Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [166]
“It is a deep game we play, brother,” the young man had said. “Deep and dangerous.”
What was Simkin’s game?
The news of the guard’s murder spread rapidly through the small community. The people flitted from house to house, talking in frightened, subdued voices. Blachloch’s henchmen seemed to be everywhere, roaming the streets with grim, eager looks, as if they knew what was going to happen and were looking forward to it. Eventually, the townspeople went to work at their various labors, but nothing much got done. Most people left their jobs early. Even the smithy shut down the forge before nightfall, glad to be going home.
It had been a long day for the smith, long and unsettling. First Blachloch’s men had arrived, poking around, overturning this, upsetting that, and asking questions.
“Was someone working last night?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know offhand.” This with a shrug of massive shoulders. “One er two of the ’prentices, mayhap. They’re behind in their work. We’re all behind and getting behinder when we’re stopped and made to answer stupid questions.”
Finally, Blachloch’s flunkies left, to be replaced by Blachloch himself. The smith wasn’t surprised. A middle-aged man with grown sons, the smith was shrewd and observant, if somewhat hotheaded. He had the reputation of bearing no love for the warlock; the raid on the village filled him with grief and anger. He heartily approved of Andon’s determination to starve rather than eat bread laced with blood. He advocated taking stronger measures against the warlock, in fact, and would have if the old man, fearing harsh reprisals, had not pleaded with him to remain calm.
The smith had agreed reluctantly, and then only because he was storing up a cache of his own weapons for use when the time came. Just when that time was going to arrive, he wasn’t certain, but he had the feeling it wasn’t far off, judging from Andon’s worried face and certain mysterious occurrences he’d noticed around the forge.
“Did someone work last night?” Blachloch asked.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I already said, I don’t know,” the smith growled.
“Could it have been Joram?”
“Could have. Could have been any of the ’prentices. Ask them.”
All these questions and more the smith answered shortly without stopping his work, the ringing blows of his hammer punctuating his words with such force it seemed he might have the warlock stretched out upon his anvil. But he answered the questions nonetheless, keeping his eyes averted from the black-robed figure. As much as he hated Blachloch, the smith feared him still more.
Watching him out of the corner of his eye, the smith followed the warlock’s movements through the forge as Blachloch searched the premises. He touched little, just sent his penetrating glance into every shadow, every crevice and corner. Finally, he came to a stop. Using a booted foot, he sorted idly through a pile of refuse in a far corner until, bending down, he picked something up.
“What’s this?” he asked, turning the object over in his hand, studying it in a casual manner, his face expressionless as always.
“Crucible,” grunted the smith, continuing his hammering.
“What is its use?”
“Melting ore.”
“Does that residue look at all odd to you?” Blachloch held the crucible out to the smith, holding it in the light of the glowing forge.
“No,” said the smith, glancing at it nonchalantly, then looking back at his work. But his gaze darted to it once again, when he thought the warlock wasn’t watching. Catching Blachloch’s stare, the smith flushed and fixed his eyes once more upon his work, the force of his hammer blows increasing.
Crucible in hand, the warlock gazed at the smith intently. The eyes within the folds of the black hood gleamed red in the fire of the forge. “No more night work in the forge, Master Smith,” he said coolly as he slowly disappeared into the air as effortlessly as the smoke rising up the chimney.
Recalling both the words and the look, the smith shivered again now, just as he had shivered this morning. Possesesed of a certain amount of magic himself, though