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Dark Prince. Chapter Four: Tempering the Steel.

https://ao3-rd-18.onrender.com/works/10082/chapters/13060

~ He came from the Mountain.

Abatai had no presentiment that morning as the temple bell tolled across the Camp and he and his household bowed to the Mountain. He had performed this obeisance for over fifty years, from an unsteady toddler clinging to an adult fist, to the war-scarred High Chief he was now.

His private habit was to then turn his face East. Nothing could be seen but the great open doors of his hall but there, far beyond eyesight, lay the Tribe’s ancestral home.

Abatai was born in the Camp. He had never seen the wide steppes, the shiver of yellow-leaved birch trees in the fall of the year. Those were tales of the song-weavers about the winter fires but his Prime Wife, Tanit, once said that no-one could leave their home behind; something of it came with them. The land was in their blood. And so the tales were told and the songs were sung, fed by blood-memory and the trade caravans that supplied the Camp.

Taking a long breath of the frosty air, Abatai paced the ward of his hall to the gates, working off the stiffness in his joints. He watched as the low red sun hurled spears of light across the Camp. A fine, cold winter morning. The guards, breathing dragons plumes, thumped their spears and came to attention.

A fair day, though he smelled snow by nightfall. The Camp bustled. Men and women headed to store houses to collect their daily rations, to the weaver halls, the wash houses, the stables, livestock pens and smithies. Once, there had been tents and horses shared the rough pasturage with goats, but the War of Fire had withered the plain. It was still a place of barren ash. Nothing grew.

The tent-city had long ago given way to sturdy stone halls, low-pitched against the northern cold. But it was still called, ‘The Camp,’ in memory of those who had followed the call of the Iron God. Caravans supplied all they needed, arriving from the East through the tunnel carved by a Power who could shape rock as if it were dough. Metals and coal were sent from the Mountain itself and blocks of ‘Black Cake’, a tough and salty meat, gift of the God.

This was waterless land. The massif to the north was impassible and though it was said there were streams that trickled down from the everlasting snows, that was too little and too far to supply the Camp. But on a clear day the farsighted might see immense pipes jutting from the mountainside. Shaped like dragon's jaws, they were many times the height of a man and from them water poured, mist-wreathed, into deep channels feeding the wells.

Abatai turned once again to face the Mountain. The Camp could not hide that colossus. Half a moon it took to ride to the massive gates, yet it seemed to loom almost overhead. It was fitting, as the seat of the God. Even when cloaked by storm or the fumes that vented from its three peaks one was conscious of its presence. Before Blood Harvest, the battle that defeated and scattered the Shǎntë,* the enemy Demons, it had withdrawn behind acrid vapours that curled through the Camp. The great subterranean forges had worked unceasing and the ground trembled.

Absent-mindedly, Abatai rubbed the old wound that had almost taken his left arm. Had he not fallen, half-buried under the body of his sire Uldor, he would be one of the many crumbled bones that littered the Ash Plain.

The Harvest had been his first battle and he would never forget his naive pride when he marched out and the bone-freezing terror that had come upon him. His father had warned him of the Shǎntë but he was unprepared. No-one, he thought, could have been prepared. Bright as flames they were, fierce as the sun on a new sword, terrible and unhuman. Yet they could die and had. But victory had come at a price. Abatai had lost much of the strength in that arm and the black curves of the tribal tattoos were raggedly truncated.

Sometimes, in deep night, he woke sweating as the face of his father’s slayer rose before him, blood-splashed skin, high helm plumed with crimson, eyes a blaze of silver so deadly, so impossible Abatai felt their brief touch like a spear and stumbled back, slipping on blood and mud. The touch of a Demon’s eyes had saved him, he was wont to say ironically. A sire and two uncles’ he had lost and like Uldor, Ulwarth and Ulfast were named among the heroes of their people. Until the last, the enemy had not known they served the Iron God.

The Harvest was a decisive victory but not the end of the long war. The Shǎntë were crushed and driven south, their fortresses left empty to the winds but the God would not rest until he had killed his enemies or driven them into the sea.

Then, perhaps, he would gift his loyal people rich lands. They could settle and thrive in a world free of those bright and awful shadows and, Abatai thought privately, the Unclean, whom he loathed. The God had created them but they were vile things who ate and raped the dead. All true Men hated them. Sometimes they brought back treasures from the deserted keeps and castles, things of silver and gold and precious gems that the Iron God coveted. Not Abatai and none of his people. Anything touched by the Shǎntë was cursed.
As was he. Abatai knew beyond doubt that those terrifying silver eyes had laid a blight on him for he had sired no sons. When he was called to the Land of Dreams there was no-one to succeed him. He and his women bore it with pride; few carried a Demon’s curse and lived. Anyhow, such things mattered nothing to the Mountain; they would appoint a Chief to rule after him,

The sound of hoofbeats clattered up the road. Abatai saw the messenger riding fast, bent low over the saddle. Reining in, he came down lightly, saluting.

‘Sire, the Great Lord comes.’

This unwelcome piece of information broke the calm mood of the dawn and focussed his mind like a spear point. It was a rare occurrence. Messages came usually in the rough hands of the Unclean and despised or not, that was preferable. The Iron God’s greatest servant was almost as feared as his master. He came, always, with an escort of Azâsh, Fire Spirits, but they never entered the Camp.

Abatai snapped out orders as the messenger remounted and rode to alert the Temple.

Servants were already scurrying as he returned to the hall. There must be hot wine, fine cushions and incense smouldering. Tanit, walking beside him looked a question and he nodded curtly. She would attend, as would Liett, his favourite Concubine. Both were sensible. They could be counted upon not to show their fear.

Tanit, a subtle woman among a people shaped by the strange existence of the Camp, showed no emotion but Abatai knew her well and saw the tenseness run across her shoulders as she prepared herself. He was doing the same. It was necessary to mentally arm oneself before meeting the Great Lord.

‘I suggest you send for Elder Moon,’ she murmured with admirable calm. ‘There is no-one more wise.’

After a moment’s thought, Abatai agreed. ‘Yes, Lady. A good thought.’

One needed every advantage. He did not deceive himself that the Great Lord was ignorant of the Elder’s gifts but they paled before his sorcery. He also sent for his War Chief.

The people of the city were famed for their austerity, a product of the place itself, but the Great Lord must be honoured. Abatai draped a cloak of silver furs over his leathers and wore the High Chief’s circlet of silver and amethyst.

He felt the presence before the Great Lord entered. There was a pressure in the air, a scent both opulent and alien. As the door opened, all of them went to their knees.

No-one in the city had ever seen the Iron God. Once, the Shǎntë High King had ridden to the very gates of the Mountain and challenged him. The duel had broken the land and the Demon had wounded the God who now went with a limp. Abatai had been a babe in arms during the War of Fire, but there were oldsters who had heard that duel echo from the Mountain and spoke of a mighty Eagle who had borne away the Demon’s broken body.

The Great Lord could freeze the heart. He went by many names but was referred to simply as ‘Khar’’, Lord. The tales of his cruelty were legion. He could shift form and shape fire. All the God’s commands came from him and each time Abatai beheld him he was grateful that he had never been summoned to the Mountain, never set eyes on the Iron God. This one was terror enough more, in truth, than any Man would want to face. Only after, when he had gone, did one realise his beauty. In his presence one was conscious only of Power. His eyes, an incongruous clear lavender, held red fire.

Today, he was not alone and there was a communal, hastily silenced breath of shock. A step behind, almost as tall as the Great Lord and coming up from a bow, stood one of the enemy, girt with dagger and longsword. Tension rose and sang like a black wind and War Chief Narth snapped his hands to his sword-hilts.

‘He is not a Demon.’ The Great Lord’s voice held, always, strange harmonics that lingered in the stone. His smile was perfect as a dream, cold as an unmarked grave and more than a little mocking. ‘He is the Slave.’ The inflection lifted and changed the word so that it became, puzzlingly, a title that conferred rank. ‘He is bound to us and is sent here to learn and to observe.’

Spy. Abatai could not quash the thought

Spies were a fact of life in the Camp; the Temple and everyone who served there naturally watched for any sign of sedition or discontent, but there were others, too. If the God had sent someone from the Mountain then he had suspicions, and that was a disturbing thought.

His eyes were dragged back to the Slave and then he was dropped into the bloody, noisy heat of battle, watching in paralysed horror as the Shǎntë Prince rode down upon them. Those eyes had blazed silver and the ones that looked back were the colour of the stones in his circlet. But was a Demon’s face, the high, hard bones of it, the skin fine as a babe’s and the delicately pointed ears. He heard, behind him, the shift of cloth as Elder Moon moved but dared not look. Later, they would talk.

‘We shall be pleased to accommodate him, my Lord.’

‘Unnecessary. He will not dwell here.’ An elegant hand took a goblet of wine from the trembling, kneeling servant and sipped. ‘He is accustomed to harsh conditions. He will be given a soldier’s tent in the out-village.’

Ababtai was surprised. The out-village was a tattered fringe of temporary refuge for incomers and a poor place. They received rations; no-one was turned away for the God wanted warriors, but it did not seem fitting.

The Great Lord continued, idly swirling the wine, ‘He will be taught your ways of battle and to ride since horses do not survive in the Mountain.’ His teeth showed again. ‘There is no need to coddle him; he is not very ah…breakable. He learned to fight in the Pits.’

The Pits. They were a byword of fear in the Camp and an effective threat. Abatai considered the Slave more closely. At first sight he seemed delicate, too slender but there was taunt muscle under the leather and his shoulders were wide and flat. The Pits meant he had fought against the Unclean, the mountainous ogres, captive Demons, Fell-wolves, even the dreadful Fire Spirits and was alive to tell of it. And yet there was not a mark on him to show it. The high plume of hair streamed to his knees and caught glints of blue from the firelight. In the Camp, only women grew their hair that long, but the Demon warriors all possessed those manes. The Unclean scalped them for trophies.

‘At whiles he will be recalled to service our Master, as is his duty and then return,’ The Great Lord continued. ‘There are some thoughts of sending a party to the far Southlands. He will observe and see if any fit the requirements.’ He reached out to take the Slave’s chin in his hand. It was an ungentle action, a warning. The Slave stared straight ahead, rigid and unblinking. ‘If he gives you any trouble, send a messenger to the Mountain.’

Abatai swallowed and bowed. He had not misheard the word. Service, not serve. There were stories of the God’s lust. This Slave had survived them — and the Pits.

The air refused to settle after the Great Lord departed to the Temple. The warm room was held as if in a spell. Abatai, in an attempt at normality, flicked a finger at the still-kneeling servant who offered wine to the Slave.

‘My thanks.’ His voice was low and rich as spiced honey.

‘You will eat the first meal with us, my Lord—ah?’ He inwardly cursed but the title had come naturally. A sleek black brow lifted.

‘I am no Lord. I am the Master’s Slave.’

Elder Moon made a sound like ‘Hmmff,’ and began to rise. At once, the Slave stepped forward and offered his arm. The unnatural grace, the silken steel of his movements only reinforced the impression that he was not Human.

‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him. ‘Slave, hmm? Abatai, we will speak later. And you, Lord, should come to visit me.’

It went against all instinct to conduct the Slave to the out-village and the tent that had been erected. It appeared that Tanit was of the same mind for she had sent furs, cushions, a camp table and lanterns. It was a captain’s tent, practical but with some few comforts. The brazier had been lit, taking the chill off the air, and a wine skin hung from a pole.

The inhabitants of the out-village watched from a prudent distance. They were primarily young tribespeople who had the hardihood or ambition to uproot themselves and undertake the long exodus West. It took time for incomers to become accustomed to the rhythms of the city and it showed in their fluttering, nervous looks toward the Mountain. Some would be unable to bear the sense of oppression, a way of life so unnatural to them, and would quietly leave. They fell back further as the Slave appeared, staring from the awnings of weather-worn tents. Somewhere a baby wailed and was hushed by its mother.

‘The rations for the out-village are sufficient,’ Abatai began, which was true enough. No-one starved. There were no beggars or should not be, though he knew they existed on the fringes. There was one now, skittering away; an urchin in scraps of wool and leather. They were like rats, impossible to wholly eliminate but the Temple acolytes claimed any they found, going out at night in quiet, dark groups. The pretty ones served as catamites, the rest provided blood for the rites. ‘But we—‘

‘I am to receive the same rations,’ the Slave interjected, and then, ‘It would not be wise to flout his orders, High Chief.’

‘The Great Lord’s commands are always obeyed,’ Abatai answered quickly and firmly.

This was going to be a challenge which was, perhaps, the point. Apparently the Slave was not one of the enemy, but he looked like them and it was having an effect on the Camp already. Abatai felt the hate that was a hot fist under his breastbone ready to blossom (unacceptably) into fear. He must be extremely careful to show neither emotion.

The Slave set down his pack and his eyes quested the interior before he nodded in approval. He said, without looking around, ‘Who was the older woman and why should I see her?

‘She is one of the Elders. Anyone will tell you where her house is. She is the Mother of the Moon Women.’

‘And they are?’ He turned.

A headache began to build behind one eye. This unwelcome guest from the Mountain was so poised, so in command of himself, Abatai felt like a raw tyro reporting to his Captain and resented it. The tone, though perfectly courteous, reminded him uncomfortably of the Great Lord. The Slave moved in rarefied airs and was a toy for the God’s pleasure. But that was not all he was, not if he had fought in the Pits.

The Moon Women were unmarried, he explained, and men went to them for easement; they were also skilled with wounds and medicines and kept a store of women’s lore from ancient times. Elder Moon was in charge of the house. What he did not say was that all through the years, the Mothers possessed gifts of dreaming, of foresight.

The Slave frowned. ‘I hardly think—‘ Then his lips closed and he bowed with crisp, trained fluidity, one hand at his heart. As his head came up, the smile was so similar to his master’s that Abatai felt a knife-flick of shock. It did not reach the eyes. They were as cold as the God’s Breath, the killing wind from the Ice that could freeze a man caught in it, and as remote as the Moon.
’I look forward to learning from thee and thy people, High Chief.’

It was, without doubt, a dismissal. Abatai, silently cursing, stamped annoyedly back to his horse.

~ Eria, she had been in her younger days and much celebrated. She still possessed beauty in the high sweep of cheek and long-lidded eyes but the laughing charm of her youth had deepened like old gold polished by wisdom. Now she was held in a respect verging on awe. Her hair, quite white, was drawn back in braids; tattoos swept down each arm to cuffs of finest silver.

Abatai was familiar with the spacious, comfortable room where she gave counsel. Skins lay over the chairs, and hangings draped the walls. Old and precious scrolls lined wooden shelves. The Elder herself sat behind her great desk, a rare piece that had come out of the East long ago and this leant to the impression that she gave an audience, which was accurate enough. Chieftain, Priest, Elder Moon: the real power in the city was finely balanced between the three. The High Priest would never admit it. Abatai, more pragmatic, knew better. They were old friends and he valued her counsel.

There was wine on the table. Sometimes she burned dreamleaf flowers in a small brazier but Abatai had long suspected that it was unnecessary. She did not need drugs. Tonight the brazier lay cold as she shuffled the deck of cards.

‘Three times I have drawn these today,’ she told him. ‘The same each time. Oh, and he’s no spy. That is what you thought, no?’ She looked at him under her brows.

Accustomed to her ways, he grunted. ‘Brought from the Mountain by the Great One? It seemed likely. So he is sent to learn and observe?’

‘No doubt he will report to the Mountain, but that is not why he was sent.’ She snapped the cards down on the table forming a circle. ‘He is young, for one of his kind.’

‘Then he’s Demonblood?’ Abatai said grimly knowing perfectly well that the Great Lord would lie if it suited him. And there had been that subtle laughter in his eyes. ‘I thought—‘

‘He is a…creation,’ she corrected.

‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘Like the Unclean?’

She grimaced. ‘Not like the Unclean, but something made. So much sorcery…And yes, he does look like a Demon. There will be some who’ll try to harm him for that.’

He said impatiently, ‘You know what the young bloods are but they’re not foolish enough to make it a killing matter.’

‘He will.’ A tight smile thinned her mouth as he stared. ‘He’s not a Camp young blood, Abatai, he is a killer.’

He rubbed his mouth. ‘If he’s been trained in the Pits, I don’t doubt it.’ It would be unfortunate if any of the youngsters were killed but they had to learn not to meddle with orders from on high or with a “favourite” of the God. Despite himself he shuddered at that thought.

She shrugged. ‘Take a card.’

He did so and turned it face-up.

‘The Slave is shackled in darkness,’ she said. ‘The swords of the warrior wait to be picked up. Above the darkness, stars shine but he does not see them. Take another.’

‘Warrior. Prince. Conquest by the sword, absolute rule, wealth. The sun is black but gives light and warmth to the city. Third card…’ The sound of her breath slowly hissing out brought Abatai’s head up.

‘We live beneath the Iron God’s hand, Abatai. And this card has remained silent, uncalled, until now.’

His head shook uneasily. ‘You know I cannot read them.’

‘Godhood,’ she said. ‘Rising from blood and war into Power.’

The wind, strengthening, curled mournfully around the house. The fire leapt like a predator roused from slumber drawing their eyes toward it. Dry-mouthed, baffled and deeply disturbed, Abatai moistened his throat with wine.

‘His mind is enmeshed with the Great Lord and the Iron God,’ she mused, her eyes indrawn. ‘They are all through him like veins. His blood must burn within him. But there is something else…fire, starlight. Demonblood, likely. He is an amalgam. A made thing. He should not exist. There is an…immanence…’

He leaned forward. ‘Lady, leave this now,’ he said urgently. ‘There are doors no-one should knock upon.’

The hasty rap that followed his words caused him to jump; wine slopped to the rim of his cup and he cursed but it was only the acolyte Seria who would, in the fullness of time take her place as Elder Moon.

‘Lady, the…Slave?’ Her eyes were large and dark with shock and uncertainty held in the cage of her training. ‘Is here.’

‘Bring him in, Seria and stay. Be silent and observe.’ Moving quickly without appearing to, she gathered up the cards in an expert sweep.

‘Yes, Mother.’

The Slave entered and bowed. Snow was melting on the black hair. He wore no cloak against the cold and appeared untroubled.

‘It seems I have disturbed thee,’ he said politely. ‘Shall I come back at a more convenient time?’

Elder Moon inclined her head. ‘I was expecting you.’

The Slave dominated the room effortlessly; his height, the warrior’s carriage and the eyes that, in the candlelight, glowed as if a light burned behind them. Like the Great One, there was a sense that the air in the room bent toward him though this was subtler, less choking. His leather armour was Mountain-made, finer than anything the Unclean wore, but it was not new and he wore it and his weapons with a casual ease.

‘I have been walking the Camp,’ he said with a nod at Abatai and as if the bitter night outside were nothing. Perhaps it was not. ‘And I recalled thy words, Lady. The High Chief explained this House but I am not here for pleasure. On no account will I have these women offered to me. I do not deal in rape.’

‘Neither does this house,’ Elder Moon answered. ‘Deal in rape.’ She regarded him. ‘This is a calling, Lord.’

Dryly, he said, ‘I have lived long enough in Angband to know what I appear to be. Wouldst thou have them lay down for one who looks like their enemies?’

Angband. An alien word. Abatai’s eyes narrowed.

‘Well.’ she lowered her eyes but she was smiling, close-lipped. ‘But that is not why I invited you, Lord. This house offers more than pleasure.’

He had half-turned away but at her words, paused to look back.

‘The cards of Fate.’ She lifted them. ‘Now you are here, will you look?’

She plays with fire, Abatai thought. A very cold fire.

The unhuman eyes moved to his and it came to him then that the Great Lord looked through one, searing like flame, seeing everything yet his attention did not linger. The Slave though, he looked and saw. And so had the Demon Prince looked and seen and marked Abatai all those years ago. Better to be overlooked. He shifted, glanced away as Elder Moon spread the cards.

Some are bound to fate,’ she said. ‘Others bend it to their will.’

Silent, predatory as a Fell-wolf, the Slave came to the table.

‘Take one, Lord.’

‘It would not be wise to continue to use that title,’ he said, quiet and warning.

‘Then I will use your name,’ she said, equally soft.

He gazed at her, the colour of his eyes dark as wine under the rill of lashes and for a moment the only sound was the fire and the boom of the wind. There was a little, mocking tuck to his mouth, then something in his eyes changed and softened. The face never could, so hard and cold the lines, but the frigidity eased slightly; a tiny, far-off fire in a wasteland of ice.

‘I had a name once,’ he acknowledged. ‘It would not be wise to use that, either.’

She watched him, nodding. Abatai felt he should leave for she would share any insights with him but he was equally fascinated and repelled, as if he watched one of the Demons chained and bound by sorcery, available to scrutinise without fear.
Except there was fear. He did not need Elder Moon to tell him this was a killer.

‘One card for the present,’ Elder Moon said. ‘One for the future and one for Fate.’

He did not touch them.
‘Thou art a Seer, Lady. These tools but give thee focus while thy mind opens, I think. I caution thee not to open thy mind or look too deeply. I am bound. Thou couldst find my…masters looking back.’

Abatai went cold despite the warmth of the room.

‘We learn not to look at Power,’ she replied. ‘Some have been tempted. They went mad or died. But you have erected a wall, Lord. Ice and steel. I cannot look beyond it, nor would I.’

‘So you think it is safe?’ His voice held pity.

‘Safe? What is safe?’ Her gesture encompassed the Camp, the crushing presence of the Mountain. ‘You think they do not know of our little games and dismiss them as unworthy of their notice?’

Again, he was silent. Near the fire, Seria lifted her head. Her hands, folded in her lap, were twisted so tightly the bone showed white.

‘Thou art curious,’ he said at length. ‘And so am I curious about the Camp and its folk. I am here to learn. If thou hast questions, then ask me. There is no need for these cards, Lady. I can see my own future.’

For answer, she flipped a card over.
‘No,’ she said as the Slave started. His head snapped up. ‘You do not see. You have been blinded. Your heart has been cut out, but yet there are stars within —‘

‘Stop.’

The one word struck the room like a whipcrack; the fire roared up. Seria, with a cry, retreated from it. The Slave’s eyes burned with a preternatural light and Abatai thought of the Elder’s words: that the Great Lord and the Iron God were all through him like veins. In that moment he waited for what he knew not: for the Great Lord to shed the skin of the Slave and step out with fire and retribution, for the walls to crack and the earth to break over a crevasse of lava…

The Slave closed his eyes, drew a wrenching breath. His face was white as ice; his hands, flat on the table, were pressed bloodless.

‘I…forgive me.’ His voice was flat, the power gone. ‘That was inexcusable. I was startled.’

Elder Moon cast a I told you, glance at Abatai and beckoned to Seria. The girl, pale and shaken, moved with less than her usual quiet grace as she poured wine with unsteady hands. The Slave, straightening, took the offered cup and said, ‘My thanks. I am sorry for alarming thee. Thou art not burned?’

Her head shook mutely.

‘You have power, young Lord, but that’s no great surprise, is it?’ Elder Moon took her own wine and drank it off and Abatai, who preferred to savour it, telling over the flavours, did the same, needing the effect.

‘No,’ the Slave refuted. His mouth twisted as if the wine were foul. ‘No.’

‘No?’ Elder Moon lifted her brows. ‘So be it.’ She reached to sweep up the cards.

His head shook tightly. A breath shuddered out of him, then he raised a hand.
‘Very well, Lady. It would be craven to turn away now.’ His face was stern as steel but that fleeting look of self-mockery sparked again in his eyes. ‘Let us see what the cards will tell.’