Ilith chuckled pleasantly. “Everyone is a fool to you, Fhanrir. I remember you as a boy. You were sour-tempered even then.”
A boy, Elyon thought. It was hard to imagine. That would be thousands of years ago. Gods, what must that be like, to live so long? And here?
Ilith turned to the knights. “You ought not take offence to his discourtesy; truly, it is nothing personal. That is just his way. But the years have only made him harder, I fear, and he has seen more of those than any of us. But what was I saying? The refuge. Yes. You have not been given a tour, but even so, you have a sense of its scale. We could host half the world here if we wished, but space is not the problem. It is food. Mages though we might be, we cannot conjure beef and barley from thin air. We have been working to stockpile what resources we can, but we could use some more help on that account. We are few here, Elyon Daecar. How are the tunnels coming along? I understand they are being reinforced.”
“They are passable, my lord, though the journey is not easy. Lord Morwood is securing the route, and gathering up food and supplies. He has many men working for him.”
“And why has this lord not come himself?”
Fear, Elyon thought. No one had come yet since Amilia and Jonik had left. “He wanted me to have that honour first,” he lied. “I will report to him on my return. He will visit you soon.”
“Wonderful,” muttered Fhanrir. “More of you fools to deal with.”
Elyon ignored him. That seemed to be the best way with Fhanrir. “Instructions will be given to anyone coming here to bring as much food with them as they can carry,” the prince said. “We have had word of travellers on the road. Refugees from the south, coming up from Vandar in great numbers. My own kinsmen are sending carts and wagons laden with onions, turnips, carrots, potatoes, sacks of wheat and barley and other grains. Casks of cured meat and pickled fish and…”
“And we don’t need an inventory,” Fhanrir snapped. “They’re bringing food. We get it.”
“Security is another issue,” Elyon went right on. “You say you have men here, my lord? How many?”
“Not enough,” Fhanrir answered. “Agnar, Dagnyr, Vottur. Those are mages. We have some men as well, bringing supplies up the mountain.” He thought a moment. “A dozen, maybe.”
Elyon was shocked; the mage had answered without spite for once. He knew those names as well, of the mages, having heard them from Amilia. Vottur was Fhanrir’s great-grandson, if he remembered correctly. “Lord Morwood commands hundreds,” he said. “He is Commander of the City Watch and there are thousands of soldiers in the city as well. I’m sure some of them can be spared.”
“And what about you, Sir Mallister?” Ilith asked, looking at the young Emerald Guard. “You wish to serve, you say. Perhaps you can help us usher the people here?”
Mallister swallowed. “Um…yes, my lord. What…whatever you need of me.” He bowed his head low.
Ilith saw right through him. “You would prefer to serve with the blade,” he said. “Please, Mallister, do speak plainly.”
The Emerald Guard looked terribly awkward. “Well I…I am no steward, my lord. I am born and bred to fight, and I would sooner…I would prefer to…”
“Serve by killing,” Fhanrir came in roughly. “That’s how you’d like to serve your lord and master? By taking life?”
“I…” Mallister seemed unable to respond. Everything the creature said was so hot with scorn. “What…whatever you need, Lord Ilith. If you require something else of me, then…”
“A man must serve in whatever function best suits him, Mallister Monsort. As a man born and bred to fight, then fighting it must be, but fighting takes many forms. You want to seek battle in the south, but there is a battle to be had here as well. We need more swords and shields. Security, yes, as Elyon says, to keep the peace, but it’s more than that. There are dark forces in these mountains, and they are trying to find their way in.”
“Then your shield I will be,” Mallister said, in a stirring voice. He fell to a knee once more. In lieu of his godsteel broadsword, he withdrew his dagger, and placed it on the floor. It shone in the light of the forge, misting. “My…sword is yours, Lord Ilith,” he proclaimed. “I swear to you my oath and service until my dying day.”
“And I gladly accept it, Mallister Monsort. We will all feel safer here with you to help protect us.”
But from what? Elyon wondered what sort of dark forces he meant. Beasts? Monsters? Something worse? The brood of Brexatron, perhaps? Was one of them lurking here? He was about to inquire of that when Ilith said, “It is a shame, Elyon, that you did not bring the Windblade with you. I should have liked to have seen it again, after all these years. Did you forget it, pray tell?”
Forget. That was the lie he gave to Fhanrir. Did Ilith know of that? Can he read my thoughts? “No, my lord,” he said. Lie though he could to the mean little mage, he would not do so with the Forgeborn King. “I left it behind on purpose,” he admitted.
“Oh? And why is that, Elyon? Do you believe I would have taken it from you?”
Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.
“No?” Fhanrir rasped, snorting at him. “He made it, boy. Ilith, with his magic. Dark magic too, that was, like nothing you’d ever believe. How else do you shatter the heart of a god? He’ll take it back if he pleases, and you’ll have no say in the matter.”
Elyon disagreed. “I still have things I must do with it. I am its guardian, and will bring it here when…”
“Guardian?” Fhanrir scoffed. “Thief, more like.”
Elyon would not hear of it. “I never stole the blade. I took it back from one who did, and will bring it here when I must.”
“Must? No, boy. You’ll bring it here when you’re told. Ilith tells you to fetch it, and you will.”
Elyon shook his head.
“No? You’re to say no? You?” Fhanrir’s nostrils flared open. “Entitled,” he rattled. “You stink of entitled, and thief. The same as that miserable brother of yours. He tried to steal his too. Did you know that? Was one step away…just one step…”
“I’m not going to steal it,” Elyon said hotly. “I’m not my brother.”
“You are. You two are just the same.” Fhanrir gave out that odious laugh of his. “You see this, Ilith. The boys are as weak-willed as each other. You,” he said, in a deeper, guttural voice, looking at Sir Mallister Monsort. The knight’s eyes snapped over to him at once, as though drawn on a string. “You go back to the palace, right now, and fetch it. You bring the Windblade here.”
“NO!” Elyon said, too loudly. The word rang out through the forge, rolling into the corridors beyond, out through the vastness of the refuge. The sound seemed to go on forever; no…no…no… “I…I have so much…there’s a lot I still need to do.” The word was still echoing; no…no…no… Elyon could hear it screaming inside his head as well. The others had gone deathly silent. They know. They see. They’re going to take it from me.
Fhanrir broke the quiet. “Thief,” he hissed, lifting and pointing a withered finger. “You’re going to steal it. You’re going to run.”
“No, I…” Elyon shook his head in denial. He looked at Ilith. The demigod was observing him cautiously. “I won’t, my lord. I am no thief, I swear it.”
“I know that, Elyon Daecar,” the Worldbuilder said. “But I can feel the fear in you too. You are afraid to be parted from it.”
I shouldn’t have come, he thought. I should never have come here. “At least let me explain,” he blurted. “Let me tell you the things I must do. There are matters, with the Eye of Rasalan, and the cousins of the king. That is a quest I must see through, my lord.”
Ilith nodded pensively. “Perhaps that is so. But you also must weigh the risk, Elyon. You may not be a thief, but sooner or later, you will be overwhelmed. The force you carry at your hip is pernicious, sentient, and more powerful than you can know. There is no man living who can truly dominate a Blade of Vandar. Eventually, all bearers will fall.”
