The Godless, page 21
“I might well implement that as a way to handle the matter.” He pointed to two of the young men in the crowd. “Do you think either of them have served?”
The first one was lean and hard and carried a sword that looked like it was general issue. If he had to guess, the lad had served. He walked like a soldier. The second was shorter, but moved with wiry grace. He had a smile on his face and his eyes were in constant motion. Might be he had served, might be he was simply from one of the darker areas in Goltha. He had that look about him. He did not carry a sword, but Darsken expected that if they were to stop him and check, they’d find no less than three blades hidden on his body somewhere.
“The blond lad. Yes. The darker one, back a few paces? Possibly. But I’d think not.”
“And yet he’s the right age. By all rights I should be stopping him and checking, but I simply do not have the resources.”
“You have a hundred men with you, General. What are they if not resources for checking?”
“They are soldiers on the way to a possible battle post. We don’t know what’s ahead of us. If that lad hasn’t been in service and is avoiding that service, I don’t have enough soldiers with me to send him away with a couple of my men to escort him to where he needs to be.”
Darsken nodded and moved over to where the gathered people on foot were walking. He pointed to the dark-haired young man and gestured for him to come closer.
The young man looked at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised in question and then stepped forward.
“What have I done?”
“Nothing that I know of. Have you served your time in the Imperial Army?”
“I have not.” The young man looked back at him and grinned.
“Why not?”
“Figure I did enough during the war.”
“You could not have served during the war. You’re too young.”
“Already said I haven’t served. I did my work during the war.”
Merros Dulver moved closer and listened but did not speak.
“How did you serve?”
“I was a whistler.” The grin on that face grew even brighter.
Darsken was familiar with the term, of course. Whistlers were a part of the informal watch in Goltha. They often watched over neighborhoods, but just as often served as early warnings when the City-Guard came into an area, hired by whatever street gangs roamed a territory to alert against the authorities.
Darsken let out a short bark of laughter. “That is hardly serving.”
“Depends on who you ask. The lads who paid me to whistle also paid me to tell ‘em when the gray skins got too close.”
Darsken chuckled and so did Dulver. The young man looked at the two of them and his eyes gave away absolutely nothing. Darsken had no doubt that the whistler had already sussed out any possible methods of escaping if they tried to capture him.
“You see, General? He has already served, in his own way.”
Merros Dulver stroked his fingers across the edges of his newly growing moustache and smiled. “I suppose he has.” He looked at the young man and his eyes scrutinized carefully.
The young man nodded and slowed his walking pace down. In a matter of only a few seconds he was already fading into the crowd.
Darsken looked back at the general. “Your men could take him.”
“No. He’d be gone before they dismounted. I know the type.”
“Yes he would. But they could find him. There is only so far he could run in this area.”
“True, but who knows how long it would take?”
“If you truly wanted to check, you could always bring a few extra men along on these journeys, who could take him back with them to Canhoon and have him properly inducted.”
“I could, but it’s not worth it to me. I have plenty of soldiers and the ones who truly do not wish to serve are the ones I least want to have in my army.” He thought about it for a moment and added, “There are areas where I might try that, however.”
“You are wise, I think.”
“Seldom accused of that crime, Inquisitor.”
“What are you looking for, where we are going?”
“Signs of a military buildup. There are rumors of a lot of mercenaries heading in this direction. Specifically heading for the steppes and not for any of the towns out this way.”
“Why would they choose the steppes?”
“Can you think of a better place to hide? No one comes out to the Wellish Steppes without a good reason.” In fact, the last time Darsken had been to the steppes it had been to make certain the Overlords did not awaken. From what he had heard, there was a very real chance that the offering he’d made was not enough to satisfy the creatures that had once threatened the entire empire.
“There is a long-standing tradition, General, to offer a sacrifice of sorts to the Overlords in order to keep them resting in their tomb.” Dulver stared at him, not saying a word. Darsken sighed and continued. “Handling that matter has been my task for the last eight years. I have never failed. By all rights they should be asleep.”
“Why do you tell me this now, Darsken?”
“Because if something has gone wrong, if the Overlords are stirring, I might yet be able to settle them. The cost would be heavy but I could possibly manage it.”
“Do you think they’re waking?”
“I think it’s a possibility.” He frowned and gestured to the west. “There is little that would cause problems in the Wellish Steppes. They are insignificant except for the fact that the Overlords are buried there. The closest thing to a threat in the entire area is the Sa’ba Taalor to the north.”
“It’s not them. We’d know. They have their ways and they’ve recently decided to protect their kingdoms by summoning a storm around each of the mountains.” He shook his head, and the expression on his face said he was having trouble with the notion that storms could be called upon as if they were well-trained hounds. “But they’ve made no gestures of war that I know of, and I’d hear about them if they did.” He pointed to where one of the sorcerers rode along in silence. “I’m not allowed to travel without an adept along to keep me informed of what happens in the empire.”
“It is possible that the Overlords have awakened.” Darsken shook his head and felt his frown grow heavier. “I know so little about them. Only that keeping them from waking has been the task of the Inquisitors for as long as any Inquisitor can recall. If I have failed, then the empire is in danger.”
“We’ll find out soon enough, Darsken.”
“I have heard it said that necromancy was first learned by the Overlords and shared with select humans.”
General Dulver looked at the adept for a moment and said nothing, then turned back to Darsken and spoke softly. “I have it on solid authority that only a few people outside of the Inquisitors have access to that sort of power.”
“No one is supposed to know outside of the Inquisitors. That does not mean anything, I fear. The books that teach it are not solely in the control of the Inquisition. The sorcerers have their own books, their own ways of learning that have little or nothing to do with how we are taught.”
“How many ways are there to learn?”
“How many ways can a man learn to fight with a sword?”
“Well, yes, but there are so many types of swords out there.”
“And there are so many schools of sorcery.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t that long ago that the Inquisitors were required to collect any book believed to hold spells.”
“Did you collect a lot of books?”
“Thousands. Most only held references to other books of spells, but Emperor Pathra was very strict about who could learn magic and how they could learn it.”
“Thousands?” The general shook his head. “I hate sorcery.”
“As with all things, it is only as dangerous as the hand that wields it. I know enough of necromancy to kill a man with a few words and a gesture. Since this unfortunate investigation began, I have learned even more of it.”
“You’ve learned more?”
“The markings, the rituals, I have learned enough that I could imitate them easily.”
Dulver stared at him in quiet horror.
“I would not use what I have learned.”
“Why not?”
“I can think of nothing more horrible than torturing the dead, General. They have suffered enough.”
“How so?”
“They’ve lived, haven’t they? And their lives are stolen away from them. Whatever is supposed to happen to the dead after they have left the world, for these victims it never happens. Not ever. They are consumed, not just in body, but in spirit.”
“Do you know what happens after death?”
“I have suspicions. I do not know for certain. I only know that those taken by necromancy will never reach whatever waits beyond death.”
“I’d have thought that if anyone would know…”
“Like I said, suspicions. I have no desire to know. I will learn when the time is right, and no sooner.”
“You mean when you die?”
“Just so, General.”
“Please call me Merros.”
“I will do my best to remember that.”
They rode in silence for a time, and Darsken contemplated the actions of the necromancer while he rode. It took his mind off how uncomfortable the saddle was on his backside.
Whistler
Whistler relaxed as the soldiers slipped past, riding their horses and looking down on everyone else. Them and the Inquisitor.
He’d spoken only the truth to the dark-skinned man. It was best never to lie to Inquisitors, who supposedly could steal a man’s soul if an untruth were told. While he wasn’t much of a follower of gods, and he’d never heard exactly what a soul was for, he felt it best to keep his for the present time.
They were heading in the same direction as he was, and after the men on horses came the wagons of supplies, followed by more soldiers on horseback. Wouldn’t do to leave their food unprotected, would it?
They were headed west. They went the same direction as the voices told him to go, and they would be getting there sooner than he would, that was a sure thing. Walking was his only option, as he had no horse and had never learned to ride one of the great beasts, besides. Like as not he’d fall on his ass the first time he tried, or break his skull on the rocks if the thing decided it didn’t like his weight.
He kept pace with the wagons. Wasn’t hard to do.
Down the road a distance he could see what he needed by way of distractions, and he smiled. There were four wagons set up with trinkets, cloth, fruit and other notions. There was even a man up there working hard to make two puppets dance. He had half a dozen more in a small cart, and though not everyone was stopping, a proper crowd had gathered to pay attention to his dancing couple as they bobbed and moved to his whims.
It was enough. Whistler kept walking and admired the man’s skills with his marionettes. One was a man with an evil grin and a large nose and pointed chin. He sported a wizard’s robes and a wand in his hand. The other looked a great deal like royalty, a woman with hair the same style and color as the Empress. He knew, because he’d seen the woman only a few days earlier, during his very brief stay in Old Canhoon.
Seemed like everyone was distracted by the dancing puppets, and that was good enough for Whistler. He moved between two of the wagons and then climbed onto the back of one. He was lucky. No one was inside it. Just supplies aplenty.
There was blessed silence and no one else around, which meant that he could hear the voices again, and could try to decipher what it was they were saying. Mostly it was gibberish, an endless stream of words and sounds, none of which seemed intelligible until he had time to actually listen, truly focus. Then, with luck, the streams of noise merged and became a coherent river. Without that concentration it was just noise, and frustrating noise at that. Incessant noises that made his skull ache and his mind seek an escape.
That was the case now. Whistler closed his eyes and lay back and listened, and slowly the words became words and the noises made sense.
The message was the same as before. He had to go west, and he had to get there soon. Whatever was supposed to happen, it would happen within the next four days, and he would have to move quickly if he was going to get there.
Four days. That was hardly any time at all, really.
Time to find a faster method of travel, he supposed, even if that meant doing something deeply foolish, like stealing a horse from the soldiers.
He considered the possibilities as he continued riding in the wagon. Sooner or later they would stop, and when that happened he couldn’t be in this wagon any longer. Easy enough to slip out, he supposed, but where would he go?
West. That was all he needed to know. He had to get to the west and he had to go quickly.
The river ran to the east. There were boats that could travel the other way, of course, and they seemed fast enough. He could hire one, he supposed. Might be better and faster than a horse. Certainly safer, though he couldn’t swim, either. Not much call for it in Goltha, unless you were a fisherman.
He peered out the back of the wagon, sticking his head past the covers. It was still light out and would be for a few hours. He could try waiting it out and hope no one needed supplies. There were advantages, of course. Risks, yes. The soldiers wouldn’t appreciate him being with their foodstuffs, even if he didn’t pilfer any. It was the thought, of course. He might have stolen something; even if he left everything exactly as it was, there would always be a few who’d claim he took from them. That was always the case. Do nothing and get accused, so you may as well take what you need. He thought about that as he was gathering enough food for a few days. There were scars on his back from where he’d been caught a few times and given the lash.
When he’d gathered enough to keep his belly full, he checked again and then slipped out of the wagon. His timing couldn’t have been much better. He could see an area where the ground dipped toward the waters and the docks.
Fast fingers had earned him enough coin to get a boat if he was careful. Whistler took a bite of hard cheese that was slightly too bitter for his preference and chewed it anyways, because food wasn’t always as plentiful as he liked. That was the problem with stealing things. You never knew what you were going to get for your efforts.
There was a line of people waiting at the docks, looking for boats to take them west. The only good news was that there were several boats lined up to take on passengers. Most of them looked like they’d sink if they were on water for too long, but it was take a boat or risk stealing a horse, and the boat wouldn’t be considered a hanging offense if he was caught.
Really, it was hardly a choice at all.
Kallir Lundt
Three days and nights they rode through the ice storms, searching for the Pra-Moresh, but whilst they heard them that was as close as they came to finding any of the great beasts. If the truth had to be known, Kallir was fine with that notion. The creatures were terrifying. His hand moved unconsciously to the line where flesh and metal met at the edge of his face, and his fingers touched the thick scars where the claws of the Pra-Moresh had peeled his features away like the rind of an overripe fruit.
Tarag Paedori, the King in Iron, sat astride his mount and sighed. He wanted more.
A wailing cry of sorrow and what sounded like children arguing came from the direction of Ordna. Without a single word spoken, the group sat more alert in their saddles and Tarag and Desta both reached for the long, barbed spears most commonly used when hunting the beasts.
Kallir contemplated his weapons for a moment and instead chose to grab a throwing axe. It was his intention to stay farther away than a spear from any of the beasts that came along. His last effort with a spear had not gone as hoped.
The best plans often fall apart like sand sculptures in a hard rain. The first of the Pra-Moresh might well have been in the direction of Ordna, but the responding mix of laughter and outrage came from much closer, almost immediately to Kallir’s left.
He spun hard toward the sound and saw the shadowy form rise out of the endless sandstorm, towering above him and his mount alike. Frakka let out a rumbling growl of his own and turned to face the new threat. Kallir looked, aimed and threw his axe. The weapon rolled exactly as it should and bounced off the thick fur of what the Sa’ba Taalor called a cackler because of the laughter that went along with their roar.
The Pra-Moresh giggle-wept and charged toward them on all fours, moving with unsettling speed.
Kallir felt his blood singing and grabbed for his spear. He would have never reached it in time, but Frakka was fast enough. The mount rose up and balanced on his hind legs as his forepaws lashed out, swiping. The Pra-Moresh was armed with truly savage claws and protected by a layer of rough fur that could stop anything short of an arrow with relative ease. The claws of the cackler tried to cut Frakka and the mount returned the favor. Frakka had an advantage. He was wearing the armor that Kallir had made for him. It saved the mount’s life. Metal and leather took the blow that likely would have disemboweled the mount otherwise.
Frakka’s claws tore through the thick hide and drew blood. The Pra-Moresh scream-moaned and retreated a few paces.
Kallir didn’t wait. He drove Frakka forward and drove the tip of his barbed spear into the great animal’s chest. Meat pushed aside, but bone did not. The spear anchored itself in flesh and went no further, but at least he had a good grip on the spear and could use it to keep the roaring nightmare away from him.
Frakka backed up and then lunged forward. The shift in weight would have been disastrous on a horse, but Frakka could offer warning of his action through their mental link, and Kallir had a chance to compensate for the changes.
Desta came in low and drove her spear into the cackler’s thick left thigh. The thing let out a screech and sobbed as it rose from its previous stance and charged forward on its hind legs.
Desta held on to her spear and used it to keep the thing from clawing her. The shaft of the spear bent but did not break, and she retreated as the cackler charged.
