The outer wall of the city had been easily eighty feet in height, and the walls of the castle were almost as tall. Hewn again of the black and gray stone, the building was both grandiose and intimidating, with patterns carved directly into the walls that were too large to easily absorb. No less than a hundred men stood along the walls looking down on the courtyard. A small army stood at the one building. How many soldiers did they have here? Merros wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
His guides, Drask among them, moved at a hard pace, and Merros was forced to jog in order to keep up with them. Their cloaks snapped like half-furled wings behind them and the men entered the building without stopping to announce themselves or to check with any of the armed guards around them.
If there was any rhyme or reason to the armor that every single person he’d met wore, it was lost on Merros. None of them seemed to wear symbols of rank, and while they all wore helmets and carried weapons, it seemed that nothing was standard issue for the guard.
Once past the guards, the men slowed down. A great hall spread out before them, and again Merros felt small in his surroundings. Had he ever been in any structure as vast? Not that he could think of. The hall was a long affair, with polished stone walls and floors and columns that rose easily fifteen feet to a dark ceiling. Whatever was lacking by way of decoration outside of the hall, the opposite was true of the inside. Heavy wooden tables were spaced throughout the room with chairs enough to accommodate every guard he’d seen along the wall. All of which was impressive enough, but easily ignored for the throne that waited at the far end of the hall.
The seat of power, no doubt, for the king. The throne was carved from black stone and inlaid with precious metals. The seat was lined with a thick fur that Merros couldn’t identify and on either side of the throne was an array of weapons: swords, knives, axes, and spears, each well-used and well-cared for. Possibly the most unsettling aspect of the weapons was that they were very obviously meant for function and not merely appearance.
Four men in armor stood on either side of the throne. Like the men escorting him they wore armor that was unique to each of them. Some wore chainmail, others heavier plated armor. All of them wore red tunics, which seemed to be the only indication they were associated. The tunics were clean and new enough in appearance that they almost seemed an afterthought.
None of which was nearly as significant as the man who came striding into the room from the left. The first thought Merros had when he met Drask was that the man was a giant – an image partially cemented by the massive creature he rode into battle, but having stood next to him and stared the man in his shoulder, the impression stuck.
Tarag Paedori, Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron, was actually even bigger and he was not riding on a war-beast. Unlike his followers, the man was not dressed in armor. He wore dark leather breeches, a thick black vest, and a cloak that looked decidedly ceremonial in nature. The heavy black material was adorned with gold and silver in a pattern that was lost in the folds of the cloth and kept in place by a heavy gold cord. He wore an iron crown on his head, simple and unadorned with extras, save for a veil that covered most of his face. Only his eyes were easily seen, and the dark hair that fell out of the crown in loose coils. Thick, muscular arms were crossed over a barrel chest. Heavy scars could be seen on the bared arms, across the massive hands, and on the powerful shoulders, and all of the flesh that could be seen bore the odd gray tint that Merros had originally assumed was grit from the cold wastelands outside of the valley when he first met Drask.
All of them had the same gray skin. It looked unhealthy, nearly dead. All of them hid their faces behind veils or masks. All of them had eyes that were a flat gray when seen in light and seemed to issue their own luminescence when seen otherwise.
As one, the men escorting Merros dropped to one knee before their king, and in a fluid move that was unsettling in its efficiency, they drew their swords from the sheaths at their hips – or in a few cases across their backs – and held the weapons out. Their hands held the blades of the weapons with the points to their chests, and the pommels offered to the King in Iron, a sign of fealty and/or an offer to let him take their lives should he feel the need. Whatever the case, the men seemed unified in the offer they made.
Tarag Paedori nodded acknowledgement of the men, but his eyes sought Merros and pinned him with the force of his stare. If his carriage and his confidence were not enough to make his station known, the man’s will, forceful and demanding of attention, would have clarified his position.
The King in Iron spoke softly but his words carried. Like Drask before him, his voice had an odd echo that made the traveler’s skin crawl. “Merros Dulver of the Fellein Empire. We have waited a very long time to meet you.”
FIVE
Andover Lashk suffered a fever for almost three weeks as the infection from his mangled hands ran through his body. He would very likely have died from the illness, but, as the captain of the city watch had said, the girl he adored, Tega, had interesting connections. He had never met Desh Krohan, but no one in the capital city of the Empire failed to recognize the name when it was whispered. Krohan was supposed to be a powerful sorcerer, and even if he weren’t he was certainly a powerful man. He was advisor to the Emperor, and according to most rumors had been advisor to the last seven emperors at the very least.
Not that Andover cared much. During his weeks of deep fever he had slept for the most part. He remained unconscious save when Krohan came to his room to administer different medications and run his hands over Andover’s body, muttering impossible words even as his fingers pushed and kneaded flesh that burned with fever.
And he dreamed a great deal. Oh, the dreams he had were far removed from his regular life.
He dreamed of fire and metal and great hammers that struck his body again and again, pounding against his rigid form and forcing him to take a new shape even as he cooled. Hammers large and small struck him, shaped him, until his skin gleamed and the delicate symbols carved carefully into his surface were a permanent part of him.
He dreamed that the very earth had a pulse, and that every beat of the planet’s heartbeat moved through him and carried him along the tides of the ocean. In the dream that made perfect sense. When he woke from the dream he was puzzled by the entire affair, especially since he had never seen the ocean in his life. Tyrne was a hundred leagues from the closest ocean, accessible by the sprawling Freeholdt River, but as vast as that stretch of water was, it wasn’t anything like the great oceans he saw in his dream.
He dreamed that he was at the heart of Korwa when the First Empire fell, and he felt the very air around him shatter as the explosions ripped the land into new shapes and drove the remains of the city down into the molten ground beneath him. The shockwaves leveled towns, burned away armies, consumed the air and the forests, and boiled away the truths once known by the world around him along with rivers and lakes.
And when he awoke once more, Tega was there with the man who had loomed over him again and again. Desh Krohan looked to be somewhere in his forties, perhaps, with silver-shot blond hair and a jaw line that needed a good shave. He seemed tall, but Andover was flat on a bed and looking up. Even Tega seemed tall, and she was as short as she was pretty.
And all of the gods, his hands were screaming in agony. He grimaced and did his best not to yelp. Tega’s eyes spoke volumes of pity and said nothing of love, and that too caused him a deep and abiding pain. He looked into those perfect eyes, and for the second time in moments had to resist the urge to let out a pained noise. Really, it was hard to say which was more exquisite, the torture of shattered hands or a broken heart. Poets and physicians each have their own answers.
The wizard put his hand on Tega’s shoulder. “Give us a moment, would you, Tega?”
She nodded and rose, a flash of relief on her face, perhaps, or merely a sign that she had been sitting in one place for far too long.
When she’d left the room Krohan sat where she had been,
a weary half-smile on his face. “She’s been here every day, you know. She’d camp here at night if her parents would permit it.”
Andover shook his head. “Why?”
“Why?” The man frowned. “I suppose because she feels responsible.” There must have been something on Andover’s face, perhaps merely that he wasn’t really old enough to hide his feelings as well as he’d like. “No, she hasn’t told anyone that she loves you. Neither has she said that she knows you very well at all.” The man’s face was annoyingly knowing. “She’s a beautiful girl. She’s had numerous suitors. None of them have gotten very far. She’s far more interested in her studies.”
“Studies?”
“Tega is my apprentice, Andover. That’s why I’m here. She asked me to see if I could help with what was done to you.”
“She wants to be a wizard?”
Krohan smiled. “Something like that, I suppose.”
He stared at the man above him and sighed. Apprenticeship meant hard work. To be apprentice to a sorcerer? Hard work and possibly the cost of a soul? That was one of the rumors.
“What Tega studies takes a great deal of time and effort. She’s already gotten behind on her studies as a result of what’s happened to you.” Krohan held up a hand before Andover could protest. “I’m not accusing you of anything or saying that she’s in trouble; I merely want you to understand that she’s been very dedicated to helping you recover.”
And there it was, an instant flash of anger. Pain lashed through Andover’s ruined hands and he held up the bandaged messes. “What’s left of them to help get better?” His voice broke as he spoke.
The man looked at the carefully bandaged bundles for a moment. “You already know the answer to that. There’s not much left to save and not much I can do to help you.” He looked at Andover and studied his face eyes in silence for several moments. “But you are alive, Andover. And I am investigating possibilities.”
“Possibilities?” He shook his head. “What does that mean?”
“It means I have messengers on the road who have… located a possible method for making your hands better. Under most circumstances I would not even bring the matter up, but Tega is a very good student and what happened to you has her worried. If I can learn more of what is needed, I might be able to mend your hands. If I can mend your hands there might be a cost to you.” He once again held up a hand to stop any possible questions or comments. “Not a cost that I would charge you. What I’ve done and will do for you has already been paid. The cost would be to you, yes, but emotional cost, not any other sort that I know of.”
“If you can do it, then do it.” His eyes stung. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to be a beggar in the streets.”
The man stood up, moving with the sort of care normally reserved to the decrepit. “You say that, like being a beggar is the worst that could possibly happen. There’s much worse, believe me.” The mage looked toward the door. “I’ll get Tega for you. If there’s anything to be done, I’ll do it, Andover Lashk. But don’t talk to anyone other than Tega about this. Not yet. First we have to see what we can do.”
The man left the room a moment later and Andover thought about the possibility of getting back his hands. He could feel them even now. He could move them under the swaddled cloth and protection, though he already knew that there was little left to move. If he closed his eyes he could feel his fingers waggling in the air. When he opened them he could see the air where they should have been according to what his mind told him. Right hand completely missing, left hand little more than a lump of meat, but he could feel the fingers. Could damn near feel the slight breeze playing on the hair on the backs of his hands.
Anger blossomed again in his chest, his heart; a deep heat that simmered and spit an occasional cinder. But in that seemingly endless well of hatred there was something else.
Hope.
What would he do to get his hands back? Damned near anything.
Desh Krohan had only just left the boy’s room and nodded to Tega that she could visit him when the storm-crow came through the open window in the Healer’s Hall and flew right at him. A good number of people might have been terrified by the sight of one of the great gray birds, but Desh knew them well and had raised this one from the time it had escaped the confines of its egg.
He raised one arm and winced a little as the bird’s talons scraped through fabric and across the flesh of his forearm. “Gently, Goriah. Tell me what you know.”
The bird cocked its head and looked at him intently with one startlingly blue eye. From a great distance away the communication took place. Goriah’s voice whispered into his head and he listened, nodding.
“I would very much like to meet them. Yes.”
The storm-crow leaned in closer still until he could smell the carrion taint of its breath and its eye nearly touched his own. So much information after so long with little more than reports of ice and dust. The knowledge came so fast that it hurt his skull. There is always a price to pay for knowledge.
“Really?” He opened his eyes and looked back toward the room he had left a few moments earlier. In it the girl he had accepted as an apprentice sat with the young man she had decided needed special help. “No, that’s perfect, really. That’s ideal. What would they like in exchange?”
He almost dropped the bird. It hopped impatiently and reminded him that it was there right before he would have lowered his arm. “Well, that’s… problematic. But no, I think we can make it work. I don’t think it’s impossible at all.” He looked away from the room and nodded his head. “I think I know exactly who to choose.”
Desh Krohan moved away from the door he’d been staring at and then down the hallway where the window opened on the courtyard far below. He held his arm out and the storm-crow bobbed its head several times while looking at him. “Go on then. Tell them that we accept their terms.”
The great bird launched itself from his limb and almost immediately headed for the north and the wastelands beyond the last towns of the Empire. From where he stood, the wizard could see nothing of the Seven Forges, not even the clouds they so constantly generated. But he knew they were there, and now he knew so very much more than he had before.
They rode across the Blasted Lands in the direction of home, this time taking the distances at a far greater speed. Merros Dulver looked around and frowned. A moment later he gestured and Wollis rode forward to keep pace with him. As always the northerner’s expression was glum. It wasn’t that he was in a bad mood, really, it was just the sort of face the man had.
“Are we speaking again, Captain?”
“I wasn’t aware we were giving each other the silent treatment, Wollis.”
“Neither was I, but aside from yelling that it was time to go home you’ve had remarkably little to say since you met up with hizzoner the King of Fancy Pants.” The tone of his voice didn’t change at all, but Wollis sniffed his disapproval.
Merros looked toward the entourage of soldiers who were escorting them on their trek home. “I’m going to suggest very strongly that you not keep that sort of chatter right now.”
“Afraid your new friends might hear?”
“I’ve grown rather fond of you over the last few months, Wollis. I would rather not have to explain to Dretta or Nolan why I had to leave your body here in the frozen wastes.”
“You saying you wouldn’t have the decency to bury me properly?” Wollis was only half-joking.
“I don’t think I’m strong enough to break the ice out here.” The area they were moving over was more than half-submerged under ice. There were rocks, true enough, but they were few and far between.
Wollis nodded his head. “I’ll keep my tongue. But before this is said and done, I want to know why we’re now traveling with an additional fifty men.”
Merros nodded in response. The winds were harsh, but he didn’t trust that the soldiers escorting them wouldn’t find a way to hear the conversation. The Sa’ba Taalor – the People of the F
orges was the way his mind immediately translated the words, and though he didn’t think that was completely accurate, it seemed fairly close – had a way of hearing things out in the wind-torn desolation that seemed nearly mystical in nature.
“Here’s why we’re traveling with fifty extra men. Their king asked me politely to offer several gifts to the Emperor on his behalf. Those ten boxes being hauled by those insanely large animals of theirs, those are part of the gifts being offered. The fifty large armored men with many, many weapons? They are his way of making sure that the gifts being offered get to the Emperor intact.” Merros leaned in closer to his second. “Why am I doing this? Because apparently the Gods of the Forges predicted I would be arriving and seem to feel I’ve got a destiny with the Sa’ba Taalor.”
“Is that what this has all been about?”
“No, not really.” Merros looked toward the south, where they were headed. Up ahead of him five men in heavy armor rode their great beasts – they rode them like horses, but surely they were something else entirely – and seemed to look at nothing but the promise of what lay beyond the horizon. “It’s about the maps they gave us, and the monies we were promised by Desh Krohan.” He looked to Wollis again and saw a rider coming toward them from the caravan. “I’m not an ambassador, nor am I a soldier of the Empire. I’m a mercenary same as you and we’ve been promised a solid wage for a map of the Seven Forges and the surrounding lands. Anything else we bring back is a bonus.” He nodded toward the approaching rider and Wollis took the hint.
A moment later the fur-bundled form of one of Krohan’s women rode in closer. Red hair whispered from the hood. Tataya looked up at him with her intoxicating eyes. “I leave you now, Captain.”
“Excuse me?”
“I leave you now,” she repeated. “I am expected in Tyrne.”
Seven Forges Page 7