“You are a very rude man, Desh.”
“You are a very demanding ruler, Majesty.”
Far to the north of Canhoon the volcano erupted. It was violent and impossible to miss. For hundreds of miles around the air shook and the light was enough to startle sleeping animals into flight. Wrommish ripped free of the earth and shattered the closest mountain in the process.
Great gouts of flame and smoke stroked the air and spread across the sky, claiming all that had been peaceful in the name of war.
Far to the west the people of Fellein who had managed to avoid being crushed by the Sa’ba Taalor trembled. They had seen too much of volcanoes and what followed their eruptions.
To the far east the people stared in wonder at the lights and puzzled over the sounds. Those in the southern regions had already dealt with the birth of a mountain but closer to this source the people had little notion of what was happening, only that it was vast and powerful.
Along the jagged line of the mountain range the snow and ice reflected the fire until the night was nearly day, and the people in Canhoon woke to the sounds that might well have meant the end of them all. For those who had survived Tyrne and Roathes the sounds were too familiar and a cold dread seized them and would not let go easily. The world, it seemed, was ending, no matter how far they tried to go to escape that fact.
For some of the refugees it signified an end. For others it signified a time to do things differently. There had been a few who gathered their weapons and attempted to change their world by force. They had grabbed those they thought the cause of their sorrows and they had beaten or killed them, until the Silent Army handled the affair. Many once again took up weapons, but this time they approached the barracks of the Imperial Army and offered their axes and swords to the Empress.
While some were drawn to war, others did their best to find comfort in the temples of the gods. Some were not so easily comforted; the gods had offered little that they could see – and of those little could be said, save that the miracle of the Silent Army did not seem a blessing in their eyes – but they tried just the same. The Sa’ba Taalor had faith, but for the Fellein that commodity seemed very rare.
As the heat came and melted snow into water, the Silent Army moved. Some went about their courses, looking over the city and making certain that no one chose to fight against the laws of the Empress. Others chose a different route.
There were many catacombs in the City of Wonders. Some were lost to time, unknown to any living being, but the Silent Army was not quite living in the usual sense.
Whether guided by memories from the past or by the gods themselves, three hundred of the Silent Army moved down into the catacombs beneath the city. They did not try to move quietly. They marched, and their tread filled chamber after chamber with the sounds of their feet striking the ground.
By the time they reached the spot where most of the Sa’ba Taalor were waiting, the gray-skins and their mounts were ready. The vast cistern was filled with a few inches of water, but nothing more. In the darkness of the massive chamber the warriors gathered what weapons they had and the mounts waited on the sidelines, prepared to attack when they were allowed that privilege.
The Silent Army came from all four openings into the chamber, treading steadily and wielding their short swords and their shields. They marched down the long stone stairs to reach their enemies below.
The Sa’ba Taalor did not wait for an invitation. They attacked.
Born and bred for war, the Sa’ba Taalor were nightmares of bloodshed. The Fellein had learned that the hard way, losing hundreds for every individual member of the Sa’ba Taalor that fell. Soldiers and civilians, men and women and children: all were the enemy in the eyes of the Sa’ba Taalor. Whatever weapon was needed was used. Whatever advantage could be taken was seized. A thousand years or more the Daxar Taalor had prepared their soldiers for the Great Tide.
The Silent Army did not care.
The first of the Sa’ba Taalor to strike was a man named Marro. He had served with Tuskandru and was chosen by Stastha as one of the most able among the King in Onyx’s forces.
He struck the first of the stone soldiers with a hammer he had forged himself in the fires of Durhallem. The blow he delivered was powerful and sent the Silent Soldier to its knees. The skin of the stone man cracked along the shoulder.
Marro did not have time to celebrate. The soldier swung its shield in a hard arc and knocked him back four feet even as it stood up and came forward. His hammer did not dent the shield when it struck, but instead skimmed along the slightly rounded surface.
The warrior was made of stone. Marro could see that. He could not deny what he saw with his own eyes and so he reversed the hammer, using the pick-like edge normally reserved for punching through hard armor to deal his next blow. The point drove into the shield and left a break in the soldier’s defenses. The soldier drove forward again, bashing at Marro with the shield, knocking him backward. Marro was a powerful figure and grunted in surprise. The first time the stone man hit him he might have been taken off guard. The second time he was braced for the assault, but it did not matter. He was hurled backward several feet. The shield came again and Marro ducked around it, moving as quickly as his opponent. He pushed himself in against the stone man and grunted again as the soldier held its place. Just the same he brought his hammer around and struck the stone soldier a solid blow that staggered the heavy form.
The short sword of his enemy came down in a hard arc and sliced through Marro’s neck, his chest and his guts.
Marro looked up at his enemy as he died, knowing that even in death he had served his gods faithfully and that he would be rewarded.
By the time Marro fell dead, the nameless soldier had moved on, sweeping his arms in separate directions. His shield arm drove back a man with a sword. His sword arm knocked aside a woman attempting to grapple him.
In ancient times, when the Silent Army had first awoken, their very visage had driven half of their enemies into retreat. Statues should not move, or strike, or kill.
The Sa’ba Taalor did not care. Statue or flesh, the enemies of their gods were their enemies as well and they would destroy them by any means necessary. The woman cast aside was not foolish. Her tactics were best used against flesh. She was strong and she knew it. She had once broken the jaw and hind leg of a Pra-Moresh with her body as her only weapon. She could not shatter stone, but she could use physics to her advantage. As the stone soldier took a step forward she drove the heel of her foot into the back of the knee supporting all of the demon’s weight.
Then she rolled fast to get out of the way.
The knee moved forward and the stone monster lost balance and fell back.
By the time it had landed on the ground she had gathered Marro’s great hammer and prepared herself. Her fellow Sa’ba Taalor, the one with the sword, took advantage of the situation as best he could and tried gutting the stone man. His blade was well made, but the stone was unyielding and the sound of the two clashing was monstrous.
The stone man brought around his shield and drove the edge into the swordsman’s midriff, pushing him back and likely breaking a rib or two.
And while he was doing that, she drove the pointy end of the hammer into the stone soldier’s face. The blow was perfect and shattered a part of that face, breaking it completely away from the head.
There was no blood beneath that hard surface, merely more stone. The stone soldier stood up and what remained of the face snarled silently at her.
She retreated quickly and called to the mounts, “To us! Defend!” It is not a sign of cowardice to acknowledge a need for help. On the contrary, it is a sign of foolishness to deny that fact.
The mounts were not made of stone, but they were powerful nonetheless.
The first of the mounts lasted two minutes in combat with the stone soldier. That is longer in a fight than most will ever realize. Two minutes of constant straining, biting and clawing managed little but to knock t
he stone man around and leave the mount winded and shaking. Adrenaline only lasts a short time and despite the armor worn effortlessly by the mount, the stone sword and shield delivered hellish blows. Bones were broken and meat was cut and slashed and bruised. Teeth cracked against stone flesh, and claws tore free from their housings.
For two full minutes the mount roared and fought and bled before dying. For two minutes the mount felt alive again in the purest sense.
Sometimes the gods are kind.
Axes did some harm. Swords a little less. Hammers worked nicely enough. The trouble was that all of those were in short supply. Most of the Sa’ba Taalor chosen for the climb had little or no weapons worth noting save their hand-to-hand skills. Those skills were impressive in all cases, but one can only punch a stone so many times. Stones may break, but few will shatter before flesh is pulped or bones crushed to dust.
A few hundred of the Sa’ba Taalor ran. Most did not. Those who fled did so because their gods demanded it. It is possible that the Daxar Taalor spoke to many, but who can say what is in the hearts of the gods?
Those who stayed behind were killed. There were no prisoners taken this time. The Silent Army did not give second warnings.
The waters of the cistern were bloody and littered with corpses.
Nine of the Silent Army were shattered and useless by the time the fight was over. That was nine more than had ever been defeated before.
The stone soldiers were stronger than any human being. They worked fast and did what they had to do. Then they left their grisly tasks behind and headed for the surface.
There was one more challenge and they took care of that as well before once more going about their appointed tasks.
At first light a few of the people screamed. More of them cheered. War, it is said, is a harsh business, a bloody business that requires bloodthirsty souls.
What is often not said is that it is not only soldiers who can acquire a hatred of the enemy and a desire to see them suffer. Let any soul endure enough and the darkness must surely touch it.
By the time Nachia Krous left the palace with her brother and several others, the murmur of cheers and sobs alike had become nearly a roar of approval and as she stepped into the front courtyard of the palace the cacophony was nearly deafening.
Several citizens started chanting her name and more followed quickly, though she still had no idea why.
From her left Desh Krohan emerged and joined the progression, followed quickly by Merros Dulver who was still settling his cape over his shoulders.
The first sight to fill her eyes as she looked to the cobbled street was a dozen or more of the Silent Army. It took her a moment to puzzle out that the different colors on them were splashes and droplets of old and drying blood.
In the center of a circle formed by the stone warriors was a tribute the likes of which she had never expected.
At the base of a hastily formed stack of grisly trophies was a layer of heads from beasts she could barely fathom. She had seen them before, of course, but never without their war masks. The mounts were dead, obviously, but each had disfigurements she could barely fathom.
Desh Krohan spoke softly. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing.”
Merros Dulver nearly sighed the words, “It hardly seems possible.”
Above the heads of the slaughtered mounts a towering stack of fresh heads rested. It only took a moment to recognize that they belonged to the Sa’ba Taalor.
Nachia looked at the pile of heads stacked higher than she stood and nodded as she slowly circled around it.
She raised her hands into the air and yelled, “Death to the Sa’ba Taalor!” as loudly as she could.
The response was immediate: the call was picked up by the crowd, who carried on the chant even as Nachia made a slow, steady retreat back into her palace, imagining a thousand arrows coming at her from all directions.
Despite that dread, a smile kept trying to break on her face.
Cullen heard the noises down below, looked out into the courtyard and felt a thrill run through her. She could not decide if it was joy at the death of her enemies or joy that something, anything at all, was capable of stopping them.
The gray-skins had seemed unstoppable in Trecharch.
“You killed a few of them, you know. I don’t think that I did, but your arrows struck true.”
“I ran away just the same. Deltrea. I watched everything we loved die.”
“Not everything I loved. That’s why I’m here you know. Because I love you. You are my sister and my friend.”
“And all I ever do is yell at you for talking too much.”
Deltrea laughed. “You have always yelled at everyone for talking too much. I have never known anyone so happy to be alone in my entire life.”
“I was never alone.” Cullen shrugged her shoulders and looked away from the dead below. “I always had the trees and the wind and my thoughts.”
“I always tried not to think that hard. Whenever I did I just got sad or angry.”
Cullen smiled at that one.
“It’s almost time, you know.”
“Time for what?”
“I do not know. I only know that the time is almost here.”
“Are you scared, Cullen?”
“I don’t know what I am anymore.” She sighed and looked out the window again, but this time at the skies, not at the ground and its dark rewards. “I only know that all I was is gone with Trecharch and all that is left wants everything to change.”
“Well, I am fine with things the way they are. I like having time to do nothing.”
Cullen shook her head. “Not me. I grow restless.”
Deltrea had no answer to that.
Ten
To the east the fires of Wrommish shone from the west and brightened an already glorious morning.
Tuskandru tore a chunk from a hard bread made of logga nut and grunted as he chewed it. The air was cold and he liked that too. Better to fight in the cold. War was hot work.
“You are calm.” The King in Iron was sitting next to him and rubbing oil along the blade of his massive sword.
“What is there to be excited about, Paedori?” Tusk offered the other king a lump of bread and got a nod of thanks. The sword settled against a rock as the man ate.
“You have been angry of late.”
“No. I have been impatient.”
Tusk pointed with his chin to the lake in the distance. “There is our target. There is a city the size of which I did not think possible. You will come from one side. I will come from another and two more kings bring their armies to bear on this place.”
Tarag Paedori nodded.
Tusk continued. “To the north Wrommish offers us new light and the blessings of a god. That is a good sign, I think. But mostly, we are here. We are alive, and we have come to offer our gods countless sacrifices.” He patted the heavy axe at his side. “I think this will be a glorious day.”
The Fellein had their sorcerers who told them secrets. The Sa’ba Taalor had their gods who did the same. The deaths of so many of their brethren were not hidden from the kings. They heard of the violence and the Silent Army’s brutality.
There was no mourning to be done. They had lived good lives and died for their gods. What else was there?
Tusk looked at the massive lake. It was more water than he had ever seen at one time before. He had never traveled to Wheklam’s heart, had never tried to learn the ways of the water. He focused on Durhallem, instead. Very likely that was why he was a king.
The city itself was a crescent moon on the distant side of the vast lake. There were smaller cities and towns dotted here and there, but Goltha rested on the far side and waited like a treasure. The Fellein had nearly danced when gifted with gold. It was a metal, shiny enough and nice to look at, but soft and only good for hobbies. You could not make a good axe from gold, though he had been told it could kill if a fool ate enough of it. He did not know the truth of that and felt no reason
to find out.
The Fellein liked their gold. The Sa’ba Taalor preferred different treasures, like a city that could be crushed.
The plans had already been discussed. Tarag Paedori was a master tactician – he followed the god of armed combat and led the armies of the Daxar Taalor, how could he be less? They had gone over the variables, chosen the paths they would take and decided when they would ride.
This was their final rest before the siege would begin. It would be a siege, too, they knew that. The armies of the Fellein had been gathering in the city called Goltha. Even from this distance the banners and flags of their soldiers could be seen.
There were no horns, no battle cries. They did not announce themselves this day. Instead they moved toward their destinations and prepared themselves for whatever the gods might demand.
Cullen stood upon his ship and stared out at the waters ahead.
He was a captain again, but somehow the title didn’t mean as much this time around. The ship was given to him by the people who had killed his crew and left him to witness their deeds.
His crew was dead. The new crew was untested. To be sure they could row a boat and fish, but the Louron were hardly known for their skills as warriors and sailors. If one wanted a person tortured they were among the best, but to sail into battle was a different thing.
Still, looking at the dark-skinned people around him, he could see that they were dangerous enough.
Their demeanor gave away none of that. It was the conversations with them as they nursed him back to health and fed him that told the difference. A dozen Inquisitors had pried questions from him. They did not torture him nor were they cruel, but they were persistent. Darsken Murdro had been direct and harsh, but the others here were subtler and in some ways more cruel. The questions they asked were painful to answer, not because they used torture, but because they made him face aspects of himself that he did not like. Perhaps it was a drug in the food, or in the water, or perhaps it was simply that he needed to tell someone and they knew how to ask. They found ways to get truths from him even when he tried not to tell them anything.
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