The greatest rivers in the whole of the land all ran to the same spot, Lake Gerhaim. The lake itself was a sight that many could barely believe. Surrounded on all sides by low hills, almost any place a person stood afforded a view of the clear blue waters and the numerous villages and towns that all led to Goltha.
Goltha was a city of wonders in its own right but never had that name. The title given to the city was the Jewel of the Empire. Commerce from all portions of the country came through Goltha at one point or another, and even in winter the rivers were too wide to freeze completely. Goltha lived off the taxes claimed and the people who came to her for fortune. Not everyone succeeded, but all who came to the city knew they were in a place of magic and power. The magic was mostly for show: courtesans and street magicians, an occasional sorcerer and a thousand charlatans. The city embraced all who came so long as there was coin in the transaction. That was one of the less pleasant titles for Goltha: the Whore of Fellein.
Whore or Jewel, Goltha was very well protected indeed. Because so many wanted to seize the area, the Empire had long since made defending Goltha a priority. There were great iron gates that could be closed against ships from any or all directions. Water could pass through, but boats of any size would have to be given permission to enter once the main gates were shut. Those gates were among the greatest creation of the sorcerers of old. They had rusted, true, but not as much as they should have and never enough to weaken them in hundreds of years.
In addition to the gates there were three great walls, each higher than the last. The walls were solid in all directions save one: the waters of the lake were not blocked. That was why they had the great gates.
There were entrances in the walls, of course, but they could be barred and braced.
The sun had not yet risen when the northern and southern gates of Goltha’s outermost wall were set ablaze. The fires were carefully set in the deepest part of the night and the guards who stood outside those closed gates were murdered before they could sound alarms. The eastern gate was set ablaze as well, but only after the other two. City Guard and citizens alike did what they could to stop the fires but they were massive indeed.
By the time the sun rose the gates were in ruins. Metal hinges and bars do not stop wood from burning and whoever started the fires used a great deal of oil and wood to make the blazes burn hot and fast.
Among the soldiers was Captain Leno Nethalte, in charge of the archers who had successfully slaughtered their enemies along the Inbrough River. He did not fight the fires or waste his men on that action. Instead he ordered the First Wall stationed with archers and spearmen alike. All brought shields, the better to defend their positions. All brought extra arrows and spears because one never knew how long a siege would last.
The ruined gates were quickly replaced with heavy lumber and stones to support the wood. Great wooden braces were rigged as quickly as possible.
The soldiers of Goltha were as prepared as they could be for the attacks that they knew would come their way. Alarms were sounded and the Gerhaim Gates were tended to. There seemed no issues from the north, east or west, but the Southern Gates were drawn against the black ships heading for them. Rumors of the ships had long reached the city, of course, but the reality was unsettling.
The gates were massive affairs. The walls that held the mechanical wonders were eighty feet in height and blocked off a portion of the river itself on each side. Many a brave soul had walked out along those stone barriers over the years simply for the view the gates afforded. The gates were seventy feet in height and were checked regularly by the sorcerers to make certain that everything functioned as it should. There were parts to be oiled, of course, and the metal itself, while enchanted, still required a good cleaning now and then. That was, as far as most sorcerers were concerned, why apprentices existed.
When the alarm was sounded and the gates were sealed the noise alone would have scared off the dead. Horses had to pull the latticework from below, down in tunnels along the waters. They were strong animals, and the apparatus was well kept, but still it took time to work the defense. The rumble and squeal of metal on metal as the pieces were drawn across and locked in place was a din that only a few ever heard and forgot.
That was all the alarm needed to have most of the people at the smaller towns around the river’s end looking on in anticipation.
The first of the massive vessels turned and collided with the great iron gate. The ship shook, the gate shook. Nothing fell apart.
The figures that came off the ship and started scaling the sides of the gate were unexpected. The gate itself was a massive affair and while some marveled at the thing, few ever consider scaling it, at least when they were sober.
The gates were not solid. If they were, water could not pass through and the city would suffer. There were rather substantial holes in the gates but the bars used to forge the entire thing were thick and, as has been mentioned before, crafted with sorcery to back up their strength.
Once every six months the gates were closed and examined to make certain their integrity held. In all of the years of repairs and examinations it never occurred to anyone that invaders might try to climb the deterrent. The metal was harsh and uneven; holding on would be painful at the least. Handholds could be had, but not very easily and one would have to reach a great ways to grasp the next spot.
The Sa’ba Taalor scaled mountains with regularity. The gates were not a challenge.
Archers were deployed. Because the gates were important, there were always soldiers to look after them. The archers took positions atop the walls of the gates as quickly as they could and waited.
The Sa’ba Taalor had arrows too. Those atop the gates braced themselves and fired at the archers, keeping them busy. The Fellein used crossbows for the most part but here, the archers used longbows. The range was better and the speed was a blessing. Also, the king of Goltha, Kordis Neiller, preferred longbows, as he was a hunter.
More ships rammed against the wall with no noticeable damage to either side. More of the Sa’ba Taalor scaled the gates.
Further out, on both sides of the river, the armies that had previously been disgorged and now had the newly anointed with them continued on, unwavering.
The Fellein marked by the gods had made their decisions and the Sa’ba Taalor kept them to those choices. They were made to run with the People of the Forges, to eat with them and to fight with them. Those who did not fight well died. Those who fled suffered a far worse fate.
The Daxar Taalor did not brook cowardice. The first warning came in the form of crippling pain to any who tried to escape or to betray their new gods. Crippling pain meant just that, and the traitors died quickly. Those who survived did not usually try again. If they did it was time for a short lesson in what angry gods can do.
There were no dogs in the Taalor Valley. The Sa’ba Taalor encountered the creatures quickly enough and came to respect the animals for their loyalty and savagery. The freshly anointed who failed the Daxar Taalor were made into the equivalent of hounds. They were bent until their shape was that of a dog and their jaws were reformed, their teeth made long and vicious.
They suffered, as naughty children often do, and were told that the only escape was death, or to prove their loyalties once and for all.
The hounds led the way into combat, willing at last to prove themselves to their new gods.
Their feet and hands ended in long, thick claws. Their faces were warped into nightmarish lumps with too-long jaws and wide, sharp teeth. It is hard to say if the Daxar Taalor enjoyed creating the nightmares, but the Sa’ba Taalor loved setting them on the people ahead of them.
The hounds ran ahead of the armies, and they reached the gates while the soldiers from Fellein were still trying to keep the Sa’ba Taalor from the black ships at bay.
The screams of the people below made a few archers turn their attention from the approaching gate walkers.
While the fight was forming on two separate fronts, more of the Sa’ba Taalor from the ships attempted to use the gates to gain entrance to where the great locking mechanisms were housed.
Alarms were sounded and reinforcements charged to assist before the black ships could make their way inland.
In the chaos it was understandable that boats coming from the Parmahar got past without even being noticed. They had little in common save that they were all designed for fishing. They sat low in the water, a sure sign that their holds were heavy with fish, and while there was cause for panic to the south of the city, there was business to tend to in the east and on the docks.
Meggs, a dockworker with connections in all the right places, looked to Dockmaster Toast and shook his head. He spat and snorted in the cold air coming from the waters.
“You seeing this? What do they plan to do, sell fish to fishermen?”
Toast looked at the boats with no real concern at first. “Not like they’ve much of a choice, is it? Where else they gonna sell fish? In Canhoon?” He pointed to the small speck in the air to the west. “Way I’m hearing things, that dot up there is Canhoon. Can’t sell them fish if they can’t reach them.”
Toast spoke with a bit of pity for the bastards. They’d come all this way and all they were going to get for their efforts was being taxed by him before they could settle in. That was the way of it. The docks were expensive to keep, and with the fuss going on to the south he doubted he’d be seeing much business from that direction, either.
“Could be refugees.”
Toast shook his head and followed Meggs’s example. He spat at the waters. “Emnol!”
Toast’s son Emnol was a good boy, but just barely. He looked the part of a girl and more than once he’d been warned to keep his eyes alert when boats came in. He was thin, had his mother’s fine face, and was too trusting at the age of ten.
“Aye, Dad!”
“Go find the City Guard. Tell ’em we might have refugees coming in.”
“What’s a refugee?”
“People looking for a place to stay that can’t afford to ask.”
The boats were still at a distance, but they came quickly. The sails were stretched and took the wind, the oars stroked hard and the vessels fairly jumped with each sweep of the long oars, and along the sides of the vessels stood the shapes of men.
And now Toast could see more clearly, the figures were the stuff of nightmares. Great shapes dressed in leathers and armor, carrying every imaginable type of weapon.
The boats came closer still, and from their decks he could hear the sounds of men calling, bellowing the same word again and again, “Durhallem,” with every beat of the oars on the water.
From behind the boats tremendous wakes spread, and despite the hellish passengers aboard the boats, the water caught the dockmaster’s eye and would not let it go.
“Where the hell are those City Guard?”
“If I knew I’d surely tell you,” commented his friend. “What is it that stirs the water so much? Are they towing other boats?”
“No. It doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head. “Besides, we have other concerns. We need to get away from here before they make shore.”
The boats did not slow down, but instead veered left and right, running alongside the docks and revealing the reason for the odd wake: several long ropes ran behind each of the boats, with hands holding onto those ropes from the additional Sa’ba Taalor that rode along. The people swimming toward the docks were the enemy he had been hearing about.
“This can’t be real.” Meggs’s voice was strained. “What are they?”
“They are the enemy of our people,” Toast’s voice was strained. “We need to leave here. We need to alert the City Guard.”
Meggs nodded his agreement and the two of them moved a few paces back, not quite daring to look away from the hell of flesh coming their way.
The ones holding onto the ropes let them go and then swam hard for the docks, grabbing at the wood or swimming alongside the edge of the docks until they could reach ropes or ladders.
The first of them that rose from the waters was not as large as some of the demons on the boats had been. Toast would easily claim this one was little more than a boy in stature, but that did not make the leather-clad creature any less frightening. It had horns running from its jaw upward and its exposed skin was deathly gray.
He was still looking it over when the thing pulled knives from sheaths at its hips and moved toward the two of them.
Toast shook his head and stepped back again.
The creature did not seem to care. If anything, it ran faster. It had taken but five long paces before Meggs was running, his body turning toward the distant hills and his legs pumping furiously.
The shape moved past Toast and he saw one scarred arm moving forward, releasing a knife that slid through the air as gracefully as any arrow had ever flown. The knife rammed to the hilt into Meggs’s skull and his friend flopped to the wooden dock and did not move.
Toast looked at the creature and it, in turn, looked toward him.
He shook his head, silently begging.
The creature’s eyes glowed inside his horned helmet. No, not his. The way the hips moved, the shape of the body. Not a boy at all. A woman.
She held up the bloodied knife in her hand and then pointed to his lower body. The wound was in his thigh. The blood ran in a torrent down his leg and the dockmaster felt lightheaded as a fine clear note rang in his ears.
He did not die as quickly as his friend, but Toast died just the same.
By the time the City Guard arrived, the Sa’ba Taalor had climbed to the docks, either from the waters or from the boats.
Most of the cargo holds held the mounts, and their riders went to them quickly, grabbing armor and weapons.
Tusk looked at Stastha and smiled. “As promised, first kill for seeing to the mountain raid.”
“I am glad. I did not want to go to the city. I wanted to be here, for this.”
Tuskandru nodded his head and hefted his axe.
“I prefer to stand on the ground myself, Stastha. I do not like falling.” The king looked toward the head of the dock, where several men in armor and one young boy were looking back. “Time to kill this place.”
He started walking and each step he took had the dock groaning under his heavy tread.
“Do we sound the horns, Tusk?”
“No.” he shook his head and readjusted his helmet. “Lead the new followers of Durhallem for a while, Stastha. I feel a need to kill.” The words were spoken cheerfully enough and she understood. Now and then leading was a task. Sometimes it was best just to find a target.
The City Guard stood and prepared themselves for the man coming their way. Tusk’s tread increased in tempo and by the time he’d reached the guards he was running.
The assault was as brutal as one would expect from the head of Durhallem’s army.
The boy ran. The soldiers did not. The first of them tried to meet Tuskandru full on, sword against axe. The man was skilled, and blocked the first blow Tusk aimed for him. While he was recovering from the shock of metal on metal, the king leaned in and smashed him in the face with his great helm. Fangs from a dead Pra-Moresh carved a wound in the guard’s face. As he staggered back screaming, the axe finished him.
Tusk grinned and swept the axe in a wide arc, catching another guard in the hand, slicing fingers away.
The guard screamed and reached for his sword with the other hand, his face a mask of pain. Tusk’s body smashed into him, sending him staggering. The sword came free at the same time that the guard fell to the ground.
The guard never had a chance to rise. By the time the slaughter was done Tuskandru had moved on, heading for the city proper and any target that might strike his fancy.
Stastha chose to follow after him. He did not need protection, but best not to divide the army this early on.
The hills above Goltha were littered with mansions and villas. The view they afforded of the vast lake, the city itself and the surrounding towns was spectacular.
King Kordis Neiller did not live on the hillsides above the town. He lived in a castle deep in the heart of the city as his ancestors had for quite some time.
The horns sounding to the south were not a surprise. He’d known of the black ships for some time and had made preparations should they make their way through the river gate.
It was the messengers coming with new notes of alarm that caught his attention. First, the City Guard to the east had not sent a runner. That was hardly a cause for alarm by itself, as the man in charge of the Guard was often lax in his reports. It was the culmination of other situations. The north was quiet as well. The soldiers sent that way to keep an eye on the Sa’ba Taalor who’d escaped the river assault had not reported back yet, and that was a problem.
The court sorcerer was a capable man named Theran. He was often aloof and seldom pleasant, but he was capable and that was enough. The wizard didn’t much look like a wizard. He was too young and did not carry a staff, a wand or any signs that he could perform sorcerous deeds. He was also as humorless as any man Kordis had ever met. He gave daily reports about the approaching Canhoon and shared the latest information and theories as to where it would land and how much potential devastation might occur as a result of having a city the size of Canhoon dropped on the lake, or worse, dropped on the city. The results of the latter would be horrid, of course.
The results of the former would be, well, they would be slightly less horrid.
Theran said that the Sooth anticipated vast troubles in Goltha today. To that end the military was ready. The City Guard, well, he was hopeful.
The city was as prepared as it could be.
“Are you quite finished?” He looked to his cousin, who was currently working to fasten the last of the straps on the king’s breastplate.
“Almost. I should rather you not die because I can’t pull a leather strap, your majesty.”
He took a deep breath and felt the way the armor constricted. Enough to let him know he was secure, but not enough to steal his breath. “You’ve done well.”
The king looked out the window of his room and faced the west. He could see a disturbance near the docks. It was not small.
To the north, there was calm. To the west, there was–
“What goes on to the west, Arthun?”
“Have the soldiers returned from routing out the gray-skins?”
“No.” he frowned and looked on. “I don’t think so.”
There was motion near the very top of the hill that hid the city from everything to the east. The people were far enough away to look like little more than ants, but whatever it was they brought with them was larger, easily seen as it came to rest.
He turned to Arthun for answers. “What are they doing up there?”
“Are they building something?”
The first of the rocks fired from the catapult missed the king’s palace but shook the earth and then rolled on to smash a hole in the eastern wall.
“By the gods!” King Kordis Neiller shook his head and moved toward the window, not believing what he was seeing. The Empress had sent messages of mountains exploding, armies of the dead and far stranger things and he could look east and see the City of Wonders with his naked eye, but this was a different affair. This was a machine that threw rocks the size of an ox and shattered walls.
“Go! Sound the alarm! We are attacked!” That last was a redundancy, of course. The city was already attacked, but this was closer than he cared to think about. Hearing about attacks on Canhoon, or retaliation from the archers under his command, that was all quite different from watching a wall destroyed only a hundred yards from his window.
Kordis’s heart thundered as he moved to the stairwell leading to the main courtyard. People were screaming and he knew they would be.
“Where is Theran?” he bellowed his question even as he strode into the courtyard, feeling the thump of his sword against his side, the slap of his axe closer to his hip.
“I am here, sire.” Theran’s dark eyes looked at him from near the stables. The man was dressed in regular pants and a decent jacket. He didn’t look the part of a sorcerer. That was part of the problem, of course. A wizard should look like he could cast a thousand different sorts of death at an enemy and the man was just there, with his dark hair and dark eyes and a face that still couldn’t gather a proper beard after months of trying.
“Speak to the messengers as you can, and let them know we are attacked. Let Canhoon know that we are under siege from at least two directions. There isn’t a damned thing they can do to help us but they should know what they are facing if they come this way.”
“Yes, sire.” Damn, but he didn’t like the sorcerer. The man was polite. He was obedient. He still made Kordis angry.
Theran’s eyes grew wide. “Sire!”
He looked in the direction that the mage was staring and faced his death. From the west a vast stone came toward him. It rolled in the air and froze him to his spot. He should have run. He should have prayed to the gods, he should have done so many things, but all he could do was stare at the impossible sight. The stone was growing larger by the instant and his legs refused to move.
The sorcerer stepped to him and held out both arms. The rock came closer, faster and then bounced in the air without touching either of them.
The missile rolled across the air and then smashed into the side of the stables, scattering shattered wood and hay as it rolled on.
Kordis looked at Theran. The sorcerer trembled with strain, even now doing his best to push the stone to where it would do the least damage.
Theran spoke with a voice that trembled from effort. “My liege, I suggest you get away from here before the next stone comes. I don’t know that I can do that a second time.” Suddenly Kordis liked the man better than he had before.
He also took the advice given and ordered his horse brought to him. The great rock might have taken most of his attention but he was aware of other men in armor joining him. It was time to make themselves known to the enemy.
“Where is the greatest gathering of the enemy, Theran?”
“To the north, sire.”
“The north?”
“Yes, Majesty. There is a very large army coming from the north. Smaller from the west, and we have heard no reports from the east, but we can make assumptions.” The wizard was eyeing the hills dubiously. “I shall do what I can about that.”
“I thought you were not to fight my war.” It was a point of contention that the sorcerers were only to offer advice and information.
Theran gave him a dark look. “Well, yes, but I live here too, you know. I would rather not just watch on and die if I can do something to prevent that.”
“Remind me to continue this conversation if we both live through the day, sorcerer.”
Without another word he mounted the horse and gestured to one of his soldiers who was carrying a horn.
The alarm was sounded, and the king turned toward the north and away from his city. There was a battle on all sides and he aimed himself at the largest force.
Goltha was a large city, with broad streets and a very large military force. Though it was true that every male citizen of Fellein was required to serve in the Imperial Army, Goltha also demanded service. No one could own land in Goltha without serving. No one could marry, no one could survive the taxes levied if they did not serve. The difference here was that the rule applied to men and women alike.
When the alarm was sounded the cavalry responded. The first horn had them dressing for battle. The second had them lining up at the royal stables – what was left of them – and gathering their horses. The third horn saw them assembled, the king in the lead.
And then they rode north, charging along the main road, lancers at the front, spearmen directly behind, and archers after that.
They were not alone in the charge. The northern barracks of the infantry was ahead of them, each with a spear and a sword, some with bows as well.
The gates were closed behind them, the City Guard alerted and made ready.
By the time the king and his cavalry arrived at the northern front the infantry and archers had dug in.
The infantry had set their long shields in a vast barrier and set their pikes and spears in a thick, layered wall of sharp points. The shields did not hold themselves and the soldiers waited as patiently as they could as the massive column of the enemy came their way.
Kordis looked at the barrier of flesh, wood and steel and nodded his approval. The archers were ready. Three layers deep, the bowmen waited for the command to be given and behind them more spear men prepared for combat.
They did not wait long for the warriors of the Sa’ba Taalor. The beasts they rode were terrors. There had been reports, of course, but the stories never seemed capable of doing justice to the reality. There was no exception here.
King Kordis looked upon the warriors of the Blasted Lands with the clawed, hellish mounts, saw the odd light in the eyes of man and beast alike, and swallowed the gasp that wanted to escape him.
The first of the enemy rode forward, a behemoth of a man with heavy plate armor and a sword of impossible size braced on the saddle of the monster he rode. His face was hidden behind an iron mask with a scowling visage.
He rode two dozen yards ahead, while the army of men and monsters waited behind him, several holding banners that matched the face on the giant’s armored helmet.
“Would you parley?” the man called out as if the answer didn’t actually concern him.
“On what would you parley? You stand at the edge of my city and your people already attack from three other directions.”
“I am Tarag Paedori, Chosen of the Forge of Truska-Pren and King in Iron. I rule over all of the armies you see coming at you from every direction. If you would hope to survive what is coming for you, now is your one chance to negotiate.”
Deep within the eyes of that mask, the silvery glow showed King Kordis exactly where the eyes of his enemy were and that they looked directly at him.
“What would you ask to leave this city in peace?”
“Surrender your crown to me and I will spare the lives of every person in Goltha. No one will be killed who does not raise a weapon.” He paused for a moment and tilted his head. “There is another king already here, who would not offer you any similar kindness. He and his will kill all of your people unless I command him to stop.”
King Kordis considered that. He was puzzled that there was more than one king, but didn’t have the time to ponder the implications.
“What of the Empire?”
“We are already at war with the Empire. We are already at war with you. But if you lay down your swords and offer me your crown, we will let all of you live.”
“And if we do not agree to these terms?”
“Trecharch fell in days. You will not last any longer.”
Kordis’s eyes remained locked with that silver gaze as he gave his command. “Archers, at the ready!”
As one the archers obeyed, nocking arrows and preparing to draw.
Tarag Paedori looked his way, his face unreadable behind the iron mask.
“You would kill me without even a counteroffer?” The man sounded exactly the same. If he was afraid he hid it very well.
“You have asked what I cannot give to you. Your people have already attacked my home, my people. How can I bargain with you when you attack from all fronts?”
“How can you not when you know we will win and crush you?”
Kordis smiled and shook his head. “I know no such thing.”
The King in Iron climbed from his mount and held the massive sword, letting the blade’s tip lightly touch the ground. From the side of his beast he pulled a shield as tall as a young man and held that as well.
“I may not survive the arrows of your archers, King Kordis. I may not survive this combat in any event. But my people will follow my orders and will seek to kill you. All of you. Every child. Every soldier. Every wife. All of you will die if you do not surrender.”
“Your people cannot kill us if you are all dead, Tarag Paedori. Archers, ready!”
The archers obeyed, pulling the bows and holding steady.
Tarag Paedori called out in a language unknown and the result was immediate. The riders moved forward and spread out even as Tarag Paedori himself moved forward, raising his shield until it blocked most of his body.
Kordis screamed, “Fire!” and the archers loosed a volley of arrows across the distance. The riders were fast to draw shields and raise them into the air, forming a wide wall to the front and above the mounts and riders alike.
Arrows rained down, some sticking in shields and others sticking in flesh. Even as they did so, the King in Iron bellowed an order of his own and the whole force moved forward.
The wave of shields and bodies parted only in one spot, where the shield of the king remained, where his helmet still glared at Kordis and his people.
Most of the archers managed a second volley of arrows before the riders were too close. The animals and riders moved fast, and charged the massive shield wall that King Kordis had prepared against assault. Spears, pikes and shields waited. The first of the mounted riders came forward and moved ahead of the wall. The archers could not fire without risking hitting their own on the closer side; the mounted rider, a woman with a spear in her hand, nodded approval of the structure.
Rider and mount strutted before the entire expanse of barrier and throughout her spear was held at a resting position. When she was finished moving in front of the barrier she nodded to herself and then rider and mount leaped. That was all there was to it. The wall itself was nearly six feet in height. No horse could clear it without being impaled. The beasts of the Sa’ba Taalor were not horses, he’d known that, but he did not expect them to jump the wall as easily as a cat might leap onto a table. But that is what happened. The great monster rose over the wall and then crashed down, and the rider hurled her spear even as the beast turned toward the soldiers making up the wall.
King Kordis had a perfect view of their faces as the great monster lashed out and ripped two soldiers away from the barrier. The wall foundered there, falling as the men were pulled away.
The spear was hurled with terrifying force and drove into the first of the archers, throwing the man sideways with the force of the impact.
By the time the spear had finished its travels, a dozen more of the hellish riders were coming over the living hedge, their beasts roaring out in battle cries that sounded as unsettling as the riders themselves. One of the mounts did not quite clear the barrier and took a spear in the shoulder that ripped a great wound all the way down its length. It fell on the barrier and knocked more shields and soldiers aside. After that, chaos. The wall did not hold, although the soldiers did their best to push forward against the rising tide of the enemy while trying to defend themselves from the great claws of the monstrous mounts. Soldiers took strides forward and then were hauled back and torn open. In the face of that fury the ranks collapsed and despite no order being given, several archers took aim and only added to the chaos. Some might have hit their targets, but not all of them.
The great wall of Sa’ba Taalor that crashed against the remaining wall of spearmen took down their enemies, bloodied and bloodying with the same zeal.
Soldiers retreated. Sa’ba Taalor charged forward. The sheer savagery of the assault left Kordis stunned and speechless.
Enough!
Kordis shook off the unexpected sight and drew his sword. Around him others did the same. Lances were no longer an option; there was simply too much chance of crushing and impaling his own. But swords were a different matter. The horses charged down toward the Sa’ba Taalor and responded to the simple pressure of knees into sides. Horse and rider worked as one, and the king swept his sword across the side of one of the mounts as it came past him, roaring. The sword smashed into heavy armor and cut but not deeply. The impact ran up King Kordis’s arm and he grunted.
One of the gray-skins saw him and swept a long mace at him, but instead of striking the king, the weapon shattered his horse’s face. The horse, well trained or not, was unprepared and dropped, screaming its agony into the air.
The animal fell and so did he, rolling as best he could in full armor. The impact was brutal and surely the gods favored him as his horse did not roll over him during the crash to the cobblestones.
Hooves and legs moved around him as he tried to rise and one of the great mounts landed on horse and rider alike not five feet away, taking both to the ground. He saw the thick claws hook into the flesh of the horse and peel it back with terrifying ease, revealing meat and blood and bone. The teeth focused on the man and savaged his neck, nearly tearing the poor bastard’s head away.
King Kordis made his feet and gathered his sword, sweeping the blade toward the mount. The animal was faster than he’d have imagined and ripped the blade from his hand with one claw. The great, armored face roared. The rider above swept a chain over his head and brought it down on the man next to the king.
He changed targets, Kordis was certain of it. The man had planned to attack him and changed his mind.
No matter. The sword was gone but he was not without weapons. His axe came free and he swept it into the chest of the closest of the gray-skinned enemy. The man blocked his blow and shoved him backward into the side of a horse still standing despite the nightmarish mounts. Kordis stumbled and was hit again, by what he could not guess but pain crashed down his side and across his back and he stumbled but righted himself.
This was so much worse than he’d expected. The lines of combat were supposed to be formal. He’d trained for years with his sword, for years with his axe. He was a proficient archer and a skilled horseman! But in seconds it all fell apart. Where were the guards who were supposed to ride with him? One he’d seen killed but the rest could have been anywhere at all and he would have never known.
A gray savage strode forward and smashed into him, using a heavy shield to send him backward once, twice, a third time. Kordis grunted, staggered back and fell to the ground on his ass. Each blow of the shield had hurt, but none of them broke anything.
He came up as quickly as he could and took his axe to the shield bearer; the blade sank into wood and metal but before he could pull it back the man smashed into him again, using the shield to cast him aside. The axe remained where it was, the gray bastard grinned at him and kicked him in his chest plate, sending him sprawling.
They were everywhere. Soldiers from both sides attacked, hacking with blades, swinging axes, maces, sticks, whatever they could find to attack with after a few moments of heavy struggle. People fell. Some got up while others were stomped into the ground by hooves, boots or clawed feet.
It was overwhelming! King Kordis could scarcely breathe. Hot blood from someone or something spilled across his face and into his left eye. His weapons were gone but he swung with his fist and hit someone. He wasn’t even sure who, exactly, only that they’d felt the blow.
A body smashed into him from the left and another from the right and yet another was pushed into his chest as someone brought a curved blade down and cleaved the poor bastard’s head open.
Kordis lunged forward, hoping to at least manage to find a shield or a blade to use. He was dealt a blow to the side of his head that dropped him again to the ground and left his ear feeling like a hot iron was pressing into it.
The hands that grabbed him were not friendly. He was lifted and spun and thrown through the air and then left to crash into the ground once more.
When he rolled over to stand, the boot that caught him in the side felt like a mule kick to the ribs.
He could not rise. Someone was standing on his back and pressing his face into the dirt at the same time. He tried to move, but was pinned properly. Looking up as best he could he saw the gigantic form of the King in Iron over him, watched the man hack a soldier with the massive sword he wielded and felt the blood of the man wash over him.
Tarag Paedori reached down and caught him by his arm, hauling him to his feet and dragging him along through the crowd of combatants. He did not have a chance to collect himself or even take his feet properly.
“You should have surrendered, Kordis! Your life would be easier, yes?”
Tarag Paedori held him off the ground by his arm and roared, “Here is your king! Here is Kordis!” then threw him to the dirt again.
He had enough time to look up before that great sword of the King in Iron came down and cut his neck open. Kordis’s life ended a few seconds later.
Tarag Paedori looked down at the king of his enemies and nodded. It was good. It was proper. They had met in the field of battle and he had won.
Now he would claim his prize. The dead man’s head was mostly severed. One cut and it came free.
“Take their heads! As many as you can. We will bear them to the palace and let them know what they will face!”
A javelin was all that was required; he drove the tip of one into the bloodied stump of a neck and then raised the head up high for all to see.
“Take them! Take them all, and if your enemy is still alive, take them just the same!”
He rode forward, prize held high, “For Truska-Pren! Take them all in his name!”
His followers listened, and they obeyed.
The best of armies can be weakened by the loss of a leader. In this case the armies of Goltha did not flee, but they writhed and howled and were taken by the tide of the Sa’ba Taalor.
An army is hard to miss. A single individual is often harder to see. Theran did not stride angrily up the hill, either; he approached with extreme caution, knowing that an army waited above and that they were currently raining destruction down on the buildings behind and around him.
King Kordis amused him. The man was standoffish at the best of times and while he was a competent enough ruler, he was not a very good person. He was self-centered, a whoremonger – it did not matter how much a whore cost, he or she was still a whore and Kordis gleefully indulged in both sexes – and believed that the sorcerers should do his bidding. Some fool had told him that wizards could make the sky rain diamonds and since hearing that he’d tried several times to convince Theran to give him a ransom in the gems. The argument over that particular debacle lasted over a year, and only really came to an end a short time ago, when Desh Krohan leveled several miles of forest. After that the king looked at Theran with a great deal more apprehension and possibly even respect.
All of which meant nothing at the moment. The king was off to the north and trying to stop an enemy that was, frankly, terrifying.
And Theran himself was trying to do the same. He doubted either of them would have much success.
Are you there, Corin?
Of course, brother. I am with you. How fares your war?
I haven’t seen them yet. He paused a moment as a loud groan filled the air and a moment later another boulder rolled through the air, whistling and hissing as it rose higher and higher. I am close, however.
How close?
I will see them in another few minutes.
What will you do?
What else? I will attempt to destroy their rock thrower and as many of them as I can.
You are worth more than a rock thrower. Be careful.
He chuckled at that. Rest assured of that. I have no particular desire to die this day or any other.
Corin had been his source of information and the voice he heard the most as he dealt with news of the war on Fellein. It was the other man’s voice that had warned him of the ships coming their way, of the great army coming from the north. He had sources everywhere. He had not known about the eastern attack, but he had definitely warned of all others and had allowed them the chance to strike at the western wing of the attack before it came to the city proper.
Corin was his source for all the news that he needed.
Now, however, he was on his own. The Sooth were being stubborn and refused to share. Corin was easily one of the masters when it came to the Sooth and if he could not get a straight answer from them then surely they were in troubled times.
Theran did not hurry up the hill, but neither did he take his time. When he reached the crest he was wise enough to drop to the ground and look over the edge.
The closest of the enemy was close indeed. The gray man stood only four feet away and looked back at the war engine that his people had created.
The ground was mostly level, with a gentle slope, and the machine that rested on that slope had been stabilized quite well. The framework was built mostly of wood, and in the center a vast arm lay cocked back and ready, with a collection of stones and chunks of wood in a cup large enough to hold a couple of men. Two women were adding more wood to the collection, heavy branches that were burning properly. The wood inside the collection must have been treated for it caught fire easily.
It was the fire that made him move. The vast rocks had done enough damage but the fiery logs scattered among the rocks the size of melons? Theran could only imagine the destruction they would cause.
He focused on the engine itself and used what was already available to work his sorcery. Before they could do whatever it was that would send the rain of stone and fire down on Goltha, Theran forced heat and pressure through every part of the device.
Wood bulged and cracked and exploded in seconds. Several of the gray-skins were caught in the explosion that sent daggers of burning timber in all directions. One of the women lighting the fire staggered backward with a brand burning through her ruined face and fell dead – please, by all the gods, dead. That he could make anyone suffer that way was enough to cause Theran nausea. Several others cried out in pain or challenged whatever might have attacked them in their own language. Words alone did not make speech. Their need to attack and stop whatever had assaulted them was obvious.
It was enough. As far as Theran could see there was only the one machine and that was now burning and ruined.
He backed up as carefully as he could and prepared to flee.
The javelin took him in the side of his neck and drove deep. Theran did not die, but he fell flat and could not move. None of him would move. Not even his smallest finger. He could not shift his eyes, so all that he saw was the boots that came toward him, muddied and well worn.
The voice that spoke was unknown, but he heard the words and understood them.
“My king! We have a sorcerer here. One of the Fellein that can cause magic.” There was a pause and he could nearly feel the eyes that scrutinized him. “I wonder what Ordna will think of him.”
He had no idea who Ordna was. It did not matter. He could do nothing in any event.
In the south the black ships wallowed, stuck against the great iron wall that stopped them from going into Lake Gerhaim. The Sa’ba Taalor attacking the gates were at a disadvantage until their hounds arrived. The vile creatures roared and snapped and took arrow after arrow, distracting the guards from the attack coming from the archers off the ships and keeping them from paying much attention to the gray-skins climbing over the iron gate itself.
The iron was uneven and sawed at skin and leather alike. Many of the Sa’ba Taalor used their tools to make the transit easier, hooking metal with axe heads or wrapping their hands in leather before going further. In any event they progressed slowly across the distance and finally reached the vast openings where the gate rolled out across the waters on hidden tracks in the water.
From there it was only a matter of time. The mechanisms were mostly on a level below the ground and they climbed past the worst of it on the gates themselves, through waters deep enough to require swimming. Those who could not swim were forced to crawl higher in the hopes of finding another way, but remarkably few sailors fail to learn how to swim.
The locking mechanisms that kept the gates extended were guarded, but not by a large party. It was not long before the Sa’ba Taalor seized the areas and then started puzzling out how the devices worked.
Trial and error. Fifteen minutes after they accessed the locking mechanisms the Sa’ba Taalor managed to unlock the gates. After that all they had to figure out was how to make the gates part and recede.
Callan and his crew moved along the river at a steady yet impossible clip. He could not have traveled at the speeds he was managing, and yet he did. Miles of river roared past, though there was little breeze and no indication that he or his ship could possibly be going at such speeds.
Daivem Murdro still stood by his side, looking toward the horizon. He studied her face, the explosion of braids that ran down her back. She was dressed in a white cotton top and a skirt made from a fabric he had never seen before.
Ahead they could see the great gate had been closed. He had only seen one of the massive gates in that position once before and that had been on a different river heading for Goltha.
“That’s going to be a challenge, I fear.”
“We are not worried about reaching Goltha this day, Captain Callan. We are here to visit the people who killed your crew, yes?” Daivem smiled at him, mischief in her eyes. She held no weapons save her walking stick, much like her brother’s but with fewer skulls carved into the hard wood, but she did not seem at all afraid of the Sa’ba Taalor.
Callan could not say the same. He was bloody terrified of the very notion of running across the gray-skins a second time. But he would do this, because he owed it to his crew. They’d been murdered brutally and much as he wished he could forget that, he could not. He could not forgive it, either; they were a mostly honest crew who wanted little but to make a living and he’d sent them into danger and watched as the Sa’ba Taalor slaughtered them.
And the bastards had let him live. That was the worst of it, really. That was the unforgivable sin. They’d left him alive to suffer with what had happened. He wanted them dead for that.
He blinked back the sting of tears.
Daivem looked his way and nodded. “Sometimes the pain of witnessing so much death is enough to drive anyone mad.”
“So let’s do this. Let’s give the dead their satisfaction.”
Daivem nodded and then pointed toward the black ships. Shapes scaled the great iron gate and at first he thought they might try to pry the locked bars apart but instead they moved sideways over the crisscross of bars, heading across the vast river in both directions, crossing over the locked gate like ants moving over a tow line.
“What goes through their minds?” Callan spoke mostly to himself.
Daivem answered just the same, “They want to force the gates, I suppose.”
“Is that even possible?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen the gates of Goltha before.” She frowned a bit, smiled a bit and then bared her teeth in a wide grin. “They are glorious, are they not?”
Callan grinned back. “They are impressive, but not so much of a pleasure to see when you are waiting for them to part and lined up seven boats deep.”
“What shall we do about these black ships, Captain Callan?”
Callan looked at the gathered ships. There were enough of them to be sure. Twenty or more of the vessels were pushed up along the gate that would, he suspected, be opened sooner rather than later.
There was no possible way for them to destroy the ships. Perhaps if there were a sorcerer or two on board that would be a hope, but no, there was just Callan, a few of the Louron, and a crew of dead folk who seemed to share a similar goal to his.
“You’re certain none of you are proper sorcerers?” He offered Daivem his best smile, as if that might possibly make her change her mind.
“We are not, but we are willing to learn.”
“I’m afraid that might take more time than we have. So let’s see what we can do to cause chaos and then try to avoid dying for as long as possible.”
The Brellar ship he rode on moved forward as it had before, and Daivem nodded.
Ten minutes later they had reached the first of the great black ships. From above, on the decks of the ship, a dozen or more looked down at his vessel and seemed to stare specifically at him.
Whatever it was the people on that ship said, he did not understand the words.
Rather than turn away, Callan drove the prow of his ship into the solid side of the Sa’ba Taalor vessel. Wood shattered. The two vessels became one and the newly formed shape wept water as the river rushed past broken boards on both of them.
Callan smiled and reached for his sword. If he was going to die, he was going to do his best to avenge every last sailor he’d seen killed.
Near him, not speaking, but still unsettlingly active, the dead who’d sailed with him came forward and drew their spectral swords.
Tuskandru looked back the way he had come and smiled tightly. He was tired, but it was a good feeling, one of satisfaction after a day of hard slaughter. As far as he could see his people moved behind him, ready for more combat.
Stastha moved closer to him, her long-handled axe held over one shoulder, and nodded. “We have captured a few, those who surrendered. One says he is the lord of this city. It is his to rule. He would speak with you.”
“Of course he would. He wants to surrender or to parley.”
“Will you talk to him?”
He looked at her and studied her face. She had four new wounds on her chin and across the side of her head. She was smiling as much as he was. It was good to please the gods.
“Bring him to me.”
He leaned back into the side of his mount and smiled. Brodem grunted and rumbled but supported his weight with ease.
The man brought to him was wounded, but not dead. He was soft, and dressed in clothes that were for show and had little to do with anything but looking as colorful as possible, near as Tusk could tell. He had armor, yes, but it covered only his chest, and the metal was soft enough that it had been dented several times and showed every sword blow as if a knife had scraped at mud.
“What is your name?”
The man looked at him and held his head high. “I am Levron of Goltha. I am tasked with ruling this city.”
“You are not doing so good a job.” Tusk smiled. “The city is mostly mine now. And what I do not hold belongs to other kings.”
“Why have you done this thing?” Levron stared at him, lips peeled back and eyes narrowed. He wanted to kill Tusk. Tusk respected that.
“Because my gods told me to. Because the air here is sweet and I like the view when I look down at the lake. Because that city is coming here.” He pointed to Canhoon, which over the course of only hours had grown much larger and loomed above the far side of the lake. “And I want that city. I want to destroy it and the people who are there.”
“What has any of that to do with us? Why do you attack my people?”
Tuskandru looked down at Levron. The man was not restrained, and yet he did not attack. He wanted to. Tusk could feel how much the man wanted to attack him, to kill him.
“Why don’t you do it? Why don’t you attack me, Lord Levron of Goltha? I am here before you right now. You will never have a better chance to kill me in your life.”
Levron blinked at the notion. “Because I am surrounded by your troops.”
“Why should that stop you? What do you fear?”
“I would stand no chance.”
Tusk shook his head. “And so you do not even try?”
“To what end?” The man’s voice trembled with emotion.
“What are you afraid of? Failure? Death? Disappointing your gods?”
The man did not answer.
“Had you fought you might have won. I am tired and have spent hours in combat.” He held up a hand to show how the fingers trembled slightly. “Braver than you have fought me and some have bled me. They died, yes, but better to die trying than to simply fail because you will not.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You are right and I do not want to. My gods have tasked me and I obey. If I die, it is what the gods want. If I live it is to serve them.” Tuskandru shook his head. “Had you tried, perhaps I would have spared you. I might have offered you a chance at surrender. But to avoid fighting because you might not win? That is cowardice.”
He looked to Stastha. “Kill this dog. He is not worth my efforts.”
Stastha nodded her head and turned to the man. Her first blow rattled his eyes in his skull. She hit him again and again while he tried to fend her off. She did not waste her weapons on the task. He was not worth the effort.
Far to the north the palace was untouched.
“They have stopped throwing stones now. They should come down and join in on the actual fight.”
Stastha nodded her head and once again pulled her horn. She blew several sharp notes and waited. Soon enough other horns throughout the city responded.
Tusk nodded his approval. Then, “How did Tarag Paedori get across the river on the other side? I did not see a bridge.”
“There was a man there who took people across the waters on a boat as long as they could pay the coin.”
“I wonder if he paid.”
“If he did, it must have taken many trips across the river.”
Tusk shook his head. It was a question he did not want to think on any longer. The sun would be setting soon and he wanted to make camp and rest.
“Clear out the closest buildings and prepare. We will camp here.”
They did not stay in the buildings, but they made use of them just the same. They were good walls, made of stone and worked to help barricade any possible ways to attack.