She threw back the hide cover. Underneath lay Nacris, gray hair combed and face washed, wrapped up tight in a fine white doeskin. Only the pale oval of her face showed.
Harak gave a surprised exclamation. He knew he’d helped load a body on the raft, but he didn’t know whose.
“Shut up.”
Karada moved the body to the edge of the raft. Leaning on his pole, Harak heard the clink of metal. It was then he saw the heavy bronze chain wrapped around Nacris’s waist.
“That’s a lot of bronze to throw away,” he remarked.
“Shut up.”
Harak sighed.
Karada eased the body into the water, and it sank without a sound. Immediately, she ordered Harak to take them back to shore.
Nothing else was said until the raft bumped into the pebbled shallows. Stepping off, Karada reminded Harak of his oath to say nothing of what they’d just done, and without a backward glance, she walked quickly up the stony hillside. She disappeared in the deep shadows of the cliffs.
Harak jumped down into the water and dragged the log raft higher onto the beach. It was very late, and everyone in the valley seemed to be asleep. He wondered where the villagers stowed their stock of wine.
Wandering up the hill toward the village, he heard a faint clang of metal and stone. Off to his right, outside the village wall, Harak saw a bright orange light flaring at the base of the cliff. Muffled voices accompanied the sounds of work. He ambled that way. It seemed more interesting than returning to the prisoners’ pen.
The light turned out to be a fire, burning inside a broken-down structure built hard against the base of the mountain. Four or five figures were silhouetted against the glare. Unlike an ordinary fire, this one didn’t waver or flicker; it burned steadily. Harak made out a new sound he couldn’t place: a regular, deep panting, like a bull ox gasping for air after a long run.
Closer to, he spotted the Arkuden in the group. The rest were Silvanesti, including the elf lord Balif. What were they up to? Was this some arcane elven ritual to call up spirit power at the Arkuden’s request?
“See that?” one of the elves said, pointing into the fire. “That’s the red stage. Now it’s ready to pour!”
“Stand back!” said another, but the Arkuden shook his head.
“Let me do it,” he insisted. He and an elf inserted forked wooden poles into holes in the sides of a heavy clay pot. They hoisted the pot out of the fire, sidled sideways, and poured the contents into an unseen container. Lapping over the rim of the pot was a brilliant orange-red fluid. Harak’s eyes watered just looking at it. The fiery liquid hit its destination, and a loud hissing resulted. Steam filled the air.
Balif glanced away and saw Harak highlighted by the glow of the burning liquid. “Who’s there?” he said sharply.
Caught, Harak stepped up boldly and announced himself. Balif drew his sword, though he kept the point down.
“Do prisoners have the run of the valley now?” asked the elf lord.
“Your presence here seems to say so,” Harak replied genially.
Amero and the other elf put the hot pot back on the fire. “Never mind!” said the Arkuden, his voice full of excitement. “Come here, you. See what we’ve done!”
Harak had no idea what to expect. Upon reaching the scene of the strange ritual, he saw they’d poured the brilliantly hot liquid into a rectangular box on the ground. The box was made of wet clay, bolstered by a few wooden planks. A hole in the top, about the size of Harak’s thumb, plainly showed where the fiery substance had been delivered.
“I’ve just cast my first bronze!” Amero exclaimed. “Farolenu showed me how. The secret is forcing air into the fire to melt the copper and tin together—but not too much air.”
“You made bronze?” Harak was interested. Here was a task much more rewarding than summoning spirits.
Amero nodded vigorously. “We melted down some scrap and poured it in that mold. When it cools, it will be a sword.”
Harak regarded the unlikely looking wooden box with great respect. Like many plainsmen, he had handled bronze, but he had no idea how it was made. Some mysterious process of the Silvanesti, it was said. Now he was seeing it for himself.
He turned to Balif. “Why are you showing a human how to do this? Aren’t you afraid we’ll make weapons to fight you?”
Amero suddenly looked distressed. It was plain he hadn’t thought of that.
“Bronze is a secret humans are destined to learn sooner or later,” Balif said, “and though I am loyal to the Speaker of the Stars, I have my own views on the policies of my nation. There are those in Silvanost who want to spread our hegemony from the southern sea to the capes of the north, westward to the Edge of the World and east to the ocean of the rising sun. I do not agree. I believe the true realm of the Silvanesti is what we have now, the forest sacred to us, and continued aggression outside our natural homeland will only result in needless bloodshed.”
Balif gave a small, tight smile, adding, “Endless conquest is like burning down a forest to stay warm; it works for a little while but is short-sighted. So no, I’m not worried about giving away the secret of bronze. If the war-minded lords in Silvanost see a bronze-equipped army of plainsmen opposing them, they may recognize at last the wisdom of peaceful neighboring.”
The appreciative silence that greeted his thoughtful words was disrupted by Harak. “Faw, they call me a talker!” the ex-raider said. “I’m as tight-lipped as an oyster compared to you!”
The mold had cooled enough to be opened. Amero fidgeted about, nervous as a newly mated man. Farolenu and his helpers slipped hardwood wedges into the seam and, in unison, tapped them with mallets. With a slight hiss, the mold split apart lengthwise, falling into two halves. The crudely formed sword, still glowing faintly with heat, lay in the right half of the mold.
“Let it cool thoroughly,” Farolenu said. “When cold enough to handle, free it from the mold. Then you can begin filing it to shape and giving it a sharp edge.”
“Can you use water to speed the cooling?” asked Amero.
“For short, thick blades, yes. For swords, no. Quenching will make the sword brittle. At the first stroke, it may snap off at the hilt.”
The elves and the Arkuden plunged into a deep discussion of metal-working, leaving Balif and Harak far behind. The elf lord yawned and excused himself. Harak took the opportunity to depart, too.
As they walked across the slate-strewn ledge toward Yala-tene, Harak said, “I hear Karada intends to leave in three days’ time.” Balif nodded, and the ex-raider asked, “What will your people back home make of all this?”
The elf lord’s face was unreadable. “Some will hail me for escaping the clutches of barbarians. Others will condemn me for aiding enemies of the Speaker.”
He turned away to enter Yala-tene through the south baffle. Harak watched him go, wondering what the Silvanesti was really thinking. Would a noble elf warrior really give away the secret of bronze for such high-sounding, unselfish reasons?
A wide yawn interrupted Harak’s cogitations. The doings of chiefs and lords was beyond him, he decided, shaking his head. He went back to his pen to sleep.
18
The Ember Wind increased in fury in the days that followed. Vast clouds of dirt were scoured off the windward side of the mountains, darkening the sky and drifting into the valley. Landslides shook the upper passes as the hard-driven dust loosened boulders. To many, it seemed the mountains themselves would tumble down and fly into the air. Amero consulted Duranix, who circled the valley at great height, above the Ember Wind. The dragon reported the brown river of air stretched away far to the north, but it did not extend more than a few leagues east or west of the valley. The Ember Wind would blow itself out, Duranix reassured Amero, though it always worsened before ending. The stronger the wind blew, the sooner it would end.