Nikomedes was far from surprised at hearing of Maximus’ engineering abilities, since he had supposedly been responsible for the creation of Blue Fang Pass itself. It was easily the most impressive citadel Nikomedes had ever seen, or even heard of, and the peculiar difficulties of working in the icy environment of the White Wall made the feat all the more impressive.
“Of course,” Kratos said softly, “father was a fool. She turned on him just as her counterpart had done to Markus as soon as her refurbished Hold garnered attention from more…desirable Protectors. Despite my best attempts to warn him when I saw the signs of pending betrayal, he stubbornly refused to heed my advice.” Kratos turned to a third statue—this one devoid of arms or armaments—and said in a self-satisfied tone, “But this time when the would-be usurper came to claim the life of my forebear—after he had already dispatched of eight feckless whelps who thought to do the same—I interceded.”
Nikomedes was unsurprised at this particular turn in the story’s telling, since the timeline for Kratos’ tale would have put him at nineteen or twenty years old. At his size and obvious physical gifts in the physical prime of his life, it would have been a small thing for him to dispatch of any but the most skilled and talented warriors.
“We fled the citadel after I slew the last of the curs in which my father had placed his trust,” Kratos explained, “and soon found ourselves north of the White Wall. For three weeks we lived in the frozen wilderness, with no food to eat and no fire for warmth for fear of signaling our location to the pursuing hunting parties. Eventually we killed the original owner of that,” he gestured to the cat skin hanging from his father’s statue, “and took up residence in her cave, where we waited for the spring thaw.”
It was an interesting tale, but Nikomedes was growing tired of hearing it. “If there is a point here, Kratos, I would hear it.”
Kratos gave him a dire look before nodding approvingly, “Of all the men I’ve brought to this fortress, you’re the only one with a spine, Nikomedes.” Kratos leaned against the barren statue at his back and said, “Fine, I’ll skip to the end: my father knew enough of engineering that he also knew where the citadel he had bolstered was weakest. It had been built against a tall cliff, and on the other side of that cliff is the largest glacier on the western half of the White Wall. Well,” he smirked, “it was on the other side of the cliff…until Maximus and I spent the entire spring digging melt-water canals which funneled the glacier’s melting ice toward the Hold’s rear.” He laughed deeply, looking down at his hands and saying thoughtfully, “Father lost three fingers and four toes to the frost as we dug, and I lost a few patches of skin from my palms…but that treacherous bitch lost everything we had given her—and everything she’d had when we arrived.”
Nikomedes found his eyebrows rising in surprise, admiration, and respect in spite of the subversive nature of Kratos’ father’s revenge.
“Oh, they dammed the flow in a few weeks,” Kratos assured him in a confidential tone, “though the melt-water flooded the Hold’s storehouses, ruining a three year supply of grain and meat in the first two days…but none of them knew the ice like father,” he said contemptuously, and Nikomedes could not tell if the contempt was for his father, or for the workers at the Hold. “The summer passed and the water was diverted by their dams. But when the frost came, and that melt-water froze again, the cliff literally crumbled as the ice expanded within every nook and cranny in that five hundred meter long rock face.”
Kratos stopped, his breathing coming faster and louder and an unholy gleam burning in his eye as he retold the impressive tale.
“It was more than even I could have imagined possible, but then,” Kratos snorted softly, “no one knew the ice like father. After the cliff collapsed—crushing the citadel and everyone within it just after dawn broke—the glacier itself broke apart and poured through the breach, dropping a thousand thousand tons of ice and rock onto the wrecked citadel each day and burying that den of deceit and treachery in a frozen tomb for all eternity.” He stopped, straightened himself, and finished, “Father’s plan split the glacier’s flow into two separate paths which flow even to this day, earning him the name ‘Glacier Splitter’ among the people who live north of the White Wall. He never cared for the name itself, but since we interacted with those people regularly he fashioned the hammer and rebranded the name as having originally belonged to the weapon. It was the only lie he ever told, as far as I know, and it’s one that I’m entrusting to you…along with everything else I value.”
“What do you mean?” Nikomedes asked warily, more than slightly impressed at Kratos’ tales of revenge taken upon those who had wronged him and his line. In truth, he respected their ingenuity and dedication; in a way it was similar to when Nikomedes had killed the kraken four years earlier as little more than a stripling.
“I am an old man, Nikomedes,” Kratos said, for the first time actually sounding like one as he issued a long sigh, “and my daughter is a duly-appointed Hold Mistress who has learned her craft well. She is also fertile, having bled for three full years now,” he said pointedly. “It’s time she takes on a true Protector who can provide her with what she, and her Hold, needs most: a line of succession. I would have you be that man.”
Nikomedes was stunned into silence. He had never expected that Kratos would make such an offer to him, and the truth was he had not fully considered the matter until that moment. He had known that Valeria fancied him, and she was a fine young woman who would clearly bear many healthy children.
If he was being fully honest with himself, there was a long moment when he dearly wanted to accept the offer. Blue Fang Pass’s standing army was three thousand strong, with nearly a fourth of those now consisting of the Black Arrow elites. Those elites were more than a match on a one-to-one basis for any fighting force Nikomedes had ever seen, which meant that they could almost certainly defeat any organized military in the region—aside from the regional southern titans like Argos and Lyconesia—if they marched en masse.
But he knew that if he accepted Kratos’ offer, he would be perpetuating a stain of dishonor on the face of the world of Men.
More important than that, however, would be the fact that Nikomedes would be accepting that very stain onto himself. He had fought the most fearsome beast in the world—and won!—rather than accept such a stain as a young man. He would not turn his back on the traditions of his people if doing so incurred a similar stain, even in the face of such a generous offer.
“I cannot accept,” Nikomedes said somberly, “though I truly do appreciate the offer, Kratos.”
“Why can’t you accept?” Kratos demanded, looking more disappointed than surprised—and angrier than both of those emotions combined.
“This place represents—“ Nikomedes began, only to be cut off mid-sentence.
“—freedom from tyranny,” Kratos snarled, “and a sanctuary where many—if not all—of the fruits of a man’s blood, sweat, and tears remain under his control rather than becoming pieces on some Hold Mistress’s game board. If that makes me a heretic, then so be it, Nikomedes! I will take my chances with the judgment of Men, if such a thing even truly exists,” he scoffed, “rather than submit to a system which only values a man’s labors while his replacement is still unequal to his ability.”
“And what of the women who live here?” Nikomedes snapped.
“They come of their own volition,” Kratos growled, waving a hand dismissively, “from low-born families seeking to increase their standing by supporting the warriors who live here in their efforts to build upon my father’s dream. Since you have been here, the number of women has tripled,” he said pointedly, “and punishment for violating them in any way is just as severe here as in any other Hold—if not more so.”
As far as Nikomedes could tell, Kratos spoke the truth on that particular matter. When Nikomedes first arrived in Blue Fang Pass, a few of the more aggressive women had attempted to bed him—attempts which had all met with abject
failure—but eventually the passes had become fewer and farther between as he had successfully rebuffed what seemed to be the majority of unattached women. Now, however, it seemed as though every time he went to the meal hall he was accosted by a pack of fresh-faced, hungry young women looking to stake their claim on his flesh.
If things continued at their current pace, he knew that Blue Fang Pass would have more women calling it home than men in just a handful of years—a possibility which the warriors who lived there loudly celebrated at every opportunity. And it was true that a man who attempted to coerce a woman’s company would suffer extreme punishments, depending on the severity of the evidence.
One such man had been brutally emasculated after a brief, but surprisingly thorough inquest, before being left in the sky cell—the open prison chamber which Kratos had showed him during his first day inside the fortress—for several days until he finally fell to his death attempting to climb out.
“You would resign them to the judgment of Men,” Nikomedes said calmly, but forcefully. “Do you think the other Hold Mistresses will actually tolerate this place becoming even larger and more powerful than it already is? These women will be branded as traitors to Men, and if they are fortunate they will become bonded slaves. If they are not, then a painful death is all they can look forward to when the Hold Mistresses finally do move against this place.”
Kratos nodded approvingly, “You see it so clearly, Nikomedes. That is why it must be you!” he declared with equal parts exasperation and hope in his voice. “Of all the men I have brought here, none have had your gifts,” he said, his tone very close to pleading, “only you can take this dream and nurture it—protect it,” he said, pointedly stressing the verb, “until it becomes something that reaches into the heavens themselves. I did not create the stirrings of discontent which brought those men here, Nikomedes,” Kratos declared, pointing to the open doorway which led back to the fortress. “It burns deep within every man, but it must be tended if it is to grow from a spark to a cleansing inferno which will change the face of this world. Only you can do that,” he said, his tone returning to a more controlled one as his posture once again became squared and confident. “I am too old; I have already done what I can here.”
Nikomedes shook his head. “You do not sow crops,” he said, knowing that every word Kratos spoke had the potential to burrow itself deep within his mind, “and you do not seek to expand your territory to lands which might allow you to do so. You live as raiders, Kratos, and that way cannot survive for long.”
“Why should we sow when we need only to reap?” Kratos demanded. “Everywhere my forebears went, they sowed—they sowed until their backs were bent with age and their pride was ground into dust,” he said contemptuously, “only to have someone else maneuver into position to do the reaping when the time came. If the Hold Mistresses fancy themselves the strong, preying on the efforts of the weak—and using tradition to mask their thefts disguised as rightful claims—then why should I not prey on the Hold Mistresses?!”
“Because it is not our way!” Nikomedes bellowed with every fiber of his being.
“Fine!” Kratos shouted in return, his voice filled with matching emotion. “Then take this place and make a proper Hold of it, Nikomedes! Re-shape it in your own honorable image if you must, but take it! If even a sliver of my father’s dream survives here, it will be enough that I can return to the dust with my head held high. This place was only ever meant to be a seed, Nikomedes,” he said, the moisture in his eye glinting in the flickering light of the braziers, “but with you to tend it, it can grow into something so much more. That seed will die without a hand like yours to protect it, and I cannot allow that to happen.”
They stood silently in the literal shadows of Kratos’ forefathers for several minutes until Nikomedes shook his head firmly. “I cannot accept, Kratos. I will not have something like this given to me; I will take what I want from this life, and I will earn it with my own hands.”
Kratos’ lips twisted in a sneer, “If you refuse when next I make this offer, you will have the chance to do precisely that. Your alternative,” he said darkly as he pushed past Nikomedes toward the door leading out of the shrine, bumping his shoulder as he walked by with enough force to floor a lesser man, “is to spend the next three years in the sky cell. Think about that, boy.”
Chapter X: Freedom
It had been three weeks since Kratos’ offer in the shrine, and Nikomedes had spent nearly every waking moment since then—and even many of his sleeping moments—considering the one-eyed warlord’s generous offer.
But no matter how he tried to convince himself that there might be a way to consider the matter which did not result in perpetuating the dishonor he had spoken of, he could not bring himself to dismiss the fact that accepting Kratos’ offer would, in a very real way, undo everything he had done up until that point in his life as a man.
Nikomedes sat alone in the Main Hall, awaiting his meal while sitting near the wall furthest from Kratos and his daughter, Valeria. He normally chose the seclusion of his room for taking his meals compared to the raucous gatherings of Blue Fang Pass, but this particular evening he had been ordered to attend the banquet in the Main Hall—and he suspected he knew why he had been ordered to do so.
Kratos was on his massive, wooden chair at the far end of the room and beside him was his daughter, sitting in the traditional Hold Mistress’s chair. High in the rafters hung the newest tapestry, which showed Kratos—and, surprisingly, Nikomedes—vanquishing the antlered warlord whose name Nikomedes had not bothered to remember.
Above that softly billowing tapestry was the crown of antlers which Nikomedes had pulled from the warlord’s head after skewering him with Ektor’s jeweled sword. Each tapestry had a similar artifact nailed, or hung, from the wooden rafters above it, and Nikomedes could not help but be impressed by the many victories which Kratos and his father had achieved since founding the fortress decades earlier.
“Men and women of the Hold,” Kratos bellowed, his deep, grinding voice commanding the immediate attention of the entire assemblage—a group no fewer than one thousand in number, “I have an announcement to make.”
Feeling his hackles rise at what he knew would soon come, Nikomedes adjusted his belt so as to put Ektor’s sword in a proper ready position. He stood from his corner table—a table which no one else, save Kratos, dared to sit at while he occupied it—and moved toward the front of the room where Kratos and Valeria sat.
As with the kraken, Nikomedes knew that this phase of his life would come to an end very soon…one way or another. Staring up at the massive Kratos, who had donned a suit of armor for the occasion and stood with Glacier Splitter at his side, Nikomedes knew that all of the preparations he had made while living as a slave in Blue Fang Pass would now be put to the test.
As the assembled warriors and gentry moved to the front of the hall, Nikomedes found the crowd parting for him as he did likewise. Judging from the whispers he heard making their way through the crowd—as well as the armor worn beneath most of the cat-skin cloaks—he was not the only person who had predicted a conflict this evening.
“Tonight is the sixteenth anniversary of Hold Mistress Valeria’s birth,” Kratos declared, and a muted wave of applause and cheers briefly filled the room before Kratos drowned it out with his commanding tone, “and it is with great pride that I announce her decision to take a proper Protector now that she is a grown woman.”
If there had been any doubt in Nikomedes’ mind leading up to Kratos’ speaking those words, that doubt was now completely erased. It was with a strange sense of relief that he fully understood that this would be his last night in Blue Fang Pass.
“She has carefully considered the matter,” Kratos said, turning to bestow a tight smile on his daughter, whose features were schooled into a courtly mask but Nikomedes could easily tell that she was nearly as tense as he was, “and has decided to bestow this great…honor,” he said, his eyes meeting Nikomedes�
�� own as he raised a hand to point in his direction, “upon Nikomedes.”
The muted response from the crowd was surprising to Nikomedes’ ears. It suggested that many in the crowd had already deduced her choice, but what she wanted—and what Kratos wanted—was of less importance to Nikomedes in that moment than at any other in the previous two years.
“Step forward, Nikomedes,” Kratos commanded, “take Glacier Splitter into your hands, and take your place at Valeria’s side as the Protector of Blue Fang Pass in accordance with her will—as well as the will of Men.” The hollow invocation of tradition in a purely self-serving attempt to bend Nikomedes to his will was not lost on the younger warrior. After just a few seconds of silence, Nikomedes felt all eyes in the Main Hall come to rest on him.
With his right hand on the hilt of his sword, Nikomedes stood motionless for a pointed moment before taking slow, measured steps toward the dais on which rested the Hold Mistress’s chair. When he reached the first step, he stopped, having never broken his gaze from Kratos’ lone eye as he did so. He saw Kratos’ muscles flex and the one-eyed warrior’s jaw tighten, but something in the half-century old warrior suggested to him that while he was prepared for the path Nikomedes was about to choose, he dearly wished he would make a different choice.
The two men shared a moment of mutual respect before Nikomedes turned to the assembled crowd and shook his head demonstratively. “I am not one of you,” he said in a raised voice, “I do not share your customs, nor do I call this place home. Blue Fang Pass has been my prison these past two years, and though I have walked among you and even fought at your side, I do not believe in what this place represents.” He turned and saw Kratos’ smoldering eye narrow as the one-eyed warrior’s grip on Glacier Splitter’s haft tightened. Pointedly turning to Valeria, the Hold Mistress and proper ruler of Blue Fang Pass, Nikomedes fell to a knee and said, “I cannot accept this most generous offer, Hold Mistress, since doing so could only lead to dishonor.”
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