Seven Forges

by James A. Moore

  Pella came to him in his room. She knocked and waited for him to answer, then stepped into room. Wollis March looked at her for a long moment, puzzled that she would be there.

  The room was large and airy, and yet as soon as she entered he felt the area suddenly cramped and the atmosphere stifling. She was distracting him from his plans to do as little as possible.

  “What can I do for you, Pella?”

  “You tried to prevent the disastrous events from happening.” Her dark eyes regarded him carefully, staring into his.

  “Well, yes. I would rather not see a war.” He stood up, unsettled by her scrutiny. He didn’t like that the woman could stare at him and make him the least bit uncomfortable. It made him feel like he was being unfaithful to Dretta, though he’d done absolutely nothing wrong.

  “It might happen anyway.”

  Wollis shrugged. “I can hardly stop a foolish boy from getting himself killed.” Why in the name of the gods was he blushing now? He could feel the color creeping up his face.

  “Do you think you could teach him to defend himself?”

  “In two days’ time?” It hadn’t taken long to hear about the delay. “Against Drask Silver Hand? Not the least bit of a chance.”

  “Enough to let him save face in front of his uncle, the Emperor?”

  “I’m not a teacher, Pella. I’m a mercenary.”

  “Desh Krohan wants someone to teach the boy.”

  “He carried a sword. Surely he’s had better teachers than me already.”

  “He has never been in a fight.”

  “There are soldiers aplenty here, Pella.”

  “They cannot be seen teaching him. It would be embarrassing for Brolley.”

  “I think I embarrassed the lad enough when I called on him to still his tongue.” He shook his head. The last thing he needed was to involve himself in the work of nobles and dignitaries. He was a soldier, a mercenary and a bit too old to get embroiled in the politics of the Empire.

  “We need your help, Wollis. You know how to fight. You’ve seen Drask in combat.”

  “I have, which is why this would be foolish. Drask will kill the boy. That’s all there is to it.”

  The woman stepped closer to him her dark eyes searching through him as if observing his very soul. For all he knew she was.

  “Do this small thing, Wollis March. Do this, and help the boy save face.”

  “It’s not saving face if Drask carves his face away. And the man can do it, Pella. You saw him, too. You were there when he took on the Pra-Moresh.”

  Damn, but he couldn’t look away from her eyes. She stepped closer still and he felt himself flush again. She made him feel young and foolish.

  “Fine. I’ll do my best for the boy.”

  “That is all that anyone could ask, Wollis.” She stepped back and her lips and her eyes united in a smile. “You have my gratitude.”

  A moment later she was gone without another word.

  Wollis sat at the edge of his bed and closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was a married man, faithful to his wife, and not the least bit interested in other women. That was Merros’ specialty.

  With Pella gone from the room he could almost believe his own words.

  Of course, now he had to train a boy to fight like a man. Or at least die with dignity.

  Nachia and Pathra looked at Brolley with barely veiled anger. Desh stared indifferently. The boy had never been much of anything in his eyes. He lacked common sense, maturity, skill of any sort… oh, and longevity. He most decidedly lacked longevity. Unless something could be done to avert disaster.

  “It was the wine.” Brolley’s voice was very small. He was a strapping lad, really, solidly built if a little on the heavy side. And he knew his way around a practice arena well enough. Now, however, he was supposed to fight a trained soldier, who in turn was supposed to prepare him for a death match.

  “Perhaps if you consume enough spirits in advance you’ll find it easier to grovel for your life?” Nachia’s voice was winter-cold.

  “Nachia, don’t be that way.”

  Pathra Krous looked down his nose at his cousin and shook his head. “You have no idea of the situation you’ve put us in, you damned fool.” Brolley flinched. Pathra seldom spoke in a harsh tone to his relatives. He was a man who genuinely loved his family despite the politics of running an Empire. And in his entire life, Brolley had never heard the man sound angry. Brolley was young; he was only newly considered an adult.

  “Please, Pathra.” Brolley blinked his eyes.

  “You’ve offended visiting dignitaries!” Pathra rose from his seat, his face reddening with anger. “Your little flapping mouth has caused me no end of humiliation! And in order to placate the visitors, who, believe me, I want to have placated, I have no choice but to either order you to fight to the death, order you to grovel for mercy, or go back on my word as the Emperor and lose face before an entire nation!”

  Even Nachia, who usually was the first to defend her little brother, looked at Pathra with wide eyes and silence.

  “What would you have me do, Brolley? You called them a race of pigs in front of their king! What choice does he have? What choice do I have?”

  “I will fight if you want me to.” Brolley blinked his eyes fighting against tears that threatened to fall. Desh felt a small amount of pity for the boy, but it was very small. “I’ll fight. Or I’ll beg for mercy. Whatever you decide, my Lord.”

  He was getting it. He was beginning to truly understand the gravity of the situation.

  Desh cleared his throat. All three looked his way. “I have done what I can. I’ve asked that Drask consider the politics involved here and speak directly to King Tuskandru before deciding anything.” He held up a hand before anyone could speak – all three wanted to – and continued. “As near as I can tell, we’re dealing with a people who solve most of their problems with the sword. They came here making good faith gestures, and they’ve been deeply offended.” He looked at Brolley and the boy stood his ground but his lower lip trembled again. “Deeply. This might not end without bloodshed. To that end I have asked one of the mercenaries who went on the expedition to train you, Brolley. You have a two-day reprieve. During that time you’re going to have to either learn to fight or prepare to die.” He sighed and shook his head. “Or crawl on your hands and knees in the arena and beg for forgiveness for the insult you cast. It’s exactly that simple. All we managed was to buy you time to decide.”

  Brolley shook his head. “No. My Emperor decides.”

  Nachia’s eyes were dry, but her face spoke of wanting to shed tears.

  Pathra stared at his younger cousin for a long moment. “Prepare for your fight. While you do that, I’ll decide what I expect of you.”

  Without another word the Emperor left the room. Nachia stared after him and then looked at her younger brother. A moment later she left the room, too.

  There was only the boy, and Desh Krohan, the advisor to the Empire. The sorcerer who could, according to many, perform miracles.

  “Can’t you do something, Desh?” The boy spoke softly.

  “Possibly. If the Emperor demands it.” He left a chill in his voice, expressing his disapproval for the situation.

  “I’ve heard that you… that you can make me a better fighter?” The boy’s eyes expressed his desperation.

  “It’s possible, but that sort of magic requires sacrifices.”

  “What sort of sacrifices?” Was that a glimmer of hope in the boy’s eyes? Of course it was.

  “Nothing comes for free, Brolley.” He could see the boy practically reaching for his coin pouch. “No. Not that sort of cost. I mean the skills have to come from somewhere. I can’t manufacture knowledge and years of practice. If I were to offer you that sort of skill, it has to come from another.”

  “So I could borrow someone else’s talents?”

  “No.” Desh shook his head. “No. It doesn’t work that way. I can’t simply ask someone to loa
n me their knowledge and then give it back. It has to come from somewhere and it can’t be given back when you’re done with it.”

  “Can you do it? Can you make me a warrior?”

  Desh stood up. “You’re not understanding me. Someone would have to die for you to have their skill, their knowledge.”

  “But you could do it?” Ah, desperation. The boy was desperate. The boy wanted an easy way out of his predicament. Desh Krohan was disgusted.

  “Could I? Yes.” He looked down at the boy. “Will I? No.” And then he left the room.

  And wondered exactly how long he would have to wait before he was summoned by another member of the royal family, and which member it would be.

  He did not have to wait for long.

  He was not surprised by who, exactly, summoned him.

  Merros Dulver looked at the palace and felt an odd thrill. He had never been past the gates, but as soon as he and the Sa’ba Taalor reached the edge of Tyrne they found an entourage of men in armor waiting to escort them the rest of the way. He felt every grain of sand and dust that stuck to him as he rode, and around him the people of the valley sat up straighter in their saddles, the great beasts below them eyeing the crowds lining the street with wariness.

  And through the elation, exhaustion crept along the edges of his being. They’d ridden hard to get back, stopping only once for a few hours’ rest. Now that the ride was over, even the thrill of entering the great palace was only small, hardly enough to keep him from wanting to sleep.

  Desh Krohan was waiting for him as he slipped down the back of Saa’thaa. The wizard was impossible to miss. His robes shimmered and moved, and his face was lost in shadows darker than sin. All around him the Sa’ba Taalor looked at the sorcerer and eyed him with the same sort of wariness their mounts had displayed on the street. He was an unknown quality.

  Tusk and Drask waited nearby and welcomed their brethren. And before Merros could say or do much of anything, the Emperor himself stood in the courtyard, his lean face smiling warmly. The smile did not reach his eyes, which looked worried. Very worried.

  Merros had planned on sleep.

  His plans fell apart very quickly.

  FOURTEEN

  Formalities were gotten out of the way quickly and after that Merros was called into consult with the leaders of his nation, people he had never thought to meet in his lifetime.

  It was not a comfortable meeting.

  “First, Captain Dulver, we need you to speak frankly. We need you to tell us all that you can about the Sa’ba Taalor.” Merros stared at the Emperor and tried to figure out where to start. It must have shown on his face.

  Desh Krohan sighed. “Let’s go about this a bit differently. There’s going to be a duel. It’s not going to go well, unless we know how to handle it.”

  “A duel?” He looked at the man for a long moment. “Between who and who?”

  “A member of the royal family offended Drask Silver Hand.”

  “I can’t see that ending well at all.”

  “Yes, well, that would seem to be the general consensus.” Pathra Krous mumbled the words.

  “I… I’m sorry, your Highness, I truly am, but if a member of your family has challenged Drask Silver Hand–”

  “Actually, Silver Hand challenged him.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, my cousin was a bit–”

  Desh Krohan spoke up. “Let us get to the point. Listen, Merros. May I call you Merros?”

  “Of course.”

  “Merros. Let’s put aside rank and everything else. We’re going to speak frankly, as men. We need to make the best of a bad situation. No matter what happens, I don’t see this going well, but we need to make the best of it. For that reason we’re bringing you in and talking straight about this, no politics. No rank. You’re a well-seasoned soldier and we need that. More importantly, you’ve spent more time with the Sa’ba Taalor than anyone else and they seem to think you’re very important.” He saw the look on Merros’ face and quickly corrected himself. “I’m not saying you’re not important, understand, but their gods apparently asked to see you. That puts you fairly high on their list right now, yes?”

  “Yes, of course. That is, as you say.”

  “Excellent. So let’s get this taken care of. Pathra’s cousin is a spoiled brat. It’s just that simple. He acted like a clown and he offended Drask and all of his people. And he did it in front of Tuskandru, who’s one of their kings.”

  “Which king?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Merros looked at him and shrugged. “Which king? I’m not exactly sure how all of this breaks down, but there seem to be different rules for each of their gods and each of their kings. Near as I can figure from my discussions with the Sa’ba Taalor, each king follows the dictates of a god. So, that might help us to understand exactly how to react.”

  Desh Krohan looked at the Emperor and smiled. “You see, Pathra? Just like that, we’ve already learned something important. Something that might make this work out better.” He looked back at Merros. “We have absolutely no idea which king. No, wait, that’s not true. His full title is ‘Tuskandru, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem and Obsidian King.’”

  “Well. I would have to ask one of the others.”

  “Are there any members of the group you think will give you an honest answer?”

  “All of them. But I think the best one for this might be Swech. She’s the one who led the expedition on your behalf. Well, for Drask. Also, I think we need to discuss that particular situation as soon as you feel comfortable with it.”

  “Soon.”

  “Good, because, honestly, I don’t think this situation is quite resolved as yet.”

  “First, why don’t we meet up with this friend of yours, Swech, and discuss matters?”

  “She’s going to expect acknowledgement of what she and the rest of her people did on your behalf.”

  Pathra Krous spoke up. “Did they settle the affair with the Guntha for King Marsfel?”

  “They eliminated the Guntha.”

  “They convinced them to leave?” Krous looked at him, frowning. He was starting to get it.

  “No, Highness. They killed them all.”

  “The Guntha? But I thought there was a small army.”

  “Near as I can figure there were over one thousand Guntha in the camp.”

  The Emperor stared at him, his mouth open, and his eyes unblinking.

  Desh Krohan cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say over a thousand?”

  “According to King Marsfel there might have been as many as two thousand, but I feel that must have been an exaggeration. That said, yes, I believe it was over a thousand.”

  Krohan’s voice rose. “Over a thousand soldiers?”

  “Well, to be fair, I can’t say with any certainty that they were soldiers. Only that there were guards, and that, according to Swech, they left no survivors.”

  “None?”

  “None.” Looking at their faces Merros had to bite his tongue. There was nothing at all funny about the situation, but seeing their reaction he felt laughter bubbling inside of him, a sort of frothing hilarity that he suspected came close to madness. He’d seen his share of madmen in his time and he couldn’t help but wonder if any of the lunatics he’d met on the battlefield got that way as a result of seeing something deeply impossible take place before their eyes. His teeth chomped down harder and he felt a sharp pain and a taste of blood. Yes, that did it. That was just enough to stop him from starting to cackle.

  “How many came back with you?”

  “Ten. Ten came back with me.”

  “And how many left with you originally?” The Emperor was squinting. The math was hurting him. Oh, damn, but the look on the man’s face was making it hard not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

  “That would be ten, Your Highness.”

  “Were they particularly large soldiers?” Desh Krohan’s hooded face turned in his direction. �
��The Sa’ba Taalor, I mean?”

  “Well, no. I believe four of them were women. And one of those was a girl. I think she just had her seventeenth birthday not long ago.” Both stared at him in complete silence for so long that he felt compelled to add, “If it helps, I think they snuck into the camp when most of the Guntha were sleeping.”

  Desh Krohan lowered his head to the table. The hood covering his face nearly pushed against the polished surface and his entire body shook. It was only when the wizard’s hand slapped the surface that he realized the man was laughing.

  And really, that was all it took. Merros started laughing himself, laughing at the sheer absurdity of ten people executing a thousand, at the thought that the ten walked away from the killing with little more than scratches on their bodies, and at the thought that those ten were likely not even the finest soldiers that were along on the expedition to Fellein.

  The wizard looked up, his face turning toward Pathra Krous, who was now staring at his advisor as if to check whether or not the man had lost his mind completely.

  “So, was Marsfel happy with the results?” The Emperor’s question seemed innocent enough, but thinking of the mercenaries and their fate only added to fuel to the fire.

  Merros laughed so hard he fell out of his seat. The thought that his actions might well cost him his head if he wasn’t careful couldn’t stop the hysterical fit.

  Fifteen minutes later, after all three of them had gone through their moments of laughter, the Emperor included, he brought Swech back to the room to discuss the matters that were going to most decidedly have to be handled soon.

  Swech entered the room and bowed as Tusk had bowed the first time, her arms swept out, and every new wound and fresh scar showing.

  Pathra Krous rose from his seat and returned the bow. “Captain Merros Dulver tells me that you and your associates have done me a great service. You have ended a potential problem with the Guntha. I am in your debt.”

  She bowed a second time, carefully considering her words. “There is no debt owed. What we did was merely a demonstration, as asked by Drask Silver Hand.”