Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  Not knowing what to say when faced with such a compliment, Keltin busied himself by studying the marvels of the mechanisms elsewhere in the cavern. The massive hammer continued to pound hot metal in the distance, while a belt-driven bellows forced air up into one of the nearer forges, causing it to blaze white with an impressive welding heat that required almost no effort from the workers. After several minutes watching a group of four men forge chain links as thick as his arm, Keltin felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Hold this tightly,” Ansund instructed as he passed Keltin a cloth-wrapped bundle. The Draeden rolled back one end of the cloth, exposing the thick end of the scrid spike which he had ground down to a narrow rectangular handle. Keltin was fascinated by the transformation, but he was even more amazed to see that a small hole had somehow been cut through the end of the handle, although he hadn’t noticed the Draeden step away from the grindstone since they arrived in the workshop. He watched as Ansund lifted a wet section of grey leather cord under the base of the blade and twisted the ends up and around each other. After several sharp tugs from side to side that nearly pulled the spike from Keltin’s grip, Ansund wrapped the cord ends to the opposite side of the handle and repeated the process again and again.

  An intricate pattern of woven leather knots lined both sides of the handle by the time Ansund had finished, and he then proceeded to wrap the ends through the hole he had cut. He tied a final complex knot that Keltin had never seen before, leaving a tight ball of grey leather resting at the end of the handle. Using one of his isen, the Draeden sliced away the excess cord and took the spike back from Keltin. After inspecting it carefully, he nodded and dipped the entire bundle into the river, swirling it in the rushing water until it was thoroughly soaked.

  “To make a weapon truly feel like an extension of yourself, the secret is in the fit of its handle,” the Draeden explained as he lifted the spike out of the river. “To do that properly requires a bit of discomfort on your part first, though. Grip the handle and go hold it over one of the forges until the leather dries. When one side of your hand starts to feel like its burning, flip to the other side. You’ll know when it’s finished because the cloth will be dry too.” With that, he handed Keltin the spike again, still keeping the blade itself covered with the now-soaked cloth. Keltin wrapped his fingers around the handle and pressed firmly into the pliable leather—the fit already felt excellent, but he followed the Draeden’s instructions anyway and walked to the nearest forge.

  The fire was low in the coals, but the heat radiating above them was still enough to make Keltin wince and flip his hand after just a few seconds. “Don’t change your grip and do not let that fall into the fire,” Ansund called over to him. “You do that, I’ll make you reach in after it.” Keltin’s arm shook faintly from the effort of keeping his hand in place, but he didn’t let go. Faint tendrils of steam began to rise from the leather wrap as well as the cloth, and though the heat was intense he still didn’t let go.

  Just as the fire began to feel like it had become a part of his skin, Keltin drew his hand back sharply and checked the cloth. It was dry, much to his relief. Ansund hurried over and felt it as well, then he carefully unwrapped the cloth. At first, all Keltin could see was a grey leather sheath that matched the handle, but his breath caught when Ansund brought the rest of the blade into view. Where before there had been a smooth, dark cone of hard scrid flesh, now a thick-spined knife had taken its place. From the sharpening and polishing, the uniform black surface had given way to reveal striations of grey and white that ran the length of the blade in jagged lines.

  “It’s beautiful,” Keltin whispered, mesmerized by the designs that covered both the blade and the handle. Even though it was fascinating and looked completely different from Craed’s simple knife, Keltin couldn’t help but feel reluctant to carry a similar weapon.

  “It’s yours,” the Draeden replied. “If you develop any blisters on your palm over the next few days of using it, dip the nysk leather in water and grip the handle again firmly until it dries. You won’t need forge heat again, at least.”

  “Understoo—wait, nysk leather?” Keltin choked, nearly dropping the beautiful weapon.

  A small smile darted across Ansund’s face before he could suppress it. “Yes, Keltin. Those animals serve us well in life, so it is only right that we put their remains to good use in death. Better to become the handle and sheath of your knife than to be left to rot in the desert, right?” Keltin felt sick just by touching the leather—he had handled it hundreds of times before in Aldhagen, but he hadn’t known its source until now. Revulsion aside, he understood and shared the respect Ansund had for the hard-working nysks. He nodded, sheathed the knife, and began the walk out of the enormous workshop.

  It wasn’t until the sounds of the forge had faded behind them that Ansund spoke again. “The Conduit cautioned that lies are like knives, and he is correct of course,” he said. “Truth is no different, though: when in the proper hands, it can cut through any obstacle, and we are destined to face many of those along our march to Cynmere. As soon as I saw that spike, I had a sudden understanding of all that it represented, but tell me this—why did you keep it?”

  Keltin faltered for an instant as he thought through the Draeden’s question. “It just felt right to hold onto it,” he answered after a few strides of silence.

  “It’s good that you did. This spike caused you great pain during the failed Cynmeren invasion, and although you’re healed now, it left a scar that is impossible to forget. I believe it is that scar that empowered you to work harder. You embraced the pain and allowed your hatred of the Cynmeren to form around it.” The Draeden stopped, a look of amazement in his sunken eyes as he gripped Keltin’s shoulder firmly. “You still don’t see it, do you Keltin?” he asked with an incredulous grin.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to see,” Keltin admitted.

  Ansund’s voice grew quiet but his words burned with fervor. “All that has happened to you is a reflection of what Dism Slyde as a whole has been forced to endure. We suffered at the hands of the Cynmeren, but now, through strength and patience, we are remade stronger than before. They surprised us, they struck at our home; now it is our turn to surprise them. We will turn their tactics into something we can use, just as that piece of a scrid has been transformed into a weapon that will serve the Venerates.

  “Your own struggle is the essence of Dism Slyde—dedication no matter the pain, faith no matter the punishment. You found a way through the darkness and now you’ll carry the light of Dism Slyde’s fury to certain victory. You are the Penitent Faithful, Keltin, and this blade…this blade is our retribution.” Keltin removed the blade from its sheath and stared at the intricate patterns as they glittered in the torchlight. His throat tightened despite his efforts to appear like a seasoned member of the Legion who never showed emotion. To be highlighted as the truest example of a servant of the Venerates was humbling enough, but to imagine all the Penitent Faithful seeing him as a beacon of hope was almost too much to bear. Emotions aside, one thought stood out above all others: Keltin knew the time had finally come for his efforts to mean something.

  When they reached the main corridor, Keltin followed Ansund down the first few steps toward the valley floor, but the Draeden stopped suddenly when he realized Keltin was still with him. “Go rest in the healing quarters, Keltin,” he instructed gently. “It will be time for us to leave in a few hours. When the chimes sound, do not assemble with the rest of the crowd—come back to the Conduit’s chambers.”

  Keltin nodded tiredly as another surge of exhaustion attempted to pull his body to the floor. “Thank you,” he said, lifting the sheath slightly, “for everything.”

  “Rest,” Ansund laughed. “You’re of no use to me if you’re too tired to lift a weapon, much less use it.” Keltin couldn’t argue that logic, and as guilty as it made him feel, he could think of no better way to spend the next few hours than by sleeping in a comfortable bed.

&nbs
p; ---

  Keltin woke with a start when he felt someone shaking his right shoulder—it was one of the Servants. He glared up at the intruder and was about to demand why the man had ruined his sleep when a sound in the distance answered all of Keltin’s questions. “The Calling is about to begin,” the Servant said urgently, but Keltin had already thrown aside the blankets and begun making his way to the door. He thanked the man but did not look back as he hurried through the main corridor.

  By the time Keltin reached the upper levels of the Holy Spire, the Draeden was pacing impatiently outside the entrance to the Conduit’s chambers. “Perhaps you should have come with me after all,” Ansund said, only partially joking as he ushered Keltin through the enormous doors. As soon as the High Conduit saw them, he nodded to one of the guards and the man sprinted out into the hall. A moment later, the final three chimes sounded and the Calling officially began.

  “Follow me to the railing, both of you,” the High Conduit smiled, a spark of excitement in his ancient eyes. Flashes of Craed’s body tumbling over the edge of the balcony leapt into Keltin’s thoughts with every step, but he was able to suppress the disturbing memories the instant he saw the valley below. All of the Penitent Faithful were gathered near the base of the Holy Spire, and they all began cheering when the High Conduit came into view. It was incredible to look out over so many people and hear unified sounds of joy and praise; Keltin realized that the Venerates must have experienced something very similar each time a Calling was assembled.

  The High Conduit lifted his hands for quiet, and the cheers from below quickly faded until only the sound of the wind remained as it occasionally whistled past the Spire. “Venerates smile upon you all!” the High Conduit proclaimed loudly, and a resounding reply of, “And you, Conduit!” thundered from the Penitent Faithful. The High Conduit inhaled deeply, then continued his address in a voice that was remarkably loud, yet somehow also easy to understand. “Today, our vow to remove the Cynmeren’s vileness from the face of this world has at last shifted from a promise kept in faith to something tangible. As most of you likely know by now, Craed lied about the total destruction of his group—the Chant Leaders have shown you the punishment that awaited him after such a grievous sin. Thankfully, one member of his group survived to succeed where Craed failed. All of you, look now to Keltin: the man who found Cynmere!”

  The crowd was momentarily stunned, then immediately erupted into roaring praise which was directed primarily at Keltin. He glanced at the High Conduit, who merely shrugged and motioned for Keltin to speak. No words could summarize all that Keltin felt in that moment; instead, he allowed his body to move freely with his thoughts. Before he knew what was happening, Keltin drew the scrid knife and held it over his head in a gesture of defiance and empowerment. “Vengeance!” he shouted, and the Penitent Faithful were quick to echo his cry. Keltin’s heart pounded with exuberance as the cheers escalated once again—he could feel the energy of the Penitent Faithful, but he could also feel himself becoming a part of their frenzy. He thrust the knife high and the shouts swelled to match his movement.

  The High Conduit gripped Keltin’s shoulder and nodded approvingly, then he moved forward and lifted his hands for silence. This time it took the crowd several seconds to comply with his command; there was no better measure of just how excited the Penitent Faithful were at that moment. “Yes, vengeance!” he shouted. “It is long overdue, but we mustn’t let our fervor blind us from the truth of our task: knowing Cynmere’s location is only the first step, now we must prepare ourselves to face the enemy in full force. The Draeden has outlined his plan of attack to me—you will all learn more of its details in the days to come. For now, just know this: the way ahead is arduous and will require great patience, but together we will be triumphant. As the Venerates will, let it be so!”

  “As the Venerates will, let it be so!” the Penitent Faithful replied.

  “Let it be so!” the High Conduit repeated. The chant continued as the High Conduit took hold of Keltin’s arm and lifted the knife with him for the crowd to see. Keltin felt his stomach turn when he saw the High Conduit’s hand so close to a blade, but excitement made such thoughts easy to dismiss. After spending some time basking in the crowd’s praise, the Conduit stepped away from the railing and returned to his chambers with Ansund and Keltin close behind him. The High Conduit stopped at the base of his enormous map and they stared at it together in silent disbelief. “Muster our forces, Ansund,” the High Conduit ordered quietly with a crazed distance in his eyes. “The Cynmeren will know our wrath this day.”

  37

  Wyand flexed his shoulders uncomfortably as the binding cords continued to press against the back of his Sreathan plate. He didn’t dare shift too much, though—those cords were the only things holding him in place. His scrid, along with two of the other three in his group, clung to the side of a steep cliff that extended several hundred strides above the valley far below. Farther above him, a narrow opening split the stones, and the small cave it formed was where Watch Leader Gasric had said they would find the next Distant Watch camp. So Wyand waited, and five minutes passed with no sign of Gasric or his scrid. At last, a Watch helmet appeared at the edge of the cave and shook from side to side disappointedly.

  “They left here several days ago,” Gasric’s distorted voice explained quietly. “We should continue north while the weather holds. Perhaps they joined with the next camp.”

  Wyand glanced east and determined quickly that another burst of rain would be upon the group in less time than it would take for them to climb to the top of the cliff. “Let’s wait in the cave until the next shower passes,” he suggested; his Sreathan plate was still dotted with rain from the last time they had expected the weather to hold. Plus, the idea of the scrid climbing the rest of the way up the enormous rock face was only made worse by the idea of the creatures trying to climb it when it was slick with rain. Stormsister Laersi and even Stonebrother Carnan nodded in support of the recommendation, much to Wyand’s surprise. Gasric sighed but then disappeared back into the cave; it was the closest thing to agreement that Wyand could hope to receive from the old Bloodbrother.

  They were in the cave less than a minute when the first sheet of rain blew past the opening. Wyand removed his Watch helmet as did Laersi and Carnan, but Gasric’s head remained covered just as it always did. In the three days since separating from the main force, Wyand had quickly discovered why most Cynmeren kept the Watch helmets in place even in daylight: the sunlight in the Eastern Hills could burn skin exceptionally quickly, and with a miner’s complexion like Wyand’s this was especially true. Still, the helmets were stifling after several hours in the midday heat, so he was relieved to remove it in the shady confines of the cave.

  The abandoned camp was little more than an alcove, though it was wide and deep enough to shelter the four scrid with ease. There was evidence of several small cookfires that had been extinguished in the last few days, but other than those there was no indication of the camp that had once been there. Being in such a precarious location in the side of a cliff meant it was only accessible by scrid, and this fact subconsciously gave Wyand a welcome sense of security that he had not truly felt since leaving Cynmere.

  Whereas it had appeared in the distance to be a short rainstorm, the torrent outside was strong and steady. Wyand lowered the transport cage and stepped down from the scrid’s back. After helping Aemetta out, they joined the others near the mouth of the cave on a dry patch of dirt that was just beyond the reach of the blowing rain outside. “It’s good that we stopped,” Stormsister Laersi laughed. “I didn’t expect this kind of downpour.” Gasric was silent and remained on his scrid as if he expected to leave at any second.

  “We’ve found five small camps since we left,” Stonebrother Carnan pointed out. “Since we only have four more days, this weather needs to change soon or our efforts will yield little result.” Wyand nodded in agreement—in total, he had shared the Thoughtcaster with seventy-three m
embers of the Distant Watch, and of those only a few dozen had committed to joining with the main force from Cynmere. There were promises from the Watch Leaders of sending runners to neighboring camps to spread word of the imminent fight, but Wyand doubted those efforts would prove to be successful before the battle was already underway.

  “The good news is that this rain will slow the advance of the Penitent Faithful just as much as it has hindered our journey,” Aemetta added.

  “No one asked for your opinion,” Gasric snapped from the rear of the cave.

  “And yet they are forced to hear yours,” Aemetta replied quietly but clearly as she stared out at the rain. The Watch Leader’s helmet turned slowly towards Aemetta, and although Gasric’s face was covered, Wyand knew the Watch Leader was looking at her with violence in his mind.

  For the past three days, tensions between Gasric and Aemetta had only grown worse—Aemetta had become bold in her own quiet way, whereas Gasric had become more irritated with each display of her defiance towards him. Not wanting the situation to deteriorate any further, Wyand stepped between the two of them to end the silent standoff. “How far is the next camp?” he called to Gasric hurriedly.

  The Watch Leader’s fists clenched the tusk ropes tightly, but he eventually stopped trying to stare at Aemetta through Wyand’s head. “Less than an hour,” Gasric replied gruffly, then he spun the scrid and stalked off deeper into the recess. Wyand nodded to himself and turned his attention back to the cave entrance. Laersi and Aemetta were talking quietly while Carnan stood motionless several strides away with his back against the wall. The Stonebrother had yet to offer his opinion on Aemetta’s presence within their group, but his avoidance of her at any opportunity spoke for itself.

  “…less than a day’s journey from the edge of the desert, it’s amazing we haven’t encountered them yet,” Aemetta was saying.