acquisitions: a dusty lump of tallow, the haftless remains of a kitchen knife, and several soggy grouse feathers.
“Have you ever cut fletching?” he inquired of Haldeth.
“No.” The smith swung around and gave free rein to irritation. “Nor will I. If you plan to make paste with my barley flour, take it from your dinner ration.”
Korendir smoothed one of the feathers against his forearm. “You can forge a score of arrowheads, surely?”
“Out of iron!” Haldeth laughed, incredulous. Korendir paused, a quill poised between long fingers. “They needn’t be pretty to look upon.”
“Pretty!” Haldeth kicked the nearest corroded pot and bashed a hole through its base. He dared not say what he felt, that arrows could never breach Anthei’s fortress; Korendir would be killed. Too distressed to stay silent, he threw up his hands in disgust. “Neth, man, the Blight afflicts everything in this Kingdom, even the building of fires. Broadheads forged in this place will hold no edge, and anything iron will rust to nithering bits.”
Now dangerously still, Korendir said, “I don’t intend to keep them.” He selected a stick from the kindling pile and deliberately began to strip the bark. Left no option but to work, Haldeth stalked over to the junk pile by the door and rummaged for suitable scrap.
* * *
By sundown, the two men had completed a crude sheaf of arrows. They returned to the campsite, where Korendir put the finishing twist on a bowstring fashioned from Snail’s hackamore cord.
Haldeth looked on with a frown. “Those arrows would barely dent the skin of a pumpkin. No doubt Anthei is laughing at you.”
“Let her.” Korendir set the bow aside, dumped tallow into the cookpot and waited while it melted over the fire. He used the softened wax to stop his ears, then muffled his head under the hood of his cloak. “Shout at me.”
Haldeth complied, splitting the evening stillness with an epithet.
Korendir nodded, oblivious, and shouldered his arrows and bow. He climbed the tree beside Anthei’s garden. There, straddling a limb, he scratched numerals into five of the broadheads, thereby destroying the point on the sixth. He shot the first marked shaft in a long arc over the wall. After wobbly, erratic descent, the arrow cracked resoundingly against Anthei’s door; rebound spun it clattering end over end down the stair by the entry.
Korendir adjusted his position against the tree trunk. Affected by the Blight, his shafts would win no tournament, but for the purpose he intended they would serve. Twilight settled swiftly over the land; only minutes remained before darkness spoiled his marksmanship.
* * *
From the tower’s lancet window, Anthei watched Korendir drop arrows at intervals along her garden path. Their eccentric flight betrayed makeshift origins, and admiring a skill which mastered the adverse effects of the Blight, Anthei released the catch on her casement. Leaning outward, she began the song which had lured the horse the previous evening; only this time she tuned her spell for the archer who had ridden it.
Korendir’s hand held steady on the bowstring. His final arrow bit just inside the gate, scattering white gravel in the gloom. Well into her song of summoning, Anthei waited for the man to display the first spoiling traces of restlessness. Korendir dropped lightly to the ground. Shadow flickered at his heels as he paused by the fire to collect a rusted heap of ironware. Deaf to the smith’s encouragement, he removed the scrap to the gate and arranged a crude barrier between its posts.
Anthei frowned from her seat by the window. Had the man been susceptible to her spell, he should have entered her garden without any delay for precautions. Intrigued by his resistance, Anthei placed a perfectly shaped fist on the sill and pitched her call an octave higher.
Korendir glanced at the tower. His manner reflected no urgency as he arranged his remaining arrows point first in the dirt. He
“Have you ever cut fletching?” he inquired of Haldeth.
“No.” The smith swung around and gave free rein to irritation. “Nor will I. If you plan to make paste with my barley flour, take it from your dinner ration.”
Korendir smoothed one of the feathers against his forearm. “You can forge a score of arrowheads, surely?”
“Out of iron!” Haldeth laughed, incredulous. Korendir paused, a quill poised between long fingers. “They needn’t be pretty to look upon.”
“Pretty!” Haldeth kicked the nearest corroded pot and bashed a hole through its base. He dared not say what he felt, that arrows could never breach Anthei’s fortress; Korendir would be killed. Too distressed to stay silent, he threw up his hands in disgust. “Neth, man, the Blight afflicts everything in this Kingdom, even the building of fires. Broadheads forged in this place will hold no edge, and anything iron will rust to nithering bits.”
Now dangerously still, Korendir said, “I don’t intend to keep them.” He selected a stick from the kindling pile and deliberately began to strip the bark. Left no option but to work, Haldeth stalked over to the junk pile by the door and rummaged for suitable scrap.
* * *
By sundown, the two men had completed a crude sheaf of arrows. They returned to the campsite, where Korendir put the finishing twist on a bowstring fashioned from Snail’s hackamore cord.
Haldeth looked on with a frown. “Those arrows would barely dent the skin of a pumpkin. No doubt Anthei is laughing at you.”
“Let her.” Korendir set the bow aside, dumped tallow into the cookpot and waited while it melted over the fire. He used the softened wax to stop his ears, then muffled his head under the hood of his cloak. “Shout at me.”
Haldeth complied, splitting the evening stillness with an epithet.
Korendir nodded, oblivious, and shouldered his arrows and bow. He climbed the tree beside Anthei’s garden. There, straddling a limb, he scratched numerals into five of the broadheads, thereby destroying the point on the sixth. He shot the first marked shaft in a long arc over the wall. After wobbly, erratic descent, the arrow cracked resoundingly against Anthei’s door; rebound spun it clattering end over end down the stair by the entry.
Korendir adjusted his position against the tree trunk. Affected by the Blight, his shafts would win no tournament, but for the purpose he intended they would serve. Twilight settled swiftly over the land; only minutes remained before darkness spoiled his marksmanship.
* * *
From the tower’s lancet window, Anthei watched Korendir drop arrows at intervals along her garden path. Their eccentric flight betrayed makeshift origins, and admiring a skill which mastered the adverse effects of the Blight, Anthei released the catch on her casement. Leaning outward, she began the song which had lured the horse the previous evening; only this time she tuned her spell for the archer who had ridden it.
Korendir’s hand held steady on the bowstring. His final arrow bit just inside the gate, scattering white gravel in the gloom. Well into her song of summoning, Anthei waited for the man to display the first spoiling traces of restlessness. Korendir dropped lightly to the ground. Shadow flickered at his heels as he paused by the fire to collect a rusted heap of ironware. Deaf to the smith’s encouragement, he removed the scrap to the gate and arranged a crude barrier between its posts.
Anthei frowned from her seat by the window. Had the man been susceptible to her spell, he should have entered her garden without any delay for precautions. Intrigued by his resistance, Anthei placed a perfectly shaped fist on the sill and pitched her call an octave higher.
Korendir glanced at the tower. His manner reflected no urgency as he arranged his remaining arrows point first in the dirt. He
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