The Silent Army (30 page)

All of which meant nothing at the moment. The king was off to the north and trying to stop an enemy that was, frankly, terrifying.

And Theran himself was trying to do the same. He doubted either of them would have much success.

Are you there, Corin?

Of course, brother. I am with you. How fares your war?

I haven’t seen them yet.
He paused a moment as a loud groan filled the air and a moment later another boulder rolled through the air, whistling and hissing as it rose higher and higher.
I am close, however
.

How close?

I will see them in another few minutes.

What will you do?

What else? I will attempt to destroy their rock thrower and as many of them as I can.

You are worth more than a rock thrower. Be careful.

He chuckled at that
. Rest assured of that. I have no particular desire to die this day or any other.

Corin had been his source of information and the voice he heard the most as he dealt with news of the war on Fellein. It was the other man’s voice that had warned him of the ships coming their way, of the great army coming from the north. He had sources everywhere. He had not known about the eastern attack, but he had definitely warned of all others and had allowed them the chance to strike at the western wing of the attack before it came to the city proper.

Corin was his source for all the news that he needed.

Now, however, he was on his own. The Sooth were being stubborn and refused to share. Corin was easily one of the masters when it came to the Sooth and if he could not get a straight answer from them then surely they were in troubled times.

Theran did not hurry up the hill, but neither did he take his time. When he reached the crest he was wise enough to drop to the ground and look over the edge.

The closest of the enemy was close indeed. The gray man stood only four feet away and looked back at the war engine that his people had created.

The ground was mostly level, with a gentle slope, and the machine that rested on that slope had been stabilized quite well. The framework was built mostly of wood, and in the center a vast arm lay cocked back and ready, with a collection of stones and chunks of wood in a cup large enough to hold a couple of men. Two women were adding more wood to the collection, heavy branches that were burning properly. The wood inside the collection must have been treated for it caught fire easily.

It was the fire that made him move. The vast rocks had done enough damage but the fiery logs scattered among the rocks the size of melons? Theran could only imagine the destruction they would cause.

He focused on the engine itself and used what was already available to work his sorcery. Before they could do whatever it was that would send the rain of stone and fire down on Goltha, Theran forced heat and pressure through every part of the device.

Wood bulged and cracked and exploded in seconds. Several of the gray-skins were caught in the explosion that sent daggers of burning timber in all directions. One of the women lighting the fire staggered backward with a brand burning through her ruined face and fell dead – please, by all the gods, dead. That he could make anyone suffer that way was enough to cause Theran nausea. Several others cried out in pain or challenged whatever might have attacked them in their own language. Words alone did not make speech. Their need to attack and stop whatever had assaulted them was obvious.

It was enough. As far as Theran could see there was only the one machine and that was now burning and ruined.

He backed up as carefully as he could and prepared to flee.

The javelin took him in the side of his neck and drove deep. Theran did not die, but he fell flat and could not move. None of him would move. Not even his smallest finger. He could not shift his eyes, so all that he saw was the boots that came toward him, muddied and well worn.

The voice that spoke was unknown, but he heard the words and understood them.

“My king! We have a sorcerer here. One of the Fellein that can cause magic.” There was a pause and he could nearly feel the eyes that scrutinized him. “I wonder what Ordna will think of him.”

He had no idea who Ordna was. It did not matter. He could do nothing in any event.

In the south the black ships wallowed, stuck against the great iron wall that stopped them from going into Lake Gerhaim. The Sa’ba Taalor attacking the gates were at a disadvantage until their hounds arrived. The vile creatures roared and snapped and took arrow after arrow, distracting the guards from the attack coming from the archers off the ships and keeping them from paying much attention to the gray-skins climbing over the iron gate itself.

The iron was uneven and sawed at skin and leather alike. Many of the Sa’ba Taalor used their tools to make the transit easier, hooking metal with axe heads or wrapping their hands in leather before going further. In any event they progressed slowly across the distance and finally reached the vast openings where the gate rolled out across the waters on hidden tracks in the water.

From there it was only a matter of time. The mechanisms were mostly on a level below the ground and they climbed past the worst of it on the gates themselves, through waters deep enough to require swimming. Those who could not swim were forced to crawl higher in the hopes of finding another way, but remarkably few sailors fail to learn how to swim.

The locking mechanisms that kept the gates extended were guarded, but not by a large party. It was not long before the Sa’ba Taalor seized the areas and then started puzzling out how the devices worked.

Trial and error. Fifteen minutes after they accessed the locking mechanisms the Sa’ba Taalor managed to unlock the gates. After that all they had to figure out was how to make the gates part and recede.

Callan and his crew moved along the river at a steady yet impossible clip. He could not have traveled at the speeds he was managing, and yet he did. Miles of river roared past, though there was little breeze and no indication that he or his ship could possibly be going at such speeds.

Daivem Murdro still stood by his side, looking toward the horizon. He studied her face, the explosion of braids that ran down her back. She was dressed in a white cotton top and a skirt made from a fabric he had never seen before.

Ahead they could see the great gate had been closed. He had only seen one of the massive gates in that position once before and that had been on a different river heading for Goltha.

“That’s going to be a challenge, I fear.”

“We are not worried about reaching Goltha this day, Captain Callan. We are here to visit the people who killed your crew, yes?” Daivem smiled at him, mischief in her eyes. She held no weapons save her walking stick, much like her brother’s but with fewer skulls carved into the hard wood, but she did not seem at all afraid of the Sa’ba Taalor.

Callan could not say the same. He was bloody terrified of the very notion of running across the gray-skins a second time. But he would do this, because he owed it to his crew. They’d been murdered brutally and much as he wished he could forget that, he could not. He could not forgive it, either; they were a mostly honest crew who wanted little but to make a living and he’d sent them into danger and watched as the Sa’ba Taalor slaughtered them.

And the bastards had let him live. That was the worst of it, really. That was the unforgivable sin. They’d left him alive to suffer with what had happened. He wanted them dead for that.

He blinked back the sting of tears.

Daivem looked his way and nodded. “Sometimes the pain of witnessing so much death is enough to drive anyone mad.”

“So let’s do this. Let’s give the dead their satisfaction.”

Daivem nodded and then pointed toward the black ships. Shapes scaled the great iron gate and at first he thought they might try to pry the locked bars apart but instead they moved sideways over the crisscross of bars, heading across the vast river in both directions, crossing over the locked gate like ants moving over a tow line.

“What goes through their minds?” Callan spoke mostly to himself.

Daivem answered just the same, “They want to force the gates, I suppose.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never seen the gates of Goltha before.” She frowned a bit, smiled a bit and then bared her teeth in a wide grin. “They are glorious, are they not?”

Callan grinned back. “They are impressive, but not so much of a pleasure to see when you are waiting for them to part and lined up seven boats deep.”

“What shall we do about these black ships, Captain Callan?”

Callan looked at the gathered ships. There were enough of them to be sure. Twenty or more of the vessels were pushed up along the gate that would, he suspected, be opened sooner rather than later.

There was no possible way for them to destroy the ships. Perhaps if there were a sorcerer or two on board that would be a hope, but no, there was just Callan, a few of the Louron, and a crew of dead folk who seemed to share a similar goal to his.

“You’re certain none of you are proper sorcerers?” He offered Daivem his best smile, as if that might possibly make her change her mind.

“We are not, but we are willing to learn.”

“I’m afraid that might take more time than we have. So let’s see what we can do to cause chaos and then try to avoid dying for as long as possible.”

The Brellar ship he rode on moved forward as it had before, and Daivem nodded.

Ten minutes later they had reached the first of the great black ships. From above, on the decks of the ship, a dozen or more looked down at his vessel and seemed to stare specifically at him.

Whatever it was the people on that ship said, he did not understand the words.

Rather than turn away, Callan drove the prow of his ship into the solid side of the Sa’ba Taalor vessel. Wood shattered. The two vessels became one and the newly formed shape wept water as the river rushed past broken boards on both of them.

Callan smiled and reached for his sword. If he was going to die, he was going to do his best to avenge every last sailor he’d seen killed.

Near him, not speaking, but still unsettlingly active, the dead who’d sailed with him came forward and drew their spectral swords.

Tuskandru looked back the way he had come and smiled tightly. He was tired, but it was a good feeling, one of satisfaction after a day of hard slaughter. As far as he could see his people moved behind him, ready for more combat.

Stastha moved closer to him, her long-handled axe held over one shoulder, and nodded. “We have captured a few, those who surrendered. One says he is the lord of this city. It is his to rule. He would speak with you.”

“Of course he would. He wants to surrender or to parley.”

“Will you talk to him?”

He looked at her and studied her face. She had four new wounds on her chin and across the side of her head. She was smiling as much as he was. It was good to please the gods.

“Bring him to me.”

He leaned back into the side of his mount and smiled. Brodem grunted and rumbled but supported his weight with ease.

The man brought to him was wounded, but not dead. He was soft, and dressed in clothes that were for show and had little to do with anything but looking as colorful as possible, near as Tusk could tell. He had armor, yes, but it covered only his chest, and the metal was soft enough that it had been dented several times and showed every sword blow as if a knife had scraped at mud.

“What is your name?”

The man looked at him and held his head high. “I am Levron of Goltha. I am tasked with ruling this city.”

“You are not doing so good a job.” Tusk smiled. “The city is mostly mine now. And what I do not hold belongs to other kings.”

“Why have you done this thing?” Levron stared at him, lips peeled back and eyes narrowed. He wanted to kill Tusk. Tusk respected that.

“Because my gods told me to. Because the air here is sweet and I like the view when I look down at the lake. Because that city is coming here.” He pointed to Canhoon, which over the course of only hours had grown much larger and loomed above the far side of the lake. “And I want that city. I want to destroy it and the people who are there.”

“What has any of that to do with us? Why do you attack my people?”

Tuskandru looked down at Levron. The man was not restrained, and yet he did not attack. He wanted to. Tusk could feel how much the man wanted to attack him, to kill him.

“Why don’t you do it? Why don’t you attack me, Lord Levron of Goltha? I am here before you right now. You will never have a better chance to kill me in your life.”

Levron blinked at the notion. “Because I am surrounded by your troops.”

“Why should that stop you? What do you fear?”

“I would stand no chance.”

Tusk shook his head. “And so you do not even try?”

“To what end?” The man’s voice trembled with emotion.

“What are you afraid of? Failure? Death? Disappointing your gods?”

The man did not answer.

“Had you fought you might have won. I am tired and have spent hours in combat.” He held up a hand to show how the fingers trembled slightly. “Braver than you have fought me and some have bled me. They died, yes, but better to die trying than to simply fail because you will not.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You are right and I do not want to. My gods have tasked me and I obey. If I die, it is what the gods want. If I live it is to serve them.” Tuskandru shook his head. “Had you tried, perhaps I would have spared you. I might have offered you a chance at surrender. But to avoid fighting because you might not win? That is cowardice.”

He looked to Stastha. “Kill this dog. He is not worth my efforts.”

Stastha nodded her head and turned to the man. Her first blow rattled his eyes in his skull. She hit him again and again while he tried to fend her off. She did not waste her weapons on the task. He was not worth the effort.

Far to the north the palace was untouched.

“They have stopped throwing stones now. They should come down and join in on the actual fight.”