The Seven Forges Novels

by James A. Moore

  From a distance she thought the smoke was distorting her sight, but closer up she realized the child had pale gray skin.

  Her stomach dropped again.

  One of the demons from the Blasted lands. No matter the age, she had to assume the bitch was dangerous.

  It was a good assumption. Without speaking a word the girl came in low and fast, holding one hand to ward off any possible blows and carrying the dagger with deadly intent.

  Cullen did not try pleading. There was no time for anything but action. The girl came in fast and feinted.

  Cullen moved in closer still, remembering her training and getting inside the range of the dagger. The girl stepped back to compensate and Cullen stepped in again, bringing her elbow around and slamming it into her younger opponent’s sternum with all her strength.

  Full-grown men who’d been foolish enough to try their luck with her had been dropped by the maneuver. Cullen was stronger than she looked and faster, too.

  The girl grunted, grinned and attacked, driving the blade up toward Cullen’s innards. She backed away fast and narrowly avoided losing her insides.

  No delays on the other side. The girl charged forward, the weaponless hand landing a powerful blow on Cullen’s temple. She saw black stars for a second and fell back.

  The trees saved her. Cullen fell over a thick root and landed on her ass. Even as she was falling she saw the blade cut across where her throat should have been. The little bitch meant business.

  From her prone position Cullen kicked out and slammed her heel into the inside of the girl’s thigh. The move worked, and knocked her enemy from her feet. She was mean, she was tough but she was still a child. Cullen was twice her weight and that alone saved her.

  The girl fell and caught herself on her hand. While she was trying to get her balance, Cullen slammed her heel into the girl’s jaw and neck. She felt the bones break. The child died instantly.

  Her body ached everywhere. She’d fallen from a tree and landed on a monster. She was alive, but most of her body felt bruised.

  Still, she was alive. Lucky, lucky.

  There was no hesitation. She stole the girl’s dagger. A quick search found several more weapons. A long, thin club made of metal, with a weighted end and a leather grip, and two smaller blades. She took all of them.

  And then she ran away from the children, away from the fire, and toward Norhaun. There was no time to contemplate pain. She had to do what she could to get ahead of the invaders and warn the rest of her people.

  The ground was uneven and the pathways were littered with the bodies of her people and, occasionally, with a dead Pra-Moresh. She saw no bodies from the enemy. They had brought monsters with them to soften up the Trecharch and it had worked well.

  Cullen did not cry. She did not wallow in her grief. She focused on what mattered instead. The dead were dead. The living still had a chance.

  A great peal of thunder shook the world and a moment later rains came from the east, washing through the canopy of leaves above. She thanked the gods for the good fortune of unseasonal storms.

  The Norhaun River ran placidly across the land, cutting a deep path. Centuries of runoff from the north had allowed a deep ravine and several small waterfalls made certain the area had a pristine beauty.

  Goriah looked at the river and the bridges across it and shook her head. The bridges, like the rest of the area, were nearly invisible. The Mother-Vine provides. The thick vine ran across the distance in several locations and the people of the area had used that to their advantage, carefully manipulating offshoots of the vine to use as guiderails along the way. Wherever possible they had avoided adding anything more than ropes or occasional platforms where the Mother-Vine sagged too heavily to allow easy access.

  Here the vines were still healthy. To the west she could see the smoke, the growing blaze. The fires were getting stronger.

  Goriah considered the environment carefully and settled herself against a tree limb almost a hundred feet from the floor of the heavily wooded area.

  Decades of study and careful evaluation went into her decisions. Most people would have seen nothing out of the ordinary unless they were looking toward the skies far above.

  The storms of the Blasted Lands were dark, dry and cold. The storm she summoned was just as violent, it had to be, but it was vibrant with water and warmer than the air around her.

  When the rains came they were hard, and the winds blew the waters to the west, aiming at extinguishing the growing blaze and saving Trecharch from the flames.

  Eyes closed, she felt the world around her and allowed herself a very small victorious smile.

  The rains were harsh, but they were doing their work and the fires were faltering in the distance. There was still an invading force to consider but there was hope that the great forest could be spared.

  Satisfied that the rains would do their work, Goriah rose from where she had rested and looked toward the bridges of the Mother-Vine. They were the only way across the Norhaun for a hundred miles or more. If she worked quickly she might be able to prevent the enemy from using the bridges to reach the great city.

  Hurting the Mother-Vine was not what she wanted, but if she had to, she would. Sometimes a limb must be removed to save the body.

  Still, it was a very large move to make and Desh would want to know before she ruined the bridges.

  Once more she closed her eyes and prepared to reach across the distance to speak with the greatest of the sorcerers.

  And in that moment, Glo’Hosht drove the blade through her skull and ended her life.

  Pella fell. Had she been in flight she would surely have fallen to her death. Instead she merely crashed to her knees, skinning them both, and never even noticing.

  The pain was immense. A needle through her eyes and deep into her brain. She felt her Sister die.

  Deep within the confines of Orrander’s Tower, where she waited to speak with Queen Parlu, Pella fell to the ground and into a deep, restless darkness.

  The storms were violent and sent shivers through the trees themselves.

  The Sa’ba Taalor noticed, but did not stay their path. In comparison to the Blasted Lands the storms were only a minor inconvenience.

  Tusk looked at the tower ahead and reached for his horn. It was a massive tower, the thing he had seen in the distance. True to his earlier thoughts it grew alongside a tree that was as tall as a mountain. He could not hope to understand the size of the tree until he was upon it.

  No. He frowned and looked a second time. Not a tree at all. This was the Mother-Vine. He had seen the many strands of the great thing as it sprawled across the land. The vines ran everywhere. They had actually crossed thick strands of the vine as they moved over the river that cut through the valley.

  The map called it the Mother-Vine and Durhallem had spoken to him of the great serpentine thing. His god claimed that many of the people in the area nearly thought of the Mother-Vine as a god as well.

  He patted Brodem’s neck and his mount slowed his pace. Mount and rider alike surveyed the area. There were soldiers ahead. Not as many as he had expected, but still they were there and they were likely very well trained. They had to protect not only their queen, but also their god.

  That thought amused him.

  “Why are you smiling, Tusk?” Stastha’s voice came from his left.

  He looked to her and winked. “In that tower is a ‘queen.’” He frowned for a moment. Not because he was sad, but merely confused by the cultural differences. “For some reason they call their kings by that name when they have breasts. In any event, I must go meet this queen and kill her.”

  “And that makes you smile?”

  Tusk nodded. “Yes, but I smile for a different reason. This queen, she is the protector of the Mother-Vine. That is the god of these people. It is all around us.” He gestured and she looked, nodding.

  “Yes.” She paused a moment. “And?”

  “If she must protect her god, either she i
s a very powerful warrior, or her god is very weak.”

  Stastha looked at him for a moment and then threw her head back, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

  Tusk looked around again to make sure that no one was waiting to kill them in the trees. One could never be too careful.

  When his second had finished her fit he swatted her affectionately on the shoulder. “We go our separate ways now. You should kill everyone you encounter. All of them.”

  “And you, Tuskandru?” Her eyes blazed under her helmet. The great horns were intact, but the helm itself was bloodied and dented.

  “Durhallem has told me to kill this ‘queen’ and then, apparently I am to slay a god.”

  “What blade does one use to slay a god, Tuskandru?” She shook her head. To be fair the Mother-Vine was very large. He wasn't so sure his axe would do much damage.

  He grinned again and urged Brodem forward. The great mount let out a roar of impatience and prepared for running.

  Just as the beast started moving, Tusk gave Stastha his answer, “It might take more than one!”

  As he rode, Stastha sounded her horn. The armies of Durhallem moved again, riding through the forests of Trecharch on their way to introduce new deities to the region.

  Cullen did not have a horse, nor did she have a great beast like the invaders rode. She only had her feet and they were sore and the legs attached to them were weak and felt ruined.

  Still, one does what one must. Her father had always said that to her when she was growing and her mother had nodded her agreement. Good people the both of them and as much as she missed them she was glad they were dead. They’d have been ruined by the burning of the forest they’d both loved so dearly.

  She moved along the pathways that most would never have seen and cursed the fact that no one had ever thought to lay traps along the main routes to prevent invaders.

  When she came to the bridge over the river there was no choice but to run it. She dared not walk. The longer she was on the bridge the greater the chance that she would be spotted by the invaders and she dreaded that notion. Though she had fought for her life, Cullen could not overlook the fact that she had killed a child. The swelling above her eye where the girl had nearly cracked her skull open helped a bit, but guilt still cut at her conscience.

  After she crossed the bridge it was back to moving, running, doing all she could to reach Orrander’s Tower though she knew she would be too late.

  The bodies she found told her that much. The forest hid little from the ground. The trails were evident and even the less traveled ones were visible if you knew where to look.

  The invaders knew how to look and they were thorough. Willist was ruined. Every house, every structure, even the Sanctuaries within the trees, all were broken open and gutted. The people inside dragged out and cut down like fresh kill at a slaughterhouse.

  The ground was saturated with blood and the runoff from the rains were stained with varying shades of red.

  Cullen did not have time to consider the deaths. In truth she suspected her mind might have broken. She was running toward the danger instead of away from it.

  There was no possibility that she could reach Orrander’s Tower before the attack and even if she did there was nothing that she could do against the invaders by herself.

  Still, she had to try.

  So she ran when she could and walked the rest of the time. Along the way she gathered a good bow and some arrows. Weapons she knew how to use properly.

  No denying it; a time to kill was upon her. She might die and soon, but she’d take as many as she could with her into the dark.

  Five

  The differences between the Summer Palace and the Winter Palace were negligible. Had anyone placed a schematic for one over the other they would have been hard pressed to tell them apart. There were differences in the furniture, to be sure, but not much beyond that.

  That meant Desh Krohan felt like he was coming home when he walked into his private chambers. The bed was the same. The walls were very close. There were fewer distractions.

  A war was going on to the north. He hated that. He wanted peace in his world. That was what he had always wanted and what he had strived to achieve over the centuries. Save for a few skirmishes, he had been successful for the last few generations.

  Now that had changed and there was nothing to be done about it.

  He founds Tataya in his chambers.

  “Goriah is dead.”

  Desh nodded his head. “I felt it, too. I am so very sorry, my dear.” There was nothing else to be said, really. Much as he wanted to take his revenge against the Sa’ba Taalor, he was not prepared for that yet. There was too much to do, too many depended on him.

  Tataya closed her eyes and leaned back until her face was pointed toward the heavens. “I feel her death, Desh. It’s echoing through my head.”

  “You are Sisters. Of course it echoes. It will continue for some time yet.” He walked closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Is Pella safe?”

  “For the moment. She stirs. She was so close when it happened. I’m watching over her. If anyone comes for her, I will act.”

  “How do they fare in Trecharch?”

  “You already know, Desh.”

  “I am close to you, all of you, but your connection is greater than mine of necessity. If I felt all that you do, I would not be able to do what I must.”

  He closed his eyes as well, and reached out with his mind, using Tataya as a connection point to find Goriah’s corpse with greater ease. “Don’t move, Tataya. I’m bringing her back.”

  Hundreds of miles away the body of his Sister moved, and then rose into the air. Her corpse had been gathered with others, but it was of little consequence. He moved it just the same, taking her from the mountainous pile of the dead and carrying her aloft.

  Any who had seen him would have thought he was merely resting his head. Only Tataya understood the strain of moving Goriah from so great a distance. Few would have been capable.

  Few had ever been as powerful as Desh Krohan.

  “Will you kill their king for this, Desh?”

  He did not answer immediately. Several minutes passed before he finally opened his eyes and looked to Tataya. Her eyes were still closed. Her hair fell in a crimson cascade and her face, as lovely as ever, was as pale as marble.

  “I may yet. But as you know there is always a price. Even bringing Goriah back is a strain.”

  “I am grateful. Thank you for bringing her to me.” Tataya’s voice was distant, dreamy. Goriah’s journey had only started, but Tataya knew the course her Sister would take.

  “How could I not? I loved her as I love you and Pella.” He swallowed back the tears. “How could I not?”

  “How will this end, Desh?” Tataya opened her eyes and stared at him.

  He made himself look back as he answered. “I do not know. I wish I did.” He kept to himself that he felt the entire situation would grow far worse before it was resolved. In the past he could have done so much more.

  Merros Dulver’s new home was a short distance from the palace. Short enough that he walked, rather than ride his horse. That did not stop him from going a bit out of his way to find the house of Dretta March.

  Her new domicile looked nothing like the last she had lived in, save that it was a house and surrounded by a strong stone wall. The gardens were better tended and smaller, though he knew she had not been living there long enough to manage much by way of gardening. There was a small orchard on the estate and the trees were blooming.

  It was near those trees that Dretta waited for him at a stone table with benches rather than chairs.

  “You’ve taken your time in finding me.” She looked at him with her dark eyes and he tried not to get lost in their depths.

  “Yes, well, there’s the war to take care of.”

  Dretta nodded. “You’ve not managed to get yourself killed. I was worried along those lines.”

  It was meant as
a jest and he knew it, but considering how her husband had died, it was a bit too fresh a wound for either of them to find the situation amusing. Still, he managed a small smile for her.

  “I’ve decided I’ve too much to do to allow any form of death for a while.”

  “For the best, really. Who else will run things?”

  “Desh Krohan, the First Advisor, very likely has a hundred more waiting in the ranks.”

  “It’s his job, yes? To handle such affairs for the Empress?” There was something about the way she said those words that he found particularly amusing.

  “Have you met the man? I believe he takes his duties rather seriously.”

  “One should when running an empire.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’d likely deny it and then appoint you to run the palace, or possibly the Imperial Navy.”

  Dretta knew his situation well enough to appreciate the comment. He’d been a captain less than a year ago, and retired before that. Now he found himself in charge of the Imperial Army and he dreaded it. The responsibilities seemed endless. It was these brief visits with the widow of his best friend and second-in-command that left him feeling anchored enough to continue in his new duties.

  Dretta smiled and pushed a plate full of fruit and cheese in his direction. The cheeses were varied and the fruit was fresh and ripe. She’d brewed a potent tea – one she favored from the north, where winters were colder and a hot drink was nearly a necessity – and he sipped at it happily. He had acquired a taste for the stuff.

  “There are many newcomers entering the city every day.” Her tone was conversational.

  “There are indeed. I have no idea where we will put them. I know the Empress has ordered a great number of the older properties converted to accommodate them, but there are still more coming from, well, from everywhere. The refugees from Tyrne and Roathes, and I expect we’ll have more coming from Trecharch before long.”