Blackriverirregulars Blackcrowns PDF

BLACK CROWNS
IRON
THE
KINGDOMS
CHRONICLES
THE BLACK RIVER IRREGULARS II

BLACK CROWNS
RICHARD LEE BYERS
™
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of
the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Privateer Press, Inc.
All trademarks herein including Privateer Press®, Iron Kingdoms®, Full Metal
Fantasy, Immoren, WARMACHINE®, Steam-Powered Miniatures Combat,
Convergence of Cyriss®, Convergence, Cygnar®, Cryx®, Khador®, Protectorate of
Menoth®, Protectorate, Retribution of Scyrah®, Retribution, warcaster®, warjack®,
HORDES®, Circle Orboros®, Circle, Grymkin™, Legion of Everblight®, Legion,
Skorne®, Trollbloods®, Trollblood, warbeast, 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.
Published in the United States by Skull Island eXpeditions,

a division of Privateer Press, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-943693-65-8
Printed in the United States of America
www.privateerpress.com
www.skullislandx.com
facebook.com/skullislandexpeditions
First Paperback Edition
Book design by Richard Anderson

Cover illustration by Grzegorz Rutkowski
The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro
™
Dedication
For Jack and Marna

Acknowledgements
Thanks to Aeryn Rudel, my first editor at Privateer Press, and

Mike Ryan, my current one, for all their help.
— CONTENTS —
CHAPTER 1...................................................................................................1
CHAPTER 2.................................................................................................19
CHAPTER 3.................................................................................................29
CHAPTER 4.................................................................................................37
CHAPTER 5.................................................................................................49
CHAPTER 6.................................................................................................61
CHAPTER 7.................................................................................................79
CHAPTER 8.................................................................................................95
CHAPTER 9...............................................................................................105
CHAPTER 10..............................................................................................127
CHAPTER 11..............................................................................................145
CHAPTER 12..............................................................................................167
CHAPTER 13..............................................................................................187
CHAPTER 14..............................................................................................203
CHAPTER 15..............................................................................................223
CHAPTER 16..............................................................................................241
CHAPTER 17..............................................................................................255
CHAPTER 18..............................................................................................281
—1—
IT SEEMED TO MILO BOGGS THAT THERE were two kinds of people

in the streets of Leryn. The armored crusaders, priests, masked
and otherwise—scrutators was apparently the proper term for the
former—and certain members of the laity marched around with
a light in their eyes that bespoke fervor and common purpose. So
did their ringing greetings to one another: “Praise Menoth!” “May
the Lawgiver judge you worthy!” Milo was neither religious nor a
man inclined to give himself over to any sort of mass enthusiasm,
and all the devotion set his teeth on edge.
The second kind of folk made up the majority of the Llaelese
locals. They tended to be short, slim, and fair-skinned, and like
their Northern Crusade saviors or occupiers—depending on one’s
point of view—they too tramped briskly along. But in their case,
Milo sensed an underlying wariness. They were trying to look like
people so plainly embarked on legitimate business that none of
the soldiers, clerics, or other representatives of the Temple would
view them askance. That meant they had essentially the same
attitude as Milo and his companions.
2 | RICHARD LEE BYERS
Colbie Sterling, mechanik, ´jack marshal, and Captain of the

mercenary company known as the Black River Irregulars, had left
behind her armored greatcoat and the slug gun often concealed
beneath, but her new cloak likewise had pockets stuffed clinking
full of tools, with more hanging in loops on the inside. Many an
artisan might wear such a garment and the tinted goggles, too, and
because she was, she looked more like her accustomed self than
any of her companions. It was unfortunate that self was lanky and
dark, but the natives of Leryn weren’t so uniform in appearance as
to make that extraordinary. Or Milo hoped not, anyway.
Eilish Garrity, arcanist and investigator, was tall and lean as well,
but at least his complexion and blond hair helped him blend in.
His fitted black plate exchanged for garments of patched woolen
homespun, he kept shifting his sledgehammer from shoulder to
shoulder as if the weight bothered him. Eilish was strong but had
developed his physique through swordplay and athletics. He had
little experience with manual labor.
Tall and sturdy, Canice Gormleigh, the Irregulars’ resident gun
mage, had dyed her curly red hair black and stuck a grubby broad-
brimmed hat on top of it. They were all tense, but Milo sensed
she was edgier than the rest of them, which was odd in a way. He,
Colbie, and Eilish were strangers to the divided, war-ravaged land
that had once been the kingdom of Llael, whereas Canice had
grown up here. But clearly hers was not a happy homecoming.
Rather to his surprise, Milo felt an urge to ask how she was
holding up. But he rarely concerned himself with other people’s
feelings, and Canice had little inclination to share hers if they
hinted at any sort of weakness or softness. So perhaps he’d do
better to keep his mouth shut.
The disguised mercenaries turned a corner, and the ancient
wall separating Old Town, Leryn’s centermost district, from the
Dregs, the shabby warrens of its middle ring, appeared. Milo had
been glimpsing it off and on for a while, between buildings and
over rooftops, but for the first time, it was evident how massive it
was. Perhaps it had needed to be to stand up to the earthquakes
that periodically shook down other portions of the city.
BLACK CROWNS | 3
An arched tunnel ran through the wall, and three guards in

plate stood within, maybe grateful for the shade protecting them
from the hot summer sun if Menite zealots deigned to notice
discomfort. Two appeared to be ordinary crusaders. The third
Milo took for one of the elite soldiers called Exemplars. That
fellow’s armor was fancier, he carried a greatsword as opposed to
the spears and pistols of his subordinates, and the gear gleamed in
a way that hinted at mystical power to Milo’s senses.
He could be mistaken. Milo was no arcanist and certainly no
priest. But as an alchemist, he had some familiarity with magic.
His discipline and wizardry overlapped a little.
Intent on their various errands, clerics strode forth from the
tunnel without hindrance. It gave Milo hope that he and his
companions could likewise pass in without challenge. Square-
built with a round, flat face like a skillet, the Exemplar dashed
that hope by calling, “Hold up!”
The Irregulars halted. “Praise the Lawgiver,” Colbie said.
“Praise him,” the Exemplar replied. Seen up close, he was
younger than Milo had expected, perhaps newly promoted to
his present rank. “Who are you, and what’s your business in Old
Town?”
Colbie gave the false names Canice had come up with.
Meanwhile, Milo surreptitiously scrutinized the length of the
tunnel as his captain had taught him. He didn’t see any murder
holes in the ceiling or blinds behind which other guards might be
lurking.
“A priest came to Iron Tree Market,” Colbie continued. “Eyn,
his name was. He said a steam crane had broken down.” She then
took a moment to theorize about the nature of the imaginary
malfunction. Milo couldn’t follow the barrage of technical terms
but thought they definitely made her sound like a mechanik. He
hoped the Exemplar agreed. “He was looking for someone who
could fix it.”
The officer grunted. “And your friends?”
“They were there with me, and they need work, too. They
asked the priest if he could use people who can swing a hammer
or use a spade, and he hired them along with me. I ran home to
get my tools, and now here we are, reporting for duty.” Colbie
gave the Exemplar a smile.
Milo thought it was a good story. Canice had verified that
there was an Iron Tree Market where people seeking work
congregated. The Northern Crusade had stuffed Leryn too full
of priests for the Exemplar to know them all. The heart of the
city was reportedly abuzz with construction as its new masters
renovated old structures to proclaim their faith and render them
more suitable for their purposes.
But the lie didn’t appear to satisfy the Exemplar. Frowning, he
looked over the Irregulars once again. Milo told himself not to
panic. Maybe, eager to prove himself, the young soldier was just
officious. Or perhaps throwing a scare into the common folk of
Leryn was his idea of entertainment.
The Exemplar’s gaze settled on Eilish. “You don’t look like you
know how use a sledge or a shovel. Maybe the four of you should
bide here with me while one of my subordinates goes to check if
there really is a steam crane in need of repair. It might also be a
good idea if you open your coats and turn out your pockets while
we wait.”
Milo felt a pang of alarm. He’d left behind grenades, acids,
elixirs, and the like. He hoped he could explain away the leaf-
shaped throwing knife tucked in his belt. Unless Leryn was a
completely different place from either Corvis or the swamps where
he’d spent his childhood, surely everyone carried a weapon or two
for personal defense, just in case the Lawgiver’s protecting hand
happened to be busy elsewhere.
He trusted his comrades had been similarly discreet. But it
wouldn’t do them much good if a crusader came back with the
news that there was no malfunctioning crane and no worksite
awaiting four additional laborers.
He also trusted that he and the other Irregulars could overcome
two or three crusaders if necessary, the latter’s advantage in gear
notwithstanding. A single flash of Eilish’s sorcery might do the
job. But afterward, they’d be stuck in the middle of a city with
BLACK CROWNS | 5
tens of thousands of hostile soldiers and the concentric rings

of the walls funneling every possible escape route through one
chokepoint or another.
Even if the mercenaries did succeed in getting away, violence
now might well preclude any chance of accomplishing their
objective. To Milo, that consideration ran second to avoiding
being burnt alive or dying by inches on one of the cruciform
contraptions called a wrack, but it too was important in its way.
Canice’s hand eased toward the coat pocket where she likely
had one of her little holdout pistols. It wasn’t like her to act
prematurely, but apparently she was feeling the impulse now.
Milo caught her eye and shook his head ever so slightly. The
scowl that came in response was fleeting and just as tiny, the mere
implication of an expression. Canice let her arm dangle back at
her side.
He hoped he hadn’t just thrown away a crucial edge that would
come from striking by surprise, and that one of his comrades had
contrived a peaceful way out of this situation. Then, as if his
wish had made it so, Eilish pouted and said, “Of course I’m not
proficient with this wretched hammer!”
The Exemplar blinked as if surprised by the admission. “You’re
not?”
“Obviously.” Eilish drew himself up straight, striking a pose
for the Menite’s inspection. “I, good sir, am a poet! I write in the
style of the court ballads of the Martyn dynasty. Which is not to
imply the work is derivative! I make the style my own.”
The Exemplar frowned. “I’m not sure what that means, but it
sounds immoral.”
“Never! Or only rarely! Anyway, the point is this. When the
Northern Crusade arrived, I offered my services to the priests. I
told them I could write the lyrics for hymns and paeans of praise
to the Creator. You need that sort of thing, don’t you? Yet I was
harshly rebuffed. Harshly!”
“You’d have to take that up with—”
“I implore you, judge for yourself if my work wouldn’t
embellish divine services.” Eilish swept his hand heavenward.
“Lawgiver, Lawgiver, Lawgiver, Lawgiver! Your might is strong…

like a river! When I think about it, I shiver…shiver! And every
woman prays that you’ll forgive—”
One of the Exemplar’s underlings, a short, wiry man like Milo
with a dusting of freckles across his cheeks, made a coughing
sound as he struggled to hold in a laugh. The sound nudged the
other guard and their commander in the direction of mirth, and
in another moment all three were laughing.
Eilish glowered. “What?” he demanded.
“You’re terrible,” the Exemplar said. He looked to Colbie.
“Before the Crusade came to Leryn, did people actually pay him
for his gibberish?”
“Well, no,” Colbie said. “But he thought they should.”
“I’m sure he did.” The Exemplar looked back at Eilish.
“Rhymer, if I were you, I’d thank Menoth that righteous men put
an end to your previous attempt at a career before some disgusted
listener beat your head in. Move along and try your hand at doing
something useful.”
The freckled guard asked, “Do you still want someone to go
check on that crane?”
“It’s all right,” the Exemplar said. “They’re harmless.”
“Thank you,” Colbie said. Eilish gave an affronted sniff.
Once the mercenaries cleared the far end of the tunnel, they
too laughed. Even Canice’s edginess fell away for a moment.
“The court poets of the Martyn dynasty,” she said in her smoky
alto voice, “are surely weeping in their tombs.”
Eilish grinned. “I thought it was rather brilliant for an
extemporaneous effort.”
“It allayed their suspicions,” Colbie said. “That’s brilliant
enough for me. Now, everyone, stay sharp, and we’ll see what we
can see.”
Echoing with hammering, sawing, and the shouts of workmen
calling to one another, hazy with dust, Old Town was the busy
hive of new construction Milo had been led to expect. Some of
the work involved placing new turrets, artillery platforms, and
machicolations atop the wall. Apparently, their faith in Menoth
BLACK CROWNS | 7
notwithstanding, the crusaders could hypothesize a day when the

Khadoran conquerors who ruled western Llael would attack the
city, overrun the two outermost precincts, and lay siege to the
inner one, and they intended to be ready.
At any rate, Milo was grateful for the activity. As long as the
Irregulars kept moving, the throngs of soldiers, priests, carpenters,
masons, and functionaries seemed likely to ignore them. They’d
mistake his group for laborers employed at one or another of the
worksites, just not the one immediately at hand.
Old Town was small compared to the outer precincts, and it
didn’t take long for the structures at the center to come into view.
The archduke’s palace was a white marble confection that, despite
its opulence, had a forlorn look. Relatively few people were on the
grounds, and the laborers Milo could see were busy removing statuary
that was evidently insufficiently pious for the crusaders’ taste.
Many more people were swarming in and out of Thunderhead
Fortress, which loomed nearby. It was now crowned with the
Menofix, the equal-armed cross that was the emblem of the
Menite faith. The sacred symbol was made of paler or perhaps
simply less smoke- and soot-stained stone that the walls beneath.
It was clearly a recent addition to signify that the stronghold was
now the seat of Hierarch Severius and the government over which
he presided.
Milo took pride in being difficult to impress, yet even he felt
a twinge of awe. In times past, Thunderhead Fortress had been
the citadel of the Order of the Golden Crucible, the guild of
alchemists whose efforts to systematize, advance, and ultimately
weaponize their craft had led to the invention of firearms and
the defeat of the Orgoth tyrants. Unwilling to accept the Order’s
strictures even had it proven willing to enroll a practitioner with
his shady past and reputation, Milo wasn’t a member but still
respected the monument before him for all the achievement it
represented.
Colbie roused him from his contemplation with a touch on the
shoulder. “Keep walking,” she murmured, “and don’t gawk. The
laborer you’re pretending to be has seen the fortress a hundred times.”
The Irregulars traversed the plaza that separated the palace

from the citadel and then turned down the avenue that ran along
the southern face of the latter. Milo studied the possible entrances
with the knowledgeable eye of a fellow who might lack Colbie’s
military expertise but had done a little housebreaking in his time.
At first, he found little to encourage him. There weren’t many
obvious ways into the pile, and they all seemed protected, by gates
and portcullises, human sentries, and even towering steamjacks
equipped with pole axes and rectangular shields that covered them
from shoulder to knee. The shields had religious verses engraved on
them and, viewed dead on, looked rather like pages from a book.
Smoke rose from the stacks on the automatons’ backs. Some stood
motionless, awaiting a controller’s commands or a predetermined
triggering situation. Others, presumably ´jacks sufficiently old to
have acquired quirks like curiosity, swiveled their steel heads back
and forth to scrutinize passersby with their glowing eyes.
Colbie studied them out of the corner of her eye. Steamjacks
were her specialty as alchemy was Milo’s, and in different
circumstances, she would have had Doorstop, her own automaton,
with her in the field. But like all his hulking, whirring, smoking
kind, Doorstop was invaluable in a fight but a hindrance on a job
requiring stealth.
Milo wondered if someone would eventually need to remind
Colbie not to “gawk.” Then he spotted something that drove the
thought from his head.
“Look up ahead,” he said, “just the other side of the chokecherry
tree.”
•••
KNEELING ON A FLOOR pale with flecks of plaster, Canice peeked

out of the ragged space that had until recently contained a window
and frame. The street before her was dark and empty. Somewhere
nearby, a choir performed a dirge-like hymn that was less song
than chant.
Taken together, the lack of traffic and the cheerless hymn
annoyed her. With a certain amount of justice, people across
BLACK CROWNS | 9
the Iron Kingdoms regarded the Llaelese as overly fond of their

pleasures, but there was little sign of such indulgence now. It
seemed that the “liberators” who’d ousted the Khadorans from
Leryn only to take up residence themselves had compelled the
citizenry into an existence as ascetic as their own.
If the Resistance hadn’t needed the Northern Crusade to stand
with them against the invaders. If Canice had been here—
But that was an idiotic notion, and anyway, she didn’t care. She
quashed her errant thoughts and refocused on the task at hand.
Staying to one side of the window hole, Colbie crept up behind
her. “How does it look?” the ´jack marshal asked.
“I think it’s time,” Canice said.
Colbie turned to Eilish and Milo, who were lounging in the
cavernous space behind her. At the moment, the building was in
an anonymous state of transition, interior walls and anything else
that might have indicated the structure’s original use ripped away
and nothing new yet put in their place to reveal the purpose it
would serve.
Apparently it had sat thus for a while, the team charged with
renovating it called away for work deemed more important. That
had it made it a suitable place for the mercenaries to hide while
the construction crews toiled until sunset, were then preached to
and prayed over, and finally were permitted to go home.
Had anyone discovered them, Canice and her comrades would
have claimed to be loafers who’d slipped away from one worksite
or another. Presumably, human nature being the intractable
thing that it is, laborers occasionally played truant even in the
Protectorate.
Now, it was time to begin their real work. Milo pulled the tarp
off one of the two barrows they’d wheeled into Old Town that
morning. Having decided they were what they professed to be,
the Exemplar and his underlings hadn’t bothered to look under
the cloths. They’d just thrown a gibe or two in the “poet’s” wake,
whereupon Eilish, still playing his part, bristled.
Beneath the tarps was their gear, or as much of it as had been
practical to smuggle in. Eilish’s short, straight sword and foppish
but functional black plate. Milo’s dark leather combat alchemist’s

cuirass, gasmask, bandolier of throwing knives, and grenades.
Colbie’s slug gun, a weapon designed for disabling steamjacks,
stubby but with such a wide muzzle it was practically artillery.
And Canice’s half-dozen pistols. The two that rode in the shoulder
rigs were magelocks capable of firing rune shots. The pair she wore
on her hips and the little ones that fit in her pockets were not, but
in her highly trained hands, they were often just as efficacious.
Only the armored greatcoats that Colbie and Canice
customarily wore were missing. Such a long, bulky garment would
be easy to detect under the disguise that went over it in a way that
even Eilish’s fitted plate would not, so they were making do with
cuirasses like Milo’s instead.
Said disguises were voluminous hooded robes marked front
and back with the
Menofix. As Colbie handed her the one that fit her, Canice
reflected that it might be the most incriminating thing about her.
Given an exceptionally gullible interrogator, she might somehow
explain away her pistols. But she suspected the crusaders had an
absolute prohibition against laypeople impersonating initiates
and clerks in service to the Temple.
She checked her pistols and then closed her vestments. She
disliked doing the latter. With the clasps secured, only the
holdout pistols in the robe’s inconspicuous pockets were instantly
accessible. But there was no help for it.
“Everybody ready?” Colbie asked. In one fashion or another,
the others answered in the affirmative. “Then let’s go.”
They crept forth from their hiding place and then strode on
toward the spires and battlements of Thunderhead Fortress as
though they had every right to walk the streets of Old Town at this
late hour. Surreptitiously, though, Canice was watching for signs
of trouble—no doubt the other Irregulars were, too—and rapidly
came to despise the hood that limited her peripheral vision. She
had to resist the urge to push it back and uncover her head.
It had been a long while since she’d felt so twitchy in any
situation, no matter how dangerous, and she hated it. She hoped
BLACK CROWNS | 11
her companions couldn’t tell and envied them their composure.

Of course, they had an advantage. They were only on the lookout
for one set of enemies. She was watching for two.
“Anyone worried about robbing a god?” Eilish murmured.
He liked poking at ideas. It gave him the chance to show off his
nimble intelligence and university education. Canice generally
didn’t mind, but now she wished he’d keep his mouth shut.
Milo grunted. “I’ve done it before. Emptied a couple poor
boxes in my time.”
Colbie shot him a disapproving glance.
“What?” the alchemist said. “I was poor. So the coin was for
me, wasn’t it?”
Eilish chuckled. “Is everyone else’s conscience similarly numb?”
“I’m a Morrowan,” Colbie said.
“As am I,” the arcanist said. “Well, raised one, anyway. But
our faith doesn’t deny that Menoth is a god. He’s just not our god
anymore.”
“All right,” Colbie said, “then I’m a Cygnaran. The Protectorate
of Menoth is our enemy even if the war’s wound down for the
moment.”
“Milo’s point of view is crassly pragmatic. Your perspective,
though a rung up the ethical ladder from his, nonetheless smacks
of relativism. I take it I’m the only one to consider the situation in
terms of absolute morality.”
“And what does absolute morality tell you?” Colbie asked,
needlessly. Eilish would elaborate whether anyone invited it or
not.
“That the crusaders are sitting on something that isn’t theirs.
Therefore, it’s not theft to retrieve it for the rightful owners even
if the current possessors would selfishly and shortsightedly object.
Their deity himself would view the matter dif—”
“Quiet!” Canice said. “We’re coming up on the spot.”
Eilish peered into the darkness ahead. “Indeed we are. To
business, then.”
They tramped past the weakness in Thunderhead Fortress’s
defenses that Milo had discerned the previous day. Perhaps
because they wanted a doorway widened or some ornamental

detail had offended their sensibilities, the crusaders had torn out
a section of the exterior stonework. Now, framed by scaffolding, a
hole opened into the stronghold, and, just a shadow in the gloom,
a lone sentry stood guard inside the breach.
Despite the murk and the distance, Canice was reasonably
confident she could kill the guard with a single shot. But she and
her companions hoped to come and go without anyone being the
wiser. So they marched on by the crusader, the opening, and the
chokecherry tree and took shelter in the shallow hollow between
one projecting bit of the fortress and the next.
Milo then stripped off his robe. It was an impediment to
moving silently and unobserved. He pulled on his gasmask, hefted
a grenade with a round casing and pull pin, and, crouching,
slipped back toward the breach.
Though Canice had reason to trust in Milo’s ability to sneak,
with her nerves as raw as they were, she half expected the guard to
shout a challenge or fire a shot. Instead, something puffed, a faint
sound no one could have caught from any farther away or would
have considered alarming if they did.
Milo returned a moment later with the spent casing of the
grenade in hand. “The guard’s down,” he said. The gasmask made
his tenor voice tinny but couldn’t conceal the note of satisfaction.
Canice understood the reason for it. Common grenades, even
the ones filled only with somnolence elixir, released their contents
with a flash and a bang. Milo had invented one that dispensed its
stupefying contents less conspicuously. The fumes even contained
an additive to muddle a target’s memory of the moments
preceding his loss of consciousness and erase any recollection of
the orb rolling up at his feet.
With luck, when the guard awoke, he’d believe he fell asleep
on duty and be loath to report such a dereliction of duty to his
superiors. Even if he decided he’d fainted and took himself to the
infirmary, the physician might not guess he’d fallen prey to an
alchemical attack until the intruders were long gone.
Milo removed the gasmask, tucked away the spent casing,
BLACK CROWNS | 13
and shrugged his vestments on again. Then all four mercenaries

skulked up to the opening. Canice took the slumbering sentry by
the ankles and dragged him into a low, shadowy spot beside the
wall.
Meanwhile, Colbie peeked into the breach. “All clear,” she
whispered. “Let’s keep moving.”
Thunderhead Fortress felt just as huge and full of history
on the inside. The shadowy corridors smelled of frankincense,
and, underlying that, the faded odors of centuries of alchemical
operations and experiments.
The way led past chapels where priests and crusaders knelt in
prayer or meditation. Somewhere in the building, their voices
echoing, another choir intoned plainsong, and Canice wondered
if the Menite faith required that somebody recite the deity’s praises
at every hour of the day or night.
Running a gigantic, complicated endeavor like the Northern
Crusade evidently required that its servants advance its more
practical interests day and night as well. Occasionally the Irregulars
encountered genuine clerics, messengers, scribes, and other
functionaries traversing the candlelit halls as well. Fortunately, the
Menites hurried on by the intruders with, at most, an incurious
glance, nod, or soft, perfunctory “Praise the Lawgiver.” Likely
they were eager to finish their errands and seek their beds.
It was fortunate too that the occupiers’ renovations had
stopped short of altering the floor plan in any fundamental and
all-encompassing fashion. The place was a maze, but, having
memorized the original architect’s drawings, Canice and her
comrades eventually made their way to a staircase that descended
to the subterranean levels.
Belowground, the aroma of incense failed, and the nose-
stinging smells of smoke, hot metal, and acids filled the air along
with clanking, chugging, and hissing. The precincts of the priests
and clerks had given way to those of the crusade’s own alchemists
and mechaniks, and some of the artisans were likewise laboring
deep into the night.
The intruders’ vestments now seemed, if not entirely out
of place, less common than burn-spotted leather aprons and

gauntlets. But no one looked around as they passed workrooms
harshly illuminated by the blaze of welding torches or dimly
revealed by the glow of green and yellow liquids bubbling in
retorts.
In due course, the Irregulars descended two more levels, after
which Canice relaxed an iota as it became clear that she and
her companions finally had a cellar pretty much to themselves.
Despite their numbers, the Vassals of Menoth and the Sul-
Menite Artificers hadn’t filled every underground laboratory and
manufactory, and it made sense that few of them had opted for
the bottommost cellar. The deeper a person worked, the more
trouble it would be to haul supplies and equipment down and the
products of their labor up.
No one had bothered to kindle candles, torches, or lanterns
where nobody at all had set up shop. Only a scattering of old but
still half functional alchemical lamps in wall sconces provided a
trace of sickly light.
When even that failed, Eilish raised his hand. Blue
phosphorescence glimmered into existence around him and
flowed along with him thereafter.
He stopped at a doorway at the end of a hall. Beyond was
a cramped room with a modest kiln and a miscellany of dusty
glassware on the worktable, everything shrouded in layers of
spider web. The chamber looked like a space where some long-
forgotten student might have ground away at his assignments,
and not a gifted, favored student at that.
Canice stationed herself in the doorway to keep an eye on the
corridor. Her companions moved deeper inside the room.
Milo went all the way to the back wall and swiped away grime,
revealing carvings. Her Llaelese gun mage training included the
fundamentals of alchemy, and Canice recognized what amounted
to a reference chart listing the elements—fire, water, mercury,
and the rest—the principles—hotness, coldness, dryness, and
moistness—and other basic information.
Milo pressed four of the symbols in succession. With a soft
BLACK CROWNS | 15
scraping sound, the chart hitched outward from the wall like a
door coming unlatched. Unlike the substantial blocks around it,
it was a panel designed to conceal the hollow space behind.
Milo pulled the panel all the way open. Eilish’s blue glow
washed over leather-bound folios, smaller volumes, and sheaves of
yellowed parchment bound with string. Here and there, ribbons
stuck from between pages to mark somebody’s place.
The little alchemist picked up a book with a respect at odds
with his normal attitude. Ordinarily, Eilish would have made his
way across a filthy, cluttered room with gingerly distaste, but he
paid the spider webs and such no mind as he hurried up beside
Milo to examine a second volume. Though not an alchemist, he
possessed a lively curiosity that made him interested in all manner
of things.
Colbie smiled at their excitement, but her voice held the snap
of command. “Bag them. You can read them when we’re safe.”
Eilish frowned. He’d essentially made his peace with the fact
that Colbie was in charge, but once in a while, he still chafed at it
a little. In that way, he was precisely like Canice.
Still, he simply said, “Right you are.” Quickly but carefully, lest
they damage their old and possibly delicate prizes, he and Milo
started filling two of the sacks they and the other Irregulars had
brought along for the purpose.
There were a fair number of books and parchment bundles, but
not so many that it would be awkward to carry them all, although
Canice didn’t like having sacks in both hands. She would have
preferred that at least one hand free to draw a pistol. But she’d put
up with it because she had to.
Milo closed the panel on the now-empty cache, and then the
intruders tramped back the way they’d come. When they reached
the point where there were other light sources, Eilish extinguished
his magical phosphorescence.
Shortly thereafter, the intruders returned to corridors wide and
straight enough to facilitate the movement of supply carts and
mechanika, and then the stairs they’d descended appeared ahead.
Unfortunately, the thump of footsteps, the clink of metal, and the
creak of leather sounded from the top. Individuals in armor were

coming down.
Canice looked around. She and her companions might be able
to hide in one of the empty workrooms to either side. But if they
were caught, it would be difficult to convince their discoverers that
they were genuine clergy with legitimate business in the depths.
Evidently Colbie thought so, too. “Stay calm,” she whispered.
“We’ll bluff our way through.”
Canice thought it was the better choice until the soldiers came
into view.
In the lead stalked a Temple Flameguard. The haft of a
Flameguard’s long spear contained a reservoir of an alchemical
compound that heated the point blazing hot in combat, and his
was already glowing red.
Next glided a wiry, shaven-headed Allegiant of the Order of the
Fist, a man who bore no weapons or armor because his combat
discipline didn’t require them. And behind him descended a fellow
bearing insignia like the Exemplar who’d jeered at Eilish’s rhymes.
It was the mismatched nature of the group that Canice
found most disquieting. She imagined someone discovering the
unconscious sentry despite the Irregulars’ attempt to hide him,
hurrying through the ground floor of the fortress, and collecting
whomever he found up and about at this late hour to form a
search party.
Still, it was now too late to hide. The mercenaries could only
proceed with their lies.
“All praise the Lawgiver,” Colbie said. “Do you any of you
know where Maya Ja has her laboratory? We have supplies for
her.” She hefted the sack in her right hand.
The first men down the stairs scrutinized the mercenaries. Their
expressions were uncertain. Plainly, they feared something was
amiss somewhere in Thunderhead Fortress, but they didn’t know
what or where, and every crusading soldier treated priests with
deference. Canice thought that Colbie’s matter-of-fact demeanor
just might allay their suspicions.
But then the rest of the Menite men-at-arms came down the
BLACK CROWNS | 17
steps with their own priestess—and, presumably, current leader—

bringing up the rear. Though she wore a hooded and Menofix-
emblazoned robe like the Irregulars’ disguises, the most arresting
part of her regalia was an iron half-mask. It was somewhat like
those of the scrutators but somehow gave the impression of being
fashioned not merely to efface individual identity but the fact of
humanity itself. Its maker had done his best to make it featureless,
with the jut of nose and contours of cheekbones buried beneath
smooth curves and gray lenses of nearly the same hue as the
surrounding metal concealing the eyes. She bore a long brass-and-
steel torch connected to a fuel tank belted to her waist.
Together, the mask and torch identified her as a member of the
Reclaimant Order. According to Colbie, such clergy supposedly
took a vow of silence to help obliterate all sense of self and become
flesh-and-blood extensions of Menoth’s will.
Inwardly, Canice winced. According to rumor, reclaimers
possessed formidable mystical abilities, and even if the stories
were exaggerated, such fanatics were likely difficult to fool.
Striding to the fore of the search party, the reclaimer turned
her head, and even though Canice couldn’t see the priestess’s eyes,
she felt the sudden force of her gaze.
Like her companions, Canice had been born into a Morrowan
family. But she’d given her truest loyalty to her country, to the
Resistance, and once her faith in that died, perhaps other belief
withered with it. At any rate, she hadn’t troubled herself with
matters of religion in a long time.
Yet abruptly she trembled with the urge to fall to her knees before
the reclaimer and confess the deception she and her companions
had practiced against the Temple and the blasphemous theft they
were presently committing.
But there was a stubborn part of her that rejected the feeling
as false, an attempted violation from outside. She steeled herself
against it, and after a moment, it faded.
She glanced at her companions. To her relief, they showed no
signs of groveling and confessing, either.
Colbie did bow her head in a gesture of respect, however. “The
Creator keep you,” she said. “I was just telling the soldiers here
that—”
The reclaimer stabbed her finger at the Irregulars. The meaning
of the gesture was unmistakable, and the crusaders moved to
attack.
Canice dropped her sacks—any brittle documents inside would
just have to take their chances—and snatched for her holdout
pistols. As they cleared her pockets, she felt a flicker of perverse
satisfaction. Just as she’d warned, events were demonstrating that
coming to Llael had been a bad idea.
—2—
LAVORO GONCAL WAS EVIDENTLY FOND of the color green in

general and emeralds in particular. The stones gleamed in his
several rings, the pommel of his dagger, and the broaches pinned
to the collar of his greatcoat and the band of his hat with its
peacock-feather plume.
In Colbie Sterling’s opinion, the man was also a little too old
and rather too fleshy to carry off his foppish mode of dress to best
advantage. His hair was steadfastly maintaining its blackness, but
the neat, close-trimmed goatee was salted with white. It had an
extra chin wobbling behind it, too.
But as he removed the hat and coat, and the garments dripped
a bit of the rain that had dampened them onto the floor, she
reflected that the important thing about Mr. Goncal was that
everything about him bespoke prosperity. Surely that meant a nice
payday for the Black River Irregulars if they undertook whatever
job he was about to offer.
Seated around their customary table in the tavern called the
Headless Harper, her comrades eyed the Ordic gentleman with

varying degrees of welcome and speculation apparent in their
expressions. Hulking with a face that was half protuberant jaw,
the nub of nose and deep-set little eyes jammed between the
mouth below and the backward-sloping brow above, the ogrun
warrior Natak Warbiter glared as though tempted to leap up and
chop the newcomer to pieces with his battle axe or bash him with
the heavy steel rings he used as knuckledusters. Colbie had found
the ogrun’s air of menace somewhat hard on the nerves until she
came to the realization that Natak pretty much just looked like
that all the time.
Gardek Stonebrow was equally tall and burly, and while the
trollkin bounty hunter didn’t appear as ready to commit mayhem
at the slightest excuse as his ogrun comrade, he was nonetheless
an intimidating presence. His head was largely taken up by his
jaw like Natak’s, but blue-skinned, crowned with bristling quills
instead of hair, and devoid of external ears. His wide mouth curved
in a horseshoe-shaped habitual frown, and his armor bristled with
spikes like a porcupine’s quills. His companions to either side had
scooted their chairs far enough away to avoid getting stuck by
accident.
In contrast, Pog, Colbie’s fellow mechanik and ´jack marshal,
was small as a skinny half-grown child and couldn’t have unnerved
anyone if he’d tried, not that he was likely to. Green, hairless,
and long-eared like any gobber, his smiling face was so open and
friendly that on first meeting him, someone might almost mistake
him for a simpleton.
The human mercenaries rounded out the assembly. Eilish
lounged with his customary insouciance. Milo was sweaty with
an ashen pallor, probably from experimenting with some drug
he’d concocted. Gaudy in her red and yellow armored greatcoat,
Canice somehow managed the equivalent of a swagger even when
sitting down.
Colbie seated Goncal between Eilish and herself. It seemed
the placement that might make a potential employer unused to
rubbing elbows with ruffians and scoundrels feel most at ease.
BLACK CROWNS | 21
She made introductions, ordered the newcomer a goblet of red

wine from the barmaid, and then, with the rain tapping on the
window behind him, asked what the Black River Irregulars could
do for him.
“First,” Goncal said, “I need your assurance that, whether
you accept the commission or not, this conversation will remain
confidential.”
“We’re professionals,” Colbie said.
“I take you at your word. I come to you as a representative of
the Order of the Golden Crucible.”
The declaration piqued Colbie’s interest even further. The
alchemists’ guild had the resources to pay a mercenary company
very handsomely indeed.
It also surprised her a little. She wouldn’t have taken Goncal
for an alchemist. On the surface, he had little in common with
scrawny, scruffy Milo, who liked nothing better than locking
himself away in his laboratory and playing with poisons and acids
for days at a time. But perhaps these days the Ordic emissary was
primarily an official for the Order, or the owner of a manufactory
where underlings did the actual compounding and whatnot.
“I assume,” Goncal continued, “that you’re at least somewhat
familiar with the challenges the guild has faced in recent years.”
“Of course,” Eilish said. “When the Khadorans invaded Llael,
you lost your headquarters and with it the ability to exercise
central authority. The Order splintered, and it’s only recently that,
with the establishment of a new base of operations in Ord, you’ve
made real progress at uniting the far-flung chapters into a single
organization once again.”
Goncal gave a single nod. “That’s a fair summation. But it
omits the fact that when we vacated Thunderhead Fortress,
we perforce left a great deal behind. Ever since, we’ve collected
relevant documents from elsewhere to ensure we don’t lose our
history, and in the course of cataloging one such journal, we
discovered something unexpected.”
Eilish sat up straighter. “What was that?” he asked.
“Very early on, when the Order was dedicated to defeating
the Orgoth and had every reason to fear the conquerors would
destroy us instead, our predecessors hid certain papers and books
inside the citadel. The original charter bearing the signatures of
the founding aurum lucanum alchemists. Volumes containing
their research. We thought these materials lost forever, but the
journal tells where to find them.”
“The catch being,” Gardek rumbled, “that you can’t just ask
nicely and expect the Sul-Menites to hand those documents
over. That’s not their way. They’d either keep them as trophies to
further the glory of the faith or burn them if they decided they
were blasphemous.”
“Exactly,” Goncal said. “We need agents to go to Leryn and take
the papers back. We can help to the extent of telling you exactly
where to find them and everything we know about Thunderhead
Fortress, and we’ll pay you well.”
He named a sum that widened almost everyone’s eyes and was
all that Colbie had hoped for.
Still, her captaincy required that she not accept any job before
performing due diligence. “We can dicker over the fee later,” she
said. “First, tell me, why the Irregulars? Why not men from the
Order’s own Crucible Guard, for example?”
“For one thing,” Goncal said, “we want to remain on good
terms with the government of our new home, and King Baird has
no interest in provoking the Protectorate.”
Eilish chuckled. “They’re going to come after Ord anyway.
Eventually. They want to make the whole world kneel at Menoth’s
altar.”
“I agree. Still, the king hopes to root out Cryxian infiltrators
before involving the realm in other conflicts, and so, if things go
awry, it’s better if the agents who undertake this mission aren’t
affiliated with the Order or Ordic, either. Cygnaran mercenaries
fit the bill.”
“For deniability,” Colbie said.
“But that’s not the only reason I picked you,” Goncal said.
“You, Captain, served as a field mechanik in the Second Army
when it was fighting the Protectorate. You’re familiar with their
BLACK CROWNS | 23
forces. Ms. Gormleigh is Llaelese. She knows the lay of the land.
Your band as a whole has a reputation not just as fighters but also
as troubleshooters. You’ve solved problems requiring finesse and
discretion more than brawn.”
Natak made a spiting sound, seemingly a jeer at the notion
that violence wasn’t the optimal solution to any problem.
Ignoring the ogrun, Colbie said, “That makes sense as well.
I believe, Mr. Goncal, that if we can reach agreement on the
price—”
“Hold it,” Canice said. “I want to discuss this before we give
a yes or no.”
Colbie eyed her in surprise. So did others. Ordinarily, Canice
was at least as bold and as eager to hear new gold crowns clinking
in her pockets as any of her comrades.
“I agree,” Natak growled.
Eilish grinned. “With Canice, always, even if you really don’t.
Be that as it may, this would be a major undertaking, and if any
one of us has reservations, perhaps a palaver is in order.”
“So be it,” Colbie said. She turned to the envoy. “Mr. Goncal,
I know where you’re staying. If you’ll please excuse us, I’ll call on
you with our answer in the morning.”
“I’ll be there hoping for a yes.” Goncal drained his cup, rose,
and headed for the exit, pulling on his coat and hat in the process.
“All right,” Colbie said turning to Canice, “what are your
concerns?”
“As Goncal said,” the gun mage replied, “you have experience
with Protectorate forces and know Thunderhead Fortress and
Leryn at least by reputation. So you realize this job would be very
dangerous, and if the enemy discovered who we really are, we’d be
stuck in hostile territory hundreds of miles from home.”
Gardek shrugged. The motion hitched his massive pauldrons,
each with its several spikes, up and down. “Then we won’t let
them discover us.”
“Consider, too,” Canice said, “that Leryn is almost entirely a
human city. To be inconspicuous, the rest of us will have to leave
you, Natak, and Pog outside.”
“Are you telling me,” Eilish said, “that for once I won’t have to
cover for this lummox’s shortcomings?” He gestured to indicate
Gardek, the corners of his mouth quirking momentarily upward.
The trollkin replied with an obscene gesture.
“You might also ask yourselves,” Canice persisted, “what happens
if the books and such aren’t where they’re supposed to be, or time
has reduced them to dust, and we come back empty-handed.”
“We’ll still collect something,” Colbie said. “I’ll make sure it’s
in the contract. What else?”
Canice scowled. “Wasn’t that enough?”
“That’s up to you. If you’re done, let’s consider the reasons for
taking the job,” Colbie said.
“The coin,” Gardek said.
“Indeed. We can all live high for quite a while, but it will pay
for even more than that. We can recruit new people, buy new gear,
and grow the company.”
“You mean,” Canice said, “grow big enough to hire out to the
Army and march off to war like in your glory days. But that’s your
dream. Some of us are happy bodyguarding, solving puzzles, and
chasing outlaws through the Undercity.”
“Trust me,” Colbie said, “marching off to war as a high-ranking
officer—which is what I envision for all of us—at the head of our
own true mercenary army is the key to lasting wealth and status,
too. After a few victorious campaigns, we can retire in luxury and
buy ourselves titles if we’re so inclined.”
Pog shook his head. “A gobber lord? Could there truly be such
a thing? My mother would be proud!”
“I wouldn’t start shopping for an estate just yet,” Eilish said.
“I admit,” Colbie said, “it’s a big dream. A long-term dream.
So let me point to something that’s here and now. What if there’s
something of military value in the cache? We don’t want the
Protectorate gaining the knowledge.”
“To be fair,” Eilish said, “that’s unlikely. The books and such are
clearly well hidden, and even if the Menites were to stumble across
them, I doubt they contain anything of practical importance.
Alchemy, wizardry, and mechanika advance. What was marvelous
BLACK CROWNS | 25
yesterday is commonplace today and obsolete tomorrow.” He

hesitated. “Generally.”
“‘Generally?’”
“Well, the world is chaotic, and innovators, sometimes jealous
of their inventions. I concede, occasionally there is such a thing
as a lost arcane secret. We have yet to understand how all those
Orgoth horrors worked.”
“And if there’s even the slightest chance of such a thing falling
into Sul-Menite hands?” Colbie asked.
Eilish grinned. “You’re lucky your entire argument doesn’t
hinge on something so improbable. But you make a fair point so
far as it goes, and I confess, I’d love to examine the documents just
for the sake of the history. What about you, Milo?”
“Not the history,” the little man said, “but the formulae,
definitely. Just in case.”
“You can read them on the way home,” Colbie said. She turned
to Canice. “We can put this to a formal vote if you like, but it
appears the majority of us favor taking the job.”
Canice scowled. “I understand. But you’ll have a better chance
if you go without me.”
That too caught Colbie by surprise. “I agree with what Mr.
Goncal said. Your knowledge of Llael would help considerably.”
“You know I served in the Resistance.”
“Yes.”
“But perhaps you don’t understand they consider me a deserter,
and all deserters are under sentence of death.”
The declaration brought a general silence. Pog broke it by
saying, “Well, that isn’t good.”
“No,” Colbie said, “it isn’t. But, Canice, consider that you’ve
been gone for years. Surely hunting you down is no longer
foremost in your former comrades’ minds. Consider, too, that
we’re not going to Free Llael, where they run things, or into the
west, where they’re working to bring the Khadorans down. We’re
going to Leryn, where their nominal allies hold sway. My guess
is that you’re scarcely more likely to run into a Resistance agent
there than on the streets of Corvis.”
“Besides,” Eilish said, “this is the sort of mission that calls for
disguises. We can make doubly certain yours is effective. If we
simply dye and cut that mop of coppery curls and replace the
red and yellow clothes with something drab, the odds of anyone
recognizing you will decrease significantly.”
Canice started to reply, then stopped. She sat silent for another
moment and finally said, “I’ll think about it.” She scooted back
her chair, rose, and pulled on her wide-brimmed leather hat,
then, the shirt of her greatcoat swirling about her legs, turned and
stalked toward the exit.
•••
LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, CANICE HAD HER HABITS. Some were

raucously debauched. It was one of the things she and Natak had
in common. But on the rare occasions when the gun mage was
feeling contemplative, she liked to wander along the water, and
since the Headless Harper overlooked the point where the Black
River and Dragon’s Tongue diverged, once it seemed clear that
Canice didn’t intend to return to the tavern, Natak decided to
seek her there.
He found her loitering on a pier adjacent to a warehouse. The
spot afforded a good view of the boats and barges on the water, the
bridge that crossed it, the manufactories and smokestacks on the
far shore, and the spires of the Cathedral of Morrow rising over
lesser structures, everything one black shape against another except
for where a lantern or gaslight shined. The rain had diminished,
and only the infrequent drop plopped down.
For an ordinary person, the pier would have been an unsafe
place to linger after dark. The Watch rarely patrolled here after
sunset, and many a footpad knew it. But they also knew better
than to accost the notorious Canice Gormleigh or the equally
infamous Natak Warbiter, for that matter, and it was his warrior
training more than actual concern that made him keep an eye out
for danger as he tramped up beside her.
She sighed. “How did you find me?”
He shrugged. “You’re my korune.”
BLACK CROWNS | 27
“Because you decided I am. It doesn’t mean there’s some

ethereal cord linking us together.”
“On the night you saved my life, the Mother revealed to me
that you’re the leader I should follow into battle. Any ogrun would
understand. I can’t help it if humans don’t.”
Canice grunted. “Except you can’t follow me if I don’t go.”
Natak spat over the edge of the dock. “You know I don’t care
about the Black River Irregulars. I joined because you did, and if
you’re ready to scrape them off your boots, so am I.”
The gun mage studied him. “I thought you’d settled in.”
“I like the way the trollkin swings a war hammer and doesn’t
talk when there’s nothing to say. The others have their uses, and I
can tolerate their quirks.” He snorted. “What you really mean is
that you settled in.”
She frowned. “Maybe. I’m not like Colbie. I don’t have any big
plans or ambitions. The Irregulars seemed as good a group to be in
as any to earn coin doing what we do. Working in a band that has
the Watch Commander’s approval washed the stink of criminality
off you and me and made us halfway respectable.”
He grinned. “I was getting tired of the Undercity.”
“So perhaps I have grown more comfortable than I expected.
I’m not all that eager to walk away. But this…”
He didn’t know how to interpret her mood. Maybe it was a
sort of human feyness no ogrun could comprehend. But he was
certain of one thing. “Korune, I know you’re not afraid to go back
to Llael.”
“Not afraid for my life, no.”
“Afraid of adding to the danger to the rest of us? Don’t be. The
wizard and Captain Sterling are right. You can disguise yourself,
and your strengths add more to our chances than the Resistance’s
stale grudge takes away. So the only reason not to go is if you just
don’t want to. Then you shouldn’t. Of all the warriors in Corvis,
you have nothing to prove, and any debt to the Irregulars, we
repaid long ago.”
“True enough. But if the others might need us…curse it, I
guess we are going.”
—3—
AS THE CRUSADERS LEVELED THEIR WEAPONS and rushed forward,

rapidly closing the scant few paces that separated them from the
Irregulars, Eilish was keenly aware of the impediment posed by
their clerical robes. His comrades could die before they ever had a
chance to ready themselves for combat.
Although he very much wished his sword were ready to hand,
luckily he was at less of a disadvantage than the others. While
the enemy had discerned he was a trespasser, they had no way of
knowing he was an arcanist.
Dropping the bags he carried, giving ground, and tearing at
the fastenings of his vestments like the other mercenaries, he
simultaneously visualized a string of magical symbols and infused
them with force of will. He eschewed the incantation and wizardly
gesturing that, while helpful, would have betrayed his intent.
A cloud of cinders burst into existence around the Sul-Menites,
and some of them cried out at the choking gray smoke that filled
their nostrils and the orange sparks stinging their skin. Their
consternation turned their charge into a frantic scramble to escape

the discomfort and gave Eilish time to unsheathe his blade. He
hoped it enabled his companions to prepare themselves as well.
The iron-masked reclaimer stood fast in the middle of the cloud
as though it had no power to vex her. Her blank stare locking on
Eilish, she leveled the long metal torch at him. Whereupon the
arcanist’s cowled robe erupted into flames.
The sudden heat made him cry out and was sure to do worse
if he didn’t divest himself of the garment quickly. As he struggled
to shrug it off, the Flameguard closed to striking distance with his
burning spear point poised for a thrust to Eilish’s face.
A pistol barked. Evidently it wasn’t a magelock, because
instead of falling, the Flameguard just gasped and stumbled, then
straightened up with his breastplate dented but unpenetrated. But
Canice’s shot gave Eilish time to finish tearing off the burning
robe and come on guard.
The red-hot spear tip stabbed at his eyes. He parried forcefully
enough to knock the weapon aside, lunged, and cut at exposed
skin on his adversary’s extended arm.
In a single motion, the crusader shifted his shield to block and
flicked the end of the spear at the side of Eilish’s head. The point
wouldn’t penetrate that way, but it didn’t have to. Contact alone
would char flesh like a branding iron.
Recovering from his lunge, Eilish only barely managed to
parry. He then sought to trap the spear in a bind, but his foe spun
it free.
By Markus’s holy sword, the spearman was good! So was Eilish,
however, and in different circumstances he might have felt some
temptation to measure his skill against the other man’s by fighting
with his blade alone. But now was scarcely the time for a duel of
honor.
He faked the start of an advance and then retreated quickly,
opening up the distance while he silently cast a second spell.
Glyphs of blue light shimmered in the air around him.
The crusader caught up with him and made another spear
thrust. Eilish parried, feinted to the head, and lunged.
BLACK CROWNS | 31
He felt as if he’d simply recognized exactly what to do and was

performing the action impeccably. But he knew that in fact, the
magic he’d conjured had momentarily honed his perception and
agility.
The true attack was a crippling slice to the knee. Blood spurted,
and the Flameguard fell. Eilish followed up with a clanging
stamp kick that wouldn’t penetrate a helmet but might jar the
brain inside, and sure enough, the crusader jerked and then lay
motionless.
Eilish pivoted, looking for the next threat. No one was on the
verge of lopping his head off, and he had a moment to take in the
battle as a whole. All his friends had gotten their robes open and
had weapons in hand.
Colbie was swinging the long, heavy ´jack wrench that doubled
as a mace. The swordsman she was fighting looked surprised at
how skillfully she wielded it. For his part, Eilish was surprised she
didn’t have the slug gun in her hands. But maybe she didn’t want
to expend its single shot and then come under attack before she
could reload. Or perhaps she forbore for fear of the noise. Here
in the deepest cellar, the clatter of blades, sizzle of magic, and
bark of lesser firearms might go unheard or pass for the sound of
alchemists and mechaniks at their labors. The thunderous roar of
a slug gun was less likely to do so.
Milo had pulled on his gasmask but didn’t have many targets
for a knockout bomb or any other sort of grenade. He couldn’t
use them against foes that had already drawn close to him and his
allies. He held one of his knives instead, and when an Exemplar
rushed him, he threw it. The blade spun into the Sul-Menite’s
breastplate and rebounded.
The Exemplar charged into striking distance, and Milo brought
up an inconspicuous little sprayer in his other hand. A stream of
liquid splashed the front of the crusader’s helmet, and the steel
smoked where it landed. The man screamed and staggered. Some
of the acid had squirted through his eye vent.
The shaven-headed Allegiant advanced on Canice. Giving
ground, she fired repeatedly, her hands a blur as she drew one
pistol, discharged it, returned it to its holster or pocket, and

snatched for the next.
But the Allegiant was equally quick, ducking or twisting aside
just as the guns spat flame. Eilish had never seen Canice miss at
point-blank range, but it was happening now and kept happening
until she emptied every one of her single-shot weapons.
The Sul-Menite lunged with one open hand raised to chop
like an axe. Eilish snarled a focusing word, pointed his sword, and
glyphs made of blue light flashed in the air around him. A bolt of
force leaped from the blade and caught the Allegiant in the back.
He stumbled, and as he sought to recover his balance, Canice
reloaded and fired.
The round blasted much of the Allegiant’s head apart.
Apparently the gun mage had used a rune shot enchanted to strike
with supernatural force.
It seemed to Eilish that the Irregulars were acquitting themselves
well so far. Seeing their advantage in numbers rapidly dwindling,
other foes might have reconsidered their continuing onslaught.
But the remaining crusaders came on with the unshakable fervor
for which they were known, and, advancing behind them, the
reclaimer brandished her torch.
When she did, every Sul-Menite’s weapon glowed yellow as the
flame. Eilish only had a fragmentary, hypothetical knowledge of
sacred magic—it didn’t lend itself to academic study and analysis
like the arcane sort—but he inferred the reclaimer had just
enhanced her allies’ swords and spears as he’d briefly quickened
his own blade not long before.
A Flameguard thrust at him with a spear that now looked
glowing hot down the entirety of the blade’s length. Fortunately,
the reclaimer’s spell didn’t make the stroke so forceful or deft that
he failed to parry, but his riposte didn’t land, either. The spearman
snapped his weapon from left to right to stop the cut.
They continued trading attacks, neither able to score. From
the corner of his eye, Eilish spotted a swordsman circling to
attack him from behind and suspected he had only moments left
before two foes attacking in concert would overwhelm him. He
BLACK CROWNS | 33
augmented his skill with magic as he had before and still failed to
penetrate the spearman’s guard.
A pistol banged. The reclaimer staggered, and the glow of the
Menites’ weapons dimmed but then shined steady once again.
A metal egg flew through the crowd of combatants to land
a few paces behind the masked priestess, where it shattered in a
burst of fire that engulfed her but didn’t quite reach anyone else,
though hot air gusted over Eilish. The explosion didn’t set the
reclaimer ablaze, but the violence of it knocked her to her knees
and evidently broke her concentration. The glow of the crusaders’
weapons winked out and didn’t return.
Perceiving the sudden loss of the advantage, the Flameguard
in front of Eilish faltered. Taking advantage of the Sul-Menite’s
confusion, he lunged and stabbed where his foe’s helmet met his
gorget. The two pieces of armor overlapped, but a thrust angled
upward could still pierce the spot where neck became chin. The
Flameguard’s knees buckled beneath him. At once, Eilish sought
to pull the sword free and spin to confront his remaining foe.
The sword stuck in the wound, and if he took the moment
necessary to drag it out, he’d be permitting a possibly lethal assault
from behind. He let go of the hilt and completed the turn.
A blow clashed across his breastplate, jolting him but not
penetrating the fitted plate. He swept out his hand, and a flare of
power painted the Exemplar with bluish, faintly phosphorescent
rime. The Sul-Menite shuddered, momentarily incapacitated by
the chill, and before he could recover, Eilish yanked the man’s own
poniard from its belt sheath and killed him with the same type of
thrust that had dispatched the Flameguard.
Eilish stopped to catch his breath. The swordplay had been a
little taxing, but the magic, more so. He was more resistant to the
strain of spell casting than many other arcanists he’d known, but
still, he felt an ache in the core of him that was the result of using
several spells in rapid succession.
As he peered about, at first it seemed not to matter if he was
tired. No new enemy was advancing to engage him, and his
companions had felled the majority of the Sul-Menite soldiers
and were expeditiously accounting for the rest. Colbie’s swinging

wrench and Milo’s hurled liquids and powders held them back
from Canice, whose pistols flashed and banged to deadly effect.
Then Eilish realized the reclaimer was no longer where he’d seen
her last. He cast about and spotted her hurrying up the stairs. No
doubt she was going for reinforcements. Sufficient reinforcements
to bottle up the intruders in the cellars, hunt them down, and
overwhelm them. If she reached the top of the steps, there’d be
little hope of stopping her.
Eilish pointed. “Look there!”
Canice turned, swore, and fired a shot. The reclaimer jerked
and then scrambled onward.
Eilish decided that, fatigued or no, it was up to him. He rattled
off an incantation, closed his hand, and grinned when he seemed
to feel something clasped inside it. He jerked his arm backward.
Nearly at the top of the stairs, the reclaimer lurched backward
as though something had yanked her, which was in fact the case.
She bounced and tumbled down the old stone risers, and inwardly
Eilish winced at the multiple impacts even though they were
exactly what he’d hoped to accomplish. The metal hose connecting
the torch to the belt reservoir snapped in two, and the refined oil
inside sprayed out, igniting on contact with the air. Milo yelped
and dived out from under a shower of fire arcing over the side of
the staircase. The reclaimer rolled and slid through more of it on
her plunge to the foot of the steps.
Eilish doubted the flames hurt her. Based on the way she’d
weathered his cloud of hot ash and Milo’s grenade, he was
reasonably certain she was fireproof. Still, with any luck at all, the
fall had broken her neck or at least a leg.
But it didn’t. Her tumble completed, she rose. Detached from
its fuel source, her long-handled torch had gone out, but she
swung it in a threatening manner that revealed she’d practiced
using it as a mace.
That was all right. She could die waving it around. Eilish
sucked in a breath and focused his mind for yet another spell.
At the same moment, Canice, who’d evidently finished shooting
BLACK CROWNS | 35
soldiers, stepped up beside him. Metal clicked as she loaded a

fresh round into one of her pistols.
The reclaimer dipped the torch and swung it from right to left,
and though the weapon itself no longer burned, it kindled flame
beneath its arc just as if it did. Roaring, a wall of yellow fire leaped
up from floor to ceiling, blocking the corridor and concealing the
priestess behind its dazzle.
Canice fired anyway, and Eilish hurled a flare of power. But he
suspected neither of them had hit the target.
Nothing blazed back at them. Probably, the reclaimer had
conjured the wall of flame to cover her retreat. He might be able to
extinguish it, but the effort would leech still more of his strength,
and she might already be out of sight by the time it vanished.
“Damn it,” he said, stepping back from the heat of the blaze.
“Shot twice. Blasted by a grenade. Tossed down a staircase. What
is that woman made of?”
“Divine might, partly.” Canice opened the breach of her
magelock and loaded another rune shot. “Or so the Sul-Menites
believe, anyway.”
Colbie and Milo hurried over to them. “Everyone all right?”
the former asked.
“Fine,” Eilish said, and then stiffened at a pulse of pain on the
left side of his chest. It was where a foeman’s sword had struck
him, and such an attack didn’t necessarily have to cleave through
a person’s armor to raise a bruise or even crack a rib. The single-
minded focus of combat had kept him from feeling the injury
hitherto, but now it was making its presence known.
Colbie studied him. “You’re not ‘fine.’ You have blisters where
the reclaimer’s fire burned you and, I’m guessing, another hurt I
can’t see. I imagine you’re also tired from too much spell casting,
as well. Help him, Milo.”
The alchemist proffered a pewter vial from one of the pouches
on his belt. “I distilled this specifically for you. Or a man with
your particular balance of humors.”
Eilish pulled out the stopper, tossed back the liquid in the little
metal bottle, and his mouth stretched at the bitterness. “Next
time you make something especially for me, make it taste better.”
Then he stiffened as a shock jolted him. His heart raced. Only
briefly, though, and when it slowed, the pain was gone, and he
felt taut and vibrant with energy, like a strung bow eager to loose
arrows. From past experience with Milo’s drugs, he knew his body
would repay the loan of this vigor eventually, but with luck, not
until he and his comrades were out of danger.
“Now,” Colbie said, “we have to run. We have a staircase right
in front of us. The reclaimer has to go all the way across this level
to find another. That’s our edge if we move quickly.”
“That, and the priestess not being able to talk,” Milo said.
“I daresay she can communicate with sign language or writing,”
Eilish said. “Colbie’s right. We need to hurry.”
They retrieved the sacks they’d dropped, and the others, their
priestly vestments. With his robe burned, Eilish scavenged a
Flameguard tabard. It had blood on it, and anyone who peered
closely would see that it wasn’t Flameguard armor underneath,
but maybe the disguise would fool unsuspecting people in the
dark.
When everyone was ready, the mercenaries hurried up the
stairs, slowing only when necessary to pick their way through still-
burning splashes of oil without catching themselves on fire.
—4—
AS CANICE AND HER COMPANIONS worked their way up through

the busier cellars, they hurried along in a way that undoubtedly
looked like they felt a sense of urgency but, she hoped, stopped
short of suggesting miscreants engaged in headlong flight.
The corridors echoed with clanging and indistinguishable
voices the same as before, and perhaps, at this moment, everything
was the same. Or maybe the reclaimer had climbed as high as
the intruders, mobilized the artificers she found at their forges
and workbenches, and what Canice was actually hearing was the
mechaniks and alchemists commencing a pursuit.
The possibility was scarcely cause for rejoicing. Yet now that
the plan had come apart, and every moment threatened disaster,
Canice felt less twitchy, less unlike her accustomed self, than she
had at any time since entering Llael. Maybe it was because the
exigencies of combat and running for her life made it difficult to
dwell on anything else, the past included.
The Irregulars reached the ground floor of the fortress without
any pursuers catching up to them and without discovering people

scurrying around in response to some general alarm. So far, so
good.
Eilish turned in the direction of the hole through which they’d
entered the fortress. “Hold it,” Canice said.
“What?”
“If the reclaimer came after us because someone found the
guard Milo gassed, maybe there’s somebody waiting for us to try
to go out the same way.”
Eilish adjusted his stolen tabard. “If that were the case, I’d
expect to see more general commotion on this floor. Although, if
nobody found the sentry, how did the reclaimer know to search
for us?” He grinned at Colbie. “Do you have a guess, Captain, or
shall I flip a coin?”
“The way we came in,” Colbie said. “If we spot someone
waiting for us, we’ll simply walk on by and try a different exit. If
they don’t let us pass by, we’ll fight our way out.”
They strode onward, and soon the hole came into view.
Canice couldn’t see anyone waiting there, nor could she imagine
where ambushers might be lurking unless they’d gone outside
the building entirely. But that seemed unlikely, as, on further
reflection, did the entire notion of a trap. The average officer
would simply station a squad of soldiers in plain sight with orders
to detain or kill any suspicious characters who happened along.
They passed through the opening without incident. The
incapacitated guard still lay unconscious in the low, shadowy
place at the foot of the wall.
Canice frowned. As Eilish had said, if no one had found the
unconscious soldier, how did the reclaimer know to search for
intruders? There was no obvious explanation, and she didn’t like
circumstances she couldn’t understand. Not when they arose in
the middle of a job.
But she supposed the important thing was that she and her
comrades had made it outside the citadel. They hurried on toward
the tunnel checkpoint through which they’d passed dressed as
laborers. If it was guarded in the morning and at dusk, the same
BLACK CROWNS | 39
was surely true in the dead of night, but their disguises ought to
see them through, and if not, this time they had their gear.
Then, at their backs, steam whistles screeched from on high.
Maybe the founders of the Order of the Golden Crucible had
installed them to warn of Orgoth threats, and now the Sul-
Menites were using them to sound the alarm.
But they didn’t rely on the whistles alone. A few moments
later, bells sounded a steady dong-dong-dong. Glancing back,
Canice glimpsed clockwork figures in the upper reaches of the
fortress striking the bells with hammers. The wailing and clangor
combined to make a cacophony.
Eilish smiled a crooked smile. “There’s the voice of the reclaimer.”
“Keep moving!” Colbie snapped. “The men stationed at the
tunnel don’t know why there’s an alert. We’ll say we need to pass
through to help deal with the problem.”
They hurried onward, rounded a corner, and faltered. Partway
down the block stood a warjack. It had a beak-nosed steel mask
of a face topped with a sort of Menofix-emblazoned miter that,
combined with a ´jack’s typical hunchbacked frame, made it
look vaguely like a bipedal holy turtle. It carried huge flail in its
right fist and had what Canice took to be some sort of ranged
weapon integrated into its left arm. The spikes projecting from its
shoulders reminded her fleetingly of Gardek.
The automaton loomed over three men in armor, one of them
presumably its marshal. They all happened to be looking in the
Irregulars’ direction.
Recovering from their surprise, the mercenaries strode
onward. But perhaps the momentary balk had aroused the patrol’s
suspicions. The tallest of the crusaders shouted, “Halt!”
“There’s no time for protocol,” Colbie rapped. “You heard
the alarm. Khadoran agents are in Old Town. Have you spotted
anything suspicious?”
“No,” the tall crusader said. “How many are there? What are
they doing?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” Colbie said. “Keep patrolling
and stay alert. We have orders for the men on the wall.”
The Sul-Menite hesitated. Then he said, “I need to see written

orders. Failing that, I at least need more information and a better
look at you.” He squinted. “What’s in those bags, and why is the
Flameguard—“
Canice dropped the sacks she was carrying, plunged her hands
into her robe’s pockets, and snatched out her holdout pistols.
Even in expert hands, such small, short-barreled guns were often
inaccurate beyond close range, but when she fired, this pair didn’t
let her down. Two of the three men blocking the way, the one
she’d interrupted in mid-sentence and the one to his right, reeled
and started to fall.
Before the bodies hit the ground, Eilish backed her play. A bolt
of turquoise light blazed into the center of the third man’s chest
and knocked him down as well. Whirring, the warjack’s conical
head swiveled to regard the creatures of flesh and blood that had
fallen around it. They looked like children next to its massive feet.
Holding her breath, opening her vestments in case the worse
befell, Canice hoped that looking was all the automaton would
do. Kill a marshal before he could give orders and his ´jack might
stand passively thereafter. Probably not, but at least it wouldn’t
fight quite as effectively.
Sure enough, luck wasn’t on her side. Even with the marshal
out of action, the automaton raised its arm with the ranged
weapon built in. She and the other Irregulars scattered.
A stream of fire leaped from the outstretched limb. The
discharge didn’t catch any of its scurrying targets, but it did wash
over the sacks Canice had dropped to grab her holdout pistols.
She hoped nothing was inside that Mr. Goncal would miss.
Blue symbols flickered in the air around Eilish. “I’ll try to hold
its attention! The rest of you, take it down!”
Shifting from side to side, he hammered the warjack with bolts
of arcane force. Canice had a hunch the continued dodging was
to keep the automaton from realizing magic had for the moment
rendered him fireproof.
Meanwhile, Canice, Colbie, and Milo circled, trying to get
closer to the ´jack while maneuvering behind it as well, the two
BLACK CROWNS | 41
women swinging left and the little alchemist right. Colbie said,
“I’ll crack the Repenter open. If that doesn’t stop it, you shoot
something special into its guts.”
Don’t tell me how to be a gun mage, Canice reflexively thought.
But in fact, the tactic Colbie proposed had served them well before,
and Canice didn’t have the proper rune shots loaded to play her
part to best advantage. As she hurried forward, years of practice
enabled her to open the pistols, find the proper ammunition, and
close the guns again without fumbling or needing to look at what
she was doing.
The Repenter warjack sprayed fire left and right, and the stream
finally swept over Eilish. He screamed and staggered, playacting
intended to fool the automaton for another second or two.
Maybe it did, but soon enough, the Repenter’s glowing red
optics discerned that the man before it hadn’t actually caught on
fire. At that point, it lumbered forward, the brass and steel flail
upraised to smash.
Inwardly, Canice cursed. She and Colbie had hoped to circle
behind their foe, then take a moment to aim carefully at whatever
the mechanik with her knowledge of Protectorate warjacks deemed
the most vulnerable part, possibly the steam engine or boiler. But
now they needed to attack without delay if they wanted to disable
the Repenter before it closed with Eilish.
Veering, Colbie dashed closer to the ´jack. Ironically, given the
difference in size, slug guns were about as inaccurate as holdout
pistols beyond short range, and the captain wanted to ensure she
wouldn’t miss. Canice followed. At the same moment, one of
Milo’s grenades exploded on the other side of the warjack, swaying
it on its massive legs. Another of Eilish’s luminous bolts crumpled
the automaton’s miter.
Yet despite the harassment, the Repenter registered Colbie and
Canice closing in and chose to pivot in their direction. Its extended
left arm made a preliminary hissing noise, proof it hadn’t inferred
that all the humans were impervious to flame.
Canice and Colbie dived forward under the crackling flare.
The slug gun roared, and the Repenter’s torso ruptured a little
above the legs. Canice closed her eyes just before bits of metal
peppered her face.
When she opened them an instant later, the three huge steel
orbs on the end of the Repenter’s flail were sweeping down at
Colbie. Rolling, the captain flung herself out from underneath.
Canice barely heard the impacts—the thunder of the slug gun had
for the moment deafened her—but they jolted the ground.
She fired one magelock into the ragged breach the slug gun had
opened. She couldn’t actually see what happened in the Repenter’s
murky interior, but unless some special warding or alchemical
process armored it against the effect, the rune shot spread a web
of rust and corrosion through the automaton’s inner workings.
She gave the magic an instant to reach as far as it could. Then,
as the still functional ´jack lurched toward her, she discharged the
second magelock. With luck, its rune shot would smash home
hard enough to shake the compromised gearing and such to pieces
and put the automaton out of commission.
It did. Just as the nozzle of the flame thrower swung to target
her anew, the Repenter froze. The crimson eyes still glowed, but
Canice had severed some essential link between cortex and limbs.
She stood up and reloaded in a leisurely way that proclaimed
she was confident of her work and in no hurry to step away from
the flamethrower. Like action in general, that bit of bravado
helped her feel more like the normal Canice Gormleigh, the one
who’d expected never to set foot in Llael again.
Her comrades gathered around. With a clack, Colbie opened
the breach of her slug gun. “Everyone all right?”
“Yes.” Eilish gave Canice a sour look. “But I wish you hadn’t let
your sacks catch on fire.”
She glowered back. “We all had to drop our bags to fight. The
burnt ones could just as easily have been yours.”
“We still have most of the prize,” Colbie said. “Pick it up and
move on.”
They collected the remaining bags. Then, farther on toward
the gate through which they’d hoped to pass, voices called, and
beams of light swept back and forth.
BLACK CROWNS | 43
Other crusaders had heard the noise of the battle and were
coming to investigate. The Irregulars ran in the opposite direction.
“Where’s another tunnel?” Milo gasped.
“Given the general alarm,” Eilish said, “and the disturbance we
just created, I wouldn’t count on being able to go out any of them.
We could use a better option.”
Canice tried to think of one. As a former Resistance operative
she had frequently needed to improvise a means of escape,
although as an enforcer in Corvis she had more often been the
pursuer than the pursued.
Evidently her old aptitudes hadn’t withered away. After a few
more strides, a notion came to her.
“Up the wall,” she said.
“The guards on the battlements will be on alert, too,” Eilish
replied.
“That’s why we aren’t going up one of the staircases,” Canice
said.
Milo grinned. “I understand.”
They had to detour twice more to avoid the squads of crusaders
who were clearly emerging from Thunderhead Fortress or
secondary bastions in increasingly numbers. Then the wall came
into view. They worked their way along it until they reached a
spot where a team of builders had erected scaffolding.
“There’s where we climb,” Canice said.
Rarely entirely happy when someone else had been cleverer than
he, Eilish replied, “I hope we can get the sacks up the ladders.”
“It’s a construction site,” Colbie said. “There has to be rope
lying around somewhere.”
She was right, and in just a few minutes, they hauled themselves
and the six remaining bags to the top of the wall. But when they
looked over the other side, Milo spat in disgust. The search had
expanded beyond Old Town, and crusaders and warjacks were
prowling around down there as well.
“It’s all right,” Canice said. “I’ve got another idea.”
She led her comrades prowling to the left along the gentle
curve of the battlements. The magelocks were ready in her hands.
She didn’t know precisely where the Irregulars had ascended in

relation to her objective or what might lie between. If they came
up on a turret or somewhere else guards were stationed, they’d
have to fight their way through.
But for the first time that night—or at least it felt that way—
luck was with them. They made their way unopposed until,
emerging from the wall itself and perhaps half as tall, a tunnel
ran away from it like a spoke from the hub of a wheel, cutting a
straight line through the slums of the middle precinct.
“It goes all the way to the Outer Ward,” Canice said. “You’ve
seen that’s where the prosperous merchants and craftsmen live.
In times past, they persuaded the archduke to build this passage
and another like it so they could go to Old Town and back again
without having to pick their way through the paupers and filth of
New Town.”
“No doubt a cheaper alternative than lifting up the wretched
masses,” Eilish drawled. “How do we get inside it?”
“We don’t,” Canice said. “We run along the roof.”
They looped the rope around a merlon, made their descents,
and pulled the line down after them. Then they trotted forward.
The tunnel was broad enough, and the curve of its arched roof
accordingly gentle enough, that Canice had no fear of falling. She
did, however, feel exposed. If one of the Sul-Menites searching the
streets happened to look up, he might well spot the four figures
silhouetted against the night sky.
The sense of danger wasn’t wholly unpleasant. It opened her
senses and made her feel acutely present.
Happily, no one spotted them and raised the alarm, fired a
shot, or sent a crossbow bolt hurtling in their direction. As the
wall separating the Dregs from the Outer Ward came into view
through the darkness ahead, she wondered how the Irregulars
might best descend from their present height to the ground. The
tunnel wasn’t so high that jumping was out of the question, but
neither were sprained ankles.
When she asked, Milo poured a vial of liquid onto the roof,
where instead of spilling away down the curve as she would have
BLACK CROWNS | 45
expected, it emitted a puff of smoke and thickened into pale,

clinging sludge.
“Glue,” the alchemist said. “Strong enough to grip one end of
the rope even with a man’s weight hanging on the other. Probably.
It’s new.”
Eilish grinned. “We have nothing but faith in your abilities.
Still, after you.”
Milo climbed down safely, and Eilish and Canice followed.
Colbie lowered the sacks of books and then brought up the rear.
Though now dirtier and more rumpled than before, the
Irregulars’ disguises and Canice’s insistence they had urgent
business at the Temple of the Lawgiver, the Outer Ward’s largest
house of Menite worship, saw them past respectful guards and
through a tunnel gate. The whole city had heard the whistles
shrilling and bells clanging from Thunderhead Fortress, but
people also assumed the considerable resources of Old Town
would handle whatever emergency the racket proclaimed. They
were slow to behave as if all Leryn should go on high alert.
As the search continued to expand, carrying word of the
intruders who’d dared to impersonate initiates and religious
functionaries, invade the now-sacred stronghold, and even kill
true servants of Menoth, that would change. But as long as the
Irregulars stayed ahead of the pursuit, they could hope to find
their path clear before them. Still, when the livery stable came
into view, Milo raised his hand to bring everyone to a halt.
Canice scrutinized the long wooden structure and didn’t see
anything amiss. “What?” she whispered.
“The stable master didn’t strike me as an idiot,” the alchemist
replied. “We paid him to have the horses ready for a late-night
departure, he heard the alarm, surely he suspects we’re the reason
for it.”
“In which case,” Eilish said, “he may have summoned Allegiants
or someone else inconvenient.”
“I’ll check,” Milo said.
He discarded his disguise before skulking toward the stable.
Canice, Colbie, and Eilish doffed theirs as well. The stable master
hadn’t seen them garbed in vestments hitherto, and, if he wasn’t

suspicious already, such garments would surely make him so.
Milo peeked in a window, then waved his comrades forward.
Together, they entered the stable.
The horses were saddled and ready. Except for the stable
master, a stout man well on the way to losing his graying hair, no
one was in sight.
“You’re all set,” the stableman said.
“Thank you.” Colbie extracted an extra coin from the pouch
on her belt—a clay Protectorate mark, Canice observed with
approval, not anything metallic and Cygnaran—and put in his
hand. “Sorry we kept you from your bed.”
As the mercenaries secured the bags of stolen books and papers
to their saddles, the stable master said. “I do know.”
The intelligent response was to feign innocence, but Canice
had a feeling the man would only laugh if they did. “Evidently
you don’t mind.”
“It sounded like whatever you did, the crusaders don’t like it.”
“Not so much.”
“Then I don’t mind a bit. We had Menites in Leryn before the
country came apart. They were all right. But these fanatics?” He
spat in the straw at his feet. “They’re as bad as the Khadorans, and
they’ll never leave by their own choice, either. Someday, somehow,
somebody will have to boot them out.”
Neither you nor I is likely to live long enough to see it, Canice
thought. It annoyed her when, a moment after that wholly rational
appraisal, she felt an irrational, unaccustomed twinge of shame.
“Were you planning to go out the nearest gate?” the stable
master continued.
Canice frowned. If admitting she and her comrades were
fugitives had been imprudent, confiding their plans would be
more so. “Perhaps.”
“Go to the smaller one a tick farther north. The guards there
are stupid. A smuggler I know slips contraband past them all the
time.”
Colbie opted to take his advice, and it turned out to be sound.
BLACK CROWNS | 47
The sentries allowed them through after only a perfunctory

challenge.
Once clear of the city, the Irregulars galloped west on a highway
until nearly dawn, putting as much distance as possible between
Leryn and themselves. Then Canice led her companions into a
forest and onto the first of a network of trails known to Llaelese
hunters, trappers, and Resistance agents but not, she hoped, to
the Sul-Menites.
—5—
HIS HANDS ON THE HELM, Gardek Stonebrow scrutinized the broad

expanse of the Black River—which was actually gray currently,
under a cloudy sky threatening rain—for dangers natural and
otherwise. He fancied he’d gotten pretty good at steering the little
flat-bottomed sidewheeler and spotting sunken logs and the like
while he did it.
With a twitch of a smile, he reflected that piloting was pretty
much all he’d contributed to this particular job. Apparently
things had gotten dicey in Leryn, but the human members of
the company had battled their way clear while the two strongest
hand-to-hand fighters—three, if you counted Doorstop—had an
uneventful time of it guarding the boat.
That had disgusted Natak, but Gardek didn’t really mind.
Though he’d been accused of it, he, unlike the ogrun, didn’t harbor a
savage yearning for combat. Not until something made it personal,
and this was just another job. A job the Irregulars were well on their
way to completing. They just had to make it back to Corvis.
They were doing so in the same way they’d traveled north, in

the guise of traders. The Black River was pretty much the dividing
line between Khadoran Llael and Northern Crusade Llael, and
Khadoran Llael and Free Llael farther south, and as a result, no
one really controlled it. That made it dangerous. A merchant
could blunder into a battle between opposing forces or run afoul
of some other problem only to discover that the folk in charge on
either bank had more pressing concerns than helping solve it.
Yet, hungry for coin, traders plied the river anyway. Many
were Rhulfolk, but not all. A “crew” like the Irregulars didn’t look
shockingly out of the ordinary.
Although, Gardek reflected, they weren’t all behaving in a
notably crew-like manner, either.
Colbie and Pog were. They were keeping the steam engine
stoked and in good working order. From time to time, they also
checked on Doorstop.
Gardek didn’t see the point of that. Wrapped in an oily tarp
to keep out the damp, his firebox unlit and his boiler cold,
the steamjack, who’d started out as a laborjack and whom the
mechaniks were modifying bit by bit into a warjack, lay inert and
safely stowed away to conserve coal and to keep him from tipping
overboard. But he was their baby, and they doted on him, the
human covertly and the gobber openly.
Clad in a broad-brimmed hat and armored greatcoat once
more, although not the gaudy red and yellow outerwear she
affected in Corvis, Canice spent much of her time staring at the
hills, fields, and woods sliding past on either side. She seemed less
edgy than on the trip north, but melancholy, too, as if, despite her
reluctance to return to Llael, some part of her regretted leaving
again so soon.
Natak alternately kept an eye on her like a loyal hound
watching its mistress and stomped back and forth practicing
battle axe fighting to the extent the confines of the deck allowed.
Part of the time, Milo labored in the space he’d claimed for his
workroom to replenish the grenades and other alchemical weapons
he’d expended in Leryn. When he wasn’t doing that, the small man
BLACK CROWNS | 51
studied the stolen—or rather, recovered—books and papers.

He sometimes bickered with Eilish to obtain the ones he
wanted. The scholar was devoting all his time to poring over the
cache, and somewhat to Gardek’s annoyance, at present he was
doing so in the pilothouse that was rather too small for the two
of them and periodically regaling his indifferent comrade with the
trivia he discovered therein.
He hadn’t blathered since exchanging a green journal for a
black-bound one, and Gardek wondered if he’d grown tired of
his own voice. But that was scarcely possible, and in time, he
declared, “This is fascinating.”
Gardek grunted. “That will make it the first.”
“You know, you needn’t work to maintain a dull and empty
mind. You have a natural aptitude.”
“All right, schoolboy, dazzle me. Did you learn how to grow
wings and fly or raise a fortress with a snap of your fingers?”
“Alas, no. Nor am I likely to. I’ve already completed an initial
reading of the grimoires, and as I predicted, there’s nothing like
that. Although Milo has unearthed a minor alchemical nugget or
two.”
The boat rounded a bend. A goodly distance ahead, another
vessel, this one a sternwheeler, was likewise churning its way
south. Gardek picked up a brass spyglass, pulled the telescoping
sections out to their full length, and raised it to his eye. The other
boat was a merchant craft just like his was supposed to be, and the
humans onboard weren’t paying the craft behind them any special
attention.
Gardek collapsed the spyglass and took a fresh grip on the
helm. “What have you got, then?”
“A memoir of the Orgoth invasion of the country to the west
penned by an Umbrean horselord who witnessed it all firsthand.
I’ve never even heard of this book before, but here it is. The
author describes the battles, the few costly victories and the many
crushing defeats, the relentless advance of the terrifying foe, and
desperate refugees fleeing to remote mountain strongholds after
hiding their wealth and cherished heirlooms.”
“Does it say where to look?”

“Not in the first five chapters. It jumps around in time
and from subject to subject. The writer wasn’t notably good at
organizing his material.”
“Tell me when you find a treasure map.”
Eilish sighed. “I thought you might at least be interested in
the battles.”
“Why? It wasn’t Cygnar fighting them, and they were over a
long time ago.”
On the boat ahead, a small something gleamed in the feeble
sunlight. Gardek surmised it was the glass in the end of somebody
else’s spyglass. The crew of the approaching vessel was very sensibly
looking over the Irregulars’ craft as he’d scrutinized theirs.
“Obviously,” Eilish said, “but it’s precisely the fact that the book
provides a window on a time and situation divorced from our own
lives that makes it so wonderful. The information expands the
mind. It lends perspective.”
A strip of lighter-colored water appeared. It indicated a
sandbar, and Gardek prepared to steer toward the center of the
river to avoid it.
“I doubt it,” he said. “When I see something new with my
own eyes, like things we’ve stumbled across in the Undercity, that
‘expands’ my mind. But words in a book? They can’t really show
you what it was like to live and fight and die in the time of the
Orgoth. If you think they are, you’re fooling yourself.”
A goodly portion of the river brightened, and Gardek frowned
with concern that, while he’d spotted the one sandbar, he had
until this moment missed spotting a larger shallow patch behind
it. But an instant later, the water reverted to its former dull gray.
Probably the sun had shined through a momentary gap in the
cloud cover.
“But you like songs,” Eilish said. “Songs with lyrics that tell
stories.”
“The tunes make them feel like something.”
“A subtle reader…never mind. You’ll never be one of those. But
consider this. Colbie wants to make generals of us all, or near enough.
BLACK CROWNS | 53
This book could teach you the strategies the horselords used.”
“Then I could lose like they did.”
Eilish laughed. “Why do I even try?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the answer to that is in—”
Something jolted the boat. The helm jerked in Gardek’s hands,
and the deck shuddered under his feet. The bow swung in the
direction of the sandbar. He struggled to turn it back, but to no
avail. Something was wrong with the steering, and in that first
moment of alarm, he, neophyte pilot that he was, couldn’t think
what it might be.
Pog scrambled forward to goggle into the pilothouse. “The
starboard wheel stopped turning!” the gobber cried. “Disengage it
or we’ll tear everything up!” He scurried away again, no doubt to
address the malfunction farther aft.
Gardek yanked the levers to disengage both wheels. With
the starboard one out of commission, the port one couldn’t turn
without angling the boat toward the sandbar. The helm on this
particular vessel mainly operated by controlling how much power
went to each wheel at any given moment, but it also connected to
a rudder, and he tried to steer the craft with that alone.
It didn’t work. Maybe the current was too strong, or his skill,
insufficient. The boat scraped and shook as it ran aground. Natak
shouted obscenities.
Eilish picked up the couple volumes that had slid around the
pilothouse during the collision and inspected them for damage.
“Perhaps,” he said, “if you’d read a book on steering.”
“I meant to fetch up on the sandbar,” Gardek lied. “It will be
easier to fix what’s wrong in the shallows, and afterward, we can
push the boat off.” Now that he thought about it, maybe what he
was saying was even valid.
Then he spotted what, intent on contending with the
malfunction, he hadn’t noticed before. The other boat had
come about and was steaming toward the sandbar. A man in the
bow smiled and waved his empty hands over his head to signal
benevolent intentions.
Gardek pointed. “Are they coming to help?”
Eilish looked and then stiffened. “No! They’re now moving

against the current. To be as close as they are already, they had to
come about before we ran aground. Somehow, they knew it was
going to happen.”
Gardek grabbed and cocked his crossbow. The humans on the
other boat still didn’t look like they were preparing for combat,
nor were there enough of them in view to make it seem like they
were pirates. But much as he and Eilish needled one another, he’d
learned to trust the arcanist’s powers of observation, and he didn’t
doubt him now.
Scrambling out of the pilothouse, he and the wizard shouted
warnings to their comrades. Gardek aimed his crossbow at the
man in the bow of the other boat, who continued his cheerful
non-aggressive display. Eilish drew his sword and a circle of
flickering blue symbols suddenly flared around him.
Gardek felt a coolness slide over his body. From past experience,
he knew Eilish had just sheathed him, and surely himself, in an
extra layer of magical armor.
By displaying the luminous floating symbols, Eilish had also
proclaimed himself an arcanist. Maybe, realizing their ruse had
failed and formidable foes were ready to resist them, the pirates
would turn away to seek easier prey.
They didn’t. They came straight on in their seemingly peaceable
fashion. Then wood groaned, and the bow of the mercenaries’
boat tilted toward the sky. Something heavy was pressing down
the stern. Now it was Canice’s turn to cry a warning, and one of
her pistols banged.
Gardek spun and then, for an instant, faltered in surprise. Over
the course of the past few years, he’d seen some strange things,
starting with the rampage of the risen dead in Corvis that claimed
his brother’s life, but never anything quite like this.
Made of black metal, joints sealed with an equally dark but
shinier and more flexible substance, the hulking figure was clearly
a ´jack of some sort, though it had an unusual smokestack that
prevented water from pouring into it and extinguishing its fire,
allowing it to wade on the river bottom. Its maker had embedded
BLACK CROWNS | 55
human skull faces in its chassis, and the eye sockets glowed
a poisonous green. So did its own optics in a head molded to
resemble a bigger skull with fangs and horns like a goat’s. The
hands that had crippled the starboard wheel and possibly torn
away the rudder were disproportionately large even in relation to
the bulky arms and had fingers that tapered into curving serrated
blades at the tips.
The kingdoms of Immoren frequently waged war on one
another, but theirs were the conflicts and enmities of normal,
living people, passing or at least intermittent. But in the islands to
the west reigned Toruk the Dragonfather, master of Cryx, a realm
of necromancers, undead, and other horrors. The Dragonfather
hated all the Iron Kingdoms equally and ceaselessly, and his
Nightmare Empire dispatched wave after wave of raiders to wreak
havoc irrespective of whatever else was going on at the time.
Gardek hadn’t heard of Cryxians attacking boats on the Black
River. But the skull-faced automaton was surely one of their
helljacks.
He shot his crossbow at one of the green optic lenses, but the
warjack pivoted at the same instant, and the bolt skipped off black
metal. Pistols in both hands, Canice fired rounds that ricocheted as
well. Natak roared a challenge, raised his battle axe, and advanced,
while Colbie stuck her head out of the cabin housing the engine
to find out what was going on.
Then the world burst into glare, and there was a crash as
something slammed Gardek sideways. Something else bashed him
on the temple.
•••
AN EXPLOSION ERUPTED IN THE FRONT OF THE BOAT. Framed in the

open hatch that led from the engine cabin to the deck, Colbie lost
her balance and fell backward. Pog stumbled backward, too, and
his back landed against the firebox.
He yelped, recoiled from the heat, and hurried to the captain.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she snapped, standing up, “but we’ve been boarded,
and more enemies are on their way.” She pulled on the armored
greatcoat she’d previously laid aside, grabbed the slug gun hanging
from its crisscrossed straps inside, and opened the breach to load it.
“Doorstop,” Pog said.
“Even with Milo’s accelerants,” Colbie said, “there’s no time for
him to build up a head of steam. We’ll have to manage without
him.”
Pog winced. Since becoming the Black River Irregulars’
least battle-ready recruit, he’d grown somewhat accustomed to
fighting, but only when he could shelter behind the steamjack
and direct him to commit the actual mayhem. When that was
impossible, combat was as scary as ever. But he had his job to
do and his friends to help, so he scurried on deck to fetch the
handheld weapons Colbie insisted he practice with. Unlike his
comrades, he didn’t have the habit of keeping the cumbersome
articles constantly within easy reach.
Before moving farther, he cast about lest some danger take him
by surprise. Ducking and dodging the enormous clawed hands
that sought to catch him, battle axe chopping Natak circled a
black, skull-faced automaton. Despite his love of mechanika—or
perhaps because of it—Pog hated the thing on sight. He could feel
there was something foul, something that polluted what should
have been the clean ingenuity of cortex, reflex triggers, gears, and
pressure, propelling it in its efforts to kill.
A grim little smile on her face, the wind tugging at the brim
of her hat and the dyed hair beneath, Canice shot the helljack
repeatedly. His bandoliers hanging a bit loosely because he hadn’t
taken time to pull on the combat alchemist’s vest that usually
went underneath, Milo hovered with a grenade in his upraised
hand. Whatever was inside, he was waiting for a moment to throw
it when the contents wouldn’t splash Natak.
But where were Gardek and Eilish? Pog turned toward the bow
and gasped.
The boat had two cabins. Pog had just emerged from the one
aft, which housed the engine and had the smokestack sticking up
from it. The one forward contained space for bunks and storage as
BLACK CROWNS | 57
well as the pilothouse at the very front. His current vantage point
provided only a limited view of that end, but he could still tell
that the explosion from moments before had pretty much blown
the pilothouse to bits. The bounty hunter and the arcanist had
been inside when he’d seen them last.
Now Gardek—or his corpse—hung draped over the gunwale
with blood flowing from a gash in his temple. Eilish was nowhere
in sight. Maybe he was buried under debris or the blast had flung
him overboard.
Beyond the bow, a sternwheeler churned closer by the second.
For an instant, Pog imagined it might be coming to help. Then he
realized the truth.
The boat had a steam lobber mounted on its bow to hurl
projectiles. Clustered behind the small artillery piece waited a
boarding party made up of four disparate groups.
A few of the enemy were living human beings. They must
have steered the vessel toward its prey while their companions
concealed themselves in the cabin or below deck. Otherwise,
Eilish and Gardek surely would have raised the alarm sooner.
Several of the boarders were slouching, glassy-eyed corpses
in various stages of decay. Most wore the trappings of Northern
Crusade or Khadoran soldiers. Perhaps the necromancer who’d
reanimated them had scavenged the bodies off a battlefield.
Or maybe he and his living associates had slaughtered them
themselves. The latter looked like they would have relished the
opportunity.
Some were ogrun like Natak, but with skins that were coal-
black instead of the ruddy brown of fired clay and an avidity in
their glares that seemed not just ferocious but maniacal. Each
clutched a long gun with the head of a harpoon protruding from
the muzzle and a reel of chain mounted on the butt.
The rest looked like slender human females but with long
horns curving up from their brows. In contrast to the black ogrun,
some of whom had begun to twitch, shudder, or bite their own
forearms with bloodlust, they were composed, but their sneers
hinted that on the inside, they too were eager to kill.
One of the black ogrun raised his weapon and fired. The
harpoon streaked at Pog with rattling chain playing out behind
it. He threw himself flat, and, with a crack, the weapon embedded
itself in the deck behind him.
He scuttled into the rear of what was left of the forward cabin.
The temptation came to him to cower in the cover it provided,
and he thrust the impulse away. He tore open the trunk that
contained his few belongings that weren’t tools. He belted on the
trench knife, loaded the five chambers of the repeating pistol, and
ran back on deck. Peeking around the corner of the cabin, he
gripped the gun in both hands and, trying to take time to aim,
keep his eyes open, and exhale with each squeeze of the trigger as
Canice had taught him, started firing.
As far as he could tell, he didn’t hit anyone. He did, however,
prompt the enemy to send more harpoons flying at him. They
missed him and, hurtling onward, missed his comrades as well.
Still fighting the helljack in the stern, the other Irregulars had
cover from both the forward and aft cabins.
Still, it was lucky none of them had taken a harpoon in the
back, and in another minute, everyone’s luck would run out. Pog
couldn’t fend off the boarding party by himself.
His pistol empty, he darted toward the stern. Another harpoon
and chain clattered over his head, and then Colbie’s slug gun
roared. A hole popped open in the horned automaton’s chassis,
and the helljack lurched off balance. Natak, Canice, and Milo
maneuvered to attack the now-vulnerable spot with axe, pistol,
and alchemical weapons.
It was progress of a sort but insufficient. Pog ran to Colbie,
who was busy reloading the slug gun, and tugged on the skirt of
her greatcoat. “The other boat!” he gasped.
“I know,” she said. “They’re coming. As soon as we finish off
the ´jack—”
“Take a good look at them!”
Colbie turned and shifted far enough to the side to see around
the cabins. “Damn it! Irregulars, retreat! Over the sandbar! It’s our
bridge to the shore!”
BLACK CROWNS | 59
Natak struck a clanking blow with the battle axe. “One more
second!”
“Now!” Canice shouted, and at her word, ducking a jerky,
poorly aimed sweep of the helljack’s talons, Natak backed away.
When Pog jumped over the side, he plunged into water up to
his nose. A big hand grabbed him, heaved him up, and carried
him to the sandbar faster than he could have floundered his way
unaided.
Even there, the several inches of water might have slowed a
gobber, but Natak didn’t set him down to find out. The ogrun ran
on with his battle axe in one hand and Pog cradled in the other
massive arm.
“Thank you!” said Pog.
“Shut up, or I’ll use you as a shield.”
They both could have used one. Harpoons flew at the Irregulars,
sometimes missing by inches. At intervals, Canice turned and shot
back. Colbie fired one more blast from the slug gun and then just
ran thereafter. Possibly she was out of ammunition.
Milo seemingly hurled a grenade, and some of the enemy
cringed. But no explosion followed because really, he’d kept
the metal orb in his hand. Out of throwing range, he’d mimed
flinging it to balk the barrage of harpoons.
The enemy boat stopped adjacent to the mercenaries’ vessel
and the sandbar. Black ogrun and the risen dead scrambled to
pursue their foes. Some of the former had the wit to choose an
expeditious route onto the sandbar. Everyone else was either too
berserk or mindless and simply leaped into the deeper water.
“Come back!” a bass voice shouted. Human, by the timbre.
“Secure the boat!”
Upon that command, their limbs shivering and their faces
twitching and snarling in frustration, even the most bloodthirsty
black ogrun abandoned the chase. So did the walking corpses. The
fugitives stumbled onto the riverbank and then into the relative
safety of the woods above it.
—6—
EILISH OPENED HIS EYES TO A BLURRY CHAOS of little dark and light
shapes and a clinking sound. He ached all over, his throat was raw
with thirst, and at first he didn’t understand where he was or what
was happening.
Then he realized the dark shapes were crisscrossed scraps of
timber, and the light, the bits of overcast sky that showed through
the gaps. He lay under a pile of debris, and the clinking was the
noise of someone lifting it away piece by piece.
Comprehension snapped his memories into focus. The other
boat had been approaching. The crew hadn’t looked threatening,
but that was a deception. He and Gardek sought to frighten them
off, the trollkin by pointing his crossbow, and he, by casting a
spell that served the dual purpose of proclaiming his arcane
prowess and wrapping them both in protective mystical energy.
The pirates kept coming anyway.
Then, hearing a commotion, he’d turned to find out what was
going on in the stern but didn’t quite make it. Something blew
up the pilothouse and hammered him with the flying wreckage.

Perhaps due to the shielding enchantment, the fragments hadn’t
killed him, but they obviously had stunned and buried him.
How long ago had that been? Had Gardek survived? What
happened to the rest of his friends?
A splintered plank came away from his head. The creature
holding it in gray, seeping hands was one of the risen dead. Trails
of dried slime streaked its skin below the nostrils and slack mouth.
It reeked of decay and wore the battered armor and filthy, ragged
surcoat of the Khadoran cavalryman it had been in life.
Still aching, Eilish scarcely felt in peak condition for more spell
casting, but in light of what was looming over him, he suspected
he needed to try. He decided to try whispering an incantation
aloud to help him focus. The dead man was unlikely to notice and
wouldn’t recognize the threat if it did.
He swallowed twice and managed to moisten his throat a little.
He murmured the first word. Then the blade of a scimitar slipped
through the opening in the rubble to press its needlepoint against
his throat. “Well, well,” lilted a sweet soprano voice, “the pretty
one survived, too. Haul him out and restrain him. Kill him if he
even thinks about working a spell.”
The woman—or womanlike creature—holding the sword was
tall, slender, and clad in red leather armor. With lustrous brown
eyes and high cheekbones, her face could have been lovely, but
in Eilish’s estimation, the crimson symbols painted on it, glyphs
associated with dark magic, marred it even more than the horns
twisting up from her temples.
She was a Satyxis. A creature out of Cryx.
This was bad, perhaps even worse than if the Northern Crusade
had captured him. The Protectorate of Menoth was the enemy
of Cygnar. The Nightmare Empire was the enemy of civilization
itself, of all that was decent and sane.
The thrall, as dead men raised to slave for the living were
called, finished uncovering Eilish and heaved him to his feet. On
the way up, he thought to look for his sword but couldn’t see it,
not that he actually thought much of his chances of snatching and
BLACK CROWNS | 63
wielding it before the Satyxis stabbed him in the neck.

The thrall shifted behind its captive and gripped his forearms.
Apparently satisfied, the horned woman lowered the scimitar and
glanced around the boat. Eilish did the same.
Another thrall continued picking through the wreckage of
the pilothouse. Beyond it, Gardek lay atop a scatter of debris.
He wasn’t moving, blood from a gash on his brow painted much
of his blue head the color of rust, and chain wrapped him from
ankles to shoulders, the links winding their way among the spikes
jutting from his armor. Eilish told himself the chain was cause for
relief and not dismay. It meant the trollkin was alive.
Armed with some sort of harpoon gun, a black ogrun sentry
watched the river. Another stood at the landward end of the
sandbar keeping an eye on the woods above the riverbank.
As best Eilish could judge from his limited vantage point—
both the forward cabin, or what was left of it, and the aft one
obstructed his view—other walking corpses, horned women,
black ogrun, and a couple living humans were busy searching the
boat. In the stern hulked a horned metal figure with grinning
skull faces studding the chassis. Surely a Cryxian helljack of some
sort.
Aside from Gardek, none of the other mercenaries was
anywhere in sight. Perhaps they’d retreated up the sandbar into
the trees, and that was why the one sentry was watching the
shore. If so, good for them, and also curse them for abandoning
their comrades. Although Eilish didn’t truly mean the latter. They
wouldn’t have done it if they’d had any other choice.
The dead man pawing through the debris picked up the green
journal detailing alchemical research vital to the Order of the
Golden Crucible’s invention of blasting powder. The thrall made
a low groaning sound and handed the book to the Satyxis who’d
threatened Eilish with the scimitar.
“Morthis!” she called. “We found another one!”
A moment later, a stocky, middle-aged man came around the
far side of the forward cabin, stepping over Gardek as he made his
way into the bow. He had narrow slate-colored eyes in a square,
full-bearded face currently frowning with impatience or some

other flavor of displeasure. From the style of facial hair, the square
ivory buttons on his jacket, and other details, Eilish might in
different circumstances have taken him for a well-to-do Khadoran
commoner, perhaps one of the many who’d flooded into western
Llael to exploit the commercial opportunities conquest afforded.
But no such person would walk among Cryxians with manifest
unconcern.
Morthis took the green book from the Satyxis and inspected
it for damage much as Eilish himself had immediately after
the sternwheeler ran aground. Then he stowed it in a satchel
containing other volumes from the cache.
“Is it all right?” the Satyxis asked.
The bearded man grunted. “No thanks to you and your crew.
I told you not to use the steam lobber.”
“Dugger saw this one”—the Satyxis flicked her scimitar at
Eilish—“casting a spell. He got excited. I don’t know why you’re
complaining when the books and papers are fine. It’s my ´jack
that’s damaged far from the Thornwood and anyone who could
repair it properly. I can’t walk it around underwater anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter. It served its purpose, and you need to
think beyond random slaughter along the river. A bigger plan is
underway, and when I accomplish it, I won’t forget you.”
The Satyxis smiled. “Not if you know what’s good for you.
Now, surely, at this point, we’ve found everything, and I’d like to
be gone before a patrol or patrol boat happens along.”
Morthis frowned at the debris that remained to be sifted
through. Then he peered around the cabin to see what was
happening aft. “Under the circumstances, we need to search every
inch…or possibly not.” He turned to Eilish.
Eilish did his best to meet the other man’s gaze with a façade
of calmness that in no way reflected what he truly felt. “You knew
we were carrying the documents.”
Morthis nodded. “The infiltration of Ord extends into the
councils of the Order of the Golden Crucible. We agents of Cryx
knew when the alchemists discovered the location of the cache.
BLACK CROWNS | 65
From our own store of knowledge amassed through the centuries,

we had reason to believe it contained information we could use.”
“So you let the Order hire us to obtain the books and papers
and planned to ambush us on our way back to Corvis. Why not
just race to Leryn ahead of us and steal them yourselves?”
“Most of you Black River Irregulars are human and thus
inconspicuous in a predominantly human city, and you have a
reputation for succeeding at rescues and recoveries. We thought it
would work better this way, and as you see, it has. Now we’d like
your help again.”
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.”
Morthis smiled. “No doubt. Here’s the situation. Talondra is
eager to leave, and we can do that as soon as we’re certain we have
the one item we really want.”
“Good luck. A quarter of the cache never made it out of
Leryn. Two sacks caught fire and burned to ash in the street.” The
declaration gave Eilish the tiny satisfaction of seeing the Cryxian’s
eyes widen in dismay.
“I’m going to hope my item didn’t burn,” Morthis said, a
grimness tainting his hitherto affable tone. “The odds are three to
one in my favor, after all. As I was saying, we expected to find the
papers all conveniently stowed together. But they weren’t. I infer
that’s because someone was reading them, and you, Mr. Garrity,
with your reputation for erudition—I told you, I know all about
the Black River Irregulars—are the likely candidate. So perhaps
you can identify the document I require. If it’s one my associates
have already collected, we can depart without further delay. If not,
you can tell us where on the boat you saw it last. It’s the one that
reveals where to find the crowns of the Black Ring.”
For a moment, Eilish’s anxiety gave way to pure perplexity.
Centuries before Umbrey and Ryn united into the single kingdom
subsequently shattered by the Khadoran and Protectorate
incursions, a council of three monarchs known as the Black
Ring ruled the former. But he hadn’t come across anything that
indicated what had become of their regalia.
Or on second thought, perhaps he had, but he was reluctant to
say so lest the Cryxians turn the information to some genuinely

ghastly purpose. He couldn’t imagine what or how, but his
interrogator’s remarks suggested it was possible.
“Well?” Morthis asked.
“Sorry,” Eilish said, “I haven’t seen it. Perhaps that particular
tidbit really did burn. Or maybe your ill-conceived steam lobber
shot blew it overboard.”
“You’re also known to be glib, Mr. Garrity, and perhaps that’s
why, though I don’t see guile in your expression, I still doubt what
you’re telling me.” Morthis removed a gold watch from his pocket
and thumbed open the cover. “So this is how we’ll proceed. You
have one minute to tell me where to find what I need. If you don’t,
I’ll have the thrall here toss your friend Mr. Stonebrow onto the
sandbar. I’ve heard a person can drown in just a few inches of
water, but I’ve never had a chance to witness it, have you?”
“I truly haven’t seen what you want.”
“Fifty seconds. After the trollkin is gone, if you still won’t talk, I
expect I can persuade Talondra to try to motivate you. Blood witches
have both a penchant and a flair for torture and mutilation.”
The Satyxis winked at Eilish. “We’ll have fun.”
“Thirty seconds.” Morthis paused. “Twenty-five.”
“Enough,” Eilish said. “Before the attack, I was reading the
memoir of a horselord who lived at the time of the Orgoth
conquest. I didn’t get to finish, and the part I did read makes
no mention of crowns. But it does allude to people hiding their
valuables. Conceivably what you want is in a later chapter.”
“Describe the book.”
“Bound in black leather with a crest, a horse’s head above
crossed lances, embossed on the cover.”
“We haven’t found that one.”
“It was here in the pilothouse.”
The stocky man turned to the thrall that had its hands free.
“Keep digging.”
The corpse obeyed, and as it labored, Eilish half hoped it
would turn out that the steam lobber shell had put the book
forever beyond Morthis’s reach. Morthis might then vent his
BLACK CROWNS | 67
disappointment on his prisoners, but realistically, their prospects

were dismal anyway.
A plank came away to reveal the memoir. It lay unharmed in
the rear corner of the ruined pilothouse, where the search might
conceivably have missed it if Eilish hadn’t assured the seekers it
ought to be here.
“Get back,” Morthis said, whereupon the thrall shuffled out of
his way. The stocky man picked up the volume, opened it to the
latter sections, and started skimming.
Several minutes passed, and then he smiled. “The information’s
here! We have the location. I have the blood of Toruk himself to
drink when the time is right. I confess, there were moments when
I doubted, but I shouldn’t have. We’re really going to do this.”
“Good,” Talondra said. “Can we go now?”
“Yes, but fetch the other books and documents. There could be
something helpful in the rest of them.”
“I want the prisoners, too.”
“Especially Mr. Stonebrow, I imagine, big and strong as he
is,” Morthis said. “That’s fine. Get them onto our boat, slit their
throats, and I’ll reanimate them on the way back.”
Eilish silently began to cast a spell. Given his present
circumstances, it was unlikely to save him, but it seemed he had
only moments left to try something.
Talondra said, “No. I want to reanimate them.”
Morthis arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been a good student, but
are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’d better be, considering that you’re leaving.”
The stocky man smiled. “That’s a good point. For your maiden
effort, work the magic exactly as we discussed, under optimal
conditions, without shortcuts, using the power that comes
naturally to strengthen what I’ve taught you.” He turned to Eilish.
“This is good news for you. You and Mr. Stonebrow will live a
little while longer.”
Eilish halted his silent conjuration halfway through, and
the power he’d been shaping faded away. He’d wait for a better
moment to make his move.
•••
COLBIE LAY ON HER STOMACH and watched the two boats

from the tree line. The Cryxians carried Gardek—or possibly
Gardek’s corpse—from the sidewheeler to the sternwheeler. They
manhandled Eilish there as well, and carried off bags of some sort
of plunder.
A black ogrun bellowed, and, still keeping an eye on the woods,
the sentry on the sandbar waded toward his fellows. When all the
Dragonfather’s servants, even the helljack, were aboard their own
vessel, it maneuvered away from the shallows.
Colbie felt tight with anger, but she couldn’t let it or the
anxiety for her friends that underlay it impair her concentration.
She needed to memorize what was before her.
The enemy boat was cerulean with white trim and had Bluebird
painted on the side.
Paddlewheel churning the water, smoke fuming from its stack,
it steamed far enough from shore to swing around the sandbar
and headed upriver.
Colbie stared after it without blinking until she was certain
she’d taken in every detail. Until she was sure she’d recognize it as
soon as she glimpsed it next.
She waited until it disappeared around the bend. Then she
took a long breath, stood up, and said, “Come on.”
As they tramped toward the sandbar, the other human
Irregulars looked as angry as she was. So did Natak. They weren’t
used to humiliation. But the trap had caught them by surprise,
and in disarray, they’d had no choice but to flee even though it
meant leaving two of their own behind. Otherwise, everyone
would have ended up captured or dead.
Canice’s glower made her appear even more furious than her
fellows. It was as though there was something extra heightening
her rage.
In contrast to everyone else, Pog simply looked like he was
suffering apprehension so acute it approximated anguish. When
the mercenaries came within several paces of the sidewheeler, he
broke into a splashing run.
BLACK CROWNS | 69
“Wait!” Milo called. “The Cryxians could have left a bomb

behind! I would have!”
If Pog heard, he didn’t heed the warning. He scrambled aboard
the grounded vessel and threw himself down at the spot where
Doorstop lay.
“It’s all right!” the gobber called. “They unwrapped him, but
they didn’t damage him!”
“That’s wonderful,” Canice growled, stalking aboard after him.
“Two people were taken, but as long as your ´jack is all right you’re
happy.”
The outburst surprised Colbie. It wasn’t like the gun mage to
reveal she was upset over the misfortunes of others even on the
infrequent occasions when she really was.
Pog’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…I care about
Mr. Stonebrow and Mr. Garrity! You know I do! It’s just…” He
waved his hand.
“Doorstop is your responsibility and an important asset,”
Colbie said. “We understand. Isn’t that right, Canice?”
The duelist’s mouth twisted. “I understand we have more
pressing matters to address.”
“You’re right,” Colbie said. “You, Natak, and Milo, take
inventory and figure out what items the Cryxians stole. Pog,
look at the helm. See if there’s anything left of it. I’ll check the
starboard paddlewheel, and we’ll all keep an eye out for trouble.”
With that, she shucked off her greatcoat, removed her tinted
glasses, and hopped back onto the sandbar. From there, she
waded into the deeper water where the paddlewheel rested half
submerged.
She had to submerge herself to examine, half by sight and
half by feel, the linkage connecting the wheel to the engine. It
was a shambles, with gears bent, crushed, or entirely broken
away. Pitted against one another, the engine’s power and
the helljack’s strength had destroyed the mechanism caught
between them.
Her clothing plastered to her, dripping, she climbed back
aboard the sidewheeler. A moment later, Pog emerged from what
remained of the pilothouse, caught her eye, and shook his head.
It was what any reasonable person would have expected, but the
gobber still looked hangdog, as if he were letting everyone down.
“Well?” Natak asked.
“The boat’s hopeless,” Colbie said. “Even if we had all the
rights parts and the boat in dry dock to make the work easier, it
would take days to repair.”
Milo smiled a crooked smile. “The Order of the Golden
Crucible is going to be so happy they loaned it to us. Although
they may be so upset over the loss of the books and papers the
boat will seem trivial in comparison.”
Colbie frowned. “That’s what the Cryxians took?”
“That and that alone,” the alchemist said.
“That suggests they knew what we were carrying and the trap
was for us in particular. But what do they want with the papers?”
Milo shrugged. “From the parts I read, I have no idea. But
this is the second time nasty people have taken something we
worked hard to get and left us deep in trouble. I’m sick of it. If
the nasty people want our services, let them pay like everybody
else.”
For an instant, amusement sweetened Colbie’s sour mood.
“Next time, perhaps we can arrange it. For now, let’s be glad the
books are all the Cryxians carried away. We still have all the gear
we didn’t have time to grab before we ran for shore. When we take
them by surprise, it will stand us in good stead.”
Pog cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Colbie said.
“Naturally, we’re going after our friends,” the gobber said, “but
do you think we can catch up to the Cryxians without a boat?”
“No,” Colbie said, “but I’ll wager another boat will stop to
investigate what’s left of ours.”
Pog cocked his head. “And the captain will help us chase
Cryxians?”
Milo smirked. “Maybe not on purpose.”
•••
BLACK CROWNS | 71
THE ENGINE ROOM WALL had a couple splintery holes in it,

damage inflicted when the helljack had swung at Milo, Natak,
or Canice, missed them, and hit the aft cabin instead. Milo had
bored a couple more to help him peer upriver. To watch in the
opposite direction, he crept to the hatch and peeked out. He
couldn’t look in both directions at the same time, nor did he
have a completely unimpeded view in either, but he was able to
see any approaching boats.
Eventually, he spotted another sidewheeler rounding the bend
to the north. Unfortunately, it was flying a flag with the Menofix on
it and had the same symbol painted on its bow and superstructure.
Like the Cryxians’ vessel, it had a small artillery piece in the bow
and more along the sides of the boat. A complement of armored
crusaders stood on deck, and a robed woman in a dark metal half-
mask stood beside the man at the helm.
Milo’s mouth went dry. He tried to believe this was just a
random patrol boat. The woman in the pilothouse surely wasn’t
the same reclaimer still chasing the trespassers who’d escaped her
in Thunderhead Fortress.
But he failed to convince himself. With the resources at their
disposal, the Northern Crusade could have found the horse farm
that had sold Canice mounts and tack for four. From there, the
Sul-Menites could have tracked her and her companions to the
river, obtained a description of their boat, and determined it was
steaming south.
His instincts told him that was exactly what had happened.
That meant the soldiers about to board the derelict vessel would
do so cautiously and for the express purpose to catching and
punishing Milo and his allies.
For a second, he regretted ever falling in with any sort of
partners, let alone lunatics who landed him in situations like this.
He quashed the feeling and poised himself to follow through on
the plan. It was a good plan. With luck, it would work even on
people on the lookout for trouble.
The Sul-Menite pilot maneuvered his vessel to a halt broadside
to the stern of crippled boat. Two crusaders tossed grapples to
draw the two hulls together. That made it easy for them to climb
from one vessel to another. Pistols and swords at the ready, they
prowled forward and spread out to search the Irregulars’ craft.
Their armor clinked as they advanced.
In a few moments, someone would surely look inside the
engine cabin, and if that particular crusader was quick to react
and had orders to shoot on sight, things could take an ugly turn.
Still, Milo waited. He was maximizing the chance that everyone
from the Protectorate boat would cross over to his own before he
sprung his trap.
Then one of the searchers called, “Hey! What’s this cord?”
In fact, there were two lines, one for each side of the boat, and
Milo couldn’t allow the crusaders the chance to examine them. He
yanked on the ends.
Down the length of the boat, the ropes snatched the pins from
the grenades he’d glued in place. After a moment, the orbs burst in a
rapid, overlapping succession of bangs. Gray vapor gusted through
the air, some of the fumes streaming into the engine room.
They didn’t affect Milo. In his gasmask, he was immune to
somnolence elixir, but the soldiers lacked his advantage. He
grinned to hear the clanks and thuds as the armored men collapsed
onto the deck. There was also a splash as one crusader fell over the
side, where the water might well revive him but his plate would
almost certainly drag him under.
Oh, well. With no way of knowing who would stop at the
sandbar, Colbie with her squeamish streak had ordered Milo to
set a trap that wouldn’t kill anybody, but she shouldn’t care about
the death of an actual enemy. He certainly didn’t.
He scrambled out of the engine cabin and into the stern.
Though already thinning, the cloud his bombs had created
made it difficult to see if anyone actually had stayed aboard the
Protectorate vessel. Assuming someone had, Milo’s next task was
to ensure that person didn’t steam away.
The grapples still locked the two hulls together. That might
mean nobody was left aboard the crusader boat, but it would be
foolish to count on it. Milo took hold of two more knockout
BLACK CROWNS | 73
bombs, these with the clockwork timers he preferred for most

purposes. He thumbed the two protruding cogs, bowled one
grenade down the port side of the Sul-Menite vessel into the stern,
and tossed the other beside the hatch into the pilothouse. They
exploded at the same instant and shrouded the boat in gas.
With luck, that ought to do it. He smiled, and then the
billowing cloud he’d just created gleamed ever so slightly, reflecting
a light at his back.
He turned, and brightness flared. Pain jolted a gasp out of
him. Something had caught him in a burst of flame like the blast
from one of his own incendiary bombs, and it was likely only the
fireproofing washes with which he’d treated his gear and clothing
that prevented the attack from burning him to the bone or setting
him ablaze.
The reclaimer stood a few paces away from him with her
long metal torch leveled. Apparently she was as invulnerable to
somnolence elixir as he was.
She raised her torch and rushed him. He backpedaled. In the
confines of the stern, he couldn’t retreat far, but it gave him time
to throw a knife.
She shifted the torch and swatted the spinning blade aside with
the brass and steel instrument. Another stride brought her into
striking distance.
The burning head of the torch swept in a horizontal stroke.
Milo recoiled, but the blow still brushed the hose projecting from
the front of his gasmask. It shifted the protective gear to the side
and the lenses out of alignment with his eyes, blinding him.
He simultaneously grabbed the mask to wrench it back to its
proper position and threw himself backward. The deck in front
of him crunched, and a shock rattled it and nearly cost him his
balance. An instant later, when he could see properly again, he
discerned that the torch had missed smashing his skull by inches
and his foe was already swinging it up for another attack.
Milo snatched the sprayer off his belt, thrust out his arm, and
pulled the trigger. Acid shot from the nozzle and splashed the
reclaimer in the face.
Pits opened in the iron half-mask. The flesh below smoked and
sizzled, bits of it dissolving so completely as to expose the bone
underneath, which then eroded in its turn.
Agony would have neutralized any ordinary foe, but the
masked woman merely balked for an instant. Then she lunged at
Milo again.
At the same time, a shot banged from the direction of the
riverbank. The reclaimer reeled and clutched at the corner of the
aft cabin to steady herself.
Milo risked a split-second glance toward the shore. As the plan
indicated they should, his comrades were hurrying up the sandbar
with Doorstop tramping in the fore to shield them from any foes
the knockout bombs had failed to neutralize.
Canice stood just behind the steamjack with a smoking pistol
in her outstretched hand. She was still distant enough to make a
hit with such a gun remarkable, but either her marksmanship or
the enchantment inscribed on a rune shot had delivered the round
to its target.
The reclaimer let go of her handhold and straightened up. She
hefted the torch.
“Don’t!” Colbie shouted. “You can’t withstand us all by
yourself, and we only want your boat! Surrender, and we’ll let you
live! Your soldiers, too!”
The priestess with her melting, skeletal mouth and chin took
a step toward Milo.
Canice fired again. The shot caught the reclaimer in the teeth
and blew most of her head apart. Scraps of bone and bloody flesh
spattered Milo. The mechanikal torch and iron mask clanked on
the deck.
•••
NATAK VOLUNTEERED TO SLAUGHTER the unconscious crusaders.

It would go quickly and ensure none of them ever returned to
trouble the Irregulars again. Neither Canice nor Milo demurred.
Pog winced at the suggestion but didn’t oppose it outright. Maybe
because Natak had helped him in the river, or perhaps it was
BLACK CROWNS | 75
the diffidence that still sometimes constrained him when bigger,

harder folk were deliberating.
Or possibly the gobber simply foresaw that he needn’t object.
Captain Sterling vetoed the idea, resulting in a bothersome process
of binding and gagging the Sul-Menites and carrying or dragging
each to the stern of the crippled boat where Doorstop could stand
guard over all of them at once.
With that accomplished, the mercenaries took inventory of
their prize, at which point, Natak conceded, things took a turn
for the better. Colbie and Pog liked what they discovered in the
pilothouse and engine room, and the military vessel had a well-
stocked armory. Milo located a supply of grenades and tucked
them in pockets and pouches about his person even as he criticized
features of their design, crude even by the standards of the
Cygnaran military, let alone his own. Natak discovered a crossbow
with a rotating drum of quarrels that would allow a marksman
to shoot ten times before reloading. He suspected Gardek would
like it…if the bounty hunter was still alive. The thought that he
might not be weighed on Natak for a moment, until he reminded
himself he had no particular reason to care.
The final step prior to embarkation was for the Irregulars to
deck themselves out in crusader trappings. Nothing was made for
an ogrun, but many of the Sul-Menites wore a bulky style of plate,
and when Natak donned a surcoat that was supposed to go over
such armor, it fit him like an ordinary cloak, albeit a short one.
Viewed from a distance, he could hope to pass for an unusually
tall human.
After the mercenaries had all disguised themselves to the best
of their ability, Milo steered the boat upriver. Pog shoveled coal
and otherwise tended the engine. Colbie, Canice, and Natak
stood in the bow, the mechanik to port and the gun mage and
ogrun to starboard, watching for the Cryxian vessel or any other
problem that might present itself.
Scowling, Canice tugged her hat lower, perhaps so the brim
would better shade her eyes or because she thought the breeze
might otherwise whisk it off her head. Half a minute later, she
pulled it a quarter inch higher. Natak realized that, although

she was scrutinizing the river ahead and the eastern shore with
unblinking concentration, she was nonetheless fidgeting.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Then, realizing the humor in what
he’d just said, he grinned. “Other than the obvious.”
“Nothing,” Canice said.
He doubted that was so. “We’ve had people taken prisoner
before. We’ll either get Stonebrow and the wizard back or avenge
them. Whatever happens, we’ll retrieve the papers and collect our
fee from the Order.”
The gun mage grunted.
Natak wondered what more he could say to convince her to
confide what was troubling her. He had little experience and,
generally, less patience with such blather. When someone “opened
up” to him, it was usually because he’d chopped that person with
his axe.
But a warrior had practical reasons to concern himself with his
korune’s state of mind. Thus he struggled to think like Sterling,
Garrity, or, the Mother help him, even Pog might think, and
eventually an oblique avenue of attack occurred to him.
“I was surprised,” he murmured, “when you snarled at the
gobber for rejoicing that Doorstop is all right.”
Canice shrugged. “I talk that way to everyone.”
“Mostly yes, if they annoy you, or you’re just in a bad mood.
But you often have more patience with the meek and the weak.”
“Pog’s not weak when controlling the steamjack.”
“Still, you know what I mean.”
“No, I truly…” Canice grimaced. “My ‘bad mood’ comes
from suspecting I was right that I ought to have stayed behind in
Corvis.”
“I don’t see why. The Cryxians didn’t attack us because someone
from the Resistance recognized you.”
“No, but Llael is unlucky for me and the people around me.”
Natak frowned. “You don’t believe in that kind of thinking.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But at the moment, it’s how I feel.”
Once again, Natak didn’t know what to say. Before he could
BLACK CROWNS | 77
figure out how to probe further, Captain Sterling said, “I see the
Cryxian boat. They stopped alongside the shore. Perhaps they
have a camp up in the trees.”
Natak didn’t instantly turn around. Neither did Canice. The
Cryxians likely had a lookout watching traffic on the river. But
over the course of the next little while, the ogrun and duelist both
contrived to face the western shore.
The creatures of the Nightmare Empire had moored their craft
where the low-hanging black willow branches half obscured it.
Canice smiled a cruel smile. Now that she knew she’d have
a chance to retaliate against the enemy, her glumness had fallen
away. “Do we have a plan?”
Colbie glanced up at the westering sun, a smear of glow behind
the persistent clouds. “We sail around the next bend where the
Cryxians won’t be able to see us anymore, and we put in. After
dark, we sneak back south and take them by surprise.”
—7—
GARDEK SWUNG HIS WAR HAMMER AGAIN AND AGAIN, smashing

walking corpses and splashing himself with their reeking, rotten
flesh until it caked him from brow to boots. He was tiring. Worse,
though the creatures were seemingly mindless, his relentless
assault was gradually capturing their attention, and they tottered
and shambled toward him from every side.
The sensible move was to break away, but sensible didn’t
matter. With his brother torn apart, the only important thing was
retribution.
Something hit Gardek in the head. He dropped to his knees
and lost his grip on the hammer. The dead swarmed on him like
ants on garbage.
Strangely, they didn’t kill him immediately as they’d butchered
everyone else they’d caught on the streets of Corvis. Rather, they
carried him to a place where four reanimated horses waited,
their remaining flesh withered tight on the bones beneath. The
human dead chained each of Gardek’s limbs to an equine’s harness
and then swung cracking whips to start the monstrous animals

galloping in different directions. The sudden opposing pulls
snapped his arms and legs taut—
His eyes flew open. His heart pounding, he silently thanked
Dhunia that he wasn’t really back on the Longest Night years
before, nor was he being drawn and quartered.
Then he tried to shift his stiff, aching body, and something
held his outstretched limbs in place. Turning his head—it was
particularly sore, and crusted with something that was likely his
blood—he tried to determine his situation.
It was night, and he lay on his back in a clearing in a forest
where someone had removed his armor and clothing and staked
him out spread eagle. One of the reanimated dead stood nearby,
a viscous drip of slime dangling from the wrist of its sword hand.
The sight of the thrall brought memory rushing back. Gardek
had shot his crossbow at the helljack, then the oncoming Cryxian
sternwheeler had evidently fired an artillery round, and the
resulting explosion must have knocked him unconscious. After
which, judging from his present circumstances, matters had
continued to go badly.
“Finally,” Eilish whispered, “you’re awake. You took your time.”
Gardek looked in the direction of the sound. The arcanist lay
naked and staked out just as he was, but with the addition of
another dead man standing over him with a spear poised for a
thrust to the heart.
“Where are our comrades?” Gardek asked.
“They escaped.”
“Good. Why are we still alive?”
“Talondra—the Satyxis captain of the raiders—wants to turn
us into thralls. A proper Cryxian necromancer could have done
it already with a minimum of fuss, but she’s only recently taken
up the art. She wants to kill us slowly in the dark and bolster
her fledgling skills with her people’s blood magic to improve
her chance of success. As you see, she left me a couple friends
to ensure I wouldn’t attempt any wizardry of my own before the
festivities commence.”
BLACK CROWNS | 81
“How did you know the one with the spear wouldn’t stick you
as soon as you started talking?”
“I didn’t, but you and I need to communicate if either one of
us is going to make it out of this. Can you pull free of your bonds
without the thralls noticing?”
“I’ll try.”
“When you get up, shove the spearman away from me. As
soon as you do, I’ll start casting spells.”
Gardek had heard more promising plans. He’d have to get all
four limbs free without the undead guards noticing, then jump
to his feet unarmed and push the spearman before either of the
thralls struck him down. Assuming he succeeded in all that, Eilish
would need to work magic that destroyed both animated corpses,
resilient though such things could be. Then the two escapees would
have to slip away into the woods and evade pursuit thereafter.
It struck the bounty hunter as one unlikelihood piled on
another, but he could think of nothing better. He set to work.
Trying to drag it toward him, he pulled on the stake to which
his right wrist was tied. It didn’t budge, nor did the coarse hemp
bonds loosen. The coils just scraped his skin.
Next, he sought to hitch his hand straight up at the sky. It
felt as if the stake shifted ever so slightly. Maybe his captors
underestimated a trollkin’s strength.
Or maybe not. He kept straining but no longer felt the stake
hitching any farther up in its socket of earth. That didn’t stop
him even when the rope rubbed him raw, but he wondered if
desperation had made him imagine that iota of initial progress.
He was still wondering when two of the horned but otherwise
womanly creatures called Satyxis prowled out of the trees. The
one in the lead had her scimitar in hand. Newly honed, perhaps,
the edge gleamed even in the meager light leaking down from the
overcast sky.
Eilish smiled at her. “Good evening, Talondra.”
The blood witch smiled back. “Good evening. And to you,
Gardek Stonebrow. I appreciate you saving us the trouble of
reviving you. Blood rituals work better when the sacrifice feels the
pain and understands what the blade is doing to him.”

“Yes,” Eilish said, “about our induction into the ranks of your
thralls. May I suggest an alternative?”
“Poor frightened lamb. There is none.”
“Don’t be hasty. Or wasteful. You want to extend your mastery
of magic, but Morthis has taken his leave. You can’t learn anything
more from him. So let me teach you what I know. I’m good. You
could end up the most powerful blood witch your people have
ever seen.”
Talondra cocked her head. “You’d serve me and in so doing
serve the Dragonfather?”
“I’m a mercenary. I serve whomever it’s in my best interests to
serve. I hadn’t anticipated that would be Cryx, but here we are.”
The Satyxis nodded in Gardek’s direction. “What about him?”
“Gardek shares my perspective, and he’ll be more use alive with
a living trollkin’s battle instincts than as some shuffling husk.”
Talondra laughed. “Morthis was right. You are a persuasive liar.
Just not persuasive enough.”
With that, she began to croon words Gardek had never heard
before but that chilled him even so. At the same time, moving
to the rhythm of the incantation, she paced widdershins around
Eilish in a glide that approximated dance.
Trembling, the arcanist stared at her like a rabbit frozen by
the regard of a serpent. Gardek wondered if Talondra’s magic was
poisoning his comrade’s mind.
“Fight it!” he said, but Eilish showed no signs of even having
heard. Gardek kept trying to tug the stake out of the ground. It
still wouldn’t give.
Talondra started cutting at the man on the ground, little flicks
of the scimitar that stopped just short of Eilish’s face, throat, chest,
belly, and genitals. He gasped and flinched to the slight degree his
restraints allowed.
After a while, the cuts began to land. The wounds they inflicted
were miniscule, barely breaking the skin and only oozing a drop
or two of blood, but Gardek suspected the Satyxis would cut a
little deeper with every circuit.
BLACK CROWNS | 83
She could not, however, cut when her progress carried her
behind the thrall holding the spear over Eilish’s heart. Just as she
danced to that position, an azure bolt of power blazed upward. It
sprang into being just above the wizard’s sternum and blasted the
undead spearman in its rotting face.
The thrall floundered backward and knocked Talondra
staggering. A second streak of blue radiance stabbed into her
torso, and she and the dead thing fell to the ground together.
But though the thrall lay inert thereafter, Talondra heaved
herself to one knee. Her sigil-painted face contorted, she rasped,
“Kill the wizard! Now!”
The other Satyxis and the dead man with the sword advanced
on Eilish.
•••
APPARENTLY, MILO THOUGHT, even monstrosities out of Cryx

appreciated light, warmth, and hot meals. In any case, a campfire
burned in the gloom ahead, occluded periodically as some creature
crossed in front of it.
When the Irregulars had first spotted the fire, Colbie decided
they’d encircle the camp and sneak up on it. Taking the Cryxians
by surprise and catching them in a crossfire would compensate for
the advantages their superior numbers afforded.
The plan suited Milo. Though he preferred city life, he was a
swampie born and raised and deemed it likely he could launch
grenades from the cover provided by a benighted forest without
the enemy spotting him and targeting him in return.
One potential complication was if the Cryxians had posted
pickets. But Milo hadn’t spotted any, and if his partners had,
they’d silenced the sentries before they could raise the alarm.
A short distance south of the campfire, blue light winked twice
in rapid succession. The flashes looked like Eilish’s magic. If they
were, it meant the arcanist was alive, but Milo still cursed under
his breath.
That was because the flickering almost certainly indicated
Eilish and, with luck, Gardek were fighting for their lives. The
Irregulars were out of time to complete the neat envelopment

Colbie had envisioned. They had to attack now.
Weaving around tree trunks and ducking low-hanging
branches, Milo dashed closer to the fire. When he judged he’d
come near enough, he shouldered one of the rifles he’d found
aboard the Protectorate boat. He had little experience with
firearms, but a rifle could propel a missile farther than he could
throw one, and he shouldn’t need to be all that accurate with the
grenade affixed to the muzzle.
He pulled the trigger, and the bomb exploded reasonably close
to the campfire, although the combination of darkness and the
dazzling flash made it hard to tell to what effect. He dropped
the first rifle, unlimbered the one he’d carried slung across his
back, ran farther, and shot its grenade. Since the initial bomb had
exploded to the right of the campfire, it seemed sensible to land
this one to the left and blast some different enemies. His aim was
off, though, and the grenade blew up right in the middle of the
fire, flinging burning scraps of wood in all directions but leaving
the campsite darker than before.
Milo dropped the second rifle and dashed onward until
he glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye. He turned his
head to discover a black ogrun—the picket whose existence he’d
suspected—pointing a harpoon gun in his direction.
A competent marksman would lead a moving target. Milo
grabbed a low branch of an alder to jerk himself to a stop. Chain
clattering behind it, the harpoon flashed by inches in front of him
and thudded into the trunk of the tree.
The black ogrun roared like a beast, drew a heavy, curved
cleaver of a blade from its scabbard, and charged. Milo grabbed a
blade from his bandolier of knifes and threw it.
His weapon plunged into the Cryxian’s throat. That should
have ended the fight, but the black ogrun staggered on into
striking distance. Milo had to dodge three cleaver slashes before
the brute’s legs gave way beneath him.
Panting, Milo reflected that the incident provided further
vindication of his contention that it was always better to fight
BLACK CROWNS | 85
one’s enemies at range. Preferably extreme range. Still, he ran on

toward the enemy camp.
•••
TO SAY THE LEAST, DOORSTOP WAS LESS STEALTHY than any of the
flesh and blood Irregulars. That was why Colbie waited a while
before she started him tramping toward the campfire. That way,
even if the enemy spotted him coming, Milo, Natak, and Canice
should already be in position.
As far as she could tell, no Cryxians spotted the ´jack or any
other sign of the impending attack. But abruptly, two explosions,
likely the product of Milo’s grenades, flared and boomed in the
enemy camp. The second one blew their fire to bits.
Colbie cursed. She didn’t understand why the little alchemist
had attacked before she, Pog, and Doorstop were in position. He
must have observed something she hadn’t, something requiring
immediate action.
Whatever he’d spotted, the fight had begun, and she and her
companions needed to get into it. “Full speed!” she snapped.
Doorstop lumbered forward in as close to a run as his hulking
frame allowed. Branches snapped against his smokestack, head,
and upper torso with a cracking sound like a ragged volley of
gunfire. Colbie and Pog trotted alongside him.
When she judged they’d come close enough, she brought
the ´jack to a halt with another command. Then she and Pog
shouldered weapons found aboard the Protectorate boat, Llaelese-
made rifles with grenades affixed to the ends.
The scattered remnants of the fire revealed the shadowy figures
of surviving Cryxians charging forth from their campsite to
retaliate against their initial attackers. That was good. Wherever
Eilish and Gardek were, they surely weren’t among the runners.
The Irregulars could target the latter without fear of hitting their
own comrades.
Colbie pointed at some foes who were coming her way. “Hit
them!”
She and Pog fired. One of the resulting grenade blasts—
hers, she was certain—tumbled shadowy figures through the air.

The recoil of Pog’s unfamiliar weapon knocked him staggering
backward, and his grenade failed to land anywhere near his targets.
Still, he whooped at the murderous effect of Colbie’s shot. She
smiled. Gentle soul though the gobber was, perhaps she’d make a
proper ferocious mercenary out of him yet.
She stopped smiling when, emerging from smoke and flame,
the helljack marched forward in the wake of the Cryxians she
had—she hoped—just blown to bits. The automaton’s green
optics glowed balefully, as did the eye sockets of the skull faces
decorating its torso.
She hastily loaded a second grenade and fired that one. The
new explosion rocked the helljack, but it stayed on its feet and
kept coming, undamaged by the blast as far as she could tell.
“Doorstop,” she snapped, “back up three steps and ready your
mace!” She and Pog retreated behind the ´jack.
Doorstop simultaneously gave ground and hefted his enormous
melee weapon. As the helljack came on with outstretched claws, he
raised the shield that covered him from shoulder to knee, planted
his feet, and shifted his weight forward, bracing for the imminent
collision. Metal crashed as the two ´jacks slammed together.
In the exchange that followed, the Cryxian ´jack’s claws
screeched and struck showers of sparks as they cut grooves in
the shield. Crunching and clanging, the mace strokes smashed
the embedded skull faces and pounded dents in the chassis
underneath.
Colbie dropped her rifle, readied the slug gun, and circled
behind the helljack. Formidable though it was, a blast to open
the boiler would dispose of it. She estimated where to stand—she
wanted to be close enough to hit the target, far enough to avoid
being scalded by escaping steam—and then, his tenor voice nearly
lost in the crash of steel on steel, Pog yelled, “Watch out!”
Colbie whirled. Stalking up in the wake of the helljack, a
Satyxis—its marshal?—had nearly managed to sneak up on her.
The horned woman howled and charged.
Colbie fired by reflex, without truly aiming. The slug gun
BLACK CROWNS | 87
kicked in her grasp, and the Cryxian’s eyes widened at the flash,
the roar, and the certainty that if the shell hit her, it would tear
her apart.
Unfortunately, the shot missed. Leering, the Satyxis ran on
into sword range. Her scimitar flashed at Colbie’s head. Colbie
blocked with the slug gun. The blade clashed on the projective
weapon and glanced away.
At once, the Cryxian cut at her opponent’s flank, and once
again, Colbie reacted quickly enough to parry. It was only a
matter of time, though, before one of the Satyxis’s attacks slipped
through her guard. A scimitar was made for melee combat. A slug
gun wasn’t, but Colbie couldn’t even switch to the ´jack wrench
that would have improved her chances at least a little. The slug
gun required both hands to swing it around, and if she dropped
it, the Satyxis would cut her down before she could snatch the
wrench from inside her greatcoat.
Pog ran right up beside her with his repeating pistol in his
hands. Evidently he wanted to be close enough to be sure of
hitting the Satyxis. The Satyxis simultaneously spun out from in
front of the firearm and swept her scimitar in a cut aimed at the
gobber’s neck.
Colbie lunged into the path of the sword stroke. It skipped off
the slug gun and hit her in the shoulder. She stumbled on at her
opponent in an attempt to bull rush her to the ground.
The horned woman sidestepped, and Colbie blundered past
her. Before she recovered her balance, the scimitar was likely to
whirl in another cut at her.
Then something banged repeatedly. By the time Colbie turned
back around, the Satyxis was falling, but Pog kept pulling the
trigger until the repeating pistol expended all five rounds. In fact,
he pulled it twice more after that, and the mechanism clicked on
empty chambers of the ammo wheel.
Colbie understood the desire to make sure the Satyxis was
dead. The problem now, however, was that neither Pog nor she
had a loaded gun to oppose the second horned woman running
toward them or the several thralls shambling behind her.
Colbie pointed. “There!”

Pog goggled at the opposing threat. Then he thrust his hand
in his pocket, no doubt seeking his backup ammo wheel with five
fresh rounds in it.
Meanwhile, Colbie took another grenade from one of her
many pockets. She pulled the pin and threw the bomb.
Unlike Milo, she was no expert grenadier. Still, the missile
landed where she’d intended it to, a few feet in front of the
oncoming Satyxis, and the resulting burst of gray vapor made the
horned woman fall on her face.
The somnolence elixir fumes didn’t affect the thralls, but as they
drew up even with their controller, Colbie hurled a concussion
grenade. The blast ripped the dead apart.
“Doorstop!” gasped Pog.
“Keep watching forward,” Colbie said. “I’ll see to him.” Opening
the slug gun, she turned around. After a moment, she smiled.
The helljack’s left arm was poised to claw but frozen in that
position. Doorstop’s battering had ruined some essential portion
of the mechanisms inside. He’d also knocked one of the Cryxian’s
automaton’s horns off and bashed the head beneath until it was
barely skull-shaped anymore. Meanwhile, though his shield was
scarred and crumpled, he himself had suffered only superficial
damage.
He feinted to the chest, and the helljack shifted its functional
arm to block. The mace swung high and crashed down atop the
Cryxian automaton’s head. Plates of black metal broke away, and
greenish energy flared and sizzled. Its optics shattered, blind and
possibly deaf as well, the helljack faltered.
The thing’s incapacity enabled Doorstop to step behind it and
smash a follow-up blow into the hump below the head where
the cortex resided. Metal crashed and crumped again, more green
flares danced, and the Cryxian ´jack shuddered and stopped
moving altogether. The lights in the eye sockets of the skull faces
embedded in the chassis faded over the course of the next couple
moments like candles guttering out one after another.
With the helljack disabled and no other threats immediately at
BLACK CROWNS | 89
hand, Colbie noticed the aching in her shoulder. She checked and
found to her relief that while the scimitar had likely bruised her,
it hadn’t sheared her armored greatcoat to gash the flesh beneath.
She turned back to Pog, who was just completing the exchange
of ammo wheels. “Forward,” she said.
•••
NATAK ADMIRED THE DEFTNESS and precision with which his

korune handled her magelocks and other pistols. It was a physical
accomplishment on a par with the finest axe work or swordplay.
Much as he might jeer, in his private thoughts, he also considered
it understandable when other humans and gobbers like Pog opted
to fight with ranged weapons. Puny and fragile, they behaved
accordingly.
But it was plain to anyone with eyes that the Mother intended
her ogrun children to meet their enemies face to face and live
or die by the strength of their arms. Not that Natak was entirely
above using a distance weapon if circumstances required it. At
the moment, he was shooting the repeating crossbow with the
rotating drum he’d found aboard the Northern Crusade patrol
boat. Still, the black ogruns’ failure to charge when they had the
clear advantage of numbers justified their reputation as a corrupt
and degraded offshoot of his race.
He leaned around the mossy trunk of the oak he was using
for cover, aimed, pulled the crossbow’s trigger, and jerked back
without waiting to see if he hit the target. An instant later, chain
clattered. One harpoon thudded into the other side of the tree.
Another flew past him.
The black ogrun shouldn’t have many harpoons left. Their
guns only held one at a time, and, unwilling to suffer continued
grenade attacks while fully outfitting themselves for battle, they’d
mostly rushed forth from their campsite without grabbing quivers
of reloads.
Suddenly one of them roared a strange roar with a sibilant
undertone, maybe an attempt to imitate the bellow of a dragon.
Others echoed the cry. Natak peeked around the oak.
The degenerates were finally rushing the stand of trees and

brush within which he and Canice had taken shelter. The harpoon
guns discarded, they now gripped curved, heavy blades. Some had
one in either fist. A couple had drawn longer two-handed versions
from the scabbards strapped to their backs.
Natak grinned, picked up his battle axe, and stepped out into
the open to await them. Had he been alone, the exposure would
have been tantamount to suicide, but he was confident that some
of the oncoming foes would never reach him.
Brush rustled as, taunting the enemy, perhaps, Canice revealed
herself as well. Natak didn’t take his eyes off the black ogrun to
glance her way, but after all the times they’d fought together, he
didn’t need to look to visualize the sneer on her lips or the unfailing
nimbleness with which she drew one pistol, fired, holstered or
pocketed it, and brought out the next until she emptied all six and
it was time to reload with the same sure facility.
Her marksmanship notwithstanding, Natak suspected that
not every round struck one of the dark figures pounding forward
in the gloom. Even if they did, not every shot felled its target.
But a sufficient number of black ogrun dropped that he had no
concerns about meeting the ones now in the lead.
As the first, a female, was about to plunge into striking distance,
he sprang toward her. She wasn’t expecting him to close the gap,
and she wasn’t quite ready to attack. He was. He chopped, and the
axe split her forehead above the eyes.
The next black ogrun had only been a stride behind her, and he
managed to stop short on Natak’s flank. His two-handed weapon
whirled in a horizontal arc.
Natak jerked his battle axe loose from the dead black ogrun’s
head. By then, the corpse was already falling, and that helped pop
it out. He used the weapon to block, shifted in close, let go of the
haft with his right hand, and smashed the row of heavy steel rings
on his fingers into his new opponent’s mouth.
Teeth crunched, and the black ogrun’s head snapped backward.
He reeled, and Natak swung the axe at his chest. The blow smashed
through ribs to cleave the organs beneath.
BLACK CROWNS | 91
The black ogrun stumbled backward, pulling free of the axe in

the process, but didn’t fall. Perhaps intent on dragging his killer
into death along with him, he raised his blade for another strike.
Natak blocked, cut to the torso again, and his adversary finally
collapsed.
Natak looked around. If any other black ogrun had made it
into melee distance, or nearly so, Canice’s gunfire had accounted
for them, but, seemingly under the direction of the Satyxis half
hidden behind them, several thralls were now advancing.
Canice slipped a fresh rune shot into one of her magelocks.
“Can you hold here?”
Natak nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
Her greatcoat swirling around her legs, the gun mage retreated
back into the trees.
•••
ARMORLESS AND STAKED TO THE GROUND, Eilish had three foes

intent on killing him, although Talondra was still on one knee
shaking off the pain of the bolt of mystical power with which he’d
struck her. Even so, the situation was desperate. To survive the
next few seconds, he needed to fend off both her sister Satyxis and
the thrall with the sword simultaneously.
He didn’t know if a cinder cloud like the one he’d conjured in
the vaults under Thunderhead Fortress would discomfit horned
women and a reanimated corpse as it had the crusaders, but at
least it would engulf all three of his foes at once. He rattled off the
first of the words that would help him create it, and then Gardek
made a noise that was half bellow and half grunt.
Eilish turned his head. The bounty hunter had pulled the stake
securing his right hand out of the ground and was now tearing at
the bonds on his left wrist.
“Thrall!” Talondra cried, drawing herself to her feet. “Kill the
trollkin!”
Swaying, the corpse turned. A lurching step or two would take
it close enough to plunge its sword into Gardek’s body.
Eilish decided on a different spell. There was no time to recite
it aloud, but in his thoughts, he rushed through the symbols that

constituted its essential form and felt the forces they represented
assemble themselves into the requisite pattern. At the end, it was
as if he possessed an invisible third hand that could reach as far as
he could throw a stone.
With it, he grabbed the spear the thrall he’d slain had dropped.
He brandished it at the Satyxis slinking toward him, and she
balked. As soon as she did, he spun the spear away from her and
plunged it at the back of the head of the dead man shuffling
toward Gardek.
He was afraid it wouldn’t hit hard enough to penetrate. At his
current level of mastery, the spell didn’t ordinarily generate a great
deal of force. But perhaps the spear was exceptionally sharp, the
walking corpse particularly decayed, or maybe he was just lucky,
because, the point popped out the front tossing scraps of rot as it
emerged.
The dead man pitched forward on top of Gardek. The trollkin
jerked the sword from its hand, stabbed it to make sure it wouldn’t
start moving again, and hacked at his remaining bonds with scant
regard for the possibility of maiming himself in his haste.
Perhaps Eilish could distract the two Satyxis and give Gardek
another second to free himself. He flashed the horned women
a grin. “Do you hear the screams and explosions over by the
campsite? The rest of my friends caught up with you.”
Talondra’s subordinate sneered. “Then they’ll—“
“Shut up and kill him! I’ll get the trollkin!” Talondra raised her
scimitar and charged.
She was a fraction of a second too slow. Gardek scrambled to
his feet and parried her first cut. Their blades rang.
Eilish didn’t have time to watch any more. He’d provided his
partner with a fighting chance, but he himself was still in almost
as much trouble as before.
Talondra’s underling rushed him and slashed. He still had his
will focused through the lens of the last spell he’d cast, and he
reached for the descending blade with his third hand. He had
scant hope of stopping it but might be able to shift it to the side.
BLACK CROWNS | 93
At the same time, he pulled his body in the opposite direction as

much as his restraints would allow.
The scimitar plunged into the ground an inch away from his
flesh. Now that the sword’s momentum was spent, he seized it
with the spell and sought to twist the hilt from the Satyxis’s grasp.
In theory, the maneuver he intended attacked an opponent’s grip
where it was weak, but she was still too strong or his control too
imprecise to manage the exact manipulation he intended. They
strained against one another until, abruptly changing tactics, he
pushed the sword away from him. She’d either have to let it go or
move along with it.
She chose the latter, spun, and in so doing, somehow wrested
the scimitar from his psychic grasp. She laughed, and he reached
to seize the weapon anew.
At the same time, behind Eilish’s foe, Talondra and Gardek
shifted into the arcanist’s field of vision. The trollkin slashed at
the blood witch’s lead leg, and she simultaneously parried and
advanced, tying up the mercenary’s blade and bringing their two
bodies into close proximity. She crouched and tipped her head to
the side in what appeared to be the preparatory move to thrusting
a horn into her towering opponent’s throat like a dagger.
A gun banged, and Talondra’s head blew apart. A second shot
just an instant later dumped the other Satyxis on the ground.
As Canice stalked into the clearing, she thrust the now-empty
magelocks into their shoulder rigs and drew the two mundane
pistols holstered on her hips. Her eyes shifted back and forth
beneath the brim of her hat.
After a moment, apparently satisfied that no other enemy was
on the verge of shooting or pouncing out of the trees with blade
in hand, she relaxed sufficiently to give Gardek a crooked smile.
“You’re slipping,” she said.
Gardek hefted the sword. “It’s not my kind of weapon.” He
leered at Eilish. “They’re more for dainty little schoolboys.”
—8—
LIKE HER COMRADES, CANICE WAS INITIALLY JUBILANT to annihilate

the Cryxian raiders without the rescuers suffering any losses of their
own and to recover Gardek and Eilish more or less unharmed. On
top of all that, once she was certain he was all right, it tickled her
to see the arcanist naked and staked out. She liked her partners
in lovemaking, whether male or female, handsome, and she also
liked them restrained.
Not that she and Eilish had ever been lovers, nor would they
ever become so. She kept professional relationships professional,
and even had it been otherwise, he was keeping company with
Regan Falk, the Irregulars’ physician when they were in Corvis
and a woman Canice rather liked. Still, it did no harm to take
in the view.
Soon enough, though, her good mood faded. Everyone else’s
did, too, to one degree or another, when they heard what Eilish
had to report, but Canice’s disposition collapsed into the tangle of
unpleasant emotions that had oppressed her since the job began.
By the Twins, she didn’t like herself this way!

In the aftermath of the battle, everyone needed to rest, eat a
late supper, and confer, but no one wanted to do it surrounded by
corpses and on ground possibly contaminated with necromancy
and blood magic. Accordingly, they tramped back to the spot
where they’d concealed the crusader boat and built a fire where a
wall of trees and brush would screen it from any vessels passing on
the river. There, they toasted biscuits on improvised skewers and
munched apples from the Sul-Menites’ stores.
To Canice’s annoyance, even her apple served to remind her she
was back in Llael. It was tarter than the varieties that grew in Cygnar.
When everyone slowed down from voracious gobbling to the
occasional nibble, Colbie said, “Listen up. Thanks to Eilish, here’s
what we know. Well before sunset, a necromancer named Morthis
split off from the rest of the Cryxians. He stowed all the books and
papers from Thunderhead Fortress in his saddlebags and rode west
to find the crowns of the kings of the Black Ring of old Umbrey.”
Milo frowned at Eilish. “You’re sure about that.”
“Trust me,” the arcanist replied, “every moment of my captivity
is etched indelibly on my mind. I remember what was said.”
The small man grunted. “I believe you. I just don’t understand
why he wants the things.”
Eilish shook his head. “Nor do I. Vladimir Tzepesci, ‘the Dark
Prince of Umbrey,’ claims descent from the kings of the Black
Ring, but their reign and the independent kingdom they reigned
over ended centuries ago. No one in modern Llael who doesn’t
already accept Vladimir’s authority would bow down just because
he came into possession of the crowns, nor would the articles
provide potent symbols for a rebel leader seeking to drive the
Khadorans out.” He looked to Canice. “Am I right?”
She felt a pang of annoyance. “It’s not a ‘rebellion’ if…never
mind. To answer your question, I think so.”
Colbie took a swig of the weak ale that had been the only
alcoholic beverage on the Protectorate boat. “I’m no expert on
Cryx, but I don’t think the Dragonfather’s agents would get
involved in a country’s internal conflicts anyway. They just want to
BLACK CROWNS | 97
stamp all over the Iron Kingdoms and kill or enslave everybody.”
Gardek grunted. He’d washed the blood off his head, and a
bandage covered the spot where the scrap of flying wood had hit
him. He had, however, disdained to wrap the ring of raw flesh
around his wrist. “Yet they’ve got spies in Ord and the Order of
the Golden Crucible.”
Colbie’s lips twitched into a momentary smile. “That’s a fair
point, and let me say in passing that I’m sick of finding out that
there’s more to a job than it seems and some puppet master is
manipulating us to some unsavory purpose. A little of that goes
a long way. But anyway, yes, evidently the Cryxians do have spies
in the Iron Kingdoms, but I still don’t see how it benefits them to
either support or undermine Khadoran expansion. It strikes me
as more likely that they covet the crowns because they’re magical.
What do we know about that?”
“If they are,” Eilish said, “I never ran across any mention of it
in my studies.” Once again, he looked to Canice. “What can you
tell us?”
“Not much,” she said. “I heard stories and songs about the
kings of old Umbrey when I was a little girl. They made mention
of swords that could cut through blocks of stone, shields that
could withstand any blow, and what have you. There may have
been something about the crowns as well. They gave the wearer
wisdom, or vision, or something similar. But all folktales are like
that, aren’t they? The heroes always have a miraculous talisman or
two to help them along their way.”
“Right you are,” Eilish said, “and surely, much of that is
rubbish, especially when the tales come down to us from so far
back in history. I suppose that if anyone from that time had been
in possession of enchanted regalia, it might have been a king, but
even then, I’d be surprised if the magic was all that impressive by
modern standards. It clearly wasn’t powerful enough to push back
the Khards who conquered Umbrey before the Orgoth, or the
Orgoth when they turned up.”
“Yet this man Morthis,” Colbie said, “expects to use the crowns
to accomplish something big.”
“So he said,” the arcanist replied. “It’s a puzzle.”

“But not one we have to solve,” Milo said. “Our job was the
books.”
Eilish grinned. “Come on, fellow scholar! You know you’re
curious, too.”
“Maybe,” Milo said, “but I’m also practical.”
“Well, we can’t recover the books unless we catch Morthis,
which will provide the additional benefit of enabling us to discover
his plan. How’s that for practical?”
“That depends,” Gardek said. He shifted his shoulders, and,
seated beside him, Pog shied from the armor spikes that nudged
in his direction. “From what you read in the black book, or what
he let slip afterward, can you guess where in all of western Llael
he’s headed?”
“Frankly, no. But you’re the tracker. Come daylight, I can show
you the start of the trail.”
“I can’t follow it on foot faster than he can travel on horseback,
and if he finds his way to a paved or graveled road, that will likely
be the end.”
Colbie scowled. “I hate the thought of giving up. I know all of
you do, too. But in addition to the practical difficulties mentioned
already, we should consider that we’re a heavily armed, distinctive
bunch. The Khadorans could be suspicious of us even if they don’t
recognize us, and if they do, that could be worse.”
“We don’t know for a fact that the Black Dogs had the tacit
support of the Empress’s government,” Eilish said. The Black Dogs
were the Khadoran crime syndicate that had tried to establish
itself in Corvis’ Undercity before the Irregulars put a violent stop
to the endeavor.
“We don’t know they didn’t,” Colbie replied. “From what I
understand, it’s not unlikely. In any case, we ended up skirmishing
with the Winter Guard when we took that job in Point Bourne.”
“Here’s what I suggest,” Natak said through a mouthful of
apple. A white speck of it spilled out and stuck to his massive
jaw. “In the morning, we disguise ourselves as traders, board the
Cryxian boat, and steam back to Corvis.”
BLACK CROWNS | 99
“To report failure,” Colbie said.

“We still collect some coin,” the ogrun said. “Mother’s teats,
if Lavoro Goncal’s got any sense, the news that the Order of the
Golden Crucible has Cryxian spies infesting it will mean more to
him than a bunch of old papers anyway.”
“I was under the impression,” Eilish said, “that a true ogrun
warrior never accepts defeat or lets a wrong go unavenged.”
Natak glowered. “I didn’t. We slaughtered every Cryxian we
caught at the campsite. Honor doesn’t require me to hunt down
the one stray who wandered off before we got there.”
It seemed to Canice that, with the exception of Eilish, every
Irregular was coming around to the conclusion that the sensible
course of action was to return to Corvis as expeditiously as
possible. It was a grudging acceptance in defiance of their
natural inclination to fight on even against long odds, but it was
acceptance nonetheless, and she was relieved to see it.
Yet she was also experiencing her own kind of ambivalence,
and the relief came seasoned with shame. She was glad it had
been unnecessary for her to advocate giving up. From a certain
perspective—which she rejected, damn it!—it was bad enough
that she’d withheld the idea that had occurred to her when the
others were enumerating the seemingly insurmountable difficulties
involved in chasing after Morthis.
Pog cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Colbie said.
“I keep thinking about the crusader in the mask,” the gobber
said.
“The reclaimer,” Eilish said. “What about her?”
“Colbie told me the Sul-Menites believe there’s no…separation
between a priestess or priest like that and Menoth himself. He
speaks to them, and they carry out his will.”
The arcanist shrugged. “Every faith claims its priests act at their
deity’s behest.”
“But the way I understand it, reclaimers are supposed to
be especially close to their god, so close they aren’t just priests
anymore. And you told me you couldn’t explain how the reclaimer
knew to come after you four in the cellar under Thunderhead

Fortress.”
“The implication being that Menoth himself must have alerted
her? I’m confident that if I were in possession of all the facts, I
could advance a likelier hypothesis.”
“But you don’t have one now.”
“What difference does it make?” Natak growled. “You, the
trollkin, and I pray to the goddess. The humans are Morrowan.”
“But we all know Menoth is real,” Pog replied. “We Dhunians
hold that the Mother herself lifted him up to be her champion
against the Wurm. Humans believe he gave them Gifts to lift
them out of savagery. So we at least respect him. Don’t we?”
Gardek grunted. “What’s your point?”
“I’m worried that Menoth wouldn’t speak just because
trespassers sneaked into one of his temples to take some old books
that none of the priests and such even knew about. That wouldn’t
be important enough. Maybe he spoke because he foresaw that if
the Irregulars took the papers, this Morthis would steal them from
us, the horselord’s book would guide him to the three crowns, and
then something terrible would happen!”
Milo snorted. “I’m pretty sure the Creator of Man has better
things to do than watch us and meddle in our business. We can’t
possibly be that significant.”
Eilish grinned. “Speak for yourself! Still, I concede your
essential point. Pog, you’re letting your imagination run wild. If I
were a deity, I could think of simpler, surer ways to forestall such
a calamity.”
“But you’re not,” said Pog. “Learned as you are, you can’t know
why a god would choose to work in a certain way. None of us can.
But if something awful is going to happen, maybe it’s our fault
and we have a duty to stop it.”
The others sat quietly for a moment. A piece of wood in the
fire popped, and sparks flew upward.
At length Milo said, “I’ve always held that my duty’s to myself.
And now, the Irregulars, I guess. Maybe once or twice to Cygnar,
when the rest of you were talking all patriotic and passed the fever
BLACK CROWNS | 101
on to me. But to Llael? To hell with Llael.” He hesitated and then

turned to Canice. “No offense.”
“None taken,” she said. “It’s not my country, either. Not
anymore.”
“Still,” Colbie said, “it’s a land of people who for the most part
are as decent and honest as the ones back home.”
“So,” said Milo, “wicked and depraved?”
Colbie shot him a sour look but otherwise ignored the
interruption. “If I learned the Cryxians had committed some
new atrocity against them and believed we were in any measure
to blame, that would trouble me. But so far as I can tell, whether
Menoth comes into it or not, we still have no way of tracking
Morthis or locating the crowns. I won’t lead the company into
danger without even a slim hope of success.”
No one, even Pog, had a response to that, and so Canice
supposed that despite the gobber’s misgivings, she’d gotten her
wish. In the morning, she and the other Irregulars would steam
south, and surely that was for the best.
It was unquestionably safer for her. She’d spent years fighting
in the covert war of espionage, sabotage, and assassination in the
west in concert with dozens of other operatives, many of whom
were likely still active. If she ventured in that direction, she truly
might run into some former comrade who’d known her well
enough to recognize her despite her current disguise.
Besides, she simply didn’t want to go. Most of all, she didn’t
want to go to the particular destination to which her counsel
might steer the Irregulars if she chose to give it.
Yet it grieved her to see glumness, frustration, and even traces
of guilt in the faces of her companions. The sight gave rise to
corresponding feelings in herself. She found accepting defeat as
unpalatable as they did.
She also had memories stirring that she’d done her best to
smother. She’d been wise to do so. The recollections were as
painful now as they’d ever been. But in many cases, the pain
stemmed from the fact that the original events had been joyful.
It was galling to imagine the people and places she’d tried—
unsuccessfully, evidently—to forget imperiled by some sort of

Cryxian vileness.
Most of all, perhaps, it disgusted her to catch herself balking
and flinching. That had never been her way. When she was afraid
of something, she ran at it.
“There may be a way to find Morthis,” she said.
“Tell us,” Colbie said.
Canice looked to Eilish. “I’m right, aren’t I, that in olden
times, before printing presses, there could still be multiple copies
of a book. Clerks wrote them out by hand.”
“Yes,” the arcanist said.
“Well, there’s supposedly a huge collection of old books and
papers at the Ascendant Angellia’s library in Elsinberg. The monks
could have a copy of the horselord’s memoir.”
“Or another document containing the same information,”
Eilish said. “In which case, we wouldn’t have to track Morthis.
Rather, we’d simply figure out where he’s headed and go there
ourselves.” He smiled at Canice. “It could work.”
Gardek stuck another biscuit on the length of branch he’d
whittled for the purpose. “Only if the library really does have a
copy of the book. So far, that’s just a guess.”
“You’re right,” Canice said, “and even if it does, we might have
trouble gaining access.”
Eilish grinned. “You wound me, Ms. Gormleigh. I can
convince any librarian who ever dusted a bookshelf that I’m a
serious academician.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Canice said. “Monks still run
the library, but unless things have changed since I left, they do it
under the supervision of the Greylords. The Khadoran wizards poke
around in the archives looking for forgotten spells and such, and
they aren’t likely to offer a Cygnaran arcanist the same opportunity.”
“Wait,” said Pog. “Yes, we’ve fought Khadorans in the past, but
we don’t want to fight them now. We want to stop Cryxians—
everybody’s enemies—from doing something horrible in a place
the Empire claims for itself. Maybe, if we simply tell the Greylords
the truth, they’ll help us.”
BLACK CROWNS | 103
Milo snorted. “That’s cute.”

The gobber frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Only that the Khadorans won’t believe such an unlikely story
told by suspicious vagabonds from an enemy country, and if they
did, they’d want to take possession of the books and crowns when
we caught up to Morthis. That’s unacceptable.”
“So,” Colbie said, “we’re contemplating making our way
overland across Khadoran Llael and somehow gaining entry to a
library under Greylord control to consult a book that may or may
not be there. If it is, we will then rush to the hiding place of the
crowns in the hope that Morthis hasn’t already found them and
gone somewhere else. Even though, unlike us, he can go straight
there immediately.”
Canice shrugged, and her leather greatcoat creaked. “I didn’t
say I had an intelligent alternative to steaming back to Corvis. I
just said there is one.”
Colbie glanced around the circle. “Opinions?”
“If we did something bad,” said Pog, “even without meaning
to, we should fix it.”
Eilish grinned. “My friend, I remain convinced that as a
theologian, you’re a first-rate mechanik. In other words, Menoth
has nothing to do with the current situation, nor do I feel culpable
for doing what we have. That said, though, I agree in principle
that a thwarted Cryxian scheme is preferable to a successful
one, and I share our captain’s irritation with anyone who would
make us his dupes. Additionally, I’m eager to continue studying
the documents we brought out of Thunderhead Fortress and
to examine the crowns, especially if they really do have magical
properties.”
“Cryxians make undead,” Gardek growled. “They almost
turned the schoolboy and me. I’m game to stop them making
any more, and if we finish the job while we’re at it, so much the
better.”
“If the crowns still exist,” Milo said, “they must be worth a lot
of coin to somebody.”
“I agree with the rest of you,” Colbie said. “We also have
our reputation to think of. I don’t want to return home empty-

handed and break our string of successes. Mr. Goncal consulted
us in confidence, but that doesn’t guarantee word of our failure
wouldn’t eventually get around.”
Natak turned to Canice. “What do you think, korune?”
Reluctance was a tight, clenched feeling in Canice’s chest. But
she supposed she’d already made her choice, or why bring up
Elsinberg in the first place? “I say we hunt down Mr. Morthis.”
“Then so do I,” Natak said. He turned to Eilish. “You may have
had a point, wizard. Maybe killing the horned women and black
ogrun wasn’t enough. If the necromancer carries out his plan, then
he still wins, and we lose. I’m not having that.”
Colbie stretched. “Then we’re all agreed, may Morrow help us.
First thing tomorrow, we’ll hide what we can’t carry with us. I’m
not sure how long the boats will go unnoticed no matter what we
do. But if we stash Doorstop in an especially dense thicket, there’s
a reasonable chance he’ll still be here whenever we get back.”
Pog goggled at her. “You don’t want to take him with us?”
“I do,” Colbie said, “but we can’t. He’d slow us down and draw
attention, and we couldn’t be sure of finding enough fuel to keep
him marching the entire distance.”
Pog shook his head. Plainly, he was still aghast at the prospect
of leaving the steamjack behind.
Milo chuckled. “Now you see where morality and god talk
gets you.”
—9—
IT WAS AS DIFFICULT FOR A STEAMJACK to lie down as it was for

one to stand up from that position. The massive jointed bodies
weren’t constructed for either. Still, the dense brambles rustling
and crunching under his weight, Doorstop managed eventually.
He was prone to facilitate access to his firebox.
Colbie opened the hatch and poured a bucket of water on the
burning coal. Gears whirring, Doorstop turned his head to regard
her with his glowing optics. Pog was sure the ´jack perceived the
extinguishing of the fire, the resulting loss of steam power, and the
fading of awareness and sensation and wondered why his marshals
had seen fit to render him inert in such peculiar circumstances.
Pog struggled to keep distress from showing in his face. It
might upset Doorstop, and it would almost certainly prompt
one or another of the Irregulars to make a joke at their gobber
comrade’s expense. None of them, even Colbie, recognized that
the ´jack was a person rather than just a useful piece of mechanika
or, at best, a hulking steel pet.
“Let’s go,” Colbie said. She set the bucket down.

As, thorns snagging their garments, they made their way out
of the thicket, she and Pog tried to restore the briars Doorstop
had trampled and brushed aside going in. Meanwhile, the gobber
silently prayed to the Mother to keep the automaton safe.
At the edge of the thicket, the two mechaniks turned and
surveyed their handiwork. Pog could no longer see Doorstop. He
could still discern that someone or something had forced a path
through the thicket, but the trail was less obvious than before, and
perhaps, in a few days, nature would erase it entirely.
Colbie looked at the thicket long enough that Pog wondered
if she was having second thoughts. Then she turned on her heel
to face the other Irregulars. “Gardek, you scouted. What did you
find?”
The trollkin stood with his war hammer canted over his
shoulder and his spiky rectangular shield on his arm. “The woods
don’t stretch too far from the river. It looks like mostly grazing
land on the other side. There’s a path that runs out into it, and
we might as well take it. It goes southwest, more or less. Toward
Elsinberg.”
As the Irregulars made their way beyond the tree line, Pog tried
to put his worries about Doorstop’s safety and the guilt he felt
forsaking the ´jack behind him. He liked seeing new places, and
this was his first good look at any portion of Llael beyond the
banks of the Black River.
Before him stretched green and yellow flatland, the nearer
portions mostly pasture but with fields of grain growing in the
distance. If his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him, conjuring
something that was actually too distant to see, the dark line on the
northern horizon must be the mountains known as the Oldwick
Ridge.
He looked around for some of Llael’s famous horses but spied
only sheep munching grass on a gentle rise. Maybe he’d see the
horses as he traveled farther west.
Even without them, the vista lifted his spirits. He liked cities
in general and Corvis in particular. It was home. Still, there
BLACK CROWNS | 107
was no denying this natural sunlit landscape made a pleasant,

peaceful contrast to the near-constant rain, fog, crowds, noise,
and industrial filth of the City of Ghosts.
He quickened his step to catch up with Canice. “This must
have been a good place to grow up,” he said.
She glanced down at him. “Don’t prattle when you have no
idea what you’re talking about.” Coupled with her words, the ice
in her tone was sufficiently forbidding that he halted until she
drew a few paces ahead of him again.
Her scorn slightly dampened his enthusiasm for his new
surroundings, but it was another hour before he spied anything
to justify the bitterness. Then the Irregulars rounded another low
hillock, at which point an arched wooden bridge came into view.
Pog was well aware that he was, at best, a novice soldier, but even
he could tell that the bridge was of no real military importance.
The stream it spanned was almost certainly shallow enough for
even gobbers to wade without difficulty. Yet it had provided the
focus for a skirmish.
A couple armored corpses lay on the ground. Several more
reposed in the back of the mule-drawn cart onto which two men
in brown homespun had loaded them.
One man spotted the Irregulars and alerted his companion,
whereupon they both peered in the mercenaries’ direction.
“They should be able to see we’re not Sul-Menites or Cryxians,”
Pog said, “or even Khadorans.”
“That still leaves deserters turned bandit,” Colbie said. “Such
wretches plague many a warzone.”
“Marring,” Eilish said, “what would otherwise be so pleasant.”
Colbie ignored him. “We want to hear whatever local people
can tell us. But from the way they’re gawking, I’m worried that as
soon as we move forward, they’ll jump on that cart and flee.”
“Then we won’t all descend on them at once,” Canice said. She
waved her hands overhead to draw the rustics’ attention. Once she
had it, she removed her greatcoat and the gun belts underneath,
handing the items to Natak one by one.
“You could keep your holdout pistols,” the ogrun said.
The gun mage snorted. “They’re just farmers. One way or

another, I’ll be all right.”
“If the idea is to look harmless,” said Pog, “they probably
wouldn’t see a lone gobber as a threat.”
“You don’t speak Llaelese,” Canice replied. “With luck, that
may inspire a little trust.” She started forward.
•••
CANICE MADE SURE TO SMILE and keep her empty hands in plain
view as she headed toward the men with the cart. They’d seen
her disarm herself before advancing, but that didn’t preclude the
possibility that she still had a weapon hidden somewhere about
her person. In their place, she would have been wary of such a
trick. For her part, she was alert for any shift of a hand or change
of expression that would mean one of the men had decided he
didn’t like the looks of her and, fear overcoming his good sense,
was about to produce a firearm of his own.
Yet despite the need to attend to immediate, practical concerns,
the moment felt strange to her. She didn’t want to be in Llael
at all, but at least, until this moment, she’d been constantly in
the company of the other Irregulars. Now she was leaving them
behind and approaching a pair of her countrymen by herself.
She knew the feeling that separation engendered was irrational.
Her fellow mercenaries were only a little way behind her—she
need only glance around to see them waiting where she’d left
them—and they’d all be reunited in a matter of minutes. Still, she
felt as if she’d abandoned a defense and by so doing invited old
sorrows and regrets to plague her anew.
Up close, the two rustics had a pronounced familial
resemblance; brothers, most likely, or at least cousins, each with
the same fine sandy hair, long nose, and cautious, calculating
frown. The corpses were Sul-Menite with the usual Menofix-
emblazoned surcoats, now mostly besmirched with dried blood.
Flies crawled on the bodies and buzzed above the bodies. The
mules in the traces flicked their ears and swished their tails when
one of the insects bothered them.
BLACK CROWNS | 109
“Good morning,” Canice said. “I hope someone is paying you

well for this unpleasant chore.”
The man who looked as though he was the older brother made
a spitting sound. “Who would that someone be? The Sul-Menites
are on the other side of the river, not that I’d take their filthy clay
coin anyway. If the Khadorans cared about the enemy dead, they
would have collected and buried them along with the fallen from
their own side.”
“Then why go to the trouble?” Canice asked.
“This is our home,” the younger man said. “We don’t want it
littered with rotting bodies. Children herd sheep and goats on this
stretch of land.”
“We especially don’t want it when the corpses might rise up
and walk,” the other rustic said. “Now that we also have Cryxians
skulking about, it’s been known to happen. The hope is that if we
bury this bunch properly, they’ll stay quiet.” He grinned. “It’ll be
burial in a Morrowan cemetery with Morrowan prayers spoken
over the graves. Let their spirits choke on that.”
Canice chuckled. “I’m with you there.”
The older man’s grin disappeared. “Are you? This is a nice chat,
but who are you, the ogrun, the trollkin, and the rest of your
band?”
“Nobody who means you or yours any harm,” Canice said.
“Just travelers passing through.”
“Secretive travelers, if that’s as much of an answer as you’re
willing to give.”
“Do you need more?”
“Maybe not. But you must think you need something from us.
Otherwise, you could have just hung back with your friends until
we got on the cart and drove away.”
“You’re right,” Canice said. “Obviously, this is dangerous
country. We’ll pay for information that will help us steer clear of
trouble.”
The older brother grunted. “I’d like to take your coin, but
I don’t know if I could earn it. The Sul-Menites scout and raid
across the river—like this bunch—but as far as I know, there isn’t
a big company of them running around over here right now. The
Cryxians are split up into little groups that move around a lot. So
I don’t know how to tell you to avoid them, either.”
Canice hesitated. But the only way to find out how the rustics
would react to her next question was to ask it. “What about
the Khadorans? Your tone wasn’t especially warm when you
mentioned them.”
The older man snorted. “It wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Well, they fight the Sul-Menites and the Cryxians, and
somebody has to. But they don’t do it out of concern for the
people who have always tended sheep and grown beans and barley
hereabouts. It’s one gang of conquerors holding what they’ve
stolen against others who would wrest it away from them.”
“So if my friends and I also wanted to know how to avoid
Khadoran checkpoints and patrols, it wouldn’t trouble your
conscience to tell us?”
The younger brother frowned. “Bastlan, be careful. If these
strangers intend mischief against the Khadorans, we help them,
and the soldiers find out, it could go badly for us.”
“I swear to you,” Canice said, “one Llaelese to another, that
while my friends and I aren’t fond of Khadorans, we aren’t working
against them, either. Not on this trip. A few days ago, we were on
the other side of the river fighting the Sul-Menites, and now we’re
trying to ruin a Cryxian plan. The problem is that we have to
move quickly and we have history with the Winter Guard and
their ilk. We can’t afford to let them detain us for questioning or
worse.”
“What’s the Cryxian plot?” the younger man asked.
“It’s complicated, and we’re still figuring out the details
ourselves. But if the Cryxians succeed, it could make life in these
lands even more difficult than it is already.”
The younger rustic sneered. “That’s as vague as everything else
she’s told us.”
“You’re right,” Bastlan said, “but I have a feeling what she’s said
is the truth as far as it goes. So I’m willing to take a chance and
BLACK CROWNS | 111
help her. Gordenn’s rain, it always feels good to put one over on
Lieutenant Ostyvik.”
A smile tugged at the corners of the younger man’s mouth. “I
admit, you’re right about that.”
Canice smiled, too. “What kind of help can you give?”
“The crusaders have poked into this part of the country quite
a bit,” Bastlan said, “so the Khadorans built a string of outposts
and watchtowers, and when the Cryxians crawled up from the
Thornwood, that just made them more vigilant. The path you’re
on would take you right up under the guns of one of the forts.”
“Damn it,” Canice said, “and as flat as this country is, those
watchtowers can see for miles. I suppose the best course is to slip
between two of the bastions after dark.”
“We can do you a little better than that,” Bastlan said. “This
land’s not completely flat. There a low space near one of the forts.
Lieutenant Ostyvik’s sentries can’t see into it, but he apparently
doesn’t realize it. He’s not the 1st Army’s keenest mind. Smugglers
use the path to move goods without paying duty, and fugitives
and debtors use it to sneak beyond reach of the local tribunal.
After dark, I’ll take you and your friends through.”
“You mean, we will,” the younger man said. “If you’re sure
you want to do this, I’m coming along. If I didn’t, Mother would
never let me hear the end of it.”
“If you ever let on to her that we do this kind of thing,” Bastlan
said, “neither one of us will ever hear the end of it.”
•••
UP AHEAD, A COUPLE LIGHTS BURNED in the upper reaches of

Lieutenant Ostyvik’s fort. Milo could almost have mistaken
them for stars burning just above the low hill. The shape of the
stronghold was all but indistinguishable against the night sky.
In fact, with Calder, the largest moon, just a waning crescent in
the sky, it was dark enough that Milo wondered about the wisdom
of coming so close to the fort. If the Irregulars stayed well clear of
it, wouldn’t that allow them to sneak past undetected?
Well, maybe not. According to Bastlan and Flynn, they were
likely to run afoul of a night patrol, and as locals, the two brothers
presumably were in a position to know. It was just that over the
course of his life, Milo had mostly survived by giving armed men
in authority a wide berth, and, with the recent exceptions of his
fellow Irregulars, never trusting the sound judgment or good
intentions of anybody else very far.
In the lead, little more than a shadow even though he was
only a few paces ahead, Bastlan looked back. “From now on,” he
whispered, “no talking. Not until I tell you we’re clear.”
Colbie gave him a nod. “Understood.”
The procession crept on, and the ground sloped downward
under Milo’s feet. At first, the incline was almost imperceptible,
but in time, it led down into the ravine the brother had promised.
The wall of earth on the left blocked Milo’s view of the fort, which
meant the sentries on the wall couldn’t see down to the bottom of
the gulley, either.
Nor could Calder or all but a few of the stars, and, denied their
light, the ravine was even darker than the country the mercenaries
and their guides had traversed hitherto. Milo could just barely
make out the glimmer of a stream and the gray bumps of stones
that broke the surface.
He smiled a grudging smile. Despite its proximity to the fort,
this was a proper path for smugglers, fugitives, and anyone else
who wished to travel undetected, and unless conditions changed
farther along, he and the others should be all right.
He moved silently and winced when one of his companions
failed to do the same. Eilish was the worst offender. Prior to joining
the Irregulars, the arcanist had never practiced a trade requiring
stealth, and on top of that, he was wearing his fancy black fitted
plate. But however loud it felt to Milo with his nerves stretched
taut, the armor’s occasional faint clink was surely inaudible to
anyone up in the fort.
In contrast, his hulking form and bulky plate notwithstanding,
Gardek was quiet as a ghost. Until he abruptly quickened his pace,
caught up to Colbie, and gripped her shoulder to signal a halt.
She nodded and strode forward to deliver the same silent message
BLACK CROWNS | 113
to Bastlan. Meanwhile, the bounty hunter turned and lifted his

hand to stop everybody else. When everyone was looking in his
direction, he touched the little bump on his face that was all a
trollkin possessed in the way of a visible nose.
By that time, Milo had already detected what Gardek was
smelling. A hint of decay now mingled with the smells of iron
water and mud.
Frowning, Colbie nodded and slipped her ´jack wrench from
inside her greatcoat. Everyone else readied a weapon as well.
They might not need them. Maybe they were catching the
stink of a dead animal, or, even if it was undead, perhaps the
thralls had passed through the gulley and gone elsewhere. But it
was better to be prepared.
Unfortunately, with the Khadoran fort perched over their
heads, ‘prepared’ in this case excluded any means of self-defense
that would flash or bang. Scowling, Canice left her magelocks in
their holsters and drew the dagger that was her weapon of last
resort, while Milo made do with his acid sprayer.
When everyone was ready, they prowled onward. Milo peered
this way and that. He hoped to spy the carcass of a deer or pig,
and in that, he was disappointed. But nothing was shambling out
of the murk to accost the travelers, either.
Still, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that he and his comrades
were walking into a snare. Finally he stopped and unsnapped
various small pouches incorporated into his alchemist’s vest and
long black leather cloak.
His experiences in Corvis’ Undercity, where the need for a light
source could render stealth impossible, had convinced him of the
usefulness of a preparation that would enable a man to see in the
dark. To a degree, such a thing already existed, a tincture called
umbroculant that dilated a man’s pupils as wide as they could go.
But, convinced he could do better than that crude formula, he’d
invented one of his own based on an entirely different principle
and had brought the first dose along on the journey.
Maybe this was the moment to test it. He tucked the acid
sprayer under his arm, poured a dash of four different solutions
into the same empty vial, and shook the vessel. Then he tilted
his head back, closed his left eye, and dribbled the new mixture
into the right. It burned, and he clenched his jaw to hold in a cry.
As the pain subsided, the eye flooded with tears. Blinking and
knuckling them away, he peered around.
His companions had stopped and seemed to be looking at him in
confusion and concern. He was uncertain because his preparation
had turned them to silhouettes banded with luminous color. He
couldn’t possibly have missed their presence but could no longer
see faces as such or, in some cases, even tell if they were facing
toward him or away.
He still didn’t see any signs of danger. Conceivably, he’d just
permanently damaged his sight for no reason. Scowling, he
struggled to push that alarming thought out of his head, and then
it occurred to him to look up.
There were luminous figures above him, too, although neither
the stripes of color nor the shapes were precisely the same. The
glowing things were converging on the line of people strung out
along the gulley floor. Surely they were some sort of Cryxian
roaming the countryside to slaughter whomever they encountered
and crawling on the walls of the gulley like spiders.
Milo sucked in a breath to shout a warning and remembered
the hilltop fort just in time. The Khadorans weren’t loathsome and
unnatural like the creatures of the Nightmare Empire. They were
just people. But if they detected the Irregulars’ presence, they,
with their numbers and firearms, might well prove to be more
dangerous.
“Cryxians above us,” he said, keeping his voice low, whereupon,
the words seemingly spurring them into motion, the crawling
things leaped from their perches.
Milo recoiled to keep one from plunging down right on
top him, and as he lowered his gaze, the glowing shapes of his
companions flared back into view. This unfamiliar way of seeing
was too dazzling and confusing to keep him alive in combat, and
he squeezed shut the drugged eye and opened the unaffected one.
By that time, his attacker had landed and was rushing him.
BLACK CROWNS | 115
Up close, it reeked even more strongly of decay but also

smelled of oil and hot metal. Pressure hoses ran along its limbs,
steel plates armored sections of its withered body, and enormous
fists seemingly replaced its original hands entirely. Likely it was
the strength and hardness of the long, thick fingers that enabled it
to dig them into hard-packed dirt and rock and clamber along a
vertical surface like the side of the ravine.
The creature was undoubtedly a mechanithrall, an undead
weapon produced through the union of mechanika and
necromancy. Everyone in the Iron Kingdoms had heard of the
things, but Milo had never encountered one before.
His feet splashing in the stream, he retreated. His heel slipped off
a wet stone, and he nearly lost his balance, but not quite. He pulled
the sprayer out from under his arm and discharged a hissing stream
of acid into the mechanithrall’s face, a steel skull mask with tinted
lenses covering glazed sunken eyes ringed with shriveled flesh.
The contact of acid and mask smoked and sizzled. Maybe
some of the acid even reached the carrion behind the steel, but the
mechanithrall kept coming. Its cocked arm clanked and made a
spitting sound. Milo ducked just as the undead creature punched.
The blow streaked over his head like a bullet. Had it connected,
it would have pulverized his upper body like a round from Colbie’s
slug gun.
He dodged left and sprayed acid at the back of the mechanithrall’s
knee. The legs were spindly compared to the prodigious fists and
forearms, and as the joint bent and straightened, decayed flesh
showed inside the metal casing. He might be able to cripple his
opponent.
The mechanithrall pivoted to put him in front of it once more.
The eye lenses bubbled and ran, but it was impossible to tell if
he burned away the organs beneath. It hammered a fist down at
the top of his head, but without the clank-and-spit he’d heard
before and without the fast-as-a-bullet speed. He suspected some
internal system needed to build up pressure for it to augment an
attack in that fashion. At any rate, he managed to fling himself
out from underneath the attack.
The mechanithrall tried to turn to strike at him again, and the

acid-damaged leg gave way beneath it. It fell prone.
He scrambled around its body, further distancing himself
from the enormous steel hands, and peered down at his foe. The
darkness obscured detail, but he thought he saw more exposed
flesh on the nape of the dead thing’s neck.
He sprayed acid at the seemingly vulnerable spot. The corrosive
smoked and hissed on contact, but only for a moment. Then the
sprayer ran dry.
The mechanithrall spun itself in Milo’s direction, heaved its
upper body off the ground with one hand, and raised the other to
strike. The clank-and-spit noise sounded.
At which point the Cryxian soldier lurched and froze. Circling
it, Milo discerned that while the skull-faced cowling still held
the undead’s head in proximity to its shoulders, the rotten flesh
and bone that had connected the head to the body had mostly
dissolved.
He peered about to see what else was happening. The drugged
eye came open, and the bottom of the ravine changed from
shadows scrambling in murk to shining indecipherable chaos. He
hastily squinched it shut once more.
When he did, he could at least tell that no new foe was orienting
on him. Not yet. He put his back to the side of the gulley and dug
in one of his pockets for a new acid cartridge.
•••
EILISH LOOKED UP. Despite Milo’s warning, for an instant, he saw

nothing but the black walls of the ravine and the strip of sky above.
Then something blocked the light of a couple stars. The alchemist
had somehow detected Cryxians on the steep slopes above their
heads, and now the creatures were springing down at them.
One thudded down in front of Eilish and raised its oversized
fists. It was a mechanithrall. He’d never seen a functional one before,
but there had been an inert specimen in a display case at Corvis
University procured by the eminent Professor Viktor Pendrake.
The things Eilish had learned from peering at the specimen
BLACK CROWNS | 117
through the glass and reading Pendrake’s monograph on

mechanithralls made him wish he could use his spells against the
thing, but he couldn’t risk some Khadoran sentry seeing blue light
flickering up from inside the ravine. He was going to have to rely
on his sword and only make thrusting attacks at that. He couldn’t
afford the racket of cuts clashing on armor, either.
The mechanithrall rushed him. Something inside it clanked, a
sound followed instantly by an abbreviated hiss. He surmised that
his foe had just readied one of the augmented punches Pendrake
had written about. Eilish supposed he needed to be particularly
wary of those, although really, if the creature landed any blow, it
might well kill or incapacitate him.
He sidestepped the mechanithrall’s initial rush and stabbed.
His sword plunged into the crack between two pieces of steel
armoring the Cryxian’s flank.
His foe lurched to a stop and pivoted. Eilish leaped backward.
The enhanced punch hurtled at him and fell short by the length
of his hand.
Circling, he studied the mechanithrall to see if his first attack
had truly hurt it. It didn’t seem any slower or less steady on its feet.
He was disappointed but not surprised. The undead and ´jacks
were often resilient, and this horror was a bit of both.
Advancing and retreating, ducking and dodging, he thrust
at the cracks between plates that gapped and closed as the thrall
moved like the opening and winking of an eye. Often, he scored.
Other times, he was an instant too slow or his aim was off by a
hair, and his point skipped off his adversary’s armor.
Meanwhile, the huge fists missed him by almost as narrow a
margin. The air disturbed by the punches fanned his face.
Pog maneuvered behind the mechanithrall and assailed its
legs with the point of his trench knife. Hovering a pace or two
behind Eilish, Flynn threw clumps of mud at its sunken lens-
colored eyes. In all likelihood, the gobber and the Llaelese rustic
were only distracting the creature, but Eilish appreciated whatever
help they could render.
It had been perhaps half a minute since the previous augmented
punch. The mechanithrall’s internal systems had likely reset for

another. Eilish stepped in to invite the attack. When he heard the
first of the two sounds that presaged it, he twisted aside, and the
blow streaked past him.
At that moment, fully committed to striking with maximum
power, the thrall was unable to block and dodge to protect its
vulnerable spots. Eilish drove his point deep into a clink in the
armor over its lower back. The undead pitched forward onto its
face. But it was still moving, so he and Pog kept stabbing.
•••
THE CRYXIAN SPLASHED DOWN in the middle of the stream several

strides away from Gardek. On first inspection, obscured by the
ambient gloom, it reminded him of the Khadoran outlaw in
steam-powered armor he fought in the Undercity. But except
for massive hands and forearms, the Cryxian was less bulky, and
when it pivoted toward Gardek, it revealed a steel skull mask that
proclaimed its undead status like the carrion stink that shrouded
it and the glimpses of decomposing flesh revealed when the joints
of its metal casing flexed.
He felt the surge of hate that always rushed through him when
encountering the sort of vile, unnatural creatures that had killed
his brother. He hefted his war hammer and shield, took a first
step forward, and then remembered the soldiers in the fort above
the gulley.
He couldn’t just batter the armored thrall to pieces with the
hammer. He couldn’t even block its blows with the shield. The
Winter Guard—or whoever was up in the bastion—would hear
the clangor.
He backpedaled, and, accelerating with every stride, the undead
pursued him. Dropping the hammer to dangle from the leather
loop that attached it to his wrist, he grabbed the drum-fed repeating
crossbow, the weapon Natak had found aboard the Sul-Menite
patrol boat, hanging at this hip. When he brought it up and pulled
the trigger, the bolt punched through one of the tinted lenses in the
skull mask and punctured the dead, sunken eye beneath.
BLACK CROWNS | 119
The Cryxian stumbled but kept coming. Something inside

it clanked, and Gardek twisted aside. With a short, sharp hiss,
the thrall’s huge fist shot out. The blow caught one of the spikes
projecting from Gardek’s shield and snapped it off, jolting his arm
in the process.
The quarrel jutting from its ruined eye, the undead creature
turned to attack him anew. He wanted to shoot its other eye—
surely losing both would hinder it—but it pressed him so
relentlessly, it was all he could do to avoid its blows. Aiming the
crossbow was impossible. Despite the short range, bolt after bolt
glanced harmlessly off the Cryxian’s armor. The crossbow clicked as
it recocked and reloaded itself until the rotating drum was empty.
As Gardek dodged and retreated, Milo’s acidic vapor stung
his eyes and nose, and he caught a glimpse of Eilish lunging and
thrusting. The alchemist and arcanist had found ways to fight
quietly, and, he hoped, effectively. Surely there was a way for him
to do so as well, but nothing was coming to him.
Colbie scrambled around the thrall to attack it from behind.
She had her long ´jack wrench in her hands, but instead of striking
with it war club-fashion, she was making little jabbing motions
that, in the dark and the frenzy of the moment, Gardek couldn’t
interpret.
Still, the thrall disliked whatever Colbie was doing. It spun
around, blocking Gardek’s view of her, and cocked a fist. Its inner
workings made the clank-hiss sound.
Gardek decided that, whatever the ultimate results of making
noise, he needed to deal with the undead creature with dispatch.
He raised the hammer to smash it over the head, but as he did,
something long and metallic slid down its back. It gleamed faintly
in what little light there was. Otherwise, he might have missed it
in the murk and confusion.
It was Colbie’s ´jack wrench. It had tangled in a metallic
pressure line running down the thrall’s arm, and when the Cryxian
turned, it pulled the makeshift weapon from her grasp.
Gardek realized Colbie had been trying to slip the wrench
between the metallic hose and the limb beneath. She’d wanted to
pull the line loose from its mountings. But though strong for a
human woman, she hadn’t been strong enough, especially not when
employing an implement ill-suited to the task. He, however, was a
trollkin and could hook things with the head of his war hammer.
The enhanced punch leaped out. Gardek didn’t hear it smash
into anything and assumed Colbie had evaded it.
He snagged a pressure line with the hammer and heaved
down and back with all his strength. The hose broke free of the
connection on the rim of the oversized metal forearm. It lashed
back and forth, and steam hissed from the end.
Gardek hitched back from the hot vapor, but only for a second.
He could stand a few blisters if that was what it took to destroy his
foe. He reached for another hose, and the thrall lurched around
to face him. One of its fists shot out, and he jumped back out of
range.
With the undead creature oriented on him, catching the
pressure lines was more difficult. He snagged one running down
the thrall’s thigh, but unlike the first, it wouldn’t come free, and he
nearly lost his grip on the hammer dodging another blow.
Retreating, he shook the shield off his arm to clunk down in
the mud beside the stream. At the moment, it was no use to him,
and now he’d have both hands free to wield the hammer.
He sidestepped an arcing downward blow and snagged the line
attached to the thrall’s hitherto unaffected arm. He pulled, and it
snapped free at the shoulder end. More steam jetted.
Over the course of the next few seconds, the effects of the
damage became visible. The thrall kept swinging at Gardek, but
the blows came slower.
Sneering, he twisted out of the way of one such attack and
broke the line on the thrall’s leg. After that, it started limping, and
a few seconds later, he swung the hammer low, hooked its ankle,
and tripped it.
It pitched forward onto its face. He planted the hammer on
the back of its head and pushed down with all his might. The
armor crumpled and flattened, pulverizing the bone, withered
flesh, and rotten brain it encased.
BLACK CROWNS | 121
•••
PART METAL AND PART DECAYING FLESH, a Cryxian sprang down in

front of Canice and Natak. The ogrun hefted his battle axe and
started toward it.
“Noise!” Canice said.
“Then what do I do?” he growled.
She didn’t know. Perhaps some of their comrades were better
equipped to dispatch such a thrall quietly, but as best she could
determine amid the darkness and sudden confusion, the others
were busy with attackers of their own.
Natak still interposed himself between the thrall and her. He
feinted with the axe to balk the armored undead and dodged or
retreated out of range when it struck back at him.
Once he had its attention, Canice maneuvered behind the
Cryxian. She studied the articulations of its steel shell, spotted
the cracks where a properly aimed blade could slide through, and
started stabbing.
At first, even when she hit one of her small moving targets,
there was no indication she’d done the undead creature any real
harm. It moved as fast and nimbly as before and paid her no more
attention than she would have paid a flitting gnat when she was
in the midst of combat with someone or something that could
actually hurt her.
Then, however, the knife plunged especially deep and into the
base of the Cryxian’s neck. For an instant, she hoped she’d slain
the creature by severing whatever remained of the spinal cord.
She hadn’t, but apparently she’d finally persuaded the thrall
to take her seriously. Something clanked inside it, and it spun
around at her. She retreated and ducked.
She was only barely in time. With an abbreviated hiss, its huge
fist swung in a blur of a backhand blow that tumbled her hat from
her head.
The undead stepped to strike at her again, but, now that he was
the one behind it, Natak dropped his axe to seize it in a wrestler’s hold.
He slipped his arms under the thrall’s arms, laced his hands with their
steel rings behind the creature’s neck, and pressed downward.
He didn’t succeed in destroying the undead’s spine, either, but

neither did the creature instantly break free. It flailed back over
its shoulders with its huge steel fists, awkward blows that, should
they connect, would nonetheless rip Natak’s face with the blades
jutting from the knuckles. But, using the thrall’s head as a shield
for his own, he avoided them.
Canice sprang at the Cryxian and stabbed for its right eye. The
dagger punched through the lens protecting it and into the organ
beneath. Into the brain, too, she thought, but even that didn’t
stop the thrall from struggling. She stabbed at the other eye, and
the undead twisted its head to the side. Grating, striking sparks,
her point skipped off the metal skull mask.
She pulled the knife back for another try. Then, his teeth bared,
Natak gritted, “Behind you!”
She looked around. Another thrall was rushing in their
direction. Maybe it was a straggler just now joining the battle.
Whatever it was, she couldn’t allow it to strike her down from
behind or attack Natak while he was busy grappling its fellow.
She turned and advanced with the dagger leveled. The Cryxian
oriented on her instead of tramping on toward the ogrun, so that
much was all right, but she suspected her chances of surviving
what was to come were slim. Her hands itched to cast away the
stupid knife and draw her magelocks.
She jumped back, and the undead’s first blur of a punch
fell short. Before it could pull its arm back, and slashed at the
extended limb, but the dagger glanced off the sheath of metal
rings protecting a pressure line.
She shifted onto the thrall’s flank and stabbed at the chink
between two of the plates armoring its ribs. She pierced pitted,
oozing flesh, but the creature still pivoted and struck down at her.
She recoiled and so avoided broken bones or worse. At the
same time, however, the Cryxian snatched with its other hand and
caught hold of the skirt of her greatcoat. It jerked its hand upward
and carried her body with it. Her legs flew out from under her,
and she slammed down half in and half out of the shallow stream.
Struggling to shake off the shock of impact, she peered up at
BLACK CROWNS | 123
the thrall. It was lifting its fist to pummel her. Worse, it still had
some of her greatcoat clutched in the fingers of the other hand.
She wouldn’t be able to roll aside when the fist came down.
A flung stone glanced off the Cryxian’s metal-sheathed head.
An instant later, Bastlan leaped on its back. He had another rock
and pounded at the undead’s face with it, probably in an effort to
attack the eyes.
He missed them, but the thrall didn’t punch Canice. Instead,
it let go of her coat so it could try to batter Bastlan with both its
hands.
Milo darted out of the gloom. “Get clear!” he snapped. Canice
scrambled up and away, and Bastlan dropped off the thrall’s back.
At once, Milo sprayed acid in its face, slipped a retaliatory
punch, and shifted behind it to shoot more corrosive at the back
of its knee. It staggered as it turned to attack him again.
Gardek rushed up behind it and hooked one of the pressure
lines attached to an arm with the head of his hammer. With a
grunt, he pulled. The hose popped free, and steam whistled out.
Working together, the alchemist and the trollkin continued
assailing their foe. Meanwhile, Canice looked to see what had
become of Natak.
The ogrun was still on his feet, but so was the thrall he’d
grappled. In fact, the Cryxian had broken free and was stalking
toward him while he gave ground before it.
Another spurt of acid toppled the nearest undead. Canice
pointed at the embattled Natak. “There!” she said.
Gardek sucked in a deep breath. “Got it.” He ran toward the
ogrun and his foe. As he ripped a pressure line loose, he said, “This
is how you do it.”
“Right,” Natak said. When the thrall turned to face Gardek,
Natak grabbed hold of a second line and ripped it away. In a few
more seconds, the trollkin hooked the lurching, faltering thrall’s
ankle and dumped it on the ground, then crushed its head by
pressing the hammer down on top of it.
Canice looked around. All the undead had fallen, and all
her companions were more or less intact, although on closer
inspection, it became apparent that Gardek, Bastlan, and Natak

had blisters mottling their skins. The steam that had jetted from
the undead’s mechanika had been hot. Probably the lines through
which it circulated had been as well.
Natak, who’d pressed his own body against a thrall’s and ripped
loose hoses with his bare hands, was burned the worst. Milo
looked him over and said, “I have a salve for that.”
The ogrun spat. “There isn’t time.”
“He’s right,” Colbie said. “We kept the fight relatively quiet,
but it wasn’t silent. We need to move out and hope we don’t run
into Khadorans coming the other way.”
Trying to balance speed and stealth, they trotted on up the
gulley. From time to time, Bastlan hissed in pain. Ready to help
him along if need be, Canice and Flynn jogged beside him, but
he didn’t falter.
Gradually the slopes to either side became less steep and less
high until ultimately the Irregulars and their guides were traversing
relatively flat terrain once more. Canice looked back and spied the
lights of the fort well behind her. Apparently the skirmish hadn’t
been noisy enough to rouse the garrison.
Bastlan and Flynn led their companions onward to the shelter
of a coppice of ashes and beeches. There, panting, people flopped
down with their backs against one tree trunk or another. Milo,
however, remained on his feet, probably because he intended to
distribute medicinal ointment and painkilling elixir to those who
needed them.
First, though, he rubbed his right eye and blinked repeatedly.
Watching, Eilish asked, “What’s that all about?”
“I put an experimental formula in my eye to let me see in the
dark. It’s how I spotted the mechanithralls crawling around above
us.”
“Well done.”
Milo shook his head. “It’s not right yet. But I don’t think
it ruined my eye, so that’s something.” He reached into one of
the inner pockets of his long black cloak, brought out a tin, and
unscrewed the lid to reveal the white grease inside.
BLACK CROWNS | 125
Bastlan opened his shirt so Milo could smear the concoction

on the ruddy stripes on his chest. “I apologize,” he said. “Flynn
and I were supposed to lead you on a safe path. We didn’t.”
“You were supposed to sneak us past the Khadoran outpost,”
Colbie replied, “and you did. It’s not your fault we ran into
Cryxians. You warned us there was no predicting where they
might pop up.”
“If this was a typical evening,” Eilish said, “it’s remarkable that
anyone but soldiers is still hanging on hereabouts.”
“Our folk lived in this country when it was part of Ryn,”
Bastlan replied, “when the Orgoth ruled, and when it was part
of Llael. We’ll endure now that it’s part of Khador, too, though I
wish it wasn’t. The old kings and the Council of Nobles were no
prizes, but they were better than what we have now.”
“So you support the Resistance,” the arcanist said.
Bastlan sneered. “The way people tell it, they welcomed the
Northern Crusade into the lands on the far side of the river, and
you see how that affected us on this side. Once in a while, you
hear about them murdering somebody farther south or in one of
the cities to the west, but all it ever does is provoke the Khadorans
to grind us down a little harder. So what good are they?”
Canice tensed with anger and then felt shame at the ingratitude
the emotion implied. Bastlan, after all, had saved her life.
Besides, his opinion accorded with her own. She’d been telling
herself for years that the Resistance could never prevail. She wasn’t
afraid to risk her life, but she would have been stupid to waste it
in service to a lost cause.
Still, his assessment rankled.
— 10 —
LLAELESE STAGECOACHES WERE MADE FOR HUMANS. Rather than

cram himself into such a box with his armor spikes bristling every
which way to menace his fellow passengers, Gardek had opted to
ride on top behind the driver and the guard. A glower stifled any
objections from those two to the arrangement.
By so doing, he made it possible for more of the other
Irregulars to ride inside, but even so, they wouldn’t all fit. His
blond hair and black plate gleaming in the sunlight, mounted on
the chestnut gelding he’d hired, Eilish rode at a trot beside the
coach surveying the countryside with the interest he invariably
felt when encountering anything new.
In this instance, Gardek agreed that the vista before them was
worthy of scrutiny. From the outside, Elsinberg was a pretty city,
its towers rising above pale marble walls unbroken and unstained
by artillery fire or magic. It looked to him as though, when the
Khadoran invaders arrived, the town had surrendered without a
fight. Whether or not that was true, it seemed far more welcoming
than the warzone to the northeast.
His impression changed a notch as the coach rumbled through

the gate. Armed with rifles and wearing fur hats that were likely
uncomfortable in the summer heat, a considerable number of
Winter Guardsmen stood watch on the battlements, while more
soldiers patrolled the streets. He caught sight of heavily armored
infantry and a squad of men marching with blasting pikes canted
over their shoulders before the driver reined in his team in front
of the depot occupying one corner of a large plaza.
Gardek jumped down on the cobblestones with a clank of
armor. As soon as he did, a Winter Guardsman strode in his
direction. Youthful with a round, freckled face that looked like
it rarely required shaving, the soldier was scowling as though he
felt the need to compensate for his boyish appearance with an
intimidating expression.
Gardek had half expected someone to accost him. Nearly
a hundred miles removed from the fighting along the river,
Elsinberg wasn’t a rigidly controlled city like Leryn, or at least it
wasn’t supposed to be. Still, trollkin were rare here, he was heavily
armed, and if the place was currently on alert, that provided
additional reason for someone to inquire into his business.
He dug a crumpled wanted poster from his belt pouch, and
before the Khadoran soldier had a chance to speak, displayed the
sketch on the paper. “Dexer Calvirt,” he said. “Highwayman.
Seen him?”
“No,” the Guardsman said. “Who—”
“Sure? It’s a fat reward. Point me to him, and my partner and
I will cut you in.” He gestured to Natak, who was just squirming
out of the coach. The interior had been too small for him, too, but
perhaps, though he would never have admitted such a thing, his
half-healed burns inclined him to the comfort of a padded bench.
“You’re bounty hunters,” the Khadoran said.
“Right,” Gardek said. “I’m Kolor and he’s Lagdor.”
“And this poster is from the Watch in Corvis?” the guard asked.
“Right again. Wanted in Cygnar. That’s why the bastard fled
to Umbrey. Or so his friend told me after I knocked him around
a little.”
BLACK CROWNS | 129
“My point,” the guardsman said, “is that Cygnaran law

doesn’t run…” He grimaced as though deciding that asserting the
immunity of a scoundrel he’d never even heard of before wasn’t
worth the time. “Just stay out of trouble. Or, if you want to make
yourselves useful and earn some real coin, hunt that.” He waved
his hand at a different poster tacked to the depot wall before
turning away.
Curious, Gardek strode over for a better look. A step behind
him, Natak murmured, “I would have chosen a different lie.
Kolor the trollkin bounty hunter from Corvis is too close to who
you really are.”
“The closer a lie is to the truth, the more convincing it is.”
Although Gardek could speak some Llaelese and Khadoran,
too, he could read neither, and so the text on the poster meant
nothing to him. The sketch was of a grinning skull face that
reminded him of the mechanithralls in the ravine.
“Or,” Eilish said, “it could just be a man in a ghoulish mask.”
He’d surrendered his hired steed to the liveryman and sauntered
up behind his comrades with his pack tossed over his shoulder.
It always annoyed Gardek when Eilish somehow discerned his
private thoughts. “Make yourself useful,” the trollkin growled.
“Read this.”
“My pleasure. Undead or human, our malefactor has committed
multiple murders and the desecration of various churches and
temples with a little kidnapping thrown in for variety’s sake. No
wonder the 1st Army has bestirred itself. Although putting extra
guards on the walls and screening new arrivals to the city is a waste
of manpower when the threat has apparently been here for some
time.”
“It’s not our problem,” Natak growled. “Keep moving.”
Once they exited the square and escaped the scrutiny of the
soldiers stationed there, Colbie, Milo, Canice, and Pog caught
up with them one at a time until they were all tramping up the
street together. Their distinctive group still drew stares, but none
that, in Gardek’s view, suggested that someone was about to run
screaming for the authorities. Maybe, in this heavily garrisoned
city, people mistook them for mercenaries in service to the empire.

Still, the soldiers of the Winter Guard were less likely to take
them for something they weren’t, and the Irregulars avoided them
when it was possible to do so without the evasion being obvious.
Even so, Gardek noticed the sentries standing guard before the
entrances to Morrowan places of worship and even a Menite
temple or two. He began to fear the Irregulars’ luck was running
against them once again but saw no reason to share his suspicions.
Events would confirm or disconfirm it soon enough.
Perhaps the series of atrocities was weighing on the
predominantly human populace. As a trollkin stranger with an
imperfect command of Llaelese, Gardek thought he detected a
subtle grimness in the air but wasn’t sure. Either way, the locals
were going about their day-to-day business, laboring, selling,
buying, talking, and even laughing as people were wont to do in
all but the direst of circumstances.
Canice sneered at all the activity from under the broad brim of
her hat. It seemed to Gardek that there was more to her foul mood
than edginess at the prospect of encountering an old comrade
from the Resistance. Maybe believing the same, Natak stooped
and spoke to her.
“Sheep,” she answered, then silenced him with a flip of her
hand when he tried to ask for elucidation.
Not long after, Elsinberg’s library came into view. Though it
was by no means as ugly as many buildings Gardek had seen—the
grimy brick factories of Corvis belching filthy smoke into the sky,
for example—neither was it the graceful palace of learning he’d
imagined. It lacked the architectural unity for that. Rather, wings
and annexes branched out from the core of it asymmetrically, the
stonework of one an imperfect match for the next.
“As the collection grew,” Eilish said, “they had to keep tacking
on rooms to house it.”
“That’s nice,” Natak said. “Do you also see what the Khadorans
have done to protect it?”
In fact, those measures were impossible to miss. A tall wrought-
iron fence enclosed the library grounds, and a knight of the Order
BLACK CROWNS | 131
of Keeping in burnished plate stood ceremonial watch at the gate.

According to Canice, that was how it had always been. But now
Winter Guardsmen braced the doorway into the first building,
and a pair of crimson warjacks equipped with shoulder cannons
hulked among the ornamental shrubbery and tulip beds.
Colbie regarded the steamjacks. “Demolishers.”
“It’s as bad as Thunderhead Fortress,” Milo said.
“Which comes as no surprise,” Canice replied, though she
sounded disgusted nonetheless. “Since Ascendant Angellia
founded the library, it’s a holy place in its own right, and on
top of that, it connects to the monastery that houses her tomb.”
She gestured to the church spire rising behind the complex. “If
someone’s attacking religious sites, it makes sense to guard this
one most of all.”
“The situation,” Colbie said, “also affords an opportunity.”
The gun mage snorted. “Exactly. The Greylords have always
wanted full control of the library, but the monks resisted, and
Countess Kepetch hesitated to stir up popular resentment by
pushing the Church too hard. But now the Covenant has an
excuse to tighten its grip.”
“So what do we do?” asked Pog.
“We don’t do anything,” Eilish said. “Rather, a gentleman of
manifest erudition will politely request access as scholars have
always done.” He tugged the wings of his cloak around him. The
garment still didn’t fully conceal his plate, but it did cover his
sword and arguably made his appearance a bit less martial. “The
rest of you, wait here.” He ambled forward.
“Be careful,” the gobber called after him.
Gardek was too far away to hear Eilish’s conversation with
the knight at the gate, but he could tell from the arcanist’s smile
and sweeping hand gestures that he was doing his utmost to
seem charming and aristocratic. Unfortunately, to no avail. The
knight declined to pass him through, and when one of the Winter
Guardsmen started toward the gate, Eilish inclined his head in
seeming acquiescence and walked away.
As he rejoined his fellow Irregulars, the expression of mild,
helpless chagrin he’d assumed for the knight’s benefit twisted into
a scowl. “No admittance for anyone,” he said, “to any part of the
complex. Not ‘until the threat is over,’ not even by daylight, even
though every killing and what have you has happened at night. It’s
a crime against knowledge itself.”
“It’s Khador stealing even more of Llael,” Canice said.
“So what do we do?” Pog repeated.
“Essentially,” Eilish said, “the same thing we did in Leryn,
although I recommend that this time only two of us attempt the
infiltration.”
Milo glanced back at the library with its human and steamjack
guards. “Good luck with that.”
Eilish grinned. “Actually, you’re the partner I have in mind.”
•••
AS MILO APPROACHED THE GATE that led into the monastery

grounds and the arched doorway beyond, he was sweating under
the armpits, and it wasn’t simply because he was wearing a cowled
habit over most of his usual gear. When it came to getting inside a
place he’d didn’t belong, walking right past armed guards in broad
daylight was not an approach he usually favored, and his disguise
did little to calm his nerves.
Still, Eilish’s tactic made a sort of brazen sense. The wizards
of the Greylords Covenant were more concerned with the library
than the monastery. The brothers of the Keeping went in and out
of the complex on various errands. The sentries were used to seeing
them do it and assumed that if the killer that had committed
outrages in other churches turned up here, it would once again
strike after dark. Taken all together, the facts suggested that two
men resembling monks who sought to enter the retreat in the
afternoon might do so unchallenged.
Canice’s knowledge of the city had enabled her to track down
the tailor who supplied the order with habits, and they’d bought a
pair with the excuse that the robes were to serve as costumes in a
play. Now, an hour later, here were the only two human males in
the Irregulars putting Eilish’s plan to the test.
BLACK CROWNS | 133
Its chassis blood red, a horn-like spike projecting from what,

on an animal, would be the snout, a warjack turned its elongated
head to watch them pass. A Winter Guardsman peered at them as
well. Milo resisted the urge to bow his head even more than it was
already or tug his hood down to hide it better.
Neither the ´jack nor the human sentry with his long coat,
fur hat, and blunderbuss made any effort to halt their progress.
Eilish swung open a tall door, and they passed through into a long
hall. The space smelled of the white sandalwood-scented candles
that burned here after dark. At the moment, though, the sunlight
streaming through stained-glass casements provided the only
illumination and painted multicolored trapezoids on the floor.
Eilish grinned. “I told you it would work.”
“So far,” Milo replied. “What next?”
“Scout a little, then find an out-of-the-way place to wait.”
The waiting was necessary because Eilish believed that, while
it had been sensible to sneak into the monastery by day, it would
be easier to explore the library proper late at night, when, in
all likelihood, fewer people would be inside. Even Greylords
researching dark secrets of the past presumably needed their rest.
After the two intruders had seen what they needed to see,
they located a shed full of gardening tools and did some inexpert
pruning and weeding until the church bells called the real monks
to their supper. At that point, they took refuge in a little side
chapel, pretended to pray, and ate their own meal of venison jerky
and dried apple. Milo washed it down with a nip of a drug to ease
both the boredom and the nervous strain of waiting.
Hours later, Eilish rose from his pew. “It’s time.”
Another knight of the Order of Keeping stood watch at a
secondary entrance to the library. The Khadorans had evidently
concentrated on guarding the perimeter of the complex as a whole,
not monitoring the gravel paths that led from one building to
another. Milo found that marginally reassuring, although there was
still no predicting what he and Eilish might encounter in the stacks.
The knight said something in Llaelese. Milo knew some of the
words but couldn’t grasp the sense of it. His tone pleasant but
sober, as he must have thought befitted a monk, Eilish gave a

facile reply and then passed through the door.
Milo followed. “What was that?” he whispered.
“Our friend wondered why we were going into the library at
this hour. I told him we were debating the finer points of theology
pertaining to the miracle of ascension, and I wanted to consult a
certain commentary on the Enkheiridion to persuade you to my
point of view.”
Milo shook his head. “He believed that couldn’t wait until
morning?”
“The devout have their own set of priorities.”
They made their way through a succession of chambers
each lit by a single gaslight the monks had left burning to help
nocturnal scholars find their way. For the most part, the towering
bookshelves, desks, and chairs were just shadows in the gloom.
The musty smell of old paper tickled Milo’s nose.
He and Eilish lost their way a couple times. Canice had rarely
visited the library and had only been able to provide vague,
tentative directions. But eventually brighter light appeared ahead.
Turned higher, another gas lamp burned above a door with an
engraved brass plate screwed to it. The door looked dark and old,
but the sign was shiny and new.
Milo didn’t recognize the word engraved on the plate. Judging
from the Winter Guardsman seated by the entry, though, it was
likely Restricted or Forbidden in Khadoran or Llaelese.
When, rising, the soldier spoke, it was in the former language.
“Your passes.”
“Here,” Milo said. Trying to conceal it from the man as long
as possible, he pulled a small pewter vial from the pocket of his
cassock, unstoppered it, and dashed the contents in the Khadoran’s
face.
The somnolence elixir made the Guardsman’s face go slack
and his eyes roll up into his head. Milo caught a stray whiff of
the fumes as well, but years of exposure to drugs and toxins,
intentionally and otherwise, had built up his resistance, and he
only felt lightheaded for an instant. He recovered in time to catch
BLACK CROWNS | 135
the Khadoran and lay him on the floor. He didn’t care if the soldier
banged his head, but it was better to avoid the thud.
“This could be a problem,” he said.
“With luck,” Eilish said, “nobody will notice he’s absent from
his post until we’re gone.” He nodded at a doorway leading to yet
another dark room full of bookshelves. “Let’s carry him in there.”
Once they had, Milo unclipped a steel chain and the brass key
at its end from the unconscious man’s belt. As expected, it opened
the vault containing the oldest volumes.
Milo winced, partly because there were so many of them, but
mostly because, while the room was more dark than otherwise,
it was nonetheless apparent there was more than one gaslight
burning. Despite the lateness of the hour, at least one insomniac
Greylord was evidently pursuing his researches. From the doorway,
Milo couldn’t actually see the Khadoran arcanist but inferred he
was somewhere near the far left corner of the chamber.
“It should be all right,” Eilish whispered. “If he’s reading books
on magic, that’s not the section we want. If we’re quiet, he’ll never
know we’re here, and if he does spot us, we’re monks, we had
passes, and the Guardsman let us in.”
“Just get on with it.”
They stalked toward the right-hand side of the vault. Eilish
whispered, “Light.”
Milo extracted a thumb-sized glass vial from his pocket and
gave it a shake. The black oil and the yellowish grease floating
on top of it mixed and started shining. Because the quantity of
reagents was small, the bottled light shed only as much glow
as a candle. With the bookshelves blocking direct sightlines, it
shouldn’t be noticeable from very far away.
He handed it to Eilish, who then began peering at the faded
words stamped on the spines of the books, or, when there was
no such writing, pulling them out for further examination. It
occurred to Milo that despite his ignorance of written Llaelese, he
could at least hunt for books bound in black with the horselord’s
crest embossed on the cover. But then again, would the outsides
of a handwritten copy necessarily look the same? He decided his
time would be better spent watching for signs of trouble.

He and Eilish reached the end of one aisle running between a
pair of bookshelves. The arcanist let the bottled light go out before
slipping into the transverse aisle that ran between the ends of the
freestanding shelves and the wall. There were volumes lining the
surface in front of them, too, row upon row of old tomes from
floor to ceiling, but Eilish would have been more conspicuous
examining those, and he left them alone in favor of others.
Paralleling his previous course, he shook the vial to life again.
He continued in the same fashion for a while. At the end of the
fourth aisle, Milo whispered, “Are you getting anywhere?”
“I didn’t expect so many books,” Eilish replied, “and I have
yet to decipher the system by which the monks shelve them.
Assuming there even is one. It all seems random.”
“On top of that, there are hundreds you can’t look at safely,
and the horselord’s book might not even be here in the first place.
We should go.”
“Despite unforeseen impediments, this remains our sole
chance of finishing the job we were hired to do and thwarting Mr.
Morthis. Are you ready to give that up?”
Milo sighed. “Just hurry. Think of something!”
Unfortunately, despite his exhortation, no sudden insights were
forthcoming. Instead, Eilish simply kept methodically searching
one shelf, then the next, and then the one after that.
Until the door opened, a faint creak Milo likely would have
missed it he weren’t listening for it. “Who’s in here?” a man called
in Khadoran.
•••
THE UNEXPECTED VOICE JERKED EILISH AROUND. His expression

grim, Milo pointed in the direction of the exit. Presumably
someone, perhaps the unconscious guard’s relief, had found him
missing and the door unlocked and was now trying to determine
what was amiss.
Milo pulled a grenade from his pocket and raised his eyebrows
in inquiry. Eilish shook his head.
BLACK CROWNS | 137
He didn’t want to fight if they could avoid it. They’d likely

win but make a racket doing it, and they had enemies in every
direction. Hiding seemed an even poorer option in this enclosed
space that was surely on the verge of a search. But perhaps the
disguises would enable two trespassers to bluff their way out of
trouble.
He twisted past Milo and beckoned for the small man to follow
him toward the door. Before stepping out into the open, he hid
the bottled light inside his habit. It wasn’t inherently an alarming
item, but such implements might not be in common use in the
monastery.
As he’d expected, another Winter Guardsman had entered the
vault. He started to speak to the mercenaries, but then a stout,
relatively young man in the slate-colored uniform and silver badge
of a Greylord rastovik, equivalent to a lieutenant in the regular
Khadoran Army, appeared from between two bookshelves. He
immediately became the focus of the guardsman’s attention.
As far as Eilish could tell, the rastovik didn’t see anything
suspicious about the two supposed monks. “What’s going on?” he
asked the soldier.
“Privat Jarosch wasn’t at his post, sir,” the guardsman replied,
“and when I tried the door, it was unlocked.”
“The soldier hasn’t been gone long,” Eilish said. “He let us in
just a few minutes ago. Perhaps he’s answering a call of nature.”
The rastovik grunted. “He should be at his post.” He looked to
the guardsman. “Look around. Make sure everything’s all right.”
“We’ll get out of your way,” Eilish said, heading for the door.
He was still frustrated that he hadn’t found a copy of the horselord’s
book but also relieved that he and Milo would apparently be
allowed to slip away without any real trouble. Thank Morrow for
stupid soldiers and idiot arcanists, too, whenever they were on the
other side.
Then a second Greylord stepped into view. He was older, taller,
and leaner than his fellow, with a close-trimmed grizzled beard,
a squint, and a badge that proclaimed him a magziev, the rank
above rastovik. “Halt!” he snapped.
Eilish and Milo stopped. The guardsman pivoted to face them.

The blunderbuss wasn’t quite covering them, but he could shift it
to do so in an instant.
“Push those cowls back,” the magziev said.
Once again, the mercenaries obeyed. The rastovik glowered at
them. Perhaps he hoped a show of truculent vigilance now would
make his superior forget he’d been ready to let the monks stroll
out of the vault a moment ago.
“Since coming here,” the magziev said, “I’ve tried to learn the
faces of all the friars. I don’t recognize yours.”
Eilish shrugged. “There are quite a few of us. I’m Brother
Quynn and this—”
“He can tell me himself.”
Inwardly, Eilish winced. But perhaps Milo could manage a
couple words in Llaelese without his Cygnaran accent showing
through.
“Brother Cormyck,” the alchemist said. To Eilish, the words
sounded good enough to pass muster.
“I’ve also read the monastery roster,” the magziev said.
“Cormyck died two years ago. If they move, kill them.”
The guardsman moved the flaring muzzle of the blunderbuss.
The rastovik raised both hands to shoulder level in preparation for
the gesturing that facilitated spell casting.
Eilish said the only thing that came to mind: “Fire magic,
rastovik? You’ll destroy every book in the vault!”
The guardsman and the magziev both reflexively turned to
the younger Khadoran wizard. Looking from one to the other, he
started to speak, perhaps to protest that he’d had no intention of
hurling flame.
In that instant, when all three enemies were distracted, Milo
tore open his habit, snatched a grenade, thumbed the timing cog,
and threw it. Gray smoke burst out of the bomb between the two
Irregulars and the Khadorans. It was impossible to see through
it, and with luck, the Empress’s servants would hesitate to charge
through lest they be attacked the moment they emerged.
The two mercenaries rushed to the door. Eilish started to open
BLACK CROWNS | 139
it, but an impact like the kick of a mule struck him in the back,
clanged the armor under his habit, slammed him against the door,
and latched it once again. He looked around just as the magziev
ducked back under cover behind the far end of a bookshelf. The
Khadoran arcanist hadn’t wasted a moment maneuvering to
circumvent the obscuring cloud Milo had placed in his path.
Several books toppled from a mid-level shelf, and the muzzle
of the blunderbuss poked through the hole they left behind. Eilish
hurled a blue flare of power at the weapon, missed, and pulverized
three volumes to the right of the opening.
The blunderbuss flashed and roared. The grapeshot from the
round clattered against Eilish’s breastplate, staggering him anew.
He’d been hit twice now with his armor preventing serious injury
each time. Such good fortune wouldn’t hold forever, and now the
rastovik was shoving books out from farther along the same shelf
so he too could attack from cover.
Fortunately, he didn’t have time. Milo pulled the door open so
he and Eilish could scurry through, and he relocked it with the
brass key.
“I doubt the door will hold for long,” Eilish said, “not with two
Greylords trying to break it open. I’m even more dubious it will
hold quietly.”
“So we need to hurry,” Milo said. “I already figured that out.
Come on!”
They pulled their cowls up and hurried back the way they’d
come. Behind them, the door banged and crunched as arcane
forces assailed it from the other side. Eilish glanced back just as
the top hinge tore out of the wall.
The door would fall in another moment, and if he and Milo
were still fleeing in a straight line, the Greylords and the Winter
Guardsman would see them. A second smokescreen would
forestall targeting but still serve as a signpost to indicate which
way they were going.
He looked into a side chamber full of scroll cases and bundles
of parchment tied with string. Another doorway yawned in the
far wall.
He waved his hand. “There.”

Milo frowned. “We haven’t been that way. We don’t know
where it goes. But all right. Let’s try it.”
A moment after they entered the room, the vault door banged
to the floor. As they neared the door in the far wall, something
howled.
“What’s that?” Milo asked.
“A spell I’m unfamiliar with,” Eilish said, “or a mechanikal
device one of our ill-wishers had on his person. Either way, it’s
sounding the alarm.”
After a few moments, a second wail sounded from elsewhere in
the complex, and then others after that. Every Greylord, Winter
Guardsman, and even knight of the Keeping was about to turn
out to find the trouble in the library.
The fugitives scurried into a room with two other exits. They
chose the one on the left and found themselves in a space with a
row of windows overlooking a dozen desks. Eilish reached to open
the nearest casement. If he and Milo could survive a dash across
the grounds and clamber over the fence, or put a hole in it, they
could disappear into the streets beyond.
Smoke fuming from the stack on its back, a hulking shadow
with an elongated head and a spike on the end of it tramped into
view outside. Optics glowing, it pivoted toward the window,
its shoulder cannons, enormous lance, and shield fist swinging
around with the rest of it.
Eilish and Milo threw themselves down at the base of the
wall, where, the arcanist hoped, the warjack couldn’t see them.
They waited for it to move on, but, audible through the glass,
clinking metal and thudding footfalls revealed that it wasn’t going
far enough. Apparently its marshal had ordered it to stand watch
in a particular area.
Eilish wondered if he and Milo could defeat the ´jack quickly,
before reinforcements arrived, or simply make a sprint past it. The
shoulder cannons provided a powerful argument that any such
attempt would be inadvisable.
Beckoning to Milo to follow, they crawled to the far side of the
BLACK CROWNS | 141
room. When there was minimal chance the warjack would spot
them, they sprang up and scurried through the next door.
By now, the last of the wailing had stopped, but echoing
voices had taken their place, and they too came from multiple
directions. Eilish reflected grimly that it might not even matter
that he’d begun to lose his bearings. There might not be anything
remotely resembling a clear path out of the library anymore.
Milo reached inside his habit and brought out another grenade.
“You may have had a good idea back in the vault. A fire would
give everybody something else to think about.”
Eilish winced. “No. Or at least, not yet.”
“I don’t want to do it, either. But we’re running out of time.”
The alchemist was right. Two rooms later, heading for a
doorway, they nearly stepped right out in front of a half dozen
Winter Guardsman prowling on a course perpendicular to their
own. The mercenaries pressed themselves up against the wall beside
the opening, and Eilish willed the searchers not to come through
it. His shoulders slumped with relief when they continued on by.
Shortly after that, he and Milo came upon a sign that said
Curators Only in Llaelese. The corridor beyond smelled of paper
like every other portion of the library but also of fresh glue.
At least the two Irregulars had stumbled upon a different section
of the maze. Eilish slipped past the sign, and Milo followed.
The first chambers along the hallway were workrooms filled
with supplies for repairing or replacing the bindings of books.
Next came alcoves where, it appeared, particularly privileged
scholars could study volumes in privacy. Both sorts of rooms had
windows and, beyond them, warjacks prowling around.
The corridor ended in what was surely a door opening to the
outdoors, a useless, taunting mockery of a way out given the
presence of the warjacks. Worried that he and Milo were trapping
themselves in a cul-de-sac, Eilish nearly turned around before
discerning that the last door shy of the exit had an old, wood-
burnt sign on it reading Chief Curator.
He wondered if there could possibly be something inside that
would prove of use. Trying the knob, he found the door was
locked. He lifted his foot to kick it open and then decided he and
Milo couldn’t afford the noise. “You get this open,” he whispered.
Milo didn’t bother asking why. He exchanged the grenade in
his hand for a set of lock picks, kneeled before the keyhole, and
set to work.
In just a few seconds, he stood up again and waved to the door
to indicate that it had yielded to his skills. Eilish twisted the knob
and opened it.
On the other side was a dark room that he could nonetheless
tell was bigger than the scholars’ alcoves he’d just passed. It had
several pieces of furniture in it as well as a couple paintings on the
wall. A clock ticked somewhere in the gloom.
He stepped over the threshold, and a sharp point pressed
through the wool of his cowl to indent the skin on the side of his
neck. The sword, dagger, or whatever was perfectly positioned to
puncture the carotid artery. Someone had hidden pressed against
the wall beside the doorway just as the fugitives themselves had
hidden minutes before.
“I have a friend right behind me,” Eilish whispered. “He has
an incendiary grenade, and if it you don’t give me the blade, he’ll
toss it into the room. Most likely, you and I will burn. You can be
certain that any rare volumes and any other precious artifacts you
have in here will do the same.”
The person with the blade was silent for a moment. Then he
said, “Well, at least you’re not skull-faced horrors” and put the
weapon in Eilish’s hand. It was small, a letter opener perhaps,
which wouldn’t have prevented it from inflicting a mortal wound.
Eilish smiled. It seemed the one thing uniting the Greylords
and their grudging hosts was that nobody could bear to see the
library go up in flames. As a fellow bibliophile, he understood.
He gripped his new prisoner by the forearm, turned him
around, and pushed in farther into the room. Milo entered, strode
to the window, pulled the swishing curtains as tightly together as
they would go, and shook a container of bottled light aglow.
The illumination revealed the sort of comfortable study Eilish
had been envisioning, complete with leather chairs and a crystal
BLACK CROWNS | 143
decanter of spirits on a sideboard. Another doorway led to a room

containing a wardrobe and a cot. Evidently the chief curator
sometimes slept here in preference to hiking back to his quarters
in the monastery.
Circling around the man, Eilish found a stoop-shouldered
fellow in his middle years. At some point, he’d survived a pox that
had pitted his cheeks, and his aquiline nose had a bump at the
bridge. He was afraid but doing a fair job of masking it, and there
was calculation in his narrowed eyes.
“Why were none of the lamps burning?” Eilish asked.
“When I heard the alarm,” the curator replied, “I locked myself
in and tried to make it look as if no one was in here. I thought that
whatever the problem was, the Khadorans were better equipped
to deal with it.” He made a sour face. “Let them do something
worthwhile for once.”
“Before long,” Eilish said, “they’re going to come tapping on
your door. You’ll answer it and assure them you’ve seen and heard
nothing amiss. My partner and I will be in the next room, and if
you say anything else, he’ll throw that incendiary I mentioned.
Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Then light a couple lights. The Khadorans might think it
strange to find you in the dark.”
Not long after, someone knocked on the door. Milo rested
his thumb on the timing cog of a knockout grenade, and Eilish
focused his will in preparation for spell casting. But the chief
curator told the search party what the intruders had instructed
him to say, and they evidently didn’t discern anything suspicious
in his manner. They advised him to keep the office door locked
and went on their way.
The fugitives emerged from hiding. “Thank you,” Eilish said.
The curator’s mouth twisted. “You left me little choice.”
“We apologize for that. We hoped to come and go without
bothering anyone. We simply want to consult a certain book if, in
fact, it’s here.” Eilish cocked his head. “Perhaps you know it. The
memoir of a horselord named Mikolo Szetka who wrote in the
wake of the Orgoth conquest. The copy formerly in our possession

was bound in black with Mikolo’s crest embossed on the cover.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Believe it or not, to prevent Cryx from doing something
unpleasant to Llael.”
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“Don’t tell him,” Milo snapped.
“Trust me to edit out the bits that could cause trouble,” Eilish
replied. He then provided an account that, among other details,
omitted their names and any mention of the fact that they had
five partners elsewhere in the city.
“Ideally,” he concluded, “we’d involve the authorities in our
efforts to stop Morthis. But we’re Cygnaran mercenaries, and
we’ve fought the Empress’s subjects often enough that they might
be more inclined to detain us than heed us. Thus, we’re proceeding
on our own. Now, does the library by any chance possess a copy
of Mikolo’s memoir?”
“Yes,” the curator said.
“In the morning, when the search has run its course, my
partner and I are going to prevail on you to help us slip out of
here. On the way, we’ll collect the book.”
The curator shook his head. “No. I’ll see you safely on your way
lest you shove a blade in my back, but I won’t help you with the
other. The book will stay tucked away in the corner of the vault
where you failed to find it and where, I’m certain, the Greylords
will never allow you again.”
— 11 —
THE IRREGULARS HAD TAKEN A SUITE OF ROOMS with a balcony

overlooking the sunlit street. Too restless to sit, Colbie stood
peering downward with her hands repeatedly tightening on the
wrought-iron railing and the breakfast of sausage and eggs she’d
forced down heavy as a slug-gun round in her gut.
At the moment, she was reevaluating her ambitions. If she felt
this upset when two men she’d sent into danger went missing, how
would she feel when she was in command of a larger mercenary
company and a dozen of her men died? Or twenty? Or—
With a scowl, she choked off that line of unprofitable thought.
She’d endure the regret because it was part of her chosen profession,
and anyway, in this instance, it was premature. She didn’t know
what had happened to Milo and Eilish.
Last night, she and the rest of their comrades had kept the
library and monastery under surveillance. They’d been ready to
create a diversion if something went wrong, and sure enough,
an eerie howling from within the complex sounded the alarm,
but the alchemist and arcanist never emerged from any of the
buildings. Still, that didn’t mean they were dead.
Canice came out onto the balcony. She had her armored
greatcoat on and her broad-brimmed hat pulled down over her
dyed black curls. “Llael,” she growled with what was apparently
anger directed at the entire shattered kingdom.
Colbie sighed. “If you’re going to remind me that you
didn’t want to take the job, or to keep at it when it got more
complicated—”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Sorry. I’m edgy.”
“I came to say that if the Khadorans took Eilish and Milo alive,
they likely won’t keep them in Angellia’s library. It’s not a prison.
So I’m heading out to find some of my old contacts. If I find out
where our people are being locked up, we can mount a rescue.”
Colbie peered at the gun mage. “Are these the same ‘old
contacts’ you hoped to avoid lest the Resistance find out you’ve
returned?”
Canice shrugged. “I could have stayed in Corvis. I came along
instead. Now I have to do my…” She leaned out over the balcony
and smiled. “Or not.”
Colbie turned her gaze to where Canice was looking. Milo and
Eilish had appeared in the street. They’d discarded their monastic
disguises, but they had a companion, a middle-aged man with a
beak of a nose, who was wearing a habit.
Spying his comrades on the balcony, Eilish gave them a grin
and a jaunty little wave that conveyed that of course he and Milo
were all right. Eilish Garrity was such a supremely resourceful
fellow that Greylords, Winter Guardsmen, and warjacks had only
proved a brief inconvenience. Relieved as she was to see him, his
cockiness also made Colbie imagine picking up the nearby planter
of fragrant marigolds and dropping it on his head.
Instead, she gathered the Irregulars—and the monk—in the
suite’s sitting room. “May I present,” Eilish said, “Ion Badescu,
chief curator of Ascendant Angellia’s library. He helped Milo and
me slip out of the place this morning, and he intends to help us
BLACK CROWNS | 147
lay hands on a copy of the horselord’s memoir.”

“‘Intends’ is putting it a little strong,” Badescu said. “After
your friends and I got to know one another a little, I proposed a
bargain.”
“What is it?” Colbie asked.
“You’ve heard about the atrocities being committed against
Morrowan churches, priests, and worshipers throughout the
city, and guarded though he was, it’s plain from what your blond
friend told me that you’re more than common soldiers. You’re
man hunters, too. Stop the people—or things—wreaking havoc
in Elsinberg, and I’ll smuggle out the book to you.”
Natak glowered at Milo. “You, this man, and the book were
all in the library together. Why didn’t you drip your acid on him
until he handed it over? I realize the wizard might not have had
the stomach for it, but I thought a little better of you.”
A greasy leftover sausage from somebody else’s breakfast platter
upraised in his hand, the small man sighed. “You weren’t there. It
wasn’t practical.”
“It still isn’t,” Eilish said. He’d removed his sword to lounge
more comfortably in a chair. The blade hung ready to hand on the
back. “I gave Brother Ion my word that we’d conduct ourselves
like ladies and gentlemen, and if that’s not good enough for
anyone”—he looked at Natak—“consider that we’re here and
the book remains in the least accessible portion of the library
protected by a goodly portion of the Khadoran 1st Army.”
“We would never abuse the trust of anyone who helped some
of our own,” Colbie said, “or came to parley after you assured his
safety.” She turned to the chief curator. “Brother, what’s happening
in Elsinberg is terrible. We understand. But we have reason to
believe that what Morthis, the Cryxian necromancer who stole
our copy of the memoir from us, intends will be far worse.”
“But you don’t know,” Badescu replied. “You’re merely
speculating. Whereas we know with certainty that ghastly things
are happening in Elsinberg, and the Khadorans seem as helpless to
stop them as they are worthless in every other regard.”
“I’m worried that by the time my partners and I hunt down
those responsible, Morthis will have accomplished his objective.”

“Then hunt quickly.”
“Maybe we can,” Gardek rumbled. He had yet to don his spiky
plate for the day and sat, tankard in massive blue hand, in the
leather and quilted garments that went on beneath. “The monk’s
right. We’re good at this kind of job.” He leered at Eilish. “Even
this poser comes in handy once in a while.”
Natak sneered. “You just want to chase the killers because you
think it’s another chance to slay undead. It might not be.”
“Well,” the trollkin said, “the drawing in the wanted poster was
skull-faced. I assume that was based on some witness’s description.
I admit, it doesn’t prove the killers are undead, but it’s certainly
reason to wonder, and if so, they could be Cryxian and tied to
Morthis. We might learn something that could help us down the
trail.”
“Conversely,” Eilish said, “if we don’t undertake this little side
project, we never procure the book and never learn anything more
from any source. We abandon good people like the stableman
back in Leryn, Bastlan, Flynn, and Brother Ion here to whatever
grim fate awaits them, slink back to Corvis, report abject failure
to Mr. Goncal, and suffer the loss to our funds and reputation.”
“I know I’m new,” said Pog, sitting cross-legged on the floor in
the corner, “but that doesn’t sound like us.”
Colbie turned to Badescu. “We have a deal.” She offered the
curator her hand, and they shook.
Next, they figured out how to reestablish contact when the
time came. Then, as the curator was making ready to leave, Milo
murmured, “I’ll show you out.”
Such courtesy was entirely unlike him. Curious, Colbie
returned to the breakfast dishes scattered about their table as if in
search of another morsel. It put her close enough to eavesdrop as
the alchemist and monk approached the door.
“Why did you really want this deal?” Milo murmured.
“People are dying,” Badescu replied. “Morrowan sanctuaries—”
“I believe you care. Still, what else is there?”
“My own safety, and the safety of my brothers and our knights.
BLACK CROWNS | 149
If the killers come to the library—”

“I saw how well the Greylords are protecting it. My guess is
that it’s one place the murderers will avoid.”
Badescu sighed. “All right. Every day, the Greylords usurp a
little more of my authority. Perhaps it’s too late to ever get any of
it back. But if the killings end, maybe the Church can appeal to
the Countess on my behalf. So I suppose that in some measure it’s
my pride that made me act as I have. Is that a problem?”
Milo chuckled. “The opposite. I don’t trust people who claim
they’re running a risk—conspiring with people the Khadorans
don’t like, for example—just because it’s the right thing to do. But
if you stand to benefit, that, I understand.”
•••
THE BROADSHEETS PILED ON THE TABLE were crumpled, stained,

and malodorous. Seeing Eilish’s mouth tighten in distaste, Pog
wished he could read the periodicals himself and spare the
fastidious arcanist the task. But of all the Irregulars, only Eilish
and Canice possessed a thorough understanding of written
Llaelese, and it was the wizard who was most likely to discern the
hidden significance of some seemingly inconsequential fact.
“I’m sorry they aren’t clean,” Pog said, “but Captain Sterling
said not to go to the publisher for fear of arousing somebody’s
curiosity, and people use old broadsheets to wrap garbage and
catch drippings.”
“And wipe themselves,” Gardek said, probably in an effort to
deepen Eilish’s disgust.
The blond man ignored the trollkin. “It’s fine, Pog. You’ve
amassed a good collection. He looked to Canice. “Shall we?”
Seated at the table, they started to read, sliding the ragged
sheets with their damp spots and smeared ink to one another as
they finished them. The other Irregulars looked on or wandered
around the suite with varying degrees of patience. Pog hoped
Eilish would suddenly look up, eyes bright with the exhilaration
of discovery, and say something amazingly clever. He liked it
when that happened.
Instead, his reading concluded, Eilish leaned back in his chair,

frowned, and tapped the knuckles of his fists together in a way
that signaled he had more pondering to do. “Interesting,” he
murmured.
“What is?” Colbie asked.
“The killers—or killer, since it’s not clear that anyone has ever
caught a glimpse of more than one at a time—are dark, skull-
faced figures that strike down their victims with some sort of
spear or pole arm. After the authorities started trying to guard the
churches, they countered by attacking smaller, less well-protected
sites and, in a couple cases, butchering priests and parishioners
caught out of doors. Mostly. Just within the last week, however,
they struck inside a Morrowan house of worship with Winter
Guardsmen and a warjack standing watch outside. I infer it was to
make the point that, the Khadorans’ precautions notwithstanding,
they can still do whatever they like.”
“They evidently can,” Canice said. “The sentries didn’t even
know anything was amiss until they found the priests’ corpses on
the floor. The killers seem to come out of nowhere, slaughter their
victims, and vanish without a trace. I wonder if anyone would
even have glimpsed one and survived to tell about it if the creature
hadn’t permitted it. So word of a gruesome appearance would
inspire additional terror.”
“Still,” Natak said, stroking his slab of a chin, “if they’re trying
to stay away from soldiers and ´jacks, that’s good. It means we can
destroy them.”
Eilish gave him a nod. “I agree. Perhaps more easily than
anyone supposes.” He looked across the table at Canice. “What
are the chances your old friends in the Resistance are actually
responsible for this?”
The gun mage stared back at him. “The killers are undead.”
“Seemingly, but it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve encountered
the living impersonating the risen. Imagine that we Irregulars, with
all our capabilities, were back on our home ground and attempted
such a deception. Don’t you think we could fool Corvis?”
“Possibly, but why would the Resistance do such a thing?”
BLACK CROWNS | 151
“To make the Khadorans look inept and sow dissatisfaction

with their governance. Plainly, someone needs to if Elsinberg is
ever to rebel. Most of the locals have clearly resigned themselves
to Imperial rule.”
“No,” Canice said. “Resistance agents wouldn’t slaughter
innocents among our…their own people, no matter what the
goal.”
“Are you certain? Supposedly—”
“I told you, you’re wrong,” Canice said icily.
Pog had never seen Eilish quail in the face of someone else’s
display of hostility, and the arcanist didn’t do so now. Not really.
Still, a split-second of hesitation revealed that the gun mage’s
anger had taken him aback.
“All right,” he said. “If you say so, I accept your judgment, of
course. I was merely exploring a hypothesis.”
Eager to change the subject, Pog asked, “What about the
kidnapping?”
Eilish smiled. “Ah, yes. The one incident that doesn’t fit the
overall pattern. A young nobleman named Levanid Gubin, the
scion of his line, was praying in one of the churches when an
attack occurred. But the authorities didn’t find his corpse with
the others. Hence the inference that he was abducted. He was
apparently quite religious and had a habit of visiting the church
at set times every week, which gives rise to the further supposition
that the killers planned to kidnap him in particular.”
“Why?” Gardek asked.
“I have no idea.” The wizard turned to Canice. “At the risk of
further provoking you, do you know anything about the lad or his
family to explain why the killers would want to carry him off?”
“No,” she replied. “It’s an old family, but I don’t see how that
leads anywhere. Elsinberg has a number of them.”
Pog cleared his throat. “If we’re trying to look beyond the
obvious, beyond Cryx, could the Sul-Menites be behind this?
Trying to undermine the Church of Morrow and the Imperial
government like Mr. Garrity said?”
“Much as I’m inclined to think ill of them,” Colbie said, “I
doubt it. This doesn’t feel like their ‘holy’ style. If the killers truly
are undead, necromancy definitely isn’t something crusaders would
countenance.”
Natak scowled. “So where does all this reading and guessing
take us?”
Gardek chuckled. “Where the schoolboy’s it-could-be-this-
but-then-on-the-other-hand-that generally takes us. Nowhere.
But when we talk to people and look at the murder scenes
ourselves, we may do better.”
•••
NURSING A TANKARD OF ALE IN A DARK CORNER, the brim of her

hat pulled down to shadow her face, Canice glowered at the
other patrons of the tavern called the Thirsty Crow as they drank
themselves stupid, played brag with dog-eared cards and rum tide
with clattering dice, and flirted with those whom they aspired
to bed. No one here looked especially upset about the wave of
atrocities afflicting Elsinberg, but then again, nobody looked like
they spent much time in church, either.
Canice despised the revelers for their high spirits. The disgust
soured her stomach, but she didn’t let it distract her. She refocused
on the man laughing at a table in an alcove with two companions.
Dyrmyd d’Anthys was a sturdy man in his thirties with
handsome, intelligent features who worked to conceal both the
good looks and the intellect. A bushy, unkempt black beard
wreathed his face. His shabby, ill-fitting laborer’s garb didn’t
flatter him, though it did conceal the pistols he was undoubtedly
carrying. His voice was loud as he vehemently expressed opinions
that even poorly educated folk were likely to find ignorant if not
eccentric, although it dropped when a fellow Resistance agent
slipped up to his table for a word.
With one exception, he was the last person Canice had wanted
to see during her return to Llael, and she’d nearly risen and left the
Thirsty Crow half a dozen times already. She kept her seat because,
despite the flare of anger it had triggered, Eilish’s “hypothesis”
wasn’t truly so implausible, and Dyrmyd was one man who would
BLACK CROWNS | 153
know for certain if it was true or false.

He lingered long into the night, growing more boisterous,
argumentative, and clumsier by the hour, though in reality, he
wasn’t consuming any more alcohol than Canice was. The crowd
thinned until she worried that he was bound to notice the stranger
lurking among the regulars who remained and take an interest in
who she was. He didn’t appear to, though, not that she could
necessarily trust appearances where he was concerned.
Finally he rose, bellowed a half-coherent farewell to his
tablemates, and blundered toward the exit, once catching his
foot and tripping on the leg of someone’s chair. Canice silently
counted to twenty before following him out into the night.
She was concerned that even a brief delay afforded him time
to vanish, but evidently he didn’t feel the need. His step sure and
silent now, he was striding up the street as if he had some late-
night mission to complete.
Natak peered from the mouth of the alleyway where he’d been
waiting. An ogrun would have been too conspicuous inside the
tavern. Canice pointed to signal that Dyrmyd was indeed the
target, and her hulking partner turned and trotted down the
narrow passage. The plan called for him to circle around and get
ahead of her fellow gun mage so they could take him from two
sides.
After giving Natak some time to maneuver, she quickened her
pace, opened her greatcoat, and put her hand on the butt of the
pistol on her right hip. Once she closed the distance, it would do
for a bludgeon to deal a stunning blow.
She was virtually certain she was moving silently. Yet
something, sheer instinct, perhaps, prompted Dyrmyd to turn
around. “Who’s there?” he slurred.
Hoping her quarry couldn’t discern the gun belt buckled
around her waist, Canice showed him her empty hands and raised
her voice an octave above its normal smoky contralto. “Just me.
Nobody to worry about.”
“If that’s true, me neither. Come up where I can see you plain.”
That was precisely what she mustn’t allow. “I think I’ll just turn
around and go a different way. That way, neither one of us can do

mischief to the other.”
He hesitated, no doubt considering the suggestion, balancing
the wish to discover more about the woman who might or might
not be stalking him against the desirability of maintaining his own
assumed persona. Given the information Dyrmyd had to go on,
Canice was optimistic that he’d revert to the muddled drunkard
and not prolong the confrontation. After all, if she was indeed
anything he’d needed to worry about, it was most likely a footpad
who would now go in search of easier prey.
At that point, however, Natak peered from around a corner
behind Dyrmyd. He unquestionably saw that the Resistance
agent had turned to face his korune, and in the dark, looking
from his limited vantage point, he might well believe the man had
pulled a pistol. He prowled forward, one fist with its row of steel
rings cocked and ready.
Unfortunately, he didn’t prowl quietly enough. When he was
still several paces away, Dyrmyd whirled and reached into his coat.
Canice had no choice. She let go of her mundane pistol,
snatched a magelock from her double shoulder rig, and fired.
The round bore an enchantment of stealth, and though the gun
flashed, the shot was silent.
As she’d intended, the round struck Dyrmyd in the forearm.
The limb jerked, and his own magelock slipped from his grasp.
Using his off hand, he fumbled inside his coat again. Sprinting
now, Natak rushed in and punched him in the head. Dyrmyd’s
knees buckled, and he fell. The ogrun dropped to one knee beside
him, frisked him, and relieved him of another pistol and a knife.
After that, he pulled a hood over the Resistance agent’s head and
tied his hands behind his back.
Natak glanced up as Canice hurried forward to join him. “That
could have gone smoother,” he said. “The bastard has sharp ears.”
Canice knelt and examined the wounded arm. She’d been
trying to avoid killing Dyrmyd, but that was no guarantee she’d
hadn’t hit an artery. She was relieved to see that while blood was
flowing, it wasn’t spurting.
BLACK CROWNS | 155
Still using her assumed voice—Dyrmyd seemed to be

unconscious, but it was better to be safe—she said, “Carry him
over there behind the costermonger’s stand.” Untended at this
hour, the freestanding structure would provide cover.
Once they got there, she pulled down the wounded man’s
jacket, tore away his shirt sleeve, and improvised a bandage with
the grubby cotton. Natak looked on with dour perplexity in his
face. “What’s the point of that?’ he asked.
“We can’t question him if he bleeds out,” Canice replied. It
wasn’t the whole answer, but she wasn’t inclined to articulate the
rest of the truth or even sure she understood it herself.
Once the bandage was in place, she uncorked the little vial
Milo had given her and held it to Dyrmyd’s shrouded face. Even
at arm’s length, the fumes from the container stung the inside of
her nose. Dyrmyd jerked and twisted his head away.
Canice set the smelling salts aside. “Lie still and keep quiet,”
she said. “Otherwise…” She slipped the point of the knife through
the hood to prick his cheek.
“Take what I have,” Dyrmyd whined. “Just please, don’t hurt
me.”
“It’s not that easy,” Canice replied. “We have questions for the
Resistance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re in the Resistance, Mr. d’Anthys. High in the ranks.
You even belong to the Order of the Amethyst Rose.” The same
society of loyalist gun mages to which Canice herself had once
vowed eternal allegiance.
“That’s crazy! I found the guns on a dead man! I took them to
sell!”
“We know what we know. Denying it simply prolongs the
bleeding and the pain. Give us what we want and we’ll set you
free to find a physician.”
“I’m telling you, you have the wrong man!”
Canice slipped the point of the dagger up under the hood to
prick his throat. “If you don’t give us what we want, this all gets
worse. Much worse.”
“I’m just Dyrmyd who works in the brickyard! Ask anybody!”

Natak made slicing motions. Since the Resistance agent was
proving obdurate in the face of mere threats, he wanted Canice to
proceed to actual torture.
She was reluctant to do that. She rarely enjoyed torture
although she’d sometimes found it useful to make people believe
otherwise. But she knew Dyrmyd had the strength of will to hold
out longer than she and Natak could afford crouched behind
limited cover in a public street, and besides…well, just besides.
Still, the ogrun was right. They had to get Dyrmyd cooperating
somehow.
She touched the edge of the knife to the thumb of his shooting
hand. “If I cut this off, you won’t be able to ready a pistol.” She
moved on to the index finger. “If I take this, you can’t pull the
trigger.” She laid the blade across the other three digits. “If I saw
these off, you won’t even be able to hold a gun, and if mutilate the
other hand, you won’t be able to shoot with it, either.
“Then, there are your eyes.” She touched the blade to the
appropriate spots on the sack that covered his face. “Stab those
out and how would you aim a pistol even if you could fire it?
And once I cut away everything that makes a duelist, what will
be left of the boy who spent years in the yard at Greywind Tower
learning to shoot? Nothing. Certainly nothing of use to either the
Resistance or yourself.”
“I swear to Morrow, I’m not in the Resistance! If you cut me,
I’ll scream for help!”
“If you try, we’ll silence you, and even if someone comes
running to your aid, we’ll have time to blind you and cripple your
hands before we flee. Which would be sad if it’s unnecessary. So at
least listen to my questions. You may find you can answer without
betraying your cause, and if not, that will be time enough to play
the martyr.”
When Dyrmyd replied, his voice betrayed tension but was free
of the pretense of panic that had infused it hitherto. “What do
you want to know?”
“Is the Resistance responsible for the attacks on the churches?”
BLACK CROWNS | 157
Dyrmyd didn’t answer, and Canice stared at his hooded form

in surprise. Did his silence mean the answer was yes?
But after a second, he said, “Of course not!” At that point, she
decided the question had so astonished him as to briefly strike
him dumb.
She sighed with what she silently acknowledged was relief.
But she had to be thorough. “You’re absolutely certain? There’s
no chance another cell mounted such an operation without your
knowledge? To embarrass the Khadorans and discredit their rule?”
“By murdering our fellow Llaelese? None of us would stoop to
such a tactic!”
Canice bristled. “Don’t tell me that! The Resistance has
killed—” She caught herself. She and Natak had what they’d come
for. There was nothing to be gained by picking at old wounds.
She considered carrying away Dyrmyd’s magelock and the
rune shots he’d had in his pocket. She could put them to good use.
Unfortunately, taking them would suggest the possibility that she
too was a gun mage, and that was better avoided. She left them
lying on the street with his other weapons.
“Count to a hundred,” she said, rising, “and then feel around.
Your knife is in reach. Cut yourself loose.”
As she and Natak hurried down a side street and around a
corner, she took long breaths in an effort to calm down. Returning
to Llael had made her unsure of herself, volatile, and prone to
unexpected bursts of emotions she didn’t want to feel. Elsinberg
made the problem worse, and the confrontation with her former
comrade had been the worst of all.
“I’m guessing,” Natak said after a while, “that you too put in
long hours training in that same shooting yard.”
“No,” Canice answered. “That was someone else.”
•••
AS GARDEK APPROACHED THE CHURCH that had endured the

most recent attack, people turned to stare. Against his natural
inclination, he’d left his armor, shield, repeating crossbow, and
war hammer back in the suite to make himself less conspicuous,
but it scarcely seemed to matter. Elsinberg wasn’t used to the sight

of trollkin, well-armed or otherwise.
The scrutiny annoyed him, and the cobblestones beneath
his feet further soured his mood. He was an able tracker, but he
had his limits. If his task really did require him to pick up a cold
trail on cobbled, much-traveled streets, he was going to need
remarkable luck.
But maybe it wouldn’t come to that. He had his own notion—
or “hypothesis,” in Eilish’s pretentious university talk—about how
the killers came and went unseen, and he meant to explore that
possibility first.
Or at least he hoped to. But when he rounded a corner, he
discovered a Winter Guard soldier standing before the entrance to
the church, possibly to keep opportunists from looting it now that
the resident priests were dead.
Bountiful Mother, nothing was ever easy. He quickened his
pace as though happy to have found his destination and gave the
soldier a casual nod as he made to pass him by.
“Stop!” the guardsman snapped. “Who are you?”
Gardek reached into his pocket, produced the note Eilish
had forged for him, unfolded it, and offered it for the soldier’s
inspection.
The man’s lips moved as he toiled through the sentences. Gardek
was glad to see it. Eilish claimed to write perfect Khadoran, but a
semiliterate reader was less likely to note any oddities.
“So you work for Three Stars Timber?” the sentry asked at
last. It was one of the Khadoran commercial enterprises that
had expanded operations into Llael to take advantage of the
opportunities conquest and favored status afforded, a company
whose ventures now encompassed far more than the logging and
milling that first brought it to prominence.
“Yes,” Gardek replied. He was trying to make his Khadoran
sound worse than it was, as if he were a trollkin newly emerged
from the Gallowswood or some such place to seek his fortune in
the cities of men. “The boss brought us—and some ogrun—to
Elsinberg. He said the town can use workers who are stronger
BLACK CROWNS | 159
than humans. Now I need to figure out the best way to take down
the bell in the spire.”
The soldier frowned. “The Church shouldn’t just abandon this
place.” Apparently he was a pious enough Morrowan that the
possibility bothered him.
Gardek shrugged. “I’m just here because the boss told me to
come.”
“Right,” the sentry said. “I’ll take you in.”
The church had been modestly appointed, befitting a house
of worship ministering to a poor neighborhood. Tracking aside,
Gardek lacked Eilish’s gift for observing minutiae and drawing
far-reaching conclusions from them, but what had happened
here was reasonably clear from the splashes of dried blood on the
floor. One of the priests had perished behind the altar, maybe
performing some sort of devotion even though no frightened
parishioners had turned out for nighttime services. The other had
been just stepping out of the vestry or scurrying there for cover
when he met his end.
Afterward, the killers had tumbled the plaster icons from their
niches to shatter on the parquet floor. The vandalism must have
made a racket even if the priests never got a chance to scream. The
guards outside must have burst in moments later. Yet they’d found
only the freshly slain clergymen.
Gardek spotted an inconspicuous nook at the rear of the apse
where a heavy rope dangled. A staircase spiraled up around it.
He headed in that direction, and the guard hesitated, plainly
uncertain whether to stick with him or to resume his post outside.
Gardek smiled. “I said I was strong. I’m not strong enough to
steal the bell all by myself.”
The Khadoran chuckled. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
The creaking steps were too small for a trollkin’s feet, making
for a somewhat precarious ascent. Still, squinting against the
dimness, Gardek spied for drippings from a bloody lance or some
other sign that the killers had come this way before him. He didn’t
find any, but while their presence would have proved something,
their absence didn’t.
He squirmed past the bronze bell, rocking it a little, but not

enough to make it toll. Like any belfry, this one was open on
the sides to let the sound out, which meant intruders could
have passed from the roof to the shaft and back again without
impediment.
He clambered out onto a steeply pitched roof. It was less likely
the killers could have negotiated this surface without leaving a
mark, and he crept about on all fours seeking the scar a grappling
hook would have made thrown from the ground or a neighboring
building, or a spot where a foot had disturbed the positioning of
a ruddy sandstone tile.
He didn’t find any such thing until, despite the caution with
which he sought to crawl around, a tile broke loose under his own
weight. His foot came away along with it, and when his body
lurched, his other foot slipped from the place where he’d set it as
well. He slid on his belly toward the drop at the edge of the roof.
He grabbed for the spot where the tile had come loose but
had already slipped too far. It was out of reach. He clutched for
anything that could provide a handhold, scrabbled with his feet
for any bump or ridge where they might catch.
His frantic exertions broke away more tiles, creating a surface
sufficiently uneven for fingers and toes to find purchase. He jerked
to a halt just shy of the edge. Somewhere below him, the shower
of dislodged tiles shattered on the street. A man squawked.
Panting, heart thumping, Gardek waited until he felt steady
and then continued his exploration of the roof. It was unmarked
except where he’d damaged it himself. So much for his clever
notion, then.
Frustrated, he returned to the ground floor. With the Winter
Guardsman back at his post outside, he was free to prowl through
the hall of worship and the priests’ living quarters in a new effort
to determine how the killers had gotten in and out.
To his disgust, there were no signs of forced entry, and the
hardwood floors revealed little more than the tiles above. One of
the murderers had stepped in the pool of blood behind the altar
and left the print of a long, narrow shoe or boot, but too little
BLACK CROWNS | 161
gore had clung to his foot to leave a worthwhile trail. After three
paces, it ended.
Gardek cursed. It seemed that after all, he was reduced to
trying to pick up a trail in the streets outside.
As he exited the church, the sentry asked, “Did you work it
out?”
“It’s tricky,” Gardek replied. “I need to think. I’m going to take
a walk. That always helps.”
Once again drawing curious glances, he began a circuit of the
church. He tried not to be obvious about it as he scrutinized the
pavement.
In the narrow lane behind the building, he glimpsed something
from the corner of his eye. Suddenly no longer caring if he
attracted attention, he turned and stooped for a closer look.
As he’d expected, no trace of the killers’ passage remained
on the street proper. But, planted with shrubs, a strip of earth
separated the cobbles from the side of the church, and there a
print indented the dirt. It matched the one in the pool of blood.
The print pointed away from the building, yet there was no
door, window, or opening of any sort directly behind it. Gardek
shivered with a mix of uneasiness and hate.
•••
DESPITE THE SUMMER WARMTH, the brick townhouse had its

casements closed and the curtains behind them drawn as if the
inhabitants had already abandoned hope and shut themselves
away to mourn in seclusion. It didn’t seem an auspicious sign, but
Eilish put on an expression of sympathetic concern and tapped
the brass doorknocker against the striking plate anyway.
Someone answered more quickly than the house’s
unwelcoming appearance might lead one to expect. A lock
clicked as a hand disengaged it, and then the door cracked open
just enough for a servant in livery, wizened, bald, and elderly but
still standing straight as an iron rod, to peer from the shadowy
foyer beyond. The old man had the austere demeanor that such
family retainers were encouraged to adopt at the start of their
service and refined throughout their careers.

“Yes?” the servant said.
“I’d like to speak with Lord or Lady Gubin,” Eilish said, doing
his utmost to convey by his deportment that he was their social
equal, if not by birth than by virtue of his attainments. “Both, by
preference.”
“His lordship and ladyship are not receiving callers,” the old
man replied.
“Because they’re distraught,” Eilish replied. “I understand.”
He considered for an instant and then decided to risk the truth.
“My name is Eilish Garrity. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, or if
you haven’t, your master and mistress have. In Cygnar, I’m a
well-regarded thief taker and investigator. I’ve restored several
kidnapping victims to their families.”
The old man was manifestly unimpressed. “Lord and Lady
Gubin were warned that fortune hunters might seek to take
advantage at a vulnerable time. They prefer to rely on the
authorities.”
“I’m not after a reward,” Eilish replied.
The servant started to close the door.
“Will you talk to me?” Eilish persisted, speaking more rapidly.
“You may know something—”
The door latched. The lock clicked once again.
Silently cursing the stubbornness of every functionary who ever
mindlessly followed orders, Eilish turned away. He didn’t know
that the Gubins could have told him anything useful. He barely
knew what he would have asked them given the opportunity. Still,
he hated to let any chance to gather information slip from his
grasp, especially when clues were in short supply.
He reached the end of the short walk that connected the
townhouse to the street and only then he realized what he’d seen
in the badge sewn to the breast of the servant’s coat, a badge that
was also the Gubin coat of arms.
He smiled and murmured, “Shame on you, Eilish. You’re
slipping.”
He wasn’t, really, but neither was he absolutely certain of
BLACK CROWNS | 163
what he’d seen. The quartered shield was too busy and cluttered,
heraldry at its most abstruse, with a rampant stag facing to the
dexter and wheat sheaves that likely represented a source of the
family’s wealth.
Eilish was willing to knock on the door a second time and
endure an even frostier encounter with the elderly servant
if necessary, but first he scrutinized the townhouse’s facade.
Noblemen who required their retainers to wear their emblem
might well incorporate it into their architectural flourishes as well.
A carved marble shield hung above the entryway. Even it
failed to provide perfect confirmation because the stone was all
a gleaming white, but after looking around for another second,
Eilish discerned that the ornamental borders of stained glass at
the edges of the casements likewise contained the family crest. In
those displays, the crown in the upper right quarter was black.
For an instant, he grinned with the pleasure he always found
in solving a puzzle. Then, though he didn’t truly understand the
implications of it, this particular answer twisted self-satisfaction
into concern.
•••
AS THE IRREGULARS RETURNED from their various errands, Colbie

had questioned them to discover what, if anything, they’d found
before dismissing them to seek their rest or dispatching them
to attend to some new task. But they didn’t all know what their
comrades had learned, so in due course she gathered them all to
confer over a supper of roast chicken, greens, and pear slices in
cream.
Pog seemed shyer than usual, perhaps because his enquiries
among Elsinberg’s gobbers had yielded nothing of use. Milo’s
poking around in a drug den hadn’t, either, but he looked no more
abashed by his lack of success than he typically did when being
caught performing some underhanded deed. His pupils were
pinpoints and his brow shiny with sweat from whatever he’d taken,
but Colbie trusted him to pay attention and think clearly even so.
“All right,” she said. “Some of us had luck of one sort or another.
Including Canice and Natak, even though”—irritation crept into

her tone—“they didn’t see fit to tell me what they were going to do
before they did it. Would one of you two care to report?”
Canice set down her cup of white wine. “We questioned an
officer of the Resistance. I’m now certain they have nothing to do
with the murders.”
Eilish smiled. “You deemed that necessary even though you
assured me my speculation couldn’t possibly be true?”
“Just leave it alone, wizard.”
“It’s merely that I thought you wanted to stay well clear—”
“I said, leave it.”
Eilish turned his hands up in a gesture of sardonic acquiescence.
“What’s done is done,” Gardek rumbled, a half-eaten chicken
thigh in hand, “but it’s too bad you were in such a hurry. I
found proof the killers are undead of the sort that walk through
walls. That’s the reason—or at least part of it—they’re so good at
sneaking around.”
His plate untouched before him—perhaps the drug he’d
sampled had suppressed his appetite—Milo snorted. “Happy
news for you and your endless hunt for revenge. Maybe. Aren’t the
kind of undead that can move through solid objects supposed to
be tougher than ordinary thralls?”
“More formidable even than mechanithralls,” Eilish said.
The little alchemist sighed. “Of course they are.”
“Anyway,” Gardek said, “after I knew the killers didn’t go
in and out through doors or windows, I managed to find sign
around three of the murder scenes, tracks the Khadorans likely
missed. From the way they pointed, it looks like the creatures hole
up somewhere in the southeastern part of the city.”
“That makes sense,” Eilish said. “That’s where the first murders
occurred. Pick off the targets close to home when you’re still
perfecting your technique. Then, once you’re confident you can
operate with impunity, range farther afield.”
“If the killers truly are undead,” Pog said, “this is more Cryxian
wickedness.” He hesitated. “Or is it? Not all necromancers are
Cryxians.”
BLACK CROWNS | 165
“Indeed not,” the arcanist said, “but in this case, your first
surmise is the correct one. The killings hereabouts tie not merely
to Cryx in general but to our ultimate quarry Mr. Morthis.”
Canice’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“Our abductee Levanid Gugin is a direct descendant of one
of the kings of the Black Ring. His family coat of arms indicates
as much, and a bit of genealogical research—thank Ascendant
Angellia that not all the libraries are closed—confirmed that they
aren’t just putting on airs.”
“That means,” the gun mage said, “that Morthis wants the
crowns and people with the right to wear them.”
“So I infer,” Eilish said. “If we were privy to everything
happening all across Umbrey, I suspect we’d know that descendants
from the other two royal bloodlines have gone missing as well.”
“But why?” Canice asked.
“That, I still can’t say.”
“Hold on,” Natak said. “If kidnapping some young lord was
the point, then why are the murders still happening?”
“Well,” Eilish said, “Morthis’s plan aside, the Cryxians have
been trying to spread terror and commit random mayhem across
Llael for some time. So, having established a successful nest of
killer undead in Elsinberg, why order the creatures to stand down?
Why not let them wreak as much havoc as possible?”
“Especially,” Colbie said, “when continued atrocities will make
people forget Levanid Gubin’s abduction and further obscure its
importance.”
The arcanist gave her the somewhat patronizing nod he
sometimes bestowed when someone surprised him by contributing
an insight that, in his view, transcended the obvious. “Good,
Captain. You may well be right. Indeed, extrapolating, we can
imagine attacks occurring not just in Elsinberg but in various
parts of Umbrey to divert attention not merely from Gubin’s
kidnapping but also Morthis’s current location. I haven’t seen
evidence of that in the broadsheets, but perhaps the Khadorans are
controlling the flow of information from farther afield. Elsinberg
is already frightened. Countess Kepetch’s deputies wouldn’t want
to feed the fear by letting people decide the whole territory is on

fire.”
“You realize,” Milo said, “every word coming out of your
mouth makes it sound like Morthis’s scheme, whatever it is, is
about as big and nasty as any scheme could be.”
“Well,” Pog said, “if we made such a giant mistake that
Menoth himself tried to stop us…” He trailed off as several of his
companions turned annoyed looks in his direction. “I said, ‘if.’ It’s
something to think about, is all.”
“Actually,” Colbie said, “it isn’t. By virtue of her status and
training, the reclaimer may have had some vague instinct or
intuition that put her in our path, but that’s as far as it goes. The
Lawgiver has not taken a special interest in us and our endeavors.
That isn’t how life works, and so, with no hope expected from on
high, we need to proceed as we usually do. We need a plan.”
“Based on what we’ve uncovered,” Eilish said, “can we find the
undead’s lair?”
Gardek scowled as if he suspected the arcanist had asked merely
to oblige him to admit the feat was beyond him. “I was doing well
just to figure out it’s somewhere in the southeast part of town. I
suppose I could roam those streets looking for more sign, but it
could take weeks if I ever found any at all.”
“What if Canice steers you to likely hiding places?” the blond
man said.
The gun mage snorted. “I didn’t spend my years in Elsinberg
lurking in graveyards.”
“If I were trying to hide my undead minions,” Colbie said, “a
cemetery’s the last place I’d pick.”
“Hmm. When you put it that way, I did take note of derelict
houses, abandoned manufactories, and the like. In case I needed a
place to hide or cut through.”
“That’s the plan, then,” Colbie said. “At least until we think of
something better.”
— 12 —
THE DILAPIDATED HOUSE SAT ROTTING IN THE SHADOW of the city

wall. A curved roof, the two gables below, one leaning outward,
separating from the bulk of the structure behind it at the top, and
the black door in the center of the porch made the façade look like
a deformed face frozen in mid-scream.
Canice’s companions approached the place warily. They were
on guard against the undead that presumably lurked within and
also hoped to avoid being spotted by any sentries walking the
wall. She too watched for risen and Khadoran soldiers, but from
time to time she also glanced back at the twisty little street she and
the others had just traversed.
She and Gardek had spent the past three days prowling around
the southeastern part of Elsinberg with the trollkin a magnet for
curious stares every step of the way. It was entirely possible that at
some point, some former comrade had looked in their direction
and recognized Canice despite her disguise.
She supposed she’d made that more likely by accosting Dyrmyd,
who was surely seeking the pair who’d waylaid him. Though
outwardly she’d haughtily ignored the suggestion that it had been
a poor idea, she actually understood Colbie’s exasperation that
she’d acted on it without discussing it first. But she had to be sure
the Resistance hadn’t committed the murders and it had to be she
who made certain, for reasons that were obscure but compelled
her nonetheless.
As best Candice could tell, the street behind her was empty.
Time, then, to put thoughts of her former allies and their present
enmity from her mind and focus on the business at hand. She took
a long breath, opened her armored greatcoat so she could instantly
reach the pistols holstered within, and mentally reviewed the
placement of the various rune shots in their cartridge loops. She
had to be able to grab whichever one she required without looking.
Standing with the two knights of the Order of the Keeping
he’d brought along with him, sturdy young men he said he trusted
completely and who disliked the Greylords as much as he did, Ion
Badescu peered at the ruinous structure ahead. “Well,” he said,
“it definitely looks like a haunted house. Still, you’re sure they’re
in there?”
“No,” Gardek said. He looked more comfortable now that he
was again wearing his spiked plate and carrying his shield and
weapons. “I’m sure of the tracks, but the undead could have
moved on.”
The curator frowned. “We can’t sneak away to meet up with
you people over and over again.”
“I hope,” Colbie said, slug gun dangling in her hand, “the
enemy is inside, and you won’t have to. But we do need you,
Brother. Someone has to carry the happy news that the undead
have been destroyed, and it can’t be us.”
Eilish smiled. “More than carry the news. Take credit. There’s
no guarantee that even making you the hero of Elsinberg will
regain you control of Angellia’s library, but it ought to help if
anything can.”
“Sir,” said one of the knights, an otherwise good-looking
fellow possessed of an unfortunate rabbit-y overbite, “standing
BLACK CROWNS | 169
idle while others do the fighting doesn’t sit well with me, and
neither does lying. Let Sir Hanagan and me accompany you into
the house. That way, when Brother Ion claims he figured out
where the abominations were hiding and we two slew them, it
won’t be entirely untrue.”
Colbie squeezed his shoulder. “I appreciate the offer. But
someone has to stay outside to protect Brother Ion. To rush him
to safety and organize a second assault if this one fails.”
Canice assumed there was another reason, too, one Colbie
had withheld to spare the knights’ pride. The Irregulars would
rather address the present danger by themselves than worry about
strangers who didn’t know their way of doing things and whose
mettle in the face of “abominations” was uncertain.
“Well,” Milo said, “if we’re stupid enough to do this…”
“Right,” Colbie said, “let’s go.”
As the mercenaries skulked toward the house, the city wall
blocked out more and more of the starry sky behind it, and in
consequence, the night seemed a little darker with every step. “I
wish we could have done this during the day,” Pog whispered.
“We would have been too conspicuous,” Eilish replied.
“I know, but it still—”
“Quiet!” Colbie snapped. Canice doubted that the mercenaries
could take their undead foes by surprise, but their leader deemed
it worth a try.
Magelock in hand, crouching, Canice crept up onto the porch.
The soft, rotting planks sagged beneath her, and despite her
attempt to be stealthy, one of them gave a tiny creak. Scowling,
she peeked in a window with only a few jagged scraps of glass left
around the edges of the frame.
She could barely make out anything of the murky space
beyond, just a couple masses that were presumably furniture.
They weren’t moving, anyway. The stink of rotting flesh made her
screw up her face.
She moved her hand back and forth to give the signal that
conveyed she hadn’t seen anybody or anything of significance yet.
Gardek skulked around the left side of the house and Milo the
right to peer into whatever windows were accessible. When each

returned, he gave the same signal to indicate he hadn’t spotted the
enemy, either.
Canice’s comrades then sneaked up the porch steps so they
could all enter the front of the house together. Splitting up and
breaching at multiple spots might have provided certain tactical
advantages, but Colbie had decided to keep the group together,
and in light of what they were hunting. Canice approved of her
decision.
Careful not to snag herself or the trailing skirt of her greatcoat
on the shards of glass in the frame, Canice stepped into the
darkness beyond. A fallen piece of the broken window crunched
beneath her boot. Another step on flooring that yielded like the
porch outside planted her foot on a soft lump of something.
Eilish came through behind her and conjured a silver-blue
glow into being. The light revealed she’d set her boot on a dead
rat. Several were in view, along with a litter of fallen termites,
motionless roaches, and presumably lifeless spiders hanging in
their webs. Swallowing away a dryness in her mouth, Canice
suspected the vermin had expired by sharing their domain with a
presence that was toxic over time.
“Disquieting,” Eilish murmured, “but interesting.”
When everyone was inside, Gardek waved his war hammer at
footprints in the dust and other filth on the floor and at cobwebs
that were broken. “Like we thought, they’ve been in here.”
“But where are they now?” Natak growled.
“Search,” Colbie said. “Stay sharp and watch one another’s
backs.”
The mercenaries prowled from doorway to doorway, from
one dirty room occupied only by dead vermin and the occasional
abandoned article to the next. Nothing appeared to threaten them
or flee at their approach, but it seemed to Canice that the ambient
gloom was thickening as though seeking to smother Eilish’s light.
Ordinarily, it was nothing for him to sustain such a basic effect by
thought alone, but after a while, he started reciting an incantation
under his breath.
BLACK CROWNS | 171
Milo extracted a jar of bottled light from one of the inner

pockets of his cloak and shook it aglow. Eilish gave him an irritated
glance. The alchemist shrugged and pulled up his gasmask, maybe
to combat the ambient stench or simply because wearing it helped
calm his nerves.
The carrion stink thickened along with the murk, and air felt
cold despite the warm summer night outside. Shivering, Canice
was almost tempted to close her greatcoat again, but only almost.
Pog breathed in short little pants. They weren’t whimpers, but she
could imagine them turning into whimpers. Gardek glared this way
and that and repeatedly shifted his grip on the haft of his hammer.
The Irregulars completed their search of the ground floor. They
still hadn’t seen the creatures they sought, but Canice could tell
all her companions felt the same hovering malevolence she did. It
was making everybody twitchy.
Eilish drew his short, straight sword and used it to indicate the
staircase to the second story. “Up?”
“Or down,” Gardek said. “There’s a cellar, too. The way in is
outside around back.”
“Upstairs first,” Colbie said. “If I wanted to see trouble coming,
that’s where I’d—”
“Look!” squealed Pog.
A shadow crouched at the top of the stairs. The glow from the
light Eilish and Milo had created barely reached it but sufficed
to reveal a leering naked skull for a head, spiked plate and shield
somewhat like Gardek’s, and a glaive with a long, curved, single-
edged blade that could be used to stab or hack. No living human
being would have wielded such a pole-arm one-handed, but the
bane apparently could.
Simultaneously alarmed and relieved that one of the undead
had finally shown itself, Canice drew both magelocks and fired
them together. The dead thing hitched back out of sight, and she
couldn’t tell if she’d hit it or not. If so, she evidently hadn’t slain it.
As she reloaded, Gardek snarled something in Molgur-Trul,
the trollkin language, and charged up the stairs. Natak was right
behind him.
Another pistol barked twice even though no undead target was

in sight anymore. Gardek stumbled as a wild shot clanged on his
armor and ricocheted whining away.
Canice pivoted. It was Pog firing his repeating pistol at the
gloom at the top of the steps. Eilish caught hold of the gun and
jerked it upward. The gobber’s third round cracked into the
ceiling. Then he yelped, “Sorry!” and stopped shooting.
Canice realized Pog wasn’t the only one who’d reacted
without thinking. The formless vileness in the house had made
Gardek and Natak reckless when given the opportunity to attack
something they could smite with hammer and axe. It was a good
thing the little mechanik’s misplaced shot had made the bounty
hunter falter. It might have kept him and the ogrun from rushing
headlong into a trap.
“Wait!” Colbie called to the fighters on the stairs. “Let the rest
of us catch up!”
Just as she finished speaking, another spiky, skull-faced shape
appeared alongside the staircase. It brandished a glaive and swung
it in a sweeping cut. The blade sheared through the stringer
supporting one side of the steps, and, clattering, much of the
rotten, rickety assembly came apart. Natak dropped among the
wreckage. Maybe Gardek did, too. In the gloom, Canice couldn’t
tell.
She did see that, perhaps stunned, possibly injured worse than
that, Natak wasn’t getting up. With another flourish, the undead
raised its weapon high with the point aimed at the ogrun’s body.
Her magelocks reloaded, Canice fired. Eilish hurled a bolt of
blue light. Colbie’s slug gun roared.
Canice’s shots struck the undead—she was reasonably sure—
but it didn’t even flinch. Both the flare of magic and the slug gun
round missed, the latter blasting a section of wall to splinters.
Slug guns were notoriously inaccurate, but under normal
circumstances, Canice would have expected better of Eilish’s
arcane marksmanship. Perhaps the oppressive atmosphere and
the hindrance it presented to clear thought had made him cast
without aiming.
BLACK CROWNS | 173
Be that as it may, the bane now appeared to believe that with

the magelocks and slug gun empty, it had the searchers at a
disadvantage. It stalked forward.
Backpedaling into the middle of the front room, the Irregulars
gave ground before its advance. Colbie thrust the magelocks back
into her shoulder rig and drew the ordinary pistols on her hips.
As she fired, Pog discharged the remaining shots in his gun. Eilish
conjured a burst of flame that rocked the undead back for an
instant but failed to set it ablaze.
The undead swung the glaive over its head and drove it into the
floor. The boards on which the Irregulars were standing dropped
away beneath them. As she fell, Canice suddenly realized it had
taken more than a mighty blow to collapse the floor, and that it
hadn’t just been a powerful cut that took down the staircase. The
enemy had rigged their lair with traps.
She slammed down hard, presumably in the cellar Gardek had
managed. Eilish’s floating silver-blue phosphorescence went out.
Glass shattered, and after another moment, Milo’s bottled light
failed, too. Without them, the darkness in the underground space
was absolute.
•••
THE STAIRCASE LURCHED. Like Pog’s stray bullet, the unexpected

shift nearly cost Gardek his balance. He looked around and found
that most of the steps were falling way beneath Natak and himself.
For the moment, though drooping, the top few risers were still
attached to the landing above. He scrambled upward.
The undead he’d been chasing lunged back into view. It stabbed
its glaive at him.
Gardek deflected the thrust with his shield, but the resulting
jolt halted his ascent. Wood crunching and splintering, the steps
beneath his boots dropped away, and he fell toward the debris
below.
The risers that had just failed him, though, weren’t altogether
gone. They hung before him vertically like the rungs of a ladder.
He let go of his hammer to dangle from the thong around his
wrist, grabbed a stair step, and arrested his fall. His support swung
and groaned in a way that warned it wouldn’t hold for long.
The undead stabbed its glaive down at this head. He covered
up with his shield, and the thrust clanged off it. The impact
bounced the remaining bit of staircase and manifestly weakened
its moorings that much more.
He considered simply letting go. It wasn’t that far to fall. But
landing on the pile of lumber plainly hadn’t done Natak any good,
and if it left Gardek vulnerable even for an instant, the undead
might not allow him a chance to recover.
Besides, he didn’t want to retreat from the filthy creature now
that it was within reach. He wanted to destroy it.
He heaved himself higher with his weapon hand and drove
the spikes projecting from his shield into his adversary’s legs. He
couldn’t tell if the attack penetrated the leg armor, but the undead
stumbled backward.
Gardek planted the forearm supporting the shield on the
landing. That enabled him to use the strength of both arms to
heave himself upward. He dragged himself onto solid footing—
well, relatively, this floor had some sag to it, too—scrambled up,
and jerked his arm. The war hammer swung up, and he caught
hold of the haft once again.
At the same instant, though, he realized his skull-faced foe no
longer stood before him. It had retreated somewhere.
Gunfire banged below him. Colbie’s slug gun boomed. Plainly,
there was more than one killer, and his partners were contending
with Cryxians of their own.
Maybe Gardek should jump back down and help them, but
there were several of them and one of him. They ought to be able
to handle whatever they were facing. He decided to keep after the
foe he’d just struck. If Canice’s rune shots had hit it and his shield
had maimed its legs, it might not take much more to finish it off.
He had his choice of two hallways leading away from his
position toward the front of the house. Arbitrarily picking the one
on the left, he prowled along peering into doorways. The trace of
light leaking through grimy broken windows and the gaps in the
BLACK CROWNS | 175
ceiling and roof above his head was just sufficient to keep him
from bumping into the walls.
A shadow appeared in the gloom ahead. It stepped forward, and
what passed for illumination in this foul place gleamed on curves of
bone, lengths of spiky armor, and the head of the apparition’s weapon.
Gardek edged forward to engage. Metal clinked at his back.
He spun. Identical to the first, a second undead had skulked
up behind him and was poised to slash at his neck.
Gardek shifted his shield and struck with the hammer. His
shield and armor stopped the Cryxian’s attack while his blow
clanged against its breastplate. It faltered. He raised the hammer
for a second swing.
It was then that he remembered the first undead. He now had
his back to that one.
He whirled and struck, and the creature parried with its
weapon. It then sidestepped through the wall on his right as if
that obstruction were no more solid than mist, and by the time
he lunged to the doorway that opened into the room on the other
side, there was no sign of it. It must have slipped through another
wall into an adjacent space.
Gardek looked back out into the hallway. The other undead
was gone, too.
That, he judged, was supposed to make him think the way
back to the stairwell was clear, but he knew better. The undead’s
stealth and mobility would allow them to strike at him at any
moment and from any almost direction.
He sneered at his own foolishness. Colbie had twice given the
order for everyone to stay together, and here he was alone anyway.
Fortunately, he saw a remedy. If he couldn’t drop back down
the hole where the stairs had been, he’d jump out a window.
Assuming he didn’t break a leg, he would then rejoin his comrades
via the front door.
He ran through a doorway toward the cracked window on the
opposite wall. One of his adversaries streaked from the side of the
room to intercept him. It hadn’t been there an instant before, but
it was now.
He had to stop and fight. Otherwise, it would cut him down

before he got the chance to make his leap. He parried a cut from
the edge of its glaive with the hammer and rushed the phantom
to impale it with the spikes on his shield.
The dead thing dodged out of his way, and the shield’s spikes
stabbed into the wall. His foe was now behind him.
Gardek wrenched himself around. The shield tore free in a
burst of splinters and plaster, but he’d never get it into position in
time to stop the attack that had surely already begun. He swung
the hammer in the sweeping circular motion that he’d once heard
Eilish call a “panic parry.” By luck as much as any skill on his part,
the defensive action intercepted the glaive chopping at his head
and knocked it down to snag between two of the spikes on his
pauldron.
Trying to free the weapon, the Cryxian pulled on it. Gardek
bellowed, sprang forward, and struck at the bane’s chest.
The creature blocked the attack with its own spiked shield. Still,
as the Cryxian gave ground and fumbled to bring its long weapon
back into a threatening attitude, he saw he had the advantage and
moved to press it.
Then, however, he sensed something exaggerated, feigned,
in his adversary’s blundering retreat. He pivoted, and the other
Cryxian was beside him. He shifted his shield just in time to stop
a slash from its glaive.
Together, the creatures were blocking both the way to the
window and to the door. Panting, Gardek put his back to the
exterior wall. That should at least prevent his foes from getting
behind him anymore, although, taking their time, they moved to
flank him to the extent the confines of the room allowed.
•••
EILIISH FELL ON TOP OF SOMETHING SOLID. It shattered beneath

him, but the jolt knocked the wind out of him and cost him his
grip on the spell he’d been maintaining. His light vanished, and
a moment later, the glow of Milo’s bottled preparation did, too.
Eilish’s ears were ringing from the bangs of the pistols and
BLACK CROWNS | 177
the boom of the slug gun. Still, he could hear Colbie shouting,
“Light! Light! Light!”
He understood her urgency. They had to regain their sight
quickly, or the undead foe would surely slaughter them. He
took a deep breath, focused his will, and conjured a new bluish
phosphorescence into the air.
He and his companions lay on an earthen floor littered with
the floorboards from overhead. He himself had dropped on top of
what appeared to have been a chair. He was probably lucky that,
like the rest of the house, it had been rotten and ready to fall apart.
His fellow mercenaries looked shaken but essentially intact.
Colbie and Canice were reloading. Pog turned in a circle clutching
the trench knife that looked big as a sword in a gobber’s green
hand. Still down on one knee, Milo pulled a grenade from its
bandolier.
An undead leaped out of the cellar wall behind the alchemist.
Spinning its glaive, it raised the weapon high.
Eilish hurled a streak of flame at the bare bone and empty eye
sockets of the creature’s head. He also shouted, “Look out!”
The crackling yellow fire splashed against the undead’s skull
but seemingly did it little harm. Fortunately, the spell, Eilish’s
warning cry, or a combination of the two alerted Milo to the
looming threat. He dived out from under the glaive as it came
down, scrambled, and lobbed the grenade over his shoulder.
The blast knocked Eilish staggering. Engulfed in the heart
of it, the Cryxian reeled, and he yearned to see it drop. Instead,
it recovered its balance and stepped back through the wall to
whatever space was on the other side.
Eilish hurried to Milo, who lay prone on the floor. “Are you all
right?” He shouted on the assumption that his friend’s ears were
ringing, too.
The small man raised his head. “You’re really supposed to use
grenades from farther away, but yes. Did I get it?”
“You wounded it, I think, but didn’t destroy it.”
“Damn it! What does it take?”
Pog yelped. Eilish looked around.
An undead stood over the gobber with glaive upraised. Canice

pivoted and fired the pistols in her hands. The shots seemingly
had no effect.
Her hands a blur, the gun mage exchanged those weapons for
others and fired again. Eilish hurled a bolt of force, a streak of
brighter light in the luminescence he’d conjured before.
The attacks rang on armor. Pog backpedaled from the threat of
the glaive, and Colbie turned with the slug gun at the ready. The
Cryxian melted back through the wall.
“Was that the same one?” Milo asked. “How many are there?”
“I can’t tell,” Eilish said. “I’m going to try something.
Everybody! Gather round!”
The Irregulars formed a circle with everyone facing outward
to minimize the chances of the undead catching one of them
by surprise. It was only then that Eilish realized it was foolish to
huddle to discuss a secret stratagem when, half deaf, they would
all have to raise their voices to make themselves heard. But with
luck, the enemy’s talents didn’t include the ability to comprehend
Cygnaran.
“The enemy likes to strike by surprise,” he said, “then slip back
through the wall when we all turn to retaliate. But one might
linger if it imagines it’s on the verge of striking a deathblow. So I’ll
try to draw a Cryxian out, and, when it attacks, I’ll do something
that appears to leave me vulnerable. As the bane moves to exploit
the opportunity, the rest of you hit it with everything you can,
including the slug gun.”
“How are you going to lure the creature?” Colbie asked.
“Gardek said there’s a way out at the far end of the cellar. After
going to the trouble to dump us here, the Cryxians presumably
don’t want us getting out again. So if we proceed in that direction
with me taking point, one of them is likely to block my path.”
“All right,” Colbie said. “Everybody, get ready.”
As he pulled the acid sprayer from his belt, Milo said, “You
remember, the slug gun doesn’t always shoot straight.”
Eilish sighed. “Thank you, partner. You always find an
encouraging thing to say.” Concentrating, he conjured one
BLACK CROWNS | 179
enchantment to sharpen his reflexes and another to strengthen

everybody’s armor.
He then moved toward the opposite side of the cellar with his
comrades stalking along behind him. Peering this way and that,
they all kept to the center of the space. When an undead sprang
out of the wall, it would have to close the distance and give them
a moment to spot it.
Even so, when one emerged, rushed, and thrust its glaive at
him, it moved so quickly, Eilish barely had time to react. He
twisted out of the way, or nearly so. The glaive skipped off his
plate.
He dropped into a crouch that should both enable his comrades
to shoot over his head and leave him seemingly incapable of
effective defense, then swept his sword in a cut at his opponent’s
ankle. The undead hopped back, and the attack fell short.
Eilish looked up. The glaive was swinging down at him. He
sought to parry but could already tell it was too late for that.
Guns banged. Milo darted onto the undead’s flank and sprayed
its skull with smoking, foaming acid. The Cryxian faltered, and
then the slug gun boomed. Eilish felt the breeze as the projectile
streaked over his head.
With a crash, the undead blew apart. He shut his eyes, and bits
of hot metal stung his face. When he looked again, the Cryxian
lay in two pieces. The shell had pretty much obliterated it from
sternum to waist.
Seemingly springing out of nowhere, another undead charged
Canice. Scuttling backward, she fired her little holdout pistols,
presumably the only ones that were still loaded. One round
caught the creature in its naked grin and smashed the front teeth,
but it didn’t falter. It swung its glaive. The gun mage jumped back
and avoided a stroke that looked like it could have cleaved her
head right down to the shoulders.
Eilish hurled a burst of flame. It splashed against the undead
but didn’t halt the creature’s onslaught. Milo sprayed vitriol
that, bubbling and smoking, corroded armor and dissolved the
withered flesh beneath. That didn’t stop the undead, either. It kept
chopping and stabbing at Canice as though it had resolved to

attack one foe relentlessly until it made the kill and then move on
to the next.
Someone needed to take the pressure off Canice and give her
a chance to reload, he hoped with the most powerful rune shots
at her disposal. Unfortunately, given the failure of his magic and
Milo’s acid to distract the Cryxian, it appeared the only way to
accomplish that was for some intrepid soul to interpose himself
between the undead and the gun mage.
Eilish scrambled in front of the glaive. The pole-arm swept at
his flank, he sought to parry, and the weight of his opponent’s
weapon and the strength of the creature wielding it knocked his
sword out of the way. Fortunately, his defensive action absorbed
enough force that his armor stopped the cut from drawing blood.
He grabbed the undead’s weapon below the blade in the hope
of neutralizing it. The Cryxian jerked it backward and in so doing,
yanked him toward the spikes projecting from its shield. He let go
to avoid being struck through the face, then had to dodge another
slash from the glaive.
Two shots banged, each putting a hole in the Cryxian’s breastplate
but without balking the creature inside. Colbie circled with the slug
gun. She appeared to be seeking a position that would enable her to
fire at the undead without undue danger to her allies.
Eilish wished she’d go ahead and take the shot. Her caution
wouldn’t help him if the glaive chopped him to pieces before she
found a spot she liked, and it was swinging closer and closer as the
Cryxian took his measure.
A shadow dropped through the broken ceiling into the cellar.
For one terrifying instant, Eilish thought another undead had
arrived, then saw it was actually Natak. His brow gashed, the face
beneath it bloody, the ogrun rushed the Cryxian from behind,
and, bellowing, brought his battle axe down on its naked skull of
a head. Bone shattered, and the undead collapsed.
Natak turned to Canice, no doubt making sure she was
unharmed. After that, he gave Eilish, who’d put himself in harm’s
way to protect her, a slight nod of approval.
BLACK CROWNS | 181
“Gardek,” Colbie said. “Do you know what’s become of him?”

“I heard blows clanging on shields or armor on the second
floor.”
“He’s up there alone!”
The ogrun glowered. “I had no way of getting to him. I could
jump down a hole. And you people needed me.”
“Well, we have to find a way to get to him now.” Colbie turned
toward the exit.
“You and Canice go that way,” Milo said. “Natak, you lift
Eilish and me up to the top of the hole. Get us high enough, and
we can grab the edge and pull ourselves up.”
•••
AS MILO CLAMBERED BACK UP INTO THE FRONT ROOM, metal was

still clanking on the floor above. That was both a relief and
frightening. He didn’t want to go anywhere near more of the same
sort of creatures he and his companions had just been fighting,
but it appeared that was what was required.
Eilish climbed up behind him. “What now?” the arcanist
asked, still winded from the fight below. “You had a reason for
deciding we two would come up the hole while the others ran the
long way around.”
“Yes. I’m sneaky, and you can use magic to improve my chances
up on the second floor.”
“Right. Come on.” Watching out for more foes, they hurried
to the stairwell with the pile of broken wood. “This will make
you faster.” Eilish rattled off an incantation, and luminous blue
glyphs flickered in the air around him. He rested his hand on
Milo’s shoulder, and a tingling ran through the alchemist’s body.
“Thanks,” he said, “now boost me up.” Eilish did, and he
caught hold of the edge of the hole above and hauled himself
onto the landing.
Up here, where Eilish’s conjured glow barely reached, it
was almost entirely dark. Milo considered activating another
container of bottled light but decided against it. The ongoing
clashing of steel on steel would lead him to Gardek, and he
didn’t want a telltale shining to announce his coming.

The noise drew him down a hall to a doorway. When he peeked
inside, he winced. His back to the wall, some of the spikes on his
plate and shield broken off short, Gardek was fighting two of the
glaive-wielding Cryxians. Milo assumed it was only the trollkin’s
extraordinary strength and skill with a war hammer, coupled with
a savage determination not to fall to the undead he despised, that
had kept the fight going as long as it had.
Glad the Cryxians had their backs turned, Milo skulked
forward. He sprayed the nearer of the banes with foaming, sizzling
acid.
The undead reeled. By the time it recovered and spun around,
Milo had turned was fleeing back down the hallway.
As he’d hoped, the bane pursued him and took some of the
pressure off Gardek. Unfortunately, it didn’t need to follow him
out the doorway. Instead, it took the straight path afforded by
lunging through the wall and into the hall. Still, Milo had a lead
of sorts.
Now, if only he could figure out what to do with it. Maybe he
should jump back down the stairwell in the hope of leading the
undead within reach of Colbie, Canice, Eilish, Natak, and Pog.
Ahead of him, metal clinked, and the creature appeared on the
landing beside the hole. Guessing his intention, it had doubled
back to cut him off. It leveled the glaive and charged.
He suspected that, given much more time, it would catch
him. Eilish’s enchantment had made him a shade spryer than
was natural, but the undead had longer legs and was likely
indefatigable.
Milo ducked into the gable room that tilted away from the rest
of the house, its floor slanting downward away from the entrance.
He grabbed a grenade, turned the timer, dropped it, ran, and
leaped at the cracked, filthy window.
The glass shattered, and something tugged at the top of his ear
He suspected he’d cut himself and was glad it was no worse. If not
for the gasmask and the rest of his protective gear, he might have
hurt himself badly.
BLACK CROWNS | 183
Unfortunately, the mask and the reinforced leather of his

alchemist’s armor and cloak couldn’t protect him from the fall. He
dropped and rolled when he hit the ground, and perhaps that was
what spared him a broken leg or worse, but the impact clacked his
teeth together and jarred the breath from his lungs.
Though half-stunned, he knew he had to get farther away from
the house. He floundered to his feet, scurried onward, and, with
a boom and a flash that illuminated Ion Badescu and the two
knights waiting ahead, the grenade he’d left behind exploded.
Scraps of burning wood fell all around him, but none hit him.
He looked back. The gable had fallen off the house and lay in
a blazing heap. The question now was, had Milo set the grenade’s
timer correctly? Had his pursuer been inside the room when the
bomb went off? It wasn’t peering out the hole with its ragged,
burning edges.
The pile of fiery rubble shifted, and the undead shoved its
way out. The arm that had borne the shield had come off at the
shoulder, and one foot dragged. Still, it managed to hoist the
glaive and hobble forward.
Milo glanced back at the knights. “You wanted to fight,” he
said.
The young men drew their pistols and broadswords and stalked
forward. Milo’s first instinct was to leave them to it. He didn’t
know them, and plainly, he’d done enough. But Colbie and the
other Irregulars wouldn’t approve of that attitude, and, despite
his better judgment, the reflection prompted him to wait for the
knights to come up even with him and then advance along with
them. He was glad to see they had sense enough to fan out to
encircle the foe.
Their pistols flashed and banged. Milo threw a knife that
pierced shriveled flesh where a piece of armor had fallen away.
The undead jerked as the attacks hit it and then limped toward
him as fast as it could. Fortunately, that wasn’t as fast as he could
backpedal. The knights rushed in behind the creature and hacked
at it. The skull head split in two, and the Cryxian fell.
Milo looked around to make sure there wasn’t yet another
glaive-wielding creature pouncing out of the darkness. Instead, all

the other Irregulars, Gardek included, were hurrying out the front
door of the burning house. Evidently Milo’s efforts had enabled
the trollkin to defeat his remaining adversary.
As his partners approached, Colbie called, “Is everyone all
right?”
Milo remembered his ear and examined it by touch. The
fingertips of his black-gloved hand came away bloody, but he
didn’t seem to be bleeding his life away. “More or less,” he said.
“Good,” Colbie said. “We have to go and go quickly, before
Khadoran soldiers show up. This all made a lot more commotion
than we wanted.”
“But you destroyed all the creatures?” Badescu asked.
“I think so,” Eilish said. “They’ve been sneaking around
Elsinberg, but when we attacked their lair, their instinct was to
fight, not flee, and in consequence, you have the remains”—he
waved his sword at the undead Milo and the knights had just
slain—“to prove the threat is over.”
The curator smiled. “This whole city owes you a debt.”
“Bring us the horselord’s book,” Colbie said, “and we’ll call it
square.”
•••
THE SUITE SMELLED OF LINIMENT, some of it Milo’s salves, the rest

purchased from a local apothecary. Even the most martial or wary
of the Irregulars had for the moment dispensed with the weight
of all plate, reinforced leather, and weapons for comfort’s sake,
and each of them was moving stiffly with the occasional grunt, as
if they’d all aged from young to old in a single night. They were
bruised and sore from falling, jumping, being too close to the
detonation of a grenade, or the impact of a glaive on an armored
torso or limb.
Now they were about to discover if their struggles had achieved
the desired result. Eilish sat reading the latter section of the long-
dead horselord’s memoir while his fellow mercenaries and Ion
Badescu looked on. This copy of the book was bound in green,
BLACK CROWNS | 185
not black, and didn’t have a crest stamped on the cover, but the
arcanist had declared that even so, the content in the front half
was the same.
It seemed to Pog that Eilish was studying the text very
methodically. Couldn’t he just skim to find the information they
needed? As far as the gobber was concerned, his friends in the
Irregulars were wonderful people, one and all, but prolonged
acquaintance had opened his eyes to their eccentricities, and he
wouldn’t absolutely put it past the scholar to needlessly draw out
the suspense. He had a penchant for drama that occasionally
became annoying.
Eilish perused the final page and closed the book. “Remarkable,”
he said.
Natak glared. “Does it say where the crowns are or not?”
“More or less.”
“Meaning what?” Colbie asked.
“By the time of the Orgoth invasion,” Eilish said, “Umbrey
had been a part of the Khardic Empire for centuries, more than
long enough for old grudges to fade, and given the ghastliness
of the common threat, horselords like our friend the memoirist
were happy to serve in the same armies as the descendants of their
conquerors. In time, he found himself one of the soldiers defending
Old Korska, the provincial capital, against the onslaught.”
Gardek made a spitting sound. “Never a short answer when
you can give a lecture instead.”
Eilish’s lips quirked into a smile. “I’m getting to it. The Khards
kept a number of treasures and artifacts of historical importance
in Old Korska, including the crowns of the Umbrean kings who’d
surrendered to them. After several years of fighting, when it
appeared likely the capital would fall, the defenders sought to hide
the relics where the Orgoth would never find them. Our author,
who had by then earned the trust of the Khardic commanders,
helped bury the regalia of the Black Ring.”
“Where?” Colbie asked.
“In or near the Keep of the Dawn. Actually, that’s a rough
translation, but there’s a nuance that doesn’t translate easily.”
“Rough or smooth,” Canice said, “where is it?”

“Perhaps somewhere in the eastern part of the city,” Eilish said.
“But’s that merely conjecture. I actually have no idea. Study might
tell us more, but even then, we might not recognize what’s left of
the structure if we saw it. When they finally forced their way in,
the Orgoth razed Old Korska.”
Natak grunted. “Then the book doesn’t really tell where the
crowns are. Only sort of.”
“But that’s good,” Colbie said. “If the horselord only gave a
vague location, then maybe Morthis is still looking. Maybe,
despite the time we’ve spent in Elsinberg, we can still catch up
with him.” She frowned. “Unless his copy of the memoir has
information ours lacks.”
“I doubt it,” Eilish said. “It’s impossible to be certain, but I
don’t see any evidence of gaps or abridgments in the text.”
“Did you find any indication of what Morthis means to do
with the crowns?” Canice asked.
“Alas, no,” Eilish replied.
“That’s unfortunate,” Colbie said. “Still, we have what we
need.”
“Are we still going ahead with this?” Milo said, picking at the
sticking plaster at the top of his ear. “The mechanithralls were
bad. The undead here were worse. Who knows what’s waiting in
Old Korska? With me just about out of acid and grenades and, I
imagine, you gun fighters low on ammunition.”
“I’ll resupply you from the knights’ armory,” Badescu said.
“It’s the least I can do. I only saw one of those creatures after the
explosion crippled it, but still…” He shook his head.
“Thanks,” Milo answered. For an instant, Pog didn’t understand
the reason for the alchemist’s sardonic tone. Then he realized it
was because Badescu had undercut the argument for giving up.
Pog cleared his throat. “Mr. Boggs, you know we’re going. We
decided already.”
“I do know,” Milo answered, “but a sensible man should talk
sense even when there’s no hope of it winning out.”
— 13 —
THE SIGNS AT THE ENTRANCES to the small equestrian park read,

“No dueling by order of Countess Kepetch,” and, unless one
counted fledgling riders trying to contend with balky mounts that
sensed their uncertainty, nobody was. Giving instruction, fathers
and grooms rode or walked alongside the children.
It was a peaceful scene, but Natak had no trouble imagining
Llaelese cantering at one another with swords or pistols in hand.
Maybe they still did, late at night when Khadoran soldiers had
been bribed to look the other way. “Did you ever fight here?” he
asked.
Walking at his side, Canice shot him a sour look from under
the broad brim of her hat, and for a moment, he thought she
wouldn’t deign to answer. Then she said, “I was trying not to draw
attention to myself. Dueling in public wouldn’t have helped. Still,
there was one time when…there’s no need to talk about it.”
Natak reflected that ever since Lavoro Goncal brought the
Irregulars his commission, there apparently hadn’t been the need
to talk about much of anything, and the gun mage had only
become more taciturn in Elsinberg. For example, she hadn’t
explained why, for all her concern about being recognized, she
hadn’t been content to wait inconspicuously aboard the train.
Instead, she was prowling around for a last look at the part of the
city surrounding the station.
It was a warrior’s role to carry out his korune’s wishes, not
question them, and it was a role that suited Natak’s natural bent.
Still, though Canice was bold and tough like an ogrun, she
ultimately was human with, he supposed, the human penchant
for crooked thinking. Perhaps on this occasion, the truer service
would be to help her sort out whatever was vexing her.
Unfortunately, he had little idea of how to begin. Based on past
experience, a blunt question would trigger irritation and denial.
“The people seem happier,” he ventured, “now that they’ve heard
the Cryxians are dead.”
Canice scowled at their fellow pedestrians. Noting her
expression, a pudgy man coming out of a bakery redolent of
fresh bread with a half-eaten honey bun in hand stopped in the
doorway until she and Natak passed by.
“Yes,” the gun mage said, “they’re very happy groveling to the
Khadorans.”
“You think they should be aiding the Resistance one and all.”
“No.” Canice paused for a beat, and then said, “Maybe.” She
scowled. “And now you’re thinking, but, korune, you gave up the
struggle, and you’d sworn oaths to serve the Loyal Order of the
Amethyst Rose until death.”
That was pretty much what Natak had been thinking, but he
didn’t want to seem to rebuke her. It wasn’t his place, he didn’t
actually care, and he doubted it would do any good. He strained
to think of something else to say.
“You know me,” he offered at length. “I’m not one to set down
my axe until the enemy lies dead before me. But some wars are
won, some are lost, and the world goes on. Once, this land was
Umbrey. Then it was Khardic for a while. Then Orgoth. Then
the western half of Llael. Now it’s Khadoran, and if we could see
BLACK CROWNS | 189
everything as Mother Dhunia sees it, maybe we’d realize none

of that ever made any difference. We can’t know. I am sure that
if people west of the Black River have resigned themselves to
Khadoran rule, a few rebels are never going to put an end to it.
It’s hard enough for Cygnar to defend itself when the Empress’s
armies take a run at us.”
Canice sighed. “That’s what I’ve always told myself.” She
chuckled. “Well, minus the philosophy. I never took you for such
a deep thinker.”
“Blame it on that knock on the head I got when the stairs fell
down.”
“I knew there had to be a reason.”
Drawn by two enormous black draught horses, a beer wagon
rumbled by. Across the street, a beggar played the squeezebox
with more enthusiasm than skill. He was performing in front of a
dressmaker’s shop, and the proprietor came out the door with an
annoyed look on her face to shoo him away.
Meanwhile, Canice’s expression grew somber and introspective
once more. “If driving out the Khadorans looks hopeless now,
well, it seemed just as hopeless the last time I was here, and I didn’t
want to waste my life fighting for a lost cause. But there was more
to my leaving than that.”
“How so?” Natak asked. He suspected she’d never told anyone
the story before. It had been festering inside her for years.
“My cell was operating in Elsinberg, and things were going
badly everywhere. In the east, along the river, the army of Free
Llael suffered a major defeat. Here in the city, another cell tried
to sabotage a munitions manufactory, and the guards caught and
killed them. And nobody cared. No one toasted the martyrs in
the taverns or scrawled tributes on walls. For all their faults, the
Khadorans had brought stability, and most people considered it
fair payment for the loss of their freedom.”
Natak grunted. “Most people are sheep.”
“Anyway, the Resistance Council’s response to all this failure
was to order agents to assassinate various Llaelese deemed
collaborators. Since we weren’t having any success striking at the
Khadorans themselves, we’d kill easier targets and drive home the
message that those who welcomed the invaders were traitors and
would be treated as such.”
“Sounds like a reasonable tactic.”
“It might have been if all the so-called collaborators had been
depraved scoundrels helping the Khadorans do monstrous things
to their fellow Llaelese. But many weren’t. They certainly weren’t
warriors—you wouldn’t have thought much of them—but were
just ordinary people making accommodations to get by. Stationed
in Elsinberg, I understood what the person making the lists in
Rhydden evidently didn’t, and I feared that if the Resistance
ran wild murdering people for insufficient reason, it would be
disastrous. The folk we needed to join us would fear and hate us
instead.”
“So you disregarded your orders,” Natak said.
“No,” Canice replied. She lengthened her stride to spring over
a low, broken place in the cobblestones, and her greatcoat flapped
around her legs. “Not at first. I did as I was told even though
I disagreed with it. But it soured me still further on the cause,
and then the word came to kill a nobleman named Gyrvyn di la
Glaeys.”
Natak had a hunch he knew where the story was going. “That
was someone you actually knew.”
“Since childhood. He was…nice and utterly harmless. To the
extent that anyone in his family had sold out to the Khadorans—
and truly, no one had in any way that mattered—it was his father,
not him. Gyrvyn spent his days hunting, hawking, and playing
brag. So I decided to ignore the order. Unfortunately, my team
saw things differently.”
“They rebelled.”
“Not openly. I wish they had. Instead, they plotted to kill
Gyrvyn without me knowing until afterward. Plainly, they
were trying to protect me. With the target dead as ordered, our
superiors need never know I’d refused.”
“But it didn’t work out,” Natak guessed.
Canice didn’t reply for several paces. Then she said, “It went
BLACK CROWNS | 191
as badly as it possibly could have. My team killed Gyrvyn, but in

the process, they ran afoul of his bodyguards and a Winter Guard
street patrol who killed them in their turn.”
“Do you blame yourself?” Natak asked.
“How can I not? If I’d warned Gyrvyn, he might still be alive.
If I’d led my team, they might be. But I didn’t do anything for
anyone, and as a result, everybody died.”
Natak didn’t know what to say to that. For want of any words
of comfort or wisdom, he sought to nudge the story forward.
“What happened next?”
“I finally decided I’d had enough. Then, knowing the normal
Resistance practice was to send hunters after a deserter with orders
to kill on sight, I did something to improve my chances of making
it out of Llael.”
“What?” Natak asked.
“Something else I’m not proud of. It worked. Let’s leave it at
that. I think you’ve already heard enough to understand why I
wasn’t eager to come back here.”
“Bad memories.”
“Those and knowing the Resistance never forgets.”
“Nor the Khadoran Army, from what I’ve heard. Which means
we’re pushing our luck taking this last little stroll.”
“Yes. It was stupid. I wanted a final look at Elsinberg, and
I don’t even know why. It’s like poking a sore tooth with your
tongue. You know it will hurt, and some perversity compels you
to do it anyway. But I’ve had enough of it. Let’s get back.”
As they turned their steps in the direction of the train, the gun
mage seemed a little more at ease. Maybe it had helped her to tell
the story.
The railroad station was a handsome structure of white marble
with a roof that was mostly one big skylight with ironwork
crisscrossing between triangular panes of grey-green tinted glass.
Tracks ran through the arched openings in the walls, south toward
Merywyn and north toward Laedry. Natak didn’t know if the
building predated the conquest, but if it did, the Khadorans had
removed any adornments reflective of Llaelese nationalism and
put their flag and banners and the coats of arms of Empress Vanar
and Countess Kepetch in their place.
Once inside, he paused for a moment to take in the sight of the
steam engines waiting to pull their strings of cars. He liked their
size and manifest power, but a sudden twinge of uneasiness urged
him not to dawdle. He and Canice weren’t aboard their train yet.
Something could still go wrong.
They swung wide to avoid a pair of Winter Guardsmen even
though the sentries in their fur hats didn’t look especially alert
or inclined to question random passengers. Arriving at the car
Colbie had hired, they climbed in with the other Irregulars.
Pog smiled. “Thank the Mother!”
“We were starting to worry,” Eilish said, “that Ms. Gormleigh’s
poorly timed yen for a walk had landed you in trouble.”
“It didn’t,” Canice growled. Distancing herself from her
companions, she stalked to the rearmost pair of benches, sat
down, and tilted her hat down over her face.
Natak, however, was too tense to make himself similarly
comfortable. First he’d imagined he sensed trouble looming, and
now Eilish had intimated the same. Though the coincidence
was surely that and nothing more, he sat down and peered out a
window at the cavernous interior of the station.
People bustled along the platforms and hugged loved ones
goodbye or hello. A pair of gobbers hauled a cart heaped with
baggage. In short, all was as it should be. There were neither
Khadoran soldiers rushing the mercenaries’ car nor gun mages
stalking toward it with pistols drawn.
The coach rolled slightly forward. The engineer was preparing
to depart. Natak willed him to get on with it. Once he did,
whatever dangers were waiting ahead, Elsinberg would no longer
pose a threat.
Then Natak sat up straighter and looked harder. As in his
imaginings, someone came running down the platform. Happily,
though, it turned out to be only one man, in civilian garb, not a
Khadoran uniform, and with just a valise in his hand. Gray-haired
and bespectacled, the late arrival made a floundering jump at a
BLACK CROWNS | 193
coach several spaces back from the one the Irregulars occupied
and nearly fell right off the steps again before some kindly person
reached out the doorway, caught him by the forearm, and helped
him clamber inside.
The train picked up speed and left the station behind, and,
exhaling, Natak relaxed. Perhaps he too should take a nap. Or
maybe Gardek wanted to arm wrestle.
•••
THE OBSERVATION CAR WAS AT THE BACK OF THE TRAIN, where

the large windows in the U-shaped tail end of it provided an
unobstructed view of the ever-receding landscape. After dark, that
view consisted mostly of vague black shapes, but Canice discovered
that four other insomniacs were idling here anyway, likely because
the car was also a lounge where a thirsty soul could buy a drink.
She opted for gin and beer to chase it and looked over the
other people in the car. Two men were playing brag with grim
intensity despite the fact that there were only a few Khadoran
copper kuppeks at stake. A plump old woman in mourning black
sat knitting, and, in the corner, a clerkish-looking fellow with
close-cropped gray hair and spectacles had his nose in a book. A
neatly folded cloak reposed on the bench beside him.
None of them looked like appealing company, or maybe Canice
simply wasn’t in the mood for conversation. In fact, despite the
curve of windows, the train itself felt confining. Tankard in hand,
she stepped out onto the platform.
Here, it was noisier, the wheels beneath her clattering on
the rails. The air smelled of the smoke blowing back from the
engine. That reminded her of Doorstop, and she wondered if the
steamjack was all right. She wondered if she was.
Scowling, she told herself that of course she was. Elsinberg had
been a constant reminder of regrets, but the town was behind her
now. Laedry had its own melancholy associations, but the Irregulars
wouldn’t linger there any longer than it took to acquire horses for
the journey to the ruins of Old Korska. She could tolerate that.
Afterward—
The door at her back clicked open. She glanced around. His
cloak draped over one arm, the clerkish man was coming out onto
the platform. Perhaps he craved some approximation of open
space and fresh air as well. Canice supposed that was all right so
long as he didn’t also want to chat.
She gave him a nod and then looked out at the night again in
an effort to convey her preference for silence. Behind her, Dyrmyd
d’Anthys’s voice said, “I have you covered.”
She caught her breath. She’d looked right at him! But when
she and Natak had waylaid him on the street, he’d been dirty and
shabby with dark, unkempt hair and bushy beard, and he’d always
been astonishingly good at disguises.
“I should have realized,” she said. “You don’t have the book.
The man you’re pretending to be wouldn’t have forgotten it.”
“You’re considering spinning around and trying to knock my
pistol aside,” Dyrmyd said, “or trying to jump off the train before
I can pull the trigger. Neither of those things will work. Now, I’ve
caught you without most of your gear, but I’m sure you still have
your holdout guns tucked away somewhere. Take them out slowly
with thumb and forefinger and toss them off the platform.”
“You can’t kill me,” she said. “I still have the list.”
“That’s why you aren’t dead already,” Dyrmyd replied. “But I’ll
shoot you anyway if you force my hand. That will be better than
nothing.”
“I promise you, it won’t.”
“Get rid of the holdout guns.”
As she extracted the first one from the pocket of her waistcoat,
she asked, “How did you find me? That night in the street, did
you know it was me?”
“I suspected it. You disguised your voice and denied me a
good look at your face, but I knew my attacker was a tall, sturdily
built woman in a greatcoat, and, thanks to the silent shot you
fired, that she must be a gun mage. Add to that the fact that she
knew I was in the Resistance, and her identity wasn’t difficult to
guess. You were foolish to accost me when you could have sent
some of your friends.”
BLACK CROWNS | 195
“I had to find out for myself if the Resistance had stooped

to creating undead and killing innocent people at random.” She
hesitated. “Or maybe I wanted to see you again.”
If the fondness she was implying moved him at all, she couldn’t
tell it. “Or maybe shame has been eating away at you, and you
wanted to be caught.”
No. That wasn’t it. Had it been possible, she would have
sacrificed a great deal to change the way things had fallen out
at the end of her time in Llael. But she had a new life now, and,
guilty or not, there was no part of her that wanted to throw it
away.
“How did you catch me?” she asked.
“Stop stalling, toss the pistol, and I’ll tell you.”
She did and then slowly reached for the holdout gun in her hip
pocket. The train raced on into a curve, and the platform bucked
slightly under her feet.
“Once I knew you’d returned,” Dyrmyd said, “I set my people
looking for you and an ogrun. There was a little confusion when
they spotted you wandering around with a trollkin instead, but
we got that sorted out. Then we had to decide what to do next
when you’d returned with so many dangerous-looking friends. We
were still mulling it over when your group surprised us by going
to take the train. I just had time to change my appearance and
catch it myself.”
“After which, you waited to catch me alone and vulnerable.”
“If I never had, I would’ve kept shadowing you after you got
off, but here we are instead. The timing’s perfect, actually. The
train rolls into Laedry around dawn. With luck, we might even
be gone before your companions realize you’re missing. Toss the
other pistol.”
She obeyed, then eased around to face him. His back against
the wrought-iron rail, he stood on the other side of the platform
with the cloak still draped over his arm. No doubt his magelock
was underneath.
“Dyrmyd,” she said, “before I left, we were friends. We saved
each other’s lives a time or two. Even though I forsook the
Amethyst Rose, I never did anything to harm it or any member

of the Resistance.”
“If you’re still a friend, return the list.”
She snorted. “How can I when you just told me it’s the only
thing keeping me alive?”
“You are going to give it back, and then you’re going to die.
There’s no escaping that. But if you cooperate, you needn’t suffer
torture before the end.”
“Nothing has changed. If I die or disappear, a confidant of
mine will give the list to the Khadorans.”
“That threat threw us off our game when you were running,
and so you made it out of the country. But I’ve pondered the
situation in the time since, and I’m willing to gamble I can get to
the list before this friend of yours realizes you’ve come to grief.”
“You’ll lose,” Canice said, “but even that may not be the biggest
misfortune that will come your way. The Cryxians are planning
something big. My partners and I came to Llael to stop it.” That
wasn’t too far off the truth and took less time to say.
“What are they planning?” Dyrmyd asked.
“We don’t know. But I expect a lot of people will end up dead.”
“I think you’re lying or at least exaggerating, and if I’m wrong,
we’ll just have to hope your companions can carry on without
you. No matter what, you’re going to answer for breaking your
vows.”
She quashed the urge to shout at him. He’d likely shoot her if
she raised any sort of commotion. “You always were a pigheaded
bastard underneath it all.”
He smiled a grim little smile. “The quality you’re remarking
on is called loyalty. There was a time when you understood what
it is.”
“What happens now?”
“It seems tricky to escort you back into the train, doesn’t it?
Even with most of them sleeping, there are too many people, too
many potential meddlers and distractions. Let’s wait right here.”
Fine, Canice thought. Laedry was still hours away. Surely a
moment would come when his vigilance would waver. She only
BLACK CROWNS | 197
needed an instant to rush him or leap off the platform.

But he was as competent an agent as she’d known during her
service to the Resistance, and that opportunity never came. Even
when she drew him into reminiscences about old friends and the
exploits they’d all shared together, and his manner warmed, she
sensed his constant readiness to pull the trigger.
Perhaps, she thought, some other person would provide a
distraction or realize something strange was going on. But no one
did. The other passengers inside the observation car eventually
departed. The barman washed glasses and wiped down tables
before sitting down and, to all appearances, slipping into a doze.
Sadly, the Irregulars weren’t likely to intervene, either. They’d
all been asleep when Canice made her way to the back of the train.
The eastern sky brightened. The train chugged and clattered
through fields where rows of comparatively new and well-tended
graves alternated with ivy-smothered tombs crumbling behind
rusty iron fences. After that, it passed through a gas-lit tunnel in
Laedry’s city wall. The points along their bottom edges protruding
from slots in the arched ceiling, portcullises waited to drop and
seal the passage in the event of a siege.
Once inside the city, the train sped through a district of
manufactories devoted to the production of arms and warjacks.
Then, decelerating, it entered a rail yard where strings of freight
cars sat on sidings.
Without taking his eyes off Canice, Dyrmyd unhooked the rail
chain. “Now you can jump,” he said. He needed to get her off the
train before it pulled into the station and all the passengers started
getting off. Including her partners searching for her at last.
Fine. After she jumped, he’d do the same, and in that moment,
when she’d recovered her balance and he had yet to do the same,
she’d rush him.
She faced the gap in the railing. Dyrmyd clubbed the back of
her head and shoved her off the platform.
She landed hard on the rails and ties. Dazed, her skull ringing,
she nonetheless tried to spring up and follow through on her plan,
but by the time she floundered to her feet, her captor was standing
poised before her with the pistol under the cloak aimed squarely
at her and the train rolling onward behind him.
Even in the minutes before dawn, somebody was working in
the freight yard. Somewhere, two cars banged as someone coupled
them together. A voice shouted. But no one was in sight.
Dyrmyd pointed with his off hand. “Go that way.”
Canice obeyed, and as she turned, there was an instant where
her body blocked his view of what her right hand was doing, or
at least she hoped so. She snatched a coin from her pocket and
dropped it on the ground.
•••
COLBIE LOOKED OUT AT THE HUNDREDS OF MERCENARIES drawn up

in ranks before her. She drew breath to give them their orders,
realized she’d forgotten to think of any, and then someone started
yelling.
She opened her eyes. In reality, she was still in the railway
coach, not ineptly commanding the army she aspired to lead one
day, and, clad in the maroon silver-trimmed uniform of a porter
or some similar functionary, a swarthy young man with a neat
little black mustache was saying, “Ma’am! Gentlemen! Please
wake up! It’s an emergency!”
Gardek sat up from the bench where he’d been sprawling.
“What?” he growled.
“You’re traveling with a tall woman with black hair, aren’t
you?” He glanced at Colbie. “A different one, I mean.”
Still fuzzyheaded from being awakened abruptly, Colbie
needed a moment to recall that Canice had dyed her red curls for
her return to Llael. “Yes.”
“Well, she and a man jumped off the back of the train. I was
the barman on duty in the observation car. They’d been on the
platform for hours, talking, and then, when we got close to the
station, they just…went.”
Eilish spoke in Cygnaran, no doubt in the hope that the
barman wouldn’t understand. “A Resistance agent must have
taken her prisoner. Khadoran soldiers would have arrested us all,
BLACK CROWNS | 199
and they wouldn’t have needed to be surreptitious about it when

it came time to escort us from the train.”
Colbie grabbed her greatcoat. The weapon and tools hanging
from the loops inside it clinked together. “As soon as the train
stops,” she said to the barman, “we need you to walk us back
down the track and show us where they jumped.”
The young man blinked. “I’m supposed to tell the conductor
and the engineer what happened and do whatever they tell me to
do. I’m not supposed to just walk away from the train.”
“Our friend’s life is in danger,” Colbie said, “only we can save
her, and every second counts. Please help us.”
The barman took a moment to consider. Then he said, “All
right. If you put it like that.”
Everyone strapped on their armor and other gear and stuffed
loose items into their packs. Natak did so with a violence that
made the barman eye him warily.
“You’re her warrior,” Gardek said in Cygnaran, “not her
nursemaid nor even her bodyguard. It wasn’t your job to go
everywhere with her. She wouldn’t have tolerated it if you’d tried.”
The ogrun didn’t reply.
“If there’s blame,” Eilish said, “we all share it. Elsinberg was
a trial. When we boarded the train, it was all too tempting to
believe we could drop our guards and relax for the duration of the
journey.”
“We’re here.” Natak threw open the door as the train came to
a halt. “Everybody, move!”
Shoving their way through other debarking passengers, the
people who’d turned out to welcome them, and baggage carriers,
hotel shills, and food vendors clamoring for their attention, the
Irregulars and their guide hurried to the end of the platform and
the steps descending from it. Beyond the passenger station was the
rest of the depot, a maze of a freight yard where less ornate buildings
stood here and there among the chains of cars and the spider web of
tracks on the ground. A couple workers peered at the mercenaries
as they strode along, but the barman’s railway uniform apparently
persuaded them that nothing illicit was going on.
Finally the barman stopped. “Somewhere around here. I think.”

Natak’s fingers tightened on the haft of his battle axe. “You
think?”
The Llaelese flinched, but then he looked the ogrun in the eye.
“I had no idea they were going to jump. It took me by surprise,
and the train was moving. By the time I thought to look for
landmarks…what I’m trying to say is, I’m doing the best I can.”
“We know,” Colbie said. She gave Natak her stern-officer stare.
“Instead of snarling at a friend, focus on finding Canice.” She
turned to Gardek. “Your turn.”
“Right,” the bounty hunter said. Turning his head back
and forth, pausing and stooping when something snagged his
attention, he paced on up the track. Spreading out, his partners
followed several steps behind him. It was possible one of them
would spot something he’d missed, but it wasn’t likely, and nobody
wanted to tread obliviously on sign before he had a look at it.
Gardek picked up something off the ground. “A coin.”
Eilish hurried forward to inspect it. “A Cygnaran farthing, to
be precise. It’s almost certainly our Ms. Gormleigh who dropped
it.”
“Then we know where the trail starts,” Pog said. Colbie could
tell the gobber was trying to sound hopeful, but the effort wasn’t
convincing. Maybe the buildings rising on all sides discouraged
him. Or the knowledge that Laedry was a metropolis twice as
big as Elsinberg, and none of them had ever set foot in the place
before.
“If Canice is as cunning as I believe,” Eilish said, “we know a
trifle more than that. The coin was on the left side of the track to
indicate she and her captor headed in that direction.”
“I already worked that out,” Gardek said. He prowled away
from the rails and ties.
Colbie turned to the barman. “You can go back now, and
thank you.”
He shook his head. “If your friend really is in danger, well, I
know my way around the freight yard at least a little. I might be
able to help some more.”
BLACK CROWNS | 201
Though Colbie couldn’t make it out even when Gardek pointed

to it, the trollkin found one of Canice’s boot prints. A few yards
farther along, he found another. At which point Natak snarled,
“This is taking too long!”
Gardek glared. “The ground is dry and rocky, and lots of
people walk around in here.”
“We understand tracking takes time,” Eilish said, “but it may
be time Canice doesn’t have. Let’s think about this. There are
surely Resistance agents in Laedry, and given that he didn’t simply
murder her on the platform and dump her body off the train
we can infer the captor’s goal is to take her to one of their safe
houses. But none of his allies were waiting to assist because there
was no way for him to send word of his coming in advance of his
arrival. That leaves him with the solitary and not-insignificant task
of conducting a prisoner as resourceful and recalcitrant as Canice
through streets teeming with people heading off to work without
anyone perceiving the duress or her finding a chance to make a
break for freedom. How does he manage it?” He turned. “Milo, I
yield the floor to our resident scoundrel.”
His gasmask hanging around his neck, the little alchemist
frowned. “I was never a kidnapper. But…once you’re not trying
to walk through all those people, things are easier. So you find a
coach or wagon. You make the prisoner drive while you hold your
weapon on her.”
“There’s a freight service,” the barman said. “They haul goods
to and from the trains, and their place is nearby.” Trotting, he led
the mercenaries on toward a building at the edge of the rail yard
with over a dozen wagons sitting around it. Colbie assumed the
barn-like structure was a stable with draught horses inside.
Like the stable itself, each wagon bore the painted silhouette of
a bird of prey in flight along with the words “Peregrine Freight”
in Khadoran. The building’s double doors were ajar, and an open
padlock lay on the ground before them. Colbie surmised Canice’s
abductor had forced her to pick it just as he would next have
forced her to hitch up a team.
Eilish pulled open one door sufficiently to take a quick look
at the floor and the place on the wall where harnesses hung on
pegs. “Further confirmation,” he said, “not that we needed it.” He
nodded to the barman. “Well done. I hope helping us won’t cost
you your job.”
The barman smiled a wry smile. “So do I.”
Colbie handed him some coins. “Hurry back, don’t tell anyone
what happened, and your bosses may never realize you were
absent.”
“All right,” Eilish said. “For ease of maneuverability, our captor
will have chosen one of the smallest wagons, like that one”—he
pointed—“drawn by two horses. It has a distinctive logo painted
on it. I daresay that Canice, attired as she is, doesn’t look like
Peregrine Freight’s usual teamster. Someone will have noticed her
passing by. We just need to start inquiring.”
“If anyone wonders why,” Colbie said, “the wagon’s stolen, and
the company hired us to recover it. Let’s go.”
— 14 —
CANICE SAT BOUND TO A HARD WOODEN CHAIR in a dark cellar room

where, she was certain, a prisoner’s screams would go unheard. The
mansion hadn’t contained such a cell in the old days. Apparently
the owner’s role in the Resistance had evolved, at least to the point
of allowing other agents to conduct inquisitions on the premises.
Canice hoped it had gone no further. Even with her own plight
to concern her, she hated to imagine the woman she remembered
plying the scalpels and probes herself.
She didn’t know how long she’d been alone in the gloom, only
that the waiting and the apprehension it produced were intended
to soften a prisoner up. She used the time to try to free her hands,
but no matter how she twisted and pulled, the coarse rope held
her. She only scraped her wrists raw.
Finally the cell door swung open, and the glow of an oil
lantern made her squint. As her eyes adjusted, she discerned
the slender form of Lady Ninette Mikita, clad in the height of
fashion as always, her golden hair elaborately coifed and sapphires
glittering at her swan-like throat. It seemed to Canice that the

other woman’s face looked slightly older, but perhaps that was
because she was used to seeing it alight with high spirits either real
or feigned to charm a Khadoran official’s secrets out of him, not
grim and sad as it was currently.
Canice had been hoping Ninette would come. She hadn’t been
able to play on any lingering affection Dyrmyd might feel for
her, but surely she had a better chance of manipulating a former
lover. Still, underneath the pragmatic Canice who was determined
to survive was another who wished her abductor had taken her
anyplace but here.
Ninette set the lantern on the floor. “You must be thirsty.” She
held a glass to Canice’s lips.
Canice drank. The water was as cold as she remembered. The
rich had ice even in summer. “Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” Ninette dabbed at the captive’s mouth with
a lace handkerchief.
“You always did fuss over me when we were alone together.”
Ninette smiled a melancholy smile. “It made me happy.”
“Me, too, even when I acted like it annoyed me.” Canice
hesitated. “I hope you know I wouldn’t have stolen the list if
there’d been another way.”
“But there was. You could have been honest instead of telling
me how much you’d missed me and making love to me to get at
the place where I kept it hidden.”
“If I’d told the truth, would you have given it to me?”
“A list of the names of every Resistance agent in occupied Llael,
and you a deserter? I…I doubt it.”
“So did I. That’s why I made the choice I did. But it wasn’t all
deception. I did miss you and care about you. I still do.”
Ninette sighed. “I can’t count how many times I’ve wished I
hadn’t been visiting Elsinberg for you to trick and betray. Then
I think that if I hadn’t been, you’d probably be dead, and I feel
selfish and ashamed.” She smiled with a hint of her usual keen
sense of the ridiculous and absurd. “You left me tied in knots I’m
still trying to loosen.”
BLACK CROWNS | 205
“I know the feeling.” Canice pulled on her bonds. The chair

creaked and shifted beneath her.
Ninette chuckled, then reverted to her previous somber
expression. “Where’s the list now?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“How can that possibly be? I don’t know what became of you
after you fled Llael, but I know you. You haven’t been living a
quiet, peaceful life. Have you thought about what will happen
to the entire Resistance, me included, if you disappear or die a
violent death that has nothing to do with us? Where’s the justice
in that?”
“Where’s the justice in sentencing me to death simply for
deciding to live my life on my own terms?”
“You gave away that right when you took your vows, and
besides, the list is important.”
“Maybe not as important as the mission I was on before Dyrmyd
captured me.” She told Ninette what she and the other Irregulars
knew, or believed they knew, about Morthis and the Cryxians.
By the end, the noblewoman was frowning. “That does
sound…worrisome. But even if it’s all true, it’s vague! Who’s to say
your necromancer will ever find those crowns, or that if he does,
they’ll do something so very terrible? Whereas I know that with
the list gone, the life of every last Resistance agent is at risk.”
“You trusted me when the Khadoran criminals were trying to
murder you, and I saved your life.”
“I’ll always be grateful for that, and I’ll always hold you in
my heart as you say you’ve carried me. But I’m not you. Personal
feelings can’t make me betray my country.”
“My point is that my instincts were sound then, and they’re
sound now.”
“If Dyrmyd had his way, someone would be working on you
already. I’ve kept the thumbscrews and hot irons away from you
about as long as I can. I beg you, think if you truly want to endure
what’s to come.”
Canice closed her eyes and bowed her head. “You win. Back in
Elsinberg, there’s a wine exporter named Jelyan Weyne on Anthem
Street. She has the list. Please take it back without hurting her if
you can.”
“Thank you,” Ninette said. “That was the right decision, and I
promise, I’ll be with you at the end.” She retrieved the lantern and
went back out the door. The key clicked in the lock.
Scowling, Canice wondered if she’d just accelerated or delayed
her execution. If the Resistance agents were sure she’d told the
truth, they had no more reason to keep her alive. But if they were
uncertain, they’d do so while someone traveled to Elsinberg and
determined there was no such person as Jelyan Weyne. Given the
history Canice shared with them, they might not even torture her
in the interim.
It was no use worrying just how convincing the lie had been.
She resumed struggling with her bonds.
•••
A CITY DWELLING DOING ITS BEST TO MIMIC the grandeur of the

no-doubt even larger house and far more spacious grounds of an
aristocrat’s country estate, the mansion was a three-story marble
structure with a green lawn and beds of red and yellow roses
around it and a low wall enclosing those. As he passed through
the gate with the noble Umbrean family’s coat of arms woven
into the ironwork, Pog was keenly aware of the uppermost row
of windows. He had to resist the urge to stare and try to spot
the lookout Colbie believed might well be watching from one of
them. It was actually his job to find the guard, but not quite yet.
The Black River Irregulars had located the stolen Peregrine
Freight wagon abandoned, horses and all, in a cul-de-sac. Then,
backtracking, questioning gardeners, painters, and other outdoor
laborers, they’d ultimately determined the conveyance had stopped
here first, almost certainly to deliver Canice into the keeping of
other Resistance agents.
The task now was to free the gun mage and do it with a
minimum of commotion in broad daylight. If the Resistance
meant to kill her, her comrades couldn’t afford to wait.
They didn’t want a lookout raising the alarm the moment
BLACK CROWNS | 207
their distinctive and dangerous-looking group came onto the

grounds. Pog was the Irregular possessed of the most innocuous
appearance, the one to whom Canice’s abductor had likely paid
the least attention, and the one with a fair chance of approaching
the house without anyone realizing who he was and what he
wanted. Or so his friends believed. He hoped they were correct.
It would look wrong if he came to the front door in his oil- and
travel-stained mechanik’s clothing. Assuming the lookout really
existed and hoping he wasn’t switching windows to keep the new
arrival in view, Pog hiked around to the side of the house and the
tradesman’s entrance. There, he took a deep, steadying breath and
rapped a soft, respectful little knock.
After half a minute, the door opened, and a young man in
livery looked out over Pog’s head and then down. His dark eyes
widened. Knowing gobbers were even rarer in Laedry than in
Elsinberg, Pog hoped his race was the only reason for the servant’s
surprise. As opposed to recognizing that one of Canice’s comrades
had traced her here and then been stupid enough to stroll right up
and tap on the door.
“Hello,” said Pog. “I was wondering if there’s any work.”
“No,” the human said. “But if you go around to the kitchen—”
Pog pulled the vial Milo had given him out of his pocket,
yanked out the cork, and dashed the content in the servant’s face.
Then he held his breath and covered his nose and mouth so the
fumes of the somnolence elixir wouldn’t put him to sleep as well.
Even so, his head swam for an instant, and he felt as if he were
falling over backward.
Meanwhile, the human really did drop to his hands and
knees but then peered drunkenly at his attacker. Somehow, he
hadn’t taken enough of the vapor into his system to knock him
completely out, either. Hating that it was necessary, Pog pulled his
repeating pistol out from under his coat and pounded the servant
over the head with it. The second blow put the man all the way
down on his belly.
There was no really good place to hide an unconscious human,
but Pog judged that outside the house was better than in. He
dragged the servant onto the stoop and then shoved him into the
shrubbery beside it.
With that accomplished, he crept on into the part of the
mansion where the staff labored to keep their employer living
in luxury. Maids and footmen bustled around attending to their
duties, and Pog’s unfamiliarity with the layout of the house made
their comings and goings all the more unpredictable. Fortunately,
his size enabled him to hide under tables and behind laundry
hampers, although twice he only ducked under cover an instant
before somebody came through a doorway.
In time, he found his way to a narrow set of steps. Reminding
himself that there might well be servants working upstairs, too,
he climbed.
When he skulked onto the third floor, he discerned that the
rooms, though clean and properly kept, lacked the personal
mementoes and bits of untidiness that would suggest someone
was sleeping there regularly. They were likely guest rooms, which
meant Pog was somewhat less likely to blunder into someone up
here. Except for the sentry, of course.
He crept from doorway to doorway, peeking in each. Before
long, he discovered a stout man sitting in a chair in front of an
open casement commanding a view of the grounds and the street
beyond. Wearing a shoulder holster like Canice’s except that it held
only a single pistol, not two, he appeared to be the sentinel Pog was
seeking, though he evidently didn’t feel his task required constant,
undivided attention. At the moment, he was reading a little book of
poems, and dirty dishes and silverware sat on the windowsill.
Milo had given Pog a knockout grenade. He eased it out of his
pocket and thumbed the timing cog.
The resulting tiny clicks should have been inaudible across
the length of the bedroom. The stout man, however, sprang from
his chair, whirled, drew his pistol, and aimed, all in an instant.
Pog couldn’t tell if he was a gun mage of the Amethyst Rose like
Canice had been, but he was plainly an expert pistoleer.
Pog realized that if he went ahead and rolled the bomb into
the room, the lookout would shoot him. He rolled it down the
BLACK CROWNS | 209
hallway instead lest it detonate in his hand. With a little snapping

noise, it released the vapor stored within.
“Who are you?” the Resistance agent asked. His bass voice
sounded stuffy, as if he was allergic to something blooming on the
grounds or had a summer cold.
“One of your own.” Pog forced a smile. “This was training. I
was supposed to see if I could take you by surprise.”
“Right,” said the stout man, disbelief apparent in his expression
and tone, “and who assigned you the exercise?”
“Dyrmyd,” Pog said. It was the only name of a Resistance
agent he knew.
“Good try,” said the pistoleer. “He’s here at the moment, but he
isn’t based in Laedry to train anyone hereabouts. Did you follow
him? Are you something to do with the prisoner?”
“Before you question me,” Pog replied, “wouldn’t it be better
to disarm me?’ Stepping into the room, he pulled open the right
side of his coat to reveal his repeating pistol.
The Resistance agent blinked at Pog’s surprising show of
helpfulness. “Uh, yes. Take it out of the holster with thumb and
forefinger, drop it on the floor, and kick it over here.”
Pog frowned. “It isn’t safe to just throw firearms around. They
can go off.”
The pistoleer hesitated. Now, after being so eager to please a
moment before, the gobber was refusing to follow orders but at
the same time echoing a caution that the teacher who’d trained
him to shoot had likely once given. Pog hoped it was all confusing.
“I’ll tell you what I will do,” he continued. “Look.” He slowly
took the pistol from its holster. “See? Thumb and forefinger, just
like you wanted. Only now I’m going to hand it to you gently.
Here, take it.”
The heavyset man stepped forward and reached for the gun
with his off hand. Pog said, “Whee!” and tossed the firearm
spinning at the ceiling.
Following the trajectory of the weapon, the pistoleer
instinctively looked up. Pog lunged, grabbed the barrel of the
human’s gun, and yanked it out of line.
With a snarl, the stout man jerked the gun upward in an effort
to break Pog’s grip. Pog held on even when the pull momentarily
lifted him off his feet. With his free hand, he groped inside the left
side of his coat. For a moment, he couldn’t find the handle of his
trench knife, but then his fingers brushed it.
As the blade slid out of the sheath, the pistoleer jerked his
weapon again and this time freed it. Stepping back, the stout man
pointed the firearm anew.
Pog sprang past the muzzle of the pistol and drove the trench
knife into the human’s belly. The lookout grunted and doubled
over. The gun banged, discharging behind Pog’s back.
He pulled the knife out of the wound. The stout man dropped
the pistol, clutched his stomach, staggered a step, and gasped
repeatedly. Pog had the feeling he was trying to suck in sufficient
breath to shout a warning to his comrades.
That would be bad, but now that the pistoleer was no longer
trying to shoot him, Pog didn’t want to stick him again. He swung
the trench knife over his head, and the knobby part of the guard
that curved around his hand to double as a knuckleduster clouted
the human in the jaw.
It was an awkward blow without a great deal of force behind
it, but the lookout was already hurt and off balance, and he fell
down. Pog kept punching him until he stopped moving.
Afterward, the gobber felt sick to his stomach. This shouldn’t
have happened. The knockout bomb was supposed to neutralize
the lookout without actually harming him.
He told himself the man was the enemy. As near as he could
make out, that was the justification that allowed his fellow
mercenaries to commit mayhem without remorse, but he doubted
he’d ever truly master the trick.
He was, however, professional enough to understand
squeamishness mustn’t keep him from doing his job. Hoping no
one elsewhere in the house had heard the gunshot, he pulled a red
kerchief from his pocket, leaned out the casement, and waved it
like a flag.
BLACK CROWNS | 211
•••
THE IRREGULARS WOULD HAVE BEEN CONSPICUOUS loitering on the

boulevard of fine houses. Fortunately, the mansion cattycorner from
the one to which Canice had been taken was shut up tight despite the
summer warmth. Eilish was reasonably certain the owners were away.
The gate had been locked, but Colbie only needed a few
moments to pick it. After that, everyone hid behind the perimeter
wall, and Eilish watched for Pog’s signal.
There! Framed in the open third-story casement directly above
the front door, the gobber was waving a red cloth.
“Time to go,” Eilish said. He and his fellow mercenaries crossed
the street and advanced on the Resistance safe house.
The other Irregulars stood to either side of the door, where
the servant who answered wouldn’t spot them. In his fitted black
plate, Eilish assumed he didn’t look exactly like the usual caller
who presented himself here, either, but he more nearly fit the
mold than his partners.
He tapped the knocker against the plate. Eventually a burly
fellow with a wine-colored birthmark on his forehead and a
receding hairline working to reveal the blemish in its entirety
opened the door partway.
“Good morning,” Eilish said, “or is it afternoon already? I’d
like to see the master of the house.”
“Lady Mikita is not receiving,” the servant replied.
Eilish remembered the knight of the Keeping turning him
away from Ascendant Angellia’s library and the servant closing
the door on him at Levanid Gubin’s family home. The Llaelese
were supposed to be a hospitable people, but nobody would have
known from his experiences on this visit. It gave him a certain
satisfaction that this time, he wasn’t going to put up with rejection.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give her my card.” He
focused his will, extended his hand, and the blue light of his magic
glimmered around his fingers.
The servant’s eyes opened wide. Eilish had a feeling that, given
another moment, the Llaelese would try slamming the door, so he
jammed his toe in it.
“Step back,” he said, “and don’t call out. Otherwise, I’ll burn
you to ash where you stand.”
The servant retreated. Eilish stalked over the threshold, and his
partners followed.
“Where’s Canice Gormleigh?” Eilish asked.
The man with the birthmark shook his head. “I don’t know
who that is.”
Natak stepped forward.
“Not yet!” Eilish snapped, and rather to his surprise, the ogrun
halted.
Eilish returned his attention to the servant. “You see how it
is. My associate will pound you to pulp if you don’t cooperate.
If you do, we’ll take Ms. Gormleigh and go without any further
unpleasantness.”
“I don’t know any Canice Gormleigh! You’ve got the wrong
house!”
Eilish frowned, considering. Did the fellow truly not know? It
was inconceivable that this Lady Mikita—could she be the same
noblewoman Canice had once saved from assassination?—didn’t
keep a house where all the servants were at least sympathetic to
the Resistance. That didn’t mean they were all actively involved or
cognizant of everything that went on within these walls.
It seemed likely that someone charged with answering the door
would know. But if that was the case, he was evidently willing to
endure a blast of magic or a mauling at an ogrun’s hands to keep
the secret.
Footsteps thumped, and Eilish glanced up. Pog appeared on
the landing at the top of the staircase ascending from the foyer.
He had blood on his clothes.
“I had to stab the lookout!” the gobber said. “I didn’t want to!
Mr. Boggs, do you have medicine to help keep him alive?”
“First off,” Milo said, “thanks so much for using my name in
front of a witness. Second, who cares if the lookout dies?”
“Go,” Colbie told him.
The alchemist gave her a sardonic look and then headed up
the stairs.
BLACK CROWNS | 213
Colbie looked at the man with the birthmark. “I trust you

followed that. We really don’t want to harm anyone, but we will if
we don’t get what we want. We’ll kill everyone in the house. If you
truly don’t know about Canice Gormleigh, take us to your Lady
Mikita. She unquestionably does.”
The servant glowered. “I’ll escort you.”
“Do it exactly as you’d escort any other callers,” Eilish said.
“If we sense you’ve deviated from your normal routine, the
consequences will be unfortunate.”
The retainer led Eilish, Colbie, Gardek, and Natak on through
the house. A maid wielding a feather duster and a footman
hanging an oil portrait of Viscount Barak Ushka, the city’s ruler,
peered at the procession, but curiosity was to be expected. Eilish
could see no indication that the fellow with the birthmark gave
either of his fellow retainers a surreptitious signal.
The mercenaries’ reluctant guide ended up taking them all the
way through the mansion. Behind it were more gardens, and in
the center of those, a gazebo. A slender blonde woman with a
sapphire necklace sat looking out at a patch of verdure somewhat
wilder looking and less symmetrical than the orderly flowerbeds
around it, a section where red and orange butterflies flitted above
asters, columbine, and bluebeard. Judging from her morose,
abstracted expression, she mustn’t be truly seeing them but rather
some sad picture inside her mind.
Or at least that was the case until she spied the servant and her
callers. Then she put on a charming smile that Eilish took to be a
well-practiced mask.
So, clearly, did Natak, and he was rapidly wearing through
the patience his arcanist comrade had requested of him. “Where’s
Canice Gormleigh?” he growled, hefting his battleaxe.
Lady Mikita’s smile changed subtly. Now she seemed not
merely welcoming but sympathetic to another’s distress. “Canice
is fine,” she said, “and there’s nothing I want more than to restore
her to you. We simply need to talk a little first. I need one or two
assurances.” She nodded to the man with the birthmark. “Polaro,
you’re dismissed.”
She’d done it with such casual aplomb that Eilish laughed.

“Excellent effort, my lady, but I think Polaro needs to stay and
admire the butterfly garden with the rest of us.”
Lady Mikita’s smile became wrier and perhaps even a little more
genuine. “It was worth a try. Captain, gentlemen, I infer you’re
some of the comrades Canice told me about. I’m impressed that
you managed to follow her and Mr. d’Anthys, who removed her
from the train, to this house and to gain entry with so little fuss.”
“Canice explained that the Resistance considers her a deserter
and wants her dead,” Colbie said. “That ends now. You release her,
we don’t kill you and everybody else in the house, and then we go
finish a job that will spare Llael some grief the Cryxians have in
store for it. You’re getting a bargain.”
“Canice also told me about your Mr. Morthis and his black
crowns,” the noblewoman replied. “Did she tell you about the list
of names she stole?”
Eilish cocked his head. “She omitted that particular detail.”
“It lists every Resistance agent west of the Black River. The
threat of exposure aided Canice in her flight. We couldn’t just kill
her without recovering the document for fear the names would
come to light, and we still need it back. Prior to your arrival, she
told me where it is, and I’m sending someone on the afternoon
train to Elsinberg to retrieve it. Once I have it in my hand, she’ll
go free.”
“Splendid,” Eilish said. “It sounds as though we’re all on the
verge of getting what we want. But we need to move up the part
of the plan where Ms. Gormleigh is released. Otherwise, your
lookout upstairs, who I fear is seriously wounded, goes without
a physician’s care and my partner”—he nodded to Natak—“vents
his impatience on you and random members of the household.”
Lady Mikita sighed. “I don’t appear to have much choice, do
I? Polaro—”
“Down!” Gardek bellowed. He shoved Eilish to the plank floor
of the gazebo, and a shot cracked into one of the pillars supporting
the roof. If not for the trollkin’s intervention, the bullet would
have hit Eilish in the head.
BLACK CROWNS | 215
Polaro pulled a knife from under his coat and lunged at Natak.
The ogrun sidestepped the wild stab and retaliated with a jab to
the jaw that knocked the servant cold.
Colbie pulled a dagger of her own and moved to menace Lady
Mikita, but only as a precaution. If the Resistance leader had even
considered making an attack or a dash for freedom, no one could
have told it from her unchanged demeanor.
Using the waist-high walls of the gazebo for cover, the other
mercenaries crouched along with Gardek and Eilish. Trying to
spot the gunman who’d fired the shot, the wizard peeked out the
doorway. “Where?” he asked.
“He was looking out from behind that hedge,” Gardek replied.
“Maybe he’s still in the same place, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
Colbie had pulled Lady Mikita down with her and still had
her knife at the Resistance leader’s throat. “Your friend—Mr.
d’Anthys, is it?—just took a big chance with your life,” she said.
“He hoped he could dispose of you all quickly, before you
recovered from your surprise.”
Remembering the speed with which Canice could shoot and
reload, Eilish decided it hadn’t been all that preposterous a notion.
“Show yourself!” Colbie called. “Or Lady Mikita dies!”
Dyrmyd d’Anthys stayed hidden.
“His choice,” Natak growled. “I’ll do it.”
“No one’s going to do it,” Colbie replied. “Not yet, anyway.”
The ogrun glared. “You just saw, the bastard doesn’t believe
we’ll kill her.”
“Whatever he believes, at this moment, we gain nothing by
following through on the threat. We may gain some advantage
from having her alive.”
“Maybe if we start tossing pieces of her out of the gazebo, that
will make d’Anthys surrender.”
“Not yet,” Colbie repeated. She turned to Gardek and Eilish.
“I need you two to neutralize d’Anthys quickly and quietly while
Natak and I keep control of the prisoner. Can you?”
“As Canice warned, he’s a gun mage,” Eilish said. “The shot he
fired was silent. Still, I trust the two of us can handle him.”
Gardek hefted his repeating crossbow. “You go left, I’ll go

right.”
Keeping low, they burst out of the gazebo and dashed in their
respective directions. Eilish stopped when he came to a fountain,
a white marble maiden pouring gurgling water from an ewer into
the basin around her feet. It was cover assuming d’Anthys was
somewhere in front of him and not behind.
As he looked around trying to spot his adversary, he wondered
if he and Gardek had just done what the gun mage wanted. They
had, after all, given the enemy the opportunity to pick them
off one at a time or creep up on the gazebo and try to rescue
Lady Mikita now that she was less well guarded than before. But
this wasn’t a situation where the Irregulars could afford to play a
waiting game. They’d needed to reclaim the initiative.
He suspected the Resistance agent had a similar attitude. From
his perspective, he couldn’t afford to leave Lady Mikita in jeopardy
and the safe house compromised for long. He too felt the need to
put an end to this situation swiftly and quietly.
Quietly likely meant d’Anthys would continue relying on
silenced rune shots. That might make him more difficult to detect
but at least would deny him the use of enchanted rounds that hit
with unnatural force, set the target on fire, or what have you.
Unfortunately, gun mages sometimes mastered spells that
weren’t enchantments infused into bullets, magic more akin to
Eilish’s own, typically, charms to sharpen their reflexes and help
them hide and sneak more effectively. He and Gardek might have
to contend with those as well.
Eilish glanced back at the gazebo. So far as he could tell,
d’Anthys wasn’t creeping up on the shelter, nor, from his current
vantage point, could he see the man anywhere else. Deciding that
he wasn’t accomplishing anything lurking behind the statue, he
prowled onward.
The scent of flowers suffused the air, and the breathy, slightly
harsh song of a bullfinch sounded from the upper reaches of
an oak. Bright as the jewels that gave it its name, a ruby topaz
hummingbird flitted from flower to flower. All in all, the garden
BLACK CROWNS | 217
made a far nicer battleground than the derelict house in Elsinberg,

though that might not make coming out on the losing end any
pleasanter.
Something rustled. Eilish pivoted. A man in neat, conservative
garb had seemingly just stepped from behind a sourwood tree
with its white flowers in bloom to aim a pistol at him. Either
d’Anthys’s hair was prematurely gray or, like Canice, he’d colored
it as part of a disguise.
Eilish simultaneously sidestepped to throw off the gun mage’s
aim and focused his mind for spell casting. He expected his
adversary to pull the trigger before he could complete the necessary
cognitive manipulations, but that didn’t happen. Perhaps, when
he’d spun around, he’d startled the fellow.
Eilish thrust out his hand, and a luminous blue bolt of force
leaped from his fingers. Despite his growing exasperation with this
whole affair, he hoped it wouldn’t kill d’Anthys, but he wouldn’t
suffer excruciating pangs of guilt if it did.
From a certain perspective, the blaze of power did more than
merely kill its target. It destroyed it as thoroughly as a poke from a
solid object could pop a soap bubble. Unfortunately, as Eilish now
comprehended, that was because it had been illusory.
The real Dyrmyd d’Anthys stepped from behind the sourwood
tree. Eilish threw himself sideways onto the ground as, silently as
he’d anticipated, the magelock pistol discharged.
The round missed. D’Anthys ducked back behind the gray,
mottled trunk of the sourwood. There, he had cover from another
straightforward attack spell and no doubt intended to discharge
the second barrel of the magelock if Eilish was reckless enough to
rush him.
Eilish concentrated, and luminous blue glyphs flickered in
the air around him. Reaching with his thoughts, he grabbed hold
of a flowery branch, snapped it off near the trunk, and lashed it
like a flail into the hidden space where d’Anthys was presumably
standing. Wood cracked and rattled, and a voice called out in
surprise.
Eilish jumped up, drew his sword, and charged. When he
rounded the sourwood, d’Anthys had scratches on his face,

white petals in his hair, and the broken limb at his feet. More
importantly, the startled gun mage wasn’t pointing his pistol
straight at his oncoming foe.
Eilish beat with his sword and knocked the magelock from
its owner’s grip. D’Anthys sprang back and reached into his coat,
probably for a little holdout gun like Canice carried. Then Gardek
rushed up behind the Llaelese man, seized him, hoisted him off
the ground, and gave him a shake that might well have broken a
smaller person’s neck. D’Anthys stopped fighting.
“About time you turned up,” Eilish said. “Hold on to him
while I search him.”
As expected, he found a holdout pistol, rune shots, and
ordinary cartridges. He appropriated them and retrieved the fallen
magelock as well. Canice could make good use of it all.
When he and Gardek marched d’Anthys to the gazebo, Lady
Mikita gave her fellow Resistance agent a sour look. “That was a
foolish thing to try,” she said. “Now they have both of us.”
He scowled. “I’ve handled worse situations.”
Natak sneered. “You only thought you had.”
“All right,” Colbie said. “So far, both of you, Polaro there, and,
I imagine, your lookout on the third floor are still alive. That’s
because we’ve handled you as gently as your hostility allowed.
Why not? The Resistance is the enemy of Khador, and so, often
enough, are we. But I’m out of patience. Take us to Canice now.
Otherwise I’m going to allow the ogrun to move things forward
as he sees fit. Bear in mind, we only need one of you, and that one
only needs to be able to talk, not walk, see, or whatever.”
“Further violence won’t be necessary,” Lady Mikita said.
“Canice is in a hidden room in the cellar.”
“And how many more people do you have here who might take
it into their heads to make trouble?”
“None,” the aristocrat said. “They all have their secret duties,
but Dyrmyd, Polaro, and Boudewyn—the lookout—are the only
real fighters. No one else will get in your way, especially if they see
it would endanger my life.”
BLACK CROWNS | 219
“That had better be the truth,” Colbie said. “Let’s go.”

The prisoners led the mercenaries to Canice’s cell. It was a
small space, and Natak almost seemed to fill it when he strode
inside to cut her bonds.
The rare moments when she was helpless could bring out the
surliest part of Canice’s personality. Still, she managed a nod.
Eilish suspected it was as much of a thank you as he and her other
comrades were likely to receive.
“Where are Pog and Milo?” she asked.
“Taking care of a loose end,” Colbie said. “They’re fine.”
“What happens now?” Lady Mikita asked.
“The house always had a weapons cache,” Canice said, rising
and rubbing the raw ligature marks on her wrists. “We won’t take
it all, but I am going to need every rune shot.”
Eilish grinned and put his hand on the cloak pocket where he’d
stowed the items he’d confiscated in the garden. “Mr. d’Anthys
has already made a generous donation.”
The male gun mage scowled.
In time, Pog and Milo rejoined their partners, and at the
alchemist’s suggestion, the Irregulars ended up taking some coin
as well. They’d already spent a good deal of the expense money
Lavoro Goncal had provided, fresh funds would help get them
to Old Korska and then back to Corvis, and as far as Eilish was
concerned, the Resistance had brought any and all losses on itself.
He was a soldier claiming legitimate spoils of war and in no way
resembled a common thief.
As the mercenaries were preparing to depart, Colbie approached
d’Anthys and Lady Mikita. “Don’t bother us again. You see how
it worked out this time, and Canice told you how to recover the
list of names.”
“You have our word,” Lady Mikita said. Eilish might have found
the declaration convincing if he hadn’t known the noblewoman
was an expert deceiver. As it was, he intended to propose bypassing
Laedry when the Irregulars made their way back from the ruins.
The mercenaries headed for the door, and then Canice abruptly
turned around. “Don’t bother looking for the wine merchant on
Anthem Street,” she said. “I made her up.”

“I knew it!” d’Anthys snarled. “I was certain you wouldn’t give
up your shield!”
“I can’t give it back,” Canice said, “because it no longer exists.
I burned it the same night I stole it.”
Lady Mikita slowly smiled, and it seemed to Eilish that he
might be seeing her truly unpracticed, uncalculated smile at last.
“Because the threat of it was all that truly mattered, and even
though you were deserting, you weren’t willing to risk the names
of your friends somehow falling into Khadoran hands.”
Canice shrugged.
“Why tell us?” d’Anthys asked. “Why give up the protection?”
“Call it a peace offering,” Canice said. “Now you don’t have to
worry about it anymore.”
“In other words,” Eilish said, “there’s no longer any practical
reason to pursue Ms. Gormleigh. If you do, you’ll be acting out
of pure malice or mindless obedience to a stricture that in this
instance has no relevance to the cause for which you’re supposedly
fighting.”
“I agree,” Lady Mikita said.
D’Anthys glared. “The oaths we swear—”
“Are intended to advance the cause of liberation,” the
noblewoman said, “not commit us to endeavors that have outlived
their usefulness.” She turned to Canice. “You understand, neither
Dyrmyd nor I have the authority to lift a sentence of death imposed
in Greywind Tower and upheld by the Resistance Council.”
“Yes,” Canice said.
“But with the aid of your friends, you slipped through our
grasp, and after this unfortunate incident, we just never succeeded
in catching up with you again. Isn’t that right, Dyrmyd?”
D’Anthys sighed. “Write the report as you think best. I won’t
contradict it.”
Canice inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“I like this parting better than our last one.” Lady Mikita took
Canice’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You should take your leave
before one of us does something to make it awkward.”
BLACK CROWNS | 221
Back out on the street, Colbie asked, “Can we trust them?”

“Probably,” Canice replied.
Milo snorted. “Probably gets you killed. Let’s eat something,
buy horses, and ride out.”
Eilish grinned. “By and large, living human beings shun
Cryxians. They’d be touched to know you’re heading into their
orbit with such enthusiasm.”
— 15 —
GARDEK WASN’T FANCIFUL BY NATURE, but it nonetheless seemed to

him that once a northbound traveler trekked beyond the ring of
farms that kept Laedry fed, he in effect stepped back in time to
an era before gaslight and steam power, maybe even a primordial
epoch before Menoth taught mortals to build or plant.
For a moment, the bounty hunter smiled. As a trollkin, he
was supposed to feel at home in wild country like these foothills
with their dark woods and heaths, and he did in the sense that
he knew quite well how to survive. Yet there was no denying
that, everything else being equal, he would have been more at
ease prowling down a twisty alley, beside a filthy canal, or even
through a lightless tunnel in Corvis’s Undercity. Apparently urban
life suited him.
Or maybe he was at the fringe of a sinister pall like the one that
had shrouded the ruinous house in Elsinberg, and it was wearing
at his nerves. As far as he was concerned, the persistent cloud cover
that dimmed the afternoon to twilight suggested such a possibility
even though Eilish deemed it unlikely that anything the Cryxians

were doing could affect conditions in the sky.
A patch of soft earth bore sign. Gardek swung himself down
from the saddle and, not trusting his gray horse to stay put of its
own volition, handed the reins to Milo. The unfortunate truth
was that no equine liked trollkin. Under normal circumstances,
when his kind rode anything, they rode bison, but it had proved
impossible to purchase such a mount in a city populated almost
exclusively by humans.
Through dogged insistence, he’d mostly convinced the gray
to tolerate and obey him on the ride north. Still, the animal’s
attitude was grudging and surly to say the least.
His gasmask hanging around his neck and the tail of his black
leathery cloak draped over his roan steed’s croup, Milo accepted
the reins and continued to scan the hills before them for signs of
danger. So did the other Irregulars.
As Gardek bent down, the stink of decay wafted up to meet
him. It was the stink of old decay, the smell that lingered when any
parts of a body that were going to melt into muck and slime had
done so long ago and any remaining soft bits hardened and dried.
He scowled in loathing and anger.
The marks were hoof prints, but of an unusual sort. In many
cases, the horseshoes had been loose, damaged, or missing entirely.
Pieces of some of the unshod hooves had broken off as well.
“Do undead Cryxians ride undead horses?” he asked.
“Not that I ever heard,” Eilish replied, “but if you think they
are, I trust your expertise.”
“We must be getting close,” Colbie said. “From this point
forward—”
“Look!” said Pog.
Near the top of one of the hills ahead, a man was alternately
pointing and waving his arms. Plainly, from his vantage point on
higher ground, he’d spotted something the Irregulars couldn’t yet
see and was trying to warn them.
Gardek looked around for cover. His companions were doing
the same. Colbie said, “There!” and urged her dappled mare
BLACK CROWNS | 225
toward a stand of hornbeams. Up on the hillside, apparently

satisfied that the riders had heeded his warning, their well-wisher
turned and disappeared into the brush.
A moment after the other mercenaries followed Colbie into
the trees, a line of riders rode out of a low place in the bumpy
terrain before them. Sharp-eyed though he was, Gardek had
trouble making out the details of their appearance at a distance,
but their steeds carried them with the lurching, uneven motion he
associated with the risen.
But in this case, lurching and uneven didn’t equate to slow. The
riders were moving reasonably fast and straight toward the spot
where the man on the hillside had disappeared. Ironically, they
must have missed seeing the mercenaries but caught a glimpse of
him.
“Well,” Natak growled, perched atop the other horse as big as
Gardek’s, “good luck to him.”
“He risked his life to warn us,” Colbie said. “We can’t just leave
him to his fate.”
“If he’s good at hiding…” Milo began, then appeared to realize
it would do no good to continue in the same vein. “Oh, all right.
Maybe he knows something that will help us.”
The Irregulars galloped out of the stand of hornbeams. Natak
bellowed a war cry in Molgur-Og, the ogrun language. Eilish
shouted, “Over here!” and Canice fired a shot. There was still
enough distance separating her from the enemy that even she had
no hope of scoring a hit, but, like her comrades, she was trying to
divert the other band of riders from their present course.
It worked. The enemy turned their hobbling, stumbling
mounts in the Irregulars’ direction. One of the Cryxians called
an order to the others, and then they cantered down the hillside.
Gardek’s horse whinnied and reared, nearly throwing him.
Milo’s steed tried to turn and flee. The Irregulars’ mounts weren’t
trained for war, and maybe they perceived the approach of
something unnatural.
“Fight on foot!” Colbie called. “Pog and I will hold the horses!”
Someone had to, and her slug gun was of limited use against cavalry.
Gardek gratefully reined in the gray, dismounted, and gave the

animal into Colbie’s keeping. By the time he managed that, the
Cryxians, galloping now, or as close to a gallop as their mounts
could achieve, were only a few yards and few moments away.
Their steeds were the withered, half skeletal husks he’d
imagined, somehow perceiving even though their eyes were
missing from their gaping sockets. Time had ravaged the lancers
and swordsmen astride the undead animals just as thoroughly, but
the manner in which they handled their weapons bespoke facility.
Considerable facility, in fact. On the Longest Night years ago,
a young witch called Alexia had fielded a fair number of thralls
more dangerous than common undead to attack Corvis. Gardek
knew because he’d fought his share of them. His immediate
impression was that the riders before him were more dangerous
still, more dangerous even than the mechanithralls and banes he
and his partners had battled to get this far, even if it beggared
belief that their bony, rickety forms weren’t disintegrating before
his eyes.
Milo threw a grenade. Two of the onrushing foes went down in
a flash of fire, but only two. They’d spaced themselves out to keep
such attacks from blasting too many of them at once.
Luminous glyphs flickering in the air around him, Eilish hurled
fire of his own. It caught an undead horse in its chest that was half
shriveled, leathery flesh, half exposed ribs, and the unnatural beast
fell. The skull-faced rider, however, flung itself from the saddle,
landed on its feet, and kept coming. He swung his broadsword,
and Eilish parried.
After that, Gardek could no longer look to see how his partners
were faring. He had to focus on the undead that were charging
him.
He sidestepped to defend against the first. The lancer attempting
to spear him shifted its aim, but the weapon skipped off his shield.
As the undead mount came even with him, he swung his war
hammer and smashed a bony front leg out from underneath it. It
pitched forward, and the lancer tumbled over its head.
There was another foe closing fast. Gardek hoped that rider’s
BLACK CROWNS | 227
steed would fall over the crippled one, but instead the swordsman
managed to turn it and still cut at the bounty hunter’s head.
Gardek blocked with the shield and struck back at the rider’s
torso. The blow flung the thing from the saddle.
The undead horse reared and hammered with its front hooves.
The blows clattered on Gardek’s shield. Shriveled, leathery flesh
snagged on one of the spikes on the armor, and a leg tore off at
the knee.
Gardek shifted out from under the remaining hoof and smashed
the creature’s skull. It toppled, but even as it did, a different steed’s
bony jaws snapped at him, and only ducking kept square brown
teeth from biting away half his face. The mount he’d knocked down
previously was back up and hobbling on three legs to attack him.
He slammed the spikes on his shield into its fleshless face, and,
while the armor was blocking its view, struck its remaining foreleg
out from underneath it. When it dropped, he crushed its head.
By then, the undead warrior that had ridden the unnatural
beast was advancing on Gardek with broadsword and shield. The
thing feinted to his head and made its true attack to his flank.
Gardek blocked and riposted with a powerful blow intended to
drive right through any attempt at shielding or parrying. The
undead hopped back out of range.
They traded attacks through several more exchanges, neither
scoring. Gardek was stronger and had a longer reach, but the
undead swordsman was cunning and more nimble than any
figure held together by cracked, desiccated strips of muscle and
ligaments had a right to be.
Finally, it cut to his chest, and Gardek charged at the same
instant. Moving into an attack was always a risk, but the undead’s
blade clashed harmlessly on his shield, and then he bulled into it
and knocked it down. Three hammer strokes ensured it wouldn’t
get up again.
At once, he pivoted. He half expected that the other rider he’d
unseated would be coming at him, too, but, its limbs flopping, it
still lay where it had fallen, seemingly unable to rise. Perhaps the
blow he’d given it had broken his spine.
He continued looking around. For a moment, it appeared to

him that his partners were well on their way to destroying the rest
of the undead, and then he spotted one of the creatures galloping
away.
Gardek was scarcely the ideal choice to stop it. He wasn’t an
expert rider, certainly not an expert mounted combatant, and his
horse hated him. But at this moment, there was no one else. He
ran to Colbie, retrieved the gray, swung himself into the saddle,
and tried to give chase. Whereupon the gray refused to advance.
Back in Laedry, Gardek hadn’t found spurs to fit his heavy
boots and the trollkin legs inside. Up until now, he’d somehow
managed without, but to pursue the foe, he plainly needed
something comparable. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and
awkwardly pricked the gray’s flanks with the spikes projecting
from the toes of his boots, goading the animal into motion at the
cost of his stability.
The moments that followed struck him as a grim parody of
a normal mounted pursuit. Though the undead steed was faster
than it should have been, its lurching asymmetrical gait didn’t
allow it to run as fast as an ordinary horse. But Gardek’s steed still
didn’t want to go near it. The gray kept trying to veer off or slow to
a walk, and, driving the spikes into the animal’s flanks and jerking
on the reins, he kept insisting it do as commanded.
Finally the gray must have decided that coming near to an
undead horror was preferable to the punishment. The horse
surged forward, and Gardek nearly lost his seat. Bouncing and
swaying, he groped for the stirrups and managed to find the one
for his right foot. Now that he was finally catching up with the
undead, that would have to do.
The reins and his shield in one hand, he grabbed the repeating
crossbow with the other and shot three times. All the quarrels
hurtled past their target.
Gardek hung the crossbow from his saddle horn and gripped
his war hammer anew. The undead rider glanced over its shoulder
and then, evidently realizing it wasn’t going to outdistance its
pursuer, wheeled to face him.
BLACK CROWNS | 229
The gray tried one more time to balk, and, now glad he hadn’t
succeeded in slipping his left foot back in the stirrup, Gardek gave
the animal a final jab. Then he and his adversary plunged into
striking distance.
Gardek swung at the undead rider. His foe caught the blow
on his shield, stayed in the saddle, and cut into the neck of the
trollkin’s steed. The gray fell.
Gardek tried to jump clear, but now he had trouble getting
his right foot out of the stirrup. The gray fell on its left side with
him still in the saddle. Blood gushing from the wound in its neck,
thrashing in its death agonies, it ground his left leg beneath its
bulk.
He kicked, and his right foot finally came free. The painful
pressure on his trapped leg made him fear broken bones, but he
had to drag himself clear and try to stand. The undead rider was
slowing and turning for another pass at him. Eilish had mounted
up and was racing in his direction but was still too distant to help
him.
Gardek swung the war hammer, hit the gray in the head, and
ended its suffering and, more to the point, its writhing. After that,
he set about dragging himself out from under the carcass. Sticking
in the ground, the spikes on his armor slowed his torturous
progress.
Finally his leg came free. Out of time to treat his leg gingerly,
he heaved himself to his feet. The limb throbbed but supported
him. Apparently, though it would likely be bruised from toes to
hip, it wasn’t broken.
The undead rider cut at him, and he caught the sword stroke
on his shield. He swung his hammer and knocked the creature
over its horse’s hindquarters, and then lunged, smashed its skull
while it was trying to stand up.
That left the lurching, desiccated steed. They both turned to
face one another at the same time, and then a bolt of blue light
struck it in the chest. It tottered, and Gardek sprang and served it
as he’d served its master.
The first blow dropped it to the ground, but he bashed it
twice more to be sure it was finished. A fighter could never be too

careful with the undead, and besides, Gardek liked hitting them.
Behind him, sounding a little out of breath, Eilish said, “We
paid good money for that horse.”
“We were cheated,” Gardek replied. “The nag was useless.”
Then he felt a bit ashamed of speaking ill of a steed that had died
in his service, no matter how ill-tempered and recalcitrant that
service had been.
“You may not think so when you tire of hiking,” the blond
man said. “Come on, let’s rejoin the others.”
•••
COLBIE WAS GLAD TO SEE EILISH AND GARDEK returning unharmed.

The trollkin was limping, and the loss of his mount was potentially
a problem, but the situation could have been much worse.
Someone could be crippled or dead, or the undead rider who’d
fled the fight could have gotten away.
She gave the bounty hunter a nod and then addressed herself
to all the Irregulars. “All right? What have we learned from what
just happened?”
“That we risk our lives for no reason,” Natak said. Using a
handful of leaves, he was wiping scraps of dry flesh from his battle
axe and, if a person was accustomed to the surliness he customarily
showed to the world at large, didn’t really seem upset that he’d just
been obliged to chop a foe or two to pieces.
“These were a damn cunning kind of undead,” Gardek said.
“The leader spoke to the others, they handled their weapons well,
and when the fight went against them, one had the sense to run.”
“So it could tell others about us.” Pog hesitated. “Is that right?”
“Probably,” Colbie said. “Morthis wants to keep non-Cryxians
away from whatever he’s doing in Old Korska, so he sent out at
least one patrol to attend to the task. There may be more, as well
as pickets and the like.”
Milo made a spitting noise. “Well, isn’t that wonderful.”
“It’s less than ideal,” Eilish said, “especially when one considers
the other fact we’ve just uncovered.”
BLACK CROWNS | 231
“Which is?” Gardek said, an edge of impatience in his voice.

Apparently he wasn’t inclined to listen to the arcanist discourse in
his usual smug, I’m-cleverer-than-you-are style.
“The trappings of the riders and their steeds are rather
thoroughly deteriorated,” the arcanist said, “a detail that’s
suggestive in and of itself. Still, here and there, one can make out
a partial faded coat-of-arms or the way in which a bit of armor was
articulated. From that—”
“The creatures are the remains of horselords—and their
steeds—who fought the Orgoth,” Canice said.
It was Eilish’s turn to look annoyed. “Yes. How did you know?”
The gun mage snorted. “I haven’t read all the books you have,
but I grew up in Llael. I’ve seen old statues and the like. I also
understand why this is worth talking about. We were hoping
Morthis had only managed to bring up a small group of Cryxians
from the Thornwood or wherever. But if he’s reanimating some of
the dead buried in Old Korska, there will be a larger force for us to
contend with. How large, there’s no way of knowing yet.”
“As Milo pointed out,” Colbie said, “it’s possible the fellow
who warned us about the patrol can provide some intelligence.
Let’s go see if we can find him.”
The Irregulars set out for the hillside where they’d seen their
would-be benefactor disappear. Milo extracted a vial of something
from one of the pockets in his cloak and leaned down from the
saddle to offer it to Gardek. The trollkin shook his head and waved
the concoction, likely a painkiller, away. Probably he didn’t wish
to appear weak and trusted the rapid healing of his kind to mend
his hurt as soon as he’d had a meal and some rest.
Larches, thorny hawthorns, and brush clothed the hill. When
the mercenaries reached the approximate spot where the object of
their search had vanished, there was no sign of him.
“Hello?” Colbie called. “We don’t mean you any harm. You
risked your life to help us, and we just want to thank you.”
A black redstart sounded its high, staccato chirp on a branch
overhead. Other than that, no one and nothing answered.
“Maybe you want to thank us,” Milo said. “After all, the way
things worked out, we saved you.” Eilish gave him a look that
conveyed his doubt that the observation would prove helpful.
“Well, it’s true.”
“We could use some more help,” Colbie said, “and we’ll pay
for it.” She held up a gold Cygnaran crown to gleam in the wan
light filtering through the branches. It ought to seem a fortune to
anyone living hereabouts.
The man still didn’t answer. She wondered if he was long gone
and she was talking to the insects, birds, and trees.
Natak turned to Gardek. “Can you track him?”
The horseshoe-shaped frown that was the trollkin’s habitual
expression lengthened into something genuinely reflective of
emotion. “Possibly. But it seems a poor sort of thanks to stalk him
if he doesn’t want to talk to us.”
“I agree.” Colbie threw Gardek the coin. “Set it on the ground.”
She might have looked disdainful, like some haughty aristocrat
flinging money at a beggar’s feet, if she’d simply tossed it down
from horseback. She raised her voice once more: “That’s yours,
regardless. A token of gratitude and friendship. Come get it after
we’re gone.” She tugged on the reins to turn her horse.
“I didn’t need help!” rasped a tenor voice. “These are my woods,
and nothing can find me if I don’t want to be found. You were
stupid to show yourselves and fight.”
Milo peered in the direction from which the sound was
coming. “That’s what I tried to tell them.”
“Now that we’re talking,” Colbie said, “will you show yourself?
We have brandy.”
“I don’t need it. I make moonshine.” Nonetheless, the woods
runner emerged from a thicket. He was scarred, scrawny, and
filthy, his long, matted hair and beard shot through with white.
His garments were either holey and ragged or inexpertly cut and
stitched from hide. Colbie’s immediate impression was of a hermit
who was eccentric, misanthropic, and perhaps a little mad.
The hill man looked over the mercenaries and smiled crookedly.
Maybe their diverse company looked as peculiar to him as he did
to her.
BLACK CROWNS | 233
Eilish inclined his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The hermit spat. “The gobber can bring me the coin.”
Pog climbed down from his pony and did as requested.
The woods runner bit the crown with the stained teeth that
remained to him. The majority were on the right-hand side of his
mouth. He grunted and stuffed the money in his pocket. “Now
you can fetch me that brandy.”
Pog peered up at him quizzically. “I thought you said—”
“I said I didn’t need it, not that I wouldn’t drink it.”
Once the hermit gulped a couple swallows, he surprised Colbie
by handing the flask back to Pog and saying, “Take a snort and
pass it around.” She took it as an encouraging sign that he might
not be as averse to the Irregulars’ presence as he’d initially seemed.
She introduced herself and her companions.
“I’m Gum,” said the hill man, not bothering with his surname.
“Do you live up here?” Colbie asked.
“Now.” The hermit hesitated as if pondering whether he cared
to say anymore. “I never got along with people. Still, I joined
the army when the Khadorans invaded. After our side lost, and
everybody just accepted it…” He waved his hand in a gesture that
conveyed capitulation had validated his low opinion of his fellow
man.
“Not everyone gave up the fight,” Canice said. Then she made
a wry face as though remembering that, in fact, she ultimately had.
“Well, good luck to them,” said Gum. “They’ll need it. I’d had
enough. I decided to live out the rest of my days where people
couldn’t pester me anymore.”
Eilish took a sip from the flask and handed it down to Pog,
who was still serving as cupbearer. “Only,” the blond man said, “to
find yourself dodging creatures even more obnoxious than your
fellow man.”
The hermit nodded. “Some of the horselords who died in these
hills woke up and were riding around to the north. At first, it was
just one band of them, or at least I thought so, and if I stayed
around here, I wouldn’t run into them. Now it seems like there’s
more than one group, and they’re ranging farther south.”
“We’re on the trail of some Cryxians,” Colbie said. “There’s

at least one necromancer and his associates. They appear to be
waking some of the dead buried in the ruins of Old Korska to keep
people away from the place while they accomplish some major
enterprise, something that will have disastrous consequences for
Llael. We want to stop them, but it would help us if we could slip
past their guards and patrols and approach the ruins undetected.
You know this country, Mr. Gum. Will you help us?”
“It’s just Gum,” the woods runner said, “and no, I won’t.”
“We’ll pay,” Milo said.
Gum shrugged. “There isn’t much I can’t catch or make for
myself. The gold you already gave me and the furs from my trap
lines will get me everything I need at the trading post come
autumn.”
“More is always better,” the alchemist said.
“Not if you’re too dead to spend it.”
“You’ll be helping to save your fellow Llaelese from a calamity,”
Eilish said.
Gum spat. “I already told you, I don’t like my ‘fellow Llaelese’
and they don’t like me.”
Canice swung herself down from her horse. Gum took a wary
step backward. The gun mage raised her empty hands to reassure
him that she meant no harm. Colbie assumed that her partner
actually wanted to put herself and the hermit at eye level. She took
off her broad-brimmed hat, too, perhaps so it wouldn’t shadow
her face. A hint of copper gleamed in her tousled curls where the
black dye no longer covered it.
“You and I are the same,” Canice said. “We scorn most people
for the fools and weaklings they are. We bristle when someone
tries to tell us our duty or what a good person is supposed to feel.”
Gum’s eyes narrowed. “That’s about right.”
“But you are a good man after your own fashion,” Canice
continued. “Misfit or not, you fought for your country until you
decided the effort was futile. You revealed yourself to the undead
to warn a band of strangers when you could have stayed hidden
and left us to our fate. And it would trouble your conscience to
BLACK CROWNS | 235
know the Cryxians had unleashed horror on Llael when you could
have prevented it.”
The hermit grunted. “What ‘horror?’ What exactly are they
doing?”
“We won’t know until we see with our own eyes,” Eilish said,
“but we have reason to fear the worst.”
“It’s a long, crooked road that brought us this far,” Colbie
said, “but we’ll gladly tell you the story if you’ll consent to be our
guide.”
Gum scratched the chin beneath his whiskers. “Five of those
gold coins to take you to a place where you can look down on the
ruins and scout what’s going on. I’m not going to fight any dead
horselords.” He snorted. “Wouldn’t be much use to you if I tried.”
“Done,” Canice said. She held out her hand, and Gum shook
it.
When the gun mage was astride her horse again, Natak guided
his own steed up beside hers. They were close enough to whisper
without the hermit overhearing, but Colbie, who was just to the
other side of the gun mage, caught the exchange.
“I take it from all that,” Natak said, a rare note of humor in
his tone, “that you too have the shriveled remains of a conscience
tucked away somewhere.”
Canice glowered. “I blathered what I needed to blather to
persuade him.”
•••
IT WAS DARK IN THE RUINS OF OLD KORSKA. The persistent overcast

was at its thickest overhead, casting shattered walls and fallen
towers into shadow. Still, Pog could make out enough to appall
him. We’re too late, he thought. We tried so hard, risked our lives
again and again, and still didn’t get here fast enough to stop it.
Gum had proved as able a guide as they’d hoped. Directing them
to leave their mounts behind, he’d led them along trails so rough
and rudimentary they sometimes seemed to vanish altogether amid
thickets and brambles. To say the least, his secret ways made for
hard traveling, but the Cryxians were evidently unaware of the
paths and had made no efforts to guard them. At the end of the
trek, the mercenaries emerged on a shelf atop a hill that looked
virtually unclimbable from any direction. Canice said that as they
long as they kept low, the Cryxians were unlikely to spot them.
Sadly, that was the only thing that was as it should be. Scores,
maybe hundreds of undead horselords were riding among the ruins.
A sickly greenish glow hovered over an open pit, and periodically,
more reanimated corpses clambered out of it. Southeast of that
hole, a winding, intermittent ridge like a mole run suggested
something big, possibly a steamjack, was burrowing in search
of a second mass grave. Breaks in its path showed where it had
surfaced periodically, perhaps to take on more coal and water or
receive new instructions from its controller.
Discernible—sickening—even from a distance, the stench of
death and corruption shrouded the scene.
“All right,” Colbie said. She didn’t sound filled with despair like
what Pog was feeling, but her tone was as grim as he’d ever heard
it. “Let’s assess. Milo, you keep watching. Everybody else, pull
back far enough from the edge that there’s no chance whatsoever
of the Cryxians seeing us.”
Given the slope that led up to the shelf and the thick trees and
brush growing all around, people only had to take a few steps to
do that. Milo would still be able to take part in the discussion.
As everyone found a place to sit on the ground or lean against
a tree trunk, Gardek rumbled, “I’m guessing from the fact that
there are so many undead running around that Morthis already
found the Black Ring’s crowns and that the point of finding them
was to raise all the horselords he can dig up to make himself a
whole undead army. Is that how you see it, schoolboy?”
“Sadly, yes,” Eilish replied.
“If he already knew which ruin was the Keep of the Dawn,”
Natak said, “that would have put him ahead of the game, and if
he’ got a mining ´jack, that could have helped, too.”
Gardek grunted. “At this point, it doesn’t matter how he found
the crowns. What I want to know is, are all the new undead fast
and cunning like the ones in the patrol?”
BLACK CROWNS | 237
“I suspect so,” Eilish said.

“Why?” Gardek demanded, almost as if his friend were to
blame. “Doesn’t it take more work and more time to create an
undead like that?”
“Ordinarily, yes,” the wizard said, “but I believe this particular
graveyard has properties Mr. Morthis and company can turn to
their advantage.”
“Meaning?” the trollkin said.
“Well,” Eilish said, “you understand, I’m not a necromancer,
and at this point I can only theorize.” He hadn’t entirely shaken
off the dismay that had seized them all upon gazing down at Old
Korska, but he was nonetheless taking pleasure in showing off his
knowledge and intellect. “But on certain battlefields where the
Orgoth were victorious, they caught and imprisoned the spirits of
the slain to power dark magic later on. Let’s hypothesize that this
was such a site, but the souls were never used.”
“Now Morthis is calling forth the souls along with the bodies,”
Colbie said, “and when you fuse a walking corpse with its ghost,
you get a faster, more intelligent creature.”
Eilish inclined his head. “So I conjecture. The problem then
becomes one of control. Still possessing some twisted remnants
of its memories and loyalties, the newly created creature is apt to
prove resistant if just any old necromancer tries to order it around.
But if said necromancer is in possession of the very enchanted
regalia to which the undead swore allegiance in life…”
“The crowns of the Black Ring,” said Pog.
“Yes,” Eilish said, “their arcane properties possibly now altered
via a blood ritual, which is to say, I doubt Levanid Gubin and any
other abductees are still alive. The power of the tainted crowns
likely enables our necromancers to reanimate horselords more
rapidly and to impress them into their service as they rise.”
Colbie removed her tinted goggles and scratched below her
eye. “This is bad.”
“Yes,” Eilish said, “it is, and we may not have seen just how
bad even now. Consider that in the age of the Black Ring,
every Umbrean was a subject of those who wore the crowns.
In principle, Morthis should be able to call them all out of the

ground. Most will be soulless and mindless, the lowly sort of risen,
but a conquering army can still employ them to good effect.”
“‘Conquering?’” Canice asked. “Not just slaughtering or
ravaging, ‘conquering?’”
“I don’t see why not,” Eilish said. “We could be looking at
the establishment of a true Cryxian colony on the mainland, a
festering cancer of a place inimical to normal human life, perhaps
with Morthis raised up into one of the lich lords we’ve heard tell
of to rule on the Dragonfather’s behalf.”
Natak grunted. “I expect the Khadoran Army would have
something to say about that.”
“Perhaps,” Eilish said. “Remember, there are already Cryxians
in Llael that the Khadorans haven’t yet managed to drive out.
Morthis’s troops will come out of nowhere, strike by surprise, and
receive constant reinforcements as additional undead rise to fill
the ranks. Defeating them will require a long, hard campaign if it
can be done at all.”
“It all sounds pretty bad,” Milo said from the ledge. “Good
thing we don’t live here. Gum, you did a good job playing guide.
Want to come back to Corvis with us?”
“Hold on,” Colbie said. “We haven’t decided we’re running
away.”
“Maybe not officially,” the alchemist said, “but everything
we’ve seen and everything Eilish has told us makes it seem like a
really good idea. If it will make the rest of you feel better, we can
post letters to the Khadorans and Canice’s Resistance friends and
warn them what’s coming.”
Colbie turned to Eilish. “Is there any way to put a stop to what
Morthis is doing?”
“I surmise,” the arcanist said, “that seizing or destroying the
crowns wouldn’t absolutely prevent him from reanimating and
binding additional undead. But it would turn it into a far slower
and more laborious process. It would stop him or any of his
associates short of amassing a genuine army.”
“Well,” Milo said, “that’s all different, then. We just fight our
BLACK CROWNS | 239
way through a horde of undead horselords and whatever else is

down there and grab the prize. We should be done by supper.”
Colbie snorted. “You know a frontal assault is not the way we’d
go about it. Still, you’re right that the attempt would be at least as
dangerous as anything we’ve ever done. So what are the arguments
for and against?”
“For those in favor,” Canice said, “start with the reasons that
brought us to Llael in the first place. Succeed, and we recover the
old books, collect our fee from the Order of the Golden Crucible,
potentially earn more coin still from the sale of the crowns, and
burnish the Black River Irregulars’ reputation.”
“All that would be nice,” Milo replied, “but there’ll be other
jobs if we don’t commit suicide on this one. We should remember
that these days, Umbrey’s part of Khador, and whatever weakens
Khador is good for Cygnar.”
Gardek laughed. “I didn’t expect you to appeal to patriotism.”
Milo hesitated as though deciding whether to take offense,
then continued. “Well, I know it means something to some of
you.”
“It does indeed,” Eilish said, “but even if Cygnar doesn’t
share a border with it, a Cryxian colony in the heart of the Iron
Kingdoms will soon pose a threat to us. It will pose a threat to
every human, trollkin, ogrun, or bogger alive.”
“Maybe so,” Gardek said. “At any rate, I know one thing. I
don’t want to see the Longest Night happen again, only bigger. I
say, stop it and get revenge on Morthis and his friends while we’re
at it.”
Natak leered. “I like the revenge part. We’re nobody’s pawns.”
Pog cleared his throat. “I like the idea of stopping something
bad that maybe is partly our fault even though we were pawns.”
“And so appeasing Menoth?” Eilish asked, amusement in his
voice.
Pog’s cheeks grew warm. “Well, you can’t prove we wouldn’t
be.”
Canice scowled. “Here’s how I see it. Over the course of this
job, the Northern Crusade, the Khadorans, and the Resistance
have all tried to kill us. Rot them all. But some of the ordinary
people we’ve met—the stable master in Leryn, Bastlan and Flynn,
Gum here—have been all right. I’d just as soon the Cryxians
didn’t overrun their homeland.”
Eilish grinned. “You’re turning all sweet and sentimental.”
The gun mage replied with an obscenity vile enough to make
Pog wince.
“All right,” Milo sighed, “I see how it is. You all want to push
our luck as usual. What’s the plan, then?”
“We’ll put one together,” Colbie said, “I hope, with Gum’s
help.” She turned to the hermit. “You’ve already fulfilled your part
of our bargain, and I won’t blame you if you take your leave. But
if you’re willing, we could still use your knowledge of the hidden
trails and pathways hereabouts.”
Gum spat. “‘Ordinary people’ aren’t worth a cup of piss. But
I’m never going to get these hills back until the dead horselords
and such are gone, am I? So how much more gold are you offering?”
— 16 —
COLBIE PEERED OUT OF THE THICKET at the bottom of the hill. She
didn’t see any undead horselords or other enemies close at hand.
Keeping low, she ran on toward one of the holes that, she and Pog
believed, opened into a burrow excavated by some sort of mining
´jack. The other Irregulars followed. Gum presumably remained
hidden at the foot of the steep trail that led down from the shelf,
although when Colbie glanced back after just a few strides, she
could see no sign of him or the path, either. Brush shrouded it all
the way up to the shelf.
The entire tunnel angled up to the hole in the surface and then
down again. Thus, she and the Irregulars didn’t have to jump down
or secure a rope. They shouldn’t have any trouble clambering out
again, either.
Once Colbie was belowground, the omnipresent stink of old
decay gave way to the smells of coal smoke, oil, and hot metal
characteristic of steam-powered mechanika. For a moment,
she wished Doorstop were with her now and hoped he still lay
undiscovered in his thicket. Then she thrust such thoughts aside

to focus on the business at hand.
In theory—to borrow one of Eilish’s pet phrases—the
activity in an encampment of tireless undead might never
vary. In reality, after observing for a time, the mercenaries had
discovered it did. Maybe that was because Morthis and at least
some of his confederates required rest, or perhaps because they
could only oversee one aspect of the operation at a time. At any
rate, sometimes the green light over the open mass grave burned
relatively brightly, and sometimes it dimmed to a barely perceptible
haze of phosphorescence. Sometimes the undead horselords rode
seemingly aimlessly and unpredictably around the ruined city,
and sometimes they massed in an open area for cavalry exercises.
The Black River Irregulars had descended into Old Korska
at a moment when, with a modicum of luck, they could avoid
encountering any of the enemy aboveground. The plan was to get
into the burrow, come up on the mining ´jack from behind so it
couldn’t defend itself, wreck it, and escape without anyone being
the wiser. Then, when Morthis and his fellows discovered the loss,
consternation would ensue, and a rattled foe would make poor
decisions thereafter.
Eilish conjured a silver-blue glow that flowed with the
mercenaries as they crept along. After a while, the tunnel with
its broken roots poking out of the ceiling like mangled, groping
fingers stopped winding through earth and broke through a
flat, vertical barrier of brick. The space beyond wasn’t a tunnel.
Squinting, Colbie made out a sooty blackening around the ragged
perimeter of the breach that suggested it had been blasted and not
merely dug open. She likewise discerned the suggestion of further
walls defining regular spaces.
She cursed under her breath. Neither she nor any of her
comrades had anticipated the ´jack making its way into any sort
of cellar or vault, although the possibility seemed obvious in
retrospect.
She stopped to consider, and Canice made her way to the head
of the procession to stand with her and Eilish. “If the ´jack has
BLACK CROWNS | 243
room to turn around,” the gun mage whispered, “we won’t be able
to just rip it apart from behind.”
“It may have gone through this space and right on out the
other side,” Eilish replied, keeping his voice just as low. “But I
agree we shouldn’t count on that.”
“However we find it,” Colbie said, “the plan is still to put it out
of commission. So we keep moving. But carefully.”
As she stepped through the hole, she discovered that only the
outer layer of the wall, the one no one was supposed to see, was
brick. The inner layer was the marble of a tomb. In the course
of traversing it, the ´jack had stamped through a shattered stone
sarcophagus and the husk inside and knocked down the wrought-
iron gate on the other side. Beyond that were other crypts, some
of the gated niches containing a single sarcophagus, others two
or three.
It looked as though, once inside, the burrowing ´jack had
negotiated the corridors that ran between lines of crypts instead
of blasting or smashing straight through any more of them.
That, however, didn’t spare the architecture in its entirety. The
automaton was too big for that and had scraped walls and the
frescoes that adorned them as it passed.
She didn’t hear it chugging and thudding around now. But
something was clinking and scraping in a quieter way than the
noise a mining ´jack would make.
She turned, pressed her finger to her lips, and then crept
onward with her comrades stalking along behind. After a time,
the noise grew loud enough to make it plain it was coming from
around the next corner.
Colbie peeked out into a larger crypt than any she’d seen
hitherto, where dozens of sarcophagi lay in rows on the floor. Less
ornately carved than their counterparts in the private crypts, the
stone coffins all looked alike. As if to make up for the simplicity,
the statue of a horselord astride his mount stood in the middle of
the vault.
Men labored to remove the heavy sarcophagus lids, or at least
they appeared to be men at first glance. But each wore a bulbous
helmet that didn’t have any eyeholes. As far as Colbie could tell,
they’d been working in total darkness before Eilish’s conjured
illumination shined around the corner, and they hadn’t reacted
to its coming.
Once she noticed that, she also realized they weren’t attacking
the sarcophagi with tools. Rather, their arms terminated in blades
of varying shapes.
The laborers toiled without speaking, and she might have
taken them for some manner of undead if the rise and fall of their
chests hadn’t demonstrated they were breathing.
Ducking back around the corner, she turned to Eilish in the
hope that he could elucidate. He whispered back, “Drudges, I
infer. I’ve never actually seen one before.” She’d simply heard
rumors of the cephalyx, inscrutable surgeons with the requisite
knowledge and utter lack of humanity to operate on a prisoner’s
brain and strip away every trace of identity and free will to turn
him into a perfect slave.
Apparently, now that the burrowing ´jack had stumbled across
the crypts, their master, whoever or whatever he might be, had
ordered them to open the sarcophagi so Morthis could reanimate
the corpses within. For now, he was concentrating on the mass
grave, but he’d get around to the tombs in due course.
“What do we do?’ Canice asked. “Kill the drudges? Sneak
around them?”
“Unless they have orders to attack strangers,” Eilish said, “they
might not pay any attention to us.”
“Maybe not,” Colbie said, “but I’d rather not leave them alive
behind us.”
“There’s that,” the arcanist said, “and it actually seems merciful
to put an end to their degradation.”
“That’s the plan, then.” Colbie turned to whisper to the
company as a whole. “There are creatures called drudges in the
next chamber. Kill them quickly and quietly. On three.”
She gave the count with the fingers of her upraised hand, and
then the Irregulars burst into the chamber with the statue. There
was something comical, or perhaps dreamlike, about their sudden,
BLACK CROWNS | 245
aggressive entry because, as Eilish had foreseen, the drudges didn’t

react to it. They simply continued toiling at their task.
Thus, what followed wasn’t combat, merely butchery. Though
Eilish had declared it merciful, he nonetheless wore a grimace of
distaste as he stabbed with his sword. Wrenching a helmet and,
presumably, the head inside in a half circle, even Natak looked
disgusted, and though he’d unsheathed his trench knife, Pog just
couldn’t bring himself it to stick it in a person, or the remains of
a person, if the victim wasn’t even going to resist. He gave Colbie
an apologetic look, and she waved her hand to tell him he was
excused.
Then a cry throbbed through the air, except that it made no
actual sound. If asked to describe it, Colbie would have called
it the idea of a cry. It was no less jarring for that. It jolted her
as if she’d been standing next to the detonation of some massive
artillery piece and neglected to cover her ears.
The surviving drudges whirled to face the attackers who’d slain
their fellows. The blades at the ends of their arms slashed at the
Irregulars. Likely startled by the silent howl, Gardek was slow
to defend, and one such blow rang against his breastplate and
knocked him staggering.
Meanwhile, a hulking, hunchbacked form emerged from a
shadowy archway on the far side of the chamber. Its steel forelimbs
were prodigious, and, clanking on the floor as it advanced on all
fours, made it look vaguely like a man swinging himself along
on crutches. Metal jaws gnashed in its approximation of a face,
the lower jaw projecting out past the upper and possessed of
enormous fangs like sabers.
It appeared to be another Cryxian bonejack, albeit of a
different make than the one the Irregulars had faced back at the
river. Colbie pulled her slug gun from its retaining loops inside
her greatcoat and aimed the weapon at it.
Floating several inches above the floor, a spindly creature in a
long black coat appeared in the shadows behind the ´jack. Four
jointed metal arms, each terminating in a curved blade, projected
from its upper back and arched over its shoulders to dangle before
it. Its misshapen head wrapped in a form-fitting mask, it turned

its head in Colbie’s direction and stared with round red lenses.
Another shock rocked her. Once again, it was an assault not
on the body or senses but the psyche itself. It hammered her into
numbness and confusion.
Fortunately, after a moment or two, the confusion abated, and
she realized she was pointing the slug gun at the wrong target. She
looked around and decided the enormous trollkin with the war
hammer represented the greatest threat. She aimed the weapon
at his back.
•••
CANICE KNIFED ANOTHER DRUDGE. The thing fell forward across

the sarcophagus it had been trying to open, and the blade at the
end of one flopping arm clanged on the floor.
Frowning, she looked around for another victim and rather
hoped none remained. This was unpleasant work, though less so
than some tasks she’d undertaken in her time. To her mind, the
drudges’ obliviousness proved that, as Eilish had more or less said,
they weren’t actually people anymore.
Then something like a scream, but a scream without sound,
stabbed into her head, and the remaining drudges woke. Jerking
around, they struck at their would-be slayers with their hand-
blades. Eilish retreated a step and parried a blow with his sword,
preventing it from hitting him in the ribs.
Since Canice didn’t have a drudge attacking her, she jammed
her dagger back in its sheath, drew and cocked her magelocks, and
looked around for the master that had presumably commanded
its slaves to fight back. She cursed to discover it hadn’t come alone.
The steamjack the Irregulars had been hunting had arrived, too,
and not in any sort of vulnerable attitude. Clearly, the gnashing
steel jaws could snip an adversary to pieces, or, failing that,
the automaton could just march over a person and crush that
unfortunate soul beneath its bulk.
Preparing to destroy a ´jack, Canice had loaded one magelock
with a round imbued with the power to rust and the other with
BLACK CROWNS | 247
a bullet enchanted to strike with unnatural force. Crossing her

arms, she fired the corrosive rune shot at the bonejack and the
one infused with raw destructive power at the gaunt, levitating
creature in the black coat with the train hanging low enough to
conceal its feet.
A spot of pitted red appeared on the ´jack’s head—not really a
head as such but more just a mask at the nearer end of the hillock
that was its back—and tendrils of rust snaked out from the point
of impact. Canice hadn’t succeeded in putting a hole in the metal
chassis, but at least she’d made a weak spot.
The other round struck the levitating master in the chest. All
six of its arms, the pair that were flesh and the four artificial ones,
flailed, and, seemingly losing control of its ability to hover, it
dropped and disappeared behind the bonejack.
Hoping she’d killed it, Canice holstered the two empty
magelocks and drew her new one, the double-barreled weapon
Eilish had appropriated from Dyrmyd. One barrel contained
another corrosive round. If she could score another head shot
and rust a hole all the way through to the cortex, she and her
companions might be able to dispose of the automaton quickly.
Then she caught a flicker of motion at the corner of her vision,
something that instinct said was a threat. She pivoted. A blank
look on her face, eyes wide and staring behind her tinted goggles,
Colbie was pointing her slug gun at Gardek, who, busy fighting a
drudge, had his back turned.
Canice lunged at the entranced Colbie, and her momentum
pitched the two of them over an open sarcophagus. They slammed
down on the floor on the other side of the coffin, and the slug gun
went off with a deafening roar. The heat of the discharge seared
Canice’s cheek, and chunks of stone showered down on her from
the damage the slug inflicted on the ceiling.
At least it hadn’t hit Gardek. Crouching on top of Colbie,
Canice grabbed the lapels of her greatcoat and gave her a bone-
rattling shake. “Wake up!” she shouted. “That psychic bastard is
inside your head!” Even yelling, she could barely hear herself. The
boom of the slug gun had seen to that.
Maybe Colbie couldn’t hear her, either. At any rate, the words
had no effect. The mechanik flailed at her with the slug gun, and
Canice raised one arm to block. The impact stung but did no
actual harm.
Colbie swung again while simultaneously sticking her other
hand out to the side. Canice realized the other mercenary was
reaching for the magelock she’d let go of to grapple more effectively.
She snatched the pistol an instant before the other woman could
grab it and lashed Colbie across the forehead with it.
The blow broke the skin, knocked Colbie’s head to the side
and her goggles askew, and seemed to put an abrupt end to her
struggling. Then something intangible and indescribable but
horrifying nonetheless stabbed into Canice’s awareness, and she
realized her comrade might actually have stopped fighting because
the master had shifted its focus to her.
After that, apparently, she became a sleepwalker for a few
seconds. When some semblance of consciousness returned, her
psychic attacker was floating in the air again, a wet patch now
staining part of its coat a deeper black. The red lenses in its mask
were aimed at her.
Clambering over sarcophagi, the bonejack tried repeatedly to
catch Gardek and Natak in its jaws while they circled to stay on its
flanks and smash it with hammer and axe. The blows crashed and
clanged. Milo had maneuvered behind the automaton to spray it
with smoking acid.
Pog and Eilish battled the last of the drudges with repeating
pistol and sword. Presumably the arcanist was saving his magic for
more formidable foes.
Colbie still lay behind the stone coffin where she’d fallen. She
raised herself up on one elbow and gingerly touched the bloody
cut on her brow.
Meanwhile, Canice had withdrawn to a corner of the crypt
removed from her partners, a spot where, amid all the frenzy and
the gloom, they likely didn’t even see her. She stood with the
muzzle of the magelock jammed under her chin and her finger
on the trigger.
BLACK CROWNS | 249
If she hadn’t woken from her stupor, she would have fired
without even knowing it. But it didn’t really matter that awareness
had returned because, asleep or awake, she wanted to put an end
to herself. She’d betrayed her vows and her country. Her friends
were dead because of her inaction. She’d lost Ninette, her one true
love, who would hate her forevermore. Certain nothing but grief
was left for her, she started to squeeze the trigger.
But then she balked. Something, simple common sense, perhaps,
exposed her anguished, guilty thoughts for the exaggerations and
distortions they were. Yes, she’d made mistakes and had regrets, but
who didn’t? Life was a messy, blundering, sometimes painful affair
for everyone. It was still better than the alternative.
She extended her arm, fired at the floating puppet master,
shifted her aim, and discharged the magelock’s other round, the
corrosive one, into the bonejack’s shoulder mechanism.
The skirt of its long coat brushing over sarcophagi, the master
flew across the vault at her. She thrust Dyrmyd’s magelock back
into its holster and drew the pistol riding on her other hip. It was
an ordinary firearm, but at least it was loaded.
Her foe’s psychic power stabbed at her and her body locked up
like a statue. Her muscles were clenched tight, straining against
one another to freeze her in place. She insisted to herself that the
sensation was just an illusion, another trick of the mind, and it
fell away.
In the time it took to shake it off, her foe had nearly closed to
striking distance. That put it in point-blank range for the pistol
shot she fired into its face. One scarlet lens shattered, and the eye
behind it burst into a gory crater.
To her surprise, though, the new wound didn’t kill the creature
or even make it fall to the floor. It swept on at her, and the four
metal arms stabbed and slashed.
She threw up her arms to protect her head. The reinforced
leather of her greatcoat kept the first barrage of blows from
maiming her, but one metal claw tore through her left sleeve and
cut the arm inside. The hooked tip tugged as it caught in her skin
and jerked free.
Canice couldn’t stay backed in the corner with no room to

retreat or dodge. Otherwise, the thing’s raking appendages would
score a lethal hit, and likely within a matter of seconds. Arms
still crossed in front of her face, she threw herself forward and
knocked the floating, spindly creature several feet backward. That
made enough room for her to dodge around it, draw the little
holdout guns she’d taken from the armory in Ninette’s house, and
fire.
The master jerked when the rounds hit in the torso. Then it
flew at her once more, and it was plain that she wouldn’t be able
to reload any of her pistols before the metal talons rained down
on her again.
Pog scurried up beside her, aimed his repeating pistol with
both hands, and emptied it into the puppet master. The creature
fell out of the air and sprawled motionless. Its blood still looked
black on the leathery fabric of its coat and mask, but the spreading
pool around the body was crimson.
The gobber grinned at her and spoke. Still half deaf from the
discharge of Colbie’s slug gun, Canice couldn’t make out much of
what he was saying, but she thought it was something about his
marksmanship improving.
“You were very close to the target,” she panted. “Still, you’re
right. That wasn’t bad.”
•••
THE BONEJACK TURNED TOWARD NATAK, who circled to stay away

from its jaws. As soon as he moved, the automaton, displaying
more cunning and flexibility than most fighting steamjacks, spun
in the other direction, at Gardek.
The ´jack bit, and the trollkin shifted his shield to hold back
the sword-like fangs. He succeeded, but the automaton’s jaws
snapped shut on the rim of the armor itself, and the subsequent
gnashing action dragged the shield forward and Gardek with it.
He had to jerk his arm free of the straps to avoid losing the limb.
It seemed to Natak that nothing should be able to chew up
the massive steel shield with its jutting spikes without injuring
BLACK CROWNS | 251
itself. Maybe one of them would punch through the roof of the
bonejack’s mouth, or what passed for a mouth, pierce some vital
component, and wreck it.
Sadly, nothing like that happened. Twisted scraps of the
shield dropping from its jaws, the Cryxian automaton lunged
after Gardek. As he retreated, he maneuvered to put an open
sarcophagus between his pursuer and himself. Like Natak, he
must have noticed that the open ones slowed the ´jack down a
little. Its massive fore-claws and smaller hind legs hung up inside
them.
With the steamjack intent on Gardek, Natak scrambled
toward its front end. Ever since closing with the automaton, he’d
wanted to pound his battle axe into the rusted, vulnerable place in
its steel visage that Canice’s rune shot had created. But the jack’s
huge shoulders and forelimbs prevented such melee attacks from
its flanks, and a combatant couldn’t stand squarely in front of it
without serving himself up to the relentless biting action of the
jaws.
Startling him, new strands of rust twisted out from a central
ding in the bonejack’s shoulder assembly. He grinned at the
thought that if his korune’s shot had been off by just a trifle, the
round could have hit him instead. He was proud of her skill and
nerve.
He bashed at the weakened shoulder. His axe chipped away
scraps of corroded cowling, but the ´jack kept moving as it had
all along, ponderously overall, but with sudden lunges and pivots
that could easily take an adversary by surprise.
Her left profile bloody thanks to the gash in her forehead,
Colbie ran up beside Natak. Maybe uncertain of making herself
heard over all the noise in the crypt, she slashed her hand in a
diagonal chop through the air. Natak realized she was telling him
to swing his axe diagonally instead of straight down as he’d been
doing hitherto.
In other circumstances, he would have ignored a feeble little
human presuming to tell him how to use his weapon, but Colbie
understood how steamjacks were put together, and he didn’t.
He struck as she bade him, and the shoulder buckled. The ´jack
lurched off balance on a forelimb that now emerged from the
joint at an angle.
The automaton pivoted in Natak’s direction. That put additional
weight on the damaged forelimb and bent it even farther out of
alignment. Natak chopped at the shoulder assembly, again at
the angle Colbie had indicated, and the appendage lurched to a
position nearly perpendicular to its proper attitude.
Deprived of the support, the bonejack could no longer
walk upright. It tried to crawl after its opponents, but now its
floundering limbs, particularly the crippled one, caught on the
sarcophagi it had clambered over before and hindered its progress.
Though the steel jaws kept biting, biting, biting in the same
inexorable rhythm, Natak was now willing to gamble that he
could come straight at the bonejack’s visage and avoid getting
gored by its fangs. He circled to try, and then a bolt of blue light
flashed across the room and smashed through the rusty spot in
the space above the automaton’s optics, beady little lenses like the
eyes of a shark.
Its bulk clashing on the floor, the ´jack heaved like a man in
the throes of a seizure and then stopped moving entirely. The
yellow glow in the optics died away.
Cheated of the opportunity to strike the killing blow, Natak
turned and glared. His sword bloody from point to hilt, Eilish
smiled and shrugged.
The crypt now smelled of spilled blood and eye-watering gun
and acidic smoke. With the racket of combat was over, the space
felt almost unnaturally quiet.
“Is everyone all right?” Colbie asked.
“I’m going to have a headache,” Colbie said. She removed her
goggles and wiped at the blood spots on the left lenses with a rag.
“But it’s nothing serious.”
“What could be serious,” said Pog, an edge of anxiety in his
voice, “is if more of the enemy heard the fighting.”
“I’m not unduly concerned,” Eilish said. “I don’t hear anyone
rushing to the scene, and remember, the Orgoth demolished the
BLACK CROWNS | 253
building that once stood atop these vaults. There was no access
until the bonejack burrowed its way here, and I suspect someone
would have to be in the tunnel or loitering right by one of the holes
to have any hope of hearing the commotion. I don’t recommend
lingering for days on end, but I imagine we can take a minute to
catch our breaths and finish looking around.”
In the course of their explorations, Natak found the steps that
once connected the crypts to the structure above. As Eilish had
predicted, earth and rubble choked the stairwell and rendered it
impassable.
Examining the open sarcophagi, Gardek discovered the
remains of a warrior interred with his gear, including a kite shield.
The shield appeared in good shape despite the passing centuries,
and the trollkin appropriated it to replace the one the enemy
warjack had chewed to pieces.
Shortly thereafter, Milo found something that made him crow
with pleasure. Tucked away in one of the small individual crypts
was the cache of explosives the puppet master or, more likely, those
enslaved to its will had used to blast a hole when the bonejack
fetched up against a barrier it couldn’t simply burrow through.
Colbie smiled at the alchemist’s show of enthusiasm. “I take it
you think you can put all this to good use. So do I. We’ll carry it
away with us.”
As the mercenaries proceeded back down the tunnel, Canice
made her way to Colbie’s side and murmured, “Sorry I had to hit
you.”
Colbie chuckled. “And here I thought you wanted to do it
every time I gave you an order.”
Canice snorted. “Not every time.”
— 17 —
THE HORSES BLEW AND TUGGED AT THE REINS that hitched them
to tree limbs. They didn’t like being close to Old Korska and the
undead infesting it.
Milo wasn’t foolishly fond of animals—or people for that
matter—and he didn’t care that the equines were afraid. With
luck, that would make them run faster when it was time to flee.
Glowering and stamping around, Gardek looked unhappy as
well, but not because he was scared. He plainly wished he were
with the other contingent of Irregulars, who would actually
confront Morthis. But someone possessed of greater-than-human
strength needed to be up here on the ridge above the ruins, and
Colbie had decreed that it should be the trollkin who’d been hurt
twice and was trying to suppress a limp rather than the ogrun who
was as yet unscathed.
Pog was here because the diversionary force needed someone
with a thorough understanding of simple machines, throwing
arms, and such, and he had sense enough to be glad of it. But
Milo could tell that the gobber’s entirely rational feeling of relief
at a reprieve from what was bound to be dangerous combat made
him feel guilty as well.
Milo shook his head. People were idiots.
Pog took a look at the stand of slim, young, resilient trees he’d
selected, the horses had pulled backward, and he, Gardek, and
Milo had tied to the trunks of others. “I think we’re ready,” he
said.
Milo hoped so. They needed to strike while the undead
horselords were still busy practicing their cavalry maneuvers.
Creatures that were all together in one group would likely react
as a group.
He moved from one improvised catapult to the next lighting
the fuses protruding from the bombs he’d fashioned from the
psychic master’s store of explosives. Finding the stuff had been
a stroke of luck, perhaps the only one, in his jaundiced view, on
this whole meandering, ill-conceived expedition. Maybe he could
have faked an artillery bombardment with only the grenades he’d
brought out of Laedry, but it would have been less impressive.
It might not be all that impressive even now, but according to
Eilish, fearsome though they were, the horselords below had lived
and died before the invention of blasting powder. Thus, it might
not take too much to convince them that some substantial and
formidable band of foes had sneaked onto the high ground above
the ruins and was now making a potentially devastating attack.
Gardek followed behind him jerking the quick-release knots
loose. The trees whipped up and hurled their missiles.
Some detonated while still high in the air, others flew far off
target, but they all exploded in a way that made it clear they’d been
launched at the ruins, and two came down right on the parade
ground. The flashes of fire blew the bony legs out from under
undead horses and tumbled their riders through the air. Milo
grinned at each of those explosions, and Gardek snarled, “Yes!”
The surviving horselords milled in confusion, like ants after
some unkind soul kicked apart the anthill. With the initial barrage
launched, Gardek started re-bending trees, hauling on the ropes
BLACK CROWNS | 257
with his own hands. The mercenaries could no longer rely on the
horses to do the work. The explosions had made them even more
skittish.
Though straining with all his might, the trollkin wasn’t as
strong as a horse and could only pull down the slimmest, youngest
trees, and when the near-saplings flung their bombs, the explosives
didn’t fly as far. Still, with luck, they’d further the impression that
a serious assault was in progress.
Leaving Gardek to drag down and release the trees and Milo to
place and light the bombards, Pog scurried forward, presumably
for a clearer look at what was happening below. “What do you
see?” Milo called.
“The undead are just riding around looking all shocked and
bewildered,” the gobber answered.
“Corben’s stone!” Milo cursed. “I thought the filthy things
were supposed to be clever!”
He and his partners had assumed the horselords would be able
to tell from what direction the bombs originated. If they couldn’t,
they might not all rush the ridge. Some might stay put or head off
on a line that would put them in the path of Colbie and her team.
“Wait!” he told Gardek. He scrambled forward.
“I’m holding down a tree!” the bounty hunter gritted.
Ignoring the complaint, Milo tossed a couple of his own store
of incendiaries into the brush to mark the ridge as the place from
which the bombs were flying. He couldn’t think of a reason why an
attacking army would be lighting fires at this particular moment,
but maybe the undead wouldn’t stop to wonder about it.
They didn’t. They streamed out of the field and onward, the
mass of them dividing to pass to either side of the remains of
demolished buildings and reuniting beyond, like rapids rushing
around rocks jutting above the torrent.
Milo wanted to run now. But if the bombardment ended
prematurely, the counterattack might falter. He dashed back to
Gardek, who was still holding down the makeshift catapult, lit the
bomb that lay in the fork of two branches, and hopped back. The
trollkin let the missile fly.
They launched half a dozen more after that. Until, still playing
lookout, his voice shrill, Pog cried, “It’s time to go!”
Limping, Gardek hurried to the horses. So did Pog. The
trollkin swung himself onto the skittish animal that had originally
carried Natak. This new mount didn’t like his kind any better than
the gray had, but it tolerated him in the saddle now, perhaps in
the hope that he’d get it away from the frightening explosions or
the horrific creatures it possibly sensed approaching.
He pulled the gobber up to perch behind him. They had to
ride double because Pog’s pony with its shorter legs might not
prove fast enough. Fortunately, to such a big animal, the little bit
of added weight should make no difference.
Meanwhile, Milo ran from one of the bombs he’d placed on the
ground to the next and lit those fuses. He couldn’t judge precisely
when the horselords would crest the rise but was confident the
explosions would destroy some of them and provide additional
incentive for the survivors to pursue the tricksters who’d fled before
them. Sadly—for them—they’d never catch up to the targets of
their wrath because reanimated steeds couldn’t run as fast as living
ones and because Gum had plotted a route that would help the
quarry outpace and befuddle the hunters.
By the time the last fuse was lit, Milo could hear the rumble
of the approaching horde and even feel the shiver the pounding
of their mounts’ hooves sent through the ground. The wretched
things didn’t seem as slow as they were supposed to be. He dashed
to where Pog and Gardek waited. Milo swung himself onto his
steed and followed his partner along a narrow trail.
Low-hanging branches swiped at him. One nearly knocked
him from the saddle before he ducked beneath it.
The bombs he’d prepared boomed. The flashes momentarily lit
up the brush and trees before him, and hot air gusted from behind.
He grinned to think of the havoc he’d wrought. His malicious
glee lasted until mounted figures emerged from the gloom ahead.
Either because all the commotion had drawn them or through
sheer bad luck, one of the Cryxian patrols had appeared to block
the mercenaries’ escape route.
BLACK CROWNS | 259
“Let me up there!” Milo snarled. He spurred his reluctant

horse past Gardek’s and pulled a grenade from its bandolier. If
the horselords behind his partners and him had lost the trail, the
detonation was going to put them right back on it, but there was
no help for that.
The undead before him urged their withered steeds into
lurching, swaying changes, and he threw the grenade. A cloud
of vitriolic fire burst into existence to engulf three of the foe.
Burning, flailing, they and the mounts fell.
Undeterred by their comrades’ destruction, two more corpse
riders swung wide to avoid the floating yellow cloud of flame
and the foliage it had set ablaze. Milo hurled a second grenade
at one of them. The blast blew the dead horse’s fleshless skull
apart and hurled its master from the saddle. The horselord didn’t
rise thereafter. Though Milo couldn’t discern any significant new
damage to the husk death and decay had already made of the
creature, the blast had apparently slain it nonetheless.
At the same time, Gardek urged his horse back ahead of Milo’s
and on toward the remaining undead. Clinging to the trollkin’s
waist, Pog made a little bleating noise as they charged.
The horselord swung its broadsword. Gardek warded himself,
and the stroke clashed on the kite shield he’d taken from the
sarcophagus. When he struck back with his war hammer, the blow
smashed down on the undead mount’s neck and all but beheaded
it. The shriveled beast fell and carried its rider down with it. As
the horselord struggled to wriggle out from underneath its steed,
Gardek leaned down from the saddle and hammered the ancient
Umbrean warrior back into lifelessness as well.
With that accomplished, all three mercenaries peered about for
another foe. Milo didn’t see one, and apparently his companions
didn’t, either. Gardek tugged on the reins to instruct his horse to
pass the burning trees and brush on the right.
Then, suddenly, there was another horselord. Really, the
creature had been there all along, but it, its mount, and their
gear were all decayed or corroded black, and everyone had simply
missed it amid the confusion of shadow and dazzling flame.
The corpse rider struck with a long-hafted mace, and this time
it was Gardek’s mount that fell, and his foe that leaned down to
strike a follow-up blow.
Gardek caught the attack on his shield. Thrown free of the
fallen horse, supine, Pog didn’t waste time getting to his feet. He
simply snatched out his repeating pistol and fired.
The shots balked the horselord. That gave Milo time to force
his mount closer and dowse the foe and its steed with acid. The
two collapsed in a sizzling, bubbling heap.
Gardek dragged himself out from under the big horse’s body.
“That’s two mounts killed out from under me,” he grated. “I don’t
think the Mother intended me to be a rider.” He turned to Pog.
“Are you all right?”
The gobber stood up. “Yes. What about you?”
“Fine.” Gardek rose as well, but with more difficulty, and once
he was up, he placed nearly all his weight on the leg that hadn’t
had the bulk of a horse land on it twice. “Milo, hoist Pog up
behind you and get out of here.”
Milo’s mouth tightened. He didn’t like the idea—entirely—
but the bounty hunter was right. It was the only sensible course of
action. He held out his hand to Pog. “Come on.”
The little mechanik shook his long-eared head. “I can’t just
abandon Mr. Stonebrow.”
“Of course you can,” Milo snapped.
“Milo’s right,” Gardek said. “The main force of undead is on its
way. Hear them? I can’t outrun them without a horse, especially
on this leg. That’s no reason for the two of you to die.”
By human standards, gobbers had weak, receding chins, but
Pog did his best to stick his out. “It wouldn’t be right to leave you
all alone, and you’re not the captain. Mr. Boggs, you aren’t, either.
So—and I’m sorry if this sounds disrespectful—neither of you
can order me to go.”
“Suit yourself,” Milo said. “There’s no time for this. Good luck,
Gardek.” He spurred his horse forward.
After a moment, though, he pulled back on the reins. “I hate
all you people,” he said as he dismounted.
BLACK CROWNS | 261
He hung vials of bottled light from his saddle horn. The horse’s
gait would bounce them around and keep them aglow. Once they
were shining, he slapped the animal’s rump and started it running.
No doubt he’d finally given the mount a command it was happy
to obey.
He turned to his companions. “Now we hide.”
•••
THOUGH THE EXPLOSIONS produced by Milo’s bombardment put

the light to shame, Canice could see the green haze above the mass
grave glowing as brightly as it ever did. Eilish believed the relative
intensity indicated Morthis had been going about the work of
reanimation. Thus, now that the false attack from the ridge had
lured the horselords away, he, Colbie, Natak, and Canice were
sneaking toward the burial pit. They needed to confront the
Cryxian necromancer quickly lest the bombardment prompt
him to go somewhere else, somewhere his ill-wishers might never
find him in the dark, broken, and extensive ruins that were Old
Korska.
It would have been too much to hope that every single horselord
had cleared out of the dead city, and, their steeds’ gaits stumbling
parodies of a living equine’s canter, two such risen rounded the
stub of a fallen tower. Spying the intruders, they balked among
the rubble scattered through the tall, coarse grass and weeds. It
was, Canice supposed, evidence that even undead horrors could
fall victim to surprise.
She raised two of her magelocks. Uncertain what exactly she
might have to fight upon reaching the pit, she’d loaded the pistols
with rounds enchanted to strike with unnatural force. Such rune
shots were rarely an inappropriate choice even when they might
not be the best one, and they ought to suffice now.
Exhaling, she squeezed the triggers, and the magelocks flashed
and barked. One rider flopped backward over its steed’s croup.
Then the foot that was still stuck in a stirrup pulled it sideways,
and it spilled in that direction instead of sliding off the dead
equine’s rump. The second horselord jerked but kept its seat.
That creature lowered its lance and charged, and the now-
riderless mount did, too. The twice-dead body of its former master
bumped along beside it until the husk caught on a block of stone,
at which point, most of it tore loose. The corpse ripped apart at
the knee, and the lower leg and foot remained with the stirrup.
Canice exchanged the two discharged magelocks for the one
that had belonged to Dyrmyd, currently loaded with the same
sort of magically enhanced cartridge. She fired, and the remaining
rider’s torso tore apart, the naked skull inside the helmet and the
arm holding the lance falling away.
Intent on killing even without their masters, the two steeds
kept coming. Luminous blue glyphs flickering in the air around
him, Eilish flourished his sword, and a bolt of force broke one
long, all-but-fleshless skull to pieces. Natak rushed forward and
planted himself in the path of the other mount. Then, just as it
was about to collide with him, he spun out of its way and chopped
its neck with his battleaxe. The creature fell, and, though he hadn’t
quite destroyed it, could only jerk and shudder thereafter. Its
fruitless struggle to rise and continue to fight rattled bare bones in
the back half of its body.
Colbie stood with her long ´jack wrench at the ready. “Too
much light and noise,” she said. “With luck, no one noticed. But
let’s keep moving.”
They did. In the darkness, it would have been easy to get lost
in the maze of broken walls except that periodic sightings of the
green glow kept them oriented.
Not far to the left, an explosion flared, boomed, and knocked
over a pillar the Orgoth had missed. Squinting against the flash,
Natak growled a curse.
Canice understood his irritation. The bombs weren’t supposed
to fall near the path on which she and her companions were
making their approach, but she supposed one couldn’t expect a
high degree of accuracy from trees pressed into service as siege
engines. It was remarkable Gardek was throwing as well as he was.
Shortly thereafter, the bombardment stopped. A while after
that, Eilish pointed with his sword. “Behold,” he said.
BLACK CROWNS | 263
Beyond a trio of fallen headless statues, the sickly emerald

phosphorescence floated over the gaping mass grave. No undead
horselords were clambering out at the moment, nor was anyone
working necromancy at the edge. Evidently alarmed by the falling
explosives, a number of figures had taken cover within a right
angle of vine-covered brickwork that had once been the corner of
a building, and, perhaps waiting to make sure the attack was truly
over, they were still there.
Peering from behind an oak that had grown where a street
had been, pushing up cobbles in the process, Canice was glad the
corner didn’t provide any cover against enemies creeping up from
her direction. It did, however, shroud the Cryxians in shadow.
Standing behind her, Eilish whispered, “I can light them up a
bit, but they’ll understand they’re under attack the instant I do.”
“Hold off,” Canice replied. She stared, striving to understand
the vague shapes shifting or simply huddled in the gloom.
There were hulking forms she suspected were some sort of
Cryxian thrall, mechanithralls, perhaps, or something comparable.
Also slender female figures with horns seemingly too big and heavy
for their heads: Satyxis, surely. It was slightly encouraging that she
saw no floating psychic puppet masters or halberd-wielding shadows
like the ones that had terrorized Elsinberg, though she realized the
latter could be hiding inside the brick walls or even the ground.
All in all, the group looked like one that ought to be aiding a
Cryxian agent on an important mission. The question was, where
was Morthis himself, or the other necromancers Eilish believed
might be assisting him? Finally Canice discerned what seemed
to be a man standing where wall met wall and the cover was
best. Some of his companions stood in front of him, providing
a measure of protection, intentional or otherwise, against attacks
from the Irregulars’ direction and denying Canice an unobstructed
view. Still, she could make out a ring of points projecting above
his head. Evidently he was wearing one of the crowns of the Black
Ring, and she felt a thrill of excitement that she was finally seeing,
however imperfectly, one of the artifacts that this whole tortuous
journey had been about.
Canice turned to confer with her comrades, all of whom were

doing some peering of their own. “I see a man in a crown,” she
whispered, “but only one.”
“Is it Morthis?” Natak asked.
She shook her head. “I can’t tell.”
“There may be only Morthis,” Eilish said. “Logic suggests
reanimation would proceed fastest with a trio of necromancers
each wearing one of the crowns, but perhaps the Cryxians weren’t
able to get any more to the site, or Morthis is averse to sharing the
power. He may switch out the crowns, employing each to raise
and bind horselords whose greatest allegiance was to the wearer of
that particular symbol.”
“Whether there are three wizards or one,” Colbie said, “we’re
here, the enemy is here, and Milo’s diversion won’t keep the
horselords away forever. We have to attack now. Canice, can you
kill the man in the crown even covered up the way he is?” For
all the mercenaries knew, the necromancer might possess less
personal power to harm than some of his companions, but it was
generally sound tactics to target a leader.
Canice nodded. “I’ll get him.”
She opened the breaches of each of her magelocks in turn,
replacing the cartridges she’d loaded previously with rounds
enchanted to enhance accuracy. Trusting her own skill, she rarely
carried many of the latter, but now she was glad she had them.
She aimed a pistol at what she could see of the man in the
crown behind one of the big, thick-bodied thralls. Essentially, that
was only his shoulder, which meant she wasn’t assured of scoring
a kill shot. She waited for the creature to move to one side or the
other.
Finally it did. There was still only a narrow gap between it
and the Satyxis beside it, but the space revealed a vertical strip
of the crowned man’s torso. Canice judged that she could hit his
heart or at least some portion of his vitals. Exhaling, she squeezed
the trigger, and then, at the exact moment the pressure became
sufficient to discharge the magelock, the thrall sidestepped back
to its original position.
BLACK CROWNS | 265
The bullet struck sparks when it impacted some form of armor

on the Cryxian’s chest. Startled, the creatures to either side of it
looked wildly about.
Surprise would only last another instant, after which, the
Cryxians would comprehend they were under attack, discern
from direction the assault originated, and start retaliating. The
necromancer would do an even better job of hiding behind his
allies and begin casting spells.
Canice stepped from behind the tree to obtain the best angle
possible and extended both the magelocks that were still loaded.
With no time for the meticulous aiming and patient waiting she’d
tried a moment ago, she took in what was before her and fired
both pistols by feel rather than conscious calculation.
The necromancer floundered the final step back into the
corner. His head bumped the brick and knocked the crown askew.
His legs giving way, he crumpled, and then she couldn’t see him
anymore.
She felt a surge of satisfaction. If she had just killed Morthis,
and he was the only necromancer in Old Korska, then whatever
happened next, she’d prevented the reanimation of any more risen
and the formation of the all but invincible horde the Cryxians had
intended. If not, it had still been a fine bit of shooting.
Despite the darkness, the surviving Cryxians spotted her
now that she’d brazenly revealed herself and killed their magus.
Brandishing her scimitar, a Satyxis screamed a command, and
she and her fellow creatures rushed forward. Evidently they didn’t
have ranged weapons.
Canice retreated on the diagonal, moving away from both
the advancing Cryxians and the oak tree. She hoped she and her
still-hidden partners could catch the enemy in a crossfire, or near
enough. Working by touch, she reloaded the magelocks.
Then, to her surprise, most of the Cryxians halted to let a pair
of thralls lumber out in front of them. Red-eyed, their torsos so
bloated they were spherical, each of the two bore some sort of
long, rifle-like apparatus with luminous green fumes drifting up
from the muzzle. Hoses connected the stocks to the creatures’
mouths and various other points on their bodies, places where a

normal, living human being had no orifices but they conceivably
did.
Clearly, Canice had been too optimistic when deciding none
of her remaining foes had a means of attacking at range. Still
retreating, she poised herself to dodge.
Luminous green liquid arced from the weapons. Canice leaped
to the side.
Where the streams came down, the grass smoked and sizzled
as if Milo had poured one of his acids there. The slime splashed,
and a droplet of it struck Canice’s chin, stuck, and burned until
she swiped it away with a leather-gloved hand.
For a split second, she rejoiced that she’d escaped anything
worse. Then she realized the corrosive stuff was still arcing from
the guns, and the streams were swinging toward her as the thralls
adjusted their aims.
She lunged forward and dived onto her belly. The corrosive
slime fell behind her. She fired, hit one of the bloated thralls in
the face, and, thanks to the particular enchantment on the round,
the Cryxian burst into flame. The fire crackled, the thrall howled
and staggered, and, now dangling from its hoses at the creature’s
side, the slime weapon spattered its discharge across the ground
and then over a Satyxis. The creature shrieked and staggered as
her flesh melted beneath the coating of slime. One horn fell off
her head.
Colbie’s slug gun boomed. The shell smashed the other thrall’s
ball of a torso apart, and the disintegration confirmed the truth
Canice had already surmised. The thing’s internal organs had
largely been altered to provide for the production and retention
of unnaturally acidic bile. In effect, it had been a walking storage
tank, one that, upon bursting, splashed four of the other Cryxians
with searing sludge. Two dropped immediately. The others howled
as the slime burned its way into their flesh.
Stepping out from behind the oak, his sword extended at eye
level, Eilish flicked the blade in a precise little horizontal cut.
Aping the motion from left to right, a floating cloud of hot ash
BLACK CROWNS | 267
seethed into being to shroud and sting the Cryxians from one
end of their line to the other. Those that weren’t already dead
or crippled blundered forward to escape the blistering heat and
choking smoke.
Natak met a Satyxis with a swing of his battle axe as she
emerged from the cloud. The horned head tumbled from the
long, dainty neck that had supported it. Pivoting, he chopped a
second such creature with cinders glowing down the length of her
body like fireflies caught in a spider’s web. Unfortunately, at the
same moment, an undead swordsman lurched forth with blade
poised to hack at the ogrun from behind.
Natak spun to face it, but too slowly. The dead thing’s sword
stroke cut him across the ribs. Also an instant too slow, Canice
shot it and shattered its skull before it could strike a second time.
Eilish smashed another walking corpse with a blue flare of
power. Blood streaming from the gash in his flank, teeth gritted
in a snarl, Natak hacked the one that emerged from the cloud
behind it. Canice shot a third, cast about for a fresh target, and
realized there was no one and nothing left to kill.
Shaking rotten flesh from his battle axe, Natak turned to her
and twisted the snarl into a leer. “That was easier than I expected.”
“How badly are you hurt?” Canice asked.
“You mean this?” he said. “It’s just a scratch.” Canice could see
that the wound was plainly more serious than he was letting on.
“Keep pressure on it,” Colbie said. “We’ll see to it as soon as
we’re safely away. Meanwhile, everyone, keep your guards up.
Eilish, find out what exactly we’ve accomplished.”
“Right,” the arcanist said. With his comrades moving up
behind him, he trotted to the overgrown angle of brickwork and
crouched over the corpse of the necromancer. “We have a crown.”
He lifted a diadem that was black as ebony, either because it had
been made that way originally or because the Cryxians had stained
it black in the process of perverting its magic to their purposes.
“But only one, and this gentleman is not our Mr. Morthis.”
“In that case,” Colbie said, “we’ll have to search. With luck, the
Cryxians stowed the other crowns somewhere handy to the pit.
The goal now is to find them—and the Golden Crucible’s books,

if we happen across them—and get away before the horselords
come back.”
Eilish grimaced. “I truly craved another meeting with Morthis.”
“I sympathize,” Colbie replied, “but we’re not going to wander
around looking for him. It’s too dangerous.”
Reloading her pistols, Canice cast about. On the other side of
the pit, pitched between the remains of two razed buildings, stood
several tents. They were one of the many features she and her
partners hadn’t been able to discern when scrutinizing the ruins
from a distance.
She pointed. “Over there.”
Colbie smiled. “Good.” She started forward and then pivoted
in the opposite direction from the mass grave and the tents.
Canice looked where her captain was looking. Shadows were
coming out of the darkness.
Still within the corner defined by the broken walls, Eilish
couldn’t see what was coming, but it was plain from his comrades’
behavior that something was. “Here!” he said, and Natak, Colbie,
and Canice dashed to join him.
The brickwork would prevent foes from attacking their rear.
Maybe it would even keep the enemy from discovering they were
there. That would require that the Cryxians likewise miss spotting
their allies’ bodies, but in the dark, such a lapse seemed possible.
Still, Canice’s intuition told her that wasn’t how things were
going to play out, and when the first undead riders rode past
the pitiful makeshift redoubt and then wheeled their skull-faced
steeds to face the living, it was plain she was right.
Aiming a magelock at the nearest foe, she looked at Eilish and
said, “I think you’re about to get your wish.”
“Yes,” the arcanist said, “lucky me.”
•••
GARDEK’S LEG THROBBED WITH EVERY STRIDE, especially when he

caught his foot on something or it came down in a low spot he
hadn’t perceived in the dark.
BLACK CROWNS | 269
A weary, fatalistic part of him wanted to stop fleeing, wait,

and fight the horselords as they found him. From past experience,
he was fairly sure his leg wouldn’t hurt when he was battling the
creatures he hated above all else, and it would make for a good
death so long as he could destroy a few of them first.
Afterward, his spirit would join the Mother and in due course
be reborn into a new life. Perhaps, if she was generous, he and the
brother who’d fallen to the undead before him would be kindred
once again.
Aside from the stubborn unreasoning will to survive, the things
that kept him moving were Pog and Milo. The possibility of their
deaths dismayed him more than the likelihood of his own, and it
was clear they still had no intention of abandoning him.
For a while, it had seemed that all the horselords might
actually have rushed far away in pursuit of Milo’s mount, and so
the mercenaries might easily elude them. Unfortunately, the dead
must have either caught up with the nag or simply suspected a
trick, because eventually, they’d spread out to search the hillsides.
Gardek hadn’t seen one yet, but he heard rustling and crunching
periodically as they pushed through the brush.
“Do you know where we are?” Milo whispered.
“No,” Gardek replied. He’d lost his bearings almost as soon as
they deviated from the route Gum had charted. “At this point, it
doesn’t matter, so long as we stay away from the riders.”
The mercenaries crept onward and entered a furrow between
two patches of higher ground. For a time, Gardek didn’t hear
any more noises and wondered if he and his companions truly
had shaken their pursuers off their trail. Then a mounted form
appeared in the gloom. Shining down through a tangle of tree
limbs, moonlight gleamed on bits of bare bone showing through
holes in withered flesh
Hoping neither the horselord nor its mount had spotted their
quarry, Gardek took cover behind a tree. Milo and Pog did the
same.
But evidently it had spotted someone. Metal clinked as the
undead rode forward.
Gardek stepped out into the open. Apparently he was the one
the rider had noticed. It was cantering straight at him.
He scrambled under some branches that hung low enough to
hinder a creature on horseback. The horselord turned, raised a
rusty, notched sword and kept coming. Apparently it didn’t think
the limbs would hamper it all that much.
Milo burst from cover and ran in on the undead’s flank. The
horselord twisted in the saddle to face him. Stopping a couple
strides out of sword range, the alchemist discharged a stream of
acid from his sprayer.
Decayed flesh foamed and ran. Stinging fumes flooded Gardek’s
eyes with tears. Blinking them away, he rushed the horselord, but
what remained of rider and steed collapsed an instant before he
came into striking distance and didn’t move thereafter. Though he
knew it was foolish, he felt cheated.
Milo hefted his weapon and said, “That drained too much of
the reservoir, but it was quieter than you and the creature beating
on one another’s armor.”
“True,” Gardek said. “Let’s—”
Gunshots banged behind them. They spun around.
Another horselord had emerged from the murk behind them
and ridden at Pog. The gobber emptied his repeating pistol at the
oncoming threat, and the skeletal steed fell. The rider, however,
crawled clear, sprang to its feet, and rushed Pog with mace in
hand.
Pog squawked and backpedaled. Gardek charged past him and
intercepted the dead thing.
The creature swung the mace, Gardek blocked, and the blow
clashed on the kite shield. Striking back, he smashed through mail
and the ribs beneath.
The blow would have dispatched a living man, but it didn’t
finish the horselord. The dead man feinted to one side, struck to
the other, and the mace smashed against the shoulder of Gardek’s
weapon arm. Metal rang, and his hand spasmed. The war hammer
slipped from his grip.
At once, the horselord raised the mace to renew the attack in
BLACK CROWNS | 271
this moment of vulnerability. Gardek lunged at it and smashed

his shield into its eyeless, noseless horror of a face with every iota
of his strength.
The creature fell and lay motionless. The blow had crushed its
rusty helmet with its ratty feather plume and the skull inside.
“Is your arm all right?” asked Pog.
Gardek took a fresh grip on the war hammer and tried to lift
it. He could. His armor had evidently spared him a broken bone.
Still, a pang of ache warned of bruising and swelling to come, and
he wondered how ably he would wield the weapon henceforth,
and for how long.
“Milo,” he said, “now I’ll take a dose of your painkiller.”
As the little alchemist handed over the vial, he said, “That last
fight wasn’t quiet.”
“I’m sorry,” Pog said. “Once the horselord came at me, I didn’t
know what else to do.”
“You did the only thing you could do,” Gardek said. He drank
Milo’s bitter-tasting drug. The effect was immediate but not as
potent as he’d hoped. It dulled but didn’t erase the pains in his
battered arm and leg. “Reload, and then we need to keep moving.”
They did, and for a minute, it appeared the commotion had
gone unheard. Then, just barely discernible, a dark rider appeared
along the ridge on one side of the low ground. After a few seconds,
another joined the first, and not long after that, a third appeared
on the opposite rim.
When there were half a dozen, they started down.
•••
AS MORE OF THE ENEMY PASSED THE BRICKWORK CORNER and

turned to face the four people who’d hoped to hide within the
angle, Eilish reflected that the vestigial structure now felt less like
shelter and more like the anvil against which a hammer composed
of horselords and the Cryxians he glimpsed among them would
shortly smash him and his companions.
Perhaps Morthis had been observing the cavalry exercises when
the bombardment began, and as most of the horselords galloped
off to find the source, he’d held some back along with whatever
Cryxians were attending him. Then they’d come to verify that all
was well at the mass grave, the source of their burgeoning army.
Eilish rattled off an incantation, and a coolness flowed over
his body to provide an additional layer of armor. It was doing the
same for his friends. They needed every advantage his magic could
give them.
He and Natak formed a sad little battle line of sorts partway
down the angle with Colbie and Canice behind them. The gun
mage fired so rapidly it sounded like she had repeating pistols.
Clearly, she meant to hit as many of the enemy as possible in this
final moment before they rushed the Irregulars’ position.
Striding on black metal legs, a bonejack was the first to charge.
The enormous visage projecting in front of the rest of it was a
gnashing complexity of alligator-like jaws surrounded by serrated
mandibles with buzz saws spinning underneath.
Colbie’s slug gun boomed, and the round broke open a ragged
hole in the center of the mouthparts. The automaton stumbled.
Eilish hurled a blue flash of power into the breach, and Canice’s
pistols banged as she presumably tried to shoot through the
opening as well.
Apparently one attack or another reached the cortex. The
bonejack shuddered and froze in place, green arcane energy
flickering around its head in a useless discharge.
Eilish grinned. The wrecked ´jack had just become a rough-
and-ready fortification. The enemy would have to maneuver
around the sides of it to attack, which meant fewer could come
at once.
Still, come they did, relentlessly. Horns curving from its brow
and spurs from the backs of its hands, one of the corrupted Cryxian
trollkin called bloodgorgers swung a battleaxe at Eilish. Evading
the attack with a twist of his shoulders, he thrust his sword at the
creature’s throat. The creature blocked the counterattack.
They traded cuts and thrusts for several moments thereafter.
Finally Eilish feinted high and sliced low with a drawing cut to the
side of the knee. Blood spurted, and the Cryxian dropped.
BLACK CROWNS | 273
But it didn’t collapse sprawling and helpless as Eilish expected.

It dropped onto the injured knee and spun the battleaxe at him.
Catching him by surprise, the cut struck him in the chest and
staggered him. Only his breastplate and his armoring enchantment
kept it from cleaving his vitals.
He struggled to regain his balance and assailed the bloodgorger
anew. In the exchanged that followed, he stabbed it three times in
the torso before it finally pitched forward onto its face.
The instant it did, an undead steed clambered over the body,
and the rider cut at Eilish. He hitched back, and the slash fell
short by an inch. He hacked at one of the mount’s forelegs, it
dropped, and he kept slashing and stabbing until he dispatched it
and its master, too.
He hadn’t used spells in either duel because he was hoarding
his mystical strength to smite foes he had scant hope of killing
with a blade. One in particular.
Granted a momentary respite, he peered through the gap
between disabled bonejack and vine-covered wall. A shadow
wearing a crown appeared amid the milling confusion of the enemy.
The necromancer moved his hand through a serpentine vertical
pass. He was taking his time with his casting. He must not realize
that any of the Irregulars had picked him out.
Manipulating arcane symbols in his head, Eilish pointed his
sword. An azure bolt of power flashed across the battlefield and
struck the other wizard in the chest. The Cryxian threw back his
head as he collapsed, whereupon Eilish discerned that he was
beardless and thus not Morthis.
A Satyxis rushed Eilish with scimitar in hand. He fenced with
her for a moment, and then Colbie strode up on the Cryxian’s
flank and bashed in her horned head with her ´jack wrench.
Apparently the captain was out of rounds for the slug gun, and
surely, firing fast as she was, it wouldn’t be long before Canice ran
out of cartridges, enchanted and otherwise.
The enemy drove in, and despite his resolve to conserve his
magic, Eilish had to conjure another cinder cloud to ease the
pressure. As the smoke and ash billowed into being, Morthis
strode into view to stand at the rear of his troops.

The figure must be Morthis because was wearing the third black
crown, but he was otherwise unrecognizable. Some necromantic
power he’d unlocked, or perhaps the Dragonfather’s blessing
working from afar, was well on the way to transforming him
into a being fit to command an undead horde or rule a Cryxian
territory in his master’s name.
He was now taller even than Gardek or Natak and inhumanly
gaunt. His flesh was rotting away, white eyes like pearls or the
moon overhead shining from pockets of decay. Newly grown
thorns and daggers of bone jutted through his skin, and, likely
to accommodate all the changes, he’d dispensed with most of his
clothing. The belt cinched tight, new holes surely bored down its
length, only his breeches remained.
“You,” Morthis said sounding surprised. His voice was one
thing that wasn’t different, although it was unnatural that Eilish
could hear it despite the din of combat.
Eilish snarled an incantation. Floating blue glyphs glimmered
around him, and yellow flame roared up from the ground around
Morthis’s feet. The necromancer, however, betrayed no signs of
distress, and when the blaze winked out of existence an instant
later, he wasn’t burnt.
Warded against fire, then. Eilish started casting a bolt of force,
and a dismounted horselord charged him. Colbie intercepted the
creature and smashed it back into death with clanking blows from
the ´jack wrench.
Eilish hurled the flare of power. It rocked Morthis two stagger-
steps backward, but that was all. Though the necromancer was
evidently vulnerable to pure violent force, Eilish’s magic seemed
incapable of evoking enough of it.
He tried to think of something else to try and then caught
sight of a round object lying in the weeds at the edge of the mass
grave. It was hard to be certain at a distance, but it looked as if one
of Milo’s bombards had fallen without exploding.
Working new magic by thought alone, feeling the pang in the
core of him that warned he was nearing his limits, Eilish grabbed
BLACK CROWNS | 275
the object with his mind and rolled it up to rest just behind
Morthis’s feet. It was a bomb.
The Cryxian didn’t appear to sense anything amiss. Why
should he? He probably assumed Eilish had just wasted another
spell that had proved as impotent as the two that preceded it.
Well, they were about to discover just how harmless it had been.
Eilish concentrated, and then Morthis raised his hand. Magic
jerked Eilish off his feet and flung him at the nearer wall. Either
the necromancer did recognize the threat or he’d simply grown
bored with watching his foe struggle to no effect.
Eilish’s head banged against the brick. He dropped to the
ground and struggled to focus his thoughts anew despite the
stunning jolt and ensuing pain.
Unfortunately, Morthis wasn’t finished with him. The Cryxian’s
magic seized him again, this time by the throat, constricting his
windpipe and grinding him against the wall simultaneously.
The punishment was too much. Though Eilish strained, he
couldn’t properly manipulate the complex cognitive elements that
combined to form a spell. Meanwhile, his ears rang, his field of
vision narrowed, and pressure swelled inside his head.
Canice rushed up, stood over him, extended her arm, and fired
a magelock. She’d had at least one rune shot left after all, and a
corona of yellow flame sprang up around the bomb. A second
later, it exploded.
The blast tore Morthis’s legs and left arm off. What was left of
him fell to the ground…and then raised itself up on its remaining
hand.
For a second, Eilish felt despair, and then he thrust that
useless emotion away. He was wheezing, but he wasn’t strangling
anymore, and Milo’s bomb had done more than rip off three of
Morthis’s limbs. The Cryxian’s torso was a shambles of broken
ribs and ragged, bulging viscera. Eilish hurled a bolt of force at
the damage.
His power punched a head-sized hole all the way through
Morthis’s body, obliterating organs and smashing away a section
of spinal column in the process. The necromancer fell back down
on his face and didn’t raise himself again.

In a just world, that would have finished the battle. Following
the destruction of their commander, the rest of the enemy would
have retreated in dismay. Instead they kept driving in at the
Irregulars while, backlit by the green haze above the pit, still more
horselords cantered into view behind them, turned their mounts,
and waited for the moment when they too could join the battle.
Natak bled copiously from the old gash over his ribs and two
new ones, one in his brow and another in his thigh. Colbie had
somehow escaped injury as of yet, but she was gasping as badly
as Eilish was. Canice fired her little holdout pistols, stuffed them
back in her greatcoat pockets, and drew her dagger.
Eilish was still weak and half starved for air, but he found his
sword where it had fallen and clambered to his feet. Though he
and his friends had stopped the reanimation effort, it seemed clear
they were nonetheless about to perish, and he wanted to go down
fighting alongside the others.
Then, as he lifted the sword, it occurred to him that at this
moment, no one was wearing a black crown, and he had one of
the artifacts in his possession.
“Hold them!” he cried. He turned, snatched up the diadem
where he’d left it on the ground, and clapped it on his head.
At that instant, his mind made connection with something
that was neither conscious nor alive but nonetheless a reservoir
of concept and an engine of cognition. Its process poured into
his head and swept his own thoughts into disarray. He cried out,
staggered, and nearly fell.
He struggled to make sense of the strangeness howling through
his mind. His initial fragmentary gleaning triggered loathing and
stung the back of his mouth with bile. The necromantic energy
with which the Cryxians had turned the crown to their purpose
was vile.
In front of him, Colbie, Canice, and Natak fought savagely
but nonetheless gave ground before the enemy’s onslaught. Eilish
struggled to push through his revulsion and clearly perceive the
workings of the crown. No matter how foul, necromancy was
BLACK CROWNS | 277
an arcane discipline, and curse it, he was an arcanist! No such

operation was beyond his comprehension.
Abruptly, as if he’d banished it by force of will, his instinctual
loathing fell away, and then he perceived a matrix of mystical
symbols. The arrangement was unfamiliar, the key to a magic he’d
never encountered before, but he should be able to unlock the
combination in somewhat the same manner that a mathematician
simplified and solved an equation. He set to work.
Colbie leaped backward to avoid a scimitar cut, tripped over
Eilish, and fell on her back. The Satyxis she was fighting lunged
forward to take advantage of her vulnerability. Though fighting a
horselord foe of his own, Natak flicked his battleaxe to the side
and felled the horned creature with a chop to the spine.
At the same moment, with a flash of elation, Eilish grasped how
the symbols interrelated. He visualized their proper resolution,
and the black crown gave itself over to his command. When it
did, he felt the ethereal bonds connecting it to all the undead
reanimated by its power or the magic of one of the artifacts like it.
“Horselords!” he shouted. “Kill the Cryxians!”
Instantly, one of the undead riders turned its mount and swept
its sword down between a surprised Satyxis’s horns. Another
horselord thrust its lance into a bloodgorger’s back.
With the reanimated Umbreans switching sides, the pressure
on the Irregulars eased. A few Cryxians still assailed them. Perhaps
they hoped that if they divested Eilish of the crown, the horselords
would revert to their former condition. But he and Colbie rejoined
the battle line, and they, Canice, and Natak managed to defend
themselves until the last of the Dragonfather’s servants fell.
In the silence that followed, the surviving horselords turned
toward Eilish. He felt the expectancy manifest in their attention.
“They’re waiting for your next order,” Colbie panted.
“I have one,” Eilish replied. “All of you, go to your rest! Be
finally, truly dead!” As he spoke, he felt the force of the command
radiating outward and was thrilled by the strength of the magic.
Riders slumped in the saddle, and their steeds collapsed beneath
them. Within a few seconds, they all lay inert on the ground.
•••
POG WANTED TO SHOOT at one of the oncoming horselords, but

he had to wait for it to gallop closer. Otherwise, he would almost
certainly miss.
He, Milo, and Gardek were standing in a circle, all facing
outward so someone could fight enemies coming from any
direction. Pog was keenly aware of being the weak link in the
defense, not that it was likely to matter in practical terms. Even if
he’d had Doorstop to command, sheer weight of numbers would
have enabled the undead to prevail eventually.
Milo’s cloak flapped. A moment later, a flash and a bang
revealed that he’d thrown a grenade.
“That was the last bomb,” the alchemist said. “You remember
when I said I hate the rest of you?”
“Yes,” Gardek said.
“Well, I hate Llael, too.”
The trollkin chuckled.
Two horselords were riding at Pog. He decided the one in the
lead was close enough. Trying to shoot in the relaxed, unhurried
way Canice had taught him, he emptied the repeating pistol at the
rider’s undead mount.
That steed fell. The horselord behind it was still coming with
its mace raised high. Pog stuck his hand in his coat pocket for
more cartridges and then remembered there weren’t any.
He dropped the pistol and snatched out his trench knife. Just
as the rider was about to close with him, he lunged forward in
hopes of catching it by surprise. He dived under the steed and
slashed at its foreleg at the spot where cannon met pastern, a
target that looked like exposed bones barely held together with
strands of shriveled flesh.
The blade missed, and he thumped down on his belly. The
mount reared and brought its front hooves hammering down,
then did the same again. It was trying to smash him with them.
Before it could, it toppled over sideways, uncovering Pog and
affording him an unobstructed view of his surroundings. Milo
had his arm extended, and the undead steed had some—maybe
BLACK CROWNS | 279
all—of his throwing knives stuck in it, one in the eye and three
in the neck.
The rider sought to squirm out from underneath his mount.
Gardek pounded its head into a splash of rot before it could.
Meanwhile, another horselord was charging up behind him.
Pog drew breath to yell a warning even though it was likely too
late.
Gardek didn’t need a warning. He spun, caught the rider’s
sword stroke on his shield, bashed him out of the saddle, and
felled the undead mount with a blow to the base of the head.
The trollkin limped around the equine’s carcass to strike the
rider but failed to reach the undead before it sprang to its feet
and raised its sword anew. Milo slapped at his bandoliers and
pockets, evidently seeking anything he had left that could serve as
a weapon. Dozens of horselords poured down the slopes.
This is the end, Pog thought. He took a fresh grip on the
trench knife.
Then, not all at once but nearly so, the charging undead
slowed, tottered, and fell. Some that had been racing down the
sides of the little valley tumbled and slid. In a few moments,
nothing remained of the horde but motionless bodies and the
carrion stench hanging in the air.
Gardek smiled. “Eilish’s doing. Had to be.” He glowered at his
companions. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
— 18 —
COLBIE SMILED TO SEE DOORSTOP laboriously stand up in the

thicket, then chuckled when Pog threw his arms around one of
the steamjack’s legs. She understood his sentiments perfectly.
“Hooray,” Milo said sourly. “The ´jack’s still here. Too bad the
boats aren’t.”
“We more or less expected that,” Colbie said. “We’ll make it
back to Cygnar somehow.” Either on horseback or by purchasing
passage on a Rhulfolk trading vessel headed south.
“We could have sold the boats for a tidy sum,” Milo replied,
refusing to be mollified, “and now we’re going to throw more
money away?”
“At least we got Mr. Goncal his books and papers,” Gardek
said. The Irregulars had discovered them in the largest of the tents
near the mass grave. “The pay for those will keep you in acids and
whatnot for a while.”
“But we could make so much more!” the small man said.
“That’s true,” Eilish said. “Even more importantly, destroying
the crowns would be a tragedy for scholarship.”

Colbie stared at him in surprise. “But you’re the one who told
the rest of us the crowns are too dangerous to exist. You said any
arcanist could use them to whistle up an undead army in Llael.”
Eilish blinked and for a moment wore an expression of
befuddlement that was quite unlike him. “Of course,” he said, “I
did say that, didn’t I, and it’s entirely correct. The crowns do have
to go. I…I don’t know what got into me just now.”
Colbie looked Doorstop over and decided he’d worked up a
good head of steam. “Come,” she said. “You had a nice long rest
while the rest of us worked. Let’s see if you remember how to
swing that mace.”
Eilish found a flat rock, opened the sack he carried, and set the
three black crowns on the stone. On Colbie’s command, Doorstop
smashed them to pieces. Disturbed by the banging, birds fluttered
up from the trees around them.
Eilish picked up one of the fragments and displayed it to reveal
the yellow gleam under the surface layer of black. “Gold,” he said,
“and I’ll wager that if an alchemist of your caliber melts it down,
he can make every trace of the stain disappear.”
“At which point,” Milo said, “I’ll have something worth a
pittance compared to intact treasures from ages past.” He sighed.
“Still, I suppose it’s something.”
•••
AS CANICE WATCHED DOORSTOP bashing the crowns, she sensed

Natak eying her. She looked up at him. “What?”
“Does it bother you to see them destroyed?” Natak asked.
“They are Llaelese relics and all that.”
She snorted. “Not at all. Good riddance.”
The ogrun hesitated. “You just seem quiet. Thoughtful.”
“You have got to get over caring what goes on inside other
people’s heads. It doesn’t suit you.”
Natak leered. “Trust me, I’m working on it. Still…you’re all
right?”
“Better than. Now I know Ninette doesn’t hate me. I think
BLACK CROWNS | 283
even Dyrmyd forgave me before we parted, and if I owed Llael a

debt of service, by Markus’s sword, I’ve paid it. I’m ready to put
this place behind me.”
Behind her, something rattled. Reaching for a magelock, she
turned, but the noise was only a squirrel bounding along the
outstretched branch of a poplar.
— ABOUT THE AUTHOR —
Richard Lee Byers is the author of almost forty fantasy books and
horror novels, including a number set in the Forgotten Realms
universe. A resident of the Tampa Bay area, the setting for many
of his horror stories, he spends much of his free time fencing and
playing poker. Friend him on Facebook, follow him on Twitter,
and read his blog on Livejournal. His first book in the Black
River Irregulars series, Black Dogs, is available from Skull Island
eXpeditions (skullislandx.com and store.privateerpress.com).
Available Now from Skull Island eXpeditions
Black River Irregulars I: BLACK DOGS

by Richard Lee Byers
I n the Undercity of Corvis, where mercenaries and criminals blur the lines
between them, a ruthless crime lord has made a bold move to establish a
stranglehold on Corvis’ underworld and make it his own.
When Canice Gormleigh becomes the target of a brutal foreign crime
syndicate called the Black Dogs, Colbie Sterling and the rest of the Black River
Irregulars are prepared to defend her. Yet what begins as a simple bodyguard
assignment turns personal when the syndicate, led by the vengeful underboss
Ivan Varnek and a strange mother-son duo, marks the Black River Irregulars
as the sole remaining obstacle keeping the Black Dogs from taking over the
Undercity…and then the city of Corvis itself. Where other underworld gangs
have negotiated, surrendered, or fled from the Black Dogs, the Black River
Irregulars will stand and die instead…
WICKED WAYS: An Iron Kingdoms

Chronicles Anthology
by Matt Goetz, Zachary C. Parker, Aeryn Rudel, Michael G. Ryan, Douglas
Seacat, and Matthew D. Wilson
S inister forces lurk in the corners of the Iron Kingdoms—restless souls,

mischievous and cunning creatures, darker beings that bargain for mortal
souls. Most pass unmarked, shunned, or avoided, but there is one group willing
to seek out and study what others fear.
In abandoned halls and forgotten ruins, the investigators from the
Strangelight Workshop illuminate the darkness, armed with wisdom, curiosity,
and specialized tools. The Workshop employs an odd blend of scientists,
mercenaries, and occult explorers who seek to understand the unfathomable,
to peel back the veil between life and death to commune with spirits haunting
places beset by tragedy and madness. But now one team is about to step off the
precipice when they learn of a malevolent plot to unravel all they have done and
to harvest the souls of all humanity.
Something cruel awaits them. Something vile. Something wicked.
skullislandx.com

Blackriverirregulars Blackcrowns PDF

Hochgeladen von

Dokumentinformationen

Originaltitel

Copyright

Verfügbare Formate

Dieses Dokument teilen

Dokument teilen oder einbetten

Freigabeoptionen

Stufen Sie dieses Dokument als nützlich ein?

Sind diese Inhalte unangemessen?

Copyright:

Verfügbare Formate

Blackriverirregulars Blackcrowns PDF

Hochgeladen von

Copyright:

Verfügbare Formate

BLACK CROWNS

THE BLACK RIVER IRREGULARS II

Copyright © 2017 by Privateer Press, Inc.

Published in the United States by Skull Island eXpeditions,

Printed in the United States of America

First Paperback Edition

Book design by Richard Anderson

The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro

For Jack and Marna

Thanks to Aeryn Rudel, my first editor at Privateer Press, and

IT SEEMED TO MILO BOGGS THAT THERE were two kinds of people

Colbie Sterling, mechanik, ´jack marshal, and Captain of the

An arched tunnel ran through the wall, and three guards in

tens of thousands of hostile soldiers and the concentric rings

“Lawgiver, Lawgiver, Lawgiver, Lawgiver! Your might is strong…

notwithstanding, the crusaders could hypothesize a day when the

The Irregulars traversed the plaza that separated the palace

KNEELING ON A FLOOR pale with flecks of plaster, Canice peeked

the Iron Kingdoms regarded the Llaelese as overly fond of their

but functional black plate. Milo’s dark leather combat alchemist’s

her companions couldn’t tell and envied them their composure.

because they wanted a doorway widened or some ornamental

and shrugged his vestments on again. Then all four mercenaries

of place, less common than burn-spotted leather aprons and

creak of leather sounded from the top. Individuals in armor were

steps with their own priestess—and, presumably, current leader—

LAVORO GONCAL WAS EVIDENTLY FOND of the color green in

Headless Harper, her comrades eyed the Ordic gentleman with

She made introductions, ordered the newcomer a goblet of red

yesterday is commonplace today and obsolete tomorrow.” He

LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, CANICE HAD HER HABITS. Some were

“Because you decided I am. It doesn’t mean there’s some

AS THE CRUSADERS LEVELED THEIR WEAPONS and rushed forward,

consternation turned their charge into a frantic scramble to escape

He felt as if he’d simply recognized exactly what to do and was

pistol, discharged it, returned it to its holster or pocket, and

and were expeditiously accounting for the rest. Colbie’s swinging

soldiers, stepped up beside him. Metal clicked as she loaded a

AS CANICE AND HER COMPANIONS worked their way up through

any pursuers catching up to them and without discovering people

The Sul-Menite hesitated. Then he said, “I need to see written

She didn’t know precisely where the Irregulars had ascended in

expected, it emitted a puff of smoke and thickened into pale,

hadn’t seen them garbed in vestments hitherto, and, if he wasn’t

The sentries allowed them through after only a perfunctory

HIS HANDS ON THE HELM, Gardek Stonebrow scrutinized the broad

They were doing so in the same way they’d traveled north, in

studied the stolen—or rather, recovered—books and papers.

“Does it say where to look?”

Eilish looked and then stiffened. “No! They’re now moving

AN EXPLOSION ERUPTED IN THE FRONT OF THE BOAT. Framed in the

up the pilothouse and hammered him with the flying wreckage.

wielding it before the Satyxis stabbed him in the neck.

full-bearded face currently frowning with impatience or some

From our own store of knowledge amassed through the centuries,

say so lest the Cryxians turn the information to some genuinely

disappointment on his prisoners, but realistically, their prospects

COLBIE LAY ON HER STOMACH and watched the two boats

“Wait!” Milo called. “The Cryxians could have left a bomb

THE ENGINE ROOM WALL had a couple splintery holes in it,

bombs, these with the clockwork timers he preferred for most

NATAK VOLUNTEERED TO SLAUGHTER the unconscious crusaders.

the diffidence that still sometimes constrained him when bigger,