The Silent Army (16 page)

All of the kings agreed. It was a good thing.

Ganem left that night, riding her mount, Sidian. Unlike most of the mounts, Sidian carried only a few weapons. For Ganem they were enough.

Not but a day’s journey to the west, Andover Lashk sat with his companions and ate.

“You have changed, Drask.”

“I have changed?” Drask looked his way and shook his head. “You are a foot taller. You have scars over your body that tell tales of endless battles. You walk differently. You speak differently, but you say it is I who have changed.”

Andover nodded. “You are the same in your mind, I think. But there is a difference to you. To Tega as well.” He looked toward Tega, who was staring into the fire.

Drask nodded.

“Tell me what happened to you.”

Drask sat silently for a while and then nodded again. “When I was sent away from you, it was because the gods needed me to break the very rules on which I was raised. They wanted me to visit the Mounds.”

Andover pursed his lips in agreement, recalling the horrifying sounds that sometimes came from the frozen ruins.

Drask inclined his head toward Tega and then Nolan. “They were sent with others to see if the secret to defeating the Sa’ba Taalor might wait in the Mounds. I was sent to follow them and stop them.”

He looked at the fire for a moment and grew silent as he considered the past. Andover wondered for a moment if he would say more, but Drask was simply marshaling his thoughts.

“We found ways into the Mounds and found something. I do not know what even now, but I have suspicions.”

Drask picked at his food for a moment, then took a bite and chewed and swallowed before he spoke further. The look of concentration told Andover that the man was trying to find the right words.

“When I was much younger, and curious, and angry, I killed a man who offended me. He claimed I was weak because I spared another man his life. I did not care of his opinions until he provoked me. Then I killed him to make sure he understood I was not always merciful.

“Because I was curious, I cut him open and cleaned out his innards then studied his insides.”

A year earlier Andover would have been terrified by the image Drask produced. Tega turned her head and look at Drask with interest, suddenly curious about his words.

“Have you ever looked inside a human body?” Drask asked.

“Not on purpose.”

Drask laughed at that, a deep, hard laugh, and slapped Andover on the shoulder in a companionable way. In the past that slap would have sent him sprawling.

“There are… tubes in the body. Blood flows through them. They are everywhere, and if you have ever cut off a hand or seen one cut off–” and here he showed his silver hand, which had also changed a great deal “–you can see the blood that flows from them.”

Tega said, “Arteries and veins. That is what we call them. Blood moves everywhere through them. Even in your eyes and toes.”

“Yes. What Tega says. Arteries. We found them in the ground beneath the Mounds. They were filled with light that flowed like blood. And far below the ground we found a great pool of that blood that moved through all of the Mounds.”

Drask stared into the fire again. “Nolan attacked me. I had killed some of theirs. The Daxar Taalor had told me what I must do. I did it.” Andover nodded. One did not debate with gods.

“And then the ground we stood on, above the great pool, broke and we fell into it.”

There was silence then as Drask looked at his silver hand and the way the metal seemed to have grown into him and continued to move up his arm.

“What was it?”

Drask shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I do not know. The life of the gods? The blood of the gods? Whatever it is, it is now inside the three of us. It filled us as water fills a jug. As blood fills a body. It became a part of us.”

Tega leaned forward. “It is power. We have bathed in it and absorbed it. We should have died, but we did not. We should have drowned or burned or both, but instead it fills us.”

Drask nodded. “Yes. That is a good way to say it.”

“What kind of power?” Andover asked.

“I brought the Blasted Lands back to life. I brought Brackka back from ashes.”

“Could you bring Delil back to life?”

“Yes. I think I could.”

“But you didn’t.”

Drask looked at him again studying his face, examining his eyes as if they held other secrets that even Andover did not see. “You did not ask me. You did not ask Tega or Nolan. You asked your gods. They have given you a chance.”

“They are your gods, too.”

Drask stared for a long time into the flames. “I am not sure that is true any longer. There is much I have to consider.”

“Drask, how can you turn away from the gods?”

Drask did not answer.

How could he turn away from the gods?

Drask considered that question carefully. He examined it as if it were a gem with thousands of facets, looking for the possible flaws on every plane he could study.

He had not turned away, of course. He was looking for answers that, so far, the Daxar Taalor had not provided.

They had but to speak up, of course. He had not answered their queries but he heard the gods. He had always heard the gods, for as long as he could remember, and they had always known his heart. They had not chosen to answer the questions within him; even when he’d spoken them aloud he had received no answers.

His entire world was filled with their lessons, their advice and their truths. Great Korwa, the greatest city ever, had been destroyed by the very Empire he now entered. The people burned.

The gods painted the Sa’ba Taalor in colors of ash to remind them that their heritage was ashes and ruin. Dead and gone and ruined, destroyed by the Fellein because they wanted to take Korwa as their own and in their jealousy they destroyed what they could not have.

They sought the land. They sought the Empress. They sought to subjugate all that was, all that could be.

That was the story he’d been raised with.

Drask could have told Merros Dulver all of that, but it was not his place. The gods had other ideas.

For a thousand years the Sa’ba Taalor had fought among themselves, honing their skills until even the weakest of them was a match for the strongest of the enemies they might someday face.

He looked at Andover Lashk and contemplated that fact. The Fellein boy was gone, replaced by a Sa’ba Taalor man. The scars were real. The gods had found him people to fight and if he had failed in those combats he would be gone. There were no special favors among the gods. He knew that in his heart.

And yet, Andover Lashk wondered how he could turn his back on the gods.

There were no easy answers. Drask Silver Hand found himself capable of miracles, which had always been the purview of the Daxar Taalor. Of the gods.

What need of gods when you could answer your own prayers?

Had anyone asked Callan how he managed to steer his new ship all the way to Louron, he would have been unable to say.

The Brellar ship drove into the shallows around the swampy area and he looked at the ground for a long time, barely believing he could be that lucky. The air was hot and sticky, but compared to the air along the ocean, it smelled sweet.

For whatever reason, the worst of the smoke did not come here. The volcanic ash did not taint the waters as completely. There were fish in the waters here. He had not seen fish in the region since the Guntha Islands were buried under fire and stone.

Louron had an endless supply of rumors around it. Callan did not care. He dropped anchor and scurried his way down to the beach, grinning like a fool for the first time in days.

When he looked around, several of the Louron were around him. They did not seem afraid or welcoming, merely curious. Still, they smiled in the way of their people.

Callan smiled back and spoke slowly. “Hello.” Their language was a complex one and he spoke it with all the skill of a three year-old.

A young girl, perhaps all of four, waved and smiled at him, returning the welcome. Her father, or perhaps her grandfather, was there with her and he nodded.

The man said, “You do not look like a Brellar, but you have their ship.”

“Well, mine was sunk you see.”

He nodded and moved closer to the little girl. “You do not look well fed.”

“The grays, they took the food and water with them.” His tears started and he was barely aware. “They killed all the Brellar and left me with their bodies, you see. Out there.”

The man nodded again. “They are not good people.”

Callan nodded.

“Come. We can at least give you food and fresh water.”

Nicer words had never been spoken. Callan managed to drink and eat more than he should have and felt sick for it. His hosts gave him a place to rest and he fell into a deep sleep.

It was daylight when he woke again.

Three Inquisitors stood over his bed to greet him.

They had many, many questions for the captain.

Nachia greeted the arrival of her brother and his love interest with a certain amount of amusement. Princess Lanaie… Technically Queen Lanaie, but she had not been formally crowned as yet; Nachia made a mental note to fix that situation soon. It would help morale. But first, there was a war to consider. She was a striking young woman and Brolley was enchanted, but she had doubts that it was anything beyond infatuation.

Lanaie had all the charms a man could want, to be sure, but she was as quiet as a mouse and that had never much appealed to Brolley. He liked to argue. He was profoundly good at it. The skill had almost gotten him killed when he ran across the Sa’ba Taalor, and had nearly started the war between their peoples a good month early. Drask Silver Hand was the man he had challenged. A behemoth of a man who, fortunately, knew enough of diplomacy to let her brother survive.

Brolley had changed for the better since then. He still liked a good debate, but he trained every day, the better to back up his words with steel if the need arose. He was hardly an adept – Nachia could still take him in most situations – but he was getting better. In short, he was growing up.

Lanaie was a different story. She was still surprisingly quiet, but she had been courted by several men and was still being courted. Her uncle, Laister, now deceased, had been actively pursuing the woman who was decades younger than him in an effort to claim her title as his own. He’d failed.

The catch was simple: Lanaie had the title, but she had nothing else. The country she now ruled was burned and buried under ash. It might come back from that, but not for years. All she could claim was a wasteland.

Still, she was pursued, and at the present time Brolley was most earnestly courting her.

Nachia wasn’t quite certain how she felt about the situation. On the other hand Lanaie was nice enough.

It wasn’t her concern. There were other matters to look into.

“I know you’re busy, Nachia, but I haven’t seen you in days and I wanted to make certain all was well with you.”

Nachia smiled and stepped closer, opening her arms to hug her younger brother. They had often been at odds, but had always been good friends. That was the way with family. Well, some family. The rest of her blood relations were rather debatable.

“It’s busy. We’re at war. Still, I’m always delighted to see you.”

Lanaie bowed formally and Nachia returned the gesture. They were not nearly as close and wouldn’t be until she was absolutely certain what the woman’s intentions were.

Before she could do more, another messenger arrived with a sealed document. She smiled her thanks to the boy and broke the seal.

The words were direct and she studied them for a long moment, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” Brolley stepped closer and she moved back. The message wasn’t for him. She trusted her brother, but she didn’t want him fretting. There was enough going on that he already knew and she wanted no more of it in his life.

“Not for you, Brolley.” She shook her head. “Not this one. This is for me alone.”

For a moment the old anger was there. The nearly physical need to show how he could do whatever she could do. He pushed it aside and nodded his head, smiling instead.

“Is this something you need to attend to now?”

“I’m afraid so.” She sighed. “Join me for dinner tonight?”

Brolley smiled. “Yes, of course.”

A moment later he and Lanaie were gone from the chambers and she was alone with her two mountainous bodyguards. Merros liked to pick men who looked as if they were bred to pull wagons, but they were, as she had already seen, very skilled at their duties.

That didn’t bother her. She understood the necessity; though she preferred to handle as much as she could herself, she could not be left alone, not when assassins had already proven they could enter the castle.

No. The problem was with the Temple of Etrilla, where several hundred people were now locked inside and the remaining priests were turning people away from the locked doors.

Those who had entered were beyond sick now. They were dying or dead.

The Temple of Etrilla was one of the larger structures in Old Canhoon. It was nowhere near as grandiose as the palace, of course, but it was built of heavy marble walls and gilded besides. The structure was nearly as old as the palace, and housed as many as a thousand people at a time. In the olden days it might have held more, but there had been a collapse some hundred years back and somehow along the way the land had been used to build other structures. Just as well. Under most circumstances you could not find a thousand individuals entering the structure at one time, but now was a time of need and that changed the way people looked at churches. As Vendahl, the god of wealth and prosperity, was quoted to have said to his followers when he still walked the lands, “When people no longer trust their mortal leaders, they look to the gods. When there is war or disaster, expect the coffers to fill faster than in times of peace and plenty.”

Wendtle Hearin was the head of the temple. He was newly appointed, as his predecessor had succumbed to old age and passed in the chaos of the city rising into the air. Still, he was comfortable enough with his decisions. The coffers were full enough for now, and he’d stocked up water and food for the faithful and was offering it out when it was needed. Those who served with him were faithful and diligent. The one exception had been properly punished. Following the rituals of Etrilla as told by Humble Ohlmer, the seventh prophet, the man was stripped of his position and cast from the temple after being marked with a brand to the forehead. Was it distasteful? Yes. Did it hurt him to burn a man’s face? Yes. Was it necessary in a city the size of Canhoon to punish a sinner? Yes.