Storm Season

Walegrin squatted in the moonlight. The ale had warmed him against the night breezes and made him both more expansive and optimistic than usual. "With the promise of swords I can recruit men-only a few at first. But we'll travel north, taking commissions-taking what's necessary. I'll hire more as I go. We'll arrive at the Wizardwall fully mounted and armored. We'll prove ourselves with honor and glory against the Nisibisi, then become the vanguard of a legion."

Chuckling loudly, the metal-master finally took a sip of ale. "Glory and honor, Walegrin, lad-what will you do with glory? What do you gain with honor? What becomes of your men when Wizardwall and the Nisibisi are forgotten?"

Honor and glory were their own rewards for a Rankan soldier and as for war-a soldier could always find a conflict or commission. Of course, Walegrin had neither glory nor honor and his commissions thus far had been pedestrian-like duty at the Sanctuary garrison: the antithesis of honor and glory. "I will be known," he resolved after a moment's thought. "While I'm alive I'll be respected. When I'm dead I'll be memorialized-"

"You're already known, lad, or have you forgotten that? You have rediscovered Enlibar steel. You don't dare show your face because of it. How much honor and glory do you think you'll need before you can walk the streets of Ranke? Twenty five swords? Fifty swords? Do you think they'll believe you when you tell them we made the steel with bits of an old Wrigglie necklace? Eh?"

Walegrin stood up. He paced a circle around the seated cripple. "I will succeed. I'll succeed now or die."

With a quick, invisible movement of his crutch, Balustrus brought Walegrin sprawling into the dust. "It is impolite to speak to the back of my head. Your fortunes have changed, and could change again. The Empire has never given you anything-and will not ever give you anything. But the Empire means nothing to Sanctuary.

"There is power here, lad, not glory or honor but pure power. Power you can use to buy all the honor and glory you want. I tell you, Walegrin- Jubal's not coming back. His world's ripe for taking."

"You've said that before. So Jubal rots under his mansion. How many bloodied hawkmasks have been nailed to the Downwind bridge? Even if I were tempted, there's nothing left."

"Tempus is culling the ranks for you. The wiserones are safe, I'm sure. They've heard Jubal isn't dead and they're waiting for his return-but they don't know everything."

There was an evil confidence to Balustrus' tone that made Walegrin wary. He never fully trusted the metal-master and trusted him less when he spoke in riddles.

"I was not always Balustrus. Once I was the Grey Wolf. Only twenty-five years ago I led all the Imperial legions into the mountains and broke the last Ilsig resistance. I broke it because I knew it. I was born in those mountains. The blood of kings and sorcerers runs in my veins, or it did. But I knew the days of kings were over and the days of Empire had come. I destroyed my own people hoping for honor and glory among the conquerors-"

Walegrin cleared his throat loudly. There wasn't a citizen alive who hadn't heard of the Grey Wolf: a young man clothed in animal hides, given a hero's welcome in Ranke despite his Wrigglie past-and tragically killed in a fall from his horse. The whole capital had turned out for his funeral.

"Perhaps my friends in Ranke were the fathers of your friends," Balustrus said to Walegrin's skepticism. "I watched my own funeral from the gladiators' galleries where drugged, stripped and branded I'd been left to die or improve my one-time friends' fortunes." He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't your ordinary Rankan general-they'd forgotten that. I could fight and I could forge weapons such as they'd never seen. I'd learned metal-mastery from my betrayed people."

"And Jubal-what's he got to do with this?" Walegrin finally asked.

"He came later. I'd fought and killed so often I'd been retired by my owners, but then the Emperor himself bought me, Kittycat's father. I trained the new slaves and Jubal was one of them. A paragon-he was born for the death-duel. I taught him every trick I knew; he was a son to me. I watched fortunes change everytime he fought. We soon both belonged to the Emperor. We drank together, whored together-the life of a successful gladiator isn't bad if you don't mind the brand and collar. I trusted him. I told him the truth about me.

"Two days later I was on the sand fighting against him. I hadn't fought for five years; but even at my best I was no match for him. We fought with mace and chain-his choice. He took my legs with his second swing. I had expected that, but I expected a quick, merciful death as well. I thought we were both slaves: equals and friends. He said: 'It's been arranged,' pointed to the Imperial balcony and struck my legs again.

"That was summer. It was winter when I opened my eyes again. A Lizerene healer was at my side congratulating himself on my recovery-but I had become this!"

The metal-master jerked his tunic upward, revealing the remains of his legs. The moonlight softened the horror, but Walegrin could see the twisted remnants of muscle, the exposed lengths of bone, the scaly knobs that had once been knees. He looked away before Balustrus lowered the cloth.

"The Lizerene said he'd been paid in gold. I returned slowly to the capital, as you can imagine, and painfully, as you ca

"Jubal had enemies, most more able than I; I feared my revenge would be vicarious and his death swift. When Tempus came I thought we were both doomed. But Tempus is cruel; crueler than Jubal, crueler than I. Saliman came here one night to say his master lay alive among the corpses at the charnel house, an arrowhead in each knee. Saliman asked if I would shelter the master until he died-as he was certain to do. 'Of course,' I said, 'but he need not die. We'll send him to the Lizerene.' "

The ale no longer warmed Walegrin. He was no stranger to hate or revenge; he had no sympathy for the slaver. But Balustrus' voice was pure sated, insane malice. This man had betrayed his own people for Ranke-and been betrayed by Ranke in turn. He had called Jubal his son, told him the truth about himself and believed that his son had immediately betrayed him. Walegrin knew he was now Balustrus' 'son.' Did the metal-master expect to be betrayed-or would he betray first?

Balustrus submerged himself in his satisfaction; he said nothing when Walegrin took his mug of ale far across the courtyard to the shadows where Thrusher sat.

"Thrush-can you go into the city tonight?"

"I'm not so far gone that I can't thread the maze."

"Then go. Start looking about for men."

Thrusher shook off the effects of the ale. "What's happened? What's gone wrong?"

"Nothing yet. Balustrus is acting strangely. I don't know how much longer we can trust him."

"What's made you agree with me at last?"

"He told me the story of his life. I can see Illyra in ten days-after the new moon and after she's cleansed. We'll leave for the north the next morning, with the silver and the ore if we don't have swords."

Thrusher was not one to say 'I told you so' more than once. He got his cloak and went over the outer wall without anyone but Walegrin knowing he was gone.

5

The metal-master organized his courtyard foundry with military precision. Within six days of the successful tempering, another ten blades had been forged. Walegrin marked the progress in his mind: so many days until he could visit Illyra, plus one more before the swords were finished; yet another to meet with the men Thrusher was culling out of the city and then they could be gone.