The Rebellion

2

One day earlier

Grallik rose just before dawn and stared across Steel Town. The buildings and the men blended in shades of gray and brown, as if someone painting the scene had used so much water that everything ran together to create a drab spectacle. The air was colored dully, too, from the dust swirling thickly. And it was heavy with sweat and waste and dirt. No amount of spitting could rid Grallik of the foul taste.

The Dark Knight mines were an extensive labyrinth, and piles of debris from the excavated tunnels lay everywhere, including right outside Grallik’s door. The largest piles formed the northern and western boundaries of the camp, one the size of a hill, rising nearly a hundred feet and occasionally luring goats from the eastern mountains.

Grallik breathed shallowly and kept his eyes on the debris hills as he strolled to the center of the camp. He passed neatly maintained residences of wood and stone with colorful curtains at the windows, dingy shops that looked as if a strong wind would blow them over, and men and women scurrying from one place to the next, all of them haggard-looking because of the dust and grime and stink that blew everywhere and stuck to them.

Grallik coughed and held a hand to his mouth. The cough had developed a year earlier, but came more frequently in recent weeks; he sometimes worried that it signaled a serious malady.

He did not have to be up at that early hour. He could stay in what passed for his home and wait until perhaps the breeze stilled and at least some of the dust settled. But long months ago it became his habit to rise early and watch the men, a mix of Dark Knights and paid laborers. The latter worked in hot, dry, and desolate Steel Town because the coin was good; the knights were posted there. Long before sunrise, the knights and workers were swinging heavy mallets at mounds of ore, smashing the rocks in a perfect, ceaseless cadence. The smaller chunks were easier for Grallik to deal with.

Grallik was Steel Town’s resident wizard. A Thorn Knight, or a Gray Robe as some called him, he would have preferred a posting in Neraka or with an army in a more hospitable clime. But he’d taken the Blood Oath decades past and recited it every morning: “Submit or die,” obey the will of his superiors and put all personal goals behind the aims of the Order. He accepted his duty in Steel Town because he believed in the words, and in the Code, the strict set of rules by which all the Dark Knights lived. He just wasn’t as fervent about them as he had been in his younger days.

Grallik’s ash-gray robe was always spotless, save for its hem, which was permanently colored brown by the clay and dust that spread from one end of Steel Town to the other. He wore his blond hair cropped so short that the slight points of his half-elf ears showed conspicuously, and he allowed not the faintest hint of stubble on an angular face that would have been handsome were half of it not horribly scarred. Not only was the left side of Grallik’s face disfigured, so was the entire left side of his body, his left hand twisted and the skin on that hand oddly shiny and forever looking wet.

There were scars elsewhere, but none so bad or noticeable-especially with his robe covering most of his features. All of them were the result of a fire that took his home and his parents and twin sister when he was little more than a child. His magic couldn’t heal him. Not even prayer to Takhisis and Zeboim helped. And in all his years with the Dark Knights, serving alongside their priestly Skull Knights, and before that with the wizards, no one had been able to provide any relief.

Grallik no longer entertained any thoughts of improving his appearance. He was intent merely on bettering his arcane knowledge and on doing his job, which at Steel Town entailed heating the rocks the Dark Knights and laborers were breaking up and forcing the iron out of them. The same fire that had taken his family and forever marred his appearance was part of his job. Fire fascinated him and served him well.

The wizard, using spells and charcoal, melted off the impurities and turned the ore into carbon steel so blacksmiths-some of the best in that part of the country-could pound it out and fashion swords and armor for the Order.

There was never any halt in the work and never a change to the routine … not in the thirty-eight months he’d been there.

In the years before Grallik’s arrival at Steel Town, the Dark Knights had used wagons to haul the ore to the capital city, Jelek, and Neraka, where the ore was processed in forges with flues as tall as three men. Later the knights grew to rely on a smelter built at the camp to cull the iron ingots that were transported to weaponsmiths in the north and east. The smelter had fallen into disrepair, serving only to provide shade for one of the slave pens. It would likely never be used again, and that was because of Grallik and his skills.

One of the knights Grallik observed that morning acted sluggish, raising his mallet once for every two times his fellows did. The wizard noted the knight looked pale; perhaps he had acquired some ailment. Grallik took a few steps back to distance himself. He did not want to catch something in that desolate place where there were only four Skull Knights available for healing and none of them able to mend his scars or stop his cough.

Grallik dug his slippered foot into the earth as he continued to watch the Dark Knights and workers labor to turn large rocks into small ones. Sweat plastered their tunics and tabards against their bodies and slicked their hair against their faces. It was hot already, though the sun was not yet up. But it was not nearly so hot as Grallik would soon make the stone.

The rocks and stones had to be very hot indeed for him to leech the precious iron from them.

“Look,” a knight said between swings. He pointed to a small volcano to the north of the camp, its cap glowing bright orange. “One of these days it’s going to bury this place.”

“The gods won’t let that happen,” another knight said. “Steel Town’s too valuable to gods and men.”

“Hell Town,” Grallik muttered, thinking that was a better name for the camp. “Aye, Hell Town is far, far too valuable.”

The commander currently in charge of Steel Town, a decorated veteran of the Chaos War, Marshal Denu Montrill of Solace, approached and stopped at Grallik’s side. Montrill also rose early to supervise the knights and laborers.

“Marshal Montrill,” Grallik said, greeting him. “The slaves have been collecting richer ore from the deep part of the mountain, and I pull more iron from those rocks. But I do not believe all of our efforts should be spent on that shaft. There is still iron in the older sections, and it would be a waste to leave it there. We should mine the older sections until they are dry. Leave nothing useful behind.”

Montrill nodded. “True enough. Still, I’ve had the youngest and strongest slaves assigned to the new shaft. And I’ve sent word to the Nightlord that we need more blacksmiths. They cannot keep up with you regardless, Guardian Grallik. They can’t forge the swords fast enough.”

Montrill’s eyes sparkled darkly as he added, “More blacksmiths and armorers for the fine, fine steel you provide.”

The knights and laborers backed away from the rubble they’d created, took several deep breaths, then started shoveling it into a cart, mindful not to splash any stone or dust on the commander and Grallik.

“Thank you. And now I think I must go about my business, Marshal Montrill, rather than waste too much time. If you will excuse me.” Grallik respectfully withdrew to his workshop, mentally preparing himself for the spells he was going to cast on the rocks. He hoped to finish at least one cart before the sun came up and the daily ritual began again.

Grallik participated in the ritual that morning. He recited the words perfectly, though merely by rote on this occasion. His mind was elsewhere-on the second mound of ore waiting for him in his workshop; on his talon, which had been grumbling about the lack of water and being assigned a shift of digging the new well; on the mine, which he feared would be rich with ore for an eternity; on being trapped by his usefulness, there in Steel Town.

He did not eat breakfast with the officers, instead heading straight to his workshop after the ritual and starting work on the ore. He had no appetite, and he ignored his thirst. He concentrated on the fire he summoned to swirl around the damnable rocks.

The furnace made the workshop impossibly hot and drenched the wizard in sweat. His eyes, pale blue under the sun, shone as he worked, and his scarred skin glistened as the iron began to drip from the rocks and pool beneath them. It was not terrible work, he had to admit. Playing with the fire pleased him.

Grallik did not leave his workshop until the horn was blown for the evening meal, his empty stomach convincing him that it was finally time to eat. The light had gone out of his eyes, giving his angular face a forlorn cast, an expression that told the others in the crude hall to give him a wide berth. He was exhausted, but not physically in the way the knights who also sat at the tables were. His muscles didn’t ache from pounding rocks as theirs did, though his chest ached from his coughing bouts. Still, he was fatigued to the point of collapse. Fire magic drained him. Grallik demanded too much of himself and the magic. It was a point of pride with him that he nurtured the flames until he could scarcely stand or breathe.

He sat at the end of a long table, two lengths of his arm separating him from the nearest knight. He caught the glance of a young man, the tavern owner’s son, who desired to be a squire to the Dark Knights and who often worked the hall. The boy immediately filled a plate for him, bringing it while it still steamed. A half-filled mug of water, which was rationed even for officers, quickly followed. Dinner was some sort of meat pie, served in an appealing golden-brown crust. Grallik savored the smell of it before cutting it open. He suspected the recipe had been intended for venison or beef, but there were no deer in that part of the country, and the Dark Knights did not keep cattle at the camp. So mutton had been used instead, and not liberally.

The pie was mostly made of chopped prunes and dates, with raisins lining the bottom. The fruits were readily available at Steel Town, as knights coming in for rotations brought wagons of supplies with them. There was a small side of a spinach pudding, and though it was reasonably tasty, Grallik thought the cook had used too much fennel. Dessert consisted of pears poached in wine and covered with a sweet syrup. All of it was passable, he decided. For the knights, the food was not bad at Steel Town.

When he was sated, he returned to the ore and went back to work until he nearly passed out, emerging before midnight in search of a bit of welcome coolness. But there was none. Despite the lateness, it was still uncomfortably hot.

It was darker than he expected, as the clouds had grown thick since dinner and stretched in all directions as if they were sealing Steel Town and the mine away from the stars. Lightning flickered through the thunderheads, and Grallik could see curtains fluttering in open windows. He heard the pine trees shaking-no doubt shedding their needles.

He was irritable for a reason he couldn’t define and blamed his foul mood on the starless sky. He lifted his head until he was staring straight up, feeling dizzy as he continued to watch the lightning fingers. Grallik breathed deep, hoping to find the scent of water in the clouds, something to cut the heat and override the odors of the knights and the stable and nearest livestock pen-and the worse stench that wafted from the slave pens.

Grallik faintly smelled the pine trees, and wood smoke coming from the chimney of the tavern, even the iron nuggets in his workshop. He could always detect the smell of iron. The air that stirred the scents around him seemed trapped under the clouds, however, and made the world feel suffocating and cloying.

The thunderheads continued to pulse with lightning, and faint booms chased each other. The ground shuddered slightly under Grallik’s feet, but not a single drop of rain fell. His scarred flesh tingled with anger and anticipation.

There must be a storm, Grallik prayed. Something to relieve the hell of Steel Town, to drown out the stench that swelled under the cloud dome, to turn the damnable dust into damnable mud, to clear the air, however briefly, so he could breathe easier and stop coughing.

If he had the right magic, he’d try something to coax the clouds into giving up the rain. But he didn’t, and his magic was all but spent that night anyway.

He heard the crack of thick lightning and the rumble that followed it. He heard the guttural conversation of goblin and hobgoblin slaves, the whinny of horses, the laughter of someone in the tavern, the clink of mugs, the growl of the massive hatori-the huge digging beast kept near the base of the southern mine. He wished to hear the drumming of rain.

Water might be at a premium, but the proprietor across the way had wine and ale and liquor aplenty. He dropped his gaze to the warm glow that spilled from the tavern window. He would buy something strong with the coins in his pocket, and he would sit in a corner by himself.