Nikomedes also found himself moving toward the dais which held the High Chairs, but he did so more to gain a better view of the warriors who now accompanied the First Daughter of the Hold.
Some of them wore massive, unwieldy-looking armor which seemed impossibly well-crafted. There was hardly a seam to be seen on the strange, dark metal which formed the oddly-designed casements, and nearly all of them had equally strange, all-covering helmets which appeared to be welded to the rest of the armor. Several more of the warriors wore no armor at all, but instead were clothed in uniforms of earthen, but strikingly crisp colors which ranged from dark browns and greens to medium grays, and even the occasional stripe of deep blue.
Those unarmored warriors bore strange weapons in their hands which seemed oddly similar to the one which Nikomedes had seen outside the Inner Forge. They were long, roughly cylindrical, and had grips similar to that on a short blade jutting from the bottom of the cylindrical housing of the weapons. One end of the weapons was open—just like the one with the flashing yellow and red lights from the Forge of Men—while the other end appeared contoured in such a way that it would rest easily against the bearer’s shoulder. He had no idea how the weapons operated, but he knew that any man who eschewed armor while bearing one would have to be extremely confident in its efficacy so he kept his eyes moving back and forth between the armored and unarmored warriors as he settled into position just outside of the group centered on Kapaneus and Kallistos.
After his men had assembled near his side, Nykator rose from his chair with barely-concealed fury in his visage as he moved to the last step of the dais and beckoned for the group to approach the High Chairs.
“So,” Nykator’s imperious voice boomed throughout the Great Hall, “the woman made of ice has finally met the man who could melt her where no other suitor stood a chance. You’ve taken a sword, daughter-mine, and I’m incensed that neither my council nor permission was sought before such a momentous decision.” Nykator’s gaze moved from Adonia’s icy veneer to the man standing nearest her—the only man who wore armor but had no helmet covering his head.
That man’s smaller-than-expected head was nearly devoid of hair, but it was impossible to determine his age at a glance because that lack of hair was clearly due to a life-threatening encounter with fire. His brown skin—which was far darker than any tan Nikomedes had ever seen—colored features which were highlighted by a broad, flat nose and strangely shaped cheekbones above which sat a pair of dark brown eyes.
If Nikomedes was being honest, the man’s heavily-scarred features projected a formidable aura, and his face was utterly devoid of expression as he held Nykator’s gaze as easily as a father might hold his rebellious ten year old son’s.
“Uncle,” Adonia said stiffly, “as you know, a Land Bride needs not seek the permission of any man—nor any woman. I am under no obligation to consult with either my mother or her Protector; the decision is mine alone,” she said icily before turning pointedly to face her mother, at which point the younger Zosime’s features softened more than Nikomedes had ever seen them do. “I wish there had been time to speak with you beforehand, Mother. Circumstances did not allow, but I trust you believe me when I say that after everything that’s gone before, I did not make this decision lightly.”
Adonia turned back to face her Uncle, and her icy veneer returned before she had even finished doing so. “As for your counsel, you’ve thrust it upon me so many times I felt sure I understood it. You feel I should either accept one of the lackeys you’ve pushed at me time and again or, having rejected them all, wait until you found someone new to put in front of me.”
“You little fool,” growled Nykator, “you meet some foreigner from a faraway land and just bring him into the Hold of House Zosime without consulting your parents as is the tradition and custom of this land? I won’t stand for it—I forbid this union,” he boomed with a knife-like chop of his hand.
But the First Daughter shook her head steadfastly. “You have not that right, Uncle. I am a Land Bride and thus have the right to accept whomever I choose as Protector,” she retorted, not giving an inch to the man who could cow all but a handful of Argos’ finest warriors with little more than a stern glare. In that moment, more than any other, Nikomedes knew he must do as Men had willed and take his place at her side. She was a woman worth fighting for and, if Men willed it, worth dying for.
Nykator visibly trembled with rage for several seconds of tense silence before drawing a deep, quiet breath and narrowing his eyes. “I would not be so sure about that, daughter-mine,” he sneered before turning to Nazoraios, who stood in his usual position near that of the scribe. “Nazoraios, I seek your learned opinion on the matter,” Nykator said with mock supplication in his tone, causing Nikomedes’ hands to ball into fists at his sides at hearing the overbearing warlord tacitly invoke tradition when it benefited him to do so. Nikomedes had seen with his own eyes that Hypatios Nykator was almost certain to ignore those traditions if they did not support his agenda, and Nikomedes found he was more offended than ever before as the man continued, “Can this wayward daughter of mine ignore the wishes of her parents as completely as this one suggests?”
“An interesting question, Protector Nykator…” Nazoraios said with what seemed to be genuine contemplation as his hand moved to stroke his white beard, “very interesting, indeed.” Eventually he shook his head confidently, “A Land Bride does have the right to accept whoever offers as her Protector, without consultation of any kind. Permission from neither her mother nor her father is necessary.”
The furious look on Nykator’s face caused Nikomedes to conceal a satisfied smirk at his ploy having backfired. Nazoraios seemed also to enjoy the momentary discomfort this caused his warlord as he took pointed, sidelong glances at both Adonia and Nykator before continuing.
“Although a Land Bride does have that right,” he repeated with careful emphasis on the last word, “according to inheritance law, if the mother does not give her blessing to the union before the Land Bride accepts a sword, both the Hold Mistress and her Protector have the right to test the fitness of the new Protector.” Nazoraios’ gaze moved across the quietly conversing nobles and gentry before continuing, “In extreme cases, the Hold Mistress has the right to disinherit the Land Bride, who would then be free to set out in search of new lands.”
The Great Hall nearly erupted in mixed outrage and approval at this latest declaration from the old warrior who served as Nykator’s chief advisor.
“Of course I’m not disinheriting my daughter,” Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime cut in far more hotly than Nikomedes had heard her before. “What nonsense; besides, if Adonia thinks she’s found a Protector who will be a good match for her and will be able look to the inheritance of her daughters then, as much as it pains me not to have been involved in the decision sooner, I respect her judgment. My daughter is a very level-headed girl and I trust her decision,” she said, clearly upset with some of the details surrounding her daughter’s return but unwilling to let them spoil the occasion. “I am just thankful to the gods that she’s back in the arms of her family.”
“We all rejoice at little Akantha’s safe return, my sweet Sapphira,” Nykator said with false emotion as he planted an equally false kiss on the Hold Mistress’ hand. He then let go of her hand and turned back to face the newcomers. “Still, however much we might rejoice at our Daughter’s safe return, there is the matter of a foreign Protector—one untested by the rigors of life and combat—”
The helmetless, scarred warrior scoffed loudly, causing the Great Halls occupants to collectively suck in a breath of air as their eyes snapped to gauge Nykator’s reaction to the newcomer’s disrespectful gesture. It seemed the newcomer was not done insulting the warlord, however, since he then made a show of rubbing his face irritably.
“Untested by our rigorous way of life,” Nykator repeated forcefully, his booming voice the only sound in the Great Hall as it literally made Nikomedes’ ears ring.
/> The Hold Mistress looked at her Protector in alarm. “Surely it does not matter whether the girl secures my blessing before or after, Hypatios,” she said in a desperate, pleading tone—a far cry from her usual, composed affect. “What’s important is that she has received it—as well as my complete confidence in the sword of her choice.”
“My dear Polymnia,” Nykator said, giving Argos’ Hold Mistress an intimate look that made Nikomedes’ choler rise. “I am pleased you are happy, but we can’t have an untested Protector guarding our Daughter. I must insist on this point; there are others whose suit Akantha has spurned for too long,” Hypatios Nykator said pointedly, causing Nikomedes and the others who had long vied to stand at the First Daughter’s side to spare each other short, hot looks.
“Surely this is unnecessary,” the Hold Mistress said, but it was clear she had already resolved that Nykator held the high ground in the matter.
“The man shall be tested—I insist,” Nykator declared, eliciting a disdainful look from the Hold Mistress, which in turn prompted the Protector of Argos to harden his tone as he said, “I am the Protector of Argos. I am also a Warlord of Men under my own Banner, as well Lord of the Tegean Host by strength of arms and general acclaim. I like to think I know a thing or two about testing the quality of warriors and Protectors,” he said, all the while having fixed his piercing blue eyes straight through Adonia.
He then paused for emphasis before turning back to Sapphira.
“My dearest Hold Mistress and most favored Sword Bearer, if you feel I am no longer fit to make the decisions that are necessary as your Protector, and to carry out those decisions as I see the need, I willingly offer to reclaim my sword and depart Argos in peace. I swear there will be no feud or bitter circumstances between us because of this,” he said in a thinly veiled threat.
If Nykator withdrew his Tegean warriors from Argos, her enemies would soon learn of it and move against House Zosime’s holdings before Nykator’s army could be functionally replaced. Given enough time, the Hold would certainly be able to enlist sufficient warriors to once again secure Argos against her enemies, but those enemies would, with equal certainty, never allow that time to elapse without moving against House Zosime’s holdings.
Hold Mistress Zosime looked genuinely dismayed, clearly understanding the situation even better than Nikomedes. “No,” she said faintly. “I’ll not rebuke you. You know more of men and warriors than I, being one yourself. If you feel the need to test this Protector, despite my daughter's choice and receipt of my belated favor, then you must do as you think best.”
“I bow to your will in this matter, Hold Mistress,” Hypatios Nykator said with a cruel laugh, and Nikomedes silently vowed to see him buried in the ground for his dishonorable conduct.
“What does this testing involve?” the scarred warrior asked almost laconically, seemingly unfazed by the proposition which Nykator had put.
Nykator glared at the scarred one before replying, “There are three ways a man may receive recognition as a warrior. Acclaim, Deeds and Combat.” He then leaned closer to Adonia with a steely look in his eyes as he said, in a lowered voice just loud enough for those nearest to the exchange to hear, “You should have thought twice before crossing me, girl.”
“Hey, listen up, you overbearing idiot,” the scar-faced warrior said in a tight voice, deliberately using the last word from Confederation Standard to insult the man. “I don’t care if you are her Uncle—I’m her Protector here, so speak to my Sword Bearer that way again and I’ll destroy you. I don’t care how many Hosts or Banners you have under your thumb; I’ll crush you, plain and simple, the same way I crushed all those Bugs—the ones you call ‘Sky Demons’—and freed Akantha in the first place.” The stranger then folded his arms deliberately across his massive, heavily-armored chest.
The scarred warriors words gave enough offense that even Nikomedes felt himself sting at having Argos’ Great Hall disrespected so openly with the stranger’s bold threat while standing as a guest in Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime’s sanctum.
Hypatios Nykator, likely having waited for the opportunity to do so and seizing it now that it had come, bellowed with rage and drew his plain, metal sword. He moved fast—nearly as fast as Nikomedes could move, which was concerning to Nikomedes since the man was nearly Kratos’ equal in size—and he brought his sword up, over, and down in an overhand arc aimed at the insolent newcomer’s fully exposed skull.
But if Nykator was fast, the stranger was even faster. His arms snapped up from his chest to block the mighty blow with a deafening clang of metal on metal as Nykator’s plain, metal sword was easily repelled by the man’s bulky casement.
Nykator seemed as surprised as everyone else, who collectively gasped at the unthinkably strong armor. He grunted and drove forward, clearly aiming to knock the newcomer over, but the warrior stood like a statue and barely moved as Nykator drove with all his might against the immovable, scar-faced warrior, whose lips twisted contemptuously as Nykator strained against him.
Then the newcomer lifted up a massive, metal boot and kicked Nykator squarely in his Stone Rhino hide breastplate, knocking him back several steps. Even Nikomedes found his pulse pounding in his ears as he watched Nykator barely keep his feet beneath himself while reeling from the blow.
There was a long moment of shocked silence as the Great Hall’s occupants coped with what they had just seen, and then a rush of men and women jumped between would-be combatants. The crowd immediately began invoking rites and traditions which governed the proper execution of a challenge while in the Great Hall, and soon the debate turned more heated than any which had taken place in the Great Hall during Nikomedes time in it.
The crowd seemed divided almost perfectly down the middle, with half arguing that the newcomer had flouted tradition too gravely and was clearly in the wrong, deserving the strictest possible sanctions in response.
But the other half argued that as the sitting Protector and, essentially, the host to the newcomer’s party, the onus was on Nykator to uphold tradition and honor—which he had spectacularly failed to do by drawing his blade unannounced and trying to kill the scarred warrior with a surprise attack.
Nikomedes found himself caught between his own personal sense of honor and fair play—which demanded that the newcomer stand for his offense—and his desire to see Hypatios Nykator taken down a notch for his incessant disregard for tradition. The heated argument eventually personified itself in Kallistos and Kapaneus, who seemed all too eager to take up opposing sides in the momentarily energized exchange.
Nykator eventually joined the debate, nominally as a peacekeeper, but it became clear after only a few minutes that he was there to plead his case. It did not take long for his powerful charisma—and equally powerful, imposing figure—to sway opinion in his direction, but there were still opponents to his desire to law the scarred warrior low in an attempt to satisfy his own honor.
“The newcomer is our guest,” Kallistos repeated firmly. “Our laws are quite clear; it simply will not bear scrutiny if you move directly against him following this exchange.” The silver-tongued, brightly dressed Kallistos looked around pointedly as Nykator leveled a thunderous scowl in his direction. Kallistos lowered his voice after meeting his warlord’s eyes and explained, “Every Hold within a thousand leagues of Argos’ borders is represented here. They will report on the events which take place here,” he said, steadfastly refusing to back down beneath the weight of Nykator’s angry gaze. “Argos is stronger than any other Hold, but if her enemies unite against her in the cause of administering retribution for an impropriety authored by her Protector…”
The massive, blond-bearded warlord seemed to agree after a moment’s consideration. “Where do you stand, Kapaneus?” he asked, turning to his protégé with an expectant look.
“I will take that insolent wretch’s head,” Kapaneus declared, his voice a low hiss, “and then take my place at Lady Adonia’s side after meting out justice for his insult.
”
Nikomedes scoffed, shaking his head emphatically and causing all eyes in the group to settle on him. “And what blade will you use to do so?” he challenged, gesturing to Nykator’s finely-crafted, but entirely mundane blade—which had actually chipped from its lone impact against the newcomer’s armor. “You have no weapon of finer quality than that, and it was unable to even dent his vambrace.”
“I don’t care about his magical armor,” Kapaneus spat, but Nykator’s eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between Nikomedes and the Tegean protégé. “His head is unprotected; I only need one hit.”
“Nikomedes is correct,” Nazoraios declared somberly, “there are only three swords in this hall which could be expected to pierce his casement: the Protector’s Light Sword of Power; the newcomer’s blade which Lady Adonia now bears…” he paused and turned with an amused, wholly unconcerned look on his face as he gestured to the Minos Sword, “and the Minos Sword.”
The group was silenced by the seemingly obvious conclusion—a conclusion which, judging by the expressions on the faces of those assembled, had only previously occurred to Nikomedes, Nykator, Nazoraios, and possibly Kallistos.
“And since our warlord,” Nazoraios continued, placing the barest emphasis on the second to last word as he broke his eyes from Nikomedes’ own, “and Argos’ Protector finds himself in a somewhat controversial position, the choice seems clear as to who should deliver justice in the name of the Hold to this would-be usurper.”
“He has already retrieved the Dark Sword of Power,” Kallistos argued with enough heat in his voice that Nikomedes could not help but smirk at his rival’s bitter resentment, “he should not be granted the first chance for this honor as well.”
The Forge of Men Page 38