“It was as sudden as lightning on the wastes. We had just broken camp and set out on the day’s march when the master felt a pain in his stomach. It radiated out to his limbs and he complained of tingling and weakness. Soon, he was unable to march or even stay in a saddle. He was overcome with fever, and then madness and seizures. I was there. He twitched and jerked so much that I could not even get water past his lips.”
The description reminded Makeda of something she had once read in the family histories . . . “And the chirurgeons?”
The slave pointed to a nearby pile of rocks that she had not before noticed. It was an accepted form of execution. Place the condemned beneath a board, and then slowly pile rocks upon it all day until they were eventually crushed flat. It was an agonizing and slow method of execution, and thus one of the favorites of her people. “Tormentor Abaish was displeased with their failure.”
“I see. Did the chirurgeons speak with anyone before their execution? Did they speak with any of Father’s retainers?”
“Besides Abaish and the new archdominar?” the slave shook his head. “A few, but all of them were given the honor of going into the fire to accompany Telkesh on his journey into the Void.” He was trembling in fear. Makeda realized that she had unconsciously placed her hand on her sword as if she were about to draw it. She let go of the hilt.
“What is your name, slave?”
“Kuthsheth, personal servant of Telkesh, and Vaactash before him.”
“Bring me the servants that prepared Telkesh’s meal that morning.”
“I’m sorry. I cannot. They too were cast into the fire.”
Makeda’s hands curled into fists. She remembered now exactly what she had read all of those years ago in the family histories about one particularly dishonorable ancestor, a Tyrant who had used poison to remove threats to his rule.
Murder was not unknown amongst her caste, but it was frowned upon. Being caught at it would bring shame to your house, but that did not mean that it did not happen anyway. A people that lived in a state of constant warfare had to find a balance between honor and the more pragmatic matters of house politics, but even then, a house lord deserved to die by the blade. It was possible Akkad had been impatient to assume his mantle and poisoned their father. However, Telkesh was of the warrior caste, and had already proven himself as a mighty Cataphract over and over again in Vaactash’s armies. Poison was meant for sick animals and slaves who had ceased to be useful, not for house lords. Poison was a terrible, shameful way to die, and the most dishonorable way to kill.
Makeda had one final question, but it was not one that could be answered here.
“I speak out of turn, but your father will be missed.” Kuthsheth said. “I was a soldier once. When Telkesh defeated my village and I was taken prisoner, I believed my life to be through, but Telkesh was an honorable master. I am consigned to whatever fate you would have of me, but I am thankful that my children will have the opportunity to rise to a higher caste in the greatest house of all—Balaash.”
Telkesh had been a strict devotee of the code of hoksune. Surely, he had proven his worthiness, so why had he been robbed of his exaltation? Having no doubt that she was being watched by Akkad’s spies, Makeda knelt as if she was paying her respects to the pile of ash. She kept her voice low. “Kuthsheth, I have two tasks of you. You will take word to my cohort. Seek out Primus Zabalam. Tell him my orders are to stop where they are now. They are not to enter this encampment. But first you will go now in secret and find the extoller Haradum. Tell her, and only her, that I have need of her, and that she will speak to no one about this. She must meet me . . .” Makeda needed someplace within in the camp where she would not be easily spotted or overheard. “Tell her to be at the beast pens at midnight.”
The titans were nervous.
Something was in the air, and it was not just the stink of the massive warbeasts.
Makeda had wrapped herself in a cloak and was sitting in the shadows. The encampment’s beast pens were a hurried affair of boards and serrated wire, in no way sufficient to hold an excited titan. But these beasts had been subjugated and broken. They would do as the barbed whips of the beast handlers demanded. The fences were mostly to keep a distracted beast from wandering too far. Titans were relatively smart animals, but they were still animals.
The titans were herbivores, and would often graze along the march, but it was too dangerous to let them graze on the open plains while in enemy territory. A titan was a considerable investment of a house’s resources, so at night they were kept inside the encampments. Slaves had brought in tons of feed for the beasts, so Makeda had hidden herself between a haystack and the fence.
They did not look so dangerous without all of their armor, but Makeda knew better. In the distance, the camp’s lone bronzeback scratched itself against a nearby post. The post was thick and had been set deep into the ground by slaves just for that purpose. The alpha titan’s rough grey hide turned the post into splinters with in few minutes. Born in the wild, there was no such thing as a tame bronzeback, only one that was temporarily compliant because of an exhaustive regimen of carefully regulated abuse. There were paingivers watching it even now, because a single enraged bronzeback could cause unspeakable damage.
In the morning the beasts would be dressed in armor, and the pain compliance hooks would be driven into the most sensitive parts of their flesh, all in order to make them more efficient weapons and stores of mortitheurgeal energy. But for tonight, the itch finally satisfied, that particular beast lay down to sleep, surely to dream of grass and cows.
Makeda reached out and touched the great bronzeback’s mind with her own. “Sleep well, great one. For tomorrow House Balaash may have need of your might.”
A keening wail caused Makeda to shudder. The titans looked up from their chewing. A nearby Agonizer had begun its piteous mewling. Thankfully, it fell silent after a few moments, and the titans returned to their hay. That was lucky. Nobody wanted to listen to an Agonizer all night. She continued to scan for threats, but could see nothing. The occasional guard passed by, but she remained unseen.
Makeda had gone into Telkesh’s tent and found a dark cloak. She had then slipped out the back. Hopefully, if Akkad was having her watched, then the spies would still be watching the tent. The warrior caste did not waste time mourning, but it was not unheard of to spend time meditating upon the deeds of the deceased.
However, Makeda needed to focus on the problems of the present, not dwell on the past.
Her stomach growled. Quite some time had passed since she had last eaten, but warriors were used to fasting. Makeda simply ignored it and went back to her vigil. She spotted a hunched form entering the beast area a short time later. There was a small glow coming from the other’s hood, a sure sign of the extoller’s crystal gaze. Haradum had arrived. Makeda had known that she would come, for it had been the elder Haradum that had taught her about the traditions of their people since Makeda had been but a small child.
The extoller caste was supposed to be separate and distinct from the politics of the houses. They were the isolated guardians of exaltation and the only ones who could communicate with the deceased. Haradum was utterly devoted to the extoller’s path, and Makeda had no doubt that she could be trusted to be honest, but even then, Makeda watched for a time for any sign of a trap. When she was confident that Haradum was alone, Makeda rose.
Aptimus Haradum approached immediately. Of course she had seen Makeda hiding in the darkness. The crystal eye could discern the essence which was inside all living things. She was an ancient, alive for at least six generations, her face a mass of wrinkles and folds dangling loose over a skull. The only smooth part of Haradum was the crystal that had replaced her right eye.
“Second Born Makeda. It pleases me to no end to discover that you are still among us,” the extoller wheezed. “I rejoice at this good fortune.”
“Time is short, Elder.” Makeda kept her voice low. Nobody would be able to hear them over
the heavy breathing of the nearby titans. “I must know. Why was the spirit of Telkesh not preserved?”
Haradum did not seem moved by Makeda’s intensity. “A difficult decision. It was not mine to make. Shuruppak was the extoller present at Telkesh’s deathbed. I did not hear until afterward. I was busy working on my research. Did you know that beetles have a spiritual essence as well?”
Shuruppak had been raised as a warrior, and been a companion of Akkad’s before deciding to pluck out his eye in order to join the extoller caste.
“Tiny, tiny, little things . . .” Haradum put her bony hands together at the wrist and quickly wiggled her fingers back and forth, like scurrying legs. “Yes. But their essence does not go to the Void, no. Are there beetle gods then, I wonder?”
Had Haradum’s mind finally broken? It happened occasionally to the few among their people who managed to die of old age. “Telkesh has killed hundreds in battle. Like Vaactash before him, Telkesh was all that it means to be skorne. My father lived by the code. That cannot all be washed away by one day of fevered madness. Why would Shuruppak choose not to save him?”
The ancient extoller’s mortal eye narrowed and she leaned in conspiratorially. “When a spirit is pulled, screaming, into the Void, it can tell no stories. So much knowledge is lost that way.”
“Answer me, Haradum.”
Haradum smiled. She had no teeth. “I just did. What stories would Telkesh have been able to tell, I wonder? Would he be able to tell of plots and lies? Would he be able to tell of conspiracies between houses? Perhaps of allegiances between castes which are supposed to remain neutral?”
“Tell me these stories, Elder.”
“I would not know. I am nothing. I wish only to be left alone to continue my research. Yet, an extoller hears things . . . Yes, yes we do. It is easy sometimes to forget we are there, always watching, always judging. Telkesh judged too. He judged wisely. When presented with two paths by his advisors, he always chose the warrior’s path, never the plotter’s path. Perhaps those advisors tired of being denied? Maybe they decided they needed a new archdominar, someone willing to listen to their strange new ideas, one not so bound up in the traditions of old? Akkad would be such a one, yes?”
“He would,” Makeda agreed. Akkad cared far more for personal glory than he did for tradition.
“These same plotters, after deciding to go so very far, would surely not risk having yet another honorable warrior of Balaash only a heartbeat away from becoming archdominar. Surely, once this honorable scion discovered the truth, she would raise an army from all of the honorable warriors of her house, and wage war against the plotters.”
So there had been a conspiracy to kill Telkesh and replace him with her brother. Akkad’s actions were cowardly, and depriving Telkesh of exaltation was blasphemous. “Thank you, Elder. But there will be no army raised. I will not weaken my house through civil war.” Makeda placed a hand on Haradum’s shoulder. She was surprised at how fragile the extoller felt beneath her robes. “Even if Akkad murdered my father . . . He is archdominar of House Balaash. The code declares that he is to rule. It is my place to serve, unless I believe he is a danger to the house, and then I must bring a formal challenge.”
“We both know you are no match for Akkad in single combat. You will surely die.”
“I cannot go against the traditions of my caste, Elder.”
Haradum’s laughter was like the rustle of dusty paper. “Child, those without honor assume that everyone is like them. There is no way he will ever accept a formal challenge to his rule. He will send assassins for you.”
“How do you know this, Haradum?”
The crystal eye flickered across the beast pens. “Because they are already here.”
Makeda spun in time to see the shapes running between the haystacks. There was a flash of crimson and steel and someone leapt effortlessly over a serrated fence only to disappear back into the darkness. Bloodrunners!
Bloodrunners were the elite killers of the paingiver caste, students of the magic released at the moment of death. Their presence confirmed the extoller’s tale. “Flee, Haradum.” The Swords of Balaash appeared in Makeda’s hands. “Return to your beetles.”
A titan startled and snorted as something brushed past one of its column-sized legs. There was movement all around them, a single careless footstep on gravel, the hiss of a dagger leaving its sheath, and then the bloodrunners attacked.
The first came seemingly out of nowhere, leading with a wickedly curved blade. Makeda deflected the attack with one sword, spun, and drove the second deep into the attacker’s bowels. He gasped as she ripped the sword free, but did not cry out. She marveled at the mastery of pain, but only for a moment, because then she was fighting for her life.
A female stabbed at her throat, but Makeda ducked and slashed, cutting the bloodrunner nearly in half. They were all armed with the strange daggers, hooked and jagged, tools designed to incapacitate and torture. Makeda struck aside another attack, and then another. That bloodrunner had been a bit too slow, and a sword of Balaash removed his arm at the elbow. That one made no sound either, he merely stepped to the side, struggling to staunch the flow of blood.
The assassins were all around her, blades humming through the air. The clang of steel on steel caused the nearest titans to stir and grunt themselves awake. Those that had been eating looked up from their hay, confused and wondering if it was time for battle.
A handful of sand was thrown at her eyes, but she turned away just in time. Another kicked a cloud of straw between them, and feinted, all in an effort to distract her from another bloodrunner who was trying to stab her in the back. These assassins certainly did not follow hoksune, but Makeda relished a new challenge. She spun one sword, reversed her grip, and stabbed behind her, driving the point clean through the lightly armored torso of a bloodrunner. “Who sent you?” She sidestepped, and chopped another one to the ground. The spilled blood was fueling her strength. “Who?”
They did not answer. More of the assassins materialized from the shadows. Makeda was forced to dodge aside before she was completely surrounded. The terrain was not to her advantage. “Akkad?” A dagger clipped the edge of her armor. It stung and she felt the warmth of blood trickling out. Makeda circled around the nearest haystack. “Abaish? Who?”
Crack. There was a flash of pain as something hit her in the back. She turned to see another bloodrunner, this one was lifting a long, bone-studded whip for another swing. Makeda wheeled about, shrugging out of the cloak. Crack. The whip snapped through the fabric and was entangled. With a frustrated snarl, the bloodrunner shook his whip, trying to free it.
Two more attacks left Makeda with two more small cuts and two more dying bloodrunners. They were masters of anatomical precision, guiding their attacks past her armor. There were at least a dozen more assassins moving around the pens, and she would bleed to death long before she took them all. She kicked the knees out from under a bloodrunner and fell, impaling himself on his own blade. I must escape.
One of the slave’s hayforks was hurled at her from out of the shadows. She knocked it aside, turned, and vaulted over the fence into the titan enclosure. Her boots slipped in the muck of the wallow, but she did not fall. Two bloodrunners were right behind. One dove between the wires, rolled, and came up standing. One simply leapt smoothly over the top in a rustle of cloth. She struck at them simultaneously, but they both parried with their daggers.
Agitated, the nearest titan opened its mouth and bellowed a challenge, bits of ground hay flying everywhere. Makeda had trained her entire life, learning how to master warbeasts and forcing them to obey her will, and she recognized an opportunity when it presented itself. It would take a second of concentration, but it was worth the risk. I am your master. Obey me.
The two bloodrunners pressed their attack as their brothers followed. The one with the whip appeared to be the leader. He was silently communicating through a series of rapid hand gestures at the bloodrunners still hidden in t
he shadows. An alarm horn blew as the Balaash guards overseeing the pens realized something was wrong.
Obey!
The titan blinked stupidly for a moment, but then its tiny black eyes narrowed in understanding.
Destroy.
Makeda parried another attack and kicked that bloodrunner hard in the stomach. His mouth twisted beneath his mask, but he remained focused on his mission. It only mattered for a split second though, since the titan’s fist hit him so hard it left a pink cloud hanging suspended in the air.
The titan lifted itself to its full height and roared its battle cry. If the alarm horn hadn’t already sounded, that would have certainly woken up the entire encampment. The second bloodrunner turned in surprise, so Makeda used the chance to slice his head off. It landed in the muck of the wallow at her feet, so Makeda kicked the severed head at the other remaining bloodrunners. “Balaash!”
The bloodrunners tried to avoid the titan, but it was too late. One had gotten caught on the barbwire of the fence, and the titan closed its hands around the assassin. This was the first one that had lost his composure and he started shouting. This seemed to annoy the titan, since it simply lifted the bloodrunner overhead and then hurled him screaming out into the night.
There were still bloodrunners everywhere, but they seemed to be fading back into the darkness, aware that their mission of a quiet assassination had failed. The titan easily stomped the fence flat and went after them. Light and shadows bounced along the fence posts nearby as the guards came running.
CRACK!
Makeda nearly blacked out as something wrapped hard around her neck. She was jerked from her feet and landed sprawled in the mud.
The one with the whip had not given up yet.
Her armor had saved her life, but bone shards had pierced her neck. The whip was pulled and the noose tightened. Makeda slid through the wet ooze. The cuts deepened, yet she was calm. No arteries severed . . . yet.
A quick slash of her sword cut the whip in half. The pressure ended and she could breathe again. The guards were closer and she could hear their angry cries over the ringing in her ears.
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