Nikomedes scowled briefly, but forced his ire down as he pointed to each man once again. “Both are full of themselves, but for different reasons,” he said, his mouth tightening when he caught a smile on Jason Montagne’s lips from the corner of his eye. “Kallistos,” Nikomedes continued, fighting the keep the emotion from his voice as he did his best to carry out his Men-given directive to ingratiate himself as much as reasonably possible, “because he cannot imagine a world in which a female he desired would willingly choose another over him. He imagines himself to be the stuff that women dream of.”
“And Kapaneus?” the brown-skinned warlord asked, a note of curiosity in his voice. “I suppose you are about to elucidate his character flaws for me as well?”
“He is an arrogant piece of work, believing himself to be better than any other,” Nikomedes growled as he allowed himself to scowl at the other man. “Swordplay, shield work, riding, jumping, throwing; there is not a manly skill of the field to which Kapaneus does not consider himself the most talented. Few are the individuals he considers his equal.”
“Is he any good,” Jason Montagne asked with a tinge of interest, “or just full of hot air?”
“If he did not have skill with a blade, Kapaneus would be dead by now,” Nikomedes said with grudging respect. Of all the men who had stood at Nykator’s side, Kapaneus was the only one who had given Nikomedes even a small measure of doubt regarding the outcome of the seemingly inevitable conflict between Nikomedes and Nykator’s top lieutenant.
“Amazing,” Jason Montagne said with dry sarcasm, “I can now consider myself informed on the subject of a pair of Argos court flowers.”
Nikomedes narrowed his eyes and his nostrils flared. “While I was away, questing for a sword of power to strengthen my suit with the Land Bride, this pair stayed at court and vied for her hand,” he explained, emotion tightening his voice.
“Yes,” the warlord said simply, though the light of comprehension filled his eyes for a brief moment as he apparently understood why Nikomedes had taken the time to point them out. “Are you saying these two are likely to be interested in causing trouble now that I’m within easy reach?”
Nikomedes shrugged, feeling a surge of triumph at his prey having taken the bait. “Kallistos is likely to put great store in the wealth and position of his family,” he explained levelly, “not to mention what he considers his great personal charm. For Kapaneus to overcome the perceived advantages of Kallistos, he would have attempted to gain the good favor of Hypatios Nykator,” he said, deciding against surrendering too much information all at once. Nikomedes had long known the social standing of the two respective warriors within Nykator’s cadre, but he thought that Jason Montagne might swallow the bait a little deeper into his gullet if he was forced to draw conclusions for himself rather than be spoon-fed like a braying toddler.
“Akantha’s Uncle Hypatios Nykator,” the flat-nosed warlord concluded after only a brief pause as he shook his head in what seemed to be mock, or at least muted, resignation.
“Indeed,” Nikomedes said, giving the other man a meaningful look.
The warlord shook his head harshly after a few seconds and shot Nikomedes a penetrating look. “I’ll say again: what’s your angle in all this?” the brown-skinned warlord asked, looking searching Nikomedes’ eyes with his own. “I’m supposed to believe you’re helping me out of the goodness of your heart?”
Nikomedes knew he had done what he had aimed to do at the outset of the conversation, but to keep up appearances he allowed his features to scrunch and tremble briefly in annoyance and anger. “I do not expect you to believe me,” Nikomedes said with a tight shrug.
Jason Montagne merely cast a level look in his direction, prompting Nikomedes to adjust his tack as he frowned hesitantly.
“I have seen what those armor suits you’re wearing can do first-hand,” Nikomedes explained, with equal parts false and genuine embarrassment. “The tale of your exploits among the River of Stars is farfetched and almost unbelievable…I want in. I want to see the truth with my own eyes,” he finished shortly, surprised at how much truth was mixed in with the lies he had spun in preparation for this exact moment.
“You want to get your hands on one of my battle suits so you can take another crack at me,” the brown-skinned warrior corrected, and Nikomedes saw a cold, heartless smile on the other man’s face as he presumed to have gained his measure so quickly—a mistake which Nikomedes knew he would make him pay for at some point in the future, just as he had done with Kratos.
“I hear that you are taking warriors into your war band and issuing them Star Armor like the one you and your guards are wearing,” Nikomedes said agreeably. He then shrugged and added, more for himself than for the warlord, “Yes, I want to wear one of your suits.”
The warlord from the River of Stars, resplendent in his magical armor and with the legendary Minos Sword strapped across his back, seemed ready to dismiss Nikomedes’ plea but then, in the blink of an eye that most others would have missed, Lady Adonia’s Protector hesitated.
“If I survive this latest visit to beautiful Argos, perhaps we’ll talk again,” the warlord eventually said, pursing his lips before turning pointedly away from Nikomedes.
Having received a far more favorable response than he had imagined he would, Nikomedes silently moved away from the warlord to the opposite side of the Great Hall. As he did so, he felt mixed looks of confusion, anger, and resentment from the assemblage, but he paid them no mind.
He had just taken the first step in his god’s plan, and very soon he would stride among the River of Stars itself just as Men had long ago promised his people they would do if they proved themselves worthy.
Nikomedes had clearly proven himself worthy of more than he could have dreamed. His god had not only granted him its sacred boons once, but twice, and each time had seen him receive a greater portion of divine favor than the last.
He knew that he had failed the Will of Men, regardless of its apparent magnanimity, and that failure would haunt him for the rest of his days. The first fight he’d had with Kratos was not a failure in his mind; it had merely been a trade of some portion of his life for the entirety of the surviving men who had stood with him against the heretical Ice Raiders. But the fight against Jason Montagne had been a truly soul-crushing defeat, and that Men had deemed him worthy of an opportunity to redeem himself was something he would never forget.
As Jason Montagne stood in his power armor, an imperious figure in the middle of the Great Hall of Argos’ seat of power, Nikomedes could not help but remember an axiom from his youth: the bigger they are, the better they bleed.
Nikomedes intended to bleed Jason Montagne, and he would savor every minute of the experience as he did so. The brown-skinned warlord might have been born among the River of Stars, but Nikomedes had been shaped by the harsh, unforgiving world chosen by Men to serve as the place for his ancestors to hone their Men-given gifts until they were worthy of Upload.
Nikomedes had already proven himself worthy of that hallowed, terrible experience, and he knew it was because long before he had ever set foot within the tomb of King Lykurgos, he had been tempered by a world so hostile, unforgiving, and deadly that there was truly only one proper name for it. It was a name which the Voice of Men had used when referring to the place where Nikomedes had received his most holy directives:
The Forge of Men.
He now fully understood the significance of the phrase after proving himself to be the pinnacle of his people’s pursuit of physical perfection, and he was filled with purpose as Kallistos and Kapaneus made their all-too-predictable move against the warlord from the stars.
But unlike their doomed attempts to unseat the warlord—who Nikomedes knew had more tricks up his sleeve than just his magical armor—he would not fail in his own.
He would stand before Hold Mistress Adonia Zosime for a third time, and this time when he did so she would have no choice but to accept his suit’s legitimacy.
And after she had done so, Nikomedes would kill that brown-skinned, flat-nosed, small-headed warlord, Jason Montagne. Not because Men had commanded him to do so, not because honor demanded him to reach as far and high as he could during the prime of his life, and not even because he sought revenge for the bitter defeat he had suffered at his hands.
He would kill him because he could not live in a world where Jason Montagne was the superior of Nikomedes Minos, who had slain a kraken as a boy and become the Chosen of Men as a man.
And he would kill him because he knew that no one else could.
Epilogue: The Longest Step
Nikomedes stood in line behind nearly a dozen warriors as he awaited his turn to board the shuttle which would take him to the citadel which Jason Montagne commanded. It was the seat of his power, and it was where Nikomedes would familiarize himself with the Starborn’s weapons and ways while sowing whatever alliances he could with whatever forces presented themselves.
He felt a thrill of excitement as the last of the shuttle’s material goods—much of which appeared to be medicinal—were offloaded for the Argos citadel guards to ferry into the citadel itself under the watchful eye of Kastor Kephus.
The new Protector of Argos acknowledged Nikomedes with a short nod, which Nikomedes returned. But Kastor Kephus was apparently uninterested in exchanging words with him, since he turned to the guards under his command—many of whom had been sworn to Hypatios Nykator not so long ago—and began ordering them to pack the supplies into the Inner Keep.
Nikomedes did not blame Kephus for his standoffishness. One rarely reached the social heights which Kastor Kephus now enjoyed as one of the preeminent Protectors of the world without severing ties to those who might weigh him down, and in Kephus’ eyes that was precisely what Nikomedes had become following his defeat by Jason Montagne: a liability. The fact that Nikomedes’ wounds were fully healed mattered little; he had made his grab for power and, by failing in his bid, he had marked himself as the enemy of nearly every bonded warrior in Argos.
Those who were loyal to House Zosime would be inclined to support Lady Adonia’s new Protector in the interests of stability for the House, while those who remained loyal to Nykator’s protégé, Kapaneus, would have every reason to remove him from their new warlord’s path in the hope of earning Kapaneus’ favor. Even those warriors who were simply loyal to Argos and took no sides in the recently shifted division of power would, at best, be hesitant to engage him publicly since doing so would earn the ire of the other groups. Kastor Kephus was merely doing what any intelligent person would do by distancing himself from his one-time ally.
And so Nikomedes harbored no ill will toward Argos’ new Protector. He knew that one day—hopefully soon—he would be in a position to make good his revenge against Jason Montagne and the Starborn whose very presence had upended much of his people’s society, and when he did so he would at the very least need Kastor Kephus to keep from joining the ranks of his enemies.
The shuttle’s engines fired, flaring with a bright, blue light as the air surrounding the shuttle was filled the sound of a hurricane as the green grass of the meadow bent flat against the dirt beneath the overpowering force of the unnatural wind.
“Load up, ladies!” barked Hansel Suffic, whose title was that of Lancer Colonel for Jason Montagne’s flying citadel: the Lucky Clover. The middle-aged warrior from the stars, who was second only to Jason Montagne himself among the Starborn warriors, gestured to the Argosian warriors from the top of the long, wide ramp which led to the shuttle’s interior. The Argosians moved within, warily eyeing the engines to either side of the shuttle as they entered the hollow, metal shell of the craft. Nikomedes did likewise, though he was more curious about the loudly raging flames within the engines than he was wary of them.
Over recent days, more imagery had come to Nikomedes’ mind but most of it was still meaningless to him. Some of it he recognized as being roughly similar to the weapons and equipment carried by the Starborn, but much of it was simply incomprehensible. He found himself silently mouthing strange, foreign words for which he knew no meaning, but thankfully these disconcerting outbursts were becoming increasingly rare. He suspected they would cease entirely when he was ready to take the Light Sword of Power in his hands for the first time, and he eagerly awaited that day as he kept the mighty weapon concealed beneath his armor at all times.
He met Hansel Suffic’s eyes as he passed, and the battle-hardened eyes of the Starborn commander narrowed as he held out a hand haltingly, which Nikomedes respected as he came to a stop at the top of the ramp. “You’re Nikomedes,” Suffic grunted.
“I am,” Nikomedes replied, matching the other man’s flinty gaze.
“Are we going to have a problem?” Colonel Suffic asked, his tone a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
“I am here to serve Warlord Montagne,” Nikomedes said, knowing that it was true to a point. He would indeed serve him in his campaign among the stars, and he would do so in whatever capacity was asked of him so long as it brought him closer to his Men-given directives. “If that is your purpose as well, then we will have no immediate conflict.”
The Lancer Colonel snorted as he lowered his interposing arm. “Bunch of low-browed brutes,” he muttered as he turned his gaze down the ramp toward the rest of the warriors who would soon stride the River of Stars, “if you mean to gun for my job, get in line—the day I lose to a hairless gorilla like you is the day I’m no longer fit to wear this uniform.”
Nikomedes silently pushed his way past the man, unconsciously reaching beneath the fold of the robe he wore over his clothing so he could finger the hilt of the Light Sword of Power. He imagined that he could feel it thrum beneath his fingertip, its own silent anticipation of the glory to come mirroring his own. But, as with any good trap, he knew that patience would prove instrumental to his successful execution of his Men-given directives. He would bide his time, he would endure whatever trials and tribulations were set before him, and in the end he would redeem himself in the eyes of his people, his ancestors, and his god.
The wide ramp which he had ascended a few minutes earlier lifted off the ground, and after a few seconds it had formed what looked like an airtight seal against the body of the shuttle. The warriors all stood, and were pressed together so tightly that it was difficult to turn, but Nikomedes found himself near the front of the compartment. He saw the driver of the shuttle—who was properly called a ‘pilot,’ as Nikomedes somehow intuitively knew—moving her hands over the flat display before her. Above that display was a window through which Nikomedes could see the Argos citadel’s main gate. He drank in the sight, knowing that he would not choose to return to the world of his birth until he was prepared to do Men’s will.
The shuttle lurched upward, and just a few seconds later the stone walls of Argos fell away from view and Nikomedes found he was more exhilarated than concerned at the briefly disconcerting motion of the craft. Then all sense of movement went away, and it was as though he was standing completely still, but through the pilot’s window he could see that they were hurtling with unthinkable speed toward the clouds which perpetually hung over Argos this time of year.
He actually winced as the craft crashed into the nearest cloud, but there was no impact and before long he could see unbroken, blue sky before them. Several other warriors were edging their way to a viewing position, but none dared to usurp Nikomedes’ position as he let his eyes drink in the scene of leaving his planet behind.
The blue sky gradually faded until it was black—blacker than any night sky he had ever seen—and a tiny object came into view in the center of the window before the pilot. The object grew steadily larger as the pilot expertly manipulated the mind-numbingly complex controls of the shuttle, and Nikomedes eventually made out the same image which adorned the rest of Jason Montagne’s warband: a four-leafed plant of some kind, along with a series of symbols which he presumed spelled ‘Lucky Clover,’ but could not know for certain since
he did not yet know how to read the Starborn language.
It was clearly Jason Montagne’s citadel, and he saw a shuttle similar to the one he now rode emerge from the Lucky Clover’s flank—or perhaps its belly; it was difficult for Nikomedes to identify which end of the massive, metal structure was ‘up,’ and which was ‘down.’ That shuttle passed close enough that Nikomedes could see the same, green image of Warlord Jason Montagne’s chosen heraldry emblazoned on its exterior, and Nikomedes was both awestruck and underwhelmed at the size of the flying citadel.
He had imagined something which would rival the Argosian citadel in terms of size, but Jason Montagne’s citadel was considerably smaller even in terms of length than the seat of House Zosime’s power was, though it dwarfed the heavily fortified Inner Keep by comparison.
Still, Nikomedes of all people knew that appearances could be deceiving, so he reserved final judgment until he had seen more of Jason Montagne’s citadel for himself.
The shuttle entered through the same opening which the departing shuttle had used, and Nikomedes felt himself reaching out to brace himself as the pilot brought the small craft into the large, rectangular opening much faster than seemed wise.
But the shuttle touched down with barely a trace of motion, and when it did the voice of Hansel Suffic cracked like a whip throughout the shuttle’s cramped compartment, “Welcome to the first day of your new lives, grunts.”
Those words seemed aimed squarely at Nikomedes, and he knew they could not have been any truer. He had been given a sacred charge by the god of his people, along with a new life which he might use to carry it out.
He would prove worthy of his god’s confidence. He, more than anyone, had been shaped into a weapon by the will of Men and the cruelty of his home world—a world which, it could reasonably be said, was itself a Forge of Men.
Table of Contents
Prologue: Trial of the Deep
The Forge of Men Page 44
