The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (22 page)

“Morgin, duck.”

At Baldrak’s shout Morgin let his knees
buckle, dropping to the floor and spinning to see what had happened. A massive
anvil, splinters of wood still clinging to it, almost took off his head as it
sailed past him and thudded into the hard dirt floor. The sword on which he’d
focused his concentration shot toward him, the other swords on the bench
following it, all tumbling end-over-end. Morgin hugged the dirt floor and
willed the steel to stillness as one blade—he no longer knew which—stuck
its point in the ground near his hand. The other swords clattered on top of him
in a heap, a hammer thumped into his ribs, and other smithing tools slammed
into the pile of swords and tools atop him.

It ended abruptly, and into the silence that ensued
Chagarin whispered, “Is anyone hurt.”

“Not me,” one of the smiths
said.

“Nor I,” said another

As each of the smiths chimed in, Morgin took stock of
himself; bruises definitely, but no serious wounds. “I’m
ok too,” he said, trying to rise, tools and swords clattering off
him as he did so.

Baldrak lent him a hand, helped him get to his feet,
looked at him closely for a moment and said, “Bloody SteelMaster. Could
of got us all killed.” Then he burst into laughter.

The other smiths joined him, and Morgin did too, his
stomach almost cramping he laughed so hard. One of the smiths slapped him on
the back and said, “Next time you try that, make sure I ain’t
in the room.”

That brought on even more laughter.

Chapter 16: The Curse of the
Benesh’ere

Morgin swung the heavy sledge high over his head and
brought it down onto the block of cherry red steel. Welded to the block was a
thick rod of steel a bit longer than a man’s arm, glowing red hot
where it met the block, but cool and dark at the other end where Chagarin
gripped it. By tradition, when striking a sword, the master smith stood on the
north side of the largest anvil in the Forge Hall. Morgin, one of three
strikers, stood on the west side, while the other two completed the remaining
points of the compass.

When Morgin’s sledge struck the hot metal it
produced a muted clang; steel heated to the point of softness did not ring as
clearly as cold metal. The striker next to him brought his sledge down,
followed by the third striker. The three of them created a three-beat tempo,
with a slight pause before Morgin again raised his sledge to repeat it. During
one such pause, as Morgin swung his sledge high over his head, Chagarin rotated
the block onto its side.

Clang clang clang . . . clang clang clang . . .
clang clang clang.

It was mindless work, and Morgin relished it for that. He
swung the sledge time and time again, his mind drifting through a hundred
different thoughts. At moments like this, he sometimes mourned Rhianne, and
vowed revenge on Valso for her murder. But that pain was too raw to dwell on,
so he thought on that glimpse he’d had of the two spires, and his
long-ago memory of them. Buried within him he had a collage of such memories,
but he could retrieve only the memory of the two spires. He certainly retained
other reference points that might help him find Aethon’s tomb; he’d
already ventured out twice on his own in attempts to find them, and twice now
he’d failed. Only the two spires stood out as distinct and well
defined. The rest swirled about in his thoughts, confusingly tangled into an
ever-changing pattern of mixed memories. Perhaps each memory would coalesce
properly only when he actually looked upon the feature he’d
memorized so long ago.

Clang clang clang . . . clang clang clang . . .
clang clang clang.

Chagarin turned the block on its side several times, and it
lengthened a tiny bit each time a sledge slammed into it. But it was not yet
time to strike it toward its final shape as a blade, and the cherry red glow
had dimmed. When it was next Morgin’s turn to swing his sledge he
held back and said, “The color’s not right. And it’s
time for a fold.”

Chagarin nodded, lifted the block on the end of the bar
and shoved it into the forge. As they waited for the color of the steel to
return to bright, cheery red, Morgin put down his sledge and lifted a heavy
steel wedge mounted on the end of a long iron handle. Chagarin removed the
block from the forge, placed it on the anvil again, and Morgin placed the point
of the heavy wedge on top of it in the middle of the block. The other two
strikers hammered down on the top of the wedge several times, slowly forcing
the wedge through the block of metal. When they’d almost, but not
quite, separated the block into two pieces, Chagarin and Morgin used tongs to
fold the block back on itself. Chagarin returned the folded block to the forge
and looked at Morgin questioningly. “I can still hear a faint echo
of a flaw in the block,” Morgin said. “Two or three
more folds should eliminate it completely.”

Morgin’s sense of the steel had grown
considerably in recent days, and it had turned into an ability to know exactly
when to move on to the next step in the process. The smiths had wanted him to
forego the heavy labor of a striker, but with his ancient memories hammering at
his thoughts, he wanted to again experience every facet of making a blade.

No one smith made an entire blade. Each man had his own
specialty, be it striking the steel, shaping, quenching, finishing the blade,
or finishing the hilt. One man might, on his own, make a pot for the cooking
fires, or a small knife, but not a blade. A blade required a team effort
overseen by Chagarin, and now Morgin with him.

Clang clang clang . . . clang clang clang . . .
clang clang clang.

They returned to the rhythm of striking the steel.

~~~

Five straight days of striking steel, folding, striking,
folding, striking—they’d worked into the night on
this fifth day, folding and striking until the last block whispered to Morgin
that it was ready. Then he and the smiths all took a dip in the lake to wash
off the grime and sweat. He washed his clothes, put on his breeches and carried
the rest slung over his shoulder, and in the cool night air his hair had almost
dried completely by the time he returned to his tent utterly exhausted. But
where his tent had stood he now found a giant pavilion, with Harriok waiting
for him at the entrance.

“Where’s my tent?”
Morgin demanded.

Harriok glanced over his shoulder and looked at the
pavilion. “This is your tent.”

“Just had to have it your way, eh?”

Harriok winced at Morgin’s words. “It’s
not having it my way that matters. You are the first SteelMaster to come among
us in centuries. You freed the spirit of the sands, and righted the first four
wrongs before that.”

He looked at the pavilion again, then turned back to
Morgin and swept his arms out to indicate the entire camp. “You
are our future, the end of our exile. You’ve already given us new
heart by telling us it was not we who betrayed the Shahotma, that we stood by
him unto the end. Every whiteface walks with their chin held a little higher
now. No longer must we bear the burden that history falsely laid upon us. So
can you blame us if we try to give you every comfort we can—if we
revere you just a little?”

Morgin opened his mouth to protest, but Harriok held up a
hand to stop him. “Don’t worry. My father and I have
spread the word, made everyone aware that we’ll only make you
uncomfortable if we go too far. We also pointed out that if we make too much of
it, the clans will learn you are with us, and they’ll come after
you. So it’s in every whiteface’s best interest to
pretend a SteelMaster has not come among us.”

Harriok looked back at the pavilion again. “It
is a bit much, but please honor us by accepting it.”

Harriok didn’t wait for an answer, but turned
and walked calmly away. For the first time Morgin realized how much he meant to
them, realized he let them down by not accepting the honor of their gifts,
though he resolved he would only let it go so far.

He ducked under the tent flap and into the pavilion. A
small lamp dimly lit the interior, and he saw that a thin curtain divided the
tent into two rooms. He unbuckled his sword belt, was about to lay the sheathed
blade to one side when he heard another blade slide from its sheath. He reached
for the hilt of his sword, but someone behind him laid cold steel on his
shoulder; the tip of a sword hovered near his throat just within view. “Don’t,”
Blesset said.

She caressed his cheek with the steel and it glinted in
the dim light only a finger’s breadth from his eyes. Then the
sword’s tip rose from his shoulder, and it disappeared as he heard
the hiss of a blade slashing through the air. He flinched, waiting for her to
attempt to kill him, not wanting to call on the steel unless he had to. When
nothing happened after several heartbeats, he turned about slowly, his sheathed
sword in his left hand. She stood facing him, holding her blade lowered to her
side, and because the lamp behind her made her a black silhouette, he could see
nothing of her features.

“SteelMaster,” she whispered. “Bah!”

He said, “I don’t want to be a
SteelMaster—
the
SteelMaster. But the
gods haven’t given me any choice in the matter.”

“You would have me believe they haven’t
given
us
any choice in the matter. What if I
choose to kill you where you stand right this moment? That would be a choice.”

“No,” Morgin said, “you
couldn’t. I wouldn’t allow your steel to do so.”

He tensed, ready to command the steel if she decided to
exercise her choice, but she just stood there staring at him, her sword held
loosely by her side.

Knowing in his heart she needed to know the truth, he
said, “Let me tell you a story.” She didn’t
respond, so he told her of the first five deeds. He told her his story in its
entirety, told her of SheelThane, Aiergain, AnneRhianne, WolfDane and Shebasha.
He told her of Morddon, Aethon, Gilguard, Metadan and Ellowyn. He told it all.

“So you see,” he finished. “I’m
not some hero who has quested to right the seven wrongs. I’m just
trying to stay alive, and somehow I stumble into each deed. I’m
just a fool, that way.”

Again, she said nothing, stood there regarding him. But
after the longest moment, she turned, and carrying her naked blade at her side,
she walked out of the tent. As she’d turned, he’d
caught a glimpse of something glistening on her cheek, and he thought it might
have been a tear.

~~~

Jokath held out his tankard to the bartender. “I’ll
have another.”

Wiping a clay mug with a bar-towel, the bartender shook
his head and said, “Not until you clear your tab. No more credit
for you.”

A tall man leaned on the bar next to Jokath. “How
much is his tab?” he asked. “Maybe I’ll
cover it.”

As the bartender said, “Two silvers,”
Jokath looked at the man carefully. Tall and gangly, blond hair just short of
shoulder length, long, blond mustache, its ends waxed and curled.

“Now why would you do that?”
Jokath asked.

The blond stranger turned slowly to face him. Jokath
looked into his eyes, but something there sent a shiver up his spine, so he
looked away.
Inhuman
, Jokath thought,
and dangerous.
He wondered if he should walk away from
this, but he could not resist the idea of a little profit.

The stranger spoke in a growl, his voice like the rumble
of distant thunder. “I heard you say you’ve just come
up from the south. I’m traveling south for the first time, and I’d
like to know what I’ll find down there.”

Jokath smiled, but knew better than to look again into the
stranger’s eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to give the fellow a
little information, especially if he was buying. “I make the trip
regularly, and I know the way well. It’s part of my business.”
Jokath didn’t add that his business was thievery. He hadn’t
crossed the line into outright robbery, for the clans tended to hunt highwaymen
down and hang them. But small groups were easy prey if they didn’t
know enough to post a proper guard.

The stranger paid his back debt, ordered two fresh
tankards of ale, handed one to Jokath and said, “Let’s
take a table where we can speak in private.”

Jokath spoke at length of every minute detail concerning
the Gods Road going south. He knew it well, for he’d haunted it
for years, and carefully gave out more facts than were really necessary,
stretching the conversation out as much as possible. The longer he spoke, the
more tankards the stranger would have to buy to wet his parched tongue.

The stranger didn’t drink much, was still
nursing his first tankard when Jokath finished his fifth. The stranger had sat
quietly listening to his every word, sat there with a strange stillness that
seemed almost inhuman. There it was again, that word
inhuman
.
But Jokath had just mentioned something that broke the stranger’s
stillness—though he was now quite drunk and couldn’t
remember what. The stranger leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, and his voice
again reminded Jokath of distant thunder. “You say Norlakton has a
healer now?”

“Yes, yes,” Jokath said, his
words slurring badly. “Snotty bitch, she is. Turned me down when I
offered her good coin for a roll in the hay. Used her cursed magic on me,
threatened to turn me into a toad.”

“How old is she?”

“Middle aged. Thought she was younger the
first time I seen her, but it was dark. Seen her since, and it would have been
a waste of good coin.”

“How long has she been there?”

“Since early spring.”

The stranger smiled, not a pleasant smile, more a nasty
grin of anticipation. He stood. “Come. You look a little wobbly. I’ll
help you to your room.”

Jokath had trouble focusing on the stranger. “Don’t
have no room. Don’t have the coin.”

“Well you’ve earned a room,”
the stranger said. “But it’ll have to be at the inn
where I’m staying. This one’s too expensive. And we
can have a last tankard there before calling it a night.”

Jokath stood, had to lean on the table to keep from
falling down. “Well I thank you much, kind sir.”

The stranger helped Jokath out of the inn and into the
street. They turned left and walked with Jokath leaning heavily on the man. Then
Jokath remembered that there were no other inns in town. “Wait,”
he said, halting near the open mouth of a dark alley. “There ain’t
no other inns here.”

“I know,” the stranger said, pulling
him into the alley.

Jokath saw the moon glint off a blade, then a horrible,
intense pain washed through his chest as the knife pierced his heart. His knees
gave out and he collapsed to the ground. The stranger leaned over him and wiped
the blade on his tunic. Then the stranger turned and left him lying in the mud.
And the last thought that crossed his mind before he died was that the stranger’s
knife had been made of obsidian, and it radiated darkness in a way no simple
blade of glass should.

~~~

Morgin and Harriok followed the trail of blood through
the forest undergrowth northeast of the Lake of Sorrows, tracking on foot,
their horses following behind them. It had been pure coincidence that a
pheasant had spooked and taken to the air just as Harriok had released his
arrow. The pheasant had in turn spooked Harriok’s target, a young
buck, and it had bolted just an instant before the arrow struck. The arrow
pierced the thigh of its left hindquarter, an injury that would eventually kill
the animal, but not disable it enough to prevent it from leading them on a
leagues-long chase. No hunter left a wounded animal to die slowly. They would
track it, find it, dispatch it, and make good use of the meat it provided.