Benigaris stared at him for a long moment, his eyes cold as a lizard’s. “My mother is dead.” He snapped his visor down, then turned his horse and rode a short way back up the hillside.
Josua wearily beckoned Camaris. “Try not to kill him.”
“You know I can promise nothing,” the old knight said. “But I will grant him quarter if he asks.”
The wind grew sterner. Tiamak wished he had taken up drylander clothing more completely: breeches and boots would be a decided improvement over the bare legs and sandals that his robe barely protected from the cold. He shivered as he watched the two riders turn toward each other.
He Who Bends the Trees must have woken up angry, he thought, echoing something his father had often said. The idea sent a deeper chill through him than had the wind. But I do not think that it is the weatherlord of the Wran who sends this cold. We have another enemy, one who has lain quiet for a long time—and there is no question that he can command wind and storms.
Tiamak stared up at the hillside where Camaris and Benigaris faced each other across a distance that a man could walk in a few short moments. They were only separated by a short span, and were bound close by ties of blood, but it was clear that an impassable gulf stretched between them.
And meanwhile the Storm King’s wind blows, Tiamak thought. As these two, uncle and nephew, dance some mad drylander ritual ... just like Josua and Elias....
The two riders abruptly spurred toward each other, but they were nothing but a blur to Tiamak. A sickening notion had crept over him, black and frightening as any storm cloud.
We have been thinking all along that King Elias was the tool of Ineluki’s vengeance. And the two brothers have gone brawling from Naglimund to Sesuad‘ra, biting and scratching at each other so that Prince Josua and the rest of us have had no chance to do anything but survive. But what if Elias is as benighted about what the Storm King plans as we are? What if his purpose in some vast plan is only to keep us occupied while that dark, undead thing pursues some completely different end?
Despite the cold air on the hill, Tiamak felt beads of sweat cooling on his forehead. If this was true, what could Ineluki be planning? Aditu swore that he could never come back from the void into which his death spell had cast him—but perhaps there was some other revenge he schemed for that was far more terrible than simply ruling humankind through Elias and the Norns. But what could it be?
Tiamak looked around for Strangyeard, anxious to share this worry with his fellow Scrollbearer, but the priest was hidden by the milling crowd. The people around the Wrannaman were shouting excitedly at something. It took the distracted Tiamak a moment to realize that one of the mounted men had unhorsed the other. A brief stab of fear was allayed when he saw that it was gleaming-armored Benigaris who had fallen.
A murmur ran through the crowd when Camaris dismounted. Two boys ran forward to lead the horses away.
Tiamak put aside his suspicions for the moment and squeezed between Hotvig and Sludig, who were standing just behind the prince. The Rimmersman looked down in annoyance, but when he saw Tiamak he grinned. “Knocked him rump over plume! The old man is giving Benigaris a stem lesson!”
Tiamak winced. He could never understand his companions’ pleasure at such things. This “lesson” might end in death for one of the two men who were now circling each other, shields up and longswords at the ready. Black Thorn looked like a stripe of emptiest night.
At first it seemed the combat would not last long. Benigaris was an able fighter, shorter than Camaris but stocky and broad-shouldered; he swung the heavy blade as easily as a smaller man might have brandished Josua’s Naidel, and was well-trained in the use of his shield. But to Tiamak, Camaris seemed another kind of creature entirely, graceful as a river otter, swift as a striking serpent. In his hands, Thorn was a complicated black blur, a web of glinting darkness. Although he knew nothing good of Benigaris, Tiamak could not help feeling sorry for him. Surely this whole ridiculous battle would be over in a few moments.
The sooner Benigaris gives up, Tiamak thought, the sooner we can get out of this wind.
But Benigaris, it rapidly became clear, had other plans. After looking almost helpless through the first score of strokes, Nabban’s duke suddenly took the battle to Camaris, crashing blow after blow on the old knight’s shield and deflecting those that his opponent returned. Camaris was forced back, and Tiamak could feel the worry that ran through Josua’s party like a whisper.
He is an old man, after all. Older than my father’s father was when he died. And perhaps he has even less heart for this battle than for others.
Benigaris rained strokes against Camaris’ shield, trying to push home his advantage as the old knight gave ground; the duke was grunting so loudly that everyone on the hillside could hear him above the clang of iron. Even Tiamak, with almost no knowledge of drylander swordplay, wondered how long he could keep up such an attack.
But he doesn’t necessarily have to last a long time, Tiamak realized. Just until he beats down Camaris’ guard and finds an opening. He is gambling.
For a moment Benigaris’ gamble appeared to have paid. One of his hammering blows caught Camaris with his shield too low, skimmed off its upper edge and struck the old knight on the side of the helmet, staggering him. The crowd made a hungry sound. Camaris regained his footing and lifted his shield as though it had become almost impossibly heavy. Benigaris waded in.
Tiamak was not quite sure what happened next. One moment the old knight was in a crouch, shield raised in what looked like helplessness against Benigaris’ battering sword; the next, he had somehow caught Benigaris’ shield with his own and knocked it upward, so that for a moment it hung in the air like a blue and gold coin. When it fell to the earth, Thorn’s black point was at the duke’s gorget.
“Do you yield, Benigaris?” The voice of Camaris was clear, but there was a hint of a weary tremor.
In answer, Benigaris knocked Thorn aside with a mailed fist, then thrust his own blade at Camaris’ unprotected belly. The old man seemed to contort as the sword touched his mail-clad midsection. For an instant Tiamak thought he might have been skewered, but instead Camaris whirled all the way around. Benigaris’ sword slid past him, and as Camaris finished his circular turn Thorn came with him in a flat, deadly arc. The black blade crunched into Benigaris’ armor just below his ribs. The duke was driven to one knee; he wobbled for an instant, then collapsed. Camaris pulled Thorn free of the rent in the breast plate and a freshet of blood followed it.
Beside Tiamak, Sludig and Hotvig were cheering hoarsely. Josua did not seem so happy.
“Merciful Aedon.” He turned to look at his two captains with more than a little anger, but his eye lit on the Wrannaman. “At least we can thank God Camaris was not killed. Let us go to him, and see what we can do for Benigaris. Did you bring your herbs, Tiamak?”
The marsh man nodded. He and the prince began to push their way forward through the knot of people that was quickly forming around the two combatants.
When they reached the center of the crowd, Josua put a hand on Camaris’ shoulder. “Are you well?”
The old man nodded. He appeared exhausted. His hair hung down his forehead in sweaty twists.
Josua turned to the fallen Benigaris. Someone had removed the duke’s helmet. He was pale as a Norn and there was a froth of blood on his lips. “Lie still, Benigaris. Let this man look at your wound.”
The duke turned his bleary eyes on Tiamak. “A marsh man!” he wheezed. “You are a strange one, Josua.” The Wrannaman kneeled down beside him and began looking for the catch-buckles on the breastplate, but Benigaris struck his hands away. “Leave me alone, damn you. Let me die without having some savage paw at me.”
Josua’s mouth tightened, but he motioned Tiamak to step back. “As you wish. But perhaps there is something that can be done for you....”
Benigaris barked a laugh. A bubble of bloody spittle caught in his mustache. “Let me die, Josua. That is what is left
for me. You can have ...” he coughed more red froth, “... you can have everything else.”
“Why did you do it?” Josua asked. “You must have known you could not win.”
Benigaris mustered a grin. “But I frightened you all, didn’t I?” His face contorted, but he regained control. “In any case, I took what was left to me ... just as my mother did.”
“What do you mean?” Josua stared at the dying duke as though he had never seen anything quite like him.
“My mother realized ... with help from me ... that her game was over. There was nothing left but shame. So she took poison. I had my own way.”
“But you could have escaped, surely. You still control the seas.”
“Escape to where?” Benigaris spat another scarlet gobbet. “To the loving arms of your brother and his pet wizard? And in any case, the damnable docks belong to Streáwe now—I thought I was holding him prisoner, but he was gnawing away at my power from within. The count is playing us all off each other for his own profit.” The duke’s breath sawed in and out. “No, the end had come—I saw it as soon as the Onestrine Pass fell. So I chose my own death. I was duke less than a year, Josua. No one would ever have remembered me as anything but a father-murderer. Now, if anyone survives, I will be the man who fought Camaris for the throne of Nabban ... and damned near won.”
Josua was looking at Benigaris with an expression that was not quite recognizable. Tiamak could not let the question go unasked.
“What do you mean, ‘if anyone survives’?”
Benigaris looked at the Wrannaman with contempt. “It talks.” He slowly turned back to the prince. “Oh, yes,” he said, his labored breathing not disguising his relish, “I forgot to tell you. You have won your prize—but you may not get much joy from it, Josua.”
“I almost felt sorry for you, Benigaris,” the prince said. “But the feeling has passed.” He stood up.
“Wait!” Benigaris raised a bloody hand. “You really should know this, Josua. Stay just a moment. I won’t embarrass you long.”
“Speak.”
“The ghants are crawling up out of the swamps. The riders have begun coming in from the Lakelands and the coast towns along Firannos Bay bearing the tale. They are swarming. Oh, there are more of them than you can imagine, Josua.” He laughed, bringing up a fresh welter of blood. “And that’s not all,” he said gleefully. “There was another reason I had no desire to flee Nabban by boat. The kilpa, too, seem to have gone mad. The Niskies are terrified. So you see, not only did I buy myself a clean and honorable death ... but it is a death you and yours might find yourself envying very soon.”
“And your own people?” Josua asked angrily. “Do you care nothing for them? If what you say is true, they are already suffering.”
“My people?” Benigaris wheezed. “No more. I am dead, and the dead have no loyalty. And in any case, they are your people now—yours and my uncle’s.”
Josua stared at him for a long moment, then turned and strode away. Camaris tried to follow him, but he was quickly surrounded by a curious mob of soldiers and Nabbanai citizens and could not break away.
Tiamak was left to kneel beside the fallen duke and watch him die. The sun was almost touching the horizon, and cold shadows were stretching across the hillside, when Benigaris finally stopped breathing.
20
Prisoned on the Wheel
Simon had at first thought the great underground forge was someone’s attempt to recreate Hell. After he had been captive there for nearly a fortnight, he was certain of it.
He and the other men seemed barely to have fallen into their ragged nests at the end of one backbreaking day before one of Inch’s assistants—a handful of men less terrifying but no more humane than their master—was braying at them to get up and start the next. Almost dizzy with weariness before the work had even begun, Simon and his fellow prisoners would gulp down a cupful of thin porridge that tasted of rust, then stumble out to the foundry floor.
If the cavern where the workers slept was unpleasantly hot, the vast forge cavern was an inferno. The stifling heat pressed against Simon’s face until his eyeballs felt dry as walnut shells and his skin seemed about to crisp and peel away. Each day brought a long, dreary round of backbreaking, finger-burning labor, made bearable only by the man who brought the water dipper. It seemed eons between drinks.
Simon’s one piece of luck was that he had fallen in with Stanhelm, who alone among the wretches working in the forge seemed to have retained most of his humanity. Stanhelm showed the new prisoner the spots to go and catch a breath where the air was a little cooler, which of Inch’s minions to avoid most scrupulously, and, most importantly, how to look like he belonged in the forge. The older man did not know that Simon had a particular reason to stay nameless and unnoticed, but sensibly believed that no one should invite Inch’s attention, so he also taught: the new prisoner what was expected of all the workers, the greatest part of which was cringing subservience ; Simon learned to keep his eyes lowered and work fast and hard whenever Inch was near. He also tied a strip of rag around his finger to cover his golden ring. He was unwilling to let such a precious thing out of his grasp, but he knew it would be a terrible mistake to let others see it.
Stanhelm’s work was to sort bits of waste metal for the crucibles. He had Simon join him at it, then taught his new apprentice how to tell copper from bronze and tin from lead by tapping the metal against stone or scratching its surface with a jagged iron bar.
A strange jumble of things passed through their hands on the way to the smelter, chains and pots and crushed bits of plating whose original purpose was unguessable, wagon rims and barrel bands, sacks full of bent nails, fire irons, and door hinges. Once Simon lifted a delicately wrought bottle rack and recognized it as something that had hung on the wall of Doctor Morgenes’ chamber, but as he stared, caught for a moment in an eddying memory of a happier past, Stanhelm nudged him in warning that Inch was approaching. Simon hurriedly tossed it into the pile.
The scrap metal was carried to the row of crucibles that hung in the forge fire, a blaze as large as a house, fed with a seemingly unending supply of charcoal and heated by bellows that were themselves pumped by the action of the foundry’s massive water wheel, which was three times as high as a man and revolved ceaselessly, day and night. Fanned by the bellows, the forge fire burned with such incredible ferocity that it seemed a miracle to Simon the very stone of the cavern did not melt. The crucibles, each containing a different metal, were moved by a collection of blackened chains and pulleys which were also connected to the wheel. Yet another set of chains, so much larger than the links that moved the crucibles that they seemed made to shackle giants, extended upward from the wheel’s hub and vanished into a darkened crevice in the forge chamber’s roof. Not even Stanhelm wanted to talk about where those went, but Simon gathered it had something to do with Pryrates.
In stolen moments, Stanhelm showed Simon the whole process, how the scrap was melted down to a glowing red liquid, then decanted from the crucibles and formed into sows, long cylindrical chunks of raw metal which, when cool, were carried away by sweating men to another part of the vast chamber where they would be shaped into whatever it was that Inch supplied to his king. Armor and weapons, Simon guessed, since in all the great quantities of scrap, he had seen almost no articles of war that were not damaged beyond use. It made sense that Elias wished to convert every unnecessary bit of metal into arrow heads and sword blades.
As the days passed, it became more and more clear to Simon that there was little chance he would escape from this place. Stanhelm told him that only a few prisoners had escaped during the past year and all but one had quickly been dragged back. None of the recaptured had lived long after returning.
And the one who escaped was Jeremias, Simon thought. He only managed it because Inch was foolish enough to let him go upstairs on an errand. I doubt I will get such a chance.
The feeling of being trapped was so powerful, the impulse to
flee so intense, that at times Simon could hardly stand it. He thought obsessively about being carried upward by the great water wheel chains to whatever dark place they went. He dreamed of finding a tunnel leading out of the great chamber, as he had during his first escape from the Hayholt, but they were all filled in now, or led only to other parts of the forge. Supplies from the outside came with Thrithings mercenary guards armed with spears and axes, and the arrival of anything was always supervised by Inch or one of his chieftains. The only keys hung rattling on Inch’s broad belt.
Time was growing short for his friends, for Josua’s cause, and Simon was helpless.
And Pryrates has not left the castle, either. So it is likely only a matter of time until he comes back here. What if he is not in such a hurry next time? What if he recognizes me?
Whenever he seemed to be alone and unwatched, Simon hunted for anything that might help him to escape, but he found little that gave him any hope. He pocketed a piece of scrap iron and took to sharpening it against the stone when he was supposed to be sleeping. If Pryrates discovered him at last, he would do what damage he could.
Simon and Stanhelm were standing near the scrap pile, panting for breath. The older man had cut himself on a jagged edge and his hand was bleeding badly.
“Hold still.” Simon tore a piece from his ragged breeches for a bandage and began to wrap it around Stanhelm’s wounded hand. Exhausted, the older man wobbled from side to side like a ship in high winds. “Aedon!” Simon swore unhappily. “That’s deep.”
“Can’t go no more,” Stanhelm muttered. Above the face mask, his eyes had finally taken on the lifeless glaze that marked the rest of the forge’s laborers. “Can’t go no more.”
“Just stand there,” Simon said, pulling the knot tight. “Rest.”