Have Sword, Will Travel

by Garth Nix

  Eleanor shrugged. She knew that Biter fell back on sorcery rather than admit to any fault of his own.

  “So will you die one day?” she asked. “I mean, of old age?”

  “I do not know. I would once have said that I was impervious to any minor injury or decay …”

  “But there’s that nick,” said Eleanor.

  Biter said nothing.

  While the smiths had been outfitting Odo and Eleanor, they had also attended to their enchanted sword. Biter had been thoroughly cleaned and polished, and with great care and tact the matter of the nick had been raised. Only when Biter was shown his reflection in a silver mirror would he even admit to the flaw. And as to repairing it … Master Thrytin had laughed when Odo suggested it.

  “We have nothing that could grind or burnish the steel of this sword,” he’d said. “I cannot imagine what made that nick, save another sword of the same temper, or perhaps a dragon’s tooth. Something of magic, for certain, not of any mortal make.”

  “Perhaps that is why you were in the river,” Odo said now, thoughtfully.

  “Sir Nerian would never have thrown me away simply because of a little nick,” Biter said, his protest sounding just a little bit forlorn. “He was strong of heart —”

  “— and mighty of arm, we know,” Odo finished for him. “I didn’t say you were thrown away. But maybe something happened, you got that nick, and ended up in the river. I don’t know.”

  He was beginning to feel more than a little sorry for the ancient sword. Biter might have magic powers, but he wasn’t perfect, and no one liked having their nose rubbed in their imperfections. The number of times Eleanor made jokes about Odo being too slow, for instance, when he was just being sensibly cautious …

  “Indeed, Sir Odo,” said Biter stiffly. “You do not know. Now, we must continue. What Deadly Strike were we up to? Ah, yes. The sixth, Reach for the Crimson Sun. Three to go! Place your right foot forward and plant it firmly in the earth, inasmuch as that is possible while you are walking …”

  Odo sighed again, pushed himself away from the tree, and submitted to the sword’s instructions.

  Eleanor followed along behind, watching them like a cat intent upon a mouse, anticipating and memorizing every move of foot and hand and body, and every line of the sword’s actions.

  An hour after midday they reached Scomhylt, a tidy hamlet tucked into the side of a low cliff, where they were entreated to join the search for a lost child called Young Jeffrey. The villagers seemed inclined to think a knight would succeed where they had failed, or make them happier with their failure if he failed too.

  They did find him quite quickly, as it turned out. Young Jeffrey was hiding up a tree, eating autumn apples. Eleanor spotted him first, but assumed he couldn’t be who they were looking for because of his thick beard and bald head. Odo thought it worth asking if he was the object of their quest, and so it proved. No one had told them that the “child” was actually a full-grown man with a mind that wandered as often as his feet.

  Odo was quite pleased by this small task. Secretly, he wished that all his knightly duties would be so easy, particularly when they were rewarded with a fine noon meal accompanied by excellent cider.

  They reached Brygward, the next village, shortly before dusk. A farmer there kindly let them share a byre overnight with three good-natured cows. Eleanor and Odo were grateful for the shelter, because it rained heavily for several hours in the middle of the night. As soon as the first drops fell, they heard the villagers rushing out with bowls and other containers to catch the water. They did the same with their helmets.

  In the morning, the river was no higher, and the only sign of the rain was some puddles next to the tiny stream.

  They journeyed on, becoming used to the weight of their armor and the constant instruction of Biter. Eleanor took to copying whatever Odo did with her own sword-knife, slowing their travel even more as both knight and squire stepped forward and back and sideways, and circled and jumped and lunged forward and then quickly retreated, all to Biter’s stern orders.

  On the fifth day of their journey, they reached Eage, a much larger village than Lenburh. It even had a proper inn, and there, as they bought bread, hard cheese, and more cider with some of their precious pennies, they heard tales of refugees coming from the north, fleeing terrifyingly vast clouds of smoke and steam high in the mountains, without doubt caused by a dragon. Odo and Eleanor didn’t actually see any of these refugees who might have seen the dragon, but the stories about them were being shared by everyone in the inn and repeated for new arrivals.

  They applied some of Symon’s ointment to the blisters of an old man at Eage, who claimed to have seen the smoke himself. But as always, all he could say was that it was farther along the river, in the Upper Valleys. Odo and Eleanor couldn’t see any valleys ahead, but they were on the map.

  That night, at a tiny hamlet called Horadle, Odo was called upon as a knight to settle a dispute over a flock of chickens that might or might not have been partially or completely stolen from someone who claimed to be a blood relative of the person who thought they owned the birds.

  Thankfully, Odo didn’t need to fight anyone to resolve this conflict. He just needed to look impressive. The armor helped with this. And when he suggested the obvious — that they should divide the flock in two or at least agree to share the eggs between them — the combatants agreed readily enough … at first. Then they proceeded to argue over who should provide the knight and his squire with a meal in payment for the lawgiving.

  This was only prevented from turning into an all-in family brawl when Odo, at Eleanor’s prodding, slapped the flat of Biter’s blade on the table and roared, “Enough! We’ve food of our own! GO TO BED!”

  The villagers fled, leaving Odo and Eleanor in possession of the barn and another supper of stale bread, cheese, dried plums, and water. The cider they got never seemed to last very long.

  Eleanor didn’t care. She was so tired she fell into a stand of hay as soon as she’d eaten, and went instantly to sleep.

  They woke the next morning to the sound of renewed arguing and the squawking of alarmed poultry.

  “Do we have to go through all that again?” asked Odo, reaching for his hauberk with a groan.

  “Please tell me it’s not a knight’s duty to save people from their own stupidity,” Eleanor groaned.

  “There is no shame in retreat from a tussle that will only reduce our dignity.”

  Under cover of raised voices, the three made a stealthy escape through the back of the barn and ran for the hills.

  “What’s the next village?” Odo asked Eleanor, who had the map.

  “Spedigan. I think it’s very small. Look, the mapmaker draws one house symbol for a hamlet, two for a small village, three for a bigger village.”

  “What about a town?” asked Odo idly.

  “No towns on this map,” said Eleanor. She frowned. “I guess Eldburgh downriver from home must be the nearest town. I think Father said that’s sixty leagues. He goes there every few years.”

  Odo looked at the map. He hadn’t noticed before, but they were reaching the edge of the detailed part, where villages were named and indicated. Ahead was the mostly blank space labeled The Upper Valleys.

  “Let’s not stop in Spedigan,” Odo said. “I quite like sleeping in the open.”

  Eleanor did too. It reminded her of summer nights when their parents would let them camp by the river, listening to night birds, frogs, and crickets. She knew too that Biter bristled at hiding his true nature from people who would be alarmed by the reality of a talking sword. They had developed a system of one twitch for yes and two twitches for no so he could still communicate.

  “The only problem is,” she said, “we’re going to need water.”

  Odo sighed. That was true. Their canteens were almost empty and the river was now too muddy to drink. He sniffed at his armpit. A good wash wouldn’t go astray either.

  “I hope they’ve got
a well,” he said.

  “We’ll have to boil it anyway,” said Eleanor. Her father was very strict about boiling water that wasn’t from a fast-flowing river. In fact, at home they hardly drank water, instead sticking to the very weak ale that Symon brewed himself. It was much less likely to sicken the drinker.

  Spedigan would have been a charming place to visit under any other circumstances, but it was presently full of refugees. There was no food to be bought, save at ludicrous prices, and there was a long line of people waiting for the village well. Eleanor and Odo joined the line, refusing offers for the young knight to come ahead. Unintentionally, this gave them the chance to overhear several conversations that hinted at what lay before them.

  “She’s absolutely terrifying,” said one man to another, “but also magnificent. Golden and long-limbed, with flashing eyes.”

  Odo’s ears pricked up.

  “I heard she killed three men with one blow,” said the next man in line, “and stands no less than nine feet tall!”

  “Well, that last part is an exaggeration,” said the first man. “She couldn’t be more than seven feet tall — but she is easily three broad.”

  “Men!” scoffed the women with them. “She’s little taller than either of you.”

  Odo glanced at Eleanor with the beginnings of relief. Could it be true? That sounded very small for a dragon.

  “Don’t meet her eyes, whatever you do,” said the first man, with a wistful look. “She’s broken more hearts than she’s stopped in combat!”

  Eleanor frowned. And before she could stop herself, she found herself asking the man, “You’re in love with Quenwulf?”

  The man recoiled as though the dragon herself had appeared in front of him.

  “What? No! I’m talking about Sir Saskia!”

  “Who?” asked Odo.

  “Haven’t you heard? She’s a knight from far-off lands who’s come to slay the dragon. She and her coterie are camped at Hryding, gathering supplies for the march north. That’s where we saw her. Oh, she’s magnificent —”

  “When?” Eleanor cut him off before he could begin another long description of the knight’s finer points.

  “Just yesterday, lass. Why do you ask?”

  “Knights’ business,” said Eleanor, effectively silencing any further questions.

  Odo knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking it too: Hryding was the next village along the river, one marked with three houses on the map. If they hurried, they could meet Sir Saskia there and join forces with her!

  Judging by the way Biter was twitching, the sword was thinking this too.

  As the line moved slowly forward, Odo found himself daydreaming about Sir Saskia. If everything they heard about her was true, maybe she would kill the dragon. Then they could go safely home and no one would meet a horrible end.

  He tried not to listen to one of the refugees up ahead, who was quite gleefully telling a story about corpses drifting down the river, the bodies of people cooked to death in boiling water. No one asked him how a body, or indeed anything larger than a twig, could float down the muddy trickle that was all that was left of the Silverrun. “The work of dragon’s fire,” the refugee said. “People who had thought themselves safe.”

  Instead of focusing on the refugees’ tales, Eleanor was trying to see the state of the water they were being given. If it was really bad, they’d have to strain it through her scarf first and then boil it — and that would take a lot of time.

  When they finally got to the well, Eleanor was relieved to see the water was clear and cool. It would still need to be boiled, but not strained. She and Odo filled their bottles and the goatskin water bag and set off once more. They were the only people going north. Everyone else was headed in the opposite direction.

  The sun began to set as they left the village, painting the clouds a bright pink. They passed more people hurrying south on the road but didn’t stop to talk. Neither did Biter insist that Odo practice. They continued in silence, each deep in private contemplations.

  A young knight, thought Eleanor, a knight on a heroic quest, and best of all, a lady knight. Sir Halfdan was none of those things, and Sir Saskia was all of them. She was everything Eleanor dreamed of being.

  “If she’s a real knight,” she asked Biter when the road was empty, “does that mean she’ll have a sword like you?”

  “Unlikely,” he said. “We are exceedingly rare.”

  “But she might have one …”

  Eleanor’s mind wandered off along ever more fabulous possibilities while Odo thought about Eleanor’s question. From his own experience, knights didn’t have enchanted swords. It seemed to him that it was more the other way around.

  He told himself not to complain. He was acutely conscious of Eleanor’s jealousy. But every village they’d passed through had reminded him of home in one way or another, and also reminded him that he was only a miller’s boy. He did not feel like a real knight, and he knew they’d only succeeded — and survived — at Anfyltarn with some very good luck. It could easily have ended otherwise.

  Going up against a dragon would be far more dangerous.

  Odo stumbled, not really looking where he was going.

  “What is the matter, Sir Odo?” asked Biter.

  “Nothing,” Odo replied.

  But he was thinking, I really hope this Sir Saskia deals with the dragon so I can go home.

  They heard Hryding long before they saw it.

  “Is that … singing?” asked Eleanor.

  Odo said, “Sounds like a feast.”

  They picked up their pace, neither feeling the fatigue that had previously dogged them. Soon they could smell cooking. Ahead in Hryding there was bread toasting and meat being roasted. Their mouths watered.

  As they reached the crest of the next low hill, they stopped in amazement at the scene in the valley below.

  Hryding wasn’t a large village, but it sported an enormous red pavilion in the middle of its green, a tent big enough to hold twenty or thirty people. Outside the tent, a large fire pit was in use to roast several whole pigs on spits, and two large barrels of ale had been broached. It looked like everyone who lived in the village, men and women, young and old, was gathered in a crowd around the tent. They were laughing and toasting as one.

  All around the tent, at intervals of three or four paces, there were six men and eight women in leather armor, all wearing sashes the same color as the pavilion.

  “Sir Saskia’s entourage, I guess,” said Eleanor. “Quite a few of them. And that tent — it must take a wagon and four oxen to move that!”

  Apart from the red sashes, the members of Sir Saskia’s entourage were not as resplendent as Eleanor had anticipated. She hadn’t seen many fighters over the years, as Lenburh was so peaceful. These people looked like the more irregular types who wandered through and were rapidly encouraged to leave again by Sir Halfdan. They were weathered and slightly dirty, and though they drank and ate with the villagers, they didn’t move from their positions around the tent, nor talk to those who brought them food and ale.

  They reminded Odo a little of how dogs behaved with sheep. They’d work with them, but were always separate, always aloof and watchful.

  “I don’t see Sir Saskia,” said Odo. “Do you see her?”

  “She must be inside the tent,” said Eleanor, feeling suddenly shy and awkward, an ordinary girl from an ordinary village. What would Sir Saskia possibly think of her?

  Odo said, “We should straighten up our armor. Scrape the mud off, at least.”

  Eleanor looked up at him and smiled in gratitude.

  “Good idea.”

  They retreated back over the hill to tidy themselves up. There wasn’t a lot they could do, but their boots were better for being cleaned, and Odo’s hauberk and Eleanor’s mail shirt each had a turn in the sand bag to give them a shine. They took extra care putting them back again, tightening all the laces and making sure everything sat straight. Finally, Eleanor buff
ed up both their helmets, which, while they didn’t shine, at least looked well maintained.

  “What do you think, Biter?” Odo asked. “Will Sir Saskia be impressed?”

  “There is more to a knight than the manner of his dress.”

  That sounded less cheerful than Odo had expected, even sullen.

  “What’s the matter? Are you jealous that she might get to kill the dragon before we get a chance?”

  “It is useless to speculate how anyone will feel about a deed until it is done.” The sword fidgeted in his scabbard. “Let us meet this Sir Saskia and test her resolve.”

  They stepped back onto the road and marched in time toward the village. If anything, the merriment of Hryding’s inhabitants had increased. There were fewer children now, and more mugs of ale. Several songs competed for dominance, creating a rowdy but good-natured hubbub. Odo made out a verse of “Speed the Spring” clashing with “Of Victory Sing We,” and perhaps even the chorus of “A Young Cousin Have I,” a song his father only sang when very deep in his cups. Odo had never heard it properly because his mother always put her hands over his ears.

  Eleanor and Odo were noticed as soon as they entered the green. A cheer went up and mugs were pressed into their hands. Perhaps, Eleanor thought, they had been mistaken for members of Sir Saskia’s entourage. Her initial attempt to explain who they were to a man wearing his hat backwards went unheard, thanks to an outbreak of spontaneous cheering that nearly deafened her.

  “What are you celebrating?” she asked when the echoes died down.

  “Sir Saskia’s defeat of the brigands, of course. Hurrah!”

  “What brigands?” asked Odo.

  “Churls and malcontents,” said the backwards-hat man, placing one hand on Odo’s shoulder for emphasis, or perhaps to keep his balance. “These are terrible times. The river is practically bone-dry and our livelihoods are threatened. We can’t sleep at night for the whining of our children and the rumbling of our own bellies. And there are those who would steal what little we have purely for their own benefit. Brigands, the lot of them!”