“The Daxar Taalor saw as they fought in the Cutting Winds and stopped the air from moving long enough to watch. The seven battled until all were broken and bloodied, but so great was their spirit that they would not die. And the gods looked upon them and asked what it was they wanted.
“Two of the people could still speak and they answered. ‘We want to live,’ said Wheklam. ‘We want to grow strong again,’ said Ordna.
“And Durhallem, who was the first of the gods to speak to them, asked what they would do if they were granted their lives and the chance to grow strong. What they would offer in exchange for the help of the gods.
“And Wheklam and Ordna spoke together: ‘All that you would have of us would be yours.’
“The Daxar Taalor granted their favor to the seven. They were so impressed with them that they chose to take the names of the warriors as their own. They offered their help. They created the valley by forming the Taalor, what you call the Seven Forges. The Hearts of the Gods were bared to the world, and the shelter they offered was mighty enough to stop even the great waves of fire and ash, the Cutting Winds and the things that came from the Mounds.
“The gods reached out with their hands and carried the people from where they had fallen, laying them within the valley. They gave the people water and clean air. They offered food and protection and most importantly, the offered wisdom and a chance to grow strong again.”
“So your gods provided food and shelter?”
Swech nodded. “Yes. For the broken and healing. When they were healed, the remaining people were told to find their own way. This they did but always under the watchful eyes of the Daxar Taalor.”
“And then they stopped? They just stopped helping?”
She nodded again.
“Why?”
Swech chuckled and shook her head at the same time. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “Why did your mother let you go into the army?”
“Because I needed to grow up and be out from under her feet, I suppose.”
“And did she stop being your mother when you left? Or did she still offer advice? How about your father? Did he ignore you?”
“No.” He sighed. “I see your point, I suppose.”
“The gods are not there to make our lives easy. They are there to aid us when they must and to guide us through the worst of times.” She patted the hilt of the weapon at her side. “The Daxar Taalor tell us to make our own way. They also show us how to make our way. When we were at our weakest, they gave us comfort and shelter and food. Now we are stronger because of what they have taught us.”
Considering that he’d supped on the flesh of the monster she and her sister had slaughtered without ever breaking a sweat, he had a hard time arguing with her words.
“So what will you do when you meet the Guntha?”
Swech remained silent for a while and he found himself watching the gentle sway of her hips, the play of muscles. When finally she spoke he had to force himself to listen. “We will do as the gods suggest. We will make ourselves known.”
“Yes, but how?” Swech did not answer. It wasn’t long before he forgot the question and once again let himself contemplate the shape of the woman in front of him.
Pathra Krous looked at the man who had been his advisor since he was born. “And where is this coming from?”
Desh looked back and shrugged. How it was that the man could manage a boyish aw, shucks expression with such ease would likely always remain a mystery. “I’m just the messenger. The kid says he needs to confront the men who broke his hands, and I can’t blame him.”
“I can. What if the damned fool gets himself killed? How will that look?”
Desh leaned halfway across the table and carved a slice from the breast of the bird in front of them. The meat was roasted to perfection and despite the conversation the Emperor reached for the meat when it was offered. A chunk of bread torn from the loaf worked perfectly to hold the hot roast, and a moment later he was chewing contentedly while Desh contemplated his next words.
“The thing is, I’m almost certain that Drask put him up to this.” Desh looked at the various dipping sauces and finally settled on a spicy brown concoction. He dipped bread and meat alike and then chewed.
“Almost certain?” Pathra rolled the food around with his tongue, trying to speak and simultaneously avoid burning the inside of his mouth.
“It might have come up in conversation before Drask actually arrived here.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“So as to avoid you being part of any possible incidents that arise from this.”
“I rather like being informed of potential disasters before the fact, not after, Desh.”
“Granted. But in this case it was a rush decision. I really had no time to consult with you.”
Lies. All lies. He had no doubt the damned sorcerer was playing him like a harp. “Fine. I’ll accept that. But no more of this, Desh. I have a great fondness for you. I would rather not lock you in a tomb.”
“That trick didn’t work the last time. It won’t work the next.”
“I’ll make it a better tomb than the last Emperor who tried.”
Threats never worked against Desh Krohan. Very few of the royal family wanted to imagine a life without him there to lean on. He’d been a part of the Empire’s council for almost as long as there had been an Empire.
The sorcerer sighed. “Either way the facts remain the same. Andover Lashk wishes to conclude his business with the guards who wrecked his hands in combat.”
“Well, I don’t want him to.”
“According to the laws which have not been changed despite numerous suggestions to the contrary, the right to trial by blood is still on the books. Also, as you have already pointed out, you want the boy on your side in this argument because fate has chosen him to be your ambassador.”
“Fate had nothing to do with that. I seem to recall your hand being involved.”
Desh waved the comment away. “I’m sure I had perfectly valid reasons.”
“Oh, don’t you always.”
“I’m an advisor. No one said you had to take my advice.”
Pathra shook his head. “What are we going to do here, Desh? Do I allow the boy to get himself killed in an effort to seek justice?”
“Well, you could hang the damned fools for misuse of authority.”
“I’d have to kill over half the Guard,” he snorted the words.
“We’ve had this discussion before, too, Pathra. They need to be put right.”
“So fine then. Let this serve as an example to anyone who wants to misuse their position.”
Desh cut another slice from the bird for himself and one for the Emperor. “I wonder how long it will take to teach the boy to use a sword.”
“Don’t you have a spell for that?”
“Probably. Doubt I’ll use it though. That would be cheating.”
“I thought you said it would be justice.”
“No. I said the justice he seeks is still allowed by your rules. I also said you should have changed the laws a long time ago.”
“I could order you to fix the fight.”
Desh looked at him as he slopped more of the spicy sauce across his food. “That would end poorly.”
“Why?”
“Because that sort of sorcery demands a price.”
“And who pays the price?”
Desh offered a thin and genuinely unpleasant smile. “That’s where it gets complicated.”
“Then let them fight. Arrange it for the dawn if that’s what he wants.”
“Maybe if he doesn’t choose a sword?” Desh was staring at his hair again. He could tell that the wizard was going to make a comment. It was something he had to deal with, he supposed, especially if he was going to continue seeing the same girl to do his hair.
“They always choose a sword. It’s tradition.”
“My good Emperor, have you seen anything at all about Andover
Lashk that struck you as traditional?”
Pathra reached for a green fruit the delightful Princess Lanaie had brought with her from her father’s kingdom. “There is that, I suppose.”
NINE
They didn’t look the same as when they were ruining his hands. The clothes they wore were simple cloth pants and jerkins, and none too clean. Menock had a look on his face, a pinched expression that made him appear both older and more like a rodent. And Purb, who was always somehow larger than life when he was strutting around in his Guardsman attire, seemed substantially smaller.
Or maybe it was just the rage.
The gathering took place at the Emperor’s Palace. The arena was small, only twenty feet across, which barely even seemed like enough room to pace, but there would only be three of them inside the area when the time came, and that would be enough, he supposed. A deep-set pit, the arena was surrounded by perhaps a hundred seats though Andover doubted most of them would be filled. The entire affair was in an area that had been hastily cleaned and prepared. Andover knew that only because he had heard the activities during the night and Tega told him about it as she paced around, working her lower lip with her teeth.
“You can’t do this, Andover.”
He looked at her and shook his head. “I have to. If I don’t…” He looked down at his hands. Tega looked too, with that same morbid fascination. She kept touching his hands, always asking permission first, as if he could possibly deny her, but when she touched them it was with a clinical detachment. Her eyes examined the metal of his new replacements, moved along the odd patterns that had been built into them, but never seemed to want more than to examine them as instruments. She asked questions, of course, and was always surprised when he explained that he could feel everything he touched.
But she did not like touching them. She didn’t understand how much it meant to have hands again, even if they were different.
Even if they made him a freak.
Andover was wearing gloves. He intended to wear them a lot.
Twenty feet away Drask stood looking at his opponents. There was also a very large assortment of weapons laid out next to the man, which he was completely ignoring. Andover would have preferred that the man instead point to the best of the tools available to him.
Tega shook her head. “I don’t know if I can watch this.” Her voice shook.
He looked toward her, once again a frown forming on his face. “Tega? If I don’t at least try, I could lose my hands. Do you understand that?”
She nodded her head. “I just don’t like this, Andover. I don’t want to see…”
She didn’t say “you get hurt” but he understood what the silence meant.
And her doubt in him only increased the anger he felt. “There’s a difference this time, Tega.”
“What difference?” Her eyes searched his. How was it possible that every time he looked into her eyes seemed like the first time? How could she mean so much when they barely knew each other? No. No time for that. He had to focus. He couldn’t take solace in her or in anything. Not now.
“I’m not being held down.”
“Not yet. But you said you wanted to fight them together.”
Well, alright, that had been a horrid notion.
“I know.” It was his voice that shook this time.
Drask waved him over. He cast one last look at the girl who always made him feel like he could do almost anything, and then he walked over.
Drask’s eyes looked him over from top to bottom and the man nodded. “You seem fit.”
“I feel like pissing myself.”
Drask chuckled. “That’s natural. You’re about to fight to the death with two men.”
“That would seem to be the problem, yes.”
Drask grabbed his shoulder. “Why are you here?”
“To fight those two men.” He had no idea what else he should say.
“No. You are here to kill them. Why do you want to kill them?”
“Because they…” Andover looked at the two again, looked hard. He remembered the pain when Purb half-ruined his testicles. The screaming, hellish agonies that Menock brought about when he brought down the hammer on his hands. In that moment the rage grew hotter again and his hands, his new hands, the ones that Drask and his god had given him, clenched into fists. “Because they tried to kill me.”
“Pick your weapon.”
“I thought you were going to choose?”
The man stared into his eyes, and that odd light burned as he stared. “It is not my fight, Andover Lashk. It is yours. What feels right to me is not what will feel right to you.”
Andover looked carefully. There was a good assortment of decent tools, three different swords, and a dozen knives. He cast his eyes toward the other two men who were looking at a similar array.
“None of this.”
Drask looked at him and crossed his beefy arms. “You would use your hands alone?”
Andover shook his head. “No. I know what I want.”
“It is almost time. If there is a different weapon you should get it now.”
Andover nodded his head. A moment later he was jogging away as Drask walked over to the officials discussing the situation. A couple of them were staring after Andover’s retreating form.
“Does he forfeit his challenge?” The man who spoke was the Arbiter, the judge of the combat. His sole purpose as far as Drask could understand it, was to declare a winner when the combat was finished.
“No.” Drask looked the man up and down. He was soft and heavyset, with clean and perfumed skin. He doubted the man had been in combat in many a year. “He said he had a different weapon in mind.”
The Arbiter shook his head, a petulant scowl on his flabby face. “There are no ranged weapons permitted. He can’t go off and get himself a crossbow and expect a proper judgment.”
Drask felt a smile pull at his face. “I don’t think that’s what he intends.”
Desh Krohan was there again, wearing his impossible robes and staring from the shadows that hid his face away. “Let’s just see what the boy is up to shall we?”
Drask nodded his agreement, and the Arbiter apparently decided that debating with sorcerers was a bad idea and reluctantly agreed.
Ten minutes passed before Andover reappeared. When Drask saw what he was carrying he allowed himself a small laugh and nodded his agreement.
Andover looked at the courtyard and the deep retaining wall designed to keep anyone from escaping judgment.
The Arbiter looked toward him and stared at the farrier’s hammer he carried. “That is the weapon you prefer?”
Andover’s fingers held the sturdy handle with the ease of long familiarity. He looked at the two men across the small area where each was holding a sword and nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“I suppose it’s acceptable,” he said finally, sniffing the air as if something foul had just occurred. Andover resisted the urge to hit him with the hammer.
The Emperor came into the room and everyone stood at attention, facing him. He waved away the start of a formal bow and settled himself near the pit. Without another word Desh went to sit next to him. Drask walked over and looked at the scarred, heavily used head of the hammer. One side was broader and square, the other side tapered down to a heavy chiseled point that was deeply scarred and scratched. “This is a weapon you know?”
“I’ve used it many times.”
“Have you ever used it to fight?”
“No.” Andover’s eyes looked to the men across the pit from him. Both of them seemed a little more confident now that he was holding the hammer instead of a sword or axe. “But it’s tasted blood before.”
Drask patted his shoulder. “That seems a proper justice.”
The Arbiter cleared his throat and spoke loudly. “Purb Larfsen and Menock Westerly, you stand accused of betraying your position and attacking Andover Lashk unjustly, causing the ruination of his hands and great suffering.” Both of the accused stood and fac
ed the man. “By the traditions established in the time of Emperor Aurent Krous, Andover Lashk has chosen trial by combat to decide your fate. Do you accept this judgment as fair and final?”
Menock nodded and coughed into his hand. “Aye, ho.”
Purb sneered in Andover’s direction. “Aye. Ho!”
The Arbiter looked to Andover. “Do you accept the fate of these men as fair and final judgment in your case against them?”
“Aye.” He looked from one to the other and then finally at the Arbiter. “Ho.”
Drask leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “Take the big one first.”
The Arbiter ignored the breach of protocol. “Then let the combat begin and may the gods be just.”
Two guardsmen stood at each entrance to the pit. Menock and Purb entered on one side of the small battlefield and Andover entered across from them. The sand was soft under their feet and yielded with each step taken. Andover would have preferred a solid footing. Whatever they were thinking as they stepped down those stairs, all three men seemed solemn enough.
Both of the accused held their swords at the ready, taking proper stances. Drask eyed them carefully, studied their positions, the way they held their weapons. Andover did the same as he held the hammer in his hand then carefully stepped to the left.
Purb did not wait to be approached. He charged toward Andover with a roar coming from his throat. The guard was a large man, heavily muscled and capable. He hefted the sword and prepared to cleave Andover in half.
Andover let out a much smaller sound as he scrambled to the left a second time.
Purb took a chance and swung the sword in a wide arc aimed at Andover’s chest. Andover dropped to his knee, ducking under the hard swing, and as Purb was drawing the sword back a second time, he brought the heavy hammer down across the man’s leg. Hard metal met meat and bone with a mild slapping noise. The sound that came from Purb’s mouth was much, much louder as his kneecap exploded and slid sideways under the flesh.
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