The Anvil of Ice

by Michael Scott Rohan

  To Alv, watching from the heights, everything seemed to dwindle and retreat behind the rain-curtain, to become a scurrying mass of figures through the winding streets. Groups would meet and merge in violent action, but who was who, and who had the upper hand, he could never make out. Only when the groups fell away and the action ceased he could see shapes that lay writhing or motionless in the mud. But he quenched the horror of it with cold laughter, telling himself he cared not who slew whom. Tinker's brat, they'd called him! Well, maybe; as well be child to one of those poor wandering wretches without craft or art, as to any in Asenby town now. Why should he care which of them lived or died there below? They were no kin of his; his skin spared him that, and his brown hair and lean hard features, wholly unlike their straight black hair and rounded coppery complexions. He had never seen anyone else who looked like him, though traders had said there were paler folk far in the south. A southerner let him be, then; he cared little for his unknown parents since they'd abandoned him at the gate here—here, where he was named Alv, the goblin, the changeling. The Headman had taken him in and raised him, less from kindness than an eye for a cheap thrall; from his earliest memories he had labored, in the kitchen or the fields with the women, and with the cattle since his ninth summer, some three or four past. And yet all that time he had remained an outsider, taunted and despised by other children, unable to forget what was embodied in his very name. Alv! He slapped the goad down into his palm. It was no name he called himself. And the malice in it rang true, for he had learned to repay them with a hundred little irritations, the only defense he had. Why should he suffer for them now, or mourn? He watched, and did his best to laugh. And when the cloudburst passed, and the sunlight sparkled in clear clean air, it was all over.

  Smoke rose from some of the rooftops, but not through the chimneys, and no man moved to put it out. Three Ekwesh ships were drawn up on the beach, and the tall warriors went to and from them unhindered, unhurried, carrying great bulky loads. He could see the paintings on the black hulls clearly now, and they were very like the ones on the walls that now seared and blackened in the heat. The Ekwesh were close kin to the peoples of the north, the same cast of face and body, but save for a few words their tongues were different, and they were no simple farmers or traders. They came out of the west over sea, no man knew whence, they took and they returned. Rumor had it that their land matched their hearts—flinty, pitiless, blazing or chill with the changing seasons, the shifting passion. They were great sailors and great warriors, but they respected nothing that was not theirs, not land, property or life itself. And rumor whispered things darker yet-Behind him the bush rustled. He half rose, turned and caught a glimpse of black armor, copper skin—then a great weight thumped down on him and ground his face into the earth. Winded, blinded, he was only half aware that his hands were being tied behind him. Then a hard hand twisted in his hair, hauled him upright and sent him staggering off down the path he could hardly see. He remembered, then, that there had been four ships; one must have landed down the coast, to cut off messengers or fugitives. By the time the mud cleared from his eyes he was in the town, stumbling along the streets he had left so short a time before.

  A nightmare had settled on the place. The air was warm and hung with curtains of stinking smoke, and it was no sun that crimsoned the puddles. The painted walls were scorched or smashed, and the people who had lived behind them lay stark and cold in their shadow. At the first house a man in mail lay curled up below a window, embracing the arrow that transfixed him; on the step a woman sprawled with twisted limbs in a red-brown pool, and in the mud at the center of the street a young child lay with a single bootprint the length of its body, still twitching faintly. Alv was made to step over it, and almost stumbled. These were people he had known, had seen the day before; he remembered the child's birth, the feasting when even he had found a place and a full stomach. So it was throughout the streets, and each sight worse than the last, a vision that shook the boy with pity and horror beyond his understanding. They came to the Headman's house, many of the house-hold dead about it. The burly man lay there under the crackling rafters of his own proud porch, his body made a spilled shell by broad stabbing spears and his head half hewn from the trunk. Staring at the ruin, Alv grasped vainly at all the hatred he had once felt, but it fled from him now. A harsh, unkind man the Headman had been, there were few warmer moments to remember him by, but he had done no great evil, nothing worthy of such an end. What he was paled before what had been done to him. To Alv, staring at the ruin, the destruction he had once wished upon the place seemed a childish thing indeed, and he thrust it violently aside in his mind, bitterly regretting his laughter.

  His captors dragged him to the square by the town's main well. To his surprise he saw that there were other townsfolk alive there, mostly younger women and children. Many of the Ekwesh were gathered there to guard them, and he had his first clear sight of them. They were tall men for the most part, and dressed much alike in rough leather kilts and stiff jerkins and helmets of heavier leather, studded with metal and painted with the same black and white designs as their boats—sailors' armor, light enough not to drag them down. Their arms and hair jingled with ornaments, often of amber and precious metals, but their faces belied the richness—set, scowling masks with cold eyes, and all seamed with great scars, even the youngest. In the center, near the well, stood a stooped figure in a long dark robe and broad-brimmed hat, leaning on a thick white stick and barking commands that sent the warriors scurrying left and right, occasionally with a crack of the stick on bare head or shoulder. Two Ekwesh were dragging a captive up to him, a middle-aged woman Alv recognized as wife of the town's sugarbaker. They flung her down on her knees before the man's feet; the hat bent over her an instant, then he gave a curt dismissive gesture. One of her captors dashed his spear-butt into the back of her head where it met the neck, the other flung her aside and passed his spear through her body, the broad blade eviscerating her; the huddled knot of captives set up a terrible wail. Then it was Alv's turn to be hurried forward, and the leathery hand clamped the back of his neck, forcing him to his knees. The face that bent over him, shadowed by the hat, was lean and hard, scarred like the rest but made even more terrible by its eyes, yellow and catlike under wrinkled brows, seeming to scan and weigh everything in their path.

  The sight made him kick out in fury, afraid above all of being slaughtered like a goat where he knelt. The grip tore loose, the rawhide on his wrists snapped, and before he knew it he was on his feet, panting.

  The old Ekwesh barked a word, and a spear stopped just short of Alv's throat. The man thrust his head forward like some ancient lizard, looked Alv up and down and smiled, revealing a row of carefully pointed and serrated teeth. "Strong," he said in a guttural accent, nodding to himself with satisfaction. "Sothran? Thrall here? So. Good thrall for us. You live."

  Alv's anger boiled over onto his tongue. "Amicac swallow that!" he shouted, and spat mud onto the soiled robe. "Keep your mercy, eater of men's entrails! I know what comes of your thralls! Better dead I am than living a short life as your cattle—"

  He was flung violently on his back, staring up at the spear that would tear out his belly. But there came a sharp command in another voice, and it did not fall.

  Alv twisted round to see who had spoken. Over by the well, lowering the dipper from his lips, was another robed man. But he was no Ekwesh, though they fell back as he strode forward. He was the first man Alv had ever seen with skin much like his own. His robes were the color of ripe corn, with a rich pattern worked into them that shimmered in the clear light. He looked down at the boy for a moment, and then said "Get up!" in a brisk, neutral tone. Alv climbed awkwardly to his feet, uncomfortably aware of the spears still leveled at him. The newcomer looked him up and down, examined his hands as one might the hooves of an animal and then jerked the boy's head round and stared hard into his eyes. The man's own eyes were dark and piercing, though the sunlight seemed to strike a cold white
light in them. "A strange thrall!" he said, in the same clear, colorless voice. "Your name? Your parents?"

  "Alv. I was a foundling—"

  "A well-spoken foundling." The stranger sniffed fastidiously. "A cowherd, that's obvious. Yet you were educated? Worked in the smithy?"

  "Never! The old smith, he wouldn't—"

  The man gave a cool laugh. "No. He would not favor someone he could sense might soon excel him. Well, boy, I am no maneater, and I keep no thralls. I am a man of your own land, a Master of the Guild of Smiths, one of those allowed by its rules to treat with the Ekwesh, to buy back goods they have looted. I have been away many long months; I go back now to my own new household, and I will need helpers in the years ahead—those who are like me, having no ties to family or folk to turn their hearts elsewhere. You have that in you that makes a smith, I can tell—but how much of one, only the tempering of time will show." He glanced lightly around. "Nothing remains for you here, if anything there ever was. If you will serve me, I will take you as one of my apprentices, for as long as you show promise. If that fails, you may find a place in my forge, or go your own way. Or shall I let these creatures do as they will?"

  Alv blinked, unable to form words. He stared at this stranger who was offering him life, a new life, as casually as a drink from the dipper in his hand. He cut an impressive figure, though his face glistened with sweat as if he had lately run a race. His skin was like Alv's but swarthier; his long jet-black curls were plastered over his brow, but hung free around a face regular and unlined, betraying no particular age, with a long heavy nose over thin lips and a strong chin. It was an easy face to accept, to believe in—and what else was there, indeed, beyond the blades that quivered at the corner of his eye? "Yes!" he choked out. The man raised a sardonic eyebrow, and Alv realized what he had said. "I mean… yes, I will be your apprentice. I want to be—very, very much!"

  The man nodded evenly, clapped him on the shoulder, and spoke a few words to the old Ekwesh. The old man took two short steps forward, robes rustling, the white stick whistled out before Alv could move and caught him hard across the cheek, splitting the skin open. Alv stag-gered but did not fall; the old man spat copiously in his bleeding face and turned away to bellow at his soldiers.

  "A pleasant people," murmured the smith, and gestured at the bucket balanced on the well rim. "Wash yourself. I would as soon be spat on by a rattlesnake. When you have done that, make your way down to the beach and find my servant there—an old man, of our kind. Tell him my things are to be loaded into the ships, and help him. I fear we must endure the company of the Ekwesh for a day or two longer, as by treaty they carry back what I have recovered."

  Alv looked at him a little dazedly, but he had long since learned not to question openly. "Yes… master."

  "Mastersmith. My name is Mylio, but I prefer the title." As Alv wiped his face on his cloak his eyes strayed to the captive women, mostly slumped in apathy in the mud. The Mastersmith caught his shoulder, "Leave them. There is nothing you can do for them—and if I read you aright, you owe them nothing. No particular sweetheart?" He wiped his hand. "Hardly. We must find you some better garb. Go, then."

  Alv nodded, "Yes—Mastersmith."

  It was strange to walk through those gory streets unharmed, ignored by the slayers milling around him. Alv felt as if he was somehow dead already, a ghost on his journey to the River—not to cross it, perhaps, but to sail away down it to another birth, another destiny, as the tales told of some spirits great or terrible. Certainly he was walking through death, for it lay all around him, and he had to avert his eyes from what he trod in. When he came to the beach and passed the long line of bodies, the townsmen who had fallen in that first volley, he kicked off his soiled sandals and wrappings and left them where they lay, though the shingle was bitter cold underfoot. At first there only seemed to be Ekwesh about, but then he noticed a small pile of boxes on its own near the last ship, and a cloaked figure huddled in its lee. He stalked over toward the pile, and an old pale-skinned graybeard picked himself up slowly and peered at the newcomer with dull resentful eyes.

  Alv had met little else but forbidding looks; they no longer affected him. "The Mastersmith sent me—Master Mylio. He has taken me as an apprentice, and says you are to load his gear into the ship, and I am to help you."

  The old man considered slowly, chewing on nothing and gazing at Alv's ragged clothes. "An apprentice, eh? And what might your name be?"

  "They call me Alv, here."

  The old man blinked around. "None here will call you anything again unless they walk by night, Alv, eh? I am Ernan, the Master's only servant, save for my wife and a forgeboy. There is another apprentice, too, older than yourself and well schooled. But all are servants, even he, when and as the Mastersmith requires it. Do I speak clearly?" Alv nodded warily, and the old man picked up a bundle wrapped in skin. "Well, then. Remember that. Do you pick up one of those boxes, and follow."

  Alv heaved the topmost box off the pile, a painted chest of bent cedar; it was the kind they made in many towns, he noticed—including here. It was heavy, and he staggered, but managed to hoist it onto his shoulder. Old Ernan was already striding around the side of the ship, canted sideways as it was beached; he walked right out into the shallow surf, and Alv followed, to where the steep curving gunwales were at their lowest. There a short slatted board had been lashed to make climbing up easier; it creaked and flexed and shifted underfoot, almost spilling Alv into the water. Ernan reached out, steadied him, then took the box and laid it down in a locker lined with oiled sealskin. "Now, sir apprentice," he grunted, "do you come down now and help me with the larger chest there. And this time have a care!"

  Alv followed gingerly, and as he stepped down into the water his eye was caught by something a little way along the beach, black against the foam that washed around it. A few steps closer, and he saw with a shock that it was the old smith Hervar, left lying where he had fallen, scorched tongue protruding and charred arms thrust upward in a mute, meaningless gesture, as if to ward off the sky. Someone who might soon excel him . . . But he was past all enmities now. Alv turned at Ernan's angry growl, and hurried to take the other end of the long black chest— Ekwesh work, this, by the fierce bird designs around the huge and heavy lock. It was less weighty than it looked, though, and the two of them moved easily into the surf. But as Ernan reached the ship's side, and Alv heaved the chest up onto the gunwale, a fleck of color caught his eye, a tuck of what the chest contained snagged in the throw of the hinged lid. He was about to tell Ernan when the color of the bright stuff awoke a memory in his mind, and he peered more closely at that protruding piece. It was soft and light like doeskin, but with a pattern painted on it in stiff bright paints, blue and white. It was not something he would forget, that pattern of jagged feather shapes, for he had seen it so recently, dancing and whirling upon the prow of the leading warship till the very clouds opened and the lightning came. What was the Mastersmith Mylio doing with the Thunderbird dress of a shaman among the Ekwesh? He remembered the dancer, collapsed as if in exhaustion, and the sweat-soaked hair plastered to a high pale brow. But then Ernan tugged impatiently on the chest, and Alv folded his thoughts away in darkness, determined not to leave even the slightest tuck of them for those dark eyes to see. He had much to learn, and learn he would, before asking rash questions. So when, toward midday, the Ekwesh made ready to sail and the Mastersmith came back on board, Alv kept his peace and greeted him with respect.

  As the laden craft slid through the shattered Seagate, oars creaking on their pivots, he stood at the stern by the massive tiller, drinking in the hundred stinks of salt and tar and dried fish and finding none worse than that of the Ekwesh themselves, and watched the flames mount over the rooftops he had never called home. Suddenly the great gilded windvane stirred; the towering steersman sniffed the air sharply, and bellowed something to the chieftain on the narrow foredeck. The oars were shipped, and the deck vibrated under the crew's bare feet as they ran to un
furl the sail from below the wide yardarm. The black hempen square billowed and drummed taut, straining against the web of tarred cords that strengthened it. A strong wind arose from the south; it fanned the burning buildings to a furnace heat, but the boy named Alv it bore far from that place. Wide though his life's wanderings were, that brought him at last to the very heart of the world, he came there never again.

  Chapter Two - The Apprentice

  The black ships ran northward on a following wind, and pursuit, if any there was, they left far behind them. The few small craft they sighted put about and ran for the shore, for there was now no power in this region strong enough to resist them. So it was for two days and nights, and throughout this time Alv was left on his own, for Ernan lay seasick in the stern and the Mastersmith was with the Ekwesh chieftains. Some boys his age might have been lonely, but Alv was well enough used to his own company, and content to huddle down among the cargo in its wrappings of greasy hide, think his thoughts, and stay out of sight. It was warmer there—and safer. He was in no real danger from the raiders; the Ekwesh treated the Mastersmith with awe, and left what he named his alone. A kick and a curse were the worst he got when he was in the way, like any stray animal on the decks; they treated their own no better. But from the other boats, where there were captives, he heard cries that haunted him. The Ekwesh were a fell folk, vain, proud, quarrelsome, and crueler than any other of that day. What he saw of them in the days after the raid only fed and swelled the hatred he felt, and it never left him.