The Godlost Land

by Curtis, Greg

  The other was Alenda Goldeneyes, a fire wizard. He didn't know her save to look at. Many times in Lion's Crest he'd seen her marching up and down the streets, her attendants in tow as she went to castigate some unfortunate. In the Circle she had taken on the role of prefect and as such she had watched over all the other wizards in the kingdom for the slightest sign that they were disobeying the rules.

  And she had taken her duties seriously. Harl had never spoken with her but his master had, and Master Gallowgood had been less than happy each time. Once she'd accused him of crafting assassins' blades, when in fact he had been crafting weapons for the king himself – if they'd fallen into the hands of assassins, Harl and his master had presumed that they were the king's assassins. From what Harl knew of Alenda she was said to be one of the most powerful wizards of fire ever seen.

  Soon he hoped, and sometimes he even prayed to Hera for it though it was never her bailiwick, they would both be dead. And maybe she should answer his prayers. Hera might be the Mistress of Home and Hearth, but the Circle had acted against her directly. It was the homes of many of her followers that had been destroyed. Their hearths that would never be lit again. The cribs of their babies that would no longer be rocked. Her temples that had been burnt down and her priests that had been killed. Even if she wasn't a goddess of justice like Dike Astraea she surely had the right to claim it on behalf of her faithful.

  In the meantime Harl's task was to craft the weapons that would be needed to defeat them. As such he had set about having his smithy rebuilt. He now had half a dozen body moulds on which to shape his armour, racks filled with all the tools of the smith's trade, a water trough system to make working at the pit more comfortable, and an area for hanging up his wares as he crafted them. Even the ore pits and ingot stores had been rebuilt. What had been little more than an ancient pit only a few months earlier was slowly turning into a proper working smithy.

  Now, every day from dawn until dusk he laboured at his pit, crafting the weapons and armour he had promised for the war effort. It was a lot of work. Currently he was making around thirty swords a week, all of them enchanted with magic for sharpness and durability. They were good weapons, and would take off a minotaur's limbs or a leonid's head quickly enough.

  Cuirasses were the other thing he was making in numbers. They were quicker and easier to make than brigandines though the latter offered better all round protection for less weight. But he could spell them so that they would still give the wearer a decent chance against most enemies.

  It was a lot of work. No blacksmith could have crafted so many weapons let alone enchanted them. But he was an arcane smith. His fire burnt hotter than theirs. The metal flowed more easily under his hands.

  But he had also been given some help in his work. Not the apprentices or arcane smiths he would have liked though. There just weren't any others with the art. But Marni had sent him some people from Whitebrook to clear the old path to his smithy so that wagons could be brought to him. And now every week he had another load of ore sent his way. All the ores he could smelt, which was why he now had racks overflowing with ingots ready to be turned into swords and armour. She was also sending him provisions so that he didn't have to spend his time walking into the town and arranging for soldiers to pick up his wares each week.

  Somehow Marni had ended up as the head of the local garrison. The old fort based just outside of Whitebrook was under her command. Harl still didn't understand that. He had thought from the first that she might be a soldier but not that she might carry such a high rank. She seemed too young for the position to him. A commander in his mind was supposed to be an old grizzled veteran with battle scars criss-crossed over his body. That was not her. But he had to admit that she seemed to be able to do the job. Her soldiers certainly followed her lead and they jumped to her commands. And they had quickly rebuilt the old fort.

  When the false temple had come to town the fort had been abandoned as the beasts drove the soldiers away. And after they had gone its walls had been broken, its buildings had been smashed and the fort had been left in ruins. Ever since then it had lain empty, only a few birds and vermin calling it home while the weeds took over. But now that the false temple was gone the fort had been reclaimed and it had become a part of the war. And little by little Commander Holdgood was restoring it to order. Bringing back its long forgotten pride.

  The new recruits from the nearby towns were being given their initial training at it. They would then go on to Glass River to finish their training and be taught to fight as an army. Patrols were also being sent out from the fort to scout the nearby lands for any roaming creatures. And supplies were being sent forward to the front lines. He understood they were also building siege machines in the fort which one by one were being trundled to the Fortress of Glass River. There, crews were being trained to use them, each machine needing ten to fifteen men to operate it. The fort had an entire production line for the machines, which began with the foresters finding the trees to cut down and mill.

  And it wasn't just in the Whitebrook Fort that that was happening. A dozen more forts had been returned to service across the Rainbow Mountains, and all were supplying the war effort. In time the war machines and crews would travel on to Midland Heights for the final assault. And when Midland Heights fell as everyone knew it would, all of the Rainbow Mountains would be free. One of the five kingdoms would once more be in the hands of the people. And the celebrations would last for months and years.

  What would happen after that he didn't know. He suspected no one did. And some days as he worked he wondered about that. There was no king or court any longer. They had all been killed when the temple had taken power. Actually they had been killed before that. A number of furies had killed most of them long before the temple had come to the Rainbow Mountains. Assassins had made sure that no one replaced them. Without a court the entire kingdom had been reduced to a collection of towns and villages all working according to their own plans. It would be a long time before the Rainbow Mountains became a unified land again, and he feared there would be battles and skirmishes along the way as various would be kings vied for power.

  Looking further ahead to the glorious day when the Kingdom of the Lion was finally free he knew that that would be an even more troubled road. There, there was not only no court remaining, but most of the people in the city had been killed in the initial attack. Those that lived there now had been brought there to replace the dead. He couldn't imagine that many of them would want to stay in a city that wasn't their home. But at least the people would still be free of the temple and that was what mattered most. It was the only thing that mattered.

  As for the war, while the High Priestess led it and seemed to be winning, he didn't know how much success she would have in taking the war beyond the Rainbow Mountains if and when the time came. He hoped she would simply be able to continue growing in strength and power. But he had doubts. Many of those who followed her were there to free their homes of the tyrant priests. But once that was done would they really be willing to follow her into the other four kingdoms? To spend years of their lives freeing lands they didn't know or have any connection to?

  Some would. The wizards and the priests and any others driven into exile and hiding in this mountainous land would. Not only were most of their homes not originally in the Rainbow Mountains, but they, like him, had a lot of anger. More than most others since the outcasts had been on the run for five long years. The other soldiers drawn from the liberated towns had instead simply bent their knees to the false temple and suffered. They too were angry, but not in the same way. Her army of unicorns and griffins would of course follow the High Priestess. But the army itself? Somehow he doubted it. Given a choice they would want to go home if they could. To head east into the Enteria Regency or west into Vardania was not their dream. Their dream had always been to reclaim their homes.

  The more important question for him was what would he do when the time came? Some of it was easy to answ
er. He would continue to do what he was doing. He was an arcane smith and he was of Lion's Crest. He would continue to craft the weapons the army needed until the last of these demon following wizards was dead. But other decisions weren't so simple. At some point he would have to move. To find himself a new smithy in whichever kingdom they invaded next. And that would be a hard thing to do, even for him.

  This humble smithy had become a home to him. He didn't have another.

  Still, as he beat at the steel of a breastplate he knew that that decision was many months away. The best estimates were that Midland Heights would hold until winter. And then when it fell a great many more decisions would have to be made before the army marched on. It would likely be spring before he had to decide to do anything at all.

  Hoof beats in the distance took Harl's thoughts away from his worries and he looked up – interested to see who was coming. A strange thing had happened since the commander had asked him to make weapons for the army. He had come to enjoy having visitors. Not for the conversation, nor because they brought him coin or supplies. Simply because each one might have something he could do. An order or a request for a specific weapon that he could craft and which would hopefully end up buried in the chest of an enemy. He was not a soldier, but he would do everything he could to help destroy their enemy.

  His visitor was a soldier from the fort and he had been riding hard to reach him. His horse was breathing heavily as he pulled up. As was the spare horse he had with him.

  “You're needed at the fort.”

  The rider didn't even dismount as he told him his news. Actually he didn't tell him the news so much as shout it at him, and while Harl didn't know what it was about he knew it sounded urgent. Urgent enough that he was expected to ride back immediately with the soldier.

  “What's happened?”

  “A wizard is seeking passage through the southern way and the commander has her doubts as to whether he is friend of foe.”

  That could happen Harl knew. Wizards caught up in the battles to the north could be fleeing south, and while some of them might be like him – survivors who had lived in hiding for five years – some could be with the Circle. There was no way of knowing who was who. And of course Whitebrook, and more specifically the old Whitebrook fort, was located directly on the main south road. It led all the way from Midland Heights to the southern wastelands and the lands beyond.

  Anyone heading south would use the road unless they wanted to travel a much more difficult path through forests, hills, scarps and small cliffs, not to mention fording several large rivers. That was the main reason why he had ended up where he had.

  To try and make their way around the fort would require a major diversion through thick forest on both sides. Wagons wouldn't be able to travel that path. Horses would have difficulty. Even on foot there were places where the scrub was so thick and the land so broken that it would be a hard march. Most people, even wizards, would use the road. And therefore they would be stopped at the blockade outside Whitebrook and questioned.

  The doubts the commander had about the wizard were easy enough to understand. There weren't a lot of wizards around, and there was no reason that one would be travelling south – potentially fleeing the five kingdoms – when the Rainbow Mountains were slowly being freed of the false temple. Not for an outcast wizard anyway. But why she had sent for him wasn't so clear. He understood that she doubted the wizard's story. But not so much that she imagined he could somehow divine the truth from the wizard. After all, it was unlikely that he knew the wizard personally. It had only been the luck of Tyche that he had known Geron. There had been hundreds of wizards in Lion's Crest before the attack. There were hundreds more in each of the other cities in the five kingdoms. And he had only been an arcane smith, a wizard who wasn't generally regarded as a true wizard by the rest of the casters. It wasn't as if he had spent his days rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty of the magical realm.

  Nor did he have another bonds of truth lying around, or any other devices enchanted with truth spells on them. He had had only the one, crafted purely to see if he could master the complex magic and craftsmanship involved. And if Geron had known what it was he would never have put it on. Others, knowing its magic might even have been able to overcome the spell. So how was he supposed to know if a particular wizard was an enemy?

  Still, he guessed it wasn't a choice. He had agreed to help, if only by crafting enchanted weapons. This perhaps wasn't so far removed from what he had agreed to. And it certainly wasn't as if he was being asked to head into the battle itself, though part of him still wanted to. But it would have been a mistake. Though he had the skill with weapons, he simply wasn't a soldier. Besides, his skill as an arcane smith was more valuable than however many chimera or enemy soldiers he could bring down with his great sword.

  “All right soldier, let me change and I'll join you shortly.”

  Harl had to change. He was covered in sweat and filth. Even though his forge did not use coal, just handling the ores and metals was a dirty job. And while he might be immune to fire, that did not mean he did not get hot and sweaty. At the end of each day's work he was as filthy as any blacksmith. But this time he decided, as he poured a barrel of water over himself to wash away the worst of the grime, he would change into something more appropriate for a fort. His armour. He might not need it, but it was always best to be prepared.

  It only took a few minutes for him to dress and straight after that he had mounted the spare horse the soldier had brought for him and they were off, cantering down the track. That sent Harl's heart racing.

  It was of course faster to ride than to walk. But it wasn't something Harl did a lot of and he didn't like it. He clung a little more tightly to the saddle and reins than he probably had to, and his hands turned a bloodless white as they gripped the reins. Maybe next time they needed his help they could bring a wagon of some sort he thought. Then again, maybe he wouldn't mention it. Some days he felt he was on swampy ground with the commander, never quite knowing what he would say that would trap him in the bog. She needed his skill but would never forget his theatrics as she had called them. He suspected she thought he'd been making a fool of her. Perhaps he had been.

  They made better time on the main track. Though it wasn't kept in perfect condition by any means, mostly just knocked down by wear and tear from the occasional travellers using it, it was still wider and flatter than the newly beaten track to his home. And maybe he was a little more relaxed on the horse by then. Just a little. So he let the reins loosen slightly and let the horse have her head. He even tried to look relaxed.

  Somehow, by good luck or maybe even a tiny amount of skill, he didn't fall off and twenty minutes later the fort came into sight. He had to admit that riding was a lot faster than walking. But on the other hand it was less comfortable, and even by then the ache in his legs from having gripped the saddle so tightly was growing. He was relieved to be able to dismount. More relieved still not to fall off as he did so, though he did somehow get his foot caught in the stirrup and had to be helped out of it by a couple of soldiers. They didn't laugh at least but he decided as he shook the cramp out of his legs that he'd walk back.

  The fort itself was much as it had always been. A run down compound with ancient wooden palisade walls that had seen better years, and thick log buildings within. As a military structure it barely qualified as a fort. There was too much wood and not nearly enough stone. The walls weren't high enough, and shaping them into points at the top as someone had apparently decided to do would do little to stop enemies from scaling them. But worse than that, they would burn. As would everything else. In fact everywhere he looked there were rough sawn tree trunks fashioned into buildings and walls.

  But at least since the soldiers had moved back in, much of the four or five years' worth of overgrown weeds and scrub that had started claiming the fort, had been chopped back. Windows had been cleaned and even the doors had been oiled. There were even archery targets and
straw dummies set up once more for the soldiers and recruits to train on. That impressed him. The fort might not be in perfect working order, but it was clearly much improved over the ruin it had been for the last five years.

  More impressive than that however, were the recruits going through their paces. Drilling in the compound with their weapons as their sergeants yelled orders at them. That had not happened in a very long time and it was a good sight to see. It reminded him once more that the days of the false temple in this land were numbered. He hoped.

  Harl followed the soldier into the main building and was immediately caught by surprise by its roughness. Most log buildings at least had the insides of the logs chamfered smooth to give clean walls. Not here though. The logs were still logs simply laid one on top of another and the gaps where they met were filled with wattle and daub to keep the wind and the rain out. Even the bark was still on the logs. The dirt floors were a surprise as well. He had seen stables better appointed. But he supposed that this was not the time to be wondering about the crudeness of the structure. Not when Marni was just ahead, along with a couple of her soldiers, and the man he assumed was the wizard seated just across from them.

  His first thought when he saw him sitting on a pew was that the man didn't look like a wizard. He wasn't anyone he recognised. And he showed none of the signs of affluence that Geron had. He wasn't overweight or overdressed. He had some dirt on his face and even under his nails. And he was of a solid, muscular build while his hands showed callouses suggesting he had been doing some sort of physical work for a while. Based on that maybe he could be another wizard in hiding. And at least he seemed peaceful. He had voluntarily drunk the tea so he had been told. Not many would do that.