Chapter 13

It was night time and Rome was in his room in the tower that he usually slept in, about to blow out the lantern and go to sleep. There wasn’t much in the room besides a cot, a table, a couple chairs and the heavy chest he kept the black axe locked in. He had spent all day going over the army’s tallies, the number of soldiers in uniform, weapons, supplies, horses. He had called the royal treasurer to him and even looked into the financial end of it. Then he had simply ridden through the city, looking at his people, judging their mood, seeing how many able-bodied men and older boys there were, candidates for the army. And, after all he had learned, he still had no idea if it was possible to build an empire with Qarath as its center, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

In the back of his mind there rested always Lowellin’s warning about Melekath, but in the light of day it seemed frankly ridiculous. Some ancient god breaking free of his prison, bent on taking revenge on the world? Things like that were for children’s tales, not the real world.

A couple times he wondered what was going on with Quyloc. He’d looked pretty bad when Rome saw him that morning, and there was something weird about the mark on his arm. Did it have something to do with Lowellin and the weapon he talked about?

The door swung open and Lowellin walked in.

Rome jumped up off his bed. “How did you get in here? Are my guards completely useless?”

“I’m here to talk about your axe.” Lowellin sat down on the chair and laid the staff across his knees.

Rome went to the table and poured himself a drink from the bottle of rum that stood there. Then he sat down, looked at Lowellin and scratched his bare chest. He was wearing only a thin pair of cotton undershorts. “Why?”

“I want to know if it is what I think it is.”

Rome made no move toward the chest. The key to it hung on a chain around his thick neck. “What do you think it is?”

Lowellin planted the staff before him and gave Rome a hard look. “What I think is that you are not taking this seriously. This is still a game to you.”

Rome took a drink of the rum, stared into the depths of his cup and put it down. He met Lowellin’s gaze. “Why should I?” Leaning against the wall next to him was his battle axe, but he found himself wishing he had the black axe there rather than locked in the chest. This man, or whatever he was, made him more uneasy than he liked to admit.

“Understand this,” Lowellin said, pointing the staff at him. Rome didn’t like that thing either. There was something weird about it. “Melekath is real. He is going to escape. And when he does there will be war. Not the wars you are used to. A war for the future of everything. Everything.”

Rome scowled. “It feels a lot like you’re threatening me.”

“I am threatening you.” Rome tensed, prepared to jump aside if Lowellin swung the staff at him. “But I am not the threat. Melekath is. Whether you believe me or not, this war will happen. It is not a matter of if, but when. When it does, you and your entire race have only one chance to survive.

“Me.” He lowered the staff to the floor.

Rome relaxed fractionally. “So you say. But I’m still not convinced that Melekath’s fight isn’t with you and the rest of the gods and you’re just trying to drag us into it. I’m still thinking that if we stay out of it, he will leave us alone.”

Lowellin stared at him for a long minute and Rome held his gaze, though it was not easy. There was something about his eyes, a sense that they hid something unnatural.

“Surely you can admit that it will not hurt to tell me where you got the axe,” Lowellin said finally.

Rome took another drink of rum before he replied. “It was in the Gur al Krin desert.”

Lowellin’s thin lips pursed. “That’s a start, but I’d already guessed that much. I need more. Where in the Krin did you get it?”

Rome frowned. As always when he thought back to that time he encountered a fog that clouded his memory. He remembered the Crodin ambush and fleeing into the desert with the survivors. He remembered pillars of fire and seeking shelter in a pile of stones. But after that there was nothing. “We took shelter in the stones. I found it there, I think.” He shrugged. “That has to be it. Nothing else makes sense.”

“But you do not remember actually finding it.”

“No.”

“Has it never seemed strange to you, that you cannot remember what was the singular event in your life?”

Rome laughed. It came out a little shaky. “Lowellin, everything about that axe is strange. I just try not to think about it too much.”

“After all, with it you defeated Thrikyl and took the crown. What else matters?”

Rome finished his rum. “That’s the way I look at it.”

“You are a fool,” Lowellin said. “As is your entire race. You blind yourselves to the sun and call it wisdom. I will never understand what she saw in you.”

He stood and walked to the door.

“Wait,” Rome said. Lowellin turned back. “Quyloc’s looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to go see him?”

Lowellin shrugged. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“What about now?”

“He’s busy now. You could say it’s a matter of life and death.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Lowellin opened the door. “We will speak of your axe again.” Then he left.

“I can’t wait,” Rome said. What did Lowellin mean about Quyloc being busy with a matter of life and death? What had Quyloc gotten himself into?

He considered going to look for Quyloc right then, but discarded the idea. Quyloc was probably in that little chamber carved out of the stone underneath the tower. Rome hated it down there, all damp and closed in. It was hard to breathe down there, window or no. He couldn’t imagine why Quyloc liked it so much. But then, he couldn’t imagine the why of most of the things Quyloc did. He’d known the man most of his life and Quyloc was still a mystery to him.

Rome pulled the chain over his head and unlocked the chest. Taking out the black axe, he went to the table, sat down and poured himself more rum. He pulled the lamp closer and looked at the axe. It looked almost like glass. Quyloc said it most resembled a black volcanic rock called obsidian. The axe was cold to the touch. It always was.

He traced the outline of the closed eye carved into the head of the axe. The carving was very cunningly done. The eye was so lifelike, as if it might open at any moment.

The carvings on the haft were just as well done. It really looked remarkably like the body of some unknown creature, the forelimbs folded back against the body, the hind legs extended. The haft ended in very realistic-looking sharp claws.

Where did he get it?

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