The red sun burned in the skies above the plain of R’sharr on the
third day of battle, and the smell of blood crawled in the shadows.
The ground was black glass scourged by some ancient blast of fire,
and the razor edges cut men where they fell. Iron relics of another
age jutted from the ground like teeth. The cursed earth would drink
no blood, and so it ran down the dagger channels and gathered in
pools beneath the sky.
There on the deadly ground the armies of the empire clashed with the
war-hosts of the horned clans. The legions stood in their rigid
ranks, shields locked and spears uplifted, and again and again they
withstood the charge of the mounted enemy. The warriors of the clans
towered above their foes, faces hidden behind their horn-crowned
helms. They rode their black-scaled beasts to the attack, howling
blood-mad to the black sky.
Again their charge crashed home, and at their head rode their
battlemaster, Shath the Iron-Handed. He came at the tip of the
wedge, like the keen point of a spear himself. In his hand flamed
his ancient sword and his shield was like a wall of steel. Larger
than any man, he surged into the ordered lines of his enemy and
plunged into the madness of battle. He hewed around him, cutting
down men to either side, and the black armor of the legionnaires
could not stay the bloody edge.
All around him the armies clashed, and red ran over the glassy earth
that spurned it. The legions held to their lines, stabbing in with
spears from behind their wall of shields, while the men of the clans
sought to batter their way through, hacking with swords and axes,
their reptilian war-beasts clawing a path through before they were
speared and brought down. The line where the foes met became again a
welter of blood and bodies, and the war-cries of each mixed with the
screams of the wounded and the dying.
Shath’s beast was cut from beneath him, coughing out a tide of
blood through its tusks as it fell with a dozen spears embedded in
its flesh. He set one foot upon the carcass and battered the enemy
back with his shield, using his weight to dash them off their feet
and then cutting them down with his sword, splintering spear-hafts
and shields alike. He looked up, beyond the battle-line, to the
place where black banners flew over the dark form of the emperor
himself, seated upon his massive, armored war beast in a saddle
draped in black and crimson. Shath pointed his sword at that distant
shadow and swore he would spill the tyrant’s blood.
But the assault was failing. There were not enough of the men of the
clans, and the emperor’s legions seemed endless. Shath and his kin
darkened the earth with the slain, and yet more marched in
unflinching ranks to take the place of the slaughtered. Slowly, step
by step, they were forced back. Their flanks seethed with marching
enemy formations, and he knew they would never leave this valley.
A shadow darkened the battlefield, and he looked up to see the shape
of a vast bird of prey. On crimson wings it descended, and seated on
its back was the champion of the emperor himself, Tathar, the Hammer
of the Empire. Sheathed in dark armor, he thrust skyward the
thunderlance carried by the skylords, and lightning flashed from it
and scoured the air and shattered the earth below.
The legions drew back, and the clans drew rein, seeing that they were
hemmed in, and doomed. Behind the ranks of spearmen, they saw the
archers coming with their long bows, and behind them the war-engines
were in place, black and smoking. The end was upon them.
o0o
Tathar’s eagle landed with a billow of titanic wings, talons
gouging the earth. He lifted his dread weapon and called forth.
“You are called Shath, Iron-Handed! I challenge you to combat,
sword against sword! If you fall, your people will be made slaves.
If you prevail, they will be free to return to their homelands. What
say you?”
Shath beat his sword against his shield-rim. “Come and face me.
Bring your great steed and your lance of fire. I do not fear you!”
Tathar came down from his eagle, and he planted his thunderlance in
the earth and left it smoldering there. He drew forth his sword and
lifted his long shield on his left arm and came forward. “I will
not give anyone cause to say I did not face you in fair battle. Come
and let us test ourselves here, for there can be no rarer thing.”
He looked on as the armies drew into a great ring around them, and
the emperor rode his massive steed closer so he might look upon the
combat. The red sun burned low in the sky, and the broken moon rose
above the horizon, girdled by its host of shattered pieces.
The two champions hurled themselves into battle, and Shath’s blade
rang against Tathar’s shield and hacked pieces from the steel as he
drove him back. The battlemaster’s sword was made from metal
wrested from a tomb of the ancients, and no steel could mar its edge.
Tathar parried his strokes and saw notches cut into the edge of his
own blade. The men of the horned clans were a head taller than other
men, and the barbarian came onward like a storm of iron strength and
savagery.
They battled in a ring there at the center, swords ringing against
one another. Tathar’s shield split, and he drew a long-bladed
dagger from his belt and met his enemy in a storm of steel. Shath
was stronger and faster, and his sword never dulled. He struck
Tathar’s gorget and burst it apart, drawing first blood that ran
across the cold steel of his armor. Tathar struck back and ripped a
wound in his enemy’s side with the dagger, and then he parried a
final stroke and his punished sword snapped apart.
Shath struck a great blow on his helm, and then another, and he fell
to one knee, stunned by the strength of the strokes. That sword
lifted for a killing blow, and then the barbarian lord froze in
place. His teeth clenched beneath his tusked helm. The cords of his
muscles stood out, but he did not move.
o0o
Unable to free himself, Shath looked beyond the fallen form of his
opponent, past the looming war eagle, to the dark figure of the
emperor himself. The shrouded form of the tyrant held a single hand
extended, and Shath felt a power enshroud his mind and take control
of his body. He fought against that encompassing will, against the
voice in his head that was not his own. He bared his teeth and tried
to force his way through, but he could not.
The black hand of the emperor closed into a fist, and pain lashed
through his body. Shath gave a terrible, grinding moan and
collapsed, his sword falling from numb fingers. He pushed against
the terrible weight in his mind, trying to rise against it, but it
was too great.
An impressive display, the voice said into his thoughts, and
he shuddered in pain at the feeling of that alien power within him.
Yet you cannot be allowed to prevail. You will be made into an
example, and so will your people. There can be no survivors. I can
be the only one to possess an iron hand. There was amusement in
that unheard voice, and then Shath felt a terrible pressure against
his mind, as though unseen fingers were gouging into his eyes, and
then all was blackness.
o0o
Tathar stood, unlacing his helm, and then he drew it off and looked
down at the senseless barbarian. He had never faced such a ferocious
opponent, and he knew that he should not, by rights, stand as the
victor. He looked back at the black form of the emperor, and thought
on the whisperings at court. That he had plotted the death of the
old emperor, that he possessed some dark power beyond other men.
Now, for the first time, he believed some of it to be true.
“Well, struck, my champion,” Emperor Kurux said, his voice
carrying despite the growing wind. A storm was building in the
north, and blazing stars fell in the ebon sky. “Take up the
chieftain’s sword. It will make a suitable trophy.”
Tathar lifted the dark blade from the earth and held it, feeling the
fine balance and deadly poise of the weapon. He saluted his liege.
“We serve the empire, even unto death.” It was the oath of the
legionnaires, the oath he had given when he was only a boy, and a
different man sat on the Ember Throne.
“Good. Take the man as a prisoner. We will return to court with
him, and make an example of all those who dare to raise swords
against my throne.” The emperor drew back into the shadows of his
robe, face hidden beneath his cowl. He gestured with one hand.
“Kill the others.”
“I thought we were meant to enslave them,” Tathar said. “I
promised them their lives.”
“Then you spoke rashly,” Kurux said, his voice biting. “It is
not you who decides life or death, it is me. I desire no other
prisoners, nor any slaves to nurture hatreds and later rise against
me. No. Slay them all. I have spoken.”
Tathar saluted again and watched as the sovereign turned his hulking
steed and rode away, surrounded by his black-armored guards. He went
to his lance and took it from the earth, held it in his hand,
pondering. Then he mounted again to his high saddle, looked down on
the battlefield from the back of his great bird of war. He felt a
bitterness in him like poison in a wound.
“You heard the command of the emperor. Carry it out.” He
spurred his steed, and the red wings threshed and drove him into the
sky. He did not wish to remain and watch as the last brave enemies
were slaughtered with spears and arrows and siege bolts. He rose up
into the dark sky and shut his mind to the screams that followed him.
o0o
The army returned to the imperial city of Zur, steel-clad legions
marching so that they seemed endless. Rank after rank of faceless
men and keen-pointed spears, while above, in the red sky, the
Skylords wheeled upon their eagles, the dying sun flashing on their
lances. The streets lined with the people, called forth by command
to witness the victorious march, and when the great avenue was
thronged with onlookers and hedged with the black spears of the
Imperial Guard, the emperor rode through the gates.
He rode on the back of his scaled war-beast, crested with horns and
dagger spines, a creature from the death lands to the west where
animals spawned untouched by the hand of any god. It lumbered on
clawed feet, its small, yellow eyes watching everything with a
terrible hatred. The emperor rode on the back of it, on a saddle
that was more a throne. Black and red banners draped it, and a
canopy overhead shut out the red sunlight. Hooded and robed to hide
his face, he lifted a hand, and the crowds cheered for him. They
knew death waited for any who did not.
Behind him they bore the war-banners of the broken clans, and then
there was a great litter borne by slaves, and on it was an iron
saltre to which was shackled the naked, ragged form of the feared
barbarian lord, Shath the Iron-Handed. Chained on his feet, he stood
with his arms hanging and his head low, glaring at the crowds through
his tangled hair. Stripped naked they could see his massive and
inhuman strength, could see that the men of the clans were not the
same breed of men as they.
Yet even bound he was fearsome, and no few who looked on him believed
he could yet rend the iron with his bare hands and win free. He
watched them, his blue eyes smoldering beneath the fall of his black
mane, and his body marked by tattoos that seemed to writhe like
living serpents. Jailers were called to the platform, and they
lashed him as he was carried through the city. The scourges opened
his skin and painted him with blood, yet he made no sound.
The great procession passed through the city, through the great
carved gates of the palace itself, and then emperor and guards and
prisoner all vanished within, and when the gates slammed shut the
people made signs against evil and thanked the outlaw gods that they
were not enslaved within that place of darkness.
o0o
Shath was hung in the great imperial hall, before the black throne
that glowed from within, so that it seemed to be made from living
fire or molten metal only just begun to cool. The throne was empty,
and Shath understood that when the emperor came again, his life would
end. He clenched his fists against the iron manacles and strained
against them, but his power, great as it was, could not break the
thick bonds.
He heard footsteps in that vast, empty space, flanked by row upon row
of black columns, and he expected to see some torturer sent to keep
him company with pain. Instead he saw a gathering of women such as
he had never looked on in his life. These were not the rough and
brutal women of his people, ever ready with knives to torture
captives if they did not ride to battle themselves. These were the
women of the emperor’s harem, and they looked on him with a kind of
wonder.
There were dozens of them, all of different colors and sizes and
forms. Some were tall, some slender and delicate, some full-bodied
and sensual. They had black skin and brown, red and pale and even
exotic shades like blue or golden. They wore costumes so elaborate
it was difficult to say what was ornament, and what was simply their
bodies. The old emperor had been said to love curiosities, and
filled his court of women with mutants and hybrids of many kinds. A
menagerie of strange beauty all decked in silks and jewels and golden
chains.
One of them was different, even among that glittering host, and she
stepped forward on black, split hooves, delicate and shining. She
had coiled black horns on her head and her blue-black hair was piled
and coiled around them, set with rubies and glimmering gold. She
wore silks that did little to hide her lithe, predatory form, and her
golden eyes caught the red lights of the hall and gave them back like
sparks.
“Look upon this creature,” she said, pacing toward him with a
sinuous motion. “Taken from the battlefield like a wild beast.
Chained, and soon to die.” She came closer, and the throng of
women seemed to shiver as she came close enough to touch. “Such a
pity.” Her speech was accented and strange to him, yet he
understood it well enough. He gave her no answer.
She reached out a hand and trailed one finger over his scarred and
bloodied chest. “So magnificent a beast should not be simply
butchered. Why waste it when it could be saddled, and broken, and
ridden.” She leaned close and flicked her forked tongue at his
face, but he made no motion in answer. “I will be sorry to see you
die.” She spoke in the arch, ornate way of courtiers, but perhaps
she did not mock.
The gathering of women suddenly gave back, and the tall form of
Tathar was among them, scattering them away. The horned woman turned
and faced him, not afraid, and he stopped before her and gave a small
incline of his head. “Ashari. The prisoner is not for your
amusement.”
“Better for him if he were,” she said, but she gave back, and
Shath watched her as she walked away, her strange legs making her
appear to dance when she moved. She joined the rest of the throng of
painted and decorated ladies, and they vanished into the shadows like
mysterious birds.
Tathar walked closer to him, and Shath looked at his belt and saw his
own sword sheathed there. “You did not win that by your own
prowess. You will be cursed if you wear it.”
The skylord touched the hilt of the ancient blade. “If I wear it
so, then perhaps you may retake it from me someday.” He had pale
skin and a high, narrow face; his eyes were steely gray that
reflected the light like glass. He looked away. “I would not have
had our contest end like that. I would have preferred to defeat you
by my own hand, or fall by yours. The choice was not mine.”
“You did not spare my people either,” Shath said, and Tathar cast
his gaze downward.
“That choice was not mine either. I spoke with true faith, but it
was not given me to honor it.” Tathar looked away. “I am
sorry.’
“You may set aside your will to that of your lord,” Shath said.
“But honor makes no distinction, and will judge you.”
“Perhaps,” Tathar said. He drew the long, dark blade and held it
up. “Soon the court will assemble, and you will die. It will not
be clean. You will be tortured until you scream. Until you are
broken.” He laid the flat of the sword across Shath’s shoulder.
“If you ask it, I will strike you down now, and give you a clean
death. You are a noble foe, and I would not see you dishonored by a
filthy end. I will cut clean, and suffer the displeasure of my
liege.”
Shath laughed then. “You think I fear your emperor? I do not.
Let him work his torments and flay the very skin from my body. My
bones will give no cry when I am dead. Take your weak mercy away and
keep it. I will ask nothing from you.”
Tathar looked up at the high ceiling of the hall, to where the red
glass let the glow of the shattered moon through like blood. “Very
well. You may yet wish that you had taken my offer, but I will not
repeat it.”
“Get from my sight,” Shath said. “May there be a curse upon
your bones, and the stars burn your bloodline for a thousand years.”
o0o
Night came, and the stars blazed overhead and burned as they fell
through the black sky. A thousand lanterns shone in the hall of the
ember throne, and the courtiers gathered in all their decadent finery
to witness the death of the fearsome barbarian chieftain. In the red
glow of the lamps the pillars stood revealed as volcanic black stone
thick with burned skeletons warped and torn by polishing into shapes
that contorted and screamed silently.
The lords and ladies of the empire were a throng of the noble-born,
decked in jewels and red gold, hair piled in delicate coils and
braids, faces masked and painted and tattooed. Their ears and skulls
and throats glimmered with implanted gems and draped chains, and
their eyes glittered like the eyes of hungry vermin as they looked on
the prisoner chained in their midst.
Drums pounded for obeisance, and the whole court bowed as one as the
entrance darkened and the emperor entered among his host of
black-armored guardians. The twelve masters of the skylords walked
in his wake, gleaming in their bright mail, and Kurux himself walked
robed all in ebon, his head upright and the black crown upon his head
gleaming with white jewels.
All present averted their eyes from his terrible white face, marked
by the scar that raged down his cheek. No one dared ask what had
caused that scar, nor even to mention it within his hearing. Kurux
was the emperor by blood, drawn from the ancient and accursed House
of Ixur upon the death of Aredishir the Ninth. Last son of an
outcast house, he had been called to the throne because there
remained no one alive with the imperial bloodline. Now all lived in
fear of him.
He ascended the steps to the dark throne and seated himself with a
billow of black robes and a dismissing glance of his black eyes.
There was utter silence, and he lifted a hand. “Victory has
crowned my armies, and the scourge of the horned clans has been
exterminated. Now I bring before you their chief, the one who dared
to call himself the Iron-Handed, and to lift that hand to me.” He
gestured. “Release him.”
There was an uneasy stirring in the crowd, and they watched as
jailers came and unlocked the heavy chains. The one called Shath
waited, making no motion, until his hands and feet were both free,
and then he moved with a terrible, blinding speed. A single blow of
his fist snapped one guard’s neck, and then he ripped a long dagger
from the man’s belt and slashed open the other one’s throat and
spilled him on the ground arching and gushing red.
Shath turned and rushed toward the throne, and the guards formed a
hedge of steel spearpoints in his path. He never slowed, and seemed
ready to hurl himself naked upon the implacable bodyguards, when the
emperor held up one hand, and he stopped in his tracks. He shuddered
and seemed to struggle against some unseen restraint, and then the
emperor laughed.
“Now you will make obeisance unto me, last of your filthy tribe.
You will show your submission.” The emperor clenched his fist in
the air. “Kneel before me.”
Shath bared his teeth and snarled, and then his legs betrayed him and
he fell to the hard, gleaming stone. His hand, still clutching the
bloodied dagger, stretched forth and gouged the floor with the keen
point. He looked up at Kurux, and the hatred there seared all who
saw it.
“That good right hand, which you claim is iron, is but flesh,”
the emperor said. His fingers flexed and curled in the air before
him. “Cut it off.”
A gasp went through the crowd, and they watched as Shath struggled
against the unseen power that gripped him. He slavered through his
teeth like a beast as he gripped the blade in his left hand, and then
set it against the flesh of his right arm, inside the elbow. He
glowered at the emperor, heaving as though he would break loose from
his own skin, and then he cut deep and the blood began to gush from
his arm and across the floor. “I will drown this empire in blood!”
he snarled, voice tight with agony.
He cut and sawed, until the blood formed a pool on the floor and his
severed arm lay in the center of it. White-faced, he stood and
pointed the dagger at Kurux, and then the jailers seized him and
clapped a red-hot iron to his bleeding stump, and the hiss of burning
flesh rose with the black smoke of it. Yet still the barbarian did
not scream; he surged against his captors, but weak with loss of
blood, he was dragged down and chained again.
“I have decided I will not allow you to die so easily,” the
emperor said. “I want you to break before you die. I want you to
grovel and to beg. I will have that.” He gestured, looking out
over the silent throne hall, the pale and frightened faces. “Take
him away.”
o0o
They chained him in the black pits of the dungeon, where cold winds
blew upward from the unmeasured gulfs beneath the ancient palace.
The cell was little more than a hollow cut into the wall, and the
bars were set with spines like thornvines, so he had to hold himself
away from them. He was cold and weakened from the loss of blood, and
he had to dig his fingers into the stump of his severed arm so the
pain could keep him awake. He would not rest in this cursed place.
When he first saw the light he thought his mind was failing him, or
else some fell, glowing thing was arising from forgotten pits to
devour him, but instead he saw it was a light carried by a human
hand. Closer, and he saw the hand was not human at all, but the hand
of woman Ashari, with her black hooves sure on the broken rock of the
passage and her eyes glimmering golden.
He would have spoken, but she put a hand to his lips. He smelled her
rich perfume, and it was like an air captured from some place long
ago, before the world was slain and left for dead by the wars of
ancient powers. Quick, she took a key and unlocked the cage, and the
door swung open and he stepped free. She pressed a long knife into
his hand, and the glowing stone she used for light.
“You may escape through the catacombs, or you may die there. I can
give you nothing more,” she said, her voice low and furtive. “If
you live, return and slay the emperor. And do not forget who set you
free.”
He caught her quickly, his iron arm locked around her waist, the
dagger blade pressing against her back, and he kissed her with
bloodied lips before she could think to draw away. “I will not
forget,” he growled into her pointed ear, and then he left her
there in the dark and vanished down the shadowed corridor. He could
see just enough by the weak glow of the stone to make his way. It
was said the crypts beneath the imperial palace were endless. He
would find the truth of that, now. He did not look back.
o0o
He descended in darkness, through vistas of abandoned grandeur only
half-seen. There were shadowed galleries and vaulted chambers, walls
heaped high with decayed skulls and deep pits with ghostly light
glimmering on water far below. He made his way all but blindly
through a world untouched by the red sun, where feral life skittered
pallid and insectile in the cracks of the world.
Shath waded through cold water and climbed eroded stairs, always
down, down into deeper places. He heard things move in the dark
around him. Small things, mostly, but sometimes heavy shapes moved
ponderously at the limits of his vision, giving him only a glimpse of
blind reflective eyes and vast, colorless flesh.
There was no way to tell time, no way to judge how far he had come.
Only his hunger and fatigue gave time any shape, and he was a man
accustomed to privation and pain. He had been born on the iron-hard
wastes where the soil was ground stone and the water was slow death.
He had lived on bitter roots and raw meat, hunted with fire by night
with arrow and spear through blizzards that cracked with red
lightning. He could go for days without water or food and feel
nothing, and even grievously wounded, he had reserves of strength
that no son of a civilized race could call upon.
Soon the lighted stone in his hand began to fade, and grew weaker and
weaker, leaving him to feel his way through the blackness until it
died completely. He let the stone fall and crept on with the dagger
in his teeth, using his single hand to grope ahead of him, until he
saw more light.
Blue radiance that seemed bright as day after the utter dark filled
the chamber ahead of him, and he saw there a great cavern filled with
a forest of luminescent mushrooms that moved softly, as though in an
unseen wind. Above, the roof of the cavern was smeared with glowing
colonies of moss, and it illuminated the whole scene in shades of
azure and soft green.
Shath made his way carefully, taking the long knife in his hand,
ready to strike with it. He wondered if the mushrooms were poisoned,
for he would have gladly eaten anything that would not kill him. Not
knowing, he made his way among them, wary not to touch the glowing
flesh. The cavern sloped downward, and at the center was a lake of
cold, black water.
The shallows were littered with broken pieces of metal, overgrown
with moss as they lay there for ages, and he wondered what they were.
He looked more closely and saw a human shape made of cords and
plates of metal, and he held very still as he looked at it, trying to
see if it had been something living, or a statue. He could not say.
There was a skull-like head, broken and crushed, and one metal arm
reaching upward, like the grasp of a dying man.
The water rippled, and he had only a moment to react as suddenly a
long, serpentine form erupted from the water, hundreds of legs waving
in the air. It glowed as it attacked, and he barely had an instant
to hurl himself aside as the dripping mandibles snapped closed on
empty air.
He slashed at the thing, but it was too quick. Pedipalps like whips
snapped out and closed around his legs and his body, and he was
dragged toward the water with hideous strength. He saw the thing’s
eyeless head as it pulled him under the water, and he felt the legs
clawing and scraping all around him. He slashed desperately, cutting
the cord-like tendrils, and he was suddenly loose, crawling across
the moss-coated bottom, clawing for the surface with his single hand
still grasping the knife, knowing those mandibles could close on him
at any moment. He crawled onto the shore, and the metal hand was
before his eyes. Unthinking, he tried to grasp it with his missing
hand, and only touched it agonizingly with the cauterized stump.
Like a live thing, the metal yielded and moved, dissolving, losing
its shape. He heard a voice and saw a glow spread from the thing,
fitful and scattered. He had no more time to react as the metal
unfolded and coiled and then closed around his stump, the metal
burrowing into his flesh and making him scream. It clicked and slid
against itself and pressed cold against his arm, crawling up to his
shoulder, covering his skin.
Then he saw the metal form fingers, and he felt a shock go through
him and suddenly the new arm was his, and he felt the motion of the
fingers and the strength in them. The hungry monster rushed for him,
surging ashore with the water like a cresting wave, and he took the
knife in his new right hand and turned to face it.
The mouth yawned and he saw the venom drip from the fangs, but with
new strength the metal arm plunged between them and rammed the
knifeblade up through pulsing, luminescent flesh and into the center
of the chitinous skull. The mandibles closed harmlessly on his
armored limb, scraping off as the thing jerked away and fell back
into the water, a stain of glowing ichor spreading across the black
surface.
Shath found he was laughing, a sound that was half-mad there in the
darkness. He fell upon the shore and clawed at the metal encasing
his right arm, making his new hand, but there was no way to separate
it from his flesh. He turned to the fallen metal form and stabbed at
it until the knife snapped off, leaving no mark upon the strange
metal.
He lifted the hand before his face and worked the fingers, seeing
them respond to his will. Now he was in truth Iron-Handed, as he had
never been before. Now he had a sword-arm again, and would need only
a sword.
In the dark he staggered to his feet and made his way across the
black lake and to the far shore. There he found a stream that led
away, down into the blackness, and he followed it. Time lost meaning
for him, and he grew so hungry that he scraped glowing moss from the
walls and devoured it, no longer caring if it would kill him. His
entire awareness narrowed to the simple will to move forward, until
at last he staggered through a round tunnel and emerged at last into
the open, beneath the dim red sun. He found himself upon the shore
of the sea, looking out over the gray expanse of the waves, and he
fell on his knees in surf and screamed defiance into the black sky.
Now he would gather new strength, and with his new right hand, drown
an empire in blood.
Great start! Looking forward to the rest!
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