It was as if saying his name had summoned him, but it had more than likely been the scribe because the same flap opened and Akkad entered. Tall, broad and powerful of build, his features were sharp and strong, his eyes narrow and intelligent. When the artisan caste attempted to capture skorne perfection in a work of sculpture, it usually looked something like Akkad, except of course, for the one ruined stump of an ear.
He surveyed the room expectantly. All of the assembled officers and functionaries went to one knee and dipped their heads. The act should not have surprised her. Akkad was after all, now the archdominar of House Balaash.
“Sister,” Akkad seemed as surprised to see her alive as she had been to find out their father was dead. However, he was better at concealing his emotions than she was. The paingiver Abaish rose from his knees and placed himself at Akkad’s right hand. Akkad’s smile seemed forced. “It is good to see you. My scouts had told me that your cohort had been surrounded and wiped out on the plains. It is good to see you escaped Naram.”
“I did not escape Tyrant Naram, I killed him.” The tent was suddenly filled with excited whispers, some more incredulous than others. She could not hear the words, but she could imagine them. How did this inexperienced girl defeat the great Naram? She would deal with them later. Yet many of the warrior caste seemed rather pleased. This news seemed to upset Akkad, but she could not dwell on that. “Please, Brother, tell me of Father.”
“Yes. Poor Father. He fell ill during our march. Mighty Telkesh brought low by a disease only yesterday. I rushed to his side as soon as I heard. I was with him as he was consumed by fever.”
“A tragedy.” Abaish agreed.
“Indeed. He was in terrible pain, robbed of all his dignity. A death that was in no way fitting—”
“Wait!” Makeda could not help herself. She looked toward the council extoller. They were all watching her. All of their highly specialized caste ceremonially plucked out one of their mortal eyes and replaced it with a crystal that allowed them to see into the spirit realm. Her reflection was visible in the extoller’s crystal oculus. “He did not die in battle . . . Are you saying his essence was not preserved?”
The extoller shook his head sadly.
Makeda gasped. “No.” Telkesh had not been given the opportunity to be proven worthy. Her father had been consigned to the Void.
Akkad folded his arms as he studied his council. Abaish leaned over and whispered in Akkad’s good ear, and it reminded her of Primus Zabalam and his warning about those that lurked in the shadows. Akkad frowned. “Why do you not bow before your archdominar, Makeda? Do you intend to disrespect me?”
Makeda was shaken from her thoughts by the accusation. “Why—”
“You are not kneeling. Why do you disrespect House Balaash by failing to honor your archdominar?”
And in that moment, Makeda knew . . .
Akkad had known Father was dying this morning. He had abandoned her entire cohort, knowing that Naram would kill them.
She could see the truth in the faces of many of the warriors in the room. They had figured it out as well.
“Kneel,” Akkad commanded.
Her brother had consigned her to death. Why? Did he truly consider her a threat to his rule? Her mind was still fatigued from combat. Many of the warriors were staring at her expectantly. She could feel anger boiling up within her, yet the traditions of their caste were clear on this matter. It was the responsibility of the eldest to rule. Makeda forced the anger back, then went to one knee and lowered her head. “I am sorry . . . Archdominar.”
Akkad had no idea that her sense of honor had just saved his life.
PART TWO
THE HALL OF ANCESTORS was a sacred place, and the only sound was their footfalls upon the stone. At this late hour the stonemasons of the worker caste were gone and only a few extollers scurried about in the shadows. Archdominar Vaactash lit their way with a single lantern. The pale light illuminated row upon row of statues as they passed. Makeda thought that the Ancestral Guardians towered over her, much as her grandfather did.
“Do not shrink before them, child. These are your exalted ancestors and their revered companions. They lived for House Balaash. We are the culmination of their great works,” Vaactash said softly. “Each one of them has a story.”
“Yes. Father ordered the servants to give us summaries,” Makeda answered.
“And of course, when the summaries were not enough, you read everything in the library . . .” It was not a question.
Makeda was suddenly nervous. Was that why she had been summoned to the Hall? In a society based upon strength and born into a caste bred for war, scholarly pursuits were frowned upon. Time spent on lesser arts could easily have been spent on more important things. Yet one did not disagree with the archdominar. Akkad’s missing half ear was a constant reminder of that fact. “Yes, Grandfather. I have read the histories. In truth, I find them . . .” she trailed off.
Vaactash paused. The lantern cast deep shadows around his gaunt features, his eyes nothing more than white dots in a black pit. “Finish your words.”
“I have read all of the histories of my ancestors, and I am inspired by them.”
“How?”
“I wish to emulate their successes . . .” She glanced at the statues. Inside each of them was a sacral stone, and within each of those stones rested the spiritual essence of a hero, fallen for the honor of House Balaash. She did not wish to give offense, but the truth was required. “. . . yet avoid their mistakes.”
Vaactash nodded once, his expression unreadable. “This answer is acceptable.” Then the light turned away and the old warrior continued on his way down the hall. Despite an ancient injury that had left Vaactash with a severe limp, Makeda had to hurry to keep up with her much shorter legs.
A moment later they came to the center of the Hall. Vaactash stopped before the largest statue of all. He turned back to her, the lantern again casting odd shadows on his features. “Do you know why this statue is special?”
Makeda nodded. “It is because there is not yet an essence stored within it.” The stoneworkers had been toiling away on this project for years, for what seemed like most of her short life. It was the finest example of the artisan caste’s craft in the entire Hall. It was a stylized rendition of her grandfather, only a much younger version, a version which she had never seen herself, and frankly had a difficult time imagining. “This is to be your exalted resting place, Grandfather.”
Vaactash turned back to the statue and stared at it for a very long time. Makeda stood silently, still not knowing why she had been summoned in the middle of the night. “We are still so devout in our worship . . .” Vaactash spoke slowly, choosing each word carefully, “for a people who have no gods.”
Makeda knew what the ancestral teachings said about the subject. “The skorne do not need gods. Through hardship we forged our own path. Only the weak need gods.”
“So it is written . . . Where there was only a wasteland, we built our world. We forced crops from the sand, subjugated the beasts of the plains, and taught ourselves the power that dwells within blood and pain.” The greatest living warrior remained fixated on his great statue. “And what happens to those of us who die without achieving exaltation?”
Was she being tested? “There is only the Void.” It was a place of black infinity, a boundless eternal suffering that even the most creative of paingivers could never hope to emulate. Except for the exalted few or their revered companions, all skorne were destined for eternal torment.
“Long ago, there was no exaltation . . . All of us were consigned to the Void. It was only through the wisdom of Voskune, Ishoul, and Kaleed that we learned the way to preserve our essence. Rather than being cast into the Void, our spirits could be kept safe in a sacred stone. Our wisdom could be saved to be shared with our descendants, and in times of dire need, our honored ancestors could even return to fight for their house.”
“It is a great blessing,” Makeda agr
eed.
“Yet, even after the revelation, so very few could be saved. Choices had to be made. Who would live on and who would be cast into the eternal death? There must be order. It was Dominar Vuxoris who would become the First Exalted. It was his teachings which would become hoksune, the code which governs the conduct of all warriors. Thus it was declared that only through adherence to the tenets of hoksune could we prove our worthiness. Only the greatest of warriors can earn exaltation. For everyone else, there is the Void.”
“But, Grandfather, you have earned your place amongst our ancestors. In time, Father Telkesh will as well. I will do the same.”
“When I’d heard you were neglecting your mortitheurgy in order to read the histories, I was angered—Balaash blood is not thin scholar’s blood—but I can see now that there was no need. There is a place for such knowledge amongst the warrior caste.”
It was a tremendous relief to finally know why she had been summoned, and even better to know that she had passed the archdominar’s test. “My ancestors will guide me as I defeat the enemies of our house.”
“And there must always be enemies . . . I do not think you yet understand the true burden of the warrior caste. You are old enough now. I will tell you a story.” Vaactash leaned against his statue, taking the weight off of his crippled leg. It was a rare show of weakness from the aging archdominar. “Two generations ago, I visited the islands south of Kademe. That was the first time I have seen the sea. It is far bigger than Mirketh Lake. It seemed to stretch further than the eye could see, further even than the wastes.”
That much water sounded inconceivable, but Makeda did not dare question the archdominar’s truthfulness. She preferred her ears properly shaped and pointy, not mangled into scar tissue.
“There are mighty predators that live beneath the sea. Those that fished those deep waters spoke of a fearsome beast that would eat anything in its path, so I sought out one of the local beast handlers to learn more.”
Makeda nodded. Of course, anyone skilled in the art of mortitheurgy would be interested in a fascinating new beast. Those that could be broken could be useful weapons or tools, and those that could not still provided useful lessons in anatomy.
“The beast handlers told me much about this mighty fish. It had more teeth than a ferox, and was the ultimate killer in its realm. It could sense the spilling of blood, even from miles away, and never hesitated to destroy the weak.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Indeed. Yet that was not what fascinated me the most. You see, this sea beast must constantly be in motion, hunting, seeking prey, or it will die. It cannot be restrained. It cannot stop, for to stop moving is to perish. It was not its might, or its savagery that impressed me. No . . . It was this constant need of struggle that reminded me so much of the warrior caste.”
Makeda was perplexed. “I do not understand, Grandfather.”
“Like the sea predator must perpetually hunt, so we must perpetually have strife. We are instruments of war. Only through war can we achieve exaltation. If that opportunity is removed, then we cease to be skorne.”
“The houses would never stop fighting! That would be madness.”
Vaactash chuckled. “Perhaps . . . Perhaps I am just an old warrior in his waning days and my mind tends to wander toward abstract thoughts. You have learned of how our ancestors fought, but now you must truly understand why.” His voice grew dangerously low. “Only through conflict can we become pure, and only the pure can be exalted. This is why we fight. This is why we always must fight. Strife is our only opportunity to avoid being cast into the Void. Our entire society is based upon this.”
Makeda bowed, thankful for the wisdom which had just been shared.
“Do you know what the foulest, most evil idea in the world is, Makeda?”
She shook her head. She had never heard her grandfather speak like this before.
“Peace.” Vaactash spat the word out, as if it tasted foul on his tongue.
She knew the word, but peace was a difficult, abstract concept to her. “That is not our way.”
“Correct, but it is a tempting one. I know you do not understand this now, but you may when you are older. Those of the lower castes can seldom achieve exaltation, so the ideal appeals to many of them. Sometimes, the idea of peace may even corrupt some of our own caste.”
“I cannot conceive of this.”
“Of course there are times when a house is not making war. There are consolations after conquest, or when a house bides its time waiting for a better opportunity to strike, and during those such, there is a lack of conflict, but it is certainly not peace. No. There is always another rising power, or a strong leader who becomes weak and must be cast down, or even the old being toppled by the young. You see, our caste must have something to strive against. It betters us. It completes us. Strife must be embraced.”
He had never spoken so freely before, and Makeda tried her best to absorb her grandfather’s wisdom.
“For every house I have imposed my dominion upon, I must constantly prove my worth, or I will be replaced by someone better. Ultimately, it is possible for a mighty enough conqueror to unite all of our caste beneath one banner. Even then, there would be strife among our caste, for we are like the great sea beast, and to cease striving is to perish.”
“I understand, Grandfather.”
“Do you, Makeda? Fools often mistake this tempting concept of peace with the similar concept of surrender. They would live without strife. There are many who feel as if being born into the warrior caste should be enough to earn exaltation. They would see an end to war so they could grow fat and soft, and yet still somehow escape the Void. So few of us can be exalted, it is vital that only the greatest achieve this.”
“That is what the code dictates. It would not be right for anyone to achieve exaltation without sufficient struggle!” The blasphemous idea shocked Makeda and filled her with anger. “Why, then the weak would be saved while superior warriors would be cast into the Void!”
“Indeed. You must ponder on these things.” Vaactash regarded her solemnly. “A warrior’s thoughts must remain open to ideas beyond what they have been taught. Akkad is cunning, and his mind is quick, but it is dangerous to entertain new ideas without governing them against principles of honor. If only I could combine your adherence to hoksune with your brother’s ambitious pragmatism, then House Balaash would be unstoppable. The mind reels at the possibilities.”
“I will serve House Balaash, as the code dictates, and when he is archdominar, I will serve Akkad. I promise.”
“A warrior does not need to promise, Makeda. The mere act of saying a thing will be done means that it will. To our caste, the act of saying and doing are the same. I have no doubt as to your loyalty to our house, and for that, I am glad that you were Second Born.” Vaactash smiled. It was a rare expression. “Enough of an old warrior’s ramblings. That will be all.” He turned and went back to admiring his soon-to-be tomb. “You are dismissed.”
“You are dismissed.”
Makeda bowed low. “Yes, Archdominar Akkad.”
She stood. Only a few of the warriors assembled in the great tent met her gaze, and those were warriors that she had trained with or who had served under her grandfather. There were far too many new faces already amongst the leaders of House Balaash. Makeda turned and walked quickly for the flap. More than anything, she wanted to be outside, away from the whispering nest of razor worms. Her brother seemed pleased at the show of subservience, but Makeda noted that Abaish of the paingivers was already whispering secrets into his ear before she had even made it outside.
The night was cool. Makeda took a deep breath and savored being alive.
Grandfather, what would you have me do?
The surviving remnants of her own decurium had not yet arrived. It would take them hours to catch up to the nimble ferox that had carried her here. Despite their great victory, she already knew there would be no conquerors’ welcome for them. They h
ad been a sacrifice sufficient to avoid suspicion, for why would an archdominar throw away troops? Surely, Akkad had meant for her and her token army to die on the plains, killed by Muzkaar hands and not of his treachery.
Her body still ached from the day’s battle. Though she had been able to stave off serious injury by shoving it off to her cyclops, the pain remained. Makeda remembered her training and welcomed the pain. Morkaash, the first of the paingivers, had learned that suffering could lead to enlightenment. She accepted this truth. Once pain was understood, even welcomed, it could provide clarity of thought.
And Makeda needed clarity right then.
The night was far too quiet. The encampment was too somber. With thousands of warriors present, it was unnaturally still. The sudden, dishonorable death of Telkesh hung like a fog over the warriors. The only noise came from the nearby pens, as the enslaved warbeasts shuffled and grunted and fed. This encampment had been set up while she had been marching to her intended execution, so it took her a few minutes to find the tent of Telkesh. The archdominar’s banners were missing, surely taken down sent to adorn Akkad’s own. Telkesh’s tent was dark.
A few of her father’s long-time slaves were still there, kneeling in the sand, wailing and gnashing their teeth at the loss of their master. Makeda stepped around their prostrate forms. There was a great pile of ash where they had burned Telkesh and a few of his servants in a mighty funeral pyre.
“It is already done?” Makeda whispered.
One of the slaves looked up at the sound of her voice. He squinted in the dark. “Makeda lives?”
“It is I.” She recognized the slave but had never bothered to learn the name of someone from such a low caste. “Why was my father burned so quickly?” she demanded.
The slave looked away in fear. “The new archdominar declared that the disease could spread through the camp.”
Makeda gritted her teeth. This was an added insult to the memory of her ancestor. “Tell me of this mystery illness. What were the symptoms?”
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