And despite this great conflict, the army of Makeda fought on, completely unaware that their leader was not even there.
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.
The words of Vaactash gave her hope. Makeda’s hand was resting on the hilt of one of the Swords of Balaash. If victory required her to be pragmatic, then she would do so, no matter how much it pained her. She knew that her grandfather was watching over her now, but she could only hope that he approved of her decisions.
Kuthsheth the slave worked the oars, and the small rowboat made steady progress along the shores of Mirketh Lake. The morning fog had not yet burned off, and it still provided some measure of cover.
Makeda could not see the battle begin, but she could hear it. The clash of sword and spear, the whine of reivers, the thud of catapults, the screams as acid ate flesh, and the thunder as warbeasts clashed. It was the sound of two forces testing each other. Soon the melee would become general. Her army would fight and die all without her there to lead it, and Makeda cursed fate and begged her ancestors to forgive her dereliction of duty.
She wore a rough cloak of woven hair, ratty and filthy. The garb of a slave hid her proud armor. Her banner, bearing the noble glyph of House Balaash, had been left flying with the army she had abandoned. It was not even the indignity of it all that bothered her, it was that she was being robbed of her chance to lead her warriors into glorious combat. Perhaps if she was lucky, one of the great underwater beasts of Mirketh Lake would do everyone a favor, rise from the depths, and devour her to hide the dishonor.
Makeda had never truly hated Akkad before. She had merely done her duty as honor dictated. She was warrior caste and thus lived only to bring glory to her house. However, now as the great battle commenced without her, Makeda understood what it was to hate. She despised Akkad.
And she pitied him as well. How empty would a life be without hoksune to fill it?
“We are nearly there,” Kuthsheth said. “The docks are not—” He cringed as a black shadow passed overhead. The massive beating of leathery wings rocked the tiny boat with blasts of wind, but then the Archidon was past. The flying warbeast paid no attention to their tiny boat. It had been summoned to the battle by some powerful mortitheurge. It roared, and dove, plunging out of sight behind the dunes along the shore.
“The docks are what, Kuthsheth?” Makeda asked calmly.
“They are not well guarded. The slaves use the docks mostly to bring fish to the kitchens. There are always a few warriors, but I am certain they will be the most inexperienced.”
Of course. The most capable would have gotten themselves placed into the battle. No capable warrior would volunteer to guard a dock when such a great opportunity for exaltation presented itself. At worst they would be facing Hestatians, little more than militia. “The problem will be Akkad’s personal guard. They are all veteran Cataphract.”
“Also the bloodrunners who prowl the corridors,” Kuthsheth said, and seemed surprised when Makeda did not appear to understand what he was speaking of. “Noble Telkesh kept a few on retainer to watch out for assassination attempts against his heirs. They skulk about the house, answering only to Tormentor Abaish.”
“I was not aware of them.”
“That is because they are very good at skulking . . .”
Makeda had learned that there was much she had not known about the inner workings of her household. There was a world beneath the surface, populated entirely by workers, slaves and servants, members of the lower castes which she had never bothered to pay attention to. The warriors and leaders of a great house did not wish to look upon their lesser all day, so they remained hidden as they fulfilled their purpose, hurrying through their world of mazes.
Kuthsheth was laboring against the oars, but he still did his best to compose himself. “Once I get you into the central keep, I believe I can distract the bloodrunners. They pay no attention to mere house slaves. I have overheard them speaking about what they perceive to be vulnerabilities. Once you are inside the servant’s tunnels, I will cause a disturbance in Abaish’s laboratory. That should attract the bloodrunners like a moth to a flame.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Make lots of flames.”
To attract the attention of the bloodrunners was to die. “Why do you do this?”
“Because I was a warrior once, a swordsman of the Praetorian, long ago before my village was taken. As is our way, I lost my caste and was placed among the slaves of House Balaash. Because Telkesh was an honorable master, my children will be given the chance to be warriors. If not them, then their children, or their children’s children will have a chance at achieving exaltation. That is the way.”
It had been this particular slave who had broached this idea to her during their march south. He had overheard her speaking with her officers, and had later spoken on the subject of this little-known passage through the great fortress that was House Balaash. At first she had been annoyed by Kuthsheth’s impertinence, but the more she had thought about it, the more she could see the possibilities. If Akkad was trying to avoid their duel, then she would simply bring the duel to Akkad.
There was an explosion in the distance. Makeda turned to see the ball of fire rolling into the sky. The battle had truly been joined.
“We are nearly there. Do not worry, Archdomina.”
Makeda did not correct the slave’s terminology.
The last dying warrior fell into Mirketh Lake with a splash. The water billowed red around him, and then he sank from view. Makeda lowered the Swords of Balaash and let them disappear beneath the slave cloak. The docks were clear. She had eliminated all of the guards before the alarm could be raised. “Come, Kuthsheth. Show me these tunnels of yours.”
The slave finished rolling the last corpse into the lake before rushing past her, his sandals slapping against the weathered wood. They passed barrels of salted fish and sacks of grain. In all the years she had lived here, Makeda had never seen this part of her great house. Kuthsheth opened a door and led her inside.
There were a few slaves there, working away, chopping fish with cleavers, blissfully unaware that they were being invaded. What did it matter to a slave if they were being invaded? The work would continue regardless of who was their master tomorrow.
Kuthsheth knew right where to go, so she followed, keeping her head down and her face covered. He took a lantern from the wall to light their path. They went up a flight of stairs, down a long tunnel, and then up another circle of stairs. Kuthsheth took her through a multitude of passages and alcoves. The great house had been grown and added to for twenty generations, until the interior truly was a warren that would confound any invader, but her guide knew these passages well. The stone around her began to feel familiar and comfortable. The lantern oil smelled of home.
They entered a hall that Makeda knew well. She had gazed from these windows, admired this artwork. Her sleeping quarters were not far away. It was an odd sensation, being an invader in your own home. “We are nearly there.” Kuthsheth rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
“You, slave! Where are you going?” a voice demanded. “Did you not heed your overseer?”
“Forgive me, Praetorian. I meant no—”
“Silence!” There was the sound of a gauntlet striking flesh. “This area is off limits while the council meets.”
Makeda walked around the corner. A swordsman stood over the fallen Kuthsheth. He looked up at Makeda and snarled. “You slaves will get the lash for—” and then his head went bouncing down the hall. Makeda had time to wipe her sword clean with the slave cloak before his body realized it was dead and fell, dumping blood down the polished floor. She frowned. Killing an honorable Praetorian was such a waste . . .
Kuthsheth stood, rubbing the spreading bruise on his cheek. “Thank you, Archdomina.” He pointed at a nearby tapestry detaili
ng the life of Vuxoris. “Behind that is a passage which will lead you directly to the council chambers. Please allow me a few minutes to set fire to Abaish’s laboratory, otherwise you will surely encounter bloodrunners on the way.”
“One moment, Kuthsheth. If you are to die for me, then you should do it as a member of the caste you were born into.” The headless Praetorian was bleeding on her boots. Makeda reached down and picked up the dead warrior’s swords. She presented them, hilt first toward the slave. “I hereby proclaim you to be of the warrior caste of House Balaash. Here are your swords, Praetorian.”
“My lady . . . I . . . I . . .” His eyes were wide, his mouth agape.
“Wield these in my name.”
Kuthsheth took the swords from her with trembling hands. “I will.” Now armed, Kuthsheth moved like a changed skorne. With renewed purpose, he quickly lifted the tapestry, revealing the passage. “There is an alcove around the first corner. You should be able to see when the bloodrunners leave, but they should not be able to see you. Go straight on after that, up three more levels of stairs, and you will come out near the council room.”
Makeda had spent many hours in the council room, watching and learning as her grandfather, and then her father had ruled over their house. It would be a fitting place to face Akkad.
“I have been a slave of your family for two generations now. I know the soul of Vaactash favors you.” Kuthsheth, still reeling from Makeda’s generosity, bowed with great humility. “May he guide your steel.”
Makeda threw off the slave’s cloak and entered the passage.
There had been six guards in the hall leading to the council chamber, but they had not mattered. The last of them crashed through the double doors of the council chambers and rolled down the stairs in a clanking, bloody heap.
The assembled leadership of House Balaash leapt to their feet and reached for their weapons. Akkad was standing at the great window which looked toward the west, watching the distant battle. He turned to see the guard spill out the last of his life down the marble stairs. “What is the meaning of this?”
Makeda paused in the doorway and surveyed the council chambers. The room had always reminded her of the arena, only this sunken floor was meant to be occupied by house leaders rather than gladiators, and the stone benches were filled with those petitioning the council as opposed to bloodthirsty spectators.
There were thirty present: assorted leaders of House Balaash and their vassal houses, as well as representative of other castes, such as the extoller Shuruppak, the wretch who had denied her father’s exaltation, and of course, Abaish, who represented the paingivers, and then many scribes and scholars. There were gasps or curses from all present. Akkad’s personal guard lowered their spears and rushed forward in a rattling armored mass to place themselves between their lord and the threat.
Makeda turned slowly, looking everyone present in the eye. Many shirked and looked away, others met her gaze, surely knowing that a reckoning had come. Those were the ones torn between honor and duty. They retained some measure of her respect. Excellent. She needed witnesses. She would kill all of the others later, and she made careful note of who fell on each side.
“I am Makeda of House Balaash.” She kept her voice cold and level. “Second Born of murdered Telkesh, granddaughter of mighty Vaactash, and I have come to take back what is mine.”
Akkad seemed speechless, but Tormentor Abaish rose from where he had been seated at his left hand. “How dare you enter this house! You are an outcast, a criminal! You have been exiled!”
“So now the whispering servant finds his voice? Do not worry, Paingiver. I will get to you.” Makeda stated. Abaish seemed to shrink and tried to hide behind her brother. “So, Akkad, why did you bother to wear your armor if you are too much of a coward to lead your army?”
Her brother’s lip curled back in a snarl. “I am afraid of no one.”
“You should be . . .”
“Kill the traitor!” Abaish shrieked. “Kill her!”
The elite Cataphract of Akkad’s personal guard hesitated. The order had not come from their archdominar, and for this Makeda was thankful. She would not be able to fight an entire datha of Cataphract. “Only a coward would send his warriors to do something he lacked the spine to do himself.” She pointed the Swords of Balaash at Akkad’s heart. “Akkad murdered Archdominar Telkesh with poison, denying him a proper warrior’s death. Akkad is a coward and a usurper. His dishonorable behavior has brought shame to House Balaash. Shuruppak of the extoller caste is a heretic, denying murdered Telkesh his rightful exaltation in order to hide Akkad’s blasphemous crimes.”
“Lies!” Abaish was desperate. Even if Makeda was to be killed, the words had been spoken, the accusation made, and it could never be taken back. “No more of your lies.”
“Search your hearts and know I tell the truth.” Makeda looked about the crowd as she walked down the stairs. “You are the leaders of House Balaash. I am disgusted that the honorable few among you would tolerate this filth in your midst. You would have a coward take up space in our Hall of Ancestors?”
More eyes were averted. Makeda vowed that those would weep bitter, repentant tears before this day was through.
Akkad pushed between his Cataphracts, roughly shoving them aside. “You dare threaten the archdominar with his own family’s blades?” One of his retainers ran forward, presenting the archdominar with his personal war spear. It was a mighty weapon that also bore slivers of their ancestors’ souls, and its wicked blade glowed with a pale light. “I will not tolerate this insolence. Surrender my family’s swords, and I will have you executed painlessly. Resist and you will suffer—”
Makeda laughed hard. “You think to threaten me with pain, brother? I know pain.”
“You know nothing!” Akkad bellowed.
“I survived the same poison you used to kill Father. Tell me what I don’t know then, Brother, because I would like to understand this treachery of yours before I send you into the Void.”
“You threaten me? For half a generation I fought for Vaactash. I won battle after battle in his name. I crushed our enemies and drove them before me. I burned cities and took hundreds of slaves. Yet they never listened to me. For a year I fought for Father, but he preferred you. I was the heir! Me! You are a child. You play at war. You speak of lessons that no longer matter and stories of dead heroes, but they are not your words. You have not earned them! You are weak, pathetic, tiny!”
“My lord! Say no more, please.” Abaish cried out.
She continued slowly down the stairs until she reached the sunken floor. “Is that all? Because while you talk, our army kills itself. Think of the future of our house.”
“You don’t understand that it doesn’t matter. Just like Telkesh, you lack vision.”
“Enough,” Makeda ordered. The council chamber was suddenly deadly silent. “Stand aside,” she ordered the Cataphract, and shockingly enough, they did.
Now it was only brother and sister, nothing between them but two philosophies that could never be reconciled. The glyph of House Balaash had been engraved deep into the marble beneath their feet. Akkad stood at the top. Makeda stood at the base.
“You speak of dangerous new ways. They are not our way. Demonstrate your conviction, Akkad. I challenge you to a trial of individual combat.”
“To the death.” Akkad lifted the war spear and spun it effortlessly. “Come, Sister. Let us end this.”
They met in the center of the glyph.
The war spear hissed through the air in a blur. Makeda blocked with one sword. The impact sent electricity through her joints. She slashed with the other sword, but Akkad spun and knocked it aside with the shaft. Specks of light, like dust motes in the sun, floated as the two magical weapons hammered against each other.
Akkad moved with frightening speed. He was still bigger, still stronger, and Makeda barely danced aside as the war spear tore a chunk of stone from the floor. He lunged, stabbing, and Makeda rolled aside at t
he last instant. The spear pierced the chest of a scribe. Akkad lifted the screaming worker and flung him off the blade. The lesser caste members pushed back, scrambling over each other to get to the higher seats. Contemptuous warriors shoved them aside so they could better watch the duel.
Makeda attacked, furious, her blades descended, hacking away, one after the other. One would strike while the other rose in a continuous rain of soul-hardened steel. Akkad retreated smoothly, the massive war spear effortlessly diverting every attack. He backed against the far wall, but then placed one boot against it and launched himself at her.
She was able to avoid the blade, but his armored shoulder caught her in the chest and knocked her back. Ribs cracked. Akkad swung the war spear along the ground, but she was able to jump over it. Akkad quickly followed, extending one hand and pointing at her. Makeda was unprepared for the bolt of power which leapt between them. It hit her in the side. Sickening energy crackled through her bones, causing her muscles to contract in clenching agony. She was flung back, but managed to stay on her feet. His mortitheurgy is strong.
Akkad rushed forward, eager to finish her, but Makeda focused through the crackling pain, and forced her arms to respond. The dark powers were gathered up from her body, channeled through her, and pushed away. Akkad gasped as his spell was broken. Makeda quickly counterattacked. One sword diverted his spear, while the other one struck armor, then flesh, and finally bone.
They separated, the full length of the Balaash glyph between them. Akkad glanced down at the strap severed and dangling loose below his shoulder plate, and then blood began to drip slowly down his armor. He pressed one hand against the wound, and grimaced as he probed the hole. It was not fatal, not nearly so, but the message had been sent, and Akkad had felt the sting of Balaash steel.
Makeda stood, waiting, her armored breastplate scorched and smoking. Akkad’s attack had hurt her, but this pain was nothing.
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