Anna Smith Spark - The Tower of Living and Dying

Marith said, ‘Let’s go and look at the forge.’ He liked to watch it, the ringing of the great hammer, the shattering showers of sparks, the white metal hissing and writhing and turning black as it cooled, the cauldron where the light of the sun blazed, pouring liquid fire more brilliant than the light itself. Almost something sacred, the way his eyes danced with the sparks, the noise of it so loud it blotted out thinking. They kept the old ways, the men of the Islands, brought gifts of ale and honeycomb and green willow leaves for the men of the forges, bowed their heads to them in reverence at their power of making and burning and raising up death things from the gleaming light. Half gods with their blackened hands pricked with scar tissue, glittering scales of metal embedded in their skin. Magicians. Death summoners. Dragon men.

‘They’ve almost done,’ Marith said happily as they came to the low doorway of the smithy. ‘The sword.’ The hammer started up with a stink of metal and his voice was lost. They stood and watched in silence as the master ironsmith beat out a long sword.

Drew the sword from the anvil, plunged it into a bucket of water with a great hiss of steam. Turned it in his hands, tossing it to feel the weight. Held it out to Marith. ‘It still needs much work. But if My Lord King would like to try …?’

Marith took it carefully, looked it over, turned and moved it as the smith had. Brought it up and struck down at the hard stone of the floor. Ringing song of metal. Sparks. Dirty and unfinished. It gleamed in his hand.

‘A good sword, I think. The weight seems good.’ He passed it back to the smith. ‘How long, do you think?’

The smith considered, shifting the sword again from hand to hand. ‘A few days, perhaps … Three? Four? It must be retempered and beaten and retempered again. The final cooling in horses’ blood. Sharpened, the jewels set, the runes made … Five days.’ His face was anxious. ‘Does that satisfy My Lord King?’

‘There’s not much I could do if it didn’t, is there? I expect we can wait that long. Five more days in a soft bed, at least. Five more days Tiothlyn can pretend to be king.’

Five days. Two days and two nights of wild feasting, the men drinking themselves to dropping in the hall, fights breaking out over a woman or a slurred word or nothing at all, three men dead and one injured near enough to dying, the hall running with chaos and filth. Singing the paeans and the war ballads, wilder and angrier and with such perfect eager joy. A day and a night of calm, Malth Calien grey and silent, sleeping, servants creeping through the hallways scrubbing it clean. The snow came, white to cover the ruins, as it had snowed over Malth Salene to cover the dead.

Then a sudden great rush of activity, the place churning like a rats’ nest, rushing, shouting, everywhere carts and armour and swords. Out of the chaos an army forming, eight thousand men armed and ready, horses, ships, supplies. Tearing its way to life like a child birthing. Coalescing like bronze in the forge. A night’s rest, Marith restless, muttering in his sleep, finally in the dark before dawn settling a little, his face buried in Thalia’s hair. The dawn of the fifth day, and servants come to wake them and dress them and bring them down to the Amrath chapel, to make the prayers asking blessing on their war.

The lords of Marith’s army stood assembled in full armour. Outside in the courtyards the soldiers lined up in long rows. Still, strained silence. Marith alone beside the statue of Amrath, the stone face looking out beside him so like his own.

Osen came forward, knelt at Marith’s feet holding up the sheathed sword. A scabbard of dark red leather, worked all over in silver lacework, dragons writhing to swallow their own tails. A hilt of dark silver, plain unworked metal with a single great ruby at the pommel. Marith drew it. The blade hissed in the air.

‘I am Marith Altrersyr, Lord of the White Isles and of Illyr and of Immier and of the Wastes and of the Bitter Sea. The heir to Amrath and Serelethe. The Dragon Kin. The Demon Born.’ He lowered the sword slowly, turned to face the statue. ‘Amrath! I go now to reclaim my throne, that was Your son’s before me, to restore the true line of Your children, to take my rightful place as Your heir, as lord and king. Where the people of the White Isles once welcomed Eltheia Your consort, I will stand and be welcomed as king. I will be king.’

The crowds in the chapel went down onto their knees in a clatter of armour and a sigh of heavy silk. A deep indrawn breath, held for a moment with the tension of breaking rain. And then a great roar: ‘All hail Marith Altrersyr, Ansikanderakesis Amrakane ! King Marith! King Marith!’ White fire leaping and running the length of the blade, rushing like water, surging over Marith’s hands, gilding him, covering him, tracing the lines of his bones and his hair, his fingers clenched on the hilt of the sword, white fire pouring down his skin, alight and liquid, brilliant as the dawn sun. He stood looking at them, his people, still as the statue beside him that did not burn but sat dark and silent with its face so like his own. Thalia wondered, even, if he knew he burned.

He sheathed the sword. The fire faded. Smiled across at Thalia. Joy in his eyes. Look! Look! Look what I am! Look what I’ve done!

The court rose to their feet, hailing him again as king. ‘All hail Marith Altrersyr, Ansikanderakesis Amrakane ! King Marith! King Marith!’ Out of the chapel in procession, down to the shore where the ships bobbed at anchor or were drawn up on the mud. Marith held Thalia’s arm, his eyes raised, not seeing. Somewhere far away, in the fire and the light. His hand was cold as cold metal. Behind them came the lords and ladies, breathless, still cheering his name. The soldiers followed, the servants, Malth Calien emptying of people, rushing out onto the mud flats where the ships waited, craning their necks to see the king. ‘All hail Marith Altrersyr, Ansikanderakesis Amrakane ! King Marith! King Marith!’

A bonfire burned on the shoreline. Men had sat all night watching, guarding the fleet from the powers of sky and sea. Now in the glitter of morning Thalia saw long shadows curl around the masts. Ghost lights flickered out on the marshes, visible even in the light of day.

Marith stopped on the sand near the bonfire, the furthest running of the waves touching at his boots. Again, he drew the sword.

A horse was led up, richly harnessed with ornaments of gold. It stepped high and proudly, the smooth movements of its flanks like water curving over stones. At the last, as it came up to Marith, it realized. Its nostrils flared, snorting, rolling its eyes. Marith reached out his hand for it and it stilled again, sank down on its haunches before him, head bowed. The cut was gentle. Blood pumping out onto the sand, running into the sea. Silence. Then from a thousand throats a great wordless shout of triumph, swords clashing against shields.

When the horse was dead it was raised up on wooden spikes set in the water, the men cheering as they worked. ‘Amrath! Amrath and the Altrersyr! Victory to the king!’ Gulls and crows came immediately, shrieking. Death drawn. Death things, like the swords. The hot stink of the blood made Thalia tremble. Memory. Grief. Pride. So many had she killed, in her Temple, to bring death to the dying, life to those who needed to live. She could feel blood on her skin. The horse flopped on its spike, bleeding into the water, black against the silver-black sea. The tendrils of blood in the water were like the curls of Marith’s hair.

Trumpets sounded. The slow beat of drums. The men moved together, a churning mass on the shoreline, coloured tunics, coloured armour, the colours of their pennants. Iridescent beetles. Flowers blooming. Women dancing in swirls of cloth and gems. Trudging out to the ships, swords and shields and helmets, waiting faces, coming on in neat long lines beside the dead body of the luck horse, splashing out into the water boarding the black ships with their red gazing eyes and the water flowing with the tendrils of the horse’s blood, mud and silt rising with the smell of salt and salt-rot, the bright fresh light on the waves.