The Iron Forest: Ancestor's Legacy

The southern valley stretched for miles into the distant horizon. Broad swaths of land were free of trees, leaving a lingering scent of rich soil covered by wildflowers and grasses that carried in the light breeze.

King Shunlin spent little time in the original realm of the Chotukhan during his younger years as prince. Before the War of Five winters, his people called this place home.

A flat mesa between the Great Peaks and vast fields of wetlands housed the old city of Khalati. After taking Gathal, most of the Chotukhan people headed to the capital for a better life. Too many people and not enough food forced them northward, leaving empty villages and dried out farms.

The carriage pulled by draft elks ground to a halt ahead amidst a column of riders almost a hundred long. Nobles crowded the parade in their finest garb of white robes adorned in black trim. He knew they arrived with the hopes of getting a glance from him, but guards pushed them aside with curses and spear shafts. It didn’t matter if people looked at him anymore. The half-mask of gold was his new face, and he embraced it as his own.

A roar of cheers greeted him as he emerged from the carriage like a conquering hero. He adjusted the mask to see the people better. But they were just faces in a sea of black and white. What interested him was beyond the hoard of mud-brick houses and tall apartment complexes. He can hear the clanking of picks and shovels in the distance.

“Welcome to Khalati, my king,” Lord Taladas said with a reverent bow. “Your presence here is an honor and a blessing.”

Shunlin scoffed at the portly slave master. “My presence here is to ensure you’re on schedule. Soon, the sleeping god will awaken, and we must ensure his army is ready.”

Taladas’ eyes widened. “How soon?”

“You tell me. Or should I employ my blacksmith to conjure an iron cage big enough to fit your fat carcass?”

“I will double our efforts, my king,” Taladas said with his chest puffed out and head held low.

Shunlin wanted results. “Hold him.”

Two, then four guards grabbed Taladas by the arms. They struggled as he shifted and squirmed. “My king, please I beg you. Mercy.”

Shunlin scowled. “I asked that the Destroyers be unearthed before winter’s snow melts. You have failed me.”

One guard approached the slave master and held his hand with a firm grip—Taladas wailed as a knife sliced through the smallest finger, snapping it like a twig.

“Please! No more!”

Shunlin grabbed a fist full of his hair, silencing his sobs. “A reminder of what’s coming if my demands are not met, slave master. The next time, it will be your head.” He turned away like nothing happened. “I want to see the pit.”

Four servants scurried forward, opening a parasol to shade him from the midday sun.

The mass of nobles and a whimpering Taladas followed his retinue through the streets to the opposite side of town. The sound of picks grew louder with each passing house.

They stopped at a dais that overlooked a vast quarry. Hundreds of people in hempen tunics worked the hardened soil with iron picks and shovels. Those without tools carried baskets of rock and dirt up a winding incline. Although a breeze passed through the valley, he could smell the stink of sweat and filth pouring from the pit.

“My lord!” A scrawny man approached and bowed to his knees at the king’s presence.

“And you are?” Shunlin asked.

“I am Khali, the pitmaster, your majesty.”

“You are Lord Khali, slave master now.” Shunlin grabbed the whip the man held and tossed it at the whimpering noble who was holding his injured hand. “Taladas has decided to take your place in the pit.”

“My king, it is as you command.”

Shunlin glanced across the pit to see thousands of men and women toiling in the baking sun. Among them, standing in neat ranks and columns, were four-legged machines of steel covered in guns. They were being exposed an inch at a time from the sandy dirt.

He cringed at the sight of such indolent peasantry as they worked sluggishly for him, for the Chotukhan.

He then noticed black crows surrounding the quarry in groups atop cross-shaped posts. Slaves that moved too slow rotted in the valley sun, giving a meal to the cackling birds. So, they needed more motivation.

“Captain, hand me a bow.”

The soldier did what was told: Shunlin inspected the weapon for its weight and balance before holding a hand out for an arrow. He drew the string, aiming the shaft into the quarry. The bow whipped the arrow loose that arched down in a blur. A scream echoed as the arrow dug deep into a man carrying a basket. Stones and dirt poured down the quarry wall when he dropped over.

“Excellent shot, my king,” Khali said with a grin.

Ignoring him, Shunlin held out his hand for another arrow.

He let loose another and another. Each one bore into a slave whose slow movement made for an easy target. The surrounding workers ignored the dead and bleeding. Instead, they scurried about at a new, dizzying pace. They learn quick. Unfortunate.

He fired the last arrow from the captain’s quiver. It flew straight and true, but for the first time, the shaft bounced off the stony ground.

“My apologies, sire. Hitting a moving slave at that distance is difficult, even for one with your skill,” the captain said, receiving back his bow.

“That’s the whole point,” Shunlin said, turning to Khali. “I want a skilled bowman posted on each side of the pit to loose an arrow as fast as he can load. Once they get tired, you are to change them out for a fresh archer until the Destroyers have been uncovered. This should give them the motivation to work faster.”

Khali bowed with his hands clasped against his chest. “Yes, my king.”

Shunlin looked over the new slave master’s shoulder, at the crows circling and cackling around the dead. Soon, they will be well fed, and Abaddon will have his army.