The very things he had grown to admire in the Sa’ba Taalor now stood out on his flesh. A series of gray scars on gray skin told the tales of the combats he’d experienced. Not all of them. The battles he’d had in Wheklam’s heart had not left physical marks. They had instead marked his mind. He had fought so many foes that it seemed to him the fear had been pounded from his body. The idea of facing ten men did nothing to make him nervous, merely wary.
The images in the silver walls around him moved of their own volition. They were images of him, to be sure, but he was standing still and they were not. The eyes that looked at him burned with an inner light he was very familiar with. The mouths on his reflected face moved and whispered, but there were no sounds. They were images, not solid beings.
The presence of Ydramil was with him.
One by one the multiple reflections of his body shifted. They took their time and settled in the gray dust that covered the floors of the vast cavern. It only took a moment for Andover to follow their example.
“I offer myself to you, Ydramil, as I have offered myself to all of the Daxar Taalor.”
All of his reflections spoke and this time the words were clear. “You are welcome here, Andover Iron Hands. You and I have much to discuss.”
When the god reached for him Andover fell back and closed his eyes. The impact was greater than he imagined possible.
* * *
The Blasted Lands were calm. The storms no longer raged and the ground was hidden beneath waters that slowly thawed after centuries of constant freezing.
The Mounds were no longer as they had been. Many had fallen completely and collapsed into the crust of the earth though a few still stood in the placid waters.
Three shapes crawled from the tunnel they had all used to gain entrance to the depths of hidden power locked away in the Mounds.
What had been Drask Silver Hand looked toward the Seven Forges for only a moment before turning and heading for the Temmis Pass. The others followed in silence.
Where they walked, the waters boiled.
* * *
For seven hours the Sa’ba Taalor gathered. At each of the sealed gates the armies grew until Canhoon was surrounded by an army as large as any seen in a dozen lifetimes.
At the end of that time the King in Iron made a gesture and the ranks closest to him called out with their horns – long, ululating notes that echoed from the distant foothills and bounced back to crash along the solemn stone barrier that held the armies at bay.
From all sides the other gathered armies made their calls, until the sound was very nearly as loud as thunder pealing across the whole of the city.
And then the noise stopped.
Desh Krohan watched and felt a shiver run through him.
There were so many of the enemy and he could not do what he had done before from this range. It was likely that if he tried he could eliminate most of the army, but not without a cost that he was not willing to pay.
He had eventually made his way back to Nachia’s side as she stood in her tower and looked out on the vast armies gathered at the edge of the city, unwilling to rest for now. Instead she paced slowly around the cylindrical room and absorbed the sheer volume of enemies ranked together and held back by little more than a series of walls she knew would fall before their collected might.
Desh knew she considered asking him to strike against the enemy again. She considered it, but did not ask.
He was grateful for that small blessing. His answer would have been the same and that might well have ended the friendship and trust he had spent years cultivating with the new Empress.
Merros Dulver wrote messages and handed them to runners. The runners returned with other messages. Some reports were inconsequential. No one had attacked yet, but they would.
“Should we destroy the bridges between the first and second walls?” Merros sounded so very tired. Desh understood all too well.
Nachia shook her head. “No. There are too many of my people who need those bridges. Have soldiers ready to defend them. Have archers waiting.”
Desh looked up. “I have seven sorcerers ready to destroy the bridges if the command is given, Majesty. They await only your command and nothing less.”
She nodded her head. Stone walls and brick roads could be destroyed with far more ease than a troop of soldiers that moved. He had explained the reasons to her before. Preparation made a difference. The bridges could be marked, and had been. Each sorcerer would only attack a single bridge if it came to that. Each bridge would be shattered and anything standing on it or near it would be destroyed as well.
“Desh, what do you know of a Silent Army?”
He looked to the general with a surprised expression. “The Silent Army? They were raised once upon a time to stop the enemies of Fellein. It took more power than you could understand, Merros. More than the remaining sorcerers could muster, I think. And it required sacrifices.”
Merros scowled and walked to the window closest to him. After a moment he moved to the next window and studied the ground far below.
“What sort of sacrifices?”
“Power has to come from somewhere. The events that led to raising the Silent Army included a good number of deaths, and the use of necromancy to focus that power. I have told you before that necromancy is forbidden. There is a reason.”
“Desh, earlier today I saw a gathering of madmen throw themselves off the Mid Wall. They cut their own throats and dropped to the ground before my eyes, and they claimed that they were offering themselves to the gods.”
Desh frowned at him.
“Desh, they said the Silent Army was coming and not to stand in their way.”
“That seems a rather significant thing to overlook telling me, Merros.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Why didn’t you mention this earlier, General?” There was frost in his voice that he could not prevent.
Merros shook his head. “I’ve been a bit busy today, First Advisor.” There was heat in the general’s voice.
Nachia calmed them both. “Enough. War. We have a war to win.”
“Why are you mentioning the Silent Army?” Desh moved past the general and looked out the window. At the closest wall, the Great Wall as it was often called, the situation looked unchanged. At the New Wall, the barrier that currently kept the Sa’ba Taalor at bay, the same was true. But at the Mid Wall, something was different. The wall was a great distance away, but Desh Krohan’s eyes were still as sharp as ever.
In perfect formation shapes stood atop the wall and looked out toward the New Wall or possibly beyond.
“By the gods, could we be that fortunate?” His voice cracked like a young boy’s.
Nachia shook her head. “What are you prattling on about, old man?”
Desh’s smile grew. “The Silent Army! Nachia! The Silent Army is here! I don’t even begin to know how that’s possible but they are here as they were before. I can’t say they’ll win against the Sa’ba Taalor, but they could damned well change the tide of the coming battle.”
Nachia did not speak, but instead moved to the window and squinted down toward the city below. Desh pointed until she saw them and she studied the shapes.
“Why don’t they move?”
“I don’t know. I would think they’d protect Canhoon as they did in the past.”
It was Nachia who thought of it first. “How long in the past, Desh?”
“Five hundred years, at least. Longer, probably. I can’t remember that far back.” He waved the question aside as if it were a house fly buzzing by his face.
“Desh, Canhoon was smaller then. So much smaller. The Mid Wall was raised when the city nearly fell. You’re the one that told me that.”
“Well, that could be an issue.”
“What do you mean?”
“They might not understand that what is beyond that wall should be defended.”
Nachia looked out the window again and then shook her head. “Maybe
you could explain that to them?”
“I don’t know that they’ll much care to talk to me, actually.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you say that you made them?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t exactly ask their permission.” He looked out the window at the unmoving forms along the Mid Wall. “They might still be holding a grudge.”
“Still? What do you mean?”
Before he could answer the horns sounded again. One short burst and then two more and in fast succession.
And as the last note sounded, the Sa’ba Taalor attacked.
* * *
On the first note the dead stopped their endless pounding at the doors, as if suddenly understanding that they had no impact. Several had broken, battered limbs but could feel no pain and suffered not at all.
On the second note the dead moved into position. Those closest to the wall took a dozen strides away from the wall and fell to the ground, lying prone. Those closest to them fell atop their bodies, covering them with their mass. Layer after layer, the dead at the Western Gate fell upon their brethren, until the corpses had to climb to find a new resting place.
On the third note, the dead that could do so clutched at the bodies closest to them and held tight.
Tarag Paedori looked upon the mountainous hill of the dead and nodded, satisfied.
Kallir Lundt, next to him, nodded as well and felt his blood roar.
The King in Iron wore a great suit of iron armor and a helmet that covered all of his head. His face was uncovered most times, but now he lowered the great mask of Truska-Pren over his visage. The god’s face glowered at all who saw the king, and deep within the sockets of the mask the glow of Tarag Paedori’s eyes was clear.
With a single wave of his hand the Sa’ba Taalor who rode their mounts moved forward. The great beasts ran, building up speed, and the foot soldiers before them hastily moved out of their way. Several hundred bodies lay before them, a ramp to help them gain access to the top of the wall meant to deter them.
The King in Iron was the first to make the walkway at the crest. The great beast under him clawed at the edge of the stone lip and found purchase, pulling both its own bulk and that of its giant rider to the top with ease. As soon as he had regained his balance Tarag Paedori started looking for his access to the ground on the other side.
There were guards upon the wall. They’d been watching as the dead fell to the ground and they’d been watching as the King in Iron and his riders climbed that mountain of flesh.
Most of them stayed to fight as Tarag Paedori came for them. The sword he drew was a brutal thing, heavy enough to crush bone and bend armor with ease. He carried it the same way and used it without hesitation, sweeping the foolish aside with each strike. Some died and others merely broke, but none of them mattered.
His sole concern was gaining the ground on the far side of the stone barrier and getting to the gate.
The guards before him fought. Archers grabbed bows and tried to place arrows in his body, but the armor he wore was thick, solid and well crafted by his own hand and the missiles could find no purchase there. Those that found his blood-red cloak and black tunic made it no further, but the sight of them sticking though the heavy fabric left more than one archer doubting that the man was killable.
He let them worry instead about his ability to kill. Pordra, his mount, roared and charged and tore into anything before them. Tarag smiled grimly under his helmet and cut down anything the beast could not reach, until, finally, the great gate stood before him. A series of pulleys and levers were needed to close the monstrous barrier. Once sealed it was simple to lock the barrier into a sealed position. The mechanism was old but well-tended and Tarag admired its craftsmanship for a moment before unlocking the heavy chains from where they were anchored.
Coils of metallic chains sang as they unrolled back to their usual position. The vast doors, sealed and locked for the first time in decades, groaned and rumbled as they pulled apart and slid away into the tracks that had been designed to accommodate them.
Once the task was finished, Tarag Paedori drew the heavy hammer from his side and destroyed the antique tracks and pulleys, ensuring they would never work again.
“To me! Come to me and kill them all!” He roared his command and was rewarded with a hundred battle cries as his people came forward.
As he turned to charge one man stood before him.
He was dressed in full armor of his own and had even managed a helmet.
“Face me, King in Iron!”
Tarag lifted his faceplate for a moment to study the man. He was of average size and he carried a sword with skilled hands. He was also trembling, terrified, but he stood his ground before the king.
He challenged the king.
“What is your name and who are you to challenge me?”
The man lifted the plate on his helmet and revealed a weathered, sweating face. “I am Captain Mendre Tinner of the Imperial Guard. This is my gate and you’ll not pass beyond this point without facing me.”
The man’s voice shook. Still, he stood his ground.
“What weapons do you choose, Captain Mendre Tinner?” Tarag spoke calmly, while his soldiers formed behind him and slowly, carefully, the ranks of the soldiers serving the Fellein gathered behind their captain.
“Come again?”
“What weapons? Sword? Axe? Bare hands? What weapon would you use to face me in singular combat?”
He looked from his sword to the monstrous blade in Tarag’s hand. “Any weapon?”
“I am Tarag Paedori, the King in Iron and Chosen of the Forge of Truska-Pren. You have challenged me to singular combat, yes?”
The man looked around, nervous, but hopeful. Here, he understood, was a chance to save his people.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“If I win this combat, you die and forfeit your claim to this gate. If you win this combat, my people turn from your city and do not return.” He paused. “Agreed?”
“Yes, by all the gods, yes!” The fear was less now. Hope was a powerful weapon in its own right.
“By all the gods? No. By Truska-Pren. You have challenged. I offer you the choice of weapons. What will you choose?”
Around them, behind the king, the Sa’ba Taalor moved along the wall, their mounts spreading out for a substantial distance, all of the riders looking down on the challenger and the challenged.
“Fists!”
Tarag nodded his head. “Do you wish to wear armor? Or will we go bare fleshed?”
The man considered carefully, as well he should. Without armor he could move faster. So, too, could the king. Without armor, his blows would do more damage. So, too, the king. Armor would let him absorb some of the blows the king offered and would protect the king from him as well.
“Armored!”
Tarag Paedori nodded. “You have offered honorable combat. I accept. Should any of your followers attack during this time, my people will return the favor. So long as your followers remain outside the fight, my people will as well. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Tarag Paedori climbed down from his mount and moved to stand in front of the captain of the guard.
Tinner stared at him, gaped, took in his full size and realized that he would be fighting a man who outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, likely more.
“You are reconsidering the use of weapons?”
Tinner looked him up and down and nodded, likely not even aware of the action. “I am reconsidering my challenge. You are… large.”
“You may choose a weapon and I will follow suit.”
Several of the Fellein were following him, their eyes on his body and a few had crossbows aimed at him.
He spoke up. “Should any Fellein fire a weapon at me or mine this truce is done and I’ll see all here dead. Do you understand me?”
The crossbows lowered a bit. Some still stayed aimed his way, but without the same focus.
“I… Swords.
I choose swords.” Tinner’s voice shook again.
“That is wise. A good sword could kill me.”
Tarag Paedori walked back to Pordra and considered several different swords. He finally decided the one he carried would suffice.
His faceplate was placed back over his face. Truska-Pren once more glared down at his enemies.
Captain Mendre Tinner looked at him for a moment and took a combat stance. He was substantially smaller than Tarag, but the King in Iron had long since learned that size was not the only strength in a warrior. His armor was lighter, he was possibly faster, his skills were untested and might prove substantial.
“When you are ready, Captain Mendre Tinner, come for me.”
The captain came in hard, swinging his sword to aim for the throat. A wise choice as many people left their necks vulnerable.
The sword in his right hand swept to block the captain’s blow, knocking the weapon to the side, and he drove his left fist into his enemy’s helmeted head, knocking the helmet askew.
Tarag Paedori had forged his own armor, his own helmet, and had designed them to fit perfectly. They were not loose, because armor that moved in the wrong ways offered no protection.
The helmet on Tinner’s head was not designed for him. Whether it was a trophy or simply belonged to another the king could not say, but it was loose and the impact rattled the captain’s head inside it.
He had accepted a formal challenge and had no intention of playing kindly with his enemy.
Tarag Paedori pivoted on his hip and, as Tinner tried to adjust the helmet, he drove his elbow into the man’s head and face and sent him staggering back.
His blade cut through the captain’s chest and the armor over it. The blow was meant to kill but the armor was good enough to slow it. Tinner grunted and fell to his knees, his helmet nearly sideways on his head and a great rend in his chest plate and his chest alike. Blood flowed heavily.
Tarag kicked the man in his chest and knocked him sprawling.
City of Wonders Page 29