Raven's Warrior (21 page)
Sitting with them now in the comfort of the firelight brought me back to that night long ago when they had bought me from Death, and welcomed me fully into their lives. My feelings for Selah held both warmth and promise, and I wanted to tell Mah Lin, but it was clear that he knew, and that he was comfortable.
By the light of the dying fire relaxed and well full, Mah Lin began to talk about the sword and the art of its making. But, when he spoke of the Five Element Sword he was speaking also of the patterns of life.
“All blades harness the power of elemental transformation, but only one in a thousand is truly a Five Element Sword. Arkthar, draw the sword and look upon the blade in the firelight.”
The pattern of the folded steel seemed to dance in the shimmering glow. The ancient blade looked as if it had just come from the monastery forge. From the razor edge to the sturdy spine, I saw what the priest was showing me and heard what the sword was telling me.
The metal's edge held the pattern of flame. From hilt to tip was a flickering panorama of battles past and battles not yet fought. Hovering above the flames was the unmistakable pattern of living wood; the grain and the knots, and above this the metal captured the waves of the ocean. From the water the steel lines framed the shore and became the dry and open earth that stretched along the blade like the horizon. Finally above this nothing but the clear sky of polished metal.
Mah Lin gave me time to reflect upon the soul of this sword before he continued.
“You have seen the power of Selah's striking. You practice the slow guided movements of dao yin to cultivate this force. We call it the power of steel wrapped in cotton. The secret art of our sword making is also based on this conceptâthe hard must be wrapped in the soft.
The metal used to cast the lion is called raw iron, the iron of the plow is called ripe iron, the metal conjured to create the blade is known as the great iron. The sword maker's art lies in his ability to combine the raw and the ripe to form the great. Arkthar, this is the art you will learn beside me in the forge.”
Mah Lin adjusted his position and adjusted his eye to include both me and his daughter before he continued.
“Children, listen carefully. A great sword can also speak clearly about other matters. Its metal from edge to spine is very hard and takes a fine edge, but it so hard and brittle that it may break. It is like you, Arkthar.”
He continued, “In a blade of legend like the sword you hold, this edge must be wrapped with the soft raw metal. This softness gives it flexibility and strength. This softness is like you, Selah.”
Now she blushed and glanced almost undetectably in my direction, but she smiled also, reading into her father's description her growing love for me.
“The hard wrapped by the soft is accomplished by folding, cutting, and hammering, but it is the heat of the fire and the coldness of the quench that marries the two metals to become one.”
The monk was thoughtful as he drained his tea.
“As the testing of your metal approaches, feel confident with the hard wrapped by the soft, for this method has stood the test of time, it will be your strength and insure your survival.”
Mah Lin's gaze tilted toward the northern night sky where lightning flashed, and a deep rumbling sounded in the great distance, and I read concern beneath his calm features.
The day after our return I was back to my daily routine of study and exercise. That morning I had begun to decipher documents of metal and its working. Among the works of this monastery were several extensive volumes on the making of swords. With words and pictures they catalogued types of forge and the method of its working. They spoke mysteriously of a rare and valuable southern ore, and I found myself somewhere between the worlds of magic and religion.
Within these documents were many concepts beyond my grasp. When I sought clarification from Selah she explained, “Method was often hidden by language as a code to safeguard technique. The true art of working steel must be passed directly from master to novice. The understanding of metal comes from the hammer and the fire, not the paper and the ink. You will find understanding only in the forge, Arkthar, not the library.”
I worked hard that day with Selah and the raven guiding the soft movement of my body and the serenity of my mind. The falls refreshed and hardened my body like the quenching of forge metal, and my lesson from the monk within the hollowed cavern came like the blows of the hammer's beating. Mah Lin seemed pleased with my efforts, and after we had finished the exercises that condition my body, he brought me over to the forge to show me at what he had been working.
He reached with the tongs and drew forth a long black rod from its sandy mold. This he plunged deftly into the quenching trough with a great hissing amid the clouds of rising steam. He removed the cold dark form, ugly even by the beautiful blue light of the watery entrance. He smiled as he tested the weight and passed it to me for the simple task of grinding away the charred debris. As the hours passed the beauty of his labor was gradually revealed.
When I had finished I was soaked with sweat, a combination of the forge heat and my polishing efforts. I had discarded my blue silken scholar's robes for the blackened loincloth of common slave, preferring comfort over status. In my hand I now held a metal object of ultimate wonder and workmanship. It was a rod longer by a head than Mah Lin was tall, and cast in the perfect likeness of the bamboo plants that had fallen to his five cuts.
So life-like was it that it captured even their nodes and hollow form. It was the strength of steel welded into the lightness of the living wood, perfect in length and balance. Mah Lin, who had been resting beside the pumping bellows, approached me now to see what my efforts with the fine grinding sands had revealed. He smiled again as he handled it, at first as a simple walking staff, and then with the blinding circular speed of a lethal weapon.
“It is beautiful, Arkthur,” he said, as if I was its maker rather than just the laborer that had merely released it from its blackened cast. “Tomorrow you and I will begin to make the blade to fit its end.”
Our household was one of many dimensions but no secrets. The smell of smoke from my robe spoke pungently of my day's activities at the forge, and the oily blackness of sweat and charcoal on my skin screamed loudly of my new vocation. Selah smiled as she handed us the soap and water before she allowed us to enter the house. The food tasted especially good to my palate that evening, I was tired in body but energized in spirit.
We sat contentedly after dinner in front of the hearth, and spoke of many things. I drained my tea and thought carefully before I chose my words. There was so much about my feelings for them and for this place that I wanted expressed clearly and properly.
I thought about the magic of this place and how, originally, it had unnerved me. Now it seemed that it unfolded naturally in answer to my every question. I remembered the former emptiness of my loveless existence, and how with the company of the priest and his daughter it had been transformed. I measured my journey, no longer with my eyes, but with my heart. Love is a powerful force.
Finally my mouth opened for speech, and as they watched and listened, nothing came from my lips to fill the room but silence.
I did not know why I was unable to speak, or by what power I had lost my voice. I felt deeply foolish for being unable to express myself and braced for their laughter. Instead they looked knowingly to each other and reassured me with their kind expressions. Finally Mah Lin spoke and I was relieved that at least one of us had not fallen dumb.
“Arkthar, the one that knows it cannot speak it, and the one that speaks it does not know it. Such is the power of the Way. Sleep now for your next season will be full, you will learn to properly wield the hammer and stoke the flame. You will learn the Art of the Five Elements.”
Both Mah Lin and Selah rose at the same time, I remained sitting still thinking about what the monk had said. As Selah passed me she touched my flushed cheek with her hand, leaned down and kissed my lips gently. Before her father I was once again unable to speak, once again like a man with no tongue.
This time however, his laughter did quickly and loudly come and continued with him as he left the room.
The next morning as the men awakened, Selah prepared their packaged lunch and readied their breakfast. She sang sweetly, at peace with herself, her world, and these two men. She often thought about her mother, and missed her deeply. Selah had always been thankful for what that woman had shown her of traditional medicine. Lately, however, she was increasingly grateful for what her mother had taught her about love.
Her father and Arkthar ate well that morning, and spoke about the technique of forge and the working of fire, air, and metal. There would not be the usual academic study for the next moon's passing. Her student's lessons would for now come directly in the cavern from the warrior priest, and his classroom would be where the hammer meets the anvil.
As Mah Lin and Arkthar made ready for the forge, Selah noticed the wear in his robes, but the blue was still vivid and true. She thought to herself that new garments should soon be made. Her reflections lingered on this barbarian that had entered their lives so broken and yet had grown in time so strong. Through these many seasons he had, as a student, surpassed her highest standards, and as a man he had fulfilled her deepest dreams. Now as she handed him the food for two, she smiled as the raven called the name spoken by her heart.
She watched the only two men she had ever loved walk away as brothers, secure in their stride and moving as a force united. Selah's love for Arkthar was as a growing plant. Small at its beginning, her memory of his first sight being only sorrow, her feeling of her first touch being only compassion. Sorrow and pity had blossomed to become joy; compassion had been transformed into passion. Duty had given rise to fulfillment, and time had given birth to love.
She watched the raven steal some of the oats that she scattered for the laying hens, and checked the weather against the ants. After the cows were milked and the ripest of the garden produce harvested, she walked into the great hall and strolled among the weapons. Most were picked from her father's monastery, others already here from a time long gone and places unnamed.
This day she looked carefully at the various pieces of armor, and thought how they would fit on Arkthar's muscled frame. She felt like the mother that selects the warmest of clothing for her child who may be taken by a winter's storm. From first touch she wanted to protect and keep him safe. Now, as a woman, she understood her mother's anguish and joy on that night long ago, when she had healed a near dead monk, and her child had met her father for the very first time.
She felt pulled to a corner of the hall that she had not often explored, and her hand guided by instinct touched the armor that would soon become his. She lifted it with only one arm, surprised by its lightness. She did not think it was from their world, for it seemed a better fit to his. It was not like anything she had seen before, it was not rigid or stiff, but like silk it took the shape of what it covered.
Selah placed the armor on the floor where she could see and examine it better. It was shorter than his robe, but longer than a shirt length. Its fluid draping allowed swift and unhindered movement. This was no ordinary mantle of silk or wool, this was a shirt of steel. Created link by link, it seemed knit by the hands of angels. She remembered well how her mother's silken weave had protected her father from the many arrows so long ago, and prayed that for her man this would do the same.
She smiled openly for another reason; this chainmail armor had grown in its power to protect, the same way that Arkthar's power had grownâring by ring.
Satisfied that she had chosen well for Arkthar, Selah tried to concentrate on the household duties, but for most of the afternoon she felt drawn once more to the great hall, although she could not think of any reason why this was so. When her work was finished, she returned and stood at the doorway of the huge chamber and peered in. Echoes of lives lived and lost seemed to reach out to her, eventually she gave in to their seductive song, and entered.
She wandered about the hall. She had no purpose and so she meandered through it like a slow river. She looked with all senses feeling for what had brought her back. Selah remembered her father's search upon the ruined mountain, and she realized she was doing just the same. Back now to the area she had least explored, she stopped near a long shield that leaned heavily against the stone wall. She reached for it tentatively, sure that it was too heavy to be moved. It crashed to the floor at her lightest touch, revealing the treasure hidden behind it.
Truly she did not know if she had chosen this bow, or if it had chosen her, but it was a good fit. It was made of layered horn and wood, glued together with precision. Its fierce recurve was tamed by ancient cord, its wooden arrows tipped by metal, and steadied in flight by the tail feathers of a bird of prey. These were the elements of her world.
Although she had never before held a bow, the one now firmly in her grip felt natural, almost familiar. She knew that it had come from the plains of the Huns, well beyond the great wall that the First Emperor had built to keep them out. She had heard stories of their speed and precision in battlefield maneuvers. It was said that a Hun warrior could fire ten arrows within the space of three breaths. The bowstring was gut, and even though it was old and dry the arrows beside it seemed to beg for flight. Unable to resist, she placed one on the ancient sinew and drew it back slowly.
The feathered end brushed her cheek with a gentle touch, as she held with her eye a helmet at the hall's far end. The arrow freed itself with a powerful whisper, and flew easily through the metal, sending the feathers that steadied its flight scattering in all directions. Simultaneously the ancient string of gut snapped violently and dangled uselessly from both tips. Ruining an arrow and a string was a small price she thought for touching the power that would become hers. She was satisfied now that this was what had called to her, and she thanked the Hun that had made it and said a prayer for the soul of the warrior that had lost it.