Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

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.

The line of carriages outside the rosy brown gates of Haguefort stretched for as far as the eye could see. A great convergence of wagons choked the entrance to Haguefort, squeezing in between the two slender bell towers that marked the beginning of Stephen Navarne’s lands, slowing the coaches to a crawl.

The holy man sighed inwardly and sipped his cordial. Patience , he reminded himself, glancing out the carriage window at the billowing banners of colored silk that adorned the bell towers, flapping merrily in the icy breeze. His constant admonition to his inner demonic voice, wheedling and restless.

Patience.

He had chosen to remain in his wheeled coach, rather than switch to one of the sleighs proffered at the eastern border of Navarne by the duke’s servants, under the theory that Stephen’s well-maintained roads and thoroughfares would provide swifter passage to Haguefort than the thin snowpack crusting the fields and rolling hills. He had misjudged the temperature, which had remained warm through a full day of intense snowfall followed by rain, and then dropped overnight, freezing the fields of the province into a sheet of glare ice that would have been well suited to a horse-drawn glider.

Now he was caught amid a great mass of carriages, wagons, and foot traffic. The braying of animals being brought to the carnival along with the clamor of human voices raised in excitement was enough to make him gulp his brandy in the hope that it would drown out the cacophony of merriment all around him. Patience .

Soon all things would be set in motion. Soon his wait would be over.

Soon his patience would be rewarded.

Stephen Navarne squinted in the sun, then shielded his eyes and followed the outstretched finger of Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair. Baldasarre was pointing from where they stood at the hillside height of the castle gates down the vast lines of sight to the road below.

“There! I think I see Tristan’s coach—it’s logjammed in the middle there, right between your two bell towers out front,” Quentin said, dropping his arm when Stephen nodded in agreement. “Poor bastard—I’ll wager he’s trapped in there with Madeleine.”

“Gods. Poor Tristan,” said Dunstin Baldasarre, Quentin’s younger brother.