“What? Why?” Merros Dulver came into the room as Nachia was talking. It was obvious that he’d come in a hurry and though Desh had not summoned him he suspected someone had. It could have been Tega or it could have been Nachia.
“The reasons gods do anything are unknowable. Even if they tell you, they only say what they want you to know.”
Desh bit back a snort of laughter. To him the gods sounded a lot like the Sooth.
Drask continued, “It is possible that what the Daxar Taalor plan to do is push all of Fellein back to the east and lock them in the Blasted Lands and the Taalor Valley. That would suit their desires for revenge. So those are the main locations I think could be chosen. A smaller chance is that the gods plan to leave Truska-Pren where he currently resides, and to encompass all of the Blasted Lands as well. I do not think this likely.”
Drask stepped back from the table and crossed his thickly muscled arms over his broad chest.
“So what were you saying about this being predestined?” Nachia looked the man over as she spoke.
Drask leaned down and tapped the map again, his finger striking where Canhoon now rested.
“This place. Even with all that my people have done to capture Goltha, they have not completed the task.” His finger slid along the edge of the massive lake. “There are too many towns here, and Goltha has a large population. Taking a palace and killing a king is not the same as taking a kingdom.”
Once again his arms crossed.
“Now, add in Canhoon, and you have the largest single population of the Fellein ever gathered. Am I right in that?”
Nachia nodded. “After the loss of Tyrne, Elda, Morwhen and Roathes? Most certainly.”
Drask nodded again and Desh felt a cold hand slide through his guts and make a fist.
Drask, ever perceptive like most of his people, must have noticed the expression on Desh’s face. “You understand, don’t you, wizard?”
“Understand what?” Nachia was not a foolish person and she did not like being left in the dark.
Drask spread his arms to encompass everything. “Canhoon and Goltha together could be very easily seen as one city. The size of that city would likely rival the size of Korwa before it fell.” Nachia’s face crumbled. “No one knows what destroyed Korwa. For all we know, it was the gods themselves.”
Fourteen
Plans were in action. Her followers were moving through the catacombs of the palace and were ready to strike. Swech crouched in the hidden tunnel that allowed access to the throne room. One step and she could be in the room and killing.
All they waited for was a signal from Swech. One call and the deaths would commence, but instead of calling out, she was listening to Drask Silver Hand explain that none of it would matter because they would all be dead.
“Is this all supposition, Drask?” The wizard asked the question that was likely on everyone’s minds.
“Of course. I have not asked the gods. They have not told me as much. We are not currently talking.”
“Why not?” The Empress this time.
“Because Tega and Nolan and I took their power.”
Desh. “Beg pardon?”
“That is what was hidden in the Mounds. Under a thousand feet of rock and the remains of all the dead of Korwa there was a lake of energies. We bathed in them by accident and absorbed them.”
Drask peeled away his shirt and revealed his arm for all of them to see. Swech barely suppressed a gasp. The silver she had seen on numerous occasions now spread up past his shoulder. It was growing inside him and that was impossible.
No. Nothing was impossible for gods.
“So what do we do now?” Merros spoke and her insides swam with ice. To have him so close. She did not want him dead and the gods had been kind, but for how long if he was in the same room with her targets?
“Choose your champion, or fight this war. Either way the last mountain will move and we still don’t know where. But if I am right and the mountain is to settle here, then all we do is a joke and nothing more.”
Merros looked around the room, nervous, tense. She knew he hated sorcery. He’d told Dretta March that a dozen or more times.
In the room with Merros and the rest she saw a younger man. His face was familiar and she once more bit back a noise. Dretta March was dead, but she’d have given her life for one glimpse at Nolan March. The boy was talking to himself, muttering small words again and again and no one in the room paid him the least bit of attention.
No. She had no time to consider the fates of dead women’s children. She had no time to consider her own for that matter. Still her hand moved to her abdomen unconsciously.
“Is this truth, Paedle? Will this city be taken by Truska-Pren?” She spoke only with her mind. She did not need to utter words.
Paedle’s voice was soft and calm. FINISH YOUR TASKS, SWECH. WE WAIT FOR THEIR DEATHS.
No answer then.
Fair enough. The gods had always kept her. They had never betrayed her trusts.
The sorcerer first. If he lived, she would not be able to finish her tasks.
Tarag Paedori ached. A hundred wounds covered his body, most of them mere scratches, but he ached from all of them. The stone men were not dead. He did not know if they could die, but most of them were broken and seemed incapable of further motion.
All it cost was a few thousand Sa’ba Taalor. Had anyone asked him if it were possible to lose so many of the Daxar Taalor’s chosen he would have laughed at the notion. But these were not the normal enemies. They were stone and stone does not bleed.
Pre’ru’s people bashed at the great gate into the city and above them the Fellein fired down arrows. The orders were given and most of the Sa’ba Taalor raised shields over their heads to avoid the deadly fire.
Tarag had no arrows or he’d have killed them all. Instead he satisfied himself with finding spears and javelins and doing what he could.
The lancers came from the left. The spearmen came from the right. Fellein soldiers, fresh and ready for combat. Soldiers who had not just spent hours in hard effort against stone soldiers.
Tarag nodded his admiration. He would likely have done the same thing were he in a position to.
Of course, there were a few who could offer surprises on his side, as well. The arrows did not come to a complete stop but they slowed and then faltered even more.
“Form two walls!” He bellowed the order and heard it repeated and the Sa’ba Taalor did as they were told. Shields were raised to the left and to the right, and the worn, shaking soldiers set shields in a barrier against the approaching enemies.
The lancers came without their mounts. Their horses were dead. They came just the same, bearing spears and short swords instead of their usual weapons. Still they had the advantage. They were rested and fed.
Tarag Paedori did not care if they were rested. They would die. As the Fellein approached he waited and then, “PUSH!” The walls of shields pushed into the enemies approaching as the Sa’ba Taalor held their wall and charged forward.
A few arrows came down and hit flesh. A few more of the chosen fell, but others walked over the dead and dying to take their places in the walls.
While above the combat N’Heelis and Swech’s forces cut away the archers, quickly eliminating their targets and moving on to the next. As often as not the archers dropped from the wall and landed on the bloodied ground at its base. Any that lived were quickly eliminated.
Pre’ru roared her approval as the doors finally splintered under the assault from the rams. Several houses had given up their wood in order to make the battering posts but it was worth the effort. The great posts were dropped to the sides and the Sa’ba Taalor surged past the final wall of defense for Canhoon.
There were more soldiers. There were also civilians, who had held too much faith in a wooden gate. The latter ran back, fleeing the scene. The Fellein solders came forward, marching in unison and forming proper barriers.
Pre’ru gave a sharp w
histle and the mounts came in. There were fewer of them than there had been, but the remaining war animals did their part. They came in hard and fast and charged at the Fellein. The soldiers facing them were brave enough, but they were shaking already, the ranks falling apart.
No, Pre’ru realized. The Fellein were not moving in fear, they were letting something past.
The dogs were everything she had heard them to be. They were fast and savage and fearless. There were also a lot of them.
They came in low and worried at the mounts. The mounts stepped back and tried to understand what had just happened because, as Pre’ru knew from experience, few were the creatures that would willingly take on a mount. Still the fighting continued. The enemy had spears and they used them. Several attacked the mounts who were distracted by the dogs, but most threw harder and aimed for the masses of the Sa’ba Taalor.
Her people knew how to respond and so they did. Arrows flew, spears were thrown and some even took on the hounds, hacking at the animals as they fought against the mounts.
Pre’ru caught motion from the corner of her eye and turned to look at the wall she had just breached. There was movement; she was not wrong. The stone shifted and as she watched on a man walked from the stone, pulled from it, was birthed from it.
The Silent Army came forward again.
Pre’ru did not have time to question it. She instead called to arms, alerting all around her of the new attack. She had not seen the shattered remains of the Silent Army drawn into the stone of the Mid Wall like ice melting into a puddle of water.
She saw instead the end result of that action on the far end. The Silent Army lived again, unmarred, born of a different color stone, and ready to repel the enemies of Fellein.
Had she known more of sorcery she might have been prepared. She chose not to waste time thinking on the matter. The enemy was upon them and she would kill them all if she had her way.
“Ordna!” She called her god’s name and charged the closest of the stone men. She would live or she would die but in all cases she would serve her gods and do them proud.
Merros read the message quickly and reported.
“The last wall is broken. The Sa’ba Taalor have reached the inner city and are on their way here.”
Drask nodded. “As I said. Your best chance is to choose a champion. Andover Lashk is a very skilled warrior, but he has doubts inside of him and those can be exploited.”
“What sort of doubts?”
“He fights for the Daxar Taalor out of a sense of gratitude and honor. He does not fight with the love and devotion that most of the Sa’ba Taalor fight with. He does not believe he will be doing the right thing if he dies in his efforts.”
“How do you know that?”
“We walked a long ways before reaching your city. We had time enough to talk.”
“You think I should choose a champion?” Nachia paced. She was nervous. She had to be.
“Yes.” Drask looked at her and nodded his head slowly.
“Who should I choose?”
“Someone who can win.”
Merros sighed and stepped forward. “I will gladly be your champion, Nachia.”
Nachia smiled and him and nodded. “I know, and I love you for that.”
Then she pointed to Desh. “Go get ready for combat.”
Desh looked as if his pants had suddenly fallen away and left him with his privates flapping in the cold wind.
“Beg pardon?”
“You are my First Advisor. You are my champion. Prepare yourself for battle against Andover Lashk.”
“I don’t see how you expect me to–”
“Go! Prepare yourself! You will be fighting for your life and the life of Fellein!”
Desh looked at her for a long time, not speaking, his eyes studying her face. Finally he nodded.
When he’d left the room she sank back on her throne and shook her head. “I’ve lost my mind.”
Merros crossed his arms, a small smile playing on his face. “No. I think it’s brilliant.”
Tega shook her head, “What have you done? One way or the other you’ve condemned one of those men to death.”
“There’s no choice in this, Tega.” The Empress suppressed a desire to argue. Merros could see her working to maintain her calm. “Andover is an unknown quantity. He could very well be as dangerous as Drask. We do not know. So I chose someone that could hold his own against any soldier. I chose someone who has power and skill and a long history of thinking his way out of problems.”
Tega shook her head. “This is madness.”
Drask looked her way. “No. This is war.”
Tega bristled and walked closer to the man. He was almost twice her size and she did not seem to care. “And have you changed sides, Drask Silver Hand?” She looked up at him and he looked down, their eyes locked in a staring contest.
“I remain uncertain as to where I stand on this conflict.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “Because I have not made up my mind.”
“No, I mean why now, after an entire lifetime of devotion, do you question your gods?” Tega jabbed her fingers at his stomach like a dagger. He did not seem to notice. “Your entire life you’ve answered without question. You followed the orders of your gods until you reached the Mounds. So why change now?”
Drask nodded his head. “I see. You want to understand my reasoning. That is simple. For the first time in my life I am aware that my gods have lied to me.”
“Shouldn’t you be punished for thinking that way?”
Drask nodded his head. “Yes.”
“But they have not punished you. So again I ask, why?”
Drask crossed his arms and refused to answer. Or, perhaps, he was considering the best way to answer. His facial expression was not querulous so much as it was baffled.
The dogs did their work. Many of the mounts were wounded, and badly. They bled freely from gashes along their sides and bellies and across their flanks.
The mounts did their work, too. The dogs were dead. Tuskandru’s body warred with itself. On the one side he was tired and bloodied. On the other he was exhilarated and happy. He lived for this and this alone. He warred. He served his god. He had offered up a hundred sacrifices to Durhallem today and that did not include the stone monsters that came back from the dead and fought again.
The obsidian stick hissed and melted and burned with the fires of Durhallem as it sealed his torn flesh. He would have howled out his pain, but he was a king and had to set an example. The spear had cut him from neck to groin and now that ruptured flesh pulled itself back together and seared itself shut.
Tusk closed his eyes and smelled his own flesh burning. The scent mingled with the blood, the mud, the death all around him. It was a heady aroma.
When he opened his eyes the fighting had slowed. And then, surprisingly, it stopped.
The pain had been too much to let him listen but he heard now. There would be a fight between champions. One battle to choose who would win.
Tusk shook off the last of the pain and moved toward Tarag Paedori. The King in Iron was currently the King in Torn Pants. Most of the rest of his clothes were gone, discarded in the water or shredded by combat.
As he walked he grew angrier.
“Who is this champion?”
He nearly barked the words at Tarag, who looked at him and shook his head. “Andover Iron Hands.”
Tusk’s rage at that moment was nearly white hot. He clenched his fists until knuckles popped and tendons pulled.
“Say again?”
“It will be the same words. Andover Iron Hands is the chosen of the Daxar Taalor for this combat.”
“And what are the terms?”
“You already know this, Tuskandru.” Tarag Paedori’s words were surprisingly gentle. “If Andover Iron Hands wins, then we win. If he loses then we go back to the Seven Forges.”
“You and I know this cannot be. Six of the seven have moved.”
Tusk’s mouths opened and closed.
Tarag leaned in closer and put hands on both of Tusk’s shoulders. It was a calming gesture and because it came from his friend and a fellow king, Tusk allowed it. “The Daxar Taalor have spoken, Tusk. We have no further claim in this.”
“Aye.” His voice was hoarse. “Then I will retreat with my people.”
“What?”
“Why stay here?” Tusk frowned. “We have either already won or already lost. In any event, there is nothing for us to do here. I will retreat with my people and we will rest.”
“What if the Fellein do not listen? What if their champion loses and they decide to fight on?”
“Tarag, King Swech and her assassins are already in place. You know this and so do I. Regardless of betrayal, the Empress will fall today. One way or another.” Tusk sighed. “I will fight for my gods. I will serve my gods. If they tell me right now to wait here, I will wait. But otherwise, the fighting is done and I am tired. I would rest before being called back to war.”
“Where will you go?”
“Only to the wall for now. I am tired, not foolish. Call if you need me.”
Without another word to his fellow king, Tusk walked away. Moments later the horns of Tuskandru’s people called a note that none had ever heard from them before. Moments after that the Obsidian Army retreated. Those that still could. Those that were still alive.
Fifteen
Andover Iron Hands paced the courtyard that had been designated for the final battle. The ground was level, the dirt soft but not so soft that one could sink into it.
The wall at the edge of the courtyard carried several different sorts of weapons, but Andover did not bother looking. He carried his weapon of choice: the axe created by the gods themselves to help him win this combat.
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