Stormcallers: Chapter 29
But what of Rukiya? Was she slain among the carnage that was the Winged Saqur’s great assault? Was she burned where she was tied on the whipping cross in the courtyard? When the Slavemaster dropped his lash and ran, was she left to die?
No, dearest beloved, for the slaves who watched her punishment did not leave her side. They released her bonds and together they ran to the only shelter they knew, the slave-quarters in the depths of Terras Bastion. The battle raged about them as they ran, and they hid with their fellow slaves until the slaughter was over. They cowered in the darkness until the door was opened by a Herathian solder, who ordered them to leave and line up in the courtyard to be counted.
For it was the way of Tarras Bastion that the spoils of war were great. The great King of Madrain, had sponsored privateers and pirates to plunder the trade-lanes of the cloud-sea for years, and his coffers were bounteous. There were few in the whole of the cloud-sea who were richer than he.
All now belonged to the Herathian Empire. The remaining Madrainain military had either surrendered or committed suicide. Those who had surrendered were beaten and chained. Even the servants and nobles were given a single choice; work for Herathia as slaves or be slain where they stood.
The slave-girls were given no such choice. They did not cry or scream, they did not recoil from the corpses that surrounded them. There was no more room in their chests for pain. No joy to be had from seeing their former masters slain on the ground. It was clear to them all that they had not been freed.
Was Kerrom free? As they were marched to the courtyard Rukiya looked to the Pit, and saw the broken wooden lid. There were no guards nearby, and even from so far away, the pit looked as empty as her heart.
“Step forward!” The Herathian soldier’s oman was soft and smooth, belying a brutal and bloodthirsty nature. “Quickly now, in a line!” Weak from hunger and aching from exhaustion, the slaves assembled into a line. The soldier studied them all, looking them up and down. “Are any of you sick?” He asked, because an ill slave must be slain before their sickness passes to any others. They all shook their heads. “Where is your Mistress?” he asked, because all slaves must have one who commands them.
For a moment, there was no movement. Then, one of the girls pointed to the pile of corpses that had only grown higher during the night.
“A man?” the Herathian scoffed before speaking ruefully to the nearby soldiers. They laughed in their turn, and the Herathian spoke again. “Which woman is in charge of you?”
The slaves looked at each other in confusion. There was no answer to such a strange question, for in Madrain no woman would ever be in charge of another. Such was not their place. “No woman is in charge of us,” the slave-girl Hara finally answered.
The soldier spun about. “Who spoke? Step forward at once!”
Hara stepped forward and kneeled on the ground in submission, only to be struck and dragged onto her feet. “Do not relax in the presence of your betters!” the soldier gripped her hair. “Speak again. You had no master?”
“No woman. The Slavemaster, only he was in charge of us.”
The soldier sneered as he dropped Hara to the ground. He knew then why they had been victorious over the Madrainian warriors, for in Herathia, only women do women’s work, and men do men’s work. No man could be master to women slaves, that was the duty of the woman of the house. The Slavemaster was obviously more woman than man. “They have no woman master,” he translated to a fellow soldier. “Look at them. They are sickly and weak. If they have no woman to look after them, best kill them and be done with it.”
Now Rukiya did not speak Herathian, but she knew the language of the body. Perhaps the man was only blustering, or it was no more than a scornful joke, but she saw the disgust in the soldier’s gestures. She knew what followed such hate, and so she spoke out: “Vishala.”
The soldier turned at her voice. “Who spoke?” he demanded.
Rukiya stepped forward, but she did not kneel. She had been watching and saw how Herathian servants spoke to their superiors. She stood straight, with her gaze downcast, like this. “The Queensmaid, Vishala,” she said. “She is a higher servant than us, and has given us orders before. She is our female master.”
Clever Rukiya, to save the lives of her fellow slaves. The soldier shoved Rukiya back into place, a sneer on his lips. “Then you will be her responsibility until we return to the Empire. We will provide new masters for you all, in Herathia.”
Rukiya watched as the soldier gave quick orders, resulting in the haggard queensmaid being dragged across the battlefield to their side. “You are now responsible for these slaves,” the soldier told her. “You will get them clean and take them to the Grosum; that ship, over there. When they are on board, the solders there will put you in shackles. Do as you are told, or else you will be punished. Nod if you understand.”
Vishala, she of Dancing Hands, nodded in supplication. With steady movements and downcast eyes, she gathered the slave-girls together, and marched them not towards the baths, no, but towards the other side of the fortress.
Where were they going? Rukiya forced herself not to look at the other slaves in confusion, lest the soldiers recognize that something was strange. Instead she kept her eyes downcast as they marched, flanked by soldiers. Rukiya tried to imagine where Vishala was taking them, what scheme she had concocted to save the slaves from their new masters. As they walked, she studied Vishala, watching her body as it slid across the ground as smooth as a snake.
Rukiya saw that the queensmaid was waiting for something. Her legs did not move with the steady reserved pace of the slaves, nor the determined steps of the soldiers. She was tensing, controlling every movement as if it were more important than the last.
As Rukiya watched, she saw Vishala begin to stagger, like this. Her hands moved, like this. The soldier at her side moved as if to catch her, but she was gone again, moving like this. Turning like this. Her mouth moved in words unheard by god or beast. Flickers of light flashed above them like darting birds. Then rivers of light coursed across the sky, flames trickling down like falling leaves.
How to describe what happened next. Few are those who have seen the might of a Caller of Storms and lived to tell it. Fewer those with enough poetry in their hearts to tell it true. Remember that Vishala was called Caller of Flame, and so it was with arms outstretched that from the clouds above descended a torrent of flame, a fire-storm that crawled across the land like a swarm of hornets. The winds tore across the land, ripping branches from the jungle trees.
The horror of the Storm, made manifest! A downpour of fire devoured the land about them, crackling through the air, a wall of heat. Snakes of flame stretched out towards the Herathian soldiers, carving through the air like arrows. Biting and snapping at their faces, the Herathian soldiers fled the wrath of the cloud-sea.
The winds followed after, chasing the fiery cylinder as it crawled through the chaos. Soldiers and innocents alike dove for cover as the burning fury overtook them all, charring flesh and bone in a whirlwind of heat and cutting flame.
Finally, the firestorm died, receding once more into the clouds above. When the Herathian soldiers had collected themselves again, and thought to look for the corpses of the band of weak and feeble slaves, they found no sign; nor of the queensmaid who had been ordered to clean them.
Rukiya was not the only one who had vanished; now I must tell you of a single Winged Saqur who hacked his way through overhanging vines, keeping a single eye on the flickering light some ways ahead. He was a brave warrior, this Winged Saqur, else he would not have been given the honor of wearing the black armor of cloud steel. But there were no jungles on Norrholt, and there were no jungles like the jungles of Madrain. The fool warrior had crossed to the right of a tree some ways back, thinking the gnarled jungle floor was even on both sides. But the sopping earth had slid down an embankment, and the simple choice of passing on the right had cost him five minutes of struggling to find his way back to his fellows.
The Band were searching for survivors. The Madrainians were well known for their tenacity, and there were tales of how a single escaped warrior could plague an entire Wing for weeks.
The hapless Winged Saqur walked on, until the jungle floor shifted underneath his feet. He thrust out his hand to catch himself, and he landed kneeling in the mud. He did not get up again.
Kerrom was like a panther, leaping through the darkness and landing on his prey with festna in hand. Striking fast, Kerrom swung with his full weight, the tip of his blade colliding hard with the soldier’s helmet.
The clang was loud in Kerrom’s ears as the festna’s blade twisted and bent in his hand. The tip, once straight, now curved as the festna bounced free of the soldier’s helm. But armor or no, the full weight of the swing from a man as large as Kerrom was enough to throw the unbalanced soldier to the dirt.
Before the soldier could get up again, Kerrom drove the long handle of his festna into the back of the soldier again and again, forcing him down into the earth. The soldier could cry out only once before Kerrom found a single break in the armor, the space between neck and collarbone. Prying the helmet off his adversary, Kerrom drove the point of his blade home.
Was the cry enough? No, it was not. Kerrom listened carefully for the sound of these armored monsters crashing through the jungle, but there was only silence. The single Winged Saqur had fallen too far behind.
Now, it was the way of the Knights of Rayan to glory in their victories. Boasts of prowess and skill were common among their ranks, but Kerrom knew differently now. He was no longer a Knight of Rayan, and so he was free of such concerns. Now he knew he lived because of luck. If the Herathian hadn’t slipped, if his festna hadn’t struck just right, if the helmet had been fastened tight, he would now be dead on the tip of a Herathian sword.
Kerrom looked to festna, and the bent tip of the blade. He had never seen a metal strong enough to bend steel, as black as pitch with an edge that shimmered like gossamer. He had seen his fellow warriors strike at these monsters with all their might, only for the blades to shatter or the spears to turn aside.
But he had seen metal as black as night and as shiny as ice before. His employer had hired him to guard such metal on several voyages from Erosea to Herathia. He knew the armor must have come from these deliveries, from his old employer, who lived in the capital of Erosea.
Now, Kerrom had never been one to believe in magic, but the strength of this armor was unmatched. Alas, he knew little of magics, so he knew not what magics it could be. He could see no runes nor mystic herbs or similar arts. Perhaps the blacksmiths’ anvils themselves had been enchanted somehow.
Reaching down, he gripped the Herathian’s hand and fumbled with the clasps, finally tearing the demi-gauntlet off the soldier’s hand. With this, he could find a wise-woman or sage who could divine what charm had been placed on this black armor.
If he could find no sage, he would return to Erosea, to his once employer, and demand to know why he supplied such metal to the Herathian Army, to destroy the people of Madrain. Perhaps then he could enact some revenge for his slaughtered people, for his lost heritage.
Kerrom knew there was a village three days travel away. If he could steal a riding-elk, he could reach the edge of Madrain in half a week. But deep in his soul, something primal raged within him. Part of him still believed he was being weak, not like a Knight of Rayan, but a feeble and worthless coward who ran and hid among the brush.
But he knew he was no longer a warrior. The old laws of Rayan no longer held him. He had lived by their code even after he had been cast out, but now the King of Madrain himself had spat on him, thrown him into the pit to be forgotten. He was no longer a Rayan knight.
He had been broken in the pit, shattered into a million pieces. Now he was free, he was something else. What he was, he didn’t know, and that terrified him more than anything. But though he doubted it, Kerrom was brave, and so he took off into the jungle, heading towards the edge of Madrain.
Now, Cloud Commander Teschemar did not want to leave Tarras Bastion. To him, the unconquerable had been conquered. He stared over his victory with a heart full of satisfaction. Pride welled in his stomach as the slaves were counted, the spoils collected, and the great Red Saqur of Herathia made ready to fly over the capital of Madrain.
There was but one ritual left for Teschemar to perform, the act which would establish once and for all who was the victor, and who was the vanquished. For Teschemar, it was the most holy of all things, the perfect enactment of the Law.
And so it was that King Rakhnagat, Master of Tarras Bastion, Standard of the Tall, Bringer of Justice and Champion of the Hunters, he who had no second name save the sacred word that in the ancient language meant Tower; was brought before Teschemar, his arms bound in chains, his head bare.
Teschemar spoke to his captive thus: “Tarras Bastion is no more unconquerable. In less than a day my army has taken what you thought was yours. We tore down your walls and marched through your streets free from danger, as all of the Herathian Empire may. It is the Law.”
With the pride of a king in his eyes, Rakhnagat raised his head and said: “Your cannon and fire broke our walls, not your Law. You think you have beaten us? The spirit of Madrain is unvanquished. Your victory will not last beyond a single generation. Every warrior on the island will know of your butchery, and they will come with blood and steel.”
Strong Teschemar slapped his breastplate. “Let them come. Even your Knights of Rayan could not fell a single one of our Winged Saqurs. Our rifles and cannons will slay any who march against us.”
But Rakhnagat would not bow his head. “My people will not come like the boar who rages, but like the serpent who waits. They will strike you from the shadows, and tear strips of flesh from you every day. The longer you stand on our soil, the more blood will seed the ground. You and yours will die here, and your bones will build the new walls of Tarras Bastion.”
But Teschemar was not afraid of the former King’s bravery. He drew his shimmering blade, forged for him in the holy forge of the Hakhi Steelmasters. “I have allowed you your final words, now seed the soil yourself.”
Teschemar did not watch as the former king collapsed to the dirt and dust beneath his feet. He did not look at the fresh corpse as he wiped the blood off his glittering sword, letting the lamplights from the nearby guards dance over its edge. He did not look as a pair of soldiers dragged the body away to be stripped of its finery and then thrown onto the burning pyres that would send the flesh and soul up into the cloudy skies.
Thus was the Law of Herathia. The strong rule the weak, and by this Law is their rule justified.
Teschemar breathed in the smoke filled air, the taste of blood still fresh in the air. Memories came flooding back, memories of past conquests and victories. He remembered the war chants and songs of glory that had been passed down from soldier to soldier throughout the ages. He felt his heart pounding with the vibrant life of victory.
When he returned to Herathia, he would be known as Teschemar the Victor. Cloud Commander and conqueror of Madrain. Bane of the Bastion and vanquisher of the Pirate King. His success had given him a legacy. They would remember him and his victory for centuries. From this day forward, every breeze that blew past Tarras Bastion would cause a Herathian flag to wave.
But Teschemar soon felt the gnawing dissatisfaction grow in his stomach. His gaze turned away from the purifying flames of war to the darkened clouds above them, and the islands that lay beyond. How many weak nations thrived beyond the cloud-sea? How many lands that had yet to feel the sting and the glory of the Empire’s mighty tread? Such were the thoughts that danced about in Teschemar’s mind as he listened to the sounds of victory that surrounded him.
But what should he spy as he looked to the clouds, but a ship flying the Herathian flag. It was a tiny scoop, descending through the air at alarming speed, its small sails already curling up into the mast. Anchor ropes were hurtled towards the ground, and soldiers ran to bind the ship to the island. Even from so great a distance, Teschemar could see the thick rope ladder fall over the ship’s edge, and a single figure climbing out before the ship had even stopped its movement.
He knew then that this was a messenger ship, sent with great speed and precision. He knew then that this message must be of great importance, to send so fast a ship. Indeed, there was only one message Teschemar could think of that would be so important. He knew in his heart that Luvanar Testunava, the High Varus of Herathia, was dead.
He did not run to meet the messenger. He did not order any nearby servants or subordinates to fetch the message. He did not pace nor fret over what he knew the message must have been. Servants ran for messages. Kings, Emperors, and Varuses waited for the messages to come to them. Could a Commander expect no less?
When the messenger reached Teschemar’s side, his heart was plain on his face. Teschemar turned away to spare the man further shame, but his gut twisted in disgust. Not at the messenger’s sorrow, but at his own sympathy. Indeed, a part of him thought it was good that the soldier could not hold back his grief, for what Herathian could bear the weight of such a tragedy?
Before the messenger could speak, Teschemar opened his mouth to say: “I am summoned to Zuohbal Oratz. The High Varus is dead, and the Commanders must decide who is worthy to be invested with the title.” For this was the only duty of a Commander when their Varus dies. The messenger nodded in subdued surprise, only to be asked by his Commander: “With the corpse of Tarras Bastion at my feet, do you think I could be chosen as High Varus?”
It was a cruel question to ask of a subordinate, but Teschemar had seen fit to punish the messenger for his shame. The man struggled for a moment between loyalty and deference before speaking: “If you are chosen, Commander, it would be a great day for Herathia.”
But you must know, beloved, that Teschemar did not want to be the High Varus. He knew his proper place was as a Commander, as before that it had been a Norman, and before that a Wailish. He was not allowed to want things for himself. He was a soldier of Herathia, and it was his duty to obey the Law, the precepts passed down generation by generation. He was a servant to something greater than himself; a destiny to rule, a flag to bow to, an order to uphold. A Law of the world.
But he did feel a small piece of shame that he would never give voice to: regret that he would never stand before Varus Luvanar, place his hand over his heart, and proclaim the conquest of Madrain for the honor and glory of Herathia. The others would know, and eventually applaud, but Luvanar went to his grave without seeing Teschemar bring glory and victory to the Law.