Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “Help me!” she cried. “The least you can do is cut my bonds. It’ll do you no harm,” she implored, but the man who’d sat beside Merit said nothing. His little band of marauders was already arguing over which house they would loot, discussing some plan just out of earshot.

  She stood, hands and feet tied.

  She was freed from the gang, so she could hobble slowly away, but with her feet bound she could only go so far. Surely the outlanders would find her, and they’d punish her with a quick death or something worse.

  Still, perhaps it was better to die here. She took one step, but paused before the second. Something flashed in the dirt beside her feet. It glinted like metal. A knife lay there. Merit guessed the man had pitied her and left the blade for her to discover. Perhaps he had not wanted to show kindness in the company of his brothers. Merit quickly freed herself then tossed the knife to a family that was similarly bound.

  Fearing the outlanders might return at any moment, she dashed toward the Shroud Wall, her limbs aching from where they had been bound. The pain didn’t bother Merit. She’d been in one form of pain or another since she left Harkana. She wanted to find the Harkans or Barden. Either would do, but she saw only the outlanders and the armies of Mered. She was alone, so once more she gazed up at the great wall. Her mother stood behind the massive fortification, and earlier Merit had thought she’d glimpsed the Ray through one of the windows.

  The crowds gathered, and they beat on the doors of the Shroud Wall. The noise was intolerable, but beneath it all Merit heard a slight creak, a sound like something breaking. The doors to the Empyreal Domain were opening.

  58

  A series of ironwood bars held the doors of the Empyreal Domain in place. The men of the Kiltet had already removed one of them and the doors had parted just slightly, but three stout timbers held them in place, preventing the great panels from opening much more than a hair’s width. The work was not yet done, so the men looked to Sarra for instruction, but she gave no command. Outside, the people screamed, and their sandals beat against the cobblestones. There were cries of pain or exhaustion. Some men uttered their last breath while others shouted to the heavens, begging for the gods to appear.

  Three bars stood between Sarra and the people of Solus.

  If the scrolls were to be believed, these timbers were a recent addition. The doors to the Empyreal Domain were left open when the Soleri ruled over the city. The gods did not fear their enemies. In fact, it had always been the other way around. It was the empire’s foes who feared the gods who lived in the domain. Hence, the doors stood open. For thousands of years, for the duration of the Old, Middle, and most of the New Kingdom, these doors had not once been shut. She knew this to be true. These were histories, not stories or myths. The Soleri had lived here once and they’d brought ruin to armies and subdued kingdoms, creating an empire that stretched from the Cressel and the eastern desert to the Shambles and north, through impassable mountain reaches to the highest cliffs of Rachis and back down into the depths of the Gray Wood. They’d taken everything east of the Denna Hills and called it their empire and still the doors remained open. Their enemies quadrupled, but the Soleri showed no fear. The histories said that Reni Nahkt, fifth in his line, stood at this very threshold and subdued an entire army of invading Rachins. Nahkt made soldiers into ash, reducing the army and its armor into nothing more than dust. But that had only been the start of his assault. He shadowed the Rachin Army, following them back to their capital, where he burned and plundered the kingdom’s riches. Then he cut down every tree, salted the earth, and killed every strong-backed male in the kingdom. He left nothing. Any man who showed the slightest bit of fight was slaughtered, or so the story went. The tale was a thousand years old, so she guessed the facts had been massaged. Yet the part about the doors was likely true.

  It was Ined Anu who sealed the great ironwood panels, hastily fixing those four bars into place. The coarseness of the work looked out of place amid the wonders of the domain, but it had not been the Soleri who’d sealed the two great panels, and it would not be the Soleri who opened them.

  Sarra stood before those same doors and watched them quiver. Outside, the people howled, with anger or perhaps fear. They came by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, pressing their bodies to the wood. Through a crack in the timbers, blood dribbled down the face of the door. A finger squeezed into the gap, but the tip was quickly separated from the hand. The two great panels trembled, but the barrier held. The gates would not part unless Sarra gave the order.

  “Take down the bars,” she said.

  The men of the Kiltet had no tongues, but they understood. They were people, after all. They were not immune to the suffering that lay outside of the wall. They, too, wanted to help, or so it seemed.

  “As quickly as you can,” she said, though Sarra was not certain they could truly understand her words. Perhaps they only understood the gist of what she said, the tone and urgency of her commands.

  The blackthorn logs fell, one, two.

  A single log now barred the entry to the domain.

  She waved her hand and the men halted their work. Sarra climbed to one of the veiled windows. The press of the crowd was worse than she’d imagined. All of Solus was here. The people had fled to the center, to the gods, to the place where Nahkt had once stood and obliterated an army. They knew the stories. Thus, they pleaded for their gods to save them. Mered had made the same request. He’d commanded Sarra to produce the Soleri. He’d given her this one task—a final test to know if she truly wielded power or was simply a farce. Unfortunately, it was the latter.

  The Soleri could not speak, but Sarra had a voice. The will to act. The people of Solus were trapped. The outlanders hacked at them from one side, and the wall pressed back at them from the other. One log held the doors closed. The men of the Kiltet looked to Sarra for direction.

  Their eyes begged.

  The bar twisted a bit, but it held.

  That one piece of wood was the last little stitch in a latticework of lies and deception that stretched over two centuries.

  Remove the wood and end the lie.

  She tried to think of what the world might have been like if the Anu family hadn’t taken this empire for their own, how two hundred years of brutal subjugation might have been avoided. She had the power to end all of that.

  That ironwood bar contained all the bitterness of her former husband. It held her own lie, the way the priesthood had concealed the death of the amaranth.

  She wondered what would happen if that log were removed.

  Though she no longer bore the title of Mother, the people outside had been her children once. She could not leave them to the whims of the outlanders, and Mered refused to act. Panic cannot describe what she saw in the people’s eyes. Even the Kiltet were stricken with worry, their hands trembling as they held the last bar. The doors rattled on their hinges, and the people cried out to their gods. Sarra faced the doors and made her decision.

  59

  A crack like thunder rattled the air.

  In a single motion, the great and towering doors—each as tall as a desert palm, hewn from ironwood and glistening white in the sand-filled air—gave way. The doors parted. Thrust inward by the force of a thousand hands, by the weight of a hundred dead bodies, by the desperate people who climbed on top of one another to make their way inside. The doors were flung wide and the sacred precinct was revealed to the people. If Merit hadn’t known better, she’d have expected the Soleri themselves to materialize at the gates, to put an end to this business and set things to rights. Unfortunately, no gods stood at the doorway, so the crowd stumbled forward into their sacred realm, and Merit, swept up by the mob, joined them.

  It was an untidy affair. Knees and elbows jostled her from every side, sandals beat her toes. She fell. Sand-gray robes blotted out what remained of the sun. There was no light. She was on her hands and knees, crawling frantically, lifting herself up only to have someone slam her back d
own. A sandal mashed her fingers; she drew both hands close to her chest. Instinctively, she curled herself into the smallest possible area, but countless bodies shoved her to and fro. She was kicked, punched, and clobbered from a hundred different directions. She lost track of the blows and who’d dealt them. She was awash in agony, broken and barely able to move. A sudden kick knocked the wind from her lungs, and she screamed but no sound issued from her lips. A moment later, her chest heaved as the wind flooded back into her lungs, her fist pounding at her collarbone.

  She was alive, but trampled. If I’ve got some strength in me, Mithra, help me find it. Still dizzy and confused, Merit stood. She was uncertain of which way to go, but fortunately for her, the crowd did the hard work and carried her toward the doors. They toppled the stylites from their poles. The pilgrims crushed the tents and other makeshift structures they’d erected.

  Through the gates of the Empyreal Domain, she saw bright-green palms and gorgeously, almost impossibly well-groomed lawns. That was her destination, and she hobbled toward it until, out of nowhere, a flash of bronze streaked across her vision, then swords appeared, men on horseback charging at the outlanders.

  Merit guessed that Mered’s army had at last turned their backs to the Harkans. They’d made some attempt to save the people of Solus by arresting the sand-dwellers’ push and preventing the marauders from following the people into the Empyreal Domain.

  Briefly, the conflict held Merit’s attention until, sometime later, a second thunderclap sounded, this one softer than the first. Her head swung around and she caught sight of the great doors of the Empyreal Domain. They moved once more, but this time they were closing. In what had seemed like only a few heartbeats, the greater portion of the populace had fled into the domain. The people had left the city, and someone was closing the doors, sealing the populace inside the domain, where they would be safe from Barden’s horde.

  A middle-aged man in a fine shawl of muslin cried out to her, “Hurry, you fool, or you’ll be locked out.”

  Locked out? thought Merit. She was still reeling from the stampede, barely able to think. I certainly don’t want to be locked out, she thought distantly. She was still trying to gather her wits. The army of the Protector swarmed at her back, ushering the last of the people inside the domain.

  She eyed the narrowing gap. In a moment, the doors would be shut.

  If she entered, she would be safe from the outlanders. She would also be cut off from the Harkans, unable to reach her generals and the army they commanded. This single notion brought sudden clarity to her thoughts. She’d have her life, but her part in this conflict would be ended, her dream of riding at the head of the Harkan Army finished.

  She looked for the soldiers in black, for her generals, but saw only sand in the air and Mered’s army storming the field. One soldier cried out to Merit, commanding her to retreat, to find safety in the domain.

  Is that what I want?

  By degrees, the doors were closing. In a heartbeat, they’d be shut.

  The gap narrowed to the width of a child.

  Merit drew in a breath; she’d made her decision.

  60

  The kingsguard set their spears against the Protector’s furious charge. They waited, sweaty hands clutching worn shafts of wood. Every man gritted his teeth or mumbled some silent prayer. A great gust of wind blew across the plaza and a gray, sand-filled haze descended upon the field of battle. There was no sky, no army, and no city either. And when the cloud dispersed, there still wasn’t much to see. The army of the Protector ought to have been right on top of them. Instead, Ren saw the bronze soldiers dash toward that tall white wall, clashing with the outlanders as they went. For once, it appeared, the Protector’s Army had earned its namesake: They protected the people of Solus.

  For Ren, for the kingsguard, it was nothing short of a miracle.

  “We’ve got to go, to get out of this plaza while the army is occupied with the sand-dwellers.” Ren called Asher to his side. “Send orders down through the ranks,” he said. “We’ll head south, away from the wall and around the Protector’s position. If we’re quick enough, we can dash through their broken lines and catch up with the Harkans.”

  “And if we’re too slow and they re-form their ranks, we’ll be trapped among the Protector’s men,” said Asher. “None of us know how deep their lines stretch or how many men they left behind when they charged the wall. A seasoned commander would not take his entire force from the field.” Asher planted his spear on the ground, punctuating his words.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s left many soldiers,” said Ren. Kollen was at his side, nodding. It did appear as if the full force of the Protector’s Army had charged the wall. Not far from where they stood, the men in bronze engaged the outlander horde. Well armored and well trained, the Alehkar drove at their foes, pushing them back with ease while a second team of soldiers came around from behind the outlanders and cut off their retreat. After that, it was all chaos, the scream of iron ringing in the air, men grunting, crying out in pain—but only the outlanders were falling. They had come in their loincloths, shirtless and unarmored. Some bore spears, but most had simple clubs, weapons made from logs or sharpened flints.

  “This’ll be over before it started,” said Ren. “We need to march.”

  In spite of Asher’s warnings, Ren led the kingsguard around the battle. The Protector’s Army had indeed left behind sentries, and the black shields skirmished with them, but there weren’t enough men to block their progress. Ren steered the men past the burnt remains of some great and golden hall, and they ran astride the old well where they’d sheltered. He made certain the tall steps of the Waset were always at his right, so he knew he was circling the Shroud Wall, coming around to the south side of the Waset while still keeping his distance from the battle.

  Skirmish after skirmish came and went as they quarreled with some sentry, a house soldier in blue, or a squad from the city guard. Their greatest ally was the sand, which had come again, denser now, impenetrable. It hid them from view, but it slowed their movement. Ren could barely see the tip of his outstretched hand. Even his sword point was swallowed by the storm. He halted the guard, waiting for the gale to subside.

  “We should have found the bastards by now,” said Kollen, his fellow Rachins at his side. “Where are the Harkans?”

  “I don’t see your little army of three helping us find them,” said Tye.

  “Ott, any clue?” Ren asked. “Where are we?” He looked for Woser but was unable to find him.

  Ott stuttered his reply, perhaps out of uncertainty or maybe it was just the sand catching in his throat. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’re past the necropolis. Perhaps we’re at the ruins of the priory.”

  “That would be fitting,” said Kollen, “back where we damn well started.”

  “We keep going,” said Ren. He guessed the Harkan force had shifted position when the Protector advanced on the wall. They’d moved, but he had no idea where they’d gone.

  The only people who seemed to know where they were going were the outlanders. Those who had not gone to the wall were retreating, carts piled high with loot, sacks thrown over their shoulders and stuffed to the point of breaking. Loaded down with the city’s riches, the outlanders were making their way out of Solus. They poured over the steps of the Waset, their carts crowding the chariot ramps.

  “It looks like they’re in a rush to get out,” said Tye.

  “I’d be too if I had that much loot,” said Kollen. “Maybe we should nab a bit for ourselves, so we can stuff the old coffers when we get home.”

  “Go ahead,” said Ren. “I’m more worried about why they’re in such a rush to get out.”

  “Maybe they saw what the Protector did at the gates,” said Asher.

  “Perhaps,” said Ren, “but I think it’s something else. There’s a look of fear in their eyes. Something’s happening, but I don’t know what it is.”

  A few steps later, Ren stumbled into t
he first of the bodies. They were resting on the ground, half-covered in sand, shields rent, swords splintered.

  “The Harkans?” Ren asked, his heart sinking in his chest. Had Mered cut them down? It would explain why the outlanders were fleeing. If the Harkans were gone, there was no one else to preoccupy the army of the Protector.

  “No,” said Tye. “Definitely not your folk.” She lifted a shield from the sand.

  “Bronze?” asked Kollen.

  Still uncertain, Ren bent beside one of the fallen bodies, sweeping away the sand to reveal a chest piece with a broken circle carved into the metal. “Barden,” he whispered. “These are Barden’s men, cut down—but who? Who did the killing?”

  “Over here!” cried a voice Ren did not recognize, but he went to it anyway. There, he found a man of middle years, roughly bearded and somewhat familiar in appearance. “Barden?” asked Ren, and the man nodded his assent. This was his father’s brother. His uncle. He has Arko’s eyes, Ren thought, and he’s in terrible shape. Blood seeped from his armor, at the gorget and beneath the arm.

  “They came upon us so quickly there was no time for talk, and the sand was everywhere. I could hardly see the tip of my sword. They saw only the bronze.”

  “Who? Who saw the bronze? Who attacked you?” Ren begged.

  “The Harkan Army.”

  Ren bit down hard on his lip.

  “In the sand, in the fog of battle, they saw only the color of our shields. The Harkans thought we were an advance force, part of the Protector’s Army, so they came at us. They moved with such speed that we had no choice but to defend ourselves. By the time I could explain…”

  “It was too late,” said Ren. “I see it.”

  “They barely stopped to inspect the corpses,” said Barden. “They were moving fast, taking up some new position while the Protector was distracted.”

  “But your men, your army?” asked Ren. “All dead?”

  “It was mainly the outlanders that bolstered my legions, the mercenaries, and the freed servants. They made an immense force, but my own numbers were relatively few.”