Nikomedes’ own expression turned to a sour one as he realized Nykator’s true purpose behind the gifts and his including Nikomedes in so many prominent meetings. “He would replace you with me,” he concluded.
“He would,” Kephus nodded approvingly, “but he will not ask you to move against me before Kapaneus returns from his campaign to the south.”
“That gives us only three weeks to recover the sword,” Nikomedes said, having heard the reports while standing in at the latest war council.
“Close, but not entirely accurate,” Kephus said, quirking a grin, “we only need to get you out of Argos before his band returns.”
Nikomedes nodded as he took the other man’s meaning. “Where is the sword?” he asked, more eagerness entering his voice than he desired or expected to hear.
“Have patience, Nikomedes,” Kephus said, clearly enjoying holding the upper hand information-wise, “the sword’s location is not the secret you have come for.”
“If not its location,” Nikomedes said testily, “then what?”
Kephus reached into the fold of the sash which lay draped across his armor and produced a piece of silken cloth which he held out. “This is a map, drawn from memory by my father of five generations past, and it details the location of the chasm where King Lykurgos’ temple was found after being lost for centuries.”
“How can a temple become lost?” Nikomedes asked skeptically after accepting the old, delicate piece of cloth.
“A fine question,” Kephus said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “some legends say the temple vanished shortly after King Lykurgos himself died, while others say it was swallowed during an earthquake, and still others claim it never existed in the first place. Since Lykurgos was the last king of our people, and most of his kingdom’s history was wiped from the face of our world by those who defeated him, we will likely never know the full truth. But,” he said pointedly as he gestured to the scrap of cloth, “there are descriptions of the temple’s exterior within our libraries which perfectly match those which my forefather put down on that scrap of cloth’s reverse side.”
Nikomedes turned the cloth over reverently and examined the words scrawled there. While Kephus’ ancestor certainly had no great skill at calligraphy, he had a keen attention to detail and, after reading it three times, Nikomedes felt certain he had memorized the entirety of the note’s contents.
“You said the location is not the secret I will need,” Nikomedes pressed after folding the cloth and slipping it into his vambrace.
Kephus nodded, looking around warily for a moment before lowering his voice to a bare whisper, “I recently acquired the last piece of information we will need for you to gain entry to the tomb beneath the temple itself. That tomb is where the blade must be buried.”
“What do you mean, ‘must be’?” Nikomedes flared, prompting the other man to gesture for him to lower his voice while glaring sternly at him.
“The sword has not been recovered since Lykurgos’ death,” Kephus growled, “and he was seen bearing it to his tomb beneath that temple by several eyewitnesses while on his last legs, after suffering the final defeat of his kingdom.”
“He abandoned his armies so he could return to the temple?” Nikomedes asked incredulously. “That does not sound like any kind of leader.”
“The Hold Mistresses would seem to agree,” Kephus snorted, “since they, too, loudly protested his cowardice while razing his fortresses to the ground after his army’s final defeat and stamping out his legacy once and for all. But none of that matters,” Kephus said irritably, lowering his voice after it had risen to the same level as that of the pigs, “this is the best information we have on the last remaining unclaimed Dark Sword of Power in the world.”
Nikomedes nodded slowly, his former angered surprise at hearing the less-than-definite nature of their information having abated after considering the matter while Kephus spoke. “How far is the chasm where the temple is located, and what is the last piece of information I will need to gain entry to the tomb?” he asked.
“The chasm is three weeks’ hard march from here,” Kephus replied, much to Nikomedes’ surprise. He had expected it to be much, much farther since it had been three hundred years since King Lykurgos’ blade had last been seen. “And the information is a sequence required to unlock the door to the tomb.”
“A sequence?” Nikomedes asked skeptically.
Kephus nodded before kneeling on the floor and producing a small pouch of sand. The floor in the barrel room was made of flat stones which were fitted tightly together with only small amounts of mortar between them, and Kephus poured out the sand onto a few of those stones before spreading it evenly with his hands.
“My father, and his father before him going back to the author of that note,” he tilted his head toward Nikomedes’ vambrace, where the map had been stowed, “each learned this image and passed it down until now I am the only one who knows it. I show you this,” he said, his eyes piercing Nikomedes’ own as he paused deliberately, “because I have no sons of my own, and would see my forefather’s efforts have not been in vain.”
After the cryptic speech, Kephus turned his face to the well-lit floor and began to scrawl an image using a small splinter of wood nearly as fine as an ink quill. The image was elaborately complex, with thirteen total circles connected by haphazardly-arranged lines, but Kephus took great pains to ensure that every detail was as he wished it to be, even restarting on several of the circles after making a slight mistake.
“Commit this image to memory, Nikomedes,” he said after completing the work nearly an hour later, “along with this sequence.” He placed a finger an inch above one of the circles before moving along one of the lines which connected it to a circle on the opposite side of the elaborate image, and repeated the process again and again until he had moved his finger over each of the circles one time each.
After Kephus was finished, Nikomedes moved his finger over the first circle and re-traced the path which Kephus’ finger had followed until he arrived at the last circle.
Kephus grunted, “Good. Now,” he said, wiping his hand across the elaborate image until the sand was completely barren of his previous markings, “reproduce the image.”
It took him half a dozen attempts, owing to the precise details Kephus insisted he reproduce, but Nikomedes eventually did manage to scrawl the image of the thirteen circles in the sand just as Kephus had done. The sun was nearly up and the sky had already taken on a faint pink hue when Kephus was satisfied Nikomedes had memorized the image correctly.
“You now have everything you will need to gain access to the tomb,” Kephus said confidently. “Simply reproduce this sequence when you find the image of the thirteen circles and the way should open for you.”
“How do you know this?” Nikomedes asked, stretching his legs to work out the kinks which had built up after so many hours scribbling on the storeroom’s floor.
“I learned it from a reliable source,” Kephus replied, clearly not wishing to divulge the name of that source. “And if my hunch is correct, that source had you followed here.”
“I was not followed,” Nikomedes said with confidence.
Kephus snickered and shook his head, “There are some whose mastery of the shadows is simply too great to be dismissed so casually, Nikomedes. Never underestimate the power of a well-kept secret in the right—or wrong—person’s hands.”
It took him a moment, but Nikomedes did eventually understand who Kephus was referring to. “Then I will go speak with him,” he said decisively.
“If it was my decision, I would not do so,” Kephus warned before his features relaxed and he added, “but this is no longer my quest. It has been entrusted to you, and I will abide by your decision.”
Nikomedes nodded curtly, “Thank you, Kephus.”
“Good hunting, Nikomedes,” Kephus replied, “but no matter what comes of your meeting, do not trust him.”
With the meeting concluded, the two m
ade their way from the room using different doors and proceeded back to the barracks before Nikomedes made his way to the keep at daybreak.
“I am here to see Nazoraios,” Nikomedes said to the guard standing watch at the inner keep’s main gate. As one of Nykator’s most trusted lieutenants, the wizened Nazoraios was afforded lodgings on the wing of the keep opposite that which house the members of House Zosime and their retainers.
“He left a message saying he would receive you in the library,” the guard replied with a sharp nod before gesturing for Nikomedes to enter.
Nikomedes moved through the gate and into the keep’s inner courtyard before making his way into the corridor which ran the length of the keep and adjoined the Great Hall in the middle very near to where he had entered.
The library was located in a space adjoining the Great Hall, on the side opposite from the Shield Hall, and Nikomedes made his way through the many heavy, wooden doors en route to the greatest repository of knowledge in the entire Hold.
Scrolls were stacked neatly in their labeled boxes or scroll tubes, and tablets were piled here and there which detailed the various vital records of Argos since its founding. Paper and cloth scrolls were the medium of choice, but the more rural regions of the Hold could afford to neither produce nor maintain such relatively fickle materials, so many of the records for those areas had been stored in stone, clay, or even occasionally metal tablet form.
Within the library, standing at the far end of the chamber before a rack of ancient scrolls which were labeled as detailing ancient history, was Nazoraios. He wore a dark green robe of simple make, but his physique was still impressive even beneath the folds of fabric. He was clearly an unusual specimen in regards to his actual age since most warriors never lived to see their fortieth years, let alone their fiftieth when their hair generally turned white. But his chronological age appeared to be vastly at odds with his physical vigor, which was much more that of a thirty year old than a white-haired elder.
“Guardsman,” Nazoraios said without even looking up as Nikomedes approached, “I am impressed that you sought me out so quickly. Please,” he gestured to a nearby chair, again without even looking in Nikomedes’ direction, “be seated.”
Nikomedes considered the offer—which sounded dangerously like an order—before shaking his head. “I will stand. What would you have of me, Nazoraios?”
“Cutting through the pleasantries, I see,” Nazoraios said as he finished reading the scroll he had held in his hands. He then rolled the scroll carefully and returned it to its cubicle on the wall before turning to Nikomedes with a sly look on his face. “You are something of an enigma, Nikomedes, are you not? I must admit that I find myself intrigued by your tale—but even more so by that part which remains untold.”
Nikomedes felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the older man’s suggestion that he had a history which had remained hidden from the eyes of the public.
“If you mean the kraken—“ Nikomedes began, only to have the old man make a sharp, slashing gesture with his hand as he interrupted.
“I know all about your Trial of the Deep,” he interrupted smoothly, gesturing to a scroll which had been set on the table. “It is described in great detail on that scroll…a scroll which Kastor Kephus requested be copied from Hold Mistress Quistus’ library and returned here not long before you enlisted in the citadel guard. Although,” he added with a playful shrug of his shoulders, “I would be remiss if I did not take the opportunity to congratulate you on the outcome of that Trial. It was nothing short of a legendary deed worthy of immortal song.”
Nikomedes hesitated, having dealt with this kind of overpowering praise on too many occasions since news of his Trial had become public following his first reception in the Great Hall. “I will not trade words with you, Nazoraios,” he finally decided, knowing the other man had far too much experience—and, likely, natural talent—for him to contend with, “what would you have of me?”
“My dear Nikomedes,” Nazoraios said, feigning disappointment, “it was you who came to me.”
“I am no fool,” Nikomedes said coldly. “You know of my quest and would ask something of me as I undertake it.”
Nazoraios’ eyes flared briefly with anger before narrowing in silent contemplation. “Then sit, Guardsman Nikomedes,” Nazoraios said in an equally frigid tone, “or I will tell our Hold Mistress—and her Protector—a tale which would make the blood of any true Argosian run as cold as the water which pours from between those giant fangs of blue stone.”
Nikomedes felt every hair on his body stand on end as he processed the other man’s meaning. After careful consideration he did as Nazoraios wished, and the old man did likewise after a brief, but pointed, delay.
“Good man,” Nazoraios soothed after he had taken his own seat, and Nikomedes was actually surprised the elderly warrior had not opted for the more usual ‘boy’ epithet. “Allow me to first assure you that I have no wish to tell that tale,” Nazoraios continued,” and neither do I wish for word of your current whereabouts to reach the Protector of that distant Hold, whose indignant fury at his unexpected defeat by your hand echoes throughout the White Wall even now.”
“Get to your point, Nazoraios,” Nikomedes growled, “and dispense with the threats. I am no fool; treating me as one will only earn you an enemy.”
“Enemies I have aplenty,” Nazoraios said with a dismissive sigh. “I assure you that I have no wish to acquire another in such a roundabout fashion, though the harsh realities of my own eminently successful career dictate that I will continue to do so until either they, or the ravages of time, eventually overcome me. No, Nikomedes,” Nazoraios said patiently, but not insufferably so, “what I lack are allies of your station and ability—a truly rare combination, if I may be so bold as to say, since one rarely possesses the latter in such excessive quantity while occupying the former for as long as you have done in your service to Argos as a lowly guardsman.”
Nikomedes did not know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut and allowed the pregnant pause to linger until Nazoraios nodded satisfactorily.
“And he is smarter than he lets on, as well,” Nazoraios mused approvingly. “But take it from one with vastly more experience at keeping secrets, Nikomedes, when I say that no matter how clever you may think this little ruse of yours is, it can all be undone by little more than a few well-timed words. I say this not to threaten you,” he said, raising a forestalling hand, “I do so merely to elucidate the precariousness of the climb which lies before you. For example,” he said, gesturing to the scroll which bore the seal of Hold Mistress Eukaria Quistus, “the messenger who bore this scroll to us claimed to be an acquaintance of yours named Cassius. I paid this Cassius—handsomely, I might add—to return home and keep his questions regarding your time among the Ice Raiders to himself.”
Nikomedes narrowed his eyes as he recalled that Cassius had, indeed, been among the survivors of Kratos’ and Felix’ private war of vengeance. “Why would you do that?” he asked bluntly.
Nazoraios shrugged, “A name like yours tends to carry on the wind, Nikomedes, after such an impressive feat as being the first man of this world to slay a kraken. I suspected that any man who would willingly conceal such an accomplishment would hide more than just a few tawdry secrets, and my faith was rewarded when I read your mother’s excoriating excommunication—which you made no attempt to hide, unlike your great deed in the Trial of the Deep.”
The elderly warrior leaned forward, his eyes seeming to burn with purpose as he jabbed a finger down lightly into the scroll describing the Trial.
“Like you, I am no fool, Nikomedes,” he said gravely, “in fact I would venture to say I am as far from one as I could be, if doing so did not cast significant doubt on the assertion itself. Your aim is lofty and your approach has been sound thus far but, without the proper preparation and tools, you will fall short of your goal. In fact,” he added as he leaned back in his chair easily, “you will most certainly no
t return from the chasm if you refuse my help.”
“What do you want?” Nikomedes asked, and something behind the elderly warrior’s eyes seemed to surge while his body tensed, but he quickly regained his composure.
“That is a dangerous question, Nikomedes,” the wizened warrior said in a low tone, “and you would do well not to ask it of me again. But this once,” he allowed as he relaxed fractionally, “I will answer it: I want you to kill Kapaneus—assuming he survives his campaign—and take your place as the First Daughter’s Protector.”
Nikomedes’ brow furrowed in open confusion as he asked, “You are sworn to Nykator, Nazoraios. How could you openly betray his interests and expect me to trust any offer you make afterward?”
Nazoraios chuckled and nodded slowly. “Good man,” he said as his lips twisted into a truly unpleasant expression, “you are indeed cleverer than even I had originally anticipated. But you have overlooked a crucial point: I am sworn to Nykator,” he stressed the warlord’s name, “not to his lieutenants. I will continue to serve Hypatios Nykator to the best of my ability as long as we both draw breath, and this thing I ask of you is merely one way I seek to fulfill that duty.”
“You would serve your master by having his top commander killed?” Nikomedes asked, his confusion replaced by the cold realization of Nazoraios’ intentions.
“I would,” Nazoraios replied simply, “though I do not expect you to understand.”
Nikomedes knew that he had just been baited into indignantly doing his best to state why the old warrior would do such a thing, so he leaned back in his chair and said nothing rather than give Nazoraios the satisfaction of seeing him march to his beat.
Again, Nazoraios’ lips twisted into a thoroughly unpleasant expression somewhere between a smirk and a toothy grin. “Good man,” he said approvingly.
The Forge of Men Page 31