The tower was large enough. Close to fifty feet in height, and built of good stone, if he could judge by appearances.
Its door was too small for his mount to join him, so Paedori slid off the great beast’s back and passed through, drawing his sword.
There was only one person standing on the other side of the door. He was a broadshouldered man, balding and bearded, wearing casual clothes.
“You are Tarag Paedori, the King in Iron.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes I am.”
“Good. Excellent.” The man nodded and moved away from a table where he’d been looking at several thick volumes. “My name is Jeron. I am a sorcerer. We are going to have a discussion.”
“What do we have to discuss?” The man was a fool. But he was also a sorcerer, or at least made that claim and, having seen what one of the sorcerers could do, it was best to at least hear him out.
“Why you are going to leave Fellein and never come back.”
“Truska-Pren demands that I be here. He will have his revenge for what the people of Fellein did to the people of Korwa.” He would have laughed under many circumstances. But the man was an unknown quantity. It was best to respect the unknown.
“The people of Fellein did not destroy Korwa.” The man looked at him with cold eyes. “The Wellish Overlords did that.”
“So you say. My god says otherwise.”
“Your god is wrong.”
He kept his place, but it was not easy. To insult the gods was beyond mere folly.
Jeron smiled. “I have proof. I have testimonies from hundreds of witnesses.”
Tarag looked on, not moving. “Where are these people?”
“Well, they’re dead.” He shrugged and gestured back to the books. “They have been dead for almost as long as Korwa, but they were there to see the final days. They survived the experience. They wrote their tales down and I have spent hundreds of years collecting them. The truth has always been my passion.”
“You would have me believe books over my god?”
“I would have you consider all possibilities, the better to decide if this war should happen.” As the man spoke there was a change in the pressure in the room. Tarag Paedori looked around and noticed that the door through which he had entered was gone.
“Truska-Pren has given me life. He has offered me a kingdom and the chance to lead the greatest armies that the whole of the world has ever known. Do you know what he asks in exchange for this?”
“No. I do not.” The sorcerer had crossed his arms over his chest.
“That I obey him.”
“Well, isn’t that what every god asks?”
“I do not know every god. I only know Truska-Pren.” A small lie. He had spent time in the presence of all the gods, as virtually every member of the Sa’ba Taalor did.
“We have so much we could share, Tarag Paedori. We have a different world filled with its own wonders. You could teach us of your gods and we could teach you the history of the world beyond the Seven Forges.”
The King in Iron stepped closer. “I know your world. I have listened to a thousand tales about it from one of your own. A soldier who has seen much of your Empire. If I need to know more, I can ask him. Or I can ask Truska-Pren. Either way, I would learn what I need to know.”
Jeron opened his mouth to counter, but before he could, Tarag continued. “Do you know of my people? Of my gods?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Yet you would have me choose your words over those of my gods?” He simply stared as he spoke. This man, Jeron, was mad.
“Well.”
“We will teach you of our gods when you are given the choice to follow them or to die.”
“That’s not the best solution.”
“It is the only solution. It is what the Daxar Taalor demand and they are the gods of my people.”
Tarag did not alter his position. He did not have to. He merely continued to stare at the sorcerer, letting the learned man make his first move.
“I cannot let you attack Canhoon.”
“Are you the one who lifted the city into the skies?”
“No. But I have enough power to level you and your army.”
“You are not a god. Do not presume to stop the armies of a god.”
Two strides had him moving past the startled mage and grabbing one of the ancient books.
“You trust in words written in the past. I trust in words spoken to me by a god.”
“Your gods are not–”
“A wise man,” Tarag interrupted, “does not insult a god in the face of the faithful.”
Jeron closed his mouth and nodded. After a moment, he asked, “What do your gods say to do?”
“I have been tasked with conquering Fellein in the name of my gods. If I must kill every person in Fellein to do so, I will.”
Jeron sighed, nodded and then threw both hands in Tarag’s direction.
The energies hit him in the side. He could not have dodged even if he’d been given warning. As Tarag turned, he felt the book in his hand crisp and ignite. The volumes on the table, the table itself, did likewise.
The clothing on his body was all that stood between his metal armor and the waves of heat that hit him. Tarag Paedori turned to face the man trying to kill him and let the burning ruins of the book fall to the ground. The sword in his hand was starting to glow red.
“You would seek to kill me with fire?” Tarag grinned.
He walked a pace toward Jeron the sorcerer, who looked at him with a shocked expression.
“I am the chosen of Truska-Pren, the God of Iron. When I talk to my god, I walk into his heart, the very center of a mountain filled with molten iron.” He took another step forward as his armor grew hotter still.
“My god protects me from that heat as he does now.” He shrugged and the armor screamed, metal tortured by heat moved and moaned.
He reached out with one gauntlet and grabbed Jeron before the man could move away. The reaction was immediate. Jeron screamed as his flesh began to burn. His left arm caught on fire, the cloth blazing and burning the skin underneath. Tarag’s other hand reached for the sorcerer’s face and caught his bald ear and half of his scalp.
Jeron tried to pull away, but Tarag Paedori hauled him closer, letting the man thrash against the burning metal that covered his chest and body.
A moment later he let the man drop to the ground, blistered, burning, breathing.
Jeron was still alive, much as he might have wished otherwise.
“You are not a warrior. You are not a fighter. You are not important. Your Empire will fall because the gods demand it. People like you, like your Empress, you only delay the inevitable. We have spent a hundred lifetimes preparing for this. What have you done?”
When he looked again, the entryway to the room was there once more.
Tarag Paedori thanked his god and then called in others to search the keep.
There was nothing useful to find or to have: books, and one ruined old man.
They left the area, heading east again.
A short time later Tusk and his newly acquired boats came alongside them. Tusk rode along the shoreline. The boats were handled by the Sa’ba Taalor who also followed Wheklam. Most of the recently converted walked along the shoreline behind Tusk and in front of his troops. They were, he explained to Tarag, earning the respect of their fellows.
To Tarag’s eyes, they looked like they were suffering and miserable. Life is pain.
“Durhallem wanted to convert them instead of killing them?” Tarag frowned at the notion. The Wounder was not normally so generous.
“He says we should try new things.” Tusk shook his head. “Who am I to argue with a god?”
“No one.”
“Exactly.”
“What happened to your armor?”
Tarag looked down and saw the heavy scorch marks where flesh had burned and where, frankly, metal had glowed hot enough to soften and lose a bit of its previous form
.
“A sorcerer tested his power against a god and failed.”
Tusk laughed at the very notion.
“We ride. Let us reach Stastha and hear what she has to say.”
Tusk smiled at that notion. “Indeed!”
A moment later they moved on, and both signaled for the horns. It was time. War was upon them. Glorious, wondrous war.
They passed odd outcroppings of ruined stone wall and occasional buildings that rose toward the skies above, and Tega explained to Drask that this had been the edge of Canhoon. The lake that replaced the city was calm enough, despite the easterly winds.
Across the ruins, Drask saw the Sa’ba Taalor before they saw him. They were too distant to recognize and so he rode closer, his companions on the back of Brackka easily compensating for the change of pace. Though Nolan still did not speak, at least he no longer fell from the mount at every change of direction or speed.
Two mounts rode ahead of them. One carried a male warrior; the other carried a corpse.
He would not have recognized Andover Lashk if it had not been for the iron hands.
“You have changed a great deal, Andover Lashk of the Iron Hands.” He smiled as he spoke.
The boy was gone, replaced by a man. He sported hard scars on his flesh and, like Drask himself, he had seven Great Scars running down his face, angry slashes that fell in a symmetry meant only for the followers of Ydramil. He had met with all of the gods and survived. More importantly, he had been found worthy.
Andover the man looked at him for a long moment without recognition and then he smiled broadly. “Drask! Gods, you are a sight!”
Both slipped from their mounts and hugged each other warmly. It was not a common gesture among the Sa’ba Taalor, but it was a sign of complete trust.
When they broke away from each other, Andover looked to the other two and nodded his head.
Tega stared at him for a long while, her mind processing before, “Andover?”
“It is good to see you, Tega.”
She climbed down from Brackka’s back without the grace of Drask, but she managed. When she moved closer, Andover realized that he now looked down on her. He had grown a great deal.
His stomach iced over as she stared at him, and froze completely when she touched his heavy arms and looked into his face. How was it that a woman he barely let himself think about could so easily cripple his mind?
Drask could see the questions on the young man’s face.
“Tega and Nolan and I met in the Blasted Lands. We did not plan to meet, but the gods saw to it.”
“You have changed so much, Andover.” Her eyes were wide as she stared up at him. “You look more like Drask than like yourself.” That was true enough. Both were gray skinned and longhaired. Their Great Scars were nearly identical. The rest of them was as different as ever, of course. The scars on their bodies told different tales. Drask had one metallic hand and Andover had two.
“You are as beautiful as ever, Tega.” The words would have never been spoken in the past. Andover Lashk would have trembled at the very notion. Andover Iron Hands was not quite the same man, though he shared all of his younger self’s memories. The world changes, and the wise change with it.
“Why are you here, Andover?” Drask asked.
“I’m seeking Old Canhoon.”
“The gods send you to Old Canhoon?”
“Yes. They have not said why.”
Drask nodded. “And what is this?” he pointed to Delil, where she lay across the back of her mount.
“Delil. She… She is dead.”
“The gods decree that she should be burned. You know this.”
Andover looked away from him. The boy’s face was a man’s and the sorrow it showed seemed not to fit his features properly any longer.
“The Daxar Taalor do not agree with your heart. What is it that you want from them, Andover?”
Tega stepped back, looking from one man to the other.
“I…”
Drask continued to stare, his gaze unflinching, as the younger man, so changed from what he had been and still changing, look at Delil’s corpse and then at the ground. Finally he looked at Drask again and said, “I want her back.”
“And have you asked the gods for this?”
“No.” His eyes fell back to the ground.
“Why not?” Drask stepped closer until Andover felt obligated to look at him again.
“Because they might say no.”
“Very likely they will. She has served her time in this world and nothing goes to waste. But you will not have an answer until you ask.” He held up his silver hand. “I had no answer until I asked Ydramil for this. It was not merely given. I had to make sacrifices.”
“Who should I ask then?” Andover’s eyes blinked back tears that wanted to fall. Another sign he was more Sa’ba Taalor than Fellein these days. When they had met previously the boy would have wept.
“Ask the Daxar Taalor and see if they respond. You have been with all seven of the gods.” He gestured to show the Great Scars on Andover’s lips. “Ask all of them and see if they answer you.”
“Where shall I go to ask?”
“You can ask here. You can ask anywhere. The Daxar Taalor are spreading across this land. They will hear you.”
Andover nodded and walked slowly over to where a portion of the wall that had once surrounded the city still stood.
Tega moved closer to Drask and asked, “Your gods can raise the dead?”
“Yes. I suppose all gods can.”
“But you… I felt it… you raised Brackka back from the dead.”
Drask nodded. So many tales of the gods and all they had done, of raising the wounded few who survived the cataclysm and helping those last survivors become the Sa’ba Taalor. That simple tale was one of the foundations of his entire life. The gods could raise the dead. He had done so himself now. Had he considered how he had done it for too long he would have been no closer than he was currently to understanding why it had worked beyond accepting that he and Tega and Nolan had bathed in the energies of the Mounds and come away changed.
Did that make them gods?
He looked past Andover and toward the distant City of Wonders. “Yes. I did. I’m still reflecting on that.”
Behind him still on Brackka’s back, Nolan let out a laugh. It was the only sound he’d made in days.
Andover looked into the waters of the lake that should not have been there and tried to calm himself. The gods had already granted him so much. He needed look no further than his hands.
“Delil is dead.”
He spoke the words to his reflection. The wind smeared his doppelganger’s features.
His reflection answered him in Ydramil’s voice. WHY DID SHE DIE?
Andover shook his head.
When Ydramil spoke again it was with the full force of his power. ANSWER ME. WHY DID SHE DIE?
“Because she was careless.”
YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN GREAT GIFTS. WHAT WOULD YOU DO TO HAVE HER BACK?
Andover looked at his reflection and knew that it looked back.
“What would you have me do?”
Soon enough the gods answered.
Six
At last, the man came to see her again.
Desh Krohan. He was handsome enough in his way, but haunted.
That was a feeling Cullen understood very well.
“I’m sorry for making you wait. I have been rather busy.”
“You have a war on your hands.” She shrugged. Not far off Deltrea was doing her best to ignore the sorcerer. He returned the favor.
“Moale Deneshi was my life partner once upon a time. She left me when she said that she had been summoned to a greater duty.” Desh Krohan spoke softly and looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I was younger. I never went after her. I had my pride, after all.”
“Pride is poor armor, but better than none.”
The sorcerer nodded his head. “Indeed. I haven’t hea
rd that one in many years.”
He sighed and looked at her abdomen.
“In any event, what is left of her is now inside of you. I don’t know that either of you planned it, but that is what has occurred.”
“How do I get her out?”
“According to her, she needs to stay with you for now. She will only let go of her grip on you when she is ready.”
Behind him Deltrea made an obscene gesture, but did not speak.
“Am I to stay locked in here until then?”
“Not at all.” He smiled. “That’s why I’m here. I’m going to personally escort you to your new chambers.”
Cullen nodded. “These chambers. Will I be allowed to leave them?”
Desh nodded his head. “Of course. But because there are some who might seek you out, you will have guards with you at all times.”
“What do you mean ‘seek me out’?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “There are assassins in this city, Cullen, and they are causing endless grief. If they find out what you carry inside of you, it’s very possible that they will cut you open to get to it. They tried to kill the Mother-Vine and all that is left of her is inside you. If they find out they can, they will, cut her out of you to make their point.”
“And you are telling me this why? So that I can have more nightmares?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the sorcerer. He stared back, studying every detail of her with all of the intensity of a suitor. She was unsettled by the notion. He was not unattractive, but she was also not in the least bit interested.
“I’m telling you this because I want you to remain safe. I want you to be smart and avoid getting killed by the Sa’ba Taalor, who I believe have already managed to infiltrate the city. Not a lot of them, but the ones who are here are killers.”
“And you think they would be after me?”
“No. They would be after her. The Mother-Vine.” He gestured toward her abdomen. “You. Me. We are not significant. She is. She has a power they would take if they could. That is why you are here. Knowing the name of my old mate and having a few words for me from her, that is not enough. That only gets my attention.”
Cullen nodded and rose from her seat. “Perhaps you should show me to this new chamber then.”
The Seven Forges Novels Page 102
