Authors: Elizabeth Haydon

The Merchant Emperor (16 page)

BOOK: The Merchant Emperor

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She assumed a motherly tone, gentling the harsh voice in which she had spoken that Talquist had mocked so scornfully.

Talquist’s great day has finally come to an end,
she said softly in the hollow darkness inside of the Living Stone statue.
He is now in his opulent bedchamber, undoubtedly making his way through the stable of bedwenches that was herded up the stairs an hour ago, or filling the air with sour flatulence and horrific snoring
.

There was no response.

Hrarfa willed herself to be calm, though the absence of a response worried her. While she had been able to continue to exist as a result of being accepted into the titan’s body by its original animating source of life, she was well aware that Faron, that life source, controlled the actions and movements of the stone soldier.

Which meant that respectful negotiation and constant patience was going to be necessary in order to obtain the ultimate goal.

Faron?
Hrarfa whispered.
Are you there?

For a long moment, she sensed only silence.

Then she perceived an assent. It did not take verbal form, but it was clear nonetheless.

Can you hear the voices of our family?
Hrarfa asked the Faorina spirit sharing the body of Living Stone with her.
Can you feel the deep fire, hear the chanting?

After another pause, she felt the answer.

Yes. But only sometimes, and only distantly
.

The warmth of her fire grew, adding to her confidence.

You are one of us, Faron,
she whispered to the Faorina as if it were a child.
I sense that you have been lonely, but there is need for that no longer. You are born of an ancient race, the oldest race of this world. When you and I open the Vault, you will be one with our family, reunited with your father once more. And we will have dominion over the whole of the Earth
.

She could feel the Faorina’s rising excitement, even though no specific thoughts were made clear.

In the hallway, a cohort of guards made their way to the stairs, their weapons clashing and clanking softly against their studded leather armor. Hrarfa’s internal voice fell silent as they went by, waiting until the sound of their passing could no longer be heard in the stairwell. Then she called to Faron again, and sensed him listening.

Talquist seeks a child for his own purposes, and while we may have to accommodate him for the time being, we will be making use of the victories we achieve for him to our own ends. When I was still within the last body of flesh, that of Portia, the serving maid, I may have held that very child in my arms for a moment. If that is in fact the child he seeks, I have the greatest piece of information that Talquist could ever want.

I know its name.

She waited until she was certain the Faorina had absorbed her thoughts, then imparted the lesson she most needed to convey.

Deep within the mountains, another child, a child of living Earth, sleeps. It will be an immense undertaking to enter those mountains, and find that Sleeping Child. But once we have so done, we need but one rib from her body to serve as the key to all our greatest aspirations. Then you and I, Faron, we will achieve what no other of our race has been able to achieve, the greatest feat that has ever been attained.

We will open the Vault.

And then it will all begin.

Now, listen, and I will tell you the lore of the scales you possess.

THE ORLANDAN PLATEAU, ON THE KREVENSFIELD PLAIN, SOUTH OF BETHANY

“Anborn! Hie, Anborn!”

The Lord Marshal reined his black warhorse to a clean halt in the high morning wind, then looked down the hill over his shoulder.

Solarrs, his lead scout and longtime man-at-arms, was urging his red war mare up the rise, struggling to catch up with him. His silver mane of hair shone like a dim candle atop an otherwise black shadow of man and horse in the rosy glow of foredawn.

Anborn pulled himself up taller in his high-backed saddle, enjoying the stretch in his lower leg as he pushed successfully against the stirrup while he waited.

From atop the small hill he surveyed the distant encampments that he and his field commanders had recently set up across the Orlandan Plateau, as well as those in the valley immediately below, coming to light with the dawn as the rim of a glowing red sun approached the horizon.

The Krevensfield Plain was an immense grassland, with wide horizons on every side. Settled chiefly by families of farmers in small communities that dotted the landscape, the only other sign of civilization or their inclusion in a larger empire was the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare. The roadway had been built in the Cymrian Age and bisected the Middle Continent from the outer edge of the Great Forest of the west coast to Bethe Corbair, the easternmost Orlandan province before the mountains officially known as the Manteids, but more commonly referred to as the Teeth. The Lord Marshal had made the process of connecting those communities with military encampments that would serve to protect, and be fed by, those farming villages his first priority in building a battle line in the south.

While he awaited his scout, Anborn’s eyes narrowed against the blast of seeds and grass flecks carried on the morning wind. He had sat atop a horse just like this one many times at almost this very spot, and hills just like it, observing other such encampments. He had seen these fields run red with blood and strewn with broken bodies, great stretches of fertile farmland dissolved into black ash. Four hundred years of flaccid peace had held sway since that terrible war ended, but the hollow, victory-less finale to it all had never washed away the stains from history.

Stains he had been largely responsible for.

Yet now, deep within him, as his legs began to show signs of life once more, he was starting to feel the twinges of rebirth and renewal in other parts of him as well.

In a rumbling of horseflesh and the huffing of breath, Solarrs summited the hill, dragging his mount to a dancing halt.

“Breathe first, then report,” said the Lord Marshal mildly as the scout began to speak.

Solarrs eyed him with suspicion.

“What has—you in such a—bloody fine mood?” he demanded between breaths.

Anborn thought about answering honestly, then gave in to his baser nature and the easier convenience of a highly believable lie.

“The attentions of a bloody fine bedwench earlier this morning,” he said smugly. “While you were riding hard from Sepulvarta under the cover of night, I was riding hard as well—or, more accurately, being ridden. So what news do you bring?”

Solarrs pulled himself up straighter as the horse settled.

“We retrieved a carcass of one of the flying beasts employed by Fhremus’s army at Sepulvarta,” he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “It’s an unholy creature, monstrous; seemingly equal parts insect, lizard, and bat. It has mandibles reminiscent of the ancient plague locusts, but its hide is almost stonelike.”

Anborn’s azure eyes began to gleam, but otherwise his face was expressionless.

“They are apparently voracious in appetite; the squadron that assaulted the holy city has devastated the fields surrounding Sepulvarta’s walls and ramparts,” Solarrs continued. “Additionally, they seem to be somewhat fragile, or at least short-lived; there were a number of whole bodies of the beasts in the outer fields where we captured this one.” He pointed down the hill to a horse-drawn wagon, which was approaching. “They don’t last after death, apparently; this one has become little more than shell in the time it took us to travel here. Oh—and they seemed to be called ‘yak-sis,’ or something to that effect—at least that’s what the spies discerned.”

“Iacxsis,” Anborn murmured distantly.

“What’s that?”

“Iacxsis,” the Lord Marshal repeated gruffly. “It’s an old word, a word from before the Cymrian era, from a time of ancient gods and animist beliefs. I would think you would be more likely to recognize it than I, Solarrs, being a First Generationer of the Third Fleet—when Gwylliam landed at the Skeleton Coast, and you all had to fight your way to this place through the indigenous tribes of Sorbold—that’s where the word is from. Before my time.”

Solarrs shrugged.

“Can’t say I remember hearing it.”

Anborn pulled himself up to a full seat, guiding his horse in a half-turn.

“It was the name of the god of destruction, who rained death from the skies,” he said. “Come, show me this thing.”

Without another word the two soldiers rode back to the wagon.

* * *

Anborn remained atop his steed as Solarrs vaulted down from his beside the wagon.

The scout took hold of the ropes that had secured the cargo as the soldiers driving and guarding the wagon saluted the Lord Marshal, who acknowledged and dismissed them. Solarrs grunted at the weight of the heavy sheeting weighed down with rope stock, then dragged it back, revealing the carcass.

Anborn maneuvered his mount closer.

The beast had begun to dissolve into an almost skeletal state, its carapace brittle and cracked. It had, in its lifetime, a wingspan that exceeded fifteen feet, and long, segmented legs that appeared insectoid, just as its immense jaw and hinged mandibles did.

The hide that covered the wings had already had begun to tatter; Anborn pulled his glove off and ran his index finger along it. It crumbled into sand beneath his touch. His eyes flamed with blue fire.

“Living Stone, I’ll wager,” he said darkly. “Constantin was right; the bastard has been despoiling Terreanfor, the cathedral of elemental earth in Sorbold. So this is what he has used it for.”

“As well as the titan,” Solarrs reminded him. “Did you not say he had animated a giant statue of a soldier on the Scales of Jierna Tal?”

“Indeed,” Anborn said, pulling on his glove again. “By the time he’s done, the miscreant may have even topped my list of crimes with his own.”

“An ambitious undertaking, that,” said Solarrs humorously, receiving a sour look in return. “So what are your next orders?”

“Tell Knapp to saddle up. We have but one last outpost to set up and arrange to provision, at the very edge of the Plain and the foot of the steppes before the Teeth.”

Solarrs sighed.

“Returning voluntarily to within sight of Canrif; now, that’s something I never thought I would see you do again.”

Anborn smiled; it was a melancholy smile, one with deep history beneath it, etched into the bones and muscles of his face.

“I’ll show you something else I imagine you never thought you would see me do again, Solarrs. Are you watching?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

As if literally throwing caution to the winds, Anborn tossed the reins over the horse’s neck. Carefully he raised himself up using the great strength in his arms, as he always had, but rather than awaiting assistance, he swung his leg over the horse’s side and lowered himself to the ground.

Then stepped away, standing on his own.

The silver-haired soldier’s eyes opened wide, and he coughed, then choked.

Then he let out a loud, boisterous laugh. After a moment, Anborn joined in.

Solarrs, by nature fairly quiet and taciturn, broke into a smile so wide that it almost threatened to crack the weathered leather of his face.

“Well, well, isn’t this interesting?” he said when he was finally able to form words.

“Aye, indeed,” the Lord Marshal agreed. “Just when you were probably beginning to believe that the miracles were all on the side of our enemies. Come, help me mount again. Getting down is something I can reliably do; I’m still working on reliably getting back up again. Then snag Knapp and Constantin, and let’s be on our way; I have a final outpost to install, and a beloved lady to visit.”