Destiny: Child of the Sky

12

Gunthor rounded the bend in the dark corridor with his two aides-decamp, whistling cheerfully. He was in fine fettle on this particular morning; the watches had all gone well, the recruits were coming nicely to heel, the reinforcements in the Hidden Realm and the great watchtower of Griwen Post were performing to expectation. He was on his way to his last stops on his morning inspection tour, the two enormous forges where the weapons were produced for export and for the armament of the Firbolg army.

The former was the first stop; this was a commercial smithy, and the product it put forth was confined to the less sophisticated designs that he and Achmed had decided were safe to allow into the hands of their trading partners in Roland. If they were anything that resembled a threat I might not have considered giving them access to even these crude weapons, Achmed had recounted to him and to Rhapsody over a bottle of wine provided by Lord Stephen as a gift to celebrate the trade agreement last spring. But as far as I can see, Roland won’t pose a problem until it unites, and, even then, they’d break themselves on the mountain before we’d have to teach them another lesson. Putting these inferior weapons into the trade stream may make them overconfident, give them a false idea of what we are capable of making. The king had spun his wine in his glass, then downed it. No, I’m not worried about Roland, he had said, gazing through the glass at the fire. Sorbold, on the other hand, will always worry me.

The better of the weapons, those made in the second forge, were Achmed’s original designs: a heavy but well-balanced throwing knife with three blades; short, compact crossbows with extra recoil for use in the tunnels of Ylorc; split arrowheads and heavy darts for blowguns, balanced and designed for deeper penetration; midnight-blue steel drawknives which were really razor-edged hooks that replaced the makeshift close-combat weapons of many Bolg; and of course the disks of his own cwellan, the strange, asymmetrical weapon he had crafted back on the Island of Serendair and had used to ply his trade of assassination very successfully so long ago.

Grunthor smiled at the blast of heat that slapped his face as he came into the first of the weapons foundries. He looked up with pride at the half-dozen tiered galleries of anvils and fires. Long-dead Gwylliam had designed the smithy complex as if he thought to work there himself. The forges were attached to a central ventilation system that drew the soot gently rumbling through the cacophony, high toward the peaks where the heat was made use of elsewhere before it escaped. The damper system allowed the individual forges to be controlled by teams of only two or three workers each, supported by some few dozen water carriers and coal-hod bearers. In addition to the natural bellows of the flume, each forge had its own crank bellows, the action of which also drew cooler air for the general circulation, and made the place seem less like an inferno and more like the practice hall for some genius if lunatic orchestra.

The forgemaster handed him the inventory records, and watched anxiously as Grunthor reviewed them, then checked the lines of artisans who were smelting and hammering, filing and tempering. He counted each of the finished weapons against the inventory list, and found all accounted for. In addition, the number of culls had dropped considerably from where it had been during training; they were learning.

Satisfied, he returned the inventory to the forgemaster and turned to the craftsmen.

“All right, gents, good work. Keep it up, eh?”

He returned the salute of the forgemaster and strode off with his aides-de-camp, singing a tavern song as he left. His ringing bass echoed up the mountain hall before him, warning the next group of smiths of his imminent arrival.

As the sound of his voice drifted away, three of the Bolg forge handlers exchanged a quick glance, then returned to their work in the flickering shadows of the pure, intense fire that came directly from the heart of the Earth.

The bell that signaled die back door had opened jangled sharply. Old Ned the tinker had closed up shop several hours before, and had settled down before the fire grate with a pint of stout and a bowl of lamb stew. Immediately he reached next to the fire for one of his hammers. He rose with a creak and patted the hammer before hiding it within die folds of his stained leather apron; Old Ned was in his twilight years, but still possessed of muscular arms and a strong grip.

“Who is ye? Who be there?”

In the weak fireshadows cast by die coals in die grate two faces appeared near the back door. Even in the dark they appeared hirsute and coarse, though not as coarse as one might have expected die faces of Bolg to be, or at least so Old Ned thought. They stared at Ned thoughtfully, as they always did, serious but not threatening.

Old Ned smiled and put down the hammer.

“Well, good evening, my lads,” he said, rubbing the chill from his hands. “Reckon’tis been at least a month since last you came. Have ya brought me the last of the goods?”

The men exchanged a glance without taking their eyes off him, then pulled forth an oilskin sack tied with string from the darkness between them. They dropped it onto the planks against the back wall that served as a counter, then retreated to a safe distance back into the shadows.

Old Ned hobbled nimbly over to the counter, undid the string, and pulled the sack open eagerly. Impatient, he upended it onto the planks and cackled aloud with glee at its contents.

A strange, circular, three-bladed throwing knife, similar to the small ones they had brought a few months before but much heftier; a pair of long, broad swords with splayed, layered metal tips; and a shiny disk, thin as a butterfly’s wing but sharp as a razor.

Weapons of Bolg manufacture.

“Ha!” shouted Old Ned, unable to contain his excitement. “Beauties, boys, beauties! They’ll fetch a fine price indeed.” His eyes were glowing with avarice as they searched the shadows to find the dark faces once more. He picked up the whisper-thin circle.

“I’ll need but two more of these, and then we will have a bargain fulfilled, yes we will.”

“No.” The word spat forth from one of the shadows deeper in the room than he expected; Old Ned turned and saw the eyes in one angular face glaring back at him. “Now. Give.”

Old Ned drew himself up to his full height and picked up the hammer again. He focused on the eyes in the dark, staring the man down like a stag or a rat in the gutter.

“Sod off,” he snarled. ” set the price, and I decide when it’s eno—

His voice choked off as a blade, thin as a ribbon and curved, was pressed against his neck from behind by the second Bolg.

“Geep-auck-” Old Ned sputtered. “Please-”

“Give now,” his captor intoned in a harsh voice. “You have weapons. Give now.”

“Yes!” Old Ned squeaked, coughing raggedly. “I will! I will! Let go!”

He lurched forward as the Bolg released him, then staggered to the counter, which he gripped with both hands and leaned his head over, panting.

“It’s—it’s back here,” he muttered, walking behind the counter. He reached beneath it, making sure to be able to see both Bolg, then drew forth a battered metal pot, plain of design, with a broken handle. He tossed it weakly to the Bolg who had held him captive.

“Don’ know what ya want it fer,” he mumbled. “Ugly as sin. Not worth nothin’.”

The Bolg who held the pot examined it quickly, checking the inside, then nodded quickly to the other. They slipped into the shadows, making no sound with the jangling chimes as they disappeared out the back door.

Old Ned muttered a fine string of curses as he rubbed his neck, then turned his attention to the Bolg weapons. He could not imagine for all the world why anyone would be willing to trade such unique, finely made armaments for a pot that was no more than a piece of rubbish. Proof of what is said about the Bolg, he thought as he held the shiny disk up to the dying fire’s light.

Not a grain of sense among them, but they sure make fine weapons.