Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles)

by Larry Correia

  “Reload!” Urkesh shouted at his Venators. There was only a single datha of ten armigers, but they acted quickly, unscrewing the spent gas cylinders from their awkward reiver weapons. Makeda sized up the distances. The armigers were quick, but not quick enough. The titan would trample over Urkesh’s warriors and she would lose her ranged advantage.

  House Muzkaar had brought no ranged capability, and dozens of Muzkaar corpses littered the road from where they had been scythed down by her Venators while trying to cross. Makeda did not wish to give up that advantage.

  Makeda had few warbeasts of her own to spare. Since her cohort had been marching quickly in order to seize their objective, she had only been given a pair of cyclops savages. The tougher, but slower, beasts had been left with Akkad. She reached with her mind, using her mortitheurge powers to find the lump of muscle and hate that was the nearest cyclops. She took hold of its mind and steered it into the path of the enemy titan.

  The cyclops hoisted its great sword and stalked forward, towering several feet over even the tallest warriors in its path. What the cyclops lacked in intelligence it made up for in violent cunning. The beast’s single eye flicked back and forth, seeing the battlefield as only a cyclops could, a few seconds into the future, and Makeda wondered if the cyclops could see its own death coming.

  The earth shook as the wounded titan charged. Each footfall felt like an earthquake. As large as the cyclops was, it was dwarfed by the titan. Armored tusks crashed into the cyclops’ armor with a clang that could be heard over all the chaos of the battle. The cyclops rolled away, and the wounded titan followed, swinging wildly with its massive gauntlets. Instinct demanded the cyclops flee, and it screeched in protest as Makeda overcame its mind and forced it to stand its ground.

  Their weapons ready, Urkesh shouted at his taberna. “Concentrate fire on that titan!” The Venators rose from the ditch they had taken cover in, aimed, and let loose a stream of razor needles. Hundreds of projectiles ricocheted off armor plates and ivory tusks, whining into the distance, but hundreds more found their mark. Hide puckered and bled as the titan roared and crashed into the dust.

  Somehow, her cyclops had survived the mighty charge. Barely alive, it was struggling to stand, using its sword to lever itself up. Makeda used her magic, feeling the precious blood pumping out of the cyclops’ damaged body, and then she reached deep within the beast and spurred its fury to new heights. The new anger gave her beast unnatural strength, and before the enemy could recover, Makeda’s cyclops cleaved one of the titan’s four arms off at the shoulder.

  The titan’s death bellow was like music across the plains. Its suffering would probably be heard all the way to the city of Kalos. Truly this was a great day for House Balaash.

  The Muzkaar beast handlers that had been driving that titan were fleeing back across a ravine. “Urkesh.” Makeda’s voice was calm. “Make sure this is the last time those beast handlers annoy me.”

  The order was given, and the whine of razor needles filled the air, but Makeda had already moved on to survey the next part of the battle.

  House Muzkaar had not expected her furious attack, and Makeda had stacked their corpses deep as a result. Tyrant Naram’s army had been confident of their victory, but Makeda had struck so hard and fast that House Muzkaar had been thrown into disarray. A wild charge by her swordsmen and karax had bloodied Muzkaar. They had pushed back, but it had been disorganized, panicked, and it was only through superior numbers that Muzkaar had survived at all. She had drawn most of her melee troops away, letting her karax set up a defensive line, allowing her Venators time to bleed the enemy. The proud swordsmen were eager to return to glory, but she ordered them to be patient. Let Muzkaar think they had been used up …

  As the sun climbed and the hot morning turned into blistering afternoon, House Muzkaar counterattacked, and though it was sloppy and hurried, Makeda was drastically outnumbered. She could not win a war of attrition against a Tyrant with a stable worth of titans.

  Despite heavy casualties, the line of Praetorian karax was standing firm. They stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall of steel and wood, shields absorbing blows and their pikes thrusting continuously, spilling Muzkaar blood. The karax were methodical, plodding forward, always stabbing.

  The code of hoksune taught that the purest combat was individual, warrior on warrior. She could see why it was so much more difficult for a member of the karax to gain exaltation than a swordsman. This was not the battle she knew, the calculation of offense and defense, and the sudden flash of a sword … This was mechanical. This was more like watching the lower castes harvest grain from the fields. The karax would stab, block, stab, block, and whenever Barkal saw an opening he would order an advance through the blood stained plains, and then as one they would begin their harvest again. It was hypnotic to watch.

  Zabalam was waiting for her at the ridge overlooking their remaining karax. His taberna of elite Praetorian swordsman were ready there, crouched in the tall golden grass, hidden, as per her orders, until the time was right.

  “Second Born Makeda.” Zabalam bowed.

  “A fine afternoon for war, Primus,” Makeda greeted him respectfully. Though she outranked him by birth and command, Zabalam had been her primary instructor in the art of the two swords. Truly, he was a credit to their house. She thanked the ancestors that her father had seen fit to send Zabalam with her cohort. “How goes it here?”

  “The swordsmen chafe at being told to hide in the grass like mere Hestatians.”

  “They are elite warriors. Proud …” Makeda noted. “It is understandable.”

  “They will do as they are told … I do not think your brother will relieve us in time.”

  “Akkad will come.” Makeda had her doubts, but she did not speak them aloud.

  “The karax have fought past the point of exhaustion. They will fall soon, and when they do we will be overrun by these wretched Muzkaar belek.”

  “Good.” A belek was a thick skulled, herd animal, strong but notorious for blundering into wallows and getting stuck. Makeda did not think Zabalam realized what a fitting insult that was.

  “Good?” Since Zabalam’s face had been split nearly in half with a sword many years before, only half of his mouth moved when he frowned. The other side was permanently frozen in a straight line. “I’m unsure how that is a good thing?”

  “We cannot outlast a force this size. Our only hope to defeat them is by killing their tyrant. Without Naram, Muzkaar will fall. What do you know of Naram?”

  “He is renowned for his skill, but your grandfather defeated him once and took many slaves from one of his cities.”

  “Yes. It is said he retains a rather passionate hatred of House Balaash, and he is still a warrior without peer. My ancestor shamed him, so he will come for revenge. He knows I am here, so Naram will want to give the killing blow himself.”

  “Or maybe he will capture you and turn you over to his Paingivers.”

  Makeda shrugged. “Either way, Naram is coming, and when he does, I will kill him first.”

  “You remind me of your grandfather sometimes … But what of the karax?”

  “Hopefully Akkad’s reinforcements will have an extoller with them.” Only a member of the extoller caste or the much rarer ancestral guardians could save a warrior’s spiritual essence in a sacral stone so they could live on as a revered companion to the exalted. “Look at how many they have slaughtered. Surely some of them will be worth saving.”

  “And if Akkad has none of their caste amongst his reinforcements?”

  She thought it over for a moment. Though no extoller had arrived, the warriors below did not know that, so she signaled for a message runner. “Tell Dakar Barkal that I am personally observing the battle, watching for any who are worthy of exaltation. Tell him to spread the word to his troops.” The messenger did not seem disturbed in the least that he was to relay something which would raise an impossible hope. He merely bowed and ran down the hill. Makeda turned back to Zaba
lam. “That will make them fight that much harder.”

  Zabalam’s half face twisted up in the other direction. “You definitely remind me of your grandfather.”

  The temperature continued to climb as the sun beat down on her armor. Droplets of sweat rolled from under her helmet and into her eyes. Makeda welcomed the sting. The cries of the dead and dying were all around her. The cohort of House Muzkaar seemed to be an endless thing stretching across the plains. She passed the time mentally steering her cyclops toward the weakest points of the Balaash lines. She stood there, her back banner whipping in the wind. Makeda wanted all of the enemy army to see her, defiant. Let them tell their tyrant that a scion of House Balaash was waiting for him.

  Makeda felt the pang of loss as the cyclops that had been injured earlier was dragged down and killed. She drained the last bits of vitality dwelling in the cyclops tissues and gathered that strength to herself. She would need it shortly.

  The line of karax faltered, broke, and was swept away before the swords of House Muzkaar. Their center had fallen.

  A trumpet blew, and then another. A black banner was raised on the other side of the road and waved back and forth. The entire Muzkaar host hesitated, and then parted as a small escort of warriors and beasts advanced through the army.

  “That is a lot of titans …” Zabalam muttered.

  There were only two of the great grey beasts lumbering behind Naram’s personal banner, but nonetheless even one titan was a lot of titan.

  “On my signal, rally your men and charge that banner. All that matters is that Naram dies. I shall use my power to give you speed,” Makeda ordered. Zabalam conveyed that order to his swordsmen who were waiting in cover. She mentally summoned her remaining cyclops closer. “Runner.” Another messenger appeared at her side. “Tell Urkesh that when I draw my swords, his Venators must clear a path to that banner.”

  The knot of Muzkaar elite had advanced to the front of the army. The squat, powerfully built skorne in the lead had to be Naram. With a spiked club resting on one shoulder, and his black armor gleaming in the sun, Naram appeared a formidable foe. She could sense his mortitheurge power, churning and hungry.

  “I remember when you were teaching me the way of the two swords, Primus,” Makeda said.

  “You were my finest student.”

  “I recall now one lesson in particular. Show your enemy one sword, and when they are focused upon that, kill them with the other. I am the first sword ... Await my signal.”

  Makeda walked down the hill to where Naram and his army were waiting. She ran her hands across the top of the thick grass. It was sharp enough to draw blood. The fury taken from her beasts burned like a hot lump of power within her chest. She stepped through puddles of blood, and over the mangled bodies of her warriors.

  Naram strode toward her, a great wall of titan muscle on each side. “Makeda of House Balaash!” he challenged. The two beasts were obviously well controlled, as they took a few extra steps forward to shield their master.

  She stopped just within range of his voice. “Tyrant Naram.” She placed her hands on the hilts of her sheathed swords. Those swords held part of her grandfather. She would never let them fall into the hands of someone so unworthy. “It has been a fine battle so far. Have you come to surrender personally?”

  The enemy Tyrant gave a hearty laugh. “I must admit, your tenacity impresses me. It has been a generation since I’ve seen someone so outnumbered account for themselves so well.” He had to shout to be heard over the hot wind. “Order your remaining warriors to lay down their arms. Swear fealty to me, and you may retain your caste. There is room in House Muzkaar for such as you. A political marriage will be arranged to one of my sons. Your father will have to withdraw from Kalos, but this will be best for both our houses.” Naram waved his free hand dismissively. “Or you can fight, and once you are defeated and shamed you can join your men as slaves to my house. Choose quickly.”

  Naram’s words, though filled with truth, did not sway her. He did not understand how powerful Makeda’s mortitheurgy was … Few among their people could. Their dark magic took decades of devotion to master, but no one was more devoted than a child of House Balaash. Makeda closed her eyes and felt the world around her. Living tissue and pumping blood. She could sense Naram and his army before her, and her few remaining warriors behind, each and every one of them reduced to their component bits of muscle, bone, and sinew, cloaked in steel and laminate armor, powered by blood and spirit, all of it there waiting to be manipulated by her superior will. Gathering up the energy gleaned from her fallen beast, she awoke the power within Zabalam’s waiting Praetorian swordsmen. In her mind’s eye, their blood turned to molten, pulsing fire.

  She opened her eyes. Zabalam’s standard bearer rose from the grass and waved the flag of the Praetorian swordsmen. They leapt from their hiding place and moved with impossible speed. Makeda drew the twin swords and charged.

  “So be it,” Naram stated. His titans both took another great step forward, shielding him from view.

  Urkesh had received her message; his Venators fired. Makeda heard the high-pitched screech before she felt the passage through the air around her, buzzing through the top of the grass like angry bees. Razor needles exploded into the titans, and then Makeda was within the rain of blood.

  The titan’s leg was as big around as a tree, and the first sword of Balaash cleaved a chunk of meat sufficient for a feast from its thigh. She sidestepped as a massive gauntlet swung past, and then darted behind the first titan. Makeda was faster than any mortal had a right to be. The second studied her, giant head tilting to the side in confusion, tiny black eyes blinking, before Naram drove it toward her like a great, flesh-covered weapon.

  A hand, palm as big as Makeda’s torso, reached for her, but she lashed out with a blade, and the titan’s thumb sailed into the grass. Makeda dove and rolled, armor clanking. She came up behind the second titan before it could begin to bellow in pain.

  Naram stood in front of her, surprised, but already invoking his own mortitheurgy.

  But then they were surrounded in swordsmen, and most of them were not his.

  The fight was brutal. It was a swirling mass of chaos as swordsmen clashed beneath the thunder of titan feet. She beheaded a Muzkaar swordsman who crossed her path. Naram crushed the skull of a Balaash warrior with his club. The two leaders met in the middle of the melee, and Makeda knew this was the perfect moment spoken of in the code of hoksune.

  Her blades met the spiked club. Naram was incredibly strong, surely driven by his own magic. She had to cross her swords and use both to block at once. The impact would have broken a normal blade, but the Swords of Balaash were anything but normal. Naram shoved her back, and Makeda moved gracefully away, ducking beneath a wild swing from a Muzkaar guard. She returned the favor by removing that swordsman’s face.

  As his essence fled, Makeda could feel herself growing stronger. Let this dance continue forever, for surely, this is exaltation.

  The nearest titan picked up one of her swordsmen in two vast hands and pulled the screaming warrior in half. Another barrage of reiver fire put out the titan’s eyes. Makeda’s remaining cyclops chopped at the other titan.

  The tyrant swung at her, but she skipped aside. Naram’s mortitheurgy surged outward in a wave of force, knocking down both black and red clad swordsmen. Makeda felt the hot energy pass over her, but she resisted it by sheer force of will, and leapt back into the fray.

  Naram looked down in surprise as the tip of a sword burst from his abdomen. He swung his club in a mighty back arc, and the Balaash swordsman who had struck the Tyrant from behind disappeared in a spray of red. Naram grimaced and pressed one gauntlet to his stomach. The nearest titan roared in agony as Naram used his power to afflict the terrible wound onto the flesh of the beast in his stead.

  Already severely injured, the titan toppled. Makeda jumped back as the beast blotted out the sun. She narrowly made it out of the way as the impact blew the tall gras
s flat. Makeda found herself on her back. She rolled and sprung up, trying to get back into the fight, but then there was a black flash as Naram’s club filled her vision.

  She was falling, turning through the air. The golden grass rushed up to meet her.

  Much as Naram had a moment before, Makeda called upon her power, seeking her mental connection to her remaining warbeast. She could feel the damage, the agony, and the blackness of the void. Instead of welcoming it, Makeda shoved it onto her cyclops.

  The cyclops absorbed all of the damage it could, snuffing out its life like a candle, but even then, that wasn’t enough. The impact still left Makeda stunned and bleeding. The cyclops’s body collapsed into the waiting arms of the Muzkaar titan, and not even realizing it was dead, the titan attacked the corpse, pummeling it beneath its great fists. Even disoriented, Makeda was far too practiced to let any vital life energy go to waste, and she instinctively gathered up the last of the cyclops’s dying rage to fuel her magic.

  The world spun. Makeda got to her hands and knees. All around her, Balaash swordsmen fell. Muzkaar soldiers swarmed in from every direction. Naram walked toward her, spiked club dripping red.

  Before he had died, Archdominar Vaactash had taught Makeda everything he knew about the thin line between life and death. Her people were a stubborn, hardy lot, and they did not give up their mortal shells easily. The bodies of dead and dying members of House Balaash surrounded her, but House Balaash still had need of their services. Makeda drew upon the well of power within her own blood. It was the greatest feat she had ever attempted, far beyond what she should have been able to accomplish as novice mortitheurge.