There were many wonders N’Heelis had seen in the course of his life. He had walked the Boratha-Lo’ar more times than any living being, his body painted by the colors of the crystalline bridge. He had stood in the very heart of Wrommish and been bathed in the furnace of liquid gold. He had taught a dozen kings how to fight without weapons and killed some of those very same kings in combat.
Now this. Standing at the very top of the mountain on the southern side of the river he watched on as the vast underside of enchanted Canhoon moved toward him with deceptive speed and he admired the network of stone and root as it defied all laws of nature and came closer to him, fully aware that if it suddenly stopped its flight he would be dead in an instant. That was part of the thrill.
Stastha, Tuskandru’s right hand, waited calmly, her longbow notched and ready. She was not alone.
There were hundreds of archers along the ramparts built by Stastha and her group. They were secure, but they were hardly works of art. Wood, stone, whatever could be used was employed, and the followers of Ordna among them made certain the platforms and walkways were sound. Some of the structures were little more than added support on stone outcroppings. Others were feats of construction that would have been impossible for N’Heelis himself.
He readied his own bow and nodded to himself.
Stastha said, “We are ready when you are, King N’Heelis.”
“Now. Make the arrows count.”
She repeated the order and several others followed her lead. Under many circumstances there would have been horns to call the order, but not now. This was a mission of silence. He’d have preferred it be left to Glo’Hosht, but that was not possible. The King in Mercury was already above them in Canhoon.
Instead of worrying about such things, N’Heelis drew his bow, took a long, deep breath, and then released as he exhaled. The silk streamer at the end of the arrow unwound, dancing frantically as the arrow sought the right spot.
It was not skill. It was luck. N’Heelis knew the difference. The arrow sank deep into a thick root, the barbs finding purchase. Other archers fired as well and for each arrow that stuck a dozen or more bounced back.
N’Heelis moved, grabbing the silk, pulling to test it and then trusting to the gods to see him to his destination.
The followers of Wrommish trained first and foremost in unarmed combat. That did not mean they could not carry weapons, merely that they either chose not to, or that they chose carefully.
He was finished with the bow. It stayed behind as he scaled his way to the moving city above. Several others joined him. More than a few of them fell as the arrows that held them came loose from the soil and roots. Most screamed as they fell. That was impossible to prevent. Some actually fell along the cliffside. He imagined a few might even survive the falls, but all of his attention was on the task ahead of him.
There were secrets that had been learned by Glo’Hosht and others. They had looked carefully at the city’s maps and studied the paths of the rivers that had once watered the whole of Canhoon. What they found was nothing short of a miracle, for which N’Heelis thanked the gods.
The sewers under the city were still there. They were doubtless slicked with water, sewage and ice, but there were tunnels, and those tunnels were the very best possible chance for them to gain entry to Canhoon.
Many might well not achieve their goal. They had no way of knowing where the tunnels went, or if they would hold the secret to breaching the city. They only knew the openings in the base of the city were there and that this was their best chance to gain access to the deep underbelly of Canhoon. N’Heelis had done what he could to ensure success. None wore heavy leather cloaks. There was little armor. Instead there was leather clothing and good, short weapons. More than a few of his followers made claws for their close combat, weapons that would hook an opponent’s weapons and tangle them, leaving the bearers unarmed for a moment or more. Those same metal tines were well suited for finding purchase in the underside of the vast city. Some used fingers, some used claws; all counted on their years of climbing different mountains to help them through a truly terrifying climb.
Fingers grasped at stone, at mud, at clusters of broken root and frozen rock. The Sa’ba Taalor began their climb, aiming for the dark tunnels carved through the very ground, that led to the depths of the city above them. The trick was not to fall in the process.
N’Heelis caught the vine his arrow was now stuck in and worried his fingers into the edges of the thick wood.
He looked down once and quickly looked back. The ground was so very far distant. He held even tighter when the shrill scream came: as they had feared might happen, the mountain and the city were on the same path. The only saving grace was that the edge of the mountain was just that, an edge. It would break if they were lucky. If they were not, the base of the city would break and everything they were attempting would end in death. Clouds had hidden the base of the city for days, leaving everyone on the mountain guessing if they would be capable of actually scaling to the city above.
As he had all his life, N’Heelis trusted in the gods. Just the same he clung hard to the heavy root and braced himself for impact.
Inches. Mere inches of stone collided. He heard the grinding roar of stone on stone but barely even felt the impact.
The Daxar Taalor were kind.
N’Heelis moved carefully, crawling with his entire body, hanging suspended in the heavy cloud cover and the bitterly cold mists. There was no time to think of others or their celebrations. There was only the one goal for now.
He found the edge of the tunnel and started in, not worried about what might be in there beyond ice and frozen waste.
The Empress and her closest advisors cheered their luck and drank a sweet wine that was, traditionally, saved only for victories. As far as Nachia was concerned surviving what might have ended her city and her life qualified.
“That was the hope, really.” Desh smiled and spoke as if he might be discussing the migration of distant birds. “I expected the city would be just fine.”
Merros snorted. “Which is why you’ve been dancing from one foot to the other, like a man who needs to void his bladder.”
The First Advisor tried to hold a menacing glare but failed. Like Nachia, he was simply too happy to be alive.
They came from lower on the mountain, moving in leaps and bounds, with all of the skill the gods had given them and all the strength of their second bodies. The mounts took the same chances as the Sa’ba Taalor they lived with, but in their case the challenges were different. They weighed much more, but they had claws capable of digging into the earth. They were much larger and had to find tunnels that the Sa’ba Taalor did not already occupy, but there were tunnels on the sides of the city’s belly that were far away from where their companions climbed.
As the Sa’ba Taalor before them had done, the mounts tried for the underside of the mountain and the tunnels that moved above them.
Saa’thaa chose to leap high and felt his claws strike deep into soft soil before catching a good grip. His hind legs scrambled and claws once again sought purchase. All of the training of two lives was needed to avoid falling, but Saa’thaa managed. The tunnel was filthy and stank of the Fellein. The cold waste crawled over his fur and into his armor, which, as fortune had it, he could not remove without assistance.
None of that mattered. All that was important was getting through the tunnel. After that all that was important was what the gods demanded. Whatever they required he would do to receive his promised reward.
There was no sickness in the air of the tunnel, but there was death. The Sa’ba Taalor had been poisoning people and he could smell the stench of the poisons used. The shells of logga nuts, the fine, black moss that grew on Paedle’s side. These were fine things. They were also deadly if prepared the right way. A lifetime ago Saa’thaa had known all there was to know of poisons. Now he could smell them, he knew the recipes, but he lacked the skill to prepare the potions. Paws cannot work the same way as hands. Both have their advantages, just as the powerful jaws he used now could rend the hide of a Pra-Moresh with little effort, but could not so easily form words.
Stench aside, the tunnel was easy enough to travel through and behind him he could hear the sounds of others of his kind moving through the debris and frozen filth.
In time the tunnel forked. In one direction the waste continued. In the other the tunnel rose higher and the air smelled only of fresh water. Following the latter path Saa’thaa found a vast opening, mostly dry but with a supply of fresh water several inches deep. The cave was manmade, and supported by many stone columns that ran to a high ceiling. As vast as it was, the chamber was far below the city above. High above, more tunnels led toward the surface and, all around the edges at the height of two tall men, were tunnels like the one he looked from, which dropped into the clear waters.
Saa’thaa thought hard and was rewarded with the word: cistern. Here the waters of the rivers must have run. Now, emptied of most of their treasure, the vast area was probably not even a consideration.
He did more than consider. Saa’thaa dropped into the shallow waters, sniffed carefully and then drank deep. Others would come soon. There was plenty for all, but he was first and that gave him pleasure.
Not far away King N’Heelis scaled down the wall until he could reach the water and looked at Saa’thaa to see if the waters were clear. Saa’thaa nodded his affirmation and N’Heelis also drank deep.
A second mount came from his tunnel and then others joined them, Sa’ba Taalor and mount alike.
There was no light in the cistern, but they did not need it. The Daxar Taalor had blessed them with eyes that saw in the darkness.
N’Heelis ran his hand through Saa’thaa’s matted fur and did what most would never be brave enough to do: he hugged the mount’s great neck. Saa’thaa in turn rumbled his approval and leaned into the King in Gold.
“Soon, Saa’thaa. I cannot thank you enough for your patience.”
The king pointed to the corners of the vast room. There were doors there, great wooden affairs that had rotted over the centuries. They looked formidable but Saa’thaa could smell their decay and see the weaknesses in them even from a distance.
“Glo’Hosht says there are stairs beyond that lead into the heart of Old Canhoon.” The king looked around. “We shall wait a little longer and hope a few more have made it.”
Stragglers did indeed continue to find their way. He counted over a hundred mounts and saw ten times that number in Sa’ba Taalor.
“It is almost time, old friend.” N’Heelis ran his hand over Saa’thaa’s muzzle, moving dexterous fingers under the war mask that covered his face and scratching all the right spots. A thousand little ecstasies rippled his fur.
“Almost time,” he rumbled.
Soon enough. He could wait a little longer.
It was an hour later when N’Heelis and a chosen few climbed from the depths, and into one last tunnel. This one led to the house of Queen Lanaie, or rather to the empty stables on the small estate.
Lanaie herself bowed formally to N’Heelis, who smiled and said, “It is good to see you, Freth.”
Lanaie’s dark eyes grew wide as she spotted Saa’thaa. The great mount was large by any standards. The expression on the woman’s face betrayed Freth’s surprise.
“Saa’thaa has what we need to continue. It is time.”
“The fire is hot, my king. But we must move quickly. If anyone should see him…”
Saa’thaa made a small, rude noise. “You know the way, Freth?”
“Yes, of course.”
N’Heelis smiled. “Then we do not need a torch or lantern to find the path. Without those, who would look past the wall around your home?”
“I have suitors.” The words were mumbled.
“Wrommish chose that form for a reason, I’m sure. Just the same, let us take care of this.”
They moved quickly through the thick snowfall. In moments all signs of their tracks had been erased.
Life is pain.
Every part of her screamed in agony, the heat as vast as it had ever been. The pain was gone in seconds, but the memory of it lingered.
Leg muscles that had not moved in a very long time moved now and she fell forward, out of the raging fire and onto a stone floor that was almost as hot.
The fire no longer burned. Wrommish was kind.
Swech Tothis Durwrae climbed to her feet and looked around at faces familiar and some almost forgotten in the recent months.
She looked down at her flesh and saw the scars that had been a part of her for so very long, and the gray hue that had been with her for years. Her muscles trembled only a little as she adjusted to standing on her own legs again, rather than the borrowed legs of Dretta March.
Her ash-gray locks fell around her shoulders and her hand on her stomach felt the small kick of new life that rested inside her.
The Daxar Taalor were kind beyond words.
The great mount came for her and let out a low yowl of pleasure. She heard her name called in her mind and knew that Saa’thaa was there for her.
She did not consider that he was wet, or that his fur was cold. Those things did not matter. Swech grabbed the great mane and pushed her face into his war mask, smiling and sighing his name.
“Saa’thaa. I have missed you!”
N’Heelis came close next, placing a hand on her shoulder and smiling. “You could not be left to the dead, little Swech.” He grinned as she turned and hugged him. “The gods would not permit it.”
“How are you here, my king?”
“It is nearly time. The Great Tide commences within days. The final hours are upon us, Swech. Where else would I be?”
As he spoke N’Heelis opened the saddlebags on Saa’thaa. Most would never dare, but a king can dare much without fear of reprisal. Swech was grateful. His kindness gave her time to stretch her body and familiarize herself with limbs that felt foreign after so long. Leather pants, a vest, a simple dark shirt. All of these things she pulled on hastily. She recognized them, of course. She had been wearing them when she returned to Wrommish and the Boratha-Lo’ar. Her boots soon followed and then her weapons. She looked more closely at the gathering of faces around her, seeing some that she knew hid the other members of the Sa’ba Taalor who had offered themselves to the gods. She did not see Kallider and she did not question that. The gods seldom considered bringing anyone back.
She silently thanked the Daxar Taalor. She had served and died in the process and thought that was all there would be.
“I have saved an honor for you, little Swech.” N’Heelis gestured for her to follow, a smile on his handsome face. She followed without thought.
“I have many questions. How long have I been gone? Where is the city now? Are we truly prepared to attack?”
“Soon.” N’Heelis waved her questions away. “First, Swech, I give you an honor. Wrommish gives you an honor. You have served so well and done so much and now you must be shown how much you mean to us all.”
Swech frowned, puzzled. To serve was everything. It was all she had ever needed. She had a mount; despite all odds she had survived her own death; the child of Merros Dulver was still inside of her. What more could she ask?
When they reached the roof of the house N’Heelis opened a window that was just tall enough to let him climb to the roof. Swech followed with ease. Despite her time as Dretta March her body had not changed at all, had not aged. Otherwise she would have been swollen with the baby.
N’Heelis took the small javelin that had rested inside a sheath on his leg and offered it to her. The piece was handsome enough but made of pure gold. She could scratch the surface with her nail.
“I am to wear this?” She smiled uncertainly. It was hardly an adornment.
“No Swech. You are to cast it to the north.” The mountain range was still surrounding them. Though clouds hid most of the vast stone peaks, Swech could see the looming shadows through the snow and cold.
“In what direction?”
N’Heelis smiled. “If I had not asked myself, I would not know.” He pointed. “There.”
Swech looked around and saw that most of the people who had seen her rise from the flames were now in the courtyard below.
Swech looked to the north and took careful aim. She knew she could not possibly reach the start of the vast range, but she tried just the same.
The golden missile soared far further than should have been possible. Moving until it was well past her ability to see.
“That is a trick?” She smiled, this time with delight.
“No, child. That is an honor. Wait for a moment.”
N’Heelis put a familiar arm around her shoulders. She felt the calluses on his palms and was comforted.
After almost four minutes in the biting cold her patience was rewarded. The skies to the far north grew bright red, highlighting the mostly obscured peaks of all the mountains leading in that direction. There were many jagged mountaintops.
“What is that?”
“You have chosen the place of Wrommish’s new home.”
Only moments after the light colored the sky, she heard the low, deep roar of the earth moaning in pain. The land gave birth to a god in the far north. The air around her vibrated with the glory of that fact.
“N’Heelis, that was yours. That was your sacred task. One mountain for every king.”
“Swech, you have done so much to honor Wrommish. This is the god’s way of thanking you.” He paused a moment. “Upon my chest I bear the mark of Wrommish. In comparison there is no finer honor. I am glad you were chosen for this.”
For a while they stood in silence as the flames grew higher and the howl of angry winds blasted toward them. So strong were the winds that they cast the snow and clouds aside.
That was just as well. The clouds had already served their purpose and hidden the army that came to the City of Wonders.
Merros Dulver stared to the north and shook his head. He’d have spat, but the rules of decorum forbade doing that in front of the Empress. In an instant, the mood of celebration that had followed the successful pass through the mountains vanished.
“I suppose I’d hoped we were done with that.”
Desh Krohan nodded. “In a perfect world we would be. At least this time no cities were destroyed. There’s remarkably little up that way beyond the edge of the mountains.” The wizard paused and squinted in thought. “By my guess that’s at the very top of the Arkannen range. Or just east of it.”
Nachia was looking at the maps spread across her vast dining table. There was food on the table but all of it had been relegated to the far corner. Right now she was more interested in information than food.
“So the mountains will direct the winds toward us?”
Desh frowned and looked at her finger as it slid along the range of mountains on the map.
“Sadly, yes that’s likely.” The First Advisor looked at his goblet of wine and frowned some more. “I suppose you opened this too soon, my dear.”
“I’ll take my victories where I can find them, Old Man.”
Merros appreciated their banter. It helped him stay calm after all that had happened. He wanted to mourn Dretta March properly. He wanted to burn away every memory of her, because they were surely lies. In any event, she was heavy on his mind and he wished she were not. Thinking of her hurt.
“On the bright side, we missed the worst of the mountains.” He sighed and looked first at Nachia, and then at Desh. “Do you suppose they’ve come to the city while it was so close?”
Desh shrugged. “I’d say they’ve at least tried. I’d also say the eruption was more than conveniently timed. If the clouds from that volcano come our way it’s going to get harsh here. I intend to see what I can do about dispelling the worst of that. If I were you, General, I’d make sure your men were ready. If the Sa’ba Taalor have managed to get people into the city I can’t imagine they’ll simply sit and wait.”
Nachia shook her head and then, decorum be damned, the Empress spat on the floor. “Where would they hide? How could they gain access from beneath?”
Desh shook his head. “I said before the Sisters saw openings under the city. We’ve had no real chance to explore where they might go.”
“No chance at all?” Nachia stared hard, her voice frosty. Desh stared back, not the least bit intimidated.
She turned a hard look on Merros. “We have had one victory so far. One. We have the greatest army in the world, Merros Dulver. Prove that to me.”
“Most of the army is gathering now, Majesty. They are following the orders I have sent and traveling to Goltha. If we are right, and if that is where the city will settle, then we will be prepared.”
“And if we are wrong? If your damned Sooth have a laugh at our expense again?” Her gaze skewered Desh instead and Merros was relieved.
While the sorcerer thought of an answer Merros added, “Well then, we are going to have a spectacular view of fifty thousand men chasing after a runaway city.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Merros. I’m trying to maintain my indignant outrage.”
Desh nodded. “Picture it. Thousands and thousands of soldiers jogging to keep up with us. They’ll get winded rather quickly I imagine.” He raised his glass in salute to the imaginary troops.
“Fifty thousand? I thought for certain we’d have more there by now.”
“We do, Majesty. They are waiting already. There is a vast army of the Sa’ba Taalor coming from our direction with plans to get there before us. There are more of them coming from the south, moving upriver along the Parmahar River. The sorcerers have done an excellent job of informing us of their motions.”
“Do they outnumber our troops?”
“Not at all. There are some still coming from the west, but we killed a good number of them. The ones from the south seem to have a number of captured people with them. It’s hard to say for certain, but a lot of the population of the small towns is now moving with them. I think they intend to use them as shields.”
“As shields?”
“Yes, it’s been done in the past but not for many years. The notion is they would put these citizens of Fellein in front of their own troops to work as a living barrier between the soldiers and themselves.”
“And that works?” Nachia stared at him as if he’d grown another eye.
“Well, not often, really. That’s why it isn’t done much any more. I believe the god Kanheer declared it a sin some time back and as a result no generals were willing to use it any more.”
“Kanheer?”
“One of the war gods,” Desh provided. “Always seemed a rather odd thing for a war god to do, forbid a method of defense.”
“It is rather cowardly.”
“Well, yes, but every shield has a use doesn’t it, Merros?”
“You haven’t answered my last question.” Nachia looked from one to the other again. “Where is there under the city for the Sa’ba Taalor to hide?”
Desh responded first. “My dear, I couldn’t hope to tell you. There are over a thousand years’ worth of history in this city. Buildings have risen and fallen.”
“Do you suppose our escaped assassin is down there too?” Nachia was not at all pleased that they had lost their one captured gray-skin.
Merros answered, “Who can say, Nachia? This weather hides any number of sins.”
Desh scratched at his neck. “There were those tunnels the Sisters found. They could lead to almost anywhere and many of them are large enough for a man to climb through.”
“And nothing was done?”
“To be fair, Nachia, we are over eleven thousand feet off the ground. There aren’t many who have a way to gain access.”
“Just anything that could have waited at the tops of the mountains.”
“I could hardly send troops over the sides on ropes, Majesty. On this one we have to trust the Silent Army to keep watch.”
“Which I suppose they would if the Sa’ba Taalor climbed over the Mid Wall.”
“Well, yes, but I don’t suppose they’d be that nice about it.”
“They are not nice, Merros. They are annoying and dangerous and sneakier than a band of thieves.”
Merros nodded. He had no solutions to her dilemma.
“Are there tunnels under us, Desh? Can they be filled with water?”
“Well, I suppose they could, Nachia. But where would the water come from?”
“You’re the First Advisor and you have sorcerers at your disposal. Can you not manage a waterfall of some sort?”
Desh stared at her long and hard, his jaw working. “If we were still surrounded by water I could redirect it, but I can’t just summon water from nowhere. Well, I can, which is why you have drinking water, but I cannot produce that sort of quantity. Magic always has a price.”
He paced a moment, his jaw still working furiously as he tried to find the right words.
“It’s not that I like not being able to help, Nachia. I mean that, but I can’t just make an ocean. There has to be an ocean first.”
Nachia stared coldly at him.
“Snow.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Snow. There are mountains of the stuff here. Can you and yours not use that to flood whatever is under us?”
“I suppose so. Can’t you just have your cooks brew it up in large pots?”
“You are a very rude man, Desh.”
“You are a very demanding ruler, Majesty.”
Far to the north of Canhoon the volcano erupted. It was violent and impossible to miss. For hundreds of miles around the air shook and the light was enough to startle sleeping animals into flight. Wrommish ripped free of the earth and shattered the closest mountain in the process.
Great gouts of flame and smoke stroked the air and spread across the sky, claiming all that had been peaceful in the name of war.
Far to the west the people of Fellein who had managed to avoid being crushed by the Sa’ba Taalor trembled. They had seen too much of volcanoes and what followed their eruptions.
To the far east the people stared in wonder at the lights and puzzled over the sounds. Those in the southern regions had already dealt with the birth of a mountain but closer to this source the people had little notion of what was happening, only that it was vast and powerful.
Along the jagged line of the mountain range the snow and ice reflected the fire until the night was nearly day, and the people in Canhoon woke to the sounds that might well have meant the end of them all. For those who had survived Tyrne and Roathes the sounds were too familiar and a cold dread seized them and would not let go easily. The world, it seemed, was ending, no matter how far they tried to go to escape that fact.
For some of the refugees it signified an end. For others it signified a time to do things differently. There had been a few who gathered their weapons and attempted to change their world by force. They had grabbed those they thought the cause of their sorrows and they had beaten or killed them, until the Silent Army handled the affair. Many once again took up weapons, but this time they approached the barracks of the Imperial Army and offered their axes and swords to the Empress.
While some were drawn to war, others did their best to find comfort in the temples of the gods. Some were not so easily comforted; the gods had offered little that they could see – and of those little could be said, save that the miracle of the Silent Army did not seem a blessing in their eyes – but they tried just the same. The Sa’ba Taalor had faith, but for the Fellein that commodity seemed very rare.
As the heat came and melted snow into water, the Silent Army moved. Some went about their courses, looking over the city and making certain that no one chose to fight against the laws of the Empress. Others chose a different route.
There were many catacombs in the City of Wonders. Some were lost to time, unknown to any living being, but the Silent Army was not quite living in the usual sense.
Whether guided by memories from the past or by the gods themselves, three hundred of the Silent Army moved down into the catacombs beneath the city. They did not try to move quietly. They marched, and their tread filled chamber after chamber with the sounds of their feet striking the ground.
By the time they reached the spot where most of the Sa’ba Taalor were waiting, the gray-skins and their mounts were ready. The vast cistern was filled with a few inches of water, but nothing more. In the darkness of the massive chamber the warriors gathered what weapons they had and the mounts waited on the sidelines, prepared to attack when they were allowed that privilege.
The Silent Army came from all four openings into the chamber, treading steadily and wielding their short swords and their shields. They marched down the long stone stairs to reach their enemies below.
The Sa’ba Taalor did not wait for an invitation. They attacked.
Born and bred for war, the Sa’ba Taalor were nightmares of bloodshed. The Fellein had learned that the hard way, losing hundreds for every individual member of the Sa’ba Taalor that fell. Soldiers and civilians, men and women and children: all were the enemy in the eyes of the Sa’ba Taalor. Whatever weapon was needed was used. Whatever advantage could be taken was seized. A thousand years or more the Daxar Taalor had prepared their soldiers for the Great Tide.
The Silent Army did not care.
The first of the Sa’ba Taalor to strike was a man named Marro. He had served with Tuskandru and was chosen by Stastha as one of the most able among the King in Onyx’s forces.
He struck the first of the stone soldiers with a hammer he had forged himself in the fires of Durhallem. The blow he delivered was powerful and sent the Silent Soldier to its knees. The skin of the stone man cracked along the shoulder.
Marro did not have time to celebrate. The soldier swung its shield in a hard arc and knocked him back four feet even as it stood up and came forward. His hammer did not dent the shield when it struck, but instead skimmed along the slightly rounded surface.
The warrior was made of stone. Marro could see that. He could not deny what he saw with his own eyes and so he reversed the hammer, using the pick-like edge normally reserved for punching through hard armor to deal his next blow. The point drove into the shield and left a break in the soldier’s defenses. The soldier drove forward again, bashing at Marro with the shield, knocking him backward. Marro was a powerful figure and grunted in surprise. The first time the stone man hit him he might have been taken off guard. The second time he was braced for the assault, but it did not matter. He was hurled backward several feet. The shield came again and Marro ducked around it, moving as quickly as his opponent. He pushed himself in against the stone man and grunted again as the soldier held its place. Just the same he brought his hammer around and struck the stone soldier a solid blow that staggered the heavy form.
The short sword of his enemy came down in a hard arc and sliced through Marro’s neck, his chest and his guts.
Marro looked up at his enemy as he died, knowing that even in death he had served his gods faithfully and that he would be rewarded.
By the time Marro fell dead, the nameless soldier had moved on, sweeping his arms in separate directions. His shield arm drove back a man with a sword. His sword arm knocked aside a woman attempting to grapple him.
In ancient times, when the Silent Army had first awoken, their very visage had driven half of their enemies into retreat. Statues should not move, or strike, or kill.
The Sa’ba Taalor did not care. Statue or flesh, the enemies of their gods were their enemies as well and they would destroy them by any means necessary. The woman cast aside was not foolish. Her tactics were best used against flesh. She was strong and she knew it. She had once broken the jaw and hind leg of a Pra-Moresh with her body as her only weapon. She could not shatter stone, but she could use physics to her advantage. As the stone soldier took a step forward she drove the heel of her foot into the back of the knee supporting all of the demon’s weight.
Then she rolled fast to get out of the way.
The knee moved forward and the stone monster lost balance and fell back.
By the time it had landed on the ground she had gathered Marro’s great hammer and prepared herself. Her fellow Sa’ba Taalor, the one with the sword, took advantage of the situation as best he could and tried gutting the stone man. His blade was well made, but the stone was unyielding and the sound of the two clashing was monstrous.
The stone man brought around his shield and drove the edge into the swordsman’s midriff, pushing him back and likely breaking a rib or two.
And while he was doing that, she drove the pointy end of the hammer into the stone soldier’s face. The blow was perfect and shattered a part of that face, breaking it completely away from the head.
There was no blood beneath that hard surface, merely more stone. The stone soldier stood up and what remained of the face snarled silently at her.
She retreated quickly and called to the mounts, “To us! Defend!” It is not a sign of cowardice to acknowledge a need for help. On the contrary, it is a sign of foolishness to deny that fact.
The mounts were not made of stone, but they were powerful nonetheless.
The first of the mounts lasted two minutes in combat with the stone soldier. That is longer in a fight than most will ever realize. Two minutes of constant straining, biting and clawing managed little but to knock the stone man around and leave the mount winded and shaking. Adrenaline only lasts a short time and despite the armor worn effortlessly by the mount, the stone sword and shield delivered hellish blows. Bones were broken and meat was cut and slashed and bruised. Teeth cracked against stone flesh, and claws tore free from their housings.
For two full minutes the mount roared and fought and bled before dying. For two minutes the mount felt alive again in the purest sense.
Sometimes the gods are kind.
Axes did some harm. Swords a little less. Hammers worked nicely enough. The trouble was that all of those were in short supply. Most of the Sa’ba Taalor chosen for the climb had little or no weapons worth noting save their hand-to-hand skills. Those skills were impressive in all cases, but one can only punch a stone so many times. Stones may break, but few will shatter before flesh is pulped or bones crushed to dust.
A few hundred of the Sa’ba Taalor ran. Most did not. Those who fled did so because their gods demanded it. It is possible that the Daxar Taalor spoke to many, but who can say what is in the hearts of the gods?
Those who stayed behind were killed. There were no prisoners taken this time. The Silent Army did not give second warnings.
The waters of the cistern were bloody and littered with corpses.
Nine of the Silent Army were shattered and useless by the time the fight was over. That was nine more than had ever been defeated before.
The stone soldiers were stronger than any human being. They worked fast and did what they had to do. Then they left their grisly tasks behind and headed for the surface.
There was one more challenge and they took care of that as well before once more going about their appointed tasks.
At first light a few of the people screamed. More of them cheered. War, it is said, is a harsh business, a bloody business that requires bloodthirsty souls.
What is often not said is that it is not only soldiers who can acquire a hatred of the enemy and a desire to see them suffer. Let any soul endure enough and the darkness must surely touch it.
By the time Nachia Krous left the palace with her brother and several others, the murmur of cheers and sobs alike had become nearly a roar of approval and as she stepped into the front courtyard of the palace the cacophony was nearly deafening.
Several citizens started chanting her name and more followed quickly, though she still had no idea why.
From her left Desh Krohan emerged and joined the progression, followed quickly by Merros Dulver who was still settling his cape over his shoulders.
The first sight to fill her eyes as she looked to the cobbled street was a dozen or more of the Silent Army. It took her a moment to puzzle out that the different colors on them were splashes and droplets of old and drying blood.
In the center of a circle formed by the stone warriors was a tribute the likes of which she had never expected.
At the base of a hastily formed stack of grisly trophies was a layer of heads from beasts she could barely fathom. She had seen them before, of course, but never without their war masks. The mounts were dead, obviously, but each had disfigurements she could barely fathom.
Desh Krohan spoke softly. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing.”
Merros Dulver nearly sighed the words, “It hardly seems possible.”
Above the heads of the slaughtered mounts a towering stack of fresh heads rested. It only took a moment to recognize that they belonged to the Sa’ba Taalor.
Nachia looked at the pile of heads stacked higher than she stood and nodded as she slowly circled around it.
She raised her hands into the air and yelled, “Death to the Sa’ba Taalor!” as loudly as she could.
The response was immediate: the call was picked up by the crowd, who carried on the chant even as Nachia made a slow, steady retreat back into her palace, imagining a thousand arrows coming at her from all directions.
Despite that dread, a smile kept trying to break on her face.
Cullen heard the noises down below, looked out into the courtyard and felt a thrill run through her. She could not decide if it was joy at the death of her enemies or joy that something, anything at all, was capable of stopping them.
The gray-skins had seemed unstoppable in Trecharch.
“You killed a few of them, you know. I don’t think that I did, but your arrows struck true.”
“I ran away just the same. Deltrea. I watched everything we loved die.”
“Not everything I loved. That’s why I’m here you know. Because I love you. You are my sister and my friend.”
“And all I ever do is yell at you for talking too much.”
Deltrea laughed. “You have always yelled at everyone for talking too much. I have never known anyone so happy to be alone in my entire life.”
“I was never alone.” Cullen shrugged her shoulders and looked away from the dead below. “I always had the trees and the wind and my thoughts.”
“I always tried not to think that hard. Whenever I did I just got sad or angry.”
Cullen smiled at that one.
“It’s almost time, you know.”
“Time for what?”
“I do not know. I only know that the time is almost here.”
“Are you scared, Cullen?”
“I don’t know what I am anymore.” She sighed and looked out the window again, but this time at the skies, not at the ground and its dark rewards. “I only know that all I was is gone with Trecharch and all that is left wants everything to change.”
“Well, I am fine with things the way they are. I like having time to do nothing.”
Cullen shook her head. “Not me. I grow restless.”
Deltrea had no answer to that.