Forged In Flame (In Her Name: The First Empress, Book 2)

by Hicks, Michael R.

  “I was taken, my lord.”

  He leaned forward. “Then it is a miracle that you survived.”

  “That, I will not argue. And there is my miracle.” She nodded toward the five cloaked figures who entered the hall, looking warily around until their eyes found her.

  “Be comfortable and welcome, warriors,” Sura’an-Desai beckoned. He was interrupted by another bout of coughing, and this time droplets of blood came away in his hand.

  “Han-Ukha’i!” Keel-Tath gestured for the healer to come. “I know you have many, but tend to him. He bleeds from his lungs.”

  “Do not waste your time or energy on me, healer.” Sura’an-Desai gently pushed her away. “Tend those who need it. I am long past the need of your gentle touch.”

  Han-Ukha’i looked to Keel-Tath, who nodded, uncertain.

  “As you wish, lord.” The healer bowed, then returned to tend to the needs of the others in the village.

  In the meantime, Keel-Tath’s five warriors gathered around.

  “Mistress?” Dara-Kol said.

  “All is well for now. We have our first city.” Keel-Tath smiled, and Sura’an-Desai broke out laughing, which turned into an ugly cough.

  For a time, she and her companions were able to relax somewhat and even enjoy themselves. As they ate and drank, Sura’an-Desai told them what little he could of the war, but it was not much. “Few travelers come this way anymore,” he said. “Even the warriors of the legions that garrison these lands no longer come here, for they know we have nothing more to offer.” After that, and between bouts of coughing, he regaled them with tall tales of his younger days, which brought admiring smiles from his guests.

  Han-Ukha’i treated the sick and, as best she could, healed the most grievously wounded of the village. Watching her as Sura’an-Desai finished up another one of his tales, Keel-Tath could not fathom how things had fallen so far from where they should be. Sickness, infirmity, and disfiguring injuries were unheard of among her people outside the bands of honorless ones. And even they often had healers or other robed castes, for they, too, could fall from the Way.

  “Take the healers away,” Sura’an-Desai noted sadly, as if reading her mind, “and everything changes. The same with the builders, and to a lesser extent the porters of water. We can withstand much, but if you cut out the heart or the liver from our society, the body will surely die. This place,” he gestured around them, “has never been, nor will ever be, a great city. But it was beautiful once, its people strong and proud.” He looked into Keel-Tath’s eyes, and she could sense a deep longing within him. “I hope beyond hope that someday it will be so again.”

  “Hope is all I can offer you, Sura’an-Desai. But I am terribly afraid, not for myself, but for those like yourself.” She shook her head. “I cannot protect you, not yet.”

  “We do not ask for protection, mistress. Only hope. Your path is long and dangerous, and I only wish that I was young again, that I could offer you my sword.”

  “You have done far more than that, master of the city.”

  They looked up as Dara-Kol and the others came back into the hall. They had left earlier at Keel-Tath’s behest to see the armorer.

  The hall was full now, for everyone had come to pay their respects to the one with the white hair and crimson talons, and the fierce warriors who accompanied her. The five had left the hall dressed in the shabby, beaten armor of honorless ones. They returned, resplendent in shining black that was perfectly tailored to their bodies.

  “You could pass for the palace guard at Ku’ar-Amir,” Keel-Tath told them.

  “It is your turn now, mistress.” The armorer shuffled forward with the help of a cane. Her black robes were in little better condition than Han-Ukha’i’s white ones. Behind her, two younglings carried bundles of leatherite and black metal plate. “Undress, child.”

  Standing before the fire pit for all to see, Keel-Tath did as she was asked. Handing her weapons to Dara-Kol, she took off the gauntlets, then undid the fastenings for her plate armor. More younglings gathered it up as she shrugged out of it before stripping off the leatherite armor beneath. She untied her hand-me-down sandals, which were much too big, then peeled off the gauzy black undergarment to stand nude before the village and her companions. While being on display in such a fashion was unusual, showing the body was a commonplace occurrence in the baths and when being fitted for armor or robes. Having this many eyes on her did not make Keel-Tath uncomfortable, exactly, but it was not a sensation she would happily repeat.

  The armorer was old, but her callused hands were quick, just as Sura’an-Desai had said. She ran her hands over Keel-Tath’s body, then took out a terribly frayed cloth tape that had once been white, but was now a sickly gray. She ran it around Keel-Tath’s chest and other parts of her body, then rechecked a few places with her hands.

  Turning to the table, where her youngling assistants had carefully laid out the material, she took a wicked knife from her robes and slashed the black material used for undergarments. Her movements were quick and precise, and Keel-Tath imagined her wielding a sword. When the pieces were cut, she matched up the seams and squeezed them with her fingers, kneading the fabric as she moved along the seams. But when she had finished, the seams were gone.

  The armorer handed Keel-Tath the finished garment, top and bottom, and Keel-Tath sighed with pleasure as she slipped them on. The fabric formed perfectly to her body, like a second skin, every bit as well as the garments made by the armorers at the temple.

  Next came the black leatherite. The armorer had no need of more measurements. She slashed and cut the tough material as easily as she had the undergarment fabric, and joined the seams as she had before. She also worked different parts of the fabric with her palms, massaging it into a shape that would perfectly fit the curves of Keel-Tath’s body. Then she added buckles and straps, made from a tough alloy, where they were needed to hold the leatherite secure.

  She handed the pants and tunic to Keel-Tath, who gratefully slipped them on. She was starting to feel complete again. Warriors wore their armor as their daily form of dress, and were only out of it when sleeping (if it was safe to do so, as in the temple) or when bathing.

  As Keel-Tath buckled on the leatherite, the armorer produced a pair of sandals. Leaning down, she picked up Keel-Tath’s feet one at a time and probed them with her fingers. With a satisfied huff, she took the sandals and trimmed them, then kneaded the thick soles just as she had the leatherite. When she was satisfied, she attached leather straps and handed the sandals to two younglings, who tied them to Keel-Tath’s feet.

  Those gathered around laughed as Keel-Tath let out a loud sigh of pleasure. Of all the parts of their daily dress, the sandals were in some ways the most important. A warrior could be called upon to march for leagues in a day at short notice, or to stand watch for long hours. Keel-Tath had suffered with ill-fitting sandals since Dara-Kol had rescued her, and they had caused a considerable amount of discomfort. Now, her feet had returned to their accustomed paradise.

  Last came the armor plate. The armorer had already shaped the metal into rough shape, just from a quick look of Keel-Tath that she had taken earlier. She held up the different plates to Keel-Tath and, muttering quietly to herself, began to finalize the shapes with her hands.

  Keel-Tath was surprised, because normally armorers used hammer and anvil to shape the armor plate, for it was not of living metal as were the blades of their weapons.

  But this armorer apparently had no need of them. The metal surrendered to her will, bending and curving as she guided it. She fit the plates again, her assistants holding them in place for her inspection.

  Satisfied, she had the assistants lay the finished pieces on the table, where she bonded the necessary buckles and fasteners. The assistants then attached the plates, fastening them with small, nimble fingers. They slipped into place like the pieces of a puzzle, and Keel-Tath was gratified — although not surprised — that none of the fasteners or seams of the l
eatherite conflicted with the plate armor.

  Last of all, the armorer set out the making of the gauntlets. She took Keel-Tath’s hands in her own, moving every joint and probing every muscle and bone with her fingers, just as she had with Keel-Tath’s feet. Then she trimmed out the necessary pieces of leatherite, thinner than the armor on her body, to form the gauntlet itself, welded the seams, and then trimmed and bonded the metal to the leatherite.

  The assistants slipped them onto Keel-Tath’s hands, and she flexed the supple material, noting with great pleasure how easily her fingers, which were protected by metal all the way to where her talons protruded from the tips, moved. There was no binding, no conflict.

  They were perfect.

  Kneeling down, Keel-Tath said, “I thank you for this wonderful gift, mistress.”

  “It is no gift, child,” the ancient woman said in a soft voice that was laden with pride. “It is your birthright.” As Keel-Tath stood, the armorer looked her in the eye. While the woman was very old, her eyes were still bright and sharp. “I only wish that I could craft a sword worthy of your hand, but I would not presume to best the blade of your father.” She eyed the weapon as Dara-Kol handed it to Keel-Tath. “It was made long ago, by one of the finest who has ever worn the robes of black. It is yet too big for you, but that will soon change.”

  With that, she bowed and saluted, then shuffled out of the hall.

  “Outside you will find fourteen mounts,” Sura’an-Desai said, “the best of our stables. Half of them are yours to ride, the others carry packs with water, food, and other provisions for a long journey. There are also some extra weapons.”

  “I have no words to thank you for your generosity.” Keel-Tath bowed her head to him.

  He smiled thinly. “As I told you, mistress, it is not a simple act of generosity. There is a price that must be paid.”

  “What price?” Dara-Kol, instantly suspicious, laid her hand on her sword, as did the other warriors of Keel-Tath’s party.

  “It is not you or yours who must pay it.” Sura’an-Desai stood up from the table, gathering himself to his full height with some difficulty. He drew his sword. “It is I. The Dark Queen will slaughter my people if I simply let you walk away. But if you best my sword in a Challenge, they will be safe from her wrath.”

  Keel-Tath shook her head and stepped back. The others in the hall moved toward the walls, freeing up the area around the fire pit. “No. No! I will not. Not after all you have done for us.”

  “You must, mistress.” Dara-Kol faced her with sad eyes. “It is the only way we might avert the Dark Queen’s wrath upon the people here. If we leave without the master paying a debt of blood, she will certainly kill everyone beholden to him. But if he dies in a ritual Challenge, she may let them live.”

  “Child,” Sura’an-Desai said softly, “I am old and near death. There is nothing else in this life for me, and to die at your hand to save those who yet live here, in my home, would bring me great honor.” He smiled. “If you consider what we have given you a gift, then consider this a gift to me in return.”

  “This is part of the Way, mistress,” Dara-Kol told her. “You must honor his Challenge.”

  Slowly, Keel-Tath nodded. She drew the long dagger from its sheath and held it at the ready.

  Sura’an-Desai attacked, as Keel-Tath knew he would. He put up a spirited fight, and she knew he must have been a formidable warrior in his younger years. Even now, had she not been the pupil of sword masters such as Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr, he very well might have beaten her.

  His blade nicked her cheek, which lightened her heart, as she would have a token of his sacrifice to carry with her forever.

  He fought well and fiercely, driving her around the fire pit, then against one of the tables before she turned the tables and did the same to him, her swiftness with the dagger making up for the more powerful blows of his sword.

  Then it was time. His body was quickly reaching the end of its endurance, and blood was trickling from his mouth as he fought to suppress the coughing that was hemorrhaging his lungs. As he raised his sword to make a two-handed overhand cut, she lunged forward, blocking the blow by forcing her free forearm up against his own before driving her dagger into his stomach, through the gap in the armor below his breast plate.

  With a grunt, his body stiffened, and his sword fell from his hands to clatter on the floor. He collapsed into her arms, and she knelt down, cradling his head to her chest.

  “Do not mourn for me.” He reached out and put a hand to her cheek, where the black streaks had already begun to appear. “Your honored father and mother would both be very proud of you.” His body tensed, and his face contorted in pain for a moment. “May thy Way be long and glorious, child.”

  With a final, rattling breath, his body stilled. She gently closed his eyes with her fingers, then laid him down. She picked up his sword and laid it upon him, the handle on his chest.

  When she looked up, the villagers were kneeling, heads bowed. “See that he is given a funeral pyre befitting the warrior he was,” Keel-Tath told them. She got to her feet, her heart still pounding from the exhilaration of combat. Her blood was filled with songs of sadness at his passing, but joy that he had died well, with honor. She wanted more than anything to light the pyre that would mark his passing, but knew she could not. They could stay no longer.

  “Come,” she said to the others. “It is time that we leave.”

  In silence, her companions followed her out of the great hall into the night beyond.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Death In The Vale

  The land echoed Keel-Tath’s dark mood as the group made its way west toward the Great Wastelands. They traveled mainly at night, although Keel-Tath wondered if it was an unnecessary bother. The handful of villages and towns they passed or saw from a distance were abandoned. From the looks of them, it had happened not so long ago, but even the honorless ones had not taken up residence here. Everything was overgrown with twisting vines and other vegetation that had quickly moved in from the surrounding forests, and feral eyes watched the travelers as they passed. Now and again an animal cry or grunt would rip through the night, often followed by the terror-stricken squeal of a prey animal that had met its end. She shivered when she heard those unaccustomed sounds, or saw the glowing eyes follow her as she rode. Having spent her life at the temple, this was like being cast into an alien and decidedly hostile world. To her, the great vale west of the Kui’mar-Gol mountains had become a place of the damned.

  At one point the air was torn by a horrendous roar from the direction of a ruined village to their south, followed by an ear-piercing shriek that ended with brutal abruptness.

  Her blood turning to ice at the sounds, Keel-Tath turned to Dara-Kol. “What was that?”

  “A genoth,” Dara-Kol told her in a muted voice, and Keel-Tath could clearly sense a spike of fear through her and their companions. Their eyes were all fixed on the town, hands on their swords. There was a flash of movement through a broken segment of wall, but no more. Dara-Kol kicked her mount, which was now tense, as well, into a fast trot. “The warriors of these villages kept the creatures of the wastelands, even the genoths, at bay, using them for meat and trade. With the warriors gone, the animals are expanding their territory.”

  “What happened to the villages?” Keel-Tath asked.

  Dara-Kol shrugged. “Once the warriors, healers, and builders have been drawn away by the Dark Queen, the remaining people can only stay and eventually perish, or leave in hopes of pledging their honor to the lord of a village or city that can harbor them. This is especially true here in the vale, for every manner of creature in the wastelands is dangerous. If it flies, it stings, and if it crawls, it bites. Without warriors to protect them, the robed castes would fall prey, and would be helpless before the likes of a genoth.”

  They pressed on, passing from the forested vale to a wide stretch of grassland that extended as far north and south as the eye could see. They foun
d the ruins of other villages and towns, and even what once must have been a great city, but was now only crumbling sun-whitened rubble that showed through the waist-high stalks of grass. Now it was a haven for a colony of what looked like miniature genoths, sleek and deadly looking reptiles as long as a warrior was tall.

  “Uran-Kamekh,” Dara-Kol said, steering them clear of the ruins. “They will not attack us as long as we do not enter their territory.”

  “How do we know where their territory is?” Keel-Tath asked.

  Dara-Kol gave her a humorless smile. “We will know if they attack.”

  The grasslands ended abruptly at the edge of the desert that was the boundary to the Great Wastelands, which occupied the entire western portion of the continent all the way to a narrow strip of fertile land that ran along the edge of the sea. There was no transition in vegetation, no gradual fade from grass to sand and sun-blistered rock. With a single step, Keel-Tath’s magthep moved from one to the other.

  Dara-Kol led them to a rocky knoll that overlooked the grasslands from which they had just come. Keel-Tath thought it was a natural formation until her tired magthep crested the top, where she found a number of ancient stone slabs laid out in a rough circle. Some of them were intact, others had been shattered and fallen to dust with time.

  “Was this not a Kal’ai-Il?”

  Nodding, Dara-Kol told her, “Yes. There once was a city here, long ago. This is all that remains. I have seen other such things deeper in the wastelands, traces of habitation, but from very, very long ago.”

  Keel-Tath dismounted with infinite relief, and Lihan-Hagir, the mute, took the reins of her mount. Not accustomed to riding, she had suffered the agonizing indignity of saddle sores across her bottom and along her inner thighs, and her legs felt like molten lead. She had refused Han-Ukha’i’s offers of assistance, instead preferring to let her body harden itself against the rigors of riding. She also knew that Han-Ukha’i had been suffering even more. “Tend to your own hurts,” Keel-Tath said, putting a gentle hand on the healer’s shoulder. “Suffering is the path of a warrior, but a healer should not have to endure such things.”