They travelled through the valley for three days, moving at a steady pace, but one that held less of the urgency that had seen them tearing across the frozen wastes of the Blasted Lands on their way.
Much as he knew he should have a stronger sense of urgency – he was to meet with a king very soon and the most he’d ever managed before that was guarding the house of a rather impoverished duke – Merros couldn’t help but enjoy the scenery. After months of traveling in the perpetual twilight he was enjoying the valley’s lush terrain and warmth to a level he’d have thought almost impossible before the trip started. Not that there weren’t a few sour notes, to be sure. Kallir Lundt, who was still hanging on to his life despite the grave wounds dealt him by the Pra-Moresh, was fading. There was nothing that Merros or any of his team could do about that, and it bothered him deeply.
Wollis rode next to him, and ahead of them rode the men taking them to meet the king of the valley. They were in the light now, and the air was clear of debris and shadows. That meant it was ridiculously easy to see exactly how large each of the strangers was.
Wollis shook his head. “Do you really think this is wise, Captain?”
“Which part? Going to see a king who we’ve never heard of in a land we didn’t know existed? Or traveling with a band of warriors who seem perfectly willing to ignore us now that they have taken us where we needed to go in the first place?”
Wollis stared at him darkly.
“No, Wollis. I don’t think any of this is wise, but it is necessary.”
The road ahead of them was well-tended, but the side of the mountain hid a great deal of what lay ahead until they took one more turn. As they were moving around that curve, Merros continued his argument. “We have an opportunity, with luck mind you, to get an accurate and detailed map of the area we were paid to explore. We are also, whether or not we like it, the first emissaries of the Fellein Empire to meet the people who live here. Depending on who you ask it’s been several hundred to over a thousand years since contact was made with anyone in this area, because no one was supposed to be able to live up this way. And yet, here we are.”
Wollis would normally have argued with him by that point. He’d come to anticipate the man’s responses after the years they’d been together. So when he got no response, he looked toward his second-in-command and frowned when he saw the look of growing surprise on the man’s face.
Wollis said, “Here we are, indeed.”
The sound of the horns drew Merros’ attention to the road ahead, to where Wollis was already looking, and he found himself staring at the vast structure that now stood revealed.
Merros Dulver had spent a good amount of his adult life traveling to different parts of the Empire. He had been to Canhoon, Trecharch and a dozen other cities, and more towns than he could remember. As a rule, the towns were old, the streets long since worn down by time and by thousands of people treading on their cobblestones over the years. The fortress ahead of him spoke of a greater age than any place he had ever been to, but still stood unbowed by the centuries he could sense within the great bricks. The structure was built directly into the side of the mountain, carved, it seemed, from the black stone of the volcanic barrier. The walls were easily eighty or more feet in height, and even though they obscured a great deal, he could see the towering buildings behind those walls, all of them black and gray marble, adorned with almost no colors save whatever natural striations were offered by the stone. Unlike in the pass they had used to reach the valley, there was no glow from the great furnace of the volcano itself. The wall was almost smooth, save where the great doors stood sealed against any possible attack. Though they were still a distance away, the guards spotted them and either heralded their arrival or blew out warning notes. Either way, Merros felt his heart beat faster. They were here.
One of the men in front of him pulled a heavy iron horn from his saddle and blew out a harsh note that echoed and merged with the sounds coming from the great walled structure. A moment later the heavy doors opened, sliding smoothly into the sides of the walls rather than opening outward.
Drask turned in his saddle and looked back toward them. “It is time now.” He pointed a gauntleted hand toward Merros. “Prepare yourself.”
Like there was any possible doubt.
They rode forward again, the long caravan moving in fits and jerks. Merros did not have that luxury. The riders moved faster and a moment later he waved for Wollis to stay behind with their charges.
Apparently he was to meet the King in Iron without the benefit of any retinue. That was just as well. He was only a retired captain at any rate. At least that was what he kept telling himself, as the people who claimed the gods had sent them out into a frozen hell to find him led him to meet their ruler.
They rode hard, moving past the massive gates protecting the city – though for the life of him, Merros had no idea what they might need protection from in a valley that no one in the entire Empire knew existed – and along streets that were paved with more volcanic stones. There was little by way of decoration to be found anywhere, and the people they passed seldom bothered to look up or take any note of them, not that there was time for anyone to notice much beyond the escorts heading for the castle at the center of the walled city.
The path they took led directly to the main structure, a castle within another courtyard, a last bastion of defense against any possible attacks. Several blasts of horns heralded their approach and when the entourage finally stopped, Merros stared at the vast structure ahead of him and did his best to take the entire place in.
The outer wall of the city had been easily eighty feet in height, and the walls of the castle were almost as tall. Hewn again of the black and gray stone, the building was both grandiose and intimidating, with patterns carved directly into the walls that were too large to easily absorb. No less than a hundred men stood along the walls looking down on the courtyard. A small army stood at the one building. How many soldiers did they have here? Merros wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
His guides, Drask among them, moved at a hard pace, and Merros was forced to jog in order to keep up with them. Their cloaks snapped like half-furled wings behind them and the men entered the building without stopping to announce themselves or to check with any of the armed guards around them.
If there was any rhyme or reason to the armor that every single person he’d met wore, it was lost on Merros. None of them seemed to wear symbols of rank, and while they all wore helmets and carried weapons, it seemed that nothing was standard issue for the guard.
Once past the guards, the men slowed down. A great hall spread out before them, and again Merros felt small in his surroundings. Had he ever been in any structure as vast? Not that he could think of. The hall was a long affair, with polished stone walls and floors and columns that rose easily fifteen feet to a dark ceiling. Whatever was lacking by way of decoration outside of the hall, the opposite was true of the inside. Heavy wooden tables were spaced throughout the room with chairs enough to accommodate every guard he’d seen along the wall. All of which was impressive enough, but easily ignored for the throne that waited at the far end of the hall.
The seat of power, no doubt, for the king. The throne was carved from black stone and inlaid with precious metals. The seat was lined with a thick fur that Merros couldn’t identify and on either side of the throne was an array of weapons: swords, knives, axes, and spears, each well-used and well-cared for. Possibly the most unsettling aspect of the weapons was that they were very obviously meant for function and not merely appearance.
Four men in armor stood on either side of the throne. Like the men escorting him they wore armor that was unique to each of them. Some wore chainmail, others heavier plated armor. All of them wore red tunics, which seemed to be the only indication they were associated. The tunics were clean and new enough in appearance that they almost seemed an afterthought.
None of which was nearly as significant as the man who came striding into the room from the left. The first thought Merros had when he met Drask was that the man was a giant – an image partially cemented by the massive creature he rode into battle, but having stood next to him and stared the man in his shoulder, the impression stuck.
Tarag Paedori, Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron, was actually even bigger and he was not riding on a war-beast. Unlike his followers, the man was not dressed in armor. He wore dark leather breeches, a thick black vest, and a cloak that looked decidedly ceremonial in nature. The heavy black material was adorned with gold and silver in a pattern that was lost in the folds of the cloth and kept in place by a heavy gold cord. He wore an iron crown on his head, simple and unadorned with extras, save for a veil that covered most of his face. Only his eyes were easily seen, and the dark hair that fell out of the crown in loose coils. Thick, muscular arms were crossed over a barrel chest. Heavy scars could be seen on the bared arms, across the massive hands, and on the powerful shoulders, and all of the flesh that could be seen bore the odd gray tint that Merros had originally assumed was grit from the cold wastelands outside of the valley when he first met Drask.
All of them had the same gray skin. It looked unhealthy, nearly dead. All of them hid their faces behind veils or masks. All of them had eyes that were a flat gray when seen in light and seemed to issue their own luminescence when seen otherwise.
As one, the men escorting Merros dropped to one knee before their king, and in a fluid move that was unsettling in its efficiency, they drew their swords from the sheaths at their hips – or in a few cases across their backs – and held the weapons out. Their hands held the blades of the weapons with the points to their chests, and the pommels offered to the King in Iron, a sign of fealty and/or an offer to let him take their lives should he feel the need. Whatever the case, the men seemed unified in the offer they made.
Tarag Paedori nodded acknowledgement of the men, but his eyes sought Merros and pinned him with the force of his stare. If his carriage and his confidence were not enough to make his station known, the man’s will, forceful and demanding of attention, would have clarified his position.
The King in Iron spoke softly but his words carried. Like Drask before him, his voice had an odd echo that made the traveler’s skin crawl. “Merros Dulver of the Fellein Empire. We have waited a very long time to meet you.”