The First Book of Swords
by Fred Saberhagen
Version 1.0

 	PROLOGUE
	In what felt to him like the first cold morning of the world,
he groped for fire.
	It was a high place where he searched, a lifeless, wind-scoured
place, a rough, forbidding shelf of black and splintered rock.
Snow, driven by squalls of frigid air, streamed across the black
rock in white powder, making shifting veils of white over layers
of gray ancient ice that was almost as hard as the rock itself.
Dawn was in the sky, but still hundreds of kilometers away, as
distant as the tiny sawteeth of the horizon to the northwest. The
snowfields and icefields along that far edge of the world were
beginning to glow with a reflected pink.
	Ignoring cold and wind, and mumbling to himself, the
searcher paced in widening circles on his high rugged shelf of
land. One of his powerful legs was
deformed, enough to make him limp. He was searching for
warmth, and for the smell of sulphur in the air, for anything that
might lead him to the fire he needed. But his sandalled feet were
too leathery and unfeeling to feel warmth directly through the
rocks, and the wind whipped away the occasional traces of
volcanic fumes.
	Presently the searcher concentrated his attention on the
places where rock protruded through the rough skin of ice.
When he found a notable bare spot, he kicked; stamped with his
hard heels, at the ice around its rim, watching critically as the ice
shattered. Yes, here was a place where the frost was a trifle less
hard, the grip of cold just a little weaker. Somewhere down
below was warmth. And warmth meant, ultimately, fire.
	Looking for a way down to the mountains heart, the searcher
moved in a swift limp around one of its shoulders. He had
guessed right; before him now loomed a great crevice, exhaling a
faintly sulphurous atmosphere, descending between guardian
rocks. He went straight to that hard-lipped mouth, but just as he
entered it he paused, looking up at the sky and once more
muttering something to himself. The sky, brightening with the
impending dawn, was almost entirely clear, flecked in the
distance with scattered clouds. At the moment it conveyed no
messages.
	The searcher plunged down into the crevice, which quickly
narrowed to a few meters wide. Grunting, making up new
words to groan with as he squeezed through, he steadily
descended. He was sure now that the fire he needed was down
here, not very far away. When he had gone down only a little
way he could already begin to hear the dragon-roar of its voice,
as it came scorching up through some natural chimney nearby to
ultimately emerge he knew not where. So he continued to work
his way toward the sound, moving

among a tumble of house-sized boulders that had been thrown
here like children's blocks an age ago when some upper cornice
of the mountain had collapsed.
	At last the searcher found the roaring chimney, and squeezed
himself close enough to reach in a hand and sample the feeling of
the fire when it came up in its next surge. It was good stuff this
flame, with its origin even deeper in the earth than he had
hoped. A better fire than he could reasonably have expected to
find, even for such fine work as he had now to do.
	Having found his fire, he climbed back to the windblasted
surface and the dawn. At the rear of the high shelf of rock, right
against the face of the next ascending cliff, was a place
somewhat sheltered from the wind. Here he now decided to put
the forge. The chosen site was a recess, almost a cave, a natural
grotto set into the cliff that towered tremendously higher yet:
Out of this cave and around it, more fissurechimneys were
splintered into the black basalt of the face, chimneys through
which nothing now rose but the cold howling wind, drifting a
little snow. The searcher's next task was to bring the earthfire
here somehow, in a form both physically and magically
workable; the work he had to do with the fire meant going
deeply into both those aspects of the world. He could see now
that he would have to transport and rebuild the fire in earth-
grown wood-that would mean another delay, here on the
treeless. roof of the world. But minor delays were unimportant,
compared with the requirement of doing the job right.
	From the corner of his eye, as he stood contemplating his
selected forge-site, he caught sight of powers that raced airborne
across a far corner of the dawn. He turned his head, to see in the
distant sky a flickering of colors, lights that were by turns foul
and gentle. Probably, he thought to himself, they are only at
some sport that has nothing at all to do with me or my
work. Yet he remained standing motionless, watching those sky-
colors and muttering to himself, until the flying powers were
gone, and he was once again utterly and absolutely alone.
	Then he clambered down the surface of the barren
mountainside, moving methodically, moving swiftly and nimbly
despite one twisted leg. He continued going down for almost a
thousand meters, to the level where the highest real trees began
to grow. Having reached that level he paused briefly, regarding
the sky once more, scanning it in search of messages that did not
come. Wind, trapped and funneled here between the peaks,
blasted his hair and beard that were as thick and wild as fur,
whipped at his scorched garments of fur and leather, rattled the
dragonscales he wore as ornaments.
	And now, suddenly, names began to come and go in his
awareness. It was as if he saw them flickering like those magical
powers that flew across the sky. He thought: I am called Vulcan.
I am the Smith. And he realized that descending even this
moderate distance from the upper heights had caused him to
start thinking in human language.
	To get the size and quantity of logs he wanted for his fire, he
had to go a little farther down the slope. Still the highest human
settlements were considerably below him. The maplike spread of
farms and villages, the sight of a distant castle on a hill, all
registered in his perception, but only as background scenery with
no immediate significance. His mind was on the task of gathering
logs. Here, where the true forest started, finding logs was not
difficult, but they tended to be from twisted trees, awkwardly
shaped. It occurred to the Smith that an ax, some kind of
chopping tool, would be a handy thing to have for this part of
the job: but the only physical tools he had, besides his hands,
were those of his true art, and they were all back at the

site he'd chosen for his forge. His hands were all he really
needed, though, clumsy though they could sometimes be with
wood. If a log was too awkward, he simply broke it until it
wasn't. At last, with a huge bundle that even his arms could
scarcely clasp, he started back up the mountainside. His limp
was a little more noticeable now.
	During his absence the anvil and all his other ancient metal-
working tools had arrived at the forge-site, and were dumped
therein glorious disorder. Vulcan put down his firewood, and
arranged everything in an orderly array around the exact place
where he had decided that the fire should be. When he had
finished, the sun was disappearing behind the east face of the
mountain that towered above his head.
	Pausing briefly to survey what he had done so far, he puffed
his breath a little, as if he might be in need of rest. Now, to go
down into the earth and bring up fire. He was beginning to wish
he had some slaves on hand, helpers to handle some of these
time-consuming details. The hour was approaching when he
himself would have to concentrate almost entirely upon his real
work. He longed to see the metal glowing in the forge, and feel a
hammer in his hand.
	Instead, gripping one five-meter log under his arm like a long
spear, he descended for the second time into the maze of
crevices that ran beneath the upper mountain. Through this
maze he worked his way back toward the place where fire and
thunder rose sporadically through convoluted chimneys. This
time he approached the place by a slightly different route, and
could see the reflected red glow of earthfire shining from ahead
to meet him. That glow when it encountered daylight seemed to
wink, as if in astonishment at having found this place of air so
different from the lower hell in which it had been born.
	At one neck in this crevice the rocks on either side
pinched in too much to let pass the Smith and his log
together. He set down the log, and laid hands on the
rocks and raged at them. This was another kind of
work in which his hands were clumsy. Their enor-
mous hairless fingers, like his sandalled feet, were
splayed and leathery. His skin was everywhere gray,
the color of old smoke from a million forge-fires. Now,
with his effort against the rocks, the sandals on his
huge feet pressed down on other rocks, dug into pockets
of old drifted snow, crunched and shattered ancient
ice. Presently the rocks that had narrowed the crevice
gave way to the pressure of his hands, splitting and
booming and showering fragments.
	With a satisfied grunt, Vulcan the Smith took up his
log again. One final time he paused, looking up at
what could be seen from here of the day's clear sky-
only a narrow tracery of blue. Then he went quickly
on his way.
	When he pushed one end of his log into the roaring
chimney, the earthfire caught promptly and deeply in
the wood. The log became a blazing torch when the
Smith pulled it back from the inferno-fissure and tossed
it spinning in the shadowed air. Its rosin popped and
snapped with hot, perfumed combustion. Vulcan
laughed, pleased with the forge-fire he had caught;
then he tucked the log under his arm and quickly
climbed again.
	He built up his forge-fire quickly on the spot he had
prepared for it. Now his anvil, a tabletop of ancient
and enchanted iron, had to be positioned levelly and
solidly in just the right spot relative to the fire. This
took time. As he worked with the anvil, adjusting its
position in small increments, the Smith decided that
he'd have to make at least one more trip downslope for
fuel before he'd be able to start his real work. After
he'd begun that in earnest, he'd want no interruptions.
	His eye fell on the waiting bellows. The sight made

him frown. Yes, it would be very good, perhaps
essential, to have some helpers.
	The more he thought about it the more obvious it
seemed. Yes, human help would be necessary at some
stage, given the peculiar nature of this job. He now
had earthfire burning in earth-grown wood, with the
clean upper air of earth to lend its spirit to the flame.
Opposed to this, in a sense, was the unearthly metal
that he was going to work. At one side of the grotto,
sky-iron waited, a lump of it the size of a barrow. It
was so heavy that the Smith grunted when he took it
up into his arms to look it over carefully. He could feel
the interior energies of it waiting, poised in their crys-
talline layers, eager to be shaped by his art. He could
feel the ethereal, unearthly magic of the stuff-yes,
even crude-looking as it was, slagged and pitted on all
sides by the soft fist of air that had caught and eased
the madness of its fall, slowing the fall until mere
crashing instead of vaporization had resulted when
the mass struck earthly rock at last. Yes, the metal
itself would bring enough, maybe more than enough,
of the unearthly to the project.
	Human sweat and human pain were going to be
indispensible. The catalyst of human fear would help
to refine the magic too. And even human joy might be
put to use-if the Smith could devise any means by
which that rare essence might be extracted.
	And when the twelve blades had been forged at last,
when he could raise them straight and glowing from
the anvil-why, for their quenching, human blood
would doubtless be best . . .

	The keening pipe-music and the slow drum were
borne to Mala's ears by the cool night breeze, well
before the few dim lights of Treefall village came into
her view between the trees ahead. The sounds of
mourning warned her that at least some part of the
horrible tale that had reached her at home was proba-
bly true. She murmured one more distracted prayer to
Ardneh, and once again impatiently lashed with the
ends of the reins at the flanks of the old riding-beast
she straddled. Her mount was an elderly creature,
unused to such harsh treatment, and to long night
journeys in general. When it felt the sting of the reins
it skipped a step, then slowed down in irritation. Mala
in her impatience thought of leaping from its back and
running on ahead, groping her own way along the
lightless and unpaved road. But already she had almost
reached her destination; now she could hear the cack-
ling of the village fowl ahead as they sensed her
approach. And now the first lighted windows were
coming into view amid the trees.
	Presently, on a main street every bit as small and
narrow as the only street of her own town, Mala was
dismounting under a million stars, whose light made
gray and ghostly giants of the Ludus Mountains loom-
ing just a few kilometers to the east. Autumn nights in
this high country grew cold, and she was wearing a
shawl over her regular garb, a workingwoman's home-
spun trousers and loose blouse.
	The music of mourning was coming from a building
that had to be the village hall, for it was the largest
structure in sight, and one of the few lighted. Mala
tied up her animal at a public hitching rack that was
already crowded. Moving lightly, though her joints felt
stiff from the long ride, she trotted the few steps to the
hall. Her hair was long, dark, and curly, the loveliest
thing about her physical appearance. Her face was
somewhat too broad to be judged beautiful by most
peoples standards; her body also was broad and strong,
vibrant with youth and exercise.
	Her quick step carried her onto the shadowed porch
of the hall before she realized that a man was standing
there already. He was in shadows, not far from the

curtained doorway through which candlelight and music
came out, along with the murmur of many voices and
the soft thump of dancing feet. His bearded face was
unfamiliar to Mala, but he had a certain look of
importance; he must, she thought, be one of the elders
here.
	To simply rush past an elder without acknowledg-
ing his presence would have been impolite, and Mala
halted, one foot in the shadow cast by the rising
moon. "Sir, please, can you tell me where Jord the
blacksmith is?" Since courtesy required speech of her,
she would not waste the words. but instead try to use
them to accomplish her urgent search.
	The man did not answer her immediately. Instead,
he only looked in her direction as if he had not clearly
heard, or understood. As he turned his face more fully
toward Mala, she saw that he was stunned by some
great pain or grief.
	She spoke to him again. "I'm looking for Jord, the
smith. We were-we are to be married:"
	Understanding grew in the tormented face. "lord?
He still breathes, child. Not like my son-but both of
them are in there."
	Mala put aside the curtain of hides that half-closed
the doorway, and went through, to enter the most
crowded room that she had ever seen in her seventeen
years of life. She guessed wildly that forty people,
perhaps even more, were gathered here in one place
tonight. Yet the hall was big enough for the crowd,
even big enough to have at its center a sizable area free
of crowding. In that central area stood five rude biers,
each covered with black fabric, expensive candles burn-
ing at the head and foot of each. On each bier a dead
man lay draped with ritual cloths; on several of the
bodies the cloths were not enough to hide the marks of
violence.
	Near the foot of the central bier was a single chair.
Jord was sitting in it. Mala's first glance at him made
her gasp, confirming as it did another aspect of the
eU story that had reached her in her own village: the
right arm of her betrothed now ended a few centi-
meters below the shoulder. The stump was tightly
wrapped, in fresh, well-tended bandages, lightly spot-
ted with the bleeding from beneath. Jord's beard-
stubbled face was aged and shrunken, making him
look in Mala's eyes like his own father. In his light hair
there was a gray streak that she had never noticed
before. His blue eyes were downcast, staring almost
witlessly at the plank floor, and the dancers' feet that
trod it slowly a pace or two away from him. The ring
of village women who danced so slowly to the dirge
went round the biers and chair, their feet hitting the
floor softly in time to the drum, slow-beaten back in
the rear of the large hall.
	And outside the dancing ring, the other mourners-
yes, there might really be forty of them-mingled and
socialized, wept, joked, chatted, prayed, ate and drank,
meditated or wailed in loss just as their spirits moved
them, each in his or her own cycle of behavior. There
was a priest of Ardneh, recognizable by his white suit,
comforting an old woman who shrieked above all
other sounds her agony of grief. Most of the crowd
looked like folk of this village, as was only natural-
the story had said that all the dead men were from
here, as was Jord. Mala could recognize some of the
faces in the crowd, from her earlier visits here to meet
Jord and his kinfolk. But most of the people were
unknown to her, and a few of them were dressed
outlandishly, as if they might have come from far
away.
	Still standing near the doorway, looking over shoul-
ders and between shifting bodies, Mala breathed a
prayer of thanksgiving to Ardneh for Jord's survival;
and yet, even as she prayed, she felt a new pang of

inner anguish. The man she was going to marry had
been changed, drastically and terribly, before she had
ever had the chance to know him in his full health and
strength and youth. Then as if trying to reject that
thought she tried to step forward, meaning to hurry to
Jord at once. But the thick press of bodies held her
back.
	At this moment she had the impression of an odd,
momentary pause in the room-but it must have been
only a seeming in her mind, she was not used to
crowds, and when she looked at the faces in the crowd
around her they were all doing just what they had
been doing a moment earlier. But in that moment of
pause, the hide curtain draping the doorway behind
Mala had been put aside by someone else's hand.
Amid the din of music and grief and conversation
there was no way she could have heard that soft
movement, but she did feel the suddenly augmented
breath of the cold wind that at night here slid down
from the mountains.
	And then in the next .moment a man's hand came to
rest on Mala s arm-not insinuatingly, not harshly
either, but just as if it had a right to be there, like the
hand of a father or an uncle. But he was none of those.
His face was entirely concealed by a mask, made of
what looked like dark, tooled leather. The mask sur-
prised Mala, but only for a moment. A few times in
her life before, at wakes and funerals, she had seen
men wearing masks. The explanation was that feuds
could be exacerbated, friendships and alliances some-
times strained, if a man whose opinion mattered were
seen to be mourning openly for the enemy of a friend
or ally; while at the same time, some conflicting rule
of conduct might require him to do so. A mask allowed
its wearer's identity to be ignored by those who did
not wish to know it, even if it were not really kept a
secret.
	The masked man was somewhat on the short side,
and well enough dressed in simple clothing. And Mala
thought that he was young. "What has happened,
Mala?" His voice, close to her ear, was almost a whisper.
	He knew her; so he was most likely some distant
relative of Jord's. Or, thought Mala, noting the short
sword at his belt, he might even be some minor lord or
knight, one who had perhaps at some time been served
by Jord as smith or armorer.
	And the masked man must have come here from
some distance, and must have just arrived, not to
know already what had happened. In the face of such
ignorance Mala stumbled over words, not so much
trying to repeat the story as she had heard it as trying
to find some reasonable explanation of the horror. But
an explanation was hard to find.
	She tried: "They . . . all six of them . . . they were
called by a god to go up on the mountain. Then... "
	"Which god's call did they follow?" The quiet voice
was not surprised by talk of gods; it wanted to nail
down the facts.
	One of the men who had been standing in front of
Mala, unintentionally blocking her path to Jord, turned
round at that. "They answered Vulcan's call. No doubt
about it, the god chose them himself. I heard him-so
did half the village-more than half. Vulcan himself
came down here from the mountain in the night and
called the six men out by name. The rest of us just lay
low in our beds, I can tell you. Next day, when none of
the six had come back yet, we gathered here in the hall
and wondered. The women kept egging us on to find
out what had happened, and eventually some of us
started climbing . . . it wasn't pretty, what we found
there, I can tell you."
	"And what," the masked man asked, "if they had
chosen not to follow Vulcans call?" The light in the
hall was too uncertain, the shadows too heavy, for

Mala to be able to tell if his hands looked like those of
a worker or of a man highborn. The hair emerging
from his jacket's cowl was dark, with a hint of curl,
giving no clue about his station. Perhaps it was this
very indeterminateness in his appearance that first
raised in Mala s mind a suspicion that seemed to come
out of nowhere: I wonder if this could be the Duke
himself. Mala had never actually seen the Duke, but
like thousands of his other subjects who had not seen
him either she knew, or thought she knew, certain
things about him. One of the most intriguing of these
things was that he was supposed to go out in disguise
from time to time, adventuring and spying among his
people. According to other information, he was still a
relatively young man; and it was also said that he was
physically rather small.
	Jord, Mala thought, might have worked for the Duke
at one time. Or some of the dead men on the biers
might have. That could explain why the Duke had
shown up here tonight . . . she told herself that she
was making things up, but still . . . there were some
stories told about the Duke's cruelty, on occasion, but
then, Mala supposed, such stories were told about
almost all powerful folk. Even if they were true, she
thought, they didn't preclude the possibility that Duke
Fraktin might sometimes take a benevolent interest in
these poor outlying villages of his domain.
	The solid citizen who had turned round to speak
was plainly not entertaining any such exalted idea of
the masked man's identity. Instead, he was looking
him over as if not much impressed with what he saw,
small sword or not. The citizen snorted lightly at the
masked man's question, and shook his head. "When a
god calls, who's going to stop and argue? If you want
to know more about it, better ask Jord."
	Jord had not noticed Mala yet. The brawny, young-
old man with one arm and one bandaged stump still
sat on his chair where ritual had placed him, almost
as if he were one of the dead himself.
	Mala heard the solid citizen saying: "His arm's still
up there on the mountain, but he brought his pay for it
back with him." Without trying to understand what
this might mean, she pushed her way between the
intervening bodies and ran to Jord. Inside the slow
ring of dancers, Mala went down on one knee before
the man she had pledged to marry, clutching at his
one hand and at his knees, trying to explain how-sorry
she was for what had happened to him, and how she
had come to him as quickly as she could when the
news of the horror reached her.
	At first Jord said nothing in return, but only looked
at Mala as if from a great distance. Gradually more
life returned to his face and in a little while he spoke.
Later. Mala was never able to remember exactly what
either of them said in this first exchange, but after-
wards Jord could weep for his friends' lives and his
own loss, and Mala was able to comfort him. Mean-
while the dancing and feverish festivity went on, punc-
tuated only by outbursts of grief. Looking back toward
the entrance from her place near the center of the hall,
Mala caught one more glimpse, between bodies, of the
man in the tooled leather mask.
	"All will be well yet, lass," Jord was able to say at
last. "Gods, but it's good to have you here to hug!"
And as Mala stood beside him he gripped her fiercely
around the hips with a huge, one-armed blacksmith's
hug. "I'm not yet destroyed. I've been thinking it out.
I'll sell the smithy here and buy a mill elsewhere.
There's one in Arin I can get . . . if I hire a helper or
two, I can run a mill with one hand."
	Mala said things expressing agreement, trying to
sound encouraging. Closing her eyes, she hoped devoutly
that it would be so. She told herself that when Jord
healed he'd be a young man again, and he'd regain

some part of his old strength. Being wed to a one-
armed man would not be so bad if he were still a man
of property . . . and now two small children, widower
Jord's by his previous marriage, came out of the crowd
to lean possessively against their father's legs, and
distract Mala from her other cares by staring at her.
	The hands of the small boy, Kenn, began to play
absently with the rough cloth wrapping a long, thin
object that stood leaning against his father's chair.
Mala, without really giving it thought, had assumed
this object was some kind of aid provided for the
crippled man, a crutch or possibly a stretcher. Now
that she really looked at the bundle she could see that
it was certainly not long enough for either. Nor was
there any obvious reason for a crutch or a stretcher to
be wrapped up; nor, for that matter, did it appear that
Jord would be likely to benefit from either one.
	Jord saw what she was looking at. "My pay," he
said. Gently he eased his son's small hands from the
wrapped thing. "Not yours yet, Kenn. In time, in time.
Not yours to have to worry about, Marian." And with
a huge finger he brushed his tiny daughter's cheek.
Then he grabbed the upper end of the bundle firmly in
his large fist, and raised it in the air and shook it, so
that the rough wrappings fell free except where his
grip had caught them. People on all sides were turning
to look. The blade was a full meter long, and straight
as an arrow, with lightly fluted sides. Both edges
keened down to perfect lines, invisibly sharp.
	"What? Who?... " Mala could only stumble help-
lessly.
	"Vulcan's own handiwork." Jord's voice was rough
and bitter. "This is for me, and for my son after me.
This is my pay."
	Mala marveled silently. In the version of the story
that she had heard in her own village, an obviously
incomplete version, there had been nothing about a
sword . . . Jord's pay? Even in the comparatively dim
candlelight the steel had a polished look. Mala's keen
eyes could pick out a fine, faint mottled patterning
along the flat of the blade, a pattern that seemed to
lead deep into the metal though the surface was
flawlessly smooth.
	The chain of dancers had slowed almost to a stop.
Their faces wore a variety of expressions, but all were
turned, like many in the crowd beyond, to look at the
blade.
	"My pay," said Jord again, in the same harsh voice,
that carried through the sudden relative quiet. "So
Vulcan told me, when he had taken off my arm." He
shook the sword in his inexpert hand. "My arm, for
this. So the god said. He called this 'Townsaver."' The
bitterness in Jord's voice was great, but still impersonal,
the kind of anger a man might express against a
thunderstorm that had destroyed his crops. His hand
was beginning to quiver with his weakness now, and
he lowered the sword and started trying to wrap it up
again, a job in which he needed Mala's help.
	"I must get something finer than this cloth to keep it
in," he muttered.
	Mala still didn't know what to say or think. The
sword bewildered her, she couldn't guess what it might
mean. Jord's pay, from Vulcan? Pay for what? Why
should the god have wanted a man's right arm? And
why a sword? What would a blacksmith, or any
commoner, have to do with such a weapon?
	She would have to discuss it all with Jord later, in
detail. Now was not the time or place. Now the dance
and the noise around them had picked up again, though
at a lesser level of energy.
	"Mala?" Jord's voice held a new and different note.
	"Yes?"
	"The dance will be ending soon. I must stay here,
they're going to do some more healing spells and

ritual. But maybe you'd better be going along now."
Jord was lying back weakly in his chair, letting his
eyes close.
	Mala understood. When a wake-dance like this one
ended, there usually followed a final phase of the
evening's community action: those mourners who were
free to do so would pair off, man with woman, youth
with girl, and go out into the fertile fields around the
house or village, there to lie coupled in the soil from
which the harvests came. Death would be, if not
mocked, in some sense negated by that other power,
just as old, of life-creation. Mala was still an unmarried
woman, still free, in a strict interpretation of the rules,
to join in the night's last ritual. But as her wedding
was only two days off, it would be unseemly for her to
do so with anyone but her betrothed. And Jord was
still oozing blood, barely able to sit up in his chair.
	She said: "Yes, I'll be going. Tomorrow, Jord, I'll see
you then." Now she would have a long ride back to her
own village, or else she would have to try to find some
place in this village to stay the night. She didn't feel
confident about Jord's kinfolk here, how well they
liked her, how welcome she'd be made to feel in their
houses. Perhaps, except for the two small children,
they didn't even know yet that she'd arrived. In accord-
ance with custom, the marriage had been arranged by
family elders on both sides, and there had been no
long acquaintance between families.
	Mala had liked Jord himself well enough from their
first meeting. She had raised no objection when the
match was made, and had no real objection to going
on with it now; in fact his maiming had roused in her
a fiercely increased attachment. But at the same
time . . .
	The center of the hall, with its burden of dead and
wounded, seemed to her to stink of death and suffer-
ing and defeat. Mala gripped Jord once more, by his
hand and his good shoulder, and turned away from
him. Other people who like Mala were unable or unwill
ing to stay. were also leaving now. She went out through
the hide-hung doorway with a small group of these,
The group thinned rapidly, and somehow by the time
she reached the hitching rack she was alone in the
dark street. She took hold of her beast's reins to untie
them.
	"It is not over," said the calm, soft voice of the
masked man, quite near at hand.
	Mala turned slowly. There were only the massed
stars to see him by, with the moon behind a cloud. He
was alone, too, holding one hand outstretched to Mala
if she wished -to take it. Around them other couples
passed in the dark street, moving anonymously out
toward the fields.

	Almost nine months had passed before Mala saw
the dark leather mask and its wearer again, and then
only among the other images of a drugged dream. She
was traveling with her husband Jord to another funeral
(this for a man who'd undoubtedly been her most
eminent kinsman, a minor priest in the Blue Temple),
and she'd got as far as a large Temple of Ardneh,
almost two hundred kilometers from the mill and
home, before the first unmistakable labor pains had
started.
	This being her firstborn, Mala hadn't been able to
interpret the advance signs properly. Still, she could
hardly have arranged to be in a better location no
matter how carefully she'd planned. The Temples of
Ardneh were in general the best hospitals available on
the entire continent-for most folk they were actually
the only ones. Many of Ardneh's priests and priestesses
were concerned with healing, accustomed to dealing
with childbirth and its complications. They knew drugs,
and some healing magic, and in some cases they even

had access to certain surviving technology of the Old
World, enough of it to make possible the arcane art of
effective surgery.
	It was near sunset when Mala's labor began in
earnest. And at sunset music began to be heard in that
Temple, music that as it happened was not greatly
different from what had been played at that village
funeral eight and a half months earlier. It may have
been the similar drumbeat that helped to bring that
masked face back in dreams. The drumbeat, and of
course Mala's fervent but so far utterly secret suspi-
cion that the father of her firstborn was not Jord but
rather that man whose face she'd never seen without
its mask. Over the past few months she'd tried to find
out what she could about Duke Fraktin, but apart
from confirming his reputation for occasional cruelty,
for occasional excursions among the common people
in disguise, for wealth, and for magical power, she
knew very little more now than she had before.
	Tonight, lying in an accouchement chamber halfway
up the high pyramidal Temple, Mala was questioned,
in her lucid intervals between pain and druggings,
about her dreams. Jord had been sent dashing out on
some make-work errand by the midwife-priestess, who
now asked Mala with brisk professional interest-and
some evident kindness, too-exactly what she had
dreamed about when the last contractions came. The
drugs and spells reacted with pain directly, turning it
into dreams, some happy and some not.
	Mala described the masked man to the priestess as
well as she could, his stature, hair, dress, short sword,
and mask, all without saying when or where or how
she had encountered him in real life. She added: "I
think . . . I'm not sure why, but I think it may be Duke
Fraktin. He rules all the region where we live:" And
there was a secret pride in Mala's heart, a pride that
perhaps became no longer secret in her voice.
	"Ah, I suppose the dream is a good omen, then."
But the priestess sounded faintly amused.
	"YPU don't think it was the Duke?" Mala was sud-
denly anxious.
	"You know more about it than I do, dear. It was
your dream. It might have been the Emperorfor, all I
know."
	"Oh, no, he didn't look like that. Don't joke." Mala
paused there, her drugged mind working slowly. Every-
one had heard of the Emperor, in jokes and anecdotes
and sayings; Mala had never seen him, to her knowl-
edge, but she knew that he was supposed to wear a
clowns mask and not a gentleman's. When the priest-
ess had mentioned that relic-title there had sprung
into Mala's mind all of the town-louts, all the loafing
practical jokers, that she had ever seen or known in
any village. And next she thought of a certain real
clown who for years had been appearing at fairs and
festivals with a sad, grotesque face painted over his
own features. Not that it had ever occurred to her that
any of those men might really be the Emperor. In the
anecdotes and jokes the Emperor was a very old man
who was forever arguing an absurd claim to rule a
vast domain, claiming tribute from barons and dukes,
grand dukes and tyrants, even kings and queens. In
some of the stories the Emperor was fond of pointless
riddles. (And what if they had chosen not to follow
Vulcan's call? echoed here, unpleasantly, in Mala's
spinning head.) And in some of the stories he played
practical jokes, some of which were appreciated as
clever, by those who liked such things. There was also
a proverbial sense, in which an illegitimate child of an
unknown father, or anyone whose luck had run out,
was spoken of as a child of the Emperor.
	Mala had never had reason to consider the possibil-
ity of a real man still going about in the real world
bearing that title, let alone that he might conceivably

c -
	a vvv.a ~. 	-

have ... no, she was drugged, not thinking clearly. The
ave *
Duke-or whoever it had been-had been young, and
he had certainly not worn the Emperor's clown mask.
	TT
hthe hallucinatory haze that washed over
I
her with the beginning of her next contractions, Mala
could hear Jord coming back. Maybe, she thought,
hopefully now, Jord was after all the baby's father.
She couldn't see Jord very clearly, but she could hear
him, panting from his quick climb up the many Temple
steps, and sounding almost childishly proud of having
successfully located whatever it was that the priestess
had sent him after. And now Mala could feel his huge
hand, holding both of hers, while he started talking
worriedly to the priestess about how his first wife had
died trying to give birth to their third child. What
would Jord think now if he knew that it might have
been the Duke . . .
	And then the dream, into which this latest set of
labor pangs had been transformed, took over firmly.
There was a shrill magical chanting in new voices, the
voices of invisible beings who were marching round
Mala s bed. Jord and the priestess and all other human
beings were gone, but Mala had no time to be con-
cerned about that, because there were too many purely
delightful things to claim all of her attention, here in
the flower garden where she was lying now . . .
	The chanting rose, but other voices, in unmusical
dispute, were intruding upon it, too loudly for any
music to have covered them up: They sounded angry,
as if the dispute was starting to get serious . . .
	There were flowers heaped and scattered around
Mala on all sides, great masses of blooms, including
kinds that she had never seen or even imagined before,
prodigally disposed. She lay on her back on a-what
was it? a bed? a bier? a table?-and around her,
beyond the banks of flowers, the gods themselves were
furiously debating.
	She was able to understand just enough of what
they said to grasp the fact that some of the gods and
goddesses were angry, unhappy with some of the things
that Ardneh had been doing to help her-whatever
those things were. From where Mala lay, she could see
no more of Ardneh than his head and shoulders, but
she could tell rom even this partial view that he was
bigger than any of the other deities. The face of Ardneh,
Demon-Slayer, Hospitaller, bearer of a thousand other
names besides, was inhumanly broad and huge, and
something about it made Mala think of mill-machinery,
the largest and most complex mechanism with which
she was at all familiar.
	She thought that she could recognize some of the
others in the debate also. Notably the Smith, by the
great forge-hammer in his hand, and his singed leather
clothes, and above all by his twisted leg. For Jord's
sake, Mala feared and hated Vulcan. Of course at the
moment she was too drugged to feel very much about
anyone or anything. And anyway the Smith never
bothered to look at her, though he was bitterly oppos-
ing Ardneh. The argument between the two factions of
the gods went on, but to Mala's perception its details
gradually grew even less clear.
	And now it seemed to Mala that her babe had
already been born, and that he lay before her already
cleaned and diapered, his raw belly bound with a
proper bandage. Ardneh's faction had prevailed, at
least for the time being. The baby's blue eyes were
open, his small perfect hands were reaching for Mala's
breast. The masked figure of his father stood in the
background, and said proudly: "My son, Mark." It
was one of the names Mala had discussed with Jord,
one that appeared already in both their families.
	"When the time comes," said the voice of Ardneh
now, blotting out all other sounds (and the tones of
this voice reminded Mala somehow of the voice of her

dead father), "When the time comes, your first-born
son will take the sword. And you must let him go with
it where he will."
	"His name is Mark," said the figure of the masked
man in the dream. "My mark is on him, and he is
mine."
	And Mala cried aloud, and awoke slowly from her
drugged and enchanted dream, to be told that her
first-born son was doing just fine.
CHAPTER 1

	One day in the middle of his thirteenth summer,
Mark came home from a morning's rabbit-hunting
with his older brother Kenn to discover that visitors
were in their village. To judge from their mounts, the
visitors were unlike any that Mark had ever seen before.
	Kenn, five years the older of the two, stopped so
suddenly in the narrow riverside path that Mark, fol-
lowing lost in thought, almost ran into him. This was
just at the place where the path came out of the wild
growth on the steep riverbank, and turned into the
beginning of the village's single street From this point
it was possible to see the four strange riding-beasts,
two of them armored in chainmail like cavalry steeds,
the other two caparisoned in rich cloth. All four were
hitched to the community rack that stood in front of
the house of the chief elder of the village. That hitching-
rack was still an arrowshot away; the street of Arinon-
Aldan was longer than streets usually were in small
villages, because here the town was strung out narrowly
along one bank of a river. 	1
"Look," said Mark, unnecessarily.
	"I wonder who they are," said Kenn, and caught his
lower lip between his teeth. That was a thing he did
when he was nervous. Today had not been a good day
for Kenn, so far. There were no arrows left in the
quiver on his back, and only one middle-sized rabbit
in the gamebag at his side. And now, this discovery of
highborn visitors. The last time the brothers had come
home from hunting to find the mount of an important
personage tied up at the elder's rack, it had been Sir
Sharfa who was visiting. The knight had come down
from the manor to investigate a report that Kenn and
Mark had been seen poaching, or trying to poach, in
his game preserves. There were treasures living in
there, hybrid beasts, meant perhaps as someday pres-
ents for the Duke, exotic creatures whose death could
well mean death for any commoner who'd killed them.
In the end, Sir Sharfa hadn't believed the false, anony-
mous charges, but it had been a scare. .
	Mark at twelve was somewhat taller than the aver-
age for his age, though as yet he'd attained nothing like
Kenn's gangling height. If Mark bore no striking resem-
blance to Jord, the man he called his father, still there
was-to his mother's secret and intense relief-no
notable dissimilarity either. Mark's face was still child-
round, his body form still childishly indeterminate.
His eyes were bluish gray, his hair straight and fair,
though it had begun a gradual. darkening, into what
promised to be dark brown by the time that he was
fully grown:
	"Not anyone from the manor this time," said Kenn.
looking more carefully at the accoutrements of the
four animals. Somewhat reassured, he moved forward

into the open village street, taking an increasing inter-
est in the novelty.
	"Sir Sharfa's elsewhere anyway," put in Mark, tag-
ging along. "They say he's traveling on some business
for the Duke." The villagers might not see-their manor-
lord Sir Sharfa more than once or twice a year, or the
Duke in a lifetime. But still for the most part they kept
up with current events, at least those in which their
lives and fortunes were likely to be put at risk.
	The first house in the village, here at the western
end of the street, was that of Falkener the leather-
worker. Falkener had no liking for Jord the miller or
any of his family-some old dispute had turned almost
into a feud-and Mark suspected him of being the one
who'd gone to Sir Sharfa with a false charge of poaching.
Falkener was now at work inside his half-open front
door, and glanced up as the two boys passed; if he had
yet learned anything of what the visitors' presence
meant, his expression offered no information on the
subject. Mark looked away.
	As the boys slowly approached the hitching rack,
they came into full view of the Elder Kyril's house.
Flanking its front door like a pair of sentries stood two
armed men, strangers to the village. The guards, looking
back at the young rabbit-hunters, wore wooden expres-
sions, tinged faintly with disdain. They were hard,
tough-looking men, both mustached, and with their
hair tied up in an alien style. Both wore shirts of light
chain mail, and emblems of the Duke's colors of blue
and white. The two were very similar, though one was
tall and the other short, the skin of one almost tar
black and that of the other fair.
	As Mark and Kenn were still approaching, the Elder's
door opened, and three more men came out, engaged
in quiet but urgent talk among themselves. One of the
men was Kyril. The two with him were expensively
and exotically dressed, and they radiated an impor-
tance the like of which Mark in his young life had
never seen before.
	"Ibn Gauthier." Kenn whispered the name very softly.
The two brothers were walking very slowly now, their
soft-booted feet dragging in the summer dust as they
passed the Elder's house at a distance of some twenty
meters. "The Duke's cousin. He's seneschal of the
castle, too."
	Seneschal was a new word to Mark-hen' never
heard it come up in the village current-events gossip-
but if Kenn was impressed by it, he was impressed
also.
	The third man in the little group, a graybeard like
the Elder, wore blue robes. "And a wizard," added
Kenn, his whisper falling almost to inaudibility.
	A real wizard? thought Mark. He wasn't at all sure
that Kenn would know a real wizard if he saw
one . . . but what actually impressed Mark at the
moment was the behavior of the Elder Kyril. The
Elder was actually being obsequious to his visitors,
acting the same way some poor landless serf might
when brought in to stand before the Elder. Mark had
never seen the old man behave in such a way before.
Even during Sir Sharfa s periodic visits, the knight,
who was actually the master, always spoke to the old
man with respect, and listened to him carefully when-
ever village affairs were under discussion. Today's
visitors were listening carefully too-Mark could see
that though he couldn't hear what was being said-
but gave no evidence that they regarded the Elder with
respect.
	The Elder's eye now happened to fall upon the two
boys who were gaping their slow way past his house.
He frowned abruptly, and called to Kenn by name, at
the same time beckoning him with a brisk little wave;
it was a more agitated motion than Mark could remem-
ber ever seeing the Elder make before.

	When Kenn stood dose before him, gaping in wonder,
Kyril ordered: "Go, and take down that sword that
hangs always on your father's wall, and bring it directly
here." When Kenn, still goggling, hesitated momentarily,
the old man snapped: "Go! Our visitors are waiting:"
	To such a command, there could be only one pos-
sible response from any village youth. Kenn at once
went pelting away down the long village street toward
the millhouse at its far end. His legs, long and fast if
lacking grace, were a blur of awkward angularity.
Mark, poised to run after him, held back, knowing
from experience that he wouldn't be able to keep up.
And Mark also wanted to stay here, watching, to see
what was going to happen next; and, now that he
thought about it, he didn't want to have any part in
simply taking down the sword, without his father's
permission, from where it had always hung . . .
	The three men of importance waited, gazing after
Kenn, ignoring Mark who still stood twenty meters off
and watched them. The blue-robed wizard-if wizard
he truly was -figeted, glanced once toward Mark with
a slight frown, and then away.
	Kyril said, in a voice a little louder than before: "It
will be quicker this way, Your Honor, than if we were
all to go to the mill-house:" And he made a humble,
nervous little bow to the one Kenn had whispered was
the Duke's cousin. It was a stiff motion, one to which
the Elder's joints could hardly have been accustomed.
	Now Mark began to notice that a few other villagers,
Falkener among them, had started coming out of their
houses here and there. There was a converging move-
ment, very slight as yet, toward the Elder's house.
They all wanted to know what was going on, but still
were not quite willing to establish their presence in
the street.
	The man addressed by Kyril, whoever he might
really be, ignored them as he might have sparrows. He
stood posing in a way that suggested he was willing to
wait a little, willing to be shown that the Elder's way
was really the quickest and most satisfactory. He asked
Kyril: "You say that this man who has the sword now
came here thirteen years ago. Where did he come
from?"
	"Oh yes, that's right, Your Honor. Thirteen years. It
was then that he bought the mill. I'm sure he had
permission, all in order, for the move. He brought
children with him, and a new bride, and he came from
a village up toward the mountains:" Kyril pointed to
the east. "Yes sir, from up there:"
	The seneschal, who was about to ask another
question, paused. For Kenn was coming back already.
He was carrying the sword in its usual corded wrapping,
in which it usually hung on the wall of the main living
room inside the house. Kenn was walking now, not
running. And he was not coming back alone. Jord, his
solid frame taller still than that of his slim-bodied
elder son, strode with him. Jord's legs kept up in a
firm pace with the youth's nervous half-trot.
	Jord's work clothes were dusty, as they so often
were from his usual routine of maintenance on the
huge wooden gears and shafts that formed the central
machinery of the mill. He glanced once at Mark-Mark
could read no particular message in the look-and
then concentrated his attention on the important
visitors. Jord seemed reluctant to approach them, but
still he came on with determination. At the last moment
he put his big hand on Kenn's shoulder and thrust the
youth gently into the background, stepping forward to
face the important men himself.
	Jord bowed to the visitors, as courtesy required. But
still it was to Kyril the Elder that he first spoke.
"Where's Sir Sharfa? It's to him that we in the village
must answer, for whatever we do when other high-
born folk come here and-"

	He who had been called the seneschal interrupted,
effectively though with perfect calm. "Sir Sharfa's not
available just now, fellow. Your loyalty to your manor-
lord is commendable, but in this case misplaced. Sir
Sharfa is vassal, as you ought to know, to my cousin
the Duke. And it's Duke Fraktin who wants to see the
sword that you've kept hanging on the wall."
	Jord did not appear tremendously surprised to hear
of the Duke's interest. "I have been told, Your Honor,
to keep that sword with me. Until the time comes for it
to be passed on to my eldest son."
	"Oh? Told? And who told you that?"
	"Vulcan, Your Honor." The words were plainly and
boldly spoken. Jord's calm assurance matched that of
the man who was interrogating him.
	The seneschal paused; whatever words he'd been
intending to fire off next were never said. Still he was
not going to let himself appear to be impressed by any
answer that a mere miller could return to him. Now
Ibn Gauthier extended one arm, hand open, rich sleeve
hanging deeply, toward Kenn. The youth was still
standing in the background where his father had steered
him, and was still holding the wrapped blade.
	The seneschal said to him: "Well see it now."
	Kenn glanced nervously toward his father. Jord must
have signalled him to obey, for the lad tugged at the
wrapping of the sword -a neatly woven but undistin-
guished blanket-as if he intended to display the treas-
ure to the visitors from a safe distance.
	The covering of the sword fell free.
	The seneschal stared for a moment, then snapped
his fingers. "Give it here!"
	What happened in the next moment would recur in
Mark's dreams throughout the remainder of his life.
And each time the dream came he would experience
again this last moment of his childhood, a moment in
which he thought: Strange, whatever can be making a
sound in the air like flying arrows? 	\
	The Elder Kyril went down at once, with the feath-
ered end of along shaft protruding from his chest. At
the same time one of the armed guards fell, arrows in
his back and ribs, his sword only a glint of steel
half-drawn from its scabbard. The second guard was
hit in the thigh; he got his spear raised but could do no
more. The wizard went down an instant later, with his
blue robes collapsing around him like an unstrung
tent. The seneschal. uninjured, whirled around, draw-
ing his own short sword and getting his back against a
wall. His face had gone a pasty white.
	The volley of arrows had come from Mark's right,
the direction where trees and bush grew close and
thick along the near bank of the Aldan. The ambushers,
whoever they were, had been able to get within easy
bowshot without being detected. But they were charg-
ing out of cover now, running between and around the
houses closest to the riverbank. A half-dozen howling,
weapon-waving men were rushing hard toward the
Elder's front yard, where the victims of their volley
had just fallen. Two large warbeasts sprang out of
concealment just after the attacking men, but bounded
easily ahead of them. One beast was orange-furred
and one brindled, and both of their bodies, like those
of fighting men, were partially clothed in mail. They
were nearly as graceful as the cats from which half
their ancestry derived.
	Mark had never seen real warbeasts before, but he
recognized them at once, from the descriptions in a
hundred stories. He saw his father knocked down by
the orange beast in its terrible passage, before Jord
had had time to do more than turn toward his elder
son as if to cry an order or a warning.
	The seneschal was the beasts' real target. and they
leaped at him, though not to kill; they must have been
well trained for this action. They forced the Duke's

cousin back against the front of fallen Kyril's house,
not touching but confronting him, snarling and spar-
ring just outside the tentative arc of his swordarm.
When he would have run to reach his tethered riding-
beast, they forced him back again. Now all four of the
tethered animals at the rack were kicking and bucking,
screaming their fear and excitement in their near-
human voices.
	Kenn, in the first instant of the attack, had turned to
run. Then he had seen his father fall, and had turned
back. White-faced, he stood over his father now, clum-
sily holding the unwrapped sword, with the blade
above the fallen man as if it could be made into a
shield.
	Mark, who had run two steps toward home, looked
back at his father and his brother and stopped. Now
with shaking fingers Mark was pulling the next-to-last
small hunting arrow from the quiver on his back. His
rabbit-hunting bow was in his left hand. His mind felt
totally blank. He comprehended without emotion that
a man, the soldier who'd fallen with an arrow in his
leg, was being stabbed to death before his eyes. Now
the charging men, bandits or whatever they were, had
joined their warbeasts in a semicircle round the
beleaguered seneschal, and were calling on him to
throw down his sword and surrender.
	But one of the attackers' number had turned aside
from this important business, and was about to deal
with the yokel who stillostood holding a sword. The
bandit grinned, probably at the inept way in which
Kenn's hands gripped the weapon; still grinning, he
stepped forward with his short spear ready for a
thrust.
	At that point Mark's shaking fingers fumbled away
the arrow that he had just nocked. He knelt, in an
uncontrolled movement that was almost a collapse,
and with his right hand groped in the dust of the road
for the arrow. He was unable to take his eyes\from
what was about to happen to his brother-
	A moaning had for some moments been growing in
the air, the sound of some voice that was not human,
perhaps not even alive. The sound rose, quickly, into a
querulous, unbreathing shriek.
	It issued, Mark realized, from the sword held in his
brother's hands. And a visual phenomenon had grown
in the air around the sword. It was not exactly as if
the blade were smoking, but rather as if the air around
it had begun to burn, and the steel was drawing
threads of smoke out of the air into itself.
	The spearthrust came. The sound in the air abruptly
swelled as the spear entered the swifter blur made by
the sideways parry of the sword. Mark saw the spear-
head spinning in midair, along with a handsbreadth of-
cleanly severed shaft. And before the spearhead fell,
Townsaver's backhanded passage from the parry had
torn loose the chainmail from the spearman s chest,
bursting fine steel links into the air like a handful of
summer flowers' fluff. The same sweep of the sword-
point caught the small shield strapped to the man's
left arm, and with a bonebreak snap dragged him
crying into the air behind its arc. His body was dropped
rolling in the dust.
	Now Mark's groping fingers found his dropped
arrow, and he rose with it in his hand. He could feel
his own body moving with what seemed to him ter-
rible slowness.
	Townsaver had come smoothly back to guard posi-
tion, the sound that issued from it subsiding to a mere
purring drone. Kenn's face was anguished, his eyes
were fixed in astonishment on the blade that grew out
of his hands, as if it were something that he had never
seen before. There was a vibration in his arms, as if he
were holding something that he could not control, but
could not or dared not drop.

	One of the invaders, who must have been the
warbeasts' master, aimed a gesture toward Kenn.
Obediently the orange-furred beast turned and sprang.
At that moment Mark loosed his arrow. Mark had not
yet learned to reckon with the animals' speed, and the
streaking furry form was out of the arrow's path before
the small missile arrived. As if guided by some pro-
found curse, Mark's arrow flew straight on between
two bandits' backs, to strike the embattled seneschal
squarely in the throat. Without even a cry, the Duke's
cousin let go of his sword and fell.
	The sword in Kenn's hands screamed, almost the
way a fast-geared millsaw screamed sometimes when
biting a tough log. Again it drew its smoking arc, to
meet the leaping animal. One orange-furred paw leapt
-severed in midair, with a fine spray of blood. The same
stroke caught the beast's armored torso, heavier than
a man's. It went down, as Mark had seen a rabbit fall
when hit in mid-leap by a slinger's stone. Mark was
fumbling for his last arrow as the furred body rolled
on its back with legs in the air, claws in reflex convul-
sions taloning the air above its belly.
	Now three men had Kenn surrounded. Mark, with
his last arrow nocked, was at the last moment afraid
to shoot at any of them for fear of hitting his brother in
their midst. He saw blades flash toward his brother,
but Kenn did not fall. Kenn's eyes were still wide with
bewilderment, his face a study of fear and horror.
Townsaver sang vicious circles in the air around him,
smashing aside brandished weapons right and left.
The sword seemed to twist Kenn's body after it, so
that he had to leap, turning in midair, coming down
with feet planted in the reverse direction. The sword
pulled him forward, dragging him in wide-stanced,
stiff-legged strides to the attack.
	The sound of its screaming went up and up.
	The swordplay was much too fast for Mark to follow.
He saw another of the attacking men go staggering
backward from the fight, the man's feet moving in a
reflex effort to regain balance until his back struck a
house wall and he pitched forward and lay still. Mark
heard yet another man cry out, a gurgling yell for help
and mercy. Mark did not see the brindled warbeast
leap at Kenn, but saw the beast go running back
toward the riverbank, in a limping but still terribly
fast flight. It howled the agony of its wounds, even
above the fretful millsaw shrieking of the sword. And
now two of the invading men, weaponless, were also
running away, leaving the village on divergent paths.
Mark got a close look at the face of one of them, and
saw wide eyes, wide mouth, an expression intent on
flight as on a problem.
	The other invaders were all lying in the street. Four,
five-it seemed impossible to count exactly.
	Mark looked up and down the street, to west and
east. Only himself and his brother were still standing.
	A little summer dust hung in the air, played by a
quiet breeze. For a long moment, nothing else moved.
Then Kenn's quivering arms began to droop, lowering
the sword. The machine-whine that still proceeded
from the red blade trailed slowly down into silence.
And now the atmosphere around the sword no longer
smoked.
	The swordpoint sagged to the ground. A moment
later, the whole weapon fell inertly from Kenn's relaxing
fingers. Another moment, and Kenn sat down in the
dust. Mark could see, now, how his brother's blood
was soaking out into his homespun shirt.
	Mechanically replacing his last arrow, unused, in
his quiver, Mark hurried forward to his brother. Beyond
Kenn, Jord still lay in gory stillness; his head looked
badly ruined by the passing blow from a warbeast's
paw; Mark did not want to comprehend just what he
was seeing there.

	Farther in the background, the blue-robed wizard
was raising himself, apparently unhurt. In each hand
the wizard held a small object, things of magic
doubtless. His hands moved round his body, wiping at
the air.
	Mark crouched beside his brother and held him, not
knowing what else to do. He watched helplessly as the
blood welled out from under Kenn's slashed clothing.
The attackers' swords had reached him after all, and
more than once. Kenn's hunting shirt was ghastly
now.
	"Mark:" Kenn's voice was lost, soft, frightened, and
frightening too. "I'm hurt:"
	"Father!" Mark cried, calling for help. It seemed to
him impossible that his father would not react, leap
up, give him aid, tell him what to do. Maybe he, Mark,
should run home, get help from his mother and his
sister. But he couldn't just let go of Kenn, whose hand
was trying to grip Mark's arm.
	In front of Kenn, almost within touching distance, a
dead bandit crouched as if in obeisance to his superior
foe. Townsaver had taken a part of the bandit's face
away, and his hands and his weapons were piled
together before him like an offering. It did no good to
look away. There was something very similar to be
seen in every direction.
	The sword itself lay in the street, looking no more
dangerous now than a pruning hook, with dust blandly
blotting the wet redness all along the blade.
	Mark let out an inarticulate cry for help, from anyone,
anywhere. He could feel Kenn's life departing, running
out almost like water between his fingers.
	Women were crying, somewhere in the distance.
	Someone, walking slowly, came into Mark's view a
little way ahead of him. It was Falkener. "You shot the
seneschal," the leather-worker said. "I saw you:"
	"What?" For a moment Mark could not understand
what the man was saying. And now the wizard, who
had been bending over the body of Ibn Gauthier, came
doddering, as if in fear or weakness (though graybeard,
he did not look particularly old) to where Mark was.
The small objects he had been handling, whatever
they were, had now been put away. With what appeared
to Mark to be unnatural calm, he rested a hand on
Jord's bloody head and muttered something, then
reached to do the same for Elder Kyril and for Kenn.
His manner was quite impersonal.
	The women's crying voices were now speeding closer,
with the sound of their running feet. Mark had not
known that his mother could still run so fast. Mala
and Marian, both of them dusty with mill-work, threw
themselves upon him, hovered over their fallen men,
began to examine the terrible damage.
	"You shot the seneschal," said Falkener to Mark
again.
	This time, the hovering wizard took note of the
accusation. With an oath, he grabbed the last arrow
from Mark's quiver and strode away, to compare it
with the shaft that still protruded from the throat of
the Duke's cousin.
	Other villagers were now appearing in the street, to
gather around the fallen. They came out of their houses
singly at first, then in twos and threes. Some, with
field implements in hand, must have come, running in
from work nearby. The Elder was dead, the village
leaderless. An uproar grew, confusion mounted. There
was talk of dashing off to the manor with word of the
attack, but no one actually went yet. There was more
talk of organizing a militia pursuit of the attackers,
whoever they had been, wherever they had gone. Wild
talk of war, of raids, of uprisings,-flew back and forth.
	"Yes, they were trying to kidnap the seneschal. I
saw them. I heard them."
	"Who? Kidnap who?"

"Kyril's dead too. And Jord:"
"But it was the boy's arrow that struck him down."
"Who, his own father? Nonsense!"
' ...no... '
	' . . . all wrong, havoc like this, must have been
cavalry.. . '
	' . . . no doubt that it's his arrow, I've found them on
my land, near my woolbeasts . . . "
	Mala and Marian had by now stripped off Kenn's
shirt and were trying to bind up his wounds. It looked
a hopeless task. Kennels eyes were almost closed, only
white slits of eyeball showing. Mala went to Jord's
inert form, and with tears streaming from her eyes
tried to get her husband to react, to wake up to what
was happening around him. "Husband, your oldest
son is dying. Husband, wake up . . . Jord . . . ah, Ardneh!
Not you too?"
	A neighbor woman hovered over Mala, trying to
help. Together they put a rolled blanket under Jord's
head, as if that might be of benefit.
	Mark turned from them, and sat staring at the
sword. Something less terrible to look at. It was as if
thoughts were coming and going in his head continually,
but he could not grasp any of them. Only look at the
sword. Only look-
	He became aware that his mother was gripping his
arm fiercely, shaking him out of his state of shock. In
a voice that was low but had a terrible power she was
urging him: "Son, listen to me. You must run away.
Run fast and far, and don't tell me, don't tell anyone,
where you're going. Stay out of sight, tell no one your
name, and listen for word of what's happening here in
Arin. Don't think about coming home until you know
it's safe. That's your arrow in the Duke's cousin's
throat, however it got there. If the Duke should get his
hands on you, he could have your eyes put out, or
worse."
	"But. . . " Mark's mind wanted to protest, to scream
that none of this could be .happening, that the world
was not this mad. His body, perhaps, knew better, for
he was already standing. His mother's dark eyes probed
him. His sister Marian looked up at him from where
she still crouched with Kenn's lifeless head cradled in
her lap, her blue horrified eyes framed in her loose fair
hair. All around, villagers were arguing, quarreling, in
greater confusion than ever. Falkener's hoarse voice
came and went, and the wizard's unfamiliar one.
	Impelled by a sudden sense of urgency, Mark moved
siftly. As if he were watching his own movements
wi
from outside his body, he saw himself bend and gather
up the sword's wrapping from where Kenn had thrown
it down. He threw the blanket over the sword and
gathered the blade up into it.
	Of all the people in the street, only his mother and
his sister seemed to be aware of what he eras doing.
Mala, weeping, nodded her approval. Marian whispered
to him: "Walk as far as our house, then run. Go, we'll
be all right!"
	Mark muttered something to them both, he never
could remember what, and started walking. He knew,
everyone in the village knew, what Duke Fraktin had
done in the past to men who'd been so unlucky as to
injure any of his kinfolk, even by accident. Mark con-
tinued to move pace after pace along the once-familiar
village street, the street thai now could never be the
same again, carrying what he hoped was an incon-
spicuous bundle. He walked without looking back. For
whatever reason, there was no outcry after him.
	When he reached the millhouse, instead of starting
to run he turned inside. The practical thought had
occurred to him that if he ran away for very long he
was going to need some food. In the pantry he picked
up a little dried meat, dried fruit, and a small loaf,
unconsciously emptying his game bag of the morning's

kill of rabbits in exchange. From near his bed he
grabbed up also the few spare arrows that were his.
Somehow, he'd remembered, out in the street, to sling
his bow across his back again.
	A few moments after he had entered the millhouse,
Mark was leaving it again, this time by the back door.
This was on the eastern, upstream side of the building,
and now the mill was between him and the village
street. From this point a path climbed the artificial
bank beside the millwheel, which was now standing
idle, and then followed the wooded riverbank out of
town. Mark met no one on the first few meters of this
path. If earlier there had been people fishing here, or
village children playing along the stream, the excitement
in the street had already drawn them away.
	Now Mark did begin to run. But as soon as he
started running, he could feel fear growing in him, an
imagined certainty of pursuit, and to conquer it he
had to slow down to a walk again. When he walked,
listening carefully, he could hear no sounds of pursuit,
no outcry coming after him.
	'He had followed the familiar path upstream for half
a kilometer when he came upon the dead body of the
brindled warbeast. It had plainly been trying to crawl
into a thicket when it died, caught and held by the
ragged fringes of its hacked chainmail snagged on
twigs. Mark paused, staring blankly. The animal was
a female . . . or had been, before the fight. Now . . . how
had the creature managed to get this far? It looked like
an example of the vengeance of a god.
CHAPTER 2

	From the place where he had come upon the dead
warbeast, Mark walked steadily upstream. He trav-
eled the riverbank in that direction for another hour,
still without meeting anyone. By that time he was
feeling acutely conscious of the blood dried on his
clothing and his hands, and he stopped, long enough
to wash himself, his garments, and at last the sword
as clean as possible. The washing had limited success,
for by now spots of his brother's blood had dried into
his shirt, and there was no getting them out by simply
rubbing at them and rinsing them with water. The
sword in contrast rinsed clean at once, dirt and gore
sluicing from it easily, leaving the smooth steel gleaming
as if it had never been used. Nor, despite all the
shredded chainmail and the cloven shields, were its
edges nicked or dulled.
	Yes, Mark had known all his life that the sword
called Townsaver was the work of Vulcan himself.
He'd known that fact, but was only now starting to
grasp something of its full meaning. But maybe the
sword would rust . . .
	Dressed again, in wet clothes, Mark hurried on. He
had made no conscious decision about where he was
going. The path was so familiar that his feet bore him
along it automatically. He kept putting more distance
between himself and his home without having to plan
a route. From hunting and fishinj trips he knew the
way so well here that he thought he'd be able to keep
on going confidently even.after dark. At intervals he
waded into the shallow stream, crossing and recrossing
it, sometimes trudging in the water for long stretches.
If the Duke's men were going to come after him with
keen-nosed tracking beasts, it might help . . .
	He feared pursuit, and listened for it constantly. But
when he tried to picture in his mind exactly what form
it would take, it looked in his imagination rather like
the militia that Kenn had had to join and drill with
periodically. That was not a very terrifying picture.
But of course the pursuit wouldn't really be like that.
It might include tracking beasts, and aerial scouts,
and cavalry, and warbeasts too . . . again Mark saw,
with the vividness of recent memory, the mangled
body of the catlike creature that had tried like some
hurt pet to crawl away and hide . . .
	His thoughts never could get far from the burden
that he was carrying, the awkward bundle tucked at
this moment under his right arm, wrapped up in a
blanket newly stained. Townsaver, let the gods name it
whatever they liked, hadn't really saved the town at
all. Because it was not the town that the intruders had
been trying to attack. They had been after the eminent
visitor, and nothing else. (And here Mark wondered
again just what a seneschal might be.)

	Mark supposed that the intruders had been bandits,
planning a kidnapping for ransom-everyone knew
that such things happened to the wealthy from time to
time. Of course as a rule they didn't happen to mem-
bers of the Duke's family. But perhaps the bandits
hadn't known just who their intended victim was,
they'd seen only that he must be rich.
	And the victim had come to the village in the first
place only because of the sword itself; that was what
he had wanted to see and hold, what he would proba-
bly have taken away with him if he could. If only he
had...
	The killing of Jord and of Kyril had probably been
completely accidental, just because they'd been stand-
ing in the bandits' way. And the bandits had attacked
Kenn only because he was holding the sword, and had
gone on holding it. Mark, struggling now against tears,
recalled how his brother had looked like he wanted to
throw the weapon down, and couldn't. The sword had
taken over, and once that happened there had been
nothing that Kenn could do about it.
	So, if the sword hadn't entered into it, Mark's brother
and father would both be still alive. And the Elder
Kyril too. And probably even the Duke's cousin would
be alive and well cared for in his abductors hands, to
be sent home as soon as a ransom was paid-or,
perhaps more likely, released with abject apologies as
soon as the kidnappers found out who he was. Yes, the
sword had destroyed warbeasts and bandits. But it
had also brought ruin upon the very town and people
that its name suggested it might have saved . . .
	On top of all the other deeper and more terrible
problems that it caused, it was also a damned awk-
ward thing to carry. And the more time that Mark
spent carrying it, the more maddening this compara-
tively minor difficulty became. He continually tried to
find a safe and comfortable way to hold the thing
while he walked with it. In a way his mind welcomed
this challenge, as an escape from the consideration of
difficulties infinitely worse.
	After he washed the sword he tried for a little while
carrying it unwrapped, but that quickly became uncom-
fortable too. The only halfway reasonable way to carry
a naked sword, particularly one as keen-edged as this,
was in hand, as if you were ready to fight with it.
Mark wasn't ready to fight, and didn't want to pretend
he was. More importantly, the weight borne that way
soon made his wrist and fingers ache.
	Careful testing assured him that the edges were
still sharper than those of any other blade, knife or
razor that he'd ever held; if he were to try to carry this
weapon stuck through his belt, his pants would soon
be down around his ankles. And, to Mark's vague,
unreasonable disappointment, it was soon obvious
that the sword was not going to rust because of its
immersion in the river. The brilliant steel dried quickly,
and in fact to Mark's fingertip felt very slightly oily.
With a mixture of despair and admiration he stared at
the finely mottled pattern that seemed to lead on
deeper and deeper into the metal, under the shiny
surface smoothness.
	Before he'd walked very far after the washing, he
had paused to rewrap the sword in the still-wet cloth,
and tied it up again, leaving a loop of cord for a
carrying handle. Mark slogged on, shifting his burden
this way and that. If he hung it from one hand, it
banged against his legs; if he put it over one shoulder
like a shovel, he could feel it threatening to cut him,
right through its wrapping and his shirt. Of course,
with the sword tied up like this, he wouldn't be able to
use it quickly if he had to. That really didn't bother
Mark. He didn't want to try to use it anyway.
	Mark kept fighting against the memory of how Kenn
had used the sword-or how it had used Kenn, who

was as innocent as Mark of any training with such a
weapon. In the militia exercises, Kenn had always
practiced with the lowly infantry weapon, a cheap
spear.--Swords of even the most ordinary kind, let
alone a miraculous blade like this one, were for the
folk who lived in manorhouse and castle.
	And yet . . . this one had certainly been given to
Mark's father. Given deliberately, by a being who was
surely of higher rank than any merely human lord.
	Gods and goddesses were . . . well, what were they?
It struck Mark forcibly now that he'd never met any-
one but his own father who'd claimed convincingly to
have any such direct contact with any deity.
	Nor, it occurred to Mark now, could he remember
meeting anyone who had sincerely envied Jord his
treasure, considering the price that Mark's father had
had to pay for it.
	All this and much more kept churning uncontrollably
through Mark's mind as he trudged the riverbank and
waded in the stream, meanwhile listening for pursuers.
From the time of Mark's earliest understanding, the
sword, and the way his father had acquired it, had
been among the given facts of life for him. Never until
today had he been confronted with the full marvel and
mystery of those facts. Always the sword, with its
story, had simply hung there on the wall, like a candle-
sconce or a common dish, until everyone who lived in
the house had grown so used to it that it had almost
been forgotten. Visitors asking about the odd bundle
had received a matter-of-fact answer, one they'd per-
haps not always believed. And the visitors repetitions
of the story elsewhere, Mark supposed now, had proba-
bly been believed even less often.
	And Vulcan had said it was called Townsaver . . .
thinking again of the town's saving, Mark had to fight
back tears again. Now, as in some evil dream or story,
the cursed burden of the sword had revealed itself for
the curse it truly was, and now it had come down to
him. He was the heir, the only surviving son, now that
Kenn was dead . . . he knew that Kenn was dead. The
sword was Mark's now, and Mark had to run with it,
to at least get the burden of it away from his mother
and his sister.
	Mark didn't want to let himmself think just yet about
where he might be running to.
	His eyes were blurred with tears again. That was
bad, because now it was starting to get dark anyway,
and he was very tired, so tired that his feet were
dragging and stumbling at best, even when he could
see clearly where to put them down.
	Mark stopped for a rest in a small clearing,,a few
steps from the main riverbank path. Here he ate most
of the food that he'd brought along, and then went to
get a drink from the brisk rapids nearby. Already he'd
come far enough upstream to start encountering rapids,
a fact that made Mark~eel even more tired. He went
back to his small clearing and sat down again. He was
simply too weary to go on any farther, at least not until
he'd had a little rest . . .

	Mark woke with a start, to early sunlight mottling
its way through leaves to reach his face. At once he
started to call Kenn's name, and to look around him
for his brother, because he d wakened with the half-
formed idea that he must have come out with Kenn on
some kind of hunting or fishing expedition. But reality
returned as soon as Mark's eyes fell on the sword,
which lay beside him in its evilly stained wrapping.
He jumped up then, a stiff-muscled movement that
startled nearby birds. When the birds had quieted
there was nothing to be heard but the murmur of the
rapids. There were no indications of pursuit as yet.
	Mark finished off what little food he had left, and
too another long drink from the stream. About to push

on again, he hesitated, and, without quite knowing
why, once more unwrapped the blade. Some part of
his mind wanted to look at it again, as if the morning
sunlight on the sword might reveal something to negate
or at least explain the horror of yesterday.
	There was still no trace of rust to be seen, and the
sword and its wrappings were now completely dry.
How should he try to carry the thing today? When
Mark stood the weapon upright on the path, point
down, and stood himself beside it, the sword's pom-
mel reached as high as his ribcage. The weapon was
just too long for him to carry about handily, and far
too sharp . . . Mark was momentarily distracted when
he looked at the decorations going round the hilt and
handle, white on black. He could remember sleepy
evenings at home, in the dwelling-rooms beside the
creaking mill, when Jord had sometimes allowed the
children to take the sword down from the wall and in
his presence look it over. Sometimes the children and
their mother, interested also, had speculated on what
the pattern of the decorations might mean. Mark's
father had never speculated. He !d never spoken much
about the sword at all, even at those relaxed times.
Nor had Jord ever, not in Mark's hearing anyway, said
anything directly about the great trial through which
the sword had come to him. Nothing about how Vulcan
had taken his right arm off, or with what implement,
or what explanation, if any, the god had given for
what he did. That was one scene that Mark had
always forbidden his own imagination to attempt.
	The inlaid decoration, white on black, going round
the handle of the sword, had always suggested to
Mark a crenelated castle wall seen from the outside.
Or perhaps it was the wall of a fortified town. Mark
had heard of cities and big towns that boasted defen-
sive walls like that, though he'd never come very close
to seeing one. Castles of course were a different matter.
Everyone saw at least one of those, at least once in a
while.
	There was the name, of course: Townsaver. And, in
one spot on the handle, just above the depicted wall,
there was a small representation of what might very
well be intended as a swordblade. It looked as if some
unseen hand inside the town or castle were brandishing
a sword . . .
	Mark came to himself with a small start. How long
had he been standing here on the pathway gazing at
the thing? Even if this weapon was the magical handi-
work of a god, he couldn t afford to spend all day
gawping at it. Hurriedly he performed his simple
packing-up, and once more got moving upstream.
	Several times during the morning's travel that
followed, the unhandy burden threatened to unbal-
ance Mark's steps when he was wading. And it kept
snagging itself by cloth or cord on bushes beside the
path. That morning, for the first time, the idea suggested
itself to Mark that he might be able to rid himself of
the sword and not have to carry it any farther. He
could find a deep pool somewhere in which to drown
it, or else hide it in a crevice behind a waterfall-by
now he'd come upstream far enough for waterfalls.
The idea was tempting, in a way. But Mark soon
rejected it. Disposing of this sword would not, could
not, be as easy as throwing away a broken knife. He
did not know yet, perhaps would not yet allow himself
to know, what he meant to do with it finally. But he
did know that something more than simply discarding
it was required of him. Besides, he'd seen often enough
the successful working of finding-spells, the minor
enchantments of a local part-time wizard. If that coun-
try fellow could locate wedding rings down wells, and
pull lost coins out of haystacks, what chance would
Mark have of hiding a great sword like this one from the

real wizards that .the Duke must be able to command.
	Toward midday, Mark cautiously moved out of the
riverbank thickets, and entered high empty pasture
land for long enough to stalk and kill a rabbit. He felt
proud of the efficiency of this hunt, for which he
needed only one clean shot. But as he released the
bowstring he saw for one frightening moment the
falling seneschal . . .
	The food, familiar hunter's fare cooked on a small
fire, helped a great deal. It strengthened Mark against
the pointless tricks of his shocked imagination, against
struggling in his mind with events over which he now
could have no control. He told himself firmly that he
should instead be consciously deciding where he was
going to go.
	But he had still reached no such decision when he
finished his meal, put out his little fire, and moved on.
He knew that if he continued to, follow the river
upstream for another full day, he'd be quite close to
the village in which his father had grown up . . . the
place where Jord had worked as a two-armed black
smith, and from which he'd been summoned one dark
night by a god, to trade his right arm for this cursed
weapon. Mark felt sure that village was not where he
was really headed now.
	All right, he d wait to think things out. He'd just
keep going. When plans were really needed, they'd just
have to make themselves.
	As the sky began to darken with the second nightfall
of Mark's journey; he looked up through the screen of
riverbank trees to see the glow of sunset reflected on
the slowly approaching mountains. Those mountains
were near enough now to let him see how steep and
forbidding their slopes were-especially up near the
top, up there where gods and goddesses, or some of
them anyway, were said to dwell. The darkness of the
sky deepened, and the pink glow faded from even the
highest peaks. Then Mark saw what he'd seen only a
time or two before in all his life: sullen, glowing red
spots near the summits, what folk called Vulcan's
fires. Those fires as he saw them now were still so far
away as to be part of another world.
	When it was fully dark, Mark burrowed into a thicket,
and contrived for himself a kind of nest to sleep in. For
a moment that evening, just as he was dozing off, he
thought that he heard his father's voice, calling to
him, with some urgent message. . .
	Throughout the next day, Mark continued as before
to work his way upstream. The way grew steeper, the
going slower, the land rockier and rougher, the country
wilder, trees scarce and people even more so. On that
day, though he peered more boldly than before out of
the riverside thickets, Mark only once saw distant
workers in a field, and no one else except a single
fisherman. He was able to spot the fisherman in time
to detour round him without letting the man suspect
that anyone else was near.
	That afternoon, two full days since he'd fled his
home, Mark saw certain landmarks-a distant temple
of Bacchus, an isolated tabletop butte-that assured
him he was now quite near the village in which his
father had been born. Some few of his father's kinfolk
still lived there, and it was necessary now for Mark to
think about those relatives. The angry riders of the
Duke might well have reached them already, might
have established a watch over every house in all the
land where they thought the fugitive would be likely to
turn for help. And now, for the first time, one clear
idea about his destination did come to Mark: safety
for him could lie only outside the Duke's territory, in
that strange outer world he'd never visited.
	But there was something else, besides distance and
dangers, that still lay between him and that possibility

of safety. He had, he discovered now, a sense of ter-
rible obligation, connected of course with the sword.
The obligation was unclear to him as yet, but it was
certain.
	Mark held to his course along the river, and did not
approach his father's old village closely enough to see
what might be going on there. On what he could see of
the nearby roads, there were no swift riders, no signs
of military search; and his repeated scanning of the
sky discovered no flying beasts that might be looking
for him. But Mark kept mainly to the concealing thickets,
and traveled quickly on.
	When the last sunset glow had died on the third
evening of his flight, he raised his eyes again to the
mountains ahead of him. Again he saw, more plainly
now than ever before, the tiny, fitful sparks of Vulcan's
fires.
	On this third night the air of the high country grew
chill enough to keep Mark from sleeping soundly. He
wrapped himself in the sword's covering, but built no
fire, for fear of guiding his still hypothetical pursuers
to him. The next morning, wet from a light drizzle, he
climbed wearily on. The country round him grew ever
wilder, more alien to what he knew. He continued to
follow the river as it carved its way across a high
plain, then up among a series of broken foothills.
Mark's head felt light now, and his stomach painfully
empty. On top of each shoulder he had a sore red spot,
worn by the cord from which the sword was slung.
	Near midday, with timberline visible at what ap-
peared to be only a small distance above him, Mark
came upon a small shrine to some god he did not
recognize. He robbed it of its simple offerings, dried
berries and stale bread. As he ate he tried to compose
a prayer to the anonymous god of the shrine, explaining
what he'd done, pleading his necessity. He might not
have bothered with the prayer were he not getting so
close to the gods' high abode. Even here, so close, he
was not entirely sure that the gods had either the time
or the inclination to notice what happened at small
shrines, or to hear small prayers.
	Maybe tomorrow he'd be high enough on the moun-
tain to get some direct divine attention. At any previ-
ous time in Mark's life, such a prospect would have
frightened him. But, as it was, the shock that had
driven him from his home still insulated him against
the theoretical terrors that might appear tomorrow.
	Not far above the shrine, the Aldan had its origin in
the confluence of two brooks, both of which flowed
more or less out of the north. At their junction Mark
tried his luck at fishing, and found his luck was bad.
He grubbed around for edible roots, and came up with
nothing that he could eat. He searched for some fresher
berries than the shrine had provided, and found a few
that birds had spared. If any human dwelling had
been in sight he would have tried his skill at burglary
or begging to get food. But there was no such habita-
tion to be seen on any of the vast hills under the
enormous sky, and Mark was not going to turn aside
now to look for one.
	He spent the fourth night of his journey, sleeping
little, amid a tumble of huge rocks at timberline.
Tonight the lights of Vulcan's forge-fires appeared to
Mark to be almost overhead, startlingly near and at
the same time dishearteningly far above him. Near
midnight some large animal came prowling near,
staying not far beyond the glow of a small fire that
Mark had built in a sheltering crevice. When he
heard the hungry snuffling of the beast he unwrapped
Townsaver and gripped the hilt of the weapon in both
hands. No sound came from the blade, and the air
around it remained clear and quiet. Mark could feel
no hint of magical protection in its steel, yet in the
circumstances the simple weight and razorsharpness

of it were a considerable comfort.
	In the morning there were no animals of any kind in
sight, nor could Mark even find a significant track.
The air at dawn was bitter cold but almost windless.
During the night Mark had wrapped himself again in
the sword's cloth, but now he swathed the weapon
again and tied it for carrying. Then he climbed, head-
ing up between foothills, following a dry ravine, mov-
ing now on knees that quivered from his need for food.
Once he was moving, he was no longer quite sure just
how he'd spent the night just past, whether he'd slept
at all or not. It seemed to him quite possible that he'd
been walking without a pause since yesterday.
	Shortly he came upon a small spring, that gave him
good water to drink. He took this discovery as a good
omen, drank deeply, and pressed on.
	All streams were behind him now, as far as he could
tell. He kept following what looked like an ill-defined
trail up through the ravine. Often he wasn't sure that
he was really following a trail at all. By now he was
unarguably on the slopes of the mountain itself, but so
far the climbing was not nearly as difficult as he had
feared that it might be. There were no sheer cliffs or
treacherous rockslides that could not be avoided. Even
so, the going soon became murderously hard because
of sheer physical exhaustion.
	Mark considered ways to lighten the load that he
was carrying. But it consisted of only a few things,
none of which he felt willing yet to leave behind. The
idea that he might be able to discard the sword,
somehow, along the way had itself already been
discarded. The sword was connected with his goal,
and it would go with him to the end. At one point,
with his head spinning, he did decide to divest himself
of bow and quiver. But he changed his mind and went
back for them before he'd gone ten steps.
	The climb became a blur of weariness and hunger.
At some timeless bright hour near the middle of the
day Mark was jarred back to full awareness of his
surroundings by the realization that he'd run into a
new feature of the mountain. Just ahead was the
bottom of a cliff face, very nearly vertical, a surface
that he was never going to be able to climb . . . gradually
he understood that there was no need for him to try.
	He was standing on a high, irregular shelf of black
rock, with the wind howling around him. But the day
was still clear, and the afternoon sun on his back was
comfortingly warm. The sun had warmed the black
rocks here considerably, even if the deeper shadows
still held patches of snow, and there was a chill in the
wind that played endlessly in the fantastic chimneys
of the cliff. Mark stood still for a time, still holding the
sword and bearing his other burdens, slowly getting
his breath back after the long climb. In some of the
chimneys he could hear a roaring that was deeper
than the wind, a noise that he thought was coming up
from somewhere far below.
	Mark was wondering which of the chimneys might
hold fire, when his attention was caught by a place he
saw at the rear of the rocky shelf, just at the angle
where the clifface went leaping up again. There were
signs of old occupancy back there. Mark's eye was
caught by scattered, head-sized lumps of some black
and gnarled substance. The lumps were of an un-
familiar, off-round shape. He went to one and prodded
it with the soft toe of his hunter's boot. The object was
hard, and very massive for its size. Mark slowly under-
stood that the lumps were metal or ore that had been
melted and then reformed into rough blobs.
	He stood now in the very rear of a shallow half-cave
in the face of the rising cliff, in a place where the sun
struck now and the wind was baffled. Here there were
old, cold ashes, from what must have been a very large
wood fire. The ashes looked too old, Mark thought, to

have any connection with the fires he'd seen up here
during the last few evenings. Anyway, he d assumed,
from the stories he'd heard, that what people called
the lights of Vulcan's forge were something to do with
earthfire, volcanic, whether or not it was the god in
person who raised and tended them. Yet plainly some-
one had once built a large blaze, deliberately, here in
this broad depression in the rock floor against the cliff.
The stain of its smoke still marked the natural chumney
above. The tone of the old soot was a different dark-
ness from that of the rock itself.
	In front of the abandoned fireplace Mark slumped
to his knees, then let himself sink back into a sitting
position. The air up here was thin, and stank of sulphur.
It frosted the lungs and gave them little nourishment.
At least his stomach had now ceased its clamoring for
food; he had reached an internal balance with his
hunger, a state almost of comfort . . . with a mental
snap he came back to full alertness, finding himself
sitting quietly on stone. Had he just started to fall
asleep or what?
	He diddt see what difference it would make if he
did doze off for a rest. But no, there was something to
do, something to be decided, now that he was here. He
ought to see to that first, think about it a little at least.
He d come up here for some vital reason . . . ah yes, the
sword. When he had warmed himself a little more,
he d think about it.
	Still sitting in the faint sun-warmth of the high,
sheltered place, Mark slowly began to notice how
much unburned wood was lying about nearby. There
were large chips and roughly broken scraps, and the
half-burnt ends of logs that must once have been too
big for a man to lift. He realized that he needed heat.
He wanted a fire, and so he painfully began to gather
and arrange wood in the old fireplace.
	It should have been an easy matter to build a fire
using this available material, but weakness made it
hard. Drawing his hunter's knife, Mark tried to shave
i inder and fine kindling but his hands were shaky, and
th-, blade slipped from the half-frozen wood. He tried
the sword and found the task much easier despite its
weight and size. With the sword held motionless, its
point resting on the ground and the hilt on his bent
knee, Mark could draw any chunk of wood against the
edge and take off shavings as thin and fine as he
wanted. Then when he had his tinder and his kindling
ready, his flint struck a fat spark from the rough flange
of the sword's steel hilt.
	The fire caught from that first spark. It burned
well-alrhost magically well, Mark thought. Larger
fragments soon fed it into respectable size and crack-
ling strength. Then, after he'd rested and warmed
himself a little more, he took his hunter's cup and
gathered some snow from a shaded crevice, to melt
and heat himself some water for a drink. Now, if only
he had a little food . . . Mark cut that thought off,
afraid the hunger pangs would start again.
	He sat on the rocky ground with the unwrapped
sword beside him, sipping heated water. And found
himself staring at large symbols, markings so faint
that he hadn't noticed them at first, painted or some-
how outlined on the rock of the shallow caves rear
wall. Several of the symbols had been partially obscured
by the old stains of smoke. There were in all about a
dozen of the signs, all of them drawn with inhumanly
straight, geometrical sides; and the lines of one of
them, Mark realized, formed the same design that
appeared on the hilt of the sword. He took up the
sword again and looked at it carefully to make sure.
	After that he continued to stare at the wall-signs,
with the feeling that he was on the verge of extracting
some important meaning from them, until he was
distracted by a sound. It was not the wind, or his own

fire, but the deep chimney-roaring, louder than before,
rising below the never-quite-ceasing whine of wind. It
was too breathlessly prolonged to be the voice of any
animal or human. The furnaces of Vulcan, Mark
thought. The forge-fires. Whatever they really were,
they were burning still, somewhere near to where he
was sitting. And this old wood-fire place in front of
him was. . . that thought would not complete itself.
	Mark's sun-shadow on the face of the cliff before
him was reaching higher, and he knew that behind
him the sun was going down. He thought: I won't live
through this night up here; the cold if nothing else will
kill me. But in spite of approaching death-or per-
haps because of it-he felt a strong and growing
conviction that he was going to see Vulcan soon. And
somehow neither death nor the gods were terrible; the
shock of watching his father and his brother die still
numbed Mark's capacity for terror. Now he under-
stood that ever since he'd picked up the sword from
the village street he'd been meaning to confront Vulcan
with it. To confront him, and . . . and maybe that would
be the end.
	Trying to gain strength, Mark built up his fire again,
with larger chunks of wood. Then he curled up in front
of it, as if he could absorb its radiant energy like food.
Again he had the sword's cloth wrapped round his
own body as a blanket.
	The next time he awoke, he was cold and stiff, and
the world was totally dark around him except for a
million stars and the brightly winking embers of his
fire. Slowly and painfully Mark turned over on his bed
of rock, twisting his aching body to get the nearly-
frozen half of it toward the fire. His face and the backs
of his hands felt tender, as if they'd been almost
scorched when the flames were high. But they began
to freeze as soon as they were turned away from the
remaining warmth. Mark knew he ought to make him-
self stand up, move his arms and walk, and then build
up the fire again. He knew it, but he couldn't seem to
get himself in motion. Deep in the middle of his body
he could feel a new kind of shivering, and now he was
almost completely sure that he was going to die tonight.
Still the fact had very little importance.
Get up and tend the fire, and it will save you.
	Startled, Mark raised his head, croaked out a half-
formed question. The words had come to him as if
in someone else's voice, and with the force of a
command. He could not recognize the voice, but it
made a powerful impression. Now, once he'd moved
his head, the rest was possible. He sat up, rubbing
his arms together, preparing himself for further effort.
Now his arms were able to move freely. And now he
forced himself to rise, swaying on stiffened knees, but
driving his legs, torso, everything into activity. Half-
paralyzed with cold and stiffness still, he gathered
more wood and fed the flames when he had blown
them back to life.
	Then, Mark lay down near the new flames, wrap-
ping hiself in the blanket again. He rubbed his face.
When he took his hands down from his eyes, a circle
of tall, silent figures was standing around him and the
fire. They were too tall to be human. Mark, too numb
to feel any great shock, looked at what he could see of
the faces of the gods. He wondered why he could not
recognize Ardneh, to whom his mother prayed so much,
among them.
	One of the goddesses-Mark couldn't be sure which
one she was-demanded of him: "Why have you
brought that sword back up here, mortal? We don't
want it here."
	"I brought it for my father's sake." Mark answered
without fear, without worrying over what he ought to
say. "This sword maimed him, years ago. It's killed
him now. It's killed my brother, too. It's driven me away

from home. It's done enough, I'm getting rid of it."
	This caused a stir and a muttering around the circle.
The faces of the gods, shadowed and hard for Mark to
see, turned to one another in consultation. And now
the voice of a different deity chided Mark: "It was time
enough, in any case, for you to be leaving home. Do
you want to be a mill-hand and a rabbit-hunter all
your life?"
	"Yes," said Mark immediately. But even as he gave
the answer, he wondered if it were really true.
	Another god-voice argued at him: "The sword you
have there has done hardly anything as yet, as meas-
ured by its capabilities. And anyway, who are you to
judge such things?"
	Another voice chimed in: "Precisely. That sword
was given to Jord the smith, later Jord the miller, until
you, mortal, or your brother had it from him. It's
yours now. But you cant just bring it back here and be
rid of it that way. Oh, no. Even leaving aside the
question of good manners, we-"
	And another: °-cant just take it back, now that it's
been used. You can't bring a used gift back."
	"Gift?" That word brought Mark almost to midday
wakefulness. It came near making him jump to his
feet. "'You say a gift? When you took my father's arm
in payment for it?"
	An arm, long as a tree-limb, pointed. "This one here
is responsible for taking the arm. We didn't tell him to
do that." And the towering figure standing beside
Vulcan (Mark hadnt recognized Vulcan till the instant
he was pointed out) clapped the Smith on the back. It
was a great rude slap that made Vulcan stagger on his
game leg and snarl. Then the speaker, his own identity
still obscure, went on: "Do you suppose, young mortal,
that we went to all the trouble of having Clubfoot here
make the swords, make all twelve of them for our
game, never to see them properly used? They were a
lot of trouble to have made."
	For a game . . . a game? In outrage Mark cried out:
"I think I'm dreaming all of youl"
	None of the gods or goddesses in the circle thought
that was worth an answer.
	Mark cried again: "What are you going to do about
the sword? If I refuse to keep it?"
	"None of your business," said one curt voice.
	"I suppose wed give it to someone else."
	"And anyway, don't speak in that tone of voice to
gods...
	"Why shouldn't I speak any way I want to, I'm
dreaming you anyway! And it is my business what-"
	"Do you never dream of real persons, real things?"
	Smoke from the fire blew into Mark's face. He choked,
and had to close his eyes. When he opened them again
the circle of tall beings was still there, surrounding
him.
	"And, anyway, if we gods wish to play a game, who
are you, mortal, to object?" That got a general murmur
of approval.
	Mark was still outraged, but his energy was failing.
His muscles seemed to be relaxing of themselves. He
lay weakly back on rock half-warmed by fire. Despite
all he could do, his eyelids were sagging shut in utter
weariness. He whispered: ' A game . . . ?"
	A female voice, that of a goddess who had not
spoken until now, argued softly: "I say that this Mark,
this stubborn son of a stubborn miller, deserves to die
tonight for what he s done, for the disrespect he's
shown, the irresponsible interference."
	"A miller's son? A miller's son, you say?" That, for
some reason, provoked laughter. ' Ah, hahaaa! . . . any-
way, he's protected here by the fire that he's kindled,
using magical materials and tools. Not that he had the
least idea of what he was doing when he did it."
	"What is so amusing? I still say that he must die

tonight. He must. Otherwise I foresee trouble, in the
game and out of it, trouble for us all."
"Trouble for yourself, you mean."
	And another new voice: "Hah, if you say he must
die, then I say he must live. Whatever your position is
in this, I must maintain the opposite."
	They're just like people, Mark thought. His next
thought was: I'm almost gone, I'm dying. Now the
idea was not only acceptable, but brought with it a
certain feeling of relief.
	During the rest of the night-his gentle dying went
on for a long, long time-Mark kept revising-his opin-
ion of the wrangling gang of gods who surrounded
him on his deathbed. Sometimes it seemed to him that
they were conducting their debate on a high level,
using words of great wisdom. At these times he wanted
to make every effort to remember what they said, but
somehow he never could. At other times what they
were, saying struck him as the most foolish babble that
he had ever heard. But he could not manage to retain
an example of their foolishness either.
	Anyway, he completely missed the end of the argu-
ment, because instead of dying he finally awoke to
behold the whole vast reach of the sky turning light
above the great bowl of rock that made the world. The
near rim of the bowl was very near in the east, almost
overhead, while the northwest portion of the rim was
far, far away, no more than a little pinkish sawtooth
line on the horizon. And to the southwest the rim was
so distant that it could not be seen at all.
	Mark was shivering again, or shivering still, when
he woke up. Now he was cold on both sides. The fire
was nearly out, and he immediately started to rebuild
it. Somewhat to his surprise, his body moved easily.
For whatever reason, he had awakened with a feeling
of achievement, a sense that something important had
been accomplished while he lay before the fire. Well,
for one thing, his life had been preserved, whether by
accident or through the benevolence of certain gods.
He was not at all sure of the reality of the presences
he'd seen. There was no sign of gods around him now;
nothing but the mountain and the sky, and the high,
keening wind.
	Except for the obscure symbols on the wall of stone,
and the remnants of that large and ancient fire.
	The need for food had now settled deep in Mark's
bones, and he thought, with the beginning of fear, that
soon he might be too weak to make his way back down
the mountain. He had to implement his final decision
about the sword before that happened; so as soon as.
he had warmed himself enough to stop his shivering,
he turned his back on his renewed fire and the old
forge-place of the gods. Keeping the blanket wrapped
around himself, he slung bow and quiver on his back
again, and took up Townsaver. He carried the blade as
if he meant to fight with it.
	Testing the wind, he tried to follow the smell of
sulphur to where it was the strongest. It took him only
a few moments to stumble right against what he was
looking for, in the form of a chest-high broken column
of black rock. The middle of the broad black stump
was holed out, as if it were a real treestump rotting,
and up out of the central cavity there drifted acrid
fumes, along with some faintly visible smoke. At cer-
tain moments the smoke was lighted from beneath
with a reddish glow, visible here at close range even in
broad daylight. A breath of warmth came from the
fumarole, along with something that smelled even
worse than sulphur, as foul as the breath of some
imagined monster.
	Somewhere far below, the mountain sighed, and the
wave of rising heat momentarily grew great.
	Mark lifted the sword. He used both hands on the
hilt, just as his brother Kenn had held it with two

hands during the fight. But no power flowed from the
weapon now, and Mark could do with it as he liked.
Without delaying, without giving the gods another
moment in which to act, he thrust the sword down
into the rising smoke and let it fall.
Father, Kenn, I'ye done it.
	The sword fell at once into invisibility. Mark heard
the sharp impact that it made on nearby rock, followed
by another clash a little farther down. Holding his
breath, he listened a long time for some final impact,
perhaps a splash into the molten rock that an Elder
had once told Mark lay at tire bottom of these holes of
fire. But though he listened until he could hold his
breath no more, he heard no more of the falling sword.
	Mark looked up into the morning sky, clear but for a
few small clouds. They were just clouds, with nothing
remarkable about them. He realized that he was wait-
ing for a reaction, for lightning, for something to embody
what must be the anger of the gods at what he had
just done. He was waiting to be struck dead. But no
blow came.
	What did come instead was, in a sense, even worse.
It was just the beginning of a sickening suspicion that
his throwing the sword down into the volcano had
been a horrible mistake. Now he had made his gesture,
of striking back at the gods for what they had done to
him. And what harm had his gesture done them? And
what good had it done himself?
	In thirteen years, Jord had never made this awful
trek, had never thrown the gods' payment for his right
arm back into their teeth. For whatever reason, Mark's
father had kept his arm-price hanging on the wall at
home instead. Never trying to use it, never trying to
sell it, not bragging about it-but still keeping it.
Mark had never really, until this moment, tried to
fathom why.
	One thing was sure, Mark's fatherhad never tried to
rid himself of the sword.
	The spell of shock that had been put on Mark in the
village street by the evil magic of violence began at last
to lift. He realized that he was alone upon a barren
mountainside, almost too weak to move, many kilome-
ters from the home to which he dared not return. And
that he'd just done something awesome and incompre-
hensible, completed a mad gesture that would make
him the enemy of gods as well as men.
	He hung weakly on the edge of the smoking, stink-
ing stone stump, growing sicker and more frightened
by the moment, until he began to imagine that the
voices of the gods were coming up out of the central
hole along with the mind-clouding smoke. Yes, the
gods were angry. In Mark the feeling grew of just
having made an enormous blunder. The feeling esca-
lated gradually into black terror.
	Only his lack of energy saved him from real panic.
Doing what he could to flee the wrath of the gods,
leaning shakily on the black rocky stump, Mark started
round it to reach its far side, from which the mountain-
side went rather steeply down. As Mark moved onto
the descending slope, the stump he leaned on turned
into a high crooked column, the way around it into a
definite descending path.
	Mark had not followed this path for twenty steps
before he came upon the sword. It was lying directly
in his way, right under a jagged hole in the side of the
crooked chimney-column, through which it had obvi-
ously dropped out. One bounce on rock, the first impact
that he'd heard, then this. Altogether the sword had
fallen no farther than if he'd dropped it from the
millhouse roof.
	Even in that short time it had encountered heat
enough to leave it scorching. Mark burned his fingers
when he tried to pick it up, and had to let it drop
again. He had to wait, shivering in the mountain's

morning shadow, and blowing on his fingers, until the
unharmed metal had cooled enough for him to handle
it.
CHAPTER 3

	"I am still amazed at the extent of your recent
failure, Wearer-of-Blue," Duke Fraktin said. "In-
deed, the more I think about it, the more amazed I
grow."
	The blue-robed wizard's real name was not the one
by which he had just been addressed. But his real
name-or, indeed, even his next-to-real name-were
not to be casually uttered; not even by the lips of a
duke; and the wizard was used to answering to a
variety of aliases.
	The wizard now bowed, though he remained seated,
in controlled acknowledgement of the rebuke; he had a
way, carefully cultivated, of not showing fear, a way
that made even a very confident master tread a little
warily with him.
	"I have already said to Your Grace," the blue-robed
one responded now, "all that I can say in my own
defense."
	There was a small gold cage suspended from a
stone ceiling arch not far above the wizard's head, and
inside that cage a monkbird screamed now, as if in
derision at this remark. The hybrid creature's ineffec-
tual wings made a brief iridescent blur on both sides
of its thin, furred body. But its brain was too small to
allow it the power of thought, and neither of the men
below it paid its comment the least attention.
	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 promi-
nence 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 insur-
ance 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 in-
terior 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 en-
abled 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 evenknow 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 some-
how 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 atten-
tive 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, Mark was
standing off to one side. I didn't think he was hurt, so
I ran right to Kenn, and . . . " She gestured toward hex

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 hus-
band 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 rela-
tives too. If you knew that they were in peril, I sup-
pose 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. 1
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 situa-
tion 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 dragon-
scales -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," lord 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 stand-
ing 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 dolt 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 jew-
eled hilt of the fine dagger at his belt, his hand itched
to toy with it, but he forebore. At this moment he
wanted to do nothing, say nothing, in the least threaten-
ing. 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 con-
trol 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 impor-
tant 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 mans face hardened at that. "Beg pardon, Your
Grace. I didn't think it had been given me to sell."

	"No? Didn t Vulcan say that it was yours, to do with
as you liked?"
	"He said it was mine, sir. But until it came time for me
to pass it to my sons. That was said very definitely, too."
	"I'm curious, Jord. What did you think your son
would do with it, when it came to him? Just keep it on
the wall, as you did?"
	"I don't know, sir."
	The Duke waited a little, but nothing more came. He
sighed. "A pity. I'd have given you a very handsome
price, if you'd brought the thing to me. I still will, of
course, should the blade ever happen to come into
your control again. If, for example, your son should
bring it back. Or if, perhaps, you should look through
the woods and find it where he dropped it. I'll give you
a good price and ask no questions:"
	The man and woman looked at each other, as if they
wished they could take advantage of the Duke's gener-
osity.
	The Duke sat in his chair, leaning forward. "Just
realize that, sooner or later, in one way or another, I'll
have that sword." He leaned back, brightening. "And I
do want to give your son a substantial reward, for
trying his best to defend my cousin-as did your older
son, indeed. So before I forget-" And from a pocket
the Duke produced a golden coin; it spun brightly
toward Jord in a practiced toss.
	Dazed or not, Jord caught the reward deftly in his
huge workman's hand. He stood up, and he and his
wife both bowed in gratitude.
	As if it had never occurred to him to ask the ques-
tion before, the Duke inquired: "Where do you sup-
pose young Mark is now? Have you perhaps some
relatives in another village, where he might have gone?"
	"We have kin in Treefall, Your Grace:" It was the
woman who answered. Again she was mentioning
that village, again with an odd but subtle emphasis in
her voice. Yes, he'd have to see her alone soon.
	Jord said: "We've told your men already about all
our relatives, sire . . . Your Grace, when can we go
home? I'm worried about our daughter, left alone."
	"She'll be all right. I have people in the village now,
keeping an eye on things ...you have no other chil-
dren living, besides that daughter and Mark?"
	"None, sir," said the woman. High child mortality
was common enough. She added: "Your Grace has
been very good to us. To provide healing for my
husband, and now money."
	"Why, so I have. But why not? You are good people,
faithful subjects. And when your young boy is found, I
mean to be good to him as well. There's a story being
told by a neighbor of yours, as doubtless you're aware,
that it was Mark's arrow that felled my cousin. Even if
that should be so, Mark would not be punished for
it-you understand me? If it were so, the evil hit
would have happened by accident-or possibly as the
result of an evil spell, worked by some enemy. My
wizards will find out who did it." And His Grace
glanced at the empty-looking chair beside his on the
dais. "But I do hope, I hope most earnestly, that your
young one is doing nothing foolish with that sword. It
has power far beyond anything that he might hope to
control or even to understand. I would protect him
from disaster if I could. But of course I cannot protect
him if I don't know where he is."
	The faces of both parents, the Duke decided, were
still those of helpless sufferers, not those of schemers
trying to decide whether a secret should be told or not.
He sighed once more, inwardly this time, and made a
gesture of dismissal. "Jord, go make that drawing for
me, of the decorations on the sword. Tell the men in
the next room what I want you to do, they'll get you
what you need. Mala, stay here, I want to hear your
story once again:"

	The spear-carrying. guard had reappeared. And in a
moment Jord, having made an awkward bow toward
the Duke, was gone.
	The woman waited, looking out from under her
dark curls.
	"Now, my dear, you wanted to tell me something
else:"
	She was not going to pretend otherwise. But still
she seemed uncertain as how best to pad. "I spoke
of that village, sire. Treefall. The place my husband
comes from:"
	"Yes?"
	"I thought, Your Honor, that I had encountered you
there one night. Thirteen years ago. At a funeral. The
very night that the five men slain by Vulcan were
being waked, and my husband prayed for-though he
would not be my husband till two days later-and
healing magic worked to help him recover from the
awful wound-"
	"Ali :" The Duke pointed a finger. "You say you thought
you had encountered me? You did not know? You
would not remember?"
	"The man I met, my lord, wore a mask. As I know
the mighty sometimes do, when they visit a place
beneath their station."
	"So. But why should you think this masked man
was me? Had you ever seen me before?"
	"No sir. It was just that I had heard-you know
how stories go round among the people-heard that
you sometimes appeared among your people wearing
a mask of dark leather. . . " Mala evidently realized
that her words sounded unconvincing. "I had heard
that you were not very tall, and had dark hair." She
paused. "It was a feeling that I had:" Pause again.
"There were funeral rites that night. I went with the
masked man to the fields. Nine months later, my son
Mark was born:"
	"Ah:" The Duke looked Mala over thoughtfully, looked
her up and down, squinting a little as if trying to
remember something. "Folk out in the villages do say,
then, that sometimes I go abroad disguised:"
	"Yes, Your Grace, many say that. I'm sure they
mean no harm, they just-
	"But this time, folk were wrong. You understand?"
	Mala's dark eyes fell. "I understand, Your Grace:"
	"Your husband, does he-?"
	"Oh no sir. I've never told him, or anyone, about the
masked man:"
	"Let it remain so," said Duke Fraktin. And again he
made a gesture of dismissal.
	The woman hesitated marginally. Then she was
gone.
	The Duke turned toward the wizard's chair, which
once again was visibly occupied. He waited for its
occupant to comment.
	The first thing that the Blue-robed one said was:
"You did not consider using torture, Your Grace?"
	"Torture at this time would be foolish. I'll stake my
lands that at this moment neither of them knows
where.their brat has gone-or where my sword is,
either. The woman, at least, would hand the sword
over to me in a moment if she could. I think the man
would, too, if it came to an actual decision. And when
they find themselves safely home again in a day or
two, with my gold in their hands-they'll want more.
The word will go out from them that their son should
come home. Word spreads swiftly across the country-
side, Blue-Robes-I've been out there among them
and I know. When their child hears that his parents
are home, safe, rewarded by me-there's a good chance
that hell bring home the sword. If he still has it, if we
haven't found him already. But on the other hand if we
begin with pointless torture, he'll hear about that too.
What chance then that hell come home voluntarily?"

	"Your Grace knows best, of course. But that man's a
stiff-necked one, underneath his meekness. I have the
impression that he was holding something back:"
	"You are a shrewd observer, Blue-Robes. Yes, I agree,
he was. But I don't believe it's anything central to our
purpose. More likely something that passed between
him and the god, years ago."
	"Then, Sire-?"
	"Then why not get it out of him. Indeed:" And Duke
Fraktin sighed his delicate sigh. "But-it may not be
hi's to tell. Have you considered that possibility?"
	"Your Grace?"
	"Are we sure, Blue-Robes-are we really sure-that
we want to know everything that a god has said
should be kept secret?"
	"I must confess, sire, that your subtlety is often-
times beyond me."
	"You think I'm wrong. Well, later, perhaps, I'll put
the whole family on racks or into boots:" The Duke
was silent for a few moments, thinking. "Anyway, he's
a man of property-he's not going to take to the hills
and leave his mill to be confiscated. Not unless we
frighten him very clumsily."
	"And the woman, sire?"
	"What about her
	"The time she spoke of, thirteen years ago, that was
before I came into your service. There was no basis in
fact for what she said? I ask because a magical influ-
ence may sometimes be established through intimacy."
	"You heard what I told her." The Duke was brusque.
	The wizard bowed lightly. "And what about the
young boy, sire? When he is found?"
	The Duke looked at his advisor. "Why, get the sword
from him, of course, or learn from him where it is, or
at the very least where he last saw it:"
	"Of course, sire. And then, the boy?"
	"And then? What do you mean, and then? He killed
my cousin, did he not?"
	The wizard bowed his little bow, remaining in his
chair. "And the village, my lord-the place where such
an atrocity was permitted to happen?"
	"Villages, Blue-Robes, are valuable assets. We do
not have an infinite supply of them. They provide
resources. Vengeance must never be more than a tool,
to be taken up or put down as required. One boy can
serve as an example, can serve better that way, perhaps,
than in any other. But a whole village-" And Duke
Fraktin shook his head.
	"A tool. Yes, sire."
	"And a vastly more powerful tool is knowledge. Find
out where that sword is. Even finding out whose men
those were who tried to kidnap my cousin would be
better than mere vengeance."

CHAPTER 4

	Getting down from the high mountains was difficult,
when your legs were increasingly weakened by hunger,
and your head still felt light from hunger, volcanic
fumes, altitude, and confrontation with the gods. Get-
ting down still wasn't as difficult, though, as going up
had been.
	Even carrying the sword was easier now, as if Mark
had somehow got used to it. No, more than that, as if
it had in some way become a part of him. He could
rest its bundled weight on his shoulder now without
feeling that he was going to be cut, or swing it at his
side without expecting that its awkward weight would
trip him up.
	He could even contemplate, more or less calmly, the
fact that his father and brother were dead, his mother
and sister and home out of his reach, perhaps forever.
His old life was gone, the gods had agreed on that
much at least. But he still had his own life, and the
open road ahead, to carry him away from the Duke's
vengeance. And the sword.
	To find his way down the mountain, Mark simply
chose what looked like the easiest way, and this way
kept leading him obligingly farther and farther to the
south. South was fine with Mark, because he thought
that the shortest route out of Duke Fraktin s territory
probably lay in that direction.
	He seemed to remember hearing also that the lands
of Kind Sir Andrew, as the stories called him, were in
that direction too. There were a number of stories told
about Sir Andrew, all very different from those told
about the Duke. Mark supposed that he would willingly
have gone south anyway, but the prospect of entering
the realm of a benign ruler made it easier to contem-
plate leaving home permanently behind.
	Anyway, his present problems kept him from worry-
ing a great deal about his future. Survival in the
present meant avoiding Duke Fraktin s search parties,
which he had to assume were looking for him; and it
also meant finding food. In this latter respect, at least,
Mark's luck had turned. The first stream he encountered
on his way down the mountain, a bright small torrent
almost hidden in its own ravine, surprised him by
yielding up a fish on his first try with his pocket line
and his one steel hook. Dried brush along the water-
course provided enough fuel for a small fire, and Mark
caught two more fish while the first was cooking. He
ate his catch crudely cleaned`: and half cooked, and
went on his way with his strength somewhat renewed.
	By now, most of the daylight hours had passed.
Looking back, Mark could see that the whole upper
two-thirds of the mountains had been swallowed by
clouds. He'd got down just in time, no doubt, to save
his life from storm and cold. Darkness was gathering

fast, and when he came to a small overhang in the
bank of the stream he decided to let it shelter him for
the night. He tried fishing again, without success. But
he found a few berries, and made himself a small
watchfire as darkness fell.
	During the night there were rain showers enough to
put out his fire, and the bank offered him no real
protection against the weather. But the deep, bitter
cold of the high altitudes was moderated here; Mark
shivered, but survived. Dawn came slowly, an indirect
brightening of an overcast sky. For Mark the clouds
were reassuring-the Duke's menagerie was said to
include flying beasts of some degree of intellig.-ince,
that he sent out on spy missions from time to time.
Again in the morning Mark fished without catching
anything. Then he got moving, picking and eating a
few more berries as he went. He continued to follow
down the channel of the leaping, roaring stream until
the way became too difficult. Then he left the streambed
to strike out across a less difficult slope.
	His chosen way gradually revealed itself as a real
path. .The trail was very faint at first, but after he'd
followed it for half an hour its existence was undeniable.
Switchbacking through a field strewn with great
boulders, it led him in another hour to a primitive
road, which also tended to the south as well as down.
	The road's twin ruts showed that it had once been
used by wheeled vehicles. But it was reassuringly
empty of all signs of present traffic, and Mark contin-
ued to follow its twistings among the foothill outcrop-
pings and rockslides. Within a few kilometers it joined
a north-south way, much wider and better defined,
upon which some effort at road-building had once
been expended.
	Mark turned onto this highway, still heading south.
Presently he came upon evidence of recent use, freshly
worn ruts and beast-droppings no more than a day
old. His sense of caution increased sharply. The Duke's
men and creatures, if they really were searching for
him, were likely to be near.
	Trying to make himself inconspicuous, Mark left the
road and trudged along parallel with it at some fifty
meters' distance. But the rocky terrain not only slowed
him down, it threatened to completely destroy his
hunter's boots. whose soft soles were already badly
worn by climbing on rock. To save his feet he soon had
to go back to the comparative smoothness of the road.
	For half an hour longer he kept going, alert for
anything that looked or smelled like food, and wondering
when the newly threatening rain was going to break.
He glanced back frequently over his shoulder, worried
about the Duke's patrols.
	And then suddenly he was indeed being overtaken,
by two mounted men. Obviously they had already
spotted Mark, but at least they were not soldiers.
Their riding-beasts were only trotting, giving no impres-
sion of actual pursuit. Still they were quickly catching
up. The men were both in commoners' dress, very
little different from Mark's own. Both were young,
both spare and wiry of build. And both wore long
knives sheathed at their- belts, a detail that Mark
supposed was common enough out here in the great
world. He thought, as they drew near, that their faces
were reassuringly open and friendly.
	"Where to, youngster?" The man who spoke was
riding a little in advance of the other. He was also
slightly the bigger of the two, and carrying a bigger
knife. Both men smiled at Mark, the one in the rear
thereby demonstrating that he had lost a fair number
of his teeth.
	Mark had, while walking, prepared an answer for
that question, in case it should be needed. "To Sir
Andrew's Green," he said. "I hear there's to be a fair."
It was common knowledge that Sir Andrew had one

every year, military and economic conditions permitting.
	The two men glanced at each other. They'd slowed
their mounts now, to just match Mark's steady marching
pace. "Fairs are fun," agreed the one who had already
spoken. "And at Sir Andrew's gates would be a pleas-
ant place to bide, in these times of unrest:" He studied
Mark. "You'll have some kin there, I suspect?"
	"Aye, I do. My uncles an armorer in the castle."
This answer, too, had been thought out in advance.
Mark hoped it would put him in the shadow of the
distant Sir Andrew's kind protection-for whatever
that might be worth.
	It was still the same man who did the talking. ' An
odd-looking bundle you've got there under your arm,
lad. Might you be taking along a sword, for your uncle
to do some work on it?"
	"Yes; that's it:" Was it reasonable that the man had
guessed, simply from looking at the bundle, what it
contained? Or had a general search been ordered,
rewards posted, for a fugitive boy carrying a sword?
Mark turned his eyes forward and kept on walking.
	The talking man now urged his riding-beast ahead
of Mark, then turned it crossways to the road, block-
ing Mark's path, and reined it to a halt. "I'll take a look
at your sword," he said, and his voice was still as easy
and as friendly as before.
	If ever the time had been when wordplay with these
two might have helped Mark's cause, that time was
obviously past. He skipped into a run, ignoring their
cries for him to stop. Bending low, he ran right under
the belly of the leader's mount, making the animal
whine and rear. Its master was kept busy for a moment,
trying to do no more than retain his seat. Meanwhile,
the second man, urging his own steed forward, found
his companion in the way. Before the two could get
themselves untangled Mark had a good running start
and was well off the road.
	The idea that he might be able to run faster if he
threw away the sword never occurred to him, even
though its awkward weight joggled him off balance
and slowed him down. He held it under one arm and
ran as best he could. Two large boulders loomed up
just ahead-if he were to dash between them, the men
would never be able to follow him mounted. The trouble
was that just on the other side of the boulders, open
country stretched away indefinitely. They'd ride around
the obstacle easily and catch him in the open, before
he'd had a long enough run to make him gasp.
	Mark feinted a dart between the rocks, then instead
tossed his sword up atop the highest one and scram-
bled up after it, using hands and feet nimbly on tiny
projections from the rock. The boulder was more than
two meters high, with a flat top surface where his
sword had landed. Up here he'd have good footing,
and room to stand and swing the sword, though not
much more. As his pursuers came cantering, outraged,
up to the rock, Mark was relieved to be able to confirm
his first impression that they were ca-.Tying no missile
.weapons, slings or bows. And the side of the boulder
where he'd scrambled up, steep as it was, appeared to
be the least difficult to climb; it wouldn't be easy for
them to come at him from two directions.
	The men were both roaring at him angrily. Even
mounted as they were, their heads were .no higher
than the level of Mark's feet. Ignoring their noise, he
tugged at the cord that bound the bundle. The sword
seemed almost to leap out of its wrappings, as if it
were eager to be used. Still no sound came from it, no
sense of power flowed; it balanced well in Mark's
two-handed grip, but remained heavy and inert. -
	The men below fell silent as he held up the blade.
He was ready to use it if he had to, his stomach
clenching now like a fist, with feelings worse than
hunger. The men were jockeying their mounts back-

ward now, executing a minor retreat. Their faces as
they looked at the sword showed that they were
impressed-and also, Mark thought, that they were
not surprised.
	"Put it down, kid," urged the man who did the
talking. The other as if in agreement emitted a braying
sound, and Mark understood that this man had some-
how lost his tongue. Mark had heard the same kind of
an unpleasant sound before, from the mouth of a man
who was said to have spread nasty stories about the
demise of the father of the present Duke.
	"Just toss it down to us, young one," the speaker
said, his tone encouraging. "We'll take it and go on our
way, and you can go on yours:" The speaker smiled.
He sounded as if he might even believe what he was
saying, at least while he was saying it.
	Mark said nothing. He only held the sword, and
tried to be ready for what would come. The terror he
had known on the mountain, after throwing away the
sword, did not return now, though the weapon in his
hands still felt devoid of power.
	His enemies were two, and they were men full
grown. Both of them had now drawn their knives,
functional-looking weapons worn with sharpening and
use. Yet the two men did not immediately try to swarm
up onto the rock. Instead they still watched the sword.
They remained at a little distance, still mounted, con-
ferring between themselves with quick signs and
whispers.
	Then the one who could speak rode right up to the
rock again. "Get down here right now, kid:" His voice
was now hard and tough, utterly changed from what
it had been. "If I, have to come up there after you, I'll
kill you:"
	Mark waited.
	The man, moving with an appearance of great
purpose, swung himself lithely out of his saddle and
onto the side of the boulder at the place where Mark
had climbed. But when Mark standing atop the great
rock took a step toward him with lifted sword, he
hastily dropped to the ground and backed away.
	They know what sword I have here, thought Mark.
They know what it can do. The Duke has spread the
word, and he's offering a reward. But still the weapon
in Mark's hands felt totally dead. Was there some
incantation he had to utter, something he had to do to
call out the magic? What had Kenn been saying, doing,
just before the fight? Mark thought that a less magical
person than his brother had probably never lived.
	If the two men were not going to leap bravely to the
attack, neither were they about to give up. Both mounted
again, they rode side by side all around the rocks
where Mark had taken his position, scouting out his
strongpoint. They took their time about making a
complete circle of the boulders, pausing now and then
to exchange a whisper and a nod.
	Mark watched them. He could think of nothing else
to do. He still had his bow slung on his back, and a
few arrows left. But, looking at the men's faces, mark-
ing how their eyes kept coming back to the sword, he
felt it would be a bad mistake to put it down. -It was
their fear of the sword that held them back.
	As if he had been reading Mark's thought, the speaker
called to him suddenly: "Put it down, boy, and let's
talk. Were, not meaning to do you any harm!'
	"If that's so, then put your own blades down and
ride away. This one is mine:"
	Presently the two did sheathe their knives again,
and rode away a little distance toward the road, and
Mark's heart dared to rise. But as soon as the pair
were out of easy earshot they stopped for another
conference. This one lasted for several minutes. Mark
could see the gestures of the speechless man, but
could not read their meaning. And Mark's heart sank

again when the two dismounted, tied their animals to
a bush as if preparing for a long stay, and then strolled
back in his direction. Now the speechless one, moving
with a casualness that would not have fooled a child
half Mark's age, ambled on past the high rocks. Soon,
with a very casual turn at some meters' distance, he
had put himself on the opposite side of the high rocks
from his friend and the road.
	Meanwhile the talking man was trying to keep Mark's
attention engaged. "Youngster, there's a reward offered
for that sword you got. We could talk about splitting it
between us. You know, half for you and half for us.
And you to go on free, of course:"
	The first rock thrown by the speechless one missed
Mark by a wide margin. Actually the speaker on the
road side of the rocks had to step out of the way of it
himself. Mark could see in the speaker's face how he
winced, out of embarrassment at his partner's clumsi-
ness. Mark had to turn halfway round, to maim sure
that he was able to dodge the second thrown stone.
Then he had to face back toward the road again,
because the man who talked had once more drawn his
knife, and was gamely trying again to scramble up the
rock.
	As Mark moved forward to counter this frontal attack,
a third thrown stone went past his head, a little closer
than the previous two. The climber, once more seeing
Townsaver right above his head, dropped off the
boulder's flank as he had before. Again Mark spun
around, in time to dodge another missile.
	A sound that had begun some time ago now regis-
tered in his attention, growing louder. It was the rumble
of wagon wheels, drawing nearer with fair speed. And
now the wagon came into sight, moving southbound
on the road, pulled by two loadbeasts and approaching
at a brisk pace. On the wagon's cloth sides large
symbols were rather crudely painted. Mark had seen
the wagons of tinkers, priests, and peddlers decorated
with signs meant for advertisement and magic, but
never signs like these. Dancing on his boulder, he had
no time to puzzle about meanings now, but sang out
for help as loudly as he could.
	An open seat at the front of the wagon held three
people, the one in the middle being a young woman.
All three faces were turned toward the fight, but for a
moment it appeared that the wagon was going to rush
straight on past. It did not. Instead the driver, another
wiry man somewhat older than Mark's assailants,
cried out to his team and reined in sharply on one
side. The vehicle had already passed the rocks, but
now it swerved sharply and came back, leaving the
road in a sharp, tilting turn.
	When the man at the foot of the rock saw this, he
set up his own cry for aid. "Help! We got us a runaway
and a thief treed here. There's a reward, that's a stolen
weapon he's got in his hands."
	His voiceless associate, running back from the far
side of the rocks, grunted and waved his arms, achiev-
ing nothing but a short distraction. While Mark, in
outrage momentarily greater even than his fear, yelled:
"Not so! It's mine!"
	The wagon had braked to a halt in a swirl of dust, a
pebble's toss from where Mark stood. The wiry man
who gripped the reins now had his eyes raised judg-
matically toward Mark, thinking things over before he
acted. The girl in the middle of the seat had straight
black hair, cut short, and a round, button-nosed, some-
how impertinent face, looking full of life if not exactly
pretty. On the other side of her, the seat sagged under
a heavy-set youth who wore a minstrel's plumed cap,
and a look of no great intelligence upon his almost
childish face. In his thick fingers this youth was nursing
a lute, which instrument he now slowly and carefully
put back into the covered rear portion of the wagon.

	In the momentary silence, a thin whining sound
arose from somewhere, to fade out again as abruptly
as it had begun. Mark's hopes soared for an instant;
but the sound, whatever it had been, had not proceeded
from the sword.
	His enemy who could speak still urged the wagon-
driver: "Help us get him down, and well split the
reward."
	Mark pleaded loudly: "I'm no runaway, they're trying
to rob me. This sword is mine."
	"Reward?" asked the wiry driver. He squinted from
one to another of the two men on foot.
	The spokesman nodded. "Split 'er right down the
middle:'
	"Reward from who?"
	"Duke Fraktin himself."
	The driver nodded slowly, coming to his conclusion.
He looked up once more at the anguished Mark, then
shook his head. "Fetch out the crossbow, Ben-go on,
do it, I say."
	The crossbow produced by the large youth from
inside the wagon was bigger than any similar weapon
in Mark's limited experience. He could feel his inward
parts constricting at the very sight of it. Ben cocked it
with a direct pull, not using stirrup or crank, and
without apparent effort. Then he loaded a bolt into the
groove, and handed the weapon to the driver.
	"Now," said the driver, in his most reasonable voice
yet. And with a faint smile he laid his aim directly on
the man who was standing closest to his wagon. "You
and your partner, mount up. And ride away."
	The man who was looking at the wrong end of the
crossbow turned color. He made a tentative motion
with his knife, then put it back into its sheath. He
stuttered over an argument, then gave it up in curses.
Meanwhile his speechless companion stood by looking
hangdog.
	Ben's hands now held a formidable cudgel, and the
look on his childish face was woeful but determined.
The young woman, her expressive features all grimness
now, had brought out a small hatchet from somewhere.
	"Of course," remarked the wagon-driver distantly,
"if you two dori t want your mounts, we sure could use
'em."
	The two he was confronting exchanged a look
between them. Then they stalked to where they'd left
their animals, and mounted. With a look back, and a
muttering of curses, they rode off along the road to the
northeast.
	The muscular youth called Ben let out a tremulous
sigh, a puffing of relief, and tucked his club away. The
driver carefully watched his two opponents out of
sight; then he handed the crossbow back to Ben, who
carefully unloaded it, easing the taut cords.
	Mark looked more closely at the driver now, and
was reminded vaguely of the militia drillmaster he'd
once heard shouting commands at Kenn and a hun-
dred others. But there was kindness in the driver's
voice as he said: "You can put the sword down now,
boy..
	"It's mine."
	"Why, surely. We don't dispute that:" The driver had
blue eyes that tended to squint, a nose once broken,
and a thick fall of sandy hair. The muscular youth,
looking friendly and overgrown, was regarding Mark
with sympathy. As was the pert girl, who had put
away her hatchet. Mark carefully set the sword down
on the rock at his feet and rubbed his fingers, which
were cramped from the ferocity with which he'd gripped
the hilt. "Thank you," he said.
	The driver nodded almost formally. "You're wel-
come. My name is Nestor, and I hunt dragons to
earn my bread. This is Barbara sitting next to me,
and that's my apprentice, Ben. You look like maybe

you could use a ride somewhere:"
	Again the keening, moaning sound rose faintly. Mark
thought that he could locate it now inside the wagon;
some kind of captive animal, he thought, or a pet.
	"My name is Einar," said Mark. It was a real name,
that of one of his uncles, and another answer that he'd
thought out ahead of time. And now, because his
knees had started to tremble, worse than ever before,
he sat down on the rock. And only now did he notice
how dry his mouth was.
	And only after he'd sat down did it sink in: I hunt
dragons ... .
	"We can give you a ride, if you're agreeable," Nestor
was saying. "And maybe a little something to munch
on as we travel, hey? One advantage of a wagon, you
can do other things while you keep moving:"
	Mark pulled himself together and rewrapped the
sword. Then with it in hand he slid down from atop
the boulder.
	"Can I take that for you?" asked Nestor, reaching
down from the elevated seat. Mark had made his
decision, and handed up the sword; Nestor put it back
inside the wagon. Then one of Ben's thick fingered
hands closed on Mark's arm, and he was lifted aboard
as if he were a babe.
	Barbara had made room on the seat for Mark by
going back into the comparatively dim interior of the
wagon. She was fussing about with something there,
in a place crowded with containers, bales, and boxes.
	Nestor already had the loadbeasts pulling. "Going
south all right with you, Einar?"
	"I was headed that way." Mark closed his eyes, then
opened them again, because of images of knives. He
could feel his heart beating. He let things go, and let
himself be carried.
CHAPTER 5
	Riding the wagon's jouncing seat, Mark was startled out of an
incipient daze by the return of the squealing noise. This time it
came insistently, from close behind him. He looked back
quickly. Barbara, crouching in the back of the wagon, had just
removed a cloth cover from a small but sturdy wooden cage.
Inside the cage-by Vulcan's hammer and Ardneh's bones!-was a
weasel-sized creature that could only be a dragon. Mark had
never seen one before, but what else could be as scaly as a snake
and at the same time be equipped with wings?
	Seeing Mark turn his head, Barbara smiled at him. She
delayed whatever she was doing with the dragon long enough to
hand Mark a jug of water, and then, when he'd had a drink, a
piece of fruit. As he bit into that, she got busy feeding the
dragon, handing it
something that she fished out of a sizable earthen crock. Mark
faced forward again, chewing.
Ben had a different, smaller jug in hand. "Brandy?"
	"No thanks." Mark had never tasted strong drink of any kind
before, and didn't know what effect it might be likely to have
on him. He'd seen a village man or two destroyed by constant
heavy drinking. Ben-who was getting a frown from Nestor-
stowed away the jug.
	"Is that blood on your shirt, Einar?" Barbara called from the
rear. "You all right?"
	"No m'am. I mean, yes it is, but it's old. I'm all right."
	Ben's curiosity was growing almost visibly. "That's sure some
sword you got."
	"Yes," agreed Nestor, who was driving now at a brisk pace,
mostly concentrating on the road ahead, but frequently looking
back. "Real pretty blade there."
	"I had it from my father." If his hearers believed that, Mark
expected them to draw the wrong conclusion from it. No one
would be much surprised to find a nobleman's bastard out on
the road, hiking in poverty, carrying along some gift or
inheritance that was hard to translate to any practical benefit.
Now Mark repeated the story about his armorer-uncle being in
the employ of kind Sir Andrew. He couldn't be sure how much
his audience believed, though they nodded politely enough.
	Ben wagged his large head sympathetically. "I'm an orphan
myself. But it don't worry me any more." From behind the seat
he pulled out the lute he had been holding earlier, and
strummed it. Mark thought that it sounded 'a little out of tune.
Ben went on: "I'm really a minstrel. Just 'prenticing with Nestor
here till I can get a good start at what I really want to do. We
got an agreement that I can quit any time I'm ready."
	Nestor nodded as if to confirm this. "Good worker," he
remarked. "Hate to lose you when you go."

Ben strummed again, and began to sing:
The song was . . . No, this song is The
ballad of gallant young Einar Who was
walking as free as . . .
	The singer paused. "Hard to find a rhyme for that name." He
thought for a moment and tried again:
Young Einar was walking the roads As free
as a lark one day Along came two men
Who wanted...
	"That's not quite how it ought to go," Ben admitted
modestly, after a moment's thought.
	"Must be hard to play while were bouncing," said Barbara
understandingly. There had in fact been one or two obvious
wrong notes.
	Mark was thinking that Ben's was not really one of the best
singing voices he'd ever heard, either. But no one else had any
comment about that, and he sure wasn't going to be the first to
mention it.

	Throughout the rest of the day Nestor kept the wagon rolling
pretty, steadily. He showed his wish for concealment by
expressing his satisfaction when a belt of fog engulfed the road
for a kilometer or so. He was always alertly/on watch, and he
had Barbara and Mark take turns riding in the rear of the wagon,
next to the dragons cage, keeping an eye out to the rearfor the
soldiers of the Duke, Mark assumed, though Nestor never
actually said so. From inside the covered, swaying cage, the
unseen small dragon squealed intermittently. It reminded Mark
of the odd noise that a rabbit would sometimes let out when an
arrow hit it.
Beside the cage was the earthen crock, with a weighted net for a
top, that held live frogs. Mark was told that these were the
dragon's food, and he fed it one or two. Its tiny breath, too
young to burn, steamed at his hand. Its toy eyes, doll-eyes,
glittered darkly.
	"When do we leave Duke Fraktin's territory?" Mark asked at
one point in the afternoon. By now the foothills had been left
behind, and the road was traversing firmly inhabited land under
a cloudy sky. Fields almost ready for harvest alternated with
woodlands and pastures. Nestor had driven through one small
village already.
	"Sometime tomorrow," said Nestor shortly. "Maybe sooner."
The fog had lifted completely now, and he was busier than ever
being sharp-eyed. When Mark asked some more questions about
the dragon, he was told that they were taking it to the fair on Sir
Andrew's green, where it ought to earn some coin as an exhibit.
It would also, Mark gathered, serve to advertise Nestor's skill in
the hunt. Sir Andrew was a Fen Marcher, which meant he had
territory abutting the Great Swamp. He and some of his
tributary towns, Mark was told, had chronic dragon problems.
	Mark, thinking about it, had trouble picturing one man,
however strong and skilled and brave, just going out and
hunting dragons as if they were rabbits. From the stories he'd
heard, real dragon hunts were vast enterprises involving
numbers of trained beasts and people. And Nestor might be
brave and skilled, but he didn't look all that strong. Ben, of
course, looked strong enough for two at least.
	As the afternoon passed, Nestor drove more slowly, and
appeared to be even more anxious about seeing what was on the
winding road ahead of him. Passing a pack toting peddler who
was coming from the other direction, he slowed still more to ask
the man a question: "Soldiers?"

	The wink and faint nod that he got in return were apparently
all the answer Nestor needed. He turned off the road at the next
feasible place, and jounced across an unfenced field to a side
lane.
	"Just as soon not meet any of the Duke's soldiers," he
muttered, as if someone had asked him for an explanation.
"There s a creek down this way somewhere. Maybe the water's
low enough to ford. On the other side's Blue Temple land, if I
remember right."
	There was no problem in finding the creek. which meandered
across flat and largely neglected farmland. Locating a place
where it could readily be forded was somewhat harder. Nestor
sent Ben and Barbara to scout on foot, upstream and down, and
eventually succeeded. Once on the other side, he sighed with
relief and drove the wagon as deep as possible into a small grove,
not stopping till he was out of sight of Duke Fraktin's side of
the stream. Then he announced that it was time to set up camp.
Ben and Barbara immediately swung into a well-practiced
routine, tending the loadbeasts and starting to gather some wood
for a fire.
	As Mark began to lend a hand, Nestor called him aside.
"Einar, you come with me. We need some more frogs for the
dragon, and I've a special way of catching them that 1 want to
show you."
	"All right. I'll bring my bow, maybe we'll see a rabbit."
	"It'll be getting dark for shooting. But fetch it along."
	From the back of the wagon Nestor dug out what looked to
Mark like a rather ordinary fishnet, of moderately fine mesh. On
the wooden rim were symbols that Mark supposed might have
some magical significance, though often enough such decorative
efforts had no real power behind them. With Nestor carrying the
net beside him, Mark trudged into the trees, an arrow nocked on
his bow. They followed the general slope of
the land back down to the creek bed.
	As they walked, Nestor asked: "Einar, what's your uncles
name? The one who's armorer for Sir Andrew. I might know
him."
	"His name's Mark." At least he said it quickly; this was one
answer he hadn't thought out in advance.
	"No. I don't know him." A cloudy twilight was oozing up out
of the low ground. They had reached the creek bank without
spotting any rabbits or other game, and Mark put away his bow
and arrow.
	"Anyway," said Nestor, "that sword of yours didn't look like
it needed a lot of work." He was studying the stream as he
spoke, and it was impossible to tell from his voice what he was
thinking. Stepping carefully now from one stone to another, he
worked his way out near the middle of the stream, where he
positioned his net in a strong flow of water, catching the
wooden frame on rocks so it would be held in place. He
straightened up, stretching his back, still seeming to study the
water's flow. "Didn't you say that your uncle was going to work
on it?"
	Mark hesitated, finally got out a few lame words.
	Nestor did not seem to be paying very close attention to what
he said this time. "Or, maybe you've given some thought to
selling your sword at the fair. That would be a good time and
place, if you mean to sell it. Honest business dealings are more
likely under Sir Andrew's eye than elsewhere. There might even
be one or two people there who could buy such a thing."
	"I wouldn't know how to sell it. And anyway, I wouldn't
want to. It was my father's." All of that was the truth, which
made it a relief to say.
	"A sword like that, I suppose it must have some special
powers, as well as being beautiful to look at." Nestor was still
gazing at the stream.
	Mark was silent.
	Nestor at last looked at him directly. "Would you get

it now? Bring it here, and let me have a look at it?"
	Mark could think of no decent way to refuse. He turned
away wordlessly and trudged back to the wagon. He could grab
his sword when he got there and run away again; but sooner or
later he was going to have to trust someone.
	He found Ben and Barbara engaged in what looked like a
tricky business. They had removed the dragon's cage from the
wagon and were cleaning the cage while its occupant shrilled at
them and tried to claw and bite them. They looked at Mark
curiously when he climbed into the wagon, and again when he
emerged with his wrapped sword in hand. But they said nothing
to him.
	Darkness was thickening in the grove when Mark brought the
sword back to Nestor, who was sitting on a rock beside the
stream and appeared to be lost in meditation. But the wiry man
roused quickly enough, took the sword on his lap and undid its
wrappings carefully. There was still enough light for a fairly close
inspection. Nestor sighted along the edge of the blade, and then
tried it with a leaf. Brushed lightly along the upright edge, the
leaf fell away in two neat halves.
	With one finger Nestor traced the subtle pattern on the hilt.
Then, acting as if he had reached a decision, he let Mark hold
the sword for a moment and got to his feet. Lifting his net from
the water, he peered into the mass of small, struggling creatures
it had captured. The net held, thought Mark, a surprising weight
of swimming and crawling things; perhaps the magical symbols
round the rim really were effective.
	Nestor plunged his hand into the mass, pulled out
one wriggling thing, and let the rest sag back into the
water. "Baby dragon," he said, holding up a fistful of
feebly squirming gray for Mark's inspection. There
were no wings, and the creature was vastly smaller
than the one back in the cage. "You find 'em in a lot of
the streams hereabouts. There s a million, ten million, hatched
for every one that ever grows big enough to need hunting:'
	Then he surprised Mark by taking Townsaver back again.
Nestor held the blade extended horizontally, flat side up, and on
that small plain of metal he set the hatchling dragon. Freed of
his grip, it hissed an infinitesimal challenge, and lashed a tiny
tail. Nestor rotated the blade, slowly turning it edge-side up;
somehow the creature continued to cling on. Its scales, though
no bigger than a baby's fingernails and paper-thin, could protect
it from that cutting edge. It hissed again as the sword completed
a half-rotation, once more giving the dragon a flat space to rest
upon.
	Nestor contemplated this result for a moment, as if it were
not at all what he had been expecting. Then with a small flick of
his wrist he dashed the tiny creature to the ground; and in the
next moment he killed it precisely with the sword, letting the
weight of the weapon fall behind the point. Nestor handled the
sword, thought Mark, as if it had been in his hand for years.
	"One less to grow up," said Nestor, turning his thoughtful
gaze toward Mark. With the sword point still down in the soil
at his feet, he leaned the hilt back to Mark, giving the sword
back. "First dragon this sword has ever killed, do you suppose?"
	"I suppose," said Mark, not knowing what the question was
supposed to mean. He began wrapping the weapon up again.
	"Your father didn't hunt them, then. What did he do with
this sword? Use. it in battle?"
	"I . . . " Suddenly Mark couldn't keep from talking, saying
something to someone about it. "My brother did, once. He was
killed:'
	"Ali. Sorry. Not long ago, I guess? Then the sword, when he
used it, didn't . . . didn't work very well for him?"

	"Oh, it worked." Mark had to struggle against an unexpected
new pressure of tears. "It worked, like no other sword has ever
worked. It chopped up men and even warbeasts-but it couldn't
save my brother from being chopped up too:"
	Nestor waited a little. Then he said: "You were trying to use
it today yourself. But-after I got there at least-nothing much
seemed to be happening."
	"I couldn't feel any power in it. I don't know why.". At some
point the thought had occurred to Mark that the limitation on
the sword's magic might be connected with its name. But he
didn't want to go into that just now. He didn't want to go into
anything.
	"Never mind," said Nestor. "We can talk about it later. But
this design on the handle. Did your father, brother, anyone, ever
tell you what it was supposed to mean?"
	None of your business, thought Mark. He said: "No sir."
	"Just call me Nestor. Einar, when we reach Sir Andrew's . . .
well, I don't suppose I have to caution you to keep this sword a
secret, until you know just what you want to do with it."
	"No sir."
	"Good. You carry it, I'll bring the net."
	Back at the wagon, they sorted out not only a catch of frogs
for dragon-food, but a few fish to augment the dinner of beans,
bread, and dried fruit that Barbara was preparing. It turned out
that Ben was roasting some large potatoes under the fire as well,
and for the first time in days Mark could eat his fill.
	After dinner, when the immediate housekeeping chores had
been taken care of, Ben got out his lute and sang again. Both
Nestor and Barbara, for some reason, chose this time to make
their personal trips into the woods.
	"Hard day tomorrow," Nestor announced when he
returned. And, indeed, everyone was yawning. The captive
dragon had already been put back inside the wagon, and the
dragon-hunter retired there now. Barbara shortly followed, after
looking at Mark's boots and vowing that she would soon mend
or replace them for him. After throwing out a quantity of
bedding, and emerging once more to make sure that Mark had
got his share of it, she went in again and closed the flap.
	The rainclouds that had threatened earlier had largely blown
away, and now some stars were visible. Ben and Mark bedded
down in the open, on long grass at a small distance from the
dying fire. Wrapped in the extra blanket Barbara had given him,
Mark was more comfortable than he'd been since leaving home.
He was better fed, also, And very drowsy. His sword was safe in
the wagon, and in a way he enjoyed being free of its constant
presence at his side. Yet sleep would not come at once.
	He heard Ben stirring wakefully.
	"Ben?„
"Yah. "
	"Your master really hunts dragons? For a living?"
	"Oh yes, he's very good at it. That's what our sign painted on
the wagon means. Everyone in the parts of the country where
there are dragons knows what a sign like this means. This isn't
really dragon country here. Just a few little ones in the streams:"
	"I thought that the only people who hunted dragons were..."
	"Castle folk? I think Nestor was a knight once, but he don't
talk about it. Just the way he acts sometimes. Some highborn
people hunt 'em, and others just pretend to. And both kinds hire
professionals like Nestor when they have to, to hunt or to help
out. There's a lot of tricks to hunting dragons:' Ben sounded
fairly confident that he knew what the tricks were.

"And you help him," Mark prodded.
	"Yeah. In two hunts now. Last hunt, we were able to catch
that little one alive, as well as killing the big one we started after.
Both times I stood by with the crossbow, but I didn't do much
shooting. Nestor killed 'em both. Neither of them were very big
dragons, but they were in the legged phase, of course. Bigger than
loadbeasts. You know?"
	"Yeah, I guess:" What Mark knew, or thought he knew, about
dragons was all from stories. After hatching, dragons swam or
crawled around on rudimentary legs for about a year, like the one
Nestor had netted, while large birds, big fish, and small land
predators took a heavy toll of them. The ones that survived
gradually ceased to spend a lot of time in the water, grew wings
of effective size, and started flying. They continued as airborne
predators until they were maybe four or five years old, by which
time they'd grown considerably bigger than domestic fowl. A
little more growth, and they supposedly became too big to fly.
	Once their wings were no longer used, they withered away.
The dragons resumed an existence as bellycrawling, almost
snakelike creatures-so far their legs hadn't kept up with the
growth of the rest of their bodies-though of course they too
were on a larger scale than before. In this, called the snake phase,
they were competitors of the largest true snakes for food and
habitat.
	When they were ready for the next phase-Mark wasn't sure
how many years that took-dragons grew legs, or enlarged their
legs, rather in the manner of enormous tadpoles. This legged
phase was, from the human .point of view, the really dangerous
period of a dragon's life. Now, as omnivores of ever-growing size
and appetite, they stalked their chosen territory, usually
marshland or with marsh nearby. They ravaged crops and cattle,
even carrying off an occasional man,
woman, or child. Mark could vaguely remember hear-
ing of one more phase after the legged one, in which
the beasts after outgrowing any possible strengthening
of their legs became what were called great worms,
and again led a largely aquatic life. But of this final
phase, Mark was even less sure than of the rest.
"Sure," he added, not wanting to seem ignorant.
	"Yeah," Ben yawned. "And both times, Nestor
followed the dragon into a thicket, and killed it with
his sword." Ben sounded as if he were impressed
despite himself. "Did your father hunt dragons too?"
	"No," said Mark, wondering why everyone should
think so. "Why?"
	"I dunno," said Ben. "Just that, now that I think
about it, your sword looks a whole lot like the one that
Nestor uses."

CHAPTER 6

	Putting aside an arras of blue and white, and signal-
ling his blue-robed wizard to follow him, Duke Fraktin
entered a concealed and windowless chamber of his
castle, a room well guarded by strong magic. An eerie
Old World light, steadier than any flame, came alive
as the men entered, shed by flat panels of a strange
material hanging on the walls. The light fell brightly
on the rear wall of the chamber, which was almost
entirely taken up by a large map. Painstakingly drawn
in several colors, and lettered with many names, this
map depicted the entire continent of which the Duke's
domain was no more than a tenth part. Some areas of
the map were largely blank, but most of it was firmly
drawn, showing both the lines of physical features
and the tints of political control. Behind those trusted
contours and colors lay decades of aerial reconnaisance
by generations of flying creatures, some reptiles, some birds,
others hard to classify by species, but all half-intelligent.
	On one of the side walls, near the map, there hung a mask of
dark, tooled leather, with a cowled jacket on a peg beside it.
	But Duke Fraktin's present concern was not with any of
these things. Instead he stopped in front of a large table, on
which rested a carved wooden chest, itself the size of a small
coffin. He signalled to his wizard that he wished this chest to be
opened.
	Accordingly the wizard laid both hands upon its lid,
whereupon there rose from the chest a faint humming, buzzing
sound, as of innumerable insects. In response to this sound the
wizard muttered words. Apparently it was now necessary to
wait a little, for the conversation between the two men went on
with the chest still unopened, the magician's hands still resting
quietly on it.
	"Then does Your Grace still believe that these attackers were
common bandits? Such do not commonly include warbeasts in
their armament."
	"No," agreed the Duke gently. He was looking at the map
now, without really paying it much attention. "Nor do they
commonly attempt to kidnap any of my relatives."
	"Then it would seem, sire, that they were not simply
bandits."
	"That had occurred to me."
	"Agents, perhaps, of the Grand Duke?"
	"Basil bears me no love, I'm sure of that. And of course he
too may have learned of the existence of the swords, and he may
be trying now to gather them all into his own hands, even as I
would have them all in mine . . . hah, Blue-Robes, how I wish I
knew how many all across the continent are playing the same
game. I presume your latest divinations still indicate

that the magic blades at least are not scattered all around the
earth?"
	"The swords are all still on this continent, Your Grace. I am
quite positive of that. But as to exactly where, in whose
possession... "
	The Duke's darkening mood sounded in his voice. "Yes,
exactly. And there's no telling how many know of them by now.
Bah. Kings and princes, queens and bandits, priests, scoundrels
and adventurers of every stripe . . . bah, what a fine mess."
	"At least Your Grace has had a chance to get in on the game.
You were not left in ignorance that it is taking place."
	"Game, is it?" The Duke snorted. "You know I have small
tolerance for games. But I must play, or be swallowed up, when
others gain the power of the swords. And you need not remind
me any more that I have your skill at divination to thank for my
awareness of the game, late as it comes; I've thanked you for
that already. Gods, I wonder whose men those were. The
Margrave's, you suppose? They didn't even seem to know or care
about the sword, at least according to the descriptions of events
we have."
	The wizard, his hands stroking the carven lid of the wooden
chest, coughed. It was a sound as delicate and diplomatic as the
Duke's habitual sigh. "I think not the Margrave's, sire. Perhaps
they could have been agents of the Queen of Yambu?"
	The Duke, nagged by irritation on top of worry, flared up
sullenly, then recovered. "Have I not told you never to speak of
that . . . but never mind. You are right, we must consider
Yambu also, I suppose. But I do not think it was her . . . no, I
do not think so."
	"Perhaps not . . . then we must face the possibility, Your
Grace, that they were agents of the Dark King himself. I did
find it odd that a mere miller should have mentioned that
august name."
• . "I would say that this one-armed Jord is not your ordinary
miller. But then, the commons in general are not nearly so
ignorant of their rulers and their rulers' affairs as those rulers
generally suppose."
	"Just so, sire." The wizard nodded soothingly. "We have then
primarily to consider Grand Duke Basil, Queen Yambu-and
Vilkata himself. While remembering, as Your Grace so wisely
points out, that there are still other possibilities."
	"Yes." But now the Duke's attention was straying, drawn by a
thought connected with the huge map. His gaze had lifted to the
map, and had come to rest at an unmarked spot near the eastern
limit of his own domain and of the continent itself, right at the
inland foot of the coastal range that was labeled as the Ludus
Mountains. Right about there, somewhere, ought to be the high
village-what had the woman named it? Treefall, that was it-from
which the god had conscripted his human helpers, keeping them
for a night and a day of labor, death, and mutilation. It now
struck Duke Fraktin as absurd that the village where such an
enigmatic and almost incredible event had taken place should
not even be marked on his map.
	The woman had asked him . . . no, she had as much as told
him that he, the Duke, had been there, and had fathered a
bastard on her there, the night after Jord's maiming, in one of
those hill country funeral rites. The Duke knew something
about those.
	A bold story indeed for any woman to make up out of
nothing. Still, the fact was that the Duke could remember
nothing like that happening, and he had, as a rule, a good
memory. A better memory, he thought, for women than for
most things. Of course he couldn't recall everything from
thirteen years ago. Exactly what had he been doing at that time-
?
	The insect-buzzing sound had died away. The wizard pushed
up the lid of the huge box. Both men

stared at the fine sword that was reveled inside, nesting in a
lining of rare and fantastically beautiful blue fur. The sword had
not been brought to the Duke in any such sumptuous container
as this; in fact it had arrived, wrapped for concealment, in the
second-best cloak of a Red Temple courtesan.
	The clear light from the Old World wall panels glinted softly
on mirror steel. Beneath the surface of the blade, the Duke's eye
seemed to be able to trace a beautiful, finely mottled pattern
that went centimeters deep into the metal, though the blade was
nowhere a full centimeter thick.
	Putting both hands on the hilt, the Duke lifted the sword
gently from the magical protection of the chest. "Are they ready
out on the terrace?" he asked, without taking his eyes from the
blade itself.
	"They have so indicated, Your Grace."
	Now the Duke, holding the sword raised before him as if in
ritual, led the way out of the blind room behind the arras, across.
a larger chamber, and through another doorway, whose curtains
were stirred by an outdoor breeze. The terrace on which he
emerged was open to the air, and yet it was a secret place. The
view was cut off on all sides by stone walls, and by high hedges
planted near at hand. On the stone pavement under the gray sky,
several soldiers in blue and white were waiting, and with them
one other man, a prisoner. The prisoner, a middle-aged, well-
muscled man, wore only a loincloth and was not bound in any
way. Yet he was sweating profusely and kept looking about him
in all directions, as if he expected his doom to spring out at him
at any moment.
	The Duke trusted his wizard to hold the sword briefly, while
he himself quickly slipped a mail shirt on over his head, and put
on a light helm. Then he took back the sword, and stood
holding it like the experienced swordsman that he was.
	The Duke gestured toward the prisoner. "Arm him,
and step back:"
	Most of the soldiers, weapons ready, retreated a
step or two. One tossed a long knife, unsheathed, at
the prisoner's feet.
	"What is this?" the man demanded, his voice
cracking.
	"Come fight me," said the Duke. "Or refuse, and die
more slowly. It is all one to me:'
	The man hesitated a moment longer, then picked up
the knife.
	The Duke walked forward to the attack. The pris-
oner did what he could to defend himself, which,
given the disparity in arms and armor, was not much.
	When it was over, a minute later, the Duke wiped
the long blade clean himself, and with a gesture
dismissed his troops, who bore away with them the
prisoner's body.
	"I felt no power in it, Blue-Robes. It killed, but any
sharp blade would have killed as well. If its power is
not activated by being carried into a fight, then how
can it be ordered, how controlled? And what does it
do?"
	The wizard signed humbly that he did not know.
	The Duke bore the cleaned blade back into the
concealed room behind the arras, and replaced it in
the magically protective chest. Still his hand lingered
on the black hilt, tracing with one finger the thin white
lines of decoration. "Something like a castle wall on
his sword, the fellow said."
	"So he did, Your Grace."
	"But here I see no castle wall. Here there s nothing
more or less than what we've seen in the pattern since
that woman brought me the sword a month ago. This
shows a pair of dice:"
	"Indeed it does, Your Grace:"
"Dice. And she who brought it to me from the Red

Temple said that the soldier who left it with her had
been wont to play, and win, at dice:" Annoyingly, that
soldier himself was dead. Stabbed, according to the
woman's story, within a few breaths of the moment
when he'd let the sword out of his hands. The killers
who'd lain in wait for him had evidently been some of
his fellow gamblers, who were convinced he'd cheated
them. Duke Fraktin had sent Sir Sharfa, one of his
more trusted knights, out on a secret mission of
investigation.
' Am 1 to cast dice for the world, Blue-Robes?"
	The wizard let the question pass as rhetoric, with-
out an answer. "No common soldier, Your Grace, could
have carried a sword like this about with him for long.
It would certainly have come to the attention of his
officers, and then.. . "
	"It would be taken from him, yes. Though quite
likely not brought here to me. Ali well, it's here now."
And the Duke, sighing, removed his finger from the
hilt. "Tell me, Blue-Robes, is it perhaps something
like our lamps, some bit of wizardry left over from
the Old World? And is the miller's tale of how he
came by it only a feverish dream that he once had,
perhaps when his arm was amputated, perhaps after
he'd caught it clumsily in his own saw or his own
millstones?"
	"I am sure Your Grace understands that none of
those suggestions are really possible. Much of the
miller's tale is independently confirmed. And we know
that the Old World technologists made no swords;
they had more marvelous ways to kill, ways still forbid-
den us by Ardneh's Change. They had in truth the
gun, the bomb... "
	"Oh, I know that, I know that . . . but stick to what
is real and practical, not what may have happened in
the days of legend . . . Blue-Robes, do you think the
Old World really had to endure gods as well as their
nonsense of technology? Ardneh, I suppose, was really
there."
	"It would seem certain that they did, Your Grace.
Many gods, not only Ardneh. There are innumerable
references in the old records. I have seen Vulcan and
many others named:"
	The Duke heaved a sigh, a great sincere one this
time, and shook his head again. As if perhaps he
would have liked to say, even now, that there were no
gods, or ought to be none, his own experience notwith-
standing.
	But here was the sword- before him, an artifact of
metal and magic vastly beyond the capabilities of the
humans of the present age. And it had not been made
in the Old World either. According to the best informa-
tion he had available, it had been made no more than
thirteen years ago, in the almost unpeopled mountains
on the eastern edge of his own domain. If not by
Vulcan, then by whom?
	Gods were rarely seen or heard from. But even a
powerful noble hardly dared say that they did not
exist. Not, certainly, when his domain adjoined the
Ludus Mountains.

CHAPTER 7

	Mark awoke lying on damp ground, under a sky
much like that of the day before, gray and threatening
rain. Still, blanketed and fed, he was in such relative
comfort that for a moment he could believe that he
was dreaming, back in his own bedroom at the mill,
and that in a moment he might hear his father's voice.
The illusion vanished before it could become too painful.
There was Ben, a snoring mound just on the other side
of the dead fire, and there was the wagon. From inside
it the little dragon had begun a nagging squall, sound-
ing almost like a baby. No doubt it was hungry again.
	And now the wagon shook faintly with human stir-
rings inside its cover; and now Ben sat up and yawned.
Shortly everyone was up and moving. For breakfast
Barbara handed out stale bread and dried fruit. People
munched as they moved about, getting things packed
up and ready for the road. Preparations were made quickly, but
fog was closing in by the time everything was ready to travel.
With the fog, visibility became so poor that Nestor entrusted the
reins to Ben, while he himself walked on ahead to scout the
way.
	"We're near the frontier," Nestor cautioned them all before
he moved out. "Everybody keep their eyes open."
	Walking thirty meters or so ahead, about at the limit of
dependable visibility, Nestor led the wagon along back lanes and
across fields. Before they had gone far, they passed a gang of
someone's field workers, serfs to judge by their tattered clothes,
heading out with tools in hand for the day's labor. When these
folk were greeted, they answered only with small waves and
nods, some refusing to respond at all.
	Shortly after this encounter Nestor called a halt and held a
conference. He now admitted freely that he was lost. He
thought it possible that they might not have crossed the frontier
last night after all-or that they might even have recrossed it to
Duke Fraktin's side this morning. Mark gathered that the border
hereabouts was a zig-zag affair, poorly marked at best, and in
places disputed or uncertain. However that might be, all they
could do now was keep trying to press on to the south.
	The four people in and around the wagon squinted up
through fog that appeared to be growing thicker, if anything.
They did their best to locate the sun, and at last came to a
consensus of sorts on its position.
	"That way's east, then. We'll be all right now."
	With Nestor again walking a little ahead of the wagon, and
Ben driving, they crossed a field and jolted into the wheel-ruts
of another lane. Time passed. The murky countryside flowed by,
with a visibility now of no more than about twenty meters.
Nestor was a ghostly figure, pacing at about that distance ahead
of the wagon.

	More time passed. Suddenly, seeming to come from close
overhead, there was a soft sound, quickly passing, as of
enormous wings. Everyone looked up. If there had been a
shadow, it had already come and gone, and no shape was
revealed in the bright grayness. Mark exchanged looks with
Barbara and Ben, both of whom looked just as puzzled as he
felt. No one said anything. Mark's impression had been of
something very large in flight. He had certainly never heard
anything like it before.
	Nestor, who had heard it too, called another halt and another
conference. He didn't know, either, what the flying thing might
have been, and now he was ready to curse the fog, which earlier
he had welcomed. "It's not right for this part of the country, this
time of the year. But we'll come out of it all right if we just keep
going."
	This time Nestor stayed with the wagon and took over the
driving himself. The others remained steadily on lookout,
keeping watch in all directions as well as possible in the fog.
	The lane on which they were traveling dipped down to a
small river, shallow but swiftly flowing, and crossed it in a
gravel ford. Nestor drove across without pausing. Mark
supposed that this was probably another bend of the same
stream that they'd just camped beside, and that this crossing
might mean a new change of territory. But no one said anything,
and he suspected they were all still confused about whose lands
they were in.
	Slowly they groped their way ahead, through soupy mists.
The team, and the dragon as well, were nervous now. As if,
thought Mark, something more than mere fog were bothering
them.
	There was the river again, off to the right. The road itself
moved here in meandering curves, like a flatland stream.
	Suddenly, from behind the wagon and to the left, there came
the thudding, scraping, distinctive sound of riding-beasts hard
footpads on a hard road. It sounded like at least half a dozen
animals, traveling together. It had to be a cavalry patrol.
	The dragon keened loudly.
	"Halt, there, the wagon!"
	From somewhere a whip had come into Nestor's hand, and he
cracked it now above the loadbeasts' backs, making a sound like
an ice-split tree. The team started forward with a great leap, and
came down from the leap in a full run. So far today they had not
been driven hard, and their panic had plenty of nervous energy
for fuel.
	"Halt!"
	The order was ignored. Only a moment later, the first arrows
flew, aimed quite well considering conditions. One shaft pierced
the cloth cover of the wagon above Mark's head, and another
split one of the wooden uprights that supported the cloth.
	"Fight 'em!" roared Nestor. He had no more than that to say
to his human companions, but turned his energy and his words,
in a torrent of exhortation and abuse, toward his team. The
loadbeasts were running already as Mark had never known a
team to run before. Meanwhile inside the wagon a mad scramble
was in progress, with. Ben going for the crossbow and Mark for
his own bow and quiver. Mark saw Barbara slipping the thong of
a leather sling around one finger of her right hand, and taking up
an egg-shaped'leaden missile.
	Looking out from the left front of the wagon with bow in
hand, Mark saw a mounted man swiftly materializing out of the
mist. He wore a helmet and a mail shirt, under a jerkin of white
and blue, and he rode beside the- racing team, raising his sword
to strike at its nearest animal. Mark quickly aimed and loosed an

arrow; in the bounding confusion he couldn't be sure of the.
result of his own shot, but the crossbow thrummed beside him
and the rider tumbled from his saddle.
	The caged dragon, bounced unmercifully, screamed. The
terrified loadbeasts bounded at top speed through the fog, as if
to escape the curses that Nestor volleyed at them from the
driver's seat. It seemed to Mark that missiles were sighing in
from every direction, with most of them tearing through the
wagon's cloth. Someone outside the wagon kept shouting for it
to halt. Ben, in the midst of recocking his crossbow, was almost
pitched out of the wagon by a horrendous bounce.
	Mark saw Barbara leaning out. Her right arm blurred,
releasing a missile from her sling in an underhand arc. One of the
cavalry mounts pursuing stumbled and went down.
	The patrol had first sighted the wagon across a bight of the
meandering road, and in taking a short cut to head it off had
encountered some difficult terrain. This had provided the wagon
with a good flying start on a fairly level stretch of road. But now
the faster riders were catching up.
	"Border's near!" yelled Nestor to his crew. "Hang on!"
	We know it's near, thought Mark, but which direction is it?
Maybe now Nestor really did know. Mark loosed another arrow,
and again he could not see where it went. But a moment later
one of the pursuing riders pulled up, as if his animal had gone
lame.
	Another bounce, another tilt of the wagon, bigger than any
bounce and tilt before. This one was too big. Mark felt the
tipping and the spinning, the wagon hitting the earth broadside,
with one crash upon another. He thought he saw the dragon's
cage, still intact, fly past above his spinning head, all jumbled'
with a stream of bedding, and a frog-crock streaming
frogs. He hit the ground, expecting to be killed or stunned, but
soft earth eased the impact.
	Aware of no serious injury, he rolled over in grass and sand,
the ground beneath him squelching wetly. Nearby, the wagon
was on one side now, with one set of wheels spinning in the air,
and the team still struggling hopelessly to pull it. Meanwhile
what was left of the cavalry thundered past, rounding the wagon
on both sides, charging on into thickets along the roadside just
ahead. Mark could catch just a glimpse of people there, who
looked like Ben and Barbara, fleeing on foot.
	The dragon was still keening, inside its upended but unbroken
crate beside the wagon.
	On all fours, Mark scrambled back into the thick of the spilled
contents at the wagon's rear. He went groping, fumbling, looking
for the sword. He let out a small cry of triumph when he
recognized Townsaver's blade, and thrust a hand beneath a pile
of spilled potatoes for the hilt. He had just started to lift the
weapon when he heard a multitude of feet come pounding closer
just behind him. Mark turned his head to see men in half-armor,
wearing the Duke's colors, leaping from their mounts to surround
him. A spearman held his weapon at Mark's throat. Mark's hand
was still on the sword, but he could feel no power in it.
	"Drop it, varlet!" a soldier ordered.
	-and overhead, out of the mist, great wings were sighing
down. And the caged dragon's continuous keening was
answered from up there by a creak that might have issued from
a breaking windmill blade--
	Another inhuman voice interrupted. This on I was a basso
roar, projecting itself at ground level through the mists. Mark's
knees were still on the ground, and through them he could feel
the stamp of giant feet, pounding closer. A shape moving on two
treetrunk

legs, tall as an elder's house, swayed out of the fog, two
forelimbs raised like pitchforks. Striding forward faster than a
riding-beast could run, the dragon closed in on a mounted man.
Flame jetted from a beautiful red cavern of a mouth, the glow of
fire reflecting, resonating, through cubic meters of the
surrounding fog. The man atop his steed, five meters from the
dragon, exploded like a firework, lance flying from his hand, his
armor curling like paper in the blast. Mark felt the heat at thirty
meters' distance.
	Without pausing, the dragon altered the direction of its
charge. It snorted, making an odd sound, almost musical, like
metal bells. Once more it projected fire from nose and upper
mouth. This time the target, another man on beastback,
somehow dodged the full effect. The riding-beast screamed at the
light brush of fire, and veered the wrong way. One pitchfork
forelimb caught it by one leg, and sent it and its rider twirling
through the air to break their bodies against a tree.
	All around Mark, men were screaming. He saw the Duke's
men and their riding-beasts in desperate retreat.
	The dragon changed the direction of its charge again. Now it
was coming straight at Mark. .

	Nestor, at the moment when the wagon tipped, had tried to
save himself by leaping as far as he could out from the seat, to
one side and forward. He did get clear of the crash, landed on
one leg and one arm, and managed to turn the flying fall into an
acrobat's tumbling roll, thanking all the gods even as he struck
that here the earth was soft.
	Soft or not, something struck him on the side of the head,
hard enough to daze him for a moment. He fought grimly to stay
free of the descending curtain of internal darkness, and collapsed
no farther than his hands and knees. He was dimly aware of
someoneBen, he thought it was-bounding past him, into
nearby thickets promising concealment. And there went a pair of
lighter, swifter feet, Barbara s perhaps.
	In the thick fog, cavalry came pounding near. Beside Nestor in
the muck, partially buried in it even as he was, there was a log.
He let himself sink closer to it, trying to blend shapes.
	The cavalry swept past with a lot of noise, then was, for the
moment, gone. Nestor scrambled his way back toward the
tipped wagon. He had to have the sword. Whatever else
happened, he wasnt going to leave that for the Duke.
	When he reached the spill, he found the sword at once, as if,
even half-dazed, he had known where Dragonslicer must be.
With the familiar shape of the hilt tightly in his grip, and the
sound of the returning cavalry in his ears, Nestor moved in a
crouching run back toward the thickets. He hoped the others
were getting away somehow.
	Once among the bushes, Nestor crouched down motionless.
Once more, in the fog, cavalry went pounding blindly past him,
towards the wagon. He jumped up and ran on again. A moment
later, a hideous, monstrous bellowing filled the air behind him. It
sounded like the grandfather of all dragons, and the noise it made
was followed by human screams.
	Nestor ran on. He had his dragon-killing sword in hand, but
he wasn't about to turn back and risk his neck to use it to save
his enemies. Now, with the dragon providing such great
distraction, he could calculate that his chances of getting away
were quite good. Behind him the sounds of panic and fighting
persisted. Possibly the Duke's patrol could be strong and
determined enough to fight a dragon off. Nestor kept going,
angling away from the direction he thought he'd seen Ben and
Barbara take-time enough, later, to get his crew back together if
they'd all survived.
	In the fog, the bank of the creek appeared so sud

denly in front of Nestor that he almost plunged into the water
before he saw it. He hadn't been expecting to encounter the
stream right here, but here it was, across his path, and maybe he
was getting turned around again-small wonder, in this pea soup.
	Now Nestor deliberately stepped into the thigh-deep water
and started wading. He wanted to put some more distance
between himself and the fighting. If the soldiers drove the
dragon off or killed it, they might still come this way looking.
The uproar slowly faded with distance. It was peculiar, because
this wasn't the country where you'd normally expect to find big
dragons . . . any more than you'd expect a . fog like this . . .
	-wings translucently thin, but broad as a boat's sails, were
coming down at him from above, breaking through puffs of
low pearly mist-what in the name of all the gods?
	For a moment Nestor, still knee-deep in water and gazing
upward, literally could not move. He thought that no one had
ever seen the like of the thing descending on him now. Those
impossible wings had to be reptilian, which meant to Nestor that
the creature they supported had to be some subspecies of dragon.
The reptilian head was small, and obviously small of brain,
grotesquely tiny for such large wings. The mouth and teeth were
outsized for the head, and looked large enough to do fatal
damage to a human with one bite. The body between the wings
was wizened, covered with tough. looking scales, the two
dangling legs all scales and sinew, with taloned feet unfolding
from them now.
	It was coming at Nestor in a direct attack. He stood his
ground-stood his muck and water rather-and thrust up at the
lowering shape. With any other weapon in hand he would have
thought his chances doubtful at best, but with Dragonslicer he
could hardly lose.
	Only at the last moment, when it was too late to try
to do anything else, did he realize that the sound he
always heard when he used this sword was not sound-
ing now, that this time the sensation of power with
which it always stung his arm was absent.
	Even shorn of magic, the blade was very sharp, and
Nestor's arm was strong and steady. The thrust slid
off one scale, but then sank in between two others,
right at the joint of leg and body. Only in that moment
did Nestor grasp how big the flying creature really
was. In the next instant one of the dragon's feet, its
leathery digits sprouting talons, as flexible as human
fingers, stronger than rope, came to scoop Nestor up
by the left arm and shoulder. The embrace of its other
leg caught his right arm and pinned it to his body,
forcing the sword-hilt out of his grasp, leaving the
sword still embedded in the creatures flesh between
its armored scales. The violence with which it grabbed
and lifted him banged his head against its scaly breast,
a blow hard enough to daze him again.
	He knew, before he slid into unconsciousness, that
his feet had been pulled out of the water, that nothing
was in contact with his body now but air and dragon
scales. He felt the rhythm of the great wings working,
and then he knew no more.

	Even as the enormous landwalker charged at Mark,
a shrill sound burst from the sword in his right hand.
The sound from the sword was almost lost- in the roar
that erupted from the dragon's fiery throat, and the
pulsed thunder of its feet. But the sword's power
could be felt as well as heard. Mark was holding the
hilt in both hands now, and energy rushed from it up
into his hands and arms, energy that aligned the blade
to meet the dragon's rush.
	The sword held up Mark's arms, and it would not
let him fall, or cower down, or even try to step aside.
He thought, fleetingly: This is the same terror that

Kenn felt. And helplessly he watched the great head
bending near. From those lips, that looked as hard and
rough as chainmail, and from those flaring nostrils.
specks of fire drooled. The glowing poison spurted
feebly, from a reservoir that must have been exhausted
on the cavalry. Mark could feel the bounce and quiver
of the soft earth with each approaching thud of the
huge dragon's feet. And he saw the pitchfork forelimbs
once more raised, to swipe and rend.
	The head came lowering at Mark. It was almost as
if those forge-fire eyes were compelled to challenge the
light-sparks that now flecked the sword, springing as
if struck from the metal by invisible flint. The sword
jerked in a sideways stroke, driven by some awesome
power that Mark's arms could only follow, as if they
were bound to the blade by puppet-strings.
	The one stroke took off the front quarter of the
dragon's lower jaw. The dragon lurched backward one
heavy step, even as a splash of iridescent blood shot
from its wound. Mark felt small droplet-, strike, an
agony of pinhead burning, on his left arm below his
sleeve, and one on his left cheek. And the noise that
burst from the dragon's throat behind its blood was
like no other noise that Mark had ever heard, in wak-
ing life or nightmare.
	In the next instant, the dragon lurched forward
again to the attack. Even as Mark willed to twist his
body out of the way of the crushing mass the sword in
his hands maintained a level thrust, holding his hands
clamped upon its hilt, preventing an escape.
	Mark went down backward before that falling charge.
He fell embedded in cushioning mud, beneath the
scaly mass. In mud, he slid from under the worst of
the weight; he could still breathe, at least. Finally the
sword released his hands, and he felt a monstrous
shudder go through the whole mass of the dragon's
body, which then fell motionless.
	The pain had faded from the pinprick burns along his arm,
but in his left cheek a point of agony still glowed. He tried to
quench it in mud as he writhed his way toward freedom. Only
gradually did he realize that he had not been totally mangled,
indeed that he was scarcely injured at all. The falling torso had
almost missed him. One of the dragon's upper limbs made a
still arch above his body, like the twisted trunk of an old tree.
	He was still alive, and still marveled at the fact. Some deep
part of his mind had been convinced that a magic sword must
always kill its user, even if at the same time it gave him victory.
	The scaly treetrunk above Mark's body began to twitch.
Timing his efforts as best he could to its irregular pulsation, he
worked himself a few centimeters at a time out from under the
dead or dying mass. He was quivering in every limb himself,
and now he began to feel his bruises, in addition to the slowly
fading pain of the small burn. Still he was unable to detect any
really serious injury, as he crawled and then hobbled away
from the corpse of the dragon into some bushes. The only clear
thought in his mind was that he must continue either to try to
hide or to run away, and at the moment he was still too shaken
to try to run.
	Sitting on the muddy ground behind a bush, he realized
gradually that, for the moment at least, no danger threatened.
The dragon had chased the cavalry away, and now the sword
had killed the dragon. He had to go back to the dragon and get
the sword.
	Standing beside the slain monster he couldn't see the sword.
It must still be buried where his hands had last let go of it. It
must still be hilt down in mud, under the full weight of more
than a thousand kilograms of armored flesh.
	Going belly down in mud again, Mark reached as far as
possible in under the dead mass. He could just

touch the sword's hilt, and feel, through it a faint, persistent
thrum of power. The blade was hilt-deep in the dragon; though
Mark could touch the weapon, it seemed impossible without
moving the dragon to pull it out.
	Mark was still tugging hopelessly at the handle when - he
heard Ben's voice, quiet but shaken, just behind him.
	"Bigger'n any dragon I ever saw . . . where's Nestor?"
	Mark turned his head halfway. "I don't know. Help me get
the sword out, it's stuck in, way down here."
	"You see what happened? I didn't." Without waiting for an
answer, Ben planted his columnar legs close beside the plated
belly of the beast, then raised both hands to get leverage on
one of the dragon's upper limbs, which appeared to be
already stiffening. Grunting, he heaved upward on the leg.
	Mark tugged simultaneously at the sword's handle, and felt
it slide a few centimeters toward him. "Once more. "
	Another combined effort moved the hilt enough to bring it
out into full view. When Ben saw it, he bent down and took
hold-there was room on that hilt for only one of his hands.
One was enough. With a savage twist he brought the blade
right out, cutting its own way through flesh and scale, bringing
another flow of blood. The colors of the blood were dulling
quickly now.
	As soon as Ben had the sword free, he dropped it in the
mud, and stood there rubbing the fingers of the hand with
which he'd pulled it out. "I felt it," he muttered, sounding
somewhat alarmed. He didn't specify just what it was he'd felt.
	"It's all right," said Mark. He picked up the weapon and
wiped it with some handy leaves. His hands were and
remained black with mud, but, as before, the sword was clean
again with almost no effort at all.
	Mark became motionless, staring at the hilt. It showed no
castle wall, but the white outline of a stylized dragon.
	Ben wasn't looking at the sword, but staring at Mark's face.
"You got burned," Ben said softly. "You must have been close.
Where's Nestor?"
	"I haven't seen him. Yes, I was close. I was the one who
held the sword. This sword. But this isn't mine. Wheres
mine?" As he spoke. Mark rose slowly to his feet. His voice
that had been calm was on the verge of breaking.
	Ben stared at him. There was a sound nearby. and they
both turned quickly to see Barbara. She was as muddy and
bedraggled as they were, carrying her hatchet in one hand, sling
in the other.
	"Where's Nestor?" she asked, predictably.
	Haltingly, his mind still numbed by the fact that his sword
was gone, Mark recounted his version of events since the
wagon had tipped over. They looked at him, and at the sword;
then Barbara took the weapon from his hands, and pressed
gently with the point right on the middle of one of the dragon's
thickest scales. There was a spark from the steel. With a faint,
shrill sound, the blade sank in as into butter.
	Mark said: "That looks almost exactly like my sword, but it
must be Nestor's. Where's mine?" The feeling of shock that
had paralyzed him was suddenly gone, and he ran to search
amid the jumbled contents of the wagon. He couldn't find the
sword there, or anywhere nearby. The others followed him,
looking for Nestor, but he was not to be found either, alive or
dead. They called his name, at first softly, then with increasing
boldness. The only bodies to be found were those of soldiers,
mangled by the landwalker before it had been killed.
	"If he's gone," said Mark, "I wonder if he took my sword?"

	He might have, by mistake, they decided-no one thought it
would make sense for Nestor to take Mark's weapon and
deliberately leave his own behind.
	"But where d he go?"
	"Maybe the soldiers got him. And the other sword."
	"They were in a blind panic, just getting out of here. The
ones who're still alive are running yet."
	Dead riding-beasts were lying about too, and some severely
injured. Ben dispatched these with his club. The team of
loadbeasts was still attached to the spilled wagon, and
fortunately did not appear to be seriously hurt. The human
survivors, pushing together, tipped the wagon back on its
wheels again, and saw that all four wheels still would roll.
	While Mark continued a fruitless search for his sword, the
others reloaded cargo, throwing essentials, valuables, and junk
all back into the wagon. They reloaded the now empty frog-
crock, and at last the tumbled dragon-cage.
	Barbara pauscd with her hand on the cage, whose forlorn
occupant still keened. "Do you suppose the big ones came
after this? They must have heard it yelping."
	Ben shook his head decisively. "Never knew dragons to act
that way. Big ones don't care about a small one, except maybe
to eat it if they're hungry, which they usually are." Ben was
worried, but not about dragons. "If Nestor's gone, what're we
going to do?"
	Barbara said: "We ve looked everywhere around here.
Either he's still running, or else he got hurt or killed and
washed down the river. I can't think of anything else."
	"Or," said Mark, coming back toward the others in his vain
seeking, "the soldiers got him after all. And my sword with
him."
	They all looked once more for Nestor and the sword. They
even followed the river downstream for a little distance. It
seemed plain that a body drifting in this
stream would catch in shallows or on a rock before it had gone
very far.
Still there was no sign of man or weapon.
	At last Barbara was the decisive one. "If the soldiers did get
him, he's gone, and if he's dead he's dead. If he's still running,
well, we can't catch him when we've got no idea which way he
went. We'd better get ourselves out of here. More soldiers
could come back. Einar, your sword's just not here either. If
Nestor's got it, and he catches up with us, you'll get it back:"
	"Where'll we go?" Ben sounded almost like a child.
	She answered firmly: "On to Sir Andrew's. If Nestor is going
to come looking for us anywhere, it'll be there."
	"But what'll we say when we get there? What'll we do? Sir
Andrew's expecting Nestor."
	"We'll say he's delayed:" Barbara patted Ben's arm hard,
encouragingly. "Anyway, we've still got Nestor's sword. You
can kill dragons with it if you have to, can't you? If little Einar
here can do it:"
	Ben looked, if not frightened, at least doubtful. "I guess we
can talk about that on the way."

CHAPTER 8
	Two men were sitting in Kind Sir Andrew's dungeon. One,
who was young, perched on a painted stool just inside the bars
of a commodious whitewashed cell. The other man was older,
better dressed, and occupied a similar seat not very far outside
the bars. He was reading aloud to the prisoner out of an ancient
book. To right and left were half a dozen other cells, all
apparently unoccupied, all clean and whitewashed, all
surprisingly light and airy for apartments in a dungeon. Though
this level of the castle was half underground, there were
windows set high in the end wall of the large untenanted cell at
the far end of the row.
	At a somewhat greater distance, down a branching, stone-
vaulted, cross corridor, were other cells that gave evidence of
habitation, though not by human beings. Sir Andrew had
caused that more remote portion of
his dungeon to be converted into a kind of bestiary, now
housing birds and beasts of varied types, whose confinement
had required the weaving of cord nets across the original heavy
gratings of the cell doors and windows.
	Yes, there were more windows in that wing. You could tell
by the amount of light along the corridor that way. The young
man on the stool inside the cell, who was currently the only
human inmate in the whole dungeon, and who was supposed to
be listening to the reading, kept looking about him with a kind
of chronic wonder, at windows and certain other surprises. The
young man's name was at least that was the only name he could
remember for himself. He was thin-faced and thin-boned, and
had lank, dark, thinning hair. His clothes were ragged, and his
weathered complexion showed that he had not been an indoor
prisoner for any length of recent time. He had quick eyes-quick
nervous hands as well, hands that now and then rubbed at his
wrists as if he were still in need of reassurance that they were
not bound. Every now and then he would raise his head and
turn it, distracted by the small cheerful cries that came from his
fellow prisoners down the corridor.
	Kaparu was no stranger to the inside of jails and dungeons,
but never in all his wanderings had he previously encountered
or even imagined a jail like this. To begin with, light and air
were present in quite astonishing quantities. Yes, the large cell
at the end of the row had real windows, man-sized slits
extending through the whole thickness of the lower castle wall,
like tunnels open to the bright late summer afternoon: The way
it looked, the last prisoner put in there might just have walked
out through the window. In through those embrasures came not
only air and light, but additional cheerful sounds. Outside on
Sir Andrew's green the fair was getting under way.

	There was also a sound, coming from somewhere else in the
dungeon, of water dripping. But somehow, in this clean, white
interior, the sound suggested not dankness and slow time, but
rather the outdoor gurgle of a brook. Or, more aptly, the
lapping of a lake. The castle stood on a modest rise of ground,
the highest in the immediate neighborhood, but its back was to
a sizable lake, whose surface level was only a little lower than
this dungeon floor.
	Resting on the floor of the prisoner's cell, not far from the
feet of his stool, was a metal dish that held a sizable fragment
of bread, bread fresh from theoven today and without insects.
Beside the plate, a small pottery jug held clean drinking water.
At intervals the prisoner involuntarily darted a glance toward
the bread, and each time he did so his left foot as if in reflex
lifted a trifle from the stool-rung it was on-but in this peculiar
dungeon there were evidently no rats to be continually kicked
and shooed away.
	And each time the prisoner turned his head to look at the
plate, his gaze was likely to linger, in sheer disbelief, upon the
small vase filled with fresh cut flowers, that stood beside his
water jug.
	The man who sat outside the cell, so patiently reading aloud
from the old book, had not been young for some indeterminate
time. He was broadly built, and quite firmly and positively
established in middle age, as if he had no intention at all of ever
growing really old. His clothing was rich in fabric and in
workmanship, but simple in cut, and more than ordinarily
untidy. Like his garments, his beard and mustache of sandy
gray were marked with traces of his recently concluded lunch,
which had obviously comprised some richer stuff than bread
and water.
	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 how 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 considerablein 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 mundane-
looking, 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 that. 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.
	He thought that the dragon was going to drop him at any
moment. He knew that a grown man must be a very heavy
load-five minutes ago he would have said an impossible load-
for any creature that flew on wings and not by magic. And
obviously his captor was having a slow and difficult struggle
to gain alti-
tude with Nestor aboard. Now the mists below were thick
enough to conceal flat ground and water, but the tops of trees
kept looming out of the mists ahead, and the flyer kept
swerving between the trees. No matter how its great wings
labored, it was unable as yet to rise above them.
	From being sure that the creature was going to drop him,
Nestor quickly moved to being afraid that it was not. Then, as
it gained more altitude despite the evident odds, he progressed
to being fearful that it would. Either way there appeared to be
nothing he could do. Both of his arms were now pinned
between his own body and the scaly toughness of the dragons.
He could turn his head, and when he turned it to the right he
saw the hilt of the sword, along with half the blade, still
protruding from between tough scales near the joining of the
animal's left leg and body. The wound was lightly oozing
iridescent blood. If Nestor had been able to move his right arm,
he might have tried to grab the hilt. But then, at this increasing
altitude, he might not.
	The great wings beat majestically on, slowly winning the
fight for flight. Despite the color of the creature's blood, its
scales, and everything else about it, Nestor began lightheadedly
to wonder if it was truly a dragon after all. He had thought that
by now, after years of hunting them, he knew every subspecies
that existed . . . and Dragonslicer had never failed to kill before,
not when he had raised it against the real thing. Could this be
some hybrid creature, raised for a special purpose in some
potentate's private zoo?
	But there was something he ought to have remembered
about the sword . . . dazed as Nestor was, his mind filled with
his shoulder's pain and the terror of his fantastic situation, he
couldn't put together any clear and useful chain of thought.
This thing can't really carry me, he kept thinking to himself,
and kept

expecting to be dropped at any moment. No flying creature
ought to be able to scoop up a full-grown man and just bear
him away. Nestor realized that he was far from being the
heaviest of full-grown men, but still . . .
	Now, for a time, terror threatened to overcome his mind.
Nestor clutched with his fingernails at the scales of the beast
that bore him. Now he could visualize it planning to drop him
when it had reached a sufficient height, like a seabird cracking
shells on rocks below. In panic he tried to free his arms, but it
ignored his feeble efforts.
	Once more Nestor's consciousness faded and came back. On
opening his eyes this time he saw that he and his captor were
about to be engulfed by a billow of fog thicker than any
previously encountered. When they broke out of the fog again,
he could see that at last they had gained real altitude. Below,
no treetops at all could now be seen, nothing but fog or cloud
of an unguessable depth. Overhead, a dazzling white radiance
was trying to eat through whatever layers of fog remained. The
damned ugly wounded thing has done it, Nestor thought, and
despite himself he had to feel a kind of admiration . . .
	When he again came fully to himself, his abductor was still
carrying him in the same position. They were in fairly smooth
flight between two horizontal layers of cloud. The layer below
was continuous enough to hide the earth effectively, while that
above was torn by patches of blue sky. It was a dream-like
experience, and the only thing in Nestor's memory remotely
like it was being on a high mountain and looking down at the
surface of a cloud that brimmed a valley far below.
	The much greater altitude somehow worked to lessen the
terror of being dropped. Once more the sword caught at
Nestor's eye and thought. Turning his head he observed how,
with each wingstroke, the hilt of the
embedded weapon moved slightly up and down. A very little
blood was still dripping. Nestor knew the incredible toughness
of, dragons, their resistance to injury by any ordinary weapon.
But this . . .
	He kept coming back to it: A dragon can't carry a man,
nothing that flies is big enough to do that. Of course there were
stories out of the remote past, of demon-griffins bearing their
magician-masters on their backs. And stories of the Old World,
vastly older still, telling of some supposed flying horse . . .
	The flight between the layers of cloud went on, for a time
that seemed to Nestor an eternity, and must in fact have been
several hours. Gradually the cloudlayers thinned, and he could
see that he was being carried over what must be part of the
Great Swamp, at a height almost too great to be frightening at
all. The cloud layer above had now thinned sufficiently to let
him see from the position of the sun that his flight was to the
southwest.
	Eventually there appeared in the swamp below an irregular
small island, bearing a stand of stark trees and marked at its
edges by low cliffs of clay or marl. At this point the dragon
turned suddenly into a gentle downward spiral. Nestor could
see nothing below but the island itself which might prompt a
descent. And it was atop one of those low, wilderness cliffs of
clay that the creature landed.
	Nestor was dropped rudely onto the rough ground, but he
was not released. Before his stiffened limbs could react to the
possibilities of freedom, he was grabbed again. One of the
dragon's feet clamped round his right leg, lifted hirri, and hung
him up like meat to dry, with his right ankle wedged painfully
in the crotch of a tree some five meters above the ground. He
hung there upside down and yelled.
	His screams of new pain and fresh outrage were loud, but
they had no effect. Ignoring Nestor's noise,

his tormentor spread its wings and flapped heavily off the cliff.
It descended in a glide to land at the edge of the swamp, some
fifteen or twenty meters below. There, moving in a cautious
waddle, it positioned itself at the edge of a pool. Placid as a
woolbeast, it extended its neck and lapped up a drink. It
continued to ignore the sword which still stuck out of its hip.
	When it had satisfied its thirst, would it wish to dine? That
thought brought desperation. Nestor contracted his body,
trying to pull himself up within grabbing distance of the
branches imprisoning his leg. But his right arm, like his whole
body, was stiff and sore, acrd his left arm could hardly be made
to work at all. The fingers of his right hand brushed the branch
above, but he could do no more, and fell back groaning. Even if
by some all-out contortion he were to succeed in getting his
foot free, it might well be at the price of a breakbone fall onto
the hard ground at the top of the cliff.
	Sounds of splashing drew Nestor's attention back to the
swamp. Down there the dragon had plunged one taloned foot
into the swamp. Shortly the foot was brought out again,
holding a large snake. Nestor, squinting into his upside-down
view of the situation, estimated that the striped serpent was as
thick as a man's leg. It coiled and thrashed and hissed, its fangs
stabbing uselessly against the dragon's scales. The head kept on
striking even after the dragon had snapped a large bite out of
the snake's midsection, allowing its tail half to fall free.
	Nestor drew some small encouragement from the fact that
the dragon seemed to prefer snake to human flesh. He tried
again, more methodically this time, to work himself free. But in
this case method had no more success than frenzy.
	He must have fainted again, for his next awareness was of
being picked up once more by his captor. He
was being held against the dragon's breast in the same way as
before, and his arms were already firmly pinned. This time the
takeoff was easier, though hardly any less terrifying-it
consisted in the dragon's launching itself headlong from the
brink of the small cliff, and gaining flying speed in a long,
swamp-skimming dive that took Nestor within centimeters of
the scummy water. Moss-hung trees flitted past him to right
and left, with birds scattering from the trees in- noisy alarm. A
monkbird screamed, and then was left below.
	Again Nestor faded in and out of consciousness. Again he
was unsure of how much time was passing. If the damnable
thing had not hauled him all this way to eat him, then what was
its purpose? He was not being taken home to some gargantuan
nest to feed its little ones-no, by all the gods and the Treasure
of Benambra, it could not be that. For such an idea to occur to
him meant that he was starting to go mad. Everyone knew that
dragons built no nests and fed no young . . . and that no flying
dragon was big enough to carry a grown man . . .
	The clouds in the west were definitely reddening toward
sunset before the flight was over. At last the creature ceased its
steady southwestern flight and began to circle over another,
larger, island of firm ground in the swamp. Most of the trees
and lesser growth had been cleared away from a sizable area
around the approximate center of the island. In the midst of
this clearing stood a gigantic structure that Nestor, observing
under difficult conditions, perceived as some kind of temple. It
had been built either of stone, brought into the swamp from the
gods knew where, or else of some kind of wood, probably
magically hardened and preserved against decay. The circles of
the dragon's flight fell lower, but Nestor still could not guess to
which goddess or god the temple-if such it truly was-had been
dedicated; there were so

many that hardly anyone knew them all. He could tell that the
building was now largely fallen into ruin, and that the ruins
were now largely overgrown by vines and flowers.
	The largest area remaining cleared was a courtyard, its stone
paving still mostly intact, directly in front of what had
probably been the main entrance of the temple. The flyer
appeared to be heading for a landing in this space, but was for
some reason approaching very cautiously. While it was still
circling at a few meters' altitude, one possible reason for
caution appeared, in the form of a giant landwalker that stalked
out into the courtyard from under some nearby trees,
bellowing its stupidity and excitement. While the flyer
continued to circle just above its reach, the landwalker roared
and reared, making motions with its treetrunk forelimbs as if it
meant to leap at Nestor's dangling legs when they passed
above. Once he thought that he felt its hot breath, but
fortunately it had no hope of getting its own bulk clear of the
ground.
	Then a prolonged cry, uttered in a new and different voice,
penetrated the dragon's noise. The new voice was as deep as
the landwalker's roar, but still for a moment Nestor thought
that it was human. Then he felt sure that it was not. And,
when the sound of it had faded, he was not sure that it had
borne intelligence of any kind, human or non-human. The basic
tone of it had been commanding, and the modulation had
seemed to Nestor to hover along the very verge of speech-just
as a high-pitched sound might have wavered along the verge of
human hearing.
	Perhaps to the landwalker dragon some meaning had been
clear, for the enormous beast broke off its own uproar almost
in mid-bellow. It turned, with a lash of its great tail, and
stamped back into the surrounding forest, kicking small trees
aside.
	Now the way was clear for the flying dragon, and it
lowered quickly into the clearing. Then, summoning
up one more effort, it hovered with its burden, as from
underneath vast trees a being who was neither dragon
nor human strode out on two legs-
	Nestor looked, then looked again. And still he was
not sure that his sufferings had not finally brought
him to hallucinations.
	The being that stood below him on two legs was
clothed from head to toe in long fur, a covering subtly
radiant with its own energies. The suggestion was of
light on the edge of vision, its colors indefinable. The
figure was easily six meters tall, not counting the
upraised arm of human shape that reached for Nestor
now. The face was not human-certainly it was not-
but neither was it merely bestial.
	Despite its subtly glowing fur, the giant hand that
closed with unexpected gentleness round Nestor's torso
was five-fingered, and of human shape. So was the
other hand that reached to pluck out delicately the
sword still embedded in the hovering dragon's hip. At
that, the flyer flapped exhaustedly away. As it departed,
it uttered again the creaking-windmill cry that Nestor
remembered hearing once before, a lifetime in the past
when he had still been driving his wagon through the
fog.
	The enormous two-legged creature had put the sword
down on the paving at its feet, and both furred hands
were cradling Nestor now. And he was about to faint
again . . .
	But he did not faint. An accession of strength, of
healing, flowed into his maltreated body from those
hands. A touch upon his wounded shoulder, followed
by a squeeze that .should have brought agony, served
instead to drain away the existing pain. A tingling
warmth spread gratefully, infiltrating Nestor's entire
body. A moment later, when he was set down gently
on the ground, he found that he could stand and move

easily. He felt alert and capable, indeed almost rested.
His pains and injuries had entirely vanished. Even the
thirst that had started to torment his mouth and throat
was gone.
	"Thank you," he said quietly, and looked up, ponder-
ing his rescuer. Although the day was almost gone, the
sky was still light. The glow of daylight tinged with
sunset surrounded the subtler radiance of fur, on the
head of the treetall being who stood like a huge man
with his arms folded, looking down at Nestor.
	"I am sorry that you were hurt." The enormous
voice sounded almost human now. "I did not mean
you any harm."
	Nestor spread his arms. He asked impulsively: "Are
you a god?"
	".I am not:" The answer was immediate, and decisive.
"What do you know of gods?"
	"Little enough, in truth." Nestor rubbed at his
shoulder, which did not hurt; then he dropped his
gaze to the sword, which was now lying on the
courtyard's pavement at his feet. "But I have met one,
once before. It was less than a year ago, though by all
the gods it seems at least a lifetime. Until that day, I
don't suppose I ever really believed that gods existed."
	"And which god did you meet that day, and how?"
The huge voice was patient and interested, willing to
gossip about gods if that was what Nestor wanted.
Above the folded arms, the immense face was-
inhuman. It was impossible for Nestor to read expres-
sion in it.
	Nestor hesitated, thought, and then answered as
clearly as he could, and not as he would have responded
to questions put by any human interrogator. Instead,
he felt himself to be speaking as simply as a child,
without trying to calculate where his answers might
be going to lead him.
	' It was Hermes Messenger that I encountered. He
came complete with his staff and his winged boots. I
was living alone then, in a small hut, away from
people-and Hermes came to my door and woke me
one morning at dawn. Just like that. He was carrying
in one hand a sword, the like of which I'd never seen
before, and he handed it over to me-just like that.
Because, as he said, I would know how to use it. I was
already in the dragon-hunting trade. He told me that
the sword had been for far too long in the possession
of people who were never going to use it, who were too
afraid of it to try, though they had some idea of its
powers. Therefore had Hermes taken it from them,
and brought it to me instead. It was called the Sword
of Heroes, he told me, and also known as Dragonslicer.
He said that it would kill any dragon handily.
	"Well, I soon had the opportunity to put Dragonslicer
to the test, and I found that what Hermes had told me
was the truth. The blade pierced the scales of any
dragon that I met like so much cloth. It chopped up
their bones like twigs, it found their hearts unerringly.
Hermes had told me that it had been forged by Vulcan,
and when I saw what it could do I at last believed him
on that point also."
	"And what else did Hermes say to you?"
	Trying to meet his questioner's eyes was giving Nestor
trouble. Staring at the giant's legs, he marked how
their fur still glowed on the border of vision, even now
when direct sunlight was completely gone. Night's
shadows, rising from the swamp, had by now crept
completely across the cleared courtyard and were
climbing the front of the enormous, ruined temple.
	"What else did he say? Well, when I thought he was
about to turn away and leave me with the sword, I
asked him again: 'Why are you giving this to me?' And
Hermes answered: 'The gods grow impatient, for their
great game to begin."'
"'Great game'?" The giant's voice rumbled down to

Nestor from above. "Do you know what he meant by
that?"
	"No, though 1 have thought about it often." Nestor
forced himself to raise his head and look the other in
the eye. "Do you know what he meant?"
	"To guess what the gods mean by what they say is
more than 1 can manage, most of the time. And is this
sword here at our feet the same that Hermes gave to
you?"
	"I thought so, when 1 tried to kill the flying dragon
with it. But, now that I think back.. . " Nestor bent
quickly and picked up the sword, examining its hilt
closely in the fading light. "No, it is not, though this
one is very like it. A boy I met, traveling, was carrying
this one. There was a fight. There was confusion. And
Duke Fraktin's soldiers probably have my sword by
now." Nestor uttered a small, fierce sound.
	"Explain yourself." The huge dark eyes of his
questioner were still unreadable, above titanic folded
arms.
	"All right." Nestor's sudden bitter anger over the
loss of his own sword helped suppress timidity. And
the longer he spoke with the giant, the less afraid of
him he felt. Briefly considering his own reactions,
Nestor decided that his childlike forthrightness resulted
from knowing himself, like a child, completely depen-
dent on some benevolent other. "I'll explain what I
can. But is there any reason why you cannot answer a
question or two for me as well?"
	"1 may answer them, or not. What are these ques-
tions?"
	The mildness of this reply, as Nestor considered it,
encouraged his boldness; and anyway, with him
boldness was a lifelong habit, now beginning to reassert
itself. "Will you tell me your name, to begin with? You
have not spoken it yet. Or asked for mine:"
	There was a brief pause before the bass rumble of
the answer drifted down. "Your name I know already, slayer of
dragons. And if I tell you my name now, you are almost certain
to misunderstand. Perhaps later."
	Nestor nodded. "Next, some questions about the creature
that brought me here. I have never seen anything like it before,
and I have some experience. It flew straight here to you as if it
were acting on your orders, under your control. Is it truly a
dragon, or some thing of magic? Did you create it? Did you
send it after me?"
	"It is a dragon, and I did send it. I am sorry that you were
injured, for I meant you no harm. But I took the risk of harming
you, for the sake of certain information I felt I had to have.
Rumors had reached me, through the dragons, of a man who
killed their kind with a new magical power that was embodied
in a sword. And other word had reached me, through other
means, of other swords that were said to have been made by
the gods . . . I have good reason to want to know about these
things:"
	Nestor thought that possibly he was becoming used to the
burden of that dark gaze. Now he could meet it once again.
"You are a friend of dragons, then, and talk to them:"
	The giant hesitated. "'Friend' is perhaps not the right word
for it. But in some sense I talk to them, and they to me. I talk
with everything that lives. Now, I would ask you to answer a
few more questions for me, in turn."
	"I'll try."
. "Good. There is an old prophecy . . . what do you know of
the Gray Horde?"
	Nestor looked back blankly. "What should I know? I have
never heard the words before. What do they mean?"
	His interrogator considered. "Come with me and I will show
you a little of their meaning:" With that, the towering figure
turned and paced away toward the

temple. Nestor followed, sword in hand. He smiled briefly,
faintly, at the enormous furred back moving before him; the
other had not thought twice about turning his back on a strange
man with a drawn sword. Not that Nestor was going to think
even once about making a treacherous attack. Even if he'd had
something to gain by it, he would as soon have contemplated
taking a volcano by surprise.
	The front entrance of the temple was high enough for the
giant to walk into it without stooping. Now, once inside,
Nestor observed that the building had indeed been constructed
of some hardened and preserved wood-traces of the grain
pattern were still visible. He thought that it must be very old.
Much of the roof had fallen in, but the ceiling was still intact in
some of the rooms. So it was in the high chamber where
Nestor's guide now stopped. Here it was already quite dark
inside. As Nestor's eyes adapted to the gloom, the fantastic
carvings that filled the walls seemed to materialize out of the
darkness like ghosts.
	The giant, his body outlined in the night by his own faintly
luminous fur, had halted beside a large open tank that was built
into the center of the floor. The reservoir was surrounded by a
low rim of the same preserved wood from which the floor and
walls were made, and Nestor thought that it was probably
some kind of ritual vat or bath.
	Moving a little closer, he saw that the vat was nearly filled
with liquid. Perhaps it was only water, but in the poor light it
looked black.
	From a shelf his guide took a device that Nestor, having
seen its like once or twice before, recognized as a flameless
Old World lantern, powered by some force of ancient
technology. The giant focussed its cold, piercing beam down
into the black vat. Something stirred beneath that inky surface,
and in another moment the shallowness of the tank was
demonstrated.
The liquid it contained was no more than knee-deep on the
smallish, man-shaped figure that now rose awkwardly to its feet
inside. Dark water, bright-gleaming in the beam of light, ran in
rivulets from the gray naked surface of the figure. Its hairless,
sexless body reminded Nestor at once of the curved exoskeleton
of some giant insect. He did not for a moment take it as truly
human, though it was approximately of human shape.
	"What is it?" Nestor demanded. He had backed up a step and
was gripping his sword.
	"Call it a larva:" His guide's vast voice was almost hushed.
"That is an old word, which may mean a ghost, or a mask, or an
unfinished insect form. None of those are exact names for this.
But I think that all of them in different ways come close."
	"Larva," Nestor repeated. The sound of the word at least
seemed to him somehow appropriate. He observed the larva
carefully. Once it had got itself fully erect, it stood in the tank
without moving, arms hanging at its sides. When Nestor leaned
closer, peering at it, he thought that the dark eyes under the
smooth gray brow fixed themselves on him, but the eyes were in
heavy shadow and he could not be sure. The mouth and ears
were tiny, puckered openings, the nose almost non-existent and
lacking nostrils. Apparently the thing did not need to breathe.
Nestor thought it looked like a mummy. "Is it dead?" he asked.
	"It has never been alive. But all across the Great Swamp the
life energies of the earth are being perverted to produce others
like it. Out there under the surface of the swamp thousands of
them ate being formed, grown, raised by magical powers that I
do not understand. But I fear that they are connected somehow
with the god-game, and the swords. And I know that they are
meant for evil:"
	The god-game again. Nestor had no idea what he

ought to say, and so he held his peace. He thought he could tell
just from looking at the figure that it was meant for no good
purpose. It did not really look like a mummy, he decided, but
more like some witch's mannikin, fabricated only to facilitate a
curse. Except that, in Nestor's limited experience at least, such
mannikins were no bigger than small dolls, and this was nearly
as big as Nestor himself. Looking at the thing more closely
now, he began to notice the crudity of detail with which it had
been formed. Surely it would limp if it tried to walk. He could
see the poor, mismatched fit of the lifeless joints, how
clumsily they bulked under the smooth covering that was not
skin, or scale, or even vegetable bark.
	The giant's hand reached out to pluck the figure from the
tank. He stood it on the temple floor of hardened wood,
directly in front of Nestor. As the hand released it, the figure
made a slight independent movement, enough to correct its
standing balance. Then it was perfectly still again. Now Nestor
could see that its eyes under the gray brows were also gray,
the color of old weathered wood, but still inanimate as no
wood ever could have been. The eyes were certainly locked
onto Nestor now, and they made him feel uncomfortable.
	And only now, with an inward shock, did Nestor see that
the figure's arms did not end in hands but instead grew into
weapons; the right arm terminated in an ugly blade that seemed
designed as an instrument of torture, and the left in a crude,
barbed hook. There were no real wrists, and the weapons were
of one piece with the chitinous-looking material of the
forearms. And the bald head was curved and angled like a helm.
	With a faint inward shudder Nestor moved back another
step. Had he not been carrying the sword, he might have
retreated farther from the figure. Now he
made his voice come out with an easy boldness that
he was far from feeling: "I give up, oh giant who
wishes to be nameless. What is this thing? You said 'a
larva,' but that name answers nothing. I swear by the
Great Worm Yilgarn that I have never seen the like of it
before."
	"It is one cell of the Gray Horde, which, as I said, is
spoken of in an old prophecy. If you are not familiar
with that prophecy, believe me that I cannot very well
explain it to you now."
	"But thousands of these, you say, are being grown
in the swamp. By whom? And to what end?"
	The giant picked up the two-legged thing like a toy
and laid it back into the tank again. He pressed it
down beneath the surface of the liquid, which looked
to Nestor like swamp-water. No breath-bubbles rose
when the larva was submerged. The vast figure in
glowing fur turned off the bright light and replaced
the lantern on the shelf. He watched the tank until its
surface was almost a dark mirror again. Then once
more he said to Nestor: "Come with me:"
	Nestor followed his huge guide out of the temple.
This time he was led several hundred paces across the
wooded island and into the true swamp at its far edge.
A gibbous moon was rising. By its light Nestor watched
the furred giant wade waist deep into the still water,
seeking, groping with his legs for something on the
bottom. He motioned unnecessarily that Nestor should
remain on solid ground.
	For a full minute the giant searched. Then he sud-
denly bent and plunged in an arm, big enough to have
strangled a landwalker, to its fullest reach. With a
huge splash he pulled out another larva. It looked very
much like the one in the tank inside the temple, except
that the two forearms of this one were connected, grown
into one piece with a transverse straight gray shaft
that went on past the left arm to end in a spearhead.

	The larva let out a strange thin cry when it was torn
up from the muck, and spat a jet of bright water from
its tiny mouth. Then it lay as limp as a broken puppet
in the huge furry hand.
	The giant shook it once in Nestor's direction, as
if to emphasize to the man the fact of its existence.
The larva made no response to the shaking. "This
outh cannot breathe," the giant said. "Or even eat
or drink, much less speak, or sing. It can only whine
as you have just heard, or howl. It can only make
noises that I think are intended to inspire human
terror."
	Nestor gestured helplessly with the sword that he
still carried. "I do not understand."
	"Nor do 1, as yet. I had feared for a time that the
gods themselves, or some among them, were for their
own reasons causing these things to come into existence.
Just as, for their own reasons, some of the gods decided
that you should be given great power to kill dragons.
But so far I can discover no connection between the
two gifts. So I do not know if it is the gods who are
raising these larvae, or some magician of great power.
Whoever is doing it, I must find a way to stop it. The
life energies of the land about the swamp will be
exhausted to no good purpose. Already the crops in
nearby fields are failing, human beings are sickening
with hunger."
	Nestor, looking at the larva, tried to think. "I believe
I can tell you one thing. I doubt that the gods had any
hand in making these. Because the swords made by
the gods are beautiful things in themselves, whatever
the purpose behind them may be." And Nestor raised
the weapon in his right hand.
	The giant, looking at the sword, rumbled out what
might have been a quotation:

"Gong roads the Sword of Fury makes
Hard walls it builds around the soft. . . "
	Nestor waited for more that did not come. Then he
lowered the sword, and suddenly demanded: "Why do
you deny that you are a god yourself?"
	The enormous furred fist tightened. The gray cara-
pace of the larva resisted that pressure only for a
moment, then broke with an ugly noise. Gray foulness
in a variety of indistinct shapes gushed from the bro-
ken torso. What Nestor could see of the spill in the
moonlight reminded him more of dung than of any-
thing else. The gray limbs twitched. Wildly, the spear
waved once and was still.
	The giant cast the wreckage from him with a splash,
then washed his hands of it in the black water of the
swamp. He said: "I am too small and weak by far, to
be a proper god for humankind."
	Nestor was almost angry. "You are larger than Hermes
was, and I did not doubt the divinity of Hermes for a
moment once I had seen him. Nor have I any doubts
about you. Is this some riddle with which you are
testing me? If so, I am too tired and worn right now to
deal with riddles." And too much in need of help.
Indeed, the feeling of strength and well-being that
Nestor had experienced when the giant first touched
him was rapidly declining into weariness again.
	The other gazed at him for a moment in silence, and
then in silence waded out of the swamp. The mud of
the swamp would not stick to his fur, which still
glimmered faintly, radiant on the edge of vision. He
paced back in the direction of the center of the island,
where stood the temple.
	Nestor, following, had to trot in his effort to keep up.
He cried to the giant's back: "You are no demon,
surely?"
	The other answered without turning, maintaining
his fast pace. "I surely am not."
	Nestor surprised himself, and ran. Almost stagger-
ing with the effort, he got ahead of the giant and

confronted him face to face. With his path thus blocked,
the giant halted. Nestor was breathing hard, as if from
a long run, or as if he had been fighting. Leaning on
his sword, he said: "Before I saw Hermes face to face,
I did not believe in the gods at all. But I have seen
him, and I believe. And now when I see-well, slay
me for it if you will-
	Surprising himself again, he went down on one
knee before the other. He had the feeling that his
heart, or something else vital inside him, was about to
burst, overloaded by feelings he did not, could not,
understand.
	The giant rumbled: "I will not slay you. I will not
knowingly kill any human being."
	" -but whether you admit you are a god or not, I
know you. I recognize you from a hundred prayers and
stories. You are the Beastlord, God of Healing, Draffut."
CHAPTER 10

	The high gray walls of Kind Sir Andrew's castle
were growing higher still, and darkening into black
against the sunset. Mark watched their slow approach
from his place in the middle of the wagon's seat.
Barbara, slumping tiredly for once, was at his right,
and Ben at his left with driver's reins in hand.
	Now that their road had emerged from the forest
and brought the castle into view, Barbara stirred, and.
broke a silence that had lasted for some little time. "I
guess were as ready as can be. Let's go right on in."
	No one else said anything immediately. From its
battered cage back in the wagon's covered rear, the
battered dragon chirped. Ben looked unhappy about
their imminent arrival,. but he twitched the reins with-
out argument and clucked to the team, trying to rouse
the limping, weary loadbeasts to an enthusiasm he
obviously did not feel himself. Earlier in the day Ben
had suggested that they ought to travel more slowly
though they were late already, delaying their arrival at
Sir Andrew's fair for one more day, giving Nestor one
more chance to catch up with them before they got
there. But Ben hadn't argued this idea very strongly.
Mark thought now that neither Ben nor Barbara really
believed any longer that Nestor was going to catch up
with them at all.
	As for Mark himself, he pretty well had to believe
that Nestor was going to meet them somewhere, with
Townsaver in hand. Otherwise Mark's sword was truly
lost.
	It had been pretty well established, in the few days
that the three of them had been traveling without
Nestor, that Barbara was now the one in charge. She
was little if any older than Ben was-Mark guessed
she was about seventeen-and probably not half Ben's
weight. But such details seemed to have little to do
with determining who was in charge. Barbara had
stepped in and made decisions when they had to be
made, and had held the little group and the enterprise
together.
	Before they'd left the place where the wagon had
tipped, shed had them cut off the ears of the freshly
dead landwalker, and nail them to the front of the
wagon as trophies to show their hunting prowess.
Later she'd got Ben and Mark to tighten up all the
loosened wagon parts as well as possible, and then to
help her wash and mend the cloth cover. All their
clothes had been washed and mended too, since the
great struggle in the mud. Mark thought that the outfit
looked better now that it had when he'd joined up.
	After the fight they'd traveled as fast as they could
for some hours. Then, when they'd reached a secluded
spot along a riverbank, Barbara had decreed a layover
for a whole night and a day. The animals had been

given a chance to eat and drink and rest, and their
hurts had been tended. Medicine of supposed magical
power had been applied to Mark's burned face, and it
had seemed to help, a little. That night Ben had made
his one real effort to assert himself, deciding that he
wanted to sleep in the -wagon too. But it had been
quickly established who was now in command. Ben
had wound up snoring on the ground again.
	A small hidden compartment directly under the
wagon's seat held a secret hoard of coin, tightly wrapped
in cloth to keep it from jingling when the wagon moved.
Ben and Barbara knew already of the existence of this
cache, and during that day of rest they'd brought out
the money in Mark's presence and counted it up. It
amounted to no fortune, in fact to less than Mark had
sometimes seen in his father's hands back at the mill.
Nestor's success in hunting dragons evidently hadn't
paid him all that well in terms of money-or else
Nestor had already squandered the bulk of-his pay-
ment somehow, or had contrived to hide it or invest it
somewhere else. He had been paying both Ben and
Barbara small wages, amounts agreed upon in advance.
They said that beyond that he dad never discussed
money with either of them.
	As soon as the coins were counted, Barbara wrapped
them tightly up again and stuffed them back into their
hiding place and closed it carefully. "We'll use this
only as needed," she said, looking at the others solemnly:
"If Nestor comes back, he'll understand."
	Ben nodded, looking very serious. All in all it was a
solemn moment, a pledging of mutual trust amid
shared dangers; at least that was how it impressed
Mark. Before he had really thought out what he was
going to do, he found himself telling Ben and Barbara
his own truthful story, even including his killing of the
seneschal, and his own right name.
	"Those soldiers of the Duke's were really after me,"
he added. "And my sword. Maybe they got the sword; I still
keep hoping that Nestor has it, and that he's going to meet us
somewhere. Anyway, even if we're over the border now the
Duke will probably still be after me. You two have a right to
know about it if I'm going to go on traveling with you. And I
don't know where else I'd go."
	The other two exchanged looks, but neither of them showed
great surprise at Mark's revelation. Mark thought that Ben
actually looked somewhat relieved.
	Barbara said: "We were talking about you-Mark--and we
kind of thought that something like that was going on.
Anyway, your leaving us now wouldn't help us any. Were
going to need you, or someone, when we get to the fair, to help
us run the show. And if we still manage to get a hunting
contract we're going to need all kinds of help."
	Ben cleared his throat. "I know for a fact that the Duke
wanted to get his hands on Nestor, too. I don't know exactly
why, but Nestor was worried about it. It made him nervous to
cut through the Duke's territory, but we didn't have much
choice about that if we were going to get down to Sir Andrew's
from where we were up north."
	And here they were at Sir Andrew's now, or very nearly so.
Just ahead, vague. in the twilight, was the important
intersection that the castle had been built to overlook. And just
beyond that intersection, which at the moment was empty of
traffic, a side road wound up to the castle, and to the broad
green where the fair sprawled like something raised by
enchantment in the beginning twilight. The fairgrounds were
coming alive with torches against the dusk. They stirred with a
multitude of distant voices, and the sounds of competing
musicians.
	As the wagon creaked its way toward the crossroads, Mark
left his seat and went back under the cover. He

had agreed with the others that it would be wise for him to
stay out of sight as much as feasible until they knew whether
or not the Duke was actively seeking him this far south. He
felt the change in the wheels' progress when Ben turned off the
main road. Then. looking forward through a small opening in
the cover, Mark saw that people were already trotting or
riding out from the fairgrounds to meet the wagon when it was
still a couple of hundred meters down the side road that
wound up from the intersection.
	One of those riding in the lead was the marshal of the fair, a
well-dressed man identifiable by the colors of his jerkin, Sir
Andrew's orange and black. The marshal silently motioned for
the wagon to follow him, and rode ahead, guiding it through the
busy fairgrounds to a reserved spot near the center. Mark,
staying in the wagon out of sight, watched the blurred bright
spots of torches move past, glowing through the wagon cover
on both sides. Sounds surrounded the wagon too-of voices,
music, animals, applause. Barbara had thought that the end of
daylight would signal the fair's closing for the day, but
obviously she had been wrong.
	When the marshal had led them to their assigned site, he
rode close to the wagon and leaned from his saddle to peer
inside. Mark went on with what he was doing, feeding the
captive dragon from the replenished frog-crock-if the
authorities here were really going to search for him, he would
have no hope of hiding. But the marshal only stared at Mark
blankly for a moment, then withdrew his head.
	Mark heard the official's voice asking: "Where's Nestor?"
	Ben gave the answer they had planned: "If he's not here
somewhere already, he'll be along in a day or two. He was
dickering over some new animals. A team, I mean."
	"Looks like you could use one. Well, Sir Andrew wants to
see him, mind you tell him as soon as he gets here. There's a
hunting contract to be discussed."
	Barbara: "Yessir, we'll remind him soon as we see him. It
shouldn't be long now."
	The marshal rode away, shouting at someone else about
garbage to be cleaned up. The three who had just arrived in the
wagon immediately got busy, unpacking, tending to the
animals, and setting up the tent in which they meant to exhibit
the dragon. Their assigned space was a square of trodden grass
about ten meters on a side, and the wagon had to be
maneuvered into the rear of this space in order to make room
for the big tent at the front. Their neighbor on one side was the
pavilion of a belly-dancer, with a crowd-drawing preliminary
show that went on every few minutes out front-Ben's attention
kept wandering from his tasks, and once he tried to feed a frog
to a loadbeast. In the exhibitor's space on the far side, a painted
lean-to advertised and presumably housed a supposedly.
magical fire-eater. The two remaining sides of the square were
open, bordering grassy lanes along which traffic could pass and
customers, if any, could approach. Along these lanes a few
interested spectators were already gathering, to watch the
dragon-folk get settled. They had hoped to be able to set up
after dark, unwatched, but there was no hope of that now. Nor
of Mark's remaining unobserved, so he did not try.
	The tent in which the dragon was to be shown was made of
some fabric lighter and tougher than any that Mark had ever
seen before, and gaudily decorated with painted dragons and
mysterious symbols. Ben told Mark that the cloth had come
from Karmirblur, somewhere five thousand kilometers away at
the other end of the world.
	As soon as the tent had been put up and secured,

and a small torch mounted on a stand inside for light, the three
exhibitors carried the caged dragon into it without uncovering
the cage; the bystanders were going to have to pay something
if they wanted to catch even the merest glimpse. The three
proprietors were also planning to keep at least one of their
number in or beside the wagon as much as possible. All
obvious valuables were removed from the wagon, some to be
carried in purses, others to be buried right under the dragon's
cage inside the tent. But Nestor's sword remained within the
vehicle, concealed under false floorboards that in turn were
covered with a scattering of junk. Barbara, at least, still nursed
hopes of being able to put the sword to use eventually, even if
Nestor never rejoined the crew. Several times during the last
few days Ben had argued the subject with her.
	He would be silent for a while, then turn to her with a lost,
small-boy look. "Barb, I don't see how we're going to hunt
dragons without Nestor. It was hard enough with him."
	Barbara's mobile face would show that she was giving the
objection serious consideration, even if she had answered it
before, not many hours ago. "You know best about that, Ben,
the actual hunting. Maybe we could hire some other hunters to
help us?"
	"Wouldn't be safe. If we do that they'll find out about the
magic in the sword. Then they'll try to steal it." Despite the
fact that it had taken Ben himself more than long enough to
notice. But Mark didn't think that Ben was really slow-witted,
as he appeared to be at first. It was just that he spent so much
of his mental time away somewhere, maybe thinking about
things like minstrelsy and verse.
	At last, after several arguments, or debates, Barbara had
given in about the hunting, at least temporarily. "Well then, if
we can't, we can't. If Nestor never shows up at Sir Andrew's,
we'll just act more surprised than
anyone else, and wonder aloud what could have happened to
him. Then we'll wait around at Sir Andrew's for a little while
after the fair's over, and if Nestor still isn't there well pack up
and head south and look for another fair. At least it'll be
warmer down south in the winter. Anyway, I don't suppose
Sir Andrew would be eager to hire us as hunters without
Nestor."
	"f don't suppose," Ben agreed with some relief. Then he
added, as if in afterthought: "Anyway, if Sir Andrew takes me
on as a minstrel, you'll be going south without me."
	He looked disappointed when Barbara agreed to that
without any comment or hesitation.
	Mark didn't have any comment to make either. He suspected
that if Nestor didn't appear, Barbara meant to sell the sword if
she couldn't find a way to use it. He, Mark, would just have to
decide for himself when the time came what he wanted to try
to do about that. This sword wasn't his. But he felt it was a
link, of sorts, to his own blade, about the only link that he still
had. If Nestor came back at all, it would be with the idea of
recovering his own sword, whatever other plans he might have.
	Of course, he might not have Mark's sword with him when
he showed up. And if he did have it, he might not be of a mind
to give it back.
	Any way Mark looked at the current situation, his chances
of recovering his sword, his inheritance, looked pretty poor.

	Three hours after the dragon-people had arrived, the carnival
was showing some signs of winding down for the night, though
the grounds were by no means completely quiei as yet. Barbara
still had the dragonexhibit open, though business had slowed
down to the point where Ben was able to put on his plumed
hat, collect his lute, and announce to his partners that he

was going out to try his hand at minstrelsy.
	Mark's help was not needed at the showtent for the
moment either, and he had retired to the wagon, where he
meant to get something to eat, meanwhile casually sitting
guard over the concealed sword.
	The inside of the wagon looked about twice as big now,
with almost everything moved out of it. From where Mark
was sitting he could just see the entrance to the tent, which
had been erected at right angles to the wagon. Barbara had just
finished conducting one small group of paying customers into
the tent to see the dragon and out again, and she was presently
chatting with a prospective first member of the next group.
This potential customer was a chunkily-built little man,
evidently of some importance, for he was dressed in fancier
clothes than any Mark had seen since the seneschal, the
Duke's cousin, went down.
	Mark was chewing on a piece of boiled fowl-Ben had laid in
some food from a nearby concession before he left-and
thinking gloomy thoughts about his missing sword, when he
heard a faint sound just behind him, right inside the wagon. He
turned to see a man whom he had never seen before, who was
standing on the ground outside with his head and shoulders in
the rear opening of the wagon. Knotted on the maws sleeve
was what looked like the orange-and-black insignia of an
assistant marshal of the fair. He was looking straight at Mark,
and there was that in his eyes that made Mark drop his
drumstick and dive right out of the front of the wagon without
a moment's hesitation. Only as Mark cleared the seat did it
fully register in his mind that the man had been holding a large
knife unsheathed in his right hand.
	Mark landed on hands and knees on the worn turf just
outside the wagon. He somersaulted once, and came up on his
feet already running. As he reached the doorway of the tent he
was drawing in a deep
breath to yell for help. Inside the tent, the small dragon
was already yowling continuously, and this perhaps
served as a subliminal warning; Mark did not yell.
When he looked into the tent he saw by the light of the
guttering single torch how Barbara lay limp in the
grasp of a second man in marshal's insignia, how the
dragons cage had been tipped over backwards, and
how the well-dressed stranger, who a moment ago had
been chatting innocently with Barbara, was now fran-
tically digging with his dagger into the ground where
the cage had been, uncovering and scattering fine
valuable crossbow bolts and bits of armor.
	Mark did not yell. But the men inside the tent both
yelled when they saw him, and turned and rushed in
his direction. He was just barely too quick for them, as
he darted away and then rolled under the flimsily
paneled side of the fire-eater's construction on the
adjoining lot.
	The inside of that shelter was as dark as the toe of a
boot; no flames were being ingested at the moment.
But there came a quick stir in the blackness, an alarmed
fumbling as of bedclothes, an urgent muttering of
voices. Mark somehow stumbled and crashed his way
through the darkness, once tripping over something
and falling at full length. When he had come to the
opposite wall he went out under it, in the same man-
ner he had come in. There was no one waiting in the
grass outside to seize him; for the moment he had
foiled his pursuers. But for the moment only; he could
hear them somewhere behind him, yelling, raising an
alarm.
	He made an effort to get in under the wall of the
next shelter, which was a tent, found his way blocked,
and slid around the tent instead. Now a deep ditch
offered some hope of concealment, and he slid down
into the ditch to scramble in knee-deep water at the
bottom. When he had his feet more or less solidly

under him he followed the ditch around a turn, where
he paused to look and listen for pursuit. He heard
none, but realized that he'd already lost his bearings.
This fairground was certainly the biggest of the two or
three that Mark had ever seen. There, the dark bulk of
the castle loomed, enormous on its small rise, with
lights visible in a few windows. But to Mark in his
bewildered state the castle was just where it ought not
to have been, and at the moment it gave him no help in
getting his bearings.
	Now people were yelling something in the distance.
But he couldn't tell whether or not the cries had
anything to do with him. What was he going to do
now? If only, he thought, Kind Sir Andrew himself
could be made to hear the truth . . .
	Mark followed the ditch for a few more splashing
strides, then climbed from it into the deeper darkness
behind another row of tents and shelters. He was
moving toward lights and the sounds of cheerful music.
It was in fact better music than Ben was ever going to
be able to make, if he practiced for a hundred years. If
only he could at least find Ben, and warn him . . .
	With this vague purpose of locating Ben, Mark looked
out into the lighted carnival lanes while keeping him-
self as much as possible in the shadows. He crawled
under someone's wagon, then behind a booth, seeking
different vantage points. In another open way were
clowns and jugglers, drawing a small crowd, laughter
and applause. Mark tried to see if Ben was in the
group somewhere, but was unable to tell. He moved
briefly into the open again, until orange and black tied
on a sleeve ahead sent him crawling back into hiding,
through the partly open back door of a deserted-looking
hut. Once more his entry roused an unseen sleeper; a
man's voice muttered alarm, and half-drunken, half-
coherent threats.
	Mark darted out of the but again, and went trotting
away from people, along a half-darkened traffic lane.
Brighter torchlight shone round the castle's lowered
drawbridge, now not far ahead of him. More suits of
orange and black were there, gathered as if in conference.
To avoid them, Mark turned a corner, toward more
music. This time there were drums, and roistering
voices. Maybe this crowd would be big enough to hide
him for a while. And there, a few meters ahead, stood
Ben, plumed hat tipped on the back of his head, his
lute temporarily forgotten under one arm. His stocky
figure was part of the small crowd gawking at the
belly-dancer's outside-the-tent performance. Mark real-
ized that he had unconsciously fled in a circle, and
was now back near the place where he had started
running.
	He took another step forward, intending to warn
Ben. And at that same moment, the chunky dandy
reappeared, approaching from the direction of the
dragon-tent beyond. He saw Mark, and at once raised
a fresh outcry. Mark yelped and turned and sped
away. He didn't know whether Ben had even noticed
him or not.
	Now, several more of the marshal's men were block-
ing the lane ahead of Mark. He turned on one toe, to
dash in at right angles under the broad banner adver-
tising the Maze of Mirth, past a startled clown-face
and into a dim interior. The stuffed figure of a demon,
crudely constructed, lurched at him out of the gloom,
and a mad peal of laughter went up from somewhere
behind it. The inside of this place was a maze, furnished
with crude mirrors and dark lanterns flashing suddenly,
constructed of confusingly painted walls all odd shapes
and angles. The head of a real dragon, long since
stuffed and varnished, popped out at Mark from behind
a suddenly open panel. .
	Mark could feel the burn on his face throbbing.
Now another panel opened unexpectedly when he

leaned on it, and he spun in confusion through a dark
opening. A mirror showed him a distorted image of
the chunky dandy, coming after him, perhaps still two
mirrors away. The man's mouth was opening for a yell.
	An arm, banded in orange and black, came out of
somewhere else to flail at Mark, and then was left
behind when yet another panel closed. The very walls
were shouting as they, moved, roaring with mad
laughter . . .
	A new figure loomed before Mark, that of a tall,
powerful clown in jester's motley. The clown was hold-
ing something out to Mark in one hand, while at the
same time another hand; invisible, pushed at the jester's
painted face. The face moved. It became a mask that
slid back, revealing-
	The mask slid back from the face of the one-armed
clown. The face revealed was fair and large and smiling.
It was lightly bearded, as Mark had never seen it
before, but he had not an instant's doubt of just whose
face it was.
	"Father!"
	Jord nodded, smiling. The shape he was holding
out was half-familiar to Mark. It was the shape of a
sword's hilt. But this time the weapon was sheathed
in ornate leather, looped with a leather belt. As Mark's
two hands closed on the offered hilt, and drew the
weapon from its sheath, his father's face fell into
darkness and away.
	"Father?"
	Now someone's hands were moving round Mark's
waist, deftly buckling a swordbelt on him. "Mark, take
this to Sir Andrew. If you can:' It was half the voice of
Jord as Mark remembered it, half no more than an
anonymous whisper.
	"Father...'
	Mark turned, with the drawn blade still in his hands,
trying to follow dim images that chased each other
away from him through mirrors. He saw the form of a lean
carnival clown, two-armed and totally unfamiliar, backing
away. Mark tried to follow the figure through the dim mad
illumination, the light of torchflames beyond mirrors, glowing
through mirrors and cloth. This time Mark could feel power
emanating from the blade he held. But the flavor of the power
was different, somehow, from what he had expected. Another
sword? It fed Mark's hands with a secret, inward thrumming
	With a terrific shock, something came smashing through thin
partitions near at hand. It was an axe, no, yet another sword,
this one quite mundane though amply powerful. Enchantment
seemed to vanish, as it was supposed to do when swords were
out. A nearby mirror fell from the wall, shattering with itself
the last image of the retreating clown.
	And now hard reality reappeared, in the form of the chunky
little man in dandy's clothes. He was all disarranged and
rumpled with triumphant effort. His face, as he closed in on
Mark, displayed his triumph. His mouth opened, awry, ready
to bawl out something. The dandy lifted a torch toward Mark-
and then recoiled like one stabbed. Still staring at Mark, he
made an awkward, half-kneeling gesture that was aborted by
the narrowness of the passage. The orangeand-black armbands
who now appeared behind him also stared at Mark, in obvious
stupefaction.-
	Mark could see now, without knowing quite how he saw it,
that they were not what their armbands proclaimed them.
	The stocky leader said to Mark: "Your Grace . . . I am sorry
. . . I never suspected that you would be . . . which way did he
go?"
	Mark stood still, clutching the naked sword, feeling the
weight of its unfamiliar belt around his waist. He felt unable to
do anything but wait stupidly for whatever might happen next.
He echoed: "He?"

	"That boy, Your Grace. It was .the one that we are after, I
am sure. He was right here."
	"Let him go, for now." Magic's mad logic had taken hold of
Mark, and he knew, as he would have known in a dream, that
he was speaking of himself.
	"I . . . yes, sire." The man in front of Mark was utterly
bewildered by the order he had just heard, but never dreamt of
disobedience. "The flying courier should have the other sword
at any moment now, and will then depart at once. Unless Your
Grace, now that you are here, wishes to change plans-?"
	"The other sword?"
	"The sword called Dragonslicer, sire. They must have
hidden it there somewhere, in their wagon or their tent. Our
men will have it any moment now. The courier is ready." The
stocky man was sweating, and not only with exertion; it
bothered him that it should be necessary to explain these
things.
	Mark turned away from him. A great anger at this gang of
thieves was building in him. Holding his newly acquired sword
before him like a torch, he burst his way out through the
hacked opening that made a new solution to the Maze of
Mirth. Feeling the rich throb of the weapon's power steady in
his wrists, he ran along the grassy lane outside, past men in
orange and black who stumbled over each other to get out of
his way. He heard their muttered exclamations.
	"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
caw 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 half-
armored 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 dream-
growth 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, con
sidering 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 thing 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.
	But soon, instead of concentrating on the intriguing
questions that had arisen, Nestor was almost dozing.
" In his thoughts images came and went, pictures of
Draffut and the swords. Then Barbara and the imag-
ined gods. Somehow, thought Nestor, the world ought
to fit together, and basically make sense. People always
hoped it would. But, as far as he knew, the human
race had never been given any such guarantee . . .
	He was almost asleep when a faint sound caught at his
attention. A light tap first, like a cautious footfall, and then a
small scraping or sliding sound. It was repeated, tap and slide,
tap and slide. Nestor listened, heard the sound no more, and
went briefly back to his dozing thoughts.
	Then it came again: tap-slide. Tap-slide. Almost like
footsteps. But limping footsteps. Almost like-
	He leaped up, just as a shadow fell across him. And
he snatched up the sword barely in time to parry the
first blow of the crude barbed hook.

CHAPTER 12

	First Mark was moving through a world of dreams,
then he was not. The vision of many swords was gone,
but now he was not at all sure at just what point the
transition from sleep to waking life had taken place.
	His eyes opened to a view of a ceiling of vaulted
stone. Quickly raising himself on one elbow, he could
see that he was for the first time in his life inside a real
castle. This large and richly furnished room could be
part of nothing else. And he was lying in a real bed,
with sunlight that had a morning feeling to it coming
in through the room's single narrow window.
	On a table in the center of the room, the Sword of
Heroes rested-Mark could make out the small white
dragon in the decoration on the black hilt. Lying on
the bare wood beside the weapon were the belt and the
scabbard that had been given to Mark-last night?-
along with a different sword.
	Sharp as a dagger's stroke, the memory returned now of his
father's face, bearded as Mark had never seen it before, but
unmistakable. The smiling kindness, the look of recognition in
the eyes. That face in the Maze of Mirth had been so real
	On a small lounge beside the single bed, Barbara was sleeping.
She appeared to be wearing her ordinary clothes, but a rich
shawl had been thrown over her. It was as if she had been
watching over Mark and had fallen asleep, and then perhaps
some other watcher had covered her for warmth. And now
Mark saw where his own clothes were draped over another
chair, with a set of much handsomer garments beside them. Was
the finery meant for him? He'd never worn such things.
	A familiar snore disturbed the air, making Mark turn his head.
In a far corner of the room, almost lost behind more furniture,
Ben lay snoring on a heap of fancy pillows. He too was covered
with a rich, unfamiliar robe.
	As soon as Mark sat up straight in bed, Barbara stirred too.
She opened dark eyes and looked at him for a moment without
comprehension. Then, wide awake in another instant, she
smiled at him. Then she had thrown the shawl aside and was
standing beside the bed to feel Mark's head for fever. She asked:
"Are you all right?"
	"I think so. What happened? Who brought us into the castle?
I remember there was a fight . . . "
	"And you fell over. Then Sir Andrew had us all brought in.
Ben and I have told him just about everything. We were all
worried about you, but the enchantress said she thought you'd
just sleep it off. Dame Yoldi's her name, and I'm supposed to
call her as soon as you wake up. Just stay there and I'll go get
her."

	Barbara went out of the room quickly. Mark, disregarding her
orders, got up and began to dress, choosing his own old clothes
though the elegant new ones beside them appeared to be of a
suitable size. Meanwhile Ben snored on peacefully in the corner.
	When Mark was dressed he looked out the window briefly at
distant fields and forests beneath the rising sun. Then he stood
over the table that held the sword, looking at the weapon but
not touching it. He was trying to remember, to reconstruct the
experience that must have made him lose consciousness the
night before, evidently many hours ago. He could not remember
suffering any blow to the head or other injury. Only touching,
for a moment, two swords at the same time, and then feeling
strange. He didn't seem to be wounded now, or hurt in any way,
except for the old, half-healed mark of dragon's fire on his left
cheek.
	The voice came from the doorway behind him: "You are
Mark. Son of lord, who is a miller in Arin-on-Aldan.'
	Mark whirled at the first word. He found himself confronted
by the man who last night had led the charge of men armed with
swords from the drawbridge, and who could only be Sir Andrew
himself. Beside the knight was an elegantly dressed woman who
must be his enchantress. Mark stuttered something and started
to go down on one knee.
	"No, stand up:" Sir Andrew's voice was powerful, but so far
not threatening. He was frowning as he stood with hands
clasped behind him. "Duke Fraktin sends me word that he
considers you a thief and a murderer."
	"I am not, sir." The tone in which the accusation had been
passed along had seemed to encourage a bold denial. In the far
corner of the room, Ben was now waking up, trying to remain
inconspicuous even as he lumbered to his feet. '
	"I hardly thought that you were," Sir. Andrew agreed.
"I know Duke Fraktin is guilty of both charges himself, and
perhaps worse . . . and last night the agents he sent here showed
they were no better. They've committed what amount to acts of
war against me. They
	The beautiful woman who was standing beside Sir Andrew
put a hand on the knight's arm, gently interrupting him. When
he had let himself be silenced, she spoke urgently to Mark:
"What do you remember of last night?"
	Haltingly at first, then gaining confidence as he was granted a
patient hearing by both the highborn folk, Mark recounted his
experiences at the fair as he remembered them. He began with,
his arrival in the wagon with Ben and Barbara, and went on to
the moment when the dragon-courier of Duke Fraktin had
soared away, the sword Mark had stabbed it with still wedged
into its scales.
	"As the dragon went up, it looked-changed. It looked unreal
to me. Like it was one different creature after another. And
then 1 lost sight of it, and people were fighting all around me.
As you must know, sir, ma'm. And then 1 think that something
must have struck me down. But just before that -I was feeling-
strange:"
	The enchantress came toward Mark, and stood in front of
him looking at him very closely. At first he was frightened, but
something soon drained away the fear. She said to him: "You
were not wounded, were you?"
	"No ma'm, I wasn't wounded. But . . . I just had the feeling
that something was . . . happening to me."
	"I don't doubt you did." Dame Yoldi finished her long look
at Mark, and sighed. She looked around at each of the other
people in the room. "I was watching from a castle window,
while most of the rest of you were out in the fairgrounds. There
was a magic in that stolen sword, that made the creature
carrying it seem to change. We each of us saw it as something
different when it rose up through the air-but each of us saw it

as something harmless, or as a being that ought to be defended.
Just as everyone saw you, Mark, as someone to be obeyed,
protected, served-as long as you were carrying that sword:"
	Mark nodded solemnly. "Once I had it, the man who had
been chasing me called me 'Your Grace' -what became of him?"
	Sir Andrew grunted. "Hugh of Semur was among last night's
dead." The knight glanced momentarily toward Ben, who was
continuing to stand in his corner, still wrapped in his blanket
and trying to look small. "And my own men fought well, once
we understood that we were required to fight. Some of those
who were pretending to be my marshals got away from us, I
fear. But some are dead, and one or two are in my dungeon now.
I fear they'll be a bad influence on my one honest criminal:" To
Mark's further bewilderment, the knight here shook his head,
apparently over some private worry.
	Dame Yoldi asked: "Mark, who gave you that other sword,
the one that's now flown away? You've just told us that the man
who did so appeared to be your father, as long as he had the
sword. But what did he look like afterward, when he'd passed
Sightblinder over to you?"
	"When I had the sword, I saw him only as a masked clown.
Lady, I do not understand these things of magic."
	There was a pause before the enchantress answered. "Nor do
I, all too often." As she turned quickly away from Mark, he
thought he caught a glimpse of some new inner excitement in
her eye. Again she took the lord of the castle by the arm.
"Andrew, send out men to search for the carnival clowns.
They're scattered now, I'm sure, after last night, along with all
the merchants and the visitors. But if we could only find him.. .
"For the moment Dame Yoldi appeared to be lost in some wild
private speculation.
	Sir Andrew stared at her, then went to the door where he
barked out orders. In a moment he was back. "They must be
scattered like chaff, as you say. But we can try"
	"Good." The enchantress was contemplating Mark again, now
with something enough like awe to make him feel
uncomfortable. "I do not know much yet, lad, about these magic
swords. But I am learning. I do know the names of some of
them, at least. It was Sightblinder that you stabbed the dragon
with, last night. It is also known as the Sword of Stealth. He
who carries it is disguised from all potential enemiesand perhaps
from his friends as well. And the man who gave it to you . . . did
he say anything?"
	"Yes." Mark blushed for his forgetfulness. "He said that I was
to give it to Sir Andrew. If I could."
	"Did he, hah?"
	"And I meant to, sir. But then they told me that the other
sword was being stolen. And-and I had to do something."
	"And so you did something. Yes, yes, I like having folk about
me who sometimes feel that something must be done. I do wish,
though, that we still had Sightblinder here. I suppose it's in the
Duke's hands now, and I don't like to think what he might do
with it." The knight looked at Dame Yoldi, and his worried
frown was deeper than before. "My own flyers have all come
back now, Yoldi. They couldn't catch his courier in the air, or
even see it. Luck is with Fraktin at present."
	"In the form of Coinspinner, yes," Dame Yoldi said. She
nodded tiredly, and spoke to Mark again. "Is it possible, boy,
that for one moment last night you had your hands on two
swords at the same time?"
	"Yes ma'm, it's more than possible. It happened that way.
And that was when the-the world started
to go strange.".

	"I thought as much. And now the Duke, with his luck
augmented by Coinspinner, is going to have the Sword of Stealth
in hand as well. No one else in the world has ever owned two of
those swords since they were made . . . Mark, I have learned that
the smith who helped Vulcan forge them was your father."
	Mark could feel himself standing, a small figure, alone, beside
the table that held the sword called Townsaver. "I knew that he
helped make this one. But, until I left home, I never heard that
Vulcan had forged other swords at the same time. My father
never liked to speak of it at all. And now he's dead. I saw him
die, the same day my brother died, and Duke Fraktin's cousin in
our village.
	"Last night when I thought it was my father-" Mark covered
his eyes briefly with his hands. "But I know it was only some
piece of magic."
	Two sentries, armed and alert, had arrived at the room's door,
and now one of them entered to whisper something to Sir
Andrew.
	"Bring her in," the knight ordered grimly.
	Before whoever it was could be brought in, Dame Yoldi
moved to the table near Mark's side. With a small piece of black
cloth that might have been 'a handkerchief she draped the hilt of
the sword that lay on the table, so that the little white design of
decoration could not be seen. Then she stepped away from the
table and nodded to the guards.
	A moment later, a dark lady appeared in the doorway, of
elegant appearance and malevolent expression. Her air of
arrogance made the soldiers at her sides appear to be a guard of
honor.
	She glared at each person in the room in turn. Her gaze
lingered-longest on Mark, and he had the sensation that
something invisible, but palpable and evil, had passed near him.
Then, with her lifted chin turned to Sir Andrew, the lady said:
"1 demand to be released."
	"Most likely you soon will be." The knight's voice had turned
cold, much changed from what it had been. "My investigation of
what your agents did at the fairgrounds last night is almost
complete. If you were not here on business of diplomacy,
woman, you'd likely be down in my dungeon now."
	The lady chose not to hear this. She tossed back dark hair
imperiously. "And where is Hugh of Semur?"
	"That dog is dead. Diplomat or not, he succeeded in earning
himself a broken neck last night."
	The dark lady demonstrated shock. "Dead! Then his killers
must be placed in my custody, that I may take them to face the
Duke's justice. As I must take him." She pointed a long
fingernail at Mark. "And that sword on the table. It belongs to
His Grace too."
	"I think, m'lady, that you'll take precious little out of my
territory but yourself."
	The lady started to pretend surprise at this refusal, then
shrugged lightly and gave it up. "It will go ill for you, Sir
Andrew, if you refuse the Duke his property, and his just
vengeance. Who will guarantee the security of your frontiers if
he does not?"
	"Oh, ah? Speaking of property, there's the matter of the
damage done to some of mine last night, and to some of my
people, too. That fine coach that brought you here, my fine
Lady Marat, should fetch something on the market. Enough,
perhaps, to pay some of the bills that you've run up in damages.
I'll see if I can find a farm wagon somewhere, and a loadbeast or
two, to furnish you and your servants transportation home. A
somewhat bumpy ride, perhaps, but-"
	Now indeed she flared. "Beast yourself! How dare you treat
me, the Duke's emissary, in such a way? How dare you?"
	" -but, as I say, it would be a long way for you to walk."
	The lady now had 21 hard struggle to restrain her

tongue, but she managed it at last. After delivering one last glare
at each person in the room, she turned between her guards with
a fine swirl of glittery fabrics, and with her guards was gone.
	Dame Yoldi reached to brush her fingers through Mark's hair;
it was as if she were only petting him, but Mark had the sense
that something, a cobweb maybe, that he had not known was
there, was brushed away. The enchantress smiled at him faintly,
then closed her eyes. She held Mark by the hand, as if she were
learning something from the feel of his hand.
	"The son of Jord," she said, her eyes still. closed. "Of Jord
who was a miller-and before that, a smith."
	"Aye, ma'm."
	"Aye, and aye. But 1 wonder what else your father was?"
Dame Yoldi's eyes opened, large and gray and luminous. "Mark,
in all the world, your father Jord is, or was, the only human
being ever to have handled more than one of the swords. And
only you yourself have ever handled as many as three of them,
since their steel was infused with the gods' magic. And a question
that has nagged at me was answered here, last night, in part:
what would happen if a person, a being of any nature, were to
touch and use more than one of the swords at the same time?"
	Dame Yoldi paused, looking around at all the people in the
room. "And what if two or more of the gods' swords were to
touch each other? What if they should be used directly against
each other in battle?"
	No one could answer her.
	All were thinking that Duke Fraktin soon would have two
swords, unless his courier were somehow stopped.
	Mark met Barbara's expressive eyes, and knew what she was
thinking: In our old wagon we had two swords at once, and
never tried . . .
CHAPTER 13

	Nestor, after making that first parry in time to save
his life, got quickly to his feet and stepped back from
the attacking larva. As it came after him he backed
away. It continued to advance, limping even as he had
imagined it must move. Nestor was backing up with
cautious steps that took him along the jagged edge of a
broken roof. On his left was the paved courtyard,
seven meters below; sloping upward on his right was
the jumble of tilted, fallen slabs, which would be sure
to offer abominable footing.
	The thing that limped after Nestor blew little moan-
ing cries at him out of its absence of a face, as if it
might be in agony, or perhaps in love. On the almost
featureless front of its head only the dark eyes moved
a little, staying locked on Nestor. The larva was advanc-
ing with its bent arms raised, both its weapons held
up near its head, ready to parry a swordstroke or to swing at him
again. Not only were those forearms armed with barbed hook
and torture-knife, but they were in themselves as hard as bronze.
Nestor had a good gauge now of that metallic -hardness; his first
edged parry had nicked and dented the thing's right wrist, but no
more than dented it. A human arm would almost certainly have
been completely severed.
	After backing up only a few steps along the rim of the roof,
Nestor decided retreating was more dangerous than standing his
ground would be. He was a competent swordsman, and the
blade in his hand a superb weapon', even when, as now,
whatever magic it might possess was in abeyance. Why then had
he automatically retreated, and why did deep terror still lie in his
stomach like a lump of ice? The terror must come, he realized,
only from the peculiar nature of his enemy, and not from any
powers that it had so far demonstrated. The movements of his
foe showed speed and strength-but no more speed or strength
than many human opponents might have shown. And the larva
was fighting with one considerable, obvious disadvantage-though
its weapons were two in number, they were no longer than its
arms. If Nestor could keep his nerve and his footing, and use his
own magnificent weapon as it deserved to be used, such an
attacker ought not to be able to defeat him.
	On the other hand, it was already plain that the larva had
certain advantages as well: devilish persistence, and a horrible
durability. When Nestor stood his ground and struck back,
landing a hard chop on its torso, he had the sensation of having
hewn into frozen mud. The gray shell cracked at the spot where
the blow landed, and substance of a deeper gray began oozing
out. But the larva was not disabled, and it seemed to feel
nothing. It still came after Nestor, nor was it minded to seek its
own safety after what the

sword had begun to do to it.
	Nestor feinted a high blow, and then hit his opponent in the
leg. And now the limp that he had so accurately forecast became
more pronounced. When Nestor experimentally retreated a step
again to see what the thing would do, it followed. Its gait was
now a trifle slower.
	Of course it might be keeping speed in reserve, something to
surprise the man with at a critical moment. But somehow
Nestor doubted that. He had trouble imagining that there could
be much in the way of cleverness behind that lack of face. The
larva blew its whistling, forlorn whine at him, and advanced on
him implacably.
	He hit it again, this time in the arm, stopping its advance.
This was a harder blow, with .much of the swordsman's weight
and strength behind the driving edge, and now one of the larva's
wrists and weapons dangled from a forearm that had been
almost severed for all its hardness. The cut was leaking slow gray
slime instead of blood.
	Nestor, gaining confidence now, made up his mind and
charged the larva suddenly. He caught it with its weight on what
seemed to be its weaker leg, and it went back and over the edge
of the roof under the impact of a hard swordthrust that only
started to pierce its tough breastplate. As it went back and over,
the larva made grabbing motions, trying to seize the blade, but it
lacked the hands with which to grab anything, and anyway one
of its arms was almost severed, its weapon flapping like some
deadly glove. Still, Nestor had one horrible moment, in whioh
he feared that the sword was stuck so firmly into the chitinous
armor that it might be pulled from his hands or else pull him
after the larva as it fell. But the point tugged free when the
weight of the gray body came on it fully.
	No skill or magic broke that fall, and the paved court was a
full seven meters down. Looking over the edge of the roof at
the inert, sprawled figure after it had bounced, Nestor could see
that the whole gray torso was now networked with fine cracks.
More of the varied grayness that must serve the thing as life was
oozing from inside.
	Nestor had no more than started his first easy breath when
the thing stirred. Slowly it flexed its limbs, then got back to its
feet. It tilted its head back to let its eyes find its human enemy
again. Then, moving deliberately, it limped back into the temple
on the level below Nestor. He felt sure that it was coming after
him again.
	He was sweating as he stood there on the broken roof,
though heavy clouds were coming over the sun. He had the
feeling that he had entered the realm of nightmare. But the
urgency of combat was still pumping in his veins, and before it
could dissipate back into fear he made himself start looking for
the stairway where the thing would logically come up if it was
coming. He was going to have to finish it off.
	They faced each other, Nestor at the top of a flight of half-
ruined, vine-grown stairs, the larva at the bottom. A monkbird
screamed somewhere, still mocking the noise that they had
made. With scarcely a pause, the larva started up, dragging one
foot after it in its methodical limp, dripping spots of grayness
from its cracked carapace. It raised the twisted little knife that
was its one remaining weapon.
	Nestor, watching with great alertness, saw a tiny tip of
something appear like a pointed tongue just inside the larva's
small round mouth. He ducked, swiftly and deeply, and heard
the small hiss of the spat dart going past his head. Then Nestor
leaped forward to meet his enemy halfway on the stair. He piled
one swordstroke upon another, driving the thing backwards
down the

stairs again, and then into a stone corner where it collapsed at
last.
	Though it went down, Nestor kept on hacking at his foe.
When both of the larva's arms had been disabled, and one leg
taken off completely, he went for the torso, which at last burst
like a gray boil. Nestor had to fight down the urge to retch; the
smell that arose was of swamp mud and putridity.
	"And no heart, by all the demons," he muttered to himself.
"No heart to stop in the damned thing anywhere." Indeed,
nothing that he could recognize as an internal organ of any kind
was visible, only thicker and thinner grayness that varied in its
consistency and hue.
	Still, the broken arms of the thing kept trying to hit at
Nestor's feet, or grab his legs. The attached gray leg still wanted
to get the body up. Nestor, reciting all the demons' names he
knew, swore that he was going to finish the horror off, and he
went at it like a woodchopper, or rather a madman, abandoning
skill. Some of his strokes now were so ill-aimed that the sword
rang off .the flagstones of the paved yard.
	Taking the head completely off settled the thing at last. With
that, whatever spells had given the larva the semblance of life
were undone. The gray chitin of its outer surfaces immediately
started to turn friable. It crumbled at a poke, and the inner
grayness that ran out of it thinned out now and spread like mud
and water.
	Which, as Nestor could now see, what all it was.
	Some huge raindrops had already begun to fall. These now
multiplied in a white rush. Parts of what had been the larva
were already dissolving, washing away into the ground between
the paving stones.
	Nestor deliberately remained for a time standing in the rain,
letting it cool him. He raised his face to the leaking skies,
wanting to be cleansed. The downpour
grew fiercer, yet still he remained, letting it wash the sword as
well. From his experience with Dragonslicer, he did not think
that this blade was going to rust.
	When Nestor felt tolerably clean again he went back into the
temple. Just inside the doorway he leaned against the wall,
dripping rainwater from his hair and clothing, watching the
continuing rain and listening to it. The thing he had just
destroyed with his sword was already no more than a heap of
wet muck, rapidly losing all shape as it was washed back into
the earth.
	"Draffut-god or not, Beastlord, healer, whatever you may or
may, not be-I am sorry to have destroyed your pet. No, that's
doubly wrong. It wasn't your pet, of course. Your experiment in
magic, or whatever. And naturally I'm not really sorry, it was a
hideous thing. When something comes sneaking up and attacks a
man with a hook and a peeling knife, he really has no choice-
what's that?"
	What it had sounded like was human voices, a small burst of
excited conversation. Nestor waited in silence, listening, and
presently the voices came again. They were in the middle
distance somewhere. He couldn't make out words, but they
sounded like the voices of panicked people who were trying to
be quiet.
	What now?
	The sounds came again. Nestor still could not make out any
of the words. Some language that he did not know. Most likely
that meant some of the savages of the swamp.
	Muttering a brief prayer that he might have to do no more
fighting, to gods whose existence he still partly doubted, Nestor
took a good grip on his sword and went to see what he could
see, through a ruined room and out into the slackening rain
again. He would move, then wait until he heard the voices and
move again.
	Climbing a tumbled corner of the temple, past a

tilted deity with rain dripping from his nose, Nestor had a good
view out to the northeast. In that direction an arm of the
swamp came in closer to the center of the island than in any
other. This inlet was visible from the high place where Nestor
crouched, and he could see that a handful of dugout canoes had
just arrived there. The last of them was still being pulled up on
the muddy shore. There were about a dozen people, with
straight black hair and nearly naked coppery skins, already
landed or still disembarking. It wasn't a war party. Among them
they were armed with no more than a couple of small bows and
a few clubs-not that they were carrying much of anything else.
There were women and children among them, in fact making up
a majority of the group. Everything they had looked poor-the
Emperor's children, these were, born losers if Nestor had ever
seen any.
	One of the women pointed back into the swamp, away from
Nestor and the temple, and made some statement to the others
in the language that Nestor did not know. Then the whole small
mob, now gathered on shore, turned inland and began hurrying
through low bush toward the temple. They were certainly not
aware of Nestor yet, and .he crouched a little lower, concealing
himself until he could decide what he ought to do next.
	Before he could make a plan, something that looked like -a
large, low-slung lizard came scrambling up out of the swamp
behind the people. Though it was mostly obscured by bushes,
Nestor could tell it was moving with an awkward run in the
same general direction as the humans-but it was riot pursuing
them. It passed them up and they ignored it. A general migration
of some kind? A general flight . . . ?
	Farther back to the northeast, in the depths of the swamp,
another shape was approaching, with Nestor's view of it still
dimmed by rain. Presently he made it
out to be another canoe, paddled by two more copperskinned
men. Two women crouched amidships, slashing at the water
with their cupped hands as if determined to do everything
possible to add speed. The people on shore ceased their progress
inland to turn and watch.
	When the craft was just a little nearer, Nestor could see a
horizontal gray shape coming after it. For a moment he thought
this new form was some kind of peculiar wave troubling the
water of the swamp, bearing dead logs on its crest. But then he
realized that what he had first taken for a wave was really an
almost solid rank of larvae like the one he had just destroyed,
marching, swimming, clambering forward through the swamp.
Beyond this first jumbled rank there appeared a second; Nestor,
looking to right and left, could not see the end of either. Scores
of the things at least were coming toward the island, and more
probably hundreds. He could hear them now, what sounded like
a thousand whistling utterances that could not be called voices;
he could hear the multitudinous splash of their advance, and the
forest of their dead limbs, knocking together softly like tumbled
logs in a flood.
	Now more animals and birds, large and small together, came
fleeing the swamp, as if before a line of beaters in a hunt. The
approaching terror came closer, and Nestor's view of it grew less
blurred by rain. Now he could see, all along the advancing lines
of larvae, how arms ended in spears, in flails, in maces, clubs,
and blades. No two pair of raised arms appeared quite alike, but
all of them were weapons.
	A hundred meters to Nestor's right, he saw a mansized dragon
climb from the muck onto a hummock and turn at bay before
the advancing horde, snarling defiance. In an instant the dragon
was surrounded by half a dozen of the dead-wood figures. It
hurled one

back, another and another, but more kept crowding in, their
deadly arms rising and falling. Somewhere farther in the
distance, a great landwalker bellowed, and Nestor wondered
briefly whether it too would choose to stand and fight, and
what success it might have if it did.
	The people who had already reached the island were waving
their arms and calling now, trying to cheer on the last canoe. Its
paddlers appeared to Nestor to be gaining on the pursuing
horror. But then the bottom of their craft scraped on some large
object, log or mud-hump, under water. The next moment,
despite all their frantic paddling, they were stuck fast.
	Nestor could see now that both of the women in the canoe
were carrying, or wearing, infants strapped to. their bodies. All
four of the adults in the canoe were working frantically to free
it, and they seemed on the point of success when the gray wave
overtook them, and the first handless arms reached out. To the
accompaniment of human screams the canoe tipped over, and its
passengers vanished.
	Those who had already gained the shore turned from the
scene in renewed panic. Crying to one another in a fear that
needed no translation, they ran for the temple.
	Nestor hesitated no longer over whether to show himself, but
jumped up into their full view. He was not going to be able to
outrun the oncoming threat, particularly not on a small island;
nor were the refugees from the boats. In union lay their only
possible chance of making a successful stand against it; and that
possible of course only if Townsaver's latent powers could
somehow be called into action, and if they were as great as
Nestor had been led to expect. The mental map that he had
formed during his exploration of the temple showed him
another key factor in his hope: a certain high room, open only
on one side, that would
perhaps be defensible by three or four determined
fighters.
	The people Nestor was calling to now, who paused
in their frightened flight at the sight of his figure in
their path with a sword, probably did not understand
his language any more than he knew theirs. But they
were ready to follow shouts and gestures, to grasp at
any straw of hope. In obedience to Nestor's energetic
waves, they came running to him now, and past him.
Then they let him get ahead and lead them, at a run
over piled rubble and up tilted slabs and collapsing
stairs, to reach the place he had in mind.
	This was one of the highest, surviving rooms of
what had once been a towering structure. The only
way to approach it now was up a long, rough slope of
rubble. When Nestor had led the whole group toiling
up this ascent, and had them gathered in the high
room, they came to a reluctant stop, looking about
them in bewilderment.
	He gestured with sword and empty hand. "I'm afraid
this is it, my friends. This is the best that we can do."
	He could see the understanding growing in the adults'
faces, and the renewed terror and despair that came
with it.
	Nestor turned away from those looks, facing down-
slope and to the north as he looked out of the room's
open side. Not a very large width to defend, hardly
more than a wide doorway; but it was a little more
space than any one man with any one sword could
cover. From this high place he could see now that
which made his heart sink: the ranks of the larvae,
that had come sweeping across the swamp from the
north, extended to both east and west across and,
beyond the entire width of the island, and farther, for
some indeterminate but great distance out into the
swamp. There must certainly be thousands of them,

	There was movement among the people behind
Nestor, and he turned around. Slowly the four or five
males of fighting age among the group of refugees
were taking their places on his right and left, their
bows and clubs as ready as they were ever going to be.
Nestor looked at them, and they at him. Fortunately
there seemed to be no need to discuss strategy or
tactics.
	The wave of the enemy had some time ago reached
the island, and was now sweeping across it. The gray
ones had swarmed into the temple, perhaps in extra
numbers because of fleeing prey in sight; the ranks
looked thicker than ever when they came into Nestor's
view at the foot of the long slope of rubble. They
paused there, continuing to thicken with reinforce-
ments behind the steady upward stare of a hundred
faceless heads, that gazed upslope as if already aware
of determined resistance waiting at the top. What
sounded like a thousand larval voices were whistling,
whining, mocking, making a drone as of discordant
bagpipes that seemed to fill the world.
	The ranks of the Gray Horde paused briefly to
strengthen themselves at the foot of the long hill of
-rubble. Then they began to mount.
	The women behind Nestor, brought to bay now with
their young, were arming themselves too. He glanced
back-and saw them picking up sharp fragments from
the rubble, ready to throw and strike. Something flashed
across Nestor's mind about all the concern that warriors,
himself included, had for their own coming deaths, all
the wondering and worrying and fretting that they
gave the subject whether they talked about it or not.
And these women, now, had never had a thought in
their lives about image and honor and courage, and
they were doing as well as any . . .
	As for Nestor himself, the thousand voices of the
larvae assured him that his time was now, that he was
never going to have to worry about it again.
Just behind Nestor, a baby cried.
	And at the same moment something thrummed
faintly in Nestor's right hand. The swordhilt. His own
imagination? Wishful thinking? No . . .
	The gray wave was coming up on limping, ill-made
legs, brandishing its dead forest of handless arms,
aiming its mad variety of weapons, shrieking its song
of terror.
	Nestor opened his mouth and shouted something
back at them, some warcry bursting from he knew not
what almost-buried memory. And now around him
the bowmen loosed their first pitiful volley of arrows,
that stuck in their targets without effect. Other men
murmured and swung their clubs. Nestor realized that
he was holding the sword two-handed now, and he
could feel the power of it flowing into his arms, as
natural as his own blood. Now the blade moved up
into guard position, in a movement so smooth that
Nestor could not really tell if it had been accomplished
by his own volition or by the forces that drove the
sword itself. And now with the blade high he could
see the threaded vapor coming out of the air around it,
seeming to flow into the metal.
	He had not a moment in which to marvel at any of
these things, or to try to estimate his chances, for now
a dart sang past his shoulder, and now the awkwardly
clambering gray mass of the enemy was almost in
reach. '
	He yelled at them again, something from the wars
of years ago, he knew not what. Townsaver, pronounced
a secret voice within his mind, and he knew that it had
named the sword for him.
	Townsaver screamed exultantly, and drew the line
of its blade through a gray rank as neatly as it had
sliced the fruit. It mowed the weapon-sprouting limbs
like grass.

CHAPTER 14

	"This is it, Your Grace," said the lieutenant in blue
and white. "This is the place where the dragon-pack
attacked us."
	Duke Fraktin halted his riding-beast under a tree
still dripping from the morning's rain, and with an
easy motion dismounted from the saddle. He made a
great gesture with both arms to stretch the muscles in
his back, stiffening somewhat after hours of riding.
He looked about him.
	He did not ask his lieutenant if he were sure about
the place; there was no need. From where the Duke
now stood, surrounded by a strong force of his mounted
men, he could see and smell the carcass of a giant
landwalker. The dead beast lay forty meters or so
away among some more trees, and now that the Duke
looked carefully in that direction he could see a dead
man lying close to the dead dragon, and a little farther on one of
his own cavalry mounts stiffened with its four feet in the air.
	The pestilential aftermath of war, thought the Duke, and
stretched again, and started walking unhurriedly closer to the
scene of carnage. With a war coming, indeed at hand already, he
decided it would be wise to reaccustom his senses as soon as
possible to what they were going to be required to experience.
	As he walked, with his right hand he loosened Coinspinner in
its fine scabbard at his side. "And where," he asked his
lieutenant, "is the wagon you were chasing? Did you not tell me
that it tipped over in the chase, and then the dragons sprang out
and attacked you before you could gather up the people who
were in it?"
	"That's how it was, Your Grace." And the pair of survivors of
that ill-fated patrol who were now accompanying the Duke
began a low, urgent debate between themselves as to just where
that cursed wagon had been and ought to be. The Duke listened
with impatient attention, meanwhile using his eyes for himself
though without result. According to the best magical advice he
had been able to obtain, that wagon might well have had
another of the swords hidden in it somewhere-possibly even two
of them.
	Before his subordinates argument was settled, the Duke's
attention was drawn away from it by a rider who came cantering
up with the report that another kind of wagon was arriving on
the road that led from the southwest. This, when it presently
came into sight, proved to be a humble, battered vehicle, a
limping farm-cart in fact, pulled by a pair of loadbeasts even
more decrepit than itself. The Duke at first was mystified as to
why some of his advance guard should have doubled back to
escort this apparition into his presence.
	And then he saw who was riding in the middle of

the one sagging seat, and he understood, or began to understand.
	"Gentle kinsman," said the Lady Marat, as she held out her
hand for the Duke's aid in dismounting. His voice and gesture
were as casual as if her humiliation did not concern her in the
slightest. But her words indicated otherwise. "I want you to
promise me certain specific opportunities of vengeance, on the
day that the castle that I left yesterday lies open to your power."
	Fraktin bowed his head slightly. "Consider the promise made,
dear lady. So long as its fulfillment does not conflict with my
own needs, with the necessities of war. And now, I suppose it
likely that you have something to report?" .
	But before he could begin to hear what it might be, a trumpet
sounded, causing the Duke to turn away from the lady
momentarily. He saw that the head of the long column of his
main body of infantry, approaching at route step along the road
from the northeast, had now come abreast of the place where
they were talking. Duke Fraktin returned the salute of the
mounted officer who led the column, then faced back to his
discussion with the Lady Marat. And all the while that they were
talking there, the ragged, heavy tramp of the infantry kept
moving past them.
	The Duke offered the lady refreshment. But she preferred to
wait until, as she said, she had made her preliminary report, and
thus a beginning toward obtaining her revenge. She had plans
for everyone in that castle, but particularly for the knight who
had stolen her coach and treated her with such total disrespect.
	Duke Fraktin listened with close attention to her report,
learning among other things that the dragonhunters' wagon had
indeed gone on to Sir Andrew's rather than being destroyed by
dragons here.
	He asked: "My courier did get away from Sir
Andrew's castle with one sword, though? You are sure
of that?"
	"Yes; good cousin. Of that fact I am very sure.
Though I cannot be sure which sword it was."
	The Duke, not for the first time, was beginning to
find this lady attractive. But he put such thoughts
aside, knowing that right now he had better concen-
trate on other matters. "Then where is this flying
courier now? It has never reached me."
	The lady could offer no explanation. The Master of
the Beasts, when summoned from his place among
the Duke's staff officers, gave his opinion that such a
dragon ought to be able to fly easily and far, even after
being stabbed once or twice with an ordinary sword.
The Master of the Beasts had no explanation for the
absence of the courier either, except that, as everyone
knew, dragons could be unreliable.
	Now the Duke turned to consult with yet another
figure, who had just dismounted. "What have you to
say about my luck now, Blue-Robes? What of the
supposed power of this sword I wear?"
	The magician spread his hands in a placating gesture.
"Only this, Your Grace: that we do not know what
your luck might be now, if you did not have Coinspinner
there at your side:"
	"I find that answer something less than adequate,
Blue-Robes. I find it . . . what are you gawping at, you
fish?" This last was directed aside, at one of the
retainers of the Lady Marat. This man had been driv-
ing the farm wagon when it arrived. Having been
somewhat battered in the lady's service over the past
few days, he was now receiving treatment for his
wounds from the Duke's surgeon.
	The surgeon looked up at the Duke's voice, and
stilled his hands. The man who had been addressed
started to say something, took a second look at the

Duke's face, and threw himself prostrate, bandages
trailing unsecured. "A thousand pardons, Your Grace.
I was remembering that I . . . that I thought I had seen
you at the fair."
	"What? At... "'And even as the Duke spoke, there
came in his brain the remembered echo of the voice of
someone else, telling him that he had been seen in
some other place where he had never been. "Explain
yourself, fellow"
	The man began a confused relation of what had
happened at Sir Andrew's fair, on the night when he
and the Duke's other secret agents had got their hands
on Dragonslicer. He told some details of that sword's
subsequent loss, and of the uncanny, magically chang-
ing appearance of the courier dragon as it had soared
away.
	The Duke nodded thoughtfully. "But me? Where did
you think that you saw me?"
	"Right there in the fairgrounds, sire. As surely as I
see you now. I understand now that what I saw must
have been only an image created by magic. But I saw
you running toward the courier when it first flew up,
and I heard your voice calling it down. And then I saw
you stab it:"
	The Duke turned to look at the Lady Marat, who
nodded in confirmation. She said: "Those are essen-
tially the details that I was about to add in my own
report."
	Next the Duke looked at his wizard, whose eyes
were closed. The blue-robed one muttered; as if to
himself: "We knew there was another of the swords
involved, located at Sir Andrew's castle. And now we
know which one it was. That called Sightblinder, or
the Sword of Stealth. It is-"
	The Duke jogged his arm, commanding silence.
"Wait."
	Something was going on, up in the vaguely dripping
sky. The Master of the Beasts, with head tilted back,
was calling and gesturing. Now a reptilian messenger
of some kind-the Duke was unable to distinguish the
finer gradations of hybrid dragons and other flying
life-could be. seen in a descending spiral. Alas, thought
Duke Fraktin, watching, but this creature was too
small to be the courier that had disappeared with one
of the swords. This was some smaller flying scout
reporting.
	In fact it was small enough to perch upon the
Master's wrist when it came down. He carried it to
some little distance from the gathering of other humans,
that the Duke might be able to receive its news, what-
ever it might be, with some degree of privacy.
	In a hoarse whisper the Master translated the report
for the Duke a few words at a time, first listening to
the dragon's painfully accomplished, almost unintelli-
gible half-speech, then turning his head to speak in
human words. "Your Grace, this concerns the dragon-
hunter, the man whose human name is Nestor."
	"Aye, aye, I know of him. He wronged me once. But
what has he to do with our present situation?" Pass-
ing this query on to the dragon was a slow and diffi-
cult process also. Sometimes the Duke thought that
his Beast-Master, indispensably skilled though the man
was, had grown half-witted through decades of conver-
sation with his charges.
	At length a reply came back. "It is that this Nestor
has been carried off into the Great Swamp, sire. By a
great flying dragon, not one of ours."
	"A grown man, carried off by a flyer? Preposterous.
And yet . . . but what else is it trying to say?"
	Another guttural exchange took place between trainer
and beast. "It says, the Gray Horde, sire. It tells me
that the Gray Horde is raised, and marches toward Sir
Andrew's lands."
	There was silence, except for the drip of water from

the trees, and the eternal background tramp of marching
soldiery. At last the Duke breathed: "Someone has
taken a great gamble, then. Raised by whom?" Although
he thought that he could guess.
	There was another exchange of bestial noises. Then
the Beast-Master said: "By humans who follow a
woman, sire. A woman mounted on a warbeast, and
leading a human army through the swamp:"
	Duke Fraktin nodded slowly, and made a gesture of
dismissal. The Master rewarded his charge with a
small dried lizard, laced with a drug that would give
the flyer a sleep of delightful dreams.
	Meanwhile the Duke, walking the short distance
back to where his staff and the Lady Marat were
waiting for him, prepared to call a major conference.
Things had changed. What confronted him now was
no longer the simple conquest of a smaller power that
he had planned.
	It appeared to him that the gods were once more
actively entering the affairs of humankind.
CHAPTER 15

	The screaming of the sword had seemed to Nestor
to go on at its full voice for centuries. But then at last
it had declined to a low whine, and now it was dying
down to silence. And the life, the power, that still
flowed from the hilt into Nestor's shaking hands was
gradually dying too.
	Gasping with exhaustion, his skin slippery every-
where with sweat and in places with his own blood,
he took one staggering step forward. The long, sloping
hill of rubble was still before him, and he still stood at
the top of it alive. He looked round him for something,
some deadwood figure, to strike at with the sword.
But none of those that were still in sight were still
erect.
	He could still hear, starting to fade with distance
now, the myriad whining voices of the larvae-army.
Those gray ranks had split around the temple and gone on. But
not all of them. Over a broad, fan-shaped area of the slope
immediately in front of Nestor, the hill had gained a new layer
of rubble. It was the debris of a hundred gray bodies, hewn by
Townsaver into chunks of melting mud.
	Those fallen bodies were all quiet now. Nothing but the
returning rain moved on the whole slope.
	Stray drops of rain touched Nestor's face. And he turned
round slowly in his tracks, looking dazedly at the equally dazed
people who had been fighting beside him, and covering his back.
He saw that two of the men had gone down, their clubs still in
hand. And one of the women had been butchered, along with
her small child. But all of the other people were still alive. They
were mostly cowering in corners now, and some of them were
hurt. Townsaver's shrieking blur had covered almost the whole
wide doorway.
	-hard walls it builds around the soft
	Only now did Nestor become fully aware of the small
wounds he himself had sustained, here and there. He had tried
when he could to use the sword to parry, to protect his own
skin as much as possible. But the magic power that drove the
sword in combat had been in ultimate control, and it had been
less interested in saving him than in hacking down the foe.
	A dart was still stuck loosely in Nestor's shirt, scratching him
when he moved, and drawing blood. As he pulled the small
shaft loose and threw it away he wondered whether it might be
poisoned. Too late now to worry about it if it was.
	At least he could still move; in the circumstances, he could
hardly ask for more. He looked once more at the stunned
survivors, who remained where they were, numbly looking back
at him. Then he scrambled down across the slope that was
littered with the bodies of his foes, and up another hill of ruins.
He was heading

for the highest remaining point of the temple's roof. From up
there he should be able to see a maximum distance across the
swamp in every direction.
	Clinging to that precarious remnant of a roof, Nestor could
see in the distance the waves of the larvae-army that had broken
on his strongpoint and then rolled on, rejoining like waves of
water when they were past the temple. The sight gave him a
strange feeling. The hundred larvae that he had destroyed were
suddenly as nothing.
	From this high place Nestor could see something else as well.
It was a sight that made him hurry down, passing as quickly as
he could the people he and the sword had saved, and who had
now decided that they wanted to prostrate themselves before
him as before a god. His body shaking now with fatigue, relief,
and perhaps with poison, Nestor made his way down to the
ground level of the temple, and then out of the building to the
south.
	In another moment, Draffut, who in Nestor's view from the
roof had been only a distant, toylike figure, was coming around a
corner of the temple from the southwest. The giant moved in
vast strides, his twolegged walk covering ground faster than any
human run. A flying dragon of moderate size, perhaps the very
one that Nestor had earlier spoken to, was flitting along near
Draffut's head, almost as if it were planning to attack him. But
Draffut ignored the flying thing, and it did him no harm.
	The small mob of refugees had followed Nestor down to
ground level. Draffut was obviously known to them, and a very
welcome sight; Nestor supposed it was hope of the giant's
protection that had brought them fleeing to the island in the
first place. Now they offered Draffut worship, and clamored to
him at length. The giant answered them in their own language.
With his huge hands he raised them from their knees, and
touched their wounds and healed them.
	Then one of his enormous hands reached out for Nestor, who
once more felt its restoring power. As his touch healed, Draffut
said to him: "You have fought well here. And with the use of
more than ordinary powers, if what these people tell me is
correct."
	"It probably is. Thank you again, Healer-who-is-not-a-god."
The shaking was gone from Nestor's body, and the places where
his small wounds had been were whole. He felt healthy, to a
degree that made the long fight just past seem as unreal as a
dream. He was surprised at a passing feeling that, along with the
fear and pain, something valuable, had been wiped away.
	"Yes," Nestor went on, "there were very many of them. Very
many, including your pet that rose up in advance of the others
and tried to kill me. The sword gave me no more than ordinary
service against that one."
	Abstractedly Draffut lifted one of his huge wrists, and the
flying dragon perched on it like a falcon. "My airborne scouts,"
the giant rumbled, "tell me that the Great Swamp is being
invaded from the west by a large human army. Its soldiers wear
the black and silver of Yambu, and it may be that the queen
herself is leading them."
	"Ah." Nestor felt shaken by the news; he bent to take up
again the sword he had cast down when Draffut reached out to
him. Nestor like everyone else had heard of that queen and of
her power. "I suppose that her objective is not the conquest of
the swamp."
	"And I suppose that it is probably the domain of Kind Sir
Andrew. The sorcerers of her army chant their spells as they
march, and all across the swamp the larvae that they have
cultivated from afar rise up and form in ranks to follow them."
	"So," said Nestor. "We know now who is responsible for the
larvae. And why is this army being led

against Sir Andrew in particular? And why just now?"
	Draffut made a motion of his arm, so that the dragon flew up
from his wrist; it had rested, and now with vigorous wing-
strokes went off on its own business. Draffut said: "Two of the
god-swords, at least, are there now. A tempting booty to be
taken, would you not agree?"
	Nestor looked at the refugees, who were following the talk
with reverence if little understanding. He said to Draffut: "One
sword at least is there, and that one mine. I suppose if the Queen
of Yambu knew where it was, and its importance, she might risk
much to take it. As. would Duke Fraktin, or a hundred others, I
am sure. So what are we to do? I'd risk much myself to get it
back."
	Draffut said: "You should go to Sir Andrew, and warn him.
And do what you can, with that you have there in your hand, to
help him. Now that we know who is raising the Gray Horde,
and where it is being led, I no longer feel that I must remain in
the swamp. In fact, there is somewhere else I want to go now,
and we can go part of the way together."
	Again Draffut held brief conversation with the surviving
swamp-folk. Then he explained to Nestor: "I have told them
that they can return to their village now, on another island not
far from here. They will be safer there than here, if powers
should come seeking here for followers of mine."
	"What powers might those be?"
	"I mean to go," said Draffut, "and start an argument with the
gods. Or with some of them at least. Are you ready to depart?"
	Nestor had no baggage to bring with him except the sword.
Which was, he now observed, an awkward thing to have to
carry in one's hand for any length of time. This difficulty loomed
larger when he realized that he was going to have to ride a long
way on
Draffut's shoulders, and that he might at times want both hands
free to hang on with. Draffut, suggesting a solution, sent Nestor
to rummage in a certain room of the temple that he had not
found in his own explorations, a long-abandoned guardhouse or
arsenal. Much of the weaponry stored therein had rusted and
rotted away, but Nestor turned up a copper scabbard that fit
Townsaver tolerably well. To make the necessary belt, he used
the sword itself to cut a length of tough vine from the temple
wall.
	The surviving swamp-people and their canoes had already
disappeared back into their native habitat when Draffut, with
Nestor clinging to his back, left solid land behind and strode
into the morass, heading to the northeast. Draffut's long wading
strides soon overtook the paddlers; the people in the canoes
made way for him, waving as they pulled aside.
	For half an hour or so, Draffut made steady and uneventful
progress. If any of the multitude of lifeforms large and small that
inhabited the marsh ever considered molesting the Beast-Lord in
his passage, Nestor at least was not aware of it. Draffut never
went more than waist-deep in the water and mud, and Nestor
was easily able to keep himself dry. Now and then he had to
dodge a tree-branch, but that was his most serious immediate
problem. He clung with both hands to his mount's glowing fur,
and was actually beginning to enjoy himself. It seemed to Nestor
that sometimes even the thorntrees bent aside before the giant
reached them.
	This pleasant interval ended abruptly just as Draffut was
mounting a ridge of dry, comparatively high ground. At that
point a large warbeast, armored and collared in the colors of
Yambu, sprang in ambush at the Beast-Lord from a brake of
reeds. The giant's reaction was practically instantaneous; before
Nestor could draw his sword, Draffut had caught the attacker
in

midair, as if he were playing with a kitten. But then the giant
threw the warbeast violently, so that the flying, screaming body
broke tree branches and vanished behind a screen of trees some
thirty meters distant before it splashed into the swamp.
	Almost as if in response, there came a distant, whistling call,
that sounded like some hunter's cry. Nestor had heard similar
signals used to control warbeasts. Draffut paused for a moment,
turning to gaze over the treetops to his left; then he moved
swiftly off to his right, walking at a greater speed than ever.
Now Nestor had to clap his half-drawn.sword back into its
scabbard and once more hold tight with both hands.
	"The advance guard of Yambu," said Draffut over his
shoulder, in what he used for a low voice. "We will outspeed
them if we can."
	Looking back, Nestor saw more warbeasts already in pursuit.
He counted three, and there might well be more. Hundreds of
meters farther back, beyond the great catlike creatures, he could
see the first advancing elements of a human army, some of them
mounted and some in boats. He announced this to Draffut's ear,
but the giant did not bother to answer. Draffut was almost, but
not quite, running now. Maybe, thought Nestor, his size and
build made a real run an impossibility for him. Nestor had
considerable conference in Draffut's powers; but at the same
time the man could almost feel those huge warbeast talons
fastening on him from behind . . .
	The chase went on. From time to time Nestor reported, in a
voice he strove to keep calm, that their pursuers were catching
up. Then abruptly Draffut stopped, and calmly turned to stand
his ground.
	"It is no use," he said. "They are too fast. And they are
maddened with the lust to fight, and will not listen to me."
With one hand he lifted Nestor from his
shoulders, and placed the man in a high crotch of a dead tree.
"Defend yourself," the Beast-Lord laconically advised him, and
turned to do the same.
	A moment later, half a dozen warbeasts, hot on the trail,
came bounding out of the brush nearby. Dmffut cuffed the first
one to come in reach, grabbed and threw another by its tail, and
had to pick a third one from his fur when it was actually brave
enough to leap on him. He hurled it into the remaining three:
With that all of the warbeasts that were still able to move
scattered in flight, emitting uncharacteristic yelps. Nestor, his
sword drawn and ready though showing no special powers, had
nothing to do. Which, under the circumstances, was quite all
right with him.
	Draffut had just retrieved Nestor from his high perch when a
new figure appeared. It was the form of a woman with long
black hair, her body clothed in light armor of ebony and silver,
on another ridge or island of dry land about a hundred meters
distant to the west. She was mounted on a gray warbeast of
such a size that Nestor for an instant thought it was a dragon.
	Beneath the cloudy sky, the woman's armor flashed as if it
were catching desert sunshine. She brandished a silver needle of
a sword, and she was shouting something in their direction.
	The words came clearly in her penetrating voice: "Remove
yourself from my army's path, great beast, or I will set men to
fight against you! I know your weakness; they'll kill you soon
enough. And who is that you carry?"
	Nestor had heard of people who rode on warbeasts, but never
before had he seen it done. As he resumed his seat on Dmffut's
shoulders, the giant roared back: "Rather remove your blood-
mad warbeasts from my path! Or else I will- send you dragons
enough to make your march through the swamp much more
interesting." Without waiting to see what effect his words might
have, he turned and stalked away,

resuming his passage to the north.
There was no observable pursuit.
	"That was the Silver Queen herself. Yambu," said Nestor to
Draffut's ear a little later. The comment was undoubtedly
unnecessary, but the man was unable to let the encounter pass
without saying something about it.
	"Indeed:" The huge voice came rumbling up through
Draffut's neck and head. "There are elements of humanity that I
sometimes wish I were able to fight against:"
	Once more they were traversing bog and thicket at what
would have been a good speed for a riding-beast on flat, cleared
ground. Some time passed in silence, except for the quick plash
and thud of Draffut's feet, while Nestor pondered many things.
Then he asked: "You said that you are planning to go and start
an argument with the gods?"
	"I must," said Draffut. And that was all the answer to his
question that Nestor ever got.
	But little further conversation was exchanged. Nestor
welcomed the comfort of his ride, and watched the sun move in
and out of clouds in the western sky. By the time Draffut
stopped again, some hours had passed and the reddening sun was
almost down. Imperceptibly the land had changed, continuous
marsh giving way to intermittent bogs bridged by dry land. Once
Nestor saw herdsmen watching from a distance.
	The giant set Nestor down carefully on dry ground, and said
to him: "Go north from here, and you will find Sir Andrew.
From here on north the land is solid enough for you to walk,
and savage beasts are fewer. My own way from here lies to the
east:"
	"I wish you good luck," said Nestor. And then, when he had
looked to the east, he would have said something more, for
never until now had he known the sunset fires of Vulcan's forge
to be so bright that they could be seen from this far west.
	But Draffut was already gone.
CHAPTER 16
	When Dame Yoldi took Mark for the first time to her
workroom, he discovered it not to be the dismal, for-bidding
chamber that he had for some reason expected. Rather it was
open, cleanly decorated with things of nature, and as light as. the
dying, cloudy day outside could make it, entering narrow
windows.
	The enchantress lighted tapers, from a small oil lamp that was
already burning. She distributed a few of these in the otherwise
dark corners of the room, and placed two more on the central
table where Dragonslicer now rested on a white linen cloth.
Most of the floor space in the room was open, while shelves
round all the walls contained an armament of magic, arrayed in
books and bottles, boxes, jars, and bags. One set of open dishes
held grain and dried fruit, another set what looked like plain
water and dry earth.
- Yoldi made Mark sit down at the table near the sword, where
she made him comfortable, and gave him a delicious drink, not
quite like anything he had ever tasted before. Then she began to
question him closely about his family, and about the several
godswords he had seen, and about what he thought he would do
with his own sword if he could ever get it back. Her questions
suggested new ideas to Mark, and made him see his own
situation in what seemed like a new light, so that when he
looked at the sword before him on the table now he saw it as
something different from the weapon he had once held in his
own two hands and used to kill a dragon. The more he talked
with Yoldi the more fearfully impressive the whole business
grew. But somehow he was not more frightened.
	Their chat was interrupted by an urgent tapping at the door.
Yoldi went to open it, and listened briefly to someone just
outside. A moment-later, with a solemn face, she was beckoning
to Mark to follow her out of the room She led him up many
stairs, and finally up a ladder, which brought them out onto
what proved to be the highest rooftop of the castle. This was a
flat area only a few meters square, copper-sheeted against
weather and attack by fire, and bounded by a chesthigh parapet
of stone. Sir Andrew's Master of the Beasts, a dour young man
who gave the impression of wanting to be old, was on the roof
already, doing something to one of a row of man-sized cages that
stood under a shelter along the northern parapet. In these cages
were kept the flyers, the inhuman messengers and scouts,
temporarily before launching and when they had returned from
flights.
	When Dame Yoldi and Mark appeared on the roof, the Beast-
Master silently pointed to the east, into the approaching night.
In that direction a large arc of the horizon was sullenly aglow,
with what looked like an untimely dawn, or distant flames.

	"The mountains," Mark said, understanding the origin of the
glow. And then: "My home."
	Dame Yoldi, standing behind him, held him by the shoulders.
"In which direction exactly is your village, boy?" Her voice at
first sounded almost eager. "Can you point toward it? But no, I
don't suppose that's possible. It's somewhere near those
mountains, though."
	"Yes." And Mark, coniinuing to stare at the distant fires,
lapsed into silence.
	"Don't be afraid." Yoldi's tone turned reassuring, while
remaining brisk, refusing to treat volcanoes as a disaster. Her grip
was comforting. "Your folic are probably all right. I know these
foothill people, ready to take care of themselves. It might
actually be a good thing for them, make them get out of Duke
Fraktin's territory if they haven't done so already." The
enchantress turned away to the dour man, asking: "When is your
next scout due back from the east?"
	Mark did not understand whatever it was that the man
answered. He was intent on wondering what might be
happening to his home, on picturing his mother and his sister as
stumbling refugees.
	"I wonder," Dame Yoldi was musing to herself, "if anyone's
told Andrew about this yet. He ought to be told, but he's down
there talking to the fellow from Yambu-probably wouldn't do to
interrupt him now."
	And now Mark saw that one of the airborne scouts was
indeed coming in against the fading sky; coming from the south
and not the east, but approaching with weary, urgent speed.

	Baron Amintor, who was Queen Yambu's emissary to Sir
Andrew, was a large man, the size of Sir Andrew himself but
younger. The Baron with his muscles and his scars looked more
the warrior than the diplomat. He had the diplomat's smooth
tongue, though, and Sir Andrew had to admit to himself that the
man's man
ners were courteous enough. It was only the substance of what
the visitor had to say that Sir Andrew found totally
objectionable.
	The two men were conversing alone in a small room, not far
above the ground level of the castle, and within earshot of Sir
Andrew's armory, where the clang of many hammers upon metal
signalled the process of full mobilization that the knight had
already put into effect. It was a sound he did not want his
visitor to miss.
	Not that the Baron appeared to be taking the least notice of
it. "Sir Andrew, if you will only hand over to me now, for
delivery to the Queen, whichever of these swords you now
possess, and grant the Queen's armies the right of free passage
through your territory-which passage you will not be able to
deny her in any caseyou will then be under her protection as
regards these threats you have lately been receiving from Duke
Fraktin. And, I may add, from any similar threats that may arise
from any quarter. Any quarter," Amintor repeated, with a sly,
meaningful look, almost a wink. At that point he paused.
	Sir Andrew wondered what particular fear or suspicion that
near-wink had been calculated to arouse in him; but no matter,
he was worrying to capacity already, though he trusted that it
did not show.
	Baron Amintor went on: "But, of course, Her Majesty cannot
be expected to guarantee the frontiers or the safety of any state
that is unfriendly to her. And if for some misguided reason you
should withhold from. her these swords, these tools so necessary
to Her Majesty's ambitions for a just peace, then Her Majesty
cannot do otherwise than consider you unfriendly." At this point
the Baron's voice dropped just a little. It seemed that, bluff
soldier that he was, it rather shocked him to think of anyone's
being unfriendly to Yambu.
	' Ah," Sir Andrew remarked. "The tools necessary

for a just peace. I rather like that. Yes, that's quite good..
	"Sir Andrew, believe me, Her Majesty has every intention of
respecting your independence, as much as possible. But, to be
unfriendly and small at the same time-that is really not the
policy of wisdom."
	"Wisdom, is it? Small, are we?" Bards would never repeat
such words of defiance; but Sir Andrew felt that the man
standing before him did not deserve anything in the way of fine
or even thoughtful speech. And anyway he felt too angry to try
to produce it.
	"Good sir, the fact is that your domain is comparatively small.
Comparatively weak. Duke Fraktin is of course as well aware of
these facts as you and I are, and the Duke is not your friend. The
people of your lands-well, they are brave, I am sure. And loyal to
you-most of them at least. But they are not all that numerous.
And they are widely scattered. This castle-" and here the Baron,
being bluff and military, thumped his strong hand on the wall °-
is a fine fortress. The noise from your armory is entertaining.
But, how many fighting men have you actually mobilized so far,
here on the spot and ready to fight? Two hundred? Fewer,
perhaps? No, of course you need not tell me. But think upon the
number in your own mind. Compare it to the numbers that are
ready to cross your borders now, from two directions, east and
west. You can prevent neither the Queen's army crossing, nor
the Duke's. And then think upon the people in your outlying
villages that you are never going to be able to defend. At least
not without Her Majesty's gracious help."
	Sir Andrew stood up abruptly. He was so angry that he did
not trust himself. "Leave me now."
	The Baron was already standing. He turned, without
argument, without either delay or evidence of fear, and took a
couple of steps toward the door. Then he
paused. "And have you any further message for the Queen?"
	"I say leave me for now. You will be shown where to wait. I
will let you know presently about the message."
	As soon as Sir Andrew was alone, he left the small chamber
where he had been talking with Baron Amintor, and walked
into another, larger room, where most of his old books were
kept. There by lamplight he picked up a volume, fingered it,
opened it, closed it, and put it down again. When was he ever
going to have time to read again? Or would he die in battle
soon, and never have time again to read another book?
	After that, he took himself in a thoughtful, silent, solitary
walk down into the dungeon. There he stood in front of the one
cell that held a human being, gazing thoughtfully at the prisoner.
Kaparu his captive looked back at him nervously. Down the
side corridor, workers were busy opening the cells where birds
and animals were confined, preparing to set the small inmates
free. War was coming, and luxuries had to go, including the
dream of a vivarium in the castle grounds.
	At length the knight spoke. "You, Kaparu, are my only
human prisoner. Have you meditated upon the meaning of my
last reading to you? I do not know when, if ever, it will be
possible to read to you again, and try to teach you to be good."
	"Oh, yes, indeed I have meditated, sire." Kaparu's hands
slipped sweatily on the bars to which he would have clung.
"And-and I have learned this much at least, that you are a good
man. And I was quite sure already that those who are planning
to invade your lands are not good people. So, I -I would give
much, sire, not to be in this cell when . . . that is, if. . . "
	"When my castle is overrun by them, you mean. A natural
and intelligent reaction."
	"Oh, if you would release me, sire, if you would let me out, I
would be grateful. I would do anything."

"Would you go free, and rob no more?"
"Gladly, sire, I swear it."
	Sir Andrew, hesitating in inward conflict, asked him: "Is your
oath to be trusted, Kaparu? Have you learned that it is no light
thing to break an oath?"
	"I will. not break mine, sire. Your readings to me . . . they
have opened my eyes. I can see now that all my earlier life was
wrong, one great mistake from start to finish."
	Sir Andrew looked long at Kaparu. Then, with a gentle nod,
he reached for the key ring at his own belt.
	A little later, when the knight had heard the latest message
from the flying scouts, and had begun to ponder the terrible
news of the raising of the Gray Horde, he sent away Yambu's
ambassador with a final message of defiance. There seemed to
him to be nothing else that he could do.
	After that, Sir Andrew went up to the highest parapets of his
castle, which at the moment were otherwise unoccupied, there
to lean out over his battlement and brood. Everywhere he
looked, preparations for war and seige were being made, and he
had much to ponder.
	Presently he was aware that someone else had joined him on
the roof, and he looked up from his thoughts and saw Dame
Yoldi standing near. From her expression he judged that she had
no urgent news or question for him, she had simply come in his
hour of need to see what else she might be able to do to help.
	"Andrew."
	"Yoldi . . . Yoldi, if the power in these god-forged swords is
indeed so great, that these evildoers around us are ready to risk
war with each other, as well as with us, to obtain even one of
them-if it is so great, I say, then how can I in good conscience
surrender to them even one source of such power?"
	Dame Yoldi nodded her understanding, gently and sadly. "It
would seem that you cannot. So you have already decided.
Unless the consequences of refusing to surrender strike you as
more terrible still?"
	"They do notl By all the demons that Ardneh ever slew or
paralyzed, we must all die at some time, but we are not all
doomed to surrender! But the people in the villages haunt me,
Yoldi. I can do nothing to protect them from Fraktin or
Yambu."
	"It would give those village people at least some hope for the
future-those among them who survive invasion-if you could
stand fast, here in your strong place, and eventually reclaim your
lands."
	"If I try to stand fast, here or anywhere, then I must say to my
people: 'March to war.' We know, you and I, what war is like.
Some of the young ones do not know . . . but it apears that the
evil and the horror of war are coming upon them anyway,
whatever I decide. No surrender will turn back such enemies as
these, once they are mobilized upon my borders, or moderate
what they do to my people. Regardless of what they might
promise now. Not that I have asked them for any promises, or
terms. Why ask for what I would never believe from them
anyway?"
	A silence fell between the knight and the enchantress, the
world around them quiet too except for the distant chinking
from the armorers. "I must go back to my own work," Yoldi
said at last, and kissed the lord of the castle once, and went
away.
	"And I must go down," said Sir Andrew aloud to himself,
"and inspect the defenses."

	A little later when he was walking upon the castle's outer
wall, near one of the strong guard-towers that defended the
main gate, Sir Andrew encountered one of his old comrades in
arms, and fell into conversation with him.

	' A long time, Sir Andrew, since we've had to draw our
swords atop these walls."
	"Yes, a long time."
	At some point the comrade had turned into quite an old man,
white-haired and wrinkled, and Sir Andrew, not remembering
him as such, could not quite shake the feeling that this aged
appearance was some kind of a disguise, which the other would
presently take off. The talk they had sounded cheerful enough,
though most of the matters they talked about were horrible,
seige and stratagem, raid and counterattack and sally.
	"That kept 'em off our backs a good long time, hey sir?"
	"Not long enough." Sir Andrew sighed.
	And presently he was once more left alone, still standing on
the wall near the main gate. This was a good vantage point from
which to overlook the thin, intermittent stream of provision
carts, fighting men, and refugees that came trickling up the
winding road that led from the intersection of the highways to
the castle.
	Here came some priests and priestesses of Ardneh, white-
robed and hurried, who had just passed an inspection at the
checkpoint down the way. They were driving two carts, that Sir
Andrew could at least hope were filled with medical supplies.
Sometimes, in time of war, Temples of Ardneh stood unscathed
in the midst of contending armies. Each leader and each fighter
hoped that if he were wounded, he would be cared for if there
were room. But evidently it would not be that way this time.
Ardneh, in a sense, was coming to Sir Andrew's side; and,
medical supplies aside, the troops were sure to take that as a
good omen.
	Sir Andrew closed his eyes, and gripped the parapet in front
of him. He thought of praying to Ardneh for more direct help-
although with part of his mind he
knew, knew better than almost anyone else in the
world, that though Ardneh had once lived, he had now
been dead for almost two thousand years. Sir Andrew
knew it well. And yet . . .
	And this mystery regarding Ardneh called to mind
another, that had long troubled Sir Andrew and that
none of his studies had ever been able to solve: If
Ardneh was dead, why were all the world's other gods
and goddesses alive? The common opinion was that
all of them had been living since the creation of the
world, or thereabouts, and that of course Ardneh was
still alive with all the others. But Sir Andrew had the
gravest doubts that the common opinion was correct.
	He tended instead to trust certain historical writings,
that spoke in matter-of-fact terms of Ardneh's exist-
ence and his death, but did not so much as mention
Vulcan, Hermes, Aphrodite, Mars, or any of the rest-
with the sole exception of the Beast-Lord Draffut. And
Draffut was not assigned the importance of Ardneh,
or of their evil opponent Orcus, Lord of Demons.
	And whatever Sir Andrew might think of gods, he
had no doubts at all about the reality of demons.
	At some time in his long years of study and deep
thought, a horrible suspicion had been born, deep in
his mind: That the entities that who now called them-
selves gods, were recognized by humanity as gods,
and who claimed to rule the world-whenever they
bothered to take an interest in it-that these beings
were in fact demons who had survived from the era of
Ardneh and of Orcus. But there were, comfortingly,
important difficulties with that theory too.
	After all Sir Andrew's study of the gods, all he could
say about them with absolute certainty was very little:
That most of them were real, here and now, and very
powerful. The swords were testimony enough to the
real power of Vulcan.
	Yoldi was a fine magician, and a brave one. But

there were limits to the ability of any magician to
reach and control the ultimate powers of reality.
	Why in the names of all the gods and demons did
the universe have to be such a complicated, confused,
and contrary place? Sir Andrew thought now, not for
the first time, that if he had been put in charge of the
design, he would have done things differently.
	Sir Andrew had opened his eyes for a while, closed
them again, and was trying to decide whether he was
really praying to Ardneh now or not, when he heard
his name called from below. Looking down, he saw
that one man had stepped aside from the continued
trickle of traffic approaching the castle, and was now
standing just below Sir Andrew on the shoulder of the
road. The man was in his late youth or early middle
age, rather slight of build, and with a traveled look
about him. He wore a large sword, belted on with
what looked like rope or twine, that immediately drew
Sir Andrew's attention.
	The man had to speak again before Sir Andrew
recognized the dragon-hunter, Nestor. "Sir Andrew? I
bring you greetings from the Beast-Lord, Dmffut."
CHAPTER 17
	Even traveling almost without pause, at the best speed made
possible by his enormous strides, it had taken Draffut a day and a
half to get from the temple island near the middle of the Great
Swamp east as far as the high plains. And night was falling again
before he reached the region in Duke Fraktin's domain where
the upward slope of land began to grow pronounced., The
volcanic fires that had lighted the eastern sky when seen from
hundreds of kilometers away were at this close range truly
spectacular.
	Almost immediately upon leaving the swamp behind, Draffut
had begun to encounter refugees from the eruption. These were
mainly folk from Duke Fraktin's high villages, where a mass
evacuation had obviously started. The villagers were fleeing their
homes and land in groups, as families, as individuals, moving
anywhere downslope, most of them lost now in unfamiliar
territory. Some of these people, passing Draffut at a little
distance, shouted to him word of what they considered Vulcan's
wrath-as if Draffut should not be able to see for himself the
flaming sky ahead.
	Draffut was not sure whether these folk were trying to warn
him, to plead for his intercession with the gods, or both. "I will
speak to Vulcan about it," he said, when he said anything at all
in answer. Carefully he avoided stepping on any of the people.
For the most part of course they said nothing to him. They were
astonished and terrified to see him, and in their panic would
sometimes have run right under his feet, or would have driven
their livestock or their farm-carts into him. Draffut made his
way considerately around them all, and went on east. and up.
	He had no such need to be careful with the small units of
Duke Fraktin's army that he encountered along the way, some of
them even before he had entered the Duke's domain. Whether
mounted or afoot, these always scattered in flight before
Draffut's advance, as if they took it for granted that he would be
their deadly enemy. Draffut could not help thinking back to the
time when soldiers had cheered him and looked to him for help.
But that had been many ages and wars ago, and halfway around
the world from here.
	In a lifetime that had spanned more than fifty thousand years,
Draffut had often enough seen swarms of human refugees, and
even burning skies like these. But seldom before had he felt the
earth quiver beneath his feet as it was quivering now.
	When he got in among the barren foothills he continued
climbing without pause. Now the rumbling towers of fire
loomed almost above his head, and fine ash drifted continuously
down around him. He thought that there were forces here that
could destroy him, that he was no longer immune to death, as he
might

once have been. His own powers, absorbed over ages, were
fading as slowly as they had been gained, but they were fading.
Yet he could feel little personal fear. By his nature, Draffut
could not help but be absorbed in larger things than that.
	The shuddering, burning agony of the mountains against the
darkening sky brought back more old memories to Draffut. One
of these recollections was very old indeed, of another mountain,
upon another continent, that once-had split to spill the Lake of
Life . . . that had been in the days of Ardneh's greatest power.
Ardneh, whom Draffut had never really known at all, despite
the current human version of the history of the world. It hardly
mattered now, for now Ardneh was long dead . . .
	The question to be answered now was, where had these new
creatures of power sprung from, these upstart entities calling
themselves gods? Ardneh in his days of greatest strength had
never claimed to be a god, nor had the evil Orcus. Indeed, it
seemed to Draffut looking back that for thousands of years the
very word god had been almost forgotten among humanity.
	If he tried to peer back too far into his own past, he reached
an epoch where all memory faded, blurring into disconnected
scenes and meaningless impressions. He knew that these were
remnant of a time when his intelligence, brain, and body had
been very different from what they were now. But certainly
Draffut's memory of the past few thousand years was sharp and
clear. He could recall very well the days when Ardneh and Orcus
had fought each other. And in those days, not one of these
currently boasting, sword-making upstarts who called
themselves gods and goddesses had walked the earth: They bore
names from the remote past of human myth, but who were
they? By what right did they plan for themselves games that
involved for humanity the horror of wars? Draffut
could no longer delay finding out.
	He had climbed only a little way up the first slopes of the real
mountain when he found his way blocked by a slow stream of
lava, three or four meters wide. The air above the lava writhed
with heat. And in the night and the hellglow on the far side of
the molten stream, visible amid swirling fumes and boiling air,
there stood a two-legged figure far too large to be human, even
if a human could have stood there and lived. The figure was
roughly the same size as Draffut himself, and it was regarding
Draffut, and waiting silently.
	In the raging heat he could see nothing of the figure clearly
but its presence. He stopped, and called a salutation to it, using
an ancient tongue that either Ardneh or Orcus would have
understood at once. There was no reply.
	Now Draffut summoned up what he could of his old powers,
concentrating them in his right hand. Then he bent down and
thrust that hand into the sluggish, crusting, seething stream of
lava. Without allowing himself to be burned, he scooped up a
dripping handful of the molten rock. With another exertion of
his will he gave the handful of magma temporary life, so that
what had been dead rock quickened and soared aloft in the hot,
rising air, making a small silent explosion of living things
exquisite as butterflies.
	Still the figure that waited beyond the lava-stream would not
move or speak. But now another like itself had joined it, and as
Draffut watched yet another and another one appeared. The
gods were assembling to watch what he was doing, to judge him
silently.
	He wanted more than that from them. He stood erect and
brushed his hands clean of smoking rock. It was impossible to
tell from the silent observation whether the onlookers were
impressed by what he had done.

	In a carrying roar he challenged them: "Why do you not tell
humanity the truth? Are you afraid of it?"
	There was a stir among the group, images wavering in the
heat. With the noise of the earth itself pervading all, Draffut
could not tell what they might be saying among themselves. At
last a voice, larger than human, boomed back at him: "Tell them
yourself, you shaggy dog."
	Another voice followed, high clear tones that must be those
of a goddess: "We know well what you used to be, Beast-Lord,
when first you followed your human masters into the cave of
the Lake of Life, fifty thousand years ago and more. Do not
pretend to grandeur now."
	And yet another voice, belligerent and male: "Yes, tell them
yourself-but will they believe what they are told by a dog, the
son of a bitch? Never mind that some of them now think you
are a god. We can fix that!"
	Draffut could feel the fervor of his anger growing, growing,
till it was hotter than the lava that made the earth burn just in
front of him. He roared back: "I have as much right to be a god
as any of you do. More! Tell the human world what you really
are!"
	Beyond the wavering heat, their numbers were still
increasing. Another voice mocked him: "You tell them what we
really are. Ha, haaa!"
	"I would tell them. I will tell them, when I know."
	"Ha, haaa! We are the gods, and that is all ye need to know.
It is no business of a son of a bitch to challenge gods."
	In a single stride Draffut moved forward across the stream of
lava. And now he could see the last speaker plainly enough to be
able to recognize him. "You are Vulcan. And now you are going
to give me some answers, about the swords."
	Vulcan answered boldly enough, with an obscene
insult. But at the same time he appeared to shrink
back a little within the group. There was wrangling
and shoving among the deities, amid a cloud of smoke
and dust. Then another figure, pushing Vulcan aside,
stepped forward from behind him. Now the shape of a
gigantic and muscular man, carrying a great spear, his
head covered with a helm, stood limned against a
fresh flow of red-hot lava spilling down a slope.
	"I am traveling west from here," said Mars. His
voice was one that Draffut had not heard before, all
drums and trumpets and clashing metal. "War draws
me there. I see a beseiged castle, and one in the
attacking army who offers me sacrifice with skilful
magic. I think it is time for me to answer the prayers
of one of my devoted worshippers."
	From the group behind the speaker there came a
discordant chorus of varied comments on this an-
nouncement. Draffut noted that they ranged from
applause to enthusiastic scorn.
	Mars ignored them all. He did not turn his terrible
gaze from Draffut, who stood right in his way. Mars
said: "I am going to that castle, there to spend some
time in killing humans for amusement."
	Draffut said simply: "No, that you will not do."
	At this point someone in the rear rank of the gods
threw a burning boulder straight at Draffut. It seemed
to come with awesome slowness through the air, and
it was accurately aimed. Catching it strained his great
strength, but from some reserve he drew the power to
hurl it back-not at its unseen thrower. Instead Draffut
aimed it straight for Mars, just as the long spear
leveled for a throw. Rock and spear met in mid-air, to
explode in a million screaming fragments.
	Another spear already in his hand, the God of War
strode forward to do battle.

CHAPTER 18

	Dame Yoldi herself had told Mark several times that
she considered his survival vitally important, and that
she meant for that reason to keep him in comparative
safety at her side as much as possible when the fight-
ing started. Thus it happened that they were together
on the high roof of Sir Andrew's castle, in early morn-
ing light, when the first attack of the Gray Horde
broke like a dirty wave against the walls.
	The defenders were as ready as they could be for the
assault, for there had been no way for the attackers to
achieve surprise. On the previous day, Sir Andrew's
enchantress had announced that the- speed and direc-
tion of the larvae's advance could be only approxi-
mately controlled by the magicians of Yambu. For the
past few days, Yoldi and several of her assistants had
attempted to interfere with the enemy magic, and turn
the larvae against those who had raised them. But
that effort had failed, and Dame Yoldi was necessarily
concentrating upon other matters now. She said that
in any case the larvae would not be able to remain
active for more than a few days, Once raised from the
swamp, they drew no nourishment, no energy of any
kind, from their environment. This made them diffi-
cult to interfere with, and almost impossible to poison,
but also awkward for their masters to control. However,
for the few days that their pseudo-life endured they
were an almost invincible army, immune to weariness
and fear.
	Their massed howling, like distant wind, could be
heard in the castle for more than an hour before their
first charge at the walls. Therefore the defenders were
alerted and in place when the hundred scaling ladders
of the Horde were raised.
	As the light grew full, Mark could see from his high
vantage point how Ben was taking part in the fighting
atop the eastern wall, using his great strength behind
a pole to topple scaling ladders back as fast as the
handless, clumsy larvae below could prop them up;
there were no humans to be seen at all in the first
wave of attackers.
	And Barbara was on the wall west of the guard
towers and the main gate, one of a company of men
and women armed with bows and slings. Their mis-
siles went hailing thickly down into the sea of the
attackers, but Mark could not see that they did much
damage. An arrow might penetrate a larva's shell, but
the thing kept advancing anyway, pushing up another
ladder and then climbing to the attack. A slung stone
might crack a carapace, but the hit figure came on
anyway, until a leg joint was broken too badly to let it
walk, or its arms disabled to the point where it could
no longer climb a ladder.
	The hundred ladders carried forward to the walls in

that first attack, Mark decided, must have been made
for the larvae by their human masters and allies. Last
night he had heard Nestor talking in the castle, describ-
ing in detail what he had seen of the larvae at close
range, and what kind of fighting might be expected
when their horde swept to the assault on the castle
walls.
	Sir Andrew had listened very carefully to the same
account. The knight had then sat alone for a while, the
picture of grim thought, and then had issued orders,
disposing of his defense forces as best he might. Mark
had got the impression, listening, that all the experts
on hand knew that the walls were going to be under-
manned.
	Then Sir Andrew had had Nestor speak to the
defenders also of Draffut, of how the Lord of Beasts
had seemed to favor their cause, and to hint of active
intervention on their side. This raised the hopes of
everyone somewhat, though Nestor was careful not to
claim that any such promise had been made by Draffut.
	Nestor, as he had explained to a smaller gathering
of his old companions of the wagon, had decided he
had no real choice but to take part in the fighting, once
he had decided to come to Sir Andrew's castle with the
sword.
	"Besides, where would I have gone to get away?
From here all roads lead ultimately to Fraktin or Yambu,
except those that go back into the swamp, or to the
northwest; and I expect that even those are closed by
now. "
	Armed with the Sword of Fury, and wearing the
best armor that Sir Andrew had been able to fit him
with at short notice, Nestor was somewhere in one of
the central guard-towers when the first attack began.
The strategy was for him to wait there until close
combat provided a suitable chance to bring the sword's
powers into use. But though the sword whined restlessly
when the attack began, and drew its threads of vapor from the
air into itself, that chance did not come with the first assault.
	Not that there was much of a break between the first and
second. The Gray Horde did not retreat from the foot of the
walls to reform, as a human army would certainly have done.
Instead its thousands milled around, indifferent to slung stone
and arrow.
	And then surged forward behind the ladders once again.
	By now it had been discovered that large stones dropped on
the attacking larvae below the walls were somewhat more
effective than slings and arrows, but that fire was
disappointingly inefficient. The deadwood figures were not
really dry, and they would have to be burnt into ashes to be
stopped.
	"A breach! A breach!"
	Mark heard the cry go up some minutes after the second
surge with ladders against the walls began. Looking down at the
top of the west wall, to his right, he saw that gray mannikins
were on it, their arms windmilling as they fought.
	"The sword comes!"
	"Townsaver!"
	Through the defenders' thin reserves the figure of Nestor,
recognizable in his new armor, was moving into action. Above
and through the banshee-howling of the enemy sounded the
high shriek of the blade. The sound called up for Mark his last
day in his home village, and he felt a surge of sickness.
	The hand of Dame Yoldi pressed his arm. "It comes awake,
and timely too. We have a holding here, and unarmed folk in it
to be defended. The gods cannot be wholly evil, to have forged
a weapon of this nature."
	Mark could not think beyond that screaming sound. Nestor
had reached the foe now, and the blade in his hands blurred
back and forth, faster than sight could

follow it, and the first gray rank went down.
	This was Duke Fraktin's first chance to hear Townsaver
scream, and he was greatly interested. He watched from a
distance as the small blur in one man's hands cleared the west
wall of larvae. The Duke was impressed, but not particularly
surprised.
	He watched also, with fascination, how gracefully and
angrily Queen Yambu rode her prancing warbeast in front of
her own ranked army of human men, even as he himself paced
near the center of his own. The bulk of the Duke's forces were
now disposed in a semicircular formation, with its right wing
on the lake almost behind the castle, left wing anchored just
about where the winding road came up the hill to find Sir
Andrew's fortified main gate. Upon that gate a hundred larvae
were now battering with a ram fashioned from the trunk of a
huge tree. Their feet slipped and slid in mud that had been their
predecessors' bodies, while stones and fire decimated their
ranks from above. Meanwhile, along the road, rough battalions
of replacements jostled forward, howling dully, ready without
fear or hope to take their turn beneath the walls.
	From the winding road around west to the lake again, the
human forces of Yambu held the field. They were arrayed, like
the Duke's army, in a rough halfcircle. The Duke like everyone
else was well aware that the two armies of attackers were
watching each other closely and uneasily, even as both watched
the progress of the swarming preliminary attack on the castle
by Yambu's auxiliaries.
	The Duke turned to his blue-garbed wizard, who was
waiting nearby clad in incongruous-looking armor. "At least,"
His Grace remarked, "a good part of the Horde is going to he
used up against those walls, and particularly by that sword.
We can hope that most of those dead-wood monsters will be
out of the way
before it comes our turn to fight Yambu, for the spoils."
"Indeed, sire:"
	"I'm convinced now, Blue-Robes, that it was she who tried
to kidnap my cousin. Obviously she's got word of the swords
somehow . . . what word is there from the east?"
	This last was spoken to the Duke's staff at large. None of
them had any real news to report from that direction. At night
there were the reddened eastern skies for all to see, and by day
the distant plumes of smoke. When the Duke had dispatched a
flying scout with a message for the small garrison at Arin-on-
Aldan, the scout had come back with a report of being unable
to find the village or its garrison, in the altered landscape and
foul air. (The message had been an order for the family of Jord
the Miller to be brought into the Duke's presence for some
serious interrogation, milder methods having failed.) Indeed it
appeared now that communications with the foothill region had
broken down completely. Reports, scattered and uncertain,
indicated that the whole civilian population of that area was
now in flight, and military patrols were at best disrupted. The
Duke sighed, for his vanished family of subjects for
interrogation. But he had a battle to fight here, and could spare
no extra manpower for search operations of doubtful utility
over there.
	Still, the blue-robed wizard did not appear entirely unhappy
when this subject came up for discussion. He had the air of
holding good news in reserve, and, sure enough, at his earliest
good chance he announced it.
	"Sire, I am pleased to be able to report that my private
project has achieved a measure of success."
	"What other project?" The ducal brow creased with a slight
frown. "Oh. You are speaking now of . . . of what you spoke
to me about last night in secret:"

	"Exactly so, sire." The wizard bowed, a small dip with an air
of triumph. "We now have reason to hope that Mars himself is
soon going to come directly to our aid. Then, what will our
rivals have gained from their paltry success in raising the
Horde?"
	"By the Great Worm Yilgarn." Duke Fraktin was
indubitably impressed. But he was suddenly somewhat
worried as well. "Do you think, Blue-Robes, that such a raising
is . . . the god? Mars? Are you sure you're serious?"
	"Oh, entirely serious, sire."
	A hundred people or more might be watching, even if
probably none of them were close enough at the moment to
hear. The Duke made himself smile. "Do you think it entirely
wise?"
	At this the wizard began to look downcast; he had surely
been expecting more enthusiasm from his master. He was
somewhat relieved when their talk was interrupted. A close-
ranked body of men had surrounded, and were now bringing
into the Duke's presence a man who (it was reported) insisted
on speaking to the Duke himself, who swore that he had been
within the past day inside the beseiged castle, and who claimed
to know a way by which it would be possible to enter secretly
with a body of armed men.
	Presently, after the man was thoroughly searched, and
tested for magical powers, the Duke confronted trim. "Well?
Spit it out, fellow."
	The fellow before him was poorly garbed, and young, with a
lean, hunted look. "My name is Kaparu, Your Grace. I have
worked as an agent of Queen Yambu in the past, but I'll be
pleased to work for a prince as well-known for generosity as
yourself instead."

	Throughout the whole morning the fighting continued with
scarcely an interruption. What small pauses there were
resulted not from any weariness or unwil-
lingness on the part of the inhuman mob that tried to swarm
upon the walls, but from their need for new ladders, as
numbers of the old ones burned or broke under the impact of
rock or fire or molten lead. And even when the fighting ebbed
for a time, the howling of the Horde went on without pause.
The volume of sound did not seem to diminish much with their
necessarily diminishing numbers.
	As Mark came down from the roof to the level of the top of
the outer walls, he heard a stalwart swordsman mutter: "We
have cut down thousands of them, and yet still they come."
The man was not exaggerating.
	Presently Mark was making his way across the crowded
main courtyard of the castle, passing hastily arranged
stockpiles of supplies, tethered animals, a row of moaning
wounded being cared for. He had come down from the roof
with Dame Yoldi's permission, in response to a wave from
Barbara. A longer break in the fighting than any previous had
set in, and the magicians of Yambu had even summoned the
Horde back from the walls, out of reach of fire and hurled rock,
till more ladders could be got ready. Inside the castle, those
who had borne the burden of the battle were being relieved
now, wherever possible, for food and rest. Still it seemed to
Mark that the yard was crowded mostly with noncombatant
refugees, all of whom seemed to be muttering complaints that
too many others had been let in. Mark heard several people
assuring others that whatever food supplies Sir Andrew had
available could not possibly be enough to see this crowd
through a long seige.
	Mark repeated this saying to his old companions, when he
came to the place against a damp-stoned wall where Barbara,
and now Ben as well, were waiting for him.
	Barbara sat leaning against the wall, but Ben was standing,
as if his nerves and muscles were still on

alert, tuned to too high a pitch to let him rest. He was not tall,
but neither was he as short as his thick build sometimes made
him look. The mismatched breastplateand helmet he had
scrounged somewhere now gave him an almost clownish look.
	Looking at Barbara, Ben laughed tiredly. "I only hope we
have the chance to try out a long seige. I think we'd like it
better than.. . " He didn't finish, but let himself slump back
against the wall, and then slide down till he was sitting beside
her.
	Now Mark could see Nestor, swordless at the moment but
still wearing most of his new armor, picking his way wearily
across the crowded court toward them.
	Nestor said nothing until he had come up to where they
were, and had let himself down with a great sigh, that seemed
to have in it all the exhaustion of war. He tipped his head back
and kept it that way, gazing up into the gray sky which
dropped a little rain from time to time. Only occasionally did
he lower his gaze to look at any of his companion.
	"The fighting. . . " Nestor began to say at last. And then it
appeared that he did not mean to finish either.
	For some time there was a silence among them all. Mark
knew, or at least felt, that there were things that needed saying,
but he had no feeling for how to begin.
	He kept expecting at any moment to hear the call to arms,
but it did not come. The respite in the fighting was growing
unexpectedly prolonged. From the distance came the repetitive,
soothing chants of the lesser magicians of Yambu-it was said
that the Queen there was her own best wizard. The chanting
was being used to keep the Horde treading in place or marching
in a circle until a greater number of ladders could be made and
distributed for the next assault .
	. . . Mark roused with a start, and realized he had been
dozing, his back against a wall. Dame Yoldi had appeared in
the midst of their resting group. It was
early afternoon now, and she was bending over Nestor, talking
to him. "Are you hurt?"
	"No, lady. Not much. But tired. And stiffening now. I've
had a fair rest, though. I'll be ready to take back the Sword and
use it when the fighting starts again:"
	Yoldi, straightening up, nodded abstractedly. She said:
"Whoever has Townsaver in hand, fighting to protect unarmed
folk in a held place, cannot die so long as he keeps on fighting,
no matter how severe his wounds. But if he is badly hurt, he
will fall as soon as the fighting slackens:"
	Nestor said nothing, but continued gazing at the sky. After
a time he nodded, to show that he had heard.
	Mark, happening to look toward a far part of the courtyard
where vehicles were gathered, saw something that made him
speak without thinking.
	"Look," he said. "Our old wagon."
	The others looked. "My lute is there," Ben said.
	"I wonder," asked Barbara, of no one in particular, "if the
money's still under the front seat:"

	Mark had nodded into sleep again, only to waken to a heart-
Founding shock. It was late in the day, very late now, and long
afternoon shadows had come over them all.
	"Listen!" Nestor ordered, urgently.
	Mark sat bolt upright.
	The distant chanting of the sorcerers of Yambu had fallen
into silence.
	There was no time for farewells or good wishes. Mark
rushed to rejoin Dame Yoldi on the roof, as she had bidden him
do if an alert sounded. On his way to the first ascending stair,
Mark ran past Sir Andrew. The knight's armor was dented
here and there from the-earlier fighting. He was exhorting his
troops, in a huge voice, to make another winning effort.

	It was a long climb back to the roof. When he emerged on it
at last, Mark found Dame Yoldi already there, her arms raised
to a darkening sky and her eyes closed. A pair of her helpers, a
man and a woman, arranged things on the parapet before her,
things of magic in bottles and baskets between two burning
candles.
	Looking down, Mark saw the next surging attack of the
larvae strike against the walls on a broad front, and wash up like
a wave upon a hundred scaling ladders. He could draw some
encouragement from the fact that the creatures' reserve force,
that in the morning had stretched endlessly across the
fairgrounds, was much compacted now. Their legions had been
hacked and broken into a vast mud-flat that stained the ground
for meters in front of every wall they had assaulted.
	But, beyond those thinning deadwood ranks, the human
armies of Fraktin and Yambu were both readying themselves
for an attack. Mark realized that -the human onslaught would
be timed to fall upon an exhausted and weakened defense, just
as the last of the larvae were cut down-if indeed the last of the
larvae could be defeated. Already the defenders' ranks, thin to
begin with, had suffered painful losses.
	Sir Andrew's voice, now distant from Mark's ears, roared
out from a wall-top: "Save your missiles! We'll need them to
hit men!"
	And the slingers and the archers on the battlements held
their fire. Mark supposed that Barbara had rejoined her group
there, though he could not pick her out.
	The sun was setting now, beams lancing between dark
masses of cloud, red-rimmed like some reflection of the
renewed red glow in the east. Torches were being lighted on the
walls, for illumination and weapons both, and they shone
down on the advancing, climbing Horde. Darts and arrows flew
up at the defenders
from below the walls, but in no great numbers. The
Horde was not well supplied with missile weapons.
	Dame Yoldi still stood like a statue on the high roof,
her arms raised, her eyes closed, a rising wind moving
her garments. She appeared to be oblivious to what
was happening below. She would be trying to strike
back at the enemy somehow, or else to ward off some
new harm from them-Mark was unable to tell which.
	The attack this time was on a broader front than
before, along almost the entire accessible rim of wall,
and just as savage as the previous attacks had been. It
prospered quickly. Two calls for Townsaver went up at
the same time, from opposite directions on the walls.
	Was it Nestor again, the helmed figure Mark saw
now, running out from a guard-tower with the sword?
Mark could not be sure. Whoever it was, he could
fight in only one place at a time.
	Again the screaming of the Sword of Fury rose
above the eternal whistle-howling of the foe. Again
Mark watched Townsaver's blade carve a dead-wood
legion into chunks of mud and flying dust. Again the
sword built a blurred wall through which the invaders
could not force their way, press forward as they might.
	But, again, Townsaver prevailed only where it could
be brought to bear.
	Now, Mark could hear despairing cries go up, from
the defenders on the wall where the sword was not.
The enemy had gained a foothold there, at last, and
was now pouring in reinforcements. Dame Yoldi, rous-
ing herself from what had seemed a trance, abruptly
abandoned her work, snapping orders to her assistants.
Then she grabbed Mark by one arm and began to tow
him to the trapdoor that led down. In his last glance
from the high roof at the fighting, he could see
warbeasts starting to mount some of the scaling lad-
ders far below.
	And, across what had once been the fairgrounds,

the human troops of Fraktin and Yambu were answering
to trumpets, marshalling for their own move to attack.
	The enchantress, still clutching Mark tightly by the
wrist, left the stair at the level of the castle where her
own workroom was. Already there was panic in the
corridors, folk running this way and that bearing
weapons, children, treasures great and small that they
had hopes of saving somehow. Yoldi ignored all this,
moving almost at a run to her own chambers. There,
without ceremony, she lifted Dragonslicer from the
table, and grabbed a belt and scabbard from a shelf.
	She began to buckle the sword on her own body-
then, with a rare display of hesitation, paused. In an
instant she had changed her mind and was fastening
it round Mark's waist instead.
	"It will be best this way," she murmured to herself.
"Yes, best. Now let us get on down."
	Once more they hurried through hallways, then down
flight after flight of stairs.
	"If anything should happen to me on the way, lad,
you keep going. Down as far as you can, to the bottom
of the keep, to where the dungeons are."
	" W by ?„
	"Because we can't hold the castle now, and the last
way out is down there. And you are the one, of all of
us, who must get out."
	Mark wasn't going to argue about it. Still he couldn't
help wondering why.
	When they reached ground level inside the castle,
uproar and confusion swept in at them from a court-
yard, where the sounds of fighting were very near.
Voices were crying that Sir Andrew had been wounded.
	Dame Yoldi halted abruptly, and when she spoke
again her voice had changed. "I must go to him, Mark.
You go on. Down to the dungeons and out. Our people
down there will show you the way."
	She hurried out. Mark turned toward the doorway
she had indicated. He had almost reached it when a mass of
struggling soldiers knocked him down.
	Duke Fraktin and his handpicked force of fifteen men were
following their volunteer guide, Kaparu, toward the castle. It
had been a quick decision on the Duke's part, made when the
larvae had won success atop the walls, and it looked as if the
citadel might after all fall quickly.
	The Duke would not have trusted any of his subordinates to
lead a mission like this one, not when he wanted to be sure that
the prize gained reached his own hands. He had faced war at
close range many times before, when the prizes at stake were
far less than these Swords. And now, secret but most powerful
encouragement, Coinspinner was giving signs that he took to
mean its powers were fully active. Just as the small force had
started out toward the beleagured castle, the Sword of Chance
had begun a whispering thrumming in its scabbard, so soft a
sound that the Duke was sure no one but he could hear it. He
could hear it himself only when he put a hand upon the hilt.
Even then the thrum was more to be felt than heard; but it was
steady, and it promised power. The Duke kept one hand on
the hilt as he walked.
	The small body of men, seventeen in all, had moved out
from the lines of the ducal army about an hour after dark, just
as soon as the Duke had convinced himself that Kaparu's offer
represented a worthwhile gamble. The gamble had to be taken
soon if it was to be taken at all, for it was impossible to count
on the defenders of the castle being able to hold out much
longer, and at any moment the human army of Yambu might
move as well.
	Moving toward the castle, the Duke's small force traversed a
slope of worn grass, cut by ditches, that Kaparu said had been
a fairground only a few days

ago. The ditches afforded a certain amount of covernot that the
castles defenders had any attention to spare right now for this
little group of men. Torches still burning on the walls ahead
showed that parts of them were still held by Sir Andrew's
troops, but new assaults against those sections were being
readied to left and right, where now the regular troops of
Fraktin and Yambu alike were moving forward, following the
larvae.
	But, just ahead, where the keep itself almost became a part
of the outer wall, that wall rose to a forbidding height. Until
now, no direct attack had been attempted at this point.
	When his party was halfway across what had been the
fairgrounds, the Duke stopped. He warned Kaparu yet once
again, with Coinspinner's edge against his throat: "You will be
first to die, if there is any treachery here."
	The fellow took the threat calmly and bravely enough.
"There'll be no treachery from me, Your Grace. I look forward
too eagerly to receiving the generous reward that you have
promised."
	Silently the Duke pushed him forward.
	When he and his men had topped the outer lip of the almost
waterless moat, they could see rectangular patches of faint light
in the castle wall, now just a few meters in front of them.
	"The windows," breathed Kaparu. "As I promised. I tell
you the old man is a soft-brained fool; I only wonder that his
defenses held out as long as they did."
	The Duke had to admit that the rectangles certainly looked
like windows, open and undefended. Any castle lord who came
to be known as Kind could hardly expect to keep his castle . . .
	The group easily forded the muddy moat, and easily
climbed its inward wall, which was badly eroded and had
obviously been neglected for years. As they came
at last in reach of the castle wall itself, Kaparu leaned a hand
upon the giant stones, and paused for a final whisper: "As I
have already warned you, there will be ponderous iron bars
inside. Once through the wall, well be inside a large dungeon
cell, whether locked or unlocked I do not know."
	The Duke nodded grimly. "Bars we can deal with," he said,
and glanced at some of his men who carried tools, and at Blue-
Robes in his incongruous armor. They silently nodded back.
The wizard had volunteered half-willingly to accompany this
expedition, as a sort of penance; Mars had not, after all, made
his appearance as predicted.
	In a voice barely audible, the Duke hissed at Kaparu: "Just
so there are no tricks:"
	The guide Kaparu was made to be the second man in
through one of the tunnel-like windows, with Duke Fraktin
right behind him. The Sword of Chance, throbbing faintly with
the risks its master was taking, was touching its needle point
to the guides back.
	Once inside, through the five or six meters of the wall's
thickness, the Duke dropped down from windowsill to stone
floor, following closely the men ahead of him and moving to
make room for those who followed closely after. Yes, they
were in a cell, all right. The bars were visible as dark outlines
against some illumination of ghostly faintness that came
through an archway atop some stairs.
	As the Duke motioned his tool-workers and wizard
forward, to grope in silence for the door, he found himself
starting to sweat. As the last of his party dropped in through
the window, and his men milled around him, he found
uneasiness, queasiness, growing in the center of his belly. Fear,
he reminded himself, was quite natural when a man was
engaged in an enterprise as dangerous as this. Even fear enough
to make him feel sick . . . but this . . . this sickness had

been only in his gut at first, but now it felt as if it were
centered somewhere even more central than that, if such
were possible . . .
	Beside the Duke, one of his hand-picked men cried out in a
low voice, then seemed to be struggling with himself, trying to
muffle yet another cry. Another 's weapon fell clashing on the
stone floor. A third sobbed loudly. The Duke would have
struck out at them all, in anger at, their noise, but something
was turning like poison in the core of his own being, and he
could hardly move his limbs . . .
	Not poison, no.
	The wizard was perhaps the first to understand what was
happening to them all, and he choked out the first words of a
phrase of power. But it was too late to be an effective counter,
or perhaps too weaksomething strangled the next words in his
throat.
	The sensation of deadly illness had now fastened upon all
the men who were crowded into the large cell. Blue force, no
longer completely invisible, hung in the black air around the
windows, preventing any effort at retreat. Some of the men had
groped and pushed their way to the cell bars, and hung on the
bars now, rattling them. Now blue fiery tongues, constructions
almost more of darkness than of light, were playing in the air all
around the men, tongues of force that became more clearly
visible as the wakefulness and the hunger of their possessor
grew.
	With Coinspinner drawn and throbbing strongly in his hand,
the Duke managed to tear himself free of momentarily faltering
blue tongues of light. He threw himself down on the stone floor
of the cell, rolling violently from right to left and back again. He
was trying, and managing successfully so far, to avoid that
groping, subtle touch, that was so wholly horrible . . .

Two men were hurriedly carrying Sir Andrew down-
stairs on a stretcher. They had shoved their way somehow
through a melee on the first floor of the castle, and then had
slammed a door on a charging Yambu warbeast to get down to
ground level. Their intention was to carry their master through
the dungeons and then on out through the secret passage that
here, as in so many other castles, offered one final hope when
defenses and defenders failed.
	The bearers entered the long dungeon stair. The warbeast
had been evidence enough that human attackers, coming in their
own hordes on the heels of the remnants of the Horde itself,
were now battering at the doors of the keep above. Above were
screams and murder, fire and panic; down here there was still
almost silence.
	At any other time, the sight of the faint blue horror that
hazed the air inside the large end cell might well have stopped
the stretcher-bearers and sent them running back. But now
they knew there cold be no going back. They set their burden
down in the narrow corridor that ran between the cells, and one
of them ran on ahead, through a false cell whose secret they
knew. He meant to scout the secret way ahead and make sure
that it was still undiscovered by the enemy. The other bearer
meanwhile crouched down by the stretcher; watching and
resting with his knife drawn. He was willing to die to protect
Sir Andrew; but at the moment the man's bloodied face showed
only terror as he gazed in between the bars of the end cell.
	Sir Andrew, who was still wearing portions of his armor
under the rough blanket that covered him, winced, and stirred
restlessly on his pallet. When his eyes opened he was facing
the end cell. In there, behind the bars, the silent blue terror
wavered and grew and faded and came back, like flickering cool
flames. All of the seventeen men in that cell were like candle
wicks, being slowly consumed, as from the inside out.

	One shape among them was clinging to the bars, and the
mouth of it was open in a soundless yell.
	Sir Andrew recognized that face. His own voice was a
weakened whisper now. "Ah, Kaparu. I'm sorry . . . I am sorry
. . . but there's nothing I can do for you now."
	The tortured mouth of the blue-lit figure strained again, but
still no sound came out of it.
	The knight's weak voice was sad but clear. "I told you you
were my only human prisoner, Kaparu. I had one other
captive, as you now see . . . no stone or steel could have held
him in that cell, but Dame Yoldi's good work could . . . he had
been half-paralyzed, you see, long before we encountered him.
Some skirmish against Ardneh, two thousand years ago."
	Kaparu looked as if he might be listening. His fingers were
being slowly shredded from the bars.
	"He's a demon, of course:" Sir Andrew was having some
trouble with his breathing. "We've never learned his name . . .
no possible way we could kill him, you see, not knowing
where his life is kept. And it would have been an atrocity
against humanity to let him go. So . . . in there. And I had the
windows of the cell made bigger, thinking . . . hopeless pride on
my part, to think that I might someday teach a demon to be
good. That if I let him contemplate the sunlit earth, and the
people on it who were sometimes happy when I ruled them . .
. well, it was a foolish thought. I've never had to worry,
though, about anyone coming in those windows:"
	The soldier who had gone scouting ahead now came
scrambling back and said a quick word to his companion. The
man who had been waiting sheathed his knife and between
them they lifted Sir Andrew again on his stretcher. Not heeding
the knight's weak, only half-coherent protests, they bore him
away in the direction of possible safety. The entrance to the
secret
tunnel, which was hidden in a cell wall, closed after
them.
	For a few moments then the dungeon was almost
silent, and untenanted, save for what moved in blue
light in the large cell at the end of the passage. Then
suddenly the door of that cell clanged open. One man
came rolling, crawling out, the grip of almost invisible
blue tongues slipping from his body. The man lay on
the floor gasping, a drawn sword in his hand. Blue
tongues strained after him, slapped at him, recoiled
from his sword, and at last withdrew in disappointment.
	The door of the cell had not been locked.
	Summoning what appeared to be, his last strength,
the man on the floor put out an arm and slammed the
cell door shut behind him, which had the effect of
confining the blue tongues. Then he rolled over on the
floor, still lacking the strength to rise.
	"Luck . . . " he muttered. "Luck . . . "
	He fainted completely, and the sword that had been
in his grasp slipped from his fingers. There was a
pause after the first slip and then the sword moved, as
if of itself, a few more centimeters from the inert hand
that had let it go.
	Moments later, a half-grown boy in torn clothing,
with a burn-scar half healed on his face and fresher
scratches on his arms and legs, came bounding down
the stairs and into the dungeon. He had a swordbelt
strapped round his waist, and a sword, considerably
too big for him, in his right hand.
	He stopped in his tracks at the sight of the blue
glow, and of the man that it illuminated, sprawled on
the floor. Then he darted forward and picked up in his
left hand the sword that had eluded the man's grasp.
The boy stood with a heavy sword in each hand now,
looking from one to the other. An expression of won-
der grew on his face.
	Meanwhile, the man had roused himself. And now

he saw what had happened to his sword. With a
strangled cry, that sounded like some words about a
snake, he lunged with his drawn dagger at the boy.
	In a startled reaction the boy jerked back. With the
movement the sword in his left hand snapped up
awkwardly, almost involuntarily. The point of it found
the hairsbreadth gap in the armor of the lunging man,
sliding between gorget and the lower flange of helm.
	Life jetted forth, blood black in the blue light.
"Luck.. . " said Duke Fraktin once again. Then he fell
backward and said no more.
	Mark looked down at the body. He could tell only
that it was the carcass of some invader, clothed like
five hundred others in the Fraktin white and blue.
	Now, on the stairs, not far above, there was the
sound of fighting. Quickly the clash was over, and a
man's voice asked: "Do we go down and search?"
	Another voice said: "No, look around up here first. I
think the old fox's escape hatch, if he has one, will be
up here."
	There was the sound of departing feet. Then silence
in the dungeon again, except for the distant drip of
water. And now the faint tink that a sword's-tip made,
touching iron jail bars as its holder turned. Mark had
sheathed Dragonslicer now, and was holding Coin-
spinner in both hands. From the moment he had
picked it up he had been able to feel some kind of
power flowing from its hilt into his hand. The thrum-
ming he could feel in the sword grew stronger, he
discovered, when he aimed the point in a certain
direction.
	By what was left of the blue glow from the end cell,
he looked inside the other unlocked cell at which the
Sword of Chance was pointing. Then he looked care-
fully at the cell's rear wall. In a moment he had
discovered the escape tunnel's secret door.
	With that door open, he delayed. He turned back,
and with his eyes half-closed swung Coinspinner's tip
like a compass needle through wide slow arcs. Up,
down, right, left, up again.
	There. In that direction, he could feel the power
somehow beginning to work, drawing an invisible line
for him up into the castle above. Now slowly it swung
again, by itself this time, toward the head of the stair.
	In another moment it had brought him Ben, in
bloodied armor, carrying .an unconscious Barbara.

	The secret passageway was narrow, and twisting,
and very dark. Neither Ben nor Mark had anything
with them to give light. Once they .had closed the door
on the dungeon and its fading demon-glow, the way
ahead was inky black. Ben continued to carry Barbara,
as before, without apparent effort, while Mark moved
ahead, groping with hands and feet for obstacles or
branchings of the tunnel. In the blackness he used
Coinspinner like a blind man's cane, though, the sensa-
tion of power emanating from it was gone now. As
they moved, Mark related in terse phrases how he had
picked up the new sword from the dungeon floor. If
Ben was impressed, he hadn't breath enough to show
it.
	Once Mark stumbled over the body of a man in
partial armor, who must also have entered the tunnel
in flight and got this far before dying of wounds. After
making sure that the man was dead, Mark led the way
on past him, his feet in slipperiness that presently
turned to stickiness on his bootsoles. Horror had already
become a commonplace; he thought only that he must
not slip and fall.
	The sound of dripping water was plainer now, and
more than once drops struck Mark on the face. The
general trend of the passageway was down, though
nowhere was the descent steep. Twice more Mark
stumbled, on discarded objects that clanged away on

rock with startling metallic noise. And once the sides
of the tunnel pinched in so narrowly that Ben had to
shift his grip on Barbara, and push her limp form on
ahead of him, into the grasp of Mark waiting on the
other side of the bottleneck. Mark when he held her
was relieved to hear her groaning, muttering something;
he had been worried that they might be rescuing a
corpse.
	This blind groping went on for a long time, that
began to seem endless. Mark developed a new worry,
that they were somehow lost in a cave, trapped in
some endless labyrinth or circle. He knew that others
must have taken the secret passage ahead of them;
but, except for one dead man and a few discarded
objects, those others might as well be somewhere on
the other side of the world by now. At least no pur-
suers could be heard coming after them.
	Mark continued tapping his way forward with the
sword he had picked up in the dungeon; he had had to
put it down when he helped to get Barbara through
the narrow place in the tunnel, and then in pitch
darkness grope past its razor edges to pick it up again.
	At last the fear of being in a circular trap bothered
Mark to the point where he had to stop. "Where are
we, Ben, where're we going to come out?"
	Ben had necessarily stopped suddenly also, and
Mark could hear the scraping of his armor as he
leaned against the wall-as if he were more tired or
more badly hurt than Mark had realized.
	"We got to go on," Ben grunted, Mark for some
reason was surprised to hear that his voice still had in
it the almost fearful reluctance as when he and Barbara
had used to argue about hunting dragons.
	"I don't know, Ben, if we're getting any-"
	"What else can we do, go back? Come on. What
does your lucky sword tell you?" .
	"Nothing." But Ben was plainly right. Mark turned
and led the way again.
	They progressed in silence for a time. Then Ben surprised
with a remark. "I think we're going west:"
	Mark saw immediately what that would mean. "We can't be.
This far west from the castle? That'd be . . . " He didn't finish
it aloud. Under the lake. Around him the water dripped. The
passage floor underfoot now felt level, but there was never a
puddle.
	They had come to another tight place, and were
manhandling Barbara through it when she groaned more loudly
than before. This time she managed to produce some plain
words: "Put me down."
	She still couldn't walk too steadily, but her escort were
vastly relieved to have her standing, asking questions about
Nestor and Townsaver, trying to find out the situation as if
getting ready to give orders. They couldn't answer most of her
questions, and she was still too weak to take command.
	But from that moment on the journey changed.
	Their passageway, as if to signal that some important
transformation was close ahead, twisted sharply, first left then
right, then dipped to a lower level than ever. And then it rose
steeply. And now the first true light they had seen since
leaving the dungeon was ahead. At first it was so faint it would
have been invisible to any eyes less starved for light, but as
they advanced it strengthened steadily.
	The light was the dim glow of a cloudy, moonless night sky,
and it came down a twisted, narrow shaft. Mark, thinnest and
most agile, climbed ahead, and was first to poke his head out of
the earth among jagged rocks, to the sound of waves lapping,
almost within reach. In the gloom he could make out that the
rocks surrounding him made a sort of islet in the lake, an islet
not more than five meters across, one of a scattered number
rising from the water. By the lights of both common torch and
arson Mark could see Sir

Andrew's castle and its reflection in the water, a good
kilometer away. Flames gusted from the high to-er windows
even as he watched.
	He didn't gaze long at that sight, but scrambled down into
the earth again, between the cloven rocks that must sometimes
fail to keep waves from washing into the passage. "Ben? It's all
right, bring her up:" And Mark extended a hand for Barbara to
grasp, while Ben pushed her from below.
	They crowded together on the surface, peering between
sharp rocks at the surrounding lake.
	"We'll have to make for shore before morning-but which
direction?"
	Mark held up the Sword of Chance. When he pointed it
almost straight away from the castle, he could feel something
in the hilt. It was impossible to see how far away the shore
was in that direction.
	"I can't swim," Barbara admitted.
	"And I cant swim carrying two swords," Mark added.
	Ben said: "Maybe I can, if I have to. Let's see, maybe it
isn't deep."
	The lake was only waist deep on Ben where he first entered
it. He shed bits of armor, letting them sink. From that point,
following the indication of the blade Mark held ahead of him,
the three fugitives waded into indeterminate gloom.
	The sword worked just-as well under the surface of the
water as above it. At one point Mark had to go in to his
armpits, but no deeper. From there on the bottom rose, and
already a vague shoreline of trees was visible ahead. The strip
of beach, when they reached it, was only two meters wide, and
waves lapped it, ready to efface whatever footprints they
might leave.
	The sheltering trees were close to shore, and just inland
from their first ranks a small clearing offered grass to rest on.
	For a moment. Then, just beyond the nearest thicket,
something stirred, making vague crackling sounds of
movement. Mark let Ben grab up Coinspinner from the grass,
while he himself drew Dragonslicer from its sheath.
	They moved forward cautiously, around a clump of bushes.
An obscure shape, big as a landwalker but not as tall, moved in
the night. There was a faint squeal from it, a muffled rumble . .
. the squeal of ungreased axles, the rumble of an empty wagon-
body draped with a torn scrap of cover.
	The two loadbeasts harnessed to the empty wagon were
skittish, and 'behaved in general as if they had been untended
for some time. This wagon was smaller than the one the dragon-
hunters had once owned. This one too had some symbols or a
design painted on its sides, but the night was too dark for
reading symbols. Barbara murmured that this must be the
vehicle of some other fairgrounds performer, whose team must
have bolted during the recent speedy evacuation.
	There were reins, quite functional once they were
untangled. With Barbara resting in the back, Ben drove forth
from thickets looking for a road. Dragonslicer was at his feet,
and Mark on the seat at his side with Coinspinner in hand.
The Sword of Chance was coming alive again, telling him
which way to go.

THE END

THE SONG OF SWORDS
Who holds Coinspinner knows good odds
Whichever move he make But the Sword of
Chance, to please the gods, Slips from him like a
snake.
The Sword of justice balances the pans Of
right and wrong, and foul and fair. Eye for
an eye, Doomgiver scans The fate of all
folk everywhere.
Dragonslicer, Dragonslicer, how d'you slay?
Reaching for the heart in behind the scales.
Dragonslicer, Dragonslicer where do you stay? In
the belly of the giant that my blade impales.
Farslayer howls across the world For thy heart,
for thy heart, who hast wronged me! Vengeance
is his who casts the blade Yet he will in the end
no triumph see.
Whose flesh the Sword of Mercy hurts has drawn no
breath; Whose soul it heals has wandered in the night,
Has paid the summing of all debts in death Has turned
to see returning light.
The Mindsword spun in the dawn's gray
light And men and demons knelt down
before. The Mindsword flashed in the
midday bright Gods joined the dance, and
the march to war. It spun in the twilight dim
as well And gods and men marched off to
hell.

1 shatter Swords and splinter
spears; None stands to
Shieldbreaker My point's the fount
of orphans' tears My edge the
widowmaker.

The Sword of Stealth is given to
One lowly and despised.
Sightblinder's gifts: his eyes are
keen His nature is disguised.

The Tyrant's Blade no blood hath
spilled But doth the spirit carve
Soulcutter hath no body killed But
many left to starve.

The Sword of Siege struck a hammer's blow
With a crash, and a smash, and a tumbled
wall. Stonecutter laid a castle low With a
groan, and a roar, and a tower's fall.

Long roads the Sword of Fury
makes Hard walls it builds around
the soft The fighter who Townsaver
takes Can bid farewell to home
and croft.
Who holds Wayfinder finds good
roads Its master's step is brisk. The
Sword of Wisdom lightens loads But
adds unto their risk.

Sword-Play

An Appreciative Afterword
By
Sandra Miesel
But Iron-Cold Iron-is master of them all.
	-Kipling

	From the kindling of the first fire to the latest break-
through in computer design, each technological advance
opens new levels of play in an age-old game for the
mastery of Life. Calling Man's struggle for control over
his environment a "game" is no idle figure of speech.
Ours is a species of players as well as makers. Indeed,
these two intertwined qualities describe humanness.
Laughter and reason alike set us apart from beasts.
	Work and play are meant to reinforce each other.
Sundering them is a measure of human imperfection-
the wages of original sin, some say-and their union is a sign of
Eden's innocence. Yet no matter how tragically estranged labor
and leisure become, we still dimly feel that matters should be
otherwise and wish our work could be joyful as child's play.
	Slow-paced primitive societies take time to harmonize work
and play. Each new way of working has to be played about so
that it can be thought about sanely. Myth and ritual put
technology into context, make it "user friendly."
	Consider the discovery of fire. It brought Early Man far
more than light, warmth, protection, or any merely practical
advantage. Fire became the focal point of the community,
acquired symbolic meanings, participated in ceremonies,
appeared in heroic tales, even received worship. Though we
harness vaster energies now, echoes of the ways cavemen
worked and played with fire resound in us at every sulking of a
match.
	Likewise, tool-shaping, agriculture, metal-crafting--all the
basic innovations-were transformed through playful
celebration. These human activities became holy because
making and playing were seen as divine operations. In some
cultures, the world a creator-god has made is a battlefield for
contending supernatural powers. In others, existence is a game
the Absolute plays with Itself throughout eternity. The
patterns also hold in Judeo-Christian contexts: Holy Wisdom
plays beside Yaweh when He lays the foundations of the earth
and Christ the carpenter has been symbolized by a clown.
	Speculative thought moves beyond imagery to ponder the
ethics of work and play. What limits-if anyexist on the ways
we may shape matter? If a thing can be made, should it be
made? How far can the quest for mastery go and by what
means? If Life is a game, what are the rules? Does the outcome
matter, or are victories as hollow as defeats? Who are the
players

and what are the pawns? Are the competing sides really
different or ultimately the same? Is some supreme referee
keeping score?
	Fred Saberhagen is genuinely comfortable with these
questions. He believes that human acts have meaning and that
we can compete for an everlasting prize. His grounding in
traditional Western values gives his -writing the staunchness of
ancient and hallowed stone.
	Saberhagen's technical expertise and mythic instinct equip
him to fabulize reality and rationalize fable. Scientific data
quicken his imagination: he can find a story in a squash seed or
a spatial singularity. His innate feeling for archetype
transforms specific facts into universal images. Thus in The
Veils of Azarloc (1978), outre astrophysics provides a unique
metaphor for the blurry barriers Time wraps about us.
	Examples abound in his popular berserker series (Berserker,
1967; Brother Assassin, 1969; Berserker's Planet, 1975;
Berserker Man, 1979; The Ultimate Enemy, 1979; and The
Berserker Wars, 1981). The berserkers are automated alien
spacecraft that begin as deadly mechanisms but swiftly become
symbols of Death itself. These ravening maws of Chaos, these
"demons in metal disguise" are today's answer to the scythe-
wielding Grim Reaper of old. "They speak to our fear of mad
computers and killer machines with jaws that bite and claws
that snatch." The general pattern governing the wonder-war
between Life and Death is embellished with allusions to
particular myths (an Orpheus sings in a cybernetic Hades) and
legendary historical incidents (a Don John of Austria fights a
Battle of Lepanto in space).
	While Saberhagen's hard sf can soar into metaphysical
realms, his fantasy has a matter-of-fact solidity about it that
leaves no room for disbelief. This quality is admirably
demonstrated in his Dracula series. These novels (The Dracula
Tapes, 1976; The Holmes-Dracula
File, 1978; An Old Friend of the Family, 1979; and Thorn,
1980) condense the murky haze of folklore and gothic romance
surrounding vampires into premises that can stand the light of
day. The Count's ascerbic character and occult gifts are made
all the more convincing by the strictly authentic settings
(Victorian England, Renaissance Italy, contemporary America)
through which he moves. Furthermore, as an unforeseen player
in sundry power games, the Count is an agent of rough justice
and a witness to some higher law governing all creation.
	Fact and fancy are complimentary categories for Saberhagen
because, as indicated above, his art depends on disciplined
exchanges between the two. Since both possible and impossible
worlds have their technologies, either applied science or
practical magic, technological issues are prominent in
Saberhagen's work.
	His concern for making is matched by an enthusiasm for
playing, perhaps because his personal hobbies include chess,
karate, and computers. Whether mental, physical, or
cybernetic, games are a recurring device in Saberhagen's fiction.
	His gaming principles can be deduced from the berserker
series. Indeed, the berserkers themselves were invented to
serve as the antagonist that a games' theory ploy defeats
("Fortress Ship"/" Without a Thought," 1963). Although most
of the battles are fought between computers ("faithful slave of
life against outlaw, neither caring, neither knowing"), one killer
machine is undone by joining in a human recreational war-
simulation game ("The Game," 1977). Direct personal combat
still retains its place -Berserker's Planet features a rigged
tournament of duels to the deathand dialectical clashes abound.
As the series expands, its military campaigns grow more
complex, ranging across time as well as space and employing
psychological and spiritual as well as physical strategems.

The initial struggle for survival gradually unfolds into a conflict
of vast cosmic import.
	No compromise is possible between the opposing players.
The berserkers are "as near to absolute evil as anything material
can be:" Resisting them requires total mobilization and eternal
vigilance since no victory over them is ever quite perfect or
complete.
	The cause of Life turns enemies into allies but alliances
change to-emnities in the camp of Death. Yet the contending
sides are not homogeneous: humans use thinking machines and
berserkers incorporate living tissue. The cyborg hero of
Berserker Man becomes humanity's paladin without denying
the machine side of his nature. In the long run, Life may be
more at risk from treachery by the living than from attack by
the unliving. The berserkers' "goodlife" servants are worse than
their masters because they freely choose and bleakly enjoy
their perversions. These worshippers of destruction are but
one particular expression of sentient beings' bent toward sin.
Before the berserkers came to be, Evil was.
	Turns of play proceed by ironic reversals of fortune. The
race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong.
Pawns have a way of becoming kings-and vice versa. Unable to
penetrate the councils of the light, darkness often falls into its
own malicious snares. Even when it wields planet-shattering
weapons, Evil can be defeated by a child, an animal, or even a
plant. Eucatastrophe, the unexpected happy ending, is always
possible when the game is bravely-and skillfullyplayed.
	The stakes could not be higher. The very nature of the
universe is being put to wager of battle. Is existence a circular
parade of ants? ("What did it all matter?" asks one villain. "Was
it not a berserker universe already, everything determined by
the random swirls of condensing gas, before the stars were
born?") Or is
it a march towards a glorious destination? Defeating Death's
legions vindicates the evolutionary potential latent in every bit
of Life.
	Likewise, human art, love, holiness, even humor and
personal quirks can transcend the laws of probability that
govern berserkers. Machine intelligence cannot grasp why "the
most dangerous life units of all sometimes acted in ways that
seemed to contradict the known supremacy of the laws of
physics and chance." Capacity for growth and choice is
humankind's passport to a paradoxical space-time region-and a
boundless future-barred to its unliving foes.
	Unto what purpose was the match held? Perhaps to let Life
win its laurels under fire. Virtue untried by adversity is
meaningless. Moreover, the game does not end where it began.
Neither players nor field will ever be the same again. Evil has
only improved what it sought to annihilate. The berserker wars
are but one set among the contests being played out instant by
instant until the end of time. Yet whatever the odds in Death's
favor, Saberhagen stubbornly proclaims that Life will wear the
victor's crown.
	The same ground rules obeyed in the berserker series
reappear in all Saberhagen's fiction because they express his
personal-and highly traditional values. Length and continuity
permit some especially engrossing refinements of play in The
Empire of the East (1979), the revised one-volume edition of a
trilogy originally published as The Broken Lands (1968), The
Black Mountains (1971), and Changeling Earth (1973).
	Ingenious though he is, Saberhagen has never been wildly
innovative. His strength as a writer lies in seeing old concepts
from new angles and employing them with unswerving
thoroughness. Empire is a monument to these qualities. It rests
on that venerable fantasy premise, "a world where magic
works:" In the version pioneered by L. Sprague de Camp and
Fletcher

Pratt in their Incomplete Enchanter (1942), magic totally
replaces science. However, in Larry Niven's The Magic Goes
Away (1978), magic is being supplanted by science. Works like
Poul Anderson's Operation Chaos (1971) and Randall
Garrett's Lord Darcy series show the two kinds of knowledge
co-existing unequally in realistic twentieth century settings,
but series by Andre Norton (Witch World) and Marion
Zimmer Bradley (Darkover) set them at odds in archaic alien
societies.
	Saberhagen's Empire takes place in a post-catastrophe
North America whose culture is vaguely medieval. Wizardry
dominates this demon-ridden age while the rare bits of
technology surviving from the Old World are objects of
superstitious awe. Sometimes Old and New can unite, as in the
temperamental person of the djinn technologist, a being as
maddeningly literalminded as a computer, who must be
properly programmed to perform his magic feats.
	The novelty of the situation is why magic has become
feasible. There was no thaumaturgic breakthrough. Instcad, the
very nature of physical reality has been fundamentally altered
by the doomsday weapons used in a past global war. The
probability of occult phenomena occurring has increased
enormously. "Since the Change it could scarcely be said that
anything was lifeless; powers that before had only been
potentialities now responded readily to the wish, the
incantation, were motivated and controlled by the dream-like
logic of the wizard's world:" Meanwhile, the likelihood of
certain physical reactions and technical aptitude itself have
correspondingly declined. Or as the author himself remarks,
"We are not justified in assuming that all physical laws are
immutable through the whole universe of space and time:"
	But no matter how much else may change, the craving for
mastery endures. Whether engineers or wizards build their war
gear, conquerors will be con
querors still. The tyrant of the age is John Ominor ("The All-
Devourer"), Emperor of the East, a man far wickeder than the
demons he binds to his will. Not long before the story opens,
Ominor's armies consumed the last independent bit of the
continent, the Broken Lands along the West Coast. But before
his world dominion can be perfectly secured, rebels calling
themselves the Free Folk challenge his despotic rule. Aided by
a quasimaterial power named Ardneh, they fight their way up
through the feudal hierarchy, from satrap past viceroy to
confront the Emperor himself.
	Each volume of the trilogy has a different source of mythic
inspiration. As the text itself explains, The Broken Lands is
based on an Indian myth concerning the god Indra and the
demon Namuci. The gods (devas) and demons (asuras) of
India are the opposite poles of the same transcendent nature.
Each side continually struggles to amass enough spiritual
energy to subdue the other. Indra the Thunderer; god of storm,
war, and fertility; rider of the white elephant Airavata;
Guardian of the Eastern Quarter of the Universe; once swore
an extravagant oath of friendship with the powerful drought
demon Namuci. Later, he slipped through a loophole in the
terms to slay the complacent demon. (Georges Dumezil's
Destiny of the Warrior exhaustively analyzes this episode as
a key Indo-European myth.) In other adventures, mighty Indra
also slew Trisiras, a triple-headed hybrid of god and demon,
and Vritra, a cosmic dragon who had impounded the waters of
life.
	Saberhagen works some clever and selective transformations
on this raw material. Indra's discus-shaped Thunderstone
appears as a practical device for making rain or war. The oath
becomes a prophecy of retribution by Arneh, the mysterious
presence who can manifest himself in persons, places, or
things. Namuci is the East's cruel satrap Ekuman, leigeman

of demons, and the sea-spume that kills him is fireextinguisher
foam. The instrument of Arneh's justice is a youth named Rolf
who has a natural affinity for technology and the courage to
ride the atomic-powered elephant to victory.
	The Black Mountains borrows motifs rather than specific
incidents from mythology and arranges these in opposing pairs
to render the next great battle between East and West. Defeated
Easterner Lord Chup, "the tall broken man," is wounded and
healed, slain and reborn, degraded and redeemed so that he at
last stands tall and whole-on the Western side. Som the Dead,
an inhuman man, is annihilated by a godlike beast, the immortal
Lord Draffut. (These two fantastical characters seem to echo
every remembered tale of animated corpses and kindly nature
spirits-the Nazgul king and Tom Bombadil from The Lord of
the Rings spring to mind. Nevertheless, they are strikingly
original creations.) Rolf's twin quests for his kidnapped sister
and for the hidden life-principle of the demon Zapranoth end in
the same place, resolved by the familiar fairytale device of the
separable soul. Ultimately, demons prove as vunerable to men
as men are to demons.
	Ardneh's World (the retitled Changeling Earth) reveals
the secret of that being's identity. As the war front spreads out
to its widest expanse, the distinctions between the two sides
reach their sharpest contrast through the use of mythic
prototypes. Like the ancient battle Indra the Generous fought
with Vritra the Enveloper, this is a duel to the death between
mankind's Advocate and its Adversary. The personifications of
Defense and Aggression meet in mortal combat.
	The Demon-Emperor Orcus bears the. Latin name for both
Hades and its ruler. He is an Old World hell bomb turned New
World hell-lord. (In the Mahabharata,
demonic Vritra looks uncannily like a nuclear explosion's
mushroom cloud: "He grew, towering up to heaven like the
fiery sun, as if the sun of doomsday had arisen.") The
malevolence of Orcus is sordid. This haunter of waterless
places is not Milton's glamorous rebel but Meredith's bully
who cringes away from starlight. Ominor, once his servant but
now his master, chained him away beneath the earth for a
thousand years. Now like Satan or Loki, the fiend bursts forth
for the day of wrath and falls like lightning on his foe.
	Ardneh, like Orcus, has a substance "only partially subject
to the laws of matter." But he was born of benevolent
technology as the consciousness of a defense system that
"damped the energies of nuclear fire" and "freed the energies of
life." (His home base may have been SAC Headquarters in
Omaha.) Although he is the actual author of the Change that
transformed the world, he denies being a god. Perhaps a more
appropriate title for the Archdemon's counterpart is
Archangellike an angelic power, Ardneh "is where he works:"
By sacrificing himself to annihilate Orcus, he brings victory out
of defeat while the Western army retreats to win the day.
	This paradoxical resolution recalls major triumphs in the
berserker wars and even the Pascal mystery. It is, the capstone
of all the paradoxes and ironies that shape the story. Draffut
destroys Som the Dead by trying to heal him. Blows wound
the one who struck them; spells rebound on the one who cast
them. Tiny flaws widen and small kindnesses expand to
undermine the mightiest citadels of evil. The weak can prove
surprisingly strong and the strong, shockingly weak.
	Westerners, even Ardneh himself, resist temptation but
Easterners sink ever lower in depravity by freely chosen
stages. Refusing one shameful order pivots Chup against the
East. The Western cause draws persons together but the East,
that "society of essential

selfishness" is hopelessly divided against itself as each member
scrabbles for more influence. Absolute dominion as an end in
itself brings scant satisfaction to him who wields it. At best,
Ominor finds mild distraction in sadism.
	The white-clad supreme tyrant is "the most
ordinarylooking" of the nine 'Unworthies' who sit on his
council. His manner is as banal as his first name and his capital
on the site of Chicago is nothing like Sauron's, its charm being
marred only by a few impaling stakes among the flowerbeds.
Sheer untiring wickedness has raised this apparatchik above
the direst demons in malignant force.
	Exotic Lady Charmian, on the other hand, is supernally fair
but eventually boring as she slithers from bed to bed. Her
monotonous scheming inevitably brings about the very
opposite of what she sought to achieve, at her father Ekuman's
court, in Som's stronghold, and among the leaders of the East.
Although she is mired in her rut of malice, her husband Chup
still claims her. The same stubborness that saved his own
integrity may yet undo the effects of her childhood pledging to
the East.
11 Chup's regeneration stands for the transformation of his
troubled world. But the future of that world belongs to Rolf
and his kind. As in The Lord of the Rings, the major figures on
both sides disappear, leaving the world to men and to powers
they can control. However, magic will not entirely vanish here,
although technology will slowly revive. Having won the
contest for mastery, men can now make of their lives what
they will, whether by sorcery or science-or both.
	But what happens to that bright-seeming future? It
develops its own kind of darkness. Two thousand years after
Empire, power games continue in The Book of Swords. But
"game' is no metaphor here for plot turns are actually stages in
a formal game being played
by beings who call themselves gods and simultaneously fit into
a wider contest between entities that may be playing through
these gods. That action begins in the Ludus ("Game")
Mountains signals the artificiality of all that follows.
	Game-oriented sf has almost become a sub-genre of story-
telling. Saberhagen has written some himself, such as those
berserker stories cited earlier and his novel Octagon (1981)
which focusses more on the players than the game being
played. (A version of the latter is now commercially available.)
Original games that act both as story subjects and symbols
appear in Philip K. Dick's Solar Lottery (1955) and The Game
Players of Titan (1963) and in Samuel R. Delany's Fail of the
Towers (1970) and Triton (1976), to cite but a few examples.
Other sf writers incorporate familiar games such as chess. In
"The Immortal Game" by Poul Anderson (1954), a computer
activates robotic chesspieces but The Squares of the City
(1965) by John Brunner moves real human beings around on a
sociopolitical grid. Andre Norton's Quag Keep (1978) is based
on Dungeons and Dragons'" while Dream Park by Larry Niven
and Steven Barnes (1981) brings an adventure game to life and
"The Saturn Game' by Poul Anderson (1981) demonstrates the
risk in playing an improvised mental game too passionately.
Many sf stories have been converted to role-playing simulation
games, for instance, Starship Troopers, adapted from the 1959
novel by Robert A. Heinlein. Several periodicals including
Ares, Dragon Magazine, Sorcerer's Apprentice, and The Space
Garner serve the sf gaming audience.
	However, The Book of Swords intends to pioneer new
territory. Aside from the reading pleasure it gives, this trilogy
is being written to provide the data base for an intricate new
computer game that will uniquely combine both adventure-text
and interactive features

for play on a microcomputer. As of this writing, the designing
has not yet begun. Until it is marketed, interested readers may
amuse themselves by analyzing the "playable" elements of the
story. (For example, the chase scene in the Maze of Mirth
obviously lends itself to rendering in computer graphics.) The
quick reversals of luck, the brisk introductions, removals, and
translations are appropriate for a game scenario. The tendency
for the characters to draw together in small teams suggests
multivalent strategic possibilities in the war for possession of
the enchanted swords.
	"The swords made by the gods are beautiful things in
themselves," observes one character, "Whatever the purpose
behind them may be." They are also wonderfully versatile plot
devices. The ease with which they can be confused and the
restrictions on their use multiply dramatic possibilities.
(Saberhagen shrewdly builds drawbacks as well as benefits into
his magic.) Although the full Song of the Swords inventory
may not be destined to actually appear in the trilogy's text, a
dozen artifacts is an ambitiously large group. (Series that use
as many as six talismans are rare, one example being Susan
Cooper's Dark Is Rising pentalogy.) Nevertheless, twelve is
the traditional number of completeness and is thus an
appropriate count for a pantheon.
	Although Saberhagen categorically denies a schematic
purpose, by curious coincidence, his list matches twelve major
divine powers. These can be most conveniently discussed
under their classical Greek names.
	Coinspinner, giver of blind luck, belongs to Tyche, the fickle
goddess of fortune. Its natural opposite, Doomgiver, the
instrument of all-seeing justice, belongs to Zeus in his role as
universal judge.
	Dragonslicer, exemplifying the heroic use of force, fits
Apollo, slayer of the monster Python. (Celestial heroes who
kill cthonic dragons are common in both
Indo-European and Semitic myth, for instance, Thor versus
Midhgardhsormr or Baal versus Yam.) But Shieldbreaker
expresses purely brutal might and thus belongs to Ares.
	Farslayer is as futilely vengeful as Hera raging over the
infidelities of Zeus. On the other hand, the Sword of Mercy
suits Demeter, the Earth-Mother who presided over the death-
and-rebirth mysteries of Eleusis.
	The Mindsword that beguiles the inner self recalls
triple-faced Selene/Artemis/Hecate, stern Lady of
Heaven, Earth, and Hell. However, Sightblinder's decep-
tion of the senses is one effect Dionysus produces
while wandering the world unrecognized. (The ecstatic
god is a more sophisticated version of the crude,
conniving Trickster who looms so large in African and
Amerindian myth.)
	Despair, constraint, and utter sterility surround Soulcutter
as they do the dead-god Pluto. But Wayfinder elates, liberates,
and enlightenment as does cheerful Hermes in his capacities as
god of travellers and master of occult wisdom.
	Stonecutter, the Sword of Seige, is no more resistible than
Aphrodite, goddess of love. (One is tempted to read unwitting
double-entendres into this sword's stanza.) Its natural
counterpoise is Townsaver, a weapon befitting the armored
virgin Athena Polias, protector of her city.
	Thus the swords can be assigned to six masculine and six
feminine principles. (Grouping the weapons into equal
positive, negative, and ambiguous sets is left to the reader's
ingenuity.) Since the above assignments were not consciously
intended by the author, there is no reason to expect
correspondences between the swords and deities seen in this
book. Hermes has nothing to do with Dragonslicer except
deliver it and Vulcan matches with none of the blades he
forges. The supposedly divine players may have chosen their
roles

by whim, but their twelve playing tokens represent
fundamental categories of experience.
	The neatness of these comparisons and the associations
they evoke offer the strongest possible demonstration of
Saberhagen's innate feeling for myth. It is a matter of instinct
with him, not rote learning. (As he modestly explains, "My
reading in mythology has been sporadic at best:")
Nevertheless, it lays a sure and true foundation under his
fiction. The great mythologist Mircea Eliade might have been
describing this situation when he observed that mythic images
"act directly on the psyche of the audience even when
consciously, the latter does not realize the primal significance
of any particular symbol."
	The most dramatic imagery operating here centers around
swords, metalworking, and fire-each a landmark achievement
of homo faber.
	Any human culture that makes swords spins fables about
them. As the masculine symbol par excellence, swords are the
essence of the gods and heroes who wield them. (The Japanese
say that the sword is the soul of the samurai.) Swords have
been objects of -worship and emblems of fertility. As prized
heirlooms, they fit into the cult of dead ancestors. They may be
linked with the destiny of one hero or of an entire dynasty.
They can confer invincibility-at a price. Legendary swords are
fashioned by mystic means, especially through blood sacrifice
to transfer the victim's life into the blade. (Damascus steel was
reportedly quenched in blood and bloody offerings are a normal
component of smithcraft in many primitive cultures.) Finally,
because swords have distinctive personalities, they are given
names.
	The prowess of medieval heroes lay in their swords.
(Arthur's Excalibur is, of course, the most famous example.)
Aragorn's Anduril in The Lord of the Rings carries on this
noble tradition in fantasy. Perhaps the
most impressive sword of virtue in science fiction to date is
Terminus Est in Gene Wolfe's Book o f the New Sun (1980-
83).
	But doomswords of Norse inspiration give sf grimmer
drama. The pre-eminent example is Tyrfing in Poul Anderson's
Broken Sword (1954), the baleful brand with "a living will to
harm:" This is the model for Michael Moomock's
Stormbringer, the "stealer of souls" whose bloodlust cannot be
slaked until the last man on earth is slain. More recently, the
accursed blade motif receives a scientific rationale in C. J.
Cherryh's Book of Morgaine (1976-79) where Changeling is an
alien device that cleaves the space-time fabric.
	Saberhagen's swords confer sublime power without regard
for the user's fate. Their properties seem to be good, evil, or
ambiguous. Made at the cost of five lives, they are destined to
take countless others. Although the divine smith who forges
them with earthfire within an icy peak uses the Roman name
Vulcan (source of the word "volcano"), he looks and acts like a
brutal giant out of Northern myth. Since the swords and Mark
were created within the same weekindeed, he would not have
come into existence without them-their destinies are uniquely
linked. In effect, his own heirloom Townsaver chose him as its
heir. He is also the only person in this book to use all four of
the named blades.
	It is most fitting that Vulcan makes the enchanted swords
out of meteoric iron since celestial origins give this material a
special mystical prestige. Intact iron meteorities have been
worshipped as images of divinity, for instance the Palladium of
Troy and the Ka'ba of Mecca. The oldest word for "iron" is an-
bar, Sumerian for "star-metal" because "thunderstones" were
the first accessible source of the substance used in
Mesopotamia. Meteorites were hammered into objects as early
as the third millenium B.C. and were also used by peoples

such as the Eskimos who had no knowledge of metallurgy.
Superior qualities made weapons shaped from meteoric iron
legendary. Even in this century,the Bedouin believed meteoric
iron swords to be invincible.
	As Eliade discusses in his fascinating study The Forge and
the Crucible, "the image, the symbol, and the rite anticipate-
sometimes even make possiblethe practical applications of a
discovery." Since iron fallen from the sky was transcendent, so
was iron mined and smelted on earth. This awe soon extended
to every aspect of metallurgy.
	But iron's occult power can act for either good or ill. It can
ward off demons, spells, poisons, curses, sickness, or bad
weather. Faerie folk cannot bear the touch of it nor enter a
place protected by it: Cold Iron can inhibit magic. However,
iron is also the symbol of war and the agent of violence. Many
primitive cultures--especially those oppressed by better-armed
foes-fear iron and all who work in it. (The Masai purify all
new iron objects to remove the taint of the smith's hand.)
	Thus, to some, supernatural smiths may be wise, civilizing
gods, adept at song, dance, poetry, and healing. (The wonder-
smiths of the Kalevala excel in each of these areas.) But to
others, they may be the gods' vicious foes-dwarves, giants,
demons, or Satan himself. (Norse sagas and fairytales abound
in examples.) Human smiths display the same ambivalence. As
Eliade observes, "The art of creating tools is essentially
superhuman-either divine or demoniac (for the smith also
forges murderous weapons):" A spiritual aura clings to the act
of making, whether homo faber be godlike or devilish.
	The smith, like the shaman, is pre-eminently a master of
fire. Fire was primitive Man's earliest instrument for
controlling the cosmos. As the initial means of accelerating
natural processes, it commenced the conquest of 'lime, a
campaign technology has continued
ever since. By the hand or through the spirit, initiates into the
mysteries of fire can break the bonds confining other beings to
win mastery of their environment.
	Note that Vulcan's first act in the opening line of this
volume is to grope for fire. His erupting volcano glows on the
game board's eastern edge like a signal lamp. The smith god
represents the power to shape inorganic matter but the Beast-
Lord personifies organic matter's potential for growth.
Unharmed by fire, Draffut can quicken Vulcan's molten lava to
momentary life. Yet Draffut's confrontation with the upstart
gods is only one episode in the contest that begins, proceeds,
and will end via Vulcan's swords.
	The gods call the game their own, but is it? Their
pretentions to divinity ring hollow yet they are clearly more
than human. Given the subtle hint in the Prologue that Vulcan
has been "programmed" for his task, are they perhaps some
magical equivalent of the huge robotic god-figures in
Berserker's Planet? They could be automata animated by
quasimaterial beings such as djinni.
	Overshadowing these meddlesome, amoral gods are the
images of Ardneh and the masked figure known as the Dark
King. The Demon-Slayer and Hospitaller has become more of
an Apollo than an Indra, a patron of humane technology
opposed to Vulcan's brutal methods. Unlike Orcus, the Dark
King is suave and manlike but his title would be a suitable alias
for Hell's overlord. (By an irony of history, their common
antagonist Ominor has been transformed from a mirthless,
plodding tyrant to a legendary buffoon.) But why are they
here at all, since god and demon presumably destroyed each
other in Empire? (The question puzzles theologically aware Sir
Andrew.) Did the quasimaterial beings prove immortal after
all? Or are these identities, like the names of the gods,
idiosyncratic choices of the games ultimate players?

	Revelation of these and other enigmas must await
publication of the second and third volumes of The Book of
Swords. But a few observations about Mark are possible even
at this early stage in the contest. His very name is packed with
allusion-is he a piece of labeled property or a symbolic
witness? Like Berserker Man's Michael, he is .a Child-Hero
begotten under mysterious circumstances and born into a web
of contradictory influences which will surely confound the evil
forces that plan to make use of him. Lake Empire's Rolf, young
Mark is sent off into epic adventures where he will confound
both chance and fate, to learn through passages of sword-play
that mastery of self is the kind most worth striving for.