Vengewar

by Kevin J. Anderson

The dragon swooped in with a roar that chilled Penda to the bone. It skimmed low, and the wind smelled of evil, rotting flesh, and a miasma of pure anger. Penda’s stomach roiled not with fear, but with revulsion. The dragon was beyond powerful, beyond hateful, not merely some predatory reptile of enormous size. It sent out shuddering waves that resonated throughout the camp with the dark emotions that Kur had extracted from himself. This was poison, evil incarnate.

  Utauks snatched hunting bows and arrows, tent poles, spears, heirloom swords. Standing together, they fired their arrows and hurled their spears in an attempt to save the camp. Many projectiles struck, and a few pierced soft spots in the reptilian hide, while others ricocheted off the hard scales. Even young Utauk boys flung rocks with their slings.

  One stone punched a hole through the stretched leather, and the dragon flinched, then backflapped its wings as it crashed onto the outskirts of the camp near a paddock of horses. The frantic animals broke their hobbles and tried to flee, but the dragon crunched down on a stallion, snapping it in half before gulping it down.

  Shella’s bearded nephews ducked into the main tent and emerged holding the corners of a rectangular rug, which they used to carry the old woman. Scuttling as fast as they could, they bolted toward the shelter of the trees.

  Utauk men ran out to throw torches and firebrands at the dragon. The monster snapped at the bright flames as if they were no more than bothersome sparks in the air. With a thrash of its barbed tail, the dragon flattened several family tents.

  Hale grabbed his daughter, tugging her by the arm as they lurched to the edge of the forest. “I need to get you to safety!”

  “We should all fight together.”

  “Not you,” he said in a commanding voice that she had not heard since she was a little girl. “We cannot fight that thing.”

  The monster’s rampage overturned carts, shredded tents, and destroyed crates of supplies. With a taloned foot it stomped on a wagon, bursting wooden barrels of ale as if they were grapes popped between fingers. It tore several Utauks apart. One had tried to attack with a wooden tent pole, and another had scrambled to flee with his young daughter. The little girl got away, but the father did not.

  Penda held on to her father’s arm as they ran. “Our only hope is to scatter into the hills. If we all flee in different directions, the dragon may lose interest.”

  “Cra, we will lose so many!” Hale said.

  Two Utauk teens gathered something ethereal like knotted spiderwebs, unraveling a weighted bird net as they ran forward and separated. They threw the net at the dragon, catching its serrated wing, tangling it in the strands. The end of the net caught on the hooked claws, which made the monster lurch and tumble toward one of the large campfires. With brute strength the monster tore the net to shreds and snorted down at the fire.

  Just then, one of Shella din Orr’s nephews—Emil—dashed to the campfire and tossed a small wooden cask into the flames. As the cask fell into the fire, glittering powder spilled out, and a burst of colorful spangles and shooting sparks erupted in the dragon’s face. It roared, lurching into the air. Its bellow was loud enough to knock Emil flat onto his back. He rolled away and dashed for shelter.

  From a distance, sudden war cries broke through the night, a sound even louder than the dragon, high-pitched and musical, overpowering the screams of victims and the clamor of the beast. Penda spotted shapes thundering into the valley from the north, plunging down from the hills. She didn’t believe what she was seeing. “Those are augas!”

  Golden sandwreth warriors rode their two-legged reptiles with Quo at the lead. The wreth noble raised his spear, howling a challenge, just as he had done when killing the dragon out in the desert.

  By quick count, Penda saw more than a dozen in the party, including a bald mage who unleashed magic in a whirlwind that snapped branches and tore leaves. The snarling force slammed into the dragon as it swooped in for another attack on the camp. It tumbled in the sky, then turned toward its new enemies.

  Quo howled another challenge, riding in as hard as his auga could carry him. “A dragon! You have found us a dragon.”

  The wreth warriors closed in, and the Utauks continued to fight.

  86

  THE Hethrren showed no signs of leaving, even though the warships were ready to take them away.

  In an imperious huff, Key Priestlord Klovus demanded to see Magda, but she saw through his bluster and exposed his fear as if flaying away tender skin. “With so much food and rest, we are growing stronger so we can be better warriors,” Magda said. “I would be ready more swiftly if my lover stopped avoiding me.”

  He cringed, but dug deep into his heart. “If that is what it takes to make you board the ships and do as you promised.”

  Magda waved her beefy hand. “All in good time. Are your ships prepared to face ocean storms? Are your captains competent?”

  “The ships are ready, and it is time to depart for war! You have nothing to fear.”

  She cuffed him on the side of his head. “I did not say I was afraid! But I am not convinced that the Commonwealth is a better place than this city.” She indicated the entire palace she had appropriated as her own. “I think we will just take Serepol instead.”

  Barely escaping, Klovus stormed away from the empra’s palace, unable to contain his anger anymore. He realized what he should have admitted before. The Hethrren did not intend to leave. Ever. He could no longer coddle or even tolerate the barbarians, and he had to bring his greatest strength to bear. He could not control the Hethrren, would not be able to make them abide by their own agreement. He had been a fool to trust Magda’s promise, even if it would have given Ishara a complete victory. Now, instead, he had to save his land from these vermin. In the end, the people would see him as a hero. If he succeeded.

  He felt the dark storm brewing in his heart and mind, lightning bolts of fury that were mere echoes of the godling’s frustrations … which in turn reflected the feelings of the people. Everyone in Serepol was frightened, disgusted, and confused, and soon enough, their ire would turn against their key priestlord if he did not do something. They would blame him for bringing these repugnant barbarians to their capital city. It was up to Klovus to protect his followers, to purge the Hethrren from Serepol.

  He knew the unruly warriors would never willingly board the warships and sail off to conquer the Commonwealth. They would stay here and grind down the people until nothing remained.

  Hear us, save us!

  Klovus had heard the echoing chant all his life, prayers to the godlings and the priestlords. Now, those words had a different meaning. Hear us, save us. He heard the people, and he knew of one way to save them.

  He made his way to the Magnifica temple.

  The structure had doubled in size since Klovus had started the work again. Previously, even when relegated to its vaults beneath the incomplete temple, the Serepol godling had been strong, and the people had fed it with constant prayers and sacrifices. Now, as the Magnifica grew, the godling’s power increased exponentially. Though many people still prayed for the missing empra, whom no one had seen in some time, in this time of crisis they would turn their devotions where Key Priestlord Klovus directed them.

  As he swept through the streets toward the temple plaza, intent on his mission, he instructed his ur-priests to summon the faithful. It was time. The barbarians were dispersed throughout the city, occupying buildings and taverns, sleeping outdoors because that was what they preferred. His followers obeyed the key priestlord’s orders and tried not to provoke them.

  Klovus reached the plaza, where three tiers of the stepped pyramid rose high, adorned with innumerable sculptures, manifestations of Ishara’s godlings, symbols of hope and protection. Although each district had a different primary godling and countless local deities, the Serepol entity was the summation of them all, and the people channeled their powers there.

  Klovus could feel the roiling strength of the power contained within his temple. Though the th
ing did not understand the specific details or facts, it felt his emotions and would do as he wished. And what he wished was for the godling to purge the invaders from Serepol.

  Throngs came into the Magnifica square, some bold, some furtive. Many of the people had eyes shadowed with the fear that this gathering might become a massacre, that the Hethrren might ride in with their swords and clubs and slay them all. Others, though, placed their faith in the key priestlord, and thus in the godling. Hundreds came, and he knew the crowd would continue to swell.

  Klovus needed to act swiftly, since word would surely get back to Magda. The Hethrren leader would not know what he intended, but she was no fool. She would try to stop him.

  “Now is the time for your sacrifices!” he bellowed to the crowd. “We need your prayers, your strength, and your blood. Give to the godling, the defender of Serepol.”

  “But Serepol is about to fall!” someone shouted.

  “Not if I can stop it.” Klovus was afraid the worshippers would shift into an angry mob and turn against him. “The Hethrren lied to us! They promised to be our allies against the godless, but now they prey upon us instead.” He raised a fist in the air. “This must stop!”

  The crowd cheered. His ur-priests and dozens of minor priestlords spread out along the temple foundation, taking positions at the altar stations to receive sacrifices. Empty urns waited, and the priestlords readied their knives.

  “Hear us, save us! The godling must be strong to root out this evil among us.”

  The Magnifica temple vibrated and shuddered. Particles of stone dust crumbled between the blocks. The entity within seemed ready to explode. Klovus placed a hand against his heart, concentrating. “Not yet, not yet!”

  The crowd’s faith and anger added a surge of power to the godling. As they pressed forward, some of them slashed their arms or palms, bleeding on the ground instead of into sacrificial urns. Their frenzy imbued the godling with even more uncontrollable strength.

  Giddy from the outpouring, Klovus stood on the stone steps. People pushed closer with such vehemence that the key priestlord feared that he might be trampled in their zeal. He moved several steps higher on the huge structure.

  But this was what he wanted.

  Nearby, he noticed four workers in plain clothes, drab shirts and trousers. One man looked at him with a knowing expression, a shocking intensity. “Zaha,” Klovus said in a quiet voice.

  One of the nondescript men nodded. “We four will protect you if the crowd becomes dangerous.”

  “The Hethrren are dangerous,” Klovus growled, more confident with his elite assassins nearby.

  Inside the temple, the godling surged like a forest fire that had reached a pile of bone-dry deadfall. Klovus would have to release it soon. But not yet …

  From where he stood on the raised foundation, he cast his gaze across the crowd. More people swelled their numbers, and their shouts resonated with waves of impervious belief. “Hear us, save us! Hear us, save us!”

  Panic stirred at the edge of the plaza, and shouts turned to screams. He saw thirty or forty Hethrren charging in on their horses. The beasts trampled some believers who did not dodge swiftly enough, and broken bodies lay strewn about as the barbarians plunged into the crowd. Some people tried to stand against them, but the wild horses kicked out with their hooves. The Hethrren drew their weapons and began attacking the crowd.

  Klovus felt an explosion of alarm, a lust for revenge, and he could not contain his anger. That, in turn, was reinforced and magnified by the godling, which absorbed and reflected the overriding emotions of the crowd.

  He clutched his chain of office, closed his eyes, and shot his thoughts toward the godling that brooded deep inside the temple. The entity was also the heart of Serepol, the soul of these people, and it needed to come forth and fight for them. Klovus performed his mental workings and muttered the magic to release the angry deity from its realm behind the spelldoor and shadowglass.

  A storm erupted through the scaffolding and bricks on the pyramid’s incomplete third tier. The godling roared upward in a maelstrom of smoke and dust, unbridled anger and fear. It was a living hurricane made of claws and lightning, tendrils like vipers, fists like battering rams. The force knocked aside enormous stone blocks as it broke free.

  The shock wave bowled Klovus from his perch, but Zaha caught him. Like an avalanche roaring down a mountain slope, the Serepol godling poured out of the temple and slammed through the crowd.

  People screamed and howled, some in awe, others in pain as the godling plowed through anything in its way. Klovus could feel the entity swelling in the air and inside him.

  The Hethrren riders raised their fists, and Klovus watched their expressions turn to terror.

  The godling extended smoky tendrils, snatching barbarians into the air and battering them together before discarding the broken bodies. It stomped on the wild horses and flung more Hethrren high into the air. Some were smashed against building walls.

  The worshippers in the temple square scattered in terror, though many were transfixed by the thing they had helped to summon.

  Knowing its orders, the godling made short work of the first ranks of Hethrren. Klovus had summoned the entity for the purpose of purging the barbarians from Serepol, but it was a creature of violence and uncontrolled destruction. It did not have finesse, nor did it make fine distinctions.

  The godling exploded away from the Magnifica, slammed into the buildings around the temple square, and flattened them, knocking down walls and crushing roofs in order to find and destroy the Hethrren.

  It roiled along lashing out with lightning, hammering with bludgeons of smoke and steam. Klovus reached out through his link, trying to call it back. But the godling had brooded on its power for too long, and now it rampaged like a child in a fevered tantrum. Out of control.

  87

  IN Fellstaff Castle, King Kollanan met with his military advisors. Before the wreths returned, Norterra had been at peace for centuries, and each person tried to remember military strategy after a lifetime of calm. A handful of veterans from the Isharan war three decades ago had settled here, and now they offered their knowledge and experience.

  Koll’s initial strike at Lake Bakal had rallied his soldiers, and the second attack had seasoned them, but the death of well-liked Lord Cerus and so many fighters had driven home the reality of the coming battles. Through new conscription, the Fellstaff army had increased by more than a thousand soldiers, but after what they had seen of the wreths—both races—the king suspected that every human being would have to learn to fight.

  Kollanan’s great war hammer now lay on the council table in front of him, ready at hand. Queen Tafira sat beside him, and he reached out to take her hand rather than grasping the war hammer. Lasis stood behind him, always ready.

  But Rondo infuriated him. The captain stood in the council room freshly shaven, his Commonwealth colors mended and laundered, his leather armor clean, his sword sheathed at his side. He looked as if he were about to attend a military parade. Instead, he spoke defiance. “I refuse, King Kollanan. Many weeks ago, Konag Conndur ordered us to escort you home to Fellstaff, and my men and I have done so. We remained long beyond the time required, and we even participated in your adventure up at Lake Bakal. Now we must present ourselves to our konag. The Commonwealth needs us.”

  Koll struggled to maintain his patience. “I need you here. You saw for yourselves how powerful the frostwreths are, and I have requested reinforcements from Convera.”

  Rondo flushed. “The Isharans have caused pain and destruction as well. You may choose to defy the lawful ruler of the three kingdoms, but my men and I will not be part of your rebellion.” He nearly spat the words. “We are not traitors.”

  Around the table, the king’s military commanders and vassal lords growled. One man rose to his feet, but Kollanan lifted a hand. Beside him, Tafira spoke in a calm, firm voice. “We are fighting to save the world, Captain, which is surely more important tha
n a dispute across the sea.”

  Rondo rounded on her. “You have no right to speak on this matter. You are a foreigner and a spy!”

  “Enough!” Kollanan snatched up his hammer and stood. “Captain Rondo, I have tolerated your insolence long enough. You are in my kingdom, and you shall follow my commands, or I will throw you and your men into manacles.”

  Rondo’s face turned the color of hot coals at the base of a fire. Behind the king, Lasis said, “It would be my honor to restrain him, Sire.”

  The captain’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. “Three of my men died in your folly against the frostwreths. If we are going to fight on a battlefield, we will fight for our true konag.”

  Before Koll could respond, running footsteps came down the corridor, and a flushed young man with sweat-plastered hair burst headlong into the chamber. He was so exhausted that he could barely keep his balance. He wore the colors of Bahlen’s newly recruited army. “An attack!” The young man shook sweat from his hair, gulped hard, then wheezed out, “An army approaching my lord Bahlen’s wreth city. Many soldiers!” The messenger grabbed the goblet of water in front of a surprised Lord Teo and gulped it down. “I rode so hard I nearly killed the horse!”

  “What sort of army?” Tafira asked. “Is it the wreths?”

  Captain Rondo remained standing before them, a statue composed of fury. He clearly resented this interruption and was not finished with his demands, but Kollanan concentrated on the frantic messenger.

  The young man finally found his words. “An army came from the west, soldiers burning our towns and fields as they marched. Not wreths! They bear Commonwealth colors.”

  Alcock made a baffled sound. “Why would Commonwealth soldiers burn our villages?”

  “By the orders of Konag Mandan. They attacked Yanton! The refugees took sanctuary in the wreth city.”

  A chill went down Koll’s back. Mandan of the Colors was fragile and petulant, but he couldn’t believe the young man would be so drunk with power that he would turn on his own people. He was Conndur’s son!