The Godless, page 10
Feeling the fresh scars along his knuckles he knew they did not treat him as a child, merely that if they exerted the full force of their blows he would likely have been maimed for life.
Desta moved toward Atranno and then reversed the trajectory of her staff. The undamaged end fired at the last player in their dance and struck him directly in the forehead. He fell back hard and crashed to the ground, unconscious.
While she was busy with her armed opponent, Atranno slid forward and grabbed the end of her staff that was still holding his sword. He did not try to wrest his weapon back, but instead pushed the staff lower. While she tried to compensate, the man stepped closer and struck a savage blow across her face. Staff and sword fell from her grip and Atranno caught her in a hold that locked both of her arms into a painful position, effectively crippling her attack.
A moment later she signaled her surrender and the three combatants were all discussing their fight in technical terms. If any of them harbored ill will toward any of the others, they hid it remarkably well.
Desta smiled in his direction, her great scars showing bared teeth and gums. “Kallir, I was not expecting you.”
“The king has asked me to examine something happening in the Wellish Steppes. He asked that I take you with me.”
Desta nodded and stepped closer to him, ignoring the damaged weapon she’d had knocked from her hands. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as you are prepared. We have only a few miles to travel.”
“Then I am ready now.”
As she spoke she looked around and found a heavy club that bore one rounded side and an interior sharpened into a serrated blade. Curved hooks were on both sides, half-hidden and nearly decorative, but deceptively barbed. Near as Kallir could tell, the entire thing was made of bone, very likely from a Pra-Moresh. A jaw, perhaps, or a hip that had been filed down. In either case, it was a formidable weapon. There was a long leather loop at the handle end of the club. She slid her wrist into the strap and then started walking toward the Steppes. Kallir caught up with her quickly.
Heading down the side of the mountain was easy enough as long as one used caution. Kallir had learned the hard way that the paths were deceptive. He took his time and Desta moved with him in companionable silence.
The paths through the ruins of what had been a vast forest were clear. One merely had to walk those paths to avoid the mountain of burned wood and ash. Trecharch was dead. Trecharch lived again elsewhere but had left behind a corpse when the Sa’ba Taalor burned down the vast forest. What remained was ruination shoved aside by Truska-Pren’s eruption from the flaming ground. The mountain pushed everything into new positions when it rose from the soil. The Sa’ba Taalor had no need of what remained and cared little to remove the debris. Instead they made use of the deadfalls and found new places to watch for strangers among the shattered trees and numerous stumps.
Not that they need worry about the situation. Only a true fool would trespass in the Kingdom of Iron. Kallir had dwelled in the new area for five years and only at the very beginning did he see anyone come to examine the new mountain. They did not leave. Their remains still rested within the ruined forest, a warning to others.
The Seven Forges had been a distant mountain range the first time he’d heard of them, and now he resided in a kingdom on one of those very volcanic mountains, said mountain having moved to a different location as the gods deemed necessary.
Desta’s voice brought him away from his musings. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm?” He cast his eyes toward Desta.
“I speak of training and you stare off into your dreams.” She was not offended, merely amused.
“I’m considering how much the world has changed in only a few years.”
She nodded. “The gods demand change.”
“Why now, I wonder?”
“I do not question the Daxar Taalor. I merely obey.”
Kallir nodded absently. He understood. Where his own people had trouble remembering the names of gods, the Sa’ba Taalor quite literally spoke to their gods and had conversations. In his time Kallir had thought himself devout, had worshipped the Mother-Vine and considered the possibilities that gods existed and decided that surely they must, even if they offered no proof beyond old stories. Then he had seen the relationship between the People of the Forges and their gods. He had, in fact, been healed by one of the very same gods. That left no room for doubt in his mind. Faith came as easily as that. He had but to touch the iron of his face to know that gods existed, that he had been blessed by them. He had but to listen, and Truska-Pren’s voice was there, a soothing tide of faith.
“I do not question. I merely observe.”
Desta scanned the horizon. There was little to see once they passed the old ruins of Trecharch. The land was low and mostly level. Fifty miles to the south there were variations on the Steppes, but this far north there was little except scrub grass and an occasional plant.
There were no horses in the area. If they showed themselves they’d likely be carrying riders or they’d end up as fresh meat for the Sa’ba Taalor. Kallir had a mount but had not yet decided if Frakka would come along this time. In the name of expediency he made his choice and called to his traveling companion.
“We take your mount?”
“I think it wisest. We do not know what we face, and we might need to get back here quickly.”
Desta looked at him and smiled. She had not yet had the chance to earn one of the beasts. He had been offered the opportunity as a way of proving himself to Tarag Paedori. Despite his fears he’d managed to best Frakka in singular combat. Really it had been a matter of endurance more than skill, and he was stubborn to a fault, as Frakka often reminded him.
As was usually the case, Frakka wandered where he wanted. He was not a beast of burden to be locked away, but a friend, an equal, who did as he pleased when not asked to serve. He was obligated to obey, but only a fool would make the great beast a captive. Frakka moved closer at his summons. Kallir smiled at that thought and at the beast he called a friend as it came closer. Frakka was not wearing a saddle or armor, but that was just as well. They didn’t need the extra noise that would come with the burden.
“Can you carry two of us, Frakka?”
In response the mount looked at Desta and then butted her gently with his face, like an oversized cat displaying affection. Desta managed to keep her balance with an effort and a laugh. When he’d first seen the great mounts, he thought they were like horses, intelligent enough, but dumb animals. It was only later he discovered that they were as intelligent as humans. He would no more assume Frakka was in the mood to carry two burdens than he would assume his mother wanted company for dinner when he was younger. It was simply best to ask.
He climbed on first and Desta slipped into place behind him. With no reins he grabbed a thick hank of Frakka’s mane and felt Desta’s hands grip at his waist. A few moments later they were on the move, balancing themselves on the mount’s back and relaxing into the rhythm of Frakka’s stride.
Desta leaned in closer and spoke, “What are we searching for, Kallir?”
“Something is happening in the Steppes, Desta. There are changes taking place and both Tarag Paedori and Truska-Pren would know more of these changes.”
“Then we seek answers to worthy questions.”
“I would think any request by a king or god worthy.”
Desta made no response, but her arms pulled her body closer to his and she leaned forward until her chin rested on his shoulder. He let himself get distracted by the feel of her warm body pressing to his, but not to the point where he lost himself in the sensations. Frakka made no sound, but showed his approval through their connection.
The ground rose slowly, which in itself was a change from what Kallir had seen in the past. He had stood more than once on his balcony and watched the rains wash ashes and debris from Trecharch’s ruins down the slopes into the Steppes and, eventually, the Freeholdt River. There should have been a gradual dip into a proper valley but instead the land lifted in a gentle slope that he could see up ahead became steeper. By the time the ground began to rise he could see their goal, a large outcropping of stone rising from the ground like a broken bone through flesh. It was fresh and raw, the layer of soil pressed toward the sky by the open wound.
Kallir called for a halt to their progress and he and Desta dismounted. Frakka settled himself in the dried scrub brush and panted softly, taking the opportunity to relax.
Desta and Kallir moved slowly, observing everything around them, both old and newly revealed. There was nothing to see but dried grasses and the occasional plant. There wasn’t a threat here that he could see. Norhun was two days ride south, at the very least, and Stonehaven five days.
This was new. The wound in the ground could almost have been an accident, but Kallir could see the shimmering distortion where the ground was most exposed to the air. There was an entrance of sorts; a cave, perhaps.
He had no doubt that sorcery was involved. What was hiding behind that sorcery was the challenge, and one he was not sure they were ready to examine. Truska-Pren asked a service of him and he was glad to accommodate, but the simple fact was that he was a soldier first, and not accustomed to magic. He had seen sorcery in action and had a healthy respect for the power.
Desta tilted her head and examined the same shimmering area that had caught his attention. Her left hand tapped the war club lightly against her thigh and hip, and she moved forward without another word. He already knew what she was thinking: the gods would protect them, or they would not, there was nothing else to consider.
He could find no flaw in her thinking, and so he moved as well.
The entrance was obvious as they got closer. The ground here was broken, but where the earth was at the highest height there was a tunnel entrance. The hole dropped down into darkness in seconds, leaving the world of light behind. The fresh soil was dark, and the corpses of a hundred or so bugs lay in the light, drying and decomposing slowly.
The opening was large enough to accommodate the both of them and so they walked together into the darkness.
Andover Lashk
Dala Hemistry smiled as he looked toward Andover.
“It has been some time since I saw you, Iron Hands.”
Andover smiled and felt all of his Great Scars respond by splitting themselves open. “I did not expect you, Dala.”
The bald man moved closer and offered his hand. Andover took it and gripped the forearm carefully. Iron hands meant always being careful. He had come to accept that quite some time back.
Dala blew out a breath that plumed in the cold of the day. The wind stole the breath away as quickly as it could. “I’m here to receive new orders.”
“Indeed.” Andover nodded and searched for the memory of where the other man was assigned. “You no longer need to watch the northern trails?”
“I go where I’m told, Andover. The life of a soldier is following orders.”
“More than just that.” Andover eyed his student carefully. “There is also the fight.”
Dala nodded. His stance changed and Andover smiled again. The way he stood now was in readiness. Had Andover attacked – and he’d been considering just that – the man would have been ready to defend himself.
Dala had lost weight, but in the best possible way. When they’d met, he’d had a layer of fat around his guts, and that was gone now, replaced with lean muscle. He had followed Andover’s advice, perhaps, or simply been where supplies of food were limited. Andover didn’t care which; he was simply glad to see a student of his doing well. Most he simply did not see again, or not often.
“The fight happens less often right now, but we both know that can change.” Dala walked over to a low wall and settled himself against it, leaning on the stones and trusting them to hold his weight. The wall did not betray that trust.
Andover looked around and sighed. “I expect changes to happen soon. The seven kingdoms make motions. The gods speak of change.”
“You hear their gods?” Dala frowned in his direction.
Andover nodded. “The Daxar Taalor are with me, as always. If I listen closely, I can hear their words. If I do not listen, it is like the the ocean’s waves, there but only as a sound that never leaves.” He shrugged. “The gods speak, but they seldom speak to me. They have many others to talk to, I suppose.”
Dala crossed his arms and sighed deep in his chest. “It is good to see you, Andover.”
“I did not expect a visitor today, Dala,” Andover repeated. “I am pleased by your visit, but what brings you here?”
Dala smiled. “I remember your lessons, Andover. You taught me different ways to look at fighting, and I am grateful for the changes.”
Andover felt his face flush with blood. He was not used to being embarrassed but he was pleased by the sensation. “You are one of Merros Dulver’s chosen warriors. If not, I would not have trained you.”
“But you did train me Andover.” The man stepped in closer, his eyes locked on Andover’s. “I am better prepared because of you, and I think I’m going to need that. I am hearing rumors of a new army forming. If it’s true I will go to fight them. If I do, and we are victorious, you are one of the reasons for success.”
“I have not heard of a new army.” Andover brushed aside the thanks. They made him uncomfortable.
“To the west. Mercenaries, and I am hearing the Godless are involved.”
Andover scowled. “Beware the Godless. They may be without gods but they are not without abilities.”
“You are Godless, and I would not fight you.” Dala laughed as he spoke, and his callused hand gripped Andover’s shoulder.
“I will speak with Merros about these Godless, I think.” He looked toward the great stone wall of the castle proper. “They are more dangerous than anyone suspects.”
“Why is that?”
“They are trained as warriors, but they have no masters. They are like war dogs without a leash, I expect.”
“The general would be wise to hear you, Andover.” Dala brushed the words aside and Andover silently acknowledged that the man did not understand he was close enough to the general to speak with him freely. Dala was a warrior, yes, but he fought in distant areas. He did not know Merros Dulver well enough to speak with him as he pleased.
Just as he considered explaining to Dala, a messenger called to the man. Dala smiled an apology and then they shook hands again. “Be well, Andover!”
“Be well, Dala, until we meet again.”
Dala walked over to the messenger who eyed Andover as if he just might be poisonous, and then whispered his message to Dala. Andover took no offense.
A moment later the two men were gone, and Andover looked over the courtyard and sighed. The world was growing smaller on him. For five years the courtyard had been enough, but now it seemed to close in from all sides and he wanted to fight back against it. He did not want to be crushed by the familiar. He wanted – needed – to have more.
Without another word he turned toward the castle and started across the area he had virtually taken as his own. He would meet with Merros and learn what he could about the Godless and the mercenaries. If there was a war coming he would know of it.
Whistler
Canhoon was not as impressive as he’d expected. Oh, it was ripe with massive towers and statues, and the Silent Army was fascinating to watch, of course, but somehow Whistler had expected a place with more grandeur and less pickpockets.
Case in point was the little shit that had just stolen his bag of coins. Or rather thought she had. Mostly what she got for her troubles was a few pebbles and two old arrowheads that rattled around the right way.
What Whistler got was amused. Instead of being angry, he decided it would be more fun to follow the thief. He was very good at sneaking when he wanted to be. Had to be good at that if you wanted to survive the parts of Goltha where he grew up.
Best not to dwell on that. Sometimes, when he least expected it, the recollections of his earlier days brought about the sort of anger that was hard to quell. He liked that well enough in the right circumstances, but not now. He needed his calm for the moment, his quiet. Trailing a thief was hard work, especially if one didn’t want to get noticed.
The girl he was following was very good at what she did. She made it look easy, but he knew she was looking around and surveying where she moved. She’d also signaled at least two other cutpurses as she moved along. He wasn’t quite sure what her signal meant – they seldom meant the same things even in different parts of towns, to say nothing of different cities – but they’d communicated without a single word being spoken. All he knew for certain was that she wasn’t aware of him.
Not yet, at least. If she were she’d have long since been gone. One didn’t live long if one was followed by the very people one had robbed. She would have vanished, and fast, if she knew he was there. It was a matter of survival. She couldn’t know he wasn’t ready to cut her throat for taking from him.
The alleyways were narrow and getting more so as they moved from the edge of the docks and deeper into Old Canhoon. Whistler was aware of that, and of the lad who slipped into the alley behind him. Could be he was wrong and she knew he was there. Could be she’d sent for a friend to put a blade through a sweet spot on his body.
It would hardly be a first. Best to assume he’d made a mistake and keep himself properly aware of those around him. He had no desire to lose the girl in the crowds, but he also planned to keep himself intact.
The boy followed him, doing his best to be discreet. He walked with the same subtlety as a draft horse, which is to say none at all. Whistler pretended not to notice him and went about his hunt. The girl was either not aware of him or very good at pretending. He couldn’t quite decide which.
The boy behind him came closer and Whistler let him. Just a little closer and he’d strike. The girl he followed was mostly hidden behind a hooded cloak. He’d spotted brown hair and a rounded chin, and if he had to guess she was at the cusp of being an adult. Likely if she were caught she’d be punished by the City-Guard. Not swatted on her bum and sent to her parents, but truly punished. He knew a few thieves who’d been fortunate enough to run across a Guard who was gentle, but they were the exception. There were plenty of cases where a Guard gave a beating or worse when they caught a thief.
