Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) (12 page)

Akkad rushed forward, eager to finish her, but Makeda focused through the crackling pain, and forced her arms to respond. The dark powers were gathered up from her body, channeled through her, and pushed away. Akkad gasped as his spell was broken. Makeda quickly counter attacked. One sword diverted his spear, while the other one struck armor, then flesh, and finally bone.

They separated, with the full length of the Balaash glyph between them. Akkad glanced down at the strap severed and dangling loose below his shoulder plate, and then blood began to drip slowly down his armor. He pressed one hand against the wound, and grimaced as he probed the hole. It was not fatal, not nearly so, but the message had been sent, and Akkad had felt the sting of Balaash steel.

Makeda stood, waiting, her armored breastplate scorched and smoking. Akkad’s attack had hurt her, but this pain was
nothing
.

Wary now, Akkad took his bloody hand from the wound and placed it upon the shaft of his spear. He shifted slowly, his boots sliding across the marble as he took up a ready stance, the spear point angled low toward the floor, ready to sweep up and eviscerate. Makeda lifted her swords, one protectively before her, the other low and ready at her side, in a stance taught to her long ago by Primus Zabalam.

They waited, unmoving, studying each other, watching for any sign of weakness, any opportunity to strike. Two warriors, both masters of their respective martial traditions were coiled, ready.

A minute passed.
Another.

No one in the council chambers made a noise. All knew that a single movement would end the duel and decide the fate of House Balaash.

The loudest noise in the room was the
drip drip drip
of Akkad’s blood sluggishly decorating the floor.

It was that splattering of life that would force Akkad to move first. Such was the danger of having such an understanding of the anatomy and the power that dwelled within. Time was no longer on his side, and every heartbeat that passed would leave him that much weaker. Makeda shifted, ever so slightly, and her grip tightened on her sword. The tiniest bit of a smile split her face.

The siblings struck.

They looked into each other’s eyes. This should have been one of those moments of perfect enlightenment spoken of in the code, only achievable at that razor sharp moment between life and death, but as Makeda saw into Akkad’s soul, she saw only the turmoil, the lack of conviction, the doubt in the true ways of their people, of their family …

She judged him unworthy.

The spear blade had grazed her, barely turned away by one sword as she’d stepped inside her brother’s reach. The tip of her other sword was
in
Akkad’s neck.

Makeda spoke slowly to her dying brother. “I would have followed you. It was your place to rule. I would have done whatever duty required of me. I would have followed you into the Void if necessary.”

Akkad tried to speak, but sound would not form through the blood running down his throat. She could tell he could still understand her words though, and that was what mattered.

“But you thought I was weak, malleable like you. You misjudged me. Now you must go into the Void alone.” Makeda twisted the sword and drove it upward, deep into Akkad’s brain.

The true heir of House Balaash has already won.

The new archdomina of House Balaash pulled her sword from her brother’s skull and stepped away from the falling corpse. Akkad collapsed, and lay there in a crumpled heap, deprived of all his glory, his blood slowly coloring the crevices of the house glyph engraved in the floor.

Makeda looked up from the body and around the council chambers. None dared question. She would deal with the traitors soon enough, but there were more pressing matters at hand. She turned to the nearest military officer. “Order the cohorts to stand down. Tell them Makeda rules House Balaash now and has declared this battle to be through. No more of my soldiers will be wasted today.” Several warriors ran up the stairs to spread the word. One of the Cataphract opened the great window to the west, while another brought forth a green signal flag, the color which would order a full halt. He shoved it out into the wind, and began waving it side to side.

Extoller Shuruppak gathered up his voluminous robes and rushed down the steps, grasping for an empty sacral stone at his belt. Makeda looked at the extoller with mild disbelief as he knelt next to Akkad. “What are you doing?”

“Akkad was one of the greatest warriors of his generation. I must keep his soul —”

“Silence.” Reaching down, Makeda gathered up a handful of the extoller’s robes. “You would betray the ideals of your caste
?
” She hauled Shuruppak roughly to his feet. Makeda raised her voice, but she was no longer addressing the extoller. “Let the dishonorable name of Akkad never be spoken again in the halls of House Balaash.”

“But Akkad was —”

“I must have not made myself clear.” Makeda dragged the extoller past the Cataphract with the signal flag, and hurled Shuruppak out the window. His scream could be heard for several seconds, but they were too high up to hear the impact.

Turning back to the council, Makeda raised her voice. “My brother’s name will be stricken from all of the histories.” Several scribes immediately opened their scrolls, inked their quills, and began furiously blotting out names. “And as for his fellow
conspirators …”
Makeda glanced at Abaish, who was crouched on a stone bench, looking like he might be contemplating jumping out the window himself. “Fetch
my
tormentors. Fetch
all
of my tormentors. They are going to be very busy.”

Makeda went to the window. In the distance, horns were sounding. The green flag had been seen. The fighting would cease, and hopefully before enough of Balaash blood had been spilled to leave them weakened before the other great houses.

Smoke rose in pillars across the battlefield. From this great distance individuals were nothing more than tiny specks of movement, only mighty warbeasts could be distinguished as what they really were. It was nothing more than a swirling mass of color, red and gold, death and life, all beneath a spreading tower of black.

She watched the smoke climb into the clear sky and wondered if she could see as the extollers did with their crystal eyes, would the flow of souls into the Void look like that smoke drifting into nothingness? When the worker caste refined the impurities from metal, they had to torture it with fire. The weakness burned away and what was left was refined.

Saved.

“This is why I fight,” the Archdomina of House Balaash whispered to herself.

Grandfather said a warrior did not promise.
House Balaash would not fall today, nor would it fall as long as she lived, and as long as House Balaash stood as the greatest of all houses, the skorne would continue as unceasing instruments of war.

Archdominar Vaactash had imparted great wisdom to the child Makeda that night in the Hall of Ancestors. He had taught her, even praised her for her devotion to hoksune, and cautioned her as to her place within the hierarchy of their house. It had been a blessed evening, one that she would always remember, and now she had been dismissed.

Makeda stood perfectly still, unsure, staring up at the seemingly giant Vaactash and the even bigger statue behind him. She was not quite ready to navigate her way back through the darkened Hall of Ancestors, and there remained one thing that the archdominar had mentioned which she had always wondered about. She built up her courage to speak. “Grandfather, I have a question.”

Vaactash turned away from the great statue that would someday hold his soul, and toward her, curious as to why she had not fled when given the chance. “Yes. I will allow this question. Speak.”

“Tell me about the gods we don’t have?”

The greatest warrior of their people folded his arms. “You ask difficult questions, child.”

“Yes.”

“Lyoss had gods …” Vaactash stroked his long chin as he contemplated his answer. “There are lands beyond that sea, lands beyond the Abyss, beyond the Stormlands, even lands past where the giants dwell. We live in a land free of meddling gods, but are there still gods in those other dark lands? I do not know. And if there are gods there, do they have people who worship them still?”

“Only exiles have gone beyond those places, Grandfather. They are a mystery to us.” It was an odd thought, but she was clever enough to see it through to a logical conclusion. “But if there are others, and they still had their own gods, then they would be soft, probably used to relying on divine help. Not like the skorne at all.”

“Indeed. Ponder on this then, child. We must always make war because our salvation depends on it … But should the opportunity present itself, what if we could make war on
someone else?
”

Makeda mulled it over, and the sudden answer struck her like a war spear to the heart. “If there was a foreign house, we could have a whole new adversary. There would be no need for our people to make war on each other. Making war against a new enemy would surely provide opportunities for exaltation to all our houses!” The idea nearly stole her breath away.

“This idea is only a fantasy, but imagine it with me, Makeda. All skorne, all of the warrior caste, all of the houses, united in one glorious conquest. It is
beautiful
... May your dreams be of war, Makeda.”

“May your dreams be of war, Grandfather.”

Two generations had passed, but the lessons of Vaactash would never leave her. His words were as ingrained into Makeda as the code itself. It had been ten years since her grandfather’s death under the tusks of a great beast of the plains, but she still found herself calling upon his wisdom during times of struggle. She was the archdomina now and had led her house through countless battles. The Swords of Balaash were sheathed at her side. Slivers of her grandfather’s sacral stone were among those empowering the mighty blades, and though only an extoller could contact the exalted dead, Makeda always felt as though Vaactash was there to guide her with his wisdom.

“Archdomina, I fear the news is grim. Three more western houses have fallen before the invader from the west. Two of the southern houses have bent their knee and offered fealty rather than fight. The ranks of the invader’s army have swollen with troops.”

“The invader is like nothing we have ever seen before. He has crushed every cohort that has stood in his way.”

The council chamber of House Balaash was silent as the words sunk in. Makeda walked away from her advisors and across the Balaash glyph that adorned the floor. The stain had been scrubbed clean over a generation before, but she could still sense a chill on the spot where her nameless brother had died so long before.

The word from the western tors had been troubling, but this new information was even worse. The divided houses were being systematically conquered. It was as Vaactash had spoken of so long ago. There were lands beyond theirs and now a warrior of incomprehensible power had come from those lands, systematically subjugating her people.

“We are the last great house standing in his way…” one of her tyrants said.

And should we fall, all our people will be dominated.

“What is the name of this
conqueror?
”

“They say he is called Vinter Raelthorne.”

Walking slowly, Makeda went to the window and looked toward the west. Ominous clouds had gathered over the plains. The honor of House Balaash — the honor of all skorne —lay heavy on her shoulders. It was times like this that tested a warrior’s dedication to the code.

Grandfather, what would you have me do?