They should be here within a day.
Pella poured herself tea and then explained what she had encountered on her journey to the east. There were stories to share, and decisions to be made.
Merros looked out at the Blasted Lands again, watching the agitated clouds seething and drifting in the distance. They reminded him of the ocean on a turbulent day, but the smell was wrong and there were no sounds of crashing waves. The air here was acrid, and if one caught enough of a breeze from the area where no sane person went without good reason, a taste like ash and dust crept into the mouth and lingered.
Nachia Krous came up next to him, and he looked her way and bowed immediately.
“I told you that you don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but the troops are present and I’ll not have them getting the idea that they are free to ignore protocol.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye, still mostly facing the ruined land that had changed their lives recently. “I’m wondering if we would have been better staying away from here.”
A smile played on her lips, but it was the dry humor of a cynic that made that expression show itself. “Desh would likely point out that you are now in charge of the Imperial Army and that I am now the Empress and say that there are worse fates.”
His smile mirrored hers. “Mmm. There is that. But we’ve both lost people and I wonder how much more we’re going to have to go through before this is resolved.”
“Pathra used to sit in his throne room and sip at his wine and stare out his window for hours, Merros. He wanted to see the world so very badly, but he was a prisoner in his castle. Do you know why he preferred the Summer Palace?”
“No. I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“Because the view is better. Look west and you see the Wellish Steppes. Look north and if the day is clear enough you could almost see Trecharch through the hills. South and there are towns and the river that runs all the way to the ocean. East and there are farmlands and, beyond those, more hills.
“Look out the windows in the palace in Canhoon and all you see is Canhoon. He did not like the city. He wanted to see the world.”
The Empress put a familiar hand on his shoulder. He was tempted to brush it away. Not because he did not enjoy the familiarity, but because he didn’t want anyone starting foolish rumors. Ultimately, however, he did nothing. She was the Empress, and if Pathra Krous had made the exact same gesture he’d have felt no reason to act as if anything were amiss. If rumors started they would die just as quickly. That was mostly the way with fancies and little lies.
“Why didn’t he move about a bit more then?”
Nachia took her hand from his shoulder and shook her head. Her hair was carefully brushed and styled, and he knew she probably hated the effort but, like him, knew appearances had to be kept. “He felt he couldn’t. Too much to do and not enough time in the day. I think Desh probably encouraged that. Better to keep the Emperor safe and all.”
“Yes. Well.” He didn’t have to say that Desh’s efforts had failed. They both knew it.
Nachia said it though. “My cousin was murdered in his home. He stayed there most of his adult life, and he never indulged his desires to go anywhere. And in the end he died just the same.”
Merros nodded but said nothing. She had more to say and he could tell it.
“He would have given away the throne just to make this trip. I know that. I will not be in the same situation. I will go where I feel I must.” She smiled at him. “Oh, I know you hate that, but you’re good not to say it.”
“You are the Empress. It’s your decision to make.” What else could he say?
“Here’s the thing of it. I think that Pathra staying locked away made him want more of the journeys into the Blasted Lands. Whenever the expeditions actually made it back, he got a trinket of some kind. Maybe a piece of ancient pottery, possibly a melted piece of gold. Whatever the item, it let him look away from the windows and imagine a bit more of what the world was like outside his palace walls. He used to practically interrogate me whenever I came to visit. He wanted to know about the places I traveled to, and believe me, Merros, I traveled a great deal. I have spent a good portion of my life already on the road to one place or another and usually with a retinue to keep me safe.”
Nachia turned and looked at the caravan, at the tents aligned along the road and the soldiers who were stationed around the area, wisely at attention and careful to stay alert.
“None of this is especially unusual to me. Better organized than I’ve seen often, but not unusual. I saw more of this Empire as a little girl than my cousin saw in his entire life. And I think if he had seen more of it we would have never continued the quests into the Blasted Lands.”
“Weren’t those Desh’s doing?”
Nachia nodded and looked out at the cloud cover in the distance. The sky above the Blasted Lands was gray, and more clouds were moving in, mirroring the ones below in the valley. There would very likely be rain coming. Whatever fell into the Blasted Lands, Merros knew, would fall as freezing sleet and howling winds. The clouds hid so much of the raging fury just below them.
Nachia said, “Absolutely. He paid for the expeditions himself. But he would not have done so without the permission of the Emperor and in the past there were less of them. Pathra encouraged the explorations. Pathra wanted to see more.”
Merros sighed and looked again at the wasteland just a stone’s throw from them, contained by a sheer cliff and little else. He could not for the life of him remember if he could see the Seven Forges in the distance the first time he’d been in the area. Mostly he’d been drawn to the turbulent motion of the storm clouds.
“So whatever the case, I think we would have met with the Sa’ba Taalor sooner or later. Hopefully we can make peace with them before it is too late.”
Merros nodded his head. “Hopefully, indeed, Majesty.” He feared it was already too late. But hope was a lovely thing to cling to when the winds were raging.
Andover Lashk met his second god. This time he was not alone. Tarag Paedori stood at his side, unflinching in the face of the raging heat and the boiling magma. Hot as it was, Andover could still breathe and his flesh did not burn. That seemed a miracle by itself.
The walls in the room ran with liquid fire. It drooled down along the sides, its heat mingling with that rising from the floor. The ground where he stood, the same as the gray stone that the castle was cut from, was not burning hot and the molten stuff never touched it. Instead it fell into deep cuts along the floor and slipped harmlessly into whatever lay beneath.
A wide metallic face stared at him from the wall. It was untouched, the sweating fiery metal and molten stone never quite reached this centerpiece of the room.
He had seen the face before. The exact same one had adorned the blessing box before he was gifted his new hands and learned that pain could be a healing thing as well as a hurtful one. The light of the raging volcano below and the smoke rising upward highlighted rather than obscured the edifice.
The face glared down from that wall, the mouth open in a cruel sneer. Truska-Pren seemed an angry god.
Just the same, Andover Lashk lowered himself to one knee before the face, and offered his hammer handle first, exactly as he had done with the King in Iron. “I am Andover Lashk, of Fellein, and I am here to thank you for the gift of my hands and all the blessings you have afforded me.”
He half expected the face before him to grow animate, to work as easily as the iron features of Kallir Lundt, but nothing happened.
Nothing physical, at least. Instead he felt the presence come into the area, a powerful thing, vast and potent, that if it had mass it surely would have crushed him beneath it without even noticing his insignificance.
It was not fear he felt when Truska-Pren came before him. It was awe.
His hands tingled. They did not burn, but when he looked at them the metal glowed, growing first red and then yellow and finally white with heat. By all rights his arms
should have burned away but there was nothing – no pain, no bubbling meat and burning blood. Instead that presence grew even greater and he understood that Truska-Pren was studying his hands, a god examining the work it had offered to a mere mortal.
It was Tarag Paedori who spoke, though his voice was not his own. His voice echoed with the presence of the Daxar Taalor. “You have proven worthy of this gift, Andover Lashk. You have shown yourself capable of defending yourself. You have faced the trials I demanded and you have triumphed.”
The King in Iron stepped forward and placed one finger against Andover’s lips as if to shush him. Instead of demanding silence he pressed his finger down harder, and Andover froze, feeling the pain come on him as it had when Durhallem had touched him.
He did not scream, but only because he could not. The heat that he should have felt in his hands directed itself across his mouth, his face. He did not smell burning meat, but it seemed to him he should have. The King in Iron’s other hand grabbed the back of Andover’s head and held him in place. “Do not move, Andover Lashk. Do not flinch. The Iron God offers you a gift this day.”
The blessings of gods, it seemed, never came without agonies of their own.
What was it that Drask Silver Hand had said to him? Life is pain.
Oh, how he lived just then.
Sixteen
Captain Callan unloaded his cargo along with his men. He commanded the ship, he made a good wage, but he did not shirk his portion of the workload. That was why the men liked him well enough to let him call himself “captain”. By the time they were done he was pleasantly tired and his crew was happy for the break. Dealing with the Brellar was always a risk, but this time it had paid off handsomely.
Freeholdt was busier than usual and he rather liked it. The port town was always busy, yes, but this time around, the activity was not as simple as he’d have expected. There were ships unloading cargo, but there were just as many hauling new cargo onboard.
What he found interesting, though he was barely aware of it, was how few of the Guntha or the Roathians he saw in port. He’d expected to see a good deal more of both, seeing as their lands were gone. Instead there was just business and, more business, with none of the begging masses he’d half dreaded encountering. Business was excellent in Freeholdt.
That meant a good chance at another commission. Commission meant a good chance at enough money to celebrate properly. After spending time with the witch Tataya he had a powerful desire to find a dozen wenches and rut himself senseless. Paying for it hardly bothered him. He wasn’t likely to be around any port town long enough to make a relationship, but he could surely spend enough time to handle the finer physical aspects of one.
Vondum climbed the gangplank back onboard with a grin on his face. “It seems everyone wants to leave the area, Callan. But wave a flag to let them know you’re ready to negotiate and you’ll have a dozen passengers and their goods to carry out of this town.”
“What? Why?” He smiled as he asked. The reasons hardly mattered as long as the money was good, and by the smile on his first mate’s face the passengers seemed willing to pay good coin for their travels.
“The Empress heads back for Canhoon. People either take their wagons along the Imperial Highway or they take the Freeholdt River to the Jeurgis and ride into Canhoon in safety and comfort.”
“So people are heading south to get to Freeholdt so they won’t have to take a wagon north?” Callan chuckled.
Vondum laughed out loud. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“By the gods, man, anyone willing to take a long way to a short cut must be willing to pay good coin indeed.” Callan’s grin refused to go away.
“I say we spend a night celebrating, restock in the morning and then head out tomorrow night, Captain.”
Callan nodded. “Whores, supplies and feasts, in that order.”
“Feasts, indeed. We have some of the finest of Tyrne’s merchants looking to take their supplies and stock to Canhoon.”
“Well, if we could find the finest brothel willing to transport their whores by river, we could sail out tonight.” Callan wiped at his brow and looked out at the town.
“I don’t think we’ll be quite that lucky, Callan, but it would be a lovely thing.”
Callan shrugged. “Tell the lads to enjoy their night. We’re going to see about earning some extra gold and heading into Canhoon.” They didn’t often take the river routes, but they could. That was one of the things about a smaller ship that Callan liked. The Brellar’s vessels would have managed nothing but getting themselves mired in sand bars if they tried a river run. Callan’s little ship was a deal smaller, but also faster and mobile. Still, he’d actually have to work this time around. Piloting through the rougher areas of the rivers would take concentration.
Vondum said he’d pass the order around and Callan took him at his word. His second had long since earned his trust.
The night was spent exactly the way he’d wanted, with three lovelies who did their best to take away the hurt of never bedding the redhead who’d paid him handsomely to get her to her destinations safely.
And in the morning the lads looked as ill as he felt, but most of them managed a smile just the same as they started restocking the holds. The trip would take a few weeks, but not much more so they went light on supplies. Better to hold a little storage space for the customers who wanted to move with their possessions.
Sadly there were no brothels willing to transport their wenches as cargo. One could only get so lucky.
By the time the sun had reached its zenith and started a leisurely crawl to the west, Callan, his crew were helping a few very wealthy folks get their cargo stowed and were nearly salivating over how much they were earning.
The captain was considering the merits of leaving in the morning versus leaving earlier for a bit of extra coin when Vondum reported the news that set them for immediate evacuation.
Three words made all the difference. “Black ships, Captain.” Vondum pointed to the horizon, in the direction of where the Guntha Islands had been.
There were indeed black ships. Callan couldn’t see exactly how many, but it was enough to make his blood sing and his testicles try to hide themselves away. He found himself thinking of the redhead again and wishing he had a way to warn her that she was right. It seemed the black ships were looking to Fellein, and at the moment that meant they were looking at Freeholdt.
He wondered how long it would be before news of the port town being attacked made it to his ears.
He hoped it would be a long time, and possibly never. He feared it would be much sooner.
Either way, he’d be heavier with coin before this trip was done. One merely had to polish the silver to make it reflect properly.
Drask eyed the sloping mountain of ice before him and nodded. Brackka was nearby, but currently had no interest in climbing.
Drask did not have that option. Ydramil demanded and he obeyed, and so he set his hands carefully into the places where the ice had broken away and started climbing.
The surface was pitted with hundreds of spots where a hand or foot could find purchase, but most were filled with ice. It took time and patience to start scaling the structure. And it took a good axe to make fresh handholds. The silver hand held him with ease, the fingertips crushing the ice into a new shape when he gripped. He used his other hand to cut away the ice and allow him a fresh grip before moving upward again. It was an arduous task, but one he managed well enough.
By the time he’d reached an area where he could stand and walk, the sun was almost up and he had a perfect view of the wagon and tent where the others slept.
They’d danced around each other for over a day now and he was tired of it. Rather than worrying about them he chose to observe what they did for the day without conflict.
Drask crouched and dug into one of his pouches until he found a few nuts and dried meat. Better to have a bit of food in his stomach while he waited for the foreigners to start thei
r explorations again.
The winds were starting up again with proper fury and he pulled his furs closer around his body, taking the time to tie them to his wrists and ankles. The hood was drawn over his head and he crouched lower. The winds could be damned for all he was concerned. He had a task to do and he would do it.
Soon enough he was rewarded.
Nolan climbed from the tent and shook his head.
The air outside was bad. The stench inside the tent was worse. Maun was dying, but taking his time about it. His breath stank of infection and his skin was pasty white and sweaty.
Stradly was no better. The man’s body had taken on a yellowish tint. His eyes were also yellowing. Nolan was not a healer, but he knew that the colors were bad. The large, jovial solder was not dead but he was definitely dying.
Vonders and Tolpen were as fit as Nolan himself, uninjured by the Pra-Moresh or whatever sorcery Tega had done. But Darus was not well. His arm had swelled, the fingers barely recognizable, and he was in agony. The best plans for seeking a way into the Mounds had fallen quickly into ruin and there was nothing to be done for it.
Vonders climbed from the tent next and the worried expression on his face made clear he knew exactly what Nolan did, that their three companions would not survive this trip. With Vonders along they might survive themselves, despite the lack of horses, but he was having doubts.
Tolpen was a hunter. He’d spent the last day looking for anything he could hunt, but so far had failed. If there were creatures out there, like the rider they thought they’d seen, then the wind was scouring away any tracks that might have been left in the drifts of dirtied snow or on the rare patches of bare ground.
And off to the left was the wagon Tega slept in. The damned thing seemed nearly unaltered by the ice and sand and wind. The ground under Nolan’s boots crunched with every step he took, but the wagon remained untouched by it. He resented the damned thing, irrationally, he knew. It had certainly proven a worthy shelter when they had stayed in it.
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