Except for the slave girl who had just brought wine, the two men were quite alone. They were seated in one of the smaller private chambers of the rather grim and drafty castle that was the Duke's chief residence, and would have been thought of as his family seat if any of the duchesses he had tried out so far had succeeded in giving him some immediate family. The present Duke's great-grandfather had begun the clan's climb to prominence by taking up the profession of robber baron. He had also begun the construction of this castle. Much enlarged since those days, it clung to a modest but strategically located crag overlooking the crossing of two important overland trade routes. Trade on both highways had somewhat diminished since the days of the castle's founding, but by now the family was into other games than simple robbery and the sale of insurance on life, health, and business.
Rich wall hangings, in the family colors of blue and white, rippled silkily as a gentle breeze entered the chamber through the narrow windows let into its thick stone walls. In the Duke's father's day the women of the household had begun to insist upon some degree of interior elegance, and the hangings dated from that time. And today for some reason those rippling drapes gave the Duke a momentarily acute sense of the swiftness of time's passage — all the efforts of his ancestors had enabled him to begin his own life with great advantages, but his own decades had somehow sped past him and out of reach, and today his domain was little larger or stronger than when his father had left it to him — a gift rather unwillingly bestowed. The Duke still wanted very much to be king of the whole continent someday, but it was years since he had said as much aloud to even his closest advisers. He would have expected and feared their silent ridicule, because there was so little hope. Until very recently, that is.
He made a small gesture of dismissal to the slave girl, who rose swiftly and gracefully from her knees, and departed on silent feet, her gauzy garments swirling. Yes, in the matter of women too he thought himself unlucky-time passed, wives appeared, were found for one reason or another unsatisfactory, and departed again. The duty he felt he owed himself, of providing his own heir for his own dukedom, was still not accomplished.
The Duke poured himself a small cup of the wine. "I think," he said to his wizard, "that if you were to try, you might find a few more words to say to me on the subject." As if in afterthought, he poured a second golden cup of wine, and handed it across; he nodded meanwhile, as if confirming something to himself. His Grace was on the small side, wiry and graying, with a hint of curl still in his forelock. On the subject of beards and mustaches, as on much else, he had never been able to make up his mind with any finality, and he was currently clean-shaven except for a modest set of sideburns. The ducal complexion was on the dark side, particularly around the eyes, which made the sockets look a little hollow and gave him a hungry look sometimes.
He prodded his wizard now: "As you have described the sequence of events to me, this young boy first shot my cousin dead, then simply picked up the sword, the sword you had been sent there to get — and walked away with it. No one has seen him since, as far as we can determine. And you made no attempt to stop his departure. You say you did not notice it."
The wizard, apparently unruffled by all this, again made his small seated bow. "Your Grace, immediately after the fight, a crowd gathered in the street. There was much confusion. People were shouting all manner of absurd things, about cavalry, invasions — the scene was far from orderly, with people coming and going everywhere. My first concern was naturally for your cousin's life, and I did all that I could to save him. Alas, my powers proved inadequate. But in those first moments I did not even know whose arrow had struck him down. I assumed, reasonably, I think, that it had come from one of the attackers' bows."
"And of course when the fight was over you thought no more about the sword. Even though you'd just seen what it could do."
"Beg pardon, Your Grace, I really did not see that. When the fighting started I went to earth at once, put my head down and stayed that way. As Your Grace is very well aware, most magic works very poorly once blades are drawn and blood is shed. I was of course aware that some very potent magic was operating nearby; I know now that was I sensed was the sword. But while the fighting lasted there was nothing I could do. As soon as silence fell, I jumped up and…"
"Did what you could, yes. Which, as it turned out, wasn't very much. Well, we'll see what Sharfa has to say about these villagers of his when he gets back."
"And have you now summoned him back, Your Grace?"
"Yes, I've sent word that he should hurry, though I hate for him to cut short his other mission… well, he must do what he thinks best when he gets my message. So must we all. Meanwhile, let's have the miller and his wife in."
"By all means, sire. I think it a very wise decision for you to question them yourself."
"I want you to observe."
The wizard nodded silently. Duke Fraktin made another small motion with his hand. Though the two men were to all appearances alone, this gesture somehow sufficed to convey the Duke's will beyond the chamber walls. In the time that might have been needed for a full, slow breath, a spear-carrying guard appeared, ushering in two people in worn commoners' garb.
The man was tall and sturdy, and the Duke would have put his age at between thirty-five and forty. His fair hair hung over neatly bandaged temples. He had only one arm, now round the waist of the woman at his side. She was plump but still attractive for one of her class and age, a few years younger than her husband. The dark-haired woman was more than a little frightened at the moment, the Duke thought, though so far she was controlling it well. The man looked more dazed than frightened. It was only today, according to the medical reports, three days after his injury, that he'd regained his senses fully.
Duke Fraktin signed to the guard to withdraw, and then surprised the couple by rising from his chair and coming to greet them, which meant descending from the low dais upon which he and his wizard had been sitting — the wizard was no longer to be seen anywhere. The smiling Duke took the man briefly by the hand, as if this were some ceremony for the award of honors. Then, with a sort of remote possessiveness, he touched the bowing, flustered woman on the head. "So, you are Jord, and you are Mala. Have you both been well treated? I mean, by my men who brought you here?"
"Very well treated, Your Honor." The man's voice, like the expression on his face, was still a little dazed. "I thank you for the care you've given me. The healing."
The Duke waved gratitude away. Whenever quick medical care was needed, for someone whose life mattered, he had a priestess of Ardneh on retainer, and the priestess had reason to be prompt and attentive in responding to his calls. "I wish we might have saved your elder son. He fell as a true hero," the Duke said and added a delicate sigh. "Actually it is your younger son who most concerns me today."
The parents were alarmed at once. The man asked quickly: "Mark's been found?" Their reactions, the Duke thought, would have been subtly different if they had known where their child was. The Duke allowed himself another sigh.
"Alas, no," replied the Duke. "Mark has not been found. And he seems to have taken away with him a certain very valuable object. An object in which my own interest is very strong."
The woman was looking at the Duke with a strange expression on her face, and he wondered if she was attempting to be seductive. A number of women made that attempt with him, of course, and probably few of them had such beautiful black hair. Fewer still, of course, were thirty-year-old millwives with calloused hands. This one had a high opinion of her own attractiveness. Or else something else was on her mind…
"Isn't it possible, sir," she asked now with timid determination, "that someone else took the sword? One of those bandits?"
"I think not, Mala. Where was Mark when you saw him last?"
"In the street, sir. Our village street, right after the fight. My daughter and I came running out from the mill, when people told us that Kenn was fighting out there with the sword. When I got there, Ma
rk was standing off to one side. I didn't think he was hurt, so I ran right to Kenn, and… " She gestured toward her husband at her side. "Then, later, when I looked around for Mark again, he wasn't there."
The Duke nodded. The daughter had given his men a similar report; she had been allowed to remain in the village, looking after the mill. "And when you first ran out into the street, Mala, it was Kenn who had the sword?"
"Kenn was already lying on the ground, Your Honor, sir. I don't know about the sword, I never thought about it. All I could think of then was that my husband and my son were hurt." Her dark eyes peered at the Duke from under her fall of curly hair. Maybe not trying to be seductive, but trying to convey some message; well, he'd get it from her later.
The woman went on: "Your Grace has close relatives too. If you knew that they were in peril, I suppose that your first thought too would be for them."
The man glanced at his wife, as if it had struck him, too, that she was acting oddly.
The Duke asked: "And is another relative of mine now in peril, as you say?"
"I do not know, sir." Whatever the woman had on her mind, it was not going to come out openly just now.
"Very well," the Duke said patiently. "Now. As for young Mark, I can understand his taking fright, and running away, after such an experience — though I, of course, would not have harmed him, had he stayed. I can understand his flight, I say — but why should he have taken along that sword?"
"I think… " the man began, and paused.
"Yes? By the way, Jord, would you care for a little of this wine? It's very good."
"No thank you, sir. Your Grace, Mark must have seen both of us fall. His older brother and myself, I mean. So he probably thinks that I'm dead along with Kenn. That would mean… I've always told my sons that one day when I was gone the sword would be theirs. Of course I always thought that Kenn would be the one to have it some day. Now Kenn is.. "
The Duke waited for the couple to recover themselves. In his own mind he thought he was being as gracious about it as if they were of his own rank. Courtesy and gentleness were important tools in dealing with folk of any station; he sometimes had trouble making his subordinates understand that fact. All attitudes were tools, and the choice of the correct one for each situation made a great deal of difference.
Still, he began to grow impatient. He urged the miller: "Tell me all about the sword."
"It was given me years ago, Your Grace." The miller was managing to pull himself together. "I have already told your men."
"Yes, yes. Nevertheless, tell me again. Given you by Vulcan himself? What did he look like?"
The miller looked surprised, as if he had thought some other question would come next. "Look like? That's a hard thing to describe, Your Honor. As you might expect, he's the only god I've ever seen. If it was a man I had to describe, I'd say: Lame in one leg. Carries a forge-hammer in hand most of the time — a huge forge-hammer. He was dressed in leather, mostly. Wearing a necklace made out of what looked like dragonscales — I know that sounds like foolishness, or it would, but… and he was taller than a man might be. And infinitely stronger."
Obviously, thought the Duke, this was not the first time the miller had tried to find words to describe his experience of thirteen years ago. And obviously he still wasn't having much success.
"More than a man," Jord added at last, with the air of being pleased to be able to establish that much at least beyond a doubt. "Your Grace, I hope you don't misunderstand what I'm going to say now." "I don't suppose I will. Speak on."
"From the day I met Vulcan, until now, no man — no woman either — has truly been able to frighten me. Oh, if I were to be sentenced to death, to torture, I'd be frightened, yes. But no human presence… even standing before the Dark King himself, I think, would not be so bad as what I've already had to do. Your Grace, you must have seen gods, you'll know what I mean."
His Grace had indeed confronted gods — though very rarely — and on one occasion the Dark King also. He said: "I take your meaning, miller, and I think you put it well, that special impact of a god's presence. So, you stood by Vulcan's forge at his command, and you helped him make the swords?"
"Then Your Grace already knows, I mean that more than one were made." The miller appeared more impressed by this than by the Duke himself or his surrounding wealth and power. "I have never met anyone else who knew that fact, or even suspected it. Yes, we made more than one. Twelve, in fact. And I stood by and helped. Smithery was my trade in those days. Not that any of the skill that made those swords was mine — no human being has skill to compare with that. And five other men from my village were called to help also — to work the bellows, and tend the fire, and so on. We had no choice but to help."
Here the woman surprised the Duke again, this time by interrupting, with a faint clearing of her throat. "Does Your Grace remember ever visiting that village? It's called Treefall, and it's almost in the mountains."
Duke Fraktin looked at the woman — yes, definitely, he was going to have to see her alone, later, without her husband. Something was up. "Why, I suppose I may have been there," the Duke said. The name meant nothing to him.
He faced the man again. "No, Jord, I don't suppose you had much choice when Vulcan ordered you to help him. I understand that unfortunately none of the five other men survived."
"Vulcan used 'em up, sir. He used their bodies and their blood, like so many tubs of water, to quench the blades."
"Yet you he spared… except of course that he took your arm. Why do you suppose he did that?"
"I don't remember that part at all well, Your Grace… might I sit down? My head… "
"Yes, yes. Pull up one of those chairs for him, Mala. Now Jord. Go on. About when you made the swords."
"Well, sir, I fainted. And when I woke again, my right arm was gone. A neat wound, with most of the bleeding stopped already. And my left hand was already holding Townsaver's hilt. And Vulcan bent over me, as I was lying there, and he said…"
"Yes, yes?"
"That now the sword was mine to keep. Townsaver. The Sword of Fury, he called it too. To keep and to pass on as inheritance. I couldn't understand… I hurt like hell… and then he laughed, as if it were all nothing but a great joke. A god laughing makes a sound like — like nothing else. But it has never been a joke to me."
"No, I suppose not." The Duke turned and stepped back up onto his dais, and poured himself another small cup of wine. When he looked down at the jeweled hilt of the fine dagger at his belt, his hand itched to toy with it, but he forebode. At this moment he wanted to do nothing, say nothing, in the least threatening. He asked mildly: "How many swords did you say that Vulcan forged that day?"
"I don't think I said, Your Grace, but there were twelve." The miller looked a little better, more in control of himself, since he'd been allowed to sit down. "Would you believe it?" he almost smiled.
"I would believe it, since you say so, and you are an honest man. I would know if you were lying. Now, about these other eleven swords. It is very, very important that their existence should be kept very quiet. No one outside this room is to hear of them from you. My good people, what do you suppose I should do to make sure of that?"
The man looked to be at a loss. But the woman stepped forward smoothly. "You should trust us, Your Grace. We won't say a word. Jord's never mentioned those other swords until now, and he won't. And I won't."
The Duke nodded to her slowly, then switched his attention back to the man. "Now, smith, miller, whatever — what happened to those other eleven swords?"
A helpless, one-armed shrug. "Of that, sire, I have no iaea."
"Did Vulcan name them, as he named your sword? What were they like? Where did they go?"
Again Jord made a helpless motion. "I know none of those things, Your Grace. I never got a good look at any of those other swords, at least not after the early stages of the forging. I saw twelve white-hot bars of steel, waiting for Vulcan's hammer — that was when I counted '
em. Later I was too busy to think, or care and later still, I had my bleeding stump to think about. I couldn't… "
"Come, come, Jord. You must have seen more than that. You were right there, the whole time, weren't you?"
"I was, sir, but… Your Grace, I'd tell you more if I could." Jord sounded desperate.
"Very well, very well. Perhaps you will remember more about those swords. What else did Vulcan say to you?"
"I don't know what all he might have said, Your Grace. He gave me orders, told me what to do, I'm sure. I must have understood what he was saying then, but I never could remember afterwards."
"You do remember seeing those twelve white-hot steel bars, though. Were they all alike?"
"All meant to be straight blades, I think. Probably much like the one that I was given. Weapons never were my specialty."
"Ah." The Duke sipped at his wine again, and paced the room. He took thought, trying to find the cleverest way to go. "The sword that you were given. How was it decorated?"
"The blade, not at all, sir. Oh, there was a very fine pattern right in the steel, such as I've never seen elsewhere. But that was, as I say, in the very metal itself. Then there was a rough steel crossguard, no real decoration there either. And then the handle above was straight and black, of some material I didn't recognize: sometimes I wondered if it was from the Old World. And on it was a fine white pattern of decoration:'
"What did this pattern represent?"
"I puzzled often about that, sir. It might have been a crenelated wall, like on a castle or a town." And the woman nodded agreement to what her husband said.
The Duke asked: "Do you suppose that you could sketch it for me?"
"I'll have a try, sir." The man sounded reasonably confident.
"Later. Now, you were a smith yourself. Regardless of whether weapons were ever your specialty, I take it that this sword was of such beauty that you must have realized it would be worth a lot of money even leaving aside any magical properties it may have had. Did it never enter your head to sell it?"
The First Book of Swords Page 7
