An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

  That got a chuckle out of Paethor, but he shook his head.

  “Do they have that custom in your father’s keep?” asked Trent.

  Paethor nodded and sipped at the wine, then passed the horn back to Trent.

  “Ever been Lord of Misrule?” pursued Trent.

  Paethor stared into the fire, his brows drawing together. “Once,” he said softly.

  Footsteps sounded behind them; Echevarian, carrying a platter piled with dried meat, cheese and bread. He handed it to Trent and sat down, rubbing his hands together over the fire. At the sight of the food Trent broke into a grin. “Why thanks, Echevarian,” he said, picking up a hunk of cheese. “What are you and Paethor going to eat?”

  For answer Echevarian pulled Trent’s hood over his eyes and neatly plucked the wineskin from behind his shoulders. He poured wine into an elegant chalice while Trent struggled to sit up.

  “Don’t spill the food,” warned Echevarian.

  “Mrph,” grunted Trent, pushing the hood back from his face.

  Paethor came to his rescue, retrieving the precarious platter. Echevarian produced three apples and tossed one to each of the others. They ate hungrily, the long ride having sharpened their appetites. When the platter was empty they refilled their cups and built up the fire. The winter night had fallen quickly, blue sky darkening to star-scattered black. Dark gray shadows loomed; the southern end of the Sandres. Cold breezes bit at their faces and they crowded closer to the flames, risking a scorch for the sake of the warmth. A few meters away the yeomen could be heard murmuring around their own small blaze.

  “What does Wayfinder say tonight?” asked Echevarian softly.

  Paethor’s hand went to the hilt, but he hesitated, frowning.

  “We should check,” urged the elder lord.

  Paethor stood, throwing off his cloak, and drew the Sword. “Where is Farslayer?” he said aloud, though quietly. The blade came around from east to south, then continued a little farther before pausing.

  “Southwest,” murmured Trent. “It’s moved.”

  A sharp cry, some predator’s hunting call, made them look up. To the east the gibbous moon was rising over the Sandres, cold and white. Wayfinder trembled in Paethor’s hand and edged westward, but he sheathed it again and sat down.

  “Well,” said Trent, “looks like we’re riding into a merry party.”

  “Perhaps we should turn in,” said Echevarian.

  The fire snapped in the silence, its power to comfort diminished.

  “One last round?” offered Trent.

  Echevarian stood, gazing to the southwest. “Let’s save our luck for tomorrow,” he said.

  Gray skies greeted them in the morning. After a hurried fistful of breakfast they broke camp and headed back to the road, now a rough track that followed a meandering river, muddy water low in its basin, sandbars dotting its surface. They passed the southern end of the Sandres and now a cold east wind drove at them across the plains. The travelers were silent, each with his own thoughts. At midday they halted to rest their beasts, and ate a cold lunch as they stood.

  “Gods must be quarreling,” said Trent. “They say that always makes bad weather.”

  “Don’t joke about the gods,” snapped Paethor.

  Echevarian and Trent exchanged a glance.

  “You religious, Paethor?” asked Trent. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  Paethor gave no answer. Instead he walked away toward the river.

  “Let him be,” said Echevarian.

  They took to the road again and soon came upon a straggling band of wayfarers, mostly women and boys, walking northward beside two load-beasts that strained at an overburdened wagon. The little group looked up fearfully as the mounted party approached, one of the youths hefting a pike.

  “You won’t need that, lad,” said Echevarian, reining his beast to a halt. “Where are you headed?”

  “Argonia,” answered the youth.

  “Well, you’re there. What now?”

  A woman stepped forward. “We seek asylum from King Nigel,” she said. “Can you tell us... how far is his keep?”

  “On foot?” said Trent. “A good week, from here.”

  The little group’s faces fell. In the wagon a child began to cry.

  “Where are you from?” asked Echevarian.

  “Sun Mountain,” said the woman. “There was a terrible battle—our Baron was slain two days ago.”

  “Slain how?” asked Trent quickly.

  The woman’s face contorted, lines of grief furrowing her brow. “A Sword,” she answered. “They said it was a magic Sword. It came from nowhere and struck him down—”

  “Where is the Sword now?” demanded Echevarian.

  “I don’t know,” said the woman, brushing tears from her cheeks with a sunburned hand. “There was an uproar, and then soldiers from Ravenskeep came—”

  “We seek asylum,” repeated the youth. “Will King Nigel help us?”

  Echevarian gazed at the pitiful band, his stern eyes softening. “I’m sure he will, lad,” he said gently, “but it’s a hard journey to Argonhall. My hold is closer.” He reached into his doublet and brought out a pencil and a bit of gray paper on which he scribbled a brief note. “Go back along the river to the wide shallows and the cottonwood grove, do you remember it?”

  The youth nodded vigorously.

  “Turn east and head for the bluffs. My house is in a little valley beyond them, you should reach it by nightfall. Give this note to my steward, Needham. He’ll see you’re cared for.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.” The woman bowed as she took the note.

  “Have you food enough?”

  “Yes. We’re not beggars,” said the youth defiantly.

  “We have enough for now,” added the woman. “Bless you, sir.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t escort you,” said Echevarian. “We’re on urgent business.”

  “We’ll find it, my Lord. Thank you.”

  The riders moved on past the refugees, but after a few minutes Echevarian called a halt. He glanced at the road behind them to make sure the southerners were out of sight, then leaned toward Paethor.

  “Check now,” he said.

  Paethor drew Wayfinder and softly asked “Where is Farslayer?” The blade swung to the southeast. It wouldn’t settle, swaying back and forth in a small arc, but it was clearly pointing away from the refugees.

  Trent sighed, and Echevarian nodded curtly. Paethor sheathed the Sword and they started forward again, urging their tired mounts to cover the dusty miles, and only stopped to make camp when failing light made the road dangerous. The lee of a small cliff near the river offered meager shelter from the wind. As the party rode up to it a flurry of wings burst from a twisted tree by the rock wall; an owl, shrieking its anger at being disturbed. Paethor cried out and his mount reared. He tumbled from the saddle, cowering wild-eyed between his beast and Trent’s, then a moment later he swore and jerked at the animal’s reins, leading it up to the cliff.

  They made camp silently, pitching only one tent for the sake of shared warmth. A small cooking fire was kindled, and the yeomen made hot soup from dried broth. Bread and cheese filled out the meal, but the previous night’s banter was absent. Trent watched Paethor tear a piece of bread into small pieces, crumbs falling between long, graceful fingers to the ground. The handsome lord wore a haunted look, hollow eyes staring at nothing as the wind whipped his dark curls about his face.

  The cooking fire smoked fitfully. Trent poked at it with a stick and added another log. Echevarian stirred and glanced at the yeomen huddled by the cliff wall.

  “Let’s stretch our legs a bit,” said Echevarian as he rose. “I’d like to check the beasts.”

  Trent climbed to his feet, wrapping his cloak tighter against the wind, and nudged Paethor with a booted toe. “Come on,” he said.

  Paethor looked up, startled, then stood. The three lords wandered out of the shelter, buffeted by wind as they headed for the river’s ed
ge where the beasts were staked. The animals stood with heads down, tails to the wind, suffering mutely.

  “All right, Paethor,” said Echevarian. “Let’s have it. Where’s the blasted thing tonight?”

  Paethor gave him a troubled glance before slowly drawing Wayfinder. “Where is Farslayer?” he said, his words swallowed by the wind. He stood facing south down the river bed, and the Sword wavered in his hands, moving from south to southeast. Finally it swung sharply to the west. Paethor gave a cry of frustration.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere!” said Trent.

  Paethor grabbed Echevarian’s hand, pressing the hilt into it. “You do it,” he said.

  Echevarian faced south, squared his shoulders, and said “Where can we find Farslayer?” The Sword was still for a moment, then circled inexorably to point past Paethor’s shoulder, west-northwest, into Argonian lands. Clouded moonlight shimmered on the blade as it quaked in Echevarian’s grasp.

  Three faces turned to follow the Sword’s bearing. A shadow of gray marked a distant line of mountains.

  “That’s the Highmass,” said Trent. “There’s nothing up there, is there?”

  “A few small holdings,” answered Echevarian. “And our quarry, apparently.”

  “So we turn back? What if it’s gone again by the time we get there?” complained Trent.

  “We keep going till we’ve tracked it down,” said Echevarian grimly. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”

  Trent sighed. “I need a drink,” he said, starting back toward the camp.

  Echevarian held Wayfinder out to Paethor. He seemed reluctant to take it, but did so, sheathing it at once. Echevarian laid a hand on his shoulder as they followed Trent. “Looks like King Nigel gave you a heavier burden than he thought.” Paethor turned a haggard face to him, and Echevarian glimpsed dread in his eyes. Then Paethor quickened his steps for the scant comfort of the cliffside, with Echevarian close behind.

  At dawn they retraced their way northward, forded the river at the shallows, then headed cross-country toward the small cluster of mountains called the Highmass. Paethor was calm again, though silent, his fair face pale against the black hood of his cloak.

  Travel was slower without a road, and it took them two days to reach the foothills. Wayfinder was consistent at last, pointing steadily to the lonely mountains regardless of which lord held it. Small comfort on the rough journey.

  The Sword led them up a narrow valley through which ran a clear, ice-cold stream. The first of Trent’s wineskins surrendered its last drop and was refilled with frosty water. Snow lay in deep drifts along the valley, and the short winter days were curtailed even more by the mountains blocking the sun. Trent killed a hare with a well-slung stone, but even the fresh meat was of little help to lift chilled spirits. On the third morning after they entered the valley, it began to snow.

  “Do we turn back?” asked Trent.

  “No,” said Echevarian. He looked at Paethor, who glanced at the ground rising ahead and sighed.

  They struggled on, hampered by wet, heavy snow. One of the load-beasts blundered into a crevice hidden by a snowdrift and had to be pulled out; unhurt, luckily. The valley narrowed further and the party found themselves climbing toward a notch between two crests, barely visible through a gray wall of falling snow. Breathing was harder now, and they had to dismount and lead their animals up the treacherous slope, the yeomen using poles cut from trees to probe the way. The sky darkened as they neared the top, though whether from night falling or the storm thickening it was hard to tell. There was no place for a camp, so the weary group trudged ahead. Finally they entered the notch, which was level though deep in snow. Here only a few flakes were falling.

  “We could camp here,” gasped Trent, patting his weary beast.

  “It’s still light,” said Echevarian. “Let’s take a look at what’s ahead.”

  “Sure,” said Trent, handing his reins to a yeoman. “That ought to cheer us up.”

  The three lords dug their way through chest-high snow, pushing it aside with gloved hands. Soon they were puffing and sweating with the effort. Meter by meter they made their way to the far side of the pass, where they looked out over another valley, gentler in slope, and dotted with small dark lumps from which rose welcome plumes of smoke. Trent let out a laugh.

  “Still want to camp up here?” asked Echevarian.

  “I don’t care if we’re walking till midnight,” said Trent. “There’s got to be a feather-bed in one of those houses!”

  He turned back toward the beasts, but Paethor put a hand on his shoulder, saying “Wait.” With a glance at Echevarian Paethor drew Wayfinder. “Where can we find Farslayer?” he asked. The Sword’s point lifted to aim up the valley, where a manor-house stood out among the smaller dwellings.

  “Whose hold is that?” asked Trent.

  Echevarian shrugged. “We’ll know soon.”

  Cheered by the prospect of shelter, the little party scrambled down into the valley. A spring not far from the pass marked the head of a creek, which was followed down the hillside by a narrow path. Dark was falling fast, and the little lights of the cottages below seemed to twinkle a golden welcome. At the edge of the settlement they were met by two sturdy men who asked their names and their business.

  “We are emissaries from King Nigel,” said Echevarian. “I am Don Echevarian of Verdas, and these are lords Paethor and Trent.”

  One of the men frowned. “From Argonhall? Why didn’t you come by the north road?”

  “We were in the south,” said Trent, “and wished to arrive in time to present the king’s Yule greetings to your master.”

  The guard seemed satisfied with this answer. “You’d better come up to the Lodge, then. Squire will be sitting down to supper soon.” He led them to a wide yard in front of the manor house, which consisted of a two-story structure built of vast logs, with smaller wings running away on the south and north. The yeomen were left to stable the beasts while the lords went into the house. Warmth struck their faces in the entryway and they sighed in unison. The guard led them into the Hall, where firelight flickered on the polished logs of the walls and gilded the rushes strewn over the floor. A long table was set a few meters from a hearth at the room’s north end, and servants were preparing it for the evening meal. The guard brought them to a stairwell from which narrow steps led to a gallery running along the east and south walls. At the foot of the stairs a stout man in faded green velvet was talking to a younger version of himself.

  “Beg pardon, Squire,” said the guard. “These men say they’re from King Nigel. They’re the ones we saw coming down from the pass.”

  The squire turned and stared down his craggy nose at the damp, bedraggled lords. Echevarian swept a bow. “Don Echevarian of Verdas,” he said grandly. “These are my traveling companions, Lord Paethor of Mirador and Lord Trent Greyson. We thank you for your hospitality.”

  The youth beside the squire had the same shock of sandy hair, the same fearsome nose. His eyes opened wide and he said, “Did you really come over Dead Man’s Pass?”

  “We wouldn’t have, if we’d known its name,” muttered Trent.

  “We were at my hold in Verdas when we were directed to come here,” said Echevarian with a glance at his companions. “It seemed quickest to try the pass.”

  “Hmm, well you’re lucky,” said the squire. “It’s usually snowed in at Midwinter, but the weather’s been light this season. From Verdas, eh? There’s a neighbor of yours here, Baron Carcham. Maybe you’ve come to speak to him?”

  The lords stiffened at the name.

  “Carcham of Ravenskeep, yes,” said Echevarian. “You’re very astute, Squire...?”

  “Fuller,” replied the squire, breaking into a grin. “But everyone just calls me Squire. Carcham’s in his room, he’ll be down for supper. You can talk to him then, but you’d probably like to change first, eh?”

  The lords, from whose shoulders melting snow had begun to drip, agreed. The squire s
houted orders right and left, calling for his guests’ gear to be brought into the house and hot water to be fetched for them, then led them to a room in the south wing where a servant was already kindling a bright fire.

  “Sorry to crowd you all in here,” he said. “We don’t often have so many visitors at once.”

  “No problem,” said Trent, eyeing the mattresses being carried in.

  “Come back to the Hall when you’re ready,” said the squire. “We’ll hold supper for you.”

  “No need to do that,” said Paethor.

  “Pish. D’you think my women-folk would let me get away without waiting? They’ll want a formal introduction to the king’s lords.” The squire raised an eyebrow as he surveyed Paethor’s handsome countenance. “Lords from Argonhall, yes,” he said. “We don’t see your like around here too often!” He grinned, then headed out in the wake of the servants.

  “Thank you, Squire,” Echevarian called after him. “We won’t be long.”

  The door closed and they listened to their host’s cheery shouts fade down the hall. The lords looked at one another.

  “Ravenskeep,” hissed Trent. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Staying out of trouble, maybe,” said Echevarian. “His barony’s caught in the skirmishes.”

  “Then why isn’t he there to defend it?” said Paethor.

  No one answered.

  “Come on,” said Echevarian, stripping off his sodden doublet. “Let’s make ourselves presentable for the squire’s ladies.”

  They pulled off wet clothing and hastily washed themselves, then rummaged through their gear, deciding to honor their host with their one change of court dress. For Trent this was green suede trimmed with gold braid; for Echevarian, gray wool lined with red satin and edged in silver. Paethor wore dark brown velvet, unembellished. He pulled Wayfinder’s sheath off of his traveling belt and stood frowning at the Sword.

  “Would you rather I carried it?” offered Echevarian.

  Paethor glanced up at him. “Yes,” he said, then slid it onto his own fresh belt. “But it’s my burden. Thanks anyway.”