The Seven Forges Novels

by James A. Moore

  Merros scowled and walked to the window closest to him. After a moment he moved to the next window and studied the ground far below.

  “What sort of sacrifices?”

  “Power has to come from somewhere. The events that led to raising the Silent Army included a good number of deaths, and the use of necromancy to focus that power. I have told you before that necromancy is forbidden. There is a reason.”

  “Desh, earlier today I saw a gathering of madmen throw themselves off the Mid Wall. They cut their own throats and dropped to the ground before my eyes, and they claimed that they were offering themselves to the gods.”

  Desh frowned at him.

  “Desh, they said the Silent Army was coming and not to stand in their way.”

  “That seems a rather significant thing to overlook telling me, Merros.”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this earlier, General?” There was frost in his voice that he could not prevent.

  Merros shook his head. “I’ve been a bit busy today, First Advisor.” There was heat in the general’s voice.

  Nachia calmed them both. “Enough. War. We have a war to win.”

  “Why are you mentioning the Silent Army?” Desh moved past the general and looked out the window. At the closest wall, the Great Wall as it was often called, the situation looked unchanged. At the New Wall, the barrier that currently kept the Sa’ba Taalor at bay, the same was true. But at the Mid Wall, something was different. The wall was a great distance away, but Desh Krohan’s eyes were still as sharp as ever.

  In perfect formation shapes stood atop the wall and looked out toward the New Wall or possibly beyond.

  “By the gods, could we be that fortunate?” His voice cracked like a young boy’s.

  Nachia shook her head. “What are you prattling on about, old man?”

  Desh’s smile grew. “The Silent Army! Nachia! The Silent Army is here! I don’t even begin to know how that’s possible but they are here as they were before. I can’t say they’ll win against the Sa’ba Taalor, but they could damned well change the tide of the coming battle.”

  Nachia did not speak, but instead moved to the window and squinted down toward the city below. Desh pointed until she saw them and she studied the shapes.

  “Why don’t they move?”

  “I don’t know. I would think they’d protect Canhoon as they did in the past.”

  It was Nachia who thought of it first. “How long in the past, Desh?”

  “Five hundred years, at least. Longer, probably. I can’t remember that far back.” He waved the question aside as if it were a house fly buzzing by his face.

  “Desh, Canhoon was smaller then. So much smaller. The Mid Wall was raised when the city nearly fell. You’re the one that told me that.”

  “Well, that could be an issue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They might not understand that what is beyond that wall should be defended.”

  Nachia looked out the window again and then shook her head. “Maybe you could explain that to them?”

  “I don’t know that they’ll much care to talk to me, actually.”

  “What do you mean? Didn’t you say that you made them?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t exactly ask their permission.” He looked out the window at the unmoving forms along the Mid Wall. “They might still be holding a grudge.”

  “Still? What do you mean?”

  Before he could answer the horns sounded again. One short burst and then two more and in fast succession.

  And as the last note sounded, the Sa’ba Taalor attacked.

  On the first note the dead stopped their endless pounding at the doors, as if suddenly understanding that they had no impact. Several had broken, battered limbs but could feel no pain and suffered not at all.

  On the second note the dead moved into position. Those closest to the wall took a dozen strides away from the wall and fell to the ground, lying prone. Those closest to them fell atop their bodies, covering them with their mass. Layer after layer, the dead at the Western Gate fell upon their brethren, until the corpses had to climb to find a new resting place.

  On the third note, the dead that could do so clutched at the bodies closest to them and held tight.

  Tarag Paedori looked upon the mountainous hill of the dead and nodded, satisfied.

  Kallir Lundt, next to him, nodded as well and felt his blood roar.

  The King in Iron wore a great suit of iron armor and a helmet that covered all of his head. His face was uncovered most times, but now he lowered the great mask of Truska-Pren over his visage. The god’s face glowered at all who saw the king, and deep within the sockets of the mask the glow of Tarag Paedori’s eyes was clear.

  With a single wave of his hand the Sa’ba Taalor who rode their mounts moved forward. The great beasts ran, building up speed, and the foot soldiers before them hastily moved out of their way. Several hundred bodies lay before them, a ramp to help them gain access to the top of the wall meant to deter them.

  The King in Iron was the first to make the walkway at the crest. The great beast under him clawed at the edge of the stone lip and found purchase, pulling both its own bulk and that of its giant rider to the top with ease. As soon as he had regained his balance Tarag Paedori started looking for his access to the ground on the other side.

  There were guards upon the wall. They’d been watching as the dead fell to the ground and they’d been watching as the King in Iron and his riders climbed that mountain of flesh.

  Most of them stayed to fight as Tarag Paedori came for them. The sword he drew was a brutal thing, heavy enough to crush bone and bend armor with ease. He carried it the same way and used it without hesitation, sweeping the foolish aside with each strike. Some died and others merely broke, but none of them mattered.

  His sole concern was gaining the ground on the far side of the stone barrier and getting to the gate.

  The guards before him fought. Archers grabbed bows and tried to place arrows in his body, but the armor he wore was thick, solid and well crafted by his own hand and the missiles could find no purchase there. Those that found his blood-red cloak and black tunic made it no further, but the sight of them sticking though the heavy fabric left more than one archer doubting that the man was killable.

  He let them worry instead about his ability to kill. Pordra, his mount, roared and charged and tore into anything before them. Tarag smiled grimly under his helmet and cut down anything the beast could not reach, until, finally, the great gate stood before him. A series of pulleys and levers were needed to close the monstrous barrier. Once sealed it was simple to lock the barrier into a sealed position. The mechanism was old but well-tended and Tarag admired its craftsmanship for a moment before unlocking the heavy chains from where they were anchored.

  Coils of metallic chains sang as they unrolled back to their usual position. The vast doors, sealed and locked for the first time in decades, groaned and rumbled as they pulled apart and slid away into the tracks that had been designed to accommodate them.

  Once the task was finished, Tarag Paedori drew the heavy hammer from his side and destroyed the antique tracks and pulleys, ensuring they would never work again.

  “To me! Come to me and kill them all!” He roared his command and was rewarded with a hundred battle cries as his people came forward.

  As he turned to charge one man stood before him.

  He was dressed in full armor of his own and had even managed a helmet.

  “Face me, King in Iron!”

  Tarag lifted his faceplate for a moment to study the man. He was of average size and he carried a sword with skilled hands. He was also trembling, terrified, but he stood his ground before the king.

  He challenged the king.

  “What is your name and who are you to challenge me?”

  The man lifted the plate on his helmet and revealed a weathered, sweating face. “I am Captain Mendre Tinner of the
Imperial Guard. This is my gate and you’ll not pass beyond this point without facing me.”

  The man’s voice shook. Still, he stood his ground.

  “What weapons do you choose, Captain Mendre Tinner?” Tarag spoke calmly, while his soldiers formed behind him and slowly, carefully, the ranks of the soldiers serving the Fellein gathered behind their captain.

  “Come again?”

  “What weapons? Sword? Axe? Bare hands? What weapon would you use to face me in singular combat?”

  He looked from his sword to the monstrous blade in Tarag’s hand. “Any weapon?”

  “I am Tarag Paedori, the King in Iron and Chosen of the Forge of Truska-Pren. You have challenged me to singular combat, yes?”

  The man looked around, nervous, but hopeful. Here, he understood, was a chance to save his people.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “If I win this combat, you die and forfeit your claim to this gate. If you win this combat, my people turn from your city and do not return.” He paused. “Agreed?”

  “Yes, by all the gods, yes!” The fear was less now. Hope was a powerful weapon in its own right.

  “By all the gods? No. By Truska-Pren. You have challenged. I offer you the choice of weapons. What will you choose?”

  Around them, behind the king, the Sa’ba Taalor moved along the wall, their mounts spreading out for a substantial distance, all of the riders looking down on the challenger and the challenged.

  “Fists!”

  Tarag nodded his head. “Do you wish to wear armor? Or will we go bare fleshed?”

  The man considered carefully, as well he should. Without armor he could move faster. So, too, could the king. Without armor, his blows would do more damage. So, too, the king. Armor would let him absorb some of the blows the king offered and would protect the king from him as well.

  “Armored!”

  Tarag Paedori nodded. “You have offered honorable combat. I accept. Should any of your followers attack during this time, my people will return the favor. So long as your followers remain outside the fight, my people will as well. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Tarag Paedori climbed down from his mount and moved to stand in front of the captain of the guard.

  Tinner stared at him, gaped, took in his full size and realized that he would be fighting a man who outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, likely more.

  “You are reconsidering the use of weapons?”

  Tinner looked him up and down and nodded, likely not even aware of the action. “I am reconsidering my challenge. You are… large.”

  “You may choose a weapon and I will follow suit.”

  Several of the Fellein were following him, their eyes on his body and a few had crossbows aimed at him.

  He spoke up. “Should any Fellein fire a weapon at me or mine this truce is done and I’ll see all here dead. Do you understand me?”

  The crossbows lowered a bit. Some still stayed aimed his way, but without the same focus.

  “I… Swords. I choose swords.” Tinner’s voice shook again.

  “That is wise. A good sword could kill me.”

  Tarag Paedori walked back to Pordra and considered several different swords. He finally decided the one he carried would suffice.

  His faceplate was placed back over his face. Truska-Pren once more glared down at his enemies.

  Captain Mendre Tinner looked at him for a moment and took a combat stance. He was substantially smaller than Tarag, but the King in Iron had long since learned that size was not the only strength in a warrior. His armor was lighter, he was possibly faster, his skills were untested and might prove substantial.

  “When you are ready, Captain Mendre Tinner, come for me.”

  The captain came in hard, swinging his sword to aim for the throat. A wise choice as many people left their necks vulnerable.

  The sword in his right hand swept to block the captain’s blow, knocking the weapon to the side, and he drove his left fist into his enemy’s helmeted head, knocking the helmet askew.

  Tarag Paedori had forged his own armor, his own helmet, and had designed them to fit perfectly. They were not loose, because armor that moved in the wrong ways offered no protection.

  The helmet on Tinner’s head was not designed for him. Whether it was a trophy or simply belonged to another the king could not say, but it was loose and the impact rattled the captain’s head inside it.

  He had accepted a formal challenge and had no intention of playing kindly with his enemy.

  Tarag Paedori pivoted on his hip and, as Tinner tried to adjust the helmet, he drove his elbow into the man’s head and face and sent him staggering back.

  His blade cut through the captain’s chest and the armor over it. The blow was meant to kill but the armor was good enough to slow it. Tinner grunted and fell to his knees, his helmet nearly sideways on his head and a great rend in his chest plate and his chest alike. Blood flowed heavily.

  Tarag kicked the man in his chest and knocked him sprawling.

  The second sword stroke succeeded where the first failed and Tinner died quickly.

  The face of Truska-Pren looked up from the death of a good man and an adequate warrior and scowled at the masses of the Fellein who watched on, their faces pale, their bodies sagging in defeat.

  Tarag Paedori was disappointed. He had hoped more might come forward to fight for their people.

  “Kill them! All of them!”

  To emphasize his point the King in Iron drove the tip of his sword through the closest guard’s face and pushed onward.

  Fifty thousand of his followers moved at his command, ready to seize the city.

  Nachia Krous stepped back and shook her head.

  “The Western Gate is open.” Her voice was broken and her spirit wasn’t far behind. The gates should have held for days and as soon as the Sa’ba Taalor attacked they were opened and the enemy came through.

  “What?” Merros and Desh both moved to the window and saw that she was right. The movement of the Sa’ba Taalor from this range made them tiny, but they swarmed quickly through the opening in the gate and spilled across the cleared area around the first defense, attacking anything foolish enough to stand in their way.

  Desh stared hard, his face tight with tension and she could see him calculating the odds that he could do something about the problem.

  “No, Desh. Not yet.”

  “If I don’t do something now it will be too late.”

  She remembered the blistering arcs of light and the thunder that shattered the peace for as far as she could see. She could look even now and see the vast wasteland where he had done as she asked and leveled a portion of their enemies’ forces.

  “And if you miss? How much of Canhoon could you destroy?”

  He withered. From the lines on his face to the posture he offered, he looked closer to his actual age than she had ever seen before.

  Merros looked down toward the wave of enemies filling the area. “We’ve got to seal the Mid Gate. Now.”

  “There are still people–”

  Merros shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Save some or lose all.”

  Nachia moved closer, shaking her head, prepared to argue though she knew he was in the right.

  “There has to be something!” How many people? How many hundreds and thousands would die if they acted now? How many would survive if they waited? Trecharch had already taught a lesson, to be sure.

  The cell where Cullen waited was comfortable. It had been dressed with fine silks, there were pillows aplenty and a thick, luxurious fur to keep her warm. But it was still a cell.

  She stared at the bars. They were not well decorated.

  There was a crisis. She knew without being told what it was. The grayskins had made it to Canhoon and surely were attacking like the animals they were.

  Deltrea sat next to her, shaking her head. “Hardly seems the way he should greet you.”

  “I’m nothing to him. It�
�s the thing in me he wants.”

  “What is it, anyway?” Her friend leaned down and placed a spectral hand on her stomach. There was no pressure to feel. “What does it do?”

  “Mostly it burns in me. I know it does something, but maybe it’s not time to know yet.”

  “They’re coming. If they find you here, with that thing inside you, they’ll cut you open to get to it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I can’t see them just ignoring it.” Deltrea shrugged. “Least they don’t seem interested in having their way with anyone. They just flat out killed me. Not a one of them tried to put any man parts inside my body.”

  “Well, you were dead.”

  “Be wiser than that. Wouldn’t have stopped a few I knew.”

  Cullen’s look of disgust changed into a mask of agony, as the thing inside her uncoiled and its power flared.

  “Ahhhh!”

  “Come now, I’ve said worse before about Tremm.”

  “Ah. No. Not.”

  She stopped speaking and fell to her side, the pain too big to contain. Whatever was in her was moving, and though she didn’t think it wanted out just yet, she expected it would not be long. Sure as the dead screamed, it was changing its position inside of her and getting ready for something.

  There were no corpses to use as a foothill on Tuskandru’s side.

  There were, however, trees. The trees were good enough to fall when they were hit with enough axes.

  After that it was just a matter of strength to see them put in the right position and the followers of Durhallem were strong, let no one say otherwise. Because they needed to earn the right to fight for their god he had the children move the trees into place.

  After the first volley of arrows killed those foolish enough to get too close they listened to his words and raised the trees by hastily cut tips that held the earth and by use of ropes that pulled the vast trunks higher. When the trees fell the second time – the first when they were cut down, the second when they were aimed at the wall – their weight was enough to break the wall’s edge. It was a matter of moments for the mounts to climb their new entry points. It was only minutes later that Stastha and Loarhun tore the last of the guards down to the ground and then her mount pulled the gears and chains of the door until they finally opened.