Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  He dragged the captain’s body. Edric marshaled the guard, ushering them into lines, gathering them up so they could raise shields around their exit.

  The distance was short, but they had to fight their way to the arch. Swords clashed and armor crunched, each man grunting and howling. Some cried out their last words while others shouted their victory. Ren could hardly tell the red from the black. The darkness consumed everything.

  “Put out our lamps,” he ordered. “And take theirs too.”

  The soldiers in red carried lanterns strapped to poles, but the Harkans hacked at them, severing the shafts. One lamp fell, a second shattered; all around them the lights were going out and the already-dark cistern turned a shade darker. The gloom will be our friend, thought Ren. In the shadows, no one would be able to tell a red soldier from a black one, and while Mered’s men were trying to decide whom to strike the Harkans would make their exit.

  It seemed a good enough strategy, but the red soldiers hounded their retreat. Ren held on to Gneuss, dragging him toward the gap. I won’t leave his body. If the red army recovered it, they’d put the captain’s head on a stick for the whole city to witness.

  Ren slammed into stone. He assumed he’d reached the wall, so he ducked beneath the stones, pushed between the timbers, and pulled Gneuss behind him.

  Once through, the light made him wince, catching him off guard. He blinked to clear his vision, his eyes adjusting to the lamplight. Around him, priests bearing the simple wrap of the acolyte, a tight roll of cloth cinched against the chest, were busily hauling away stones while others ferried equipment—timbers, dowels, and wedges—to the workers who cleared the stones and erected the supports beneath them. It was an impressive operation, well planned and well executed.

  “Ren, you made it,” said Tye.

  “And you’re alive!” Ren exhaled. “We’ve got to get the others.” He set down the captain’s body and slipped back into the cistern, moving so quickly he stumbled into Edric, the soldier’s face revealed by the faint light of the archway.

  “There are priests within, safety,” said Ren.

  “Priests?” asked Edric.

  “Yes, do I have to say it twice? Priests. Men without swords, so we might as well join them.” Ren was spitting his words out. “What the hell does it matter? It’s our way out.”

  With a nod, Edric vanished. But a moment later, Ren heard his voice, shouting orders in the darkness, directing the Harkans toward that faint light at the base of the archway.

  Someone slammed into Ren. He felt whiskers, a beard.

  “Kollen?” Ren could not see the face in front of him.

  “No, it’s Horu come to give you the kiss of death,” said Kollen. “What’s in there?”

  “Safety. Go!”

  There was no time for banter. Blades twirled in the darkness and he could not tell if they were black or red, friend or foe.

  The Harkan shield men encircled their escape route, protecting the passage. It was the same maneuver they’d used to escape into the Hollows. The black shields hustled through a gap in the line and crawled beneath the stones, some knocking aside the posts that held up the stones, threatening to bring the whole wall down upon them. It was a hasty retreat, and bloody. In the darkness, red soldiers leapt out of nowhere. A blade took one man just as he reached the hole, a second fell just short of it. Something sharp sliced at Ren’s shoulder and he spun only to find a man in black staring him in the face. They both held swords to each other’s throats, but quickly withdrew them. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell what was going on, but the Harkans were escaping. He knew that much. One after another, four then five at a time, they made their way through the narrow gap while all around them men hollered and blades clashed as the last of the soldiers made their way toward that sliver of light. A crush of soldiers packed the narrow passage, grunting as they dove beneath the stones. Then, abruptly, there was silence.

  “We’re the last.” Edric tapped Ren’s shoulder. Butcher had already passed through the gap. In the distance, lanterns swayed atop poles, lighting the way as a fresh line of soldiers appeared, spears leveled, ready for the charge. The army in red had initiated a second advance.

  “Time to go,” said Ren.

  Edric went first through the gap. He pushed aside a timber and Ren kicked at a second as he followed. He left Gneuss’s body beneath the stones; it was a good enough burial. The priests did the rest of the work, pulling out the wedges and posts. Stone upon stone tumbled to the earth as a massive pile of rock came crashing down. The rubble piled up so quickly that Ren had to leap backward just to avoid being crushed by it. The dust was impenetrable, but when it cleared, the passage was gone.

  In its place, an immovable pile of rock stood between the Harkans and their foes.

  14

  The pain woke Merit. An ache in her hip made her squirm uncomfortably on the pallet, and there was something wrong with her right knee. Everything below the joint was numb. She tried to wiggle her toes, but they would not comply. It was as if the lower half of her leg was unaware of the upper. Am I maimed? She pondered the matter, but only briefly. Merit had other pains to occupy her attention. A cut on her shoulder stung, and a bruise on her right forearm ached whenever she threatened to move it. Overall, she decided it would be best if she moved as little as possible. In fact, all she dared lift were her eyelids. She blinked them open one by one and surveyed her surroundings, the chamber coming into dim focus. At one end of the room, a window looked out onto the Hornring. A door sat to her right and—

  “You’re awake.” Shenn sat astride her pallet, huddled atop a small stool. “The king’s men were not kind to you.” He eyed her wounds. “But they were careful … in a way.”

  “Careful?” she shot back. “Tell that to these bruises,” she groaned, but, on second thought, perhaps he was right. The men who attacked her carried swords. They could have easily cut her to shreds, or maimed her in some more permanent fashion. She could not wiggle her toes, but at least she had all ten of them. Her attackers had not severed her hand as the king ordered.

  “Perhaps you’re right then.”

  “They left your face.”

  “How lucky. Too bad my good looks are all out of uses.” She’d always been better at using her head than she had been at using the curve of her breast, at least when it came to what was important.

  “Maybe they should have cut my face. I’ve always wanted a good scar. They’re intimidating,” she said, almost absently. She still could not move most of her body. She could not even turn her head. “Where are we?”

  “South Tower, high keep.”

  “We’re not in the family’s quarter?”

  “No, I suppose not. Your new brother appears to have taken it.”

  “He’s taken everything, but where did he put it? Where did all the Harkans go? The kingsguard is in Solus and the army is in the south, but there was a small garrison in the Hornring. Were they slaughtered? Or was there no fight at all? Did this boy ride into Harwen with his head held high and announce himself the king returned? Perhaps the guards escorted him to the throne. Maybe they brushed aside the dust and let him sit upon my father’s seat—who knows?”

  “Not me, and I’ve heard no news. The men that come, the ones who bring food and tend to your wounds, are soldiers. None of them are Harkan. These are men from Solus, and most have the air of highborn servants.”

  “Yes, so he brought his own men, but that hardly answers the question. Where are all the Harkans? Locked away in some cell … poisoned … murdered?”

  She looked out through the window. The Hornring was quiet. A scattering of soldiers walked the walls, but she saw little else. Beyond the rampart, though, there was still the city. They had not emptied Harwen. The people, her people, filled it.

  “It’s obvious they’ve accepted this new king, at least temporarily. I’m guessing there’s a great confusion in Harwen,” said Shenn. “But the boy has the throne and he has swords.”
/>   “It won’t last,” said Merit.

  “Really? You don’t look as if you’re in any condition to lead an uprising. And let me remind you—”

  “That I’m his prisoner? Harkana will not stand for it—he can’t hold me for long. I’ll go to the warlords, I’ll—”

  The door opened and the boy who called himself king stepped into the room. There were four or five men at his back, all had swords but their weapons were sheathed. He’s overdoing it a bit, she thought. She was hardly a threat, but perhaps the boy was overcautious now. She noted that he no longer wore a sword at his belt. I guess I won’t have a second chance to cut him with his own blade. Then she had a realization. The boy is afraid of me—that’s why he’s come with his guards. It was, of course, a mistake. If she were the boy, she’d have walked into the chamber with a two-handed sword swinging from her belt.

  “I see you’re doing better, sister,” said the false king.

  “Sister.” Merit repeated the word, but it once more left an ugly taste in her mouth. “Call me Merit, or Queen Regent if you want to get it right.”

  He smiled oddly, then his lips went flat, as if he were not certain whether she was joking with him. The fellow did not appear to be terribly bright, but he held all the cards, at least for now, so she’d have to be careful with him. Merit had no desire to sit for a second beating.

  “Like I said,” the king spoke again. “You’re looking better, so we’re going to have to find something to do with you. I can’t have the favorite daughter of Harkana wasting away in a cage, and I doubt anyone would be pleased if I sent you to the gallows.” He grinned again, but this one wasn’t as odd or as curious. He seemed to actually like the idea of hanging her from the gallows, and that gave Merit a chill.

  “No, I’ll need to find something new to do with you,” he went on. “Clearly, my old plan will not work. I can’t imagine you rallying the warlords to any cause but your own. No, you’re not much use to me.” There was disdain in his words.

  Merit shook her head at him, though she did it weakly. “It will never work, this thing you’re doing. The empire will not acknowledge your authority. You did not serve in the priory. The penalty for this is death.”

  She expected anger from the boy or something similar, but he only smiled that terrible little smile—the one that never touched his eyes. “No. I don’t think that will matter,” he said. “I’ll be pardoned for not serving in the priory. All in time. You see, I am part of something that is much bigger than you and your kingdom. There is a great movement in the empire—a changing of power, a shift, I guess you could say. Harkana is part of that shift, as is Feren, and eventually Rachis. It’s already started in Solus and Feren. Did you know the king was dead, that Dagrun’s people cut him down in his bedchamber? Terrible way to go, bled out on his bride, our sister, Kepi. She is queen and Kitelord, but she won’t hold the title, not for long. No woman has ever ruled Feren, and there is no need for her to do it. There is no longer a need for little kingdoms and little wars. We ought to be one empire ruled by our greatest citizens and we will be, soon.” He stood at the archway, looking out in the direction of the Battered Wall.

  “We’ll start rebuilding that wall tomorrow,” he said. “We have no need for such monuments. They remind us of old wounds, things best left forgotten.”

  That last one stung, but not as much as the news that preceded it. Dagrun was dead. If the false king spoke the truth, the man she loved was gone, murdered by his own people. She tried to study his face, to find the lie if it held one, but she did not see it.

  “Dagrun?” she asked, unable to stop herself from saying the name. “Dead—are you certain?”

  “Quite certain. It’s no rumor. He is dead and our dear sister is queen, but you needn’t worry yourself about such things. You ought to be a bit more concerned about your fate.”

  “Why? What will you do with me?” she asked bluntly, her voice hard, or as hard as she could make it.

  “Before I tell you,” the boy said, “I want you to see something. I want you to understand your position.”

  “My position?” she asked. “I came here with almost a hundred Harkan soldiers. Hold me for another day and my captain will come for me. Sevin will scale these walls and cut down every soldier you’ve stuffed in the Hornring.”

  “Will he?” the boy asked. He was being coy, and she didn’t like that. This child who called himself king was a terrible fellow and he seemed to rejoice in terrible things. Two of his soldiers took her by the arms and forced her to stand. The pain was intolerable when she stood and worse when she took her first step, but she stifled her cries and left her smile flat, her face impassive as they led her to the window. She heard horses neighing and the ugly sounds of war, the grunts of men fighting, the shrill chorus of iron ringing against armor.

  Merit did not like what she heard, and she liked even less what she saw.

  In the low hills beyond the Harwen’s walls, in the place where she had camped with her men, a great battle had taken shape.

  “It’s a bit difficult to tell one side from the other, isn’t it?” the boy king asked. Both sides wore the black of Harkana, though she guessed only one army belonged to her kingdom.

  “That’s why we all wear our colors and our crests. It keeps us from killing our brothers, though I guess such things are sometimes inevitable,” he said, a hint of glee in his voice. “If you’re wondering which men are mine and which are yours, just look at the size of the force. You said you had a hundred? Yes? Well, I think it was less when you started and considerably less now. I’d guess that maybe fifty are standing, and I’ve got ten times that number. I think that makes the matter clear. Your boy—Sevin, was it? He won’t be scaling any walls. In a matter of time, maybe an hour or two if they fight well, he won’t be doing much at all except feeding the jackals.”

  “Bastard.” It was all she could say, and she did it quietly. Merit did not want another beating, but part of her needed to be out there on that field. A piece of her would rather be dead than see those men slaughtered. She thought of Sevin and her waiting woman, Samia, Asher too.

  “Shenn, look away,” she said upon seeing him at the arch, his face fixed in some terrible expression. Shenn hailed from an old Harkan family, and he’d often said he dreamed of leading the people, of doing something of worth for Harkana, something memorable. Trapped in this chamber, all he could do was stand and watch as his countrymen fell, the terrible image of it all no doubt burned into his thoughts.

  “Look away if you like,” said the king. “But I won’t call you regent. It’s a title you no longer hold. You are Merit, daughter of the former king, sister of the current. There is some worth in that. As I said earlier, a great shift is about to take place in the empire, and we are all part of it. I am, at least, and you’ll soon join it.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked flatly, out of patience. She was done guessing at his words. She simply wanted to know what would happen next.

  “I am sending you to Solus,” he said. “You, Merit Hark-Wadi, are a ransom.”

  15

  “Where’re we going?” Ren asked, still out of breath but moving again, up on his feet. He had dust in his eyes, and his ears still rang with the sound of crashing stones, but the priests urged him forward. The kingsguard were well ahead of him as were the ransoms.

  “I can talk and run at the same time,” said Ren, “so you might as well tell me where we’re headed.” He pounded the dust from his tunic and coughed.

  “I have orders,” said the white-robed acolyte at the tail of the column. He appeared to be the one who’d orchestrated the whole thing.

  “Whose orders?” Ren asked as he pried miniature shards of rock from the fabric of his sleeve.

  “I can’t say,” the acolyte replied.

  “They told you to keep it a secret?” Ren asked, still somewhat dazed. Maybe he was just shocked to be alive.

  “Yes,” the acolyte said, his voice firm but respectful, dis
tant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Ren guessed he’d memorized their path and was trying to recall the various turns. They rounded six or eight of them, then passed the intersection where Ren at last caught sight of the Harkans. He almost looked away. There were men with severed limbs and broken ones, too, men whose wounds bled and others who were nearly bled out. More than one man needed to be carried, and half the others had some limp or other impediment. Progress was slow. They stumbled down steps and over bridges. Grunts echoed in the black. Men begged for the procession to halt. Some called for water or a crock of amber. They were fresh from the fight, exhausted, but the priests would not allow them to stop.

  Death lay behind them. Ren knew that much; he wanted to put as much distance as was possible between himself and the cistern.

  “Any idea where we’re headed?” Kollen stood in the corridor, waiting for Ren to catch up to him.

  “Don’t care,” said Ren. “Without these priests, we’d all be worm food.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Kollen, “I took one in the arm.” He held up a torn sleeve. “I suppose I’m alive.”

  “You are,” said Ren, “but we left our brothers behind. You think Adin…” He wondered if the boy still lived. He hoped the red army was able to mend his wounds. Ren had once risked his life to save Adin. The boy was family, a true brother, but he was gone, fled with the enemy. It seemed impossible.

  “He was wounded,” Kollen said. “Can you imagine him running like this? He’d have never—”

  “I know. I was the ass who made him go.”

  “Quit worrying over it,” said Kollen. “The priests saved us.” He slapped the white-robed acolyte on the shoulder. “You have a name?”

  “Nester.”

  “Ah, Nester,” said Ren, “Well, now that we have your name, can you tell us about where we’re headed?”

  “Away from those bastards,” Kollen interrupted. “That much is plain. I want to know who sent you, Nester. Why’re you here? And who found these corridors?”