Stormcallers: Chapter 20

Now, what was occurring in the Herathian Empire as they marched? The Steward of the Roads continued his spying of Teschemar, desperate to learn something of his schemes. Now it is important for you to understand that it was Herathian law that any citizen of the Empire could travel from one end of Greater Norrholt to the other without fear of beast or bandit. It was these very roads that were watched over by the Steward of the Roads. It was a duty that he took most seriously and studiously, and so ensured his many spies were fed, paid, and loyal.

But even the Steward’s eyes and ears could not be everywhere at once, and there were roads and paths that were rarely traveled. The main roads of Herathia were paved with soft stone pressed deep into the earth. The side roads, and lesser traveled roads were made of logs and planks laid on end. Only the least traveled roads at the edges of the Empire’s reach were little more than dirt and gravel, and it was these roads which escaped the worst of the Steward of the Roads’ attention.

It is one of these roads that Teschemar now traveled, with his companion and fellow Commander, Khaladi, the Commander of Horses. The road wound up the great sides of the Wessain Mountains. Had the grass grown thicker, it could not have been said to be a path at all. At its thickest it was barely two horses wide. It was not paved with stones nor logs, but with dirt and cracked clay, baked and smoothed by the alternating floods and firestorms that struck the Wessain throughout the year. They brought few provisions, not enough for the four day journey up the mountainside, nor for the return trip. Instead they foraged and hunted with bow and arrow, sharing what meat they found each day.

Both Teschemar and Khaladi had once been young soldiers. They had trained together, been taught the same lessons, and even though they had each been in different branches of the ornate and intricate Herathian hierarchy, they were as much brothers as any other soldier.

The bond of the Herathian soldier was absolute. On the battlefield, being true to your band was the only option. To betray your band was worse than death, worse than any crime, almost unpunishable, as punishments must always fit the transgression, and there was no fit punishment for such a betrayal. It was a bond forged through blood, through pain, through suffering, and through silence.

Silence was a virtue in the Herathian army. It was the first lesson every soldier learned. Not only did silence keep a band well hidden, but the many houses and tribes of Norrholt held true to their ancestors, and kept with them the blood-feuds and ancient hatreds deep in their hearts. In the dark forests where soldiers hunted, slept, ate, and pissed together, to speak anything of yourself was to invite betrayal; a knife in the dark or a pistol at dawn. Silence kept you alive.

Both Teschemar and Khaladi knew this as they knew breathing, and so it was not until the end of the third day that Lord Khaladi, Commander of Horses, finally looked over the tiny fire and spoke to Teschemar. “How long has it been, Cloud Commander, since we two survived off our wits and the land, nothing but our strong arms and arrows to keep us alive?”

Even in his jovial tone, his voice was hushed. They were Commanders in the army, riding a road that was often traveled by neither man nor beast, and still the taboo held its grip.

Teschemar was grateful Khaladi had spoken. He would not have been the first to speak, yet he had ached to speak with his old friend in private, away from the fortress, and to keep away the darkness that surrounded them.

“Many years,” Teschemar admitted, not willing to count. “And many years again before we will be allowed to do so again. Do you remember the night before Shepvahd?”

The Battle at Shepvahd had been where they had first met. The Great Gates had towered over the ten Bands that made up their Yanar’s Wing. He could remember the look on his Yanar’s face as the city’s cries echoed over the hilltops, daring the Herathian troops to advance.

“It was a good battle,” Khaladi nodded, tearing his own meat off the bone.

Teschemar spoke again. “Do you remember the conquest of the Chet’ia?”

Khaladi laughed, throwing his head back and frightening the animals of the mountain forest. “The cowards surrendered at the sight of our banners advancing on their lands. I do not remember a single battle against that weak and feeble people.”

“Nor do I,” Teschemar shook his head. “And now, who are they? Herathian. They eat our food and wear our clothes. They practice their strange ways and pray to their strange shadows.”

Khaladi nodded, for he knew the direction his companion’s conversation was headed. “Not a single Chet’ian has joined the military,” he agreed. “Pacifists, all of them. Part of their strange religion.”

“Selfish,” Teschemar nodded. “Any true Herathian should be willing to put their blood on the line in return for everything Herathia has given them. They covet ease and comfort. They forget that suffering breeds strength, that exertion creates worth.”

“True,” Khaladi nodded, tossing his meat-bone behind him. “If we do not fight for our Empire, then what worth does it have? I say that true Herathians deserve an empire, but not every empire deserves Herathians.”

Teschemar nodded. “And now, Wendsha.”

Silence settled once more between them, but it was the silence of thought, and tasting of words in the mind before daring to give them voice. It was Teschemar who spoke first. “Too much time is spent in dark rooms and long hallways, listening to tired old men talk about the Empire in words that would make women blush. Tell me, Khaladi Nejzia, and tell me true; do you not yearn once again for the heat of battle? To touch your feet to foreign soil and bring it low before your blade?”

The Commander of the Horses balked at hearing his old friend speak his full name, for this is an honor reserved for dear friends and lovers. A moment passed before he found his voice: “There is not a night goes by I would not prefer to spend out under the dark sky with my warhorse beneath me and spear in hand, instead of surrounded by those old stones; but what conquest remains for us? Only Cast lies unconquered by our armies on Norrholt, and the Autumn Wall is far too strong to be worth a siege; our people have no fire in their bellies for another war with Cast. The Island of Aylin is too high to reach, Erosea is too strong, and Madrain…”

Teschemar threw his bone into the fire. “You speak of glory and victory. I speak of the forge! What will happen when we claim all our lands with words and promises instead of fire and steel? The Chet’ian people spurn our traditions and hold to their own, the Wendshan people will likely do the same. Will they not esteem the name of Herathia too cheaply? Herathia is more than a name or a set of clothing to be taken on and doffed so quickly. It is in the blood, and the blood of Wendsha must be shed before it can be replaced by Herathian, else what does Herathian blood mean? What does it say to the Herathian male when they see what cost them blood sweat and tears, the right to stand tall and say that ‘I have earned my place among my ancestors, I have suffered greatly for little reward, save the pinnacle of honors; the name Herathia,’ to see this honor given to humble farmers who did little more than fear the soldier’s pike?”

Teschemar let his eyes wander again to his meal before answering. “You and I both know, that while the name Herathian is given to all who live under its flag…there are those who are more Herathian than others.”

At this, silence reigned once more, and so it did for the rest of the journey until the two men reached the apex of the Wessain, and the Cave of Hakhi Domzna.

Have you heard of the Hakhi? They were a private people, one of the few houses of Norrholt who had kept their homeland after being gathered into Herathia’s arms. They were small in number, barely two hundred, and they remained resolutely solitary in their ancestral caves. Teschemar had spoken out for them, granting them permission for this eccentricity, so long as they continued to provide him and the Herathian military with the results of their ancestral secrets; Hakhi steel.

Stronger than smelted iron and tempered bronze, Hakhi steel was the strongest and lightest metal known on the cloud-sea. Their legends told tales of how the secret of steel was passed down from ancient spirits of stone and wood to the first Hakhi, and then to her children. Centuries of steel had been forged in the darkness atop the Wessain, forged into plates of armor and tips of spears. For generations it had been considered holy, used only in sparing amounts for blessed tools and ornamentation.

Herathia had changed all that. Once the Hakhi saw the ten-thousand strong army of Herathia, their Chief wisely allowed the Empire to take their blessed metal, if not the secret of its creation.

Herathian rifles had been made of it, their swords and armor fashioned from it, and the metal plates that protected the inner workings of the Herathian artillery were forged in the secret inner caves of Hahki Domzna. Pieces were sold across the cloud-sea, providing wealth to the Empire, and prestige to their foundries; though few ever knew the whole of it.

The Hahki respected Teschemar, and he had been allowed to watch their holy practice; though he did not attempt to learn it for himself. Such secret magics belonged only to those of Hakhi blood.

The front chamber of Hakhi Domzna was small, barely big enough for seven people. A Hakhi guard knelt by the entrance, a long curving blade lying on his lap, his gaze belying no reluctance to strike.

After proper greetings and welcoming rituals, the two Commanders were allowed entry into the inner sanctum, usually the furthest any outsiders were allowed to travel. Here, surrounded by wood and stone statues of strange shape and ornate design, Teschemar and Khaladi met the Chief of the Hakhi people.

Teschemar bowed. The Hakhi Chief, who was called Steelmaster, did not bow in return nor nod his head.

“Your companion does not kneel,” the Steelmaster muttered, his eyes flickering in the firelight.

“Nor need he,” Teschemar answered. “He is the Herathian Commander of Horses, leader of seven Advances of infantry, cavalry, and foot-soldiers. He need not bow to any save the High Varus and the Emperor King of Herathia. Nor do I need to bow to you.” Teschemar lifted a small wicker box with both hands, and laid it in front of the Steelmaster. “I come bearing a gift and a request.”

The old wrinkled man reached out to take the wicker box from Teschemar’s outstretched arms, and opened it wide. Nestled in soft straw, a single heavy slab of metal glinted in the forge-light. It was as black as night, and as shiny as ice.

“It is a new metal,” Teschemar said as the old man lifted the bar into the air. “Harder than even your finest Hakhi iron.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Teschemar. “You insult our steel. The spine of the land. Our flames cannot be broken.”

“Your flame is resolute,” Teschemar nodded his head. It was the closest he had ever come, or would ever come, to an apology. “The Hakhi forges can turn the softest irons into the strongest armor and weapons. Accept this metal from me, and in turn forge it into a steel stronger than any other.”

The Steelmaster snapped his fingers and held out his hand. A young girl, perhaps his granddaughter, stepped forward and laid a thin slab of Hakhi steel into his palm. The Steelmaster stared at it a moment before holding it out to Teschemar.

“See here, the swirling shapes. The curving lines that mirror the mist from a cooling bucket, the sea of steam? Long have the legends of our world been passed down from our people. We know the ways of The Deep below our land. We feel the heat of the forge from above, and the crash of the anvil below. Between the two, our world is forged into metal, showering the sparks of life from each stroke. We, the Steelmasters, know the secret ways of steel. We know the tempering, and the cooling. We know the cracking and the shattering. We know of the bellows that blow across the land, and the steam from below that forms the sea. We live atop a mountain of stone and iron, and breathe the mighty heat that fuels our molten blood. We know the legends of the red-steel, the wet-steel, and the void-steel. We know the prophesies of the shattered spear, and the three arrows. We know the metals you call gold and silver are but steel in different form, and how each may be made the other. We have been waiting for this metal, this cloud-steel. We shall take this gift from you, and craft for you the Sword.”

Teschemar knew of no prophesies or honors. The words of the Steelmaster were as the babbling of an old brook, nonsense that had no value save they gave Teschemar what he desired. “It is an honor I am prepared to receive. I ask of you; may I see the manner in which the sword is forged?”

The Steelmaster’s eyes narrowed sharply, but he bowed just the same. “It is not for outsiders to see the sacred and secret process by which the steel is forged, but as bearer of the cloud-steel, you will wield the Sword, and thus you may see how it is made, though neither of you may speak of what you see, lest your steel turn against you.”

They followed the Steelmaster and his servants into the holy hall of the forge. Teschemar was not impressed. For a blessed chamber, the holy hall of the forge was little bigger than a dining room. A forge dominated one end of the room behind an anvil as broad as a man. Workbenches and tools lined the walls, and troughs of water, bottles of oil, and cloths of every shape and size filled the room.

The two Herathians sat off to the side to watch, while the ceremony began.

The Steelmaster anointed each of his servants, drawing strange symbols on their foreheads in oil. They stripped themselves to their flesh, wearing only thick leather aprons and heavy gloves. As they began, they chanted and moaned, rocking back and forth while muttering to themselves.

The bar was placed in the forge, and heated until it glowed a brilliant yellow. Pulled from the flames, the bar was then beaten and shaped until it glowed red. Under the song of the steelworkers, the black metal took shape. Throughout the night, the metal was lifted from the forge, beaten, covered with a strange oil that smelled of foul spirits, plunged into snows collected from the holy peak of the Hakhi’s sacred mountain, and returned to the forge again only to be thrust into cold water soon after.

Again and again the metal was heated, forced into shape, cooled, and then heated again. The song of steel echoed throughout the forge as the Steelmaster kept tempo with his strong arms and the holy instruments of the bellows, anvil, and hammer. Once beaten sharp, the edge was finished by a spinning whetstone of pure obsidian.

Throughout the night, the room was filled with the song of the smith. Servants ran in and out of the room, bowing and making mystic signs over their chests as they performed each prescribed step of the holy process.

At long last, the sword was finished. Packed in snow, the sword was brought forward, and laid at Teschemar’s feet. The handle was still warm when he picked it up. The metal was dark as night, but the edge where the whetstone had sharpened it glimmered and shone like an icy rainbow, with hidden colors leaping out in iridescent glory. It was heavier than it looked. Somehow, though he knew there were no magics in song nor in the arms of man, there was a sense in his heart that the sword he held was no mere weapon. “Steelmaster,” he spoke in a husky voice. “What is the legend of this sword you have forged for me?”

“That the one who wields it shall become avatar to a forgotten people. That the sword shall not break until the end of the world.”

Foolish Teschemar, for what could he believe but that the ways of Herathia, the true followers of the Law, were the forgotten people of which the legend spoke? Yet he knew in his heart he would be their champion, and the true path of the Law would be remembered once more. “I thank you, Steelmaster. You have honored me greatly.”

“There is no honor in destiny,” the old man’s wrinkles shifted about his face. “Only in the forge.”

This was a truth. Teschemar had long known it was the fires of strife and conflict that forged true men. Without suffering, without pain, one was nothing more than an animal. Honor, strength, respect…everything of worth had to be earned in Herathia though struggle and strife.

Sword in hand, he turned to his fellow Commander and spoke the truth for why he had brought him. “It has been a generation since lift-gas changed the shape of the cloud-sea. The alliance with Erwind has provided us enough lift-gas to fly our Armada wherever we wish. With cannons of steel and fire, we will have domain over the cloud-sea. Unchallangeable, unassailable, everlasting. The Law of Herathia will dominate the islands.”

“With a sword?” Khaladi gave the nervous laugh of a man uncertain of his fellow’s sanity. “It is said a single sword can turn the tide of battle, but to turn the tides of the cloud-sea themselves…You will need more than just a sword and a legend whispered by old men in a cave.”

“Indeed I shall,” Teschemar allowed himself a rare smile before turning once again to the Steelmaster. “Steelmaster, in return for your faithful and continued service to me and to the Empire, I offer food, clothing, slaves, whatever you wish. In return, you must continue with your craft. Forge our army swords, shields, spearheads, and armor of this metal.”

The Steelmaster’s mouth twitched. For the first time since the two Herathians had entered the holy halls of the forge, he looked uncertain. “You have more of the cloud-steel?”

“I have more,” Teschemar stood from his knees and left the chamber. So confident was his stride and so forceful his gait that the Steelmaster followed without hesitation, as did Khaladi and the surrounding Hakhi. Teschemar did not stop until he was outside the Hakhi Domzna, and climbed up onto the single cart they had pulled all the way from Zuohbal Oratz.

Pausing only long enough to ensure the Hakhi had followed and were watching, Teschemar placed his foot against the large crate that dominated the back of the cart. With a single heave of his leg, he sent the heavy wood crashing to the ground. The box split open, and a cascade of heavy black metal slabs poured out like glass shards.

The Hakhi gaped. Khaladi gasped in shock. “Teschemar,” he stepped over to the cart, gripping the edges with thick gloved hands. “How much of this metal do you have?”

“I have been shipping this metal for months from Erosea, beneath the very noses of the Erwind Trade Conglomerate. I have hundreds of crates, full of metal; enough to outfit an entire Talon. Ten-thousand soldiers, cavalry, heavy infantry, archers and crossbowmen, pikes and swords, armor, shields, helmets.” He turned to Khaladi. “Think of it, Khaladi; with your soldiers wearing this invincible steel, and my ships and cannon, the Herathian Military could sweep aside any army that stands against us. You have always been a true Herathian, you know the importance of strength. Let my forges arm your soldiers, and my ships carry them across the sea to conquer lands for the glory of Herathia.”

The howling winds of the Wessain mountains cut across Teschemar’s face. He could feel the air grow colder and wilder. A storm was brewing somewhere above them, threatening a torrent of ice, rain, fire, or stone enough to bury them all.

In the depths of Khaladi’s eyes, the flicker of a dream slowly begin to build and take shape. A reflected flame shimmered across his gaze; was it the torches held by the cautious and cowardly Hakhi, or a mirror to the forges that burned bright in Teschemar’s own heart? The fire in Khaladi’s eyes thawed his muscles, and slowly caused his arm to rise towards his heart. “My friend, as ever, you have me at your side.”

And so it was that the forges of the Hakhi burned bright, crafting a sea of metal as black as night, as shiny as ice, with which to drown the cloud-sea.