The Blacksmith Queen

by Aiken G. A.

  “Not until I give you my signal. And if I were you, Brother, I wouldn’t expect that anytime soon.”

  Quinn gave an annoyed growl. “They dare treat our guests this way? After we’ve promised Keeley and the others safe passage?”

  “Keeley wasn’t the one in danger. We were.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “That our job is simply to keep her alive. The rest are expendable. And trust me . . . they all know it.”

  * * *

  Mundric took them to his favorite forge for a tour. A tour Caid didn’t need or want, but the fascination and joy on Keeley’s face made it all worth it. At least for him.

  The forge was, to say the least, immense. Giant chains and cuffs were currently being made from dwarven steel by several of the king’s best blacksmiths.

  Keeley grabbed one of the enormous cuffs and lifted it, studying the entire thing, which was at least four times the size of her head.

  “What, exactly, is this for?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” the king admitted. “The wood elves ordered them. I do know they sometimes have to deal with trolls, which is probably why they constantly need new sets.”

  “Interesting latch mech—”

  “My wife,” the king cut in and Keeley dropped the cuff back on the steel table. It wasn’t until the metal piece landed that Caid realized how heavy it was. It landed with a brutal clang and shook the entire thick table.

  Keeley faced Mundric and ended up gawking at a dwarf female.

  The two females walked around each other, their heads tilting from one side to the other. They sized each other up until Mundric said, “Queen Keeley of the Hill Lands, this is my wife, Queen Vulfegundis.”

  Keeley gazed down at the short but powerfully built dwarf female who wore a sleeveless leather tunic, leather leggings, leather boots, the brand of the dwarven blacksmith guild on her shoulder, and had a hammer strapped to her back. A much bigger hammer than Keeley wielded.

  Matching grins spread across the faces of both females and they nodded at each other.

  “You two hungry?” the king asked.

  And, completely by coincidence, they said together, “I could eat.”

  * * *

  The feast was a little off-putting only because the roasted meats that were brought out still had their heads and not all of them were animals Keeley knew. But she was grateful nothing appeared to have once been human. So that was good.

  Keeley sat to the right of the king and his wife sat on his left, across from her. And they spent the entire meal discussing blacksmith techniques and blacksmith history. Dwarven history that even Keeley didn’t know. It was, in Keeley’s estimation, the most splendid dining experience she’d ever had with those who were not family.

  Once the meal was finished, the king demanded more Old Songs. But this time, he pointed at Gemma, who had not spoken once during the meal. And Keeley knew why—she didn’t trust anyone.

  “You. War Monk. You two are sisters, so you should know the Old Songs too.”

  Gemma looked up from her steel cup of water. “I do. But I have no desire to sing on command.”

  “I thought you wanted our help, Monk,” Vulfegundis said, pushing her short black hair off her face.

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you expect us to hand over our armies to people we don’t know, of a race we don’t particularly like?”

  “Our armies?”

  “We rule together. And it’s together we choose who we help. And my husband knows I’m not much a fan of... monks.”

  “It’s true,” the king said, smiling lovingly at his wife. “So if I were you, Monk . . . I’d sing.”

  Keeley thought for sure her sister would have long forgotten all those songs their mother had sung to them since they were in their cribs. But then, Gemma sang one of the saddest Old Songs ever, about the death of a blacksmith’s loyal hound. Her voice was crystal clear and beautiful and by the time she was done, Keeley, the king, his wife, and every dwarf in the throne room was openly sobbing. The centaurs, however, were not. Although they did look disturbed. Samuel, of course, was crying. And Keran was asleep, most likely waiting for the dinner wine to turn into hearty dwarven ale.

  “That was beautiful, War Monk,” the king said to Gemma with great respect, using his fist to wipe his wet eyes.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” She turned to Keeley, her mouth opening to say something, but when she saw the tears, she stopped. “Woman . . . are you crying?”

  “I love that song,” Keeley sobbed out.

  With a wave of her hand, Gemma started to stand, but Keeley asked through her tears, “Do you remember Butch?”

  Gemma froze. “Keeley, stop.”

  “He was our mother’s dog,” she explained to the king. “He went with her to her forge every day. And walked her home every night.”

  Gemma leaned back in her chair, her own eyes now filled with tears. “Keeley, I said stop.”

  “He took care of us and watched out for all us kids—and then one day... one day!”

  Keeley looked at Gemma and together they cried out, “Butch!”

  * * *

  Caid watched with his mouth open as a battle-ready blacksmith and her murderous War Monk sister sobbed over a dead dog. It wasn’t just sobbing either. It was hysterical sobbing. The kind of sobbing one saves for finding one’s father dead. Not because of a dog.

  Next to him, Laila rubbed her nose and immediately Caid barked, “You better not be—”

  “Are you kidding?” she demanded, eyes dry. “My nose is itchy.”

  A short time after the sobbing finally stopped, the dwarves brought out their ale. That’s when Keran snapped awake and, out of nowhere, began to sing another Old Song. This one was a jig from the start and all the way through. The sisters and cousin started off the dancing and the dwarves happily joined in. Now, all of them were singing.

  That went on for quite a few hours until almost everyone passed out except the on-duty guards—who didn’t drink at all—the king, Queen Vulfegundis, Laila, Quinn, Keeley, and Gemma.

  They didn’t head off to bed, though; instead all of them sat down at the dining table once again.

  “If I give you my armies,” the king haggled with Keeley, “what will you give me?”

  “My armies—”

  “Which you don’t currently have,” Queen Vulfegundis tossed in.

  “—will be there for your wars, of course. And we protect the Amichai Mountains from any raiders. Human or otherwise. All this territory will belong only to the tribes. I’ll make it a royal edict. And if anyone disobeys it . . . they’ll be beheaded.”

  “Is that it?”

  “You’re getting a royal edict out of this—what more do you want?”

  “That’s a nice hammer,” the king noted.

  “You’re not getting my hammer,” Keeley quickly said, making the king laugh. “And you said it was cute.”

  “I thought my granddaughter would like it. She’s nearly eight seasons now.”

  “Oh, that’s very nice,” Keeley coldly replied.

  “I want something,” the queen suddenly interjected, her gaze locked on Keeley.

  “And what’s that?”

  When the queen smirked, Caid’s ears twitched and Laila sat up a little straighter in her chair.

  “I want gold,” she finally announced.

  Keeley’s eyes rolled and she sarcastically replied, “I’m a little low on gold at the moment. New queen and all that.”

  “Sichar’s gold.”

  Keeley’s mouth fell open and Gemma abruptly leaned forward, her arms slamming down on the table. Both sisters openly gawked at the queen. Even Keran reacted . . . a little. She sat up from her spot on the floor where she’d passed out an hour before, yelled “Sichar!” then dropped back down and started snoring.

  “You can’t be serious,” Keeley hissed.

  “More serious than you know. You come to us,” Vulfegundis barked, her mood suddenly
changing, “you make demands—”

  “I asked nicely!”

  “—bring your blood-soaked War Monk sister—”

  “She sang for you!”

  “—and you offer us nothing except an army you don’t have and that worthless hammer!”

  “I didn’t offer my hammer,” Keeley growled out.

  “You want our armies, bitch, you get us Sichar’s gold.”

  Keeley looked at her sister and lifted her arms, as if she was showing the king and queen their own throne room. “Where?” she demanded. “Where’s Sichar’s gold? Because if I had Sichar’s gold, I’d be making Sichar’s weapons!” she ended on a powerful bellow that brought the king’s guard closer to the table.

  “I know where there’s Sichar’s gold.”

  As one, they all looked down to the end of the table where Quinn sat. He scratched his head. “At least, I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Oh, it’s no rumor, centaur,” Mundric said. “They have Sichar’s gold.”

  Fed up, Caid demanded, “What is Sichar’s gold?”

  Keeley looked at him now with mouth agape.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I’m so disappointed in you right now,” she replied. And he knew she was very serious.

  “Sichar is one of our most powerful gods,” Mundric explained. “And, many centuries ago, he gave us a special kind of gold. We and specially trained blacksmiths of other races are the only ones who can use it to create weapons.”

  “And?” Caid pushed.

  “The last of it was stolen from us and we want it back.”

  “And you want me to get it for you?” Keeley asked.

  “You’re going there anyway.”

  “I am?”

  “The rumor,” Quinn said, “is that Sichar’s gold is with the wood elves.”

  Keeley tossed her hands in the air. “I don’t even know the wood elves. Have never met them. Know nothing about them. Why in hells would they give the gold to me?”

  “And why can’t you get it yourself?” Gemma asked. “Don’t you all have an alliance with the elves?”

  “They say they don’t have it,” the king replied.

  “They’re lying,” the queen snarled.

  “But unless the dwarves want to start a war,” Caid explained for Keeley’s benefit, “they can’t search the wood elf territory to find it.”

  “Exactly,” Vulfegundis said on a sigh, before pushing back from the table. “If you get us the gold, Blacksmith Queen . . . you get our army.”

  “I was also hoping to get the wood elf army, though,” Keeley reminded them.

  The king and queen laughed at that, Vulfegundis taking her husband’s arm before they headed toward their royal bedrooms.

  “Yeah,” the queen said, still laughing, “good luck with that, human.”

  Once they were gone, Keeley cracked her neck, a sure sign to Caid that she was ridiculously stressed.

  “Well?” Keeley pushed, looking at Laila.

  “You have two choices, my friend. Try to get the elf army or find the fucking gold.” Laila shook her head. “Sadly . . . there are no other options.”

  Keeley rubbed her eyes. “And they were both so nice to me all night! I thought they liked me.”

  “They definitely liked you,” Quinn said, standing up from the table.

  “How do you figure?”

  “You and your sister yelled at the king and queen of the Amichai dwarves . . . and you’re still breathing. Trust me, blacksmith. They liked you.”

  When Keeley looked at Caid for confirmation, he shrugged and admitted, “He’s absolutely right. I thought we’d be rolling your head out of here.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Straton the Devourer attacked their town before the suns had risen above the distant horizon. Such a sudden, brutal attack—the mercenary army they’d all been hearing about for weeks yanking their gate doors open and riding in—that the town’s guards didn’t have time to do anything but be immediately slaughtered.

  She just happened to be up so early because she and her sister Efa had to set up the stall where they sold eggs and whole chickens from their farm.

  Most of the other sellers had panicked when those mercenaries came riding in, hacking away and shooting down good, honest people with their arrows. But for some reason, she didn’t panic. She simply grabbed her younger-by-a-year sister and they ran until they found a good hiding place.

  Once, ages ago, these lands were ruled over by rulers called “jarls” rather than kings. The old jarl’s longhouse still stood despite the fact that the rest of the town had been made over into something much more modern to accommodate the travelers and traders who came in off the river behind them. This was a port town and, she now realized, a perfect place for the Devourer to set up a new home base since Prince Marius still had control over the Old King’s castle. But the lord who ruled this town and his advisors thought they’d be safe from an attack by Straton because they were “friends” of the former Old King.

  She assumed they quickly learned that wasn’t true when they were dragged from their homes and immediately hung from scaffolds until they were dead.

  The raid was short but devastating. Afterward, all the town’s inhabitants were dragged into its center. Straton stood in front of them, informed them that this was now his town and all would be well as long as they were “nice” to him and his men. While he gave this speech, the bodies of their town leaders swayed from the scaffolding.

  He also promised that things would remain “normal” but soon after, many of the younger women were separated from their families and forced to one of the pubs to “work.” She knew what that work would entail. Something she didn’t want for her sisters or herself.

  Yet the most horrifying thing that she and Efa saw from the safety of their hiding place was when one of the Ó Broin sisters was dragged kicking and screaming before Straton.

  “Here she is, my lord,” one of the mercenaries said. “The local witch.”

  It was true. She was a local witch, but she wasn’t the only one. All of the Ó Broin sisters were witches. But they weren’t like witches in the big covens. They were just nature witches who made basic potions and healing balms from herbs and small spells. They were not witches with enough power to take down a whole city or even a small battle unit. They just helped locals with their basic aches and pains and births. That was it.

  But it seemed Straton was expecting more. Perhaps the loss of the Amhuinn Witches was a bigger issue for him than it was for the rest of the Old King’s sons. If he thought that one of the Ó Broins could help him with his battle for the throne . . . he was sure to be disappointed.

  Unfortunately for his captive, he probably wouldn’t know that for a long time.

  Frightening-looking cuffs were placed on the witch’s wrists and Straton dragged her off to the longhouse where he planned to live until he became the Old King.

  “What should we do?” Efa whispered to her. But what could they do? Nothing. Nothing but hide.

  When she saw their chance, she grabbed her sister and led her to the hidden tunnels under the town and prayed that this occupation would end soon. But she had the feeling that the gods weren’t listening. Not anymore.

  * * *

  Beatrix sat in the smaller throne and waited for this waste of her precious time to end.

  She was trapped under a fur cape that felt as if it weighed ten thousand pounds while a priest walked around her in a circle, swinging that gold jar from its long chain so blasted incense slid into her nose. She’d already sneezed twelve times since this ridiculousness had begun.

  Initially she’d amused herself by staring into the audience of royals watching the proceedings and wondering how many of them were planning to betray her. When that grew tiresome, she tried to guess which she’d end up beheading for some little infraction she’d come up with.

  But soon she had to stop because her gaze kept falling on the Dowager Queen, who insisted on indicating
to Beatrix that she should smile. But Beatrix hadn’t worked this hard to be here so she could smile when she didn’t feel like it.

  After at least two hours—two hours of this dreck!—they put the gold and gem-encrusted crown on her head, a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other.

  There were words spoken and she repeated them. And as the suns set, Beatrix was finally announced “the undoubted queen of the Hill Lands.”

  She was then forced into another gown chosen by the Dowager Queen and the festivities began. King Marius—thankfully—found himself a pretty young virgin to amuse himself with and Beatrix was about to slip away from the revelers in the main hall so she could go to her room and get some much-needed work done.

  But before she could—and as the royal attendants became more and more drunk and outrageous—Duke Gennadius decided to yell across the room to Marius, “And what about your remaining brothers, my king?”

  It wasn’t the question that caught her attention. It was the way he’d said “king.” There was a tone to it she didn’t like. A sarcasm.

  Of course, Marius, drunk as well and deep into the mortified virgin’s cleavage, was completely oblivious.

  “They will be hunted down and killed, one by one, my friend!” Marius yelled back to the delight and cheers of the court.

  “And the other queen?”

  There it was. Proving to Beatrix that the duke wasn’t drunk at all and that her sister had already become a problem. Just as she’d always known she would be.

  Beatrix glanced behind her at Agathon and gave a small nod. He lowered his gaze and quickly disappeared behind the satin curtains that hid the hallway exit.

  “There is no other queen!” Marius replied, still oblivious. “The only queen of these lands sits by my side.”

  Marius gestured to his left but quickly realized it was his mother who sat next to him. Squinting, he looked down the length of the table until he spied Beatrix.

  “I mean . . . there she is! My beau—” He cleared his throat. “My very handsome bride and your undoubted Queen Beatrix.”

  “But the Witches of Amhuinn also named her sister as queen. Will she be queen of other territories? Perhaps you’ll share the Hill Lands with her.”