The Forge of Men

by Caleb Wachter

  The warlord’s arm bone near the shoulder popped loudly enough that Nikomedes could hear it break even through the gasps of the assembled crowd—a crowd he had barely noticed during the most recent few minutes of the life-and-death struggle. But Kratos made no sound of pain or protest as he slammed his good, left hand into Nikomedes’ ribs, seemingly breaking another rib with each shot.

  Knowing Kratos’ right arm was now useless, Nikomedes reared back—cocking the elbow, rather than the fist, of his left arm—and drove it into Kratos’ empty eye socket with the fury of a thunderbolt splitting the sky. In the brief instant before impact, their eyes met and Nikomedes saw unbridled hatred in the short-lived window to Kratos’ soul.

  But then his elbow struck Kratos’ empty, scarred-over eye socket, and the warlord’s lone good eye rolled back into his head as his body conceded defeat even if its inhabitant would not.

  Nikomedes added a half dozen more blows to ensure that it would be several hours before Kratos genuinely regained consciousness, but he made sure not to kill the unconscious warlord as he delivered punishment which he hoped the heretic would remember for as long as he lived.

  Standing to his full height, Nikomedes turned to the assembled throng and saw a mixture of fear, wonderment, and glee in their collective faces.

  He knelt to pick up Ektor’s jeweled sword, along with his armor which he slowly donned before the crowd of people. A few of the braver souls moved toward Kratos’ body—one with a knife drawn—and a sharp look from Nikomedes was all it took to drive the man back into the crowd.

  “See to his wounds,” Nikomedes instructed as his knees quivered beneath him, “but do not kill him if there is even a sliver of honor among the lot of you.”

  He saw confusion, anger, and the occasional look of understanding on the faces of the crowd. But then Kratos’ brother, Kairos, stepped forward, pushing his way through the crowd and saying, “You must finish him, Nikomedes. It is our way.”

  “Perhaps it is your way, but it is not mine,” Nikomedes countered as he finished fastening the straps of his breastplate. It would take some time for him to properly adjust the armor for the purpose of battle, but donning it so it would not fall off his body as he walked was a much quicker process, and he wanted nothing more than to leave Blue Fang Pass as quickly as possible now that the terms of his service had been met.

  “My father still breathes,” Valeria objected, stepping forward amid a chorus of assenting sounds from the crowd behind her, “you have not claimed his life, Nikomedes, and therefore cannot leave this place. You must kill him,” she declared with smug satisfaction, “or you must take your place at my side as Blue Fang Pass’s new Protector.”

  Nikomedes thought back to the choice he had made when asking for the Trial of the Deep. He had known then that simply drawing breath was not the same as living life; had he accepted the mark of shame, as had been the only other option available to him at the time, he would have been guaranteed to continue drawing breath—at least for a time.

  In a way, this defeat would be Kratos’ brand of shame. Nikomedes had defeated him before the assembled host of Blue Fang Pass, and that defeat would mar an otherwise unassailable record of victory as the leader of the heretical outpost.

  “Drawing breath is not the same as living life,” Nikomedes said, stepping toward Valeria and giving voice for the first time to the sentiment he had discovered while sitting in solitude on the cliffs where he had first heard the kraken’s call. “Though he still breathes, I have done far worse than kill him…I have killed everything he held most precious in this life.” He looked back on the still-unconscious Kratos pointedly before turning back to Valeria, “He asked me to take a life, and I have now destroyed his. I can think of no better end to my time here,” he said before clasping his hands and bowing respectfully, as was the customary privilege a Hold Mistress should receive from a guest prior to his departure, “and my debt is now paid in full. If anyone here objects,” he added, sweeping the crowd with an iron look before meeting the eyes of Kairos, “including Kratos, then in two years’ time—after I have made my own way in this world and lived as a free man for as long without these walls as within—I will send word of my whereabouts so that vengeance may be sought.”

  With that, he made his way through the crowd—which parted even wider than it had ever done before the duel—and collected a satchel of supplies before turning his back on Blue Fang Pass forever.

  When he stepped through the western gatehouse where his brother, Nikomedes, had lost his life during the Red Dawn, he drew a long breath of cold, mountain air and thought of his brother and father in a rare moment of quiet introspection. As he did so, he knew that Felix had been right; Nikomedes was now convinced the he was indeed destined for something greater than he had yet achieved—and he also knew, deep within the core of his being, that the victory over Kratos and his heretics at Blue Fang Pass was merely one step on a path which would one day become legendary.

  Satisfied that he had avenged his brother’s death, along with the death of his father—and knowing he had just done so far better than he could have ever thought possible—and feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he began the long, slow march toward the center of power in the world of Men, and the only place he would ever truly think of as home from that day forward:

  Argos.

  Chapter XI: Familiar Sights

  It was mid-winter when Nikomedes finally saw the familiar terrain of Argos stretching out before him.

  The lush, green meadows he remembered from his youth, after leaving with his father and brother for Eukaria Quistus’ Hold, seemed to have been largely converted into active farmland. But the general lay of the land, with the rocky hills upon which the Argosian citadel had been built barely visible in the far distance, was much as he remembered it.

  The journey had taken him fifty three days, which meant he had made better time than he had initially expected. His wounds had all healed as he had marched—a march which saw him stop only when he grew too tired to continue. He had paid little mind to the cycle of day and night as he spent much of the trip’s first half avoiding the main roads. But, after he had healed completely, he took to the main roads to improve his progress.

  Along the way he had traded the jeweled sword he had taken with him from Blue Fang Pass, having arrived at the conclusion that it was little more than a reasonably fine blade to him with no sentimental value for him whatsoever. In fact, carrying it might have marked him in a fashion should someone he encountered have known of the ornate, overly gaudy weapon’s history. Preferring to leave his time at Kratos’ stronghold as far in his past as possible, Nikomedes had been only too glad to rid himself of the weapon.

  In exchange he had received a sword which appeared to be in no way the martial inferior of the jewel-encrusted blade he had taken from Ektor’s corpse, along with a shield of similar quality and a worn but serviceable bow with thirty hunting arrows. He had also received basic survival equipment, such as flint and steel, along with a weeks’ worth of trail rations. All told, the trade had ensured he would return to Argos with everything he needed to embark on the next phase of his life.

  His time on the trail had been nearly as instructive as his time at Blue Fang Pass had been, even if it had been significantly less impactful on his growing sense of principle and honor which had taken root deep within his being. He knew he would never turn his back on those ideals, either, having already experienced quite probably the greatest temptation imaginable when he turned down Kratos’ offer.

  The solitude had also permitted him to organize his plans for once he finally returned to the Hold of Argos, which was by every measure imaginable the most powerful Hold on this side of the continent. Its ruling line, the women of House Zosime, had proven to be cunning and ruthless competitors with their neighboring Hold Mistresses, but fair-minded and generous with their own citizenry. House Zosime’s matron at the time he had left, named Polymnia Sapphira, h
ad also borne a daughter who was almost exactly Nikomedes’ age, and first in the line of succession for Argos’ holdings.

  It was for that reason, more than any misguided sense of nostalgia, that Nikomedes’ every step continued to take him closer to the beating heart of Argos. The place of his birth had actually been a neighboring province of Argos, called Messene—an island with a tidal land bridge which was only infrequently usable. When he had left with his father, Messene had been a relatively recent addition to House Zosime’s holdings, but he had no intention of going there before making his way to the citadel and learning the political lay of the land.

  His plan was simple: garner sufficient acclaim as a warrior to become Protector to House Zosime’s First Daughter. It was sure to be a daunting task for a variety of reasons, but Nikomedes knew he would prove equal to it. He would, however, need to be circumspect in his approach. With a Hold the size and strength of Argos, he knew that the line of suitors would be as long as Kratos’—

  Forcing the image of the massive warlord’s equally massive manhood from his mind, Nikomedes chuckled as he reordered his thoughts, recalling the final moments of their duel when the one-eyed heretic had been on his hands and knees. More than any other moment in that contest, Nikomedes could clearly recall the feeling of kicking Kratos in the face as the other man had struggled to regain his senses.

  That, and the burning hatred he had seen in the older man’s eye the moment before Nikomedes had rendered him unconscious.

  And even if House Zosime’s First Daughter had already taken a Protector, Nikomedes felt confident he could deal with the competition when the time came. As Protector to the daughter of such a prestigious House as House Zosime, he would no doubt find himself surrounded by would-be usurpers, but that was the price of ascending to the height of his world’s society.

  Even the echo of Kratos’ stories regarding his father and father’s father did little to dissuade Nikomedes as he made his way toward the citadel of Argos.

  Nearly a week later, Nikomedes found himself in sight of the Argos citadel’s gates on a path lined by cattle and sheep fields. The familiar smell of their manure and wet hide, as the livestock stood on ground muddied by the previous night’s near-freezing rain, was a sense that brought with it a flood of memories and impressions from his youth.

  Chief among those thoughts was a recollection of mischief-making with his older brother as they had sought to bring one of the bull cattle down with ropes and pitons. The bull’s owner had been furious with them when they had succeeded; he had been terrified that they had wounded his animal grievously when it failed to stand for several minutes after essentially choking itself unconscious on their ingenious set of traps.

  The memory was a good one, and it put a spring in his stride as he made his way up the final slope leading to the citadel’s outer wall. He had encountered a roving patrol of six Argosian guards earlier in the day, and after a brief conversation where he outlined the parts of his plan that would be no secret to anyone, they had told him to look for a man named Kephus. He was one of the top-ranking warriors who called Argos home, though he did not stand as Protector to the reigning Hold Mistress.

  That particular distinction was held by a man named Hypatios Nykator, whose deeds and valor were apparently enough to cow every warrior in Argos—every warrior, that is, except this Kephus person who Nikomedes aimed to meet. Kephus was the highest-stationed commander of the citadel’s standing guard, and the guardsmen with whom Nikomedes had met spoke well of him, invoking words like ‘traditional,’ ‘honorable,’ and generally praising his leadership.

  Hypatios Nykator, on the other hand, seemed none too popular among the guardsmen. They readily relayed his impressive resume while simultaneously making clear that he wielded more direct power than should be afforded a Protector.

  But, unfortunately, he was an unparalleled warrior and there was not a man among those of the Hold who would dare challenge him. He had woven a web of alliances with the local gentry and nobility, using his private fighting force to secure trade routes and certain sections of the Hold’s borders which proved advantageous to those who bent the knee to him, and disadvantageous to those who did not.

  None of that should have been overly irregular, except for the fact that Nykator apparently failed to consult with Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime each and every time he struck such a deal. This was outright disrespectful of her station; moreover, there were some who might suggest it was possibly heretical if they had the courage to do so.

  The guardsmen were hesitant to say more, so Nikomedes had decided not to press the issue. He would hopefully get a more accurate picture after arriving at the citadel itself.

  But one thing was already quite clear: Nikomedes was walking into a den which would be more similar than he ever imagined possible to the one he had just left. Never once on the journey from Blue Fang Pass had he thought that the roots of dishonor and heresy against their most sacred traditions could have taken hold in the heart of mighty Argos herself.

  “Hold,” the right hand guard standing at the outer gate said, holding a hand up haltingly which prompted Nikomedes to stop as the man had requested. Nikomedes noted the blue-lined capes draped over the man’s metal armor. Had it been a solid blue, it would have indicated that the guard’s allegiance was to House Zosime directly. But the blue trim indicated a less permanent, but equally binding, degree of affiliation with the House itself. “What business have you in the citadel?”

  “I am Nikomedes,” he declared evenly with a hint of pride threading his deep, rich voice as he spoke his brother’s name, but that pride turned to ash in his mouth when he finished, “out of Hera Anteus from Messene. I seek Kephus.”

  The guardsmen shared a look of mutual confusion which quickly turned to surprise on the left hand guard’s features. “Nikomedes, you say…” he said uncertainly, his features hardening as he continued, “would you claim to be the same Nikomedes that slew the kraken some years ago?”

  Feeling his guts tighten instantly, it was all Nikomedes could do to keep his body from stiffening. It seemed that he would have greater difficulty keeping a low profile than he had anticipated, but he had considered the eventuality that news of that day might have carried as far as Argos.

  After all, to Nikomedes’ knowledge, it was a feat never accomplished before or after he had done it.

  The right hand guard scoffed, pointing to Nikomedes incredulously, “Can’t be; this one’s hardly a man. He would have been little more than a stripling when that damned story started making the rounds and suckering the likes of you into believing it actually happened.”

  The left guard seemed dubious, but he made no further comment. Still, Nikomedes had pointedly left his father’s name from his introduction, which would eventually provide the citizens of Argos with a positive identification of who he was and what he had done.

  When people learned he had slain the kraken as a very young man, it would make his ultimate goal slightly harder to accomplish. But it might also prove helpful in arranging a meeting with this Kephus figure, assuming he was less than inviting when it came to meeting strangers.

  “I seek to join the Argosian guard,” Nikomedes declared, deciding against affirming their suspicions as to his past without denying them. “I am told that Kephus is the man to speak to on that account?”

  A look of comprehension came over their faces, and the left guard nodded. “He can be found at the guardhouse this time of day,” he explained, turning to point down the winding street within the outer wall, “it is built against the inner keep’s southern wall—“

  “Thank you; I know the way,” Nikomedes interrupted, nodding in appreciation as he stepped between the guards and passed through the gate.

  “Who are you?” asked the large, well-muscled man who was nearly Nikomedes’ physical equal. He stood behind a desk on which a pile of clay tablets, wooden tablets, and the occasional sheepskin scroll were arranged in a disorderly mess.

 
“I am Nikomedes,” he replied, looking around the sparsely-appointed, but well-maintained interior of the Argos guardhouse, “out of Hera Anteus from Messene. Are you Kastor Kephus?”

  The man’s expression darkened and he set the tablets he had previously held in his hands down on the table. Stepping around the table, the man moved toward Nikomedes, causing him to tense at the unexpected turn in the man’s mood.

  He regarded him coldly for a moment before squinting as he gave Nikomedes’ face an appraising look. His expression relaxed fractionally as he said, “Who was your father?”

  Nikomedes stiffened. “His name lives no more,” he said, the shame of his father’s death along with the woman he had sworn to protect—an event which had come at Kratos’ hand—welling up inside him as he bit out the words.

  “What was his name, boy?” the man demanded, his hand moving deliberately toward the dagger at his waist. “Don’t be coy with me.”

  Nikomedes ground his teeth before replying, “He was called Archimedes, by Deimos out of Katrina Calla from Lyconesia.”

  “And how did he die?” the man demanded. When Nikomedes hesitated, the warrior began to draw the dagger, “Speak!”

  “He…” Nikomedes began, having failed to prepare for this particular line of questioning so early. But he knew that this man—presumably Kephus—would not settle for anything less than compliance, especially from a perspective guardsmen.

  Besides, it would likely prove to be a less than popular move if he slew the head guardsman of Argos twenty minutes after setting foot within the citadel.

  Straightening himself, he locked eyes with the other man, “He failed as Guardian to the Mistress of a Hold Minor bordering Hold Mistress Eukaria Quistus’ lands to the west.”