“That’s the problem, I imagine,” suggested Ulf. “The rabble hounds are always going to look for chances to run in the fields-but the shepherds should be keeping them out!”
“How are you going to solve the problem?” Tam wondered.
“We’ll have to find some dogs-shepherds or rabble, it doesn’t matter-and then we’ll learn what’s going on,” Ulfgang declared grimly.
They decided that the best way to look for unruly dogs, or anything else, was to get a good vantage, so the trio set out through the meadows, climbing from one pasture to the next. Tam and Deltan scrambled up a rock wall while Ulfgang sprang right over the barrier. The grassy loam on the other side formed a soft cushion, gentle on their feet even as they made their way steadily uphill. Here and there they worked through a grove of aspen or pines, and once they circled a small grotto where a tiny waterfall spumed through the clear air.
Deltan was puffing and red-faced, but sternly insisted that he could keep up. “Don’t wait for me,” he said between breaths. “It’s just city lungs.”
Finally breaking onto a rounded hilltop that domed above the surrounding pastures, dog and elves spotted several small herds of cows and horses, some so distant that they were mere brown spots on the terrain. But they saw no sign of any other dogs. After catching his breath, Deltan took some paper and charcoal from his pack, and sat with his back against a boulder, sketching the rural landscape. Later he played his horn, which he called a flugel, and from which he coaxed some pleasant and melodious tunes.
Tam took a short nap on the soft grass, then reached for the cheese and sausage he had brought, which he shared with his two companions. Finally the Hour of Darken was upon them, and the sun slowly began to recede into the heights. Twilight fringed the woods and fields beyond the hills, and here and there lights sparkled into being, each a glow marking a village or hamlet of Argentian.
And they heard the sound of frantic barking, a harsh echo rising from the valley behind their rounded summit. They crossed the hilltop at a trot, and even in the shadows that darkened the vale Tamarwind could see a gray shape writhing deliriously on the ground. Ulf inhaled, then shook his head violently, as if to clear an odor from his nostrils.
“Horse dung and a silly bitch,” he sniffed contemptuously. “I don’t know what they smell in it.”
Tam couldn’t detect any odor, but he trusted the dog’s superior nose. “Can you ask her about the shepherds?”
“Hey, you down there!” Ulfgang barked. His voice was sharp and piercing, and the other dog immediately ceased her wiggling dance. After a moment she rolled onto her belly and gazed fearfully up the hill.
“You floozy!” shouted the white dog sternly. “Now, I want you to clean yourself off and get up here. I’m going to talk to you.”
In a few minutes the bitch, who was a short-haired hound with long, droopy ears, came hesitantly up the hill. As she came into sight of the pair, she dropped to the ground and crawled toward Ulfgang. Her jaws gaped, and she uttered several sharp, plaintive barks.
“No… I understand,” Ulf replied in a deep woof. “But tell me, where are the shepherds who should be keeping you out of the fields?”
The hound whined something that caused Ulf to sit up straight, ears pricked as he looked at Tam with concern. “That is alarming-they’ve been gone for a long time, and they’re chasing deer, she says.” The white dog turned back to the bitch. “Where? Where are the shepherds?”
Again she barked, and Ulfgang followed her gaze. “In the direction that is neither metal nor wood,” he said slowly. “And far away.”
Tam followed the direction of the dog’s look, then turned to meet Ulf’s eyes. Left unspoken was the understanding that tickled each of them with a tremor of alarm.
For that was the direction of the Greens.
Natac studied the image on the wall, and moved his body through the exact maneuvers performed by the man he was watching. The subject of his study was a lightly dressed warrior, a man from the place called the Orient who used his feet and his hands as weapons. Now he was training, dancing alone through slashing kicks, lightning punches, and a variety of leaps and spins.
Mirroring every move, Natac kicked his foot into the air, higher than his head. Next he spun on the ball of his other foot. With his back to the moving picture, Natac worked from memory of the precise form, executing a sharp forward kick, switching feet to repeat the thrust with his other foot, then spinning once more with a roundhouse kick that brought him again into view of the man from Earth. As he expected, he matched precisely the cadence and routine of the other warrior.
The man in the image turned, and Natac had the uncanny feeling that the fellow could somehow sense his presence. When the fighter bowed formally, Natac returned the gesture.
Only then did Miradel puff out the candle and gather the scraps of wool into a basket, saved for the next viewing.
Natac’s heart was pumping, and a sheen of sweat covered his skin, plastering his thick hair to his scalp. He felt wonderfully vibrant.
“You are learning much from the people of the Seventh Circle,” the druid remarked, throwing open the door to a shimmering blast of daylight.
“Yes… there is much learning there, on Earth.”
And I have come to see myself as a man from somewhere else. The realization was a constant part of his new life, growing stronger every time he viewed images of his birth world.
They heard a shout from the courtyard, and emerged to find Darryn Forgemaster and Fallon. The smith nodded in familiar greeting to Natac, his expression unreadable. “Studying with the Wool, eh?” he asked. The wiry druid’s expression turned wistful. “Many’s the hour I’ve spent in that same room, learning the tricks of metal.”
“Yes.” Natac was nonplused, once again pierced by the thought that he had claimed this man’s immortal lover, had sentenced her to a limited life of agedness and death. Though he had never asked if this was the case, the suspicion raised a mixture of guilt and jealousy within him. And yet, if his guess was correct, why was Darryn not more overtly hostile to him?
“Here,” the smith was saying, laying out a bundle on the big table. Natac’s heart quickened at the sight of the long, leather-wrapped shape. Despite his protestations about not wanting a sword, he found himself keenly interested in the prospect of picking up the weapon.
When the smith pulled the leather away, he gasped at the shimmering beauty of the steel blade. It was a slender piece of shiny, supple metal, no wider than two of his fingers where it emerged from its sheath, tapering to a point as sharp as the fang of a viper. Edges sharper than any razor of obsidian rang the length of the blade top and bottom. The hilt, too, was a work of art, carved from some kind of very hard wood to form a protective shield for his sword hand.
“It is a stunning weapon,” the warrior said quietly. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and only hope that I can prove myself worthy of bearing it.”
Darryn’s chest puffed out and he allowed himself the hint of a smile. “It’s the finest piece I’ve ever made, if I say so myself. And that should make it the finest sword in Nayve.” Somehow he said the words with such honest affection for his work that they carried no hint of arrogance.
“And the hilt is a thing of beauty,” Natac continued. “What wood did you carve in such a manner?”
“Ask the lady druid,” said Darryn, nodding toward Miradel.
“I made the hilt from the tree called the arkwood,” she said. “It grows only in Argentian, and the elves allow only one tree to be harvested every one hundred years-so the wood is quite precious, as you can imagine. And the Goddess Worldweaver herself was kind enough to bestow some of her goodness into the hilt. So long as you hold the sword in your hand and bear it justly, no weapon will be able to penetrate your skin.”
Natac had been in Nayve long enough that he didn’t marvel at the suggestion of powerful magic. Still, he was awed by the thought that such protection in battle might be offered to him. Again he made the vow, this time to himself and to his Yellow Hummingbird-he would be a worthy bearer of this weapon.
He picked the sword up, amazed at its lightness-it had far less mass than any wood-and-obsidian maquahuitl. The blade was like an extension of his hand as he whipped his arm around. When he looked at Miradel he saw that her eyes were shining, alight with that reflection of pride that disturbed him so much. Once more he wondered… Why, in a place where there was no war… why did she want him to have a sword?
