The Forge in the Forest (3 page)

"Roc!" he yelled suddenly, and whirled round. Slipping on the cobbles, he dashed back into the smithy, yelling for his friend and wondering why he had to; that levin-bolt should have had the whole household hurtling from their beds. But the corridor was empty, and when he flung wide the door of Roc's chamber his friend was still a round hummock beneath the bedclothes. It was Marja who bounced up first from beside him, angrily clutching a fur counterpane about herself.

She had fled with old Hjoran, late her master, out of the north when their towns were sacked by Ekwesh marauders. When at last the great tide of fugitives had borne them to the Southlands they were as near starvation as any, but by good fortune they had fallen in with Roc; remembering Hjoran kindly, and knowing the worth of even a minor mastersmith of the north, Roc had taken them into his own forge. The partnership had prospered, but to what degree Elof had not guessed. Too impatient, though, to be startled or embarrassed now, he seized Roc by the shoulder. "Wake up! Didn't you hear it?"

"Hear what?" mumbled Roc.

"The crash! The bolt! Roc, it was the Raven!"

"The Raven?" cried Marja, gaping wide-eyed at Elof as if he were mad. Distant lightning whitened the shutters.

"The Raven?" yelped Roc, sitting up and looking wildly about. "Like you told me? The bastard's back? Where? In here?"

"Yes! Here in the smithy!" Marja cried out and dived beneath the bedclothes in a tangle of brown limbs. "Didn't you hear? It was like thunder… Never mind! Up with you, up, while I rouse Hjoran! There's work afoot! I can reforge the sword!"

"Now hold hard!" growled Roc angrily, pulling his arm free, and putting a protective arm round the heap of bedclothes. "Amicac's teeth, man! You come barging in… I know you're all agog, but there's nothing that won't wait for honest sunlight—"

"But there is!" cried Elof. "While it's at hand—oh, there's no time to explain!"

"At least send for Ils, and we'll see what she—"

"No time even for that! I'm sorry, Marja, but we must hurry or it'll be too late!"

Roc winced as the cold air struck his bare skin. "It'd better be good, that's all!"

It was a strange parade that scant minutes later made its uneasy way down the street toward the steps of the harbor wall and emerged at last, gasping exhaustion like landed fish, into the rain-sprinkled air atop the open summit of Vayde's Tower. The guttering linklight Marja held high trailed a splash of gold around the battlements, cast her spidery shadow down across the gallery where the Mastersmith had lurked among his looted wealth. In her free hand she bore Elof's bundle of tools, under that arm the ruined blade, well wrapped, and in the pocket of her man's smock the hilt and fresh rivets. As she came out under the sky she looked back with concern at the three men stumbling and gasping up the stair behind her, under the weight of Roc's strongest and heaviest anvil. By now old Hjoran could give no more than token assistance, and even Roc's dour strength ebbed. But Elof drove them on up the steps like a man inspired, taking ever more of the burden upon his own shoulders. Lightning flashed, the thunder hard on its heels, and he chivvied his friends furiously up the last few steps.

"If that Raven shows his face again," gurgled Roc, "he'll have this slung in it!"

"What I'd gladly know, lads," panted Hjoran, as they struggled out onto the summit, "is just how much further there's to go?"

"This is the place!" gasped Elof, lifting his face to the spattering rain. "And in time, it seems!"

"Here?" demanded Roc. "Why here? There's not even a fireplace…" But they were glad enough to set down the anvil, with a clang that struck sparks from the hard stone. Hjoran leaned on it, wheezing, while Marja comforted him.

Breathless, Elof gazed out over the harbor and the sea beyond. In the lightning's own light the stormclouds rose up immense, bastion upon bastion, like some great fortress of the Powers, seething with the energies it could scarce contain. Now their vanguard was almost overhead, and the rain was growing heavier, sputtering against the link's cover. A great curtain of it, opaque as a pearl, was sweeping in across the churning sea, no more than moments away. He set his teeth and looked down into the darkness of the stairwell. All the time they had struggled through it he had been willing some guidance from it, some sign such as he had once felt there. Now there was nothing, save perhaps watchfulness, remote and stern. A flash sent his shadow coursing down the steps; the thunder was so close he jumped. "This grows perilous!" he heard Hjoran grumble, and Marja's squeak of agreement.

"It does indeed!" Roc said. He took the bag of tools and unrolled it on the anvil top. "Leave the gear, Marja, get you back to the stairs, and you, Hjoran. I'll give him what help he needs…"

"It's given," said Elof quietly, unwrapping the blade. "Pass me a good hammer, if you please, the great slope-headed one of duergar pattern. Fit those rivets to the hilt, there, and lay them aside with a punch to fit. Then go with the others."

"You're sure?" growled Roc, rummaging through the clinking roll. "I smell another of your tomfool tricks—"

"Maybe. But fool or no, none save myself may try. Now keep back!"

Flash and thunder all but drowned him out. The few hulls at anchor rocked, plunged and vanished as the rain lashed across their decks. "Get below!" Elof yelled. "There's no more you can do! Later I may need you!" From the pouch at his belt he tugged the armor gauntlet he had made among the duergar, and Roc's eyes widened in understanding, doubt and awe.

"Do you make sure later comes, that's all!" he bellowed, and vanished smartly into the stairwell. An instant later the line of rain charged across the tower top, and all vanished in lashing confusion.

Elof stood fast by the anvil, fighting to keep his feet against the buffeting wind, struggling to hold the blade while he drew on the long gauntlet. It slid minutely over his fingers, inscribed and patterned plate molding smoothly to the close contours of his flesh, mail fine almost as cloth swelling and shaping around the very joints, till his arm was enclosed to the shoulder and his fingers could at last close firm round the flat faceted jewel at its heart. With that comfort he dared not pause to think, but sprang up upon the battlements and thrust his arm to the sky. Now he himself was the summit of the seawall, there was no higher point save the towers of the distant citadel itself. It must happen, it had to happen any moment now!

Then a thought unleashed a rush of cold perspiration. Quickly he spread his fingers wide and flat as he could, arching back his hand to raise the palm. If it should light first on a fingertip, anywhere but the palm…

The storm took him and shook him, the blast yelled at him not to be a fool, he felt it roll and swirl in the abyss at his back, down along the streets far below. Or was it at his back? He was no longer even sure which way he faced. All his courage was thinning and draining out of him, leached away by the icy rain. He had carried that anvil too long, he had no strength left; his arm was a taut hot wire of pain, his wrist an agony of tension, his fingers squalling to cramp shut. Another minute and he must abandon this lunacy, drop down and cower before forces he should never have aspired to defy, another second even…

Then it was as if storm and tower and all else vanished, and an infinite whiteness opened around him, a space that echoed with the single stroke of an incalculable drum. A vast weight descended, and for a moment he held up the whole vault of the sky on his palm, lest it drop to shatter the fragile glass bubble of a world beneath. It was cramp, not will, that snapped his fingers shut. At once the storm was buffeting him again, and he held some vast monster by the leash, that throbbed and trembled in his palm. He wavered, lost his footing and with a yell of madness leaped the only way he could. Hard flagstones slapped at his feet, he stumbled against the anvil and the black blade clattered down upon it. He was dimly aware of voices that clamored to him, but the throbbing grew within his palm till it seemed the very joints of his fingers must yield. With his right hand he edged the blade round to lie against the metal, and groped blindly for his hammer. The short haft came under his fingers and he seized it, feeling the comforting weight. Down above the black sword's twisted heart he brought his quivering arm, the clamped fist vertical, closed thumb uppermost. Then, feeling the faint ripple of fine rings clashing, he slowly released his little finger a trifle, as if he would trickle away a fistful of sand.

White fire purer than the shrouded stars poured down upon the anvil, a sparkling, blasting light that mere eyelids barely barred. A hundred high fosses roared there, cataracts louder than the storm. Roc yelled at something, but his voice was lost in the tumult. To the watchers at the stairhead Elof s sturdy frame stood out against the light in a single sweep of motion, the huge hammer swinging high to the top of its arc, descending with easy, leisurely grace. While the light still shone, the hammer plunged down into its midst, rose and plunged again, and a fountain of smoke spurted up for the storm to sport with. At the fourth blow or the fifth the light cut off abruptly, and Elof let the hammer fall. But the gauntlet, still clenched, he raised now on high, and sent his own closed fist hammering down in the hammer's place. A blasting light smote upon the anvil and leaped upward to the racing clouds, a great ringing clang shook the tower, and the smith staggered and sank down to his knees upon the glistening flagstones.

Whether it was the final escape of what had been captured, or simply the eye of the storm, a clearness opened overhead. The rain slackened to a fine drizzle, as if the clouds wept for their lost power. The watchers stumbled up from the stairwell and rushed to the swaying figure before them, fearful of injuries they might find. But though his garments smoldered in many places and his wet hair smoked, though his face was smudged and scorched, his eyes glittered with a wild exaltation. "See!" he shouted, and pointed with his out-thrust gauntlet. "You wise Wanderer, say, do I pass the test? And you from whose hand I took it, do you bear witness! Say now, is it not truly mine? From a dying hand it fell ruined, but by a living one it is made whole! On evil it was marred, yet it shines now straight and strong! To life again it awakens, to strike in its defense! Blind the unhallowed with your dark gleam, shatter the evil, strike down the false!" Shaking off the hands of his friends, Elof surged to his feet seized the hilt from the flagstones and stumbled forward. In the pale glow of the lancing flares overhead they looked after him, and saw. Hjoran cried out. Marja squealed, and Roc swore in a hoarse whisper. Straight indeed stood the black blade, for it was driven deep down into the very metal of the anvil.

Elof thrust the hilt down over the upturned tang and twisted the rivets home. Then, without staying to flatten them, he braced a boot against the iron and gave a single convulsive heave. With a scream of stressed metal, a shower of sparks, a loud triumphant ring, the blade tore free. The anvil, cracked now from top to foot, fell slowly into two and clanged upon the tower's dark stones, hissing in the reviving rain. "
So cleaves the smith's own blade
!"

Then Elof laughed weakly and turned to Roc and the others, and embraced them; clumsily, for he would not set down the sword. "Thank you, my friends, thank you! I am sorry it had to come so fast, and without explanation. And Roc, I'll craft you trinkets enough to pay for a fine new anvil…"

Hjoran and Marja stood dazed and speechless, but Roc, more hardened to strange matters, simply shook his head in wonder, and set to gathering up Elof's tools. "That's no matter. Leave this where it lies for now, and let's be off here ere the heavens start some more smithying of their own!" He chivvied the others off down the stairs, clapped Elof on the back as he passed and exclaimed at the soggy thump
his hand made. "Do you come back with us, man
, you're soaked to the skin! We'll find you a stoup of mulled wine and a warm bed!"

Elof shook his head, still exultant. "I thank you, but no! I've trespassed enough upon you all for tonight. I'll turn back to Kermorvan's house and my own bed, and leave you in peace."

"As you will!" said Roc, putting his arm around Marja.; "My respects to his lordship, and we'll be cheering him when he comes out onto the steps tomorrow."

"You're not coming to the ceremony?"

"What, to hear a crew of windbag syndics spouting for hours?" scoffed Roc. "I'll leave the formalities to you and Ils, you've the heads for them. Sooner pass the time in the alehouse, if there's any to be had in these days!"

Elof chuckled with the others. "If there is, I'll be bound you'll find it! Save some for us, afterward!" Letting the others press on ahead, he lingered in the musty darkness, finding its cool quietude pleasant after the storm above. The blade in his hands was cool also, and the gauntlet at his belt; scarcely conceivable it seemed that such forces had flowed through them not long since. He thought back to the moment of fire, to the brief glimpse he had gained deep into the matter of the sword. It was indeed no metal. Long black strands had glowed within it, coiled and twisted, set thick in a hard dark binding substance; glossy and lustrous they had seemed, like the locks of some long-dead beauty set imperishably, save that the blade's edge was finer than the finest hair. He stopped by one of the great stairwell windows, where stormlight yet glimmered, and held up the sword to gaze again. But its surface was once more a mirror impenetrable. A thought struck him, and he looked at the hilt, tilting it in the light. Once more it glimmered with racing cloud patterns, but they seemed gray no longer; they were black, potent as the storm-clouds whose living force had flowed into the blade's reforging. "I never named you before," he said softly. "I cannot have been sure of you, indeed. But now I am, and for the darkness that clings to you I will name you. The Bringer of Darkness be, Herald of Night, Gorthawer in the Sothran tongue, and may you fall ever upon the eyes of my foes!" On impulse he slashed at the air with the sword Gorthawer, and a voice sang in the darkness, high, exultant, clearer than of old. It spoke words to him that fired his blood, made him forget a moment wetness and chill and the weary walk that lay between him and the bed he yearned to collapse on. "A dark road lies ahead," he breathed. "But at least I have won back one true companion on it. I wonder what others I may find?"