King of Ashes

by Raymond E. Feist

  Looking over at Declan, Ratigan grinned. ‘Wait until after dark.’

  ‘Not sure I want to,’ said Declan with a slight chuckle.

  ‘That place we dropped our friar friend off seems a little more civilised,’ suggested the teamster.

  He urged the wagon up the road until he reined in the horses before the guards at the keep entrance. The gate stood wide open, but he was halted by a sentry with an upraised hand.

  ‘What’s your business?’

  ‘Weapons for the baron,’ answered Ratigan.

  ‘Drive them up to the stabling yard and you’ll see the armoury right in front of you.’ He waved them on as he shouted to a soldier stationed at the top of the rise, ‘Pass word to the master-at-arms! Weapons!’ He pointed at the wagon, and the other guard nodded, turned, and ran off.

  The sun was sinking in the west and shadows grew longer, so the castle’s grim aspect was now thrown into even deeper contrasts of dark and light. To Declan’s eye, the place was a hotchpotch of buildings erected in some arbitrary order; he assumed there was a design, but it wasn’t apparent.

  A central tower dominated the castle, but the surrounding walls, buildings, and shorter towers seemed to have been built in haphazard fashion. Declan saw men hurrying about one task or another; most wore tabards, but he noticed a variety of dress and armour. Some servants and townsfolk also could be seen, but for the most part, the castle of Copper Hills seemed an uninspiring place.

  ‘Ugly heap, isn’t it?’ said Ratigan, and Declan laughed. The teamster had a knack for cutting to the heart of the matter.

  They reached the armoury and saw a broad-shouldered, older man come out through the door. A fringe of bushy grey hair stretched around his head, matching his eyebrows and a moustache that looked like the end of a broom, and every other part of him looked old, tough, and tested. His manner told Declan that this was a man you wanted no dealings with; if trouble arose, you would have to kill him before he killed you.

  ‘What have we here?’ he asked. His accent was strange to Declan’s ear; he used thick slurring vowels and a rolling ‘R’ that made it sound as if he were swallowing his words as he spoke them. ‘I’m Collin, master-at-arms for Baron Rodrigo.’

  ‘I’m Declan Smith. I have weapons from Beran’s Hill,’ responded Declan as he climbed down. ‘The baron placed the order with me four weeks ago.’

  Declan moved to untie the canvas covering and as he did so he realised he’d heard Collin’s accent before. The master-at-arms was Kes’tun, one of the mountain people to the north. They were legendary mountain fighters, fiercely independent and bound by a code of honour that left many men dead on the ground. To find one of their soldiers in service outside their mountains was rare, but once they gave a pledge of service they would die for their lord.

  Declan threw back the canvas, climbed into the wagon, and picked up a hammer nestled between the crates. He used the claw to prise open the nearest box, took out a sword, and handed it down to the master-at-arms.

  The big man twirled it like an expert, and Declan could see that Collin wasn’t simply showing off; he was judging the blade’s balance. Common swords were quickly fashioned and often lacked balance. Too much weight at the pommel, and not enough force would be delivered; too much weight in the blade, and the arm would fatigue quickly.

  ‘Bring me an iron spike,’ commanded the master-at-arms. When a soldier returned with it, he pointed to an old tree stump and said, ‘Put it there!’

  The soldier had barely got his hand out of the way when the master-at-arms took a powerful overarm swing and cut its length in half. He had to yank hard to release the blade from the old hardened wood, and when it was free he inspected its edge. He ran his thumb along the edge and nodded. Then he grinned at Declan, ‘Geur!’ he exclaimed in his native tongue. ‘Now, this is a blade that’ll deliver a proper insult!’ To Declan, he said, ‘How many did the baron order?’

  ‘Forty,’ said Declan.

  The master-at-arms made a sour expression, halfway between a frown and a wince. ‘Need more than that. How long for another forty?’

  Declan shrugged. ‘Another month, perhaps a bit more, plus travel time.’ He looked around. ‘The baron had me believe I was just supplementing your supply while you found another master smith.’

  ‘Haven’t found one yet. All the good ones are taken or off in the east crafting for Sandura and their bunch.’ He looked at the sword on Declan’s hip and said, ‘You know how to use that or is it for show?’

  ‘Well enough that I’m still here,’ said the young smith, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘Draw your sword,’ said the master-at-arms. ‘I’ve a mind to see what you know.’

  Not feeling inclined to argue and wishing to be paid, Declan nodded, drew his sword, and said, ‘Let’s get this over with. It’s been a long trip.’

  ‘Take a position.’

  Declan raised the blade above his head with two hands, in what Edvalt had told him was the ‘perch of the falcon’, a slightly more advantageous position when you were uncertain where the attack would come from, high or low. ‘Ready,’ he said.

  Declan blocked high as an overarm swing descended upon him; the blow wasn’t designed to injure Declan, but it could have if he hadn’t been ready. The strike from the master-at-arms sent shock through his arms into his shoulders and he parried the blow, let their blades slide a bit, then disengaged and twisted his own blade to return the assault.

  Steel rang out as the two men traded blows. After a few minutes, the master-at-arms stepped back, saying, ‘Enough.’ He inspected his sword, then said, ‘Show me that blade.’

  He took the sword from Declan’s hand, took a quick look, then tossed it hilt-first back to the young smith. Declan put up his sword while the master-at-arms tossed his own to a nearby soldier, who caught it easily.

  Stepping close to Declan, he said, ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At an inn called the Prancing Rams.’

  ‘I know it. Go there now and when I have seen that these beauties are properly put away, I’ll find the baron and get your money, and meet you there. I’m of a mind to give you a special order.’

  ‘So we don’t see the baron?’

  ‘Not usually,’ said the master-at-arms. ‘I’m supposed to tell you he’s out hunting, but the truth is he’s more likely to be somewhere on the edge of the city pumping some farmer’s daughter. Never in my life met any man more a slave to young arse than that one. Still, it is what it is. By the time he returns, you’ll have settled in, and I’ll catch up with you by supper. Go now.’

  He turned away without another word and Declan looked over to where Ratigan waited. The men exchanged questioning looks. Declan climbed onto the seat next to Ratigan as the soldiers unloaded the last of the swords. Then Ratigan slowly turned the wagon around and headed back towards the city.

  RATIGAN, CATHARIAN, AND DECLAN HAD finished their first round of ale and were working on the second when Collin entered the Prancing Rams. It was a pleasant enough establishment from what little Declan knew of inns, but the second the large soldier entered, the tone of the common room changed completely. Conversation fell away to a near-whisper and men seemed to hunker down a little, making themselves more inconspicuous.

  Collin glanced around the room, saw Declan, and walked over to him, pushing past a knot of men standing between a table and the bar. Black looks followed but not a word was uttered.

  Reaching their table, he motioned for Declan to follow him. Without looking back to see if the smith did as he was asked, the master-at-arms for Copper Hills moved to a deserted corner of the inn beneath the staircase leading up to the next floor. He turned as Declan reached him and said softly, ‘That sword you wear, it’s noble steel?’

  Declan hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘I know of only one smith who could fashion such.’

  ‘Edvalt Tasman, once my master,’ said Declan.

  A wide smile split the old soldier’s craggy f
eatures. ‘It’s as I thought. I saw your blade cut through an iron spike without shattering, so I knew the quality of the steel, but when I saw the nicks your blade made in the one I held … it was unexpected.’

  He looked at Declan for a long minute, then said, ‘I knew Edvalt, years ago, when we were campaigning with Baron Daylon Dumarch. We shared a fair bit of mud and blood in those days. Good man, who I got to know when he mended a sword for me. So what I need to know is, can you fashion blades like the one you’re holding?’

  Declan’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t fully comprehend the question. ‘I made this one, master-at-arms … sir.’

  ‘My name is Collin. I mean, something Edvalt once said led me to believe that making these takes time, or special … magic. I don’t know what, but it’s why they’re so dear and so rare. So what I should ask is how many can you make and how soon?’

  Declan was wide-eyed. ‘I’ve made three in my entire life, and only this one as a master. This is my masterpiece. If I make one it—’ He stopped himself.

  After thinking things through for a moment, he said, ‘I can make one a week if I do nothing else.’ He factored in the time he’d need to rest and recover from the many days without sleep while the jewel steel was being fashioned.

  Collin looked up as if consulting heaven for inspiration. ‘Is there another who can make swords like those you delivered?’

  Declan weighed the question. Jusan was capable of crafting simple weapons, but he’d need another smith, a journeyman, to match the quality he’d delivered to Baron Rodrigo. Seeing an opportunity, Declan answered, ‘I’ll find someone.’

  ‘Find two,’ said Collin. ‘Send one up here, for we are desperate for a weaponry smith in the castle. Do so and I’ll toss in a bonus.’

  Starting to feel at ease with the master-at-arms, Declan said, ‘Is the baron all right with you spending his gold?’ Declan had never heard of anyone but a noble making a commission like this.

  The old master-at-arms chuckled with a bitter note. ‘As long as someone is tending to his cock, he doesn’t care where the gold goes. He’s like his father, though the old baron wasn’t as blatant. Still, we’re a prosperous enough barony; I can guarantee you’ll be well paid. So, another order like this one.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And four swords like the one on your hip.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘For the baron, his two grown sons, and me,’ said the master-at-arms. ‘I’ve seen the better man die because his sword broke when facing a lesser man. I would not be a faithful servant to my baron if I didn’t make this commission.’

  Declan nodded. Already he knew there would be a problem. Four blades would use up his supply of the special sand Edvalt had given him. Still, he’d worry about replenishing that after he’d completed this order.

  ‘How much?’ asked Collin.

  ‘Same price for the forty blades. For the other four, double that again.’

  Collin winced. ‘Twenty to one in price?’ He shook his head slightly, then nodded once. ‘Done. How soon?’

  ‘As soon as possible, but I have to find that other smith. I’ll send word.’

  ‘Good,’ said Collin, and left.

  Declan returned to the table and found Catharian reading a note. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘A message from a prelate of the new episkopos in Marquenet. I’ve been summoned.’

  ‘Summoned?’ asked Ratigan.

  The friar shrugged. ‘Unusual, but not unheard of. Still, it’s no pleasure to just turn around and ride back to where I came from.’

  ‘You can ride with us, if you wish,’ said Declan.

  Ratigan looked to be on the verge of objecting, but Declan cut him off. ‘I have to return to Beran’s Hill and then on to Marquenet.’

  ‘Back to Marquenet?’ asked Ratigan. ‘I was planning on rounding up any load heading south. I do not like to travel empty if I can help it.’

  Declan nodded. ‘I’ll make it worth your while. I have another order, and time is essential.’ He signalled to a passing servant for another round, then sat back against the wall. He let out a deep breath. Forty more swords and four noble blades and he would have enough gold to pay off what he owed on the smithy, make the improvements he wanted to make, and put enough by to … A sudden stab of cold hit him in the stomach. ‘Start a family,’ he muttered aloud.

  ‘What?’ asked Ratigan.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Declan. ‘Just tired.’

  With mixed feelings, his thoughts turned to Gwen. Declan felt the start of a smile but fought it down. He’d finally run out of excuses.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY •

  Surprises and a Journey

  Hatu stoked the forge, keeping an eye on the colour of the coals as the smith had shown him. He had only worked a small forge twice before and considered the work tedious, but he had returned from the docks only to be met by Mikial, who told him to find work until they were ready to go on the journey to the barony of Marquensas. He did not say when, but simply to find a place within the city, close to the harbour, and to be ready to depart at short notice.

  This was not an unusual order for a student to receive, so that didn’t surprise Hatu, but the fact no mention had been made of what he had told the Council – about the Sisters of the Deep, Donte’s plight, and the news of the three ships that had driven them to that terrible island – gnawed at him and made him more prone to dark introspection than normal.

  He had found a small blacksmith’s shop near the harbour in need of a substitute apprentice, as the one they had – a lout named Turhan – had managed to slam his left hand with a hammer a few days earlier and would be unable to work for another few days. It was an ideal situation for the smith, who had been told only that a student needed to work until he left. The smith, understanding the nature of such things, asked no more questions. So Hatu had taken his apprentice’s place for a few days despite never having worked for a proper smith.

  It was normal for students to be told only what they needed to know, when they needed to know it, but the practice fuelled Hatu’s anger more than usual. This, as well as Master Facaria’s talk, which had challenged what Master Zusara had told him, coupled with his anticipation of Hava’s arrival, brought him alternating flashes of aggravation and giddy anticipation. It took every shred of his self-control not to lash out at the slightest annoyance, and as the injured apprentice, Turhan, was something of a fool, Hatu found it a constant struggle.

  Still, of the work he could find, Hatu considered this the best option. Reminding himself of that was the only thing that kept him from striking the obnoxious apprentice. He would suffer no official punishment for hitting the boy, but he would be given no warm place to sleep, no food, and a heavy measure of Mikial’s disapproval at his failure to do what he was told and stay inconspicuous.

  Working in the fields and tending livestock – stooped work for which Hatu had little liking or knack – were his only other options, so he had chosen to labour at the forge. He had only worked with tinkers before, and used the small portable forges in the back of their wagons.

  Hatu was learning some new skills quickly and while the work was tedious, it gave him a warm place to rest, despite the fact that Turhan snored when he tried to sleep and took every opportunity to annoy Hatu when he was awake. It was better than being in the fields with the livestock, or in some crowded farmworkers’ dormitory. He also took solace in the near certainty that before the boy learned his craft, another would replace him, as Hatu doubted Turhan was going to survive his apprenticeship.

  The one other thing that diverted Hatu from the thoughts that threw him into an agitated state was the forge itself. While he found tending the fire uninspiring, he was fascinated by the smith’s ability to take hot metal and form it into useful items. He didn’t understand why regulating the temperature of the coals was thought of as difficult; he could do it with ease, almost without thought. He just knew where and when to add the coal, when to stir it, and when to apply the bellows. Watchin
g the smith work was instructive and each day he noticed more about how the smith approached the tasks before him, learning things he would not forget.

  When the smith wasn’t working, the forge was a poor distraction from the much bigger questions Hatu wrestled with. It was worse at night as he lay in the dark, trying to sleep on the hard floor; his mind returned to his last conversation with Master Facaria and wrestled with the questions that arose from it, and he could not stop thinking of what would happen when Hava returned. The work was exhausting enough that he fell asleep once his mind stopped spinning from the worry, but it was a restless sleep.

  By the traditions of Coaltachin, and most of the other nations across North and South Tembria, Hatu was soon to be counted a man, for his seventeenth birthday was approaching, or at least the day assigned to him by Master Facaria for the occasion. Hatu might have turned seventeen already and not known it.

  Many of the students Hatu trained with had already moved on to work as crew leaders or gang underbosses, or were becoming sicari. A few of the older ones were probably captains by now. Hatu was about to leave Coaltachin and everything he had ever known behind him. No matter which destination lay before the other students, all were defined. Hatu was facing the unknown. He tried not to be fearful; he had been trained to take care of himself as well as any young man his age could, yet he still felt uncertain, and that threatened to reignite his deeply buried anger.

  Turhan, the injured apprentice he had replaced, entered the forge and glanced at the coals. ‘Good. I don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder.’ He patted Hatu’s arm in a friendly fashion and added, ‘Don’t get too good, or my master will replace me.’

  Hatu shrugged and forced himself to smile. Turhan had a knack for taking even clever remarks and making them sound vacuous. His sense of humour leaned towards the obvious. ‘Not to worry. I am almost certain that this is not my calling,’ said Hatu.