"Satisfied, human?" Bitterleaf demanded, grabbing the sword from him as if Gerard's mere touch might contaminate it.
"Yes. Thank you, Kirrit Bitterleaf."
The elf captain scooped up his other weapons and made them disappear to their respective places about his person as swiftly as he had produced them. "Now we are even," Bitterleaf said. "You helped me once, and I have returned the favor. Next time we meet, we start out anew, with no debts to be repaid."
He backed slowly into the darkness, whirled, and vanished without a sound.
Gerard looked around, but the other elves had disappeared the same way. He and Vercleese were alone in the clearing, staring at each other and shivering in the predawn chill.
CHAPTER 19
So did you find what you were looking for?" Vercleese asked as he and Gerard rode back toward town the next morning.
Gerard, half asleep in the saddle after a long, exhausting night, roused himself. "Hmm? What's that?"
"I said, was that worthwhile?" Vercleese said, sounding irritable. "Did you learn anything?'
Gerard frowned, forcing his fuzzy mind to focus. "Maybe. I don't know. I'll have to think on it."
"That sounds vague enough," Vercleese grumbled under his breath.
The horses picked their way down the steep slope of the mountain. The refreshing, pine-scented breeze soon gave way to the oppressive heat of the lower levels, making it even more difficult for Gerard to stay awake. He swayed and rocked in the saddle, giving Thunderbolt his rein.
There had been little sleep after the visit from the elves. The night seemed too full of eyes, too full of arrows eager to sate their points in human blood. Gerard wasn't sure how much of a distinction the elves made between Knights of Solamnia, past as well as current, who had failed to live up to their duty to help restore elves' land, and Samuval, himself a former dark knight, who had seized the majority of that land and displaced its occupants.
Pine trees gave way to aspen and birch as the men descended. The upper leaves of the trees rustled listlessly at ground level, where the day had already grown hot and still. Gerard and Vercleese reached Solace Stream at last, turning toward Solace and passing Jutlin Wykirk's mill. The mill wheel turning indolently, but the place had a strangely deserted look.
By the time they reached town, many of the stalls were already closed in the marketplace, attesting to the lateness of the hour. Discarded cabbage leaves, onion skins, and carrot tops littered the ground. They rode on past Stephen's Grocery, where a large, flatbed farm wagon stood being loaded with enormous crates and boxes marked with such contents as horse feed and flaxseed. Three men were hoisting the boxes onto the wagon. One was Stephen; the second was probably his helper in the store, Gerard thought; the third was Jutlin Wykirk.
"So that's why the mill looked deserted this morning," Vercleese commented. "He's in town picking up supplies."
Gerard's gaze started to drift disinterestedly past the miller, then snapped back. There was something about the man's face… what was it? Gerard was prodded by some buried memory. Somewhere else he had seen that face, perhaps? At last he shrugged. If it were important, it would come to him in time.
The crates and boxes were evidently heavy, for the three men strained under their weight, barely acknowledging Gerard and Vercleese with nods as they worked.
Gerard and Vercleese stopped at the communal well near the town square. Vercleese slid from the saddle and gratefully splashed cooling water over his face. Nearby, the brutal hammering of the smith rang out in the still air.
"I'll be right back," Gerard said, turning toward the smith's shop.
Vercleese grunted and splashed more water on his face.
Gerard stepped into the dim interior of the smithy, where the heat assaulted him. Torren Soljack looked up from his hammering. "Is there something wrong with your sword?" he asked, challengingly.
"No," Gerard said, mopping his brow and wondering how the smith could stand the heat of the forge added to the already sweltering summer day. "It's an excellent weapon, most satisfactory. I wanted to come by and tell you as much."
"Then where is it, if it's so excellent?"
"We ran into a bit of trouble last night, and I loaned it to one of my deputies. But never fear, it's safe and sound and doing its job well over at the jail." As he spoke, Gerard wondered whether things were indeed safe and sound over at the jail. He hoped he wouldn't have any bloodstains to mop up when he got over there.
"Hmph!" Soljack snorted. He resumed hammering as if Gerard was no longer there, hinting he wished that were the case. Gerard ignored the hint, although he felt awkward, owing his next words would probably offend the man. Still, he had to ask. "You know," Gerard said between hammer blows, "I've seen some fine, unusually shaped swords on some folks around here lately. Baron Samuval for one."
Soljack paused, hammer upraised, cocking an eyebrow.
"And Kirrit Bitterleaf, a leader of the exiled elves, for another," Gerard said in a rush, pushing on. "Nice swords. Similar, in many respects."
Soljack glowered, becoming visibly angry. Still he waited without uttering a word.
"Did you make those swords for them?" Gerard finally blurted.
Soljack flung his hammer and tongs down and turned from the anvil, busying himself with the bellows that heated the forge, as if making it even hotter could somehow assuage his anger. "Folks are always blaming me for things, just because I got into some trouble once, long ago," he nearly shouted. "But I'm a changed man, believe in Paladine these days. As for elves and the like, I've got nothing against any of 'em, but I draw the line at making swords for rebels and outlaws."
It was the longest speech Gerard had ever heard the man make, and he was taken aback by the extent of the smith's fury, which seemed to swell with the pumping of the bellows, as if the real forge he was heating was the one deep in his own soul. Then the smith ceased working the long bellows handle and slumped down on a nearby barrel, his head in his hands.
"I suppose you're going to persecute me. I'll have to pull up stakes and leave Solace, the same as everywhere else. And just when I was starting to like it here," he muttered.
"I'm sorry," Gerard said, after the man had fallen silent. "I didn't think it was your work, but I had to ask. As for the rest, I really don't know what you're talking about." Truthfully, he was grateful for, if a little puzzled by, the smith's answer, and was more preoccupied by the weapons he had seen at Samuval's fortress and then again in the mountains the previous night. "I wonder if you have any idea who might have made them," Gerard said as diplomatically as possible. "They did have a very distinctive look."
With effort, the smith roused himself. "In what way?" he asked miserably.
"They all had curving blades." Soljack frowned then nodded. "I've heard of a technique for forging blades that results in such a shape. It's supposed to impart greater strength and an ability to hold an edge longer than more traditional methods, although I've yet to hear anyone complain of the more traditional weapons I make. I don't know of anyone who uses such a technique, at least not in these parts."
"Well, it was worth my asking," Gerard said. He started to leave the smithy, then turned back again. "I hope you will rethink your decision to leave Solace," he said. "I know you are highly valued here."
Soljack raised his head, his face an expression of abject misery. He appeared to consider Gerard's words, like a drowning man offered a saving rope.
"And as far as whatever you've done, I'm content to let that rest in the past, where it belongs. No one in Solace needs to know anything about it unless you choose to bring up the matter." He waited, but when Soljack seemed unlikely to respond, started from the shop once more.