The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  “I’ll have you in the dirt under my boot. I heard you kept the Kobrir from Lariel. How ever did one as clumsy as you manage that? When the queen sends me an envoy, I want to know what he is made of, as well as why she sent him!”

  “She did not send me, I am merely here asking for the hospitality of your hold after weary days on the road.”

  “Then if you won’t stand on the merit of your queen, you had better prepare to stand on your own.”

  With a hiss, the black snake of a whip strikes through the skies over the alna with a crack! and he hops in sudden fear of it even as it coils about his blade and sends it flying from his hand. The wielder inhales sharply, drawing near, flicking the whip back with her slender wrist before popping it at her opponent, lunging with her sword at the same time. The man reaches out and grabs the whip, yanking, throwing the woman off-balance, and before she rights herself, he has a dagger point under her chin.

  “Now,” he says, “you will drop it.”

  She makes a sound of disappointment before leaning closer, and draws her full mouth over the bleeding cut on his face and kisses it with a murmur of passion. “Then I shall have to see that you are given the full hospitality of my keep before I send you home to Larandaril, with a message of my own.”

  Still frightened by the emotion and movement of the two, the alna flits away, then casts himself upward from the stronghold and over its holdings.

  There he manages to snatch a small fish from the lake to the Fallyn’s east. He eats warily on a flat rock, his beak and talons expertly shredding the flesh from the bone and gobbling it hungrily. When he takes to the air again, he circles a few times to gain his bearings and the current returns, seizing him and carrying him off again.

  His pathway is anything but linear. Rather than a bird on the wing, his journey is more that of a hound picking up a scent and tracking it, losing it, searching for it and then picking it up again.

  The rise and fall of the sun is but a glow in the bird’s eyes and he seems to acknowledge no weariness or time, only hunger. Days pass. Only then do other winged beings even sense him, as he trespasses on their territory briefly, in and out, snatching what fish or mouse or insect he can. He sleeps once or twice, head tucked under his silver-tipped wing, high in a swaying treetop so different from the river flats and marshes where he normally sleeps, the wind that carries him tugging at him now and then. It either rocks him to rest or nags him to fly onward; the alna is unaware of the current’s true nature or intents.

  He fights it but once. As his path takes him over the great, damned sea gulf known as Crooks, for the many tortured turns and coves hammered out by massive tsunamis pounding on its southern shore, he grows skittish. The edges of the inlet reek where salt has burned freshwater land to a brown crisp, and the beaches and water sound with the faint cry of a thousand voices calling for help. From the edges of his predatory eyes, he can see the flickering of the pale shapes of ghosts past and present in the waves. It is a forsaken land and it frightens him to the core of his being, runs against his instincts. He would falter if it were not for the undeniable zephyr carrying him.

  Beyond the tortured shores, he wheels inland, across the golden domes of the Magi, gone now except for the gleam of their once wealthy cities. His wingbeats grow ragged as he toils, until at last, he glides into the east. Never born or sculpted to be a hound, the bird lowers in a staggering flight to a pond, where he naps on the muddy bank, exhausted. When he awakens, he snaps up swarming gnats and a small frog or two that gathered to eat the insects as well, and revives. He launches again, his flight erratic, his youth and stamina spent.

  Yet he finds what he has been seeking. It draws him, and he wheels about it, two figures on horseback in a hidden grove, both in mercenary gear, one of them wearing a back sword with an elaborate, silvery cage for the hilt. It draws him like the shining scales of a fish darting under water, and he can feel the ache in his chest, his craw, his wings, his talons at the sight of the two. The sword exists still, and is worn by one who has tamed it. Not by the immense man but by the smaller, near-skeletal companion riding with him.

  The tall, dark one throws his head back with a growl as a shadow slips over him. At his movement, his companion stirs on his mount, moving something off his shoulder and then aiming upward. An arrow is loosed.

  The alna lets out a shriek as it pierces him and drops away sharply, falling, falling, despite the wind which has borne him so far, tumbling earthward in the east.

  “Leave it,” the first man said to the hunter from atop his horse, who shouldered his longbow in protest, without a word, his face furrowed under a single, deep crease which might have begun as a scar before it became a deeply grooved frown. He kicked at a few more grassy mounds before giving up and remounting.

  “I did not miss,” he said flatly.

  “You rarely do. You’ve lost the arrow, give it up.”

  “Birds do not tumble from the sky and disappear.”

  “This one did. Perhaps you merely nicked it, but you’ve beaten the bush long enough. I have more important quarry in mind.” Quendius stood in his stirrups, stretching his long legs, his keen gaze fastened on the river valley below, his tashya mount moving only slightly as the rider shifted his weight to watch a company below unaware they were being viewed from the heights. His companion said little in return and moved even more sparingly, his lean face turning to watch the stir of Galdarkans far below their hillside grove. The area had once been known as the Shrine of the Sun and the Magi who’d lived there had intended to build a monument for all time. Little remained of it now but broken columns and a golden half dome sunk to the ground like a polished nugget, glowing all the more golden for the blackened earth beneath it. Around its fringes, an encampment had been thrown up.

  “Do they search for lost magic, I wonder?” he murmured, to himself really, for his taciturn lieutenant seldom answered.

  He did, this time. “No. There is none to be found anywhere, and they know that.” Leaning back in the saddle, he fell into silence.

  “A pact with the Gods broken soundly, then, to lose what they once held. Gods like that must have been strong once, and are now broken themselves.” He paused, as if considering his spoken thoughts. Quendius sat back with a grunt. His mount moved also, restlessly, as if echoing the unspoken emotion from the rider.

  Quendius laced the reins over the palm of his hand after long moments watching the Galdarkans down below. “They’ve bought too many weapons from me. I close one forge, they follow me to another. They do so quietly, purchasing in increments, but their purpose is indisputable. They are stockpiling.”

  The lean, quiet man twitched a finger. “You knew this two years past.”

  “I did. I’ve the time to make certain, however. We both do. They do not.” Quendius gathered his reins and flashed a wide, unpleasant grin. “Their plans are no longer their own.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  SHE FOUND HIM LYING on the marshy grasses where the river slowed a bit, danced in and out of her favorite cove before rushing again downstream. She often tarried there, to watch waters that swirled in, calmed, and gathered a quiet strength before rushing out again and rejoining the rapids downstream in the spring melt off. In summertime, this hollow would be even quieter, with fish tickling the bottom of its depths. It had saved her life at least twice, and now it seemed as if it had saved another life. The alna lay crumpled, a broken arrow shaft in his breast, his eyes half-open and breath labored, and he did not even stir when she picked him up. She stroked his feathers down and turned him carefully in her hands to see how bad the wound was. It seemed fresh and that would help, but birds bled out very quickly, and she hesitated to probe the site since it had clotted a bit.

  Grace looked up. The skies threatened a drizzly rain to come and so she made him a shelter of sorts, and carefully removed what was left of the arrow, working the arrowhead back out of the flesh. At first she thought it Bolger-made, and set it aside while she cleaned and pack
ed the wound, and trickled water into the bird’s beak, singing softly while she did so. He flinched every time she touched him, but less so with the song swirling about him, and she could see the edges of the wound draw closed, fresh pink flesh forming. Her brands ached as she worked, her scars burning and the neat white marks flared an ugly purple as they hadn’t in years. The creature rallied enough to tuck his feet under him and his head under his wing, to sleep or die quietly, although she hoped it would be sleep. She drizzled water over her arms and hands to wash off his blood and tiny feathers and debris, and to soothe her scars. Rivergrace traced them with her fingertip. The one on her left arm scarcely showed now but her right arm pulsed with pain where Tolby had cut away the shackle. She blew softly over her skin to take away the stinging.

  A few days passed with her visiting every day, bringing crickets and garden worms and even a small fish, to find the alna brighter and cheerier each time until one day the bird actually fluffed up, startled by her appearance and wary despite the blue gill in her hand. His show of spirit brought a gentle laugh from her. He’d healed faster than she, for her arm still stung a bit, but she’d rolled her sleeves back and let the sun leech away the darkness that infected it. She laid the fish down on the nest, and the alna snatched it away, backing up to eat the offering greedily, and she knew it would live. So it did, even as the arrow wound left a bright patch of silvery feathers on his chest. The last time she visited, the alna burst from the nest in a flurry of whistles and flaps, taking wing as if she’d thrown him into the air. He circled about, and landed near her with a challenging warble. She laughed at his bright eyes. “Very well, then, I won’t tame you,” she told the defiant bird.

  Something metal bright sparkled at the ground near her boot toe. She reached over and picked it up, finding the arrowhead she’d forgotten about. She turned it in her fingers several times. Blood had dried rusty brown on it, and mud and grass from the nest dirtied it a bit, but the fine, beaten silver of its workmanship shone undeniably through the grime. A true craftsman had made this arrowhead, shaped and honed it for swift death, and as she rubbed it clean carefully so as not to cut her fingers, she wondered that the alna had survived it, a true shot that had somehow not buried itself deeply. She worked the last of the arrow shaft from it, and palmed the object. She ought to throw it far away, or give it to one of her brothers, but she felt reluctance with any thought but that of saving it. It might make a nice clasp for a small shoulder bag, at that. Rivergrace put it in her gathering basket and gestured at the alna, who swooped up again, darting down at her boldly to steal a hair and winging away. She laughed despite the smarting of her scalp. Nutmeg always wore a kerchief and nagged at Grace to do the same, so she supposed she deserved having birds and twigs alike snatch at her, tangling and stealing.

  She lingered along the riverbed only long enough to fill her basket with herbs for drying and hurried back home, a day full of chores still ahead of her. Hosmer had ridden out the day before for a militia tour, but Keldan and Tolby and Garner would still demand a hearty lunch, and then she had baby goats waiting for her, and then she and Nutmeg had weaving to finish and then . . . well, there was always something. Smiling, Rivergrace hurried her steps. The early morning breeze tugged at her cloak despite the lacings tight across her chest, and tried to shiver up her trouser legs, worn and patched and too short, as always. She made her own trousers and skirts, but could not seem to keep pace with her long legs. The orchard filled with sound, as it warmed to the day, even with clouds gathering on the horizon. It would be a difficult day to stay inside. Plotting tasks that would keep her and Nutmeg busy but out in the spring until the rain finally began falling, a smile danced about her face.

  Hosmer reined his horse to a halt in the clearing. The gelding tossed his head and let out a chuff of irritation, eager to be stretching his legs out a bit again. Frowning, Hosmer squared his shoulders before reaching back into his saddle pack, opening the flap, and pulling out his oilcloth map to puzzle over it. He had the meeting place right, and he was far from early or late, yet the dell lay empty. The fire ring had not been used in a while, for this was a run they did not often patrol, and it had not been used that morning either. His brow lowered in irritation, his first thought being that he would have to make the patrol alone. His next thought was that one or two might have been drawn away by problems elsewhere, for that was the way of life on farms and ranches, but not every last one of the four. The patrol, then, had been changed for some reason and he hadn’t received notice. When he got back, he’d have to peg Nutmeg by the ear and find out if she’d forgotten to tell him a carrier bird had come in. Meanwhile, there was nothing for it but to do the patrol on his own, for it needed doing. Hosmer gathered up the reins.

  The gelding picked his own way up the small hillside, agile and surefooted, a blend of mountain pony with a hint of the tashya hot blood in his dished face and high-carried tail. He’d cost Hosmer most of his hat sales coin. He snorted as they reached the ridge, tossing up his wide-blazed head. Hosmer dropped his hand low, guiding the horse along the narrow trail, marking the overgrowth of shrub and grasses as they worked their way through, the passage of hooves bruising foliage and sending an aromatic cloud over them. At the break, reaching a long, flat butte known as Ironhead, Hosmer sent the gelding into a lope, covering the ground in ever lengthening strides. At the butte’s far side, a slope led down into a maze of small valleys and hills and Hosmer gave the horse free rein, leaning back in the saddle to help balance a bit. They crested a second small hill and a black flurry burst in front of them, shrieking and cawing, causing the horse to rear, Hosmer grabbing for the mane to keep his seat. The carrion eaters winged about him in a dark cloud, gained the air, and circled above him, his ears ringing with their shrill protest.

  Hosmer settled the horse, his heart thumping in his chest. It struck him, somewhere in his throat, that a kill lay ahead. Not just any kill, from the number of skraw overhead. One of size to attract so many. He swallowed and tried to push the gelding into a walk forward, but the beast whinnied nervously and set his teeth against the bit, refusing. He put his boot heel to the gelding’s flank with a grunt. The horse grunted back, lowered his head, and planted his hooves. He swung off then, dropping the reins to a ground tie. The horse undoubtedly had better sense than he. He strode down the crest, through chest-high bracken and tangleweed. The smell hit him first, the flat coppery smell of blood, and then the sound, for not all the skraws had taken flight, the sound of wet shredding and ripping and devouring. He could hear the flapping of wings as they hopped and jostled each other.

  Another step and he looked down on blood glistening blackly on the beaten grasses and bracken, bodies broken and akimbo, horses and men, a feast for the skraw as they hopped upon the carnage. Hosmer put his fist to his mouth. They were hardly recognizable, but here lay two of the four missing militia. Lent Barrel and his brother Guthry, slaughtered, and only their longcoats with the embroidered breast flap pocket to tell him who they were, for the birds had been at their faces. Their eyes were gone, throats nothing more than glistening gashes to the sky.

  Hosmer stumbled back and then made himself stop. He could not flee like some unthinking animal, no matter how horrible the sight. Tolby would shake him by the scruff of the neck for not knowing more of the scene than simply horrifying death. He swallowed hard.

  He circled the area widely, then, picking up tracks. Hounds and horses, Bolger horses, from the pony size bare hoofprints. Picking his way closer, teeth clenched, shooing off the skraw, he found the spear under the body of one horse, and the arrowheads buried deep in Guthry’s still intact chest. What was left of Lent did not tell Hosmer what killed him other than ambush. Perhaps the horse had fallen on him and then hounds had taken him, for he’d been ripped almost beyond recognition. Hosmer took a bracelet from his right arm, slipping it off torn flesh, slick with blood, and put it in his own pocket. That was all he could bring back to the Barrel family.

  A branch snapped
loudly. Hosmer straightened, wheeling about. It struck him that, fresh as their deaths were, he was in jeopardy. Leaping over the massacre, he ran back to his horse. The gelding rolled white-ringed eyes at the smell of blood on Hosmer’s boots as he grabbed the reins and swung himself into the saddle. The horse bolted without urging, back the way they’d come. The skraws flew about in another agitated flurry, and did he hear under the gelding’s grunts of efforts or did he hear the faint howl of a hound?

  He angled across the hillsides, avoiding the butte, for he’d be easily seen riding upon its great, flat top, the bracken thrashing at his leather chaps and stinging the gelding. He could hear one howl joined by a second behind him, no longer so faint as it had been. The hunt was on.

  He found a freshet of water trickling down, and took to it, the gelding snorting in protest at its icy spray from his pounding hooves, drenching Hosmer as well, and, hopefully, washing away scent as well as dryness and warmth. It went down valley a good long way before he had to pull the horse out of it and go cross-country again. The beacon lay foremost in his mind, then home to warn his family and gather up his brothers. Branches whipped his head and shoulders, a welt stinging across his cheekbone as he crouched close to the gelding’s neck, urging him in their race with hands and feet. A gathering mist lowered over them as they came out of the valley and along the stony ridge, cloaking them and muffling thuds of striking hooves and the belling of hounds searching for a scent down below.

  He slapped his horse’s neck in a steady pounding rhythm, urging him on across broken ground that might kill both of them if the gelding stumbled and fell, but any slower and it would be certain death for them as well. He tried not to think what would happen once he reached the beacon, beyond lighting the bonfire. The gelding slowed to a steadier but ground-eating pace as they dropped back into the valley, crossing back and forth over a small brooklet. Hosmer barely guiding the horse as he let the animal pick out his own trail. The sun fled as clouds drew closer and befogged the rounded hillsides. He forced the horse to the heights once, to catch his bearing, and then looked behind them.