But just then a huge bass voice shook the Great Kone: “I beg you do not die.”
Immediately, something warm and wet touched his left cheek. Hot breath and a rough tongue slid over him, quick as a flickering flame. Xemion turned. “Bargest,” he groaned. Excited to get a response, the huge dog hunched over him and licked all the faster, the heat of his tongue warming Xemion’s face. Xemion tried to say “water,” but all he could do was croak. And then the dog was gone. Xemion slumped back down, shivering against the steps, the ache of thirst deep in his throat, willing himself not to die. He was hanging on by one word. It was a spell that would not let him give up — her name: Saheli.
Finally Bargest returned with a dripping rag in his jaws that he dangled over Xemion’s parched mouth. Drinking the liquid was almost as painful to him as the thirst had been. But when the dog returned he drank again. And when the dog came back carrying an apple in his jaws Xemion ate that, too. All the while as he slumped there eating, the dog kept nudging his hip with his massive nose as though he wanted something. Grateful as he was, Xemion chided him. First he said “No.” Then, when the dog persisted, he raised his voice a little. “No begging.”
By now the air in the Great Kone had begun to grow warmer. Xemion could see by the light above that he must be only seven or eight spirals away from the top. He tried to rise but crumpled to the ground. He kept trying until finally, with one hand on the banister and one gripping the thick fur on Bargest’s haunches, he managed to struggle farther up the steps. And all the while he sucked feverishly at the rag like some newborn child desperate to stay in this world.
As the two of them climbed, the wind changed direction, and by the time Xemion emerged from the top of the kone the air had warmed considerably. He stepped through the hole in the bronze gate into a humid, windy evening. The air smelled of salt and seabirds and distant spices as though it had just blown seconds ago right off the distant continent of Aruk. Almost crimson, the sun was going down, slowly dipping its rim into a heap of clouds piled up like a ziggurat on the horizon.
He felt a moment of relief that he had arrived before the equinox, but then the wind gusted strongly against him and he realized how weak he was and how much he had to do. He thought of Montither and wished he had some great weapon — or any weapon at all. He had a vision of himself hurling bolts of fire from his palms, blasting Montither to ash and bone. Almost hopefully he looked back at the Great Kone and studied it intently to see if it moved. But it was utterly still. It had not moved a hair since he’d gazed at these vandalized letters a fortnight ago. He was relieved and disappointed in almost equal measure — relieved because he had great disdain for spellcraft, but disappointed because he had no sword, no food in his belly, and very little remaining strength. The wind was picking up, coming in off the southern sea with a warm tang and sting that whipped Xemion’s hair back off of his shoulders. He leaned into it as Bargest pushed his nose against his hip.
“I beg you.” Bargest sniffed at Xemion’s hip.
“No,” Xemion said gruffly. He gestured with his hands to indicate his complete lack of any kind of biscuit at all, but when the dog persisted and said “I beg you, look inside the cloak,” he did, and thereby found a small pocket hidden in the waist. At first he thought it was empty, but crammed down in one corner was some kind of wafer. He took it out and it was dark on the two outer layers, but a golden amber colour in the middle. Bargest stared intently, his head cocked to one side. What looked to be a smile appeared on his great black face.
“I beg you. Eat.”
Xemion took a cautious bite and immediately a warmth and taste that was somehow familiar entered his mouth. Bargest began to jump around excitedly as he saw Xemion’s eyes light up. It was so sweet. It was almost too sweet. He took another small bite and felt the energy stream into him. He didn’t know what it was, whether it was the fabled ambrosia talked of in the Phaer Tales, some spellworked honeycomb, or some middle thing between the two, but it was quickly giving him a renewed vigour and strength. His first instinct was to swallow it all at once, but just as he was putting it to his lips he thought better of it. There was already sufficient energy in him with just two bites taken. His exhaustion was evaporating from his cells and each breath he took seemed to go right to that fire burning in his heart, stoking it, making it want to leap up and grow huge. Vallaine had told him to go to his tower and find the book of spells, but there was so little time. And there was something else of greater importance, he decided. Something he had to make sure of first.
“I must find Montither,” he growled.
Bargest looked up at the sky and let loose a howl of triumph. Immediately he lay his long nose down on the ground and said, “I beg you, accept me in service as your dog.”
Xemion looked at the dog with gratitude. “I will try you out,” he said, a little reluctantly, his voice still rough and hoarse, “but there is much at stake and you must obey me.”
Like some great burning galleon, sinking under the weight of its own gold, the sun was now deep in the mist-like clouds on the horizon, their dark tentacles looking as if they were trying to pull it down faster. He thought for a second of Vallaine, and there must have still been some shred of suspicion left in him, because he looked at the wafer, still in his hand, and wondered: if such miraculous food was right there in his pocket, why hadn’t Vallaine eaten it? But perhaps he hadn’t even known it was there. He put the remainder of it in his pocket and drew the cloak tightly about him, pulling up the hood, which was already shifting its colour to match that of the storm clouds overhead. He turned to Bargest and said, “Come!”
Bargest lifted his considerable snout from the ground, took a sniff at the wet spring air, and then he and Xemion headed toward the Panthemium at a run.
18
A Specially Made Sword
Even though he wore Vallaine’s chameleon cloak, Xemion kept out of sight lest Glittervein or one of his confederates should see him as he made his way to the Panthemium. He had no clear plan yet what he’d do if and when he located Montither. It would not be wrong, would it, to cut off his hand as he had once tried to cut off Xemion’s? Or to break it? Or to shatter his head?
“Stay here,” he ordered Bargest as he entered the Panthemium. Unnoticed, he approached Gnasher, who, along with several other of Montither’s thugs and drink Thralls, was loitering in the common area, covertly gulping down great quantities of grain alcohol from a large jug.
“Where is Montither?” he asked from inside the shadow of his dusk-grey hood. The lifelessness in his voice startled him. The words had come out in a dull, almost threatening tone.
“And who is it that asks?” Gnasher inquired with nearly concealed malice.
“The representative of Mr. Glittervein,” Xemion growled back, his voice as menacing as he could make it.
One of the others piped up, “Well, you’ve missed him.”
“He’s already gone up to the stack,” another said.
Xemion had nothing more to say to them — for now. He felt the strength from the biscuit surging within him, but he would not waste it on such as these. With no further comment, he turned and quickly walked away, ignoring Gnasher’s repeated calls. The oncoming storm was gathering momentum over the sea as he dashed through the clinging, damp air toward Uldestack. Ready to help if need be, Bargest loped along just close enough to keep Xemion in his sight.
Xemion kept under cover, darting from one shadow to the next at full speed as he made his way up the long, slow, sloping roadway that led to the stack. He got to the top just in time to see Montither knocking on the wooden door of the workshop. Montither turned around and peered back the way he had come before furtively entering. Xemion dashed up the road and took up a place at a window through which he could see a narrow slice of the smithy’s interior.
“Well, hello again, O Lord of Nains,” he heard Montither say with snide politeness.
“Ah, yes, the young Montither,” Glittervein replied with an equa
lly disdainful courtesy. “What brings you to my smithy on this windy night?”
“I wonder, sir, since as always my question requires some discretion, if your helper there might leave us alone for a moment.” Xemion had to lean in a little closer to see that Montither was indicating the large Thrall girl who was quietly eating cheese curds at a table on the other side of the room. Xemion began to salivate at the sight of the cheese curds. He was hungry.
“That is Oime,” replied Glittervein. “She neither sees nor hears.”
Montither walked over and examined the gentle-faced Thralleen more closely. Suddenly he clapped his hands loudly behind her left ear.
“I see,” he said with a smile when there was no reaction. “What possible use is she to you?” he asked with a laugh. “Is she your—?” Montither raised his eyebrows and finished his question with a lewd movement of his hips.
“She is a nocturnal Thrall from deep under Alder,” Glittervein explained dryly, his smile stopping far short of his eyes. “She has the strongest arms for hammering I have ever seen, I promise you.”
“But, sir, if she’s blind, how does she know where or what to hammer?”
“I position her,” Glittervein replied with clear disdain. He definitely did not enjoy being interrogated. “Very accurate, I assure you. I tap her shoulder and she knows what to do.”
“That is so kind of you,” Montither said, giving a sudden loud clap of his hand by her ear again, just to make sure.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Glittervein asked curtly.
“Mr. Glittervein, you know very well what you can do for me. You can give me my new sword.” At these words a chill bit into Xemion’s blood and he started shaking, whether with wrath or fear he couldn’t quite tell.
“Well, I’m sorry, but it is not quite ready.”
“What?” Montither dropped all pretense of courtesy and spoke with anger. “I paid you an enormous amount of money for it. Now I want my sword and I want it tonight!”
“And as I told you on your last inquiry,” Glittervein replied with apparent calmness, “it requires only one more firing and then it will be done. I told you that I would have it to you on time for the tournament. That is still my intent. And I might even have had it for you tonight but other things have had to take precedence and my machinery is overheated. Just be patient while it cools and I will have it for you in the morning.” Glittervein’s pipe, hanging at an angle from the scarred side of his mouth, emitted regular quick bursts of thick smoke as he sucked at it.
“The Phaer Tourney is tomorrow,” Montither bellowed, his jaw thrust forward in rage. “I need to practice with the sword I intend to use. That is my precedent.”
“I really do wish I could help you.” The Nain’s ability to maintain a calm voice and game face was possibly reaching its limit. “But I possess no north wind to suddenly cool my machinery down and—”
“I want my sword!” Montither bellowed, actually stamping his foot.
Glittervein put his hands on his hips, tilted his head back a little, and grinned. “Well, I want my rest.”
“Look, if I don’t get that sword, I’ll—”
“You’ll what, I wonder?” There was a slight glint of mirth in the Nain’s expression now. “Bring in the … family?”
“I don’t need my father to get my way,” Montither spat back, enraged.
“I’m sure.”
“Well, be sure, Nain. I have my own way. It’s just not as subtle as my father’s.”
“I can see that.” By now Glittervein’s tone had sharpened. He would not be intimidated.
Montither softened. “Just be fair with me,” he said, almost sweetly. “You did promise.”
After an intense silence, during which the two glared at each other eye-to-eye, Glittervein let out a raspy chuckle and then smiled so broadly it was very difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic.
“All right then, let’s not you and I fight. A promise is a promise. Maybe I will have to summon up a bit of extra north wind tonight.”
Montither nodded and Xemion could see that he’d become so emotional that there was a threat of tears in his eyes.
“Yes, no need to be upset,” Glittervein cooed. “Your family has been good to me, but as I said, my machinery does have to cool off a while. If you come back, let’s say just after midnight, I will have it ready for you.”
Montither smiled with relief. “And this sword will definitely be hard and sharp enough to do what I told you I needed it to do?”
“Of course,” Glittervein confirmed, his pipe accenting his words with three quick jerking billows of smoke. “If you have sufficient strength and know where to strike. But you have to come at it right. If you want to penetrate, you have to strike at the place of least resistance in the breastplate with the point of maximum thrust in the sword.”
“Maximum thrust?”
“The point, boy. Surely Lighthammer has taught you that. If you hack or hew with the edge of the sword, that only dissipates the impact all along the length of the blade and thus diminishes it. Look.” Glittervein took up a half-finished bronze sword from his worktable and, after whipping it through the air a few times, lunged forward with amazing quickness. “With a thrust forward, all your power is concentrated in one place: the point. You throw the whole weight of your body into it. That’s how you penetrate armour.”
Montither beheld this with raised eyebrows. “You know the sword well,” he said with admiration.
“Of course.”
“But you won’t be … competing?”
“Of course not. Why would I? What would it prove that Nains haven’t always proven but can never get accepted?”
Montither laughed and shrugged. “A shame,” he said, but the look of relief on his face was obvious.
“I had you worried, did I?” Glittervein had become very solicitous and avuncular. “Look, the best thing is to show you. Let me give you a lesson in fighting dirty, my boy. I have an iron breastplate all set up in a vice in the workshop. We’ll quaff a brew or two while my machinery cools down and I can show you some extremely nasty things, I promise you.”
“Well, yes, that is most considerate of you, Mr. Glittervein.”
Xemion crouched down in the dark as Glittervein closed and bolted the shutters to the window.
Glittervein chortled as he and Montither exited the smithy. “And so are you. But not too considerate to fight filthy, I hope.”
“No, not quite that prissy,” Montither joked.
“Well, we shall drink to dirty fighting then.”
“Yes, we shall, Mr. Glittervein.”
“To secret weapons,” Mr. Glittervein chortled.
“To secret weapons and to poison.”
“To secret weapons and to friends with secret weapons.”
“And to friends with friends.”
“To friends with friends,” Montither returned. The two of them crossed the yard laughing equally as though each had just one-upped the other.
19
Glittervein’s Machinery
As the dark of night edged up over the top of the stack and the storm brooded on the dark green dreams of the sea, Xemion quietly tried the door. He didn’t yet know what his plan was, but he had to stop Montither from getting that sword. The door was locked. He tried the shutter, but it, too, was bolted shut. There was only one way to get into the smithy — he would have to climb up the great stack and enter through the hole in the top.
There were plenty of ropes about the smithy grounds. He had seen the Nains use them to lower iron rods over the edge of the promontory as they constructed the small gate at the end of the ridge. Finding one coiled against the smithy wall, Xemion climbed onto the roof of the workshop. Quickly, he wrapped the thick rope around the wide, upwardly slanting base of the stack, kicked off his shoes, put one bare foot up against the smooth stone, and began to walk up the side of the stack. Little by little, edging the rope higher and higher as he leaned back against it, he made hi
s way to the top, and lifted himself over the rim.
The opening of the chimney was even wider than he had expected. The smoke of one hundred fires at once used to stream through here. The thick deposit of soot all around the great rim testified to that. He peered down and beheld, far below in the darkness, the dim glow of a long pit from which hot air and a terrible stink arose: Glittervein’s kiln. But where was the sword?
Xemion had planned to loop the rope under the outside lip of the rim, but there was no need. The long-ago builders had allowed for the labours of their massive Cyclopean chimney sweeps by installing wide iron loops on either side of the flue. Quickly tying a firm knot through one of these, he began to lower himself hand-over-hand into the dark. It took longer than he expected. The bottom of the smithy, where the great kiln and Glittervein’s other machinery lay, was much below ground level. The stink intensified the lower he got until finally the rope stopped. It was impossible to tell what was immediately below him, nor how far down it might be, but Xemion let go.
He sensed the whoosh of the ground coming at him just in time to roll so that even though he hit hard he was only winded. Standing up and peering into the dying glow coming from the open kiln, Xemion spied a large hill of shadow: A huge mound of coal to fuel the machinery? And there, beside it upon a stone table, was the sword. Xemion started to run toward it, but just then there was a great whooshing sound as though someone had stepped on a giant bellows. Xemion stopped in his tracks and gasped. Warm air rushed over his face and with it the hideous smell intensified. Staring into the hill of shadow, Xemion now saw wisps of smoke billowing up from two dark holes, and there, could those other two holes be large reptilian eyes? Surely he didn’t see the hill shift a little.
Xemion clasped his hands together with the fiercest grip of his life. He pictured some guardian tiger demon about to spring. He prepared to die. But to his amazement, there followed a sob, a sigh of some kind. Then a small flicker of flame shot out from one of the two holes. It was by the light of that flame that Xemion at last saw the source of Glittervein’s intense heat. This was no hill of coal, no heap of tiger; this was a dragon. In fact, Xemion knew beyond a doubt that this was the very same dragon he had encountered months ago in the Valley of Ulde.
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