Seven Forges

by James A. Moore

  “Delil.” He pointed to the first of the women. She was younger, and carried herself with more swagger than half of the City Guard. Next was the male, a brick wall of a man, with scars that looked like one of the great monsters they rode in on had tried to chew him to pieces covering one arm and half of his neck. “Bromt.” The last of the three was a woman whose helmet bore great horns that curved down toward her shoulders. “And this is Stastha. They will be your instructors today.”

  “My instructors?” He hated the way his voice broke when he looked toward Drask.

  “Yes. They’ve been instructed to beat on you until you learn to defend yourself.” Drask stepped back and clapped his hands together. Delil came forward, dropping into a crouch as she started circling Andover. She carried no weapons. “Delil will go first.”

  “Wait!” Andover stepped back, gripping his hammer fiercely and looking at Drask when he wasn’t keeping a wary eye on the unarmed woman facing him and moving slowly around him, assessing his movements.

  “Yes?” Drask already sounded bored.

  “Am I supposed to go up against an unarmed enemy?”

  “She is not unarmed. Her body is her weapon.”

  A moment later the female slid forward and punched Andover in the side of his head. He staggered back and almost lost his grip on the hammer. Before he could recover properly she came at him again and boxed him on the other side of his face. After that, Andover started defending himself very vigorously. Every time he thought he was ready for whatever the woman might do, she came from another direction. Within five minutes she had disarmed him and handed him back his hammer no less than four times.

  The girl was kind to him. She didn’t hit him very hard. At least not at first.

  By request of the Emperor himself, Wollis March was in attendance at the dinner with the Sa’ba Taalor. He sat at the same table as Drask Silver Hand and a few others, including the boy with the new metal hands, Andover Lashk. Currently the young man was looking a bit like he’d been dragged behind a runaway carriage for a few leagues. His skin was marked with scratches and bruises, but he was clean. Wollis stared at the gloves covering his new limbs for all of a minute and then decided the hands beneath them didn’t much matter. The same could not be said for the boy, who kept fidgeting and fussing with the supple leather.

  They were all sitting and the Emperor was not yet in attendance. Neither was the sorcerer, who it turned out was a rather nice fellow, all things considered. He was grateful for the maps and offered a handsome bonus to Wollis. Being a fairly decent sort himself, Wollis divided the money between the rest of the expedition. Well, not all of it, but a decent portion. Some he set aside for himself, some for Merros, and because he knew it would be what Merros wanted, he even set some aside for the families of the men who had died on the journey. Merros was a good man. That was one of the reasons that Wollis continued to serve with him even after they left the service.

  The hall where they took their meal was another large affair, with marble walls, a few statues of previous emperors in the corners, and a dozen different sigils from various kingdoms of the Empire scattered along the walls almost as an afterthought. All in all it was a bit overwhelming, and so Wollis concentrated on the other people dining instead.

  And there were a lot of them. One of the Sisters sat at the table as well: Pella, she of the midnight hair and hypnotically dark eyes, sat to his left. From time to time she pointed out the names and positions of some of the other people in the room to him and Drask alike. She was probably talking to Andover as well, but the boy barely seemed to notice.

  The largest of the tables was set aside for Tusk – who the hell would have guessed he was a king? – and four of his retinue, as well as the Emperor, the wizard and a few of Pathra Krous’ cousins. The king, the Emperor and the sorcerer were conspicuously absent but the rest of the table was occupied by a group that appeared to have more money than common sense. One or two of them seemed to have been raised to understand the sort of manners that even Wollis was raised with – one does not deliberately outshine a guest in the house, and if these were truly members of the royal family, they seemed determined to show as many jewels as they could in an effort to prove that they were worthy of being noticed – but the ones dressed in more casual clothing were the exceptions, not the rule.

  Pella leaned in close to him and did that thing where she seemed to read his mind. “You are not wrong. They seek only to impress the Emperor, and as a result, fail to follow proper decorum.”

  Rather than taking offense from the possible ability to hear his thoughts – she was an associate of a sorcerer and Wollis understood the implications, even if Merros did not – he was pleased to hear that his beliefs were being confirmed.

  “So they are failing in the eyes of the Emperor?”

  “Oh yes. But they do not see it. They see only that they have a chance to get his attention.”

  Wollis chuckled and Drask looked his way. “It is one thing to get the attention of an authority, my friend, and another entirely to get the attention you desire.”

  Andover laughed bitterly at that. The boy’s eyes looked toward him and he wagged his fingers. “On this you and I agree.” Then the lad went back to looking at his hands. He was almost the same age as Nolan, and Wollis felt a twinge at the thought. It had been a long while since he’d seen his son. It might be a very long time indeed, as Nolan was now of age and likely already off to serve in the army.

  Laughter erupted at the table to their left and the royals looked over with surprised expressions. Pella smiled indulgently and, at that table, Tataya laughed along with several of the Sa’ba Taalor, who were apparently exchanging anecdotes about fighting. It seemed that almost everything the people from the valley did involved fighting. Wollis remembered watching them when they were heading toward Fellein, still dressed in their weapons and armor, and had little trouble understanding that the people around him were warriors. The noblemen seemed less likely to ever fully understand that notion.

  They were not soldiers. He doubted most of them would properly understand which end of a sword should be pointed at an enemy. Oh, to be sure they had been taught the ways of weapons, had likely been taught by the finest swordsmen around, but having a good teacher did not guarantee that a person was among the finest students.

  The Sa’ba Taalor did not carry any weapons on them. They were unarmed. A few of the royals were sporting daggers or other small bejeweled pieces that were supposed to be weapons. In any situation that involved bloodshed Wollis would have banked his entire newly acquired fortune on the visitors from the Seven Forges. That included the slightest of the females, who, sadly, had gone off with Merros on his merry little adventure in the south. Jost. That was her name. Young enough to be his daughter, but oddly sexy, even with her face hidden away.

  He looked toward Drask and wondered what, exactly, was hidden behind that veil. His curiosity was mild enough to avoid him risking life and limb to find out.

  Of course Wollis would have been the first to say he had a great deal of common sense and a powerful sense of self-preservation. He wouldn’t have been wrong on either account.

  Sadly, the same could not be said of the nobles.

  A young buck at the main dining table was sitting to the left of a stunning beauty who had the common sense to dress appropriately for the guests of the Empire. She had the sense. The young buck was a dandy, dressed in finery and actually sporting a thin sword that, while likely quite deadly, didn’t look like it could take a blow from an axe without being reshaped. His hair was over-oiled and curled in the latest dubious fashion, his clothes were of shiny silks, and his face was still round with the last of his baby fat. He would likely be handsome enough someday, but like Andover Lashk, he was barely of age to be called a man.

  He spoke exactly loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “What sort of swine come to an affair like this and bray like broken mules?” The four members of the Sa’ba Taalor at the same table loo
ked toward him with wide, shocked eyes.

  Wollis bit his lip. It was bad enough that the young fool was speaking that way. It was worse that he spoke that way during one of those sublime moments when it seemed that everyone in the room stopped speaking at the exact same time. All of the background murmurs faded away just as he posed his deliberately rude question.

  The beauty next to the buck looked shocked. “Brolley! What has possessed you?” Her voice was soft, her chastisement meant only for the offender’s ears.

  Drask’s voice, on the other hand, was sharp and loud enough to answer the challenge that had been thrown. His accent in that moment was thick, and the distortion that all of his people spoke with was particularly loud. “What sort of whelp barks when he should keep his mouth shut and save himself sorrow?”

  Wollis reached out a hand. “I’m sure he did not mean–”

  Drask brushed the staying hand aside gently. His eyes locked on the younger dandy. “He knew exactly what he said. Didn’t you, boy?”

  Oh, yes, this was going poorly indeed. Wollis looked to Pella, and she in turn looked at her sisters, possibly trying to find the best way to calm the tempestuous situation.

  The young noble bristled. “How dare you?” His face reddened.

  The beauty next to him called out sharply this time. “Brolley! Think carefully before you speak!”

  “Enough, Nachia! I’ll not have a dirt farmer like this speak to me with that tone!” Brolley stood up and faced Drask where he sat. “I’ll not be called a boy by a savage!”

  Wollis started to stand up. He would, by the gods, not stand by and allow a foolhardy boy to start a war between nations. “That’s enough! Hold your tongue, lad!”

  Drask stood up. And up. And up. And for the first time the boy with the fine clothes and the fancy sword realized that he might have made a mistake. It was one thing to see Drask when he was settled comfortably at a dining table and another entirely to see the man when he was ready to handle a situation.

  “You offend me. You offend my people. You disgrace your Emperor, your family, and yourself.” Drask spoke softly, but every last soul in the room heard him clearly.

  “Apologize, Brolley, immediately.” The woman, Nachia, spoke with frosty warning in her tone. The whole group of them knew better than to let this go on any longer. Their faces spoke volumes of how well they understood the situation.

  Wollis could see it on the boy’s face. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make the situation go away, but he also couldn’t stand the idea of losing face in front of his family, his peers. He was humiliated. He’d been chastised by a man he certainly considered a savage and he’d been called out by none other than Wollis himself, a lowly peasant and soldier. The sting of the situation was worse than a slap across the face.

  One sentence and the entire affair could likely have been forgiven. One simple apology and the incident would go away. But youthful pride is always a stone in the boot of an arrogant boy.

  “I don’t apologize for speaking the truth. And I don’t apologize to pigs.”

  It was then that the Emperor, the sorcerer, and the King walked into the room. They were just in time to hear the boy’s words.

  Nachia shook her head. “Brolley, no!”

  Drask looked at the boy and took three steps forward. The first stride seemed to cover half the room. The second had him in front of the dandy. The third had the boy driven against the table, pinned in place by Drask’s hands.

  The boy tried to draw his sword. He had it halfway out of the scabbard before Drask slapped his hand aside and then threw the weapon to the ground with a clatter.

  “Drask!” Tuskandru’s voice was thunderous.

  Drask lifted Brolley from the table and shook him. Brolley’s eyes were wide in his round face and he yelped as surely as a dog that has been beaten. It was obvious even from where Wollis stood that Drask was doing all he could to restrain his rage.

  “I demand satisfaction from this cur!” Drask roared the words. His veil shuddered with the force of his angered breaths.

  Emperor Pathra Krous looked to his cousin, and then to the king beside him and finally to Drask.

  Desh Krohan spoke softly, but the words carried far enough to let Wollis hear them. “I told you to change that stupid law.”

  The Emperor of Fellein looked at the warrior holding his cousin off the ground by the front of his shirt. His cousin looked at him with wide, worried eyes.

  Tuskandru looked at the Emperor. Pathra Krous looked at the king and then at Drask. “You shall have your satisfaction. You shall have your blood trial.”

  Nachia looked at her Emperor in horror. Wollis knew just how she felt.

  TWELVE

  King Marsfel’s demeanor changed radically when Merros Dulver came back to his throne room and explained that the Guntha had been taken care of for him.

  The man was not exactly arrogant the first time round, so much as he was bored with the notion of dealing with political nonsense. That was the impression Merros had when he met him at the beginning of the journey. When the King heard that there were ten observers attending on behalf of the Emperor, he grew cold and distant, and offered remarkably little by way of assistance.

  When Merros and the ten Sa’ba Taalor came back to him, and Swech and her companions reported that the Guntha had been taken care of, the man positively fell over himself with gratitude, which, Merros observed, really was most of what he was supposed to do. Merros also translated a few phrases when Swech and company didn’t quite catch the nuances of the language. There were only a few incidents and none of them would have been trouble so much as they would have been awkward. All told, the travelers had done an incredible job of learning a new language, but time and context limited what they absorbed.

  Marsfel looked at the ten from the Valley of the Forges and smiled. He stood and strutted around them. He clapped his hands and did everything he could to make them know he thought they were amazing. He insisted on a feast on their behalf, and when they tried to refuse, Merros stepped in and accepted for them, then begged a moment with Swech.

  She was not angry, but she was decidedly formal when he pulled her to the side. “Why do you make us eat with this man?”

  “It’s his way of offering thanks.”

  She shook her head and her eyes half pinned him in place. “He is like the old woman at the cart. He wishes to thank us for his weakness.”

  Merros nodded. “I thought you might see it that way and that’s why I wanted to speak with you.” He paused and tried to decide the best way to answer without getting his head separated from his neck. “He offers you a feast because this buys him time to see if you are telling him the truth.”

  Her eyes flared behind the veil and her hands twitched as if preparing to seek the comfort of her weapons.

  Merros stepped in closer, until they were as close as lovers. “It’s not what you think.”

  “I think he insults my honor.”

  “It’s not that at all. That is why he offers the feast, to avoid offending you. But your claim is very unusual for him. Ten of his soldiers could not have done what you and the others did. They are not as skilled as you. For that reason he must send someone he trusts to confirm what you have said.”

  “And if we lied?”

  “The feast would be your last.” Some truths are simpler to state than others. She could understand the idea of being punished for lying, it seemed, with more ease than she could understand the concept of being accused of lying.

  “And if we have told the truth?”

  “Then you have earned his gratitude, and made the Emperor look good and your own people look good. You might even have earned an ally in King Marsfel.”

  That stopped her. Her eyes locked on him again, this time trying to read any possible secrets he might be hiding from her. There were none. He had come initially to observe, but had amended his reasons for being there to include making whatever this task of theirs was as amenable as possible
for all parties.

  “Very well then. We will allow this feast.”

  “And I’m sure the king and Drask appreciate your tolerance.” He sighed. “Now let’s go back to being congratulated and then we can get back to Tyrne.”

  “Are you so tired of us already?” Her voice was teasing. He knew she was jesting. Or at least he suspected strongly at that. It was sometimes difficult to know what anyone was thinking when half of her face was constantly hidden.

  “Not hardly. But I have earned a great deal of money and I would like to go about the business of spending it.”

  Her fist cuffed him lightly in the arm. “Wise answer. There’s hope for you yet.”

  She headed back for the main group and he watched her go. He knew her to be a passionate lover. He also knew she could kill without remorse. His eyes tracked the sway of her hips and the play of muscles along the part of her back that was bared by her tunic. Scars and smooth flesh, muscles and just the right amount of softness to remind him that she was decidedly a woman.

  He shook his head. No. He would not allow himself to fall for a woman from a country where everyone carried enough weapons for five soldiers. The first argument they had would surely be the death of him.

  Within a few hours of their arrival with their news, the feast was under way and Marsfel seated them with his immediate family, including three daughters who were, to be kind, stunning. Each was lovelier than the last. It might well be true that Roathes had little to offer by way of military might, but if all the women were as striking as his daughters, the man should seriously consider hiring a few extra armies for their protection.

  Merros hardly had time to get to know any of the ladies in question. The king had many questions for his guests and Merros had to be ready to provide translation at all times. Mostly, however, he simply listened and took in what there was to hear.

  And he worried. Much as he wanted to believe that all was well, his mind refused to accept the notion. He looked around almost constantly and could find no source for his unease, and that too worried him.