by S. C. Stokes
“What did it say?” Hitomi demanded impatiently.
“Much as you expected, mistress. With his son in your possession, he had little choice but to accede to your demands. He asked for time to organize his affairs before he surrenders himself in exchange for his son’s life.”
“Do you think the message is genuine?” Hitomi asked.
“He genuinely wants time—of that I am sure. I doubt he’ll deliver himself as promised. He must know, at least on some level, that the Prince cannot be allowed to live. Any heir will threaten your claim to the Throne. Tristan knows that. I would prepare for him to go down fighting. He took the Throne with force, and he won’t hesitate to use the same force to hold onto it.”
“What makes you so sure?” Hitomi replied.
“—What occurred after I retrieved the message,” the assassin responded. “A man lay in wait for me—clearly he intended to follow rather than apprehend me, as he made no effort to waylay me. The man was skilled. I led him about in the forests for a considerable time in an attempt to lose him, but to no avail. When the sun rose I shed my robes and blended into the crowds on the highway so that I might return home without interference.”
“Were you successful?” Hitomi asked.
“The man was a ghost. I have never met his equal,” the assassin replied. “I believe he managed to track me as far as the city, but once inside, I had the advantage. I am confident that I was able to lose him before I entered our sanctuary. I am sure that he remains unaware of our stronghold’s location but believe the King will soon know we are within the city’s walls.”
“Then he will come,” Hitomi answered.
“I am sorry to have failed you, mistress. Name my fate and I will embrace your judgment.”
“Oh you have not failed, Miyamoro. On the contrary, I expected their duplicitous response. Their resourcefulness has simply accelerated our plan. Even as we speak, the man who followed you here will be returning to King’s Court. In a matter of time, the full weight of the Throne will descend upon this place. When it does, we must be ready.”
“What would you have me do?” Miyamoro asked, bowing his head reverently.
“Gather our brethren. Each and every one of them. Call them home. When the false king comes, we will be ready. If he is reckless enough to enter our hallowed halls, he will not leave alive.”
“Yes my mistress. I will see to the preparations at once.” Miyamoro rose and departed as swiftly as he had entered.
Hitomi smiled for the first time in months. Soon her exile would be at an end—vengeance finally lay within her grasp. The return of the Mizumura will never be forgotten, Hitomi told herself as the door swung closed.
Chapter 20
The Everpeak
Morning came swiftly, and it found the throne room thronged once more. Some clansmen had absented themselves, clearly disinterested in watching two Dwarves kill each other in the name of honor. Others gathered, waiting almost giddily for the macabre event. Never before had the Kirin Ankor been employed to settle a matter of royal succession.
The fate and future of the Dwarven Kingdom rested on the outcome of the deadly combat. Whoever emerged victorious would surely be ratified by the assembled Clan Leaders. If Torgen were victorious, the Kirin Ankor would see a shift in the ruling title of the Dwarves from the Ironheart to the Ironfist—it would herald a new age. Whether such a change was for good or evil was yet to be determined. Those Dwarves who stood eager to preserve the ways of tradition had allied themselves with the heir to the Ironheart. Exile they could overlook, but defiling the last rites of the Great Tharadin was an offense that had stirred considerable dissent.
Torgen was not without his supporters—in his time in the Ironguard he had served with a host of Dwarven nobility. Those comrades of old had now returned to their places in their clans. Some ruled their houses, and others wielded influence and respect. The depth of those loyalties forged in battle were displayed proudly as Torgen’s supporters clustered about him, eagerly voicing their support.
The assembled Dwarves spoke among themselves as they waited for Ferebour to appear. The exiled Dwarf had not been seen since the meeting had dispersed the previous evening.
The sound of steel on steel rang through the chamber. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Dwarves looked about, searching for the source of the noise. It rang out again. Torgen approached the Ironguard by the throne for an explanation.
“It’s Ferebour, milord. He’s in the King’s Forge.”
“Has he been there long?” Torgen asked, a little surprised to find his foe so engaged.
“All night, milord.”
“By the Allfather—what is he up to?”
“I don’t know, milord,” the Ironguard replied gruffly.
“Why don’t you go and ask him?” Torgen suggested as he motioned toward the forge.
“Very well, sire,” the dwarf answered. The Ironguard turned smartly and walked swiftly to the door of the forge. Then the old dwarf paused for a moment and pushed open the door.
Torgen tapped his boot against the stone floor as he waited for the Ironguard to re-emerge. Dressed from beard to boot in the plate mail of the Ironguard, he cut an impressive figure. Under his arm he carried his helmet, and slung across his back was the large two-handed axe the Ironguard were famous for employing.
After a short wait the Ironguard re-emerged and crossed the room to where Torgen waited.
“Well?” Torgen asked.
“‘E said ‘e was smithin’, milord.”
“Smithing? At a time like this?” Torgen was incredulous, unable to tell whether the delay was a lapse in judgment on his foe’s part or whether Ferebour had simply gone mad. “Well, get him out here. The Kirin Ankor awaits, as do we all.”
“‘E ‘ad an answer for that, too, milord.”
“What was it?”
The dwarf paused, clearly uncomfortable at the situation he’d been placed in.
“What were his exact words?” Torgen demanded.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sire, but ‘e said it was his Kirin Ankor and you could wait for ‘im to be ready. . .”
Torgen seethed. “Is that all?”
“‘E also said you needn’t be in such a hurry to die—‘e’d be with you in a moment.”
Torgen was furious. His rage boiled as he waited for the impudent heir to appear. We’ll see who dies today, Torgen thought to himself as he angrily shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to keep still.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door to the King’s Forge swung inward and all eyes turned to the opened portal.
Ferebour stepped out into the throne room, and contrary to expectation he was wearing no armor. Sweat ran down his brow and into his beard, and soot and ash discolored his skin. The only protection he wore was a leather apron that had shielded him from the heat of the forge. Clad only in the apron, trousers and boots, Ferebour glistened from his exertion in the forge.
He strode into the throne room and addressed Torgen: “I see you have come prepared for the Kirin Ankor, Torgen. You do not need to die today. The Ironfist would mourn your passing, and our people would have lost a great warrior. If you relinquish your claim on the throne and apologize before all present, admitting that you usurped my rights to the Kirin Tarnor, we can resolve this peacefully.”
“Not on your life, Ferebour,” Torgen replied. “You should not even be here, exile that you are. I will defend my claim and my actions to my dying breath. You’ll get no apology from me.”
“Very well—the Kirin Ankor will proceed as planned.” Turning to speak to the other Dwarves present, Ferebour continued: “You are all my witnesses. I attempted to resolve this without bloodshed but Torgen has refused—he has usurped my rights and duties. With you and the Allfather as my witness I will see him answer for both. The blood that is spilled today will be on his hands.”
“Perhaps,” Torgen replied. “But it will be your blood. This is not how Dwarves conduct their affai
rs, Ferebour. Instead of preparing for the Kirin Ankor, you’ve wasted your time and strength in the forge. I’m told you haven’t slept and we know you must have already been tired from your journey. Pursuing this course is a proud and foolish endeavor, born of greed. As unfit a foe as you may be, I will kill you in the Kirin Ankor. You’ll need more than an apron and an axe, boy.”
“Don’t try to bait me, Torgen. I liberated a city and then marched for days to turn the tide of a war that threatened Valaar. It would take far more than a missed night of sleep to weary me. As for my time in the forge, I do not consider it a waste. I simply needed some time to finish the weapon my father and I began crafting before my exile.
“You want insight into the Ironheart’s intent?” Ferebour continued. “The weapon still rested where we had set it aside all those years ago. You want to know what Tharadin Ironheart had in his mind and heart? Behold!” Ferebour hoisted the axe into the air. Its Black Iron caught the lamplight that played along the blade. The large two-handed axe resembled in every respect the weapon Tharadin himself had wielded.
A chorus of gasps spread through the chamber, but Ferebour spoke over them. “My father knew in his heart that I would return. The first moment he heard word of my survival from Syrion Listar, he asked the sorcerer to carry word to me that I should return. I have returned as he wished and I will give my life to see his will and legacy borne out.”
Turning back to Torgen, Ferebour set his axe down for a moment and began to remove his apron. “You are right—I won’t be needing this.” Picking up his axe again, he pointed it at his foe. “Fine as that plate mail is, Torgen, it will be of as little use as this apron. Do you wish to remove it or will we proceed with you as you are?”
Torgen’s response was immediate: “If I am to die, I will do so as an Ironguard.”
“Very well. I called the Kirin Ankor. It is your place to name the Ankoraz.” Any time two Dwarves met in combat to settle a debt of honor an officiant was appointed to ensure the terms of the combat were set and honored by both participants. In the Kirin Ankor the officiant, or Ankoraz, carried a heavy burden. In the event that the terms of the Kirin Ankor were broken, it was the solemn responsibility of the Ankoraz to slay the dishonorable combatant and cleanse the shame that would otherwise stain his family’s honor.
“I choose Dharak Ironside as the Ankoraz. Do you have any objection?”
Ferebour followed Torgen’s gaze to a dwarf by his side. The burly warrior was looking awfully proud of himself.
Such things mattered little to Ferebour. He had no intention of breaching the sacred covenant of the Kirin Ankor.
“I have no objection. Proceed.”
Torgen nodded to Dharak, who strode into the middle of the chamber and addressed the assembly. “The terms of the Kirin Ankor are inviolate. It is a duel to the death. The only permissible weapons are the weapons you wield now, and your closed fists. There is no kicking, biting, slapping or other form of dishonorable combat. If you employ one of these I will intercede, ending the duel and your life. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Torgen answered immediately.
“As do I,” Ferebour replied.
“Then let the Kirin Ankor begin,” Dharak uttered decisively.
The assembly withdrew from the two combatants, granting them the space to move as they wished. The chamber went quiet as the two warriors stared each other down. Torgen was a formidable mountain of a dwarf—in his plate mail he was even more imposing. Ferebour, on the other hand, had a determined majesty about him. Shirtless as he was, all could see the scar from the battle beneath Belnair. As eyes around the chamber were drawn to the wound Ferebour looked up at Torgen and smiled. “That was given to me by the last man who thought he had my measure. He was dead moments later.”
“That’s your problem, Ferebour—too much time among men,” Torgen answered, sliding his helmet on.
“What you perceive as weakness is actually my strength,” Ferebour replied as he advanced on Torgen, his axe raised.
Torgen opted for a defensive stance, waiting for Ferebour to close the distance. As Ferebour drew nearer Torgen probed Ferebour’s guard with a jab designed to wind the opponent with the blunt steel just behind the axe blade itself. Ferebour side-stepped the attack and was forced to duck as Torgen shifted his weight and delivered a ferocious blow aimed at severing Ferebour’s head from his body.
Unencumbered by armor, Ferebour was able to respond quickly, stepping under the blow and inside Torgen’s guard. Up close he was unable to swing his double-bladed axe as he might have wished, but he settled for driving the spike at the top of the axe head into Torgen’s thigh. The Black Iron Blade sheared through the plate mail with ease.
Torgen grimaced in pain but the dwarf within him was too stubborn to allow a murmur of pain to escape his lips. Instead Torgen focused his anger and used the haft of his axe with both hands to force Ferebour back. Gaining the space he needed, Torgen drove the haft into Ferebour’s chest, winding him before bringing his axe down with both hands in an attempt to cleave Ferebour in twain.
Ferebour’s lungs were on fire as he struggled for breath, but the blade rushing toward his head posed a more pressing threat. A lack of breath was better than being split in half. Ferebour dove to his right, tucking to roll as he hit the stone and swiftly regaining his feet. Torgen was atop him immediately, and he blocked Torgen’s repeated strikes with his axe as best he could and dodged those strikes that he could not block.
As Ferebour blocked a strike Torgen’s axe-blade caught on Ferebour’s haft and Torgen shifted his weight back, attempting to wrench Ferebour’s axe from his hands. Ferebour sensed the move before he felt the axe beginning to be torn from his grasp. Instinct would often cause a warrior to draw back and fight, attempting to grapple with his foe to maintain a hold on his own weapon.
But Ferebour had spent more time than he cared to admit in taverns and had survived more than his fair share of brawls. Truth be told, he’d often started them. Fighting the instinct to withdraw, Ferebour stepped toward Torgen, dropping his shoulder and driving it into his foe. The strength of the charge combined with Torgen’s wounded leg was enough to knock the heavily armored dwarf onto his back.
Ferebour raised his axe and brought it down with all his might. Caught on his back, Torgen’s only option was to bring his axe up to block the blow. Ferebour’s Black Iron axe struck the steel haft with bone shattering force. After momentary resistance from the steel haft Ferebour’s blade won out, shearing straight through the haft and burying itself in Torgen’s stomach. His plate mail offered no resistance to the blade.
This time Torgen could not prevent the pained gasp that pressed through his tightly grimaced lips. Ferebour left the blade where it was and addressed his foe. “These wounds may heal, Torgen. The next one will not.”
“What . . . are you . . . waiting for?” Torgen asked through gritted teeth.
“You have a choice, Torgen. Withdraw your claim and apologize for stealing my father’s last rites. If you do you will live. If you cling to your current course and your pride, you will die here today. The Kirin Ankor need not be carried to its conclusion. . . . If you will swallow your pride I will carry out my first oath and spare your life. Your people need you—do not squander your life meaninglessly.”
Torgen looked down at the axe lodged in his belly. The wound was severe but not beyond the healer’s capabilities to mend. In his current state he knew he could not fight—he could not even get to his feet unaided. In that moment Torgen reached a crossroads that no Dwarf ever cared to meet. Today he would have to part with his pride or his life. The thought frustrated him beyond measure.
Ferebour could see Torgen struggling with the choice that lay before him. Knowing nothing would be gained by antagonizing the Ironguard, Ferebour remained silent and waited for Torgen’s answer.
At length it came. “Very well—I will withdraw my claim on the throne and . . .” Torgen struggled to swallow his pride, “I’m sorry
that I attended to the Kirin Tarnor in your place. I should have waited.”
Ferebour nodded appreciatively at the admission. Conscious that all eyes were fixed on him, Ferebour spoke. “As I have sworn, I will withdraw the Kirin Ankor. I consider this wrong is now made right. I harbor no further malice or ill will toward the Ironfists.” He looked up and addressed the assembly: “Fetch a healer so that Torgen’s wounds may be attended to.” Crouching over Torgen, he continued softly, “I won’t remove the axe until the healer arrives, lest it cause more harm than good.” Torgen nodded, his face still twisted into a pained grimace.
Standing to face the assembled Dwarves, Ferebour spoke earnestly. “As I stated yesterday, it was my father’s will that I return to the Everpeak, so I am here. If you would have me to lead you, as my father did and his father before him, I will do so. If there are any who have a stronger claim, I will happily hear it, but know this. My exile is over—I have paid for my sins many fold. I will not continue in exile to satisfy a debt long since paid. Any who wish to dispute that, the last standing wish of your King and my father, Tharadin Ironheart . . . you know where to find me.” With that Ferebour turned, leaving the assembly in stunned silence as he returned to the peace and solitude of the King’s Forge.
Chapter 21
Meanwhile back on Valaar
Impatience weighed heavily on Tristan’s shoulders as he sat in council. Sven had been gone for days, disappearing shortly after preparing a response to the Night Stalkers’ ultimatum. His absence and the lack of progress in recovering the Crown Prince was causing Tristan considerable angst. Separation from his young son had brought with it a crushing pain from which he could find no relief.
That morning Linea had awoken for the first time since the attack. It had taken weeks of Malus’s careful ministrations to stabilize the Queen and prevent her from succumbing to her wounds. Malus’s wisdom in ensuring she slept had proved well founded. Had she regained consciousness any earlier the emotional strain might have killed her. As it was, her anguished scream had jolted Tristan awake in the early hours of the morning. Upon learning that Marius was missing she was inconsolable.