by Lucy Hounsom
‘What is it?’
She never missed a thing, Kul’Das. He dropped his hand immediately. ‘The noise is grating.’
‘On you and me both,’ she muttered. ‘Let’s find this Sim quickly.’
As if the steam had heard them, it parted to reveal a man clutching a length of white-hot metal. He barely glanced at them before saying, ‘All transactions are handled by my assistant. Shop’s in Silver Street.’
‘Master Sim?’ Gareth said smoothly. ‘I do not wish to speak to your assistant. ‘I am here for you.’
The smith put down his work. He raised his head and stared at them properly. A surprisingly slender man, he wore the traditional apron and heavy gloves of his trade. Gareth watched his eyes settle inevitably on the gauntlets. ‘Fine work,’ Sim said almost dreamily. He licked his lips, held out a hand. ‘Would you mind?’
‘I would.’ Gareth said with quiet menace. ‘The gauntlets stay with me.’
‘Those sigils,’ the smith said, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Are they embossed or engraved?’ He drew off his gloves and leaned forward, bare hand reaching out. ‘I’ve never seen—’
Gareth seized his hand in Hond’Myrkr and the smith gasped. Eyes wide, he looked down and cried out as the tips of his fingers began to blacken. ‘They stay with me,’ Gareth repeated.
‘What are you – let me go!’
Gareth released his grip and the smith staggered back, clutching his hand. ‘What are you? What have you done? My fingers –’
‘I want you to craft me a set of armour.’
The smith gaped at him, still cradling his hand.
‘It must be worthy of me, of these.’ Gareth held up Hond’Myrkr and Sim flinched back, horror burrowing its way into his face.
‘Who are you?’
‘I will not answer any question until you agree.’
Sim swallowed. ‘I cannot work. My fingers …’ He held them out. ‘You’ve ruined me.’ It wasn’t just fear in his voice now, but anger and the creeping onset of tears.
‘Give me your hand.’
The smith took a step back. ‘Get away from me. Leave me alone.’
Gareth sighed impatiently. ‘Why would I ask for armour and then cripple you? If you wish to work again, give me your hand.’
The smith swallowed. Hesitantly, he extended his blackened fingers and Gareth took them in Hond’Lif. The white gauntlet glowed in the gloom and the black receded from Sim’s flesh, new skin growing in its place. ‘You’ll have to build up your calluses again,’ Gareth said, ‘but a small price to pay.’
The smith flexed his fingers, his wonder lasting only until he met Gareth’s eyes. Then fear replaced it. ‘What … what can I do for you, sir?’
‘Do you have parchment?’
‘Here.’ Sim scrabbled around on a worktable, coming up with a tatty sheet and a stick of charcoal. Gareth briefly closed his eyes and then began to sketch the schema in his head. The smith watched in silence until professional curiosity prompted him to say, ‘Forgive me, sir, but the shape of the cuirass could be improved—’ he cut off, flinching, as Gareth turned to look at him.
‘No, continue.’
‘If I may.’ Sim took the charcoal, turned the paper towards him. ‘This follows a sixth-century design. A strong design, but flawed.’ He sketched deftly, a new shape beginning to emerge. ‘I recommend riveting here and here – I take it you want full plate?’
‘Yes,’ Gareth said after a moment.
‘You clearly don’t need –’ Sim’s voice faltered as he glanced at the gauntlets. ‘And a helm?’
‘Just the cuirass, pauldrons, greaves and boots.’
‘This emblem,’ Sim said, tapping his charcoal against the parchment cuirass. ‘It seems familiar. Is it your House heraldry?’
Gareth looked at his work, tracing the strokes that depicted crossed fists against a twisted mountain. He’d drawn it without thinking and, all of a sudden, he felt dizzy with a sense of dislocation. ‘Not my House,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s just say it’s mine.’
Sim put down the charcoal and rubbed his hands on the front of his apron. ‘It will take three weeks.’
‘You have three days.’
The smith shook his head. ‘I have other commissions, commissions for which I’ve already received payment. I can’t just—’
‘Drop them,’ Gareth said, taking a step closer. ‘When I return in three days, the armour will be ready. Do you understand?’
‘But –’
He raised Hond’Myrkr and the smith shrank back. ‘This is not a request. Now take your measurements. And remember – I will be waiting.’
Sim swallowed, clearly steeling himself. ‘There’s the matter of payment, sir.’
Gareth reached into his pack, pulled out a set of golden goblets. The smith’s face immediately darkened. ‘I need ken, sir. Gold is worthless.’
‘Look at them closely.’
Sim took one of the goblets, bringing it close to his face. He frowned once and then his eyes widened. ‘You recognize it?’ Gareth asked. ‘It’s Kalastian.’
The smith licked his lips, darting a glance at Gareth’s face. ‘How did you get these? Kalast is buried, cursed. Every attempt to excavate it has met with disaster.’
‘I trust they will be sufficient?’
‘Sufficient?’ Sim returned his gaze to the shining goblets. ‘I could live for a year on the ken the museum in New Sartya would pay for these.’
‘Then we have an agreement.’ Gareth turned away from the astonished smith. ‘I will see you in three days.’
Kul’Das was very quiet as they left the ironworks, leading their horses through the streets. She kept her eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of them. ‘What’s the matter?’ Gareth asked. ‘Is it the goblets? They really are Kalastian – I didn’t cheat him.’ Now that he thought about it, however, he couldn’t actually remember picking them up.
She slowly shook her head. ‘It’s you.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re different.’
Gareth frowned. ‘In what way?’
Kul’Das stopped abruptly, whirling to face him. ‘In every way! The way you speak, behave – look at how you treated that smith, hurting him, bullying him into doing what you wanted. You are not the person with whom I left Stjórna.’ Her blue eyes darkened when they touched upon the gauntlets. ‘I don’t know what happened in Ben’haugr, what you might have suffered there, but it’s changed you. And not for the better.’
The streets were quiet, squat industrial buildings muffling the sounds of the city. The silence grew as they stared at each other. Gareth considered her words. He hadn’t really hurt the smith – he’d just wanted to ensure he had the armour on time. ‘You’re not afraid to say what you think,’ he replied eventually. ‘It’s what I like about you, Kul’Das. But don’t speak to me of that place again.’
If he were anyone else, Gareth suspected she’d have spat some effrontery. But Kul’Das held her tongue; he recognized the shadow of fear in her eyes and frowned. What was she afraid of? He wasn’t going to harm her.
They began walking again, Gareth hardly noticing the city. Thoughts roiled inside him. You’re different. Was he? He didn’t feel different, except that his body was his own again. He summoned a small flame, concealed it in one cupped hand. The Solar felt the same, came as easily as it ever had. So what did Kul’Das mean? What had happened in Ben’haugr? He’d gone there to find Hond’Lif, had taken it from –
His temple began to throb. Gareth sucked in a pained breath and tried again. But the stabbing grew worse, forcing him to give up. What did it matter anyway? He’d gone to Ben’haugr, found the white gauntlet and lifted the curse Hond’Myrkr had placed on his flesh. Now it was time to return home.
Except that something was different. There were … other memories inside him, memories that occasionally rose up to overwhelm him with the sights, sounds and smells of a past he had never lived. Except – he had lived it.
These th
oughts made his head spin. Gareth abandoned them, returned his attention to their surroundings. ‘We should find somewhere to stay.’
Kul’Das seemed relieved at the mundane change in subject. ‘We passed a few inns.’ She reached into a leather pouch at her waist, rolling a few of the strange stones between her fingers. ‘I’m not sure what these will buy though.’
The ken had been a gift from the Republic – to help ease their passage, Hagdon had said. But neither of them knew their real value. Kul’Das looked at him askance. ‘Will you let me do the talking this time? Diplomacy is clearly not one of your strengths.’
‘Why bother with it?’
‘Because I don’t want my throat slit in the middle of the night because you offended some lowlife in the taproom.’
‘They would not dare.’ Gareth clenched Hond’Myrkr.
‘I’d rather not take the chance,’ she replied evenly. ‘Who knows how many people witnessed that scene with the smith? Saw those goblets of yours? We can’t afford to be arrested.’
Gareth sighed. ‘Very well. We’ll do it your way.’
Kul’Das let out an audible breath. ‘Thank you.’
‘For now.’
She was about to respond when he yanked on the reins of both horses and turned them sharply into a side street. ‘Quick,’ he snapped, the hairs on his neck prickling. ‘Someone’s following us.’
Kul’Das glanced over her shoulder before taking the reins of her horse from him. ‘How do you know?’
‘Walk faster. It’s a man. I recognize him from before – he was watching us when we went into the ironworks.’
‘Why would he follow us?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gareth said softly. ‘But he’ll regret it.’
Kul’Das frowned. ‘We don’t want to attract more attention.’
‘He’s just one man. Let’s see if we can’t lose him in that market.’
‘Market’ wasn’t exactly the right word, Gareth concluded upon seeing it. A market conjured up images of striped awnings, goods piled untidily beneath them, the cries of hawkers, clink of coin changing hands. The smells of frying meat from the inevitable carts wheeled in to sustain the crowd.
In Sartyan Paarth, there were no hawkers filling the square with their best prices and promises of quality. There weren’t even many stalls, just tables with austere awnings, a few sample goods laid out for show. Customers stopped, considered the fare, moved on. Those intending to purchase signed a ledger; stones went on a set of scales, the vendor scribbled a note, tore it and handed one half to the customer. ‘It doesn’t look like they’re buying anything,’ Kul’Das murmured, as they watched one woman fold the note into her purse.
Despite its odd quiet, the market wasn’t short of people. They did their best to blend in, but their haste and horses attracted a few looks. When they broke through to the other side, Kul’Gareth hurried them into an alleyway, where they stood in the shadows, waiting.
‘There.’ He pointed. A man emerged from the marketplace, surreptitiously scanning the busy streets. The same one as before. ‘Who is he?’ Gareth breathed.
The stranger turned slowly on the spot. His gaze passed across the mouth of the alley before moving on. Then, appearing to reach a decision, he whirled and vanished back into the market. Kul’Das let out a long breath. ‘What does he want with us?’
‘Good question,’ Gareth said darkly. ‘Let’s go and find this inn you saw.’
‘Wait.’ She pulled his ragged cloak more firmly about him. ‘You should keep those gauntlets hidden. They draw too much attention.’
He shouldn’t have to skulk in alleyways. He’d once walked proudly through cities like Paarth, men either falling back from him, or raising their fists in respectful acknowledgement. A moment later, Gareth blinked. No, that couldn’t be right. He’d never been to Paarth, or any Acrean cities for that matter. He shook his head, but couldn’t dislodge the thought that came right on the heels of the first.
One day, they will learn to respect me again.
19
Hagdon
The land grew harsher as they pressed north. Hagdon had been to this part of Acre before, but not for some years. Certainly not since he’d become general. After the fly-biting marsh which had made them all irritable, the terrain had hardened and begun to climb. Trees grew in clumps, thinning out as the gradient increased. Five days from Parakat, they passed the snowline. As the first flakes drifted down, he heard Brégenne give a pronounced sigh. ‘I’ve seen enough snow to last me several years yet,’ she said ruefully. ‘Ümvast was full of it.’
‘That must have been early for snow,’ Irilin remarked.
‘I was focused on Sartya being our chief concern.’ Brégenne smiled wryly in Hagdon’s direction. ‘I overlooked the fact that reuniting the continents might have more global consequences.’
Irilin frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘Changes in the weather. And then there were the wyverns.’
‘Wyverns?’
Brégenne nodded. ‘Didn’t I tell you this?’
‘Not an unusual sight in the north,’ Hagdon said, thinking of the hulking white beasts. They were more nuisance than menace.
‘Not an unusual sight in Acre,’ Brégenne corrected. ‘They’ve never been seen in Rairam before.’
‘Ah. I can see why that might have been a problem.’
Her expression lost its humour. ‘Ümvast’s warriors didn’t know how to fight the wyverns. Many were killed. When I left, the beasts pretty much had Stjórna besieged.’ She turned her head to the east, towards Rairam. ‘They planned to evacuate, but I couldn’t stay to help. Gareth’s life depended on finding the other gauntlet.’
‘Perhaps he can help them now,’ Irilin said. Wind had teased out a few strands of her hair, whipping it across her face. She brushed it back impatiently. It wasn’t as pale as Brégenne’s, whose hair was so blond as to be almost white; Irilin’s was more golden. Hagdon realized he was watching her and looked hastily away.
He’d been trying to ignore it, hiding it beneath the monumental task ahead of him. But he couldn’t stop his eyes drifting to her, lingering on her face as she spoke. He’d never met anyone like her. She seemed exotic to Hagdon and she was, he supposed, coming from Rairam. More than that – she was a Wielder, had lived in the ruins of Solinaris, that almost mythical citadel. When he raised his head, it was to find her watching him, as if she sensed his thoughts. She pulled her gaze away as swiftly as he had done.
It was safer to study the trail. They’d passed several signs of Sartyan patrols; clearly, Iresonté had issued orders to track him down. Hagdon’s fists clenched involuntarily. When he caught up with her—
‘There’s someone out there,’ Kait said. After they’d almost lost a scout to an avalanche of scree, the Wielder had offered to do it ‘the other way’. Hagdon shivered a little at the thought; magic still made him nervous. A faint nimbus surrounded Kait as she rode with those extra senses extended. Now it brightened. Clearly she was drawing more deeply on her power.
‘How many?’ he asked.
‘Just over half our number.’
‘Who are they?’
Kait briefly closed her eyes. ‘Sartyans, I think.’
Hagdon cursed. ‘We’ve got company,’ he said to Mercia as she came cantering up to him.
‘Sartyans?’
He nodded. ‘Any idea who they could be?’
‘Do they have a wagon with them?’ Mercia asked Kait.
The tall Wielder shook her head and Mercia added her curse to Hagdon’s. ‘A patrol, then. Can we go around them?’
‘They’re already in the pass with us,’ Kait told her. She looked anything but worried, seeming to tremble with nervous energy. Her horse picked up on it, prancing and snorting.
Hagdon had seen enough battle lust in men’s eyes to recognize it. ‘I’d like to avoid a fight if possible,’ he said firmly. ‘We might outnumber them, but these are Sartyan soldiers. We simply don’t have the prowess to
take them on without incurring casualties.’ He glanced over his shoulder at his followers. Snow dusted their crow-feather cloaks, and he watched wariness spread as the news of a Sartyan patrol travelled back through their ranks. They knew as well as he that they hadn’t the training to stand on equal footing with soldiers of the Fist.
He returned his gaze to Mercia. ‘Are you up for some fast talking?’
‘You know how I love to talk, Hagdon,’ she said with a carefree shrug. It was partly an act, Hagdon knew, an attempt to diffuse the fear he could sense in the Republic’s forces. Mercia’s Sartyans looked grim. If this went badly, they’d be crossing blades with comrades. Hagdon suddenly wondered how far their loyalty to Mercia, to himself, stretched. Today, he might find out.
‘This is poor terrain for fighting,’ he said, wheeling his horse around to face his forces, ‘which is why we’ll try it another way. Equally, the patrol will not want a fight in this weather.’ The snow was falling faster now, drawing a white curtain over the scene. ‘We’re going to dismount,’ Hagdon called, doing so himself. ‘Mercia’s group are the only ones who’ll remain in the saddle. We’ll masquerade as prisoners. If this is a regular patrol, they should let us pass.’ He didn’t voice his worry that it might not be a regular patrol, but one sent by Iresonté.
Hagdon pulled his hood close about his face, hoping the swirling snow would help conceal him. Then he dropped back among the Republic, hearing mutters as they dismounted. Several of Mercia’s men rounded up the horses, corralling them in a group at the back.
‘Commander,’ Avery said in a low voice, ‘are you sure this is wise? We’re deliberately putting ourselves in a weak position.’ Her eyes were bright beneath her hood.
‘You don’t trust our allies?’
‘If you trust Mercia, that’s good enough for me,’ she replied, ‘but how well does she know her men?’
Hagdon strove to suppress the self-same concern. If he didn’t support the plan, the Republic wouldn’t either. ‘Mercia knows her unit,’ he said, trying for a note of confidence. ‘I do not believe she would have brought anyone she personally doubted.’