The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  "This is your reality, my lady. You have an army that is half-starved and on the verge of launching an attack on the senate. You have Vothaks who are demanding that their religion be recognized and given supremacy. You have a senate that is paralyzed by admiration for its own supposed cunning. Each has no cause to support you unless you are able to give them what they desire."

  Iskra moved to the window and gazed out over the city of Agerastos once more. Her mind was racing. What power did she have? How could she play these dissolving factions to her benefit? Pethar could not launch his campaigns without the Vothaks opening the Portals to the mainland. The Vothaks in turn couldn't use their powers without supplies of Gate Stone.

  A plan formed itself smoothly in her mind.

  "Orishin, how loyal do you think the Agerastian soldiers in Mythgraefen are to me?"

  Orishin blinked. "Very loyal. They are under Captain Patash's command, and he is yours to command."

  Her plan popped into existence fully formed. There was no time to lose. "We will not be negotiating with Ilina or Pethar. We will coerce their obedience. I need you to go to Mythgraefen and convey my orders to Patash and Toki."

  Orishin looked dazed as she explained her plan. "Patash is loyal, but to ask him of such a thing? That will test him sorely."

  "Tell him it is my sole form of leverage." Iskra smiled coldly. "He will not have to execute my threat, merely announce it. Now go. You must be gone before Ilina arrives."

  Orishin shook himself, downed his goblet of wine, bowed low, then turned and ran from the room, ignoring the curious gazes of the guards at the door.

  Iskra went to the window once more. She felt alive, so terribly alive, fully aware of all the colors and scents all around her. A pall of grief hit her unexpectedly as she thought of Roddick, a wave of guilt for being so immersed and dedicated to the future. She hung her head and fought to control her breathing until the sharpness of the sorrow eased.

  There was another knock at the door. Iskra nodded to the guard, and when he opened the door, Ilina stepped into Iskra's chambers with a half-dozen Vothaks behind her. Iskra recognized most of them and moved forward with a smile to greet her yellow-and-purple-clad guests.

  "Al-Vothak," she said. "It pleases me greatly to see you."

  Ilina was an older woman, ashen-faced and severe, her expression that of a person in a constant state of inhalation. "Lady Kyferin, I trust that you are well?"

  Iskra moved to her seat at the table, gesturing for Ilina to join her. "Passingly so. Of course, Pethar's maneuvers in the Fields of the Sun are quite trying, almost as much as the paralysis that seems to have gripped the senate. Agerastos, it would seem, has come to a grinding halt."

  Ilina lowered herself slowly into the chair and nodded. Her Vothaks remained arrayed behind her. "A precarious state of affairs, but it is not to be marveled at. The emperor's health was parlous, but nobody expected him to die so promptly after marrying you."

  "Yes," Iskra said, leaning back. "A tragedy. And yet here we are, left to carry on without his guiding light and wisdom. Tell me, Ilina, have you come to recognize my right to rule Agerastos as empress?"

  Ilina froze. "There is much to discuss before I would be willing to commit myself to such a position, Lady Kyferin."

  "Discuss or negotiate?" Iskra raised an eyebrow. "Or perhaps 'negotiate' is too generous a word. Would it be overly cynical of me to presume that you have spent these past three days not in mourning but waiting impatiently for Pethar to make his move, so that his threat would force me to accede to your imminent demands? That doesn't sound like negotiating to me. That sounds like blackmail."

  Ilina's spine, already straight, went rigid. "You demean yourself with such fantasies."

  "Do I? Then prove me wrong. Let us discuss the situation. What is it you wish to tell me before you decide to support my claim to the throne?"

  Ilina's eyes narrowed. "I see you are in no mood to be courteous. Very well; I appreciate cutting to the heart of the matter. The emperor made it clear to me that our invasion of Aletheia would result in casting down Ascendancy and raising up the worship of Thyrrasskia. He promised that I would be given the Ascendant's palace to use as a High Temple, and that every Triangle would be melted down. That Thyrrasskia's visage would be carved into every place of worship, and all citizens of the Empire would be forced to worship the true goddess."

  "Ah," Iskra said, running her fingertip around the rim of her goblet. "That was quite a promise."

  Ilina nodded stiffly. "Do you intend to honor that vow, Lady Kyferin? I can assure you that doing so will secure our enthusiastic support."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Then we shall return to our temple to resume our mourning. I am sure Pethar and Athash will fall over themselves in their hurry to support your claim."

  Iskra leaned back, languorous as a cat, and smiled at Ilina. "So, I was right. Blackmail."

  "Tsh, don't play the child." Ilina raised her chin. "Your principles must bend before necessity. Without my Vothaks, you are nothing. Not even the palace guard will support you. So, let us cease this juvenile posturing. Swear Thansos' oath, and we will work as allies to solidify your claim to the Medusa's Throne."

  Iskra sighed and stared into her goblet. "You are correct. I am nothing without you, but my principles are so dear to me. I suppose I shall have to give up the throne and return to Mythgraefen. I bid you the best of luck in convincing Pethar and Athash that you are as valuable as you claim without my Gate Stone."

  Ilina's expression grew hard. "That Gate Stone is mine."

  Iskra's took a sip from her wine, then swirled it around inside her goblet. "Not true. My Bythians mine it – on my land. Protected by my Hrethings. It is my Gate Stone. And you will have not an ounce of it if you do not bend knee to me now."

  Ilina let out an odd croak. It was the first time Iskra had heard her laugh. "You believe you can keep my Vothaks from taking the mines if we wish to have them? That you can keep Pethar's soldiers from tearing your depressing little castle down and throwing each and every stone into the lake?"

  "Yes, actually. All I need do is destroy the Portal to Agerastos, and you are done." Iskra set her goblet down with a click and leaned forward, dropping all pretense of amusement or ease. "You and your Vothaks will be finished. You will cease to be a factor in politics. You will be without any kind of power. Without my Gate Stone, you are nothing but a group of snake-worshipping fools in atrociously colored robes."

  Ilina blinked twice, then rose to her feet. "You have miscalculated. I have you at my mercy. Shall I escort you kicking and screaming like a child to your Hold, and there have you order your Hrethings to turn over their weapons?"

  Iskra shook her head. "Wake up, Ilina. I am two steps ahead of you. If you are going to kill me, do so now and be done with it. If you think to forcefully escort me to Starkadr, think again. My men have been ordered to destroy the Gate the moment I fail to give them the pre-arranged signal. Do you think to torture me into complying? You don't have the time. Now, kneel."

  "Kneel?" Ilina croaked again, more loudly this time. "You have no idea with whom you are dealing. Child! Shall I sear your flesh from your bones?"

  "I told you, do not waste your time with vapid threats. My men have orders to destroy the Gate if they don't see me within a certain span of time."

  "We shall surprise them, then." Ilina smiled coldly. "As strong as your men are, there is little they can do against our black fire."

  "Surprise them? Not if they are standing well back with crossbows pointed at the Portal. Your first Vothak to step through will be killed before they can even raise their hands. And that will be all the signal they need to destroy the gate. Enough."

  Iskra rose to her feet and slapped both hands on the tabletop. She leaned forward till she was almost eye-to-eye with the Vothak. "You are done. I have your measure, and I know your weaknesses. You do not have the time or the creativity to escape my trap. Kill me, maim me, torture me, and you lose your G
ate Stone forever. Your Order will vanish. We need each other to survive, but I am the only one willing to perish. Now, take a moment to overcome your shock and accept that you have been out-maneuvered. And then kneel."

  Ilina's ashen face had darkened with fury, and her fine-boned frame was trembling. She raised her hands, fingers spread – the prelude to black fire.

  Iskra walked out from behind the table and placed herself directly in front of Ilina's hands. "My son is dead. My daughter and loved ones are gone. I have nothing left to live for but my purpose. You cannot intimidate me. You cannot coerce me. So, sear the flesh from my bones now or cease this juvenile posturing and lower your hands."

  Ilina hissed through her yellowed teeth and stared deep into Iskra's eyes. Iskra could feel the lethal power coursing through the old woman's frame, could sense how close she was to death.

  She raised her chin and waited.

  Ilina snapped her hands away, curling them into fists. "You shall rue –"

  "This, I promise you," said Iskra, cutting right through her snarl. "You will have the right to build shrines to Thyrrasskia wherever you wish. You will be allowed to proselytize and recruit any and all to your faith. You will have as much Gate Stone as I can provide, and I will ask your counsel and listen to your advice in all matters. But know this: you will not desecrate any Ascendant places of worship. You will never, ever be given control of the Gate Stone mines. And you will serve and obey me in all things. Do you understand?"

  Ilina's eyes flicked from left to right as she mulled that over, her dry tongue licking her lower lip. An eternity yawned between them, a silence in which Iskra could hear Ilina's last frantic struggles, her final desperate attempts to resist, to find a way out, and then, at last, Ilina bowed her head.

  "Yes, Lady Kyferin."

  "You will address me by my proper title, al-Vothak." Iskra stared icily at the older woman. "I am your empress and you will address me as such. On your knees, now."

  Ilina hissed again and then slowly lowered herself to her knees, a younger Vothak rushing forth to help. "I do hereby swear my fealty and allegiance to you, Empress Kyferin."

  Never had words been said with greater reluctance.

  "Swear it by Thyrrasskia," said Iskra.

  Ilina shuddered as if she had been dealt a blow, turning her head to one side with a grimace. Iskra watched pitilessly as the old woman bared her teeth in a silent snarl and then bowed her head.

  "I swear my allegiance by the Thousand Serpents of Thyrrasskia."

  "Good," said Iskra. "If you or any of your Vothaks approach the Portal to Mythgraefen, my soldiers will kill them. The Vothak who will be appointed to open the Mythgraefen Gate will be under guard at all times. And as long as you do not test my patience, you will have more Gate Stone than you know what to do with. Am I clear?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty," said Ilina.

  "Then rise. We must summon Pethar and bring him to heel."

  After she had been helped by her Vothaks to her feet, Ilina dusted off her robes and glared at Iskra. "And how do you plan to do that?"

  "Simple," said Iskra, who moved to retake her seat and gestured for Ilina to do the same. "Pethar wants war. He cannot access it without Starkadr. He has not the resources to launch another invasion by ship. We will make this clear to him: he can choose to rule toothlessly here in Agerastos and await the Ascendant's wrath, or he can help us strike directly at Aletheia under my rule."

  Ilina scowled. "He will not bend knee so easily."

  "As easily as you?" Iskra smiled. "Oh, I believe he will. Thansos chose him precisely for that quality. You will aid me in reminding him that he exists to execute orders, not give them. We have little time. I plan to make the most of his having roused the army. We will invade Aletheia as soon as the Solar Portals have closed tonight."

  "So soon?"

  Iskra nodded. "Our schedule is dictated by outside events. We have no choice in the matter. Reports have come indicating that the Empire's might is already gathered in Abythos. Tonight we will launch the attack that will change the Ascendant Empire forevermore."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Tharok was riding the winds on the back of the matriarch. This high, she was able to coast on the updrafts, her wings taut as she soared over the last of the fields. He leaned forward, gazing down past her shoulder at the land that stretched out below. A great citadel arose before him, squat and powerful and bristling with ballista.

  Abythos.

  It was impressive. Ten towers, just as described. The ballista crews craned their necks and pointed up at him as he passed overhead, far too high for their weapons to reach. The human engineering was marvelous. Thick walls, and an empty center that would serve as the perfect killing ground should an army break through the front gate and pour into the courtyard. All in all, a deathtrap cunningly designed with one goal in mind: to slaughter him and his kragh.

  Tharok grinned and nudged the matriarch with his mind. She dipped one wing and swung around, and the entire world suddenly slipped out from beneath him and crept up his right side, a wild and disorienting sensation that made him latch on to one of her horns for support.

  Abythos spun slowly beneath him, and the town outside the walls hove into view. It was being devoured, engulfed. Twenty thousand kragh were moving through it and around it, an endless mass that could not be stopped. From this high up, he couldn't make out the individual banners, but he could delineate the blocks, the great tribes. They were his now, fashioned as he saw fit. Fierce pride filled him. They had cohered over the past several days of hard marching. His most basic and essential of plans had worked.

  The matriarch was the only wyvern in the sky. Below, hidden at the very back of the horde, came the others, hauled on broad wagons by teams of stone trolls and fifty kragh each. He could sense the grounded wyverns' irritation, their slow-burning anger. More than one kragh had been snapped up and devoured to feed their fury at being denied flight.

  Tharok wished this moment would last forever – this delicious anticipation, this near-climax, this calm before the storm. The walls of Abythos were delightfully daunting, sheer and smooth and seemingly impregnable. Let the humans think so until the very last moment. It would make the ensuing chaos all the more vicious.

  The matriarch glided down to the rear of the horde, her shadow skimming over thousands of kragh who raised their weapons and cheered their Uniter as he passed overhead. His captains knew exactly what to do. The commands had been brutally simple: move to within five hundred yards of the walls, then stop. Each tribe was then to move out to the flanks until the entirety of the citadel had been surrounded, one block aligned beside the other. Then, let the humans feast their eyes on the assembled might of the kragh and tremble.

  It took an hour. Tharok flew over the horde the entire time, watching, ensuring that his orders were being carried out with precision. He was gratified that they were. Each tribal block swung slowly into place, then ground to a halt, roughly a hundred kragh wide, ten kragh deep. The kragh at the back held the ladders low, out of sight. Tharok could feel their bloodlust even from this height, could sense their need to roar and charge, but his Medusa-Kissed captains and lieutenants held them in check. Around them, massive banners were held up, each tribe's sigil emblazoned boldly and rippling in the breeze.

  Kyrra was lying on a vast platform in the center of the tribe positioned before the main gate. She was encircled by her shamans, an ominous block who chanted her praises in their rasping voices.

  The walls of Abythos remained curiously deserted. Besides the ballista crews on the tower tops, there was no sight of the human defenders. It was almost eerie, but Tharok knew that the humans were below ground, waiting to boil up like ants when called.

  Tharok urged the matriarch to fly low over the tribes, skimming around the circumference of Abythos, and he rose to stand on her back, World Breaker held aloft, the sun gleaming from its black blade. Below him, the tribes screamed their devotion, their hunger, their need. They star
ed up at him, thousands upon thousands of faces, and he faced the walls, studying with flat eagerness the might of the citadel. One circuit, one blood-burning round, and then the matriarch followed his prompting and flew out to the human town.

  It took but a minute to fly over its roofs and empty streets, and then the matriarch flared her wings and descended precipitously to land beside her brood, clouds of dust billowing in every direction. Fifty flat wagons were lined up there, the wyverns hissing and flapping their wings slowly, their eyes filled with a liquid eagerness to hunt, to fly, to kill and devour.

  Tharok nodded to the kragh teamsters who had hauled the wagons. With relief, they dropped their mess of ropes and slunk forward into the abandoned town, moving to rejoin their tribes.

  They were not needed.

  The first strike would come from the old world, from creatures banished from the Empire long ago. Tharok closed his eyes and spoke to both the stone trolls and the wyverns in braided thoughts of stone and fire, wrapping the hearts of the mountains and the perilous heights.

  He felt something strain inside his head, felt something rupture, felt blood pour from one of his nostrils. No matter. The flesh was weak, but the spirit, the mind – it was unyielding in its desire.

  The trolls shuffled into place. The wyverns hissed, lashed their tails, and then began to hop and beat their wings furiously, fighting for air, blasting dust once more. Tharok shielded his eyes and watched, his heart hammering at if it were fighting to escape his chest. The first wyvern reached a height of some ten yards, dipped, and wrapped its claws around the extended arms of an old troll matron. With a screech, it beat its wings furiously, labored and fought for air. The troll flexed its knees, then leaped up, and the wyvern broke free from the pull of the earth and began to fly.

  One wyvern after another followed suit. Their flight was ungainly, and their screeches of outrage and fury were persistent, but still, they flew. Tharok directed the smaller wyverns to team up on the larger trolls, and thrilled as more and more of them took to the skies.