“Lander—”

“I told you I could do it, boy, and I have!” Lander laughed gleefully, and he did not sound quite sane. “I have the craft, the art. Now I will prove it to the world. Behold this.”

With a flourish, he pulled a long scabbard out of the cupboard and held it up.

His pallid face shone with pride and madness.

Dain felt pity for him. Only dwarves could create the kind of legendary weapon Lander wanted to make. The man’s ambitions had undone him.  “Look at it, boy!” Lander whispered insistently. “Besides mine, your hand will be the first to draw it.”

Dain could not resist that. He stepped closer and saw a magnificent hilt protruding from the end of the plain leather scabbard. The guard was a swirl of ivy, wrought incredibly from the metal. Each leaf was finely detailed, almost lifelike. The hilt itself was wrapped with gold wire. It shone and glittered in the muted light that filtered in through the shutters.

“Draw it!” Lander insisted. “Put your hand on it.”

Dain stretched out his hand, and heard the sword hum in response. He hesitated, a little afraid to touch it.

“Does it sing to you?” Lander asked, his pale eyes boring into Dain. “Can you hear its voice?”

Dain could, and he did not like it. He remembered how uncomfortable it had been to ride home with the magicked metal in the cart, how it had hummed and resonated inside him until he thought it might drive him mad. All the great swords had their individual songs. Truthseeker—Lord Odfrey’s own ancestral sword, made of god-steel—was a blade that Dain could listen to for all eternity.  But there was nothing clear and pure about this sword that Lander had wrought.

It sang of darkness and yearning and lust and fury.

Lander pressed closer. “Touch it!” he growled. “Take it, boy. Now!” Frowning, Dain let his fingers curl around the hilt. The sword came to life with such violence he almost believed light had flashed inside him. Dazed and half-blinded, he pulled out the shining blade. Through him the sword hummed and roared for war.

“Tanengard!” he said aloud, and swung the sword aloft.  It fit his hand perfectly. Power shone off its blade, and he craved this sword with such fierceness he thought he would die if he could not own it.  Lander reached up and plucked the sword from his hand. Dain growled in anger, but quick as thought Lander sheathed the weapon.

Dain blinked and swayed. His head was still buzzing. He felt tired and lost without the sword, yet he knew it was an evil thing, or could be, in the wrong hands. Dain found it a relief to hold it no longer.

Lander wrapped it up in a cloth, chuckling and muttering to himself.

“You have crafted a war sword,” Dain said.

“Of course I did, boy!” Lander said proudly. “It’s made for a king, and kings must be strong. When Verence puts his hand on my creation, he won’t be able to let go. And I will win the contest, and all in the land will know the name of Lander the Smith.”

“It’s a fearsome weapon,” Dain told him.

Lander laughed. “Thank you, boy. Thank you.”

“Too fearsome. It’s not easy to handle.”

“You’re a boy,” Lander said, brushing off his advice. “The king is a man. He’ll handle it.”

Dain frowned, hurt by that. He gave up what he was trying to say. Clearly Lander had no intention of listening to him.

“Tanengard,” Lander crooned, stroking the weapon through its cloth wrapping. “I wondered what your name was. I cannot hear your song. It took this eld boy to hear what you had to say.”

“Is that the only reason you brought me in here?” Dain asked, suddenly angry.

“Just to get its name?”

“How else?” Lander replied.

Dain spun on his heel and started for the door. “You treat me like a dancing beyar that does tricks.”

“Wait, boy! Wait! You must take this.”

Lander hurried after him and thrust the wrapped sword in his arms.

Dain held it awkwardly. “What am I to do with it?”

“Are you daft? I can’t give my prize into Lord Odfrey’s keeping,” Lander said.

“One look at it and he would condemn me for sorcery.” “Rightly so,” Dain muttered, wondering how Lander had managed to invoke the spells now crawling inside the blade.

Lander scowled at him but went on as though he had not spoken. “You will take it to Savroix for me. At the last minute before the sword contest, you will switch swords. Put Tanengard before the king and keep the plain one for yourself.” He beamed. “That’s your reward. I haven’t forgotten your help, see? And you want a sword of your own, don’t you? One made by me will soon be worth a great deal.  You will be the envy of your friends.”

“But I—”

“Go now. Go! I depend on you.”

Dain’s uneasiness grew. This whole business seemed dishonest and sneaky. And Tanengard’s spell included a lure that would make it next to impossible for the king to choose any other weapon once he’d touched this one. It was not right to enspell a king. Dain had the horrible suspicion that consorting with Lander would get him into terrible trouble again, far worse than the last time.  “I don’t want to,” he said, trying to hand the sword back to Lander. “Take it to Lord Odfrey. Tell him you gave him the wrong sword by mistake. He doesn’t have to see it.”

“Are you mad?” Lander asked, staring at him. “Of course he’ll see it. And as soon as he does, he’ll want it for himself. No, boy. You’re to guard it. Only you can resist it and keep it safe.”

“You have a high opinion of my resistance,” Dain muttered, fearing he, too, might surrender to the madness he now held in his arms.  “You’re eld. Of course you can resist.”

“It’s too strong,” Dain said. “I wonder that you can even bring yourself to give it to me.”

“You know that as its maker I am immune,” Lander said, but his darting eyes and red face gave away his lie.

“A magicked sword is one thing, but there are too many spells in this one. What if you drive the king mad?”

“No true warrior could fail with Tanengard,” Lander said. “King Verence has a mighty heart. Yes, it is a brutal sword. But he needs it now to defend us against the darkness. Tell me true, boy: Would you want this sword in any other man’s hand save his?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled. Good journey to you.”

“But—”

From outside came a shout. “Dain!”

There was no more time to protest. Dain was pushed outside the smithy, with Tanengard still in his arms. He glanced around, saw the Thirst knights mounted and the church soldiers climbing into their saddles. The air was bright and clear, the sunlight hot, the shouts and merriment loud. Out here, Tanengard did not seem as dark and strong as it had before. Dain realized that sometimes swords of this kind mirrored the souls of their makers. It could be some darkness inside Lander that was tainting this weapon, Dain mused; perhaps separation and distance would diminish that link, making it eventually fade.  Dain hoped so, for it seemed that he was now committed to getting the sword into the hands of the king, come what may.

“Dain!” Sir Terent shouted, riding by on his horse. “Quit dawdling, if you intend to go. Lord Odfrey has been asking for you.”

Dain gulped, realizing he was about to be left behind. Tucking the sword under his arm, he ran to the baggage wagons.

Lyias, of course, saw him. “What is that, Lord Dain? May I help you?” “No,” Dain said gruffly. “It’s nothing.” He stuffed it hastily out of sight among the bedrolls.

“Is that Dain?” called out an accented voice. Sulein came riding his donkey from around the other side of the wagon. “Ah, yes,” he said with one of his intense smiles. His dark, wiry beard was combed today, and his eyes glowed with excitement. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.” Dain’s heart sank.  Sulein’s discussions ranged from simple questions to entire lectures on philosophy and mathematics. “Forgive me,” he said as fast as he could. “I must attend Lord Odfrey.”

“But, Dain—” “I must go.”

Mounting his horse, he kicked it hard to catch up with Lord Odfrey at the head of the line.

The chevard had reined up at the gates. Sitting tall in his saddle, with the sunlight sparking no glints from his dark hair, he adjusted his gloves impatiently and frowned as Dain came trotting alongside, disorderly and out of breath. On his other side, Gavril shot Dain a faint, disdainful sneer. Sir Damiend did not look at Dain at all.