Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) (2 page)

Makeda knew she was losing, but the words of the code played through her mind.
Only by conflict can the code be understood. Embrace your suffering and gain clarity.

Time seemed to slow. His moves were too fierce, too uncontrollable. He had underestimated her resolve. Akkad lifted his spear high overhead before bringing it down in a crashing arc. Makeda barely moved aside in time. The mighty hit threw a cloud of sand into the air, but before Akkad could lift the war spear again, Makeda planted one boot on top of the war spear’s blade. Though sleight, the extra weight was enough to cause his grip to slip as he tried to tug the spear away. The momentary surprise was just enough to allow Makeda one clean strike.

“
Balaash!
” she cried.

The tip of her practice sword caught Akkad in side of the head. Blood flew as skin split wide. The spear was pulled from beneath her boot and the siblings stumbled away from each other.

Makeda gathered herself, but there was a lull in the fighting. Akkad was glaring at her as if stunned, one gauntlet pressed to his head to staunch the flow of red. She had struck him hard. His ear was mangled, the tip hanging by only a small bit of skin. Surely, he had felt that one.

“I have seen enough.”

Gasping for breath, barely able to stand, Makeda looked to their archdominar. Vaactash nodded once. Her heart swelled.

“Both of you have improved since last I watched you spar. It pleases me that the blood of House Balaash does not run thin in this generation. One day I will die and your father, Telkesh, will lead my House, and you will serve him. In time, Akkad, you will take his place. When you learn to temper your ambition with wisdom, you will bring great honor to our house. Your sister will make a fine tyrant in your service, and I have no doubt that multitudes will be conquered to feed our slave pits. Until then, you have much to learn.”

“Yes, archdominar.”

“The more you bleed in training, the less you will bleed in war. Learn from every fight, Akkad. Do you know why Makeda defeated you this time?”

“She did not defeat me!” Akkad snarled.

“Silence!” The entire arena seemed to flex at Vaactash’s displeasure. That one stern word caused Akkad to fall to his knees and bow. “Do not ever disagree with the ruler of your house. If that had been an actual Praetorian blade the contents of your thick skull would have been emptied into the sand. Fool. How dare you question my decree?”

The siblings shrank back. The archdominar’s legendary temper was a thing only spoken of in hushed whispers.

“For that you will not have this wound repaired. Have the end cut off and cauterized. You will wear that scar as a reminder of your impertinence.”

“Yes, archdominar.” Akkad kept his head down as droplets of blood painted a pattern in the sand. He was trying not to sound sullen. “It will be as you command.”

“Again I ask, do you know why a tiny child capable of hiding in your shadow managed to beat you?”

“Forgive my ignorance. I… I do not know the answer, grandfather.” Akkad risked a quick glance toward Makeda. She could feel the malice in his gaze. Makeda did not gloat. She had merely done her best, as was required. “Please, enlighten me.”

“You only understand the concept of victory. Makeda does not comprehend the concept of defeat.”

A generation had passed, but the lessons of Vaactash would never leave her. His words were as ingrained into Makeda as the code of hoksune itself. It had been a year since her grandfather’s death under the tusks of a great beast of the plains, but she still found herself calling upon his wisdom during times of struggle. She was a mature, yet unproven, warrior now. The Swords of Balaash were sheathed at her side. Slivers of her grandfather’s sacral stone were among those empowering the mighty blades, and though only an extoller could contact the exalted dead, Makeda always felt as though Vaactash was there to guide her with his wisdom.

Makeda would need that wisdom if she were to survive the day.

The atmosphere inside the command tent was as heated as the drought scourged plains. The officers of her decurium were in disagreement over what to do next.

“Tyrant Makeda, House Muzkaar’s forces are nearly upon us.”

“Akkad’s reinforcements have not arrived. We are badly outnumbered. If we do not fall back now we die here.” Urkesh was the dakar of her taberna of Venators. Of course a warrior who specialized in engaging the enemy from a distance with reiver fire would choose the pragmatic, if somewhat cowardly, approach.

“We have been commanded to hold this hill! So we dig in and hold!” Dakar Barkal was the leader of her Praetorian karax. Of course, the karax would choose to die like that, in a perfect xenka formation, each of their great shields protecting themselves and the Praetorians at their sides as they impaled their enemies on long pikes. “Honor demands it.”

“Muzkaar outnumbers us five to one,” Urkesh insisted. “Your honor will not beat those odds.”

“Do you question the strength of the karax?” Barkal shouted.

Makeda let them debate. She knew they would follow her final decision, no matter what. Perhaps in the meantime one of them would surprise her with a solution.

“Your mighty shields won’t matter when a wall of titans stampedes over you.” Urkesh replied.

Venators were the lowest of the warrior caste, but Urkesh was young and hot headed. Makeda doubted he realized how close he was to having Barkal strike him down in anger. “We cannot hold anything if we are dead and howling in the Void. I say we retreat from this trap, move to the plains, where we can maneuver and harass these Muzkaar dogs until Akkad’s forces arrive.”

Barkal looked to Makeda, his narrow face pinched with rage. She needed every warrior, even a Venator whose devotion to dying by the hoksune code was questionable at best. Makeda shook her head. She would approve no duels of slighted honor until after the battle. She could not spare any warriors. Deprived of his chance to gut Urkesh for his insolence, Barkal went back to defending his position. “Our duty requires us to hold,” he snapped.

Deep in thought, Makeda listened to the words of her subordinates as they argued. She was glad that none of them feared death, only the possibility of failure. Skorne lived to serve and die, but there was no honor in dying pointlessly. This was her first command, and she would not lose it easily.

Primus Zabalam stepped forward and placed his body between the two shouting warriors. Both dakars stepped back out of respect for their senior officer. “Regardless of which decision is best, we must give the order soon. We will be cut off by Tyrant Naram’s beasts within the hour, and then it will not matter either way.” It was the first time the veteran leader of her Praetorian swordsmen had spoken. Zabalam was the oldest warrior present, and had served as one of Vaactash’s personal guard. He spoke with the wisdom gained from countless battles. “Our commander must choose now, or the decision will be made for her.”

The map lay open on the table, but she stared through it, rather than at it. The map was irrelevant. She had already memorized every brush stroke and line of ink.
Fail in their orders, retreat and live to rejoin the rest of the army, or hold their ground in the vain hope that her brother would arrive in time, and more than likely die as nothing more than a temporary distraction …
Ultimately, the choice was hers to make.

The situation was dire. The honor of House Balaash lay heavy on her shoulders. It was times like this that tested a warrior’s dedication to the code.

Grandfather, what would you have me do?

Having recently reached the age sufficient to go through the rites of passage of the warrior caste, this was the first time Makeda had led a cohort into battle on behalf of House Balaash. Archdominar Telkesh had ordered her to hold this position, a small hill on the plains south of Kalos, but no one had predicted this level of resistance. Their spies had reported that the bulk of the enemy had been camped much closer to the city, nowhere near here. The main army of House Balaash marched unopposed while Makeda’s cohort was outnumbered against the entirety of the forces of House Muzkaar.

If somehow she did live through the day, Makeda intended to have those spies tortured for a long time.

That, however, did not solve her current dilemma. The enemy army was led by Naram, a Tyrant legendary for both his skill with beasts and the cruelty he used in breaking them. She had learned what she could of Naram’s exploits, and respected him for his brutal and unflinching victories. He was an adversary worthy of her father and his mighty army, not nearly as appropriate a foe for an inexperienced commander and one small cohort. Yet the ancestors had placed Naram against her, not her father. This battle was hers.

Makeda knew it was not her ever increasing skills in the art of mortitheurgy, nor her natural talent with the blade that made her valuable to her house. It was her certainty in the truthfulness of the code of hoksune. Her grandfather had recognized that. So, as she always did, Makeda searched the code for an answer.

Combat favors the aggressor. There is a time for both defense and mobility, but every tactic is merely a tool enabling your inevitable attack. To draw with and kill your enemy is the true path toward exaltation.

She said a silent thank you to the shards of her grandfather’s essence resting in her swords.

Makeda held up one hand, silencing her officers. “We will not
retreat …”
Regardless of whether they agreed or not, they began to move out to spread the word. “Nor will we hold this position.”

The men froze, uncertain. They looked to each other, none daring to question their new commander. Though she was the youngest in the room, she was their superior both by birth and by appointment. Finally, Barkal of the karax dared speak. “What would you have us do then, Second Born?”

Makeda smiled. “We strike.”

The sound of the reivers firing reminded Makeda of a swarm of buzzing insects, only this swarm was made up of thousands of razor sharp projectiles. A House Muzkaar titan bellowed in agony as those projectiles shredded its hide. The gigantic war beast took a few halting steps, showering bright blood from a plethora of wounds. Several Muzkaar beast handlers lashed the thing, urging it forward through the steel cloud. Driven mad with pain, the titan lumbered onward.

“Reload!” Urkesh shouted at his Venators. There was only a single datha
of ten armigers, but they acted quickly, unscrewing the spent gas cylinders from their awkward reiver weapons. Makeda sized up the distances. The armigers
were quick, but not quick enough. The titan would trample over Urkesh’s warriors and she would lose her ranged advantage.

House Muzkaar had brought no ranged capability, and dozens of Muzkaar corpses littered the road from where they had been scythed down by her Venators while trying to cross. Makeda did not wish to give up that advantage.

Makeda had few warbeasts of her own to spare. Since her cohort had been marching quickly in order to seize their objective, she had only been given a pair of cyclops savages. The tougher, but slower, beasts had been left with Akkad. She reached with her mind, using her mortitheurge powers to find the lump of muscle and hate that was the nearest cyclops. She took hold of its mind and steered it into the path of the enemy titan.

The cyclops hoisted its great sword and stalked forward, towering several feet over even the tallest warriors in its path. What the cyclops lacked in intelligence it made up for in violent cunning. The beast’s single eye flicked back and forth, seeing the battlefield as only a cyclops could, a few seconds into the future, and Makeda wondered if the cyclops could see its own death coming.

The earth shook as the wounded titan charged. Each footfall felt like an earthquake. As large as the cyclops was, it was dwarfed by the titan. Armored tusks crashed into the cyclops’ armor with a clang that could be heard over all the chaos of the battle. The cyclops rolled away, and the wounded titan followed, swinging wildly with its massive gauntlets. Instinct demanded the cyclops flee, and it screeched in protest as Makeda overcame its mind and forced it to stand its ground.

Their weapons ready, Urkesh shouted at his taberna.
“Concentrate fire on that titan!” The Venators rose from the ditch they had taken cover in, aimed, and let loose a stream of razor needles. Hundreds of projectiles ricocheted off armor plates and ivory tusks, whining into the distance, but hundreds more found their mark. Hide puckered and bled as the titan roared and crashed into the dust.