An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

  As Aron drew closer he saw that the creature, wrapped in more sackcloth, had already been hoisted to a flatwagon. The vapors from its body were stinging men’s eyes and making some vomit, even though cloths were wrapped round their mouths and noses. Renky the Idiot sat on the driver’s plank, holding the reins and sobbing quietly.

  “It’s on there,” a muffled voice called. Flies were beginning to swarm the flatwagon. Torstein stood up front, his face wrapped, his hand on Renky’s shoulder.

  “Take it to the Wells of Fire. You remember the Wells of Fire, Renky? You just go on the road, that way, out of town....” Renky sobbed, nodding. “And push the whole thing in, then bring the load-beast back. There’s lot of good stuff to eat in the bag....”

  Women had gathered around the edges of the scene and cried and held the children back.

  Aron stood on the Master’s Stump. The ground was still dark with blood here, and he imagined he could still see the two bodies lying peacefully beside each other, like tired lovers at a picnic.

  Takani came up behind him.

  “So...” he called out. Aron turned, and both were silent. They were silent for a long while, letting the wind whisper down to them from the forest.

  “Nero was gone when I got there, child,” Takani said at last, mounting the Stump. “And he had taken his books with him. There is nothing we could have done to help the poor Vassal.”

  Aron imagined Nero’s house, boxy and empty like a broken milk crate in the forest daylight, its terror distant as a far-away song.

  “You are... all right, my child?”

  Aron nodded, swallowing.

  “Takani!” a voice called and they turned to see Grumo hailing from across the street. He ran into the yard.

  “The Baron has come,” he panted. “He says we have to give him the Sword. But we were gonna leave it with the Vassal’s things. Baron looks pretty angry. He’s tearing up the Quarters looking for it. What do we do?”

  “Let him have it,” Takani said shortly. He stepped from the Stump and strode into the Temple without once looking at Aron.

  Aron’s gaze rose high to the Temple Icon.

  He did not want to scale that height again.

  Glad Yule

  Pati Nagle

  A young man sat brooding in the window of his chamber, gazing through snow-blurred glass at the windswept courtyard below. He was slender and dark, his curling black hair framing a face of striking beauty despite his slight frown. His clothing was simple, unadorned, though well made of rich cloth. The yard he watched was bathed in moonlight, deserted except for an occasional servant hurrying to finish some task and get out of the biting wind. For some reason this scene held his attention, keeping him by the window and away from the cheering fire on the hearth.

  A quiet knock fell on the door, followed by the voice of a servant, saying “My Lord Paethor?”

  The young man looked up. “Come in,” he answered.

  The servant entered, bowing deferentially. He wore the royal livery of blue and violet, and spoke with respect. “Your pardon, my Lord. His Majesty requests your attendance.”

  The young man slid from the window seat with a sigh and followed the servant out into the corridor, where three ladies, richly gowned and decked in jewels, paused in their chatter to gaze at him like startled deer. If he had met their eyes he would have seen frank appreciation of his comeliness, but he barely glanced their way, nodding politely, and continued in the servant’s wake. Behind him the ladies resumed their conversation in whispered tones.

  It was late, and the night’s feasting and dancing were finished. King Nigel of Argonia had retired to his private chambers with a few of his most trusted lords, there to relax and enjoy a last cup of wine. The king, a strong, pleasant man with silver beginning to lighten his golden hair and beard, lounged in a chair, listening to his courtiers’ raucous banter. When the servant announced Lord Paethor they fell silent, gazing at the newcomer in varying shades of curiosity.

  “Lord Paethor, come in,” said the king. “Have some wine. We missed you at dinner.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Paethor, accepting a cup from a page. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company lately.”

  “The ladies have been asking after you, lad,” said a lord, chuckling. “They’re complaining that the best dancer in court has deserted them.” Lord Paethor, who was sipping his wine, seemed not to have heard.

  “Is there anything you want?” asked the king. “Anything that would make you more comfortable?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Paethor with a wisp of a smile. “Your Majesty is most generous. I have everything I need.”

  The king leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the solemn young lord. “That’s what I expected you to say.” He swirled the wine around in the bottom of his goblet, then drained it. “Midwinter is approaching,” he stated, setting the cup aside. “I wonder if you would consider doing me a small favor.”

  “Gladly, Sire,” said Paethor.

  “I presume, since you did not return to your father’s keep for Midsummer, that you are not going now. Is that correct?”

  “Correct, Majesty.”

  “Also that the coming Yule feast is of little interest to you,” continued the king.

  “Your Majesty is very observant,” replied Lord Paethor, bowing.

  “Yes, well. We needn’t be quite so formal,” said the king. “You’re a gentleman, Paethor, and a fine addition to my court, but it doesn’t take a wizard to guess you’re not fond of festivals.”

  Paethor was silent for a moment, gazing abstractedly as he had done out the window, then returned his attention to the king. “What would you like me to do, Sire?”

  The king dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand. When they’d gone he leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together. “There are skirmishes to the south,” he said. “Along our border with Sabara. A few of their smaller baronies, squabbling over territory. King Asad is rumored to be ill.”

  Paethor nodded. The news had been spoken of in court for several days.

  “It’s also rumored that Farslayer has been busy down there.”

  At that the lords shifted and murmured among themselves, and Paethor glanced up at the king. The Sword of Vengeance was enough to frighten the bravest warrior; a merciless meter’s length of steel that became flying death with a throw and a target’s name.

  “Needless to say I would like to know its whereabouts,” continued the king. “I would like, in fact, to be sure it does not fall into the hands of an enemy.”

  Paethor nodded again. “You wish me to find news of it?”

  “I wish you to retrieve it.”

  The lords stirred in response. “You want the thing here, Sire?” asked one dubiously.

  “Better here in my keeping than flying around my borders,” said the king.

  “Or across them,” murmured another.

  The king stood. “I visited the treasury this morning,” he said, going to a cupboard, which he opened with a small gilt key. He reached inside and withdrew a bundle of heavy cloth. This he unwrapped, revealing a sheathed sword.

  “Wayfinder,” he said, drawing the Sword. The lords crowded closer; it was known that King Nigel possessed a Sword of Power, but few had seen it. Its appearance was disappointing to some who had expected finely worked and gilded hilts; the simple black cruciform was unadorned except for a small arrow emblazoned in white on the hilt.

  “Where is Farslayer?” said the king, and the Sword of Wisdom turned in his hand. The lords hastened to get out of the way of the unearthly-keen blade, which swung around southward, then quivered as though it would like to leap forward. “South and a little east,” observed the king. “Ravens-keep, or Sun Mountain. A few days should get you there.” He sheathed Wayfinder and held it out to Paethor. “Take this along to guide you.”

  Paethor accepted the Sword, bowing gravely. “Your Majesty honors me,” he said.

  “Honor?” said the
king. “I’ve given you a damned nasty task is what I’ve done. Don’t get yourself killed.”

  That drew the first real smile from the young lord. “I won’t, Sire.”

  King Nigel clapped him on the back. “You’ll have help,” he added, and glanced around the small circle of lords. “I’d like two to go with him. Volunteers?”

  “I’ll go, Majesty,” said a tall, dashing lord with steel-gray hair. “My lands lie near the southern border, I’ll do my part to protect them.”

  “Thank you, Echevarian,” said the king. “Who else?”

  The lords hesitated, none of them anxious to leave the comforts of court for a lonely journey into danger, even for the chance to handle a Sword of Power and earn the king’s gratitude. Finally one came forward, a young lord with merry eyes and light brown hair that fell in soft waves to his shoulders. “Oh, I’ll go along,” he said, with a lopsided smile.

  “You, Trent?” said a lord. “Passing up the Yule feast?”

  “Let him go,” called another. “It’s about time someone else got to be Lord of Misrule!”

  Trent’s smile widened. “Can I help it if I’m more charming than the rest of you?”

  This earned him a round of buffets from his peers. He laughed as he fended them off. “Peace, peace! I’m going with Paethor, you can have the ladies to yourselves!”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Trent?” asked a lord in mock concern.

  Trent shrugged. “Maybe Don Echevarian will show me one of his sword-thrusts,” he said, nodding to the elder lord.

  “And maybe we’ll happen by Sir Alfred’s keep, and visit his pretty daughters,” mused Echevarian, stroking his mustache.

  Trent grinned. “Maybe.”

  “All right then,” said the king, beckoning Trent and Echevarian closer. “Take three yeomen, and see the quartermaster for your needs. Go as soon as your affairs are in order.”

  Paethor looked at his new traveling companions. “I can leave tomorrow,” he said.

  “Me too,” said Trent.

  Echevarian nodded. “I’ll send word to my steward tonight.”

  “Good,” said the king. He took them each by the hand briefly. “Good speed to you.” Though he smiled, it was plain to his lords that their ruler considered Farslayer a serious threat.

  “Well,” said Lord Trent. “We’d better have another cup to give us strength.”

  The solemn moment broke, and the lords resumed their chatter, shouting to the servants to bring in more wine. Paethor stayed beside the king.

  “If Your Majesty will excuse me,” he said quietly, “I’ll retire and prepare for the journey.”

  The king nodded. “Come back safe,” he said softly.

  Paethor bowed and left, carrying Wayfinder back to his silent chamber. Once there he drew the Sword again to examine it more closely. The blade was perfectly balanced and deadly sharp, whispering as it left the sheath. There was little light in the room, the fire having burned down to embers, so Paethor carried the Sword to his seat in the window and peered at it in the moonlight, which lent a bluish cast to the polished steel. Whorls in the blade gave an illusion of depth that was almost dizzying, like swirling clouds of snow in the black of night. Paethor let the point come to rest at his feet, his eyes drawn back to the courtyard. No one stirred there now, but a few dry leaves danced in the corners, chased by the relentless wind. The frown descended on his brow again and his eyes seemed to gaze beyond the courtyard into some past shadow. Wayfinder stirred in his hand and he started, a look of dismay in his eyes as the Sword of Wisdom raised itself to point westward, its sudden quiver setting up an answering tremor in Paethor’s arm. He hastily sheathed the blade and hid it in his closet. Whatever nameless query Wayfinder had responded to, it seemed Paethor had not intended to make it.

  The next day dawned cold and bright, with clear skies and a dusting of snow on the ground. Paethor sent his packs down to the stables, then slid Wayfinder’s sheath onto his sword-belt and fastened it about his waist. Throwing a cloak of dark wool over his shoulders he sought out the stableyard, where he found Don Echevarian overseeing the packing of their provisions. King Nigel had given the lords three of his best steeds for the journey; they stood saddled in the yard while three liveried yeomen strapped baggage to the load-beasts.

  “Where’s Lord Trent?” asked Paethor, his breath frosting in the crisp air.

  “I haven’t seen him,” replied Echevarian.

  A burst of laughter from a doorway drew their attention and they turned to find Trent staggering toward them, two large wineskins over one shoulder and his arms full of a giggling wench, who in turn clutched a pitcher and three silver goblets. When he saw his companions Trent set the girl on her feet and shushed her, saying “Remember, now.” Her laughter subsided, and she made an effort to appear serious, which was slightly hampered by her noticing that some wine had spilled from her pitcher onto her apron. She stifled another giggle as she bent over and tried ineffectually to wipe it away. Trent had to grab the pitcher to keep her from spilling more. Finally she held up her goblets while Trent poured the remaining wine into them. He took one and nudged her toward his traveling companions. The wench carried the wine sedately to Paethor and Echevarian, her gravity hindered only by dimples that refused to be suppressed. A hiss from Trent reminded her to curtsy, and she offered up the goblets, saying “Good fortune on your journey, my Lords.”

  “Thank you,” said Echevarian gravely, accepting a cup.

  “Yes, thanks,” added Paethor.

  They drained the cups and handed them back, and the wench dropped another curtsy and scuttled back to where Trent lounged in the doorway. He rewarded her with a kiss, gave her his own empty goblet and the pitcher, and sent her on her way with a friendly spank. Her giggles echoed back from the corridor.

  “A little warmth to run in our veins this cold morning,” said Trent, smiling as he strolled forward to join the others. “Can’t start a trip without a cup for good luck.”

  “You seem to have enough luck for the whole journey,” said Echevarian, patting Trent’s bulging wineskins.

  “We may need it. Besides, it’s very good wine. I have an understanding with the royal vintner.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Echevarian, gray eyes twinkling. He turned to survey the load-beasts. “Shall we be off?”

  “Yes,” said Paethor, and without waiting he strode to his mount, a great gray beast with black mane and tail, and swung himself up into the saddle. Echevarian mounted a handsome bay, and Trent gave a yeoman hasty directions for packing the wineskins before climbing onto his own coppery steed. With a few final shouted instructions the lords, yeomen, and load-beasts all moved forward to the main gates, which stood open under the watchful eye of the king’s guards.

  Crystal-clear air intensified the beauty of the lands around Argonhall, King Nigel’s keep. The heavens were vibrant azure, echoed by the deeper blue of the Sandres Mountains, which had fresh snowdrifts blazing all along their crags. Their foothills were dotted with the bushy evergreens of the steppes; red soil already showed in patches through melting snow. Away to the west more mountains rode the horizon, but Paethor and his companions followed the highway southward, with the Sandres on their left. The bright sunlight cheered them, and soon they were stripping off heavy cloaks. They passed several villages but stopped only briefly to water their mounts, being anxious to make good time. The road narrowed, and the villages gave way to occasional farms and then empty plains. As they descended into a shallow ravine Trent raised his voice in a drinking song, his fine, clear tenor ringing back from the rock walls. Echevarian added a deep bass harmony, and Paethor joined in on the choruses.

  Their good spirits lasted through midday heat and afternoon chill, but when a cold evening breeze rose and they stopped to pitch camp, Paethor fell silent, his frown returning as he hastened to build a fire. Echevarian went away to direct the yeomen in raising tents and seeing to the animals. Trent helped fetch water from a stream tha
t trickled down a nearby gully, then unlimbered one of his wineskins and brought it to the fire where Paethor sat huddled in his cloak.

  “Cup of cheer?” offered Trent.

  Paethor shook his head, staring into the flames. Trent plopped down beside him and poured some wine into a drinking horn. He drank deeply, then leaned back against the skin, stretched his feet out toward the fire, and sighed. “The ladies at court have all lost their hearts to you,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I’m a fool for not staying behind. I could have comforted them in your absence. Ah, well,” he sighed, raising his cup. “Here’s to good intentions.”

  Paethor didn’t answer. He picked up a twig and began snapping it into small pieces, tossing them one by one into the flames. Trent glanced sidelong at him.

  “They’ve decided,” he went on, “that you’re desperately in love with some lady you can never hope to win. Preferably one who lives at the other end of the world.”

  At that Paethor closed his eyes and shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. Trent watched him for a minute, then continued. “Each of them is sure she can heal your wounded heart, if only you would recognize the medicinal power of her love—”

  “Enough,” broke in Paethor.

  Trent looked at him inquiringly.

  “Thanks for your concern,” said Paethor, “but I have to wrestle my own demons.” Their gaze held briefly, dark eyes cautioning hazel, then Paethor looked back into the fire.

  “All right,” said Trent slowly. “Friends anyway?” He held out a hand.

  After a moment Paethor shook it. “Friends,” he said, a smile flickering across his face. “Guess I’ll have some of that wine now,” he added.

  Trent refilled the horn and passed it to Paethor, watching him with candid curiosity. The quiet lord’s sadness only served to enhance his dark beauty; his restless eyes gave him the look of a lost child.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well we’ll miss the Yule feast,” said Trent. “I’m not so sure I’d be chosen Lord of Misrule this year. The ladies might pick you instead, and then I’d have to kill myself.”