The Godless, page 17
After he was absolutely certain that she was gone, Millan Larne rose to his feet, swayed a bit as he examined the wound in his shoulder, and then half-ran and half-staggered toward the next main road away from the docks.
Where he went, Swech followed. The gods had deemed it necessary and she never questioned the gods. She had prepared Welan Parse in similar fashion several years earlier, but someone had killed the man and torn the soul from his body. The gods wanted their servants ready to serve, and that included those among the Fellein that they chose.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kallir Lundt
The gods had their own ways of doing things. That was always the way with gods, he supposed. Kallir looked down at the clouds below and shook his head. They had not been there before and when they suddenly rose from the ground like a wall built of sand and dust, he was surprised.
The view from the throne room had been enough to let him see the growing mountain previously, but that was done with. Now there was grit and ice and more dust, and little else beyond the foothills of Truska-Pren.
The Blasted Lands had returned, it seemed. He had no idea how or why, and apparently all that most needed to know was that the gods had deemed it necessary to restore them in their new fashion.
Tarag Paedori looked upon the raging storm at the lower end of his mountain kingdom and acted as if nothing unusual had happened. Then again, for him it really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He was used to gods and miracles and, while Kallir had grown more accustomed to both over the last few years, they were still unusual enough in his mind to give him pause.
Tarag stepped closer to him. “You still wonder about the storms?”
“Five years they’ve been gone.” Kallir looked to his king. “It seems odd to restore them. That is all.”
“Truska-Pren wanted them back. He wants another defense before we meet the ones raising another mountain.”
“Does he know what abides there?”
“The Overlords. We have met them before, long ago.” Tarag crossed his arms and looked at Kallir. “This is one of those moments we’ve discussed before, Kallir. This is a time to have faith in the Daxar Taalor.”
“I do, my king, But I am of a curious mind. I want to know more. I always want to know more. If I see a hill, I want to know what is on the other side and if I should see a hill become a mountain, I want to understand how it happens.”
“A curious mind is a good thing, my friend, but do not let curiosity become something different. Do not doubt that Truska-Pren and the other gods have plans and know what they are doing.”
“No, my king. I merely find I am puzzled by the timing of all that happens.”
“The gods do not know everything. There are surprises for them as there are surprises for us. But they know more than we do, and even the unexplained holds little mystery for them. Do you understand?”
Kallir nodded. A child might know many things, but most of the time they knew less than adults. A grown man might understand many things, but a grandmother would understand the world that much better. How much more then, would a god know in comparison to even the wisest and most venerable wizard?
“How will we find food and forage through the storms, Tarag?”
“The way we have for as long as the Sa’ba Taalor have been here, Kallir. We move through the Blasted Lands and we hunt.”
“Hunt what? Dust?”
Tarag Paedori laughed softly and struck him a playful blow on the shoulder. “Did you think the gods would forget to supply us with good hunting prey?” He leaned in closer. “Have you not heard them in the storms at night?”
“Heard who?”
“Who else? The Pra-Moresh?”
He had not. He hadn’t paid the least bit of attention.
Pra-Moresh, savage creatures at the best of times. It was one of their kind that had torn his face away with a single swipe of a massive claw. Five years later he could remember the pain clearly. His nightmares were filled with the recollection.
“When do we go hunting, my king?” There was little he would like more than to hunt down and kill each and every one of the beasts.
Tarag Paedori smiled with all of his mouths. “That is what I like to hear, my friend.” The King in Iron looked toward the windows and stared out at the raging storms that would forever darken the landscape. “Gather your hunting tools, Kallir. We’ll go hunting right now.”
There had been a time when the notion of the Pra-Moresh had filled him with fear. That time was long gone. He no longer thought of the animals with dread – except in his dreams – but rather with anticipation. They would be a welcome addition to any meal he ever ate. Not that the meat was particularly flavorful, merely that he liked the idea of killing and eating his enemies.
The people of Fellein didn’t understand that notion. The Sa’ba Taalor did. Another of the many reasons he remained in the Seven Kingdoms. He owed so much to the Sa’ba Taalor and the Daxar Taalor.
Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before he was ready for the hunt. Frakka stood waiting, saddle in place and several spears in their quiver strapped to his right side. There were other tools, of course, but Kallir had an affinity for spears and they were his preferred method of hunting.
The king smiled when he saw him and threw a heavy cloth veil his way. Kallir, moderately ashamed of himself for not considering the need, nodded his thanks and quickly tied the veil around his neck, keeping it lowered for the moment.
“The dust is thick out there, Kallir. If you don’t want muddied teeth, that veil is for the best.” Tarag’s amusement was obvious.
“I had forgotten that part, my king.”
“I know you spent a great deal of time in the Blasted Lands, but it is easy enough to forget the essentials.” Tarag finished strapping his weapons into their locations on Prawlah’s side. The mount looked toward Kallir as the king did his work, its eyes glowing silvery in the daylight.
“How long will we be gone, my king?”
“For as long as it takes.” Tarag looked his way. Prawlah yawned, baring teeth as large as daggers.
There were four others with them, each dressed for the storms they were about to enter, with heavy cloaks and thick clothing.
Kallir resisted the urge to run back to his chamber and hide. This was a hunt, and he intended to do his part, no matter how the memories of losing his face bothered him. The thick scar tissue around his face itched horribly, but he knew the pain was in his mind and not a reality. That was the cost he paid for being saved. It was a very small price.
Tarag fairly leaped onto Prawlah’s back. The beast didn’t even seem to notice despite the king’s size and weight. Kallir took his time and climbed the stirrup onto Frakka’s saddle.
Within moments the six of them rode into the storm and were swallowed effortlessly.
The difference was immediately noticeable. On the mountain the clouds were held at bay by the gods alone knew what. The winds were dulled and the sounds muffled before they rode across the border of whatever it was that kept the raging storms quelled.
Once they moved through, however, the effects were immediate. The second lids that the gods gave the Sa’ba Taalor closed over their eyes, and Kallir felt the difference. All of his face was made of iron. By rights he did not need a secondary eyelid to add protection, but through the power of the gods his eyes were also as sensitive as a normal human’s, and the dust and grit would have caused him great discomfort and that pain very likely would have blinded him as the tears fell to wash away the irritation. He remembered well the trouble he’d had when he first entered the Blasted Lands so long ago. It had taken over a week for his eyes to adjust to the constant irritation, and even after that week he had constant bouts of tears and temporary blindness until he learned to squint just so.
Now? The inner eyelids slid into place and the dust and wind faded from his thoughts.
They were replaced by a deep and abiding sense of wonder. The storm was not merely a storm, there was so very much more going on. For one thing, he had but to look around himself to see all seven of the volcanic forges. Some closer, some further away, but all of them within his visual range for the first time in half a decade.
Impossible, yes, but there they were. He had no doubt in his mind that if he rode toward the great mountains he would reach them in a matter of hours at most. Tarag Paedori looked around and laughed deep in his chest, a sound of pure joy and wonder that matched what Kallir himself felt.
Truly, the gods were great and powerful.
Andover Lashk
Andover’s boot heel caught the first of the poachers in his knee. The joint bent the wrong way with a loud crack, and the man fell down screaming, his left leg rendered useless by the blow.
The second of the men who’d followed him let out a loud battle cry and charged him, swinging his sword with all the finesse of a toddler. Andover knew better than to think a child with a blade was harmless. He stepped back, twisted to avoid being struck and then drove three of his iron fingers into the man’s throat, crushing the tender flesh there into a new shape that did not accommodate breathing. The man fell down, face reddening, and dropped his sword, reaching for his own neck in an effort to fix what Andover had done to him.
The rest of the men slowed down and considered him very carefully as they circled slowly. Two of the men rode horses. The rest were on foot. One of the horseback riders swept a long chain through the air over his head, looking for the right moment to strike. He was calm and he was dangerous, and Andover did his best to keep him in sight while watching the rest of the sorry lot.
The riders were in better shape. They were larger men, well fed and likely very adept at fighting. The men on foot were scavengers. If he had to guess, it was the riders who decided that hunting down Gorwich was a wise thing to do.
Gorwich, his mount, was wounded, and currently stood shakily, watching all that transpired. Three thick arrow shafts were in his flank and if Andover had to guess, they were tipped with a poison of some kind. The mount did not fight, did nothing but shake his head and try to keep his balance. The wounds were not bad enough to cause him that much distress without help.
A third came for him. This one was a brute of a man, solidly built and seemingly capable of actually wielding the spear he was carrying. It was a short spear but large enough to cause a killing blow.
The man’s wide face was smooth enough, but his arms both bore heavy scars, and his left hand was missing two fingers. All that remained where the last two digits should have been was a mass of scar tissue. He still seemed capable enough with his weapon.
Eight Fingers came forward, eyes locked on Andover, and thrust hard with the spear. Andover dodged the weapon and then slapped it aside with one palm. The man responded by stepping in closer and trying to use the dull end of the spear as a bludgeon across Andover’s face.
He dodged again and then backpedaled as the man quickly reversed the spear and very nearly impaled him. Rather than stopping with his single thrust the man bellowed and charged forward, stabbing again and again, keeping Andover very busy indeed.
Almost too busy to see the chain-welding rider come in closer for a strike. He blocked the chain, or tried to, and cursed himself a fool as the chain wrapped around his forearm and tangled with his iron hand. The chain caught his fingers properly and the rider backed up, dragging Andover forward. Blood flowed down his forearm as the chain bit flesh.
The spearman was prepared and jabbed the sharp blade of the spear at his thigh. Andover winced as the very tip slid through flesh, and then he attacked. One step forward and the spearman was now the one suddenly on defense. He grunted his surprise as Andover caught the spear with his free hand and crushed the head of it between his fingers and palm. Andover continued pushing forward and ran his broad shoulder into the spearman’s chest, sending him staggering.
His chain-wrapped hand clenched into a fist, and he stepped forward, kicking his foot against the spearman’s hip. The first result was that the man lost his balance and fell on his back against the hard ground. The second was that Andover was sent in the direction of the rider. The chain grew slack and Andover hauled it closer to him, pulling the rider off balance.
The horseman cursed and tried to maintain his balance. Andover pulled again and threw his weight into the maneuver. The rider came free from his perch on the saddle and Andover pulled harder still, dragging the rider through the air.
All around him the remaining poachers watched and edged forward, eager to do their part in killing him. Two of them broke away and headed for Gorwich. Andover called to his mount through their mental connection and the great beast turned quickly and swept one massive paw at the first of the men. Injured or not, he was a killer. The closest target never even had a chance to scream before five thick claws carved through his face and throat, then down to his navel.
Andover pulled the dehorsed rider in closer and stomped down on the man’s head with all of his strength. Bones broke and softer tissues were pulped under the force of his action.
And it felt good, so very good to be fighting again after trying to remain calm for so long. Andover grinned with his seven mouths, but said nothing.
Several of the fighters let out cries of surprise and horror, and while they did, Andover pulled the chain from his dead enemy’s hands and then whipped the end at the closest of the men.
Gorwich reared back, managing to keep his balance despite the arrows, and ripped at the next of his targets. The man screamed as Gorwich pinned him to the ground and then bit down in his enemy’s stomach.
The chain caught in the thin man’s hair and cut across his face. Andover pulled and the man screamed like his fellow as chain links cut his flesh. Andover stepped forward, struck with one elbow and broke the man’s collarbone.
He used the chain again, this time unseating the other rider. The man was pulled down to the ground and died as his horse rode over him in an effort to get away.
Blind luck saved Andover from the archer. He was in motion and the arrow fired at his chest whizzed past him and bounced off the ground a dozen yards distant. By rights he should have been impaled, but now and then the gods smile down. His chain slapped across the man’s bow and knocked it aside. He charged and drove his hand into the man’s sternum, breaking bone and cartilage.
By the time he looked up from his latest attack, most of the men still standing were doing their best to be elsewhere. Two of them ran hard toward the wall of dust in the distance. They either did not understand the Blasted Lands or feared him more than they did the territory beyond the barrier that kept them safe from the endless storms.
He let them run. Gorwich was more important.
“You are hurt, my friend. How badly?”
The mount looked at him and huffed out a long breath. I am injured, but not dying. The words settled comfortably in his brain, and Andover nodded.
“I thought the arrows poisoned.”
I think they are, but I think it is a sleeping poison, not a deadly one.
“I should hunt them down and kill them.”
Kill them another time. Gorwich grumbled amiably and then let out a low growl as Andover’s metal fingers caught one of the arrows and carefully pulled it free from the wound. Gently. That’s tender.
“Oh, quit your crying. I’ll have them out in a moment.” Andover smiled as he said it and pulled the second arrow free. “One more and then we can clean this out.”
With what?
“I have water. It will suffice.”
Let it wait, Andover. Let’s move into the Blasted Lands proper and I will worry about the rest after we reach our destination.
“What if the poison is worse than you think? We need to cleanse the wounds.”
Gorwich stood and shook his entire body like a dog climbing from a river. I trust in the gods, Andover. They will keep me if I am to live or take me if I am to die.
Andover sighed. He could hardly argue the point. “As you say.”
He did not attempt to climb onto his mount. Gorwich might feel he was strong enough, but Andover was capable of walking beside his friend. His legs worked perfectly well.
It’s as well you feel that way. You’ve grown fat and lazy.
“I should leave you behind.”
Gorwich swayed hard to his left and very nearly knocked Andover off his feet with his gesture of affection.
A moment later they walked into the great storm. As they approached, the winds picked up and the grit started pelting lightly at their skin. Their inner eyelids dropped and protected them from the worst of the winds and dust.
Andover looked into the skies just after they entered the storm. From where he stood, seven mountains could easily be seen, each distinct in shape and color. “We move for Wheklam.” He spoke with his mouth but didn’t raise his voice. To anyone else the sounds would have been lost, but he spoke to Gorwich, who shared a unique connection with his rider.
Instead of answering, Gorwich merely turned his body and started in the direction of the great, gray mountain. Wheklam was a long way off. In the regular world, beyond the newly risen Blasted Lands, the mountain was several days’ ride away, and, even after getting close, there was a need to catch a boat or ship to reach the island where the mountain rested.
This was not the world of Fellein. This was the world of the Daxar Taalor. The rules were not the same here. Somewhere ahead of them, or nearby at the very least, three men had run from Andover into the storm. Where they were now was something he didn’t care to guess. They were lost from sight, likely blown off course by the wind, or taken by whatever might rest within the endless storms.
Andover and Gorwich did not suffer the same fate. They moved on through harsh winds and sand and ice. They saw Wheklam, the mountain, and moved forward, undeterred.
A day passed and a night. The winds raged and the storm continued on, growing stronger as time passed. Still, by the morning of the next day, Andover Lashk and Gorwich walked out of the raging tempest and found themselves at the foothills of the great mountain, the sun beating down upon them and the gentle sea breeze blowing the worst of the grit from their bodies, if not their hair.
