The Anvil of Ice

by Michael Scott Rohan

  The next day, at first light, Alv went upstairs instead of down, up past Ingar's room and the Mastersmith's many chambers, right to the towertop. Now was the time that the sword must be made whole, and he wished to clear his mind before beginning anew. And when the great slab had slid back at the stairhead and he mounted out on the high pavement, he was startled to see only a light frost on the tesselated stone, and mere remnants of snow on the Mastersmith's turret and the rocks around. He flexed his muscles, and felt new strength arise in his arms. The wind blew from the south, and the smell of woodland and plain and shore hung on it, all fresh, all new. He breathed deeply, blinking in the daylight, for since he last saw it he had worked away the winter, and spring would be coming soon.

  He jumped at the hollow creak from behind him. The turret door was swinging open, and the Mastersmith stepped out. He, too, blinked at the light, and his face was drawn and anxious; his rich blue robe was creased, and he looked as if he had not slept. But when he saw Alv the weariness fell away before his usual suave good will. "So you also seek wisdom on the heights, boy? No doubt about what you undertake today? No need of my counsel? Good, I am glad, for I fear I must leave you for a day or so. I hate to do so, at such a time, but it must be. The world presses on me, as I had hoped it would cease to in this place."

  Alv smiled ruefully. "I am sorry, Mastersmith. It will be difficult, but I am rested and ready."

  "Good. Then try to have your work completed by tomorrow, when I return."

  Alv bowed his head to hide the grin he couldn't suppress. He could have asked for nothing better! "Indeed, Mastersmith. I will."

  The gloom of the forge seemed to hang more heavily around him after that, and with it the note of tension in the air. For a while he prowled around the anvil, nervously selecting hammers and shaping tools and laying them out within easy reach, pinning endless sheets of notes to every surface he could easily see. But at last he took up the rod that was the sword's spine, and the others that were its body, and sang long slow words over them as he bound them tight in metal bands and thrust them into the fire. Now the note of) the bellows changed, for moments of great heat were needed. Alv set Roc to work the piston of the hand-bellows, and its quick panting breath echoed his own as he grasped the rods with pincers and maneuvered them in the small circle of blue-white flame. Then he pulled them out in a flurry of cinders, struck three quick blows with the heavy hammer, and thrust them back into the fire. After a minute or two more he repeated this, and motioned Roc to stop, letting the wheel-driven bellows take over. He sang when he could, in eerie harmony with the soft song of the charcoal, squinting at his notes and listening for the moment when the sword itself would begin to sing, and spit out a few light sparks—the first sign that the steel itself was beginning to burn, which it must not do. He sang of the tree that had once grown, drinking in the wind and the light of the sun, and of how he had mastered it, cut it down and burnt it to charcoal, because the time had come for it to give back the air and the fire. He sang of the metal that had lain deep in the veins of the earth, unshaped, unseen, till he had mastered it, dug it out and purified it, commanded it to take other shapes and forms. As they had been mastered, let wood and metal combine to teach mastery; as they had obeyed a mightier command, let them in turn enforce obedience. His words fell into time with the vast strong breath of the bellows.

  That mighty ash tree,

  How boldly it burns,

  How noble the blaze it's made!

  To leaping sparks of light

  It returns

  But its strength it leaves to my blade!

  Bellows, blow!

  Brighten its glow!

  And when the thin voice came from the steel, the note harmonized with the tones of his chant. That was it! He hauled the body of the sword out, the top of it an erupting fountain of yellow sparks, and struck, and struck, and struck and struck till the mighty anvil rang and rocked on its huge hardwood base, twisting the spitting steel this way and that across the anvil, narrowing his eyes against the exploding haloes of sunbright metal. As it darkened he brandished it at Roc, who sprang to the bellows, and he thrust it deep into the charcoal, twisting it about to clean it. Then, verse after gasped verse, he was wrenching it out again and striking with all shapes and sizes of hammer. From time to time he would seize a page of his notes and rush into the library, wiping his hands on any rag he could find. Once or twice, unable to leave what he was doing, he would yell through the open door to Ingar, who fussed and grumbled somewhat, but was willing enough to read out or copy a particular passage or symbol for him. Most often it was to the North wall he was dispatched, to those pages of the Skolnhere-Book the Mastersmith had annotated.

  Alv's labor was backbreaking, but as he worked through long hours of the day, his intense frown began to lighten; for all his weariness, he was grinning with delight as at last he plucked the steel from the fire, braced it against the anvil, seized one of his chosen fullering tools and with minute precision tapped it home to narrow and shape the tip. Roc expected a war whoop of delight as Alv finally plunged the steel into the quenching trough, but when the steam cleared he was gazing at the narrow dark blade he held with only the faintest and tightest of smiles. He stroked a finger along the raised spine, feeling how smoothly it merged into the sloping surface of the blade.

  "Is it all right?" demanded Roc. He exchanged anxious glances with Ingar, who had heard the hiss and was peering round the library door. "You haven't gone and—"

  "Oh no," said Alv quietly. "It's fine. It's perfect, in fact. All it needs is…"He picked up the two remaining rods, and clanked them against the thick dull edges. "These. D'you feel up to another few hours of this?"

  Roc stared. "If you do, yes—once I've had a drink and a bite, that is. But… you mean you're going to finish…"

  "Yes, of course. But off with you quickly, if you want some food—and bring me something I can eat here—"

  Roc scuttled off, but Ingar stayed, frowning. "Wasn't the Mastersmith going to—"

  "He's in a hurry for it, it seems," said Alv. "Remember I met him on the tower this morning, before he left? He told me he wanted it finished when he gets back tomorrow. So finished it will be." He held the cooling blade out at arm's length, squinting own it for tiny irregularities, and his bright eyes met Ingar's. After a moment the journeyman turned away, shaking his head in confusion.

  "Whatever you say yourself! Well, I'm going back to my work."

  "Oh, before you do," called Alv, "could you just check these characters for me—my hands are covered in soot—" He reached out and plucked off two leaves of thin parchment he had tacked to a shelf. But hampered by the blade, he missed his grip; they went fluttering into the draft of the firepit, twisted upward and were consumed in an instant. Alv, goggle-eyed, burst out in a stream of curses that raised Ingar's dark eyebrows.

  "My," he said mildly, in his best-bred voice, "really, you must have quite shocked those cattle of yours. Well, don't take on so, if you remember the reference you can copy them again—"

  "Before this cools? I've got to match the edges!"

  Ingar sighed deeply. "Oh very well, if that's important I suppose I can copy them for you—that's not really helping you. The North wall again? The Skolnhere-Book? What page?"

  Alv remembered the page that set the limits of his knowledge, saw in his mind the ugly, mocking little countenance, and beside it the Mastersmith's forbidding finger, resting on the long parchment marker—the marker he had that morning detached and, without opening the book enough to read, slipped in several pages further ahead. "Everything beyond the nakina character!" he called, and held his breath.

  From the library silence drifted like a freezing cloud.

  Then there was a sudden rustle of paper, exactly as in Alv's dream. He jumped violently—but then Ingar's voice called out cheerfully, "Well, that's only four or five figures, before the chapter ends—and they're simple enough. D'you want the notes as well?"

  "If you would!"
Alv called back, trying to keep the unsteadiness out of his voice. Four or five, only? Surely, then, his suspicions had borne rich fruit. All the other symbols from that chapter had ended up in the sword, in one form or other, buried deep now in its twisted heart. So there was a good chance it was the remaining ones the Mastersmith planned to incorporate in the edges—how logical, and how typical of him, that there should only be four or five! And on that chance Alv had taken a greater gamble—either that there was really no mysterious power shielding the books, or that Ingar would be immune because he'd been through them before in his researches, as the chalk marks proved. The Mastersmith wouldn't have bothered stopping him before the crucial page, because he hadn't a quarter the skill to make use of his knowledge. A logical gamble, but a good one—if he'd won!

  Alv seized an oily rag and wiped down the sooty blade, staring along the thick edges for irregularities that might hamper the welding—anything to keep busy, to think about something else. He set the thin edge rods to heat near the rim of the firepit, fixed the blade in the leg vise on the far side of the anvil and set to work tapping the edges into a gentle curve to match the blade. The purer steel was much harder to work, and he had only just finished the first one when Ingar tapped him on the shoulder. He laughed at Alv's convulsive start. "Don't get so wrapped up in your work! You might wreck everything, jumping like that! This is what you needed, isn't it?"

  Alv swallowed, and forced himself to look down at the slates clutched in Ingar's plump hand. "Y-yes, it's everything I need—I'll have to work out a couple of my verses again, though…"

  "Well, that you can do for yourself. I'm only a channel, remember? A conduit. I contribute nothing."

  And may that save your soft hide for you, thought Alv, when the Mastersmith finds his bluff's been called!

  But aloud he said, "I thank you, sir journeyman! If I get through this—"

  "Oh, you will, you will," said Ingar patronizingly. "Well you may labor all the watches of the night, but I don't have to. I'm a tired conduit—and dry, too, with all this smoke in here. Me for a stoup of Sothran wine, and then bed."

  "Sleep well!" said Alv, and was surprised to find the gratitude in his voice genuine enough. Ingar might infuriate him in any number of ways, but he was not a bad man at heart. Not his fault, perhaps, if he preferred the security of serving the Mastersmith to striking out on his own; he'd just never had to struggle for anything. And because he'd never disobey the Mastersmith, it hadn't occurred to him that Alv would. Well, let one person use you, and others may also. So turns the world!

  He perched the slates on his workbench and read through them carefully, struggling to make out Ingar's script, which disintegrated when he was hurried. And as Alv did so the cold certainty grew in him that these strange bastard things were the final symbols, the only ones that would have to show on the surface of the sword—inscribed around the edges, perhaps even inlaid for clearer effect, but that could wait. As long as they were there… But why was he so sure? And what on earth was the right way to arrange them? Difficult… perhaps even dangerous …

  Roc brought him a bowl of something hot and meaty, and he supped away at it absently while he read. The notes were tantalizing, all about the shape of the characters, hardly anything about their symbolic associations or effects. And yet as he gazed at the forbidden characters he seemed to see them in an order, a definite grouping. He clawed at his hair. There was something he recognized, a memory he couldn't quite grasp, but felt was terribly important. A pattern, a web of symbols set in metal… In his mind he traced and retraced all the studies he could remember, and found nothing like it. Such a faint memory-it seemed to date from a time before… Before he'd come here? His childhood? Impossible. Where would he have seen smithcraft then?

  And then memory washed over him with the clear cold thrill of the waves he'd once played in. That ancient thing, that cattle goad! The markings on it! He could see them clearly, glinting in the sunlight—small wonder, when he'd studied them so long. Symbols, of the kind he was using now—one or two among the commoner ones he had already chosen. They were, now he saw them, very like the ones he had set upon the armring; a memory of them, perhaps, had inspired his design. But there above them, enclosed in a cartouche of tracery, were counterparts of the characters he was looking at now—simpler, but unmistakable. A simpler power, possibly—but the way they were arranged, the pattern…

  His mind seemed literally to spin, the symbols scrawled across the slates tumbling together in a whirlpool, slotting almost of themselves into an arrangement that was intricate but logical, fluent—perfect!

  For half an hour or so he scrawled feverishly on his own slates, terrified that in writing down one thing he might forget another. But the pattern held with its own inner strength, and he had it all, and the song to go with it. Then he was up and running for his anvil. The bowl went clattering unnoticed across the floor.

  In minutes he had the second edge worked fine and tight, and he bound both to the body of the blade with wire and metal bands. Ignoring the scorching heat, he leaned out over the firepit to choose a clear spot, and slowly and gently slid the bound pieces into it. This was the most difficult part. Ordinary pattern-welded swords were made with the edges welded to the body pieces before they were attached to the spine, but the unity that gave this sword its power had to grow from the center outward, like a leaf. And if, once welded, it broke, then like a leaf it would wither and die, and all his effort go to waste. With long pincers he lifted the pieces, but swore and pushed them back down.

  "It's got to be hotter, far hotter!"

  "Push 'em further in, then!" gasped Roc, panting like the hand-bellows he worked.

  "Can't risk that—too hard to control!" Alv bit his lip a moment, then ran to the wheel set in the floor and forced it open a full half-turn. Great gusts of heat came roaring up from below, through the layers of coal and charcoal, sending a high flame up from the heart of the pit to lick at the vaulting. Alv turned to the wheel that controlled the waterflow, but it would open no wider. In a burst of sheer fury he canted the great bellows lever loose and worked it himself. Sweat poured off him, he could hear his shoulders cracking with the effort, but the airblast roared through the pit faster even than the wheel could drive it. A white glow crept outward toward the rim, sizzling and crackling, spreading around the half-buried blade.

  "It's going, Roc, it's going! Just once more—pump, man, pump, and sweat some of that lard off yourself! Here am I breaking my back and you just sit around twiddling your fingers— "

  Roc, purple-faced and gasping, threw all his bulk onto the piston of the hand-bellows, the fire blew white at its heart and the steel sang again. Alv caught it out, swung round to the anvil and caught up his great hammer. To Roc's dazzled eyes he seemed to vanish in an aura of sparks each time he struck, and every blow rang as hard as the machine hammers. But louder and clearer rang his voice, though few of his words could be heard.

  As sundered I found you

  In flickering flame,

  As once then I bound you

  I bind you again—

  Shape, sword, in the firelight!

  Encircle your blade with sharp steel!

  Almost before Roc could see again, the blade was back in the heat and he was thrusting and heaving at the bellows once more till his mind grew cloudy. Then again a hammer rang, and the voice echoed it, but more lightly now, and from time to time there came the clang of a tool discarded, another seized. The blade lay wedged on the anvil, its heat turning the smoky air to a rippling velvet curtain. Alv, bending over it, tapping around its rim, became a strange hunched shadow, his voice no more than a whisper as he worked the chain of characters round the blade.

  Master, my hammer, This stubborn steel, Teach it to know My skill's command— That in its turn Shall hammer home The will behind Its wielder's hand …

  Then it was back to the firepit for a moment, a few strokes to flatten the tang and punch it for rivets, the glowing shape poised over
the quenching trough—and then there was a loud searing hiss, like a voice that screamed. A blast of steam leaped upward and burst across the roof; boiling droplets rained down over anvil and firepit with a sizzle and a roar, spattering agony across sweat-ridden skin. Great gusts of steam washed through the reeking air and, murk-heavy, condensed like black rain on every metal surface. As the steam blew aside Alv stood there with the blade in his hand, and he slapped it down on the flat of the great anvil, which tolled like an awesome bell. "It is done!"

  But it was not long before dawn when the weary young men at last climbed up the stairs from the forge. The blade had had to be trimmed down with light hammer and file, and soaked for some hours in a bath of weak corrosive to remove surface impurities. Meanwhile Roc and Alv labored to clean up the forge, which the Mastersmith always insisted upon, and make it ready for his return. Alv was acutely aware of his bold disobedience, and in chilly dawn afterthought it no longer seemed such a marvelous idea. But he had done it, and there it was, and nobody the worse for it—not even him, for the Mastersmith might rage, but he could not deny the power of the work. When Alv took the blade out and washed it he seemed to see a peculiar sheen, in rather than on the metal, and wondered if he saw with the eyes of a true smith; Roc could see nothing. Alv gave the blade its first edge with the grindstone and finer whetstones, then very carefully wiped the blade with a stronger corrosive, and polished it away at once. The rippling weld patterns, relic of the many strands that made it, ran in strange twists and coils across the blade; he turned it one way in the lamplight, and they seemed to hold depth and perspective, like one of the strange drawings in the Mastersmith's Sothran books, but a very peculiar perspective that suggested immense distance to the eye, and sought to draw it down. It was almost like looking over a cliff. Another way, the light rippled across the patterns, and they suddenly reminded him of the folds and convolutions he had seen on a drawing of the human brain in the Mastersmith's great anatomy text. Another way, and they were like some ancient, esoteric writing—very like writing, he could almost read it now, surely he could catch a word or two—then he tilted it slightly, and the patterns became that weird suggestion of the abyss once more. At last he wrapped it in soft leather, and tucked it under his arm, and beckoned Roc to follow.