The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

The Inquisitives

Bound by Iron
BY
E
DWARD
B
OLME

Night of the Long Shadows
BY
P
AUL
C
RILLEY

Legacy of Wolves
BY
M
ARSHEILA
R
OCKWELL

The Darkwood Mask
BY
J
EFF
L
A
S
ALA

For my father, Donald Weston Bolme, known affectionately as “Bop” by his grandchildren: You taught me more about morality than pretty much the rest of the world combined.

My deepest gratitude to my wife, Sarah, for her patience and support in trying times.

To my editor, Mark, for working with me so hard on this and for being candid enough to say that he hates my outlines.

To Dr. John D. Butts, Chief Medical Examiner, for providing a reality check.

To Rick Sowter, Steven Wilber, and Jack Lee for being available; and to Jeff LaSala, Marcy Rockwell, and Paul Crilley for cross-promotion.

I would also like to thank the many fans who’ve written me or posted online such nice things about my previous work. I don’t do this for the compliments. I do it to bring you entertainment and a few things to think about. But such feedback is the only way I can learn about whether or not I have succeeded.

Mol, the 9th day of Sypheros, 998

T
he world crashed in on him, blinding light surging on waves of chaotic noise.

The warforged raised an arm to shield his eyes as one wall of his home swung open. He stepped out, holding his axe at the ready as he always did, as he did even in the darkness, for the world was an unpredictable beast. It was always there, lurking, waiting to strike. Every noise that dripped from it oozed peril.

He looked about at the surrounding circle of spiteful faces, and he felt awash in bloodthirsty eyes, snarling mouths, and angry fists. He turned slowly, staggering on the slanting floor, searching for the one who would try to kill him. Someone always did. Thus far he had survived the assassins, slain them, every one.

At last the warforged marked him. A human with long, unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair and a stew-matted beard. He carried a round shield in his right hand and a three-headed war flail in his left. A patchwork of scars served as his mail, crisscrossing his pale skin. He wore ragged breeches that came to just below his knees, and simple leather shoes ill suited for combat. An iron band of elegant design encircled his left arm above the biceps. As thin as the
human was, it was surprising that the armband didn’t slide off.

The human came closer, swinging the spiked heads of his weapon in a small circle. The steady centrifugal pull of the chains allowed the human to sense their position at all times, which reduced the chances that a snap strike might result in an errant flail head.

This human has been trained to kill, he thought, but I have been
forged
for this purpose.

His unblinking magewrought eyes captured every nuance of the human as he closed. The human was skilled, perhaps even had the greater skill, but it was the rare human for whom war was ingrained as tightly as it was for a warforged.

Positioning his large battle-axe defensively, he kept the aging human at bay, dodging the spiked heads of the swinging flail and allowing nothing more than a minor gouge across his expressionless metal face. He backpedaled often, forcing the human to use more energy to close the ground again. As the battle progressed, he found that he was rather familiar with his assailant’s battle technique. He had seen it twice before, demonstrated by two other humans similarly aged and armed. They had not been not quite as skilled as this one, but he had learned much from them.

He had killed them. This one he would kill too.

He feinted forward, throwing his assailant off stride, forcing him to begin his assault anew. The warforged made a deliberately errant strike. And, as he had anticipated, it drew the human into a familiar pattern of blows, a five-swing combination that made use of the swinging chains to attack the head and each side of the torso and legs in one smooth series, maximizing the momentum of the flail heads.

It was a dangerous combination. The first time it had nearly undone him. The second time he had been able to evade the worst of it. But the warforged had thought about it for many long hours in the darkness, and he knew that the third time he would prevail.

The human executed the fourth swing, the fifth … and the
warforged stepped into the blow with his battle-axe held high. He allowed the chain to wrap around his right forearm. The spiked heads smashed into his armor plating. Then he shifted his grip on the haft of his battle-axe to pin the flail heads in place, locking the human’s weapon with his.

A look of surprise crossed the human’s face. The warforged pulled, and the human reflexively yanked back, not wanting to lose his weapon. The warforged abruptly switched from a pull to a push, and the haft of his axe struck the human squarely across the chest, knocking him down.

The warforged released the grip of his right hand, allowing the human to pull the flail off. With his left, he spun the great axe around and brought it up over his head. Then, with a mighty two-handed swing aimed at the center of his supine opponent, he ended it.

The warforged yanked the heavy blade from the human’s breastbone, and took a moment to ensure that the blow had been lethal. Save for a tremor that came and left, the human lay still.

The victorious warforged looked about at the sea of faces. They were exuberant, anguished, relieved, but none were still hateful, none still looked at him.