Makeda knew the Venator was right. They would be surrounded, cut off, and brought down. Unless …
The titan she had bonded with was occupied, so Makeda reached 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 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 three moons for a moment as it passed overhead. The titan’s landing shook the foundations of the world and nearly knocked over their mount. Makeda did not 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 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 bloodrunner’s daggers had been treated with a strong poison, but she was overcome so quickly there was nothing she could do but scream.
Every move of the ferox sent pain rippling through her body. Every jolt and bounce caused joints to grind as if filled with broken glass. The air in her lungs bubbled like acid, eating away at her flesh.
The midnight plains faded into 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 increased the pain.
This was more than poison. This was a living thing, born to cause suffering.
At one point she slipped from the saddle and crashed into the dirt. It felt cushioned compared to the pain cascading through her body, but even then, the poison discovered this small bit of relief and extinguished it. The ground seemed to become hotter until every bit of clinging dirt burned like lava. Urkesh lifted her back onto the ferox. He said something about pursuers, but it was hard to hear over the hurricane in her ears. The pain caused her to hallucinate and his fingers pierced her skin like the needles of his reiver.
The pain went on and on. Time lost all meaning. Reality was replaced with a world that was nothing but agony, and somehow Makeda knew she was dangling by a thread over the Void. All she had to do was cut that tiny string of life and she could plunge 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 the 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 fueled 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 towered 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 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 her body was resting on a pile of dark furs. Her armor was missing and she wore only a thin grey robe. She noticed a bloodstained cloth 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. 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 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. “Those assassin’s 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 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.”
<
br /> “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 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 Shroudwall 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, who 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 through her thin robes and she began to shiver uncontrollably. She had lost 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.
“In the beginning, it was just your cohort and a handful of slaves,” Urkesh said. “But word spread of your sickness. Others had to come and see.”
“It was a few 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 the 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 at 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.”
Haradum sounded reverent, “For every day for ten days and every night for ten nights, you recited the entirety of the code of hoksune.”
As if of one mind, every warrior in the room went to their knees and bowed.
PART THREE
The twin Swords of Balaash had been placed reverently on the stone floor before her as Makeda knelt in meditation. At times she was envious of the extollers and their ability to commune with the exalted dead, because the swords were silent to her ears. Hours had passed, but still the answers eluded her. If only she could truly know the wisdom of her ancestors, perhaps then choosing between the demands of honor and the potential future of her house would not be so difficult.
They were high in the Shroudwall Mountains and the air in the uppermost chamber of the tallest tower of the fortress seemed permanently chilled. Makeda’s measured breathing left clouds of steam in the air. The sun would rise soon, and when it did, her army would need direction.
She heard a sound behind her, a shuffling and wheezing on the stairs. Makeda did not need to look to know it was Aptimus Haradum. The aged extoller had made it a habit to check on her. “Archdomina Makeda?” she called out.
“That is not my title, Haradum.”
“Your warriors seem to think it is.”
Makeda stared at her swords. “They believe me to be more than I am.”
Haradum wheezed and shuffled her way into the chamber. “So many stairs, and it is so cold here. This place must have been built by nihilators wishing to suffer. I am lucky our young dakar with the reiver allowed me to pass. I believe he has appointed himself to be your personal guard.”
“Urkesh?” Makeda asked. She had not been aware the Venator had been following.
“Yes, yes. He took the final order of Primus Zabalam most seriously. I collected Zabalam’s soul by the way. He killed twenty warriors before catching a spear in the throat.” She patted a glowing stone chained to her apron. “He will make a fine revered companion to Vaactash.”
Makeda was surprised by the sudden tightness in her chest. She hid the physical reaction, and nodded in approval. “A wise choice.”
“As for the young Venator, after you were overcome with poison, he lost control of the ferox. Wily beasts have no patience for untrained masters. He carried you on his back for miles until reaching your decurium. He never left your side the entire time you were consumed with fever.”
“I was unaware.” Urkesh’s commitment to duty was commendable. Perhaps it was possible to honor hoksune even without looking into a warrior’s eyes as you killed him.
“What troubles you, Makeda?”
“I have a decision to make, but the code does not provide me with clarity on this issue. I do not like being uncertain.”
“You always were one for clarity. As Vaactash used to say, when a titan is chasing, do not dither, pick a direction and run!”
That did not sound like something her grandfather would have said at all. “I would ask a favor of you, Aptimus.”
“I am already aware of what you seek, and I already have an ans
wer for you. While you were battling the fever I attempted to commune with the essence of your grandfather’s spirit which dwells within your swords. Such a task is onerous and difficult, and sometimes our exalted ancestors do not deign to answer. Sometimes they know that the living must seek out wisdom for themselves. There was only the briefest communication.”
“What did he say?”
“The true heir of House Balaash has already won.”
Makeda was not surprised. It was not like Vaactash to provide an easy way out. “Akkad is the eldest, thus it is his legitimate right to rule. However, should an heir be deemed unfit, and I believe his dishonorable and cowardly murders —”
“Do not forget the blasphemy!”
“Of course.” Makeda suppressed a small smile. “That too. These things prove he is unworthy to lead House Balaash. So it falls to me to issue a challenge. It is my duty to defeat him in single combat and assume the mantle of archdomina.”
“Assuming of course you could defeat the finest warrior of his generation in a duel, but that doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“Akkad will ignore my challenge and have me killed. Someone so dishonorable will not risk his throne. Akkad declared me an outcast. Officially, I am of lower status than a slave.”
“Most slaves do not have their own armies.”
“Yes. And if I march this army south, then somewhere on the plains north of Halaak we will clash against the rest of House Balaash. Thousands upon thousands will die.”
“It will be glorious.” Haradum shook one of her bony fists in the air. “To war! To war! The blood will flow like rivers!”
Makeda sighed. “The problem with a civil war is that whoever wins, House Balaash loses. The victor is irrelevant. We will rule over a house that is weakened and ripe to be conquered by our neighbors. House Balaash has too many enemies to gut our army and expect to survive.”
Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) Page 6