‘The Troll-Gods?’ Ulath suggested bleakly.
‘I wouldn’t discount the possibility. They did it once before, so we know that they have the capability. Right now, though, all we have are some suspicions based on some educated guesses. We desperately need information.’
‘That’s my department, Sparhawk,’ Stragen told him. ‘Mine and Platime’s. You’re going to Daresia, I assume?’
‘It’s beginning to look that way.’ Sparhawk gave his wife an apologetic look. ‘I’d gladly let someone else go, but I’m afraid he wouldn’t know what he’s looking for.’
‘I’d better go with you,’ Stragen decided. ‘I have associates there as well as here in Eosia, and people in our line of work can gather information much more quickly than your people can.’
Sparhawk nodded.
‘Maybe we can start right there,’ Ulath suggested. He looked at the Patriarch Ortzel. ‘How did all these wild stories about Drychtnath get started, your Grace? Nobody’s reputation really lasts for four thousand years, no matter how impressive he was to begin with.’
‘Drychtnath is a literary creation, Sir Ulath,’ the severe blond churchman replied, smiling slightly. Even as Dolmant’s ascension to the throne had changed him, so Ortzel had been changed by living in Chyrellos. He no longer seemed to be the rigid, provincial man he had been in Lamorkand. Although he was by no means as worldly as Emban, he had nonetheless reacted to the sophistication of his colleagues in the Basilica. He smiled occasionally now, and he appeared to be developing a sly, understated sense of humour. Sparhawk had met with him on several occasions since Dolmant had ordered the cleric to Chyrellos, and the big Pandion found that he was actually beginning to like the man. Ortzel still had his prejudices, of course, but he was now willing to admit that points of view other than his own might have some small validity.
‘Somebody just made him up?’ Ulath was saying incredulously.
‘Oh, no. There was somebody named Drychtnath four thousand years ago. Probably some bully-boy with his brains in his biceps. I’d imagine that he was the usual sort – no neck, no forehead and nothing even remotely resembling intelligence between his ears. After he died, though, some poet struggling with failing inspiration seized on the story and embellished it with all the shopworn conventions of the heroic epic. He called it The Drychtnathasaga, and Lamorkand would be far better off if the poet had never learned to read and write.’ Sparhawk thought he detected some actual flashes of humour there.
‘One poem could hardly have that kind of impact, your Grace,’ Kalten said sceptically.
‘You underestimate the power of a well-told story, Sir Kalten. I’ll have to translate as I go along, but judge for yourself.’ Ortzel leaned back with his eyes half-closed. ‘Hearken unto a tale from the age of heroes,’ he began. His harsh, rigid voice became softer, more sonorous as he recited the ancient poem. ‘List, brave men of Lamorkland to the exploits of Drychtnath the smith, mightiest of all the warriors of yore.
‘Now as all men know, the Age of Heroes was an age of bronze. Massive were the bronze swords and the axes of the heroes of yore, and mighty were the thews of the men who wielded them in joyous battle. And none there was in all the length and breadth of Lamorkland mightier than Drychtnath the smith.
‘Tall was Drychtnath and ox-shouldered, for his labour moulded him even as he moulded the glowing metal. Swords of bronze wrought he, and spears as keen as daggers, and axes and shields and burnished helms and shirts of mail which shed the foeman’s blows as they were no more than gentle rain from on high.
‘And lo, warriors from all of dark-forested Lamorkland gladly gave good gold and bright silver beyond measure in exchange for Drychtnath’s bronze, and the mighty smith waxed in wealth and in strength as he toiled at his forge.’
Sparhawk tore his eyes from Ortzel’s face and looked around. The faces of his friends were all rapt. The Patriarch of Kadach’s voice rose and fell in the stately cadences of bardic utterance.
‘Lord,’ Sir Bevier breathed as the patriarch paused, ‘it’s hypnotic, isn’t it?’
‘That’s always been its danger,’ Ortzel told him. ‘The rhythm numbs the mind and sets the pulse to racing. The people of my race are susceptible to the emotionality of The Drychtnathasaga. An army of Lamorks can be whipped into a frenzy by a recitation of some of the more lurid passages.’
‘Well?’ Talen said eagerly. ‘What happened?’
Ortzel smiled rather gently at the boy. ‘Surely so worldly a young thief cannot be stirred by some tired old poem?’ he suggested slyly. Sparhawk nearly laughed aloud. Perhaps the change in the Patriarch of Kadach had gone further than he had imagined.
‘I like a good story,’ Talen admitted. ‘I’ve never heard one told that way before, though.’
‘It’s called “felicity of style”,’ Stragen murmured. ‘Sometimes it’s not so much what the story says, but how it says it.’
‘Well?’ Talen insisted. ‘What happened?’
‘Drychtnath discovered that a giant named Kreindl had forged a metal that could cut bronze like butter,’ Ortzel replied. ‘He went to Kreindl’s lair with only his sledge-hammer for a weapon, tricked the secret of the new metal out of the giant and then beat out his brains with the sledge. Then he went home and began to forge the new metal – steel – and hammered it out into weapons. Soon every warrior in Lamorkand – or Lamorkland as they called it in those days – had to have a steel sword, and Drychtnath grew enormously wealthy.’ He frowned. ‘I hope you’ll bear with me,’ he apologised. ‘Translating on the spot is a bit difficult.’ He thought a while and then began again. ‘Now it came to pass that the fame of the mighty smith Drychtnath spread throughout the land. Tall was he, a full ten span, I ween, and broad were his shoulders. His thews were as the steel from his forge, and comely were his features. Full many a maid of noble house yearned for him in the silences of her soul.
‘Now as it chanced to happen in those far-off days of yore, the ruler of the Lamorks was the aged King Hygdahl, whose snowy locks bespoke his wisdom. No son on life had he, but a daughter, the child of his eld, fair as morning dew and yclept Uta. And Hygdahl was sore troubled, for well he wot that when his spirit had been gathered to the bosom of Hrokka, strife and contention would wrack the lands of the Lamorks as the heroes vied with one another for his throne and for the hand of fair Uta in marriage, for such was the twin prize which would fall to the hand of the victor. And so resolved King Hygdahl at last to secure the future of realm and daughter with one stroke. And caused he to be sent word to every corner of his vasty realm. The fate of Lamorkland and of bright-eyed Uta would be decided by trial at arms. The mightiest hero in all the land would win wealth, wife and dominion by the strength of his hands.’ Ortzel paused in his translation.