The Forge in the Forest

Book 293: Gateway Essentials

by Michael Scott Rohan

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

The siege of Kerbryhaine had been raised, the Ekwesh hordes vanquished, the Mastersmith slain. But for Alv - now Elof the Smith - the war was not yet won: Kerbryhaine was still a divided city; the Ekwesh, bloodily defeated, would look for revenge; and the Ice, implacably malevolent, continued its inexorable march southward. So from divided Kerbryhaine Elof, Kermorvan and his companions mounted an expedition to the legendary lost cities of the East; if they managed to reunite the war-torn tribes, perhaps they could stand together against the menace of the Ice. But to Elof and Kermorvan the journey would also bring knowledge: of the Powers ranged for and against them; and the secrets within themselves waiting to be revealed - secrets that would play a part in the war yet to come.

Release date: November 5, 2012

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 397

Sample

IT WAS THE SEAWIND woke him, as his head drooped lower over the close-scrawled book. Through the open upper door of the smithy it gusted, flattening the hearthfire, guttering the rushlamps, and it breathed a sudden chill upon his bare neck. He sat up sharply, blinking in the wavering lamplight, with the queasy alertness of the suddenly awakened. He had been elsewhere, somewhere far away, black marshes or bleak mountains, chasing a shadow out of his past, a shadow that vanished before him, shifted shape in his grasp, reformed and reappeared at his back, for ever close, for ever out of reach …

There came the soft thud of a book closing, and impatiently he shook off the moment of nightmare. “How goes the night?” he asked, without turning his head.

“At its accustomed pace,” came Roc’s calm reply. “An hour before the middle hour it has reached, by my glass. Time you were abed, by Ils’ iron command. Marja and old Hjoran are off long since. And tomorrow is my lord Kermorvan’s day; sleep, if you would be fresh for that.”

“I cannot sleep.”

“A grand mimic you were, then, but a minute gone …”

“I mean, I dare not. Not now, with my mind so weighed down by thoughts and cares. My very dreams are poisoned.”

“You’ve found naught to help you, then?”

Elof shook his head. “No, nothing. And you?”

Roc rose, stumped over to a bench heaped with great tomes, and slapped down the one he had been reading upon the highest pile. “The same. Much fascinating, much I do not understand, but nothing bearing upon your concern.” He peered at the boxes of scrolls beside Elof’s table, and leaned over his shoulder. “Not so many of those left, either. What’s that one all about? Doesn’t look promising. Pity our late unlamented master didn’t bring more of his precious library south with him. It’ll all be mouldering away in the old tower now …”

“If the duergar have not seized the place,” said Elof. “Or … others.”

“The Ice, you mean?” said Roc softly, and glanced involuntarily out into the dark beyond the stable door. “Doubt the books have much to tell it.”

“Aye, but there are other things there. We did not find that helm I made, the Tarnhelm, among the Mastersmith’s effects. And that too was a work of power …”

Roc shrugged. “It had its uses, for passing unseen. And somehow shifting place, if what you saw the night of its making was right …”

“It was,” answered Elof, heavily. “And on the Ice, also. Here is a scroll Ingar must have consulted in planning the helm – see, it bears the very chalk marks from his soiled sleeves …” He stopped a moment, caught his breath. Roc said nothing. “This is a treatise on the power of masks, with annotations by the Mastersmith of much he learned among the Ekwesh, of transforming the wearer into his own living symbol. If I understand aright, such transformation must be the root of the helm’s whole power. You remember the virtues he had me set upon it? Of concealment, of change, of moving subtly and unseen … It was that which haunted my dream, the understanding at last how that helm must act, how powerful it truly is. The helm is a mask, a perfect mask, a concealment shaped by its wearer’s own image of himself. Let him think of shadow, and he is unseen. Let him think of a shape, and it masks his own. Let him think of being somewhere else, and he is masked in that thought; he is there …”

Roc swallowed. “A fell power to wear with a light heart. I think of many places I would as soon never be. Ach, but the duergar’ll know what to do with it, if any can …”

“I do not think they have it.”

Roc eyed him sharply. “You’ve reason, by your tone. What then?”

Elof sighed deeply. “You saw as I did, that last hour. Two swans flew up, flew eastward …”

“You made but one helm.”

“Kara wore a cloak when first I met her, ere the helm was made, and its lining was black swan’s down. But Louhi wore no such cloak. And why would they ride horses over such rough country, and when visiting an ally, if both could shift their shape and fly? It may be, it may well be that Louhi came that night to command the Mastersmith to make her something that matched Kara’s power.” He stood up, and the precious parchment crumpled in the convulsion of his powerful fingers, the rod of thick wood at its centre creaked and snapped. He looked at it in annoyance, and cast it down upon the table, twisted as the ruined black blade before him. “You see now why I must follow her so urgently, whoever, whatever she truly is? Once more a great power of my making is put into evil hands. Once more must I find it, and if need be destroy-it. And she is my only link to Louhi. Even if I did not wish to free Kara, still I would have to follow her, find her. Even if I did not love her.”

Roc pursed his lips and looked away, as he might from the sudden blaze of his forgefire. Gently he ran a finger along the tortured metal before him. “Well, for such a task you’ll need your strange sword made whole, right enough. Few in the world could have cloven as that one did in your last need.” He stretched, and yawned loudly. “But for now, do you try to rest, at least. Tired eyes may miss what’s plain by daylight”

Elof breathed out a long breath, and nodded. “True enough. Very well. I’ll try, but not this moment. I’ll sit up awhile and mend the hilt, at least, if there’s no more to be done now. Work of the hands will clear the brain.”

When Roc had gone Elof smoothed out the crumpled scroll and stowed it carefully. Then he sighed, and turned to the hilt. The sheer force of the blow that had twisted the sword had shivered loose the plain silvered wires of the grip; gone was their cloudy, stormy sheen, racing and beautiful as the marshland skies beneath which they were made. He thought a moment, reached for his precious tool-pack and bore it to a workbench by the window. There Marja, old Hjoran’s girl journeyman, kept her work. Instead of the blackened instruments of the forge, delicate grippers, thin files and fine-tipped burins were laid out in neat racks, for Marja was an accomplished jeweller. Elof chose a delicate blade and from a side pocket he drew a fold of stiff leather; a few dry leaf-needles fell from one end, and he opened it with minute care. Within it lay a dry sprig of the redwood tree, almost naked of its needles save for one small twig, and this he carefully severed. He laid it upon a polished stone slab, brushed across it a subtle paste of egg white and gums thinned with strongest spirits, and laid across it a light leaf of hammered silver, finer than finest parchment. He breathed gently on this, till a ghostly outline of the twig showed through, and then with fine-tipped tools he began to smooth it down, patiently working it close around the outline of every needle, turning it over and adding more leaf till the twig was wholly encased, enshrined.

Now it looked like the talisman it had been. Little power seemed left to it, but it was too precious a thing to discard entirely. While there are leaves on it, even withered and dead, something of the virtue of forests will cling to it … He smiled. “But no autumn wind shall unfix these last leaves. A silver season sets them in place, and I will bear them with me wherever I go.” These words he spoke over his work, and then unwinding the wires he fastened the twig about the grip, and set the wires tightly in place above it once more. It felt as solid as before, but Elof scowled as he took it in his hand. What was it without the blade it bore? He tossed it down in disgust. The night was silent now, save for the rising whine of the wind, bearing with it the distant sound of the wavelets in the harbour, the clopping hooves of some benighted rider on the cobbled streets. Sleep seemed further fled than ever from his mind, so sharply the need to learn spurred him. Impatiently he snatched up another scroll. It proved to be a wordy treatise on extracting metals from ores, and, save for a long chapter on the strange forces set moving by iron and copper in corrosives, it was dull stuff. And before him on the table sat the sword, the precious blade he had not made for himself, but had taken from a long-dead hand. It lay there like a mute accusation. Was he worthy to wield such a thing, if he, a smith of craft and power, could not reforge it?

“But how? How?” He pushed the scroll aside and took up the cool metal in his hands. If metal it was, in truth. For no furnace would heat it, no file bite upon it, no hammer subdue its stubborn strength. Not all his smithcraft, all his long study, all his strength of mind or arm, neither the flames of his forge nor the fires of his need could make that blade anew!

“Greetings, worthy smith!” A sound of thunder rang through the smithy, rattling the heavy door on its hinges; still greater was the impact of the voice. The blade flew from Elof’s fingers, the bench he sat on overturned as he sprang to his feet in fury and fright. But the latch was up, the lower door already swinging open, and Elof’s anger slackened as he saw what manner of figure stood there, half hesitant in the shadows of the street.

The man was old, that was obvious. In the dim light from the forge his wide hat shadowed his face, its battered brim drooping across one eye, but it only served to stress the whiteness of the windblown locks and beard beneath. So also the heavy mantle, that had once been dark blue and was now sorely stained with travel. The shoulders beneath were bowed, and he leaned upon a great staff of smooth dark wood, crowned with its own bark. A strong support but hard, perhaps, to manage; Elof forgave him his clumsy knock.

“Greetings!” said the old man once again, and bowed courteously. “A wayworn guest asks hospitality of your hearth awhile, that shone out warmly from afar in these nightbound streets.” The voice was gruff yet deep and resonant, with more than a trace of the northern burr. Elof smiled at his old-fashioned courtesy, but still he hesitated.

“Who is it that asks? Who has sought out my smithy in all this great town?”

The old man stepped slowly through the door, as if that had been invitation enough. The sea-breeze frisked in with him, whipping up the forge charcoals, pulling puffs of smoke from beneath the chimney breast. “A wanderer only, so the world might call me. For indeed far and wide I have wandered, many long leagues across its face. And further still, it seems, I must go.”

I doubt as far as I, thought Elof wryly, but said no such word, and moved to usher the ancient gently out. A beggar once within is harder to turn out, and the city was full of northern beggars now, young and old, who had slipped past the gate guards; he could not feed them all. Also, of this oldster’s face he could see only a great hooked beak of a nose with a bright dark eye above it, and in that a gleam he did not altogether trust. Elof laughed, and fumbled at his belt for a coin, enough for a night’s lodging. “Well, if you’re called a wanderer, the last I would be to detain you. Here is alms, but I cannot …”

The old beggar paid him no heed, but advanced into the smithy with that same slow stride, his mantle sweeping odd swirls in the dust. Elof stopped, startled, and let the coin slide back into his pouch. He must once have stood very tall, this ancient; even now his head was on a level with Elof s, and the pale mottled hands that gripped the great staff were long and muscular. In the trembling fireglow his shadow loomed enormous against the smithy wall. “Good man greets the journeyer gladly, aye, so it was said in the Northlands, was it not? For I hear them in your fair speech.” Elof blinked at the mild rebuke, but sought to bar his way nonetheless. The old man ignored him, and turned towards the hearth. “So it was ever with me, in the old days. Men made me welcome then, gave me food and drink and even gifts. True men, they, not scared to admit a stranger. Trouble fears, that trouble wills, thus they said, and opened their doors wide.”

“Troubles I have!” sighed Elof, resenting the nettle’s sting. “Why do you come to worsen them?”

“I would only sit by your hearth,” grunted the old man, lowering himself slowly and wearily onto the brick seat, sighing as he laid his back against it and basked in the warmth. “So! Since it is grudged me, this scant rest, I must fee you for it as best I can, with wisdom. Much I have seen, learned many things strange even to men of lore; counsel of mine has lifted gnawing care from many men’s hearts. Ask of me what you will!”

Elof sighed. “Nothing is grudged,” he said firmly, “but I have many labours. Take the alms I offered, and leave me to them. I need no counsel that you could give …”

The old man tossed his head contemptuously, and Elof caught a glimpse of his face, lined but hard like some ancient tree. “Are you so sure of that?” demanded the stranger sternly. “Many who deem themselves wise fail only to know the extent of their ignorance!” He poked his staff clumsily at a pile of bound books. “You, you bury your nose in dead words. You seek some secret, that is plain. Words hold many, that is true. But not all!” Again that dark eye flashed from beneath the ruined brim, quizzical, mocking, and lit upon the crippled sword. “Ahh. You seek a means to mend that blade …” He chuckled. “A fine strong lad like yourself, can you not simply hammer it straight? No? Then however did you make it in the first place?”

Again the dart flew straight and keen; Elof felt his ears burn, his cheeks flare, and cursed beneath his breath. “You do not know,” mused the old man, cocking his great head to one side. “You cannot have shaped the blade for yourself, then. It is not … yours.”

Elof glared at him. “It is no man’s else, I found it, where it had lain buried beyond sight or memory –”

The old man shook his head querulously, his shabby hat flapping. “So! Found is not freely given. Yet sometimes even a gift must be earned, must it not? A horse that one must learn to saddle before riding, a boat to rig before sailing. It is not for me to say, but such gifts might be given to teach the given new craft, or make him aware of that he already has. Thus truly he wins both the gift and the skill for himself, and stands free of all obligation save gratitude.”

Elof stood very still. The forgefire was crackling now, whipped up by a breeze sharp as a storm’s outrider. He looked askance at the old man, hard to make out against the smoky glare behind him. “Skill I have sought …”

“Aye, in books of another’s wisdom. They have their place, perchance. But I had always heard that magesmiths of the north were such men as ever sought new truths, new wisdoms in the very ebb and flow of nature itself.”

“Aye!” said Elof fiercely, stung now to the quick. “So we do! The mastersmiths, the great among us, they harness with their craft the many forces of this world. To heights and depths they put forth their hands, and grasp them, bind them in cunning work. The true mastersmith fears not to snatch those forces even from the hands of the very Powers that wield them!”

The old man laughed softly to himself. Then, with a speed that startled Elof, he hauled himself up one-handed upon his great staff and with the other clawed up the black blade from the table, heedless of its hair-fine edge. Outraged, Elof sprang to seize it, only to stop short with a gasp as the great staff, twirled effortlessly about, tapped against his breastbone. The hand he raised to dash it aside faltered at the slight cold sting where it touched him. His fingers closed more gently round the bark, found it a mere wrapping over a shape beneath, and chill meltwater coursed in his veins. It was an edge he touched, narrow, hard and tapering. This staff at his breast, hard on a strange wound’s scarless site, was a tall spear, and in hands deft to wield it.

The old man nodded softly. “Proudly spoken, my wise smith, to set your kind against the Steerers of the World. Yet know you of what you speak?” He straightened suddenly, effortlessly, and the black shadows seemed to flutter round the forge, chill-winged on the freshening wind. “Over this world was set their dominion ere it was shaped. Over sea and land they rule, over sky, over stone, cloud and mountain, forest and lake, plain and river, over all that lives, plants, beasts, men. And over the Ice.” The great staff that was no staff stretched out in a wide sweep before him, as if to score some mighty secret on the flagstones, as if to encompass the wide world. On the outflung arms the mantle billowed as if in the winds of the heights, and flew like a banner from the shaft. “High and wise they are, and surpassing strong, the least and weakest past measure of men. In their slightest glance is seeing, their least thought knowing, their smallest gesture … power.” Outheld like some vast sceptre, the staffs head glanced lightly against the flaring forgecoals. The smithy rang with a shattering sound, a blast of thunder that flattened flames and spat sparks stinging and sizzling into the smoky air. The floor shook, flagstones heaved, and a great blade of glaring light leaped between hearth and chimney; a thunderbolt burst beneath the roof. Wind shrieked, smoke rolled in blasted tatters across the room, the lamp, blown out, topped and shattered; the tools ranked upon the wall jangled and chimed. But amid this stood the old man, stern, unmoved, cold as a winter sky, his dark eye glittering in the shadow of his hat.

There was silence then, the strangely unquiet silence, still reverberant, that comes after cataclysmic sound. And in it, distant, faint but very clear, Elof heard what might be an answer, a faint crackling rumble borne from far off down the shrilling sea-breeze. The gusting air, sobbing and rattling at the door, pressed chill against his stiffened spine, and he began to shiver violently.

“Well, cunning smith,” demanded the old man quietly, “do you repent now of your pride?”

Mutely, holding his eyes on the old man with utmost intensity, Elof shook his head. But the strange wanderer only leaned wearily on the great staff once again. Shrouded still stood its crown, but in the rippling shadow the firelight cast upon the wall the shape of a broad spearhead stood out clear.

“Well enough that you should not. For – as I have heard the wise tell it – it is only those of the Ice, those who fail in their trust, who desire slaves, servants, subjects. The true Steerers cannot, being themselves doubly servants, to a cause and to an end. And that end is best served by those men who need their help least.” He sighed, and turned towards the door. “I cannot fee you for your hearthgift; you need no counsel of mine. I depart in your debt, as before.”

Elof stared. “As before? How so, for I never laid eyes on you till now? And counsel I need! For I still don’t know how to reforge the sword …”

The Wanderer had reached the open door; there he paused to look back, the picture, of way-weary age. Yet his eye gleamed brighter than ever, and what lurked below the tremor in his stern voice seemed nearer mirth than misery. “You should not think to mock me! Have you not told me of it, you who aspire to clutch the forces of the world in the palm of your hand? The answer lies open to a child – were not children wont to fear!” He gestured contemptuously with his empty hand, and his mantle fell away from his arm. Beneath it gleamed blackness as dark waters under the moon, a breastplate and the hilt of a vast black sword. Then the old man ducked through the door and was gone.

“You!” yelled Elof. A sudden crazed anger seared away awe and fear, and he ran headlong for the door. “You again! Raven! Stay, you Wanderer, you get of a –”

From the blackness a bird’s harsh scream answered him, a wordless essence of mockery, and the swift ring of shod hooves upon cobbles. And he knew that one of those hooves he had shod himself. Out into the street he burst, but it was a vale of blackness; many great storehouses and tall granaries of the Merchant’s Guild stood here, and their shadows blanketed it deep. Only at the far end, by the harbour, he thought he saw for an instant the gleaming flank of that lofty warhorse. But it flickered again, and he saw it was only the herald of the approaching storm, lightning that leaped from cloud to cloud glittering against the pale stone. The wind blew hard in his face, the first cold droplets stung him; it was thunder, not hoofbeats, that drummed afar. The Wanderer had vanished as he had come.

The distant lightning awoke a reflection at his feet. There, glinting on the cobbles, lay the black blade. He snatched it up and stared at it, caught and baffled: what could the old fox have meant, to claim its secret was already his? A third of its length from the tang was so sadly wrung and twisted that the rest stuck out at the crazy angle of a broken limb. Thus indeed it felt to him, and one not yet set or splinted. Had it not defied every art he could summon up? Even the secrets he had learned of the duergar, who could look deep into the very form and structure of metal, had failed him. And if it was not metal? It had to be metal, it felt like metal, it could not be obsidian or any other glass, or any of the odd stones savages and poor men had once used. And yet, as he played it in his fingers, he became less sure. That gleam was undimmed, its edge undulled; even long years sunk in a marsh had failed to fault them. Could the hardest metal endure thus? But how to test it? With a lodestone? Many metals would not answer one. With corrosives? To succeed would be to damage it.

Elof stood there, his head whirling like the storm-wind, and fought for calm. One might ignore what an old beggar mumbled, but surely this weird being said nothing without purpose. How might those words apply to him? He did not know what wisdom he lacked. He had the blade as a gift, but a gift that must be earned with new and daring skill. He could not assume that the lore of it was to be found in books, but more likely among the ebb and flow of nature. How? Where? Somehow he had said it himself! In fury he hammered at his brow as if he might reforge the mind within.

The storm crackled as it drew nearer the land. Above the harbour wall the dark outline of the Tower of Vayde stood out stark against the coruscating clouds: it woke intrusive memories in him, of fear and blood and pain, and of love found and lost. He strove to force them down and concentrate his thought. In angry defiance he had prattled of a magesmith being able to put forth his hand and grasp …

“Roc!” he yelled suddenly, and whirled round. Slipping on the cobbles, he dashed back into the smithy, yelling for his friend and wondering why he had to; that levin-bolt should have had the whole household hurtling from their beds. But the corridor was empty, and when he flung wide the door of Roc’s chamber his friend was still a round hummock beneath the bedclothes. It was Marja who bounced up first from beside him, angrily clutching a fur counterpane about herself.

She had fled with old Hjoran, late her master, out of the north when their towns were sacked by Ekwesh marauders. When at last the great tide of fugitives had borne them to the Southlands they were as near starvation as any, but by good fortune they had fallen in with Roc; remembering Hjoran kindly, and knowing the worth of even a minor mastersmith of the north, Roc had taken them into his own forge. The partnership had prospered, but to what degree Elof had not guessed. Too impatient, though, to be startled or embarrassed now, he seized Roc by the shoulder. “Wake up! Didn’t you hear it?”

“Hear what?” mumbled Roc.

“The crash! The bolt! Roc, it was the Raven!”

“The Raven?” cried Marja, gaping wide-eyed at Elof as if he were mad. Distant lightning whitened the shutters.

“The Raven?” yelped Roc, sitting up and looking wildly about. “Like you told me? The bastard’s back? Where? In here?”

“Yes! Here in the smithy!” Marja cried out and dived beneath the bedclothes in a tangle of brown limbs. “Didn’t you hear? It was like thunder … Never mind! Up with you, up, while I rouse Hjoran! There’s work afoot! I can reforge the sword!”

“Now hold hard!” growled Roc angrily, pulling his arm free, and putting a protective arm round the heap of bedclothes. “Amicac’s teeth, man! You come barging in … I know you’re all agog, but there’s nothing that won’t wait for honest sunlight –”

“But there is!” cried Elof. “While it’s at hand – oh, there’s no time to explain!”

“At least send for Ils, and we’ll see what she –”

“No time even for that! I’m sorry, Marja, but we must hurry or it’ll be too late!”

Roc winced as the cold air struck his bare skin. “It’d better be good, that’s all!”

It was a strange parade that scant minutes later made its uneasy way down the street towards the steps of the harbour wall and emerged at last, gasping exhaustion like landed fish, into the rain-sprinkled air atop the open summit of Vayde’s Tower. The guttering linklight Marja held high trailed a splash of gold around the battlements, cast her spidery shadow down across the gallery where the Mastersmith had lurked among his looted wealth. In her free hand she bore Elof’s bundle of tools, under that arm the ruined blade, well wrapped, and in the pocket of her man’s smock the hilt and fresh rivets. As she came out under the sky she looked back with concern at the three men stumbling and gasping up the stair behind her, under the weight of Roc’s strongest and heaviest anvil. By now old Hjoran could give no more than token assistance, and even Roc’s dour strength ebbed. But Elof drove them on up the steps like a man inspired, taking ever more of the burden upon his own shoulders. Lightning flashed, the thunder hard on its heels, and he chivvied his friends furiously up the last few steps.

“If that Raven shows his face again,” gurgled Roc, “he’ll have this slung in it!”

“What I’d gladly know, lads,” panted Hjoran, as they struggled out onto the summit, “is just how much further there’s to go?”

“This is the place!” gasped Elof, lifting his face to the spattering rain. “And in time, it seems!”

“Here?” demanded Roc. “Why here? There’s not even a fireplace …” But they were glad enough to set down the anvil, with a clang that struck sparks from the hard stone. Hjoran leaned on it, wheezing, while Marja comforted him.

Breathless, Elof gazed out over the harbour and the sea beyond. In the lightning’s own light the stormclouds rose up immense, bastion upon bastion, like some great fortress of the Powers, seething with the energies it could scarce contain. Now their vanguard was almost overhead, and the rain was growing heavier, sputtering against the link’s cover. A great curtain of it, opaque as a pearl, was sweeping in across the churning sea, no more than moments away. He set his teeth and looked down into the darkness of the stairwell. All the time they had struggled through it he had been willing some guidance from it, some sign such as he had once felt there. Now there was nothing, save perhaps watchfulness, remote and stern. A flash sent his shadow coursing down the steps; the thunder was so close he jumped. “This grows perilous!” he heard Hjoran grumble, and Marja’s squeak of agreement.

“It does indeed!” Roc said. He took the bag of tools and unrolled it on the anvil-top. “Leave the gear, Marja, get you back to the stairs, and you, Hjoran. I’ll give him what help he needs …”

“It’s given,” said Elof quietly, unwrapping the blade. “Pass me a good hammer, if you please, the great slope-headed one of duergar pattern. Fit those rivets to the hilt, there, and lay them aside with a punch to fit. Then go with the others.”

“You’re sure?” growled Roc, rummaging through the clinking roll. “I smell another of your tomfool tricks –”

“Maybe. But fool or no, none save myself may try. Now keep back!”

Flash and thunder all but drowned him out. The few hulls at anchor rocked, plunged and vanished as the rain lashed across their decks. “Get below!” Elof yelled. “There’s no more you can do! Later I may need you!” From the pouch at his belt he tugged the armour gauntlet he had made among the duergar, and Roc’s eyes widened in understanding, doubt and awe.

“Do you make sure later comes, that’s all!” he bellowed, and vanished smartly into the stairwell. An instant later the line of rain charged across the tower-top, and all vanished in lashing confusion.

Elof stood fast by the anvil, fighting to keep his feet against the buffeting wind, struggling to hold the blade while he drew on the long gauntlet. It slid minutely over his fingers, inscribed and patterned plate moulding smoothly to the close contours of his flesh, mail fine almost as cloth swelling and shaping around the very joints, till his arm was enclosed to the shoulder and his fingers could at last close firm round the flat faceted jewel at its heart. With that comfort he dared not pause to think, but sprang up upon the battlements and thrust his arm to the sky. Now he himself was the summit of the sea wall, there was no higher point save the towers of the distant citadel itself. It must happen, it had to happen any moment now!

Then a thought unleashed a rush of cold perspiration. Quickly lie spread his fingers wide and flat as he could, archin