Seven Forges

by James A. Moore

  “That’s a weak excuse even for you, Desh. I’m not foolish enough to think the smell of molten metal stays on skin for several weeks.”

  “It was a bad attempt at a jest. I’m a little stressed at the moment.” He paced some more, trying to come up with a proper plan of action. “We can’t very well arrest this Drask Silver Hand. He’s come as an emissary of a king from another land. We don’t know a damned thing about them. All I can say for sure is he’s a very large man and he looks remarkably capable of eating half the City Guard if they were to try anything foolish with him.”

  “Well that seems a little…” The Emperor paused and contemplated the man who’d come before him. “Yes, alright. Good point. But sheer size doesn’t mean he’s a capable warrior.”

  “There are fifty more of his people coming here to meet with you formally. If you don’t handle this the right way, you could very well have a war on your hands.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Who would dare attack the Fellein Empire?”

  Desh rounded on the Emperor and jabbed a finger in his direction. Most people wouldn’t have dared. The wizard was not most people, but he was also wise enough not to act so casually when there were others around. “We’ve discussed that. Yes, you have soldiers, but when was the last time you had an actual war on your hands, Pathra? Not in your lifetime is when. It’s been close to a hundred years. The Empire is getting along just fine and that’s a wonderful thing, but only because we’ve not had more than a few scuffles with the Guntha since your father built the walls separating their land from ours.”

  “The Guntha are hardly an issue.” Which was true enough, since the Guntha had given up all attempts to attack the Empire, save in occasional skirmishes along the waterfronts of the southlands.

  “The Guntha aren’t currently the problem.” He pointed to the throne room beyond the closed doors of the small dining hall. “He is. He and his people are. We don’t know anything about them.”

  “We know their so called gifts aren’t very impressive.”

  “We know no such thing. Drask said the process wasn’t finished.”

  “Then let’s go out there and see what happens when it is finished, shall we?”

  “Just be prepared, that’s all I ask, Pathra. We have to be prepared for if things go poorly. We also have to be prepared if things go well.”

  “I am the Emperor, Desh. I’ve been trained in etiquette.”

  “Yes, you were trained by me. That’s why I’m reminding you to be cautious. I always hated having to follow the rules.”

  “Well, I’ve always been less temperamental than you, too, old man.”

  “Good point.”

  Desh sighed and pulled his hood back in place. He was still working on looking mysterious for the brute in the next room. “So did you hear about the mount they rode here on?”

  “No.” Pathra frowned.

  “Big as a house. It also ate a horse roughly two hours ago.”

  “A horse?”

  “One of the white chargers you’re so fond of.”

  “Well, that’s certainly an awkward step in the wrong direction.” The Emperor sounded just a bit pouty about the horse.

  “Possibilities of war, Pathra. Just remember that part.”

  “Stupid rules.”

  “Yes they are. Perhaps you should change them. Just do it later, yes?”

  Pathra opened the door and moved back into his throne room. Soon they’d know how badly things were going.

  The entourage continued on, moving across the wasted landscape at a pace that exhausted riders and mounts alike. Human riders and horses at least. The people from the valley seemed just fine and their beasts looked almost as fresh as when they’d left.

  Merros and Wollis rode side by side again, both of them sharing a certain anticipation now that they could see the steppes ahead of them. They would be out of the gods-forsaken Blasted Lands soon, and as far as Merros was concerned if he never saw them again he would live a fulfilled existence.

  A few things they had learned about the Sa’ba Taalor: first, they were not much for idle chatter. Though Merros had spoken on repeated occasions with all of the retinue traveling with them, they had spent most of those conversations doing their best to learn the language of the Empire. Second, they were very, very determined to learn. Though none of them could be called fluent in the tongue, they had learned enough to now have conversations with the rest of the group. They were formal, they were inquisitive, and they seldom volunteered anything about themselves. Maybe it was difficult to open up to strangers when they had never seen strangers before.

  While almost all of the riders wore armor, he also now knew that easily a dozen or more of them were women under their gear. It was almost impossible to tell from a distance, but in speaking with them he’d noticed the differences in tone – sometimes a challenge as all of the people from the valley had the same unusual distortions to their voices – and as the weather warmed a bit and they came closer to the Empire, layers of cloth were removed and more flesh was exposed. The females had smaller arms. They were still muscular, and a few of the women had the sort of muscle tone that made Merros realize he should get more practice time with his weapons. The time out in the fields had robbed him of some of his shape.

  Third, there wasn’t a single one of them that wasn’t covered with scars. When the curiosity got too much for him he decided to approach a rider named Tusk who was more curious than a lot of his peers. Tusk sported a scar around one wrist that wrapped itself over his forearm twice. The scar was a thick, serpentine mess and it seemed almost a wonder that the sort of wound that would leave that scar didn’t require the loss of a limb.

  Tusk – he wasn’t sure if that was a name or a nickname as the man’s skull-shaped helmet was adorned with large teeth from some sort of animal, possibly a Pra-Moresh by the sheer size of the fangs – explained without hesitation. “We are trained to defend ourselves from a young age.”

  “From whom?”

  “The Blasted Lands have many threats.”

  “You mean the Pra-Moresh?”

  “They are only one. There are others.” The man shrugged his shoulders, sending a rattling effect across all of his armor. “We are also taught to make our own armor and weapons. That often leaves scars.”

  “You forge your own weapons?”

  “You cannot be connected with your weapons if you do not make your weapons. They should be as the claws of a beast, a part of you.” The way he said it made Merros suspect he was quoting an age-old adage.

  “You forged your own sword?” The notion was damned near ludicrous. It took years to learn how to work a forge and pound metal into something other than a shapeless lump.

  Tusk drew his sword, a thick bladed affair with surprisingly delicate inscriptions across the center of the blade. He offered it hilt-first to Merros. Merros took the blade carefully, not only because it was a weapon and should be respected, but also because he suspected he was being given a great honor when he was offered the piece in the first place. The craftsmanship was damned fine, and the balance was perfect. The metal was lighter than he expected, but he could see how well-sharpened the blade’s edge was and he had no doubt it was as fine a sword as he’d ever held.

  “You do not forge your own weapons?” Tusk’s turn. His tone was hard to read. It was hard to tell much of what the man thought under the helm he wore. One tended to get distracted by the amazing array of sharp teeth leering in one’s direction.

  “Well, no. Not really. We have people who bake bread, we have people who tend animals, we have people who build houses, and we have people who forge weapons. Each is a skill that is learned over years.”

  Tusk stared at him in silence for a moment as if trying to absorb a piece of vital information. No, as if he were genuinely surprised by the response he’d received.

  “Then how do you know your weapon is well-made?”

  “You test it, of course. Before you make a purchase. Or if you are
in the army, you are issued a weapon.”

  “May I see your sword?” Tusk’s voice was unusually formal.

  “Of course.” Merros had little choice, really. The man had just offered his own weapon. He first handed Tusk back the sword the man had proffered and then extended his own. Tusk’s movements were nearly a blur. He held the weapon, ran a finger along the blade, eyed the edge carefully and then swung the blade several times in arcs above his head and to his side. Merros was unsettled by how little effort the man seemed to extend in the process.

  He then handed it back. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” Merros pointed to Tusk’s arm and the thick scars. “May I ask how you came by that one?”

  “I was hit with a chain.”

  “A chain?”

  Merros leaned in closer, looking at the scar. He could imagine the sort of chain that had links thick enough to break skin in that way, but he didn’t really want to.

  “Why in the name of the gods would anyone hit you with a chain?”

  “As I said, we are all trained in defense.”

  “Against a chain?”

  Tusk chuckled, a deep sound that came from low in his chest. “If you do not think a chain can be used as a weapon, you have obviously never been hit with a chain.” He patted his side and Merros looked at the spot where a length of chain had been coiled several times before being secured to his belt.

  “Good point.” Merros thanked him for his time and slowed down a bit until he and Wollis were once again riding next to each other.

  Wollis looked a question at him.

  Merros shook his head. “I’m beginning to understand how Drask killed four Pra-Moresh.”

  “How is that?”

  Merros looked at one of the riders off in the distance. He could see the muscles on her arms and though he could not see her face, he was astonished by the attraction he felt for her. Like Tusk, she had several serious scars on her exposed flesh.

  “These are not a people to be underestimated, Wollis. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

  Wollis, ever one to conserve his energies for things more interesting than speech, merely nodded his head and kept riding.

  Andover woke up in a different room this time. The ceiling was higher and there were furs on the bed beneath him. Also, he was clothed differently.

  Also, his hands weren’t screaming at him. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, his hands weren’t shrieking their tortured agonies into his arms and then through the rest of him. He lifted his arms without thinking and looked at his hands.

  And froze in wonder.

  They were hands. There was simply no doubting that. The fingers were as long as he remembered, and he stared at them as he moved them. His lips trembled and tears threatened to break from his wide eyes.

  His hands were metal. He’d known they would be, if those of the stranger, Drask were any indication, but knowing in your mind is different from knowing in your heart. In color they looked as if they’d been freshly forged from good iron, free from impurities. The “flesh” had a polished, buffed look and was smooth, save where the joints met. That area was a bit rougher, more textured but still impossibly flawless. The real skin of his wrists was heavily scarred, and he could see where metal and flesh were married if he looked, but he did not want to look too closely, not yet. He might think too much, and then he might well start screaming and never stop. A miracle these hands, yes, but many were the people who had said that to look upon the blessings of the gods was to know their flaws and their pettiness. He would not consider the flaws of the deity that had offered this amazing blessing. There were markings along each finger, across the tips, the palms. Everywhere. They made no sense to him, but the marks were there, a language he had never seen, perhaps, or merely decoration. He did not know.

  When he flexed the fingers moved exactly as they should, smoothly, without hesitation.

  More importantly, oh, so much more importantly, he could feel through his hands. Not the ghost pains that had insisted his hands were still there even after they’d been taken, but real sensations. He closed his eyes and ran his hands across his face. The flesh of his jaw line felt warm metal, not hot, merely warm, caressing the angles of his face. His fingers felt those same angles, read them as well as his fingers had ever read any surface.

  Impossible! But there it was. He opened his eyes and sat up on the bed and for the first time was aware of the people around him, looking at him with expectant faces. Tega was there, and the wizard and the Emperor and the stranger, the man with the silver hand. The only person who did not seem surprised by the use of his hands was the man who had a similar limb.

  “How do they feel?” That was Desh Krohan.

  “Like flesh. Like real hands.”

  “They are real. The gods do not offer trinkets.” Drask spoke softly and in the semi-dark room his eyes offered a faint silvery glow that reminded Andover of the odd way cats’ eyes could reflect light.

  “How can I thank you?” Andover’s voice shook and he closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed with a wave of gratitude. Later, perhaps, he would allow himself to feel dread at the sight of his new hands. But he hoped not. Let them look odd. Let others see them as strange. He could accept that. He had hands again, and that was an amazing, spectacular thing.

  Drask shook his head. “To me you owe nothing. I am merely a messenger. If you would offer your thanks, offer them to Truska-Pren, God of the Iron Forge.”

  “When I am at his altar, I shall surely do so.”

  Drask nodded without saying another word.

  Really, there wasn’t much to say. Not then. The emissary from the Seven Forges merely crossed his arms and waited patiently while the rest of the group asked their questions. Andover answered them all, and as he did so his smile grew a little at a time.

  He had hands!

  No one was more surprised than he was when Tega placed her hands upon his and ran her fingers over the metal, surprised and curious.

  He had feared that she would be repulsed.

  Instead she seemed fascinated. He did his best not to read anything into that, but as is often the case with young men who think they are in love, he was not completely successful.

  The steppes were close enough that the air felt almost warm again. Merros couldn’t quite keep himself from getting jumpy about it. He’d been away from the world he knew for just a little too long.

  Not far away from him the remaining two women who served as the wizard’s eyes and ears – and at times as his mouth – had actually left their wagon and were walking alongside the supply wagon. The wind occasionally caught their cloaks and threw the hoods back far enough to let him see the startlingly blonde hair or the midnight black. Without the redhead they didn’t seem complete; beautiful, yes, but not complete.

  To make up for the difference, they spoke with two of the women from the valley. Although they were also female, they were not quite cut from the same fabric: two ladies who looked like they should be dining with royalty, and two women who looked like they’d spent their lives working the fields.

  Wollis noticed him looking and chuckled. “Hard to decide which you prefer?”

  “Not at all. After months of dealing with you and sleeping in a tent, I’d gleefully bed your mother.”

  Wollis frowned. “I have told you about my mother, yes?”

  Merros smiled. “And yet I would still bed her.”

  “Gods, Captain, you are beyond desperate.”

  “So you can see why staring at four fit women would be a nice distraction?”

  Before Wollis could respond, one of their escorts blew three sharp notes on his horn. He was a decent distance away and the winds were still bad enough that all the bellowing in the world might not be heard.

  And as fast as the wind, the Sa’ba Taalor were in motion. They looked toward the sound of the horn and then they moved, not so much heading in the direction of potential trouble as stalking it. The two women he’d be
en admiring a moment before spun away from the wizard’s servants and crouched, sliding their bows from their backs and communicating with each other with quick hand gestures between motions. Bows removed, arrows pulled and notched in place all in seconds.

  Goriah looked toward him, her eyes startlingly blue. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called out “Pra-Moresh!” Merros nodded and looked toward the horn blower.

  It was almost over before it started, really. There were only two of the beasts this time, not seven like they had encountered before. The Sa’ba Taalor devastated the damned things in a matter of moments. The two women who’d started in that direction both fired arrows at the same one and they surely must have spoken to each other, because each of them fired exactly one arrow and each of them planted an arrow in a different eye. The great, screeching beast fell backward amid a thunderous roar of voices, and bucked and thrashed for several seconds before dying.

  The horn blower was none other than Tusk, who took the other animal by himself. He did not throw an axe. He did not fire an arrow. Instead he charged on his war beast and drew a great sword unlike any Merros had ever seen before. The blade was well over four feet in length, very thick in the center and with a heavy curve. Merros was still trying to identify exactly what the weapon was when Tusk climbed from his saddle, balanced himself on the back of his moving beast, and then leaped at the Pra-Moresh. One hand held the hilt of the sword. The other was braced along the blade’s length, and as Tusk came downward, so too did his hands.

  Hard to say who was more surprised, really; Merros or the monster that Tusk jumped toward.

  “What is that madman doing?” Wollis’ voice cracked as he watched the man from the valley bring the sword down and cleave the blade through the neck and shoulder of the monstrous wall of flesh. He did not completely decapitate the Pra-Moresh, but it was close. The impact ran through hunter and hunted alike and Tusk rolled past the falling creature sliding across the frozen ground as he brought himself to a halt.