In Thunder Forged

by Ari Marmell

  In the battle of scents it was, thankfully, the alliance of roasting mutton and wood smoke that carried the day, though the damages inflicted by close-packed bodies and clashing high-end perfumes had certainly taken their toll.

  For all its fury, it was a battle waged largely unnoticed by the chamber’s occupants, as they’d witnessed the same one every few nights for the past month or more.

  Overlooked by an enormous recessed window that offered a breathtaking view of Leryn’s wealthier neighborhoods, the room boasted a dais on which stood the lord of the manor’s own table. Here, Baron Enizzo Surros dined with his wife and sons, a few household servants who were in particular favor that evening, and—again, for roughly the past month—his most honored guest, the Baron Crispin Halcourt of Cygnar.

  Already slightly inebriated—which was as inebriated as propriety would allow him to get in someone else’s home—Halcourt examined his bulging, twisted reflection in the back of a spoon. Only after ensuring that his lips and oh so stylish pencil-thin blond beard were impeccably free of crumbs or dribbles did he rise, ringing for silence with that spoon against his goblet.

  Conversation dwindled as several dozen men and women, mostly seated at tables across the room’s lower floor, graciously offered their attention. Properly speaking, it should have been the homeowner proposing the first toast or making the first speech of the night, but Surros had hosted Halcourt for long enough that they routinely allowed one another such liberties in decorum.

  “To the most honored and special guests of Lord Enizzo Surros, present this evening.” He waved the glass at one of those lower tables. “Goodman Claeddon, you and your troupe have outdone yourself. Your performance tonight was absolutely superlative. I’ve rarely seen its equal.”

  Claeddon and the members of his company stood from their seats and bowed, while the rest of the room offered a round of polite applause. This, of course, led to further toasts, and further acknowledgments, and further applause, all of which went on interminably until the servants—mostly Surros’s staff, but with occasional assistance from Halcourt’s retinue—arrived with the next course on steaming silver platters.

  Conversation ebbed; quantities of food slowly ebbed to match; and conversation resumed. Laughter, advice and predictions offered in sage tones, gossip ranging from the whispered to the shrill . . . Just another fete among the nobility of Llael.

  Except most of that discourse was just as fragile as the crystalline goblets upon the brightly patterned tablecloths. Every political discussion, every rise or fall in the price of commodities, every mention of future plans, all were stirred by unspoken fears. No matter how thoroughly everyone tried to pretend that the world around them was smooth sailing, none could truly forget the threat of war that swam, a lurking kraken, beneath the surface.

  Halcourt turned from his current audience—one of his host’s sons, who was either truly fascinated in the Cygnaran noble’s anecdotes or had learned, growing up in Surros’s court, to fake it—at the sound of a polite cough.

  “Ah! Claeddon!”

  Halcourt rose, then scoffed and held out a hand instead as the other began to bow, revealing a ring of dark hair around a growing bald patch. With a smile, the hatchet-faced actor clasped the baron’s fist in his own.

  “I wanted to thank you for your kind words, my Lord.” Claeddon, who’d previously spoken only in Llaelese in deference to his host, now switched to the baron’s native Cygnaran. In both languages, he displayed the rolling Ordic brogue that was, so Halcourt felt, the only flaw in his earlier performance on stage. (Not that he’d ever be so gauche as to say so, of course.) “I’m delighted you’ve found our production enjoyable.”

  “Not at all, dear fellow! I’ve been looking forward to seeing An Orgoth Goes a’Courting for some time. I’m a great admirer of Muir’s work, and I was just crushed when I wasn’t able to attend any of your Cygnaran tour. Truth be told, my decision to stay in Leryn during this trip was as much because you were going to be performing here as for any of my more official responsibilities.

  “But tell me,” the baron continued, voice falling softer and more serious, “how go the efforts to get you home? I certainly appreciate the chance to attend your, ah, unscheduled encores, but I know you were supposed be back in Ord by now.”

  “Going well, last I heard. They tell me Khador’s agreed to permit an ambassadorial delegation to pass through the lines and come retrieve us. It’s just a question of working out the details.

  “What of you, my Lord? Ord has the advantage of not actually being at war with Khador, but you . . .”

  Baron Halcourt managed to retain his cheerful mien, but he felt the muscles locking up beneath his friendly expression. “There’s risk, certainly. But I stand with my Llaelese friends, and I’ve no doubt their armies and Cygnar’s can stop Khador before they draw anywhere near Leryn.”

  He couldn’t tell if Claeddon believed a word of it, or was just skilled enough an actor to fake it, but he rather suspected the latter. Frankly, the drivel was starting to taste pretty wretched on his own tongue, too.

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Halcourt finished, managing to maintain only a modicum of courtesy as his anger flared, “I need to speak with one of my people.” Scarcely acknowledging the actor’s reply, he descended the dais, wended his way between servers and around knots of conversation, looking for the woman on whom that anger was well and truly focused.

  ***

  She saw him coming from across the room, and forced herself not to roll her eyes or to slip away. Neither would have been “proper.”

  And Dignity, at least in public, needed to stay all about proper.

  So instead she adjusted her bracelets and smoothed the skirts of her gown, an ornate monstrosity in deepest blue and golden trim—patriotic, yes, but chosen mostly because it nicely set off the tawny curls currently heaped atop her head in one of the latest ludicrous styles.

  “Underhurst!”

  Ah. When was the last time he’d called her by her family name? His Lordship is truly steamed.

  She met his approach with a shallow curtsy. “How can I be of service, Lord Halcourt?”

  His hand closed tight about her forearm—not abusively so, for the baron was at least a good enough man that he rarely mistreated his staff, but close.

  “You can tell me,” he hissed, the words grunting as they squeezed between his teeth, “what in Morrow’s name I was thinking when I let you talk me into this!”

  Right. This again.

  “My lord, the political and mercantile prospects are worth the risk! When the people of Llael see how you, out of all Cygnar’s nobility, personally stood by them—to say nothing of the opportunities opening up as other businesses flee the nation—you’re certain to—”

  “Be dead or rotting in a frozen Khadoran dungeon!” he finished for her. “I’ve heard it from you a few times before, woman. It’s not as convincing as it once was.”

  “My Lord, the front is nowhere near—”

  “Not yet it isn’t! But our ‘glorious armies’ haven’t done bugger all to slow their advance, have they?” His voice remained low enough that none in the noisy chamber would overhear the substance of their talk. Still, that he was publicly berating the woman who, though relatively new, had been among the most trusted of his entourage, would have been impossible to miss.

  And of course, as a recent but influential addition to the baron’s staff, she’d already been marked as the enemy by most of Halcourt’s other servants. They’re going to be on me like a pack of jackals.

  “You told me,” he continued, “that a symbolic gesture would be enough. That there’d still be time to get out. You said nothing about being cut off from home by Khadoran lines!”

  “I . . . I can only apologize, Lord Halcourt. I misjudged how long it would take to establish certain connections—”

  “And will those apologies wing us home, Underhurst? Or shield us from the enemy like Morrow’s own hand?”

  A
pparently they won’t even enable me to finish a sentence . . .

  He had her pressed against the wall, now. In almost any other setting, it would have been a blatant threat of violence.

  Of course, in any other setting, he might have been surprised by the consequences of said threat.

  “Your primary duty from now on,” he growled, “is to keep everything nonessential packed and ready to depart at a moment’s notice. If the opportunity comes to get the hell out of here, I don’t intend to be caught waiting. That means not just my belongings, but the staff’s.”

  “I’m neither a valet nor a maid. Surely that’s more Anessa’s job, or—”

  “So long as you work for me, you’re what I assign you to be. Clearly hiring you as scheduler and political advisor didn’t work out. And don’t think I won’t be having words with Lord Wesbarton about recommending you, either! Do well enough with this, and maybe you’ll still have some position in my household when we get home!”

  Halcourt spun dramatically on his heel, very nearly colliding with a young servant carrying a soup tureen, and swept back toward the dais and the remains of his meal.

  Dignity watched him go, her expression blank as a mirror in the dark—yes, she was holding back a few choice reactions, but most assuredly not the ones the nearby diners were expecting—and then exited the chamber, neck stiff and head high.

  She waited until she’d moved down the hall, lushly adorned with tapestries and portraits, and up a sweeping flight of stairs, before allowing herself to burst out laughing.

  It felt good; she’d had precious little to laugh about in recent days. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long before the heavier implications set in. If Baron Halcourt wouldn’t be coming to her for advice any longer, if he expected to see her engaged in regular labor, she’d have a much harder time arranging—

  The tromp of footsteps and the swish of skirts provided her just enough warning to compose herself before three of the baron’s household, including the aforementioned Anessa, marched into view. She and the other two, one man and one woman, stared at Dignity with a malevolent glee before hurrying up the stairs to vanish into the Lower Guest Hall.

  No doubt they’ve already been told of my new duties, and have gone to unpack absolutely everything in their rooms.

  Shaking her head until her mountainous heap of hair threatened to come unpinned, Dignity continued on her own way. Rather than stopping on the second floor, she continued toward the Upper Guest Hall, where the baron and his closest advisors—or, in her own case, formerly closest advisors—bedded down. Might as well get started, at least with Halcourt’s own chamber. She chafed inwardly at the wasted time, but as there was hardly anything to be done about it . . .

  “Lady, ah, Underhurst?”

  One foot on the topmost step, Dignity turned back. One flight beneath her stood a young servant—the same, she realized, with whom Halcourt had nearly collided a few minutes ago.

  “Yes?”

  “Apologies for disturbing you, but the baron requested I fetch you at once. He needs you back in the dining hall.”

  “That’s . . . peculiar. Did he say why?”

  “I’m afraid not. He intimated it was urgent, though.”

  “I see . . .”

  Except she didn’t. Halcourt had nearly reached the dais before she’d departed. Even assuming the baron had, by some quirk of fate, changed his mind about sending her away, he would have had to turn around, passing a chamber full of other servants—including several members of his own staff—to ask this specific gentleman to fetch her.

  An almost electrical tingle danced along the tips of her fingers.

  “By all means,” she said, voice chipper. “Lead the way.”

  The young man had barely turned his back when she dove down the steps at him.

  He was fast, too fast for a serving boy; he almost managed to spin again in time to intercept her.

  Almost.

  Dignity reached out as she slipped between her target and the banister. The inside of her elbow closed around his throat as her other hand snaked up to fasten across the back of his head.

  Anyone with the proper training could have broken that hold before passing out—if she hadn’t settled on a lower step than he. Yanking him backward off his feet, supporting his weight from below, Dignity had the man completely off balance. The grip choking his world into darkness was also the only thing holding him upright.

  She held him long seconds after his body sagged limply in her arms, to be absolutely certain he wasn’t feigning. Then, shifting her grip to his shoulders, she dragged the unconscious body back up the stairs. A quick moment to tie his wrists and ankles with his own belt and coat, and then she nudged him casually into the nearest third-floor broom closet.

  Obviously, something was happening up here that he hadn’t wanted anyone interrupting. Well, probably obviously. If I’ve somehow misjudged this whole mess, I’m going to have a bloody lot of explaining to do . . .

  But no. Even as she slid the closet door shut, only then releasing the handle to avoid the telltale click, she heard it. Not a step, scarcely even a whisper of movement; fabric against fabric. Nothing remotely suspicious or out of place, except that everyone with legitimate business on this floor was still down in the dining hall.

  Well, that and, once again, the fact that someone had just attempted to keep her from this hallway.

  Dignity’s fingers closed around a bracelet—a heavy thing of ornately engraved gold that didn’t quite form a full ring, leaving a half-inch gap on the inside of her arm. A quick twist and the “jewelry” snapped open on a hidden hinge directly opposite the missing segment. Now held in her right hand, the bauble formed two metallic limbs jutting out like horns sprouting from her fist. A second tap with her middle finger against that concealed joint, and two stiletto-like points, scarcely more than an inch long, snapped from those prongs.

  Silently, as if the carpet had become nothing more than cloud, she drifted toward the nearest chamber: neither hers nor the baron’s, but belonging to the captain of Halcourt’s household guard. The door was shut tight, but Dignity was certain that the ghost of a sound had come from there.

  Peeping through the keyhole, she could tell that the room was lit, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, but that in itself wasn’t suspicious. At this time of year, quite a number of people kept a small fire burning, or at least smoldering, so they wouldn’t return to a chilly chamber.

  With almost exaggerated care, she reached for a gaudier, more flimsy bracelet on her right wrist. From it she plucked a small crystal. A quick examination, to ensure she’d chosen the proper size, and then she carefully pressed it into the keyhole.

  Clever as it was, the prism couldn’t offer her a clear view of the chamber. She saw only an array of shapes, fuzzy and oddly hued; almost an abstract image of shadow and depth.

  It was enough, however, to tell her someone was in the room, roughly beside the chest of drawers, and that said someone was probably alone.

  Dignity pressed softly on the latch, just enough to ensure that the door wasn’t locked—and hurled it open.

  The intruder, clad in tunic and trousers of mottled blues and uneven edges, perfect for blending into nighttime shadows, fired off a wrist-mounted crossbow. The bolt came nowhere near Dignity, who had dropped into a forward tumble at her first step into the room.

  She came up into a crouch beside the bed, then kicked off both floor and frame in a sideways leap. The intruder—who was, she could tell now, a dark haired, square-chinned man she’d never seen before—had produced a length of barbed chain from Morrow-knew-where. It whistled as it spun, slashing through the space Dignity would have occupied had she stood directly from her summersault.

  Her opponent pivoted, the momentum of his first missed attack carrying him directly into a second. Dignity threw a high kick as a stop-thrust to the man’s wrist. She felt flesh and muscle flatten against bone, and though the joint didn’t break, his hand spasmed in
pain. The chain hurtled from his grip to slam into the bricks over the fireplace. It clung there, barbs stuck into flaking mortar.

  She turned that kick into a lunge, leaning over her foot as it came down and thrusting her two-pronged punch-blade at the intruder’s midsection. Her stroke went wild, knocked aside by the man’s unwounded forearm—an arm that then went rigid in a swift grab. Dignity felt his fist close on her arm and start to twist, yanking her into what she knew would either be a grapple or a dislocated shoulder.

  Instead of fighting it, then, she turned with it, jabbing her elbow hard into her enemy’s gut while that arm still had some slack in which to move. It was enough to loosen his grip, but even as she pulled free, the heel of his wounded hand—apparently not so wounded as she’d hoped—caught her hard across the chin.

  Dignity’s head rocked back, pain drilling deep into her jaw. Somehow she was able to smell the blood in her mouth before she tasted it. Still, she rolled with it, and her backward stagger was no genuine stumble but a deliberate draw.

  When her attacker threw a snap kick of his own, then, one that would have shattered ribs had it connected, she was ready to meet it halfway.

  The lowermost of her two blades slid neatly under the man’s kneecap not entirely unlike a can opener.

  His scream, when it began, was a high-pitched wheeze, easily mistaken for a teakettle just starting to boil. As soon as the agony broke through his shock, however, and his lungs gathered enough air to empower it, Dignity knew it would become a deafening crescendo.

  And while it probably wouldn’t be heard floors away, in the hubbub of dinner, she wasn’t about to take the risk.

  She stepped over his supine, bleeding body and brought her foot down on his throat. The rising scream vanished into a moist crunch; the intruder spasmed twice, and lay still.

  Dignity sighed, leaning against the chest of drawers for a moment to catch her breath, trying to massage some feeling back into her chin. She’d have liked to question the man, but his fighting style alone was enough to tell her who he probably was—and if her guess was right, she’d have been hard pressed under even the best of circumstances to make him talk.