Natac studied the image on the wall, and moved his body through the exact maneuvers performed by the man he was watching. The subject of his study was a lightly dressed warrior, a man from the place called the Orient who used his feet and his hands as weapons. Now he was training, dancing alone through slashing kicks, lightning punches, and a variety of leaps and spins.
Mirroring every move, Natac kicked his foot into the air, higher than his head. Next he spun on the ball of his other foot. With his back to the moving picture, Natac worked from memory of the precise form, executing a sharp forward kick, switching feet to repeat the thrust with his other foot, then spinning once more with a roundhouse kick that brought him again into view of the man from Earth. As he expected, he matched precisely the cadence and routine of the other warrior.
The man in the image turned, and Natac had the uncanny feeling that the fellow could somehow sense his presence. When the fighter bowed formally, Natac returned the gesture.
Only then did Miradel puff out the candle and gather the scraps of wool into a basket, saved for the next viewing.
Natac’s heart was pumping, and a sheen of sweat covered his skin, plastering his thick hair to his scalp. He felt wonderfully vibrant.
“You are learning much from the people of the Seventh Circle,” the druid remarked, throwing open the door to a shimmering blast of daylight.
“Yes… there is much learning there, on Earth.”
And I have come to see myself as a man from somewhere else. The realization was a constant part of his new life, growing stronger every time he viewed images of his birth world.
They heard a shout from the courtyard, and emerged to find Darryn Forgemaster and Fallon. The smith nodded in familiar greeting to Natac, his expression unreadable. “Studying with the Wool, eh?” he asked. The wiry druid’s expression turned wistful. “Many’s the hour I’ve spent in that same room, learning the tricks of metal.”
“Yes.” Natac was nonplused, once again pierced by the thought that he had claimed this man’s immortal lover, had sentenced her to a limited life of agedness and death. Though he had never asked if this was the case, the suspicion raised a mixture of guilt and jealousy within him. And yet, if his guess was correct, why was Darryn not more overtly hostile to him?
“Here,” the smith was saying, laying out a bundle on the big table. Natac’s heart quickened at the sight of the long, leather-wrapped shape. Despite his protestations about not wanting a sword, he found himself keenly interested in the prospect of picking up the weapon.
When the smith pulled the leather away, he gasped at the shimmering beauty of the steel blade. It was a slender piece of shiny, supple metal, no wider than two of his fingers where it emerged from its sheath, tapering to a point as sharp as the fang of a viper. Edges sharper than any razor of obsidian rang the length of the blade top and bottom. The hilt, too, was a work of art, carved from some kind of very hard wood to form a protective shield for his sword hand.
“It is a stunning weapon,” the warrior said quietly. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and only hope that I can prove myself worthy of bearing it.”
Darryn’s chest puffed out and he allowed himself the hint of a smile. “It’s the finest piece I’ve ever made, if I say so myself. And that should make it the finest sword in Nayve.” Somehow he said the words with such honest affection for his work that they carried no hint of arrogance.
“And the hilt is a thing of beauty,” Natac continued. “What wood did you carve in such a manner?”
“Ask the lady druid,” said Darryn, nodding toward Miradel.
“I made the hilt from the tree called the arkwood,” she said. “It grows only in Argentian, and the elves allow only one tree to be harvested every one hundred years-so the wood is quite precious, as you can imagine. And the Goddess Worldweaver herself was kind enough to bestow some of her goodness into the hilt. So long as you hold the sword in your hand and bear it justly, no weapon will be able to penetrate your skin.”
Natac had been in Nayve long enough that he didn’t marvel at the suggestion of powerful magic. Still, he was awed by the thought that such protection in battle might be offered to him. Again he made the vow, this time to himself and to his Yellow Hummingbird-he would be a worthy bearer of this weapon.
He picked the sword up, amazed at its lightness-it had far less mass than any wood-and-obsidian maquahuitl. The blade was like an extension of his hand as he whipped his arm around. When he looked at Miradel he saw that her eyes were shining, alight with that reflection of pride that disturbed him so much. Once more he wondered… Why, in a place where there was no war… why did she want him to have a sword?
“L isten… I hear them baying. I’ll bet they’re after a deer right now!” Ulfgang woofed in excitement.
“Can we catch them?” Tam asked. He felt a keen buzz of excitement-after a week of arduous trekking, at last they had caught the spoor of the trouble that had drawn them to the Greens. This was different, unknown-and that very mystery seemed to cause a peculiar thrill. The song of the hounds was distant, yet piercingly eerie. As the chorus of wails rose and ululated he felt a distinct shiver run down his spine.
Deltan Columbine, too, looked flushed and excited. His eyes were bright, and there was no sign of the fatigue that had slowed him down on the first few days of their trek.
“I think they’re coming this way-Come on!” urged the dog, breaking into a trot.
Tam loped along behind. His body moving with natural grace, and it seemed that his mind was as clear, as keen and ready, as it had ever been in his life. In one hand he hoisted a stout stick, a shaft as big around as his wrist and slightly longer than his own height. He had carved it a couple of days earlier, when the pair had first entered the lofty forest and Ulfgang had casually mentioned that a pack of deer-mad dogs might not respond immediately to cool logic. Since then the staff had seemed to become a part of him, and now he set it on his shoulder as comfortably as if it were another limb.
Deltan, following just behind, carried a homemade bow and a cluster of arrows tipped with fire-hardened points of wood. Already he had shown a keen eye, enhancing their evening camps with dinners of rabbit, squirrel, and even a plump pheasant. Privately, however, Tamarwind doubted that the light missiles would prove much of a deterrent against anything larger.
Now they ran between huge tree trunks over a forest floor that was for the most part free of brush. They leaped a long, mossy log, then skirted a small pond, and now the sounds of the baying pack rang all around them like a bizarre, demented chorus. The music of the chase soared and swelled with the dogs’ frenzy.
Abruptly Ulfgang skidded to a halt. Tam and Deltan came to rest beside him, leaning against the trunk of a huge tree. They heard crashing footsteps, and then a wide-eyed stag leapt by, tongue flopping loosely as it hurled itself through desperate, lunging bounds.
“Now!” cried Ulf, leaping out from behind the tree. The white dog crouched, facing the deer’s pursuers, upper lip curled into a very forbidding snarl. Tam, his broad staff upraised, stepped to his companion’s side-and immediately felt a searing jab of fear.
At least a dozen large, snarling dogs came to an outraged halt. They bristled and snapped, infuriated at the interruption of their chase. The elf raised his staff as three of the dogs impetuously rushed forward. Deltan Columbine, next to the tree, shot an arrow that grazed a hairy flank, sending one of the animals darting back to the pack. Another veered away as Tamarwind swung the stout weapon, and the third, a large male, yelped in surprise as Ulf feinted a lunge to the left and then drove against the dog’s right. Tam saw a flash of white fangs, and then Ulfgang had buried his teeth in the loose wattle of the big dog’s throat.