Larn slid from his seat with a soft sigh. Merros wanted to check on him again, but not now. There simply wasn’t time.
He pointed to the two men standing in the doorway: “Close that. Block it.”
They listened without asking. Hradi made a rude noise and started looking around the room himself. His eyes didn’t bother with the skull, he knew that someone was already looking. Instead he focused on the draperies around the area. They ran up to the ceiling in most cases and were loose enough that a person could likely hide with little or no difficulty. Good. The idiot was keeping himself busy. That meant that Merros didn’t have to worry about doing it himself.
Instead Merros approached the skull himself, looking into the cavernous eye socket that stared blankly back in his direction.
There was nothing at all pretty about the beast.
He ran his hand along the eye socket, felt the contour of the bone ridges and saw what he’d half-expected. The inside of the thing was hollow, as most skulls would be, granted, but there looked to be a larger cavity inside than in most skulls he’d seen. His fingers kept sliding over the surface, feeling the gems, the markings and carvings, and he kept looking for…
There. His fingers pushed on a gem near the hinge of the massive jaw and a clicking noise followed. “Wollis. Help me with this.”
Wollis came to him, his face serious, and looked at the spot where Merros was touching. He lowered his head to examine the spot where the skull seemed to have a hidden compartment.
While he was looking the assassin slipped from under the table and threw a dagger directly at Hradi. The general never even saw the weapon that killed him. The blade rammed into his temple and he let out another little harrumphing noise before he crashed to the ground.
Merros turned at the sound – compounded by the shocked screams of the two men at the door – and watched the commander of the Empire’s army fall dead.
The figure moved fast, doing exactly what he’d imagined Hradi might do earlier and sliding across the polished marble surface of the table. Slim, possibly female, and shorter than he’d expected, the way she moved was telling, even if he hadn’t recognized the pattern of scars on her left hip, where his hand had rested more than once.
“Swech!”
She ignored him and moved for the door, both hands already in motion, throwing glittering objects that drove into each of the men at the door. One fell back with something vibrating in his bleeding eye socket. The other staggered to the side and tried to stop the blood that was flowing from a fresh wound in his throat. Still she did not stop moving. She carried herself toward the door and potential freedom.
“Swech! Stop! What is this?” Impossible was what it was. He’d seen her climb aboard Saa’thaa, had watched her leave the city with the caravan of riders. Yet he looked at her now, saw the scars he’d damned near memorized, the way her gray hair moved in a slow wave of curls.
Swech spun and cocked her hand next to her shoulder. He could see another blade, small but no doubt deadly, resting amid her fingers.
Merros raised his hands, wanting to talk this out somehow, wanting not to get a knife through his eye or throat or any part of his body, really.
And while he had her attention, Wollis took a chance and charged, his sword drawn back for a killing stroke.
Three seconds, at most. The hand holding the blade moved with a casual flick and the blade cut into Merros’ jaw, sliding across bone and carving a trench. The pain was immediate and exquisite. He hissed and stepped back his hand moving automatically to staunch the blood, the fire, the pain.
Wollis brought his sword up in an arc and down toward Swech’s head. By rights he should have taken a large portion of her features away from the rest of her skull, but she moved out of the way, sliding sideways and striking the descending blade with the palm of her hand. Swech kept her balance with ease. Wollis staggered forward, trying to compensate for the unexpected change in his weapon’s direction.
Had he been there, and instructing, Tuskandru might well have pointed out Wollis’ mistake. The sword is only a weapon after all, and none of the Sa’ba Taalor lived long without knowing the lessons Wrommish made them learn.
Swech hit Wollis in the throat with her hand. He staggered back, coughing, and she struck again, her elbow driving into Wollis’ surprised face and shattering bone. She struck one more time, and Wollis fell as surely as a tree taken down by the foresters of Trecharch. Swech did not look back. She pulled open the closed doors leading into the hallway and ran.
Merros ran too, but only as far as Wollis. The man was his friend. They had been on a good number of journeys together.
One look told him that they would not journey together any further. Wollis was dead. Really, that was all it took to slow Merros down for the moment. Wollis was dead and he was left wondering exactly what had just happened.
Desh Krohan arrived in the chambers exactly too late to be of any assistance at all.
Merros would be a long time deciding whether or not he could forgive the sorcerer for that.
••••
Goriah rode on the bow of the small vessel, staring at the mountain looming out of the waters ahead of her. She did not need to get much closer to see all that she needed to see. The islands of the Guntha were gone, swallowed by the newly born land still steaming and growing. The towering center of the freshly formed land burned and above that fiery pit the skies were filled with sulfurous ash and lightning crested, turbulent clouds.
She stared at that sky and was immediately reminded of the Seven Forges.
There had been no warning. The Sooth had not given so much as a cry of the threat that this moment brought with it, and that was beyond unusual. While the spirits were hardly the most reliable creatures, they tended to offer too many possibilities not to remain quiet about disasters of this scale.
The islands of the Guntha were gone and so too were the Guntha themselves, burned away when the explosion birthed this new place.
But was it new? While the land looked fresh, the mountain did not. It struck her as remarkably similar to one of the Forges, the one farthest to the west on the maps she and her sisters had studied with Desh Krohan. It was impossible to say, of course. She had not circled that one particular mountain as she now circled this one, but at certain angles she could almost be certain. If Desh was correct in his guesses, that would be the mountain closest to the ocean, though to be fair it was purely guesswork on his part.
“Do mountains move?” She whispered the words, not expecting an answer.
The captain of her small vessel cleared his throat. “Lady, we are in danger here. The storms are growing again.”
They were indeed. The storms were gathering above and they would grow wider and more violent soon. The shore where she had rented the services of the captain and his crew were covered already with heavy ash blown over from the new island. Surely there would be more of the same covering their homes in the near future, covering them as well if they did not return to the docks and soon.
“As you say, Captain Whelan.” Goriah studied the peak for a moment longer and stared at the clouds painted the color of blood that brooded above it. “Let’s return to the harbor. I have seen enough.”
The man was quick to accommodate.
Desh Krohan would find the news very interesting. She intended to tell him just as soon as she could get to dry land. The turbulent sea was making it difficult for her to concentrate well enough for long distance communication.
The sun set on Tyrne, and instead of stars there were only clouds. The storms were coming from the south, from where the Guntha once lived before flames swallowed them. Their shroud seemed to want to cover the world, at least for the moment.
Guards moved in close precision throughout the palace, moving in groups of three or more and checking everywhere they could, for there could be no doubt that somewhere nearby a murderer crept, perhaps even now seeking a way to reach Nachia Krous, or another member of the Imperial
Family.
Swech did indeed move through Tyrne, but no longer moved to strike against anyone. It was time to go home, her mission was complete.
The Daxar Taalor had visited her, their voices softly whispering for her alone. It was not King Tuskandru who guided her to kill, though likely he’d known of what was planned. Had it been Tusk she might have listened. She might not. She was not overly fond of him, though she bore him no particular dislike.
But one did not disobey the gods. Not if one wished to continue living.
She looked back at the palace, at the torches that burned around the structure and the distant shapes of guards that had not been there before she did as commanded.
She had no regrets.
The men she’d killed meant nothing to her. They were not Sa’ba Taalor. They were not her people. Still, she felt a little sorrow. She had been fond of Merros Dulver. He had been a pleasant distraction and had taught her a great deal about his people while they journeyed together. Also, he was a fun lover.
Saa’thaa still waited patiently for her, exactly where she had left him. Her hand patted his muzzle and his warm breath greeted her fingers. He breathed in her scent and let out a pleased rumble.
“We go now, yes? We head home.” She sighed the words into his ear and then climbed into the saddle he bore without effort. Her muscles ached from hours staying in one position, barely breathing, waiting patiently for the right times to do as the gods commanded. She was grateful for the chance to rest for a moment. The work of the faithful could be exhausting, but was, as always, rewarding.
Swech rested her head against Saa’thaa’s neck and he rose moving with a steady gait that very gradually increased in speed.
Merros Dulver.
Unconsciously her hand drifted to her abdomen, to the child she felt growing within her womb. He was an interesting man. She remained uncertain what she should feel about the child within her body, but she also knew that the Daxar Taalor willed that she carry the baby, and so she would.
Would her child meet the man who had helped with its conception?
If the gods willed it, it would be so.
Some of the plans she had for the future were accurate, but not all of them. The gods had different ideas.
Nachia Krous looked at the crowd of people around her and kept her composure through sheer force of will. Pathra would have expected no less of his successor. Though she did not yet wear the crown of the Empress, only a few considered denying her the position. They did not matter. Desh Krohan kept telling her as much and she believed him.
Merros Dulver stood to her left, the sorcerer to her right. It was time to deal with affairs of the state and that meant having her forces gathered and with her. There were other generals, of course. The Empire was too large to have only three men in charge of the armies, but the others were in other places and not yet even aware of everything that had transpired.
They would know soon. The wizard had sent his messengers and there were others like him who would receive the messages and inform the appropriate parties.
“Like as not the rumors of your cousin’s death will reach the other side of the Empire before the messengers arrive. That’s the way of it with bad news and gossip.”
She managed a small smile for his jest, but only barely. Even the sorcerer’s acerbic wit would only go so far right now. Too many things were going wrong. They were at the very edge of war, and possibly they had already gone over that precipice. Most of the armed forces were in disarray because of the assassinations, and there were several forces gathering around the area that would very likely add to the chaos rather than detract from it. Her cousin, Laister, was behaving himself, but only barely, and there were other members of the Krous family who were already being vocal about their support of his claims to the throne.
Desh had said the situation would resolve itself. He had not promised it would do so without bloodshed.
And the closest thing she had to a commander for her armies at the moment was staring around with half-lidded eyes and a seething anger in his soul. Merros Dulver seemed intent on something, but she didn’t know him well enough to know what that something was. That worried her. Pathra had always said it was best to know the minds of your closest allies.
Pathra. Damn but thinking about him hurt. He wasn’t supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be here, with her, making her laugh with his quiet humor and his deliberate antics. Instead she was mourning his loss and sitting on the throne that had been his for over a decade.
She felt like a graverobber.
That’s me, she thought, Empress of the Dead. She meant the notion as a joke, of course, but found it not at all amusing.
It felt too much like the truth as the bodies of her cousin and two of Fellein’s greatest warriors were prepared for their final rest.
Truth, she knew, was often not as solid as it appeared. She had only to look at the sorcerer at her hand to know that fact.
Three months earlier his life had been a frozen wasteland and the promise of wealth if he survived a trek to the Seven Forges. Since then he’d gone into a land no one from Fellein had ever been to, met with kings, gained a larger fortune than he’d ever imagined and become the nominal head of the Empire’s armies. He had met with a fascinating woman, gotten to know her intimately, and then watched her murder his best friend. A friend he had not really considered very much through his journeys, because like all good friends, the man was simply there when he needed him.
And now he was gone.
Tataya’s words came back to haunt him: the prophecy she claimed Desh Krohan had received about him. You will lose your hand, find your fist and gain an ally. You will also meet your enemy face-to-face. He did not know of prophecies or of the ways of sorcerers. He did, however, feel as if he had lost a vital part of himself with Wollis’ passing. He had in fact lost his right hand man.
Of fists and allies he had no such claims. Perhaps that was the problem with prophecies: they only came true after you looked back at them. As for his enemies, he had only met them face to veil, really, so that could hardly be a proper choice of words.
Dretta March would be arriving soon. She would be followed by her son, Nolan. It was very likely that they would blame him for the death of Wollis. Even if they did not, he felt to blame. His friend had been following his orders, had been trying to protect him. Tears threatened to sting his eyes and he forced them back.
Tears were for men, not soldiers. He did not have time to be both. Currently the scariest fighters he had ever seen in action were heading back for their homeland and they would likely be gathering an army to come back to Fellein and seek retribution for whatever had caused them to assassinate Pathra Krous in the first place.
Were there any prophecies that claimed he would win the coming battle? He did not know and he was afraid to ask. The answer might terrify him a bit too much.
Nachia Krous stirred in her seat near his side and he turned to look at her.
“Call in the first claimant, please.”
Once every month the Emperor heard from his people. The lords and ladies and the courtesans as well as a select few of the commoners, all of whom had matters they felt needed his attention.
That day had fallen again and the Emperor would not be able to answer. But the woman who would soon be crowned Empress would stand in, along with the Regent to the Throne and the First General of the Empire.
First General of the Empire. Merros wanted to run screaming at the very notion. Not all that long ago he’d nearly wet himself at the notion of facing seven Pra-Moresh on the frozen wastes of the Blasted Lands. Currently he found himself longing for the good old days when the only thing at stake was his life.
The Princess Lanaie of Roathes was led into the throne room. Her eyes were wide and her lips trembled. She was terrified.
“Yes, Lanaie?” Nachia waved away the formal protocols for this particular occasion. No one would hold it against her.
Lanaie fell to one kne
e and lowered her head. “M… Majesty, I come on behalf of my father, King Marsfel of Roathes.”
“Yes, I know. What is it your father seeks?”
“Only to inform Your Majesty that the Guntha seem to have been telling the truth.”
Nachia frowned. “What truth is that?”
“On the horizon, near where Guntha used to be and where the great island of fire now burns, many people have now seen ships. Great black ships, Majesty, and they are headed for Roathes.”
Nachia frowned. “And where do these ships come from?”
“From the north and the west, Majesty. From the Blasted Lands.”
Merros frowned as well. The Sa’ba Taalor could not possibly have a navy as well, could they? He shook his head. Navies took time to build.
Of course, the people of the Seven Forges had been alone for a thousand years. They could have planned anything in that time.
He cast his eyes toward Desh Krohan, but the man’s cloak was on, his face lost in shadows and unreadable.
Damn. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
Three days without food, and he was running low on clean water too. Drask Silver Hand and his cohorts had abandoned him, and Andover Lashk walked slowly toward the distant fires of the Seven Forges. The winds had picked up a great deal and he was grateful for his fur-lined cloak and the scarf he’d now used to cover most of his face. He squinted through the grit trying to blind him and oriented himself on the Forges. He’d have turned back, would have tried for home, but he didn’t quite dare. There was a chance that Drask was waiting for him to do something like that. There was also a chance, no matter what the Sa’ba Taalor had said, that he would lose the gift of his iron hands if he tried to return to Fellein. He doubted that last, but faith was as new a concept for him as having artificial hands that could feel and could move at his command.
Faith takes time to cement itself in a wary heart.
The sun had set, or if it had not the clouds overhead were too thick to let the light shine down. Either way the world was mostly darkness and Andover found the light in the distance as attractive as a moth finds the glow of a lamp in the night. He walked faster whenever he let himself look up, as if he might somehow make his way to the Seven Forges magically shorten by increasing his speed.
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