The War Born, page 27
“For the gods!”
His fingers reached again and clutched at the vile stuff that seethed and tried to pull away from him, but he would not have it. He would not relent. Both Andover and Drask reached out and burned their enemies, and Swech followed suit, attacking as she had before and corrupting the fluid flesh that had, a moment before, been wrapping around her arms and trying to crush the life from her.
Tuskandru swept his long blade around his head and bellowed his god’s name again as the blade began to glow fiercely. It was a different sort of radiance, one that burned with dark smoke even as the blade’s keen edge hissed.
Donaie Swarl prayed aloud to Wheklam, watching the example of Drask, and listening to the big man’s calm voice. Her prayers were answered, and the spear in her hands burst forth with greater radiance still, different from the others, more turbulent and violent. The light crashed down on her enemy’s flesh like a crushing weight.
Tarag Paedori called to Truska-Pren and his heavy armor burned with a sullen energy, glowing like molten iron, smoldering and sparking even as he rose to his knees in the mire of the Overlords.
The flesh tried to recede, and the Kings followed mercilessly, pushing on, making the most of their new advantage.
Had Andover thought he understood the gifts of the gods? He was wrong. Through the power they had given, finally, there was an advantage against the Overlords; the undying creatures felt a new weakness, and even as he pressed forward and cut with his axe, blocked with his free hand, the power of the gods continued to wound and burn his enemies.
Ganem and N’Heelis shimmered. They did not glow in the same way as the others, but that they were touched by the gods was obvious. Ganem’s eyes burned and his strikes made the darkness scream with a hundred agonized voices. N’Heelis flowed into his enemies, struck again and again delivering damage with each strike, even when he blocked blows meant to incapacitate or kill him his enemies seemed to rot at his touch.
There was no time for celebration, only for slaughter. It was time to kill, to destroy the Overlords in the names of the Daxar Taalor.
Darsken Murdro
The Inquisitor expected to die. He had wandered deeper into the tainted, violated Shimmer and felt the things that crept closer to him as he sought the light source in the distance. They did not strike, despite his fears, but the shapes continued stalking him and then – as the lights in the distance grew suddenly brighter and revealed the horrors around him – the shapes moved away, surged across the warped, ruined landscape of the Shimmer. They slithered toward the distant lights amid hisses and half-heard cries of outrage.
The Shimmer was attacked and all he could do was follow after what he believed must surely be the source of the damage.
All his life the Shimmer had been a place of peace, an odd reflection of the world he was born in, that offered pathways to other places both in his birth world and beyond. Though he had seldom explored those other worlds, others, like his sister Daivem, had traveled to different realms, to places where the very rules of existence defied what they knew of reality. She had told him of visiting worlds far removed from theirs, even places where the gods threatened to end the world because they were not offered proper sacrifices, and where the servants of the gods could not be destroyed, and other realms where magic was as common as rain.
The Shimmer had never changed in all that time, but now it seemed diseased by darkness, and he felt he had no choice but to follow that light and know what waited at its source.
And after what seemed a night worth of walking, he found the source of that incredible illumination.
The Sa’ba Taalor were fighting with the darkness. Some of them he recognized. He had seen Swech, and he knew Andover of the Iron Hands, but the others were not familiar to him. Whatever the case, whoever they were, their attacks shattered the darkness that corrupted the Shimmer. Around them the endless black pools of flesh seethed and struggled and were driven back by the lights that burned in their hands, bodies and weapons.
He had never understood the notion of gods, not truly. He knew they existed, and he supposed that the Shimmer might be seen as a god by some – certainly it offered the miraculous – but, as the Sa’ba Taalor called out, he wondered if they called to their gods and, if so, did their gods respond? This seemed nearly like sorcery but none he was familiar with.
Something hissed behind him and Darsken turned in time to see one of the shadowy forms coming from the darkness, a silhouette lost in shadows.
He struck without thinking, brought his walking stick down across the shape, and was knocked aside as if he were a child.
Darsken staggered backward and the thing pushed past him, unconcerned with his existence.
Worst mistake it could have made. When he struck again it was with malicious intent, and he struck to cause as much harm as possible. It was a vile thing, alien and diseased and he had no doubt at all that the thing and its ilk were the cause of the illness permeating the Shimmer.
He struck with his walking stick and summoned his limited magic. Necromancy, the ability to control the dead. The ability to feed from death.
Darsken did not understand what he did, not really. If he had, he would have reconsidered his actions. What he did not comprehend was simply that the Overlords were the progenitors of necromancy, the very first creatures to study the dead and their secrets.
He was fortunate. The thing did not know what he could do until it was too late. His attack ripped at the lifeforce of the Overlord, clawed a great wound through the thing and tore it open.
The creature turned to lash out, but by then Darsken pulled the power from it into himself, into his walking stick, and he was invigorated. Though it tried to attack, the damage was too great. Even as it reared around and came for him the shadowy shape collapsed on itself and fell to ruin.
Darsken looked down at the formless mass and drew upon it again, not to steal more of its power, but to steal the thoughts the creature might have, to understand what it was he dealt with.
He was punished for that, perhaps. The thoughts that filled him were of death, of dying, of pain and loss and anger that burned across his mind; not thoughts he was unfamiliar with but simultaneously seen through a lens that distorted the thoughts and concepts.
It was a vile creature, and his mind recoiled.
Darsken staggered back, his brain seeming to burn with darkness, to seethe, lost in shadows and whispered voices.
He collapsed to his knees and grunted.
The pain was not overwhelming, but it was sudden and drove him to close his eyes against the ache in his skull.
Not far away the Sa’ba Taalor fought on, and Darsken did his best to stand again, made weak for the moment, made sick by the unexpected thoughts and images that assailed him past closed eyes,
The darkness around him screamed, and he joined in the chorus.
Nachia Krous
It hardly mattered that she was the Empress of Fellein. That was what Nachia decided as she sat in her throne room and looked around at the strangers around her. Her closest confidant was dead. Her closest living friend fought on in an effort to save her empire from multiple enemies.
Her cousin Mallifex Krous stood nearby, but he was not someone she really knew well, king of Morwhen or no. Her brother, Brolley was present but remained preoccupied with Lanaie, the nominal queen of a land that no longer mattered. Roathes was rebuilding slowly, true, but the small kingdom was centered between two of the Seven Forges, and little could happen there that wasn’t a sign of danger. Tuskandru and the followers of Durhallem were possibly the most warlike of all the Sa’ba Taalor, and most agreed that if there was going to be a kingdom attacked by the gray skins, it was likely Roathes.
Mal stared at his half hand and sighed again. The wound had been healed as best it could be and the risk of infection was gone. According to a few sources among the Council of Sorcerers, something had happened that might change that. Sorcery was now, somehow, easier to use. It did not tax the wizards as it had before.
Mal was waiting for one of the wizards to see if they could do anything to mend his ruined hand. He would pay well if they could.
“Whatever they want to do, they should be swift about it.” Nachia repeated what she had said to her cousin previously. “The gods have granted power to all of the sorcerers, apparently, but who can say if it will last?”
Ovish spoke softly, but his voice carried. The man was dressed in clean clothes, but they were old and well worn. He was a beggar, after all, a follower of the god of beggars. It would not do to be dressed too well. Ahdra stood next to him, a virtual opposite of the older man. Where he was heavy and limped, she was slight and glided; he wore old clothes and she dressed in finery. She was the very epitome of what most men wanted in a mate, and Ovish was the exact sort of man most women failed to notice. That they were apparently close friends always rather boggled the Empress.
Ovish said, “The gods seldom grant favors only to take them away, Majesty.”
Ahdra added, “The blessings of the gods are many.”
Nachia replied, “I don’t make assumptions regarding the gods, but I am grateful for their favors.”
Ahdra smiled. Ovish bowed as if a compliment had been cast his way.
Merros would have snorted and possibly made a comment but at this point the Empress was grateful for any help and that the gods had changed the rules was a given.
The Sa’ba Taalor said nothing, but they were close enough to hear every word being spoken. Merros’ son looked her way as she smiled at him. He smiled back, but it was a tentative expression he wore, as if uncertain how he should, or if the very act of smiling was punishable. Perhaps it was. She knew so little about the ways of the gray skins when it came to raising children.
Ovish did not speak again, but he looked around the throne room as if expecting something more. Nachia offered nothing. She had long since grown tired of the religious factions. She did not forbid them, or demand they be removed from her presence, but sometimes she still wanted to.
The world was changing, and she did not always approve. The last meeting of the unified churches had drawn over a thousand people and the attention of a full twenty of the Silent Army.
A thousand followers.
“How may I help you today, Ovish?” She relented, if only to hear what the man wanted to then dismiss him if possible.
“We are here to serve, Majesty.”
“I have listened to the gods themselves, Ovish. How would you serve me?”
“The faithful offer prayers to protect the empire, Majesty. There will be a ceremony five nights hence in the Garden of Remembrance and we hoped we could inspire you to join us.”
It was Brolley who stepped in to answer for her this time, and Nachia clenched her jaw but let him speak.
“The Empress is flattered, of course, but there is a war going on.”
“And I will attend the ceremony, with gratitude for all that the gods do and the people of Fellein as well.” She smiled and looked at Ovish, then Ahdra and only when both had smiled their surprised smiles did she look to her brother. “The very gods of Fellein have blessed us, how can I do less than offer my thanks?”
Ahdra nodded and smiled. “The ceremonies begin when the sun sets, Majesty. Thank you, we are honored by your presence.”
“I am grateful for all that you offer, Ahdra. I am honored by the gods of Fellein.” She looked toward Jo’Hedee of the Sa’ba Taalor. “Perhaps our guests will join us in this ceremony?”
Jo’Hedee tilted her head for a moment and then faced the Empress, raised her open arms toward the ceiling, showing that she had no weapons, and bowed formally. A heartbeat later the rest of the gray skins joined her, and so did Valam.
“We serve, Empress, as commanded by the Daxar Taalor.”
Rather than speak, Nachia bowed her head for a moment and smiled.
She was done being dictated to. Brolley did not answer for her, and she would remind him of that fact properly when they were alone. For now she had made a statement and pleased the religious factions and, hopefully, the gods with her responses.
Valam stepped closer to her and offered another tentative smile. It was her turn to smile back. She considered the boy. Had Desh Krohan had his way, she would be with child even now, and she felt an odd stirring of guilt at that thought. These were, indeed, trying times, and as he had said more than once, damn him, he would not be around forever to support her.
The First Advisor might well have advised against backing the churches. But what else could she do? She had to acknowledge the gods in her own way, and she had to do so publicly, and this seemed like as good time as any.
Merros would likely disapprove, and she knew Desh would have argued against it, but she was the Empress, and in a very real sense she had to serve the gods and people of Fellein to the best of her abilities.
Mal stepped closer to her and leaned in carefully. “Would you like an escort for the festivities, Majesty?” He looked her way without locking eyes. He seldom met her gaze for long.
“I would be pleased to have you by my side, King Mallifex.”
“Your will be done.” He did not bow to her, but only because she’d asked him not to. He was her cousin and, more importantly, he needed to show strength right now as his kingdom was threatened by the war and had suffered enough. Once again Desh Krohan might have disagreed with her, but he was not there to help, and she was not in the mood to be questioned about her decisions.
Nachia frowned and lowered her head for a moment as the thought that he would never offer advice to her again made her eyes sting.
And, damn her foolish emotions, she considered his previous words and wondered if she should seek a mate to sire an heir. Her time in the world might be shorter than she wanted to think about. After all, even seeming immortals were dying these days.
She knew that her empire was strong, but still it needed tending to.
That was her duty. Her responsibility.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Merros Dulver
The war ended quickly.
The Sisters continued their attacks against the War-Born, but that was not what caused the cessation of the enemy’s attacks.
While three of the most powerful sorcerers in the world destroyed the armies of the enemy, they had continued on, savage and brutal and hungry, until they suddenly stopped. As one, the great horde of the War-Born came to a halt, and the nightmarish beasts that managed to slip past the attacks of the Sisters, that had come to slaughter as many of his troops and the Sa’ba Taalor as they possibly could, simply fell over and died.
They did not sleep. They did not rest. They did not become living statues.
No, they died.
Rather than wait for his order, or for any orders of their own that he could hear, the Sa’ba Taalor responded quickly and followed the earlier example of the Fellein Empire, dragging the bodies of the dead things together and starting massive funeral pyres.
Merros had his own troops join them, even as Tataya approached him. He had no idea where she had come from. One moment she was far to his east and the next she was merely a dozen paces away and coming closer.
She looked invigorated, and as surprised as he was.
“They are dead, Merros. All of them as far as we can tell.”
“The War-Born? All of them?”
“To the last, that we can sense.”
He dared a smile at the thought. His troops had barely been touched.
“If that is true, then I have you and your Sisters to thank, milady.”
“You already know my response.” She smiled. It was a beautiful expression on a face that he had always found beautiful.
“Then I suppose we should all thank the gods this day.”
“The war may not be over, I fear. We cannot find the Overlords. They are lost to us, and I fear they’ve gone into hiding again.”
“If they are hiding then they are not attacking us. That’s something, I suppose.”
Tataya swept her hair back from her ear and frowned briefly in concentration. “True, but that they can hide so well is unsettling at best.”
“They do not hide.” It was Stastha who spoke and both he and Tataya were surprised to see the woman standing so close to them. She had managed to approach without either of them seeing her though she did not seem to move with any particular caution; he wondered if she was stealthy enough to accomplish that feat or if he were simply too tired to notice her approach. The latter seemed more likely. Though he admired Stastha for her combat skills she was seldom subtle in her approach.
Tuskandru’s second spoke softly. “They are… elsewhere. Tusk and the other kings of my people fight the Overlords even now. They fight and they are winning.”
“Indeed? How are they managing this?”
“Your gods have helped us on this front, have made it possible for your sorceries to work, yes?” She looked at Tataya as she spoke, and the Sister nodded her answer.
Stastha looked from the sorcerer to Merros. “Our gods have offered similar power to the kings. They have not won yet, but they are winning. There have been losses, great losses, but they are winning.”
“’Great losses?’” The words sank his heart.
“One of the kings is dead and another is dying.” Stastha watched his face and said no more.
“Which kings have fallen?”
“Lored, the King in Bronze was killed. Tarag Paedori and N’Heelis have suffered severe injuries and may not survive.” He hated himself a bit for the relief he felt that Swech was still alive. He did not want to think of her. He did not want to care.
“Can we offer them help?”
Stastha shook her head. “They fight for the honor of the gods, and they fight with the chosen champion of the Daxar Taalor and one of their greatest warriors. None may aid them in this battle.”
What could he possibly say to that? When the Sa’ba Taalor invoked the gods, it was the end of any discussion, just that simple.
