Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (55 page)

When she returned, she found that a wooden bowl full of steaming stew had been set beside the smithy door. Though she had not seen them, it was clear that the elder folk were keeping watch and anticipating their needs, as they had taken Aelfrix into their keeping when she arrived. She brought in the food and set it on the workbench. The rich scent awakened her hunger and she ate eagerly.

The bar of iron lay where Velantos had left it. The metal was cold, but to eyes trained to see the spirit within, it held a subtle glow. The raw energy she had sensed within the shards had altered to a contained blaze of power. But it was not yet focused. That, she thought, would come when it had been given the shape of a sword.

It was dark now. She lit more rush lights and fixed them in their holders of stone, and tipped new charcoal into the hearth. On the bed, Velantos sighed and stirred. It was time to work once more.

Anderle hung the cloak from its hook and combed out her hair. She could feel the presence of the goddess as a pressure behind her, patient and a little amused. “Lady of Fire,” she whispered, “naked I stand before you. May both preoccupation and passion depart from me. For the cause of Life and the good of this land, I offer myself as a vessel for your will. . . .” She let out her breath in a long sigh.

For a moment she hovered on the edge of awareness, and then, softly, smoothly as the metal absorbs the heat of the coals, the goddess came in.

 

 

 

“NOW! TAKE THE IRON from the fire—”

Velantos looked at the Lady in surprise, for coals and iron alike glowed with the rich orange of the setting sun on a hazy day.

“It is hot enough. The welding is done . . . now you must shape the blade.”

He nodded, and with swift efficiency lifted the iron bar from the forge, holding in his mind the image of the finished weapon. Now he would need not only his great strength, but all of his skill, and everything he had learned when he struggled to create such swords from bronze. Then, the casting had accomplished half of the labor. Now he would have to forge the metal into the shape he desired. It would be difficult and demanding work, but he had spent enough time tapping around the edges to straighten and harden bronze blades to imprint that shape in his muscles and bones.

He laid the glowing end upon the anvil and began to flatten and shape the base and tang to which he would rivet the hilt. It was a simple form, and would give him a place to grip the iron while he worked on the rest of the blade. The metal cooled and he laid it once more in the forge, pumping the bellows until it began to glow.

Back to the anvil came the iron. The hammer swung down. “Tap, tap, tap, ting”—he found the rhythm, drawing the softened metal out and working it away from the center toward the sides. Muscles loosened, flexing and releasing as he swung. To weld the iron bar had forced a singular focusing of will. This part of the work was different, requiring a flexible coordination of hand and eye, of heart and will. Turning and tapping, he persuaded each glowing section of metal to take its new form. With each stroke of the hammer, he felt the substance of the metal changing, as the flesh of a woman changes beneath the arousing fingers of her lover. And as making love also changes the lover, his soul flowed into the hot iron.

And presently, as he bore the evolving blade from the forge to the anvil and back again, he became aware that the ringing of bronze hammer on iron had become the foundation for a song. From the lips of the Lady came a sweet descant to the rhythm of the hammer, an answer to the wheeze of the bellows and the whistling of the flames in the coals.

Sometimes it was pure music, and sometimes words surfaced from the song. She sang of the dark spaces of the heavens in which the iron had floated, cold and alone, of the searing flight that had ended as it buried itself in the soil. The elder folk had told him how their fathers had dug it out, still smoking, and tried to hammer it into some useful form, and that too was in the song. She sang of the trees that had captured the light of the sun in the forest, and the long slow smolder in a womb of turf that transformed them into charcoal. She sang of their delight as they were at last allowed to blossom into flame. A forge song she sang, a song of fire and iron, a song of the sword, writhing beneath the hammer as it sought its destiny.

When he glanced up, he could see the Lady, shining and singing in the light of the fire, and found himself striving to incorporate the long sleek curve of waist and thigh into the shape of the sword. Thinning from the center on one side and then on the other, drawing the iron from the narrower neck downward to the swell of the blade and then inward once more, he persuaded the metal to take the form he envisioned so vividly. He had believed that when he cast bronze he poured part of his spirit into the mold, but this intense, extended forging was an altogether more active and intimate creation, like the grapplings of love when a man strives to give his seed. But what he was forging into this sword was his soul.

Throughout that night the smithy rang. In the encampment of the elder folk they heard the forge music, and drummed and prayed. And when dawn spread the sky with glowing banners, Velantos lifted the black sword he had shaped and carried it outside to salute the coming day.

Then he turned back to the smithy, blinking as the shadows of the forge replaced the light. Now that the night’s labor was over, he could feel the ache in every limb. The sword was not finished—beneath his caressing fingers the metal was smooth, but the marks of the hammer would have to be ground out and the edges honed. As he crossed the threshold, the leg that had been wounded in Tiryns betrayed him and he stumbled, instinctively thrusting out the iron blade to break his fall.

He felt it give beneath him. When he straightened, recovering vision showed him that his lovely blade had bent like a bow. He whirled to face the Lady.

“What is this?” he cried, fury displacing his fatigue. “It bends like an old man’s pizzle! Better a bronze sword that breaks—at least you can stab your enemy with the ragged end. What have I done wrong?”

The iron had passed a handbreadth from the Lady’s face as he swung it up, but she did not move.

“You have done nothing wrong—but you are not yet done . . .” She sounded amused. “Put it on the anvil and hammer it flat again. Do not fear to mar it. The metal is quite tough and will not be harmed.”

Velantos realized that he was shaking. He did not begrudge the labor, but after so much effort, and hope, to fail now would destroy him as well as the sword. He laid it on the anvil and took up the smaller stone hammer. A few well-placed blows straightened the blade. He turned to the Lady.

“Very well—it looks almost the same. But I will not sleep easy, wondering how this weakness may be healed . . .”

“This day we will not sleep at all,” said the Lady, “though we may rest. The sword is formed, but not yet finished. For that, it must be cradled in the heat of my womb.” At his look of confusion She smiled once more. “Put more charcoal into the hearth and pile it high. Heave at the bellows until it glows like the rising sun. We shall place the sword within and pack the coals tightly around it. There it will grow an armored skin like a dragon’s hide. But we must be vigilant to keep the coals at the same heat until the sun outside glows red once more. For three nights you have put forth all your power. What is needed now is the patience to endure.”

“Patience has never been one of my virtues, Lady,” he muttered, and she laughed.

“Do you think I did not know?”

As Velantos brought more charcoal from the storage shed, he felt the pounding of his heart begin to ease. He had never heard of the technique the Lady was describing, and could not imagine what use it might be. But so far her directions had been good. To trust that she knew how to complete the task was all the hope he had.

By the time all was ready the sun was climbing up the sky. Once more, Velantos used the poker to open a way. Slowly, reverently, he slid the black blade into the hot depths of the forge, then adjusted the piled coals until no part of it could be seen.

“Should I ply the bellows now?” he asked.

“Net yet. You can estimate the intervals, for you know how this charcoal behaves. From time to time you will need to check the color and give the fire more air, but the iron will melt if it grows too hot, just as it will weaken if it is too cool.”

He nodded, swaying. For three days the desire to complete the work had driven him. Now he did not know what to do. He looked down at his strong hands, blinking. They were blackened by the work and bore a few scrapes he had not noticed at the time.

“First, we should eat . . .”

Velantos looked up as he heard her voice alter. The goddess had departed and she was only Anderle once more, shivering in the morning breeze that came through the open door. He forced his limbs to motion, took down her cloak and wrapped it around her, then guided her to a bench and made her sit down. Now he too felt the cold, and pulled on the tunic he had cast aside three days ago.

“This time they have brought us soup,” he said, picking up the bowls set by the door. “With marrow,” he added, breathing in the rich aromas, “and some kind of roots, and barley.” He handed one of the bowls to Anderle, then took his own and sank down beside her. She cradled it gratefully between her hands.

“We had a dish something like this when I was growing up,” he said as the rich soup began to restore him, “though they cooked it with more herbs.”

“At Avalon, this was festival fare,” Anderle replied. “Our food is healthy, and plentiful except when we are fasting, but we rarely eat meat, and strong flavors make us think too much about the body when we are trying to focus on spiritual things.”

That explained a lot, thought Velantos. “Just now our bodies need feeding,” he said instead. She nodded, and he heard her spoon scrape the bottom of the bowl.

“What was it like, growing up by the Middle Sea?” she asked.

His chuckle rumbled in his chest. “What I remember most just now,” he answered, “is that in the summer, it was
warm
.” He got up and poked the fire, saw that the coals still glowed orange, and sat down again.

“Will the goddess tell you when it is time to take the sword out?” he asked.

“I believe so,” the priestess replied. “I can feel Her presence like a pressure within my skull, perhaps in the same place I was lurking when She was here. I think that when you need more direction, She will come in again.”

“Then you remember what we have done?”

“I retain images, though I do not always understand.” She sighed and set down her bowl. A companionable silence fell between them. He could hear the sweet song of a warbler from the trees outside. It was a winter bird in the lands from which he came.

It was the first time, he thought, that he had been in Anderle’s presence and felt at ease. But truly, he was too tired to feel either lust or irritation, and so, he supposed, was she. For the first time they could see each other as they truly were. Without thinking, he had put his arm around her, and she leaned against him gratefully.

They continued so, sharing stories or sitting in silence, as the sun passed its zenith and journeyed westward, rising every so often to feed more air or fuel to the fire. At some point during the day Velantos slid from the bench to sit with legs outstretched and his back against it. He only realized that he had slept when he heard the wheeze of the bellows and started awake to see Anderle kneeling to work them on the other side of the hearth.

“I am sorry—” he began, but she shook her head.

“You have done your work. It is the part of the man to labor to plant the seed in the womb, but after that, all he can do is to take care of the mother and wait while it grows.”

“Are you saying that this sword is our child?” His lips quirked in unexpected amusement.

“After three nights of forging, do you have to ask? Rest. When the blade comes from the forge, you will have to polish and sharpen it and give it a hilt, as the father raises the child. But I think that watching over it is my task now.”

 

 

 

WHEN VELANTOS OPENED HIS eyes he found himself surrounded by fiery light. For a moment this seemed quite natural, as if it was he, not the sword, that lay in the hearth. Then his vision cleared, and he realized that the light was coming through the doorway. Through the trees he could see a flicker of orange light that must be the setting sun.

Panic jerked him upright, casting the blanket that had been drawn over him aside. His pulse slowed as he saw Anderle—no, it was the Lady of the Forge—standing beside the hearth.

“My Lady, is it time?” His heart begin to pound once more.

“This is the hour when the Sword from the Stars must come forth from the womb of fire.” Her voice was measured and slow. “Take up the tongs and draw it out. Lay it on the anvil to make sure it is straight, but only for a moment. Before it can cool, you must put it into the tub of brine.”

“But that will soften it again—” the smith exclaimed.

“Fool! This is not bronze! A quick quench will soften copper, but like the slap that wakes the child to life, the shock of the water hardens iron. Move, man! The time to bring forth has come!”

She stretched out her hand, and fire seared his veins. With a single swift movement Velantos took up the tongs in one hand and in the other a shovel with which he lifted the coals. Parts of the sword had glowed while he was forging it, but now what he saw in the depths of the forge was a sword made of fire. Swiftly he gripped it, carried it in a swirl of smoke to the anvil. A practiced eye saw that it was still straight and true. He lifted it again, poised it over the brine tub, and with one last frantic glance at the goddess, plunged the blade straight down.

It hissed like a serpent, and he began to believe that it might have grown a dragon’s hide. The water bubbled around it and released a cloud of evil-smelling steam. Velantos held it steady until the water stilled, and then, hardly daring to breathe, lifted it free.