielded long maces
and unusual halberds.
As the halberdiers raised their weapons, Nemo once more experienced
an epiphany: The axe-blades of the halberds slipped down, allowing the
spearhead to project that much farther.
Beyond the wall of clockwork infantry, Nemo saw the angels take to the
sky. He spied Aurora among one of the three groups. While the other two
groups spread out toward the flanks, the Numen of Aerogenesis and her
guardians flew toward Nemo. She remained out of range, but he knew it
was only a matter of time before he must face her, warcaster to warcaster.
And though she knew his reputation, Nemo thought Aurora might be
surprised just how far his lightning could reach.

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A flash whitened the battlefield from the west. An instant later, another
struck from the east. Tendrils of lightning lashed out from the Striders’
storm cannons. Their tips danced among the outermost soldiers in the
shield wall. Steel limbs, fragments of brass, and shattered maces and
halberds leaped up from the stricken sites.
The rest of the line moved forward until they came into the range of
Nemo’s battlegroup.
With the slightest mental nudge, Nemo activated the Fireflies’ storm
blasters. Galvanic bolts leaped out to strike the center of the shield wall. The
lighting shattered its targets before leaping to the victim’s nearest comrade.
Another blast, and they would start punching holes in the shield wall.
As rifles fired from the east and west, Nemo sent the Stormclad straight
into the middle of the clockwork defenders. Perceiving his foes through his
warjack’s sensors, he felt like a giant wading into battle. Before it closed, the
Stormclad raised its generator blade. Lightning curled around the sword
and lashed forward, tearing apart a halberd-wielding soldier before leaping
past to obliterate another behind it.
More fire barked from the east. A moment later, the western woods
echoed the sound, and a rising din of shouts told Nemo the infantry
charged in from either side. The soldiers ran past the Convergence battle
engines even as blue-white rays screamed down to tear the men to pieces.
Brief flashes high above the ground showed where the orbiting servitors
intercepted incoming shots before falling, ruined, to the ground.
Nemo paused for an instant, considering the damage to the clockwork
soldiers’ front line. They had suffered somewhat more to the east.
Half-closing his eyes, Nemo shifted his focus to the Lancer on his right
flank. Drawing on the arcane channels he had developed through years of
study, he summoned a circle of blazing runes around his body. By force
of will, he poured lightning through the arc node inside the Lancer. The
storm lashed out into the clockwork soldiers, leaping from one steel body
to another until several more lay scorched and mangled on the ground.

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Far behind the clockwork troops, three explosions rang out, one after
another. The sounds told Nemo his rangers had begun breaking the
prisons in Calbeck. From east and west, the infantry drove inward to join
them, capturing the outer streets to control the exodus of captives before
the fighting reached the village center. With their attention focused on his
swift assault, the Convergence forces would now have to choose between
defending their position and recovering the escaping prisoners.
The remnants of the Convergence shield wall parted to allow an assault
team through. Heavy clockwork troops bearing shields on both arms
rushed forward. As they charged, heavy triangular blades shot out from
their shields.
The storm gunners blasted a few of the attackers to the ground before
they closed the distance. The others crashed against the knights. The
blades of their protean shields punched through the Cygnaran armor,
leaving mangled bodies on the ground
The Stormblades struck back, but most of their glaives clashed against
the impenetrable shields. Those that slipped past severed steel limbs and
left brass viscera scattered in their wakes.
Nemo returned his attention to the Stormclad. With the heavy blade
he cut a mace-wielding soldier in half. He reached out with the warjack’s
open hand to crush the head of another.
And then the colossal stepped forward.
It roared like an army of engines, the earth trembling beneath the
force of the displacement field under each of its titanic legs. Clockwork
soldiers scrambled to avoid being trampled. Trios of giant conical drills,
each larger than a light warjack, jutted from the ends of its arms. It
advanced, shrugging its shoulders like a fist-fighter, drills shrieking as
they spun.
From one of the heavy units mounted on its shoulders, a projectile fired
with a sharp pneumatic report. A monstrous harpoon shot through the
chassis of Nemo’s Stormclad. An instant later, its heavy tow cable jerked

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the massive warjack forward, dragging it across the battlefield toward the
Convergence colossal.
Even as Nemo directed the Stormclad’s open hand to grasp the cable,
the warjack slammed into the colossal. Nemo barely had time to raise
the generator blade in a futile gesture of defiance before one of the triple
drills fell upon it, grinding the blade and the arm beneath it into steel
filings. The shriek of sheared metal carried across the battlefield. Friend
and foe alike turned to see the warjack struggle as the second drill arm
fell upon its back.
As the Stormclad was destroyed, another harpoon shot out toward the
west. The tip of the weapon fell short of the crackling orb of the lightning
cannon, but where a stormsmith had stood, only a haze of blood remained.
As the colossal reeled in its harpoon, the surviving stormsmith pulled back
on the driver’s yoke to move the battle engine farther from the lethal foe.
Nemo heard the crack of another loud pneumatic report, this time
from the main body of the colossal. A second and third followed in rapid
succession. To his left, the bodies of three storm knights flew backward,
each impaled by a long steel spike. The colossal coughed again, and four
men died on the right.
“Spread out!” Blackburn shouted as he recognized the danger of the
clustered projectiles. An instant later, men to either side of him leaped
backward, their bodies transfixed to the ground. As Blackburn turned
to shout an order, Nemo saw the deputy’s lieutenant impaled through
the mouth, his back arched at an impossible angle as the spike bent him
backward.
Blackburn choked, reached for the man, and stopped himself. Instead
he shouted his order to the next officer down the chain. Then he turned
back to the enemy to continue fighting.
Even Sebastian Nemo, veteran of a hundred dire battles, had seldom
seen such devastating power unleashed against such vulnerable targets.
The destructive power of the Convergence war machine caught his breath,

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distracting him long enough that he was surprised to hear Finch cry, “Look
out, sir!”
Instinctively he crouched and raised the tempest accumulator to
guard his head. Steel rang against steel as he threw himself to the ground.
Tumbling, he looked up to see one of the clockwork angels rising once
more, her razor-sharp sword still crackling with the static aura it had
caught from his staff.
Cursing his own inattentiveness, Nemo rolled back to his feet, wincing
as he felt a sharp pain in his hip. He was not injured, he realized. He was
simply growing old.
And he was determined to keep growing old, which meant first staying
alive.
His eyes sought the next attacker. She came at him from the west,
blade held to the side, ready to sweep through his neck. He braced himself
to parry the blow, but a sudden blast of invisible force threw the winged
assassin off course. It flipped her over, redirecting her invisible propulsion
field to throw her to the ground. Before she could rise, the three nearest
Stormguard fell upon her. Their voltaic halberds cut open her steel-and-
brass body as the lightning danced among her gears. She lay unmoving on
the ground.
Nemo turned to see the druid Bronwyn rise from the crouch from
which she had hurled her spell. She turned away without so much as a nod
to acknowledge that she had saved his life, axe raised to strike at another
clockwork soldier menacing a storm knight with its bladed shields.
Above Bronwyn, a third clockwork angel dove toward Nemo. He
raised his staff, ready to trigger a lightning strike, but he withheld the bolt
because Bronwyn remained dangerously close. Unlike Finch and the storm
knights, the druid wore no storm armor and thus had no protection from
his lightning.
Instead of risking striking Bronwyn, Nemo waited for the angel to close
with him. He thrust the head of the staff toward her, trying to deflect her

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course before she could decapitate him. His staff pierced her shimmering
power field to strike her steel shoulder, but not hard enough to knock her
aside. Nemo ducked his head as her blade penetrated his power field and
sang against the galvanic coils on his back.
They crackled and sputtered. The generator whined and surged, but it
did not fail.
Not yet.
As the clockwork angel soared back into the sky, Nemo waited until she
was high above the fray before flinging the lightning after her. The white
arcs burned away her wings and one arm. For an instant, her hovering
field continued to operate, carrying her limp body across the field before
dropping her among the Cygnar soldiers.
Another wave of clockwork infantry surged forward to support the first.
At a glance, Nemo saw that the infiltration of the village had not distracted
them from his attack. Ignoring the escaping captives, the Convergence
forces focused all their attention on repelling the Cygnaran army out of
the village, especially away from the tower.
Nemo had hoped to divide their focus, but protecting the tower
was their priority. Somehow he needed to entice Aurora to turn her
attention elsewhere. He knew a way, but it would not come without
great cost.
“Finch, bring that Storm Strider to bear on the colossal,” he pointed
east. He shouted a similar command toward the other Strider in the
west, where the officers relayed it, shout to shout. He saw the lone
remaining stormsmith on the battle engine’s platform receive the order.
The man looked back at Nemo, his goggles giving him a surprised look.
The man did not balk. Instead, he nodded emphatically to acknowledge
the order.
Nemo recited a silent prayer for the man. He hoped the Striders’ range
was great enough to strike the colossal with their lightning cannons while
keeping the stormsmith out of range of the harpoon.

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The storm knight infantry clashed in melee with the clockwork soldiers.
The Stormblades and storm gunners fired into the fray, heedless of their
comrades, whose armor shielded them from the lightning.
As the Storm Striders maneuvered into position, Nemo briefly noted
the placement of his Lancer warjacks before focusing all his attention on
the Fireflies. He moved them just into range of the colossal and unleashed
their storm blasters. Lightning leaped in to dance along the colossal’s right
arm, scoring the chassis beneath with irregular black lines.
The western Storm Strider fired its cannon, following Nemo’s lead in
boring deep wounds along the colossal’s flank. One of the giant machine’s
triple drill bits flew away spinning, but the other two continued tearing
apart the Stormclad caught in its embrace.
At the colossal’s feet, three light vectors rushed up to reach their probes
toward the colossal’s wounds. Armored men—clockwork or human,
Nemo couldn’t tell—ran forward to clamber up its massive legs, welding
torches and spanners swinging from their belts.
Trying not to think of Mags Jernigan, Nemo lashed out at them.
Another volley of electrical energy from the Fireflies threw a mechanik
from the machine’s leg. Another melted the limbs off a repair vector.
Rifles continued to bark from the east and west, their previously
cascading volleys breaking up into sporadic fire as soldiers picked targets
of opportunity. More and more of it moved from the troops on the ground
to the tower dominating Calbeck. Nemo saw brief flashes of energy as an
invisible shield deflected the gunfire. From what he could see, not a single
round penetrated the power field.
Spherical servitors flew from the tower out toward the long gunners.
Some sprayed luminescent green fluid over the soldiers, highlighting their
positions. Others exploded, throwing shrapnel and limp bodies in all
directions.
Aurora appeared again, soaring toward the colossal with her bodyguards
on either side. Beneath them, a squad of disparate vectors followed on

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the ground. No two were alike, but they moved in unison, obeying their
warcaster’s silent command.
The Convergence colossal turned toward the western Storm Strider
that was continuously raking its body with claws of lightning. It hovered
toward its foe, the earth beneath its shadow churning in the powerful
displacement field.
The stormsmith pulled back the Strider’s control yoke, desperately
trying to maintain the advantage of range while staring up in awe at the
looming colossal. What the driver didn’t see was the Convergence battle
engine intercepting it from the west.
Nemo called out a warning, even as he realized there was no way his
voice could be heard from such a distance. The knights relayed his message
across the line, but it was too late.
As the tower-shaped Convergence battle engine drew closer, two of
its orbiting servitors swung into position on either side. They flashed
with blue-white light, fixing the Storm Strider’s weapon with seemingly
harmless beams of light. Then the battle engine’s own cyclopean lens
opened and blazed.
A steady beam of blue-white radiance speared down, striking the
crackling orb of the Strider’s lightning cannon. The silvery globe shook
and blackened, trembling in its rig. Three of its lightning nodules
dimmed as another one burst, galvanic energy spilling out to leap across
the catwalk.
The Strider shot back, diverting its lightning from the colossal to the
battle engine. One of the orbiting servitors zipped into the path of the
lightning, bursting in a shower of molten steel but sparing its battle engine
the brunt of the bolt.
The Convergence engine stalked the retreating Strider, trying to herd
it back into range of the colossal. Nemo could see from the man’s frantic
gestures that the driver perceived the danger. But without a co-pilot to aid
him, he found the colossal drawing closer and closer.

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With another sharp pneumatic report, the gargantuan Convergence

machine fired its harpoon. It pierced the lightning cannon and shot straight
through the steel armature. An instant later, the tow line drew taut. The
Storm Strider tottered and braced its four crab-like legs. Its mass was too
great to draw back toward the colossal, but it remained caught.
For a few moments, the stormsmith struggled with the drive yoke.
He was looking down at the gauges when the shadows of half a dozen
clockwork angels fell upon him.
From the ground, Stormblades tried to draw off the winged assassins
with lightning fire, but it was too late. The angels and their blades swept
down, one after the other, with barely a pause. They flew past, swifter than
birds of prey, already out of range by the time the lightning converged on
where they had been an instant earlier.
Another flare of blue-white light caught his eye, and Nemo turned to
see a ring of runelight fading around Aurora. He deduced she had cast a
spell to lend her flying assassins their incredible speed.
All that remained of the stormsmith were bloody scraps of cloth, steel,
and flesh hanging from the Storm Strider’s catwalk. The unattended
vehicle shuddered and tugged against the colossal’s tow-line, useless
without a driver.
In that instant, Nemo saw the inevitable outcome of the battle. Not
only would he fail to reach the Convergence tower, he would die fighting,
as would every soldier who followed him.

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Aurora

Aurora concentrated her remaining Galvanizers on repairing the damage

to the Prime Axiom. If she had not distracted him, Nemo might have
destroyed them all along with the optifex. Fortunately, between the surgical
strikes of her angels and the damage she had caused to his nearest Storm
Strider, Nemo had failed to eliminate the repair units.
That was a critical mistake. Between the Galvanizers and the optifex
directives, Aurora’s most powerful machine would remain in the battle.
She glanced east and west to monitor the attacks from the flanks. At
any moment she expected more stormsmiths to emerge from the screen
of woods, yet none had appeared. Their absence troubled her, despite the
near proximity of her Modulator vector.
Tempted though she was to surprise Nemo with the one vector immune
to his favored lightning attacks, she knew it remained vulnerable to the
blades of the soldiers around him. She would save it for the right moment,
when Nemo felt he had the advantage of the storm, and she could show
him how wrong he was.
Behind her in Calbeck, Cygnaran infantry withdrew from their rescue
mission, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Aurora had committed only
a token force to oppose them. As she had directed, Pollux assigned a few
perforators to put up the appearance of firing on the fleeing villagers and
their rescuers, although they had instructions to aim not for the unarmed
prisoners but only the soldiers. The more pointless goals Aurora presented
to the Cygnarans, the less attention they would devote to the one thing
that truly mattered: the realignment node.

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Sebastian Nemo’s swift assault had taken its heaviest toll on the
clockwork infantry. Aurora looked down to see reductors and perforators
lay down a field of covering fire to keep the storm knights at bay as Prime
Enumerator Septimus directed his enigma foundries across the field.
The foundries resembled Septimus except in a few key features: their
additional limbs were similar to the repair probes of the Galvanizers, and
upon their massive shoulders rested batteries of receptors for salvaged
essence chambers.
Each also carried an empty emergency vessel, primed to receive the soul
of a human optifex or—should the unthinkable occur—Aurora herself.
Such battlefield transferences were far from ideal. Unlike the Anima
Corpus Procedure, they could fail or damage the mind of the subject—or
so the priests cautioned those who might recklessly throw away their lives
in battle to gain eternal life inside a clockwork vessel.
In one moment of intense frustration, Aurora had considered the
prospect of death as a means of circumventing the fluxion directive’s
permission, but she had immediately rejected the notion. Not only would it
require accepting the stain of defeat, but also the very idea of purposefully
allowing herself to die remained abhorrent. If she ever fell in battle, it
would not be because she allowed it to happen.
Wherever the clockwork priests went, they paused to retrieve the essence
chambers from the broken bodies of the fallen obstructors, eradicators,
and reciprocators. With the help of their hovering accretion servitors, they
salvaged what they could of the damaged clockwork infantry. With speed
and economy to shame Immoren’s greatest field mechaniks, they returned
the essence chambers to the refurbished combatants and returned them to
the fight.
Elsewhere, optifex directives—trios of priests—focused their efforts
on repairing injured troops. Two directives remained near the Transfinite
Emergence Projectors, though the Cygnarans had failed to cause significant
damage to either of the battle engines. The permutation servitors orbiting

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the battle engines whisked into position to optimize the targeting of

the Projector’s aperture pulse weapon. Yet the moment they detected
incoming fire, they zipped as swiftly as reflex servitors to intercept the
attack. Moments after each sacrifice, replacement servitors emerged from
the assembly plant housed deep within the battle engine.
Lumichem-spraying attunement servitors flew over the heads of the
oncoming Cygnaran infantry. The bright alchemical goo highlighted the
soldiers’ positions even as it thickened to clog the joints of their armor and
inhibit their movement.
After the servitors hovered clear, Pollux ordered the reductors and
perforators to attack in earnest. With the glowing stains to guide their
aim, reductors peppered the enemy with their swarm projectors. The tiny
projectiles blossomed as they flew toward their targets, their spring-loaded
saws chewing through armor and mangling the bodies beneath.
The perforators raised their arms and fired armor-piercing protean
javelins upon the front ranks. The Cygnar infantry fell beneath the deadly
hail, their armor of no more benefit than cotton tunics.
Aurora watched as Nemo turned his attention from his Storm Strider’s
doomed attack on her Prime Axiom to hurl another arcane storm through
a Lancer. Burst after burst of lightning coursed through the reductors and
perforators, mangling their clockwork bodies and leaving behind scorched
and steaming wreckage—leaving too little for even the optifex and their
servitors to repair.
Aurora channeled her thoughts through the top-shaped Corollary
hovering just beneath her. It was the first of the light vectors to benefit
from the arcane displacement fields that propelled the servitors and
granted the clockwork angels true flight. The arcane repeater buried deep
within its globular chassis magnified her thoughts, sending her mental
control farther across the field. Its external coils flickered with surges
of arcane energy from when it had absorbed a fraction of her residual
power, storing it for later use. She called on that reservoir now, drawing

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back that stored portion of her mental strength and pouring it into the
Diffuser.
The light vector fired shot after shot. As each ripspike emerged from
the barrel of its high-tension launcher, fins sprang up on its base. Guided
by Aurora’s thoughts, they twisted to guide the missiles over and around
the intervening storm knights, bringing them unerringly toward their
target. Four ripspikes sank deep into the Lancer’s steel carapace, but only
half their job was done.
Each imbedded spike sent silent signals to the nearest Convergence
vectors, clockwork vessels, and priests. Sensing their designated target,
the perforator prefect moved his troops forward and launched a volley
of protean javelins toward the Lancer. The armor-piercing missiles tore
the warjack to shreds, cutting off Nemo’s reach on the western side of the
battle.
Aurora sent her Assimilator gliding eastward toward the remaining
Lancer. Unlike the globe-like Corollary, the upper chassis of the heavy
vector resembled human shoulders with asymmetrical arms. As it
approached, storm knights and Cygnaran infantry stepped forward to
block its path. The hovering vector fired its tri-barreled cannon into the
enemy troops. As its segmented javelins arced just above the soldiers,
Aurora triggered their charges to shower the troops below with a horde
of tiny projectiles, each buzzing with a pair of razor-sharp saw blades. The
dissevering microswarm left a cloud of blood and steel filings above the
fallen bodies, clearing the way to the Lancer.
Once the path was clear, Aurora sent her lightning-charged Modulator
gliding past the Assimilator and took to the sky.
“Numen!” shouted Sabina, flying after her with five more angels close
behind. “Should we not remain close to the Conservator?”
Aurora ignored her. While the ablator blades and bucklers of the heavy
vector provided another layer of personal security, Aurora wanted a better
view. She wanted to see how Nemo reacted to her counter attack. If it had

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worked, she hoped she had drawn the attention of his remaining Storm
Strider and Fireflies away from the Prime Axiom.
The Strider moved to the east, away from the colossal. Then both the
storm gunners and the Fireflies redirected their attacks not to her attacking
vectors but to the Galvanizers and priests repairing the Prime Axiom. A
white net of voltaic destruction danced at the feet of the Prime Axiom.
Gears and blades flew off the Galvanizers, while optifex shook in a brief,
fatal dance before falling to the ground.
Surrounded by the telltale runes of a warcaster, Nemo channeled
another spell, adding his own lightning to the storm. Bolts of electricity
coursed through the surviving Lancer and blacked the Axiom’s legs as it
finished off the repair units beneath it.
Aurora cursed herself under her breath. She’d been rash to place so
many of her critical repair units in such a small area. In a few flashes of
lightning, Nemo had nearly obliterated her capacity to repair her most
powerful units.
Strobes of light alerted her to a new threat from the east.
Somehow the stormsmiths had advanced to the front of the Cygnaran
lines, their storm towers summoning dark clouds above the Convergence
forces. As the artificial wind blew away a tarpaulin, Aurora realized they
had advanced under the guise of Cygnar infantry, revealing their weaponry
only after they had reached their positions.
And there were twice as many on the eastern flank as she had expected.
“Damn him,” snapped Aurora. Once again Nemo had concealed the true
movements of his troops. She had expected stormsmiths on either side, but
instead they were concentrated on one side. Their lightning fell among the
Convergence troops as the Storm Strider closed to support them.
Once they had swept the field clear of soldiers, the Cygnaran troops
turned their attention to the Transfinite Emergence Projector. Smoke
from the long gunners sent a dark cloud into the sky, and blinding white
fingers leaped from the Strider’s cannon.

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One struck a permutation servitor, blasting it to a molten splash upon

the battle engine’s chassis. It leaped on to destroy a second servitor before
drawing black wounds on the Projector itself. The ten-legged giant tottered
as three of its legs melted at once. Then it fell. When it hit the ground, it
threw up a wall of dust and detritus blocking Aurora’s view of the eastern
front.
The swiftness of the devastation stole Aurora’s breath. Where moments
before her defensive line had stood, only a steaming junkyard remained.
Rage choked her. She could no longer stand merely to defend her
position. She needed to strike at the heart of the enemy.
“Follow me!” Aurora raised her staff and plunged down toward the
Cygnar commander.
“Everyone!” Sabina shouted to every clockwork angel within range.
They formed their own storm of steel and brass. Their lightning was
the flash of binomial blades, their thunder the scream of Aurora’s staff as
its polynomial beam shredded the knights surrounding Sebastian Nemo.
The knights raised their blades, lightning leaping up to caress the winged
warriors. Many of the white ribbons missed their mark. Still more wreathed
the bodyguards who dove in front of Aurora to protect their leader.
One singed the tip of Aurora’s wings, a sudden halo coruscating across
the steel blades that formed their feathers. Her power field crackled and
glowed, withering until she felt the hackles on her neck rise in the static field.
Yet her shields held, and the lightning warmed but never seared her skin.
The surviving angels slashed through Nemo’s bodyguards. The knights
had only an instant to strike before their winged assassins flew on, yet
several hit their targets as a white-clad officer cried out, “Strike, soldiers,
for General Nemo, Cygnar, and Morrow!”
Thus emboldened, the knights threw every sinew into their strikes, their
storm glaives driving hard into the clockwork angels. Aurora gritted her
teeth at the sound of screaming metal peeling away from her bodyguards
even as she soared across the knights, searching for Nemo.

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“Look out, sir!” cried Caitlin Finch. She thrust her staff upward. Its
blinding discharge leaped up but came nowhere near Aurora.
Then Aurora spied Nemo, a ball of lightning cupped in one hand, his
spear shaking with energy in the other.
For an instant, she feared to approach him.
Aurora barely glimpsed the black-robed figure before an immense force
struck her from below. It flung her off course, tumbling her over the blue
line of Cygnaran soldiers. Some of the troops had the presence of mind
to turn their weapons upon her. Sizzling bolts lit up her force field and
smothered her in a shroud of energy.
Screaming, Aurora rolled, curling her wings around her body while
pushing her geomantic propulsion field to the limit. In an instant, her
desire to kill turned into a need to escape—to flee these unpredictable foes.
Behind her, more clockwork angels cried out and fell to Cygnaran
lightning. A shadow covered her, but before she could raise her staff to strike
it, she felt Sabina’s hands upon her arms. The prefect sheltered Aurora with
her body and added the force of her own arcane displacement to hers.
“Numen, you are injured!”
Aurora shrugged her off. “I’m fine,” she snapped. A moment later, she
blinked as a trickle of blood ran into her eye. Touching her brow, she felt
the warm steel of her helm, half-melted under the touch of a galvanic
beam. Along with her weakened force field, it had served its purpose.
Aurora’s flesh was burned and bleeding, but not seriously. She threw off
her damaged helm. Her hair spilled loose and whipped across her eyes.
Two more clockwork angels joined them as they retreated from Nemo’s
force. “Where are the others?” asked Aurora.
“They defended you to the last, Numen,” said Sabina. Her mechanikal
voice box clicked, stifling any further emotion.
Aurora looked back to see a few mangled wings among the furiously
hacking storm knights. One silvery arm reached up to ward off the blow of
a crackling glaive, but the blade fell. An instant later, so did the arm.

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Aurora had seen death before, but it was never easy to see one of her
troops fall—especially her angels. She gave up the last of her plan simply
to defend the site.
We shall sweep the field of these storm lords, she swore, and our enigma
foundries will recover the soul essence of our fallen from among the graveyard
of our enemies.
Once she had returned safely behind her own lines, Aurora again
surveyed the field. Even without benefit of her full attention, the Prime
Axiom had reduced the captured Storm Strider to so much scrap metal.
Ribbons of steel fell through the grinding triple-drills of its arms. Another
harpoon lashed out, narrowly missing a Firefly but cutting an advancing
rifleman in half.
The Modulator finally came within range of the Firefly. Aurora reached
out with her mind, projecting her thoughts through its interface node
and thence into mechanikal action. As the power of its voltaic nimbus
generator surged, she caused the vector to raise both of its galvanic arc
emitters to throw beams of pure electricity—not at the warjack, but into
the nearest Cygnaran forces.
The Modulator’s emitter surge speared two lines of Cygnaran soldiers.
Neither armor nor human bodies could halt the beams, which flowed
through each victim to drive into the next and the next behind him. The
stricken soldiers leaped up, jerked for a moment, and fell limp beneath the
merciless rays.
With a savage grin of triumph, Aurora turned to see what Sebastian
Nemo thought of her own storm-flinging vector.
He had left his earlier position. In fact, Aurora could see no sign of
him until she spied the storm knights and the entire command unit of the
Cygnaran army running full-tilt through the wall of dust rolling in from
the east.
There, in the haze where the stormsmiths and Strider had cleared the
field of Convergence defenders and toppled the Transfinite Emergence

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Projector, the core of Nemo’s battlegroup rushed unopposed into the

village. Aurora’s breath caught in her throat as she saw their goal.
They charged the realignment node.
“Order Pollux to pull back all units!” cried Aurora. Even as she
shouted, she turned her vectors and the Prime Axiom around to return
to the tower.
“But Numen,” said Sabina. “Those on the western flank are fully
committed under heavy att—”
“Pull them back!”
“Yes, Numen.” Sabina sent one of the Angels to relay the command. Even
as she did so, the Prime Axiom came under heavy fire from two previously
silent gun emplacements. The infantry that had not accompanied Nemo
swarmed the colossal.
For an instant, Aurora considered turning the Axiom back to destroy
them. Satisfying as that might have felt, it was not the mission, and she
remembered the holiest directive of her order: Nothing must impede the
Great Work.
Directing all her vectors to follow, she flew toward the realignment
node.
Down below, she saw Pollux coordinating the retreat toward the tower.
Behind him, the reductors and perforators fired on Nemo’s battlegroup.
In response, a Firefly reached out a tongue of lightning to destroy a few
perforators. They fell with their arms still raised to launch their javelins.
The rest staggered back against a brutal volley of rifle fire from the direction
of the river.
Cygnar’s forces had enveloped the village—and the tower!
As she saw her soldiers fell back, Aurora saw no enumerators remaining
among them, no enigma foundries. They would remain fallen until Aurora
could turn the tide of battle back against the foe.
Had Bogdan and Septimus fallen? It seemed inconceivable, yet she
could not see either of the priests on the field.

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Aurora understood that everything depended on preserving the

security of the tower for just a little longer. The death of a few hundred
soldiers was a small price to pay for the success of her mission. The Great
Work depended on it, as did her own future.
The Cygnarans reached the southeastern foot of the tower. The
eradicators she had stationed as guards stood their ground, holding both
shields before them to deflect rifle fire and absorb the lash of lightning
from the warcasters and their Firefly.
When the storm knights closed, the eradicators transformed their
protean shields, releasing the heavy triangular blades with which they
could sever heavy steel beams. In close combat, no storm glaive could
match them for power.
But then Nemo reached out his aged hand, and the storm answered.
Dancing among the armored knights, the lightning leaped from combatant
to combatant. It briefly wreathed the Cygnaran knights, whose armor
received and passed on the charge. But when it touched the eradicators
it tore them to pieces. Without hesitation, the Cygnaran attackers turned
their weapons on the heavy door of the tower entrance, hacking and
melting it to slag.
As she dived toward them, Aurora saw she was too late. Nemo,
Finch, and half a dozen others ran through the sundered portal and into
the entrance at the tower’s base. Two dozen others turned and stood to
cover their siege, even as reinforcements arrived from the east—infantry,
riflemen, and stormsmiths.
“Numen, we’ll never stop him that way,” said Sabina.
Aurora knew she was right.
“To the aerie?” said Sabina.
“No,” said Aurora. The guards she had stationed at the lifts would slow
them, but the observation deck wasn’t important. Neither was her personal
pavilion. She had one advantage remaining, and she would use it. “We take
them from above.”

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False shadows of consciousness mock the divine.

Nemo

The steel-shod feet of Nemo’s storm knights banged on the steel steps,
echoing up and down the rising corridor.
“Where are we going?” said Bronwyn. The druid had demonstrated
remarkable patience thus far. While he felt no need to apologize for keeping
the details of his mission from her, Nemo felt she deserved an answer after
saving his life.
“We must find and destroy the tower controls,” he said. “Whatever the
Convergence are doing here, there must be a way to disable the function
of this tower.”
“Why not simply destroy the whole tower?” said Bronwyn, sounding
perplexed.
“We didn’t have nearly enough firepower out there. And didn’t you
see the power field around this place?” snapped Finch. “It stopped bullets,
lightning, everything we threw at it. We had to get inside the field to do
any real damage.”
“‘Power field,’” said Bronwyn, apparently noting that term for later.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Nemo reminded himself that they were only temporarily allied with
this blackclad. Much as he was relieved to hear that she was unfamiliar
their technology, he did not wish to dispel any more of her ignorance.
“If we stop whatever this tower is doing,” said Nemo, “This Aurora will
have no more reason to remain.”
Bronwyn nodded and continued running up the automatic stairway.
Despite the exhilaration of traveling so quickly upward, propelled as
much by the moving steps as by his own muscles, Nemo felt a twinge of
impatience that he was not leading the charge. After the carnage outside,
he had expected the surviving storm knights to allow themselves a moment
of relief, to prove less eager to die as heroes. Instead, the troops hastened
to put themselves between the enemy and their leaders. Two of them had
even shouldered their way past Major Blackburn, who Nemo imagined felt
the same frustration.
Nemo’s pride bristled at the thought of himself as the protected rather
than the protector. It was prudent. It was regulation. It just never felt quite
right.
To either side of the escalating stair, plain steel plates lined the stairway,
which rose in an elegant, graceful curve toward the tower center. Flexible
tubes hanging like laundry lines emitted a steady luminescence. The exposed
bolts on the panels suggested the absence of an intended outer layer, perhaps
ornamental. Despite the elegance of its basic architecture, the tower entrance
seemed incomplete. Nemo’s impatience flared as the automatic stairs stopped
moving. The knights ahead of him tripped, recovered, and continued to run.
Caitlin Finch followed close behind, elbowing Bronwyn whenever the druid
tried to slip past her. Behind the women, Chaplain Geary followed with his
ensign and more storm knights bringing up the rear.
With a sudden clutch and grind, the stairs reversed course. Nemo
and his soldiers found themselves in the position of salmon swimming
upstream—only weighted down by armor.
“Hurry!” Nemo urged those ahead of him.

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“Yes, sir!” bellowed the knights, already puffing from exertion.

The lights along the walls went out.
They continued to run. The electrical light of their galvanic coils and
weapons threw their fragmented shadows against the steel walls.
“Careful up ahead,” said Nemo. Even as he said the words, he realized
they were pointless. Of course the men would be careful, rushing as they
were into the stronghold of an enemy that had just decimated their army.
As they neared the apex of the stairway, Nemo saw sunlight reflected
against steel walls. A shadow moved to one side of the opening.
“Careful ahead,” Blackburn echoed Nemo’s warning.
“Stop it,” hissed Finch, once more shoving the druid back.
With an impatient huff, Bronwyn leaped neatly onto the stairway rail.
Unencumbered by armor, she ran light as a squirrel past Finch, Nemo,
Blackburn, and the soldiers leading the way.
“What are you playing at, blackclad?” snapped Nemo.
Bronwyn did not even turn to look at him. She ran all the way to the
top of the stairs and leaped forward, as if taking flight.
A gleaming axe head dropped behind her like a guillotine. Its razor
edge sheared off a strip from the hem of her black cloak. Bronwyn tumbled
forward to disappear over the crest of the stairs.
A pair of gleaming steel sentinels stepped out to finish her. Their
statuesque figures resembled those of Aurora’s clockwork angels, only they
were more heavily armored. In lieu of swords they raised heavy halberds as
they stepped toward Bronwyn.
“Go, go, go!” bellowed Blackburn. “Help her!”
Somehow, the men found a new reservoir of strength, charging up the
steel stairway so fast that their pauldrons sparked against the sides.
One of the sentinels, in the form of a female, turned to face them. A storm
knight lowered his head, charged, and threw his armored arms around her
steel waist. He pushed her back only a foot or two before her feet caught
traction. She smashed the shaft of her halberd down on his back.

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“Anything a druid can do,” muttered Finch. With a clatter of greaves,

she swung up onto the railing and began running past the knights. Her
shoulder sparked against the steel walls as she leaned in to avoid slipping
back down onto the stairs.
“Finch, don’t be a fool!” bellowed Nemo. Without thinking, he raised
one knee as if to jump after her, but it was no use. Even without the
searing pain reminding him that his athletic peak was fifty years gone, his
armor-widened shoulders wouldn’t allow him to stand on the narrow rail.
Blackburn proved as much when he tried to vault up onto the rail, only to
fall back into Nemo. Nemo pushed the man back onto his feet and urged
him forward.
The knight at the top of the stairs hooked his ankle behind that of the
sentinel, but shoving her was no better than pushing against a wall. When
the man behind him added his weight to the struggle, the metal guardian
slipped back a step. Together, the knights forced her back and shoved her
to the side. They raised their glaives.
Finch leaped past them, gripping her coruscating staff like a spear. Like
Bronwyn, she vanished over the edge.
Nemo and Blackburn reached the top. Immediately before them, Finch
and Bronwyn leaned side-by-side against the wall. The Adept held her
staff away from the druid, as if she had pulled it back just in time to avoid
crushing her skull.
The blackclad crouched in a feral posture, her axe upon the floor, hands
thrust out in a warding gesture. A ring of emerald-green runes encircled
her wrists.
A steel sentinel slid across the grated floor toward an open expanse.
Her weapon skittered beside her, propelled by the same invisible force with
which Bronwyn had slammed her foes on the battlefield. The sentinel’s
clockwork hands scrabbled for a grip upon the floor but found none. An
instant later, she flew off the side of the open deck. The halberd teetered
for a moment before plunging after her.

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To the other side, two storm knights fought the other sentinel. One locked
his glaive against the halberd’s shaft, driving the weapon up to allow his
companion to drive the tip of his blade into the foe’s exposed abdomen. The
sharp edge keened across metal and gears but barely scratched the chassis.
“Get back!” shouted Finch.
With one last shove, the knights threw themselves out of the way. The instant
they were clear, Finch drove the tip of her staff against the sentinel’s throat.
Lightning cascaded across the steel body, sending it into a paroxysm of shock.
“Now!” cried Finch. Together with Blackburn, the men swept their
heavy blades down, shearing off the clockwork guardian’s arm and cutting
a deep wound into her steely chest. A few springs and gears leaped from
the injury. The defender sank to the floor with a sad, diminishing whirr
that dwindled into an electric sigh before it died.
Nemo looked beyond the fight.
Before them spread a great circular platform, its center cloaked in a
shimmering steel curtain. To either side, the platform looked down on
the village of Calbeck and the surrounding battlefields. From here, Nemo
realized, Aurora and her officers had been observing them while remaining
hidden from his sentries in the camp. No wonder they’d had such good
intelligence on the location of their mechaniks’ workshop.
Thinking of Mags and her betrayal hardened Nemo’s resolve. He
turned, eyes searching for a portal or any sign of a control room. Another
of the steel sentinels stepped out from around the western passage. She
hefted her polearm and charged, fearless of their greater numbers.
Nemo pointed his staff and let the lightning flow. The guardian kept
running, even as gears popped red-hot out of her shoulder joints. Halfway
to him, she faltered. He released another surge, breaking her chassis open
and scattering her internal components across the deck.
As he halted the galvanic beam, he heard another crackling behind him.
Finch raised her own staff. Looking past her, he saw she had demolished—
with the aid of Blackburn and his knights—another tower defender.

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“Which way?” asked Chaplain Geary.

It was Bronwyn who answered. “The world reels beneath us,” she said.
Her face paled, and she pressed a hand to her belly. She looked upward.
“Something above us directs the change.”
Nemo pointed to a curving portal on the outer wall. One of Blackburn’s
knights examined a panel by its side. Pulling down a brass lever triggered a
sound of pneumatic pressure and ticking gears.
“It’s empty,” said Chaplain Geary. “What is this, a storage closet?”
Before Nemo could answer him, Finch voiced his thought. “It’s a lift.
Like a dumbwaiter. It can take us to the upper levels.”
As Nemo stepped in to examine a panel on the interior wall, the others
glanced around for any sign of more tower defenders. The doors began to close,
but they hissed open again as they neared the knight obstructing the threshold.
“We can’t all fit in there. Finch, Bronwyn, and you, come with me,” he
pointed to a storm knight. “The rest of you take one of the other lifts.”
Nemo watched Blackburn activate the northeastern portal and waited
until he saw the doors open. When Blackburn’s party entered the chamber,
he lifted the sliding lever inside his own lift. With a gentle bump, the
cylinder began to rise.
Nemo noted the outline of a trap door on the floor and another on the
ceiling. The cylinder slowed and stopped, and then the doors opened.
They emerged at the corner of two enclosed corridors. Luminous lines
ran along the base of each wall, casting the passages in a sinister light.
At the far end of the corridor, another lift opened. Blackburn, Geary,
and the remaining knights stepped out. One of the knights took up a guard
position at the corner while the rest moved toward Nemo.
Nemo left his storm knight at the nearest corner and went to meet
Blackburn beside a closed portal on the interior wall. Warmth radiated
from the closed door. Nemo heard the hum and clatter of machinery from
the other side. He put his ear close to the door and heard muted voices
calling numerical values.

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“Send two men around to guard the other corners,” Nemo whispered
to Blackburn. The major conveyed the orders with hand gestures, and the
knights obeyed instantly.
Nemo triggered the button beside the door. The panel slid aside. Humid
air rank with ozone and body odor wafted into the corridor.
Inside, the chamber glowed with light from low panels and high displays.
Armored figures, most with their helms removed, squeezed between
clockwork apparatuses and exposed conduits passing through vents that
descended from the ceiling and plunged into the lower reaches of the
tower. A few of the room’s inhabitants wore complex optical apparatuses
through which they peered at tiny mechanikal displays.
A bespectacled man turned toward the open door, his magnified eyes
widening as he recognized intruders. He opened his mouth to alert the
others, but arcane runes already orbited Nemo’s hand. Lightning sputtered
like hot bacon grease in his cupped palm. He flung the energy into the
room, squinting as it flashed outward to transfix all the occupants and fill
the chamber with light.
The room’s occupants shuddered and slumped to the floor. Instruments
leaped out of their panels and scattered across the floor, trailing sparks.
Blackburn rushed in with his knights, checking the corners for unseen
defenders before touching the necks of the fallen in a search for survivors.
There were none. After the major called the all-clear, Nemo entered with
Finch, Geary, and Bronwyn close behind.
After his first step into the control room, Nemo felt perspiration slick
his face as the heat enveloped his body. Through the clutter he spied
another door on each of the other three walls of the chamber. He turned
his attention to the devices crowded inside.
Most of the panels displayed banks of levers and dial gauges,
illuminated by the blue-white luminescence he had come to associate
with Convergence constructs. In several places the symbol of Cyriss
appeared among the instruments, but its placement seemed the result

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of prefabricated devices rather than intention. In other spots, unfinished

consoles and exposed conduits suggested once more that the tower had
been a hasty construction.
Finch went to a wall panel in which brass cards flipped over to indicate a
rising linear value. “Something’s definitely happening,” she said. “Whatever
it is, it’s close to finishing.”
Nemo joined her at the panel, but movement in a relatively clear corner
of the chamber caught his eye.
A large chromium Face of Cyriss orbited a lighted sphere of steel and
brass. As the globe revolved in opposition to the mask’s motion, etched
mountains and coastlines winked through its eyes. The continent of
Immoren emerged as the mask passed over the sphere’s nearest face.
The globe was a representation of the entire planet of Caen, although
only the lands of western Immoren appeared in detail. Elsewhere across
the world, simple geometric shapes indicated unexplored territories.
Across both the detailed land and sea, glassy filaments of blue-white
light indicated river-like channels forming a network across the entire
world.
“The Convergence have plans for the entire world.” Nemo moved to the
globe and ran his finger along one of the lighted filaments.
“Ley lines,” said Bronwyn.
Nemo nodded, impatient to act and yet drawn to study the device
further. “The Convergence might call them ‘geomantic channels.’”
Bronwyn shrugged. “Different words for the same thing.”
Nemo peered close at the portion representing northern Cygnar. He
found the Dragon’s Tongue River, indicated by a blue-black line. There,
at the point where Calbeck lay, he saw a filament shift out of place. As he
watched, it moved gradually farther from its original location.
Bronwyn gasped. “They are rerouting the arteries of the world.”
Nemo nodded as he stepped back to avoid the next circuit of the Cyriss
mask. He was far more interested in the models of the other celestial bodies

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hanging from the chamber’s ceiling. He recognized the sun, the moons,
and upon a far wall, a globe marked with the Face of Cyriss. Its interior
light glowed in sympathy with the ley lines indicated on Caen.
So too did the curving lines upon the walls. Nemo stepped back for a
larger perspective on the relationship between the implied orrery and the
suspended globes.
“They are repositioning these ley lines in sympathy with the passage of
Cyriss,” he said. “But why?”
“To draw the power of their goddess to Caen?” suggested Finch.
Bronwyn wrinkled her nose at Finch, but then she appeared to consider
the notion. “Perhaps.”
“Outrageous,” said Chaplain Geary. “It must mean they are preparing
for some sort of arcane holy war. They are gathering power for their
warcasters.”
“No,” Nemo said slowly. “Despite the emphasis on ley lines on this
globe of Caen, there are no similar courses of energy indicated on the other
planet. These lines seem to describe gravitational patterns.”
As Nemo considered the possibilities—divine, scientific, and arcane
alike—a cold dread gathered in his stomach. Weighing what he had seen
and heard of Aurora, her callow attempts at manipulation, her passionate
advocacy of her cult, and its emphasis on immortality, he began to formulate
the most awful hypothesis.
“What is it, sir?” said Finch.
“They are not trying to summon the power of Cyriss,” he said. “They
mean to bring the goddess herself to Caen.”
Finch blinked. “They can do that? No, never mind that. Why would
they do that?”
“To rule her own domain,” said Bronwyn, her voice filled with awe.
“The Cyrissists reject the balance between this world and the next. They
wish their goddess to rule this world alone, while the other gods reside in
Urcaen.”

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“And what of us, who live our lives in hopes of serving Morrow in
Urcaen?” said Geary. “What do they intend to do with the faithful?”
“What do all conquering faiths do with heretics?” said Blackburn.
A shout from outside drew Nemo’s attention to one of the closed doors.
Blackburn moved toward it, but it opened before he reached it. The guard
stationed outside fell inward, his throat slashed. Behind him stood one of
Aurora’s clockwork angels, bloody sword poised to strike again.
An instant later, the other doors opened to admit two more clockwork
angels from opposite doors, bloody swords at their sides. From the third,
Aurora stepped into the room. Behind her, Nemo glimpsed the brass
wings of more of her bodyguard.
“You are too late,” said Aurora. “I have already crushed your army, but
I have no wish to destroy you. Surrender, Sebastian Nemo. Surrender
yourself to the truth of the Convergence, and join us.”

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Aurora

Aurora searched Sebastian Nemo’s blue eyes for any sign that he
saw through her bluff. The same quality that made him valuable to the
Convergence was also what made him so dangerous: his intelligence.
He stood beside the globe of Caen. All the clues he required to
understand the Great Work lay before him. Even a mechanik like Margaret
Jernigan would have been able to deduce their meaning in time. The
question was whether the warcaster had been in the chamber long enough
to understand those clues.
Nemo responded by raising his staff, activating its charge, and smashing
its butt down onto a control panel.
“No!” Aurora leaped toward him. A knight interposed himself, raising
his crackling blade.
“Destroy it all,” Nemo shouted to the others. “She seeks to delay us.”
Aurora shoved the knight away. He fell back, but only for an instant
before lunging at her again.
As the runic halo of her spell surrounded her, Aurora drove the head
of her staff into the man’s breastplate, crushing the steel deep into his
abdomen. With a gasp, he dropped his blade and fell to one knee.
Continuing her furious motion, Aurora slammed the butt of the staff
against the head of another knight, an older man with the sigil of Morrow
displayed prominently on his white armor. He crumbled.
As the woman called Finch smashed a geomantic conduit, Aurora
levered the staff to sweep her legs out from under her. With a startled yelp,
the adept hit the floor.

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As Finch fell, the blackclad leaped toward Aurora. Turning to strike the
druid, Aurora felt her wings catch on the surrounding conduits. Even so,
one blow from the center of her staff sent the small woman tumbling away.
Aurora’s bodyguard held back, recognizing her frenzy and waiting for it
to end before joining her in the fight. Aurora had one more target to strike,
and his attention was locked on the room’s controls.
Aurora swung the polynomial staff with all her might. Scant inches
from his skull, Nemo caught the blow upon his own weapon, lightning
crackling along its length. He shoved back with surprising strength. His
eyes narrowed, and for an instant Aurora saw arcane runes circling in his
irises.
As her spell faded, his struck.
A brutal impact sent her hurtling across the chamber. Aurora’s own
body became the projectile with which Nemo destroyed the room. Her
sharp wings severed cables and vents, shredding the fine interfaces of the
control panels.
She crashed against the chamber wall and crumbled to the floor,
shaking her head to clear it from the tiny explosions of light that dazzled
her vision. She had seen nothing of the origin of the blast but knew it came
from Nemo.
“Bronwyn, get out!” cried Nemo. “Geary, you too!”
Someone grabbed Aurora’s arm and lifted her to her feet. “Numen,
leave him to me.”
Beyond Sabina, Aurora saw the rest of her bodyguards moving in to
attack.
The first angel raised her blade to strike the white-clad Morrowan, but
rather than block with his mace, the man lowered his head and bull-rushed
her out of the chamber.
Another bodyguard stabbed at the druid. The diminutive woman
tumbled backward, rolling back to her feet while retaining hold of her
gnarled axe. She gestured with her other hand at the clockwork angel

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standing between her and the chamber door. With a halo of green druidic
runes and a whoosh of invisible force, she blasted the angel out into the
corridor. Without giving her opponent a second glance, the blackclad
rushed out the opposite door, after the Morrowan.
“They’re clear!” shouted Finch.
Simultaneously, the adept and her master raised their staves. Threads of
lightning shot forth, leaping from console to panel, through the storm armor
of the knights, crisscrossing the room in a blinding web of deadly force.
“Stop!” Aurora leaped forward in a vain attempt to block the lightning
with her body.
Sabina dragged her armored body along the wall, her own steel body
jerking as lightning coursed into her steel frame. “No, Numen. You— You
must— escape!”
With the last word, Sabina shoved her out the chamber door and into
the passage.
Acrid smoke and a stench of ozone followed her into the corridor.
Through the thickening haze she saw the sparks continue their devastating
work as orange flames blossomed on the control boards.
Sabina crawled out of the control chamber. She struggled to rise and
activate the switch shutting the door.
She slumped against the corridor wall, cradling her sword arm against
her chest. Aurora knelt beside her. “Sabina.”
“Hurry, Numen. You must escape— to report to your— to the iron
mother.”
Aurora pulled Sabina’s arm over her shoulder, shrugging her wings
out of the way. It took all her strength to help the clockwork angel stand.
Together, they staggered to the lift. Aurora slapped the button to summon
it, but before the doors opened she heard a sound of fighting in the adjacent
corridor.
Another of her bodyguards, Mina, fought a Cygnaran knight, not
the white-clad Morrowan but a big man in blue storm armor. Aurora

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recognized the severe dent she had left in his breastplate. Raising his glaive,
he struck a two-handed blow against Mina’s wrist, lightning augmenting
the damage from the heavy blade. The angel’s binomial blade leaped from
her grip and skittered across the steel deck.
Aurora gripped her staff and moved toward the fight.
“Numen— please,” said Sabina. Her mechanikal voice popped, since
the lightning damaged her voice box. “Allow me.”
Gripping her sword in her good hand, Sabina ran haltingly toward
the knight, even as he raised his blade to finish his foe. Sabina parried
the blow awkwardly, revealing worse damage to her arm than Aurora had
realized.
The knight kicked Sabina away. As Mina scrambled after her dropped
weapon, the knight pursued her. Reversing his glaive, he brought the point
of the crackling weapon down between her brass wings. The whirring of
gears within her chest cavity sputtered, coughed, and ceased. Aurora heard
the crack of glass and saw the luminescent fluid of the essence chamber
pour out beneath her body.
The knight had not just defeated her. He had slain her, irrevocably.
With an angry screech, Sabina thrust her blade up through the knight’s
damaged breastplate. The blade plunged through the man’s chest and out
the back, briefly giving the impression he had sprouted a wing of his own.
He sank to his knees, lips moving in a prayer or curse.
The lift doors opened. Aurora stepped inside the tube. “Hurry, Sabina!”
As her bodyguard staggered toward her, the door to the control chamber
opened once more. Smoke billowed out. Caitlin Finch emerged, coughing.
Squinting through the lenses of her goggles, her eyes widened at the sight
of the knight kneeling nearby, his blood spreading across the deck.
“Blackburn!” she cried. “Chaplain, come here quickly!” Her gaze turned
toward Sabina and Aurora. Lightning snapped up and down the length of
her staff.
“Sabina, run!”

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Instead, Sabina looked back over her shoulder. Finch saw her, raised
her staff, and unleashed its lightning.
The blast lifted Sabina from her feet and held her for an eternal instant
above the deck. Its charge blasted the brass feathers from her wings and
shook her wounded arm out of joint. Sabina fell limp as a discarded doll.
Aurora shrieked her loss and fury. She raised her staff and took a step
toward Sabina’s killer. Her hands turned to ice as her heart seethed with
vengeance. She would tear this adept to pieces.
Aurora stopped as she saw Sebastian Nemo step out behind Finch.
Behind him came another pair of knights, galvanic blades in hand.
Fear overcame her rage. Aurora rushed back into the lift, grabbing at
the lever even as lightning caught the closing doors. She pushed the lever
up and held it there, even though she knew the gesture would not speed
her ascent.
Trying to control her breathing, she thought of a way she could strike
back at her foes still trapped within the astronometric nexus. She reached
out with her thoughts. Her mind touched the interface node built into the
control room. Despite the damage Nemo and his adept had caused, it still
functioned.
The instant Aurora triggered the nexus’ self-destruct protocol, the lift
shuddered and halted. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined Nemo had
somehow trapped her to share his fate, but an instant later she remembered
the escape hatch in the ceiling. Knocking it open with her staff, she rose up
through the opening, folding her wings close while rising by virtue of the
arcane displacement field. She continued to rise until she emerged on the
tower pinnacle. She ran to the edge and leaped away.
She had only enough time to recall her army to the geomantic
translocation chambers below the tower. Swooping low, she called out to
Pollux, Bogdan, and finally Septimus as she spied them organizing the
withdrawal among the remains of her army. Her command was simple.
“Home!”

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The remaining clockwork angels flocked to her, escorting her final

circuits around the army as every surviving trooper rushed back to the
base of the recalibration tower. There, they streamed under the arches to
descend the ramps opening behind each of the four legs of the structure.
None of them knew how little time they had left to escape with the self-
destruct counting down.
She hoped more than calculated that the tower would take Nemo with
it in its destruction, moments after she and her army escaped.
Most of the vectors had fallen, destroyed or disabled on the field. Only
a handful of servitors accompanied the troops running at top speed toward
the shelter of the tower. More of them fell as they ran. She saw the Prime
Axiom lying on its side, smoke rising from gaping holes in its chassis, larger
than artillery craters. Both of the Transfinite Emergence Projectors had
fallen as well; clockwork soldiers streamed over them, rushing toward the
recalibration node.
Her forces were no longer in retreat. With the thunder of rifles and the
lightning of the stormsmiths at their heels, the Convergence were in full rout.
Aurora landed beside Pollux, who stood sweeping his arm beside one
of the ramps. “Move it, move it, move it!” he chanted.
All the troops obliged, a few carrying their injured fellows, even more
helping the enigma foundries carry back the essence chambers of those
whose bodies had been left behind, beyond repair.
As the last of the troops descended, Aurora lingered, watching the feet
of the tower legs for what she hoped not to see.
And then she saw it.
Nemo and his surviving raiders emerged from the recalibration nexus.
Two of the knights bore the body of the man Sabina had slain, her sword
still caught in his chest.
Her anger at seeing them escape paled beside her shame at having left
her faithful bodyguard behind while her enemies managed to retrieve their
dead.

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She took a step toward them. Her surviving bodyguards moved to

follow her. She knew they would go with her, even if it meant going to
their destruction.
“Numen,” said First Prefect Pollux. He gestured with his bladed right
hand, showing her that virtually all the troops had descended. “We need
you to activate the geomantic translocation apparatus and return us home.”
Aurora’s shame deepened as she realized what a relief it was for Pollux
to remind her that she had a reason not to avenge Sabina’s death yet. An
excuse not to die today.
She followed him down the spiraling ramp. It converged with the other
three, past the open shield gates and beside the immense shaft through
which the realignment probes sank deep into the ground. At last, in the
vast excavated cavern, she found the remains of her army.
Within the circumference of the walls, a smaller perimeter of
displacement tethers encircled the pattern of the Face of Cyriss on the
grated steel floor. They seemed so few standing within the borders of a
translocation field built for a group over twice their size, especially without
the Prime Axiom or the battle engines. The optifex and enigma foundries
continued their work, extracting essence chambers from ruined bodies and
salvaging others as they awaited transportation home.
Septimus and Bogdan waited by the activation console. As Aurora
moved to join them, the first explosions shook the earth. A murmur went
up among the troops.
“You already activated—” began Bogdan before reconsidering his
words. Beside him, the prime enumerator merely bowed his immotile face
toward her.
“Prime Enumerator,” she said. “Confirm that our forces have all
withdrawn to within range of the geomantic translocation apparatus.”
“Numen, all surviving forces are within range.”
She looked down at the console to confirm her hopes. The gauges
showed what she desired: the realignment was complete.

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Aurora raised her voice for all the nearby troops to hear. “We return
home in triumph!” she cried. “Our work here is done.”
A halfhearted cheer stirred among the troops. Another tremor from
the node above silenced them.
Aurora knew she deserved no better, but the tepid response still burned
her cheeks with shame. She reached for the controls with her hand even as
she reached out with her mind to the interface node inside the device. She
triggered the geomantic translocation apparatus.
She felt the invisible field folding her material essence into a point
inconceivably small. She could not feel the motion as the geomantic
translocation apparatus hurled her and the rest of the army across a
vast distance. An instant later, the same energies that had transported
the thought of them restored their bodies. The survivors of the battle of
Calbeck stood high in the Wyrmwall Mountains, beside one of the several
strategic repair stations they had left in the wake of their southern advance.
Far to the north, Aurora knew the astronometric nexus was already
destroying itself. She wished she could observe the blinding pillar of light
that marked the final destruction of the realignment node. It had served
its purpose. While she had tempted Sebastian Nemo with many truths
about the Convergence, Aurora had no wish to leave him so much more
technology to study. The man had already proven himself so dangerous.
But not dangerous enough to stop her. Despite the intolerable losses to
her army, Aurora had succeeded. The alignment was complete. Her mission
accomplished, the Convergence was one great step closer to completing the
Great Work.

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 THE NINTH HARMONIC

The journey to enlightenment is initiated by the brilliance of discovery.

Nemo

The morning after the battle of Calbeck, Sebastian Nemo stood at the
edge of the ruined village. He received the reports of his officers while the
enlisted troops dragged a few remaining vessels—for some reason he could
not think of them as “bodies”—into designated areas divided by type.
There were precious few clockwork soldiers and vectors remaining. The
rest had vanished beneath the tower as hidden charges brought it down
into a heap of debris that continued to smoke.
The final destruction of the tower came soon after, even as the Cygnaran
forces scrambled to escape the blast radius. Even those cautious enough to
turn away suffered burns from the incandescent flash of the tower’s final
blast.
Only a few lonely buildings remained standing on the outskirts of the
village, and those were blackened by the heat that had all but destroyed the
remains of the Convergence colossal and battle engines, along with most of
the fallen clockwork soldiers.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Nemo wondered how many essence chambers had perished with the
disposable bodies. How many dead had the Convergence suffered? His
forces had endured more than he cared to consider.
It would be days before Nemo dared send pickers into the wreckage.
He held little hope of recovering substantial salvage. The control room, the
ingenious automatic stairs and pneumatic-mechanikal lifts—all had been
consumed.
For all the regret he felt at the loss of such precious technology, Nemo
most wished he had been able to retrieve that globe of Caen. Even apart from
its intrinsic scientific value, its map of ley lines would have proved critical
in anticipating and countering the future schemes of the Convergence.
Could they really intend to bring their goddess to Caen? Nemo would
not have believed such an absurd proposal if he had not seen the incredible
geomantic technology these Cyrissists wielded. He would not have thought
anyone capable of such an audacious dream before meeting Aurora.
He weighed the positives. Whether by the blessing of Morrow or
random chance, Nemo had learned of their presence in time to oppose
Aurora’s army. He had driven them off Cygnaran territory and learned
enough of their design to heighten watchfulness throughout the kingdom.
A storm knight captain brought him the initial casualty report. Just
the weight of the several pages was cause for despair. Nemo knew he
would have sacrificed far fewer lives with a less aggressive response to the
intrusion, but then he would not have stopped Aurora’s scheme in time.
Not that he was certain he had done so.
“Sir,” said Caitlin Finch. She threw a perfunctory salute as she ran to
him, breathless from gathering the reports of her stormsmiths. “Is that the
new status on the wounded?”
Nemo knew why she asked. One of her Jimmies had suffered grievous
injuries from a swarm of buzzing projectiles. The stormsmith had been
first on the amputation triage, but he had remained weak and feverish
throughout the night.

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Nemo passed her the wounded list and continued scanning the much
shorter list of those who had died of their wounds. His gaze fell upon a
familiar name: Lieutenant James Baker.
He lowered the page and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“Sir?”
Nemo handed her the page. “I’m sorry, Finch.”
Her eyes widened for an instant, but then she nodded. “Thank you, sir.
And I’m sorry about Major Blackburn. I know you were old friends.”
Old friends? Nemo wasn’t sure that was true. He had liked Blackburn
and admired his courage. In the past years, he’d had little time for anything
resembling friendship unassociated with the army: apprentices, comrades-
in-arms, a few eccentric officers here and there.
Troublesome sorts, like Mags Jernigan.
Nemo had seen her name on a list immediately after the battle: the
missing.
During the battle, a squadron of Aurora’s winged swordswomen had
attacked the camp. They had scattered the refugees to cause confusion,
but their true target had been the tent where guards had confined the
treacherous mechanik. They had slain her guards and had flown away with
her.
The rangers had not been able to pick up her trail anywhere. The report
both angered and relieved Nemo. Mags deserved nothing so much as to
face a court-martial and answer for her crimes. The result would certainly
be execution.
And then Nemo would have one less friend alive in this world.
“Yes, Finch,” he said at last. “Blackburn was a good friend.”
One of the ranger sergeants approached. “Sir, the druid is gone.”
Nemo nodded, expecting the news. “There was little reason for her to
remain after we disabled the tower. Her assistance was valuable, but she
never offered her allegiance, only her help with this matter.”
“Shall I assign a team to follow her?”

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Nemo shook his head. To send even his best rangers after a blackclad
would be a waste of time and talents. No one could find a druid in the
woods who did not wish to be found.
“Send another team across the river. If the Convergence burrowed
away, they must have come up nearby.” With any luck, he thought, Aurora
will lead us to another of their hidden temples.
On second thought, he decided, that would certainly take a miracle.
The Convergence had remained hidden for hundreds of years. Surely they
would not reveal themselves now only to open themselves up to attacks on
their sanctuaries.
Yet it was Nemo’s duty to find them. This Aurora, for all her power, had
made mistakes. She remained young and brash. For all of the advanced
technology at her disposal, she could be defeated.
Chaplain Geary approached. Beside him, Lieutenant Benedict hobbled
along on crutches.
Geary stepped aside to allow Benedict to approach. The young man
saluted with a bandaged hand. “Reporting for duty, sir!”
Nemo eyed Geary. “Is this man even fit to leave the casualty tent?”
“There weren’t enough guards to keep him in his cot.”
Nemo stopped himself from chiding the chaplain for letting his patients
run roughshod over him.
“General, I’m sorry to have missed the action,” said the young warcaster.
After his recent experiences, Nemo supposed, it would no longer do to
think of him as a journeyman.
While he knew he could defeat Aurora again, Nemo knew he might
not be the next to face her. He could not be everywhere at once. What he
could do was prepare the younger officers, the Finches and Benedicts. He
could teach them what he had learned and trust them to carry on the fight
with or without him.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Something tells me you’ll have your chance,”
said Nemo. “And perhaps sooner than you like.”

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Aurora

Deep beneath the northern Wyrmwall Mountains, in the Temple of the

Prime Harmonic, Aurora stood before Directrix.
They were within the iron mother’s receiving chamber, a sparsely
furnished room lighted from beneath the grated floor. Upon the walls and
domed ceiling, gears and axles turned in an endless recitation of equations,
prayers to Cyriss—which incidentally provided a veil of sound against any
who dared eavesdrop on the iron mother’s conversations.
The iron mother wore the Convergence’s most advanced clockwork vessel,
a mirror-bright body of chromium, steel, and brass. While she lacked Aurora’s
ability to fly, her gleaming cloak of blades made her daughter’s steel wings seem
puny by comparison. Even the hulking mantle rising above her head reinforced
the iron mother’s metaphorical and physical stature. Aurora saw the exponent
servitors nestled within that mantle, like owls sleeping in their nest.
Aurora had lived too long in the shadow of her mother to see her grand
attire for anything other than it was: pride. Even the visage Directrix had
chosen resembled the Face of Cyriss, a choice that still had the optifex
whispering of blasphemy two decades after she had adopted it.
Yet none dared speak such words above a whisper, for the Constellation
had chosen Directrix to lead their battles in the Phase of Alignment,
enacting a plan she herself had conceived.
“The fluxion directive wishes to congratulate you on the success of your
mission,” said Directrix.”
Aurora bowed, pleased to hear such praise, and doubly pleased to hear
it from Directrix. She wondered whether it pained the iron mother to laud

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her daughter for something other than excellent reports from the optifex
who tutored her.
“The fluxion directive also wishes a further explanation for the
inexcusable losses among the troops we entrusted to your care.”
“As I have explained—” Aurora began.
“As you have described,” Directrix corrected her. “If your report were
satisfactory, it would require no further explanation.”
“My report was complete and accurate. If you think otherwise, I
demand to know the reason.”
“You make no demands of me, Numen,” said Directrix. Her metal
face revealed no ire, nor was there the slightest strain of anger in her
modulated voice. “You make no demands of the fluxion directive, nor of
the Constellation.”
“Yes, Iron Mother.”
Directrix studied her face. “I see that you wish to say something to me.”
Aurora wished it were not so obvious. She wanted a face like her
mother’s, one that could perfectly conceal her thoughts. She wanted a voice
that betrayed no emotion. She wanted a perfect physical vessel, and she
wanted it on her own terms, not her mother’s.
“Iron Mother, you orchestrated the plan we all strive to fulfill. No one
can deny your achievement. And you have guided the Convergence with
great foresight and cunning. But the time for plotting is past. Now that
we have revealed ourselves to the world, we need warriors to lead the way.
We need to maintain our technological advantage. Already we have all the
priests we require. What we need now are inventors and warriors.”
“Inventors and warriors like you?”
“Exactly.”
“Your advances in aerogenesis are undeniably impressive,” said Directrix.
“Yet you left the Prime Axiom, two battle engines, and countless troops
behind in a clash with a clearly inferior force.”
“No one could have expected Sebastian Nemo to arrive so—”

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“And I have received reports that you responded most recklessly to

his appearance, not once but several times. How many lives could have
been preserved if you had focused on your mission rather than a desire for
personal glory?”
Aurora bristled, thinking of Septimus, but she said nothing.
“You still have much to learn, daughter. You are not yet tempered for
war. More time among the optifex would season you.”
“All I need is transference to my own clockwork vessel,” said Aurora.
“Dozens of others are receiving new vessels after the battle. Do I not
deserve the same honor?”
“Remaining in the flesh is not a punishment, Aurora. It is an opportunity
for an education you cannot experience otherwise. Learn everything you
can while you have the chance.”
“I have learned enough. I am ready for transference. How many more
times must I prove myself?”
“‘From those to whom much has been given, much is expected,’” the
iron mother said with a tone of finality.
The words sounded like a quotation, but Aurora could not remember
the source. More likely it was a phrase she had heard a hundred times as a
child, from the mechanikal voice of a mother who had assumed her own
clockwork vessel while Aurora was still too young to remember her face.
The subject was closed. “Perhaps this will please you,” Directrix said.
“We have a new initiate who may be of some help in your work. I will allow
it, if you wish.” With a gesture, she opened the chamber door. “Come,” she
intoned.
An unfamiliar clockwork vessel entered the room. Fresh from
Syntherion’s forge, its steel and chromium chassis gleamed even in the half-
light of the receiving room. Like a Galvanizer, its many limbs bristled with
saw blades, welders, adjustable spanners, and other repair tools. Yet it was
also built for war, with shoulder-mounted swarm projectors and two heavy
arms, each with a reductor’s retractable blade behind an articulated hand.

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It hovered like a Corollary or Assimilator—or like Syntherion himself,

Aurora thought—gliding across the chamber toward Aurora.
Directrix addressed it. “You may speak.”
“I… I didn’t want it this way,” said the strange vessel. “I didn’t want to
hurt anybody. I only promised to blow up some ’jacks. It was the kid. He
tried to stop me.”
Even though they had talked for less than an hour, Aurora recognized
the cadence of Margaret Jernigan’s voice.
She stared at the iron mother in shock. “The traitor? She hasn’t even
been indoctrinated! How…?”
“She was approved for emergency transference,” Directrix said. “She
was dying, and the fluxion directorate agreed with your assessment: in
time she could prove a valuable addition to the optifex.”
Aurora could barely stomach the appalling irony of the situation, yet
there was nothing more she could say or do to change it. She was powerless
against the iron mother, and there was no one else she could blame for her
latest humiliation.
Except perhaps for the man who had diminished her victory by forcing
her to hurry the operation.
That was how Aurora would redeem herself.
Whether it took months or years, she would face her foe across another
battlefield. When she did, she would not bother with diplomacy or
delaying tactics. She would prove herself worthy of transferring into the
Convergence’s finest clockwork vessel in a manner no one, not even the
iron mother, could dispute.
Aurora would find Sebastian Nemo, and she would kill him.

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 GLOSSARY

Animus Corpus Procedure: The process by which a person’s soul is

extracted and preserved within an essence chamber, which can then be
installed in a clockwork vessel.

Artis: The smallest of the three moons of Caen. See also Calder and Laris.
ascendants: Saint-like individuals who have followed in Morrow’s
footsteps and ascended to serve his faith as beacons of enlightenment.
Individual ascendants are frequently chosen as patrons by Morrowan
worshipers.

Asphyxious, Lich Lord: One of the twelve supreme commanders of the

forces of Cryx. He has been very active on the mainland leading Cryxian
forces against other armies.

astronometric nexus: A large and technologically advanced structure

employed by the Convergence to focus and align geomantic energies based
on the positions of various celestial objects in the sky above Caen.

battlegroup: A warcaster and the warjacks he controls.

blackclad: The common name used to refer to a druid of the Circle
Orboros, referring to their propensity to wear black cloaks and robes.
Blackclads are masters of elemental magic and are rumored to be affiliated
with the Devourer Wurm.
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Caen: The world containing the Iron Kingdoms, Immoren, Zu, etc.
Sometimes contrasted as the material world as opposed to the spiritual
world of Urcaen.

Calbeck: A small Cygnaran town along the Dragon’s Tongue River

between Point Bourne and Tarna.

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 Artis and Laris.

Caspia: Capital of Cygnar and called the “City of Walls.” The only human
city not to fall to the Orgoth.

Church of Morrow: The organized religion of the god Morrow, the largest
and most widespread faith in the Iron Kingdoms. This is the majority faith
in the nations of Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. The Church of Morrow
has considerable wealth and influence.

Circle Orboros: A secretive ancient order of druids that is the oldest

continuous organization in human history. Although few in number, they
wield great power. Capable of summoning the forces of storm, animating
warriors of stone, and commanding the beasts of the wild, their will is
rarely resisted.

calculating engine: An extremely sophisticated clockwork device

employed by the Convergence that can perform complex operations and
serves as the control center for devices like servitors. Unlike a cortex,
calculating engines must be programmed with instructions and cannot
deviate from them.

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clockwork angels: The newest clockwork vessel utilized by the

Convergence, invented by Aurora, Numen of Aerogenesis. Angels use a
compact displacer drive that grants them the power of true flight and are
employed for rapid hit-and-run strikes.

clockwork vessel: A machine made of extremely complex clockwork parts

and powered by electrical impulses generated from an essence chamber that
houses a soul. Such vessels serve as the machine body for many members
of the Convergence. Immune to pain and repairable, specialized clockwork
vessels have been engineered for numerous battlefield and support roles.

Convergence of Cyriss, or Convergence: The largest and most organized

central religious organization devoted to the goddess Cyriss. This
organization has been in existence for almost two hundred and fifty years
and is devoted to a cause it refers to as the Great Work. The Convergence
possesses advanced technology and has been slowly building an armed
force in secret since its inception.

colossal: Massive predecessors to the modern steamjacks, these great

machines were originally constructed during the Rebellion against the
Orgoth. Recently several nations have begun to build new colossals to add
to their military arsenals. Modern colossals are smaller than the ancient
ones but draw upon centuries of advanced warjack development.

Corben, Ascendant: A Morrowan figure who ascended in 102 AR and

is considered the patron of alchemy, astronomy, and the arcane. Most
famous for curing the rip lung plague. Corben has a following among some
peripheral Cyriss worshipers who still also revere Morrow.

cortex: The highly arcane mechanikal device that gives a steamjack its
limited intelligence. Over time cortexes can learn from experience and
develop personality quirks.

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Corvis: The northeastern Cygnaran city occupying the conjunction of

the Black River and the Dragon’s Tongue River. Also called the “City of
Ghosts.”

Cryx: An island kingdom of necromancers, undead, and pirates off the

southwest coast of Immoren and also known as the Nightmare Empire.
Cryx and its ruler, Toruk the Dragonfather, have no problem sacrificing
their soldiers to set up a greater victory elsewhere.

Cygnar: A southern kingdom ruled by King Leto Raelthorne and bearing

the Cygnus on its flag. Generally considered the most prosperous and
technologically advanced of the Iron Kingdoms.

Cyriss (goddess): The goddess of physical sciences such as mathematics,

astronomy, physics, and engineering, also known as the Maiden of Gears.
Cyriss is an enigmatic goddess who only communicates with her followers
through complex encrypted messages.

Cyriss (planet): A planet discovered in 283 AR that orbits the sun far
from Caen. Worshipers of the goddess Cyriss believe this planet to be
inhabited by or an embodiment of the goddess.

Devourer Wurm: An ancient and terrifying primal god of natural

chaos, hunger, and predation that is described as the great ancient enemy
of Menoth. Also called the Beast of Many Shapes, the Devourer is said
to exist in every beast that hunts other living things as well as natural
destructive phenomena such as lightning, earthquakes, floods, and
wildfires. In some myths, the Wurm is seen as the male embodiment of
nature, while Dhunia is the female embodiment. Viewed by Dhunian
races as their divine father.

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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 by gobbers, ogrun, and trollkin but also include 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.

Dragon’s Tongue River: A river stretching from Corvis to the Bay of

Stone which separates Cygnar from Ord and is relied upon by a number
of river towns such as Point Bourne, Tarna, and Five Fingers.

Enkheiridion: The book written by the Twins, Morrow and Thamar, and
deemed the holy book of the Church of Morrow. The pages of the original
Enkheiridion were written by these beings before they ascended to divinity
over twenty-five hundred years ago.

enumerators: A priestly rank of some authority within the Convergence

and other faiths of Cyriss. Enumerators typically oversee a division of a
temple’s workers and/or projects and report to fluxions.

essence chamber: A mechanikal device that houses and protects the soul
of a Convergence faithful. It also serves as an apparently inexhaustible
power source for clockwork vessels.

Eye of the Wurm: The brightest celestial body in the night sky aside from
Caen’s three moons, eventually determined to be a small planet near Caen
but farther from the sun.

fluxion: The highest-ranking priest within a Cyrissist temple. Multiple

fluxions are sometimes assembled as a directorate to form a decision-
making body within the Convergence or other Cyrissist sects. Fluxions
report to the iron mother.

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Face of Cyriss: The abstract representation of the face of Cyriss that

serves as the symbol of the machine goddess.

forge master: A high ranking non-priest engineer in the Convergence

who oversees the fabrication and maintenance of all machinery at a specific
temple complex. Forge masters are often among the senior-most members
of a temple, subordinate to its fluxion(s).

geomantic energy: A Convergence term for arcane energies flowing

beneath the surface of Caen. Geomantic flows, referred to as ley lines
by some other groups, exist throughout Caen and are concentrated in
geographical features like rivers and mountain ranges. The Convergence
uses geomantic energy to empower its temple and workshop facilities, and
the network of energy flows play a key role in the Great Work.

geomantic translocation chamber: A Convergence machine that

can transmit matter from one area to another utilizing the network of
geomantic flows beneath Caen, allowing for extremely rapid transport of
people and materials. This machinery requires tremendous stored power
and therefore is activated infrequently and only for vital tasks.

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

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

Great Work, The: The long-term goal of the Convergence: to bring

Caen’s geomantic energies into perfect alignment and thereby allow the
goddess Cyriss to physically manifest on Caen.

Haley, Victoria: A Cygnaran warcaster of prodigious power and talent

who was formerly a journeyman apprentice to Sebastian Nemo.

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Immoren: The continent containing the Iron Kingdoms, Ios, Rhul, the
Skorne Empire, and the lands between them. Much of Immoren remains
unexplored, and its inhabitants have had limited contact with other
continents.

Ios: An isolationist nation east of Llael and north of the Bloodstone

Marches. Ios was founded long before the nations of men by survivors of a
destroyed empire called Lyoss.

Iron Kingdoms: Initially the four nations founded after the Orgoth
Rebellion: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. The Protectorate of Menoth,
founded after the Cygnaran Civil War, became the fifth Iron Kingdom
after declaring its independence from Cygnar. Most of Llael has since been
conquered by Khador and the Protectorate.

iron mother (or father): The leader of the Convergence, chosen every
nine years by the Constellation. The iron mother is responsible for
coordinating the actions of the entire Convergence to further the Great
Work. The current iron mother is named Directrix.

’jack marshal: A person who has learned how to give precise verbal orders
to a steamjack to direct it in conducting labor or battle. This is a highly
useful occupational skill, although it lacks the versatility or finesse afforded
by the direct mental control of steamjacks exercised by a warcaster.

journeyman: An apprentice Cygnaran warcaster, generally a lieutenant in

the Cygnaran Army. All Cygnaran warcasters must serve a journeymen
tour under a senior warcaster before being promoted to the rank of captain
and recognized as a full warcaster.

Khador: The northernmost of the Iron Kingdoms, once a kingdom and

now an empire. The Khadoran Empire is ruled by Empress Ayn Vanar.

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Laris: One of the three moons of Caen, larger than Artis and smaller than
Calder.

Llael: Once the smallest and easternmost Iron Kingdom but largely
conquered during the recent Llaelese War. Llael is presently divided
between Khador, the Protectorate of Menoth, and the Llaelese Resistance.

ley lines: Another term for the mystical energy flows beneath the surface
of Caen. Referred to as geomantic flows by the Convergence.

long gunners: Cygnar’s premier ranged infantry. Long gunners use a

repeating long rifle in battle, giving them exceptional range and rate of fire.

Lucant (planet): Originally thought to be two different celestial bodies

but determined to be a single planet closest to Caen’s sun. Named after
the astronomer who made this discovery, a priest of Cyriss and one of the
Convergence’s foundational visionaries and first leaders. The planet is also
referred to as the Dawnbringer and the Harbinger of Darkness.

Maiden of Gears: See Cyriss

mechanika: The fusion of mechanical engineering and arcane science.
Menite: A worshiper of Menoth. The largest number of Menites are
found in Khador and the Protectorate of Menoth; most humans consider
Menoth their creator but are not necessarily Menites. Menite worship
declined with the rise of the faith of Morrow.

Menoth: The primal god credited by Menites 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.

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Morrow: One of the Twins, brother to Thamar, and a god who was once
mortal but who ascended to divinity by achieving enlightenment. Also
known as the Prophet, Morrow is a benevolent god who emphasizes self-
sacrifice, good works, and honorable behavior. See also Church of Morrow
and Thamar.

necromancy: An ancient arcane art rooted in the study of the transition

between life and death and certain energies inherent in both the soul
and the bodies of the dead. An art largely reviled across most of western
Immoren, necromancy is classified as black magic and deemed illegal but
is still practiced most prominently by arcanists of Cryx as well as by some
Thamarites. Necromancy is considered profane by both Morrowans and
Menites as well as by several other religions.

nescient savant: The Convergence term for those great thinkers and
inventors who advance human understanding of science without awareness
of Cyriss’ guiding hand behind their actions.

Nine Harmonics, The: A set of broad and simple tenets that form the
guiding principles of the Convergence, to be applied to all aspects of a
productive life. The Nine Harmonics are studied and meditated upon
by all members of the Convergence but are especially important to the
priesthood.

obstructors: The bulk of the Convergence’s rank-and-file clockwork

soldiers. Obstructors are trained to fight with heavy, interlocking shields
and powerful teleflails.

Ord: The kingdom on the western coast between Khador and Cygnar,
largely neutral in the recent wars and seen as a haven for mercenary
companies.

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Order of the Golden Crucible: An organization of alchemists that has

branches in Cygnar, Ord, and Llael. The order earns a sizable portion of
its money through the sale of commercial blasting powder used for firearm
and cannon ordnance.

Order of Illumination: An organization allied to the Church of Morrow

and dedicated to investigating, hunting, and arresting or eliminating
practitioners of black magic, including those practicing necromancy and
infernalism. Its members, referred to as Illuminated Ones, are legally
empowered in most of the Iron Kingdoms to pursue these matters.

optifex: The lowest rank of the Convergence priesthood. Optifex serve

as engineers, mathematicians, technicians and mechaniks and report to
enumerators.

Point Bourne: A prominent northern Cygnaran city on the Dragon’s

Tongue River between Corvis and Five Fingers. It is famed for its steam-
powered locks by which riverboats can traverse a significant change in the
river’s elevation. Recently this city was invaded by Khadoran and then by
Cryxian armies.

Precursor Knights: A Cygnaran order of Morrowan knights who fight

both to defend Cygnar and to uphold the values of their faith. They
consider it their duty to attend to those slain in battle, lest the bodies of
the dead be desecrated and animated through unholy rites.

Protectorate of Menoth, or Protectorate: A southeastern theocracy

dedicated to the god Menoth. Though it did not exist at the time of the
Corvis Treaties, the Protectorate is considered the fifth Iron Kingdom.

polynomial staff: The signature weapon of the Convergence warcaster

Aurora, Numen of Aerogenesis. The polynomial staff concentrates voltaic
energy into focused beams of destructive energy.

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prime enumerator: A rank within the Convergence for a particularly

senior enumerator given oversight of a major project or tasked to supervise
other enumerators.

rip lung: A pernicious disease of the respiratory system that resulted in

a terrible plague during the Orgoth Occupation. While largely eliminated
through alchemical cures, individual cases of this disease persist, and it can
prove deadly if not swiftly treated.

realignment node: A massive Convergence machine complex erected to

bring about a change in the geomantic energy flows beneath Caen.

reciprocators: Heavy clockwork soldiers who fight with interlocking

shields and protean halberds that are capable of switching between
defensive spear and powerful axe modes. Reciprocators, eradicators, and
perforators share the same basic clockwork vessel design and are the elite
of Convergence fighting forces.

reductors: Rank-and-file Convergence clockwork soldiers who utilize

swarm projectors in battle. Though short ranged, the reductors represent
the Convergence’s primary infantry fire support.

Rhul: A northeastern dwarven nation bordering Khador, Llael, and Ios.

Natives of Rhul are called Rhulfolk.

servitors: Small, specialized clockwork machines employed by the

Convergence. Servitors move by floating, employing a displacement drive,
and their behavior is determined by specifically encoded instructions given
to their calculating engines.

servipod mortar: A weapon capable of firing several different payloads of

miniaturized servitors.

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soul: In the cosmology of Caen, every member of any sentient race

possesses an immortal soul composed of spiritual essence that encapsulates
their identity, free will, and potential. Souls can be interacted with and
manipulated by occult practices, an aspect of necromancy. Usually souls
eventually cross to Urcaen after death, although Dhunians are instead
reincarnated.

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.

Steam & Iron Worker’s Union: An organization of Cygnaran arcane

mechaniks, engineers, and non-arcane mechaniks.

steamjack: A steam-powered mechanikal construct designed in a variety

of configurations and sizes, used for both labor and warfare throughout
the Iron Kingdoms, Cryx, and Rhul.

storm glaive: A mechanikal sword designed to generate and harness the

power of lightning both at range and in melee. The storm glaive is the
signature weapon of Cygnar’s Stormblades.

stormsmiths: Individuals who have mastered the ability to generate

localized storms and call down targeted lighting strikes upon their foes.
The stormsmith’s signature gear relies on technology originally invented by
Sebastian Nemo and is unique to Cygnar.

Strategic Academy: The leading military training academy in Cygnar,

with campuses located in both Caspia and Point Bourne.

190
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Stryker, Lord Commander Coleman: One of the highest-ranking and

most esteemed battlefield commanders and warcasters in the Cygnaran
Army. He leads the Storm Division.

Syntherion, Forge Master: A clockwork warcaster in the service of the

Convergence who is noted for his particular skill and his capability in
innovating new technologies and the fabrication of the large and complex
machines required for the Great Work. He is credited with improving
vector displacement drives to facilitate floating machines of war.

Thamar: One of the Twins, sister to Morrow and a goddess who was once
mortal but who ascended to divinity through occult study. Also known
as the Dark Sister, Thamar is a widely despised god who emphasizes
self-interest, self-empowerment, subversive acts, and freedom from the
restraints of conventional morality.

Thornwood: A large forest that was originally part of the northern

territories of Cygnar. It was recently occupied by Khador before being
beset by a large number of Cryxian forces. It remains a contested territory
and the site of many recent battles.

titan: A bipedal and four-armed pachyderm used by the skorne in warfare.

troll: A large, brutish species possessed of limited language and inclined
toward violence motivated by hunger. They are widely considered by
humanity to be monsters, since trolls eat humans without hesitation. They
are sometimes referred to as “full-blood trolls” to differentiate them from
their trollkin cousins.

trollkin: A hardy and intelligent race that live both in their own
communities in the wilderness and within cities of man. They possess
a complex and rich culture, including their own written language. Most
trollkin worship the goddess Dhunia.

191
 DARK CONVERGENCE

Urcaen: A mysterious cosmological realm that is the spiritual counterpart

of Caen. Most of the gods reside here, and this is also where most souls
spend the afterlife. Urcaen is divided between protected divine domains
and the hellish wilds stalked by the Devourer Wurm.

vector: A battle construct utilized by Convergence warcasters. Though

they share similarities with warjacks, vectors do not utilize a cortex, as
the Convergence considers artificial consciousness a blasphemy. Instead,
vectors contain an interface node that allows a warcaster to directly control
all of its actions. A vector cannot operate without the direct control of a
warcaster.

warcaster: An arcanist born with the ability to control steamjacks with

the power of the mind. With proper training warcasters become singular
military assets and are among the greatest soldiers of western Immoren,
entrusted to command scores of troops and their own battlegroups of
warjacks in the field. Acquiring and training warcasters is a high priority
for any military force that employs warjacks.

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.

Witchfire Affair: An incident in 603  AR in which a hidden temple

of Cyriss near Corvis was discovered and intruded upon by outsiders,
including Alexia Ciannor, who bore the Witchfire, a legendary and
nefarious sword. Cygnaran authorities investigating the site discovered
unusual Cyriss-related technology, including some thought to harness
necromancy.

192
 Acknowledgments

Great thanks to R. Scott Taylor for shepherding the launch of Skull Island
eXpeditions, Matt Wilson for keen story suggestions, Douglas Seacat for
sharing the secret lore, Zachary Selman Palmer and the Warp One gang
for WARMACHINE tutorials, and Simon Berman, Will Burke, Aeryn
Rudel, Jason Soles, and everyone else at Privateer Press who helped guide
this stranger through the wilds of the Iron Kingdoms.
Special thanks to Lindy Smith for her endless patience in my writing
exiles. I promise to come back upstairs now.
 About the Author

Dave Gross is the author of about ten fantasy novels, including Prince of
Wolves, Master of Devils, Queen of Thorns, and the upcoming King of Chaos.
He has occasionally taught English, written for video games, and edited
magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories.
His first contribution to the world of the Iron Kingdoms was “The Devil’s
Pay,” a novella featuring the Devil Dogs mercenary company and their first
contact with Convergence forces. You can connect with him on Facebook
at https://www.facebook.com/Frabjousdave or on Twitter @frabjousdave.
 Also Available From
Skull Island eXpeditions

D O G S O F WAR : VO LU M E O N E
THE DEVIL’S PAY
A PRELUDE TO DARK CONVERGENCE

by Dave Gross

Samantha “Sam” MacHorne and her Devil

Dogs need a contract, and when one comes in
that leads to the haunted Wythmoor Forest,
the company moves out with warjacks and slug
guns at the ready...
Sam and the Devil Dogs may have been
relaxing in Tarna, but it wasn’t by choice—
they’d rather be employed than resting up.
When a dangerous job offer comes from
“the old man,” Sam takes the Devil Dogs and
their newest recruit, Dawson, on a perilous
hunt to capture an unidentified warjack
before their rival Steelheads or the horrific
Cryx make a claim on the never-before-seen
technology.
Whether their mission will be worth the
risk remains to be seen, but one thing is clear:
Sam and the Devil Dogs will do whatever it
takes to bring home The Devil’s Pay.
 Also Available From
Skull Island eXpeditions

THE WARCASTER CHRONICLES: VOLUME ONE

THE WAY OF CAINE
by Miles Holmes

A llister Caine has always been an enigma and

an outsider among the warcasters of Cygnar, but few
are privy to his true motivations or his complicated
past…
Born into poverty, Allister Caine did what
he must to survive, and the choices he made have
followed him like a vengeful specter throughout
his life. Now, just months after the Lion’s Coup
and his full commission as a warcaster, he has
been secretly assigned by Scout General Rebald
to investigate plots against King Leto in lands
just north of the Bloodsmeath Marsh. The game
changes, however, when mercenaries camped
inside Cygnar’s borders threaten hostility against
the country’s divided nobility. In a test of grit
and arcane power, Caine alone must make
choices that will affect all the nations of the Iron
Kingdoms.
Follow Cygnar’s most unpredictable
warcaster from his early days on the streets and
roofs of Bainsmarket to his first covert mission in
the shadowy Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service
as you uncover The Way of Caine.
 Also Available From
Skull Island eXpeditions

THE WARLOCK SAGAS: VOLUME ONE

INSTRUMENTS OF WAR
by Larry Correia

Makeda, Supreme Archdomina of House

Balaash, is known throughout the Iron
Kingdoms for her leadership of the mighty
Skorne Empire, but it was not always
so…
Before the coming of the Skorne
Empire into the west, Makeda was little
more than the second child of a great
house, but through her will, determination,
and adherence to the code of hoksune, she
rose above all others.
For the first time the secrets of both
Makeda and her people are revealed in the
tale of their epic struggle for honor and
survival, Instruments of War.
 Also Available From
Skull Island eXpeditions

EXILES I N ARM S : VOLUME ON E

MOVING TARGETS
by C.L. Werner

Taryn di la Rovissi and Rutger Shaw:

two hard-luck mercenaries looking to make a
clean break from the flagging war in occupied
Llael…
With the forces of Khador massing for
another surge south into Cygnar and the
Thornwood Forest, Taryn and Rutger are
forced to take a dangerous escape route
before borders close for good. Amid the
last refugees fleeing the advance, the duo
is caught up in an assignment that will
prove to be either their salvation or their
undoing.
From the stinking mists of the
Bloodsmeath Marsh to the back alleys of
Five Fingers, Taryn and Rutger will do
everything in their power to survive a game
of Moving Targets.
Dark Convergence
Copyright © 2013 Privateer Press

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First printing: May 21, 2013

ISBN: 978-1-939480-97-2

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