Silver Moons, Black Steel

by Tara K. Harper

  “This house will come down around your ears,” he snapped. “There is another way out of the lab?” She stared at him like a rabbit. He didn’t think. He slapped her.

  Her head snapped back, and the boy ripped himself from her arms to fling himself at Talon’s chest, beating the man with his fists. “Leave her alone—”

  Talon struck him almost absently. The boy flew back, stunned. Talon’s voice was icy. “The lab under the floor. Your children. There is another way out for them?”

  She gasped. “Yes.”

  He hewed at the wood with a violence he did not question, then kicked it with the remains of his strength. The fibers cracked, then splintered, and a black nose poked in through the ragged hole. Like snakes, smoke lines rushed toward the fresh air and the wolf that blocked it. Talon snarled at the Gray One. It withdrew, and he kicked at the hole until he broke out two planks, and it was large enough for the woman. For a moment, he crouched against the wall, coughing and catching his breath.

  “Go,” he managed raggedly. “Follow the wolves.”

  But she stared at him without moving, and he realized she and the boy would stay and burn in their terror.

  “Move, damn you—the outer rooms are on fire; the raiders are out front.” My raiders? Me and my lepa and worlags? He grabbed the woman by the shoulder, cursed her as she clutched the child. “Damn you to the second hell, will you burn here in your fear?” He shoved her toward the hole. “Stay in the shadows. The Gray Ones will lead you—” His voice broke off in a spasm of coughing. Dnu raced away from the front of the house, and someone shouted at the stragglers. He raised his fist to strike her.

  She panicked and shoved the boy ahead of her. The cloak she tried to keep over her mouth tore on the splintered wood. She cried out at the screams that sounded from the end of the street, and Talon’s stomach twisted. She was an animal, not a human, soaked in mindless terror. There was no fight in her— no courage, no gray. He bit at his fathomless anger. For an instant, he stared out the hole into shadows where yellow eyes gleamed. Then he crouched to follow after.

  “Talon—” It was a man’s voice, outside the home, distorted by the crackling fire.

  Talon straightened abruptly, felt his lungs contract as he breathed in the thicker smoke. His eyes burned with tears. Gagging, he dropped back to his knees. He cursed with a fury that was only half pretended and dragged down the shelves beside him. They fell with a crash and hid most of the hole. In the gloom, it should go unnoticed. He stumbled back over shattered glass toward the fire and Sojourn’s voice.

  “Talon!” the other man called more urgently.

  “Inside,” he shouted roughly. In the other room, his eyes smarted. The flames had caught along the floor near the back-room doorway. The smoke was thickening. He held his breath, whipped his cloak up around his head and arms, and threw himself through the small fire line. There was an instant of furnacelike heat; then the slam of the floor as he landed badly. The smoke burned, but he could still breathe— the Ancients had engineered the living wood for safety, and Talon threw his thanks to them as he blindly searched for Biekin’s food bag.

  He found the raider by stumbling over his body. Talon went to his knees in the blood beside the townsman and grabbed the food bag just as Sojourn charged into the room. The other man automatically dropped to a crouch as soon as he jumped through the flaming doorway. He crawled over to Talon. “All right?”

  Talon nodded, coughing. He swung the sack to his shoulder.

  Sojourn noted the blood smudges where swords had been cleaned on the shirts of both Biekin and the townsman. “We have the dnu,” Sojourn said quickly. He kept his face muffled to breathe. “Kilaltian got to the message tower in time. We’ll have an hour—maybe three if we’re lucky—of clear riding before they can get the word out.” Sojourn’s eyes began to run with tears. It didn’t stop him from hastily stripping the pouches off Biekin’s belt and stuffing them into his own.

  They crawled to the door, keeping under the smoke, and stumbled out onto the porch. Sojourn wiped at his tears and glanced back at the orange-lit windows. It was a futile gesture. He was tearing so badly that he saw only a blurred ball of light. He cursed without anger and grabbed the reins of his dnu as Talon swung up beside him. Then they raced through the smoke-filled streets.

  Dawn left the town as Talon had: fired and smoldering, but even with the heat from the fire still on his skin, Talon’s bones were cold. Perhaps it was the chill of death, and the fingers of cold were a warning. He cursed his father under his breath and led his riders at breakneck speed through the gloomy forest trails.

  Long after the thunder of fleeing hooves had paled, thin pillars of smoke wisped into the sky to mark the burning homes. Talon did not stop to watch. He paused only three times to check their back trail, then left the rear guard to Harare.

  Sojourn nodded as he came abreast. “Did you find the lab doors in the target?”

  “No,” Talon said shortly. He clenched his teeth against the pain that throbbed in his shoulder and leg, and tried to ignore the ax that kept splitting the side of his skull.

  “No access? Drovic was fairly sure.”

  “None,” he answered even more tersely.

  “And Biekin and Morley and Eilryn dead. Your father will not be pleased.”

  Talon’s gray-tinged voice was surprisingly dry. “I imagine not,” he agreed.

  III

  Rhom Kintar neKheldour

  Never trust a Randonnen map;

  Only the Randonnen.

  —Ariyen saying

  Gamon rode into the mountain town at a tired canter. He was hot and hungry, and his graying hair was as full of dust as the road. After four solid hours of riding since before dawn, his legs were numb as a well-stuffed poolah. Yet if the Randonnens had their way, he’d be back in the saddle by noon and heading on up the trail.

  He lifted his war cap, ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, then settled the leather-and-metal mesh cap again while he waited for a fresh mount at the stables. Like most of the towns he’d seen in the last several ninans, this one was deceptively quiet. It had its main streets and workshops, its craft houses and inns, but the faces that gave him friendly nods now would shutter as soon as they heard his voice and placed him as Ariyen.

  The stableboy returned, and Gamon accepted the reins of yet another dnu. He didn’t mount immediately. Instead, he stumped over to the message wall to loosen the blood in his legs.

  The wall was a slightly curved expanse of wood, steeply hooded against rain and snow. It boasted over two dozen carved or woven rings and sticks, along with ten or twelve sheets of weather-treated, text-oriented papers. Gamon studied the paper messages, then read the carved and painted lines on the sticks and braided rope. He nodded grimly to himself. “Moons-damned Randonnens,” he muttered. The one he had sent was missing. But he realized that this time, it might have meant that it had been received, since he found the answer he looked for hidden behind a wide double-stick that was thick with feathers and lengths of knotted line.

  Gamon’s gray eyes narrowed as he took in the simple, bluntly carved stick of wood that hung behind the other, fancier stick. He would have recognized that concise style of carving anywhere. He had run trail for months with the man who had slashed in those symbols, and the brief, accurate cuts were as much a signature as if Rhom had signed in ink. “Worlag-pissing mountain men,” he cursed softly, knowing that other Randonnens had hoped he would not see the answer stick, just as they had hoped Rhom would miss the question. But Gamon had seen the answer, and now he knew the smith was here. There were few places a man like that would be staying in a town this size. Gamon should find him within the hour, if not sooner. “About damn time,” he growled. He studied the town map without pleasure, then swung painfully into the saddle and made his way down the streets to the smithy.

  A woman nodded pleasantly as he passed, then noted his boots and the way he sat the dnu, as if he was used to doublehorned saddles. She turned
abruptly into one of the shops, but not before Gamon had seen her expression shutter. He kept his gaze steady. He understood the woman’s feelings, and if he was honest with himself, there was a touch of shame in him that justified her expression. Ever since the wolfwalker had left Ariye, the Randonnens had reclaimed her for their own, blaming Ariye—not unrightly—for the grief she had carried with her. Gamon grimaced as he realized that even he referred to the wolfwalker as if Ember Dione were the only one who ran with the wolves. But she wasn’t just one among many, he reminded himself. She had learned to reach beyond the wolves to manipulate the mental energy of the bond. Gamon was one of the few who knew just how powerful she was and just how vital she could be to any cause—if he could win her back over.

  He heard the smithy before he saw it. The rush of the mechanical bellows was clear, as was the ring of metal on metal. An apprentice nodded at the older man as Gamon walked in, but continued monitoring the fire. Everything was mechanical, run by water or steam. The Ancients may have used electricity, but like Ariye and the other counties, Randonnen was limited to other systems aboveground. Gamon’s lips tightened. It was another reason for the Randonnens to distrust him. The agreement between Ariye and the other counties to develop biotechnology was stretching thinner every year. It didn’t help that there were now rumors of Ariyen advances that were not shared with the other counties. Losing both the wolfwalker’s son and mate had strained things even more.

  At the moment, the smithy was well lit. High ceilings of hewn stone and heavy wood made walls and arching windows. Tempered and insulated skylights brought in light from above, and the center of the building was also open as a working courtyard, although each forge area was shadowed. There were four medium forges and two smaller ones, along with six spot-pits for applying more specific heat. Only two of the forges were hot. Three of the larger duck nests were obviously designed for swords and long implements, while two more were small enough for hand tools and knives. One duck nest was square enough for wider implements. The last furnace was massive, cold and quiet, used for the rare, large job that required greater amounts of the metals that were so precious on this world. There was an anvil and slack tub, quench tank and grinder by every forge, and a short shelf on a central pillar that held burn cream and bandages as if to remind the smiths that metal did not have to look red to be hot. There were racks of tongs and crowned hammers, heavy gloves, leather aprons, leather overboots. Gamon catalogued all this at a glance—a quick-see skill that most weapons masters developed for recalling almost perfectly what they passed. It had been more than useful when he had ridden with Rhom before.

  The man Gamon sought was standing with a small knot of other smiths around a long worktable. Behind them, the heavy wooden doors of the stock shelves were open, exposing the wall of steel bars of different sizes, lengths, and alloys. Killed steel, semikilled steel, capped steel, rimmed steel—Gamon’s eyes widened in spite of himself, for the value of those alloys was greater than any four towns this size should have. He grinned sourly. The Randonnens had a saying: “The smith banks the wealth of the town.” Randonnens hid their riches well. It was something Ariye should remember.

  “. . . nicely cased,” Rhom was saying as he ran his hand over the flat part of the steel and eyed it carefully in the light. “Good finish. Took the edge well too.”

  One of the other men nodded. “Added more vanadium and used a one-one of tungsten.”

  Rhom nodded. One-one meant one-point-one percent. It was a lower percentage than in some of the other alloys, but that kept it from being too brittle. “Small crystals, tough blade,” he murmured. He’d like a knife made out of this alloy himself.

  One of the apprentices cleared his throat. “Crystals?”

  Rhom glanced at the boy to his right, then returned his attention to the blade. “Forging isn’t just about pounding out the right shape,” he said absently. “It’s about making the smallest, toughest, most durable crystalline structure you can. That means balancing your technique against the composition of the alloy. You can’t see the crystals, even under a microscope, but the oldEarthers had better ways of seeing, and they refined this technique for over two thousand years. You’ll see after using it a few years, just how well it was made.” He spring-tested the blade and nodded to himself. “Air-hardened?”

  One of the older smiths nodded. “Aye.”

  The apprentice said hesitantly, “I thought you couldn’t tell by looking.”

  “No one could,” Rhom answered patiently. “But what else would you do with this alloy? You made some other samples.” It was a question, not a statement.

  The other man picked up a slightly longer sword. “Used D-two on this one. Now that’s a mean steel,” the man said, tapping his finger along the blade. “You could throw rocks at this all ninan and nothing would happen. Not a dent, not a ding once it’s hard.”

  Rhom hefted the blade. It was heavy but well balanced, made for a strong forearm and wrist. Probably took ten hours to sharpen, he thought as he put it down.

  “That’s a damn ugly steel, all right,” the other man continued. “Could snick a worlag’s head off without half trying, then cut up rocks all day. Now take this blade here. This is like an S-seven with a hair more manganese—” His voice broke off as he caught sight of Gamon.

  Rhom glanced up at the suddenly uncomfortable silence. For a moment, he felt his lips stretch toward a smile as he saw his mate’s uncle. Then, as with the woman on the street, his expression shuttered. There was only one reason that Gamon had followed him here.

  Gamon nodded at the burly smith and said simply, “At your convenience.”

  Rhom regarded him for a long moment, then put down the blade. He ignored the open curiosity in the others’ expressions. Instead, he merely nodded at them to continue and gestured for Gamon to lead the way from the smithy.

  Rhom had changed little since Gamon had last seen him. Fairly tall, fairly burly, violet eyes, black hair. His skin had that same light tone that Dion’s had, but hers was a creamy complexion, whereas Rhom had the rougher texture of too much exposure to hot and cold extremes. The smith’s hands were a bit thicker than before, and Gamon wondered how much Rhom had been working the smithy versus working with the blade. Rhom used to be an effective swordsman, a better archer, and deceptively quick on his feet in a fight. He also used to smile when he saw Gamon, the uncle of the woman he had Promised.

  Gamon ignored the smith until they reached the benches near one of the common squares. He had no intention of talking in a tavern, no matter how thirsty he was, not with a dozen ears to overhear. Until Gamon knew which way the wind blew with Rhom, they would be better off outside.

  Gamon gave Rhom a searching look. “You got my message ring about Aranur’s death.” It was not quite a statement.

  “Aye,” the smith returned shortly. His violet eyes, so like those of his twin, were not friendly. “Over three months ago.”

  “And Shilia?” He asked after his niece.

  “I sent her on to Ariye with the children. I stayed to wait for Dion.”

  Gamon snorted. “You didn’t stay anywhere. I’ve been almost two ninans tracking you down in this part of the county alone.”

  Rhom raised one of his black eyebrows. “I wasn’t exactly hiding.”

  “And I am not Randonnen.”

  In spite of his cold expression, the smith looked startled at the non sequitor.

  “Ever since . . .” Gamon’s voice broke off, and he shrugged. “Ever since Dion lost her son—”

  “And her mate, and her wolf,” Rhom interrupted flatly.

  Gamon was silent for a moment. “She didn’t lose her wolf. She made Hishn stay in Ariye so the wolf could rebond with Gray Yoshi. They wanted another litter come spring.” His avoidance of the other point underscored his silent agreement. “If she wanted Hishn, the wolf would come back.”

  Rhom nodded, but it was to himself, as if to say that Gamon had just proven how much the Ariyen didn’t understand. “
Dion’s too far north. Hishn would have to cross the desert or the mountains, and no wolf can do that, not on her own, no matter how strong their bond. So my sister is alone, and you left her to the trail with ghosts for company. She’ll accept no one with her now. We can only wait for her to come home on her own once she faces down what’s hurting.”

  There was accusation in Rhom’s voice, and Gamon held his breath for a moment before answering. So this was the point of anger. Not the wolf, not that Dione was alone, but that Gamon had abandoned the wolfwalker when Rhom trusted him to stay with her. His voice was quiet. “She wanted to be alone, Rhom. Aye, she’s like a wounded wolf, all anger and grief, wanting no one around her. But whether or not she knows it, she needs you, and I came to take you to her.”

  “Then you took your moonwormed time about it.”

  “I left my message with your neighbors,” Gamon said more sharply than he intended. “I figured you’d be close behind me when I returned to Dion’s trail but—” He shrugged, unable to hide his anger. “—there’s a lot of blame attached to Ariyens these days. I don’t think you ever got my message.”

  “I got it—day before yesterday, and in Siegen, ten kays down the road. I started north yesterday to meet you. I’m only here for a few hours.”

  Gamon nodded sourly. “And in the meantime, I’ve been running around in circles trying to track you down. It started the moment I sent off that message. I should have known that every ring-runner between here and oldEarth would read it and pass the word, and they sure didn’t waste any time starting in on their moons-damned games. Right off the bat, I was stonewalled in Legge for two days when they told me she hadn’t ridden on, but was making the outer rounds as a healer. She had passed Press Point by a ninan by the time I figured out her trail. The elders in Graft were no better.”

  Rhom raised his dark eyebrows.

  “You didn’t know? They sent me to the other end of the county. Then I was directed to Bone Trail out of Chester, and was halfway up Banshee Ridge before I realized that I’d missed the turnoff to Sheets.”