On a Black Tide: A Rites of Passage Preview a... · the Iron Kingdoms: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. It was not long before ancient rivalries ignited between these new nations

A RITES OF PASSAGE PREVIEW

Cover by

TODD HARRIS

AERYN RUDEL

ON A BLACK TIDE

http://www.privateerpress.com

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WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

The 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

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on a black tide: a rites of passage preview

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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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

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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!

PART I

Blackwater, Late Summer, 605 AR

Aiakos watched the Scythe limp into port like a great, wounded beast. The thick ironwood planks of its hull were shot through in many places, and the ship sat low—too low—in the water. Its main mast was gone; only a cracked six-foot stub remained where the massive beam had once stood proud and straight. Rigging and torn sails lay in a tangled snarl on the decks. The ropes had soaked up blood leaking from dozens of broken bodies, turning them pink so they looked like great heaps of intestines. The paddle wheel and the steam engines that powered it were intact; otherwise, Aiakos surmised, the Scythe would be at the bottom of the Meredius.

“That’s Bloodbrine’s ship,” Dasko said, pointing his dirk at the lumbering pirate galleon. “Shot to hell and gone, looks like.”

Aiakos nodded. “Just like Baros said. He’s headed for our pier.” He took a few steps down the pier as the Scythe came to a stop and the few men on her deck cast hawsers to waiting sailors on the pier. Once the ship was moored, its surviving crew began to shuffle down the gangplank. Every one of them bore some injury, mostly deep cuts and bullet wounds, the mark of pistol and cutlass.

“That he is,” Dasko said. “Baros had good information. That’ll earn him a few more coins.”

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Aiakos glanced back at the gang leader, who was now worrying a bit of meat from his teeth with the point of his knife. Behind Dasko twenty of their best lads waited, clubs and knives in hand. He and Dasko had run the Quay Slayers for the last five years. They’d both joined the gang as a means of survival. Aiakos had been forced onto the brutal streets of Blackwater at eleven, Dasko at twelve. This was the way of things in Cryx. Once a child was deemed old enough, he was forced to fend for himself. The only real way to avoid death was to join one of the countless street gangs and learn to be as vicious and cruel as everything else in Blackwater.

What remained of the Scythe’s crew had now disembarked, and the captain himself, Grivus Bloodbrine, was making his way down the gangplank. Captain Bloodbrine was tall, gaunt, and hollow-cheeked. His clothes, although of fine make, were spattered with blood and scorched, and he cradled one arm against his chest, bloody bandages shrouding the limb completely.

Aiakos made his way down the pier, pushing through the line of injured sailors leaving the Scythe. Bloodbrine saw him coming and put his good hand on the heavy pistol shoved into his belt. This was how most people greeted Aiakos—with suspicion and an expectation of violence. Aiakos was large and strong, and he’d earned a reputation as a formidable fighter: relentless, uncompromising, and brutally skilled. He approached the captain slowly, his own weapons—a whaler’s harpoon balanced over one shoulder and a long flensing knife at his hip—at the ready but not overtly so.

“And who might you be?” Captain Bloodbrine called out. “I am Aiakos, second in the Quay Slayers. You’re moored on our

pier, Captain.”Bloodbrine smiled. “Is that so?”“It is,” Aiakos said. “But your ship is in bad shape, so we’re

willing to let you remain here and offer you our protection.”

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“What would I need protecting from?” Bloodbrine asked, tapping the butt of his pistol with one finger. Behind the captain another member of his crew had come down the gangplank. She wore close-fitting leathers and carried a brace of pistols across her chest. She held a gaff pole in both hands, its blade hooked and gleaming. Unlike the other members of the Scythe’s crew, this woman bore only superficial signs of combat—torn clothing and a few scrapes. The fact that she was uninjured meant either she’d avoided the fighting or she was very good at it. By the way she carried herself, Aiakos assumed the latter.

“Aiakos here says we’re on his pier, Nyra,” Bloodbrine said as the woman came up beside him. “What do you think of that?”

Nyra stared at Aiakos with cold, appraising eyes, her plain face unreadable. “Pay him what he wants. Someone has to watch the ship while repairs are made,” she said simply, then pushed past Aiakos.

“My first mate says pay you,” Bloodbrine said. He smiled sourly. “But what if I’ve got twenty fighters waiting in the hold to protect what’s mine?”

Aiakos glanced up at the decks of the Scythe and quickly counted thirty bodies; there were likely more in the hold. Bloodbrine was in a bad position and vulnerable. The pirate captains were certainly a notch up on the food chain over the street gangs, but any wounded beast was likely to attract scavengers. Aiakos took the risk, weighing his words carefully to imply the threat. “You don’t, or some of them would be with you now. We’ll make sure the shipwrights do their work without interruption while you fill out your crew.”

Bloodbrine grimaced and then spat. He knew his vulnerability was obvious, and in Blackwater that meant he was prey. “How much?”

“Twenty gold crowns a day,” Aiakos replied. “I’ll take today’s payment now.” He held out his hand.

Bloodbrine shook his head and dug into one of the pouches hanging from his belt. He pulled out a handful of gold coins and

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shoved them at Aiakos, who dropped them into his own pouch. “Good,” Aiakos said. “Have someone here with the next payment

tomorrow at the same time.” “Do you think you could keep them off the ship?” Bloodbrine

nodded at something over Aiakos’ right shoulder. He turned and saw a trio of awful figures moving down the pier. The necrotechs were bulbous, fleshy things upon a tangle of metal spider-like legs. They moved toward the Scythe, a small mob of shambling thralls in their wake. The undead masters of necromechanika were always on the lookout for fresh supplies. Word had obviously reached them that the Scythe was, for the moment, a floating abattoir.

Aiakos suppressed a shudder as the necrotechs approached. The undead were part of everyday life in Blackwater, but most of the living tried to stay out of their way lest they, too, be considered raw materials for the flesh foundries. Some in Blackwater saw undeath as a way to accumulate power and rise in station; certainly the armies and navies of Cryx contained powerful undead, not to mention the almost god-like power of the lich lords who controlled everything. To Aiakos, though, the thought of surrendering breath and blood for the cold eternity of undeath was abhorrent. Worse yet was that many were thrust upon that path unwillingly, robbed of their free will to serve as mindless and disposable cannon fodder.

“No,” Aiakos said and stepped out the way of the necrotechs and their thrall servitors. The rotten stink of their passing made his eyes water and his gorge rise. “They always take what they want.”

Bloodbrine watched the necrotechs clamber aboard his ship, their spidery legs making a dull metallic clacking noise as they scuttled across the main deck. “The shipwrights will be here tomorrow, after they’ve”—he jerked his head toward his ship—“taken what they want.”

Thralls had already begun to drag the dead from the Scythe, leaving

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bloody smears across the pier. Many of the corpses were in various states of dismemberment, as the necrotechs cut away the burnt and mangled pieces, leaving the choicest bits intact.

Aiakos nodded, then turned and walked back to Dasko. Bloodbrine remained, watching the necrotechs with a scowl. Aiakos felt a twinge of sympathy for the captain, a well-known and powerful pirate now forced to stand by and watch the real power in Blackwater take what it wanted from him.

“What did he say?” Dasko said as Aiakos approached. “He agreed. Twenty per day,” Aiakos replied. Dasko smiled and rubbed his hands together. “The lads were

hoping for a bit of sport, but I’d just as soon have the money without a fuss. Hand it over.”

Aiakos dug the coins from his pouch, counted out his cut, and passed the rest to Dasko without a word.

“We talked to a few of Bloodbrine’s men as they passed,” Dasko said. “He’ll be looking for replacements. They’re gathering at the Black Hold. Should be quite a spectacle.”

Aiakos nodded. Pirate captains looking to replace men lost in battle often announced their intentions and gathered potential recruits into one of the many fighting pits around Blackwater. There, the poor and desperate would fight one another, sometimes to the death, for a chance at a life at sea. Crewing a pirate vessel was not exactly easy work, but the chance to get off Blackwater and at least have the opportunity to amass wealth and prestige was often considered enough to die for.

Aiakos was no stranger to the fighting pits. He fought regularly, both to earn extra coin and to keep his battle skills honed. His many victories only enhanced his reputation among the Quay Slayers and the rival gangs they often battled.

“I’ll meet you there,” Aiakos said and walked past Dasko. He

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turned and looked at the Scythe. The ship was swarming with activity as more thralls arrived to cart away the dead. Beyond the ship was the Meredius, its waters stretching to the horizon in a flat, grey expanse. To Aiakos the sea looked like a blank slate, pure and filled with untold possibilities. He turned back to Blackwater, grimaced, and pressed on.

The Black Hold was packed with bodies and filled with the stink of sweat and cheap grog. The Hold was one of the largest and oldest arenas in Blackwater, and it sat below the squalor of the city in a massive natural cavern. Its fighting pit was also quite large: eighty feet long and forty feet wide.

“Look at those idiots,” Dasko said beside Aiakos. They’d pushed their way to the front, ten feet from the edge of the pit, and were looking down at some fifty men and women armed with an assortment of makeshift weapons. Real weapons weren’t allowed, so the combatants held clubs, belaying pins, even boat oars. “Half are like to get beaten to death, and the other half won’t last a month aboard Bloodbrine’s ship. Viger and Baros are down there with them. Bloody fools.”

Aiakos’ brows rose at the mention of two of the Quay Slayers’ better fighters. He quickly scanned the pit and found both. Over seven feet tall, Baros stood out like out a greatsword among daggers. Viger—small, rat-faced, and very, very fast—stood beside him. It was obvious the two planned to fight together rather than against one another. Baros gripped a boat oar, a suitable replacement for the heavy maul he normally carried in combat. Viger had replaced his twin cutlasses for a pair of belaying pins of roughly the same size and weight as his swords.

“They’ll be difficult to replace,” Dasko said. “Baros especially. For all his strength and size, he’s a smart son-of-a-whore.”

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Aiakos looked across the pit to where the owner of the Black Hold, Halder Morrid, stood with Captain Bloodbrine and his first mate. Halder was a veteran pirate who had also survived a stint in the Cryxian Navy. He was old now, but still ruthless and deadly. Halder’s guards, six hulking black ogrun, stood around their employer and his guests, keeping the rabble at bay with clubs and drawn daggers.

“You all know why you are here,” Halder called out, his deep, scratching voice rising over the din of the crowd. The Black Hold quieted and a crackle of electric anticipation ran through the throng of cutthroats and gutter rats. The men and women in the pit looked up at Halder, and Aiakos could almost smell the fear rising from the arena floor. “So I’ll turn this over to Captain Bloodbrine, and he’ll fill you on the necessaries.”

All eyes were now on the tall pirate captain, and the only movement in the crowd was the bet takers gathering their slips and hurrying to turn them in. These recruitment fights were intensely popular in Blackwater, not just among those hoping to earn their place on a pirate crew but to a veritable sea of moneylenders that stood to make a profit on the rampant betting that sprung up around them.

“I need twenty fighters,” Bloodbrine said. “I’m not looking for sailors. Most of you lot don’t know port from pox anyway. I need men who know their way around knife, sword, and pistol. If that’s you”—he grinned, revealing straight yellow teeth—“show me!”

There was silence for a moment, and Aiakos felt the adrenaline thrill of impending battle crash through him and everyone standing in the Hold. As he thought it might, the fighting began with Baros and Viger. No one in the fighting pit was a stranger to violence, but none was as intimately familiar with it as the two Quay Slayers.

Boras, seven feet of muscle and callous, held a twelve-pound boat oar fully eight feet long. The thing was far too heavy to be used as a weapon by most, but Boras swung it like it was made of paper and

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glue. Seconds after Bloodbrine’s announcement, the massive ganger turned, brought his oar up in a two-handed grip, and cracked the skull of a swarthy Scharde standing behind him. Every set of eyes in the Hold watched the Scharde’s body fall. Then the entire pit erupted into a sea of violence.

“Hah!” Dasko cheered. “Not exactly subtle, our Baros.” Aiakos said nothing but watched intently as Baros and Viger

began carving their way through the tangle of cutthroats and ruffians, shattering limbs and cracking skulls. They had a good system. Baros swung his oar in a wide arc, dropping men like slaughtered cattle, while Viger waited patiently beside him. Any man that made it past Baros’ reach found himself facing Viger’s twin clubs.

Aiakos turned his attention to Bloodbrine. The captain and his first mate were standing very close to one another, talking intently. Bloodbrine pointed and nodded, and Aiakos knew instantly what he was pointing at. Baros and Viger were making a strong case to join Bloodbrine’s crew.

”Those two,” the captain called out. “Tall one and two sticks!” In response, two burly black ogrun armed with shields and boarding axes hopped down into the arena and began making their way toward Baros and Viger, likely to escort the first of Bloodbrine’s chosen from the melee.

The crowd was getting wilder as combatants fell stunned, unconscious, and in a few cases quite dead. Cheers and catcalls filled the Hold, and the bet takers wove through the packed bodies like a score of hungry rats. A few more fighters were chosen by Bloodbrine and escorted from the pit by the Hold’s ogrun.

Watching the battle filled Aiakos with a sensation he hadn’t felt in years. Excitement, surely—battle always brought his blood up—but there was something else. The promise of what he’d been lacking among the Quay Slayers. He’d been second-in-command of the gang

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for years, but in recent months he had resented it, and Dasko’s orders, more and more. Had Dasko done anything to deserve his respect, it might have been different. He had begun to think about killing Dasko and taking control. The main reason he hadn’t yet was that there was no challenge to it, and once he was in control it wouldn’t matter. He’d become the leader of the Quay Slayers, but nothing would really change. Even the lowest pirate raider had a freedom no gang leader could boast, to steal a life for themselves, as much as their ambition, cunning, and strength allowed. What he saw below was opportunity. He saw a way forward.

Aiakos’ hands balled into fists at his side. He carried only a dagger on his belt, but that could be remedied. He glanced around and saw what he was looking for—a man standing at the edge of the pit had a saber sheathed at his hip. The man wore the red sash and green leathers of another prominent gang in Blackwater, the Blight Knives. The ganger was intent on the fighting below and oblivious to Aiakos as he pushed through the crowd behind him. Aiakos slid up behind the man and pushed his dagger into the man’s kidneys with his left hand as he yanked his victim’s saber from its scabbard with his right. The man turned, eyes wide with pain and fear as he wrenched Aiakos’ dagger free in a spurt of crimson. Aiakos lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the man backward, over the edge of the pit. He followed, leaping over the edge and onto the sand below. Aiakos landed, cat-like, in a crouch. His victim had fallen badly. The man lay on his stomach, his neck turned at ghoulish angle.

A ragged cheer went up from the crowd behind Aiakos. What he’d done was unexpected and vicious—always popular in Blackwater.

“What in Toruk’s name are you doing?!” a shout rose over the din, and Aiakos looked back to see Dasko standing at the edge of the pit, his face filled with mixture of rage and shock.

“What I should have done years ago!” Aiakos shouted back. He

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turned away from the leader of the Quay Slayers. He won’t retain that title for long. It was Aiakos that had kept Dasko in power; the gang leader would find a knife in his guts before the week was over.

He’d landed in a place where the fighting was thin; most of it was across the pit, directly beneath where Bloodbrine stood. Aiakos raced forward, largely ignoring the small knots of combatants in his path. He was armed with real weapons. They weren’t, and most got out of his way. He was prepared to cut down any who didn’t. His targets were clear: Baros and Viger. They had been deemed worthy to join Bloodbrine’s crew; he would prove himself worthy by killing one or both of them.

The two former Quay Slayers were standing directly below Bloodbrine. The black ogrun escorts hadn’t reached them yet, and the other combatants were giving them a wide berth.

Viger saw Aiakos first, and the little man’s eyes went wide. He shouted something that was lost in the din, but Baros turned in Aiakos direction, bringing his oar around in front of him.

There was a man and a woman standing together outside the reach of Baros and Viger, obviously gauging their chances against the two. They stood in Aiakos’ path; despite his saber and dagger, they must have thought him an easier mark than Baros and Viger. They were both armed with belaying pins, but the woman, lank-haired and hard-featured, clutched a long gutting knife she must have hidden on her person. The crude weapons told Aiakos these two were likely fishermen with limited skill in battle. He was right.

The fisherman to the right lunged forward with his belaying pin in a clumsy overhand swing. Aiakos checked the blow with his saber, slammed a boot into the man’s knee, crushing the joint with a satisfying crunch of cartilage, then drove his dagger into the man’s throat as he folded forward over the shattered leg. He ripped his dagger free, letting the man fall to the sand and rushed the second

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fisherman, the woman with the knife, who was slowly backpedaling as she realized she was grossly overmatched. The woman wasn’t paying attention to what was behind her and had wandered into Baros’ reach. The oar coming down on the back of her skull made a hollow thump, and Aiakos was splattered with warm, red wetness.

He didn’t bother to wipe the blood from his face, and stepped forward over the twitching body of the fisherman. The fighting had slowed, and the area around Aiakos, Viger, and Baros had all but emptied. This was a fight no one wanted to miss.

“That’s cheating, brother,” Viger said, eying Aiakos’ saber and dagger even as he dropped his belaying pin and snatched the fisherman’s fallen knife to replace it. “There’s room for all three of us on the Scythe, I’m sure.”

Boras stood behind Viger, looming over him, the head of his massive oar dotted with clots of blood, hair, and bits of bone. The giant was silent, and he simply stared at Aiakos, his dark eyes intelligent and knowing.

“Maybe,” Aiakos said and glanced up to where Bloodbrine and his first mate were clearly watching them. Bloodbrine made a shooing motion with his right hand, and the black ogrun escorts who were approaching stopped some twenty feet from where Aiakos stood. “But I have to prove myself worthy of the Scythe, and we both know killing a fisherman isn’t enough.”

“And killing your brothers would be enough, I suppose,” Viger said with a frown. “I was hoping the three of us would board the Scythe together. But have it your way.” The little man’s right leg lashed out, kicking the sand and sending a plume of grit directly into Aiakos’ face.

Aiakos turned his head to keep the sand out of his eyes and cursed himself for getting too close. He heard Baros’ heavy footsteps as the man rushed toward him, and he dropped to his belly. The whoosh

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of the oar passing through the air above him said he’d made the right decision. He rolled forward, slamming his body into Baros’ knees. It was like rolling into a stone wall, but the big man staggered back, giving Aiakos time to spring to his feet.

Baros had already recovered; for all his size the man was quick. He drew his oar back over his head, obviously intending to smash aside Aiakos defenses with brute strength. Aiakos didn’t give him the chance. He flipped his dagger up into the air, caught it by the blade, and hurled it at Baros. He couldn’t miss such a large target from so close, but he got lucky and the dagger skewered Baros’ throat, the black hilt standing out from the giant ganger’s neck. The wound wasn’t immediately mortal—Aiakos had seen men survive worse—but any man with a knife in his throat is apt to lose his focus. Eyes wide, Baros let the oar fall to the sand and reached up to grab the dagger transfixing his windpipe.

Aiakos charged, saber leading. He slammed into Baros and rammed the point of his sword up and under the man’s rib cage, driving the blade thorough gut, lungs, and heart. As the blade went in, Baros drew in a choked, bubbling gasp and staggered backward. Aiakos yanked the blade free as Baros pulled away. He was still wary of Viger, although so far the smaller man had done nothing but watch.

Baros sank to his knees, one hand fumbling at the dagger in his throat and the other trying desperately to hold his guts in. He failed on both accounts and finally pitched over onto his back and lay still.

Aiakos approached Baros’ corpse slowly, watching Viger. The rat-faced man stood silently, ten paces away. Aiakos reached down and pulled his dagger free from Baros’ throat, flipping it up into a saber grip in his left hand. He then approached Viger.

“You got lucky with that dagger toss,” Viger said, bringing his club and knife up into a guard position, one held high and the other, low.

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“Baros would have splattered your brains across the sand otherwise.”“Maybe,” Aiakos conceded as he began to circle left, away from

the knife Viger held in his right hand. No two-sword fighter was equally skilled with both hands, and Aiakos knew Viger favored his right. “But you’ve been in this business long enough to know that luck’s as good as skill sometimes.”

“True. But luck won’t save you now. I’m better.” “Let’s see about that,” Aiakos said and charged. He made it three

steps before a single loud report split the air. The bullet kicked up dirt in front of him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“That’s enough!” Captain Bloodbrine called down and shoved his pistol back into his belt. “I need both you fools. Now climb out of there.”

Aiakos took a step back and lowered his weapons a fraction. Across from him Viger shrugged and did the same.

“Now to get out,” Viger said. Aiakos nodded, turned, and saw that the remaining men and

women in the pit were closing in, their faces pinched with fear and the hope of still being chosen. Taking down Aiakos or Viger would almost guarantee them a place on the Scythe. He wasn’t worried about Viger for the moment. Captain Bloodbrine had made his desires plain, and neither he nor Viger would jeopardize their position with a pointless duel.

Aiakos smiled. He hadn’t felt so filled with purpose in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to lose that feeling. He sprang forward, blades leading. There wasn’t enough flesh, blood, and steel on Caen to rob him of what he’d earned.

On a Black Tide: A Rites of Passage PreviewCopyright © 2014 Privateer Press

This book is printed under the copyright laws of the United States of America and retains all of the protections thereof. All Rights Reserved. All trademarks herein including Privateer Press®, Iron Kingdoms®, The Witchfire Trilogy, Monsternomicon, Five Fingers: Port of Deceit, Full Metal Fantasy, Immoren, WARMACHINE®, Forces of WARMACHINE, WARMACHINE High Command, Steam-Powered Miniatures Combat, Convergence of Cyriss, Convergence, Cryx, Cygnar, Khador, Protectorate of Menoth, Protectorate, Retribution of Scyrah, Retribution, warcaster, warjack, HORDES, Forces of HORDES, HORDES High Command, Monstrous Miniatures Combat, Circle Orboros, Circle, Legion of Everblight, Legion, Skorne, Trollbloods, Trollblood, warbeast, War Room, Lock & Load, Steamroller, Hardcore, Iron Gauntlet, No Quarter, Formula P3, Formula P3 Hobby Series, Bodgers, Heap, Infernal Contraption, Infernal Contraption 2: Sabotage!, Scrappers, Grind, Skull Island eXpeditions, SIX, Dogs of War, Exiles in Arms, Iron Kingdoms Excursions, The Warlock Sagas, The Warcaster Chronicles, and all associated logos and slogans are property of Privateer Press, Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form without written permission from Privateer Press. Duplicating any portion of the materials herein, unless specifically addressed within the work or by written permission from Privateer Press, is strictly prohibited. In the event that permissions are granted, such duplications shall be intended solely for personal, noncommercial use and must maintain all copyrights, trademarks, or other notices contained therein or preserve all marks associated thereof.

First electronic printing: February 28th, 2014

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On a Black Tide: A Rites of Passage Preview a... · the Iron Kingdoms: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. It was not long before ancient rivalries ignited between these new nations