The first night they traveled until they reached the edge of civilization. Andover looked around in awe. He had never been outside of Tyrne in his life, and though he knew the world was large, he had no idea just how immense it truly was. The wilderness, the darkness of the sky and the vastness of the same were intimidating.
Tega rode in a separate wagon, one that was marked with odd symbols that meant nothing to Andover, despite the fact that he could read a little.
She did not leave her wagon on the first night, but instead locked herself away. There were more wagons than he had initially assumed, four in total: three of them carried supplies and one of those had a bunk for Andover. The others carried the larder and gifts for the kings of the Seven Forges.
When the group made camp, Drask found Andover and called him over. In the open spaces and near complete darkness, the eyes of the Sa’ba Taalor and their mounts seemed to burn. It was an unsettling image, as if they carried a bit of the fire of their homeland within them.
Drask had made a fire and he and two others settled near it, the deeply scarred Bromt and the girl, Delil. Bromt had been hunting earlier and the meat of three rabbits roasted over the fire.
“Join us.” Andover nodded. Really, when Drask said to do something the idea of disagreeing seldom came up. The warriors settled around the fire and mostly sat in silence, but it was a comfortable quiet, something that Andover was not really accustomed to.
Bromt peeled one of the rabbits from the spit where he’d been cooking them and used a knife as large as the animal itself to cut it into quarters. Without speaking he offered the meat to each of his companions and Andover nodded his thanks when the offering was made. His stomach rumbled and he realized that he was ravenous.
As he ate, Drask picked the meat from his piece of the animal and tore it into small pieces that he slipped under his veil. All three of them did that.
And when they were done eating Drask looked toward Andover and sighed. “When we wake in the morning, we will be walking.”
“Where are we walking to?” Andover gnawed the last of the meat from a leg bone and licked his fingers.
“Home.”
Andover stared for a long moment. “All the way to the Seven Forges?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” It was all he could think to say.
“Because Tuskandru demands it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tuskandru believes that you must be… tempered.”
“What do you mean?”
Drask sighed. “You have been healed. You have been broken and you have been healed, and that is the First Forging for you.” Drask leaned in closer. “By the beliefs of my people there are many stages to becoming what you should eventually become. The First Forging is…” He waved his hands around and squinted into the fire. “The First Forging is the first step into adulthood. I know that for you, for your people, you are an adult. But to the Sa’ba Taalor, you are still a child. It is time to be tempered. It is time for your mind and body to be strengthened.”
“The Seven Forges are a great ways off, Drask.” He stared at the man for a long moment. “You’re from there. Even riding your mounts it took you weeks to reach Tyrne. It would take months to reach your home.”
“This I know. You will walk the entire distance.”
Andover shook his head. It was madness, of course.
Drask placed his heavy hands on his knees and leaned in closer. “Allow me to explain this. You will walk. There is no question of this.”
“But why?”
“Because Tuskandru speaks for all of the Kings. And none of the Kings will acknowledge you until you have proven yourself worthy. You will walk. And while you are walking, we will train you with your weapon and with a bow. I have a spare and you may use it. You will learn to hunt for yourself. You will learn to feed yourself. You will learn to fight and to defend yourself.”
Andover closed his eyes and thought hard about the situation. “If I say no, what happens?”
“You will stay here.”
“What? You mean I won’t be allowed to come to the Seven Forges?”
“Yes. You will not be allowed.”
He looked back over his shoulder, back toward Tyrne, so far removed now that not even the glow from the city could be seen.
“You will not be allowed to walk to your home, Andover Lashk.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you will either walk to the valley of the Seven Forges or you will stay here.” Drask stomped his foot into the ground. “Right here. You will walk, you will obey the orders of Tuskandru, or I will kill you myself.”
“You’re serious.”
“Truska-Pren has given you new hands. You proved yourself worthy of the gift of those hands when you fought your enemies. That was your First Forging. You must be seen as an equal by my people, or you will not be accepted.”
“I’ll never find my way!” He waved his arms around. “I’ve no damned idea where we are now! How do you expect me to find the Seven Forges!”
Drask leaned back. “I said ‘we’ are walking. The four of us. We will show you the way to the Seven Forges and we will teach you what you need to know if you will be an ambassador to the Sa’ba Taalor.”
The silence between them grew. Bromt cut apart another rabbit and despite his lack of appetite – a very sudden change indeed – Andover had the good sense to eat. If he was going to be hunting for the food he’d be eating, he wanted to build up whatever stores he could in advance.
Desh Krohan lay in his bed for a long while and stared at the ceiling. The world was moving on again; he could feel it and it was not a sensation he was very fond of.
His skin shivered and the sorcerer rolled into a sitting position as his flesh goosepimpled. “What in all the worlds?” He looked around and tried to orient himself as his vision blurred. The Sooth often told him of potential calamities, but this, whatever exactly was happening, was coming out of the darkness.
“Tataya! I need you!” Tataya was close by, the others, even Tega, were all gone, sent off by him on different tasks that needed to be tended to as surely as he needed to watch over the Empire.
Tataya flowed into the room, her robes fluttering around her form as she came to him. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“I am not sure, but something is wrong.” His head throbbed. His vision would not focus. For a moment he felt every year of his existence and the weight of those years dropped him to his hands and knees on the cold marble floor of his suite. Tataya’s hands caught him before he could fall completely, and her strength helped him regain his feet.
Around the room, around the palace and the entire capital city, glass rattled, small items shook and still waters rippled with fish scale waves.
Tataya spoke under her breath, quickly weaving protection for the both of them and for the room. As she cast her words into the world the air around them calmed and the delicate glass and crystal items around the area steadied themselves.
And then it was merely a matter of minutes before Desh could stand on his own again, could think again as the pain that held him eased its violent grip.
He tried wiping at his flesh but his hand came away stained with a thin patina of blood-sweat. Tataya grabbed a soft cloth and pulled his robes open, wiping the reddish stains from his body with careful strokes.
Desh stood still for it, mostly because he was not yet convinced that the worst of the seizure was over.
“Desh, what did you do?”
He shook his head. “This wasn’t me, Tataya. Not this time. This was… I don’t know what. But something has happened. Something I need to investigate.”
She nodded her head, her red hair falling loosely around her face. “I will prepare the chamber.”
“Thank you.” Desh moved carefully. His strength was recovering nicely but his hands still shook. He made his way to the end table near his bed and poured clear, cold water from the pitcher there. He drank four full glasses before he felt more himself again.
By the time he’d dressed himself Tataya returned, carrying his shimmering robes and four black stones that Desh had carved himself, each covered in delicate markings that were etched deeply into the spheres.
He stared at the stones for several seconds. Each was the size of a small apple. “Do you think four? Really?” he grimaced at the notion. The effort to make them had not been expended lightly.
“You were just sweating blood, Desh.”
He nodded and instead took three from her after he’d put on his robes. Then he slipped one of the round stones into the pockets of his robe.
“Two for now. A third if I need it.”
“You know best.” Her voice said otherwise. He ignored the tone. He was used to it from the Sisters. Part of their mission in life was to keep him humble and they did an excellent job. That did not mean he always listened to their suggestions.
“Let’s just finish this.” He mumbled the words for himself, really, to bolster his sense of self-confidence. Dealing with the spirits was never an easy thing, and the odds were good that they would be very agitated by whatever had just happened.
“Have a care, Desh. I’ve grown rather fond of you.”
“I always do, Tataya. Watch over us please.”
He moved into the small room that she had prepared for him. The walls were unadorned iron. The floor was cold silver, polished to a mirrored finish. The ceiling above him was red and wet and rippled as he looked at it.
Desh set two stones on the floor before him and sat cross-legged.
Deep inside, hidden well away from the faces of the people he knew, Desh allowed himself a small shiver.
The Sooth could be very demanding when they wanted to and he suspected there would be a cost for whatever questions he asked. He just hoped the stones were enough of a payment.
The tide of red that came down from the ceiling covered him in a matter of moments and he resisted the instinct that told him to breathe.
The answers would come soon enough.
First, however, was the pain.
Desh Krohan managed not to scream. At least on the outside. In his mind he howled with agonies few would have believed possible to endure.
Goriah walked along the beach and looked at the ruin-ation. There was little that had not been picked over by seagulls, crabs and other creatures, but there was enough. Skeletons remained half buried in sand, scoured by the wind and rain and cleaned by the vermin. Some of the remains still had jewelry and weapons alike.
The Guntha had come to do battle. They never had the chance.
Far off across the waters the islands of the Guntha were slowly sinking into the depths of the ocean. In another hundred years there would be little left of them, but for now they were still inhabitable. She would be heading over to the islands soon enough.
Even now, she knew, the Guntha were planning on coming to Roathes. They were angry. They were confused and they were scared. All she had to do was look at the remains of their camp to know why.
“All true. None of them survived. Not a single one.”
She closed her eyes and felt the echoes of the dead. They were not ghosts, exactly, though to be sure there were a few of those around. No, these were merely afterimages of the carnage. Reflections of the pain that ran through the Guntha as they died.
Most of them never even knew what happened. They slept through their deaths. She supposed that was a blessing.
Goriah opened her eyes when she heard the men coming her way. She did not bother looking toward them. She knew what they wanted. They wanted to know who she was and why she stood among the ruins of well over a thousand corpses.
Really, she cared very little what they wanted, but she had to play by the rules that Desh Krohan offered her.
When she finally looked toward the small gathering of men, they stared at her with open surprise. She was as pale as snow in comparison to them. Her skin was pale, her hair was nearly white and there were likely none among them that had ever seen anyone as far removed from their own body types.
They were dressed in pants and shirts, not in the more casual skirt-like outfits that so many of the Roathians preferred. Like as not that meant they worked for the king, who was trying, slowly and without much success, to make his people more like the rulers of the Empire.
Pants did not make sense in the heat and humidity, nor did the heavy cloaks and greatcoats favored by Tyrne at the present time.
One of them finally came closer to her, his eyes wide. He was not scared, exactly, but he sensed that she was not quite what she appeared.
“No one is supposed to be here. This area has been declared unclean by King Marsfel.”
“And yet here you are and here I am.”
“Well, but we are here because you are here.”
“I have been summoned here to examine this very place. By order of Emperor Pathra Krous.” She held up the golden seal of office that he presented to his managers.
The man stepped back and bowed down quickly. “If we may assist, you have but to ask.” His voice did not agree with his words. Like so many, he disliked being made to help strangers to Roathes. The king wanted the Empire. The king wanted the prestige and wealth of Fellein. The Roathians seemed to prefer the idea of fishing and farming. She could see the appeal.
“Your offer is kind, but I am merely here to examine this and then I will leave you in peace.”
He opened his mouth to respond but stopped when a peal of thunder hammered the horizon. The sound was not expected, certainly not normal. Goriah turned to the water and stared as a column of flames flashed in the distance. Leagues of water separated the Guntha from the shoreline, enough distance to make sure that most of the time the two peoples never met by accident. The sound came from a great distance away, just possibly as far away as the Gunthas’ islands.
The man closest to her stared at the burning pillar in the distance. Like the stem of a flower it began to grow petals, but these were made of smoke, of flame, and touched the ceiling of the world as nearly as Goriah could see.
She turned to the man and pointed. “Has this ever happened before?”
He shook his head even as he was backing up. He might have been saying no. He might simply have been denying the impossibility of that great fire roaring toward the sun. Either way he turned and ran a moment later.
The winds from off the ocean grew stronger, and even from where she stood, Goriah could see the way the waters were dancing. There would be great waves in the near future, the sort that leveled whatever stood in their way and washed aside all but the greatest structures. She had once walked where the castle of Queen Harper had fallen to such waves and no one had ever thought that great structure capable of being damaged by man or the elements.
Goriah knew better.
With one last look around, she surrendered her investigation. She had other places she needed to be, other sites to examine. And truly, what she stared at now would be gone when the waves came ashore. Somewhere between the fiery fountain and the shoreline great waves were swelling and bucking, growing in size and fury.
And exactly that quickly the problems between the Roathians and the Guntha were solved.
And the questions about the gray men were swept aside just as easily as the corpses from the massacre were cast into the waves.
Goriah moved on.
••••
Pella looked upon the Blasted Lands from the highest point along the Wellish Steppes. That was the large collection of flat gray stones that marked where the Wellish Overlords had met their end fully a hundred years before the Great Cataclysm. Though the steppes were flat, they still looked down on the great crater that marked the Blasted Lands. The pitted, scarred rock walls that rose from the devastated area were a natural barrier against the raging storms that used to come from the Blasted Lands and carried Plague Winds and worse. As cold and bitter as the Steppes could be, they were home to many a thriving township.
From her position she could see into the vast area of ruination for quite a distance before the perpetual storms hid away the secrets that had remained lost for almost a thousand years.
Though she stood at the very edge of the area, she could see the distant light of the Seven Forges. Even from the final resting place of the Overlords, the skies to the west were ablaze with their glow. And at the moment that glow seemed brighter than usual.
She was not here to enter the damnable area again and she was fine with that. Though Pella found no particular dread of the Blasted Lands within her heart, neither was she fascinated by their unrevealed enigmas.
Somewhere out there, Andover Lashk was walking. She knew that. She could sense it. He had been marked by her, by order of Desh Krohan, and so she watched over him from a distance, with no intention of helping him in any way.
She was not his custodian, merely an observer.
Far more importantly, she had to take care of delivering a message to Dretta Marsh from her husband. That was a task she looked forward to. The village he came from, where his wife still waited for him, was only a few hours away. For the moment she rested, tired from her constant motion.
In the distance, closer than she would have expected under any circumstances, she heard the mournful cries and maddened giggles of Pra-Moresh. Pra-Moresh... in the old tongue their name translated to the Crying Death. The name fit. The noises came from the Blasted Lands, of course, but it was rare that the damned things ever came this close to civilized lands. She would have to warn the Imperial Watch when she reached Stonehaven.
Trecharch was to the north. The great forests of that area could be seen in the far distance as a dark line on the horizon, a frozen wave that seemed forever ready to run toward the steppes. There were stories that the Pra-Moresh sometimes roved those ancient woods. She hoped against the idea.
The ground trembled beneath her feet. Pella looked down at the vast stone she stood on, noting as she often did that not even lichen grew on the wind-polished surface. Sometimes, according to local legends, the Overlords still moved within their tomb. She didn’t think that the case, not now at least. No, the vibration was distant. She called out to her Sisters and both responded. In moments each knew what their Sisters knew and she understood that something powerful was happening in the distant ocean.
Something that seemed to mirror almost exactly the pulse and flickering, shimmering lights of the Seven Forges which painted the underbelly of the sky to the west.
“Interesting.” She gnawed lightly at her lower lip as the Pra-Moresh wailed their mad sorrows to the skies. It sounded like a lot of the beasts, enough to make her know it was time to move on.
Would they climb the almost sheer walls of the Steppes? Perhaps. They had done so in the past. It could well happen again.
Either way, she had no intention of being there when the time came.
The wind caught her cloak and Pella spread her arms wide and dreamt that she was a storm-crow, comfortable with the knowledge that sometimes dreams really do come true.
The Emperor looked at the princess and smiled. She was a lovely girl, of course, and most decidedly a temptation. Her body was young and firm and she would likely produce beautiful children, and those were all things he was supposed to care about, but, sadly, she was also a bit stupid. Oh, he could have accepted naïve and possibly even found a certain appeal in that aspect of a woman’s personality, but she was just plain dumb, and the thought of being wed to a woman he could not hold a conversation with was worse to him than not being wed.
That was part of the problem, really. There were few women who held his attention for long.
He stopped thinking about possible wedding ceremonies and focused instead on the girl’s words.
“What you’re saying to me is that your father lied to me in an effort to gain money.”
She nodded without actually speaking. Her deep dark eyes were moist with unshed tears. She was terrified. She should have been. It was well within his power to either punish her or her father or punish the country her father ruled over if he thought the actions necessary. Battles had been fought based on lies. Resources used and soldiers laid to rest for the claims of King Marsfel.
Unless, of course, she was lying now. There was the rub. That was the problem. He had to decide if her new claims were legitimate or not, or even if the entire situation was worth the effort of a proper examination.
“Why not simply ask for assistance? Why claim the Guntha invaded if they did not?”
“They did invade, majesty. But they invaded after they were attacked as well. Attacked by people who sound much like the Sa’ba Taalor.”
He nodded his head. “And what would your father have me do about this now?”
“He fears that if they are the same people, they might well attack Roathes. The stories of the Guntha claim that the gray people are merciless.”
Pathra Krous looked at the girl and sighed. Nachia sat nearby, observing without speaking. That was exactly what he wanted from her at the moment. She had been gone too long and he wanted his cousin nearby, the better to observe and learn, because the more he thought about it, the more he rather liked the idea of journeying to the Seven Forges to see the lands that almost no one had ever seen before.
Pathra leaned across the table and stared at Lanaie, his eyes locked on hers instead of on her warm and welcoming form. It was one thing to flirt with a visitor, and another to let his personal desires get in the way of running an empire. He knew better than to mix the two and even if he had not, Desh would have cleared that issue up a long time back.
“I do not believe you or your father need be worried in this circumstance. I will overlook the issues of why he called for assistance and accept that when he called for aid he felt it was the best action he could make.” The girl let out a breath and offered a tentative smile. Before she could open her mouth to offer thanks, however, he held up a hand for silence. “And as luck would have it, your kingdom has an excellent recourse to possible attack.”
“We do?”
“Oh yes. You can call on the Guntha and make peace with them. That way, if there is an attack, you already have a naval force to back up your father’s navy.”
“I…” Oh, she wanted so much to protest. He could see it in the expression on her lovely face, and the way her body was positioned, but she knew better. One did not argue with the Emperor. That was one of the rare benefits of being in charge. When you made a decree, you seldom had to justify it to the people around you.
Unless Desh Krohan was in the room, of course. Happily the mage was elsewhere. He would have likely agreed anyway.
“You are very welcome, Lanaie. I know you are eager to return to your father’s side and bring him the good news. I suspect that after their recent setbacks the Guntha will be delighted to come to a peaceful accord.”
The princess left a few moments later, the puzzled pout not quite leaving her face.
Nachia smiled. “That was harsh.”
“Do you think so? I thought I was being rather diplomatic. I’m not sending the army in to take Roathes from that fat buffoon.”
Nachia stared at him for a moment, a smile playing around her lips but not quite manifesting. “I sense hostility.”
“I don’t like being lied to. It makes me look foolish, especially if I don’t punish the liars.”
“I think it makes you wise and just.”
“You haven’t ruled yet.”
“I’ve had a bit of experience.” She spoke without rancor, just as he did. They were not only relatives but friends. It helped.
“True enough, Nachia, but believe me, there are differences.”
“You’ll understand if I’m in no hurry to find out, I hope.” He nodded.
“So what you call harsh, I call just. I sent her on her way with instructions for her father to make peace. I’ve committed enough troops in the last four years to his needs. He lied about the reason for the attacks, if actual attacks truly happened.”
“Assuming she is not lying?”
“Always a possibility, but in this case, if she is lying, she merely heads home with no changes in her position and no extra commitments from the Empire. Once again a simple message to handle the matters on his own goes to King Marsfel.”
“And if the Guntha attack Roathes in force?”
“Then he has only himself to blame for putting himself in this position in the first place. He should have attempted to make a peaceful truce with the Guntha.”
“What if the gray people are actually the Sa’ba Taalor?”
“Even if they are, they have not attacked the Empire. They have had a skirmish or two with the Guntha.” He shrugged. “And I don’t believe the Sa’ba Taalor have any sort of navy. They live in the Blasted Lands. Where the hell would they harbor their ships?” He pointed to the duplicate map that Desh had given him. “Do you so much as see a river outside of the Seven Forges?”
“I’m not disagreeing with you. I’m pretending to be Desh Krohan for the sake of argument.”
“Please,” he sighed. “One Desh is enough.”
“True.” She rose and moved closer. “What do you make of these ‘gray men?’”
“Probably old wives tales from the Guntha. Half the seafaring people claim they’ve seen specters on the ocean. Why should the Guntha be any different?”
“Well, I believe I’ll get in a little rest before it’s time for dinner. Is this to be another large affair or merely a few family members sharing a meal?”
Pathra smiled. “For a change of pace it will be a small meal. You can even bring Brolley if he promises not to act out.”
“Brolley remains very humbled.”
“Humility has its charms.”
Nachia laughed and touched his arm briefly before she headed for the archway leaving his offices. “I shall see you when the meal is called, Pathra.”
“I look forward to it.” He rose from his seat and walked to where he kept the bottle of sweet wine hidden behind a suit of armor that had never once been worn into combat. He seldom indulged but it was nice to have a small sip when he was done handling tasks he did not enjoy. He always disliked having to say no to a beautiful woman, especially one who so obviously wanted him to say yes.
His fingers had just closed on the bottle when the blade slid though his neck as quietly as a whisper. The Emperor was dead before he hit the floor.
••••
The Emperor Pathra Krous was not a small man. He was quite a bit larger than she was, in fact, but that did not change the plans for him in any way.
He was to be an example. He was to be a warning. She had very little time to make that warning clear, but she would make the best of the time she could spare.
The knives slashed deeply. The symbols took shape on his chest, on his face. And when she finished the grisly message, she looked around the room very quickly and then caught the dead man’s wrists and pulled him toward the window, straining with his size. Dead weight, indeed.
There are plenty of people who would argue that a woman is naturally weaker than a man. It might be true but there were ways around that problem. Sometimes it wasn’t merely the weight of an object that mattered, but also how that weight was approached.
She used her arms to balance his mass. She used her legs to propel his corpse through the open window. He fell almost forty feet to the pavement below and landed with an audible slap. A moment later the screams began.
And then she slipped back into her hiding place to wait out the chaos that would be coming her way.
The military leaders of Tyrne were not amused.
Newly appointed General Merros Dulver did not much care. Rather than dealing with the crusty old bastards who were waiting to speak to the Emperor or his First Advisor, Merros called the troops to assemble on the Western Field where they often practiced. With Wollis at his side, he began a complete inspection of the troops. By most standards they were in fine form. By the standards of the Imperial Guard they were sloppy and unkempt. He made note of that fact to Wollis and knew that his second would see the matter attended to immediately.
The day was close to ending, the sun would set soon enough. That did not mean that Merros intended to make life easier for the troops. They had been living a bit too easily as far as he was concerned, and that included him. Thinking back on the Sa’ba Taalor was enough to bring that point home.
It was time for a change. There would be more serious practice sessions. He might well instigate proper war games. The weapons he inspected were functional, yes, but some of the edges were not what they should have been, and a good number of shields and breastplates were in need of repair. There was a smithy on the premises for the love of all the gods. It was time to make the blacksmith there earn his keep.
And again, he trusted Wollis to make note of all he said and he trusted that his second would make it happen.
Several of the soldiers looked too young to shave.
“Wollis?”
“Yes, General?”
“Make a note. Find out where Nolan March is stationed and have him transferred to the capital.”
He turned to stare at his second and smiled at the shock on the man’s face. “What are you doing? I mean, can you do that? I’m grateful of course, but–”
“I can do that. I can order that. I’m a general. Make it happen. I think I rather like the idea of him being a part of the Imperial Guard.”
“Aye! Ho, sir!” Merros’ smile grew broader. His friend had more than earned the right to see his family again, all of them.
When the inspections were done, he prepared to make a short speech to the troops. There were going to be a good number of changes and he wanted them to understand why those changes were taking place. He wanted them to understand that though the Sa’ba Taalor seemed inclined to be allies, they could not be ignored as a potential problem and they were, hands down, far superior fighters to most of the soldiers he’d been with over the years. And that could not be tolerated. It was time for the soldiers to become everything they should have been all along, especially the soldiers who guarded the crown city and the Emperor himself.
He planned to make a speech. Instead he turned with almost everyone else when the alarm bells sounded from the palace.
The great bells were sounded only rarely, and normally with a great deal of warning. There was no warning this time, however, and the sound shocked the regulars and the newcomers alike. Merros had heard of the palatial bells, but had never before heard them. They were indeed incredibly loud notes and the sound rang across the field and echoed off the closest buildings without losing much of their initial volume.
To the last, every soldier on the field grabbed their arms and headed for the palace at a run. He was gratified to see that response and horrified by the lack of organization involved in the same.
Finding out that the Emperor had been murdered, however, made his previous dread seem incon-sequential.