A flash of actinic blue light.

A sabering bolt of pain and joy.

Wave upon wave of heat cascading up from the earth, through Corm Da.

The Friend of God, Sky breaker, All Slayer, Conductor of the Earth, Credine's Hammer.

I am its master, Credine, its maker, and William of Drake, Master Smith.

"The crown! Find my crown, pull me out from the land, rule my people, and pour my will down upon the world!"

Revised version From The Lay of the Smith, by Thavis Wayland

The light faded. Shaking, I pulled Corm Da from the earth. It seemed weightless in my hand. I moved it with a practiced experience and grace I do not possess, to its sheath.

A knee and palm, mine, I think, touched the floor, then the world faded, and was gone.

I awoke staring up into the faces of Dimanda and Chord. Chord made complicated gestures; Dimanda cradled my head, a worried expression painting her features. I pawed the air weakly, and tried to sit up. A swimming sensation poured through me, and gathered momentum, so I lay back down.

Dimanda moved her hand along the side of my face, a pleasant feeling.

"Lay still! Are you alright? What happened!"

Chord's hands withdrew as if scalded, and he frowned at me. "Best not be at play with things you know not! What has occurred here?"

I rose again to one elbow, and focused on the curious faces surrounding me. "I'm fine, I...how long..."

"Hush, Father! Oh, thank god he recovers...I just discovered you a few minutes ago. I saw him enter the cave after leaving the keep, but when he didn't come out, I..."

Chord nailed me with his gaze, saying "Just an hour ago since we talked. Dimanda brought me. What were you doing in here?"

My head slowly cleared. I felt stronger, but shaken and foolish for what I had attempted. There was something in Dimanda's eyes I had not seen before, a concern on a level I would not have guessed, or hoped for. "Just an experiment," I gasped, "something I have noticed when moving through here."

A memory of Gort's words tore through me...A conductor. Not a conductor of electricity, but of the living force of Credine, the living essence of their ancient, ancestral forerunner. A God, or what would walk among men as one. I had learned ... something. The pieces that flew into place did not form a pretty picture, and more questions formed behind the answers unveiled. Dimanda fussed as I stood, but she calmed after a few assurances and a weak smile from me. Chord was another matter. He motioned imperiously up to the tower. Sheepishly, I nodded, and followed him out of the cave. We returned to his study. He alternated between staring at me, and the sword. We sat hunched at his small table, our arms resting on it, the Corm Da between us. We looked grim, like a pair of Russian roulette players in mid-game.

"Our vanished acolyte, this MaCaan, found a way to travel to your world, which is certainly the God-Holm of our legends, and brought there, or found there, the knowledge to re-forge the Corm Da. From what you remember, if the Crown is also reunited, you would become the Avatar of the god Credine! This is not, I think, what MaCaan intended. Heed this! Your world has many smiths, yes?"

I swallowed and nodded. Even in modern times, hand forging is not a lost art.

"Then we may see MaCaan again. Do not draw that sword. Do not thrust it into Ley line intersections, as you did in the cave. Do not spit Burlies with it. Keep it with you every minute. Get another blade to use for protection. Above all, do not say anything to anyone about this. Wait until we can talk to Mage Orton. Spend your mornings patrolling as we planned."

Chord stopped to massage his temples. "The Corm Da. You remade Credine's Hammer!" He glanced sharply at me. "This changes nothing, for now. Credine had his own thoughts for our future. This MaCaan has perhaps others. That second band of runes, the bonds upon the hilt; their meaning becomes clear. You are merged with the spirit of Credine, and with this world. I do not know what this portends, or to how deep our dependence on these primal contracts might be. More important to you is your future in this, I think. Step carefully."

Chord reached out to grip my shoulder roughly and peered deep into my surprised stare. "It is as if you pulled me into this." Chord's hand dropped to the table. "I know that is not the case. Primal forces are at work, and we are caught up in the game. Go tend to the forge." I thought Chord correct in all particulars. My actions had been rash, the motives poor. Was I being compelled by something within me?

The Forge front milled with farmers and townies placing or picking up orders. Some of the promised cycle frames had been delivered, since Seth, having already completed one order, had become quicker for the practice. I set Gort to assembling the bikes as the frames arrived. The cycles sold out almost as fast as we could make them, so I sent an encouraging message to Seth, then turned to other matters.

Checking on Bree, I found she had completed over two dozen copper molds. She had not only laid them properly out on the straw to harden, but had covered them with dry sand to speed the process. She squatted over one, carefully dusting it off and turning it over, again something I had not mentioned she do. Together we checked one of her sets. The halves matched perfectly, leaving a clear hole to invest the pour when matched up. I took some time to show her how to make the wedge molds, and put her to that. Then I returned to the forge.I mused over what sort of defense I could create in a day, even with the whole forge at my disposal.

I decided on a heavy Roundel, a sort of dirk, or dagger made to pierce chain-mail. A good sixteen inches of tapered, solid iron with a hardened point, it would fulfill my requirements nicely. Although chain mail was an evident rarity I had seen only on Sir Connor, it would be thick enough in cross-section to use as a nasty sap. Besides, sixteen inches of any kind of steel is enough to make an attacker think twice. I decided to form the shaft in an X-Shaped cross-section, instead of as a tapered rod, as would be normal, so that it could be edged on four sides, save for the very end which would terminate in a needle point. The kind of thing, unlike a true roundel, that a combatant would not try to grab in a fight.

Donning my apron and gloves, I prepared two short canes of metal and thrust them into the blaze of the furnace. The scorching heat, a familiar collaborator, warmed my arms, calming me. I shuttled the canes with tongs inside the flames' coils, working the bellows with my free hand, bringing the iron to the proper temperature for shaping and welding into the roundel. My practiced eye watched for the glow of the work, the proper color needed for striking. Deep within me something stirred. Too bad, I thought, I couldn't achieve the heats needed to process a higher quality steel.

Although my hands continued to work the metal, I seemed to become more distant from my work. My sight lingered on the furnace's dancing fires, and I thought how easy it would be to quicken the dance. I moved among the flames, encouraging their hunger.

I started to sing, and the dancers danced, faster and faster, leaping to the beat of my song. It seemed so simple. I reached into the flames directly, still singing, and worked the metal bare handed, moving and shaping. The dancers were mine now, moving to my beat, faster, then slower, going here and there at my call, eager to please.

The colors and heats blossomed and faded, doing my will. The blade, clay in my hand, formed to my wishes, metal crystals and carbon restructuring to my conception. I closed my fist upon the dirk's end, and squeezed, drawing out the point. Fingers ran across the sides drawing out fine edges. Finally, I lifted it out from the furnace and blew upon it. I blew hot, then warm, then cold. Frost formed upon it, and I knew it was done. Turning, I laid the silvery, already polished Roundel on my anvil and looked up from it, into the frozen stares of my apprentices. Across my chest, the hard leather apron had all but burnt away, the gloves, totally gone.

I grabbed at my forearms unthinking, looking for burns. Flexing my hands, I found them cool, and unmarked from the incinerating heats of the open furnace. Controlling my shock at what I had done, I manufactured a lopsided smile for the benefit of my apprentices.

"Very advanced work. Don't even think of trying that, either of you. Back to business!" The words sounded hollow, even in my ears. A shivering ran through me. I felt short of breath, and afraid. What had I just done? I wondered briefly what the boys had seen, thankful that my back had obscured any view of the furnace work. The lights and blooms of the forge, certainly, my singing, smoke. What else? Damned if I would ask them.

The two turned slowly back to their current duties without comment, eyes downcast and unsure. The Knife on the anvil seemed to smirk at me. I snatched it up, inspecting it. It was a glory of smooth lines and execution. I could see a change of color at the tip, which I somehow knew to be as hard and keen as the 440 stainless of my world, maybe even harder. It balanced like a surgeon's tool, completely free from any work markings or defects I could see. In my shop at home, well equipped and with the right alloys, I would be hard-pressed to duplicate it. Here, it was impossible.

The sword at my back felt chill against my spine, like a streak of ice. I reached to pull it off, but hesitated as Chord's words repeated themselves in my mind. The cold slowly dissipated in any case, returning to the neutral warmth my skin imparted. I pulled the remains of the apron off, riveted a metal loop to my belt, and shoved the roundel into it. Having no cutting edges nearest the guard, at least it wouldn't damage the leather.

By evening, I was again exhausted, with no spare energy left for contemplation of the days horrors. My pallet called, and I responded. I awoke to hands shaking my shoulders. Einte stood over my pallet, biting his lip. "It is time, Master Drake, for the gleaning. We are all assembled behind the keep, sir."

I could just make out the boy and his blackened eye in the dim glows of the forge. It was more the end of night than dawn. I rolled out with a groan, and threw myself together.

Behind the keep waited the pack of younger boys and girls, Bree among them. Nearby, my three assigned men stood, recruits from the nearby farms it seemed, save for one, I had not seen them around the keep.

The tower's youngsters spent two or three early hours each day picking through the forest nearby for herbs, berries, barks and vines to supplement the supplies of the keep. This was done all before breakfast, their own chores, or other employment. Harold arrived, the two promised bladders of the keep's practically flat ale in hand. He thrust the bladders at me, and then cuffed the back of Dwayne's head. "No dawdling - and stay in sight of the men at all times! Off you go now!"

The areas to be visited were known by heart to the gleaners, so even in the near dark we made good time, basically just following along behind the chattering waifs. Familiar copses of oak and birch shivered in the shadows around us, aching for the dawn. These were interspersed with vegetation I could not identify - but then again, I am no botanist.

By the time we arrived at the first site, the sky had lightened enough to see clearly, and the boys busied themselves digging up roots of some sort. My stomach rumbled, and the men with me eyed the bladders meaningfully. The ale, I realized, probably constituted breakfast for some of them. I had tried the local ale, and couldn't stand the flat, warm brew myself.

I directed the men to station themselves around the workers and keep their eyes open - advice I also followed. The morning wore on without incident, and we escorted the cadre back to the keep. The men assigned me eagerly polished off the now completely flat ale. Clearly, this perk would assure me of some consistency of staff on these ventures.

The next morning found me again at the tower's rear. The youngsters were already assembled, and I counted heads while awaiting the appearance of fresh ale sacks. We seemed short one child--Bree was absent. No one seemed to know why. The seneschal finally appeared with the ale sacks, but still no Bree.

I asked Harold after the girl. His brow furrowed. "No, and her mother hasn't shown up to tend the brewing vats this morning yet, though it's a bit early for that. Best go on without her."

"She lives in one of the cottages behind the carpenter's stall, true?"

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"Yes, the one with the field stone front. Why?"

"Wait up here for a bit. I'll run over and check on her."

"But... Oh very well, one short day won't hurt us, I suppose. I'll put these," he waved to the kids gathered there, "to work dressing up the tower grounds, for now."

I dodged around the loose piled debris behind Seth's workshop and splashed across the cold creek waters behind. A well trampled break on the far side led to a lane paralleling the water, so that the intervening vegetation partially obscured the cottages from the riverbank. A sop to privacy, I guessed. There were only six structures, it was easy to pick out the one mentioned. A few rusty barrel hoops, not any of mine by the look, canted against one side of the modest shanty. The cabin stood out, made of good timber, and fronted in natural field stone, perhaps salvaged from the construction of the tower or picked from the riverfront. I knocked on the thin split-wood door, and heard sobbing within.

"It's me, William. Are you all right? Bree, are you there?"

A rustling answered. Then the door slowly opened, just a crack. Bree's brown and teary eyes looked out through it.

"I be busy tending my mum today. I be sorry, sir, to miss gleaning, I mean."

"May I come in? Is your mother all right?"

Bree looked doubtful, but reluctantly swung the door open further. I entered, and let my eyes adjust to the dark interior. A broken chair lay on the packed earth floor. A canted table was backed way too close to an open hearth on one side, two narrow pallets conformed to the corner of the opposite walls. A crumpled woman in a dun and coarse woven smock lay on one. A bloody rag against the side of her face, a shallow bowl of water on the floor nearby. I had seen her before around the keep, though I had not placed her as Bree's mother. I tried to remember Dimanda's introduction of Bree. Her mother's name, Treste, came to mind. Bree returned to her mother's side, kneeling on the dirt floor, sponging Treste's face with the rag, and rinsing it in the bowl beside her. I noted a dark, ugly bruise on Bree's arm as she did this.

"What happened here?"

The woman moaned, turning her face toward me. An ugly bruise and torn skin decorated the right of Treste's face from mouth to ear. "Fell, fell down. All right...be all right."

I could barely make out the words, so swollen were her face and lips. I came close to look carefully at the severe, bloody mark and at Bree's arm.

"Nothing...it's nothing."

I went to pull the table back from its current posture, jammed against the lit hearth. The weight of it took me by surprise; it required real effort to pull it a safe distance from the fire, back to its original position. I remembered that much of the furniture here was made solid, from green cut forest timber. There was undoubtedly the main part of a tree trunk in this table. It had not been made to be moved about, small as it seemed. The broken chair, similarly rough and massive, I set aside. The broken leg three inches in diameter, had been pulled from its hole, chiseled through the equally thick seat. I looked at the thin woman on the pallet.

"Who did this? You didn't fall. You were beaten, and Bree as well. Who? "

Bree's lips tightened. Her mother turned her head away and moaned.

The child wrung the rag, and again dabbed at her mother, saying, "We don't want no trouble, sir. Be back to work soon sir, promise."

This might pass for a simple domestic problem here, but it would not stand in my eyes.

"Bree, I can't have you being battered and bruised showing up to try to work at the forge. You must tell me what occurred here. I pledge to you it will end, if you tell. Your mother will not have to endure this ever again, my word on it. Where is your father?"

Bree turned those soft tearing eye on me. "Dead, me Dad be, hurt awful on a Burlie hunt two year agone. Leg broke and tore bad by a Burlie, it was. Died a' fever. This be the work of Hess Bullard, the woodcutter."

Treste shook her head, moaned and grabbed at Bree's arm. Bree looked tearfully at her mother. "Naw, Ma, it be alright. If Master Drake says it so, it will be. I trust him, Dimanda trusts him. We needs th' work. He be right, this can't do. Somethin' must be done, and we can't do it ourselves. What if Chord find out the ale's gone down more than accounted for? We'd be in a pickle then sure."

A dark anger welled in me. "This Bullock, he works for the keep? What about the ale? You must tell everything, if I am to end it. All of it."

"Bullard, sir. He courted my mom after dad died. A drinker, sir. Ma wouldn't have him, but he brought firewood, an' Ma would give him ale of our shares, as we do with tea and water mostly anyway, the river being nearby. Were not good enough for Hess, though. He started to demand his own kegs of my Ma. Beat her when she refused. Came by late last evening, thrashed her fierce for refusing. Said there had better be a keg here next he called, or it would go the worse. I tried to pull him off, but..." Bree rubbed the bruised welt that ran the length of one arm. "He does for himself, has a cabin in the north wood, where we glean. Most knows of it."

My hands tightened as she spoke. "Bree, you should have gone to the authorities about this right away. "I'll tell Chord about this immediately!"

Bree shook her head. "We all knows you be foreign and that, beggin' yer pardon, Sir. So you might not know how it goes. Were he a keep man, Chord would do for him, but long as there be no permanent harm, he be safe enough from the town council. No town law hereabouts against brawling with a woman sir, it be just considered bad business, is all. 'Tis his word how much the wood be worth, and wither we wanted it or not."

I checked them both again before I left, and stormed back to the tower, in a black rage.

Harold looked up disconcerted as I came on. "Held us up an hour, William. Everything straightened out?"

"Will be before the day's out. Bree won't be coming. She tends to her mother today."

"I'll gather the youngsters then. Here, take the ale."

Soon we were back to tromping into the gleaning areas, and I pulled one of the guards aside, and asked after Bullard's cabin. It wasn't far. As soon as the troupe settled to gathering in a close area, barks and roots mostly this trip, I faded back and made my way to it. It looked like a simple hunter's shed. No one had spent the time on it Treste's former husband had invested in her cabin. A thin plume of smoke rose, wheedling its way out of a small clay stack set to the slant roof's rear. It was still rather early, and Bullard was evidently not one to meet the dawn. The area around the shed showed a lack of upkeep.

I didn't bother to knock. Bullard was a dirty brute of a man, unshaven, with a furred neck and red rimmed eyes. He was upending the last of a bladder of ale when I entered, and cast it on the floor to join several others there when he saw me.

"What you want? This is my place. Get out, or I'll throw you out."

"I'm here to deliver a message from Treste. You are Bullard?"

"Isme, m'Bullard. She send me m'Keg? Owes me m'Keg--fer wood."

"Actually, I deliver her wood now. She owes you nothing that you have not already taken from her. If you come around again, I'll beat you to within an inch of your life. She's mine, you're not to go anywhere near her, or the keep. Do you understand me? Never."

He stood unsteadily, a wild hatred plastering his face. "Mine! My ale, my wood. Get out or I'll throw y' out." With that the brute rushed me. I caught one arm as he grabbed for me and snapped it back, levering his elbow with a fast jerk against my turning shoulder. There came a sharp crack, and a howl. He was a big man, and hard, but already well into his cups. I felt not the slightest pity for him. I had delivered a message. He attacked me. Now he had one less arm. All I saw was a beaten woman and a battered girl cowering in a small cabin. It sometimes comes in handy to be almost three hundred pounds and built like a train. This was one of those times. I grabbed his throat and jerked his head down to the level of my own. "Now you can chop wood one handed. If I see or hear from you again, your next profession will be begging. I don't think your plight will spawn much charity, so I don't recommend you cross me or mine again. We are agreed, yes?"

A dawning understanding seemed to seize the drunkard. He nodded vigorously, eyes tearing in pain. I released him to tend to his self however he saw fit, and left to rejoin my troupe of gleaners.

The morning passed otherwise uneventfully, and loaded with booty, we returned to the keep. I didn't mention the encounter to the men, but from what questions I had asked, and the common knowledge that seems endemic to small groups like Chord's retinue, I felt that most had come to a good guess as to what had happened in the wood.

Much later, Dimanda stopped by the forge, an almost tearful glisten in her eyes. She said nothing, but pulled me close and gave me the most amazing kiss. She pulled me to her, hands warm across my back, lips soft against mine. I felt an urgency in it, that echoed within my heart. I returned the kiss with an equal fervor, which to my surprise, she accepted willingly. Dimanda pulled back, and passed a hand across my cheek, looking deeply at me, but left wordlessly after.

By the third day, I had grown used to the early hours and had learned to lay by some cheese and bread to wolf down before starting out. I happily found Bree back among the gleaners, and received a big hug from the child. The bladders today had longer straps affixed to them than usual, and they swung and slapped at my side irritatingly.

The encounter occurred at the furthest site from the tower we had yet scouted. Martz, a shaggy-headed bull of a man, waved me forward from his position at the front of a scrub-festered dell. The boys scrounged for flat brownish mushrooms here. These, Martz had said, grew no nearer the keep; but it wasn't an area they visited often, being distant. Suddenly, he pulled his hood down and crouched, flattening his hand towards the forest floor. Taking the cue, I bent low and hurried forward, curious as to what he saw.

Martz pointed through the bracken, and following his direction, I saw a movement of low shadows in the woodlands just behind the bank of a small creek not far from our site. A shivering passed through two close-set bushes fronting the far bank, and a short bearded form appeared between them. I guessed the figure to be no more than four foot tall if standing straight. Clad in a rough scraped leather kilt, it proceeded towards the bank on two black-booted legs. A wood stave bucket with a rope handle swung from one gnarled hand. The creature wore leather shoulder pads that left its chest bare. It leaned over the stream and dragged the bucket through the fast current, straightened, and retreated back through the brush.

Martz leaned close and whispered, "Nublin they be, four of em', I think. Saw one a time ago when huntin' nort' a here. Maybe more back further. What's to do?"

Chord's instructions, which had seemed so clear to me before, left me frozen with indecision in the face of this real encounter. I was a smith, not a diplomat. What had I gotten myself into? What if they attacked? I bit my lip, turned and motioned the remaining men forward. All three now watched me in frozen expectation, waiting to be told my plans.

"Wait here," I said. "If they look like they are going to attack me, come running. Otherwise, stay out of sight unless I call. Watch closely. Keep the boys back. If the worst happens, see the gleaners safely to the keep."

I checked the bladders slung over my shoulders, moved the Roundel to a spot in my belt behind my back, and blew a breath. I rose up and strode past the cover onto the open bank of the creek. The shadowed motion in the woods before me ceased as I advanced. Stopping before the stream, I squatted down, and unslung the bladders, laying them on the bank beside me. I made a show of unstopping one, and took a hearty pull. It tasted yeasty and flat, but I attempted to seem as if I enjoyed it, and waited there.

The brush shivered again, and a small fellow, possibly the same one I had spied before, stepped into view. It came forth bare handed, and stood on the opposite bank, looking at me. I waved, and lifted one of the bladders towards it, smiling.

"Well met, friend," I said. "Share some ale with me?"

The Nublin's small black eyes focused on the bag for a second, and then it nodded. "Well met, then," it said. "And I will, as you've offered. Where come you?"

I motioned behind me. "Name's William. I am with some gleaners from the keep of Mage Chord, back a ways from here," I said. "Yourself?"

The small man nodded. "Aye, I know of the place. William is it? I be called Brock. Wouldst share your ale with my friends as well?"

I nodded and sat, keeping my hands in plain sight. Brock turned around and spoke into the bushes, then crossed the stream to my bank. Out of the brush three more Nublin appeared, hesitating briefly, and then splashing through the creek to join us. I passed the first opened bladder to Brock, who smelled of it, smiled, and upended it with relish. The second bladder I tossed to one of the others. They were dressed the same as Brock, as much alike as chess pawns, perhaps varying in height as little as an inch or so, all fully and scruffily bearded. The second flagon was presently uncorked, and we sat passing the things one to another. Brock belched and wiped his hairy countenance, spreading unconsumed residue down his beard.

"Have never tasted the ale of your folk before. Heard it praised though. Tis' as good as its repute. You come unusually outfitted this far into the wood, William, but well met you are indeed."

"Hunting?" I asked.

Brock shook his head. "Relocating. We are down from the northern ridge, scouting for new lodgings. Our digs are playing out, and Burlies becoming a pain in the arse of late. We hope to set up in these parts; less infested and un-mined. Prefer the tall rock, but we can make do in the hills hereabouts. Your clans have some claim here? We are not looking for trouble. Didnae see any worked land on the way down."

Brock passed the bladder to me, but I shook my head.

"Keep it. I've had enough. Take both. To answer your question, no, the woods are not settled. Further south and east, some farming; a village to the south and west, and that's all. We heard that your people had been seen about. Mage Chord seems to think this a good thing. I can't speak for anyone in particular, of course." Brock looked pleased at that, took the returned ale sack and upended it, eyes focused on me. The ale bladder looked quite deflated by now, which was amazing, considering that I was barely wetting my lips with it. A glance at its twin verified a similar status. I estimated the pair to have held close to three-plus gallons of the stuff.

Brock glowered, lowering the sack, and spat into the stream. "So. What is it you do when not scampering through the woods sloshing with ale sacks, William?"

"I work iron. A smith, in Chord's employ."

The Nublin's eyebrows, or eyebrow, as it ran seamlessly across the ridge of his head, rose at this. "Truly? A noble occupation, respected, and unusual among your kind, as I hear. Dabble in the art myself, when duty permits. As far as you know then, there is no objection to our presence in these parts?"

I shook my head. "The tower mage told me to say you were welcome, for his part, should I run into one of your parties. He has some interest in trade, too, if you are of a mind. If you are to settle here, I would plan a visit with him soon. He is worried your presence might be...less understood, if he stays out of it. It would probably smooth the way for you here, if you did. What do you think?"

Brock nodded. "I can see it. Tell your mage I will come to visit tomorrow--close as we are, why not? Thanks for this." He winked at the ale sack. "Here, for your kindness," he said, pulling something from a purse hanging from his kilt.

I held out my hand and Brock dropped something into it. A steel clasp, with a finely worked emboss of a waterfall worked into the metal. I admired the workmanship, and asked some technical questions about it. This further pleased the Nublin, who answered readily, and although some of our terms differed, we worked through them easily.

It was obvious that Brock was more than a dabbler in metals, and we talked longer than I thought we might have. In the end, I left in good spirits to rejoin my men, and we returned immediately to the keep.