"I gathered that such was your problem. Your wrought iron is beautiful stuff; so is your white cast iron; and you would not, ordinarily, in your lifetime, come to know anything of either carburization or high-alloy steel, to say nothing of both. I know exactly what you want, and I can show you exactly how to make it." "You can, Lord?" The smith's eyes flamed. "And you will?" "That is why I have come to you, but whether or not I will teach you depends on certain matters which I have not been able entirely to clarify. What do you want it for--that is, what, basically, is your aim?" "Our greatest god, Sarpedion, is wrong and I intend to kill him." Tedric's eyes flamed more savagely, his terrifically muscled body tensed. "Wrong? In what way?" "In every way!" In the intensity of his emotion the smith spoke aloud. "What good is a god who only kills and injures? What a nation needs, Lord, is _people_--people working together and not afraid. How can we of Lomarr _ever_ attain comfort and happiness if more die each year than are born? We are too few. All of us--except the priests, of course--must work unendingly to obtain only the necessities of life." "This bears out my findings. If you make high-alloy steel, exactly what will you do with it?" "If you give me the god-metal, Lord, I will make of it a sword and armor--a sword sharp enough and strong enough to cut through copper or iron without damage; armor strong enough so that swords of copper or iron cannot cut through it. They must be so because I will have to cut my way alone through a throng of armed and armored mercenaries and priests." "Alone? Why?" "Because I cannot call in help; cannot let anyone know my goal. Any such would lie on the green stone very soon. They suspect me; perhaps they know. I am, however, the best smith in all Lomarr, hence they have slain me not. Nor will they, until I have found what I seek. Nor then, if by the favor of the gods--or by _your_ favor, Lord--the metal be good enough." "It will be, but there's a lot more to fighting a platoon of soldiers than armor and a sword, my optimistic young savage." "That the metal be of proof is all I ask, Lord," the smith insisted, stubbornly. "The rest of it lies in my care." "So be it. And then?" "Sarpedion's image, as you must already know, is made of stone, wood, copper, and gold--besides the jewels, of course. I take his brain, liver, and heart; flood them with oil, and sacrifice them ..." "Just a minute! Sarpedion is not alive and never has been; does not, as a matter of fact, exist. You just said, yourself, that his image was made of stone and copper and ..."