Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) (6 page)

Vaactash chuckled. “Perhaps … Perhaps I am just an old warrior in his waning days and my mind tends to wander toward abstract thoughts. You have learned of
how
our ancestors fought, but now you must truly understand
why
.” His voice grew dangerously low. “Only through conflict can we become pure, and only the pure can be exalted. This is why we fight. This is why we always
must
fight. Strife is our only opportunity to avoid being cast into the Void. Our entire society is based upon this.”

Makeda bowed, thankful for the wisdom the archdominar had shared.

“Do you know what the foulest, most evil idea in the world is, Makeda?”

She shook her head. “Peace.” Vaactash spat the word out, as if it tasted foul on his tongue.

She knew the word, but peace was a difficult, abstract concept to her. “That is not our way.”

“Correct, but it is a tempting one. I know you do not understand this now, but you may when you are older. Those of the lower castes can seldom achieve exaltation, so the ideal appeals to many of them. Sometimes, the idea of
peace
may even corrupt some of our own caste.”

“I cannot conceive of this.”

“Of course there are times when a house is not making war. There are consolations after conquest, or when a house bides its time waiting for an opportunity to strike, and during such there is a lack of conflict, but it is certainly not
peace
. No. There is always another rising power, or a strong leader who becomes weak and must be cast down, or even the old being toppled by the young. You see, our caste must have something to strive against. It betters us. It completes us. Strife must be embraced.”

He had never spoken so freely before, and Makeda tried her best to absorb her grandfather’s wisdom.

“For every house I have imposed my dominion upon, I must constantly prove my worth, or I will be replaced by someone more worthy. Ultimately, it is possible for a conqueror to unite all of our caste beneath one banner. Even then, there would be strife among our caste, for we are like the great sea beast, and to cease striving is to perish.”

“I understand, Grandfather.”

“Do you, Makeda? Fools often mistake this tempting concept of peace with the similar concept of surrender. They would live without strife. There are many who feel as if being born into the warrior caste should be enough to earn exaltation. They would see an end to war so they could grow fat and soft, and yet somehow escape the Void. So few of us can be exalted, it is vital that only the greatest achieve this.”

“That is what the code dictates. It would not be right for anyone to achieve exaltation without sufficient struggle.” The blasphemous idea shocked Makeda and filled her with anger. “Why, then the weak would be saved while superior warriors would be cast into the Void!”

“Indeed. You must ponder on these things.” Vaactash regarded her solemnly. “A warrior’s thoughts must remain open to ideas beyond what they have been taught. Akkad is cunning, and his mind is quick, but it is dangerous to entertain new ideas without governing them against principles of honor. 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.”

“I will serve House Balaash as the code dictates and when Akkad is archdominar, I will serve him. I promise.”

“A warrior does not need to promise, Makeda. The mere act of saying a thing will be done means that it will. To our caste, the act of saying and doing are the same. I have no doubt as to your loyalty to our house and for that I am glad you were Second Born.” Vaactash smiled. It was a rare expression. “Enough of an old warrior’s ramblings. That will be all.” He turned and went back to admiring his soon to be tomb. “You are dismissed.”

“You are dismissed.”

Makeda bowed low. “Yes, Archdominar Akkad.”

She stood. Only a few of the warriors assembled in the great tent met her gaze, and those were warriors she had trained with or who had served under her grandfather. There were too many new faces amongst the leaders of House Balaash. Makeda turned and walked quickly for the flap. More than anything, she wanted to be outside, away from whispering nest of razor worms. Her brother seemed pleased at the show of subservience, but Makeda noted that Abaish of the paingivers was whispering secrets into his ear before she had even made it outside.

Makeda took a deep breath of the cool night air and savored being alive.

Grandfather, what would you have me do?

The surviving remnants of her own decurium had not yet arrived. It would take them hours to catch up to the nimble ferox that had carried her here. Despite their great victory, she already knew there would be no conquerors’ welcome for them. They had been a sacrifice sufficient to avoid suspicion, for why would an archdominar throw away troops? Surely, Akkad had meant for her and her token army to die on the plains, killed by Muzkaar hands and not by his treachery.

Her body still ached from the day’s battle. Though she had been able to stave off serious injury by shoving it off to her cyclops, the pain remained. Makeda remembered her training and welcomed the pain. Morkaash, the first of the paingivers, had learned that suffering could lead to enlightenment. She accepted this truth. Once pain was understood, even welcomed, it could provide clarity of thought.

Makeda needed clarity right then.

With thousands of warriors present, the encampment seemed unnaturally still. The sudden, dishonorable death of Telkesh hung like a fog over the warriors. The only noise came from the nearby pens, as the enslaved warbeasts shuffled and grunted and fed. This encampment had been set up while she had been marching to her intended execution, so it took her a few minutes to find the tent of Telkesh. The archdominar’s banners were missing, surely taken to adorn Akkad’s own. Telkesh’s tent was dark.

A few of her father’s longtime slaves remained outside it, kneeling in the sand, wailing and gnashing their teeth at the loss of their master. Makeda stepped around their prostate forms. There was a great pile of ash where they had burned Telkesh and a few of his servants in a mighty funeral pyre.

“It is already done?” Makeda whispered.

One of the slaves looked up at the sound of her voice. He squinted in the dark. “Makeda lives?”

“It is I.” She recognized the slave but had never bothered to learn the name of someone from such a low caste. “Why was my father burned so quickly?” she demanded.

The slave looked away in fear. “The new archdominar declared that the disease could spread through the camp.”

Makeda gritted her teeth. This was an added insult to the memory of her father. “Tell me of this mystery illness. What were the symptoms?”

“It was as sudden as lightning on the wastes. We had just broken camp and set out on the day’s march when the master felt a pain in his stomach. It radiated out to his limbs and he complained of tingling and weakness. Soon, he was unable to march or even stay in a saddle. He was overcome with fever, and then madness and seizures. I was there. He twitched and jerked so much that I could not even get water past his lips.”

The description reminded Makeda of something she had read in the family histories … “And the chirugeons?”

The slave pointed to a nearby pile of rocks that she had not noticed. It was an accepted form of execution. Place the condemned beneath a board, and then slowly pile rocks upon it all day until they were eventually crushed flat. It was an agonizing and slow method of execution, and thus one of the favorites of her people. “Tormentor Abaish was displeased with their failure.”

“I see. Did the chirugeons speak with anyone before their execution? Did they speak with any of my father’s retainers?”

“Besides Abaish and the new archdominar?” the slave shook his head. “A few, but all of them were given the honor of going into the fire to accompany Telkesh on his journey into the Void.” He trembled in fear. Makeda realized she had unconsciously placed her hand on her sword as if she were about to draw it. She let go of the hilt.

“What is your name, slave?”

“Kuthsheth, personal servant of Telkesh, and Vaactash before him.”

“Bring me the servants that prepared Telkesh’s meal that morning.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot. They too were cast into the fire.”

Makeda’s hands curled into fists. She remembered now what she had read years ago in the family histories about one particularly dishonorable ancestor, a tyrant who had used poison to remove threats to his rule.

Murder was not unknown amongst her caste, but it was frowned upon. Being caught at it would bring shame to your house, but that did not mean it did not happen anyway. A people that lived in a state of constant warfare had to find a balance between honor and the more pragmatic matters of house politics, but even then, a house lord deserved to die by the blade. It was possible Akkad had been impatient to assume his mantle and poisoned their father. However, Telkesh was of the warrior caste, and had proven himself as a mighty Cataphract in Vaactash’s armies. Poison was meant for sick animals and slaves who had ceased to be useful, not for house lords. Poison was a terrible, shameful way to die, and the most dishonorable way to kill.

Makeda had one final question, but it was not one that could be answered here.

“I speak out of turn, but your father will be missed.” Kuthsheth said. “I was a soldier once. When Telkesh defeated my village, and I was taken prisoner I believed my life to be through, but Telkesh was an honorable master. I am consigned to whatever fate you would have of me, but I am thankful that my children will have the opportunity to rise to a higher caste in the greatest house of all, Balaash.”

Telkesh had been a strict devotee of the code of hoksune. Surely, he had proven his worthiness, so why had he been robbed of his Exaltation? Having no doubt that she was being watched by Akkad’s spies, Makeda knelt as if she was paying her respects to the pile of ash. She kept her voice low. “Kuthsheth, I have two tasks of you. You will take word to my cohort. Seek out Primus Zabalam. Tell him my orders are to stop where they are now. They are not to enter this encampment. But first you will go now in secret and find the extoller Haradum. Tell her, and only her, that I have need of her, and that she will speak to no one about this. She must meet
me …”
Makeda needed someplace within in the camp where she would not be easily spotted or overheard. “Tell her to be at the beast pens at midnight.”

The titans were nervous.

Something was in the air, and it was not just the stink of the massive warbeasts.

Makeda sat in the shadows, wrapped in a cloak. The encampment’s beast pens were a hurried affair of boards and serrated wire, in no way sufficient to hold an excited titan. But these beasts had been subjugated and broken. They would do as the barbed whips of the beast handlers demanded. The fences only kept them from wandering too far. Titans were relatively smart animals, but they were still animals.

The herbivores would graze along the march, but it was too dangerous to let them graze on the open plains while in enemy territory. A titan was a considerable investment of a house’s resources, so at night they were kept inside the encampments. Slaves had brought in tons of feed for the beasts, so Makeda had hidden herself between a haystack and the fence.

They did not look so dangerous without all of their armor, but Makeda knew better. In the distance, the camp’s lone bronzeback scratched itself against a nearby post. The post was thick and had been set deep into the ground by slaves just for that purpose. The alpha titan’s rough grey hide turned the post into splinters with in few minutes. Born in the wild, there was no such thing as a tame bronzeback, only one that was temporarily compliant because of an exhaustive regimen of carefully regulated abuse. There were paingivers watching it even now, because a single enraged bronzeback could cause unspeakable damage.

In the morning the beasts would be dressed in armor, and the pain compliance hooks would be driven into the most sensitive parts of their flesh, all in order to make them more efficient weapons and stores of mortitheurgeal energy. But for tonight, the itch finally satisfied, that particular beast lay down to sleep, surely to dream of grass and cows.

Makeda reached out and touched the great bronzeback’s mind with her own. “Sleep well, great one. For tomorrow House Balaash may have need of your might.”

A keening wail caused Makeda to shudder. The titans looked up from their chewing. A nearby Agonizer had begun its piteous mewling. Thankfully, it fell silent after a few moments, and the titans returned to their hay. That was lucky. Nobody wanted to listen to an Agonizer all night. She continued to scan for threats, but could see nothing. The occasional guard passed by, but she remained unseen.

Makeda had gone into Telkesh’s tent and found a dark cloak. She had then slipped out the back. Hopefully, if Akkad was having her watched, then the spies would still be watching the tent. The warrior caste did not waste time mourning, but it was not unheard of to spend time meditating upon the deeds of the deceased.

However, Makeda needed to focus on the problems of the present, not dwell on the past.