The Godless, page 20
Sadly, her temper was at least as volatile as his, and she did not have centuries of buffering her ire to help her appear calm. “Make it work, damn you! These damned gray skins have cut off any possible trade routes to themselves and barricaded substantial passages that have existed for as long as there’s been an empire.”
“I am an advisor, Majesty, not the solution to every problem you have.”
“You are the First Advisor to the Empire, Desh. I expect you to advise me and to have actual answers, real solutions, not suggestions that I get myself with child as quickly as possible.”
“That’s called advice, Nachia, and it’s very good advice. You need to secure your claim to the throne and prevent any of the other members of your family from working hard to end your time as Empress.”
“My claim is secured. I’m sitting on the damned throne.” She was pacing, but he decided not to point that out.
“Without an heir, there’s a much stronger chance that a member of the Krous bloodline could decide you need to be removed from the throne by any means necessary. It wouldn’t be the first time in history, nor, sadly, would it likely be the last. The Krous family, your family, is notorious for removing obstacles by means of assassination. I’m trying to protect you.”
“What do you know that I don’t, old man?”
“I have spies everywhere, Nachia. I have spies and I have the Sooth, and both tell me you’re in danger.”
“I’m always in danger, Desh. It’s the one thing that remains a constant in my world. I knew that the day I accepted the throne.” She sat back down on her throne and winced as she did so, but she stayed there to make her point.
“Find a proper suitor. Then, perhaps, I’ll consider using my sorcery to try finding a way around the Blasted Lands.”
“I’m not known for making compromises, Desh.”
“All the more reason to be worried for your life, Majesty.”
Without another word he left the throne room, annoyed that there had been yet another debate, but delighted to have finally gotten the last word in one of the many arguments he had with the Empress.
Morten Dunraven
It wasn’t going as well as could be expected, but Morten had prepared for as many contingencies as he could. That was part of being a businessman and a negotiator.
The winds were everything he’d been told to expect, and he had been told to expect a punishment fit for those who offended gods. Ice was crusted into his hair and beard, and as often as he thought to break the damned stuff away it came back until he finally just gave up.
The lanterns were of little help, but he kept them lit just the same, and made certain that the shields were up to stop the raging storm from simply snuffing them out. If nothing else, they helped when the time came to make a fire and try cooking.
And then, as easily as it had started, he found himself on the other side of the endless storms. The air was still cold, but not freezing, and the winds died down to a whisper as he looked up to see Durhallem before him, and a gathering of the gray skins, including the massive brute they called a king.
Morten walked forward and led the horses with him. The men who’d been brave enough to join him kept moving forward with more horses. They’d all be getting something extra for their efforts as this had been a much worse trek than expected.
The Sa’ba Taalor waited patiently for the most part, though more than a few of them looked like they preferred the idea of beating the men heading toward them to death. They were, to the last, some of the scariest bastards he had ever seen, and he wanted little to do with them. That included their women.
Tuskandru, their king, stepped closer. Morten looked the man over from head to toe and wondered what had ever led him to threaten a return if his son died. Good thing he hadn’t. Morten didn’t think he’d have lived past the first few seconds of any fight.
“You have brought the horses.” The man’s mouth worked into a smile, and the scars along his face opened and closed of their own will, making small noises even as he spoke. He would never get used to that. All of them were that way, too, with smaller mouths that just did as they pleased.
He made himself look away from the scars and speak. “Would have been here sooner, but there’s the storms to deal with.”
Tuskandru raised one arm until it was leveled before him, and then moved his hand in a motion that mimicked waves on the sea. “The gods want storms, and so we have storms again.”
“Well, who can argue with gods? Not me, that’s for certain. I barely argue with my wife.”
Tuskandru nodded amiably. “Four hundred horses, and what of the trainers?”
“Oh, aye. They’ll be along. Put them at the end of the train, so they could make sure to capture any stragglers. Horses don’t much like the storms, it seems.”
“Your safety is guaranteed by me. Passage to the Empress’s Highway.” Tuskandru smiled again and gestured in the direction of the mountain.
The woman who had beaten his fool son half to his funeral pyre stood nearby and came closer as the king pointed. She looked from Morten to where Erig was dismounting. Erig looked back and nodded humbly. At least the boy could learn a lesson now and then.
The woman spoke, not to Erig, but to Morten. “The king would like you to lead your horses up the mountain. We have a place for them.”
“Aye. Lead on, then. We’ll follow.”
She nodded and walked away, heading up the side of the mountain. It wasn’t steep, not really, and Morten followed, feeling as if he was walking into an oven. Not that it was hot, not in the least, but he had no doubt that wherever they were going, it would be the sort of place where a wrong move would get someone injured or worse.
Best not to make any wrong moves, then, wasn’t it?
The gray skins did nothing. None of them moved out of the way, or interfered. They simply watched as he walked past. Though a few of them spoke to each other, they spoke in their own tongue and he didn’t know so much as a single word of whatever that language was.
Their king watched but said nothing at all as he led the first of the horses up the mountainside. There was nothing to be done but to finish what he’d started; still, Morten wanted nothing so much as he wanted to run from the area. They were a frightening people, and he could think of little else besides that notion.
Behind him more of his people came from the unnatural storm, covered in frost and ash. Ahead of him the mountain beckoned.
And around him the people he was here to impress looked absolutely unimpressed by his actions.
It was going to be a long day, if he had to guess.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Andover Lashk
Wheklam was a long climb and Andover was exhausted by the time he reached the pinnacle. So was Gorwich, though it looked like his wounds were scabbing over nicely. Whatever the poisons the poachers had on the arrows, it was not a deadly mix. Though it had taken time, Gorwich was doing better, was more alert and seemed stronger than he had since being injured.
From the top of the volcano, along the edge and away from the smoke, they could look down on Wheklam properly and see the vast cities that had been built near the water’s edge.
They would go to the city soon enough, but first and foremost Andover was here to pay his respects to a god. It was to that end that he’d climbed to the very top in the first place. Wheklam did not need him to make the climb but doing so was a sign of respect.
The winds were strong at the top of the mountain, but Andover was not afraid of them. He was here to visit a god. He was protected. That was the way of it. If Wheklam wanted him dead, he would die. If the god wanted him alive, he would be unharmed. The smoke did not obscure his vision or force him to cough. The heat rising from the heart of the volcano did not cook the flesh from his bones.
Andover stared down into the vast bowl of the volcano and then crouched on the very edge and spread his arms in supplication. “I am here, Wheklam. I offer myself to you.”
The god said nothing, but he felt the welcoming embrace just the same, a powerful sense of peace. For twenty minutes he stayed in the same spot, testing the strength of his legs as he crouched over the yawning well of molten stone below him. The winds caught his hair and lifted it in a constantly stirring breeze.
At the end of that time, having heard no words from the god, Andover rose and started back down the long slope leading to the crescent-shaped city near the edge of the ocean far below. His body moved, but the sense of peace stayed with him.
In the last few days he had traveled long distances, fought against a dozen men, been injured and now embraced by one of the gods he willingly followed.
He felt truly alive, and it was a wonderful sensation.
Are you sorry for your time in Canhoon?
Andover shook his head. “No, Gorwich. I am glad of it. I had to know where I belonged, and I had to offer time to the people of my past life.”
Is that all they are, Andover? Your past?
“I don’t know. I only know that I don’t want to be in Canhoon any longer, at least not as I have been. I’ve waited five years. I’ve trained a great number of the soldiers there, hopefully well enough to make themselves capable fighters.”
They weren’t capable without you? He felt the amusement in his companion’s words.
“No. You know better. But most of them are so… rigid in their ways of thinking. It’s such a different way from the Sa’ba Taalor.”
They walked for most of the day and night before finally reaching the city near the water’s edge.
Parhallo. The throne for Wheklam is here.
“I have been here before, you know.”
Have you? It was before we met, I think. Once again Gorwich spoke with an edge of humor to his words. Did you exist before we met? How can I be certain?
“It was. Just the same, I’ve been here and to all of the capital cities.” Andover grinned as he spoke. That was a rarity too, and he rather liked it. Smiling should be a common thing, not an exception. He’d known that once, long ago, before Perb ruined his hands and he started on the journey that led to being who he was.
He shook his head. Sometimes Gorwich’s philosophies polluted his head with existential thoughts. He had to remind himself not to take the mount’s philosophies to heart. Certainly, Gorwich never did. They were merely a way of keeping himself amused.
The city was spread across a great area. Along the water’s edge there were docks holding the massive black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor fleet. He had no idea how many ships there were in all, but he knew that for every one of the twenty or so vessels he could see there were likely twice as many out at sea.
Along the docks, and spreading into the low buildings in the area, he could see hundreds of Sa’ba Taalor wandering about and most of them looked to be working. There were few people in the area who looked like they were relaxing. That was the way with the followers of Wheklam as far as he could figure. On land they were constantly in motion and looked like they sought a way to be comfortable. At sea they seemed less active, but more at home.
The king met him as he entered Parhallo. Donaie Swarl stood as tall as Andover himself, and her skin was a study in healed wounds, adorned with scars on nearly every inch of visible flesh. Her face bore five Great Scars and she wore leather breeches, a vest and a bright blue sash, along with a heavy sword, a long dagger and a knife that looked well used.
She did not smile when she saw Andover. Then again, he couldn’t think of a single time he’d ever seen the woman smile. She was usually too busy.
He held his arms away from his body his palms facing the sky and bowed formally. “My king, I am here to pay my respects.”
She looked at him carefully, and then nodded. “I have a ship heading out today for Wrommish. You can come with us if you like.”
“In all my life I have never been on the ocean.”
“Then your training will never be complete. How can you fight on the waves if you have never been on a stormy sea?”
He bowed his head a second time. “I will accept your offer with thanks.”
“Come. I’ll find a place for you and your mount.”
Together they walked toward the docks and the vast black ships that waited there.
Darsken Murdro
Darsken sat on the saddle as carefully as he could, and looked at the ground. It seemed a great ways off. He was used to walking wherever he went, but General Dulver had offered him a horse, and not accepting might be deemed rude.
The horse was a gentle animal and seemed unbothered by his weight. He could feel the play of muscles on the creature as his swayed gently side to side, moved by the animal’s motion.
There were a great number of cavalry riding with them as they headed to the west. He didn’t bother to count, but it was well over a hundred soldiers.
The latest information said that there were more murders. Darsken had spent half the night examining the body of a well-known cutthroat in Canhoon. Like the other bodies, he had been cut repeatedly, marked by blades while he was alive and while he was dead. He had been moved, placed in the marketplace closest to the docks, his body displayed for all to see. Happily, he had only been seen by the City-Guard, who wisely took the body off display and sent a runner to come get him.
The difference was simply that this body, while marked appropriately, had not had the soul stolen from it. Andle Harper was a well-known brawler and thief, and he was suspected in half a dozen murders over the years. He had almost always evaded getting himself caught by the City-Guard and had escaped the one time he was captured.
And now he was dead. On the better side of the coin, he confessed to several murders while Darsken questioned his corpse. On the darker side, someone was actively imitating the murders that were already plaguing the city and the surrounding areas.
“Do you think we’ll find any more of your murders out this way?” Merros Dulver rode next to him.
“It is possible,” Darsken nodded. “There are enough small towns between here and the steppes.” Which was true enough. Goltha was the name of the city on the far side of the lake, but it encompassed not only the city but the many small towns around the shorelines and along the four rivers that surrounded Lake Gerhaim. As was often the case, where there was water, there were people. The four rivers running into the massive lake were no exception. The towns often had their own government, but all of them were seen as facets of the whole.
Since the war’s end, and the shift of Canhoon’s position, a great number of people had also moved along the river’s edge, from areas farther way from the capital all the way to Inborough. There was little between where Canhoon had rested at the mouth of the Jeurgis River to where Canhoon had settled in Lake Gerhaim, that wasn’t now occupied by settlements and farms. The Emperor’s Highway had been built before the change, of course, and it was still there, as far as Darsken knew.
“I’d never have imagined so many towns appearing after the war.” Dulver shook his head.
“It makes sense.” Darsken pointed along the highway ahead of them. “All of this land was simply too far away for convenience in most cases and now the largest city in the empire and the capitol city are both in the same area. Why wouldn’t people move closer to feel safe?”
“I expect the City-Guard could point to a few reasons on any given night.” Dulver chuckled and then shook his head. “I jest, of course.”
“There have been more marauders of late.” Darsken shook his head as well. “I hear the reports and we do what we can. But they do not stay long in any one area. They move around, the better to find fresh victims.”
Dulver nodded and swept a hand across the area. “There are stragglers everywhere, of course.”
“Stragglers?”
“I don’t know what else to call them. People moving from one area to the next or working their way along the roads at different farms, in different towns. It’s been suggested that I send recruitment teams through here and gather them up to get new soldiers for the ranks.”
“Do you have a need for new soldiers?”
“No. Nothing has changed. Three years of service is mandatory. Of course, there are plenty who say they’ve served their time and never do.”
“Is there a punishment for that?”
Dulver chuckled. “Of course. Three years’ service or three years’ incarceration.”
“I imagine most prefer to serve.”
“The catch is, we have to catch them in the lie.”
“How hard are they to catch?”
“Honestly, it’s easy in most places.” Dulver looked around the area and pointed to a group of people walking the highway up ahead. As the horses drew closer the people moved to the side to let them pass. Easier for them to move aside than for battalions of cavalry to do the same. “But the stragglers, the ones on the move, make it more challenging. The local towns have lists of people who have served and are getting to the right age to serve. If they move, it’s harder to know one way or the other.”
“No one to keep proper records?”
“Exactly so.” He gestured to the crowd they were passing. “Look at this group as an example. There are four lads there who are of that age. They’ve served. Or they’re close to the age where they should. If those lads are coming from Canhoon, moving on, there’s little I can do to make certain.”
“There are some peoples who mark their service, yes?”
“With tattoos?” Dulver frowned, “I know some of the soldiers do, but not all of them.”
“You could make it mandatory.”
“I never thought of that.”
“If you make them bear the mark of their regiment then you know they’ve served. Problem eliminated.”
“All my time, Darsken, and I never once thought of that.”
“I’m an Inquisitor. It’s my job to look for the marks left behind, the trails that can tell a story. If I were looking for your soldiers, those that have served, first I would look for tattoos and then I would look for scars.” There were other ways to tell, of course, but they were good indicators.
