His irritation flared into anger minutes later when the pulley crew, in their anxiety to finish the job swiftly, cracked one of the balls against the side of the building, smashing it to shards.
For the next hour the Weapon Maker moved back and forth between the pulley crew and the carpenters, checking the work. The pottery balls were stored against the western side of the roof, and covered with a canvas sheet. The circular iron rails arrived in the early afternoon, and Ozhobar himself fitted them over the chalk circles, hammering the iron spikes into place. It was almost dusk before the first sections of the catapult were hauled into the street below. Ozhobar oversaw the lifting of the cross-beamed base and the throwing-arm, then ordered lanterns to be lit so that the work could continue after dark.
It was midnight before the weapon was fully in place, its four wooden wheels set within the iron rails. The throwing-arm extended upwards more than ten feet, the bronze cup at the top gleaming in the lantern light. Ozhobar swung the machine to the right, and the wheels groaned as the catapult moved. He greased the axles. Now there was no sound as the catapult turned.
“I hope it works,” said the team leader, a thin-faced man with a seemingly permanent sneer.
Ozhobar ignored him, then smiled as he pictured the man sitting in the copper cup as the holding hook was hammered clear. In his mind’s eye he could see the fellow sailing up and over the north wall.
It began to snow. Ozhobar ordered the catapult to be covered with a tarpaulin, then made the long perilous descent to the ground, four floors below.
Striding back through the city, he stopped at a tavern for a brief meal, then walked the mile and a half to his workshop. His burly assistant, Brek, was talking to Forin and the female general, Karis.
Ozhobar moved to the forge, holding out his hands to the heat. “Are we ready?” he asked the black-bearded Brek.
“It is mostly assembled, Oz. A few minor additions will be needed to the helm.”
“Then let us go through,” he said. Aware of his earlier discourtesy, he bowed to Karis. “After you, General.”
Karis moved through to the rear store-room. There, set on a wooden frame, was a curiously wrought breastplate of polished iron, with bulging shoulder-guards and a raised, semi-circular neck-plate. Brek walked to a nearby workbench and came back with a huge helmet which he fitted inside the neck-guard. “It looks like a huge beetle,” said Forin, with a deep belly laugh.
“Put it on,” said Karis.
“You’re joking!”
“I never joke. Put it on.”
Forin stepped up to the frame. Brek removed the helm, then lifted the breastplate clear, placing it over Forin’s broad shoulders. The jutting shoulder-guards made him look even more enormous. The open sides were protected by chainmail, which Brek hooked into place. “Now the helm,” said Karis.
The large, conical helmet was lowered into place, then hooked to the neck-guard. Forin’s green eyes shone with humour as he gazed out of the slitted visor. “I feel like an idiot,” came his muffled voice.
“How appropriate,” observed Ozhobar.
“What did he say? I can’t hear a damned thing in here.”
Lifting a heavy broadsword from beside the black forge, Ozhobar swung it over his head and brought it down hard against the side of the helm. Forin staggered and almost fell; then he whirled on the Weapon Maker. Ozhobar struck him again. This time the sword snapped in two.
“Remove the helm,” ordered Ozhobar. Brek climbed on a bench and lifted the helmet clear.
“You whoreson!” stormed Forin. “I’ll break your—”
“You are alive, idiot!” snapped Ozhobar. “Had you not been wearing the armour, I would have cut your head from your shoulders. I do not know how strong the Daroth will prove, but I am stronger than most men and I could not dent the metal!”
“He’s right,” said Karis. “How does the armour feel?”
“Damned heavy. But the helmet needs padding; it felt as if I was inside a town bell. I can still feel it ringing in my ears. Also we’ll need eye-slits at the sides. The helmet isn’t made to turn with the head; the head turns inside it. We need side vision.”
“That is already in the design,” said Ozhobar. “As Brek said earlier, we still have to complete the helmet. That said, I am pleased with it. If it meets with your approval, General, I shall have the Armourer begin work on the others.”
“What about protection for the arms?” asked Forin.
“I am developing a complex design of interlocking arm plates,” Ozhobar told him. “The first set should be ready by next week. The elbow section is the problem at present, but I will find a way around it. How are the axes?”
Forin shrugged. “At first I thought they would prove impossible to wield, but we are getting used to them. The men improve day by day. Why did you design the blades to flare at the base and tip? They look like butterfly wings.”
“As indeed they were intended to,” said Ozhobar. “The problem with the simple half-moon design is that when it smashes through the ribs it can catch within the body. The butterfly design will help to prevent such a possibility. I hope you have also noticed that the upward flare of the blades allows them to be used as a stabbing weapon.”
“An axe is not a stabbing weapon,” objected Forin.
Ozhobar moved to a bench at the rear of the room, lifting a black short-handled axe. Holding it like a spear, he suddenly threw it at a nearby door. The upper points of the head slammed deep into the wood. Ozhobar walked to the door, wrenching it open. Two shining points of steel had completely pierced the door, and were jutting like dagger blades from the wood. “My axe is also a stabbing weapon,” he said. “It just takes a little imagination to see it.”
“Your point is well made, Oz,” said Karis. “And I am delighted with the armour.”
Only Ozhobar’s closest colleagues were allowed to use the short form of his name, and inwardly he bridled at her casual use of it. But, almost in the same moment, he realized that he liked the sound of it from her lips. Reddening, he muttered something banal. She smiled then, thanked him and Brek for his time and, with Forin, walked from the room.
Brek was grinning. “Don’t say a word!” Ozhobar warned him.
“Perish the thought,” answered Brek.
Outside the snow had turned to sleet, the temperature just below freezing. “Only a matter of weeks now,” said Karis.
“Ay,” agreed Forin. “You look tired, Karis. You need some sleep.”
She chuckled. “You were right. You did look like a giant beetle.” Then there was silence. Karis was loath to walk away from the green-eyed giant, and he too seemed ill at ease. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said at last.
“It is already tomorrow,” he pointed out. She shrugged and walked away. He called her name, his voice soft and low. Karis paused, then walked on. Damn the man, she thought. Why does he fill my mind?
As she strode on, a large black hound padded out from an alleyway and began walking alongside her. She stopped and glanced down. “Where do you think you are going?” she asked. The hound cocked its huge head and looked at her. Squatting down, she stroked the squat muzzle, then patted its back; she felt the bones of its ribs under her hand. A figure shuffled out of the darkness and Karis rose, one hand on her dagger.
“You won’t need that,” said the elderly man. “I’m harmless enough.” His back was arthritic and bent and he was struggling to carry a bundle of firewood.
“It is late to be out,” she said.
“The house was too damned cold, so I took the opportunity of ripping a few sticks from a rich man’s fence.” He gave a gap-toothed grin, then looked down at the dog. “He’s called Stealer,” he said.
“Your dog?”
“No-one’s dog. He lives by his wits—and by catching rats. Good judge of character, is Stealer. He has a nose for a soft heart.”
“His nose has betrayed him this time,” she said.
The old man was unconvinced. “I don’t think so. Anyw
ay, the chill is getting to me, so I’ll say good night to you.” He shuffled away into the moon shadows and Karis walked on, the dog padding alongside her.
At the gates of the palace she waved at the guards and made her way to her rooms. A servant had lit a fire some hours before, and the coals were glowing with a dying red. Stealer loped across the room and stretched himself out on a rug before the hearth. A covered platter had been left on the table. Karis lifted the lid and saw a plate of salted beef, a round of red cheese and a loaf. Suddenly hungry, she sat down. Stealer was immediately beside her, staring up at her with his large brown eyes. “You are a beggar, sir,” she said. His head tilted. She fed him the meat, then tucked into the bread and cheese. Stealer watched until the last morsel was gone, then padded back to the fire. Karis added the last of the coal, then wandered into the bedroom.
Blowing out the lanterns, she took off her clothes and slipped under the blankets. Almost immediately a terrifying growl sounded from the main room. Throwing back the covers, she ran out to find Vint standing against the wall, knife in hand, the huge hound before him with teeth bared.
“Come here!” she called.
“Me or the beast?” enquired Vint. Karis chuckled. Stealer did not move. Karis strolled across to him and knelt down, stroking his muzzle.
“This man is, loosely, what one might call my friend. Therefore it would be best if you did not rip his throat out.” She patted the broad head, then stood and took Vint’s hand, leading him into the bedroom. “You are just what I need,” she told him.
Moments later they were both naked. As they were caressing Karis noted a swift change in Vint, a sudden softness. “What is wrong?” she whispered.
“The damn thing is looking at me,” he said. Karis turned her head, to see that Stealer was standing with his front paws on the bed, his squat nose inches from Vint’s face. It was too much for Karis, and her laughter pealed out.
Vint slumped down beside her. “I don’t think he likes me,” he said.
“Bring some meat next time you come. I have a feeling that Stealer’s affections are easily bought.”
“He is the ugliest hound I’ve ever seen. How did you come by him?”
“He adopted me.”
“You do have an uncanny effect on males, Karis! I’ll give you that.”
The winds were howling across the jagged rocks, whipping sleet against the cold walls of the cliffs. A violet light shimmered, then two men were standing where a moment before there had been only a long-dead tree and an empty trail.
Tarantio ran forward, ducking behind a rock as the icy needles of sleet slashed into him. Duvodas came alongside. “This should be the mountain,” he said.
“I have to say, Singer, that I did not really believe your story. If I had, I would have thought twice about accompanying you.”
Duvo glanced up. The clouds were thick, the darkness almost absolute. Then there was a break in the clouds which lasted just long enough for both men to see the outline of the monastery, high up the mountainside. “That’s a long climb,” said Tarantio, “and it will be a cold one.”
Duvo closed his eyes and warmth radiated from him, enveloping Tarantio. They stood and began the ascent. Despite the heat it was an uncomfortable climb, for the sleet melted into rain around them and both men were drenched within minutes.
The path grew narrow, and Duvodas slipped. Tarantio caught his arm. For a heartbeat only Duvodas found himself staring down over an awesome drop, his heart hammering in panic. “Walk on the inside,” said Tarantio. Gratefully Duvodas exchanged places and they climbed on. The wind picked up, battering at them, the rocky path underfoot was icy and treacherous. Conversation was impossible, and they ducked their heads into the wind and slowly forced their way up the mountain.
The heat spell was useless against the power of the wind, and ice began to form inside their clothing. Duvo found his mind wandering; he sat down suddenly. Tarantio loomed over him. “What in Hell’s name do you think you are doing?” he shouted.
“I think I’ll sleep for a little while.”
“Are you mad? You’ll die.”
Duvo’s eyes closed. Tarantio’s cold hand slashed across his face in a stinging slap. “Get up!” ordered the warrior. The sudden pain cut through his drowsiness and, taking Tarantio’s hand, he hauled himself to his feet. As the two men struggled on, the wind grew into a storm which lashed at them, buffeting them against the rocks, making balance and movement a continuing nightmare. Arms linked, the climbers pressed on, finally rounding a bend and entering a cleft away from the wind. The relief was indescribable. Duvo pressed his back to the wall, and once more summoned the heat spell. Drawing Tarantio in close, the two men stood shivering as the warmth grew, easing through their icy clothing.
“We must be close,” said Duvo, his voice shaking.
“Let’s hope they open the gate.”
“Why would they not?” Duvo asked.
“They might not hear us in the storm. I would guess they are all tucked up in their beds. Wait here. I’ll find out.”
Tarantio moved away into the darkness and Duvo slumped down. Steam was rising from his clothes and the growing warmth was delicious. He lay down on the rock and fell asleep. Minutes later, when Tarantio shook him awake, Duvo was icy-cold. The heat spell could only be maintained while he was awake. Shivering uncontrollably, he fought to restore it. Tarantio sat down beside him. “By the Gods, you are a fool!” hissed the warrior.
“I . . . am . . . sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I would have been, without a way back to Corduin.”
“Did you find the monastery?”
“Yes. It is around two hundred paces farther on. There is a nasty section of rock, narrow and covered in ice. I think we should wait for the dawn before trying it.”
“I don’t think I can stay awake that long.”
Tarantio’s dagger pricked the skin under Duvo’s chin. “If you fall asleep, I think I know a way to wake you.”
The night wore on, seemingly endlessly to the exhausted Duvodas, and when at last the first rays of dawn could been seen illuminating the southern end of the cleft, he felt a surge of elation.
“What do we know about this monastery?” asked Tarantio—the first words he had spoken in hours.
“Very little. I looked for references to it in the library at Corduin. It was originally built by Priests of the Source hundreds of years ago. Now it is owned by a sect who call themselves the Letters of Revelation. Their cult believes the end of the world is upon us.”
“They may not be far wrong,” said Tarantio grimly. “Let us hope they are early risers.”
The two men rose wearily to their feet and moved along the cleft. Duvodas stumbled to a halt before the narrow ledge leading to the gates of the monastery. It was around 100 paces long, ice-covered and slanted, in places no more than three or four feet wide. The drop to the left of the ledge was dizzyingly deep. “How high do you think we are?” he asked Tarantio.
“A thousand feet. Maybe more,” answered the warrior. “The height is immaterial. A drop of a hundred feet would see a man dead. All this means is that you will be in the air for longer.”
“I don’t think I can walk across that,” said Duvo.
“Move ahead of me. I’ll catch you if you stumble.”
“I can’t.”
Dace grabbed Duvo’s fur-lined cloak and slammed him back against the rock wall. “You listen to me, you miserable whoreson! You’ve dragged me halfway across the land with your tale of woe, of rescuing the Eldarin and imprisoning the Daroth. And now a little danger has you pissing your breeches. You’ll walk—or I swear I’ll hurl you over the edge.”
“Not everyone is blessed with your courage,” said Duvodas, “but I will make the attempt. Not because you threaten me, but because you are right. It is more important to find the Pearl.”
Tarantio released him. “Hold to the wall, and move slowly. If your foot slips, drop to your stomach. Do not try to maintain bal
ance.”
Duvo took a deep breath and was about to step forward, when the sound of distant singing came from the monastery. A wall of warmth struck him. Ahead the ice began to melt on the ledge. The heat was now almost unbearable and both men turned their backs to it. As they did so, they saw the same effect flowing along the cleft. “They understand the magic of the land,” said Duvo. “They are clearing a path for us.”
The wall of heat moved on, flowing past them. Stepping out, Duvo ran along the ledge and up the small slope to the ancient gates. Tarantio came up behind him.
“They are not doing it for us,” said Tarantio. “If they were, the heat would have stopped where we were. And they are still singing their magic.”
“I don’t care,” said Duvo happily. “We made it, Tarantio.” He thumped his fist on the gate. After several moments he heard a latch creak, and when the gate opened an elderly monk stood there in woollen robes of flowing white. He had kindly brown eyes and a gentle smile.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
“Can we come in?” asked Tarantio. “It has been a cold night and I would appreciate a warm meal.”
“Of course. Of course.” The old priest stepped aside. After they had entered he closed the gate and led them across a small courtyard and into the main building, up three flights of stairs and along a corridor. Here there was a long, narrow dining-room. Another white-robed priest was working in the kitchen area, cleaning dishes. The sound of singing was muted now, but the travellers could still hear it coming from far below.
“Good morning again, Brother Nemas,” said the old man to the dish-washing priest. “We have two visitors. Is there any soup left?”
“Indeed there is, brother. Have they come to join us?”
“If they have, it is too late,” said the old monk. “But at least we can give them a warm meal for their journey back to the damned.”
There was a bright fire burning in an iron stove by the far wall. Tarantio walked to it and warmed his hands, then he moved to the window which overlooked the courtyard and the gates. The old priest set two bowls of steaming soup on the table. Duvodas thanked him. “We are here looking for a man named—”