Iron Axe

by Steven Harper

  The fairy backed up a step. “Is that an iron blade?”

  “I am aware of your cowardly aversion to iron,” Kalessa sniffed. “But no, I did not break your precious laws. This is good bronze. Inspect now! You cost me money.”

  Small brown feet padded over to Hamzu, who stood on the deck next to Aisa, also in bronze shackles. Aisa wanted the fairy to touch her, run his knobby fingers over her skin so she could drink him in. It was worse being here than in Balsia or Xaron. There, she’d had no chance of touching the Fae. Here, it was like walking into a banquet hall filled with delicious food when she had not eaten for days, and forcing herself not to touch a single succulent crumb.

  “This one has Stane blood,” the fairy observed. “We haven’t had any Stane in centuries. And won’t ever again, if things go as His Royal Majesty plans.”

  “Which is why I insisted upon selling him here at the capital instead of at the border,” Kalessa said, and only Aisa caught the agitation in her voice. “Do not bother to ask him questions. He cannot speak.”

  “He would be both strong, and a curiosity after his race becomes extinct,” the fairy said, and Aisa felt Hamzu tense beside her. She prayed he would not become angry.

  The fairy’s feet moved over in front of Aisa. She kept her eyes down, though she automatically watched from the corners. Sickening how easily the slave’s reflexes came back to her. The hunger raged. “And what is special about this one?” the fairy demanded.

  “She is a healer,” Kalessa said. “The best in the land. She can all but bring the dead back to life.”

  “And as Kin go, she’s extremely attractive.” A knobby brown hand extended into Aisa’s vision, intent on lifting her chin. Even though he was only a fairy, her entire skin longed for that gentle exquisiteness as a parched farm yearned for rain. The flat end of the knife slapped the fairy’s hand aside. Aisa risked a peek upward, both relieved and disappointed.

  “Do not touch!” Kalessa barked. “You want to lower her price by addicting her to your kind and ruining her for sale anywhere outside Alfhame.”

  “It takes more than a touch, you know,” said the fairy. “And only the elves can—”

  “Do not touch.”

  The fairy sighed. Aisa glanced at the two stars merging in the sky overhead. This was taking up so much time, time they didn’t have. But she was a slave again, and she couldn’t speak.

  “And what’s special about this one?” the fairy asked with a gesture at Talfi.

  “He comes with the Stane,” Kalessa said. “Two for one. He keeps the big creature from exploding.”

  “How?” asked the fairy.

  Kalessa leered in a way Aisa had never guessed an orc could leer. “Guess.”

  Talfi’s sharp face had gone bright red. Hamzu’s face remained stoic. Aisa prayed to Rolk they would stay calm. The fairy shrugged. “It will lower his price if he is attached to the Stane.”

  “My concern, not yours.” Kalessa tossed a few coins to the fairy boatman.

  The city of Palana arched and writhed through the great trees of the lush Fae forest, just as Aisa remembered it. A confusing network of bridges and boardwalks threaded through the branches, and bright, eye-twisting sprites flittered among the leaves, laughing as they went. Down below, the earthen, knobby-jointed fairies skittered about on errands of their own. And between them moved the elves, bright and beautiful with their luminous skin and silken hair and shining robes. They didn’t seem to walk as much as glide. Every gesture was a dance, every word a symphony. Aisa wanted to rush up the gangplank and fling herself at the feet of the least of them to beg for a touch, but she stayed where she was. The shackles actually helped. Good, solid bronze weighed her down. The shackles were bronze instead of iron because the Fae couldn’t bear the presence of iron, just as the Stane couldn’t bear the presence of sunlight. Even a touch of iron caused pain to the Fae, and wounds from iron weapons festered into poisonous infections that killed the Fae within hours, or even minutes. Iron and steel were therefore banned within the borders of Alfhame.

  The fairy said, “Once you pay the import tax …” Kalessa sighed heavily and dropped several more coins in the fairy’s little palm. “… you are free to sell your wares.”

  Kalessa led Talfi, Hamzu, and Aisa onto the dock by their shackles, jerking them along as if they were dogs or cattle. Aisa knew she was only acting the part of a slave dealer with special merchandise so a group of Kin and a half Stane would have an excuse to enter Alfhame, but she still found herself resenting the way Kalessa treated her. Hamzu walked behind her, slouching a little as he did in the village back in Balsia. Hunger and need tore at her. She clutched at the haft in her hands and concentrated on his presence to ward it off. He was strong and he was always there for her. How could she have pushed him away for a stupid mistake? He was not perfect, but his imperfections were ones she could forgive, and she realized she wanted him to forgive her own imperfections. She wanted him … well, she wanted him.

  It was a strange moment for her, shuffling along in shackles through an elven city, and avoiding their hunger by instead admitting to herself that she loved a man who was half Kin, half Stane. She felt the sun should shine on her, that her hunger should evaporate, and Hamzu should spin about and take her in his arms. None of those things happened.

  But she was still afraid of him.

  It was as hard to admit that as it had been to admit that she loved him, but it was so. He had never hurt her, not on purpose, but she had seen the sheer physical power of his body. If they became … became intimate, what would stop him from snapping her like the dry stick she now held in her hands? How much would it hurt to have him touch her? The thought made her shaky.

  They shuffled through the city. Human slaves with silver collars around their necks pulled wagons loaded with stuffs and carried sedan chairs laden with elven lords or ladies. Bridges arched overhead; brightly colored birds with graceful tails and high topknots twittered in the branches. Nowhere was there any of the usual things Aisa associated with cities—mud or excrement or waste or clutter or poverty. Everything was grace and beauty and light, just as in her memory.

  As if reading her mind, Hamzu muttered, “This place is horrible,” in a voice that carried no farther than her ear.

  Aisa cocked an ear, questioning without speaking to conserve and conceal communication.

  “The trees and birds are twisted from their natural growth,” he murmured. “They’re unnatural, and in pain. Sewage runs so thick and heavy under the ground it curls my toes. So much here is wasted. The lake is ready to erupt with filth.”

  “It looks beautiful,” Aisa said softly.

  “Not to my eye. I can see it.”

  That was interesting. Aisa remembered emptying buckets of night waste into holes under the trees, and throwing away clothing that had a small tear, dishes that had a tiny crack. She hadn’t given a thought to where everything went, or to how much the Fae wasted—or to how much waste they produced. When she did think about it, and how she was walking across elven filth, her hunger abated somewhat.

  They passed a trio of draugr, two human and one fairy, standing huddled beneath a half-dead tree. A pair of living sprites, their chaotic forms flickering like fire, danced in the air above the ghosts as if conversing. The draugr stretched pale arms out to the group as they shuffled by.

  “Release!” Their cold whisper made Aisa shudder.

  Kalessa yanked the chains and hurried the group along. A number of Fae stared briefly, then went on their business. The elves took slaves in tribute from the Kin in Balsia and Irbsa, but since elven glamour stole away Kin fertility, and since the elves were hard on their slaves, slaves neither lasted long, nor reproduced. The elves always needed more slaves than the tribute agreements allowed, so they bought more. An orc slave trader in Palana was therefore an oddity, but not unheard of.

  “This place is familiar,” Talfi said softly. He looked about as if in a daze and inhaled hard. “The smells. It’s like remem
bering a story from a long time ago. Around the corner there will be a small butcher’s market beneath a beech tree.”

  There was. A cluster of booths run by fairies sold meat ready for the cook pot. Aisa licked her lips. “You’ve been here before, then. Before you died.”

  “I think so.”

  “The only humans in Alfhame are slaves. You must have been addicted like me.” A bit of hope clutched her heart. “How—?”

  “It’s like Hamzu and I thought.” Talfi shifted in his shackles, and they clanked. “When I die, I start over.”

  The hope extinguished, and Aisa dropped her head. “So if you form an attachment to your new master, we only need kill you,” she couldn’t help saying.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “You have no idea what you’re saying,” she whispered.

  Hamzu stumbled and went to his knees with a low cry. Aisa went to him. Kalessa sighed heavily, as if annoyed that her prize slave had tripped.

  “What is it?” she hissed in his ear.

  “The drums.” His voice was hoarse. “I can feel the Stane drums. Like I did in the caves. They’re loud and powerful. I think the spells are ready, and they’re going to open the doors. Tonight. We have to get the Axe!”

  “We need not worry about the Stane,” Aisa murmured, helping him up. “They’re in Balsia, and all the armies are in Palana. It will take two weeks or more for the Stane to march here.”

  “But the stars are coming together tonight,” Hamzu pointed out.

  “Which way, which way?” Kalessa said as if to herself, and Aisa remembered with a start that she was supposed to point the way. The haft of the Iron Axe only responded to Aisa, so Kalessa couldn’t use it to guide them to the head. Aisa slid her hands down the haft and let the pull come over her. The head was close; she could feel it. She let the haft draw her toward a trio of gigantic ash trees that supported an equally gigantic house of polished wood and glittering glass that, like all elven houses, looked as if it had grown out of the trees themselves. It was horrifyingly, hauntingly familiar.

  “The palace,” Aisa whispered. “The head is in the palace. Where I was once a slave.”

  “Will they recognize you?” Kalessa murmured.

  Aisa’s heart was pounding and fine sweat broke out along her hairline, but she shook her head. “It was years ago, and to elves, all humans look as alike as grasshoppers.”

  “Then why didn’t you come back after you were exiled?” Talfi said. “You could have arranged to be sold to someone else and—”

  Aisa rounded on him. “I would rather live all my days in hunger than feast upon filth!”

  “Quiet, slaves,” Kalessa said as a pair of fairies passed within hearing. Aisa hushed herself, and let Kalessa drag her toward the palace. Her back straight, Kalessa climbed a delicate-looking staircase into the branches to a side door and pounded on it. It opened by itself, revealing a luminescent sprite. It seemed to be a glowing ball of light hovering in the door, but when Aisa looked at it more closely, she could see the wavering form within. The sprite flickered and another Kalessa was standing in the doorway. Aisa remembered sprites changing shape during her previous time in Alfhame, but it was still unnerving to watch.

  “Slaves from an orc,” the sprite Kalessa said. “You sell cares with your wares.”

  “I sell the finest,” Kalessa interrupted. “And only to your master.”

  “The king does not buy slaves himself, the elf,” giggled the sprite. “My name is RigTag Who Sings Over the Stormy Sky, and you may sell to me, you see.”

  Kalessa folded her arms. “I do not sell high-class slaves to underlings.”

  Aisa’s jaw tightened. Kalessa was pushing too hard, too far. The object was to get them into the palace, and quickly. Slaves went everywhere, and they could look for the Axe head in relative anonymity, since elven slaves never—almost never—disobeyed their masters and were trusted everywhere once they were addicted.

  And that was the key. Aisa herself did not worry about becoming addicted to the Fae. She already was. The Stane did not become addicted, and Talfi, who had insisted on coming along, had his own way out, if he needed it. The basic plan was that once they used the haft to locate the head of the Iron Axe, they would figure out a way to steal it, hopefully within a day or two. They couldn’t plan better than that, since they didn’t know how well the head was guarded, but Aisa suspected it would not be. The Axe head was useless without the heft and the power, and after a thousand years of easy rule, it seemed likely to Aisa that the luxury-loving elves would treat the head more as a curiosity than an artifact of great power.

  However, before all, they had to be sold into the palace, and Kalessa had fallen too deeply into her role of arrogant slave dealer. Aisa was trying to think of a way to signal Kalessa when an elven lord strode toward them. Aisa’s breath caught, and beside her, Talfi drew in a sharp gasp. The lord was beautiful, even by elven standards. His hair was the color of maple leaves in autumn, and his wide eyes were the intense green of twining ivy. His face was chiseled from finest marble, and the intensity of his eyes contrasted sharply with his fair skin. Rather than the usual elaborate robes or heavy dresses favored by the other elves, he wore a tunic and half boots of heavy brown silk. Aisa wanted to beg him to touch her with one of his long, supple hands.

  “What’s this?” he asked in a light, boyish tenor. “All this shouting is—oh!” He caught sight of Kalessa and her charges. He blinked heavily, and his perfect face blanched a little.

  The sprite popped back into its normal chaotic shape and bobbed uncertainly in the doorway. “My lord Ranadar, this orc—”

  Kalessa jumped in. “I am selling exotics, great lord, and the sprite prevents me from presenting them to you. If Your Lordship would only—”

  “I’ll buy the lot,” Ranadar said. His voice was shaking. “Give the orc what she wants and take the new slaves to the baths for cleansing.”

  “My lord!” said the sprite, shocked. “You are the son, the one, who is done of the king, the thing. It is unseemly, meanly, that you buy—”

  Ranadar punched the sprite hard. Its light dimmed sharply, and it dipped in midair, nearly falling to the ground. “Are you questioning me, creature?”

  “C-certainly not. Rot!” the sprite whimpered.

  “Good.” Ranadar stalked away.

  Aisa utterly failed to conceal her surprise and she exchanged glances with Hamzu and Talfi, who seemed as startled as she was. Only Kalessa appeared unfazed.

  “Three thousand in silver,” she said, a scandalous price, “and I’ll need a room for myself in the palace for several days.”

  The sprite, its light still dim, paused a moment, then said, “It will b-be, you see, as His Highness Lord Ranadar wishes, like f-fishes and dishes.”

  A pouch of coins dropped into Kalessa’s open palm, and the sprite, weaving dazedly, led them through the luxurious palace and past a number of other black-clad human slaves who barely noticed even Hamzu. They performed their tasks in a happy haze that Aisa recognized all too well. All of them had been taken from somewhere else, ripped away from family and friends and sold here, just as Aisa herself had been. A young man carried a chamber pot as if it were filled with gold. A little girl no more than seven scrubbed floors with a small smile on her face, not noticing the raw blisters on her hands. Aisa’s outrage overwhelmed her hunger for a moment, and she gripped the haft even tighter. This was why she was here. This had to end.

  The haft seemed to tug at her in response. The head was close by. Aisa could feel it.

  The sprite took them to a bathing room and bobbled away. The room was sticky and humid, with several sets of small private bathing stalls—Aisa remembered stoking the great tubs of water on the roof that granted hot running water—where two smiling slaves helped them bathe and change into the loose black trousers and shirts that marked all slaves. A single small window, too small to climb through, overlooked empty air, and the blue lake beyond.

  They
bathed quickly. Aisa chewed her lip. How were they going to find the Axe with only a few hours to spare? When they finished dressing, Kalessa, without turning a hair, locked silver slave collars around their necks. Aisa caught no indication that she was anything but a slave trader who had struck a nice bargain. That hurt a little, necessary as it was. Then Kalessa ordered the bath slaves to leave, and they did.

  “How are the drums, Hamzu?” Aisa asked.

  “I’m all right.” He passed a large hand over his face. “They just caught me by surprise. But I can still feel them. Sunset at the latest.”

  Another surprise came to them. Just as Talfi was pulling on his tunic, the door opened and Ranadar stormed into the room. Before anyone could react, he strode up to the startled Talfi and grabbed both his hands.

  “How is it possible?” he demanded. “How?”

  “My lord!” Kalessa barked. “You can’t—”

  But Ranadar kissed Talfi full on the lips. Talfi stiffened and his eyes slid shut. Aisa tightened her grip on the haft. She knew all too well what Talfi was feeling, and she both envied and pitied him. Kalessa’s eyes met Aisa’s. Her hand moved toward the shape-shifting sword at her belt, and Aisa’s hands tightened on the heft. Maybe they should kill Ranadar now, hide the body, and move for the Axe head. Maybe they could—

  Ranadar broke the kiss. Talfi staggered and opened his eyes. “Ran!” he gasped. “Vik and Halza, it’s you! Ran!”

  “How?” Ranadar repeated. His voice was hoarse, and it sounded strange in an elf. “You died. Father cut your throat when he learned about us. He made me watch while Mother applauded.”

  “The dream man,” Hamzu said in shock. “Red hair.”

  Talfi’s face was ice pale. “How long ago was that?”

  “One hundred forty-seven years. Not that I haven’t counted every day.”

  “I should have charged more,” muttered Kalessa.

  “Is anyone watching us, my lord?” Aisa said quietly.