The Anvil of the World aotwu-1

by Kage Baker

  One had come alone over the hill to the north, a solitary figure. He wore no armor, he carried no blade. He had only a long staff, but in his long hand at the end of his long arm it cleared a wide space around him as he came, and where the steel-shod end of the staff connected, his opponents fell and did not rise again. Smith could hear the skulls cracking from where he stood; still the Yendri came scrambling over the dead to reach that lone fighter, ignored the armored host that hacked them to pieces as they advanced.

  All these died willingly, that they might get close enough to strike a blow, even in vain; but more aimed themselves at the one who stood on the southern hill, overlooking the brief contest.

  The man wore black. He watched impassively as the banner guard kept off his enemies. He bore two long blades in a double scabbard on his back, and not till the end, when the Grand Master himself fought close, did he draw steel over his shoulder.

  He said one word, and his guards parted to let the man through. The Yendri vaulted forward, pipe to his lips, sending his poisoned dart flying. One blade cut the dart out of the air; its backstroke cut the pipe from his hands. Then he disappeared under a tackle pile of guards, as he screamed at the dark man.

  And then it was over, and the field was silent.

  Willowspear left the gallery. They heard him being quietly sick in the corridor.

  Nobody said anything.

  There came a wind off the field. It brought the groans of the wounded, though only the armored fighters; none of the Yendri were left alive to cry for help, save their leader. The survivors were stepping carefully across the devastation. Near the Adamant Wall lay the boy who would have been sacrificed. He had died fighting, his blood spilt to no purpose, his holy destiny unfulfilled. Was his death cleaner?

  The man in black was giving orders, in a low voice, and stretchers were being made and his guard were moving out to collect the living. But they kept well away from the white stag, which was still bounding and trampling like a mad thing, tossing the dead on its antlers. It clattered all the way to the Adamant Wall, and collided with it; danced back, snorted its rage, and stamped.

  The solitary figure with the staff had been making his way to the Wall also. He came to it and extended his hand cautiously, stopping just short of the surface. Ignoring the stag, he looked up at the gallery.

  He had a long plain face, austere and dignified. He looked more like a high priest than a warrior, and his eyes were sad.

  “Svnae,” he called.

  The stag noticed him. It threw its head up in surprise, rearing on its hind legs. They lengthened, the antlers shrank and vanished, its whole body altered; and Lord Eyrdway strode along the perimeter of the Wall.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Mother sent me,” said the other. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m being Daddy’s herald.”

  “I didn’t hear you offering terms.” The other gestured at the mounded dead.

  “I didn’t bother. But the fight’s over, so you can turn right around and go back home.”

  “Are you at all concerned with how our sister fares?”

  “You’ll observe that neither one of them has deigned to notice me,” Lord Ermenwyr remarked to Smith.

  “She’s fine,” said Lord Eyrdway. He turned, waved at Svnae, turned back and went on, “I know what you’re really here for, you know. You won’t get it. Not if Daddy wants it.”

  The plain man looked up at the gallery again. “Svnae, let me through. I must speak with you.”

  “Who’s that?” Smith inquired.

  “That’s our brother Demaledon. Demaledon is good and kind and wise and brave and clean and reverent,” muttered Lord Ermenwyr. “The only reason he isn’t a bloody monk is because he kills people once in a while. But only bad people, you may be sure.”

  “You can damned well speak to me from out there!” Lady Svnae shouted, clenching her fists. “This is none of Mother’s business!”

  “Yes, Svnae, it is,” said Lord Demaledon. “Mother knows why you’re here. You should have come to her for counsel first.”

  “My entire life has been one long session of Mother giving me counsel,” Lady Svnae replied sullenly, “and Mother knowing exactly what I’m doing and why, and Mother always being right, and Svnae being wrong.”

  “Hey, look, isn’t that, what’s his name, Smith?” said Lord Eyrdway. “The Child of the Sun? Hello, Smith!”

  Lord Demaledon looked up and spotted Smith. He murmured something in a horrified tone of voice.

  “Thank you for asking, I’m miraculously unharmed!” Lord Ermenwyr screamed.

  Lord Eyrdway grinned at him and pulled out the corners of his mouth with two fingers, stretching his grimace a good yard wide before letting it snap back.

  “Did you hear a fly buzzing, Demmy? I didn’t. But you may as well collect Svnae and her baggage and escort her home, because Daddy is taking over here. He wants the Key of Unmaking.”

  “Well, he can’t have it,” Lady Svnae said, looking arch. “Not even Daddy knows everything.”

  “Stop it, both of you! Svnae, why is the Child of the Sun here?” Lord Demaledon asked.

  Lady Svnae flushed deeply and dropped her gaze.

  “I had him brought,” she admitted. “I, er, didn’t have quite all my facts straight at the time, and I didn’t realize how dangerous it was. But we stopped—”

  “Oh, who cares? Look, Smith, I’m sorry about this, but you have to admit your people have needed thinning out lately,” said Lord Eyrdway. “And Daddy has nothing against Children of the Sun personally. But if anyone’s going to own an ancient weapon of fabulous destructive power, it ought to be Daddy. So drop the damned Wall!”

  “Shut up, you idiot! You don’t understand!” cried Lord Demaledon. “Svnae, when did you stop?”

  “Well—” Lady Svnae bit her lower lip.

  “You know, Smith, I think it’s time we got the hell out of here,” said Lord Ermenwyr sotto voce. He glanced over his shoulder at the battlefield, then did a double take. “Uh-oh. Too late.”

  The man in black was walking to the Adamant Wall, unhurried. He looked up at the gallery. His gaze was blank and mild as a sleepy tiger’s. When he spoke, his voice was very deep.

  “Daughter, come down,” said the Master of the Mountain.

  He towered over his sons. Given all that Smith had heard of him over the years, he had expected someone about whom dark rainbows of energy crackled, a walking shadow of dread, faceless. All Smith saw, however, was a very large man with a black beard, who folded his arms as he waited for Lady Svnae’s reply.

  “Daddy, I really can’t let you in here,” said Lady Svnae.

  He extended one gauntleted hand in a negligent gesture, and the Adamant Wall melted into a curtain of steam that blew away.

  “Then you come down to me,” he said. “And bring the man Smith.”

  Moving deliberately, Svnae took her bow and nocked an arrow. Smith gaped at it, for it was not the kind of sporting gear one would expect a lady to use. The arrow was tipped for armor-piercing.

  “Daddy, go away,” she said, and in an undertone added, “Ermenwyr, get out. Take Smith and get away down the river as fast as you can.”

  “I can’t blow the hole in the damned wall by myself!” hissed her brother.

  The Master of the Mountain did not smile, but something glinted in his black eyes.

  “Child, you are your mother’s daughter,” he said.

  Svnae gritted her teeth. “That was just exactly the wrong thing to say.”

  She fired. Lord Ermenwyr shouted and grabbed her arm belatedly, but the Master of the Mountain smiled. He put up his hand and caught the arrow an inch from his throat. In his hand it became a black-red rose.

  “And you are also my daughter,” he said, sounding pleased. Svnae reached for another arrow, but found her quiver full of roses. Glaring, she took the bow and hurled it at him as hard as she could.

  “Damn you!”
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  “Stop this nonsense and come down,” said the Master of the Mountain. “Your mother is going to have a great deal to say to you about this.”

  Lord Ermenwyr groaned, and Lady Svnae went pale.

  “We’d better do as he says now,” she said.

  “Is it painful?”

  “Yes, it is,” Smith said, gasping. “It hurts a lot.”

  The Master of the Mountain regarded Smith’s arm, which was colder and more blue than it had been. Below the elbow it looked as though it was turning to stone. It was in no way stiff or swollen, however. Shaking his head, the other man dug a flask from a camp chest and offered it to Smith.

  “Drink. It may help.”

  Smith accepted it gratefully. “Thank you, my—er—lord.”

  “The name’s Silverpoint,” said the Master of the Mountain. “Most of the time. Though my son calls himself Kingfisher, doesn’t he?”

  “Lord Ermenwyr?” Smith nodded. Mr. Silverpoint poured himself a drink and sat down in the chair opposite Smith’s.

  “Lord Ermenwyr,” said Mr. Silverpoint, with only the faintest trace of irony. He stared at the hanging lamp and sighed, shaking his head. “He’s a costly boy. Doctors, tailors’ bills, theater tickets. Brothels. Health resorts. And now I understand he’s bought a slaveless galley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When I was his age, I’d never seen a boat, let alone a city.” He looked at Smith, raised an eyebrow like a black saber. “And I owned nothing. Not even myself.”

  “You were a slave?” Smith asked.

  The other man nodded. “Until I killed my masters. I broke my own chains. I owe no miracle man for my salvation.

  “But I owe you a debt, Smith. You’ve made a habit of saving my children. They haven’t been as grateful as they should. I’d like to help you.”

  “I’m not sure you can,” said Smith. He drank. What was in the flask was white, and it did dull his pain a little.

  Mr. Silverpoint did not reply at once. He sipped his own drink, considering Smith. The lord’s pavilion was made of rich stuff, black worked with silver thread, but it was spare and soldierly within. Without, the camp sounds had tapered off; only the creaking of insects now, and the occasional challenge and password from the guard.

  “I’ve been following your career with a certain amount of interest, Smith. Tell me: How long were you an assassin?” Mr. Silverpoint inquired.

  “Ten years, I guess,” said Smith, a little dazedly. He hadn’t expected to be discussing his personal history. “I tried being a soldier. I tried a lot of jobs. But it always came back to killing. It just—happened.”

  “You were good at it,” stated Mr. Silverpoint.

  “Yes.”

  “You never trained with a master-at-arms. You never studied weapons of any kind.”

  “No, sir. My aunt never had the money for that kind of an education,” Smith explained, drinking more of the white stuff.

  “But the first time you ever found yourself in danger, you acted without even thinking and—”

  “And they were dead,” said Smith wonderingly. “Three of them, in an alley. Two throats cut with a broken bottle and the other killed with a five-crown piece, and I’m damned if I remember how. Something about hitting him with it in exactly the right place to make something rupture. I don’t know where I learned that trick.”

  “But you didn’t like the work.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. So I kept trying to quit.”

  “You were an orphan, weren’t you?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, sir.”

  “And Smith is an alias, isn’t it? A name you selected purely by chance?”

  “Well, it’s very common, sir.”

  “Interesting choice, all the same. What is your real name?”

  The question was uttered in a tone of command, not loud but swift as a green dart. And Smith knew perfectly well what folly it was to tell one’s true name to a mage, especially one with Mr. Silverpoint’s reputation, but he felt the reply rising so easily to his lips! He fought it until he sweated, with those quiet eyes regarding him all the while.

  “I’ll tell you my first name,” he said. “What about that?”

  “You are strong,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “Very well, then.”

  “My mother died when she had me,” Smith said. “She looked up at the door as they were wrapping me in a blanket, and she said there was a shadow there. That was the last thing she ever said. So my aunt named me Carathros. That’s how a priest would say, ‘The shadow has come.’ ”

  Smith stared into the past. Mr. Silverpoint watched him. At last, “I’ve heard what Ermenwyr thinks is the truth,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “Insofar as he’s ever capable of telling the truth. Svnae and Demaledon have told me what they know. Now, you tell me: there is no Key of Unmaking hidden in Rethkast, is there?”

  “There is, sir,” said Smith. “I saw it. It was in a hole in the rock.”

  Mr. Silverpoint shook his head.

  “That’s the keyhole,” he said. “My daughter didn’t realize the truth until it was too late. Your Book of Fire says that the Key of Unmaking was hidden, but not in the bones, not in a place full of bones. Not in the charnel house of Kast. There’s an error in the text, you see.

  “What it actually says is that the Key was hidden in the bone, in the sense of flesh and bone. Descendants. Heredity. A trait passed on in the blood. Something that would lie dormant, until the Father of your people decided to use it.”

  Smith looked at his arm. It was iron, and ice, and it knew exactly how to put an end to the cities of his people. He had dreamed its dreams. It had always killed for him, all his life, gotten him out of every dark alley and tight corner in which he’d ever found himself, earned him a living with what it knew. But now it knew its purpose.

  “I’m the Key of Unmaking,” he said.

  Mr. Silverpoint was watching him.

  “A courtesy to the children of other gods,” he said.

  “When there are too many of you, a slaughterer is born on the Anvil of the World. His destiny is to bring on a cataclysm. What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t want this,” said Smith, though he knew that what he wanted no longer mattered.

  “It seems a shame,” Mr. Silverpoint agreed. “But you’re stuck with it, aren’t you?”

  “Can you help me?”

  “I don’t meddle with gods,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “All I can do is witness your decision. Whatever you do, though, you’d better do it soon. That’s my advice, if you want any control over what happens at all. The pain will only get worse; until you obey.”

  “I have to go back in that room, don’t I?” said Smith sadly.

  Mr. Silverpoint shrugged. Setting his drink down, he rose and selected an axe from a rack of weapons in the corner.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he said, holding the tent flap open.

  They stepped out into the night, and the guards on duty came to attention and saluted. Mr. Silverpoint nodded to them.

  “At ease,” he said. “This way, Smith.”

  He walked to the near pavilion that had been set up for Lady Svnae. Taking a torch from its iron socket, he cleared his throat loudly outside the entrance.

  “Daddy?”

  “Rise and come with us, Svnae,” he said. “You’re being punished.”

  She stepped out a moment later, wrapped in a dressing gown. She looked lovely, frightened, young and—next to her father—small. On any other night of the world, Smith would have been profoundly interested in her state of undress.

  They stopped at the next pavilion, and Mr. Silverpoint said, “Come out of there, son.”

  There was no answer. Mr. Silverpoint exhaled rather forcefully and tore open the tent flap, revealing Lord Ermenwyr. The lordling was still fully dressed, sitting bolt upright on the edge of a folding cot. He looked at his father with wide eyes.

  “You’re being punished, too,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “Come along.”

>   He led them away through the night, across the day’s field where a banked fire still smoldered, the bones of the slain falling into ashes in its heart. Guards fanned out and walked with them at a discreet distance.

  They came to the rock, and Mr. Silverpoint nodded at Svnae, who led them in. The chambers and corridors were deserted; the monks had withdrawn to the camp to tend the wounded. They climbed through the darkness, and their passage echoed like an army on the march.

  The pain in Smith’s arm grew less with every step. It was still so cold he imagined waves of chill radiating from it, but it felt supple as it ever had. He looked up at the barrel-vault ceiling as they walked along, wondering who among his ancestors had cut these tunnels. The charnel house of Kast….

  What had taken place, here, that the Yendri had found it crowded with the dead? It must have been in Lord Salt’s time, so long ago it was nearly fable. What had been the cause of the war? Why had the granaries of Troon been put to the torch? That was never clear in the stories; only the great deeds of the heroes were sung about, how they drove the vanquished before them like wraiths, how they enacted wonders with their swords and war hammers, how they triumphed in the last day of glory before the gods had been sick of them and wiped them out of existence.

  And only a handful of people had survived, crouching in fishing-huts at the edge of the land, terrified of something in the interior.

  Yet from those wretched ashes they had risen, hadn’t they? And built a fine new civilization on top of the old, better than what they’d had before? What other race could do such a thing?

  What other race would need to?

  It was true that they multiplied until they must build new cities, and it was true that crime and war and famine followed them inexorably … and now there were others in the world, other races who might be more worthy to inherit.