Forged In Flame (In Her Name: The First Empress, Book 2) (12 page)

“Thank you, mistress.” Dara-Kol bowed her head, then turned to lead Keel-Tath to the end of the corridor.

Keel-Tath found herself standing in front of a door that was at least as big as the one at the entrance to the great coliseum of the Desh-Ka temple. Unlike that door, which opened at the touch of a priest or priestess, this one required all of Dara-Kol’s considerable strength to swing open. When Keel-Tath touched the wood, she was shocked: it was completely petrified, the wood turned to stone.

This place is old, indeed
, she thought.

“We are in the foothills of the Kui’mar-Gol mountains,” Dara-Kol went on as she pushed the door open enough for them to squeeze through.

“In the Kui’mar-Gol?” Keel-Tath was shocked. It would have taken days to reach them from where they had started. “I was unconscious all that time?”

“Yes, mistress. Han-Ukha’i feared that you would die, so she kept your body in a deep sleep to rest and heal.”

“I had always wanted to ride to the mountains.” Like her other dreams, that one, too, small though it was, had been taken from her.

“You did not miss much, mistress, save the constant fear of being captured.”

“Shil-Wular pursued you?”

Dara-Kol shook her head. “No, the others drew him away to the south, where they were met by a full legion of the queen’s army. They died well, as warriors, even honorless ones, should.”

“How many of your warriors were there?”

“Enough.”

Dara-Kol stepped through the doorway. On the other side stood four warriors, also clearly honorless ones, for their armor was poorly fitted and badly maintained, their weapons poorly matched to their hands and bodies. 

As Keel-Tath stepped through, all four knelt as one and saluted her. 

She returned the salute, overcome by a sense of unreality. She was nothing but a genetic aberration, a child-warrior who had only faced a single Challenge. True, she had blooded her sword in battle at Ayan-Dar’s side, but she had no other honors, seen and done nothing yet in her life to distinguish herself. 

A sudden wave of anger rose within her, that these warriors, honorless ones or not, made their obeisance to her not because she had earned their respect, but because of what they believed she would someday become.

She said nothing as Dara-Kol led her up a set of curving steps, terribly worn by age, that widened as they rose higher, lined on both sides by torches on the walls.

At the top, they stepped out into a massive domed chamber. In the center was a huge fire pit that provided both warmth and illumination, the smoke wafting up through a fissure in the ceiling high above.

Keel-Tath stopped in her tracks at what she saw in the fire’s glow.

Facing her, in orderly rows every bit as precise as had been the disciples and acolytes of the Desh-Ka temple, knelt hundreds of warriors. They were unkempt, battered, and ill-equipped. Many bore the scars of improperly healed injuries, and some were missing limbs or eyes. It took Keel-Tath a moment to realize that they must be this way because there were no healers to tend them. But she could sense their pride in her blood. And love. It took her a moment to realize that it was directed toward her. 

There was another emotion, too, fluttering like the tiniest flame alight in a handful of tinder. 

Hope.

“I do not deserve this, Dara-Kol,” Keel-Tath whispered. “I am not worthy!”

Dara-Kol said nothing as she, too, knelt on the ancient stone floor at the side of her mistress. As one, the warriors, heads bowed, saluted Keel-Tath.

Somewhere deep in their ranks, a low voice began to speak:

Long dormant seed shall great fruit bear,

Crimson talons, snow-white hair.

Others quickly joined in, and by the end of the first verse, the words were spoken by hundreds, loud and strong:

In sun’s light, yet dark of heaven,

Not of one blood, but of seven.

Before she was conscious of it, Keel-Tath’s lips were moving as she joined the others in reciting the final verse of the ancient prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te, an oracle who had lived and died at the end of the Second Age, who had foretold Keel-Tath’s birth:

Souls of crystal, shall she wield,

From Chaos born, our future’s shield.

She was overwhelmed by the passion that had ignited in the hearts of these warriors as they recited the prophecy. The intensity of their emotions in her blood nearly drove her to her knees.

Yet she forced herself to stand tall, heartened more than she could have imagined by the words and feelings of this band of outcasts. She tried to remember all that Ayan-Dar had taught her, things that she had not understood at the time, that seemed of little value to the simple warrior she had wanted to be. She desperately needed his wisdom and strength now. Her heart ached in that moment as she thought of him, the old priest, the great warrior, who had given her so much, and whom she had, in her own way, betrayed by obeying her conscience.

When the echo of the final words faded away, the only sound in the chamber was the crackling of the flames in the fire pit. Keel-Tath tried to think of words to say, words that might grace a great leader’s lips, but at last decided that the only words that truly mattered were those spoken from the heart. 

“You believe that those words, written so long ago, foretold my birth. I stand before you now, with white hair and crimson talons, just as Anuir-Ruhal’te saw in her vision, but I cannot say that I yet believe it myself.” She took a step forward, drawing the sword from the scabbard on her back and holding it high. “What I do believe in is this. It is the sword of my father, the last master of Keel-A’ar, who was outcast and died at the hands of the Dark Queen.”

A low, ugly rumble echoed through the chamber at the mention of Syr-Nagath, and Keel-Tath felt a wave of black hatred and revulsion sweep through her blood from those before her.

“In all our long history have there been honorless ones, outcasts such as you…such as me. Those who have betrayed their honor, or been abandoned by their masters or orphaned by fate. Perhaps in past times those warriors truly were without honor, but not in this age, not in this time. The honorless ones are the Dark Queen and all who would do her bidding, who have fallen from the Way, whose hands are covered in the blood of the robed castes, of defenseless younglings in the creche. Honorless, too, are those who have the power to bring justice to the world, but who turn a blind eye to the darkness that blankets our world, and if left unchecked, will spread across the stars to the Settlements.” 

She paused, lowering her father’s sword from above her head to hold it out before her, laying the blade across her open left palm. “Many of you are victims of the Dark Queen’s evil. But if you have done wrong, if you fell from the grace of your master by your own hand, to you I say this: leave your sins behind and stand again upon the path that is the Way. Stand with me, and let us walk the path together. I have nothing to offer you, any of you, but the promise of painful suffering and death. But it will be a death with honor, a death — and life — with meaning. This I swear upon the names of my father and mother. Those who follow me may die, but they will never be forsaken!”

The roar that filled the chamber was deafening, just as their emotions were a tidal wave that washed through her blood. But this time she was more prepared, and she let the power of their feelings carry her higher, making her feel like she was a giant, like she could accomplish anything. 

A sudden hush fell over the assembly as a pair of warriors dashed into the chamber, having come from one of the six other corridors that were like spokes from the main chamber. They fell to their knees at Keel-Tath’s feet and saluted. 

“My mistress,” one of them gasped, “they are coming!”

Dara-Kol rose to her feet and demanded, “Who? Who is coming?”

“Warriors of the Dark Queen!”

“How many?” By Keel-Tath’s count, there was roughly a cohort of warriors here, about five hundred, perhaps more. She knew they were not as well organized or equipped as the warriors who served Syr-Nagath, but they had something the queen’s warriors did not: a cause truly worth fighting for.

“A full legion approaches, mistress. Their foot warriors are yet distant, but a mounted cohort is nearly upon us!”

“Her warriors approach both the main and mountain entrances,” said the second warrior. “We are trapped.”

The hopes that Keel-Tath had that they might be able to stand and fight vanished. They could easily hold off a cohort and perhaps manage a victory. But they could not stand against the six thousand warriors of a full legion, and it sounded as if the enemy had them boxed in. She looked at Dara-Kol. “How did they find us?”

“They are led by honorless ones,” the first of the two scouts said through gritted teeth. “We have been betrayed.”

CHAPTER TEN

Call Of The Ancients

Keel-Tath felt a rising sense of panic among the warriors as word spread that one of the queen’s legions was approaching. 

“Can our warriors escape?” She asked Dara-Kol.

Dara-Kol made a slight motion with her head. No. “Not with this many,” she said quietly, “not if the queen’s warriors are in position to block the two main entrances.”

“There is no chance?” Flames of anger, of rage, roiled in Keel-Tath’s heart. For the first time since they had fallen from grace, the warriors who still knelt before her had been given hope. She had been given hope, not just that she might survive, but that she could do some good for her kind. Now, even before she had a chance to learn any of their names, that hope had been stripped away.

“A small group might escape, but even that is along a perilous route that only I myself have dared.”

Keel-Tath’s eyes burned with defiance. “I will not leave them.” She looked upon the warriors who had declared their honor and their lives to her will. They were the dregs and scum of society, not even worth killing, for there was no honor in hunting honorless ones. They were killed when they attacked the “honorable” members of their society. Now she knew that they did not do so because they were simple barbarians or spiritual deviants, but because they were desperate and had nothing to lose in pursuit of their own survival.

Dara-Kol reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “You must, my mistress. Or all that we have done, the many warriors who sacrificed their lives so that you could escape from Shil-Wular, will have been in vain.”

Keel-Tath turned to face a warrior who had come to kneel directly before her. She could tell from the length of his braids that he was old, possibly even as old as Ayan-Dar. His face had been terribly burned, and three fingers of his left hand were gone. He looked up at her with his disfigured face, and she felt from him…serenity. 

He reached out and took her hand, then said, “We would die, mistress, all of us, that you may live.” He smiled in a kindly way, and she gripped his hand harder. He reminded her so much of Ayan-Dar in the way he spoke, in the song of his blood. “Do not mourn or pity us, for you have given us a means to redeem ourselves, to return to the Way that I so long ago departed. I feel you in my blood, as do the others here. All of us are descended from the Desh-Ka, and all of us heard your cries when you emerged from your mother’s womb, and when your father and mother were killed.” He must have read the disbelief in her expression, and he smiled with worn-down, yellowed fangs. “The song of your blood is very different, mistress. All have felt it, but not all understood what it was, or what it meant. Dara-Kol told us your name as she spread the word of the prophecy among the honorless ones, but we knew of you long before then. Yes, we knew of you.”

“Those of us here,” said another, a female warrior, “are only a few who have heard the word of your coming, mistress, who sensed you in our blood. Many more across this land and beyond the seas know of you, and will heed your call and command.” She drew her sword and held it up in both hands. “We will die this day with honor, in your name.”

The other warriors, who had fallen silent as the words of the two warriors echoed through the chamber, drew their swords, as well, holding them up in their hands. “In your name!”

“Go then,” Keel-Tath said, barely able to choke out the words. She was trembling with the power of their emotions surging through her. “Die this day with honor, warriors. And know that you will never be forgotten. Never.”

As one, they saluted, and she returned it. Then, with a few shouted commands, they stood and began to quickly file down two of the tunnels. They held their heads high and their shoulders squared, for this last day the prideful warriors they had once been.

Keel-Tath could feel the joy in their hearts. The fear had been driven out. They had not been afraid to die, for that was the way of a warrior. But they had been afraid to die without their honor. She had given them that much. Were there any gods to pray to, she would have, that their souls would rest in the light and not the darkness. But there were no gods any longer, and so she merely hoped.

In her own heart was a pride so great that she felt she would burst, and sadness that she had not known them better, had never touched their souls save for the whispers of their songs in her blood. 

As the warriors cleared the chamber, she saw that seven had remained, including the two who escorted Han-Ukha’i, who also remained. The eight of them drew close to her and Dara-Kol.

“I have suspected for years that certain honorless ones have been suborned in some fashion by Syr-Nagath,” Dara-Kol said as the warriors knelt in a semicircle before Keel-Tath and saluted. “I do not know how, but I have seen and heard tell of some of them being taken to her, and when they returned they were not quite themselves.”

“Such also happened to Shil-Wular,” Han-Ukha’i said. “He mated with the Dark Queen at her bidding, and when he returned to us it was as if his soul had been torn out by the root.”