There was no time in the morning to consider the magnitude of his night with Delil. The sound of great horns blaring out in the open echoed into his sleeping chamber and Andover awoke with a groan, sitting up in the cot and wondering for just a moment where he was. He reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes and barely caught himself before disaster. His hands felt, yes, and they moved, yes, but they were still forged from iron and he had already learned the hard way that rubbing at his eyes could leave him in agony and half-blinded. That was the last thing he needed when he was on his way to meet a god.
Meet a god.
“Oh.” It was the only sound he could make.
Andover rose from his bed and quickly dressed himself. The room was empty. Delil sat up and dressed just as quickly, not speaking at all. She made sure her veil was in place before she stood and then headed for the threshold of the entrance.
“I… Good luck.” She left before he could respond. That was just as well, he could think of nothing to say that would not come out the wrong way. Women always confused his tongue and after this? Well, “thank you” hardly seemed the right words.
He ran his fingers through his hair – taking a few strands along with his gesture – and then slipped on his boots. A moment later he walked out into the bright morning sunlight and found Tusk and several others waiting for him. They were a terrifying lot and for one brief moment he feared that he’d offended them. Was Delil someone’s daughter? Betrothed?
Tusk dismissed any possible worries and added new ones, instead. “Andover Lashk of the Iron Hands, it is time to meet Durhallem.”
Andover nodded his head nervously and stepped closer.
“No one faces the Daxar Taalor except on their own.” Tusk’s voice was not unkind. “You must walk.” He pointed toward the top of the mountain so very far above them.
Without another word, Andover walked, heading toward his first meeting with one of the gods of the Seven Forges.
The palace was an endless hive of activity most days. There were people moving about almost constantly. Between advisors, guards, soldiers who were being trained as guards, chancellors, representatives from different kingdoms that sought to see the head of the Empire and all of the souls who took care to make every detail of the work seem effortless, it would have appeared to many that the people living and working in the palace never slept.
That was not true in most cases, but just at the present it was accurate.
Desh Krohan came back to the palace and moved directly to the throne room, not bothering to head for his usual stop at his quarters or anywhere else. When he got there Nachia Krous was already waiting and in discussion with Merros Dulver. The general was going over the maps with the Empress, showing her in careful detail the layout of the land as best they knew it and the places where he thought it likely they could manage to find access to the Blasted Lands and thus the Seven Forges.
Desh took one look at the maps and sighed. “We should prepare for war, yes – we have been preparing for war – but I believe we have a few other matters to attend to first.”
“Desh, how very nice to see you.” Nachia’s voice was deliberately too bright and cheerful.
The wizard shook his head. “The Sa’ba Taalor are offering us a chance to parley.”
Merros seemed genuinely surprised. “Really?”
“One of them was waiting for us. Had likely been waiting for a few days by the time I arrived.” He looked at both of them for a moment to see if they understood. They did not. “She was literally waiting in the ashes, buried in the ground a few inches down. I would have never seen her had she not made her presence known.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. It was an offer of peace and a reminder that for them the notion of sneaking in and causing mayhem is a minor thing.”
“She could have killed you then?” Nachia’s voice was small.
Desh shook his head. “Not likely. I am better defended than most. But she certainly could have killed your brother.”
Nachia did not respond except to shift on the throne.
“The point is this. We have a chance to argue for peace before this gets worse, yes, but we also have a chance to move forward with whatever you decide to do, Nachia. We also have a chance to leave this city before it is too late.”
Merros shook his head. His lips pressed together. “A nightmare of efforts, Desh, especially if your predictions are wrong.”
He turned on the general and pinned him hard with his gaze. “How many people live in this city, General Dulver?”
“I’m not really sure…”
“I am. I have studied the surveys and the figures provided by the revenuers. We have almost thirty thousand people in the city of Tyrne and the surrounding areas. This is an old city and it has had a long time to grow in size. The occupation of the Summer Palace year round has already bloated the city over the last fifteen years.” He waved a hand to stop the protest of Nachia. “I’m not saying there was ever anything wrong with Pathra choosing to be here instead of in Canhoon. I’m saying that the city has grown well beyond where it should have.”
“I can see that. I’ve already discussed the need to fortify the walls, possibly to build another wall around the outer areas.” Merros’s voice was as calm as ever. He did a remarkable job of hiding his agitation. He was a proper soldier.
“That’s only one of my points of debate here. Building a new wall would take a great deal of time and money. We have the finances, of course, but the time is a different story. The Sa’ba Taalor would parley with us in seven days.”
“Seven days?” Nachia sat forward in the throne.
“Seven days,” Desh nodded. And if we fail in the parley or if they decide to break their word and attack, that is only seven days’ time in which to try to build a wall. We would fail.”
Merros shook his head. “And even if we should fail, we don’t plan on letting them come to Tyrne without preparations, without moving the armies into position.”
“And what then, Merros?” Desh tried to keep his voice from rising in volume with limited success. “You said yourself our armies are not at their peak. What happens if they send four hundred of their best against the city? We have battalions ready and waiting, but they move between the proper ranks of footmen and horsemen and charge on past on those demons they ride and they attack anyone they see, armed or not. You said yourself that ten of them eliminated over a thousand people.”
“Then what do you propose we do, Desh?” That was Nachia, who rose from the throne and began pacing. The seat was uncomfortable at the best of times. Her response was simply to stand and move about.
“The Sooth did not say that the Sa’ba Taalor would attack Tyrne. They said that Tyrne is a doomed place. We cannot stay here. We should evacuate the city and immediately at that. There’s no proof of what will happen, but I have been in places where disaster fell. Look at the Guntha! Look at what remains of them. Look at what that very disaster did to Roathes. The entire area is abandoned. The country is gone, lost in ashes and smoke. Gods, it’s as bad as the Blasted Lands…” His voice faded away on that last part.
“Desh, what it is?” Nachia’s voice took on that maternal edge he sometimes heard in Pella’s tones. No matter who it was, the tone annoyed him.
He bit back his distaste for her concern. “I have not been to the Blasted Lands in a very long time, but I might be on to something there. The Sa’ba Taalor would not have a problem living in Roathes. Not like most would. They are better suited for it.”
“No one would willingly live in the Blasted Lands.” Merros shook his head. “And as someone who has been there, I can say that with ease and know I am right.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Merros. I’m saying that they could live there. There was no one else there. No one at all. Not that I saw at any rate. And I’m still trying to understand that, because Brolley and I agree that there weren’t enough of the Roathians on the return trip. Unless they all went to the south and east, there should have been more.
“They wouldn’t go to the south and east. They wouldn’t be welcomed by the Louron and I can’t see them even trying to survive in the swamps. The land there is too dangerous.”
“What land?”
“Precisely my point. You either know the swamps in Louron or you sink. There aren’t enough people there to work as guides and even if there were, there’s no love lost between the two peoples.”
“Then where did they go?” Nachia’s voice was taking on a frustrated edge.
Merros shrugged. “The last we heard there were black ships coming in. After that, nothing. It’s possible they’re all dead or captured.”
Nachia frowned and looked at Merros for clarification. “Captured?”
“The Empire has a few countries that deal with slaves. Who’s to say the Sa’ba Taalor do not also deal with them?”
“Did you see any sign of slavery when you were in the Taalor Valley?”
“No. But I hardly saw all of the valley. I saw a small fraction and we were moving at a hard ride for most of that time. They are a secretive people. Just think about the veils and you can see that.”
Desh shook his head. “The veils hide a deformity.”
“What deformity?” Merros looked at him with a doubtful expression. In that moment Desh understood that somewhere along the way the general had been intimate with one of the people of the Seven Forges. He had no notion as to which of them and did not care, but he saw the near-dread in the man’s expression.
“Nothing like what the plague winds do. More like some sort of scarring. Like what the Brellar do to themselves.”
Merros’s body relaxed a bit. He could understand that idea well enough.
“That’s not the point here in any event. The concern is what happened to the Roathians.”
“Well. Perhaps that’s something that should be addressed at the parley, then.” Nachia spoke up, looking from one man to the other. “We have a week to consider what to do about that. We also have less time to consider moving everyone from this town if Desh is right, and much as I hate the notion of leaving, I believe we should consider the source here and prepare to move locations.”
Merros looked long and hard at the Empress and nodded his head. He had likely come to the same conclusion on his own. Desh wished he could have said something to remove the sting from the matter, but there was nothing he could say. The Sooth had never lied about anything, not on a deliberate level. They were sometimes confusing in what they said, but there was no doubt at all what they were about in this case.
They had to abandon Tyrne and soon.
Merros sighed. “And why will we tell people that we must abandon Tyrne?”
Nachia asked, “Did the Sooth say when this great event would take place?”
“No. Only that it would be soon.”
“So why don’t we start by ordering the palace prepared for winter? Let it be known that I have decided to move back to Canhoon. That should start a lot of things happening by itself.”
“Do you think so?” Merros wasn’t completely convinced.
“Not everyone will choose to leave, but a good number will. Tyrne is a city surrounded by farmlands and one river. The industry here is mostly centred upon the palace and the seat of the Empire being here. Much of it will leave when we leave and take the soldiers with us.”
Desh stared at the table for a moment, not sure how to approach the subject. “It might not be enough. I was thinking we might use the situation in Roathes to our advantage. We might tell people that the desolation there is growing.” He held up a hand to stop either from speaking and both looked ready to. “Not that it’s an immediate threat but something that could become dangerous later. It might make those who are only considering the notion of leaving lean toward moving faster.”
Nachia shook her head. “Might well start a stampede, too. Best to avoid those, I would think.”
True enough.
Merros spoke up. “I think we should pull the army from the area. Move them toward Trecharch and the Wellish Steppes. Send them back toward Old Canhoon. Announce the move to the proper palace and watch what happens. I think you’re right. A lot of people will move on as well. And then when we’ve started that action, then maybe we talk of growing desolation to move the rest of them.”
“I thought we were already there.” Darus’s voice had taken on a plaintive tone. No one really blamed him. The way into the Mounds was hiding itself – if, in fact there actually was a way in.
The ice had thinned, though it was not gone. The last roaring vibration had shaken a great deal loose, and even after spending most of two days in the wagon or the tent, nothing had come along to make the ice grow back. Nor had anything come along to remove it, come to think of it.
Nolan had doubts about that opening and about the ability of the people with him to do anything with it. Tega seemed nice enough but she was not designed for rugged climbing. Darus was not likely to climb with a broken arm, Maun was doing poorly at best and the big man had made a good start at a recovery, but his body was still swollen and he moved like an old goat that had once lived on the farm. That is to say: he moved, but not well and not without a good deal of bleating. Stradly was a good man. He had a fine sense of humor and he was strong as a horse, but whatever Tega had done to destroy that Pra-Moresh, it had left him wounded deep inside.
No, none of them would be climbing, and that was a problem since as near as Nolan could tell, whatever entrances there were to the actual Mounds were high up in the ruins.
Every entrance they’d tried along the lower levels of the odd place was more like an ice pit than a possible entrance. They went nowhere. They promised possibilities of caves and tunnels, but ultimately even the deepest of them only allowed entrance to another wall of impassable stone.
The only person having any luck that wasn't bad was Vonders, who had already gathered many small trinkets to sell when he returned home. He showed them to his companions and marveled at each of them, regardless of how insignificant.
That was hardly fair. There were likely many who found the items amazing, but to Nolan they had no special qualities. They were shiny rocks and nothing more. Neither his mother nor his father had ever been much for trinkets. He shared that sentiment.
“Up there. Look.” Vonders pointed toward one of the towering masses around them. Nolan squinted along the length of the thing and studied the surface. It was, as with everything else, coated in ice and dirt, but he could see what the ruin hunter was looking at. There was a large hole in the side, almost a hundred feet above them. That hole looked deep, and he doubted it was merely a pit started by the wind. If one listened carefully,a note came from it when the air shifted the right way.
The Mounds were bizarre. They did not stand like buildings or like trees. There was nothing right or normal about them. They jutted from the ground at odd angles and some of the shapes looked like rocks and others like half-melted beehives. Some were long and thin and others twisted into shapes that made his eyes ache. All of them had the following consistencies, however: they were immense, and what could be seen of their surfaces looked burned and melted.
They had spent a night talking of the creation of the Blasted Lands. There was little else to do while they tried to lick their wounds and waited for the sun to rise. Surely no one felt like getting drunk, even if there had been a good tavern about, and even the most amorous of the lot had trouble considering Tega as a lover after what she had done to that monster. She was a lovely girl to be sure, but anyone that could simply destroy a Pra-Moresh was to be considered very carefully and for a long time before being approached along those lines.
There were a dozen stories or more. Old empires fighting and soldiers dying by the thousands, and then the Great Cataclysm. That was it. No one knew much more. Until Merros Dulver, no one had managed to get far enough into the Blasted Lands to find out about the Mounds or to even see the Seven Forges from up close.
Nolan looked toward the distant mountain range. The sun was up, the sky was calmer than it often was, and though he could not actually see the mountains, he could just catch a glimmer of the red light that stained the distant clouds where they stood.
How far away were they? He could not guess. Sometimes they seemed closer than others, and according to Vonders that was common in the Blasted Lands. The distant wall of the Edge was the only landmark his family had ever really used in the Blasted Lands, and that seemed to change all the time as well.
“We could climb it.” Tega’s voice shook him from his reverie.
“What?” He looked at her face for a moment and then back at the tower she was studying. The hole that gaped down at them from up high. “I’m not so sure.”
“The surface looks tricky, yes, there’s the ice to contend with, but we could climb it. Vonders says his family climbed down the side of the Edge on many occasions using ropes and spikes driven into the stone.”
“The stone of the Edge is hard. It’s granite, and even the stonecutters have trouble with it. We can’t tell how solid that stuff is. It might have no more strength than unbaked clay.”
“Nolan, have you seen anything else that looks like an entrance?”
A lot of them, but they were all lies. That was the only reason they were even considering this madness.
“And what if the winds come back while we are up there and holding on only by ropes? What if the ice storms start again?”
Tega looked at him and shook her head. “What other options?”
“There are still many structures we have not examined. Perhaps we should investigate the rest before we make a decision to climb that high with no guarantees.” Her lips pressed together and she stared harder at him as if willing him to simply – explode – agree with her. “We are here to serve you, Tega. This is your expedition and your decision to make.” He raised his hands in surrender.
She looked away from him and stared at the opening. Sixty feet was a long way to fall and the opening was at an angle that would make gaining entrance risky at best. And he still thought it looked closer to a hundred feet than sixty, but he was trying to be optimistic.
“We shall look a little further then, but let’s mark this possibility.”
He nodded his head. That was exactly what he’d hoped she would say. One thing to consider risking yourself and another when you risked the lives of the people with you. Had it been him alone, climbing the side would have been a more realistic option. With others? There were too many chances for people to die or get even more injured.
Vonders took in a deep breath. “What in the name of the gods?”
Nolan looked toward the man and then followed his eyes.
Just barely visible from where they stood, they could see a lone rider coming toward the Mounds. The figure came from the direction of the Seven Forges.
“I thought the Sa’ba Taalor were forbidden to be here?” Darus’s voice was petulant, as if someone had taken away his time to play and given him more chores. Nolan liked his friend a good deal more when he wasn’t injured and whining.
“We’ve no proof that whoever is coming this way is Sa’ba Taalor.” Nolan shrugged, but he also reached for his axe’s handle.
“This is not a good thing. I can feel it.” Darus shook his head and frowned. His good hand felt along his broken arm for a moment and then he, like Nolan, sought the comfort of his weapon.
Nolan opened his mouth and then closed it. Finally he looked to Tega. “What would you have us do here, Mistress?”
Tega looked back to him, her eyes wide. “I… We should prepare ourselves.”
“Prepare for what?” Darus said the words that Nolan was considering.
Tega looked toward the horizon and frowned. “Where did he go?”
“The rider?” Nolan looked away from her and back toward the spot where the rider had been. There was nothing. No one.
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold crept through him.
“Damn.”
Darus nodded his agreement. “Whoever that is, I won’t call it a good sign that we’ve been spotted.”
“What makes you certain we were seen?” Tega’s question was directed toward Darus. Nolan answered anyway. “We can’t be certain, but we have to guess that the rider has seen us and does not wish to be seen by us. We must expect unpleasant intent.”
Tega nodded. “Let’s get back to the wagon then. We have to take care of the others.”
Nolan bit back a response. They were soldiers. They were here to watch over and protect her, not each other.
Darus kicked at a loose stone with his good foot. “Where did Vonders go?”
Sure enough, the scavenger had vanished again. Likely off looking for something shiny.
Tega shook her head. “We don’t know how far away the rider is. We have to get back to the camp.”
Nolan nodded. “Vonders can find his own way. He’s been leading us through half the pits in this area already.”
Without another word they headed back for the wagon and the others. Nolan found himself wondering how good Tolpen was with his bow. He also found himself wishing he’d brought his crossbow with him.
Still, the weapon was waiting at the campsite and they’d be there soon enough.
Drask stared up at the Mounds and studied them. Brackka let out a low rumble and Drask patted the thick hide of his mount. “I know. I saw them.”
He sighed and let his legs grip harder to the thick body beneath him. Brackka took his cue and moved quickly, bounding across the landscape in leaps that would have terrified anyone unfamiliar with how well the beast could move. It was only a matter of minutes before they were in the rough ground leading to the Mounds proper.
There was a flutter of unease in his stomach. It could not be called fear, exactly, but it was a close relative. For his entire life the rules had been simple enough to follow: first obey the Daxar Taalor. Second, stay away from the Mounds. Currently these two rules conflicted. Ydramil had spoken directly into Drask and told him to go to the Mounds. He had obeyed, readying himself for whatever might come his way in the process, but the notion of going to the area the gods forbade went against his upbringing. Still, the very first rule was to obey the Daxar Taalor, even if that meant going against every other rule in his existence.
The Mounds made no sense. They were vast and desolate. They were dark and jagged. The wind cut around them and brought with it an odd scent unlike anything he had encountered before, and he had seen more than most of his people had.
Standing in the shadow of the Mounds, Drask closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to Ydramil. He had made his progress as the god demanded. Now that he was here, he hoped for more information. He did not expect it. He did not demand it. But he hoped for it just the same.
His only answer was silence.
When the gods do not give an answer there is as much of a reason as when they do. The process of becoming what the Daxar Taalor demanded was a lifetime in the happening.
“We go on then, my brother.” He ran one hand over Brackka’s neck and the mount let out a grunt. A moment later they moved forward and Drask let one hand rest on his throwing axes. There were likely threats, here. If those threats could be cut than he would bleed them. If they could not, then he would handle the matter differently.
There could only be one answer to the people he had spotted. They were seen at a great distance, but he suspected they were from Fellein, even without seeing them clearly. Many things lived within the Mounds, that was accepted, but Drask doubted that any of them were human.
The winds ripped across the ground and cast dust and ice into the air. The veil he wore for traveling caught the worst of the grit, but he narrowed his eyes against unwanted irritants.
Brackka moved up into the Mounds proper, breaking a sacred law as the gods demanded. The tension rose in both of them. One does not easily defy the gods’ laws if one is wise. Even when the gods themselves demand it. Perhaps especially then.
From somewhere above him came a roar from the ground, enough to shake his body and Brackka’s alike. They held their place and waited. The sound wrapped around them, crushed them in its grip, and finally released them when it had finished its course. Pra-Wren, the wailing winds. They had been a part of existence in the Blasted Lands for as long as anyone could remember. The Mounds did not rest easily. They never had.
He looked up at a towering arm of stone that reached for the heavens and pointed in the direction of the Seven Forges as if demanding that he retreat.
Drask sighed and once again they moved, climbing into the warped wasteland.
Somewhere ahead of them, the people of Fellein sought something. Perhaps he was here to stop them. Perhaps the gods had other plans. He would find out when the time was right. For now he looked around and expected the same of Brackka as they moved carefully into the forbidden.
Four days and nights of celebration were finally coming to an end, and Tataya could not have been happier about it. The Brellar had welcomed her and that was a good thing. She had been treated with near reverence and one of their chieftains – she could not quite decide how many they had – had allowed her to learn their language by touching his mind.
At first she’d thought perhaps she was expected. The way the people reacted would have made it easy to believe, certainly, but after they’d learned to share languages, Tataya was informed that she was welcomed because of her hair. Apparently women with red hair were highly prized and even rarer than blond-haired women among the locals. Near as she could tell no one from the Brellar had any hair color but black. They made up for the lack of variety in a number of ways that seemed like lunacy to her. Still, Desh had explained more than once that cultures found their own ways to speak and words were only one example of communication.
She’d known about the ritual scarring, but knowing and seeing are different matters. The symbols they used to write their stories on their skin were complex, and in many cases the scars covered their entire bodies. Most of the marks were tiny, smaller than her shortest finger nail, but others were deep and thick on the skin, as if to indicate they had a far greater significance. She doubted there was any part of her history she wanted carved into her flesh and left to bleed for days on end, especially in the heat of the area, where infection was likely a serious threat.
But the Brellar managed and she saw very few of them who suffered drastically as a result of the markings, even though several of the people she saw were covered with fresh cuts.
The celebrations came to an end when she explained that she was not looking for a mate, but rather sought sailors for a possible war.
After that, the men she dealt with were strictly business.
Tomms and Laruth were the two men she was negotiating with, and both of them seemed amiable enough, though Tomms was still not pleased with her refusal to marry him. She lied and claimed that she was already married, but that didn’t seem to matter in the least to him. He had three wives, and collectively those three wives had five husbands. While the notion was fascinating, she opted to hold off on studying the nature of their culture in quite such detail until after negotiations were settled.
Laruth was younger and possibly more ambitious. He was certainly more willing to negotiate. The men and two others of the same rank had gathered with Tataya and Callan to discuss prices. Captain Callan spoke their language with a bit of difficulty, but he did speak it and Tataya used that to her advantage, letting him handle many of the discussions while hiding exactly how well she spoke it herself. Not because she was hiding anything from Laruth, who’d allowed her to learn his language, but because she wanted to know if she could trust Callan.
Surprisingly, he seemed to be telling the truth and negotiating fairly. She was pleasantly surprised.
“So, then.” Callan looked to her. “We have a deal? It’s a fortune we’re talking about here.”
“A fortune, yes, but not paid in full until the deed is done.” She leaned back and studied the four chiefs. They studied her right back, with varying degrees of interest. She had dressed herself to add to their distraction and it was working just fine.
“How do you wish to handle this?”
She smiled at the captain. “I have a chest of gold with me, do I not? For just such contingencies.”
Callan looked heartbroken by that idea. He had grown fond of that chest of gold. She’d caught him looking longingly at her cabin door on several occasions during the trip, and oftentimes she was surprised that he didn’t merely break the door down. It wouldn’t have done him the least good, of course, but that was something that he did not have to know.
“I suppose you do.”
“Oh, calm yourself, Captain. You’ll be paid first.”
He looked at her with a wounded expression that held remarkably little conviction. “You cut me.”
“So you’ve done all of this for love of Empire and will require no compensation?” She deliberately used an expression of hopeful ignorance that she knew would make the man crazy. He seemed to prefer his women on the naïve side. A little pout and widened eyes and the man was nearly ready to kill anyone who so much as looked at her the wrong way.
“Hardly.” His response was dry and let her know he was on to her simple tricks. That was good. It was hardly fun playing with a new toy if it did not play back.
In perfect Brellar she replied to the waiting chieftains, “The terms are acceptable and I thank you for your honest and fair negotiations.”
Tomms looked at her longingly. “You are certain your husband would not accept an offer of shared marriage?”
“He is not as generous with his wives, I fear.”
The man sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “That is a pity.”
She repressed a shudder and rose from her seat. It wasn't that Tomms was unattractive, exactly, merely that he seemed so desperate to add a red haired woman to his stable of wives. She was flattered and repulsed in equal measure.
Captain Callan stared at her with a dropped jaw and narrowed eyes, fully aware for the first time that she had understood every word he said, including quite a few that would have been deemed inappropriate. If Desh Krohan truly were her husband a few of the discussions would have ended with Callan dead instead of merely worried about his possible demise.
Desh did not defend the honor of the Sisters. They were expected to handle their own conflicts and call on him only as a last resort.
So far none of them had ever had to call on him for that purpose.
After formal goodbyes were said and arrangements made for Laruth’s people to collect their advance, Tataya headed for the ship with Callan on her heels.
“You spoke the language the entire time?”
“No. Only for part of it.”
“Which part?”
“You may rest comfortably with the knowledge that I heard your comments about what should be done with a woman who has a body like mine.”
“Oh.”
“I also heard your statements regarding the purchasing of slave-girls for the taverns in your home town.”
“Yes, well…”
“Slavery has been outlawed in most parts of the Empire.”
“But not all.”
“True. Even so, speaking of women in that way will not endear you to most of them.”
Callan smiled. “There are exceptions, you know.”
“No doubt. I have known a few men who would be exceptions as well, but I have never respected any of them enough to want to be with them.”
“You speak of relationships. I speak of rutting.”
“We speak of the same thing, Captain Callan. I merely have higher standards.”
He opened his mouth to retort and then apparently thought better of it. “So you’re not upset then?”
“Not at all. I believe that everyone should speak their minds and have their beliefs. Especially when doing so reveals more about them than I would otherwise know.”
“Is that why you left most of the negotiations to me?”
“No. Not entirely. At least two of the chieftains would have considered anything I said beneath serious consideration.” She allowed a small smile. “Not all men are as enlightened as you, Captain.”
They reached the ship in short order – most of the discussions had happened onboard one of the larger vessels and it was merely a matter of walking from one pier to another to get back to where they needed to be. By the time they’d arrived, the men Laruth had charged with taking payment were already waiting.
Tataya went to see about their payment and Captain Callan called out to his crew to ready for departure. None of the crew seemed the least bit upset by the notion. The ships around theirs were large, and even when they were silent, the knowledge that substantial crews of men who might or might not see them as enemies were stationed around them on all sides was not conducive to easy rest.
The men collecting the gold were familiar enough faces by now. They had been with the chieftain through most of his negotiations.
Within twenty minutes the payments had been made and the chest of gold first offered to Pathra Krous by the Sa’ba Taalor had been nearly emptied of coins. She rather liked the notion of paying for defense against the Sa’ba Taalor with their own offerings.
Another hour and they were ready to set sail. There were no challenges despite the worry that Callan held onto. The Brellar were indeed a strange people, but they wanted what everyone wanted. They wanted more than they already had.
They were well out to sea before the sun set. Captain Callan kept members of his crew on the lookout through the night, likely waiting to see if they would be followed.
After a while, day and night became irrelevant. The distance to the top of Durhallem was deceptive, and though he’d thought to reach the entrance to the mountain within hours, it seemed much longer.
Andover walked in heat that was blistering, and carried on through cold that left his teeth chattering and his toes numb, and still he walked. He did not stop to rest, because he had been told that his time for resting was done.
And so he walked. He moved up the side of the mountain, always angling higher, occasionally crawling on his hands and knees when the incline was too steep, and sometimes scaling sheer walls of stone. More than once he was grateful for fingers made of iron that were capable of gripping so much harder than mere flesh.
He walked until the snow started – a layer of white that hid the dark rock of the mountain. He continued higher still, feeling the ice beneath him and the biting cold of the air he breathed.
And in time, he could never say exactly how long with any accuracy, Andover Lashk reached the entrance to his destination. And seeing the entrance to Durhallem’s Heart, Andover Lashk forced down his dread and walked into the simple cave. The floor was level enough, a rough black cut into the mountain’s surface. The walls around him were obsidian – rich, black glass – and seemed to reflect his face back at him from a million or more uneven facets. He walked forward cautiously, barely able to see into the darkness, and he walked for a long time indeed.
There was no doubt in his mind as to where he was. How could any mere mortal doubt the presence of a god? He stepped into the cave and felt the heat of Durhallem’s heart and the calculating rage that rested there.
Why are you here? He did not hear the words. He felt their meaning within his body.
“I am here to thank you.” No. That wasn’t right. Durhallem had done nothing for him. It was Truska-Pren who had given him his hands. “I am here to be judged by you.” Yes. That was it. He was supposed to find out if he was worthy.
Did he see the force that came for him?
No. He saw nothing but darkness. But he felt it. He felt a powerful presence, a vast thing of impossible scope that noticed him for a moment, truly noticed him and examined him.
And judged him.
A moment later the pain came, a great searing agony across the left side of his face. Muscles spasmed, flesh twitched, bone moved within his face, and when he thought for sure that he must scream or go mad he remembered the words of Drask Silver Hand so very long ago now, as he prepared to be given his new hands.
Place your hands within the blessing box. Do not move them, no matter how great the pain, no matter how tempting. Life is pain, and if you would have hands that live, you must accept that pain. Do you understand?
He thought of those words and obeyed them as best he could. He did not move his face, despite the desire to do so. He tried not to scream and could never be certain if he succeeded there. The pain was unbearable, as great as any he could remember, but he did not move, he dared not move. The presence might notice him again if he did and he felt that would be a very bad thing indeed.
The pain disappeared as quickly as it had come to him. There was no lingering reminder of the agony. It was simply gone.
Andover closed his eyes and fell to his knees, able to breathe again for the first time since feeling the presence.
His hands clutched tightly to something he could not see. When he was strong enough to rise he kept his grip on that something and made his way to the entrance of the cave.
The stars were out and the night was cold and Andover Lashk walked carefully down the side of the mountain along a trail that had not been there before. He worked his jaw and felt the changes along the left side of his face and wondered what they might look like. His hands kept their tight grip on whatever had been given him by Durhallem, but he did not look at it. His eyes stayed on the path ahead of him instead. He understood in his soul that to look away would be to lose the path, and he was not sure he was strong enough to make it back down the mountain without it.
The sun rose, and still he walked, still he kept plodding along. In time he stopped, but only long enough to drink from a trickling stream of cold melt water. The ground was once more stone and the air was warm on his skin.
The sun was fading by the time he reached the village, and once again great fires raged within the pits before the cliff face dwellings.
Tusk came toward him and stopped a few feet away. His hand reached out and grabbed at Andover’s face looking carefully first at his right cheek and then at his left.
And then the man roared, “He is scarred! Andover Lashk is scarred by Durhallem!”
Around him the people cheered and Andover blinked, shocked by the sudden noise.
The feeling that he was in a dream did not quite leave him, but it faded as the people came forward, many clapping him on one arm or the other, others, like Delil, embracing him briefly as if greeting a member of the family they had not seen in a while. It seemed that every person in the village came his way and offered their congratulations.
And maybe they did. He could not tell.
There was the talk of his being scarred and Andover let his hand drift up to touch his face. The right side was the same as ever but the left was changed.
His voice sounded strange when he spoke for the first time in over a day. “How?”
“No one can meet the gods and be unchanged, Andover Lashk. You have received the blessings of Durhallem. He has given you obsidian and your first Great Scar.”
He nodded as if he understood, but the words only grazed the surface of his mind. He was tired and doubted he would ever feel as if he had slept enough again in his lifetime.
“You have wondered why we wear veils before your people, and now you know. Your people would not understand. They have not been blessed.”
Tuskandru reached to the veil covering his face and pulled it back. A moment later the cloth was tossed aside amidst a faint tinkling noise from the thin links that adorned it.
Andover barely heard the noise. He was far too busy studying the markings on Tusk’s face. They had no symmetry and each was as different as any of the marks on the man’s flesh, save in that they were prominent and impossible to ignore. Along the left side of his face a thick scar ran from the cheek down to the jaw. Not but a few inches distant, another scar, heavy enough to stand out among the many scars on the man, ran above his mouth and almost to his nose. A third jagged across his right side, but that one seemed an open wound that would not bleed.
At least that was the impression until the wound moved. All three of the scars opened and flexed along with the broad lips of Tusk’s mouth. And from the mouth and the scars alike Andover could see flashes of teeth, hints of gums. When Tusk spoke again all of the scars and his mouth moved, each adding a note of sound, and the apprentice blacksmith finally understood the source of the odd distortion in the voices of the Sa’ba Taalor.
“When we meet with the gods, we are gifted with the voices of the gods, you see? We understand them and we can speak with them. Once we are worthy, once we have proven ourselves, the gods bless us with their marks and their voices alike.”
Delil peeled the veil from her face and he saw that she had two such scars, one on the right that ran along her jaw line, and one on the left that bisected her full lips. When the mouths were silent they did indeed look like scars. When she spoke they moved, they formed words and sounds.
“You are blessed today, Andover. Durhallem has accepted you.”
Through the exhaustion that seemed to weigh him down, Andover felt a blooming understanding and a rising dread.
He spoke with both of his mouths. The one he had been born with and the one Durhallem had cut across the left side of his face. The mouth he had been born with let out a slight whimper and said, “Blessed?” And the other mouth, the scar that spoke in a slightly different tone said, “Blessed. Durhallem has blessed me.”
He should have been horrified, but the exhaustion was still there, like the weight of too much wine upon him, and it crushed his panic.
But there was more. He could not fully understand it, did not want to make sense of it, but part of him was thrilled with the change.
He looked around him and saw the faces looking back, Delil, Tusk, Bromt and others whose names he barely knew and could hardly remember, and understood that they accepted him and reveled in the change.
They accepted him as one of them.
As an equal.
And it was good.
He fought back tears, not of grief but of joy. For the first time in so very long, Andover felt that he belonged.