King of Ashes

  This was also the moment he lost ‘the other’, and without words to describe its loss, Hatu felt only a deep void, a faint reverberation of something important lost, an echo that would lie at the root of his constant sense of frustration and anger.

  ‘There you are,’ came a voice. ‘These are the things I must know.’

  Someone picked him up, and loud noises close by startled him. He began to cry but a hand covered his mouth and muffled the sound. He heard voices speak words he didn’t understand in his memory, though he understood them now as he relived this memory.

  ‘They’re killing the babies! Take him and flee.’

  ‘Where?’ a voice spoke very close to him, perhaps the person who clutched him against her chest. He felt soft warmth and could hear a heart pounding.

  ‘To the stream from the lake; follow it down the gully into the valley. It looks like it ends at the falls but there’s a trail that continues on the right side. Follow it down to the coast. Then down to where his father fights. See if anyone survived. If not, hide the child as best you …’ The voices and images faded.

  HATU CAME ALERT, CHILLED TO the bone, his teeth chattering. The evil crone peered into his eyes and again he felt alien sensations course through him, as if a storm approached and was causing all the hair on his arms and head to stand up. She chanted and he heard words he almost understood. The ache faded from his shoulders and he not only felt revived, but his strength returned in a rush. She waved her hand and the feeling of well-being faded. She whispered, ‘He is gods-touched. He is a creature of vengeance. He has magic sleeping within him.’

  ‘Kill him,’ said Sabina. ‘Meat!’

  ‘No!’ said Hadona. She looked as if she was about to strike the younger woman, who pulled back, cringing slightly. ‘You would invite destruction upon all of the Sisters of the Deep.’ Hadona then turned to look at Madda. ‘He is a thing of power, a weapon to be used. We cannot have it used against us, but whoever kills him will unleash fury beyond imagining. He must die far from here, and not by our hands.’ She was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘Have the swimmers put him back.’

  ‘What of the other one?’ asked Madda.

  Hadona looked at Sabina. ‘Keep him for your toy. Maybe a first daughter will teach you things no one else seems able to.’

  As Madda laughed, Hadona said, ‘Call the swimmers and get him away, now!’

  Hatu glanced at his friend still hanging limply, wishing he could speak a goodbye, then Hadona waved her hand before his face, and darkness suddenly overwhelmed him again.

  • CHAPTER ELEVEN •

  A Quick Instruction and Introduction

  The wagon was less than a block south of Caer Marquenet’s main gate when a group of men stopped in the middle of the street and blocked their passage. The three older men at their centre held large hammers, marking them as blacksmiths. ‘Who here calls himself a smith?’ demanded the man at the front, a burly, blond-haired fellow with massive shoulders.

  Declan nodded, his face a neutral mask. ‘That would be me.’

  ‘Boys said there was a new fellow in the city, heading to the caer with an anvil and tools in the back of his wagon. Get down and we’ll talk.’

  Some locals paused to witness the potential confrontation between the three young men in the wagon and the half a dozen blacksmiths with their apprentices, eighteen in number.

  Declan turned to Jusan and Ratigan and said, ‘It will be fine,’ and he climbed down. He motioned to Jusan. ‘My sword.’

  Jusan handed it down and Declan belted it around his waist before he slowly walked to stand before the self-appointed leader of the mob. ‘Now, what is it?’ he asked, keeping his tone quiet.

  ‘We have some standards in Marquenet.’

  ‘You’re a guild?’ asked Declan.

  ‘No,’ said the blond smith. ‘Baron Dumarch doesn’t allow guilds, but he is more honourable than most lords, and we follow his example; we offer good work for fair pay, and we don’t let just any common journeyman’ – he leaned forward, inspecting Declan – ‘who’s only just finished his apprenticeship wander in and lower prices and quality. We have a tradition in Marquenet.’

  ‘Some standards, you said,’ replied Declan.

  The blond smith nodded. Declan judged that his stance was a threat implied, not an open challenge. Still, a potential confrontation was but moments away. Declan smiled slightly, nodded, and said, ‘Standards are good.’

  ‘What are you called?’

  ‘Declan, and you?’

  ‘Gildy.’

  ‘Do you speak for all the smiths in the city, Gildy?’

  The large man let his hammer slide through his hand until he gripped it under the iron head, then he crossed his arms and said, ‘For the sake of this discussion, yes, I do.’ Gildy’s face tightened as if he expected trouble. The men arrayed behind him looked ready to brawl as well.

  Declan nodded. ‘Well, to begin, I’d not undercut anyone’s prices, and I haven’t even decided where I want to set up shop yet. I had a message for the baron, and now that it has been delivered, I think I’ll head out of the city and look for a town or village that is in need of a smith. There is obviously no shortage here.’

  Gildy relaxed slightly, hearing that. He nodded, acknowledging Declan’s intent. The men behind him stood a bit more at ease, as well.

  ‘And lastly, I’m not a journeyman. I’m a master smith.’

  Gildy’s brow furrowed and he said, ‘Master, you say? You don’t look like you have the age.’

  ‘I was taught by the best.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Edvalt Tasman, at the forge in Oncon.’

  Gildy looked over his shoulder and another smith nodded and said, ‘We know that name from when he was the baron’s man. He’s … very good.’

  Declan pulled his sword, and before anyone could react, he reversed it and handed it hilt first to Gildy. ‘This is my masterpiece.’

  Gildy regarded the unpolished sword for a moment and then took it from Declan. ‘Doesn’t look like …’ He felt the heft and balance, then looked more closely. He ran his thumb slowly along the fuller, the thick raised centre of the blade, then held it out and looked down it. ‘Balances well,’ he said softly. ‘Very well.’ He again brought it close to his eyes and rubbed its edge, revealing a slight sheen. The other smiths and apprentices fell silent as Gildy continued to judge the blade, thrusting, taking blocking positions, and cutting broadly, as if in combat.

  Finally, he went past Declan and put the blade flat on the wheel of the wagon. He lightly tapped it with his hammer, which produced a ringing tone, and held the blade up closer to his ear.

  ‘Damn me,’ he said softly.

  Gildy turned to look at Declan, an unspoken question on his face, and after a brief second, Declan nodded.

  ‘It’s a jewel of a thing,’ Gildy said so only Declan could hear.

  Again Declan nodded, but said nothing.

  Handing the sword back, the large man said, ‘Tell me of its fashioning.’

  ‘I built the furnace, clay atop stone; stoked the coals; and chose the iron. I mixed the coal ash and iron sand and judged the slag by colour. I folded the steel—’

  ‘How many folds?’

  Declan smiled slightly. ‘Twelve.’

  Gildy nodded. ‘It’s a fine weapon. Needs a polish.’

  Declan scabbarded his sword and said, ‘Didn’t want it looking too conspicuous.’

  Gildy laughed. ‘Well, modest, too.’ He turned to the others and said, ‘Declan is who he claims, if he indeed made that sword, and since he’s given us no reason to doubt him, this, lads, may be the youngest master smith you’ll ever see!’ He clapped Declan on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

  The others hesitated for a moment, and then the mood changed; several of the men nodded at Declan in greeting. Gildy said, ‘Set up your shop where you will, but come by and have a drink before you leave the city, and I’ll tell you how things get done around here, so y
ou don’t cause any ruckus with your fellow smiths.’ He pointed south and said, ‘Three streets down there’s a clothier at the sign of a black-and-white sheep. Turn right and you’ll find my forge on the left side of the street a short way down.’

  Declan held out his hand and said, ‘Fair enough.’

  They shook, and then Gildy turned and said, ‘Need to get back to work, boys.’

  When the knot of smiths and apprentices had departed, Declan climbed back on the wagon. Ratigan said, ‘You did well. There’s no tougher bunch in the city than the smiths, ’cept maybe the teamsters. Get on their wrong side and things can turn very grim.’

  ‘You didn’t think to inform me of their … fraternity before we arrived?’

  Ratigan shrugged, flicked the reins, and got the horses moving again before he said, ‘Didn’t see the need. You never mentioned where you intended to go after we talked to the baron.’

  Declan sighed. ‘I guess that’s right.’ He looked around as the wagon headed down the road back towards the market. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I don’t know about you and the boy,’ said Ratigan, ‘but I’m heading for the market to see if anything needs hauling. When we get there, I’d be pleased to help you unload that anvil and your tools.’

  Declan looked at the driver, then laughed. ‘I imagine you would.’ Then he lost his smile. ‘I’m going to require your services a while longer, until I find a proper site for a forge.’

  ‘I need to earn some coin, Declan,’ said Ratigan crossly. ‘I have horses to feed and they’re growing lean on the grazing we’ve done since leaving Oncon. They require grain. Grain requires money.’

  Declan said, ‘I’ll buy you some grain and toss in a couple of silver coins, but I can’t just stand on the roadside and use my tools. I need a proper forge or a place to build one.’

  Ratigan nodded. It was clear he wasn’t going to shed Declan and Jusan easily, and despite his self-serving nature, he also knew that he owed his freedom, even his life, to the villagers of Oncon, and the two men with him were at the heart of his liberation. He was silent for a while, then said, ‘There’s usually someone at the market who might be of help.’

  They wended their way through the busy streets to an intersection a block away from the market. Ratigan navigated them easily through a narrow back street to a large open area filled with horses, wagons, carts, and a few pack animals. He found a place he could easily leave, parked the wagon, and jumped down, motioning for Declan to follow. Turning to Jusan, he said, ‘You’d best keep an eye on things here. No one will bother you in daytime, but if no one watches the wagon, those tools will likely be missing when we get back.’

  Declan looked at Jusan and said, ‘Rest here and I’ll be back shortly.’

  Jusan, who was almost at full health, looked annoyed at being left behind but said nothing and only nodded.

  Declan walked beside Ratigan to the market. As they approached the first booth, the smith asked, ‘Would leaving my tools there really be a problem?’

  ‘Maybe not. Nobody bothers horses and wagons, but something that can be lifted out and carried away?’ He shrugged, then pointed. ‘There she is.’ The ‘she’ was a stocky, middle-aged woman wearing a bright blue head scarf, from which strands and curls of shocking orange hair tried to escape. Sunburned cheeks and freckles dominated her round face, and her very large frame was clad in a simple scoop-neck, sleeveless top and a huge bright blue skirt that swept along the ground. She stood behind two younger women, a slender dark-skinned girl with sharp features, and a curvaceous blonde who bore a slight resemblance to the large woman behind her. Declan thought the blonde was as pretty as any girl he had ever seen.

  ‘Hey, Kalanora!’ Ratigan shouted in greeting.

  The large woman’s eyes narrowed as she saw Ratigan approaching. ‘Don’t waste my time or pester my girls, Ratigan!’ Then a puzzled expression crossed her puffy face and her eyes widened. ‘Weren’t you off somewhere with Milrose?’

  Ratigan ignored the harsh tone of her first remark and answered her question. ‘Milrose is dead. We got hit by slavers near the Ilcomen – Covenant border.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ was all Kalanora said as she looked down her nose at the driver in a manner that suggested she believed that whatever ill had befallen his master, it was probably Ratigan’s fault.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ Kalanora asked, turning an appraising gaze on Declan, as if she was disinclined to give any companion of Ratigan’s the benefit of the doubt. Declan was certain the two had history.

  Before Ratigan could answer, a loud blast of a horn and the beat of several drums in unison filled the market, quickly followed by a babble of voices, and Declan and the others turned towards the source of the tumult.

  Kalanora spoke loudly. ‘Now what is it?’

  Ratigan and Declan moved towards the sound, and through the crowd they saw a procession travelling into the marketplace from the south. Half a dozen men in dark grey robes, with their hoods thrown back, had entered the square; their advance had slowed as the crowd gave way sedately, despite the clamour from the drums and brass horn.

  Behind the men came a stranger-looking vehicle than any Declan had ever seen, and he had fixed wheels and axles on every type of carriage, wagon, and cart known on the continent. It was pulled by six draught horses; he couldn’t see the wheels or detail below the upper half of the wagon due to the crowd, but the upper half alone was odd enough to catch Declan’s attention.

  It looked like a hay wagon, but with its high sides cut down and a large platform fixed on top. A sturdy wooden chair, almost a throne, had been nailed to the platform, and on it sat an elderly man wearing a black robe and a red skullcap who appeared to be doing his best not to fall off. He had a pale, pinched face, and his eyes darted around, as if he was searching for something in the crowd. His smile looked feigned, and more like he was in pain, and he was making an odd gesture with his right hand, holding it upright and moving it around slightly. Declan thought it looked as if the old man was giving some sort of benediction to the crowd.

  The strange wagon lurched and groaned. Without looking at it, Declan could tell it had a fixed axle, and so visited every bump in the road upon the hindquarters of whichever dignitary sat on the silly contraption. Still, the man’s rictus smile remained fixed.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Ratigan and Kalanora at almost exactly the same moment.

  Declan only shrugged, while Ratigan said, ‘I think we’ll soon find out. They’re stopping.’

  To the consternation of several merchants, the horn was blown one last time, followed by a ruffle of drums, and the procession halted in the midst of potential buyers. Then a man who walked before the team drawing the odd wagon shouted, ‘Silence!’

  The command only brought forth a louder babble of angry voices and again came the command to fall silent. After a minute of jeering, the noise fell away until replaced by a low murmur of curious chatting and whispering.

  Seeing that it was as close to silence as he was likely to get, the speaker shouted, ‘By order of the One, to each state and nation, a holy guide has been dispatched. In each state and nation a prelature is to be established in the capital city, in which will reside a man of high office, tasked with overseeing the spiritual well-being of the people, and with leading the hunt for heretics.

  ‘You are now in the presence of Marquensas’s prelate, His Excellency Episkopos Hosa.’

  ‘That’s an odd name,’ said Kalanora.

  The crowd muttered, not entirely sure what was expected of them. The Church of the One had grown in power over the last hundred years, displacing other faiths through political manoeuvring, clever alliances, and outright bullying and bribery. They had been more aggressive over the last thirty years, and blood-shed had been replaced by political manipulation of the highest order. The Church claimed their rise was due to the supremacy of their god, and that it was proof that their faith was the only true faith.

  Edvalt had told Declan that wh
en he was a boy, an uneasy peace had existed between most of the faiths, but since then he had seen this new church systematically destroy the others. Only a few minor faiths were still tolerated, and those had cleverly adapted so they could claim to worship the same god.

  ‘Well, I guess we’ve got someone else to tell us how to live our lives,’ said Kalanora with a snort of disgust.

  The speaker raised his voice again. ‘The prelature is established in the building on West Hill. It was consecrated last night after the episkopos blessed the building and a dozen heretics were burned at the stake. Prayer services begin at sunrise and end at sundown. The faithful are always welcome.’

  The drivers, who stood to either side of the horses, as one both flipped the reins, urging the horses forward, and the procession began their exit from the market, apparently heading to another market on their way back to West Hill.

  ‘West Hill?’ said Ratigan. ‘That’s what they were doing with that building?’ He glanced at Declan. ‘Used to be the Temple of Othan, goddess of oceans and weather. Every sailor in the city would say a prayer there before leaving on a voyage, back when I was a boy.’

  ‘They took it over two years ago.’ Kalanora hit Ratigan lightly on the back of the head. ‘And if you didn’t spend all your time drinking and bothering good girls, you’d know that, Ratigan.’ He turned and looked daggers at her, rubbing the back of his head, as she continued. ‘They converted the temple to the One. It’s now called a church. They conducted rituals, burned a lot of incense and a few heretics. The entire quarter fairly reeked of sage, balsam, and myrrh for weeks’ – she lowered her voice – ‘to hide the stench of burned flesh, I expect.’ Returning to her normal speaking voice, Kalanora continued. ‘And that chanting …’ She shook her head as the procession left the market. ‘Well, at least we know episkopos is a title of some sort, and not a name.’