Chapter Thirteen

 

 

Argush stood atop the hill where his tent—which had served as the Broken’s until he had turned traitor—sat. He’d been going over reports and suddenly decided that he needed a break, needed to escape the suffocating tent, to forget, for at least a moment, the many issues—the Broken and the girl’s escape chief among them—demanding his attention. And gazing out over the field below him, he was glad he had. Despite all the Ekirani’s crimes, despite the fact that Argush, if given the chance, would rip his throat out with his bare talons, he was forced to admit that the man had done a fine job of picking the location for his command tent.

The spot was approximately central to the army itself. Even better, it stood on a large hill so that in one turning, Argush could get a good idea of the numbers of his forces and their disposition. Numbers which were growing everyday by the hundreds, often the thousands, as men and women who had learned the truth of the Light’s lies became disillusioned with the world and chose to serve the Dark instead. Years ago, had someone told him that so many would answer his call, Argush would have thought them mad. But then he had been a fool, and he was that man no longer. In the strictest sense, he did not believe that he even was a man. Such a thought might once have terrified him, but not anymore.

He was far more than he had once been, far more powerful with senses that made his previous ones pale in comparison. He possessed vision that could pierce the darkness now covering the world without difficulty, could make out the thousands of tents spread out all around him. His transformation into Argush had made him hate the light, to feel the pain of it when it touched his skin, yet he was glad of seeing so many blazes burning just the same, for each fire meant more human troops for his army. Such soldiers might not have the inherent power and ferocity that his nightlings did, but Argush had been in Ilrika during the uprising, and he knew better than most the destruction of which human beings were capable. The thought of the power already at his command sent a shiver of eagerness through him as he thought of the city and the people inside—Alesh in particular—who dared to stand against him. He wanted to move against them now, to send his army pouring against them, surging over the walls and the city’s meager defenses, a tide of blood and death. Yet, Shira had told him to wait, and so he would. He only hoped he would not have to wait for long.

Already his forces far outnumbered those that the beleaguered city could hope to muster in its defense, though he had to admit that the men and women who had joined his forces weren’t soldiers, trained in the art of warfare as so many of the city’s defenders were. They weren’t really an army, at all, not in truth. What they were was a mob. An angry horde of people who, discontent with the pain and suffering the world had visited on them, wanted nothing more than to visit it on something else and, in that way, find some solace, some answer for their pain.

Argush understood that all too well, just as he understood that while those under his command might not have been a conventional army, mobs, if they were large enough, could threaten cities. Mobs, if they were angry enough, could topple kingdoms. Large enough, angry and motivated enough—and while their skill and knowledge might indeed be questioned, the motivations of his army for violence and mayhem could be seen in the nightly fights, many fatal, which broke out in the camp—such a mob might even threaten the world itself.

Which, in the end, was exactly what he intended to do.

Once Valeria, the greatest threat against his army was swept aside, the entire country of Entarna would be unprotected. His hordes would sweep across the width and breadth of Entarna, across the world itself, cutting down any who opposed them with fang and talon. When it was done, Argush would be the ruler not just of Valeria, not just of Entarna, but of the world. Not a king at all, really, but more than that. Better than that. “I will be a god,” he hissed, smiling and counting on the darkness to shield his true nature from his generals—those few of the angry masses who had expressed at least some knowledge and skill in warfare—whom he’d left further down the hill while he contemplated his growing army.

A god?

The voice thundered in his head, and Argush cried out in sudden anguish, collapsing to his knees under the force of it.

Would you challenge me, Argush? the voice demanded. Each syllable felt like a lightning strike in his head, and he was only dimly aware of the desperate, mewling sounds escaping his throat.

“Chosen,” a voice said from behind him, the concern in its tone evident, “is everything oka—”

“Get back!” Argush snarled, spinning on the man who’d approached, and the general froze, his eyes going wide.

“O-of course, sir,” he said, backing away to where the others stood, but Argush barely noticed him, still feeling the effects of the voice and its strength echoing inside his head.

“I-I wouldn’t dare, mistress,” he gasped. “P-please, the pain is too—”

I have been challenged before, Argush, the goddess said into his mind, and instead of lessening, the pain doubled. His talons dug deep furrows into the dew-damp grass as greater agony than he ever imagined shook his frame.

I have been challenged before, Shira said again, each word like daggers lancing into his mind, and you are not the first servant who I’ve had to remind of his place. Your predecessor required such reminding more than once. I wonder if you will be so…obstinate, as well.

“P-please, mistress,” Argush wheezed, barely able to draw breath for the pain. “I, I live to serve…you. Only that.”

Perhaps, the voice said, and the agony finally abated enough to allow him to heave a desperate, slobbering breath. We will see. You are my creature, Argush, made for my purposes, my design. You are no more than my dog, one which will obey what orders I give it, and should you not…well, beasts which defy their masters must, in the end, be put down.

“I…I won’t,” Argush said. “I serve you, mistress. Always.”

Perhaps, she said again, her tone sounding somehow bored. You have failed me too much already. Despite the forces I have gathered for you, the Ekirani and the girl still roam free. You will find them—you must find them.

“I will,” he said hurriedly, fearing that, should he hesitate even the slightest amount, the pain would return. “I’ll go now.” He began to rise but froze when she spoke.

That is not all. You will gather the army, and you will go to the city. It is past time they paid for opposing me, and I am eager to see the suffering the city’s destruction will cause to my foolish husband.

“O-of course, Goddess,” Argush answered, then, scared that speaking further might enrage her once more but even more terrified that to say nothing would only make matters worse, he hesitated . Finally he blurted. “B-but, we do not have among our army—great as they are—any who are knowledgeable in siege craft.” Being the son of a wealthy nobleman, Argush, then known as Kale Leandrian, had been tutored in such matters, of course. But those who’d trained him—retired generals and retired fencing masters—had all been old men talking of old wars, and he young and rich and handsome. He had thought of them then—thought of them, even now—as relics of a past for which he cared nothing, a past which meant nothing. And so, he had paid little attention to their lectures, choosing instead to use those moments to think of the woman he’d lain with the night before, or the woman who he would lay in the night to come. That or, of course, to nurse and review the mental list of grievances, of wrongs done and debts yet unpaid, which he always kept, considering the best way to avenge those slights which had been done to him.

As if she read his thoughts, Shira spoke into his mind, her voice sounding mocking. But what of you, Argush? Does not your own training, your own tutoring seem equal to the task?

He might have been offended by that, had another spoken those words. Perhaps, he was even offended now, but he knew showing offense would be as good as inviting the pain back, pain that might well kill him, for even now he could feel the blood trickling from his nose and ears, winding in crimson streaks down his scaled face. “I do not, mistress,” he said finally. “I fear I did not…pay attention as well as I might have.”

A lesson you must take to heart, one you must remember, Shira said, still in that mocking tone. But when she spoke again her voice was filled not with taunting, not anymore, but with barely restrained fury, and he was put in mind of the dark, roiling clouds that gathered before a terrible storm. Perhaps you did not pay attention to your tutors, but you will pay attention to me, or you will suffer for it. Now, go and prepare the army as I have said. As for that knowledge you seek…I will send someone to aid you.

“Of course, mistress,” Argush answered, running a trembling hand across his face and rising, keeping the hate he felt, the rage he felt at being treated so, away from his expression, keeping it as far as possible even from his own thoughts, promising himself that, one day, she would pay. Some might have believed it impossible to slay a god but then those same people would have likely believed it impossible for the world to fall to nightlings, as it soon would. And where one of those things might be true, so, too, might the other.

But for now, he did as he was asked, waving for his generals to follow as he started toward his army. The army would march, and Valeria would fall so that he would reign supreme on the face of the world. And after that…perhaps even gods—even goddesses—would learn to fear him.