The Silent Army (39 page)

Then she pointed to Desh. “Go get ready for combat.”

Desh looked as if his pants had suddenly fallen away and left him with his privates flapping in the cold wind.

“Beg pardon?”

“You are my First Advisor. You are my champion. Prepare yourself for battle against Andover Lashk.”

“I don’t see how you expect me to–”

“Go! Prepare yourself! You will be fighting for your life and the life of Fellein!”

Desh looked at her for a long time, not speaking, his eyes studying her face. Finally he nodded.

When he’d left the room she sank back on her throne and shook her head. “I’ve lost my mind.”

Merros crossed his arms, a small smile playing on his face. “No. I think it’s brilliant.”

Tega shook her head, “What have you done? One way or the other you’ve condemned one of those men to death.”

“There’s no choice in this, Tega.” The Empress suppressed a desire to argue. Merros could see her working to maintain her calm. “Andover is an unknown quantity. He could very well be as dangerous as Drask. We do not know. So I chose someone that could hold his own against any soldier. I chose someone who has power and skill and a long history of thinking his way out of problems.”

Tega shook her head. “This is madness.”

Drask looked her way. “No. This is war.”

Tega bristled and walked closer to the man. He was almost twice her size and she did not seem to care. “And have you changed sides, Drask Silver Hand?” She looked up at him and he looked down, their eyes locked in a staring contest.

“I remain uncertain as to where I stand on this conflict.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “Because I have not made up my mind.”

“No, I mean why now, after an entire lifetime of devotion, do you question your gods?” Tega jabbed her fingers at his stomach like a dagger. He did not seem to notice. “Your entire life you’ve answered without question. You followed the orders of your gods until you reached the Mounds. So why change now?”

Drask nodded his head. “I see. You want to understand my reasoning. That is simple. For the first time in my life I am aware that my gods have lied to me.”

“Shouldn’t you be punished for thinking that way?”

Drask nodded his head. “Yes.”

“But they have not punished you. So again I ask, why?”

Drask crossed his arms and refused to answer. Or, perhaps, he was considering the best way to answer. His facial expression was not querulous so much as it was baffled.

The dogs did their work. Many of the mounts were wounded, and badly. They bled freely from gashes along their sides and bellies and across their flanks.

The mounts did their work, too. The dogs were dead. Tuskandru’s body warred with itself. On the one side he was tired and bloodied. On the other he was exhilarated and happy. He lived for this and this alone. He warred. He served his god. He had offered up a hundred sacrifices to Durhallem today and that did not include the stone monsters that came back from the dead and fought again.

The obsidian stick hissed and melted and burned with the fires of Durhallem as it sealed his torn flesh. He would have howled out his pain, but he was a king and had to set an example. The spear had cut him from neck to groin and now that ruptured flesh pulled itself back together and seared itself shut.

Tusk closed his eyes and smelled his own flesh burning. The scent mingled with the blood, the mud, the death all around him. It was a heady aroma.

When he opened his eyes the fighting had slowed. And then, surprisingly, it stopped.

The pain had been too much to let him listen but he heard now. There would be a fight between champions. One battle to choose who would win.

Tusk shook off the last of the pain and moved toward Tarag Paedori. The King in Iron was currently the King in Torn Pants. Most of the rest of his clothes were gone, discarded in the water or shredded by combat.

As he walked he grew angrier.

“Who is this champion?”

He nearly barked the words at Tarag, who looked at him and shook his head. “Andover Iron Hands.”

Tusk’s rage at that moment was nearly white hot. He clenched his fists until knuckles popped and tendons pulled.

“Say again?”

“It will be the same words. Andover Iron Hands is the chosen of the Daxar Taalor for this combat.”

“And what are the terms?”

“You already know this, Tuskandru.” Tarag Paedori’s words were surprisingly gentle. “If Andover Iron Hands wins, then we win. If he loses then we go back to the Seven Forges.”

“You and I know this cannot be. Six of the seven have moved.”

The King in Iron nodded and lowered his head. “Yes, and regardless the seventh moves soon. We do not go back to the Taalor Valley. We go to where the Forges now rest. We are victorious in that, but we might not keep this city.”

Tusk’s mouths opened and closed.

Tarag leaned in closer and put hands on both of Tusk’s shoulders. It was a calming gesture and because it came from his friend and a fellow king, Tusk allowed it. “The Daxar Taalor have spoken, Tusk. We have no further claim in this.”

“Aye.” His voice was hoarse. “Then I will retreat with my people.”

“What?”

“Why stay here?” Tusk frowned. “We have either already won or already lost. In any event, there is nothing for us to do here. I will retreat with my people and we will rest.”

“What if the Fellein do not listen? What if their champion loses and they decide to fight on?”

“Tarag, King Swech and her assassins are already in place. You know this and so do I. Regardless of betrayal, the Empress will fall today. One way or another.” Tusk sighed. “I will fight for my gods. I will serve my gods. If they tell me right now to wait here, I will wait. But otherwise, the fighting is done and I am tired. I would rest before being called back to war.”

“Where will you go?”

“Only to the wall for now. I am tired, not foolish. Call if you need me.”

Without another word to his fellow king, Tusk walked away. Moments later the horns of Tuskandru’s people called a note that none had ever heard from them before. Moments after that the Obsidian Army retreated. Those that still could. Those that were still alive.

Andover Iron Hands paced the courtyard that had been designated for the final battle. The ground was level, the dirt soft but not so soft that one could sink into it.

The wall at the edge of the courtyard carried several different sorts of weapons, but Andover did not bother looking. He carried his weapon of choice: the axe created by the gods themselves to help him win this combat.

He had not expected Desh Krohan as his enemy. The thought made him want to piss himself.

Desh Krohan was known for his powers of sorcery. He had killed men from half way around the world with a word. He had helped raise the Silent Army, which even now was guarding the access points to the courtyard. The Sa’ba Taalor stood on one side of the area, the Fellein on the other and, in the middle, in the courtyard, Andover looked at both sides.

Desh Krohan had not yet shown himself. Still there was plenty to see. The Sisters stood on the side of the Fellein, and next to them Tega watched on. General Merros Dulver stood there as well, next to the Empress, who stared hard at Andover and made him feel uncomfortable, if only a little. She was the enemy here, today. She and her Empire had crushed down the Sa’ba Taalor for far too long. They were weak, and they were soft and they were fatted like calves and ready to be sacrificed to the gods.

And yet….

Brolley Krous, who had almost started this war on his own, looked on from the other side of his sister, his face unreadable. Next to him Queen Lanaie stood, her arm wrapped around Brolley’s bicep.

On the other side Andover could see Drask Silver Hand standing near Tarag Paedori and several others he did not recognize. Drask did not stand still. He talked with the King in Iron and then moved on.

He knew there were more of them within the city. He could not see them, but they were there.

The Fellein parted and the striking shape of Desh Krohan came forward, dressed in his robes and nearly gliding across the ground. Was he as massive as Tarag Paedori? No, still he struck an impressive figure. His hood was up and his face lost in shadows and he seemed, at all times, to be staring directly at Andover, even when he was obviously looking elsewhere.

Tega stared at him, and Andover felt his stomach freezing over again. He had loved her once, or thought he did. And now she was looking his way and he couldn’t quite make our what was going through her head. Was she angry with him for his choice to be the champion of the Daxar Taalor? Or was that pity, she with the knowledge of what her master could do and how very easily he would kill Andover?

Back in Tyrne there had been a man to announce the combats. Andover remembered him. No such man was here.

Desh Krohan entered the courtyard. One second it seemed he was near the Empress and the next he was only paces from Andover.

Tarag Paedori moved onto the field. He carried no weapons and still he intimidated.

“We all know why we are here.” It was not a question, still Andover and Desh alike nodded their heads.

“Step back and choose your weapons.”

Both stepped back and Andover considered the javelins and spears. Finally he grabbed one of the spears and hefted it.

Desh Krohan took a spear as well, which rather surprised Andover.

Tarag Paedori stood at the edge of the wall and bellowed, “Begin!”

Andover sighted and threw his spear. Desh Krohan did the same. Andover’s spear cut the air and struck the sorcerer in the chest, falling to the ground.

The wizard’s spear tore through Andover’s shoulder, easily slicing meat.

Andover moved in, ignoring his bloodied arm and gripping his axe. The sorcerer moved, not foolish enough to wait for an attack. He stepped to the side and Andover swept the axe toward his chest.

The blade hit the wizard’s robes and cut through them where the spear had failed.

Desh Krohan let out a yell and backed away, looking at the axe. Andover did not wait. He came in hard and fast and used his body mass to knock the man sideways. Before Desh could recover, the axe was whistling down at his head.

Desh reached out with his hand and caught the edge of the blade. The obsidian blade sliced into meat and through bone, taking Desh Krohan’s fingers.

The wizard fell back, bleeding freely from his wounds. Tega let out a yelp of dismay and Desh Krohan stepped back again and this time he nodded.

The obsidian axe exploded. Had Andover not had the weapon behind him it would have surely killed him, but instead it only tore muscles away from his right leg.

The pain hammered at Andover. Chunks of the obsidian blade now shivered in the muscles of his thigh and brought about exquisite agonies.

Desh Krohan held his wounded hand and stared at Andover. Andover in turn pulled the largest pieces of the axe from his leg. Had he had hands of flesh he would surely have lost the one holding his weapon. Even now his fingers screamed and his palm ached and his wrist felt like it was broken. It was not. He tested that theory before he moved forward.

The sorcerer waited for him and Andover reached out, planning to throw the man to the ground.

Instead it was he who was thrown. Whatever the man did, it knocked Andover back a dozen feet and left his body twitching.

He looked at the sorcerer with an effort. Desh Krohan stood in the same spot and slowly raised his good hand, letting the other bleed. The flow of blood was weakened, but not gone. Andover didn’t think it was blood loss alone. The man was healing himself somehow.

Iron fingers clutched at the dirt and he made a fist.

As Andover rose he sighted and as he stood he aimed. A moment later he was hopping toward the sorcerer and the man was preparing. He had cost Desh Krohan fingers; he suspected he would not be long for this world if he did not win quickly.

The dirt hit the sorcerer. It slipped under the cowl covering his features. Desh Krohan stepped back and shook his head, momentarily blinded with any luck, and Andover charged. His leg was weak but holding him. His fist went into the cowl and struck flesh and bone.

At the exact same moment, the wizard slapped him in the chest. Andover flew backward, his eyes blinded, his ears ringing with a deafening peal, and he did his best to roll as he smashed into the ground and bounced all the way to the distant wall.

His muscles did not want to respond, but he still managed to reach his hands and knees.

Andover blinked furiously as a great blue veil of afterimage covered his vision. There was sight, but it was blurred.

He managed to stand, but only with a great deal of effort.

“Easy, Iron Hands. Easy. You’ve won.”

Andover recognized the voice of Tarag Paedori and slumped a bit.

He was doing his best, but the pain was overwhelming.

His eyes finally focused enough to let him see Desh Krohan lying on the ground. The man was breathing, but he was not moving much beyond his chest.

Tega and the Sisters moved to him, surrounding him.

“Get me metal! Iron Hands needs aid.”

“Is this a victory? Or is this a draw?” Tarag cried. “Neither of our champions can fight any longer.” He looked toward Nachia Krous as she called from her side of the courtyard.

Andover spat blood that tasted wrong in his mouth. He worked hard to form the words as he forced himself to stand. “I am not dead and I can stand.” He was shaking as he reached for another spear. “If needs be, I can still kill your sorcerer. Do you want that, Empress Krous?”

To make his point clear he walked toward the downed sorcerer. All around him the Fellein looked on, genuinely horrified. The Sa’ba Taalor remained calm, waiting to see the outcome of Andover’s words.

His skin was black in places. He was burned and very badly, he knew that. It was not the fire of the Forges. That would have caused him no injury. It was the fire of the storms. The light striking his chest had been lightning. The roar had been thunder. He looked at the iron hand that held his spear. It was smoking. The metal was scorched but seemed unharmed.