Inchkeith and Quentin worked on and on, pausing to take a little food now and then, and to rest only in idle moments, though there were few of those. Toli and Durwin looked on and uttered words of encouragement when such words were needed, but mainly kept themselves out of the way and silent, allowing the master and his eager apprentice to work on undisturbed.
There was much heating and cooling, hammering and shaping of the gleaming metal. It was chiseled and chased, beaten and burnished, until at last the blade of a sword could be seen emerging from the long flat length of metal. A hilt and handle were fashioned from the solid sheet which had been put aside. For this a flat piece was rolled and flattened, and it too was twisted and twisted and then joined to the emerging blade.
The blade was fired and refired. Each time it was scraped smooth and filed again and again with long, careful strokes. Inchkeith bent his face over the hot metal and directed Quentin’s fingers here and there along the length, pointing out minute flaws that only he could see. If his young apprentice’s strength and enthusiasm flagged, the-old master’s never did. With praise and threats and stubborn demands Inchkeith challenged Quentin to better and higher work, at one point taking Quentin’s hands in his own and guiding them over the blade to do the job that he knew must be done.
And then it was finished.
Quentin sat exhausted on a large rock and looked at his handiwork as it lay across the golden anvil. Inchkeith studied it carefully, nodding and puffing out his cheeks alternately. Durwin and Toli were nowhere to be seen. Quentin’s eyes burned in his head, and though tired, he watched Inchkeith’s every wink and frown with breathless anticipation.
At last the master craftsman turned to Quentin, his face beaming, his chest swelling with pride. “Yes, it is finished.” He hesitated, seeing Quentin hungrily grasp at his words. “And it is a masterpiece.”
Quentin leaped up and shouted with joy. “We have done it!” he cried. “We have done it!” He grabbed the old man and began dancing around the forge where they had lived and worked and sweated for what seemed weeks on end. They were so caught up in the relief and exultation of the moment that they did not hear Durwin and Toli return.
“Does this unseemly exhibition mean that you two have finished your labors at last?” Durwin called, bounding forward to clap them both on the back. He stopped, and a look of reverent awe lit his eyes. Toli, coming hard on his heels, stopped and began speaking in his native tongue.
“It is-” Durwin searched for words. “It is indeed a thing of fearsome beauty.” His hands flew up toward his face as if he feared the sight would burn him.
“It is the Zhaligkeer,” said Toli. “It is the Shining One.”
Quentin took it from the anvil and held it in his hand, lifting it toward heaven. “This is the Shining One of the Most High. Let it move as he alone directs. As I am his servant, let it be filled with his power and let our enemies fly before its terrible fury.”
“So be it!” shouted the others. Durwin stepped up and brought out a vial from the leather pouch at his side.
“I have kept this for this time. It is oil which has been blessed in Dekra. With it I will anoint the blade of the Shining One.”
Quentin held the sword across the palms of both hands as Durwin opened the vial and poured the holy oil along the length of the blade, which shone with a pale, silvery-blue light. The sword was indeed a thing of dread beauty. It was long and thin, tapering almost imperceptibly along its smooth, flawless length to a gleaming point. The grip and hilt sparkled as if cut from gemstone.
As Durwin poured out the oil he blessed the sword, saying, “Never in malice, never in hate, never in evil shall this blade be raised. But in righteousness and justice forever shall it shine.” Then he took his fingers and rubbed the oil over the finely worked blade.
As he touched the shining metal Durwin felt the power of the lanthanil flow through him, and it was as if the years fell away from him; he was a young man again and marveled at the sensation, for he had quite gotten used to his numerous aches and pains. When he turned to the others he was the same Durwin as before, but vastly changed in aspect He appeared wise, stronger and more noble than before. He laughed out loud and pointed a long finger directly at Inchkeith who gazed at him with some alarm, seeing the sudden change which had come over the hermit.
“Look there, Inchkeith, my friend. The blade has worked its enchantment upon you as well, I see.”
Inchkeith aghast, sputtered, “What are you talking about? I never touched the stone, nor the blade. What do you mean?”
Quentin looked at the hunchbacked armorer and saw that he was standing erect and tall, he seemed to have grown several inches. How or when it had happened he had not noticed. Perhaps when the master had placed his hands upon Quentin’s, the power had gone into him; but they had been so completely absorbed in their work, they had not noticed until Durwin pointed it out to them just at that moment.
“Yes!” shouted Quentin. “You are healed, Inchkeith. You are whole.”
A look of stunned disbelief shone on the craftsman’s face; he squared his shoulders and raised his head. It was some minutes before he would believe that his hump had disappeared, but when that belief finally broke in upon him he sank to his knees and began to cry.
“Your god has done this, Durwin!” he cried as tears of happiness streamed down his face. “I believe now. I believe all you have ever told me about him. Blessed is the Most High. From now on I am his servant.”
They all rejoiced together, and the high-domed roof of the great cave echoed with their voices. The halls of the Ariga, deep beneath the mountains, rang with joyful sounds such as had not been heard in two thousand years.
FIFTY-TWO
WHEN RONSARD arrived at the gatehouse barbican, he was met by the worried glances of his officers and Lord Rudd. “What is it?” he asked. “What is this alarm?”
“I ordered it,” explained Rudd. “Look down there. They are bringing some machine up the ramp.”
Ronsard looked down and saw that what Rudd said was quite true; two hundred or more Ningaal were laboring with ropes and poles to drag an enormous device up the ramp. The battering ram had been taken away, and this lumbering object was being wheeled with great exertion to assume its place before the gates.
“What is it?” a perplexed Ronsard asked. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“I cannot say I have seen such a machine in war either. But I can tell you I do not like the look of it, whatever it is.”
“Direct the archers to hinder them as much as possible. I have no doubt it would be better that it never reached the gates. I will fetch Biorkis; I would have him look at it. Something tells me that thing down there belongs more to his ken than ours.”
Shortly the Lord High Marshall was back at the battlements, dragging a blustering priest behind him. “What do you make of that?” Ronsard asked as they peered over the stone ramparts onto the activity below.
“It is a strange thing indeed!” said Biorkis, pulling on his braided beard. “Very strange.”
His old eyes gazed upon the massive black object inching its way up the long incline under a hail of arrows. Its black skin shone with a dull luster in the sunlight and two great arms thrust forward, palms upward as if to receive the supplications of the castle dwellers. It stood with the legs and torso of a man, one leg thrust forward, bent at the knee, the other stretched straight behind. But its face and head were its most distinguishing features, next to its size, for it bore the head and mane of a lion and the gaping maw of a jackal with a jackal’s sharp fangs bored in a furious, frozen snarl of rage. Two huge black horns swept out from either side of its hideous black head, and its unblinking eyes stared angrily ahead as it groaned forward under its immense weight.