Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(84)

He was gone, and she’d give anything for one last word. One last chance to say goodbye.

“We’ll be able to see them for some time,” came a familiar voice.

Amyu looked over to find the Xyian guard Enright sitting in his usual position, on a bench facing the low wall, working on repairing a bit of armor. His crossbow sat beside him, cocked and ready, and an alarm bell sat on his other side.

“Takes a while to move an army that size.” He gave her a knowing look. “The sun will set before we lose sight.” He shifted over a bit, making his wooden leg clack, and patted the bench next to him. “Have a sit.”

Amyu sat. The sun was warm, and the stones beneath their feet radiated warmth. Around them bees buzzed in their large basket hives. The mountain towered above, its craggy walls stark and unforgiving.

“Someone you care about down there?” Enright gestured toward the army.

Amyu shrugged, then nodded.

“They’ll be back,” Enright said confidently. “Maybe not every one of them, I’ll be honest with ya, but on the whole, they will be back. Triumphant, if I know the Warlord.”

Amyu stared out, watching the long line of men and horses moving along the road. “Joden goes to finish his Trials and become a Singer, the Singer he was destined to become. Maybe even the Eldest Elder Singer. Keeper of our ways. Our laws.”

“The laws that keep you here?” Enright asked quietly. “The laws that deems you outcast.”

“Not outcast.” Amyu still stared out over the wall without seeing anything. “Useless.” Her voice sounded flat and odd to her own ears.

“Ya know that’s not true,” Enright said.

Amyu nodded but couldn’t speak, her eyes welling up.

“Well then,” Enright shifted again, then stood with a clatter. “I gotta use the privy,” he said gruffly. “Might take me a bit, what with the stairs.”

Amyu nodded again, keeping her eyes on the army, her tears starting to fall.

“Here,” a large white piece of cloth appeared in front of her face.

Amyu took the cloth, and Enright left, his wooden leg clacking as he made his way down. She was grateful for the privacy. She didn’t want to weep, but the tears kept coming.

It all felt so hopeless. The Warprize had told her to keep searching for the airions, but she didn’t truly believe that Amyu would find them. She also asked that Amyu learn to read and write Xyian. An honorable task, but… Amyu felt useless, and a failure and—

Footsteps came up the steps, and it was not Enright. Amyu mopped her face, and stuffed the cloth away.

“Amyu,” Atira came up through the trap door and walked over to sit beside her. She looked around the top of the tower with a satisfied smile, then turned to Amyu. “I have been looking for you.”

Amyu resisted the urge to look back out at the departing army. She met the warrior’s gaze bravely. Atira was tall and fair of hair and face. She was the Bonded of Heath of Xy, and a well-respected warrior.

“Heath said that you need a sword re-forged,” Atira said. “The Crystal Sword of Xy?”

“Yes,” Amyu nodded. “Do you know how?”

“I don’t,” Atira smiled. “But I know someone that might.”




Amyu followed Atira through the streets of the city, until she led her through a large wooden door. Amyu stood dumbstruck in the doorway of the forge, staring at the men laboring over red hot metal.

Atira glanced over her shoulder at her, and laughed. “I had the same reaction,” she said. “Come, we will get closer.”

It was as if all the elements danced at the big man’s command.

The heat hit her first, like a blow to the face, heat so hot it dried the sweat that formed. The air held an acrid tang.

The room was huge, with stone walls and a high vaulted ceiling. Heavy wooden beams arched over the room. There were clusters of men and boys around the walls, working at tables. The noise battered at Amyu’s ears. Each group worked on something different, but her eyes were drawn to the ones in the center.

The greatest heat came from the furnace in the middle of the room, where a circular stone ring sat, covered by an arched dome. She could see flame flickering within the openings. A young man worked some sort of odd wooden and leather thing up and down, and the fire at the center danced in response, crackling and swaying with his movements.

“That’s the fire that Dunstan uses to heat the metal.” Atira raised her voice to be heard over the noise. “The apprentice works the bellows, see? It keeps the fire at the right heat.” She pointed to three men, working close by the fire. “See the anvil? That large metal piece there?”

“What are they doing?” Amyu asked.

“Making bolts for the new ballistae.” Atira stared at the forge, desire raging in her eyes, awe in her voice. “Heath as Warden had given orders for hundreds of them.”

“You have worked down here,” Amyu said, knowing full well that Atira had.

Atira just nodded, seemingly lost in thought. “I am going to make swords.” Her voice rang with quiet determination. “I will forge such blades that Singers will praise them for centuries to come.”

“First you have to advance past making nails.” A woman came up to stand next to them, a welcoming smile on her face. “Who is this, Atira?”