The War Born, page 2
Realizing their peril, the mercenaries tried to break away, some of them running down the side of the mountain, others trying to go back the way they’d come, but it wasn’t meant to be. The infantry behind the mounted riders were too thick for them to get past, and the ones descending the mountain found still more of the gray skins waiting for them. There were easily a thousand or more mercenaries, but they were heavily outnumbered by the Sa’ba Taalor, and the mounts added another two hundred killers to their list of obstacles.
Merros fought hard, cutting, striking, forcing back the blades that tried to cut him. Twice weapons slid past his defenses, but the heavy cloak he wore was enough to stop one and took the worst of the damage from the other.
Lucky. He was very lucky.
The mercenaries did not have his luck. The Sa’ba Taalor were relentless, and their mounts were worse. Long before the fighting was done, several of the paid fighters tried to surrender, but Merros could have told them that would not work in their favor. He had spent time with Tusk, had learned some of the man’s traditions, including that he followed a god known as the Wounder, because he was unforgiving. Once engaged in combat, no quarter was ever given.
The end result was bloody and, though a few of the enemy survived, most were slaughtered. Really, it was hardly a surprise. Merros stared at the dead and dying and found little to bother him.
He had spent months training with Andover Lashk, and the man had been trained by the very gods of the Sa’ba Taalor themselves. He knew the chances of surviving a fight with the people of the forges weren’t good. That he had survived was something he considered proof of kind gods.
Asher
The Tolfah were not kind, and they were not human. They could easily be confused for human from a distance, and according to some they had been human once upon a time, but those days were long gone. If the legends were true, the Overlords changed all of that when they fought to capture Fellein in the distant past.
In Morwhen the Tolfah lived among the lower valleys, where plague winds often blew and carried with them the stench of death and disaster.
Morwhen was a part of Fellein but, according to most of the people who traveled through the area, just barely. The civilized world was more of an afterthought in Morwhen, where the roads were treacherous, the towns were well-guarded by walls and watchmen, and where the local nobles were more likely to bar the gates than welcome travelers with open arms. It had always been that way, but in the last five years the area had become, if anything, less welcoming.
Morwhen was unkind, and unforgiving of weakness. Only the strong thrived in the area, and it had always been that way, as far back as anyone could remember. There were more than a few sayings about the area, but one of the most complimentary was simply this: the best swords in the empire come from Morwhen.
Morwhen, where the clouds from Paedle obscured the sky and hid the sun away on most days, leaving nights that came early, and rains that fell to earth as mud more often than not, tainted by volcanic ash and bitter to the taste. The volcano had changed everything – though, to be fair, not as much as some people claimed. Before Paedle grew from the ground, the skies were still dark, and the sun peered through only one day in ten. Some once again said the Overlords had left that mark on the land, but there was no proof of that claim.
If half of the stories were true, the Overlords were responsible for damned near every problem and the Sa’ba Taalor were responsible for the rest. The people of Fellein were innocent of all sins, and victims to be pitied.
Asher spit at the very notion. He had known plenty of people from Morwhen and Fellein, and most were far from innocent waifs.
It was true, though, that the Dark Passage had gotten worse after the gray skins and their damned mountain had grown over night. Morwhen had been a better place before the Sa’ba Taalor dropped a volcano in the area and claimed it as their own. True, they did little but stay on their mountain, Paedle, named after one of their war gods, but the people who had lived there before they rearranged the world could only say that their world had been made worse since the mountain showed up.
The skies were bloody and red from the active volcano’s glowing heart, and the storms dropped their ashen rain, and the air was colder than it had been. All of that was true. The ashes, however, made crops grow stronger for reasons Asher did not understand, but was glad to take advantage of. As he was a man who raised his crops with an eye toward selling most of them, he was perfectly content to deal with better harvests.
Paedle was a live volcano, and it was active. The passages that had once been well lit and relatively safe were now buried under the clouds of volcanic ash flowing down the western side of the mountain with every breeze, and the roads were now called the Dark Passage, because the ash and clouds hid the sun away at the best of times and brought a perpetual twilight to the area.
And twilight brought with it the Tolfah. The attacks had been far more frequent in the last five years.
The riders along the Dark Passage knew to be careful. It was seldom less than a score of soldiers who accompanied the wagons that dared the roads from Morwhen through the Arkennen Mountains, and often as many as forty or fifty armed soldiers, depending on who rode the highway.
Asher was in charge of the caravan, and he paid his soldiers handsomely. He had to, as these days there were men actively looking for sellswords, and they promised good compensation for the men who were willing to fight, so long as no questions were asked. For that reason Asher had promised preposterous amounts to the men in his employ. It was a market where a man who wanted coin for his sword arm could make good money and they all knew it.
The challenge was deciding which was the safer form of employment, a trip through the Dark Passage or a journey across Fellein to the Wellish Steppes. The steppes were a long way off, but the money for making the journey was a handsome sum, and the promise of combat was a good one.
Somebody was building an army, and they meant business, from all that Asher had heard.
On the other hand, the Dark Passage paid well and was regular work. There was a risk in either job but at least the locals got to go home and see their family sooner than the ones traveling to Wellish and the promise of a war.
That part was inevitable. One did not pay so well for the possibility of war, and there were plenty who were smart enough to understand that.
One such was Daken Hardesty, a man who preferred to stay local. He had a wife and three children, and they were close by. Better to go home to them every fortnight or so than to travel half the continent and fight for someone who was untested. Mostly, Daken was convinced, the ones who were traveling were younger men who were looking to build a fortune. The promised coin was too good to ignore, and there were young men aplenty who felt they could do better as mercenaries than as soldiers for Fellein when the offer of work was sincere.
Asher cleared his throat and looked to the blond mercenary. The man had been a soldier for Fellein for a long time before leaving the army. He would have likely stayed on as a soldier, too, but the war against the gray-skins has changed the minds of a lot of career soldiers. One thing to fight for your life against an occasional brigand and another to fight the Sa’ba Taalor in a full-scale war. Too many long-timers had been slaughtered when the war took place, and those that fought and survived were no longer quite as enthusiastic when it came to being paid a soldier’s wages.
Daken looked at him through eyes that were haunted by the past, but he managed a smile just the same. That was one of the things Asher liked about the mercenary. He at least kept a cheerful disposition regardless of the circumstances.
“So far we’re doing well enough.” Daken’s voice was rough. He’d had his throat cut in the war, and though it hadn’t killed him it had changed the way he spoke.
“Aye, but I’ve been told the Tolfah are active again.” That was a lie, but Asher felt it in his bones. They were close by, and he wanted his men ready for fast, brutal combat.
“I’ve four men watching the road. If they show, we’ll be ready for them.”
They were brave words, but Daken was not as familiar with the Tolfah as he thought he was. He had never encountered the bestial men before and Asher had. The Sa’ba Taalor were deadly – and Asher would rather face the beast men than the gray-skins, it was true – but the Tolfah tended to run in larger numbers, and what they lacked in skill they made up for in savagery. That was why Asher paid as well as he did. He needed the warm bodies to keep his supplies safe.
The Dark Passage was the only way to get half of his goods to the markets. The farming season was done and the Pabba fruit was at least half of his fortune in any given year. They were hardy fruit, and they lasted well, but they were also a rarity. The orchards had given a bountiful harvest and he needed to sell what he had in Goltha and Canhoon. The markets there always paid handsomely for the fruit, but the challenge was getting them there, and that meant either risking taking ships along the coast, or reaching the rivers and riding on barges. The ships meant a risk of Sa’ba Taalor and pirates. The rivers were far safer – and faster too.
“Don’t get cocky on me now, Daken,” he warned. “I’ve seen the Tolfah when they were truly hungry, and it’s not pretty.”
Daken nodded and scowled. “I’ve heard the tales. The lads know to be ready.”
Asher looked around the highway at the low stone walls, the heavy foliage and the skies that were already going bloody as the clouds rolled in. It was safe enough to ride through and the passage was mostly secure, but the Tolfah tended to wait for darkness to attack and Asher just knew the bastards were nearby.
He could practically smell them.
“The Tolfah are close,” Asher spat. “I know how that sounds and I know I’ve said it before, but I trust my guts to tell me true and I think they’re closer than they have been in a long time.”
Daken looked around the area and nodded. “It’s you I work for. I’m not paid to disagree; I’m paid to protect your shipment. I’ll trust your guts before I’ll trust mine.”
That was one of the things he liked best about the man. He listened and followed orders. Daken waved over one of his men, a long, lean fellow with sharp features and a dour expression named Harris. He was also a terror in combat. There were stories of him fighting against the gray-skins and holding his own, and he’d encountered the Tolfah on four separate occasions and lived to tell the tale. Having him along made Asher feel better about the journey.
When Harris rode over, he and Daken spoke quickly then Harris rode away to where the main gathering of mercenaries was, ahead of the wagons. He called to the others, and they listened. Several of the mercenaries looked back toward Asher and nodded. It was enough. They were listening and that was all he could ask of them.
The skies were bloody, the underbellies of the clouds painted a dull red, and in the distance the volcano flared sullenly, offering its glare to the skies. The Sa’ba Taalor were out there, likely on their mountain and watching all that happened. They didn’t often move from Paedle, but they were also a consideration. Though it happened rarely, there were tales of the warriors attacking the caravans that came through the area. Especially those that got too close to the mountain. The way was longer if one avoided Paedle. Asher always made sure to go the long way.
Sadly, that precaution did nothing to help with the Tolfah when, as Asher had expected, they came barging in.
They came in a wave, a horde of brutal creatures that gibbered and howled as they pushed between the trees and jumped over the low wall around the road. They were dressed in rags of fur and strips of leather wrapped around limbs and draped over faces in an effort to keep them safe from the meager sunlight. If the stories were true, the Tolfah feared the light of the sun, regardless of how weak it was.
Asher couldn’t have said how many there were, but he had never seen such vast numbers before. Truth be told, he’d always expected there weren’t that many of the creatures left. He was very, very wrong.
There were hundreds of the bestial subhumans, he realized. His eyes bulged as the Tolfah came over the wall, loping forward, barely standing upright at all, and waving clubs, crude axes, and war hammers in their gnarled fists.
They were brutal things. They had the rough shape of men but were thicker in their bodies, with muscular arms that seemed too long and thick legs that were too short, allowing them to run on all fours like animals. Their faces were broad, and their mouths were too wide and filled with pointed teeth, more like those of wild cats than people. They were hairy in odd patches, and bald in spots where he would have expected hair. They seemed diseased, nearly leprous, and starved.
Yes, starved. The first of the men they attacked screamed as he was pulled from his horse, and then howled in agony as several of the creatures tore pieces of him away to shove into their mouths.
Daken roared a command and took up the bow that was slung on the left side of his saddle. In seconds the warrior was firing arrows into the first wave of the Tolfah. He wasn’t alone. More of the mercenaries took up their ranged weapons and did what they could to stop the invaders. Asher liked to think of himself as a competent fighter. The men with him disproved that belief.
They were vastly outnumbered, but they were skilled and desperate. Asher prayed that would be enough. The mercenaries circled around him and his wagons, and he found himself praying to the gods he had nearly forgotten about that they would be enough to keep him alive.
CHAPTER TWO
Jeron
Jeron looked down upon the road to Morwhen and slowly nodded. The savages were plentiful, and they were violent, just as the Overlords had said they’d be. He watched as they did their best to kill all of the defenders around the wagons, attacking with abandon.
Roledru, who stood beside him leaning on his spear, whistled softly between his teeth. “They’re a vicious lot.”
“No, my friend. They are desperate.”
And they were desperate. He could see that in their every action. They were starving, they were fighting for their survival. He was hardy surprised. He’d been down below, in the area the Tolfah were now escaping. He’d felt the plague winds as they roared through the lower regions of the mountain passes. Not in reality, no, but in his mind when he was searching for the very creatures he was now looking at.
“So what are they?”
Jeron kept watching as four of the things attacked a man on horseback. One of them grabbed the horse by the head and tried to pull it down toward the ground. He failed and the horse kicked with both front hooves, very likely breaking several of the fool’s bones. In any event at the very least it knocked the brute backward as it reared up. The rider fell, screaming, and was pulled away from the bucking animal before he could get trampled.
As the Tolfah savaged the rider, Jeron watched on and suspected the man would have preferred death at the animal’s attack. It would have been more merciful. The beast men tore clothing and flesh away from their victim as they fought over who would get the best parts.
He and Roledru had come from the far west, and Jeron still felt the pull of the Overlords though he was on a quest for them. They were powerful beings, and he was drawn to them much like a moth was drawn to a lantern. Their power called and his body listened. It hadn’t always been that way. The Overlords had changed him, were still changing him, the better to suit their needs. He should have been offended by the alteration of his body. He was no longer truly human anymore, but the transformation didn’t bother him much at all. It was more of something he merely observed as if at a distance.
He saw Roledru wince as he watched another of the soldiers taken down by the Tolfah. Roledru was a good man at heart. Though he worked for Jeron and did things that were not good, he felt sorrow for his actions, and he felt empathy for the people he observed. Jeron had long since given up his empathy. He found it got in the way of progressing.
The perfect example of that was the use of necromancy. It was wrong, morally speaking, and Jeron knew that. But he didn’t care. Over the long centuries he had lived, he had grown further and further from his ability to care for the people around him.
Of all the wizards alive in Fellein, he was one of the oldest and most powerful. Desh Krohan was arguably more skilled but these days he was at a distinct disadvantage. He still followed the laws that he had established, banning necromancy as a dark art.
Sorcery was potent stuff, yes, but it required power. There was, as Desh liked to say, a cost for every spell cast. Some of the more powerful spells demanded energies that needed to be stored over months or even years. There were ways around that, of course. Desh Krohan himself had showed Jeron how a raging fire could be extinguished to become the driving power behind certain spells. Of course, that required work and effort, and Jeron had recently been reminded that the best power, the most reliable source of external energies, came from living beings.
Necromancy wasn’t outlawed merely because it dealt with the dead. It was outlawed because it stole from the dead. Why waste time building a bonfire when you could literally use the lifeforce of a dying person to fuel your greatest sorceries?
Desh Krohan would not allow himself to fuel his power that way.
Jeron had no such qualms.
It was simple math. Jeron was the more powerful because he would steal from living and dead alike to fuel his sorceries.
“Why are we here, Jeron?”
He looked over at Roledru. The man’s hair was pulled back in a tight tail, and his face, which had been clean-shaven in the spring, was now covered in a thick, dark beard. He looked like a different man altogether, unless you studied his eyes.
“We are here to gather an army.”
“What? Of those things?” Roledru shook his head. Jeron could understand why. They were violent. They were savage, lacked any cohesive leadership and barely knew how to hold the primitive weapons they’d managed to gather.
“They have slept for a very long time.”
