Nachia seemed remarkably calm on her seat. She was not on the throne. Unlike her cousin and generations before him, she seemed perfectly content to hold off sitting in her seat of power until she absolutely had to.
Also, she knew about the enchantments layered into the very wood and stone of the vast structure. It offered protection and made sure that the person sitting there was never too comfortable. She would never say so to the old man but she agreed with Desh Krohan’s agenda when it came to the throne: no one should ever sit there long enough to be comfortable.
As she looked over the maps of the area around and below, she tapped a finger on the thick paper and shook her head. There was simply no way around it: the mountains were fast approaching and they would be a problem.
Merros Dulver entered her throne room and stopped long enough to bow formally. She had told him not to stand on ceremony when there was no one around, but he seemed incapable of obeying that simple request. He’d already told her once that she had bodyguards around at all times. He considered them people. She had flushed with embarrassment and he’d chuckled at her discomfort.
Sometimes, she wanted to gut punch him just for the look on his face. Sometimes, she wanted to aim lower. Her self-control was one of the things no one understood about her. They’d have given her a second empire if they did. She chuckled at the notion, as that would be a fitting punishment for any who truly believed themselves free of all sin. She knew better and her self-control, while impressive, had not stopped her throwing a few things and screaming more times than she cared to think about.
That was before the coronation. Now she waited until she was truly alone before she had her tantrums. One must keep up appearances.
Merros eyed her cautiously. “You’re studying the maps again?”
“Well, I suppose I could dress up in my finery and stalk the Mid Wall, but it seems someone else has already taken that task, and besides, I should hate to have people thinking I wanted to start a trend.”
“Better stalking walls than Pathra’s hideous curled hair.” Desh’s voice came from behind her and she resisted the urge to jump out of her seat and scream. She supposed she had that coming, as she liked using the same hidden passages.
“Honestly, Desh. That hair should have been a lesson.”
“That hair should have seen his hairdresser executed for starting one of the worst trends in the history of your family.”
“There’s always the chance she died with Tyrne.” She kept her voice low, as the sorcerer had before her. Only Merros heard both of them and he was properly appalled.
“If you’re both quite done mocking the dead–”
“Only their hair, dear boy.”
“–we should discuss the latest intelligence.” As Merros spoke he moved the ring she had been using to mark Canhoon on the map and replaced it with a crest of the Empire that was a bit larger and had more weight.
“So, tell us what has happened, General Dulver.” Nachia crossed her hands over her chest and stared archly at him. He did not wither. Had he been the sort to wither under that sort of expression he would have never been a successful general.
“The scryers have done their best and it’s quite astonishing what they can learn. The armies of the Tuskandru and Tarag Paedori are still behind us, but they’ve sent a few small bands to get ahead of us and to find out what lies ahead and on the ground below.”
“Really? Have we actually seen any of these scouts?” Nachia leaned back in her seat, the better to look at Merros’s face.
“We have. There are a few of them almost directly under us, moving in the shadow of our city.”
“And can we do anything about them?”
Merros smiled. “Possibly. We are working on ways to surprise them from above.”
Desh stared at the map and nodded his head. “I might be able to help with that. It’s something we can discuss.”
He leaned over the map, studied it carefully and then pushed the crest three inches further along the river’s line. “We continue to follow the river. I’ve checked and there are slight variations in our course to compensate. Also, we’re moving a little faster than we thought initially. I have made adjustments.”
“Still no luck in finding out what to do about the Silent Army?”
“There’s nothing we have found so far. They did not work this way before.” Desh crossed his arms. “We summoned them and they only did certain things, like defend the city. This is new. They could not speak before and they did not act on their own.”
Nachia sighed. “We might yet have to go to the churches and ask the leaders.”
Merros shook his head. “I already did. They seem as baffled as we are. I have witnessed several groups from different churches placing laurels and treasures at the feet of the statues. Tributes, I think, but I’ve seen no response.”
“No more from this Pilgrim of yours?”
Merros shook his head. “He’s not mine, I assure you.”
Desh nodded. “Yes, well, if he were, there’d be no real problems, now would there?”
Nachia barely moved, but her eyes flicked from one man to the other. “What of the other kings of the Sa’ba Taalor?”
“Sorry?” Merros seemed surprised by the question.
“There are seven kings. What of the other five? Where are they and their armies?”
“Well, quite honestly, Majesty, we’re not completely sure. One of them we believe is on the ocean. The black ships have moved to the south and have been engaging the Brellar.”
“How have our associates been doing?”
“It seems they’ve been having a few successes and a great number of losses.”
“How many losses?” Nachia asked and prepared to hide the wince that she knew would come when she heard the numbers.
“Well, the Brellar really do have a great number of ships. Somewhere over a thousand. Which, truly, is a staggering number, but they are spread all along the edge of Fellein. They’ve lost over fifty ships.”
“That’s not so horrid, really. I mean fifty out of a thousand?”
Merros nodded. “True enough, but they are not happy with our previous arrangement and would like to renegotiate.”
“How did you receive that information? I thought only a few of the Brellar spoke our tongue.”
“A good number understand the tongue well enough but few speak it, true.” Merros nodded again. “They have sent back a couple of messages on the bodies of their dead. It seems they really don’t have time to be more personal than that as they are retreating from the Sa’ba Taalor as quickly as they can.”
“So. No navy then?”
“Not as such.”
Nachia stared long and hard at Desh Krohan. Hard enough that he fidgeted. That was effectively a gigantic victory.
“Is there nothing that you or the sorcerers can do, Desh?”
“I’ll look into the matter, Majesty.” The chill from his voice nearly matched the weather outside. As the walls were beginning to get a layer of ice, that said a great deal.
“Desh, you know I would not ask…”
“Yes. I am aware of the dire situation, Nachia. You have seen one demonstration. I cannot promise that any actions taken wouldn’t destroy the sea life for a hundred miles in all directions.”
Nachia thought back to the vast swathe of lightning blasts Desh Krohan had cast from one hand in her presence. She recalled very clearly the devastation he’d wreaked at her request.
“Please give careful consideration, Old Man. I need the help.” Desh did not look old. He was. He had been around since the first rise of the Silent Army over six hundred years earlier. He looked to be roughly forty and was handsome enough to distract her sometimes.
She pushed that thought aside. While she could use a distraction, she’d not try seducing him again. That hadn’t gone well the first time and wouldn’t go well now, she’d have wagered.
Nachia looked at the map though it offered no new information. “Are we safe from the Sa’ba Taalor if they should try to reach us from below?”
Merros gave her an arch look. “You mean if they should grow wings?”
The first Advisor said, “The entire city has been destroyed and rebuilt. I for one am not moving under the city to discover anything, but the Sisters have traveled around the underside of Canhoon and spoke of many openings in the belly of this floating nightmare.”
“Openings?”
Desh shrugged. “As I said, the city has been rebuilt many times. They could lead almost anywhere or nowhere.”
For twenty more minutes they discussed the minutiae of the war on as many fronts as they could be certain of. There were seven kings. They could account for five. The other two either were not involved or were better hidden than they wanted to think about. Likely it was the latter of the two.
In the far east, the armies of the Sa’ba Taalor were already making their mark. Elda was gone, destroyed and buried under a growing mountain of fire. From Elda the Sa’ba Taalor marched north, heading along the coastline and striking wherever they found people. The news was grim whenever they found a city or town. They did not leave survivors. Danaher was a vast city, but it was currently engaged by the Sa’ba Taalor and not doing well.
Morwhen was to the north and had already sent forces to stop the Sa’ba Taalor if possible. Theorio Krous himself was leading the charge. Having seen the man, there was the possibility that he could match the savagery of the Sa’ba Taalor.
Nachia thanked her general for the news and smiled warmly. He really was a wonder. Despite everything he maintained a level head and that helped her do the same.
When Merros headed away, back to his office to find out the latest details, Nachia asked Desh Krohan to stay behind.
As soon as he agreed, she dismissed the guards to the outside of the room. There were few times she actively told them to stay out of range and this was one of them. They were trained well enough not to react openly. Desh was not. He looked genuinely puzzled.
Before he could make any comments at all, she spoke.
“I can’t forbid you to do anything, Desh. I mean, I could, but you and I both know it would be a waste of my words. So I’m just going to say this and have it out in plain view between us for you to consider.”
She took a breath and considered her words.
Desh watched her, unblinking, his face calm but cautious.
“You should let Goriah stay where she is.”
The sorcerer paused for a moment then said flatly, “I’ll consider that.”
“You are the one who wanted necromancy outlawed. I looked into it. You were the one who said it was too dangerous.”
“I’m well aware of what I said, Nachia.” His voice was colder still and his expression was impossible for her to read. She had nearly grown up on the man’s knee and she could not guess what he was thinking. That was a first for her.
“There’s always a price. That’s a phrase I’ve heard from you all of my life, Desh.” She fought against the tears that wanted to sting her eyes. She did not want to have this argument with him. She did not want to give him any reason to grieve. “There’s always a price. Always. Your words.”
If she could have, she would have looked away. She would have pretended that she did not know what was in his heart. She knew how much the Sisters meant to Desh. They were his chosen disciples. They were very nearly his children.
“I did not break the rules for your cousin. I will not challenge the laws for my Sister.” His voice shook with rage and guilt. He was still thinking hard of lifting Goriah from the dead.
“You know I won’t punish you if you do this thing, Desh. It’s not in me to punish you, even if I could make the punishment stand.”
She stood up and stepped toward him where he stood in his robes with his arms locked behind his back, lest he make a gesture that was too harsh to forgive. Or perhaps lest he cast a spell and shatter her body.
“Do not do this thing, Desh. I don’t know if you could forgive yourself.”
“There is always a price, Nachia. I am aware of that.”
He turned and walked away and she let him. She could have commanded that he stay and he would have, but she had already done all she could to convince him. If he listened she would be grateful. If he did not, she could cause him no harm. The trouble with sorcerers is that they were sorcerers and oh, so very powerful. Even when they tried to hide that fact.
They gathered in silence. Deep beneath the main hall of Dretta March’s home, in the area where foodstuffs were meant to be stored.
Swech settled in a familiar corner, swaddled in a heavy cloak to fight off the cold. Next to her was Jost, who was often her shadow. Jost was dressed in leathers and had a fur cloak as well. She sat cross-legged and had her hands propped on her knees.
Jost was the one who stood out. Her flesh was gray and her Great Scars made clear that she was a different beast altogether. The rest were cloaked in Fellein skins, hidden behind guises chosen by the gods. The only other exception was Glo’Hosht. The King in Mercury revealed nothing, including gender. The king’s skin was gray, of course, but no one could have said anything more.
When Glo’Hosht spoke, the others listened.
“It is time. The waters must be tainted. The grains made to rot. It will not kill them. They will not be in the air long enough to starve, but it will anger them and make the Fellein desperate.”
The King in Mercury looked to a plain woman with blonde hair shot with silver. Swech did not know her. She was a stranger, but if Glo’Hosht accepted her as one of the chosen of Paedle, then it was exactly so. “I have given you the means. Go to the wells beneath the castle and let them know that nothing is beyond our reach.”
The woman nodded and rose. She was pale, but Swech could see that this one had been training her body, just as Swech had been training the body of Dretta March. There were fresh calluses, a few fresh scars… inevitable marks of transformation.
The man who sat closest to Glo’Hosht was little more than a boy. He was familiar to Swech, having helped her poison the feed in all of the stables. Even now the city had a problem with dead horsemeat. The citizens could not eat the stuff for fear it would poison them. That was wisdom: it would indeed have killed them all.
“Find the larders. Ruin them.” Those were all the words Glo’Hosht spoke to the boy. In response the lad rose and walked away. He was not a boy. He was one of the Sa’ba Taalor and he was a trained killer. He showed no signs of recent change in his body. He did not train himself to be stronger, knowing full well that he could not change his size. Instead he used that size to his advantage. He was a child, an urchin, not seen as a threat by anyone. That was a mistake as well. Swech had killed her first enemy when she was six.
Glo’Hosht spoke without looking away from the retreating figure. “As for the rest of you, it is time to spread fear…”
Half an hour later, Swech moved through the Inner Wall Commons. The area was lush with shops and people, and as always was crowded. These days a good portion of that crowd were refugees seeking a place to stay, food or new ways to make enough money to arrange for food and shelter. It was an endless cycle that affected increasingly more of the city’s dwellers. The wealthiest of them came here to shop. Now they had to move their way through the crowds of beggars, prostitutes and cutpurses.
Swech moved in the shadows. She dressed in black and hid her face away. She did not wear a cloak. It would have encumbered her too much, but she wore leathers under thinner clothes and she sported enough blades to scare anyone who knew what she was capable of.
Small, skillful hands reached out to test her awareness. Pickpockets abounded. Her fingers caught the hand of a young one testing her mettle and she broke the fingers quickly. There was a gasp. The pain was a potent, living thing, but the penalty for being caught stealing in that district was far harsher than a broken finger and rather than cry out, the child slipped away, unseen.
The people around her were desperate. She knew that. She was one of the reasons it was so. Her people had caused this because her gods demanded it. Swech had no pity for them. They were the enemies of her gods and that was all that mattered.
A man noticed her and opened his mouth. She shut it for him. One step closer to his side and then the blade kissed the inside of his thigh even as the man smiled, expecting a different sort of touch. He was drunk and he wanted to pay for a woman. She was sober and killed him for his trouble. As he fell back against the wall, she gripped his arms and lowered him gently. The look of surprise was still on his face as the light in his eyes left him. The blade would have killed him in any event, but the toxins guaranteed his silence as he died.
A member of the City Guard stood nearby, his eyes already bored with dealing with so many people. The air was cooler, but the sheer volume of bodies ensured that everyone stayed warm.
The man tapped the hilt of his sword as he looked around. He glowered at a thin man who got too close to him and sent him along with a boot to his side. So many like this: a little power and they could not possibly let a person stand their ground. This was preferred. This, the need to express their contempt.
Swech felt nothing for the man or the guard. Still, she let the thin man live and broke the guard’s neck with a vicious blow to the side of his throat. When he fell, she caught him. He was still alive, but only for a moment.
Seven deaths in, someone finally noticed her.
She had been careful, because that was her duty. She was to spread as much panic as she could. Seven bodies lay behind her and even in a crowd as vast as this, that was a lot of death to go unnoticed.
As a merchant who’d bumped into her slumped and then fell over, bleeding, a woman who’d approached the collection of fine scarves and cloaks the man had to offer saw her pull back the blade and screamed as loudly as anyone Swech had ever met.
The small blade in her left hand sailed and buried itself in the woman’s cheek, ensuring more screams, more chaos. Most of the poison had long since worn off the blade and it would take at least another minute for the screamer to die. In that time Swech intended to kill as many people as possible.
The people around her were scattering. They moved away from the screaming woman and away from the table of woven fineries.
And Swech moved with them, slipping among them and cutting, striking, breaking as she went. A man gurgled out his last as his throat vomited a crimson stain. Next to him a woman let out a scream as Swech broke three of her ribs and shoved her aside.
People continued to flow like water away from a scalding hot stone, but they were not fast enough. Swech moved with them, her face covered, her body shielded. A man with a dagger tried to stop her and she blocked his strike, broke his wrist and shoved the blade he proffered into his own stomach as he went past. He grunted and fell, the pain a sudden and overwhelming thing that stole his breath. He might well live, but he would suffer greatly.
Her foot kicked at a kneecap and the leg it belonged to folded the wrong way. As the screaming victim of her kick started to fall, she stepped in close and flipped him to the ground. He collided with three others in the process of collapsing and took them with him.
Three sharp jabs and the City Guard coming to investigate stepped back and fell to his knees. His throat was punctured, as were his ear and his eye. His sword fell from his hand. Swech leaned down and caught it.
The sword was well made and properly sharpened. She slashed several people with it and then left it buried in a screaming man’s guts as she moved past.
The effort was starting to weary her. Her muscles were beginning to protest. The crowd was now panicking, running into each other, shoving others aside rather than moving past them. They were no longer people. They were a mob.
Swech moved along their edges, not foolish enough to risk being inside the mass of crushing bodies. Where she moved, she struck, cutting, wounding and occasionally killing as she headed for her point of exit.
Her work was done for the moment. The Inner Wall did not stop access for the people of Canhoon. Not unless the horns were sounded and all the access points were sealed. Swech made her way to the top of the wall with ease, only pausing once to stop a terrified man from pushing her back down the stairs as he climbed. She just made the wall before the City Guard came down in force. By the time she reached it, her face was uncovered, her hair was loose and displayed, rendering the appearance of merely being a patron of the shops complete. She even managed a look of panic, which was easier than she’d expected.
Below her the crowds pushed and fought and screamed as they tried to escape their possible demise.
Elsewhere, Swech knew, others were causing the same sort of chaos. She could hear the voices of the Daxar Taalor and knew that they were pleased.
That news pleased her as well, but she did not show her satisfaction until she wound her way through the narrow alleys and streets of the homes that were closest to the palace.
There were preparations to make. Her man was coming over and she had a meal to prepare for him.
Theorio Krous was a man of his word: four legions of his finest soldiers left Morwhen and headed west, toward the City of Wonders. Even with the city soaring toward the east – an accomplishment he knew of but did not begin to understand – it would be weeks before they met up.
In the meantime, there were members of the Sa’ba Taalor heading in the direction of Morwhen and he had no intention of waiting for them to show themselves. With that in mind he took six legions with him to meet the enemy in combat.
Theorio Krous was a member of the same bloodline as the Empress Nachia. Thirty years her senior, he had spent his entire life dedicated to the goal of winning any and all encounters of a military nature. Morwhen trained some of the finest soldiers in the world.
He planned for battle. He trained for it. He thrived as a result of it. He and his would take care of the matters on the eastern side of the Empire because they had to be taken care of. They would fight and they would either win or they would die trying.
If death occurred, it was a natural part of life. If victory occurred it was because of his might, and when the time came he would claim his rightful prize.
Nachia Krous would either be his grateful bride, or she would be his unhappy wife. He would be satisfied with either result. Sometimes a woman who struggled added to the pleasure. Not always, but he could accept that sometimes a woman needed to be taught her place in the bedroom if not in other areas.
She had not yet been made aware of his plans, of course. Most of his communications had been with Danieca Krous, the girl’s aunt. Negotiations continued apace, but things would work out his way, especially after he beat back the savages from the Blasted Lands.
His men traveled as lightly as they could; still, it took time to get where he was going. The first few weeks they saw nothing but the Imperial Highway and the dark clouds gathering to the south.
Everything was made perfect. The men were armed with bows, two spears apiece, short swords and small shields. The crest of Morwhen and the crest of Fellein were both present on the shields, and via random inspections Theorio made absolutely certain that swords were kept sharp and armor properly tended to.
When they rode down the highway to meet their enemy, the sounds of men walking and horses charging was a glorious thunder.
None would ever doubt Theroio’s bravery. He led the charge as a king should, traveling down the road surrounded by his closest and bravest. A contingent of lancers was followed by archers, themselves followed by bannermen who announced their approach.
Should the need arise there would be trumpets and horns to make clear their intent.
Though the Imperial Highway was a vast thing – and called the Emperor’s Highway in some places – it was well maintained. He took full advantage of that.
When they stopped for any reason they made sure to keep to the road and as theirs was a mission of great importance, any who crossed their path were wise to step to the side and let them pass.
As they approached the Rehkail River their forward motion slowed to a gradual halt. The hills around the river had always made the bridge difficult to see from a distance, but Theorio knew the path well enough. When they reached the bridge, the great stone supports looked wrong. They had been altered.
He and his two oldest sons, Roon and Horden, stared long and hard.
“They’ve added something to them.” Horden squinted across the distance, trying to make out the details. As they continued to stare, four figures came forward and crossed over the bridge, heading for them. They did not carry banners. They did not bring a retinue. It was only four men on the strangest looking horses Theorio had ever seen.
Theorio’s first view of the Sa’ba Taalor was enough to make him understand the dread lesser men felt. They were, indeed, striking figures. Each carried several weapons. The largest of them had a vast disfigurement that he covered with a faceplate. His eye and the area around it were sealed within a stained bronze sculpture that closely resembled the rest of his face, but only if it had been forged from–
“By the gods. That thing across his face moves….” Horden’s words rang softly out, but in the silence it was enough to nearly sound like a scream.
His son was right. The metal moved. The sculpted eye within that metallic socket shifted and adjusted as the men came closer.
“Do we go to meet them, father?” Roon’s voice was quieter still and he bristled. Roon had spent years waiting for a proper conflict. He was a strong lad, and a gifted fighter.
“They send four and we send four. Come with me, Roon. Horden, hold here.” He pointed to two guards he knew were skilled swordsmen, trained by him personally, and then he rode forward.
Once they had covered about half the ground between his army and the bridge, Theorio came to a halt, the other three taking position behind him.
Ensuring his voice carried the proper tone of command, Theorio called, “Who are you?” He was a king, and not easily to be denied.
The four strangers came closer and Theorio could now see that they did not ride horses. Near as he could figure they were riding bears. He had heard of the creatures, of course, but had never seen one in his travels. He had never heard of a man riding a bear before, but what was before his eyes proved the possibility.
“I am Lored, chosen of the Forge of Ordna and King in Bronze,” came the reply. “Who are you?” The voice did not sound overly impressed. More amused, really, and that was not at all the reaction he wanted or expected.
“I am Theorio Krous. King of Morwhen.”
“Then you are who I was told to wait for.”
Lored smiled. His mouth split in the most hideous way, showing more teeth than should have been possible and great wounds that looked like they sported more teeth and tongues to boot. Theorio stared with sick fascination.
Theorio was wearing proper armor and a black uniform under it. The man he faced wore furs and leathers and had armor over his vitals as well as a large buckler on his left arm. He did not carry a sword, but instead sported a very large and brutal looking mace.
“Why were you told to wait for me?”
“Because according to great Ordna, you are the king of all that is north of here.”
“Who is ‘great Ordna’?”
“Ordna is my god. He chose me to serve as his king and to be his voice among my people and yours alike.” Lored smiled. “Ordna is the God of Bronze, of long-ranged weapons and siege warfare. He has chosen me as the best among his people to represent his methods of combat.”
“What is a siege engine?”
“Do you see the towers of the bridge?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I have chosen them as the anchors for my siege engines. These are powerful weapons designed to attack many people at once, or to destroy the walls of the very greatest of fortresses. I have already used them several times in my combat to the south of here. They are very effective weapons.”
“I don’t have any walls here to knock down.”
It was meant as a joke. Lored allowed a small smile. “You have many troops. I could kill several hundred with a wave of my hand.”
“Are you a sorcerer?”
“No. I have siege engines.”
“What do they do?”
“In this case they hurl great stones and burning collections of oil and smaller stones that will scatter when they hit the ground and burn everything they touch.”
Theorio considered that notion. “How many of these weapons do you have?”
“Currently there are eight of them built and waiting to destroy whatever I aim them at.”
“And where are they aimed?”
Lored’s smile came back, wide and enthusiastic and utterly terrifying in the number of teeth it bared. “They are aimed at your soldiers, of course. The better to kill them if you do not surrender to me.”
“I do not believe in surrender.”
“I am offering you a kindness. Should Tuskandru be the one to attack, you would all be dead within a day. My way, you survive and consider attacking again when I am not prepared.”
“When you are not prepared?” Theorio stared at the gigantic man in front of him and tried to look past the scars that covered all bared flesh. He was trying to imagine what sort of hellish things might have scarred him that much in the first place.
“If I am being honest, I am always prepared, but without hope we have nothing, yes?”
“I cannot surrender to you. I think you are lying.”
Lored raised his left arm and made a fist. He then brought the fist down hard.
One of the odd collections of lumber atop the closest bridge tower shuddered and rumbled, and then something sailed through the air, trailing a thick streamer of smoke.
“What have you…?”
Theorio turned and watched that vast something rip through the skies with the speed of an angry storm crow past him.
“A demonstration to tell you the truth of my words, King Theorio.” By the time Lored had stopped speaking the missile hit the first column of Theorio’s soldiers. Whatever held the smoking mass together broke, and true to the King in Bronze’s words, flaming stones exploded across the ground and all over his troops as the mass rolled and tumbled to a stop.
Horses shrieked and bucked and threw themselves and their riders hard. They were burning and so were the men riding them. The soldiers screamed as well and beat at the fires that licked at their tunics and their bared flesh.
Theorio stared on, horrified. This was not warfare. This was a massacre.
“How did you do this thing?”
“My god, Ordna, told me the secrets. I listened to him.”
Theorio drew his sword and prepared to fight. An instant later an arrow drove through his wrist and forced him to drop the weapon.
He screamed a lot. The damned arrow hurt.
Throughout, Lored looked at him with a small smile.
When he was done screaming, Lored looked at him and asked, “Will you fight or will you surrender?”
“We fight!” Theorio roared the words and drew his dagger from its sheath. He’d pry that maddening metallic mask away and cut out whatever was under it.
Lored roared and reached forward, a brutal smile on his face. “On this we agree, King Theorio!”
His great mace swept around and slammed into Theorio’s forearm, shattering bone and pulping meat. The dagger fell to the ground and Lored hauled the King of Morwhen from his saddle. Theorio Krouse was a strong man and he fought hard despite his injuries.
While he struggled Roon charged forward, low over his horse as he’d been taught, one of his spears held at the ready.
The world tilted and Theorio groaned as the thing under Lored moved, lashing out with thick paws and slapping Roon’s spear aside. His son was prepared, he was braced, and so he sailed from his saddle and fell to the ground as the strength of the creature simply overwhelmed him.
Lored’s powerful arms were not injured and did not bleed. The man hauled Theorio to him as the King of Morwhen’s horse ran from the great beast beneath the King in Bronze.
Theorio watched while his son was mauled, his face ripped into shreds by the claws of the monster. As he struggled, more of the giant stones soared past him to crash into his troops.
They were prepared for warfare, but not for this.
Lored pulled him higher still until they looked eye to eye and Theorio thrashed, trying to break the grip. His arms would not work, his legs were at the wrong angle to help him.
“I was told to take you alive, King Theorio! Fight me and the rest of your people die!”
Theorio did not surrender. He fought with all that he had. He bit, he screamed, he spat and he even drove the point of the arrow piercing his wrist into Lored’s face.
He did not die that day.
Nor did he win.
When they reached the Edge, Drask called for Brackka to stop and his friend did. To make the ascent possible, he tied Nolan March to Brackka’s back and then they all climbed. It would have been easier to find the Hallis Pass, but he wanted Tega to learn how to climb, as she never had done so before.
By the time they had finished the ascent, Tega’s hands were bloodied and torn. She stared at them for a few moments before healing them.
They stood on the ground of the Wellish Steppes, and not a hundred yards distant was a large outcropping of shale and stone. It could not quite be called a hill, but it was certainly more than a boulder. Drask looked at the stone and nodded his head. Beneath that stone, the Wellish Overlords lay trapped, locked in a semi-slumber. They could think, but they could not move. They could starve, but they could not die. It was a proper punishment.
“The Wellish Overlords: they were the last great enemy of the Fellein, is that correct?” Drask was not certain where the information came from, but it was in his head. Best that he doublecheck its veracity.
Tega nodded slowly as she sat down and watched him make a fire. She still had a dazed, nearly sleepy look on her face, but she seemed more coherent now. That was a good thing. Drask grew tired of only his own thoughts for true companionship and it seemed neither Nolan nor Tega had been capable of much actual thought since the lot of them had bathed in the energies of the Mounds and then absorbed them.
“That was a long time ago,” Tega said. It was the first time Drask had heard her voice in many days, bar the occasional grunt of exertion as they climbed. “Several hundred years, I think. They came for the people of Fellein and tried to take Canhoon by force.” She paused and looked up at the sky. There were clouds here, and a breeze, which was more than could be said for the deathly still Blasted Lands.
“Desh told me how they were stopped, but it has been a long time and I don’t recall clearly.” She frowned. “I am having trouble thinking.”
“It is getting better though, yes?”
She nodded softly and smiled. She had a lovely smile, even if it was completely unmarred. Drask could appreciate the aesthetic of smooth skin, even if he preferred the stories that scars told on well-healed flesh.
He looked at Tega’s freshly healed hands. There were several new scars there from her climb.
Drask asked her, “Why did you wait before you healed your hands?”
“I wasn’t sure I could do that.”
He looked back at the stillness of the Blasted Lands and nodded.
Finally, bored with watching Nolan stare at the ground, he moved over to the boy and moved his head into the proper position. Muscles were not a problem, but several fragments of broken vertebrae had to be moved before they could be mended. When he was done Nolan looked around and frowned with an idiot expression. Drask could not decide if his mind was broken too, but for the present time left him alone.
“Your people. Do they truly worship gods?” Drask asked Tega, who was holding her hands before the fire.
She was a long time answering, “Some of them do. Most, I think, consider the idea for a while and then pretend.”
“That is the problem with distant gods. Faith is not always easy in silence.”
In the back of his head there were seven gods doing their very best to get his attention. He had not yet decided if he felt like listening to them any longer. The world sometimes changed when you were transformed, and while they seemed to want to talk to him, Drask was not certain that he wanted to hear what they had to say.
The gods had lied. They told him that the Mounds were forbidden and he believed them. They said that the world was changed by the Fellein when they destroyed Korwa, and for his entire life that truth had been accepted, but now, he was no longer completely certain. If gods lied, what did they tell the truth about? How could anything he had believed be considered the truth without examination?
“Your Desh Krohan, can he do what we can do now?”
“No.” Tega frowned. “At least I do not think so.”
Drask looked toward the still silence of the Blasted Lands. With very little effort he could see the footprints where they had walked across the vast, motionless expanse.
“I do not like it.”
“You do not like what?” Tega moved closer and put her arms around his bicep. Her hands were tiny. She was tiny.
Ignored by them both, Nolan let out a low moan. He blinked slowly but his eyes remained unfocussed even if they were no longer staring at the ground as they had these past days. Slowly, he moved to join them by the fire.
“All my life the Blasted Lands have raged and thundered and now they are too quiet. I do not like it.”
Drask concentrated and willed a change. The air far below stirred, and a moment later the winds roared, spiraling outward from where he stared, taking the dust and grit with them. He made the air as cold as ice and waited as the storm he created grew and spread across the still wastelands.
Drask nodded. “That is better.”
Far below him and under the great stones that held them pinned in place, the Wellish Overlords let out a noise that none but Drask and his two companions could hear. Not even Brackka could hear the sound. Still, he looked to Drask and smiled in the way of mounts.
Drask smiled back, glad he’d resurrected his trusted friend.
“Where do we go now? I can feel that Canhoon has moved and Tyrne is gone.”
Drask looked down at her. She looked back up with wide, guileless eyes.
“Canhoon moves. So do we. We will find it.”
They sat at the fire and waited for a while. They were not tired and they did not need to eat, but some habits are hard to break after a lifetime. Eventually they rose and all three climbed atop Brackka’s broad back. Tega rode in front of Drask, and because it was easier than teaching him, Drask tied Nolan to the saddle.
When the mount started moving, Drask patted his neck and said, “Go very fast, Brackka. As fast as you can.”
The miles tore past.
The town was larger than he would have imagined and that pleased Tusk. The ride along the river was easy enough and the town was open on all sides. It was not a place that dealt with war. It was a village that dealt with boats and fish.
Currently there were several boats along the docks. Some were small. A few were impressively large. They could have potential.
There were also many people along the shoreline, most looking toward Tusk and his people. Perhaps a hundred of them appeared armed. The rest stood in their crowds and looked on, faces painted with dread. It was not an expression Tusk was used to, but he understood the meaning. They thought they were going to die and that there was nothing they could do about it.
There was no thrill in that sort of enemy, only a mild contempt.
When he got closer, a small contingency broke away and approached. “You wish to take the city?” one asked. His language might be different but the meaning was plain enough.
Tusk contemplated answering the man in one of his own tongues, but decided he was not in the mood to toy with them. He said in the tongue of the Fellein, “I am here for your city and all that is inside it. I do not care if you wish to fight or if you wish to surrender.”
“We are just fishermen and merchants.” The man who spoke to him had leathery skin and hair that had been bleached blonde by the sun. His eyes were blue and he stared at Tusk with a wince on his face, as if he already knew that whatever arguments they might make, Tusk and his people would answer with steel. “We do not wish to die.”
“My god does not believe in mercy.”
The man looked him up and down for a long moment. “Who is your god?”
“Durhallem. The Wounder. The Unforgiving. He is a god of war, and he is the god of obsidian and his way is the way of combat.”
“Durhallem does not accept surrender as an option?”
“No.”
“Will you wait here for a few moments? I would discuss with my people.” It was a different sort of request. Normally people tended to beg or to fight. Either way, they were met with the same answer. Durhallem did not take prisoners.
“You may discuss the situation among yourselves. If you attempt to attack, we will kill you.”
The tanned man looked at him. “You are four times my size. I am carrying a skinning knife that I do not think would even part the fur on your… on whatever beast you ride. There will be no treachery.”
Tusk nodded and leaned back in his seat, wishing that Stastha were here to see this. She would have had a few sharp comments and would have made him laugh.
After nearly ten minutes the man came back. “We wish to join you and follow Durhallem.”
Tusk leaned back a bit more. “Repeat that.”
“We wish to join you and follow Durhallem.”
Behind him a few of the other Sa’ba Taalor talked among themselves. They did not speak the Fellein tongue and could not understand what caused Tusk’s expression. They merely knew that he was surprised.
“In all my years none have ever made this offer.”
“In all my years I have never had the followers of a war god come to my doorstep.”
“True enough.”
Tusk spoke to Durhallem and his god spoke back.
“Durhallem would require a test. A proof of your loyalty to him.”
“What would he require?”
What indeed?
Tusk asked and Durhallem answered.
The king nodded. His god was wise.
“Do you have a forge here? A metal worker’s forge?”
The tanned man nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
Tusk nodded in turn. “There will be a test of loyalty. Also, you will need weapons.”
“Weapons?”
“A god of war does not ask that you follow with kindness in your heart. The Wounder will make great demands of you and you will have to prove yourselves in combat. Do you understand this?”
“What do we get from Durhallem in return?”
“Prove your loyalty and the Wounder will tell you himself.”
“The god would speak to me personally?”
Tusk nodded. “The god would speak to all of you. All of the followers of Durhallem have heard from the Wounder and follow him by choice. We are born to this. This, what you ask, it is a new thing and requires… improvisation. You must show your loyalty. Then you can speak to Durhallem. Then you will have the chance to join his brethren under my command.”
“And what is your name?”
“I am Tuskandru, King in Obsidian and Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem.”
“You are a king?” He sounded surprised.
“What else would I be?”
“I thought perhaps a general.”
“I am a king. In the army of Durhallem I am also the general.”
“Ah. I see.”
Tusk, who knew what Durhallem had in mind, nodded. “You will. Soon enough you will.”
As they moved along, the hundred or so with weapons very carefully set them aside. It was one thing to attack and defend if you had to, but the word had already spread, and the invaders were so very large in comparison. And so very many.
Tuskandru’s army numbered in the thousands, and even the children who walked with them were armed and looked ready to kill.
Tusk gestured to a small girl who was lean and hard and looked like she might have been from Fellein, save for the scars on her body and the slightly feral way she stared at everyone. The tanned man looked at her with a worried expression.
“Mendt.” The girl moved closer. “Gather coins. One for each of the people in this town.” He looked at the crowd that was now moving cautiously along the edges of the Sa’ba Taalor.
For their part the followers of Durhallem noticed the people and remained prepared. Sooner or late everyone encountered the followers of Wrommish and learned that even a small person without a weapon could be deadly.
“What is your name?” Tusk spoke to the tanned man.
“Bram Littner.”
“Bram Littner, tell your people to each offer one coin to Mendt and the others with her. It does not matter what size coin. The value is of no concern.”
Bram nodded. He held up his hands and called out loudly in his tongue and Tusk listened. A moment later he sent Mendt on her way and told her to gather the coins and to choose others to help her. Being a wise young warrior, she chose several skilled fighters to back her. It was not that she could not handle herself, it was rather that the coins would be heavy and she wanted to share the burden with others who could carry it.
It was almost an hour later when the column stopped at the small forge and settled down. The people of the city were surrounded by Tuskandru’s Sa’ba Taalor. Mendt had collected an impressive number of coins.
“Bram Littner, are you a leader of your people?”
Bram nodded his head and worried at his lower lip.
“Then you will lead in what comes next. You will feel pain. Life is pain. Try not to scream.”
Bram looked at him and nodded again. He was very scared. He had right to be.
“This thing you do, it has never been done before. You understand this? Those whom the Wounder chooses to fight die. This is… This is as close to mercy as I have ever seen from my god. This is a rare blessing.”
Tusk plucked the first coin from the collection. It was a large coin and golden.
“You would follow Durhallem in the ways of war? You would become a disciple of the Wounder?”
“Aye. Yes, I would.”
Tusk nodded his head and placed the coin firmly against Bram’s head. “Do not move. This is your test. This is how you prove yourself to your new god.” Even as he spoke, he placed one hand against the back of Bram’s skull. With the other, he pushed the gold coin against Bram’s forehead.
For Bram and his people it must have been a momentous thing, but for the followers of Durhallem, miracles were not uncommon. The metal glowed hot against Tusk’s hand but he was not burned. Instead all of the heat seared into Bram’s forehead and the metal fused with the flesh. Skin burned and metal ran and Bram screamed. He did not stand still but tried to fight, as was to be expected. Two of Tusk’s followers grabbed the man’s arms and held him as still as they could while he bucked and howled and roared in agony.
Tusk stepped back and nodded, pleased with his work. The men who held Bram let him go, setting him on the ground instead of letting him fall.
All around them the people of the town murmured and tried to retreat, but it was too late for that. They were completely surrounded by the Sa’ba Taalor.
Tusk spoke loudly, roaring to be heard over the noises of the crowd. “This is the price you must pay! If you would follow a god you must make sacrifices!”
Bram stood. The gold of the coin was fused with his flesh. The metal was flush with his forehead and ran in swirls. Though his skin was burned, it was clear that the redness and even the bleeding was fading away.
The gold of the coin was not perfectly round, but had melted and smeared as it was held in place. There was a pattern there. A thick line ran through the melted lump.
Bram spoke up. “I have felt pain, but it’s gone now. I am not injured.” He sounded surprised. Several of the city dwellers came closer and looked at his face, frowning.
He said softly, “This is how we survive the day. This is how we learn to know a god. We must do this. As we discussed.”
The next to come forward was a portly woman. Her hands held on to the hands of two children.
“Must we all do this thing?” She did not ask Bram. She asked Tuskandru.
“Pain, or death. All must choose.”
Tears glistened at her eyes, but she did not move away. “We will be healed? Like Bram?”
“Yes. Durhallem demands a sacrifice, but he does not demand a life of misery. You must be tested. This is the test.”
She looked to her children and spoke solemnly. “I will go first, but if we are to be together you must do this thing. It will hurt, but I will be here for you.”
They were young. The oldest perhaps five years.
They watched and screamed as their mother was marked.
She watched and held them as each of her children endured the same.
Each person in the town was marked by Tusk, save a few that foolishly tried to escape.
They were struck down quickly and their bodies were laid out beside the forge for all to see.
As he made his mark upon the town, the fire in the forge glowed brighter and brighter.
The processing of every member of the town took most of the day and the following night.
Through it all Tusk spoke to the new disciples of Durhallem. He remained a calm, strong voice in a nearly endless series of screams.
After they were touched by Durhallem’s gift the people of the town were allowed to rest. Most gathered together in the area around the forge. Some wandered back to their homes, as once they had been tested they were free to do.
When the next morning finally came around, the people who had been marked by Durhallem were gathered together again.
They had been tested. Afterward, they were given the blessing of Durhallem and allowed to speak to a god.
None of them were unchanged by the meeting. Each of them was made to reach into the blazing coals of the forge to receive Durhallem’s blessing.