Andover Iron Hands paced the courtyard that had been designated for the final battle. The ground was level, the dirt soft but not so soft that one could sink into it.
The wall at the edge of the courtyard carried several different sorts of weapons, but Andover did not bother looking. He carried his weapon of choice: the axe created by the gods themselves to help him win this combat.
He had not expected Desh Krohan as his enemy. The thought made him want to piss himself.
Desh Krohan was known for his powers of sorcery. He had killed men from half way around the world with a word. He had helped raise the Silent Army, which even now was guarding the access points to the courtyard. The Sa’ba Taalor stood on one side of the area, the Fellein on the other and, in the middle, in the courtyard, Andover looked at both sides.
Desh Krohan had not yet shown himself. Still there was plenty to see. The Sisters stood on the side of the Fellein, and next to them Tega watched on. General Merros Dulver stood there as well, next to the Empress, who stared hard at Andover and made him feel uncomfortable, if only a little. She was the enemy here, today. She and her Empire had crushed down the Sa’ba Taalor for far too long. They were weak, and they were soft and they were fatted like calves and ready to be sacrificed to the gods.
And yet….
Brolley Krous, who had almost started this war on his own, looked on from the other side of his sister, his face unreadable. Next to him Queen Lanaie stood, her arm wrapped around Brolley’s bicep.
On the other side Andover could see Drask Silver Hand standing near Tarag Paedori and several others he did not recognize. Drask did not stand still. He talked with the King in Iron and then moved on.
He knew there were more of them within the city. He could not see them, but they were there.
The Fellein parted and the striking shape of Desh Krohan came forward, dressed in his robes and nearly gliding across the ground. Was he as massive as Tarag Paedori? No, still he struck an impressive figure. His hood was up and his face lost in shadows and he seemed, at all times, to be staring directly at Andover, even when he was obviously looking elsewhere.
Tega stared at him, and Andover felt his stomach freezing over again. He had loved her once, or thought he did. And now she was looking his way and he couldn’t quite make our what was going through her head. Was she angry with him for his choice to be the champion of the Daxar Taalor? Or was that pity, she with the knowledge of what her master could do and how very easily he would kill Andover?
Back in Tyrne there had been a man to announce the combats. Andover remembered him. No such man was here.
Desh Krohan entered the courtyard. One second it seemed he was near the Empress and the next he was only paces from Andover.
Tarag Paedori moved onto the field. He carried no weapons and still he intimidated.
“We all know why we are here.” It was not a question, still Andover and Desh alike nodded their heads.
“Step back and choose your weapons.”
Both stepped back and Andover considered the javelins and spears. Finally he grabbed one of the spears and hefted it.
Desh Krohan took a spear as well, which rather surprised Andover.
Tarag Paedori stood at the edge of the wall and bellowed, “Begin!”
Andover sighted and threw his spear. Desh Krohan did the same. Andover’s spear cut the air and struck the sorcerer in the chest, falling to the ground.
The wizard’s spear tore through Andover’s shoulder, easily slicing meat.
Andover moved in, ignoring his bloodied arm and gripping his axe. The sorcerer moved, not foolish enough to wait for an attack. He stepped to the side and Andover swept the axe toward his chest.
The blade hit the wizard’s robes and cut through them where the spear had failed.
Desh Krohan let out a yell and backed away, looking at the axe. Andover did not wait. He came in hard and fast and used his body mass to knock the man sideways. Before Desh could recover, the axe was whistling down at his head.
Desh reached out with his hand and caught the edge of the blade. The obsidian blade sliced into meat and through bone, taking Desh Krohan’s fingers.
The wizard fell back, bleeding freely from his wounds. Tega let out a yelp of dismay and Desh Krohan stepped back again and this time he nodded.
The obsidian axe exploded. Had Andover not had the weapon behind him it would have surely killed him, but instead it only tore muscles away from his right leg.
The pain hammered at Andover. Chunks of the obsidian blade now shivered in the muscles of his thigh and brought about exquisite agonies.
Desh Krohan held his wounded hand and stared at Andover. Andover in turn pulled the largest pieces of the axe from his leg. Had he had hands of flesh he would surely have lost the one holding his weapon. Even now his fingers screamed and his palm ached and his wrist felt like it was broken. It was not. He tested that theory before he moved forward.
The sorcerer waited for him and Andover reached out, planning to throw the man to the ground.
Instead it was he who was thrown. Whatever the man did, it knocked Andover back a dozen feet and left his body twitching.
He looked at the sorcerer with an effort. Desh Krohan stood in the same spot and slowly raised his good hand, letting the other bleed. The flow of blood was weakened, but not gone. Andover didn’t think it was blood loss alone. The man was healing himself somehow.
Iron fingers clutched at the dirt and he made a fist.
As Andover rose he sighted and as he stood he aimed. A moment later he was hopping toward the sorcerer and the man was preparing. He had cost Desh Krohan fingers; he suspected he would not be long for this world if he did not win quickly.
The dirt hit the sorcerer. It slipped under the cowl covering his features. Desh Krohan stepped back and shook his head, momentarily blinded with any luck, and Andover charged. His leg was weak but holding him. His fist went into the cowl and struck flesh and bone.
At the exact same moment, the wizard slapped him in the chest. Andover flew backward, his eyes blinded, his ears ringing with a deafening peal, and he did his best to roll as he smashed into the ground and bounced all the way to the distant wall.
His muscles did not want to respond, but he still managed to reach his hands and knees.
Andover blinked furiously as a great blue veil of afterimage covered his vision. There was sight, but it was blurred.
He managed to stand, but only with a great deal of effort.
“Easy, Iron Hands. Easy. You’ve won.”
Andover recognized the voice of Tarag Paedori and slumped a bit.
He was doing his best, but the pain was overwhelming.
His eyes finally focused enough to let him see Desh Krohan lying on the ground. The man was breathing, but he was not moving much beyond his chest.
Tega and the Sisters moved to him, surrounding him.
“Get me metal! Iron Hands needs aid.”
“Is this a victory? Or is this a draw?” Tarag cried. “Neither of our champions can fight any longer.” He looked toward Nachia Krous as she called from her side of the courtyard.
Andover spat blood that tasted wrong in his mouth. He worked hard to form the words as he forced himself to stand. “I am not dead and I can stand.” He was shaking as he reached for another spear. “If needs be, I can still kill your sorcerer. Do you want that, Empress Krous?”
To make his point clear he walked toward the downed sorcerer. All around him the Fellein looked on, genuinely horrified. The Sa’ba Taalor remained calm, waiting to see the outcome of Andover’s words.
His skin was black in places. He was burned and very badly, he knew that. It was not the fire of the Forges. That would have caused him no injury. It was the fire of the storms. The light striking his chest had been lightning. The roar had been thunder. He looked at the iron hand that held his spear. It was smoking. The metal was scorched but seemed unharmed.
Tega looked up at him and pulled Desh Krohan’s broken face into her lap, using her body to protect him. Andover did not look her way.
“I do not want to do this, Empress! I have a great fondness for Desh Krohan, but you have made him your champion. Do you accept defeat or do I kill him?”
He walked on, ignoring the parts of him that howled for his attention. It was only pain and life was pain.
No one spoke. Not from either side, but Tega sobbed softly and broke Andover’s heart again.
“Please, Empress. Do not make me kill this man.”
He raised the spear, prepared to bring down a deathblow.
Tega looked at him with wet eyes and shook her head.
Nachia Krous, Empress of Fellein, looked at the sorcerer on the ground and then looked at Andover Lashk.
“Fellein yields.”
Andover nodded and dropped his spear. The war was over.
Tarag Paedori nodded and three of the Sa’ba Taalor moved to Andover’s side. The clothes were carefully peeled from the vast, blistered marks on his body.
Had he not seen it himself, the King in Iron would have denied the possibility. The man had been struck by lightning and thrown across the field of battle. His skin was blistered in a hundred places and a blackened handprint adorned his chest where the sorcerer had touched him and cast electricity through his body.
Tarag had watched, had seen the lightning arc through him. He had seen the boy fall and expected him to be dead. And then Andover Iron Hands had worked his way to his feet.
Burnt, bleeding, injured inside and out, the champion of the Daxar Taalor had managed the impossible and taken down the Fellein’s sorcerer.
He watched as metal was used to heal a dozen life-threatening wounds.
He watched and felt the gods reach down and touch Andover Iron Hands, healing his vast injuries.
Then Truska-Pren spoke into him. The god said, IT IS TIME. I WOULD BE REBORN.
Tarag Paedori nodded and looked toward the city of Goltha.
The city would burn. The world would understand the power of the Sa’ba Taalor.
He felt the power roaring up inside him as he stared at the ground just above the city.
Truska-Pren would rise. The great towers and walls of Prydiria, the Iron Fortress, would be his once more.
“So let it be done.”
Tarag Paedori looked across the lake.
Drask Silver Hand looked at Tarag Paedori.
Not far away, lost in the crowd of the Fellein, Cullen let out a whimper and fell to her knees on the stones of the courtyard.
Desh Krohan did not miss much. He did not miss the fist that moved under his cowl and broke his nose, his jaw, his left cheekbone and eye socket and seven teeth. Iron Hands. Iron fist, more like. He may as well have been struck in the face with a mace. A few seconds after that he missed completely, as he was knocked into a stupor by Andover Iron Hands.
He should have still been in that state. His face had been shattered, his fingers cut off and he was suffering from massive blood loss. He’d also just used lightning on another person and that was draining beyond most people’s comprehension.
His head rested in Tega’s lap. He felt the power she was using to mend him even as she cried over him and half-shielded him from Andover’s view.
Andover, the poor bastard, looked as bad as he felt.
And then he was healed and Nachia was conceding her Empire to spare him his life.
Then the power in the area shifted. When Tarag Paedori had made his move before and driven his sword into the ground there had been no perception of power. That was because, as Desh had recently learned, the power had not come from the King in Iron but from Tuskandru.
This time the sensation was entirely different. Every one of the Sisters, Tega and likely every sorcerer in the city felt the power that moved through the King in Iron.
The Sooth had power. No two ways about that. Even contacting the Sooth took a great deal of power and preparation. Dealing with the Sooth was like trying to stand in a fastmoving river while juggling a dozen rocks and singing drunken songs at the loudest tavern ever built. It was noisy, draining, and required incredible self-control. The smallest mishap could cause injuries and true mistakes sometimes led to death.
The force that moved past all of them made the power of the Sooth seem like a candle next to the sun.
All of them were moved by it. The Sa’ba Taalor looked to their King in Iron and roared Truska-Pren’s name. The Fellein stood their ground but blinked and paused as if a great wind had cut across their path unexpectedly. The Sisters and Desh shuddered as the power moved past.
Tega did not shudder. She looked toward Drask Silver Hand.
Drask looked to Cullen and nodded. Desh was aware of all of that simply because he had trained himself to be aware.
He heard Drask Silver Hand’s words. “Now. It is now or not at all.”
Tega closed her eyes and something vast jumped like a bolt of lightning from her to Cullen.
Cullen jerked and seized and fell jittering to the ground. Desh sat up immediately and felt the world tilt madly as he looked at the young guardian of the Mother-Vine.
Drask Silver Hand stepped past him and reached for the cloaked shape of Nolan March. He did not ask. He took.
Desh could feel the power rise from the boy and get drawn into Drask Silver Hand.
He dared look at the man and wished that he had not. Most of the people around him were looking to the east, where the ground shook and started to break above the city of Goltha.
Desh did not. He looked to the man with the silver arm who wrested a power greater than any Desh had ever seen from a simpleton who fell screaming to his knees.
Whatever that power was, it seethed and whipped around that metallic arm. And then Drask Silver Hand released it. The energies he had stolen bullwhipped around him and then ripped across the air toward where the last wave of energy had left Tarag Paedori.
The King in Iron roared and charged for Drask.
The ground settled and stilled near the city of Goltha.
Cullen screamed again and fell motionless.
Desh fell back, his senses nearly blinded by everything happening around him.
There was nothing to see. Callan was sure of that, but still he looked. His senses were drawn to the far side of the lake and to Goltha. He could not have said why in a thousand years, but he was compelled to look.
There was nothing else to do, really. He had stopped trying to fight the Sa’ba Taalor when they stabbed him in his side.
He’d patched himself fairly well and then settled back against the Mid Wall to either live or die as the gods might decide. He was never a soldier, not like the Fellein or the gray-skins. He was a captain who liked to make money by moving people and things from one place to another. He was a man who liked an occasional woman. What he was not was a fighter. He would rather couple than kill and that was all there was to it.
Se he decided to sit this one out and he was staring at Goltha when the first Thing happened.
Never much of a man for words, that was his phrase when the disasters hit. They were Things.
The storm that sank his father’s fishing boat? It was a Thing. The Sa’ba Taalor taking Tyrne? Another Thing.
He felt the power tear across the lake. He even saw it. The waters slashed apart from each other in a vast wave, as if a ship of truly impossible size were cutting the lake in half to reach a new destination. There was no impact when that trail hit the land, but only seconds later the land above Goltha began to bulge and become a Thing. He did not know what would occur next but he could guess. There would be fire soon and it would burn the lungs right out of him even from across the lake.
Then it happened again. The lake shivered and whatever it was that moved across the water skittered and danced like a snake just under the surface. The waters ripped and rippled, danced and twisted, and any poor fool who was out on a boat would surely have been sunk as easily as the black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor. The water and the Thing hit them at the same time and they shattered. That was the only word to describe it. Wood bulged and popped and flew apart.
That one actually moved his hair and Callan winced at the feeling that ran through his body. It wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was damned BIG.
A moment later the ground beyond Goltha stopped bulging.
And then the air above Goltha screamed.
The city itself did not escape. Whatever was up there, whatever it might be that fought, it shattered several of the taller buildings as easily as the ships. The stone blew outward and some of it even melted. He was looking right at the stuff and though it was very far away he saw light flaring on stone and then stone spilling out in a cascade that looked like burning water.
Callan stayed exactly where he was and wished he had a bottle of wine.
Whatever it was that moved over the city, he could see it if he squinted. There were two Things and they warred and he suspected they planned for death.
Cullen wept.
The pain was gone. Whatever had been inside her was gone and the lack of pain alone was enough to make her feel empty and cored out.
There was nothing left of her. Her muscles felt as if they’d been flattened in her body and she could barely breathe.
Deltrea squatted next to her.
“Come on, Cullen! It’s time!”
“Time for what?”
“For whatever is going to happen. You aren’t supposed to stay here. You’re supposed to join with that thing.”
“How the hell would you know that?” She sounded petulant even to herself. She was not speaking out loud this time. She couldn’t. Her jaw refused to work. There were people around her now, looking down and stepping back, horrified by whatever they saw.
Deltrea reached out for her and hauled on her arm. Cullen moaned as she was lifted into a sitting position.
“Come on, Cullen!”
“How are you holding me?” Even through her pain she knew that should have been impossible.
“Shut up, and come with me you fool or it’s all for nothing!” Deltrea was smiling, which made as little sense as everything else.
Cullen looked to the east and heard the sounds of battle. Something roared and something else screamed and when she looked there were shapes up there, vast as the heavens, and fighting. Most of the fools around her were looking at her and ignoring the spectacle across the skies and over the lake and moving north at a frightening pace and–
“MOVE!”
Deltrea pulled at her and something tore and the next thing Cullen knew the world was spinning.
“The Mother-Vine needs you. You’re a part of her now. She’s got to win this and she can’t do it without you.”
The pain was gone and Deltrea’s words sank into her. As she moved, she recognized the shape of the Mother-Vine for what it was: an endless expanse of tendrils offering life and protection. It was not real. There was no mass, but that was the shape just the same as it writhed across the skies and slashed at the hard lines and angles of the nightmare trying to crush the Mother-Vine once and for all.
Madness, of course, except that there was another presence with her, distant and dying, an ember that had once been the mate of the First Advisor.
That ember glowed brightly one last time and urged Cullen on without words.
The Mother-Vine was not dead, not even dying, but she would be soon without Cullen. There was no question of this in her mind, no doubt about the validity of the notion, and no time to consider in any event.
“Now, Cullen! Now!” Deltrea’s voice rang in her mind and she nodded, annoyed and grateful to her friend at the same time.
Cullen reached out and touched the Mother-Vine, uncertain how she could move so far, so fast, or how she’d learned to fly.
Far below, the crowd looked on as a few people tried to revive the body of a girl who’d fled Trecharch when the dead walked and the Sa’ba Taalor killed all on their path.
Their efforts were wasted. There was nothing left but flesh and meat.
“Do they honor the pact?”
Jost stood next to Swech and looked on as the Fellein stood around.
“I cannot say.”
Swech tried to speak to Paedle. The instructions were simple. If the Empress did not yield, the Empress died.
Jost looked on, trying to comprehend what was happening. Andover Iron Hands had won, they knew that.
He had taken down the sorcerer and let him live. Then he had fallen, and then Truska-Pren moved through Tarag Paedori.
All made perfect sense until that moment.
It was easy to discern what was supposed to happen. The great mountain would rise and the glory of the Seven Forges would be seen by everyone.
And then the King in Iron charged at Drask Silver Hand.
Drask turned toward the King in Iron and defended himself, stepping past the boy on the ground before him. Tarag grabbed and Drask moved and Swech could have easily predicted what happened next.
Tarag Paedori smashed into the ground and came to a rolling stop. He was not injured but his pride likely hurt.
“You betray us!” Tarag stormed toward Drask again.
Drask shook his head. “Your god would see us all burned for winning the day, Tarag Paedori. I merely defended myself and everyone here.”
Swech shook her head. She could understand nothing that Drask had done.
“You betray the gods, Drask Silver Hand! Face me!”
“I have not moved, Tarag.” The man’s voice was filled with regret. “You have won your victory today. The Empire is yours and belongs to your gods. Let this be enough.”
The larger man shook his head and moved closer again and the gathering of Fellein around them wisely moved out of the way.
Swech called to Paedle, seeking guidance. But there was no sound, no voice to guide her and she felt afraid for the first time in her life.
She reached further, called to the other gods and once again received only silence as an answer.
“Where are they?” Swech was unaware that she was even speaking aloud.
“Where are who?” Jost frowned and looked her way.
“Where are the gods? Why don’t they answer?”
The look on Jost’s face a second later told her all she needed to know. Her young friend was hearing nothing but silence as well.
The battle ended.
The raging energies of Truska-Pren and the Mother-Vine crashed to the earth, and the ground where they struck shattered.
The burned ruins of Trecharch bulged, and seconds later Truska-Pren rose from the ground, the vast black mountain reborn in only seconds. The explosion blew down the ruined trees and shook the air for a hundred miles. The heat blasting down from the mountain would have burned away anything in its path, and the cloud of smoke that rose into the skies was as black as the space between the stars.
Where normally the Sa’ba Taalor would have been howling their approval to the gods, instead they stared around, stunned by a silence they had never heard in their lives before.
The Daxar Taalor were silent.
Beyond the reach of Truska-Pren the Blasted Lands grew quiet as the storms there faded again. From the depths of the mounds the ground shook and split, and what remained of the vast stone monoliths collapsed.
Tarag Paedori stood facing Drask Silver Hand and shook his head. “What madness is this?”
Drask’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know what you mean?”
“Where are the Daxar Taalor? Where are the gods?” Tarag Paedori’s voice shook with suppressed rage and he took a long, menacing step toward Drask.
“Where they have always been. I hear them calling for you. Why do you not answer?”
“Liar!” Tarag came toward him another step and Drask stood his ground, rolling his shoulders and preparing for the fight he knew would happen.
“I have never lied to you, Tarag. You know this. You have only to open your mind to the gods and you will hear them as I do.”
“It is not just me!” Tarag’s voice was filled with grief like a blade that cut his soul in half. “Who among you can hear the gods?” He looked to his own people and heard no one say anything positive. Most were only just now trying to find the gods and failing to hear a response.
Drask shook his head. “Truska-Pren wants to speak with you. He calls your name, King in Iron.”
Tarag looked around with desperation in his gaze. This was an impossibility.
Andover Iron Hands, only recently healed, nodded his head. “I can hear him, Tarag Paedori. I hear his call. He wants you to come to him.”
“I’ll kill you for this!” The challenge was offered to Drask.
It was not merely a threat. His honor was on the line, his faith in the gods was on the line. He heard the gods, heard them calling and refused to accept the madness of a foolish man who had suddenly gone deaf. “You have challenged me, Tarag Paedori and I accept your challenge! Face me!”
Drask moved, sliding effortlessly to the wall of the courtyard and entering it.
The King in Iron came his way, hurdling the wall with ease. He grabbed a sword as he moved.
Drask chose instead to use the bullwhip he carried coiled around his waist. The king charged and Drask moved aside, backing away hastily. He could have killed Tarag with a glance. The power he’d absorbed was still there. That was why he took the well of energies from Nolan.
A second charge and Drask ducked under the swing, stepping in fast and driving his elbow into the King in Iron’s ribs. He felt bones snap. The king paid them no heed and drove himself against Drask before he could catch his balance. The sword came down again and Drask caught it with his silver hand, gripping the blade tight and pushing.
The blade shattered in his grip.
Tarag drove his forehead into Drask’s face and knocked him sprawling.
A moment later the broken sword was coming for him and Drask rolled, hissing as the jagged metal cut a line of blood across his side and back.
“What have you done to me?” Tarag’s voice broke with raw emotion and Drask, on the ground below him, swept the king’s leg and knocked him down. The fingers of his silver hand caught in the king’s hair and he yanked the man closer, even as he wrapped his legs into the king’s own legs and bent his body and crushed.
The sound of Tarag Paedori’s thigh breaking was a sound he would never forget. It hurt him deeply to cause a man he considered a friend pain, and yet as always he did what he felt he had to do.
“Yield, King in Iron. Accept defeat and go home to your god.” He leaned in closer and pressed his elbow against the king’s neck and jaw. They both knew that he could shatter the man’s skull if he applied enough pressure. They also both knew he was capable of it.
“There is no dishonor here. The gods cannot reach you and I have not been fighting for endless hours. Go home. Go to Truska-Pren and find out why he has been silenced. Let him heal you, Tarag Paedori. I will make certain no one brings you harm.”
The king trembled. It could have been rage, or fear or simple exhaustion. “I yield. This day, I yield. The battle is over, if not the war.”
“No. This war is finished. You have yielded to me.”
Drask rolled off the other man and made himself stand. “The King in Iron yields! Go home to your gods and find your way back into their graces!”
There was anger on the faces of the Sa’ba Taalor. There was also fear. An army that had true faith in their gods might be unstoppable, but that faith had been ruined, at least for the moment.
It took hours, but the Sa’ba Taalor left. Most of them at any rate. There were several of the children of the Daxar Taalor who were still hidden in the flesh of the Fellein. None of them left. Through one means or another the rest made their way across Gerhaim heading in several different directions.
They abandoned Canhoon, heading for the homes of the Daxar Taalor.
Drask and the Silent Army watched them leave.