The Forge in the Forest Read Online Free
face again," gurgled Roc, "he'll have this slung in it!"
"What I'd gladly know, lads," panted Hjoran, as they struggled out onto the summit, "is just how much further there's to go?"
"This is the place!" gasped Elof, lifting his face to the spattering rain. "And in time, it seems!"
"Here?" demanded Roc. "Why here? There's not even a fireplace…" But they were glad enough to set down the anvil, with a clang that struck sparks from the hard stone. Hjoran leaned on it, wheezing, while Marja comforted him.
Breathless, Elof gazed out over the harbor and the sea beyond. In the lightning's own light the stormclouds rose up immense, bastion upon bastion, like some great fortress of the Powers, seething with the energies it could scarce contain. Now their vanguard was almost overhead, and the rain was growing heavier, sputtering against the link's cover. A great curtain of it, opaque as a pearl, was sweeping in across the churning sea, no more than moments away. He set his teeth and looked down into the darkness of the stairwell. All the time they had struggled through it he had been willing some guidance from it, some sign such as he had once felt there. Now there was nothing, save perhaps watchfulness, remote and stern. A flash sent his shadow coursing down the steps; the thunder was so close he jumped. "This grows perilous!" he heard Hjoran grumble, and Marja's squeak of agreement.
"It does indeed!" Roc said. He took the bag of tools and unrolled it on the anvil top. "Leave the gear, Marja, get you back to the stairs, and you, Hjoran. I'll give him what help he needs…"
"It's given," said Elof quietly, unwrapping the blade. "Pass me a good hammer, if you please, the great slope-headed one of duergar pattern. Fit those rivets to the hilt, there, and lay them aside with a punch to fit. Then go with the others."
"You're sure?" growled Roc, rummaging through the clinking roll. "I smell another of your tomfool tricks—"
"Maybe. But fool or no, none save myself may try. Now keep back!"
Flash and thunder all but drowned him out. The few hulls at anchor rocked, plunged and vanished as the rain lashed across their decks. "Get below!" Elof yelled. "There's no more you can do! Later I may need you!" From the pouch at his belt he tugged the armor gauntlet he had made among the duergar, and Roc's eyes widened in understanding, doubt and awe.
"Do you make sure later comes, that's all!" he bellowed, and vanished smartly into the stairwell. An instant later the line of rain charged across the tower top, and all vanished in lashing confusion.
Elof stood fast by the anvil, fighting to keep his feet against the buffeting wind, struggling to hold the blade while he drew on the long gauntlet. It slid minutely over his fingers, inscribed and patterned plate molding smoothly to the close contours of his flesh, mail fine almost as cloth swelling and shaping around the very joints, till his arm was enclosed to the shoulder and his fingers could at last close firm round the flat faceted jewel at its heart. With that comfort he dared not pause to think, but sprang up upon the battlements and thrust his arm to the sky. Now he himself was the summit of the seawall, there was no higher point save the towers of the distant citadel itself. It must happen, it had to happen any moment now!
Then a thought unleashed a rush of cold perspiration. Quickly he spread his fingers wide and flat as he could, arching back his hand to raise the palm. If it should light first on a fingertip, anywhere but the palm…
The storm took him and shook him, the blast yelled at him not to be a fool, he felt it roll and swirl in the abyss at his back, down along the streets far below. Or was it at his back? He was no longer even sure which way he faced. All his courage was thinning and draining out of him, leached away by the icy rain. He had carried that anvil too long, he had no strength left; his arm was a taut hot wire of pain, his wrist an agony of tension, his
"What I'd gladly know, lads," panted Hjoran, as they struggled out onto the summit, "is just how much further there's to go?"
"This is the place!" gasped Elof, lifting his face to the spattering rain. "And in time, it seems!"
"Here?" demanded Roc. "Why here? There's not even a fireplace…" But they were glad enough to set down the anvil, with a clang that struck sparks from the hard stone. Hjoran leaned on it, wheezing, while Marja comforted him.
Breathless, Elof gazed out over the harbor and the sea beyond. In the lightning's own light the stormclouds rose up immense, bastion upon bastion, like some great fortress of the Powers, seething with the energies it could scarce contain. Now their vanguard was almost overhead, and the rain was growing heavier, sputtering against the link's cover. A great curtain of it, opaque as a pearl, was sweeping in across the churning sea, no more than moments away. He set his teeth and looked down into the darkness of the stairwell. All the time they had struggled through it he had been willing some guidance from it, some sign such as he had once felt there. Now there was nothing, save perhaps watchfulness, remote and stern. A flash sent his shadow coursing down the steps; the thunder was so close he jumped. "This grows perilous!" he heard Hjoran grumble, and Marja's squeak of agreement.
"It does indeed!" Roc said. He took the bag of tools and unrolled it on the anvil top. "Leave the gear, Marja, get you back to the stairs, and you, Hjoran. I'll give him what help he needs…"
"It's given," said Elof quietly, unwrapping the blade. "Pass me a good hammer, if you please, the great slope-headed one of duergar pattern. Fit those rivets to the hilt, there, and lay them aside with a punch to fit. Then go with the others."
"You're sure?" growled Roc, rummaging through the clinking roll. "I smell another of your tomfool tricks—"
"Maybe. But fool or no, none save myself may try. Now keep back!"
Flash and thunder all but drowned him out. The few hulls at anchor rocked, plunged and vanished as the rain lashed across their decks. "Get below!" Elof yelled. "There's no more you can do! Later I may need you!" From the pouch at his belt he tugged the armor gauntlet he had made among the duergar, and Roc's eyes widened in understanding, doubt and awe.
"Do you make sure later comes, that's all!" he bellowed, and vanished smartly into the stairwell. An instant later the line of rain charged across the tower top, and all vanished in lashing confusion.
Elof stood fast by the anvil, fighting to keep his feet against the buffeting wind, struggling to hold the blade while he drew on the long gauntlet. It slid minutely over his fingers, inscribed and patterned plate molding smoothly to the close contours of his flesh, mail fine almost as cloth swelling and shaping around the very joints, till his arm was enclosed to the shoulder and his fingers could at last close firm round the flat faceted jewel at its heart. With that comfort he dared not pause to think, but sprang up upon the battlements and thrust his arm to the sky. Now he himself was the summit of the seawall, there was no higher point save the towers of the distant citadel itself. It must happen, it had to happen any moment now!
Then a thought unleashed a rush of cold perspiration. Quickly he spread his fingers wide and flat as he could, arching back his hand to raise the palm. If it should light first on a fingertip, anywhere but the palm…
The storm took him and shook him, the blast yelled at him not to be a fool, he felt it roll and swirl in the abyss at his back, down along the streets far below. Or was it at his back? He was no longer even sure which way he faced. All his courage was thinning and draining out of him, leached away by the icy rain. He had carried that anvil too long, he had no strength left; his arm was a taut hot wire of pain, his wrist an agony of tension, his
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