Swech moved quickly, her feet barely touching the ground before lifting again, her body crouched low and when necessary falling to hands and feet alike to maintain her balance and speed.
Behind her and around her, nine others moved much the same way, all of them following her subtle orders.
There was no speech. None was necessary. The language they used was the one every Sa’ba Taalor learned as soon as they were walking, the language of the body. Wrommish and Paedle moved with them, of course, guiding them in their time of need. The gods always watched. That was what Merros Dulver could not understand.
Swech pushed thoughts of the stranger from her mind. He was a pleasant distraction, but now was not the time to be distracted. Now was the time to move with the speed of the Cutting Winds and to move just as effectively.
They crested the last small hill between the ocean and the shoreline and saw the tents spread across the beach for what seemed an impossible distance. Apparently a thousand souls required a great deal of cover. The notion would have been amusing if it weren’t being used to the advantage of the Sa’ba Taalor. The leather hides and canvas that made the tents offered excellent cover. Swech and her charges took full advantage of that fact and spread out.
Most of the camp was sleeping, but there were exceptions. They would handle the ones who moved around as they came to them.
The wind from the ocean was blowing harshly, whipping the hides and making them thrum with their own music. She liked the noises. They were pleasant to the ears and they also provided cover for the sounds of her feet moving over the ground. The breeze itself provided cover should the Guntha have guard animals that might smell their approach.
She found no guard animals.
She found few guards and those she did locate were easily avoided if that was her choice.
It was not.
The first guard she encountered was staring at the distant waves with a bored expression on his tanned face. He never had a chance to grow excited. One hand covered his mouth. The other jammed the long, thin needle blade of her dagger through the base of his neck and into his skull. He stiffened for only a moment and then fell. She helped him to the ground with the care of a mother tending to a child, and then moved on. He would eventually be discovered, she knew that, but before then they had much work to do.
To her left she saw Jost lock her arms around a guard’s throat and drop the man in a quiet slump as her hands cut off the flow of blood to his brain. She had Jost staying close to her because this was the first time that Jost had ever been taken for a group expedition. The young girl was doing brilliantly. One more move and the man’s lifeblood was puddling on the ground around him, a crimson shadow to match the shape of his prone form. Jost moved on without seeking approval, a sign that she had earned this privilege.
Beyond Jost she saw another guard fall quickly and knew that Ehnole was moving with her usual efficiency. Ehnole was first and foremost a follower of Paedle. She could have run through a room full of wind chimes and trinkets and no one would have heard her.
Around her the other Sa’ba Taalor moved quickly and efficiently. There would be no room for error. The odds against them were grave.
There would be no mercy for the exact same reason.
Once the guards had been dispatched the group began the serious work. Swech opened the first tent and slipped in as quietly as she could. Four people rested within the cramped space.
She struck four times.
The sleepers did not awaken.
Far away from her yet with her in her soul, the Daxar Taalor watched on. She felt them in her mind, in her heart, and knew that they approved.
Merros followed from a distance and kept it that way. There were ten very dangerous people moving ahead of him and while he had every intention of watching what they did, he had no desire at all to get them annoyed.
The Great Star was rising and that helped a little with following their tracks, but despite the fact that there were ten Sa’ba Taalor, he had trouble finding tracks to follow. Their footprints were deceptively light and as often as not they ran where the waves came to wash away evidence of their passing. He had been worried that they would leave an obvious trail back to the camp, but the worry was wasted.
He kept himself from running into them by being as careful as he ever had been. In time he followed their ghostly trail to the last of the small hills above the vast camp of the Guntha, and there he waited.
The Guntha were an interesting people. They seemed perfectly content to live on their islands, but for the fact that those islands were sinking. That did not mean that they were easy targets, as he’d learned when the Empire had demanded they be driven back previously. They were hard, violent fighters and they were not to be taken lightly.
That said, the camp was almost silent now. To be sure there must be lookouts and guards stationed around the area, but he saw none of them and they did not see him. Instead he saw their people gathered around fires or moving to the tents they’d pitched, or in a few cases preparing for whatever their next day was supposed to bring. They had not attacked the Roathians that he’d heard of, but they were in the kingdom and they were not welcome. There was something to be said for their current dilemma. There was also something to be said for his personal theory that they were waiting for the Roathians to make the first move.
But for now, there was this odd silence and the calm of the air, the gentle sighs of the surf and a cool, clear night. Were it not for the sure belief that he would soon be hearing screams he would have possibly gone to sleep.
Merros waited, moving just enough to keep himself alert. Above him the Great Star rose and reached its zenith, then began to slide toward where it would eventually rest for the night.
He stared at the camp without looking at any one thing, the better to see any possible changes. He was rewarded with small motions, subtle hints that something was going on. Far in the distance he saw one of the Guntha moving back away from the fires. He also saw the shadow that rose from the darkness and seemed to swallow him whole. Moments after that the shadow moved again, but the Guntha did not. It could have only been his imagination, but he didn’t think so.
He almost missed the guard that came for him. Almost.
The man came up from the surf and moved toward him from behind. He would have never heard a thing, would never have noticed him at all, if the Great Star’s light hadn’t cast a shadow for warning. The man was crouched low, one hand holding onto a knife designed for cutting and filleting fish. It would do a fine job on a fool’s throat and that was exactly what the man must have intended because he was creeping up from behind and almost standing atop Merros before he was noticed.
Merros grabbed a handful of sand and rolled. The man had been very careful and he was probably firmly of the belief that his target was as good as dead. Instead of cutting a throat he got sand in his eyes and his face, enough to blind him and to leave him spluttering. And as he tried to recover, Merros kicked a heel into his knee. There was a cracking noise and then a bark of pain. That could not be avoided. Merros reached for him and felt the man’s knife cut across his forearm. The strike was more luck than anything else and the line of blood it drew was annoying but not fatal. He aimed to hit the man in the face and missed, instead punching his knuckles into his attacker’s throat. Sometimes the gods are kind to fools. The blow was enough to leave his enemy gagging.
The Guntha fell forward and Merros rolled from under his weight. He had feared a second strike but the man continued to struggle for air.
And while he was struggling, Merros drew the dagger from his boot and carved a hole in the man’s neck. There was nothing clean about the kill. The man grunted and fought and Merros held him down, felt him thrash and fight to live. It was one thing to defend himself against a great beast like the Pra-Moresh and another entirely to kill a man. He did not regret his actions. He knew that either he would live or the Guntha would, but he’d been a soldier long enough to understand the consequences of his actions. Somewhere, possibly in the camp below, that man had a family. They would mourn the loss and curse his existence. If they were determined enough, they might even come looking for him. It wouldn’t be the first time in his life.
Blood stuck to his hands, coated his arms, soaked his shirt and pants. He dared not move just yet. The Guntha had made a good deal of noise and someone down below or another guard might have heard something. He had no choice but to wait a few moments and listen for sounds that an alarm might have been issued.
Stupid. His actions could well have endangered the Sa’ba Taalor. He was up here on a hill. They were in the campsite doing the gods alone knew what.
But he had suspicions, didn’t he? Shadows moved and people vanished down below. Yes, he had suspicions.
After almost three minutes had passed, after the blood on his body began to cool, Merros finally allowed himself to rise from the sand and look at the camp again. Nothing seemed to have changed. The man under him had dark skin and hair that the sun had bleached nearly white. Several tattoos covered his arms, his chest. He was a fisherman according to the marks on his body. And a warrior. Though Merros didn’t understand all of the markings, he knew enough to know that the man left behind a wife and two children. Their names were marked on his chest.
He dragged the Guntha away from the camp. The sand was loose enough. Though it took a few minutes he managed to hide the body in a new sand dune.
By the time he was done burying the body, the screams started to come from the encampment.
At first he thought he’d been discovered, but then the fires bloomed below. He dared a look and saw that the tents on the far side of the camp were burning, the canvas flaring in great sheets of flame that let him clearly see the dead bodies lying around them. The boats of the Guntha burned as well, not one or two, but seemingly all of them. Impossible that any of what he was seeing was an accident.
The tents that were closer to him bled shadows as people moved to investigate the screams, the blazes. Some of them moved toward the fires. Others fell to the ground without warning and occasionally twitched a time or two before growing still.
He didn’t mean to stare. He meant to move, but the sight froze him. He watched as the Guntha died, some dropping without apparent reason, others swallowed briefly by shadows or merely touched by them before they grew still. Some had time to draw weapons before they were felled, but fall they did.
Not enough of them. There were a great many tents, but not many of them showed life or movement. He shook his head and worried. The Sa’ba Taalor were fighting down below and they were apparently doing very well, but there were too many tents and sooner or later the people in those tents would come out, and when they did the ten who were with him on this journey would die. There was no other way around it.
Even as he contemplated that, however, another dozen tents caught aflame. The blaze ran like water from one to the next and they burned furiously, fairly exploding into brilliance.
From some of those tents he finally heard screams, and saw movement. Oh, how they moved as they burned.
Merros wanted nothing more than to look away, but he did not dare. The gods sometimes demand witnesses, and he had been ordered here for the purpose of witnessing exactly this, hadn’t he? He had been bought and paid for that he might witness exactly this.
And so he watched as the Guntha died, and as he watched he remembered Swech’s words from the day before. We are here to show your Emperor what ten Sa’ba Taalor can do. That is what Drask Silver Hand said.
Eventually Merros rose and walked to the water’s edge. Once there he washed the blood of the dead man from his clothes and from his skin, and then he headed back for the camp where he was supposed to be waiting for the Sa’ba Taalor. He made no attempt to hide his tracks. He doubted there would be anyone left to follow him, at least not any of the Guntha.
The great beasts watched him as he entered the camp and not one of them made a noise of warning or a threatening move.
It would be untrue to say he slept when he got to the camp. But he closed his eyes and managed something like rest. When he opened his eyes again, Swech was moving into his tent. She was freshly scrubbed, well cleaned and dressed in different clothes. She looked at him without speaking for several seconds. He looked back, uncertain what he should say, what he should do.
“You watched us.” It wasn’t an accusation, but a statement of fact. He nodded his agreement.
“You understand now? We did what we were sent to do.”
He looked at her more closely and saw the bandages on her left arm and on both legs, as well as across her neck. She had received several injuries to his one scratch. Then again, he had only killed one man. Who knew exactly how many she was responsible for?
“Will they go back to their people and say they were attacked?”
“There are none to go anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are no survivors.” Her words were calm. Merros felt a deep chill creep through him.
“All of them?”
She reached out and touched the wound on his arm. “You should tend to that. There is always a risk of infection.”
“You killed all of them?” He had to ask a second time, had to make sure that he had heard what he thought he’d heard. Madness, it had to be.
“They cannot go home and claim they were attacked by King Marsfel and his people. They cannot go home and report anything to anyone.” Her logic was flawless, of course.
Oh, and terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.
Desh Krohan ate breakfast surrounded by four beautiful women. Three of them worked with him. The last was his apprentice. They ate together because they could and because it was likely to be the last time they were together for some time to come.
Tega picked nervously at the fare, though all of the foods presented were excellent.
“You should eat, Tega.”
“I know.” She nodded and looked at the table, not meeting his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” He reached out and caught her chin with his fingers, making her look up at him. One thing he did not tolerate from his apprentice was a sudden need to be shy. Shyness and sorcery of any sort did not mix well. That was a lesson he had learned the hard way and one he insisted that his students learn.
“I’m not ready for this.”
“Of course you are,” he countered. “If I had any doubts I wouldn’t be sending you.”
“My parents–”
“Will miss you horribly while you are gone, but you are an adult, and you chose to be my apprentice, and that means you have offered yourself to my guidance, yes?”
“Yes, Desh.”
“Then look forward to this. It’s an amazing adventure you’re going on. You’re one of the first people to ever see the land where the Seven Forges join together. How could that not be an amazing thing?”
She fidgeted and pulled her face from his hand.
“Ah. It’s the boy, isn’t it?” It was hardly a difficult guess to make. That was one of the reasons he’d decided to send her along to the Taalor Valley. The boy. Andover Lashk was an interesting lad, with an unusual situation. “You know that I need someone to watch over him, Tega. You also know that you’re about the perfect choice for that task.”
“I feel like I’m spying on him.”
“That’s because you are spying on him, my dear. Among other things, granted, but that’s one of your tasks.” There were other things, of course. She was there to be his eyes and ears when he couldn’t be there and if the Sooth weren’t lying, he’d be a very busy man in the near future, far too busy to go running off through frozen wastelands for the next few months, much as he might like the notion.
“But the Sisters–”
“Will also be far too busy. Also, they’ve just come back from spending over two months traveling. They deserve the chance to rest as well, yes?”
Oh, how she wanted to argue the point, but really, what could she say?
“I’m scared.” She looked at him with wide eyes, and trembling lips and Desh had no doubt that Andover Lashk would have killed for her in that moment.
He shook his head. “I’ve seen you handle worse situations and you know that if you have to, you can summon me.” He did not need to add that doing so would be meant strictly as a last possible option scenario. She knew that. They all knew that. Those that didn’t understand how much he preferred his privacy learned very quickly.
She wanted to say more, but one look at his face and the young girl knew better.
“You have time before you leave, Tega. Go, see your family again and prepare yourself.” His voice was not unkind as he sent her on her way. There would be no ignoring his orders, not if she truly wished to learn from him. He had taught her some things already, but she knew there was much, much more that he could teach her, would teach her if she obeyed.
She nodded her head and managed a smile before leaving them. The Sisters watched her go, but said not a word. Desh stood from the breakfast table and stretched.
“I suppose I should go have a chat with the Emperor.” He smiled as he looked at the Sisters.
“How long will you be, Desh?” Tataya pouted playfully. “We’re already getting bored.”
“I doubt that. You have new toys to play with.” He chuckled as he spoke.
Goriah shook her head and reached for one of the soft cheeses and the knife Desh had left impaling it. “Hurry. We don’t get to see you enough these days.”
“As much as I can, sweet.”
“Bring us back presents.” Pella’s voice was teasing. There were many, many rumors about Desh Krohan and the Sisters. None of them much cared what the rumors were, but from time to time they found them as amusing as they were inaccurate. Their relationship was… complex.
He waved and snickered as he pulled on his robe and headed for the door. There were too many strangers around, and too many familiar faces, in addition.
He walked quickly through the corridors and kept his silence. Really, a loud and boisterous magician held remarkably little air of mystery about him. Though a good deal of the staff and the servants knew that he could be bit sarcastic, and yes, even loud from time to time, they also knew better than to wag their tongues.
Pathra Krous was in his offices, behind the main area where he received guests and handled business. This was not one of his days scheduled for handling affairs of state, which meant that he was entertaining himself with paperwork and looking over the maps that had been delivered by the expedition.
That was good. The maps were exactly what Desh wanted to talk to him about. He came into the room without announcing himself and Pathra gave a half smile as he leaned back in his chair. “I was wondering how long I’d have to look these over before you came along.”
“I was nice. I let you play with them for a whole day.” He dropped his ceremonial robe across the back of the wooden chair where he settled and leaned over to look at the map facing the Emperor. The writing and images were upside down, but that was hardly an issue. He had been reading upside down since he could remember.
He touched the map at the entrance of the mountain range, at the base of what the Sa’ba Taalor called Durhallem. His mind tried correcting his casual nature and reminded him that the proper title was the Heart of Durhallem, but he waved the thought away like so much white noise. Really, he tended to fend off a lot of his own thoughts these days and found himself wondering if that was a sign of senility, or merely too damned many years walking the planet. Either way, he waved that thought aside as well.
Back to the maps.
“If these measurements are correct, we have grossly underestimated the size of the Forges. We have also never begun to consider that there might be a fertile valley here, or that it would be large enough to accommodate seven separate kingdoms.”
Pathra snorted. “They could be very small kingdoms, couldn’t they?”
“They could indeed, but from what we’ve seen, they have wealth and they have soldiers.”
“We’ve seen a few burly folks in armor. That hardly makes for an army.”
“By all the gods, Pathra, you’ve been hanging around me far too much. You’re getting positively snide.”
“I’m trying to be a realist. You said there might be people and we’ve seen that there are. You said they could be dangerous. That’s likely a given. They came offering gifts, and that’s a positive sign, yes?”
“Hopefully. Again, we don’t know much about them. By the way, what have you prepared as gifts for their return?”
The Emperor frowned. “I have no idea what to offer them? I mean, I hardly have any great trophies that I’ve earned in combat…”
“May I suggest an offering of emeralds from the mines of Canhoon? Perhaps a dozen of the Alacar eggs?”
“A dozen?” The man’s voice cracked as if he were an adolescent.
“Then make it seven, one for each of their kings.” Desh waved away the regret in the Emperor’s tone. Yes, the eggs were a rarity, but they were hardly impossible to get. “Honestly, Pathra, what the hell are you going to do with all of the eggs you’re already stocking up in your larders?”
“But they’re…” The Emperor sighed. “Fine.”
“Don’t be that way. Each of the seven kings offered you a treasure. You have to do the same in return.”
“A fruit basket isn’t enough?”
“They’re kings, not your relatives. You have to treat them with the proper respect. Maybe if you’re lucky they’ll let you have one of those great, hairy brutes they ride around on.”
“Gods! Wouldn’t that be lovely?” His eyes grew wide at the prospect.
“And if you establish a proper relationship it’s always possible that you could wind up visiting their kingdoms. So make sure you get a good friendship working here.”
That was really all it took. Pathra’s fascination with the Blasted Lands made him putty when it came to working out a proper accord with the inhabitants. Even if he wasn’t much of a statesman when he was in a mood, he was almost guaranteed not to get too moody if he was thinking about the unknown wonders from another land.
Desh looked at the maps again. Really, the area was much larger than he would have expected possible. At least assuming that the map was an accurate representation. There was little doubt in his mind. The craftsmanship and the attention to detail made him think that the map had been around for a while. There was no reason to assume that the people living in that valley would have time to draw a fake map, or for that matter good cause.
He studied the lay out, his fingers running over the multiple rivers that seemed most likely run off from the mountains themselves, and then working toward not one but five separate lakes within the massive valley.
“There’s nothing they couldn’t do here, Pathra. Do you see that?”
“What do you mean?” The Emperor leaned in closer, the oils in his recently restyled hair threatening to rain down on the map. Happily they didn’t quite saturate his tresses to that level.
“I mean they have forests, they have farmlands, they have clean water, and apparently they have food aplenty. There is no need for them to ever leave their valley. It’s small wonder we never knew they were there.”
“We’ve never been able to get to them. How could they get to us?”
“We never knew for certain that they were there, Pathra. There’s a difference. They either knew of us or at least suspected we existed, as best I can determine.”
The emperor rose from his seat and walked to his window, looking toward the Blasted Lands as if there were any possibility that he could see them from where he was. On particularly clear nights it was possible to see the glow from the Seven Forges on the horizon, but that was a rarity.
“Do you know I never really thought you’d find anything out there, Desh.”
“I didn’t spend my money on the sure bet that there was nothing, my friend.”
“True enough.”
Desh returned to the map again, looking even further to the north. The land seemed to continue on well beyond the valley of the Daxar Taalor, but the map itself ended. It was his curse that he was already wondering what was on the other side of that map and how long it would take him to arrange an expedition.
Pathra laughed, “You really need to work on one goal at a time, old man. First we establish a good relationship and then you use the valley as a starting point for the next expedition.”
“That obvious?”
“To me? Of course.” The Emperor looked at the map, leaning over the surface of the desk to study. “Do you suppose the scale is accurate?”
“I see no reason for it not to be. The details between where we are and where they are seem to follow a consistent scale.” Still he frowned as he spoke and looked carefully at the map. Even allowing for the violent storms and horrid environment, it seemed that more of the expeditions he’d sent over the years should have reached their destination.
But, again, sometimes the lands between the Forges and Fellein seemed to change. The distances seemed smaller now than they had. And there was a rather large icon on the map that, according to Wollis March was an affair called the Mounds. The man said the Sa’ba Taalor were forbidden to go there.
He’d have to look into both situations properly instead of merely considering them as possible causes of trouble. Mysterious ruins and shrinking distances were not the sort of notions he found at all comforting.
“What are the plans for today, Pathra?”
“I’m supposed to meet with Tuskandru and his retinue for a meal. I assume you’ll be joining me?”
“Of course.” He waved the very idea that he would be elsewhere aside. There were some things that were simply too important to overlook. “Have you ever known me to turn down food?”
“Not in my lifetime.”
Andover Lashk looked at the brutes around him and swallowed hard. Drask was a giant of a man, no two ways about it. The one next to him Tusk, was even larger. They were the biggest, to be sure, but none of the people facing him were small, and that included the women.
They were standing in the courtyard that had been set aside for the Sa’ba Taalor, and a dozen of the strangers were looking at Andover and his weapon, giving both a long and nearly silent scrutiny. He had not changed. The weapon was what they were examining most closely. The handle was a little over three feet in length, and on one end was a heavy barb for stabbing. On the other was the hammer head he had fashioned. One end was a heavy, blunt head. The other was a blade, more properly fitted to an axe. The challenge had been to make the two sides of the head balance out, as well as making the entire weapon balance out. He’d done it by adding iron rings along the base where the barb rested. When he was completely finished he would be able to balance the weapon in the palm of his hand without having to worry about it tipping one way or the other. The metal bands were also studded, allowing them to cause extra damage should they strike flesh. He’d made the bloody thing and now they were staring at it like it might be a lump of carrion he was holding instead of hours of intense labor and the cause of several small burns on his forearms from working the forge.
Tusk reached forward and plucked the weapon from his hands without asking, without warning and so quickly that Andover could not respond.
Drask looked at him with knitted brows above his veil. His expression said that Andover had just lost respect in the eyes of the newcomers by so easily forfeiting his weapon. There was nothing he could do. The man who had taken the weapon would snap him as easily as a twig.
Tusk whipped the weapon around between his hands, moving in fluid motions that seemed nearly impossible. The hammer head alone weighed enough to make wielding it a challenge to Andover, but to the man holding the weapon it seemed as light as air.
Drask stepped closer. He leaned down just a bit as the monarch from the Taalor Valley continued testing out the hammer’s balance and weight.
And then Tuskandru called to two of the surrounding Sa’ba Taalor. They nodded, came forward, and drew their weapons. The one on the left of him, a smaller man – which meant he was only enormous – swung a one-handed axe. The other was sporting a well-used and weathered sword.
“What are you…?”
Tuskandru ignored him and brought the hammer around in a savage arc, swinging at the swordsman’s head. The man deflected the blow, grunting with the effort, and immediately countered. Even as Tusk was knocking the attack aside – and continuing to swing the long hammer as if it weighed nothing – the axe-wielder swept his blade toward the monarch’s head.
Tuskandru ducked down low and brought the hammer in close to his chest before striking out with the barbed end, knocking the axe away from the wielder’s hands with a loud clatter. The axe man immediately stepped back, his arms held wide apart.
Two steps and a spinning motion that Andover could barely follow and the swordsman was on the ground, his weapon a few feet away and Tusk’s boot planted on his chest. The hammer came down and stopped inches from where it would surely have splattered the man’s skull.
All around them the horde of Sa’ba Taalor roared their approval.
“He seems pleased with the work you put into the weapon.” Drask’s voice was low, just barely audible. “That is good. Likely he will throw the weapon to you. Do not let it fall to the ground.”
Andover began to look toward the foreigner who had become his advisor, but stopped himself when, exactly as Drask had predicted, Tuskandru hurled the weapon in his direction. He did not throw it in an attack, but instead threw it with the head pointed toward the skies.
Andover moved forward and caught the weapon. The weight was almost enough to stagger him, but he braced himself and managed to keep his feet.
And found Tusk staring at him with scrutinizing eyes.
The giant bellowed out five words in the language of his people. His eyes were smiling behind the veil he sported.
Drask put a hand on Andover’s shoulder. “He likes your workmanship. He approves. Now he wants you trained with it.”
“Trained?”
The man nodded his head and looked around the courtyard. He seemed incapable of not looking around constantly. “Oh yes. You will be learning to fight with the hammer you forged. It is to be a part of you and you have… limitations.”
“What limitations?” He wasn’t sure, but suspected he should be offended by the comment.
“You do not know how to fight. You do not have years of practice. You must be readied for the journey to Taalor.”
“What do you mean ‘readied’?” He didn’t much like the sound of that, or where any of this seemed to be going. When he heard the term readied, he immediately thought of the rare occasions when his mother would make roasts and spent hours seasoning the meats and preparing them. It was not a comforting notion.
“You are meant to be an ambassador for your people.”
“Yeah?”
“That means you will need to know how to fight.”
“But, why?”
Drask sighed and pointed toward Tusk. The king was looking from one person to the next, talking softly and moving with the easy confidence that seemed afforded only the finest warriors. “Would you willingly risk a fight with him?”
“By the gods, no. He’d kill me.”
“Yes, he would.” Drask looked at him closely. “He would kill you with one blow. And that is the problem. Tuskandru, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem and King in Obsidian does not negotiate with weaklings and those who cannot defend themselves in simple combat.” He paused to let that sink in. “Neither do the other six kings. Nor do their emissaries. If you would deal with these people on behalf of your Emperor and your Empire, you must be able to fight and defend yourself.”
“Are you saying I’ll have to fight the kings?”
Drask laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Not at all. They would not fight you. But their appointed representatives almost certainly will.”
“But how?” Andover couldn’t find the words to finish his question. “I mean, what, exactly is my job going to be?”
“We have never had ambassadors before. Almost certainly you will make arguments on behalf of your Empire.”
“Alright…” Andover worked that over in his head. “How does that lead to me fighting anyone?”
“You handled your dispute with the men who attacked you, yes?”
“Yes, of course. You made me do that. You told me I had to do that to keep my hands.”
Drask nodded his head. “That is how disputes are settled where we come from.”
“All disputes?”
“Yes. Though sometimes the fights are to the death.”
Drask called out to three of his people. Two women and one man came forward. All of them looked at him expectantly.
“Delil.” He pointed to the first of the women. She was younger, and carried herself with more swagger than half of the City Guard. Next was the male, a brick wall of a man, with scars that looked like one of the great monsters they rode in on had tried to chew him to pieces covering one arm and half of his neck. “Bromt.” The last of the three was a woman whose helmet bore great horns that curved down toward her shoulders. “And this is Stastha. They will be your instructors today.”
“My instructors?” He hated the way his voice broke when he looked toward Drask.
“Yes. They’ve been instructed to beat on you until you learn to defend yourself.” Drask stepped back and clapped his hands together. Delil came forward, dropping into a crouch as she started circling Andover. She carried no weapons. “Delil will go first.”
“Wait!” Andover stepped back, gripping his hammer fiercely and looking at Drask when he wasn’t keeping a wary eye on the unarmed woman facing him and moving slowly around him, assessing his movements.
“Yes?” Drask already sounded bored.
“Am I supposed to go up against an unarmed enemy?”
“She is not unarmed. Her body is her weapon.”
A moment later the female slid forward and punched Andover in the side of his head. He staggered back and almost lost his grip on the hammer. Before he could recover properly she came at him again and boxed him on the other side of his face. After that, Andover started defending himself very vigorously. Every time he thought he was ready for whatever the woman might do, she came from another direction. Within five minutes she had disarmed him and handed him back his hammer no less than four times.
The girl was kind to him. She didn’t hit him very hard. At least not at first.
By request of the Emperor himself, Wollis March was in attendance at the dinner with the Sa’ba Taalor. He sat at the same table as Drask Silver Hand and a few others, including the boy with the new metal hands, Andover Lashk. Currently the young man was looking a bit like he’d been dragged behind a runaway carriage for a few leagues. His skin was marked with scratches and bruises, but he was clean. Wollis stared at the gloves covering his new limbs for all of a minute and then decided the hands beneath them didn’t much matter. The same could not be said for the boy, who kept fidgeting and fussing with the supple leather.
They were all sitting and the Emperor was not yet in attendance. Neither was the sorcerer, who it turned out was a rather nice fellow, all things considered. He was grateful for the maps and offered a handsome bonus to Wollis. Being a fairly decent sort himself, Wollis divided the money between the rest of the expedition. Well, not all of it, but a decent portion. Some he set aside for himself, some for Merros, and because he knew it would be what Merros wanted, he even set some aside for the families of the men who had died on the journey. Merros was a good man. That was one of the reasons that Wollis continued to serve with him even after they left the service.
The hall where they took their meal was another large affair, with marble walls, a few statues of previous emperors in the corners, and a dozen different sigils from various kingdoms of the Empire scattered along the walls almost as an afterthought. All in all it was a bit overwhelming, and so Wollis concentrated on the other people dining instead.
And there were a lot of them. One of the Sisters sat at the table as well: Pella, she of the midnight hair and hypnotically dark eyes, sat to his left. From time to time she pointed out the names and positions of some of the other people in the room to him and Drask alike. She was probably talking to Andover as well, but the boy barely seemed to notice.
The largest of the tables was set aside for Tusk – who the hell would have guessed he was a king? – and four of his retinue, as well as the Emperor, the wizard and a few of Pathra Krous’ cousins. The king, the Emperor and the sorcerer were conspicuously absent but the rest of the table was occupied by a group that appeared to have more money than common sense. One or two of them seemed to have been raised to understand the sort of manners that even Wollis was raised with – one does not deliberately outshine a guest in the house, and if these were truly members of the royal family, they seemed determined to show as many jewels as they could in an effort to prove that they were worthy of being noticed – but the ones dressed in more casual clothing were the exceptions, not the rule.
Pella leaned in close to him and did that thing where she seemed to read his mind. “You are not wrong. They seek only to impress the Emperor, and as a result, fail to follow proper decorum.”
Rather than taking offense from the possible ability to hear his thoughts – she was an associate of a sorcerer and Wollis understood the implications, even if Merros did not – he was pleased to hear that his beliefs were being confirmed.
“So they are failing in the eyes of the Emperor?”
“Oh yes. But they do not see it. They see only that they have a chance to get his attention.”
Wollis chuckled and Drask looked his way. “It is one thing to get the attention of an authority, my friend, and another entirely to get the attention you desire.”
Andover laughed bitterly at that. The boy’s eyes looked toward him and he wagged his fingers. “On this you and I agree.” Then the lad went back to looking at his hands. He was almost the same age as Nolan, and Wollis felt a twinge at the thought. It had been a long while since he’d seen his son. It might be a very long time indeed, as Nolan was now of age and likely already off to serve in the army.
Laughter erupted at the table to their left and the royals looked over with surprised expressions. Pella smiled indulgently and, at that table, Tataya laughed along with several of the Sa’ba Taalor, who were apparently exchanging anecdotes about fighting. It seemed that almost everything the people from the valley did involved fighting. Wollis remembered watching them when they were heading toward Fellein, still dressed in their weapons and armor, and had little trouble understanding that the people around him were warriors. The noblemen seemed less likely to ever fully understand that notion.
They were not soldiers. He doubted most of them would properly understand which end of a sword should be pointed at an enemy. Oh, to be sure they had been taught the ways of weapons, had likely been taught by the finest swordsmen around, but having a good teacher did not guarantee that a person was among the finest students.
The Sa’ba Taalor did not carry any weapons on them. They were unarmed. A few of the royals were sporting daggers or other small bejeweled pieces that were supposed to be weapons. In any situation that involved bloodshed Wollis would have banked his entire newly acquired fortune on the visitors from the Seven Forges. That included the slightest of the females, who, sadly, had gone off with Merros on his merry little adventure in the south. Jost. That was her name. Young enough to be his daughter, but oddly sexy, even with her face hidden away.
He looked toward Drask and wondered what, exactly, was hidden behind that veil. His curiosity was mild enough to avoid him risking life and limb to find out.
Of course Wollis would have been the first to say he had a great deal of common sense and a powerful sense of self-preservation. He wouldn’t have been wrong on either account.
Sadly, the same could not be said of the nobles.
A young buck at the main dining table was sitting to the left of a stunning beauty who had the common sense to dress appropriately for the guests of the Empire. She had the sense. The young buck was a dandy, dressed in finery and actually sporting a thin sword that, while likely quite deadly, didn’t look like it could take a blow from an axe without being reshaped. His hair was over-oiled and curled in the latest dubious fashion, his clothes were of shiny silks, and his face was still round with the last of his baby fat. He would likely be handsome enough someday, but like Andover Lashk, he was barely of age to be called a man.
He spoke exactly loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “What sort of swine come to an affair like this and bray like broken mules?” The four members of the Sa’ba Taalor at the same table looked toward him with wide, shocked eyes.
Wollis bit his lip. It was bad enough that the young fool was speaking that way. It was worse that he spoke that way during one of those sublime moments when it seemed that everyone in the room stopped speaking at the exact same time. All of the background murmurs faded away just as he posed his deliberately rude question.
The beauty next to the buck looked shocked. “Brolley! What has possessed you?” Her voice was soft, her chastisement meant only for the offender’s ears.
Drask’s voice, on the other hand, was sharp and loud enough to answer the challenge that had been thrown. His accent in that moment was thick, and the distortion that all of his people spoke with was particularly loud. “What sort of whelp barks when he should keep his mouth shut and save himself sorrow?”
Wollis reached out a hand. “I’m sure he did not mean–”
Drask brushed the staying hand aside gently. His eyes locked on the younger dandy. “He knew exactly what he said. Didn’t you, boy?”
Oh, yes, this was going poorly indeed. Wollis looked to Pella, and she in turn looked at her sisters, possibly trying to find the best way to calm the tempestuous situation.
The young noble bristled. “How dare you?” His face reddened.
The beauty next to him called out sharply this time. “Brolley! Think carefully before you speak!”
“Enough, Nachia! I’ll not have a dirt farmer like this speak to me with that tone!” Brolley stood up and faced Drask where he sat. “I’ll not be called a boy by a savage!”
Wollis started to stand up. He would, by the gods, not stand by and allow a foolhardy boy to start a war between nations. “That’s enough! Hold your tongue, lad!”
Drask stood up. And up. And up. And for the first time the boy with the fine clothes and the fancy sword realized that he might have made a mistake. It was one thing to see Drask when he was settled comfortably at a dining table and another entirely to see the man when he was ready to handle a situation.
“You offend me. You offend my people. You disgrace your Emperor, your family, and yourself.” Drask spoke softly, but every last soul in the room heard him clearly.
“Apologize, Brolley, immediately.” The woman, Nachia, spoke with frosty warning in her tone. The whole group of them knew better than to let this go on any longer. Their faces spoke volumes of how well they understood the situation.
Wollis could see it on the boy’s face. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make the situation go away, but he also couldn’t stand the idea of losing face in front of his family, his peers. He was humiliated. He’d been chastised by a man he certainly considered a savage and he’d been called out by none other than Wollis himself, a lowly peasant and soldier. The sting of the situation was worse than a slap across the face.
One sentence and the entire affair could likely have been forgiven. One simple apology and the incident would go away. But youthful pride is always a stone in the boot of an arrogant boy.
“I don’t apologize for speaking the truth. And I don’t apologize to pigs.”
It was then that the Emperor, the sorcerer, and the King walked into the room. They were just in time to hear the boy’s words.
Nachia shook her head. “Brolley, no!”
Drask looked at the boy and took three steps forward. The first stride seemed to cover half the room. The second had him in front of the dandy. The third had the boy driven against the table, pinned in place by Drask’s hands.
The boy tried to draw his sword. He had it halfway out of the scabbard before Drask slapped his hand aside and then threw the weapon to the ground with a clatter.
“Drask!” Tuskandru’s voice was thunderous.
Drask lifted Brolley from the table and shook him. Brolley’s eyes were wide in his round face and he yelped as surely as a dog that has been beaten. It was obvious even from where Wollis stood that Drask was doing all he could to restrain his rage.
“I demand satisfaction from this cur!” Drask roared the words. His veil shuddered with the force of his angered breaths.
Emperor Pathra Krous looked to his cousin, and then to the king beside him and finally to Drask.
Desh Krohan spoke softly, but the words carried far enough to let Wollis hear them. “I told you to change that stupid law.”
The Emperor of Fellein looked at the warrior holding his cousin off the ground by the front of his shirt. His cousin looked at him with wide, worried eyes.
Tuskandru looked at the Emperor. Pathra Krous looked at the king and then at Drask. “You shall have your satisfaction. You shall have your blood trial.”
Nachia looked at her Emperor in horror. Wollis knew just how she felt.