by J. L. Doty
“Aye,” Valso said, “We do have that in common.”
“Isn’t that about all we have in common?”
Valso considered that for a moment, then delicately wiped his chin with a linen napkin and stood. He turned his back on BlakeDown, walked to the hearth and held out his hands, warming them. “Perhaps we have more in common than you think.”
“Like what?”
Valso turned to face him. “I would think you’d like to see that thorn removed as much as I do.”
BlakeDown prompted him, “And?”
Valso grinned. “And we’d both benefit from a more stable and less disruptive rule in the Lesser Clans. I would greatly like to see an ally on the throne of the Lesser Clans.”
BlakeDown’s heart raced as he said, “The Lesser Clans have no throne.”
Valso shrugged. “That can easily be changed. The Lesser Clans can have a throne and a king. But it would have to be the right king.”
“You would support the right king?”
Valso smiled and nodded. “As long as that king swore fealty to me, yes I would. But that king must also help rid me of that thorn we spoke of.”
BlakeDown changed the subject and they talked of other things for a time, more matters about which neither of them really cared. When the time came to leave, they both stood and clasped hands.
“You have given me much to think on,” BlakeDown said. “We should communicate further on these matters.” And then, for the first time in centuries, a leader of one of the Lesser Clans bent the knee and kissed the hand of the King of the Greater Clans.
~~~
Chagarin had called Morgin to the Forge Hall where all the smiths had gathered, and as he walked into the room, the smiths all stepped back and waited expectantly. They’d laid an array of swords on one of the workbenches, naked blades, unsheathed and shining in the glow from the forges. The smiths looked at Morgin, then the blades on the workbench, then back at Morgin again, and he realized they wanted him to do whatever it was a SteelMaster did.
Morgin said to Chagarin, “I don’t know what it means to be a SteelMaster.”
The shoulders of all the smiths slumped with disappointment. Morgin knew he should at least try, so he walked up to the workbench and picked up the nearest sword. It had a good heft and a fine balance, so he held it upright and tapped his fingernail against the blade. The tone it emitted was pure and sweet, and a single note resonated in his soul clean and crisp.
He laid that blade down and picked up the next. He pinged it with his fingernail, and it too rang clear and pure. He took up that sound with his soul, fed it power and life, and it spoke to him of many battles and the chaos of war. He let the note die as he turned to the smiths. “This blade has taken many lives.”
The smiths nodded in unison.
He tested each blade that way, and each blade spoke to him, some with the voice of a kind woman, others with the command of a warmaster on the battlefield. One blade, though, rang with a harsh and guttural tone. He crossed the room and handed that blade to Chagarin with the words, “This blade is flawed.”
Chagarin accepted the blade and nodded.
Baldrak said, “Try commanding the steel as you did in the circle.”
Morgin turned and looked back at the workbench covered with blades. It was about five paces distant, so he concentrated on the first blade he’d touched there. He held out his open hand and said, “Come.”
The blade trembled, visible only as a faint shimmer in the reflected glow of the forges, as if it wanted to obey him, but found it difficult. The blade next to it trembled also, so Morgin concentrated on the one blade to the exclusion of the others. Off to one side he heard the creak of wood straining under pressure, but he ignored that and focused his will on the blade. Several of the blades on the bench near it trembled, so he redoubled his effort to focus only on the one.
The smiths stood silently watching him, almost as if they feared any sound they might make would dampen the SteelMaster’s power. And in that silence the room was actually alive with sounds: the crackle of the fires in the forges, wood creaking and straining as if under enormous pressure. The smiths were all focused on Morgin, mute and silently watching him, not working at any of the heavy wooden benches, so no wood should be straining so. The silence ended with the sound of wood tearing and splintering somewhere behind him.
“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.”
