Let’s hear it for Immoren’s Unsung Heroes? Skull Island’s latest anthology is out and Privateer Press wants you all to take a read to see what you think.
Called to Battle is a collection of stories focused on the Iron Kingdoms’ unsung heroes, its skilled mercenaries, and even the horrifying villains who haunt its darker reaches. Track a target through the frozen north with Kell Bailoch, a deadly sharpshooter who kills for the highest bidder; hunt down a group of corrupted human magic users with Narn, a merciless Iosan mage hunter; uncover a sinister sabotage plot with Arlan Strangewayes, Cygnar’s premier arcane mechanik; and endure a terrifying journey into the mind of General Gerlak Slaughterborn, a monstrous blighted trollkin with a penchant for devouring his enemies whole and screaming.
These stories draw you deeper into the wartorn landscape of western Immoren and the Iron Kingdoms, where heroes, villains, and those somewhere in between find themselves Called to Battle.
DESTINY OF A BULLET
BY LARRY CORREIA
Volgorod, Kos Volozk, Khador, 607 AR
He had once hidden in a pile of garbage for three days in order
to kill a man. That job had been completed during a summer in
Imer. It had been miserably hot, and insects had feasted on him
continuously. Stinking of filth, badly dehydrated, sunburned, and
sick, he had still made the two-hundred-yard shot on demand the
instant his target had shown his head. One round. Nice and clean.
That job had been preferable to this one. For two days and two
nights now he had hidden, watching the blank white of a high
mountain pass. He was chilled to the bone but couldn’t light a fire
for risk of being seen. It must have been because of the unrelenting
cold that he found himself thinking wistfully about the desert. The
northern woods of Khador had never been intended for man. Fools
lived here simply because they were too stupid to leave and too
stubborn to die.
He had come all this way to put a bullet into a particular one of
those stubborn fools.
Some folks called him a mercenary, others a hired gun. Most
would argue he was nothing more than an assassin. Regardless of
their opinion of how he earned his coin, everyone knew Kell Bailoch
was the finest rifleman in western Immoren. Give him a clean shot
and the gods themselves couldn’t save you.
The hard part was the waiting. The sniper let his mind wander
He had spotted them coming long before they saw him. Picking
his potential employer out from the crowd had been easy. The hooded
woman walked between two men in long cloaks. The common folk
were deferential and moved quickly out of the woman’s path. The
two men were trained killers, and they couldn’t help but act like it,
with wary eyes constantly shifting as they scanned the busy market.
Their predatory nature made them stand out among the shoppers.
Kell Bailoch preferred to blend in. It made his job easier. He kept
his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes and covered the lower half of
his face with a scarf, masking his Cygnaran features.
He stepped from the shadows and followed the three discreetly
for a time. The gently falling snow barely stifled the merchants’
enthusiasm as they loudly hawked their wares. Fall in northern
Khador was like winter in any other kingdom. Once he was certain
this wasn’t an elaborate trap and they were isolated from potential
eavesdroppers, Bailoch walked up behind the kayazy’s guards and
waited to be noticed.
It didn’t take long. The first bodyguard turned, his hand inside
his cloak and surely resting on a long dagger. The second moved
immediately in front of the woman. They were quick, but he noted
that neither looked toward the rooftops. Sloppy.
“What do you want?” the first guard demanded.
“I wish to speak with Mistress Padorin about a job,” Bailoch
answered. His Khadoran was unaccented, as bland as his appearance.
“I was informed she’s looking for me.”
The woman turned, giving him a glimpse of pale skin and blue
eyes inside the hood. She was rather young for the leader of a ruthless
trade organization. “You are the one I was told about?” she asked.
Bailoch tipped his hat. The survivors of Talon Company could
always be counted on for referrals.
“You’re shorter than I expected.” She appraised him. “Are you as
good as they say?”
“Are you as rich as they say?”
She nodded.
“Then I’m good enough.”
