Kalac

The Imperial Blacksmith

‘Water may be King in the desert,

Darkness yer finest companion, when pursued,

But once entombed ‘n left for dead,

any door will suffice.’

-

Ancient Horselords saying,

Unknown date.

Laitae ea Gimoss, in ulce Maetar,

In noltare o in Lae.

SRH 2096

—

-Loose translation-

‘Praise be Gimoss, the evil Artist,

The teacher of the way.’

(This day) or (created), 2096

-

(Presumed)

Zilan crafter's prayer,

Engraved on the Gold Throne of Kaltha

The water felt cool on his burning face and held no taste, when it went down his hoarse throat. Feeling his strength returning, he pushed away the scaly root that had encroached on his position, using his boot. The white bellied root, as fat as his thigh, retreated with a slow hiss, mouth made of hard bark splitting to show the poisonous thorns inside, as large as a viper’s fangs.

This was the biggest that had come out of the Lake, he thought. Right where they’d dropped the dead bodies, more than a month back. It always returned to the spot, looking for a fresh feast. Whether it was offered, or snatched in an ambush, the root didn’t care.

“Ye may get yer chance,” Kalac said and watched it retreat into the shallow part of the Lake, under the large flat helophytes covering its surface. Mostly a type of white-orange water lilies that burned through your skin, if you broke their stem.

Having regained his strength after the duel and bandaged his chest, Kalac returned from the spot he hang around, mostly to avoid facing the men that had grown weary of the inhospitable Oasis.

Sick as well, men and animals alike, mostly from foul water. You had to boil everything, even the rare rain water, just to be sure. Those that didn’t, paid a heavy price. In that vein, the fact they had kept the workers alive, had been a blessing. They knew the land and could forage for supplies. They also showed them the road to Dia and how to avoid the patrols. No slave, truly loves his master.

With exceptions of course.

Tarn watched him coming through the opening in the walls, walking beside Kind Eyes, the horse shot from the morning’s effort. The rest of the Horselords spread inside the fort, but for a patrol led by Nimra, watching the bridge. The slaves had prepared dinner from the Prince’s supplies, everyone pleased to indulge in rarities, like cheese and wine. Even Sirach, appeared satisfied and greeted him with a slight nod, as Kalac approached the table Tarn and Belec had reserved for him, the spot shaded by the tower this time of day.

“How’s the Lake?” Tarn asked.

“An Asp’s nest is safer,” Kalac replied, crooking his mouth and sat down, placing both his hands on the table. Flesh and Metal. The bronze hand banging on the wooden surface, as he couldn’t control it yet, despite training it every day. It was three times heavier than his right hand. “Why not ask me direct, Tarn?” He taunted. “Did Badal had a daughter?”

Tarn grimaced at the insult. Belec who overheard his words guffawed, almost dropping a slave woman he’d in his lap down. The cook’s helper.

“Aye, one wit no tits and a cock!” Belec managed to say, the woman smacking him with a large wooden ladle a couple of times in retaliation.

“He wasn’t much disappointed,” Tarn said, deciding to let it slide. “But at least I managed not to get beat up by a woman,” He retorted and Belec shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“Didn’t feel a thing.”

His reply earning him another smack, he barely dodged with an elbow.

Tarn shook his head, not buying it and turned his desert eyes on Kalac. “The men are in a good mood,” He said to justify opting to question him in a roundabout way.

Kalac nodded.

“Still,” Tarn continued, forcing him to stare his way again. “Some ask, why let the Prince go?”

“Thought you’ve just answered that,” Kalac noted, reaching for a wine bottle. “Is it any good?”

“It burns the throat and helps with infections,” Tarn replied readily, alike an experienced caravan merchant.

“I take it, ye tasted it?”

“Put hairs on my tits,” Tarn deadpanned and they laughed freely at that, Belec’s wild roar outshining them both, as some of the tension accumulated in the past several weeks and from the morning’s events, got expelled and their hardened faces relaxed.

“Will ye answer, Kalac, son of Duham?” Tarn probed, when they came about.

“Got the supplies and wagons, without losing a man, or mount,” Kalac said simply.

“That ye did,” Tarn replied looking at some of their men, well fed and rested, fooling around with their horses. “But ye could’ve gotten glory everlasting, by slaying a Prince of Rin An-Pur.”

“I could, but I chose not to.”

“Why? We’ll face him, with thrice the numbers, or more, pretty soon. I’m certain.”

“Killing him, would’ve brought the soldiers here just the same, Tarn,” Kalac pointed and sniffed the wine once, before placing it on the table. He brought a large plate of thin slices of meat, bread, cheese and boiled beans in front of him instead. “Led by a commander we won’t know and probably, way less insulted.”

“That’s one reason, isn’t it?”

“One reason, aye,” Kalac droned, thinking of the dark-skinned, white-haired Issir beauty. It wasn’t common to find one in the plains, much less a jade-eyed Princess that had Reinut’s blood in her veins. He brought a slice of meat in his mouth and chewed on it.

“Ye thinking of the woman,” Tarn said, reading him with ease. “An Issir slave, is a slave just the same.”

“Not bred,” Kalac pointed. “An unbroken slave, is as useful as a wild horse in the market. Even less obedient.”

Tarn stood back on his stool and stared at him thoughtfully.

“Yer fixin’ to take her? Ye won’t win her over another way, Kalac,” He sighed, burned skin turned into scab around his mouth, cracking. “What use is she, even if ye did?”

“We found no way through the mountains, Tarn. We can’t stay here forever,” Kalac explained, grimacing at the sweetness of the cheese he’d tasted. “The Princess of Kaltha, is a door.”

“A door to where?”

“We won’t know, until we’ve opened it,” Kalac replied. “What was that meat? Camel?”

“Bacon. A domesticated Jelin pig, is what they use. Apparently they bred them like chicken.”

“Is there more?” Kalac probed, getting another thin slice in his mouth.

“Men favor it, so it won’t last,” Tarn noticed with a smile, watching him savor the treat. “How will ye open the door, son of Duham?”

Kalac smacked his lips and eyed the bottle of red wine thoughtfully.

“I’ll give her what she most needs,” He said and reached for it.

“What’s that?” Tarn asked, much intrigued.

“Freedom,” Kalac replied simply and drunk from the bottle, the thick liquid burning down his esophagus and tasting of foreign grapes and lush green fields, fat pigs could graze at will.

“Where’s Sirach?” Kalac asked the Cofol slave worker, sitting on the table the blacksmith occupied earlier.

“Back at his forge, great Kalac.”

Kalac pressed his lips tight at the needless praise to avoid a presumed punishment and glanced at the small hut the smith used, his wagon parked outside. The forge along with the bellows compact enough to fit onto his wagon, were designed by him, as most of his other tools. With a sigh, the Horselord started that way.

Sirach was probably around fifty, perhaps even younger, though extremely fit and wide enough at the shoulders, to give pause to any foe, his mixed-blood characteristics making him barely look like a Cofol. If Kalac had to guess, he’d say the man looked more like two quarters Lorian, one Cofol and another part he wasn’t sure what it was.

He’d black eyes, the pupils’ red, due to him working the forge since he was a kid, according to the man himself, though Kalac didn’t believe that. Nor did he care about the smith’s lineage enough to press him about it.

“Ah, Kalac, the Feared,” Sirach greeted him, getting out of his hut, a shiny new bronze goblet in his hands. The craftsmanship on it exquisite. “It appears your moniker, wasn’t just words.”

“Nor was yer boast, a false promise, Master Sirach,” Kalar countered eyeing the goblet intrigued.

“I take it, everything worked?” Sirach replied and noticing his interest tossed him the goblet. Kalac caught with his good hand mid-air and glanced at it.

“Ye know it did,” He said, admiring the engraved scenes on the sides of the goblet. The four seasons were depicted. Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring. “There was a delay, almost had me killed,” He added, his chest wound still leaking through his bandages.

“I told you, there’s a chance it might not be a hundred percent,” The blacksmith explained. “For that, better material was needed.”

“Another hand?” Sirach had thrown his severed limb into the forge, along with the metal.

“Better metal, gems and other ingredients,” Sirach elucidated, managing to reveal nothing.

“Anyway, I said almost,” Kalac said, with a shrug. “Which is good enough for me. Ye have fulfilled yer part of the deal smith, so I shall fullfil mine. Yer people and you, are free.”

Sirach nodded, a small smile on his lips. “They are not my people, Kalac. They are just people.”

“Ye get to call them, however ye like henceforth,” Kalac deadpanned. “By the way, what does this thing do?” He asked, giving him back the pretty goblet.

“It’s just a cup,” Sirach replied, all serious. “Thought of using it, to taste the Prince’s wine.”

Sirach savored the Prince’s wine alright. He brought a table and placed it outside his hut, stretched his legs, putting his back on the brick wall and even offered Kalac a toast using another identical goblet, since the first he’d gifted to the Horselord earlier.

“How many did ye make?” Kalac asked him, rather impressed and slightly drunk.

“Bah, I just made a mould,” Sirach clarified humbly. “Hoped to craft a couple out of silver, or gold, at some point.”

“We got some of the Prince’s gold dinars.”

“Haha, best you keep those, son of Duham,” Sirach replied, with a broad smile. “What will you do now? Are ye still intent on crossing the Pale Mountains?”

“I’m not sure. Radpour will come for me, before that.”

“He probably will.”

“Aye,” Kalac agreed, staring at the engravings in the light of the pit Sirach had burning. “Ye put yer mark on it,” He murmured, checking on his bronze hand, the arm moving awkwardly, when he tried to lift it, the weight on it too great. “SRH 189. What’s the number?”

Sirach stared at him over his bronze cup, half his face hidden in the dark. “It’s the year, son of Duham. It changed a couple of weeks ago.”

“And yer name,” Kalac said, with a nod. “Like an artist. It makes sense.”

“Yes it does, I suppose,” Sirach replied and stared across the yard, either at the barely visible brick wall, or the hidden faraway peaks beyond it. “What changed your mind?”

Kalac frowned. “We can’t find a safe route through the jungle and the slopes are un-scalable.”

“Yet you’ve searched stubbornly for weeks,” Sirach commented, showing great perception.

Kalac took a deep breath. “Are you going back to the Prince?”

“I came here to find a way,” Sirach stopped abruptly, grimaced and put his goblet on the table. “Much like you, I suppose. The Prince wanted a new armor made, I foolishly refused.”

“Why, ye did that?” Kalac probed, deciding he’d enough of the wine as well. The taste wasn’t agreeing with him.

“A sense of pride,” He laughed bitterly at that. “Radpour decided to press the issue and make sure I couldn’t refuse the next time.”

“Ye made his armor.”

“The helm you brought was part of it. And no, it’s just fancy armor friend,” Sirach commented. “So, dear Kalac fear not, for I will not join the Prince. I thought about following you instead.”

“I take risks, smith,” Kalac pointed. “Ye may not be safe, riding wit us.”

“Nobody is safe, Kalac. Now tell me, what changed your mind.”

Kalac sighed and rapped his fingers on the table.

“Radpour has taken a Princess of Kaltha as consort.”

Sirach turned and stared at him for a long moment.

“The crazy king left one boy and a girl behind, Kalac,” The blacksmith said. “There’s only one Princess. Why would they give her to him, when the Khan marches on Raoz?”

“I don’t know,” Kalac replied, a little shaken at the news. The door cracking open. Sirach kept watching him, mulling it over, hint of a smile on his lips, his shaven head gleaming in the light of the fire.

“Reinut’s brood, walks on Eplas,” Sirach finally said interrupting his thoughts and this time there was something sinister in his voice. “The last time his blood touched this land, an empire fell.”

And half the Realm burned, Kalac thought, a shiver running down his spine, despite the warm winter night.