It was a long time before he dared move. Every part of his body seemed to ache and his head felt broken. He took a few experimental breaths and decided he could still manage to gulp in air, but breathing was all he could manage for several minutes.
Each of the mountains, each of the Hearts of the Gods was different. He’d known that, but somehow Wheklam seemed more determined than the other mountains he’d visited to make sure he never reached his goal.
How long had he been climbing? He could not say. He knew only that he was cold, and that the sun had set and risen a few times since he’d lost his hammer. He still had his axe – he had finished locking together the obsidian he had been given by Durhallem and the iron rings he’d been offered by Truska-Pren. The axe the pieces made was incredibly sharp, perfectly balanced and currently jamming into his side. Happily the thing was sheathed properly or he’d have been cut in half instead of merely beaten severely by his own weapon.
Andover very carefully rolled himself over and began the slow process of standing back up. There was a time he’d have stayed where he was for a while, but he knew better now. He suspected Delil might well come down and beat him senseless if he let himself remain in the same place for too long.
He looked up the side of the steep slope toward the distant spot from where he’d fallen. He found the spots where he had bounced before finally rolling to a stop.
“On the lighter side of this, nothing seems broken,” he murmured to himself. Bruised and strained, yes. Broken? No.
Delil did not stop for him. He was on his journey, she was on her own. They were merely going in the same direction at the moment. Even so, part of him was almost certain that she might yet come down to beat on him if he waited too long. That alone was enough motivation. He started climbing.
Rather than let himself think of where he hurt or what lay ahead, he focused on putting one hand in front of the other. It was the distractions that kept getting him in trouble.
The ground was hard, and if he paid attention there were handholds. He had hands made of iron. They were more than capable of gripping the rock and supporting his weight. Delil did not have his advantages and yet she seemed to be managing well enough.
He started again, looking only as far ahead as the next potential area where fingers could find purchase.
The sun had almost set by the time he reached the top of the volcanic mountaintop.
The area was nearly as wide as the city of Tyrne, it seemed. The vast hollowed-out bowl of the great forge glowed with a warm light, but clouds of gasses rose from the depths stinking of molten metal and worse.
They were scents he knew well enough and in his way appreciated.
Far away from him, far enough that she was merely a speck in the distance, he thought he saw Delil sitting on the edge of the great pit. She had clearly decided not to concern herself with his condition after his fall.
He mirrored her action. He was not supposed to be with her. This was a personal quest, a private discussion between mortal and god.
Andover’s body shook from exertion, and he drew in deep breaths of the foul air. He had endured worse in the Blasted Lands.
Below him the glow of Wheklam’s Forge seemed to fluctuate. He looked down into the distant fire, and the smoke and gasses seethed, rising upward.
No. Andover frowned. Not smoke. Water. As he looked down into the heart of the forge he could still see the raging inferno that glowed below him, a literal lake of fire and molten stone, but above that, impossibly, water rose toward him, a greater body of water than he had ever seen before.
The waters seethed, forming waves that thrashed against the sides of the crater as if trying to escape. The scent changed; a potent odor came to him, and all he could think of was the stench of fish he’d smelled a few times at the river’s edge. This was different, but close enough that he felt a sense of familiarity.
Then the waters rose up in a vast wave that caught Andover unawares, washing him into the depths before he could even catch a breath.
In his entire life Andover Lashk had seen no body of water greater than the Freeholdt River and while that river was a substantial one, the most he had ever done was wade into the shallows and wash himself.
Put another way, he was not a swimmer. He thrashed madly for several moments, trying to find his way to any purchase at all. Ultimately he failed.
The water filled his lungs and he felt himself choking, fighting for breath.
He felt the darkness at the edges of his mind as surely as he saw the darkness stealing away his sight.
And then, beyond that dread, he felt the presence of a god.
He had already met with two gods, and in both cases the sheer power of those entities had overwhelmed his senses. This was no different. Wheklam moved through his body, a power impossible to deny. At that moment, as he was drowning in impossible waters, he had caught the attention of a deity.
He wasn’t sure precisely how he would make his point with Wheklam. He had been told to offer himself to each of the gods and he had done so before by speaking his piece. That was impossible here so he held his arms wide apart and did his best to bow underwater, as his body was cast this way and that by the tides.
On the left side of his face, at the very edge of the jaw line, he felt a searing pain and forced himself not to scream. A finger’s width of fire boiled across his skin. There was no light, no source for the pain, but it was real and he knew what it meant. Another god had accepted him.
Now all he had to do was live through the experience.
Far above him he could see the light from above the crater.
Far below he could see the light of Wheklam’s Heart.
In between there was water in endless supply and no air to breathe.
The burden of leadership was a constant thing in her life. From the moment she’d accepted the crown placed on her brow, Queen Parlu had felt the weight of more than a few ounces of silver.
Trecharch was burning. Far in the distance she could see the light on the western horizon. The sun was above her, barely noticeable through the rain, but she saw the light as bright as the most magnificent of sunsets on the western horizon.
The view from her tower had always been spectacular. It allowed her an uninterrupted examination of the end of her world.
Trecharch had been her home since she was born, and that had been a very long time ago.
Trecharch was not like the other kingdoms. She allowed the citizens a say in how things were run. Not a large say, true, but still they had a voice that she listened to.
Now all she could hear, as the day grew older, was the sound of screams.
Her world burned.
There had been a time, when she was younger, when the citizens of the nation had considered overthrowing her rule. Not because she was a bad ruler – at least she tended to think she was not, but suspected many might disagree – but because they wanted change. They wanted less taxation and more freedom to decide for themselves how the world should work. Some had claimed that the forests were too full of trees and that cutting down a portion of them would make Trecharch a better place. That the wood from the trees had great monetary value was merely a coincidence, of course.
Frah Molen, one of her finest advisors, knocked politely before entering the chamber. In the past he had been her lover. Now he was much more than that. He was her friend. He was beyond the age where the notion of rutting meant much to him. She was just as old, but her connection to the great forest had, as always, left her feeling invigorated.
“Frah.” She sighed his name. “The fires are coming. I thought the rain might offer us salvation, but the fires are growing again and the Mother-Vine is sickened by whatever they have done to her.”
Parlu was not a delicate woman, though many might have thought otherwise if they’d seen her. Her frame was thin, and her limbs were long. Her hair was graying from the deep browns it had been in her earlier years, but the gray only accented her mane these days. She
was conscious that many men found her beautiful still. She saw the same beauty in her daughter, Lemilla, who would rule in her stead when she died – assuming there was anything left to rule.
“They come, Parlu. The invaders.” Frah’s voice was still as strong as ever. It was the rest of him that had weakened over the years. His back was bent by the decades and his magnificent red hair had first gone white and then fallen out completely. Still, she loved him.
He was one of the finest men she knew and it hurt her to think that he’d be dead before the day was over.
“I could hardly fail to notice them, Frah,” she chided him softly. “I’ve never seen the likes of the creatures they ride. Are they Pra-Moresh?”
“No.” He stepped closer. “They are smaller, but almost as deadly, and the people who ride them must surely be knights. I have never heard of fighters as brutal.”
“Desh Krohan says they do not have knights. He says that all of them are like that. Deadly and filled with hatred for all of us.”
“What a misery then.”
She did not look away from the window. Far below her, she could see the first of the invaders crossing the Field of Remembrance, where the likenesses of each past ruler looked out toward the forest.
“I suppose it is time, then, yes?”
“Parlu…You don’t have to do this.” He placed one hand on her thin shoulder. His flesh was cold now, not as warm and lovely as it had been once, and she could feel the swelling in the joints of each finger.
“Of course I do, Frah.” She settled her fine and strong hand over his gnarled paw and smiled softly. Far below, the archers fired volleys of arrows but the invaders kept coming. They wore armor, and they carried shields, and they sported heavy furs and helmets. The arrows struck but few seemed to do any real damage.
The people of Trecharch were renowned for their archery skills. For decades they had won archery competitions throughout the Twelve Kingdoms. When someone from a different country took the winning purse it was usually amid claims that they had cheated in one form or another, simply because the people of Trecharch were archers before they were soldiers.
The Sa’ba Taalor held their own with ease. The ones who were mounted rode with confidence and used great bows that had apparently been designed for use when riding. Most of the people in Trecharch could barely ride horses. They simply were not common among the great forest.
The enemy fired and nearly every one of their arrows found a home and maimed or killed.
“Parlu, please, don’t do this.”
“I accepted my crown, Frah. I knew the risks then, and I have long since reaped the benefits.” Still, she thought back to her earlier days and the lovers she had known, the friends she had known. Many of the other nations claimed that marriage was a sacred thing. They swore by the notion that one man and one woman were required to make a life and that they should be together for all time. Trecharch had never held to that notion. There were exceptions, of course. Many chose one lover and stayed with them for life.
Perhaps that was for the best. In hindsight, she rather liked the idea of having someone she could hold onto one last time before she climbed the last steps in Orrander’s Tower.
Frah was in the room with her. He had always been a wonderful friend. Ultimately he was enough.
“Watch over Lemilla. See her safely away, my friend. It is time.”
He would not question her orders. It was not his way.
The wooden stairs barely creaked under her weight as she started up the final flights to the chamber of the Mother-Vine, but far below her, the great doors of the tower shook with the impact of whatever the invaders used to attempt access.
Pella woke in a small room, on the covers of a bed filled with goose down.
She did not wake slowly or gently, but rather all at once and with the knowledge that she was in danger.
The Sa’ba Taalor had come. They were below her and attacking the tower, she knew that as surely as she breathed. The knowledge came from outside of her, sent as a gift from Tataya.
Goriah was dead. She knew that, too.
Her stomach twisted on itself at the thought. Her Sister had been a beautiful person and she loved her and missed her and always would.
Her grief, however, would have to wait.
Pella closed her eyes for a moment and cast her senses outside of her body, taking in the whole of the tower with ease. She was near the base of the great tower, on the third level.
Parlu was ascending into the Mother-Vine, at the apex of the tower, where it was swallowed by the Mother-Vine. She had no choice but to reach Queen Parlu’s personal chambers, where the final doorway into the Mother-Vine’s sacred interior was located. Pella’s abilities did not allow her to look into that final chamber. That was blocked from her by the power of the forest itself. All gods have their secrets, it seemed.
She had recently learned more of gods than she had ever wanted.
The guarding soldiers were preparing as best they could, setting barriers between the queen and the invaders. They understood exactly how bad the situation was.
Orrander’s Tower was a great feat of architecture. The stones and mortar that built the place had been carefully sculpted along the side of the Mother-Vine over the decades and centuries, and might well have never lasted if not for the fact that the Mother-Vine had accommodated the addition. Seen from outside, the tower was only remarkable in its height, but from inside it was easy to see how much of the tower had been swallowed and protected by the great vine. Chambers that were far larger than they appeared had been absorbed by the vine and become a part of the whole. They were not crushed, they were not broken; they were simply made stronger and protected. Those chambers held a large portion of Trecharch’s army. The soldiers had been called to protect their queen and the Mother-Vine alike and they were ready to die if necessary.
Fifty men with braces held the doors at the entrance. Thick logs had been cut and well seasoned, their bases shaped to fit slots in the stone floors. Metal gratings were pulled aside and the logs locked into those hidden slots, and then set against the great doors, bracing for any possible attack. A hundred men battering the doors would only be able to break through if they could shatter those logs, and the wood in question was carved from the Sentinels and as hard as stone.
Put simply, the Sa’ba Taalor would not gain access that way.
That didn’t mean they weren’t trying. A dozen or more of the brutes held on to a battering ram cut from one of the trees nearby and used it against the massive doors. The wood and metal of the door was damaged. Great gashes had been torn from the surface, and shreds of wood from both the ram and the doors fell to the ground as they continued the assault.
The doors would hold. The rest of the structure was a different case.
Pella could sense the other attackers. They were harder to find because they were so very high off the ground and she did not initially think to look for them there.
A dozen soldiers battered at the doors of the keep, with a gathering ready in case they got through. The rest climbed the walls, scaling the rough stone in some cases, climbing the Mother-Vine in others.
They were like ants, methodically swarming their way up the surfaces available to them and moving along similar lines. One or two found the pathways to climb and others followed after.
Far below, the battering ram knocked again and again, and a gathering of soldiers prepared for in case they got through. Most of the windows in the tower were small, and set high in the walls. They were more for ventilation than for looking out at the trees beyond. Most of the exceptions were high enough up that few would consider using them and those that did would not be able to see the attackers until it was far too late. The angle of Orrander’s Tower followed the curvature of the Mother-Vine and did not allow for an easy examination of the ground below.
Pella rose from the bed and moved toward the door, fully aware that she was far too late to call the alarm. The invasion had alrea
dy begun.
The door to her chamber was unlocked. She would have been surprised to find otherwise.
To her left a hallway turned slowly toward the center of the tower, moving along a natural progression and deeper into the Mother-Vine. To her right a stairway angled up and down.
She took the stairs and moved upward, closer to the domain of Queen Parlu, hoping she could reach the woman in time to be of assistance.
Even as she moved she once more carefully spread her senses, seeking information that could help her and others deal with the attack of the Sa’ba Taalor. The people from the Seven Forges were above her and below her as well. As she climbed she saw the slender body of a young man sliding through one of the narrower windows just ahead of her.
She blew him back through the window with a thought. A portion of the wall crumbled away as well, but his screaming body sailed a great deal further from the tower. With luck his death screams would warn others of their plight before it was too late.
Pella called out to Desh and to Tataya alike, praying for assistance. A brief flash of sorrow cored her soul as she instinctively started to call for Goriah as well before memory returned. How long had passed? How long had her Sister been dead? Where was the murderous bastard that had driven a blade through her skull? She would find him if she could. She would destroy him.
The stairs continued in their long spiral and she moved as quickly as she could, alert for any sounds around her.
There was nothing, no one that she could see, at least.
By the time she reached the queen’s chambers her heart thudded at double the normal rate and her lungs burned with a demand for more air. None of that mattered as much as reaching Parlu before the Sa’ba Taalor.
The chambers were much as she remembered from previous visits. Parlu was a solitary woman at the best of times and she preferred to see visitors in private when she could. There had been several visits both formal and informal over the years. Once, long before she was apprenticed to Desh Krohan, she had come from the area and she had known Parlu better than most. She remembered the vast bed to the side of the chamber. She remembered the balcony that let Parlu see most of her kingdom with ease.
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