The Forge in the Forest

by Michael Scott Rohan

  He sat down then by the door that was his, and gazed out over the wooded hillside. It brought back to him the mountain woods of his youth, only a few years behind him yet an age away. In many ways he had been happiest then, but he could never forget that only lies and corruption had lain beneath. He could no longer take happiness as a gift, without price or obligation, or trust good fortune he did not wholly understand. If Kermorvan was learning to trust his heart more, then Elof had learned to trust his less. Idyllic as Lys Arvalen seemed, he would, he must, delve out the truth that lay at its root. And to that end he had shaped this forge.

  He reached for Gorthawer, leaning against the wall, slid it halfway from the scabbard, and studied the shadow the black blade cast. Warm and deep and dark, it seemed to flow over the ground like viscous ink, merging with the thousand shadows of the wood; the talisman was strong here, as should be expected. Swiftly Elof rose and swung back the heavy door, its hinges creaking despite their grease. As he stepped over the threshold the shadow seemed to shrink and fade, falling pale upon the scoured stone at his feet. He nodded thoughtfully to himself, and played the blade carefully all around the little forge, and most carefully over the water in the trough, and over the least of the stone slabs, always watching the shadow intently. But nowhere did it grow the least trace darker. He sheathed Gorthawer then, and took it outside with him once more, and sat down in the sun with a sigh. Beneath that small slab lay the only wood within the walls, the cedar lining of the chest wherein he stored his precious books against damp and smoke; even that he had immured within pitch and stone. There would be no more, save what was already burned to charcoal. He had guessed aright.

  Now he must look to his materials. He reached for the heavy hide sack that held the ancient hoard, and spilled it out over the sun-warmed ground before him. It was dazzling wealth that glittered there, but a smith's eye measured potential more profound than mere value. And what he saw he found strange indeed. Many pieces were so advanced it was possible to deduce the cunning design intended, the subtle virtue half set upon them. Yet all such pieces had been left unfinished, even where no fault or flaw could possibly have barred their completion. So engrossed was Elof that he scarcely noticed a fish rise to a deerfly struggling on the stream. Yet in the splash and spurt of bubbles the babbling music of the water was suddenly, subtly, altered.

  So, smith. Are you now content? Or do you doubt still the warmth of your welcome here?

  Elof bowed his head courteously to the empty air. "I would be ungrateful, Lord of the Forest, if I did not believe you wished me to stay and be happy. Yet when I strayed into your domain in the Westlands far away, you at first bade me and my companions begone. Why, then… or do I give offense?"

  The waters chuckled lightly over the pebbles in the shallows, where small birds bobbed and picked. You do not. The question is fair. I traced in you … something … that made me believe you other than you are.

  How so, Lord of the Forest?

  Is such sight to be fettered in the weak thoughts of men? The stream ran on in quiet a moment, dead leaves whirling on its surface. Say, then, that most men … cast shadows in my mind. Shadows that vary, some lighter, some blacker. But you, you are no shadow, you are like some shifting glimmer in the Forest depths. Very like, indeed; for the Forest is my mind.

  "Then why fear to have me in it?" asked Elof boldly. "It harbors many a blacker thought than I."

  The tall trees stooped and bobbed, looming dark over the forge. It was for one such I took you. I did not know you for a smith among men. Aware of forces within you, I thought you an elemental, a minor Power, astray in my land without my leave, and perhaps a danger to my folk.

  That I could not tolerate. You should understand; you have met some, the dwellers in river and lake, and the Hunt.

  "Do you not tolerate them? Many of my companions they took, good men and bad alike. Why hedge your land about with such horrors, if all men are as welcome as you say?"

  The water swirled and gurgled, and its note grew deeper. You are bold, smith, so to bandy words with one of the Powers, and not the least. If I were as ill disposed as you suspect, would I need to answer you ? I harbor such creatures out of two concerns, and the greater is pity.

  "Pity?"

  Even so. Where else have they to dwell? Those creatures, and many others it is well you did not meet, they have needs and ways of life that would seem wholly strange to you. In the world outside, the world of men, their day is past; what parts and purposes they once had in the worlds shaping they have outlived, but they have grown used to their existence, forgetting or fearing the changes for which the time has come. That I condone, for I know how hard such changes may be; once this was a world of forest, smith, before the days of men. So under my trees I afford them shelter, and they guard the borders of my realm. And guards I must have. For though I wish men well, I cannot allow them in their wasteful ignorance to devastate my land, which will one day be their surest refuge. The alfar love their children, yet will they let them play with flame? Had I no sentinels, the trees would be hewn down to feed fires or build shacks, the animals hunted to extinction, the whole ancient cycle of plenty torn asunder when it might have provided for all. For now I must endanger a few lives, that one day, when the works of men totter to their fall, I may receive them whence they should never have strayed, back into the embrace of nature. Then shall I throw open my borders, and welcome all. And that day may not be long removed. In it I shall need great leaders; Korentyn for one, your friend Kermorvan, the lady Ils for her folk. And, if I mistake you not, you also shall be among them. Reflect on that among your labors!

  That evening, as Elof strode back down the hill to the castle, he saw trails of torches winding among the trees below. He guessed it must be the hunting parties returning for the following night's feast, and hastened to greet them as they set down their catch on the greens-ward before the gate. Roc and Ils greeted him in boisterous good spirits; he had to endure much chaffing for laziness till he managed to tell them of the forge. They in their turn had something to tell him, for they had fallen in with another party, among whom was Morhuen, the renowned bard, coming to the feast. "Though he was scarce willing, till I told him of Kermorvan!" added Roc. "And who'd blame him? That's a fine carefree life he's been leading out there with the alfar, Elof! Do you be sure and try it some day!"

  Elof smiled. "Perhaps I will, and soon. Would you go hunting metals in the mountains once again, Roc, as we did in the old days? And you, Ils? I thought you might!"

  She laughed. "Where'd you be without me? Humans lack the eye for how the stone lies. And we'll see if alfar can beat duergar after that game!"

  Roc snorted. "I'll be along to pick up the pieces. As usual. But for the nonce, nothing comes 'twixt me and my dinner, save a good bathe. Let's go in!"

  All that evening and the next day the court was awhirl with excited preparations for the coming feast. But Elof was beginning to suspect they looked forward to such celebrations not only to break the monotony, but to lay down for a while burdens which had grown intolerable, their own natures. And when at last Korentyn and Kermorvan led them in solemn procession into the great court, glittering now with the strange lamps that had been hung even among the mighty oak's leaves, it was not long before his suspicions were confirmed. As the night advanced, he found the wine and music and dancing flowing together into a single inexorable current of ritual revelry. In its constant shift and change these strange folk could truly lose themselves, subdue the pain of thought to the stiff intricacies of the dance, disperse the pain of feeling in brief flirtations, spinning from one partner to another as heedless as the least-lived mayfly by the stream. Korentyn took no active part, but he presided over the rout with amused indulgence.

  Only one of his folk seemed to take little joy in it all, the bard Morhuen, though many songs of his making were played. He was a gangling creature with shaggy white hair and beard, although in face and bearing he seemed scarcely older than Korentyn by whose s
ide he sat. He heeded that honor no more; he shifted uncomfortably in his robes and spoke few words to any save Korentyn and the Guardians who waited upon him. His light blue eyes stared vaguely into remoteness, and at the many compliments paid him his full lips worked nervously. At the height of the feast Korentyn ceremonially presented him to the travelers, and it was only when his eye lit upon Kermorvan that the look in it became bright and alert, his bow deep and reverent. "For I see that all I was told of you is true!" he said, and his voice rang clear and strong. "You might indeed be my dear lord Keryn come once again."

  / see in you a promise, and a token

  That hope dies not with one day's ending,

  That by one winter summer is not broken,

  That springs may follow which shall flower as fair.

  So may the tower arise, once to the earth cast down,

  And on the humbled brows, there shall be set a crown.

  There was a sudden rattle of applause, as if a breath of mountain wind licked through the hairs heavy air. "May it be so!" barked Korentyn, and raised his glass in a fierce toast; then, as if ashamed of his outburst, he smiled and sat down, and the brief tremor of excitement faded.

  "Ah, marvelous!" breathed Teris, who was seated between Elof and Kermorvan, and shook her auburn hair delightedly. "Oh, and so very long it has been since he managed a verse thus, all of a moment! Master Morhuen, Master Morhuen, won't you sing us something? With the harp, if it please you?"

  The bard bowed. "Never have I been able to refuse you aught, a'Terisec, even if there were not these new guests to honor. I wax old, but I will essay…" He paused as he met Elof's interested gaze. "What is this?" he puzzled, aloud yet almost to himself. "What is this?" A feeble terror flickered in his eyes. "Do all the faces of fallen Morvan arise and walk abroad this night?"

  "Master Morhuen!" cried Teris, shaken. "This is discourtesy! Here sits Elof the Smith, to whom my lord Korentyn presented you only a moment since…"

  Elof leaned forward. "I am not offended, lady! Korentyn also saw some likeness in me, but to whom he could not say. Can you, master?"

  But Morhuen glanced at him with a mixture of confusion and distrust, touched his long fingers to his forehead and mumbled a word or two. Suddenly he turned away to where Korentyn and Kermorvan were in lively dispute over what he should sing. Teris seized Elof s arm, and her hair tickled his ear. "Now you see why Merau calls him an old fool!" she whispered, stifling a giggle. "But he's so sweet, truly, and the way he sang for us, in the old days…" Elof hardly heard; he was too acutely aware of her touch, the quiver of her breast against his arm as she chattered, the sweet scent of her, like flowers warmed by the strong sun of the south. Probably she was unaware of the effect she was making; she had set her cap firmly at Kermorvan. But Elof found himself fighting for resolve; too easy, too natural to be tempted, the more so with the frustrations that knotted inside him, and the wine. To let himself be seduced, to linger, to delay a quest he had no real reason to believe could succeed. He was immensely relieved when Teris drew free of him to join the applause as Morhuen stepped out onto the open floor before the tree.

  Elof, seeing him afoot for the first time, caught his breath; the bard was not merely gangling, he was grotesque, his flowing robes concealing an odd shambling gait, as on limbs sorely twisted. From among the many groups of musicians in the hall, harps were thrust out to him; he made great play of picking the best and having its owner tune it to a particular fineness. Then he swept to the center of the floor, bobbed a bow to the court and announced, "By the will of our chiefest guest Keryn, Lord Kermorvan…" He chuckled deferentially. "And counter to the wish of our modest Prince Korentyn, I will sing the Deeds of Korentyn Rhudri at Lastreby!"

  Kermorvan leaned across Teris to whisper to the travelers, "A ballad in the ancient mode. Lastreby was a hill town in Morvan north of the Waters, whose heroic last defense Korentyn led, his first great deed." Morhuen tucked the harp into the crook of his long left arm, and poised his long fingers carefully. Then he swept them down to a single chord that shivered off the ancient stones, merging a voice of metal as clear and bright as the harp-strings, youthful and heroic.

  Hark! Hold you silent! Heroes are sung of, Such as dared strive with the stern powers of old. Men who withstood them, who waged war against them, Harried them back from the heights of the north fell, Held there till Ice came, that no man may hinder Cracking and crushing what it could not conquer.

  The harp pulsed and sang under Morhuen's fingers, and though the music was strange to Elof, it struck shivering harmonies in the taut strings of his heart. Loud chords rang a tocsin of urgency and alarm on the stresses of the lines, while between them the strings rippled the rhythm of a cantering horse.

  Korentyn Rhudri, fiery-haired princeling, Outrode his escort though rough grew the hillroad, Fierce in his longing to leap up to Lastreby, There deal a blow to the armies of darkness, Strew them like sowings of death on the felltops, Melt the bleak Ice in the blood of its minions.

  Lastreby walls lifted high over hilltops,

  Gaunt garth of gray stone ancient and grim…

  The harp struck a sudden false note, an ugly dissonance. The bard's voice faltered; he glanced at the strings, striving desperately to regain his fingering, but all at once the tune collapsed, the sound dissolved into a jumble. Mor-huen bent forward an instant as if catching breath, then sang on with fervor. But already the spell was broken.

  White on its battlements weather untimely, Snow in high summer laid siege to …

  He faltered again, repeated "laid siege to…" and then stopped altogether, shaking his head, took his trembling fingers from the harp and clenched them tight. When he looked up and around at his audience, distress and shame were so naked upon his countenance that Elof could not bear to look.

  Korentyn's face was wrung with concern. "Are you well, old friend? Would you retire…"

  "No, my lord…" The bard's voice was tremulous. "I am sorry… I wax old, as I said. The old songs, they fade from my memory. And my fingers grow wasted and weak; I cannot force them to the fingerings of the harp any more. My lords, ladies, old friends and new guests, sorrow is mine that I must withdraw. Never should I have come."

  Korentyn raised a hand. "Yet if your fingers fail you," he said encouragingly, "may you not still set words to dance, as you did at the first? For my kinsman here has been through a great adventure in the Westlands, he and his friends, a quest and a mighty siege. No other but you could set the tale in the song it deserves!"

  Morhuen's pale eyes seemed to stare almost through him. "Oh, my dear lord, the music is fled from me, the lire is gone out; what then remains? A verse, a line, a fragment; trifles, scraps of bark set afloat upon an endless stream. No great ballad, not even at your behest. Not even yours. One song more I may make, one short… but that for you…" And suddenly he struck the harp he carried with the backs of his stiffened fingers, and a sudden lilting tune flowed from it.

  Your praise resound,

  Prince of the Halls of Summer I

  Lord of a court

  Whose like shall not return!

  At your behest

  My songs have brought the past again,

  And made to live

  All that we loved and lost!

  Yet ever more that elder music fails me,

  The past grows dim and dark as prison wall.

  And stronger now a newer music claims me,

  The endless woods bring healing to my soul.

  Now I am ever eaten up with yearning,

  For freedom in the wild woods I am burning,

  Within these walls I find no home,

  Free, unhindered I must roam!

  All praise to you,

  Lord of the line of Morvan!

  All that I owe

  I cannot now repay!

  Honor and fame

  Have ever been your gifts to me,

  No minstrelsy

  Has praised a kinder lord.

  Yet I am not the
man that long has served you,

  Though faithful still, I hear another call,

  And I am drained of song to set against it,

  Bereft of joys that held me in your hall.

  Now it is torment to me to remain here,

  Save for your kindness, all I find is pain here,

  I beg you, loose your claim on me—

  My friend, my master, set me free!

  Even as the last long phrase sang from the harp it sagged and fell, dangled limply from his fingers. He knelt and set it down gently on the flagstones, its strings still faintly ringing. Elof was shocked to see dark stains upon them, and a heavy droplet fall upon the frame: in Morhuen's struggle to play true they had cut into his very flesh. A murmur ran through the court, a soft troubled sound, and then all was silent. When at last Korentyn spoke, there was a deep tremor in his voice. "For such songs as once you made, old friend, my favor is poor recompense; you owe me nothing. If I can give you no more than leave to go, you have it, and my blessing. But may it not be long before we meet again."

  Morhuen made no reply, save to bow deeply ere he strode from the hall. As he reached the high door and flung it wide, he plucked the court robe from his shoulders and flung it to one of the alfar waiting there. Elof caught his breath, and a deep unease grew in him. The bard's limbs, left bare by his simple green tunic, were not malformed; they were simply long, terribly long, and he had been standing hunched and uncomfortable to hide them. Yet this was, or had been, a man. The door swung to behind him.

  Silence gripped the court, in confusion or shame; Korentyn stared at the bare board before him, his face pale. Around his feet alfar, hair and harness thick with garlands, gathered and gazed up at him with wide worried eyes. At length Kermorvan and the lord Almayn, who sat by, exchanged glances; Almayn gestured to the musicians. A flourish sounded, and they struck up a slow stately music. Couples, Kermorvan and Teris among them, rose and glided out into the formal patterns of a dance, sweeping this way and that across the floor in shifting lines as ceaseless and repetitive as waves upon the shore. Korentyn glanced up, but seemed to find little power in it to soothe him. No more did Elof; to him it was a slow torment. But barely had it drifted to its end before an older alfar, a mane of white hair hanging to his shoulders, gestured to the musicians quite as airily as Almayn. A drum beat out a slow rhythm; bowed strings sang a livelier tune, deeper plucked strings sounded a stamping, loping beat. A shout arose, and the alfar bounded out into the court. Korentyn looked up, startled, then smiled indulgently. Grinning widely, they began to circle the hall, slowly at first then faster, in a loping, bouncing run, arms held high above their heads, flicking their wrists sideways and snapping their fingers in time to the beat. Others, men and women, sprang out to join them, whirling and tossing on their long limbs like storm-sprung saplings. In a great train they wove and gamboled about the tree, wheeling and careering with such abandon that their braided hair flew wild and flung out flowers and garlands which fell among the watchers.