The First Book of Swords

by Фред Сейберхэген

  "His Grace himself!"

  "The Duke!"

  Mark ran in the direction of the dragon-hunters' tent and wagon. The wagon had been tipped on one side now, and men were prying at its wreckage, while a large gray shape with spread wings squatted near them on the ground. Before Mark was able to get much closer, the large winged dragon rose into the air. Mark heard the windmill-creaking of its voice, and he saw that it was now carrying a sword, clutched close against its body in one taloned foot.

  Once again a sword was being taken from him. Mark, incapable at the moment of feeling anything but rage, ran under the creature as it soared, screaming at it to come down, to bring the stolen weapon back to him. In the upward glow of the fairgrounds varied lights, Mark saw to his amazement how the dragon's fanged head lowered in midflight. Its long neck bent, its eyes searched half-intelligently for the source of the voice that cried at it. It located Mark. And then, to his greater amazement still, it started down.

  The people who were standing near Mark scattered, allowing him and the dragon ample room to meet. At the last moment Mark realized that the creature was not attacking him. Instead it was coming down as if in genuine obedience to his shouted order.

  Feeling the sword surging in his hands, he stepped to meet the dragon. In rage grown all the greater because of his previous helpless fear, he stabbed at the winged dragon blindly as it hovered just above the grass. The attack took it by surprise, and Mark felt his thrust go home. The dragon dropped the sword that it was carrying, and Mark without thought bent to pick it up.

  For just an instant he touched both hilts at the same time, right hand still following through his thrust, left fingers touching the hilt that had fallen to the ground.

  For an instant, he thought that a great wind had arisen, and was about to blow him off his feet. For that heartbeat's duration of double contact, he had a sense that the world was altering around him, or else that he was being extracted from it…

  The rising movement of the flyer pulled from Mark's extended hand the hilt of the sword with which he'd stabbed it. The dragon was taking off with the blade still embedded in its side. Mark, on his knees now, squinting upward as if into dazzling light, lost sight of the sword that went up with the dragon. But before his eyes the dragon's whole shape was changing, melting and reforming. He saw first a giant barnyard fowl in flight, then an enormous hawk, at last a winged woman garbed in white. Then the shape vanished, climbing beyond the effective range of the fairgrounds' lights.

  Slowly Mark stood up straight, still holding the sword that the dragon had dropped in front of him. It was by now, he found, he was able to tell one from another by the feeling, needing no look at the hilt.

  The world that had been trying to alter around him was now trying to come back. But its swift shifting had been too violent for that to be accomplished in an instant.

  The stocky man who had attacked Barbara and had been chasing Mark had now caught up with him once more. But the man only stood in front of Mark in absolute consternation, gazing first at Mark and then up into the night sky after the vanished courier.

  From somewhere in the gathering crowd, Barbara came stumbling, staggering, screaming incoherent accusations. The dandy, bemused and rumpled, turned on her with his dagger drawn. Before Mark could react, a huge hand reached from behind the man to grab him by one shoulder and turn him, spinning him into the impact of a fist that seemed to break him like a toy.

  Men in orange and black had Ben surrounded. But now, from the direction of the drawbridge, another small group of men in black and orange came charging. These were halfarmored with helms and shields, and held drawn swords. Led by a graybeard nobleman, they hurled themselves with a warcry at the first group. Mark knew that his own hand still held a sword. He told himself that he should be doing something. But the sense that his place in the world had changed still held him. It was not like anything he had ever felt before. He thought that he could still feel the two hilts, one in each hand. And then he could feel nothing at all.

  Chapter 11

  "Yes, I am Draffut, once called by humans the Lord of Beasts. And now they call me a god." In the deep voice were tired tones that mocked the foolishness of humans. "Stand up, man. No human being should kneel to me."

  All around Nestor and the giant the night creatures of the swamp were awakening, from whatever daytime dreams they had to noisy life. Nestor stood up. His emotional outburst, whether or not it had been based on some misconception, had relieved something in him and he felt calmer. "Very well," he said. "What shall I call you, then?"

  "I am Draffut. It is enough. And you are Nestor, who kills dragons. Now come with me, you will need food and rest."

  "Rest, first, I think." Nestor rubbed at his eyes: exhaustion was rapidly overtaking him. The sword dragged down whichever hand he held it in.

  Draffut led the way back to the ancient temple. Standing beside the building, he raised a shaggy arm to indicate a place where, he said, Nestor should be able to rest in safety. This was a half-ruined room on an upper level, in a portion of the structure that once had had a second floor. The stairway nearby had almost entirely disappeared, but Nestor was agile and he found a way to scramble up. His assigned resting place was open to the sky, but at least it should offer him some degree of isolation from creeping things. When Nestor turned from a quick inspection of the place to speak to Draffut again, he saw to his surprise that the giant had disappeared.

  Neither the hard floor of his high chamber, nor the possibility of danger, kept Nestor from falling quickly into a deep sleep, that turned almost at once into a vivid dream.

  In this dream he beheld a fantastic procession, that was made up partly of human beings, and partly of others who were only vaguely visualized. The procession was marching through brilliant sunlight to the temple, at some time in the days of that building's wholeness and glory. At first the dream was quite a pleasant experience. Then came the point when Nestor realized that in the midst of the procession was being borne a maiden meant for sacrifice — and that the prospective victim was Barbara.

  In the dream Barbara was straining at the bonds that held her, and crying out to him for help. But in terror Nestor turned away from her. Clasping the hilt of his precious sword, which he knew he must not lose no matter what, he ran with it into the jungle surrounding the temple closely. This was a dreamgrowth of spectacular colors, very different from the scrubby woods that his waking eyes had beheld covering most of the island. But as soon as Nestor had reached the jungle, the sword-hilt in his hand turned into something else — and before he could understand what it had become, he was waking up, gasping with his fear.

  Night-creatures were being noisy at a little distance, yet the darkness round him was peaceful enough, though he was breathing as hard as if he had been fighting. The gibbous moon was by now almost directly overhead, in a sky patched with clouds; it was some time near the middle of the night.

  The image of Barbara remained vividly with Nestor for some time after he had awakened. Ought he to have stood by the spilled wagon, sword in hand, to fight for her and for the others?

  Nonsense. Before he'd managed to get his hand on a sword, they'd all run away, scattering and hiding as best they could. He would have been killed, and it would have done no one any good at all.

  Maybe he knew that he would have run away, even if the others hadn't. But it was nonsense, dredging up such theoretical things to worry about.

  Though the unpleasantness of the dream lingered, Nestor soon fell asleep again. He woke with the feeling that no time at all had passed, though the sun was now fully up in a bright sky, and monkbirds were exchanging loud cries in branches not far above his head.

  Nestor sat up, reflecting on how well he felt, how rested. He rubbed the shoulder that yesterday had been — he was sure of it broken. It felt as good as the other shoulder now.

  He vaguely remembered having some disagreeable dream, but he no longer remembered what it had been about.

 
; The sword was at his side, just where he had put it down. What had Draffut said, that sounded like quoted verse?

  Long roads the Sword of Fury makes,

  Hard walls it builds around the soft…

  Nestor would have given something to hear the rest.

  Beside the sword now was a pile of fresh fruit that certainly had not been there when he last fell asleep. Nestor sniffed at something yellow and round then nibbled cautiously. Then, suddenly ravenous, he fell to. The sword made a convenient tool to slice and peel.

  Before Nestor had fully satisfied his appetite, Draffut appeared, walking tree-tall from among the trees. The giant exchanged rather casual greetings with Nestor, and claimed credit for the provision of the marls breakfast, for which Nestor thanked him. In the bright morning Draffut's fur glowed delicately, just as it had in twilight and after dark, holding its own light. As Draffut stood on the ground outside the temple his face was approximately on a level with Nestor's, who was standing on what had once been a second floor.

  This morning Nestor felt no impulse to kneel. He realized that his awe of Draffut was already fading into something that approached familiarity, and in an obscure way the man partially regretted the fact. As soon as a few conversational preliminaries had been gone through, he asked: "Draffut, will you tell me about the gods? And about yourself. If you maintain you are not one of them, I don't intend to argue with you. But perhaps you can understand why I thought you were."

  Draffut answered thoughtfully. "I understand that humans often show a need for beings greater than themselves. But I repeat that I can tell you very little about the gods. Their ways are often beyond my understanding. As for my own story, it is very long and I think that now is not the time for me to begin to tell it. Right now it is more important that I learn more about your sword."

  "Very well." Nestor looked down at the blade with which he had been halving fruit, that was not really his. He sighed, and shook his head, thinking of the one he'd lost. Then he explained as briefly as he could how the wagon he had been driving had been pursued, and had tipped over, and what had happened to him after that, and what he surmised might have happened to his companions. "So, the landwalker, which I suppose was your creature too, attacked Duke Fraktin's men in the vicinity of the wagon — or at least that's what it sounded like. I could not stay to see who won the fight, for your messenger came to invite me to be your guest. So, that boy may have my sword now. Or the Duke might have it, or some of his soldiers. As for this blade here, the boy told me that it can kill fighting men with great efficiency. I've never put it to the test."

  Draffut stared as if he thought a particularly interesting point had been raised. Then the giant asked: "You have fought against other men at some time in the past, though? And killed them sometimes?"

  Nestor paused warily before he answered. "Yes, when it seemed to me there was no way of avoiding such a fight. Soldiering is not a profession that I'd choose to follow."

  "It is no more dangerous than hunting dragons, surely."

  "Less so, perhaps, most of the time. Still I'd not choose it." And at the same time, Nestor could not help wondering again what might have happened back at the wagon if he had turned with this sword in hand to fight the Duke's patrol. Probably if he'd survived that by some magic, he would have had to fight the dragon too. Almost certainly he'd now be dead, magic swords or not, just like the brother that young Einar — if that was his real name — had spoken of. Well, he was sure he was going to die in some kind of a fight, sometime, somewhere. But there was an inescapable fascination about the particulars.

  Meanwhile Draffut stood in thoughtful silence, considering Nestor's answer. Once the giant reached with two fingers to the pile of fruit, and popped several pieces into his mouth at once, chewing with huge fangs that appeared much better suited to a carnivorous diet. To Nestor, this mere fact of eating somehow added force to Draffut's disclaimer of divinity though if he thought about it, he recalled that the deities were often described as feasting.

  Nestor at last broke the silence with a question: "What do you plan to do with me?"

  Draffut roused himself from thought with a shake of his head. "I am sorry now that I sent dragons to bring you here, at risk of your being killed or injured. For it seems that you can tell me little that is useful."

  "I would if I could."

  "I believe it. I could arrange for the flying dragon to carry you out of the swamp again."

  "Thank you, no. I think I would rather remain here as your guest for the next twenty years or so. Is there some other alternative?"

  "The number of alternatives is quite limited. Still, I can probably arrange something to get you out of the swamp. In which direction would you prefer to go?"

  "I was headed with my companions toward the domain of Kind Sir Andrew, with whom I had a hunting contract to discuss. If my friends somehow managed to survive both the dragons and the Duke's men, they are probably there now, looking for me."

  "And if they should still have with them your own sword… "

  "Dragonslicer. Or, the Sword of Heroes, so Hermes told me. Yes, it may be there too."

  Draffut took a little time to consider before he spoke again. "Would you be willing to make the trip on the back of a large landwalker? I can influence them, as you have already seen. But they are somewhat less docile and dependable than the flying dragons. Also I fear that the journey would probably take longer that way, several days at least."

  "Are there no boats to be had here in the swamp? No people living here at all?" Nestor was sure that there were at least a few, grubbing around in savage conditions. "If it comes down to the choice, I'll try to carve my own boat out of a log and paddle it out, rather than depend again on the whim of any dragon. Regardless of what spells you may be able to put on them."

  "I put no spells on dragons," said Draffut almost absently. "I am no magician."

  "You spoke of influencing them… "

  "As for making your own boat, I do not think that you would live for many hours in the swamp, traveling alone in any boat you could build for yourself under these conditions. And unfortunately I cannot spare the time it would take to escort you to safe land myself. But I will see what I can do to help you."

  You cannot spare the time from what? Nestor wondered. But he kept the question to himself; the giant had already turned and was walking purposefully away. In a few moments Draffut had vanished from Nestor's view behind a screen of trees. His head briefly reappeared, topping a screen of shorter trees in the middle distance. Then it sank abruptly below the treetops' level, as if he had stepped into the swamp.

  Left to himself, Nestor out of curiosity soon undertook a more or less complete exploration of the temple. In several of the rooms he examined the carvings on the walls fairly closely. These reliefs depicted men, women, and unidentifiable other beings engaged in what Nestor took to be a variety of ritual activities; it was difficult to make out any details of what they were about.

  In the room where Draffut had shown him the odd thing he called a larva, Nestor peered again into the tank. The surface of the water was once more mirrorquiet. On the shelf nearby waited the Old World lamp, but Nestor made no move to take it down. He had no wish to raise the larva again.

  He continued his explorations. He was in another large chamber, pondering what appeared to be a row of empty closets, when his thoughts were interrupted by a noise. This was a sudden outburst of shrill cries, delivered in an inhuman voice that sounded as if it were somewhere close outside the temple. Nestor went to a doorway, sword in hand, and cautiously peered out.

  A flying dragon was hovering nearby, above the courtyard. Somewhat smaller than the one that had earlier kidnapped Nestor, it looked at him but kept its distance. It circled a few more times, hovered some more, and shrilled at him. It was almost as if, he thought fancifully, the beast had something it was trying to communicate.

  It kept on making noise until Nestor at last spoke to it, as a man alone speaks to a thi
ng or an animal, not expecting understanding. "If it's Draffut you're looking for, he's not here. He stalked off into the swamp, to the southwest, more than an hour ago. No telling when he'll be back."

  To Nestor's considerable surprise — after years of dealing with dragons, he considered their intelligence to be about on a par with that of barnyard fowl — the creature reacted as if it had in fact understood him. These flying creatures must indeed be a subspecies he had never heard of. At least it ceased its noise and flew away at once. Whether it really headed southwest Nestor could not tell, but it flapped its way around the bulk of the temple and might have gone in that direction.

  Nestor, shaking his head, went slowly back inside the building, intending to explore some more. Looking around the place gave him something to do while he waited for Draffut, and the more he knew about his immediate environment the more secure he felt. On the ground level he discovered one large chamber whose floor was padded with heaps of fronds and springy vines; he wondered if this was the place where Draffut rested. Everyone agreed that gods could eat, but did they have to rest?

  Pondering, or trying to ponder, the mysteries of Draffut, and of the multiple swords of magic, and of what the god-game might be, Nestor made his way outside again. This time he exited through the place where a wall had tumbled, to emerge on a slope leading to an upper level of the temple. He climbed across a high ruined section that was littered with tilted slabs of fallen roof. From here it was possible to see above the island's treetops, or most of them, but there was apparently nothing but more swamp and trees beyond.

  The morning sun had climbed, but it was not yet too hot to make it uncomfortable to stretch out on a fallen slab of roof and bask. Relaxation sometimes helped a man to think.