The two warriors fell to the ground with Nikomedes’ blade sticking out from his vanquished opponent’s back. He rolled forward in a somersault, with the last of his momentum, pulling the blade free from the warlord’s spasming corpse as he rolled past. When he came to a stop, he was kneeling with the blade held in his right hand, and only then did he realize that the fighting had ceased all around him.
Nikomedes drew loud, labored breaths, biting his cheek so as to fill his mouth with blood as he stood. Kratos approached and sighed, looking down on the bloody corpse of the enemy commander before turning to Nikomedes and scolding, “I told you to get rid of that damned mask.”
Nikomedes shook his head, hawking up a gob of bloody sputum onto the snow-covered ground at his feet. “And I told you,” he countered, “that your northern air does not agree with me.”
Kratos scoffed, turning to the nearby Ice Raiders who were paying attention to the conversation, “’Soft as a southerner,’ the saying goes. Now we see why!”
A wave of chuckles came from the men, who had very nearly finished with their rout of the enemy forces. Kratos had brought three hundred men with him for this particular engagement, and the enemy’s number had been roughly the same.
But their morale had been badly shaken during the opening exchanges of the battle, and Kratos had sown dissent among their ranks prior to the battle’s outset by promising several of the would-be leaders of the roving war band that he would not seek retribution against them if they broke rank when the battle was joined.
As a result, only a quarter of the enemy looked to have fallen before the others had fled, and Kratos’ people had secured an all-too-easy victory over the men from beyond the White Wall.
Nikomedes continued to draw deep, ragged breaths as he wiped his blade clean. After sheathing it, he knelt to the commander’s corpse and removed the dead warlord’s antlered helmet, which seemed to have been fashioned into some sort of a crown.
Turning to Kratos, Nikomedes proffered the helmet and declared, “That makes thirty eight, Kratos.”
“Aye,” Kratos agreed, his expression turning to a scowl as he accepted the signature headwear of the enemy commander, “that it does.”
Nikomedes replaced his mask, which fit so tightly to his face that it significantly restricted his body’s ability to draw breath. That, rather than some strange aversion to the cold air of the north, had been his real purpose in fashioning and wearing the odd device, which covered both his nose and mouth with a nearly skin-tight seal. It required almost daily maintenance to maintain that seal, but with an adequate supply of tallow he had been able to do that maintenance for over a year.
It was one of many deceptions he had maintained during his two years as a bond-slave of Kratos, and he knew that he would need them all if he was to leave the one-eyed warlord’s service alive.
“Come,” Kratos roared, turning to his men, “let’s take the spoils back to the Pass!”
Chapter IX: An Unexpected Offer
When they returned to Blue Fang Pass after a mere two days’ march, Nikomedes was determined to return to his room in search of solitude. He had removed all of the previous occupant’s belongings, and had only those items which were essential to his daily living within. He would not allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of his place at Blue Fang Pass—it was his prison, nothing more, and he knew that without constant reminders of that fact he might find himself thinking of the frigid place as his home.
But Kratos had no intention of leaving him alone, as he stood barring the way to Nikomedes’ room when he finally reached it. “Leave your things,” the warlord gestured to the satchel Nikomedes had used during the short march back to Blue Fang Pass, “I have something to show you.”
Nikomedes hesitated, but did as commanded since to do otherwise would be dishonorable. During his time among the rebels and heretics of Blue Fang Pass—who had abandoned the very principles and traditions which Nikomedes, and the rest of his people, held dear by choosing to live as raiders and bandits—he had learned about the true value of honor, and had embraced it as one might embrace a candle on a starless, moonless night.
He followed Kratos out of the lodgings and into the Main Hall of Blue Fang Pass. Valeria sat on her giant, stone chair, which had been hewn from the mountainside itself, and nearly a hundred men and women occupied the Main Hall in preparation for the festivities which would mark the victory over the war band from beyond the White Wall.
Nikomedes saw several people putting the finishing touches on a new tapestry which would mark the occasion of the latest feast, and his eyes drifted to the rafters where no fewer than two hundred similar wool, cloth, or even silk tapestries recounted the history of Blue Fang Pass. It was an admittedly impressive display, but Nikomedes knew that they were less meaningful than those which hung in the Main Hall of most Holds.
For most Holds, battles were fought either to expand or protect that Hold’s territory, and were therefore events which marked significant turning points in the history of the people who called that Hold home. But for the inhabitants of Blue Fang Pass—who did not sow their own crops, raise their own livestock, or ply any trade save for combat—the tapestries merely represented the continued existence of the frozen, remote bastion of heretics and other malcontents.
Without victory in the hundreds of battles recounted in the tapestries hanging from the rafters, the residents of Blue Fang Pass would starve in little more than a year, since their food stores would be exhausted in no more than that length of time. Surprisingly, however, it seemed that the people who lived in the caves surrounding Blue Fang Pass were as well-off as any commoners could be. They rationed their provisions, had lodgings which were in many respects superior to those afforded most of their station, and seemed even happier than those who had worked the fields of Hold Mistress Eukaria’s Hold. It was a strange reality, seeing these people living so differently from those which Nikomedes had known in his youth, but he hardened his mind as he reminded himself that none of it would be possible without Kratos’ heretical practices.
Kratos marched purposefully past Valeria, who was sixteen years old and had become a strong woman in her own right. She dealt with the local nobility—which consisted primarily of elevated merchants and gentry who had fled prosecution for various offenses in their native lands—like a real Hold Mistress, weaving a web of intrigue which had seen nearly all of them fall into line in short order.
But the true leader of Blue Fang Pass was Kratos, who ruled with a combination of personal charisma and an iron fist. Only two foolish warriors had challenged his leadership publicly since Nikomedes’ arrival, and each of their heads had adorned the western gatehouse’s battlements shortly thereafter.
Nikomedes felt Valeria’s eyes on him as he followed Kratos, but he did not meet her gaze as her hulking father made his way to the door which led to Kratos’ private chambers. Kratos slept in the lodging wing just like Nikomedes, but during the day he spent a significant amount of time in this particular area of the citadel—and it was a place none dared enter.
To Nikomedes’ knowledge, only Valeria had been permitted within the small wing of Blue Fang Pass without her father’s accompaniment, and only a handful of warriors had even entered on Kratos’ request.
As they moved through the dark, cold passageway, Nikomedes felt increasingly wary about having followed the one-eyed warlord. With just one more kill, Nikomedes would earn his freedom from Kratos and Blue Fang Pass, but he seriously doubted the heretical warlord would permit him to leave any time soon.
Still, it was clear that Kratos had invested a significant amount of time and energy in his attempted mentoring of Nikomedes, but Nikomedes had rejected all such overtures. Kratos had been amused at first, but his irritation had grown with each successive failure to bring Nikomedes into the fold—as had the ire of Kratos’ half-brother, Kairos, who may have shared his sibling’s physical traits but lacked his keen intellect and shrewd character.
“What you are ab
out to see,” Kratos said, his voice muffled in the dark corridor as Nikomedes heard the sound of a metal clasp being unfastened, “none but my own blood have seen.”
Kratos pushed a door open at the end of the corridor, and Nikomedes saw a faint glow from within the chamber beyond. There were a handful of silhouettes backlit by the soft, orange glow of lit braziers, and Kratos gestured for Nikomedes to enter the room.
When he had done so, Kratos closed the door and moved to the center of the thirty foot diameter, low-ceilinged, roughly dome-shaped chamber. Nikomedes waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, and after they had done so he approached the nearest silhouette.
“Markus,” Kratos said as Nikomedes saw a suit of armor fastened securely around a life-sized statue with a jaw-line that bore a striking resemblance to Kratos’ own. “First of my kin, and father to my father; he died in service to the Hold Mistress he had pledged his life to protect.”
“An honorable death,” Nikomedes said as he appraised the old-style Stone Rhino armor which adorned the statue.
Kratos snorted angrily. “Again with the honor,” he growled. “Have you learned nothing here, Nikomedes?”
“I have learned much here, Kratos,” Nikomedes said, knowing it to be a double-edged answer. He had indeed learned much of battle while fighting alongside the Ice Raiders of Blue Fang Pass, but he had also learned that without principles like honor that the skills he had honed while doing so would be worth less than nothing.
Kratos folded his massive arms across his thick, burly chest which was covered in a simple toga. He seemed completely unaffected by the bitter cold of the Ice Raiders’ home, and only complained of the weather when it was nearly summertime.
“Perhaps you would care to learn why Markus died?” Kratos asked, his voice threaded with iron.
Nikomedes made no reply, opting instead to take a closer look at the ornate, Stone Rhino hide armor which the statue wore. It was cracked in several places due to a lack of proper maintenance, which seemed odd since Stone Rhino hide was reputed to be low maintenance compared to other animal hides. But any product of life, even as the skin of a fearsome beast like a Stone Rhino, would decay given a lack of care during the inexorable passage of time.
“His Hold Mistress—the same bitch whose line once owned that scrap of land I left to my first daughter,” Kratos explained darkly, “decided he was unworthy to hold the post, so without offering him the chance to surrender his title and give the honor to a younger warrior, she arranged for a series of challenges which culminated in his death.”
Nikomedes had heard of such abuses of power, but the truth was that if Markus had indeed accepted the role of Protector to his Hold Mistress then he had also accepted the method by which he might be removed from that role. The world was a cold, cruel place, and for most of the people living where Nikomedes’ ancestors had tread there was no reason to behave any differently.
Kratos took a few steps toward the statue of his father’s father, his voice lowering reverently as he continued, “I was in my seventh winter when he died surrounded by the bodies of every able-bodied warrior from the Hold who dared take his honor from him.” There was a tragic note to the normally gruff, blunt Kratos’ voice, and Nikomedes could not help but be touched by the story as he continued, “I remember when the last challenger—a young, arrogant bastard from Lyconesia—stepped forward to fight him. Markus wore this armor that day,” he said, pointing to the back of the breast plate, prompting Nikomedes to look closer to see what looked to be an unlikely hole on the flank of the robust protective plating, “and that cocksure dandy put him down with a spear through this point of the armor.”
“How did it pierce the hide?” Nikomedes asked skeptically, having never before heard of any spear penetrating such a thick piece of Stone Rhino hide.
Kratos snorted but did not immediately respond. When he did, his voice had taken a hard note, “Markus’ squire, a youth named Antius, had weakened that particular area after being assured of advancement among the ranks for doing so.”
“The warrior bribed him,” Nikomedes said sourly, finding himself offended to the core that any man would betray his sworn duty in such a grievous manner.
“No, Nikomedes,” Kratos said, turning to retake his position in the center of the room, “it was not the squire…Markus’ Hold Mistress, to whom he had pledged his very life and served faithfully for twenty years—the best twenty years he had to offer—was the one who betrayed him to the spear-wielding dandy.”
Nikomedes was stunned by the revelation, and briefly wondered if Kratos was lying to him. But in spite of the one-eyed warlord’s many flaws, dishonesty had not been one which Nikomedes had ever observed in his dealings with the mammoth of a man.
“The father of my father fell to his knees, and the dandy drew a finely-crafted, jewel-encrusted blade from its scabbard at his side,” Kratos continued, his voice having returned to its usual, grating tone as Nikomedes realized he was almost certainly referring to the blade he had taken from Ektor’s corpse. “Markus’ eyes met mine in the instant that blade pierced his throat and ended his life…it is a sight I hope never to forget, and one I dearly wish I could share with you as I experienced it.”
Believing he understood Kratos’ meaning plainly enough, Nikomedes shook his head, “One betrayal does not justify what you have done here, Kratos.”
“What have I done, Nikomedes?” the one-eyed warlord challenged bitterly. “Have I given the people who follow me a choice how to live their lives? Have I undone centuries of oppression based on archaic laws, crafted by beings from the stars—beings which none of us have ever seen—that supposedly left us here to hone ourselves in the event we might one day be of use to them in their endless wars?” He stepped menacingly toward Nikomedes as he continued, “Have I leveled the field and broken the iron grip of the Hold Mistresses, who invoke words like ‘the will of Men,’ ‘honor,’ and ‘upload’ to use as yokes around our necks? Tell me, Nikomedes,” he said, his hot breaths blasting into Nikomedes’ face as he drew close enough that their chests nearly touched, “is that what I have done?”
Nikomedes felt his ire rising, but he knew he needed to maintain composure. He knew, somewhere deep within himself, that what Kratos said had the ring of truth. Of course, such was the way of heretics, to cloak their mind-twisting message in interwoven layers of truth and falsehood.
“You have turned your back on our ways, Kratos—” Nikomedes began before he was interrupted.
“Not our ways, Nikomedes,” Kratos growled, “they were never mine.”
Nikomedes felt himself stiffen, “You treat your daughter no better than you accuse the Hold Mistresses of treating men.”
Anger flared in Kratos’ eye and Nikomedes tensed in preparation for a conflict, but the other man narrowed his eye and growled, “I love my daughter more than you could possibly know.”
“And what of your other daughter—the one you left with Aramus on that ‘scrap of land’?” Nikomedes challenged.
“She was never mine,” Kratos snorted, waving a hand dismissively as he turned his back and moved toward a second armored statue in the cold, dark shrine. “She was her mother’s, both in spirit and in fact…Valeria is the only child I could ever call my own. Such was my agreement with her mother; without that agreement—and my efforts on her behalf—her Hold would have fallen to the vultures long ago.”
“Yes, you protected her Hold—a Hold you gave to her by defeating its previous Hold Mistress in pursuit of vengeance for a past wrong to your kin,” Nikomedes said harshly.
“What would you have had me do?” Kratos shouted angrily. “Allow the death of my father’s father to go unpunished?!”
Nikomedes shook his head, “I will not debate this with you, Kratos.”
“We’ll see about that,” Kratos growled, turning to the second armored figure.
This one, also hewn from a solid piece of the mountain’s vein of blue stone for the Blue Fang Pass was so named, showed a m
an with a long, full beard holding a hammer that could only be Glacier Splitter in his hands. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and around his shoulders was draped a large, thick cat skin like the one which the Black Arrows wore.
“My father, Maximus,” he said proudly, “he carved this place from the White Wall with Glacier Splitter—a weapon which bears his name among the people who live north of these very mountains…a name he earned by doing precisely what that name says.”
Nikomedes found himself immediately curious what Kratos meant. He had always assumed the hammer’s name was simply a fearsome moniker given to it so as to inspire fear among the enemies of the man who wielded it.
“I thought that might get your attention,” he snorted. “You see, my father saw the world much as you do, Nikomedes. He did not believe that a single wrong, however terrible, could justify turning his back on the laws of Men. So he took me to a place not far from here,” he explained, his voice once again taking on a nearly reverent tone, “where a Hold Mistress accepted us into her service. In two years’ time, my father took his place at her side as Protector of her Hold. For ten years he served her, as did I, although Markus’ death was never far from my mind. My father, however,” he said darkly, casting a hard look at the statue, “told me to leave the past where it belonged…but that was something I could never do.”
Nikomedes was uncertain why Kratos was telling him any of this, but he decided that the respectful thing to do was to listen until the telling was completed.
“Markus had been a fine warrior and a good man, but nothing more,” Kratos continued, “but father…father was one of the finest engineers to ever walk this world. While serving as Protector, he oversaw the creation of a dozen major improvements to the hold, including impenetrable stone walls for the citadel which stood thirty feet tall and half as thick at the base. Naturally, his Hold Mistress’s prestige and power grew enormously as a result of these improvements, and her wealth doubled during those ten years. Before father’s arrival, her grip on the lands had been slipping.”
The Forge of Men Page 14