The forgemaster handed him the inventory records, and watched anxiously as Grunthor reviewed them, then checked the lines of artisans who were smelting and hammering, filing and tempering. He counted each of the finished weapons against the inventory list, and found all accounted for. In addition, the number of culls had dropped considerably from where it had been during training; they were learning.
Satisfied, he returned the inventory to the forgemaster and turned to the craftsmen.
“All right, gents, good work. Keep it up, eh?”
He returned the salute of the forgemaster and strode off with his aides-de-camp, singing a tavern song as he left. His ringing bass echoed up the mountain hall before him, warning the next group of smiths of his imminent arrival.
She ’as eyes as big as two fried eggs
And skin as green as the sea
If you open your coin purse, she’ll open her legs,
She’s my girl in Ter-i-lee.
As the sound of his voice drifted away, three of the Bolg forge handlers exchanged a quick glance, then returned to their work in the flickering shadows of the pure, intense fire that came directly from the heart of the Earth.
Nimeth, Northwestern Sorbold
The bell that signaled the back door had opened jangled sharply. Old Ned the tinker had closed up shop several hours before, and had settled down before the fire grate with a pint of stout and a bowl of lamb stew. Immediately he reached next to the fire for one of his hammers. He rose with a creak and patted the hammer before hiding it within the folds of his stained leather apron; Old Ned was in his twilight years, but still possessed of muscular arms and a strong grip.
“Who is ye? Who be there?”
In the weak fireshadows cast by the coals in the grate two faces appeared near the back door. Even in the dark they appeared hirsute and coarse, though not as coarse as one might have expected the faces of Bolg to be, or at least so Old Ned thought. They stared at Ned thoughtfully, as they always did, serious but not threatening.
Old Ned smiled and put down the hammer.
“Well, good evening, my lads,” he said, rubbing the chill from his hands. “Reckon ’tis been at least a month since last you came. Have ya brought me the last of the goods?”
The men exchanged a glance without taking their eyes off him, then pulled forth an oilskin sack tied with string from the darkness between them. They dropped it onto the planks against the back wall that served as a counter, then retreated to a safe distance back into the shadows.
Old Ned hobbled nimbly over to the counter, undid the string, and pulled the sack open eagerly. Impatient, he upended it onto the planks and cackled aloud with glee at its contents.
A strange, circular, three-bladed throwing knife, similar to the small ones they had brought a few months before but much heftier; a pair of long, broad swords with splayed, layered metal tips; and a shiny disk, thin as a butterfly’s wing but sharp as a razor.
Weapons of Bolg manufacture.
“Ha!” shouted Old Ned, unable to contain his excitement. “Beauties, boys, beauties! They’ll fetch a fine price indeed.” His eyes were glowing with avarice as they searched the shadows to find the dark faces once more. He picked up the whisper-thin circle.
“I’ll need but two more of these, and then we will have a bargain fulfilled, yes we will.”
“No.” The word spat forth from one of the shadows deeper in the room than he expected; Old Ned turned and saw the eyes in one angular face glaring back at him. “Now. Give.”
Old Ned drew himself up to his full height and picked up the hammer again. He focused on the eyes in the dark, staring the man down like a stag or a rat in the gutter.
“Sod off,” he snarled. “I set the price, and I decide when it’s eno—”
His voice choked off as a blade, thin as a ribbon and curved, was pressed against his neck from behind by the second Bolg.
“Geep—auck—” Old Ned sputtered. “Please—”
“Give now,” his captor intoned in a harsh voice. “You have weapons. Give now.”
“Yes!” Old Ned squeaked, coughing raggedly. “I will! I will! Let go!”
He lurched forward as the Bolg released him, then staggered to the counter, which he gripped with both hands and leaned his head over, panting.
“It’s—it’s back here,” he muttered, walking behind the counter. He reached beneath it, making sure to be able to see both Bolg, then drew forth a battered metal pot, plain of design, with a broken handle. He tossed it weakly to the Bolg who had held him captive.
“Don’ know what ya want it fer,” he mumbled. “Ugly as sin. Not worth nothin’.”
The Bolg who held the pot examined it quickly, checking the inside, then nodded quickly to the other. They slipped into the shadows, making no sound with the jangling chimes as they disappeared out the back door.
Old Ned muttered a fine string of curses as he rubbed his neck, then turned his attention to the Bolg weapons. He could not imagine for all the world why anyone would be willing to trade such unique, finely made armaments for a pot that was no more than a piece of rubbish. Proof of what is said about the Bolg, he thought as he held the shiny disk up to the dying fire’s light.
Not a grain of sense among them, but they sure make fine weapons.
13
Winter Festival, Haguefort, Province of Navarne
The line of carriages outside the rosy brown gates of Haguefort stretched for as far as the eye could see. A great convergence of wagons choked the entrance to Haguefort, squeezing in between the two slender bell towers that marked the beginning of Stephen Navarne’s lands, slowing the coaches to a crawl.
The holy man sighed inwardly and sipped his cordial. Patience, he reminded himself, glancing out the carriage window at the billowing banners of colored silk that adorned the bell towers, flapping merrily in the icy breeze. His constant admonition to his inner demonic voice, wheedling and restless. Patience.
He had chosen to remain in his wheeled coach, rather than switch to one of the sleighs proffered at the eastern border of Navarne by the duke’s servants, under the theory that Stephen’s well-maintained roads and thoroughfares would provide swifter passage to Haguefort than the thin snow-pack crusting the fields and rolling hills. He had misjudged the temperature, which had remained warm through a full day of intense snowfall followed by rain, and then dropped overnight, freezing the fields of the province into a sheet of glare ice that would have been well suited to a horse-drawn glider.
Now he was caught amid a great mass of carriages, wagons, and foot traffic. The braying of animals being brought to the carnival along with the clamor of human voices raised in excitement was enough to make him gulp his brandy in the hope that it would drown out the cacophony of merriment all around him. Patience.
Soon all things would be set in motion. Soon his wait would be over.
Soon his patience would be rewarded.
Lord Stephen Navarne squinted in the sun, then shielded his eyes and followed the outstretched finger of Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair. Baldasarre was pointing from where they stood at the hillside height of the castle gates down the vast lines of sight to the road below.
“There! I think I see Tristan’s coach—it’s logjammed in the middle there, right between your two bell towers out front,” Quentin said, dropping his arm when Stephen nodded in agreement. “Poor bastard—I’ll wager he’s trapped in there with Madeleine.”
“Gods. Poor Tristan,” said Dunstin Baldasarre, Quentin’s younger brother.
Stephen suppressed a smile. “Shame on you both. Isn’t Madeleine your cousin?”
Dunstin sighed comically. “Too true, I’m afraid to say,” he said, shielding his face in feigned shame. “But please, gentle lord, do not judge our family too harshly for producing her. No one save the All-God is perfect.”
“Though some of us are less so than others,” said Quentin, draining his mug of spiced rum.
The carriages were discharg
ing their passengers slowly now to keep them from being trampled by the wagons of townsfolk. Stephen motioned to Gerald Owen, his chamberlain.
“Owen, send the third regiment to see if they can direct some of the wagon traffic to the forest road and through the western gates,” he said. He waited until Owen had nodded his understanding and departed, then turned to the Baldasarre brothers.
“If Tristan has his way, one day Madeleine will be our queen,” he said seriously. “Perhaps it is best not to joke so much at her expense.”
“My, we’re a grumpy old sod today, Navarne,” said Dunstin thickly. “You apparently haven’t had enough of this lovely mulled wine.”
“That’s because you finished off a legion’s worth all by your rotten self and there’s none left for another living soul,” Quentin retorted before Stephen could say anything. “Next time perhaps we should just fill a trough with it and let you guzzle with your snout in the trench. Souse.”
“Well, Cedric is here, at last,” said Stephen hastily as Dunstin gave Quentin an angry shove. “His carriage is unloading now, along with the ale wagons of the count.”
“Huzzah!” bellowed Dunstin. “Can you see which one is Andrew’s?”
Stephen looked into the sun again and spied a tall young man, lean and darkly bearded, directing a quartet of wagons loaded with wooden barrels. “The one in the front, taking to the forest road now—there, can you see him?” He waved to the man, and received a quick wave in return. Lord Stephen smiled.
Cedric Canderre, the Baldasarres’ uncle and father of Madeleine Canderre, the Lord Roland’s intended, was duke and regent of the province that bore his name. Though his lands were not as politically powerful as most of the other provinces, Cedric’s arrival was always anticipated greatly at the winter carnival.
The reason for this was twofold. First, Cedric Canderre was a merrymaker of great reputation, a portly, jolly man with an appetite for all of the finer things in life and the excesses they could lead to. When Madeleine’s mother was alive, some of those appetites had been a source of great consternation and occasional embarrassment to the family. Her untimely death had left the door open for Cedric to delight in his indulgences, and he did so now with a vigor that was enjoyable to be around, especially at a festival.
The second, and probably more pressing, reason was the bounty of his province that came with him in the wagons. Canderre was a realm that produced luxury items, amenities that were known throughout the world for their unsurpassed quality, in particular various types of alcohol, wines, cordials, brandies, and other distillations. Cedric’s merchants charged high prices for these goods, and paid no tariffs to his interprovincial trading partners, so the free distribution of these rare and pricey treasures at Stephen’s carnival was always anticipated with great excitement.
Sir Andrew Canderre, the Viscount of Paige, the northeastern region of Canderre that lay at the borders of Yarim and the Hintervold, was Cedric’s eldest son and primary councilor, and a good friend of Stephen Navarne.
Count Andrew was the diametric opposite of his father; where Cedric was stout and moved with a portly man’s gait, Andrew was lean and nimble, often working long hours beside the merchants and carters of his province. He was also known to participate in the manual labor that sustained his holdings; the stables and barns of the nobleman were legendary for their cleanliness. Where Cedric was self-indulgent, humorous, and quick-tempered, Andrew was wry, generous, and patient. Between them the House of Canderre was well regarded, in Roland, across the sea, and around much of the sea-trading world.
Stephen shielded his eyes again as his smile broadened; Sir Andrew was making his way toward them, having arranged his caravan’s passage through the keep’s gates.
“Looks to be another good one, Stephen,” he said, extending his hand.
“Well met, Andrew,” Lord Stephen answered, shaking it.
“Well, there he is, the Ale Count, the Baron of the Brewery, the Lord of Libations,” slurred Dunstin, extending a tankard to him. “Impeccable timing, as always, Sir Jrew. You’re just in time to spare us from this inferior swill of Stephen’s. Have a swig and you’ll see what I mean.”
“As always, a pleasure to see you as well, Dunstin,” said Sir Andrew dryly. “Quentin.”
“Jrew, you’re looking well; good winter to you,” said Quentin. “How’s your intended, Lady Jecelyn of Bethe Corbair?”
“Good health to you, sir, and may next year’s solstice find you the same,” replied Andrew. “Jecelyn is well, thank you. Stephen, may I impose on your time for a moment? I want to make certain the carters deliver the casks to where you want them.”
“Of course. Gentlemen, please excuse us.” Stephen bowed politely to the Baldasarre brothers, took Andrew’s elbow, and led him down the path to the buttery of the keep where the forest road entered.
“Thank you,” he said to Andrew as soon as they were out of earshot.
“My pleasure.”
Llauron, the Invoker of the Filids, smiled as he watched the Patriarch’s benisons exit their carriages to the lilting strains of Stephen’s court orchestra carried on the wind. The various Blessers had arrived as much as five hours apart, yet some had remained in their carriages all that time in order to ensure that they made a proper entrance. Word from Sepulvarta had indicated that the Patriarch was in his last days, and rumors were flying hot and fierce among the nobility and the clergy alike as to who the successor would be.
The first to leave his carriage was Ian Steward, brother of Tristan Steward, the Lord Roland. He was the Blesser of the provinces of Canderre and Yarim, though his basilica, Vrackna, the ringed temple of elemental fire, was located in the province of Bethany. Bethany, the capital seat, sent some of its faithful to worship in the basilica of the Star, Lianta’ar, the Patriarch’s own basilica in the holy city-state of Sepulvarta.
Despite Tristan’s influence, it was unlikely in Llauron’s opinion that the Patriarch would choose Ian as his successor. While a likable man of seemingly good heart, Ian Steward was fairly young and inexperienced to be given such a tremendous responsibility. Still, he might be the Patriarch’s choice just for that youth. Several of the other benisons were almost as old as the Patriarch, and would bring an inescapable instability when they themselves passed on to their rewards in the Afterlife a few years hence.
Two of the best examples of this problem were the next to disembark, and they did so together, leaning on each other for support. Lanacan Orlando, the heartier of the two, was the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, and held services in his city beneath the holy bell tower in the beautiful basilica of Ryles Cedelian, the cathedral dedicated to the wind. Quiet and unassuming, Lanacan was known as a talented healer, perhaps as talented as Khaddyr, but he was nervous around crowds and not particularly charismatic. Llauron did not judge him to be a likely successor, either, and was fairly certain that Lanacan would be relieved to see himself off the list as well.
Colin Abernathy, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States, to the south, who leaned on Lanacan as they made their way across the icy path, was older and frailer than his friend, but more politically powerful. He had no basilica in which to hold services, a fact that often occurred to Llauron as he ruminated on who the host of the F’dor might be. A demonic spirit would not be able to stand in a place of blessed ground, and each of the basilicas were the holiest of blessed ground. The five elements themselves consecrated the ground on which they were built. Even a F’dor of tremendous power should not be able to stand in such a place.
But Colin Abernathy didn’t have to. His services were held in an enormous arena, an unblessed basilica, where he tended a congregation of many diverse groups of followers—Lirin from the plains, Sorbold citizens too far from their own cathedral to make the pilgrimage, seafarers in the fishing villages ever farther south, and a general population of malcontents.
Abernathy had been the second choice to succeed the last Patriarch, losing out to the current one, and so was long known to grumb
le about the leadership of the church. If he was the F’dor’s host, he would be looking around to find a younger host body soon, Llauron knew. But the Invoker was more inclined to believe that the beast clung not to a member of the clergy, but to one of the provincial leaders, which opened the possibility of it even being his dear friend Stephen Navarne.
The fourth benison chose a moment of great fanfare to disembark from his carriage. Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, who held sway over the great water basilica Abbat Mythlinis, was younger than either of the two elderly benisons, while still old enough to claim the wisdom of advanced years. He was pompous and self-important; Llauron found his arrogance alternately infuriating and amusing. Griswold had made no secret of his desire to be Patriarch, and had waited until the holy anthem of Sepulvarta was being played to alight from his carriage. His timing was impeccable; it seemed as if the anthem were playing in his honor.
The dark face of Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, resembled a thundercloud as he stepped out of his coach a moment behind Griswold. Their rivalry for the Patriarchy, long kept secret for political purposes, was now all but an open contest for the clerical throne of Sepulvarta. Mousa had come up from his arid land, braving the snow and bad traveling conditions for the opportunity to gain exposure at the winter carnival. His basilica was the only one of the five elemental cathedrals not within the territory of Roland; Terreanfor, the temple of earth, lay deep within the southern Teeth in Sorbold, hidden within the Night Mountain. His candidacy for the Patriarchy was an uphill battle, and Llauron knew it. The contest between Mousa and Griswold was shaping up to be a bloody one.