Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) (5 page)

Her mount jumped high into the air, taking them over the edge of the ravine and into the open dusk. A large encampment stretched before them, hundreds of tents, all flying the proud banner of House Balaash. Housing thousands of soldiers, thousands of slaves, and dozens of beasts, it was more of a mobile city than an encampment. Makeda roughly kneed the ferox in the ribs, pointing it toward the nearest set of lanterns.

The guards rose immediately to challenge her approach. Just because she was flying the banner of Balaash did not necessarily make her an ally, especially here in Muzkaar land.

“Who goes there?”

“Makeda, Second Born of Telkesh.”

The nearest guard shifted the grip on his spear. “Makeda is dead.”

Makeda reached up and removed her helmet as the ferox padded closer to the lantern light. The sudden wind felt cool on her scalp. “Silence, imbecile. Take me to my father.”

The guards looked stunned. “She lives!” One of the soldiers gestured a direction. The ferox snapped at him, and the dagger-like teeth missed his wrist by less than an inch.

A smarter guard pointed with his spear. “Forgive us. The archdominar’s tent is over there.”

Makeda looked at the tent. That was not her father’s tent. That was Akkad’s tent. There was a sudden pain in her heart, an unfamiliar feeling. “Ha!” She kicked the ferox hard. It reached Akkad’s tent within three bounds. Makeda slid off of the saddle and walked quickly inside. These soldiers immediately bowed and moved out of her way.

Despite being a huge affair which needed several of its own pack animals to move anywhere, the inside of Akkad’s tent was crowded with warriors of rank and lineage. Makeda recognized many of her father’s advisors and officers. They all wore solemn expressions which turned to shock when they saw her. Whispers radiated outward as all eyes turned to see.

“Where is my father?” Makeda demanded, but already knowing the answer.

Heads were bowed. Feet were studied. A scribe hurried to the rear of the tent and disappeared beneath a flap into the sleeping quarters.

Abaish was the first to speak. He was of the paingiver caste, but was one of her father’s closest advisors. Only his narrow chin was visible beneath the traditional mask worn by all paingivers. “Forgive our surprise, Tyrant Makeda. We were told that your cohort had perished in battle today.”

“Not today. Perhaps next time. Now where is my father?”

Abaish shook his head with exaggerated sorrow. “I am afraid mighty Telkesh is dead.”

Makeda’s knees turned to water. She tried not to let her emotions show. Telkesh had not been archdominar for long. Vaactash had only been dead a year. This was inconceivable. “How?”

“A sudden illness,” said one of the Cataphract. “He was overcome with fever.”

It seemed impossible, a skilled mortitheurge, a house leader with mastery over energies which controlled the flesh or could withstand death, to be taken by a simple fever.

“The chirurgeons could not find a cure in time,” Abaish added apologetically. “For that failure Akkad had them executed.”

It was as if saying his name had summoned him, but it had more than likely been the scribe, because the same flap opened and Akkad entered. Tall, broad and powerful of build, his features were sharp and strong, his eyes narrow and intelligent. When the artisan caste attempted to capture skorne perfection in a work of sculpture, it usually looked something like Akkad, except of course, for the one ruined stump of an ear.

He surveyed the room expectantly. All of the assembled officers and functionaries went to one knee and dipped their heads. The act should not have surprised her. Akkad was after all, now the archdominar of House Balaash.

“Sister,” Akkad seemed as surprised to see her alive as she had been to find out their father was dead. However, he was better at concealing his emotions. The paingiver Abaish rose from his knees and placed himself at Akkad’s right hand. Akkad’s smile seemed forced. “It is good to see you. My scouts had told me that your cohort had been surrounded and wiped out on the plains. It is good to see you escaped Naram.”

“I did not escape Tyrant Naram, I killed him.” Excited whispers filled the tent , some more incredulous than others. She could not hear the words, but she could imagine them.
How did this inexperienced girl defeat the great Naram?
She would deal with them later. Yet many of the warrior caste seemed rather pleased. This news seemed to upset Akkad, but she could not dwell on that. “Please, brother, tell me of father.”

“Yes. Poor father. He fell ill during our march. Mighty Telkesh brought low by a disease only yesterday. I rushed to his side as soon as I heard. I was with him as the fever consumed him.”

“A tragedy,” Abaish agreed.

“Indeed. He was in terrible pain, robbed of his dignity. A death that was in no way fitting—”

“Wait!” Makeda could not help herself. She looked toward the council extoller. They were all watching her. All of their specialized caste ceremonially plucked out one of their mortal eyes and replaced it with a crystal that allowed them to see into the spirit realm. Her reflection was visible in the extoller’s crystal oculus. “He did not die in battle … Are you saying his essence was not preserved?”

The extoller shook his head sadly.

Makeda gasped. “No.” Telkesh had not been given the opportunity to be proven worthy.
Her father had been consigned to the Void.

Akkad folded his arms as he studied his council. Abaish leaned over and whispered in Akkad’s good ear, and it reminded her of Primus Zabalam and his warning about those that lurked in the shadows. Akkad frowned. “Why do you not bow before your archdominar, Makeda? Do you intend to disrespect me?”

Makeda was shaken from her thoughts by the accusation. “Why—”

“You are not kneeling. Why do you disrespect House Balaash by failing to honor your archdominar?”

And in that moment, Makeda knew …

Akkad had known father was dying this morning. He had abandoned her entire cohort
,
knowing that Naram would kill them.

She could see the truth in the faces of many of the warriors in the room. They had figured it out as well.

“Kneel,” Akkad commanded.

Her brother had consigned her to death.
Why?
Did he truly consider her a threat to his rule? Her mind was still fatigued from combat. Many of the warriors were staring at her expectantly. She could feel anger boiling up within her, yet the traditions of their caste were clear on this matter. It was the responsibility of the eldest to rule. Makeda forced the anger back, then went to one knee and lowered her head. “I am sorry … archdominar.”

Akkad had no idea that her sense of honor had just saved his life.

Vaactash nodded once, his expression unreadable. “This answer is acceptable.” Then the light turned away and the old warrior continued on his way down the hall. Despite an old injury that had left Vaactash with a limp, Makeda had to hurry to keep up with her shorter legs.

A moment later they reached the center of the Hall. Vaactash stopped before the largest statue. He turned back to her, the lantern again casting odd shadows on his features. “Do you know why this statue is special?”

Makeda nodded. “It is because there is not yet an essence stored within it.” The stone workers had been toiling away on this project for years, for what seemed like most of her short life. It was the finest example of the artisan caste’s craft in the entire Hall. It was a stylized rendition of her grandfather, only a much younger version, a version which she had never seen herself, and frankly had a difficult time imagining. “This is to be your exalted resting place, Grandfather.”

Vaactash turned back to the statue and stared at it for a long time. Makeda stood silently, not knowing why she had been summoned in the middle of the night. “We are still so devout in our worship …” Vaactash spoke slowly, choosing each word carefully, “for a people who have no gods.”

Makeda knew what the ancestral teachings said about the subject. “The skorne do not need gods. Through hardship we forged our own path. Only the weak need gods.”

“So it is written … Where there was only a wasteland, we built our world. We forced crops from the sand, subjugated the beasts of the plains, and taught ourselves the power that dwells within blood and pain.” The greatest living warrior remained fixated on his statue. “And what happens to those of us who die without achieving exaltation?”

Was she being tested?
“There is only the Void.” It was a place of black infinity, a boundless eternal suffering that even the most creative of paingivers could never hope to emulate. Except for the exalted few or their revered companions, all skorne were destined for eternal torment.

“Long ago, there was no exaltation … All of us were consigned to the Void. It was only through the wisdom of Voskune, Ishoul, and Kaleed that we learned the way to preserve our essence. Rather than being cast into the Void, our spirits could be kept safe in a sacred stone. Our wisdom could be saved to be shared with our descendants, and in times of dire need our honored ancestors could even return to fight for their House.”

“It is a great blessing,” Makeda agreed.

“Yet, even after the revelation, so few could be saved. Choices had to be made. Who would live on and who would be cast into the eternal death? There must be order. It was Dominar Vuxoris who would become the First Exalted. It was his teachings which would become hoksune, the code governing the conduct of all warriors. Thus it was declared that only through adherence to the tenets of hoksune could we prove our worthiness. Only the greatest of warriors can earn exaltation. For everyone else, there is the Void.”

“But, Grandfather, you have earned your place amongst our ancestors. In time my father, Telkesh, will as well. I will do the same.”

“When I heard you were neglecting your mortitheurgy in order to read the histories, I was angered — Balaash blood is not thin scholar’s blood — but I can see now that there was no need. There is a place for such knowledge amongst the warrior caste.”

Makeda felt relieved to know why she had been summoned, and even more so knowing she had passed the archdominar’s test. “My ancestors will guide me as I defeat the enemies of our house.”

“And there must always be enemies … I do not think you understand the burden of the warrior caste. You are old enough now. I will tell you a story.” Vaactash leaned against his statue, taking the weight off of his crippled leg, in a rare display of weakness. “Two generations ago, I visited the islands south of Kademe. That was the first time I have seen the sea. It is far bigger than Mirketh Lake. It seemed to stretch further than the eye could see, further even than the wastes.”

That much water sounded inconceivable, but Makeda did not dare question the archdominar’s truthfulness. She preferred her ears properly shaped and pointy, not mangled into scar tissue.

“There are mighty predators that live beneath the sea. Those that fished the deep waters spoke of a fearsome beast that would eat anything in its path, so I sought out one of the local beast handlers to learn more.”

Makeda nodded. Of course, anyone skilled in the art of mortitheurgy would be interested in a fascinating new beast. Those that could be broken could be useful weapons or tools, and those that could not provide lessons in anatomy.

“The beast handler told me much about this mighty fish. It had more teeth than a ferox, and was the ultimate killer in its realm. It could sense the spilling of blood from miles away and never hesitated to destroy the weak.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“Indeed. Yet that was not what fascinated me the most. You see, this sea beast must constantly be in motion, hunting, seeking prey, or it will
die
. It cannot be restrained. It cannot stop, for to stop moving is to perish. It was not its might, or its savagery that impressed me. No … It was this constant need of struggle that reminded me of the warrior caste.”

“I do not understand, Grandfather.”

“Like the sea predator must perpetually hunt, so we must perpetually have strife. We are instruments of war. Only through war can we achieve exaltation. If that opportunity is removed, then we cease to be skorne.”

“The houses would never stop fighting! That would be madness.”