An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

  Trav sat on the cold floor and poked at the four dragons weakly tumbling over each other, looking more like bugs than the land behemoth that Trav knew had laid the eggs. He picked up the smallest of the clutch, a dragon hardly larger than the end of his thumb.

  Holding it aloft, he peered into the unfocused yellow-slit eyes. Trav stroked over the dragon’s head, marvelling at brown scales softer than fleece covering the miniature body. A tiny black tongue flicked out of a mouth too small for Trav to insert even his little finger.

  “You’re so tiny, you’re a nothing,” he said, cradling the dragonlet in one hand. With more bitterness, he added, “You’re just like me. Piddling. Nothing more. The runt of the clutch.” Trav smiled slowly and said, “That’s your name. Piddling.” He laughed with delight and allowed himself to imagine that the yellow eyes had fixed on him with childlike adoration.

  Trav put Piddling back into the tiny puddle and watched the dragon stumble and fall, splashing water everywhere in its uncoordinated attempts to stay upright on mouselike feet. Picking up another dragon, Trav recoiled when the beast made a savage snap at his finger. The small mouth failed to circle his finger, but he felt bony ridges scraping his skin. He dropped the green-and-gray dragon back into the puddle. The dragon glared at him, then turned and snapped at Piddling, frightening the smaller dragon.

  “You are the biggest,” Trav said, “and will grow up larger than the Great Worm Yilgam.” He pushed Piddling away from the more combative dragon. “I’ll call you Yilg. And you,” he said, poking another dragon, “you are ferocious and the stuff of legends. You will be the one to challenge Kennick Strongarm.” Trav spat the name. “I’ll call you Grendl.”

  The fourth dragon curled its long, thin tail around itself and went to sleep, oblivious to the struggles between Grendl and Yilg. Piddling stood to one side, watching its brothers fight, with what Trav interpreted as anticipation and anxiety on its expressive face.

  “And you, sleepy one, I will name Drowsy.” The sleeping dragon snorted and rolled over, never waking.

  Trav got his feet under him, rubbing his freezing hindquarters. He worried that the cave was too cold for his small charges, yet they seemed to thrive. A small dark insect scuttled along the cave floor. Trav grabbed quickly, trapping the carnivorous pig-bug. The scavenger bug went into frenzied motion when he dropped it between Yilg and Grendl. The two newborns snapped at the pig-bug and each other. The larger Yilg won after a brief but fierce skirmish, gulping the bug down whole and looking for more.

  Trav had already caught several more torpid pig-bugs and dumped them where the young dragons could feed. “Enjoy your dinner,” Trav said, his own belly growling. He watched, marveling at how different the four dragons were. When they had finished their feast, Yilg and Grendl turned on the smaller Piddling.

  “Hey, stop that,” Trav said, picking up the small dragon and holding it close. Piddling hissed slightly, and Trav jerked in surprise. The dragon had burned him with a tiny spark from its nostrils.

  “So, you’re growing,” Trav said, knowing a full-sized dragon could bum down a house with a single flare. “Let’s see if this puts out your fire.” He carried Piddling to the cave opening and dropped the young dragon into a snow bank. The dragon floundered about, legs thrashing. Then Piddling snorted real flames.

  Trav grinned and finally applauded his small ward. A plume of steam rose from the superheated snow. Piddling lapped at the puddle he had created, backing off when it froze against his tongue. A second gust of flame was larger, stronger, and created a veiling curtain of steam.

  Trav watched in silence. It would be some time before Piddling—or even Yilg or Grendl—grew to a size capable of battling Kennick, but the day would come. Dragons grew quickly. Trav would enjoy watching the swaggering dragon-killer face a real opponent.

  Trav shivered hard, trying to keep his teeth from clacking. Juliana lay on the far side of the room, a blanket thrown over her quaking body. The way she shook gave the only sign that his sister still lived. The unnatural quiet after the storm had settled both inside and out, preventing them from getting outside for more than a day.

  “Where is he?” muttered Merrow Gorman, walking painfully back and forth across the small room in a vain attempt to keep himself warm. “Kennick should have been here by now.”

  Trav tried to speak but his teeth began chattering. He wanted to tell his father that Kennick wasn’t likely to return from Westering if it meant any discomfort. He might have promised to bring wood and much-needed food, but Trav would believe the dragon-killing paladin when he saw tangible proof. Warm proof. Food proof.

  “We need wood for the stove,” Trav got out. “We cannot last another night. It is still now, but cold, colder than I can remember.”

  “So fetch the wood,” snapped his father. “There is no way to get to the woods and chop enough to last more than a few hours, not in this damned cold.” He looked at their pot-bellied metal stove, long since cold from lack of fuel. “Why your mother wanted that monstrosity is a mystery to me. A good stone fireplace would serve us better.”

  Trav wanted to point out that any heat would be appreciated, but he lacked the strength to argue. He saw from the way his father’s left leg increasingly dragged that he would be unable to gather firewood, even if a new storm wasn’t threatening. And Juliana was in no condition to move. All she could do was lie under her inadequate blanket and mutter Kennick’s name from between gray-blue lips.

  Trav pushed to his feet and went to the door. Snow had drifted high, leaving only a small, open rectangle of wan daylight at the top. He burrowed a few minutes, ignoring his father’s orders to shut the door. At last scrambling out onto the crusted snow, he looked out over a land that had been totally altered. Slake had vanished, save for a few chimneys sputtering fitful puffs of smoke. Gone was the poverty and the horror of the past months; replacing it was a blinding whiteness, a snowy renewal that brought beauty and threatened death.

  Trav pulled his thin coat tighter around him and began trudging toward the distant woods. It was far to go, too far. The easy wood had been collected long since, and he had scant notion what he might do once he found decent forest. His father had traded their axe for two bushels of grain, on Kennick’s advice. The grain had proven of poor quality and hadn’t lasted nearly as long as Merrow Gorman had anticipated when making such an extravagant exchange.

  Razor-edged wind began blowing, and ice crystals slashed Trav’s exposed face. He pulled a long, woolen scarf woven by his mother over his mouth and nose. The cold still insinuated itself and slowly paralyzed both body and brain.

  Hardly knowing where he walked, Trav blundered across the ice-encrusted lakes and up the streamlet toward the cave where, he was sure, his baby dragons must have frozen by now. It had been weeks since he had been able to tend them.

  Trav broke through the tough rind of snow over the cave mouth and was met by a blast of hot air. He rocked back, the sudden heat painful against his frozen cheeks. For a moment, he thought some strange volcanic activity had warmed the cave. Then he realized the heat came from the dragons’ own magical internal fire. The dragons huddled together, their considerable fiery breaths splashing against rocks until they glowed red-hot. The dragons then settled down and basked in the radiated warmth.

  Trav scrambled gratefully into the warmth of the once-cold cave. He hunkered down and stared at the beasts. It had been a month since he had tended them, but they had thrived. Trav reached out and waited for the cat-sized Piddling, identifiable only by facial markings, to waddle over to him and nuzzle his frozen hand.

  “You’ve done well for yourselves,” Trav said, picking up the dragon and stroking its head. The dragon snorted and made growly noises. Trav no longer felt softness in the nut-brown scales. Piddling made no move to wiggle free of his grip. The dragon turned its head up, as if begging to have its chin scratched. Trav started to run his fingers along the neck and belly but Piddling snapped, yellow eyes glaring.

  “So
, you’ve developed a personality,” Trav marveled. He saw Yilg and Grendl sitting near their heated rock, but nowhere did he see Drowsy. He stood and walked around the cave, hunting for the fourth hatchling. He paused when he saw the tiny skeleton at the rear of the cave.

  “The winter has been cruel,” he told Piddling. The dragon growled and snorted again, this time snuggling closer to Trav’s chest. The youth jumped when an unexpected spot of heat burned into his coat. Trav rubbed at the charred area Piddling’s fire breathing had sparked. The dragon peered up at him again, and this time Trav at least imagined that he saw affection in its expression. Like a dog marking territory, Piddling marked its with fire.

  An idea formed in Trav’s cold-numbed brain. Of the dragons, Piddling was the smallest and most amenable to handling. Trav wasted no time stuffing Piddling under his coat. He winced as sharp scales nicked his flesh, but he didn’t want the dragon exposed to the bitter cold outside—it would either kill the hatchling or provoke dangerous blasts of flame.

  Darkness had settled over the still fall of snow and the wind had died, leaving behind a glacial temperature. Head down, Trav made his way back to his home, trying not to get turned around in the dark. Everything looked different with a meter of snow covering familiar landmarks. Hours later, his feet turned into numb lumps of frozen flesh, Trav found the cold chimney of his family’s hut.

  “In,” called Trav, “let me in.” He knocked on the closed door but got no answer. Again and again he banged, to no avail. Frantic, Trav burrowed down through snow until he reached the latch. The door opened with a suddenness that sent him tumbling into the still, cold interior.

  For a ghastly moment, Trav thought both Juliana and his father were dead, but their slow, tortured breaths left faint, feathery trails in the air. Trav went to the iron stove and clanged open its door. He carefully drew Piddling from under his coat. The dragon shivered with the exposure and crouched inside the stove, eyes wide and questioning.

  “Here, Piddling, try this,” Trav said, giving the dragon a small amount of the household’s remaining grain. The dragon sniffed at the kernels and turned away. Trav shivered with the cold and remembered dragons did not eat grain.

  But what could he feed the carnivorous dragon? No bugs or mice were visible.

  There was only one source for the needed meat. Dazedly Trav slumped to the floor and began pulling off his boots. His toes had turned blue from frostbite, too numb for any feeling. He had seen frozen digits on other folk, and these were dead. Trav placed a knife against his smallest toe, closed his eyes and shoved down hard. For a moment, he dared not look—it hardly seemed that anything had happened. Then Trav saw he had severed not one but two of his toes and had never felt the pain.

  “Here,” he said, placing his severed toes inside the stove next to Piddling. The dragon sniffed at them, then stared balefully at Trav, as if asking permission. Trav felt a giddiness from shock at what he had done. He waved a hand, hoping Piddling interpreted the gesture properly.

  The dragon sniffed some more, then began daintily nibbling, using its rudimentary claws as hands to hold the frozen meal. Trav tried to turn away but watched in rapt horror and fascination as Piddling cleaned his toe-bones of all meat. Then the dragon belched a powerful flame that spread inside the stove. Not content with a single short blast, Piddling kept up the flame until the iron glowed dully. Then the small dragon settled down to eating the second digit Trav had given him.

  Retreating a little from the glowing stove, Trav did his best to bind his foot. Then he pulled his father and sister closer to the stove. They stirred, then turned toward the heat. The hut would soon be warm enough, and would stay warm for a time.

  Especially after Trav fed Piddling four more frozen toes.

  “A great day, it is,” said Merrow Gorman, briskly rubbing his hands together. “It is a truly great day for an engagement.”

  “Father, please,” said Juliana, blushing. “Kennick doesn’t want any fuss over our betrothal.”

  “I’m telling the entire town!” Merrow, despite his bad leg, almost danced about the small room, now lit with warm spring sun pouring through the door.

  Trav stood painfully and hobbled outside. He couldn’t bear the notion he had saved his sister from freezing—Piddling had saved her—just to marry Kennick Strongarm. The small dragon, nourished on occasional bugs and food scraps as well as frozen human flesh, had continued warming the iron stove for a week until the cold broke. Trav had not offered his father and sister any explanation of his heating system, nor had they demanded any. Neither did they seem curious about where Kennick had spent the winter.

  Trav had returned Piddling to the small cave, where he had made sure his three remaining dragons were well fed with insects and a small rabbit that might have gone into his own stew pot. Those dragons would be Kennick’s undoing. When they grew larger, Trav would use them to show the paladin’s true colors. Dragonslicer was a fierce, magical blade, but the wielder was weak. Why couldn’t Juliana see that? Why couldn’t his father?

  Trav hobbled out of his house into the sun, then paused. From behind the sod hut not twenty meters away, Trav saw a hunched-over figure watching him. The village smith and his family had all perished during the winter, and their house had been taken over by another. For some reason, Trav was startled to recognize the old story spinner, Wyatt.

  “You hobble along, Trav,” observed Wyatt. “You will end up like me.” He spat, the gob hissing where it struck the ground. Trav retreated a pace, not wanting to be near the ragpicker. Sometime during the winter, Wyatt’s face had become covered with thick, scaly patches, giving him a repulsive, almost reptilian aspect.

  “My feet were frostbitten,” Trav explained tersely, not wanting to engage in conversation with the old man.

  “Wait, don’t go.” Wyatt’s voice carried a startling snap of command. “You will be cursed if you continue on your course.”

  “Whatever are you saying? Is this another tale? I have no money, so save your breath.”

  “No tale, no tale. I, too, know Kennick for the liar he is. I know dragons, and I know Dragonslicer. Oh, how I know that blade!” Wyatt edged closer, his crutch making sucking sounds in the soft ground as he moved. In a conspiratorial whisper, he added: “Dragons will eat more than your flesh. They will steal your soul.”

  “What do you know about it?” Trav felt a growing uneasiness. Had Wyatt spied on him?

  “I know more than you will ever know—I hope.” Wyatt tried to grab Trav’s shoulder and hold him, but the youth slipped away. Wyatt called after him, “I know! Let me tell you a true tale for once. A dragon ate my leg! It ate my leg, and I killed it with Dragonslicer!”

  Trav shook his head and walked as fast as he could to get away from the crazy old man. It was a shame Wyatt would say anything to regain the audience—and coins—stolen from him by Kennick’s tales. In a way, Trav felt betrayed. Old Wyatt was the only one in Slake who also thought Kennick was a fraud. Still, some of the old story-spinner’s words struck a chord in Trav’s conscience.

  What he intended to do with the dragons was dangerous, but he did it for a good reason. Trav was sure that if Kennick was faced with a dragon of any size, he would turn and run.

  On his maimed feet Trav now needed a long time to make his way to the cave. Along the way he picked up a few choice bugs, special treats for the dragons. He approached the cave with some trepidation, worrying about Wyatt spying on him. He ducked in.

  The dim light wasn’t sufficient for him to see at first. Only slowly did his vision adjust. The musky smell of nesting reptiles came to him—and more, something he could not place.

  Trav jumped when something hard and sharp rubbed against his leg. He helped and grabbed at the scratched place before seeing that it was Piddling rubbing against him.

  “Piddling!” he cried in genuine glee. “You have grown so!” Trav knelt and held the dog-sized dragon’s head in his hands, not moving to stroke or pet as he had once done. “I have a t
reat for you. And for Grendl and Yilg.” He pulled the pig-bugs from his pocket and held them out.

  Trav jerked back when Piddling snapped ferociously, one fang impaling the pig-bug before it hit the floor. The dragon ate noisily, then turned yellow eyes to him begging for more.

  “I want you to share,” Trav said, but he gave the hungry dragon another bug. As Piddling ate, Trav hunted for the other dragons. He found one, small and huddled at the rear of the cave. Trav frowned and tried to identify the dragon. It might have been Grendl, but he thought it was Yilg. Of the third dragon, he saw no trace.

  Trav dropped a few squeaking pig-bugs and the small dragon—he finally identified it as Yilg—avidly devoured them, but something was wrong.

  “You are so small compared to Piddling,” Trav said in wonder. The runt had grown twice as fast as his egg mates, leaving the once large Yilg far behind. Yilg was hardly bigger than he had been in the midst of the winter storms.

  Trav winced as Piddling rubbed against him once more, begging for more bugs. Trav pulled the last one from his pocket, looked from Yilg to Piddling and back. He dropped the bug between them. Piddling snorted once and sent a gust of flame in Yilg’s direction. The smaller dragon backed away and let Piddling eat uncontested.

  Trav went to the mouth of the cave and looked around, concerned about possible hiding places a spy might use. Something crunched under his foot. White bones, well-chewed, were scattered around the mouth of the cave. Most had sunk in deep mud, partially hiding the remains, but it was obvious the dragons inside had begun foraging on their own.

  A moment of fear surged through Trav, then passed. He had known how dangerous the dragons were when he had rescued their eggs from the stream. If they hadn’t been, Kennick would never be shown for the coward Trav knew he was. The dragons were not as deadly as those allowed to grow up in the wild, away from human contact. These were—still, perhaps—more pets than predators. But had he really done the right thing nurturing Yilg and Piddling?