The Seven Forges Novels

by James A. Moore

  He had not expected Desh Krohan as his enemy. The thought made him want to piss himself.

  Desh Krohan was known for his powers of sorcery. He had killed men from half way around the world with a word. He had helped raise the Silent Army, which even now was guarding the access points to the courtyard. The Sa’ba Taalor stood on one side of the area, the Fellein on the other and, in the middle, in the courtyard, Andover looked at both sides.

  Desh Krohan had not yet shown himself. Still there was plenty to see. The Sisters stood on the side of the Fellein, and next to them Tega watched on. General Merros Dulver stood there as well, next to the Empress, who stared hard at Andover and made him feel uncomfortable, if only a little. She was the enemy here, today. She and her Empire had crushed down the Sa’ba Taalor for far too long. They were weak, and they were soft and they were fatted like calves and ready to be sacrificed to the gods.

  And yet….

  Brolley Krous, who had almost started this war on his own, looked on from the other side of his sister, his face unreadable. Next to him Queen Lanaie stood, her arm wrapped around Brolley’s bicep.

  On the other side Andover could see Drask Silver Hand standing near Tarag Paedori and several others he did not recognize. Drask did not stand still. He talked with the King in Iron and then moved on.

  He knew there were more of them within the city. He could not see them, but they were there.

  The Fellein parted and the striking shape of Desh Krohan came forward, dressed in his robes and nearly gliding across the ground. Was he as massive as Tarag Paedori? No, still he struck an impressive figure. His hood was up and his face lost in shadows and he seemed, at all times, to be staring directly at Andover, even when he was obviously looking elsewhere.

  Tega stared at him, and Andover felt his stomach freezing over again. He had loved her once, or thought he did. And now she was looking his way and he couldn’t quite make our what was going through her head. Was she angry with him for his choice to be the champion of the Daxar Taalor? Or was that pity, she with the knowledge of what her master could do and how very easily he would kill Andover?

  Back in Tyrne there had been a man to announce the combats. Andover remembered him. No such man was here.

  Desh Krohan entered the courtyard. One second it seemed he was near the Empress and the next he was only paces from Andover.

  Tarag Paedori moved onto the field. He carried no weapons and still he intimidated.

  “We all know why we are here.” It was not a question, still Andover and Desh alike nodded their heads.

  “Step back and choose your weapons.”

  Both stepped back and Andover considered the javelins and spears. Finally he grabbed one of the spears and hefted it.

  Desh Krohan took a spear as well, which rather surprised Andover.

  Tarag Paedori stood at the edge of the wall and bellowed, “Begin!”

  Andover sighted and threw his spear. Desh Krohan did the same. Andover’s spear cut the air and struck the sorcerer in the chest, falling to the ground.

  The wizard’s spear tore through Andover’s shoulder, easily slicing meat.

  Andover moved in, ignoring his bloodied arm and gripping his axe. The sorcerer moved, not foolish enough to wait for an attack. He stepped to the side and Andover swept the axe toward his chest.

  The blade hit the wizard’s robes and cut through them where the spear had failed.

  Desh Krohan let out a yell and backed away, looking at the axe. Andover did not wait. He came in hard and fast and used his body mass to knock the man sideways. Before Desh could recover, the axe was whistling down at his head.

  Desh reached out with his hand and caught the edge of the blade. The obsidian blade sliced into meat and through bone, taking Desh Krohan’s fingers.

  The wizard fell back, bleeding freely from his wounds. Tega let out a yelp of dismay and Desh Krohan stepped back again and this time he nodded.

  The obsidian axe exploded. Had Andover not had the weapon behind him it would have surely killed him, but instead it only tore muscles away from his right leg.

  The pain hammered at Andover. Chunks of the obsidian blade now shivered in the muscles of his thigh and brought about exquisite agonies.

  Desh Krohan held his wounded hand and stared at Andover. Andover in turn pulled the largest pieces of the axe from his leg. Had he had hands of flesh he would surely have lost the one holding his weapon. Even now his fingers screamed and his palm ached and his wrist felt like it was broken. It was not. He tested that theory before he moved forward.

  The sorcerer waited for him and Andover reached out, planning to throw the man to the ground.

  Instead it was he who was thrown. Whatever the man did, it knocked Andover back a dozen feet and left his body twitching.

  He looked at the sorcerer with an effort. Desh Krohan stood in the same spot and slowly raised his good hand, letting the other bleed. The flow of blood was weakened, but not gone. Andover didn’t think it was blood loss alone. The man was healing himself somehow.

  Iron fingers clutched at the dirt and he made a fist.

  As Andover rose he sighted and as he stood he aimed. A moment later he was hopping toward the sorcerer and the man was preparing. He had cost Desh Krohan fingers; he suspected he would not be long for this world if he did not win quickly.

  The dirt hit the sorcerer. It slipped under the cowl covering his features. Desh Krohan stepped back and shook his head, momentarily blinded with any luck, and Andover charged. His leg was weak but holding him. His fist went into the cowl and struck flesh and bone.

  At the exact same moment, the wizard slapped him in the chest. Andover flew backward, his eyes blinded, his ears ringing with a deafening peal, and he did his best to roll as he smashed into the ground and bounced all the way to the distant wall.

  His muscles did not want to respond, but he still managed to reach his hands and knees.

  Andover blinked furiously as a great blue veil of afterimage covered his vision. There was sight, but it was blurred.

  He managed to stand, but only with a great deal of effort.

  “Easy, Iron Hands. Easy. You’ve won.”

  Andover recognized the voice of Tarag Paedori and slumped a bit.

  He was doing his best, but the pain was overwhelming.

  His eyes finally focused enough to let him see Desh Krohan lying on the ground. The man was breathing, but he was not moving much beyond his chest.

  Tega and the Sisters moved to him, surrounding him.

  “Get me metal! Iron Hands needs aid.”

  “Is this a victory? Or is this a draw?” Tarag cried. “Neither of our champions can fight any longer.” He looked toward Nachia Krous as she called from her side of the courtyard.

  Andover spat blood that tasted wrong in his mouth. He worked hard to form the words as he forced himself to stand. “I am not dead and I can stand.” He was shaking as he reached for another spear. “If needs be, I can still kill your sorcerer. Do you want that, Empress Krous?”

  To make his point clear he walked toward the downed sorcerer. All around him the Fellein looked on, genuinely horrified. The Sa’ba Taalor remained calm, waiting to see the outcome of Andover’s words.

  His skin was black in places. He was burned and very badly, he knew that. It was not the fire of the Forges. That would have caused him no injury. It was the fire of the storms. The light striking his chest had been lightning. The roar had been thunder. He looked at the iron hand that held his spear. It was smoking. The metal was scorched but seemed unharmed.

  Tega looked up at him and pulled Desh Krohan’s broken face into her lap, using her body to protect him. Andover did not look her way.

  “I do not want to do this, Empress! I have a great fondness for Desh Krohan, but you have made him your champion. Do you accept defeat or do I kill him?”

  He walked on, ignoring the parts of him that howled for his attention. It was only pain and life was pain.

  No one spoke. Not f
rom either side, but Tega sobbed softly and broke Andover’s heart again.

  “Please, Empress. Do not make me kill this man.”

  He raised the spear, prepared to bring down a deathblow.

  Tega looked at him with wet eyes and shook her head.

  Nachia Krous, Empress of Fellein, looked at the sorcerer on the ground and then looked at Andover Lashk.

  “Fellein yields.”

  Andover nodded and dropped his spear. The war was over.

  Tarag Paedori nodded and three of the Sa’ba Taalor moved to Andover’s side. The clothes were carefully peeled from the vast, blistered marks on his body.

  Had he not seen it himself, the King in Iron would have denied the possibility. The man had been struck by lightning and thrown across the field of battle. His skin was blistered in a hundred places and a blackened handprint adorned his chest where the sorcerer had touched him and cast electricity through his body.

  Tarag had watched, had seen the lightning arc through him. He had seen the boy fall and expected him to be dead. And then Andover Iron Hands had worked his way to his feet.

  Burnt, bleeding, injured inside and out, the champion of the Daxar Taalor had managed the impossible and taken down the Fellein’s sorcerer.

  He watched as metal was used to heal a dozen life-threatening wounds.

  He watched and felt the gods reach down and touch Andover Iron Hands, healing his vast injuries.

  Then Truska-Pren spoke into him. The god said, IT IS TIME. I WOULD BE REBORN.

  Tarag Paedori nodded and looked toward the city of Goltha.

  The city would burn. The world would understand the power of the Sa’ba Taalor.

  He felt the power roaring up inside him as he stared at the ground just above the city.

  Truska-Pren would rise. The great towers and walls of Prydiria, the Iron Fortress, would be his once more.

  “So let it be done.”

  Tarag Paedori looked across the lake.

  Drask Silver Hand looked at Tarag Paedori.

  Not far away, lost in the crowd of the Fellein, Cullen let out a whimper and fell to her knees on the stones of the courtyard.

  Desh Krohan did not miss much. He did not miss the fist that moved under his cowl and broke his nose, his jaw, his left cheekbone and eye socket and seven teeth. Iron Hands. Iron fist, more like. He may as well have been struck in the face with a mace. A few seconds after that he missed completely, as he was knocked into a stupor by Andover Iron Hands.

  He should have still been in that state. His face had been shattered, his fingers cut off and he was suffering from massive blood loss. He’d also just used lightning on another person and that was draining beyond most people’s comprehension.

  His head rested in Tega’s lap. He felt the power she was using to mend him even as she cried over him and half-shielded him from Andover’s view.

  Andover, the poor bastard, looked as bad as he felt.

  And then he was healed and Nachia was conceding her Empire to spare him his life.

  Then the power in the area shifted. When Tarag Paedori had made his move before and driven his sword into the ground there had been no perception of power. That was because, as Desh had recently learned, the power had not come from the King in Iron but from Tuskandru.

  This time the sensation was entirely different. Every one of the Sisters, Tega and likely every sorcerer in the city felt the power that moved through the King in Iron.

  The Sooth had power. No two ways about that. Even contacting the Sooth took a great deal of power and preparation. Dealing with the Sooth was like trying to stand in a fastmoving river while juggling a dozen rocks and singing drunken songs at the loudest tavern ever built. It was noisy, draining, and required incredible self-control. The smallest mishap could cause injuries and true mistakes sometimes led to death.

  The force that moved past all of them made the power of the Sooth seem like a candle next to the sun.

  All of them were moved by it. The Sa’ba Taalor looked to their King in Iron and roared Truska-Pren’s name. The Fellein stood their ground but blinked and paused as if a great wind had cut across their path unexpectedly. The Sisters and Desh shuddered as the power moved past.

  Tega did not shudder. She looked toward Drask Silver Hand.

  Drask looked to Cullen and nodded. Desh was aware of all of that simply because he had trained himself to be aware.

  He heard Drask Silver Hand’s words. “Now. It is now or not at all.”

  Tega closed her eyes and something vast jumped like a bolt of lightning from her to Cullen.

  Cullen jerked and seized and fell jittering to the ground. Desh sat up immediately and felt the world tilt madly as he looked at the young guardian of the Mother-Vine.

  Drask Silver Hand stepped past him and reached for the cloaked shape of Nolan March. He did not ask. He took.

  Desh could feel the power rise from the boy and get drawn into Drask Silver Hand.

  He dared look at the man and wished that he had not. Most of the people around him were looking to the east, where the ground shook and started to break above the city of Goltha.

  Desh did not. He looked to the man with the silver arm who wrested a power greater than any Desh had ever seen from a simpleton who fell screaming to his knees.

  Whatever that power was, it seethed and whipped around that metallic arm. And then Drask Silver Hand released it. The energies he had stolen bullwhipped around him and then ripped across the air toward where the last wave of energy had left Tarag Paedori.

  The King in Iron roared and charged for Drask.

  The ground settled and stilled near the city of Goltha.

  Cullen screamed again and fell motionless.

  Desh fell back, his senses nearly blinded by everything happening around him.

  There was nothing to see. Callan was sure of that, but still he looked. His senses were drawn to the far side of the lake and to Goltha. He could not have said why in a thousand years, but he was compelled to look.

  There was nothing else to do, really. He had stopped trying to fight the Sa’ba Taalor when they stabbed him in his side.

  He’d patched himself fairly well and then settled back against the Mid Wall to either live or die as the gods might decide. He was never a soldier, not like the Fellein or the gray-skins. He was a captain who liked to make money by moving people and things from one place to another. He was a man who liked an occasional woman. What he was not was a fighter. He would rather couple than kill and that was all there was to it.

  Se he decided to sit this one out and he was staring at Goltha when the first Thing happened.

  Never much of a man for words, that was his phrase when the disasters hit. They were Things.

  The storm that sank his father’s fishing boat? It was a Thing. The Sa’ba Taalor taking Tyrne? Another Thing.

  He felt the power tear across the lake. He even saw it. The waters slashed apart from each other in a vast wave, as if a ship of truly impossible size were cutting the lake in half to reach a new destination. There was no impact when that trail hit the land, but only seconds later the land above Goltha began to bulge and become a Thing. He did not know what would occur next but he could guess. There would be fire soon and it would burn the lungs right out of him even from across the lake.

  Then it happened again. The lake shivered and whatever it was that moved across the water skittered and danced like a snake just under the surface. The waters ripped and rippled, danced and twisted, and any poor fool who was out on a boat would surely have been sunk as easily as the black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor. The water and the Thing hit them at the same time and they shattered. That was the only word to describe it. Wood bulged and popped and flew apart.

  That one actually moved his hair and Callan winced at the feeling that ran through his body. It wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was damned BIG.

  A moment later the ground beyond Goltha stopped bulging.

  And then the air above Goltha scre
amed.

  The city itself did not escape. Whatever was up there, whatever it might be that fought, it shattered several of the taller buildings as easily as the ships. The stone blew outward and some of it even melted. He was looking right at the stuff and though it was very far away he saw light flaring on stone and then stone spilling out in a cascade that looked like burning water.

  Callan stayed exactly where he was and wished he had a bottle of wine.

  Whatever it was that moved over the city, he could see it if he squinted. There were two Things and they warred and he suspected they planned for death.

  Cullen wept.

  The pain was gone. Whatever had been inside her was gone and the lack of pain alone was enough to make her feel empty and cored out.

  There was nothing left of her. Her muscles felt as if they’d been flattened in her body and she could barely breathe.

  Deltrea squatted next to her.

  “Come on, Cullen! It’s time!”

  “Time for what?”

  “For whatever is going to happen. You aren’t supposed to stay here. You’re supposed to join with that thing.”

  “How the hell would you know that?” She sounded petulant even to herself. She was not speaking out loud this time. She couldn’t. Her jaw refused to work. There were people around her now, looking down and stepping back, horrified by whatever they saw.

  Deltrea reached out for her and hauled on her arm. Cullen moaned as she was lifted into a sitting position.

  “Come on, Cullen!”

  “How are you holding me?” Even through her pain she knew that should have been impossible.

  “Shut up, and come with me you fool or it’s all for nothing!” Deltrea was smiling, which made as little sense as everything else.

  Cullen looked to the east and heard the sounds of battle. Something roared and something else screamed and when she looked there were shapes up there, vast as the heavens, and fighting. Most of the fools around her were looking at her and ignoring the spectacle across the skies and over the lake and moving north at a frightening pace and–