“Darryn?” she called, leading Natac past a great iron box. The warrior saw the door on the front, and the pipe leading upward from the box, and deduced that this was a fireplace or oven. Beside it was a pile of something black like charcoal, but hard and shiny like smooth rock.
They heard a snort of surprise from across the room, and then a thin, wiry man twisted out of the hammock where he had been napping. He stood and tried to dust himself off, though he remained pretty thoroughly layered in black soot.
“Miradel?” His voice was hushed. “I got your message, but I never expected… I mean, it’s a pleasure to see you again, old friend.” Darryn shook his head. “Not old, I mean-except that we’ve known each other for so long-”
“Yes, old,” Miradel said, stepping forward to hug the smith. “You needn’t be afraid to say it, or to see it.”
“Yes… of course,” said Darryn. “And it is good to see you again,” he added with true sincerity. The smith blinked at Natac, who was a few steps behind Miradel. When Darryn squinted, the warrior realized that the other man could barely see him, and so he took a few steps forward.
The metalworking druid stared at the newcomer in frank, and somewhat hostile, appraisal. His rheumy eyes were bright, and didn’t seem to blink.
“This is Natac. I am teaching him the ways of Nayve, and of his own world.”
“Oh? He was of the folks didn’t have iron yet, wasn’t he? I believe you told me about him.”
Natac was struck by a sudden knowledge: These two had been lovers in the past. He was startled by the jealousy that flashed through his veins. Suddenly he was ready to fight this fellow, to prove that he, Natac, was the better man.
And then, almost as quickly as it had arisen, his anger faded. He found himself imagining Darryn’s anguish if, indeed, he loved Miradel. Now she was gone to him, sentenced to a fate that was utterly horrid in this land of eternal youth, immortal beauty.
Gone because of Natac.
“I am pleased to meet you, Darryn Forgemaster,” he said politely. “Miradel has told me of your surpassing skill in the working of metal. That seems to me to be a most wondrous, even magical, ability.”
Darryn snorted, but was obviously pleased by the praise. “Well, it has taken me centuries of study… long hours sifting the Wool of Time, examining the practices of humankind. But I believe that I have mastered the trade, yes.”
“Natac expressed a desire to go hunting,” Miradel said. “I was hoping you could help him with his arrows.”
“I can do that,” agreed the blacksmith.
“And a sword,” Miradel declared suddenly. “I would like for you to make him a sword.”
“Why?” Natac asked. “I don’t want a sword.”
“You should have one,” she insisted.
Darryn narrowed his eyes again and peered at Natac. Miradel reached out a thin hand to touch the smith on the arm. “Yes… he will need a sword. Can you do that?”
With a grudging nod, the smith assented. “I have a dozen arrowheads I can give you now, but it will take time-a tenday at least-for me to make the sword.”
“Thank you. I will pay, of course,” Natac replied.
“Pay me?” Now the smith seemed angry. “I do this work because I am the one who does this work. Do not insult me with talk of reward!”
“He is learning fast, but Natac does not know all the ways of Nayve, yet,” Miradel explained. “Where he comes from, the offer of payment is a way to honor the work of a skilled craftsman.”
Stiffly careful, the two men made their farewells. Miradel gave the smith a wistful hug, then followed the warrior into the bright daylight of the courtyard.
“Hey, friends,” called a voice from the docks. Natac saw that the boatwright-fisherman, Roland, was now kneeling over the water, and gesturing them over. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful whitefish?”
He held up a sparkling shape, a fish as long as his arm. The creature wriggled, sunlight gleaming off wet scales that were pale and silvery. “Aye, he’s a master of the bay, that’s what.”
Smiling broadly, the man turned and slipped the big fish back into the lake. With an angry slash of its tail the creature flashed away, vanishing into the indigo depths.
“Welcome back, Lady Miradel,” Roland said, standing so that he could bow and take the druid’s hand. “And welcome to your young friend, as well.”
Once again Natac was introduced to a human denizen of Nayve. Roland turned out to be a druid who, for the past thousand years, had studied all manner of human ships and boats. Natac learned that he had built many of the sailboats plying the waters of the great lake-and that he had taught a dozen or so elven boat builders who had constructed the rest of the watercraft.
“This is my personal favorite, the Osprey,” he said, indicating the sleek vessel now lashed to the dock.
Natac saw that the boat was long and slender, like a canoe. The prow and stern rose higher into the air, and a single tall mast-a device, with its corresponding sail, as yet unknown in his homeland-lofted from the center of the hull. The sail was furled along a top rail far overhead.
“I can rig two more sails,” the boat builder explained as he saw Natac studying the mast. “She’ll curl about through just about any kind of wind, she will.”
“I’d like to see that someday,” replied the warrior.
“When the interval of winds comes around, you will,” promised the boatman with an easy laugh.
8
Pillars of the Underworld
Stone forest, trunks of cosmic girth, honeycomb maze.
Carved by water, web of air in rock mere stairway to the dauntless dwarf
“Ready?” Karkald called.
“Yes!” Darann hissed, her voice tight with tension. In the outline of coolglow he saw that she was well-braced, rope around her waist and feet propped against a solid rock.
Karkald reached for the handhold, conscious of his ribs aching where the rope had just tightened about his chest. He had already fallen twice on this attempt, with only the rope and his wife’s strong belay saving his life. But he had to try again, for if they couldn’t pass this small overhang, their long climb faced a grim conclusion here, high above the shallow sea of the First Circle.
For twenty or thirty cycles the two dwarves had lived in a vertical world. Each cycle was measured by the distance climbed, every respite calculated by the size of the flat space they found to make a precarious camp. Rare indeed was the sleep where Karkald and Darann lay side by side. More often than not, he found a narrow ledge a dozen feet over her head and secured himself in place with his rope, while she curled into a narrow niche where surrounding walls gave some security against a fall. Of course, the same walls inevitably cramped her torso and limbs, or forced her to rest in an uncomfortable sitting position.
Sometimes they climbed only fifty feet in a single cycle. Each upward inch came at a cost in fear and pain, in loneliness and the smothering presence of the vast, surrounding dark. Karkald used every ounce of his strength, every scrap of his skill. His tools were always in his hands, pick and hammer shaping the rock, the rope that was, so often, life itself. Occasionally he wedged his spear crossways into a narrow crack and used that as a support, and there were other times when his chisel came into play, either to chip away at a surface of rock or to serve as a makeshift piton.
In fact, it was only his tools that gave him the confidence even to attempt this insane escape. Those eight items were solid, strong, trustworthy… he knew their capabilities, understood that he could count on them, and on his knowledge of their use.
But beyond that, he had so many questions about his strength and his skill. Did he really have a chance to make it all the way to the roof of the Underworld? Of not just reaching that lofty goal, but of bringing Darann with him? And even if he did attain the solid barrier at the top of their world, would he ever be able to find one of the legendary caverns penetrating that rocky dome? Or would he and Darann simply be trapped at the summit of the First Circle, too exhausted and hungry even to try and climb down?