“So, none of my people ever made it to your home before, Drask?”
Drask looked back at him, his face once again lost. His eyes glowing dully. “Not that I have met.”
Vagaries. He hated that. “Have you ever heard of any making it?”
Drask did not answer.
When they finally stopped for the day Merros’ body ached from the long ride. He knew the horses were probably exhausted, and that the soldiers were as tired as he was and in fact they’d ridden for close to three hours longer than he would have preferred, but there are many ways to learn about the people you deal with and one thing he didn’t feel he could do was offer any weakness to the rider. Drask was a worthy fighter and more, and he could not allow the man to think that he and his would tire sooner than Drask or his people. It went against his training.
While the soldiers set the wagons for the night, preparing for the possibility of another storm after Drask warned them, Merros rode a small distance away with the rider and they observed the mountains, closer now than ever.
“How long until we reach your home?”
Drask rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. For a moment the area where his flesh arm met his metal hand was bared and Merros stared, mesmerized by the odd fusion of skin and silver. Scar tissue and weaving strands of metal and muscle were visible. What sort of man could withstand the pain that had surely been a part of the marriage? The very notion made him want to shiver.
“Two more days to the mountains. One more day to get through the pass and then we are there.”
“What took you so far from your home in the first place? Surely you weren’t merely looking for the Pra-Moresh.”
“Hunting.”
“For the beasts?”
Drask slid easily from the saddle on his mount, his hand touching the beast the entire time he descended, a reminder to the animal that he was there and not a threat. He was a big man, a brute, to be sure, but next to his animal he seemed small. The great creature yawned and bared wide, predatory teeth as it did.
“No. The Cacklers are just a bonus.” Cacklers. A nickname they had for the Pra-Moresh. It seemed almost a term of affection for creatures that could kill a dozen men with ease.
“Then what were you hunting for?”
“You.” Drask slipped his hand into the saddlebag on his mount’s side and dug around and as he did so, the skin on Merros’ body crawled again. Sometimes the doubling effect of the rider’s voice still unsettled him. His hand moved toward his sword without conscious thought. He rested his fingers on the hilt.
Drask pulled out a metal horn that was neither elegant nor elaborate. “Who do you plan to call, Drask?”
“My people. They will meet us here. To come further without their permission would be foolish.” Damned if his voice didn’t seem even more unsettling, more alien than before.
“Why is that?”
“We do not see strangers often.” With no more warning the rider turned toward the mountains and pulled the cloths from his face. Merros nearly cursed under his breath because the man’s face remained hidden, turned away from him as the horn was lifted and then sounded. The note was clear and sharp, unexpectedly loud.
Less than a minute passed before a horn sounded in the distance, faint, but still clear enough to be heard over the winds. There was no mistaking the sound.
“Now what?”
“We wait. They will come.”
“We have to wait three days for them?”
“No.” Drask pointed toward the north, toward the mountains. “They will be here in hours. They will ride as fast as they can to meet you.”
“Why were you waiting for us, Drask?” He shook his head. “Why were you looking for us?”
“What the gods command, we do. It is our way.”
“Are your people very religious, Drask?”
“Aren’t yours?”
“Some of us are, I suppose.”
Drask patted his animal and slid the horn back into his saddlebag, his face once again obscured by the cloth and the helm alike. He did not look at Merros as he spoke again, but instead made himself busy checking the buckles and straps that held his saddle on his mount. “When the world was younger and our people were separated from yours, we expected to die. We were prepared for it. Do you understand?”
Merros blinked and slowly nodded. He hadn’t expected to hear that Drask and his people remembered the Great Annihilation, though he supposed he should have.
“We readied ourselves for death, but death did not come. Instead the Seven Gods awoke and took us in. They offered us life if we served them, and so, we have served them well and faithfully and they have given us life for these many years.”
“The Seven Gods?”
Drask gestured toward the distant mountains. “You call them the Seven Forges. We call them the Hearts of the Gods.”
Merros shook his head and kept his tongue. He’d heard of savages worshiping fire before, but had never thought to meet any. Like so many things he’d heard about, he thought the tales were merely stories meant to entertain children. Or possibly to frighten them.
“Do your gods speak to you?”
“They speak when they want to speak, and to whom they want to speak.” Drask looked out at the darkness, his eyes scanning the horizon for signs of approaching riders, perhaps, or just for any sign of change.
“Have they ever spoken to you?”
“Of course. I am here. I would not be here if they did not tell me to go out and find you.”
“Just you?”
“No. Others rode out as well. It was my fortune to find you.” His tone was exasperated, as if he were explaining to a child and rapidly growing bored, but still Merros had to ask more questions.
“And your gods, they wanted you to meet us?” He mulled that over as he asked.
Drask turned and looked him over from head to toe. “No.”
“But you said–”
“Not ‘us.’ You. I was sent to meet you.”
“Me? Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The notion was absurd. He didn’t believe in his own gods, let alone the gods of a stranger.
Drask scuffed at a rock with his foot and the stone skipped and skittered away into the darkness. In the distance a few of the horses whinnied, but there were no other sounds to hear in the oddly still air.
When Drask finally answered he did so with an odd finality that put an end to the conversation. “I do not question the gods. I obey the gods.”
Merros was puzzling over those words when Drask spoke again. “They come.” He pointed out into the distance where several shapes moved toward them, dark riders on dark beasts that looked much like Drask and his mount.
They rode hard, tearing up the distance, their bodies low over their mounts, their cloaks whipping frantically in the air.
“Why are they in such a hurry?”
Drask stared at the distant riders and a sigh escaped him, long and drawn out. “We are expected. You are expected. It is time.”
Merros shook his head. “Time for what?”
Drask shook his head. “Only the gods can say.”
Merros checked the weapons on his body, making sure he had easy access to all of them. “Honestly, Drask. I truly hate this cryptic nonsense. You either know why they’re coming for me in particular or you do not know.”
He turned his horse and moved back toward the camp at a canter. “Wollis! I need you!”
Wollis nodded and moved to meet him, still on foot. “Aye! Ho, sir!”
“There are riders coming. Apparently they’re interested in meeting me. I have no idea why. Whatever the case, you’re in charge until I return. If I don’t return, it might be best to assume we’re dealing with hostiles.”
“Do you want us to come after you?”
Merros muttered faint laughter. “Of course I do. I’ve no death wish. But if the numbers look too outrageous, retreat.”
All three of th
e mage’s women came toward them. Sometimes he thought they were just waiting for him to act in any sort of official capacity before they came over to add in their own comments. Other times he bloody well knew it.
Pella spoke up, her voice urgent. “This is a time of great opportunity for you, Captain Dulver. Desh Krohan believes you are supposed to meet your destiny here.”
“Really?” He rolled his eyes. “Your great sorcerer feels I need to meet my destiny here. Has he told you what that destiny might be?” He leaned down in the saddle until he was closer to her face. She was beautiful, but just then he wasn’t much worried about her looks. He was worried about the forces coming for him, because if they were anything like the single rider he’d been talking with, he was fairly sure his destiny would involve getting cut into so many shreds of meat. “Has he told you why a rider out hunting the most dangerous animals I’ve ever seen might feel the need to bring a few friends along for me to meet this destiny?”
She shook her head.
“Then with all due respect to Desh Krohan as my employer, I’d ask that in the future he either keep his opinions to himself or give me a little more advanced warning when I’m about to get myself killed.” Merros hissed the words. He was nervous. He was very nervous, but he also knew he had to keep his calm well enough to make sure that the women and the other people he was in charge of were kept as safe as possible.
He looked to Wollis again. “Stay here. Get the men armed and ready. If I live through ‘meeting my destiny’ you might need to get out of here in a hurry.”
“Do you think they mean to kill you?”
“I have no idea, but let’s just assume they’re riding over here at high speed to do something a little worse than shake my hand, shall we?”
With that he turned his horse again and tapped with his heels, giving the command to move faster. The horse listened and started toward the riders coming their way. Merros was a little unsettled to see how much closer they’d gotten while he had his conversation.
Throughout the entire exchange Drask had remained where he was, but as Merros started riding toward the approaching group, he quickly climbed back onto his mount and moved to pace alongside him. The damned beast he rode was still unsettling to watch; it was too big and too predatory for his happiness. And the men coming toward him were riding more of the same things.
Merros was not a religious man; just the same, he said a quick prayer to the gods he was familiar with and left the gods of the Seven Forges out of the equation. Better the deity you know, after all.
It seemed like the riders should have been hours away, but the distances were distorted out in the darkness of the Blasted Lands, and despite any hopes he might have had for more time to prepare himself they were soon within hailing range. Drask did not hail them. Instead he kept riding. Merros resisted the urge to reach for his sword. It was a nervous notion, surely, and he didn’t like the idea of appearing any more nervous than he had to.
The riders stopped their mounts, the great beasts snorting and panting steamy breaths into the air. They looked tired and Merros was grateful for that. Maybe that meant they’d only want to kill him and his horse, and not play with their food first. Whatever doubts he’d had about the beasts before were removed as he looked them over. They were definitely predators. They had teeth that were as long as daggers and the masks they wore to shelter them from the wind, while different from the one on Drask’s mount, were still heavily armored.
So too were the men who’d been riding them. The riders dismounted with a small clatter of arms and armor alike. All of them wore helmets, great metallic contraptions that bore ornamental horns in some cases, or were sculpted to look like the skulls of great beasts in others. Years of service to the Emperor’s army and he’d never seen a more intimidating lot of men in his life. They did not move with menace, but rather with the sort of grace that spoke of hard years learning to move in their armor and to wield their weapons while encumbered. Worse, even in the darkness of the Blasted Lands, he could see the scars and pit marks on the armor. It wasn’t for show; it was for function.
One of the riders stepped in front of the others, tilting his head slightly as he looked Merros over from his boots to the hood he was using to stay warm. His eyes gave the same unsettling light as Drask’s.
When he spoke his voice was calm, and he spoke the Emperor’s tongue, but with a thick accent that was harsh but intelligible. “You are Merros Dulver.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am.” He swallowed his heart, which was doing its level best to sneak out of his throat and make a run for it.
“We are here for you.”
“What do you want of me?” His hand slid closer to the hilt of his sword and he saw the eyes of the speaker flicker briefly down to observe the motion. That wasn’t a comforting notion at all.
“Tarag Paedori, Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron asks that we escort you to him. Beyond that I know nothing.”
“‘King in Iron?’ He’s the king of your people?” Stupid question. He knew it as soon as he said it and the look that the rider offered him made clear that they knew it too.
“He is the king of our people. Will you join us?”
“What about my people?”
The speaker looked around and nodded to the horizon, in the direction from which they’d come. “Another storm comes, a powerful one, by the looks of the clouds.” Merros looked. The clouds seemed no different to him. “Your people are welcome. They will be our guests as well, but I would urge that we move quickly, before the storms reach us.” He lowered his head as he spoke, possibly as a sign of courtesy, but it wasn’t easy to say one way or the other. They were a different people and likely had different customs. He’d once seen a merchant from Freeholdt nearly get himself slaughtered for using a gesture that was a greeting in his homeland and a request for sex near the docks where he employed it. Happily he’d been a better fighter than the offended sailor, or he might not have lived long enough to make it to captain.
He’d come here to map out the Seven Forges and now he was meeting people who very likely already had maps and might be willing to share. In any event he had little doubt that saying no would not go well. One does not, as a rule, turn down the offers of kings without risking life or a few years in a dungeon. The men he was looking at didn’t seem the sort to look at a stone cell as a good idea of how to settle a disagreement.
Merros lowered his head as the speaker had done. “I am honored that Tarag Paedori, the Chosen of the Forge and King in Iron would invite me to his hearth. I thank you for your offer of escort.”
The men around him relaxed just the smallest amount. That in turn made him relax little. Good to know they were a little nervous, too.
The riders followed him back to the camp and Wollis and the soldiers gaped as the group approached. Within half an hour they were on their way, riding toward the mountains again.
What they encountered was nothing at all like what Merros had expected.
Three
They rode hard, driving the horses and the steeds of their escorts with a nearly reckless abandon that worried Merros. If the horses took lame, they wouldn’t be able to get home, assuming that was still a possibility. He had to consider that this was a journey with no return destination. Taking away from that worry was the sight that awaited them when they finally got their first real look at the first of the mountains, which Drask informed him was called the Forge of Durhallem.
There were illustrations, of course. There were maps and sketches, and the mage had made absolutely certain that Merros and his people had the very latest of them to examine as they approached the Seven Forges. That did not change the absolute shock of seeing the mountains up close for the first time.
Pictures seldom do justice to the reality. The Forges were immense, great, black towers that rose from the uneven ground and continued to rise until it seemed scarcely possible that they could have an ending. Merros had traveled a good deal of Fellein, had ser
ved the Empire for two full decades, and in all of his travels he had never seen mountains that looked so fresh. The stone was hard, glazed and black, and looked as clear and sharp as the insides of a gem he’d once seen shattered by a jeweler’s hammer. That was the part that unsettled him the most: not the impressive size of the mountain range, but the feeling that the Forges were somehow more vital than the land around them. From far above, the sky was lit up with color, an angry red of a stormy sunset, though there was no sign of the sun itself. There were some who believed the Forges were volcanic. Merros could understand why.
He did not mention that fact to the men who escorted him. Instead he took a hint from them and simply rode with his thoughts, occasionally looking back to make sure the caravan was still there.
Where the mountains met the plain it was easy to see why they were called the Forges. The air held a smoky quality, and the air was much hotter than which they’d been forced to grow accustomed to over the months of travel. Certainly it wasn’t uncomfortable, but instead a welcome reminder that there were places in the world where one didn’t have to cover the entire body in layers of fur and cloth.
The Forge of Durhallem held an unexpected surprise: a massive cave entrance that opened at the base of the mountain and had obviously been used for a good number of years, maybe even centuries, as a method of getting into the mountain itself. Though Merros was tired, and knew the other riders were feeling the same level of exhaustion as he was, they continued on at the same insane pace, riding hard into the dark mouth of the cavern. He’d expected darkness, of course. He’d expected to be nearly completely blinded even after the weeks of riding in constant cloud cover that left the world in perpetual twilight, but instead a new source of light took the place of the sun. The walls of the cavern, the ceiling above, even the ground below glowed sporadically. He stared hard at one of the stripes of light that spilled down from above them – not letting himself consider what would happen if the rocks should suddenly fall or the cavern crack while they were riding beneath the largest mountain he had ever seen in his life. Though a great deal of the cave was lost in darkness, the warm orange glow let him see that the tunnel around him was either made of glass or crystal, or shot through with translucent rock. The light came from within the mountain itself, and shone out through the transparent portions of the nearly smooth tunnel.
The Seven Forges Novels Page 4
