The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [46]
Maddyn was shocked to the heart. Caradoc was right about Aethan, he realized; his old friend would never again be the man who used to laugh and jest and solve all the little problems of the Cantrae warband. It hurt worse than his cracked ribs, thinking about it.
“When you break a man down to naught, he turns into an animal,” the captain went on, somewhat meditatively. “Then if you give him somewhat to live for, he turns into a man again, but it’s a hard kind of man, like the blade of a sword. That’s the kind of lads I want, and the silver dagger’s what they’re going to live for.” All at once he grinned, his hiraedd lifting. “Oh, they’ll beg us for it, one fine day, but by every sticky hair on the Lord of Hell’s ass, they’re going to have to earn it. What kind of metal do you need, Otho? I’ll ride into town on the morrow and see if I can buy it for you.”
“You won’t! You’ll give me the coin and let me see if I can find what I need. No man learns the formula for this alloy—I cursed well mean it.”
“Have it your way, then, but I want a dagger for every man we’ve got left, and, say, five more for new recruits—if I can find men worthy of the things, that is.”
“Then I’ll get started on it right away.” All at once, Otho grinned, the first smile Maddyn had ever seen on his face. “Ah, it’s going to feel so good, doing a bit of smelting and mixing again.”
Otho was as good as his word. On the morrow, he first bribed Lord Maenoic’s blacksmith into letting him use the dun forge, then rode off into town with his wagon. He returned late in the day with sundry mysterious and heavy bundles, which he refused to let any man touch, not even to help him unload. That very night, he shut himself up in the forge and stayed there for a solid week, sleeping beside his work, if indeed he slept at all. Once, in the middle of the night, when Maddyn went down to the ward to use the privy, he heard hammering coming from the forge and saw red light glowing through the window.
On the morning when the daggers were finished, Caradoc decided that it was time to leave Maenoic’s hospitality. Not only were Maddyn and Stevyc both healed, but he wanted Otho to display his handiwork someplace where he could avoid awkward questions about it. After a last farewell to the lord, the troop saddled up and rode out, but they went only a half mile down the road before they turned off it, jogging out into a wild meadow and forming a rough circle about the smith and his wagon.
“Get ’em out, Otho,” Caradoc said. “Dismount, men, so you can see clearly.”
The troop clustered round while a proud if somewhat weary Otho unpacked a large leather sack. Nestled in straw were daggers for each of them, beautiful weapons, with a blade that glowed like silver but was harder than the finest steel. Maddyn had never handled weapon or tool with such a sharp edge.
“You won’t have to polish those much, neither,” Otho said. “They won’t tarnish, not even in blood. Now, if any of you wants a mark or device, like, graved onto it, I’ll do it, but you’re paying me a silver piece for the job.”
“This’ll do to cut a throat with, won’t it?” Aethan said to Maddyn.
“Blasted right. I’ve never had a knife I liked more.”
As solemnly, as carefully as priests performing a rite, the troopers drew their old daggers and replaced them with the new. Although Caradoc seemed to be hardly watching, his eyes lazy and heavy-lidded, Maddyn knew that he was judging the effect of the gesture. The men were smiling, slapping each other on the back, standing straight for a change, their morale better than it had been in days.
“Well and good, then,” Caradoc said. “We’re all silver daggers now, lads. Doesn’t mean a lot, I guess, except that we fight like sons of bitches, and we earn our hire.”
Spontaneously