The Hammer of the Sun (32 page)

Nithaid, High King of Kerys, looked at first sight not the slightest bit like his kinsmen oversea, past or present. Elof stared in surprise as a man of middle height, no taller than himself and even broader, a thickset wall of a man with a round tun of a belly, bustled his children aside, then came stumping and wheezing at a great pace up onto the dais and settled into that noble old seat with an alarming crash. The robes that streamed and billowed about him were of dark velvet, gaudily worked with a wealth of gold and silver, but neither new nor especially clean nor closely tailored, hanging comfortably loose about his immense shoulders. He was bareheaded, revealing a mane as thick and waving as Kermorvan's, but black instead of bronze and shot with streaks of grey; his beard was the same but even thicker, spreading down to his heaving chest Kermorvan, by contrast, preferred to go clean-shaven like most folk of consequence m his land, Elof and Roc included; in fact he carried it to extremes, shaving with his sword's edge if he had nothing better. But then,

Kermorvan's face was lean and handsome in a hawk-like fashion, whereas Nithaid without the hair would have been coarse as a puddock, as Roc was later to put it. His skin was white, his jowls heavy and fat and his mouth a wide thin-lipped gash; his nose was narrow and straight, but slightly bulbous at the tip, and his brow, though high, was furrowed into a permanent frown. His eyes were oddly slanted, under heavy brows; but in them some likeness to Kermorvan did lurk, the same shade of mist-grey blue and a fierce raptor's alertness that spoke of great energy of mind. Sweeping the prostrate throng before him, they fastened upon Elof and Roc, and widened as
if
in surprise; but any other feelings they held back like a stone wall. He grinned suddenly, his teeth gleaming very white against his beard; it was a merry grin, with the impish innocence of a child delighting in his own vast cunning, but above it the eyes were intent, considering, more like Kermorvan's than ever. The children also were looking at them, the little girl with wide-eyed fascination, the boys with a mixture of alarm and disdain. Elof guessed suddenly that word must have been
sent
well ahead, that this whole court must have been buzzing with news of their arrival, so that even the children had heard. Suddenly Nithaid vented a wordless bark, like a laugh cut suddenly short, and his huge ham of a hand slapped the throne-arm; Elof felt the whole court twitch in fright, then warily they looked up and began to rise.

"Well?" His voice, though tinged with an accent that sounded rustic, at least compared to Irouac's, was neither as deep nor as coarse as his looks suggested; in feet it was clear and mellow, with the suave music of the trained orator. He spoke words as if he relished the taste of them, his tones slightly drawling and sibilant, constantly on the brink of a chuckle. "So these are our emissaries, are they? The Mastersmith Elof Valant', and his companion Roc, hmmm?" The slight accent cut the ending from Elof s second name. "Welcome at last to your homeland, sir emissaries - though from all I hear the savages gave you a harsher greeting first. That's one more insult we'll be repaying in due course!" He eyed Elof's bloodstained clothes uneasily. "Before anything else, d'you need a surgeon?"

Elof bowed courteously. "No, my Lord Nithaid, though I thank you. I'm well enough now."

Nithaid gestured at the roughly mended tear in his tunic. "That the wound? Horns of the Bull, it's a marvel you're still alive!"

Elof smiled ruefully. "Sometimes it happens that way with me, my lord; 1 heal fast. I'm not sure how or why."

"Ah, well, you're a smith, of course," grunted Nithaid, "and smiths is strange cattle, as our country folk say. Now, do you tell me, how come you to be here? And to what purpose?"

Elof gathered his wits; this fierce character would not be easily impressed. He had not missed the awe in which his court held him. "My lord, I will. We also, in the several lands west oversea, have been beset by the Ice and its minions. My lord Kermorvan sent me on this quest, to reach our ancestral lands and there find, and if possible recover… a thing of value which was lost to the Ice, and we guessed was brought here."

"A thing you'll not name, then? Not in open court, anyway. Very well. But do you tell me, are mastersmiths so common in your land, that they are sent on missions of great danger?"

"No, my lord. But what was taken I regarded as mine."

"Some powerful work, then? Ah well, let it pass for now. A heavy trust, and a perilous one; you must have had adventures. Tell us some!"

Elof had not expected that, and flushed like a child; he looked hastily at Roc, who shook his head. But under Nithaid's goading Elof told a few of their experiences, and was surprised to see how the courtiers hung on his words, how the King's beard bristled and his cheeks flared. When the Ekwesh ship was lured under the ice-island he literally roared with laughter, throwing his head back and guffawing; even the princes lost their arrogance and listened all agog, while the little girl simply gazed at Elof with immense eyes. "And I not there!" sobbed Nithaid, thumping on his throne-arm. "Do you go on, man, go on!"

"… and so we made our way south," Elof eventually concluded, "until your patrols found us. That is all, my lord. We are now as you see us, and that is a poor state in which to continue our mission. We sought the lord of this land in the hope that either he would assist us against the forces of the Ice, or at least aid us in returning to our own land, where we may seek help of our own." He paused slightly, but Nithaid only sat back in his chair and stroked the corners of his moustache with his thick fingers; his keen eyes fixed them both, but he said nothing. "In any event, my lord." Elof resumed, assuming his most ceremonial manner to underline the formality of his request, "we are, apart from our main quest, also ambassadors from our own lord, bearing assurances of good will to any realm afflicted by the Ice, and of particular friendship to our ancient kin of Kerys, whose name is still revered among us. To them he offers the renewing of ancient ties, no matter the span of leagues or centuries that has hitherto parted us, and where alliance or aid is wished for, any he can supply. He requests also, in the name of good will between rulers, and lords of the Ysmerien line, free passage without hindrance for his ambassadors, and any help you may be able to give them. This, through Elof Valantor his counsellor and Court Smith, and Roc, his trusted and confidential courier, from Keryn Kermorvan, Lord of the Ysmerien, last king of the line of Morvan, first king of Morvan Arisen, and the folk of Nordeney, Kerbryhaine and Morvanhal together."

He stopped. He had said something, some word too many, there was no doubt of that. Nothing had changed, nobody had stirred, Nithaid still sat stroking his beard, but the atmosphere had changed dramatically. The very stillness was electric, like the first hush before the storm. Suddenly he found the air of the hall stinking, stifling with the smutch of torch and lamp, the smell of human sweat, and beneath that the almost tangible reek of fear.

"What did I hear you say?" inquired Nithaid softly, his voice so suave it was almost creamy. "King, was that it? Last
king
of somewhere, first
king
of somewhere else, and of some people nobody has ever heard of.
King
..." He leaned forward suddenly, grinning still with an immense satisfaction. "Well, my learned Mastersmith, do you learn one thing more, and that is that there is only one rightful king of all the people of Kerys, wherever they may have spread to and in whatever land they have settled, whatever barrier lies between, be it ocean or Ice or the very fires of Hella herself! And that is md
ME
!"

His voice had risen to a roar of startling volume, from that almost to a scream of wrath, a stormcry that bent and uprooted his courtiers, quailing like saplings before a blast. "Nithaid, of the ancient line of the Ysmerien! By birth, by acclaim of the nobles and by main strength! Not some upstart! Not some spawn of a rebel and runaway! Not some tag-end of the blood, reared and raised ruler of a scrape or two of soil! Learn you that! And learn it well ere the mood takes me to have it branded onto your hide!" He subsided, panting, still grinning with ferocious enjoyment of his own temper. "And by Hel's black belly, when I've whipped the Icewitch and her man-eaters from the Gate I'll sail a fleet of Kerys across this ocean and show your princeling what it means to be a king!"

Elof, standing shocked and silent, saw Roc's face turned red as his hair with fury; but this was a dangerous animal, and anger was no safe way to deal with it. He caught Roc's arm, felt it tense and subside; Nithaid noted the gesture. After a moment he muttered, more thoughtfully. "Needn't sack the place, of course. Knock it into order, that's all, take proper account of your land-holdings, lick your peasants into line and set them swink-ing as they should, tax and toll a bit, h'mmm. Need a few nobles to take it in hand. Or even a good viceroy, it being so far away; if this Kermorvan's done a good job till now, might even leave him to look after it, so long's he makes me the proper submission and tribute. Could use a new source of thralls - and timber - is there good timber in your land, lad?"

"More than Kerys and Morvanhal together could use," said Elof evenly. "And great store of all else that your folk may need, if it is sought in friendship. But you will find us very short of thralls, I fear."

The intent eyes fixed on Elof, unblinking, but nothing was said. Instead he turned and beckoned peremptorily to Irouac, who had been careful to stand well clear of the others. The officer scurried forward, and laid sword and pack upon the throne-arm. Nithaid reached for the pack, and rummaged inside it, then tipped the contents out into his lap. Elof took a step forward, opened his mouth to protest, and found scarlet spearshafts hard across his throat. Behind him Roc cursed. Nithaid looked him in the face a moment, then called out "
Amylhes
!"

A figure detached itself from the shadowed mass of courtiers and stepped forward. He wore a livery in the black of the smith's guild, much like Elof s own as court smith, only far gaudier, broidered over breast and sleeve with gold and silver and gems in garish signs and symbols. To Elof they looked remarkably meaningless, and he guessed they were meant to impress the credulous. Otherwise the newcomer cut an unimpressive figure, middle-sized, scrawny and none too clean, his thinning white hair brushed sleekly back from a narrow face whose stained teeth seemed too large for it, giving him a fixed and mirthless smirk. He bobbed his head to Nithaid with cool deference. "At your command, my lord!"

Nithaid's great hand spread out the jumble of jewels and tools in his lap. Elof could not suppress an agonized breath as he saw the few things he truly treasured so roughly treated; Amylhes evidently heard him. "What d'you make of this, then?" the king demanded. "Is he any kind of a smith?"

The Court Smith plucked each piece up one by one and held it close to his eyes, squinting and peering as he turned it round and round in his fingers, grimacing with concentration and sucking his teeth. He clucked with surprise when he came upon Gorthawer, and as he looked up from it his watery blue eyes fastened on Elof with a malice so immediate and obvious it startled him. He shrugged, and his horse's teeth bared in a smile. "Oh aye, it's pretty stuff enough, but bare and barbarian, not enough ornament, no style. Old-fashioned. Rough. What's this supposed to be?" He bent down and rummaged in the tool-bag, and to Elof s alarm he drew out the gauntlet with its crystal in the palm.

"It protects my hand when I must handle… hot things," said Elof, perfectly truthfully. The smith tossed it back, and straightened up with a high braying laugh.

"We don't coddle ourselves thus in this land, sonny! I was taught to take my burns and like it when I was an apprentice, half your age. And you claim you're a mastersmith!"

"I bear the stamp," said Elof evenly, though the spears still crossed at his throat. "Come paw at that, if you will. But I am not
the
mastersmith, only one of many. And I serve as Court Smith, I allow."

Amylhes shrugged. "Not here you wouldn't, my lad. Not at
your
age. Got to sweat for your mastery here…" Nithaid, whose brows had drawn together at mention of a court, cut him short.

"One of many, eh? Well, well. Can you make anything of him, Amylhes, that's what I want to know?"

Amylhes wrinkled his nose as if some bad odour lay beneath. "Well, since I never have enough help - aye, I might, given time. He's got good thews on him. And at least I'd not have to teach him to tell gold from brass…"

Nithaid waved his hand. "He's yours, then. And the other; he looks strong enough, too."

Elof stood speechless, aghast. Amylhes' heavy-lidded eyes drooped, and he thrust out his head like a turtle's. "Many thanks, my lord. But since he's shown himself so forward and unruly, he might prove recalcitrant, eager perhaps to seek his native land…"

"I'd thought of that for myself," said the burly man shortly. "Well, I'm not having him tattling tales back to his dunghill cock of a princeling, I've troubles enough for now without one more fly to squash. Make sure you keep him well fettered, that one."

"My lord, fetters of iron and steel will hardly hold even a half educated smith… Might it not be better to…"

Nithaid grimaced. "Oh, very well, then. If you must!"

The smith gestured, and suddenly Elof found himself seized and flung forward on the ground; he gathered his strength and flung off one of his captors, but many more piled in upon him, and when he still threshed something solid rapped the back of his skull, not hard but enough to jar and confuse him. Moments passed as his mind whirled, a wooden gag was thrust between his teeth and his worn britches ripped up from calf to knee. Still he did not understand, not till his sight cleared and he saw Amylhes bending over him, with the black blade in his hand -