“But the steel’s cold.” Gingerly, the armorer reached out with tongs, snatched a blade from under the steady swing of the medallion, and laid it on the anvil. Then he gave the Marshal a hammer.
“And Gird is not. We will need the fire, I know that, but this is more in the nature of the clout you give a mule or horse that’s not paying attention, before you teach it.” Marshal Harak lifted the hammer in his right hand. “By the strength of Gird Strong-arm, by the fire of the High Lord’s altar, be still!” He brought the hammer down on the blade. It squealed like an ungreased wagon wheel; the blade jerked sideways, narrowly missing the Marshal’s leg.
Arcolin shuddered; Marshal Harak laughed, repeated his abjuration, and slammed the hammer onto the blade again. This time it merely shivered and the sound was less, more that of someone shaking a saw blade. Again the Marshal prayed and hammered, and this time the blade lay still. The Marshal handed the hammer back to the armorer, took the blade, and shoved it into the fire. Then he picked up the next and repeated the process.
When he was through, he went to the bellows and began working them. “Your turn now,” he said to the armorer. “I’ll pump for you. If you were taught the Runes of Sertig, now would be the time to recite them.”
The first blade was glowing. As its wooden handle burnt away, the armorer yanked it from the fire with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and hammered vigorously, muttering in dwarvish. The barbs and jagged edges sank back into the parent metal. When that blade cooled, he thrust it back and took another. When all were done, he took the first, bending it around the horn of the anvil and then pounding that bend flat. The Marshal meanwhile plied the bellows at the armorer’s command, sweat pouring down his face, and talking in jerky phrases.
“Those had to be … Siniava’s blades … special troops. If you’d heated them … the forge would … explode. Takes Gird’s power … or Falk’s … or a dwarf if you can find … to call on Sertig. If you find … more like that … must master the demon inside first … before the fire …”
“Will they explode an ordinary fire, a campfire?” Arcolin asked.
The Marshal nodded. “Ordinary fire … they fly out to kill. And the fire … goes wild. Buried … they work through … the ground … seeking blood prey.” He coughed in a gust of smoke, then spat. “Siniava … was not a good man.”
“Who put the demon in the iron, I wonder,” Arcolin said. “What if someone is still making blades like these, though Siniava’s dead?”
“That would be … most unfortunate … if you find such … send for me. Dangerous.”
“The metal’s safe now?”
“Only fire sprites like forge-fire,” the Marshal said, stepping back from the bellows and wiping his face. “And Sertig, of course. These were pure malice, hammered into the metal by—I would guess—an artificer-priest of Liart.” To the armorer, he said, “If you have other stout arms to pump the bellows, the metal’s now safe enough without me here.”
“Of course, Marshal,” the armorer said. “I’m sorry, I just …”
“No apologies needed, but in a camp full of healthy young soldiers, I see no need to sweat longer than I must to let you work safely.”
“Come out in the cool, Marshal,” Arcolin said. “Have some refreshment.”
“My thanks.” The Marshal walked with Arcolin to the edge of the temporary drill field, where Burek was now organizing the troops for supper. “It’s been too long since I saw these colors in the south. You and Halveric Company were the core of resistance to Siniava and even before that … the whole Mercenary Code, I understand, began with your Duke and the Halveric.”
“Yes,” Arcolin said. “Aliam had set out years before what he thought was right, and taught Kieri, so when Kieri formed his own company, that’s how he fought.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you back. I suppose with the Duke now king in Lyonya, the Halverics won’t be back at all …”
“I don’t know,” Arcolin said. “My thought was that Aliam stayed in Lyonya this year for Kieri’s coronation. He is older, though, and he might send a son with his company later.”
“Or disband it, if he has no need for the money. You will need an ally, Captain, to maintain the Code; other companies have fallen away from it since Siniava’s War.”
“So I understand,” Arcolin said, thinking of Andreson. The theft of the wounded man’s death fund still rankled. “Golden Company will stand with us. I met Aesil M’dierra in Valdaire and we agreed.”
“That’s good. It was one thing in which you mercenaries led the militias, your Code, and I would see that way spread, if fighting must.”
The Marshal refused Arcolin’s offer of wine. “I am too hot,” he said. “Small beer would suit me better, or water alone, if it was not drawn from the river.”
“Not ours,” Arcolin said. “We have no beer, but we do have good water.” He himself dipped a jug of water and set out two mugs and the Southern flavorings: a lump of dark honeycomb, a box divided into compartments each with a different spice. “I, too, am thirsty,” he said, “though I think drilling was not as hard work as what you did on the bellows. I should have called one of the soldiers in sooner.”
“No, indeed.” The Marshal had added a chunk of honeycomb, a sliver of dried lemon, and some dried mint to his mug, then poured in the water. He took a sip and smiled. “It was necessary that I control the bellows until I was sure the evil in the steel had vanished. As long as it was there, it tried to seize the wind and blow the fire into a storm. Gird strengthened my arms to resist.” He drank again, and again, emptying the mug and pouring it full once more. “It was not hard to work the bellows fast enough—the difficulty was slowing and stopping.”
“What then should we do, if we find more such blades?”
“They cannot catch fire by themselves; keep them away from it. Keep them away from other iron or steel; I do not know that the evil in them can spread of its own will, but I do not know it can’t, either. They were near other steel in a wagon, were they not? When I’ve cooled off a bit more, I’ll examine the other swords you found, and ensure that none of them are contaminated.”
None were, but the Marshal noticed the Halveric sword. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Halverics were always careful with their arms.”
“Hm. It’s not new, either. What’s this mark?”
Arcolin had not examined the Halveric sword closely, being more interested in the danger presented by the bad blades. The Marshal pointed out the small CH stamped into the undercurve of the flared pommel.
“A Halveric family member, perhaps?”
Arcolin’s skin rose in goose-prickles. “Caliam,” he said. “Aliam’s son who was captured.”
“Killed? Wasn’t he the one at Dwarfwatch?”
“No. That was Seliam, his younger brother. He was killed, but his sword was recovered. Cal’s sword wasn’t.”
“So it would have been one of Siniava’s prizes?”
“Yes,” Arcolin said.
“Hmmm. The Halverics are Falkian, are they not?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should let me take it to the Captain of Falk here—have him bless it—before you return it to the Halverics. There’s an aura of terror clinging to it—”
Arcolin looked away a moment, then met the Marshal’s gaze. “No wonder. Caliam will father no more children. Our people found him beaten, bound, squeezed into a crate like a pig for market …” The old anger rose; he pushed it down.
“He fought bravely through the rest of the war, I heard,” the Marshal said. Arcolin nodded. “Then Falk would want him to have it back again, without the pain. May I?”
“Certainly,” Arcolin said. “I’d intended to send it back to the Halverics in any case, but having it blessed by a Captain is a happy thought.” He took the blade, found a clean cloth in which to wrap it, and handed it to the Marshal. “I should write a note to accompany it—perhaps if you stay to supper—”