The First Book of Swords

by Фред Сейберхэген

  At more or less regular intervals, he turned the pages of the old book with powerful though ungraceful fingers, and he continued to read aloud from the book in his slow, strong voice. It was a knowledgeable voice, and never stumbled, though its owner was translating an old language to a new one as he read. Still there were hesitations, as if the reader wanted to make very sure of every word before he gave it irrevocable pronunciation. He read:

  "'And the god Ardneh said to the men and women of the Old World, once only will I stretch forth the power of my hand to save you from the end of your own folly, once only and no more. Once only will I change the world, that the world may not be destroyed by the hellbomb creatures that you in your pride and carelessness have called up out of the depths of matter. And once only will I hold my Change upon the world, and the number of the years of Change will be fortynine thousand, nine hundred, and forty-nine.

  "'And the men and women of the Old World said to the god Ardneh, we hear thee and agree. And with thy Change let the world no longer be called Old, but New. And we do swear and covenant with thee, that never more shall we kill and rape and rob one another in hope of profit, of revenge, or sport. And never again shall we bomb and level one another's cities, never again… ' "

  Here the reader paused, regarding his prisoner sternly. "Is something bothering you, sirrah? You seem distracted."

  The man inside the cell started visibly. "I, Sir Andrew? No, not I. Nothing is bothering me. Unless… well, unless, I mean, it is only that a man tends to feel happier when he's outside a cell than when he's in one." And the prisoner's face, which was an expressive countenance when he wished it to be, brought forth a tentative smile.

  Sir Andrew's incipient frown deepened in response. "If you think you would be happier outside, then pray do not let your attention wander when I am reading to you. Your chance of rejoining that happy, sunlit world beyond yon windows depends directly upon your behavior here. Your willingness to admit past errors, to seek improvement, take instruction, and reform."

  Kaparu said quickly: "Oh, I admit my errors, sir. I do indeed. And I can take instruction."

  "Fine. Understand that I am never going to set you free, never, as long as I think you are likely to return to your old habits of robbing innocent travelers."

  The prisoner, like a child reprimanded in some strict school, now sat up straight. He became all attention. "I am trying, Sir Andrew, to behave well." And he gave another quick glance around his cell, this time as if to make sure that no evidence to the contrary might be showing.

  "You are, are you? Then listen carefully." Sir Andrew cleared his throat, and returned his gaze to the yellowed page before him. As he resumed reading, his frown gradually disappeared, and his right hand rose unconsciously from the book, to emphasize key words with vague and clumsy gestures.

  "'…and when the full years of the Change had been accomplished, Orcus, the Prince of Demons, had grown to his full strength. And Orcus saw that the god Draffut, the Lord of Beasts and of all human mercy, who sat at the right hand of Ardneh in the councils of the gods, was healing men and women in Ardneh's name, of all manner of evil wounds and sickness. And when Orcus beheld this he was very wroth. And he…'"

  "Beg pardon, sir?"

  "Eh?"

  "That word, sir. 'Wroth'. It's not one that I'm especially familiar with."

  "Ah. 'Wroth' simply means angry. Wrathful." Sir Andrew spoke now in a milder tone than before, milder in fact than the voice in which he generally read. And at the same time his expression grew benign.

  Once more he returned to his text. "Where was I? Yes, here…'In all the Changed world, only Ardneh himself was strong enough to oppose Orcus. Under the banner of Prince Duncan of the Offshore Islands, men and women of good will from around the earth rallied to the cause of good, aiding and supporting Ardneh. And under the banner of the evil Emperor, John Ominor, all men and women who loved evil rallied from all the lands of the earth to…'"

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, what?"

  "There's one more thing in there I don't understand, sir. Did you say this John Ominor was an emperor?"

  "Hm, hah, yes. Listening now, are you? Yes. The Emperor in those days — we are speaking now, remember, of a time roughly two thousand years in the past, at the end of what is called Ardneh's Change, and when the great battle was fought out between Orcus and Ardneh, and both of them perished — at that time, I say, no man was called emperor unless he was a real power in the world. Perhaps even its greatest power. It might be possible to trace a very interesting connection from that to the figure of mockery and fun, which today…"

  "Sir?"

  "Yes?"

  "If you don't mind, sir. Did you say just a moment ago that Ardneh perished?"

  Sir Andrew nodded slowly. "You are listening. But I don't want to get into all that now. The main thrust of this passage, what you should try to grasp today… but just let me finish reading it. Where was I? Ha. 'In all the Changed world, only Ardneh himself…' and so forth, we had that. Hah. 'In most dreadful combat the two strove together. And Orcus spake to Ardneh, saying…' Ah, drat, why must we be interrupted?"

  The prisoner frowned thoughtfully at this, before he realized at just what point the text had been broken off. Sir Andrew had been perturbed by certain new sounds in the middle distance, sounds steadily drawing near. A shuffling of feet, a sequential banging open of doors, announced the approach of other human beings. Presently, at the highest observable turn of the nearby ascending stair, there appeared the bowed legs of an ancient jailer, legs cut off at the knees by a stone arch. The jailer came on down the stairs, until his full figure was in view; in one arm, quivering with age, he held aloft a torch (which surely had been of more use on the dark stair above than it was here) to light the way for the person following him, a woman — no, a lady, thought the prisoner.

  She was garbed in Sir Andrew's colors of orange and black, and she brought with her an indefinable but almost palpable sense of the presence of magical power. She must have been a great beauty not long hence, and was attractive still, not less so for the touch of gray in her black hair, the hint of a line or two appearing at certain angles of her face.

  As soon as this lady had become fully visible at the top of the stairs, she paused in her tent. "Sir Andrew," she called, in a voice as rich and lovely as her visual appearance, "I would like a little of your time, immediately. A matter of importance has come up."

  Grunting faintly, Sir Andrew rose from his stool, turning as he did so to address the visitor. "It's really important, Yoldi?" he grumbled. And, a moment later, answered his own question. "Well, of course, it must be." He had long ago impressed upon everyone in the castle his dislike of being interrupted when he was at his favorite work of uplifting prisoners.

  Sir Andrew went to the stair, and took the torch from the hand of the aged jailer, making a shooing motion at the man to signify that he was dismissed. Then, holding the flame high with one arm, bearing his precious book under the other, the knight escorted his favorite enchantress back up the stairs, to where they might be able to hold a private conference.

  Once they had climbed round the first turn, Dame Yoldi glanced meaningfully at the old book. "Were you obtaining a good result?" she asked.

  "Oh, I think perhaps a good beginning. Yes, I know you're convinced that my reading to them does no good. But don't you see, it means they have at least some exposure to goodness in their lives. To the history, if you like, of goodness in the world."

  "I doubt that they appreciate it much."

  There were windows ahead now, tall narrow slits in the outer wall where it curved around a landing, and Sir Andrew doused his torch in a sandbucket kept nearby. Trudging on to where the windows let in light, he shook his head to deny the validity of Dame Yoldi's comment. "It's really dreadful, you know, listening to their stories. I think many of them are unaware that such a thing as virtue can exist. Take the poor lad who's down there now, he's a good example. He has been telling me h
ow he was raised by demonworshippers."

  "And you believed him?" Good Dame Yoldi sounded vexed, both by the probability that the true answer to her question would be yes, and the near certainty that she was never going to hear it from Sir Andrew.

  The knight, stumping on ahead, did not seem to hear her now. He paused when he reached the first narrow window, set where the stair made its first above-ground turn. Through the aperture it was possible to look out past the stone flank of the south guard-tower, and see something of the small permanent village that huddled just in front of the castle, and a slice of the great common green beyond. On that sward, where woolbeasts grazed most of the year, the annual fair had been for the past day or so taking shape.

  "I should have ordered him some better food, perhaps. Some gruel at least, maybe a little meat." Sir Andrew was obviously musing aloud about his prisoner, but his distracted tone made it equally obvious that his thoughts were ready to stray elsewhere. "Crops were so poor this year, all round the edge of the Swamp, that I didn't know if we'd have much of a fair at all. But there it is. It appears to be turning out all right."

  Dame Yoldi joined him at the window, though it was so narrow that two people had trouble looking out at once. "Your granaries have taken a lot of the shock out of poor years, ever since you built them. If only we don't have two bad years in a row."

  "That could be disastrous, yes. Is that what you wanted to see me about? Another village delegation? Is it crops, dragons, or both?"

  "It's a delegation. But not from any of the villages this time."

  Sir Andrew turned from the window. "What then?"

  "They've come from the Duke, and I've already cast a sortilege, and the omens are not particularly good for you today. I thought you'd like to know that before you meet these people."

  "And meet them I must, I suppose. Yoldi, in matters of magic, as in so much else, your efforts are constantly appreciated." Sir Andrew leaned toward his enchantress and kissed her gently on the forehead. "All right, I am warned."

  He moved to the ascending stair, and again led the way up. He had rounded the next turn before he turned his head back to ask: "What do they say they want?"

  "They don't. They refuse to discuss their business with anyone else before they've seen you."

  "And they exhibit damned bad manners, I suppose, as usual."

  "Andrew?"

  On his way up, the knight paused. "Yes?"

  "Last night that vision of swords came to me again. Stacked in a pyramid like soldiers' spears in the guardroom, points up. I don't know what it means yet. But as I said, today's omens are not good."

  "All right." When the stair had brought him to a higher window, Sir Andrew paused again, to catch his breath and to look out once more and with a better view over the hectares of fairground that had sprung up before his castle almost as if by magic. Jumbled together were neat pavilions, cheap makeshift shelters, professional entertainers' tents of divers colors, all set up already or still in the process of erection. The present good weather, after some days of rain, was bringing out a bigger crowd than usual, mostly people from the nearby villages and towns. The lowering sun shone upon banners and signs advertising merchants of many kinds and of all degrees of honesty, all of them getting ready to do business now or already engaged in it. Sir Andrew's towers dominated a crossroad of highways leading to four important towns, and a considerable population was tributary to him. On fine evenings, such as this promised to be, the fair would likely run on by torchlight into the small hours. The harvest, such as it was, was mostly already in, and most of those who worked the land would be able to take time out for a holiday.

  The master of the castle frowned from his window, noting the booths and tables of the operators of several games of chance. Their honesty, unlike that of the other merchants, tended to be of only one degree.

  "Hoy, these gamblers, gamesters." The knight's face expressed his disapproval. "Remind me, Yoldi. I ought to warn them that if any of them are caught cheating again this year, they can expect severe treatment from me."

  "I'll remind you tomorrow. Though they will undoubtedly cheat anyway, as you ought to realize by this time. Now, may we get on with the important business?"

  "All right, we'll get it over with." And the knight looked almost sternly at his enchantress, as if it were her fault that the meeting with the Duke's people was being delayed. He motioned briskly toward the stair, and this time she led the way up. He asked: "Who has the Duke sent to bully me this time?"

  "He's sent two, one of which you'll probably remember. Hugh of Semur. He's one of the stewards of the Duke's territories adjoining…"

  "Yes, yes, I do remember him, you don't have to tell me. Blustery little man. Fraktin always likes to send two, so they can spy and report on each other, I suppose. Who's the other this time?"

  "Another one of the Duke's cousins. Lady Marat."

  "For a man without direct heirs, he has more cousins than anyway, I don't know her. What's she like?"

  "Good-looking. Otherwise I'm not sure yet what she's like, except that she means you no good."

  The pair of them were leaving the stair now, on a high level of the castle that held Sir Andrew's favorite general-purpose meeting room. He caught up with Dame Yoldi and took her arm. "I hardly supposed she would. Well, let's have them in here. Grapes of Bacchus, do you suppose there's any of that good ale left? No, don't call for it now, I didn't, mean that. Later, after the Duke's dear emissaries have departed."

  The emissaries were shortly being ushered in. The Lady Marat was tall and willowy and dark of hair and skin. Again, as in Dame Yoldi's case, what must once have been breathtaking beauty was still considerable in the case of Lady Marat, thought Sir Andrew, nature had almost certainly been fortified in recent years by a touch of enchantment here and there.

  Hugh of Semur, a step lower than Her Ladyship in the formal social scale, was chunkilv built and much pore mundanelooking, though, as his clothes testified, he was something of a dandy too. Sir Andrew recalled Hugh as having more than a touch of self-importance, but he was probably trying to suppress this characteristic at the moment.

  Formal greetings were quickly got out of the way, and refreshment perfunctorily offered and declined. Lady Marat wasted no time in beginning the real discussion, for which she adopted a somewhat patronizing tone: "As you will have heard, cousin, the Duke's beloved kinsman, the Seneschal Ibn Gauthier, was assassinated some days ago."

  "Some word of that has reached us, yes," Sir Andrew admitted. Having got that far he hesitated, trying to find some truthful comment that would not sound too impolite. He preferred not to be impolite without deliberate purpose and good cause.

  Her Ladyship continued: "We have good reason to believe that the assassin is here in your domain, or at least on his way. He is a commoner, his name is Mark, the son of Jord the miller of the village of Arin-on-Aldan. This Mark is twelve years old, and he is described as large for his age. His hair and general coloring are fair, his face round, his behavior treacherous in the extreme. He has with him a very valuable sword, stolen from the Duke. A reward of a hundred gold pieces is offered for the sword, and an equal amount for the assassin-thief."

  "A boy of twelve, you say?" The furrow of unhappiness that had marked Sir Andrew's brow since the commencement of the interview now deepened. "How sad. Well, we'll do what we must. If this lad should appear before me for any reason, I'll certainly question him closely."

  The Lady Marat was somehow managing to look down her nose at Sir Andrew, though the chair in which he sat as host and ruler here was somewhat higher than her own. "Good Cousin Andrew, I think that His Grace expects a rather more active co-operation on your part than that. It will be necessary for you to conduct an all-out search for this killer, throughout your territory. And when the assassin is found, to deliver him speedily to the Duke's justice. And, to find and return the stolen sword as well."

  Sir Andrew was frowning at her fixedly. "Twice now you've called me th
at. Are we really cousins?" he wondered aloud. And his bass voice warbled over the suggestion in a way that implied he found it profoundly disturbing.

  Dame Yoldi, seated at Sir Andrew's right hand, looked disturbed too, but also half amused. While Hugh of Semur, showing no signs but those of nervousness, hastened to offer an explanation. "Sir Andrew, Her Ladyship meant only to speak in informal friendship."

  "Did she, hah? Had m'hopes up high there for a minute. Thought I was about to become a member of the Duke's extended family. Could count on his fierce vengeance to track down anyone, any child at least, who did me any harm. Tell me, will you two be staying to enjoy the fair?"

  The Lady Marat's visage had turned to dark ice, and she was on the verge of rising from her chair. But Dame Yoldi had already risen; perhaps some faint noise from outside that had made no impression on the others had still caught her attention, for she had gone to the window and was looking out into the approaching sunset.

  Now she turned back. "Good news, Sir Andrew," she announced in an almost formal voice. "I believe that your dragon-hunters have arrived."

  Yoldi's eyes, Sir Andrew thought, had seen more than she had announced.

  Chapter 9

  Nestor, struck on the head with stunning force for the second time in as many minutes, lost consciousness. But not for long. When he regained his senses he found himself being carried only a meter or two above the surface of a fogbound marsh, his body still helplessly clutched to the breast of a flying dragon of enormous wingspan. His left shoulder and upper arm were still in agony, though the animal had shifted its powerful grip and was no longer holding him directly by the damaged limb.