The Book of Swords

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “Lady,” Halli said, “you were wronged. I believe it. Let me leave this place and I’ll tell others what happened here, I swear it.”

  “One knows,” the troll-wife said. “One who is living knows. The rest are dead. The killer himself will die. The thieves are gone from the hill. The meadows and the woods will mend themselves. And my house is mine again. You may dismiss the watcher to his gods.”

  She seemed taller of a sudden, taller and more formidable, hair unbraiding and flying in a wind that didn’t touch Halli at all. He looked up at her and stood his ground.

  “What shall I call you?” he asked. “What shall I call you, lady, when I tell the skalds?”

  “I have no name,” she said, in a voice like the sea itself. “I am everything now. Return!”

  —

  He was in the deep water, in the dark, and rising, rising to break through into sunlight, chest aching for that next breath—hand encumbered—

  Hrunting broke the surface and shone in the light as Halli kicked and swam toward the rocks. He crawled out, sodden, dripping, and lay on sun-warmed stone until he could breathe without gasping, until the blood flowed back to his sword hand, and he dared look at it.

  No whit diminished, the gleam of its gold puzzle-knot, or its gray-steel blade.

  Halli stared at it, the whole jumble of ghosts and darkness trying to escape memory, for all the world like a dream—except the substantial evidence in his grip, the sword with its puzzle-knot, and its geas…never to fail a hero in battle.

  Did he have the wielding of such a thing? He didn’t think so. Yet it was in his hand, and it was real, and unblemished, It would have looked exactly like this when Grandfather lent it to Beowulf that morning in Heorot. The pommel would have gleamed like that, a puzzle-knot posing a question.

  Why such an ornament? And Grandfather—a judge, a brehon, not a warrior—how the heroes must have looked at him, a man not great of stature, not known for battles. A pity such a potent sword rests in those hands, they would have said. A treasure, indeed, a way to glory for any hero who bore it. More, protection for any kingdom defended by such a hero—sure salvation for the Skyldings and defeat for any enemy who dared confront them. It was an embarrassment that the bearer of it was such a lily-handed fellow—nobody feared Unferth. They taunted him to his face, the folk of Lejre had, with being soft, a man who won with words, and who dealt sharply, a stingy man, who served a gold-giving lord, Hrothgar the Generous, Hrothgar the Ring-giver.

  Halli blinked, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them to be sure Hrunting was still safely in his hand.

  How could such a fellow wield a sword like this? Grandfather was no hero. Grandfather had never claimed to be. Judge was his claim. Advisor, except that Hrothgar preferred Aeschere’s advice, which always agreed with him.

  Why had Grandfather given the sword to a stranger? Grandfather had been, of all things, deep-thinking and deliberate, nor wont to back down from his positions.

  Such an ornament as the puzzle-knot bespoke the blade’s character.

  He could not unbind it. It was as it was. He dragged himself, dripping, up to his knees, and thought of practical things, like his dry, warm cloak up on the ledge, and a small portion of stale bread.

  He looked up, where the rockslide, by full daylight, showed him a way to get up to that ledge, and honor a promise.

  —

  It was a small tomb he made, of the smallish rocks he could safely free from the slide. He made it, and he gave Aeschere half the bread he had left. He thought hard about it, but he added the butchering knife to the grave goods, not that they had another, but that he had his life, and Aeschere had, he felt, wished him well. He had Grandfather’s sword with him for protection, and maybe Grandfather’s ghost with it—he had no idea.

  “Go take care of Father if you can,” he wished his grandfather. “I’m all right. It’s Father who needs you. Go bring him luck with the deer. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  So he set the last stones in place, giving Aeschere the best he could, and all he could spare, and he ate the last of the bread and set out to climb the slide, no small risk in that—he set his feet carefully, and he tested every step, some of which were boulders as large as he was. He had not cheated Aeschere’s ghost, he had not dealt badly with the troll-wife. If either could send him luck now, he would take it gratefully, and he wished he had told Grandfather to linger just until he reached the top of the slide.

  He was ever so glad to crawl up onto the crumbling edge of the forest, and anxious to be far back from the cliff, where a step sent pebbles and small rocks rattling and bouncing down the ledges. Likely it was that some spring thaw, when ice had forced its fingers into rocks and crevices in hills, that it would all let go, and half a forest plunge down into the lake.

  He was not disposed to linger, not another moment. He wrapped his cloak about his wet clothes and the sword and all, bowed his head, and walked, eastward now, homeward with his treasure.

  —

  He had said he would be back before the sjaund. He brought nothing that would feed the village. He arrived in sight of the great mounds footsore, limping—he had taken strips of his shirt to bind his feet within his boots, which he had not gotten dry—and hungry, since a lump of stale bread had been his last meal, and nothing since but a few berries from a bush and a few seeds he had come on. He had not delayed to hunt, nor tried to build a fire. He had simply walked with the strength he had, and found no challenge on the way, but no trace of game, either.

  He limped his way, at last, to Grandfather’s grave, and found the endmost stones disarranged—the grave not violated, but stones kicked about. Such was Eileifr and his lot.

  He put back the stones one by one, angry, but too weary to rage at fools. He smoothed the earth. When he had done, he simply sank down by the grave mound and folded back his cloak. He laid Hrunting on Grandfather’s grave, a shining treasure atop the mud.

  “Grandfather,” he said. “I have it. I brought it back. I don’t think I should wield it. I think I’d have to be as wise as you were, and know as much, and be a hero besides, which I’m not. The heroes are gone away and the gold is all given and gone. Except this. I found it where the man threw it, and I know why he threw it. It wouldn’t strike. He tried to murder a woman in her bed, and the sword wouldn’t obey him. That was why he didn’t bring it back. It might have done it again. It never failed him. He failed it. That’s what I learned.”

  Aeschere had talked to him. The troll-wife had. He rather hoped that Grandfather would, now, just once.

  “Hrunting will never fail a hero in battle,” he murmured. “And its pommel is a puzzle-knot. It’s a puzzle I can’t solve. You lent it to a stranger. Why, Grandfather? Was it what I thought, that it was to prove you were right about the man? But you never doubted you were right, did you?”

  The silence went on a moment.

  Then a thought came to him. “He couldn’t commit murder with it, could he? You were a judge, and a good one. Grendel’s mother said she was justified, and she was. They’d killed her son. She had every right to take a price. And she did. You were an honest judge. Always an honest judge, weren’t you, Grandfather? The law, you’d say. Save the law. Wise men made it. We have to save it. You gave him Hrunting so he couldn’t kill her. So he couldn’t do what he did.”

  A mother’s curse was a potent one. And Grendel’s mother was no ordinary woman.

  Heorot had burned. Its lords had killed one another in a frenzy of succession—one within an hour of the last. The gold had gone with Beowulf and the land had a dog for a king.

  “Is that the puzzle, Grandfather? You didn’t lend Hrunting for battle. You lent it for judgment, because your lord would not listen and Beowulf certainly wouldn’t. It wouldn’t kill her. It wouldn’t bring down a curse. Only Beowulf found the place littered with weapons he could use. That was the troll-wife’s misfortune, and Heorot’s. Her curse came down, sure as death, despite your trying to prevent him. Is that
Hrunting’s riddle?”

  Silence still. He got up, picked up the sword. “I’ll bring this back in a little while, Grandfather. I’ll show it only to Father, not to the village, so that fool Eileifr won’t go looking for it. Though it would be a judgment if he did steal it and go a-viking. He’s no hero, that’s certain. It’s a sword that would make its own way in the world, and lucky only so long as you can keep from using it.”

  —

  He walked on past the great mound, sword wrapped again in his cloak and hidden. He walked within view of the house.

  There was a deer carcass hanging. That cheered him immensely. One deer would not feed the village except as massive pots of stew, but that was good enough. They might barter hide for ale. He was sorry to have to report he’d lost the butchering knife, and he could not, gods, he could not suggest they take the sword to it.

  But he thought his father would forgive him. Father forgave him most everything.

  He hailed the door, pulled the latchstring without ceremony, and walked into a house warm and bright from a strong fire, his father leaping up to welcome him with a huge hug, all relief and gladness. He pounded his father’s shoulder one-handed, and pushed his way back to show him the sword.

  “Gods,” was all Father could say.

  “I didn’t want to leave it with him before I showed it to you. I don’t want the village to see it.”

  “They should!”

  “Father, you know Eileifr and his dogs. They’ll dig. And I promised Grandfather. Listen. I know the sword’s secret, and its luck. That’s the important thing.”

  “What secret?”

  “That it’s better to have than to use. I know why Grandfather gave it, and I know why Beowulf threw it away. There’s a lot about Grendelsjar that’s chancy, and I don’t think it will even be there in years to come. I think the sword needed to come home. But it’s not for us to use.”

  “I remember the heroes,” Father said. “They were given to a lot of drink and shoving little kids out of the way. It’s not what I wanted to be, either.”

  “Good,” Halli said. “Good. I’m glad. I’m glad you had a good hunt.”

  “Three deer.”

  “Three!”

  “Best day ever. One after the other. Meat and hide and bone, traded every bit of it. Ale in plenty. Meat for the sjaund. We’ll send the old man off in style.”

  “I lost the knife. Well, I gave it.” A glance at the wall showed a fine new knife, a blade gray and bright and sharp as ever a smith these days could make it. “That’s new.”

  “Luck,” his father said. “Sheer luck. I was never a great hunter. But now I have a name.”

  “Luck. Warm fire. Enough to eat and feast the neighbors.” Halli longed to cast himself down on the bench before the fire and have some of that stew he smelled. His feet hurt miserably and his legs were all but shaking from exhaustion. But it came to him that Hrunting’s luck was perilous, and Grandfather had managed it well enough, no shame to him. He knew that now.

  And if the sword in the ground was as good as the sword in a man’s hands, then let it rest there with its riddle for good and all.

  “I want to go back to Grandfather’s grave and leave this before I sleep,” he said. “Come with me. Let us give it to him, both of us. He’ll be satisfied.”

  “The luck’s back,” Father said. “Never such a day as that in my life, three deer. And if the luck’s back, then our family will have it, and if we have it, they’ll forget all the bad things about Grandfather and remember he was a good judge.”

  “He was that,” Halli said, and wrapped his cloak about himself and the sword. “He was all of that.”

  ⬩  ⬩  ⬩

  New York Times bestselling Australian writer Garth Nix worked as a book publicist, editor, marketing consultant, public-relations man, and literary agent whilst also writing, becoming a full-time author with the success of the bestselling Old Kingdom series, which consists of Sabriel, Lirael, Abhorsen, and two more recent additions: Clariel and Goldenhand. His other books include the Seventh Tower series, consisting of The Fall, Castle, Aenir, Above the Veil, Into Battle, and The Violet Keystone, the Keys to the Kingdom series, consisting of Mister Monday, Grim Tuesday, Drowned Wednesday, Sir Thursday, Lady Friday, Superior Saturday, and Lord Sunday, as well as standalone novels such as The Ragwitch, Shade’s Children, and Newt’s Emerald. His short fiction has been collected in Across the Wall and To Hold the Bridge. Among his recent books are the Troubletwisters series with Sean Williams, a standalone SF novel, A Confusion of Princes, and a new collection, Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz: Three Adventures. His most recent novel is Frogkisser! Born in Melbourne, raised in Canberra, he lives in Sydney, Australia.

  Here we join Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz hard on the trail of their most dangerous adversary yet, one they dare not actually catch up to if they want to stay alive…

  ⬩  ⬩  ⬩

  Sir Hereward drew his heavy fur cloak tighter around himself and lifted his feet higher, his sealskin boots coming out of the snow with a discouraging sucking noise.

  “You’re sure the road is under here?” he asked, apparently to the empty air, for no one strode next to him, and the bleak landscape of bare snow dotted here and there with dying, stunted trees appeared to be entirely bereft of life.

  “Yes,” came the short reply from inside the tall wicker basket he carried upon his back. A moment later, Mister Fitz emerged, the hairless top of his round, papier-mâché head flipping back the lid of the basket, which up until two days ago had served to hold the laundry of a country squire. That squire was now dead, along with every occupant of his manor, both human and animal. Since Sir Hereward’s battlemount had also been slain by the effect of proximity to the godlet that killed the squire, and the huge riding lizard’s saddlebags were unsuitably large for pedestrian movement, the laundry basket had been pressed into service to carry blankets, tarpaulin, carbine, powder, ball, water bottles, and food.

  Mister Fitz had climbed inside the basket when the snow got too deep, as he stood only three feet six and a half inches tall on his carved wooden feet. A sorcerous puppet, imbued with magical life, he did not feel the cold but did find deep snow an inconvenience. Not so much to travel, as he was preternaturally strong and could bull his way through the deepest drift, but because he didn’t like being surrounded by snow with the consequent diminution of vision.

  The snow was not a natural phenomenon. As with the desiccated corpses sprawled about the manor half a league behind them, it was an indication and by-product of the passage of a godlet inimical to both life and the regular weather patterns of the area. The depth of the snow and the heaviness of the fall, as evidenced by the steady flakes now settling on Sir Hereward’s woolen watch cap (his three-bar visored helmet was currently tied to his belt) indicated that the godlet and its unwilling and contrary host were only three or four hundred yards ahead of them.

  This was the closest the duo of man and puppet had got to it after six days of dogged pursuit in increasingly bad weather, and the closest they wanted to get, at least until one of Sir Hereward’s cousins got around to delivering the relic they would need to destroy, or rather banish, the godlet.

  The whole matter had the air of a mordant family affair, thought Sir Hereward, as he galumphed through the snow, exerting his weary senses to be alert for any sign the godlet might have stopped to lie in wait or had begun to turn back. For in addition to waiting on his cousin to deliver the necessary relic, the reluctant host the godlet rode was Sir Hereward’s great-great-aunt Eudonia. A notable witch and thus also an agent of the Council for the Treaty of the Safety of the World, she had been tasked with banishing the newly rediscovered proscribed godlet Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax.

  But Laqishtax had proven far stronger than expected and had managed to attach itself to Eudonia’s person. As neither witch nor godlet was initially able to subdue the other in a clash of wills, the godlet had sought to grow stronger by sucking the life force
from any living thing around that was unable to resist—which was usually everything alive for several hundred yards from its foul presence. Eudonia had countered this tactic by walking them both off into the sparsely populated wastelands of the former Kingdom of Hrorst.

  However, at some point in the last week, Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax had clearly found an additional source of power—some poor shepherd and a flock of goats or the like—and had managed to overcome Eudonia sufficiently to redirect their path back out of the wastelands toward the prosperous, well-populated lands of the Autarchy of Kallinksimiril. More grist for the godlet’s mill.

  The border manor where the godlet had just consumed everything with even the faintest spark of life was but the first of many that lay ahead, not to mention the walled town of Simiril itself. If Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax got that far, and subsumed the life force of not only the inhabitants but also their patron godlet—the benign lesser deity the locals called the Whelper—then it would be almost impossible to overcome.

  Hence, Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz stalked Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax at a safe distance, and hoped very much the relic would soon be delivered, so they could attack.

  “Kishtyr had best speed her travels,” complained Sir Hereward as he stumbled and fell forwards into a drift. Standing up to brush snow from his front, he added, “Simiril lies less than five leagues ahead, and I doubt the lake they call the Smallest Sea will slow the godlet one whit. I fail to see why Kishtyr did not arrive last night, or at least this morning. Also, I believe my nose is becoming frostbitten.”

  “It is no simple matter to retrieve a relic from the crypt,” said Mister Fitz in his instructional voice. He had been Sir Hereward’s nanny then teacher, and in truth had taught a great many godslayers over the centuries, so he still veered to the didactic at the least temptation. “Being of necessity items that contain the specially distilled and controlled essence of particularly inimical godlets, the relics held by the Council are secured in a number of different ways. Nothing can be removed in a hurry, it takes several witches several days and is not without hazard. There may easily have been a complication.”