Excerpt: Dreams Clad in Steel

Anyone who has ever looked into the glazed eyes of a soldier dying on the battlefield will think hard before starting a war.
~Otto Von Bismark

15th Stormbreak, 275 (220 years ago)

They called the land Ouliandris. At one time, it was said, the land was lush and green, cradled in the bowl of the ringing mountains like nourishing water in the cupped hands of a child at a stream. Humans had settled here, eking out first an existence, and soon after, a civilization of high chivalry. It was said the DuGallians got the idea for knights from the Ouliandrian cavaliers, the first horseman and minor landed gentry of it’s kind amongst humankind.
And then came the war, and it’s horrendous toll on the people of Ouliandris. The Order of Saint Hannock, the Martyred joined the crusade against the tie flings, leaving but a small force behind to guard their kingdom. It was said that it would be but a skirmish against the hellish forces from the hidden city-states of Althuland. No more than a year at most, and they would be pushed back into their caverns.
It is easy for statesmen who will never take the field say that war will be brief. They do not pay in flesh for their errors.
For ten long years the battles raged, the twisted former humans and their monstrous troops leading battle after battle against the forces of the Kingdoms. DuGallian knights; fey-blooded sorcery wielders from Aelfland and Remalkand; elven rangers from the depths of the Walderfell; even the mighty dwarven Battlesingers from the far northern kingdom of Gunnartam, across the Grey Straits came to fight them off. And still, the battles raged. There was talk the Dragonborn of Khem and the Empire of the Dying Sands were marching to war, rousted by news of the advancement of the tiefling armies.
And now, Ouliandris. A detachment of DuGallian knights was stationed in the capital of Molvaria stood upon the battlements, watching the slow advance of the teifling forces through the valley, towards the castle. They were ready for a siege, engineers having long since tunneled into the surrounding mountains for run-off aquifers and springs. Rations had been lain in long in advance, and a troop of Aelfland druids was stationed within as well, able to coach nourishing grains from even the most arid of land.
High Captain Albrecht Vinais stood on those battlements and looked down the long barrel of a dwarven invention called a Shpryglaser, a solid iron tube with cunningly polished gemstones that could make the far off appear close by. He watched the dark, hooded figures wheel something forward, large as an arbalest, but covered in what looked to be fine black silk. Shaking his head, he looked to his second in command and gestured for the trebuchet crews to prepare to bombard the tiefling army’s front lines.
Albrecht didn’t like this at all. Word had filtered from the southern tip of Baxashi that the tieflings there had used some sort of sorcerous device, and it had backlashed, exploding. It had killed every member of the tiefling army, and cut a channel through the lands of the Dragonborn that was being called the Titan’s Channel. Nothing lived in the path of the blast, it was said. Albrecht was a man of steel and strength, and had little trust for sorcery.
A sudden silence fell over the valley, and it seemed the sun grew distant, as if recoiling from the touch of a dead lover. Shadows deepened, and a chill grew upon the air. Albrecht lifted the Shpryglaser to his eye and looked. They had pulled the cloth from the device, and all that was there was a perfect cube of deepest night. Not a light shown within it. Something glimmered off the to side, and Albrecht could see the horror on the face of what had to be a tiefling officer as a something was brought near. And then, the world twisted under him.
When he regained his feet, the sun was a distant memory, and Ouliandris was no longer the place he had come to know…

8th Firehammer, 495

Victor stood up from his former crouch and surveyed the land around him. The plains surrounding Chambrais, one of the largest cities of DuGall were clear and flowing in the wind. He felt the breeze skitter across his metal and wood body, and reveled in it. Though he was made of such things, he could still feel, and were his face capable of doing so, he would have smiled.
He was a Forged, built for war and fighting. He had only been brought to activation seven years ago, but had learned and traveled much in that time. Back then, he had been named Diehard, and worked with a small company of other Forged, led by a DuGallian sergeant named Sammel. Sammel had been the first face he had seen when he was activated in the dwarven enclave within Chambrais. He had told him then that he could pick his name, and that the kingdom of DuGall had paid for him to be created. All they asked was that he serve for four years in the military, and then he would be made a free citizen.
It was customary, in truth, that all young men serve for two years in the military. They all learned the part they could play in the defense of their homelands, and many were encouraged to join a standing militia at the end of the term. DuGall had learned a hard lesson during the Godswar two centuries past. They would not be caught again.
Returning to the past from his reverie, Victor again looked out at the fields. Something was different about them. For years, Victor had gotten used to seeing ambushers around ever corner, in every shadow. It was not paranoia so much as a wariness bred from countless surprises. DuGall had used his unti for “Discreet Item Retrieval”, which was a polite way of saying, “Errand Boys”.
There had been seven of them, not counting Sammel. They had grown close in those years, forming tight bonds of friendship. Even the normally laconic and reserved Rend had his moments with them all. Rend, the Forged ranger that wished he was an elf. More memories came to him, but far off movement again brought him from the daydreaming. He pulled one of the “dwarven arrows” from his belt, a heavy but balanced throwing hammer. He drew his arm back slowly and waited.
Forged didn’t tire as easily as living beings did. It was far easier for them to focus on a single task than most things with an actual heartbeat. And so, Victor stood there, arm cocked and hammer ready, watching the fields. Something moved again, and Victor let out a soft low whistle, hoping for a head to pop up. And one did.
The hammer rolled, end over end towards the flash. With a hollow thock it struck home, and there was a thud as a body hit the ground, followed immediately by another one as the hammer succumbed to gravity. Victor strode purposefully in the direction of his throw. The setting sun shone off his metal hide, and he felt it warm him slowly. There was a satisfaction to that knowledge, that he could feel, and was not some mindless automaton like the Golems he had seen in the Grey Lands of Truroun. No, he was alive, and grateful to whatever powers watched over him for it.
He came upon his target: a husky doe. Picking up his hammer, he looked her over. She was not pregnant, nor were there signs of a fawn with her. Rend had taught him that much. Forged didn’t need to eat, but that didn’t mean that the others around them didn’t. Taking out the long, thin-bladed dirk he carried in a boot, Victor set to work field dressing the deer. The townsfolk would be happy to see the deer, and happy to know that Victor was willing to contribute to the winter stores, though he would never use them himself.
The Forged were seen as an oddity in DuGall, and all the kingdoms for that matter. Well, except for the dwarven ones, where Forged were treated immediately like equals. For the rest of the world, the Forged were a reminder of what had come about over 200 years ago, For Victor, he just wanted a place to call home.
Yes, the deer would go a long way to paving a place in Chambrais. He shouldered the burden and walked back towards where he had left his pack. As he walked, he wondered for the first time this day if Reaver, the Forged he had served with years ago, the most savage and tough fighter he had ever seen, had sent him a return letter. They had kept in touch, and always Victor awaited the missives.
It was a good day.

Victor sat in the commons room of the Jilted Goose, a taphouse on the main road in Chambrais. He had paid for a meal, since he was taking up the seat, but did not eat. Oh, he could taste the food and drink, but there was no point to it. It left his body in the same shape it entered, and did him no good.
The Forged were able to coalesce the magical energies from the world around them every day, and use them to repair and power their bodies. The dwarves had created, some two hundred years ago, towards the end of the War, a magical device they called a Herzengraf, a siphon capable of pulling only the ambient magical energy from the world, and not disrupt even nearby casters. Because of this, Forged needed only to rest for four hours a night, and could heal their form as efficiently as any other demihuman.
He watched the goings-on around him, the bustle of daily life in the taphouse and let out a huff that approximated a sigh. His thick fingers toyed with a curl of parchment on the table, the latest missive from Reaver.

Dear Victor,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am finally earning some decent coin as a mercenary here in Baxashi, settling a dispute between to warring merchant houses from Illatan. Thankfully, there is not much bloodshed to it, but it pays well, and all I have to do is go by their compounds once or twice a day to remind them that the city fathers want them to stay in line.
Speaking of money, I finally got my form altered they way I have always wanted, something more feminine. Yes, yes, I know. I am not a woman, and incapable of even imitating one, but it’s what I want. You should travel down to Vaxadriza where I am staying and visit, take a look at what I have done.
Do you find yourself thinking of the old days with the Company too? More and more frequently, for some reason, when I have time to daydream, I remember our times in Truroun, Sebaciand and Pallagius. I keep thinking of Barrage, Rend, Relic and the others. Do you ever hear from them, Victor? Me either.
I was able to pick up a new, improved axe after that last job. This one can burst into flame when I will it! I love it!
Please, come see me in Vaxadriza. I miss you and your company. I could even line work up for you here, a place to stay. Come on, come down and see me, Victor.
And I still don’t know why you don’t go by Diehard anymore. It fit you so well.
Your friend,
Reaver

He looked it over yet again, and rolled the name off his tongue. Vaxadriza. He didn’t know if he was even pronouncing it right. The Baxashians had odd pronounciations, and even other humans had trouble with some words that had a serious dearth of vowels to them. In truth, he missed Reaver greatly.
He had told no one why he had changed his name. Toward the end of his tour with the Company, he had started to experience dreams during his renewal cycle, and time and again he had heard the word victor. Sammel had told him that many times, the Gods and Goddesses would send inspiration through dreams to those they felt worthy. Victor had taken this to heart, and changed his name from Diehard to Victor, seeing it as a sign of approval from the deific beings.
The owner of the taphouse loomed over him. A clean but portly man, he leaned over and spoke quietly.
“Look, Victor, I know you paid for the meal, but… I have people complaining…”
The blowing purple spots in his faceplate turned to the man, and he shrugged, standing.
“Corm, I don’t want problems. I…I’ll just be going.”
The man looked stricken at this, and he whirled about on the party behind him, snarling.
“You’re table is ready!”
It was the same story time and again for Victor. No matter what he did, time after time, he would be asked to leave, or run out of town. Every town was the same for him. No place for a walking reminder of war.
Vaxadriza. Yes, to Hell with DuGall. He would catch the next caravan to Baxashi. Once again, it seemed, the Gods had at least given Victor a place to go, even though, for whatever reason, they denied him a home.