Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) (8 page)

Makeda still could not speak. She put one bloody hand on Zabalam’s head. It left a red print once she took it away. Urkesh climbed up behind her.

“You always were my best student. Now go!” He stuck the ferox on the rump with the hilt of a sword. The predator lurched away in an ungainly run.

Makeda looked back to see Zabalam striding toward the rushing host of guards, arms extended, displaying his swords proudly. “I am Primus Zabalam of the Praetorian, sword master of House Balaash, student of exalted Vaactash, and I fight to defend Makeda, the
true
heir of Telkesh! Who among you is stupid enough to contend with me?”

About half the guards froze, torn and unsure, but the other half attacked.

“Come then!” There was a flurry of motion as Zabalam struck back against overwhelming odds.

It was a single perfect moment of all that it meant to follow the code of hoksune, but then the ferox darted around a tent and Zabalam disappeared from Makeda’s sight.

“Ride! That way.” Urkesh pointed with his reiver. The Venator had obviously never ridden a ferox before and was doing his best to hold on. Makeda kicked the predator in the ribs and turned it with her knees. There was a huge crash as the enraged titan slammed through a tent and appeared in front of them, a bloodrunner stuck on one of its tusks. Urkesh shouted in surprise right in her ear. The ferox bounded around the titan in two leaps, avoiding the beast handlers who were trying to bring the titan under control.

More horns sounded. Officers stood at the corners, waving torches and repeating Akkad’s proclamation that Makeda was a traitor to House Balaash and had to be captured. Yet as the ferox loped through the camp, many soldiers saw her, but did not move to intercept. Enough others did, however, that escape did not look likely.

Cataphract moved ahead of her, war spears leveled. She struck the ferox and it turned, sliding through the grass, only seconds away from being impaled upon a wall of spears. A brief sprint and another corner took them into more swordsmen. One tried to stab the ferox, but it simply lunged forward, sank its huge teeth into a shoulder, and shook him to death. Another soldier came from behind but Urkesh shredded him with a reiver burst.

Soldiers loyal to Akkad were moving throughout the camp, shouting for the traitor Makeda’s blood. “We’re not going to make it,” Urkesh stated.

Makeda knew the Venator was right. They would be surrounded, cut off, and brought down. Unless …

The titan she had bonded with was occupied, so Makeda reached for the spirit of the great titan bronzeback she had connected with so briefly earlier. He was still there, snoring peacefully through the pandemonium now engulfing the encampment. The petty games of the skorne didn’t matter to the mighty bronzeback. He existed only for the next challenge or the next cow. Makeda tapped into her power and awoke the bronzeback from its slumber. Bonding to such a potent beast, especially after such a fleeting contact, would be a great challenge. It took all of her effort, but Makeda pushed hard against his mind. His spirit was great, but simple, and she awoke its natural rage, in fact, she ignited it and set it free.

A terrible roar shook the entire encampment. Every skorne for miles all looked in the same direction at the same time. The ferox slid to a trembling halt. “What in the name of the ancestors was
that?
”

Our escape,
Makeda thought, but it was too difficult to speak.

The enraged bronzeback let its feelings be known by picking up another titan and throwing it across the encampment. The vast animal blotted out one of the three moons for a moment as it passed overhead. The titan’s landing shook the foundations of the world and nearly knocked over their mount. Makeda did not need to kick the ferox in order to make it run this time.

They bounded past Akkad’s soldiers, knocking down a distracted Cataphract, as the bronzeback rampaged through the camp. Then they were out on the open plains and fleeing into the unknown.

The pain began in her ribs and radiated out from there. At first it was a tingling in her nerves, and then a tightness of the muscles, and then an arcing lightning through the veins and arteries. Her mortitheurgy identified the cause quickly. The bloodrunner’s daggers had been treated with a strong poison, but she was overcome so quickly there was nothing she could do but scream.

Every move of the ferox sent pain rippling through her body. Every jolt and bounce caused joints to grind as if filled with broken glass. The air in her lungs bubbled like acid, eating away at her flesh.

The midnight plains faded into darkness as she was robbed of her sight. She could no longer control their steed. Her limbs would not respond to her commands, and every effort at making them work increased the pain.

This was more than poison. This was a living thing, born to cause suffering.

At one point she slipped from the saddle and crashed into the dirt. It felt cushioned compared to the pain cascading through her body, but even then, the poison discovered this small bit of relief and extinguished it. The ground seemed to become hotter until every bit of clinging dirt burned like lava. Urkesh lifted her back onto the ferox. He said something about pursuers, but it was hard to hear over the hurricane in her ears. The pain caused her to hallucinate and his fingers pierced her skin like the needles of his reiver.

The pain went on and on. Time lost all meaning. Reality was replaced with a world that was nothing but agony, and somehow Makeda knew she was dangling by a thread over the Void. All she had to do was cut that tiny string of life and she could plunge into the Void. It was cold in the Void, but the cold would extinguish the fire which was consuming her. She could see her father within the Void. The poison, the evil, sentient
thing
, had done the same to him, until he had cut the thread and welcomed the nothing.

Somehow the pain became worse, and through it all, the only bit of the real world that remained with her was the presence of the Swords of Balaash, and the tiny sliver of her grandfather’s spirit which fueled them. Despite the agony, her exalted ancestors were still there. They helped her understand.

This poison was designed to kill mortitheurges, brewed to unravel bodies, corrupt wills, and break minds. Normal poison was useless against someone who could stall death or manipulate blood and tissue. How could she fight such an enemy? She reached for her Power, but it was swept aside by the crashing waves of agony. The harder she tried, the more pain it inflicted on her as punishment. It whispered that only the cool Void could save her.

Suddenly a gigantic black stone statue towered over her, offering a path away from the Void. The stylized face of Vaactash did not move as the thought hammered its way through her mind. “What is it that you whisper to yourself, child, when the pain becomes too much?”

And then the words were there.

Suffering cleanses the weakness from my being. Adhere to the code and I will become worthy.

The suffering was the key. She could not reach her Power because she was weak.

Her Power was still there, still ready to be utilized, she only needed to be strong enough to take it. She had to go through the pain, through the unraveling of mind and spirit. Let death come. Let her heart stop, but in that brief time while hurtling toward the Void, she would take what was rightfully hers.

Makeda welcomed the poison and told it to do its worst, for she was skorne, and she would
never
break.

The pain was gone. Now there was only the memory of pain.

Where am I?

The walls were made of rock, chipped and chiseled until it was in the semblance of a room. A single lantern hung from a brass fitting sunk into the wall, leaving most of the space hidden in darkness.

Is this a dungeon? Have I been captured?

Yet when she moved, she discovered that she was not in chains. She felt the cold stone floor beneath her palm before realizing her body was resting on a pile of dark furs. Her armor was missing and she wore only a thin grey robe. She noticed a bloodstained cloth nearby, and resting upon it was a multitude of tools, tiny blades, pliers, hooks and barbs, needles and thread, bottles of potions, and bags of herbs. Though similar, these were not the injury causing tools of a tormentor, but rather the injury repairing tools of a chirurgeon. Bandages pulled as she tried to sit up. Someone had tended to her many wounds.

Where are my swords?
There was a brief flash of panic before she spotted them, sheathed and leaning against the wall. Makeda breathed a sigh of relief. Death was far preferable to losing her family swords.
Thank the ancestors.

Something stirred in the darkness. There was a shape there, and it took Makeda a moment to make out the silhouette of a skorne in the light armor of the Venator, with a reiver resting on his lap.

Her throat ached. “Where am I?” The words came out so raspy that Makeda did not recognize her own voice. It did not feel like just the whip, but rather that her throat was raw and parched, as if she had been yelling for hours.

The warrior in the shadows stood quickly. “She is awake,” he spoke loudly, his voice seeming to echo through the chamber. “Makeda is alive.”

“I tire of hearing that said as if it is some sort of surprise.” Speaking hurt. She welcomed the minor pain as it helped clear the sleep from her mind. She had seen real agony, from now on minor pain would merely be another tool. “What is going on?” Makeda pushed herself up, but the effort made her head swim.

The figure in the dark had been Urkesh, and he rushed to her side. “Do not struggle.” He caught her by the shoulders and lowered her back to the furs. It was an insult to have someone of a lower caste touch her without permission, but it was obvious no offense was intended. “Those assassin’s blades were poisoned. You nearly died.”

Poison …
a weapon of cowards and traitors. “Akkad. He poisoned Telkesh.”

There were other voices inside the cavern. Armored footsteps echoed. More figures appeared. She should have been able to recognize them, but her vision seemed blurry. However, they were wearing the colors of House Balaash. Some of them were bearing their own lanterns, and now she could see the room was larger than expected, with windows covered in thick brown curtains. A small hunched figure moved between the much larger skorne. “They are aware. I told them. Most even believed.”

Haradum?
“So you survived the assassins, elder teacher. Good.”

“I followed your cohort for days, even after Akkad’s loyalists gave up the chase.”

“Days?” Her body felt weak, but she did not feel like she had been asleep for days. “How long have I been ill?”

“Ten days and ten nights. I believe it was the same poison which felled mighty Telkesh. The others thought you had died.” The old extoller came closer and placed one cold hand on Makeda’s forehead. The crystal oculus stared down at her. “But I could see that your essence had not yet left your body. You would not allow death to claim you ... It seems the last of the fever has passed. You must rest. The flesh needs time to heal.”

“The flesh will do as I tell it to.” Makeda rubbed her eyes. Her vision was improving. Now she could recognize many of the other figures as officers of her father’s army. Their faces were grim, their white eyes reflective in the glow of the lanterns. “Where am I?”

“The Shroudwall Mountains,” Urkesh answered. “We were fleeing Akkad’s army and needed a place to hide.”

“This is an old fortress. The mountain passes are extremely difficult to cross,” stated one of the warriors, who Makeda recognized as a veteran Cataphract of her father’s cohort. “Your army is safe here until you decide it is time for us to mobilize.”

My army?
All that had remained of her small cohort had been a few battered taberna, and many wounded. This time Makeda focused through the dizziness and forced herself to sit up. Urkesh was there, ready to help, but she ignored him. She placed her hands on the stone and forced herself upright. Her knees nearly buckled, but she would not show weakness before these warriors. “What army do you speak of?”

The Cataphract nodded to the side. One of his soldiers rushed to the nearest curtain and drew it back. Cold night air flooded into the room. “While you were taken with the fever, they gathered.”

Though curious, Makeda first walked slowly to the side and retrieved the Swords of Balaash. The scabbards felt good in her hands. Only then did she go to the window. Her steps were slow, unsteady. Her muscles quivered with weakness, but she would not show it. The cold air cut through her thin robes and she began to shiver uncontrollably. She had lost weight and knew she had to look like a spirit that had escaped from the Void.