The Sword and the Chain Page 4

  "Yes?"

  "I want your word on something. No fighting unless it's in self-defense."

  "Fine." Self-defense was a loose term, one that could be applied to almost any situation by a sufficiently flexible mind. "That sounds reasonable."

  *Hypocrite.*

  Huh?

  *You have nightmares about wading through blood, and then the next day you try to wiggle out of Ahira's suggestion that you not shed more unless you really have to.*

  Ellegon—

  "Excuse me," the dwarf said. "I wasn't finished. You've been known to have a liberal imagination; Walter decides what constitutes self-defense, not you."

  "Understood."

  "Do I have your word?"

  "You're not leaving me a lot of leeway." Karl sighed. "Yes."

  "Good." Ahira spread his hands. "Just stay out of trouble. That's all I'm asking. That isn't much, is it?"

  *That, friend Ahira, depends.*

  Chapter Three

  Metreyll

  I was never attached to that great sect, Whose doctrine is, that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion, though 'tis in the code Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread Who travel to their home among the dead By the broad highway of the world, and so With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go.

  —Percy Bysshe Shelley

  The preserve was miles behind. Half a mile below, the Waste of Elrood lay in the starlight, a solid expanse of baked, cracked earth, the blankness relieved only by an occasional stone outcropping.

  Shivering only partly from the cold, Karl clung to Ellegon's back. The cool night air whistled by, whipping through his hair.

  He looked down and shuddered. Even if the Waste had not held bad memories, it would still have been unpleasant; a landscape like something out of the pictures the Apollo astronauts had brought back, with none of the charm of accomplishment those pictures carried with them.

  Behind him, Walter Slovotsky chuckled. "I wouldn't worry about it, Karl," he called out, his voice barely carrying over the rush of wind. "It's an advantage—as long as we're at the preserve, anyone who wants to give us trouble would have to cross forty miles of the Waste to do it."

  *He has a point, Karl. And, powerful as they are, I'm willing to bet that the Hand clerics are grateful for that protection.*

  That was probably true. And it pointed up one of the troubles in this world: Anytime you had anything, be it a piece of land, a horse, a sword—even your own life—you always had to consider the possibility that someone would try to take it away from you.

  Just because he wanted it.

  *And is that so different from your world?* For a moment, Karl's head felt as though it were being stroked by gentle fingers—from inside. Then: *Or don't you consciously recall the Sudetenland, Lithuania, Wounded Knee, or—*

  Enough. You made your point. Just leave it at that, eh?

  But, dammit, there was a difference. Back home, there was at least an acknowledgment that the strong preying on the weak was wrong. It was reflected in laws, customs, and folktales, from fables about Robin Hood to the legends of Wyatt Earp.

  He chuckled. Well, it was the legend that counted, anyway. Back when he was majoring in American history, Karl had found several accounts that suggested that the Earp brothers were just another gang of hoods, as bad as the Clantons they had gunned down—from ambush—at the OK Corral. The Earps had managed to wangle themselves badges, that was all.

  And when you think about it, quite probably Robin Hood robbed the rich to give to himself.

  Which made sense; in the holdup business, robbing the poor had to be easier than robbing the rich—but it was bound to be financially unrewarding.

  *That's why they call them "the poor," Karl. If it was rewarding to rob them, they probably would be known as "the rich."*

  Funny.

  *Only to those with a sense of humor.*

  The boundary of the Waste loomed ahead, a knife-sharp break between the scarred ground and the forested land beyond. In the starlight, the huge oaks would normally have seemed to be threatening hulks, but by comparison with the Waste, their dark masses were somehow comforting.

  You don't have to go any farther. Set us down anywhere near here.

  *Just a short way.* Ellegon's flight slowed. *Let me put you a bit closer; this way, you won't have so far to walk.*

  Why the sudden concern for my sore feet?

  *I have my reasons,* the dragon responded, with a bit of a mental sniff. *But since you're so eager to be on foot . . . *

  The dragon circled a clearing among the tall trees, then braked to a safe, if bumpy, landing.

  Karl vaulted from Ellegon's back, landing lightly on the rocky ground. Reflexively, he slipped his right hand to his swordhilt as he peered into the night.

  Nothing. Just trees in the dark, and a mostly overgrown path leading, he hoped, toward Metreyll.

  Walter climbed down to stand beside him. "My guess is that we're about five miles out," he said, helping Karl to slip his arms into the straps of a rucksack. "We could camp here and walk into town in the morning, I guess," Walter said, frowning. He brightened. "Or maybe we should just walk in now."

  Karl slipped his thumbs under the rucksack's straps. "Do I get two guesses which you'd rather do?"

  *Be safe. Take three.*

  "Well?" Slovotsky jerked a thumb toward a path.

  "Why not?" Ellegon, you'd better get going. But do me a favor: Circle overhead, and see if the path leads to the Metreyll road.

  *I didn't set you down here by accident, fool. Of course it does.*

  As Karl and Walter moved away, the dragon's wings began moving, beating until they were only a blur in the darkness, sending dust and leaves swirling into the air. Ellegon sprang skyward and slipped away into the night, his outline momentarily visible against the glimmer of the overhead stars.

  *Be careful,* he said, his mental voice barely audible.

  And then he was gone.

  "Let's walk," Karl said.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, carefully picking their way along the dirt path through the trees. Finally, Walter spoke.

  "I've got a suggestion, if you don't mind."

  "Yes?"

  "Look, this is just a supply trip." Slovotsky patted at the leather pouch dangling from his belt. "Right?"

  "You have a keen eye for the obvious." Karl shrugged. "What's your point?"

  "Hmm, let me put it this way: I'm not going to take the chance of lifting anything. Granted, as long as we're based in the sanctuary, we've got a nice buffer zone between Metreyll and the Waste, but there's no need to push it. We don't want to get the locals angry at us. Too risky."

  "Fine. So you're not going to use your skills." That made sense. There was enough to do in Metreyll, and with all the coin they had, money wouldn't be a problem for a long while. They had to buy provisions and supplies, as well as some hardware. And weapons; the party was short of spares.

  "That wasn't what I meant." Walter ducked under an overhanging branch, then made a show of holding it out of the way so that Karl could pass.

  Sometimes, it seemed as though Walter made too much of Karl's being larger than he was. Then again, maybe that was understandable; Slovotsky had long been accustomed to being the biggest man in almost any group.

  "What I meant," Slovotsky went on, "is that you have to watch it. There's liable to be some sort of slave market in Metreyll. Not as big as the one in Pandathaway, granted, but something—the whole economy of this region is based on slavery."

  "So?"

  "So we give Metreyll a bye. No interfering with local . . . customs, no matter how repugnant. At least for the time being. My guess is there's still a reward out for you in Pandathaway. We don't want reports getting back there about your still being alive."

  "Thanks for your tender conce
rn about my health."

  Slovotsky snorted. "And thank you for the sarcasm. I don't particularly care if you believe it, but I am worried about you. As well as me. If you start swinging that sword in Metreyll, we're both in deep trouble."

  "Walter, where did you get the idea that I'm some sort of bloodthirsty monster?"

  "Mmm . . . yesterday was kind of a clue." He held up a hand to forestall Karl's objection. "Okay, that was a cheap shot. Look—I'm not saying that you really enjoy slicing open someone's gut. With the exception of the time we killed Ohlmin and his men, I don't think you've ever liked violence.

  "But it doesn't bother you the way it used to. What it comes down to, Karl, is something you said in Pandathaway, after you freed Ellegon. Something about if what you're doing is important enough, you worry about the consequences later."

  "Wait—"

  "No, you wait. Slovotsky's Law Number Seventeen: Thou shalt always consider the consequences of thy actions. You could make a lot of trouble for all of us, if you don't keep your head on."

  He understood Walter's point. And it did make a kind of sense; the time he had freed Ellegon had cost them all much. But to commit himself not to do anything about people in chains . . .

  Karl shrugged. "I gave Ahira my word. Just leave it at that."

  Walter sighed deeply. "Unless I can convince you that I'm right, I wouldn't trust your reflexes, Karl. I've seen the way you clap your hand to your sword whenever you're irritated about anything. When you know there's no reason to cut someone up, you're safe to be around, granted; I'm not worried about your stabbing me if I don't put enough sugar in your coffee . . . The trouble is, you're thinking as if you were the only one who can suffer from your actions, dammit."

  "You sound scared."

  "I am." Walter snorted. "Not just for my own tender hide. I didn't want to tell you this, but . . . Ellegon told me something, on our way over; he tuned you out. Wasn't sure whether you should know or not. He left it up to me whether and when to clue you in."

  "And what's this great secret?"

  "Well, you know his nose is more sensitive than ours." Walter shook his head slowly. "It must have made it hell for him in the sewers. But the point is, he can pick up on things that you and I can't. Even things that a medical lab back home would have trouble with. Slight biochemical changes, for instance. Hormones, like that."

  A cold chill washed across Karl's back. "Whose biochemical changes?"

  "Andrea's. Nobody knows it but you, me, and Ellegon, Karl. She's pregnant, although only a couple of days' worth. I guess congratulations are in order, no?"

  Ohgod. "You're lying." He turned to face Slovotsky. "Aren't you?"

  "Nope. Now, did that drive the point home? If you screw up, you're not just endangering you and me—and Andy, for that matter. You get yourself killed or put the rest of us on another wanted list, and you're putting an unborn child's life in danger. Yours." Slovotsky snorted. "So are you still interested in playing Lone Ranger right away? If you call me Tonto, I swear I'll stick a knife in you."

  His head spun. A baby?

  "Karl, you—"

  "Okay. You made your point." I'm going to be a father. He rubbed his knuckles against the side of his head. There's going to be a baby depending on me.

  "Hope so." Slovotsky said solemnly. Brightening, he clapped a hand to Karl's shoulder. "Hey, can I be the godfather?"

  "Shut up."

  Slovotsky chuckled.

  * * *

  "You want what?" The blacksmith turned from his forge, bringing the redly glowing piece of metal over to his anvil, holding it easily with the long wrought-iron pincers. He picked up his hammer and gave the hot metal a few tentative blows before settling down to pounding it in earnest.

  Wary of flying sparks, Karl moved a few feet back. "I want a length of chain," he said in Erendra, "about this long." He held his hands about three feet apart. "With an iron weight on either end—those should be cylindrical, about half the size of my fist. If you can do that sort of thing."

  "It wouldn't be difficult," the smith said, returning his worked iron to the forge. "I can have that for you by noon, if you're in a hurry."

  Sweat running in rivulets down his face and into his sparse red beard, he pumped the bellows for a few moments before pausing to take a dipperful of water from an oaken barrel. The smith drank deeply, clearly relishing every swallow. He took a second dipperful, tilted his head back, and slowly poured the water onto his upturned face, then shook his head to clear the water from his eyes.

  "What do you want it for?" he asked, offering Karl a dipperful of water with a gesture of his hand and a raised eyebrow.

  "Religious artifact." Karl accepted the dipper and drank. "I'm an apostle of the metal god."

  The smith cocked his head. "There isn't a metal god."

  "Then I'm probably not one of his apostles."

  The smith threw back his head and laughed. "And Teerhnus is liable to get his proud nose cut off if he puts it where it doesn't belong, eh? Very well, have it your way. Now, as to the price—"

  "We're not done yet. I'll want two of them. And I'll also want to buy some of your other equipment. I'll need . . . a general-purpose anvil, some basic tools—hammer, tongs—and a hundred-weight of rod, sheet, and bar stock, a bit of—"

  The smith snorted. "Granted, there is enough work for another smith in Metreyll, but you don't look the type." He set his hammer down and reached out, taking Karl's right hand in both of his. "From this ridge of callus I'd say you've spent much time with that sword in your hand, but none with a hammer. And you're too old to apprentice."

  Karl drew his hand back. "It's for a friend. Now, what sort of coin are we talking about for all this?" It was hard to concentrate on the transaction with the back of his mind shouting, A father—I'm going to be a father!

  Teerhnus shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about." He gestured at the seven different anvils scattered around the shop, each mounted on its own tree-trunk stand. They ranged dramatically in size and shape, from a tiny one that couldn't have weighed more than thirty pounds to an immense, almost cubical monster of an anvil that Karl probably couldn't have lifted. "Even a brainless farrier needs at least two anvils to do any kind of work at all. If your friend wants to be able to do more than shoe horses, he'll need at least three. And I'll need quite a bit of coin for each. Damn, but it's a pain to cast a new anvil. You are planning to travel with them?" He peered at Karl from under heavy brows. "I'd be a fool to help you set up a friend of yours in competition with me, no matter what the price."

  Karl shook his head. "That's not what I'm planning to do. I swear it."

  The smith nodded. "On your sword, if you please." Karl slowly drew his sword, then balanced the flat of the blade on his outstretched palms. "What I have sworn is true."

  The smith shrugged. "I guess that settles it. Nice piece of workmanship, that sword. Are those Sciforth markings?"

  "I don't know. Would you like to see it?"

  "Of course." Teerhnus accepted the hilt in his huge hands. He held the sword carefully, stroking a rough thumbnail along the edge. "Very sharp. Holds the edge well, I'll wager." He flicked the blade with his finger, smiling at the clear ting! "No," he answered his own question, "that's not a Sciforth blade. They make good steel in Sciforth, but not this fine. Could be Endell, I suppose; those dwarves know their alloys." He rummaged around in a wooden bin until he found a soft wool cloth, then handed sword and cloth to Karl. "Where did you get it?"

  Karl shrugged as he used the cloth to wipe the blade; he replaced his sword in its scabbard. He couldn't answer honestly; the smith wouldn't believe him. Or possibly worse, he might. Back home, on the Other Side, the sword had been a skinning knife; it had translated well. "I just found it somewhere." Better an evasion than to be caught in a lie. "Now, when can you have the anvils and such ready?"

  "Hmmm . . . you're planning to be in Metreyll long?"

  "Not past sunset. I'm en route to . . ." Visu
alizing Ahira's map of the Eren regions, he picked a city at random. " . . . Aeryk. I plan to be out of Metreyll by nightfall."

  "Can't be done." The smith shook his head. "I do have work to do. I could spare some rod stock, I suppose, but I don't have any spare hammers, and casting anvils is just too much trouble to bother with."

  Karl produced a pair of platinum coins, holding one between thumb and forefinger. The obverse showed the bust of a bearded man, the reverse a stylistic rippling of waves. "Are you sure?"

  "Pandathaway coin, eh?" The smith spread his palms. "Well . . . those two are fine as a down payment, but I'll need six more on delivery."

  "This is platinum, after all—and Pandathaway coin, at that. I thought you'd be happy to take these two, and give me some gold back, as well as the iron."

  "I doubt that." The smith grinned. "I wouldn't call that thinking at all. Let's agree on seven platinum, and we'll both be happy."

  The money wasn't really a problem, but there was no need for Karl to draw attention to himself by seeming to have too free a purse. "Three. And you will give me five gold back. Pandathaway coin, not this debased Metreyll coinage."

  "Six platinum and six gold. And you will stay in Metreyll, along with your strong back, long enough to help me cast three new anvils."

  Karl sighed, and resigned himself to a long bargaining session. "Four . . ."

  * * *

  Five pieces of platinum, six of gold, four of silver, and a bent copper poorer, Karl waited for Walter Slovotsky in the town square, near the lord's palace.

  Metreyll was laid out differently than the other cities they had seen. Unlike Lundeyll, the city itself had no protecting walls. Unlike Pandathaway, it was both landlocked and apparently unplanned; Metreyll's streets radiated out from the central palace like a misshapen web, woven by a demented spider.

  Although calling it a palace might have been too generous an assessment: It was a cluster of nine two-storied sandstone buildings, surrounded by narrow, crumbling ramparts. The raised portcullis showed its age: The timbers were splintering, the pulley chains and spikes so rusty that it was clear that the portcullis was lowered rarely if ever.