The colonel looked at her for a moment, his eyes half-lidded as he contemplated whether or not she was worth the trouble of answering. Then he remembered whom she worked for.
“There is some concern as to whether or not the Sa’ba Taalor had any part in the Emperor’s death.”
Direct and to the point. She could understand that and knew by the change in Tusk’s stance that he understood every word the colonel was speaking.
“You would accuse a king of murdering the Emperor?” She made sure her voice was a challenge. He needed to know that he was treading on dangerous territory.
“I accuse no one of anything. I am merely following orders. I have been tasked with bringing the Sa’ba Taalor back to Tyrne.”
“By whom?” Oh how her heart was thundering in her chest. Madness! Desh would surely be outraged. He had worked hard to make the first meeting between the two lands a peaceful, fruitful encounter.
“By General Hradi.”
“Who is General Hradi to order King Tuskandru to come to him in this manner?”
Tusk looked from her to the colonel and back again as they spoke, but did not answer or respond otherwise.
“General Hradi is in charge of the Imperial Army.”
“General Hradi is not in charge of the Empire.”
“No, but the army is his to command and he has ordered us to bring King Tuskandru and his retinue back to Fellein.”
“And if the king should refuse?”
And there it was: the question that would change everything, depending on the colonel’s answer. The Sa’ba Taalor stood ready, though apparently the colonel did not understand that fact. Tega did not know the ways of the people she was with very well, but she knew that they had been willing to fight a young man to the death for an insult. Accusing them of murder? How would that go for Colonel Wallford? For the troops with him? For her or the people she was with for that matter?
She desperately wished that Desh Krohan was there with her.
He was not and that left her with only one option. The blade she slid along her palm drew a hot line of blood in her flesh. She clenched her fist tightly on the small offering and reached out with her mind. For the briefest moment she felt nothing and then, thank all the gods, she felt Desh’s attention turn to her and her offered blood from leagues away.
“If His Majesty is not prepared to come back willingly, I am to bring him in by force. To that end, I have brought a very large retinue of soldiers.” Wallford spoke to her as if to a slightly addled child.
Tusk shook his head. “I have matters of my own to attend to in my kingdom. I cannot come back with you. You may join us on this journey if you will, but that is all.” The man’s voice brooked no argument.
Wallford looked at the king for a moment and rested his hand significantly on the hilt of his sword. He made sure to let the gesture be seen.
Tuskandru looked to her for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and then looked back to the colonel. “Do you have gods?”
The colonel nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
“Then should you draw your weapon, pray to them.”
“Do you not understand the situation? The Emperor is dead!” The colonel’s voice was outraged.
Desh’s voice rang in her head, a distant echo that grew clearer, became a significant sound. “I will speak through you.” The words were for her alone and she nodded and closed her eyes.
And a moment later she felt herself displaced from her own body, felt her essence rise into the air above the group as Desh Krohan’s will possessed her form.
From her new height she could see the trans-formation. A thick shadow rose from the ground and surrounded her form, cocooned her in its darkness and from the depths of that odd black cloud the voice of Desh Krohan spilled forth with a dark, echoing quality, “There is no need for this.”
Tuskandru stepped back three paces, his eyes growing wide beneath the beastly visage of his helmet. The colonel fell back as well, not merely startled by the unexpected change in her form, but also by the voice of a man who was feared as much as any legend ever has been. Around them the Sa’ba Taalor and the soldiers of the Imperial Army reacted as well. Several of the horses made noises and threatened a panic at the rumbling voice of the sorcerer.
“Colonel Wallford,” Desh continued. “You are here under orders of General Hradi. I am acting Regent of the Empire. My word supersedes the word of your commander. Stand down.”
“The Emperor is dead!” Wallford’s nerves were not holding well, but his discipline could have been admired under different circumstances.
“The Emperor is dead, yes. That does not allow General Hradi to take command of the Empire.”
Wallford pointed a hand at Tuskandru. “This man is accused of murdering the Emperor!”
“Not so!” Desh’s voice lashed out, demanding attention.
Tuskandru’s hand lashed out, slapping Wallford’s accusing hand aside. “You dare?”
And that was the moment that war broke out between the People of the Seven Forges and the Fellein Empire.
Wallford’s reaction could easily have been expected. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and began to draw the blade from the scabbard.
The heavy blade of King Tuskandru’s sword cleaved the top of the colonel’s head from the rest of his skull.
Desh Krohan stepped back, taking her body along for the ride, and Tega stared on, horrified, as the soldiers who followed Wallford grabbed crossbows and aimed, or leveled the horseman’s pikes they held and prepared to charge at Tuskandru. The King did not step back, but instead moved toward the closest soldier behind the colonel’s falling body. The man’s crossbow bolt fired at Tuskandru’s chest even as the warrior swept his great sword in another tight arc and hacked into the soldier’s leg and into the horse under it. The sword cut deep. The crossbow bolt dug partially into the armor on Tusk’s body and vibrated where it stopped.
Tega felt her essence pulled backward, as Desh did something with her body, and suddenly rose into the air. He tried to speak again, tried to gain the attention of the soldiers and warriors alike, but it was far too late for that.
War cries came from the mouths of the Sa’ba Taalor and their great mounts alike. Arrows and bolts lashed through the air, striking some targets and missing others. The cavalrymen turned their warhorses toward the enemy and discovered that the enormous beasts their enemies rode not only ran fast, but also pounced. The warriors held onto their mounts with hands and legs alike as the animals ran and jumped, moving over the first rank of riders and into the columns of horsemen who were jostling for position as the first line tried to brace for an attack that never happened.
Thick claws and powerful teeth ripped into horses and soldiers alike and even as they did so the Sa’ba Taalor drew weapons as varied as their armor. Men screamed, women screamed, horses screamed, and the great beasts howled out in voices that seemed too large for their enormous bodies.
Tega had little chance to see more before her body rose higher still, sailing away from the sudden explosion of combat, moving at a maddening speed and dragging her anchored spirit along for the ride. Had she eyes she’d have closed them. Had she a mouth, she’d have screamed.
••••
The wizard tried to warn them, but failed. The soldiers of the Empire approached with threats and then the foolish one insulted him. And Tusk responded as he had been raised to respond. There was no question in his mind of right or wrong. The gods made their demands in exchange for all they did for the people. The first demand was obedience. Durhallem did not believe in mercy and so Tuskandru, King of Durhallem’s Heart did not believe in mercy. The accuser died first. And then the one who’d followed him so closely. The point of the crossbow bolt cut at his chest and so he pulled it free, even as the next of the fools came for him, charging with a long pike. The rider was good at riding his charging horse. He was not quite as good at holding the lance on target. Tusk stepped to the side and blocked the weapon before it could hit
him, felt the impact run up his arms and stepped back enough to alleviate some of the force.
He whistled and Brodem, his mount, roared in response. The animal would not follow him, would not come to his aid, but because of his call, was now free to hunt the enemy. He did not bother further with Brodem. If they survived the battle, they would reunite. Until then, there was only one thing that mattered: the fight.
Tusk’s sword cut through the flank of the great war horse and it fell, toppling along with the rider. The man who had tried to impale him with the pike was pinned under the horse at it screamed its way to the ground. He struggled to rise, perhaps to fight or merely to stand. Tusk stomped down on his skull and felt bones shatter beneath his foot. The horse thrashed too much and so he carved its head from its body and moved on.
A pike rammed into his helmet and skidded off. His head rang with the force of the blow but not enough to stop him. He grabbed the pike with his free hand and held it as he pulled the rider closer to him. The man could let go of his weapon or he could fall off his horse. Foolishly he chose to hold the weapon. Instinct told him the weapon could save his life. Tusk knew better. To depend on any weapon alone was to weaken yourself. That was the first lesson taught by Wrommish, and none of the Sa’ba Taalor lived long without knowing the lessons Wrommish made them learn. His sword stuck in the chest of the man when he shoved it through the armor of his enemy. Rather than fight the sword free he surrendered it and reached for the chain held against his hip. The heavy links sang and rattled as he swung them.
A crossbow bolt found its way into his thigh and he roared as he faced the man who’d fired the thing at him. The soldier surrendered his crossbow and tried for his sword. The chain shattered his lower jaw before he could pull the weapon from its scabbard. The enemy seemed skilled at the weapons they used, but only employed a few. That was a mistake in Tusk’s eyes. Many weapons, many ways to kill. That is what the Daxar Taalor demanded and a wise man did not argue with his gods. The chain lashed out a second time and the soldier fell.
Around him, his people grinned and roared and called the names of the Daxar Taalor, celebrating both the injuries they sustained and the ones they delivered.
The Daxar Taalor were gods of war, and they had been training for so very long for this moment, for this time when the gods would finally unleash them on their enemies.
Sometimes the gods are kind.
Tuskandru, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem, called out his god’s name and celebrated the offerings he made to his deity. Around him blood spilled across the half-frozen ground of the Blasted Lands, which had waited as patiently as the gods for this day, for this time.
At long last the time for war had come.
A soldier screamed as he caught the man’s fingers in the links of his chain and pulled, breaking the digits and tearing the flesh around them. While he was screaming Tusk drove his elbow into the man’s windpipe and shattered the cartilage there. The man began coughing and trying to breathe. He was still dying while Tuskandru moved toward the next sacrifice he would offer to his gods.
Truly, he was blessed.
Nineteen
Desh Krohan released the body of his apprentice, Tega, and watched her slump across the bed where he’d set her down. She was exhausted. That was hardly surprising. She was not used to the rigors of anything but the most minor sorceries. There was a reason it took years to learn the more powerful spells.
Tega made a slurred noise and he regarded her. “Sleep. You’re safe now.”
He’d hated to release her from being with the Sa’ba Taalor, but had no desire to see her harmed and had little doubt that she would have been if she had stayed. They seemed an honorable people, but he didn’t know them well enough to know how they treated anyone they associated with their enemies.
Enemies. He shook his head. That damned fool, General Hradi, was about to learn what it meant to have enemies.
Desh moved back to his body where it lay within the safety of his guarded room. As he fell back into his flesh, his lungs breathed again and his heart beat, and the cloak that sheltered him once more began to shimmer and pulse.
And Desh moved his body, rose quickly to his full height and left the room he kept locked against troubles, barely allowing himself time to recover from the disorientation of jumping bodies. Anger made him a little less cautious. Anger made him reckless. And he was so very angry.
He stormed down the corridors on the way to the Emperor’s chambers and those who saw him coming did their very best not to get noticed by him.
General Merros Dulver looked at the other men at the table and scowled. Currently all of them were sitting in the Emperor’s throne room, which for the moment was not being used to run the country and was therefore available. That would change soon, but until then it was the only bloody office that Merros knew well enough to find.
“Which one of you actually decided to start a war, and why?” The two men facing him were both longtime commanders of the military forces. He had, on rare occasions, received commands with their names, signatures and formal seals. Generals Olec Hradi and Dataro Larn were not the least bit impressed by him. He should have been terrified.
Instead he was well and truly pissed off.
Hradi sat a little taller in his seat. The man was old, much older than Merros expected, with a heavily weathered face, perfectly tailored uniform and a gut that could not be hidden by the by the very finest of tailors. His white hair was thinning on his head and he’d worked hard to comb it over so that it might seem fuller. He was failing in all efforts.
“Who are you to talk to us that way, Dulver?” He sneered. “You’re a nobody! The only reason you’re here is because you managed to cull favor with the Emperor. Perhaps you heard the news that he’s dead?” Hradi leaned forward, his hands planted on the table as if he might decide at a moment’s notice to leap into action and come across the grand marble surface at a full charge.
General Larn looked on, not saying a word. His eyes watched one man and then the other as they spoke, taking their measure and doing nothing else.
Merros stood perfectly straight and stared daggers at Hradi. “So you decided the best way to take care of his death was to send two hundred soldiers off to start a war? Have you lost your mind?”
“How dare you?” Hradi’s voice cracked with outrage, or just possibly age. It was hard to clearly decide while the man was bellowing and red-faced. “I took control of the situation! It’s very likely that the person responsible for Emperor Krous’ murder was moving with that caravan! They had to be made to come back here.”
“The caravan left before the Emperor was assassinated. I was there. I watched them climb on their animals and leave.” Oh, yes he was liking the general less by the moment.
Hradi’s eyes nearly bulged from their wrinkled sockets and he found himself wondering how it was that he had ever feared or admired the man who had sent him off to a dozen different border skirmishes over the years. There was nothing about the man that spoke of military strength or of anything remotely like discipline. He stank of perfumes designed to lure women to his bed and his hands were soft and his nails manicured.
“They need to account for themselves!”
“So you sent two hundred armed men to politely ask a visiting king and his retinue to come back and answer to whom, exactly? You?”
“If needs be, yes!”
“You’re not the Emperor! You’re not in charge of the Empire!”
“No I’m in charge of the greatest army in the known world.” Hradi’s voice grew cold and calm and he rose from his seat with an oily grace. His eyes were clear and his expression was calm and that worried Merros more than anything else.
Merros looked toward General Larn, but the man was still merely watching. His facial expression had not changed in the least.
Merros frowned. Actually, it should have changed at least a little. In fact, the man’s eyes should at least move a bit or blink.
“General Lar
n? Are you well?”
Hradi looked over at the other general. “Answer him, Dataro. You agreed with my decision, after all.”
There was no response. Larn remained in the same position, but he trembled a bit, his hands shaking ever so slightly.
“Oh, damn.”
Merros walked toward the man and called out at the same time, “Wollis! I need you!”
Wollis March opened the doors to the room immediately, and two other men were right there with him. Surely there was no such thing as a general without an assistant. Merros barely knew the generals by name and likeness together. The assistants were lost to him.
His hand reached out and touched Larn. The man’s flesh was nearly like ice and though his heart was beating it was a close thing. The small needle in the back of his neck was all the hint that Merros needed to know the man was poisoned and likely already dead.
“Poisoned. We’ve an assassin around here.” Larn had entered the room after Merros. He had been lively enough when he sat down. That had only been a few moments before. Merros took in the details of the room. There were a great many items within the place. Tapestries on the walls, suits of armor – really, he was beginning to wonder if anyone ever actually wore the armor or if it merely lay around waiting to be used as decorations – several different globes and tables covered with documents and maps.
Halfway across the room the great skull of a thing Merros hoped never to run across sat like a centerpiece. It was adorned with gold and crusted with gems of every type. It was enormous.
It had also been moved recently. The last time he’d been in the room the nostrils of the thing faced directly at the door and now they were slightly to the right of where they had been.
Without speaking he pointed to Wollis and his second nodded, drawing his sword before heading for the great skull.
The Seven Forges Novels Page 30
