‘Three against 30,000 - it will always be our shame that we did not fight with Huy Ben-Amon that day at Sett.’
Lannon stood. ‘I give you the new Commander-in-Chief of all the legions of Opet. I give you Huy Ben-Amon, Axeman of the Gods.’
Then king and priest got very drunk together.
Gondweni was one of the 200 tributary chiefs of the Vendi, and his territory bounded on the broken land of the Kal Gorge, the land of the outcasts. He was fat and prosperous, and because he was a prudent man he regularly left small gifts of salt and meat at a place in the hills where the outcasts came for it. Also because he was a prudent man he gave food and shelter to solitary travellers journeying to the hills or returning from them, and when they left his town the memory of their passing went with them.
Thus a tall gaunt stranger sat one night at his hearth and ate his food and drank his beer. Gondweni sensed power and purpose behind the impassive scarred visage with the fierce yellow eyes. He felt an unusual affinity for this man and he talked more freely than was his wont. Although he spoke the language of Vendi, the traveller seemed to know nothing of the politics and affairs of the tribe, not even the name of the paramount king who had succeeded Manatassi when he was carried off by the white devils from across the river.
‘Of Manatassi’s six brothers, five died swiftly and mysteriously after drinking of a special brewing of beer, prepared by the middle brother, Khani. Khani alone survived the feast.’ And Gondweni chuckled and nodded and winked knowingly at the stranger.
‘He is now our king, the Great Black Bull, the collector of the tribute, the Thunder of Heaven, the fat lecher of Vendi with his 500 wives and his fifty young boys.’ Gondweni spat forcefully into the fire, and then drank from the beer pot before passing it to the stranger. When he took it Gondweni saw that the stranger’s right hand was missing and he steadied the pot with the stump.
‘What of Manatassi’s councillors, his war captains, his blood brothers?’ the stranger asked. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Most of them are in the bellies of the birds.’ And Gondweni drew a forefinger across his throat expressively.
‘Most of them?’
‘Some went over to Khani and ate his salt - others spread their wings and flew.’ Gondweni pointed out into the hills which showed like the black teeth of an ancient shark against the moon sky. ‘Some are my neighbours, chiefs of the out-casts, paying tribute to none, and waiting in the hills for they know not what.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Zingala.’
‘Zingala, the ironsmith?’ the stranger demanded eagerly, and Gondweni’s expression changed. He turned on the stranger a hard stare.
‘It seems to me you know more than is safe,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps we should sleep now.’ He stood up and pointed out a hut. ‘There is a sleeping mat laid out for you, and I will send a young girl for your comfort.’
The stranger’s need was like a raging storm on the girl’s unresisting body, battering and driving, and Gondweni heard her crying out in pain and fear. He lay awake, troubled and restless, but in the dawn when he went to the stranger’s hut the girl lay crumpled in exhausted sleep and the man was gone.
A deep gorge split the mountains, so deep that the path was dark and moss-covered and slippery underfoot. At the head of the gorge a fall of silver spray plunged down from the cliffs above, and the wind drove it in a fine cold mist into Manatassi’s face as he climbed upwards.
At a level place he paused to rest, and the stump of his right arm ached cruelly in the cold. He ignored the pain, pushing it below the surface of his conscious mind, and he looked up the deep dark gut of the gorge.
High above him on the cliff top, outlined against the pale blue of the noon sky was the foreshortened figure of a man. The figure stood very still, and the stillness was in itself menacing.
Manatassi ate a little cold millet cake, and drank from the stream of icy clear water, before beginning the climb again. Now there were other figures. They appeared silently and unexpectedly at steep or easily defended places on the trail and they watched him.
One of them stood atop a giant boulder, fully forty feet high, which all but blocked the gorge. He was a tall man, well muscled and heavily armed. Manatassi recognized him, the man had been a captain of one of his old regiments.
Manatassi stopped below the boulder, and let the cloak fall back from his head, exposing his face, but the man did not recognize him, could not see his king in this ravaged face from which pain and hatred had stripped the flesh and which the whip and the club had remoulded.
‘Am I so altered?’ Manatassi thought grimly. ‘Will no man recognize me again?
He and the man stared at each other for many seconds until Manatassi spoke.
‘I seek Zingala. the ironsmith.’
He knew that even though Zingala had joined the outcasts, such a famous craftsman must still have many clients seek him out. He knew that alone and unarmed he would be allowed to pass on such business.
The sentry upon the boulder turned his head slightly and pointed with his chin up the gorge, and Manatassi went on.
There were narrow steps that climbed the black rock cliff beside the waterfall, and when Manatassi came out upon the summit there were armed and silent men waiting. They fell in behind and on each side of him as he strode out along the only path, through the thick forest which covered the crest of the mountain.
The smoke of the furnaces guided Manatassi, and he came at last to a natural amphitheatre of rock, a bowl one hundred paces across, where
The old master was at one of his furnaces, packing the ore into the belly of it, each lump carefully hand selected. His apprentices were gathered around respectfully, ready to add the layers of limestone and charcoal upon the ore.
