Gift of the Shaper, page 27
The bearded blond man nodded and turned around to start spreading the word.
Endar watched the Keeper retreat back into Annoch, saying something about requisitioning barrels for the Legion. He watched him as he went, confident and calm, seemingly unaffected by the prospect of their task. He knew that he should be doing the same for the sake of his men but quickly tossed the thought aside. He had been fighting alongside some of these men for most of his adult life. They knew him and they knew how to read him; it was useless affecting a false front.
No, tonight he would be himself. He would eat with his brothers, share stories and slaps on the back, and think nothing of what the dawn would bring. That was a problem for tomorrow. And tomorrow could go to hell for all he cared.
Chapter 41
Khala Val'ur
Durakas
Just past the horizon, Commander Durakas could see the guard fires of Khala Val'ur that littered the mountains encircling the Sunken City. Turning to Duna, who rode just behind him, he said, "It looks like we're not the only ones ready for a fight."
Duna nodded, saying, "Then I certainly hope they know we're coming. One skittish guard is all it takes to be met by arrows instead of handshakes."
Though she was young, Duna had been chosen by Durakas for a reason. It was not her looks, as she could hardly be regarded as attractive, with her larger-than-average forehead and drab green eyes that looked to be set just too far apart. Indeed, physical traits had nothing to do with why she was selected as advisor; it was her fierceness and perseverance that made her stand out. She beat out every other male candidate for the spot because of her inability to take no for an answer and her absolute unwillingness to back down, even in the face of hostility and adversity. These traits were what made her attractive.
"No doubt Seralith has spoken to the guards and told them of our coming," Durakas replied. He had his sights set on the mountains again as the Fist of Thurái neared their destination. "She seems too good at what she does to overlook something as simple as preparation."
The thousand footsteps of the Fist continued to pound as one, not even relenting over the hundreds of miles they had marched thus far. Fatigue did not show in their faces or in their cadence, as their training and instincts took over the moment Duna had given the order to march. As it neared darkness, the long line of white stood out starkly against the world around them.
"And once we make it there?" Duna asked.
"We see how willing Tennech is to share his battle plan with us—or even why we are marching in the first place. Otherwise," he said, turning again to his advisor, "we go on like we always have, obediently and in order."
As they neared the northernmost point of the outer wall of mountains, Durakas spotted a lone figure on horseback riding out to meet them. As the figure approached, he noticed long brown hair trailing behind, tied tightly into a long braid. It was Seralith, he realized, as her aging brown mount carried her closer.
The Fist marched on with no change of pace.
"Well, if it isn't the Dagger's messenger girl," Durakas called out. "How nice of you to come out to meet us." Beside him, Duna raised her hand in silence to signal the halt of the army. A synchronized clap of thunder sounded as their feet met the ground as one.
The tall Athrani's face was cold and indifferent as she eased her horse to a halt. "Nice has nothing to do with it," she began. "High Khyth Yetz doesn't trust a foreign army marching inside the walls of the city."
"Foreign?" Duna sneered. "You're one to talk, Athrani."
The fire in Sera's eyes could have melted steel, but she clenched her jaw and struggled visibly to keep from lashing out. Before she could speak, though, Durakas put up his hand as if holding a wolf at bay.
"Ladies," he said, "please. We have marched a long way and bickering does not behoove us." His eyes narrowed at the Athrani. "But I hardly think that the Fist of Thurái should be made to stand outside like dogs," said the Thurian, "especially after coming at the direct request of General Tennech."
"General Tennech is not High Khyth of Khala Val'ur, Commander," Sera answered sharply. "Though, if he were, I suspect he would have ordered the same." Her blue rings made her brown eyes stand out sharply, and they concealed a smugness that came from humiliating an entire army. "But you will not be waiting long," she continued. "Valurians long for battle as much as you do, and they can smell the coming conflict." She looked over the imposing army of Ghal Thurái that seemed to be carved from the same single piece of stone. "Do your men need rest?"
Durakas set his jaw, and the pride of Ghal Thurái bubbled to the surface. "No," he asserted.
"Good," she replied, as the sound of thousands of footsteps began to fill the air behind her, "because their march is not yet done."
Emerging from the rocky mouth of the mountains of the Great Serpent was General Aldis Tennech flanked by thousands of riders from the Sunken City, dressed for battle and for glory. They poured out of the craggy pass like ants from a nest, garbed in night-black chain mail, with the white Hand of the Breaker cresting their left shoulders.
"Durakas," Tennech said over the sound of his army, "you made it intact, it seems. Any problems with Chovathi on the way?" His smirk betrayed his disingenuousness.
The Commander of the Fist of Ghal Thurái nodded a curt greeting and answered, "None to speak of, General. I think they are still licking their wounds from their defeat at the hands of the Dagger of Derenar."
The old general grunted his approval as his army continued to emerge from the protection of the walls of Gal'behem. "Good. Bastards had it coming." He turned to Seralith, who still had her steely gaze locked on Duna Cullain. "It was practice for what is to come. Are they ready?"
Sera looked at Tennech, then back to Durakas, who was still composing himself after having his pride stepped on by Khala Val'ur. "The commander assures me that the Fist of Thurái is tireless and that they are prepared to march to Derenar behind the might of the Sunken City."
Durakas flinched when she implied their inferiority but would not let her know that she could get to him so easily. This Athrani woman was turning out to be more trouble that he had expected. He looked back to General Tennech, who kept glancing around, past the armies around him, scanning the horizon for something.
"Are we waiting on another army?" Durakas asked with more than a subtle tone of mockery.
"Blasted G'henni have no sense of timing," Tennech mumbled. Ignoring the confused look from Durakas, he barked, "Follow me! The road to Kienar is a long one, and the might of the Athrani wanes. If we are lucky, we will reach the chains unopposed." He pulled on the reins of Calathet and turned toward the Sun Path, taking his place at the front of the gathering multitude of men and Khyth. "And I pray to the Breaker that we are not lucky."
With one last look at the mountains of the Great Serpent, Tennech commanded his mount onward, down the long and uncertain road to greatness. Following him closely was the full strength of the armies of Gal'dorok and the crushing weight of inevitability.
Chapter 42
Annoch
Thornton
Thornton awoke to the dancing green eyes of a young woman whom he did not recognize, sitting at his bedside, waiting. He found himself covered in a blanket, and the feather-stuffed mattress he slept upon had likely cost more than his entire home back in Highglade.
Seeing that he was awake, the woman jumped back in surprise, saying, "His eyes are open!" to nothing but the four walls that surrounded them.
Thornton heard the heavy footsteps of someone rushing into the well-lit room inside the Driving Steed.
"It's about time," came the deep voice of Olson Woods. "Thank you, Yasha."
Sizing up the woman standing next to his bed, Thornton was caught up in silence as he looked at her eyes, frenetic pools of emerald green that danced wildly behind her ruffled orange hair. He'd only seen eyes like that one other time in his life, and the recollection sent him into a panic. Frantically, he flung his blanket off and leapt to his feet.
"What's she doing here?" he shouted, pointing a finger at her accusingly. "She's Khyth!" His fingers quickly balled into fists, and his legs bent defensively.
"Thornton," his father said, reaching out with a calming hand, "she's with us."
"But," he sputtered, "how?"
Coming into view, his lumbering father had a frown on his face. "It turns out that things are more complicated than we thought."
"Much more," added Kethras, who appeared behind Olson.
Thornton looked at his father in disbelief as he once again eyed the Khyth, who looked to be even more frightened than he was. She wore a simple hooded gray robe, with no other features that set her apart from any other woman, and her smooth, freckled skin looked nothing like the cracked and horrid body of the Khyth the night they were attacked.
"Your skin," Thornton blurted, "it's . . . Why isn't it burnt?"
Elyasha looked hurt but relieved as she scratched the back of her hand with her fingertips. "It's because I'm only an apprentice," she said. "I haven't undergone the Breaking yet." When she saw the confusion in Thornton's eyes, she offered what she could. "My mother was Khyth, so I'm Khyth," she said with a sigh.
The explanation did little to quell Thornton's curiosity, but it did help him to relax. He had his back to the wooden wall of the inn as he approached her, guessing he wasn't even that much older than her.
Olson was still just inside the doorway to the large room, moving closer to Thornton, eventually standing behind the young Khyth apprentice. "Elyasha fled her home city of Khala Val'ur in hopes of starting a new life," he explained.
"In Annoch?" Thornton asked incredulously. "But Khyth hate the Athrani."
Elyasha looked at Thornton and grimaced. "Most of us do," she started with a nod. "But not all of us. It's not my fault I was born the way I am." Her pallid skin flushed easily as she turned to hide her burning red cheeks. "And I didn't like what I would have to become, so I left."
Thornton could barely believe that the woman in front of him, who seemed so gentle and meek, could share the same blood as someone as cruel and ruthless as the Khyth that tried to kill him.
She looked at Thornton, her green eyes swirling like a storm. "And when your father saw that I'd been thrown in prison here for nothing more than my heritage, he did something about it." She turned to the big blacksmith. "Thank you again. I don't know how long they would have kept me down there."
Crossing his arms, Olson gave a gruff nod of his head in response and looked at the young apprentice with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "When I heard that you'd patched up Dailus and brought him back to the city," he said, "I had to do something. Anyone who would do that, even to a blood enemy, deserves a fair shot at freedom, in my eyes."
Thornton felt himself staring at the girl and thrust his eyes downward in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I think I hit my head; I'm still a little dazed." He rubbed the back of his neck as he searched around the room for his familiar steel companion. Finding nothing, he said, "Where's my hammer?"
When his confused gaze met that of his father, he knew something was wrong.
Olson scratched at his beard as he frowned, saying, "Dailus took it."
"And handed it over to D'kane," Elyasha finished.
It seemed to take an eternity for the words to register as Thornton tried to comprehend just how much he had lost in such a short span of time. "I think I need to sit back down," he said woozily, nearly losing his balance. A nimble Elyasha was there to catch him, though.
"Oh!" she said, grabbing him above the waist and helping to steady him. "Careful!" A hint of a smile flashed briefly on her lips as she walked him to the bed.
"He knocked you out almost a day ago, son," Olson said as he watched Thornton climb back into bed. "Ran off with the Hammer and gave it to the Khyth straight away." His hands were on his hips now, and he was looking out the window at nothing in particular.
Thornton rubbed his eyes in frustration. "So all that stuff that Aldryd said about needing to protect it and how it's the key to setting the Breaker free . . ."
"Only makes it that much more valuable to the Khyth," Kethras answered.
"So that's it," Thornton said, palms up in a shrug. "They have Miera, and they have the Hammer."
Olson nodded slowly, trying to deflect the weight of the words.
"Then it's over. They've won." Thornton was too tired to be angry, but his rage showed nonetheless. "They've won, and they're going to set the Breaker free."
The silence that embraced the room was neither comforting nor welcome, and the words that followed shortly thereafter were even less so.
"There is a way to stop it," Elyasha said quietly, "but you might not like it."
Before Thornton could muster a response, another set of footsteps echoed their way into the room.
"Ah," came the weathered voice of Aldryd. "You are awake. Good." Stepping into the room, the aged Athrani looked around, addressing all of them, even Elyasha. "The Athrani Legion will soon begin their march to the forest of Kienar to defend the chains, and we will need help from every last one of you,"—Aldryd had his eyes fixed on Thornton—"especially you."
"Me?" Thornton asked. "How?"
"Yes," the old man began, "if the unthinkable happens and the servants of the Breaker make their way through, we have one last hope. But I must ask you: What are you willing to do to save your friend?"
Thornton sat up in his bed, obviously mustering a great deal of strength in order to do so. "I'll do whatever I can." He looked at his father and back to the Keeper and thought of the citizens of Annoch, human and Athrani, and realized that Miera's importance was greater than just the friendship they shared. She didn't belong to him anymore; she belonged to the world. "Whatever it takes," he said firmly.
Aldryd studied his face for a quiet moment, as if turning over each word and weighing its worth. Finally, he spoke: "Prepare yourselves for the journey ahead, then, all of you. The Legion marches soon." Turning to Kethras he said, "And you, Kienari, come with me. You know the forest better than anyone, and I want the Commander of the Legion to meet you on neutral ground so there is no confusion about your intentions."
Kethras grunted, sounding more like a growl than an acknowledgment, and followed the Keeper out of the room. Elyasha, looking like a lost puppy, kept at his heels.
Thornton looked around the room to see his father standing, arms crossed, with a frown heavier than any hammer he was used to swinging. His head was turned to the door, with his eyes trailing the bouncing orange hair of the Khyth disappearing through the threshold. Olson looked as though he had words perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be set free. Knowing that they could very well have stayed there until the end of time, Thornton spoke first.
"I wish we were back in Highglade," he said with a hint of a smile, trying his best to lighten the mood. The words seemed to chisel away at the granite frown that was carved across the big man's face.
"Me too," Olson said at last, eyes back on his son. "Nothing exciting ever happens there." He waved his hand parallel to the ground dismissively. "And that's fine with me."
Thornton managed a laugh, which served to further relax his father. The towering blacksmith almost seemed at ease for the first time in a while, and he had a look that Thornton recognized.
"You're thinking about her again, aren't you?" Thornton said.
Olson rarely spoke of Thornton's mother, and when he did, he was distant. "I can't help it," the elder Woods answered. "I just wish she could see the man you turned out to be." His normally gruff exterior had softened, and Thornton thought he saw the early stages of a smile.
There was vulnerability in his father's eyes, something Thornton was not used to seeing, and it was enough to make him struggle to his feet and walk over to stand next to him. His father was not one for being comforted, Thornton knew, but the look of appreciation that the big man flashed when he drew closer was good enough for him.
"I did the best I could raising you," Olson said. "I made some mistakes, but it wasn't from lack of trying." Thornton opened his mouth to speak, but his father went on: "I just want you to be able to take care of yourself."
Thornton sat there in his bed looking as puzzled as when he'd seen a Khyth beside him. "You make it sound like you're leaving," he said.
Olson cracked a smile that looked more like a grimace. "The Keeper needs me out there,"—he gestured absently toward the outside, doing nothing to solidify the abstract concept—"And he needs you here."
Thornton felt as pained as when he'd learned that his hammer had gone missing.
"Now come on," Olson said. "The Legion is waiting for us at the gates."
Endar
The last of the fires had been extinguished, and Endar Half-eye stood watch over his army as they gathered their things for the march ahead.
"Think they're ready?" came the voice of Thuma. The blond, bearded man approached from behind, facing the rising sun with his back to the gates of Annoch.
Turning to his old friend, Endar answered, "It doesn't matter what I think." The Commander of the Legion was resplendent in his Ellenian armor, dressed for battle and nothing else. "It matters what they think," he said with a nod to his men.
The vast army of the Athrani Legion was slowly coming to life. Requiring the smallest amount of preparation for battle, the archers were the first to awaken, so they were the first to be ready, as well. The pikemen and shieldbearers, in contrast, were heavy sleepers and slow to get ready. Some of them who had been up since dawn were sparring with the flats of their swords or the shafts of their pikes. The majority of the big men, though, took a while to get moving, despite the shouts and excited rumblings from their squad commanders to get them going.
The march would not be long compared to the one from Ellenos, but emotions would be mixed and minds would be clouded with thoughts of battle, so it could feel like an eternity. Endar knew this and had prepared for it accordingly. With his left foot in the stirrup, he swung his right leg over the saddle and sat atop his war horse.
