Swords - The First Book of Swords Part 9

Mark turned his head halfway. "I don't know. Help me get the sword out, it's stuck in, way down here."

"You see what happened? I didn't." Without waiting for an answer, Ben planted his columnar legs close beside the plated belly of the beast, then raised both hands to get leverage on one of the dragon's upper limbs, which appeared to be already stiffening. Grunting, he heaved upward on the leg.

Mark tugged simultaneously at the sword's handle, and felt it slide a few centimeters toward him. "Once more. "

Another combined effort moved the hilt enough to bring it out into full view. When Ben saw it, he bent down and took hold-there was room on that hilt for only one of his hands.

One was enough. With a savage twist he brought the blade right out, cutting its own way through flesh and scale, bringing another flow of blood. The colors of the blood were dulling quickly now.

As soon as Ben had the sword free, he dropped it in the mud, and stood there rubbing the fingers of the hand with which he'd pulled it out. "I felt it," he muttered, sounding somewhat alarmed. He didn't specify just what it was he'd felt.

"It's all right," said Mark. He picked up the weapon and wiped it with some handy leaves. His hands were and remained black with mud, but, as before, the sword was clean again with almost no effort at all.

Mark became motionless, staring at the hilt. It showed no castle wall, but the white outline of a stylized dragon.

Ben wasn't looking at the sword, but staring at Mark's face.

"You got burned," Ben said softly. "You must have been close.

Where's Nestor?"

"I haven't seen him. Yes, I was close. I was the one who held the sword. This sword. But this isn't mine. Wheres mine?" As he spoke. Mark rose slowly to his feet. His voice that had been calm was on the verge of breaking.

Ben stared at him. There was a sound nearby. and they both turned quickly to see Barbara. She was as muddy and bedraggled as they were, carrying her hatchet in one hand, sling in the other.

"Where's Nestor?" she asked, predictably.

Haltingly, his mind still numbed by the fact that his sword was gone, Mark recounted his version of events since the wagon had tipped over. They looked at him, and at the sword; then Barbara took the weapon from his hands, and pressed gently with the point right on the middle of one of the dragon's thickest scales. There was a spark from the steel. With a faint, shrill sound, the blade sank in as into b.u.t.ter.

Mark said: "That looks almost exactly like my sword, but it must be Nestor's. Where's mine?" The feeling of shock that had paralyzed him was suddenly gone, and he ran to search amid the jumbled contents of the wagon. He couldn't find the sword there, or anywhere nearby. The others followed him,looking for Nestor, but he was not to be found either, alive or dead. They called his name, at first softly, then with increasing boldness. The only bodies to be found were those of soldiers, mangled by the landwalker before it had been killed.

"If he's gone," said Mark, "I wonder if he took my sword?"

He might have, by mistake, they decided-no one thought it would make sense for Nestor to take Mark's weapon and deliberately leave his own behind.

"But where d he go?"

"Maybe the soldiers got him. And the other sword."

"They were in a blind panic, just getting out of here. The ones who're still alive are running yet."

Dead riding-beasts were lying about too, and some severely injured. Ben dispatched these with his club. The team of loadbeasts was still attached to the spilled wagon, and fortunately did not appear to be seriously hurt. The human survivors, pushing together, tipped the wagon back on its wheels again, and saw that all four wheels still would roll.

While Mark continued a fruitless search for his sword, the others reloaded cargo, throwing essentials, valuables, and junk all back into the wagon. They reloaded the now empty frog- crock, and at last the tumbled dragon-cage.

Barbara pauscd with her hand on the cage, whose forlorn occupant still keened. "Do you suppose the big ones came after this? They must have heard it yelping."

Ben shook his head decisively. "Never knew dragons to act that way. Big ones don't care about a small one, except maybe to eat it if they're hungry, which they usually are." Ben was worried, but not about dragons. "If Nestor's gone, what're we going to do?"

Barbara said: "We ve looked everywhere around here.

Either he's still running, or else he got hurt or killed and washed down the river. I can't think of anything else."

"Or," said Mark, coming back toward the others in his vain seeking, "the soldiers got him after all. And my sword with him."

They all looked once more for Nestor and the sword. They even followed the river downstream for a little distance. It seemed plain that a body drifting in this stream would catch in shallows or on a rock before it had gone very far.

Still there was no sign of man or weapon.

At last Barbara was the decisive one. "If the soldiers did get him, he's gone, and if he's dead he's dead. If he's still running, well, we can't catch him when we've got no idea which way he went. We'd better get ourselves out of here. More soldiers could come back. Einar, your sword's just not here either. If Nestor's got it, and he catches up with us, you'll get it back:"

"Where'll we go?" Ben sounded almost like a child.

She answered firmly: "On to Sir Andrew's. If Nestor is going to come looking for us anywhere, it'll be there."

"But what'll we say when we get there? What'll we do? Sir Andrew's expecting Nestor."

"We'll say he's delayed:" Barbara patted Ben's arm hard, encouragingly. "Anyway, we've still got Nestor's sword. You can kill dragons with it if you have to, can't you? If little Einarhere can do it:"

Ben looked, if not frightened, at least doubtful. "I guess we can talk about that on the way."

CHAPTER 8.

Two men were sitting in Kind Sir Andrew's dungeon. One, who was young, perched on a painted stool just inside the bars of a commodious whitewashed cell. The other man was older, better dressed, and occupied a similar seat not very far outside the bars. He was reading aloud to the prisoner out of an ancient book. To right and left were half a dozen other cells, all apparently unoccupied, all clean and whitewashed, all surprisingly light and airy for apartments in a dungeon. Though this level of the castle was half underground, there were windows set high in the end wall of the large untenanted cell at the far end of the row.

At a somewhat greater distance, down a branching, stone- vaulted, cross corridor, were other cells that gave evidence of habitation, though not by human beings. Sir Andrew had caused that more remote portion of his dungeon to be converted into a kind of bestiary, now housing birds and beasts of varied types, whose confinement had required the weaving of cord nets across the original heavy gratings of the cell doors and windows.

Yes, there were more windows in that wing. You could tell by the amount of light along the corridor that way. The young man on the stool inside the cell, who was currently the only human inmate in the whole dungeon, and who was supposed to be listening to the reading, kept looking about him with a kind of chronic wonder, at windows and certain other surprises. The young man's name was at least that was the only name he could remember for himself. He was thin-faced and thin-boned, and had lank, dark, thinning hair. His clothes were ragged, and his weathered complexion showed that he had not been an indoor prisoner for any length of recent time. He had quick eyes-quick nervous hands as well, hands that now and then rubbed at his wrists as if he were still in need of rea.s.surance that they were not bound. Every now and then he would raise his head and turn it, distracted by the small cheerful cries that came from his fellow prisoners down the corridor.

Kaparu was no stranger to the inside of jails and dungeons, but never in all his wanderings had he previously encountered or even imagined a jail like this. To begin with, light and air were present in quite astonishing quant.i.ties. Yes, the large cell at the end of the row had real windows, man-sized slits extending through the whole thickness of the lower castle wall, like tunnels open to the bright late summer afternoon: The way it looked, the last prisoner put in there might just have walked out through the window. In through those embrasures came not only air and light, but additional cheerful sounds. Outside on Sir Andrew's green the fair was getting under way.

There was also a sound, coming from somewhere else in the dungeon, of water dripping. But somehow, in this clean, white interior, the sound suggested not dankness and slow time, but rather the outdoor gurgle of a brook. Or, more aptly, the lapping of a lake. The castle stood on a modest rise of ground,the highest in the immediate neighborhood, but its back was to a sizable lake, whose surface level was only a little lower than this dungeon floor.

Resting on the floor of the prisoner's cell, not far from the feet of his stool, was a metal dish that held a sizable fragment of bread, bread fresh from theoven today and without insects.

Beside the plate, a small pottery jug held clean drinking water.

At intervals the prisoner involuntarily darted a glance toward the bread, and each time he did so his left foot as if in reflex lifted a trifle from the stool-rung it was on-but in this peculiar dungeon there were evidently no rats to be continually kicked and shooed away.

And each time the prisoner turned his head to look at the plate, his gaze was likely to linger, in sheer disbelief, upon the small vase filled with fresh cut flowers, that stood beside his water jug.

The man who sat outside the cell, so patiently reading aloud from the old book, had not been young for some indeterminate time. He was broadly built, and quite firmly and positively established in middle age, as if he had no intention at all of ever growing really old. His clothing was rich in fabric and in workmanship, but simple in cut, and more than ordinarily untidy. Like his garments, his beard and mustache of sandy gray were marked with traces of his recently concluded lunch, which had obviously comprised some richer stuff than bread and water.

At more or less regular intervals, he turned the pages of the old book with powerful though ungraceful fingers, and he continued to read aloud from the book in his slow, strong voice. It was a knowledgeable voice, and never stumbled, though its owner was translating an old language to a new one as he read. Still there were hesitations, as if the reader wanted to make very sure of every word before he gave it irrevocable p.r.o.nunciation. He read: "'And the G.o.d Ardneh said to the men and women of the Old World, once only will I stretch forth the power of my hand to save you from the end of your own folly, once only and no more. Once only will I change the world, that the world may not be destroyed by the h.e.l.lbomb creatures that you in your pride and carelessness have called up out of the depths of matter. And once only will I hold my Change upon the world, and the number of the years of Change will be fortynine thousand, nine hundred, and forty-nine.

"'And the men and women of the Old World said to the G.o.d Ardneh, we hear thee and agree. And with thy Change let the world no longer be called Old, but New. And we do swear and covenant with thee, that never more shall we kill and rape and rob one another in hope of profit, of revenge, or sport. And never again shall we bomb and level one another's cities, never again . . . ' "

Here the reader paused, regarding his prisoner sternly. "Is something bothering you, sirrah? You seem distracted."

The man inside the cell started visibly. " I, Sir Andrew? No, not I. Nothing is bothering me. Unless . . . well, unless, I mean, it is only that a man tends to feel happier when he's outside a cell than when he's in one:' And the prisoner's face, which was an expressive countenance when he wished it to be, broughtforth a tentative smile.

Sir Andrew's incipient frown deepened in response. "If you think you would be happier outside, then pray do not let your attention wander when I am reading to you. Your chance of rejoining that happy, sunlit world beyond yon windows depends directly upon your behavior here. Your willingness to admit past errors, to seek improvement, take instruction, and reform:"

Kaparu said quickly: "Oh, I admit my errors, sir. I do indeed. And I can take instruction."

"Fine. Understand that I am never going to set you free, never, as long as I think you are likely to return to your old habits of robbing innocent travelers."

The prisoner, like a child reprimanded in some strict school, now sat up straight. He became all attention. "I am trying, Sir Andrew, to behave well:" And he gave another quick glance around his cell, this time as if to make sure that no evidence to the contrary might be showing.

"You are, are you? Then listen carefully." Sir Andrew cleared his throat, and returned his gaze to the yellowed page before him. As he resumed reading, his frown gradually disappeared, and his right hand rose unconsciously from the book, to emphasize key words with vague and clumsy gestures.

"'-and when the full years of the Change had been accomplished, Orcus, the Prince of Demons, had grown to his full strength. And Orcus saw that the G.o.d Draffut, the Lord of Beasts and of all human mercy, who sat at the right hand of Ardneh in the councils of the G.o.ds, was healing men and women in Ardneh's name, of all manner of evil wounds and sickness. And when Orcus beheld this he was very wroth. And he-' "

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Eh?"

"That word, sir. 'Wroth: It's not one that I'm especially familiar with."

"Ah. 'Wroth' simply means angry. Wrathful:' Sir Andrew spoke now in a milder tone than before, milder in fact than the voice in which he generally read. And at the same time his expression grew benign.

Once more he returned to his text. "Where was I? Yes, here.

..'In all the Changed world, only Ardneh himself was strong enough to oppose Orcus. Under the banner of Prince Duncan of the Offsh.o.r.e Islands, men and women of good will from around the earth rallied to the cause of good, aiding and supporting Ardneh. And under the banner of the evil Emperor, John Ominor, all men and women who loved evil rallied from all the lands of the earth to-' "

"Sir?"

"Yes, what?"

"There's one more thing in there I don't understand, sir. Did you say this John Ominor was an emperor?"

"Hm, hah, yes. Listening now, are you? Yes. The Emperor in those days-we are speaking now, remember, of a time roughly two thousand years in the past, at the end of what is called Ardneh's Change, and when the great battle was fought outbetween Orcus and Ardneh, and both of them perished-at that time, I say, no man was called emperor unless he was a real power in the world. Perhaps even its greatest power. It might be possible to trace a very interesting connection from that to the figure of mockery and fun, which today "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"If you don't mind, sir. Did you say just a moment ago that Ardneh perished?"

Sir Andrew nodded slowly. "You are listening. But I don't want to get into all that now. The main thrust of this pa.s.sage, what you should try to grasp today... but just let me finish reading it. Where was I? Ha. 'In all the Changed world, only Ardneh himself-'and so forth, we had that. Hah. 'In most dreadful combat the two strove together. And Orcus spake to Ardneh, saying-'Ah, drat, why must we be interrupted?"

The prisoner frowned thoughtfully at this, before he realized at just what point the text had been broken off. Sir Andrew had been perturbed by certain new sounds in the middle distance, sounds steadily drawing near. A shuffling of feet, a sequential banging open of doors, announced the approach of other human beings. Presently, at the highest observable turn of the nearby ascending stair, there appeared the bowed legs of an ancient jailer, legs cut off at the knees by a stone arch. The jailer came on down the stairs, until his full figure was in view; in one arm, quivering with age, he held aloft a torch (which surely had been of more use on the dark stair above than it was here) to light the way for the person following him, a woman-no, a lady, thought the prisoner.

She was garbed in Sir Andrew's colors of orange and black, and she brought with her an indefinable but almost palpable sense of the presence of magical power. She must have been a great beauty not long hence, and was attractive still, not less so for the touch of gray in her black hair, the hint of a line or two appearing at certain angles of her face.

As soon as this lady had become fully visible at the top of the stairs, she paused in her tent. "Sir Andrew," she called, in a voice as rich and lovely as her visual appearance, "I would like a little of your time, immediately. A matter of importance has come up: Grunting faintly, Sir Andrew rose from his stool, turning as he did so to address the visitor. "It's really important, Yoldi?"

he grumbled. And, a moment later, answered his own question.

"Well, of course, it must be." He had long ago impressed upon everyone in the castle his dislike of being interrupted when he was at his favorite work of uplifting prisoners.

Sir Andrew went to the stair, and took the torch from the hand of the aged jailer, making a shooing motion at the man to signify that he was dismissed.

Then, holding the flame high with one arm, bearing his precious book under the other, the knight escorted his favorite enchantress back up the stairs, to where they might be able to hold a private conference.

Once they had climbed round the first turn, Dame Yoldi glanced meaningfully at the old book. "Were you obtaining a good result?" she asked."Oh, I think perhaps a good beginning. Yes, I know you're convinced that my reading to them does no good. But don't you see, it means they have at least some exposure to goodness in their lives. To the history, if you like, of goodness in the world."

"I doubt that they appreciate it much."

There were windows ahead now, tall narrow slits in the outer wall where it curved around a landing, and Sir Andrew doused his torch in a sandbucket kept nearby. Trudging on to where the windows let in light, he shook his head to deny the validity of Dame Yoldi's comment. "It's really dreadful, you know, listening to their stories. I think many of them are unaware that such a thing as virtue can exist. Take the poor lad who's down there now, he's a good example. He has been telling me how he was raised by demonworshippers."

"And you believed him?" Good Dame Yoldi sounded vexed, both by the probability that the true answer to her question would be yes, and the near certainty that she was never going to hear it from Sir Andrew.

The knight, stumping on ahead, did not seem to hear her now. He paused when he reached the first narrow window, set where the stair made its first above-ground turn. Through the aperture it was possible to look out past the stone flank of the south guard-tower, and see something of the small permanent village that huddled just in front of the castle, and a slice of the great common green beyond. On that sward, where woolbeasts grazed most of the year, the annual fair had been for the past day or so taking shape.

"I should have ordered him some better food, perhaps. Some gruel at least, maybe a little meat." Sir Andrew was obviously musing aloud about his prisoner, but his distracted tone made it equally obvious that his thoughts were ready to stray elsewhere. "Crops were so poor this year, all round the edge of the Swamp, that I didn't know if we'd have much of a fair at all. But there it is. It appears to be turning out all right."

Dame Yoldi joined him at the window, though it was so narrow that two people had trouble looking out at once. "Your granaries have taken a lot of the shock out of poor years, ever since you built them. If only we don't have two bad years in a row."

"That could be disastrous, yes. Is that what you wanted to see me about? Another village delegation? Is it crops, dragons, or both?"

"It's a delegation. But not from any of the villages this time."

Sir Andrew turned from the window. "What then?"

"They've come from the Duke, and I've already cast a sortilege, and the omens are not particularly good for you today. I thought you'd like to know that before you meet these people."

"And meet them I must, I suppose. Yoldi, in matters of magic, as in so much else, your efforts are constantly appreciated." Sir Andrew leaned toward his enchantress and kissed her gently on the forehead. "All right, I am warned."

He moved to the ascending stair, and again led the way up.

He had rounded the next turn before he turned his head back toask: "What do they say they want?"

"They don't. They refuse to discuss their business with anyone else before they've seen you."

"And they exhibit d.a.m.ned bad manners, I suppose, as usual."

"Andrew?"

On his way up, the knight paused. "Yes?"

"Last night that vision of swords came to me again. Stacked in a pyramid like soldiers' spears in the guardroom, points up. I don't know what it means yet. But as I said, today's omens are not good."

"All right." When the stair had brought him to a higher window, Sir Andrew paused again, to catch his breath and to look out once more and with a better view over the hectares of fairground that had sprung up before his castle almost as if by magic. Jumbled together were neat pavilions, cheap makeshift shelters, professional entertainers' tents of divers colors, all set up already or still in the process of erection. The present good weather, after some days of rain, was bringing out a bigger crowd than usual, mostly people from the nearby villages and towns. The lowering sun shone upon banners and signs advertising merchants of many kinds and of all degrees of honesty, all of them getting ready to do business now or already engaged in it. Sir Andrew's towers dominated a crossroad of highways leading to four important towns, and a considerable population was tributary to him. On fine evenings, such as this promised to be, the fair would likely run on by torchlight into the small hours. The harvest, such as it was, was mostly already in, and most of those who worked the land would be able to take time out for a holiday.