The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [127]
Cogline sniffed. “There is no such weapon. Besides, there is nothing to say that a weapon forged of science — in whole or in part — would stand any better chance than one forged of magic. It might just as easily be true that magic is all that can prevail against magic, and that any form of science is useless.”
“I do not believe that.”
“Believe what you choose.” Cogline rubbed irritably at his hair.
A scowl twisted his thin mouth. “I left the world and its more conventional beliefs behind me a long time ago. I haven’t missed them.”
“But both will catch up with you sooner or later, just as they catch up with us all. They won’t go away or cease to be simply because you reject them.” Bremen’s eyes fixed on the other.
“Brona will come here one day, after he has finished with those of us who have not hidden away. You must know that.”
Cogline’s face hardened. “He will rue that day, I promise you!”
Bremen waited, saying nothing, not choosing to challenge the statement. Kinson glanced at Mareth. She met his gaze and held it.
He knew she was thinking the same thing he was — that Cogline’s posturing was vain and foolish, that his thinking was patently ridiculous. Yet Bremen did not choose to challenge him.
Cogline shifted uneasily on the bench. “Why do you press me so, Bremen! What is it that you expect of me? I want no part of the Druids!”
Bremen nodded, his face calm, his gaze steady. “Nor they of you. The Druids are gone. There is no part of them left to be had. There are only the two of us, Cogline, old men who have stayed alive longer than they should, conjurers of the Druid Sleep. I grow weary, but I shall not rest until I have done what I can for those who have not lived so long — the men, women, and children of the Races. These are the ones who need our help. Tell me. Should we have no part of them either?”
Cogline started to answer and stopped. Everyone sitting at the table knew what he was tempted to say and how foolish the words would sound. His jaw muscles tightened in frustration. There was indecision in his sharp eyes.
“What cost to you if you choose to help us?” Bremen pressed quietly. “If you would truly have no part of the Druids, then consider this. The Druids would not have helped in this — indeed, chose not to help when they had the chance. They were the ones who determined that their order should stay separate and apart from the politics of the Races. That choice destroyed them. Now the same choice is given to you. The same choice, Cogline — make no mistake. Isolation or involvement. Which is it to be?”
They sat silent about the table, the Druid, the once-Druid, the Tracker, and the giri, the night enfolding deep and calm about them. The big cats lay sleeping, the sound of their breathing a soft, regular whistle of air through damp nostrils. The air smelled of burning wood, food, and the forest. There was comfort and peace all about. The four were cocooned away in the heart of Darklin Reach, and if you tried hard enough, Kinson Ravenlock thought, you might imagine that nothing of the outside world could ever reach you here.
Bremen leaned forward slightly, but the distance between himself and Cogline seemed to close dramatically. “What is there to think about, my friend? You and I, we have known what the right answer is all of our lives, haven’t we?”
Cogline snorted derisively, brushed at the air in front of him, looked off into the darkness, then wheeled back irritably. “There is a metal as strong as iron, but far lighter, more flexible, and less brittle. An alloy really, a mix of metals, that was in use in the old world, conceived of the old science. Iron mostly, tempered by carbon at high temperature. A sword forged of that mix would be formidable indeed.” He looked sharply at Bremen. “But the temperatures used in the tempering are far greater than what a smith can generate in his forge. Engines are needed to generate temperatures of this magnitude, and those engines are lost to us.”
“Have you the process?” Bremen asked.
Cogline