Chapter 1

(Eliezer)

Some years later...

Briansvale had once been the heart of an ancient king’s reign, a formidable seat of power that ruled a burgeoning, nascent kingdom fresh off an ambitious rebellion. Nowadays, its legacy was one of industry, joining eight other great cities that had been erected over the nine, long tenures of the Albronda Kings of Tir Pennyl. Though its days of regal glory would end during the Third King’s rule, the city would continue to be brightest jewel in Court of Stars.

And in the old city, when the skies of the night were brightened and the cool morning had begun to warm, the early risers were brisk with rumor and news. As Eli rubbed his tired eyes, burning from having just woken up, the chains on his wrists clinking, whispers were murmured across the courtyard inside Madam Ghislaine’s estate, the Hammer. Which was one of several that surrounded the city’s outskirts.

Every morning, just before dawn, the kahlehtin, the slaves of the Blacksmith of Briansvale – though she did not actually do any of the smithing – assembled for a headcount to make sure none had escaped during the night. Ghislaine’s overseers were among the most disciplined within the Nine Cities, and she would not have any property wasted even if she could afford to buy new ones. That was how they, the rich and ennobled of the Pennaeth, saw the Elves that they had captured from across the Sea. They saw them as property, an investment. Sometimes, even less than material value, if it could be believed. The King, himself, thought it was beneath his majesty to buy slaves, so it had been expected that slaves were gifted to him.

Whips cracked in the dawn, as the weary and sick were brought into the courtyard. The Steward of the Hammer was a tall, bald man with wrinkled forehead, scarred by years of thought. He was a quiet man, but when he held his hand up to the hundreds of slaves within the cobbled yard, they hushed. The wooden platform, from where the overseers counted and commanded every morning, dominated the yard. But even that was dwarfed by the weathered, stone walls that surrounded the Keep, with pennants that whipped in the wind that marked this as the seat of the House of Ghislaine.

The Steward spoke in a loud, raspy voice, “As Before the Dawn.” The thin man recited the Ghislaine’s motto, and the Elves followed with him, “Hammer on Anvil.” They brought their fists to their hearts and bowed their heads, the chains of hundreds clattering. The headcount was all but ceremonial, from a time when they had hope. But that hope was lost; it was dashed four years ago when the Pennaeth sailed East. The slaves’ heads remained low, too tired to lift them up again. The clear blue eyes of the Steward scanned them, making sure they were in formation properly, that they remained submissive, that no eye looked back to him with even a glimmer of defiance. Satisfied, he ordered the overseers to conduct their morning routine.

Eli looked on with dull, sunken eyes. He was weary, more tired than he wanted to admit to himself. But he kept going, holding onto a thread that even he did not even acknowledge. As always, the numbers reported back were perfect, not one had escaped. “Madam Ghislaine will be pleased to know her expectations have been met, once more.” The Steward drolled on, the same words said every day, as common as the passing wind. Finally, something unexpected happened. The Steward paused, and from where he stood, Eli could see but the smallest bead of sweat on the man’s brow, “As… you may have heard, word has reached the Capital yesterday. The last insurgent of the Kingdom’s Land of the East has surrendered to His Majesty the King. The so-called High Lord, who led the resistance, is expected to arrive in the Capital in some weeks’ time to place his blade at the foot of Phobus IX. Then, he will be given the King’s mercy and be allowed to die.” He said this with pride and adoration, as though this was good news to the Elves. Could this man really expect these people to be happy that their last beacon of hope had been defeated? No. Eli thought. He has nothing to fear, he knows we don’t have fight left in us.

Despair wracked Eli’s body and he felt weakness grow within him as the iron of his shackles sapped energy from his bones. It was well known that Azyn weakened the Chay’i, though some called them Elves. The High Lord, the man who was called a “rebel”, was truly their last chance. If he could have thrown off the Pennaeth, he could have done something to save them. But it was not meant to be. He would be murdered, his heirs would be chained, and these people called it mercy. Anger bloomed inside the boy, he had watched his home burn, he saw as his father was cut down and his sword taken to be displayed as a prize for the Iron King of the West. He was told to be grateful, that his servitude to the Iron Law was an honor. But he saw no honor in it. They had taken the Deathkeeper’s scythe and proclaimed themselves the judge. They call him Marwoelaeth but have made foul his domain. They invoke his name and say it is just, that he has written and given them this code of law in which they live by.

As Eli looked around him, to his fellow people, some of whom he grew up with in his father’s lands. Elders who sat in juries of judgment, in councils of governance, and lords and ladies who led armies, all of whom have had to give up their blades for chains. He saw them heartbroken and weary, for they had lived when magic was strong. It had only been decades ago when the Hearths weakened, and their magic died. But now the stories of the old days are told like myth, like it was so long ago. He sighed heavily, this iron made everything feel longer and heavier. Even breathing was a task of labor. His eyes stung and he pushed his hands against them. He did not want to cry; he did not want to feel this way anymore. So, he took all his emotion, all his anger and sadness, put it in a box and hid it away. Every day it got easier to feel nothing, the days blended together, and it became harder to remember what it was like. To be free, to have had a home, to have parents. He shook his head and the numbness washed over him like a bee sting. His feelings camouflaged into the dirt and grime that covered him and smelled liked the unwashed clothes that had been worn for days. Until at last, he could not tell the difference. Like the Steward’s morning droll, he embraced the numbness.

After the bald man finished his usual diatribe of expectations, he dismissed the Elves to their usual responsibilities. The many slaves dispersed, trudging along. Some, who were too slow, were whipped. But it did not work much anymore. After four years of wearing iron constantly, some things were never the same. All food tasted bland, sleep was restless, and small things required twice as much effort. They only ate because, if they did not, they could not move, and if they could not move, they died. Once they made it to one of the many forges, that were uniform across the Hammer, the overseers took off their feet bindings so they could move more productively across their work area. As the youngest, and supposedly strongest, Eli was required to light the forge and push the bellows until the heat seared through the cool morning.

As the Sun was just rising over the stone walls, hammers and metal tools clamored and clanged across the yard. Red-hot iron was worked into swords, knives, tools, and ingots. The pieces of iron, wrought from stone, came from another estate in the city and it was the Hammer’s responsibility to work it. The ingots went on to another estate where it was turned into the different weights of currency. And the iron ore was delivered in armed caravans from a mine some miles to the south. And further to the West, were plantations of cotton, grains, and all types of foods. At least, that was what Eli was told. That Pennyl was a legacy of statesmanship and governance. And the slaves were at the heart of this success. Across the hills, low mountains, and plains of Pennyl they farmed the food, mined the precious iron, and labored to bring everything that the Pennaeth needed or wanted, and they thrived.

Every day, Eli thought of this as he hammered searing iron that sparked and whined. It made him sick to think that he contributed to this machine of industry that wiped out his people. Yet, if he did not, he would die and what good would that do to anyone? Part of him, the kernel that remained untouched by the numbness, hoped that he would need to stay alive. For something. He did not know what that something was, and he did not question it. He would not dare to dream.

Suddenly, a whip cracked, and he felt a sharp pain cry across his hands, a drop of blood ran from them as he dropped the piece of iron he was working into a sword. Again, the whip whooshed in the air and hit him on the neck. He looked to where the source came from. Brendt, the overseer of his group, sneered, “Are you so half-witted, kahleht, you did not notice Madam Ghislaine’s presence!”

As Eli looked around nervously, he saw that all the slaves around him were kneeling and shivering under the gaze of their Mistress. He immediately dropped to his knees and his voice wavered, “Mistress, you honor me with your presence, I beg your mercy for being blind and deaf to your arrival.” She sniffed and lazily waved her hand to stay the overseer. “You might pay more attention to your surroundings, Elin’khaleht.” Her mouth twisted over the use of the name he had been given by the Westmen who first put him in chains. “Perhaps, Brendt’mestar should give you extra lashes to return your wit to you.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Eli bowed his head further, “I beg forgiveness, for I was focused on doing my best work for the Kingdom, Ghislaine’mestari.” He said, the lie flowing easily off his tongue in the formal phrases of Kiel. The woman clasped her hands in front of her, “Very well, Elin’khaleht.” She grimaced. “I grant you mercy under the Law. You will be allowed to maintain your current number of lashes that you are granted at the end of the day.” Brendt nodded at the order that was meant for him as well, but from the look in his eyes Eli could tell that his usual lashes would be much harder, nonetheless.

Madam Ghislaine nodded to her Housekeeper, who spoke for her mistress, “Elin’khaleht, you are to report to the Madam’s Quarters early today, before her luncheon.” Eli nodded, “As the Mistress wishes, I will do.” With that, the woman and her entourage left, inspecting the forges with a hawk’s eye. As soon as they were the respectable distance away, the group of slaves got up and continued their work as the day became ever the warmer.

As Eli reheated the sword he had been working on, he thought about what Ghislaine could ever want that required a special visit. The overseers hated him already enough that he was ordered to meet with the Mistress every day. When they considered that a high honor, even amongst themselves, let alone what they considered scum of the earth. Furthermore, she had come down from the Keep herself. He knew that his lashes would be even more numerous and harder than before, no matter the Mistress’s implied order.

*

As the sun rose, and Eli wiped down a nearly finished blade, Brendt grabbed him the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of the forge and onto the ground. “It is time for you to go see the Mistress, kahleht. Don’t keep her waiting.” He punctuated his words with a glare that threatened to freeze fire. Eli groaned and looked up at him. He almost wanted to punch him, but he reigned it in. Brendt wanted any excuse to cause him further pain. Eli would not give it to him. He got up holding his side, no doubt a bruise blooming already, and he walked across the yard. The guards at the back of the Keep looked forward, eyes piercing, their halberds glinting in the sunlight that drifted lazily toward noon. Eli walked past them and navigated the cool, yet stuffy, passages of the utilitarian Keep of the Hammer.

Windows were opaque and lined with iron, dusty and faded tapestries lined some of the walls and torches shone dimly in the hall. Household slaves, servants, and retainers filed through the corridors swiftly going about their business in the strict discipline that the Madam Ghislaine employed. He came to the doors of her quarters soon enough, after climbing flights of stairs and through halls. Once he arrived, a handmaiden by the name of Lillian, announced his arrival and showed him into the room with a slight smile. He walked in with his back hunched, his hand still holding his side.

The quarters of Madam Bevin Ghislaine were easily just as purposeful as the rest of the Hammer. Everything had intention. In the antechamber, where she worked, there was a fireplace, that was covered by a stitched, wooden panel during the summer, was made of stone with an ornamental sigil of her House hanging above the mantel. Which was the one of the only things she allowed to be pretty and not just useful. Across the room, there was a sturdy, wooden desk that held papers marked with ink and wax seals, leather-bound ledgers, and a scale made of bronze that had weights and measures. Maps colored with routes covered the walls and a family tree carved in polished word and embossed with gold stood behind the desk. And directly at the end, beyond tall doors and curtains, lay a balcony which the Mistress often stood, viewing her forges hard at work. The hammer and whips could be heard distantly.

Eli bowed and prostrated to the handsome, but plain woman who sat behind the desk, writing in one of the ledgers, wiry spectacles glinted on her nose. Her hair was yellow as though wheat, but duller and was pulled from her face in a ponytail, wisps of it curling under the humidity. Her emerald-green eyes, studied the numbers in front of her, listening to her Steward speak about export and import costs. “Madam, the Lord of Hatteras Mine keeps increasing the price of his ore, I believe this to be because—” Bevin interrupted his monotone voice sourly, “By the Ironlaw, man! I need facts, numbers. Not your guesses and predictions.” She slammed the table in frustration. “If you cannot get me real answers, I suggest you set up a dinner, with Lord Meredin and I, so I can do your job for you!” He bowed hastily and exited the room muttering. He gave Eli a quick, dark glance before he scurried away.

After a few minutes, the woman acknowledged Eli’s presence and told the servant, “You may leave, Lillian. I would speak with Elin’khaleht alone.” Her voice was as stern as stone. Lillian jumped and left, closing the door with a click. Bevin took off her glasses and placed them on her desk and sat back, her hands peaked in front of her.

“You may rise, Elin.” She said, the roughness gone away from her voice and her mouth no longer in that perpetual grimace. He stood up, wincing at the pain in his side, his chains heavy on his wrists. “Thank you, Mistress.” He responded, still looking down at his feet. She sighed, “You must know by now, you do not have to keep up the formality when it is just us. Do not vex me by continuing it.” Eli looked up to her, “I sometimes forget, it is a habit by now.”

She rose from her desk, her dress, which looked like a long vest, went to her ankles. A ruffled, white blouse under it. Buttons, covered by fabric, went down the front. Her heeled boots clacked across the floor as she looked out the open balcony, the drapes shifted in the breeze. She put her hands behind her back, “I suppose you must be wondering why you were summoned here earlier in the day.”

“Yes, and so will the overseers and everyone else besides.” He responded with worry. She waved her hand dismissively, “It couldn’t be helped. Not when things are moving so quickly.” She hesitated and Eli asked softly, “What things?” She paced across the room playing with an iron band on her finger, “News has spread quickly across the Nine Cities and the Court of Stars. No doubt, by tomorrow night, it will have spread to the farthest reaches of Pennyl.”

“The Steward has told us about the fall of last High Lord. You don’t need to remind me.” The boy’s voice rasping, he swallowed as his throat tightened. She put up her hand in a halting motion, “Just listen to me, Elin. Time is short. The Fates have spoken from Ervaren. They read portents on the wind; the time has come for the Trials.”

He gasped in shock, “The Trials? The Ironlaw prohibits them. Marwoelaeth crowned the Albrondas as Kings of Pennyl. The lands by which the King claims are his to conquer and rule.”

“The Fates and their Castle-Fortress work beyond any kingdom or nation, even if it sits right on the Capital’s doorstep. The King won’t move against the Fates, he’s too smart for that. He, like many other rulers and nobles across the world, will put forth their candidates and try their best to make it go their way. However, even more, the Fates have proclaimed that slaves will be allowed to compete and will be safe inside Ervaren. This mixed with the news of the East, is concerning.” She spread her hand out into the air as though she was trying to show something to Eli, attempting to quicken his thoughts. “Don’t you see?”

Confusion fills his face, “You are worried that there will be an uprising?” Bevin studies him for a moment, “At first, but even now I can see the world will be in uproar. Many people will want to contest. They will want themselves or others to be proclaimed one of the Heirs of the Heroes. This changes everything.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Eli asked, his head spinning. She finally stopped pacing and leaned on the edge of her desk, “Four years ago, when you came on a ship from the East and were sold on a deck in Aphon’dinas. I saw from the start that you were different. Why else would I make exceptions for you? Meet with you every day and teach you? The iron does not work as strongly on you and I know you try to hide it. But you produce the best blades in any of my forges, maybe even in the Nine Cities. You are strong, even though you look weak.”

His throat ached and had no words, his mind was a swirl of thoughts. And, suddenly, a woman’s voice echoed in his head, a voice he had not heard for years. I want you to hope… His eyes widened slightly, hoping that Bevin would not notice. “I am not as strong as you think I am.” He rasped, as he hung his head down.

“What you do not know is that I am a friend to the Fates. They have told me what to look for, and out of everyone, I see it only in you. Which means it is my duty, by the Stars,” She cursed. “To deliver you to them to compete in the Trials.” He shook his head. I’m not anyone special, I’m like everyone else. This must be a lie, a game to test my loyalty. He looked to the woman who leaned against the desk in front of him. But she would not lie, she had always only told him the truth of things, even when it hurt him.

“What if I don’t want to participate in these Trials? What if this is a false rumor to test the will of us?” She shook her head, “I received word from the Fates before dawn. A messenger rode in the night. I will travel to the Capital, under the pretense of the Trials, and I will have you with me. No one in the Hammer will question my orders. Once I give you to the Fates, my duty will be fulfilled. If you want to compete, or not, it is your choice and does not affect me.”

Eli did not have much else to say, even though she treated him better than everyone else, she was still the person who ordered him around. He had no way to say no. “Now, go back to work. We will leave at Dusk and you are to report to me here then.” He bowed and left her quarters his mind in a daze.