The Silent Army (10 page)

Currently there were several boats along the docks. Some were small. A few were impressively large. They could have potential.

There were also many people along the shoreline, most looking toward Tusk and his people. Perhaps a hundred of them appeared armed. The rest stood in their crowds and looked on, faces painted with dread. It was not an expression Tusk was used to, but he understood the meaning. They thought they were going to die and that there was nothing they could do about it.

There was no thrill in that sort of enemy, only a mild contempt.

When he got closer, a small contingency broke away and approached. “You wish to take the city?” one asked. His language might be different but the meaning was plain enough.

Tusk contemplated answering the man in one of his own tongues, but decided he was not in the mood to toy with them. He said in the tongue of the Fellein, “I am here for your city and all that is inside it. I do not care if you wish to fight or if you wish to surrender.”

“We are just fishermen and merchants.” The man who spoke to him had leathery skin and hair that had been bleached blonde by the sun. His eyes were blue and he stared at Tusk with a wince on his face, as if he already knew that whatever arguments they might make, Tusk and his people would answer with steel. “We do not wish to die.”

“My god does not believe in mercy.”

The man looked him up and down for a long moment. “Who is your god?”

“Durhallem. The Wounder. The Unforgiving. He is a god of war, and he is the god of obsidian and his way is the way of combat.”

“Durhallem does not accept surrender as an option?”

“No.”

“Will you wait here for a few moments? I would discuss with my people.” It was a different sort of request. Normally people tended to beg or to fight. Either way, they were met with the same answer. Durhallem did not take prisoners.

“You may discuss the situation among yourselves. If you attempt to attack, we will kill you.”

The tanned man looked at him. “You are four times my size. I am carrying a skinning knife that I do not think would even part the fur on your… on whatever beast you ride. There will be no treachery.”

Tusk nodded and leaned back in his seat, wishing that Stastha were here to see this. She would have had a few sharp comments and would have made him laugh.

After nearly ten minutes the man came back. “We wish to join you and follow Durhallem.”

Tusk leaned back a bit more. “Repeat that.”

“We wish to join you and follow Durhallem.”

Behind him a few of the other Sa’ba Taalor talked among themselves. They did not speak the Fellein tongue and could not understand what caused Tusk’s expression. They merely knew that he was surprised.

“In all my years none have ever made this offer.”

“In all my years I have never had the followers of a war god come to my doorstep.”

“True enough.”

Tusk spoke to Durhallem and his god spoke back.

“Durhallem would require a test. A proof of your loyalty to him.”

“What would he require?”

What indeed?

Tusk asked and Durhallem answered.

The king nodded. His god was wise.

“Do you have a forge here? A metal worker’s forge?”

The tanned man nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

Tusk nodded in turn. “There will be a test of loyalty. Also, you will need weapons.”

“Weapons?”

“A god of war does not ask that you follow with kindness in your heart. The Wounder will make great demands of you and you will have to prove yourselves in combat. Do you understand this?”

“What do we get from Durhallem in return?”

“Prove your loyalty and the Wounder will tell you himself.”

“The god would speak to me personally?”

Tusk nodded. “The god would speak to all of you. All of the followers of Durhallem have heard from the Wounder and follow him by choice. We are born to this. This, what you ask, it is a new thing and requires… improvisation. You must show your loyalty. Then you can speak to Durhallem. Then you will have the chance to join his brethren under my command.”

“And what is your name?”

“I am Tuskandru, King in Obsidian and Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem.”

“You are a king?” He sounded surprised.

“What else would I be?”

“I thought perhaps a general.”

“I am a king. In the army of Durhallem I am also the general.”

“Ah. I see.”

Tusk, who knew what Durhallem had in mind, nodded. “You will. Soon enough you will.”

As they moved along, the hundred or so with weapons very carefully set them aside. It was one thing to attack and defend if you had to, but the word had already spread, and the invaders were so very large in comparison. And so very many.

Tuskandru’s army numbered in the thousands, and even the children who walked with them were armed and looked ready to kill.

Tusk gestured to a small girl who was lean and hard and looked like she might have been from Fellein, save for the scars on her body and the slightly feral way she stared at everyone. The tanned man looked at her with a worried expression.

“Mendt.” The girl moved closer. “Gather coins. One for each of the people in this town.” He looked at the crowd that was now moving cautiously along the edges of the Sa’ba Taalor.

For their part the followers of Durhallem noticed the people and remained prepared. Sooner or late everyone encountered the followers of Wrommish and learned that even a small person without a weapon could be deadly.

“What is your name?” Tusk spoke to the tanned man.

“Bram Littner.”

“Bram Littner, tell your people to each offer one coin to Mendt and the others with her. It does not matter what size coin. The value is of no concern.”

Bram nodded. He held up his hands and called out loudly in his tongue and Tusk listened. A moment later he sent Mendt on her way and told her to gather the coins and to choose others to help her. Being a wise young warrior, she chose several skilled fighters to back her. It was not that she could not handle herself, it was rather that the coins would be heavy and she wanted to share the burden with others who could carry it.

It was almost an hour later when the column stopped at the small forge and settled down. The people of the city were surrounded by Tuskandru’s Sa’ba Taalor. Mendt had collected an impressive number of coins.

“Bram Littner, are you a leader of your people?”

Bram nodded his head and worried at his lower lip.

“Then you will lead in what comes next. You will feel pain. Life is pain. Try not to scream.”

Bram looked at him and nodded again. He was very scared. He had right to be.

“This thing you do, it has never been done before. You understand this? Those whom the Wounder chooses to fight die. This is… This is as close to mercy as I have ever seen from my god. This is a rare blessing.”

Tusk plucked the first coin from the collection. It was a large coin and golden.

“You would follow Durhallem in the ways of war? You would become a disciple of the Wounder?”

“Aye. Yes, I would.”

Tusk nodded his head and placed the coin firmly against Bram’s head. “Do not move. This is your test. This is how you prove yourself to your new god.” Even as he spoke, he placed one hand against the back of Bram’s skull. With the other, he pushed the gold coin against Bram’s forehead.

For Bram and his people it must have been a momentous thing, but for the followers of Durhallem, miracles were not uncommon. The metal glowed hot against Tusk’s hand but he was not burned. Instead all of the heat seared into Bram’s forehead and the metal fused with the flesh. Skin burned and metal ran and Bram screamed. He did not stand still but tried to fight, as was to be expected. Two of Tusk’s followers grabbed the man’s arms and held him as still as they could while he bucked and howled and roared in agony.

Tusk stepped back and nodded, pleased with his work. The men who held Bram let him go, setting him on the ground instead of letting him fall.

All around them the people of the town murmured and tried to retreat, but it was too late for that. They were completely surrounded by the Sa’ba Taalor.

Tusk spoke loudly, roaring to be heard over the noises of the crowd. “This is the price you must pay! If you would follow a god you must make sacrifices!”

Bram stood. The gold of the coin was fused with his flesh. The metal was flush with his forehead and ran in swirls. Though his skin was burned, it was clear that the redness and even the bleeding was fading away.

The gold of the coin was not perfectly round, but had melted and smeared as it was held in place. There was a pattern there. A thick line ran through the melted lump.

Bram spoke up. “I have felt pain, but it’s gone now. I am not injured.” He sounded surprised. Several of the city dwellers came closer and looked at his face, frowning.

He said softly, “This is how we survive the day. This is how we learn to know a god. We must do this. As we discussed.”

The next to come forward was a portly woman. Her hands held on to the hands of two children.

“Must we all do this thing?” She did not ask Bram. She asked Tuskandru.

“Pain, or death. All must choose.”

Tears glistened at her eyes, but she did not move away. “We will be healed? Like Bram?”

“Yes. Durhallem demands a sacrifice, but he does not demand a life of misery. You must be tested. This is the test.”

She looked to her children and spoke solemnly. “I will go first, but if we are to be together you must do this thing. It will hurt, but I will be here for you.”

They were young. The oldest perhaps five years.

They watched and screamed as their mother was marked.

She watched and held them as each of her children endured the same.

Each person in the town was marked by Tusk, save a few that foolishly tried to escape.

They were struck down quickly and their bodies were laid out beside the forge for all to see.

As he made his mark upon the town, the fire in the forge glowed brighter and brighter.

The processing of every member of the town took most of the day and the following night.

Through it all Tusk spoke to the new disciples of Durhallem. He remained a calm, strong voice in a nearly endless series of screams.

After they were touched by Durhallem’s gift the people of the town were allowed to rest. Most gathered together in the area around the forge. Some wandered back to their homes, as once they had been tested they were free to do.

When the next morning finally came around, the people who had been marked by Durhallem were gathered together again.

They had been tested. Afterward, they were given the blessing of Durhallem and allowed to speak to a god.

None of them were unchanged by the meeting. Each of them was made to reach into the blazing coals of the forge to receive Durhallem’s blessing.

Captain Callan woke up in the small cell and groaned. Every part of him hurt, but especially the wound where they’d pulled the arrow from his leg.

There had been a brief moment when he thought he and his crew would escape the gray-skins. That moment was crushed when the great black ship cut his little vessel in half. Each of the black ships, in addition to being nearly impossibly large, also had sharpened metal along the keel. That metal destroyed wood with ease and his little ship was no exception.

Wounded as he was, he thought he was a certain candidate for death, but the Sa’ba Taalor came down and grabbed him.

The woman who came for him was lean and hard and heavily scarred. She pulled the arrow from his leg and lifted him like he was a child. When he tried to struggle she put him down and beat him until he thought his seams would split.

When he came to, he was in the cell, three sides wood and one iron bars.

“You are alive and awake. This is good.” The voice was heavily accented.

It was not the same woman who’d bested him so easily. This one was scarier. She wore cloth pants and a leather vest over a white shirt. The fabric was made to breathe and hung loosely except where she had pulled the fabric tight with leather straps to hold the sheaths for her knives. She sported several knives along her arms. Her mouth was scarred in several spots, and her skin was dark gray and seemed almost corpselike. Her eyes glowed in the semi-darkness of the ship’s hold. On the top of her head a deep blue scarf ran around her hair, binding it, and then dropped along her back. The scarf was tied to her waistline loosely allowing her to move her head easily.

It seemed an elaborate effort, but he decided not to focus on that. Instead he looked carefully at the sword she was sporting.

“You are Callan?”

Callan nodded, suddenly very aware that he had to piss and that he was also extremely thirsty.

“I am Donaie Swarl; I am the King in Lead, Chosen of Wheklam.” The words meant nothing. She was obviously not a king. Kings had finery and were, as a rule, men. But she had a sword and that was enough for him to let her keep her delusions.

“Majesty.” He nodded his head. “I’m sorry, but who is Wheklam?”

“Wheklam is the god of the sea, and seafaring warriors.”

“I like him already.”

She nodded her head and crouched down until they were eye to eye. “He likes you, too. He favors you. Your crew is dead. They served me no purpose. Your ship is gone, as you tried to flee.”

He nodded his head. “Sorry about that. I thought you were trying to kill us.”

“We were.” Donaie, King of the Mad, nodded. “We would have killed you, too, but Wheklam said you had a purpose.”

“What purpose is that?”

“You can talk to the scarred people, yes?”

“Scarred like you?” He shook his head.

“No. The others. They… write on themselves. They carve words in their flesh.”

“Oh, yes. The Brellar. I speak their language.”

“Excellent!”

Without preamble she opened the door. Apparently it wasn’t locked. He hadn’t bothered to check, really, as the light shone through several portholes and trying to sneak off the ship would have required darkness. Still, in hindsight, he could have at least looked into the matter.