The Molekin caravan arrived the city of Bastion.
The twelve laborers looked over their shoulders at the mountain pass as if the stones themselves were chasing them.
Krug met them at the Smeltery gates. He was busy. The forge was roaring, and he was overseeing the casting of new heavy shields for the Shell-Kin.
"Iron," the Lead Molekin panted, dropping his crate. "Delivery. Done."
Krug looked at the shoddily stacked crates. "You rush. Why?"
"The Wolf," the Molekin squeaked, pointing a trembling claw back toward the canyon. "The Big Warlord. He tried to kill us. But the Stone Mother... she ate him."
Krug paused. "Ate him?"
"Boxed him," the Molekin clarified, making a crushing motion with his hands. "Stone grew. Trapped him. He is screaming in the canyon."
Krug's violet eyes narrowed. He looked up at the sky, half-expecting a command from Red. The Void was silent. The God was watching, but the hand was stayed. 'Figure it out,' the silence seemed to say.
Krug grinned. He looked at the shadows near the Temple wall, where a brooding figure stood sharpening a spear that had never tasted blood.
"Iron-Scale!" Krug barked.
The Inquisitor looked up. The shame of the North still hung on him like a heavy cloak.
"The Warlord who laughed at you," Krug said, pointing to the mountain. "He is stuck in a rock. Go get him."
Iron-Scale's eyes lit up with a cold, nasty light. "He is... stuck?"
"Bring him back," Krug ordered. "Alive. We need to ask him about his steel."
Iron-Scale stood up. He didn't call for a squad of warriors. He didn't ask for backup. He pointed to the largest shape in the Heavy Infantry district.
"Old-Shell," Iron-Scale hissed. "Wake up. We have heavy lifting."
Two miles up the pass, the silence of the canyon was being murdered by the sound of steel on stone.
CLANG. CRUNCH. CLANG.
Inside the stone prison Gorr had created, Warlord Gorak was losing his mind. The claustrophobia was a physical weight. The air was hot, smelling of sweat and panic.
"Push!" Gorak roared at his two guards. "The stone cracks! Push!"
They slammed their shoulders against the jagged interior. A hairline fracture appeared on the side of the conjured rock from where the sunlight filtered through.
"We are breaking it!" the guard yelled. "Another minute, Warlord!"
They prepared to ram it again.
Then, the sunlight disappeared.
A shadow fell over the fracture. Gorak pressed his eye to the crack. He expected to see a Molekin, or perhaps another rock slide.
He saw a reptilian eye. Yellow, slit-pupiled, and brimming with malice.
"You..." Gorak whispered.
"Hello, Warlord," Iron-Scale's voice drifted through the crack, soft and mocking. "You look... uncomfortable."
"Let me out, rat!" Gorak bellowed, slamming the hilt of his sword against the wall. "Face me! I will peel your skin!"
"Face you?" Iron-Scale chuckled. "Why? You are strong. I am small."
Iron-Scale remembered the lesson of the Red Spiral. The weak feed the strong. But the smart eat both.
Iron-Scale turned to the massive bulk of Old-Shell standing behind him.
"Old One," Iron-Scale commanded. "Seal it."
Old-Shell rumbled. He trudged forward. He didn't attack the stone cage. He turned around, positioning his massive, armored rear toward the fracture.
He sat down.
THUD.
The impact shook the ground. The fracture was instantly blocked by tons of organic steel and tortoise flesh.
"No!" Gorak screamed. "You coward!"
"Mud," Iron-Scale ordered.
Iron-Scale began scooping wet, heavy clay from the canyon floor. He didn't fight the Troglodytes. He simply walked around the stone cage, finding every air hole, every crack, every tiny vent where Gorak's screams were escaping.
He packed them with mud.
He wasn't fighting a war. He was sealing a tomb.
Inside, the light vanished completely. The air grew instantly stale. The two guards, already exhausted from the exertion, began to wheeze.
"Air..." one guard gasped. "Warlord... no air..."
"Dig!" Gorak screamed, clawing at the stone. "Dig!"
But you cannot dig through magic stone when the air runs out.
Outside, Iron-Scale leaned against the rock, listening. He heard the panic turn to desperation. He heard the heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor. He heard the scratching slow down.
He waited five minutes. Ten.
Gorak's immense vitality keeping him barely conscious. Iron-Scale tapped his spear on Old-Shell's shell.
"Done," Iron-Scale said. "Carry."
Old-Shell groaned. He extended his massive legs. He dug his claws into the earth beneath the stone structure.
With a groan that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting, Old-Shell heaved. The entire stone prison, which included Gorr's miracle, the three Troglodytes inside, and the rock itself was lifted off the ground.
It sat on Old-Shell's back like a grotesque, stony backpack.
"Heavy," Old-Shell complained, his beak clicking. "Meat is... heavy."
"Walk," Iron-Scale commanded.
The sun was high over Bastion when they returned to Bastion.
Red watched from the Void, a mixture of horror and impressed pride on his face.
The procession was terrifying. Old-Shell lumbered through the main gates, the ground shaking with every step, carrying a massive boulder on his back. And inside that boulder, a Warlord was suffocating.
Walking beside him was Iron-Scale. The Kobold wasn't cheering. He was eating an apple he had found, looking bored.
They reached the Plaza.
"Drop it," Iron-Scale ordered.
BOOM.
Old-Shell tilted his body, dumping the stone cage onto the pavement. The impact cracked the stone.
Krug walked over, his axe in hand. He looked at the sealed cracks. He looked at the mud.
"They dead?" Krug asked.
"Sleeping," Iron-Scale replied. "The big one is tough. He is awake."
Iron-Scale approached the cracked stone. He used the butt of his spear to chip away the dried mud from one of the air holes.
A gasp echoed from inside. A desperate, sucking intake of breath.
"You..." Gorak's voice was a broken whisper from the darkness. "You... have no... honor."
Iron-Scale leaned close to the hole, his violet eyes glowing.
"I tried honor," Iron-Scale whispered back. "I brought you a spear. You laughed. You wanted meat? Now you are meat."
Iron-Scale turned to Krug.
"He is yours, High Priest. He knows the North. Break him."
Iron-Scale walked away toward the Temple, disappearing into the shadows. He didn't need the applause. He was the Harbinger. His job was to fight the enemy and deliver them wrapped and helpless to the butcher.
Red leaned back in the Void.
"They treated a Level 45 Boss like groceries." Red whispered.
[ FAITH GENERATED (FEAR): +1,000 ]
[ NEW TRAIT UNLOCKED FOR IRON-SCALE: THE JAILER ]
Red looked at the stone box sitting in his city square.
"Alright," Red said. "Let's see what a Warlord sells for."