The entire caravan was forced to stop when the storm came, a howling, furious thing that made standing in the open a near guarantee of a savage battering. The men worked hard and quickly, covering the horses with the padded blankets that would have never been brought along had it not been for Wollis’ insistence. Merros was glad he’d listened to his second. The wind brought harsh blades of stone and ice that slid across the ground and skipped through the air, cutting at flesh wherever they touched. Between the cuts and bruises he’d received on his hands while fighting the Pra-Moresh, and the three slashes that graced his neck and face when the storm first hit, it seemed like every part of him was aching and miserable. Then again, that much hadn’t changed since the trek had started.
Still and all, he hardly had anything to complain about. The rider sat across from him in the center of the wagon – that also carried the three servants of Desh Krohan – the interior of which was decorated in thick furs and a scattering of pillows, save where they managed a small fire in a metal contraption that allowed them to cook and heat the wagon without catching the whole thing aflame. The women had cooked for them, an unexpected treat – several delicacies that shouldn’t have been possible in the frozen wasteland – and now they sat facing each other in the insulated interior, safe from the worst of the winds and the cold.
Which, so far, had done nothing to reveal anything at all about the rider. He had taken off the helmet protecting his head, had pulled down the hood of his cloak, but only revealed that his head and face were covered with a thick layer of insulating cloths that he did not remove. It was still impossible to see much aside from his eyes and the skin around them, which had a gray tint and was well weathered. Even when he ate, the rider merely slid whatever morsel he was eating under the cloth that covered his lower face and chewed slowly.
Merros resisted the urge to pull the damned cloths away. Curiosity wasn’t worth getting himself killed over.
As they finished the meal, Pella settled herself down on the cushions to the left of the rider and touched his gauntleted arm with her long, delicate fingers. She spoke softly, but the foul language distorted her voice and made her normally pleasant tones uncomfortable.
The rider listened and responded in kind, and though Pella looked at Merros, it was Tataya, the redhead, who spoke to the captain. “His name is Drask. His title is Silver Hand.” She frowned. “I have no idea what the title means.” She shrugged and poured a strong, hot elixir into several small cups. He had watched her settle tealeaves into the pot, but seen a few other liquids and plants tossed in as well. Though he was suspicious by nature – it was almost a requirement among officers in the army – Merros took the offered drink and sipped at it carefully. The heat of the brew was pleasant, and whatever had been added to the tea had the muscles in his body relaxing in a decidedly comfortable way.
Drask drank without hesitation as well. Despite his earlier attitude at being followed, he seemed a trusting enough soul. It was the blonde who spoke next – and if he couldn’t remember her name soon, it was going to drive him into a rage. It was on the tip of his tongue, damn it – her voice carrying an odd, nearly lazy quality. “This is tiresome. Better if you could speak to each other, I think, without our interference.”
Merros frowned. “I’ve yet to learn how to speak new languages without years of practice.”
Tataya touched his forehead and Pella brushed her fingers over the exposed skin of Drask’s eyes at the same time. Then the two women reached out and touched their free hands to each other, palm to palm, fingertips to fingertips.
And the blonde whispered something into the air. For a moment the pressure in the cabin seemed to triple and Merros blinked, gasped, struggled to breathe. And then everything was fine again.
“What did you do to me?” He was thinking the words, even as Drask spoke them.
The blonde waved her hand and moved to sit in a thick pile of furs. “A trifle. You can speak freely now, and understand each other.”
“You’ve used sorcery on me?” Merros’ skin suddenly felt clammy and chilled again, the pleasant heat from the fire and the drink alike fading to nothing.
“A minor thing. Only so that you can speak to each other without having to speak through us. This way the words you hear are as they were meant to be heard.” Tataya spoke, her tones soft, placating, her eyes as nearly hypnotic as ever. And he had to concede her point. There had certainly been occasions where translators had made errors. For that reason alone he forced himself to calm down. There was a man here. For all he knew him, Drask, lived alone, but he doubted it. The weapons, the armor, they all bespoke a soldier, and very few soldiers ever lived off by themselves. He was here to map out the Seven Forges mountains. There was always the possibility that meeting a people who lived near the mountains would be worthy of extra rewards. Haste was a foolish waste of energy. So, too, anger at what was already done.
“Should the need arise again, Tataya, I’d ask that you and yours ask before gifting me with any form of sorcery.” That sounded properly polite. He was annoyed, yes, but not foolish enough to taunt someone who could use enchantments. His childhood was filled with stories of people who crossed wizards, and all one had to do was look around to see what happened when the greatest of them warred between each other.
Tataya opened her mouth to speak, but Drask talked first. “You have fed me. You have sheltered me. We should rest. When the winds have calmed, I’ll take you to meet with my elders.” His words were for Pella. His eyes looked to Merros.
Merros was a captain in the army. He had long since developed a skill for knowing when he should answer and when he should hold his tongue. In this case, he let the woman answer.
“We were glad to offer you the shelter, Drask and we are far more grateful to meet your elders, your family.” He couldn’t have said it better himself.
The wagon rocked in the savage winds, and the wood creaked as the air outside roared its frustration at not getting inside. Despite their protection, Merros wondered if the horses would be well when the storm abated. Without the horses, they were as good as dead. They couldn’t possibly carry the supplies, and the journey had already left them far away from any form of shelter save whatever Drask and his people might offer. And while they were, for the moment at least, speaking civilly, he had to remember that several expeditions had come this way previously. For all he knew the ones that had never showed again had fallen victim to whatever hospitalities were waiting at the Seven Forges.
“I am curious, Drask. If I may, why do you carry the title ‘Silver Hand?’” He asked mostly just to keep the conversation going while he pondered the possibilities of what lay ahead.
Drask looked at him for a moment, his eyes unreadable, and then raised his right hand to eye level before he pulled away the armored glove that covered it. The skin of his forearm and wrist, as with his face, had a gray tinge that looked unhealthy, but from the edge of his wrist up, his entire hand changed. The texture, the color, was unmistakably metallic. Merros leaned in closer and stared hard at the appendage, fascinated. The hand was not real. It couldn’t be. The flesh was silver; it shone with the warmth of the fire, but the skin where the hand connected to the rest of the arm was rough, scarred, and twisted with lines of silver that shot directly into the rider’s natural flesh. Though they seemed organic in nature, there were deep scars running across the silver surface, runes and markings that had to be etched in place when the limb was forged, or before the metal had completely cooled.
“How on earth…?” His voice trailed away. Magic, of course. Not a sorcery he was familiar with, but what else could it be?
Drask very casually reached out and worked his glove back over the metallic surface. “A gift. A replacement for what was taken from me.” Drask’s tone wasn’t quite brusque, but Merros nodded his head and forced himself to ask nothing else. Whatever had happened to the rider’s hand, it was apparently a private thing. The captain chose to understand that. Why antagonize the man?
There was no more speech that night. The storm was far too severe for anyone to brave heading out into it, and so the five of them stayed the night together in the wagon. Merros settled himself near the door, and the three women slept together in a pile of furs he couldn’t help but envy. The rider, Drask of the unnatural hand, placed himself in a corner – a proper spot for anyone who was left in uncomfortable surroundings – and soon drifted into silence if not sleep.
Merros was considering how likely it was that he’d never get to sleep when he drifted away into a deep rest.
The morning brought the sort of calm that seldom shows up save before or after a storm, and Merros crept carefully from the wagon to inspect the damage. Most everything was fine, save that the bodies of the Pra-Moresh had been stripped of half their fur in the blasting winds. If that was the worst thing that happened, he was glad to call the storm a successful encounter.
They were ready and on their way again in short order, with Drask riding at the front and Merros keeping the strange man company. They mostly rode in silence.
Three hours or more into the day’s journey the sun managed to force itself through the nearly perpetual twilight brought by the clouds, and changed the way that damned near everything around them looked. The bright rays struck the land, and, in turn, the land retaliated with a thousand shimmering reflections. Even from a distance, he could see the ruins as they approached them.
There were stories, of course. But that was all most people would ever have when it came to the Blasted Lands. The tales of his youth told that the land had once been populated by great cities, and until the sun broke through the cloud cover, Merros would have thought the stories little more than myths. That changed when he saw the mounds to the west of them.
He stared, unable to look away, drawn to the shadows that hinted at other things buried in the fractured, broken glass towers that had been worn nearly smooth by centuries of harsh winds, but that still survived against the impossible odds. The glinting sunlight made him squint, which only made the half-shapes buried in the glass seem even more… organic.
“What are they?” He was barely aware that he’d spoken aloud.
Drask answered him with an oddly detached tone, as if the answer should have been obvious, but still he had trouble looking away. “The Mounds. Death.”
“Death?” That seemed a bit dramatic.
“Nothing that goes too near the Mounds survives. Nothing. No one.” Drask shrugged. “Things live there. Things that only come out in the darkness.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your kind has tried to explore them before, looking for treasures. They have never come back.”
“You’ve seen my kind before?”
Drask chuckled. “Only from a distance.”
“Why is that?”
“They always want to explore the Mounds.”
Merros opened his mouth to ask another question but the query faded from his lips, his mind, as the sound came from the Mounds. It was a low, deep noise, so low that he nearly felt it more in his teeth than heard it. A long, deep ululation, a mournful tone that made the horse under him dance nervously, and the steed he rode was a well-trained animal, not known for being skittish.
The beast under Drask did not get skittish, but it turned to face the Mounds and a loud hiss escaped from under its armored mask. The thick claws of the thing scratched at the ground and everything about its posture made Merros think it wanted little more than to attack whatever was making the impossible noise.
Drask cuffed the beast between its ears and screamed something that sounded like a different language altogether. The animal immediately calmed down.
“What the hell is that?” The noise was fading away at last, and the scrawling sensation that Merros had barely been aware of eased on his flesh.
“The Mounds.” Drask shrugged. “Things live there.”
“Have you ever seen the things that live there?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you curious?” A foolish question. He might be curious himself; on the other hand he had a strong sense of self-preservation that said exploring the Mounds would be a hideous notion.
“Of course. But it is forbidden.”
“Who forbids it?” This was a chance, just possibly, to hear about the authorities of Drask’s people. The lawmakers, the enforcers. Merros was looking forward to making his encounter with the strangers but a little knowledge would have made him feel a good deal more comfortable.
Drask looked at him, his face still hidden, but the eyes that stared at him expressed their surprise well enough, as did the tone of his voice. “The gods. Who else?”
They rode on a while longer in silence while Merros considered that answer. As they rode, the darkness crept back in and obscured the Mounds, but not before Merros could recognize some of the distant debris for what it was: there was at least one wagon over there, broken, yes, but the design was familiar enough. He’d been living in one just like it for the last two and a half months.
“So, none of my people ever made it to your home before, Drask?”
Drask looked back at him, his face once again lost. His eyes glowing dully. “Not that I have met.”
Vagaries. He hated that. “Have you ever heard of any making it?”
Drask did not answer.
When they finally stopped for the day Merros’ body ached from the long ride. He knew the horses were probably exhausted, and that the soldiers were as tired as he was and in fact they’d ridden for close to three hours longer than he would have preferred, but there are many ways to learn about the people you deal with and one thing he didn’t feel he could do was offer any weakness to the rider. Drask was a worthy fighter and more, and he could not allow the man to think that he and his would tire sooner than Drask or his people. It went against his training.
While the soldiers set the wagons for the night, preparing for the possibility of another storm after Drask warned them, Merros rode a small distance away with the rider and they observed the mountains, closer now than ever.
“How long until we reach your home?”
Drask rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. For a moment the area where his flesh arm met his metal hand was bared and Merros stared, mesmerized by the odd fusion of skin and silver. Scar tissue and weaving strands of metal and muscle were visible. What sort of man could withstand the pain that had surely been a part of the marriage? The very notion made him want to shiver.
“Two more days to the mountains. One more day to get through the pass and then we are there.”
“What took you so far from your home in the first place? Surely you weren’t merely looking for the Pra-Moresh.”
“Hunting.”
“For the beasts?”
Drask slid easily from the saddle on his mount, his hand touching the beast the entire time he descended, a reminder to the animal that he was there and not a threat. He was a big man, a brute, to be sure, but next to his animal he seemed small. The great creature yawned and bared wide, predatory teeth as it did.
“No. The Cacklers are just a bonus.” Cacklers. A nickname they had for the Pra-Moresh. It seemed almost a term of affection for creatures that could kill a dozen men with ease.
“Then what were you hunting for?”
“You.” Drask slipped his hand into the saddlebag on his mount’s side and dug around and as he did so, the skin on Merros’ body crawled again. Sometimes the doubling effect of the rider’s voice still unsettled him. His hand moved toward his sword without conscious thought. He rested his fingers on the hilt.
Drask pulled out a metal horn that was neither elegant nor elaborate. “Who do you plan to call, Drask?”
“My people. They will meet us here. To come further without their permission would be foolish.” Damned if his voice didn’t seem even more unsettling, more alien than before.
“Why is that?”
“We do not see strangers often.” With no more warning the rider turned toward the mountains and pulled the cloths from his face. Merros nearly cursed under his breath because the man’s face remained hidden, turned away from him as the horn was lifted and then sounded. The note was clear and sharp, unexpectedly loud.
Less than a minute passed before a horn sounded in the distance, faint, but still clear enough to be heard over the winds. There was no mistaking the sound.
“Now what?”
“We wait. They will come.”
“We have to wait three days for them?”
“No.” Drask pointed toward the north, toward the mountains. “They will be here in hours. They will ride as fast as they can to meet you.”
“Why were you waiting for us, Drask?” He shook his head. “Why were you looking for us?”
“What the gods command, we do. It is our way.”
“Are your people very religious, Drask?”
“Aren’t yours?”
“Some of us are, I suppose.”
Drask patted his animal and slid the horn back into his saddlebag, his face once again obscured by the cloth and the helm alike. He did not look at Merros as he spoke again, but instead made himself busy checking the buckles and straps that held his saddle on his mount. “When the world was younger and our people were separated from yours, we expected to die. We were prepared for it. Do you understand?”
Merros blinked and slowly nodded. He hadn’t expected to hear that Drask and his people remembered the Great Annihilation, though he supposed he should have.
“We readied ourselves for death, but death did not come. Instead the Seven Gods awoke and took us in. They offered us life if we served them, and so, we have served them well and faithfully and they have given us life for these many years.”
“The Seven Gods?”
Drask gestured toward the distant mountains. “You call them the Seven Forges. We call them the Hearts of the Gods.”
Merros shook his head and kept his tongue. He’d heard of savages worshiping fire before, but had never thought to meet any. Like so many things he’d heard about, he thought the tales were merely stories meant to entertain children. Or possibly to frighten them.
“Do your gods speak to you?”
“They speak when they want to speak, and to whom they want to speak.” Drask looked out at the darkness, his eyes scanning the horizon for signs of approaching riders, perhaps, or just for any sign of change.
“Have they ever spoken to you?”
“Of course. I am here. I would not be here if they did not tell me to go out and find you.”
“Just you?”
“No. Others rode out as well. It was my fortune to find you.” His tone was exasperated, as if he were explaining to a child and rapidly growing bored, but still Merros had to ask more questions.
“And your gods, they wanted you to meet us?” He mulled that over as he asked.
Drask turned and looked him over from head to toe. “No.”
“But you said–”
“Not ‘us.’ You. I was sent to meet you.”
“Me? Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The notion was absurd. He didn’t believe in his own gods, let alone the gods of a stranger.
Drask scuffed at a rock with his foot and the stone skipped and skittered away into the darkness. In the distance a few of the horses whinnied, but there were no other sounds to hear in the oddly still air.
When Drask finally answered he did so with an odd finality that put an end to the conversation. “I do not question the gods. I obey the gods.”
Merros was puzzling over those words when Drask spoke again. “They come.” He pointed out into the distance where several shapes moved toward them, dark riders on dark beasts that looked much like Drask and his mount.
They rode hard, tearing up the distance, their bodies low over their mounts, their cloaks whipping frantically in the air.
“Why are they in such a hurry?”
Drask stared at the distant riders and a sigh escaped him, long and drawn out. “We are expected. You are expected. It is time.”
Merros shook his head. “Time for what?”
Drask shook his head. “Only the gods can say.”
Merros checked the weapons on his body, making sure he had easy access to all of them. “Honestly, Drask. I truly hate this cryptic nonsense. You either know why they’re coming for me in particular or you do not know.”
He turned his horse and moved back toward the camp at a canter. “Wollis! I need you!”
Wollis nodded and moved to meet him, still on foot. “Aye! Ho, sir!”
“There are riders coming. Apparently they’re interested in meeting me. I have no idea why. Whatever the case, you’re in charge until I return. If I don’t return, it might be best to assume we’re dealing with hostiles.”
“Do you want us to come after you?”
Merros muttered faint laughter. “Of course I do. I’ve no death wish. But if the numbers look too outrageous, retreat.”
All three of the mage’s women came toward them. Sometimes he thought they were just waiting for him to act in any sort of official capacity before they came over to add in their own comments. Other times he bloody well knew it.
Pella spoke up, her voice urgent. “This is a time of great opportunity for you, Captain Dulver. Desh Krohan believes you are supposed to meet your destiny here.”
“Really?” He rolled his eyes. “Your great sorcerer feels I need to meet my destiny here. Has he told you what that destiny might be?” He leaned down in the saddle until he was closer to her face. She was beautiful, but just then he wasn’t much worried about her looks. He was worried about the forces coming for him, because if they were anything like the single rider he’d been talking with, he was fairly sure his destiny would involve getting cut into so many shreds of meat. “Has he told you why a rider out hunting the most dangerous animals I’ve ever seen might feel the need to bring a few friends along for me to meet this destiny?”
She shook her head.
“Then with all due respect to Desh Krohan as my employer, I’d ask that in the future he either keep his opinions to himself or give me a little more advanced warning when I’m about to get myself killed.” Merros hissed the words. He was nervous. He was very nervous, but he also knew he had to keep his calm well enough to make sure that the women and the other people he was in charge of were kept as safe as possible.
He looked to Wollis again. “Stay here. Get the men armed and ready. If I live through ‘meeting my destiny’ you might need to get out of here in a hurry.”
“Do you think they mean to kill you?”
“I have no idea, but let’s just assume they’re riding over here at high speed to do something a little worse than shake my hand, shall we?”
With that he turned his horse again and tapped with his heels, giving the command to move faster. The horse listened and started toward the riders coming their way. Merros was a little unsettled to see how much closer they’d gotten while he had his conversation.
Throughout the entire exchange Drask had remained where he was, but as Merros started riding toward the approaching group, he quickly climbed back onto his mount and moved to pace alongside him. The damned beast he rode was still unsettling to watch; it was too big and too predatory for his happiness. And the men coming toward him were riding more of the same things.
Merros was not a religious man; just the same, he said a quick prayer to the gods he was familiar with and left the gods of the Seven Forges out of the equation. Better the deity you know, after all.
It seemed like the riders should have been hours away, but the distances were distorted out in the darkness of the Blasted Lands, and despite any hopes he might have had for more time to prepare himself they were soon within hailing range. Drask did not hail them. Instead he kept riding. Merros resisted the urge to reach for his sword. It was a nervous notion, surely, and he didn’t like the idea of appearing any more nervous than he had to.
The riders stopped their mounts, the great beasts snorting and panting steamy breaths into the air. They looked tired and Merros was grateful for that. Maybe that meant they’d only want to kill him and his horse, and not play with their food first. Whatever doubts he’d had about the beasts before were removed as he looked them over. They were definitely predators. They had teeth that were as long as daggers and the masks they wore to shelter them from the wind, while different from the one on Drask’s mount, were still heavily armored.
So too were the men who’d been riding them. The riders dismounted with a small clatter of arms and armor alike. All of them wore helmets, great metallic contraptions that bore ornamental horns in some cases, or were sculpted to look like the skulls of great beasts in others. Years of service to the Emperor’s army and he’d never seen a more intimidating lot of men in his life. They did not move with menace, but rather with the sort of grace that spoke of hard years learning to move in their armor and to wield their weapons while encumbered. Worse, even in the darkness of the Blasted Lands, he could see the scars and pit marks on the armor. It wasn’t for show; it was for function.
One of the riders stepped in front of the others, tilting his head slightly as he looked Merros over from his boots to the hood he was using to stay warm. His eyes gave the same unsettling light as Drask’s.
When he spoke his voice was calm, and he spoke the Emperor’s tongue, but with a thick accent that was harsh but intelligible. “You are Merros Dulver.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am.” He swallowed his heart, which was doing its level best to sneak out of his throat and make a run for it.
“We are here for you.”
“What do you want of me?” His hand slid closer to the hilt of his sword and he saw the eyes of the speaker flicker briefly down to observe the motion. That wasn’t a comforting notion at all.
“Tarag Paedori, Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron asks that we escort you to him. Beyond that I know nothing.”
“‘King in Iron?’ He’s the king of your people?” Stupid question. He knew it as soon as he said it and the look that the rider offered him made clear that they knew it too.
“He is the king of our people. Will you join us?”
“What about my people?”
The speaker looked around and nodded to the horizon, in the direction from which they’d come. “Another storm comes, a powerful one, by the looks of the clouds.” Merros looked. The clouds seemed no different to him. “Your people are welcome. They will be our guests as well, but I would urge that we move quickly, before the storms reach us.” He lowered his head as he spoke, possibly as a sign of courtesy, but it wasn’t easy to say one way or the other. They were a different people and likely had different customs. He’d once seen a merchant from Freeholdt nearly get himself slaughtered for using a gesture that was a greeting in his homeland and a request for sex near the docks where he employed it. Happily he’d been a better fighter than the offended sailor, or he might not have lived long enough to make it to captain.
He’d come here to map out the Seven Forges and now he was meeting people who very likely already had maps and might be willing to share. In any event he had little doubt that saying no would not go well. One does not, as a rule, turn down the offers of kings without risking life or a few years in a dungeon. The men he was looking at didn’t seem the sort to look at a stone cell as a good idea of how to settle a disagreement.
Merros lowered his head as the speaker had done. “I am honored that Tarag Paedori, the Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron would invite me to his hearth. I thank you for your offer of escort.”
The men around him relaxed just the smallest amount. That in turn made him relax little. Good to know they were a little nervous, too.
The riders followed him back to the camp and Wollis and the soldiers gaped as the group approached. Within half an hour they were on their way, riding toward the mountains again.
What they encountered was nothing at all like what Merros had expected.