In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  This glum recitation set the tone of the evening, and despite the ale and sweet mead and succulent roast pork served by the king’s hearth master, the mood failed to rise much beyond the level of dull duty. The two visitors were relieved when at last they were ushered to the guest lodge in one of the nearby barrow mounds. Though largely underground, the barrow was warm and dry; the beds were high and soft, and the massive stone walls were whitewashed and lit with candle trees, making the interior of the single large chamber seem almost comfortable. As soon as they were alone, Fergal wasted no time giving vent to his suspicion that Lenos was up to no good.

  ‘They are only trying to show us how much they value our friendship,’ Conor told him, challenging Fergal’s mistrust.

  ‘Aye, so they are—trying too hard by half, it seems to me.’ He grumped and stalked around the chamber for a moment, then said, ‘And what is this Lenos is saying about mortality? Why is he throwing that in our laps like a scalded cat?’

  ‘The faéry kind do not age as we do,’ Conor mused. ‘We know that right well. If eating the food of the faéry grants long life to a mortal—’

  ‘What so? Most men would agree that is a good thing and much to be desired—to live long and not age with it.’

  ‘Aye, so they would. But consider, brother. It is a boon with a curse wrapped inside it.’

  Fergal stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘To live long and never feel the tooth of age gnawing at your bones? I fail to find this curse you say is lurking there.’

  ‘Do you not?’ Conor stood and began pacing back and forth. ‘Then consider how the years go by and, aye, you remain hale and healthy, never changing, but all those around you begin to succumb to old age, sickness, and death. Everyone you know and care about—your friends, your tribe, your wife and children and kinfolk—everyone you’ve ever known, brother. Old age takes them all down to their graves. Think now! How will you feel when you have outlived everyone you ever knew or cared about? How will it feel to place the bones of your last living friend in the tomb?’ Conor’s voice fell and he concluded in a hushed and broken voice. ‘How will you feel about this great gift then?’

  Fergal, head and heart aswirl with a swarm of conflicting thoughts and feelings, could make no reply.

  ‘At least Lenos told us the truth,’ continued Conor after a moment. ‘There is a terrible cost to be paid—more, I’m thinking, than many a mortal can bear.’

  Fergal nodded. ‘Is that what Gwydion meant when he said we would always have a home in Tír nan Óg?’

  ‘Maybe it was,’ Conor allowed. ‘Aye so, maybe it was.’

  ‘And a sad day that will be.’

  A dejected silence claimed the room and they sat for a time watching the flames glimmer in the torches and candle trees, listening to the rising wind fingering the chinks and hollows of their stone house. Finally, Fergal burst out, ‘It was a bad idea we had coming here. Lenos and his tribe are a scheming lot, and I don’t doubt they’re scheming right now this very moment.’

  ‘I don’t say it is so,’ replied Conor. ‘But here is where we find ourselves and if we ever want to see home again, we must make the best of it and see whatever it is that Lenos thought important enough to fetch us here to show us.’

  There the matter rested for the night. Nor was it revisited the next morning when, after breaking fast early, Lenos and his two advisors, Conor, and Fergal left Socair Sídhean and travelled up into the high hills and into the dark, fragrant green shadows of an enormous forest spread out upon the hills like a rumpled cloak flung down upon the land. They rode to the jingling accompaniment of tiny silver bells that had been braided into the manes and tails of their freshly groomed horses, speaking little, and maintaining a wary watch on their faéry companions. A narrow road had been cut through the trees, and it was to this they made their way.

  Heavy boughs spread a roof high above their heads, crowding out the sky, allowing only a frail light to filter down through the latticework of branches. The air was redolent with the sharp, woody scent of pine bark, resin, and damp earth; and the road—soft underfoot, the colour of rust—was drifted deep with spent pine needles, hushing every step. No sound of running water, no chirp or cry of bird or chitter of squirrel reached them. Gradually, all talk ceased in the gloomy tomblike silence broken only by the jangly song of the horses’ bells.

  They had not gone far into the forest when they arrived at a wide clearing and the timber palisade of a small settlement, merely a few round huts and some storehouses—no cattle enclosure, or hall, and not much of a yard. What little space the place possessed was taken up by a fair-sized forge surrounded by stacks of firewood and baskets of charcoal. Smoke rose in a steady column from the forge, drifting into the cloudy sky.

  ‘Welcome to Cuweem,’ called Lenos as he dismounted in the cramped yard. From one of the houses two faéry emerged and hurried to greet their king and his guests. Two other faéry appeared and took control of the horses.

  Like the other Aes-sídhe they had seen, the forest dwellers were tall and handsome, their clothes elegant, but muted in colour and more subdued in adornment, more sparing in style. The contrast between Rhiannon’s people and those of Lenos was stark. Whereas the faéry folk of Tír nan Óg chose the deep, rich colours of rarest gemstone and jewels, those of Eilean Ceó selected the colours of the world around them: the forest with its many shades of green and its many-shadowed byways; the elusive silvers of rain and trickling water; the greys of clouds and stone.

  The king made perfunctory introductions and, while the horses were led away, he spoke to the two faéry who had met them on arrival. Then, motioning Fergal and Conor to follow, they walked to the forge, where now the sound of heavy hammers on hard metal could be heard ringing like the tolling of a bell. At their approach, Sealbach hurried on ahead and, entering the forge, spoke to someone inside, emerging a moment later with a lump of pale white metal the size of a barley loaf.

  ‘Silver?’ wondered Fergal.

  Sealbach handed the rounded chunk to Lenos, who turned and said, ‘Not silver, my friends.’ He passed the metal to Fergal, who hefted it in his hands, feeling the substantial weight before passing it to Conor. ‘It is something, I think, you will find far more valuable.’

  19

  Inside the forge they saw four men hard at work. Short, stocky men, they were stripped of all clothing save simple leather loincloths and thick leather leggings, and heavy, boat-shaped wooden brócs on their feet. Odd as that appeared to Conor and Fergal, their attire was not the most curious thing about them, nor the first thing the Dé Danann noticed. The smiths were stocky men with long sleek black hair, broad faces set with round black eyes, and tawny buff-coloured skin. They all wore their hair bound tight at the back of their head and long, double-forked beards in tiny braids; tight around their foreheads they wore folded cloths to keep the sweat from their eyes. And if they noticed their visitors at all, they gave no sign and chattered incessantly to one another as they went about their labours.

  A jumbled stack of cut logs ready to hand supplied fuel for the fires of three separate ovens. Behind the stone-built forge, four small huts made of deerskin stretched over willow hoops tied together with rawhide stood nearby. Outside two of the huts sat three women of the same, strange race; all three were kneading dough in shallow elmwood bowls; one of the women cradled an infant in her lap as she worked.

  ‘These are my smiths,’ declared Lenos, his voice tinged with a peculiar pride.

  ‘They are not Dé Danann,’ observed Fergal lamely, not knowing what else to say. ‘And not of the faéry, either.’ He looked to the king for an answer.

  ‘They are not,’ confirmed Armadal, speaking up. ‘They have come from a land called Hatti far, far to the east—beyond where the sun rises.’

  ‘And they work for you as slaves?’

  The silver-haired faéry replied, ‘Far from it! They are paid in fine gold which we value little enough, but they value highly.’

  ‘The Dé Da
nann have a certain fondness for gold, too, I can tell you.’

  ‘We persuaded them to come and work here in exchange for their weight in gold,’ confirmed Lenos, ‘so that we might learn the secrets of their forge craft.’

  The faéry king turned and strode to one of the smiths—a squat, broad-shouldered man with thick powerful arms, a wide muscular waist, and short bowed legs. He hailed the man in his own tongue, the two spoke, and he called the others to join them. Lenos made a curious sign in the air, spoke a word in the faéry tongue, and touched the smith lightly on the forehead, then said, ‘This is Hasammeli, Master Smith of Hattusa. He is chief among those working here.’ At this the sweating fellow bowed and stretched forth his hands at the knee, then rose and looked expectantly to Conor and Fergal; Lenos introduced them by name and said, ‘These are my friends, and lords in their own right. Like yourself, they come from a land across the sea. They have come to examine the fruit of your labour.’

  Both Dé Danann greeted the smith and wondered at the hint dropped into the faéry king’s words. Whatever this fruit might be, it was the reason they had been summoned to Eilean Ceó.

  Hasammeli looked around to his men, who remained occupied with their labours. Indicating the activity with a wave of a muscled arm, he called out in the tongue of his people and one of the smiths pulled a burning rod white-hot from the flaming mouth of one of the ovens, carried it quickly to an anvil, and began pounding on it with a long hammer. Sparks scattered in every direction and the stink of burning metal filled the air.

  ‘He says that the work goes well and they are soon finished,’ Armadal told them. He then spoke to the smith, whose face split in a huge grin, revealing a missing tooth in his lower jaw. He turned and clapped his hands, calling to one of his workers; one of the younger-looking smiths dipped his head, put down his tools, left the forge, and hurried to a nearby hut, emerging a moment later carrying a long bundle wrapped in grass cloth. He brought it to his chief and presented it across his palms.

  Hasammeli took the bundle and likewise presented it to the faéry king, who, in turn, delivered it into Conor’s hands.

  ‘Open it,’ Lenos told him. ‘I give you the answer to the riddle I posed to you in Eirlandia.’

  Conor pulled away the wrapping to reveal a sword much like many another he had seen throughout his life, but somewhat longer, thinner, and made of the same pale whitish metal as the lump he had handled earlier.

  ‘A sword?’ wondered Fergal, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. ‘You are paying them in gold to make swords for you?’

  ‘A sword, yes, but unlike any weapon you have ever seen,’ Lenos declared. ‘The secret is in the metal which is itself unlike any other—harder than iron, and lighter than bronze. It is quick and supple, and will hold its edge in the fiercest fight.’

  Conor touched the smooth polished surface and tested the edge with his thumb appreciatively. Then he took the blade by the hilt—unfinished, it was a simple tang of metal to which a suitable grip would be bound—and, raising the weapon, sliced the air with it. He handed the sword to Fergal, who waved it about and thrust at an imaginary opponent. ‘It is sharp and light, I’ll give you that’ was his judgement. ‘But we have good swords, too.’

  ‘Those the Tylwyth Teg gave you,’ replied Lenos. ‘I have seen them. But this weapon is not charmed in any way. Its chief quality, its value, resides in the metal itself.’

  ‘What is it called, this metal?’

  ‘The Hatti call it haranbar, or nakki,’ Armadal explained. ‘In their tongue, it means “strong iron.” We call it sgriosadair or, as you would say, scristóir.…’

  ‘Destroyer,’ echoed Conor. He looked to the faéry. ‘Why this name?’

  It was Lenos who answered him. ‘We chose that word because that is what it does. In the hands of a skilled warrior, this blade will destroy any lesser weapon.’

  Seeing Conor and Fergal exchange a dubious glance, the king turned to Sealbach standing nearby and said, ‘Show them.’

  The faéry counsellor spoke a word to the young smith, who ran to one of the small storehouses behind the huts, returning a moment later bearing an iron sword of a make and design that the Dé Danann did not recognise. ‘This is a weapon made in Aégipt and very like those of the Scálda, from what I’ve seen,’ Sealbach said. ‘The smiths brought some of these with them.’ He nodded to the smith, who took the sword by the hilt and held it upright out in front of him.

  The master smith removed his head cloth and then, taking up the silvery haranbar blade, wrapped the cloth around the hilt to form a handle on the naked tang. He reared back and, with a roll of his heavy shoulders, swung the silvery blade at the upraised sword. The gleaming metal seemed to trace an arc of light through the air, and unlike the usual dull clatter of iron weapons, there came the clear, clean ring of a bell. The iron blade quivered; a deep notch appeared along one edge. Another hefty swing and the iron weapon snapped; the blade toppled to the ground and the smith was left holding the broken stub of a sword by the useless hilt.

  Conor and Fergal glanced at one another in amazement. ‘By the Hag’s foul breath,’ gasped Fergal. ‘That is fierce.’

  ‘Again!’ said Sealbach.

  The master smith spoke a word to his assistant, who ran to the wood stack and selected two sturdy logs and set them upright a little distance apart one from the other; he then scooped up the broken iron blade and placed it lengthwise across the top of the upright logs. Hasammeli offered the silver sword to the visitors and invited them to try it. Fergal stepped forward and took the offered sword. He strode to the suspended length of iron and, with a swift, practiced downward stroke, delivered a forceful blow. Again came the ringing sound and this time the iron blade bent in the middle. Fergal raised the sword and struck again. The inferior iron blade sheared in half and the pieces fell to the ground. On examination, the haranbar blade remained undamaged: no cracks, no notches or pieces missing, and even the edge was still keen and sharp. In all, the weapon appeared unharmed by the violent encounter.

  Fergal and Conor both ran their fingers over the new blade and held it before their eyes, turning it this way and that, giving it a close and thorough inspection before passing it back to the smith. ‘That blade is still as keen and sharp as new,’ Conor declared, running his thumb along the unmarred edge. Taking the hilt, he swung the blade a few times and then turned to the king. ‘Again.’

  At a nod from Lenos, the smith selected one of the broken lengths of iron and set it on the uprights. Conor stepped up and, with the easy, fluid motion of a lifetime’s experience in battle’s arena, he drew back and loosed a formidable strike. Again, the pale metal traced a shining arc through the air, but instead of the clear metallic ring there came a timid crack, like that of a dry twigs breaking. To those looking on, the haranbar blade seemed to simply slice through the stubby length of iron without so much as a flicker. There was a snap and the two severed pieces of the ruined weapon fell away as useless shards.

  Conor examined the silver metal and found only a scrape of a mark to show the weapon had even been used. An iron sword would have been at the very least deeply scored, or bent, if not broken. He passed the extraordinary weapon to Fergal and picked up one of the severed lengths. There was a cut mark where the haranbar had bit deep into the iron before the Aégiptian blade had given way. ‘Extraordinary,’ he observed, shaking his head in wonder.

  ‘It is extraordinary,’ confirmed Lenos. He gave a satisfied nod to the smiths, thanked them, and sent them back to their work. ‘Whoever holds a weapon like this,’ he said, resting his hand on the silvery sword in Conor’s fist, ‘will be a warrior twice armed.’

  ‘Twice!’ hooted Fergal. ‘More like ten times over, I’m thinking.’ Taking the silver sword from Conor, he gave it a few swooping flourishes and proclaimed, ‘No one could stand against the warrior with this in his fist.’

  That, Conor reflected, might be claiming too much. Such were the fortunes of war that chance loomed larg
e in the heated frenzy of battle. It was not always a man’s weapons that tilted the balance toward victory or defeat. A slip on wet grass, a stumble, the unseen cast of a spear from a distance—even a well-aimed stone could fell the superior warrior, however well armed he might be. Skill, bravery, luck, even the weather also played a larger part than most warriors cared to admit. Nevertheless, Fergal had a point. Between two evenly matched warriors, the one with the haranbar weapon would likely emerge from the combat. His opponent would not.

  ‘I am much impressed,’ Conor told the faéry king. ‘Master Hasammeli and his men are to be commended on their remarkable discovery and superlative craft.’

  Lenos, beaming expansively, took up the sword and raised it skyward. ‘What is swifter than a spear in its flight, and sharper than a sword in the fight?’ he said.

  ‘Scristóir,’ answered Conor. ‘Destroyer.’

  20

  ‘Iron is lethal to us. We cannot touch it, nor allow the vile metal to touch us. Naturally, a wound—even the merest scratch—from an iron blade quickly festers and poisons the blood. Just being near the metal weakens us unto death. All this, I think you know.’

  ‘I do,’ affirmed Conor. Indeed, he knew it only too well. Three times over he had found and freed captive faéry folk from Balor Evil Eye and three times thwarted the enemy’s insidious attempts to obtain the secrets of faéry magic from his tortured captives. But each of those escapes exacted a deadly price. To Conor’s lasting regret, individual faéry had succumbed to the deadly metal—Lord Gwydion himself was the latest and most appalling fatality—and Conor himself had paid in blood and pain.