Along the far southern coasts the reports kept coming in of the black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor. They were brutal and efficient, but they were not immortal. The Brellar gave as good as they got, and sank several of the larger vessels using the speed and agility of their smaller ships and boats.
They took advantage of the tactics of the Fellein, and started using arrows lit with pitch to add to the damage to the black ships. They did not have to hit the enemy. They only had to burn their ships out from under them.
It was not a victory so much as it was a standstill. The Sa’ba Taalor were not taking new ground, but they were still overtaking the Brellar a few boats at a time. Every battle won came at a heavy price and the Sa’ba Taalor had a few tricks of their own. When the Brellar came close enough to fire arrows, their enemy returned the favor, and if the Brellar came too close, the arrows were replaced with grappling hooks that tied the smaller boats down while the Sa’ba Taalor boarded. The Sa’ba Taalor were as ruthless as the Brellar.
As bad as that situation was, the black ships running up the Parmahar River toward Goltha were worse. They seemed determined to kill every person they met, without exception.
Looks were deceptive. Many of the people they encountered chose to offer themselves to a new god. Those who were willing to learn the ways of Wheklam were spared and offered new chances they would have never seen otherwise.
To the west the remains of Lored’s army paused and licked their wounds. Guards were set and the remaining Sa’ba Taalor in the area took stock of their situation.
It was Blane and Praxus who built the raging fire and called for enemies of the Sa’ba Taalor. The mounts provided, having left several of their enemies alive.
Once the fire raged high enough to melt metal and the coals were a brilliant yellowish white, the bodies of the living enemies were offered to Ordna. They screamed, they burned, and in their dying they made themselves useful to the Bronze God.
There was no need for questions. Everyone already knew what was needed. The King in Bronze was dead and his replacement had to be chosen. Someone needed to lead the army of Ordna. The faithful would follow whomsoever was chosen, of course, but that decision had to be made by the god they all worshipped.
There was a glorious moment when the sparks and flames rose three times higher and flared until the nighttime sky looked almost as bright as daylight. The flames twisted around themselves and the embers and sparks from the great pyre roared and seethed until the visage of great Ordna was there for all to see. They did not prostrate themselves before their god but instead cheered and roared his name.
Great Ordna looked upon his followers and nodded. A moment later Pre’ru, the mount of Lored, let out a great roar and was transformed.
After a lifetime of service Pre’ru had been granted a second life as a mount. More time to serve and slay in the name of the gods.
Now, a third life was provided. No one asked why the mount was given the opportunity. The answer was simple: Ordna wanted it. Ordna was their god and spoke to them all with the gesture. What most already knew was that Pre’ru had often offered wisdom to Lored. That did not mean that Lored was weak or unprepared, only that Pre’ru had remained useful long past the time when most would have been dead.
Pre’ru stood and stretched her body. She was revitalized, reborn and made young again.
Under most occasions a Sa’ba Taalor crafted their own weapons and armor. That was still true, but the armor of the new king had been discarded when he moved on to a new life. Now Ordna found and replaced what had been lost, merely to expedite their journey.
Pre’ru had been born a male the first time and had served as a mount with male genitalia. Now Pre’ru was female. The king did not question this. Pre’ru was on a third life and was truly blessed by Ordna. Whatever the god’s reasons they were sufficient in the king’s mind.
“Gather yourselves,” Pre’ru roared, even as she dressed in her clothes and gathered her weapons. “We have enemies to find, to kill, and to offer to Ordna!”
The king’s followers roared their approval and one by one knelt to offer their fealty. The gesture was not necessary. No one ever defied the gods and those few who did were punished as befitted an unbeliever.
Still, King Pre’ru, Chosen of the Forge of Ordna and King in Bronze, accepted the gesture. It gave her time to plan her methods of approach. They had a long way to go and very little time to spare.
“We walk and we ride! There will be no rivers for our enemies to use against us. Keep your shields ready! Prepare your bows and spears! We shall build our war machines when we have reached our destination. Until then we are the machines of Ordna! Let our enemies tremble!”
Within the hour they were in motion, a great tide of soldiers led by a king freshly chosen by a god who had granted all of them the chance to see a godly vision.
They were renewed and they were ready.
The storm raged on. In Canhoon it was nearly a blizzard, but lower down, closer to the ground, the frozen water melted and spilled across the grounds as a heavy rain.
The storm was not really planned, but it was a blessing to the sorcerers in the City of Wonders. They had waited for a chance to strike against the Sa’ba Taalor and the storm allowed for cover and also made the task easier. Bending nature takes more energy than merely using what nature provides. There were surprisingly few villages in the area closer to the Arkannen Mountains. The weather was often vicious and the people on the other side of the breach in the mountains sometimes forgot that the mountain range did not actually lead to another nation. There were raids constantly, and after a time only the truly desperate remained.
Those few were killed by the Sa’ba Taalor as they ran through the mountains. Tusk and Tarag Paedori alike killed or converted, and their followers did the same. Then they rode on through the breach, moving as quickly as they could to position themselves at their final destination.
The Sooth had told the sorcerers when best to strike. Unfortunately, as sometimes happened, the Sooth lied. The great rain of lightning that cut the ground beneath the City of Wonders, that boiled the river and shattered stone, did not harm the great armies of the Sa’ba Taalor, which had already passed the area days before.
Still, if the armies had been there, it would have been an incredible victory for the Fellein.
Cullen sat on her bed and read the books she had been offered by the wizard. They were tales of the sorcerers of old and they included tales of the woman who had become part of the Mother-Vine and now, apparently, was sitting inside of her.
She used to know the woman’s name but it no longer seemed important.
“Her name is Moale Deneshi.” Deltrea spoke with an edge of irritation.
“Why are you upset, Deltrea?”
Her dead friend moved closer, casting no shadow and still seeming more alive than Cullen felt currently. “Because you are reading books when you should be talking to me.”
Cullen placed her finger in the book to mark the passage she was reading and then set it in her lap. “What are we going to discuss that we have not spoken of a thousand times before? I’ve heard all I ever needed to about your love life. I’ve relived every damned moment of the burning of Trecharch every time I close my eyes.”
She sighed.
“What else is there for us to speak of, Deltrea?”
“The time when what’s in you wants out.”
“What would you know of that? What could you know about that?”
“I don’t think it will be a good thing is all.” Deltrea sat on the bed with her. There was no sense of weight at all, but the covers shifted a touch. Ghosts were peculiar things, indeed.
“Well, what should I do about it? I can’t very well shit it out. I’ve tried.”
“Get the sorcerer to help you. That’s what. If he can get it removed from you, I think you’ll be a great deal happier is all.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard, Cullen! If it sta
ys in you, it might well kill you!”
“I don’t think it can.” Cullen frowned as she said it. Honestly, she had no notion at all what the thing was capable of. She only knew it wasn’t comfortable to carry all the time. To make that point even clearer, it shifted inside her and her guts moved to accommodate it.
“It can. I can feel it.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll ask Desh Krohan about it.” Another twist of whatever was inside of her and she bit off a groan.
“He’s been rather busy lately.” Deltrea’s voice cut through the discomfort.
“Yes, Deltrea, he has. He said we can go where we please and a lot of that time I’ve spent with him so he can get what he needs to out of the thing inside of me, but that doesn’t mean he’s got time to spend on me. There’s a war going on, and there’s disease and famine and cold weather and a mountain range coming at us and I think he’s got good reasons for being busy!” She was only aware that she’d been yelling when she came to the end of her rant, winded and red faced.
Deltrea clapped her hands, but they made no sound when they hit each other. “Look at that. You do have feelings left in you. I was beginning to doubt.”
“Why are you here again?”
“No idea, Cullen.” Deltrea crossed her legs and then rested one elbow on her thigh, and her head on her palm. “I expect it has something to do with you.”
Cullen did not respond, but instead stood from the bed and walked toward the door. Her guards were outside and nodded when she stepped out. The company of anyone living sounded better than another moment alone with Deltrea. Mostly because she suspected Deltrea was right on all fronts.
Something was happening inside her and she didn’t much like her chances of survival. The ghost of her associate was haunting her for a reason. The sorcerer was watching over her but seemed to be holding back a few secrets.
Cullen liked her situation less all the time. There was nothing to be done about that. But she’d have to see what she could do to possibly change that.
The snow came down heavily, obscuring everything. Even if the snow had not been a problem the clouds would have managed just fine.
Inches fell in the daylight and more as the night took over. Those stuck out in the cold huddled together and cursed their luck. Those inside thanked the gods or cursed their luck just the same.
The City Guard did their best, moving and keeping properly covered up, stopping where they could to drink something warm. The Imperials were in the same situation and did the same thing.
The Silent Army stopped moving. After a day of constantly patrolling, never resting, they simply stopped all at once, and let the snow and ice accumulate on them as if they had never been more than statues in the gardens of the city.
In most of Canhoon the night and the storm forced an unsettling sort of silence.
Not everywhere, of course. No city of any size ever truly sleeps. At best there is a quiet time, but never true rest.
The cogs continued to move in their silent machinery. The people who had to be alert were.
Deep in the depths of the palace Darsken Murdro looked at Jost and shook his head. She was never going to speak and, despite his best efforts, her mind was locked to him. To that end she remained chained to her wooden table, though he knew the places where she had been resting her flesh against the wood for days on end must surely be an agony by now, the flesh raw from constant contact, made worse with every move she made.
“If you would only speak I could give you a better place to be than this.” He spoke apologetically and he meant it. Torture was not something he enjoyed. He became an Inquisitor because the truth was a powerful thing and mysteries were meant to be solved.
The girl did not acknowledge him.
Three minutes later she was alone again in the locked room.
Two minutes after that, Glo’Hosht entered her cell and moved to her table. The bindings on her were simple enough: a matter of unfastening a few hooks that were impossible for even the most nimble fingers on a restrained hand to reach.
Jost did not smile when she saw her king. Instead she closed her eyes for a moment and then sighed with relief.
His hands were quick. The fastenings holding her wrists were removed in moments.
Her ankles and thighs were released shortly after that.
The King in Mercury stepped back and kept an eye on the door as Jost tried to stand and fell to the ground. No words were spoken and none were needed. She would rise on her own and she would live, or she would stay on the ground and be left to her own devices.
Life is pain. Life is struggle. If she could not manage to walk she could not be saved. It was exactly that simple. That the Daxar Taalor would send Glo’Hosht to save her was a sign of their love and devotion to her, but if she could not stand, could not walk and could not fight, she was too weak to be a member of the Sa’ba Taalor and would be remembered for what she had accomplished even as she was left to die.
Jost stood, though it took a few minutes. As she had been strapped in place for days on end, she took the time to wash herself of the waste she had been made to lie in. The stench of her alone would alert anyone passing by otherwise.
They had taken her clothes and her weapons for whatever reasons they saw fit. She did not care. Clothes and weapons could be replaced.
While Glo’Hosht waited, Jost stretched and moved her body until blood flowed once again in muscles that had been immobile save for when she could find the time to flex them. She was a follower of Paedle and staying motionless for hours or days was not unheard of; had she not been so, she would likely have been incapable of moving at all.
There were no clothes to distract her and so, when she felt she was ready, Glo’Hosht opened the door and moved out of her way.
No words were spoken nor were any needed. Glo’Hosht moved and Jost followed. She saw her king flit from shadow to shadow, barely capable of clearly seeing where he was, though she tracked him with her eyes. She did her best to follow his lead, grateful for the long corridors and the darkness of the night. There were a few torches, places where oil burned in small braziers, but mostly there was the night and the concealment it offered.
Still, there are always exceptions. Two guards moved right past the King in Mercury and stopped only when they saw her standing against the wall.
Her muscles screamed in silent agony as she stepped forward and drove her palm into the first guard’s throat. He gagged but could not speak as he fell to the ground, red faced and bug eyed.
Her hands came together and met on the second one’s jaw, shattering bone. He was still capable of screaming, so she broke his neck even as he inhaled.
His clothes meant nothing to her, but she took a cloak, a short sword and boots. It was cold outside. She had heard her guards complaining earlier.
The boots did not fit and were too hard for her use. The second cloak was hastily torn in two and wrapped around her feet and then they moved on again.
Muscles that had not moved for far too long continued to protest, but as blood flow returned to them she felt the relief. The areas where she had been restrained were still sore. The flesh felt bruised and thin. She did not take the time to worry about it. She would heal or she would not as the gods saw fit.
Glo’Hosht touched a wall and part of it moved. He gestured her through and they went on their way. Swech had spoken of hidden places within the palace. She must have shown them to the king. That was a fine thing.
It seemed hours, but Jost knew it was less. When the king opened the last of several hidden doors the frigid air slammed into Jost like a gust from the Blasted Lands, cold and fierce with small debris slapping against her flesh.
It did not matter.
They were free of the palace. Glo’Hosht moved along side her and whispered into her ear. “Do not go to Swech’s home. She was discovered and she is dead. Go to where Freth waits. Be careful. We need him where he is for now.”
The order given, Glo’Hosht moved on, dis
appearing into the storm.
Jost allowed herself one moment to mourn her friend and then moved on. There would be time for mourning when her enemies lay dead.
Brolley and Lanaie spent a great deal of time together, it was true, but they always did so in the company of guards, per his sister’s orders. Lanaie was not the issue. Though she was a guest in the palace she was not watched as closely as he was. She was not the little brother to the Empress. It was that simple. Still, when Lanaie went anywhere, he escorted her and thus ensured she would have protection.
The princess held his hand, both securely wrapped in their heavy cloaks. Despite the fabric Lanaie’s hand was as cold as ice. That was to be expected: her land was always warm and this cold was months away from where it should have been. The winter was done and the summer was coming yet here they were walking through a deep field of snow.
“You could stay at the palace, you know,” Brolley reminded her. “You are a guest of the Empress.”
“Yes, and I have several times and I will again, but not today. Unlike in Tyrne, my father had properties and I want to make sure they are properly looked after.”
“You’re just tired of me,” his voice was teasing.
“That could never happen, Brolley. Not even if this winter lasted a thousand years.” She looked at him with her deep brown eyes and his body reacted as it did each time he saw her. She was a beautiful woman, and despite all that she had seen she remained an innocent. He would give anything to make sure that her heart was never broken again. He’d even gone so far as to make sacrifices to Plith and Woegaia. He wasn’t really sure which was a goddess of love, so he paid his tithings to both, just to be safe. Plith was a beautiful woman. He thought she was a goddess of fertility. Woegaia was half male and half female, with large breasts and an equally large penis. He thought the god was meant to represent the marriage of body and spirit. He still wasn’t sure. In any event, the churches got their offerings and he kept praying for everything to turn out the right way.
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