“When do you think all of this will happen, Baron?” asked Angrial, politely.
“No sooner than Midsummer, no later than harvest,” I decided. “Much will depend upon that intelligence Pentandra spoke of. But the sooner, the better, to my mind. Every day we delay is an opportunity for Korbal to discover what a true prize he has in Rardine, and I despair that her life and her mind is endangered.”
“We shall plan on Midsummer, then,” Pentandra decided. “Let us see to our men, our plans, and our equipage until then. And keep this matter as the utmost secret,” she reminded. “The Estasi Order, and our two errants’ quest for companionship, should be enough to conceal much of our preparations, but we’ll need cover for the liberation raids,” she said, getting a far-away look in her eye. “And then we’ll need to feed, clothe, and house any slaves . . .”
“See why I picked you?” I pointed out, triumphantly. “You think of that sort of thing. If you can coordinate the Wilderlands phase of the plan, we can plan the other two phases.”
“If I don’t happen to be giving birth at the time,” she said, shaking her head. “You realize that I’ll be in labor around then? With triplets?”
“By which time you’ll have everything long organized,” I soothed. “And no one will even suspect a pregnant courtier of planning something like a sudden, secret campaign of liberation.”
“Or the quiet murder of her long-term friend the Spellmonger,” she teased, her eyes narrowed.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “You’ll be above suspicion. But you’re also the one best-suited to coordinate between the Iron Band, Alshari locals, the Kasari, and the Third Commando. And well-located to do so.”
More importantly, her pregnancy, as inconvenient as it was for our plans, would keep Pentandra from accompanying us. She was my best hope of continuing the reforms I’d started, should I not return from Olum Seheri. I wanted her safe from both harm and political accountability, should the quest fail.
“I think that’s the bell for luncheon,” Carmella announced, a moment later, when a loud bronze bell was struck. “If no one objects, I think we understand what the goals of the plan are. We know our basic roles are to be, and how to prepare for them. We have a staging ground in Timberwatch. I propose we reconvene in a month and discuss our progress.”
“I concur,” nodded Anguin. “I will start working even more diligently with my bodyguard to prepare myself. And I will take steps to ensure that there are adequate troops available to execute a liberation – even if I have to hire mercenaries to support our defense. I can afford that, now,” he added, glancing toward my former apprentices.
“It’s a calculated risk, but one that could add thousands of subjects to my lands and two new baronies to my legacy. If I can send other men into danger to fight and die on my behalf, the least I can do is face the same danger myself.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Tale Of The Dwarves
“Here,” the Dradrien said, offering me a sheaf of parchment. “This is what we remember about the denardsark Uncle Suhi was working on. This is, this part, is made of tirel,” he explained, using the first of many Dradrien terms I was unfamiliar with.
“Very hard to make, very hard. Steel, you start with steel . . . but it is harder than steel. Magic,” he said, and then repeated it with more emphasis. “Magic! Very powerful. This ring, this is made of koghul, not good, not good,” he said, shaking his head. “This ring, this is gravel, not so hard to make, but so much! Never so much for one sark! And this . . . this only Uncle Suhi can make. This is why they take him. Varpetykel. The metal must be sung, to forge it, in the hottest of fires. Special flux,” he added.
“What does it do?” I asked, mystified.
After returning to Sevendor from Anguin’s Tower and the day-long council, I found one of the Dradrien, Jarn, waiting for me impatiently in my tower. Sire Cei agreed to let him meet me there, after he’d been escorted through the back ways of the Westwood from the headquarters of the Estasi Order by Sir Ganulan. He’d brought with him a sheaf of parchment full of notes he and his fellows had made in the weeks since their liberation, detailing the experience in pictures, diagrams, and a few crude words.
“It’s . . . very bad,” the Iron Folk said, his eyes expressive.
“Yes, but what does it do? What does any of it do?” I demanded, as I tapped my finger on the strange diagram. I could not fault Jarn for his renderings. They were neatly done, with a great deal of precision in their execution and incredible attention to detail.
But I could not figure out, from what they presented, just what Korbal was working on. It seemed to be some sort of oversized metal staff with an oversized head on one end, but it was clearly not designed for its aesthetics.
The widely-spaced protrusions were at once elegant and brutal, with gentle curves in places and wildly jagged elements in others. There was a mechanical hinge involved. It looked almost like a kind of sea axe with the head twisted off and put on backwards, or something. Parts of the head moved, while parts were decidedly stationary. Mechanically, it seemed simple . . . but I could think of no particular use for it, either magical or mundane.
Unless it was some sort of ingenious new torture device, part of my mind considered. If you stuck that end someplace uncomfortable, and then twisted that part, releasing . . . no, I decided. It was not an ingenious new torture device.
But I had no real idea what it was or what it did.
Jarn leaned back in his chair and gave me a steady and thoughtful look.
“Don’t know,” he finally admitted. “We only helped with shaft, before Uncle Suhi got stubborn. Then they throw us into cell,” he sighed.
“But . . . do you have any ideas?”
“Death magic?” he shrugged. “Necromancy. High priority project,” he assured. “Highest. More than weapons for Nemovorti. More than weapons for draugen. Only one other was as important. Suit of armor,” he revealed.
“A . . . suit of armor?”
Jarn shuffled through his notes and showed me the drawing – done in a different hand, I noted. It was a bizarre fusion of traditional Alka Alon designs and a stark, savage aesthetic all its own. It covered the entire body, from the sharply-pointed grieves all the way up to the massive helmet, covered in jagged protrusions. It was beautiful and ghastly at the same time. It was also huge, if the Alon Dradrien figure drawn next to it for scale was any indication. At least seven feet tall.
“This,” he said, hoarsely. “This is made mostly of ankotrum, very hard,” he sighed. “Like steel, only lighter. Harder. Only Dradrien can make,” he said, proudly. “For Korbal. New body,” he emphasized.
“Korbal can change his body?” Sire Cei asked, surprised.
“He was without a body for a thousand years,” I pointed out. “The one he’s using now is apparently a very large human, and degrading rapidly. Taren theorizes that his Enshadowed disciples have been using transgenic enchantment to build a better host body. Probably out of an Alka Alon, even though from what I understand the implantation process is more difficult. That way he’ll be able to use human or Alkan magic. In addition to necromancy.”
“What disturbs me about it is the implication,” Sire Cei pointed out, tapping the sketch of the armor. “A man only invests in such a panoply if he intends to use it on the battlefield.”
“That does not bode well,” I agreed. “Especially if he’s armed with this . . . whatever it is,” I said, pointing to the original device. “It looks like some sort of hook or something. But this spring,” I said, tracing the coiled line under . . . was that a spike? “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I don’t like it.”
“No, is not good,” Jarn agreed. “Not good. We need to stop it.”
“I’m working on it,” I assured him. “He’s a threat to us all. I’m hoping to raid the place and rescue the prisoners,” I said. I hadn’t been planning on adding an Alon Dradrien to the mission, but if Korbal wanted to build this thing, I wanted to destroy it. And kee
p him from building another one. Which meant relieving him of his expert help. From what Tyndal told me, the Dradrien master smith was being kept with the other high-value prisoners in Olum Seheri.
“We will help,” Jarn offered, excitedly. “You get Uncle Suhi, we will help all we can.”
“What can you do to help?” Sire Cei asked. “These drawings are lovely, but what else can you do?”
“Make weapons,” Jarn suggested.
“We have weapons,” Sire Cei said, drawing his cavalry blade. Jarn took one look at the long, slender weapon, finely balanced and polished to a mirror finish, and burst into laughter.
“No, no, no!” he chuckled. “Real weapons. Strong! Sharp! Deadly!”
“I assure you, Master Dwarf, this blade is strong, sharp, and deadly enough, in my hands,” my castellan sniffed.
“It is a sharp stick,” Jarn dismissed. “Poor metal, low carbon. Single alloy. Not even pattern welded! Good for killing chickens,” he suggested with a sneer.
“And other—”
“Now, Sire Cei, hold your temper,” I said, putting a hand on his wrist. I doubt he would have slain the Dradrien smith out-of-hand. Cei has more control than that. I didn’t doubt he would threaten to slay the Dradrien out-of-hand. He’s perfectly capable of that.
“Our guest clearly has a much better idea of smithing than we – let us not dismiss his opinions out of resentment. Indeed, let us challenge him.” I turned back to Jarn. “My friend here has the power to transform magical energy into kinetic force – useful for a warrior. But when he does it with a sword, well, they inevitably break. Could you fashion a blade that wouldn’t?” I proposed. “I think such a thing is beyond even the Dradrien, but . . .”
“Need a forge, stock, tools,” he listed, “Will take a few weeks.”
“Can you make it a human-style mageblade?” I asked.
“Steel is steel,” he shrugged. “You want steel with kakhardel? We make you kakhardel steel. Easy. Need a few things, but easy.”
“If I let you work with a human smith, a magical smith, could you teach him? And learn the style of our weapons?”
“Oh, yes, yes, very easy,” Jarn agreed, stroking his beard. “Ten years’ service. Whatever you need,” he smiled. It wasn’t a pretty expression, on him.
“Then we’ll take him to Master Cormoran?” Sire Cei asked.
“Yes, in Tudry. Or the manor outside of Tudry where Cormoran has his current workshop. He’s planning on establishing a permanent forge in that settlement Pentandra is building around the Anvil, but until then that’s where he’s working. If we can get them out there, then that will prevent any unfortunate issues with the Karshak. They aren’t fond of the Dradrien. And they’re already upset enough that Carmella is hiring Rumel’s folk,” I added.
“Really? Why?” Sire Cei asked, surprised. “His clansmen did the finishing work in the Gatehouse – really quality work.” Sire Cei had cultivated a good relationship with the Karshak lodge since they’d arrived. Once he’d adjusted to their customs, he found them a steadfast and honorable folk. But that was only part of the story.
“Ah, but the Wood Dwarves are only Karshak by association, apparently. Master Azhguri and I spoke at length about it, after our council at Anguin’s Tower. He was steamed when he saw the ‘false lodge’, the hall that Rumel’s folk built there. He says it’s against custom for the Wood Dwarves to work on projects without Karshak oversight. Or something like that – it was a little confusing. But he was not happy about it. Wood dwarves aren’t supposed to work with stone. That’s for the real Karshak.”
That sparked a jarring, derisive laugh from Jarn. “Karshak! Stoneheads! Can’t even keep the Sootybeards in line!”
“Sootybeards?”
“Malkas Alon,” Jarn explained. “Karshak Alon have three clans of the seven: Karshak, the masons. Brangok Alon, the jewelers – rich bastards! And then the Malkas Alon. Wood Dwarves. Petty Dwarves, the humani call them, beyond the Mindens. Live almost like humani or Tal Alon,” he snorted, derisively. “Farmers. Woodcutters. Carpenters. Charcoal burners,” he said, as if that was the worst fate in the world.
“Well, not everyone can be Dradrien,” Sire Cei said, dryly.
“Truth,” Jarn said, missing the sarcasm. “Dradrien use Sootybeards, sometimes, if no Rudak Alon are around. Rudak are miners,” he explained. “Useful, but stupid. Good refiners, some houses,” he grudgingly admitted. “Alon Dradrien has three clans of seven. Dradrien, Rudak Alon, and Izluk Alon. Prospectors,” he supplied. “Agarth is Izluk. Married sister. Can smell metal,” he informed me.
“So . . . the Karshak Alon have three clans, and the Alon Dradrien have three clans? But there are seven clans?” Sire Cei asked. “What is the seventh?”
Jarn screwed up his face in thought. “We rarely speak of them. Kilnusk Alon.”
“And what do they do?”
“Rule,” Jarn said, with a wince. “And fight.”
“The Karshak have warriors?” Sire Cei asked, even more surprised. “They have always seemed so peaceful! Gruff and cantankerous, certainly, and stubborn. But not violent.”
“Kilnusk Alon ruled all clans, in ancient times,” Jarn explained, struggling for the words. His Narasi was improving dramatically, the more time he spent with human folk, but he still lacked a lot of vocabulary. “Lords of every clan. Protectors.
“But when Alka Alon wars came, some Kilnusk betrayed Karshak and Dradrien. Involved us in wars, not protecting. In great council, strongest clans, Karshak and Dradrien, reject Kilnusk, send them into exile. We rule ourselves now,” he said, proudly.
“I had no idea,” I confessed. I knew that the Alka Alon kindreds in the Five Duchies had used gurvani as soldiers, in violation of custom, but this was the first I’d heard of the Karshak’s history. Or the Kilnusk clan. “I take it that’s about the time that the Karshak built lost Angrenost.”
“All clans build secret strongholds,” Jarn nodded. “Angrenost. Gelez-nagu. Giliavir. When Kilnusk exiled, clans scattered and hid.”
“I’m still wondering why all of the other Dwarven clans are named first, and then appended with ‘Alon’. All save the Alon Dradrien,” Sire Cei asked. Really, that was the last question on my mind.
“Dradrien are special,” shrugged Jarn.
“Well, yes, that makes sense,” I lied. “Thank you, Jarn. I’ll send word when we’re ready to transport you and your friends to a friendlier place.”
The dark-haired dwarf nodded, and turned to go – but then stopped. “Thank you, humani,” he said, hoarsely, his big eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you for saving us. Thank you for saving Uncle Suhi.”
“Well, that was productive,” Sire Cei sighed, when the Dradrien smith left. “While I feel I have a much better understanding of the inter-tribal politics of the Karshak, we still don’t really know what Korbal has the Dradrien working on.”
“Just that it’s a suit of armor for a really big body, and a contraption that looks suitable for dentistry on a dragon,” I sighed, rubbing my eyes tiredly. “I suppose the good news is that you’ll likely get a new sword out of this.”
My conversations with the Dradrien smiths were difficult, but earnest. My conversations with Master Guri were just as difficult, but for entirely different reasons. But I felt compelled to verify some of what I’d learned from Jarn, and I owed Guri a visit, anyway. His entire attitude changed when I mentioned the Iron Folk smiths.
“You know if the Dradrien are involved, there’s dark magic afoot,” the master builder insisted, when I visited him in his lodge later that day.
“Well, they were kidnapped by an evil necromancer,” I pointed out, as he poured me a mug of ale from a thick earthenware jug. “I figured there would be some dark magic involved.”
“That’s not what I mean, Min,” Guri sighed, taking a seat. “The Dradrien are . . . unique among my race. My people have a reputation for greed, and it’s true that we value a fair price for our labors. But when you speak of the Dra
drien clans, that’s when true avarice appears.
“My folk are generally pretty reasonable. But when Dradrien decide they want to do something, they’re committed. Obsessed, even. They don’t have the same ethical positions as Karshak do. I mean, not all of them,” he said, hurriedly. “Most Dradrien are pretty decent blokes, individually. But when they get that lust for wealth . . . well, they become infatuated with it. To the exclusion of all else. The Karshak value wealth honestly gained from the sweat of our brow. The Dradrien just . . . take.”
“What about this other clan, the rulers? The Kilnusk?”
Guri shook his head and whistled a long, low note. “That’s not something we talk about much with outsiders. What did they tell you?” he asked, cocking one enormously bushy eyebrow in curiosity.
“That the Kilnusk clan was the warrior caste, leaders and protectors,” I supplied.
“Well, that’s true enough, as far as it goes,” Guri agreed, reluctantly. “But there’s more to it than that.” The master mason gave me a thoughtful, searching look. “I suppose there’s no harm telling you,” he finally decided, “you being who you are, and all. Might even help, I suppose.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” I nodded. “And I assure you of my discretion.”
“Which is the only reason I’d consider discussing such matters. You’re a good egg, Min,” he decided. “Even as a client. You treat everyone fair, and you pay out on time. And your ale is good,” he added, pouring us each another mug.
“It used to be that every other clan had a family of Kilnusk it looked to – they didn’t exactly rule, at least not over most of the Karshak, but they tried to, sometimes. Some of them were good folk, strong leaders who did their jobs and kept danger at bay while we worked. Others . . . well, some became downright lordly. Especially the Kilnusk who ruled the Dradrien.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 26