HAMMER OF THE STARS 
by Pete Garrett
	
	They came by night, so it was whispered, moving through the forest in the dark, leaving no traces. It was not known, among those who rumoured in dim recesses of the city's kitchens, how they had passed the sentries on the outer gate.
	Peredur Mappavrauch heard the news from Saskia Whiteflower, quite early on the first morning while collecting his wrapped lunch of apples, black bread and red smoked cheese from the cook's assistant.
	"Isn't it exciting, Peredur? Haven't you heard? Strangers in the Lower Town - a whole caravan, travelling folk, and they say the weirdest, wildest men seen here for years and years!"
	The cook's assistant added to the news: "Ladies too, they say, beautiful as anyone can imagine but heavily veiled."
	"Them too. Though how these gossips know they are beautiful when they are veiled, I cannot guess."
	Elen, Peredur's mother, entered as usual to ensure he left for the Academy on time, not forgetting his slate, chalk, lunch or precious books. She must have overheard the conversation, for she stressed: "Do not dally on the way, my dearest, to look at parades of idle foreign mountebanks. There are always strange men in the Lower City, and it's better not to know them. Many a young scholar has been distracted from his hard and honourable career by adventurers, magicians and slaves of forbidden gods."
	Peredur, though nearly eighteen and over six feet tall, knew better than to argue with such advice. Whiteflower, an orphan but niece to the Graf, seldom heeded warnings: "Surely our city is guarded against spells by ancient protective charms?"
	"It's the temple of Our Lady Verena which casts the mantle of safety over us," Elen said. "Even that only covers the Upper City. The Academy is in the Lower, with its temptations, so the initiates can learn to combat the forces of evil." She turned to Peredur. "Go straight there, and be thankful you live here with Uncle Rhenhardt, in Wurtbad with its Academy. On what's left of your poor father's estate, you'd be lucky to learn your letters."
	Round the first corner, Whiteflower popped out of a nook: "Are you coming to see the strangers? I hear the Graf will speak to them within the hour, demanding to know their business. That'll be a spectacle not to be missed."
	"Well... I should go straight to the Academy."
	She did not, as she often did, cast aspersions on the Academy and the clerics. "That's all right. I've found a new tunnel... a short cut to the postern gate. You can do both."
	Peredur nodded, and she led the way down to the wine cellar. No one knew the underworld of Wurtbad like his cousin Saskia Whiteflower. Noble born, but not due to inherit anything, the ladies in waiting turned a blind eye when she ignored girls' lessons and trained with the squires, if they would have her, or spent hours by herself exploring dungeons and tunnels. She had found a passage under the barrack block, but he thought it led only to more cellars - no faster way out.
	"Here." He knew the narrow gap through which she darted; it took them out of the storage area, into a long, gloomy tunnel. In the lamplight, he could see the stonework change: slabs larger, but more regular than above, arching massively over their heads. Folk said the whole Upper City was built on the foundation of these colossal ruins; they had been abandoned long before the Graf's ancestors fortified the hilltop, so no one could say what men had built them, if men they were.
	They hurried down a passage: it had once been the aisle of a gigantic hall. To one side, the arches were filled with regular blocks; but on the other, they were piled in more confusion. Perhaps the upper stories of the palace had simply collapsed into the middle of the hall: but possibly they had been smashed there by some inconceivable force.
	The aisle swung sharply to the left. After a short distance, she stopped, and started examining the outer wall. He had time to observe intricate carving on the squared stones. Whiteflower ran her hands along a design, then pushed hard. A large section, several apparent slabs, swung back. It released a gush of cold and murky air, flickering the light alarmingly.
	"I guessed from old tales there might be a passage here. Look!" She pointed across the aisle, to a larger than usual arch, almost filled not with rubble but with a marble dais, on top of which they could see the back of an enormous throne. "Whoever ruled in those days needed a private escape route."
	She showed him how to operate the secret door. Then, on down a flight of shallow steps... she took them fast and sure, the light bouncing with the rhythm of her stride, casting its shadows in a wild procession across the mysterious walls like clouds racing over the great moon in a high wind. They caught glimpses of carvings or murals - strange, handsome beings who were not quite men and women - but had no time to examine them.
	Saskia Whiteflower had other things on her mind. "Why does your mother stop you doing so many things? She makes you spend so long in the school, you have no time to train properly with the squires, though you're the best of the lot. And you've no chance of any adventures."
	"I'm not really supposed to be a squire at all. You see, my father was a freelance knight. Sometimes, he'd act as Judicial Champion for adventurers in trouble. That's how he came... to be killed. He never made much money, and sold some of the little land he had. So we're almost poor relations here."
	"I see. My step-father won't let you be a proper squire."
	"No, no! Mother vowed, when my father died, that I wouldn't lead that kind of life. She wants me to be a scholar. It's uncle Rhenhardt who insists he won't have a boy in his household who doesn't have achance to train as a squire."
	"Oh!" She sniffed angrily. "He's never insisted I be given a chance. I have to train sneakily."
	Peredur was about to reply that girls seldom did do squire's training, when they came to the bottom of the steps. The way was blocked by masses of mortared stones, great old ones, their carvings clashing wildly, interspersed with smaller modern blocks. The face was not quite sheer: there were little ledges above the courses, as though they were very steep stairs.
	"I'd better lead the way. Here, you hold the lamp." She hoisted her black satin skirt, with its pale lily flowers, and tied it carefully in a knot at her waist, then started nimbly upward. He had time to think that she was really almost as useful as a boy. She wore men's hose, very tight, and he noted that though she was not tall her legs were as muscular as those of any youth, and in some subtle way far more pleasing to look on.
	"Hold the lamp up. There!" She pushed something, and a door slid open. Peredur blinked as daylight flooded in, and he took longer than she had clambering up. Whiteflower untied her skirt and led the way out. They were in a corner between the city wall and the buttress by the postern, having scrambled up the great wall's foundation!
	They had saved a few minutes, but anticipation hurried them through the Lower City towards the market square. The crowds were large for the hour, all heading in that direction.
	The Upper City was built on a curved hill, like a crescent moon. The outer wall ran between the two horns; the Lower City was on the inner slopes, its streets stepped down to the market. The sun was already above the eastern arm of the hill, bright in a pale blue sky misted with translucent clouds. As they scurried down from the gate its rise reversed; buildings eclipsed it more and more often.
	Turrets and minarets thrust weirdly into the sky with none of the regularity of the Upper City, which could have been in any part of the Empire. Here travellers and dealers in strange goods from Kislev, the Border Princedoms and beyond had recreated their distant, exotic homes with no order or plan: a place where the spiced aroma of enticing foreign foods mingled with the incense of strange temples and the odd scent of unknowable goods in small and evil-looking shops; where they sensed the gaze of bleak little eyes from every shuttered window or dark, uninviting door.
	The steeply stepped streets around the market formed a theatre, which was already crowded - but they knew a narrow passage beside the bookseller's shop, which led to a balcony he let them use. No stalls had been set up in the market place. The traders hung round the edge, looking with curiosity, resentment and fear at the group which dominated the square.
	Rumour was right: no such party had passed this way in their time. The strange men were every sort you could imagine, colourful in dress, often with some plate or mail armour - though few wore the full suits which were uniform among the Graf's guards. They did not resemble an army, with no appearance of discipline or drill; though they were drawn up in a kind of formation, close around their wagons, and had the look of men used to working together.
	Peredur could have filled a book with the appearance of this outlandish crew, had his eyes not fixed on the leader: as huge a man as he had ever seen, human in aspect though with an air of something savage - wolf or ape or bear. His black hair was not long, but curled wild and almost matted, as did his beard. He wore a double coat of mail with some heavy plates attached, but no helmet: his coif was thrown casually back. He led a steed which increased the fierceness of his look. This was no charger, but a gigantic boar, high at the shoulder as a stallion: such a beast as wild hordes ride who are not men. Its tusks were as large and hacked as swords, and the warrior had a bigger one yet as handle to his massive battle hammer, shaft and iron head alike inscribed with runes. The man had a vast power about him, though whether for good or evil was hard to tell.
	Beside him stood a man powerful as he, but shorter His beard was long, and he wore a doublet of rough cloth: no mail. He had a kindlier expression than his companion, carried a heavy staff that did not have to be a weapon, and led a horse which, though very large and shaggy, was still a horse.
	Behind this formidable duo, was the strangest sight yet: a wicker chariot, light and graceful beside the gaudy wagons, drawn by six greyhounds (these were bigger and sturdier than dogs bred for racing; but had a look of swiftness and grace no word can better describe). Two were pure white, two almost black, and two of both colours, exactly half and half. The car had an awning, black/grey and white, from which hung veils of ephemeral silk behind which two figures could just be seen: no details could be made out, but their presence alone had beauty.
	A trumpet sounded from above. The main gate of the Upper City had a huge barbican which extended down the hill like an arrow nocked to a bow. Graf Manfred appeared on the battlement, splendid in his scarlet cape and hat, with a squad of his men. Peredur's Uncle Rhenhardt was in command, and most carried loaded crossbows. There were other archers on the walls above.
	The Graf spoke sternly: "Who are you, strangers who have passed our outer gate, by what enchantment I cannot guess? What business have you? If you are not our enemies, your words had better be convincing!"
	The big barbarian was the spokesman. His voice was loud, surprisingly cultured, with but a trace of accent: "Lord Count! We are not enemies! We keep the laws of civilized lands, and seek only to help those we visit. Nor do we come empty-handed: we can trade or entertain, and are men of many skills. If any of your folk are hardy and honourable, seek noble adventures, and have something to offer, we will welcome them to join us."
	Graf Manfred still looked suspicious: "So, you seek to recruit from our citizens - or is it to kidnap them? To trade - or is it to steal? To entertain - or is it to bewitch? You do not even give us your names, the land of your birth or the purpose for which you travel in this extraordinary caravan!"
	The giant hung his head slightly, as though his appearance was so impressive that he had no need to act savagely. The shorter man beside him now spoke up: "We are of many countries, most of them distant. I am known among our fellowship as K'nuth the Stout. This is my kinsman, N'dru the Strong. Among our own nation, it is not required of a guest or stranger to give one's born name: there are those who would abuse the knowing of it!"
	"You are not yet guests!" The Graf seemed little mollified.
	The huge cousin spoke again: "It must seem strange that so much about us is veiled in mystery. We are law-keepers, with a mission of great benefit to all civilized folk. I can tell by my runes, by the smell of your air, that this city is not in thrall to the cults of darkness: yet evil has its tendrils everywhere. There are those who would promise much to know the object of our quest, and their spies cannot always be recognized."
	The Graf whispered with Rhenhardt, then replied: "So! You will tell us nothing of yourselves. False names, precious little else! Anyone can claim a noble quest and powerful enemies. You are so many, I would call you a small army if you wore livery."
	There was a rattle of movement above: a bombard was trundled onto one of the large bastions; a bolt-catapult appeared on another. Peredur tried to place himself protectively in front of Whiteflower, but she pushed past him again.
	The huge N'dru was losing patience: his hands tightened on the carved ivory shaft of his mighty hammer. Peredur wondered if he would try to batter down the great gate single-handed. Given time, he surely could have, but the soldiers above were raising their crossbows. Now the cousin K'nuth whispered frantically in his leader's ear; and one of the mysterious figures in the chariot sprang to her feet so that conveyance rocked wildly for a second.
	The giant returned with effort to his humbler mood. He drew a mighty breath and said: "Great Count, I swear that I and my companions mean you and your people no harm. Indeed, great good will come to you when we achieve our aims. I will swear so on the high altar of Ulric, and of any other god you nominate."
	The Graf relented a little: "This city worships Our Lady Verena. We enjoy her special protection: she will not permit the foul adherents of the dark to succeed in their disgraceful arts within our walls. On her altar you must swear, along with that of your own fierce god."
	"That, I and my men will willingly do," said N'dru the Strong.
	The atmosphere relaxed. Peredur heard the distant striking of a clock. "It's late. I must hurry." Whiteflower made a face, but did not stop him dashing up the steps to the Academy. He reflected on the strange things they had witnessed. The life of adventure was forbidden, yet he did not regret seeing the strangers, and yearned to know the secret of their mysterious quest.
	Brother Martin had finished the register when he rushed in. "Where have you been, Peredur? It's not like you to be late."
	"There was a commotion in the town. Strangers. I thought for a minute there would be a battle, right there in the Market."
	"Strangers! That's a strange excuse! No more of this!"
	It was tense at the Academy. The others were mostly from families without noble blood, children of merchants or other leading burgesses. They resented Peredur's status as nephew to the Garrison Commander, and felt he was over-privileged because of it. But they feared him, as one who trained with the squires. Some tried flattery, which was more annoying than hostility. They were a miserable lot, well suited to a future without action.
	During lunch, Brother Martin sought him out. "So. You saw the mysterious ones. Let us put your escapade to some use. What kind of men were they? What can you learn from what you saw?"
	Martin was about thirty, less bound by books than most of the clerics. He listened carefully to Peredur's description, then said: "Thereare lands where men fear to reveal their names. They are nests of wizardry, where the battles of lawful and unlawful magic are waged more fiercly than in this relatively tranquil city."
	Peredur tried to digest this. "You fear the barbarians may be plotting to deceive the Graf, using spells of illusion?"
	Brother Martin shook his head. "No. Such spells have no power in the Temple. But there are many ways to speak the truth." He looked down the colonnade, and made a bow towards the owl of Verena which watched over the entrance. "One must be fair. Men who dwell outside the Empire are not necessarily barbarians, nor always wicked by design. Yet in places where names are unsafe to utter, the worship of Ulric goes often hand in glove with that of Solkan the Avenger. Their followers are not corrupt, but can be unjust: a hard faith to reconcile with worship of Our Lady."
	In Wurtbad there were large temples only to Verena, Ulric and Sigmar. If foreign cults had gained a toehold in the Lower Town, Peredur was not deemed ready to learn of them. His mother hoped he would live in those quiet colonnades, avoiding conflict over things more desparate than the exact meaning of ancient texts. Elen had influence, being in charge of her brother's household, and Rhenhardt was not treated as a mere freelance, having been married to Saskia's mother, the original White Flower of Wurtbad. The latter had been the Graf's favourite sister, the most beautiful woman ever to have lived in the city.
	Peredur was taught about the Empire, the centre of civilized life, and little of the lands beyond. Intrigued by what he had seen that day, he was boldened to ask his uncle at supper if the visitors had taken their oaths in a satisfactory manner.
	"So it would seem. The clerics took precautions against illusion, and didn't detect anything." Less convinced of Our Lady's protective power than most, Uncle Rhenhardt never scoffed openly. "They didn't look like perjurers in action to me."
	Peredur's mother had a different view: "They must have used magic to enter the Lower City - unless you hire men who sleep on sentry duty and leave the gates open." She glared at Rhenhardt, who seemed about to reply, but she hurried on: "By all accounts, the adventurers are wild creatures, scarcely human. I'm amazed they were not sent packing when they were under your guns."
	He replied mildly. "They have a frightening look, but it is merely a matter of dress and style. I examined them closely. They do not include any half-orcs, or even dwarfs."
	"Perhaps. But you must at least keep the children away from them, and not let them attend this ghastly show."
	Peredur had heard about no show, and had no idea what to protest about. Whiteflower had, and was very indignant. "I amnot a child, I am the Graf's niece, and I amnot being told what not to attend. The 'show' is to be a festival in honour of Ulric the White Wolf, who is neglected here in Wurtbad."
	Elen opened her mouth to scold Whiteflower, but Rhenhardt spoke rapidly for once. "Although the visitors are guests here, they have invited us to attend this festival. It is the Equinox of Spring, sacred to Taal as well as the White Wolf. It would be discourteous for the family to not attend."
	Elen spent the next days haranguing Peredur about the dangers posed by adventurers, and the evil gods they must worship in secret. Each day he went straight to the Academy as required, merely peering down the steps into the Lower Town on the way, trying to see he knew not what. In the event, he saw nothing. Rumours were started by students whose fathers had sold the visitors supplies, or bought from them strange treasures. They reported that the strangers had constantly asked questions about the layout, history and traditions of the city. After a few days, one whose father kept a tavern reported seeing the man K'nuth standing drinks and asking about the tunnels in the ruins under the Upper City - about who had made them, and how they could be entered.
	That evening, Peredur and Whiteflower went again to those hidden passages. They saw nothing but ancient stones, murky shadows and dust. Yet in the distance, several times, they seemed to hear sounds: voices, carried perhaps through air holes; boots stepping heavily on rock; the clank of iron. And once or twice they noticed a peculiar smell, not unpleasant but quite alien to the clammy world beneath the earth: smoke, heavy with some rich oil, and a hint of sandalwood, as though exotic lamps had guided someone's path through the underworld, then vanished through the old unyielding walls.
	The Spring Equinox dawned. The parade in honour of Ulric would be followed by a demonstration of martial skills and a dance in honour of Taal, Lord of Nature and Wild Places. His worship had faded in Wurtbad, since it no longer had wildness, save the wildness of men. Elen said it would be a violent, obscene performance, like the Bull Dances of decadent southern lands - not festivals of true religion. But she did not object when Rhenhardt said they would be seated in the Graf's box, in a house overlooking the market, with terraces of seats.
	The Academy closed early and Peredur hurried over. It was still mid-afternoon, and few people had arrived. He ducked into a half-enclosed courtyard: it was shaded there, only the rear being open to the sky. One could get water from a fountain, fed by a mineral spring. At first he did not see the woman who was there, but it was more than surprise that made him start. Though he could not see her face at first, she had a grace and sad dignity he had never dreamed of. She turned sharply at the sound of his footfall, like a fellow deer startled while drinking at some secluded brook in the forest. Her uncannily beautiful face was unlike any he had seen: framed by slightly waving night-dark hair, the bones exotic, delicate. Her complexion was bronze-tinted by the sun, though somehow pale also, as though the blood was afraid to linger. She wore a cloak which fell to her feet, fastened down the front with silver. It was of a very rich material, mostly blue in colour but winter-dark, with white embroidered clouds and flecks of snow, lightened by tiny jewels like stars and a silver moon.
	He was too abashed to speak. Girls whose noble families kept them from the Academy attended religious festivals, and he feared this court had been assigned to their secluded use.
	"I beg your pardon, Sir." It was she who apologized, improbably, to him. "I thought it would be allowable to use this fountain, while I was waiting for the Festival to begin." Her voice was very clear and carefully pronounced, without a trace of accent, as though her upbringing had been so refined that it was protected from any infection by the multitudinous brogues which rose clamouring from the alleys of the city.
	"Of course it is. May I help you to a drink?" He carefully washed and filled one of the cups which sat beside the spring. "I do not believe we have met. Is this the first time you have attended the Spring Festival here?"
	"Here, yes. But I am familiar with all of the festival dances and customs."
	"Oh." Tongue-tied, Peredur racked his brain for something to say to this exquisite beauty. "Er, I have heard that the... dances performed at the Festival are... doubtful... dangerous stuff... rather like those performed in foreign places."
	"Oh! Yes, I suppose you might have heard that. The festival is, of course, international. It takes place in all the lands where Great Ulric and Holy Taal are venerated, and there are similarities in the rituals and dances. As for dangerous, yes, you could say that. But the gods protect their own."
	"I... don't quite see what you mean."
	"Not everyone chooses to participate in the rites. No, not everyone would choose to do that. But some are called, and that call, if it is powerful enough, may not be refused."
	There was something infinitely distant in that perfect voice, something he did not understand and wished to hear no more. "You are well informed, yet I have not seen you at the Academy."
	"No, I have not visited the Academy. Most of my education has come from my family. But I would like to visit Verena's..."
	"D'vorah! Come." A young woman in a loose dress of fine, pale-blue material appeared at the door, but did not enter. They looked almost to be twins, but the newcomer's hair was strikingly pale, like the light honey called Bee's Milk. The other smiled wanly at him, gave a little curtsey, turned and left quickly.
	"Who was that woman?" a sharp voice interrupted. He saw his mother had arrived, and thought it was she who had spoken. Then he realized Saskia Whiteflower was with her, in one of her angry moods.
	"I... don't know. She seemed well-bred, I suppose she is from a family which keeps its girls from the Academy." He offered this, realizing he no longer believed it.
	"Well." His mother, Elen, did not seem annoyed. "You scholars can mix in the best circles. Remember that."
	But Whiteflower was less impressed. Her bad mood persisted through the festival, and worsened when the Graf led the warriors of the city out on parade: "Look! All the squires but us!"
	It was a poor display. Nobles rode in fine but handed-down armour which seldom fitted, as their fathers had weighed less. The squires were similar: few would follow military careers. Rhenhardt's men were best: war was their trade, not their duty.
	Then the visitors, true men of Ulric, went through their paces. The manoeuvres lasted a long time, but few remembered the detail, perhaps because of what came after.
	It was nearly sundown, and the arena cleared of men. Two wooden towers were trundled forward, and a wire was tightened between them. While this was being done, K'nuth the Stout spoke: "Friends, we have honoured Ulric, Lord of Winter. Now we welcome Spring, in the name of Taal of the Wild Places!"
	At his words, the assembly fell silent. Into the arena came the strangest sight: a huge bison ridden by a man! The beast was oddly coloured - brown to the shoulder, with a white mane. It easily bore its rider, despite his size: he had to be N'dru the Strong, though his face was covered by the mask of a white wolfskin, from a beast he must have killed himself. Some of the audience fell to their knees, believing for an instant that Ulric had ridden the Winter into the city and they could worship him.
	The sun lowered redly to the Western hill. K'nuth announced: "Behold, Winter ends, and Ulric quits the land!" The warrior leapt from the bison's back, vaulted easily over the barrier. "Now, life returns to the world as the Dancer of Spring."
	"What dancer is this?" Peredur whispered to Whiteflower.
	"Look!" She hissed. "Yournoble little friend!"
	His blood quickened. A figure moved, slow but graceful, up the steps of the eastern tower. He knew the blue embroidered robe, the hair now garlanded with green. She paused before the taut wire, appearing calm, but he sensed a tremor of fear run through her. A trumpet sounded, strange music, and she threw her arms upward, her cloak back: it did not fall, but fanned out around her like a parasol. The assembly gasped: it was lined with silver mirrors, brightly reflecting the dying sun. Beneath, her arms and legs were bare, browned almost to the colour of her golden cuirass. The music rose, and she moved forward onto the wire, dancing along it, her delicate feet never missing a step.
	She pranced to the far tower; whirled the cloak up, tossed it on to the platform, blue side up, so her golden body shone dominant over it. Light flashed onto the ends of two batons she held, which burst into flame. As the crowd gasped, Peredur hoped the show was over, but it was not finished. N'dru stared at the bison, holding his hammer up: its runes glowed with more than reflected light. The beast moved toward him: as it passed under the wire, the girl stepped easily into the air, landing with both feet on its back, sank almost to one knee, but stood upright in triumph, twirling her torches like juggler's clubs.
	She leaned forward and somehow attached the brands to the beast's great horns, then jumped off the tail, landing clean. The bison turned to look to the insult to its dignity: instead of fleeing, she ran lightly to it and vaulted over its head, her golden armour flashing fire between the two torches as she somersaulted.
	How could any cult, Peredur thought, allow so fair a girl to run such a risk, however well she took it? The bison angrily speeded up, trying to shake her off. Twice more she skipped nimbly down, turning to vault again between the flames. Their heat enraged the creature: she could not cope with its faster charge - or did intense sympathy transfer Peredur's fear to her, disrupt her concentration? That final time, she slipped, fell heavily from the bison's back, lay still as it turned, then tried to scramble up as it thundered angrily at her.
	A moan of sympathy rose all round. Peredur jumped up, wild with terror, and made a futile grab for his short sword, as though he were near. No one could rush between her and the monster: but N'dru had other resources. Leaping onto the barrier, he swung his great hammer and threw it. The bison was almost on the struggling girl, but the hammer was faster: runes glowing on its fearsome head, it struck the animal between the eyes, smashing its skull and hurling it backward onto its haunches. Nor was this all: runes glowing now on the mammoth shaft, it bounced into the air, and flew back surely to its master's mighty hand, as though it was a dove or homing bird.
	The squires who served at the evening feast all chattered about the magic weapon, the amazing rescue. Whiteflower and Peredur were included because of their better manners; they were in fact to serve the top table. N'dru sat next to the Graf, then Rhenhardt, K'nuth, and the two beautiful maidens, D'vorah the dancer, subdued by her ordeal, and C'tlain, the light-haired one. These were the sisters of N'dru. There were also notables of Wurtbad present, including Brother Martin.
	Peredur took care of D'vorah, giving her the best portions. He tried clumsily to express in words the beauty of the dance. She replied graciously but briefly. Time was short: the menu was complex, and the visitors had brought contributions. The first was a brown pepper from Achillesia, which N'dru warned might be too hot for their taste; hardly anyone had much, just a dash for politeness, while the strangers swamped their food with the stuff. Martin also: he looked worried, not just hot.
	D'vorah ate little; Peredur offered her other dishes. She seemed pleased, but wanted nothing. N'dru beckoned him, and said to the Graf: "Your hospitality is excellent, but I must ask if it is common among you for squires to make eyes at a guest's sister?"
	Peredur almost sank into the floor, and did his best not to fear this huge, outlandish man. But it was hard, and he dared not upset the Graf. Manfred at least invited him to defend himself.
	"I mean no offence. I wish to see the lady lacks nothing, as she has endured much more today than anyone else."
	N'dru frowned, a barbarous figure who even wore his mail at table: "Give equal care to all the guests. Our stock is inured to hardship and danger: my sister needs none of your fawning."
	Peredur was isolated - the Graf would not defend a fatherless scholar, and his family, especially his mother, would frown on attention to a foreign adventuress - but he could not keep silent: "Here we do not submit our women to the attentions of wild animals and deny them those of civilized men!"
	N'dru sat right up, and many feared him then. "Men! Since when have boys who don't even parade with the squires been men? If you hope to worm into my company via my sister, forget it!
	If you have other designs on her, why, I'd sooner see her marry a half-orc! Now, get to pouring wine, before I lose patience!"
	One person supported Peredur readily. Whiteflower had been working quietly and busily. For some reason, she had hennaed her hair, and put so much rouge powder on her face, which was really quite pretty, that it looked like a doll's mask - though now it was redder still with rage: "What do you know, you ignorant savage? Peredur Mappavrauch is the best of all the squires, the son of a great knight, a champion - but far too serious a scholar to join your band of tramps and gypsies!"
	The room froze. N'dru seemed past words, like a bombard with the fire lit and creeping along the fuse. But K'nuth had seen the Graf's arms on Whiteflower's gold brooch, and he cut in: "Lord Count, please forgive my cousin his concern for D'vorah's honour. Our married women are always true, but while single they can be tempted. I lost my own sister to an idle charlatan, a wolf who blathered his way into our fold. This young man is no more eager to join our company than we to have him. It's all a misunderstanding."
	People started to relax. Even N'dru took the mood. "That is so. And we have things to give and do! I have a present for you, my lord. Wine of Fallerion, the best vintage! Let even the squires drink it: it may make men of them!"
	The wine was white, but with an odd bright hue, like quicksilver. Peredur only pretended to drink; he wanted no gift of N'dru! Nor did Whiteflower drink, and they noticed that Brother Martin's cup also remained full. Libations were poured to Taal and Ulric. Music was played.
	As the company drank deeper, N'dru made a request: "Do you know Honorius? The 'Riddle Song of the Seals'? In most cities, they have verses which are not sung elsewhere. We would love to hear yours. My cousin K'nuth the Wise knows many verses, from many towns. Later, he will play them all for you."
	Martin beckoned to Peredur and whispered: "You are better away from here. Do not argue, I have a task for you. Here is the key to my study. Bring these books to the private shrine:The Book of Honorius, theCommentary of Xnagacius and the Alchemicon. Go!"
	Peredur hurried through the night of Wurtbad, and saw men of N'dru's company plying the sentries with wine and wild, hypnotic music. It took ages to find the books, but at last he had them. When he reached the palace again, that same music was throbbing from the hall.
	He found Brother Martin and Saskia Whiteflower in the Graf's little shrine to Our Lady, who presided in the form of a lifesize statue with her sword and scales. Whiteflower was pale beneath the powder: ''Do you think, Brother, they are trying to use enchantment?"
	"Not here. But they can hypnotize." Martin fumbled through theAlchemicon."Alas, it's as I feared! 'The Silver Wine of Fallerion! This wine is more potent than any other. A man who has drunk deeply of it shall succumb swiftly to hypnotic chants or mesmeric songs!' Why didn't I recall more clearly! 'Protection can be got from herbs and seeds, most notably the Brown Pepper of Achillesia.'" He snatched theCommentary."Here: 'Scholars call the Riddle Song a parable of the soul's path to perfection. But the old view has not been refuted, namely that the Seals were real sacred objects of great magic power, not symbols, and the Riddles refer to their location.'"
	Whiteflower was very excited: "There was a mention in the 'Wurtbad' verse of the Lord's Escape. How closely the savage and his man listened to that! And to the Sealing of the Stone! There's a passage below the cellars which the Old Lords used as an escape tunnel, with a picture on the wall of an Elf Queen placing a seal on a stone. Perhaps a clue to a hidden door!"
	Martin read on: "Some say the whole 'Riddle Song' has a greater secret woven into it - the way to an even older and more sacred item: the Hammer of the Stars. Its use cannot be attained without the mastery of the Seven Seals. It is protected by the mesmeric influence of the song: one cannot hear it and remember it all." He closed the great book. "Alas, the dry scholars of the Academy have long ignored the wise words of Xnagacius!"
	They ran to the Great Hall. Terror rose within them: not a man was moving there. All the nobles of the city lay slumped in their seats, the guards and servants in like plight around them. They seemed not ill, but in more than a drunken stupor: a trance. Of N'dru and his companions, there was no sign - but the door to the cellars was open!
	Only three remained to defend the Seal of Wurtbad, who had not drunk the Silver Wine. But they were unarmed. Peredur had a meagre store of weapons in Rhenhardt's house. As he rushed in, and rummaged for his light mailshirt, his mother hurried into the room. She had left the banquet early: "What are you up to? I knew no good could come from you mixing and brawling with those mountebanks, and making eyes at gypsy women!"
	"I have started nothing! Theyare our enemies! They have drugged the garrison, and plan to rob us of the Sacred Seal!"
	Shaken, Elen insisted: "Our Lady rewards holiness. She does not require such a material object to channel her protection."
	Martin came in: "He is right. Verena would not grant us her favour if we allowed so sacred a thing to be purloined. Stop complaining, and hurry to Shallya's Temple where they may know a remedy for what has been done to our soldiers!"
	Elen went pale, looking about to feint, but her voice firmed: "If this is so, you must swear by Our Lady that you put on armour in her cause, not in some quarrel over a dancing girl."
	Peredur took that oath, as fast as permissible. His mother became decisive. "Then I will give you the one bequest I have to pass down from your father." She led the way to her own chamber, and used a small gold key to unlock a heavy box. "The Iron Coat of Edvard Mappavrauch, the greatest knight ever to live in this country. They say it has the property that no man who puts it on in a righteous cause can take a fatal wound."
	The armour was of heavy plates riveted together, sculpted so it could be put on quickly like a coat. There was a shield of similar design, and a long sword. Whiteflower had already put Peredur's mail shirt over her dress, and picked up a halberd. As Elen hurried off, the three descended into the dark cellars.
	They traversed the gloomy way beside the ancient hall, and slipped through the hidden door of the Lord's Escape. Half way down the stairway, Whiteflower shone her lamp on an inlaid fresco: "Look! The Elf Queen seals an ancient stone to an armring, as in the Riddle. How real her ringstone looks! I wonder..."
	She touched the jewel: at once a door swung open. Beyond lay more steps; but these ran up. They were not quite dark: a faint and flickering light came from above. There were also voices, singing a strange chant that could not be called music, and again the scent of burning oil and sandalwood. "I thought as much! Those foreignerswere interpreting the Riddle!"
	Up they crept, quiet as they could. They came to an arch between more of the huge pillars. Perhaps there had once been a door: now one could see into the chamber. Torches had been put in brackets on the weirdly-carved walls, where gargoyles, Elven they supposed, sought vainly to be ugly. The giant N'dru knelt before a black ancient chest; the stocky K'nuth held his staff across it, chanting words they did not understand. Behind, the sisters - D'vorah replying to the chant, C'tlain silent. Suddenly the chest opened of its own accord. N'dru reached for something within, hesitated, then brought out a hinged armband of heavy gold. It had a number of jewels, glowing in strange colours as by their own light, but the centrepiece was a blade of obsidian like a stone spearhead, held to the band by a golden seal.
	"A Dawnstone!" Martin breathed. Then he stormed forward. "How dare you, guests in this city, try to steal its most holy treasure, its ward against the spirits of the night!"
	N'dru stared at him: "So! Someone is awake in this slothful town! I dare what I dare, for a place like this can claim no ownership of so powerful a thing. You slumber cheerfully here, ignoring the world without where the empire of evil grows ever stronger. Not surprising, when flabby burghers of provincial places hoard selfishly things they cannot use or understand!"
	Peredur was amazed: "Did you not swear by the holy gods that whatever you think of us and our city, you will not harm us?"
	"Yes. I have sworn to do you good. I have seen the face of evil in this world, dark lands where brutes beyond description swarm hideous out of the earth. And I have beheld that which can overcome them - that which is death to all unnatural things."
	Martin gasped. "You mean... The Hammer of the Stars?"
	"Yes. I have seen that... fashioned by the Slann, those who were before men, who travelled lightly to the Otherworld - but only, as yet, in visions. Those who guard it are like you; lazy in the crusade, they seek only its protection for themselves. But I shall see it with these eyes; will touch it myself, and with these hands will turn its head against the dark."
	Martin was not appeased: "That may be a laudable ambition, but when you swore your oath in front of the City Fathers you knew they would not agree with you. Therefore you have used deception, and that is forbidden to a devotee of Ulric. He will not grant you his blessing now, never allow you to benefit from the zone of safety which the Dawnstone and its jewels provide; still less attain the using of the Hammer of the Stars! Had you not drunk deep yourself of the wine you gave our citizens, you would know this!"
	N'dru snorted: "Tell not initiates of the White Wolf what He will give! It is courage and will that grant access to these wondrous things; those who lack them can never approach the Hammer. Well may you blather to your own petty gods!"
	He went on one knee, holding the amulet above him, as though an offering: "Lord Ulric! Grant me the power to wear this marvellous instrument of Thy Will! Let it guide me past all illusions and unworthy spells set against the righteous by those who have usurped the Star Hammer! Allow me to wield that holy weapon, in the war against darkness and un-nature!"
	He opened the armband, and very deliberately placed it round his wrist. Martin groaned "No!" as it snapped shut. At once there was a stirring of the air in the chamber, which grew into a wind like a god departing, howling like a wolf in pain. The torches guttered, went out: first there was total blackness, then a very faint light which grew slightly - it was the runes on N'dru's battle-hammer, and others glowed from Peredur's armour.
	A female voice spoke sharply, in a language Peredur did not know. A brighter light appeared, seeming to come from the hair of the woman C'tlain: he wondered if it would be consumed, or bleached even lighter. Martin spoke: "See! As I predicted! Your drunken folly has deprived the amulet of its ability to disperse all charms. Surely, in all reason, you must now return it to us."
	N'dru shook his head. "I shall to the High Temple of Ulric. There, its power will be restored, when Winter comes again."
	Peredur was tiring of all this. Drawing his sword, he stepped forward: "You've done enough damage. Return the amulet, if you are wise - I'd love the chance to force you!"
	The big man's reply was to snatch up the great hammer with a snarl, and swing it without words. Peredur took the blow on his shield: it was a mighty one, but he was not hurt. Before N'dru could recover, Peredur slashed at his half-exposed neck. This did not wound him but managed to shear through the badly fastened mail, so a flap came loose. N'dru swung again, and this time dashed the shield right out of Peredur's grasp. The blow was so great that the older man was for an instant off balance, at his opponent's mercy. Peredur poised his sword to strike again... He looked down the blade, and saw only the face of D'vorah. Her expression bore such agony that he knew he could never strike her brother down. He pulled his blow, tried only for a wound to the arm, but did little damage there.
	N'dru knew nothing of this narrow escape, and resumed swinging blows as fast as they were heavy. Had he been more sober, he must surely have prevailed easily; even so, he was dangerous. Handicapped and shieldless, Peredur skipped around the room. N'dru was much more experienced, and tried to corner him in the doorway, drive him down the steps. The big man laughed as he swung the hugest blow of all. Peredur could only duck. The hammer whistled over his head, and crashed into a great pillar. It had missed him by a hair's breadth, but that was the end for the ivory handle shattered into fragments, the runes still glowing. Peredur twisted away from the hammer-head, stumbling to the ground - needlessly, for it shot back at its master, not gently but with the force of a cannonball, striking N'dru on the breastplate with a mighty crash and pitching him over onto his backside.
	Now they were both on the ground. Voices began to clamour but Whiteflower stepped forward with her halberd, deftly sliding the point against N'dru's throat, keeping out of his reach.
	"An end to fighting: Verena dislikes it! Return the amulet!"
	N'dru was not finished. He snarled at her, slowly gathering himself up. She did not stir, and he pushed forward against her point: a contest of titanic wills. Neither would yield: a tiny drop of blood formed at the needle tip; then the air was torn by a scream, and D'vorah collapsed in a feint. N'dru sagged back, saying: "Alas, who would have thought I could fail thus! I must return your seal, loss though it is to the quest!"
	He shuffled back to the chest. They followed, and Peredur found himself saying: "What makes you think only men of Ulric are worthy to seek the Hammer of the Stars? Here are devotees of Verena, and I for one fancy seeking it out, trying my courage."
	N'dru paused in amazement, hand on seal, starting to unclasp it. They froze, a tableau of unsatisfied adventurers. The voice of C'tlain broke the silence, colder than D'vorah's, distant, prophetic: "Take heed. The route to what you seek, is perilous and little known. Even the best find it a hard one, as we have seen. But that is not half, for the mighty thing is well guarded, and you will find that if youshould reach the city of the Star Hammer you would regret that you went there."
	She spoke to them all, to no man in particular. N'dru had been fumbling at the clasp of the Dawnstone amulet; now it fell from his arm into its chest, which slammed shut. The light from the runes, and the enchantment on the hair of C'tlain, vanished as suddenly.
	By the time Peredur, Whiteflower and Martin found their tinder in the dark, there was no trace of the visitors. It took them a longer while to repass the secret door. It was the time of false dawn before they reached the upper city - and found the strangers had vanished from there too, as suddenly as they had arrived.
	You may think Peredur returned cheerfully to the dull Academy. Not so - though he had a greater purpose to his learning now. Saskia Whiteflower, and even Brother Martin, were restless also. Peredur had not meant to make an idle boast when he had said that he would seek the sacred Hammer. The three would be ready for that quest one day soon.