“We have to take our chances,” Tolpen said. “We can’t see anything without more light.”
It took Nolan three tries before the torch lit properly. He slid his flint away and made sure it was secure. If he had learned anything at all in the Blasted Lands it was that warmth was a commodity. When he left here, if he left here, he had every intention of moving to a place where the winters were mild.
The torch took a few moments to catch properly, spitting fitfully and smoking before the flame blazed. During that time Nolan looked away from the fire to let his eyes adjust. The light revealed much more than he’d expected.
The area widened out a great deal from the narrow passage they’d been in initially, but that did not mean it was an open area. There were obstacles everywhere.
Warped remains of what had once been were everywhere. Vonders let out a strangled sound that might have been joy or fear. The scavenger and his family had looked for years and could have continued on for decades and never have found the level of treasures that surrounded them. Nolan had never much cared for sparkling treasures, though he knew why so many did. Still, he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he marveled. Columns of what had possibly been buildings before the Cataclysm stood impossibly tall and faded away into darkness. Some were upright and others tilted precariously. He looked at one of the closest and wondered how it was that they had not been crushed beneath the weight. The surface was nearly smooth, and parts of it were translucent. Striations of color ran through the entire thing and though he could not see them clearly – for which he thanked the gods – there seemed to be the remains of people frozen in the clear areas, like flies in tree sap.
Nolan March walked closer to the column, which was fifty feet or more in width, and tried to make out the features of what looked like a burnt man holding a small child in his arms. The tower was too murky. Still, his stomach twisted at the thought and his heart raced. How long had that poor wretch been frozen within the depths of the crystal? Was he dead, or did he suffer some eternal half-sleep?
Not far away Tega made a noise in her throat that was more whimper than sigh, and stepped further into the depths as if to escape the sight revealed by Nolan’s torch. He could not blame her for seeking the darkness, but he had to follow her.
The light went with him and revealed even more.
The pillars of ruination rose into the darkness above them, thrusting in different directions and in some cases sagging until they touched the ground. There were places where they would surely have to climb over columns of the burnt and broken remains of what the empress and her pet sorcerer told him was likely Korwa.
How could they know? How could anyone know, for certain, what it was they looked at?
Before he could catch up with Tega, Tolpen Hart stepped in front of him and blocked his path. The man had one hand held out toward Nolan and was facing away, looking down.
“Wait. Don’t move yet.” The hunter stared at the soft, sandy ground ahead of him, and Nolan followed suit, frowning.
There were more tracks. He could clearly see where Tega’s footsteps had passed a moment before, but under that, a deeper tread marred the ground. If it was a paw print, the paw was immense, larger than a great shield like those the Lancers used when charging their enemies. Several deep punctures dug the sand around it. Nolan was not as skilled at tracking as Tolpen, but he understood that the indentations were likely from claws.
Tega spoke, her voice carrying through the vast area and echoing into a dozen whispers. “We have a long trek ahead of us, I think.”
Nolan frowned and walked toward her, carefully stepping into unmarked sand. The torch went with him, but he suspected it cast enough light to let Tolpen see what he needed to see.
Tega stood still, looking at the darkness ahead of her. As before, the darkness was not complete.
This time the illumination was better, and clearly defined what lay ahead of them.
Past a forest of broken, twisted columns like those already surrounding them, Nolan could see the cause of Tega’s words. There was a long, deep chasm ahead and it seemed to fall for hundreds of feet at least.
Deep in that chasm, below more ruination and ancient debris, he could see a light source brighter than the torch.
The light moved, crawling like ants seen at a distance.
“Is it alive?” He did not look to Tega as he spoke.
“I think we must find out, yes?”
Damn. “Yes. I expect we must.”
And was there an easy path to follow? Well lit and gently sloping down to this distant nest of moving lights?
No. Instead there was darkness and cliffs and gigantic paw prints.
Not at all why he had joined the Imperial Army.
Four
Captain Callan sat on a three-legged chair and looked at his ship through drink-blurred eyes.
There was a lot that needed doing and he had the spare coin to let him do most of it.
The boat was a good one, fast and true, but very large and in need of minor repairs and a bit of clean up. It was okay for a boat to look poor, but not okay for the boat to suffer for those looks.. The holds were currently empty and he hated that part. Empty holds did not make money.
On the other hand, he had a commission to consider. He’d been paid handsomely for finding the Brellar and negotiating with them. The red-haired woman, Tataya, had seen to his financial needs and promised him more work. Being as he was mostly honest, he’d taken her where she wanted to go and not been foolish enough to try anything like selling her to the highest bidder. Knowing she worked with a sorcerer helped keep him honest, he supposed, but he wasn’t much for slavers anyway.
Still, the Brellar were an interesting lot. Had he made a poor choice in negotiations it likely would have cost him his ship and very possibly his head. Instead he was wealthy enough that he could settle in Canhoon if he was inclined and live a comfortable life of idle days and drunken nights.
Instead he looked at his poor, battered boat and nodded his head. The repairs would start in the morning. Nothing too substantial, a board here, a nail there but if she was going to remain seaworthy the work had to be done and paid for.
He had been drinking. He was not blind drunk, nor in any true danger of it.
Still, he started when he heard the voice coming from his left.
“Captain Callan?”
He looked at the man for moment.
Dressed in finery, but definitely local. He had a plain face and a soft manner. He was unremarkable, but Callan had no doubt that was because he chose to be.
“If you are looking for Captain Callan, you’ve found him. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Losla Foster and I have a need for a good, fast ship. I have heard you have one for hire.”
Callan looked his way more carefully. His clothes were fashionable. More importantly, they were clean and needed no mending. That spoke to a certain degree of money.
Money, it should be noted, was always one of Callan’s weaknesses, along with a beautiful woman. And food. Wine, of course. Truly, he had to admit, he was a man with many weaknesses.
“What did you need shipped, and to where?”
“I have a group of men who need to enter the city. They do not wish to be seen.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Men who need to not be seen are often a costly cargo.”
“They are. I know this.”
The small sack the man dropped on the table next to his wine landed with a deep, lovely thump. Gold, Callan knew, sounded different than copper or silver when it rattled. That was the rattle of gold. He’d have known it anywhere.
“That is one half of your payment. The rest upon delivery.”
“Agreed.” Callan did not care what men he was carrying. He was a man with scruples, yes, but they were not very strong and easily purchased.
Later, he would regret that fact about himself.
The land was lush, ripe and green.
Trees rose
as high as mountains here, it seemed, and Tusk admired their strength, their beauty. There was power in this place. He could feel it in the ground beneath him and in the trees around him. This was the land where the Fellein held sway without fear of conquest for as long as there had been a Fellein Empire.
The only threat they had ever known that was worthy were the Wellish Overlords and though few knew it, the Sa’ba Taalor had handled that matter a long time back and buried the undying bastards deep in the ground. He wondered what stories the Fellein told themselves to explain why the Overlords had gone away.
It was an idle consideration and one he brushed aside as a man might cast away a gnat.
The great forest of Trecharch had been a part of the Empire since it had been founded on the remains of Korwa. The land ahead of them sloped gently into a valley where three separate rivers ran from the north and flowed toward the great trees in the center. Around those trees, between them, and in some cases built against them, great stone edifices rose in pale imitation of the trees themselves. There were people there, great numbers of them. This was Norhaun, according to the maps they had been given. It was the seat of power in the entire area. At the center, rising like a sapling splitting from one of the great trees, was a castle that took Tusk’s breath away.
Orrander’s Tower rose toward the skies and would have been impressive in any other setting. Here it seemed small, a pale shadow of the monolithic trees that surrounded it and sheltered it. The trees themselves were almost as great as the Seven Forges in height. They were ancient before the Forges rose from the ground and they continued on.
“Stastha!” He did not look away from the incredible vista as he called for one of his most trusted aides. Instead he savored the view.
Stastha rode forward, her dark furred mount, Loarhun, moving with smooth grace. Stastha’s face could not be seen under the great horned helmet she sported, but her eyes glimmered with silvery light as she looked at him.
“Yes, my king?”
She already knew what he would say. They had discussed the matter repeatedly as they moved across the Blasted Lands and traveled over the Wellish Steppes on their way to this place, cutting a bloody path through the people of Trecharch on their way.
“Burn it. All of it. Nothing survives us!”
She did not raise her horn to sound the alarm. Instead she offered a simple battle cry that all with them would understand. “Durhallem!”
“Durhallem!” A hundred voices mirrored the call, and then the armies of the Wounder moved forward, riding into the valley to destroy all that crossed their paths.
Far above them, moving through the trees of the Trecharch, the other warriors moved in silence. They would continue their own ways and follow their own god. Tusk knew their plans and agreed with them.
Brodem roared under him and the other mounts added their own cries to arms. He and his cavalry charged into the heavy woods, moving across the established paths.
They had already learned the hard way why the trees were said to walk. The Sa’ba Taalor above them had already crippled many of the trees by weakening the great vine that wrapped around the mightiest of the hardwoods.
Somewhere ahead of him Glo’Hosht moved silently through the trees and killed them in passing. He could see the great vine, the damage done to it. That was the King in Mercury’s sacred order. The Mother-Vine would die at the king’s hand.
Tuskandru suppressed the faintest of shivers. Glo’Hosht was a deadly enemy to have. Tusk would fight anyone, anything that he had to fight in order to survive. The King in Mercury would kill just as easily, without ever touching an opponent.
He pushed the thought aside. This was a time for combat and glory. Glo’Hosht had made certain the traps of the area remained empty of Sa’ba Taalor. Tusk would see to the rest.
Brodem rode faster and Tusk felt himself grin, felt his blood surge. The axe in his left hand was well balanced and sharp enough to manage most any target he struck. The chain in his other hand would handle anything that came his way.
Up ahead he could see buildings and people. Just as importantly, they could see him.
“Durhallem!” He called out his god’s name in joy. It was time at last to fight.
The chain rattled and sang as it cut the air. The blades at the end of the long links found flesh and cut that, too. The man who had been posted to guard against attacks died a moment later, a look of shock on his face as the flayed remains of his neck rained blood across his chest.
Sometimes the gods were kind.
She dreamed of her father. When she had been a child he used to walk with her along the Mother-Vine and show her the wonders of Trecharch. She had fished the different rivers, climbed every imaginable type of tree, and learned how to forage the woods when it seemed there was no food to be found.
She missed the old man. His smile, his gentle ways, and the smell of his pipe smoke. He had carved a hundred pipes in his time and given them away more often than sold them. She considered his whittling blades among her most prized possessions.
Cullen opened her eyes and looked at the world around her. The air stank of wood smoke and offal. She turned her head to the side and stifled a cough, barely suppressing the need. Moving hurt her neck, her shoulders, and her back.
People moved around her, and they spoke a language unknown to her ears.
She looked to her left, then to her right and carefully assessed the situation.
There were people, yes, but there were not many. While she watched a gathering of children – they had to be children as the corpses they were near seemed gigantic in comparison – dragged the body of Tremm from where he’d fallen and pulled his weight toward a wagon. Several bodies were already on the open cart. Whatever the bodies carried or wore was left with them.
The children wore hides and leathers and each and every one of them sported weapons. Some carried swords, most sported clubs or axes.
One of the children – possibly as old as ten years, but she had her doubts – spoke in their tongue and gestured at the wagon. It was full. There was no way around that fact.
Just the same, an older one, closer to adulthood, argued back.
While she watched the younger of the two delivered a brutal open-handed blow across the older one’s face and sent the boy rocking on his heels. He started to respond and the younger one drew two daggers from sheaths at his hips. Cullen thought they were male. She couldn’t truly tell; they were at that age. Her father used to say that all children are beautiful until they grow up. Looking on these children, that statement made sense. They were androgynous.
They were also vicious. The fight happened quickly and ended with the young one drawing a deep cut across the older one’s abdomen. Around them the other children looked on and did nothing to help until the fight was finished. The older sat down while two more tended to the wounds, called to do so by the victor. Two more grabbed at the wagon. It was designed to be pulled by hand, and though the children were young, they were impressively strong and wrestled the weight of the wagon and its cargo with ease.
While they were all distracted, Cullen rolled to her hands and knees and carefully looked around. For the moment no one was watching her. She moved as quietly as she could, wincing, because the pain in her neck was moving through most of her muscles, sliding between two of the trees and getting distance from the invaders. Children or not, they were in better shape that she was at the moment, and they had weapons.
She would fix that just as soon as she could, but for the moment she had to understand her surroundings and what had happened.
When she was properly hidden from easy sight, Cullen stopped and took stock further. The scent of smoke was still prevalent.
To the west she saw why. They were burning the great forest. So far only a few of the younger trees, but she could see more of them – more children! – adding fuel to the fires they had already set. The winds from the Blasted Lands only aided them in their actions. The flames were already too
high for her to consider putting them out.
As she watched, one of the trees that had been a landmark in her life begin to burn. The bark had already been smoldering but now it caught ablaze. Tongues of fire licked greedily at the heavy bark, blackening the wood and dancing higher.
Cullen looked up, her eyes trying to orient on the familiar, and felt a cold wind sigh through her body.
Above her the Mother-Vine was gray and lifeless. The leaves had wilted and fallen away; the tendrils that should have held onto the trees around the great vine were withered and tucked in close to the main trunk of the vine.
The Mother-Vine was dead here, or so close to death that it hardly mattered.
What she saw simply could not be. Her mouth was dry and breathing seemed an impossibility. That last was probably because of the smoke that was thickening even as she looked around.
Cullen crouched for a moment, cursing silently and wishing that Deltrea were alive to talk of rutting and boredom. Her eyes stung with unshed tears that eased the burning just the same.
She looked around carefully once more, making sure she was not observed. She had no weapons left. If she were going to arm herself, it would be by taking from one of the children.
They were moving around her. It was only a matter of time before she ran across one or more of them. Not twenty feet away she could hear the tiny terror that had won the earlier fight bellowing at the others in that devil tongue that hurt her ears.
She risked a look around the side of the tree that she was using for shelter and saw one of the children looking directly at her.
The recognition was immediate and Cullen clenched her jaw. If the whelp cried out or called an alarm…
Instead the child – no more than twelve at the oldest, or an absolute runt – started in her direction with a smile that would have scared a Pra-Moresh.
There were no words, just motion.
The girl reached inside her loose blouse – the shirt opening enough to reveal that she fought a female – and came out with a long dagger. The blade was curved and serrated. The hilt of the thing had spikes running over the hand guard and Cullen wondered for half a heartbeat how the girl carried the damned thing without cutting herself to ribbons.
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