Storm Season

He held out his magic hands, his painter's hands, so that the moonlight silvered them, staring as if they held his answer. And perhaps that was true, for if he had beaten Zanderei, the other man's final question had also vanquished him. And he could only answer it by facing his mirror with a paintbrush in his hand.

The moon was poised above the tattered rooftops, resting after the labor of drawing in the tide. Like a silver mirror, she blessed the tortured streets of Sanctuary, and the tear-streaked face of the man who gazed at her, with the reflected splendor of the hidden sun.

STEEL by Ly

1

Walegrin listened carefully to the small noises carried on the night breeze. His survival depended on his ability to untangle the sounds of the night-and on the steel sword he clutched, unsheathed, at his side. Ambushers crept toward his small camp in the darkness.

Two bright Enlibar wagons sat, unguarded and garish, in the ruddy light of a neglected fire. Their cargo had been scattered in tempting disarray; chunks of aquamarine ore shimmered in the moonlight. Walegrin's cloak lay close by the fire, covering an armload of thorny sticks-a ruse to convince the brigands that he and his men were more weary than careful and valued sleep above their lives.

They'd had little enough rest since leaving the ruined mine with the precious ore; and of the twenty-five men who had left Sanctuary only seven remained. But Walegrin trusted his six stalwarts against four times that many hillmen.

Walegrin's thoughts were stopped by the warning cry of a mountain hawk; Malm, who had a shepherd's eye for ominous movements, had spotted the enemy. Walegrin held his ground until the camp swarmed with dark, scuttling shapes, until someone stabbed a cloak and heard wood splintering, not bone. Then, sword raised, he led his men out of the shadows.

These outlaws were better armed and bolder than any the soldiers had encountered before, but Walegrin had no time to consider this discovery. His men were hard pressed, without their usual advantage over the hill-bred fighters. His sword stole the lifeblood of two men, but then he was cut himself and fought defensively, unaware of the fate of his men or the tide of battle. He was forced to retreat another step; the open back of a wagon pressed against his hips. The one who bore down on him was as yet un-wounded. It was time for a soldier's last prayers.

Snarling, the attacker took his sword in both hands for a decapitating cut. Walegrin braced to take the force of the stroke on his sword which he held in a bent, injured arm. His weapon fell from his suddenly numb hand, but his neck was intact. The brigand was undaunted, his smile never wavered; Walegrin was unarmed now.

Steadying himself to face death with courage, Walegrin's leaden fingers found an object left forgotten in the wagon: the old Enlibar sword they had found in the dust of the mine. The silver-green steel showed no rust, but no-one had exchanged his serviceable Rankan blade for one forged five hundred years before his birth-until now. Walegrin brought the ancient sword around with a bellow.

Blue-green sparks surged when the swords met. The Enlibar metal clanged above the other sounds of battle. The brigand's swordblade shattered and, with a reflex born of experience not thought, Walegrin took his assailant's head in a single, soft stroke.

The fabled steel of Enlibar!

His mind glazed with the knowledge. He did not hear the hillmen take flight, nor see his men gather around him.

The Steel of Enlibar!

Three years of desperate, often dangerous searching had brought him to the mine. They'd filled two wagons with the rich ore and defended it with their lives-but in the depths of his heart Walegrin had not believed he'd found the actual steel: a steel that could shatter other blades; a steel that would bring him honor and glory.

He found his military sword in the dust at his feet and offered it to his lieutenant.

"Take this," he ordered. "Strike at me!"

Thrusher hesitated, then took a half-hearted swipe.

"No! Strike, fool!" Walegrin shouted, raising the Enlibrite blade.

Metal met metal with the same resounding clang as before. The shortsword did not shatter, but it took a mortal nick to its edge. Walegrin ran his fingers along the unmarred Enlibrite steel and whooped for joy.

"The destiny of all Ranke is in our hands!"

His men looked at one another, then smiled with little enthusiasm. They believed in their commander but not necessarily in his quest. They were not cheered to see their morose, intense officer so transformed by an off-color sword-however good the metal and even if it had saved his life. Walegrin's exaltation, however, did not last long.

They found Malm's body some twenty paces from the fire, a deep wound in his neck. Wale-grin closed his friend's eyes and commended him to his gods-not Walegrin's gods; Walegrin honored no gods. Malm was their only casualty, though they could ill afford the loss.

In grim silence Walegrin left Malm and returned to ransack the headless corpse by the wagon. Its belt produced a sack of gold coins, freshly minted in the Rankan capital. Walegrin thought of the letters he had sent to his rich patron in the Imperial hierarchy, and of the replies he had not received. In anger and suspicion he tore at the dead man's clothes until he found what he knew must be there: a greasy scrap of parchment with his mentor's familiar seal embossed upon it. While his men slept he read the treachery into his memory.

Kilite's treasury had financed his quest almost from the start. The ambitious aristocrat had said that the Enlibrite steel, if it could be found, would assure the Empire swift, unending victories-and swift, unending fortune for whomever made the legend reality. Walegrin had dutifully informed the Imperial Advisor of all his movements and of his success. He cursed and threw the scrap of parchment into the fire. He'd told Kilite his exact route from Enlibar to Ranke.

He should have known the moment his first man died-or at least when he lost the second. The hill tribes had been peaceful enough when they'd come up through the mountains and they, themselves, could make no use of the raw ore. He counted the dead man's gold into his own pouch, calculating how far he and his men could travel on it.

Things could have been worse. Kilite might have been able to bribe the tribesmen, but it was still unlikely he could find the abandoned mine. Walegrin had never entrusted that secret to paper. And Kilite had never known that Walegrin's final destination had not been the capital, but back in Sanctuary itself. He'd never told Kilite the name of the ugly, little metal-master in the back alleys there who could turn the ore to finest steel.

"We'll make it yet," he said to the darkness, not noticing that Thrusher had come to sit beside him.

"Make it to where?" the little man asked. "We don't dare go to the capital now, do we?"

"We're headed toward Sanctuary from this moment on."

Thrusher could scarcely contain his surprise. Walegrin's intense dislike of the city of his birth was well-known. Not even his own men had suspected they would ever return there. "Well, I suppose a man can hide from anything in Sanctuary's gutters," Thrusher temporized.

"Not only hide, but get our steel too. We'll head south in the morning. Prepare the men."

"Across the desert?"

"No-one will be looking for us there."

His orders given and certain to be obeyed, Walegrin strode into the darkness. He was used to sleepless nights. Indeed, he almost preferred them to his nightmare ridden slumber. And now, with thoughts of Sanctuary high in his mind, sleep would be anything but welcome.