The Dread Hammer by Linda Nagata Page A

him.
    Smoke felt himself stopped in his tracks. Literally. Stopped. As if his limbs were frozen. “Not again,” he muttered. It was so annoying to be bidden by a woman’s prayers when he had other things in mind.
    “Speak! What do you mean by stalking me on this dreary morning?”
    Smoke laughed aloud at the irony of his situation: a bloody-handed warrior of Koráyos, undone by the stern command of a wise woman. She had no fear of him, he decided. That was the reason her will was so strong. “I will speak. I’ve come to learn your skills.”
    “The skills of a healer? You?”
    “No. Only the skills of a midwife.”
    This statement brought a look of astonishment to her face, though he wasn’t sure why. The doings of people so often confused him.
    “This is not a man’s knowledge,” she said testily. Her eyes narrowed. “But you’re not a man, are you?”
    Smoke laughed again. Must everyone misconstrue it?
    “You want to deny it,” she said, “but your eyes glitter like the eyes of a forest spirit. I can see them though your face is hidden by the shadow of your hood.”
    Smoke scowled. Why was he cursed with such eyes? The Trenchant’s eyes didn’t glitter. Neither did the eyes of his sisters.
    “Come with me,” the midwife commanded. She pulled her hood back up and set off again along the footpath.
    Smoke felt free to move again; he trotted eagerly after her. “Will you teach me then?” he asked as he caught up.
    She raised her head to look at him. “A woman needs no help to give birth. Did you know that? Unless something goes awry . . . and if something goes awry, then sometimes there’s nothing the midwife may do.”
    “ Nothing must go awry,” he warned her.
    “You’re one of the Bidden, aren’t you?”
    Smoke stopped. Stepping back, he pulled his sword, raising it to strike.
    “Stop,” she said softly.
    His arm froze. He grimaced in frustration. “I will kill you.” His fury was so hot it heated his sword so that it steamed in the rain.
    “You are the Trenchant’s son, who was named Smoke by his sisters.”
    “You will not live to speak that knowledge to another.” Still, his arm would not obey his will.
    “Have you fathered a child, Smoke?”
    He didn’t mean to answer, but to his frustration he discovered himself nodding.
    “Come with me then, cruel spirit.”
    Once again she set off, and Smoke followed, helpless to do otherwise.

    She took him to a small cottage in a wide clearing where a garden grew. A few steps from the front door a river ran fat and muddy with the rain. Its torrent lapped at the plank floor of a slender rope bridge that crossed into the deeps of the Wild Wood.
    Within the cottage was a single room with a hearth, a small bed, many cabinets, and a large table where three leather-bound books resided, all of them looking well used. Bouquets of drying herbs hung from the rafters, and small clay pots sat on high shelves. Smoke smelled ashes, herbs, flowers, and substances he could not name, but it was a pleasant confusion of scent.
    “Take off your muddy boots and hang up your coat,” the midwife commanded as he followed her in through the door. Smoke’s anger had cooled, and with its fading he felt an easing in the tension of the threads that bound him to her will. The threat of his presence was slowly eroding her courage and he felt certain she would not be able to hold him much longer, so for now he was content to do as she requested. He kept his sword in his hand though.
    As the midwife knelt to prepare the fire, he invited himself to sit down in the chair that kept company with the table. He laid his sword on the table beside him and then he opened the first book. It was an herb lore. He turned the pages, admiring the finely detailed drawings of leaves and flowers, and reading quickly through the inscriptions.
    The midwife asked him, “Do you know what the Koráyos people say about you?”
    Smoke snorted his amusement. He knew what they should say. Looking