Just as well; it would have been a challenge to haul all the corpses without them.
Morne and Verden sat across from each other at a makeshift table and ate as they studied the maps. The food was standard rations. Nothing within the city was to be eaten, in case it might carry madness. A dozen teams had already gone out and retrieved barrels of water for men and horses alike. The maps were likely not accurate, but they would do in a pinch.
“We’re to take Torema.” Verden sounded a bit surprised by that every single time he said the words, and he had uttered them a dozen times.
“Torema is just a city, same as any other,” Morne replied. It was a lie and they both knew it. The city was not like others. It was a massive, sprawling port. Worse, it was populated by the exact sort of people who would fight for what was theirs with everything they had.
Most places, an army showed up and the locals were likely to just surrender, especially in smaller towns. Most people weren’t fighters. They might beat their chests and talk of how they would fight, but it wasn’t true. Most of them took one look at an invader and offered no resistance, because most people didn’t care as long as they were left alone.
That was one of the tricks that they’d learned from King Parrish. The smaller cities around his country had surrendered long ago for that very reason. A ruler could demand an army, but an army made up of farmers who needed to tend their crops tended to ignore the call to arms.
Parrish said he’d made it a point to never attack a village. They just rode past and concentrated on the capital cities. As a result Mentath was the largest country in the five kingdoms. The smaller areas around them, the ones that were settled but until Parrish had no true rulers, had been swallowed over the last two decades. The sole exception was Stennis Brae, which was the proving ground of all of Parrish’s later attacks. His first mistake, and he admitted it, was attacking the smaller areas and claiming them as his own. Those that were killed could not fight back, but towns nearby could and did. And they fought hard.
“We’ve no choice. It’s what Parrish wants. It’s what Theragyn demands.”
“This…” Verden gestured around them. “This was easy. No one fights well if they’ve lost their senses. Torema is different. You know that, Morne.”
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To help decide the best way to attack?” Cantin Hallsy had sent his best officers to different areas to consider the maps and what strategies might work to cover the area. The captain had his own ideas, but he also liked to ask those under him to suggest the best methods of attack. They were well trained and the exercise made them better. There was a chain of command and they’d follow it, but even the captain understood that Marked or not, they were not indestructible. They were just good at their jobs. Always best to make the troops better.
Always best to be prepared if Hallsy got himself killed.
“I’m thinking fire.” Morne ran her finger along the northern edge of the city on the map. “Winds from the storm front might well help the blaze run down the hills.”
“I’m not sure if the storm front will do it. The breeze from the ocean in Torema is always strong.”
“Well, I like the idea of a fire to soften them. We have oil.” She gestured to the stacks of supplies they’d already taken from the city. Nothing edible, but there were always other things. “We hardly need to waste any effort. Crack the barrels and drop a torch or two, then retreat.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
“Yes, I know, the wind, but there are hills that should block at least a part of that sea breeze of yours, and they’ll help hide the attack until the blaze is going strong.”
A large and rather heavy bell rang four times in the distance. Too many people used horns. The bell was their alarm in case anything unexpected happened, like an army coming along.
They were not that lucky.
The shapes dropped from the skies and landed near the command tents. Captain Hallsy had unwanted guests. A quick gesture was all it took and both of them headed for the command tents, with a score of Marked Men following along.
The argument had started well before they got there.
One thing to hear about them. Another to see. The Undying were nightmares made flesh and they stood apart from each other, each looking around at the surrounding soldiers. All save one, who stood before the captain.
Hallsy looked understandably nervous, but he didn’t back down.
“We were asked by King Opar to take back his city, he said nothing of ‘tribulations,’ and he certainly didn’t tell us the city was off limits by decree of the Undying.”
The thing gestured with one taloned hand and Morne looked at the long claws, imagining that they’d rend flesh with ease.
“King Opar will be punished for his insolence.” The thing moved closer to Hallsy, who stayed his ground but with noticeable effort.
“Well then, if you’d like we can leave straightaway.”
“You no longer follow the gods.” The words were a statement.
“We have always obeyed the laws of the gods. Mentath has kept with sacrifices and all demands.”
“You are ‘Marked,’ with the words of the demon Theragyn.”
“As our king commands.”
The Undying came closer still, until the hood of the thing was inches from Hallsy’s face. Hallsy stared with wide eyes, but did not retreat.
“Your king has broken with the gods. You have broken with the gods. Those who walk with demons are subject to the same treatment.”
“You would lock us away? Where?”
Captain Cantin Hallsy made a single gesture with his hand. It was a silent command that the man had never once used in his long command. He demanded that his troops retreat.
Morne did not question, but obeyed.
She repeated the gesture to her followers and they turned on their heels and moved with her, back into the darkness, and toward the northern gate of the city. It was the closest of the gates and, just as importantly, it was open.
By the time she had reached her tent the screams had begun. She dared not look back, and she didn’t need to. She knew the sound of Hallsy’s voice, had heard him give countless commands. Whatever it was the Undying did to him, it brought out a sound she would never have expected and would likely never forget.
The horses had no gear but their bridles and that hardly mattered. Saddles were nice, but could be replaced. It took an effort, but she managed to climb on the charger’s back and then headed for the gate at a hard run. The horse obeyed.
The sky was cloudy, but both moons shone down. Emila was full and Harlea was close. There was enough light to let her see the shadow of something descending from above.
One of the Undying hovered in the air above the northern gates, and the horse that was so very well trained looked at the thing and reared back, slowing to a halt. She was lucky she kept herself seated on the beast’s back. Several of the men behind her were not as fortunate.
There was a pit of shadows where a face should have been. The great cloak of the beast was open and shivered in a breeze that she felt blow across her body as she moved toward the thing.
“I will spare you the pain of trying to leave,” it said. “The gods have made their punishment known. You are bound to the city you sought to cleanse of the gods and their influence.”
“What do you mean?”
The voice was cold, detached. “The gods have spared your lives, as your captain requested. But you may not leave the city of Edinrun. Your fate is that of the demon you serve. You are removed from this world.”
Morne shook her head and sent her horse forward. It hesitated, but she insisted and finally the stubborn gelding moved, treading at a light trot until it reached the open gates.
The horse stopped when its muzzle pushed against something.
Morne did not hesitate. She urged the horse to turn and then reached her hand out to the open gate. Her hand touched a barrier that was not there. She pushe
d, hard, and almost unseated herself. Behind her one of the Marked Men took a chance and fired an arrow at the gate. The missile slid through the opening effortlessly.
Morne hit the air and felt the impact run up her arm to her elbow.
The Undying spoke. “The gods are merciful in their way. Edinrun is safe from storm and wind, the madness has been lifted. You will remain here as your world begins to collapse.”
“What do you mean?”
The head under that hood tilted to the left and the voice that came out had an edge of humor she did not like. “Am I not clear? You suffer the same fate as your demon lord. You are no longer a part of the world. You are separate. You will live here. You cannot leave.” Without another word it moved, sliding backward on the breeze until it slipped past the gate and then rose on the air, unfettered, free of whatever barrier locked Morne into the city they’d cleared.
Morne did not panic. Panic was for the weak, and so she suppressed the tremble that worried her guts. Nothing was written in stone, not yet at least.
Still, she thought as she touched the air that would not yield to her, this is a problem that will require work.
Beron
They came at night, and they attacked with fury.
The hounds cut loose with an unholy racket, and Beron cursed under his breath. He’d just, finally, managed to wander into a proper sleep and now the damned things were starting up. He could not ignore them. That would be foolish. They were well trained to behave themselves.
He crawled from his bedroll and rearranged his cloak around his shoulders. A moment later he was out of the tent and staring into the night.
That was when he heard the screams of people.
“What’s happening?” He asked the question of the cloaked shape next to him. One of his two remaining servants. It had come back with one straggler from the list of men wanted by the Mentath.
Ahbra-Sede replied, “There are hounds circling the camp. They have started attacking.”
“How many, do you know?”
“At least forty.”
He scowled at the thing. “Get rid of them.”
The hooded shape nodded and then rose into the air. As it rose, more of the vile bugs that filled it fell free and skittered into the snow. Beron made sure to avoid getting near the things. They were unsettling at best.
Beron let out a piercing whistle and waited as more of the men came from their tents. He’d have a chat with them soon. They should have been out with him when the dogs started their noise. Instead they stayed in their beds and pretended not to hear, or worse, actually failed to hear the sounds.
The arrow caught him in the meat of his shoulder and Beron let out a roar. He pulled it free easily enough. It was not barbed and he was grateful for that. Still, close enough that a few inches and it would have been buried in his neck.
Spear and sword. He dropped into a crouch and began moving. He would find out who was responsible and he would make them pay.
The colors showed up easily enough and Beron felt his heart sink. Stennis Brae. The bastards had come for him and his prisoners again. Surely they would be better prepared this time.
The hound that came at him was proof of that. It was a brute, four feet at the shoulder and moving too fast for him to see much beyond the teeth in that face.
The spear came around and he thrust, and the bastard moved out of the way. A second later the teeth he’d seen were buried in the meat of his calf and Beron bit back a shriek of pain and focused on killing the damned mutt. Flesh and meat tore in his leg and his spear came down on top of the mongrel, driving through the body and pinning the damned thing to the ground.
It let go of his leg as it died, and Beron gasped at the pain. He was bleeding and badly.
Another hound came for him but his own pet took care of it. The black-garbed thing caught the dog in its claws and hurled it into the air as easily as Beron would throw an apple. The hounds were everywhere and his own were penned up. He could hear them barking and growling in the distance.
Beron limped for the pens. Maybe they could even the odds.
Another arrow hissed past him and Beron turned to look back. The soldiers were prepared this time, and they intended to take what they wanted from the slavers. Beron disagreed and meant to show them they were wrong.
One of his men called out to him, but whatever he meant to say was stopped by the arrow that pierced his lung. The man went down, grimacing.
The sword and spear gave him confidence, but that didn’t stop his shoulder from bleeding and didn’t take away from the blood flowing freely down his leg.
He didn’t see the arrow, but he felt it. His cloak took the worst of the damage, thank Ariah, but the tip still settled like a fire against his left shoulder blade. Another stuck in his thigh and left the slaver terrified about his survival.
Give him a sword and he’d match anyone. Arrows were a cheat.
His cloaked monster came to his rescue, moving behind him and spreading its wings, letting the arrows hit it instead of him. He moved faster to get them where they needed to be. All around him others were fighting or dying. The hounds were everywhere and they were savage. One of his men went down with two hundred pounds of war dog ripping his throat away. When it was done it charged at someone else, but thankfully not toward Beron.
Fast-moving black shapes skittered over the snow and threw themselves at the enemy dogs. The animals were well trained, but in the end they were animals: when they were attacked by the unholy creatures, they fell away from the fight and tried to save themselves, ultimately failing. Each that fell collapsed in on itself as whatever the shapes truly were feasted on them and drank them dry of bodily fluids.
When the shapes moved on they were swollen red with the blood of their victims, but they moved just as fast toward the next hound.
Behind him the servant he’d been given let out a scream. He felt its collapse more than he saw it, but still he turned and looked. Close to fifteen arrows stuck from its back. The archers were coming closer, marching in unison. His men were not marching. They were running from dogs, and they were getting cut down by arrows. The warriors from Stennis Brae hadn’t even drawn a sword that he could see.
He’d almost made it to the pens when the spear took him in his right arm. The head of the thing cut through the meat of his forearm and came out the other end. The pain dropped Beron to his knees, and he coughed once and then vomited out his last meal. His sword fell from numbed fingers and his spear dropped from the other hand.
Two hounds came for him. They were enormous, and they were terrifying. One lunged, ready to tear his face from him, but the sound of a man’s voice stopped it.
“Do you yield?” The question was asked as casually as if the man speaking was chatting about the weather.
Beron looked at his reflection in the steaming puddle of vomit and then pushed back until he was on his knees and both arms were before him.
Ulster Dunally spoke a second time. “Do you yield?”
Beron did not speak, as he didn’t trust his voice. But he answered just the same with a slow nod of his head. A dozen men with spears stood behind their commander and they were looking at him as he’d often looked at new slaves.
After a moment he finally managed words. “Aye. We yield.”
The choice was simple: live or die. Dead men couldn’t fight back, or escape.
He did not warn the northerners about the dead thing and how it would want a new body. He had lost, and he was not a good loser.
When the time came and the dark cloak peeled itself from the dead host, he listened on as a solider from Stennis Brae was taken. It was a small victory, but he took it.
In the long run that decision cost him dearly.
Interlude: Seeds
The last of the reborn died, torn apart by the hounds it sought to feed on. During the commotion no one saw it die, nor did they see it take one of the slavers and wrap him in its form.
The slavers and their vict
ims were taken by force, restrained with chains and dragged away into the bitter cold. There were wagons and supplies – those were commandeered and used.
When the people had left and taken their hounds, their horses and their supplies with them, all that remained was debris.
It was there that the remainders hid away in the cold.
The He-Kisshi see much, but they did not look. The gods made demands and so they rose into the air on the winds they cast, and they soared off to follow those very demands.
The seeds that had fallen from Desmond’s face breathed, their shells expanding and slowly cracking. The cold was such that they might never have moved at all, never have grown, but though the seedmaker was gone, the entity behind them, Ariah, was still vital and made certain its desires were satisfied.
Each seed was fed by the blood of hounds stolen by the insects that had feasted during the fight. The hard, black insects wrapped themselves around the delicate seeds, their legs interlocking until the seed was protected from the cold and elements in a hard, chitin crust. Then the stolen blood was released, and the seeds were fertilized in warm nutrients converted by the bodies of the insects.
When that was done the dark lumps rested in the falling snow.
And finally the Iron Mothers came for them.
When they had first been created, the pale-skinned abominations with iron masks over their faces had numbered over two hundred. There were fewer left now. They had found most of the humans who had triggered the end of the world and delivered them to Beron or followed them until they entered the city of Edinrun, where the Second Tribulation held sway. Those that entered were destroyed, marked as tainted by demons and eliminated instantly. They were quick to learn, but not fast enough to capture the humans that passed the walls of the city.
Instead they hid, and waited until the final fate of those people was known.
The demands of the gods would not be met. The world would end. That is what the Iron Mothers told Ariah, and that was what the demon accepted, though he suspected there were ways around the issue. The gods liked to eat too much to kill all of their cattle.
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