J. F. Bone, page 11
“Got a knife?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then get mine. It’s inside my shirt. Cut this damned arrow out!”
“Arrow—oh Warren! you’re wounded!”
“Got me through the deltoid just as we went ever the hill. It was a spent quarrel. No, damn it! Don’t cut me, cut the arrow. It goes clear through. Just push it out. There’s some antibiotic in my pouch—squirt it in the hole.”
“You’re hurt,” Martha said redundantly as she did what was necessary. She was quick, efficient and gentle, and her hand didn’t quiver as she drew the shaft from my arm. “Now the cell rejuvenant. I’ll be all right in a day or two, and I don’t hurt now.”
“You’re still bleeding.”
“It will stop. Let’s go.”
Behind us the thump of the curtain wall’s drawbridge sounded above the brazen clangor of a bell in the keep. There would be a hornet’s nest around our ears in a few minutes.
“Wait!” Martha said. She turned and scrambled up the bank. An arrow hissed over her head as she levelled the kelly and traced a line of energy along the battlements. Men screamed as the blast sliced their body cells, and a sudden shocked silence fell upon the castle. Without pausing, Martha lowered the blaster muzzle to cover the drawbridge. Flames leaped from the wood, driving the jessets back as a mounted party attempted to leave the castle. The dames hissed and crackled as Martha stopped the beam down to minimum aperture and sliced the bridge in half. With ponderous slowness the structure toppled into the depths, leaving a yawning gap between the castle and the causeway.
Inside the castle, the bell stopped ringing.
“That does it,” Martha said, as she dropped beside me. “Give me another charge for the kelly.”
“How many of those people did you kill?” I asked as we scrambled down the slope.
“I don’t know, maybe several, maybe none. I burned a few. But I owed them something.”
“Remind me not to give you any credit,” I said. I don’t want you to owe me a thing.”
“Oh shut up!” Martha said, “and get moving. Damn! I wish I had some shoes.”
“Tomorrow.” I replied.
“My feet are bleeding.”
“Serves you right. You waste ammunition. You burned up a whole charge back there.”
“It takes a lot to cut through a drawbridge.”
“I’d have beamed the men.”
“And let some get away—maybe get out? Right now they’re penned up in the castle.”
“You’re forgetting the postern gate.”
“It takes time to get out that way, and it’s on the other side of the castle. We have a good lead.”
“Come on,” I muttered, “we still haven’t got all night.”
“I can’t move any faster. These rocks hurt!”
“Oh, for Tharn’s sake! Why didn’t you say something?”
“I did, but you didn’t listen.”
“All right, all right. We go around over here where it’s smoother. It’s still a way to safety, and if Sar Virra isn’t a fool, he’ll have patrols in town before long.”
“I’m not worried about patrols,” Martha said as she patted the kelly. “The patrols had better worry about us.”
“Chances are pretty good they won’t look too hard,” I responded. “Cutting that drawbridge could have frightened them. It may occur to them that we’re dangerous.” I was right. We never saw a patrol as I led the way back to the private entrance of the inn and into the attic room Hobaday had prepared for me.
“Not exactly the Ritz, nor yet the bridal suite,” Martha commented as she stripped off her wet dress and wrapped herself in one of the quilts Hobaday had brought, “and the heating is primitive.” Her teeth chattered. “I’m cold,” she said.
“You’ll remember this coolness with longing tomorrow afternoon,” I intoned prophetically. “It’ll be as hot as the proverbial hinges up here under the roof.”
“Tomorrow isn’t now.”
“I suppose not.”
“You could help me get warm. You have no idea how much I want your arms around me,” she finished. “You were the loveliest sight I ever saw when you came falling through that door. Incidentally, why did you come?”
“That’s a fool question. You’ve been with me since the beginning, and despite your subversive relatives, I love you.”
Her face softened. I put my good arm around her shoulders. Her body was cold under the quilt. Her arms came out and wrapped around my neck. Her lips were soft. I sighed. I knew it would be like this. My feet were a mess. My arm hurt. My head ached. There was a roaring in my ears, a taste of acid in my mouth, and a fierce hunger that made none of these things important. I had my woman back and that was all that mattered.
“Warm enough?” I asked.
She nodded and pillowed her head on my chest, sighed and stretched her smooth body.
“How did they ever get you?” I asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“We have plenty of time, and we can always take an intermission if it gets dull in spots.”
“I think this is going to be an awfully long story,” Martha smiled, “and it’s going to be awfully dull—in many spots. I was born on Aurum a number of years ago. The first thing I remember—”
“To hell with it,” I said. “It’s dull already.”
CHAPTER 16
There were searches; four of them in the next two days, but we had plenty of warning and saw to it that no evidence of our presence was left in the attic where we spent most of the time.
Hobaday kept us supplied with the news. Wittal had died. The news of Martha’s escape was all over town. Sar Virra was furious. Three guards were hanged and their bodies left dangling from gibbets on the castle battlements. Others were flogged and still others imprisoned. Patrols scoured the town and countryside searching for, as Hobaday described it, “two bloody knaves, one a female, who plotted to slay Sar Virra.” Lorn, the seneschal, with a troop of mounted warriors, headed into the hinterlands. Rumor had it that Sar Virra had banished him. The entire castle was in ferment. Sar Vostek, outraged when a search party entered his quarters, withdrew himself and his entourage from the castle and encamped near the ancient baths and hotsprings.
In fear ot her life, Gerd sought sanctuary with Sar Tami of Jartan and told him of Kyri. Sar Tami visited Sar Vostek, and after a long and furious meeting punctuated by shouts and oaths a courier was sent on a fast jesset to Aslak with a message for the Tarnas. Large numbers of armed seamen had come ashore from the merchant ships in the harbor and were terrorizing the waterfront stores and wineshops. Hobaday was certain they were pirates. I thought they were mercenaries. Probably they were sailors taking advantage of the fact that the normal policing of the town had been completely disorganized by the actions of Sar Virra. I grinned as the reports came in. Sar Virra, apparently, was not used to losing, and in consequence had lost his composure and his temper, and might conceivably lose his province and his life. Already there was talk of sending a deputation to the Tarnas to form a Folk Council of Valthi, to arraign Sar Virra for maladministration. Sar Tami had issued a mortal combat challenge to Sar Virra branding him a thief and a liar.
On the fifth day Sar Malthor emerged from the Hall of Truth as a passed examinee and promptly challenged Sar Virra to combat to the death on a number of grounds ranging from abduction to abuse of authority. Since Sar Malthor’s challenge was judged to be political and Sar Tami’s personal, the Lord Chamberlain decided that Sar Malthor had precedence, for, if he slew Sar Virra, the succession to the Provincal was automatically determined, while if Sar Tami won, there would have to be an elimination match between a horde of contending aspirants. As it was, there were nearly a half dozen political challenges based upon the supposition that Sar Virra was in disfavor and that if he survived both Sar Malthor and Sar Tami he would be an easy victim to some lesser warrior.
Betting was two to one that Sar Vina would kill Sar Malthor, and even money that he would dispose of both Sar Malthor and Sar Tami. And this shocked me, because I thought Sar Malthor was the ultimate in a fighting man.
“Aye, Malthor’s good all right,” Hobaday agreed, “but he’s not the match of Sar Virra. I saw Virra kill Sar Samdi, and never in my life have I seen such skill and power. He is larger, stronger and more skilled than Malthor. He has grown fat; so he is probably slower and may tire more easily, but Sar Malthor has small chance against him.”
“And I talked him into this,” I said to Martha when Hobaday had left. “I think I’ve sent him to his death.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” I said. I looked out of the tiny attic window to the square below. “I have to get to Malthor, I can’t stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Hobaday and arrange for a couple of disguises. We’re going to Sar Malthor. He needs us.”
“I don’t have too much confidence in Hobaday,” she said. “He betrayed us once. He could do it again. He’s weak. I think he’s waiting to see how things turn out.”
“Could be, but I don’t think so. He’s afraid of what I’ll do and he’s in too deep to back out.”
“But Sar Virra wants me, not you,” she said.
“That’s immaterial. We’re tied to Sar Malthor and I must get to him.”
“Well, if you must, so must I.”
And so we left the Blue Kazlik Inn dressed in the hooded jerkins and wrapped leggings of southlanders, with our skins dyed bronze and a pillow tied around Martha’s slim waist to make her look pregnant. It wasn’t much, but it was the best Hobaday could do other than give us the name of the southland lord who had come to Zamal to watch the trials, and who was supposedly our sponsor.
The street was crowded. Hawkers and cutpurses were busy. Vehicular traffic was heavy, most of’t leading toward the arena.
“What’s on for today?” I asked a well-dressed Tharn, a local merchant from the look of him.
“Not much,” he said. “Elimination bouts mostly. There are two regions and four demesnes open, and they’ll be fought for today and tomorrow. It’ll be good enough, but these are only the preliminaries.”
“Like at home,” I said to Martha.
She looked at me with complete incomprehension, and then nodded, since what I said apparently called for an affirmative reply.
“The duel between Sar Malthor and Sar Virra is scheduled soon?” I asked.
“Aye, at noon two days hence, and you had better be there early if you want to see the show. Everyone will be there for that match.”
“Why? I hear Sar Virra will win easily.”
“The smart money is two to one on him, but at those odds there’s a lot of Malthor money appearing. I’ll bet that by tomorrow the odds will be five to three at most.”
“The age of honor,” Martha said caustically.
“Let’s find Sar Malthor,” I said.
The gate guards were almost laughable. They had become toll takers. I bribed our way out with two crowns, and Martha and I were in Sal Malthor’s camp within an hour. Sar Malthor was in the city, but was expected momentarily. The folk were apparently glad to see us, and Martha became an instant target for Alwys and the other three women in our group. Rumor had gotten past the city walls and it wasn’t long before Martha was the center of attention for the women of a dozen demesnes. I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for her.
I went to see our blacksmith. “Jorn,” I said, “can you make me a sword? A rather special sword.”
“How soon do you want it?”
“Now.”
“Well, I can modify an existing sword quickly enough. Heat and a hammer can do wonders. I can remove the hilt and draw the temper from the steel and shape and re-temper it before the sun is at nooning. Now what is so special about this blade?”
“Double edged, but taper it thicker and heavier from the hilt forward, with the maximum thickness and width about two thirds of the way down the length of the blade, and then taper it inward smoothly to a point, a sharp point. Set your temper for extreme hardness, but quench the blade in oil, not water.”
“This is a strange blade, master, and a stranger way to put hardness in the steel.”
“It is for a good cause,” I said. “It will help our lord win his fight.”
“I shall do as well as I can,” Jorn said.
While he went to work, I found Martha and asked her to get the women to bring all the cooking oil they could find to the smithy. By noon Jorn had a finished blade that fitted my specifications.
“I’ll have no time to polish the metal, master,” Jorn said, “but the blade is ready.”
“That won’t be necessary. A smooth finish is enough. This blade is for use, not for show, and besides when we are through it may not take a polish.”
“Eh? And how is that?”
“Let us temper it and find out. The women have brought the oil. Empty your quenching bath and fill it with what they have brought, and heat the steel for maximum hardness.”
He heated the metal with care, bringing it to a uniform orange glow from end to end. Then he removed it from the heat and watched it cool until a firm blue chased across the smooth surfaces. He held the blade an instant longer, then plunged it into the oil. A cloud of smoke and a few bubbles rose from the bath and presently Jorn took the blade out. The steel was dark with a bluish sheen.
“Now let us see how you have done,” I said. I took the blade and using both hands, raised it overhead and brought it flat side down with all my strength upon the anvil. The blade rang like a bell at the impact, and sprang back from the steel. I looked at it carefully. The edge was straight and true.
“That halberd,” I said. “Lay it across the anvil.”
Once more I raised the blade and brought it down. The blue steel sheared cleanly through the neck of the halberd, severing the thick steel rod as though it was so much wood. I looked at the edge, grinned and handed it to Join. He looked and his eyes widened.
“Not a sign of turning. It’s as straight as when I forged it!”
“Set up a targe,” I ordered, “and fit it with a shirt of mail.”
“Aye, master,” the smith replied. By this time a small crowd had gathered, attracted by the performance. I took the sword and thrust it at the mail, with all my strength. The point tore through the links with a faint screech of ripped metal and stuck some ten centimeters into the wooden body of the targe. I finished the demonstration by slicing a helmet in half with ridiculous ease.
“The weight of the blade being forward aids the cut,” I said to Jorn. “And no mail today is proof against the strength and hardness of this blade. Now will this not help Sar Malthor?”
“Like another arm,” Jorn muttered. “Let me swing it.”
“You made it, now see if you can break it.” I knew he couldn’t. My Earth-tempered, space conditioned muscles were nearly half again as strong as his, despite their size. But Jorn tried and failed. He also tried to sharpen the edge and dulled his best files and wore away his hardest whetstone without making an appreciable change in the metal.
“Tharn’s bones!” he marvelled, “what is this thing?”
“It is the oil bath,” I said. “You have two hardnesses of steel, a softer more resilient core to absorb shock and an extremely hard outer face for cutting and thrusting. Water cools too fast. If a blade as hard of edge as this were quenched with water, it would be as you said—brittle as glass.”
“I know. And indeed I thought I had quenched this blade too soon, but you said maximum hardness, so I obeyed your orders. Such a blade has never been forged in all Tharn. It will go down in legend, and I made it!” He smiled happily to himself.
“It needs a name,” I added. “Think on it man. And when Sar Malthor returns, give him the blade and show him what it can do.”
“Aye, master. That will I do gladly.”
“And do not mention my name. This is your gift. The tempering and shape is your idea.”
“And why should I do this? Both you and I know it is not true.”
“I have my reasons. Sar Malthor might refuse the sword if he knew I designed it. He will not refuse to try the work of Jorn the Smith. There is a difference, Jorn, between you and me.”
“Aye, any fool can see that. But you love our lord even as we do and would wish him no ill.”
“That is true, but Sar Malthor knows more of my land than you do. I have told him much of its wonders and he feels that its works might give him an unfair advantage. You know his sense of honor.”
“I do indeed. He’d die for it. And so I will do as you ask. The blade is my doing and I had you test it because you are his friend.”
“You can hold that story?”
“Until death if need be.”
I grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Give the blade a good name,” I said, “a lucky one.”
“I’ll do that, and I’ll wait for him at the edge of camp. The first thing he will do is see Jorn the Smith. The second thing he’ll see is Cullendor, the sword. And if he doesn’t love it at first sight, I’ll eat it bit by bit.”
“You’d better oil temper your teeth before you try a thing like that,” I said.
Jorn grinned.
CHAPTER 17
Sar Malthor returned late that afternoon and we had a fine old-fashioned reunion. He was, I noticed, carrying the new sword.
“Where’d you get that Vark-stabber?” I asked. “It’s a new one.”
“It’s amazing,” Sar Malthor said. “Jorn made it. I’ve never seen anything like it. It will revolutionize warfare. This sword gives me a chance. With a bit of luck I can take Sar Virra. And the point—it is true genius to combine sword and spear into one weapon that can do the work of both. It is even a greater combination than the halberd!”
“I never realized what I had asked of you when I asked for help,” I said. “I thought you would have no trouble with him.”
