The Singing Sword cc-2

by Jack Whyte

  Bassus saw me immediately and rode his horse over to where I stood, saluting and then slipping wearily from the animal's back to stand looking at me.

  "Well?" I asked him.

  He shook his head slightly. "We lost them. I am sorry, Commander."

  I restrained an impulse to shout at him. Instead, I kept my voice low. "Explain that. How could you lose ten mounted, galloping men?"

  Bassus shrugged. "Hard ground, Commander. They rode into a stream to cover their tracks, and stayed in it for a long time. I had to split my squadron to go both ways. Then they crossed about a mile of open fields and found the main road running north and south to the east of here. By the time we reached the road, there was no way of telling which way the raiders had gone."

  "Did you try to follow them?"

  "Yes, Commander, and found their sign. They headed up into the hills. The Mendips. That's where we finally lost them. There were just no tracks to follow on the stones."

  "Damnation!" I swallowed my frustration and accepted the unacceptable. "Very well, Bassus. You did all that you could do, I suppose. Get your horses stabled and dismiss your men."

  He saluted me and walked away. I cursed.

  BOOK FOUR - The Sword

  XXV

  We heard no more of the Frankish horsemen, and, since the following months were filled with frantic activity, we eventually forgot about them. The harvest was brought in successfully before the weather broke, with every field protected by armed men. Then, as winter approached, Marcus Leo finished his planning of the road up to the fort and Plautus set his men to building it, taking full advantage of both the peace and an unusually mild winter. His soldiers worked hard through rain, wind and snow so that, by the approach of spring, their task was done and a brand-new road stretched up the contours of the hill to the main gate of the fort. This gate itself was constructed of heavy logs and was mounted on massive iron hinges that Equus and I had forged together. Our masons had built the circular walls so that the two ends overlapped, instead of meeting to close the circle, creating a lateral, curtained passageway some fifty paces long and fifteen paces wide that could be defended easily against direct attack, since any attacker would have to enter the passageway and be exposed to the defenders on top of the walls on both sides. The huge gates hung at the inner end of the passageway and would not be easily stormed.

  Meanwhile, inside the walls, the building of our new home was progressing rapidly. Every carpenter, builder and owner of a free pair of hands had been put to work building the new Council Hall, which was serviceable already, an enormous rectangular hut with stout log-and-plaster walls, two entrances and a thick, although still incomplete, roof of thatched sedge and rushes. A number of other buildings were in various stages of completion as well. Our new granaries were finished and filled with grain, and I already had a forge in place against the western wall.

  Tigellinus Corax, our architect, had ensured his fame forever among our colonists by designing a huge cistern to collect the water run-off at the back of the hill, and he and Marcus Leo had devised a system of pumps, based on the screw technique of Archimedes, to raise this salvaged water back up to the top of the hill. We were lucky that the acquisition of lead to line the pipes was a simple matter; the land directly to the north of us was full of it, and there is no metal easier to smelt. Our army engineers made short work of building that entire system.

  Our building plan was based on the classic, standardized Roman military camp, except that there was only one major and one minor exit, instead of the usual four. To accommodate our growing need for stables, we simply extended the area normally dedicated for that purpose, giving ourselves ample room for upwards of four hundred animals.

  I remember realizing quite suddenly one bleak, blustery autumn afternoon that I was fifty-five years old that year, and the realization shook me. All my life I had considered anyone over fifty to be an old man, and now here I was, half a decade older than that and still, in my mind at least, in my prime! My muscles, thanks to the life I led smithing and soldiering, were as hard and strong as those of a healthy man twenty years my junior, and that was no idle conceit. I knew it to be true because I worked with such men every day in the smithy and on the parade ground. I had become aware in recent months, most usually when putting on my armour, of a consistent thickening about my waist and hips, but it was a solid thickening and my belly was still flat and hard. Sexually, too, I was still active and interested. I was no longer a rutting stallion, of course, but I was far from being an impotent old man. Yet still the fact was inescapable: I was fifty-five!

  It was the statue I had named the Lady of the Lake that brought the passing of the years to my attention. I had been sitting staring at her, wondering about the age and origins of metals and thinking about the draining of the lake and the finding of my skystone, when I suddenly realized that these events had taken place twenty years earlier! I had spent more than seven whole years trying to smelt the stones, and the Lady herself had stood here serenely on her table in Caius's day-room for twelve more years since her birth. As I have said, the realization shook me and made me see all at once that I could not afford to let any more time drift by. I rose immediately and crossed to the open window, where I saw two soldiers standing talking in the yard outside. I summoned them and told them to pick up the statue and follow me, and then I stuck the skystone dagger in my belt and went to find Equus.

  He was sitting on a high stool by his work-bench, holding his right forearm in his left hand while he stared intently at the fingers of his right one, wriggling and clenching them. There was blood crusted on and between his fingers, and from wrist to elbow his forearm was swathed in blood-stained bandages. I pointed to a place where the soldiers could leave the statue and then dismissed them, crossing to Equus.

  "What happened to you? What's the matter with your arm?"

  The look he threw at me in response was eloquent. "You did! You happened to me! You and your bright ideas!"

  I blinked at him, mystified, and looked again at his bandaged arm. "Are you saying I am responsible for that? What are you talking about?"

  He turned and shouted over his shoulder. "Joseph! Bring those things over here!" One of our young apprentices approached, carrying two long swords. Equus jerked his head towards his work-bench. "Put them down here." The boy did so and left again.

  "Well," Equus said, "there's your new sword. Two of 'em. What do you think?"

  I picked one up in each hand. They were beautifully made, their blades long and lethal, their hilts heavy, elongated and weighted at the ends by large pommels. They balanced perfectly.

  "Equus, they're superb," I whispered. "How did you weight the hilts? They don't look like gladia at all, now that they're made. There's no resemblance."

  "The pommels are lead," he muttered. "And you're right. There's no resemblance. Those whoreson things are like ungrateful dogs. They bite their masters."

  I looked from the swords I was holding to his bandaged arm. "One of these did that? How? I've never known you to be careless with weapons."

  He grunted again and got to his feet. "Come with me," he said. "I'll show you."

  I followed him outside, still carrying both swords, to the sword-practice post that stood in front of the smithy. As we passed through the doorway, he picked up a heavy infantry shield that leaned against the wall. Outside, he turned to me.

  "Give me a sword. Take the shield. Standard sword practice. Go ahead."

  Wondering what this was all about, I took the shield from him and lined myself up in front of the practice post in the normal manner. I rested the base of the shield on the ground and crouched behind it, brandishing the sword, and then I straightened up, looking at him and feeling foolish. I did not even attempt a swing.

  He was watching me, an expression of wry amusement on his face. "Aye, that's about as far as I got, too," he said. "We have just destroyed a thousand years of technique and training. You can't use those things like a gladium. They're t
oo damn big, too long. You get within gladium-reach of an enemy with that thing in your hand and you're a dead man. He'll cut you in two before you can get your arm back far enough to defend yourself, let alone attack him." I started to speak, but he pressed right on, overriding me. "Oh, I know what you're going to say. It's a cavalry sword, not meant for a man on foot. That's all very well, as long as you're on a horse. But what happens if you fall off? Or when your horse is killed and you find yourself on foot?"

  I stood there, mute.

  "And that's not the worst of it." He held up his bandaged arm. "This is the worst of it. At least, it's the worst I've discovered so far. How d'you think I got this? Can you guess?" I shook my head. "Well, I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to show you. Wait there." He went back into the forge and came out carrying a leather apron. "Here, hold one side of this. It's an old one." I held it and he cut it lengthwise down the middle.

  "Now wrap that around your sword arm." It went around four times and he tied it in place with two thongs. Then he gestured with his head towards the practice post. "Now show me the standard block, parry and slash. You're going to have to step away from the post."

  I stepped back and carried out the basic manoeuvre. I had to straighten my arm completely to finish it and the whole thing felt utterly alien.

  "See what I mean? Your whole balance has to be different. You can't chop with that thing and you can't even try the infighting stab. It's impossible. You have to swing straight-armed, and the arc of the blade's about four times as long as the gladium swing."

  I was staring at the sword in wonder. "But, Equus," I said, "that's marvellous! That's what we've been looking for. The force of this thing's swing is unbelievable!"

  He hawked up phlegm and spat off to one side. "Aye, I'll grant that. And you could carve a gladium-wielder into pieces with it from beyond his reach. But what happens when you're facing someone who's swinging one of these things too? That's what happened to me."

  I looked again at his arm. "How?"

  In answer he grinned and fell into a crouch. "That's what I'm going to show you. I'm going to attack you. Straight attack, no tricks. You defend yourself. Don't try to attack me."

  We squared off and he came for me with a round-armed, overhead swing. I brought my own blade up to block it easily, marvelling again at the easy balance in the thing. Then his blade crashed against mine with a ringing clang and the shock of the impact flung my arm away, out and around, almost ripping the sword hilt from my grasp. He carried his swing through and poised at the top of the upswing, ready to disembowel me with a backhand slash. He would have killed me easily, for I had no chance of recovering in time to block him.

  "Different, isn't it?" He lowered his sword. "Now you're prepared for it, let's try that again."

  We repeated the move, and this time I was prepared for the shock and better braced to block his first swing and throw his backhanded slash down to my left off my horizontal blade, finding that I was gripping my sword two-handed for better support against his backhand. His blade swooped down, then up and around again, and I released the hilt with my left hand and met his swing, hearing the clash of tempered blades and then losing everything as the world erupted in a sheet of blinding, flaming pain. I did not feel the sword go flying from my hand, but I felt my knees hitting the stones of the yard, and then I felt rough ground against my face and hands tugging at me, pulling me up.

  I opened my eyes, fighting the waves of pain-filled nausea that swirled over me, and eventually regained my senses. My right arm was devoid of feeling except at the shoulder, where the socket felt as though it had been wrenched apart. I was sitting on the ground, my back against the practice post, and Equus was on his knees in front of me, his face concerned.

  "What happened?" I asked him.

  He spat off to the side again, seeming to savour the time it took him to respond. "Same as happened to me, except I hit you harder. If Joseph had hit me that hard, he'd have taken my arm off."

  "My arm?" I looked down. The layers of leather apron around my forearm were still there, but three thicknesses of the stiff, grease-coated hide had been sliced open. I had an immediate vision of what my arm would have looked like had that toughened leather not been there, and my stomach heaved. It took me several more minutes to recover. Equus watched me retch, making no move to aid or succour me. Finally I swallowed the taste of bile one last time and got myself under control.

  "I think my arm is broken."

  He shook his head. "No, it's not, but you won't use it too easily for the next few days. I caught you just below the elbow. Hammered the big muscles there. You'll bruise badly, I expect, but there's nothing broken."

  "What caused it, Equus? What did you do?"

  He shook his head again, abruptly this time. "Nothing. It's the swords themselves. They're different. They behave strangely. The blades bounce away from each other uncontrollably. Bounce right over the boss of the hilt and hit the arm or the wrist."

  I moved to get up, but I still couldn't feel my right arm. He pulled my to my feet by my left, still talking.

  "It must be a combination of the temper of the metal and the force and angle of the swing, Publius. Whatever causes it, it's damn dangerous. I can't see our people using these for a while yet. Not until we can figure out a way to stop them losing arms and hands in practice."

  I took one of the new weapons in my left hand and examined it with a new awareness. It still felt good to hold. I examined the edge of the blade. There was a nick in it.

  "Equus? What's this? It looks like a nick."

  "It is a nick." Equus's voice sounded reflective. "That's my finest iron, but it's too soft. Look." He held the other blade towards me. It, too, was nicked. He brought it close to his own eyes. "I don't know how hard these two blades were going when they met, Publius, but I'm glad my fingers weren't between them when they did. I've never see a new sword of ours take a nick before."

  "Neither have I." I turned away and moved back into the smithy, trying to flex my fingers. They responded, but my whole arm was still numb. "My God, Equus, that thing bounced before it hit my arm! Imagine what a full-strength swing would have done!"

  "Aye, imagine if it had hit you in the neck."

  I nodded to the statue, which still stood where the soldiers had left it. "I brought the Lady down. I think it's time she went to work for us."

  He looked at her and then back at me. "You mean you're going to use her to make one of these?"

  "Why not? If she's of the stuff of my skystone dagger, she won't nick."

  He shrugged and patted her on the rump. "I wonder if she'll shine."

  "God, my arm hurts! Let's go and have a cup of wine, and then I'm going to find the hottest steam room in the place. As soon as I regain the use of my arm, if I ever do, we'll find out whether she can shine or not."

  He caught hold of the statue's faceless head and tilted the whole thing sideways. "Does Caius know you're going to melt her down? He's had her for a long time."

  "Too long," I said. "No, he doesn't know yet, but he's always dropping hints about using her for something." I grimaced with pain, feeling the sensation starting to flow back into my hand. "Anyway, he can have her back later, part of her at least. I'll only need about half of her the first time."

  That night I frightened my wife half out of her wits by shouting aloud and jerking upright in bed, wide awake, during the blackest part of the night. The shout was one of pain, for my injured arm had somehow become tangled in the bedclothes, but the vision in my head when I awoke was bright and clear. I had been dreaming of Claudius Seneca, seeing him leap at me, his eyes glazed in fury, his sword flashing down to end my life, and then had come a jarring blow that sent lances of pain up my arm as the edge of his blade slammed into the arm of Alaric's silver cross.

  The vision kept me awake for the rest of the night, and when Equus arrived at the forge next morning, I had already been there for hours, alternately heating the Lady statue and hammering it into a rou
gh, rectangular ingot, ignoring the pained protests of my outraged arm.

  From that time on, I worked on the new sword every day for four months, giving it every minute I could spare and much time that I really could not. Equus was content to leave me alone for the greater part of that period, but he helped me considerably with the delicate, time-consuming, meticulous job of fashioning and extending the double taper of the blade. This sword, right from the outset, was to be perfect. I burned a forest of charcoal over those months, heating and reheating the metal as it changed from a rough ingot to an elongated bar, and from that to a recognizable, blade-shaped length of blackened iron. And then, almost unnoticeably, it was almost finished, waiting only for the final temper to be added to it.

  "Equus," I said to him one day, "go out and find me a virgin."

  "A virgin? Here?" He shook his head in mock dismay. "There's your daughters, that's it. And when Veronica gets wed there'll be one less. Virgins are scarce in armed camps. I'll go and look for one, but don't stay awake waiting for me to come back. What's an old goat like you want with a virgin, anyway?"

  I was squinting along the edge of my new blade, admiring it. "Blood. Don't you remember? The ancient smiths used to quench their new blades in virgin blood, for purity."

  "I didn't know that! Are you serious?"

  I looked at him. "That's what the legends say. They believed that blood-quenching — virgin blood, of course — would impart the secret essence of the white iron."

  "Horse turds!" His voice was rich with scorn. "Anybody with a brain knows it's the charcoal that makes the difference."

  I put the blade down. "You know that, Equus, and I know it, but the ancients didn't. Not for centuries."

  He came to my side and picked the blade up, squinting at it critically, looking for flaws that weren't there. "Looks good, Publius. How are you going to hilt it?"