The Hammer of the Sun (48 page)

"Then bring it to us!" said Elof quietly. "My lord, we will need darkness -"

"As you will!" said the prince uneasily. Elof saw his hand settle near his sword, and smiled.

"Take whatever precautions you will, prince. But I shall keep my word." Kenarech nodded curtly, striving to appear unafraid. Elof lifted a long left sleeve, and darkness seemed to fall in upon the forge like a net. He heard Kenarech's sharp breath in the darkness. "Silence, my lord, only for a minute longer! Have patience!
It is here
-"

The door creaked back, a faint outline of silver in the darkness; a shadow filled it, and a heavy tread rang upon the floor. Elof drew a deep breath and let his sleeve fall back; upon his arm was the gauntlet, his fist clenched tight upon the crystal at its heart, that only a short time since had drunk the blinding glare of a rare metal in flame. He heard Roc slam the door shut once more, and his hand flew open; the forge blazed into sight, stark and demonaic in its glare, impossibly sharp and shadowless. And in that terrible clarity stood revealed, frozen and grey as a mantled statue, the shape of Geraidh the prince. For Elof s message had been delivered to them both, differing only in the time of their coming, and the place where they must land; and in that fearful light he had revealed them each to the other, beyond the reach of bluff or hypocrisy, in the very moment of their treason.

"So then!" he cried, as the glare died, and the lights of the forge burgeoned once again. "So you would think to enlist me in your treacheries, and betray me in my turn? But do you bear witness that I have kept my word! For each of you has only to draw and strike down his brother before him, and mastery shall be his indeed!"

They stood there, those baffled princes, for longer than Elof would have thought possible, blinded both in body and mind by the bright light of their exposure. He could measure that time by his own heartbeats, that roared so loud in his ears it seemed the walls must be shaken. Then, with perhaps a greater unison than ever in their lives before, they turned their bloodless faces upon him; and their gaze was fell.

They snatched their swords from their scabbards, though Elof stood unarmed. Kenarech, who was nearest, advanced on him, breathing heavily, with the menacing pad of a cat to its kill. Elof made no move, but held him with his eyes. Geraidh circled the benches to get to him, but slowly, content, it seemed, to let his brother strike the first. Closer came Kenarech, till Elof could see the quiver of his lower lip and the tears of rage hot in his eyes. Then he swung up his sword and brought it down upon Elof s unguarded head.

Like a snake striking, the gauntlet sprang into the way; the blade passed between fingers and thumb and struck the pale jewel in the palm. And there it lodged without even a sound as the fingers clamped tight, for the jewel had drunk the force of the blow. Elof clutched the blade, twisting it, pressing it back with a strength so great that his left arm prevailed over both of Kenarech's. The prince saw what promised, his mouth fell open-to shriek; but then Elof undamped his grip. The blow had not been so hard, for though both princes were polished swordsmen they had seldom if ever had to fight in earnest, but it would have served to split a skull. Now, though, the blade was turned back against its wielder while it was still in his hand, and its force unleashed. Straight through Kenarech's throat it struck, and in a great spray of blood his head flew from his shoulders and went bouncing away across a bench. His body dropped convulsing to the sanded floor.

Geraidh sprang back, remembering all too late that he had to deal not with a helpless cripple but a sorcerer of craft and might. He sought to break for the door, but found himself facing Roc, grim-faced, his heavy longbow drawn to shoulder. He wailed like a beast and raised his sword as if to throw it, then whirled about and hurled himself with desperate frenzy on Elof. Elof seized his sword wrist as he struck, but the impact knocked him off his precarious balance, back against the great anvil. Kenarech's dark-smeared sword lay almost at his feet but as he sought to stoop for it Geraidh's other hand clamped tight on his. Fighting to stay on his feet, Elof could not bring his greater strength to bear, and so they swayed there, locked together for what seemed an eternity, though Roc had barely time to down his bow and seize a forgespike. Geraidh was screaming like a lunatic into Elof s face, spraying him with foam and spittle, snapping at his throat like a wolf, while Elof s back creaked agonizingly under both their weights against the sharp edge of the anvil. It might have gone hard with Elof, unable to use his legs; but Geraidh, desperate to escape, suddenly let go Elof's wrist and twisted to snatch a poniard from his belt. Even that slight relaxation was enough. As he raised the dagger Elof's powerful fingers clenched in the gaudy slashes of his jerkin and thrust him back, staggering; then they jerked him forward and to one side. The anvil's edge caught the taller man in the midriff and he folded over it with an impact that drove the wind from his lungs. Elof stooped with an equally painful gasp, and even as Geraidh rolled over, wheezing, to bring his blade across in a slashing cut, Kenarech's sword glittered high against the shadowy roof.

So near came Geraidh's sword that it slashed Elof's robe across and left a deep scratch over his ribs. Kenarech's smashed down upon the anvil with a dreadful clang. It was not a blade of Elof's making; it shivered like glass into flying fragments against the time-tempered iron. But it had done its work. Geraidh's blade clattered to the groped; slowly, leaving a great smear of blood like the trail of some unclean creature; his body slid down off the anvil, nerveless fingers scrabbling weakly at the iron. Roc exclaimed in disgust at the head that rolled past his feet.

But Elof paid him no heed. The bare hilt dropped from his hand, he tore off the ruined robe and cast it across the severed heads as they lay. With a strength that appalled Roc he seized a limp arm and began to drag the corpses to the back of the forge. Roc bent to help, but Elof waved him away. "This is for me to endure! Do you keep your hands clean of it!" Roc shuddered as he heard the furnace door creak back on its hinges, and sounds first of one heavy fall, then another, and at last the deep dull clang of the closing door, final and dreadful as a passing bell. A wheel spun; chains clanked and rattled, the floor trembled, and the leaves of silver writhed and curled like their live selves caught in an autumn fire. Then, letting fall his props, Elof half sat, half fell upon the seat of bricks at the hearth. For long minutes he huddled there, head bowed, the back of his hand to his lips, as if listening to that devouring roar beneath.

"Well?" demanded Roc. "Not having second thoughts, are you?"

Elof shook his head. "No!" he said, and his voice was steady though very bleak. "All other gates are closed to us now. Some blood splashed upon my lips, that is all; and it has a bitter tang."

Roc nodded. "They say it does," he said, "I'd better look to my packing now."

It did not take him long. When his pack was full he gathered up his steel-shod bow from the floor, unstrung it and brushed it clean, and slung it carefully on its quiver at his back. Only then did he turn back to Elof, and found he also had been busy. Of the robe there was no sign; but by Elof s side was a good-sized casket of plain wood, with a richly worked clasp. Roc hefted the pack. "Time I was away…"

"Aye," said Elof quietly. "High time!" He lifted the box. "You know what you must do with this?"

Roc took it gingerly, made as if to open the catch. Elof's hand restrained him. Roc tapped his foot a moment, considering. "I'll take Kenarech's little boat, it looks the handier for a no-sailor like me; Geraidh's I'll leave for you, just in case -"

"No. Do you scuttle it or set it adrift in the channel. I am weary, Roc, bitterly weary. Of suffering, and of making others suffer…" From the breast of his tunic Elof took the feather Kara had let fall, and beside it another almost as black, but with a faint sheen of gold. "If I succeed, well and good. If I fail - I fail."

"But our warning -"

"That burden falls on you then. Steer as truly westward as you can; err to the North, if anything. At worst, follow the margins of the Ice…"

"If we make it in time!" said Roc quietly. "All right. West and north - I'll try."

Elof heaved himself up suddenly and caught the shorter man by his broad shoulders. "Roc, fare you well! Truly well! A hundred times you've been my good fortune; the Powers know, you've earned some of your own!"

Roc cocked his head to one side, and grinned. "It's not every forgehand gets to serve such a master, that they know also! Whatever else, it's never been dull!" He clapped Elof on the arm with his own heavy hand, and turned away. At the door he paused, then flung it wide and filled his lungs with the clean night air. "Aah! I'd all but forgotten how fresh a tang it has, freedom! Fare you well also - Mastersmith!"

He closed the door softly behind him, and left Elof alone among the muted thunder of
the
forge.

Elof sat awhile, feeling more profoundly alone than ever in his life before, and then wearily he rose and began to sweep the bloody muck from the floor; in its place he sprinkled clean silver sand. The hardened earth beneath had drunk its fill, and the stains did not reappear.

That luxury he allowed himself, meaningless though it was; then he threw himself into his labours once more. He had lingered long ere he opened the furnace, almost too long. He felt the earthtides fight him at the door, and when at last he went down the steps he heard their grinding thunders behind it; but they hardly stirred the pile of cooling slag at its foot. All through the night he laboured, pausing only to gulp down a cup of wine, a morsel of meat, whenever the work allowed him. The work grew in his mind, under his hands, till it seemed to fill the whole universe; he almost forgot there was anywhere beyond the stifling forge, any future beyond its completion. He hummed at first as he laboured, and soon he was singing, singing with little heed of the smoky airs that arose from the furnace to claw his throat and burn in his breast. Into that song he poured his heart, a lilting ecstatic music of joy that knew nothing of treasons and bloodshed, that soared high above that sombre vault of fire and the toil that scorched his flesh and drew blood even from his hardened fingers.

l am a leaf, a leaf on the stormwind
Sailing, sailing
l am aflame, aflame on a feather,
On the wide air
Dancing, dancing
l am a cloud, a cloud on an eastwind
Bearing me homeward,
Singing, singing…

And into the work that song was woven.

Yet for all his absorbtion, in some remote corner of his thoughts he could not help imagining the train of events he had set in motion, so minutely that he seemed actually to be seeing them all, building up like strange simultaneous layers of motion. He saw Roc's little boat glide across the dark Yskianas to shore, beaching clumsily, no doubt, but safe; Roc leaving that casket with some of the gate guards he knew, repeating the instructions on its lid that it was for Nithaid's eyes alone, and then melting away into the end of the dark. Taking to the boat again, though not for long; Roc would sooner make his way ashore. Roc on his way, the casket borne by mounted courier through the sleeping streets of that immense city to the walls of the Strength of Kerys, and within, to await the coming of the king. He saw the sun arise over the Horns of the Bull more clearly than through his own shutters, his own eyes blind to all except the piecing together of things delicate into a binding whole. But then it grew less certain; Nithaid might return by water, sailing leisurely up the channels, or by land, to ride in triumph through the streets and enjoy the acclamation of his people. That was more likely, now that be brought peace to offer them, and the appearance, at least, of victory. He would come by the westward gates, then, and reach the palace sooner; about midday, perhaps. He would find troubled faces awaiting him; the princes would have been missed by then. Perhaps Beathaill would tell then, something at least. They would bring Nithaid the casket…

Elof swallowed, and bent himself to his labours; that scene he had no wish to see. Ironic, that mercy should be cloaked thus in the appearance of fiendish cruelty; or was it mercy? A strange kind, if so, twisted and deformed; but so Nithaid had made him, and must take his mercy as it came. He could not banish it from his mind; Nithaid, grim-faced, being handed the box, the courtiers who gave it melting away into the crowd, beyond the reach of his wrath. Nithaid, pale and apprehensive, balancing the box on his knees against his bloated belly, hesitating, then angrily snapping back the catch and swinging up the lid…

Elof started, and almost burned himself on the furnace's outer door. There, in the two wide cups, with clasps of gems and gold to weight down their eyes, to uphold the sagging jaws, the severed heads of his two beloved sons… Even in memory that vision almost unmanned Elof; yet without it the King must begin to wonder how Elof had enticed his sons - and inevitably somebody would talk. Now, though, there would be room only for horror and grief, agonies of grief; and then wrath such as even Nithaid had rarely displayed, wrath against Valant the dark sorcerer, Valant the murderer. He would draw the black blade, and then… soon? How soon? Elof threw back the shutters, and was appalled; the sun was already past its zenith. Little time remained. Hastily he flung back the furnace door, and smelt the hair scorching on his hands in the air that blasted by, the inner door must be scarcely closed. Most of the delicate work was finished, woven already into the web of the whole; what remained was chiefly smith's work, making joint and frame strong and true against the forces they must endure. But that he must manage soon, soon… He glanced at the stalks, at the leaves that clung curled, and bit his lip; he could not wait for it to cool. He gathered up his tool-pack; the arm-ring, after a slight hesitation, he looped around the chain at his neck, for it was too small for either arm. He had not expected to feel anything; yet he was aware of a sudden strengthening, a reinforcement of his will, as if the power he had poured into that gold long ago had returned
to
him now. Over his left hand he drew the gauntlet, and slowly, carefully, he heaved himself over the hot metal rim and down into the depths of the forge.