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,