Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [108]
“Why?” asked Saryon. “Is the young man so formidable? Has he such a violent nature?”
“No, none of that. There were extenuating circumstances to the murder, you know. Joram had just seen his mother killed. He doesn’t have a wild or violent nature. If anything, he is too controlled. Cold and hard as stone. And alone … so very alone.”
“Then—”
“I think …” Andon frowned, trying to give word to his thoughts. “It is because—Have you ever walked into a crowd of people, Father, and noticed one person almost immediately? Not for anything he might do or say, but just for his presence alone? Joram is such a one. Perhaps because he took a life, he has been marked by the Almin. There is an intensity about him, a sense of destiny. A sense of dark destiny.” The old man shrugged, his face grave. “I can’t explain it, but you can judge for yourself. You will soon meet this young man, if you want. That’s where we’re headed. Joram, you see, works in the iron forge.”
7
The Forge
According to the catechism, To deal in the Dark Art of the Ninth Mystery is to deal in Death.”
According to the catechism, “The Souls of those who deal in Death shall be cast in the fiery pit and shall dwell there forever in agony eternal and unending.”
Thus do they act out their own doom, Saryon thought as he stared into the fire-lit, red-tinged darkness of the forge.
Andon had entered the cavern ahead of him, saying something to the men who worked there, gesturing behind him at the catalyst. Now, aware that Saryon had not followed him, the old man turned around. Saryon saw his lips moving, though the noise of the forge was such that he could hear nothing. Andon gestured. “Step in. Step in.”
Yellow and orange, the heat of the fire beat upon the old man’s face, the red heart of the forge burned in his eyes, the wheel he wore at his breast blazed with a flaming light. Consumed with horror, seeing the Sorcerer of his fevered dreams spring up before him, Saryon drew back from the gaping entryway. Andon might truly have been the Fallen One, rising up to drag the catalyst to the flames.
At the sight of Saryon’s fear, an expression of puzzled hurt creased Andon’s face. But it was followed almost immediately by understanding.
“I am sorry, Father.” Saryon saw Andon’s lips form the words. “I should have realized how this would affect you.” The old man came toward him. “Let us return home.”
But Saryon could not move. Transfixed, he stared at the scene. The iron forge was located in a cave in the side of a mountain. A natural chimney carried away the noxious fumes and heat from vast quantities of glowing red charcoal banked in the center of a vast, round stone ledge. Crouched over it like a wheezing monster, a large baglike contraption breathed air on the coals, giving them fiery life.
“What … what are they doing?” Saryon asked, wanting to leave, yet drawn to it by a terrible fascination.
“They are heating the iron ore until it becomes a molten mass,” Andon shouted over the banging and hissing and wheezing, “that contains refuse of the ore and the charcoal as well.”
As Saryon watched, one of the young men working in the forge walked over to the ledge and, using what appeared to be a hideous extension of his arm made out of metal, lifted a lump of the red-hot iron from its bed among the coals. Setting it down on another ledge—this not of stone but of iron itself—he took a tool and began pounding the hot iron.
“There he is—that is Joram,” said Andon.
“What is he doing?” Saryon felt his lips shape the words, he couldn’t hear himself speak.
“He is hammering the iron into the form he wants,” Andon continued. “He does it this way or else he could pour the hot iron into a mold and let it cool first, then work it.”
Destroying the Life within the stone. Shaping the iron with a tool. Perverting its god-given qualities. Killing the magic. Dealing in death. The thoughts pounded in Saryon’s head with each strike of the hammer.
He started to turn away, but at that moment, the young man working in the black shadows of the forge lifted his head and