The Godless, page 18
There was little to do but consider their situation. After several moments of staring at the towering slope closest to them, man and mount began their arduous climb, fully aware that they were observed.
CHAPTER NINE
Jeron
He was not the same as he had been. There was simply no denying the changes taking place in his body and in his mind. Jeron had spent hundreds of years studying sorcery and at least as long making certain that his body changed in the ways that he wanted. Now, after only a few months with the Overlords, he felt as if those centuries had been wasted.
His body was newly shaped, twisted to suit the needs of his new masters.
Jeron looked down upon all that he was creating and smiled.
Below him fifteen armorers were busily working to craft enough supplies for a rapidly growing army. Their hammers slammed into metal, formed weapons, shields and occasionally actual armor. Most of them were Fellein but four of them were Sa’ba Taalor, and they worked tirelessly to hand out weapons to the newcomers who were not prepared.
It was easier than expected. Most of the mercenaries came with their own equipment, but they were all tested by the gray skins. If the weapons were in poor condition they were replaced. If the soldiers were in poor condition, they, too, were replaced.
Roledru smiled and nodded as he looked down at the men working. “Gurnae blades.”
“What’s that?” Jeron had no idea what the man was prattling on about.
“They’re making Gurnae blades. Roathian swords. They’re excellent tools for cutting and excellent weapons for slicing. Just about the best swords for an army, if you ask me.”
He hadn’t asked, but he trusted the man to know what he was talking about. “What makes them so special?”
“It’s all in the weight. A swordsman spends decades learning to be the best with a fine weapon. But for the purpose of hacking open an enemy, Gurnae blades are weighted the right way. They can slice through most armor and they’ll do the job even in the hands of an oaf.”
“Good to know.” Jeron stretched his neck and turned his head. The new vertebrae along his spine creaked, popped and aligned themselves properly. “Do we have many oafs?”
“No. Most of the men here have been tested in battle and they’ll do the hard work. The Sa’ba Taalor are making sure of that.”
“I don’t like depending on any one people too much, Roledru. I find that sort of dependency can lead to troubles.”
“Agreed, but if you must lean on soldiers you could do much worse. The Godless thrive on war. They want to win and they want bloodshed. They’ll follow whatever orders you give ‘em, and the ones they won’t follow are probably not the wisest choices.”
Roledru looked around, his eyes scanning the cave that shouldn’t have existed, that wouldn’’t have existed if Jeron hadn’t forced it into existence. The amount of energy he used was staggering, but all of it was also stolen, ripped from the souls of fresh victims. He’d be leaving soon to acquire more.
The power, he had to admit – if only to himself – was addictive. Small wonder necromancy was outlawed in Fellein. Sorcery required sacrifice under most circumstances and that meant self-sacrifice, not the sort where stealing from another was allowed and encouraged. Creating the hidden lair that he now stood in would have been months of power, if not years of his life, before the necromancy. Now? He had killed in the name of his masters, and used the power he stole from the dead to bend reality to his will, on their behalf. And he’d done it in days. Days!
The smile in his mind came back and twisted his new visage into a grin.
“I’m still not used to the changes in you, Jeron.” Roledru looked at him and shook his head. “You’re becoming something entirely new in my world.”
“I’m becoming what they want me to become. I’ve grown so very much.” He looked at Roledru and truly studied the man. He was a good second, a wise and careful advisor and servant. He did not make casual mistakes and he served with the knowledge that his was not the final say, but merely an extension of what best pleased Jeron and the Overlords.
“Does it… Does it hurt?”
“No.” He considered his answer carefully. “No. I find it enlightening.”
Within his robe his body continued to change and adjust in small, subtle ways. His second set of arms moved, and he felt the ways in which they moved and reveled in the sensations.
Below him the sounds of small hammers pounding metal continued, and Jeron looked down to consider the sword blades his second said were the best for their needs. He knew nothing at all of swords beyond what he had learned as a child. He had different weapons at his disposal, far more powerful weapons now that he was willing to simply break the rules he’d allowed to keep him hostage for so long.
“I have to leave again, Roledru. I’ll need you to come with me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We’ll be gone for several days, I think. You should put Trigon in charge. Make certain he understands that for now secrecy is important.” Roledru walked away to handle the matter and left Jeron alone with his thoughts. He was comfortable in solitude; he always had been.
Roledru returned after only a few minutes, and as he approached, he asked, “Where do we go this time?”
“As amused as I am by driving the City-Guard in Canhoon into a lather. I think it’s time for a new city. Danaher, I think. I’ve not been there in a very long while.”
“Never been there. I have no idea what we’ll face.”
“Nothing we cannot deal with, I expect.” Jeron waved an idle hand at the notion and prepared his enchantments. Covering the distance quickly was a must. He could have shaped them into Storm Crows, or used another form of transportation, but instead he bent reality to his whim. With seven steps they covered the great distance between the Wellish Steppes and Danaher, a city that was across the continent from where they started.
The same collection of spells allowed them to move quietly, unseen and unheard, even as they moved into a crowded, narrow street. People shifted around them, parted like water around stones in a riverbed. But never touched them, did not see them. That was the way of sorcery. He was there, but even those who sensed him did not observe him.
The sun was in a different position above them. It was as unsettling as anything Roledru had ever seen, apparently, because he looked at the sun and then looked away, his eyes wide and frightened.
Jeron did not explain that the world moved in its own ways. Instead he let the man contemplate the nature of the world and the universe. If he was curious enough, he would ask and Jeron would explain.
Danaher was not the same as Canhoon or Goltha. Despite its age, the city was smaller. The streets were narrower and most of the buildings were no more than a story tall. Orchards existed in the town that had been there for as long as man remembered, and there were cemeteries, far more cemeteries than anyone would have expected. These days, with the new laws enforced, they were very nearly abandoned, memorials to the past and not places where the newly dead would be interred.
Generations of families lived in the same places, often building onto existing structures or replacing older buildings. In any event, the result was a chaotic mixture of old and new. Smaller towns had merged together into one larger city spread out across land that had been used in the past for little more than farming.
Danaher was alive in a very different way. It was not the sort of place where hiding between two towering buildings was easily accomplished. Oh, to be sure there was a castle, but even that was very different from what the two men were used to.
“I can’t see much I recognize.” Jeron shook his head.
“When were you last here?”
“It’s been a few hundred years.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I’m older than I look, Roledru.”
“Obviously.” Roledru shook his head and fussed with putting his hair into a proper ponytail, the better to restrain it. The people around them barely took notice of Jeron or Roledru, lost as they were in their own business. The night was coming quickly, and the clear skies were darkening.
“Do you have a preference, Jeron?”
“No. Alive is all that matters.”
Roledru nodded and his lips pressed together as he started truly observing the people around them. Jeron relaxed against the pitted stone wall of the alleyway where they’d stepped into the city. He would be patient. There was no need to hurry. When Roledru was done with his hunting he would bring back the latest victim and Jeron could take the sacrificial energies into himself, both for his own needs and those of the Overlords.
He closed his eyes for a moment and felt the city around him, in the same way that some might feel the wind, or hear the sounds of waves crashing near the sea. People walked nearby, many of them scurrying to get to their homes, as if the darkness might hold a greater threat than they had anticipated. The darkness held no special threats for Jeron. The night might try to hide a blade or cutthroat, but Jeron was no longer fearful of either. Why fear a knife when the wielder of the weapon was easily killed?
All around him the people moved on, unaware of his attention. They walked, they chatted with each other, they moved along their paths heading for homes in some cases and pubs in others. It was the time of day when people wanted to unwind. The work was done, it was time now to relax.
One person stared back at Jeron, which took him by surprise. She stood in a different part of the city and she saw him as no one else around him did.
Jeron stopped where he was and tried to focus on her, to find out where she was exactly, and how it was she could see him. It should not have been possible. He’d worked all of the right wards to make certain he was unseen by the people around him and yet she watched him as casually as he watched the people walking near him.
“Who are you?” The question intruded on his mind, forced itself into his attention. He pushed back against it, unsettled, resisting the query that was as loud as any thought he’d ever had, as intrusive as a sword into an exposed belly. He could not resist the question, could not ignore it.
But he did not have to answer.
Jeron pushed back again, forced the attention away from his mind, annoyed that anyone could catch him unawares. He was one of the most talented, powerful wizards in the known world. He should not have been noticed when he did not want to be seen. He should not have heard the question that forced its way into his mind.
“WHO ARE YOU?” The question was louder now, like thunder detonating in his brain. Jeron pushed back again, forced the words from his mind and reinforced the defenses he had built over time. The words that had seemed so loud faded to the merest whisper.
He sought the source of the query, reached through the connection and tried to find the woman who dared ask him questions, but he had no luck, no success.
Whoever it was that sought him out was elusive, quick to hide away and powerful enough to make certain he could not find her.
This would not do!
“Where are you, woman? Who are you to ask questions of me?” He forced that thought out from his mind and into the subtle magics that played against him. Somewhere out in the night was a person with enough power to unsettle his control of the world around him. Someone strong enough to gain his attention and careful enough to hide exactly where she was.
He didn’t much like being played with.
He’d settle this soon enough.
Roledru set the bound man on the ground at Jeron’s feet. He grunted with the effort of carrying his latest victim, a man at least as large as he was, and in excellent physical shape.
Jeron did not see him for a moment, he was too lost in his pursuit of the woman who dared question him.
Darsken Murdro
“There are no new bodies.” Darsken stared into the shadows of his office and sighed. “I do not trust that news.”
He shook his head and stood up, moving away from the desk and chair where he did so much of his work. It was better, he thought, to be out in the world right now and not to stare into the shadows. Sometimes the shadows held answers. Other times it was the world outside of those very shadows that had the solutions to any mysteries.
The bodies were adding up. The rituals used to kill the victims, to steal their souls, were old and forbidden. That meant nothing. Whoever the killer was, the rules did not matter to them and the age of an incantation meant precisely as much as the laws around them. Nothing. A book with the right words would tell a person with the right knowledge how to perform a ritual.
Despite his belief that he did not need to know everything about the ritual, Desh Krohan had shown him the books that held the necromantic sorceries. In a matter of a few hours Darsken had learned the necessary spells. He could have performed them himself if he were so inclined. That thought disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.
The night in Canhoon was darker than usual, which suited his mood very well.
The winds whipped off the lake and pushed leaves from trees, drew clouds to cover the stars above and shrouded the city in a deepening gloom. There would be more rain soon.
Darsken moved into that night without hesitation, comfortable in the darkness as he was in the light of day. His cloak and hat kept him warm enough despite the bitter cold of the evening, and he walked along the cobblestone pathways with the rhythmic tap of his walking stick to keep him company.
The dead were there too, of course, moving through the streets and watching him with silent judgement.
They were not real. They were not ghosts, but they haunted him just the same. They were the failures, those poor wretches he had not yet given peace. They were not avenged.
He meant to change that.
As he walked along the streets he was aware of the people around him. Most did not matter. Not really. They were alive, yes, and they were likely just as aware of him, but he was not there to consider them, unless he found that they had blood on their hands, and the ones that saw him were quick to look elsewhere. There might be places where an Inquisitor was not recognized, but Canhoon was not among them.
“Darsken.” A single word and he stopped. It was the voice, of course. He recognized the head of the Imperial armies by his voice alone. Merros Dulver was a powerful man.
Darsken put on a smile and turned to face the man. “General Dulver. How may I help you?”
Dulver stepped closer, a striking figure, though he was dressed in casual clothes and not in his uniform. The man moved with the grace of a cat, emerging from the shadows into the light of the closest streetlamp. His hair was dark and shot with gray, his face was all angles and shadows in the night.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see you. I’m afraid you caught me off guard.”
“I did not mean to.” Darsken smiled.
“No, of course not. It’s just that I was thinking about,” Dulver’s voice softened, “about the murders and wondering if there was anything the City-Guard could do to help you.”
“They are already helpful. They’ve found most of the bodies and moved them before more people could see the worst thing done to them.”
“That much is going right at least.” He paused a moment and then said, “Did you hear? The great storms are back. The Blasted Lands have returned, only this time they surround each of the Seven Forges, like a damned barrier to stop people from getting too close.”
“I was told of this.” Darsken shook his head. “I do not understand the reasoning. Why would their gods bother? We are hardly in a hurry to visit any of the mountains ruled by the Sa’ba Taalor. Well, I am certainly not in a hurry at the very least.”
Merros Dulver smiled. “I have yet to meet anyone who actively sought an audience with any of their kings.” Darsken was enough of an Inquisitor to know when he was being lied to, and that last had been a lie. He was also one of the few who understood the complex and unkind history shared between the general and one of the Sa’ba Taalor, though he could not remember the woman’s name.
Rather than dwell on the situation, he said, “I had heard you were leaving the city, off to investigate possible troubles to the west.” Which was true enough. He’d heard two riders discussing the possibility near the stables.
Dulver nodded again. “I am. That is, I will be. I leave in the morning, but for now I find I’m restless. It’s been too long without answers about so many of the rumors I’m hearing.” Dulver stepped closer. He was a tall man, and in excellent shape, but not as large as Darsken always expected. The man was smaller than the reputation he carried with him.
“What rumors are haunting you the most?”
“The murders.” The General looked into his eyes for a moment and then looked away. “The spirits of the victims are gone, torn away.” He shook his head and his lips pressed into a thin line. “I would think that’s the worst possible fate.”
Darsken nodded. “That is why I want the killer found.”
“I want to make an example of those responsible.” The general’s hand moved to the heavy bullwhip at his side.
“If I can find him, you will have your chance, General.”
The man smiled and took the hand from the whip. “How goes your investigation?”
“We are being toyed with, I think. The murders have stopped in Canhoon and there are no new ones in Goltha, so far. The most recent deaths are a week old, and that means the killer should be at his dark work again soon, if not already.”
“Let me know if any help can be given, Darsken. We’re counting on you.”
“I will, General. For now, however, I think you’d be wise to get some rest before you travel.”
Dulver nodded absently. He would likely rest when he was finished with his latest quest, and no sooner. It was the mark of many of the people Darsken met. Normally the ones who were most successful in their fields.
“You are a wise man, Darsken Murdro. When I return, we should meet again and discuss strategies.”
