The Anvil of Ice (19 page)

Chapter Five
- The Corsairs

For a moment he believed he was back in the throes of his fever, and that this was just another trick it played on his senses. Then his numbed feet protested; it was no dream, though he might as well have wakened out of one. He stepped gratefully out of the icy rivulet he had landed in and sat down on the bank to wring out his boots and stuff them with what dry grass he could find. They were stout ones a trader had given him, and he was glad he had been wearing them, and his cloak, when he went to the door. He was tired and cold, and hunger grew on him as he sat, a ravening hunger. He had hardly anything with him, less even than he had had when he came to the salt-marshes; he was without even his valued bird-bow and fishing lines. A thought struck him, and he fumbled at his belt. The sword was not there, and he panicked for a moment before he noticed it lying on the bank a little further upstream, presumably where he had first halted. That was something, anyway, the minimum to keep him warm, and protect him. As he stooped to pick it up he saw beside it a single wide hoofprint in the mud, with water still oozing into it. He sprang up and stared around, but nowhere on earth or sky was there a rider to be seen. The blood roared and rumbled in his ears. "You bastard bitch's son!" he muttered, gripping the hilt tightly. "What've you done to me? Where've you taken me? How…" But he left it at that. He did not dare voice the question of how he was going to get back; it might have no answer.

First things first. He had to look around, find at least some indication of where he was. By the stars—but there would be none visible tonight, nor moon either. Somewhere behind those clouds the sun was setting; he could make a rough guess where, and marked the direction as he tramped back to his boots. They were nothing like dry, but he could not afford to be fussy. He hauled the grass out, and cursed when it came out covered in fine sand—
sand
?

He peered at the rivulet, dug his fingers into the bed. The soft heavy stuff poured through his fingers, and a salty, seaweedy smell rose to his nostrils. He looked up and down the winding bank. The grass here was much taller, head-high in many places, and with broader leaves. In between the tall stems grew spearscales, saltworts, beachbur, bright sand verbena, all plants he remembered from his childhood but had never seen by the Causeway. He swallowed, stood up, sniffed the air again, and listened. The smell was strong in the air, far stronger than the slight tang he was used to. That rumbling sound—it had not been his blood, not entirely. Somewhere not far from here, more or less in the direction the sun had gone, surf was beating upon a beach. He swallowed again, with difficulty, for his throat was very dry. Once, when they had been talking about the Ekwesh beginning to raid inland, he had asked Kathel and his partners if the Causeway was safe at such a lonely point. And Kathel had replied with a laugh, "Surely enough! The marshes are really a river delta, they spread wider as they near the sea. So naturally they built the Causeway high up the delta, inland, to keep it short. So you know how far your smithy is from the sea? Nigh on seventy leagues! That make you feel fine and safe?"

Once it had. Once. Now it crushed him. He knew now where the smithy was; he could walk there simply by keeping the sunrise ahead of him, sunset behind. But seventy leagues! When two or three was a good day's walking over marshy ground? He sat in silence, and listened to the surf, and despaired.

But as his hearing became more used to the rumbling sound he began to hear other noises through it, some high-pitched sounds that might be the voices of birds, or seals… or men. He delayed only a moment before getting up and cautiously wading out through the mist that was rising and flowing like the ghost of a flood. Men meant fire, and food, and company, a chance to survive in this dreadful place. They might be hostile, of course—but he had his sword. It was a shorter walk than he expected before he found the flatness of the ground changing to grassy dunes through which the rivulets cut as their greater selves cut mountains. Through one of these deep clefts he heard the voices more clearly. The mist hung thickly now, but as he peered cautiously round the end of the dune onto the open beach, the red glow of a fire shone out through the mist like a welcoming beacon. A looming silhouette hid the actual flames, a slender neck curling upward from a dark bulk on the sand—by the look of it the high prow of a ship. It did not seem to be of Ekwesh kind; that did not necessarily mean it was safe
to
approach, and he hefted the sword thoughtfully. The Mastersmith had taught him enough swordplay and other warrior arts to judge what made a good or bad weapon, but he had never used them in anger, and was not eager to. There was no cover at all here; the sand was so flat he would gain nothing even by crawling up on his belly. He would just have to walk in openly, and trust to his luck.

He hooked his sword onto his belt again, but as he strode briskly across the crisp damp sand his hand hovered near the hilt. From time to time great beams of light and shadow played up across the mist-curtain as unseen figures crossed and recrossed in front of the flame. But he reached the dark side of the hull without challenge and stood there a moment, resting a hand on the barnacled timbers. It came away slimy, flecked with weed fragments. As he slipped along the length of the vessel he saw tangles of half-dry weed hung from a mass of twisted metal at the outthrust curve of the bows; evidently it was not long beached. He could hear voices on the far side, but no clear words; he must needs take his chance.

Cautiously he stepped round the bows—and found himself suddenly in a circle of firelight, with a host of astonished faces staring up at him.

They were pale faces, mostly, but as wild and wolfish as any Ekwesh. Their eyes widened, and in an instant the whole crowd of them, twenty or more, were on their feet, with a hiss of weapons drawn. Elof held up his hands, then ducked violently as an axe flew past his head and boomed against the hull. Quickly he put his back to the wood and swept out his own sword as the menacing semicircle of men closed in. "Stand back!" he shouted. "I don't mean you any—"

A heavy blade cut out at his head, and he met it with a two-handed parry which tore it from its wielder's hand. His attackers fell back a pace, but a fat fair-haired man in the middle bellowed and sprang forward, lunging at him with a halberd. As Elof jumped aside the lunge became a sideways cut and he had to swing round to fend it off; the halberd dug into the hull, was hauled out and jabbed at him again. Elof flailed his sword out against it, and sent the fat man stumbling back. Furious at being harried, Elof shouted and leaped forward, whipping the black blade whistling around him, and his adversaries stumbled over each other in their haste to give ground. He heard somebody shouting in the Sothran tongue for spears and bows. But the fat man stood his ground; Elof had to meet him, and aimed a chopping downward cut that should have made him jump. Instead he brought up the butt of the halberd, and Elof's blade skidded ringing down the iron rods that bound it. Immediately the halberd seemed to spin round, and the blade scythed at his throat. Elof cut at it with desperate strength; this time the sword struck the haft squarely and sheared right through it, iron, wood and all, leaving the fat man staring stupidly at a useless truncheon. Elof kicked the fallen blade behind him and stepped back. Maybe now they'd listen-He heard the pad of feet an instant too late, saw his other attackers jump back, and whirled to meet the man who came running round the prow. He saw only a blurred, crouching outline, taut and compact, and a flash of red hair. Then a long sword licked out to meet his. Elof hewed at it as he would a tree, and with all his strength, and the sheer force behind the ringing collision sent the newcomer staggering back. But he recovered at once by spinning on his heel, and his sword leaped at Elof from an unexpected side. Elof just managed to parry, but the other's blade seemed to turn supple as a serpent and flow around his, till, with a sudden violent twist, it wrenched it right out of his grasp. Every muscle and joint in Elof's hand shrieked with the pain of near-dislocation, and he stumbled back clasping it under his other arm. His sword thudded into the sand. A heavy boot rested on it.

The other men raised their weapons and rushed forward with a yell, then stopped abruptly as they came up against the flat of a blade. The newcomer was holding them back as he looked Elof up and down. "Spears and bows just to deal with this?" he demanded coldly, in very clear Sothran speech. "One man?"

The fat man glowered. "If 'e is a man! Don't look canny t'me. Came at us off the marsh, 'e did! Can't take chances—"

"I think we may delay butchering him long enough to ask a question or two. Well?" the newcomer asked, turning to Elof again. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I do," said Elof. He took a second to study his opponent before saying anything more. The man had attacked in a stance which made him seem small, a hard target—the ploy of a master swordsman. Now that he was standing straight, he was a full head taller than Elof, but much leaner and narrower, hard and ageless. His garb of dark green tunic and breeches, though worn and stained, seemed plainer but sounder than the others' crazy blend of rags and soiled finery; it enhanced a certain dignity in his face. He had the same cast of features as Roc or Ka-thel, but less rounded, longer and harder, with a stern straight nose and firm cheekbones and chin, the pale skin gold-tinged by the sun; his hair was a darker, somber bronze-red, his eyes blue-gray as the sea mist and as hard to penetrate. They had a calm assessing quality which reminded Elof disturbingly of the Mastersmith, but seemed somehow less alarming. "I meant no harm," Elof said. "I was lost on the marsh, wandering. I could not survive long out there without fire and shelter. I came to ask for help."

"With a drawn sword?"

Elof bridled. "Not till your friends set on me! Without giving me a chance to speak! I tried to be civil, but—"

"—never had the chance. I see!" He raised his eyebrows at the fat man, who was aggrievedly picking up the pieces of his halberd. "Well, it may be as you say, but do not blame these lads too much. You obviously know what manner of a place the Marshlands are; travelers are always very nervous of what might appear off them. Rightly so! How did you come to be lost in them?"

"I dwell in them," said Elof, and there was a murmuring among the men. Some drew back, others hefted their weapons. "I'm no spook!" he said irritably. "Over by the Causeway—"

"Then What're you messin' about 'ere for?" growled the fat man.

There was nothing to be gained by telling these superstitious creatures the full story. "I was exploring far afield for metal, and lost my way."

"Metal?" barked the swordsman, with a look like a bird of prey stooping.

"Yes," said Elof calmly. "Iron, and old armor, for my trade. I'm a smith—"

Among the onlookers there was a sudden stir of interest, even of relief. The fat man rounded on them, but the swordsman snapped his fingers. "The Causeway? That's right, I'd heard that there was a Causeway smith again, this last year or so… And you have a smith's sinew, that's for certain." He turned to the fat man. "What say you? A stroke of good fortune at last?"

"It'd make a change. If 'e's what 'e says. If we can trust 'im. If 'e's any good. Almi drank, but at least you knew where you were with 'im. I mean, what smith worth a damn'd set up
there
, of all places?"

"Why don't you try me, and find out?" growled Elof, cold and hungry and irritated beyond measure.

"An admirable suggestion, smith," said the swordsman. "By your speech you're a northerner. Do you know anything of ships?"

Elof shook his head. "I've only ever been on one, and that by no will of mine. I know nothing of their making."

The swordsman sighed. "Well, neither did our last smith, and you cannot be any worse than he. See, smith, we were damaged in a seafight, barely limped back to this beach of ours, and the only smith among us dead—not in the fight, but of his drinking. Come and see—by your leave, skipper?" The fat man grunted, but let them pass, and trailed along behind with the other men. "The woodwork we've managed," said the swordsman, "though there are precious few good trees in these parts. But there's the worst of it, there at the keelscarf." He gestured at a point just under the outward curve of the prow, where a scarf joint secured by heavy trenails joined the long single timber of the keel to the rising forestem timber. Here were the roots of that tangle of metal, braced against both timbers. Elof, peering past the weeds, could see that the metal had once been a great harpoon-head of steel, with a comb of barbs along its heavy shaft. Outthrust beyond the bows, it must turn the whole ship into a gigantic spear, but now it hung sadly askew, the barbs twisted and cracked. "Our ramming skeg," said the swordsman. "What you northerners would call
iarnskekke
, I believe—the iron beard. Without it we've no chance against bigger ships. If you can make that whole for us again, you're welcome to fire and a blanket and such food as we have. Well?"

Elof stepped forward to peer at the wreck, wondering furiously just who these men were. The fat man and the others could easily be corsairs, but this big swordsman spoke like something better than a brigand, or at least more intelligently. Elof had more sense, though, than to ask outright, at least for now; he bent all his attention to the broken skeg, running his fingers over the twisted metal. It had been solid and sound once, but there must have been one impact too many… Suddenly he straightened up and swore. "This was damaged before—wasn't it?"