The Forge of Men

by Caleb Wachter

  Releasing the bandit’s flimsy spear, Nikomedes swiped the Spirewood spear at the third bandit, who deftly parried the blow but did not fare so well against a following attack aimed at his left leg. The wavy tip of the Spirewood spear bit deep into his thigh, and when Nikomedes snapped the wicked weapon back into a ready position a spray of blood burst from the warrior’s leg and he fell to the ground clutching the wound in a desperate bid to stop the flow of blood.

  A flicker of movement caught Nikomedes’ eye, and before he could think how to react his instincts took over. He turned his back, shielding the baby as he did so, and took an arrow near the same spot that the first one had landed in his back.

  Except this one caused his shoulder to seize up oddly, and he realized it must have skewered his shoulder blade, pinning it to the ribs of his back.

  Shifting the spear to his left hand, since his right would no longer serve as the primary hand for the rest of the fight, Nikomedes found the raiders who had stumbled into each other moving to flank him.

  He backpedaled as quickly as he could, both in an effort to put further distance between himself and the bow wielders as well as prevent the pair of raiders from flanking him before he could formulate some sort of plan.

  Another arrow soared through the air, but it landed a few feet in front of him with little impact force, spurring him to quicken his pace as he scrambled back from the two men.

  The baby’s cries had ceased, prompting an unexpected moment of genuine concern in the middle of the battle, but Nikomedes knew he would need all of his faculties to survive the fight—as he assumed Vasikus and Herodotus had done, since he no longer saw either of them.

  When he finally reached a rocky outcropping which would provide at least temporary shelter from the arrows, Nikomedes planted his feet and found himself wedged between the spear-wielding raiders and the stone at his back.

  He spun, parried, thrust, and dodged between their attacks, his mind nearly absent from his body as the years of training he had done with the spear—training which had come as a child, with his brother as instructor and partner—took control of his reflexes. His ruined shoulder failed him twice, with the first causing him to take a deep wound to his left thigh while the second somehow tore the cloth sling from his shoulder while opening up a shallow gash across his chest.

  Before he realized he had made to do it, he found that he had snatched the child from the air before it even hit the ground. By doing so, however, he sustained a third hit to his back that dislodged the arrow that had pinned his shoulder while rending the first one around and causing a hot stream of blood to go pouring down the skin of his back.

  He rolled forward awkwardly before scrambling to his feet, warding off a pair of strikes as he did so with his one-handed grip on the spear. But he was purely defensive at this point, and knew that without a stroke of luck on his side, he would have to abandon the baby in order to gain victory in his increasingly wounded state.

  Then the bandit to his left gasped, reaching blindly around to his back, and Nikomedes took the brief window to launch a brutal series of attacks against his companion. The assault lacked any finesse, and by the fourth move—an upward swipe of the spear as he spun around a counter thrust from his opponent—his weapon bit into the raider’s groin, striking the bone of his left leg and sending him to the ground as he tried desperately—and failed, evidenced by his rapid loss of consciousness—to stem the spray of blood from the mortal wound.

  Looking up, Nikomedes saw a group of guardsmen moving down the road toward him—among them was Vasikus, though Herodotus was nowhere to be seen. “Argos!” the guardsmen cried in unison, before setting off at a run toward the remaining bandits and causing them to flee in all directions.

  Satisfied that his own part in the battle was over, Nikomedes moved to finish the wounded bandit who had been clutching at his back—in which was now lodged a javelin, put there courtesy of one of the reinforcing guardsmen—and skewered him through the chest before collapsing to his knee, using the Spirewood spear for support.

  “I don’t know if I should knock your teeth out for going off-script, or help carry you back to the citadel for getting us all out of it alive,” Vasikus said with loud annoyance as he approached, nursing a badly wounded arm as he did so. “But, as one man to another, that was…impressive,” he said with grudging respect before lowering his voice and kneeling, holding his hands out to accept the baby as he added, “I’d wager it gets you noticed in the Great Hall, since I assume such was your aim.”

  Nikomedes gave him a short look before surrendering the baby, who began to cry once again as soon as he gave it up.

  “Seems he’s taken a liking to you,” Vasikus said bemusedly when the infant continued to cry in spite of the older man’s best efforts to calm him. “Come on; let’s help them secure the caravan and then get back to the citadel.”

  Chapter XV: Honored Acclaim vs. Icy Disdain

  “This is unexpected,” Kephus said after surveying the articles which Vasikus’ team had returned with. Among those articles was the Spirewood spear, a few articles of armor bearing citadel markings from various Holds, and the severed heads of each bandit.

  The heads had begun to reek, but they still served as positive identification for the defeated raiders—who had been hunted to a man by the reinforcing squad of guardsmen two days after Vasikus’ team had first engaged them at the ravine.

  “That’s Kyrillos, all right,” Kephus declared after appraising the stinking, severed head of the bearded bandit leader. “I can’t say death did much to change his odor.”

  “You know this man?” Nikomedes asked as he dressed the wounds to his legs. A mild infection had set in on the return trip, which had taken five days, but he had already received a balm from the apothecary who serviced the citadel guards and was applying it as Kephus received him and the others from Vasikus’ unit—including Herodotus, who had collapsed from blood loss not far from where Nikomedes had made his last stand behind the shelter of the rocky ledge, but was recovering after speedy ministrations had been made to his wounds in the field.

  “Not many from the Hold would consider him a stranger,” Kephus said sourly. “He’s Tegean by birth and was among Nykator’s first lieutenants when he arrived here so many years ago and became Protector to the Hold Mistress. This man had a poor temperament, to say the least.”

  Vasikus scoffed, “He once broke a man’s neck for bringing chilled grape wine.”

  Nikomedes’ brow furrowed in confusion, “Grape wine is meant to be served chilled, is it not?”

  Kephus nodded knowingly, “That’s why he broke the poor boy’s neck; the lad tried to reason with him, but Kyrillos was already deep into his cups and lost control of his temper.” Kastor Kephus looked at the Spirewood spear approvingly, “His Serpent’s Tongue Spear has seen finer days, but what can be expected after so many years with its owner living on the run as a common road bandit? A few days with one of our master armorers and it will be a fine weapon once again—or an equally fine trophy, I suppose. We’ll just wait and see what fate the Hold Mistress deems fit for it.”

  Nikomedes was only paying partial attention as he worked with sharp blade to scour the edges of his infection wounds in preparation for suturing them closed. The process would take at least an hour, and he had no wish to wait any longer than necessary since he knew that no man, no matter how valorous, could defeat an infection once it had set deep within his flesh. Only a skilled healer could bring him back from the brink, and Nikomedes was loath to put his life in another man’s hands.

  “You appear no worse for wear,” Kephus said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a bemused grin as he gave Nikomedes an appraising look. “Vasikus here might have to take you for a round or two in the circle to satisfy his besmirched honor at your disregard of his orders,” he said with equal amusement as the other man huffed indignantly, “but all told, it was a fine patrol.” He paused, letting the silence linger for several moments before add
ing, “News of your deeds has reached the Hold Mistress herself, and she would receive you in the Great Hall tomorrow before the midday recess.”

  Nikomedes nodded, having expected such a reaction and feeling more satisfied than excited at the prospect. But even though he had waited for the opportunity to present himself to the Hold Mistress officially, he was still somewhat surprised to hear of the auspicious placement of his reception. The interval before the midday break was when the Great Hall would be at maximum occupancy for the day, which meant that most of the influential citizens of the Hold would be present since Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime was currently receiving her monthly petitions from the gentry and nobility.

  Kastor Kephus approached and handed Nikomedes a small satchel, like those used for carrying sensitive documents during long journeys. When he looked within to find the pair of folded cloths which his mother had embroidered, along with another pair of documents with which he was unfamiliar, he turned a quizzical eye toward the commander of the citadel’s guard.

  “You’ll be needing those tomorrow,” Kephus assured him. “After your little stunt out there on the northwestern roads, the wolves will begin circling you immediately. I would guess that either Kallistos or Zenobios will move against you first. The former,” his lips twisted contemptuously, “will attempt to ridicule your lack of proper lineage with flowery words, while the latter is a warrior of some reasonable ability who, according to rumor, has found his station among Nykator’s men somewhat diminished of late. He may seize the opportunity to regain a measure of esteem in the eyes of his warlord by knocking you down a peg, likely invoking a lack of military discipline combined with self-centered ambition on your part.”

  “Self-centered ambition?” Nikomedes repeated with equal parts incredulity and amusement. “I would hear of his deeds if he would besmirch my own even while the blood of those bandits—and the family they murdered—lies wet on the ground.”

  “Don’t let them under your skin,” Kephus waved a hand dismissively, “and don’t get too cute when they move to provoke you. Just play the part of the dumb country boy who’s in way over his head under the waving tapestries—not to mention the ever-watchful eyes of the nobility—in the Great Hall and accept whichever challenge comes first. But if one doesn’t appear just yet then don’t go looking for it; it will find you soon enough.”

  Nikomedes snickered before resuming his wound care. “In the end, no matter how much scheming goes into a thing, it always comes down to a fight.”

  Kephus shrugged indifferently, “It’s the way of Men; the only things we can ever hope to control are who we fight, when we fight them, and why we do so—the latter meaning considerably less than either of the former.”

  “Indeed,” Nikomedes agreed darkly before silence fell on the room as each man tended to his own duties.

  Nikomedes stood outside the Great Hall’s doors as the group ahead of him in the queue made their way into the seat of Argosian government, and he felt unusually anxious.

  “Take a breath, boy,” Kephus muttered under his breath as Nikomedes looked down at his armor. It had been repaired, but it was a paltry sight compared to the bright, shining metal casement worn by Kephus—who stood at his side in the queue—or even the finely woven woolen and silk garments worn by the gentry and nobility as they milled about the corridors. “It’s nothing you haven’t done before.”

  “I am fine,” Nikomedes bit out irritably. But the truth was he did feel more uneasy than he had anticipated he would, so he decided to ask a few last-minute questions in the hope of taking his mind off the surprisingly nerve-wracking task before him. “Tell me,” he said as he adjusted his left vambrace, “which is the better fighter: Kallistos or Zenobios?”

  Kephus snorted. “In a proper war, Zenobios’ tactical acumen has the certain edge…but in a duel I’d wager Kallistos holds the advantage. His mother is the wealthiest woman in the region who isn’t a Hold Mistress in her own right, and he’s always been afforded access to the very best of things—including fencing teachers.”

  Nikomedes chuckled when he took the other man’s meaning, “How many years did he study under you?”

  Kastor Kephus gave him a wry look before replying, “Three. He has a nasty habit of holding his shoulders too far back as he moves laterally, and when I tried to break him of it—along with that nose he’s so proud of—I was dismissed from the post.” He sighed wistfully, “I’ll admit that my finances took a hit in the aftermath, but it’s a trade I’d make again without batting an eye. He’s the worst kind of entitled, pompous, overbred milk drinker you’ll ever find—but he’s also entrenched as the number two in Nykator’s cadre of lieutenants, and he earned every bit of the position in the dueling circle.”

  Nikomedes found himself nodding as the building anxiety was banished at hearing of a prospective opponent’s abilities. “And Zenobios?” he pressed.

  “He knows more about field warfare at twenty five years of age than most Protectors do at their peak,” Kephus replied easily. “He once laid siege to a citadel using only a hundred of Nykator’s men—along with two hundred slave-workers—and took the damned thing in a fortnight by digging tunnels under the walls.”

  “That is an impressive accomplishment,” Nikomedes admitted, though any fool knew that the proper site for a citadel was on solid bedrock, which would prevent even the possibility of such an attack. But eventually, curiosity got the better of him. “How did the defenders not realize he was doing it?”

  “Zenobios used fire bricks to reinforce the tunnels, rather than timbers, so the only trace of his engineering was a furnace that never went out as his slaves dug up the clay from a nearby riverbank. There were no timbers being brought in, so the citadel’s Protector thought nothing of it,” Kephus said with no small measure of appreciation.

  “Still,” Nikomedes said, unconvinced of the man’s worthiness, “a hundred men, no matter how good, could never take a proper citadel from the inside without working in concert with a larger force on the outside.”

  “Oh, he didn’t try to take the citadel by force,” Kephus assured him as the doors opened and the sentry beckoned for them to enter, “he tunneled precisely into their seven food storage silos and burned every grain stored inside before accepting their honorable surrender in Nykator’s name.”

  With that, Kephus led Nikomedes into the Great Hall, and it was like nothing he had ever seen. Hundreds of well-dressed nobles and gentry were arranged into tiny clusters, with geography and style of dress the only apparent commonalities between them.

  The tapestries which hung over the Great Hall were even more numerous than those at Blue Fang Pass, and they were considerably finer in make, material, and design than those which hung in Kratos’ keep. The dry fitted stone construction of the walls was perhaps the only aspect of Argos’ Great Hall which was rivaled by that of Blue Fang Pass.

  Seated at the far end of the hall was Hold Mistress Polymnia Sapphira Zosime, whose persona veritably radiated with measures of authority and poise which immediately commanding reverent respect. Her slender physique sat perched on her ornate, wooden chair as a hawk might do on an overlooking tree, casting a long shadow on all those beneath her.

  And the man to her side, Hypatios Nykator, had every bit as commanding of a presence as she did, if for entirely different reasons.

  His body was huge, though he was not quite as large as Kratos. His armor was immaculately crafted from Stone Rhino hide, and even his second sword—the one which he wore on most occasions while serving as Protector of Argos—was of finer quality than Ektor’s had been by a wide margin, even if it was less gaudy in appearance.

  His long, blond hair and thick, blond beard were prominent features of his face, but his eyes were what struck Nikomedes more than anything. He had the visage of a man who had never tasted defeat, and in that way at least he reminded him absolutely of Kratos.

  Nikomedes eyes moved from Nykator’s massive figure to a smaller, but in no way less impressi
ng, one sitting one step down from the Hold Mistress and her Protector. She had blonde hair which seemed to have been painted on her head by a master artist, milky white skin which seemingly bore not a single blemish, and a physique which was more formidable than most of the bandits Nikomedes had fought a few days earlier.

  But, like her uncle sitting opposite her mother, her eyes were what transfixed him; they were the color of glacier ice, and he found them locked with his own for a brief, fleeting moment which saw his heartbeat quicken and a curious, gnawing sensation take up residence deep within him.

  He had finally laid eyes on his quarry and, like any good hunter, he knew that his work was now closer to fruition than it had ever been.

  He matched Kephus’ long strides as they made their way through the press of colorfully-clad bodies, and soon they found themselves standing before the raised dais which held the objects of both his and Kastor Kephus’ attention.

  “Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime has summoned this guardsman,” Kephus began in a loud, carrying voice which strangely did not echo in the hall, “and he has come to answer that summons.”

  “Thank you, Kastor Kephus,” the Hold Mistress said, and Nikomedes found his eyes wandering of their own accord to the Hold’s First Daughter, who sat perched on a simple stool one step down from her mother, as was tradition.

  He refocused his gaze on the Hold Mistress, who by her brief—but pointed—delay, told him she did not appreciate his attention wandering while she made ready to address him.

  “Step forward, guardsman,” she commanded, and he did so, stepping in front of Kastor Kephus for the first time since entering the hall, since doing so previously would have constituted a breach of protocol. “Tell us your name,” she said in her airy voice which seemed to silence every member of the assemblage each time it rang out through the hall.