Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “Barca,” said Kepi.

  “He attacked Solus, and Mered ordered his men to retreat. He needs them to defend the city,” said Ferris.

  “Why else would they leave with such haste? Perhaps those impenetrable walls are not as sturdy as Mered thought. Barca was one of their own—maybe he knows some secret, some way to spirit his men into Solus.”

  “I don’t know. In fact, I don’t care,” said Ferris. “Llyr has smiled upon our miserable asses. This war is done!” he hooted. “By the time they return, we’ll have burned every one of their precious machines or cast them into the rift. I might even save a few of those bridges for my own use.”

  “No, there’s no time for that,” said Kepi, her words slow and commanding.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you see it? The tables have turned.”

  It was time for Ferris to offer up a blank stare. He took a step back when he finally understood Kepi. “No,” he said. “You’re a fool.”

  “I don’t care. I am queen and Kitelord and you had better start treating me like one. There are bridges here, ones we can use to swiftly move our men across the rift. We are going to follow the red army and the Protector’s too. Without their machines, scampering home to save their masters, they will be at our mercy. Gather the men, we’re marching on Solus.”

  56

  When his army had entered the city, Barden’s soldiers took up positions around the Rising Gate, occupying the pylons and the winch room, freeing up Ren and the kingsguard to do as they pleased. As the Harkans handed off the gates, the soldiers patted one another on the shoulder. The kingsguard shuffled down the steps and out of the fortifications.

  Ren stood with Tye on the south Pylon.

  “We’re at the gates of Solus,” she said. “And we’ve done our part in this fight.” She looked at him, joy coloring her face, warming her pale cheeks. “Don’t you get it, Ren? You’re free. You can finally get yourself out of here. You did your work. Now Barden will do his. And your sister is here, in Solus. The throne of Harkana sits empty.”

  Ren gave no reply. He simply watched as the last of the invaders poured into the city. It had taken hours for Barden’s force to ride past the gates, so he guessed the sack was well under way. Perhaps a good portion of it was already done. Fires lit the distant skyline, and the clash of metal thundered in far-off streets.

  Tye did have a point, and it was a damned good one too. She tempted him. He’d completed the hunt. His father had named him heir, and he had the support of the kingsguard. He could take the crown. It stood within his grasp, but he dared not reach for it.

  “It’s no way for a king to claim his throne,” said Ren, his grin fading, eyes cast toward the city beyond. “The Harkan Army is in Solus. If I run, they’ll call me a coward. The King Who Fled.”

  “Then be a coward, Ren. Be the Coward King. At least you’ll be alive. If we go back into that city, into the one place we’ve been trying to escape, there’s no telling what’ll happen. The Harkans don’t know your face. They don’t know you. They might fight at your side or they might just cut you down for standing in the wrong place. It’s a risk, Ren. There are a dozen different armies in this city. Everyone is fighting. Do you really want to go back into that?”

  “No,” said Ren, eyes distant. “It’s got nothing to do with wanting. I want to get out of here, but I’m not going to do it.” Ren faced the desert. The Plague Road lay before him. The way was open, and he was almost tempted to follow it.

  “We find Kollen, then we meet up with the Harkan Army. I’ve got a duty to attend to, but you don’t,” Ren said, hoping she would stay but wanting to remind his friend that she, too, could find her freedom.

  “Oh, I wasn’t leaving. I’m going after Kollen.”

  Ren almost laughed. “Am I the only coward?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “I only thought it should be said.”

  “Same here,” he said as they made their way down the stairs and out into the courtyard where the kingsguard had assembled. A quiet came over the men as Ren threw open the door and stepped out of the pylon. The men looked eager to hear him speak, so he wasted no time and addressed them. “Barden’s army will join ranks with the Harkans at the Shroud Wall. At least, that’s what Barden said in his notes.” Ren held up the parchment Merit had delivered to him. “We’re going there, but we need to find Kollen and Edric and all the others we left behind. We’ll locate our friends first, then our countrymen. Do any disagree?”

  The men gave him a cheer or something like one, and briefly he felt like a leader, a man that men might follow. He’d promised a way out of the city and he’d found it. He had only this one last task to complete.

  “We head for the Waset, to the Plaza of Miracles,” said Ren.

  “And what if we find the Protector? What if the Harkan Army never meets Barden’s. What if Mered’s soldiers cut down the traitor? What then?” Asher asked. He was standing with the kingsguard. Ott was there, too, and Butcher.

  “Then it’ll be four thousand versus four hundred,” said Ren.

  “I only wanted to say it,” said Asher. He nodded a bit, a queer smile crossing his face, suggesting that he might actually enjoy those odds. He ordered the men to form a company of scouts and sent them out ahead of the kingsguard. “We’ll move slowly,” he said. “We need to make certain of what’s ahead of us.

  “And behind us,” said Butcher, who had once more strapped Ott to his back. “This won’t be easy. We’re strangers here and the sand has made a mess of everything. There’s smoke in the air too. Don’t be so sure we’ll spot the enemy before they’re on top of us, and it won’t be an easy task to retrace our steps.”

  “I can do it,” said Ott.

  “You might, but I can help,” said a man who wore the bronze armor of the Alehkar. He’d scraped the decorations off his chest plate and replaced them with a broken circle. He was one Barden’s men. “I was born and raised in the back streets of Solus. I know every quarter of the city. I’ll get you to the Waset, if you’ll have me.”

  “What’s your name?” said Ren. He eyed him warily. Ren wasn’t certain he trusted his uncle’s men, not all of them. They hailed from Solus, after all.

  “Woser’s the name, and you can stop lookin’ at me like that, boy,” he said. “I swore an oath to your uncle, so I might as well have sworn it to you. I’ve been waiting the better part of my shitty life to see these wellborn bastards get their due, so don’t start thinking I’ll lead you astray.” There was a snarl on his lips, a bit of anger in his voice. “And besides,” he said, “the Shroud Wall’s as tall as a mountain. Only a fool could miss it.”

  That was enough for Ren. Woser led them, but Ott confirmed every turn, checking Barden’s map, studying the landmarks. In the haze of the sandstorm, each street corner looked like the last one, and Ren had enough trouble just keeping up with the pace of the Harkan charge. He was unaccustomed to a forced march, to the speed at which a trained soldier moved. Like Tye, he wore stolen armor and it fit him poorly. His only consolation was the absence of organized resistance in the outer districts. He saw only looters, some of them working in large companies while others roamed about in loose bands. In many places, the houses were burned down to their foundations, the mud brick scorched and black. The city smoldered and the storm pelted him with sand. Each kernel stung as it struck his face or any other part of him that was exposed, and the smoke burned his throat and eyes.

  A band of marauders caught sight of his leather-clad companions. They recognized the black shields as allies and paid them no heed, but Ren wasn’t certain he wanted to leave these men to their business. Hundreds of half-dead soldiers, bodies in red and blue armor, rested in great heaps, some living, still moving. Meanwhile, all around him, men with pale faces forced the wellborn to their knees, tying them in packs, robbing them not simply of their jewels but often their clothes as well. They defaced the city’s statues and steles, carving curses into the ancient stone, leaving de
struction wherever they went.

  “Ren, it’s…” Tye came up short, dumbstruck, and unable to speak.

  “I know. It’s worse than I thought,” said Ren, fearful to even lift his eyes, worried at what new horror they would discover.

  “No one deserves this; it’s not right,” said Tye. “This is Barden’s work,” she said, perhaps trying to console herself. “We didn’t do this.”

  No, thought Ren, but we did let him into the city. Ren had agreed to his sister’s plan, but she had not revealed the true extent of Barden’s agenda. Ren hadn’t known they would plunder the city, not like this, and he hadn’t guessed they would burn every structure to the ground. He’d wanted an honest fight, but he didn’t know if such a thing even existed.

  What he saw in the streets was pure barbarity. He wanted none of it, but he could not deny that he was a part of it. I opened the door, but I didn’t know who’d come running through it. Ren was only now beginning to grasp the scope of what was happening. This is no war, he thought. This is an annihilation. A Devouring. Part of him—a selfish, small part of him—felt a stab of joy at the sight of it. These were the people who had imprisoned him, who’d tortured his every waking moment, and now they were being made to kneel, forced to suffer every conceivable humiliation.

  Woser took Ren by the shoulder and pointed to the hazy outlines of a distant wall.

  “That’s it,” said Ott, “the Shroud Wall. This is the Rellian Way.”

  Ren saw the hazy rim of a massive fortification, a white line against the leaden sky. And he glimpsed the statuary garden. Once again, it shimmered in the sandy air, giving off an unnatural glow. He heard that buzzing at the back of his thoughts, distant but growing louder as they approached the garden. Instinctively, he reached for the eld horn, but let go of it the moment his hand touched it. He turned away from the statues, but they pulled at him, drawing him closer, and that buzzing in his head was a riot.

  “Ren!” cried a voice. “I’ve found them.”

  “Found—” Ren halted in his tracks. They had come upon the Plaza of Miracles? At least, that’s what he thought it was called, but there were no miracles here. The Ray’s men had done the promised deed. Edric slouched, a spear in his gut, the head parted from his shoulders. The captured kingsguard kneeled—all dead, all tortured.

  “We’re too late,” said Ren, his voice as soft as a whisper.

  “They must have executed them when Barden entered the city,” said Asher. “They killed the prisoners and ran.”

  “Kollen!” Tye cried out. His body was nowhere to be found, but they searched for it anyway, turning over corpses and studying faces.

  There were bodies everywhere and the sand was already covering them in a layer of grit.

  Ren worried they would never find him.

  Tye collapsed in frustration.

  “He should be here,” said Ren, voice shaking. “Maybe—”

  “You can stop your searching,” said a familiar voice.

  It was nearby.

  Ren glimpsed a row of statues. There, he found more soldiers, more dead. But among them, he caught sight of four who lived.

  “How?” Ren asked, turning to see his friend. He was in the company of three soldiers Ren did not recognize.

  “How did I fucking survive?” asked Kollen. “Three of the guards were Rachins, press-ganged into the army of the Protector. Can you imagine that? When I saw their faces, I knew my fellow countrymen, their gray eyes and long beards. They did nothing at first, but when the orders came down and the soldiers drew daggers, I told them I was the heir of Rachis and they had better defend me. Turns out I’ve got my own kingsguard and they’re as merciless as yours.”

  The Rachins did look as fierce as the Harkans, thought Ren, with their wild beards and long, slender limbs.

  “Would your army of three like to join with my four hundred?” asked Ren. He’d have made a smile if he’d had the strength for it.

  “Well, I suppose you bastards could use the help,” said Kollen. “So, where are we going?”

  “To find the Harkan Army,” said Ren. Then he looked to the Rachins. “When your men fled, which way did they go? Where’s the battle?”

  One of the Rachins, a man who introduced himself as Tarix, took a step forward and spoke. “The Protector’s Army entered the city just ahead of the Harkans. We took up positions in the inner city. They’ve got a formation right here, at the plaza, and a line of soldiers that starts at the Shroud Wall and extends out toward the stairs of the Waset. If you’d gone a bit further you’d have run straight into it.”

  “Where’re the Harkans?” asked Ren.

  “There.” The soldier pointed, and when the sandstorm momentarily subsided the clearing revealed a long line of bronze shields that stretched from the Shroud Wall out as far as the eye could see. On the far side of that wall, barely visible, the boiled black of the Harkan Army rode through the streets of Solus.

  “There’s no way to reach them,” said Asher. “They’re on the far side of our enemy.”

  “We’re cut off,” said Tye.

  “No, it’s worse,” said Ren, who was pointing toward the great phalanx of the Protector’s Army. As the winds subsided, it was not simply Ren who saw the army of the Protector, but the army who saw him. The black shields were not alone in the plaza. A man in red stood upon a palanquin. He spoke some command and a thousand bronze heels pivoted, a thousand shields were lifted, and just as many spears were set for the charge. A clarion rang out, the answering calls echoing across the lines as the army of the Protector made its slow and inexorable march on the kingsguard.

  57

  Merit sat with her ass in the dirt.

  She watched as the outlanders carted away the city’s treasures. Some were made of gold, others of flesh and bone. Merit guessed she fell into the latter category. She was a prisoner. A future slave, or more likely a ransom of some kind if she were given the chance to reveal her identity. Merit had, as of yet, refrained from any such action. There were gangs of prisoners and former servants running amok in the city, killing anyone who looked wellborn or had the means to dress in anything other than a beggar’s rags.

  She sat among a dozen or so prisoners, all of them tied in a gang. The knots were hastily fastened. With enough time, Merit was certain she could wriggle free of her bonds, but what then? She was safe for the moment. Her captors were preoccupied, moving from house to house, looting and burning. Whether their plunder was made of flesh or gold hardly seemed to matter to them. Both were treated with the same dispassionate air. They tossed children in one pile, crescents in the other. Centuries of warfare had fostered deep resentments between the outlanders and the people of Solus. She could only guess at the atrocities the Protector’s Army committed in the outlander wars. She had no doubt they’d earned this comeuppance.

  Harkana had fought its own war with the western clans. In fact, it was her father who sent the outlanders scrambling back to the High Desert, but he had fought with some semblance of honor. She doubted the same could be said for the army of the Protector.

  Her head jerked around when one of the outlanders raised his spear, erasing any thoughts she’d had about honor in war. The man’s pale white skin was slathered in woad, a symbol of some clan, she guessed. He did not speak the emperor’s tongue. None of them did, but he motioned with a sharpened stave and the others knew to stand. The outlanders were moving their caravan to the next great house. Merit did her best to comply with her captors’ orders, but she was slower than the others. They were all tied in one long chain, so when she got behind the pace of their march she found she was pulled unexpectedly forward by the man in front of her. She knocked into him and felt something rough. She recognized the distinct outlines of metal folded into lobster-like plates, one overlapping the other. This man, who was dressed in loose layers of rags, wore a coat of armor beneath the torn strips of cloth.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “And why are you in chains?” She guessed he be
longed to one of the free companies.

  “Quiet, woman,” said the man.

  “You’re armored. What are you—a mercenary?”

  A brutal thrust to her ribs silenced Merit, but only briefly. “If you’ve got armor, then you have weapons. What are you waiting for? Get us out of these ropes.”

  The man spoke beneath his breath. “We’re waitin’ for the right moment, so just hold tight, lovely. There’s only eleven of us. We’re a small company, shields for hire and swords too. We were up north in Feren for a while, worked for the king before he fell, but we heard Barca was offering the greatest plunder in the history of the empire. Only we figured we’d go in by ourselves instead of joinin’ with the man. Didn’t want to split our share, but the outlanders got hold of us.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan is for you to shut up.”

  For once, Merit listened.

  When the outlanders had filled their carts and acquired what she guessed was a manageable group of prisoners, they would haul their plunder back to the Rising Gate. She’d seen it done once or twice, so she could tell when a group was nearly finished with their looting. The carts beside her had been filled to twice their capacity, and the outlanders had taken maybe fifty or sixty men, women, and children. She feared they would all be carted off to the gates at any moment, but the outlanders decided to approach one last house. It was an elaborate affair, the walls edged with gold, gates forged of bronze, the fretwork plated in electrum.

  Six or eight of the outlanders hacked at those same gates, hammering the bars with clubs and axes, ramming the bronze with what looked like a column pilfered from some temple. After one or two hits with the pillar, the gates gave way and the outlanders rushed inside. The captives, Merit included, were left unguarded. She felt a sudden release of pressure as the man at her side produced a small knife and severed his bonds. The others in his company did the same, slitting their ropes and freeing themselves from the gang, heading off to do their own plundering.