The Blasted Lands (7 page)

Wheklam’s chosen was Donaie Swarl, the King in Lead. She was lean and tall and dark. Her skin was several shades darker than most of the others and she wore a dark blue sash wrapped around her head and draped down to her waist. The fabric was said to have cost several people their lives over the years. More than one had tried to take it from her and died for their efforts.

Of all of them Donaie had met the most outsiders. For years she and her ships had cruised through the waters well beyond the Seven Forges and made raids on multiple lands. Wheklam demanded the sailors be prepared for when the Great Tide was upon them and the King in Lead obeyed.

Several asked her questions about the destruction of Guntha and she answered their questions. She rolled out the maps she had made of the world and on those maps the newly growing island was carefully marked in.

Ganem, the Chosen of the Forge of Ydramil and King in Silver, entered the hall with Lored, Chosen of the Forge of Ordna and King in Bronze. If there was ever a sign that times were changing it was that the two came in together. For over a decade the only thing they shared was their hatred of each other. Lored’s right eye and the area surrounding it had been replaced by a partial mask of bronze and everyone in the room knew that Ganem was the cause of that particular wound. Ganem was not a woman to be angered lightly and Lored had offended her many times. Still, the Daxar Taalor demanded peace and so both sides offered peace.

Either the last to enter the room or possibly the first was Glo’Hosht, the Chosen of the Forge of Paedle and the King in Mercury. It was incredibly rare for any of the Kings to see Glo’Hosht, who warred with everyone and no one. Glo’Hosht was often called the King in Shadow and the Bone King, because Paedle, as everyone knew, was the god of silent deaths. Glo’Hosht was also androgynous. No one could decide which gender was the king’s and he or she volunteered nothing.

Seven Kings and Seven Gods met in the great hall. They did not meet alone.

***

The business of kingdoms and empires does not stop. In seven days the new head of the Empire would be crowned. It was, not shockingly, the topic of much conversation.

Merros found he did not care. There were other things on his mind. First, there were the men under him, many of whom he was only just meeting and assessing for the first time.

He was dressed in new leather pants and a simple shirt with a leather tunic. He was supposed to be dressed in a uniform that had been tailored to his body, but he hated the damned thing already. He would wear it when he had to, but not now. For now he preferred to meet the men around him in relative comfort.

Getting used to being one of the commanders of the army was a bit confusing for him. Not because he hadn’t been in command before – he had been a captain before he retired and he had led the expedition into the Blasted Lands, after all – but because of the sheer scope of his command.

He was used to a company, a battalion, possibly a squad of men. This was an army, and as he stood on the parade grounds and looked at the hardened men in front of him, he was almost comfortable. Then he remembered that each of the soldiers he was facing was in charge of a battalion, or a squad or a full legion.

“Durst, how many more are supposed to be here?” He’d almost called the man Wollis, but he caught himself this time. Taurn Durst had been along with both men on the last expedition and he was a competent soldier. He was from Trecharch, and like many of the people there he tended to be direct and honest in his opinions.

Durst walked closer and pursed his lips. His thick hair was receding from his forehead like a slow moving wave drawing away from his eyebrows. He looked to have deep trouble with the idea of handling any task harder than remembering his name, but Merros knew the appearance was false. Durst was excellent with numbers and a very capable fighter.

“Might be one or two missing, General, but if they are, I suspect we can have a talk with ’em and handle the matter.” He spoke slowly and when he contemplated the notion of punishing the stragglers Durst’s broad mouth pulled into a dark grin. That smile alone made Merros recall why Wollis had respected the man. Durst was fond of discipline and precision. Anything that fell short of those lofty ideals was something the man felt should be crushed under one of his thick heels.

“Fair enough.” Merros eyed the crowd again. Most of them were standing at attention. He noted the ones who weren’t and made sure to have Durst copy their names onto a sheet of paper.

“We are here today because we stand close to war.” He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. He’d take care of those later. Merros scanned the men and watched their expressions. “Make no mistake about that. I doubt another season will pass before Fellein is drawn into bloody combat with warriors you do not want to take lightly.”

The soldiers started muttering among themselves. Not all of them, but a sizable percentage. Merros frowned at that.

Durst frowned too, then he stepped forward and bellowed, “Shut it! Keep your tongues until the general is finished with you!”

Several of the soldiers looked shocked by the outburst, and one or two of them had expressions that said they were contemplating arguing. Durst’s head lowered a bit, his neck thrusting forward. His posture practically begged for someone else to interrupt.

Merros said nothing for a moment, but instead waited for calm to come back.

“Some of you know me. Most do not. Get used to my face and my voice. If you have questions, I’ll be available to answer them and we’ll discuss matters, but for now, it’s time to listen.”

A few of them got smart and responded with, “Aye, ho, sir.”

“Let’s hear that again, lads!” Durst roared the words and the men caught on.

“Aye! Ho, sir!”

Merros nodded. “We are all aware of how long it’s been since Fellein has been in a real war. Believe me. This is likely to be a very real war. Not a skirmish, not an argument between neighbors. Ten of the Sa’ba Taalor killed a thousand Guntha.”

That caught the rest of them up and several started to speak. This time it was Merros who shut them down, bellowing at the top of his lungs to get their attention. “I said it’s time to listen!” The silence was complete and immediate.

“Ten of them killed a thousand. I saw it with my own eyes. They did not engage in formal combat. They used stealth and they crept in among numbers that should have never allowed them to gain access.” Again he looked over the soldiers. “Most of you have fought the Guntha. You know they were hard fighters and brutal enemies. They are gone now. Dead. We’ve all heard the stories about the burning seas and the new island growing where the Guntha lived. The stories are true.”

He walked a few paces and let them consider those words. Then, “The latest messages from Roathes say that black ships with black sails are cutting along the coast. They stay out in the waters for now, but those ships are supposed to be the very forces that caused the Guntha to attack again and again. They were trying to escape what they claimed were demons.”

One of the men in the crowd snorted and muttered something just loud enough to catch his attention. Merros turned to eye the man sharply. “What’s your name again?”

Not being completely foolish the man stood a little straighter and answered directly, “Lockner Horast, General. Captain of the First Lancers Division.”

“Lockner Horast.” He eyed kept his eyes locked on the man until the other soldier looked ready to get nervous. That was exactly what Merros wanted. “Captain Horast, you sound doubtful. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“All respect, General, but everyone knows the Roathians like to talk a good war. Most of us have been down there a time or two fighting the Guntha.”

“Absolutely right. What’s your point?”

“The Roathians tell me a hundred ships are along their shoreline and I’m probably going to expect a dozen men fishing in paddle boats.”

Merros smiled. “Aye. And you’d probably be right. Except that this time there’s information coming from other sources too. This time one of Desh Krohan’s Sisters is studying the situation. If you’d like to talk with the wizard and ask how often his associates lie about the facts I can arrange that.”

Horast shook his head. “No, no. That’s just fine, General.”

“There are ships. Just how many we don’t know, but it’s over a dozen.” He paused a moment and then pointed to the south. “The great clouds you see from that direction are coming from where the Guntha Islands used to be. They’re gone. They’ve been burned away and a new island is growing out in the Corinta. And between that island and the Roathians there are ships.

“That’s one problem. Next problem is that Emperor Pathra Krous is dead. He was murdered right there, in his own palace. With a hundred members of the Imperial Guard within hailing distance.” He looked hard into the audience of soldiers. “How is that acceptable? How is that ever acceptable?”

The men in front of him looked around, but no one came up with a good answer. He gave one himself. “It’s not! That happened because as an army we have grown soft and lazy.”

That got them. Several of the men made noises now and almost all of them were staring with angered expressions.

Merros held up a hand. “Don’t take my word. Instead let’s talk to Morton Darnaven.” He gestured to his left and the man came forward. “Darnaven can tell each and every one of you what he witnessed when he met the Sa’ba Taalor. He did not travel with them. He saw them when they were watching our finest soldiers being trained.” Darnaven was a heavyset man, but none of him was flabby. He was a long timer, not quite as long for the service as Merros himself, but he’d been in combat against the Guntha and had been farther to the south than most of the men in the room had ever traveled. He had worked the skirmish lines across most of the Empire at one time or another and he was a hard bastard with a particularly mean scowl. That was why he was now a colonel.

“Colonel Darnaven is going to talk to you about the Sa’ba Taalor. He is going to explain to you why they are dangerous and why we need to prepare.” Merros looked at the crowd and then he smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. He normally reserved it for when he was about to deliver punishments. “He’s going to explain why we are now going to have new soldiers coming in and how hard we are going to work to train them for combat.”

He walked a few paces, eyeing the men and making sure he had their attention. “First, however, we are going to make sure that the coronation of our new Empress goes smoothly. There will be no disturbances. There will be no unruly crowds. We will have a peaceful coronation. Or I will have heads to mount on the walls of the Summer Palace. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye! Ho, Sir!”

“War is coming. We will be prepared for it.” Merros walked away from the soldiers and left them with Darnaven.

As he walked, Durst kept pace. “I want that list of names. Durst. Every one who wasn't paying attention when we started and the ones who didn’t show. When Darnaven is done with them, send them to my office to wait for me.”

“Aye, ho sir.”

He thought for a long moment and then added, “I want a post and a whip in the western yard, Durst. I won’t use it yet, but I want it there. I want them to know we’re serious.”

“Aye, ho sir.” Durst didn’t hesitate and didn’t argue. Merros did not like using punishment to make a point made and the man knew it. But like Merros, Durst had seen the Sa’ba Taalor in action. He knew how serious the situation was.

“Also, it’s time for a few competitions. Work it out. I want the best ten archers. The best ten swordsmen we have. Everyone competes. Best ten lancers, best ten horsemen. There will be cash rewards for the winners and very likely a few promotions.”

From there it was back to the palace for another round of meetings. The coronation of Nachia Krous was only a few days away. There were a thousand details to see to and more.

And, of course, there was always reason to expect a few unpleasant surprises.

Chapter Four

In the distant past, the Wellish Steppes was a place of horror and tyranny. The Overlords in charge of the area were bested long ago, but a number of people still claim that the land is cursed. To be fair, the fact that most of the region runs alongside the edge of the Blasted Lands hasn’t helped the area’s reputation. The land is fertile, but not much grows there beyond fungus and scrub grass. The one distinct advantage to the place is that it’s mostly flat. Large caravans and small groups alike can travel it without too much worry about unseen threats.

It is so calm there, in fact, that even without paving the pathways through the area have long since been well established. “The roads along the steppes practically pave themselves,” is a fairly common remark among the soldiers in the Imperial Army. For that reason alone it was not unusual to find those very same soldiers looking forward to marching across the area.

There are exceptions to every rule.

The damp was constant and heavy. The moisture clung to everything and slowly, methodically seeped its way through clothes, shoes and supplies. Had it been any warmer, there would likely have been worries about the supplies mildewing. Instead they just marched on, keeping a brisk pace in the hopes of staying warm in the chill, misty air.

The caravan came from the east. They traveled the Imperial Highway, and those who had horses were glad of them. Those that did not carried their packs and their supplies and walked the distance from Old Canhoon at a steady march. The road here was old but well tended, and cut into the low-lying hills. In some places the paths were deeply enough worn that the soldiers almost disappeared from sight and in others they were level to the ground, but as one of the outer ranks and charged with watching the flanks of the entire column, it was occasionally amusing to watch the men seemingly sink into the ground fog, like the specters he’d heard tell of as a child.

Nolan March preferred walking the edges of the column and keeping an eye out. It broke the monotony of staring at the backs of the men in front of him when he was forced to march the column.