Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  The invaders stripped the city bare. Where they could not easily find riches, they took men and women and dragged them from their homes, demanding to know where their gold could be located, insisting that each man produce his every possession for them to paw through and plunder. Men were forced to produce keys and open the sepulchral chambers of their ancestors. The bodies were ripped from their resting places, the desiccated remains torn apart to free a golden bangle or an electrum-studded collar. Each body was given a second death by accident, their souls lost for a bit of metal or a few old gems.

  Resistance came seldom, but when it did, the results were disastrous. Merit saw a man flayed before his wife’s eyes. She ran from the sight of it, but she could hardly escape the depredations of the invading army. Bodies littered the streets. Great rolls of fur and fine muslin lay in haphazard stacks. Men tied hand and foot sat alongside sundry casks of oil, wine, and amber. And the parchments that had once filled a hundred repositories lay stripped of the gold rings that bound them, the scrolls tossed to the fire, the gold thrown in sacks. In fact, anything that was not precious was given to the blaze. And after each house was cleared, it, too, was set aflame. Such were the ways of the outlanders. She knew this, had seen it during the wars with the pale-skinned warriors of the west, but was nonetheless shocked by the scale of their plundering and the foulness with which it was executed. Had even Barden anticipated such bedlam, such vulgarity? Perhaps. He was reared among these people.

  It took three thousand years to build this city and a day to sack and burn it, she mused. Seeking to avoid the outlanders, she found herself swept up into a crowd of people who were moving away from them. All of Solus had joined her in the streets. Barden’s attack had come so swiftly that no one had had a chance to flee the city in advance of his assault. The gates were barred in the east by Barden’s soldiers and she assumed they were blocked in the north by the Harkans. Only the southern gate was likely open. There were a thousand different posterns and smugglers’ routes that one might use to exit the city, but she knew the location of no such places. In fact, no one in her proximity seemed to know how to get out of the city. The only solution was to run. From the lowest beggars to the highest of the highborn, everyone abandoned their homes or hovels, fleeing the outlanders, trying to find shelter or to hide.

  A rooftop overflowing with people collapsed inward, drawing its inhabitants down upon whatever lay below, which happened to be a chamber that was itself overflowing with people. Bodies crashed upon bodies, bloody limbs mingling with broken beams and cracked tiles. No one paused. No one even gave the devastation a moment’s notice or stopped to aid those who had fallen. The crowd surged forward, prodded, perhaps by the destruction, by the desire of each and every citizen to escape whatever death they’d just witnessed. Merit saw the panic in their eyes, the fear mingled with resolve. Half of them already knew the truth: they would die, they’d be burned or bludgeoned. The other half was just too panicked to put it all together, but the realization would come to them soon enough. It came to Merit. She needed to get out of these streets. She had to find Barden or her generals, but she saw little of either. Even the mercenary armies stayed clear of the outlanders. Perhaps they, too, were frightened of the sand-dwellers and had taken their wares and moved on to safer territory. She did her best to push through the crowds, but her progress was slow and Merit was still uncertain of where to go.

  Barden could be anywhere. The Harkans were in the north, but who knew how long it would take them to reach this part of the city. They were set to face the Protector’s Army, and that battle might last a day or a month. No one knew or could predict how such a thing might play out.

  I can’t count on the Harkan Army to find me, and I can’t rely on Barden either. He rode past my tower. She would have to save herself, and quickly.

  A notion formed in her mind. To others, this might have been an obvious idea, but it had taken some time for it to come to the queen of the Harkans. There was one place she could go for protection. The Shroud Wall was tall and impenetrable, and her mother stood behind it, so she made her way toward the white edifice. She might have reached it, but something arrested her flight. A rope fell over her head and tightened around her neck. Her hands were bound with sinew. She was thrown bodily to the ground, tossed in a pile like the rest of the loot. Merit kneeled and out of desperation she lifted her eyes to the Shroud Wall.

  Behind a veiled window, someone moved.

  54

  Sarra looked out at the city through one of the bronze screens that dotted the Shroud Wall. She saw little. The storms had transformed the sky into a swirling haze of dust and debris, so she climbed to the top of the wall, exposing herself to the winds and achieving almost nothing for her effort. She looked down at the Shadow Gate, at the ceremonial entrance of the Empyreal Domain, to see if the way was clear, but it was blocked. A barricade made of wood and stone choked the passage, and Mered’s soldiers crowded about it.

  They’ve sealed me in, thought Sarra. Trapped me in the domain.

  She was alone, cut off from the city and the people, severed from everything but the wail of the crowds, the winds, and the crackle of a hundred fires. Solus burned, but there was little or nothing she could do about it. She was trapped like some animal in a menagerie, pent up in a cage, even though it was a lavish one. The gardens of the Empyreal Domain might be a glorious place to spend a sunny afternoon, but the sun was gone and it had taken the sky with it, leaving behind nothing but smoke and sand. The air was as lethal to the nose as it was to the skin. Every gust of wind sent sand hurtling toward her, and it stung like an insect’s bite. Still, she stood amid the gale, waiting for the winds to subside. When they did, and the sand settled briefly to the earth, a hazy panorama of red and orange flashed before her eyes. More fire than she imagined possible. From the outermost districts to the great temples of the faith, the inferno raged. It was in the streets, the markets, and the barracks. It had even touched the Golden Hall, and to her surprise, the White-Wall district bristled with flame. In fact, it burned brighter than anything in sight. The glistening walls reflected and multiplied the firelight. It was a wonder to behold, the houses of her foes slowly reduced to ash. However, one conflagration caught and held her eye. It burned among the clouds. It can’t be, she thought, but there was no mistaking it. No other structure held such lofty terraces. The house of Saad had fallen, taken by the outlanders, Barca, or some nameless company of freebooters. For all she knew, the people themselves had flung torches upon the Cloud Garden of the house of Saad, their anger spilling over into violence. The storied house of the gods burned like the rest of the city, the fires leaping from terrace to terrace, climbing ever higher, making it seem as if the heavens themselves were aflame.

  And why not? The rest of Solus was on fire. Why should the wellborn and wealthy be spared? Everywhere she looked, the people were forced out into the wide plazas and broad ceremonial ways. Shouts reverberated from every alley and plaza. There was war in the city and unrest. So where was Mered? Where was the army?

  The answer came in the form of a low rumble. Beneath the cries of the people, somewhere amid the crackle of all that flame, she heard the well-choreographed march of the Protector’s Army. Drums banged and a clarion pierced the air. The army of the Protector had arrived, and she guessed Mered was with them. They’d formed a long procession, occupying the full width of the Rellian Way, but when they entered the Plaza of Miracles the men split off into groups, each going in a different direction, creating some new formation, laid out in great squares at the base of the wall.

  When the last man fell into place, the soldiers lifted their chins in a pompous gesture that only the army of the Protector could muster. It was an impressive show of force. Unfortunately, no one watched it, and almost immediately after the men had all found their spots, a good number of them were forced to put down their spears and join the city guard. They lifted buckets of water or bags of sand, fighting fires instead of men. However, the rem
ainder of the army stood at attention, shields raised and spears leveled. Mered wants a fight, but there isn’t going to be one, not with Barca’s forces. The rebel had already ridden through the Waset, and she doubted he’d return.

  Still, Mered looked this way and that, observing the city from his ornate perch. He was seated on a golden chair that was itself carried atop an elaborately adorned palanquin. It would have made an impressive sight, but a thick layer of ash had already covered the thing. The city burned, but Mered was still searching the ancient streets, as if anticipating some attack. There was defiance written all over him, but there was no one to defy. Seated atop his perch, the First Among Equals appeared utterly irrelevant. He had ruled Solus for a day before the city was put to the torch. He’s the Emperor of Ashes, Sarra thought.

  Mered sat up from his chair and his soldiers tightened their ranks. A mob approached, but they were not the invaders. The people of Solus had come to the Waset, seeking shelter or a bit of aid. They were trying to escape the outlanders, but there was nowhere for the people to shelter and the army made no move to assist them.

  Left to their own devices, the people stood helpless as the sand-dwellers captured them one by one or a dozen at a time, binding their hands and dragging them back to their homes, back to reveal whatever riches they might have buried or hidden, back so the high-desert men could steal the gems that swung from their necks or the golden bangles on their wrists. The outlanders upended the houses of the wealthy, but Mered did little more than idle atop his throne.

  What’s he doing? thought Sarra. Why won’t he protect the people? Then she saw it. The army of Harkana had breached the gate and were driving their way through the city. They rode toward the Waset, to the very place where Mered’s soldiers waited, spears planted in the earth, archers at the ready. Mered had at last found an opponent, and every fighting man in his host set themselves to receive the Harkan charge. For a moment, all eyes were on the Harkans, and the people were left to fend for themselves.

  Sarra stood atop the Shroud Wall, the Empyreal Domain at her back.

  There was one place in the city where the people could shelter, but its doors were sealed shut two hundred years ago.

  Perhaps it is time to open them, she thought.

  55

  “There,” said Ferris. He stood at the tip of a rocky outcropping, his outstretched finger indicating an elaborate device set upon the far side of the rift. The siege engine had three large throwing containers, each one arranged so it could be loaded and fired in quick succession. Pits sheathed by linen tarps hid the armaments, and a sentry stood astride each of them.

  Ferris hurled a rock at one of the men and struck him on the helm, a high and tinny sound issuing forth as the stone bounced off the iron.

  The soldier gave no response, which made the man’s presence seem all the more chilling.

  “I’m guessing those pits are full of naphtha or something similar. It will burn until there is nothing left of the forest. Each device is similarly armed and they’ve got hundreds of them. They’ve been at it without pause, all through the night, digging holes and erecting screens. This army is ready, prepared in ways we cannot comprehend. Mered may have sent soldiers to Harkana, but I don’t think his heart was in it. Feren’s the real target. There can be no other explanation for such a bold display of force.”

  Kepi found herself at a loss for words.

  “Well, what does my queen say to this? You won the duel, but you’re going to lose the war. You gained some support among the lords and you bought us a bit of time, but none of that matters, does it? We have no way to fight against this sort of army,” said Ferris. He was practically tearing the hairs from his jaw.

  “This would be beautiful to behold were it not the harbinger of my death.”

  “Maybe you should have…”

  “What? Killed the boy?”

  “They might have let you keep your crown.”

  “I’d be Mered’s slave. A queen in name only, nothing more.”

  Ferris pursed his lips and spat. “I know. Men such as Mered are fond of their puppets, but only when they’re obedient. Adin was left for dead on the dueling ground. They carried him out of the ring, but that was the extent of it. My scouts found him a bit later, when the field was clear.”

  “What did they do with him?”

  “Hauled his sorry ass back to our camp. He’s in the physician’s tent. Adin will live, but he’ll never challenge you. The kite has chosen its lord. Every warlord in Feren watched the match.”

  “See that he is cared for,” she said. “They say he was my brother’s friend, and he seemed a decent enough fellow. A liar, perhaps, but I think he was desperate.”

  “He was a priory boy. That’s why I had my men drag him to our camp. He’s suffered enough for one lifetime, maybe two.”

  “Agreed, and that’ll be the end of it. We’ll give him some farm and a few men so he can make a life for himself.”

  “You’re kind. Personally, and if I hadn’t served in the priory, if I were king, I’d have his head parted from his shoulders.”

  “Treat him kindly.”

  “Done.” Ferris tossed another rock across the rift and snarled as it ricocheted off a catapult. She supposed he was hoping to hit a second sentry on the head. Her men had traded arrows with Mered’s all through the day and into the night, striking down any man or woman who came too close to the rift, testing each other’s aim and range, shouting insults to break the tension. Ferris even had a man who had walked the forest’s edge banging a drum throughout the night and calling out insults to the red army, just to upset their sleep—to keep them from any happy dreams they might desire.

  Ferris hurled another rock, daring them to send back an arrow.

  There was no retort, so he continued his survey of the rift. “It’s terribly quiet out here, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, perhaps they are about to come rushing out of the forest,” said Kepi.

  “Perhaps,” said Ferris. “Still, I’ve tossed arrows and stones, hurled insults too. I’ve done my best to unnerve the boys in red, but they’ve gone quiet. All I see are their weapons.”

  “And there are a great number of them,” said Kepi.

  “There are,” said Ferris quietly. He counted the siege engines as they went.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  They walked.

  “Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.”

  “Are you trying to annoy me?” she asked.

  “No, just curious really,” said Ferris. “Think about the manpower it took to move these machines. It’s a wonder there are any men left in Solus. Mered has put all his strength into this fight.” Ferris lifted another stone and tossed it across the rift. “It’s a risky move.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Barca?”

  “There are rumors that he’s within striking distance of Solus, that he’s already entered the city, possibly.”

  “The walls of Solus are impregnable. If Barca attacks, it’ll be a siege, and a long one at that. Desert sieges do not end well, not historically. I doubt Barca will fare any better—”

  Ferris gripped her arm.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “There!”

  She looked, but Kepi saw nothing more than a row of tall and spindly catapults.

  “Look again. Widen those pretty eyes of yours, girl.”

  Kepi stared across the rift, resentful at having to search for what Ferris had already discovered. Machine after machine sat in its place, munitions too, but there were fewer guards than she recalled. In fact, one stood directly across from them, but he’d fallen to the ground. The red armor was disheveled, the head removed, dry grass poking from the neckline.

  “I hit him with a stone,” said Ferris.

  “A straw soldier?”

  “There’re all straw,” said Ferris, his eyes widening as he spoke, the realization of what stood before him dawning on the warlord.

  Quickly, Kepi glanced up and down th
e line. There were sentries, but each stood as motionless as a scarecrow.

  “Where are the men—the army?” she asked.

  “Gone,” said Ferris. He started out at a sprint, darting back to the camp, yelling for his men. She was queen, and the least Ferris could do was wait for her, or at least have the courtesy to not leave her alone, but Ferris wasn’t the type. Halfway back to the camp they collided with two of Ferris’s sworn men and one that belonged to Baen Muire.

  “Gone,” said the first man they met. Fearghal, she thought.

  “All of them?” she asked. “Up and down the rift?”

  “Yes,” said Fearghal. “The soldiers are all dummies, stuffed with desert grass. Before sunrise, at the farthest edge of the rift, our men caught sight of their retreat. By torchlight, the soldiers in red took orders, scrolls sealed in red. We saw that much. After that, the men gathered their weapons and retreated, leaving the straw men in their place. In fact, they’ve left everything behind: the machines, the munitions, the stones, and whatever hellish devices they have hidden in the forest.”