Seven Forges

by James A. Moore

  The roar of voices, the clash of steel and the screams of a dying horse came together in a cacophony of bloodshed. Merros drove forward, slashing again and again at his opponent, not letting the man take the offense. He felt himself grinning despite the situation and watched as his enemy’s eyes grew wider. Merros was a captain in the royal army. He’d earned that rank by training constantly and by fighting well enough and long enough to live to achieve it. The mercenary was a good swordsman, but Merros was better. The fight ended when the point of his sword punched through the man’s throat.

  And by the time that fight was done, the battle was finished as well.

  Merros stood still, his sword held at the ready and looked around, breathing through his nose in harsh gusts. Swech leaned against her weapon, panting. The point of the odd blade was still buried in a man’s stomach and his body twitched as he died. She looked toward Merros, her expression hidden by that damnable veil. Jost looked at the horses around them as she cleaned her chain with an oiled cloth. She eyed the animals with curiosity and it occurred to him that she might well have never seen one up close before. Even the ones from the expedition had been kept mostly away from the beasts that the Sa’ba Taalor rode.

  Blane called out and one of the others came to him, immediately inspecting the bolt stuck in his chest. It looked to be buried deep, but judging by his stance Blane had not been hit crucially.

  Another of the people was not looking quite as well off. Unlike Blane he was another wall of flesh and this time someone had done their very best to knock that wall over. Merros realized he was the one that had been trampled by the horse and had apparently managed to gut the horse in the process. He bore several bleeding wounds that looked like indents from the beast’s hooves. He stood but shook, and blood came from his left arm in a heavy flow. Merros moved toward him but another of the group beat him there. And then another still. Within moments they had the man on his back and were removing a crossbow bolt from his side.

  Merros looked around and realized that all of them were bloodied. It was nearly impossible to imagine how they could have come out of the combat unscathed. For every one of them there had been two of the enemy, and the assault had started with crossbows from the opposing side.

  On the ground, one of the mercenaries started to rise, doing his best not to be noticed. He was not fast enough or careful enough. Swech lifted her weapon and brought it around in a hard arc that cleaved his torso nearly in half. She did so without hesitation, and looked down at her enemy with eyes burning as she used his tunic to wipe the blade clean.

  “Well. That didn’t go as I’d hoped.” Merros spoke mostly to himself.

  Blane heard him and laughed. “Liar.”

  “What do you mean?” Merros scowled as he stared at the other man. Wounded or not, comrade or not, he didn’t much take kindly to being called a liar.

  Blane stepped closer and Merros could see the laugh lines around the man’s eyes. “Your heart is beating hard, your face is smiling and you’ve grown hard in your pants.” The man looked closely at him. Studied him. Dared him to disagree. “You are a warrior. You act the part of being soft, but everyone here can see how much you enjoyed that fight.” Completely ignoring the wound on his side, he slapped Merros in the arm with affection. “It’s why we respect you. You know how to fight.”

  Ehnole called out to Blane. “Yes, he can fight. Now get over here and let me patch you up, you damned fool. You’ll bleed all over yourself again.”

  Blane laughed and headed back to her. On the ground the one who’d been injured the most grunted as the others held him down.

  “We need to fix him.” Swech looked over at the fallen warrior. “Does he need metal?”

  “Of course I need metal! I’m bleeding like a drunk man pisses!” The words were hissed out as one of the two pulled the crossbow bolt from his side. The bolt did not come out cleanly, but took a piece of meat with it. “Damn but that hurts!”

  Swech shook her head. “You cry like a newborn, Lorroth.” Her voice held surprising humor as she walked over to Saa’thaa and rummaged in the various saddlebags.

  “Just hurry! I have no desire to die in these lands.” His protests were weaker.

  Swech merely nodded and then pulled a metallic bar from her bags. The rod of metal was oddly shaped, with markings along the sides that Merros couldn’t see clearly from his distance. It looked to be pure gold. He moved a bit closer and saw several of the others were now watching Lorroth intently.

  Swech crouched next to the man and gestured to the others around her. “Hold him.”

  Rather than argue the point, Lorroth went limp and allowed his fellows to grab his arms and his legs. Merros could see the depth of the gash in the man’s arm. He could see sinew and severed muscle and bone clearly through the open wound. He was surprised that the man was conscious at all. Blood loss alone should have sent him into a deep sleep.

  “Wrommish, bless this man for his service.” Swech held the bar up before her face as she spoke, and then moved quickly, one hand grabbing the wound on Lorroth’s arm and pinching at the flesh. She was not gentle and as she grabbed, the man tried to fight against the pain. The ones holding him in place did their part, pinning him properly as Swech pushed the metal against his arm.

  Merros had no idea what they were planning on doing, aside from apparently angering a wounded man. Lorroth bucked harder and screamed, roared as the metal touched him, and then the dual scents of burning metal and burning flesh reached Merros’ nose.

  Where the gold touched the man it glowed and liquefied, spilling into the wound. The metal hissed as it mingled with flesh and blood, cooking, cauterizing as it bubbled and pooled into the cut. Lorroth did his very best to break the grips of the ones holding him, and they fought harder still to keep him still as he rocked his body and his limbs, screaming.

  “Hold still! I’d like to keep my fingers!” Swech hissed the words as the white-hot metal dribbled from the melting rod, narrowly avoiding taking her fingers along with it.

  Merros stared, horrified. It was impossible, of course. It couldn’t be happening. He was watching it and couldn’t begin to look away, but it couldn’t be happening. Still it continued until the last of the gold had fallen from Swech’s fingers and puddled into the grievous wound, sealing it shut. The skin around the metal was nearly blackened from the heat, and yet as he watched, the discoloration faded down, and the gold cooled and seemed to mix with the flesh.

  He thought of Drask’s hand and wondered if the same sort of sorcery was responsible.

  He’d heard tales of people using gold as a slow poison, heard that it could kill and cause endless misery in the process. But here the people of the valley were using it to seal a wound that surely would have killed Lorroth.

  And it seemed that Lorroth was feeling better almost as soon as Swech finished. He lay back for almost a minute, during which time Merros continued to stare at his wound site and the scar that rapidly formed where before there had been a deadly cut. By all rights the man should have been as dead as the mercenary whose leg he hacked open. Instead after that short span of time the man was sitting up, rolling his shoulder and testing the area that had been roasting a few moments earlier.

  Merros looked around at the dead around them. He was still contemplating what he had just seen when Swech tapped his arm. He looked at her for a long moment, still half lost in thoughts. All around him the Sa’ba Taalor acted as if nothing miraculous had occurred.

  “Patch me up?” She pointed to a cut along her hip. “I can’t quite reach.”

  “Yes, of course.” He forced a smile for her. While he worked, she stood perfectly still and then made quick orders for several of the others when they were stitched and mended as best they could be.

  “Well, I’ll be letting the proper authorities know about this.”

  “Good.” She nodded her head. “We’ll leave soon. After.”

  “After what?”

  “Saa’thaa!” The great
beast turned its head to regard her, the eyes glowing within the metallic mask it wore. “Feast!” Without another word the animals rose and did just that. Horses and dead mercenaries alike were torn apart by the great animals.

  Merros did not protest. He just did his best not to think about what was happening instead.

  There were differences between the races, he knew that. Still, it was unsettling to see how little regard the Sa’ba Taalor held for their fallen enemies.

  THIRTEEN

  Pathra Krous stared toward the distant Seven Forges. Really, it seemed to be about his favorite thing to do.

  Desh Krohan watched him in silence for a while and finally shrugged. “Listen you can stare out that damned window for a dozen years and it won’t change a bloody thing. Why don’t we discuss what you want to do here?”

  “I want this to go away. That’s what I want.” His voice was waspish.

  Desh stood and stretched then looked around the Emperor’s private offices. “Much as we might want that to happen, it won’t.”

  “Then what do you suggest, Advisor?” His Majesty’s voice positively dripped with sarcasm on the title.

  “I suggested a good time ago that you change the damned laws. You should have.” Desh’s voice dripped nothing but frost and Pathra stared at him for a moment, shocked by the tone. He was not used to anyone taking that tone with him and for just one brief moment he forgot himself. He opened his mouth to say something he would likely have immediately taken back, but instead he looked at the expression on the sorcerer’s face and remembered that the man before him had been advisor to generations of emperors, and had powers great enough to do him grievous harm without ever lifting a finger.

  “You’re right of course, Desh. But it’s too late for that now.” He looked at Desh with wide, fearful eyes. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “You could change the law this instant if you so desired; you’re the Emperor. But you would regret it. You would lose face before your kings, your people, and your new acquaintances.”

  “Brolley is a damned fool!”

  “Yes, we both acknowledge that. That’s one of the reasons he was never much of a consideration as your replacement. His sister is far wiser than he is and also a good deal more level headed.”

  “Nachia is not happy about this.”

  “I can’t say as I blame her for that, Pathra. You agreed to a duel between her brother and a man who looks like he could wrestle a mountain. A man, I might add, who has made sport of hunting down and killing Pra-Moresh.”

  “What have I done?”

  “Doomed your younger cousin, unless you can find a way to placate Drask Silver Hand that doesn’t involve him bathing in the boy’s entrails.”

  Pathra blanched. “That seems rather vivid, don’t you think?”

  “I like to make clear exactly how grave the circumstances are here. You risk offending seven kingdoms with one gesture, Pathra. Seven. An Empire’s worth of enemies if you handle this the wrong way.”

  “Perhaps you could reason with Drask?”

  “It’s not my place to reason with anyone, Your Majesty. That falls to you and your finest diplomats.”

  “You trained my finest diplomats, old man.”

  “Then you are well and truly roasting over a fire pit. I am hardly a diplomat.” He sighed. “I’ll have Tataya look into what might or might not placate Drask, but I have doubts it will go the way you want it to.”

  Before Pathra could answer, the doors to his office opened and in came Nachia, her face set in a rather fearsome expression of anger.

  The Emperor looked to Desh. “Any help at all would be appreciated.”

  “Of course.”

  “That gigantic bear will eat my brother alive!”

  “Very likely he will, Nachia, but what am I to do about it?” Pathra looked to his cousin and immediately there was a scowl on his face. There had always been an interesting relationship between them, one that Desh knew more about than either of them understood.

  “Nachia, we’re trying to work out a way to avoid your brother’s unfortunate circumstances.” Desh tried to placate the young woman, but she fired a look his way that was pure venom. He crossed his arms and shut his mouth. She would have her say.

  Pathra held his hands up. “I did not ask your brother to offend the visiting dignitaries. Nor did you. I believe, in fact, that you were telling him to shut his foolish mouth when we came into the room.”

  “How could you let that beast challenge Brolley?”

  “How could you let Brolley offend the guests of the Empire?” Pathra stood his ground and stared hard into his cousin’s eyes.

  “Damn your logic!”

  “I didn’t invite this. Brolley has done this to himself. I’m investigating how to avoid his error becoming fatal without starting an incident between nations, Nachia, but at the end of the day if I have to choose between your brother and my Empire there is very little choice.”

  Nachia looked away first.

  “I don’t want my stupid brother gutted by that man.” Nachia looked at the desk.

  “Neither do I.” Pathra put his hands on her shoulders. “Neither does anyone.”

  Desh slipped from the room as quietly as he could, which was very quietly indeed.

  Drask Silver Hand stared into the fire as his hands moved, carefully sharpening the edge on his axe. The weapon had seen a great deal of combat over the years, and if he could be said to have a favorite, the great double bladed axe was it.

  Tataya knocked and slipped into his room. He caught the scent of her musky perfume and allowed himself a small smile.

  “You are here to plead for the boy’s life?”

  “No. Not exactly.” She slipped closer to him, but did not touch. The whetstone sang softly as it scraped along the edge of the axe’s blade.

  “Then what is it I can do for you, Tataya?”

  “Desh Krohan asks that I see what will satisfy your honor, short of killing a foolish boy.”

  “Should the boy prostrate himself before me tomorrow, I will allow him his life.” He examined the blade and then turned the axe around. The whetstone met with a dab of oil and then again began its soft song along the edge of the weapon.

  “That is all?” Her voice was mild, but he sensed the reproach. “All you ask is that a man of royal lineage fall to his knees before you and beg forgiveness?”

  “He offended me. He offended my people. He offended the Seven Kings I serve.” He watched the stone caress the blade. “What else would you have me do?”

  “How would you handle the situation in your homeland?”

  “I would have killed him where he stood.” Drask looked up at her, stared into her eyes. They were an odd color, like her skin, like her hair. She had the colors of autumn locked within her flesh and that puzzled him a bit, as all of his people held the color of stone and steel and ashes.

  “Are your people that unforgiving?”

  “My people are direct. The boy spoke of me and mine as if we were not supposed to hear him but he did it with deliberate volume. He did it to offend as much as he could, to gain face while causing me to lose face. He called me to combat with his words.” He chuckled. “It was for the sake of diplomacy that I did not gut the child where he stood.”

  “And yet you have said it yourself. He is a child.”

  “Then why did he dine with warriors?”

  “The only warriors at that table were your kin.”

  “Has this Brolley ever been in real combat? Has he even been forged once?”

  “What do you mean? What do you mean has he been forged?”

  “Every life is forged. We start as raw materials and we are made stronger by the forgings of life. Like the tempering of steel. Andover Lashk is not the boy he was before his hands were shattered. That was his first forging.”

  “Brolley Krous is not Andover Lashk. He has lived a sheltered life.”

  “Then his family has done him a great disservice.”

&n
bsp; “Will you consider his inexperience when you deal with him?”

  “He has but to apologize. He need only bow before me and withdraw his words and I will let him live.”

  “And if he does not?”

  Drask sighed and set his axe aside. The blade was so sharp that he could shave with it should he so desire.

  “If he does not apologize, I still demand satisfaction. Perhaps I will kill him. Perhaps I will break his bones. Perhaps I will cut out his tongue to remind him that only a fool wags an appendage if he wishes to keep it.”

  “You understand that he is cousin to the Emperor?”

  Drask stared at her for several long moments. “I did not know this.”

  “Does it change anything?”

  “I will speak with Tuskandru. I will seek his wisdom on this matter.”

  “It’s late. Will you need time to discuss this?”

  Drask shook his head and smiled behind the veil. “You and yours are a subtle people. Had you wished more time for the boy and his family to prepare, you simply could have asked.”

  Tataya smiled and her hand touched his shoulder, her fingers unconsciously tracing the scars that crisscrossed the flesh there. “Would you have granted it?”

  “Possibly. We will never know.” He stared into her eyes for a moment. “Two days. I will take two days to consult. At the end of that time, if the boy prostrates himself and apologizes I will spare him. Should my king make other demands I will change my mind.”

  “You are kind, Drask.”

  “No, Tataya. I am sensible to the political winds. Nothing more.”

  She slid in closer to him and her lips pressed against the scars on his shoulder. Her lips were warm and soft and soothing.

  He allowed himself to be soothed.