Pool of Twilight (12 page)

Primul led them down a side passage that opened into a small chamber, lit by the ruddy glow of a furnace. The smell of hot steel hung sharply on the air, and the walls were lined with all manner of tools: pincers and vises, hammers and bellows.

The green elf’s smithy.

Primul gestured to a wooden workbench. On it lay the most beautiful hammer Kern had ever seen. Iron and silver were folded together throughout the weapon in a marbled pattern. A ring of silver encircled each head. The haft was etched with fine elven runes. Kern didn’t even need to pick it up to know that the hammer was perfectly weighted and balanced.

“It’s beautiful,” he said reverently.

“Actually,” Primul countered, “it’s flawed. I was trying to forge a new alloy of hard steel and enchanted silver. But the two refused to mix. I can’t guarantee that, given a hard enough blow, the hammer won’t shatter. Still, if it’s magical foes you’re fighting, you’ll find no weapon with a more potent enchantment than this. It’s yours…”

Kern’s eyes lit up in excitement.

“… if you pass a small test,” the elven smith finished, displaying pointed white teeth in a sly smile.

“A test?”

“That’s right,” Primul replied. “After all, I’m not going to give a hammer to just anybody who wanders into my workshop, friend of Listle or not. I have to find out if you’re worthy of such a hammer. Will you agree to the test?”

“Kern,” Listle warned. “You might want to hear what the test is first, before you—”

He cut her off. The warhammer was too wondrous; he simply had to have it. “I’ll accept your test, Primul,” he said boldly, “and I’ll pass it, too.”

“Kern!” Listle groaned.

“We’ll see,” was all Primul said.

The big elf strode to the other side of the chamber. He halted before a table bearing a huge, rune-covered axe. The weapon gleamed eerily in the crimson forge-light.

Listle shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “I could have negotiated for the hammer, you know,” she hissed to Kern.

“Bargaining isn’t honorable,” he whispered back.

“Would-be paladin!” she snorted.

“The test is simple, human.” There was a deep, rumbling mirth in the elven smith’s voice. “All you have to do is pick up that axe and lop off my head.”

“What?” Kern thought he had heard the elf wrong.

“I’ll even kneel to make it easier,” Primul added. “And I won’t resist you in any way. All you have to do is swing the axe. If you’re strong enough, my head should come off quite nicely.”

Listle crossed her arms, regarding Primul suspiciously. “That’s it? That’s the test?”

“Well, there is one more part,” the big blond elf confessed. “After Kern has his swing, if I’m still alive and able, I’ll try the same on him. Blow for blow. That’s honorable enough.”

“But my blow will kill you,” Kern protested.

Primul shrugged his monumental shoulders. “Then the hammer will be all yours, human.” His brow furrowed in a scowl. “You’re not reneging on your word of honor, are you?”

“Never!” Kern didn’t much care for chopping off the head of his host, but he didn’t know what else he could do. He had agreed to the test. Perhaps Primul doubted Kern was strong enough to wield the heavy hammer. Was that the point? If so, Kern would prove him wrong, with fatal results.

“Let the test begin!” Primul bellowed. He knelt before Kern, bowing his head and holding aside his long golden hair so that Kern would have a clean view of his neck.

Kern hefted the heavy battle-axe. It wasn’t his usual weapon, but he handled the weighty axe with ease. Besides, how much skill did it take to cut off someone’s head? He certainly knew how to chop wood. How different could it be to chop off a head?

“Kern, you can’t do this!” Listle hissed in desperation.

“I don’t seem to have any choice, Listle,” he said reluctantly. “He’s the one holding me to my word.”

Listle chewed on her lip in frustration.

“Do it, human!” Primul shouted.

Kern lifted the axe above his head, its sharp edge gleaming wickedly. He took careful aim at the elf’s neck and steeled his will. Tyr forgive me, he murmured inwardly. Then he tensed his shoulders and swung the axe.

It was an exquisitely honed weapon, and it passed through Primul’s neck cleanly.

Green blood spurted out in a fountain as the big elf’s head bounced to the floor. Listle clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Kern dropped the axe, feeling more than just a little sick. He wished he hadn’t gone through with it. He had liked the burly elf.

“Well, at least we’ve got the hammer,” he said grimly.

“I wouldn’t count on that, human.”

It was Primul who had spoken, or rather, the big elf’s head. It grinned roguishly where it lay on the floor. Suddenly the big elf’s body lurched to its feet, the golden belt about its waist glowing brightly. The fountain of emerald blood slowed to a trickle, then stopped. While Kern and Listle gaped in utter astonishment, Primul’s body reached out with groping arms until it located the elf’s head. The arms raised the head up and set it back on Primul’s shoulders where it belonged. There was a faint sucking sound, and all trace of the gory wound receded.

Primul laughed and laughed, a rich sound like the tolling of a bell. The big elf was whole once again.

“Now, human,” he said, picking up the axe. “It’s your turn!”

“You tricked us, Primul!” Listle fumed.

“What trick?” the big elf rumbled jovially, patting the fine golden chain around his waist. “Did you ask me if I had a magic belt? I certainly didn’t hear you ask me if I had a magic belt.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she countered, her silver eyes molten with fury.

“He’s right, Listle,” Kern said grimly. It had been his mistake to agree to the green elf’s test Now he had to bear the consequences.

“Shut up, Kern,” she snapped. “We already know that your skull is full of rocks.” She angrily poked a finger against Primul’s barrel chest. “Release him from the bargain, Primul. Now.”

“Fine,” the elf spat in disgust, his green eyes tinged with fiery crimson. “I’ll release you, human, and you can run away with your dishonorable tail between your legs like a cur.”

“No, Primul,” Kern said calmly, surprised at the grit in his own voice. “I gave you my word. I won’t back down.” He held up a hand before Listle could protest. “I know what you’re going to say. I have an important quest to complete. That’s true. But if I break my word, then I am not a man of honor, and I don’t deserve to be a true paladin. Tyr would never allow me to gain his hammer, anyway. It would all be for nothing. At least this way”—he gulped—”I die like a paladin. Tell my parents I died with honor.” Kern’s heart beat wildly in his chest

Listle stared at him, too stunned for further protest

“I’m ready, Primul.” Kern knelt and bowed his head.

“Excellent,” the massive elf said, easily hefting the heavy battle-axe in one hand.

Kern whispered a prayer to Tyr. He hadn’t expected things to end up this way, but he hoped Tarl would not be too disappointed in him. At least he had preserved his honor.

“Prepare to meet your creator, human,” Primul said with a deep, hearty chuckle. He raised the axe.

Kern forced himself to stare ahead. He was determined not to flinch. He would not show himself a coward.

“Now!” the green elf bellowed fearfully.

Kern steeled his will. He heard the axe whistling through the air as it descended. But Kern tapped an inner reservoir of strength and determination he did not realize he possessed. He did not even bat an eyelash.

At the last possible moment, Primul turned his fatal swing. The bright edge of the axe just brushed the skin of Kern’s neck, nicking it. Kern felt a small, hot trickle of blood run down his back. Primul’s good-natured laughter filled the chamber.

“Primul,” Listle scolded, “if this is all your idea of a joke, let me be the first to tell you that I’m not laughing.”

“It is no joke, Listle. Here, on your feet, human.” He reached down a big hand and hoisted a rather stunned Kern to his feet. “If Kern here had begged for mercy, or had shown any sign of fear—even the slightest flinch—I would have happily hewn his head off.” He put a friendly arm around Kern’s shoulders, squeezing so hard Kern thought his eyes would pop out. “You showed yourself a man of courage, Kern. That was the test. The hammer is yours.”

Kern couldn’t suppress a jubilant grin, not in the least because his head was still attached to his shoulders. “Thank you, Primul.”

“Don’t thank me,” Primul said, crossing his arms and tossing his long tail of golden hair back. “Honor the gift. Defeat your foes. That will be gratitude enough.”

Hardly believing his good fortune, Kern slowly picked up the magical, beautifully marbled warhammer. “I will, Primul. I promise.”

“Humph!” was all Listle said.

The young archer pulled back on the bowstring until the arrow’s red-feathered fletching just brushed her cheek.

“Bow, make this one fly like a hawk,” she murmured. The polished ashwood bow seemed to reply with a faint, humming resonance. She released her hold. The bowstring twanged brightly, and the red-feathered arrow streaked through the chill, mist-laden air. It arced almost impossibly high above a rocky defile where a mountain stream raced over granite boulders. Then the arrow plummeted toward the far, heather-covered slope. It passed straight through the center of a small straw target and buried itself up to its fletching in the damp turf. The archer lowered the bow with a grin of satisfaction.

“You did it, Daile!” the tall man standing next to her cried excitedly. “That target is three hundred feet away if it’s a step.” The man was a lean, rangy fellow, handsome despite a somewhat weathered appearance. The red-gold of his neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair was shot with gray, and long years of trekking in the outdoors had tanned his face like leather. But he was still obviously a hale man.

“I had a little help from the bow,” Daile said, smoothing her thumb along the well-polished arc of wood.

Ren had made the bow for her over the summer. It was a long, diligent process. First he had searched the forest for the right sapling, one in which he could see the natural shape of a bow. Then he had stripped its bark, split it, and soaked the wood in water before shaping it into a long graceful arc and curing it over a slow fire. Ren had carved many bows in his life, but this time he added one different step.

For several nights he sat up late, smoothing the pale wood of the bow with two small dark stones. They were ioun stones, and magical in nature. Usually he kept them in the hilts of the daggers he wore in his boots. As he polished with the ioun stones, the bow took on a deep, vibrant luster. Finally, he could feel the weapon humming in his hands, and he knew it was ready.

He gave the bow to Daile for her birthday. Instantly she had realized there was something unique about the weapon. Once she began using it, she found she could aim more accurately and shoot farther than she had ever dreamed possible.

“A bow is only as good as the archer using it,” Ren noted with a wolfish smile. “I imagine the next orcs who wander into the valley are going to be surprised when they find arrows sticking out of their throats with no archers in sight.” He laughed loudly at that, slapping his leather leggings.

“That is, if you leave any orcs for me, Father,” Daile replied. She knew her father all too well. Orcs that wandered within a dozen leagues of him seemed to have a difficult time keeping their heads attached to their bodies.

“Humor an old man, Daile. Killing orcs is my only real fun these days.”

She sighed dramatically, as if making a terribly great sacrifice. “Oh, very well, Father. You can behead the orcs, if you absolutely must.” She smiled mischievously. “But the kobolds are mine.”

The man snorted. “Selfish child.” He laughed deeply. “You’re my daughter, all right.”

“Whether you like it or not,” Daile answered. She gathered their possessions into a leather pack, then slung the pack over a shoulder. She and Ren often went out on all-day sojourns through the woodland and heath of the Valley of the Falls. It gave her a chance to practice her forest skills. And though her father never said so, she knew these wanderings also gave him the opportunity to tramp and explore the land he loved.

“Let’s head home,” she said, plunging into a grove of ghost-pale aspens. “I’ll make supper.”

“What are you cooking tonight?” Ren asked.

“Orc stew.”

He made a gagging sound. “You’re joking.”

Daile didn’t answer.

“Please say you’re joking, Daile.” His voice was a trifle desperate this time.

Daile only a hummed a cheerful ditty, deftly picking her way along a faint forest trail that would have been invisible to an untrained eye. All Ren could do was shake his head and follow, grumbling under his breath something about where he must have gone wrong rearing his troublesome daughter.

Leading the way up the forested slope, Daile emerged from the autumn-colored forest, finding herself on the high, rocky crest of granite that Ren affectionately dubbed Dead Orc Ridge. The ridge bounded the west side of the Valley of the Falls, the valley that had been Daile’s home for all eighteen years of her life. She paused, surveying the patchwork of forest and glade below. The valley was a deep, steep-sided bowl, carved long ago out of the rock by a glacier. Running through the valley’s center was the narrow gorge where Daile liked to practice her archery skills. The stream had its source in a waterfall that tumbled down a sheer, thousand-foot cliff at the valley’s north end.

Daile cocked her head. Even now she could hear the ceaseless roar of the waterfall, though soon its voice would be silenced by the freezing breath of winter. Not that Daile minded. Winter might give her and her father the chance to do some ice-climbing, making their way up the frozen falls with naught but two ice picks, some iron pitons, and a rope. If she could coax her father along on such an adventure, that is.

“I was beginning to think I’d lost you,” she said cheerily, as Ren finally appeared out of the woods, scrambling up the scree to the ridgetop, his chest heaving. He was sweating despite the cold air sharp with the scent of snow.