Forged

by Jacquelyn Frank

  “No, Mistress, never.”

  “The fires will see to that. Remember, dusk every day. It will do you well to make sure no others are nearby when this happens or they will be consumed by the flames as well. Now we are off.”

  In a flash of speed and burning light that sickened him, he found himself standing at the mouth of one of the entrances to the eight hells, easily recognizable by the dragon’s head carved into the massive stones surrounding it, the mouth of the creature leading downward to the fiery pit. He could assume this was not the entrance in Olan. Weysa would not put him in the heart of the very city she wished him to conquer. So it was one of the four other entrances placed upon the face of Ethos. One he knew was under water. One, like the fountain, was set high on a mountain, and since it was not cold but more summery climes around him, that left the largest opening, the one in Hexis. His armor rested at his feet and he hastened to pick it up. He was still seared and wounded, and had no clothing so he stood bare and naked, knowing nothing of the world around him.

  He could have hidden back within the cave, but he could not bring himself to step toward it, his muscle and sinew screaming in fear of moving toward the fires below in even the smallest of increments.

  Luckily the closest thing to the mouth of the cave was an altar upon which sacrifices to Xaxis were made. He hurried over to it, hiding and skulking behind it as he looked around with wide, wild eyes. The altar was laden with all manner of things, from fruits to beasts. Things going to rot and waste. And thanks to that the first thing he realized was that he was starving … famished from who knew how long without food. But to steal from the altar might mean an insult to the god it was meant for, so he touched nothing there, not wishing to incite any further wrath from the gods. Especially not Xaxis. He was to be working covertly for his goddess’s interests. He could not draw attention to himself until it was time to begin to war in her name.

  But she had given him no army. She expected him to find one on his own. It had taken years for him to build the forces he had once used to march across the world. But what of those lands he had once defeated? Would they still be his to command? How long had it been since he had been locked away?

  No. He could not hope that any of them would know who he was. None but perhaps … home. Perhaps where he had once sat as warlord and master they would know who he was. But it did not follow that they would accept him. And he was a very long way from the massive walls of Toren, his home. It would take travel across a desert, a lush living valley, and an ocean before he could get there.

  It felt strange to use the term home. His home for so long had been that fiery cavern. His home had been a pair of chains.

  That was when he looked down at his arms.

  Free. Free. His skin, raw and ragged as it was, pale, damp and weak it might be, but it was in the open air for the first time since … well … since. Naked in the cooler air after being in the scalding heat he was shivering so hard his teeth clacked like heavy sticks knocking together.

  There was no one nearby. That did not surprise him. The entrance was located well above the sprawl of the city. Xaxis was not the sort of god one wanted to spend too much time on or get too close to. He was worshipped out of fear. He was worshipped whenever someone died, the idea being that he could be convinced to turn a blind eye to the departed, allowing them to bypass the eight hells and be risen up to the heavens where they would reside in the house of brightness and glory. He was worshipped by those who dealt in death, who thrived in the causing of it, the needing of it. He had been considered to be a worshipper of death because he had dealt in war. And in war there was always death. But in truth it had been Weysa, the goddess of conflict, who had earned his devotion, and that was probably why she had come to him and none of his other brothers. They were all warriors, but in their own way. Garreth had not even been a part of his forces, preferring to take on quests of honor. Maxum was a gold-sword. Selling his sword for gold and going wherever the money was best, whether the cause was good or bad. And yet, Maxum had his own set of morals, his own limitations, his own rules.

  That left Jaykun. Jaykun had been his right arm, his first lieutenant. His successor, had it come to that. But it never had. They had taken on the folly of finding immortality, in spite of all the riches and glories they already had in the world.

  Riches. Yes, he thought with sudden elation. He had hidden caches of wealth all over the Red Continent. All he need do was get to one of them, hoping above all that they had not been discovered. He could buy an army if he had those monies. Or at least he could start to buy one. The one thing he had learned in his days as a warlord was that war was an expensive undertaking. Tactics and planning were all well and good, but without the funds to support ones troops, the effort would come to a standstill.

  But one step at a time. He needed clothes. And then a horse. With a horse and some proper provisioning he could cross the Syken Desert and see if one of his largest caches were still intact.

  He looked around and found some thick shrubbery to the side of the folly, the opening to hell. He grabbed his sword and the armor and dragged it all behind a bush, hiding it well. The weight of it was light, but it was still cumbersome. He hid it as best he could, looking around furtively to make certain none were watching. But set so far from the town he was alone.

  Once he was free of encumbrance he crept toward the city. A piece of fruit had rolled down the hill, presumably from the offerings above, and he snatched it up greedily. He ripped through the thick skin, shoving his entire face into the sweet pulpy heart of it. He devoured it as he moved, but it was gone all too quickly. He threw the skins aside and wiped his face.

  It was daylight, late afternoon, by the position of the blue sun. It was told that the sun burned blue because that was the hottest part of the flame … although the songs of the gods said that the sun was the blue of the eyes of Atemna, the mortal woman who captured Lothas’s heart, the heart of the god of day and night. The moon and sun were his to command, bringing day and night, and he had the power to change the color of the sun in remembrance of his love.

  Of course, Atemna met a tragic end when Diathus, Lothis’s wife and the goddess of land and oceans, drowned the girl in a fit of jealousy.

  It wasn’t the first story of mortals suffering because of the tumultuous whims of the gods. But he would know that better than anyone. He wondered if he and his brothers were now one of the songs of the gods. A cautionary tale for those who reached too high.

  The worst part of the city was closest to the folly. After all, who wanted to live nearest to hell? The children that ran in the muddied streets wore tatters and rags, the stench of poor sewage reeked heavy on the air, and the noise was very overwhelming the closer he got to it. The stench was harsh in his singed nostrils, but welcome after years of smelling nothing but soot and crisping flesh. He had crept well into the edge of the mess of it without anyone taking notice of his lack of clothing. They had stronger worries, these impoverished people, and no doubt he wasn’t the first naked beggar they had ever seen.

  But he would not beg. No. Not that he was above it. He was not above anything anymore. But beggars would be cast down on, would earn nothing but negative attention. Especially one like him who looked so vulnerable on sight. Begging would not get him what he needed.

  Thievery would.

  The first order was some kind of clothing. He snuck down a back alley and immediately he could see clothing lines had been drawn up high between the buildings. But they were a good two stories up.

  This did not sway him from his course. He found a strange metal tube that ran from ground to roof, water running out of the opening in the bottom. He wrapped a hand around it and pulled, studying the fastenings that held it to the stone. With a shrug he began to climb it. After all, if he fell, he would not die. Oh, it would hurt … it might slow him down, but he would heal and then he would walk away from it.

  Because he could walk. Because he was free.

  Only
… the sun was lowering. If the fires were going to return …

  The thought leant him speed. Because his muscles were still burned and shriveled it took all of his strength to climb the tube up to the nearest line and the clothing he found upon it. There was a pair of pants, worn and barely patched in places, but clean and ten times better than what he had right then. A hundred times better. He snatched them from the line and like a rat that steals the sliver of cheese he scurried back down the pipe and slipped back into the late day shadows of the alley. Scrambling, he shoved first one leg and then another into the pants and then held them clutched to his body for he had no belt and they were meant for a much stockier man. But now he was clothed and could walk around freely. What he needed was to find a horse. He would scope out barns or smithies, places where horses could be found, and when night fell he would come back …

  After the juquil’s hour, he reminded himself. Because from sunset to the juquil’s hour he would burn. And he had to find a place where he could do so and not bring danger to others … or notice to himself. And the only place he could think of that would fit that need was …

  Just thinking about the entrance made him break out in a cold sweat. The idea of voluntarily stepping into the mouth of hell all but paralyzed him with fear. He had not been well acquainted with fear during his life as a warlord. He had even been called fearless in bardsong. But he was well acquainted with it now. And he didn’t dare step back near hell and Xaxis’s territory. What if he could sense him then? What if he came for him and dragged him back down and chained him once more?

  The thought of it made him shake with terror. Bone chilled, flesh scorched terror. He had to stop, sinking down onto his haunches in the shadows of the wet, smelly alleyway, huddling into himself and trying for all he was worth to remind himself of who he had once been. A man of courage. A warrior. A warlord who had ruled with an iron fist.

  But he was not that man any longer.

  After a minute he rose up again and then made his way out into the open streets. The deeper he went into the city the thicker the traffic. Pedestrians and horses, carts and coaches lined the roads, kicking up mud and grinding it down again until he found himself sticking in the sludge as it sucked at his feet and ankles. It was a wonder anyone managed to get anywhere at all. The wheels of one of the heavier coaches must have sunk a good four inches or better into the muck. It was only the team of stout ginger merries that kept it from slogging down. And beautiful horses they were. A perfectly matched set of four ginger colored steeds with white manes and tails. They were called ginger merries because of their sweet, playful dispositions. They were usually a woman’s horse and, indeed, the coach was full of highborn women.

  At least that much was the same. The rich still lived better than the poor. Ginger merries still existed. But already he was seeing things he’d never seen before. Like the metal tube he had climbed. It was a clever thing, he realized. It kept water from accumulating on the roof of the building.

  The buildings were another thing. They were well made, not just of stone but of wood and some kind of plaster. Whitish in color in some of the buildings he was now passing, brown in those where he’d just come from. Still others were made even better with wood planks nailed to the sides. He couldn’t help himself. He stopped and pulled at one. The wood shingle held fast. He could not comprehend its purpose so he simply let it be and left. He had many other things to accomplish. Although he understood that he could not hope to conquer a world he did not understand. So he would pay attention as he went.

  Dethan found a stablery after a short while and within it a horse of fine flesh. If his fortune ran well, the horse would still be there come the juquil’s hour.

  “Beauteous Hella, look upon me this night, so I may aid your cause,” he prayed with fervor to the goddess of fate and fortune.

  He turned away and heard a loud shout. Fearing someone had noticed him he cringed at the sound. He turned just as the sound of a cracking whip cut through the air. There, not too far down the partly cobbled road, was one of the fine coaches … this one led by dark stallions with shining coats that showed the musculature and fine breeding of the foursome. Now there, he thought, was a horse worth stealing.

  The whip cracked again and a man cried out. Dethan moved a little further down so he could see better because it was very clear the whip was not being used on the team of horses. The coachman raised up his arm again and Dethan could see the man, wearing little better clothing than he wore, cowering away from the coming blow, two stripes of red showing through the mud on his skin where the whip had struck before.

  “Dog! Foul thing, you dare interfere with his lordship’s horses!” the coachman yelled.

  And then, when he looked into the open coach windows to see who was within, he could see a pair of dark eyes watching the exchange rapaciously. The man within did not intervene, did not stop the abuse. It was more like … he hungered for it. Was eager to see it. The smile that touched his cruel lips only solidified the impression. Dethan had known men like this before. Wicked men. Cruel men. He had fought both with and against them in the wars he had engaged in. Though he had had no tolerance for it in his own camps, there were those he had discovered later on who had a thirst for such cruelties.

  Dethan did not know why he stepped forward, did not know why he thrust his hand out, blocking the next strike of the whip’s tail from hitting the man, letting it wrap around his wrist instead. He yanked back as hard as he could, testing the strength of his healing muscles to the maximum. The coachman had such a grip on the whip that Dethan ended up yanking the lot of them, man and whip, from high above and down into the wet of the mud. The coachman spluttered and spat, getting to his feet in a state, his face mottled red with fury.

  “How dare you!” he gasped. “Do you not see the sigil on this coach? It is the lord high jenden’s vehicle! You will be whipped for your insolence!”

  “Would that be with this whip?” Dethan asked, rolling the whip up slowly in his hands. His manner was mild on first glance, but anyone who looked a bit harder realized what the coachman realized and that was that Dethan, for all he wore baggy rags and a thick layer of mud, was the one fully in charge of the altercation.

  “You there! You let my man go or you will find yourself without a head!” barked a voice from within the coach. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw the man leaning out of the window of the conveyance.

  Dethan turned to face the man. “Oh, I’ll let him go,” Dethan said. “Only, not with his whip. The whip is mine now.”

  “How dare you commandeer anything of mine! How dare you interfere with—!”

  He broke off suddenly when a delicate, gloved hand appeared from the darkness of the coach and rested on the hand of the man within. It was wearing a glove of white and there was a sprig of flowers ringed around the wrist.

  She, for it was obviously a woman, must have said something—Dethan could not hear what—for the angry man subsided somewhat, though it was very clear he was not happy about it. He looked to the left and right, seeing the crowd they were beginning to draw.

  “But … my dear … he is an upstart of a peasant and we cannot suborn—”

  “Is this truly worthy of your time?” she asked, this time loud enough for Dethan to hear, though in no way with strong emotion. More like she might scold a puppy. Then she finally appeared in the window, and Dethan felt his breath lock up in cold shock in his chest.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen … save the goddesses themselves. Her only flaw, immediately noticeable, was the burn scar along her lower cheek and jaw on the left-hand side of her face. But he hardly saw it because the rest of her face was stunning, her eyes dark and bottomless, her nose small and delicate and her lips lush and smiling over perfectly white teeth. It was a shock to him that she had all of her teeth. Women of his time hardly made it to her age with all intact.

  Her hair was dark and curly, piled high on her head with a jaunty little cap
set amidst it. The teal cap had a stiff veil that dropped down over the left side of her face, presumably to hide the scar, only it had been pushed back either by accident or design and she could be seen quite clearly. She had the longest of necks, the whitest of skin. Her gloved hand was graceful on the man’s.

  “Can you not see how out of line your carriage driver was, Lord Grannish?” she asked him gently. “This man was only doing what was right. Those with power should not use it to press down those without,” she said, almost pointedly. No. It was with a point. Something he did not fully understand was being passed between them.

  “Very well,” Grannish groused, his narrow face with its curling moustache looking a cross between angry and deferential. Whatever it was, he was not happy about it. “Driver!”

  “Sir.” the lady addressed Dethan. “The driver cannot drive without the whip.”

  The unspoken implication was clear. She was trying to manipulate him the way she had just managed the other man. But he had no intention of being managed.

  “A whip should not be applied to such fine horseflesh, woman. If he cannot control them with reins alone then you are in need of a better driver. And I am in need of a belt.” With a sharp movement he whipped the whip around his waist, effectively belting up his pants and tying the end tightly to his body.