Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  She breathed deeply and circled her opponent, feet shuffling in the sand. One hit. One hit and it’ll be over.

  “Why don’t you go?” she asked. “Strike out north, beyond the Gray Wood. Find your own place, in the Northwoods or beyond. There are great, uncharted territories you might occupy. Leave this kingdom, Adin. Don’t give up your life for some bloody tract of land.”

  “It’s my land. I survived the priory, and I went back and saved every ransom from it. We are owed these kingdoms. I can’t give that up. Your brother shares my sentiment. He’s my friend—did you know that?” he asked, still recovering his strength, chest heaving, blade not quite level.

  “I heard you betrayed him, left him in Solus.” She was guessing, mostly, but she must have struck a chord because his face darkened. He struck again. This time in great anger, and again clumsily. He raised his sword above his head before he brought it down. It was a silly and somewhat theatrical move, and it gave her more than enough time to prepare her riposte.

  When his blade missed the mark, she caught it with the tip of her sword and used all that unexpended energy to send the sword spinning out of Adin’s grasp. It was a dueler’s trick, not the sort of stunt you pull on the battlefield, but it worked wonderfully in the ring. The Ferens cheered when his blade struck the dirt, a cloud of dust briefly concealing the sword.

  Kepi might have killed him then, when he showed her his back, but there was something too easy about it. She allowed him to retrieve his blade.

  She retreated. One step. Two.

  She felt suddenly cruel. She was toying with the boy. Time to end this, she thought.

  One hit and it’ll be done.

  Strike.

  This time her words were transformed into action. She leapt with such speed and agility that the boy did not even perceive the attack. To his eyes, she guessed she had simply appeared out of nowhere with the blade driving downward at him. It was a killing blow, a strike at the top of the spine. It would have been a perfect kill, a quick and painless death, executed in half a heartbeat’s span, but the boy jerked desperately to one side and the blow went wide of its intended point of entry. The iron went deep but struck only muscle, driving into the flesh, delving so deeply that she could not pull the blade out. Kepi stumbled backward.

  “It’s finished—he’s finished,” she said, and he truly was finished. The boy could not move, let alone fight, not until the blade was pulled from his back, but Adin could not reach the hilt and the rules of the game forbade anyone else from entering the ring. Adin knelt, writhing in pain, trying in vain to snatch at the blade.

  “End this!” she cried. “End the contest or I’ll pull the blade myself.”

  “It ends when one of you dies. Kill him,” said Mered’s man, his face blank, voice cold.

  “No,” she said. “The matter is settled.” She backed away from Adin. He needed a physician. If the blade were carefully removed, he might live, but she doubted he’d fight again, certainly not today. He would struggle against death from this moment onward.

  Kepi took a slow step backward, crossing the line of white chalk. “It’s ended.”

  “No,” Admentus said, voice as cold as iron. “You violated the rules of the contest. If you’d killed him you would have been the victor, but in failing to do so you have forfeited our agreement.” The man in red drew up his cowl and retreated. Soldiers clustered around him and she realized he must be their commander, the one they’d been fighting against all along. He looked at her with a scowl, with disdain.

  “We are finished here,” he said. “Tomorrow, we take Feren by force.”

  52

  The red army advanced on the black shields, making their way across the winch room, spears wet with blood. Perhaps they’d slaughtered their own workers as they fled the chamber. That would explain the blood, or maybe the red army had met up with an unlucky group of Harkans. Ren didn’t know, and it hardly mattered. The men were coming for him, slowly navigating the long and narrow corridor, two abreast, spears bobbing as the soldiers dodged pots of bubbling oil and long wooden staves. Beneath them, Barden’s army howled in frustration.

  “It’s not too late to fall back,” said Butcher. “There’s no shame in it. You’re the king’s son and we’re just a bunch of killers. Let us do what we’re good at.”

  Ren might have taken him up on the offer, but the soldiers in red were already upon them. Butcher crushed a spear midshaft, shattering a stave that might have split Ren in two.

  “There’s only room for one of us, so stand aside,” Butcher said. He swung again, this time taking down a pair of spearmen, crushing their staves in a single blow. Another Harkan, a man named Arix, shouldered past Ren, throwing himself over the fallen spearmen, squeezing into the ranks of Mered’s men, where he drew a pair of daggers and cut all who stood within his reach.

  “I can’t tell if I’ve wetted my steel or if the damn thing is just covered in red paint,” Butcher cried. He was nearly out of earshot. The Harkans rushed past Ren, and Mered’s soldiers advanced. Soon, they were all pressed so tightly together they could hardly move. Ren was shoved backward and he clambered into one of the trapdoors, nearly falling through the open hatch as the ancient wood broke loose from its hinges and fell to the tunnel below. He found himself gazing down into the passageway. A dozen soldiers stared up at Ren, eager to join the battle. Ren cast about for a ladder or something like one. Chains operated the pots of oil. The one nearest him had already been emptied, so he yanked at the bronze links until they came loose from the pulley. He cast the chain through the open hatch, where a soldier caught hold of the end of it.

  A moment later, he came climbing up it, another man following close on his heels. Ren stumbled back as Barden’s men made their way into the winch room. The soldiers flipped open another set of trapdoors and cast down the chains, bringing more men into the fight. Quick to respond, Mered’s soldiers hurled themselves through the doors. They struck at the climbers and hacked at the chains. Mered’s soldiers found the still-burning vats of oil and tipped them onto Barden’s soldiers. One man howled in pain, but that was the end of it. The invaders were too quick for the red army.

  Barden’s men came one after the other, rising up into the already-crowded chamber and generally making a mess of things. The fight was short but chaotic, and more than one man struck his brother as each side struggled for control of the room. Ren found himself pushed hard against the wall, Harkans on both sides of him. The number of men had just doubled, and with every passing heartbeat a dozen more men squeezed into the thick of it. The melee was so close, so intense, that half the soldiers were forced to abandon their swords in favor of their fists; they were the only weapons a man could wield in such tight quarters. Several of the kingsguard broke the heads from their spears, forging makeshift daggers. It was a close fight, a dirty fight, and the black shields appeared to savor every moment of it. They fought with elbows and fists, with anything that could be used as a weapon. They beat back their foes in a bare-knuckled brawl that left the once-crowded chamber blanketed in red. Bruised and disfigured bodies littered every inch of it. Cloven heads and cloven shields lay mangled and mixed together.

  “It’s done,” Ren said, the words coming out in great gasps.

  Ren eyed the wheel. He was the first to reach it, but Tye was not far behind him.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Hiding,” she said. “I know when to stay out of the way.”

  “Good enough,” said Ren. He gripped one of the large spokes and gave it a turn. More hands clasped the wheel. One rotation, then another, and soon a cry of joy rang out from the tunnel below them. The passage was clear.

  53

  The cloth caught the wind, billowing into a bold and black flag, fluttering from the window of the tower where Merit waited for Barden’s arrival. This slip of cloth was her signal, the one that would tell her uncle or her generals where to find her. With the flag raised, all she could do was wait and watch for
their armies to approach. If Ren had done his task, the way was clear and the sack of Solus had begun.

  All her hopes rested on that boy. She prayed she could trust him. Ren had looked younger than she imagined, but it had been difficult to see his true face through the ash that smeared his brow. He had the look of a soldier who’d just come from the fight, or was still in the midst of one. It was a hungry look, desperate too. He wanted more than anything to get out of this city. She saw that. The boy brimmed with determination. It overwhelmed his every aspect. He’d give his life to get those men out of Solus, and the kingsguard would do the same just to keep the bastard alive. They truly were a desperate bunch, caught in desperate circumstances. She doubted the soldiers at the gate would have half a chance against the Harkans. She wished her people well, and Ren too. Merit still recalled that little boy, the young heir to the kingdom, tearing through the Horning, knocking over urns—just as she’d said. He’d been her brother once. She’d sworn never to regret what she’d done to him, how she’d tried to keep him out of Harwen. Again, she told herself that she had acted in the interests of the kingdom, but she knew it was a lie. She’d sought to preserve her power by suppressing Ren’s. She’d believed her lie all the way up until the moment she met the boy. Ren had spared her life. He’d shown mercy on her and agreed to Barden’s plan.

  An alarm rang in the distance, a bell of some kind. A moment later, the first of her uncle’s soldiers rode into view. Their charge was unexpectedly swift. With only the city guard to stifle his push, Barden’s soldiers rode, almost without resistance, through the streets.

  Merit’s heart warmed. In war, as in life, few things went as planned. Nevertheless, this one time all things were in place. Barden and his armies went their separate ways, the free companies going in one direction, the outlanders in another. Both set about plundering the city, and Barden joined in the mayhem. His soldiers threw torches on every hut, hovel, and house they passed. The people of Solus packed their roofs with firewood and foodstuffs, lamp oil too. The blaze spread quickly. The palm-leaf-shaded markets took to flame just as easily as the linen-draped alleyways. A red haze followed Barden’s charge, glowing more brightly as he approached. Soon he would reach her tower, and she’d join him. She’d lead the charge, and their army would meet with Harkana’s at the Shroud Wall. That had been the plan, at least.

  As Barden’s riders came upon the Waset, he passed the great Circus of Re, where the crowds still cheered at some unseen spectacle, unaware of the terror that swept through their city. Apparently, no one knew what transpired in the streets outside the ring, so the applause continued and the invaders rode past, skipping the circus altogether, leaving it for the outlanders perhaps.

  Barden rode at a frightening pace. He must have decided that shock was the best mode of attack, that if he rode all the way to the Shroud Wall the fight would be done before it was started, their foes demoralized and confused.

  He only slowed at the steps of the Waset. At a trot, he moved down the wide stair, down into the heart of the old city, to the place where Merit waited atop the tower, black banner calling to him in the breeze. Once more she felt a surge of pride at seeing what her uncle had done, what she had in fact done. They’d dealt the blow her father had only dreamed of. The Harkans had once more taken Solus, but this time they weren’t going to occupy the city.

  When Barden ran out of torches, his men shot flaming arrows. They hurled burning tar from slings, setting fires wherever they went. If the dust and sand could have been lit aflame, he’d have put them to the torch as well.

  Barden passed a garden of what appeared to be golden statues, then a great and towering arch of white marble. He rode to the mighty Shroud Wall, then turned and galloped straight at Merit’s tower. The sun had risen, but it was only a faint glow on the eastern horizon, a smoldering ember in an already-ashen sky. The windows were too narrow for her to poke her head out, but the cloth waved and she guessed he’d spotted it. He rode so close to her tower that she could almost see the color of his eyes, and her flag caught the wind once more as if to assert itself, but Barden simply shrugged and rode on, disappearing behind a high wall and a long line of riders. He was gone, and Merit had no idea if he had seen the banner or not, but the man had disappeared.

  She waited, hoping he would circle around or send back soldiers to fetch her. She allowed him a bit of time, in case he was engaged in some unexpected conflict. She strained to get a look at him, moving from window to window. She saw house soldiers of every color, and the yellow cloaks were out and about, trying to hold back the flames, probably wondering what was the greater threat to the city: the fire or the man who lit it. Everywhere, the city buzzed with activity, but she’d lost sight of her uncle.

  The realization came slowly to her, but it struck her nonetheless: Barden would not come to her aid. His plans had changed, or he’d never revealed their true nature. Whatever the case, he’d seen her banner and ignored it. For some reason, he’d chosen to leave her in the tower. Perhaps he thought it safe. She could not guess at his intentions, nor were they her concern. She worried for herself and no one else. Merit needed an armed escort. If Barden refused or was unable to supply one, the Harkan Army would have to suffice. They knew the signal and were instructed to search for it. The army in black had besieged the north gate, but she didn’t know if they’d entered it. Perhaps something had gone awry. Maybe that was why Barden had ridden off. It was possible that he had gone off to help the Harkans, just as Ren and the kingsguard had assisted Barden. Is that why he left me? Perhaps he’ll come back, she thought, but only briefly. Merit knew false hope when she heard it.

  In the wake of Barden’s charge, the outlanders followed. They came wearing rags or furs or nothing at all, their skin caked in woad or ash. Some looked as if they had emerged from the sand itself, the desert come back to reclaim the land it once owned. With clubs and axes, they tore statues from plinths and pried golden urns from temples.

  The mercenary armies rode behind the outlanders. They marched an ever-increasing crowd of men and women in front of them. These must be the wealthy of Solus. Perhaps they were prisoners, or maybe the free companies planned to use the wellborn as a kind of shield, to deter an attack from the city guard or the house armies of the wealthy. Barden’s initial charge had ended; the city was on fire. The army of the Protector stood outside the walls of Solus and the various house armies were all chasing after Barden’s legions or trying to defend their palaces.

  Only the Harkans were absent. She looked out to the many ramparts and pylons that composed the city walls, but the sand rose higher, obscuring her view of the city.

  Who will come for me?

  Wars were a messy affair, and she knew well that the Harkans might not reach her position, not for some time at least.

  Something struck the tower wall. Someone’s at the door, thought Merit.

  A second hit, this one loud enough to shake the stones, smacked the tower’s base. She pressed her head to one of the slots. The outlanders had taken a great beam, the kingpost from some half-destroyed roof, and were using it as a battering ram to strike the narrow stones that stood between the slotted windows at the tower’s lowest level. If they dislodged one of the columns, they could clear a space just wide enough for a man to slip inside.

  The outlanders were coming.

  She scrambled down the steps, calling out to her guard as she went. “Pull back the drawbar! Pull it back!” Once the outlanders entered the tower, she’d be trapped, and Merit knew exactly how that would end.

  Her guard, a man named Garen, balked, so she slapped him on the cheek. “I am queen. Pull back that bar and thrust open the door. We’re going out into the streets. We’ll find some other place to shelter, perhaps the Temple of Mithra. This place is done.”

  Garen hesitated once more, but she glared at him, so he went to work. Head shaking, he drew forth the heavy wooden plank, the wood screaming as it left the bracket. The door opened with equal resistance, turni
ng slowly, by painful degrees, the man grunting as he went about his work. When the crack was wide enough, she slipped through the door’s opening and bade him follow. He made for the gap, but something held him back. Pale, dirt-encrusted hands pawed at his armor. Fingers wrapped his arms and chest, clawing at his face. The outlanders had entered. Garen stood his ground, blocking the door, pushing it closed as he pressed his back against it. A terrible scream echoed through the wood.

  Merit did not dally.

  She ran blindly through alleys and streets, not knowing where to go, or even where she was. Among the free companies and outlander clans, few knew her face. They might not recognize her as an ally. She had already once been a prisoner of the sand-dwellers. After that ordeal, she vowed never to let them take her again. Hence, she hurled herself through the crowded streets, stumbling this way and that, but the invaders were everywhere. One by one, they pulled women and children from their homes, looking them up and down. Some were killed right there on the spot, while the richest, the most well-attired, were tied in packs, kept for ransom. Any house servant with a strong back was tied hand and foot, knotted into a gang, to be sold as slaves.

  Up close, the outlanders were far fouler than she recalled; they did not even walk like common men. Bow-legged from having spent a lifetime atop a horse, they moved in odd, staggered motions, like some devilish race not meant to tread upon this earth. In the city of light, where every statue was gold and every house was plastered in white, these men wore rags sewn from the skin of rats, their bony limbs looking more skeletal than human. Even their horses were gaunt and malnourished. She’d seen her stable master put down steeds that were healthier than the outlanders’ best mount.

  Yet these same men raided the houses and temples of Solus. They took whatever held worth and cast everything else aside. The outlanders pried gems from obelisks and scraped gold from pillars. They wrested pearls from the eyes of great statues and scraped electrum from urns. When the obelisks were small enough and carved from precious stone, they too were carried away, loaded on carts, tossed one on top of the other. The great stone monuments, the ones that were too big to be lifted or carted, were stripped in whatever way was possible. A gilded mask was pried from a funerary placard and the gold was chipped from the stele that ran along the base of some temple. There were great heaps of looted treasure, precious vessels of every sort, wine cups and wine jugs, vessels for mixing or storage. Golden statues lay in great heaps, sacred images of the gods tossed to the stones. In the dust and haze, Merit could not even ascertain which god these men had offended. By the end of the day they’ll have offended all of them a hundred times over, she thought, but these men gave no care. They had their own gods.