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Who is the Hermit of Henge Hold, the narrator of these events? He is a mad Iosan prophet who has seen many possible futures for the Iron Kingdoms, many of them foretelling the end of the lands. The things that he sees are invaluable to every king, queen, ruler, or invader of the Iron Kingdoms. As he has traveled the land, spreading word of his prophecies, many kingdoms have received him, whether they accepted his visions or not, and now the time is at had when the truth of his words will be revealed.
The question at hand is simple: will anyone live to validate what he foretold?
***
They call me mad. But look upon the visions I have seen and try to hold your sanity intact. I alone know the shrouded secrets of the past that have given way to the darkness gripping this world. And I alone have glimpsed the possible futures, few of which include the survival of our world and none that escape the carnage and misery that will scar it forever. I am the Hermit of Henge Hold, and in these scrolls I shall chronicle the last days of the Iron Kingdoms as we know it.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Ashlynn d’Elyse—now known across free Llael as The Queen’s Blade—retreated to the privacy of her chambers within Merywyn’s palace, and she wept.
Her country had barely begun to pick up the pieces of the grueling war and occupation by Khador before the infernals struck. The coronation of Llael’s new queen, Kaetlyn de la Martyn—a day for which Ashlynn had prayed since before Khador’s invasion—was forced to be conducted in hiding while the screams of her countrymen could be heard outside as their souls were ripped from their bodies.
And she had been powerless to act. Only the queen herself could have stayed her sword that day, but it was her wish that Ashlynn be sworn in and officially decreed the highest military authority in the land.
Since then, she could find no reprieve from the stench of those hellish nightmares. Their black blood soaked her boots and coated her blade as she led Merywyn’s armies in the ongoing effort to rebuff the demons seeking their souls.
But for every nightmare she vanquished, two more would take its place. And for every soul she saved, ten would be stolen from under her ward. For the moment, she would mourn their loss while struggling not to consider their fate beyond this world.
And when the demons came again, by Morrow’s light, they would have their heads, hearts, and entrails liberated from their vile forms by The Queen’s Blade.
***
Though it was the souls of humans the infernals prized, they let nothing deprive them of what they were due. Rhulfolk, Iosan, Trollblood, even Skorne—all would pay the price of Thamar’s sin unless ancient grievances could be buried.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
The Oracle Calandra Truthsayer watched black clouds drift toward her home. The mad hermit had warned them of the coming locusts, of the devastation they would bring. The warning had troubled her then. Now, she was afraid.
The gathering darkness above blew from the pyres of human cities. Untold numbers of dead, great plazas: all that lay in the path of these creatures was rendered to ash and ruin. Dhunia herself writhed under their touch, wounded deeper than even by the jaws of the Wurm.
She felt the mother’s pain in her flesh. A sadness took root in her soul, fed by faces of grim human refugees and urban kriels fleeing the locusts’ advance. Once, her people had been displaced to seek refuge. Under this regime of darkness, it seemed all sought safety.
“So many seek the United Kriels’ strength,” Calandra said to her daughter but truly to herself.
“They were happy to let the kin struggle. They reap their own harvest.” The other members of her daughter’s knot made sounds of agreement, praising her insight.
“How does the tree grow, Daughter?” Calandra asked. “Can it grow upon bare stones?”
“No, Mother.”
“What feeds it?”
“The soil, made richer from plants that have given up their lives. The rain that quenches its thirst.”
Calandra nodded at her. “And when the wind blows?”
“The boughs of its brothers and sisters shield it?” Calandra’s daughter asked suspiciously.
“A lone tree must face the storm with its own roots.” Calandra knitted her fingers before her face. “But together, their roots embrace to grip the soil, to hold each other fast.”
The sisters of the knot mused on her words.
“The forest of men is aflame, Daughter,” Calandra said. “It thins with each day.”
“What do you propose?” her daughter asked.
“Grab the roots tight and hold against the storm,” the Oracle said.
***
While the peoples of the wild learned the importance of unity, the nations of humankind made similar efforts. But their way was yet cloaked in veiled threats, in displays of power of human arrogance that slowed such labors.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
It had taken the Supreme Kommandant and his retinue nearly three weeks to return to Korsk. The dirigible had barely made it over the Thornwood before they were forced to continue on foot. Pursued by Cygnaran Rangers and Crucible Guard, their survival had been hard won.
Irusk recalled staring up at the towering black walls of Stasikov Palace where the empress awaited his audience and wishing for nothing more than that he could have traded places with Kommander Strakhov aboard the Storm Breaker.
Now, many months later as he approached the smoldering city of Caspia, he wondered if Strakhov’s soul were any safer than Irusk’s own, locked in a Cygnaran prison, or if the infernals that had devastated this unconquerable city had claimed it already.
***
While mortals sought unity, the grasping tendrils of infernal corruption spread across the land like a foul wind. No city or village in Immoren escaped their greedy touch.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Ashlynn did not look up when the nobleman Moler entered the meeting chamber. She already knew at he would say, and she would have preferred to never hear it.
“They are within our walls,” Moler said.
“How can you be sure?” Ashlynn said.
“The 122 bodies in the wine cellars.”
Despite Ashlynn’s recent military promotion, Moler did not mince words with her. When he spoke, rank meant nothing between them.
“These things can’t be killed,” Moler said. “They can’t be wounded. They can’t be beaten. Free Llael is already done being free.”
Ashlynn stiffened. “So, what would you have us do in the face of this new threat?”
Moler shrugged. “Seek allies, flee the Iron Kingdoms, or die. If we hesitate, these things will choose for us.”
“They will not. The queen chooses.” Ashlynn touched her blade. “I choose.”
***
Tense words shared over sheathed blades can help to build common ground, but only humility can bridge such great gulfs. North and south worked to combine their strength as a spurned youth dreamed of reunification.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Julius looked north, imagining the flag of Llael fluttering from every battlement. There are not many kings, he thought, who could claim to lose a queen and a sizeable portion of their kingdoms in as short a time as he had.
“Midwinter will pay for his betrayal,” said Julius’ warmaster at his side.
The young king turned to face him. “Do you suppose Kaetlyn is safe?”
The warmaster scowled. “What that little bird does now should not concern you. She’s as much a traitor as Midwinter.”
“Just smarter than we credited her,” Julius said. Like Midwinter, Kaetlyn had an agenda of her own; Julius had built the bridge to reach it. “And now is not the time to turn away friends. We need every ally we can hold.”
The thought stung. The infernal attack on Caspia was still raw, bloody. It had left scars so deep Julius was still discovering them.
“What do you propose, majesty?” the warmaster asked.
“Unity. Survival.” Julius lowered his voice. “No matter the cost.”
***
War is no stranger in the Iron Kingdoms. Its name is inscribed a thousand times over on every stone. But steel cannot fight shadow. As the infernals claimed their due, cities crumbled and thousands of lights went dark.
A few noble souls held up a torch of hope, offering everything they had or ever would have to drive back the darkness. Such champions often faced opposition from unexpected corners, even those whom they held dear.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
The great temple buzzed with activity, a vast beehive made of gleaming steel. Servitors and ascended priests housed in spidery vessels crawled over a looming arch covered in crackling nodes. Iron Mother Directrix observed them, basking in their unity.
Her peace shattered when the entrance far overhead spiraled open. Aurora glided down the enormous chamber on humming metal wings to land gracefully at Iron Mother’s back. The girl was a flat note in the symphony, impossible to ignore.
“Is your foolishness at its end?” Iron Mother did not turn from the fabrication of the celestial gate.
“Hardly,” Aurora sniped. Her tone was sharp, victorious. “I went looking for him. Right now, he’s clinging to a life he almost lost fighting the invaders. His efforts are—”
“Sentimentality. But useful. The gate nears its completion, and his actions provide an adequate distraction,” Iron Mother said. “Cyriss’ arrival will render the invaders inconsequential.”
Aurora moved to impede her mother’s view.
“While you hide here, Mother, the world beyond the temple dies.”
Iron Mother brushed her daughter aside. “This world dies so the Maiden of Gears may remake it. Time is at hand for all things to ascend.”
“Time we no longer have.”
Iron Mother regarded Aurora, hurt and desperation written on Aurora’s face. The friction between them was a pair of gears that could never fully mesh.
She relented.
“Your new frame awaits. Take it. Find him. Perhaps he’ll listen…” She weighed her next words. “…to his daughter.”
Calculated words that could not be retracted. Sebastian Nemo had refused her offer of transcendence. Sending off Aurora, she hoped to make him reconsider—and free herself from a troublesome young woman while her great work reached its completion.
***
Many tried to account for the souls that had been claimed by the infernals, but the toll was beyond any mortal ability to reckon. In the horrors that plague my mind, however, I can tell you they numbered in the scores of thousands before the old rivalries were put aside and tribes took up arms together.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Gurvaldt Irusk had long ago, it seemed now, knelt before his empress and her sorcerer-consort. Both held their faces as masks, though the Supreme Kommandant could sense the displeasure concealed beneath. They were a pair of majestic statues clad in Khador’s colors.
“After your last reprimand, I did not think another was required,” the empress had said at long last. Her voice echoed through the chamber, words vanishing among the gathered throng of silent onlookers. Irusk wondered if they were there to witness his death.
“Nor I, Empress,” Irusk said. He did not bother with false bravado or humility. Neither would afford him much.
“Yet once again, here you are, having failed your empress and your nation,” she said.
His eyes moved to the shape at her left hand. It loomed in the shadows.
That’s where he’s gone, Irusk thought.
Though rumors flew freely, there were no confirmed reports of the Butcher of Khardov fighting in Llael. The Supreme Kommandant had hoped him dead. Yet here he stood, panting like a hound straining at its leash. Light caught the edge of the large man’s axe.
The Butcher’s body bore fresh scars, his armor in despicable shape. He looked like a man who’d swam an ocean of enemy blades to look down on Irusk today. The mad, raving hound of Khador. The bloodied butcher of men. What little light was once in his eyes had fled forever.
“I once denied you death,” the empress said, “hoping you would yet prove useful to our empire. Was I mistaken?”
Irusk locked eyes with her murderer instead of the empress. “Perhaps.”
She continued. “The blade that fails to cut once can be sharpened. If it fails again…”
The empress’ hand traced a line along the Butcher’s obscene axe head. “If it fails again, you look for a better, sharper one.”
“My Empress,” Irusk said, “I live at your mercy. I die at your command.”
Her finger left the axe with a sharp ring that echoed as clear as her voice. Empress Ayn Vanar rose from her seat, walked to Irusk, the Butcher close behind her.
“Rise, Supreme Kommandant,” she said. “You are used to speaking with the southerners. You will go to them and meet with their boy-king as my emissary. Do not disappoint me.”
Irusk bowed to her. “Of course, my Empress.”
She motioned to the Butcher. “I tire of sharpening blades, Irusk. Why should I bother, when I have one so keen at my disposal?”
The Butcher’s face twisted, the silent snarl of a rabid dog.
***
New enemies require old enmities to sleep, and so strength came into the west from those who were once abandoned. Marching across the blasted land from their new home to fight for their old one, the strength of Dhunia arrived. A trollkin’s might is unarguable. A troll’s ferocity incontestable. When they first came, fear transformed into a faint glimmer of hope. But would even their strength be enough to turn the tide?
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Tension crackled as the grim-faced trollkin approached the gathering. Soot-streaked and tired from the march, they passed through a courtyard packed with Trenchers and Winter Guard, who warily looked on.
Gunnbjorn signaled the halt. In flawless Cygnaran, he said, “I seek an audience.”
Soldiers parted to let a familiar man through the crowd. A prince, a king, a counselor, and a betrayer. Leto. Gunnbjorn had to resist the urge to salute. Old instincts, hard to suppress. If Leto recognized him, he did not show it. “I am High Chancellor—”
“Yes,” Gunnbjorn said. “Our messenger said you prepared for our arrival.”
“The war council is already meeting.” Leto took in the trollkin force, notably the full-blooded trolls. He looked disheartened. “Your Oracle’s message suggested there would be more. This is, what, a hundred?”
Gunnbjorn couldn’t hide his grim smile. “Just the ones I let into the fort.”
At his signal, one of his fell callers bellowed, a giant sound that boomed against the fort walls. Beyond the fort, another fell caller answered. And another. Soon the voices of trollkin, the cries of pygs, and the rumble of dire trolls filled the air, threatened to split the sky. He savored the surprise on Leto’s face.
“The Army of the United Kriels stands with you,” he said.
***
Only bits of the world pierced the veil of his coma. Muffled voices, like soft whispers in a far-off room. The gentle touch of his caretakers on his numbed skin. All else was darkness.
Sebastian Nemo lingered in that place between waking and death. He dreamed, but they were fractured visions that became smoke when he drew close to grasping them. Old friends, old loves, all long past.
His mind was his greatest gift, greater even than his warcaster ability. But in this void, this nowhere-place, he could feel the walls of darkness drawing in around it. His body of flesh was an anchor. It drew him deeper each day. Time meant nothing. Days or hours, all the same in such a place. The only measurement he had was the slow creep of that impermeable shadow, as his mind softened and weakened in his state. It was a prison that grew smaller each time he tested its bounds.
In his maddening prison of unmoving meat, Nemo sensed muffled voices. He felt a gentle touch on his skin. A familiar scent fired off in the deep parts of his mind, yellow-white explosions of memory that rose in the mire of his coma.
Movement, distant and strange, rocking him in his prison. Cycles of cold and warmth moving over him, where that familiar aroma became brassy and hot as it met the touch of…fire? The sun? It was the odor of late summer nights spent over lengthy books. The smell of her.
Impossible. Everything about her, every lovely and familiar mote, had been discarded. Forgotten. Left to rot unmarked in some forgotten place. Yet still her scent clung to him, pulled at him, pleaded for him to open his shuttered eyes once more.
She was in his dreams more often, calling to him from beyond the crushing walls of his constricting mind. She begged him to wake. She shouted at him in her distant voice that time was running out. She began to hurt him. Not the heartache from before, but a sharp, biting pain.
If he had a voice, he would have told her to stop. Her words lanced through his flesh. Like scalpels, they cut through the cotton that muffled his numbed skin; like surgical tweezers, they plucked the wads that stuffed his unhearing ears.
He felt pain. He heard the snarling snap of lightning, smelled the scent of roasting flesh.
With a scream of pain, Nemo’s eyes ripped open. A voice cried, “He’s up. Back away!”
He looked up at a beautiful face. Her face, not cold and iron, but warm flesh. Tears rose in her eyes.
“Impossible,” he managed to say, body still sharp with static from the current they must have used. His swimming vision resolved into the shape of Aurora, Numen of the Convergence.
She broke into a relieved smile.
“Welcome back… Father.”
***
Irusk wondering how many of the soldiers pointing guns at him had lost friends at his order. He did not find the question comforting.
A timid Cygnaran approached, stumbling into the perimeter of the camp Irusk had erected.
“My king has sent me to consider your surrender.” The man’s eyes drifted to Irusk’s sword lying unsheathed on the table.
“Empress Ayn Vanar has commanded me to offer myself into Cygnaran hands,” Irusk said, handing the toady a parcel sealed with the imperial signet.
The envoy’s eyes bulged. “Under what conditions?”
“The empress fears for the security of our homeland and wishes to surround herself—” Irusk swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “—with her most capable soldiers.”
The Cygnaran’s face furrowed. “Meaning?”
“I remain here,” Irusk said, “to face whatever justice your king deems worthy. In return, you liberate Kommander Strakhov to rejoin the homeland.”
The line of Cygnarans beyond his modest camp balked. Some began to murmur.
“One of you, deliver this to the king,” the envoy shouted at the soldiers, holding aloft the empress’ missive. “See he gets it at once.”
“What about ’im?” a soldier asked, pointing with his rifle.
“Shoot him,” another shouted.
The Cygnaran envoy licked his teeth, considering the words. “No. A bullet would never do for the Supreme Kommandant.”
Irusk kept his face emotionless as the timid Cygnaran, finding his vigor, reached for the hilt of Endgame.
“It is tradition to die by the blade,” he said.
***
War is an unjust thing. Often, it returns its anguish on those who have already suffered at its sting. So it was in Llael, which barely tasted the sweetness of freedom before new enemies sought to enslave it.
—Hermit of Henge Hold