The Weight of Honor (14 page)

Alec sat inside the steamy forge, before the anvil, surrounded by boys and men on all sides, the room too hot, filled with clouds of steam and the sound of hammering steel. Alec, too, hammered away, pounding a molten-hot sword again and again as it turned white, sparks flying, sweat stinging his eyes and Alec no longer caring. Beside him sat Marco and his new friends, all part of the resistance, all getting ready to take up arms against Pandesia.

As Alec pounded away, with each blow of his hammer he thought of vengeance. He thought of the Pandesians that this weapon would kill, thought of his brother and father and mother. His village. His people. Alec knew all of these new weapons he was forging would be a drop in the bucket against the vast Pandesian army; yet he also knew that every sword he made, every axe, every shield, would mean at least one more Pandesian dead, one more chance to defend Ur. And that gave him a great sense of satisfaction.

Alec finished his sword, raised it high, inspected it, then dipped it into the vat of water; another cloud of steam immediately filled the room, accompanied by a loud hiss. He inspected the final product, switching hands with it, until he finally laid it down in the pile of new swords, satisfied.

Alec took a break, wiping sweat from the back of his head and surveying the room. This forge was more airy than his father’s, with large open arched windows which let in fresh air and bright sunlight, light from the canals making this pace far less oppressive. He looked out and could see all the passing ships, their masts and sails floating by the window, flying banners from all corners of the world. Such an international city, Ur exuded a sense of peace and calm, of commerce, and belied the oppression his people lived under, the occupation of Pandesia—and the great war which Alec knew was coming. His land, he knew, was crying for vengeance.

Alec paced the forge, walking up and down the rows of boys and men, surveying everyone’s work. All of these boys were still amateurs, and he had to adjust each one’s work as he went.

“Your strike is uneven,” he said to one boy, shifting his elbow. “That sword will be jagged.”

He stopped beside another.

“The hilt is bent,” he said, straightening his wrist. “You hammer at the wrong angle.”

One boy at a time, one weapon at a time, he went, fixing, adjusting. All the boys looked to him, deferring to him—even Fervil, the master smith deferred to him, finally realizing the fine quality of Alec’s work. He stopped as he came across an older man hammering a shield, and snatched it from his hands, impatient, as the man stared back.

“This shield will stop the blow of no sword,” Alec rebuked. “Its metal is too thin—and the strap is too tight.”

Alec, who used to be so calm and good-natured, found himself getting frustrated, snapping when he should not. He wondered at his recent anger and impatience, wanting to stop it but unable. He felt he was not the same person he was since the death of his family, and he hated who he was becoming.

Alec stopped and took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm, to release his anger. He did not want to let it out on anyone else. He went to a window and looked out, watching the ships go by, and he wiped an unexpected tear from the corner of his eye, quickly so the others would not see, surprised by its appearance.

Alec flinched as he felt a palm on his shoulder, and he looked over to see Fervil the smith beside him.

“Go easy on them,” he said. “They are not like you or I. They are not smiths. They are all here to help the cause.”

Alec closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing he was right.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I just feel so frustrated. We don’t have enough men. We don’t have enough weapons. And there is not enough time. All of this, everything we’re doing,” he said, scanning the room, “it’s not enough. What shall we do when the whole of the Pandesian fleet arrives? When the great ships enter these canals?” he said, as he watched another large Pandesian vessel sail past.

“We are doing the best we can do,” Fervil replied.

Alec shook his head.

“It’s not enough,” he replied. “Swords and shields won’t stop ships. We can’t take on entire fleets with this.”

“What would you have us do, then?” Fervil snapped back, frustrated himself. “Build a fleet of ships? Close up the sea? These swords are all we have, and they will have to do.”

Alec quieted, something Fervil said striking him. An idea was dawning. As he looked outside and studied the canals, an idea overcame him. He felt a rush of excitement as it dawned on him.

“You’re wrong,” he said, breathless with excitement. “We have quite a bit more.”

Alec suddenly ran to the tables, examining all the steel, all the half-forged weapons lying on the tables, partly finished axes and maces. Unsatisfied, he scoured the room until he found what he was looking for: there it was, lying in a dark corner on the stone floor.

“What are you doing?” Fervil asked, following him.

Alec picked up one end of a huge, thick chain, originally designed for an anchor.

“Help me!” he cried out to the others.

Marco and the other boys stopped what they were doing, ran over, and helped him lift the chain, each struggling under its weight. It was like lifting a massive snake.

As all the boys grabbed it, they helped Alec drag it over and lay it down with a clang on the wooden table. He unraveled it as the others brushed aside swords and shields to make way, sending them clamoring to the floor. He then stretched out the chain with the others on the twenty-foot-long rectangular table, the chain amazingly heavy, weighing at least a hundred pounds. He unraveled it until it covered the whole length of the table.

Alec stepped back and surveyed it, smiling.

“This will do,” he said.

“Do for what?” Fervil asked, puzzled.

Alec turned to him, impassioned.

“How wide is the canal?” Alec demanded.

Fervil shrugged. “Thirty feet?”

“Then we shall make this forty,” Alec replied. “We will need more chain.”

“But why?” Fervil pressed. “What is this madness?”

Alec turned and scanned the room, ignoring him, concentrating. He stopped when he found what he was looking for: a group of long spikes, meant for spears.

“I need all of those,” Alec said to Marco and the others, who rushed to get them. “And we shall forge more.”

“I need those spikes for spears!” Fervil called out. “We cannot spare them! What are you doing? What is the meaning of all this!?”

Alec grabbed the spikes and spread them out on the table, alongside the chain, then stepped back and surveyed his creation, while the others did, too. There, spread out on the table, was a twenty-foot chain, spikes placed every few feet, and as Alec looked at it, his heart warmed with his idea. It could really work.

The others must have realized, too, because slowly the room fell quiet as they studied it.

“You mean to trap the harbor,” the smith said softly, finally realizing.

Alec turned to him, smiling.

“I do,” he replied.

Alec leaned over and touched a spike, feeling it, admiring how sharp it was.

“We shall trap the floor of the canal,” he replied, “and then we shall wait. When the Pandesians arrive, we shall raise it. Instead of a man, we shall take out a ship; instead of a few soldiers, we will kill a few hundred. And the broken ship shall clog the canals, block their entire fleet, make landing impossible.”

They all studied it in silence, clearly in awe.

“Risky,” Fervil finally replied, walking up and down, inspecting his potential handiwork. “The work this would require, and the chances of success—”

Suddenly, the door to the room slammed open, and all the men turned and looked. Alec blinked, and as he saw who was entering, he wondered if he were seeing things.

In walked the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, tall, about his age, with long hair, beautiful brown eyes, a proud face lined with character. Even more shocking, she had a dozen girls in tow. She led them proudly, no fear in her eyes, an air of defiance about her, as if she had a chip on her shoulder.

“Dierdre,” Fervil said, surprise in his voice, clearly recognizing her. “Did your father send you?”

She stepped into the room and stared back with a hard gaze.

“I sent myself,” she replied.

Fervil stared back questioningly.

“Why?” he asked. “And who are these girls with you?”

Dierdre walked proudly into the room, as if she belonged, and Alec felt his heart beating faster; she was so beautiful, it was hard to think around her. He had never seen anyone like her in Soli.

“I’ve come to arm us all with weapons,” she replied, confident. “And to give these girls a chance to work at the forge. This is our cause as much as yours.”

A few of the boys in the room snickered, while the rest looked at each other in wonder. Fervil shook his head.

“This is no place for girls, and no girls will be wielding swords,” he replied with authority. “Or forging them. You would be of best use at your father’s fort, helping the other women prepare whatever is needed.”

But Dierdre held her ground, darkening.

“You don’t seem to understand,” she replied, her voice hard and cold. “It was not a question—it was a command.”

All eyes in the room stared as an awkward silence fell over the room, and as Alec stared at her, he experienced something he had never felt before. It was more than admiration—it was love. He was smitten. It was even more surprising to him, because ever since the death of his family he had felt nothing but emptiness and grief. And yet, looking at her, something shifted within him. Here she stood, so gorgeous and brave, so strong and proud, and in her he found a role model of courage in the face of adversity. He felt a reason to live again.

Alec suddenly stepped forward, unable to control himself.

“I do not think it such a foolish idea,” he called out, defending her, and breaking the tense silence.

Everyone in the room looked to him, and his heart beat faster to see Dierdre look at him, too. Her eyes were mesmerizing.

“I’d be glad to assist you,” he said, stepping toward her. “I can teach you how to forge weapons. Who knows? Maybe you’ll do a better job than this lot.”

He smiled warmly, and expected her to smile back—but she did not. He could see layers of grief in her eyes, and as she merely stared back at him silently, he sensed she was lost behind walls of sadness. He wondered what had happened to her.

Dierdre nodded to the girls, and as they stepped forward Alec gestured to the boys to make room for them at the table. Alec motioned for Dierdre to sit, too, but she did not. Instead, as all the boys and men in the room went back to work, returning to their weapons, or surveying Alec’s chain, she walked up and down the tables, observing the weapons. She stopped before a sword, one of Alec’s favorites, a long thin sword with a silver handle, lighter and thinner than the rest, and sharper, and held it up. Alec could tell by the way she examined it that she was someone who grew up around weaponry.

“A fine choice,” he said.

“Will this pierce a man?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, wondering at the source of her anger.

“Even through armor?” she pressed.

He nodded.

“That and more,” he replied, sensing the depth of her rage. “Who is it you hope to kill?”

She turned and they locked eyes, and hers were icy cold and deadly serious.

“Any Pandesians I find,” she replied, her voice intense.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Alec smiled wide, feeling his heart warm again.

“I think you and I,” he replied, “shall have a lot in common.”

Aidan walked the streets of the capital in wonder, jostled by the crowds and not caring, looking up in awe at the tallest buildings he’d seen in his life. He had seen all the great forts of his father’s stronghold, yet he didn’t know buildings could be as tall as this. Everything here was new, different, the shapes of these buildings, the angles of their doorways, their windows, the immense statues and fountains before them, and he could not get enough. He spun in every direction, taking it all in. He did not remember any of this from when he’d lived here as a child, all of it but a vague memory, and as he went, turning down cobblestone alleyways, walking in and out of squares, past temples, White at his side, keeping up with him, sniffing at all the vendors’ food, he felt as if he could walk for weeks and still not cover half of this immense city.

Everywhere someone was selling something, yelling for his attention, all trying to get Aidan to stop, to look, to listen, to touch; music filled the air, roving musicians everywhere, competing with the shouting of merchants and barking of dogs. Everyone was in a hurry. Everywhere, jubilation hung in the air, the joy of a liberated people. Aidan took a great sense of pride in knowing it was all thanks to his father.

Aidan searched for any sign of his father or his soldiers as he walked, on a mission to find him, but saw none. As he emerged from an alleyway, he found himself in a huge, circular intersection, spanning a hundred yards, at its center a towering fountain. Around it milled thousands of people, some sitting by its edge but most hurrying every which way. The circle was bordered by tall, ancient buildings, built of a fading marble, as if they’d sat there forever. Between the buildings Aidan spied alleyways, dozens of them, turning in every direction.

Aidan felt a sudden sense of panic as he realized he was lost. These alleys could lead anywhere. Every square just led to another square. He had no idea how to navigate this city, much less find his father. He scanned the courtyard, looking for any signs of his father’s men, but saw none.

There arose a whining and Aidan looked down to see White rubbing up against him. Recovered from his wounds, White was clearly out of his element here—and clearly starving. Aidan felt hungry, too, and he reached into his sack and fingered the few gold coins he had left. He figured it was time to put them to use.

He suddenly felt a strong hand on his wrist, and he looked up to see a large, unshaven man with a big belly staring down at him, with a misshapen jaw and eyes that exuded hate.

“What’s a boy like you doing with all that gold?” he demanded.

He did not wait for a response as he tightened his grip on Aidan’s wrist, squeezing so hard that Aidan thought he might break it.

“Want to hand it over here, and escape with your life?”

Aidan welled with panic as the man reached for the sack; he looked around and saw no one there to help him. He spotted a small, gleaming dagger in the man’s other hand, pointed at his throat, and he didn’t know what to do. He realized he could not part with this gold. It was all he had.

There came a horrific snarl as White suddenly leapt forward and clamped his teeth down on the man’s wrist that was holding Aidan. White was so fast and strong, his teeth so sharp, that the man shrieked as, in a flash, his hand was severed.

He turned and fled, grabbing his stump, shrieking, and he disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared.

Aidan looked over at White, still snarling, as if still angry, and then, to Aidan’s amazement, he

bounded off, chasing after the man through the crowds, not done with him yet.

“White!” Aidan yelled.

But White wouldn’t listen. Aidan chased him down, out of breath, until finally he caught up with him, several blocks away, leaping on the man’s back and sinking his fangs into the back of his neck. The man fell still on the ground, until his shrieking stopped. Dead.

White’s vicious look softened as he turned and spotted Aidan. Aidan looked at him with a whole new respect as he knelt down and stroked his head.

“Thank you,” Aidan said, as White leaned over and licked him.

Aidan noticed a few passersby look over at the dead body, but none stopped. In a city like this, Aidan supposed, a dead body was nothing worth stopping for. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances of getting into trouble.

“Let’s go.”

Aidan guided White away, and the two of them merged quickly back into the crowds. White bounded ahead, and as Aidan hurried to catch up, he wondered where he was going.

“White!” Aidan called out.

Aidan turned a corner, wondering what trouble his newfound friend could be getting into next, when he spotted White at the far side of a square, sticking his nose in a rack full of meat. Aidan smiled; he had been following his noise. The vendor did not look happy.

Aidan hurried over and held out a gold coin to the woman. He had to admit he was enticed by the smell, too, his stomach growling.

The vendor took the coin and examined it skeptically in the light, looking down at Aidan.

“What will you have?” she finally asked, curt.

“The whole rack,” Aidan said, realizing how hungry White must be.

She reached over and handed him a long stick holding chunks of roasted meat, dripping with sauce. Aidan handed one to White first, and White snatched it from his hands, chewing the meat off the stick, pulling off one chunk after the next. The vendor handed him stick after stick until finally the entire rack sat empty. Aidan could not believe how much White could eat. He saved the last stick for himself, and he savored every bite of the steak, as the sauce dripped down his chin.

“Something to wash it down?” the woman asked.

She handed him a bowl of water and he set it down for White; then she handed him a small sack of liquid.

Aidan squirted it down his throat, expecting water, and he coughed as he realized there was something else in it. He felt it rush to his head, and he realized: it was wine.

“What’s in here?” he asked, shocked.

The woman smiled down, missing a tooth.

“Something a bit stronger,” she replied. “Time for you to become a man. Welcome to the capital.”

The wine rushed to his head, and Aidan did not like the feeling. He felt disoriented.

“Have you seen the men of Volis?” he asked her, eager to know.

“You mean all those new soldiers?” she asked. “The ones that freed the capital?”

He nodded.

“What would you have with them?” she asked.

“They are my father’s men,” he said proudly.

She looked at him for a long time, as if suspecting he were lying.

“Check the Southern Square,” she said. “Soldiers usually station there.”

She pointed down an alleyway, and Aidan continued on, following her directions.

Aidan headed down a series of endlessly long alleyways, emerged into another square, then turned down a side street, White always at his side. He emerged from a series of tall, narrow buildings, and the city opened up again.

As Aidan entered this new square he looked up, dwarfed by buildings hundreds of feet high. One building, with tapered golden doors, looked like a temple, while another had soaring columns and resembled a library. Several of the buildings had golden domes, shining in the sun, and everything here looked as if it had stood for centuries.

Aidan roamed through the new square, looking for any sign pointing to the Southern Square of the city.

“Do you know the way to the Southern Square?” Aidan asked a passerby, a man who looked slightly less rushed than the others. But the man merely shook his head and rushed off.

Aidan turned in every direction, seeing an endless array of alleys and squares, and he felt lost and overwhelmed.

Suddenly, there came a voice.

“Help me, please!”

He looked over and saw a girl about his age, sitting on the street, legs crossed, a forlorn and helpless look on her face. Covered in dirt, she looked as if she hadn’t eaten in months, wasting away, flies on top of her that she didn’t even bother swatting away.

“I need something to eat,” she added, her voice hoarse. “Anything.”

Aidan’s heart broke for her. He examined his sack, looked in at all of his coins, and hesitated for a moment, knowing it was all he had left in the world. Then, feeling a rush of compassion for her and knowing it was the right thing to do, he stepped forward and placed the entire sack in her palm.

She looked up at him, and slowly her eyes filled with shock. Then she welled with tears, as she stood to her feet.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Aidan.”

“I am Cassandra,” she replied. “And I shall never forget this.”

She reached forward and hugged him, then she turned and disappeared into an alley.

Aidan stood there, penniless, but feeling good that he had done the right thing. While he feared for his future, penniless now, he didn’t regret it.

Music suddenly drifted up from the far side of the square, and Aidan turned and was shocked to see a huge platform rolling through and atop it, jugglers, musicians, and, he was thrilled to see, some of the actors he had ridden into town with. At center stage was Motley.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Andros!” he boomed, as the crowd gathered close. “I present to you a tale of no parallel!”

Aidan desperately wanted to find his father, but as he looked out at the falling night he knew his search would be futile in the dark. And as he felt the exhaustion in his legs from a long day of searching, he knew he needed a break. So instead, he allowed himself to merge with the crowd, toward the stage, and settle in for the entertainment. After all, his new friends, he knew, would know this city, and if anyone could help point him to Southern Square, to his father, it would be them.