Makeda, scion of House Balaash, granddaughter of the greatest warrior the world had ever known, and daughter of Archdominar Telkesh, did not comprehend defeat.
“You are not done yet,” she cried. “Rise and fight for House Balaash!”
Her power spun outward, blowing the tall grass as if another titan had fallen. Naram froze as he sensed the shift in the battlefield. The wind died and the air hung still. “What have you done?” the Tyrant of Muzkaar demanded.
And then the fallen soldiers of House Balaash stood up and returned to the fight.
“What have you done!” Blades pierced Naram’s armor. His remaining titan bellowed and died, and then there were no beasts left for him to shift his wounds to. Hearts stopped, eyes blank, bodies broken, the spirits of the soldiers of House Balaash pushed onward. A sword took a piece of Naram’s arm, another pierced his leg, and a third knocked his helmet off. “What have you done!” He clubbed them down, shattering limbs left and right.
Makeda was on her feet, striding forward, both swords raised. She called upon all the fury inside and used it to strengthen her arms. Bleeding, barely standing, Naram turned to meet her.
But it was too late.
They were eye to eye. Naram’s gaze lowered toward his chest. Both of the Swords of Balaash had been driven cleanly through armor and between his ribs. Two separate shafts of red steel protruded from his back. The heavy club fell from nerveless fingers.
The army of House Muzkaar froze, staring at their tyrant in disbelief. They slowly lowered their weapons to their sides. Silence settled over the battlefield as the fallen swordsmen of Balaash sank to the ground, their obligations fulfilled. Only a handful of Zabalam’s swordsmen had survived, and all of them were painted red, panting, and exhausted.
“You are victorious?” Naram whispered.
Makeda nodded. “Yes.” She could feel the strength leaving Naram’s body. He was only standing because he was leaning against her. Makeda knew the instant she removed her swords, Naram would perish. She slowly lowered him to the grass.
“Heh … Today was a good day. Best battle … In a very long time …” He trailed off, and Makeda could no longer hear his words. His eyes were wide, but not with fear. She pressed her ear in close. Makeda could feel his dying breath on her skin.
“The code shows me the way to exaltation. Only through combat may one understand the way.” Naram gasped. “Suffering cleanses the weakness from my being … Adhere to the code … and I will become...”
“Worthy,” she finished the verse.
What is it that you whisper to yourself, child, when the pain becomes too much?
This was a great and worthy leader of skorne. This one did not deserve to be lost in the Void. Makeda looked to the nearest Muzkaar soldier. “Do you have extollers amongst you?” The swordsman nodded quickly. “Summon one. Now.”
They did not look the part of a victorious force as they marched along the road northward. There was no parade of slaves, no baggage train of looted treasure, no trophy heads raised on poles. No, Makeda thought to herself, they looked more like the losers. Only one third of her warriors had survived, and many of them were injured. They limped down the road, reeking of death, and covered in dried blood and bandages. They had no warbeasts. They had been forced to leave their dead behind without ceremony. Their weapons and armor, much of it broken, was piled upon a wagon.
Yet, her single decurium had defeated the combined might of a great house’s cohort.
This was not a pure victory however. Normally when a tyrant is thrown down and a house conquered, that house is absorbed by the victors. That had not been an option here. Makeda felt both relieved and bitter about the results. The Muzkaar army had them completely surrounded, and her ragged survivors would not have stood a chance. Akkad and his reinforcements had never arrived. If they had, all of House Muzkaar would have been in chains.
Instead, she had received a message from Naram’s successor heir. It had simply read, As you have spared the essence of my father, I will spare you.
The bloated red sun set over the golden plains. Only two of her officers had lived through the battle. Dakar Urkesh, who stank of the caustic gasses used to drive his reivers, and the seemingly unkillable Primus Zabalam marched beside her. Dakar Barkal had perished, as had the vast majority of his karax.
“Tell me, Zabalam …” It was a sign of weakness, but she struggled to keep the weariness from her voice. “This was the first battle I have commanded. Does victory always taste so bitter?”
“Sometimes …” His ruined face was expressionless. “This was a great victory. Glory will be heaped upon your name when word gets back to our House.”
She was unsure if Zabalam was capable of sarcasm. “Do you mock me, Primus?”
“I am incapable of mockery. If you believe I do so, say the word and I will cut out my own heart and hand it to you by way of apology.” He looked her in the eye. “The bitterness is only because you were denied your rightful spoils.”
“We should have crushed all of Muzkaar and looted Kalos, if only Akkad had brought his cohort like he was supposed to,” Urkesh spat.
“That is what troubles me,” Zabalam said.
An entire army had not troubled Zabalam earlier, why would the lack of one? “What disturbs you, Primus?”
“Just a feeling. Forgive an old swordsman for his nerves.” Zabalam looked at the ground, not wanting to meet her gaze. “I am sure it is nothing.”
“Where was One Ear anyway?” Urkesh muttered.
Makeda backhanded the Venator in the mouth. The steel of her gauntlet split his lip. Urkesh crashed into the dirt, and before he could begin to sit up, she pressed the tip of her blade against his throat. Makeda twisted the hilt slightly, letting the edge of the sword of Balaash rest against the artery. She could feel his pulse through the steel. All she had to do was relax a muscle and he would die.
Urkesh averted his eyes and did not speak. It was the not speaking that saved his life.
“Heed my words, Urkesh,” Makeda hissed. “You killed many today. Your taberna was essential to achieve victory. You may prove useful to me again. For that reason, and that reason alone, I will spare your life. However, you will never speak ill of anyone above your caste again, or I will have the paingivers flay you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Second Born.”
“You do not truly understand hoksune. You kill from a distance. You have not looked into another warrior’s eyes as they drown in their own blood. Hoksune is not real to you as it is to Akkad, who has felt a thousand deaths at his hands. Lay there in shame and think upon your transgression.” She sheathed the sword in one quick motion and walked away. “Come with me, Zabalam.”
The old Praetorian left the young Venator in the road and followed his commander. “What would you have of me?”
Makeda did not need deference, she needed honesty. “I have no patience for speaking around the truth. You know that. I never have.”
Zabalam nodded. “That is why I asked to be assigned to your cohort rather than your brother’s.”
“So speak plainly, elder teacher, and tell me what is on your mind.”
“Our lack of reinforcements was suspicious. We should be dead.” Zabalam took his time, choosing his words carefully. “Akkad has always desired glory. Abandoning you in a battle is as sure a murder as a knife in the back, and it is not unheard of for siblings to murder each other in order to rule a house.”
Makeda shook her head. “But Akkad is the eldest. He is already Telkesh’s heir. Ancient tradition declares that the eldest must rule.” Despite any of her personal opinions about her brother, she would never go against the traditions of her caste, to do otherwise would cause chaos and weaken their house. “The order of succession has been decreed. Telkesh rules and has declared it so. If I believed Akkad unfit to lead, I would declare a challenge. Anything else would be dishonorable.”
“Ah, Makeda, not everyone shares your devotion. They do not follow the
old ways so closely. They merely talk of it while having no devotion in their hearts. They assume all are like them. So they whisper and talk. They are not like us. They lurk in the shadows and play politics with their birthright.” Zabalam spit on the ground. “Their words are poison, and it would not surprise me if one such as that would whisper to your brother that you are a threat to his eventual rule.”
There had to be another explanation. She knew Akkad was ambitious, and he was a fine warrior. She had no doubt he would make a decent archdominar when the time came. Violating the wishes of their father, Telkesh, was unimaginable, and she did not know which idea she found more disturbing, that her brother would leave her to die, or that anyone would doubt her honor so much.
“Incoming riders!” the shout went up along the column. “They fly the colors of Balaash.”
Scouts for the army. They would be reunited soon enough. “Do not worry, Zabalam. I will speak to my father about today’s events. I’m sure there is an explanation for Akkad’s delay.”
“As you wish.” The Primus bowed.
She could see the cavalry now. The scouts tore down the road, heading straight for Makeda’s tattered banner. The first rider came up to Makeda, riding upon a ferox, one of the swiftest predators of the plains. The messenger wore the insignia of a Dakar, and her mount foamed from the journey. The creature snarled at Makeda, so the rider punched it in the back of the head. It wheeled about and snapped at her legs with is long razor teeth, but she struck it again harder. Dominance established, that stroke finally settled it down.
“Second Born Makeda,” the messenger dipped her helmet. It was as close as could be approximated to a bow while on the back of an enraged ferox. “You are alive?”
“Obviously,” she answered. “Where is the army?”
“Encamped a few miles to the north,” the rider seemed rattled. “We were told your cohort had been destroyed by Tyrant Naram.”
“He tried. It was an excellent battle, but Naram was the one who was destroyed. Who told you such lies?”
“Forgive me. It was all over the camp. Ancestors! You have not heard?”
“Spit it out, Praetorian!”
The rider was obviously terrified. Her mount sensed the unusual fear, and turned back curious and sniffing. “Your father — Archdominar Telkesh is dead.”
The ferox was unbelievably swift. The powerfully muscled beast moved in great leaping bounds, its talons ripping up tufts of grass and dirt as they moved across the plains. A sudden plunge down a ravine forced Makeda to place one hand against the reptilian skin before her saddle. It was softer than expected. The ferox turned one curious eye back toward her. Perhaps, if it had been any other unfamiliar rider, the vicious thing may have attempted something, but it could sense the danger in Makeda, and simply did as it was told.
Her mount jumped high into the air, taking them over the edge of the ravine and into the open dusk. A large encampment stretched before them, hundreds of tents, all flying the proud banner of House Balaash. Housing thousands of soldiers, thousands of slaves, and dozens of beasts, it was more of a mobile city than an encampment. Makeda roughly kneed the ferox in the ribs, pointing it toward the nearest set of lanterns.
The guards rose immediately to challenge her approach. Just because she was flying the banner of Balaash did not necessarily make her an ally, especially here in Muzkaar land.
“Who goes there?”
“Makeda, Second Born of Telkesh.”
The nearest guard shifted the grip on his spear. “Makeda is dead.”
Makeda reached up and removed her helmet as the ferox padded closer to the lantern light. The sudden wind felt cool on her scalp. “Silence, imbecile. Take me to my father.”
The guards looked stunned. “She lives!” One of the soldiers gestured a direction. The ferox snapped at him, and the dagger-like teeth missed his wrist by less than an inch.
A smarter guard pointed with his spear. “Forgive us. The archdominar’s tent is over there.”
Makeda looked at the tent. That was not her father’s tent. That was Akkad’s tent. There was a sudden pain in her heart, an unfamiliar feeling. “Ha!” She kicked the ferox hard. It reached Akkad’s tent within three bounds. Makeda slid off of the saddle and walked quickly inside. These soldiers immediately bowed and moved out of her way.
Despite being a huge affair which needed several of its own pack animals to move anywhere, the inside of Akkad’s tent was crowded with warriors of rank and lineage. Makeda recognized many of her father’s advisors and officers. They all wore solemn expressions which turned to shock when they saw her. Whispers radiated outward as all eyes turned to see.
“Where is my father?” Makeda demanded, but already knowing the answer.
Heads were bowed. Feet were studied. A scribe hurried to the rear of the tent and disappeared beneath a flap into the sleeping quarters.
Abaish was the first to speak. He was of the paingiver caste, but was one of her father’s closest advisors. Only his narrow chin was visible beneath the traditional mask worn by all paingivers. “Forgive our surprise, Tyrant Makeda. We were told that your cohort had perished in battle today.”
“Not today. Perhaps next time. Now where is my father?”
Abaish shook his head with exaggerated sorrow. “I am afraid mighty Telkesh is dead.”
Makeda’s knees turned to water. She tried not to let her emotions show. Telkesh had not been archdominar for long. Vaactash had only been dead a year. This was inconceivable. “How?”
“A sudden illness,” said one of the Cataphract. “He was overcome with fever.”
It seemed impossible, a skilled mortitheurge, a house leader with mastery over energies which controlled the flesh or could withstand death, to be taken by a simple fever.
“The chirurgeons could not find a cure in time,” Abaish added apologetically. “For that failure Akkad had them executed.”
It was as if saying his name had summoned him, but it had more than likely been the scribe, because the same flap opened and Akkad entered. Tall, broad and powerful of build, his features were sharp and strong, his eyes narrow and intelligent. When the artisan caste attempted to capture skorne perfection in a work of sculpture, it usually looked something like Akkad, except of course, for the one ruined stump of an ear.
He surveyed the room expectantly. All of the assembled officers and functionaries went to one knee and dipped their heads. The act should not have surprised her. Akkad was after all, now the archdominar of House Balaash.
“Sister,” Akkad seemed as surprised to see her alive as she had been to find out their father was dead. However, he was better at concealing his emotions. The paingiver Abaish rose from his knees and placed himself at Akkad’s right hand. Akkad’s smile seemed forced. “It is good to see you. My scouts had told me that your cohort had been surrounded and wiped out on the plains. It is good to see you escaped Naram.”
“I did not escape Tyrant Naram, I killed him.” Excited whispers filled the tent , some more incredulous than others. She could not hear the words, but she could imagine them. How did this inexperienced girl defeat the great Naram? She would deal with them later. Yet many of the warrior caste seemed rather pleased. This news seemed to upset Akkad, but she could not dwell on that. “Please, brother, tell me of father.”
“Yes. Poor father. He fell ill during our march. Mighty Telkesh brought low by a disease only yesterday. I rushed to his side as soon as I heard. I was with him as the fever consumed him.”
“A tragedy,” Abaish agreed.
“Indeed. He was in terrible pain, robbed of his dignity. A death that was in no way fitting—”
“Wait!” Makeda could not help herself. She looked toward the council extoller. They were all watching her. All of their specialized caste ceremonially plucked out one of their mortal eyes and replaced it with a crystal that allowed them to see into the spirit realm. Her reflection was visible in the extoller’s crystal oculus. “He did not die in battle … Are yo
u saying his essence was not preserved?”
The extoller shook his head sadly.
Makeda gasped. “No.” Telkesh had not been given the opportunity to be proven worthy. Her father had been consigned to the Void.
Akkad folded his arms as he studied his council. Abaish leaned over and whispered in Akkad’s good ear, and it reminded her of Primus Zabalam and his warning about those that lurked in the shadows. Akkad frowned. “Why do you not bow before your archdominar, Makeda? Do you intend to disrespect me?”
Makeda was shaken from her thoughts by the accusation. “Why—”
“You are not kneeling. Why do you disrespect House Balaash by failing to honor your archdominar?”
And in that moment, Makeda knew …
Akkad had known father was dying this morning. He had abandoned her entire cohort, knowing that Naram would kill them.
She could see the truth in the faces of many of the warriors in the room. They had figured it out as well.
“Kneel,” Akkad commanded.
Her brother had consigned her to death. Why? Did he truly consider her a threat to his rule? Her mind was still fatigued from combat. Many of the warriors were staring at her expectantly. She could feel anger boiling up within her, yet the traditions of their caste were clear on this matter. It was the responsibility of the eldest to rule. Makeda forced the anger back, then went to one knee and lowered her head. “I am sorry … archdominar.”
Akkad had no idea that her sense of honor had just saved his life.
PART TWO
The Hall of Ancestors was a sacred place, and the only sound was their footfalls upon the stone. At this late hour the stonemasons of the worker caste were gone and only a few extollers scurried about in the shadows. Archdominar Vaactash lit their way with a single lantern. The pale light illuminated row upon row of statues as they passed. Makeda thought the Ancestral Guardians towered over her, much as her grandfather did.
“Do not shrink before them, child. These are your exalted ancestors and their revered companions. They lived for House Balaash. We are the culmination of their great works,” Vaactash said softly. “Each one of them has a story.”
Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) Page 3
