“Well, we’re moving as fast as we can.” What else could he say? She’d lost her mind. Pity, what with her mind being wrapped in such a lovely package.
“I suspect we will meet with you when you arrive, but for now Drask Silver Hand comes with me. We are to meet with Desh sooner than the caravan.”
“How the hell are you going to manage that?” They were already moving at a pace he was uncomfortable with, propelled on by the urgency of the fifty soldiers who were “escorting” them home.
The redhead offered him an enigmatic smile that, as with almost every expression the woman wore, smoldered with promises best not considered too carefully. “Be safe on your journeys, Captain.”
She veered away, and as he watched, the great mount of Drask Silver Hand broke from the caravan and came closer, charging forward with unsettling speed. The man’s silvery eyes regarded him from within his horned helmet’s shadows, and the horns nodded a brief greeting before he reached down and grabbed Tataya’s proffered arm. The man lifted her from her saddle with frightening ease and she swung her weight onto the saddle in front of him, nearly swallowed by his bulk.
The woman leaned forward and her gloved hands grabbed at the mane of the creature she straddled. A moment later Drask leaned forward as well, and then the dark mount under him surged forward, nearly tripling its speed as it started to move at a full out run. The damned thing let out a roar that shook the air and a moment later the trio were dwindling into the distance, cutting between two of the soldiers escorting them. The soldiers waved casually as if watching an animal that size move with that sort of speed was perfectly normal, thanks just the same.
“Well that’s depressing.” Wollis’ voice took Merros by surprise.
“What’s that?”
“I rather liked Drask. He seemed so cheerful.”
Merros thought about that for a moment and nodded. In comparison to most of his brethren that was true. “Let you in on something. I know for a fact that Drask is carrying something meant for Desh Krohan.”
“I’d hardly call that comforting.”
“I meant what I said before, Wollis. I’m a mercenary, same as you. We served in the Emperor’s army. We did our job. Then we were hired by the Emperor’s advisor for this job. Either way, we’re getting paid. The difference here is that we’re going to be paid much better than we were before.”
His second looked around them, noticed the men on their odd mounts and nodded his head. “Man brings a plague back with him on a ship, he’s still going to have the plague named after him.”
“Alright, that only ever happened once, and none of us has developed any weeping sores since entering the Blasted Lands. Hell, we’re actually on our way out of the Blasted Lands. That already makes us the exception to the rule here.”
“We also met the Pra-Moresh and the fine gentlemen leading us home. Those are exceptions, too.” Wollis looked around for a moment as if making sure that none of the strangers with them could hear him. “And what about Lundt?”
Merros looked away. “What about him? They said they’d try to save him.”
Wollis stared at him. “So they did. We’ve left him in a strange land with strange people, dying or dead for all we know.”
“Aye. And if we’d brought him back, we’d be hauling nothing but his corpse by now and you know it.” He shook his head and felt his teeth clench. “Gods, Wollis, the poor bastard’s face was half torn away. It’s a wonder he’s alive at all. If they can help mend him then I say we let them.”
“And how will we know of it, Captain? How will we know if he’s mended or if he dies?” Wollis’ voice snapped at last, an angry lash of harsh words.
“What choice, Wollis?” He snapped back. Oh, there was guilt, yes, but what could he do? The King in Iron said they’d save the man’s life. While Merros was hardly nobility, he knew well enough that one didn’t exactly decline the offers of kings without risking a swift death or a life in the dungeons. “What would you have done differently?”
Far in the western distances, the Mounds rose from the frozen wastes, misshapen pillars of darkness that rumbled and shuddered and issued sounds somewhere between monstrous and merely terrifying. Closer in, three of their armored escorts looked toward the distant edifices and their hands slid to the closest weapons. Merros felt his own hand reaching for his sword, seeking the cold comfort of steel.
“I don’t know what I would have done differently, Merros. I have no idea. But I know I’m not comfortable with how this has come down.”
Merros thought about leaving one of his soldiers behind in a place where none of them had ever ventured before, where they might never have a chance to venture again, and resisted the urge to spit the foul taste of failure from his mouth. Failure, or the ruined ashes that fell from the blackened skies above; either way he hated the flavor.
“At the current speeds we’re only fifteen days from home. Twenty days from Tyrne. We’ll have our answers soon enough.”
Wollis nodded his head and looked toward home. “And the pay. Don’t forget that part. We’re mercenaries now. It’s all about the gold.”
Wollis slowed his horse a bit before Merros could comment, leaving the captain alone with his thoughts.
They spoke almost constantly as they rode toward the distant Empire, Drask learning the words of a language he’d have never heard had his gods not blessed him with being the first of his kind to meet with the people of Fellein.
The woman before him was tiny, but she spoke with confidence and seemed comfortable enough with him and with his mount. From time to time she leaned down and spoke directly into Brackka’s ear and the great beast rumbled with pleasure each time. Whatever she said, Brackka approved. That was enough for Drask. Tataya spoke of the customs of her people and Drask listened, knowing that it was important he understand the ways of Fellein.
They rode for three days before finally resting. While Brackka was a sturdy beast and a fine companion, even the greatest of the mounts needed time to recover from a great run and they had covered more than half the distance before they stopped. The air here was calmer, the winds less violent and the taint of ash from above milder than anywhere Drask had been when outside of the valley.
Tataya offered him fresh food and water from her satchel. He took both, moving the flask and then the hearty bread under the layers that covered his face. Even as he chewed on the bread, he opened a sealed package of meat and threw it to Brackka, who grumbled a note of thanks and then tore into the feast. What the Fellein called Pra-Moresh was a musky-tasting meat, to be sure, but it was nourishing and layered with enough fat to make the mount happy. Brackka chattered happily as he ate.
Drask ignored the noises and focused on the woman instead. They were decidedly different peoples. They might have come from the same places once, but the thousand years that divided them as surely as the Blasted Lands separated their people had made changes to one or both species. Her skin was soft and pale, her hair was bright red, and her eyes were a color that seemed impossible.
“You hide your face.” Her words were not a question.
“The Daxar Taalor say your kind are not ready to see us yet.”
She nodded her understanding and said no more of it. He admired that. One did not question the gods. “Tell me of the Daxar Taalor.”
“They saved us. When the Cataclysm happened, they came to us and saved us from the great destruction.”
“How?” Her eyes were unusual, to be sure, but he stared at them and found it hard to look away from her.
“According to the legends the ground was shattered. The air burned. The seas boiled away and left behind oceans of molten glass and rivers of ash. And in this great chaos, we would surely have died, but the Hearts of the Gods rose from the destruction and sheltered us from the great storms, from the burning skies and the winds that peeled flesh from bones.”
“How did your people survive before the mountains rose?”
Drask lowered his head. “That
I do not know. The Daxar Taalor have not spoken to me of this.”
“The Daxar Taalor are your gods, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Have you names for them?”
“Of course.” He shrugged. “Durhallem, Ydramil, Wrommish, Paedle, Truska-Pren, Wheklam, and Ordna.”
“Does one god rule all of the gods?”
What bizarre questions she asked. Still, he had been told to answer all questions posed and he saw no reason not to. “We know only what the Daxar Taalor tell us, and they have never spoken of a hierarchy among their kind.”
She reached for his face and he started to pull away. “Drask, you were told you could not show me your face. I do not ask you to show it to me. I merely wish to touch it.” He was hardly a fool. Fingers could see, too, but still, he approved of her unique approach and felt Ydramil would approve as well. For that reason he did not stop her hand from moving under the veil over his face. Her fingers were soft, warm, and perfumed with the faintest scent of exotic flowers. The soft tips felt the contours of his jaw, his nose, his lips, and she stared into his eyes as she touched his face and studied him in ways that none of her kind ever had before. She touched his lips and traced them softly.
“How?” She was not horrified. He had been puzzled when he first saw the strangers; they were… different.
“It is the will of the Daxar Taalor.” He paused while she continued examining and when her fingers moved on, spoke again. “We must speak with their tongues.”
“You are very handsome. You are surely very blessed.”
He removed the gauntlet from his flesh hand and touched her face, her lips, fascinated by the warmth he felt. Her lips kissed the tips of his fingers and she smiled at him with a certain pleasant mischief. The fire was not the only source of warmth that night.
The following morning they rode on, neither speaking of the intimacy they had shared. Instead they spoke of the gift that Drask was bringing for one of the people. “Will it work, do you think?” she asked.
“The Daxar Taalor have willed it. It will work.”
“Will it hurt, do you suppose?”
“Oh yes, a great deal. But the rewards speak for themselves.”
“Your gods are very kind.”
Drask laughed then, the comment catching him off guard.
“That is amusing to you?”
“Lady Tataya, the Daxar Taalor are not kind. They are just. There is a difference.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are gods, Tataya.” His arm slipped around her waist as Brackka started moving faster, running closer to the ground and fairly leaping instead of merely walking. “All gods offer blessings. All gods demand sacrifices. All gods demand a price, yes?”
On the fifth day they left the Blasted Lands, moving through a country that was green and living, the only one he had ever seen outside of the valley. They passed farms and once, in the distance, they passed a city that seemed pale and weak in comparison to the vast cities in the valley. As the air grew warmer, Tataya shed her cloak and after several hours of running time, the heat became great enough for Drask to follow suit. He even removed the helm he normally sported away from home and let the air run through his thick hair.
They stopped that night as well, and rested near a river in the woods. Brackka found his own food to eat in the darkness and the woods around them were silent as the creatures around them sought to adjust to the strangers beneath the canopy of the trees. Tataya offered food again and Drask took it. Brackka did not offer to share and Drask was not foolish enough to ask. The beast was hungry from days of nearly no food and nearly endless running.
Another day of travel and they reached a city that nearly dwarfed the cities of the valley. Drask stared with wide eyes, barely believing that so many could live in one spot.
“This is Tyrne, the capital of Fellein.” Tataya’s voice was a comfort. He had thought himself prepared for almost any sight, but this was altogether a grander scale than Drask had thought possible. Even from a distance he could see the rolling hills of manmade structures, small buildings furthest out, as if they had not yet had a chance to grow to their full height. Closer to the center of the city there were walls and towers and great structures that seemed almost as tall as the Forges themselves.
“Tyrne has been building on itself since before the Cataclysm.” Tataya spoke softly and placed a hand on his forearm. “This is the very heart of the Empire and is much larger than most towns.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“Desh Krohan knows we are coming. He has prepared the way.”
He did not question the fact, but merely accepted it.
“Ride forward and I will tell you where to go.”
Drask nodded and spurred Brackka onward. The mount grunted out a rude noise but obeyed. It was time to offer gifts and forge a new destiny, as ordered by the Daxar Taalor. Drask was many things, but foolish was not among them. When the gods directed, he obeyed. The gods demanded their due and he would pay them as he always had, regardless of what they might cost.
SIX
Little known fact: sometimes wizards do things just because it amuses them. At least they do if their name is Desh Krohan. There were many rumors about the sorcerer, quite a few of which were blatant lies he’d created himself, but one rumor that was true was that he’d been around for centuries. Sometimes that meant he had to find ways to drive away boredom.
When he first met Merros Dulver he hid himself in a thick cloak that he’d created years before. The fabric was as tough as steel and, as an added bonus, the material tended to move of its own volition, leading people to wonder exactly what he looked like under the mantle that covered his head and hid his face in dark shadows. He still liked to wear the robes whenever meeting someone for the first time, because he wanted them to be uncertain about him.
He called the robe to him when Tataya whispered in his mind that they were almost upon him. The great cloak obeyed and wrapped itself to him. He’d just drawn the hood over his head when the flame-haired beauty entered the castle.
Desh watched from his window as his assistant moved through the great hall and led her attendee toward his chambers. While most of the officials in the Empire had their own homes – Desh Krohan had several, actually – the wizard was also the formal Advisor to the Emperor and as such had offices within the castle that were his alone. That hadn’t always been the case, but over the centuries the various rulers of Fellein had realized that having a sorcerer in residence had its benefits, especially when the man in question tended to handle a good number of bothersome issues for them.
Rather than wait for them to come to him. Desh moved out of his chambers and into the main hall, standing at his full height as Tataya brought the first of the Sa’ba Taalor into the Emperor’s offices.
There was no fanfare. Not yet, not at this point. This particular meeting was not exactly clandestine, but neither was it meant to be announced to the general populace.
That was just as well. The man she brought with her was a true terror. A few centuries is long enough a time to let a man know how to read the strangers he meets. Perhaps he could not guess a man’s name, or even that man’s intent without careful study, but Desh could normally judge a man’s mettle with ease. The stranger was enormous to begin with. Drask Silver Hand had, per Tataya’s requests, removed his armor, save for the leather vest and thick leather breeches. He sported a heavy traveling cloak and though he did not brandish them, Desh could see that several weapons were sheathed on his body. He carried a satchel over one shoulder that swayed lightly with his steps, though by the way it moved, Desh suspected it was anything but light. The muscles on the man’s body were hard and rippled like those of a great cat as he walked toward the wizard, and his skin, as had been reported to Desh, bore a gray tint and was crosshatched with scars both thick and fine. Though they had traveled a great distance, Tataya must have taken the time to stop to let both of them clean up properly because th
e man’s thick black hair had been recently washed. The hair fell nearly to his shoulders. His eyes looked everywhere and he studied everything he saw.
Most of the people who first approached the castle were understandably intimidated. The size of the structure, the symbols of office, and the guards who stood throughout the building, all of these things lent an immediate air of authority that cowed most people. That was the purpose, really. In addition to being the seat of the government, the entire structure was designed to hold off armies if it came to that. Nothing about it was meant to be warming so much as it was designed to let all who approached know that the Emperor of all they saw was close by and capable of leading his people. Desh knew all of that because he had helped design the bloody structure.
Drask Silver Hand took it in with a casual glance. Though the stranger’s face was mostly hidden, his eyes showed no sign of being impressed by what he saw. The man’s stance was relaxed, calmer than most who came before Desh or the Emperor. The stranger was about to meet both and didn’t seem the least bit worried about the notion.
And that very fact worried Desh just a little. It went against the norm.
Desh stepped from his office and stood before Tataya and her charge. The man looked at him for a moment and his eyes narrowed a touch as he assessed the potential threat of the man in the shifting cloak. His fingers twitched within their gloves. Desh knew enough to understand that he was checking himself, resisting the urge to reach for a weapon. That was good. The man was properly uncertain of what lay under the dark, heavily shadowed cowl and the fabric that seemed to breathe and shift of its own will. He was not intimidated, no, but he was cautious.
“Desh Krohan, this is Drask Silver Hand of the Sa’ba Taalor, emissary of Tarag Paedori, Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron.” Tataya’s voice was confident and warm and Desh resisted the urge to hug her to him. She was precious, as were all of the women he chose to work with. Instead he stepped back with his left leg and bowed from the waist, holding his arms wide open.
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