Engines of Empire, page 23
The smith hammered the final imperfections from the blade, the metal white-hot in his grip. Fulren marvelled at the man’s strength and resilience—the hammer he wielded was bigger than any he’d ever seen. Even a man of the smith’s gargantuan size should never have been able to raise a tool of such might. The anvil on which he worked was massive, easily a ton of iron.
Sweat poured from his brow, but he carried out his labours with vigour. He focused on the blade, at one with that giant hammer, and Fulren couldn’t help but marvel at the synergy of it. The smith was a slave, but he went about his task not with resentment but with a deep affection for his work. There was something spiritual about the way he forged that weapon, and Fulren found himself envying the man. He was a master of his craft, the most peerless artisan Fulren had ever witnessed. Deep down Fulren knew that he could practise for a thousand years and never attain such a level of skill. Not that he had a thousand years. If the Maladorans had their way, he had only a day.
Wenis had told him what to expect in the trial ahead. There was little chance he would survive it; none ever had. He would be executed in the arena alongside other criminals and heretics by a demon known as Ghobeq. If such a thing put fear in Wenis, Fulren could only imagine the horror that awaited.
If he could give himself any advantage before the day of the trial, he would do so. That was why he was here, in this burning forge, watching the smith at his work. The sword was indeed a majestic weapon, but it was only one part of this. The hard part of the preparation was still to come, but Wenis had kept her word, given him access to a forge and hopefully more besides.
The hammering ceased, the last deafening ring echoing out through the forge. Glancing up from his work, the smith saw Fulren looking on with interest. There was a silent communication between them. Almost as though the smith were searching for some kind of approval. Then he raised a hand and beckoned Fulren closer.
He approached warily. The smith was a huge specimen and could most likely crush Fulren’s skull in a single massive hand. Nevertheless, he did not spurn the opportunity to take a closer look.
The smith laid down his massive hammer, gesturing for Fulren to stand before the iron anvil. When he had positioned himself, the smith pointed eagerly at the sword, making a hammering gesture with one thickly muscled arm, before pulling one of the gloves from his meaty hands and offering it.
“You want me to finish it?” Fulren asked, glancing down at the smith’s hammer. There was no chance he could even lift it, let alone strike the hot metal.
The smith raised a hand, an idea striking him, and he moved to one side of the anvil, producing a much smaller tool from its base.
Fulren took the hammer from him and the smith smiled, eager for Fulren to make his contribution to the forging. It was heavy, but he was sure with some effort he would be able to swing it true. Putting on the smith’s glove he realised it was far too big, but better that than singe his flesh on the burning metal.
The sword lay on the anvil, but Fulren was reluctant to strike. The smith was a master craftsman, and the prospect of ruining this carefully honed weapon made Fulren balk.
Tentatively he took the cooler end of the metal and raised the hammer. With a single stroke he brought it down. The resulting clang of metal on metal almost made his ears burst. A tremor went up his arm, numbing his shoulder. Fulren had worked in a forge before, but never had he felt such potent energy. This was something visceral, and it filled him with a strange joy, the purity of the forge making him want to cry out in ecstasy.
Though the hammer was heavy, the sword in his hand was lighter than any he had ever held. It had been crafted from an alloy he was unfamiliar with, four feet of the most perfect steel folded and folded again more times than he could count. He raised the hammer and struck again, hearing the ringing echo like a symphony through the forge.
When he looked up, he saw the smile of pleasure on the smith’s face. Fulren was relieved the man was impressed and not dismayed that Fulren had spoiled his work.
The smith took the sword from him, dousing it in a deep well of water, the steam rising with a hiss. When the metal was cooled, the smith walked toward a nearby worktable, beckoning Fulren to follow.
Before he reached the worktable, more figures appeared from the surrounding darkness, herded by a woman in dark robes. They took their places around the table, each with a different piece of equipment. No sooner had the smith laid the weapon down than they began.
It was a wonder to behold, and Fulren could only marvel at the industrious sight before him as the artisans began to buff and shine the metal. One honed the blade, his whetstone singing against the edge, as another kept the alloy moist. The grip was bound in leather, the solid metal cross-guard fixed in place with countless precise taps of a hammer.
Before Fulren’s eyes, the raw hunk of metal was transformed into a magnificent weapon. His doubts about it not meeting the specifications he had outlined were dashed as he saw it gradually transform into exactly what he had sketched.
Holes were bored into the blade to reduce its weight yet further, and he saw there were chambers for him to insert the intricate wirework needed to connect the pyrestones he would eventually fit.
When the craftsmen had finished, they were ushered away by the robed slave master, and the smith eagerly beckoned for Fulren to take his place at the table. As he took his seat, the tools he had requested were brought forward. Fulren had not expected the city of Jubara to have half the artifice he needed for the task, but somehow Wenis had found everything he required.
Coils of wire, inductors, oscillators, tools of every gauge were laid out before him. Fulren could not manage to stifle a smile as he prepared to begin. This was his craft, and there was no one in this city who could rival his talent.
He looked up at the smith, who stood expectantly.
“Let me show you how we craft weapons in Torwyn,” Fulren said to his silent spectator.
The smith watched with fascination as he went to work setting the coils. He inlaid a blue and a yellow pyrestone into the blade, tightening the clamps to hold them in place. The only things missing were the activation switch and the red regulator stone, but he would not need them. He and Wenis had planned an alternative method of bringing the pyrestones to life.
Fulren worked well into the night under the watchful eye of the smith, and when he was done, he sat back, marvelling at the sword they had created. It had the potential to be a devastating weapon. All he needed now was a way to make it sing.
As though she’d read his thoughts, Fulren looked up from the worktable to see Wenis standing in the shadows of the forge, watching him avidly.
“Impressive,” she said, looking down at the newly crafted weapon.
“I can’t take all the credit,” Fulren replied. “Your smiths are the most skilled I have ever seen.”
“I’m sure,” she said, her expression turning grave. “But there is no time left for compliments. We have a pressing appointment.”
Fulren had been dreading this moment, but he knew he could not turn back now. If he was to have any chance of surviving the trial, there was one more thing he had to do.
He stood from the worktable, nodding his gratitude to the smith, who bowed his acknowledgment.
As Wenis led him from the forge she said, “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Fulren was not sure. He had no idea if what he was about to do was the right thing, but what choice did he have?
“Yes,” he replied.
“Once you walk this path there will be no turning back. The risks are great, for me as well as you.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
Wenis sighed. “Should anything happen to you during this ceremony, I will be held accountable. If you harbour any doubt about your commitment to this, you will not survive what we are about to do. You must be sure you have the conviction, the strength to go through with it.”
“I know what has to be done,” he said. “I won’t falter.”
She raised a questioning eyebrow. “We shall see, Prince of Torwyn. We shall see.”
As she led him farther down through the tower, Fulren couldn’t help but think on the seed she had planted in his mind. When they had discussed this previously, he had been only too eager, but now the reality of it gnawed at him. But if he did not go through with the ceremony, the weapon he had forged would be useless—little more than a pretty hunk of metal. This was the only way.
Wenis led him farther into the vast structure. He had thought the forge was the lowest level of this place, but corridors twisted down, boring deeper into the bare rock. It was a mournful place, and the farther they went the more he expected to hear the dolorous lamentations of prisoners and the screams of the damned. All that greeted them was silence. There was no echoing drip of moisture, no squeaking and scurrying of rats. All he had to focus on was the bright light of the torch Wenis carried as they delved into the bowels of the earth.
The corridor opened up into a vast chamber. It could have been a cavern for all Fulren could tell, but by the light of the torch, he could not see the full extent of the chamber. They might as well have been enclosed in a cell.
Before him candles burned on the floor, illuminating an intricate sigil carved into the stone. It reminded Fulren of the iron circle that had adorned the deck of the black ark, and he felt his stomach flip at the sight of it.
“Take your place,” Wenis said, gesturing to the arcane symbol.
Fulren managed to take only a single step toward the candles before she said, “Wait. You must disrobe.”
Reluctantly Fulren took off his shirt, boots and leggings. “Everything?” he asked.
Wenis nodded, and he removed his undergarments, leaving them in a pile. Now naked, he walked to the centre of the arcane symbol and dropped to his knees. As he waited he felt gooseflesh rise on his skin, but it was not from the cold. There was no chill to the air, but still the strange disquiet made his hairs stand on end.
From out of the dark surrounding him came a distant noise. At first it sounded like someone speaking in a guttural language, but as he listened he realised it was some kind of hymn. That single voice was soon joined by others, until he was being serenaded by an eerie chorus.
Eventually the singers stepped forward out of the shadows. Fulren was surrounded by a dozen of them, thin lustrous veils covering their naked bodies. In front of him a woman approached. Though her face was hidden by red silk, she was otherwise naked but for the whirling patterns that adorned her flesh. Every part of her body bore an intricate necroglyph, and Fulren found himself spellbound by the designs.
As she leaned in close he could smell her—a heady mix of incense and sweat. Unable to see the face beneath the veil, he could not tell how old she was. Her body was both lithe and youthful, but at the same time there was a facet to her that was old beyond imagining.
The woman bore a small golden jug in her hand. It was a simple thing, but she carried it with reverence, as though it was some precious relic.
She said something, and the words were in no language he had ever heard, as though she spoke with the tongue of an animal. He listened intently until she reached forward, tipped his head back gently and raised the jug in her hand.
Fulren opened his mouth, an instinctual gesture, as she poured the contents down his throat. It tasted bitter as he swallowed, leaving a rancid tang on his tongue.
Slowly the woman and her veiled entourage retreated into the dark, and Fulren was left to kneel. Their song faded to silence as he sat alone amid the carved sigil.
Time seemed to stretch out. All the while he concentrated on the winking candles, trying to measure the passage of time as they burned down to stubs, but he had no idea how long he knelt there in the dark. It was as though he were lost in a void.
“Wenis,” he called out eventually. “Are you there?”
Fulren realised his voice was slurry as he tried to speak. There was no answer to his question.
This was foolish. The ritual had clearly failed. Whatever these arcanists had tried to do to him, it was not working. Damn this place, and damn him for believing some pointless ritual might save his life.
As he made to rise from the circle, his body was immediately racked with agony.
Fulren screamed as his flesh burned. Every nerve caught fire. His throat stung as if he had swallowed a nest of wasps, and he clasped his hands over his eyes as it felt as if they’d been skewered by white-hot pokers.
He writhed in agony at the centre of the circle, crying out for mercy, for some relief from the intensity of the pain. He was being eaten from the inside, his whole body consumed in a conflagration as he screamed.
Fulren’s mind swam. Visions began to coalesce before him, and gradually the pain relented as a face solidified…
Assenah Neskhon walked forward from the dark. She was as beautiful and striking as the first day he had laid eyes on her, red hair flowing despite the still air. She looked down at him imperiously before the flesh began to crumble from her face. Her red hair turned white and brittle, eyes sinking back into her skull. Fulren wanted to scream, but the cry was caught in his throat as he watched Assenah reduced to a shambling corpse. As she crumbled, more figures stepped from the curtain of shadow around him.
His mother fell to her knees, weeping uncontrollably. She reached out for him, calling his name, and Fulren was overcome with grief at the sight. He held out his hand but could move no closer as she mourned the loss of him. He tried to tell her that he was not dead, that he was still trying to make his way home, but she could not hear.
His mother faded, to be replaced by his sister. Tyreta looked afraid, shrinking from the surrounding shadows. He called her name, but she too could not hear. As he watched, his brother moved from the darkness toward Tyreta.
Conall was no longer the loving sibling he had watched fly away on a great eagle. Now he looked cruel, imposing, and there was something inhuman about him. As Fulren watched helplessly, Conall fell on Tyreta, grasping her throat, squeezing and squeezing as his sister tried to cry out in terror, raking their brother with her nails…
Fulren opened his eyes. He still lay amid the intricate symbol. The candles had all but burned out. His breath was shallow, his flesh covered by a thick sheen of sweat. Slowly the veiled figures stalked from the dark once again. Fulren wanted to run, to stand and flee this place before they could torture him anymore, but he could not move.
The priestess, face still hidden behind the red veil, stepped close to him. In one hand she carried an array of needles, in the other a vial of liquid that roiled in the candlelight, the colour changing constantly from one strange hue to the next.
Fulren felt hands take hold of him as the veiled arcanists moved him into position. There was nothing he could do to resist them as he knelt, head bowed before the priestess. She touched the first needle to the back of his neck, and he felt the pain course through his spine. Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to fight or scream or flee their attentions. Though the pain almost made him convulse, he endured it. If he did not see this through, he would surely die in the arena.
It seemed to last forever, the priestess taking her time while she worked. At first the sting of the needle was concentrated at the nape of Fulren’s neck, but then she spread the tiny incisions. The necroglyph was cut into his skin along his spine and spread out to his shoulders. Though he could not see them, he knew those intricate patterns had been indelibly carved into his flesh. When finally she finished, Fulren was panting hard, his sweat forming a pool beneath him. Still shaking from the experience, he looked up to see that the priestess and her entourage had disappeared once more into the dark.
He shivered. His body felt weak, as though he were recovering from a fever. He tried to rise, but his limbs would not hold his weight. How could he face the arena if he could not even stand, let alone fight?
“How do you feel?” Wenis asked.
He turned gingerly to see her standing close by. From the look on her face she was relieved that he was still alive.
“Sick,” he replied. “That’s about it. How do I know if this even worked?”
Wenis giggled at him. “Of course it worked. If it hadn’t you’d be dead. Or worse.”
“But I feel no different.”
“What were you expecting? To grow horns? A tail?”
He felt violated, humiliated. The fact that Wenis found that amusing made the anger boil within him.
“I was expecting more than to feel weak as a kitten. How am I supposed to fight in this state? I’ll be the first to die.”
“Somehow I doubt that. You are more powerful than you have ever been.”
Fulren shook his head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“What?”
“Just do it. Close your eyes… and feel.”
This was foolish, but what choice did he have? Fulren closed his eyes and shivered in the dark. As he did so, he sensed something close by. It was calling to him, a disembodied whisper yearning for his attention. Fulren concentrated harder, trying to connect, and as he did so it felt as though he’d lit a spark with his thoughts alone. Something ignited in the distance, setting off a chain reaction, and Fulren felt as though he were at the centre of a network—a web of power in which he was the core.
“Now,” Wenis said. “Open your eyes.”
Fulren did as she asked. He was no longer in the dark. Now they were at the centre of a giant cavern, and studded into every facet was a pyrestone. Each one was shining brightly where before it had been dull and inactive. The myriad stones shone like stars, and every one had done so at his behest.
“Do you believe me now?” Wenis asked.
As he knelt in that glimmering cavern, Fulren began to laugh.
TYRETA
