The Blasted Lands (34 page)

“Like you, Kallir Lundt decided he would rather be complete than dead.”

“Of course. I did not mean offense.”

“There is no offense in simple truths, Andover Lashk.” The man stopped and faced him. “You will meet Kallir Lundt. He has been waiting to meet with you for a long time. And then you will meet Truska-Pren. Be prepared for these things.”

“Yes, of course.” He said the words easily enough. But as his father had said more than once, words were easier to say than they were to obey.

Had there ever been a place with so damned many stairs? Climbing the side of Durhallem had been a harsh challenge, to be sure, but Prydiria seemed harder still, with endless runs of staircases and level after level of hard angles and carefully carved stone. They climbed for a long while and Andover did his best not to show how tired he felt while the king continued to walk at a pace that would have shamed a few horses Andover had seen in the past.

Finally they moved into an area that forced Andover to stop. The opening they moved through was as tall as any of the others – tall enough to easily accommodate even the King in Iron – but when they passed through it opened into a cavernous area. The space was vast indeed, but like everything else was carved meticulously and filled with hard angles. They were inside the mountain. They had to be. It was the only possible explanation that made sense to Andover. Light filled the area from dozens of stanchions lit with burning torches. He could not count the sheer number of lights that filled the area but it seemed nearly as many as there were stars in the heavens.

“This is Prydiria. This is my kingdom, Andover Lashk of the Iron Hands. And as long as you make yourself known to Truska-Pren, you are welcome here.”

Andover nodded his head and swallowed. “You are most gracious, Majesty.”

Tarag Paedori let out a sound that could have been a snort of laughter and nodded. “Come. It is time for you to meet Kallir Lundt.”

Andover followed him, his heart beating too hard in his chest. The sense of wonder he felt as he stared into the amazing structure was offset by a growing sense of dread. He was to meet another god and once again time he wondered if he would be found wanting.

Down another hallway that could have led almost anywhere and then the king opened a door, speaking softly before entering. A moment after that, he gestured for Andover to follow.

The room had little by way of decorations, save for a bed and a long table. At the table a man sat drawing meticulous maps, carefully filling in as many details as the paper would allow. Andover knew what maps were, of course, but couldn’t have guessed if one were accurate.

The man rose and looked toward Andover.

Andover looked back, and forgot to breathe.

Kallir Lundt was a tall man, and thin in an athletic way. His muscles were solid and his limbs were long. He wore loose-fitting pants and a vest, and military boots that would have looked at home on any soldier from the Empire.

His face was hewn from black iron. That was the only way to put it. There was a line of scar tissue around that mask, but that it was fused with his flesh was obvious. The metal was angular, but it made human enough features, a broad mouth that pulled down in a slight scowl, an equally broad nose, and two eyes that lay sunken beneath a heavy metallic brow. If it had been a mask it would have been unsettling enough, but as with Andover’s hands, the metal moved. The mouth shifted and worked, and somewhere within that living mask, parts worked to make the mouth form words. Andover felt as fascinated as a child watching a street magician and a puppet show combined.

The iron face said, “You are Andover Lashk. We’ve been expecting you.” The voice rang as if the man were speaking through a small metal tunnel. Perhaps he was to some degree.

“Kallir Lundt?”

“I am.” He could not really see the eyes within that mask, not with the lighting the way it was, but he could feel the gaze that studied him.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know that I am among friends.” Lundt stepped closer. “In a few hours I will ride with Tarag. We will head for the Temmis Pass and discuss the possibilities of war with the Emperor and his people. I go along to do my part to keep things civil.”

Andover nodded his head. “I am here to meet–”

“I know.” The man nodded his metal covered face. “I wish you well with that.” He regarded Andover for a long moment while Andover watched the way his features moved, amazed as he ever had been by the miracle of his own hands. It did not seem possible that metal could be so supple, could move so well. “Truska-Pren is a war god, Andover Lashk. His followers are soldiers first. Remember that when you meet. Discipline must overcome fear.”

Andover nodded his head, trying to find the right words to convey his doubts. He was scared. He had been frightened when he met with Durhallem, but this was different. Durhallem seemed less imposing, his king seemed almost kinder than Tarag Paedori, and to say that about Tuskandru was something Andover had never expected.

“It is time, Andover Lashk.” The King in Iron moved forward and looked to Kallir Lundt. “It is time, Kallir. Gather your armor and your weapons.”

“It has been a pleasure meeting another blessed by the Daxar Taalor, Andover of the Iron Hands.” Kallir’s voice still echoed, but there was a warmth to his tone.

Andover smiled and held out one hand. “I wish we had longer.”

“Soon enough if the gods permit. First we both have tasks to attend to.” He paused only for a moment before turning toward a chest that rested half beneath the table where he worked on his maps. “May the gods keep you safe and welcome you, Andover.”

“And you, Kallir Lundt.”

Tarag Paedori moved on and Andover followed, swallowing his fear as best he could.

“Where will I meet Truska-Pren?”

Tarag looked over his shoulder as he walked down the same hallway, heading at a solid pace. “You will meet him in his heart. We are not far now.”

That was not hard to believe. The vast majority of what he had already seen seemed to have been carved within the mountain itself, so how far could away the heart of the mountain be?

They walked until Andover felt winded, and he had not felt truly out of breath since he had entered the Taalor Valley. Part of it was the heat and the odd scent in the air. He knew both well enough. The heat was certainly similar to that of Burk’s furnaces when the time came to smelt metal. The scent was most assuredly one he knew: iron and steel gave off a sharp, bitter scent when they were burning.

An immense door blocked the end of the hallway. Tarag Paedori opened that door with one sweep of his arm and the heat from the other side washed outward like a physical blow. How hot did metal have to be to melt? Hot enough to suck the moisture from the air and to crisp hairs on the scalp. The stench of molten iron was potent, but the heat was worse. Beyond that door was a furnace, a raging cauldron of white hot metal and burning stone.

Andover hesitated only for a moment and then stepped forward.

He had been an apprentice smith. The colors and scents were familiar enough and in his heart he felt like he was coming home.

Chapter Fifteen

Tyrne was no longer a calm place. It had been called calm on many occasions, and a few visitors had referred to it as a lazy town when the summer heat came along. The main industry in the city had been the care and maintenance of the palace for over a decade. There had always been a certain amount of that, of course. The Summer Palace was occupied year round, even when the Imperial Family was not in attendance, but after Pathra Krous decided to stay in the palace fulltime, the city grew more focused on tending to his needs.

Truly the change in the activity was a sure a sign to the people of Tyrne as any other that the Emperor was dead. The decree had gone out that Nachia Krous would be moving everything to the traditional Grand Palace in Old Canhoon, and while the start of the exodus had been slow, it was now a driving force in its own right.

The armies of Fellein had been on the move, many of the regiments called to head for Tyrne, and thousands upon thousands of soldiers had come to the city. And now those very same soldiers were leaving, heading back the way they had come, toward Canhoon and other cities. And as they left they seemed to suck the very life from Tyrne in the process.

But if that were the case, the process was as slow and ponderous as the army itself. The soldiers gathered their belongings and formed up, and the supply lines that fed and cared for the soldiers moved too and took legions of troops with them.

At first there was endless activity and then the frenetic motion stopped, and the people of Tyrne looked around in wonder, surprised by the sudden silence where before there had been ceaseless commotion.

And then, in fits and starts, the people of Tyrne started moving. There was no choice for most of them. In one way or another they were dependent on the army or on the Imperial Family. Where those forces went they were sure to follow.

Not everyone, of course. Nowhere near everyone left.

In the palace itself four members of the Krous family continued to occupy rooms. Brolley was packed, but he chose to wait for his sister’s return before leaving He did not go with her to the parley, much as he wanted to, but he would be here for her when she returned. Whether or not he was accurate in his assessment, he had come to the conclusion that his sister needed him nearby, if only to make certain someone told her when she was being an idiot. Oh, to be sure Desh Krohan was doing that already, much as he had for Pathra, but he was still treading carefully, because even the First Advisor had to be careful when dealing with a new Empress. Brolley had the advantage of not worrying about a new Empress so much as he was dealing with an older sister. Blood had certain advantages.

Danieca Krous likely did not agree. She was still in a rage with how the ascension had been handled. She was smart enough not to say anything in front of Nachia, but not quite wise enough to remember that Brolley was close to his sister. She had already said half a dozen things in his presence that could have been called treasonous.

Brolley was a Krous. He kept his mouth shut and listened. One thing to offend an occasional foreign dignitary – though to be fair he had learned his lesson along those lines – and another to ignore the ammunition one was given when it came to blood.

Towdra Krous remained in the city, but stayed at his own estate. The man had certain excesses he was fond of that were not the sort of thing even royalty should mention in public without fear of retribution. He knew that Nachia and the wizard wanted the city emptied and he would eventually listen, but first there were appetites to sate.

Hiding bodies had always been easier in Tyrne than it had been in Canhoon.

Laister Krous had no intention of going anywhere. He sat in his personal office within the palace and balanced the numbers on his estates as if there were nothing in the world to worry himself about.

Losla Foster was there to do his worrying for him.

“I’m thinking about marrying that little girl from Roathes, Losla.”

“The Queen Lanaie?”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s a queen, true enough, but she is currently a queen with no country.”

Laister smiled. “I know this. I also know that she is alone in the world and in need of comfort. And that her title brings with it a certain level of legitimacy.”

Losla looked at his employer for a moment and then poured a very small amount of the potent pabba fruit elixir that came from the far east. At one point it had apparently been a wine, but now it was thick and sweet and strong enough that a full glass of the stuff would have knocked a horse into a drunken stupor. He’d grown very fond of the elixir.

“You already have legitimacy. You’re in line for the throne should something horrible happen to the Empress.”

Laister looked snorted. “Yes, I know that. But I would like to have a proper woman lined up to bear my children.”

“Well, she certainly looks ripe enough to bear children.” He sipped at the sweet drink and smacked his lips. “Still, you should move quickly. I understand she and Brolley have been making eyes at each other.”

“Brolley,” Laister snorted. “May the gods spare me from his imbecilic behavior.”

“Apparently young Lanaie finds him quite handsome.”

“Looks fade.” True enough. In his time Laister had been the desire of most the women he knew. “Power and money stay. I have more of both and the girl knows it. If I approach her, she’ll very likely say yes.”

“What did you wish me to do about it, Laister?”

“I want you to look into who, exactly, controls Louron. I think it might be time to see about changing the map a bit.”

Losla set down his glass. “Are you quite certain?”

Laister looked at him without speaking. It was best to remind the man who he worked for from time to time.

Losla cleared his throat. “I only ask because we are already close to a war with the Sa’ba Taalor.”

“I don’t care in the least about that. What better time to start making the proper adjustments?”

“Well, we could hardly use the regular soldiers in this case.”

In the past there had been a few border skirmishes that had worked to Laister’s benefit. Chief among them had been the situations with the Guntha. As the people in question no longer existed, that left a need for different catalysts to start his controlled fires.

“Yes, well, I have a few connections in Morwhen.”

Losla nodded. “I’ll make inquiries. Shall I be particularly discrete?”

“Oh, yes. I should rather not ruffle any feathers just yet.”

Neither of them spoke of the assassins. They did not need to. If all went according to their plans the parley would end with the Empress suffering from a wasting illness. And if things went astray, they would have their contingencies to consider.

In any event, Laister remained certain that he would be ascending to the throne within a reasonable amount of time.

One merely had to be patient, and that had always been one of his strong points.