The impact, however, was immediate and on a few occasions violent.
Pathra Krous was dead. By rights his successor had to be chosen and Pathra Krous had already made accommodations to that end. He had carefully groomed his cousin, Nachia, to take over upon his death. Heartbroken though she was, she knew that she would have to assume the mantle of Empress.
There were matters that had to be taken care of, naturally. The death of an emperor is as serious an affair as a coronation. Messengers had to be sent out, officials throughout Fellein had to be prepared for the changes that would be coming their way, and regardless of all of the paperwork, all of the endless details, life had to continue on and daily events had to be handled.
Desh Krohan knew all about that sort of thing. He was extremely helpful in making arrangements. There were letters of instruction from Pathra Krous himself, details about the funeral services he wished taken care of, and details on how to handle the transition from his reign as Emperor to Nachia’s ascension to the throne. A great deal of the work that Nachia had ahead of her had already been mapped out, not only by the sorcerer but by her deceased cousin.
It should have made her life easier, but it did not.
First, there was the disaster that had come about almost at the same moment that her cousin was murdered. The Guntha were gone. Decimated by a volcanic eruption. The seas to the west of Roathes were raging with storms and the kingdom was beset by disaster after catastrophe. Great clouds of ash were coming from where the Guntha had once been and drifting across the shoreline of Roathes, coating everything in gray waste. The people were falling ill to the toxic air that carried those ashes, and while not everyone was affected, enough were to make the matter urgent. Whatever falsehood may have existed in previous claims, the fact of the matter was simply that the small kingdom now needed the assistance of the Empire and that assistance could not be ignored.
The stories of exactly what had happened to the Emperor were uncontrollable and made worse simply because no one knew much, aside from the fact that he had been murdered. That could not be denied, really. And the rumors were growing by the day.
And then there was Laister Krous. Laister, another cousin, who was even now making noises about exactly who should be ascending to the throne in the immediate future.
Desh Krohan was not amused by the man’s presence.
That did not change the fact that the man demanded to be heard. Laister and several of his family members gathered together and glowered as menacingly as they could manage at the sorcerer. Despite their best efforts, he remained unintimidated.
“My claim is legitimate.” Laister sucked in his gut and squared his shoulders, perhaps in an effort to somehow look even larger. It didn’t change much of his physical appearance. Laister was a large man, and in his time he’d been an accomplished swordsman. Likely he was as skilled as ever, but not quite as fast. Too many years of rich foods and sweet wines had taken their toll on his physique.
“Indeed it is. Your claim is quite legitimate. You have a right to state your case and I have listened very carefully. And I have considered your words. And now that I have, the decision remains unchanged. Pathra Krous made very clear that Nachia Krous, your cousin, was the rightful claimant to the throne. He wrote it down, he signed his declarations. He told me personally on a dozen different occasions. I have borne witness to his desires and I have agreed to follow them.”
“Well, yes, but I don’t agree with them.” Laister crossed his arms and scowled some more. Really, it was likely a very good tactic for him in most circumstances. Just not now.
“Yes, you made that clear, as did your mother, your father, your sister, and your most recent consort. However, as Regent, as First Advisor to the Throne of Fellein, as Council to the Emperor for the last few hundred years, I am afraid that I have just a bit more authority than you do in this situation, and I have to respectfully decline your desires to be the new Emperor.”
Laister looked at the gathering of people who had come with him to show their support and leaned in closer to his sister. Danieca was a bloated lump, but she carried a surprising amount of support. Also, though he wasn’t present, there was Towdra Krous to consider. Towdra had his hands in everything and he could, potentially, cause troubles.
Of course, Desh could, potentially, wipe out every last one of them. That was the sort of fact that made most of them behave to a very real extent.
When they had finished whispering among themselves, Laister looked at Desh with a nearly desperate hope. “I don’t suppose the right to challenge is still on the books?”
“Blood duel? No. I had that particular law stricken three generations back.” He waved a hand. “Really, it would hardly matter. Even if Nachia couldn’t fight you herself, she’d just choose a champion.”
“Really.” Laister planted his broad hands on his hips. “And who do you suppose she’d choose? Brolley?”
“Probably she’d choose me.” Desh crossed his arms and stared past the shadows of his hood.
“Oh.” That seemed to take a bit of the arrogance from the man’s stature.
“Your cousin Nachia will ascend to the throne within the week. First we take care of the funeral. I know it isn’t to your liking, but it will happen, Laister.”
The group made more noises, but ultimately left the offices that Pathra had occupied.
Desh shook his head and leaned back in the chair where he had often sat across from the man. He would not, at any point, willingly sit on the throne. That was not a position he wanted.
Tataya slipped closer to him. “Do you think they will be trouble?”
“Of course they will.” He sighed. “It’s what Laister likes to do. Without Pathra around, he will likely do everything he can to cause issues.”
“Why do you allow it?”
“I don’t allow anything. I’m nothing but an advisor.”
Tataya snorted.
He ignored the derisive noise.
There was still a lot to be done.
There was always a lot to be done.
Desh would have denied how much he enjoyed the troubling times, but those few who knew him best understood that his protests were hollow.
Some people thrive on chaos, even when they choose not to generate it.
Merros shook his head and looked at the ranks of soldiers. “We’re missing a few hundred people aren’t we, Wollis?”
“Well, not really. No. They were sent out.”
“Who were sent out and exactly who sent them? Also, where were they sent?”
Wollis looked around the Western Field and gestured. “General Hradi sent the First Imperials to bring the Sa’ba Taalor back to Tyrne.” He spoke very softly, as if, perhaps, by keeping a level head he could will Merros to do the same.
“He did what?”
“I’m not repeating myself, Merros.”
“Hradi did that?” Merros had met the older man for the first time the day he was promoted. The meeting had not gone well. Apparently the general did not agree with retired captains being promoted to the rank of general without any warning. Really, Merros could hardly blame the man. He was having trouble with it himself and he was the one who’d been promoted.
“He is the actual head of the army, you know. He has that authority.”
“Well, yes, but still.” Merros looked around the field and shook his head. “What was he thinking?”
“I should suppose he was thinking that the strangers might be responsible for the murder of the Emperor. Someone has to check on these things.”
“Well that’s just fine, but I suppose there are procedures that should be followed for this sort of thing.”
“I’m not sure about any of that.” The tone of voice Wollis used added a silent subtext about merely being a soldier. Merros understood the sentiment automatically, but, of course, these days that wasn’t exactly true for him.
He looked over the troops and continued to speak softly, not wanting to cause any undue al
arm. “Has anyone told Krohan about this?”
“I have no bloody idea. Maybe Hradi did.”
Merros looked at his second. “Do you suppose I could get that lucky?”
“Not remotely.”
“How do you think the Regent of the Empire will react to the news?”
Wollis stared his way for a moment and then looked at the ranks of troops that had gathered for inspection. They were looking a bit better, what with the uniforms being worn properly and the inclusion of proper armor. They were looking a bit more like an army, really. “You’ve heard about the situation in Roathes?”
“The volcano? Of course.”
Wollis kept his face calm and expressionless and Merros had to wonder if the man was joking when he spoke. “I’ve heard a few people say that the eruption occurred at exactly the moment he heard about the Emperor’s assassination.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, that’s what I’ve heard. If it’s true, he might not react well to a few hundred soldiers being sent off to drag back the Sa’ba Taalor and accuse them of murdering the Emperor.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I should go have a chat with our employer.”
“What about the troops?”
“Have them practice some more. I suspect they’re going to need it if Hradi causes an incident.”
“If?”
“I’m trying to be optimistic, Wollis. Let me have my delusions.”
“I always do.”
Four days out, the cold became a vicious, living thing, and the air grew bitter and chalky. The first part of the journey had been comfortable, but this? This was a special little assortment of discomforts. Every part of his body ached. Not just his legs, which he would have expected with the amount of walking he was doing, but everything. Andover Lashk moved forward, one step at a time, his eyes squinted against the wind and the grit and the endless damned dust.
The bad part? They weren’t even in the Blasted Lands proper as yet. Merely on the outskirts. The temperature had been rising when he left Tyrne, but here where the ruined lands met up with the Empire, the temperatures were colder and the sky was already constantly dark. And he was beginning to understand the veils that the people he traveled with wore. He’d taken to doing the exact same thing.
The caravan was gone. They’d already moved on into the Blasted Lands proper and now there was only him, Drask, Delil, and Bromt. None of the great beasts were with them at the moment, though he suspected that could change with as little as a call out from Drask, who sent the great animal of his off without a rider when they left the main group. Exactly how intelligent the creatures were he had not yet determined, but he had suspicions.
They carried everything they needed as far as Drask was concerned, and apparently that was the end of the discussion. The others listened to the man without question, and Andover suspected that if he wanted to live to see the Seven Forges he would do well to follow their lead.
Their days were already starting to take on a certain routine. They rose when the meager light of the sun punched through the clouds, then broke down their camp, and began walking. When they had walked for a while, Drask or one of the others, under his command, would begin the instructions for the day. Most of the time the practice with his hammer or with the bow was done while they were walking, because, in the words of Drask, “The world does not wait for you to be ready to engage in combat and therefore you must simply always be ready.”
The Sa’ba Taalor were always ready, it seemed. How did he know? One had merely to look at them. The three that were traveling with him had changed as they moved toward the Blasted Lands, seemingly growing layers of fur and armor as they walked. All three sported helmets now, and armor and cloaks of fur and hide that hid most of their bodies away and simultaneously sheltered them from the worst of the constant winds. Each bore easily thirty or more pounds of additional garb plus their weapons and supplies and carried the weight without noticeable effort. In comparison he barely seemed to carry anything. Andover had thought the clothes being selected for him were excessive when he started the trek, but now he knew better. Drask had made him take the heavy fur-lined cloak that had been provided and now he was grateful for the extra weight.
The hammer was a different beast. He had adjusted to carrying the excess weight strapped to his back by a thick leather brace Delil had helped him put together on their second night, when they were done setting camp. Now it rested comfortably enough against him, and with practice he’d learned how to unsling it in a hurry. Once again Delil helped with that. She kept coming at him until he got very good at defending himself.
He was also damned hungry. That was almost a constant thing. They carried a few provisions, but mostly they intended to hunt for game out in the Blasted Lands. That seemed impossible, of course. As far as Andover could tell, there was nothing to eat in the entire area, nothing to eat and nothing to hunt, unless one decided to hunt the shifting clouds of dust that filled the air, or the ice that pelted them from time to time.
Delil stepped closer to him and tapped his shoulder. She seemed nearly alien with the helmet over her face, shielding her head. Little but her eyes could be clearly distinguished in the semidarkness. He looked her way and she pointed. “There are riders coming this way. Do they wear the markings of your people?”
He scanned the horizon and after a moment saw the shadowed forms coming through the haze of dust and sleet. He couldn’t make out any standards and told her so.
She nodded and jogged forward to speak to Drask, who looked even less human than Delil did in the perpetual twilight. The horns on his helmet and the heavy cloak that swam around his shoulders brought to mind a few of Andover’s least favorite childhood nightmares.
Drask stared at the column of horsemen and considered them carefully, not speaking for a long while. Finally he shook his head. “We will not meet with them.”
Andover was surprised by the decision. “Why not?”
Drask turned to face him. “You are not ready yet.”
“You think I’ll run to them and ask for aid? Ask for safety?”
“You are not ready yet. That is enough.” Drask pointed at the group moving past them. “They follow the caravan’s path. They are interested in Tuskandru and the rest.”
“Then shouldn’t you see what they want?”
Drask shook his head. “No. We are here to help you learn. That is all.”
Andover sighed and then turned away from Drask. One foot forward and then the other. One step after the next. More than that was more than he wanted to think.
A short time later, after the riders had vanished from sight, Bromt approached him and distracted him from his walking. “You and me, we go hunting now.”
“Hunting for what?”
“Dinner.”
“I mean, hunting for what? What is there to eat out here but dust?”
Bromt laughed as if hearing a delightful joke, and punched him lightly in the arm. “Come on then! Let’s go find out.”
Andover turned to see what the others were up to, but they were gone.
“Where are they? How will we find the others when we’re done?”
“We will find them. I’ll show you how.”
There was nothing else to say, really. Andover learned his first lessons about hunting in the Blasted Lands. There was bloodshed long before the hunt was finished.
Tuskandru watched the riders coming and finally decided that they would wait for the soldiers who seemed so determined to catch up with them. While they waited, he checked the wagons that were being drawn along and most importantly, he met up with the sorcerer’s apprentice. The girl, Tega, looked at him for a long moment after answering his knock.
“Yes?” Her eyes were very wide in her face. She stared up at him as if he might suddenly lean down at take a bite from her face, but still she stood her ground. He liked that. The boy, Andover, was easier to startle. The walking trip would either make him a fighter or it would kill him. Until th
e Daxar Taalor decided, he was no longer the king’s concern.
The approaching army was.
And to that end, he spoke to the girl with the frightened eyes. “There are soldiers from Fellein coming. I would ask that you stand with me and translate. I do not wish to cause an incident.”
She looked back the way they had come and stared at the dark forms moving closer. They rode in close ranks, four horses deep, a good number of them carrying horseman’s pikes. Though the likelihood of being attacked by the Pra-Moresh was small, the soldiers seemed as prepared as they could be. That or, just as likely, they were expecting troubles from the Sa’ba Taalor.
“Yes, of course. I will assist gladly.”
The Sisters had opened a language door between Merros Dulver and Drask Silver Hand. The apprentice and the king did not share that luxury. While Tega could manage to speak the Old Tongue derivative of the people she traveled with, her limited abilities didn’t allow her the same sort of skill that the Sisters had used. She could merely translate, not fix the situation.
The riders came closer and Tusk stood his ground next to her wagon. As the column came closer, he called out in a language she was not familiar with – the same one the Sa’ba Taalor used to speak to their animals – and his people responded. Several of them moved closer. The rest stayed where they were, but Tega could see them reacting, some checking their weapons, others actively preparing arrows and settling their bows across the broad shoulders of their mounts. Had she not been looking she would have missed many of the actions.
The first riders were directed to Tusk by one of the Sa’ba Taalor; Tega had no idea what the man’s name was, but she could barely recognize any of the people she rode with. Somewhere along the way they had begun sporting their armor and that completely changed their appearance. They had seemed odd but friendly enough in the palace. Now they seemed different, far more dangerous – even the ones who had made no actions to worry anyone.
Seven Forges Page 29