An Alliance of Mortals, page 19
part #6 of The New Earth Chronicles Series
It only took Malfiess a few minutes to reach the tidy little home. The wooden house was ornately built, with eaves carved to look like leafy vines and many colorful flowers planted on both sides of the front door.
Standing just outside of the house was the Speaker for the Council, Othellan. The stately-looking elf was obviously waiting for Malfiess to arrive and he bowed respectfully as the councilor approached.
“Good day, Othellan,” Malfiess said as he walked up to the Speaker. “I got a summons from Healer Miriam that I was wanted. What's going on?”
Othellan was holding his staff of office, the gem on its tip glittering even beneath the heavy clouds hanging over the town. His normally placid expression was gone, replaced with one of deep concern.
“The healer believes that Amelda is dying,” he replied softly. “If that is so, she felt that you should attend the Elder while you still can. Please go right in. You are expected.”
Malfiess nodded once and took a deep breath before he stepped forward and opened the door. He walked in and closed the door quietly behind him.
The small main room of the house was sparsely decorated, with a small couch covered in dark blue cloth and two wooden chairs on one side of the room and a stone fireplace on the other. A knitted green rug lay on the wooden floor and one painting of a field of flowers hung on the wall.
The room was empty, but the councilor could hear a murmur of conversation coming from deeper in the house. He walked across the room to an open door and stopped and knocked on the frame.
A few seconds later, Miriam appeared in the doorway and smiled as she recognized the visitor.
“Malfiess. You're here,” she said in a hushed voice. “Good. The Elder wanted to speak with you.”
She stepped aside and gestured for Malfiess to walk past her.
“Go on in. I will wait out here until you are done.”
The councilor looked at her closely.
“How is she?” he whispered.
Miriam simply looked at him sympathetically. Then she walked silently across the room and sat down on the couch.
Malfiess hesitated for a moment before he stepped through the doorway and into the Elder's bedchamber.
This room was as simply decorated as the first one had been. Only a chest of drawers and a plain wardrobe furnished the chamber. There was a window across from the doorway that was framed with frilly curtains, now tightly closed. Next to the window was a large bed with a thick blue quilt draped across it.
Beneath the quilt was the tiny figure of Amelda. As Malfiess entered the room, she slowly turned her head to look at him and then smiled gently.
“Ah, my old friend,” she said, her voice as thin and frail as cobwebs. “You received my summons. That's good. Come in and sit with me. We must speak while there is still time.”
The councilor walked over to the bed and sat down on a narrow wooden chair next to it. He smiled at the Elder, noting that her skin was paper thin and her eyes deeply sunken in their sockets.
“Yes, I have looked better,” Amelda said with amusement, easily reading his expression.
“Looks are irrelevant to me,” Malfiess assured her. “Your mind is as sharp as ever, that much is obvious.”
“Perhaps. But even if that is true, the mind cannot exist without the body, and mine is failing quickly.”
She pulled her arm out from beneath the quilt and Malfiess took her hand in his. He could feel the bones beneath her skin like thin, brittle sticks and he was careful to hold her hand very gently.
“This is the end,” Amelda told him. “I can feel it.”
“But surely Miriam...”
“Hush. The healer has done all that she can. But even she cannot turn back time, and my time has run out.”
The Elder closed her eyes for a moment and Malfiess felt a momentary rush of fear. But Amelda smiled as she kept her eyes shut.
“I can feel your worry, my friend,” she murmured as she weakly squeezed his hand. “But we have a few minutes left to talk. Tell me, how did the installation of Callius' anchors go? Is the connection between the three mortal races complete?”
“It is,” Malfiess replied. “Our talented young scryer has succeeded and now we all have a better chance to survive the storm that we know is coming.”
“Good. That's such a relief. My greatest fear was that I would leave you and the others on the Council with no hope for the future.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, her gaze vague and unfocused.
“The dwarves are the key, Malfiess,” she said softly. “Strengthen the ties between our two people. Without their steady strength, none of the mortal races will survive.”
“I know, Elder,” he assured her. “Their king seems even more sympathetic to us than I would have believed possible. I will work to make sure that relationship endures.”
Amelda smiled tremulously as the curtains on the window rippled and a breeze danced through the room, bringing with it the sweet smell of grass and flowers.
“Isn't it strange?” she said. “I have lived longer than most elves ever will, and yet here I am, at the end of my time, grasping greedily for just a few more minutes of life. How selfish of me.”
“You have been many things, my friend,” Malfiess told her as he stroked her hand. “But selfish isn't one of them. We butted heads many times when I first joined the Council, but even then I knew that your first priority was always our people, not yourself. You saw me as a brash upstart, I think, but those days helped me to learn my role quickly and I was the better for your tutelage.”
Amelda laughed softly.
“If that is true, it is because of your intellect and moral fiber, not anything you learned from me,” she said. “I was envious of your youth and ardor, Malfiess. That is the truth. You are the one who won me over, not the other way around. And that is why I want you to take my place as the head of the Council.”
Malfiess gaped at her.
“Me? But, surely Shendal or Dianis would be a better choice?”
“No, they wouldn't,” Amelda disagreed, her voice strengthening. “The other councilors are good people, of course, and they have our people's best interests at heart. But they need someone to help them focus their efforts and that someone is you.”
She managed to fix her eyes on Malfiess for a moment.
“Accept the position, my friend. Please. I need to know that I am going to be leaving our people in good hands.”
Malfiess covered her hand in both of his own.
“If that is your wish, Elder, then I will comply,” he assured her. “And I am honored by your trust.”
“You've earned it many times over,” she replied with a relieved sigh. “Thank you, old friend. Now, please summon Miriam. She has offered to ease my passing and I wish to leave this world with some dignity.”
Malfiess felt a wave of grief threatening to overwhelm him, but Amelda shook her head slightly and squeezed his hand one last time before releasing it.
“Please go,” she whispered to him. “Try to remember me as I was, not as I am now. Allow me this final conceit.”
“As you wish. Goodbye, Amelda. I am better for having known you,” he told her.
She smiled in relief as she closed her eyes.
“And I you,” she murmured.
Malfiess stood up and quickly left the bedchamber without looking back. As he entered the front room, Miriam got up and walked over to him.
“Is it time?” she asked.
“It is. Amelda asked me to send you in. She wants to pass gently and she doesn't want me there to witness it.”
“Yes, I know. I will send someone to the Council Hall when she is gone to make the announcement.”
She strode past Malfiess and entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
He stared at the door for a moment before shaking his head regretfully.
“Go in peace, Amelda,” he whispered. “You will not be forgotten.”
Then the councilor crossed the room and left the house. There was so much to do and he knew that the Elder would have expected him to carry on with his work. He intended to do just that.
Chapter 14
Shandon Ironhand wandered discreetly through the central market of Kingstone, as he did every so often, listening to the chatter of the people and judging their collective mood.
The beads and gems that usually adorned his beard were gone and he had twisted it into one large braid, a style very common among tradesmen and laborers. He wore his old, dented breastplate from his days as a regular warrior, when he worked to protect small towns across the empire. In all respects, the king looked completely unremarkable, which was his goal.
He stopped at random market stalls, examining their goods and chatting amicably with the merchants.
“Best blades you will find anywhere, noble warrior,” one stout woman said grandly as Shandon looked at a stack of weapons.
He grinned at her skeptically.
“Really?” he replied as he picked up a short sword and ran a calloused finger along the blade. “That's quite the boast you're making.”
The merchant was wearing a long, loose chain mail shirt that hung to her knees and her gray hair was tied back in a bun. She returned the king's smile, her green eyes gleaming merrily.
“Aye, that's true,” she agreed. “But I back up my words. These are all my own creations. I've been smithing for over a century and I am a master of my craft.”
She nodded at the sword Shandon was holding.
“I add a measure of carbon to my weapons during their forging in just the right amount at the right time. My technique is a trade secret, of course, but not one of my customers has ever returned to complain that they have broken a blade in battle.”
She was obviously proud of her work and the king smiled as he tapped the blade, listening to its tone.
“Maybe that's because those customers died after their weapons failed,” he told her, but he winked as he spoke to show the woman that he was joking.
She laughed in appreciation at his jibe.
“Nay, that's not true. I can tell that you are an experienced warrior, with an eye for quality weaponry. If you do not see anything that suits your needs, I do take special orders. Just describe what you are looking for and I will forge you a weapon that will never fail.”
Shandon was impressed by the blacksmith's obvious honesty and by her fine craftsmanship. He put the sword back in the rack of weapons on one side of the stall and stepped closer to the counter.
“Very well. I believe you. One would have to be blind to not see the quality of your wares. Would you tell me your name?”
“I am Charrel Tillis,” the merchant replied proudly. “My mother was a smith before me and her father before her. My family has a longstanding reputation as craftsmen who produce only quality work. And you, warrior? Who are you? You seem familiar somehow.”
The king hesitated before replying to her question.
“Before I answer, Smith Tillis, let me ask you this. Can you imbue your custom-made weapons with power? You know what I mean. I know that some of our blacksmiths can now use the power given to them by the Stone to enchant their weapons and armor. Can you?”
The smith stared at him with a frown. Shandon returned her gaze evenly and she seemed to see something in his eyes. She slowly nodded.
“Aye, I can do that. Many of our people have not yet become comfortable with the idea of magic being available to use again, after so many centuries passing without its presence. But my forefathers and mothers passed along the technique to us, their descendants, in the hopes that one day we could enchant our weapons again. But I warn you, such enchantments will cost you a hefty amount of gold. It takes many days to forge magical arms. Not only must I create the weapon, I must perform certain rites while doing so. And I must have one of my siblings take over my business while I concentrate all of my efforts on the task. Can you afford such a commission, warrior?”
The king lowered his voice, even though the hum of conversation from the stalls around the market was actually quite loud and occasionally boisterous.
“I think so. My name, master smith, is Shandon Ironhand.”
The woman's eyes widened and she paled as she stared at him in shock.
“Your majesty!” she whispered. “Forgive me. I should have recognized you immediately.”
“'My lord' will do, thanks. And if you had recognized me, I would have failed in my attempted disguise,” Shandon replied merrily. “Kindly keep my identity to yourself for now, please. If your work warrants it, I will proclaim your skills publicly and I would guess that you will be deluged with requests for commissions for years to come.”
Charrel nodded her understanding as the impact of the king's statement struck her.
“Your approval would indeed be good for business, my lord,” she agreed. “Please tell me what I can craft for you.”
Shandon looked at the many types of weapons stacked around the the sides and the back of the stall.
“I actually wasn't in the market to shop today,” he told the merchant. “I wanted to hear what the common folk were saying, what their worries were, what hopes they had. I like to do this occasionally.”
He smiled at the smith.
“Lolling around inside of the palace makes me rather too insulated to know what our people are thinking, so I sneak out once in awhile in disguise to judge their mood.”
“Clever, my lord,” Charrel replied. “But if you really want to know how your people are feeling, I can tell you what I have heard.”
“Please do,” Shandon told her. “And do not soften any criticisms. I am not some delicate flower whose feelings are bruised easily.”
The smith snorted with laughter.
“Aye, I am well aware of that. Everyone is. That is why we admire you. For an ordinary warrior to ascend the throne and be such a good king is inspiring to us all.”
Shandon rolled his eyes at the compliment and Charrel grinned at his reaction.
“Well, it is, my lord,” she insisted. “But, as for how the populace is feeling at this very moment, I would say that they are hopeful. When the news came out that a permanent connection had been established between us and the humans and the elves, there was a rush of excitement among the people. The thought that we are allies once again with the other mortal races, like we were so long ago when we fought the dark gods, is invigorating. Of course there are naysayers, but then there always are. For the most part though, I would say that the people are hopeful. And that, in my opinion, is a good thing.”
Shandon listened closely and gave the smith's observations some thought before he replied.
“Yes, I have heard many such comments today as I wandered through the market. It heartens me to know that you agree with them, Smith Tillis.”
“I do, my lord. Our people thrive under strong leadership and you have shown yourself to be a good king.”
“Thank you. Now, I've decided that I do have a commission for you. If you are up to it.”
Charrel stood up straighter, hearing the hint of a challenge in the king's voice.
“Tell me what you require, my lord, and I will produce it,” she assured him.
“Very well. For many years now, I have carried an ancient mace enchanted back in the days when our people fought the Chaos lords. It is a remarkable weapon that burns my opponents when I strike them.”
He looked at a rack of greatswords, all of which were as tall as the average dwarf. Their honed edges glinted wickedly in the lights that illuminated the marketplace.
“But my favorite weapon has always been...” he nodded at the rack. “A greatsword. I used one for years when I stood guard duty in some of the small towns along the edge of the empire. Many a monster and raider fell to that weapon, although it wasn't magical, of course.”
He turned to Charrel.
“I miss that sword,” he told her. “And I would welcome a worthy replacement. Can you forge me a greatsword, master smith? One that will cut through both thick armor and monster hide alike?”
The smith lifted her chin proudly.
“My lord, I can forge a weapon that will do more than just that. The greatsword that I will create for you will hold an edge that will cut through steel and hide and bone alike. But it will do more than that. Tell me what enchantment you wish me to imbue it with. Fire? Ice? Electricity? What power do you want your weapon to hold?”
Shandon grinned at her.
“All of them,” he said.
An hour later, just past the midday hour, the king returned to the palace and entered through a small side gate that was locked and guarded by two warriors. He gave them a wink as they swung open the narrow gate.
“Thank you,” he told them. “I'd rather the seneschal didn't learn that I was wandering around outside of the palace without an official escort, if you know what I mean.”
“Our lips are sealed, my lord,” one of them assured him. “But if anything had happened to you out there, Falder would have had our heads.”
The other dwarf nodded anxiously and Shandon smiled at them both.
“I was safe enough. Can you keep another secret?”
The two dwarves assured him that they could.
“Good. Then know that whenever I slip out of the palace to mingle with my people, I am protected by a squad of rogues provided by Hallic Barston. They are discreet, but very skilled and I am never in any real danger while they are on the job.”
“Rogues?” one of the guardsmen exclaimed. “Ah, that is good to hear, my lord. Some people may not trust them, but I have a second cousin who was recruited by them and she is an honorable person. So I know that they are not as shady and unreliable as some tales say they are.”
“Exactly. Now, I'd best get back inside,” Shandon told them. “Thank you again.”
Both guards saluted and the king hurried off across the palace grounds.
Once he had disappeared from view, one of the warriors looked at the other.
