The Forge in the Forest (50 page)

A voice was calling into vast depths, and slowly, effort-fiilly, he swam upward, struggling to understand and answer. He could scarcely make the effort, he wanted to cut free, to rest. But then a hand touched his shoulder, and he was suddenly wide awake. The old man was stooping over him, his eyes wide, his silver hair awry as if from some great wind. "Sir! Sir! What is happening? What has passed?" Elof shook his head, unable to answer, and in sudden panic looked to the others. They sat there, still chained, their faces pale with shock but alive and alert. "Has it come to you, sir? The whole city is astir!"

"Has what come?" snapped Kermorvan.

"I… I cannot say… A v-vision, a visitation. A terrible sight, upon rooftop after rooftop. In mail, barelegged, slender as a young girl, yet… Like a bird. Crying out, chanting…"

"Like a bird? Her helm, you mean, and her feather-cloak?"

The jailer shook his head. "No! No cloak… All over the city she is seen, on one rooftop she appears, then vanishes and takes shape on another. And each time, sir, each time wilder, each time more like a bird! The way she cried out, the shrieks! And then the words, a chant, a summons, a warning… that there were those come to… to deliver us… a lord in danger of being slain in secret… that we should free them, heed them, that we might all win free! And I thought at once of you, how secretly they brought you in and Bryhon came to you. And under cover of the uproar I crept back…"He stopped. "Listen! Do you listen, now!"

Faintly they heard it, a shrieking incantation, a clarion cry that rang and echoed across the city below. And though wordless with distance, yet it set the hair bristling upon their heads, the blood surging in their hearts. And under it, even as it cut short, another sound arose that might have been the sea rising yet was not, was the distant slam of shutter and door, of voices raised and feet running, and here and there the first angry shouts of conflict, screams and turmoil and the thin clink of arms. The old man winced. "Sirs, lady, she's rousing all the quarter around, men, women, children! The man-eaters will cut them to pieces! Is it you? Is the one she promised among you?"

"We must get free!" cried Kermorvan. "Elof, she broke your chains—"

"Aye, but my feet are still fastened!"

"Hold, sir!" The old man picked up a stout bar of steel. "I could find naught else, and doubted its strength and mine. But you…" Elof snatched the bar out of his hand, thrust it through chain and staple, and gave a single sharp heave. The bar quivered, the staple rose, bent, and then with a crack bar and chain shivered as one, and Elof rolled free. He snatched up the larger piece of bar, but it would not shift the heavy ring fastening Kermorvan's manacles.

"Your hammer, man!" wheezed Roc. "Your tools!"

"They took them with the packs and the swords!"

"Two great swords, sir? And packs of green hide? They lie in the guardchamber, sir, at the stairhead. I might… if the guards are occupied… I might…" The old voice trembled.

"Show me!" hissed Elof, and together they plunged for the door. The corridor beyond was empty, but from up the stairs voices echoed, and the slam of doors. Motioning the old man to stay behind him, Elof sidled up, striving to be silent, hastily gathering up the lengths of clinking chain still hanging from his manacles. He felt no fear; that moment of insanity, that shattering spearthrust, had blasted fear from him. He moved as if in a daze of concentration, taut, ready, intent as beast upon its prey.

The door at the stairhead stood open, and in it two Ekwesh, staring out into the restless night. The old man touched his arm, pointing to the firelit archway beyond them; the guardroom. Elof nodded, and as he did so the clumsy manacle scraped against stone. The Ekwesh whirled around, but Elof had already launched himself across the floor. One hefted a spear, but Elof dashed his manacled wrist into the man's face, and he fell. The other sprang aside, drawing a long dagger, but Elof whipped at him with the loose chain, once, twice, and caught him in the throat. He also fell, and Elof snatched up the spear from the floor as a third warrior ran out of the guardroom. The stout targe on his arm turned the awkward thrust Elof aimed, but the force of it overbalanced his own stroke; he stumbled past, Elof sprang aside and drove the broad spear through his back. But the first man was up now, drawing his short sword, and Elof could not free the spear. He let go, gathering up his chain, but the Ekwesh jerked suddenly, gurgled, and collapsed. Behind him stood the old man, long dagger bloody in his hand. "There are only these three! The rest must be outside somewhere. Quickly!" Elof thrust closed the outer door; there was no key, but he shot the heavy bolt, and turned to search.

Within the guardroom, laid carelessly upon a table, lay Gorthawer and the other weapons, and beside them their precious packs, apparently untouched. "If only the chieftains were too busy to look at these yet!" muttered Elof, thrusting them at the old man. "I need my hands free!" In his right he took Gorthawer, in his left the hammer, and one of the torches from the wall. "Now, down again!"

The hallway was empty, the stairs also, though raised voices and heavy feet echoed elsewhere in the building. They plunged back into the cell, and Elof locked the door behind them. "That wins us minutes, at least! Now, all of you, lean away from the wall!" Three great strokes smote chains and hasps out of the stone, another three the staples from their feet. Then, heedless of gasped thanks, Elof delved among his tools and found grippers to unfasten the bolted manacles.

Kermorvan stood up, swaying only slightly from his cramped confinement, and seized his pack. His breath shuddered a moment, and he shut his eyes. "It is here!" he gasped. "They have not taken it!" And he spilled the bundle of mail from the pack, and began tearing at his tattered traveling clothes. "Do you others don your war gear! We may need mail to win free of here!" Swiftly he pulled the black mailcoat over his head, donned belt, mailed leggings and boots, and buckled on plates at shoulder, arm and knee. Only the jeweled helm he did not don,

but returned carefully to the pack which he hung beneath his cloak. Last of all he took up the small breastplate, and beckoned to the old man. "Now, sir, I may answer your question! Bring here the torch, and look well upon me." The damascened tracery on the breastplate gleamed redly as he buckled it on; the dim eyes squinted at it, widened in shock and lifted at once to his face. Kermorvan nodded curtly, and they filled with sudden tears. "Aye, chamberlain. The raven spreads its wings in the east once more. And one named Keryn bears it."

The old chamberlain bowed his head, unable to speak, and then he glanced at the others, Ils in her bright mailshirt and Roc in breastplate and steel helm, and stared in amazement at Elof; He alone bore no armor, but after shedding his tatters he had donned the smith's garb given him by Korentyn, and over it his swordbelt and the long mail gauntlet. "Sirs and lady, as noble and fell a company are you as fits this hour! If we can win through to the streets, I will guide you as far as old legs may bear me. Say no more to me, but to the people!"

Kermorvan drew his sword, unlocked the door and threw it wide. Out into the passage he sprang, the others behind him. There he hesitated, looking at the other cell doors, but Elof, knowing how impulsive his humanity could be, and how perilous, barged him forward. "You cannot help them yet!"

Kermorvan turned reluctantly to the stairs, and sprang up them with Roc on his heels, Elof and Ils helping the old chamberlain. The slain guards lay undiscovered in the few minutes that had passed, the door still closed. At Kermorvan's behest they flattened themselves against the wall while he spied out through the doorway. "Everywhere Ekwesh!" he whispered, tense as a bowstring. "But no solid line, and their gaze is turned outward to the city. Best we burst through from behind and bolt ere they recover!"

"Then you must leave me!" gasped the old man. "I will delay you…"

"Enough!" said Kermorvan crisply. "We leave together! Ready? Now!" With a swift heave he sent the weighty door wide on its hinges, and charged through. Elof, right behind him, had a brief confused image of firelight, smoke and disorder, and the black silhouettes of tall men only a few paces ahead, pointing out into the blackness and shouting. Not until Kermorvan was almost upon the nearest ones did they seem to hear, and glance back; one was fast enough to whirl round and raise his spear, and by a flicker of the fire Elof knew him for the young chieftain who had captured them. But before his spear left his hand Kermorvan's sword reaped the smoky air, the spearshaft shivered and the chieftain seemed to spring backward in a glittering spray of blood. Kermorvan leaped over him and hewed the head from another, while Roc smashed his mace down on the shoulder of one still drawing sword. With that they were through to the outside steps, and clattering down them into thicker wreaths of smoke; Elof saw with a dreadful sinking feeling that they were drifting up from the town, and that the firelight was burning roofs. Shouts came from behind them, and on the steps below startled brown faces loomed suddenly out of the murk; Elof struck at one and it vanished in a clatter, Ils another, then for a moment it was hard hewing, shouts and shrieks, before a way was clear and they could run. Elof lagged a step, his bootsole greasy with another's blood. Suddenly a ghost plucked hard at his cloak, another hissed savagely by his ear. He called a warning to the others as the arrows whined in the blackness and rattled across the worn stone of the stairs, but through the smoke now only chance could have found them a target. Behind, though, Elof heard the heavy tread of pursuing feet, and further off the sound of hooves. Abruptly there were no more stairs underfoot, but ringing cobbles, and the chamberlain was gasping out directions. Down a steep winding street they ran, into a narrow alley and through to another winding street. But round the corner of that, doubling up the slope from the city below, came a file of some fifteen Ekwesh, alert and watchful with their spears readied. Without a break in stride Kermorvan swung up his sword, yelled "
Morvan morlanhal
!" and flung himself at them.

The sheer speed of his attack carried him down the line, and three fell almost before they could counter him. But by then he had burst through the file, while Ils and Elof fell on its leaders. It might have been a sore skirmish, but the Ekwesh broke away the moment they could and ran off up the slope.

"Cravens!" jeered Roc.

"Not these!" panted Kermorvan. "They must have orders. Orders not to risk engagements… That is it! Patrols have been mobbed, and they are pulling in the rest. No more policing; they regroup for an attack. Sir, we must come fast among men of the city!"

"To where folk would most likely think of mustering, then," the chamberlain croaked. "To the Landfall Square!" Across the street he led them, and to a gap between buildings so slight that few would think of squeezing through it; Roc, slimmed as he was by hardship, had some trouble. Into a courtyard it led them, by the boarded windows of an inn, and out under a low doorway in the inn buildings into a wide straight street of tall towers and dwellings that sloped away down the hill and into the distance. Sounds of pursuit were left behind, but they hurried along as fast as the old man could bear. "If I fail," he gasped, "do you go straight that way, follow that road and the sound of the sea to… by Kerys' Gate!"

He pointed with trembling hand, but there was no need. The others also had seen and heard, the sudden flash of light atop the tallest tower at the hill's foot, the eerie cry that rang so loud the deepest sleeper would be blasted awake and shivering. But more shattering to them was the sight they saw clearly, being almost on a level with the tower top. A figure stood there, and instead of arms it had vast black wings, which smote at the stars. Atop those wings was no helm but the living head of a giant bird, a bright-eyed raptor with sickle bill agape, shrieking alarm as if each breath cost bitter agony. But beneath head and wing, mail clung to the heaving breasts and body of a woman, bare legs below were fastened by a gleaming chain and shackle. And from moment to moment it was as if the wings faded to a drape of shadow over slender arms.

Folk of Morvannec! Harken and hear me!

Start from your sleep now, wake to the watchcry!

Strike off your shackles, shatter your slavery!

Free and at hand is your destined deliverer!

Into the streets with you! Out at the summons!

Sweep out as streams in the surge of the stormrains,

Strike as the waves at the walls of the harbors,

Burst with your bright blood through bond and through

barrier! Look to your lord for the light of your liberty, Heed him that through him you all shall be free! Harden your courage! Harden your courage! Harden your courage, and hew at your foe!

And it is told that a mighty wind did then seize the bells of that tower, and many others, and shake them like so much chaff cast up from the winnowing. Across the city a great clangor of chimes arose, and the voices of men answered them. But atop the tower the voice wavered, the figure tottered as if seized and pulled off balance; the vast wings threshed, and with a last ear-splitting shriek of pain it vanished.

"They have her!" said Kermorvan grimly. "She was sorely torn, but she has done your bidding, Elof, and that is much!" He looked up at the dwellings around, where startled faces peered out from behind door and shutter, staring from the empty tower top to the armed figures in the street. "
Out
!" he cried, the clear metal of his voice mingling with the wild bell music. "Out at the call! The city is risen! Freedom and death hang in the balance! Find weapons and follow! Follow to the Landfall!"