My shifts were an even twelve hours long, but they earned me a place in this changing world. I would not be killed out of hand, I didn’t have to hold a sword and pretend to be a warrior, only to die in the first charge, and I was allowed to eat.
Those who refused such positions had been killed off quickly. Some even created rebellions, wanting to preserve our tribal ways. Never before had we been united under a king, and most disliked the idea. Yet Dintheel, may he rule from sea to sea, was too powerful to deny.
His will became law.
So in a matter of weeks, the initial rebellions had been quashed, and now all served the cause.
I sighed, taking a few drinks from a watering ladle that hung at the side of the great forge. Looking back, I watched the next shift waddle over to their implements and begin their work, their pelts as scored and singed as my own.
There was iron and steel to smelt, ingots to pour, and any number of crude implements to hammer out. We were the laborers of the art, so no shining breastplate or gauntlets would leave our pit.
And even though we were but the mat that the great ones trod over, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer scope of our work. Vats of melted ore deep enough to drown a horse bubbled along the way, enough metal to make ten thousand swords and as many suits of armor. One hundred anvils lined up in rows of ten, each with its own grinding wheel and tools. At the far end of this cavern, a crew of lesser creatures—the lowly trow and tasloi not fit to fight—toiled at salvaging broken equipment and cleaning the implements we forged.
The caverns beyond were where the artisans worked. Each day another hundred suits of armor were rolled out, oiled, and stored for use.
I walked toward my hovel, grateful not to be watched or supervised for the first time in half a day. The sheer scrutiny of the foreman was enough to break some of us. But at least we could eat.
I passed the great caverns, where hundreds of troops grunted in response to the shouts and jeers of commanders. I passed the dark tunnel that led down to the breeding pits where I’d seen those twisted and malformed creatures rise.
The pop and grind of troops marching ahead made me scurry to find an alcove to hide in. They would not lash out and end a life that still had some use, not usually, but to be caught in the inexorable path of a squad of heavy infantry had ended more than a few lives.
A voice like pocked iron snapped through the air. “Pick it up! Much march today, boys! Miles yet ‘fore you get to stop. Pick it up!”
I found a niche in a wall just in time. Ranks of armored soldiers began to file past, their prodigious height and strength allowing them to march as quickly as I could run, at least in the state I was in. One spat on the ground near me and I caught a glint of its orange eyes, flickering with hate.
It laughed when I flinched, but thankfully moved on. Another dozen ranks marched past and then the path was empty again.
Fear lending me new strength, I jogged toward the only place I could rest. The image of the fiery eyes had been burned upon my mind. What foul beast had the Great One, may he rule from sea to sea, come up with now? The soldiers were covered in plate armor, but long tusks curved out from under their helms, and holes had been cut in their pauldrons, bone spikes protruding from their bodies.
The most dangerous question began to boil in my mind again, urging me to act: What evil were we inviting into this world? Would our people ever see the light of day again? Was there any way to stop the dark tide that was coming?
At last I came to my own home, a simple bed carved out of the stone of the mountain. I took some more water, then lay down, closed my eyes, and tried to let the questions and the constant ringing of steel in my mind cease. Like a maiden’s touch in the dark of night, sleep soothed my tattered soul.
If I was lucky, I wouldn’t dream. Those were the best of times, hidden in the thick folds of oblivion, the only respite for those who lived in Drok Shapol.
9: “It is best to open your eyes and see the storm coming… but oh how tempting it is to squint.”
— Goodman Thom Reinold II
JUDAS
The tumble of lichen-covered ruins covered the side of the hill like discarded kingdoms now long forgotten. I trudged up the hill, pulling my cloak tighter about my shoulders, a chill running through me despite the warming spell I’d cast on myself.
Taking a break to catch my breath, I looked behind me. I was about halfway up the only hill on the Isle of Lem, and the ocean seethed against its rocky shore like an unbridled beast. I’d read accounts of this place, so old that the paper evaporated beneath my thumbs, and yet it had remained unchanged. True, there were no elder elves here, and the Tower of Isil had long ago fallen, but the island itself was the same. And it was beautiful: the tufts of seagrass blowing in the wind, lichen covering every surface the grass could not grow on. Though the sky was determined to remain gray and dim, the island was an emerald in a dark, sapphire sea.
I had no desire to continue forward. My task here was frightening, the weather miserable, and I had no doubt that whatever answers I found would make for exquisite nightmares. Still, who else would do it if not for me, the wizard of Mariandor?
I chuckled at my inflated thoughts
