Swords of the Six (The Sword of the Dragon)

by Scott Appleton

  “I will do as you say, Master,” Specter stepped away to carry out the shepherd’s command. Relief slipped over him like a woolen blanket. Now, if the Grim Reaper returned, Specter would not be alone. He rather hated to admit it, but it unnerved him how easily the reaper had disarmed him. In the future, he vowed, that situation would not repeat itself.

  A firefly glowed in the darkness beside him as he avoided a tree stump and stepped into the forest. He glanced over his shoulder, at the shepherd sitting on a log with his staff in hand watching over Ilfedo. The eastern sky faded from purple to a soft blue, and a playful gust of wind passed overhead, rustling the treetops. Yimshi was rising.

  FOREST MAIDEN

  A scattering of colorful leaves lay in the grass around Ilfedo. He shook his head, lifted Hasselpatch out of his lap, and set her gently on the ground. She stirred but did not wake. The deep blue sky overhead betrayed not even a hint of cloud to dim the cheery weather. He yawned, stood, twisted his stiff back and stretched his arms.

  He shook his head. What a fool he’d been. He had left Ombre, Honer, and Ganning to carry out the hunt … so that he could chase a silly dream. He ignored the part of his being that still cried out that it hadn’t been just a silly dream. The sky had opened, had it not? And what of the repetition of the dreams? It wasn’t really possible to dream all of it up, was it?

  But he forced his mind to be silent, and walked a few yards to the stream. At this point the water ran out of a large pool of sparkling pure water, and the roar of a waterfall told him that he may have reached the stream’s source.

  At least, in the matter of exploration, this trip hadn’t been a complete waste. This was his first time to the Western Wood. He should take advantage of the opportunity to investigate this territory farther. But, what about Ombre, Honer, and Ganning? They would be wondering about him by now.

  No. He would not stay. He would go back to the Hemmed Land. Apologies were in order for three very good friends of his.

  Kneeling at the pool’s edge, he cupped his hands together and dipped them into the slow-flowing liquid. He let it chill his hands before lifting them out of the water.

  As he held the water in his hands, he found himself staring at it as at a mirror. Indeed, the water did appear to form a mirror. Smooth, unerring, the liquid between his fingers reflected his visage back at him. The water was so lovely that he hesitated for a few moments longer. Then he slurped it down his throat.

  Again he cupped his hands into the water, brought it to him, and again looked into the mirror that it formed. But this time he saw not his own image but rather the image of the woman in his dreams, standing with her back turned to him. She was holding her long purple skirt with one hand, keeping its hem out of the water as she waded through.

  He jerked back, startled. The water slipped between his open fingers, its molecules uniting with those in the larger collection flowing from the pool to the stream.

  He had to get a hold of himself. But what was happening? He blinked his eyes and breathed uneasily.

  Once more he cupped his hands together. Once again he lifted the natural mirror from the flow. Once again it was not his own reflection that he saw. It was hers. But this time, as he listened to the roar of the waterfall, he glanced up.

  Water gushed over a high face of smooth stone set back a hundred feet from where he knelt. Ripples formed in unending number at the waterfall’s base, building outward. He opened his mouth in astonishment.

  There, wading through the water and holding her purple skirt several inches above its surface, was the young woman from his dream. The dreams, the vision, they had led him here! But how could this be? He had not expected to fulfill his dream.

  He stood and caught his breath. Yimshi cast its early morning rays from behind him. The rays shone upon her dark brown hair so that the tinge of red clearly showed.

  Unsure what to do, Ilfedo sprinted left, circling the pool in hopes of seeing her face. Her hair, the way the water rippled around her olivine legs, the manner in which she held her skirt to keep it dry—it was all exactly as it should be. It was all exactly as he had seen it would be. Nymphean she seemed, her hair wavy long and her ears fine and delicate. Out in the middle of nowhere as if set there for him to find.

  He stood still.

  It seemed at first that she would never notice him. Absorbed with the water, she whirled it with her foot and waded closer to shore. A songbird flew over her head. She held out her hand and the gold and blue feathered creature redirected its flight to land on her palm.

  Ilfedo did not divert his attention from her for more than an instant. He glanced to the tree where he’d slept. Hasselpatch still rested there, though she was awake now. Her head held high, the bird watched him with concern or curiosity. He could not tell which, though he guessed the latter would be a more accurate assumption.

  The songbird fluttered out of the young woman’s hand and she watched it go, then she cut through the water toward the shore. He took a step forward, the nerve to speak to her not quite within his grasp. In mid stride a twig snapped under his heel. She swung around, glanced at him, and stepped ashore, her bare feet treading the green grass.

  At once, she picked up a sheathed sword lying behind a small boulder. The blade protested with horrible screeches as she drew it from the scabbard. He could see a great deal of rust had accumulated on the blade.

  With a speed and skill that took him completely by surprise, the young woman sped toward him and held the tip of the blade against his throat. He felt the rough steel scratch his jugular. At first he wondered if she meant to kill him, but then her face seemed to relax and her dark eyes blinked, breaking the strain of her hard stare.

  Ilfedo tried to clear his throat but found it impossible with the hard cold metal pressed against it. “Sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He held his arms away from his torso. “Don’t worry—I—I’m not here to hurt you.”

  She said not a word. Not even a cautious question parted her delicate lips.

  Believing that she knew he posed no threat to her, Ilfedo reached for his sword. He wanted to drop it from his waist, to prove he was harmless. It would only take a second.

  But her eyes flashed with fear.

  With surgical precision she swiped downward, the rusted blade slicing open his fist even as he succeeded in disarming himself. The sword his parents had given him dropped into the long, soft grass.

  Ribbons of pain threaded through his hand where she’d cut him. Instinctively he covered the wound with his free hand, looking at her with horror. The pain of the cut was not nearly as unbearable as the look of betrayal he discerned in her eyes as he grasped his injured hand with his free one and fell to his knees.

  “No, no! You don’t understand!” He struggled to keep his balance. The ground seemed to waver under his knees. “Please, I wasn’t trying to hurt you!” Her cut had passed deep into his hand. Already a small pool of blood formed on the ground.

  “I’ve seen much, Sir,” she replied, the last word spiced with indignation. “And I’ve learned not to trust a potential foe. Drawing your sword is usually a good indicator of hostile intentions.”

  “I wasn’t—” He shook his head to clear it. The dizziness struck again. “I was trying to discard it—to—to show you—that I mean you no harm.”

  Tears formed in her eyes and under her breath she said, “And I thought you might be … him.”

  He glanced toward the water. He must clean the wound. As he looked at his hand, he knew that he would never use it again. The tendons had been severed and he could no longer feel his fingers. He glanced up at her and froze in horror as she, with tears running down her cheeks, stabbed at his heart.

  A flurry of white wings and a Nuvitor’s terrified cry interrupted the attack. Hasselpatch snatched the sword from her hand, tumbling it to the ground before it touched him. “No! You will not harm Master!” the bird screeched. Frantically it flew circles above him.

  Feeling faint, Ilfe
do laid on the grass. This was not at all how he’d expected this to turn out. He’d hoped to find a soul mate, and instead he’d scared her into killing him.

  Funny, he’d never thought to die at the hand of a beautiful woman. But it was better than some of the alternatives. Better this than suffocating in the belly of a Sea Serpent, or having his neck snapped by a bear.

  Then he felt her kneeling next to him, heard Hasselpatch screaming at her. Something wet splattered on his cheek. A tear … had she shed it for him? “I am sorry,” he heard her say through a broken voice. “I only meant to defend myself—I did not see. Oh, what have I done?”

  “He can no longer hear you,” Patient said. “He is passing from this world to be with the Creator.”

  Dantress turned to him with tears running unimpeded down her cheeks. “What have I done? This man was not evil—and I—I have killed him.” She raised the sword of Xavion in both hands, stabbed its blade into the ground. Releasing her grip on the handle she clenched her hands together.

  “My dear child.” The old man wiped away her tears with his wrinkled hand and she saw tears in his eyes as well. “My dear, dear child, you are so beautiful! Both in body and in spirit. You are a treasure fit only for the most honored and honorable of men.

  “In your hands rests the future of humanity and dragons. And the choices you make, from this point on, will have consequences far greater than you can foresee.”

  The Nuvitor had vanished into the forest when its master closed his eyes. Now it returned, the tree line behind it filling with hundreds of Nuvitors, honing in on Dantress like a swarm of angry hornets. Their silvery eyes and claws shone in the sunlight. Their sharp beaks looked ready to kill.

  Patient stepped away from Dantress, smiled sadly at her. “I cannot interfere, child,” he said. “Not even to save you. You have brought this calamity upon yourself. Not even your father will intervene. What happens now is entirely in your hands.”

  “No,” she cried, “do not leave me.” Dantress wept but the shepherd turned his back to her and slipped through the swarming birds and into the forest.

  One Nuvitor swooped over her head, snapping its beak in an unspoken threat. Another landed on the other side of the fallen man while the rest spiraled around Dantress and the man, a tornado of creatures that all seemed in agreement that she must pay with her life if his was lost.

  “You have wounded Master and his eyes loved you,” the Nuvitor on the ground said. A great silvery tear rolled down its beak as it looked up at her.

  “I—” Dantress choked on the words, “I thought he was going to attack me.” She touched the man’s face and bit her lip. “No. No, he will not die! I will save him.”

  “If he dies,” Hasselpatch trembled as she spoke, “you die.”

  Dantress’s hands shook as she laid them on Ilfedo’s bleeding one and summoned the strength in her blood. His life waned, the candle of his existence flickered. No, he must not die. He could not! She latched on, praying to the Creator for strength as she fed life into the man’s body.

  Another tear dripped from the Nuvitor’s beak as Dantress opened her eyes. “There is good in your heart. Master would not want you killed,” Hasselpatch said simply. The bird cawed at its fellows and, as suddenly as they’d gathered, they dispersed into the forest.

  Specter stepped into the clearing after the enraged birds had departed. Invisible beneath his hooded robes, he approached Dantress. The energy she was exerting to heal the man must have been enormous. She was hunched over him, her hand glowing such a brilliant blue that it looked ready to burst into a million fragments.

  When she’d done all she could—and she had done everything possible to save the man’s life—she slumped over his body. Her eyes closed.

  Specter did not dare intervene. First of all, Patient the shepherd was wise. If he believed that Dantress must do this on her own, then so be it. Secondly, the man’s pet Nuvitor still stood guard, and it could apparently rally, if need be, a deadly following of its species at a moment’s notice. He did not need his presence revealed. That would only serve to irritate an already ugly situation.

  Or had he misjudged the situation? Perhaps things were not all they appeared to be.

  Beside him, he sensed the shepherd observing from concealment in the trees. His face showed neither fear nor concern. Perhaps the wise old man knew best.

  Suddenly the sky was rent with a thunderous sound, and Specter saw the great white dragon, with wings spread to embrace the air, descend to the pool. As he splashed into the water, Albino waved a clawed hand at the alarmed Nuvitor.

  Immediately the bird collapsed to the ground, her chest heaving rhythmically as if in a deep sleep.

  Towering over his daughter, yet not touching her or the man, Albino gazed upon them. “Patient,” he rumbled, “it is time they see what we know.”

  Specter approached the dragon and bowed low. “Master.”

  “You have done well, Specter.” The dragon’s pink eyes gazed upon him. “The child is now safe and so is my daughter. Tell me … did you have any problems with the delivery?”

  “No, Master. The boy is safe.”

  “Very well, then stand back and conceal yourself once again. My daughter will need you for a short while longer and then I will have a new task for you.”

  Cloaking himself with the garments of invisibility, Specter backed to the tree line.

  The shepherd knelt next to Dantress and the man. The staff he laid on the ground while he placed one hand on the side of her head and then placed his other on the man’s. His eyes closed and held his position. He was as unwavering as a statue, his head was bared.

  Nothing appeared to happen. But Specter knew that inside the minds of the young couple a lesson, a truth, or some prophecy was being played out.

  Patient picked up his staff some time afterward. The dragon stooped and the old man straddled his neck. Then, crouching down to the surface of the pool, Albino flung himself into the sky and shot into the northeast.

  Specter waited a long while for Dantress and the man to wake. The Nuvitor did so before either of them and, by the way she waddled around, he guessed she was feeling a bit disoriented by Albino’s seemingly magical power.

  But Dantress and Ilfedo did not rouse for a long while.

  At first Ilfedo thought that the fertile field stretching into the distant orange horizon was Heaven. Wildflowers of bright yellow, deep blue, and smooth ivory grew on all sides up to his knees. Butterflies, with black wings speckled white, danced from blossom to blossom, dipping long proboscises into the nectar-filled hearts of the plants. The multitude of the delicate winged creatures was so great that they might as well have been leaves falling from the sky.

  Then it happened—a lone figure walked toward him through the field. Her long dark hair framed her smooth face, and tears dripped from her dark eyes onto her white dress.

  Ilfedo shielded his eyes from the dress as light reflected off of it. But he did not keep his eyes guarded for long. Stepping forward, he met her halfway and faced her.

  She was so beautiful. … Her countenance changed as she saw him. The line of her lips responded with a delicate smile, and she reached toward him. But she stopped herself as her fingers brushed his sleeve and shame clouded her inner joy.

  As her eyes looked at the ground, she lowered her head. Sorrow seemed to pour from her soul, dimming the purity of her garment from brilliant white to light gray.

  Ilfedo raised her chin so that her eyes returned his gaze. The feel of her skin was real to his touch, and he knew without knowing exactly how that this was not a vision or a dream. Nor was it Heaven. He had died—or nearly so. And her soul had somehow followed him to keep him from passing over the gap into the next world.

  The butterflies scattered to his left, and he turned. An old man stood there now, amid the flowers. He held a shepherd’s curved staff in his hand, and his blue eyes returned Ilfedo’s gaze.

  “A greater treasure you will never find in thi
s world, Ilfedo,” the shepherd said, pointing at the young woman, “than the treasure of a virgin bride whose eyes look to you for love.”

  Ilfedo redirected his gaze back to the young woman. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears. How the shepherd knew his name he did not know. At the moment—it didn’t matter.

  “Then why?” He picked his words with care. “Why did she attack me?”

  The shepherd stepped forward. His blue eyes settled their gaze on the young woman, and his hand patted her shoulder. She gazed back, a tear rolling down each cheek. “Have no fear of her, Ilfedo,” the shepherd said. “Her actions toward you were instinctual and not malicious. When you reached for your sword, she took action. When you lay dying—she treated your wounds.

  “Now, behold!” the shepherd stabbed his staff into the ground and reached out with both wrinkled hands, taking the young woman’s smooth hand in one and Ilfedo’s large one in the other. “Destinies intertwined to the daughter of promise and a son of man. A future of hope mixed with days of evil and despair sprouts from the seed of love here sown.”

  The shepherd vanished into thin air. Not a trace of him could be seen.

  Ilfedo was left alone with the young woman, her beautiful eyes begging his forgiveness even as he held her hand gently in his own. The feeling of attraction that he had toward her made this an uncomfortable situation—them, twain, alone in a field filled with flowers and butterflies—but he made no move to leave and she did not withdraw her hand from his, so he swallowed hard and looked down at her.

  Suddenly, just as their gazes locked, a white light sprang from between their hands. In its midst a seed appeared, the shell dried. Spidery cracks formed upon its surface. The roots and stalk of a tree grew forth, separating him from her. He watched her fall back, thrown by the rapidly spreading tree. His own chest ached where the tree’s roots struck him.