“Capture the traitor Makeda!”
“The archdominar says his sister has betrayed us!”
Curse you, Akkad. She did not need to be a mortitheurge to know that she was losing far too much blood. She would not be able to face the guards. She would be captured and executed as a traitor. Her name would be stricken from the histories.
The last bloodrunner was not content to let her die under a board and a pile of rocks however. He was intent on doing the job himself, and had dropped his ruined whip and drawn a paingiver’s blade. He was charging across the pen, and Makeda knew she would not be able to stand in time.
He was upon her, dagger raised, mouth twisted into a snarl, but then the paingiver seemed to come apart. He jerked and spasmed as blood flew into the air, and then fell onto his face, forward momentum sliding him through the mud to stop at Makeda’s feet, his back shredded so badly that she could see the white of his spine. He had been dead before Makeda had even heard the whine of the reiver.
A ferox landed next to her with a splash. She looked up to see that the predator was laboring under a pair of riders. Primus Zabalam and Dakar Urkesh both dismounted. She tried to speak, but no sounds would form in her damaged throat. “Makeda!” Zabalam grabbed her by the armor and hoisted her up with surprising strength while Urkesh loaded a fresh needle cone on his reiver.
“You must flee, Makeda,” Zabalam hissed at her. “Akkad has declared you an outcast. Your life is forfeit. Go. Your cohort is waiting.” The guards were almost upon them. The titan she’d enraged was still chasing bloodrunners and crushing tents underfoot. There was no time. Zabalam was right. She tried to climb into the saddle, but she was weaker than she thought, and struggled to do so. Zabalam pushed her roughly upward. The ferox shifted beneath her, but understood this was not the time to fight against its handlers.
There was a horrendous whine as Urkesh spotted another bloodrunner and cut him to bits. Zabalam grabbed him by the arm. “Go with Makeda. I charge you to protect her.” He drew his swords.
“What are you doing?” Urkesh shouted.
“This ferox can’t run fast enough to get away if there are three of us on it. I’ll buy you time. Protect her with your life. She is the future of Balaash, not that wretched dishonorable belek, Akkad.” Zabalam looked to Makeda, the half of his damaged face that still worked turned up in a grin. “My apologies for insulting your family.”
Makeda still could not speak. She put one bloody hand on Zabalam’s head. It left a red print once she took it away. Urkesh climbed up behind her.
“You always were my best student. Now go!” He stuck the ferox on the rump with the hilt of a sword. The predator lurched away in an ungainly run.
Makeda looked back to see Zabalam striding toward the rushing host of guards, arms extended, displaying his swords proudly. “I am Primus Zabalam of the Praetorian, swordmaster of House Balaash, student of exalted Vaactash, and I fight to defend Makeda, the true heir of Telkesh! Who among you is stupid enough to contend with me?”
About half the guards froze, torn and unsure, but the other half attacked.
“Come then!” There was a flurry of motion as Zabalam struck back against overwhelming odds.
It was a single perfect moment of all that it meant to follow the code of hoksune, but then the ferox was around a tent and Zabalam was lost from sight.
“Ride! That way.” Urkesh pointed with his reiver. The Venator had obviously never ridden a ferox before and was doing his best to hold on. Makeda kicked the predator in the ribs and turned it with her knees. There was a huge crash as the enraged titan slammed through a tent and appeared in front of them, a bloodrunner stuck on one of its tusks. Urkesh shouted in surprise right in her ear. The ferox bounded around the titan in two leaps, narrowly avoiding the desperate beast handlers who were trying to bring the titan under control.
More horns were sounding. Officers were standing at the corners, waving torches and repeating Akkad’s proclamation that Makeda was a traitor to House Balaash and that she had to be captured. Yet as the ferox loped through the camp, many soldiers clearly saw her, but did not move to intercept. Enough others did, however, that escape did not look likely.
Cataphract moved ahead of her, war spears leveled. She struck the ferox and it turned, sliding through the grass, only seconds away from being impaled upon a wall of spears. A brief sprint and another corner took them into more swordsmen. One tried to stab the ferox, but it simply lunged forward, sank its huge teeth into a shoulder, and shook him to death. Another soldier came from behind but Urkesh shredded him with a reiver burst.
Soldiers loyal to Akkad were moving throughout the camp, shouting for the traitor Makeda’s blood. “We’re not going to make it,” Urkesh stated.
The Venator was correct. They would be surrounded, cut off, and brought down. Unless . . .
The titan she’d bonded with was occupied, so Makeda reached out for the spirit of the great titan bronzeback she had connected with so briefly earlier. He was still there, snoring peacefully through the pandemonium now engulfing the encampment. The petty games of the skorne didn’t matter to the mighty bronzeback. He existed only for the next challenge or the next cow. Makeda tapped into her power and awoke the bronzeback from its slumber. Bonding to such a potent beast, especially after such a fleeting contact, would be a great challenge. It took all of her effort, but Makeda pushed hard against his mind. His spirit was great, but simple, and she awoke its natural rage; in fact, she ignited it and set it free.
A terrible roar shook the entire encampment. Every skorne for miles all looked in the same direction at the same time. The ferox slid to a trembling halt. “What in the name of the ancestors was that?”
Our escape, Makeda thought, but it was still too difficult to speak.
The enraged bronzeback let its feelings be known by picking up another titan and throwing it across the encampment. The vast animal blotted out one of the moons for a moment as it passed overhead. The titan’s landing shook the foundations of the world and nearly knocked over their ferox. Makeda did not even need to kick the ferox in order to make it run this time.
They bounded past Akkad’s soldiers, knocking down a distracted Cataphract, as the bronzeback rampaged through the camp. Then they were out on the open plains and fleeing into the unknown.
The pain began in her ribs and then radiated out from there. At first it was a tingling in her nerves, and then a tightness of the muscles, and then an arcing lightning through the veins and arteries. Her mortitheurgy identified the cause quickly. The bloodrunners’ daggers had been treated with some manner of strong poison, but she was overcome so quickly that there was nothing she could do but scream.
Every move of the ferox caused pain to ripple through her body. Every jolt and bounce caused joints to grind as if filled with broken glass. The air that filled her lungs was like bubbling acid, eating away at her flesh.
The midnight plains faded into complete darkness as she was robbed of her sight. She could no longer control their steed. Her limbs would not respond to her commands, and every effort at making them work merely caused the pain to grow.
This was not poison. This was a living thing, born only to cause suffering.
At one point she slipped from the saddle and crashed into the dirt. It was almost cushioned compared to the pain that was now cascading through her entire body, but even then, the poison discovered this small bit of cool relief and extinguished it. The ground seemed to become hotter and hotter until every bit of clinging dirt burned like lava. Urkesh had lifted her back onto the ferox. He was saying something about pursuers, but it was hard to hear over the hurricane in her ears. The pain was causing her to hallucinate and his fingers pierced her skin like the needles of his reiver.
The pain had gone on and on. Time lost all meaning. Reality was taken away and replaced with a world that was nothing but agony, and somehow Makeda knew that she was dangling by a thread over the Void. All she had to do was cut that tiny string of life an
d she could be plunged into the Void. It was cold in the Void, but the cold would extinguish the fire which was consuming her. She could see her father within the Void. The poison, the evil, sentient thing had done the same to him, until he had cut that thread and welcomed the nothing.
Somehow the pain became worse, and through it all, the only bit of the real world that remained with her was the presence of the Swords of Balaash, and the tiny sliver of her grandfather’s spirit which powered them. Despite the agony, her exalted ancestors were still there. They helped her understand.
This poison was designed to kill mortitheurges, brewed to unravel bodies, corrupt wills, and break minds. Normal poison was useless against someone who could stall death or manipulate blood and tissue. How could she fight such an enemy? She reached for her power, but it was swept aside by the crashing waves of agony. The harder she tried, the more pain it inflicted on her as punishment. It whispered that only the cool Void could save her.
Suddenly a gigantic black stone statue was towering over her, offering a path away from the Void. The stylized face of Vaactash did not move as the thought hammered its way through her mind. “What is it that you whisper to yourself, child, when the pain becomes too much?”
And then the words were there.
Suffering cleanses the weakness from my being. Adhere to the code and I will become worthy.
The suffering was the key. She could not reach her power because she was weak.
Her power was still there, still ready to be utilized, she only needed to be strong enough to take it. She had to go through the pain, through the unraveling of mind and spirit. Let death come. Let her heart stop, but in that brief time while hurtling toward the Void, she would take what was rightfully hers.
Makeda welcomed the poison and told it to do its worst, for she was skorne, and she would never break.
The pain was gone. Now there was only the memory of pain.
Where am I?
The walls were made of rock, chipped and chiseled until it was in the semblance of a room. A single feeble lantern hung from a brass fitting sunk into the wall, leaving most of the space hidden in darkness.
Is this a dungeon? Have I been captured?
Yet when she moved, she discovered that she was not in chains. She felt the cold stone floor beneath her palm before realizing that her body was resting on a pile of dark furs. Her armor was missing and she was only wearing a thin grey robe. A bloodstained cloth was nearby, and resting upon it was a multitude of tools, tiny blades, pliers, hooks and barbs, needles and thread, bottles of potions, and bags of herbs. Though similar, these were not the injury-causing tools of a tormentor, but rather the injury-repairing tools of a chirurgeon. Bandages pulled as she tried to sit up. Clearly someone had tended to her many wounds.
Where are my swords? There was a brief flash of panic before she spotted them, sheathed and leaning against the wall. Makeda breathed a sigh of relief. Death was far preferable to losing her family swords. Thank the ancestors.
Something stirred in the darkness. There was a shape there, and it took Makeda a moment to make out the silhouette of a skorne in the light armor of the Venator, with a reiver resting on his lap.
Her throat ached. “Where am I?” The words came out so raspy that Makeda did not recognize her own voice. It did not feel like just the whip, but rather that her throat was raw and parched, as if she had been yelling for hours.
The warrior in the shadows stood quickly. “She is awake,” he spoke loudly, his voice seeming to echo through the chamber. “Makeda is alive.”
“I tire of hearing that said as if it is some sort of surprise.” Speaking hurt. She welcomed the minor pain as it helped clear the sleep from her mind. She had seen real agony; from now on, minor pain would merely be another tool. “What is going on?” Makeda pushed herself up, but the effort made her head swim.
The figure in the dark had been Urkesh, and he rushed over to her side. “Do not struggle.” He caught her by the shoulders and lowered her back to the furs. It was an insult to have someone of a lower caste touch her without permission, but it was obvious no offense was intended, plus she was not in any shape to do much about the slight regardless. “Those assassins’ blades were poisoned. You nearly died.”
Poison . . . a weapon of cowards and traitors. “Akkad. He poisoned Telkesh.”
There were other voices inside the cavern. Armored footsteps echoed. More figures appeared. She should have been able to recognize them, but her vision seemed blurry, however they were wearing the colors of House Balaash. Some of them were bearing their own lanterns, and now she could see that the room was larger than expected, with windows covered in thick brown curtains. A small hunched figure moved between the much larger skorne. “They are aware. I told them. Most even believed.”
Haradum? “So you survived the assassins, elder teacher. Good.”
“I followed your cohort for days, even after Akkad’s loyalists gave up the chase.”
“Days?” Her body felt weak, but she did not feel like she had been asleep for days. “How long have I been ill?”
“Ten days and ten nights. I believe it was the same poison which felled mighty Telkesh. The others thought you had died.” The old extoller came closer and placed one freezing-cold hand on Makeda’s forehead. The crystal oculus stared down at her. “But I could see that your essence had not yet left your body. You would not allow death to claim you . . . it seems the last of the fever has passed. You must rest. The flesh needs time to heal.”
“The flesh will do as I tell it to.” Makeda rubbed her eyes. Her vision was improving. Now she could recognize many of the other figures as officers of her father’s army. Their faces were grim, their white eyes reflective in the glow of the lanterns. “Where am I?”
“The Shroudfall Mountains,” Urkesh answered. “We were fleeing Akkad’s army and needed a place to hide.”
“This is an old fortress. The mountain passes are extremely difficult to cross,” stated one of the warriors, whom Makeda recognized as a veteran Cataphract of her father’s cohort. “Your army is safe here until you decide it is time for us to mobilize.”
My army? All that had remained of her small cohort had been a few battered taberna, and many wounded. This time Makeda focused through the dizziness and forced herself to sit up. Urkesh was there, ready to help, but she ignored him. She placed her hands on the stone and forced herself upright. Her knees nearly buckled, but she would not show weakness before these warriors. “What army do you speak of?”
The Cataphract nodded to the side. One of his soldiers rushed to the nearest curtain and drew it back. Cold night air flooded into the room. “While you were taken with the fever, they gathered.”
Though curious, Makeda first walked slowly to the side and retrieved the Swords of Balaash. The scabbards felt good in her hands. Only then did she go to the window. Her steps were slow, unsteady. Her muscles quivered with weakness, but she would not show it. The cold air cut right through her thin robes and she began to shiver uncontrollably. She had lost a lot of weight and knew she had to look like a spirit that had escaped from the Void.
Outside the window was the ruined courtyard of a once great castle. They were so high in the mountains that the clouds had come down to gather around the towers like fog. Those clouds were glowing, reflecting the flickering light of hundreds of campfires.
“I do not understand . . .” Makeda whispered.
“We were few at first. Just your cohort and a handful of slaves,” Urkesh said. “But then word spread of your sickness. Others had to come and see.”
“It was a few individuals at first,” the veteran Cataphract said. “Warriors loyal to Telkesh and Vaactash, then maddened cultists of Xaavaax, and even soldiers of proud vassal houses such as Bashek and Kophar. Akkad executed many as an example, but soon whole taberna and even decurium had deserted in order to come here and keep watch over you. More gather every day.”
Makeda was stunned, her mind unable to estimate th
e number of troops assembled here. Even if there was but a single datha around each of those fires, it had to represent a mighty host, surely more warriors than most houses could boast, possibly even enough to rival Balaash’s combined sabaoth.
One of the warriors saw her standing in the window. There was a shout, and then another and another, until the entire camp erupted in one long incomprehensible roar. It was a battle cry.
She was nearly overcome. “But I was sick with fever. I was helpless.” The events in the encampment came rushing back. “I have been cast out of my house and declared a traitor. Why would they risk everything to follow such a weak leader?”
“It was anything but weakness.” It was a new arrival who answered. Makeda turned to see a young paingiver whom she had never met before. “When I heard of these events, I had to come and see for myself. This poison is an extraordinary invention, a curse that would make even great Morkaash proud. It is a marvel of the paingiver’s art. Never before have I seen a mixture capable of causing such pure agony and suffering. It felled even the great Telkesh and drove him insane within a single day. Even as strong as he was, his flesh could not withstand that level of purification before it broke his mind.”
The pain. It was only half recalled, like a bad dream. Yet, she had not broken. She did not follow the way of the paingivers so she did not feel as if she had reached any sort of enlightenment, but she had endured. That was what mattered.
“Your cohort told others of this terrible agony you were experiencing,” Haradum said. “So they had to come to hear for themselves.”
“Hear what, elder teacher?” Makeda rasped. “Hear me descend into gibbering madness?”
“No,” the paingiver answered. “Despite being rent apart by the most delicious agonies possible, you rose above it. As your body was wracked with unfathomable pain and seizures, you transcended it all. These warriors came to hear the way to enlightenment.”
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