ANDERLE’S NOSTRILS TWITCHED AS she carried the pitcher of ale into the central hall of Azan-Ylir. The hide that had covered the carved bull’s head on the wall was moth-eaten, and none of the rich hangings and gilded ornaments with which Galid tried to disguise his spirit’s poverty could dispell the pungent aroma of urine and spilled beer. It had been worse, the other women assured her, before the half of a moon that Tirilan had been a captive here.
At least Galid kept his other prisoners outside. Between the gate and the roundhouse stood a row of cages. When Anderle arrived she had feared to find Tirilan in one of them, but the captives were all men, starved creatures confined for the gods alone knew what offenses, who were released sometimes to run about while the warriors cast spears.
She walked with bent head and curved spine, rags obscuring her body and a dirty cloth covering her hair. That, and the aura she had cast around herself, had kept her from unwelcome attention. She had always known how to cast the glamour that made her appear more beautiful. This was a simple reversal of the spell.
It was not something that Tirilan had ever needed to learn, but from what the women said, the men had respected her. Her mother was simultaneously amused and amazed that the girl had filled her time here with housework. At Avalon the students were all trained to help, of course, but it was not the kind of labor expected of a priestess. But if her daughter could do it, so could Anderle, and so for the past four days she had been Galid’s servant. There had been no difficulty in getting them to take her on. The usurper was calling in all his men, and needed all the help he could get to keep them housed and fed. The only problem was that Tirilan was no longer here, and none of the servants seemed to know what had become of her after he carried her away.
Anderle approached carefully, for Galid himself was sitting on a bench covered by a bearskin at the head of the hearth. Two men from the war band were with him, a renegade from Belerion and a younger man of his own clan called Keddam whom she had not seen here before. The men held out their beakers to be refilled without really looking at her, any more than they would have noticed one of the dogs.
“Is the bitch still alive, then?” Galid’s speech was slurred, and Anderle wondered how much he had drunk before she brought her pitcher in. “And mad—is she not mad by now?” She paused, realizing that he was not talking about a dog, then slid behind one of the great posts that held up the roof of the hall
“She eats the food I bring . . .” said Keddam with a shrug. “When I arrive I hear her singing sometimes. She sings very well. And she thanks me.”
“Nay, ’tis her lover who must be mad,” the man from Belerion replied with an evil laugh. “Will he try and kill you with a stone knife as they say he did the deer? I suppose not—by the time he gets here he’ll be too tired.”
Anderle’s heart was wrenched by pity when she thought of what Mikantor must feel. Even if Nuya had not been able to send the message to Lady Leka on the wind, the runner must have gotten there by now.
And is Velantos worrying about me? she wondered then. She hoped he thought she was at Avalon, for he would never have believed that she could pass through Azan far more safely than he. She tried not to think about him. Such memories would only distract her now.
“Just remember that if you want to force Uldan’s cub to give battle soon, you must keep the girl alive,” observed Keddam. “If she dies, he can take the time to gather all the tribes. They have closed their eyes to what you do with folk here, but I don’t think they will be happy if you starve a priestess.”
Anderle gripped the pitcher so hard she wondered later why she had not broken it. They will tear you limb from limb, her heart cried, and if they do not, I will! With an effort she managed to hold still as Keddam went on.
“Why not let me bring the lady back here?”
“Never . . .” muttered Galid. “She is a witch and a whore. Do not listen to her singing—she will offer you her love and steal your soul. Love is the last trap . . . and the worst one.” He took another gulp of beer. “This”—a knife with a gilded hilt appeared suddenly in his hand—“is the only thing that’s real!” Both warriors flinched as Galid struck the blade into the bench and left it quivering there.
What, wondered Anderle, had her gentle Tirilan done to this man? He looked sick, and old, and more than a little mad. Unfortunately, whatever was wrong with him seemed to be catching. In recent years his example had been followed by bandit chieftains across the land.
The dogs began to bark as more warriors came into the hall. She slipped from behind her pillar and scurried back to the kitchen, knowing she would overhear no more useful conversation today. But clearly Keddam was the man to watch. And at least he seemed to want to keep Tirilan alive, wherever she might be.
VELANTOS TAPPED THE LAST rivet into place at the base of the hilt, and laid the hammer down. The bright bronze and gold shone in the lamplight, but theirs was a soft and friendly glow in comparison with the radiance of the Sword. In the pommel he had set a piece of rounded crystal the size of a pigeon’s egg that caught the light as if moonfire burned within. He gripped the hilt and lifted the sword, savoring the way hilt and blade balanced so that it seemed to swing up of its own will. The hilt shone with the light of sun and moon, but the blade blazed like a star.
As he turned it, he contemplated the depths within that blaze. The edges gleamed with a pale, wavering line where he had honed them until they would cut a hair upon the wind. When he had wiped down the blade with a little vinegar to remove any oils his hands might have left upon it, a pattern of light and shadow glimmered within, subtle and lovely, like a memory of the many foldings from which he had forged the blade. He set the sword down suddenly as that image transmuted to a memory of his body and Anderle’s folded together in love.
She had left him.
Velantos told himself that he must lay his heart in the fire until it grew a hard skin like the sword. The work was done, and since Anderle was not here to share his triumph, he could only salute the Lady of the Forge. And perhaps that was just as well. She, at least, had never betrayed him.
That night his sleep was troubled, as he woke, reaching for Anderle, and sank back when he realized she was not there. But just before dawn he dreamed as he had dreamed when the goddess wore Anderle’s face, the kind of dream that even while it is going on imprints itself upon the memory.
He was walking over a field of red earth, and he was carrying the Sword. With every step the blade thrummed in his hands.
“I am alone,” it sang. “I am deadly and beautiful, but I am alone . . .”
“So am I,” Velantos replied. “I cannot help myself. How do you expect me to help you?”
“Thrust me into the earth and I will beget offspring—” sang the Sword, and although the part of Velantos that knew he was dreaming winced at the thought of scratching that shining blade, the dreamer found it quite natural to plunge it into the ruddy soil.
Velantos felt the earth shudder, and stared in horror as from the place he had stabbed blood began to flow. He retreated from that red tide, nostrils flaring at the scent that was the same as that of the iron, and then it grew brighter, and he realized that it was iron, flowing sun bright as the metal he heated in the forge.
The red stuff in the ground must be iron ore, thought the detached observer in Velantos’ mind, just as copper ore was green. With sufficient heat, perhaps it could be smelted, even cast like bronze. He had seen such red earth in many places . . . Copper and tin were rare, but he realized that those who knew the secret of extracting it from the ore could make iron almost anywhere.
The river of iron sank back into the soil, but the vision was not finished. Once more the earth shook. Bright points poked through its surface, sprouting an army of swords. The blade he held thrummed a greeting as they grew taller, raised by human shapes whose armor had the same bright sheen. Velantos pointed the sword and the army began to march. Where they passed they left a swathe of destruction, but structures greater and devices more com
plex sprang up in their wake, all of them made from iron. Iron saws and axes cut down forests; iron wagons tore up fields. Iron creatures roamed the land and the oceans and the heavens, and the smoke of their furnaces stained the sky.
“This is your doing!” cried Velantos, shaking the Sword.
“I am a sword,” came the stark reply. “I cut what you place before me. If you bleed, blame the mind behind the blade.”
I have meddled in matters beyond my understanding, thought the smith, struggling to awaken. Knowledge could not be suppressed forever. What one man had discovered, others would learn. But at least he could delay that day. Let men think this sword a miracle of the gods. If the gods wish men to use iron, they can teach the secret to others, he vowed, but it will not come to them from me!
With the thought, he opened his eyes.
Moving like an old man, the smith got himself out of the bed and limped to the workbench. Carefully, he unwrapped the Sword. It gleamed in the morning light.
It is neither good nor evil—he thought then. Or at least there had been no evil in the work he and Anderle had done to forge it, but what had he ground into it after she had gone? He remembered what she had said about the parent’s effect on the child. Had he imprinted his own anguish in this blade? He lifted the sword and turned to the image of the Lady of the Forge.
“Astra Chalybe—Star Iron—” he whispered. “By my own heart’s blood this doom I lay upon you, that you shall be the death of anyone who tries to use you for evil ends, and you shall be drowned in the Lake of Avalon rather than remain in any unworthy hand.”
MORNING LIGHT SHOWED THE tracks of the chariot clearly in the dew-wet grass. Anderle walked quickly, despite the heavy sack of pilfered supplies she bore. For three days she had watched Keddam, fearing that Galid would decide he was too sympathetic to the prisoner and give the duty of feeding her to another man. He had several chariots, and they were likely to go off in any direction at any time. But Keddam had also been carrying a bag when he drove out this morning, and the gods had given her an easy trail. Indeed, it seemed to be leading in the direction of the great henge, not so far from the route she had taken when she fled with Mikantor all those years ago.
Anderle tried not to think about what she might find at the end of that road. Fear sapped strength, and she was going to need all she had. At least this time she was not pregnant, and no one was pursuing her. On the other hand, she was no longer eighteen years old. And now the child she strove to save was her own.
Why did that seem so strange? Had her labors for Mikantor and for Avalon deprived her daughter of the love she deserved? If Anderle had been better at mothering, would her child be in danger today?
Preoccupied by her thoughts, she did not hear the chariot returning until it was already coming over the rise. For a moment she froze. Then she pulled off the headcloth and shook out her dark hair, straightened, and strode off at right angles to the track. Would an innocent traveler pause to see who was coming? She thought so, turned, and felt fear shock through her again as the driver pulled back on the reins and the chariot slowed.
“And where would such a fine-looking woman be going on such a fair morning?” Keddam called, with what he clearly thought was an inviting smile.
Anderle’s lips twitched. Apparently her transformation from an old woman to a young one had been effective. “I go . . . see Achimaiek—grandmother— lord,” she replied in the heaviest accent she could manage. “She very sick. I help her long time now . . .”
“Oh—” His tone cooled. “Well, go on then. And don’t bring your diseases to Azan-Ylir—” He shook the reins and the ponies tossed their heads and trotted on.
Azan-Ylir is already sick, thought Anderle. You just don’t recognize the symptoms. When the sound of the chariot had faded, she turned westward once more. The dew had dried, but Keddam had driven this way often enough to leave grooves in the grass. Over the rise and down again she made her way, and as she crested the next one she saw to her right the stark shape of the great henge.
But it was the lump of piled stone in the distance beyond it that riveted Anderle’s attention. As she drew closer, she saw that it was a shepherd’s hut with a roof of moldy thatching. The track of the chariot led directly there. Her steps quickened, despite the weight of the bag she bore.
The hut was silent. Anderle fought to control the pounding of her heart. Keddam had looked cheerful enough. Surely if Tirilan had been dead, fear of his master’s anger, if nothing else, would have caused some concern. She set down her bag and approached the door.
“Tirilan—” she called softly. “Tirilan, are you there?” She stilled as she heard a sob, quickly stifled, from within. “Tirilan—” she called again, but there was no reply.
Anderle was a small woman, but desperation lent power to her arms as she dragged the heavy bar aside. The door swung open, releasing a wave of foul air that reminded her of Galid’s hall. She recoiled, then took a deep breath and stepped inside. Near the open door she could see a bag of bread and two waterskins, a pile of earth surrounded by buzzing flies in the far corner, and between them, Tirilan, hiding her eyes from the light. She was emaciated and filthy, but she was alive.
“Sweet Goddess, help us,” murmured Anderle, bending to grip the thin shoulders. “Can you walk, my darling? Yes, it’s me, you’re not dreaming—I’m so sorry, my dearest, that it took me so long to come.”
“I didn’t think I was dreaming,” said Tirilan as her mother got her upright and assisted her out into the light. “I thought I was going mad . . . I’d heard your voice inside my head so often, you see. I thought I’d forgotten how to tell what was real.”
“Well, this surely qualifies as a nightmare,” said Anderle. She felt Tirilan’s recoil as she drew her toward the bench, and laid her down on the clean grass instead. “You need feeding, and you’re weak,” she said briskly, though she was weeping inside. “Is there anything else wrong?”
“I’m dirty—” whispered Tirilan. “The hunger was not so bad. Avalon taught me how to fast. Not being able to get clean was the worst of all. . . . You are real, aren’t you?” She clutched at Anderle’s arm. “Although if you are not, still I like this dream.” She sank back again.
“We can deal with that immediately,” said Anderle. She returned to the hut and brought out the waterskins and food bag. “I’ll sponge you clean with this. We can get more from the pond I saw nearby.”
She winced again when she got Tirilan’s clothes off and saw how the bones poked against her skin. Galid had kept her alive, but only barely. Her clothes were hopeless, but Anderle had brought others. After a moment’s thought, she took the soiled garments back to the hut, and the emptied waterskins and food bag as well. Then she carefully replaced the wooden bar. Let Keddam try to make sense of that when he came again!
Velantos had told tales of a sorceress from his own land who summoned dragons to carry her away. Anderle wished she had them now, or even one of Galid’s chariots, though that would have been hard to explain to Keddam when she met him on the road. If the schedule remained the same, Tirilan’s keeper should not be back for two or three days, but things could always change, and they should not stay here. Tirilan was looking a little better already, but it was equally clear that she could not walk far. They would have to take it in slow stages, thought Anderle, returning to kneel by her child.
“Up now, my darling—I am sure you want to be away from here as much as I do!”
“Yes, Mother—” Tirilan did her best to help, though she was trembling by the time Anderle had her on her feet. “Where are we going?” she asked as they began their slow progress across the grass.
Anderle got her shoulder more firmly under Tirilan’s and shifted the strap of her bag. Above the next rise she could just see the crisp line of great gray stones.
“Until you are stronger we will take refuge at the Henge. If anyone thinks to look there, I can draw upon its powers.”
“Galid will be sorry he tangled wi
th the Lady of Avalon—” Tirilan managed a smile.
“Hush, child, and save your strength for walking,” said Anderle, but she was bitterly sure that when Mikantor, and Velantos, and the folk of the tribes learned what Galid had done to Tirilan, she was not the only one who would make that vow. And Tirilan was not the only one who needed avenging, she thought with a stab of guilt, only the one that Anderle had been able to rescue.
It was time to make an end.
VELANTOS LOOKED AT THE huts the elder folk of the White Horse Vale had built to live in while they served him and felt ashamed that it had never occurred to him to visit them before. They were rude dwellings, nothing like so well made as the smithy they had built for him.
He cleared his throat, looking at the apprehensive faces around him—old men and women, mostly, with a few younger ones and a child or two clinging between their elders. He supposed that Grebe and the other young men had already left to join Mikantor. Had he really been so frightening? Perhaps so. Serving him this past week must have been like trying to tend a wounded bear.
“I come to thank you—” he said slowly. “I finished the Sword. I want you to see it. It belongs to you too. Without your help I could not do it.” He shrugged off his pack and untied the long bundle that held the Sword, laid it on the ground and lifted the folds of linen away. There was a whisper of indrawn breath as they saw it shining in the sun.
“Do not touch,” another voice cautioned as they bent over it. “Is a thing of power.”
Velantos looked up at the old woman who sometimes brought his food. From the ornaments around her neck and the tattooing on her brow he realized that she must be one of their wisewomen. He was ashamed not to have noticed that before. But his dream of the Age of Iron had lanced something that had been festering in his soul, or perhaps simply put his own problems into perspective. In any case, his mind was clear once more.
“Yes,” he answered. “The metal was powerful when you gave it to me, and the goddess gives it more.”
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon Page 43