The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  He ran toward the Ravers instead of away. Her throat went dryer than her mouth. Nutmeg hauled on her arm. “Come on!”

  She turned in the direction pulled, and a Bolger bumped them hard, grunting, a great two-handed sword in his hands. Nutmeg went sprawling. He picked Nutmeg up by the elbow to set her back on her feet with scarcely a look, his leathery face split in a grimace, his forger’s apron still on, his homespun shirt rolled up over his scarred and branded arms. He pushed the girls away from the stampeding, fearful crowd and then headed after Hosmer.

  She could see the shapes then, dark riders on lathered horses, and strange, loping runners beside them, so many she couldn’t count them with one look. Ravers and Bolgers and the runners, dust boiling about them, shadows shrouding them. Nutmeg bolted toward the village behind then in a weaving run, but Grace found herself frozen in place, staring. The faceless, hooded things bearing down the road seemed bent on one thing, and one thing only.

  She could hear the high-pitched, hissing cry, a keening that lanced through the air, like a whirlwind whistling high over all the other catastrophe. “Ssstrange blooood.” It drained her will to hear it.

  The forces collided in a thunder of grunts and steel strikes and the squeal of horses. Then, like branches parting in a high wind, the invaders divided, two thin groups splintering off as the main core wrestled with the defenders. She could not see Hosmer’s square form among them, and feared to. She tore her eyes away from the sight, pivoting then on legs still feeling spindly and weak. With a deep breath, she forced herself to run after Nutmeg whose short legs still carried her swiftly across the fairgrounds, over the debris of fallen booths and scattered gaieties trampled beneath. Fleeing side by side, yet far behind the crowd, they gained the main street.

  Bolgers charged from the side alley. Nutmeg veered away from the Stinkers. Grace could not tell if they were friend or foe as she chased after her sister. Her heart thudded in her chest, her head reeled. Something loomed in the corner of her eye and she darted to the side. A Bolger, riding low, charged past her, fist grasping at thin air, cursing. He leaned even lower from his saddle to grab up Nutmeg, thrashing and squealing as he hoisted her into the air and over the neck of his mount.

  No breath to scream with. Her throat froze as the Bolger reined up, turned his mount and then pounded past Grace, his face grimacing in triumph. She clawed as him as he rode by, his boot catching her in the chest and shoving her aside. She went to her knees with a smothered sob.

  She did not stay down. She would not! Grace leaped to her feet and stood in the dirt a moment before whirling around and running back to the trampled remains of the fair. Images ran through her mind, the swordsmith, his crude stand at the fair’s edge. She found the booth at the edge of the chaos and fell to her knees again, searching with trembling hands. “Here, here, help me, help me, Gods. Help me find it!” She sifted through broken wood and torn cloth, frantically, hands shaking so hard that even if she found what she needed, she didn’t know if she could hold it. Words bubbled from her lips like water from a spring, and then, oh, then, she grasped the cold hilt of a sword, crude and hidden, but there with a handful of others. She only needed one. Then, she got to her feet slowly and walked in the direction Nutmeg had been taken.

  Sevryn felt the power Tressandre wove pulling at him, leeching strength from him. He leaned away from it, watching the circle of dancers in their unknowing joy, each who joined adding to the power of her enchantment, each feeding her as she danced with them, her head thrown back and her whole body aglow with a kind of fierceness. He could see Bistane rise up in anger and yell at her for entrancing all of them. If she heard, she ignored him. She pulled at all within her range, feeding off them to fuel the magic woven into the music, and Sevryn denied her his power. It took a moment or two of centering himself as Gilgarran had pounded into him many a time, and shrouding his efforts so that she would not even know she’d touched him. He was no fool. Tressandre did not make merry for its own sake. The ild Fallyn were searching for Talent, however they might find it, and she was filling herself with every remnant of it she sensed. He brushed his hand through his hair, stepping back from the spectacle when Bistane bellowed in rage a second time, and hells broke loose. Then, in a matter altogether different, or perhaps the same, the raiders hit, as if summoned by Tressandre’s flaunting of power.

  Sevryn drew his katana. Streaming people fled past him, lurching, their strength weakened by Tressandre’s hold on them, unknowing, screaming, and yelling. He spotted Bistane throwing off Tressandre’s hold, and bolting to his pavilion for armor and arms. They brushed past Sevryn as he stood assessing the panic, and he felt that moment on him, that tinge of his own power that said he stood at a crossroads, and the choice he would make now would forever change his life. It came upon him rarely now, so rarely that he knew it had all but been burned out of him in his lost years, although it had never been a gift he could summon when he willed. It crept upon him now, and he turned slowly in its hold, casting for that turn, that decision of fate that lay upon him.

  He saw the girls. The tall one took up the Dweller lass, shielding her with her own body from the chaos jostling them in every direction, and he made his choice. He trailed after them as they worked their way through the shards of the fair booths, his attention on them and them alone. Buffeted by people running by in every direction, he lost them and then found them again. Sevryn tightened his hold on his katana as one man, a Galdarkan, caught his arm and tried to wrestle it from him. He lunged toward the man, giving in, and then twisting his arm away, and brought it back with an elbow to the other’s throat. The Galdarkan dropped to his knees, wheezing and blinking in surprise. Sevryn strode on, with no time to see what became of the Galdarkan.

  A sharp hiss broke his concentration. He ducked, even as he turned toward the sound, with an instinct that saved him. Steel sang by his ear so sharply he could feel his hair catch on its edge. He dropped to one knee and looked into the swathed face of a Raver on foot, black-carapaced armor shining in the light between torn, crimson wrappings. It swung again, but Sevryn was not there to meet the blade. With a roll, he moved to his feet, at the creature’s flank.

  It had no scent but that of strangeness. Its ragged cloak hung in wisps about its oddly jointed body. Sinewy or bone-thin, it moved in ways no man could move naturally, making it difficult to anticipate its actions. It hopped straight up, as Sevryn struck, his own blow slicing the air where the thing’s knees had been.

  Sevryn smiled grimly. He collected himself and they stared at one another a moment, taking one another’s measure. He rolled his wrist, turning his katana as he moved in. The Raver reacted as he thought it might, twisting and bending in unnatural angles, but it mattered little for the thing avoided the katana and never saw the daggers Sevryn tossed with his left hand, one, two, three, right at the hooded face.

  It went down, thrashing, with a screeching keening that pierced Sevryn’s hearing, kicked and died. He retrieved his blades quickly, turned, looked about and found no sight of the girls. His heart sank.

  The streets cleared, except for stragglers heading out to join the fighting. He could see Bolger bodies lying in the gutter where they’d cut each other down, foe and friend indistinguishable. He wondered at that a moment as he broke into a slow jog, searching, as other townspeople hesitated to fill the streets. Had the girls gained the security of a shop?

  Another keening shriek sent him running past the storefronts, through a jagged alley, and he burst into a clearing, where a horse lay on the ground, panting, a Bolger crushed under it, and a Raver pacing around its quarry.

  She stood, legs over her sister, short sword in hand, blood dripping from it and running down her wrist as she gripped it. His call to her dried in his throat as the Raver lunged at her with a chittering cry. She ducked away in a twist, imitating its own jerky movement. It brushed past her and he felt a rush of icy power lashing from it, whipping at the girl. She staggered with a sobbing noise, but held her gr
ound over her charge.

  Before he could move, the Raver lunged at her again. She tossed her head to one side, then fell onto her back, sword up, and plunged it into the thing as it leaped over her. With a shriek it fell, kicking. She rolled to one knee, throwing all of her body weight onto the sword and the Raver. Its carapace cracked, and black blood fountained upward. It thrashed with a last gurgle. So quick, this dance and its last movements, that he had only had time to raise his katana and take a step forward.

  Sevryn watched her get to her feet. She threw back her hood and tore off her beaded cap, freeing her chestnut hair, revealing her ears with their delicate Vaelinarran points, and she flung her arms into the air with a shout of victory from a cracked and hoarse throat.

  She looked at him. He had no words for what he saw on her face, innocence gone, replaced with a sharp wisdom and tragedy, then triumph. The wind caught up her crone’s shroud, swinging it darkly about her body. She tossed it open defiantly, her chin up, the gaze of her amazing eyes pinned to him. A silvery light reigned upon her brow, a power for which he had no words, and which faded even as he watched. A sudden sharp wind caught the garment, tearing it away from the festival gown underneath, its brightness stained with crimson blood, black ocher, and dirt. He could not turn away from her eyes, no matter what the cost, and no matter that he had come too late to save her.

  She put a hand down to her sister, drawing her to her feet. “It’s over.”

  Sevryn lowered his katana. For him, it had just begun.

  Part II

  Chapter Eighteen

  737 AE

  A ROUGH-EDGED SPRING morning dawns on the western coast of what the Dwellers call the First Home on Kerith, where the Silverwing River tumbles out of the mountains and cuts its way through the hills and river valleys, its blue-gray waters chill and foaming with melting snow and ice. While the First Home is a huge, sprawling continent, the Silverwing is but one small river, although it reigns supreme on its journey through the western highlands. It slows through the high country orchards of the Dwellers, where apple trees sink deep roots into the rich soil and bask in the mountain air lanced with both winter cold and summer warmth, as if to bless the myriad valleys before cutting deep into stone and flowing south, ever south until it pours into the mighty inlet where fresh water meets salt. The day is one of rough edges because winter hangs over it mightily, giving way with great reluctance, and the ground remains frozen deep down, and the dewdrops scattered on the grasses everywhere still hold tiny shards of ice within them.

  A young woman sits on a cutaway bank, a long-handled dipping cup lying on the grass beside her, her lustrous hair rippling down her back and glistening damply as if just washed and drying in the new sunlight, absorbing gold-and-chestnut rays into the strands of rich brunette. Surely she has not washed in the icy, rushing waters of the river below her, but the cup at her side would make one wonder, if there were anyone but her about to enjoy the rawness of this dawn. Her tunic is dappled with drops of water raining slowly off her hair, and her patched trousers are also damp from sitting near the spray of the river. The grasses about her are awakening with newly minted green, pushing up from the browned layers of deep winter.

  Silver-winged alna, fishing birds famed for their habitat along the river, hop about the bank and daringly skim its frothy surface to bring up tiny blue gills. Rainbow-hued trout will not be swimming these rivers for weeks yet, but the little blue gills will feed the alna well enough. With sharp beak and talon, they shred and gobble down their feast, then chirp and whistle to one another. They seem intrigued and unafraid of the woman in their midst, as if used to her visits or calmed by her aura as she sits, her thoughts intent upon the currents. One or two bold birds gently pluck a strand of her hair for their nests and dash out of range of retribution, then fly across the river toward the wilderness. One of the silver-winged birds, a young one from the silver tipping ever so lightly its feathers of deepest blue, hops upon her arm and eyes his perch curiously. He feels confident enough of his safety to begin warbling, his young voice in cheerful tune with the roar of the river and the softer voice of the morning breeze.

  The young woman’s gaze flickers toward the bird ever so gently, and the corner of her mouth tilts up. She does not move as the bold alna hops along her arm and gains a higher perch upon her shoulder. The creature seems unaware of her knowledge of his venture. He preens himself, and then gently preens a tumble of curls nearby. Doing so, he leans upon her cheek, chirping quietly in great content. He stays, huddled against her cheek, not as if seeking warmth, for her flesh has not yet warmed to the sun, but as if seeking something else, something indefinable. She does not move, lest she disturb the bird, but finally her eyes blink, long lashes shutting away eyes of remarkable colors, and then opening again. He startles before settling back, caressing her face with his beak. After long moments in this communion, the alna flutters back to the ground. He casts a look at her, and then takes wing, the silver tip dark blue of his feathers reflected in the tumbling river below before he circles and begins a journey out of her sight.

  Borne by the wind beneath his wings, the young alna circles westward and then south, carried along the western coast itself, and the broken shoreline where the Jewel of Tomarq Vaelinar reigns on cliffs, its fiery eye sweeping the ocean in regular searches. The beam sweeps over the alna uncaring, searching for ships upon the ocean marked by its talisman. Those unmarked will be seared by the sudden fire which leaps to life in its hard-jeweled vision, and the ocean waters seared of unheeding and unwanted invaders. If the alna had wit to know, the small sleek bird would see that the ever-present fire in the Jewel’s eye has dimmed, and is dimming. It is a Way which is troubled. Heedless, the young alna circles over the square corners of the Vaelinar keep holding the stony cliffs above the greatest natural harbor of the western coast, a harbor that would take three days on horseback to cover. Thus the Jewel of Tomarq looks long and hard at those who would sail into its arms. The alna snaps insects from the air and drinks from the courtyard fountain of the hold before taking to the air once again and the mysterious wind current which it and it alone skims.

  He sweeps down the western coast, searching, silver-tipped wings dipping. He crosses village and town, and a web of trade routes, then he turns inward and northward again. The sun sets in his eyes and then rises yet again. The current carries him over the Blackwind Mountains where even the snow falls dark and shadowy and fell things run the ridges. They sense him and pause, throwing their heads back to send howls shrieking up at him, a Way gone horribly wrong from the moment of their creation. The alna trembles a bit, wings shivering. Unaware of the force that holds him or the time that passes, for he is only a fisher among birds, he feels hunger but will not skim lower for food. That instinct alone undoubtedly saves his life. At the southern foot of the Blackwinds, he soars over the Two Sisters Bridge, a Way built centuries ago through this impassable spine of obsidian and granite and fell creatures, its columns of platinum and spiraling webs of cable the only light thing about it, carrying a road that dares only to edge the foot of the peaks. Perhaps fittingly, he skirts the stone walls of Stronghold ild Fallyn in the shadows. The Fallyn have built high, spiraling towers daring the mountains in their height, with gossamer bridges looping from one tower to another, gleaming as if bedewed spiderwebs, so like the Two Sisters that even the ignorant could tell who the builders of each must have been. Even the enclosing walls are so high that one would have to have a bird’s wings to think of climbing them . . . and falling. The play of light on the dark webbing draws the young alna near. It confuses him as he swoops close, for it is nothing as he imagined, the spidery webs are obsidian cable, the towers are massive buildings thrust into the air. He has flown beyond his reckoning, for time beyond his counting, as if the wind’s current has its own eerie placement in the scheme of things and he must feed to continue flying.

  Laughing voices and the ring of steel lure him closer, as if he hungers for companionship of some kin
d. Courtyards with burgeoning gardens and stone-patterned walkways and benches abound among the towers and outer walls of the immediate stronghold. The flash and noise of a training yard catches his bright eye and he lands nearby. A woman swathed in shadows dances with a bit of lightning in her hands, her hair, colored like wild honey, swirling about her in a cloud of silk, and her opponent attempts to match her steps with steel lightning in his own hands, but he fails. Swords ring as they close and the woman falls back, laughing, her slender hands and arms moving in elegant patterns that drive the man back to the wall of the yard. His voice sings out in protest.

  “Fight, you sluggard. How can I learn without an opponent?” Her laugh dances about her, but it holds an edge. Her free hand moves to her belt and unhooks a coiled whip. It cracks the air.

  He jumps aside with an uneasy laugh. The shining silver in his hand moves with him, tracing his passage, and he points at her.

  They close, the two, and the bird watches them with bright eyes, comprehending strife and combat in curiosity. He would flee, but the swirl of clothing and laughter and sheen of the blades mesmerizes him for a few moments, and he sits with his wings tucked about him, resting. Weariness bleeds away from him.

  The blades clash, clang, parry each other off, and then curses fill the air as the two join harshly and throw each other off again. SNAP! The whip lashes out, and the man grimaces aside, bright crimson staining his cheekbone.

  “Don’t toy with me.”

  “Me? Do I look a fool to toy with you, Lady Tressandre? Now put that thing away, you’ve blooded me.”