The War Born, page 4
He looked upon the first of his new army, and for the first time since he had been tricked into giving himself to the Overlords, Trigan Garth smiled. He wanted to see them, what they became.
He would not have to wait terribly long.
Whistler
The soldiers gathered in their tents and did their best to fend off the bitter cold of night on the Wellish Steppes. Those that were on duty stood guard as best they could, wrapped in fur cloaks and coats that seemed as thin as gossamer when it came to storing heat. There were fires aplenty, but the winds were harsh and cut deep at any exposed skin.
In a nearby tent the leaders of the Fellein sat together and considered what to do about the weather, and the massive mountain that had grown from the ground like an unwanted crop of rotten fruit.
Whistler listened as the people inside the tent talked, uncertain who it was that spoke, but knowing the words they uttered were important to someone, somewhere. He really didn’t care that much himself, but he’d promised his servitude in exchange for his life when the volcano rose into the air, and he was caught in the wrong place. Or the right place, he supposed, depending on perspective.
The voices that bargained with him had been his companion for a long while now. At first, they were a faint whisper, but as time passed, they became a constant source of distraction until he was forced to go where they led him.
Now? Now those voices were all but gone. He found he almost missed them.
“Well, at least there aren’t any invaders coming from the mountaintop.” The speaker was trying to sound amused and just failing. He could not see who had spoken but he already knew. This was the one several referred to as “General.” There was only one official of that rank in the area, a man named Merros Dulver, who was actually in charge of the empire’s armies. He had seen the man before, in Canhoon when he was passing through, and he had even spoken to him – before the Overlords changed Whistler.
His hands moved up to feel his face, though he was barely aware of it. Seemed to have become an obsession, really. Whistler was used to being handsome enough to make the girls smile with him. And that was a thing of the past, he supposed.
“You are vain.” The voice spoke only in his head, but he recognized it easily enough as one of the very same voices that had drawn him from his home to the steppes in the first place.
“Nothing wrong with being pretty,” he countered.
“If your face is so important, then earn it back. Prove your worth.”
Whistler nodded. It was an old argument already, yet it had only been a few days ago that everything in his world went mad. The face beneath his sensitive fingertips felt wrong. It didn’t just feel wrong – it was wrong. His lips were thin, and when his mouth was closed, they barely seemed there at all, but still he managed well enough. The steam had boiled his face and head when he was on the hill that became a mountain. By rights he should have been blinded by his eyes boiling away and mute from the tongue being cooked out of his foolish, screaming mouth. Instead, his eyes worked just fine, and he managed well enough to talk, though at the moment all of his conversations were in his head. The voices did not speak so others could hear them, so he merely had to think his responses to them. That was one advantage, he supposed, to hearing voices. He was never truly alone.
Whistler stifled a laugh at that and shook his head to clear the notion away. Still, it lingered like a cobweb he could not shake free.
“I am not listening to these fools for my own entertainment. I’ll earn it back then. Just tell me what to do.”
That first comment was partially a lie. Whistler found it amusing that he could hide where others did not see him. Currently he was outside the tent proper, in the bitter cold, but not affected by it. Whatever else the Overlords had done when they remade him, he seemed barely to notice the cold around him now, or the heat of the volcano when he’d walked down the side of the mountain as it erupted.
His mouth pulled into a rictus of a grin, and he listened more carefully. The sing-song accent of the man who responded to the general marked him as someone Whistler had met as well, one of the Inquisitors from Louron. He could easily envision the man’s dark complexion, his easy smile, and the braided dreadlocks of hair around his head. He liked the man’s warmth but, as with anyone from Fellein, he did not trust that warmth to save him if he caught the stranger’s attention in the wrong way.
New voices entered into the tent, and Whistler listened on, once again uncertain who was speaking.
CHAPTER THREE
Desh Krohan
Hard to say who was more surprised by Desh’s appearance – the general or the Inquisitor.
Either way, Desh was there on a mission. Merros Dulver was needed in Canhoon. “General, your Empress requires your attention at the palace,” he explained. “I know it displeases you, but I am your transport.”
Merros stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. After the years they’d known each other, the man should have been used to Desh making unexpected arrivals, but no.
In his defense it was seldom that Desh used his sorcery to move him a hundred or more miles from where he had been seconds before. Magic always had a cost, but at the moment Nachia Krous was not to be trifled with.
“What has happened?” Merros asked softly.
“Complications. That’s all I can say.” It was all he was willing to say. Some issues were simply not the sort he wanted to be involved with, and this was one of them.
Merros stood.
“Apologies,” Desh said to the Inquisitor, “but we have to go now.” Without another word he touched the general on the shoulder and forced his will upon the world around them. The world faded into a miasma of gray, shifting forms, and he pushed himself and Merros through the rift in space that was as close to the spirit realms as physical forms could get. The Sooth were nearby, their voices calling with taunting promises of madness and secrets best not revealed. As Merros winced, Desh ignored the false assurances of revelation as he pushed through to the Imperial throne room.
One moment the pair were in the cold of the Steppes, the next the air was calmer, warmer, as the hearths of the throne room crackled with great fires. They stood in near-darkness. It was a kindness, really, as Desh knew the general had not prepared himself for their form of transportation. To his credit, Merros Dulver did not vomit. Instead, he stood very, very still and shivered violently. They had arrived in a small alcove behind the tapestry of Emperor Largash that covered the northern wall of the room. The great woven shape hid the small meeting place from view, and for those that knew about it, also hid entrance to an access tunnel that moved through hallways and corridors unseen and unknown to most.
“Collect yourself. We are expected.”
Merros nodded and sucked in a deep breath.
A moment later they were entering the great chamber proper, and hearing Ahdra, the priestess of the god Vehndal, try to convince their Empress to make changes.
“All I mean, Majesty, is that the gods wish to offer their help in these troubling times.”
“And I appreciate that, Ahdra,” the Empress said firmly, “but I have all of the advisors I need, and if the gods wish to speak with me and offer counsel, they will have to do as the Saba Taalor’s gods do, and speak with me directly.” She paused a moment and then looked to her left. “Is that not what your gods do, Swech?”
Merros Dulver snapped his head around at that name, and looked where the Empress cast her eyes. His surprise could not have been more obvious. Before their two races warred, Desh knew the general and Swech had been lovers. During the time when the two nations were at war, Swech had insinuated herself into Dulver’s life a second time, hidden inside the body of another woman. Desh did not know if they had become lovers again, but they had been close. So close that the revelation of what Swech had done left the man devastated emotionally, though he had done his best to hide that fact.
King Swech Durwrae Tothis was one of the seven kings of the Seven Forges. That had not been the case when last she had seen any of the people currently in the room. It was a fairly new development. Desh didn’t understand how government worked in the Seven Forges; he only knew that the gods of the Sa’ba Taalor chose new kings when one of their leaders died.
Swech looked directly at the Empress and nodded. She ran one finger across the Great Scar on her left cheek and said, “The Daxar Taalor bless us with the ability to speak to them directly and to hear their voices.”
Ahdra looked at the gray-skinned woman and shook her head. “The gods do not speak directly to anyone.”
Swech responded, “Your gods do not, perhaps, but mine do.”
Nachia cut in. “Then why would I need advice from people they do not speak to?”
“The followers of the gods are your people, Majesty. They have needs.”
“We all have needs, Ahdra.”
Desh pressed his lips together and made himself stay silent. Nachia was handling the matter herself. She did not need his help.
“Your majesty, you are ignoring a source of wisdom that is offered to you. Is that wise?” The speaker was Lariso, a priest to Kanheer, the god of war. He was a thickset man with numerous scars. His right hand ended in a mass of shriveled flesh and scar tissue.
“Lariso, my answer remains the same. If the gods wish to impart their wisdom to me, they will have to speak to me themselves. I have read the doctrines and heard the tales, and I can interpret those myself.”
Lariso opened his mouth to respond again, but Merros Dulver called out, “The Empress has given her answer. Listen to it.”
The man looked directly at Merros. “You of all people should understand, General.”
“I need only understand that the Empress has declined your offer and you have continued speaking to her as if to a child.”
Lariso shut his mouth and his face flushed with embarrassment or with anger, possibly both.
Swech turned to look at Merros Dulver. She said nothing, but her eyes immediately scanned the room and settled on the small boy who was currently looking at a collection of weapons adorning one wall. This, Desh knew, was her son by Merros Dulver, Valam. He was as yet a young child, but already he walked like a Sa’ba Taalor, on the balls of his feet, his arms close to his sides. He was far more interested in the weapons than he was in the adults in the room.
Merros did not know he had a son. This was one of the reasons he’d been called back to the palace. Nachia, for all her wisdom and patience, had her moments when she wanted to amuse herself and this seemed one of those cases.
Merros Dulver looked pointedly at the collection of religious leaders. The general had as much use for gods as he did for sorcery, which meant he was just fine without them in his life. Desh considered Merros a friend and hoped the feeling was mutual, but the leader of the Imperial Forces seemed perfectly fine without magic in his world, and despite the Silent Army being brought to life by the gods, he seemed inclined to keep them as far away from his life as he could.
To that point he asked, “Is there any other business that you have with the Empress at this time?”
Ahdra shook her head.
“Then, as I have been summoned back to speak with the Empress, I’d ask you to remove yourselves.”
Nachia raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t upset, near as Desh could decipher from her expression, but neither was she amused by the general’s abrupt actions.
Ahdra remained calm. Lariso looked ready to argue his point, but Ovish, the priest to Luhnsh, the god of beggars, nodded his head. “We outstay our welcome.” The older man smiled blandly. “Apologies. Perhaps we will talk again soon.”
Nachia said, “My general does not mean offense. We find ourselves in a very trying time, and though I still appreciate the kind offer of advice, I fear now is not the time to seek new counsel.”
Ahdra looked at Swech and frowned. The two women could not have been further apart from each other, physically, at least. Ahdra was beautiful, and soft in the ways that some women could be. If she had ever worked a hard day of labor in her life it would be a surprise to Desh. Swech, like most of her people, could very easily be identified by the scars on her exposed flesh. Her hands were heavily scarred and callused, and her posture was entirely different from the priestess’ demeanor. Even forgetting the fact that the Sa’ba Taalor had gray skin, and usually gray or black hair, there was little that marked the two as having anything at all in common.
Ahdra said nothing but Desh made note of the fact that she was interested in Swech. He didn’t know that he’d ever consider Ahdra’s attention a good thing.
As the gathered religious leaders left the throne room, Merros walked closer to the Empress and lowered his head. “Apologies if I overstepped, Majesty.”
“We’ve discussed this before, Merros. I am hardly the most polite of people, but we must remember to treat the leaders of the faithful with respect.”
The general cast his eyes toward Swech. “I was caught unprepared. I will make it right with them.”
“It might be best if you do that now, before the wounded feelings have time to fester.” She did not make a request of her words, and Merros listened, moving after the trio of the faithful before they could go far.
Nachia looked at Desh and pouted for exactly one second. He knew why. Her ploy had not worked. Merros had not reacted to Swech’s presence.
Swech, on the other hand, followed the general from the room looking at her son and saying, “Stay where you are.”
“Well, there goes my fun,” Nachia muttered.
“Really, Majesty.”
“I’ll not be chided. I’m sitting on your dammed throne, and I’ll have my fun where I can.”
“It’s certainly not my throne.”
“You built it.”
“To protect whomsoever sits in it.”
“I’m not the least bit fooled.” She shifted her body. “You designed it to be uncomfortable.”
“Complacency is hardly a sign of an active mind. I prefer to think I built it to keep you aware.”
“I’ll have the damned thing burned one of these days.”
Before Desh could respond, Merros stormed back into the throne room, his face reddening. “I’ve arranged to meet with the faithful tomorrow for a discussion.”
“Excellent!” Nachia smiled.
“I was unaware that the Sa’ba Taalor are visiting.”
“That’s one of the reasons I had you called back, Merros.”
Swech entered the room and moved on a direct course for Merros. Not far away the rest of the Sa’ba Taalor, who had come with Swech, stood in their own area, not mingling with any of the Fellein. They had no interest in court politics. Perhaps if there were swords involved, they’d have felt differently.
Merros looked at Swech. Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the hidden alcove where Desh had brought them into the room. Swech followed.
Desh watched on and Nachia sighed.
“Are you distressed, Majesty?” Desh looked to Nachia with a raised eyebrow.
“Disappointed.” She sighed again. “I was looking forward to hearing every last word of that encounter.”
Desh said nothing.
Swech
Merros Dulver looked almost the same. He had changed his facial hair again. Currently he sported a short beard and mustache, whereas the last time she’d seen him he had been clean-shaven. She couldn’t have said which way she preferred. All she knew was that seeing him now made her pulse race and her knees feel weak. She hated that sensation.
She had missed him.
The last time she had seen him she had been living a lie, wearing the body of a woman named Dretta March. Her goal at that time was the same as always: she lived to obey her gods, to thank them for all they gave her. She listened to their wishes and obeyed. She became Dretta March, living the life the woman would have lived, using her memories and thoughts as a shield against discovery, all the while growing closer to Merros. She saw the man every day and became first a friend and then a lover before her true self was discovered.
To serve her gods she had betrayed the trust she had with Merros Dulver. And if asked to do it again, she surely would, no matter how much she might hate it.
Merros knew that about her. He might not be understanding of her actions, but he knew her devotion to her gods.
Still, he looked at her and said, “Why are you here?”
“The gods have ordered me to serve your Empress. I am here as her servant.”
“Why?”
“Because the gods need our people to work together. I am here as an offering. She may do with me what she wants, and I will obey her wishes.”
Merros snorted and shook his head, a rueful half smile on his face. “Until the gods tell you otherwise.”
“I obey my gods above all else, you know this.”
“There is nothing to say, Swech.”
“There is. You have a son. His name is Valam.” She spoke as calmly as she could. In her time, she had served her gods and killed as they ordered. She had led her people, followed the whims of various kings and as always remined faithful. She would not betray that bond, even for Merros, but she wanted him to know that he had a son.
Merros stared at her, shock written on his features. They had last lain together five years ago.
“What?”
“Valam. He is in the throne room if you want to meet him.”
“How could you not tell me?” He closed his eyes. “No, never mind. It’s a foolish question.”
It was too. He had killed Dretta March, the body Swech had inhabited. Likely he thought her dead, too, at least for a time. The likelihood was that he knew she was a king now, and had known for a long while. The sorcerers of the Fellein could see well beyond the natural limits of the world. They had eyes that could hunt across thousands of miles for secrets. She had no idea how such powerful magic worked, but she understood that it did, in fact, mimic powers she thought only belonged to gods.
“Merros. I could not come to you. I could not send a message, and even if I had, to what point? If I told you there was a child between us, would you have come to Paedle and visited? No.”
