The town of Jorhuan was fortified. Many of the larger cities had forgotten about the previous wars, but Jorhuan was not among them. Surrounding the actual town were two walls. The first was made of stones and rose a staggering thirty-five feet into the air. There were two gates, both of which were currently being guarded against any strangers. The North Gate faced Trecharch and had been sealed, because if there was to be a siege the last thing needed were people asking for assistance. They would have no food and would be of absolutely no use to Jorhuan.
It was a harsh life lesson, to be sure, but better that strangers stay out and move on than that they clog the streets.
The South Gate remained open, but was guarded against any enemies. Members of Jorhuan’s City Guard were currently spaced along the walkway for the outer wall, carrying loaded crossbows to discourage anyone foolish enough to try attacking, and they were alert for anyone attempting to come their way from the north or the west.
The nine followers of Wrommish came from the south. They walked, and not one of them carried an obvious weapon.
That they were Sa’ba Taalor would have been obvious to anyone looking carefully. They did nothing to hide their appearance. They had light gray skin and they were dressed in common enough fashion.
Because they approached on foot and bore no weapons, the guards on the walls paid them little attention.
The guards at the gates were a different matter. The first of them was bored. He had been on duty for over four hours and there had been nothing out of the ordinary, not even anyone coming from the north trying to gain entry. They had been warned, of course. The birds had been sent out with messages notifying all that Trecharch was fallen and to expect refugees and to offer them aid.
That aid would not be forthcoming and the guards all understood why. The Imperial Army was on the way and would soon be engaging the enemy, but Jorhuan was not a large city and they could expect remarkably little by way of assistance, though they were on the made pathway from Trecharch to Canhoon. First look to yourselves, then to your brothers. Offer aid when you can, but anyone who would risk their own lives to help strangers was surely addled.
It was a philosophy that had always suited the temperament of the people of Jorhuan.
The second guard was younger and dreamed of fighting the enemy. He had no idea what the enemy might look like, but Sherea was young and beautiful and she liked the notion that he might save them all from the enemy. In order to impress her he would gladly kill a hundred men.
All men are young once, and even those who are older are often made foolish when a woman smiles.
He was thinking of Sherea’s smile when the strangers approached. That meant he was ready for trouble.
“Lem. Look at these ones.” He felt his blood surge as they came closer. The Sa’ba Taalor were supposed to have gray flesh and these folks looked gray to him. Though not as gray as he’d have expected. He had thought their flesh would surely be the same color as granite, but no.
Lem looked his way and stifled a yawn. He knew of the younger man’s affections for Sherea – and she was worthy of a few stray thoughts, though his own wife was much more to his liking – and he shook his head.
“What am I looking at then, Kell? More tradesmen? More mercenaries?”
“I think it’s them. The enemies.”
Lem’s eyes wandered toward the strangers. There were nine of them. Hardly an invading army. He was about to say as much when he looked more closely at the one leading them. The man was lean, but hard. His body seemed nearly sculpted and his tunic showed a series of scars on gray flesh. The scars seemed to make a design, but he could not see it clearly. The man’s face was equally lean and another deep scar ran across his left cheek. He had a thick braid of hair running down his back.
He carried no weapons, but the way he moved was predatory. Cats moved that way when they were stalking birds or butterflies to torture. He hated cats. They were nasty creatures, but he had to tolerate them as his wife loved the damned things.
Despite the fact that Kell had made a dozen inaccurate claims regarding the invaders earlier, Lem now stood tall and reached for his club. Lem was a very large man and most people upon seeing the stout club he’d carried for years decided it was best to remain calm, lest he decide to bounce it off their skulls.
“How can I help you this fine day?” Lem kept the words pleasant, but swept the air around his legs with his club and locked his eyes with the first of the strangers. Beside him Kell was hastily pulling his axe from his belt. If he moved with his regular grace, the situation would be resolved before Kell was ready.
N’Heelis, Chosen of the Forge of Wrommish and King in Gold, smiled with both of his mouths. The effect was unsettling for Lem and Kell alike, and while Lem was trying to recover from the oddity, N’Heelis broke his skull with a single palm strike.
Kell was trying to understand exactly what had happened to the larger guard when N’Heelis ruptured his airway with a follow-up maneuver that the young guard never even saw.
N’Heelis did not speak the tongue common to the Fellein. He did not care. He was here for a reason.
“Kill them all. Every last one. We offer no mercy this day.”
Once through the gate the Sa’ba Taalor moved quickly, becoming individuals instead of a crowd. Three of them moved up the two separate stairs leading to the walkway on the first wall.
There was no time to celebrate. The followers of Wrommish had been given a mission and they intended to see it through. Wrommish wanted Jorhuan by the end of the day. N’Heelis was glad to provide whatever his god demanded.
The eight with him were younger and not as fully experienced in war as many of his followers, but that was not a concern. They could fight. They now had a chance to prove themselves.
The gates remained open after them. Two stood at the open gates and looked inward, prepared to kill any who tried to flee.
Grath and Delon went up the stairs on the left side and Larrister took the flight on the right. They moved gracefully and quickly, all of them wearing heavy guards on their forearms to allow for some protection.
The first City Guards went down without a protest. They didn’t question the people coming toward them because there had been no alarm sounded. Delon managed to break the neck of her opponent soundlessly and he slumped to the walkway. Larrister was not as fortunate and the body of his target fell from the walkway and crashed into a stall below where the fight occurred.
That was enough to alert the rest of the guards. Weapons were drawn and soldiers charged, prepared to fight for the safety of their people.
Grath stood aside and let Delon go first. Delon did not disappoint. She moved quickly and as the first guard came for her she blocked his attempt at swordplay and broke his arm at the elbow. He screamed and dropped his weapon. She moved on and let Grath finish the task.
On the other side Larrister moved like a thrown blade, cutting down the first and then the second opponent without even changing expression. He swept the legs of the first guard and forced the man’s face into the wall hard enough to shatter it. The second came for him and was thrown over the wall, but not before his body was bent into a new shape. Larrister was not subtle, but he was powerful.
The others moved forward, charging past their king and attacking. There were no weapons. This was a test of their unarmed skills. An axe came down and was deflected; a hand broke the wrist of the axe-wielder and the weapon was taken away and thrown at another opponent.
N’heelis watched and judged.
When the City-Guard came from their barracks on their horses, he stood prepared for them. Just as his followers had their parts, so too did their king.
Men on horseback have many advantages. They have speed, they have mass. They have weapons meant to impale or kill with ease.
N’Heelis had training and faith.
The first horseman came at him swinging a long flail. Moving aside was an easy enough task. As the rider charged past, surprised to have missed, the king broke the horse’s hind leg with a brutal kick. Horse and rider both fell, and in so doing created an obstacle for the rest of the horsemen.
Horses veered. Riders tried to compensate for the sudden changes. N’Heelis took advantage of every delay, striking again and again and often killing or maiming with a single blow.
When a weapon came to him, which was not uncommon as they fell from the hands of his enemies, he used them. A spear dropped from a rider’s grip and N’Heelis used it to block a sword and impale a rider.
The men fighting him quickly learned to keep their distance and it was only a matter of minutes before the first crossbow was leveled at him.
Their gods chose the kings of the Sa’ba Taalor because they exemplified all that the individual gods wanted from their followers. N’Heelis was no exception. Throughout his long life he had fought with few weapons and relied on his body as the main offense and defense.
The crossbow bolt was aimed at his heart. He saw the archer aiming for him and moved, sliding sideways. The bolt that should have killed him slipped past and grazed his forearm instead.
When four more of the guards aimed at him, he knew dodging alone would no longer take care of the matter. One arrow was a very different consideration.
While the King in Gold was keeping the attention of most of the people near the southern gate, his followers took care of their own business. None of the Sa’ba Taalor paid the least bit of attention to the spectacle. Instead they followed his commands and eliminated the guards along the wall and moved quickly to the northern gate.
The guards did not continue to ignore them. The first few fell quickly before N’Heelis distracted the locals but the rest did not stare down into the center of the area. Instead they took note of their enemies along the wall and did their best to kill the intruders.
Grath took a crossbow bolt through his left eye and roared his pain for all to hear. He was a fighter and a skilled warrior but the pain was immense and he fell to his hands and knees, defenseless.
Delon considered Grath a friend but her duty was not to protect a weak ally. She served the King in Gold and Wrommish. The axe of the closest guard served to cripple the archer who had fired before another bolt could be set in the crossbow. Four long strides later she shattered his jaw and shoved the man aside on her way to the northern gate.
Larrister fared better. His sheer size and ferocity unsettled his opponents. They had never seen a grayskinned man before, nor had most of them ever been in a serious fight beyond a moderate amount of training.
Jorhuan was fortified, yes, and as with all of the people in Fellein, the City Guard had all spent their time in the armies of the Empire, but none of them had ever seen combat. It is one thing to practice war games and another entirely to engage in war.
The City Guard hesitated when Larrister roared and came for them. Larrister did not hesitate. He charged like a bull, grabbing any item that was of the right size and hurling it at the closest target, the better to confuse and disorient. Where Delon had to engage all her enemies, fully half of the City Guard facing Larrister panicked and ran before considering their actions.
Larrister’s choice of tactics failed him when the guards on the lower level, beside the northern gate, aimed crossbows at him and fired. A bolt plunged into his calf. The wound was not serious enough to stop the man, but it slowed him substantially.
Delon won the race for the gate, taking out the last of the soldiers in her path before moving down the walkway and attacking the two men who were looking toward Larrister and reloading their crossbows.
She did not give them time to change targets.
While Delon and Larrister made their charge, the rest of the Sa’Ba Taalor with them systematically killed anyone in their path, regardless of age or gender. They had their orders and they followed them.
The entire affair might have ended with none of the invaders killed if not for the actions of Branfer Hollis, a hunter who took one look at the invaders and promptly released his dogs.
The animals were well trained and had been employed on numerous occasions to help the hunter take down big game. They moved for the strangers when Branfer pointed and they came in low and fast enough to catch the Sa’ba Taalor off guard.
N’Heelis watched a boy he’d seen raised from infancy move the wrong way to defend himself and die in an instant. The dog ripped open his throat and tore at his face.
He did not have time to do anything about it, even if he’d had the inclination. Men with crossbows were trying to kill him and staying alive was taking all of his concentration.
Another of his followers went down, struggling with the dog, and came back up after breaking the animal’s back. He came back up bloodied and missing three fingers.
The situation might have only grown worse from there. The dogs were fast and they were savage. The opening of the north gate changed everything when Tusk and his riders came through.
The dogs were vicious. The mounts were worse.
Tusk came with seventeen of his people. Most of them were on mounts and pulling wagons loaded with corpses.
Tusk did not interfere with the actual taking of the town. That was not his purpose. He delivered the dead and nothing more, but he watched and he smiled as N’heelis and his followers finished the work they had started.
Tusk looked to N’Heelis when he was done and smiled. “A good day’s work!”
N’Heelis looked to his people, the wounded, the unscathed and the dead, and agreed.
Then he began the work the Wrommish demanded. There were bodies that had to be moved, and more of his people came through the open gates to assist.
What the gods demanded he was glad to do.
The Temmis Pass was not a well-known point on the map. It was mentioned, as was the town of Hallis, the very small collection of buildings that made up the most western point in the whole of the Fellein Empire. The population was usually a bit under a dozen.
Currently Hallis was home to a much larger gathering: the tents and supplies for the First Lancers Division. A city of canvas and wagons surrounded the tiny gathering of buildings. To say the people of Hallis were unsettled would be a vast understatement.
Colonel Lockner Horast had every intention of following the orders given to him by General Merros Dulver. To that end the men were ready for war. Each of the Lancers remained prepared and armed at all times and within easy walking distance of their steeds. They wore light armor and sported great shields, hand-to-hand weapons and, of course, their lances.
The Sa’ba Taalor came up the only easy access point for the area, moving en masse up the Temmis Pass, ready for whatever might come their way. First up were foot soldiers, and they came armed and wearing armor. No two were alike, and most of the people in the small town would have been hard pressed to say which was the most terrifying.
The Sa’ba Taalor were not giants. They were not monsters, but they were almost as alien as any of the nightmares from legend. All of the people in the town had heard of the Pra-Moresh. None had ever seen one. All had heard of the invaders, and they had been witness previously when the King in Iron spoke with the Empress Nachia Krous. They had surely never expected to see a greater spectacle in their lives and that was their mistake.
The Sa’ba Taalor came in formation, moving in lines thirty soldiers wide and carrying various weapons and shields. As they walked they tapped the edge of whatever weapons they carried on the edge of the shields and did so in perfect step with their strides. The end result was a sound rather like thunder. If it was designed to unsettle the locals it worked very well.
The entire population of Hallis – all twelve of them - took it upon themselves to get away while they could, and moved between tents and past wagons as they ran from the newcomers.
As soon as they had cleared the way, the First Lancers Division charged in.
The Sa’ba Taalor struck an impressive sight as they marched in formation up the trail from the Blasted Lands.
The first rank of horsemen made an impressive sight as they impaled a dozen of the men who could not break formation fast enough to avoid being run through. The lances did their jobs and their targets died or were maimed. The charges continued forward into the ranks of the Sa’ba Taalor while their riders drew short swords and swept their blades into the flesh of their enemies.
The reaction was immediate and violent. The formations fell apart into a seething mass of conflict. Horsemen tried to move forward and their enemies did their best to cut them down where they stood. Both had moderate success. The first of the horsemen was pulled from his saddle and thrown to the ground even as his ride was nearly beheaded by an axe chop to the neck.
The Sa’ba Taalor broke ranks and moved around the first chargers, heading for the rest of the enemies they saw waiting for them. The second rank of lancers moved into them at a hard run, first using lances and then switching to flails, bashing in skulls and denting shields as they charged past.
The First Lancers were among the best that Fellein had, and they proved it that day.
The fighting started brutally and did not slow down.
Through the first assault only two hundred of the Lancers were sent in. The rest waited as patiently as they could, knowing that to charge in any sooner would only add to the congestion and chaos of the moment.
The enemy was proficient at fighting, but hardly seemed ready for handling the soldiers on horses.
That changed the moment the first rank of mounted Sa’ba Taalor showed themselves. The fighting had been going on for several minutes and the foot soldiers had done their very best to clear a path. What had seemed initially to be a panic on the part of the brutes from the Blasted Lands was, in fact, merely a clearing of the way. The mounts were not horses. They were larger, and they were carnivores. The chargers were trained to fight against other horses and riders. They were not prepared for the ferocity of the nightmares the grayskins rode.
Horses and riders alike attempted to retreat, but it wasn’t meant to be. The mounts pulled horses down as they tried to get away, rending flesh from the animals’ flanks and tearing them to the ground. Their riders were equally brutal, using weapons familiar and completely foreign to the Fellein alike.
Still the lancers continued on until, at last, the first groups sent in had been taken down by the enemy.
And while they were in the process of being slain by the Sa’ba Taalor, the rest of the lancers waited.
While they waited, a solid wall of horses and men, the Archers Division moved into position and began firing arrows into the ranks of the enemy. Some were ready with shields, but the combat had weakened the proper formations and far larger numbers were taken by surprise. The hail of arrows did the job it was designed to do and sent the grayskins scattering, reaching for shields and trying to prepare themselves. The second volley did almost as much damage, but by the time the third came the Sa’ba Taalor were once again ready for the attack.
By that point over a hundred from each side were either dead or dying.
The sounds of horns calling from lower on the Temmis Pass caused an instant ripple among the Sa’ba Taalor. The formations came back together, this time with the mounted riders to the front. They sported spears in some cases but few, it seemed, had ever used a lance.
Sadly for the lancers they seemed perfectly willing to learn. Worse still, they were excellent at adapting to new situations. Spears and stolen lances alike came into play and the mounts charged at the horses and riders. The horses charged back but even from a distance Lockner could see that the training was only barely holding. It was one thing to expect an animal to charge at a soldier, another to expect even welltrained horses to charge a predatory nightmare.
While the two groups were engaging, the Sa’ba Taalor moved their archers forward.
The First Lancers Division had excellent training. Their enemy had numbers, and four times as many archers. In the end there was only one possible conclusion.
Delil was waiting for Andover in the valley past Wheklam. The land there was rocky and the waters that trickled through the area ran hot and steamed up the air. By the time they ran across each other both had stripped down to the bare essentials and were sweating profusely.
There was no food to be had, so they went hungry.
“You look different, Andover.” Delil sipped at a flask of water and moved carefully over the ground. The earth here was dark, broken and tended to slip out from under unwary feet. He began to understand why so many of the Sa’ba Taalor walked softly instead of merely stomping their way across the landscape.
“How do I look different?” He touched the third of his Great Scars, momentarily selfconscious. If Delil saw the gesture, she did not say anything.
“Your skin is more like ours. And your eyes have the proper shine to them.”
He frowned as he contemplated that. “Do you suppose I am becoming one of your people?”
“Would that bother you?” She looked at him carefully, her feet seeming to know exactly where they should move.
“I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “No. I am already no longer who I was. I have hands, and I have…” He shook his head at a loss for words.
“You have what?”
“I’m not sure. I have never been good with words, Delil.”
She laughed. “Liar. You are very good with words. You’ve used them to make a hundred excuses in the time I’ve known you.” She did not understand the nature of the gesture he offered. That was just as well. She’d have likely broken his skull if she had.
“I have hands. I have spoken to gods. I’m supposed to speak to more. I never expected any of this.”
“The gods have chosen you, Andover Lashk.”
“Yes, but what have they chosen me for?”
She rolled her head, working to stretch the tension from her body. “Who can say the will of the gods before they let their will be known? Only fools, that is who. Gods do not always explain themselves until they are ready.”
Andover nodded his head and looked toward the next mountain. It was, as they all were, a vast thing. “Which mountain do I look upon, Delil?”
“You stand before great Ordna, the Bronze Mountain.”
He considered that and nodded. “What does Ordna do?”
Delil looked his way and snickered. “Whatever Ordna wants. Ordna is a god.”
“You’re not as funny as you think.” The words were spoken without malice.
“Ordna teaches the way of great weapons. Ordna teaches us to break walls and crush armies with ease.”
As she spoke she started up the rough edge of the mountain. There were easy handholds, but it was going to be a very long climb. The side of the mountain rose like a column, towering and straight, unlike the last mountain which had been rounder and had fewer decent places to place a foot. Still, Wheklam and Ordna had one thing in common: they were meant to be challenges that had to be faced.
“‘Break walls and crush armies?’” He shook his head as he started ascending. The climb was easy enough, but he had to pull his body upward with his hands as often as not and the strain was easy to feel as it grew inside his body.
Delil looked down at him over her shoulder. From this angle he could see most of her body and the scars that ran across her, detailing every struggle she’d experienced. The scars told a story. Someday he hoped to learn all of the tales that made the whole of the woman.
“Do you have siege weapons in Fellein, Andover?”
“I have no idea what a siege is. What do the weapons do?”
She shook her head and smiled. “You will soon discover the answer to that question, I suspect.”
The ground was soft and sandy and wet.
Lored, Chosen of the Forge of Ordna and King in Bronze led his mount across the damp sand with a smile on his face. He was not smiling because his mount, Pre’ru, was making unhappy noises about the moisture on his paws, but because he was now off the ship that had been transporting him and his people.
He scanned the shoreline with both his flesh eye and his bronze one and nodded his satisfaction.
He did not like the ships. They swayed and rocked and left him feeling restless.
Night covered the world. The sky was clouded and few stars shone through the veil of storm clouds. The keep ahead of them was a massive affair, with heavy stone walls and reinforced gates. It would be a good challenge and one they looked forward to overcoming in the name of the Daxar Taalor.
Donaie Swarl, the King in Lead, had done her part and transported them to the far eastern side of the Fellein Empire. Now he and his would do their part and seed the fury of the gods in virgin territory, as ordered by Ordna and the other Daxar Taalor.
Donaie walked down the gangway from her ship and moved over to where he rode Pre’ru. The mount made no noise as she put her hand into his thick mane. They were positively old friends after their time together on the vast black ship.
The air was hot here. Ordna was used to the sort of heat he encountered, but there was also a breeze and that was a pleasant change.
“We go our own ways now, Lored.”
He nodded and looked at the king before him. She was a tall woman, and heavily muscled. He wondered idly what their children would look like if the Daxar Taalor decided they should have any.
“Do you stay here, Donaie? Or will you move on?”
“I’m finished here. I go back toward the west. To the south. There are ships massing. They wish to engage us in combat.” She looked in that direction and then back to him, here eyes aglow with the thrill of the coming battles. “They do not understand the Great Tide or that it is now upon them, Lored. We must both teach them lessons.”
He slapped her shoulder with companionable affection and she smiled. “Go teach the water riders about the tide, Donaie Swarl, and I will teach them about the land.”
“Keep Pre’ru safe. He’s the better part of you.” Her voice held a teasing note.
“I would say the same about your ship, but it reeks of dead fish.”
“Less so now that you are off of it.” She waved one hand in farewell and he nodded to her even as she walked away.
Then he rode forward and bellowed to his people, “We ride! There’s blood in the air!”
They roared their agreement and began to move, heading for swamplands in the distance.
There were people there that needed killing and he was in a mood to help them along the paths of their destinies.
His people moved quickly and efficiently. They had practiced their maneuvers over every sort of terrain for most of their lives and now, finally, they would have a chance to use them properly. It was one thing to war against the other kings of the Seven Forges and something entirely different to work against the enemies of the gods.
Praxus walked closer and nodded to Lored and Pre’ru alike.
“This is Elda?”
Lored nodded and eyed the closest wall of the keep. “One small part. Elda is a kingdom. Elda is a large part of the entire Empire and has many soldiers.” He pointed to the stone barrier. “Elda also likes walls almost as much as Tarag Paedori.” The King in Iron loved walls. Lored loved knocking walls down. They had been friendly rivals for a very long time.
“Where is Blane?” Blane had traveled to Fellein before and met with the previous Emperor and their sorcerer, too. He was a ferocious fighter, but it wasn’t his skill with a sword that was needed just then.
Praxus frowned. “Working on one of the catapults, my king.”
“Find him for me. I want to make sure I word the demand for surrender properly.”
“You are going to write a demand for surrender?” The man’s broad mouth frowned in bewilderment.
“Of course,” he smiled. “I will strap it to the very first stone we send through their wall.”
Praxus chuckled and nodded. “I will find Blane.”
By the time the siege engines had been assembled Blane had written down five copies of the articles demanding surrender and the sun was starting to rise.
The sound of horns came from the keep ahead of them and Lored nodded his head. “They call to arms! Listen to them! Break their walls!”
The first missile ripped through the air and struck true, smashing into one of the stone walls and sending a rain of debris falling into the interior of the keep. Before the dust had settled, fourteen more volleys blasted the wall and collapsed the entire barrier.
Lored stared at the ruin of the first defense and scowled. He had hoped for a greater challenge. The wall was not built to withstand the sort of weapons he had brought with him. Against a gathering of soldiers with ladders it would suffice, but he and his did not climb walls, they destroyed them.
“Gather your shields! Raise the battering rams! Bring them down in Ordna’s name!”
“Ordna!” the name echoed across the shattered wall. “Ordna!” Horns called from both sides as if there could be any doubt that the battle had been started.
The soldiers who spilled from the ruined barrier came fast and hard, prepared for battle. Men with heavy armor and shields came toward them from above, moving down trails that had once led to gates that had been sealed against any possible attackers.
Lored raised his longbow and reached for a handful of arrows. The fools came toward them wearing armor and sporting shields. The armor was hastily slapped in place and the shields were carried at the oddest angles, where they could do remarkably little good. Most of the troopers were not wearing helmets.
His first arrow punched through his target’s forehead and dropped the man where he stood. That single arrow had been a signal to the rest of his archers and they paid attention.
The advancing wave of soldiers promptly retreated back to their shattered wall, and Lored grinned. In his own tongue, one that the locals likely would not understand, he called out, “Reload! I see towers along the remaining walls and I want them knocked down!”
He called to Blane and Praxus and had them pass on the message: the rest of the keep would be surrounded by troops and cut off. The message went out quickly and the riders set out to follow his commands.
As he watched through the vast holes in the wall before him, the soldiers inside the keep prepared themselves properly, gathering their armor more completely and taking the time to put on their helmets and position their shields.
Once again he waved for Praxus and the man came forward. “Take down the rest of the wall. I don’t want them thinking they can hide behind it.”
Before the order could be completed a coalition of men from within the keep came out, unarmed and heading toward Lored where he sat upon Pre’ru. He slid down from the mount’s back and patted his old friend on the shoulder. He rested one hand on the handle of his mace and waited calmly.
The man at the front was older, but in good shape. He did not wear armor, but his uniform was covered with buttons and cords and many decorations. His hair was pulled back into a thick braid.
Lored did not speak. He kept his expression neutral and waited for the man to come to him. He watched the old man’s eyes look him over, from his scaled armor to the metallic sculpture that had replaced a portion of his face, a gift from Ordna. The bronze flesh moved and felt. The bronze eye moved and saw.
“Why have you attacked us?” There should have been rage in that voice. There should, at the very least, have been indignation. Instead there was only fear. Lored did not change his expression, but he was disappointed.
“You are part of Fellein. We are at war with Fellein.”
“But what did we do? How do we sue for peace?”
“Surrender your keep. Offer us your troops as ours, and we will consider your request for peace.”
“I cannot. I have a king I answer to. I have made oaths and sworn my fealty.” He was nervous as he spoke. They were words he did not want to say, but felt he had to say just the same. He had made vows to kings, after all.
Lored nodded his head in the way of the Fellein and then he brought his mace around in an arc and shattered the man’s face. The soldiers behind the man let out noises and he looked at them and sneered.
“You will surrender to me or you will die!”
Three of them retreated. One of them stood his ground and reached for his sword. It was a very pretty sword, with gems and gold wire around the hilt. Despite the ornamentation the man pulled it with ease and dropped into a proper stance.
“You have killed a good man today and you will die for your troubles!” The voice shook with rage.
“I have killed a weak man. It was meant as a mercy.” Lored bared his teeth in a grin as he spoke.
The swordsman lunged forward with his sword in position and Lored blocked with the handle of his mace. He shoved the man backward with his full body weight and the man fell back exactly far enough to let Lored hit him with the heavy end of his weapon.
Depending on who you speak with, a sword is a gentleman’s weapon. It requires skill and demands respect. Lored had several swords. He used them regularly. Now and then he preferred the way a mace felt when it was crushing a skull.
The other three men tried to run back to the keep and Lored whistled to Pre’ru. His mount took them down easily, clawing two of them to the ground and beheading the third with one bite of powerful jaws.
Lored laughed and several others joined him. If this were the best the Fellein had to offer, the war would be a short one.
“Take down the walls!” He waved his mace and his followers obeyed. The volleys from the catapults obliterated the remaining wall facing the ocean, killing at least a dozen who stood too close to the damaged structure.
“Take them all! Take this place in the name of Ordna!”
“Ordna!” they roared as one. “Ordna!” they prayed to their god, offering sacrifices in the name of the deity.
Lored joined them in the offering to the Daxar Taalor. Their offerings were many that day and their god was pleased.
The entrance into Ordna’s heart was not at the top of the mountain. Instead it came upon Andover as a nearly complete surprise. One moment he was concentrating on where he would place his hand and the next his fingers found purchase on a ledge that he was sure had not been there before.
He did not question this. He understood now that the gods had their ways.
The walk to the center of the mountain was uneventful. Delil walked beside him and looked only ahead. He returned the favor. Delil meant a great deal to him, but he also knew that she was not why he was in the heart of Ordna. He was here instead to meet with a god.
So the last thing he expected when walking around a bend in the tunnel was to find his mother waiting for him.
At fourteen, roughly the same time he decided he knew how best to handle his world, his mother and father sent him on his way with instructions to stay away or face the scarred knuckles of his father’s fists.
“Mother?” His voice broke as if he were just starting puberty and he felt himself blush.
“No. Not your mother. I have merely chosen her face for dealing with you.” He felt the presence then. That vast, overwhelming power that he had now felt three times before. This was Ordna. A god.
His mother stood before him and shook her head.
He dropped to one knee before the god and offered his hands before him as he had with Truska-Pren. The axe he had been given by the gods rested in his open palms.
His mother reached for the weapon, but it was Drask Silver Hand who plucked it from his grasp.
Drask loomed above him, his eyes burning beneath a furrowed brow. Though he no longer wore a veil, Andover recognized him. The Great Scars on Drask’s face were different. There were seven of them, one for each of the Daxar Taalor, and they ran in perfect lines from just below his nose to just above his chin. The man’s dark hair flowed loosely around his broad shoulders.
Silvery eyes regarded the weapon before handing it back.
“Why are you here, Andover Lashk of Fellein?” The voice was Drask’s, but the words seemed impossibly heavy, as if they might crush him. The attention of gods was not an easy burden.
“I am here to make myself known to you, Ordna.”
“Stand. Walk with me.”
Andover obeyed, quickly settling his axe back at his hip and moving next to the larger man. As they walked, the walls shifted until they were standing in a chamber carved from warm, brown rock. The ground beneath them was a mosaic, meticulously laid out from small tiles that depicted seven different symbols. He recognized Truska-Pren’s visage among them. A face carved from obsidian scowled in the detailed illustration: Durhallem. In the exact center of the mosaic a face made of bronze tiles rested. Ordna glared up toward the ceiling, a face shaped from endless angles of metal. The rest of them were lost in shadows and distance.
“What is war, Andover Lashk?”
He stopped examining the artwork on the floor and looked at the god wearing Drask’s face.
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Honestly. It is always best to be honest when talking with gods.” There was a hint of humor in that comment and for brief instant Andover realized how much he missed Drask. The man was had not always been kind, but he had always been honest.
“I think war is a conflict between two people.”
Drask’s silver hand tilted left and right, making clumsy waves in the air. “Yes. No. Give more details.”
“War is a conflict between two people that cannot be resolved with words and promises.”
“Better.” Drask did not smile, but he tilted his head into a nod in that way Drask did sometimes.
“Now, what is the purpose of war?”
“To settle matters once and for all?”
Drask/Ordna nodded. “Resolution. A final decision. That is the purpose of war.” The god turned and looked toward the distant wall. Only where the wall should have been there was now a view into the distance. “War has many purposes, Andover Lashk. Resolution is a part of that, yes, but there is more.”
Drask walked toward the image on the wall and Andover followed. The air felt different where the image was and Andover smelled the scent of a river, the odors of familiar spices in the air. As he approached the image he saw a collection of stands and small tents, set up near a riverside. This might not be Tyrne he looked at, but it was close enough. He could just about reach out and touch the world he had left behind. As if to prove his point a breeze caressed his brow as he came closer still to the moving image.
“Is that Tyrne?”
“You already know that it is not. It is Freeholdt, at the banks of the Freeholdt River. Tyrne no longer exists. Durhallem now stands at the spot where Tyrne once stood. This was done to make a point. This was done to explain to the people of Fellein that war is here and they will fall before us.”
Andover nodded his head slowly. “Durhallem is in two places?”
“Yes. Durhallem stands here and there. Just as this mountain, Ordna, will soon stand here and in a different part of Fellein.”
“Why?”
“We are at war, my people and yours.”
The muscles in his mouths pulled in different ways. They were foreign as yet. He was not used to having different mouths and the feeling was uncomfortable.
“Tell me what you are thinking, Andover.”
It wasn’t a request.
“I’m not certain if they are my people any longer. I am not certain of anything.”
Drask nodded. “Good. Then you are learning the greatest truth of war.” The god made flesh turned and faced him and that massive silver hand rested on his shoulder. “Fellein is old and has grown stagnant. There has been no change for too long. There must always be change, Andover.”
Andover tilted his head, absolutely unaware that he was mirroring both Drask and Delil in the way they asked questions without words.
“There are Seven Forges here, Andover Lashk. Just as the forges in a blacksmith’s are used to shape and strengthen, so too are the forges here used to the same end. Durhallem demanded that you walk the Blasted Lands and learn to fight before you were allowed to meet. Truska-Pren gave you new hands, yes, but you were made to endure great pain in the giving. That was not a mistake or an oversight. As Drask Silver Hand told you then, life is pain.”
Drask/Ordna stepped closer, until he was inches from Andover’s face. He was bigger than Andover, but not as big as the man remembered. “Metal must be heated and shaped. So, too, with people. You have been heated and shaped, but you are not yet complete. Do you understand?”
Andover continued to frown. “Not entirely.”
“Good enough.” Drask nodded. “When you were with Wheklam what did you learn?”
“How to build a boat. How to judge the winds on the water. How to swim. How not to drown. How to fish if I need food.” The words came freely and Andover felt an unsettling sense of awe. He was not aware that he had learned these things, not on a conscious level, but now that he spoke, the comprehension was there. He had never sailed, never built a boat, never fished, but the knowledge was there as surely as he understood how to walk.
“Wheklam held you under the waters. You were tempered by the touch of a god. Now you must be heated again and shaped again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Andover. You have worked as a blacksmith. You understand the process of making a tool or a weapon. You have forged your own weapon and killed with it, yes?”
“Yes. My hammer.” The hammer was gone now, of course, but he’d made it and used it well.
“Your hammer. The first of many weapons you will make in your life. You have the skills to make more. You will do so before you leave here. Metal will be shaped and formed and you will carry a new weapon, whatever you decide to make.”
Andover nodded. If the gods wanted him to make weapons he would. It was the least he could do in exchange for all they had given him.
“Gods make tools and weapons, too, Andover. You are one such weapon. Each and every one of the Sa’ba Taalor is a weapon of the gods. We have shaped them, as we are now shaping you, do you understand this?”
Andover considered those words carefully before nodding.
“Are you… Am I Sa’ba Taalor now?”
“That is for you to decide.” Drask looked at him and then moved his arms away from Andover. “You can leave here and go back to your people. Step through that spot…” He pointed to the image on the wall. The image that moved, where water lapped at the edge of the river, and the scent of cooking meats brought a rumble to Andover’s stomach and a flutter of familiarity to his heart. “Three steps, and you are in Freeholdt, never to return here.”
Drask crossed his thick arms and continued to look at him. “Freeholdt is not yet touched by the Sa’ba Taalor, though it will be soon. You would have time to get away before that happened and you have the skills to survive should you wish to avoid my people. Your life will not be easy, but it will be yours.”
The Silver Hand walked a few paces now and gestured to the ground, where seven faces of seven deities glowered toward the ceiling. “Or you can stay here and finish what you have willingly started. You can be shaped by the gods, forged into a different being. Your life here will not be easy, either, but you will be accepted by the Sa’ba Taalor and you will have a purpose in this world beyond finding your next meal.”
“What will I learn from you, Ordna? If I stay, what will you teach me?”
“Do not ask what I will give you, Andover Lashk. Merely know that you will learn and be shaped. You will be prepared for war.”
Life is pain. War is change. The raw materials of life hammered and shaped into something with a purpose.
He did not ask if he had to choose now. He already knew the answer. He was in the presence of a god and gods did not wait on the whims of mortals. He could only guess how rare it was for a god to give a mortal options.
Andover turned his back on the land where he had been born and walked toward the image of Drask Silver Hand.