The Warlords of Nin (47 page)

“Theido, I would talk with you awhile,” he said, falling into step beside his friend. “Let us go inside where we may speak freely.”

They strode to a nearby barbican and went inside, ascending to a higher platform of the round turret to look out over the plain and the city below. From that lofty vantage they could see the better part of one side of the castle and a portion of the second side. The Ningaal had indeed surrounded the castle on all sides, being most heavily deployed around the main gates and throughout the town. They had set fire to sections of the city, and the smoke swept up in black columns to streak the sky above.

“It is an evil day.” Ronsard turned a careworn visage to his friend. “How is Eskevar faring?”

“He is the same. No change.”

Eskevar had nearly collapsed when the sound of the ram commenced. It was as if each blow had been so aimed as to strike directly at the king's heart. It was only with difficulty that the two knights had led their sovereign away without the soldiers witnessing his fall. Upon gaining the security of the tower, they had all but carried him to his chambers. Biorkis and Alinea had been in attendance since then, and the knights had returned to watch through the day-bright night as the Ningaal strove to batter down the doors.

“Will he ride, do you think?” asked Ronsard.

“Why do you ask me? You have stood with him in battle enough times to know. But we are under siege! Why does everyone insist upon talking about battlefields and riding?” Theido snapped. After a long, silent moment in which Ronsard merely looked back at him sadly, Theido sighed. “Forgive me, my friend. I am tired. I have not slept in three days—one cannot even tell day from night anymore! I am tired.”

“Go and rest. Let me take your watch. You yourself have said that nothing will happen soon. Have something to eat, and lay yourself down a little. You will feel better.”

“Yes, perhaps I should do that.” Theido turned his eyes away toward the north. “They should be coming. They should
have been here by now.”

“They will come. And do not forget that Quentin, Toli, and Durwin are abroad. Theirs is some errand that will make good; of that I am certain.”

“So I believe. I only hope they are in time.” He smiled briefly and gripped Ronsard by the shoulder. “Thank you. I will rest a bit as you suggest. It has been a long time since I endured a siege. I have forgotten my manners almost completely.”

“You have forgotten nothing, my friend. Go now, and I will send for you if anything changes.”

When Theido had gone and his footsteps descending from the barbican could no longer be heard, Ronsard settled himself against the stone crenellation of the turret. He looked long and hungrily to the north for the shining armies he hoped he would see riding to their rescue. But the far vista shimmered instead with the heat of the summer sun. Nothing moved out on the plain.

Still, the knight watched and waited, and his thoughts became a prayer, turning toward the new god he had so recently elected to serve.

“God Most High,” Ronsard mumbled, “I do not have the knowledge of your ways that others do. But if you need a strong sword, here I am.” There was a long lapse before he spoke again. “I know not how to pray in seemly words. I have never been a man of prayers. But I believe you helped me once, long ago, so I pray you will listen to me once again. Lead us against this terrible host which gathers at our gates and seeks to destroy us. And if it is my lot to die, so be it. But let me face the moment like a true knight and seek to save another's life before my own.”

He prayed on, pouring out his heart as the words came to him, and would have continued praying but for the alarm that brought him instantly to his feet and sent him off to meet a new disaster.

51

T
hey found Inchkeith huddled behind a hill of stone far away from the pool. All wondered at his odd behavior in hiding and the look of fear that twisted his features as he raised his eyes to meet them.

“What is wrong, Inchkeith? Why did you disappear like that?” asked Quentin. The master armorer peered at his discoverers with a distrustful look. His hands trembled as he worked up the nerve to speak.

“Do not make me touch it! I beg you, sirs! Do not make me touch it!” He hid his face in his hands once more, and his shoulders shook as if he were sobbing.

“This is very strange,” remarked Quentin, turning to Toli and Durwin. The hermit gazed with narrowed eyes upon the huddled body of the deformed man.

“I think I know what ails him. He is afraid to touch the blazing white lanthanil; he has seen its power and what it can do. He saw your arm healed, and he fears what it might do to him.”

“But,” Quentin spluttered in amazement, “certainly you are wrong here, Durwin. If anything, he should rejoice and rush to take it into his hands that he might be healed of his crippling deformity. I would, and so would anyone else, I think.”

“Would you?” asked Durwin. His bushy eyebrows arched high as they would go. “Think again. His twisted spine cripples him, yes. But he has lived his life with it and has come to accept it and himself for what he is. His spirit has risen above his physical limitations in the beauty of his craft. There is strong pride in that.”

“To be healed, to be made strong and whole again—what can be the harm of that?” Quentin shook his head slowly from side to side. The thing was a mystery to him.

“Quentin, have you never had a flaw of some sort, a hurt that you carried with you?” Quentin's brow wrinkled sharply. “You cursed it and fretted over it and longed to cast it aside, and yet you secretly caressed it and held it close lest it should somehow slip away. For that weakness was part of you, and however hateful it was, it defined you; you took strength from it. With it, you knew who you were; without it, who could say what you would be?”

Quentin answered slowly. “Perhaps it is as you say, Durwin. When I was a child, I held many childish flaws and weaknesses as virtues. But I put them away when I became a man.”

“Ah, yes. But your weaknesses were not of the same kind as Inchkeith's. His is not so easily put aside. How much more must he fear losing the thing—ugly as it is—that has given him such comfort all the long years of his life? It is no wonder that he shrinks away from the Healing Stone. For though he would give anything in his power to be made straight and strong, he would give much more to remain as he is.”

Quentin turned to regard Inchkeith where he sat a little way off, still huddled and trembling. There were no words to describe the pitiful picture that met his gaze. Sadly, he turned away from it.

“Go and ready yourselves for another dive,” suggested Durwin. “I will talk to him a little and convince him that whether he touches the stone or not, the decision is his. We will not think less of him for refraining if that, in the end, is how he chooses. Go on, now. We will be along directly.”

Quentin and Toli did as Durwin told them and returned to the pool. “Look how they shine, Toli,” marveled Quentin as he knelt before the two lumps of glowing rock. “Have you ever seen anything like it? It is as if they burn with an inner fire. They should be hot to the touch, but they are cool.”

“They possess very great power. Of that there is no doubt. I understand now why the Ariga closed off the mine and concealed what was left of the white lanthanil in the pool. The temptation to wield such power must drive men mad.”

Quentin nodded silently. “I wonder what else the stone can do?” he asked at last. His bright face shone in the aura of the stones.

“We shall see, Kenta. You have been chosen to carry the Shining One; you will find out.”

In a moment Durwin came, leading a sheepish Inchkeith toward them. “Very well, shall we continue? We have much work to do and have only begun.”

“One moment, Durwin. Please, I would speak.” Inchkeith held up his hand. “I am ashamed of my behavior, and you would do a kindness to a foolish old man if you would banish it from your minds. I am sorry to have embarrassed my friends so. I promise I will embarrass you no further.”

“Think no more on it, Master Inchkeith,” replied Quentin happily. “I assure you, it is already forgotten, and you shall never hear of it from our lips again.”

They all returned to work as before and threw themselves into their labors. The energizing force of the ore-bearing stones that Quentin and Toli brought up allowed the two divers to remain underwater for greater periods of time, and before long a fair-sized pile of the shining stone was heaped beside the pool.

When the heap had grown to the size of a pyramid half a man high, Inchkeith called a halt to the diving. “This is enough for our purpose, I believe. If this magic stone is similar to other ores I have worked, we should have enough to make a sword and a scabbard and chain, too.”

Quentin and Toli dragged themselves out of the frigid water and dried themselves. Inchkeith left them to hobble to the forge at the far end of the cavern. “Bring the lanthanil when you are ready. I will begin firing the crucible.”

Filling Inchkeith's empty tool chest with ore, Quentin and Toli carried it to the forge, where, using fuel he had found neatly stored away beside the forge, Inchkeith had a fire roaring and ready. Durwin busied himself preparing food for them, as it appeared there would be no sleep for any of them for some time.

When Toli and Quentin had filled the crucible with ore, it was rendered into the fire, where a curious transformation took place. The stones did not crack and release their ore as the stones bearing copper and iron do. Instead, they were slowly melted away like ice in the spring when plunged into running water. Using a long rod, Inchkeith poked and stirred the molten lanthanil, causing the impurities to flame into hot ash and ascend to the chimney of the furnace. With long tongs he introduced new ore into the crucible and kept his ceaseless vigil at the fire, maintaining a constant temperature.

This activity continued for a long time, during which the others watched and dozed and ate by turns. At last Inchkeith pulled the crucible white-hot from the flames and gingerly set it down.

“Quickly, now!” he shouted. “Take up the forger's yoke and lend a hand. Step lively!”

Quentin was nearest at hand and took up the tool Inchkeith had indicated—a long iron utensil with two handles and a circular bulge in the center. Inchkeith took the yoke and placed it over the crucible, directing Quentin to take one of the handles and carefully follow his instructions. Quentin did as he was told, and they proceeded to pour out the molten ore, now a shimmering pale blue like liquid silver, into four long, narrow molds that Inchkeith had arranged along the floor. There remained a fair amount of the precious metal when the four molds were filled, so Inchkeith poured the rest into a sheet mold, and then they sat down to wait for the metal to cool.

Waiting for the glowing lanthanil to cool was like waiting for an egg to hatch, Quentin thought. But at last the four rod molds were judged cool enough. Inchkeith took up a dipper of water and poured it over the still-hot metal, sending billows of steam rising into the dimly luminescent air of the cavern. He then broke apart the molds and, with tongs, and heavy gloves on his hands, drew out four square rods nearly four feet in length.

The master armorer hopped to his anvil, took each rod, and pierced one end; then he joined the rods together by passing a rivet cut from the sheet of lanthanil he had made.

“Now, then. I have done all I may do,” he said, holding up the four newly fastened rods for the others to see. “Durwin tells me that you must do the rest, Quentin.”

Quentin rose to his feet. “Me? You jest! I know as much about making a sword as I would know of making a tree!”

“Then it is time you learned. Come here.” Inchkeith held the rods in the tongs and indicated for Quentin to take them. Quentin stepped forward, looking to Durwin for approval. Durwin waved him on, and Quentin took the rods.

“Now, do not think for a moment that I will allow you to mar my greatest masterpiece, young sir. I will guide your hands to even the smallest movement. I will be your brain and your eyes, and you will do as I direct to the utmost. Do you understand?”

Quentin nodded obediently, and they began to work.

Under Inchkeith's watchful eye he took hammer and tongs and began to braid the still malleable metal, one rod over the other, in a tight square braid. When he had finished the task, sweat was dripping from his face and his bare arms. He had long since stripped off his shirt and tunic and wore only his trousers.

The braided rods were then thrust into the pit of the forge among the burning embers, and Quentin turned the core—as Inchkeith called it—constantly, while the armorer plied the creaking bellows.

Soon the core began to glimmer blue-white once more, and Quentin pulled it from the fire, his own face glowing red and flushed. Taking the core, he placed one square end into the square hole in the side of the golden anvil and with the tongs began to twist the braid together.

He twisted and twisted, winding and winding until he could twist no more. Then Inchkeith let him stop, and the core was plunged back into the pit of embers and heated to blue-white once more. Then came more twisting and still more. Quentin was exhausted and feeling more so all the time, but the rhythm of the work began to steal over him, and he found he entered a free-floating state where he moved in concert with the master armorer's wishes—so much so that he began to feel as if it were Inchkeith's will directing his hands and muscles and not his own.

The braided core was twisted again and again until, by the very tension of the coils, it began to fuse together. When it had fused completely, Inchkeith had Quentin cut the long, thin core in two, for it had nearly doubled in length with all the twisting. One half was then set aside, and the other half was pounded flat on the golden anvil with the hammer of gold. Every time Quentin struck the core, dazzling sparks showered all around and a flash like lightning was loosed.