Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles)

by Larry Correia

  The slave finished rolling the last corpse into the lake, before rushing past her, his sandals slapping against 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 grown and been added to for twenty generations, until the interior 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. 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 her 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 onto 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 detailing the life of Vuxoris. “Behind that is a passage which will lead you 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 to 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 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 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 representatives 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, knowing 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 dropped his shoulders and lowered his eyes as he 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 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 of 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 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 ancestor’s souls, and its 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. “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, be
cause 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.

  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 the 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 diverting every attack. He backed against the far wall, but then placed one boot against it and launched himself at her.

  She avoided 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 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 counter attacked. One sword diverted his spear, while the other one struck armor, then flesh, and finally bone.

  They separated, with 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.

  Wary now, Akkad took his bloody hand from the wound and placed it upon the shaft of his spear. He shifted slowly, his boots sliding across the marble as he took up a ready stance, the spear point angled low toward the floor, ready to sweep up and eviscerate. Makeda lifted her swords, one protectively before her, the other low and ready at her side, in a stance taught to her long ago by Primus Zabalam.

  They waited, unmoving, studying each other, watching for any sign of weakness, any opportunity to strike. Two warriors, both masters of their respective martial traditions were coiled, ready.

  A minute passed. Another.

  No one in the council chambers made a noise. All knew that a single movement would end the duel and decide the fate of House Balaash.

  The loudest noise in the room was the drip drip drip of Akkad’s blood sluggishly decorating the floor.

  It was that splattering of life that would force Akkad to move first. Such was the danger of having such an understanding of the anatomy and the power that dwelled within. Time was no longer on his side, and every heartbeat that passed would leave him that much weaker. Makeda shifted, ever so slightly, and her grip tightened on her sword. The tiniest bit of a smile split her face.

  The siblings struck.

  They looked into each other’s eyes. This should have been one of those moments of perfect enlightenment spoken of in the code, only achievable at that razor sharp moment between life and death, but as Makeda saw into Akkad’s soul, she saw only the turmoil, the lack of conviction, the doubt in the true ways of their people, of their family …

  She judged him unworthy.

  The spear blade had grazed her, barely turned away by one sword as she’d stepped inside her brother’s reach. The tip of her other sword was in Akkad’s neck.

  Makeda spoke slowly to her dying brother. “I would have followed you. It was your place to rule. I would have done whatever duty required of me. I would have followed you into the Void if necessary.”

  Akkad tried to speak, but sound would not form through the blood running down his throat. She could tell he could still understand her words though, and that was what mattered.

  “But you thought I was weak, malleable like you. You misjudged me. Now you must go into the Void alone.” Makeda twisted the sword and drove it upward, deep into Akkad’s brain.

  The true heir of House Balaash has already won.

  The new archdomina of House Balaash pulled her sword from her brother’s skull and stepped away from the falling corpse. Akkad collapsed, and lay there in a crumpled heap, deprived of all his glory, his blood slowly coloring the crevices of the house glyph engraved in the floor.

  Makeda looked up from the body and around the council chambers. None dared question. She would deal with the traitors soon enough, but there were more pressing matters at hand. She turned to the nearest military officer. “Order the cohorts to stand down. Tell them Makeda rules House Balaash now and has declared this battle to be through. No more of my soldiers will be wasted today.” Several warriors ran up the stairs to spread the word. One of the Cataphract opened the great window to the west, while another brought forth a green signal flag, the color which would order a full halt. He shoved it out into the wind, and began waving it side to side.

  Extoller Shuruppak gathered up his voluminous robes and rushed down the steps, grasping for an empty sacral stone at his belt. Makeda looked at the extoller with mild disbelief as he knelt next to Akkad. “What are you doing?”

  “Akkad was one of the greatest warriors of his generation. I must keep his soul —”

  “Silence.” Reaching down, Makeda gathered up a handful of the extoller’s robes. “You would betray the ideals of your caste?” She hauled Shuruppak roughly to his feet. Makeda raised her voice, but she was no longer addressing the extoller. “Let the dishonorable name of Akkad never be spoken again in the halls of House Balaash.”

  “But Akkad was —”

  “I must have not made myself clear.” Makeda dragged the extoller past the Cataphract
with the signal flag, and hurled Shuruppak out the window. His scream could be heard for several seconds, but they were too high up to hear the impact.

  Turning back to the council, Makeda raised her voice. “My brother’s name will be stricken from all of the histories.” Several scribes immediately opened their scrolls, inked their quills, and began furiously blotting out names. “And as for his fellow conspirators …” Makeda glanced at Abaish, who was crouched on a stone bench, looking like he might be contemplating jumping out the window himself. “Fetch my tormentors. Fetch all of my tormentors. They are going to be very busy.”

  Makeda went to the window. In the distance, horns were sounding. The green flag had been seen. The fighting would cease, and hopefully before enough of Balaash blood had been spilled to leave them weakened before the other great houses.

  Smoke rose in pillars across the battlefield. From this great distance individuals were nothing more than tiny specks of movement, only mighty warbeasts could be distinguished as what they really were. It was nothing more than a swirling mass of color, red and gold, death and life, all beneath a spreading tower of black.

  She watched the smoke climb into the clear sky and wondered if she could see as the extollers did with their crystal eyes, would the flow of souls into the Void look like that smoke drifting into nothingness? When the worker caste refined the impurities from metal, they had to torture it with fire. The weakness burned away and what was left was refined.

  Saved.

  “This is why I fight,” the Archdomina of House Balaash whispered to herself.

  Grandfather said a warrior did not promise. House Balaash would not fall today, nor would it fall as long as she lived, and as long as House Balaash stood as the greatest of all houses, the skorne would continue as unceasing instruments of war.

  Archdominar Vaactash had imparted great wisdom to the child Makeda that night in the Hall of Ancestors. He had taught her, even praised her for her devotion to hoksune, and cautioned her as to her place within the hierarchy of their house. It had been a blessed evening, one that she would always remember, and now she had been dismissed.