MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin

by Robert Asprin

"That weapon is one of the few items known to your kind that can actually do me great damage. Why I could be killed by a single blow from that accursed sword. You can't really expect me to keep the potential implement of my own doom in my cavern, can you? I thought we had agreed that we were both intelligent."

  "But that's specifically why I thought of you for Mothganger's guardian," Stiller said, his voice edged with desperation. "If the sword were in your possession, then no one else could find it and bring it to use against you. Keeping Mothganger out of evil hands is a common goal between us."

  "Hmm. An interesting point," Schmirnov said, mollified slightly. "Still, I couldn't relax, much less rest, with such a deadly threat residing in my cavern. I'm sorry, but it will have to go."

  "Where would it be safer than right here?" the warrior argued. "If you won't take it, where should I go with it?"

  "I really don't care," the dragon said. "Why not take it back to wherever it was you found it in the first place?"

  "We can't. It's not a safe hiding place anymore."

  "Why not? As I recall, Mothganger was supposed to be guarded by a rather ferocious ogre. What happened to him?"

  "He . . . umm . . . we killed him," Stiller admitted uncomfortably.

  "Really?" Schmirnov said. "Pity. Still, no great loss there. From what I heard, he was truly uncivilized."

  "Do you have any suggestions at all as to where we could hide it?"

  "Not a one," the great reptile said, shaking his head. "It's as I said earlier, you and your kind have been extremely efficient at eliminating creatures you felt were dangerous or threatening. Ironic, isn't it? After devoting so much time and energy killing off creatures, you're now unable to find one when you really need one."

  "Yeah. Ironic." Stiller growled. "Forgive me if my appreciation is less than enthusiastic, but I'm the one who's stuck with the sword in the meantime."

  "Too bad you don't have one of the other artifacts instead," Schmirnov observed. "I wouldn't mind watching over the scroll or the amulet. I don't suppose there's any chance you could trade missions with one of the other comrades you mentioned?"

  "I doubt it," the warrior said. "We were all riding in different directions . . . the idea was to separate the artifacts, you'll recall. I fear by the time I caught up with one of the others, they'd have already disposed of theirs."

  "Well, sorry I can't help you . . . and I mean that sincerely," the dragon said. "I was really looking forward to learning about poker. I don't suppose you'd be willing to teach me anyway?"

  "We'll have to see," Stiller said, remembering briefly the dragon's treasure trove. "Perhaps sometime in the future. At the moment, I have a mission to complete."

  "Good luck with that," Schmirnov said. "If no solution presents itself, remember what I said before. If the others are successful, there should be no trouble keeping one of the artifacts at the capital."

  The two friends were silent as they trudged down the slope from the mouth of Schmirnov's cavern.

  "Well, that got us nowhere," Stiller said at last, his voice heavy with weariness.

  "I really thought we were going to pull it off that time." Ibble sighed. "I mean, he had agreed and everything. Right up until he realized it was Mothganger we were asking him to guard."

  "It's the end of the battle that counts," the warrior reminded him. "However close it was during the skirmishes, the final outcome is that he said ‘no.' "

  "Let's rest here a moment while we consider our next move," the dwarf suggested, drawing to a halt.

  "Tired?" Stiller said, squatting down on his heels as was his habit when resting. "You must be getting old, Ibble. I can recall when an easy climb like this was nothing to you."

  "It isn't that," Ibble said, waving off his friend's attempt at humor. "I'm just in no hurry to report our latest failure to the Prince's wizard. At the very least, it would be nice if we had our next destination in mind before passing the word to the Prince. It might sound a bit less hopeless and beaten if we had a positive plan to suggest at the same time as we admitted the negative results of our latest scheme."

  Stiller grimaced, his earlier tight smile replaced by wrinkles of concern.

  "I only hope that wizard is adding his own disappointment and scorn when he tells us of the Prince's reactions. I'd hate to think that Rango is really that upset with us, even allowing for our unbroken string of failures."

  "Remember, it's Prince Rango now," Ibble said pointedly. "It wouldn't be the first time that a gold hat changed the personality of the one wearing it."

  "You might be right," Stiller said. "He certainly hasn't been himself lately. I'm just hoping it's the pressure of his pending marriage and coronation that's doing it, and that he'll settle down again once all that is over."

  "We can always hope." The dwarf shrugged. "In the meantime, what are we going to do with Mothganger?"

  "I was hoping you'd have some ideas." The warrior sighed. "The dragon Schmirnov was my last card. I haven't even heard of another creature fierce enough to guard such a prize."

  "If only you hadn't killed that manticore," Ibble said.

  "You mean the ogre, don't you?"

  "No, I mean the manticore," the dwarf insisted. "Remember, the one you chopped down before we could talk to it?"

  "Hey. It surprised me. Okay?" Stiller said defensively. "I expected to find it on top of the hill and approach it slowly. When it burst out of the bushes right on top of us, I just swung out of reflex."

  "I was there. Remember?" Ibble said. "That's most of why I thought it would be best if I made the first approach with Schmirnov."

  "I've already apologized a hundred times for that. You want to hear it again? Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have killed the manticore. There. Does that make things any better for us?"

  "All I meant was, it left us with one less potential guardian for the sword . . . and we didn't have that big a list to start with."

  "I know," the warrior said dejectedly. "Let's see, the original ogre guardian and the manticore are both dead, the merpeople refused the job, as did the dragon. Where does that leave us?"

  "Sitting on a hillside talking to ourselves." Ibble sighed. "I still think we could just bury it or drop it down a ravine or something."

  Stiller shook his head.

  "We've been over that before," he said stubbornly. "The only way that would work is if we killed everyone in our party afterward . . . including the Prince's pet wizard and ourselves. Otherwise, someone's bound to talk and the word would get out that there was a powerful artifact just lying around waiting to be picked up. No, we need a guardian, a fierce one. Something nasty enough that even if someone finds out where Mothganger is hidden, they'll think twice about trying to fetch it."

  "I don't supposed you'd consider just taking it back to the –capital," the dwarf said. "As the dragon pointed out, there shouldn't be any danger if it's the only artifact there."

  "That's assuming the others are successful," Stiller pointed out. "Besides, I don't like the idea of being the only one of the old fellowship that couldn't carry out my assignment."

  "Then we're stuck," Ibble said, picking up a rock and throwing it at a bush. "I guess we could try talking to the merpeople again."

  "They seemed pretty adamant in their refusal," the warrior said. "Besides, I'm not sure that it would do a sword any good to be kept under water."

  "It's supposed to be indestructible," the dwarf observed dryly. "That's what makes it so valuable."

  "Against wear and breakage, maybe. But it's still steel, and water and steel are old enemies."

  As he spoke, Stiller drew the sword and studied its glowing blade.

  "It looks ordinary enough, except for that glow," he said. "I wonder if that has anything to do with its indestructible nature."

  "Naw. That's just a light spell." Ibble waved.

  "Excuse me?"

  "The glow. It's just an elven light spell," the dwarf said. "They're fairly easy to cast, and last a couple centuries. Whoeve
r made the sword probably tossed it in as a bonus."

  "You never said anything about that before."

  "You never asked before. I assumed you already knew about it."

  "I never heard of such a thing. How do you know about it?"

  "There's an elven sword maker in the village where I grew up. He would add a light spell to anything if you asked him."

  "How far away is your village?"

  "A couple day's ride from here. If we have the time when we're done with this mission, maybe we could stop there and I'll introduce you to him."

  "Let's go there now," Stiller said, rising to his feet.

  "Now?"

  "Yes. I think I have an idea."

  The elven weaponsmith looked disdainfully at his two visitors.

  "Young man," he said, "if it were not for the fact that little Ibble here says you're his friend and a hero, I'd say that you were either a fool or insane."

  "I assure you, sir, I'm neither," Stiller said calmly.

  "Well, it certainly couldn't be told from your request. Duplicate Mothganger?"

  He gestured at the glowing sword they had placed on his workbench.

  "If I could do that, I wouldn't be running my shop out of a tiny village like this. Half the spells that went into the making of this sword have been lost in the march of time, and the ones that are still remembered would require years just to assemble the ingredients. You're wasting your time . . . and mine!"

  "Please, Anken," Ibble said. "Hear us out."

  "You misunderstand me, sir," the warrior said. "I'm not asking if you can produce a second Mothganger. As you say, that is well beyond the skills and knowledge of any weapons maker known today. What I require is a sword that looks like Mothganger. An ordinary weapon with a light spell cast on its blade."

  Anken looked back and forth at the two comrades for a moment.

  "A bogus Mothganger," he said at last. "I never heard of such a thing. You two wouldn't be thinking of trying to sell the phony as the real thing, would you? Or maybe give the fake to the rightful owner, while keeping the real one for yourselves?"

  "I cannot disclose the reason for our request," Stiller said stiffly. "But I give you my word that our mission and need are honorable and aboveboard."

  "You've known me all my life, Anken," the dwarf put in. "Have you ever known me to be anything other than honest?"

  "That's true," the elf said thoughtfully. "The fact is you were always a bit dull that way."

  "So can you do it?" Stiller urged. "More importantly, will you do it?"

  In answer, Anken picked up Mothganger and began studying it closely.

  "Really isn't much to look at, is it?" he said, almost to himself. "Have a seat, boys. I think I've got a couple old swords in storage that will give us just the parts we need. Might have to rework the pommel, but that shouldn't take long."

  "Lord Dragon? Are you here? It's Stiller Gulick and Ibble."

  The great reptile turned his head toward the source of the sound.

  "Stiller?" he said. "Are you back so soon? Does this mean you're ready to start my poker lessons?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes," the warrior said. "But first, I have a surprise for you."

  He gestured to the dwarf, who reached into the gunnysack he was carrying and withdrew a sword with a glowing blade.

  "Stiller." Schmirnov's voice was heavy with warning and menace. "I thought I already made my feeling on the subject of that sword very clear."

  Stiller seemed to ignore him completely.

  "Set it there, Ibble," he said, pointing to a spot a mere three paces from the cavern's entrance.

  "STILLER!"

  "Now, then, Lord Dragon," Stiller said calmly. "As I understand it, your concern is that some misguided or overconfident person will take that weapon and attempt to use it on you. Is that correct?"

  "I told you before, I won't have Mothganger in my cavern. It's too dangerous."

  "But Schmirnov, if someone tried to use that sword against you, they would be in for a very rude surprise. You see, that isn't Mothganger."

  "Nonsense," the dragon growled. "I'd know that accursed sword anywhere."

  "That's what any interloper would think," the warrior agreed. "But they would be wrong."

  He nodded again at Ibble, who withdrew a second glowing sword from the gunnysack.

  "This is the real Mothganger," Stiller announced triumphantly. "It would be hidden safely in this sack in the depths of your cavern. The one by the door is a forgery . . . powerless except for a harmless light spell. Anyone who attempted to use that weapon against you would be committing suicide."

  Schmirnov craned his neck forward, swaying his head first one way, then the other as he examined the two weapons.

  "Very clever," he said at last. "Of course, your kind always excelled at treachery. I'll admit I can't tell the two swords apart. Are you sure the one by the door is the forgery?"

  The dragon was so busy with his inspection, he missed the startled glance the two comrades exchanged.

  "Trust me," Stiller said smoothly, signaling Ibble to return the second sword to the sack. "So, with this added refinement, do we have a deal?"

  "Well," the dragon said, "you are very persuasive and I would very much like to learn poker, but I don't feel precisely safe about having the sword laying around in my hoard. Even stashed in a gunnysack, it is still Mothganger. I am not immune to the irony of being slain by a sword the wielder believes is second-rate."

  Stiller and Ibble exchanged despairing glances. Then the dwarf perked up.

  "Our visit to Anken reminded me that the elves are not the only masters of magic." He let his voice drop mysteriously. "Dwarves know how to make stone!"

  "That's really nice, Ibble," Stiller said, "but what does that have to do with our finding a guardian for Mothganger?"

  Ibble puffed up happily. "We imbed both swords in stone. Mothganger gets buried in a slab—I can wrap it beforehand so that it won't get gritty—and the false Mothganger gets imbedded partway in a showy pedestal."

  Stiller picked up the thread of his comrade's thought. "Then you set the false Mothganger up as a sort of a decoration and lure. The real Mothganger gets stowed, one more block of stone in a stony cave! That's beautiful, Ibble!"

  "Thank you," the dwarf said modestly.

  The dragon's voice rumbled with appreciation. "What do you need to make your magic rock?"

  "Oh, just some sand, gravel, lime, and clay," the dwarf said. "The ingredients are common. The real magic is in the combination. I'll needs some planks to make the form into which I'll pour the stone."

  "Oh, can you make it into any form you choose?" Schmirnov asked.

  "Pretty much," Ibble said proudly, hastening to add, "but making an elaborate form takes longer."

  "I didn't want anything elaborate. I was just thinking that a slab of stone about this high," he gestured with a taloned foot, "would make a perfect card table."

  "I can do it," Ibble promised.

  "Now," Stiller said, hiding his eagerness, "with this new added refinement, do we have a deal?"

  "We do indeed," Schmirnov said. "Now we can start our poker lessons."

  "Excellent!" the warrior said, rubbing his hands together. "I thought we'd start with five card draw."

  "Actually, I'd prefer it if you started with stud instead."

  "Excuse me?" Stiller blinked.

  "I think stud would be easier for me to learn because the cards are quite small for me, and hole cards would be easier to manipulate than an entire handful of cards. Five or seven would be satisfactory."

  The warrior's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  "I though you said you didn't know how to play poker."

  "Just because I don't know how to play doesn't mean I never heard of the game," Schmirnov explained.

  "Hmmm," Stiller said thoughtfully.

  "Trust me." The dragon smiled.

  "It was only by the strangest sequence of coincidence that it came into my posse
ssion," Anken was saying. "But I won't bore you with that. All that's important is that it goes to a proper warrior who will put it to good use while keeping its location a secret."

  His customer continued to study the glowing blade with a mixture of awe and skepticism.

  "So this is really the legendary Mothganger," he said. "It's actually very ordinary looking, isn't it? You're sure there's no mistake?"

  "Trust me." Anken smiled.

  The elf waited for the warrior's first offer, trying to decide how hard he should haggle. He had three more copies he could sell to others, but that shouldn't affect the price of this one.

  A Gift in Parting

  Robert Lynn Asprin

  The sun was a full two handspans above the horizon when Hort appeared on the Sanctuary docks; early in the day but late by fishermen's standards. The youth's eyes squinted painfully at the unaccustomed brightness of the morning sun. He fervently wished he were home in bed . . . or in someone else's bed . . . or anywhere but here. Still, he had promised his mother he would help the Old Man this morning. While his upbringing made it unthinkable to break that promise, his stubbornness required that he demonstrate his protest by being late.

  Though he had roamed these docks since early childhood and knew them to be as scrupulously clean as possible, Hort still chose his path carefully to avoid brushing his clothes against anything. Of late he had been much more attentive to his personal appearance; this morning he had discovered he no longer had any old clothes suitable for the boat. While he realized the futility of trying to preserve his current garb through an entire day's work in the boat, newly acquired habits demanded he try to minimize the damage.

  The Old Man was waiting for him, sitting on the overturned boat like some stately sea-bird sleeping off a full belly. The knife in his hand caressed the stray piece of wood he held with a slow, rhythmic cadence. With each pass of the blade a long curl of wood fell to join the pile at his feet. The size of the pile was mute testament to how long the Old Man had been waiting.

  Strange, but Hort had always thought of him as the Old Man, never as Father. Even the men who had fished these waters with him since their shared boyhood called him Old Man rather than Panit. He wasn't really old, though his face was deceptive. Wrinkled and crisscrossed by weather lines, the Old Man's face looked like one of those red clay river beds one saw in the desert beyond Sanctuary: parched, cracked, waiting for rain that would never fall.