The Four Forges (43 page)

“I saw her handiwork but a little while ago, and agree.”

Daravan inclined his head. “She keeps her peace as well, and discretion is always commendable. As for our business?”

Sevryn waved a hand. “I had only hoped to greet you in a quiet place, what with the ceremonies planned over the next month or so, and I thank you for your time.”

“Good, then. I’m certain we’ll see each other later.” He tapped a last gold crown on the counter, a sharp rap. “Good eve, Mistress Farbranch, and to your daughters. When you need a fitting, Walther knows how to reach me.”

Muffled, from the back area, Lily called back, “Aye, m’lord, I’ll send word,” and Daravan had gone before she finished speaking.

Sevryn turned on his heel sharply, stopping only in the doorway. “Thank you. With your permission, might I return?”

Lily peeked out from her workshop. “For . . . ?”

“A garment or two of my own. I might know a lady who wishes a new gown as well, and those veils are quite charming.”

Pleasure warmed her cheeks and crinkled the lines at the corner of her eyes. “Welcome, then, m’lord Dardanon.”

“Good.” He hesitated another moment, but neither Rivergrace nor Nutmeg appeared, although he could swear he saw the curtains move, parting slightly so that his leaving might be watched.

Or perhaps he only hoped that as he left.

 
Jeredon slapped his shoulder sharply. “A quick turn, I thought.” His voice scolded.

“Complications. The Kobrir are in town, and we are warned that there may well be an assassination attempt. I doubt it matters what gate we use to enter, but the various events and dances planned, as well as the Conference itself, will have to be watched closely. It’s been confirmed there is more than one Kobrir and two are about. Daravan has tabs on one, but he thinks Lariel is still the target.”

Jeredon hissed a breath inward. “I send you out to find a ripe fruit thrower, a crowd heckler, and you come back with an assassin.”

“It’s my job, eh? And I’m good at it.” Sevryn swung up on his horse, settling in. The healed scar on his flank drew a little, but nothing like the kedant-laced network over the rest of his torso, and he found a little peace in that. How had she done it, healed what no other healer could? He found Jeredon’s gaze still on him, and reminded him, “Lariel is not one to be afraid, so it looks like you and I are going to have to be the ones using caution.”

“True, that. Well. Let’s see what kind of night’s sleep we’ll get after we tell her your bit of street gossip.” He reined his horse around, and Sevryn followed.

NARSKAP WORE THE WAR hammer at his lean hip, with the greatsword sheathed at his back, his lean face etched with the ravages of a struggle Quendius could not begin to fathom, though he had heard the howling of it for days. His aide looked as if he could not bear the presence of others except for the weaponmaker, and even that seemed difficult as he stayed in the far corner of the pavilion. A man of few words himself, Quendius sprawled at the rough wooden table, the edges of his tent stirring in the early dawn air and said, “Sit for a while. Rest.”

“There is no rest when caught between petty Gods and Demons.”

“I could kill you now.”

Narskap’s color went ashen. “It’s a good offer, and one I will relish one day, but that would bring no peace. Pray you never die at the hands of one of these,” and he gestured at the two weapons he wore, his hands trembling before he hooked his thumbs back into his belt to still the quaking, and stand stoically in the corner.

“Shall we inform our buyer of the hammer’s possibilities and consequences, I wonder?”

“It is a failure. Whatever Diort wants of it, it will ultimately betray him.”

“All to our good, then.” Bored, Quendius carved at the tabletop with the tip of a very sharp dagger, working the wood into a design, painstakingly etching and smoothing away curls and sawdust as he amused himself. The soft but aged wood gave way easily to his steel, and he soon had an intricate floral-and-vine design started, before he realized that Narskap had not answered him further and that a hush had fallen over the camp. He laid his dagger down.

One of his lieutenants brushed inside. “The clans are drawing near.”

“Good. Have they closed the circle yet?”

“No. It’s my guess that they are doing what you predicted, and letting the others join us before they do so. They seem to have no inkling they, in turn, are being outflanked.”

“Excellent. Keep watch.”

The lieutenant saluted and left.

Quendius looked into the morning light as it brightened, the sooty nature of his skin darkening in contrast to the light. Never lighter than pale fine ash or darker than a grayish charcoal, he looked as if he perpetually resided in shadow.

“Soon,” murmured Narskap, as if reading his thoughts on how close the others might be.

“Does it sense a blooding?” Quendius eyed the hilt of the greatsword visible over Narskap’s shoulder, wondering how his aide knew of things he could not know. It was not a Talent or ability of his line.

“Yes. Or perhaps it merely reads my own anticipation. But it knows. It grows eager now.”

“Good. I think our buyer will need a Demonstration.”

“I stand at your service.” Narskap looked down as if composing a thought, or an emotion, or perhaps even a defense against his inner self, then raised his chin.

Quendius ran a fingertip over the design he’d begun in the table. He’d been apprenticed as a decorative wood-worker, long, long ago. He could almost remember what it was like to have a fondness for woods, their grains, their strength, their glow, their aroma, the works they lent themselves to. Almost. It seemed a life so far away that it could not have been his, however. He had the Vaelinarran eyes but not the abilities desired with them, and he’d been tossed aside like a dulled and broken tool, useless, until he found a use for himself. Like fires filled a forge, the drive to find himself had filled him, and he had been granted part of his desire. The road would be a long one, and the horizon pleased him. He picked the dagger back up and continued carving the design. Wandering leaves for the border, with new budded flowers amid dewdrops and thorns, he decided. Definitely thorns.

He had finished the border along the end of the table before he could hear his camp coming to life in brisk, precise movements and knew the buyers and their wagons had made the perimeter before the lieutenant officially announced them. He brushed the sawdust and curls off the surface, pleased with his skill.

“Bring them to me, of course, once you’ve offered them water for cleansing and wine for libation.”

Another sketched salute and his man disappeared.

Within moments, the Galdarkan company stood in his pavilion and he rose to greet them, Narskap coming to life and striding quietly across the space to flank him. He knew Abayan Diort, although he’d always met with emissaries before, but the tall, mercenary Galdarkan looked unmistakable, particularly with the ranking tattoo he wore on his cheekbone. The officers’ insignia started quietly, and then grew with each commission and Diort’s looked as masterful and complicated as any he’d ever seen. Although the Galdarkans would never claim the title of emperor as their Magi lords once had, there could be no doubt of Abayan’s rising as high as any could. He wore field gear, not to impress, but because he anticipated trouble on any road, and he wished to be prepared for it. He looked comfortable in the cavalry armor, and Quendius thought he could understand the Galdarkan about as well as anyone could, without wearing Diort’s skin.

He put a hand up, palm out, and Abayan did the same. The mercenary then signaled the two men flanking him to stand down and faced him again. “Thank you for courtesies of the road.”

“I couldn’t do less. You’ve never come to buy from me in person before.”

“You’ve not requested my presence before. My purser was always sufficient.” Abayan stripped off his riding gloves, tucking them into his belt. His baldric held a good sword and two throwing knives, for Quendius had not stipulated disarming his buyer, a subtle point he hoped to make.

“There has always been a fiction between us, as to whom the buyer was. I see no point in continuing the pretense. I have at my disposal, besides the usual lot you order, a weapon that only you can use, and so it becomes necessary to deal with you personally.”

The red-gold eyebrows of the Galdarkan rose up, and his dark jade eyes seemed to reflect a smoldering irritation. “A weapon fits any hand, within reason.”

“Not this one.” Quendius seated himself and leaned indolently back in his chair. “It is, if you will, God-ridden.”

Abayan Diort quirked his head at that, something unreadable replacing the irritation in his eyes as he stared down at Quendius.

“Yes,” answered Quendius to the unspoken question. “It can be, and has been, done.”

“You ask for a leap of faith, even from a descendant of guardians from a time when magic ruled on Kerith. The Gods deny us. You have always said you spoke with Gods, now you bind Their Word to a weapon? To what end?”

“You ask to what end? To conquer. Is there any other destiny with war?”

“What of your Accords?”

Quendius dismissed both question and agreements with a wave of his hand.

“Let me see it.”

Narskap stirred. “Never draw a weapon you do not plan to use.”

Abayan Diort stared him down, or tried to. The thin, hardened Vaelinar remained unmoved, and it was Diort who gave way, flicking his glance back to Quendius.

“Oh, I intend a Demonstration. Tell your men to prepare for battle.” Quendius pushed his chair back, standing again, with a sharp whistle that sent booted feet running past the tent. “We’ve been surrounded.”

Abayan’s hands went to his baldric with a curse, pulling his sword. Narskap leaped over the table, catching his arms before he could draw, and Quendius said coldly, “Too ready to be turned upon, I think.” He circled and looked down upon both Narskap and Diort, the wiry Vaelinar’s strength more than a match for the husky, well-muscled mercenary. “I said a Demonstration, not a thugging. When you rode in here, a circle closed about us, an enemy sure that we are unaware of their ambush.” He smiled thinly. “They are about to find out what we are made of, once again.” He let out a splitting whistle and strode out of the pavilion. Narskap released Diort to follow upon his heels, the mercenary scowling and muttering low words.

The lieutenant gave Quendius the reins to his war steed. Narskap gathered up his own mount; after a moment’s hesitation, Diort followed. The low hills and rounded knolls about them boiled with the movement of Bolger clans closing in on the camp. Bold in movement, unafraid, sure that they had their prey outnumbered. Quendius pointed a chin toward them. “Even without what I offer you, we have them, and they don’t know it yet. I will take no prisoners, but I will take as mercenary those who give themselves up. Ride after Narskap. I don’t offer you the sword he carries, but the war hammer at his waist. You won’t see him draw that, for it bonds to its carrier. The sword is his. The hammer can be yours.”

“Stay behind Narskap if you wish to be safe. Join me, when you wish to fight.” With that, Quendius pivoted his steed and rode up the slope with a yelping yell of challenge, and Bolgers charged to meet him, infantry on foot and cavalry atop tough little mountain horses the size of ponies, with archers staying up on the rounded knolls. A hail of arrows rained down, beating upon the shield walls, and the archers fell back. Narskap put his hand back to the hilt of the greatsword and drew it, with a high keening sound of stone upon steel as though the sheath sharpened it even as it relinquished it. It took a moment for Diort to realize the greatsword made the sound itself and that it vibrated within Narskap’s hard hold upon it. He threw himself after the swordsman, his horse’s ears pinned back at the high-pitched howling of the blade.

The Bolgers beat drums, their heavy vibrations echoing through the knolls like low thunder and voicing commands to their ragged army. He’d fought Bolgers before, small ragged units and unruly bands of raiders, although the years of Bolger warfare had faded into history behind them. Yet this group of clans seemed disciplined and eager. They wheeled to flank them, even as a contingent charged down the throat of the hillside at the weaponmaster’s troops. The shield wall moved up and replaced itself. The greatsword’s high yowl tore through the sound of the drums as if it was merely a backdrop to it, and Diort watched as Narskap bore down on the first wave of cavalry coming his way, blade glinting in his hand.

The clans bellowed a guttural word. “Blood, blood, BLOOD!” with each drumbeat. It was the sword which answered.

It seemed to jump out, for the throat, the chest, the thigh, the arm, crimson spurting each time it struck, flesh opening straight to the bone and beyond, with the howling of the death a panicked accompaniment. It swung in Narskap’s hand of its own volition and speed, and every Bolger that fell under it, fell with first a look of shock, then of absolute horror as the blade drank of its victim. It never wearied in Narskap’s grasp. Never faltered. Never missed a hit, though the Bolgers began to slew away from it, swerving about with sharp, barking cries. Blood ran down its channel in rivers, and never touched Narskap’s forearm as the hilt itself seemed to be a maw of darkness that eagerly gulped every crimson drop.

Diort’s horse shied from the bodies, horses and Bolgers, tumbling in Narskap’s wake, a wake that began to open wider and wider as the clansmen fought each other to get out of Narskap’s path. As his horse jumped the dead, Abayan looked down into leathery brown faces going pale, mouths stretched in cries of agony and fear, eyes losing their light in abject horror. The sword took more than life and blood. As they reached the top of the knolls, Narskap pulled his war steed up by sheer force, turning about in a tight circle, greatsword in his hand.