Andover climbed from the river’s waters and suppressed a shiver. The air was cold, but not unpleasant. It was the breeze that sent the chills through him. Despite his training he was not used to the smells of death. The Blasted Lands were to his back and two of the Seven Forges now breathed ash and toxic gasses into the air to the south. Durhallem and Wheklam raged, reshaping the world.
They had swallowed the Guntha. They had swallowed Tyrne, the only world Andover ever knew before going to the Taalor Valley.
For the briefest moment a flash of anger struck him at that thought. One look at his hands was enough to quell that fury.
Tega sat near his bundle of clothes. She looked at him as he approached, but he felt no embarrassment. Flesh was only flesh. He had changed a great deal and though she showed little emotion, he suspected the way she stared was more to do with how much he had been changed in a short time than it was about lust or any interest.
“You are so different, Andover.” She offered him his breeches and he took them, sliding them over the scars that covered his thick legs then nodding his thanks as he took the shirt from her and finally his vest. The cloak stayed where it was for the moment, wrapped around his stockpile of weapons.
“I am me.” He looked at her, studied her. His heart still felt a flutter when he cast his attention her way, but she was no longer the whole of his universe. There had been a time when he would have killed for her, would have starved for her. When he would have done anything at all, just to have her attention. All she had ever cost him was his hands, and all she had ever done for him was find a way for him to have his hands again.
He looked at his hands for a moment.
“You have changed as well, Tega. You are like Drask. I can feel the differences inside you from here.”
“I haven’t changed, Andover. I just hold onto some energies. I’m the apprentice to Desh Krohan. The power is there; I could use it if I wanted, but it hasn’t changed me.”
“What is it then?”
“Just power. Lightning is power. Power is everywhere. In the flames of a fire, in the breeze, in the heartbeat of a person. This is just extra.”
“I don’t understand.” He stood near her and carefully put his weapons where they belonged. There had been no attacks, but only a fool would expect the world to remain unchallenged. There was a war going on.
Tega held out one hand. “I know how to access power. I was taught by Desh. I am… not as skilled as I would like. I have actually destroyed things I only meant to hurt or stop, without trying very hard. But when I finished casting my spells there was always a price. I was as hungry as if I had gone days without eating, or I was so tired that I had to rest. That is why Desh always says that magic has a price. You can do amazing things, but there is always a cost.”
She sighed, and then reached up to take his hands in hers. Tega looked into his eyes and spoke earnestly. “Your hands were made of iron, Andover. I could not have accomplished such a feat. I could not have healed your hands, though I stopped them from being completely destroyed.” She shook her head. “I could do very little, because the damage was so great and in order to heal the wounds on you I would have had to ruin someone else. I thought about doing that to Purb and Menock, but it was not for me to decide.”
She paused a moment then shook her head again. “Fellein has laws to stop me from performing that sort of sorcery, because the cost is too high. There was a time when sorcerers would heal someone who was rich enough by taking the power from the poor or even from people who gave up years of their life for a few coins. People who were desperate. Desh pushed to have the laws put in place that stopped that.”
“Why?”
She looked long and hard at him before answering. “Because the weak sometimes need to be protected.”
He nodded his head. “I used to believe that. I understand.”
“When Purb and his friends broke your hands, they were wrong. You were given a chance to prove that, but before the laws were put there, it was just accepted that the strong should survive. Without those laws, you would not be here now.”
“Without the Daxar Taalor, I would not be who I am. They gave me hands and they taught me lessons. The Sa’ba Taalor spend their entire lives learning those lessons. Tega. Had I been raised by them I might never have needed to fear Purb and Menock.”
She nodded and stood up.
“Before you were hurt you worked for a blacksmith. You were learning a trade. You were also punished a few times for theft.”
“I stole to live.” He nodded. “Mostly fruit or bread after my parents made me leave. If Burk had not taken me in, I would have likely been killed at some point. Even before that, I had a few scars from the lash of the City Guard.”
“Burk took you in. He saw you and accepted you. You were not strong, Andover. You were not a fighter. But you learned, yes?”
“Of course.”
“I understand that Tyrne is gone. Destroyed. That’s what the first people we found when we left the Blasted Lands told us.”
Andover nodded and pressed his lips together. “Yes. Durhallem chose to raise his mountain there to teach the people of Fellein a lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“That they should have agreed to a peaceful accord instead of insisting on a war.”
“And did Burk escape Tyrne before that happened?”
Andover shook his head. “I do not know.”
Tega looked away from him. “And I do not know if my mother and father are alive. Or my aunt. Or my little brother. Or my dog.” He watched as she blinked furiously to hold back tears. “All I know is that one of the gods you now follow might have killed them all to teach a lesson.”
“I am sorry if you have lost loved ones.”
Tega nodded. “I am sorry if I did too. And if Burk is dead. And Libari Welliso, who helped me carry you to the palace and a meeting with Desh Krohan.” She looked up at him again. “Do you know what all of them have in common?”
“They helped me.”
“They did not prey on the weak.”
Andover looked down at Tega for several moments. Her face was the same, as beautiful as he had ever seen. The boy he had been still nearly worshipped her. The man he had become could even understand why.
“Why did you help me, Tega?”
“Because Purb hurt you because of me. And because you were always nice to me. You smiled and I liked your smile.”
Her fingers moved up and gently caressed the line of Great Scars that covered his mouth. “I’m not even sure if I could see your smile now, Andover. That is a sad thing to me. You had a beautiful smile.”
She rose and started to walk away.
“Tega, if I asked, could you bring Delil back to life? Are you capable of that sort of thing?”
“Yes, Andover. I think I could, just as I now have the power to mend your old hands.” She gestured toward Tyrne. “But as much as I like you, as much as I used to wonder what it would be like to be closer to you, there is a city full of corpses I would likely want to tend to first.”
There was nothing he could say to that. Instead he sat where she had been sitting and thought about Tyrne and all the people he had known.
The mountains were higher than Stastha had thought, but that was a good thing.
The air was thin near the top of the mountains, and from where she stood she could see the great spine of the entire run in both directions. It was an impressive sight.
A large number of small villages ran along the river’s edge. Some were still intact. Others they’d taken as they moved, but only when they absolutely had to. There was an army behind them that would want to sharpen blades on the bodies of their victims. Stastha had a different task. She and her small gathering of soldiers were to find the best way to take advantage of the mountains.
The long run of the river was deceptive. Closer to the Blasted Lands the banks of the river were close to the ground, but the closer one got to the mountains, the deeper the cut of the land. The river had hacked a wound into the land itself and cliffs rose high enough to make the water impossible to reach without climbing down several hundred feet. The foothills were deceptive and the land was magnificent to look over. In a few places villages had built bridges between the two sides of the river. Most were in good repair. Stastha left them that way. A person could never tell when being on the other side of a river might be beneficial.
Canhoon was getting closer. Within a day the vast city in the air would be moving along the river to the west and heading for the very spot where she was now standing.
She prayed the gods gave them the best possible weather. Clouds, yes, but no rain or snow. Whatever the case they would be ready, of course, but best if the weather worked with them instead of hindering the cause.
The work was sturdy, but it was also ungainly in appearance. It would do.
Satisfied at last with her work, Stastha took out her horn and blew four sharp notes that echoed between the mountains and along the river below.
The sound came to them as the skies to the east began to lighten.
Tuskandru rose and stretched and walked over to Brodem, who was still pretending to sleep though the sound had awakened him.
“Up, you lazy brute,” Tusk said with affection. Brodem let out a good-natured rumble and rolled over, giving Tusk access to the satchel he wanted.
A moment later his horn was out and he was blowing four sharp notes that perfectly mirrored the ones Stastha had just called out.
There were no complaints from most, but the newest among them looked around, shocked by the powerful notes.
Bram Littner, the spokesman for the villages who now followed Durhallem, looked to Tusk. “My king? What do you need?”
“Get up! It’s time for war!” Tusk bellowed the words even as his followers rose from their rest and grabbed their belongings. The newer followers had little. Most could carry only a cloak and a few supplies. That was just as well. They would learn today as they had every day since joining the followers of Durhallem.
The boats raised their anchors and untied from hastily crafted stays along the shoreline.
Tarag Paedori bellowed to his people and they responded.
Within ten minutes the Sa’ba Taalor were on the move. Those with mounts took to the lead. Those on the boats were close behind. The stragglers – mostly from the village – did their best, hastened by the younger members of the Sa’ba Taalor, who made sure they moved as quickly as they could.
Life is a series of tests. No one was permitted to fail. Young Mendt and her cohorts kept the stragglers in line. Those who could not follow the orders of their god were not left alive.
Durhallem is called the Wounder for a reason.
They travelled east with every haste. The time had come to show the foolish among the Fellein that no place was safe from the Sa’ba Taalor.
The winds picked up pace and the boats soon took the lead, moving even faster than the mounts. From all points among the gathering horns called out, not to communicate but to call to the gods, to let them know that their children were on the move and eager to serve.
Far to the east Lored ran into a surprise as he moved along the river’s edge.
His army was moving, but slowly. The war engines had to be pulled from location to location. It might have been easy enough to build more in their stead, but there were no forests here, only occasional trees and more flatlands.
Bromt suggested taking the river, seizing boats as needed and moving quickly to the west. There was a war going on and there were few threats to them that they had not easily crushed. A few hundred of the Sa’ba Taalor had been badly injured and half that number had been killed.
They wanted war, and they wanted it sooner rather than later. There were also several cities with great walls along the river, at least according to their captives. Best to find them and crush them if they could, and so they rode along the river. It was easy enough. They took boats by force as they went, and killed their enemies in the process.
When the arrows came, few of them were prepared.
Oh, to be sure, there were guards, but whereas usually they stayed alert because they were on foot, the waters made them complacent. They looked for boats and little else. They were foolish.
Lored saw the arrows and called an alarm, but his call was cut short by the arrow that slammed into his own throat and stopped against his vertebrae. He reached for the obstruction, uncertain as to why, exactly, he was having trouble breathing, and then fell back, drowning in his own blood.
The followers of Wheklam onboard the boats steered and turned the vessels, moving them to better defensive positions, but it did them little good. Their assailants had waited patiently and brought their full wrath down from a very advantageous position.
The Imperial archers knew their duty and they did it. Arrows rose and fell and many of them were covered with burning pitch.
The Sa’ba Taalor did their very best, but the boats under them were burning and sinking and they had no choice but to swim for the shores. The problem was that the shorelines were not clear and easy to access. They were rocky outcroppings that led to areas where a person could climb seventy or so feet up a cliff side to reach land.
The dead Sa’ba Taalor burned with the boats, then sank into the fast moving waters.
The rest climbed. The simple fact of the matter is that the people of the Forges were raised climbing mountains. It was among the very first tasks they were given. Many of them, even encumbered with wet clothes, scrambled quickly up the sides of the cliff. The volleys of arrows slammed into the walls around them, stuck to their backs or pierced their limbs. However, the majority of the gray-skinned people carried backpacks with supplies, occasionally their shields, or even weapons, all of which stopped the arrows from penetrating. Those hit occasionally fell back into the river, but not as many as might have been expected. They were trained their entire lives to deal with pain. Unless a tendon was cut or a bone broken, there was little they would not endure.
The arrows continued to come, however, and those who were not quick enough died before they reached the top of the cliffs.
They did not have their siege weapons any longer. They did not care. The Sa’ba Taalor lived for war. Their gods shaped them that way.
The archers on the shores retreated a reasonable distance, but they did not flee. Some of them used short bows and used them well, several arrows held in their hands and fired in quick succession as the Sa’ba Taalor approached. Others used longer bows and fired from a distance. These weapons had greater power and slammed into the enemy with substantial force, often enough to penetrate bone.
As the Sa’ba Taalor charged, their enemies retreated then dropped down to the ground to give the crossbow archers their chance.
Several of the Sa’ba Taalor had bows as well and used them, but most never had the chance. The Fellein archers were better prepared, and their weapons had not just been soaked in the river.
Had the Sa’ba Taalor been alone it is very possible that they would have been killed off in that initial assault.
No one sounded an alarm. No one blew a horn. So the mounts were unaware of a battle until well after the worst of the damage had been done to the boats.
But when they realized the mounting carnage, they did not take well to someone murdering their humans.
The Fellein in the area had never seen a mount before. They had been warned to beware the creatures, but they had no real point of reference. Yes, they had seen bears, and occasionally a mountain lion. Bears did not move the same way, and the mountain lions did not wear heavy armor.
If the armor should have slowed down the mounts, it was not up to the task. Flaming arrows and regular arrows alike did their job and cut into the beasts, but a few still made it to the archers before the fighting was done and even the crossbow bolts that hit the beasts seemed to slow them only when they’d been struck a hundred blows.
Not all the Sa’ba Taalor died that day. Not all the mounts, either. Instead they did what few Sa’ba Taalor ever did: they retreated.
Once they were safely far enough away, the surviving Sa’ba Taalor looked to Ordna for direction after the death of their king.
Ordna was silent for a long time before responding.
If one were to observe the southern shoreline of Fellein, the first sights from the west would be the ruins of Roathes. The bodies of a few could be seen here and there, rotting away, though far less than one might expect considering the catastrophes that had befallen the small nation. Beyond that, the Louron still held sway in an area that was surprisingly untainted by the volcanic activity that destroyed the neighboring Roathes.
An odd sight that one might note would be the activity around a lone ship that was being loaded with supplies by an unusual crew.
For a long span after Louron there were rugged shorelines that belonged to no one. The area had been disputed for generations, claimed again and again by both Fellein and the Brellar. The land itself was inhospitable, the ground unstable and given to collapse. For that reason, the area was finally abandoned by both sides. The Brellar still claimed it was theirs. The Fellein still claimed it belonged to the Empire. But no one fought over it any longer. The neighboring people of Louron said it was best left alone, for angry spirits inhabited the area.
It should be noted that most people in Fellein didn’t believe in ghosts. They preferred to believe that any unusual actions were acts of either sorcerers or the gods. Louron was the exception. Most of the people there believed in ghosts and other spirits. It should also be pointed out that Louron was the area that, for the time at least, the Sa’ba Taalor had decided to leave alone.
Almost at the center of the continental landmass, there was a break at the southern end. That break was the mouth of the Parmahar River, which ran from the Corinta Ocean all the way to Lake Gerhaim. In most places the river was over a mile wide and there were no existing bridges crossing it. The waters were deep and fickle and it was best to travel by ferry, which could be found with great regularity and used to cross for a small fee. No one would charge a heavy fee, as the next ferry was never really that far away.
Along the way there were many villages and port towns, most of them small in population and happy to be that way. Larger towns, the local wisdom said, get noticed in times of war. Though Fellein had not been at war for several generations, the local wisdoms still stood and made perfect sense to the people who lived along the Parmahar.
The wisdom of the locals did not mean much to the black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor. They rode up the river from the sea and took their time about it. But first, they let off the remaining armies they carried.
The armies of Ganem spread on both the eastern shore and the western. Those on the western shore saw Ganem first. Days of hard riding found her on the other side of the Arkannen Mountains. She rode her mount and carried her spear in one hand, bucklers on both of her arms.
They cheered when they saw her. The King in Silver was well loved for a reason. In a perfect world, as far as Ganem was concerned, Drask Silver Hand would have been on the western shore to lead the troops.
Instead it was Tenna, who was just as solid a leader, but tended to waver on the path of balance more than her former lover. Tenna would do. She was a warrior first and a philosopher second and this was, after all, wartime.
Ganem sounded her horn as the sun rose and the black ships sailed on, heading upriver with all haste. Tenna sounded her horn in response. Moments later Ydramil’s army was on the move.
The small villages had always believed that their size made them useless as targets. They had no strategic value and their people were merely fishers and boaters.
That notion was cemented for them when the great black ships moved up the river, dark sails set and oars cutting the water. None of the villagers were foolish enough to cheer as they went past, but most of them thanked their gods – mostly Othea the River God and Luhnsh the Beggar King – as they were spared assault.
When Ganem’s forces attacked, few of them were praying any longer.
As with Tuskandru before, and with the direct wishes of both the King in Iron and Ydramil, each villager was offered the chance to pray to a new god. When each had made their decisions they were converted or killed. As with Tusk, a coin was needed to prove faith and to mark the newcomers among the blessed of Ydramil. Some lived. Some died. All were changed by the experience. While it is true that many converted and were introduced to Ydramil, a great number chose death. The river ran red as the soldiers of Ydramil made their way to the north, following after the great black ships.
First came the sickness.
Then came the riots.
The illness that started with the Temple of Etrilla spread. The symptoms were identical to the Plague Winds, meaning that people first grew feverish and then had to deal with the horrible scarring of their flesh, with nausea and chills and vomiting and in many cases the loss of hair and teeth, before death came along to end their suffering.
Once past the walls of the temple, the illness became a flame that drew the attention of the people. When the dead and dying were hidden away people did their best to ignore it, but as soon as the refugees started dying on the streets, panic set in. In a day’s time the rumors had become truth in the eyes of many and that was enough to start the desperate attempts to escape their fates.
Those who suffered the pains soon found death to be a mercy. Those who watched their loved ones suffer did not take it well. Prayers were not enough, it seemed, no matter how much the faithful asked for assistance.
Those who did not have loved ones suffering from the Plague Winds did not see the efforts that went into stopping the spread of the illness. All they saw were the infected, who might well pass the sickness by breathing on them. “Spreading the wind,” they called it.
The priests did their best. Everyone acknowledged that.
Still, a few felt that the gods were not doing their part and therefore help was needed.
How they got past the locked doors was anyone’s guess. But they did. It was easy enough to find the supplies of oil among the dead and dying.
Fire purifies.
The oil was spilled and then set ablaze before the doors were sealed again in the darkness of a cold, wintry night. Snow was falling even as the temple and the faithful began to burn. The snow was silent. The faithful were not.
The temple was made mostly of stone, great slabs of marble. It survived the fire. The faithful did not.
No doubt a few thought that they had saved the city and acted heroically. It was grim work, to be sure, but better for everyone in the end, yes?
The next day a few people were found suffering from the same symptoms. Most were left alone. Two were burned alive, while witnesses watched. The descriptions given were nothing spectacular. The men who did the burning were captured within an hour, but by that point the damage had been done. Parties started spreading, looking to take care of the Plague Winds before anyone else died. Most of them carried lanterns with enough oil to handle the matter.
A surprising number of them were stopped by the City Guard, who took it upon themselves to do their duties without waiting for anyone to tell them to do so. Still, a few slipped past as was inevitable.
Seventeen people suffering from the illness were taken to the top of the Mid Wall by a mob that had had enough. No one would see them or theirs ruined by the disease.
They were right. The Silent Army ruined them instead. Each and every member of the mob was captured by the stone soldiers who rose from the wall and separated the rioters from their victims.
A man named Wilkham tried to protest the way he was being treated. The stone soldier dealing with him grabbed the protesting survivor from Tyrne by his neck and his crotch and effortlessly flung him over the wall and past the small amount of land beyond it. Wilkham screamed very loudly as he rose into the air and then sank, dropping toward the river far below.
The mob that had planned the exact same fate for the afflicted people they’d dragged to the top of the wall tried to escape, but to the last they followed the fate of Wilkham.
By the time the City Guard arrived the situation had ended. There were plenty of witnesses, however, who were glad to tell them what had happened.
The rioting continued, but it did so well away from the Mid Wall.
The following day, as the sun rose, the Silent Army moved. Half of their force stayed along the wall. The other half moved out through the whole of the city, from all points toward the palace. They did not merely stand as statues. They moved. They patrolled.
That was the day the worst of the riots ceased.
While the riots continued there was, understandably, a bit of chaos and occasional bloodshed.
Merros Dulver moved along the streets, on an urgent mission. He had not seen Dretta March in two days, despite his best efforts. The business of running an army was a massive affair.
Word had come in of the successful assault on the army of the King in Bronze, and he had celebrated with a glass of wine with the Empress and Desh Krohan, but that had been all the time there was for celebration. Despite the very best efforts of Darsken Murdro and Pella, he could not gain access to the mind of Jost. She would not talk, she would not break, and all agreed that actual torture would do absolutely no good. The closest they came to actual physical torture was withholding food and water. The problem was, Merros had seen the Sa’ba Taalor move through the Blasted Lands and eat far less than any of his troops. It was possible that they could have ruined the girl by keeping the water away from her, but they all agreed, ultimately, that she would simply die rather than talk. They did not want her dead. She had secrets that they wanted.
Pella and Tataya were discussing the best ways to pull the information from her without risking anyone’s mind.
Desh understood the necessity, but refused to be any part of it. No one, not even Nachia, could sway him.
“Torture,” he reminded them, “is seldom a useful technique. People will tell you what they think you want to hear. They’ll make up all new stories for you if they think you’ll listen to them and just stop administering pain.”
The way he said it, Merros knew he was speaking from experience. He didn’t ask about the exact situations and Desh did not volunteer any particulars.
The girl under Desh’s care came with him almost everywhere, but she seldom spoke. Merros was the one who’d found her back when she was seeking the wizard. Still, though she was civil, she had little to say to him. She held her stomach like she was going to be ill, but she never was. Instead she simply followed Desh Krohan around, occasionally spoke to what had to be an imaginary friend and from time to time cried a silent tear or two. That was understandable. The hells she must have endured getting away from Trecharch and marching the hundreds of miles to reach Canhoon must have left her broken. Merros doubted very seriously that he would have been in any better shape than Cullen by the end of the situation.
Having won a victory against the Sa’ba Taalor, Merros and his soldiers were now busier than before. The riders he’d employed were not from Canhoon, obviously, but they were skilled and they were aggressive when it came to defending what was theirs. The plains they ran along were populated mostly by nomads and the occasional town. Had it not been for working out details with Desh Krohan about having the sorcerers pass along information, the attack would never have worked.
Now that it had, he wanted to employ it to better advantage. The Sooth was useful in finding the Sa’ba Taalor, but it had taken troops and, frankly, a little bit of chicanery to manage their one major victory to date. They’d known where the Sa’ba Taalor were. They’d been informed of boats that had been stolen. They’d set a trap and it had worked.
Captain Leno Nethalte had run the charge brilliantly. He was also, fortunately, one of the people who escaped the great mounts that came after the remaining Sa’ba Taalor.
The mage working with Nethalte – he could not remember the girl’s name to save his life. It had to be ten syllables long at least – had helped identify Lored, the King in Bronze. They had managed to kill one of the kings. That had to be a morale blow to the Sa’ba Taalor, but he had no idea how good a strike it had been.
He made a note to have Darsken Murdro mention the death to Jost. Maybe that would make her chatty.
Such were the thoughts that were going through Merros’s mind as he walked through the market on the way to Dretta’s home. He planned to surprise her with fresh fruit. The stuff was getting harder to come by every day, but one of the vendors, who got his fruit directly from the palace, had promised to set aside grapes, apples and Pabba for the general. Sometimes rank had its privileges.
As he approached the trader’s table the rioting began again. Merros could not have said what started it, but there was a scream and then a second and as he looked in that direction he saw the fight breaking out in earnest. Three or four men were doing their very best to take down a smaller figure, but it wasn’t going the way they wanted it to.
The first of the attackers stumbled back with a deep gash across his throat that bled like a waterfall until he fell backward and hit the cobblestones. That made more people scream, as one would expect, and the chaos began in earnest. The smaller figure brought an elbow around and drove it into the face of her assailant. Her assailant. That piqued Merros’s already high curiosity and he moved toward the fight. The man who’d been elbowed staggered back with shattered teeth falling from his mouth.
The woman used the broken-faced man’s torso as a springboard, planting both of her feet on his ribcage – cracking his sternum in the process – and then used her momentum to knee another man in the back of his head and neck. Something broke and he dropped to the ground.
The movement was enough to let Merros see past the hood that fell down, to let him see Dretta’s face as she killed her third assailant. He stared, dumbstruck, and watched the effortless way she drove her fingertips into the throat of her fourth assailant and left him choking on his blood. A move Merros had only ever seen once before.
When Swech killed one of the men who tried to rape her the first time she entered a city in Fellein.
A man tried to run from her. He held a satchel in his hand, and he was moving at high speed. Dretta pulled a knife from the-gods-alone knew where, and drove it into the back of his neck and he, too, fell to the ground. She pulled the knife from the man’s head even as she grabbed her collected groceries and shoved them back into her satchel.
As with so many of the Sa’ba Taalor, she seemed to look everywhere at once. Still, it took her a second to recognize him. The blade was still in her hand. It was not the sort of thing one found in Canhoon. It was a flat leaf of metal that had been painstakingly sharpened and was designed to be thrown.
It was the sort of blade Swech had used to cut his face, to kill Wollis March. But that was impossible, of course. Swech had gray skin and scars everywhere on her body. He knew that from firsthand experience.
He meant to say “Dretta”. He did. But when he opened his mouth, “Swech?”
Her eyes looked so broken just then. Her face was a mask of sorrow, even as the blade left her hand and sailed for him.
She was far enough away for instinct to have time to take over. His arm came up to ward off the blow even as he dropped down. The blade took him in his hand and drove through his palm, the tip emerging on the other side.
The Sa’ba Taalor seemed capable of ignoring pain. They managed to fight when they should have long since collapsed.
Merros envied them that. He felt his gorge rise and fought not to puke on himself as the wave of pain screamed through his arm.
The street was cold and hard and he fell on it, holding his damaged hand in the air.
He looked up just as Dretta, his Dretta, came at him, a thin blade that was absolutely foreign to him clutched in her grip. The grip of the weapon was held in her closed fingers, but instead of the blade coming from one end or the other of her hand, it ran from the outside of her grip in both directions. A metal blade sharpened and ready pushed along her arm, past her elbow in one direction and a solid six inches in front of her as well.
“Curse you for being so damned smart, Merros.” The words were not spoken in the common tongue of Fellein. They were Sa’ba Taalor.
Merros looked at her and his heart shattered. “Swech. Damn it, no.” He could barely breathe.
Her fist struck his face and drew away in a flash, and the double blade along her other hand pistoned back and came for him.
Dretta March’s body was grabbed and hurled backward with astonishing force. She tried to catch herself, tried to twist her body, but the attack was too fast and too brutal. She hit the wall closest to them and fell, grunting. She came back up just as quickly and drove the blade of her weapon into the face of her attacker.
The blade was sharp and strong and scraped along the stone face of the Silent Soldier causing exactly no damage. She brought the longer end around to attack him on the backstroke of her swing and had the same effect.
And while she did that, the stone short sword of the stone man facing her cut through her stomach and deep into her chest, cleaving Swech’s heart in half.
Dretta March fell to the ground. She was dead before she landed.
Desh Krohan tended to the wound in Merros’s hand. “Stand still. You’ll only make this worse.”
Nachia paced around the room, doing her best to stay calm. Her best was not very good.
“What were you doing out on the streets alone?”
“I’m the general of all the Empire’s forces. How would I ever get the respect of the troops if I couldn’t walk home alone? Ow! Gods, Desh!”
The first Advisor tsked like a grandmother. “I told you not to move. You’re very lucky the blade didn’t sever a bone. It nicked one, which is probably the only reason it didn’t go through your hand and into your head.”
Desh looked at the wound and winced. He was being kind; the nick he spoke of was a cut though bone. Dretta March or Swech, whoever she’d been, had a deadly aim and threw knives with force enough to kill. His hand was the only reason he was alive. According to Merros the woman had aimed for his eyes.
“Where is her body?”
“Where you don’t need to look at it. She’s currently being examined by the Inquisitors.”
Merros nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“You’re either going to get guards or you stay at your offices here in the palace.” Nachia was not making a suggestion.
Merros nodded. “I’ll stay here. There’s no reason for me to leave.”
Snow was falling in a fury. By the time the City Guard had brought the March woman’s body to the palace she’d been frozen half solid and covered in a blanket of snow.
She’d been taken immediately to Darsken Murdro.
Merros had been brought to the private quarters hidden to the side of the throne room, and that was where he was still sitting, scowling and wincing and occasionally making faces like he would cry if he could get five minutes alone.
“You’ve torn the bloody bandages again. Oh, to dust with this.” Desh moved his hand and muttered a word and Merros let out a squeal of surprise. Nachia saw the small burst of light that moved from sorcerer to soldier. She saw the wound close itself completely.
She stared, and had to force her jaw shut.
“I don’t do that often. Don’t expect it.” Desh actually sounded different. His words were a little slurred. Not many would have noticed, but after a lifetime with the man teaching her, she knew the First Advisor well enough. “Move your fingers, make a fist, do it often for the next few hours or the scar tissue will steal mobility from you.”
“What did you do, Desh?” Merros looked at his hand as if it might be an alien life form and one that was possibly trying to kill him.
“I mended your wound. Don’t expect it a second time. It’s exhausting.”
“I had no idea you could manage such a feat.”
“Like I said. I don’t do it often.”
Merros muttered to himself, “I don’t know if I should thank you or strike you.”
Desh had a smirk on his lean face when he responded. “Go with the thanks. Striking a sorcerer is never wise. We have defenses.”
“Yes, well, then I suppose thank you is in order.” Merros was staring at his hand, moving his fingers, making fists, and frowning.
“As I said, keep working your hand or risk stiff fingers and a wrist that won’t turn easily. Not the best issues for a swordsman.”
Nachia nodded. She’d known that Desh could do that. She’d studied with him for a while; even if she seldom practiced even the simplest spells, she understood the concept.
“What made you suspect, Merros?”
“I’ve been a fighter my entire life, Nachia. I’ve trained and worked and even when I left the army I did some work as a mercenary. The only people I’ve ever seen fight that way were Sa’ba Taalor. They don’t swing their fists. They don’t… move the same way. She moved her feet along a man’s chest and broke him. It barely looked like she was touching him, but his ribs may as well have been crushed by a Pra-Moresh.”
He looked down at his hand again. “And the moves she made? Not every Sa’ba Taalor can do them. Swech told me she followed a god who believes in unarmed combat. I can’t say for sure if she was Swech. But when I said that name, she tried to kill me.”
“If there’s a way to know for certain, we’ll find it.”
“I’m going to have to examine her place. I need to know whether or not she had secrets in there. Gods! How could I be so damned stupid.”
Nachia shook her head. “None of that. She looked nothing like Swech. She had letters from Wollis March. She gave no sign that she was anyone else.”
Merros nodded, but his face didn’t say that he agreed. He was already wondering how best to approach her home and examine it.
“We can send the Inquisitors if you prefer. They are very, very good at finding secrets.”
The look that crossed his face was almost pain. “Yes. That would be for the best, I suppose.”
Nachia moved closer to her general. “I am so very sorry, Merros.” She could hardly be accused of being touchy, but she reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind and rested her chin on the top of his head. Merros closed his eyes and took the comfort offered.
Desh waited a few moments before speaking again. “Should we discuss why it is that the Silent Army is now policing the Mid Wall for us?”
Nachia nodded against Merros’s hair and sighed. It was likely to be a long conversation.
There was nothing.
Pella stood by him throughout the process of him meticulously searching the body of the dead Dretta March. First Darsken examined her clothes and removed each item, carefully setting aside each of her numerous weapons. He scrutinized them, too, and noted that several of the items had poisoned reservoirs. There were also three metal vials that contained powders or fluids. Those were set aside as well, the better to let one of the sorcerers who dealt with potions examine them.
The body was female. There were no indications that she wore anything to hide who she was. If she were, in fact, a member of the Sa’ba Taalor, they had changed her appearance completely. Just to make absolutely certain, he peeled the flesh from one of her arms, examining the layers of skin carefully.
Pella tried examining the body with her sorcerous skills and came to the same conclusion. This was a human body. Nothing more. Nothing less. The cause of death was violent trauma and a sword through her chest.
There was one peculiarity.
While necromancy was forbidden in Fellein, Inquisitors were allowed to make exceptions and Darsken chose to use that loophole. The flesh was marked, the blood was employed and the air in the dead woman’s lungs was taken into his own in an effort to draw in any last remnants of her spirit that might linger.
There was nothing.
Darsken frowned and tried stronger magics, the sort that he used only when seeking to draw the spirit back to the body. It was a sorcery he did not like to use, but he had to know.
There was still nothing. Whatever had been inside the woman had been destroyed beyond his ability to find even a trace of her essence.
“Have you ever run across a situation like that before, Darsken?” Pella, who had been watching everything and writing notes for him could not quite grasp how that was possible. She was not alone.
“Never in my life. Not once.” He frowned and ran his fingers over the designs on his staff. “I have examined bones that were hundreds of years old and there was still something. The flesh you gave me from the dead soldiers who attacked, even that had some essence. It was how I identified the bodies. If I had not been told the name of this woman, there would be no way for me to know it.”
The body remained a mystery. It did not move; it did not reveal any secrets at all. On a few occasions a body might try to leave after necromancy had been employed and for that reason Darsken always placed a few markings on the corpses to be safe. He did so again, before he and Pella sought out the Empress. He needn’t have bothered. The body did not rise nor did it attempt to.
The body of Dretta March – born in flames when Swech needed a new form – remained unchanged save for the start of atrophy.
The Arkannen Mountain Range was close enough to see, but more than that, it was close enough to feel. The air moved between the mountains and swept across Canhoon. Anything left unanchored in the streets was taken by the breeze and carried over the side of the floating city and discarded down below.
The Sa’ba Taalor watched the objects falling from above with a wary eye. It wasn’t that long ago that a dozen or more screaming people plummeted from above and crashed into the ground with violent force. Even those that hit the river failed to survive the fall. It was simply too high.
The weather was going bad, at least for the people of Canhoon. The clouds were coming hard and hiding away even the hint of the mountains. No one was quite certain how far they were from the risk of collision. No one was happy about that fact, either.
The city continued on, moving at the same pace as ever and freezing as the cold winds howled along the alleyways and between the buildings.
The City Guard moved in squads now, backed by the Imperial Army stuck in Canhoon. There were no days of rest any longer and no times when they did not move in force, alongside the Silent Army, who moved of their own accord and spoke to no one and nothing.
Those who wanted to riot did not. They were either too afraid, or too sick.
The cause of the illness had finally been found, thanks to the poisons found on Dretta March’s body. Not all of the supplies for food in the city had been tainted, but most of them had. The levels were not enough to kill, but they were certainly enough to cripple.
The food provided for the Imperial Court came from Desh Krohan himself, who did not say where it came from but managed to supply enough to keep the palace running.
Along the far southern coasts the reports kept coming in of the black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor. They were brutal and efficient, but they were not immortal. The Brellar gave as good as they got, and sank several of the larger vessels using the speed and agility of their smaller ships and boats.
They took advantage of the tactics of the Fellein, and started using arrows lit with pitch to add to the damage to the black ships. They did not have to hit the enemy. They only had to burn their ships out from under them.
It was not a victory so much as it was a standstill. The Sa’ba Taalor were not taking new ground, but they were still overtaking the Brellar a few boats at a time. Every battle won came at a heavy price and the Sa’ba Taalor had a few tricks of their own. When the Brellar came close enough to fire arrows, their enemy returned the favor, and if the Brellar came too close, the arrows were replaced with grappling hooks that tied the smaller boats down while the Sa’ba Taalor boarded. The Sa’ba Taalor were as ruthless as the Brellar.
As bad as that situation was, the black ships running up the Parmahar River toward Goltha were worse. They seemed determined to kill every person they met, without exception.
Looks were deceptive. Many of the people they encountered chose to offer themselves to a new god. Those who were willing to learn the ways of Wheklam were spared and offered new chances they would have never seen otherwise.
To the west the remains of Lored’s army paused and licked their wounds. Guards were set and the remaining Sa’ba Taalor in the area took stock of their situation.
It was Blane and Praxus who built the raging fire and called for enemies of the Sa’ba Taalor. The mounts provided, having left several of their enemies alive.
Once the fire raged high enough to melt metal and the coals were a brilliant yellowish white, the bodies of the living enemies were offered to Ordna. They screamed, they burned, and in their dying they made themselves useful to the Bronze God.
There was no need for questions. Everyone already knew what was needed. The King in Bronze was dead and his replacement had to be chosen. Someone needed to lead the army of Ordna. The faithful would follow whomsoever was chosen, of course, but that decision had to be made by the god they all worshipped.
There was a glorious moment when the sparks and flames rose three times higher and flared until the nighttime sky looked almost as bright as daylight. The flames twisted around themselves and the embers and sparks from the great pyre roared and seethed until the visage of great Ordna was there for all to see. They did not prostrate themselves before their god but instead cheered and roared his name.
Great Ordna looked upon his followers and nodded. A moment later Pre’ru, the mount of Lored, let out a great roar and was transformed.
After a lifetime of service Pre’ru had been granted a second life as a mount. More time to serve and slay in the name of the gods.
Now, a third life was provided. No one asked why the mount was given the opportunity. The answer was simple: Ordna wanted it. Ordna was their god and spoke to them all with the gesture. What most already knew was that Pre’ru had often offered wisdom to Lored. That did not mean that Lored was weak or unprepared, only that Pre’ru had remained useful long past the time when most would have been dead.
Pre’ru stood and stretched her body. She was revitalized, reborn and made young again.
Under most occasions a Sa’ba Taalor crafted their own weapons and armor. That was still true, but the armor of the new king had been discarded when he moved on to a new life. Now Ordna found and replaced what had been lost, merely to expedite their journey.
Pre’ru had been born a male the first time and had served as a mount with male genitalia. Now Pre’ru was female. The king did not question this. Pre’ru was on a third life and was truly blessed by Ordna. Whatever the god’s reasons they were sufficient in the king’s mind.
“Gather yourselves,” Pre’ru roared, even as she dressed in her clothes and gathered her weapons. “We have enemies to find, to kill, and to offer to Ordna!”
The king’s followers roared their approval and one by one knelt to offer their fealty. The gesture was not necessary. No one ever defied the gods and those few who did were punished as befitted an unbeliever.
Still, King Pre’ru, Chosen of the Forge of Ordna and King in Bronze, accepted the gesture. It gave her time to plan her methods of approach. They had a long way to go and very little time to spare.
“We walk and we ride! There will be no rivers for our enemies to use against us. Keep your shields ready! Prepare your bows and spears! We shall build our war machines when we have reached our destination. Until then we are the machines of Ordna! Let our enemies tremble!”
Within the hour they were in motion, a great tide of soldiers led by a king freshly chosen by a god who had granted all of them the chance to see a godly vision.
They were renewed and they were ready.
The storm raged on. In Canhoon it was nearly a blizzard, but lower down, closer to the ground, the frozen water melted and spilled across the grounds as a heavy rain.
The storm was not really planned, but it was a blessing to the sorcerers in the City of Wonders. They had waited for a chance to strike against the Sa’ba Taalor and the storm allowed for cover and also made the task easier. Bending nature takes more energy than merely using what nature provides. There were surprisingly few villages in the area closer to the Arkannen Mountains. The weather was often vicious and the people on the other side of the breach in the mountains sometimes forgot that the mountain range did not actually lead to another nation. There were raids constantly, and after a time only the truly desperate remained.
Those few were killed by the Sa’ba Taalor as they ran through the mountains. Tusk and Tarag Paedori alike killed or converted, and their followers did the same. Then they rode on through the breach, moving as quickly as they could to position themselves at their final destination.
The Sooth had told the sorcerers when best to strike. Unfortunately, as sometimes happened, the Sooth lied. The great rain of lightning that cut the ground beneath the City of Wonders, that boiled the river and shattered stone, did not harm the great armies of the Sa’ba Taalor, which had already passed the area days before.
Still, if the armies had been there, it would have been an incredible victory for the Fellein.
Cullen sat on her bed and read the books she had been offered by the wizard. They were tales of the sorcerers of old and they included tales of the woman who had become part of the Mother-Vine and now, apparently, was sitting inside of her.
She used to know the woman’s name but it no longer seemed important.
“Her name is Moale Deneshi.” Deltrea spoke with an edge of irritation.
“Why are you upset, Deltrea?”
Her dead friend moved closer, casting no shadow and still seeming more alive than Cullen felt currently. “Because you are reading books when you should be talking to me.”
Cullen placed her finger in the book to mark the passage she was reading and then set it in her lap. “What are we going to discuss that we have not spoken of a thousand times before? I’ve heard all I ever needed to about your love life. I’ve relived every damned moment of the burning of Trecharch every time I close my eyes.”
She sighed.
“What else is there for us to speak of, Deltrea?”
“The time when what’s in you wants out.”
“What would you know of that? What could you know about that?”
“I don’t think it will be a good thing is all.” Deltrea sat on the bed with her. There was no sense of weight at all, but the covers shifted a touch. Ghosts were peculiar things, indeed.
“Well, what should I do about it? I can’t very well shit it out. I’ve tried.”
“Get the sorcerer to help you. That’s what. If he can get it removed from you, I think you’ll be a great deal happier is all.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard, Cullen! If it stays in you, it might well kill you!”
“I don’t think it can.” Cullen frowned as she said it. Honestly, she had no notion at all what the thing was capable of. She only knew it wasn’t comfortable to carry all the time. To make that point even clearer, it shifted inside her and her guts moved to accommodate it.
“It can. I can feel it.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll ask Desh Krohan about it.” Another twist of whatever was inside of her and she bit off a groan.
“He’s been rather busy lately.” Deltrea’s voice cut through the discomfort.
“Yes, Deltrea, he has. He said we can go where we please and a lot of that time I’ve spent with him so he can get what he needs to out of the thing inside of me, but that doesn’t mean he’s got time to spend on me. There’s a war going on, and there’s disease and famine and cold weather and a mountain range coming at us and I think he’s got good reasons for being busy!” She was only aware that she’d been yelling when she came to the end of her rant, winded and red faced.
Deltrea clapped her hands, but they made no sound when they hit each other. “Look at that. You do have feelings left in you. I was beginning to doubt.”
“Why are you here again?”
“No idea, Cullen.” Deltrea crossed her legs and then rested one elbow on her thigh, and her head on her palm. “I expect it has something to do with you.”
Cullen did not respond, but instead stood from the bed and walked toward the door. Her guards were outside and nodded when she stepped out. The company of anyone living sounded better than another moment alone with Deltrea. Mostly because she suspected Deltrea was right on all fronts.
Something was happening inside her and she didn’t much like her chances of survival. The ghost of her associate was haunting her for a reason. The sorcerer was watching over her but seemed to be holding back a few secrets.
Cullen liked her situation less all the time. There was nothing to be done about that. But she’d have to see what she could do to possibly change that.
The snow came down heavily, obscuring everything. Even if the snow had not been a problem the clouds would have managed just fine.
Inches fell in the daylight and more as the night took over. Those stuck out in the cold huddled together and cursed their luck. Those inside thanked the gods or cursed their luck just the same.
The City Guard did their best, moving and keeping properly covered up, stopping where they could to drink something warm. The Imperials were in the same situation and did the same thing.
The Silent Army stopped moving. After a day of constantly patrolling, never resting, they simply stopped all at once, and let the snow and ice accumulate on them as if they had never been more than statues in the gardens of the city.
In most of Canhoon the night and the storm forced an unsettling sort of silence.
Not everywhere, of course. No city of any size ever truly sleeps. At best there is a quiet time, but never true rest.
The cogs continued to move in their silent machinery. The people who had to be alert were.
Deep in the depths of the palace Darsken Murdro looked at Jost and shook his head. She was never going to speak and, despite his best efforts, her mind was locked to him. To that end she remained chained to her wooden table, though he knew the places where she had been resting her flesh against the wood for days on end must surely be an agony by now, the flesh raw from constant contact, made worse with every move she made.
“If you would only speak I could give you a better place to be than this.” He spoke apologetically and he meant it. Torture was not something he enjoyed. He became an Inquisitor because the truth was a powerful thing and mysteries were meant to be solved.
The girl did not acknowledge him.
Three minutes later she was alone again in the locked room.
Two minutes after that, Glo’Hosht entered her cell and moved to her table. The bindings on her were simple enough: a matter of unfastening a few hooks that were impossible for even the most nimble fingers on a restrained hand to reach.
Jost did not smile when she saw her king. Instead she closed her eyes for a moment and then sighed with relief.
His hands were quick. The fastenings holding her wrists were removed in moments.
Her ankles and thighs were released shortly after that.
The King in Mercury stepped back and kept an eye on the door as Jost tried to stand and fell to the ground. No words were spoken and none were needed. She would rise on her own and she would live, or she would stay on the ground and be left to her own devices.
Life is pain. Life is struggle. If she could not manage to walk she could not be saved. It was exactly that simple. That the Daxar Taalor would send Glo’Hosht to save her was a sign of their love and devotion to her, but if she could not stand, could not walk and could not fight, she was too weak to be a member of the Sa’ba Taalor and would be remembered for what she had accomplished even as she was left to die.
Jost stood, though it took a few minutes. As she had been strapped in place for days on end, she took the time to wash herself of the waste she had been made to lie in. The stench of her alone would alert anyone passing by otherwise.
They had taken her clothes and her weapons for whatever reasons they saw fit. She did not care. Clothes and weapons could be replaced.
While Glo’Hosht waited, Jost stretched and moved her body until blood flowed once again in muscles that had been immobile save for when she could find the time to flex them. She was a follower of Paedle and staying motionless for hours or days was not unheard of; had she not been so, she would likely have been incapable of moving at all.
There were no clothes to distract her and so, when she felt she was ready, Glo’Hosht opened the door and moved out of her way.
No words were spoken nor were any needed. Glo’Hosht moved and Jost followed. She saw her king flit from shadow to shadow, barely capable of clearly seeing where he was, though she tracked him with her eyes. She did her best to follow his lead, grateful for the long corridors and the darkness of the night. There were a few torches, places where oil burned in small braziers, but mostly there was the night and the concealment it offered.
Still, there are always exceptions. Two guards moved right past the King in Mercury and stopped only when they saw her standing against the wall.
Her muscles screamed in silent agony as she stepped forward and drove her palm into the first guard’s throat. He gagged but could not speak as he fell to the ground, red faced and bug eyed.
Her hands came together and met on the second one’s jaw, shattering bone. He was still capable of screaming, so she broke his neck even as he inhaled.
His clothes meant nothing to her, but she took a cloak, a short sword and boots. It was cold outside. She had heard her guards complaining earlier.
The boots did not fit and were too hard for her use. The second cloak was hastily torn in two and wrapped around her feet and then they moved on again.
Muscles that had not moved for far too long continued to protest, but as blood flow returned to them she felt the relief. The areas where she had been restrained were still sore. The flesh felt bruised and thin. She did not take the time to worry about it. She would heal or she would not as the gods saw fit.
Glo’Hosht touched a wall and part of it moved. He gestured her through and they went on their way. Swech had spoken of hidden places within the palace. She must have shown them to the king. That was a fine thing.
It seemed hours, but Jost knew it was less. When the king opened the last of several hidden doors the frigid air slammed into Jost like a gust from the Blasted Lands, cold and fierce with small debris slapping against her flesh.
It did not matter.
They were free of the palace. Glo’Hosht moved along side her and whispered into her ear. “Do not go to Swech’s home. She was discovered and she is dead. Go to where Freth waits. Be careful. We need him where he is for now.”
The order given, Glo’Hosht moved on, disappearing into the storm.
Jost allowed herself one moment to mourn her friend and then moved on. There would be time for mourning when her enemies lay dead.
Brolley and Lanaie spent a great deal of time together, it was true, but they always did so in the company of guards, per his sister’s orders. Lanaie was not the issue. Though she was a guest in the palace she was not watched as closely as he was. She was not the little brother to the Empress. It was that simple. Still, when Lanaie went anywhere, he escorted her and thus ensured she would have protection.
The princess held his hand, both securely wrapped in their heavy cloaks. Despite the fabric Lanaie’s hand was as cold as ice. That was to be expected: her land was always warm and this cold was months away from where it should have been. The winter was done and the summer was coming yet here they were walking through a deep field of snow.
“You could stay at the palace, you know,” Brolley reminded her. “You are a guest of the Empress.”
“Yes, and I have several times and I will again, but not today. Unlike in Tyrne, my father had properties and I want to make sure they are properly looked after.”
“You’re just tired of me,” his voice was teasing.
“That could never happen, Brolley. Not even if this winter lasted a thousand years.” She looked at him with her deep brown eyes and his body reacted as it did each time he saw her. She was a beautiful woman, and despite all that she had seen she remained an innocent. He would give anything to make sure that her heart was never broken again. He’d even gone so far as to make sacrifices to Plith and Woegaia. He wasn’t really sure which was a goddess of love, so he paid his tithings to both, just to be safe. Plith was a beautiful woman. He thought she was a goddess of fertility. Woegaia was half male and half female, with large breasts and an equally large penis. He thought the god was meant to represent the marriage of body and spirit. He still wasn’t sure. In any event, the churches got their offerings and he kept praying for everything to turn out the right way.
“What are you thinking, my love?”
“That I look forward to us being together one day. Man and wife.”
“I want that too, but now is not the time to bother your sister.”
It was a simple enough equation: Brolley and Lanaie could adore each other as much as they pleased, but until Nachia gave her blessings nothing could become official. Lanaie was right, of course. It was hardly the time to bother Nachia with his desire to marry a queen who had no nation, but it was most decidedly his desire to do so.
They had discussed the matter at length. At the very least they would wait until the city settled itself somewhere. Much as he would have dearly loved to consummate their relationship, Lanaie was not inclined to part with her chastity.
They had managed a few moments of passion when the guards were not around, but only a few. She had never offered herself, but she used her hands and her clothed form to offer him release on several occasions. It was enough for now. It had to be. He would not betray her trust, though he was tempted to find a good brothel.
Some things are worth waiting for.
Too soon they were at her door and she reached out with her cold hand and touched his face, memorizing his features until she could see him again. Her face, so perfect, her eyes so wide and innocent. He leaned in and kissed her once, briefly, knowing it was against the rules. Just the same she kissed back.
Then she was slipping into her house and he waited until he heard the doors locked and secured.
The night was an endless raging snowstorm, but he did not feel the chill at all.
They would be married. It was only a matter of time.
The guards were wise enough to say nothing now and he knew they would say nothing later. Money can buy discretion. He’d learned that much from his family, if nothing else.
Inside the warmth of her home, Lanaie removed her cloak and left on the minimal clothes she could tolerate and moved into the main hall where a fire roared and the temperature was enough to make her sweat.
The fire was not normally so high, but metal cannot be forged without heat.
Weapons cannot be shaped without heat.
King Glo’Hosht looked to her and nodded his head. She made the proper bow before her king and looked around at the others gathered with her. This was the first time that all of Paedle’s followers had been in one room at the same time. It was a risk, but one the king found necessary.
“We are here to rejoice.” Glo’Hosht’s voice remained soft as it virtually always did. “We are here to welcome back our lost warrior.”
Lanaie’s eyes immediately moved to Jost, who crouched by the roaring blaze and pulled hot metal from it. The metal should have burned her, crippled her, and possibly killed her. Paedle protected the faithful as always and it was good.
Already the girl had been working on replacing her blades. She worked deftly now, her hands moving at a stunning pace, shaping the raw metal into three more blades before she tapped them against the hearthstones and used a small hammer to finish the shaping.
They would need to be sharpened, of course, but there were supplies for that very purpose.
“There is more to do this night. The mountains are approaching and we must prepare.”
Lanaie nodded and spoke in the tongue of the gods. “All that was lost shall be restored, and the Great Tide will sweep the world.”
“Why, exactly, are our people at war?”
Tega looked to Drask as she asked the question, and so he answered her.
“The gods demand it.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s not enough. Why do the gods demand it? What purpose does the war serve them?”
Nolan March gave no indication that he cared, but Drask was not fooled. The younger man was listening at least. He could sense it. How much he understood was a different situation. Nolan had been dead when they took their fall. That he was moving at all was an indication of the power they’d all absorbed. Drask frowned. He thought Nolan had been dead. His memories were slipping away. Not all of them, just some of the recent ones. He would examine that notion soon. For now there were questions to answer.
“You must understand that the gods all tell their tales, and each tale is as different as if seen by different people.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I saw when we fell into the light was not what you saw. Not what Nolan saw. I watched you climb the rope into the depths of the Mounds. You did not watch me. Each of us has our own memories and our own way of seeing. It is like that for the gods.
“I have spoken often with the Daxar Taalor. Each has given different reasons for the way we have been raised by them and for why they fight wars the way they do.” He shrugged and looked up at the city, not so very distant any more. The area they rode through was burnt and blackened and stank of dead fish. The river here was littered with dead things. Mostly from the great strikes of lightning they had seen before.
Tega had explained that it was sorcery. That was enough for Drask.
“The stories all have some balances. Some things that we can guess are as true as they can be. The Daxar Taalor tell us that they were born in the Cataclysm. They were born from the bodies of the gods of Korwa.
“When Korwa lived it was the greatest city ever known, and the greatest kingdom the world had seen. The people there had peace. Their influence spread across all of the land, but in the end that is what ruined them. They grew comfortable. They did not fight as they once had because they did not feel they needed to fight any longer. There were papers that promised peace. There were marriages that guaranteed the same. It was a time when even the weather was a slave to the rulers of Korwa.
“Until the time when others grew jealous. The Wellish had their masters. They wanted Korwa for themselves. There were several tribes of younger people who wanted Korwa and all she offered.
“It is said by all the gods that the Emperor of Korwa died, and his sister took over as the ruler of the land. And when she did, the younger kingdoms and the Wellish Overlords all demanded the same thing: that she choose a husband from among them to rule by her side and end the burning desires that had started so many difficulties in the distance.
“Even the gods do not know exactly what she said. All they know is that before a year had passed the wars had started in earnest. The smaller countries fought among themselves and soon joined forces under one king. The Wellish chose their greatest champion and with his armies leading the way they sought to take Korwa.
“The old kingdoms, the new kingdoms, none of them mattered in comparison but they all wanted the same.”
Drask looked from one to the other of his companions. “They wanted the Empress. She refused. She would not be forced to serve as a puppet ruler. Her people had sworn fealty and she would not bow before others. Who could blame her? She did what she thought best. She called the armies of Korwa together to defend her.”
Drask sighed. “The stories grow different here. Each of the Daxar Taalor remembers the Cataclysm differently. Some say it was the gods that ended the war. Others say that sorcerers grew too strong and killed the city and the gods with them. Still others say that the Empress of Korwa chose to kill her people and herself before accepting defeat. It doesn’t matter. It is enough to know that Korwa burned and so did all of the armies that had gathered around the greatest city that ever was.
“In the end there were a few survivors and they were raised up, they were healed, so long as they promised one thing. They had to promise to serve the Daxar Taalor, who were all that remained of the old gods of Korwa. They were not the gods of the past. They were new gods, formed when the Cataclysm shattered the skies and the seas and the very land. You must understand this: everything was ruined. Everything was destroyed. All that was left of great Korwa was the Blasted Lands.”
Drask shrugged.
“The rest you know. We were raised from the wounded and the dying. We were told to survive and to grow strong. Each of the gods opened their hearts to us and trained us in how to be stronger.
“Each of the gods remembered the arts of war differently and together they vowed that they would train the Sa’ba Taalor to always remember the ways of war. They made us to be stronger than Korwa, stronger than our enemies as well.
“Once, a long time ago, hundreds of years ago, the Wellish Overlords tried to claim Fellein as their own. It was the Sa’ba Taalor who struck them down. We did not claim that victory, but we crushed great portions of their armies even as they marched on Canhoon.
“Your sorcerers did the rest.
“Do you know why we let that happen?”
Tega and Andover both shook their heads.
“Because Fellein had to grow strong, and then had to grow as large as any empire that had ever been. They had to rise and spread across the whole of the land.
“They had to mirror Korwa’s might before the Daxar Taalor shattered the Empire of Fellein. They had to learn a lesson.
“Your Empire is soft. Your Empire is weak. You have seen this for yourself. The Sa’ba Taalor walk across the land and crush all who come before them, just as your ancestors once stormed across Korwa and sought to destroy her.
“This time is different. The Sa’ba Taalor have been given their orders by the gods themselves. They have been forged in the hearts of the Daxar Taalor. You, Andover Lashk, have been remade in their image in a very short time.”
Andover shook his head. “No. It has taken longer than you think.”
“It has taken most of a lifetime, but that time has been made shorter that you might serve your purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“You already know that. You are to serve as the champion of the Sa’ba Taalor, should Fellein demand singular combat.”
“Why me?” Andover shook his head. In the past when he had asked that sort of question it was because he wanted to know why he had suffered. Now he asked because he could not understand why he was chosen for so great an honor.
“On this the gods agree again. It was one of the people of Korwa who offered the greatest betrayal to the Empress. It was a person she believed would be faithful simply because he was one of her own.”
Drask stared into Andover’s eyes. Andover looked back. “It was a humble servant who brought the ruination of Korwa. How, I do not know. You, Andover Iron Hands, are that servant now. That is what the Daxar Taalor ask. That is what you have agreed to.”
“But I thought the gods chose Merros Dulver. Isn’t that why you looked for him?”
Drask held his gaze. “I do not know why the gods sought Merros Dulver. I only know that they are not yet done with him.”