IRON KINGDOMS

EXCURSIONS
SEASON TWO, VOLUME FIVE

OREN ASHKENAZI
CHRIS A. JACKSON
WILLIAM SHICK

Cover by
IMAGINARY FRIENDS STUDIO AND
NÉSTOR OSSANDÓN
 CONTENTS

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

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

A TASTE FOR BLOOD......................................................................1

IMPRISONED.....................................................................................7

BLOOD SISTERS..............................................................................12
 WELCOME TO
THE IRON KINGDOMS

T he world you are about to enter is the Iron Kingdoms, a place

where the power and presence of gods are beyond dispute, where
mankind battles itself as well as all manner of fantastic races
and exotic beasts, and where a blend of magic and technology
called mechanika shape industry and warfare. Outside the Iron
Kingdoms themselves—the human nations of the continent called
Immoren—the vast and unexplored world of Caen extends to
unknown reaches, firing the imaginations and ambitions of a new
generation.
Strife frequently shakes these nations, and amid the battles of the
region the most powerful weapon is the warjack, a steam-powered
automaton that boasts great mobility, thick armor, and devastating
weaponry. A warjack’s effectiveness is at its greatest when commanded
by a warcaster, a powerful soldier-sorcerer who can forge a mental
link with the great machine to magnify its abilities tremendously.
Masters of both arcane and martial combat, these warcasters are
often the deciding factor in war.
For the Iron Kingdoms, what is past is prologue. No event more
clearly defines these nations than the extended dark age suffered
under the oppression of the Orgoth, a brutal and merciless race
from unexplored lands across the great western ocean known as the
Meredius. For centuries these fearsome invaders enslaved the people
of western Immoren, maintaining a vise-like grip until at last the
 WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

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

of battles and defeats. This rebellion would have been doomed to
failure if a dark arrangement by the gods had not bestowed the Gift
of Magic on the Immorese, unlocking previously undreamed-of
powers.
Every effective weapon employed by the Rebellion against the
Orgoth was a consequence of great minds putting arcane talents to
work. Not only did sorcery allow evocations of fire, ice, and storm
on the battlefield, but scholars combined scientific principles to
blend technology with the arcane. Rapid advancements in alchemy
gave rise to blasting powder and the invention of deadly firearms.
Methods were developed to fuse arcane formulae into metal
runeplates, creating augmented tools and weapons: the invention of
mechanika. The culmination of these efforts was the invention of
the first colossals, precursors to the modern warjack. These towering
machines of war gave the Immorese a weapon the invaders could
not counter. With the colossals the armies of the Rebellion drove the
Orgoth from their fortresses and back to the sea.
The people of the ravaged lands drew new borders, giving birth to
the Iron Kingdoms: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. It was not long
before ancient rivalries ignited between these new nations. Warfare
became a simple fact of life. Over the last four centuries periodic wars
have been broken up by brief periods of tense but wary peace, with
technology steadily advancing all the while. Alchemy and mechanika
have simultaneously eased and complicated the lives of the people of
the Iron Kingdoms while evolving the weapons employed by their
armies in these days of industrial revolution.
The most long-standing and bitter enmity in the region is
that between Cygnar in the south and Khador in the north. The
Khadorans are a militant people occupying a harsh and unforgiving
territory. The armies of Khador have periodically fought to reclaim

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 WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

lands their forebears had once seized through conquest. The two
smaller kingdoms of Llael and Ord were forged from contested
territories and so have often served as battlegrounds between the two
stronger powers. The prosperous and populous southern nation of
Cygnar has periodically allied with these nations in efforts to check
Khador’s imperial aspirations.
Just over a century ago, Cygnar endured a religious civil war that
ultimately led to the founding of the Protectorate of Menoth. This
nation, the newest of the Iron Kingdoms, stands as an unforgiving
theocracy entirely devoted to Menoth, the ancient god credited with
creating mankind.
In the current era, war has ignited with particular ferocity. This
began with the Khadoran invasion of Llael, which succeeded in
toppling the smaller kingdom in 605 AR. The fall of Llael ignited
an escalating conflict that has embroiled the region for the last three
years. Only Ord has remained neutral in these wars, profiting by
becoming a haven for mercenaries. The Protectorate has launched the
Great Crusade to convert all of humanity to the worship of Menoth.
With the other nations occupied with war, this crusade was able to
make significant gains and seize territories in northeastern Llael.
Other powers have been drawn into this strife, either swept up
in events or taking advantage of them for their own purposes. The
Scharde Islands west of Immoren are home to the Nightmare Empire
of Cryx, which is ruled by the dragon Toruk and sends endless waves
of undead and their necromantic masters to bolster its armies with
the fallen of other nations. To the northeast the insular elven nation
of Ios is host to a radical sect called the Retribution of Scyrah that
is driven to hunt down human arcanists, whom they believe are
anathema to their gods.
The savage wilds within and beyond the Iron Kingdoms contain
various factions fighting for their own agendas. From the frozen

iv
 WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

north a disembodied dragon called Everblight leads a legion of

blight-empowered warlocks and draconic spawn. The proud, tribal
race known as the trollkin work to unite their once-disparate people
to defend their lands. Deep in the wilds of western Immoren,
a secretive order of druids commands nature’s beasts to oppose
Everblight and advance their own various plans. Far to the east across
the Bloodstone Marches, the warrior nation of the Skorne Empire
marches inexorably closer, bent on conquering their ancient enemies
in Ios as a step toward greater dominion. Shadowy conspiracies have
arisen from hidden strongholds to play their own part in unfolding
events. These include the Convergence of Cyriss, an enigmatic
machine-cult that worships a distant goddess of mathematics, as well
as their bitter enemies the cephalyx, a race of extremely intelligent
and sadistic slavers who surgically transform captives into mindless
drudges.
The Iron Kingdoms is a setting whose inhabitants must rely
on heroes with the courage to defend them using magic and steel,
whether in the form of rune-laden firearms or steam-driven weapons
of war. The factions of western Immoren are vulnerable to corruption
from within and subject to political intrigue and power struggles. All
the while, opportunistic mercenaries profit from conflict by selling
their temporary allegiance for coin or other favors. It is a world of
epic legends and endless sagas.
Enter the Iron Kingdoms, and discover a world like no other!

v
 A TASTE FOR BLOOD
BY CHRIS A. JACKSON

I have become a thing of pain.

Memories come to me of a time before, a time when I lived,
worked, fought, and loved as any trollkin. Now there is only darkness
and the leering faces of the Bloodgorgers as they feast on my flesh
again and again. I am their favorite, it seems, a sacrifice they can rend
and consume, tearing flesh from bone to sate their thirst for blood,
and then throw in a cell to heal and ravage another day.
Dhunia’s blessing has become a curse.
Putrid green light flickers in the depths of the hole that is my pit
of torment. In that light, I look down at the stubs of my fingers and
see the flesh slowly reforming over denuded bone. They will come
 A TASTE FOR BLOOD • CHRIS A. JACKSON

for me again soon. Am I truly alive, or am I just a regenerating piece

of meat? How many times has it been? I don’t want to remember, but
I do. The agony runs together into one endless scream.
They will come again soon.
They feed me—only a full-blood troll would call it food—but only
to fuel my regeneration. Starvation is the only pain I can quench, so
I eat, though it will only prolong my torment. Why can I not die?
Why do I not let the darkness take me? Perhaps I’ll ask my blighted
kin when they next come for me. I fear the answer, I think, more
than I fear the pain, more than I fear them coming for me again. I
fear what I have become, what my refusal to die has made me.
I don’t know what I am anymore, and I don’t want to.
The light changes, and a heavy iron door opens. The screech of its
rusting hinges sounds like a scream. There are four hulking creatures
with spurs of bone jutting from every malformed joint, Dhunia’s
children twisted by the blight of Toruk. It is time.
A rusty key grates in the lock, reminding me of the sound of teeth
against bone. My bones. The iron gate opens, and I stand, clenching
the new flesh of my fists in impotent resistance of what will come.
The Bloodgorgers grin, exposing jagged teeth fouled with threads of
rotting meat. Maybe even mine.
“Come!” one of the Bloodgorgers says. The command is new.
Usually they just overpower me and drag me to the altar, the place
where they practice their horrid rites.
“Why?” The question comes before the realization that I already
know the answer.
“For the honor.” The one who speaks is their foremost; he has
tasted my blood many times. The twisted Bloodgorger grins, and his
pointed tongue flicks out to dislodge a piece of spoiled meat from
between two jagged teeth.
The Bloodgorger’s words come to me as if through a fog. “Honor?

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 A TASTE FOR BLOOD • CHRIS A. JACKSON

What honor? Whose honor?” They’ve never spoken before. Why

now? What has changed?
“You honor us,” the leader says. “You are strong. Your flesh, your
blood, they make us great. We honor you for it.”
“You honor me?” Laughter tears my throat like flesh from bone.
They stare at each other for a moment. I can’t read their monstrous
expressions, whether they are surprised or curious. I don’t imagine
they have ever heard laughter from someone other than their own
kind, and their laughter sounds nothing like mine.
I take the instant of distraction to lunge, smashing into the leader
with all my remaining strength. My fist splits open on the spurs of
bone jutting from his jaw, but I hear bone snap and my weight bears
the heavy creature back. I grab the curved, sickle-like blade from its
belt and slash. Hard blows land on my back and head, and the room
spins in the lurid green light. They pull me away, and the leader
surges to its feet. The vile creature ignores the deep gash on his face
and his broken jaw.
“You honor me!” the leader says, picks up the blade and points
toward the exit. “Bring him. The altar awaits.”
My head swims, and my ears ringing form their blows, but I
manage to spit in the monster’s face. Defiance. I’m still alive, still a
child of Dhunia.
They drag me outside despite my best efforts to break free, and
they strap me again to their altar. More Bloodgorgers crowd around,
leering and gibbering in anticipation. I don’t listen to their chatter or
their rites of sacrifice. When they begin to strip my living flesh from
bone, I can’t hear them over my own screams.

I wake again, weak from blood loss, gritting my teeth against the
pain of my scabbed and healing wounds. I stare down at my hands,

3
 A TASTE FOR BLOOD • CHRIS A. JACKSON

several fingers are missing, and the flesh has been stripped away up to
my elbows. My feet have also been ravaged, and I can’t stand on the
bloody stumps. I’m no longer bleeding. How have I survived?
I’m ravenous.
The cell is the same, a stone box that holds only a pile of rotting
canvases and a stone bowl heaped with the slop they feed me. I crawl
toward the bowl. A rat the size of a dog glares at me from the other
side. It has already eaten its fill but is reluctant to give up the rest. The
rodent is malformed—bony spurs jut from its head and back. The
same blight that transformed the Bloodgorgers has changed it into
something monstrous.
I lower my face into the bowl and eat, trying not to gag. The
slop is mostly meat, and I don’t want to know what animal it came
from—if it was an animal.
Pain lances through my neck as the blighted rat lunges and buries
its teeth in my flesh. I bring the savaged remnant of my hand down
on it as hard as I can, crushing its skull against the floor. I nudge the
corpse toward the bars. Maybe the next rat will take the hint.
I feel the first tingling sting as my wounds begin to heal. How many
days or weeks before flesh slowly forms over exposed bone? I long for
death, for release, but again my body betrays me. I have no hope, no
escape, not even the cold comfort of defiance. There is only pain.

They come for me again, and this time I am not the only sacrifice.
My blighted kin have taken captives, humans who look to have
been soldiers. When I’m dragged outside to where the sacrifices are
performed, the altar is already slick with blood, and my captors are
in a frenzy. Screams rattle my ears, and for once they aren’t mine. A
pile of torn and bloody corpses attest to the suffering of those who

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 A TASTE FOR BLOOD • CHRIS A. JACKSON

preceded me, and a group of chained and miserable humans awaiting

the altar tells me what is to come. There are four humans remaining,
each injured but alive and conscious, grimly awaiting their fate.
“Lucky bastards,” I mutter.
My comment draws the attention of one of the humans, his
bloody brow furrowing in surprise. “Lucky? What in the names of
all the ascendants are you talking about, trollkin?”
As the Bloodgorgers drag another human to the altar, I nod to the
pile of corpses. “You will die, and your pain will end.”
“You . . .” The human stares at me wide-eyed, then cringes as his
companion’s screams shiver the air. He glances at the altar and then
looks back to me. “They’ve done this to you before.”
“Yes,” I say and watch the human on the altar die. I feel jealousy,
remorse, pity, and a deep burning hatred for the Bloodgorgers. I
embrace that hatred. It’s my only comfort. “Many times.”
“I’m sorry.”
I look to the human, at the pity in his face, and I feel strange.
“Don’t be.”
I look down at my hands, whole and unscarred, and I wonder why
Dhunia made trollkin to endure such pain. The answer is simple:
because we are made to survive.
“I was made for it.”
The human’s posture is a little straighter, and there is something in
his eyes that wasn’t there before. Defiance or maybe resignation, but
there is less fear. I feel good about that.
“Die well, human.”
“And you, trollkin.” His hands clench into fists below the chains.
The Bloodgorgers take him next, and he goes without a struggle.
He dies screaming like the others, and then it is my turn. I go that
altar again, praying for death and knowing it won’t come.
It doesn’t matter.
This is what I was made for: to endure.

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A TASTE FOR BLOOD • CHRIS A. JACKSON

6
 IMPRISONED
BY WILLIAM SHICK

T he cell is dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of torchlight

filtering through the narrow, barred window in the thick iron door.
In different circumstances, I might question the need for a door
more suited to holding back a warjack than a man, but I know the
door’s strength is not meant for me. It’s meant for what is with me
in this cell.
As if alerted by my thought, the voices return, their whispers
burrowing into my mind like worms through wet earth. I clap my
hands over my ears, desperate to shut them out, but they do not obey
the physical laws of the world.
So many whispers—I cannot count them all. It’s like walking the
 IMPRISONED • WILLIAM SHICK

market streets of Korsk at their busiest hour. Some of those voices are
harsh and grating, like a knife being scraped over granite. Others are
almost mournful, their cadence slow and droning. Still others howl
with the fury of the damned. It’s the last that are the most terrible.
Their voices so infused with agony and rage, the sound causes me
physical pain.
When I was first locked in this cell the whispers were not here.
I was left in the dark with nothing but my own thoughts and the
immense grief for all I had lost. I, Dmetri Ramanova, was once the
son to a wealthy kayazy family. Now I look down at my clothes, the
same ones I wore on the day of my sentencing. They were once fine
garments, fitting of my station. Now they are little better than the
rags worn by the beggars of Korsk.
I don’t know how long I sat, alone in the silence of the dark,
before the Greylords came to deliver my punishment, my torment.
I glance toward the shadowy object in the center of the room. I
flex my right arm and the familiar rattle of the heavy chain hanging
from my wrist echoes throughout the cell. Stirred by the noise, the
whispers grow louder.
Come to us. Let us free you from this place.
“Leave me,” I moan through parched lips.
My voice is weak after . . . weeks? Months?
We can help you if you only let us. Give you strength.
“No . . .”
Bring you back to her.
The image of Natasha flashes through my mind. I see her on our
wedding day, the northern sun glowing behind her, her porcelain
skin matching her wedding gown.
“Liars,” I growl. The happy memory fades beneath with anger. It
is a rage born of frustration. “Be gone, foul devils!” I shout. “Leave
me in peace”.

8
 IMPRISONED • WILLIAM SHICK

The voices laugh. There is no peace to be found.

I cannot banish them, and they know it. A buzzing drone begins
to thrum at the base of my head where skull meets spine.
Why do you resist us?
“You have nothing to offer me.” The buzzing grows louder. I
shake my head, trying to free myself from it.
Oh, we have much to offer.
The buzzing reaches an overwhelming intensity. It feels like my
brain will turn to jelly and run out my ears. My eyes throb in their
sockets. I clasp my hands to my temples, fall to the cold ground, and
crawl away from the sound until my back grates against the cell’s
stone wall.
“Stop,” I beg. “Stop! Stop!”
There is a loud banging of wood against wood. A voice, heavy
with authority, rings out, and I am shocked to realize it is not coming
from inside my head.
“If the accused cannot control himself, I will have him forcibly
restrained! Now stand up and do not interrupt this court again!”
I open my eyes, and I am dumbfounded by what I see. I’m no
longer in the cell; I’m in a large courtroom. Three officers sit in front
of me upon a raised dais.
I recognize the place, but it can’t be true . . .
I turn and scan the small group of onlookers behind me. I see
Natasha, and my heart leaps in my chest. Her eyes are red and puffy,
but she is still as beautiful to me as ever. I want desperately to go to
her, but my body doesn’t respond. My feet are frozen in place as the
head judge continues to speak.
“Dmetri Ramanova, this tribunal finds you guilty of dereliction
of duty and responsible for the death of your commanding officer.”
Panic fills me as I realize what is happening. Somehow I’m back at
my trial. “No, you don’t understand! It wasn’t me!” I cry.

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 IMPRISONED • WILLIAM SHICK

I hear Natasha sob and turn to see her rush toward me. Two ugly
guards catch her before she can reach my side. One of them takes the
opportunity to run his hands over her delicate frame. Rage fills me,
but my limbs will not respond.
“Such a shame,” a serpent voice calls out from behind me.
I turn and see the face of Gregor Ivar. “Do not worry, Dmetri,” he
says. “I will make sure Natasha is well taken care of.” His smile leaves
no question as to his meaning. He always wanted her for himself. It
infuriated him when she chose me instead.
“You!” I shout. “It was you who set me up!” Suddenly my limbs
are again free from whatever dark magic held them. I lunge forward,
hands outstretched to choke the life from the fiend who took
everything from me because I had something he could not have. My
life stolen because of the jealousy of a pathetic man.
Gregor laughs, deep and maniacal as my hands close around his
throat.
The vision disappears, and I see my hands wrapped not around
Gregor’s throat but the handle of the massive fellblade standing at
the center of the room. The leering face of the pommel stares back
at me.
We can give you everything you want, even the things you do not
know you want.
I know I should let go of the cursed blade and run as far away
from it as possible, but I keep my hands tight about the well-worn
leather grip.
I think of Natasha again, but this time the thoughts are not
cheerful ones. I remember the guard’s lascivious hands and Gregor’s
words. More visions fill my head, visions put there by the blade.
I scream.
I’m running now, charging across a grassy plain. My breath sounds
heavy in my ears, and I realize it’s because a great helmet covers my

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 IMPRISONED • WILLIAM SHICK

head and face. I am surrounded by hundreds of other powerfully

built warriors. All of us are charging forward.
My body feels different, more powerful. I feel thick corded
muscles pumping in my legs and arms as I rush forward. The blade is
also there, in my hand. Looking at it now, I do not feel repulsion or
fear. I only feel strength. With it, I am invincible.
I see a line of men ahead; their garb is random and patchwork.
It’s a style I’ve never seen before. Though I do not recognize them,
I know the men are my enemies. As we close, they raise incredibly
archaic rifles.
There is thunder, and the entire line is obscured by thick smoke
as the men fire their first volley. I sense rather than see several of
the warriors around me fall. But I press on. In the space of another
heartbeat, I am among my enemies, swinging the fellblade in great
arcs, severing limbs and heads from bodies. The rhythmic rise and fall
of the blade is a soundless music to my ears. Somewhere, deep down,
I realize who these men and women are. A small and shrinking part
of me recoils at the revelation, but I quash it, knowing it now for
what it really is.
Weakness.
I am back in the cell again, my hands wrapped so tight around
the fellblade’s grip my knuckles have turned white. My body feels
so alive, so full of strength. The whispers roll over me like soothing
waves. They enfold me like a lover’s embrace.
So many voices, but now the leering faces carved into the blade do
not frighten me; I know them all. I grin, then throw my head back
and howl, adding my voice to theirs.

11
 BLOOD SISTERS
BY OREN ASHKENAZI

A cold wind blew through the Widower’s Wood, bringing with

it sweet smells of growth and decay. Beneath the marsh’s odor
came the stench of blasting powder and unwashed farrow. Prelen
breathed deeply as she took in the scent. The preys were close.
She could hear them slowly moving through the forest and softly
grunting at each other. To a Tharn bloodtracker, the farrow might
as well have been shouting their position.
Prelen sensed the others around her, in the trees and on the
ground. She could see the powerful form of her older sister Mysha at
the front with Ledren, their band’s leader. Mysha had the honor of
being first scout. Prelen was near the back. Small Prel, she thought,
 BLOOD SISTERS • OREN ASHKENAZI

whose javelins merely kill instead of passing clean through the prey like
her sister’s.
She could see the farrow now; their mismatched armor and bulky
rifles stood out against the wood’s green and brown. They traveled in
a short column, two abreast, which bespoke purpose. This surprised
Prelen. The porcine brigands were usually unorganized, and they
rarely entered this far into Tharn territory. Something important
must have compelled them to take such a risk. She clutched her
javelin and crept forward, painted skin blending with the forest. The
farrow would have little time to regret their trespass.
The Tharn were spreading out to surround the more numerous
farrow. At Ledren’s signal, they would rain down javelins on the
enemy, slaughtering the farrow before they could fight back. She
waited, javelin in hand, but then the wind shifted, bringing a new
scent. It was like the farrow but stronger, more primal. Prelen had
no time to think about the new scent. Ahead, Mysha broke from
cover with a shrieking battle cry and sprinted forward, fighting
claws shining in the dappled light. Half a dozen other bloodtrackers
followed in her wake. Ledren attempted to call them back before
battle was joined. None listened.
The farrow squealed in alarm, some unslinging their rifles while
others brought out heavy clubs. Mysha reached them in a blur of
steel, gutting one with her first strike, then swinging around to bury
her claws in a second. The farrow closed in around her, but the other
bloodtrackers had joined the melee.
What should have been an efficient ambush was now a chaotic
battle, with bloodtracker and farrow coming together in bloody
hand-to-hand combat. The enemy had superior numbers, and to
make matters worse, the element of surprise was lost.
Prelen stayed low, skirting the melee. She knelt beside a dead
farrow, a javelin protruding from its throat. The corpse had a heavy

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 BLOOD SISTERS • OREN ASHKENAZI

net wrapped around its waist. Prelen examined another corpse,

finding an identical net and heavy hooks where the two nets could
join together. This farrow also had an oozing bag of entrails slung
over one shoulder. It emitted a pungent stench that would lure every
scavenger for miles. It was clear the farrow had been on a hunt of
their own, and they were after large prey by the looks of it.
The sounds of rifle fire and panicked squealing died away. Prelen
stood in time to see Mysha slash her claws across the last farrow’s
throat. She held the bloody gauntlet high, drawing approving howls
from her fellow hunters.
Mysha pointed a red hand at her sister. “I did not see you. Scared
the pigs would bite?”
Prelen said nothing. She bent down and hefted one of the farrow’s
nets. It was made of heavy chain links, strong enough to hold a large
beast. She realized the other bloodtrackers had gone silent as they
looked up. Ledren, their leader, lay on the ground, blood pooling in
the mud. Two shots from the farrows’ rifles had pierced her body. The
bloodtrackers gathered around their fallen leader as her life drained
away. “Blood for the Wurm,” she whispered and then lay still. Two
more Tharn bodies were soon laid out beside her.
The Tharn stood silently over their dead. Minutes past before
Mysha broke the quiet. “Ledren led us well. Carve the flesh of our
fallen so the beasts of the Wurm may feast on their strength.”
She spoke with power and confidence. The others moved to obey.
So it was among the Tharn: the strongest led, and the rest followed.
Prelen surprised them all when she spoke. “You cannot lead, Mysha.”
Mysha went rigid and her hand curled into a tight fist beneath
her fighting claw.
“You’re fast and strong, but you don’t think,” Prel said. “If
you had followed Ledren, we could have killed the farrow from
ambush. Your mistakes will get us all killed.”

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 BLOOD SISTERS • OREN ASHKENAZI

Mysha lunged at Prelen, claws scything through the air. Prelen

leapt to the side and sprinted away. Behind her the other bloodtrackers
were silent, but she knew they would follow to see the challenge
played out.
Prelen grabbed a low branch and vaulted up toward the forest
canopy. She climbed higher, and Mysha followed, leaping from
branch to branch.
“One chance, Prel,” Mysha’s called out. “Kneel before me, and I
won’t cut your throat.”
Leaves parted silently before Prelen and she saw her sister directly
below, standing on a thick branch. Prelen took a deep breath and
drew the Wurm’s power into herself. The marshy forest around her
became sharper, colors gaining vivid focus. She smelled the deep,
farrow-like scent again. Mysha hadn’t seen her, and she raised her
javelin and threw it with all the strength she could summon.
Mysha whirled around and caught the javelin in mid-flight, then
leaped at Prelen. The move caught the smaller Tharn off guard, and
she jumped back and let herself fall. She struck her arm and shoulder
hard on lower branches before arresting her fall on one near the
ground.
A javelin thudded into the trunk beside Prelen’s head. Above,
Mysha held another javelin. Prelen dropped to the ground and
sprinted away before her sister could throw the missile. Mysha was
stronger and faster. Prelen had to change the contest.
Ignoring the instinctual urge to turn and fight, Prelen slowed
her run to scan the forest, looking for signs. The farrow had been
hunting something big. The ground was muddy beneath her feet.
Ahead she saw a tree trunk where large pieces of bark had been torn
away, as if by enormous horns or claws. Prelen smiled and ran faster,
following the trail marked on the trees.
She had lost sight of Mysha and was not surprised when her sister

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 BLOOD SISTERS • OREN ASHKENAZI

exploded out of the underbrush ahead of her, claws raking the air.
Prelen parried the blow, then leaped away and ran. Mysha’s footsteps
were close behind her.
Ahead the marshy undergrowth grew thicker, thorns and brambles
pressing in. The swamp’s odor grew stronger too, but Prelen could
detect a strong sour scent beneath that, the smell she had been
looking for. She ran faster, springing over a patch of black earth that
slowly rose and fell.
Mysha followed, stepping onto the black patch. Her eyes grew
wide as she felt coarse fur beneath her feet. The ground shuddered
and then exploded upward in a spray of muck and branches,
knocking Mysha to the ground. With a squealing roar, the great boar
rose from its wallow, a hulking porcine beast twice the height of the
Tharn. Its misshapen head was armed with long tusks that ended in
razor points.
Prelen climbed back up into the trees, turning to see Mysha get
to her feet and dodge backward, away from the great boar’s fist. Her
sister drew and flung a javelin in one smooth motion, sinking it deep
into the boar’s thick flesh. It grunted but did not slow, and whipped
its head from side to side, catching Mysha with a glancing blow from
one of its tusks. Blood ran down Mysha’s side, and she nearly fell.
The other bloodtrackers were gathering in the trees around Prelen.
She knew none would help Mysha. The Devourer Wurm did not
tolerate weakness of any kind. Her sister had missed the heavy nets,
the bare trees, and the boar’s strong scent. Now she would suffer the
consequences.
Mysha was slowing, barely avoiding the boar’s attacks. Then a
solid blow sent her sprawling. It would soon be over.
It was now time for Prelen to act. She drew a javelin and dropped
down directly behind the great boar, took careful aim, and threw.
The javelin skipped off the great boar’s skull, leaving a jagged wound

16
 BLOOD SISTERS • OREN ASHKENAZI

above its eyes. It rounded on Prelen, loosing another squealing roar.

Blood ran into its eyes, but, heedless of the injury, the boar lowered its
head and charged. Prelen stepped aside, easily avoiding the blinded
creature, and let it crash away through the underbrush.
She waited a moment to make sure the boar was gone and then
went to her sister. Mysha looked up, her face impassive. “Be quick,”
she said.
Prelen shook her head. “You still don’t think. I would not kill
my strongest hunter.” She reached down and hauled Mysha to her
feet. Her sister said nothing but inclined her head. It was all the
acknowledgement Prelen or the other bloodtrackers gathered around
them needed.
The sound of the great boar rampaging through the forest became
louder; it was heading toward the Tharn. “Come,” Prelen said and
raised a javelin. “The Beast of All Shapes has given us mighty prey
to hunt.”

17
 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Oren Ashkenazi
Oren is a Privateer Press employee and an aspiring writer. He
endeavors to play WARMACHINE, though his friends will attest
that he does not play it very well. Khador is his faction of choice,
and he has always loved the Man-O-War heavy infantry, because
few things are cooler than steam-powered armor that can cook
the wearer alive if something goes wrong. His previous work is
made up primarily of short stories, and he once wrote a radio
play, which he considers to be something of an accomplishment
in the 21st century.

Chris A. Jackson
A sailing writer, or a writing sailor (he’s still not sure which), Chris
A. Jackson is living his dream. Sailing full time since 2009, he and
his wife are dividing their time between cruising the Caribbean and
writing fantasy. Writing nautical fantasy came naturally to him, and
his Scimitar Seas novels have won multiple awards; additionally, his
debut Pathfinder Tales novel, Pirate’s Honor, received high praise.
His other works have earned an incredible fan following as well: the
Weapon of Flesh Trilogy has become a Kindle bestseller, spurring
international interest in the author’s work. Blood & Iron is his first
work for Privateer Press.
 William Shick
William Shick is the Director of Business for Privateer Press, who,
in addition to his regular job responsibilities, has the good fortune
to contribute fiction to the world of the Iron Kingdoms. Married
with two young sons, he spends his time at home with aliens,
monsters, police officers, robots, and more, all converging on the
living room floor in high adventures befitting the most epic of
summer blockbusters never able to be told.

When not writing about the characters, warjacks, and dangers of

the Iron Kingdoms or saving the world from the living room floor,
William spends his free time routinely adding to his ever-growing
collection of WARMACHINE and HORDES miniatures, playing
board games, and enjoying a nice dirty martini in the company of
his loving wife.
Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season Two, Volume Five
Copyright © 2015 Privateer Press

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First electronic printing: May 29th, 2015

ISBN: 978-1-939480-96-5

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