Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) Page 7

  “Yes, yes.” Haradum was nodding along. “Perhaps you should accept your title of outcast and wander the wastes the rest of your days. I hear the Abyss is quite the sight to see.” Haradum’s laugh rattled like bones being shaken in a dried leather bag.

  “My fate does not matter, Aptimus, only that of my house. Is it better that a blasphemous fiend rules than I start a war that ends House Balaash? Will my house rot under the rule of a dishonorable archdominar? I am of the warrior caste. I must fight for the good of my house.”

  “Is that why you fight?”

  Makeda paused. It was a simple question with a complicated answer. Why did she fight? Why did the skorne have to fight? She thought back to the time when she had come to understand the reasoning behind that question, in a hall filled with silent ancestors …

  And then Makeda had her answer. Thank you, Grandfather.

  “Do you know what the foulest of all words is, Haradum?”

  “Surely something involving rhinodons. They are obnoxious things with disgusting reproductive habits!”

  “The foulest of all words is peace.” Makeda took up her swords and rose. “Come. I must prepare the warriors. We march.”

  The ancient extoller squealed with delight. “Many will be exalted, I am sure!” Haradum cackled and patted one of the many empty sacral stones she wore like jewelry, knowing it would soon be filled. “To war! To war!”

  During the journey south, Makeda’s body healed, but her mind was in turmoil. At night, sleep would not come, and when it did, it brought uneasy dreams of disapproving ancestors and House Balaash in flames.

  Her cohort grew. New warriors joined her daily. From simple hestatians from the plains, wearing armor stitched together from titan hide, to steel-clad Cataphract the size of ancestral guardians, to nihilators with barbed pain hooks embedded in their flesh, to Venators armed with slings and vials filled with corrosive acid, to rich and powerful tyrants with stables of warbeasts.

  Veterans knelt before her. Great leaders presented their swords or their mortitheurgy and swore to fight in her name. She formed new datha and taberna, and promoted warriors to lead them, gave battle orders, and saw to their logistical needs. They travelled fast and lean, making do with innate toughness rather than sufficient rations. By day Makeda learned to balance the politics, bickering, and petty ambitions of competing warriors, and by night she dreamed of war.

  The warriors came for various reasons. Some because of old loyalties to Telkesh, or belief in the code, or disgust over the dishonor of losing an archdominar to poison, or vassals who decided to support one heir over another, to others who simply wished for a battle worthy of their skills. But whatever the reason, they continued to join, and the further south they went, the stronger her army became.

  Within a week of leaving the Shroudwall, her army had grown large enough to pose a real threat to Akkad’s forces. She estimated nearly a quarter of House Balaash’s total sabaoth was under her command. A host so numerous, in fact, that if they were to go down in defeat, it would be a great enough battle that it would ruin the entire army of House Balaash.

  For one of the only times in her life, Makeda understood what it was to fear.

  She feared not for herself. If she was to be found wanting, let her be cast into the Void with the rest of the failures. That did not matter. Makeda feared for the future of her house.

  Ancestors, if I am to be defeated, let it happen swiftly, so my house may be spared.

  Each night she counseled with her officers and listened as the tacticians made their plans. Too many of those plans ended with a slaughter that would lead to the eventual destruction of her house. She spoke with each of the officers individually, searching for ideas that would accomplish her mission, yet leave the great army of Balaash relatively intact.

  Yet it was not one of the mighty war leaders that had proposed a possible solution to her dilemma.

  It had been a slave.

  “I do not see Akkad’s personal banner among the horde,” Urkesh said as he moved his eyes from side to side, searching carefully for targets. “He did not bother to come himself.”

  The Venator had proven to have the most acute vision of any of her officers so Makeda was inclined to believe him. “I should not be surprised.” It was difficult to keep the disgust from her voice. “But I am disappointed.”

  The morning mist had risen from the lake and a low fog hung over the plains. Makeda had spent most of her life in this region. She knew it well. Within a few hours the sun would rise enough to cut through the knee-high fog, but until then the air would be still. To the east an endless sea of red and gold marched through the churning grey. The majority of the great army of House Balaash was arrayed before her, thousands strong. A few miles behind that army she could see House Balaash itself, once her home, and now her objective. At her back was a smaller army, made up of warriors who believed that honor meant something. To the north stretched the long crystal blue expanse of Mirketh Lake. To the south open plains went on for miles before reaching the great city of Halaak.

  It was a fine place for a civil war.

  Makeda and Urkesh stopped on top of a small rise to survey the opposition. The rest of her command staff was making their way up the hill for a hasty council before the battle commenced. It had taken a month to march south from the Shroudwall Mountains. During that time they had met a few small cohorts of Akkad’s loyalists, but had faced no serious combat. Judging by the great force waiting for them, that was about to change.

  It did not matter. Makeda had looked upon these officers and judged them worthy. The warriors of House Balaash who believed in hoksune and the traditions of their ancestors had flocked to her banner. Despite being outnumbered three to one, victory would be hers. The real question was whether House Balaash would survive for long after the slaughter necessary to achieve such a victory.

  The potential fall of her house had kept her awake each night during the journey. “I was afraid of this. I had hoped he would show himself. Curse Akkad. This complicates matters, Urkesh.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Makeda glanced at her subordinate. The Venator had barely left her side since their march had begun. “You assume much, Dakar. I know what I must do, but in order to succeed, I fear I must behave as dishonorably as my brother.”

  “A Venator spends so much time looking at targets in the distance that often we cannot focus on things that are near.” Urkesh studied her for a moment. “I know what vexes you. The burden can be seen in your countenance, Archdomina.”

  “That form of address is not yet my right.”

  “It would not be my place to disagree with you, but if it was, I would tell you that you are wrong. You are nothing like your brother. He would burn your house in order to rule it, but you would kill yourself in order to save it. This army follows you because to them you embody the code of hoksune. You are more the true heir of House Balaash than your brother could ever hope to be, and these warriors know it.”

  Her caste did not display their emotions openly, so Makeda gave the Venator a small, respectful nod. “They follow me because they follow the code. So why are you here, Urkesh?”

  He shrugged. “The code means different things to different warriors. Just because I am not good at it, doesn’t mean I don’t believe it.”

  “You are wiser than you look.”

  “Thank you, Archdomina.” Urkesh went back to surveying the opposing army. “Now where are you hiding, One Ear?” Urkesh looked over at her and grinned. “I didn’t think you would mind me calling him that now.”

  Makeda sighed. “Do not tempt me. Beheading you could still boost morale.”

  The incorrigible Venator chuckled. The other officers had reached them, so Urkesh hid a slight smile with a subtle cough. “Since Akkad is telling everyone that our army is only a minor rebellion, apparently he decided we’re not worthy of his attention. Akkad has failed to honor us with his presence.”

  Her officers to
ok in the great horde awaiting them. “Leading from the rear? That is not how Akkad was taught,” muttered Primus Tushhan of the Cataphract. “I served Telkesh and Vaactash before him. They would never have done such a cowardly thing.”

  Aptimus Haradum had shuffled her way up the hill along with the officers. “Not cowardly, cunning,” she interjected. “Akkad is a shrewd one. He knows his sister will take the honorable and direct path. His absence is the most politically expedient choice.” At times Makeda suspected the ancient extoller was not as mad as she liked everyone to think, but then Haradum cackled with glee, removing all doubt. “House Balaash will be emptied of blood before you crack him from that shell. Extollers will have gathered from all across the land! So many will die! Everyone will die! It will be glorious!”

  Makeda ignored the crazed extoller and addressed her officers. “I cannot challenge Akkad if he’s not present. If he were here, he would have to accept and risk potential defeat, or decline and be dishonored. I was hoping he had enough honor to come out and face me.”

  The gigantic young Cataphract from the vassal house of Kophar gave a deep, hearty laugh. “Be careful what you wish for. I have trained against Akkad. He is a mighty warrior, the finest of our generation. I do not mean to question your skill with the blade and offer no offence, but know that Akkad is one of the greatest combatants I have ever seen.”

  There were solemn nods of agreement from every officer who had served with Akkad in combat. Even her most loyal warriors understood that honor alone would not carry her through that duel, yet they followed anyway.

  “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy watching you two duel, but I did not come all the way from Halaak to leave without a proper battle,” Only a small contingent of House Kophar volunteers had joined her forces, but they were renowned for their size, ferocity, and strength.

  “Do not worry, First Born Xerxis. You will get your fight, but it is better to spill my own blood than leave our house without an army to defend it. I intend to finish this quickly.” The time had come to share her plan. It would be controversial, but it was necessary. “Tell me, noble Cataphract. Does your house still speak of how my grandfather conquered you?”

  Xerxis frowned, not liking having to admit his family had ever been bested. “Of course we do. Each of us studies the battles in great detail.” He folded his thick arms. “There is no dishonor in losing against the greatest tactician of all time.”

  “Of course not. When Vaactash went to war against House Kophar, your warriors impressed him, so much in fact that he decided it was a waste to kill them. I remember him telling me the story, why kill these warriors who would be able to fight so capably in my name? So instead Vaactash concentrated his strength against your dominar, defeated him, and added the proud Cataphracts of Kophar to his own army, strengthening us all.”

  That seemed to placate the heir of Kophar. The rest of her officers nodded. “What do you propose then?” Xerxis asked.

  “There was great wisdom in what Vaactash did to House Kophar. I will not see House Balaash destroyed. I will not satisfy my honor only to see House Muzkaar or Telarr sitting upon our throne within a year. As Vaactash said, why kill those who would be able to fight so capably in my name? Yes, you will fight here today, but seek your exaltation quickly, because you will only fight long enough for me to reach Akkad.”

  “There is the matter of a very large army standing between the two of you,” Tushhan pointed out.

  “Indeed, but Haradum spoke the truth. Akkad will expect me to do the honorable and direct thing. He knows honor demands my place here, leading this cohort. Yet, I remember the lessons of my sword master. Show your foe one blade, and kill him with the other.” Makeda looked toward the waters of Mirketh Lake. “Today you will be the first sword. I will be the second.”

  As the battle of House Balaash commenced, hundreds of eager extollers looked on, seeking those worthy of exaltation from the masses.

  Every veteran on the field knew that by the time the sun crawled to the middle of the sky, thousands of House Balaash’s warriors would be dead.

  Venator catapults hurled balls packed with explosives and steel shards high into the air to hurtle down into the opposing ranks. The mechanical whine of millions of needles filled the plains as thousands of reivers fired simultaneously. Beasts bellowed and shrieked, whipped into frenzies by the beast handlers, before being released on paths of destruction.

  And despite this great conflict, the army of Makeda fought on, unaware that their leader was not there.

  If only I could combine your adherence to hoksune with your brother’s ambitious pragmatism, then House Balaash would be unstoppable. The mind reels at the possibilities.

  The words of Vaactash gave her hope. Makeda’s hand was resting on the hilt of one of the Swords of Balaash. If victory required her to be pragmatic, then she would do so, no matter how much it pained her. She knew her grandfather was watching over her, but she could only hope that he approved of her decisions.

  Kuthsheth the slave worked the oars, and the small rowboat made steady progress along the shores of Mirketh Lake. The morning fog had not yet burned off, and it still provided some measure of cover.

  Makeda could not see the battle begin, but she could hear it. The clash of sword and spear, the whine of reivers, the thud of catapults, the screams as acid ate flesh, and the thunder as warbeasts clashed. It was the sound of two forces testing each other. Soon the melee would become general. Her army would fight and die all without her there to lead it. Makeda cursed fate and begged her ancestors to forgive her dereliction of duty.

  She wore a rough cloak of woven hair, ratty and filthy. The garb of a slave hid her armor. Her banner, bearing the noble glyph of House Balaash, had been left flying with the army she had abandoned. It was not even the indignity of it all that bothered her; it was that she was being robbed of her chance to lead her warriors into glorious combat. Perhaps if she was lucky, one of the great underwater beasts of Mirketh Lake would do everyone a favor, rise from the depths, and devour her to hide the dishonor.

  Makeda had never truly hated Akkad before. She had merely done her duty as honor dictated. She was warrior caste and lived to bring glory to her house. However, now as the great battle commenced without her, Makeda understood what it was to hate. She despised Akkad.

  And she pitied him as well. How empty would a life be without hoksune to fill it?

  “We are nearly there,” Kuthsheth said. “The docks are not —” he cringed as a shadow passed overhead. The massive beating of leathery wings rocked the tiny boat with blasts of wind, but then the Archidon was past. The flying warbeast paid no attention to their boat. It had been summoned to the battle by some powerful mortitheurge. It roared and dove, plunging out of sight behind the dunes along the shore.

  “The docks are what, Kuthsheth?” Makeda asked calmly.

  “They are not well guarded. The slaves use the docks mostly to bring fish to the kitchens. There are always a few warriors, but I am certain they will be the most inexperienced.”

  Of course. The most capable would have gotten themselves placed into the battle. No capable warrior would volunteer to guard a dock when such an opportunity for exaltation presented itself. At worst they would be facing Hestatians, little more than militia. “The problem will be Akkad’s personal guard. They are all veteran Cataphract.”

  “Also the bloodrunners who prowl the corridors,” Kuthsheth said, and seemed surprised when Makeda did not appear to understand what he was speaking of. “Noble Telkesh kept a few on retainer to watch out for assassination attempts against his heirs. They skulk about the house, answering only to Tormentor Abaish.”

  “I was not aware of them.”

  “That is because they are very good at skulking …”

  Makeda had learned there was much she had not known about the inner workings of her household. There was a world beneath the surface, populated by workers, slaves, and servants, members of the lower castes which she had never bothere
d to notice. The warriors and leaders of a great house did not wish to look upon their lesser all day, so they remained hidden as they fulfilled their purpose.

  Kuthsheth was laboring against the oars, but he did his best to compose himself. “Once I get you into the central keep, I believe I can distract the bloodrunners. They pay no attention to house slaves. I have overheard them speaking about what they perceive to be vulnerabilities. Once you are inside the servant’s tunnels, I will cause a disturbance in Abaish’s laboratory. That should attract the bloodrunners like a moth to a flame.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Make lots of flames.”

  To attract the attention of the bloodrunners was to die. “Why do you do this?”

  “Because I was a warrior once — a swordsman of the Praetorian — long ago before my village was taken. As is our way, I lost my caste and was placed among the slaves of House Balaash. Because Telkesh was an honorable master, my children will be given the chance to be warriors. If not them, then their children, or their children’s children, will have a chance at achieving exaltation. That is the way.”

  It had been this particular slave who had broached this espionage idea to her during their march south. He had overheard her speaking with her officers, and had later spoken on the subject of this little known passage through the great fortress that was House Balaash. At first she had been annoyed by Kuthsheth’s impertinence, but the more she thought about it, the more she could see the possibilities. If Akkad tried to avoid their duel, then she would bring the duel to Akkad.

  There was an explosion in the distance. Makeda turned to see a ball of fire rolling into the sky. The battle had been joined.

  “We are nearly there. Do not worry, Archdomina.”

  Makeda did not correct the slave’s title.

  The last dying warrior fell into Mirketh Lake with a splash. The water billowed red around him, and then he sank from view. Makeda lowered the Swords of Balaash and let them disappear beneath the slave cloak. The docks were clear. She had eliminated all of the guards before the alarm could be raised. “Come, Kuthsheth. Show me these tunnels of yours.”