The Anvil of Ice

by Michael Scott Rohan

  "That I know," said Elof quietly, as he drew the pieces from the fire and set them together with a rain of light taps. "I have heard it."

  "You have heard…" Kermorvan shook his head, momentarily lost for words. Then he burst out, "But how did you dare go so close? The Ice is not empty, but peopled with fearful creatures, fell beasts and other terrible things that I can give no names to; that will draws them as it draws all unhallowed things, they ride the Ice as they might a ship and fare ahead as its vanguard, spreading death and terror. They come whenever its power is strong, at times even down to the marshes here with its meltwaters. How did you dare?"

  Elof was silent a moment. The hammer stood poised in his hand, but did not fall. For he was thinking, remembering, as he had not for a long time, his first sight of the gleam in the sky, and the Mastersmith telling of his pilgrimage, his new apprenticeship, his reshaping, reforging—

  Upon the Anvil of Ice.

  Savagely Elof smote down upon the weld, with blows so fast and heavy that the sparks went dancing and skittering across the little anvil, and the pieces of hot steel seemed to flow together as one. He looked up, to see Kermorvan gazing at him with keen eyes. "I was astray," he said, but nothing more.

  Kermorvan shrugged. "Who in this world is truly astray, I wonder? There are other powers than those of the Ice, they say. Certainly it was a timely straying that led you to us." He looked questioningly at Elof, seemed about to ask something outright. Elof hastily turned away and plunged the fastened metal into the improvised quenching trough, and was grateful for the concealing cloud of steam that arose about him. There were too many questions he did not yet wish to answer, even to himself—least of all to this strange man, who had been careful to say so little of himself.

  And it was as if Kermorvan himself sensed that, and approved, for he added, "At least, timely if I do not keep us from our work." He looked around him, at the first faint tinge of gray in the mist. "Dawn approaches. How long… ?"

  "Seven hours, perhaps eight. And another hour to refit it, I think. The mount should be reinforced."

  Kermorvan growled. "Let us hope we have that long, then. These chants of yours, these symbols you're scratching… Will they really achieve anything?"

  Elof smiled as he selected two more strips of metal and jabbed them into the fire. "That's to be seen. They are not slowing my work. Not by more than minutes."

  "No? Those minutes may count!" He spoke harshly, in the effort to rein his eagerness. "But go ahead! You must work as you know best how."

  "I thank you!" said Elof, and meant it. Once again, a compliment, once again a burden of responsibility; this Kermorvan did know how to sway people to his purposes. "I think… I think they are worth trying, though they will be less effective on something not new-made. You understand, it is not the power of the art that I doubt. It is myself."

  Kermorvan, suddenly nonchalant again, rubbed a thumb over his stubbled chin. "Then I think you need have no fears."

  Elof shrugged, turning the metal in the forge. "We will see, in a few hours."

  "Perhaps. And what then, Elof?"

  "You set out to fight the Ekwesh."

  "And you?"

  "I? I turn for home," Elof plucked out the longer piece, and began to straighten it. "Though if you could set me ashore above or below the heart of the Marshlands it would make my path shorter and safer…" He hesitated, and did not know why.

  Kermorvan appeared not to notice. "We cannot leave this area before we fight, here where there is always mist to cloak us. And we cannot return to it afterward, not for weeks; the fleet may stay and search, or leave a force to trap us. So we can only land you if you take ship with us, now." He leaned forward fiercely, and red forgelight shone against his keen gray eyes. "Why not, Elof? It'll be uneven enough as it is—fifty of us to maybe a hundred of them. Someone like you might well turn the scale."

  Elof snorted. "I'm no warrior—"

  "No? If you're not, who is? You're strong even for a smith, and fast. You've some swordplay, at least. And you hate the Ekwesh, that's clear. So come with us!"

  "Aye, come!" grunted the captain, stumping up through the mist. "Got the better of me, and there's not so many 'as done that, eh, Kermorvan? And speaking of that, if you've a moment, perhaps you wouldn't mind fixing some bands on a new 'alberd-shaft…"

  Elof gave a splutter of laughter. "That, at least, and ones that won't cleave so cleanly. For the rest—we'll see! Now, somebody put their back to those bellows, or we'll never have this thing straight—"

  The sun stood past noon before he had done, and the mists had thinned to a heavy haze. A new strong mounting was prepared, and the reforged ram swiftly bolted into place. At once the captain had the corsairs scurrying about to raise the mast and reload their gear, but Kermorvan seemed unable to tear himself away from the weapon, running fascinated fingers over the dark menacing gleam of the metal. "'I take back my words!" he said with soft exultation. "You have made this a finer thing than ever it was—stronger, sharper. There is a faint strange shimmer on it…"

  Sprawled exhausted on the warm sand, Elof took a moment to understand what he was hearing. Then abruptly he rolled over and scrambled up, eager to look but hardly daring. What was the swordsman seeing? Could it be that he also had a touch of the art in his blood?

  "Like fish darting in a pool!" added Kermorvan, entranced. "As if sunlight truly were forged into it, as they tell of the duergar smiths of old—ach, I waste time! But now we've a real chance!" He turned away to call for ropes and rollers to be readied. Gingerly Elof reached out and touched the warm metal, peered at it, into it. Under the greenish sheen of the steel a light coursed indeed, now strong, now pale, pulsing like blood in veins. The work, crude as it was, had come alive under his hands.

  On impulse he plucked his sword up from where it lay by his cloak and jerkin on the sand, and gazed hard at the hilt he had made. Clouds gleamed back at him though the sky above was clear, glancing and shifting in the mesh, vagrant as thoughts. The realization, the honing of hopes he had deliberately dulled, was almost painful, like stirring a limb long unused. But there was no escaping it, and pleasure in the very pain. He should have suspected as much the moment he touched the clumsy old hammers and pincers, felt the emptiness in them; he had not even noticed it in his work for Hjoran. It took power to perceive power—and the lack of it. With a surging yell of sheer joy, he hurled the sword wheeling into the air and caught it, closing his fingers round the cool glitter of the hilt, clutching it to him. What it might be he could not guess, but a virtue dwelt in that hilt. His art was his again, and his long healing complete.

  "A martial sight you are, of a sudden!" laughed Ker-morvan, striding up the beach. "Well, sir smith? Are you then thinking of coming to fight alongside us, or of slinking away to rot in your smithy—assuming you ever find it again?"

  Elof thrust the black blade vertically down into the sand, to stand like some sinister outgrowth. How strange, that he should have worked some quality into the hilt, and not know its purpose. But then, what did he know of his own, now? Go back to the marshes and live as before? The fenland had seemed so right for him once, a place of hiding, not so much from the Mastersmith as from his own self-loathing, a bitter purge needed for a mind made sick. He had found punishment in suffering, and made some restitution, perhaps; there were many travelers now safe who would not have been but for him. And in that, it seemed, he had also found healing. Now, for all their bleak loneliness, the fenlands had almost become a safe haven, a retreat where he could go on living a simple, useful life with few demands beyond staying alive, forgetting his cares and fears. But was he right to forget them, now his health and his craft had come back to him? Was it right to go on riding? The world marched on and would not wait for him, squatting in the rushbeds. What of his vengeance on the Ekwesh? What of his debt to Roc? What of his pledge to Kara? And what of the grim power he had unwittingly set in the hands of a ruthless man?

  For a moment he felt bewilder
ed, but a moment only. Then he nodded, at once angered and amused. Whatever strange power had brought him here, it had chosen its time with care. The Ekwesh were growing bolder, and he aided them who failed to resist them. Whatever good he could do in the smithy, he could do more in the world beyond. And there was so much of that to see, so much to learn, and he was yet young.

  He turned to Kermorvan, and plucked the sunwarmed blade from the sand. His path was set clear before him. "All right, you Sothran pirate! I'll come! But on one condition only! That when this fight's done, if I choose I'll count myself quit. And you'll set me ashore then within easy reach of a town, and food and gear to get there. Agreed?"

  "So be it!" barked Kermorvan, with gusto. "We could clasp hands on it, but I've another idea. It's still too clear to launch, the Ekwesh would spot us leagues off. We must needs wait. That maddens me, so as well pass the time making you some semblance of a swordsman. Shall we cross blades on it?" Kermorvan's long sword hissed out, gray steel glittering before eyes that matched it.

  Elof grinned, and the black blade gleamed in sullen magnificence. He copied the stance Kermorvan had used. "Fair trade, for the smithcraft I've taught you…"

  So they swung and sparred through an hour or more of the afternoon, edge on edge chiming through the thickening haze. The loafing corsairs gathered round to watch and laugh as Elof was stung by the flat of the gray blade, or sent sprawling on his face with the surf lapping round him like an anxious dog; they had all suffered under Kermorvan's instruction. But soon enough as the mist came rolling in across the little bay, they ceased to laugh, and nodded thoughtfully, and laid small wagers against the coming plunder. For Elof s sheer strength told against the subtlety he lacked, and the same eye and hand that placed blows so accurately on the anvil he could turn against his opponent. At length, hilts locked, they swayed eye to eye, breath hissing through dry lips. "Better!" Kermorvan gasped. "One day—a great manslayer—had you only the will!"

  "Sooner—beat metal—than men!" wheezed Elof. The tall man laughed, and was about to answer when there came a shout from the high dunes behind the beach. "Sail ho! South away! A black sail!"

  "Hands to launch!" bellowed the captain, bounding to his feet. "Shift yer scuts, to the ropes!" Kermorvan dropped his guard and sheathed his sword in one fluid movement, and went pounding off to join the other corsairs, dragging Elof with him. A spring cable, rigged between the sternpost, a solid old tree stump and the bow capstan, pulled the vessel forward on its rollers, while those crewmen not straining at the capstan bars rushed back and forth taking rollers out from under the stern and thrusting them under the advancing bows. Elof, scrambling over the stern, was amazed nobody was crushed, but it was a practiced operation, and the long sleek hull slipped into the oily-calm waters of the bay with hardly a splash. The mist curled around her low gunwales, and wreathed itself around the legs of the roller crewmen being hauled aboard, as if it wanted to hold them back. Many of the men clutched amulets, or made superstitious signs; even Kermorvan rested his forehead against the mast a second, uttering low words. Elof, for his part, simply looked back at the shore, but it was already no more than a shadow in the mist, and even the marshy odor was lost in the myriad smells and stenches of the ship, from tar and damp sealskin sleeping bags to unnamed foulness in the bilges. The captain brought a heavy oilcloth bundle forward, and as he unwrapped it carefully the bow lanterns glinted on a great beast-head, carved and gilded, with staring eyes of red glass and long jaws filled with brass fangs. He reached up and fixed it into a socket atop the forestern, so it rode high over the bows as if on an arching swan-neck.

  "Amicac!" cried the crew, and cheered wildly. Elof shuddered.

  "Why do they bear the Sea Devourer so gladly as an emblem?" he whispered to Kermorvan.

  "What better sign for a corsair?" said the swordsman darkly. "A terror, a scourge and a curse, that may very well be our ensign. We are outlaws or exiles, who might as easily be slain by our own folk as our enemies." He laughed bitterly. "Perhaps we have made our own compact with the Devourer. We send him food, or are ourselves sent down to feed him. Why should we not claim his protection? Out with your sweeps there! Fix locks!"

  The oarsmen took their benches, and the long heavy sweeps were passed out over the gunwales and mounted on the heavy pivot pins that served as rowlocks. They were held poised a moment, as if about to row through mist rather than water, but as the captain gave the word and struck his halberd upon the deck they dipped and strained in perfect unison, and the lean craft lifted its bows and flew forward, the dark glassy water chuckling and gurgling delightedly around the new ram.

  Someone began to sing softly, and after a moment the others took it up, a slow, rather sad chantey, in time with the stroke.

  Riding the waters,

  Fair is she,

  Fair the body of Saithana Sea-Maiden!

  Streaming her tresses,

  Bright as sun,

  White her breasts the gulfs-road cresting!

  Body so slender,

  Pale as foam,

  Silken her flanks through seaswell gliding!

  Kermorvan's clear voice rang out over the chorus.

  Saithana, come to me, Leave me not drifting Sleeping so lonely Where tideway takes me And the cold claws tear!

  "Aye, let 'em call on Saithana while they may," grumbled the skipper to Elof, "for d'you know, sir smith, that she's the promise of drowned men! Now we'll needs thrash about till we find the bleeders, and that's chancy business in night and murk."

  "But that's when it must be," added Kermorvan calmly, "for we cannot match the Ekwesh in daylight and under sail. But they are poor navigators, and sail always by following the coasts, and in that is our hope. They must pass the delta, where there is always mist somewhere, and in that we may have them!" He stared out into the thickening fog, where Elof could see nothing. An instant later Kermorvan rapped out an order, and the chantey died away. He rested an ear against the gunwale, as if listening. "Passing the headland rocks, by that swell—eh, skipper?" The captain listened a moment, and nodded. Elof felt the gentle rise and fall beneath his feet grow slower and stronger as they moved out into open sea, though there was still only the faintest breath of a breeze. "Right then!" added Kermorvan. "Douse lanterns, muffle your row-locks, batten down anything loose and most of all your mouths, for there'll be no more shouted orders! We want to hear those reiving bastards before they hear us, remember? Stick to it, then, and this voyage'll see us all rich men!" One subdued cheer answered him, and then a silence thicker than the fog fell about the ship. He turned to Elof. "Do not think the worse of me for holding out the promise of riches. I need them myself."

  "How so?"

  His hard fist thumped the tiller of the steering oar. "To buy and equip ships of my own! To strike before the raiding, and not have to hover like vultures over the kill! We have engaged four Ekwesh ships so far, and taken three, and I, poor exile as I am, I have saved all my shares—little enough so far, but I was not then second-in-command. Tonight we may see!"

  Hours passed, and the corsair beat about, back and forth, searching for some trace of its foe, Kermorvan and the captain plotting their position only by the changing sounds of tide and current. A rare puff of wind would thin the fog, but for the most part the sail hung empty and lifeless, bedewed with the damp, while the corsairs strained at the oars and grew ever more tired and disheartened. Many said the Ekwesh must already have gone by them. Elof took turns rowing, then on watch, standing in the high bows behind the hideous head, one hand tight on the forestay. He glanced down at the ram, cleaving the low swell beneath him, no longer sure he had done right to come, or whether he trusted the swordsman's words. This clammy chill fogged his feelings, forever blank, pallid, silent…

  Or was it?

  He leaned forward suddenly, holding his breath so it would not drown the faintness of the sounds he heard— creaks, splashes, rumbling of water under a hull, like an echo of the sounds from the ship beneath him, but far,
far away in the paleness of the dawn. Could this somehow be a trick of the mist, mirroring and dispersing sound as it did light? But he listened again, held his breath longer till he almost choked, thought he heard the laughter of harsh voices, as if the echo came now out of dark dreams of his youth. He slipped back down onto the deck and passed word aft to the captain and Kermorvan. The oars were stilled, the crew rose and lined the gunwales, listening, and now the sounds grew clearer, drew even closer, till there was no mistaking them.

  "But whither away?" puzzled the captain, "'Ere one minute, there the next—can't get 'old of them at all—"

  "From ahead there!" said Elof.

  "Off the port bow—"

  "No, starboard and moving up—"

  "But that drum's astern!"

  "Quiet!" hissed Kermorvan suddenly, and rounded on the rowers in fury. "Back to your sweeps, damn you! And row! Row for your lives! Helm, due north and be ready for anything! Archers, to your posts! They're all around us-"

  The corsair boat surged forward, a momentary breath of wind arose around it and the mist rippled like a sail and grew briefly thin. Every man on board ducked down in that moment save Kermorvan, and he stood rooted to the spot. In the faint light, long dark shadows, half again their own length and higher in the water, went knifing through the swell on every side—not just one or two, but twenty at the least.