The Seven Forges Novels

by James A. Moore

  Delil looked his way and snickered. “Whatever Ordna wants. Ordna is a god.”

  “You’re not as funny as you think.” The words were spoken without malice.

  “Ordna teaches the way of great weapons. Ordna teaches us to break walls and crush armies with ease.”

  As she spoke she started up the rough edge of the mountain. There were easy handholds, but it was going to be a very long climb. The side of the mountain rose like a column, towering and straight, unlike the last mountain which had been rounder and had fewer decent places to place a foot. Still, Wheklam and Ordna had one thing in common: they were meant to be challenges that had to be faced.

  “‘Break walls and crush armies?’” He shook his head as he started ascending. The climb was easy enough, but he had to pull his body upward with his hands as often as not and the strain was easy to feel as it grew inside his body.

  Delil looked down at him over her shoulder. From this angle he could see most of her body and the scars that ran across her, detailing every struggle she’d experienced. The scars told a story. Someday he hoped to learn all of the tales that made the whole of the woman.

  “Do you have siege weapons in Fellein, Andover?”

  “I have no idea what a siege is. What do the weapons do?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “You will soon discover the answer to that question, I suspect.”

  The ground was soft and sandy and wet.

  Lored, Chosen of the Forge of Ordna and King in Bronze led his mount across the damp sand with a smile on his face. He was not smiling because his mount, Pre’ru, was making unhappy noises about the moisture on his paws, but because he was now off the ship that had been transporting him and his people.

  He scanned the shoreline with both his flesh eye and his bronze one and nodded his satisfaction.

  He did not like the ships. They swayed and rocked and left him feeling restless.

  Night covered the world. The sky was clouded and few stars shone through the veil of storm clouds. The keep ahead of them was a massive affair, with heavy stone walls and reinforced gates. It would be a good challenge and one they looked forward to overcoming in the name of the Daxar Taalor.

  Donaie Swarl, the King in Lead, had done her part and transported them to the far eastern side of the Fellein Empire. Now he and his would do their part and seed the fury of the gods in virgin territory, as ordered by Ordna and the other Daxar Taalor.

  Donaie walked down the gangway from her ship and moved over to where he rode Pre’ru. The mount made no noise as she put her hand into his thick mane. They were positively old friends after their time together on the vast black ship.

  The air was hot here. Ordna was used to the sort of heat he encountered, but there was also a breeze and that was a pleasant change.

  “We go our own ways now, Lored.”

  He nodded and looked at the king before him. She was a tall woman, and heavily muscled. He wondered idly what their children would look like if the Daxar Taalor decided they should have any.

  “Do you stay here, Donaie? Or will you move on?”

  “I’m finished here. I go back toward the west. To the south. There are ships massing. They wish to engage us in combat.” She looked in that direction and then back to him, here eyes aglow with the thrill of the coming battles. “They do not understand the Great Tide or that it is now upon them, Lored. We must both teach them lessons.”

  He slapped her shoulder with companionable affection and she smiled. “Go teach the water riders about the tide, Donaie Swarl, and I will teach them about the land.”

  “Keep Pre’ru safe. He’s the better part of you.” Her voice held a teasing note.

  “I would say the same about your ship, but it reeks of dead fish.”

  “Less so now that you are off of it.” She waved one hand in farewell and he nodded to her even as she walked away.

  Then he rode forward and bellowed to his people, “We ride! There’s blood in the air!”

  They roared their agreement and began to move, heading for swamplands in the distance.

  There were people there that needed killing and he was in a mood to help them along the paths of their destinies.

  His people moved quickly and efficiently. They had practiced their maneuvers over every sort of terrain for most of their lives and now, finally, they would have a chance to use them properly. It was one thing to war against the other kings of the Seven Forges and something entirely different to work against the enemies of the gods.

  Praxus walked closer and nodded to Lored and Pre’ru alike.

  “This is Elda?”

  Lored nodded and eyed the closest wall of the keep. “One small part. Elda is a kingdom. Elda is a large part of the entire Empire and has many soldiers.” He pointed to the stone barrier. “Elda also likes walls almost as much as Tarag Paedori.” The King in Iron loved walls. Lored loved knocking walls down. They had been friendly rivals for a very long time.

  “Where is Blane?” Blane had traveled to Fellein before and met with the previous Emperor and their sorcerer, too. He was a ferocious fighter, but it wasn’t his skill with a sword that was needed just then.

  Praxus frowned. “Working on one of the catapults, my king.”

  “Find him for me. I want to make sure I word the demand for surrender properly.”

  “You are going to write a demand for surrender?” The man’s broad mouth frowned in bewilderment.

  “Of course,” he smiled. “I will strap it to the very first stone we send through their wall.”

  Praxus chuckled and nodded. “I will find Blane.”

  By the time the siege engines had been assembled Blane had written down five copies of the articles demanding surrender and the sun was starting to rise.

  The sound of horns came from the keep ahead of them and Lored nodded his head. “They call to arms! Listen to them! Break their walls!”

  The first missile ripped through the air and struck true, smashing into one of the stone walls and sending a rain of debris falling into the interior of the keep. Before the dust had settled, fourteen more volleys blasted the wall and collapsed the entire barrier.

  Lored stared at the ruin of the first defense and scowled. He had hoped for a greater challenge. The wall was not built to withstand the sort of weapons he had brought with him. Against a gathering of soldiers with ladders it would suffice, but he and his did not climb walls, they destroyed them.

  “Gather your shields! Raise the battering rams! Bring them down in Ordna’s name!”

  “Ordna!” the name echoed across the shattered wall. “Ordna!” Horns called from both sides as if there could be any doubt that the battle had been started.

  The soldiers who spilled from the ruined barrier came fast and hard, prepared for battle. Men with heavy armor and shields came toward them from above, moving down trails that had once led to gates that had been sealed against any possible attackers.

  Lored raised his longbow and reached for a handful of arrows. The fools came toward them wearing armor and sporting shields. The armor was hastily slapped in place and the shields were carried at the oddest angles, where they could do remarkably little good. Most of the troopers were not wearing helmets.

  His first arrow punched through his target’s forehead and dropped the man where he stood. That single arrow had been a signal to the rest of his archers and they paid attention.

  The advancing wave of soldiers promptly retreated back to their shattered wall, and Lored grinned. In his own tongue, one that the locals likely would not understand, he called out, “Reload! I see towers along the remaining walls and I want them knocked down!”

  He called to Blane and Praxus and had them pass on the message: the rest of the keep would be surrounded by troops and cut off. The message went out quickly and the riders set out to follow his commands.

  As he watched through the vast holes in the wall before him, the soldiers inside the keep prepared themselves properly, gathering their armor more
completely and taking the time to put on their helmets and position their shields.

  Once again he waved for Praxus and the man came forward. “Take down the rest of the wall. I don’t want them thinking they can hide behind it.”

  Before the order could be completed a coalition of men from within the keep came out, unarmed and heading toward Lored where he sat upon Pre’ru. He slid down from the mount’s back and patted his old friend on the shoulder. He rested one hand on the handle of his mace and waited calmly.

  The man at the front was older, but in good shape. He did not wear armor, but his uniform was covered with buttons and cords and many decorations. His hair was pulled back into a thick braid.

  Lored did not speak. He kept his expression neutral and waited for the man to come to him. He watched the old man’s eyes look him over, from his scaled armor to the metallic sculpture that had replaced a portion of his face, a gift from Ordna. The bronze flesh moved and felt. The bronze eye moved and saw.

  “Why have you attacked us?” There should have been rage in that voice. There should, at the very least, have been indignation. Instead there was only fear. Lored did not change his expression, but he was disappointed.

  “You are part of Fellein. We are at war with Fellein.”

  “But what did we do? How do we sue for peace?”

  “Surrender your keep. Offer us your troops as ours, and we will consider your request for peace.”

  “I cannot. I have a king I answer to. I have made oaths and sworn my fealty.” He was nervous as he spoke. They were words he did not want to say, but felt he had to say just the same. He had made vows to kings, after all.

  Lored nodded his head in the way of the Fellein and then he brought his mace around in an arc and shattered the man’s face. The soldiers behind the man let out noises and he looked at them and sneered.

  “You will surrender to me or you will die!”

  Three of them retreated. One of them stood his ground and reached for his sword. It was a very pretty sword, with gems and gold wire around the hilt. Despite the ornamentation the man pulled it with ease and dropped into a proper stance.

  “You have killed a good man today and you will die for your troubles!” The voice shook with rage.

  “I have killed a weak man. It was meant as a mercy.” Lored bared his teeth in a grin as he spoke.

  The swordsman lunged forward with his sword in position and Lored blocked with the handle of his mace. He shoved the man backward with his full body weight and the man fell back exactly far enough to let Lored hit him with the heavy end of his weapon.

  Depending on who you speak with, a sword is a gentleman’s weapon. It requires skill and demands respect. Lored had several swords. He used them regularly. Now and then he preferred the way a mace felt when it was crushing a skull.

  The other three men tried to run back to the keep and Lored whistled to Pre’ru. His mount took them down easily, clawing two of them to the ground and beheading the third with one bite of powerful jaws.

  Lored laughed and several others joined him. If this were the best the Fellein had to offer, the war would be a short one.

  “Take down the walls!” He waved his mace and his followers obeyed. The volleys from the catapults obliterated the remaining wall facing the ocean, killing at least a dozen who stood too close to the damaged structure.

  “Take them all! Take this place in the name of Ordna!”

  “Ordna!” they roared as one. “Ordna!” they prayed to their god, offering sacrifices in the name of the deity.

  Lored joined them in the offering to the Daxar Taalor. Their offerings were many that day and their god was pleased.

  The entrance into Ordna’s heart was not at the top of the mountain. Instead it came upon Andover as a nearly complete surprise. One moment he was concentrating on where he would place his hand and the next his fingers found purchase on a ledge that he was sure had not been there before.

  He did not question this. He understood now that the gods had their ways.

  The walk to the center of the mountain was uneventful. Delil walked beside him and looked only ahead. He returned the favor. Delil meant a great deal to him, but he also knew that she was not why he was in the heart of Ordna. He was here instead to meet with a god.

  So the last thing he expected when walking around a bend in the tunnel was to find his mother waiting for him.

  At fourteen, roughly the same time he decided he knew how best to handle his world, his mother and father sent him on his way with instructions to stay away or face the scarred knuckles of his father’s fists.

  “Mother?” His voice broke as if he were just starting puberty and he felt himself blush.

  “No. Not your mother. I have merely chosen her face for dealing with you.” He felt the presence then. That vast, overwhelming power that he had now felt three times before. This was Ordna. A god.

  His mother stood before him and shook her head.

  He dropped to one knee before the god and offered his hands before him as he had with Truska-Pren. The axe he had been given by the gods rested in his open palms.

  His mother reached for the weapon, but it was Drask Silver Hand who plucked it from his grasp.

  Drask loomed above him, his eyes burning beneath a furrowed brow. Though he no longer wore a veil, Andover recognized him. The Great Scars on Drask’s face were different. There were seven of them, one for each of the Daxar Taalor, and they ran in perfect lines from just below his nose to just above his chin. The man’s dark hair flowed loosely around his broad shoulders.

  Silvery eyes regarded the weapon before handing it back.

  “Why are you here, Andover Lashk of Fellein?” The voice was Drask’s, but the words seemed impossibly heavy, as if they might crush him. The attention of gods was not an easy burden.

  “I am here to make myself known to you, Ordna.”

  “Stand. Walk with me.”

  Andover obeyed, quickly settling his axe back at his hip and moving next to the larger man. As they walked, the walls shifted until they were standing in a chamber carved from warm, brown rock. The ground beneath them was a mosaic, meticulously laid out from small tiles that depicted seven different symbols. He recognized Truska-Pren’s visage among them. A face carved from obsidian scowled in the detailed illustration: Durhallem. In the exact center of the mosaic a face made of bronze tiles rested. Ordna glared up toward the ceiling, a face shaped from endless angles of metal. The rest of them were lost in shadows and distance.

  “What is war, Andover Lashk?”

  He stopped examining the artwork on the floor and looked at the god wearing Drask’s face.

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “Honestly. It is always best to be honest when talking with gods.” There was a hint of humor in that comment and for brief instant Andover realized how much he missed Drask. The man was had not always been kind, but he had always been honest.

  “I think war is a conflict between two people.”

  Drask’s silver hand tilted left and right, making clumsy waves in the air. “Yes. No. Give more details.”

  “War is a conflict between two people that cannot be resolved with words and promises.”

  “Better.” Drask did not smile, but he tilted his head into a nod in that way Drask did sometimes.

  “Now, what is the purpose of war?”

  “To settle matters once and for all?”

  Drask/Ordna nodded. “Resolution. A final decision. That is the purpose of war.” The god turned and looked toward the distant wall. Only where the wall should have been there was now a view into the distance. “War has many purposes, Andover Lashk. Resolution is a part of that, yes, but there is more.”

  Drask walked toward the image on the wall and Andover followed. The air felt different where the image was and Andover smelled the scent of a river, the odors of familiar spices in the air. As he approached the image he saw a collection of stands and small tents, set up near a riverside. Th
is might not be Tyrne he looked at, but it was close enough. He could just about reach out and touch the world he had left behind. As if to prove his point a breeze caressed his brow as he came closer still to the moving image.

  “Is that Tyrne?”

  “You already know that it is not. It is Freeholdt, at the banks of the Freeholdt River. Tyrne no longer exists. Durhallem now stands at the spot where Tyrne once stood. This was done to make a point. This was done to explain to the people of Fellein that war is here and they will fall before us.”

  Andover nodded his head slowly. “Durhallem is in two places?”

  “Yes. Durhallem stands here and there. Just as this mountain, Ordna, will soon stand here and in a different part of Fellein.”

  “Why?”

  “We are at war, my people and yours.”

  The muscles in his mouths pulled in different ways. They were foreign as yet. He was not used to having different mouths and the feeling was uncomfortable.

  “Tell me what you are thinking, Andover.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  “I’m not certain if they are my people any longer. I am not certain of anything.”

  Drask nodded. “Good. Then you are learning the greatest truth of war.” The god made flesh turned and faced him and that massive silver hand rested on his shoulder. “Fellein is old and has grown stagnant. There has been no change for too long. There must always be change, Andover.”

  Andover tilted his head, absolutely unaware that he was mirroring both Drask and Delil in the way they asked questions without words.

  “There are Seven Forges here, Andover Lashk. Just as the forges in a blacksmith’s are used to shape and strengthen, so too are the forges here used to the same end. Durhallem demanded that you walk the Blasted Lands and learn to fight before you were allowed to meet. Truska-Pren gave you new hands, yes, but you were made to endure great pain in the giving. That was not a mistake or an oversight. As Drask Silver Hand told you then, life is pain.”

  Drask/Ordna stepped closer, until he was inches from Andover’s face. He was bigger than Andover, but not as big as the man remembered. “Metal must be heated and shaped. So, too, with people. You have been heated and shaped, but you are not yet complete. Do you understand?”