Captain Callan sat on a three-legged chair and looked at his ship through drink-blurred eyes.
There was a lot that needed doing and he had the spare coin to let him do most of it.
The boat was a good one, fast and true, but very large and in need of minor repairs and a bit of clean up. It was okay for a boat to look poor, but not okay for the boat to suffer for those looks.. The holds were currently empty and he hated that part. Empty holds did not make money.
On the other hand, he had a commission to consider. He’d been paid handsomely for finding the Brellar and negotiating with them. The red-haired woman, Tataya, had seen to his financial needs and promised him more work. Being as he was mostly honest, he’d taken her where she wanted to go and not been foolish enough to try anything like selling her to the highest bidder. Knowing she worked with a sorcerer helped keep him honest, he supposed, but he wasn’t much for slavers anyway.
Still, the Brellar were an interesting lot. Had he made a poor choice in negotiations it likely would have cost him his ship and very possibly his head. Instead he was wealthy enough that he could settle in Canhoon if he was inclined and live a comfortable life of idle days and drunken nights.
Instead he looked at his poor, battered boat and nodded his head. The repairs would start in the morning. Nothing too substantial, a board here, a nail there but if she was going to remain seaworthy the work had to be done and paid for.
He had been drinking. He was not blind drunk, nor in any true danger of it.
Still, he started when he heard the voice coming from his left.
“Captain Callan?”
He looked at the man for moment.
Dressed in finery, but definitely local. He had a plain face and a soft manner. He was unremarkable, but Callan had no doubt that was because he chose to be.
“If you are looking for Captain Callan, you’ve found him. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Losla Foster and I have a need for a good, fast ship. I have heard you have one for hire.”
Callan looked his way more carefully. His clothes were fashionable. More importantly, they were clean and needed no mending. That spoke to a certain degree of money.
Money, it should be noted, was always one of Callan’s weaknesses, along with a beautiful woman. And food. Wine, of course. Truly, he had to admit, he was a man with many weaknesses.
“What did you need shipped, and to where?”
“I have a group of men who need to enter the city. They do not wish to be seen.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Men who need to not be seen are often a costly cargo.”
“They are. I know this.”
The small sack the man dropped on the table next to his wine landed with a deep, lovely thump. Gold, Callan knew, sounded different than copper or silver when it rattled. That was the rattle of gold. He’d have known it anywhere.
“That is one half of your payment. The rest upon delivery.”
“Agreed.” Callan did not care what men he was carrying. He was a man with scruples, yes, but they were not very strong and easily purchased.
Later, he would regret that fact about himself.
The land was lush, ripe and green.
Trees rose as high as mountains here, it seemed, and Tusk admired their strength, their beauty. There was power in this place. He could feel it in the ground beneath him and in the trees around him. This was the land where the Fellein held sway without fear of conquest for as long as there had been a Fellein Empire.
The only threat they had ever known that was worthy were the Wellish Overlords and though few knew it, the Sa’ba Taalor had handled that matter a long time back and buried the undying bastards deep in the ground. He wondered what stories the Fellein told themselves to explain why the Overlords had gone away.
It was an idle consideration and one he brushed aside as a man might cast away a gnat.
The great forest of Trecharch had been a part of the Empire since it had been founded on the remains of Korwa. The land ahead of them sloped gently into a valley where three separate rivers ran from the north and flowed toward the great trees in the center. Around those trees, between them, and in some cases built against them, great stone edifices rose in pale imitation of the trees themselves. There were people there, great numbers of them. This was Norhaun, according to the maps they had been given. It was the seat of power in the entire area. At the center, rising like a sapling splitting from one of the great trees, was a castle that took Tusk’s breath away.
Orrander’s Tower rose toward the skies and would have been impressive in any other setting. Here it seemed small, a pale shadow of the monolithic trees that surrounded it and sheltered it. The trees themselves were almost as great as the Seven Forges in height. They were ancient before the Forges rose from the ground and they continued on.
“Stastha!” He did not look away from the incredible vista as he called for one of his most trusted aides. Instead he savored the view.
Stastha rode forward, her dark furred mount, Loarhun, moving with smooth grace. Stastha’s face could not be seen under the great horned helmet she sported, but her eyes glimmered with silvery light as she looked at him.
“Yes, my king?”
She already knew what he would say. They had discussed the matter repeatedly as they moved across the Blasted Lands and traveled over the Wellish Steppes on their way to this place, cutting a bloody path through the people of Trecharch on their way.
“Burn it. All of it. Nothing survives us!”
She did not raise her horn to sound the alarm. Instead she offered a simple battle cry that all with them would understand. “Durhallem!”
“Durhallem!” A hundred voices mirrored the call, and then the armies of the Wounder moved forward, riding into the valley to destroy all that crossed their paths.
Far above them, moving through the trees of the Trecharch, the other warriors moved in silence. They would continue their own ways and follow their own god. Tusk knew their plans and agreed with them.
Brodem roared under him and the other mounts added their own cries to arms. He and his cavalry charged into the heavy woods, moving across the established paths.
They had already learned the hard way why the trees were said to walk. The Sa’ba Taalor above them had already crippled many of the trees by weakening the great vine that wrapped around the mightiest of the hardwoods.
Somewhere ahead of him Glo’Hosht moved silently through the trees and killed them in passing. He could see the great vine, the damage done to it. That was the King in Mercury’s sacred order. The Mother-Vine would die at the king’s hand.
Tuskandru suppressed the faintest of shivers. Glo’Hosht was a deadly enemy to have. Tusk would fight anyone, anything that he had to fight in order to survive. The King in Mercury would kill just as easily, without ever touching an opponent.
He pushed the thought aside. This was a time for combat and glory. Glo’Hosht had made certain the traps of the area remained empty of Sa’ba Taalor. Tusk would see to the rest.
Brodem rode faster and Tusk felt himself grin, felt his blood surge. The axe in his left hand was well balanced and sharp enough to manage most any target he struck. The chain in his other hand would handle anything that came his way.
Up ahead he could see buildings and people. Just as importantly, they could see him.
“Durhallem!” He called out his god’s name in joy. It was time at last to fight.
The chain rattled and sang as it cut the air. The blades at the end of the long links found flesh and cut that, too. The man who had been posted to guard against attacks died a moment later, a look of shock on his face as the flayed remains of his neck rained blood across his chest.
Sometimes the gods were kind.
She dreamed of her father. When she had been a child he used to walk with her along the Mother-Vine and show her the wonders of Trecharch. She had fished the different rivers, climbed every imaginable type of tree, and learned how to forage the woods when it seemed there was no food to be found.
She missed the old man. His smile, his gentle ways, and the smell of his pipe smoke. He had carved a hundred pipes in his time and given them away more often than sold them. She considered his whittling blades among her most prized possessions.
Cullen opened her eyes and looked at the world around her. The air stank of wood smoke and offal. She turned her head to the side and stifled a cough, barely suppressing the need. Moving hurt her neck, her shoulders, and her back.
People moved around her, and they spoke a language unknown to her ears.
She looked to her left, then to her right and carefully assessed the situation.
There were people, yes, but there were not many. While she watched a gathering of children – they had to be children as the corpses they were near seemed gigantic in comparison – dragged the body of Tremm from where he’d fallen and pulled his weight toward a wagon. Several bodies were already on the open cart. Whatever the bodies carried or wore was left with them.
The children wore hides and leathers and each and every one of them sported weapons. Some carried swords, most sported clubs or axes.
One of the children – possibly as old as ten years, but she had her doubts – spoke in their tongue and gestured at the wagon. It was full. There was no way around that fact.
Just the same, an older one, closer to adulthood, argued back.
While she watched the younger of the two delivered a brutal open-handed blow across the older one’s face and sent the boy rocking on his heels. He started to respond and the younger one drew two daggers from sheaths at his hips. Cullen thought they were male. She couldn’t truly tell; they were at that age. Her father used to say that all children are beautiful until they grow up. Looking on these children, that statement made sense. They were androgynous.
They were also vicious. The fight happened quickly and ended with the young one drawing a deep cut across the older one’s abdomen. Around them the other children looked on and did nothing to help until the fight was finished. The older sat down while two more tended to the wounds, called to do so by the victor. Two more grabbed at the wagon. It was designed to be pulled by hand, and though the children were young, they were impressively strong and wrestled the weight of the wagon and its cargo with ease.
While they were all distracted, Cullen rolled to her hands and knees and carefully looked around. For the moment no one was watching her. She moved as quietly as she could, wincing, because the pain in her neck was moving through most of her muscles, sliding between two of the trees and getting distance from the invaders. Children or not, they were in better shape that she was at the moment, and they had weapons.
She would fix that just as soon as she could, but for the moment she had to understand her surroundings and what had happened.
When she was properly hidden from easy sight, Cullen stopped and took stock further. The scent of smoke was still prevalent.
To the west she saw why. They were burning the great forest. So far only a few of the younger trees, but she could see more of them – more children! – adding fuel to the fires they had already set. The winds from the Blasted Lands only aided them in their actions. The flames were already too high for her to consider putting them out.
As she watched, one of the trees that had been a landmark in her life begin to burn. The bark had already been smoldering but now it caught ablaze. Tongues of fire licked greedily at the heavy bark, blackening the wood and dancing higher.
Cullen looked up, her eyes trying to orient on the familiar, and felt a cold wind sigh through her body.
Above her the Mother-Vine was gray and lifeless. The leaves had wilted and fallen away; the tendrils that should have held onto the trees around the great vine were withered and tucked in close to the main trunk of the vine.
The Mother-Vine was dead here, or so close to death that it hardly mattered.
What she saw simply could not be. Her mouth was dry and breathing seemed an impossibility. That last was probably because of the smoke that was thickening even as she looked around.
Cullen crouched for a moment, cursing silently and wishing that Deltrea were alive to talk of rutting and boredom. Her eyes stung with unshed tears that eased the burning just the same.
She looked around carefully once more, making sure she was not observed. She had no weapons left. If she were going to arm herself, it would be by taking from one of the children.
They were moving around her. It was only a matter of time before she ran across one or more of them. Not twenty feet away she could hear the tiny terror that had won the earlier fight bellowing at the others in that devil tongue that hurt her ears.
She risked a look around the side of the tree that she was using for shelter and saw one of the children looking directly at her.
The recognition was immediate and Cullen clenched her jaw. If the whelp cried out or called an alarm…
Instead the child – no more than twelve at the oldest, or an absolute runt – started in her direction with a smile that would have scared a Pra-Moresh.
There were no words, just motion.
The girl reached inside her loose blouse – the shirt opening enough to reveal that she fought a female – and came out with a long dagger. The blade was curved and serrated. The hilt of the thing had spikes running over the hand guard and Cullen wondered for half a heartbeat how the girl carried the damned thing without cutting herself to ribbons.
From a distance she thought the smoke was distorting her sight, but closer up she realized the child had pale gray skin.
Her stomach dropped again.
One of the demons from the Blasted lands. No matter the age, she had to assume the bitch was dangerous.
It was a good assumption. Without speaking a word the girl came in low and fast, holding one hand to ward off any possible blows and carrying the dagger with deadly intent.
Cullen did not try pleading. There was no time for anything but action. The girl came in fast and feinted.
Cullen moved in closer still, remembering her training and getting inside the range of the dagger. The girl stepped back to compensate and Cullen stepped in again, bringing her elbow around and slamming it into her younger opponent’s sternum with all her strength.
Full-grown men who’d been foolish enough to try their luck with her had been dropped by the maneuver. Cullen was stronger than she looked and faster, too.
The girl grunted, grinned and attacked, driving the blade up toward Cullen’s innards. She backed away fast and narrowly avoided losing her insides.
No delays on the other side. The girl charged forward, the weaponless hand landing a powerful blow on Cullen’s temple. She saw black stars for a second and fell back.
The trees saved her. Cullen fell over a thick root and landed on her ass. Even as she was falling she saw the blade cut across where her throat should have been. The little bitch meant business.
From her prone position Cullen kicked out and slammed her heel into the inside of the girl’s thigh. The move worked, and knocked her enemy from her feet. She was mean, she was tough but she was still a child. Cullen was twice her weight and that alone saved her.
The girl fell and caught herself on her hand. While she was trying to get her balance, Cullen slammed her heel into the girl’s jaw and neck. She felt the bones break. The child died instantly.
Her body ached everywhere. She’d fallen from a tree and landed on a monster. She was alive, but most of her body felt bruised.
Still, she was alive. Lucky, lucky.
There was no hesitation. She stole the girl’s dagger. A quick search found several more weapons. A long, thin club made of metal, with a weighted end and a leather grip, and two smaller blades. She took all of them.
And then she ran away from the children, away from the fire, and toward Norhaun. There was no time to contemplate pain. She had to do what she could to get ahead of the invaders and warn the rest of her people.
The ground was uneven and the pathways were littered with the bodies of her people and, occasionally, with a dead Pra-Moresh. She saw no bodies from the enemy. They had brought monsters with them to soften up the Trecharch and it had worked well.
Cullen did not cry. She did not wallow in her grief. She focused on what mattered instead. The dead were dead. The living still had a chance.
A great peal of thunder shook the world and a moment later rains came from the east, washing through the canopy of leaves above. She thanked the gods for the good fortune of unseasonal storms.
The Norhaun River ran placidly across the land, cutting a deep path. Centuries of runoff from the north had allowed a deep ravine and several small waterfalls made certain the area had a pristine beauty.
Goriah looked at the river and the bridges across it and shook her head. The bridges, like the rest of the area, were nearly invisible. The Mother-Vine provides. The thick vine ran across the distance in several locations and the people of the area had used that to their advantage, carefully manipulating offshoots of the vine to use as guiderails along the way. Wherever possible they had avoided adding anything more than ropes or occasional platforms where the Mother-Vine sagged too heavily to allow easy access.
Here the vines were still healthy. To the west she could see the smoke, the growing blaze. The fires were getting stronger.
Goriah considered the environment carefully and settled herself against a tree limb almost a hundred feet from the floor of the heavily wooded area.
Decades of study and careful evaluation went into her decisions. Most people would have seen nothing out of the ordinary unless they were looking toward the skies far above.
The storms of the Blasted Lands were dark, dry and cold. The storm she summoned was just as violent, it had to be, but it was vibrant with water and warmer than the air around her.
When the rains came they were hard, and the winds blew the waters to the west, aiming at extinguishing the growing blaze and saving Trecharch from the flames.
Eyes closed, she felt the world around her and allowed herself a very small victorious smile.
The rains were harsh, but they were doing their work and the fires were faltering in the distance. There was still an invading force to consider but there was hope that the great forest could be spared.
Satisfied that the rains would do their work, Goriah rose from where she had rested and looked toward the bridges of the Mother-Vine. They were the only way across the Norhaun for a hundred miles or more. If she worked quickly she might be able to prevent the enemy from using the bridges to reach the great city.
Hurting the Mother-Vine was not what she wanted, but if she had to, she would. Sometimes a limb must be removed to save the body.
Still, it was a very large move to make and Desh would want to know before she ruined the bridges.
Once more she closed her eyes and prepared to reach across the distance to speak with the greatest of the sorcerers.
And in that moment, Glo’Hosht drove the blade through her skull and ended her life.
Pella fell. Had she been in flight she would surely have fallen to her death. Instead she merely crashed to her knees, skinning them both, and never even noticing.
The pain was immense. A needle through her eyes and deep into her brain. She felt her Sister die.
Deep within the confines of Orrander’s Tower, where she waited to speak with Queen Parlu, Pella fell to the ground and into a deep, restless darkness.
The storms were violent and sent shivers through the trees themselves.
The Sa’ba Taalor noticed, but did not stay their path. In comparison to the Blasted Lands the storms were only a minor inconvenience.
Tusk looked at the tower ahead and reached for his horn. It was a massive tower, the thing he had seen in the distance. True to his earlier thoughts it grew alongside a tree that was as tall as a mountain. He could not hope to understand the size of the tree until he was upon it.
No. He frowned and looked a second time. Not a tree at all. This was the Mother-Vine. He had seen the many strands of the great thing as it sprawled across the land. The vines ran everywhere. They had actually crossed thick strands of the vine as they moved over the river that cut through the valley.
The map called it the Mother-Vine and Durhallem had spoken to him of the great serpentine thing. His god claimed that many of the people in the area nearly thought of the Mother-Vine as a god as well.
He patted Brodem’s neck and his mount slowed his pace. Mount and rider alike surveyed the area. There were soldiers ahead. Not as many as he had expected, but still they were there and they were likely very well trained. They had to protect not only their queen, but also their god.
That thought amused him.
“Why are you smiling, Tusk?” Stastha’s voice came from his left.
He looked to her and winked. “In that tower is a ‘queen.’” He frowned for a moment. Not because he was sad, but merely confused by the cultural differences. “For some reason they call their kings by that name when they have breasts. In any event, I must go meet this queen and kill her.”
“And that makes you smile?”
Tusk nodded. “Yes, but I smile for a different reason. This queen, she is the protector of the Mother-Vine. That is the god of these people. It is all around us.” He gestured and she looked, nodding.
“Yes.” She paused a moment. “And?”
“If she must protect her god, either she is a very powerful warrior, or her god is very weak.”
Stastha looked at him for a moment and then threw her head back, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Tusk looked around again to make sure that no one was waiting to kill them in the trees. One could never be too careful.
When his second had finished her fit he swatted her affectionately on the shoulder. “We go our separate ways now. You should kill everyone you encounter. All of them.”
“And you, Tuskandru?” Her eyes blazed under her helmet. The great horns were intact, but the helm itself was bloodied and dented.
“Durhallem has told me to kill this ‘queen’ and then, apparently I am to slay a god.”
“What blade does one use to slay a god, Tuskandru?” She shook her head. To be fair the Mother-Vine was very large. He wasn't so sure his axe would do much damage.
He grinned again and urged Brodem forward. The great mount let out a roar of impatience and prepared for running.
Just as the beast started moving, Tusk gave Stastha his answer, “It might take more than one!”
As he rode, Stastha sounded her horn. The armies of Durhallem moved again, riding through the forests of Trecharch on their way to introduce new deities to the region.
Cullen did not have a horse, nor did she have a great beast like the invaders rode. She only had her feet and they were sore and the legs attached to them were weak and felt ruined.
Still, one does what one must. Her father had always said that to her when she was growing and her mother had nodded her agreement. Good people the both of them and as much as she missed them she was glad they were dead. They’d have been ruined by the burning of the forest they’d both loved so dearly.
She moved along the pathways that most would never have seen and cursed the fact that no one had ever thought to lay traps along the main routes to prevent invaders.
When she came to the bridge over the river there was no choice but to run it. She dared not walk. The longer she was on the bridge the greater the chance that she would be spotted by the invaders and she dreaded that notion. Though she had fought for her life, Cullen could not overlook the fact that she had killed a child. The swelling above her eye where the girl had nearly cracked her skull open helped a bit, but guilt still cut at her conscience.
After she crossed the bridge it was back to moving, running, doing all she could to reach Orrander’s Tower though she knew she would be too late.
The bodies she found told her that much. The forest hid little from the ground. The trails were evident and even the less traveled ones were visible if you knew where to look.
The invaders knew how to look and they were thorough. Willist was ruined. Every house, every structure, even the Sanctuaries within the trees, all were broken open and gutted. The people inside dragged out and cut down like fresh kill at a slaughterhouse.
The ground was saturated with blood and the runoff from the rains were stained with varying shades of red.
Cullen did not have time to consider the deaths. In truth she suspected her mind might have broken. She was running toward the danger instead of away from it.
There was no possibility that she could reach Orrander’s Tower before the attack and even if she did there was nothing that she could do against the invaders by herself.
Still, she had to try.
So she ran when she could and walked the rest of the time. Along the way she gathered a good bow and some arrows. Weapons she knew how to use properly.
No denying it; a time to kill was upon her. She might die and soon, but she’d take as many as she could with her into the dark.