The Forge of Men

by Caleb Wachter

  “And what of the Word of Men?” Nikomedes challenged, feeling a flare of righteous anger at Kratos’ words. “What of our peoples’ destiny to be uploaded when the voice of Men calls from the heavens, summoning us to once again join the battle of the stars? Would you dismiss all that we have been and all we have believed in for the sake of your ‘philosophy’?”

  Kratos turned to the younger man and regarded him for a moment. “I have never heard the voice of Men…have you?” he asked pointedly. “In fact, the Word of Men—which our people cling to so blindly—says quite clearly that we should have been ‘uploaded’ many times over according to the ancient calendars, yet here we are still,” he splayed his hands wide and cast a dubious look out toward the valley. “Why do you think that is?”

  Nikomedes had heard many theories as to why Men had not fulfilled its ancient prophecy but none of them had rung true to his own ears, and at his hesitation Kratos nodded knowingly.

  “Precisely,” the burly warlord said flatly. “Many possibilities exist for this supposed silence…not the least of which being that we were never meant to stride among the stars, and that it was all nothing but a lie to distract us from the harsh reality of life.”

  “Which is?” Nikomedes scoffed. Hearing such heretical words caused his blood to boil, and it was all he could do to keep from lashing out at the other man.

  Kratos walked toward the door, and when he had reached it he turned with a dark look on his face. “That all we have is this,” he gestured to the fortress and valley. “The sooner we accept that, the sooner we can take hold of our destiny and do what we were meant to do.”

  Kratos made his way through the door, leaving Nikomedes standing in the bitterly cold wind. He looked out at the valley and tried to clear Kratos’ words from his mind, but was shaken from his moment of silence by the warlord’s voice.

  “Are you coming?” his voice echoed from the doorway, and Nikomedes saw that the door to the cell was still open. He realized that the cell in which he stood was not to be the final leg of his ‘tour,’ so he left the cold, windblown room and made to follow Kratos down the corridor.

  They ascended the spiral staircase in silence, passing a few men as they did so, who made their respects to Kratos as they did so. Nikomedes ignored them and their hard glares, as he followed to the top of the spiral staircase. The wound to his torso from the cat’s claw was still healing, and it flared angrily as he made it to the top.

  Kratos opened the door and once again, there was a hallway with doors lining each side. But these doors were wooden, and there were no bars built into them.

  “The Black Arrow lodgings,” Kratos explained as he pointed to a nearby door, “yours is here.”

  Nikomedes shook his head. “I am not one of your Ice Raiders,” he said shortly. “I would stay in the prison cells.”

  Kratos chuckled. “I’m afraid we have no room left in the cells,” he said lightly, but his eyes were burning a hole in Nikomedes’ head. “Besides, these are the terms of your…” his lips quirked into a smirk, “service to me.”

  Nikomedes suppressed a sigh as he nodded stiffly. “Very well, I will stay here,” he said tightly. “But I am not one of your men.”

  Kratos pushed the door open and gestured for Nikomedes to enter. The younger man obliged, warily stepping inside as he took in the surroundings.

  It was a medium-sized room, perhaps four meters wide by six meters deep, with a one meter by two meter, arched window in the center of the outer wall which looked out over the valley. The window had a pair of shutters, one of which swung freely open in the wind while the other was locked in place.

  The bed was built out of small logs, and the mattress appeared to be made of connected animal skins with straw stuffed into it. It is a finer appointment than I’ve had known since father’s—

  He stopped himself from finishing the thought. Certainly his time in the barracks under Felix’ command had been less comfortable, and he briefly wondered how such living quarters were assigned.

  Then his eyes came to a figure sitting beside the bed, and he turned to Kratos with an annoyed look.

  The larger man shrugged. “Vaeros was a fine warrior. He was the highest ranking man you defeated, so that which was his now belongs to you. It is the natural way of things.”

  Nikomedes looked again to the person beside the bed, and found that she was not unattractive in the least. She had clearly been expecting him, as her attire—or lack thereof—suggested.

  “I will need no ‘companionship’ during my time here,” Nikomedes growled, refusing to make eye contact with the woman. “Leave.”

  Kratos clucked his tongue. “Poor form,” he admonished. “She is here of her own will, and has already been told of Vaeros’ fate. She is young, fit, and without child—a man could do worse.”

  Nikomedes shook his head stiffly as he locked gazes with Kratos, who merely shrugged indifferently. After a few seconds, the girl exited the room and Nikomedes’ eyes never even met hers as she left.

  “You are free to explore the fortress tonight,” Kratos said as he turned to leave. “But I suggest you get some rest; we march in two days’ time.”

  Nikomedes arched an eyebrow, “To where?”

  “Does it matter?” Kratos called over his shoulder as he went to the far end of the hall, where Nikomedes assumed his room was located. When he had reached the door, he turned and chuckled darkly. “I suppose we’ll soon find out if you were worth the trouble, or if I should have left you on the field with my eye.”

  Chapter VII: The Siege

  Two weeks later, after marching up and down the rocky slopes of the northern mountains, the small army arrived at their destination.

  There were two hundred of them, and they had been provisioned with supplies from the fortress’s stockrooms which consisted mainly of dried meat and grains. Nikomedes was again near the rear of the group, and he purposefully excluded himself from the interactions of the other men.

  As they approached their destination, he saw a fortress nestled against a sheer cliff. Its walls were of the standard height, but the structure appeared to be run-down even at a distance.

  The primary reason for each fortress to have high, stone walls was to protect the inhabitants from Stone Rhino attacks. Stone Rhinos were easily the most dangerous animal to be found on land, and a single rampaging beast could cause untold carnage and destruction to a settlement. Their claws could tear through the strongest armor as though it was paper, and their bodies were huge and capable of generating incredible force with their terrible charges.

  Each season during the Stone Rhino’s rutting, the men of the various Holds would test themselves against the great beasts. Nikomedes’ birthplace, Argos, was home to the greatest Stone Rhino hunts ever organized. Men from neighboring regions would make the trek there to prove their valor and earn honor on the field by defeating one of the huge beasts before it could wreak havoc on the Hold.

  Not only did a man gain honor by slaying a Stone Rhino, but if he was successful then he could claim the monster’s hide. The skin of a male Stone Rhino in musk undergoes a significant change during those weeks, hardening to the point that it is all but impenetrable to man-made weapons. The finest warriors wore armor fashioned from such hide, and it was perhaps the greatest honor a man could earn for himself.

  With such devastating creatures roaming the land seemingly at random, any outpost or gathering of people which did not protect itself with walls that were robust enough to repel a Stone Rhino would soon find itself torn apart by the rampaging, migrant beasts.

  They marched down toward the fortress, and Nikomedes saw Kratos awaiting him as the group made their way down the winding path.

  “The Hold Minor of Anthopolous,” he gestured to the dilapidated fort. “Have you heard of it?”

  Nikomedes shook his head. “It would appear to be nearing the end of its days,” he mused as he appraised the worn-down structures.

  Kratos shrugged. “It is th
e way of all things. Even with maintenance, nothing can hope to stand against the ravages of time.”

  “Why have we come here?” Nikomedes asked, acutely aware that they had not come for a social call.

  “The Hold Mistress,” Kratos bit out the title, “requires that her Protector discharge his duty one last time. When he has done so, he is free to leave for his true home.”

  Nikomedes’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you saying that you serve as Protector to Anthopolous?”

  Kratos nodded as a dark expression came over his face. “We do as we must, boy,” he growled. “It was the only way to ensure that my father’s dream lived on.”

  Nikomedes shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and disdain. “So what threat demands your attention?” he asked. He was resigned to serving Kratos as he had agreed to do, but he did not agree with what the man stood for and he saw no reason to hide that fact.

  Kratos pointed out across the gently rolling, rocky plains before the crumbling fortress. “Do you see the road?”

  Nikomedes squinted his eyes and for a moment he did not see it, but then he spotted a winding, narrow path through the boulders dotting the landscape. He nodded when he had spotted it.

  “In two days’ time, an army will arrive,” Kratos explained. “They are from a neighboring state of no particular consequence, but their numbers have swelled to well over a thousand warriors and they fight under the banner of a man who would displace me as Protector to Anthopolous.”

  Nikomedes considered the odds of their two hundred warriors fighting an army of a thousand men. There were only two dozen Black Arrows among Kratos’ two hundred soldiers, with the rest being regulars—and the dregs, at that, if Nikomedes was to judge. They were mostly frail, elderly, or otherwise below the standard of the other warriors who lived at Blue Fang Pass. But every man had brought a short bow, in addition to two quivers of arrows, and Nikomedes now understood why. It was the only way they could hope to defeat such long odds, and even then it was a doubtful proposition.

  “Do you know this man?” Nikomedes asked after a pregnant silence.

  Kratos nodded, “I do; he is called Ektor, and he is a fearsome warrior. I’ve had the pleasure of victory over him…” he paused, as though in thought, before snorting bitterly, “twenty years ago this Frostrise, during the Northern Games—a fact which I’m certain plays heavily into his reasons for marching to Anthopolous’ doorstep.”

  “He comes for vengeance?” Nikomedes asked skeptically. Marching a thousand men was no small thing, and could not be undertaken on a whim since provisions were expensive, especially this far north during winter.

  “He would have his vengeance against me as his dessert,” Kratos replied irritably. “No, boy; he marches on Anthopolous so that his Hold Mistress might absorb this run-down Hold Minor into her own territory—probably so she can cede it to one of her less-than-favored daughters when they come of age.”

  Nikomedes nodded in understanding. Such were the ways of the Hold Mistresses of his world, with most wars being waged in the interests of increasing a given line’s holdings.

  “Nothing’s ever as simple as it appears, boy,” Kratos said, scoffing in unmasked amusement at having apparently deciphered Nikomedes’ train of thought just from watching his expression. “His Mistress would never have been able to convince him to wage this little war if he hadn’t known about my presence here—a fact I was certain to convey to him several months ago.”

  “You goaded him into coming?” Nikomedes asked incredulously, just as impressed by Kratos’ gall as he was dumbfounded that he would have done so.

  “I’m an old man,” Kratos said flatly, “better that my battles happen sooner, rather than later. Besides, controlling information is one of the Six Pillars; only a fool goes where he’s told to go when he has a choice in the matter, but it seems that Ektor is just such a fool.”

  “A fool with a thousand men under his banner,” Nikomedes said unflinchingly.

  “True enough,” Kratos grudged.

  “Yet you have over a thousand,” Nikomedes pressed, uncertain why the one-eyed warrior had only brought a small fraction of that number.

  A dark gleam entered Kratos’ eye. “My original plan was to march the whole fifteen hundred of them you marched back with up here,” the scar-faced warrior said measuredly before turning his gaze on Nikomedes, “but now there’s no need.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nikomedes said after a lengthy silence.

  “You will,” Kratos assured him before gesturing to the winding path he had indicated a moment earlier.

  Nikomedes turned and saw a figure approaching, bearing a standard made from black cloth with a red emblem emblazoned on its front. The figure was followed by another, larger man, and the second man wore what looked to be Stone Rhino armor beneath a heavy fur cloak.

  “Let’s go meet him,” Kratos said, hefting Glacier Splitter over his shoulder and setting off for the winding path with Nikomedes at his side.

  “A shame he didn’t finish the job,” Ektor, the mountainous warrior wearing the Stone Rhino armor said after gesturing to Kratos’ ruined face, “whoever he was, his work was a big improvement.”

  “Ektor,” Kratos said, dropping Glacier Splitter’s head to the frost-covered ground with an audible crack, “still more concerned with looks than utility?” Kratos gave Ektor’s standard carrier, who was square-jawed, smooth-skinned and clean-shaven, a disapproving look before turning his attention to the multi-colored furs, feathers, and dyed wools which made up Ektor’s overly stylized cloak. “I haven’t seen that many colors in one place since my daughter knocked over the portrait-maker’s easel on her eighth birthday.”

  “I see you got your stone back,” Ektor said, causing Kratos to stiffen and the other man to smirk before he gestured to Glacier Splitter, “I meant your hammer, of course.”

  “Pity your feet never were as quick as your tongue,” Kratos retorted, and Nikomedes found himself mildly entertained by the tense exchange. ‘Stone’ was often used in the northlands to refer to a man’s testicles; Ektor had just suggested that Kratos was short one of his, and Kratos had not exactly refuted the claim.

  “You mean that wrestling match from twenty years ago?” Ektor asked with mock incredulity before shaking his head piteously. “A man would do well not to define himself by events so far distant in the past.”

  Kratos snorted derisively, “Spoken like one with plenty of experience losing, Ektor. Everywhere you go it seems you always end up coming second.”

  Now it was Ektor’s turn to stiffen. “I’ve come to collect you, Kratos, and return you to my Hold Mistress for judgment.”

  “Oh?” Kratos said dryly. “Looking to trade up, is she?” He sighed wistfully, shaking his head as he briefly met Nikomedes’ eyes with his gaze, “Put a pint of brew in that woman and she’ll spread her legs for anyone, which is how Ektor here got the job. See, he’s not even all that interested in women—“

  Ektor drew his sword—which was a long, finely-crafted blade with a gold hilt and several multicolored gemstones adorning the crosspiece—and shouted, “You are a vile creature, Kratos; I demand satisfaction for your slight against my Hold Mistress’s honor!”

  Kratos did not flinch as the tip of Ektor’s sword rested no more than a foot from his face—but Nikomedes took note of the fact that Ektor had not interrupted Kratos when he had actually been insulting his Hold Mistress’s honor.

  “Like I said,” Kratos said, his voice low and tempered but his muscles as tightly bound as a bowstring, “you do seem to have an uncanny knack for coming second, Ektor.”

  Ektor flinched and the tip of his sword briefly moving toward Kratos’ scarred face, but the too-well-dressed warrior took a pointed step back and sheathed his sword, causing Nikomedes to relax fractionally.

  “Read the proclamation, Hephaestion,” Ektor instructed, regaining some measure of his composure as he drew himself up.

  The smooth-skinned, square-jawed sta
ndard bearer planted the standard in the nearly frozen ground before unrolling a scroll, clearing his throat, and reading, “For slander against the Hold; for wanton acts of aggression against its citizenry, including no fewer than twenty counts of brigandage; and for failure to respond to a summons executed in the time-honored custom of our people, Kratos, Protector of Anthopolous, is hereby declared an enemy of our Hold. We call upon all—“

  “Skip to the end, boy,” Kratos growled irritably.

  Hephaestion met Kratos’ eye for a brief moment before clearing his throat and continuing, “…if he does not answer this final summons to receive our tempered justice, our Protector, Ektor, is instructed to bring that justice to him wherever he may be found, along with any who follow him.”

  “There,” Kratos quipped, “that wasn’t so hard.” Splaying his hands wide, Kratos looked at Ektor and said, “I’m right here, Ektor. What are you waiting for?”

  “We both know that’s only part of why I’m here,” Ektor said haughtily.

  “Oh, aye,” Kratos agreed, “we do know that.”

  Silence hung between them, during which time Nikomedes kept his eyes moving between Ektor and his standard bearer, Hephaestion.

  Kratos turned to Nikomedes, an unholy glint in his lone remaining eye, and declared, “I propose a wager.”

  “I did not come for games,” Ektor growled, “I came for your head.”

  “That’s what I’m offering,” Kratos said, meeting Nikomedes’ gaze for several seconds before turning to face his counterpart, “see, I’ve thought of a way we might settle this with a measure of dignity for all involved.”