The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  He put a hand up, palm out, and Abayan did the same. The mercenary then signaled the two men flanking him to stand down and faced him again. “Thank you for courtesies of the road.”

  “I couldn’t do less. You’ve never come to buy from me in person before.”

  “You’ve not requested my presence before. My purser was always sufficient.” Abayan stripped off his riding gloves, tucking them into his belt. His baldric held a good sword and two throwing knives, for Quendius had not stipulated disarming his buyer, a subtle point he hoped to make.

  “There has always been a fiction between us, as to whom the buyer was. I see no point in continuing the pretense. I have at my disposal, besides the usual lot you order, a weapon that only you can use, and so it becomes necessary to deal with you personally.”

  The red-gold eyebrows of the Galdarkan rose up, and his dark jade eyes seemed to reflect a smoldering irritation. “A weapon fits any hand, within reason.”

  “Not this one.” Quendius seated himself and leaned indolently back in his chair. “It is, if you will, God-ridden.”

  Abayan Diort quirked his head at that, something unreadable replacing the irritation in his eyes as he stared down at Quendius.

  “Yes,” answered Quendius to the unspoken question. “It can be, and has been, done.”

  “You ask for a leap of faith, even from a descendant of guardians from a time when magic ruled on Kerith. The Gods deny us. You have always said you spoke with Gods, now you bind Their Word to a weapon? To what end?”

  “You ask to what end? To conquer. Is there any other destiny with war?”

  “What of your Accords?”

  Quendius dismissed both question and agreements with a wave of his hand.

  “Let me see it.”

  Narskap stirred. “Never draw a weapon you do not plan to use.”

  Abayan Diort stared him down, or tried to. The thin, hardened Vaelinar remained unmoved, and it was Diort who gave way, flicking his glance back to Quendius.

  “Oh, I intend a Demonstration. Tell your men to prepare for battle.” Quendius pushed his chair back, standing again, with a sharp whistle that sent booted feet running past the tent. “We’ve been surrounded.”

  Abayan’s hands went to his baldric with a curse, pulling his sword. Narskap leaped over the table, catching his arms before he could draw, and Quendius said coldly, “Too ready to be turned upon, I think.” He circled and looked down upon both Narskap and Diort, the wiry Vaelinar’s strength more than a match for the husky, well-muscled mercenary. “I said a Demonstration, not a thugging. When you rode in here, a circle closed about us, an enemy sure that we are unaware of their ambush.” He smiled thinly. “They are about to find out what we are made of, once again.” He let out a splitting whistle and strode out of the pavilion. Narskap released Diort to follow upon his heels, the mercenary scowling and muttering low words.

  The lieutenant gave Quendius the reins to his war steed. Narskap gathered up his own mount; after a moment’s hesitation, Diort followed. The low hills and rounded knolls about them boiled with the movement of Bolger clans closing in on the camp. Bold in movement, unafraid, sure that they had their prey outnumbered. Quendius pointed a chin toward them. “Even without what I offer you, we have them, and they don’t know it yet. I will take no prisoners, but I will take as mercenary those who give themselves up. Ride after Narskap. I don’t offer you the sword he carries, but the war hammer at his waist. You won’t see him draw that, for it bonds to its carrier. The sword is his. The hammer can be yours.”

  “Stay behind Narskap if you wish to be safe. Join me, when you wish to fight.” With that, Quendius pivoted his steed and rode up the slope with a yelping yell of challenge, and Bolgers charged to meet him, infantry on foot and cavalry atop tough little mountain horses the size of ponies, with archers staying up on the rounded knolls. A hail of arrows rained down, beating upon the shield walls, and the archers fell back. Narskap put his hand back to the hilt of the greatsword and drew it, with a high keening sound of stone upon steel as though the sheath sharpened it even as it relinquished it. It took a moment for Diort to realize the greatsword made the sound itself and that it vibrated within Narskap’s hard hold upon it. He threw himself after the swordsman, his horse’s ears pinned back at the high-pitched howling of the blade.

  The Bolgers beat drums, their heavy vibrations echoing through the knolls like low thunder and voicing commands to their ragged army. He’d fought Bolgers before, small ragged units and unruly bands of raiders, although the years of Bolger warfare had faded into history behind them. Yet this group of clans seemed disciplined and eager. They wheeled to flank them, even as a contingent charged down the throat of the hillside at the weaponmaster’s troops. The shield wall moved up and replaced itself. The greatsword’s high yowl tore through the sound of the drums as if it was merely a backdrop to it, and Diort watched as Narskap bore down on the first wave of cavalry coming his way, blade glinting in his hand.

  The clans bellowed a guttural word. “Blood, blood, BLOOD!” with each drumbeat. It was the sword which answered.

  It seemed to jump out, for the throat, the chest, the thigh, the arm, crimson spurting each time it struck, flesh opening straight to the bone and beyond, with the howling of the death a panicked accompaniment. It swung in Narskap’s hand of its own volition and speed, and every Bolger that fell under it, fell with first a look of shock, then of absolute horror as the blade drank of its victim. It never wearied in Narskap’s grasp. Never faltered. Never missed a hit, though the Bolgers began to slew away from it, swerving about with sharp, barking cries. Blood ran down its channel in rivers, and never touched Narskap’s forearm as the hilt itself seemed to be a maw of darkness that eagerly gulped every crimson drop.

  Diort’s horse shied from the bodies, horses and Bolgers, tumbling in Narskap’s wake, a wake that began to open wider and wider as the clansmen fought each other to get out of Narskap’s path. As his horse jumped the dead, Abayan looked down into leathery brown faces going pale, mouths stretched in cries of agony and fear, eyes losing their light in abject horror. The sword took more than life and blood. As they reached the top of the knolls, Narskap pulled his war steed up by sheer force, turning about in a tight circle, greatsword in his hand.

  It howled. Archers ran in terror. The lines of the Bolgers broke, each running for himself, the fight forgotten. Narskap tried to lower his arm, but could not, and he put heel to his horse and headed downward, into the thick of the clans punching and kicking their way in retreat, and the sword went after them, like a whip eager for the lashing, and Bolgers fell, screaming.

  Diort did not follow. He cuffed his war-trained mount to a halt, bile in his throat. War maneuvers were one thing. A slaughter was another. Yet he couldn’t deny to himself the impression of the sheer inability of a foe to stand before the blade. Not forgetting that Narskap rode and fought like a master, the sword itself had a mind and drive of its own. The Bolgers recognized it.

  If this could be done by the Strangers, the God-speakers, then he had to give blessing none such had been loosed on them before. Did they know the difference between Gods and Demons on Kerith? He thought not. If a God rode that sword, it was a God of the greatest darkness, of the swallowing of souls. For this, if no other reason, he had to own the war hammer.

  Quendius joined him after a few moments, directing his troops who outrode the fleeing Bolgers and were cutting off retreat.

  “How much for the hammer?”

  “The price I quoted you includes the hammer, along with the other armament.”

  Abayan tore his attention away from the fray below. He had been prepared to pay all that he could raise, and he didn’t doubt that Quendius knew that. He considered the weaponmaker. Nothing between them would come freely, and both knew it.

  Quendius remarked, “The additional price I ask is an intangible,” in answer to the unspoken.

  “I have no firstborn.”

  Quendius chuckled. “Allian
ce. I want alliance.”

  “Against . . .”

  “Whomever our enemies may be or become.”

  “A broad term.”

  “The world,” Quendius told him, “is broad.”

  “I see.” He paused as Narskap finally, wearily, managed to sheathe the greatsword and rode up to the knoll top. Narskap said nothing. Blood splattered his trousers, his vest, his face, but not a drop stained his sword arm. Not a drop within reach of the blade had been passed by. It had drunk deeply of each and every offering.

  “I would be a fool to turn you down,” Abayan Diort told Quendius.

  “The Gods did not birth either of us to be fools,”

  Quendius returned. He held out his arm, and the two gripped each other’s forearms strongly.

  Narskap passed the war hammer over, and Abayan Diort took it. He could feel a deep vibration inside the wood, he could sense rather than hear its own voice, and he knew a greater fear than he had ever known in his life. He did not show it.

  He would be a greater fool if he did.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  NUTMEG HIKED UP the hem of her skirt so she could run faster, skimming the edges of the crowd. “Hurry! I want to see them coming in the gates!”

  A basket of flyers newly printed and hailing the opening of Tolby’s hard work thumped at her hip as Rivergrace did her best to keep up. A few of the crisp papers took flight on their own from the basket, to drift among the pushing crowd of people eager to see the entrance of the Warrior Queen and her entourage. Nutmeg found a place near the front, where even in her proud Dweller shortness, she could see, and Rivergrace stayed at her heels. Both of them handed out flyers as they’d promised, and then a commotion at the gates made everyone’s eyes turn, and a sigh of anticipation ran through the gathered crowd.

  A horn sounded through the morning with a challenge and flourish. The entourage entered, not at a ceremonial walk, but a controlled gallop, a charge of arched necks, flying manes and tails, and hooves striking the hard-packed dirt road, as tashya horses in regalia, their riders splendid in dark, rich clothing, hooded vantanes on one wrist and white leather reins in the other hand, took the city. Behind them rode packmasters with braces of dogs, milling about with happy barks and brays, their brown and black and tan and chestnut coats shining with health and vigor. The hounds ignored the crowds, tongues lolling. Huntsmen rode after, resplendent in brocade and silk, eyes and hair flashing like jewels, Vaelinars with skins of cream and faint copper, a soft gray here and there, and sometimes a bronze given by birth and not sunning. Just as Rivergrace caught her breath, the honor guard trotted in, weapons sparkling in their sheaths like lightning called down from the skies, their horses snorting and sharp hooves striking small pebbles from the dirt. Behind them, at a more sedate place, rode Sevryn and a handful of others. Unlike the Vaelinars before, this handful observed the crowd, carefully, closely, gazes sweeping and then watching a personage or two with a penetrating stare before moving on. When his eyes found her, he reined his horse back a bit, pivoting it in a tight circle, so he might not ride past without acknowledging her. Aderro, he’d called her, Little One, a word she’d forgotten and not remembered till he had said it. Aderro.

  He raised a soft-gloved hand in greeting.

  A warmth rose in her cheeks, and she put a hand up to hide it. A flyer flew from her fingers of its own volition, straight at him, and he caught it, grinning, before wheeling his horse about and rejoining the honor guard. They swept past, as the queen and her brother came into view.

  She wore cobalt blues, her gown accented with gilt ribbons brilliantly swirling about her, her hair held back from her brow by a simple diadem, her right hand upon a bannered lance carried in her stirrup. She looked incredibly young and enchanting, and Rivergrace felt a sting at the corner of her eye as she passed, a tear of awe. Her brother rode at her elbow, just a horse’s stride behind, in dark greens and chestnuts, his horse’s coat blazed in red gold, and he carried a great bow across his back, with sword in hand. Nutmeg made an inaudible sound of wonder. In a thunder of hooves, they galloped past, and Rivergrace managed to let her breath out.

  Someone behind her grumbled, “Just what the city needs, more cursed elves.”

  “At least they bring their coin purses with them.”

  Nutmeg turned away before the last of the entourage on horseback and carriage came through, catching up flyers from the basket and thrusting them everywhere in the crowd, promising them fine summer wines and the greatest cider they had ever tasted. Rivergrace trailed after, people often refusing a paper, and one or two muttering, “Vaelinars street hawking? I doubt it.” A woman shoved past, hissing, “Hide those eyes!” Rivergrace spun about in momentary confusion as the crowd began to disperse.

  She stumbled on the hem of her skirt and righted herself, only to see a man strut off, smirking, and realized she’d been tripped. She clutched the handle of the basket until the woven reed and stem bit into the palm of her hand. Nutmeg, far ahead of her, had seen and heard nothing or she would have pitched herself into the fray, her small but determined defender. Rivergrace smiled at that, and shrugged off the scorn, hurrying after her sister. Dust curled from the side lanes as the heat of the day and many feet shuffling through it carried it aloft like soft, brown smoke.

  Tolby stood in rolled-up sleeves, immersed in work, when they returned and waved his hand. “Run along, go. Your ma is waiting for you.”

  Excitedly, Nutmeg found a straw hat and tied the ribbon about her chin. “They were so handsome, all of them,” she chattered. “Not even at the Spring fairs have I seen anything like it! And the queen. Did you see how she rode? I bet she could use that lance, too.”

  “Do you think they love her?”

  “Of course they do!” Nutmeg fussed with her apron, and then twirled Grace about to tie hers. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “People grumble on the street.”

  “Do they?” Nutmeg peered up at her from her elbow. “I never noticed.” She tugged the apron tighter and retied it. “I think you’re losing weight. Come on, we might have time to buy some sugared bread!”

  Even long-legged Grace had small hope of staying even with Nutmeg when she was in pursuit of hot fried bread on a stick, dotted with crystallized sugar gems. Head above most of the crowds, she spotted Walther, messenger bag flopping about his baggy pants, with a piece of bread on a stick, melting away through the people. He saw her and gave a toothsome grin and wave.

  Nutmeg offered her a sticky bit, which she nibbled at, but it did not strike her fancy as it did her sister’s. They finished it off just before reaching the shop. Nothing untoward happened in the long hot afternoon although Rivergrace, busy sewing in the far back where she would be undisturbed, thought she could hear people coming in and out, an unusual bustle of interest. She listened in case Sevryn Dardanon might make another appearance, but heard no voices she recognized, and finally bent her attention to her stitching—small, neat, and quick. Lily came back to check on her twice, expression bemused and mind preoccupied. Grace finished up and set the jacket aside, laying it out neatly as Lily came in a last time, saying, “You can go home, Grace, I’ve nothing left for you, but Nutmeg is still working.”

  “That’s fine. Can I go do laundry?” Nutmeg thought of laundry as punishment, but she enjoyed it, cleansing away the toil and worry of yesterdays as she did it. The day had plenty of sun left for drying, and the clothes would snap in the wind and billow about, smelling of the flower tinctures she put in the rinse water.

  Lily hugged her. “Would you mind trying this chemise? I’ve a new client trying to replace it, and I’m working on the order, but it seems to me this wine stain should come out. I can please her with both.”

  She took it and nodded, running the fine garment through her hands. “I think I can get it clean.” After a moment, with a slight tinge of worry, she added, “Don’t let Nutmeg walk home alone late.”

  “Oh, I won’t. She’s likely to black someone’s eye
and have the Town Guard called on us if there’s any trouble.” They both laughed, and Lily added, “Send Keldan after the two of us, when the lamps are being lit.”

  “I will!”

  She was up to her elbows in water, cold and soaped lightly, for she disliked soiling the water more than she had to, when the shout of angry voices reached her, echoing through the yard, Tolby’s voice in a stern growl. She followed it to the storeroom.

  “Mortgaged? Paperwork? Get out of here. I rebuilt every keg in here with my bare hands, me and my sons did.

  Everything of any good had been stripped out of here, sold or stolen before then.”

  “Nonetheless,” said the barrel-waisted Kernan standing opposite Tolby, his thumbs tucked in his vest pockets, “the manager mortgaged what little property remained in this establishment, and now the monies are due. The monies or the kegs and vats.”

  Garner loomed at his father’s shoulder. “A lot of good kegs would do a moneylender. Unless you’ve a mind to try the business?”

  “True, but resale would settle the debt. I know you’re trying to make a start here, Farbranch, but ’twill go badly with you if word gets around your credit is no good and you don’t stand by your paper.”

  “It’s not our paper!” Keldan started to bounce beside his father and brother, and both caught him by the elbow. He shook his thickly curled head as they pushed him behind them.

  Tolby rolled his shoulders and gazed up at the roof. His tone calmed. “And if I pay this . . . debt . . . what happens then? Another one of you shows up next week with a new bundle of papers?”

  The Kernan cleared his throat. “You don’t know me, Master Tolby, but I’m not one for kicking a man when he’s down. This clears it all.”

  “Your word on that?”

  The Kernan nodded as he pulled his vest into place. “My word, sir, and if it’s as good as the word of a Farbranch, we should both be pleased. May this be the last of your good money after bad,” he said, offering his hand to Tolby. “The summer season is a thirsty one and you should begin to prosper.” He waited.