"Are you saying that your toy has gone to another world?"
"It has left this world, I claim no more."
Gerald walked out onto the bridge and looked down into the water. There was no trace of the boat. Here was none of the ceremony and incantation of religion or hedgerow magic, yet here was something extraordinary. He walked back to the east bank. Tordral was dressed in chainmail, but wore no surcoat or cloak, as warriors would. It was as if chainmail instead of cloth had been used to fashion a very ordinary tunic and trews. The helmet was an archaic type that left the lower half of the face visible even when the visor was down.
"Sir, what are your intentions?” Gerald asked.
"I am an armorer, you are a knight. You need a weapon, I devise weapons. I have just demonstrated a weapon."
"That toy, a weapon?"
"Oh yes,” said Tordral. “It can reach your enemy, even if your enemy is in another world."
"Tordral of—Tordral, what is the whole of your name?"
"Tordral is all of it, sir. I have a past that is best left unspoken."
"As you will. Would you walk with me back to Keswick? It is past dawn, so my half-light vigil is over."
The Armorer
Tordral was aware that Sir Gerald was not an ally as yet. Gerald was a warrior, and warriors were well known for being suspicious when faced with novel weapons. He had to be won over slowly; there was no advantage in pressing the matter too hard.
"Your mode of clothing intrigues me,” said Gerald as they walked. “Why wear a helmet and chainmail, even when at leisure?"
"It hides my form. I have been twisted by our common enemy."
Gerald smiled. Tordral feigned not to notice.
"Ah, then be called my friend. May I ask of your boat?"
He feigns quick friendship, to render me eager and careless, thought Tordral. Now is the moment for extreme care.
"My boat has no secrets, it merely combines all four elements: air, water, fire, and earth. It is a living creature, but without life."
"Impossible!"
"By being impossible, it can cross between worlds. Rules do not constrain it, Sir Gerald, neither rules of natural philosophy, nor philosophy unnatural."
"Could you make it large enough to carry warriors?"
"No."
Gerald gasped with surprise. Anyone wishing to part him from his gold would definitely have claimed it possible.
"But surely your toy is reality made small?"
Tordral knew that this was another awkward moment. Understanding the boat's principle required intelligence, and intelligence was not high on the list of requirements for knighthood. Still, Gerald came from a family that valued scholarship, so there was hope.
"There is an effect called diminishment of scale, Sir Gerald. To be impelled by a jet of steam, even a small barge would need a sufflator of truly vast size. Try to build a sufflator bigger than a common barrel, and it will burst."
"Why is that?"
"I cannot say. Perhaps the nature of steel itself, perhaps the ability of blacksmiths to render steel hard. A barge impelled by the biggest workable sufflator would not outpace a duck in no great hurry. The slightest breeze or current would drive it back."
"But you clearly want my patronage. What do you propose?"
"A bombard, Sir Gerald. A bombard that can shoot an iron ball using air, water, fire, and earth."
Gerald shook his head and gave a little snort of disappointment.
"I have tried shooting a gonne across the river at half-light, just as I have tried shooting arrows. The shots merely hit the far bank. They stayed in this world."
"As they would."
"Well then, Master Tordral, what is a gonne but a bombard made small?"
"Gonnes and bombards propel metal balls by black powder. That is merely earth driven by air and fire, but I can build a steam bombard to shoot balls of iron between worlds. Steam, which is water, rendered into air by fire burning wood."
"All four elements. Could you really do it?"
"You have seen what I can do."
"And your fee?"
"None."
"No fee?"
"Our common enemy has twisted me, Sir Gerald, I want only vengeance. Just provide metals, timbers, and such other materials as I need. Beyond that, the upkeep of twenty men and women for three months, and one breech-loading bombard, made of bronze, with a bore large enough to admit a mailed fist without contact."
"An odd list. Costly, but not unreasonably so."
"The weapon exists only in my head, so it must be lured out with gold and toil,” said Tordral, aware that the knight's trust still had to be lured out as well.
They reached a small tower on the edge of Keswick. Gerald took out a brass key and opened a gate in a high wall. Behind the wall was a beautiful but unkempt garden, with bowers and stone seats half-smothered in bushes and vines.
"I must go my way,” began Tordral.
"No! No, stay. For seven years I have been plagued by physicians selling eye potions to make elves visible, rogues peddling goblin traps, and fraudsters selling fairy nets. They demand gold, but offer no proof. You offer proof, but ask no payment. For that you have my attention."
"I am honored."
"You say you were twisted by our enemy, but your very name derives from the French word for twisted."
"Indeed, but that was not always my name. Are we allies?"
"You tempt me. I have kept vigil at that bridge for seven years. I have seen eyes watching me that float upon air, I have shot good arrows with heads of cold iron at illusions that dispersed like smoke, and I have fallen into slumber then awakened to find my bowstring cut. Their laughter mocks me from invisible lips, yet still I stalk them, because ... come in for a moment, I would show you something."
They entered the garden, which was bright with flowers and heady with their scent. Gerald turned about several times, his arms outstretched.
"Enchanting, is it not? The illuminations in holy books show paradise as a vast church, but I think it is a garden."
"Briar roses, grown in spirals,” said Tordral, slowly pacing along a path leading to the center. “Dozens of them, except for that big, wild bush in the middle."
"My grandmother was one to control people, animals, and anything else alive. It was she who twisted the wild and untamed briar roses into spirals. After her death, my sister Mayliene tried to straighten one of them, but it snapped at the base and died. She planted a young briar in its place and let it grow quite free."
"That central bush?"
"Yes."
"A symbol of freedom amid those without hope,” said Tordral, nodding.
Sir Gerald pressed his lips together and breathed heavily and evenly, as if trying to fight down the urge to sob. He was betrayed by a tear which meandered down his cheek.
"Master Tordral, tell my sensechal all you need. I shall support you."
"So very easily?” replied Tordral, genuinely surprised by the sudden change in the knight.
"You and my sister ... you are of a kind. I think she would have liked you. I know you would have liked her."
Gerald gestured to a stone seat half smothered in ivy.
"Fourteen years ago that was her favored place for reading. She knew five languages, and read Aristotle as easily as any French roman courtois. I was lying on the grass, not four yards away, when a great lethargy washed over me and I was scarcely able to move. As I lay helpless, an elf lord came. He tried to entice Mayliene away to Faerie. Do you think that sounds insane? Feel free to laugh."
"I believe, pray continue,” said Tordral in a voice held studiously level. This was the moment a charlatan would sound sincerely sympathetic, so this was a very bad moment to offer sympathy.
"She refused his advances."
"Brave girl, elves take badly to rejection."
"Indeed. He—he had his revenge. He afflicted her with a cruel but subtle blight. She had to be sent to a convent, to be cared for as an invalid. For seven y
ears she languished there, then one morning her footprints were found leading into a river. I returned from the wars in France and came here, to my family's summer tower. I have kept my fruitless vigil ever since."
"Not fruitless, Sir Gerald. Over the years I have gathered many others blighted by Faerie into my company. It was the story of your vigil that drew me here."
"Then if you succeed, my vigil of seven years will be time well spent."
The Blacksmith
A massive blast echoed among the hills around Keswick. The shouting and bustle in the town market suddenly died away, then slowly picked up again. Shepherds cursed as startled sheep and sheepdogs scattered in panic. Sir Gerald was on the way to see Tordral, and although his palfrey was used to bombard fire, the horse drawing the cart behind him reared and almost bolted. The encampment where Tordral worked was on the shores of Derwentwater, a quarter mile from Keswick. A barn had been turned into an immense blacksmith's shop, and so much smoke was pouring from it that a stranger might have fancied it to be on fire.
As Jon, the blacksmith, carried his dead apprentice out of the barn, he noticed Gerald approaching, escorting the cart. After leaving the youth's body with the women of Tordral's company, he greeted the knight.
"A serious accident?” asked Gerald.
"No, just a stupid boy. He thought to play the fool while the rest of us took cover. A bright and cheery soul, but stupid."
"Here is an Italian gold florin, looted in France,” said Gerald, tossing the coin to Jon. “Have it sent it to his family, with my condolences."
"Consider it done, lordship,” said Jon, bowing.
"So, the accident was not serious?"
"No accident, just trialings."
Jon deliberately kept his manner brusque, and measured out his words with care. People had the idea that hard, strong smiths made hard, strong weapons, so he had an image to live up to. Jon was also painfully aware of having a rare and conspicuous accent.
"You seem unmoved by the death of your apprentice,” said Gerald reproachfully.
"The dead are gone. The living have work to do."
"A good philosophy, if bleak. You should have been a knight."
"I was."
The concept of a knight abandoning his position and status to become an artisan was too much for Gerald to comprehend. He dismounted in silence and left his palfrey with his carter. Jon led the way into the barn, explaining that parts were not entirely safe.
"I cannot see Tordral,” said Gerald anxiously as he looked around.
"Away on Derwentwater, taking plumbline soundings."
"For what reason?"
"Didn't say."
Gerald stumbled over a piece of wreckage, and very nearly fell.
"Someone seems to have been roasting a steel dragon over a spit when it exploded,” he said, pointing to a tangle of grotesquely twisted metal.
"Fine result, lordship,” replied Jon. “See here? Progress."
The blacksmith pointed to a shard of metal the size of a hand that had embedded itself in a shelter wall of rough-hewn logs. Gerald gasped with surprise, which gratified Jon. The shard had struck a four-inch-thick log with such force that part of it was protruding from the other side.
"By the very heavens!” exclaimed the knight. “How did you do this?"
"Steam burst, done with care."
"So steam really can be as potent as black powder?"
"Yes. We have been trialing steam explosions, of late."
"They have been upon my mind as well,” said the knight. “Should it come to that, everyone within five miles has been aware of them."
"There's many types."
"Many? Is not one boom much the same as any other?"
"Not so. Either a sufflator's barrel bursts, or a connecting pipe gives way. I began making steam pipes weaker than the sufflators, so bursts would do less damage. Then Master says, make the pipe repair itself. Clever one, the Master."
"I ... please explain?” asked the knight.
"Master Tordral used ashwood sliverts holding a plugsert within the pipe. When steam pressure gets near to bursting, the plugsert bends the slivert a mite, and steam escapes until the pressure's eased. Master calls it a steam guard."
"I understood none of that,” Gerald admitted.
"It works,” said Jon with a shrug.
"But your sufflator has terrible damage,” said Gerald, waving at the wreckage again.
Jon tapped the shard embedded in the log.
"Intentional,” he explained. “I was trialing how forcefully steel shards can get flung."
"I see, even though I don't understand. Jon, I have been thinking."
"I leave that to the Master, lordship."
"Your steam bombard is a device of air, water, fire, and earth, but the metal projectile that it flings is merely earth. Surely it cannot breach the portal between worlds, as did the little boat."
"True, lordship,” said Jon, already aware that the knight was leading him to an ambush.
"Then why is Tordral wasting your time and my gold on steam explosions?"
"Master Tordral says iron balls, shot from a steam bombard, will destroy portals between this world and Faerie."
"Destroy them?"
"Aye."
"Not pass through them?"
"No."
"It's not what he promised."
"We discovered same by trial. Trials don't always tell us what we expect."
Jon was always left in charge when Tordral was away. He was known to speak slowly, and because he spoke slowly and chose words with care, he could be trusted to tell a lie with absolute consistency.
"Destroy portals to Faerie, I do believe I like that better than crossing them,” Gerald decided. “How much longer?"
"Can't say. The like's never been done."
"I cannot bear the cost forever, Jon. My brothers say I squander the family inheritance, and the king complains that we do not support him enough against the French."
"Then use the old ways, lordship: riddles, curses, spellwords, gifts, talismans, tricks, and vigils."
"Yes, yes, I concede. One cannot fight Faerie with Faerie's weapons, yet my support will not always be mine to give."
"We understand, lordship, and we work for nothing."
"Ah, I know that, and I appreciate it. Come out to the cart, I brought a token of that appreciation."
Several men and women had gathered around the cart, which Gerald's squire Kalran was guarding. Jon was not prepared for what was in the tray.
"A spiral briar in a pot?” he exclaimed.
"A symbol, Jon, a living symbol for us to follow, like a pennant, banner, or coat of arms. A symbol of those people twisted while they were young and soft, then grew older, harder, and very, very thorny."
Jon put his hands on his hips and nodded. Images floated before his eyes, and none of them were from the world of humans.
"Beautiful flowers can grow from twisted stems,” he said to the rose as much to those around him. “This will remind us of it."
"So, you too had a dear one taken?” asked Gerald knowingly.
"I was once a surpassing fair young knight, lordship. Even Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine thought me worthy to be her lover."
"Eleanor of—but she died two and a half centuries ago."
"True. You see ... an elf queen thought me surpassing fair as well."
The Shipwright
The ship being built on the shores of Derwentwater was of an ancient Norman design. It had the solidity of a barge, heavy decking, and was cut off flat at the bow. Amidships was a low cabin, and within this was a clay and gravel bed for a large hearth. It was nearly complete when Tordral arrived for the twelfth weekly inspection.
"As I sees it, Master, ye got purpose conflictin’ problems,” said the shipwright, Ivain, as they circled the vessel with Tordral's apprentice Harald.
"Explain,” said the armorer.
"It's scale, ye know? Derwentwater's a puddle. Why build a ship big enough t
er carry horses, when ye could ride around the lake as easy?"
"The why is my affair, Ivain. You are charged with the building."
"I done that. Twenty yards long, five yards beam, ready ter launch, but...."
"But?"
"There's bits I don't understand. Ye got the bow cut flat. That's bad in heavy seas. Water gets in."
"Derwentwater is only three miles long, its greatest waves are scarcely above ankle height. I want the bow clear for the bombard to fire. What else?"
"A bombard on a ship. It brings no advantage."
"Why not?"
"Word o’ new weapons gets out, sailors talk, ye know? Buy ‘em a few ales an’ their sense flies south like the swallows in autumn, then—"
"Come to the point."
"Point is, soon everyone's got a ship wi’ a bombard. If two ships wi’ bombards fight, they'll sink each other every time. A bombard's too bleedin’ powerful, an’ wood is nae strong enough. There's no advantage."
"Advantage or not, my ship must have a bombard. What else?"
"It's the two holes in the bow, and another two in the stern."
"Fine holes they are, too."
"Those at the bow are a fingerspan below the waterline."
"As they should be."
"Those at the stern are half a yard below."
"And placed precisely as I asked."
"Holes in a ship make it inclined ter sink."
"Ah, but the holes are to take two brass pipes that will run the length of the ship. They are for the water to flow along."
"Ye want water to flow inside the ship?"
"Indeed I do."
The shipwright muttered something in an obscure dialect and scratched his head.
"This is a ship of dreams,” explained Tordral. “Your place is to build, mine is to dream."
Ivain folded his arms, stared at the ship and shook his head. He had no idea what he was building, but if Tordral was happy, that was enough for him.
"May yer dreams be the nightmares o’ Faerie, Master. Oh, an’ see? I built a frame for our spiral briar's pot."
"Splendid. She is one of us, she must not be left behind."
"Master?"
FSF, April-May 2009 Page 2
