Seven Forges

by James A. Moore

  “Just the same you have done me a great service. If I can return the favor, you have but to ask and if it is within my power to grant your request I shall do so.” She nodded her head in acknowledgment and sat where indicated. “Now I must ask a few questions if I may, Swech. We need to understand your people better, in order to avoid causing offense in a delicate matter.”

  Swech listened as the details were laid out and nodded her head a few times.

  Finally, she asked a few questions and weighed the answers carefully.

  “Who is the boy to you?” she asked the Emperor.

  “He’s my cousin. He is blood.”

  “Is his father alive?”

  “Alas, no. Both his father and his mother died a few years ago, taken by fever and plague.”

  “He is an adult then? Or is he raised by another?”

  “He is an adult now. He celebrated his birthday recently.”

  “He is aware that he caused insult with his words?” She spoke stiffly and it was clear to all three men that she considered the words insulting herself.

  “Oh, yes. He has been made very aware of that, you may rest assured.” Desh Krohan spoke. He sighed and waved a hand lightly. “Even now he is practicing his combat skills in an effort to make him understand exactly how grave his insult was.”

  “Does your culture permit a substitute? A…” She looked around for a moment and struggled to find the right word. Merros was taken again by how quickly she had learned the language. “A champion?”

  Pathra Krous looked toward Desh Krohan. The wizard looked back. “I don’t recall any rules dispelling the notion…”

  Swech tapped the table. “Let me explain my people. Let me explain how they believe all matters should be handled. If I were to offend you, Desh Krohan, your recourse is simple. You attempt to punish me. If you succeed, you have made clear your stance on my actions.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. That’s it. You attempt to administer your punishment. I attempt to defend myself against your punishment.”

  “What if I steal from you?”

  Swech stared him in the eyes. “Then I kill you.”

  “You have no courts? No judges who decide these things?”

  “We do not need these things. If you wrong me, I take back what is mine. If you offend me, I take back my honor myself.”

  “Well,” Merros cleared his throat. “The arena where this is to happen is a similar idea. The difference is it is in front of witnesses.”

  Swech held one hand up and tilted it side to side, imitating the movements of a snake. He knew the gesture likely had meaning to her people, but it meant nothing to him or the other men at the table as far as he could tell. “You say this as if it is unusual. If people are there to see a fight, they are there. If they are not there, then they are not there. This does not change the outcome of the fight.”

  “Yes, but Brolley apparently offended all of your people.” Pathra was doing his best to explain the problem.

  Swech stared at him. “This I know. I am offended by his words and I was not even there. But Drask Silver Hand has chosen to defend the honor of all of our people with his actions and we will respect that. If we did not, most of my people in Tyrne would have welcomed the chance to punish your cousin.”

  “So, regardless of how this ends, once Drask and Brolley have had their fight, the situation is resolved?”

  “Yes.” She spread her hands apart and then settled them on the table. “There is no longer a situation to resolve. Drask has taken the affair into his hands.”

  “If Brolley apologizes, what happens?”

  “That depends on the dictates of the Daxar Taalor.”

  “Could you explain that, please?”

  “There are seven Daxar Taalor. Seven gods of the forges. One for each mountain, yes?”

  All three nodded their understanding.

  “Each of us follows all of the gods through the course of our lives. Sometimes we follow different gods for different circumstances. That is our way.” She was struggling again, but the men waited patiently. “I follow Wheklam. I follow Paedle. They are the gods I choose to follow. They are the gods who want me to follow them. That is the way of my life. Drask follows Ydramil, his king is Ganem. Ydramil gifted him with the silver hand that is a part of him. For that reason, he will always follow the dictates of Ydramil. But he also obeys the other Daxar Taalor. He merely chooses to favor Ydramil. Ydramil understands the concept of mercy. That is a good thing for your Brolley.”

  “What do you mean?” Merros frowned.

  “Well, Tuskandru is the King of the Forge of Durhallem. Durhallem is also called ‘The Wounder.’ He is unforgiving. He does not accept mercy as an option. To offend Durhallem or his followers is to invite your death. Had your Brolley faced Tusk and made the comments that he made, Tusk would have killed him on the spot.”

  The three men looked at each other and ruminated on that.

  Swech’s voice grew lighter. “So you see, Drask did your cousin a favor. He was being aware of what you called a delicate situation. He has a chance to survive, depending on what he does.”

  “If he apologizes?”

  “Drask will probably forgive him. And punish him.”

  “And if he fights?”

  “Drask will probably kill him, but the offense ends with him.”

  “And if he fails to show?”

  Swech stared at the Emperor and contemplated the question very carefully. “Then the offense continues. Should Brolley not show, he is marked as a coward. The next member of his bloodline would be allowed to stand in for him, and that would pay the debt of honor, but Brolley would always be marked as a coward.”

  Pathra Krous rose and walked over to Swech. He bowed before her one more time, a formal gesture, not a sign of obeisance and no one would have mistaken it for anything else. “Thank you for your time, Swech. You have enlightened us.”

  She rose and bowed again, obviously uncomfortable with the formality. A few minutes later Merros led her from the room and thanked her separately.

  And then he moved back into the room.

  Desk Krohan shook his head. “He apologizes, he loses face, and he lives. He fights, he loses his life. There’s really no other way around that.”

  “He has a right to a champion. I could pay one of the finer swordsmen to be his champion.”

  Merros cleared his throat. “If I may?”

  Both men looked at him and he made himself speak. It went against a simple tenet that he had lived with his entire life: do your job and avoid getting noticed too often. Still, the situation was delicate.

  “Make your cousin face this.”

  “He’s just a boy!” Pathra’s voice was stressed, loud and worried.

  “Yes. He is. He’s just a boy. Take a chance on that fact. Accept that there’s no special honor for Drask in schooling the boy. I don’t believe he intends to kill your cousin. I think he intends to give him a lesson in manners.”

  “They’re monsters on the battlefield, Merros! You said so yourself!”

  “Your Majesty, if Drask Silver Hand wanted to go to extremes, he’d have killed me and he’d have killed Wollis March before we ever reached the Seven Forges. Both of us interfered with him, and Wollis, may the gods always watch over him, actually challenged the man. Instead of killing Wollis, he gave him a warning.” He closed his eyes remembering the look on Wollis’ face as the bullwhip snapped the spear from his hands. “Believe me, he could well have killed us both with ease.”

  “He’s my cousin, Merros.”

  Merros thought hard for all of a second and finally nodded. “Then let him take this lesson. Let him learn that there is a price for lacking diplomacy. If he’s to be a man and possibly a leader of men, you must do this, Majesty. You must.”

  Desh Krohan nodded under his hood. “Agreed.”

  The Emperor looked from one man to the other.

  Merros played a card he would rather have avoided. “
I stake my life on this, Emperor Pathra Krous. I stake my life on Drask Silver Hand doing the honorable thing here. I think he will mete out a punishment, but I do not believe he will kill your cousin.”

  Krous looked at him for a very long time. “So be it.”

  Merros let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

  Andover Lashk watched as Wollis March schooled Brolley Krous. The area where the boy was training was the exact same spot where, ten minutes earlier, Andover had been practicing with his hammer. His muscles were shaking from the exertion and his hands ached. But today he had fewer scrapes on his face and less areas of his body were sporting new bruises.

  Tega stood near him, looking on as Brolley’s sword was knocked aside and sent skittering across the stone floor.

  Wollis March shook his head. “Hold the damned thing like your life depends on it.”

  “I am!” Gods, the boy was already whining.

  Wollis pointed toward Andover. “He’s had less than a week of training with that new weapon of his. You’ve had years of training with a sword. Even a novice knows the sword does you no good if it’s halfway across the field from where your hand is!” The older man limped over and grabbed the sword by the hilt. He hurled it toward the young man, who flinched but scrambled to catch it just the same.

  “Why are you yelling at me?”

  “I haven’t begun to yell, boy!” The man came toward him and drew his sword. “You want to fight Drask Silver Hand? I saw that man kill a Pra-Moresh with one blow! And then he killed two more!” He swung his sword and the boy attempted to block and flinched as the sword he carried flew from his hands again. Rather than stopping, Wollis slapped the teenager in the arm with the flat of his sword and roared, “Pick it up, boy!”

  On the verge of tears, Brolley ran to his sword, flinching as the instructor slapped him again and again.

  When Andover looked away, trying to gather the nerve to speak to Tega, the girl was gone. In her place, another of the Sa’ba Taalor was standing. A younger woman, one he had not met yet. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because the girl chuckled. “I am not here to fight you. I am merely here to watch.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. They have the field.” He waved and the girl looked at his hands. He was wearing his gloves, but they didn’t hide the spots where metal and flesh merged.

  “You’re the one blessed by Truska-Pren.” She stepped closer and looked at his hands. He looked too, seeing them for the first time all day, really. He would have never expected that staring at his new limbs would lose its marvel but it had.

  To the side, the boy had finally regained his sword and was swinging madly. Both the girl and Andover shook their heads. Wild swings were a waste of energy. Energy was a precious commodity in combat. Andover was just learning that, but it was a lesson he took to heart.

  The girl’s hands on his wrist caught his attention. Her fingers were strong and callused. “Do they hurt?”

  “No. They did. Before Truska-Pren gave me the new ones my hands were in constant pain.”

  Her eyes regarded him levelly and she spoke softly. “May I see them?”

  He shrugged and held his hands out. She peeled the gloves off and he watched her, stared at her eyes as she in turn stared at his artificial hands. They gleamed dully in the daylight, and he could see the rough skin where they fused to him. He could also see that the skin where the hands were bonded to him was changing color.

  That was something new.

  Andover leaned in closer himself, staring at the flesh that had taken on a grayish hue. And he looked at the exposed brow of the girl across from him and realized that her flesh was almost identical in color.

  Her fingers traced along the band of coloration and she looked at him. Her eyes smiled behind the veil. “We are not so different a people, after all.”

  Part of him was horrified, but it was a small part. Miniscule, really. He looked at the discoloration and saw that it was not even. It rippled.

  A small price to pay, surely, for having working hands.

  In the small arena the Emperor’s cousin was panting, red faced and on the verge of tears, but he had a death grip on his sword.

  One step at a time.

  The girl stepped back and nodded her head. “So. I am to instruct you on how to use your weapon.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am to teach you.” She shook her head. “Your hammer is not unlike my axe. I will instruct you.”

  “I thought I was finished for the day.” He frowned.

  “No. You are merely allowed to rest for a few moments. Drask Silver Hand says you are not ready to travel yet, and that you must be instructed.”

  “But the arena.” He gestured toward where Wollis was commending his young charge, even as he struck the boy across the thigh.

  “We can learn right here.” She laughed at him and shook her head. “Why does everyone here think you can only fight in special places?”

  The girl walked away from him and moved to a collection of different weapons. She found a long handled axe that was, in fact, fairly close in size and shape to his hammer. The head of the hammer was substantially heavier – a fact he was learning to live with despite the protests of his muscles – but close enough that he could see where she would be able to show him a thing or two.

  She spun the long staff around her hips and tested the weight for a moment.

  “Grab your weapon, Andover Lashk of the Iron Hands.” She spoke in a harsher tone of voice.

  He listened. Just in time to parry the blow she aimed for his skull. Unlike Wollis March, she didn’t use the flat of the blade when she aimed for him. The good news for Andover was that he was a fast learner. The bad news was that Jost was an aggressive instructor.

  “Have you thought over my request, Desh?” Nachia’s voice was soft, barely a whisper. The wizard paused and tilted his head. Normally one or more of the Sisters would have been in his quarters, but they all had their own tasks to handle, tasks that he had asked them to take care of.

  Now and then a man needs to be alone.

  “I have. My answer is not changed, Nachia.”

  “Please. He’s my little brother.”

  “I know that.” He shook his head. Nachia stepped from the shadows of the heavy curtain closest to the door. She was dressed in the height of fashion and the silks fell in ways that accentuated her assets while showing nothing. She knew and understood the use of fashion to tantalize. Being a man, despite his many years on the planet, Desh took note.

  “I don’t want to see him dead.” She stepped closer and looked into his eyes. Her gaze was direct. She was not attempting seduction. She’d tried that a few times in the past and found that the sorcerer had the good sense to say no to her advances. One did not stay advisor to the leaders of the Empire by having foolish reactions to the advances of youth.

  “I have it on good authority that he’ll be fine. He might have his pride bruised, but he certainly won’t end up dead.”

  “Then why is he being trained so diligently?”

  “Because he needs to take the situation he’s in very seriously, my dear.” He smiled, and took a step closer, taking her hands in his. “Your brother has led a very pampered life. I’d wager most of his instructors in combat have willingly let him win, merely to keep him happy over the years.”

  Nachia looked away, a flush of guilt coloring her cheeks.

  “Yes, I rather thought so. It’s fine to protect your brother, but he’s of an age where he might be called to war. As a Krous he might well be called to lead an army someday. What happens if he can’t understand the simplest strategies?”

  “You could use your sorceries.”

  He turned on her, and shook his head. “I told you, I can grant your brother the skills of any man, but that man dies in the process. I’m not willing to do that.”

  “But you could.” Her voice took on an edge. “If I become Empress and make that demand of you, you could do i
t.”

  “Anything is possible, Nachia. But there is always a cost. In this case a man’s life. I do not take that consideration lightly.”

  “Neither do I, but–”

  “No. I think you do. You are saying that the life of your brother, the dignity of your brother is worth more than another person’s life. That’s not the sort of decision that should be made and if it is made it must never be made without consideration of the sacrifices.”

  She stared at him and said nothing. She knew better. That was what this came down to. Still, there was a very real chance that she would rule the Empire someday.

  “If I were to do this, who would you recommend I use? General Hradi is getting up in years, true, but he spent thirty years practicing with a sword almost every day of his life. Surely his skills would be formidable. Of course, that leaves us without a skilled commander to lead the armies should anything happen. Perhaps Captain Merros, who has so diligently served me of late. Surely his value as a mercenary is less than the value of your younger brother, who tried to start a war with his careless words.” Desh shrugged his shoulders and then sighed. “Listen. Nachia. I will be there and I will be watching. I can assure you that your brother will not die. What he should do, what you know he should do, is apologize. It’s not a sign of weakness to admit that you acted foolishly. I have certainly apologized many times in my life.”

  She turned away from him, offering silence as her answer.

  “If there’s nothing else then, Nachia, I grow tired. I’ve had a busy day of politics and ensuring that your brother lives through the next few days.”

  He out-waited her. She left two minutes later without speaking another word.

  Desh made a note to locate and seal any hidden passages leading to his chambers. It didn’t do to have the family feel they could come in unannounced whenever it struck their fancy.

  Wollis stared at Merros over a mug of ale that was, to be sure, the finest he had ever tasted. He was feeling a pleasant warmth from the drink and his muscles ached from a hard day of instructing the pampered royal in the fine art of not dying too quickly.