The wind runner book 10.., p.84
The Wind Runner: Book 10 (The Wandering Inn), page 84
“A Naq-Alrama blade. Not a ‘magical sword’. And he paid, or else we would not be here. But what he paid for was our journey, not the blade itself. Not that I would doubt the King of Destruction, and you should not either, as his loyal servant.”
Nawal tossed her head, adjusting the veil so she wouldn’t inhale it. Trey winced.
“Right. Er, sorry. But it is good to see you.”
That surprised Nawal. She flushed and drew the veil more tightly around her face. Were all foreigners like Trey so forwards? She glared at him.
“We hardly know each other.”
“Um. Yeah. But we’re around the same age. You’re a bit older, but there’s few people my age in the castle. I was hoping to find you, actually. I could show you around? If you want me to. And I’d like you to meet my sister when she returns. You two might be friends.”
His sister? Friends? She was here to smith. But Trey was treating her as if they were two childhood friends from the same clan. She glared, but then decided to jump on this chance.
“I may meet your sister in the fullness of time, Trey Atwood. But I would take you up on your offer. I am new to the King of Destruction’s palace. And I have some questions for you.”
“Uh? Well, okay. I don’t know everything, but ask away. What did you want to know?”
Trey made a stupid face. Nawal rolled her eyes. She gestured around the bare corridor where a servant was cleaning the hall. It had no artwork, statues, or suits of armor. It was just…a hallway. In a palace, but it lacked even a carpet, and the windows weren’t made of glass.
“I have walked around the palace. And seen my quarters. The beds are of cotton. Tell me, do the beds in your room consist of cotton or silk? Or do you sleep on stone, as a lesser servant?”
“I’m not a servant.”
Trey frowned, contradicting what Orthenon had said.
“My bed? It’s cotton. Nice. Why do you ask?”
So maybe it wasn’t a slight. Nawal gestured around the palace.
“Simply because this is the home of the King of Destruction, is it not? His seat of power in Reim? His base from which he once conquered all of Chandrar and launched a campaign against the rest of the world?”
“…I guess. Why?”
Nawal stared at Trey. He gave her another stupid look. She stamped her foot.
“Well then! Why are his halls not filled with grand carpets hundreds of feet long? Why were only four servants sent to escort us to our quarters? Why are the beds not made of silk, even for his servants? Where is his fabled armory? The ten thousand swords of myth and legend that he won in a thousand battles? Surely some still remain. What of the artworks, the statues and wonders carried from around the world? Have all gone? And this palace—is this truly his home?”
Trey gaped at Nawal. He looked around and stared at her.
“Beds made of silk? Grand treasury? I’ve never heard of anything like that. Flos—er, His Majesty used to have a lot of stuff, it’s true. But it’s all gone now. And this is his palace. Why do you ask?”
Nawal shook her head. How could he not know? Even as a foreigner?
“It was said that the King of Destruction’s citadel was larger than one could imagine, that the spires on top of the towers reached beyond the clouds.”
“Really?”
“Of course! How do you not know of this? Every child is told the King of Destructions’ story, of his grandeur! I came here expecting to see his castle rising out of the ground for hundreds of miles. Instead, I found his city poor and his palace worthy of any [King], but not of him.”
“Yeah, well, he was asleep—or rather, he was depressed—for about twenty years. A lot of stuff went bad, or so Orthenon and Gazi said. And why does it matter? I thought a lot of Chandrar hated the King of Destruction. Most of the world does, apparently.”
Trey shrugged uncomfortably. Nawal stared at him. Then she turned.
“Why would that matter? He was still the King of Destruction. His myths still are told like tales of old. Hate him. Love him. But he was a legend worthy of Chandrar.”
She had grown up hearing his stories as a baby. Nawal stared at the plain servant, who was scrubbing at a stain on the wall. She shook her head again.
“Have you not heard one of the King of Destruction’s tales? Of his city of Reim, fairest in the world? How he turned it from a small kingdom no one knew into a world power? It was said that in those days when his strength was at its peak, the streets of his cities flowed with wealth. No one wanted for food or drink, and even the beggars were richer than some [Lords]. Every day, caravans of treasures taken from far-off lands would flow into his kingdom, and heroes and adventurers from across the world would journey here to seek his favor and fight in his name.”
She didn’t even mention the harems filled with [Princesses] and brides from across the world, or the stories of his rooms filled with the skulls of his enemies, or the dungeons in which his enemies were fated to live and suffer eternally. One would assume the virginal brides were all far older by this point and that those kept in the dungeons expired. And if there were rooms full of skeletons, a prudent visitor would never inquire about them.
“Really? He had all that?”
Trey looked at Nawal, his eyes slightly wide. She looked back and saw he didn’t know. That hurt part of her. She’d thought that at least that legend had spread about the world. Chandrar had little to boast of sometimes.
But while those from other nations might sometimes laugh at the poor folk of the desert, they would all stop laughing when they asked what Chandrar had wrought in the last hundred years. Because the answer was always the King of Destruction. For all he had been a terrible figure, he had made the world look to Chandrar with fear and awe.
“These are all things said of the King of Destruction’s city, Trey Atwood. These and more. I came here expecting to see some of that, even if it had faded. I saw so little I believed it to be an insult, a mirage. Is there anything like that? Anything you could show me?”
Nawal waited, hoping for Trey to say yes, to say that there was some legacy of that grandeur left. But he only bit his lip and hesitated. Part of the hope in Nawal’s chest, that youthful girl hearing stories around the campfire, died in her chest. She looked around the bare corridor, and her heart sank.
Was this all that remained? Or, worse, had the legends even been true to begin with?
“Sorry, Nawal. I don’t remember seeing anything like that. No caravans of treasure. No…well, Mars had an armory of magical swords. And there is gold in the treasury. But I don’t think there’s nearly as much as you think.”
Trey looked doubtful as he shook his head. Nawal stared at him, then closed her eyes.
“Then perhaps the King of Destruction’s legend is just that. A myth. A fable. I was a fool to think otherwise, naïve that I am. I thank you for telling me the truth, Trey Atwood.”
She turned. There, lounging against a wall, suddenly there and making both Nawal and Trey jump, was Gazi. The half-Gazer grinned as Nawal unsheathed her dagger and Trey yelped.
“So you are disappointed, Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin? Is this palace not enough, though you were offered the right of guests under my lord’s roof? Only say so now and I will answer your complaint.”
There she was, leaning against the wall. Neither Trey nor Nawal had seen her appear, nor had the servant cleaning the hall, who’d frozen, eyes wide as she stared at Lady Gazi Pathseeker. Gazi of Reim. Nawal’s breath grew tight in her chest. She had met Gazi once, but under an illusion spell. Now, up close, she was terrifying.
Gazi the Omniscient. That was one of her names. Another was Dunestalker. A terror of the night, an assassin who hunted other spies and traitors, anyone who would threaten her [King]. She, at least, was the same as her legends.
Oh, you might not think so if you just saw her. Gazi’s almost rusty, scale armor wasn’t impressive, and her claymore, for all it was brilliantly made, wasn’t obviously magical. But Nawal knew of steel, and she knew both armor and sword were not of steel. Or any metal she could identify at a glance, for that matter. The unique coloration of the armor told her it wasn’t Adamantine, and the claymore wasn’t mithril, but neither were they common metals either.
“I—I did not seek to give offence Lady Gazi. I only meant that I expected to see the wonders of His Majesty’s palace. Not—”
Nawal realized her little dagger was out, and she sheathed it quickly. Gazi smiled, but it was no welcoming smile. It was almost perfectly crafted to make Nawal shudder, a smile with malice hidden behind the curve of the lips. Trey was staring at Gazi, not with fear, but with confusion. He must be mad or he hadn’t heard of her stories either.
Gazi detached from the wall and walked around Nawal as the [Smith] froze in place. Her voice was soft, pleasant but for the metal buried beneath the gentle tone.
“Sometimes, legends grow until they are too big to fit reality, Nawalishifra Tannousin. Sometimes. And sometimes they fade. But hold your judgment until you have seen my lord in person once more. And when you walk through this palace, remember you see ruin. Two decades of despair. You and your clan have come to restore part of what was lost.”
“I—yes. Of course.”
“Good. You understand that. Then I welcome you still. But mind your words under this roof. And Trey?”
“Yes, Gazi?”
“Escort Nawal around the palace yourself. And keep her away from Orthenon. If he had heard what she had said, I doubt he would be so understanding.”
Gazi walked away from them. Quick, and despite her armor, silent. She turned a corner and was gone. Nawal remembered to breathe after that. That was Dunestalker. Silent. The King’s protector in the shadows. If you so much as breathed a word of dissent against the King of Destruction, she would cut you down. Oh, but Nawal had made a mistake! She looked at Trey, trying not to let her teeth chatter.
“D-do you think I gave offence?”
“To Gazi? No. No, that sounded like, uh, one of her friendly threats. But she is right. I don’t think Orthenon would like you saying that.”
Trey looked troubled. Nawal wanted to laugh.
“I would never speak so in his hearing!”
“Really? But you’re speaking to me—”
Nawal shook her head. Both she and Trey stepped out of the way of the servant as she came down the corridor. They began walking, if only so Nawal could put Gazi’s ominous words behind her. She spoke briskly to Trey, taking solace in his simple nature. He couldn’t be that important and be so ignorant, could he?
“A woman should not speak to a man in the open, as he is in the midst of his work. By the same token, a man should not approach a woman before seeking her husband or brother or father first. In private, things are less important, and between family of course exceptions exist. But if I spoke to the King’s Steward? I would cut off my ears rather than hear of such idiocy from another of my clan!”
“But you’re speaking to me, and I’m male.”
Nawal snorted. Trey looked very hurt, so she explained.
“You’re a foreigner. You don’t count. Besides, I must see the King of Destruction’s forges if I am to work there, and neither Hesseif nor Silmak is willing to go. Those fools, they wish only to gossip of the King of Destruction’s legends and look about like children. But I am here to forge. So take me there, Trey Atwood.”
“The forges?”
“Yes! Surely the King of Destruction has his need for [Blacksmiths], even if they do not forge magical works of art with each passing day, each greater than the last! Surely he needs nails and tools for his servants to work! He does have forges, does he not?”
Nawal threw up her hands. She was going to hit Trey if he said no. The young man hesitated.
“I’m sure he does. No, he definitely does! There’s at least one master smith—of course, I can take you right to him!”
That was a relief. Nawal nodded and bowed.
“Lead on, then.”
Trey hesitated. He looked around, forwards, back, and then sheepishly pointed back at the servant making her way down the hall, grumbling about sand and [Mages].
“Uh, let me ask where to go.”
——
It took Trey fifteen minutes and two more servants to locate the forges. They weren’t in the castle, but outside of the main palace, for reasons that soon became obvious. The instant he approached the open-air forge, Trey was overwhelmed by the heat emanating from one of the furnaces, and the air was filled with the ringing of hammers on metal. He approached timidly, but made his way to one of the [Smiths]—mainly because Nawal was pushing him the entire way.
“Excuse me? Is Blacksmith Daiton here? I’m showing a guest around the palace, and, uh—”
Trey shouted at a laboring apprentice. The young man looked up, saw that it was Trey, and his eyes widened.
“Sir Trey! Let me get Master Daiton at once!”
He sprang up and hurried over to an older man with grey hair and a growing bald spot on his head. The [Blacksmith] came over, and Trey was astounded to have his hand shaken at once as the friendly smith came over. He knew Trey was one of Flos’ personal followers, and he was overjoyed to have Trey here. When he learned Nawal was a fellow [Smith], his grin spread ear to ear.
“I am Daiton, master [Blacksmith] of His Majesty’s forges. You won’t find a better smith in all of Reim, or Germina or Hellios, I’d wager! There are plenty of low-level sorts as we’re in demand, but I’m the most high-level—and oldest—by far in the area. It’s a delight to have you, Sir Trey, and you, young lady. Are you an apprentice by chance? It’s rare to have a woman practicing the craft, but welcome! I’d be honored if you used my forge so long as it’s here.”
He addressed Nawal directly, but she refused to reply. She’d suddenly turned shy. Nawal half-hid herself behind Trey, keeping her eyes to the ground and peeking around the forge furtively. She whispered to Trey urgently into his ear.
“Tell him I thank him for the great compliment and that I hope to learn from his expertise. Tell him I am Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin.”
Trey half-turned, frowning at Nawal.
“Why don’t you say it? You’re right—”
He received a jab to the back and a glare. Oh, right. Daiton was a native Chandrarian and Nawal was female. The [Smith] girl hissed at Trey.
“Tell him!”
“Er, sorry Master Daiton. This is Nawal. Ow! Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin. She’s a [Blacksmith] come to forge a sword for His Majesty.”
“A smith of clan Tannousin?”
Daiton’s eyes widened, and several of the workers who’d heard looked around. Daiton immediately gave Nawal another look, but her eyes were lowered and her veil was tightly around her face.
“I’ve heard Tannousin smiths are some of the best in the deserts. And a female smith? I thought—no matter. You’re welcome twice over then, ah, Nawalish—Nawali—Nawal of Tannousin. Perhaps we could swap techniques, if you’d trade secrets.”
“She would accept that gladly, Master Daiton.”
Trey answered for Nawal. He looked around, listening to the whisper in his ear.
“Uh, Nawal wonders if this is your entire forge. Could we have a tour, maybe?”
Daiton nodded at once.
“Please, step inside. But mind the steel and sparks! This is indeed His Majesty’s forge. We have other buildings, but they’re disused, so this is the only active forge. Plenty of room, though! I’ve been here since His Majesty went into his slumber, and I waited right here until he woke up. I’d do it for another ten years without hesitation.”
He puffed his chest out, and Trey nodded appreciatively. Daiton gestured at the men working around the forge.
“I have eight workers I’m training. Journeymen [Blacksmiths], apprentices…I’m hoping to double that number when I can trust my senior workers by themselves. And have at least forty men working the forges around the hour in a few months! Even if Germina and Hellios start producing, there will be a great need for fresh weapons and armor, repairs, and that’s only for armies! Nails for houses, parts for barrels, and axles for wagons, tools for every sort of craft—”
“Arrowheads.”
One of the younger apprentices, younger than even Trey, groaned as he labored over an arrowhead. Daiton scowled at him.
“You want to be a [Fletcher]? Half of it’s making the arrowheads, Fedi! Don’t complain, you’ll level up! And once we have more craftsmen flowing back into the capital, you’ll stop having to make arrowheads all day long.”
“So your forge makes all the materials for the kingdom?”
Trey looked around, impressed. That was a lot of work! Daiton shook his head.
“Not all. But weapons? The vast majority. There’re two other [Smiths] in Reim at the moment, but they handle more mundane work. Myself? I make blades for His Majesty. Come and see. This is my signature work.”
He led Trey over to a barrel of swords. Daiton pulled one out, and Trey whistled as he saw a flash of steel. The smith handed the blade to Trey.
“Don’t worry, the edge isn’t sharpened yet. But this is a complete sword, one of many we’re making for the army. They’ve got old weapons, but new steel’s vital, and we’re working around the clock here to meet that demand. We’re hoping to have two hundred swords made and four times that many spears if we keep getting enough wood.”
“It’s so light!”
Trey had held Teres’ sword, but he was already impressed at how balanced and how light swords actually were. Nothing like the heavy things he’d imagined. Daiton laughed.
“Light and strong! You can flex that one and it won’t bend or snap! And look—this is what I meant by signature. See the steel? Give it a close look.”
Trey did. Then he saw what Daiton meant. There was a pattern on the blade! The steel wasn’t one, shiny uniform color. His eyes widened as he stared at the curvy lines running down the blade.
“Bugger me. Is that…I’ve seen this pattern before!”
Damascus steel. It looked exactly like it! Trey stared at the fine, wavy lines on the metal of the sword, almost like the patterns of wood grain or water running through the steel. Daiton puffed out his chest, delighted that Trey had noticed.
