The Forge of Men

by Caleb Wachter

  He briefly met the First Daughter’s eyes before resuming eye contact with the Hold Mistress and saying, “The rule of law, the principles of honor and justice, and the traditions which define who and what we are.”

  The Hold Mistress’ lips took on a short-lived smile before she turned to her daughter, Adonia, and once again said, “A fine sentiment…would you not agree, Adonia?”

  This time when the First Daughter of Argos spoke there was only the barest trace of rebuke in her tone as she said, “Indeed it is, Mother…but only time will tell if it is also a foolish one.”

  Chapter XVI: The Baited Trap

  “I think she likes you,” Kephus said after leading Nikomedes and Vasikus back to the guardhouse. “Both of them, actually,” he added with a stern look of disapproval.

  “What gives you that impression?” Nikomedes asked, playing coy on one of the two counts. In truth, he could not have imagined his first meeting with the First Daughter having gone much worse than it had just done. But he also was curious to hear the other man’s reasoning.

  “The Land Bride addressed you directly in the Great Hall—twice in one day,” Vasikus grunted. “It’s more than she’s done for anyone, as far as I can remember.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with the particulars of her address,” Kephus said with a nod as he waved a hand irritably, “that one’s heart is as cold as glacier ice. You could have rescued a thousand babes without assistance and she would find the dark lining in that particular silver cloud.”

  Vasikus turned to Nikomedes and gave him a hard look before offering his hand, “Despite your grandstanding, it has been an honor serving with you, Nikomedes.”

  Uncertain why the other man was offering the gesture of respect, Nikomedes clasped his hand and replied, “I apologize for my insubordination—“

  Vasikus cocked his fist and hammered it into Nikomedes’ gut before he could finish, but Nikomedes flexed and barely moved as the blow thundered into his abdomen. He knew he deserved a measure of censure for breaking ranks—especially after convincing his commander to follow a plan of his own design—and honor demanded the other man deliver such censure in a timely manner. In truth, it was a fairly benign punishment, all things considered.

  The older commander grunted, “Consider us square on that matter now, Nikomedes, and speak no further of it.” Turning to the commander, Vasikus said, “I should get back to the healers to check on Herodotus. I would hate to have to replace two of my men before the next patrol,” he grumbled.

  Kephus dismissed him with a silent wave of his hand as he sat behind his desk, and Vasikus left the room. When he had done so, Kastor Kephus gave Nikomedes an approving look. “That went as well as we could have expected,” he mused. “That Kallistos didn’t follow up on his early pecking suggests Nykator has other plans for you than servicing that preening little rooster’s ego.”

  “And what of Zenobios?” Nikomedes asked, having failed to identify him during the audience.

  “I did not see him present,” Kephus replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps Nykator is saving you for when he returns from wherever he has gone?”

  “Saving me?” Nikomedes repeated archly.

  Kastor Kephus chuckled. “I think the Zosime women were not the only prominent figures in the Great Hall to take note of you,” he said with a knowing look.

  Nikomedes nodded slowly as he understood the other man’s meaning. “He will attempt to recruit me,” he concluded.

  “He will succeed in that attempt,” Kephus grunted as he stood and removed the belt from which his sword hung, “but to keep up appearances, you have to take this.”

  Nikomedes eyed the finely-crafted blade as the gears of his mind worked to catch up to the other man’s meaning. “You mean to give the appearance of competing for my services,” he finally concluded, but did not accept the blade since by doing so he would be accepting Kephus’ plan.

  “I do,” Kephus nodded, thrusting the blade toward him, “because without it, Nykator will smell a ruse. He is a ruthless, brutal warlord who revels in bloodshed and disregards tradition more often than he should, but he is no fool. If we do not give the appearance of a bidding war for your loyalty, he will know it has been our intention to place you among his ranks from the very start and your part of this design will be cut short.”

  Nikomedes understood the other man’s meaning and accepted the blade, which he drew from its scabbard to inspect. It bore a pair of blood grooves down the middle, and its edges were razor sharp. It was longer than most blades, but still finely-balanced so that wielding it would require little adjustment to his stance and technique. The blue-grey tint of the metal was on unfamiliar to him, but the polished flat of the blade was nearly as reflective as a mirror.

  “A fine weapon,” Nikomedes said appreciatively before strapping it around his waist. “I will return it to you when my part in this is over.”

  Kephus nodded before waving his hand toward the barracks, “After this—and after you accept Nykator’s offer to join his cadre—we may not be seen together in public. If we should happen to meet by chance then it must come to blows between us, but I cannot concede the fight. I will, however,” he added a bit too smugly for Nikomedes’ liking, “spare your honor before walking away.”

  Nikomedes had no wish to argue with the man, so he simply nodded in silence and offered his hand, “Strength and honor, Kastor Kephus.”

  “Strength and honor, Nikomedes,” Kephus returned the courtesy. “Gain his trust and do what you must while in his service to gain even more of Lady Akantha’s favor, but be prepared to embark on a secretive mission when I give the word for you to do so.”

  “What kind of mission?” Nikomedes asked guardedly.

  “The kind that will give us the edge we will need to bring Nykator and his men down,” Kephus explained pointedly, but Nikomedes did not take the other man’s meaning and made this obvious with a confused expression. “Did you not see the sword she bears for him?” Kephus asked with tight surprise.

  In truth, Nikomedes had not seen it. He had been too enraptured by the scene to pay attention to every detail of the Great Hall, so he shook his head making no attempt to mask his irritation with his failure to recognize a key component of the contest to come.

  “She bears his Light Sword of Power, Nikomedes,” Kastor Kephus said heavily, causing Nikomedes’ eyes to briefly go wide at the revelation. “And there are only two things which can possibly defeat a Light Sword of Power: the first is another Light Sword, but the one which Nykator wields is the only known weapon of its kind presently found in these lands. The second…” he trailed off with a meaningful look.

  “A Dark Sword of Power?” Nikomedes asked, feeling a surge of excitement well up deep within him as he realized what Kephus was proposing.

  Kastor Kephus nodded, gesturing to his sword which now hung at Nikomedes’ waist, “That blade is just a down-payment. If you agree to help me unseat that bastard of three fathers, Hypatios Nykator, I’ll show you where to find the final remaining lost Dark Sword of Power…if,” he added after a pointed pause, “you also agree to let me use it to pry that Light Sword from Nykator’s death-locked fingers.”

  Nikomedes did not even need to think before replying, “Of course.”

  It took only two days for word of Zenobios’ return to reach Nikomedes’ ears, and only half a day for one of the Tegean warriors who served Nykator to come to the guardhouse on Hypatios Nykator’s behalf.

  “My warlord requests your presence, guardsman Nikomedes,” the warrior said after Nikomedes had stepped out of the guardhouse to meet the man. “Follow me.”

  Nikomedes obliged, with Kastor Kephus’ sword handing from his waist and his armor having been completely repaired. His wounds were also healing well, though the deepest one in his leg remained stiff and red with a mild infection. It did not hinder his movements, however, and he followed the Tegean warrior across the citadel to where Hypatios Nykator’s men had erected a series of tents around
what could have only been a tournament field.

  When they arrived, Nikomedes quickly saw Nykator sitting atop a large bench, his Stone Rhino armor seeming to enlarge his physique until he looked even larger than Kratos had looked.

  But Nikomedes knew that with such armor on, Kratos would look even larger than Nykator did now. However, as many of Nikomedes’ fallen foes would certainly attest if they were able, size was not the final determinant of fighting ability—although, more often than not, it was one of the most important.

  “Nikomedes,” Nykator’s voice boomed across the open tournament field, which was built in the same shape as the citadel’s outer walls, “we have eagerly awaited your arrival. It is good you have come before the setting of the sun,” he said, gesturing to the sun which would hang above the horizon for no more than two more hours before disappearing for the day.

  Nikomedes made his way past the escort who had accompanied him, placing his hand on the pommel of the sword which Kephus had lent him as he did so.

  Nykator chuckled at seeing the gesture, “That is a fine weapon—for a guardsman. But that cheap armor,” he said, cutting straight to the point just as Nikomedes had expected he would, “not only is it battle-worn, but it is too meager for a warrior of your abilities.”

  Nikomedes came to stand before the warlord, who was surrounded by his lieutenants. He recognized Kallistos, the mouthy ‘milk drinker’ as Kephus had put it, but there was a pair of prominent figures nearby which he had not previously recognized.

  One was a man who in bearing and stature was very nearly Nykator’s equal, and he stood at the warlord’s right hand. The position signified his high status within the warlord’s cadre, and Nikomedes therefore deduced that his name was Kapaneus. He was supposedly the top commander who served under Nykator, and in many ways he was the Tegean warlord’s protégé.

  The third was a man with a full, blond beard and dark brown eyes set beneath a pair of razor thin eyebrows. Judging from the dark semicircles beneath his eyes, Nikomedes concluded that this was Zenobios. He had just returned to the citadel after making an excursion to neighboring Lyconesia to scout the borderlands between that Hold and Argos. It was an important, if unheralded task but without it being diligently executed their enemies would take advantage of the lax defenses. Such advantages would include setting up staging areas to increase the speed and frequency of the unofficial raids each Hold conducted against the other.

  “Horatio,” Nykator bellowed, prompting a warrior who had stood behind the bench until that moment to come forward, arriving at a stop before the bench on which the warlord now sat. The warrior, Horatio, bore a large satchel with a fine silk drape laid over it, and Nykator stood from the bench to remove the drape with a flourish.

  Beneath it was a finely crafted suit of field plate armor, which was slightly less robust than that preferred by most warriors but it also allowed significantly more mobility than its full plate counterpart.

  Nykator’s eyes met Nikomedes’ for a brief moment which told Nikomedes that the warlord and Protector of Argos was telling him that he had already taken at least part of his measure by offering a suit of armor which would allow him to maximize his mobility and agility rather than afford him nearly impenetrable protection at the cost of significantly diminished speed and range of motion.

  “Take this armor and replace those leather scraps,” Nykator said in a commanding tone, but Nikomedes knew that this was itself a sort of test so he stood his ground firmly, once flexing his grip on the pommel of Kephus’ sword at his side.

  “This is too great of an honor, Protector,” Nikomedes said with respectful deference. “I do not deserve it.”

  “No, you don’t,” Nykator said, causing a stir of muted snickers from the crowd around him. Zenobios, however, was far from amused as his eyes narrowed while his warlord continued, “But my Hold Mistress has commanded me to bequeath a fitting reward on you in spite of the foolish reluctance you showed in the Great Hall. The quicker you learn that displays of false humility will get you nowhere with me, boy,” he said, causing Nikomedes’ hackles to rise of their own accord at being called a ‘boy’ yet again, “the better it will go for you.”

  Nikomedes knew that to resist too greatly would be to find himself the target of not only the lieutenants’ ire, but of Nykator’s as well. So he nodded, moving forward to accept the armor from Horatio.

  “Good lad,” Nykator said approvingly after he had accepted it into his arms. “Now to the business of the day,” Nykator said, turning pointedly to Zenobios, “since becoming the undisputed Lord of the Tegean Host, I have maintained a command structure which has remained unchanged since the day I sent the eight severed heads of the Host’s former commanders to Hold Mistress Zosime as a gift on the birth day of our first daughter.”

  Nikomedes had heard the impressive tale of how Hypatios Nykator had, sensing dissent and rebellion within the ranks of his personal army of three thousand Tegean warriors, challenged each of his eight commanders during a single afternoon. Each had accepted the challenge, and each had lost his head during the series of duels. That very night, Nykator had marched at the head of the newly-unified Host to push back an army which had threatened to break Argos’ borders in the weeks leading up to his brutally effective consolidation of power. It was, if Nikomedes was being honest, one of the most impressive tales he had ever heard—and he could both understand and respect the warlord’s public referencing of the occasion as early and often as possible.

  “Eight commanders, as had been traditional among Tegea’s tribes until that day,” Nykator continued, “was simply too many. The womanly squabbling, conniving, and plotting of so many independent commanders nearly robbed this mighty war band of its unparalleled power.” He turned to face Nikomedes for a pointed moment before sweeping the rest of his warriors with his gaze and continuing, “So that number was reduced to three, each of whom reports directly to me and me alone, and will suffer my unbridled wrath for failure to discharge his duty to the Host.”

  Nikomedes’ eyes flicked from Nykator to his lieutenants as the warlord spoke, and each of them looked appropriately tense as they stood outside the tournament field’s wooden barricade.

  “As such,” Nykator boomed, turning to the empty field before them and sneering briefly, “I’ve found it…productive to encourage healthy competition among those commanders. And since battles are not fought on a schedule which conforms to the waxing and waning of the moon, neither shall the intervals of these competitions conform to any set schedule. Each of you has been invited here,” he said, once again making brief eye contact with Nikomedes, who noted that sixteen warriors in all now stood around Nykator, “to participate in that tournament in pursuit of personal acclaim. If you sufficiently impress me, you may even find yourself among my three commanders—since none of them can count their positions as secure,” he said, giving a sharp look at Zenobios who silently fumed at the public rebuke.

  Nikomedes felt a thrill of anticipation at the prospect of feeling out his chief competitors. He knew he would need to hold back in order to preserve his carefully-laid trap’s integrity, but he also knew that he could possibly gain extremely valuable information by participating in the impromptu tournament.

  “The rules are as follows,” Nykator explained, waving a hand and causing one of his warriors who stood beside the wooden barricade to remove the poles which comprised his section of the fence, “wear whatever armor you wish, but wooden shields and blades that have been blunted for the occasion—though not too blunted,” he added with a dark grin, causing a series of tight snickers to make their rounds among the assembled warriors, “will be provided for you when you set foot inside. Warriors are considered live competitors while they retain consciousness and their feet. If you wish to submit,” he spat the word contemptuously, “simply cast aside your weapon, take a three point kneeling stance for ten beats of the drum, and you will be permitted to leave the field—but this is single elimination, as are real ba
ttles, and a single defeat will see your permanent exit from the competition. As wartime conditions are varied, so too will be the tournament’s; we begin the first round of team battle in one hour. No team can have more than six warriors, and the first round ends when one team lies defeated or surrendered and fewer than half of the entrants remain eligible for advancement.” He waved his hand to a nearby set of tents which held blades and shields, “Prepare yourselves; the Hold Mistress herself—along with her First Daughter—will be in attendance.”

  It would have been clear to a blind man that Nykator’s mention of the First Daughter’s impending presence made the assemblage swell with pride, and Nikomedes knew that he was indeed standing among the vast majority of those with whom he would be competing for the Land Bride’s hand.

  His heartbeat quickening in anticipation, he made his way to the dressing tents to don his new armor and prepare for the tournament.

  The armor fit him much better than even his heavily-modified leather had done. He had been forced to trim away bits of his old armor while lengthening several of the straps to provide for maximum protection over his long, muscular form.

  But Nikomedes knew that this suit of armor, in spite of Nykator’s declaration that it was essentially a gift from the Hold Mistress, was a bribe meant to make Kephus’ gifted sword pale in comparison. And it genuinely did so. A suit of well-made field plate like this would cost at least three times as much as Kephus’ admittedly fine blade, but the full plate suits which Kephus and most of the other ranking members of the Argosian military wore—those who had not secured Stone Rhino armor, that is—were several times more expensive than even this suit of field plate.

  Sensing several sets of eyes on him as he finished adjusting the asymmetrical suit of armor to his body, Nikomedes finally looked up to see Kallistos approaching him.