Engines of Chaos, page 12
The Ox came at him again, and it was all Conall could do to keep that blade at bay. He grunted, froth gathering at the edge of his dry mouth, arm growing tired, a dull ache in his shoulder as Ramassen beat at his weapon again and again. His foot caught on something, and he lost his balance under the onslaught, sword falling from his grip. Conall was on his back, ground rattling at the impact and he realised he’d fallen over the trapdoor at the centre of the arena.
Ramassen towered over him, taking no time to gloat, raising his blade high to finish this swiftly. Conall’s hand touched a ring of metal… the handle of the trapdoor. He gripped the handle, rolling aside and wrenching the trapdoor open, desperate to shield himself from the killing blow. Ramassen’s blade swept down, slamming into the edge of the door. The sword sank deep into the wood, wedging the blade tight, and Ramassen grunted as he tried to wrench it free with both hands.
Conall glanced to his fallen sword. He scrambled across the sand, grasping it, swinging with a growl and feeling satisfaction as it sank into the meaty flesh of Ramassen’s thigh.
The Ox bellowed, clutching his leg, forgetting his weapon still wedged in the trapdoor as he fell to the ground. Conall rose to his feet, looking down at the man he had bested. Or was his luck the only victor here?
Ramassen looked up at him, spittle flecked across his lips, hands vainly stanching the blood that ran through his fingers. “You fought well, eastlander. It takes a mighty warrior to bring down Ramassen the Ox. If only there had been a roaring crowd to witness it.”
“Finish him,” Orsokon ordered.
The words distracted Conall from the rapture of triumph, as he realised what he had to do. It should have been so easy; his enemy was helpless. But this was no enemy. This was a man enslaved, just like Conall. They had been forced into this, and Ramassen had done nothing to deserve death.
“I said finish him,” Orsokon repeated.
Conall shook his head. “I can’t.”
Orsokon strode forward, but Conall stood firm. He was done with cowering. Done with obeying this bastard’s every word. No matter the consequences, he would not murder a helpless man.
He tensed every muscle as Orsokon bore down on him, expecting him to wrench that curved blade from its sheath and execute them both. Instead, he snatched the sword from Conall’s hand and turned on Ramassen.
Without a word, Ramassen let go of his leg. Raising his head, offering his neck as an easy target. Orsokon grasped the sword in both hands and sank the blade into Ramassen’s shoulder just above the clavicle. It was a gladiator’s death, puncturing the heart and killing the giant fighter instantly. Conall stared as Ramassen’s corpse collapsed to the dirt.
Orsokon flung the sword away in disgust. “At least one of you deserved a warrior’s death.”
Conall tensed his gut, expecting another solid punch from the warmaven. Instead, Orsokon grasped his throat in both hands. Conall clawed at those thick wrists, but it did nothing to stop his airways being closed.
“The next time you disobey me, it will be you in that pit.” Already the attendants were making their way across the arena to dispose of Ramassen’s body, but Conall was more focused on trying to snatch a breath. “Baenre is not here to save you, boy. You are mine now.” He jerked his head closer until Conall’s nose was almost touching his helm. “Can you see?”
Just as Conall thought he might pass out, Orsokon released his grip. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as his arm was firmly grasped by an attendant and he was ushered to a doorway at the far side of the arena.
He didn’t struggle, allowing himself to be dragged away, no fight left in him. Once he was through the door, it slammed behind him, and he welcomed the quiet confines of the dark.
As his eyes adjusted, he could see other figures lurking in the shadows. Three of them: the arena’s other victors. Each one sat in silence, in shock at what they had been forced to do. Relief at surviving. Conall was pleased to see Nylia’s face among them.
He sat beside her, noting she nursed a wound in her forearm, though she offered no word of complaint. He would have tried to help her, but what did he know of the healing arts? He had already demonstrated he knew little of combat. Little of anything at all.
Instead, he gave a nod of acknowledgment as they both sat in the dark, listening to the sound of other prisoners dying in the arena. She didn’t return the gesture.
LANCELIN
They rode in silence most of the way north, but neither man had ever been known for skill at conversation. The Seminarium had fresh steeds, despite the lack of stable hands, and they covered the distance to the Dolur Peaks at a gallop, only stopping briefly at night to allow the horses some rest. After two days, the mountain range appeared before them, consuming the grey skyline. As the path became more strewn with rock they reined their horses to a steady walk. It wouldn’t do to have the animals go lame so close to their destination.
“Do we have a plan?” Kassian asked when they were within a mile of the Forge. “Wymar Ironfall is an unknown quantity in this.”
Lancelin had no idea what he would say when they reached the Forge. The fact he could be riding into mortal danger had played on his mind since he started this journey. Nevertheless, he had to try, for the sake of Torwyn.
“No, I have no plan,” he replied honestly. “I will ask Wymar to join us. He will fight for the freedom of the Guilds, or he won’t.”
“Aye, it could be a short conversation. What if he’s already sided with the Ministry?”
Again, Lancelin had considered the idea. “Then I imagine Wymar will say no.”
Kassian nodded matter-of-factly. “And we’ll both end up prisoners of the Draconate.”
“I’ll be no one’s prisoner,” Lancelin replied.
Kassian laughed so unexpectedly it made Lancelin’s horse start in fright, and he had to wrestle with the reins to bring it back under control.
“Still the old impetuous Lancelin Jagdor,” Kassian said. “For all that stoic, focused exterior you still have the heart of a rebel.”
Of all the things he had become in the years since his studies at the Seminarium, impetuous was the last thing he considered himself. Clearly Kassian had a different view of it, but before he could argue the old man was wrong, they cornered a bend in the mountain pass and the Forge revealed itself before them.
The city was hewn from the mountainside, rock face shaped into myriad towers and walkways. At the centre was a huge cave mouth flanked by giant statues of armoured warriors. For a moment Lancelin thought how much they looked like Wymar and Maugar, but they had been carved into the solid rock many centuries before either of those men were even born. Clearly the appearance of the Ironfall Guildmasters had changed very little over the years.
Through that yawning entrance lay the city proper. A warren of streets and dwellings that ran deep into the labyrinthine cave network of the Dolur Peaks. Even from a distance Lancelin could hear the sound of forges echoing from within, as smoke streamed out through a hundred chimneys, belching a grey trail up to the clouds.
The uneven mountain path led to a solid road, a thoroughfare that ran right up to the entrance. It stretched almost as wide as it was long, and Lancelin felt surprised to see how scantly guarded it was. There were fewer than a dozen Blackshields, the warriors of Ironfall, moving to greet them as Lancelin and Kassian reined their horses onto the path.
He could feel himself growing tense. From the corner of his eye he saw Kassian leaning forward, seemingly relaxed in his saddle, but his right hand teased the cog pommel of his sword. For his part, Lancelin sat back, keeping his hand well away from the hilt of his new weapon, keen to show he was no threat.
As two of the Blackshields approached, Lancelin nodded in greeting. They were bedecked in heavy steel plate, though they wore no helms. Each one had hair swept back in a topknot and darkened with pitch, in much the same fashion as the Guildmaster and swordwright of the Ironfalls.
“I am Lancelin Jagdor…” he began, but the Blackshield held up a hand before he could finish his introduction.
“We know who you are,” he replied. “Our spotters have had eyes on you for the past five miles. Hand over the weapons, and we’ll talk.”
Not the best start. Lancelin glanced to Kassian, who offered him a simple shrug to indicate he was happy to follow Lancelin’s lead. If Wymar had already thrown his lot in with the Ministry, it wouldn’t be a good idea to proceed unarmed.
“I have come to speak with Lord Wymar,” Lancelin said.
The Blackshield tipped his head to one side. “No shit. We know why you’re here, so hand over that pretty sword and we’ll see what we can do.”
That was the thing with sentries—always so annoyingly vigilant.
Before Lancelin could refuse, there was movement within the huge cave mouth. A procession of Blackshields was led out by the formidable figure of Wymar Ironfall. Over his back was slung an axe and at his side a thick-bladed broadsword. His armour was resplendent by comparison to his men, who had taken to covering the steel in soot from the forges. Emblazoned on his breastplate was the flame of Ironfall, cast in gold and shining in what little daylight crept through the clouds.
As Wymar approached, Lancelin resisted the urge to slide his hand closer to his blade. Instead he sat and watched, trying to read the stern expression on Wymar’s face until he reached them and stopped, regarding both men impassively.
“Lancelin Jagdor and Kassian Maine,” Wymar grunted. His men had not drawn their weapons, but they still looked ill at ease. “Nice of you to visit.” With that, a grin spread across Wymar’s bearded face. “Well, climb down off those horses and greet me like the friends we are. Your arses must be numb from all that riding.”
His men visibly relaxed as Wymar stepped forward and opened his arms in welcome. Lancelin saw Kassian raise an eyebrow in pleasant surprise, before both men climbed down from their horses.
Wymar held out his arm, and Lancelin gripped it in greeting, before he was pulled closer and crushed in a friendly embrace. As he released Lancelin and approached Kassian, the Guildmaster of Ironfall called the swordwright an “old dog,” before moving in to hug him like a brother. Had Kassian known this would be Wymar’s reaction all along? If so, he might have mentioned it sooner.
Wymar turned back to Lancelin, his brow creasing in concern. “I am sorry to hear about Sullivar. He had his faults, but he was a good man at heart.”
Lancelin felt that familiar clutch of guilt and remorse. “He was. His loss is difficult to bear.”
“It is a loss to us all,” Wymar replied, guiding them toward the yawning entrance of the Forge. “Those bastard zealots will not be satisfied until we are all under their boot. That little shit Sanctan should have been throttled in the crib.”
Lancelin followed, thinking on all the things he should have done. Had he not left to rescue his son, none of this might have happened, but he knew deep within that he would never have refused Rosomon. Even had he known what would happen—that Sullivar would be overthrown and Fulren ultimately perish—he was not sure he would have taken a different course.
“What do you intend to do about it, Wymar?” Lancelin asked. “I assume you aren’t just going to barricade yourself in the mountains and wait for this to blow over?”
“Of course not, Jagdor,” Wymar replied with a knowing wink. “The Ironfalls go to war. And we do not go alone.”
He gestured ahead, and Lancelin could see two figures waiting at the vast entrance. One was tall and imposing in his dark armour, the other was a diminutive woman standing in his shadow.
“The Griffin Battalion have already joined our cause,” Wymar said as he mounted the slope to the cave entrance. He raised his voice as the sound of the forges grew louder. “Let me introduce Frontier Marshal Kagan Terswell.”
The man stepped forward to greet them. He had long hair and a beard, giving him the look of an Ironfall but for its deep auburn colour. His armour was burnished iron, one shoulder bearing a steel lion head, the other an ornate paw, grey surcoat displaying a yellow griffin rampant on the chest.
“Lancelin Jagdor,” Marshal Terswell said with a curt bow of his head. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Lancelin returned the gesture. “As does yours. You’re a long way from the Karna, Marshal.”
“When this whole sorry affair began, I was already on the shores of Torwyn. Once the Anvil was taken, I knew it was best to make my loyalties known, and I brought what men I have here to the Forge.”
“And he has brought artificers loyal to the cause,” Wymar said, gesturing at the woman beside him. She was short, wiry, with a scar below her left eye. “They have been most helpful. Already reduced inefficiencies in my forges, and improved output by quite a margin. Soon our automation will be second to none, and productivity increased fivefold.”
Lancelin could feel the thrumming vibration of machinery and the heat from the fires emanating from within. “More equipment and materiel won’t help us if we don’t have the fighters to use it.”
“We will,” Marshal Terswell replied. “When the rest of my battalion gets here.”
“And what of your men, Wymar?”
The Lord of Ironfall grinned, his black beard spreading like a huge bush on his face. “Oh, we have already taken the fight to the Ministry. A contingent of Blackshields heads north as we speak, led by my brother, Maugar. He aims to take Wyrmhead. Once the tower falls it will be the first punch to Sanctan’s gut.”
“You sent Maugar away?” Lancelin asked, unable to hide his frustration. “He should be here, protecting his Guildmaster. Fighting by our side. Wyrmhead holds no strategic significance; it is a waste of good warriors.”
“Maybe you’re right, Jagdor.” If Wymar thought Lancelin had overstepped his bounds, he made no mention of it. “But my brother is an impulsive man. When his blood is up, not even I can curb his anger. But fear not, I have a more than suitable replacement by my side.”
“Really? Who?” Lancelin could think of few who would have done Maugar’s job as well.
“His daughter, Xorya, now acts as my right hand. My niece is more than up to the task while her father exacts his ire. Just ask Kassian, he taught her everything she knows.”
Lancelin glanced to Kassian, who nodded his head. “She is a more than capable sword. One of my best students.”
Lancelin wasn’t so sure. “You think an untested trainee will compensate for Maugar’s absence?”
“I can see you’re not convinced,” Wymar said, as he led them deeper into the complex. “Why don’t I introduce you?”
Lancelin entered the city in the mountain, quickly remembering what a marvel the Forge was to behold. Across a cavern he could see hundreds of workers labouring at the colossal forges. The grind of gears and pistons was deafening, along with the heat of the furnaces that towered on the periphery. Huge chimneys reached up to the cavernous ceiling, funnelling smoke out through the mountain, as turbines fed cooling water along canals before flushing out wastewater through sump pipes. Spread throughout the whole complex of machinery were vats of oil feeding the ancient engines as they smelted ore into workable metals.
Wymar led them across bridges that fell away to nothing on either side, past soaring towers that reached up into the dark. On every granite surface had been hewn a frieze of immense detail, showing the history of the Ironfall Guild and its famous luminaries.
Lancelin could barely hear himself think as they delved ever deeper into the subterranean city, until they finally reached a vast open plaza. From his elevated position Lancelin could see over a thousand Blackshields arrayed in disciplined ranks. They practised their shield wall formations, as functionaries fired missiles at them or charged at them with pugil sticks. Each of them was an armoured behemoth, but together they struck a formidable force of arms. With such warriors as this beside them, Lancelin began to think they might actually have a chance of defying the might of the Ministry.
In the centre of this maelstrom stood a tall young woman with short black hair, barking orders that were immediately obeyed. She strode from rank to solid rank, seeming to instinctually know how to adjust their formations for better efficiency, pointing out in no uncertain terms where their weaknesses were.
Wymar paused for a moment, smiling at what he saw, before he led Lancelin and Kassian down onto the training plaza. As soon as Wymar appeared, the Blackshields dropped to one knee and bowed before their lord. Only the woman remained standing. At first she fixed Lancelin with a stern expression, but as her eyes fell on Kassian that look softened.
“Master Kassian,” she said, before she too dropped to her knee and bowed before the swordwright of all swordwrights.
“Xorya,” Kassian replied. “It is good to see you putting all I have taught to good use.”
The young woman quickly rose to her feet, hand gripping the ornate longsword sheathed at her side. “This is just a warm-up. I’ll be happy to put all I have learned into practice when I get a chance to face those Ministry fuckers.”
“I’m certain you’ll get your chance,” Kassian replied.
Xorya glanced to Lancelin, taking a step forward and looking him up and down. A challenge, perhaps?
“And I’ll look forward to seeing if the great Jagdor’s reputation is well earned. Or just bluster.”
Yes. Definitely a challenge. But Lancelin was willing to overlook her youthful exuberance. He’d faced many a challenge, and put down many a challenger, but he doubted this was the time or place.
Before he could speak for himself, Wymar barked a laugh. “You see? Impulsive, just like her father. But maybe we could work on the manners a bit. Carry on, Xorya. We’ll need these men fighting fit in the days to come.”
With a bow to her uncle, Xorya went back to barking at her men. Lancelin and Kassian followed Wymar back up the stairs from the plaza.
“You see? I told you, Jagdor, she has as furious a nature as my brother. And twice his spirit.”
