The Forge in the Forest

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The Forge in the Forest Page 1

by Michael Scott Rohan




  The Forge in the Forest (Winter of the World volume two)

  By Michael Scott Rohan

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  Other AvoNova Books by Michael Scott Rohan

  The Winter of the World Trilogy

  Volume 1: The Anvil of Ice

  Volume 3: The Hammer of the Sun

  Chase the Morning

  The Gates of Noon

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  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS: A division of The Hearst Corporation 1350 Avenue of the Americas New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1987 by Michael Scott Rohan

  Cover painting by Tim Jacobus

  Published by arrangement with William Morrow and Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-11099

  ISBN: 0-380-70548-6

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Permissions Department, William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10019.

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  Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter One - The Kindling

  Chapter Two - The Casting

  Chapter Three - The Ocean of Trees

  Chapter Four - Hunters and Hunted

  Chapter Five - The Halls of Summer

  Chapter Six - The Snow on the Forest

  Chapter Seven - The River of Night

  Chapter Eight - Dry Grasses

  Chapter Nine - The Raven's Shadow

  Chapter Ten - The Flames Mount

  Chapter Eleven - The Mold is Broken

  Coda

  Appendix

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  Prelude

  Between youth and maturity comes a time of questing and discovery; between apprenticeship and mastery comes journeying. Of the strange apprentice years of the magesmith Elof their great and terrible achievements and their uncanny ending, the Winter Chronicles tell in the Book of the Sword. But when that storm was past, and months of sickness drew to an end, the desire of his heart awoke in Elof once more, and he was free to heed it. And it is of that desire, and the long quest it led him, even along the byways of the years, that is told in the Book of the Helm.

  Chapter One - The Kindling

  It was the seawind woke him, as his head drooped lower over the close-scrawled book. Through the open upper door of the smithy it gusted, flattening the hearthfire, guttering the rushlamps, and it breathed a sudden chill upon his bare neck. He sat up sharply, blinking in the wavering lamplight, with the queasy alertness of the suddenly awakened. He had been elsewhere, somewhere far away, black marshes or bleak mountains, chasing a shadow out of his past, a shadow that vanished before him, shifted shape in his grasp, reformed and reappeared at his back, forever close, forever out of reach…

  There came the soft thud of a book closing, and impatiently he shook off the moment of nightmare. "How goes the night?" he asked, without turning his head.

  "At its accustomed pace," came Roc's calm reply. "An hour before the middle hour it has reached, by my glass. Time you were abed, by Ils' iron command. Marja and old Hjoran are off long since. And tomorrow is my lord Kermorvan's day; sleep, if you would be fresh for that."

  "I cannot sleep."

  "A grand mimic you were, then, but a minute gone…"

  "I mean, I dare not. Not now, with my mind so weighed down by thoughts and cares. My very dreams are poisoned."

  "You've found naught to help you, then?"

  Elof shook his head. "No, nothing. And you?"

  Roc rose, stumped over to a bench heaped with great tomes, and slapped down the one he had been reading upon the highest pile. "The same. Much fascinating, much I do not understand, but nothing bearing upon your concern." He peered at the boxes of scrolls beside Elof's table, and leaned over his shoulder. "Not so many of those left, either. What's that one all about? Doesn't look promising. Pity our late unlamented master didn't bring more of his precious library south with him. It'll all be moldering away in the old tower now…"

  "If the duergar have not seized the place," said Elof. "Or… others."

  "The Ice, you mean?" said Roc softly, and glanced involuntarily out into the dark beyond the stable door. "Doubt the books have much to tell it."

  "Aye, but there are other things there. We did not find that helm I made, the Tarnhelm, among the Mastersmith's effects. And that too was a work of power…"

  Roc shrugged. "It had its uses, for passing unseen. And somehow shifting place, if what you saw the night of its making was right…"

  "It was," answered Elof, heavily. "And on the Ice, also. Here is a scroll Ingar must have consulted in planning the helm—see, it bears the very chalkmarks from his soiled sleeves…" He stopped a moment, caught his breath. Roc said nothing. "This is a treatise on the power of masks, with annotations by the Mastersmith of much he learned among the Ekwesh, of transforming the wearer into his own living symbol. If I understand aright, such transformation must be the root of the helm's whole power. You remember the virtues he had me set upon it? Of concealment, of change, of moving subtly and unseen … It was that which haunted my dream, the understanding at last how that helm must act, how powerful it truly is. The helm is a mask, a perfect mask, a concealment shaped by its wearer's own image of himself. Let him think of shadow, and he is unseen. Let him think of a shape, and it masks his own. Let him think of being somewhere else, and he is masked in that thought; he is there…"

  Roc swallowed. "A fell power to wear with a light heart. I think of many places I would as soon never be. Ach, but the duergar'll know what to do with it, if any can…"

  "I do not think they have it."

  Roc eyed him sharply. "You've reason, by your tone. What then?"

  Elof sighed deeply. "You saw as I did, that last hour. Two swans flew up, flew eastward…"

  "You made but one helm."

  "Kara wore a cloak when first I met her, ere the helm was made, and its lining was black swan's down. But Louhi wore no such cloak. And why would they ride horses over such rough country, and when visiting an ally, if both could shift their shape and fly? It may be, it may well be that Louhi came that night to command the Mastersmith to make her something that matched Kara's power." He stood up, and the precious parchment crumpled in the convulsion of his powerful fingers, the rod of thick wood at its center creaked and snapped. He looked at it in annoyance, and cast it down upon the table, twisted as the ruined black blade before him. "You see now why I must follow her so urgently, whoever, whatever she truly is? Once more a great power of my making is put into evil hands. Once more must I find it, and if need be destroy it. And she is my only link to Louhi. Even if I did not wish to free Kara, still I would have to follow her, find her. Even if I did not love her."

  Roc pursed his lips and looked away, as he might from the sudden blaze of his forgefire. Gently he ran a finger along the tortured metal before him. "Well, for such a task you'll need your strange sword made whole, right enough. Few in the world could have cloven as that one did in your last need." He stretched, and yawned loudly. "But for now, do you try to rest, at least. Tired eyes may miss what's plain by daylight."

  Elof breathed out a long breath, and nodded. "True enough. Very well. I'll try, but not this moment. I'll sit up awhile and mend the hilt, at least, if there's no more to be done now. Work of the hands will clear the brain."

  When Roc had gone Elof smoothed out the crumpled scroll and stowed it caref
ully. Then he sighed, and turned to the hilt. The sheer force of the blow that had twisted the sword had shivered loose the plain silvered wires of the grip; gone was their cloudy, stormy sheen, racing and beautiful as the marshland skies beneath which they were made. He thought a moment, reached for his precious tool pack and bore it to a workbench by the window. There Marja, old Hjoran's girl journeyman, kept her work. Instead of the blackened instruments of the forge, delicate grippers, thin files and fine-tipped burins were laid out in neat racks, for Marja was an accomplished jeweler. Elof chose a delicate blade and from a side pocket he drew a fold of stiff leather; a few dry leaf needles fell from one end, and he opened it with minute care. Within it lay a dry sprig of the redwood tree, almost naked of its needles save for one small twig, and this he carefully severed. He laid it upon a polished stone slab, brushed across it a subtle paste of eggwhite and gums thinned with strongest spirits, and laid across it a light leaf of hammered silver, finer than finest parchment. He breathed gently on this, till a ghostly outline of the twig showed through, and then with fine-tipped tools he began to smooth it down, patiently working it close around the outline of every needle, turning it over and adding more leaf till the twig was wholly encased, enshrined.

  Now it looked like the talisman it had been. Little power seemed left to it, but it was too precious a thing to discard entirely. While there are leaves on it, even withered and dead, something of the virtue of forests will cling to it… He smiled. "But no autumn wind shall unfix these last leaves. A silver season sets them in place, and I will bear them with me wherever I go." These words he spoke over his work, and then unwinding the wires he fastened the twig about the grip, and set the wires tightly in place above it once more. It felt as solid as before, but Elof scowled as he took it in his hand. What was it without the blade it bore? He tossed it down in disgust. The night was silent now, save for the rising whine of the wind, bearing with it the distant sound of the wavelets in the harbor, the clopping hooves of some benighted rider on the cobbled streets. Sleep seemed further fled than ever from his mind, so sharply the need to learn spurred him. Impatiently he snatched up another scroll. It proved to be a wordy treatise on extracting metals from ores, and, save for a long chapter on the strange forces set moving by iron and copper in corrosives, it was dull stuff. And before him on the table sat the sword, the precious blade he had not made for himself, but had taken from a long-dead hand. It lay there like a mute accusation. Was he worthy to wield such a thing, if he, a smith of craft and power, could not reforge it?

  "But how? How?" He pushed the scroll aside and took up the cool metal in his hands. If metal it was, in truth. For no furnace would heat it, no file bite upon it, no hammer subdue its stubborn strength. Not all his smithcraft, all his long study, all his strength of mind or arm, neither the flames of his forge nor the fires of his need could make that blade anew!

  "Greetings, worthy smith!" A sound of thunder rang through the smithy, rattling the heavy door on its hinges; still greater was the impact of the voice. The blade flew from Elof's fingers, the bench he sat on overturned as he sprang to his feet in fury and fright. But the latch was up, the lower door already swinging open, and Elof's anger slackened as he saw what manner of figure stood there, half hesitant in the shadows of the street.

  The man was old, that was obvious. In the dim light from the forge his wide hat shadowed his face, its battered brim drooping across one eye, but it only served to stress the whiteness of the windblown locks and beard beneath. So also the heavy mantle, that had once been dark blue and was now sorely stained with travel. The shoulders beneath were bowed, and he leaned upon a great staff of smooth dark wood, crowned with its own bark. A strong support but hard, perhaps, to manage; Elof forgave him his clumsy knock.

  "Greetings!" said the old man once again, and bowed courteously. "A wayworn guest asks hospitality of your hearth awhile, that shone out warmly from afar in these nightbound streets." The voice was gruff yet deep and resonant, with more than a trace of the northern burr. Elof smiled at his old-fashioned courtesy, but still he hesitated.

  "Who is it that asks? Who has sought out my smithy in all this great town?"

  The old man stepped slowly through the door, as if that had been invitation enough. The Seabreeze frisked in with him, whipping up the forge charcoals, pulling puffs of smoke from beneath the chimney breast. "A wanderer only, so the world might call me. For indeed far and wide I have wandered, many long leagues across its face. And further still, it seems, I must go."

  / doubt as far as /, thought Elof wryly, but said no such word, and moved to usher the ancient gently out. A beggar once within is harder to turn out, and the city was full of northern beggars now, young and old, who had slipped past the gate guards; he could not feed them all. Also, of this oldster's face he could see only a great hooked beak of a nose with a bright dark eye above it, and in that a gleam he did not altogether trust. Elof laughed, and fumbled at his belt for a coin, enough for a night's lodging. "Well, if you're called a wanderer, the last I would be to detain you. Here is alms, but I cannot…"

  The old beggar paid him no heed, but advanced into the smithy with that same slow stride, his mantle sweeping odd swirls in the dust. Elof stopped, startled, and let the coin slide back into his pouch. He must once have stood very tall, this ancient; even now his head was on a level with Elof's, and the pale mottled hands that gripped the great staff were long and muscular. In the trembling fireglow his shadow loomed enormous against the smithy wall. "Good man greets the journeyer gladly, aye, so it was said in the Northlands, was it not? For I hear them in your fair speech." Elof blinked at the mild rebuke, but sought to bar his way nonetheless. The old man ignored him, and turned toward the hearth. "So it was ever with me, in the old days. Men made me welcome then, gave me food and drink and even gifts. True men, they, not scared to admit a stranger. Trouble fears, that trouble wills, thus they said, and opened their doors wide."

  "Troubles I have!" sighed Elof, resenting the nettle's sting. "Why do you come to worsen them?"

  "I would only sit by your hearth," grunted the old man, lowering himself slowly and wearily onto the brick seat, sighing as he laid his back against it and basked in the warmth. "So! Since it is grudged me, this scant rest, I must fee you for it as best I can, with wisdom. Much I have seen, learned many things strange even to men of lore; counsel of mine has lifted gnawing care from many men's hearts. Ask of me what you will!"

  Elof sighed. "Nothing is grudged," he said firmly, "but I have many labors. Take the alms I offered, and leave me to them. I need no counsel that you could give…"

  The old man tossed his head contemptuously, and Elof caught a glimpse of his face, lined but hard like some ancient tree. "Are you so sure of that?" demanded the stranger sternly. "Many who deem themselves wise fail only to know the extent of their ignorance!" He poked his staff clumsily at a pile of bound books. "You, you bury your nose in dead words. You seek some secret, that is plain. Words hold many, that is true. But not all!" Again that dark eye flashed from beneath the ruined brim, quizzical, mocking, and lit upon the crippled sword. "Ann. You seek a means to mend that blade…"He chuckled. "A fine strong lad like yourself, can you not simply hammer it straight? No? Then however did you make it in the first place?"

  Again the dart flew straight and keen; Elof felt his ears burn, his cheeks flare, and cursed beneath his breath. "You do not know," mused the old man, cocking his great head to one side. "You cannot have shaped the blade for yourself, then. It is not… yours."

  Elof glared at him. "It is no man's else, I found it, where it had lain buried beyond sight or memory—"

  The old man shook his head querulously, his shabby hat flapping. "So! Found is not freely given. Yet sometimes even a gift must be earned, must it not? A horse that one must learn to saddle before riding, a boat to rig before sailing. It is not for me to say, but such gifts might be given to teach the given new craft, or make him aware of that he already has. Thus truly he wins both the gif
t and the skill for himself, and stands free of all obligation save gratitude."

  Elof stood very still. The forgefire was crackling now, whipped up by a breeze sharp as a storm's outrider. He looked askance at the old man, hard to make out against the smoky glare behind him. "Skill I have sought…"

  "Aye, in books of another's wisdom. They have their place, perchance. But I had always heard that magesmiths of the north were such men as ever sought new truths, new wisdoms in the very ebb and flow of nature itself."

  "Aye!" said Elof fiercely, stung now to the quick. "So we do! The mastersmiths, the great among us, they harness with their craft the many forces of this world. To heights and depths they put forth their hands, and grasp them, bind them in cunning work. The true mastersmith fears not to snatch those forces even from the hands of the very Powers that wield them!"

  The old man laughed softly to himself. Then, with a speed that startled Elof, he hauled himself up one-handed upon his great staff and with the other clawed up the black blade from the table, heedless of its hair-fine edge. Outraged, Elof sprang to seize it, only to stop short with a gasp as the great staff, twirled effortlessly about, tapped against his breastbone. The hand he raised to dash it aside faltered at the slight cold sting where it touched him. His fingers closed more gently round the bark, found it a mere wrapping over a shape beneath, and chill meltwater coursed in his veins. It was an edge he touched, narrow, hard and tapering. This staff at his breast, hard on a strange wound's scarless site, was a tall spear, and in hands deft to wield it.

  The old man nodded softly. "Proudly spoken, my wise smith, to set your kind against the Steerers of the World. Yet know you of what you speak?" He straightened suddenly, effortlessly, and the black shadows seemed to flutter round the forge, chill-winged on the freshening wind. "Over this world was set their dominion ere it was shaped. Over sea and land they rule, over sky, over stone, cloud and mountain, forest and lake, plain and river, over all that lives, plants, beasts, men. And over the Ice." The great staff that was no staff stretched out in a wide sweep before him, as if to score some mighty secret on the flagstones, as if to encompass the wide world. On the outflung arms the mantle billowed as if in the winds of the heights, and flew like a banner from the shaft. "High and wise they are, and surpassing strong, the least and weakest past measure of men. In their slightest glance is seeing, their least thought knowing, their smallest gesture… power." Outheld like some vast scepter, the staff's head glanced lightly against the flaring forgecoals. The smithy rang with a shattering sound, a blast of thunder that flattened flames and spat sparks stinging and sizzling into the smoky air. The floor shook, flagstones heaved, and a great blade of glaring light leaped between hearth and chimney; a thunderbolt burst beneath the roof. Wind shrieked, smoke rolled in blasted tatters across the room, the lamp, blown out, topped and shattered; the tools ranked upon the wall jangled and chimed. But amid this stood the old man, stern, unmoved, cold as a winter sky, his dark eye glittering in the shadow of his hat.

 

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