Swords of the Six (The Sword of the Dragon)

by Scott Appleton

  The innkeeper’s cheeks puffed out, his eyes turned to look at the ceiling. “One week … I think.” His eyes shifted back to Ilfedo. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for at least a week.”

  A week! Ilfedo sat bolt upright, immediately regretting it as the dizziness returned.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said to the man. “There are things at home that I cannot leave unattended for long.”

  Nodding his head, the innkeeper said, “How soon do you want to leave?”

  “Immediately.” Ilfedo lay back on the bed. “But I’m afraid I’m in no condition to set out on foot.”

  “Then I’ ll lend you some horses. I have some of the best around, and I’ll send a boy along with you. He’ll help out along the way and bring the animals back when you’ve reached your destination.”

  Ilfedo started to thank the man but he was cut off as the innkeeper started walking to the door, continuing to talk.

  “We’ve cut the serpent meat into generous portions and spread it among the people hereabouts. For you”—he pointed at Ilfedo and smiled—“for you we’ve set aside a load of the stuff.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Ilfedo began, “but the meat won’t last long on the trail.”

  The innkeeper cast Ilfedo’s concern aside with a wave of his hand. “Not a problem. We smoked it for you and packed it in an ice cellar. We’ll put the ice and meat in leather bags … that ought to keep it for long enough.

  “Now”—the innkeeper put his hand on the door latch—“I suggest that—if you wish to avoid the crowd of admirers you’ve picked up over the past week—you wait until dawn. Besides, I think you could use a bit more rest.” The man chuckled and shut the door behind him, leaving Ilfedo to rest.

  Ilfedo leaned against the stable’s wood doorway. He felt a bit unsteady on his feet. A gentle breeze cast moist early morning air against his face. He breathed the air, deep and slow, letting it refresh his fogged mind.

  He had his bearskin coat opened to the air and his long sword was swinging from just above his left hip. He glanced to his other side, to the axe tucked under his belt, the prize of his victory that the innkeeper had willingly hunted down and given to him.

  Letting go of the doorframe, he stepped into the stable’s long, dim corridor. The sweet smell of fresh straw filled his nostrils. Whinnies greeted his ears as he walked on the cool, dirt floor between the stalls. One stallion shoved its head over the gate and nudged Ilfedo.

  He reached around the horse’s nose and massaged it. “Hello there, big fellow.”

  At that moment a burly man ambled out of the shadows. “A bright and early morning to you, Sir,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  Ilfedo did not reply immediately. The feel of the magnificent creature’s muzzle beneath his hand calmed his weakened body.

  The man crossed his arms. “Can I help you, Sir?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

  But when Ilfedo turned to face the man—

  The man uncrossed his arms, dropped them to his sides, and his eyes widened. “You’re the Mathaliah guy, aren’t you?” Before Ilfedo could respond, the man looked back into the shadows and snapped his fingers with such force that it made Ilfedo’s ear ring. “Boy!” he hollered. “Got them horses ready?”

  “Just ‘bout,” a cheery youth replied.

  “The name’s Barlin.” The burly fellow thrust his hand at Ilfedo with a smile that seemed to twist up on one side of his mouth and down on the other.

  Ilfedo shook his hand and looked past him, tried to distinguish the lad amid the random clouds of straw dust.

  Barlin did not seem to notice. He slapped one arm around Ilfedo’s shoulders. Ilfedo cringed, feeling some pain. Barlin walked him away from the stall. “It was a great thing you did when you killed them serpents for us! Any time you come back ‘round these parts, visit us, will you?” He pulled back his arm and slapped Ilfedo’s shoulder hard.

  “I can’t promise anything,” Ilfedo said. He looked down at the other man, amused. Did he always treat ill people in this manner, or just those who’d been poisoned in the act of saving human lives?

  “Ah, very well.” Barlin stood back and shouted into the stable. “Ramul! Get them horses out here now.”

  Without a word, a curly red-haired young man strode on gangly legs from the dim recesses of the stable. His green eyes stared up at Ilfedo from a face spotted with freckles.

  “How long do you need the boy?” Barlin tousled the youth’s hair and fixed a hard gaze on Ilfedo.

  Ilfedo ran his hand along one stallion’s neck and then down to the saddle. He checked the cinch. It was tight. Swinging himself onto the animal’s broad back, he reached down to shake Barlin’s hand. “It is a couple days’ ride to my place. I’ll send the lad back as soon as possible.” He wrapped the reins around his right fist. “Look for him to return within five days’ time.”

  He smiled down at the red-headed boy. “Your name is Ramul?”

  “Yes, Mr. Mathaliah.” The lad mounted the horse next to Ilfedo’s and grasped the reins of the two pack horses behind him, loaded down with leather bags no doubt holding the serpent meat.

  “Since we will be traveling together for the next couple of days”—Ilfedo turned in his saddle to face the doors leading to the inn’s courtyard—“I’d prefer you to call me Ilfedo.”

  Beaming, Ramul urged his horse forward as Ilfedo rode out of the stable, into the courtyard, and down the deserted cobblestone streets. He glanced back one time to look at the sign swinging above the inn door. The Wooden Mug. He would remember that name. Maybe if he returned to this place he would look it up.

  Somewhere in the Western Wood, Dantress slipped out of the cave, parting the vines hanging over the entrance before stepping barefoot on the moist forest floor. A thorn pricked her heel. She leaned over and pulled it out. No matter how often she’d walked without shoes, her feet seemed to remain smooth and tender.

  Standing, she stepped over a moss-covered log and made her way through the thick forest growth. When she’d gone out of earshot of the cave, she untied her laces from her belt and put the shoes on her feet. Owls hooted in the darkness, no doubt preparing to swoop from the branches and catch any unsuspecting rodents in their talons.

  A couple of miles from the cave she walked into a clearing. The soft starlight mirrored in a pool of water. The pool was fed by water gushing over stone polished smooth. Twice her dreams had showed her this place. Twice she had come, hoping—that he’d be there.

  But no one stood on the other side of the pool, no one looked at her with adoring eyes. She sighed, chiding herself for hoping that this fantasy would become reality. That one day the dreams would prove true—and he’d stand there, tall and strong.

  She recalled the warmth of Kesla’s child sleeping in her arms and loneliness pricked her with one of its long, hard fingers. Someone to have and someone to hold—for even a day—would be enough. She wanted it more than anything in the world. But could she ever have that? Could she bring herself to accept the price of such a union? She was not of human blood.

  Thinking that she’d wasted her time, Dantress turned to go, her head bowed.

  A tall, hooded figure stepped out of the forest on the opposite bank, glowing with grayish light in the darkness. The figure walked around the pool toward her. Startled, she reached down to the fold in her skirt and leaned over to draw out her blade. But her fingers touched an empty scabbard!

  The ghostly figure stood still—a dozen feet away from her— and she noticed the glowing scythe in his right hand. Its blade brought to mind a memory. She struggled to recall where she’d seen it before.

  “Given up already?” the familiar voice said, almost in a whisper.

  “You?” She took a step toward him. “You were there … in Al’un Dai!”

  The ghost drew her sword from its robes and held it aloft in its free hand.

  A dozen questions came to mind, but only one reached her lips. “Who are you?”

  “
I am the master of this sword,” the decidedly masculine voice replied. “I am its first bearer—the master of the Six.”

  “Xavion?” She stared in disbelief. “But I thought you were dead—”

  “Xavion is dead, dragon child.” He strode a bit closer and starlight reflected off his scythe. “And dead he will remain. I am Specter, agent of your father … protector of all that he holds most dear.”

  Specter neared her and held out the sword … his sword. A shiver ran unhindered down Dantress’s spine. “I think,” she managed, “that you should keep it.”

  His blue eyes glowed down at her and sparked. She couldn’t explain how, but somehow she knew that it had been a long time since this warrior had felt as pleased as he felt now. And she couldn’t help noticing how handsome, how young he looked. But he had to be around one thousand years old.

  “It is kind of you to offer me this gift,” Specter said. “Nevertheless, I will not accept, and I don’t want to. This sword is destined to be wielded by one other aside from myself and you, and I would not trade the future it has—through your blood— for the temporary gratification of using it against my enemies.” He slid the sword adroitly into her scabbard.

  “Now”—he stepped back, his robes shimmering—“do not leave this place so soon. I believe the great white dragon would advise you to stay and follow your heart to where it leads you.

  His hooded form vanished as he spoke and then his voice whispered close in her ear. “And do not worry about the wild beasts while you sleep. I will stay and keep watch.”

  Another shiver ran down her spine. Dantress smiled and lay down on the wet grass, uncaring. The dragon had promised that he would watch over his children and, it seemed, he’d also assigned a guardian to keep an eye on them during his absence.

  If Specter had been with her and her sisters during their ordeal at Al’un Dai then he must have also been with them prior to that in the forests west of the Eiderveis River.

  She recalled Laura’s account of the night the dragons had kidnapped her. The heads of the carnivorous beasts had, according to Laura, “fallen off as if severed by an invisible blade.” Specter’s blade … it must have been.

  And then there was the moment when she and her sisters had been trapped in Al’un Dai. She’d been holding the traitor’s infant son when the walls had iced over. Her sisters had touched their blades together, and the energy discharge which had never failed to crumble stone had had no effect. They’d been trapped.

  But at the exact moment they needed help, the wall trembled, the ice shattered. Something had impacted the wall from the other side and the stones had exploded at the sisters, leaving a large hole for the sisters to escape through … and she had never known why. Now she understood what had happened.

  Specter … he was there the whole time. She couldn’t help marveling at how much sense it all made.

  Closing her eyes, Dantress drifted into a dream similar to the ones she’d had the past couple of nights. She saw the man’s face and felt the adoration of his gaze as if nothing else mattered to him or existed outside of them.

  Ilfedo tore himself from the dream. He could almost feel her presence melting off his body like hot wax. Why? Why did this dream recur with such persistent frequency? Where had his mind come up with such vivid detail of a woman who did not exist?

  He rolled up his bearskin sleeping bag and strangled it with a leather cord to his saddle. “Ramul.” He gently shook the gangly lad awake. “Time we were on our way.”

  The hilly terrain covered with trees prevented a speedy journey through the wilderness. Ilfedo knew the region well and navigated as direct a path as possible so that Ramul, when he returned to the coast, would be able to find his way back.

  From time to time Ilfedo drew his sword and slashed the tree trunks, leaving marks the boy could follow on the return trip.

  A few days after leaving the coastal areas, they rode up a long hill to a broad log home set back in the slope and stopped. A portion of the roof appeared to be open, like a window to the sky. The structure was sturdy. They led the horses through large double doors set in the side of the building.

  “I don’t keep any horses of my own,” Ilfedo said as the redhead kicked around the meager piles of straw spread on the stable floor. “But there’s plenty of grass outside, and the horses can graze on that tonight.” He balanced a pile of metal stakes in his arms and carried them outside, driving them into the ground, then tying the horses to them.

  Ramul surprised Ilfedo with his strength. He picked up several of the larger packs and carried them to the front door. Ilfedo was left only with a smaller pack and one large one. By the faint odor of smoke his nostrils picked up when he lifted the larger of the two bags he guessed it held the serpent meat.

  “Your door’s locked.” Ramul pulled up on the thick metal latch to prove his point.

  “Stand aside.” Ilfedo stepped to the door and rapped twice. “Seivar, Hasselpatch! I’m home! Open this thing, will you?”

  There was a commotion in the house—pots and pans crashing to the floor, glass smashing, along with an assortment of other small catastrophes, and the door clicked open.

  Two eagle-sized, white birds landed on Ilfedo’s shoulders, each stretching a long neck to nuzzle his head. The afternoon sunlight shone off their hooked, silver beaks, and their silver claws clamped over his shoulders.

  Ilfedo jerked his shoulder as his injury protested.

  The larger of the pair finished nuzzling its master and cawed in Ramul’s face, startling him back. He tripped on the threshold and fell.

  “Sorry about that, Ramul.” Ilfedo stroked both birds’ breasts, looking upon them with a softening gaze as their silvery eyes closed in pleasure. “I’m afraid Seivar is not comfortable with strangers.”

  Ramul swallowed, “Those are—”

  “Nuvitors … and the only tame pair that I know of,” Ilfedo said, nodding his head. “I chanced upon one of the nests fallen from a tree deep in the forest. They would have died had I not brought them home.

  “Am I right, Hasselpatch?” He glanced to his left shoulder at the smaller bird.

  She cooed at him and stretched her beak into the sunlight. “As Yimshi shines down upon us, yes, Master!”

  “Yipes!” Ramul’s mouth froze open in shock. “They can … they talk?”

  “Yes.” Ilfedo ducked inside the house. Ramul set the packs on the warm wood floor, and Ilfedo shut the door.

  The larger of the birds, Seivar, nipped Ilfedo’s ear and then jumped off his shoulder to perch on the long wooden table occupying the center of the room.

  Ilfedo busied himself removing his scabbard from his belt. He set it, with the sword still sheathed, against the wall in a dark corner of the room.

  “But,” Ramul warily kept his eye on Seivar, “they’re not like parrots. They can have a conversation?”

  “Would you listen to that, Hasselpatch?” Seivar clipped the air with his beak. “Parrots, indeed! Of all insults—”

  The smaller bird crouched on Ilfedo’s shoulder then pounced, landing on Seivar’s back and toppling him off the table.

  “Do not listen to a word Seivar says.” She said, looked up at Ramul as her mate rebalanced himself on the floor. “And if he tries anything whilst I’m out of sight, I expect you to tell me immediately.” She stood still, waiting.

  Ramul looked from one bird to the other, not uttering a word.

  “Well?” Hasselpatch stretched out her neck to better eye the lad.

  And Ilfedo subtly mouthed, ‘Tell her you will.’

  “I … I will … thank you.” Ramul stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

  The bird nodded and dropped to the floor. “Come with me. There are three guest rooms in this house. Um … what was your name?”

  “Ramul.”

  “Such a nice name!” Hasselpatch led him to the north side of the house and through a door into one of the small bedrooms at ground level.

  Ilfedo looked
at the kitchen counter against the back wall. One lamp lay on its side, jagged bits of broken glass spread around it. Several plates were neatly stacked next to the stone sink but around them lay an assortment of pots and pans in a jumbled confusion.

  He picked up the humbled bird and let it perch on his arm. The claws dug into his skin but he didn’t care. “What a mess, Seivar.”

  Hanging its head, the bird said, “Sorry, Master, I let my excitement get the better of me.”

  Ilfedo smiled. “No matter. A little cleanup and everything will be right again. Which reminds me: it feels chilly in here.” He glanced to the large stone fireplace set in the wall next to a stone stairway leading to the second level.

  The fireplace was huge. Large enough for a full grown man of shorter stature to walk into. A bed of coals glowed inside and meager scraps of charred logs growing cold slumbered atop them. Above the mantle, staring lifelessly back at him, was the head of that first bear. He stretched his shoulders, feeling the bearskin coat that’d kept him warm for several years.

  The bear had killed his parents and he had killed it.

  “Master?” Seivar stretched out his wings to keep his balance.

  “It’s all right,” Ilfedo assured the bird. “I was just remembering. …”

  Turning away from the bear’s head, he stepped around a pillar rising from the floor and supporting a broad beam running the length of the house. He slapped the rough wood. Solid as the day he’d nailed it in place.

  His thigh brushed against a rope hammock, strung from one pillar to the other. The hammock rocked gently.

  Outside with the cool late afternoon air surrounding him, Ilfedo grabbed the steel axe by its head and pulled its handle from under his belt. Balancing it in both hands he bent his elbows, drawing them back in preparation for the swing. The thick trunk of an oak rose before him, its first branches at least ten feet above the ground.

  Seivar’s weight lifted from his arm, and the bird flew to a white birch. It was out of felling distance. Cocking its head in his direction, the bird awaited the first strokes of his axe.