CHAPTER FOUR

Andover Iron Hands

The black ship remained in the deeper waters and Andover worked with the others on the small boat to row their way to the shore. Paedle loomed above them, but that no longer mattered. The god was speaking in their heads, speaking to all of them, repeating the same words again and again. THE OVERLORDS HAVE RISEN. REJOICE FOR THE TIMES OF WAR ARE UPON US AGAIN. THE GREAT TIDE WILL WASH THE WORLD IN BLOOD.

There was a small part of Andover that recoiled at the idea, but most of him did indeed rejoice. Andover had spent one year – and several lifetimes – being trained by the gods themselves. He had met each of the Daxar Taalor and been prepared for becoming their champion. He had excelled to the point that he was considered one of the finest warriors among the Sa’ba Taalor. How could he be anything other than excited by the idea of a great conflict?

Paedle called for the sailors of Wheklam’s ship to leave the waters and prepare themselves. The War-Born had awakened and they were magnificent. They were, in the words of the god, worthy opponents.

Andover crawled over the side to help pull the boat ashore. Cold water soaked his pants and boots, but he did not care. Once safely on land, he pulled a wrapped bundle of his weapons from the boat and looked toward the mountain. Turnaue, a follower of Wheklam and one of the finest fighters he had ever met, nodded, and then pulled the boat back into the waters. He and three others began rowing back toward the black ship.

Belam, one of Donaie Swarl’s closest aides, smiled and nodded as he looked up the steep slope of Paedle. From the waters, Gorwich let out a low rumble and then padded ashore. The mount was dripping water, but otherwise was in fine form.

Andover smiled and moved closer to his friend. The relationship between rider and mount was a simple one. They shared a mental connection and could speak to each other without words. Gorwich still wore his saddle, while Andover carried his collection of weapons.

Several other mounts were working their way to the shore, and there were members of the Sa’ba Taalor joining with their rides and heading for the mountain’s far side, where Turath lay buried in the side of the mountain. Turath was much like Paedle, shrouded in mystery. The depths of the city were buried in the side of the mountain, carved over the gods alone knew how many generations.

Andover had spent little time in the vast city, but he headed there now, holding on tightly to Gorwich as the mount charged quickly up the side of the forge. Gorwich grumbled amiably as he went, delighted to be off the ship where he was limited in where he could move and how fast he could travel. The black ships of Wheklam were large but there was no space for exercising and the great predatory beasts weren’t fond of being penned into small areas.

The joy of his mount infected Andover and he found himself smiling. That, and the prospect of combat. Not a few sparring contests with the Sa’ba Taalor but actual combat. A fight worth having, where the stakes were life and death.

Darity came up on his left side, riding her mount and smiling brightly. They had met on the black ship, had spoken several times, and he found her interesting. She seemed confused by him, uncertain as to whether he was Fellein or Sa’ba Taalor. That happened a lot, really. And it was something he often considered himself. He was born in Fellein, but he had been changed by his time among the Daxar Taalor and their people. The gods had trained him, had changed him, until he felt more kinship with the people of the forges than with the Fellein. That was something he sometimes had trouble admitting to himself, but it was the truth.

“We go to war, Iron Hands!” Darity called out to him and moved closer to his side. Her hair was braided and kept close to her scalp, and the Great Scar on her right cheek was opened in a dark grin. She looked happy. She looked alive, and that was the thing he liked most about her, about the Sa’ba Taalor. They were as excited by the thought of war as he was.

Would he have felt different if he had a family to worry about? He was uncertain. Possibly yes, but he would never know. He had been without any close family for most of his adult life, and while he supposed he should have felt something like loss at the idea, he was actually pleased to be without the ties that would have bound him to Canhoon or the Fellein Empire.

“War! What a glorious thought!” He laughed out loud at the notion. For five years he had trained select members of the Fellein armies in the ways of combat, trained them to think outside the limits of formal warfare, trained them to understand the Sa’ba Taalor’s ways, because he found himself adrift, nearly lost in the society that had once been his home. But now? Now he felt alive again, at the promise of warfare, of close combat and fighting an enemy capable of standing up to him. In single combat he doubted that any member of the Fellein Empire could be a true threat to him. He had been remade, shaped by gods as surely as his hands were forged by Truska-Pren.

He had more in common with the girl who rode next to him, a warrior he had known for only a few weeks, than he did with his own kind. He had been remade in the image the gods of war created for him.

That thought was oddly pleasing.

Up ahead the paths leading to Turath opened up, and he and the Sa’ba Taalor rode all the harder to reach the city, the people who waited there, gathering for war.

He was glad that the Fellein were not the target of the Sa’ba Taalor, but realized with a mild shock that he would have ridden into war against his own people.

Part of him wanted to dwell on that notion, but he brushed it aside. He would contemplate the depths of his feelings another time. For now, there was a war to consider. Seven gods had remade him in their way, and he was pleased with that notion, truly pleased by it for the first time since he had been sent to dwell among the Seven Forges.

King Swech

Paedle called for war, but he did not summon Swech to lead his armies.

Swech considered that as she stood in the throne room of Fellein’s Empress. It was where she was supposed to be. It was where Paedle wanted her. Every muscle in her body wanted to shake with repressed fury at the thought, but Swech would not permit that.

Gods do not make mistakes. She believed that. She had believed that her entire life.

Swech was not just a warrior. She was a king. She had been chosen by Paedle as the best possible commander for his followers. That was not a mistake. Could not be a mistake. But, she reminded herself, Paedle was the god of silent combat. She was trained as an assassin and Paedle chose her as one of the best possible examples of his warriors and philosophies.

She reminded herself of that fact several times through the course of another day standing in the throne room and listening to Nachia Krous rule her vast lands. The Empress was very aware of her. She spoke plainly and made her judgments, and she did so with the ruler of one of seven enemy nations in her offices.

Nachia was aware that Swech had killed her cousin and predecessor. They had spoken about the matter. She was here as proof that the Daxar Taalor wanted peace between their people. She had come here solely because the gods wanted her here, and she stayed for the same reason. She and nine of her companions and her son. They were treated well, but every day they stayed in the throne room while the Empress was present and then they were released to their quarters in the southern wing of the palace. Then, when the Fellein did whatever it was they did after the Empress dismissed them, the Sa’ba Taalor trained.

Swech knew they were watched but did nothing about it. She took care of her son, she considered Merros Dulver, and she trained while she waited for the gods to command her. For now she was to serve the Empress and that was exactly what she would do. Even if she wanted to join in the war efforts, that was not for her to decide.

Still, she found ways to keep herself busy. As she had discovered in the past there was a vast network of hidden passages in the castle. She made use of them, moving to look in on the Empress in her chamber, and on Merros Dulver in the rooms he occupied at the castle. He had other properties within the city of Canhoon, but because they were at war, or readying for war, he chose to stay at the castle in a small apartment set aside with his office in the seat of the empire. The castle was vast; there were many rooms that were effectively not used. Those rooms she studied as well as she built her mental map of the entire palace.

She might well continue with such investigations later but for now she stayed in her chamber and practiced throwing punches and kicks as she taught her son the basics of unarmed combat. Valam was learning well, but she corrected the position of his closed fist, making certain that he used the right form for maximum damage to his enemy and also the best way to avoid injuring himself. The body was a glorious weapon, but only effective if used properly.

She was surprised by a knock at the chamber door, as none of her fellow Sa’ba Taalor would bother to do so. They would have called through the closed door.

“Yes?”

“I…” She recognized the voice. “It’s Merros Dulver.” She felt the nervous flutter that he always brought to her stomach and quelled it.

“You may enter.”

Merros opened the door and looked into the room for a moment before he stepped in. His face was impassive, it may as well have been carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed how nervous he was.

It was not Swech who made him uncomfortable, at least not as heavily as Valam, the son he’d never known he had. He looked at the small boy and his eyes shimmered with excitement.

“Hello, Swech. Hello, Valam.”

Valam looked at his father with a clinical eye, as if trying to assess his strengths and weaknesses. That was as it should be. They had only met briefly after all. They did not know each other.

“Hello, Father.”

Merros had been shocked to know he had a son. Had she told him that on the field of battle she could have struck him down with the mildest of blows as he stared, amazed by the possibility of a son.

This was one of the many differences between their people. In Swech’s experience the gods decided who would have children. They had decided it was time for her to carry a child and so she had. She was grateful for the experience, of course, and happy that Merros was the father but before then had never truly considered how important that might be to him. Certainly, she had not sent him a message, or made the child known to him. Their people had been at war, and she had been spying on him when she first discovered she was with child. She had literally been placed in a different body for a time and had been uncertain if she would ever see her old body again or if the gods would allow her child to come into the world. The decision was theirs alone and she was grateful to carry Valam inside her when she was returned to her body but would have understood if they had decided he did not need to live.

She was grateful that Merros was Valam’s father, because she had a part of the man she loved to remember him by, but fathers seldom cared for their children in Sa’ba Taalor custom. They might teach a child, they might live with a mate and have children together, but the care of the child was not a consideration.

It simply wasn’t their way.

Merros stared at the boy and very nearly trembled.

“How are you this day?”

“Mother is teaching me to use the first weapon of the gods. It is a good lesson to learn.”

Merros nodded and smiled. “She is an excellent teacher. Learn your lessons well.”

“Did you come here to see your son?” Swech asked. “If you would like, I can leave you alone with him.” He was not happy to see her. He was conflicted, and she understood why. The last time they had been together had been a lie. He thought she was someone else, the widow of a man that Swech had killed, a good friend of his who had been in her way when she was trying to escape Fellein after murdering the emperor. They had been together, they had become lovers, and the guilt of sleeping with her had been a sort of torture for Merros.

Swech would never understand the complexities of the emotions the Fellein put themselves through.

“I wanted to see him, yes, but also to see you.” The general’s face flushed with red, and he looked at her with that same stony expression.

“What did you wish to say to me, Merros?”

“I’m not really sure, Swech. I don’t know how to talk to you.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Simply say what you will. They are your words, and I will hear them.”

Merros looked down at their son, before continuing in a lower tone, “I’m angry with you.”

“I know this. I betrayed you,” Swech replied, matching his tone. Although she did not care what the boy heard, it was clear that it was important to the general that this was kept between his parents. “It was what my gods commanded, and as you know, I will always obey my gods.”

“So you have said. How can I ever trust you if that is the case?”

“Only you can decide if you will trust me, but I have never lied to you.”

“You told me you were Dretta March.”

“I had all of her memories and I lived in her body. I was Dretta March.”

“You were also Swech, but you never told me that.”

“You did not ask. If you had, perhaps I would have told you.”

“Unless your gods said otherwise.”

“Yes. Always the gods are here, with me, Merros. I will never betray them. Not even for you.”

“If they told you to kill me?”

“You would be dead.”

“If they told you to kill our son?”

“He would die at my hand.” Merros stared, his eyes widening. “I have said again and again that the gods rule my life. That does not change. I would never want to hurt you. I would never want to hurt Valam, but the gods command me, and I obey,” She felt her eyes sting and forced the notion of tears aside. “I am devoted to my gods, and they have never disappointed that devotion. Not once, not ever.”

Merros stared silently and finally nodded. “Be well, Swech.” Without another word he looked away from her, stared for three heartbeats at their son and then he left her chambers.

Swech sighed and settled herself on the floor, sitting near her son by Merros. She held up her hands and stared at him. “Hit my palms.” His small hands balled into fists, and he struck her open palms with all the strength he could muster. The thick calluses on her hands took the blows easily. “Good. Again.” She nodded as he continued his lessons.

Merros Dulver would accept her devotion to the gods, or he would not. She had no control over his actions.

She pushed him from her thoughts as she had so many times before. Not even the gods could know the future. Not all of it. Not all the time. If they did, they could have saved her so much grief.

Once upon a time the gods had claimed that Merros Dulver had an important role to play in their schemes. When Drask Silver Hand first saw the man, he had spoken true words: he had told Merros that he was expected. To this day she did not know why he had been expected.

That was for the gods to know. If they felt that knowledge should be shared with her, they had not yet said so.

All things at the right time.

Drask Silver Hand

The winds of the Blasted Lands roared, spraying sand and grit and ice across the skin of the world. Drask leaned in closer to Brackka and felt the debris of the storm blow across his flesh and the inner eyelids the gods had provided for dealing with the endless storms. Around him several hundred of his people rode toward Paedle, driven by the gods to go to the aid of their kin.

The meeting with Tarag Paedori had gone better than he’d expected. His time among the Fellein might have tinted his perspective. The Fellein and the other peoples he had met across the ocean: the Dunarri; the M’butai, with their odd philosophies and familiar war-like ways; the shape-changing Harrow; and the Somar, all so different from anything he had ever encountered in his homelands or in Fellein. They almost seemed like a distant dream now, but he knew better. They were real and he expected he would see them again when he was done here. For now, however, there was a war to deal with.

Tarag Paedori led a joint force of his own people and the followers of Durhallem. Tuskandru rode to his left and Tarag rode to his right, and they moved through the perpetual storms because, through those endless winds and roaring snow, the Seven Forges were connected. Hundreds of miles became a dozen if one knew how to navigate the Blasted Lands. The Sa’ba Taalor rode through the storms as they always had, enduring the pain of cold, hard winds and ice. It was as the gods demanded and so it was done.

Drask was not a king. He had no desire to be a king. He was merely a follower of all seven gods, and favored among the gods for that reason. Ydramil was the Mirror King, the god of reflection, who sought balance in all things, and Drask, like a few hundred others, sought the same balance. He always had.

The price of forgiveness from Tarag Paedori and Truska-Pren was simple enough. He had to fight with his people against the Overlords and their new War-Born. He did not know what he would be fighting. He did not care. He would gladly join into any combat the gods demanded. He was a warrior first.

Tusk was grinning like a fool, and he held a favored weapon in his right hand, a great blade that seemed a mating of sword and axe. To his other side Stastha rode and grinned just as eagerly. They would soon be at war, killing their enemies and reaping sacrifices for the gods. What could possibly be better?

The forces behind them all rode mounts. Others would come, would find their way through the great storms of the Blasted Lands, but those who had not yet earned the honor of mounts moved at a different pace. They could not hope to keep up with the great beasts. They might well not reach Paedle before the fighting was done.

The War-Born. There were old tales of the creatures, beasts that could change their form, were born and reborn as the Overlords demanded. They were supposed to be horrors in a fight, capable of killing in a thousand different ways.

The thought excited Drask and his brethren. The Fellein might well have been terrified by the thought of the beasts, but the Sa’ba Taalor looked to war as a sign of respect to the gods, an honor.

The Fellein who was adopted by Tarag Paedori, Kallir Lundt of the Iron Face, rode close to the King in Iron. Try though he might to think of the man as a Sa’ba Taalor, he still found himself thinking of him more as a sort of mascot. Still, the Fellein had a sharp mind and a keen sense of his place among the Sa’ba Taalor. Lundt’s eyes glowed with the same slivery light as all the Sa’ba Taalor. He was short and lean but rode a mount and carried weapons forged by his own hands. In comparison to most of the people around him he looked like he had only started puberty, but his skin had gone grey, and his hands were scarred and callused as a warrior’s should be.

He looked to Drask and nodded silently, as close to a conversation as the two men had managed. In the screaming winds of the storm, it was the best they would manage without bellowing to be heard.

What a strange world they lived in. What a gloriously unusual time they were a part of. Drask found he was smiling now, as they closed in on their destination. He touched the short spear at his side, and then his silver hand drifted over to the heavy sword he so often used when fighting, He remained uncertain which weapon he would use, knowing that his mind would sort out the final choice as soon as he saw his enemy.

The War-Born. In the old tales the gods had shared with him, they were enemies worthy of respect, nightmares that killed and often ate their enemies. How could he not find them fascinating?

He had missed the last war, caught as he was in the designs of the Daxar Taalor. He hoped to earn new scars and kill endless foes in the glory of the gods. He was so very glad that they had called him home. Several of the people he’d met in Fellein would have been horrified by that notion, but they could not understand the concept of enjoying war, of savoring the chaos and the carnage.

The war horns of the King in Iron sounded, barely audible over the screams of the Blasted Lands. Drask’s pulse increased, and his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

Beside him Tuskandru leaned forward on his mount, and on his other side Tarag Paedori lowered the visor of his helmet into place, hiding his features behind the likeness of Truska-Pren’s iron face.

And a moment later they were out of the raging winds and moving across the land at the edge of Paedle, the land where the enemy was supposed to soon show itself. They moved forward, granting more room to the additional riders, and the horn blowers sounded their presence for all to hear. Almost immediately more horns blasted a reciprocal call from higher up the mountain’s slope. The forces waiting on Paedle would be joining them. War was coming and they were as ready as they could be, prepared to fight an enemy they had never seen, regardless of the shape it might take.

The War-Born did not sound horns.

They gave no warning of their presence.

They simply attacked.

Kallir Lundt

The area was very nearly lost in a thick fog. There were shadows of trees nearby, but they were only ghostly images half-obscured by the thick mists. Snow drifted lazily down from above, tainted and gray. Kallir Lundt found himself lost in that fog and simultaneously surrounded by some of the most capable fighters he had met in his entire life. Tarag Paedori was his friend and mentor, and a terror to watch on the battlefield. Tuskandru was a man that Tarag spoke of with near reverence as a warrior. He had, on several occasions, taken down a Pra-Moresh with one blow.

Now he saw Drask Silver Hand riding on his mount, and couldn’t help but stare. The man had bested Tarag Paedori in single combat, had taken down the King in Iron and made it look surprisingly easy. He was also the only man Kallir had ever seen with seven Great Scars, lined up and running in a neat row down his face.

Each god offered a Great Scar to their chosen, those who embodied their beliefs and goals the best. There were only a few people he’d ever seen with more than three of the markings. To have seven was to truly be honored by the gods.

Drask Silver Hand moved differently from others. He had a presence that seemed nearly impossible to define. He was intimidating merely because he had the markings of all the Daxar Taalor. Seven gods favored him, recognized his skills not only as a warrior, but also as someone who understood their ways.

“Can you hear them?” Drask spoke softly, but as he spoke the others quieted down, some obviously listening to his words and others listening for something else.

At first Kallir heard nothing out of the ordinary. The winds blew softly and the few trees that still had foliage sighed in the fog. And then the sounds came, soft clacking noises, like two tree branches bumping each other in the breeze, but there were more of them than should have been possible. Tiny clicks and clacks added up. They grew louder and rose as a wave rises in the ocean.

And then the sound seemed to be everywhere at once, coming from all around them. Shapes danced at the edge of the fog, almost visible and then gone when he tried to spot them properly. Whatever was out there moved in furtive motions and seemed to be the same color as the fog itself.

“They are here!” Drask dropped from his mount’s back and held his sword at the ready. The blade was heavy, but he carried it as if it weighed nothing. The others followed suit. The warriors needed to be free to move, to attack without the limitation of riding – and the mounts were more than capable of inflicting damage themselves.

Kallir dismounted, his heart beating faster. He saw nothing.

And then they came from the shroud of mists, great shapes that charged forward, moving in rapid strides even as they attacked. They were not human. They did not ride horses or mounts, but seemed instead to be demons. They had too many legs, bodies that were misshapen. Not as tall as the Sa’ba Taalor, the pale things scuttled forward and raised the great blades of their arms into the air before striking as fast as anything he had ever seen.

Kallir heard himself scream in shock. They were not what he expected. The name War-Born had him thinking of men, of soldiers as well trained as the Sa’ba Taalor. He anticipated a foe of that nature, to have a chance to defend himself from something that made sense – but the War-Born were offensive to his senses.

He had seen spiders before, had watched them with fascination as a child, but had never given them much thought beyond wondering why they had so many limbs. Now these things came for him, moving in ways that defied his senses.

The thing that came his way hacked downward with its arms, and Kallir managed to dance out of the way of those great scythes, avoiding getting cut in two, though it seemed a close thing to him. Now it was closer – too close – Kallir could make out more details. The body of the beast was a bloated mass, two thick segments that swayed over eight long limbs. The legs moved up and down in a sequence that seemed to make no sense to his eyes, and he found himself wanting to stare until he could understand how it moved, the better to predict its next attack. The body rose up in the front, a human torso attached to that bloated form. Where the arms of a man should have been there were instead the two great blades that turned even now to strike at him again. Two natural weapons that seemed as long as his spear. Rather than waiting to see where those blades would strike, Kallir stepped closer, striking with his shield, bashing himself against that obscene body mass, thrusting his spear at the misshapen head of the thing, howling his outrage at the creature as he drove the spearhead into the features.

The tip of the spear slid across the face until it struck one of the oversized eyes, where it dug into the head at last.

The creature let out an obscene shriek and Kallir felt the closest of the sword-like blades clatter down the length of his shield, narrowly missing cutting into his arm as it fell. It might have been injured, but the great thing was not dead and didn’t seem much weakened by his attack.

All around him the Sa’ba Taalor were engaging their enemies, fighting forward or in some cases retreating, maneuvering to find better positions to fight. Kallir had no time to consider any of them aside from knowing they were there. The demonic monster was coming for him again, pushing back against his shield, throwing itself toward him with feverish strength that had him sliding across the ground even as he tried to brace himself.

He stabbed forward and into the face of the thing three more times, the spear scraping against hard, armorlike flesh before puncturing the shell. Its arms rose up and came down, pulling his shield away from his body in one sudden move that left Kallir exposed on his left side. Before he could adjust, one of the organic blades slammed along his breastplate and knocked him backward, scrabbling to keep his balance. Without a doubt, they were stronger than he was, and damned fast.

Rather than risk another direct assault from the thing, Kallir twisted and drove his spear into the chest of the creature, knocking aside the arm that tried to block him and driving the point of his spear deep into the upper belly of the enemy. Once again, the tip skittered across hard armor-like flesh before finding a spot where the armor had a natural fold. Once there his strength was enough to push the tip into the flesh.

There was no chance to celebrate. Even as his spear drove deeper into the beast, one of those insane arms came down, hacking through his breast plate to the meat underneath. Kallir grunted as the serrated edge of the thing sliced into him. It was not a killing blow, but it was painful and messy. His spear struck something vital, yes, but he was deeply wounded in the process.

The spider-thing retreated, screeching, and pulled free of him, leaving a thick trail of Kallir’s blood. His own spear seemed to find only clear fluids, which made no sense to him. Was it the beast’s blood or something else? He did not know and had no time to consider the mystery before the wounded thing came for him again.

Kallir kicked the thing in the closest leg, driving his heel into the joint of the limb and hearing something crack and splinter under the impact, but the spider-thing had eight legs and the loss of one barely seemed to slow it down. It pushed closer to him and Kallir blocked the next strike with the haft of his spear before turning his body and driving the blade deep into the monster again.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that beside him one of the beasts fell and Tuskandru let out a cry of triumph, his weapon cutting the humanoid torso away from the rest of the creature. It was dead, but the body parts kept spasming even as it collapsed. Tusk stepped in closer and cut one of the arms away from Kallir’s enemy even as he continued on to find his own new opponent. Kallir had no idea if the attack was deliberate on Tusk’s part or merely an accident as he passed but he was grateful in any event.

The creature teetered as it tried to regain its balance. Kallir drove it backward with his whole body, using the spear as a battering ram of sorts, impaling the hellish thing and shoving it to the ground, his shield already forgotten in the heat of combat.

It went down and Kallir stepped past it, his eyes seeking the next enemy.

They were everywhere, moving over everything, it seemed. One of the Sa’ba Taalor took a double strike to the chest and the scythes of his enemy ran through his body, cutting clear through the man. He did not so much as scream before he fell back, dead.

Kallir took advantage of the moment and rammed the tip of his spear through the neck of the thing with enough force to nearly behead it. He yanked his spear back and spun to the left in time to avoid the next of the beasts as it charged for him.

A woman he did not recognize struck one of the things in the head and caved in its skull even as the beast was moving toward Kallir. He didn’t have time to acknowledge her help before the next was on him, hammering down with those double blades that passed for hands, making him dance backward to avoid being cut wide open. The spear jabbed forward but skittered off the natural armor.

To his right, Tarag Paedori hacked through both arms of one of the things that tried to stop his great sword. He slammed his armored form into the monster and sent it backward even as he swept his sword around for another strike. The blade was a terrifying weapon in the giant’s hands, and he knew how to use it. He was not as fast as some of the others, but the weapon cleaved his enemies in twain when it landed and the King in Iron knew exactly how to wield his weapon of choice.

Kallir registered more Sa’ba Taalor coming down from the mountainside, riding into the melee with battle cries and horns adding to the sounds of combat. He had to hope that, although the spider-things were everywhere, they didn’t outnumber the gray-skins.

Great mounts and their riders descended, the mounts leaping and taking advantage of the height to let them land on the War-Born nightmares, claws rending, teeth biting down even as their riders used spears and lances to further the attacks on the spider-things. The War-Born did not retreat but, when they saw the enemy coming, they chose instead to rear up, lifting half of those oddly bloated bodies into the air and using their forelegs to push back against the descending enemies before striking with their scythe-arms. Some went down in a crash of fury and others struck true, cutting into the sides or bellies of the mounts, wounding in some cases, killing in others.

It was not an easy fight and there was no way to know who might be winning when Kallir was desperate to stay alive himself. They seemed to attack from every direction at once, the legs of the things clattering and clicking as they approached and then crawled over whatever got in their way.

Kallir had trouble catching his breath, keeping his calm as the things continued to press in on him and the surrounding Sa’ba Taalor.

Not far from him, Drask Silver Hand calmly, efficiently, beheaded one of the War-Born. His sword took the thing’s head as he slid past, then the weapon arced forward and dug into the chest of the next in line as the man breathed smoothly and struck again.

Tuskandru hopped down on another of the nightmares, his blade carving into the lower part of the humanoid form perched above that bloated spider-like lower body. He ripped the weapon free and struck again in almost the same spot, like a woodsman taking down a tree. He also moved back as the very same creature tried to impale him.

Desta let out a scream as one of the damned things cut along her left arm. Her right hand held a war hammer that pounded through the thing’s natural armor and pulped the face of the monster.

Tarag Paedori took longer to strike, but, again, cleanly cut the nightmare he was fighting into two parts.

All this continued around Kallir as he fought his own desperate battles. He rammed his spear into the chest of the beast in front of him, and let out a scream as the staff of his weapon splintered. Enough! He would use his axe; he would kill until all of the damned things were dead and twitching in the dirt.

Four mounts jumped over him, one after the other, leaping high enough to clear even Tarag’s great sword before they landed on their enemies, smashing them down with their weight, roaring out battle cries even as their riders did the same. Claws crashed down, teeth slammed around limbs, and weapons drew harsh lines across natural armor.

One of the things struck first, opening a mount from sternum to crotch and was nearly drowned in the viscera that spilled from the wound. The mount let out a small sound and died, collapsing on its enemy, half crushing the thing in its death throes.

Slash, slash, slash. Parry, block, dodge. Kallir ceased any attempts at seeing his surroundings as more of the damnable things came at him in a concentrated attack. There was no time to think, only to react.

His arms were shaking from exertion, but he forced himself to continue, because to do otherwise was a death sentence.

Someone smashed into him from the left and he staggered, confused by the sudden collision. Tarag Paedori moved in close to him, one thick arm reaching past him to grab at something, and then the man was swinging his preposterously large sword, narrowly missing Kallir and hacking into one of the things. The creature shrieked as the sword did its damage; Kallir’s axe completed the job.

Another of the Sa’ba Taalor moved past him. At first Kallir thought he was looking at Drask – the man had the same line of Great Scars across his mouth, lined up the same way. Another of the people who followed all seven of the Daxar Taalor.

This one used his hands to pummel one of the War-Born, driving his left fist through the hard carapace of the thing, pounding the creature hard enough to break that natural armor and then grabbing a handful of whatever was inside of it and ripping back, taking meat and entrails with him when he pulled. The creature never even screamed. Before it could, the other hand was driving down, carving a trench through the thing’s head.

And then something hit Kallir in the back of his head and he fell, his face slamming into the rocks and soil, a great weight pressing him mercilessly to the ground.

Drask Silver Hand

More war horns, more of the Sa’ba Taalor arriving to fight the War-Born.

Drask welcomed them. There were plenty of the enemy for everyone to fight, and even with his abilities they were a brilliant, beautiful threat. His body ached, his pulse raced, his eyes tried to look everywhere at once, and he was aware in ways that would have baffled most of his people. Whatever the gods had done to him, it let him sense so much more than most did. He could have ended the entire conflict easily, but that was not what the gods wanted. They wanted war. They wanted bloodshed, and so he honored that wish as best he could and fought a mundane battle.

The sword in his left hand cut deep, and his right hand blocked another slicing attack from one of the bladed limbs of the War-Born in front of him. The thing had just landed on Kallir Lundt, slammed him to the ground with ease and one of the creature’s arms slashed down at the fallen man even as the other came for Drask himself.

He knocked the blade aside with his silver hand and then stepped in closer to the thing. It focused on him, which was what he wanted. The man on the ground was on his own and looked to be useless for the moment. Perhaps he would recover, perhaps not, but in either event, Drask wanted his enemy’s attention.

The fresh wave of Sa’ba Taalor pushed against the constant flow of creatures on the battlefield, driving them back a few paces at a time. Drask grinned and ground his teeth together as the thing fighting against him scuttled in closer and raised both of its blades high into the air.

The sword drove up and into the lower half of the alien face, then into the creature’s skull, bringing a quick death before those arms could descend.

Once again, the temptation to use the powers given to him to end the conflict were many, but the gods spoke to him and told him not to. He was born and bred to fight wars, not to end them with a wave of a hand. The gods themselves could have ended the conflict if they desired and he knew that. They wanted blood. They wanted death. They wanted the sacrifices offered with each and every attack, and Drask reveled in that fact.

The gods wanted war and he would give it to them.

And then the interloper showed up and changed everything.

He did not know the man, could not see him under his dark gray robes. The figure seemed to come from nowhere, leaned heavily on a spear he used as a staff, and stared around at the combat as if he had never seen the likes before. He looked in every direction, assessing the situation and then raised the spear high into the air before bringing it down on the hard packed ground, screaming words that Drask could barely hear.

The ground around the newcomer shivered for a moment and then shook harder, hard enough for lines of the earth around him to break into smaller pieces. All around him the Sa’ba Taalor fell. The vibrations were too strong and threw the people of the forges roughly as if they were struck by a sudden tide. As large a man as he was, Drask was cast aside just as easily and fell to the ground even as the spider-things with their squat bodies and multiple legs compensated for the same wave of force.

As one the War-Born turned back the way they had come, scurrying across the shaking ground. Several of the things moved over Drask, surely would have had him at a disadvantage had they been attacking at that moment, and retreated.

Drask scarcely paid them any heed. He stared at the cloaked form instead.

Without another word, the shape under that cloak turned and took three paces in the same direction as the War-Born. Drask rose to his feet, balancing himself carefully, and reached for the shape.

It vanished before he could finish raising his hand. One moment it was there and the next it seemed to fold in on itself and was gone.

All around him the Sa’ba Taalor climbed back to their standing positions.

The things they had been fighting were too fast to allow pursuit. They moved too quickly for the escape to be completely natural.

Not far away Tarag Paedori cursed and spat.

Even closer in, Tusk shook his head and said, “They run faster than the Fellein.”

Kallir Lundt rose more slowly than the rest, it seemed, a deep gash running from his right shoulder down to his left hip. He stood unevenly and staggered to the side before collapsing to the ground. A moment later Tarag Paedori was at the man’s side and pulling iron from a pouch at his waist, praying to Truska-Pren even as he laid the metal against the wound. Iron flowed like water into the gash, burning brightly as it cauterized flesh and sealed the massive slash. Kallir Lundt thrashed, his hands digging at the rough soil, but he did not scream despite the very obvious pain.

That was good. He honored his king and his god with his silence. Flesh burned and in seconds the metal cooled off and began to change, becoming flesh and leaving a scar that would be impossible for anyone to ignore. Truly the gods could be kind.

All around him the people of the forges tended to their wounded, some using metal to heal serious wounds and others cleaning the damaged areas using more mundane methods.

“What was that?” Tuskandru stood next to him and scowled at the spot where the robed man had been.

“A sorcerer.”

Tusk shook his head and scowled. “This is not the way to fight a war.”

“They want to win. They were not winning.”

“They were not losing, either.” Tusk spoke with an edge of admiration in his voice. “They fought well.”

Drask nodded. “Perhaps they were testing the waters. It is said the War-Born changed shapes in the past. Maybe they will come back with even deadlier forms.”

Above them the volcano roared, and the skies grew bloodier as the flames within Paedle surged. Drask looked at the mountain and considered the sound. Paedle was not pleased. The battle had ended before it should have, and the god wanted war.

Drask wanted war. They all did. The Sa’ba Taalor longed for combat, and they would have it. He considered the sorcerer and what the cloaked figure had done.

He would not allow it to happen a second time. The gods had granted him power and he would use it if he had to, to ensure that there would be no further retreats by the enemies of the Daxar Taalor.