“What are you thinking, my love?”
“That I look forward to us being together one day. Man and wife.”
“I want that too, but now is not the time to bother your sister.”
It was a simple enough equation: Brolley and Lanaie could adore each other as much as they pleased, but until Nachia gave her blessings nothing could become official. Lanaie was right, of course. It was hardly the time to bother Nachia with his desire to marry a queen who had no nation, but it was most decidedly his desire to do so.
They had discussed the matter at length. At the very least they would wait until the city settled itself somewhere. Much as he would have dearly loved to consummate their relationship, Lanaie was not inclined to part with her chastity.
They had managed a few moments of passion when the guards were not around, but only a few. She had never offered herself, but she used her hands and her clothed form to offer him release on several occasions. It was enough for now. It had to be. He would not betray her trust, though he was tempted to find a good brothel.
Some things are worth waiting for.
Too soon they were at her door and she reached out with her cold hand and touched his face, memorizing his features until she could see him again. Her face, so perfect, her eyes so wide and innocent. He leaned in and kissed her once, briefly, knowing it was against the rules. Just the same she kissed back.
Then she was slipping into her house and he waited until he heard the doors locked and secured.
The night was an endless raging snowstorm, but he did not feel the chill at all.
They would be married. It was only a matter of time.
The guards were wise enough to say nothing now and he knew they would say nothing later. Money can buy discretion. He’d learned that much from his family, if nothing else.
Inside the warmth of her home, Lanaie removed her cloak and left on the minimal clothes she could tolerate and moved into the main hall where a fire roared and the temperature was enough to make her sweat.
The fire was not normally so high, but metal cannot be forged without heat.
Weapons cannot be shaped without heat.
King Glo’Hosht looked to her and nodded his head. She made the proper bow before her king and looked around at the others gathered with her. This was the first time that all of Paedle’s followers had been in one room at the same time. It was a risk, but one the king found necessary.
“We are here to rejoice.” Glo’Hosht’s voice remained soft as it virtually always did. “We are here to welcome back our lost warrior.”
Lanaie’s eyes immediately moved to Jost, who crouched by the roaring blaze and pulled hot metal from it. The metal should have burned her, crippled her, and possibly killed her. Paedle protected the faithful as always and it was good.
Already the girl had been working on replacing her blades. She worked deftly now, her hands moving at a stunning pace, shaping the raw metal into three more blades before she tapped them against the hearthstones and used a small hammer to finish the shaping.
They would need to be sharpened, of course, but there were supplies for that very purpose.
“There is more to do this night. The mountains are approaching and we must prepare.”
Lanaie nodded and spoke in the tongue of the gods. “All that was lost shall be restored, and the Great Tide will sweep the world.”
“Why, exactly, are our people at war?”
Tega looked to Drask as she asked the question, and so he answered her.
“The gods demand it.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s not enough. Why do the gods demand it? What purpose does the war serve them?”
Nolan March gave no indication that he cared, but Drask was not fooled. The younger man was listening at least. He could sense it. How much he understood was a different situation. Nolan had been dead when they took their fall. That he was moving at all was an indication of the power they’d all absorbed. Drask frowned. He thought Nolan had been dead. His memories were slipping away. Not all of them, just some of the recent ones. He would examine that notion soon. For now there were questions to answer.
“You must understand that the gods all tell their tales, and each tale is as different as if seen by different people.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I saw when we fell into the light was not what you saw. Not what Nolan saw. I watched you climb the rope into the depths of the Mounds. You did not watch me. Each of us has our own memories and our own way of seeing. It is like that for the gods.
“I have spoken often with the Daxar Taalor. Each has given different reasons for the way we have been raised by them and for why they fight wars the way they do.” He shrugged and looked up at the city, not so very distant any more. The area they rode through was burnt and blackened and stank of dead fish. The river here was littered with dead things. Mostly from the great strikes of lightning they had seen before.
Tega had explained that it was sorcery. That was enough for Drask.
“The stories all have some balances. Some things that we can guess are as true as they can be. The Daxar Taalor tell us that they were born in the Cataclysm. They were born from the bodies of the gods of Korwa.
“When Korwa lived it was the greatest city ever known, and the greatest kingdom the world had seen. The people there had peace. Their influence spread across all of the land, but in the end that is what ruined them. They grew comfortable. They did not fight as they once had because they did not feel they needed to fight any longer. There were papers that promised peace. There were marriages that guaranteed the same. It was a time when even the weather was a slave to the rulers of Korwa.
“Until the time when others grew jealous. The Wellish had their masters. They wanted Korwa for themselves. There were several tribes of younger people who wanted Korwa and all she offered.
“It is said by all the gods that the Emperor of Korwa died, and his sister took over as the ruler of the land. And when she did, the younger kingdoms and the Wellish Overlords all demanded the same thing: that she choose a husband from among them to rule by her side and end the burning desires that had started so many difficulties in the distance.
“Even the gods do not know exactly what she said. All they know is that before a year had passed the wars had started in earnest. The smaller countries fought among themselves and soon joined forces under one king. The Wellish chose their greatest champion and with his armies leading the way they sought to take Korwa.
“The old kingdoms, the new kingdoms, none of them mattered in comparison but they all wanted the same.”
Drask looked from one to the other of his companions. “They wanted the Empress. She refused. She would not be forced to serve as a puppet ruler. Her people had sworn fealty and she would not bow before others. Who could blame her? She did what she thought best. She called the armies of Korwa together to defend her.”
Drask sighed. “The stories grow different here. Each of the Daxar Taalor remembers the Cataclysm differently. Some say it was the gods that ended the war. Others say that sorcerers grew too strong and killed the city and the gods with them. Still others say that the Empress of Korwa chose to kill her people and herself before accepting defeat. It doesn’t matter. It is enough to know that Korwa burned and so did all of the armies that had gathered around the greatest city that ever was.
“In the end there were a few survivors and they were raised up, they were healed, so long as they promised one thing. They had to promise to serve the Daxar Taalor, who were all that remained of the old gods of Korwa. They were not the gods of the past. They were new gods, formed when the Cataclysm shattered the skies and the seas and the very land. You must understand this: everything was ruined. Everything was destroyed. All that was left of great Korwa was the Blasted Lands.”
Drask shrugged.
“The rest you know. We were raised from the wounded and the dying. We were told to survive and to grow strong. Each of the gods opened
their hearts to us and trained us in how to be stronger.
“Each of the gods remembered the arts of war differently and together they vowed that they would train the Sa’ba Taalor to always remember the ways of war. They made us to be stronger than Korwa, stronger than our enemies as well.
“Once, a long time ago, hundreds of years ago, the Wellish Overlords tried to claim Fellein as their own. It was the Sa’ba Taalor who struck them down. We did not claim that victory, but we crushed great portions of their armies even as they marched on Canhoon.
“Your sorcerers did the rest.
“Do you know why we let that happen?”
Tega and Andover both shook their heads.
“Because Fellein had to grow strong, and then had to grow as large as any empire that had ever been. They had to rise and spread across the whole of the land.
“They had to mirror Korwa’s might before the Daxar Taalor shattered the Empire of Fellein. They had to learn a lesson.
“Your Empire is soft. Your Empire is weak. You have seen this for yourself. The Sa’ba Taalor walk across the land and crush all who come before them, just as your ancestors once stormed across Korwa and sought to destroy her.
“This time is different. The Sa’ba Taalor have been given their orders by the gods themselves. They have been forged in the hearts of the Daxar Taalor. You, Andover Lashk, have been remade in their image in a very short time.”
Andover shook his head. “No. It has taken longer than you think.”
“It has taken most of a lifetime, but that time has been made shorter that you might serve your purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“You already know that. You are to serve as the champion of the Sa’ba Taalor, should Fellein demand singular combat.”
“Why me?” Andover shook his head. In the past when he had asked that sort of question it was because he wanted to know why he had suffered. Now he asked because he could not understand why he was chosen for so great an honor.
“On this the gods agree again. It was one of the people of Korwa who offered the greatest betrayal to the Empress. It was a person she believed would be faithful simply because he was one of her own.”
Drask stared into Andover’s eyes. Andover looked back. “It was a humble servant who brought the ruination of Korwa. How, I do not know. You, Andover Iron Hands, are that servant now. That is what the Daxar Taalor ask. That is what you have agreed to.”
“But I thought the gods chose Merros Dulver. Isn’t that why you looked for him?”
Drask held his gaze. “I do not know why the gods sought Merros Dulver. I only know that they are not yet done with him.”
Nine
There were many wonders N’Heelis had seen in the course of his life. He had walked the Boratha-Lo’ar more times than any living being, his body painted by the colors of the crystalline bridge. He had stood in the very heart of Wrommish and been bathed in the furnace of liquid gold. He had taught a dozen kings how to fight without weapons and killed some of those very same kings in combat.
Now this. Standing at the very top of the mountain on the southern side of the river he watched on as the vast underside of enchanted Canhoon moved toward him with deceptive speed and he admired the network of stone and root as it defied all laws of nature and came closer to him, fully aware that if it suddenly stopped its flight he would be dead in an instant. That was part of the thrill.
Stastha, Tuskandru’s right hand, waited calmly, her longbow notched and ready. She was not alone.
There were hundreds of archers along the ramparts built by Stastha and her group. They were secure, but they were hardly works of art. Wood, stone, whatever could be used was employed, and the followers of Ordna among them made certain the platforms and walkways were sound. Some of the structures were little more than added support on stone outcroppings. Others were feats of construction that would have been impossible for N’Heelis himself.
He readied his own bow and nodded to himself.
Stastha said, “We are ready when you are, King N’Heelis.”
“Now. Make the arrows count.”
She repeated the order and several others followed her lead. Under many circumstances there would have been horns to call the order, but not now. This was a mission of silence. He’d have preferred it be left to Glo’Hosht, but that was not possible. The King in Mercury was already above them in Canhoon.
Instead of worrying about such things, N’Heelis drew his bow, took a long, deep breath, and then released as he exhaled. The silk streamer at the end of the arrow unwound, dancing frantically as the arrow sought the right spot.
It was not skill. It was luck. N’Heelis knew the difference. The arrow sank deep into a thick root, the barbs finding purchase. Other archers fired as well and for each arrow that stuck a dozen or more bounced back.
N’Heelis moved, grabbing the silk, pulling to test it and then trusting to the gods to see him to his destination.
The followers of Wrommish trained first and foremost in unarmed combat. That did not mean they could not carry weapons, merely that they either chose not to, or that they chose carefully.
He was finished with the bow. It stayed behind as he scaled his way to the moving city above. Several others joined him. More than a few of them fell as the arrows that held them came loose from the soil and roots. Most screamed as they fell. That was impossible to prevent. Some actually fell along the cliffside. He imagined a few might even survive the falls, but all of his attention was on the task ahead of him.
There were secrets that had been learned by Glo’Hosht and others. They had looked carefully at the city’s maps and studied the paths of the rivers that had once watered the whole of Canhoon. What they found was nothing short of a miracle, for which N’Heelis thanked the gods.
The sewers under the city were still there. They were doubtless slicked with water, sewage and ice, but there were tunnels, and those tunnels were the very best possible chance for them to gain entry to Canhoon.
Many might well not achieve their goal. They had no way of knowing where the tunnels went, or if they would hold the secret to breaching the city. They only knew the openings in the base of the city were there and that this was their best chance to gain access to the deep underbelly of Canhoon. N’Heelis had done what he could to ensure success. None wore heavy leather cloaks. There was little armor. Instead there was leather clothing and good, short weapons. More than a few of his followers made claws for their close combat, weapons that would hook an opponent’s weapons and tangle them, leaving the bearers unarmed for a moment or more. Those same metal tines were well suited for finding purchase in the underside of the vast city. Some used fingers, some used claws; all counted on their years of climbing different mountains to help them through a truly terrifying climb.
Fingers grasped at stone, at mud, at clusters of broken root and frozen rock. The Sa’ba Taalor began their climb, aiming for the dark tunnels carved through the very ground, that led to the depths of the city above them. The trick was not to fall in the process.
N’Heelis caught the vine his arrow was now stuck in and worried his fingers into the edges of the thick wood.
He looked down once and quickly looked back. The ground was so very far distant. He held even tighter when the shrill scream came: as they had feared might happen, the mountain and the city were on the same path. The only saving grace was that the edge of the mountain was just that, an edge. It would break if they were lucky. If they were not, the base of the city would break and everything they were attempting would end in death. Clouds had hidden the base of the city for days, leaving everyone on the mountain guessing if they would be capable of actually scaling to the city above.
As he had all his life, N’Heelis trusted in the gods. Just the same he clung hard to the heavy root and braced himself for impact.
Inches. Mere inches of stone collided. He heard the grinding roar of stone on stone but barely even felt the impact.
The Daxar T
aalor were kind.
N’Heelis moved carefully, crawling with his entire body, hanging suspended in the heavy cloud cover and the bitterly cold mists. There was no time to think of others or their celebrations. There was only the one goal for now.
He found the edge of the tunnel and started in, not worried about what might be in there beyond ice and frozen waste.
The Empress and her closest advisors cheered their luck and drank a sweet wine that was, traditionally, saved only for victories. As far as Nachia was concerned surviving what might have ended her city and her life qualified.
“That was the hope, really.” Desh smiled and spoke as if he might be discussing the migration of distant birds. “I expected the city would be just fine.”
Merros snorted. “Which is why you’ve been dancing from one foot to the other, like a man who needs to void his bladder.”
The First Advisor tried to hold a menacing glare but failed. Like Nachia, he was simply too happy to be alive.
They came from lower on the mountain, moving in leaps and bounds, with all of the skill the gods had given them and all the strength of their second bodies. The mounts took the same chances as the Sa’ba Taalor they lived with, but in their case the challenges were different. They weighed much more, but they had claws capable of digging into the earth. They were much larger and had to find tunnels that the Sa’ba Taalor did not already occupy, but there were tunnels on the sides of the city’s belly that were far away from where their companions climbed.
As the Sa’ba Taalor before them had done, the mounts tried for the underside of the mountain and the tunnels that moved above them.
Saa’thaa chose to leap high and felt his claws strike deep into soft soil before catching a good grip. His hind legs scrambled and claws once again sought purchase. All of the training of two lives was needed to avoid falling, but Saa’thaa managed. The tunnel was filthy and stank of the Fellein. The cold waste crawled over his fur and into his armor, which, as fortune had it, he could not remove without assistance.
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