The Blasted Lands (40 page)

Tega had never climbed a rope in her life. She grabbed the cord and slipped it loosely around her waist as she had seen Vonders do. Her arms moved through the cord and she pulled herself up and off the ground. A moment later her legs found the side of the Mound’s wall and she balanced herself. One arm pulled and then the other. She slid upward. Her left leg pushed and she stepped up the side of the Mound. Her right foot followed. Her arms shifted and pulled and her body already ached, but she climbed, one step at a time, and forced herself upward, looking at the men above her and determined not to let them think her foolish or weak.

Her arms shook. Her legs shook. The effort was immense. She made herself breathe, and pulled and stepped and pulled and stepped, and when her right foot slipped she shifted her weight quickly to compensate and caught herself before she could spin as Nolan had before.

Above her Nolan’s eyes studied her and he nodded silent encouragement. Vonders did not look at her. His teeth worried at his lower lip as he carefully set about tying the other rope in place. Tolpen watched her, but his expression was impossible to read.

He did not matter. There was only the climbing. Until she reached the lip of the opening and Nolan’s hand was gripping her wrist and her elbow as he steadied her and she swung one leg over the side of the entrance and straddled the cold stone.

The wall they rested on was thick, at least as thick as her waist, and unyielding.

She looked out toward the horizon as her pulse calmed down and her breathing returned to normal. Her body shook not only with exertion but also with a hint of fear. She had never climbed so high in her life and the notion of falling had never quite seemed so real.

Out in the distance there were shapes moving, and yes, they looked like troops on the march. She had certainly seen enough soldiers marching in her time at the palace.

It was more than a few hundred if she had to guess, but from this range it was hard to say. They were just small shapes. For all she could truly see there might well have been a dust storm running along the side of the distant cliffs.

No. Dust storms seldom stayed consistent in their height.

“Do you see them?” Vonders looked up from his business and yanked hard on the rope he’d been tying in place. The rope stayed where it was and so did he. That was as good as sign as she could expect.

“Oh, yes. I see them. Now we have even more reason to go about this. If those are the soldiers of the Sa’ba Taalor it is possible that war comes even sooner than we feared.”

“Are we not already at war?” Nolan frowned and continued to look at the distant column.

His father, of course, had already died. She’d let herself forget that fact.

“We are engaged. I do not know if they call this a skirmish or a war yet, but I think wars are bigger.”

She nodded to Vonders. “Are you ready?”

“No. But I’m going anyway.” Without another word he started down the inside of the cavernous darkness. They had no light, no torches, nothing of the sort.

“Wait. We need light.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Tolpen spoke softly and pointed down into the depths of the Mound. Tega looked and frowned.

It was faint, but there was something down there. She could see Vonders though he was now well below the light from the entrance. And below him, below the level of the ground even, she could see luminescence. It was a cold light, and it set off a winter storm within her heart and her stomach alike.

Vonders kept sliding down the rope, carefully descending. Below the ground now, and deeper still. From time to time he looked up, but mostly he panted and made his slow drop into the place where the gray-skinned Sa’ba Taalor were forbidden to journey.

***

Drask watched them scale the side of the tower and then slip inside. It took them a very long time to manage it.

When they were gone he finally let himself move, sliding one leg and then the other from where they had been resting and stretching the muscles that had spent far too long in the same position. His practice of moving and keeping his circulation steady had been halted when there was a chance that they would notice him. Patience was one of the hardest things to learn for him. It had always gone against his nature. He was born and raised to fight and to kill and those were situations that required speed and skill and strength of body and mind.

Patience required only patience.

It was not his strongest characteristic.

When they had finally dropped completely from sight Drask climbed down from where he had been waiting and stretched, rewarding his body’s patience with relief from the threatened cramps.

And then he squatted low to the ground, stared toward the Seven Forges and prayed silently to Ydramil. He had been told to come here. He had not yet been told why.

The world around him was nearly silent. There was the wind, and the sound of grit and dust skittering along the ground, and there was the slow and steady sound of his breathing.

And then there was the voice of Great Ydramil speaking to him, into his very heart.

Drask looked around at the Mounds, the forbidden territory that always waited. His feet touched the forbidden. He breathed in the air of the same.

And now he would once more break the rules he had been taught for as long as he had been alive.

He nodded and waved one hand and Brackka came closer. The mount had never been far away. His place was where Drask could call on him and he knew that well enough.

“I go after them.” Brackka panted and pushed his face closer to Drask’s. His hands moved behind Brackka’s ears and scratched and the great face pushed against him. “Wait here. I will be back as soon as I can. Or I will not, as Ydramil decides.” When he let go of his mount his hands reached out and took a small selection of weapons. His long bow stayed where it was. The shorter one he took with him along with a quiver. One sword. Four axes and an assortment of knives. Anything else would have to wait with Brackka for when he came back.

The mount let out a grunt and moved away, circling the area slowly. He would wait and he would hunt when he needed food. That was the price he paid for his past sins. He would be faithful, because that was all that was left to him.

Drask would be faithful, too. He moved to where the people from Fellein had left a gift for him, a rope that dangled down and made his climb easier than he’d expected.

From the top of the climb he could see the columns moving toward the Temmis Pass.

There were so many more than he had expected to see.

Drask waited only a moment before he started down the rope that was, once again, foolishly left to allow him an easy descent.

In his heart there was no fear. He went where his god commanded. There was nothing for him to be afraid of.

***

The sun set.

King Tuskandru, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem and King in Obsidian called to his people and began their sacred journey.

***

The sun rose in the east and as the first light of the day made itself known, Merros Dulver stepped from the tent where he’d slept, dressed in his uniform and ready to deal with whatever came his way.

Well, as ready as he could manage when he felt like he was going to his death.

A quick gesture and the troops were called to order. He would inspect them soon, but first he wanted to see if there were any signs that the Sa’ba Taalor were ready to discuss grave matters.

The Sa’ba Taalor wanted to parley, and he hoped and prayed that was a good thing, but he was not one hundred percent sure. He wanted all to go well. He wanted peace between their people.

He wanted to cut the throat of whichever bastard king had ordered Swech to kill the Emperor. He wanted to see justice for Wollis March.

He wanted not to feel shame because he enjoyed his talks with Dretta March.

He wanted a thousand different things that he suspected would not be a part of the day’s work.

Desh Krohan was already waiting near the Temmis Pass. It looked much like all of the other spots until you looked past the edge and saw the wide span of rock that gradually wound down to the floor of the Edge.

Desh stared his cloak drawn around him and his hood up. He looked scarcely human. He was an intimidating figure.

“Well. Here we are.” Merros looked at the start of the pass himself. There was no sign of anyone.

With the cowl over his face the man sounded different. Merros had to remind himself that the same man he’d had a few pleasant meals with was under that thing. “There’s something odd going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cloud cover. Look at it.”

Merros looked out toward the Blasted Lands and frowned. The mists seemed lower.

“Is it calm in there? That seems unlikely.”

“It’s calmer. The storm seems to have weakened and while it has been a few decades since I was here I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Merros looked at the misty wash of clouds and frowned. “Neither have I.”

It was at that moment that the first shape started rising from the mists where the pass lay. It only took one look for Merros to recognize the man. He struck a powerful figure, dressed as he was in his red tunic and dark armor. His thick hair ran in the same curls as before, but this time the body was hidden behind a full suit of plate mail armor. The cloak he wore was the same as before, black with scrollwork of silver and gold and a heavy cord of gold that held it in place. A sword that should have looked preposterous rested at one hip. On any other man it would have seemed a man’s sword worn by a child. Paedori was large enough to carry it with ease.

The iron crown sat on Tarag Paedori’s brow. His eyes looked coldly at each of the people before him, his face once again hidden by the veil that obscured most of his features. Still, there was no mistaking the man.

“We meet again, Merros Dulver.” He nodded. If he was at all put out by Merros not bowing to him he hid it well.

“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, Highness.”

The Iron King nodded his head slightly and gestured. “I bring with me your charge, Kallir Lundt.”

Merros blinked and felt a heat of shame bloom in his chest. He’d forgotten the man again. A charge that he should have never forgotten, now returned to him by the king who had promised to do what he could to mend the injured wretch.

Kallir Lundt stepped from up from the edge of the Temmis Pass when his name was called. He was a tall man, but small in comparison to the king. To be fair, most men were dwarfed by him and that included all but a handful of the Sa’ba Taalor Merros had met.

Kallir Lundt wore an iron mask over the ruin of his face. There was a twinge of guilt there again. The Pra-Moresh had attacked and torn the bastard’s face away. That he had lived at all was an accomplishment.

And then Kallir spoke, his mouth moving, his iron face changing as he spoke and Merros felt his knees go weak.

“It is my pleasure to see you again, Merros.” He smiled and showed teeth – some of white enamel and some that seemed cast in iron – and gums of red flesh beneath the moving iron.

“How?” It was the only word Merros could manage. Desh Krohan said nothing, but merely stood where he was and watched in silence.

“The Sa’ba Taalor are generous and their gods can be merciful. I am here as proof of that, Merros.”

He felt himself staring, but could not stop. The face
moved
. It was impossible, of course, but so were the hands of Drask and Andover Lashk. Still, this was different or it
should
have been. By the gods, how had the man endured having the metal cast upon his flesh?

“I am still Kallir Lundt, Captain Dulver.”

“I know.” He managed to look at the darkness where the eyes should have been visible. There had to be eyes, of course. It was merely hard to see them through the rest of the black iron face. Merros shook his head. “I know and I am truly grateful to see you again, my friend.”

He reached out and took Kallir’s hand in both of his, shaking it warmly. The tint of his skin was wrong. He had a sickly cast to his flesh. Still, he was alive and he moved and saw and spoke. That seemed nearly impossible.

“Are you here for the parley, Captain?”

Merros nodded. “General. I’m General Dulver these days.”

Kallir looked at him and slowly nodded.

The King in Iron stepped forward. “Is it you I am here to speak with, Merros Dulver? Or does your Emperor’s replacement come to speak as well?” He looked at Desh Krohan as he spoke.

Desh replied in the language that Merros had learned through sorcery. He spoke softly but carefully. “Nachia Krous, Rightful Empress of Fellein and Ruler of the Twelve Kingdoms is here to negotiate with you. She will join us soon, Majesty.”

Tarag Paedori nodded again and crossed his arms.

Desh stayed nearly motionless, but Merros doubted that anything remotely like calm was going on under that cowl.

The Sisters came out from the main tent and with them came Nachia Krous, dressed not in finery, but in armor of her own. Merros tried to hide his surprise. He had no idea she owned armor, let alone knew how to wear it. The armor was functional and fit her like a second skin. That was for the best when wearing the stuff. It stopped a body from getting battered and reduced the encumbrance caused.

She wore a crown, but not the one she given her at her coronation. The simple band was as unadorned as the Iron King’s though made of finer metals.

Merros Dulver called his men to attention and they listened, moving quickly to form a rank along the passage the Empress would walk. The men were in armor as well, each of them bearing a heavy sword and a light spear. They stood at attention and faced the Iron King and Kallir Lundt. The two men scarcely seemed to notice.

As Empress Nachia Krous stopped before him – looking really quite tiny in comparison but holding her head and posture as she had been trained to for her entire life – the King in Iron offered a formal bow. His eyes did not leave her face.

After just exactly enough time to avoid insult, Nachia Krous returned the bow.