An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

“Make it go away,” he finally croaked.

  “I can’t!” Nero roared back and raged toward him once again. “The beast is out! You opened the book. That means he is hungry for you!” Nero had knelt by his side and was jabbing a finger hard into Aron’s forehead with each word.

  With the knowledge that he was hunted, Aron felt no greater fear, only agitation. Why Klin? Why had it not come directly for him, bursting into his house, casting his parents from their bed, picking his own body with one claw and stealing away into the night with it....

  “But it’s eaten Klin!” Aron cried. He scurried from Nero to avoid his poking fingers.

  Nero closed his eyes, then clenched his teeth and his fists tighter and tighter, turning his head up towards the ceiling with agonizing tension. Then he let go and opened one hand. “Yes! He will tear others limb from limb and devour them in a gulp. But it is you he will stay hungry for.” He ground his teeth. “By the power of the gods he will not stop until your flesh is inside him!”

  He stepped forward and grasped Aron’s shirt, hoisting him against the wall. This time Aron raged back with all his strength, kicking and flailing his arms.

  “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  The old man threw him off.

  “Begone!”

  Nero turned, clutching at his chest, then fell, his face contorted in pain, onto one knee. “Begone I say....” One quivering finger pointed to the door.

  As Aron turned the knob and stepped outside he heard the old man sobbing quietly behind him.

  The beast was in the forest and Aron could feel it smelling him. He could not go home. He did not want to know what he might find there anyway. By now Father would have given the news to the Vassal, and a party would be on its way back to the house. Soon Father would be crying with Mother because they did not know where he had gone. Mother would be sure he had been eaten. Father would try to tell her otherwise. He would stand fearless guard with the axe, watching the forest for any sign of motion, not knowing that it was the Power of the Gods with which he must contend and that the axe would be but a splinter in the side of the beast. It would eat them all. It would eat his sister.

  Perhaps it had already happened. He could not go back. He held only one hope.

  He had not run far on the path to town when he heard the rattling approach of a wagon around the bend. He ducked swiftly behind a tree. It did not matter who it was. He was not ready to face anyone at this time.

  Guiding the load-beast was Charlie, his face broad and cheerful and sleepy. The beast picked its way along slowly and easily, pausing from time to time to sniff at roadside clover.

  When the wagon came around, Aron slipped in back and crouched amongst the heavy kegs. If the beast came out of the forest now, then it came, and he was dead. He held himself motionless and waited for the load-beast to make its lazy way into town.

  There was the sound of the strong hooves of riding-beasts swiftly approaching, and a strong voice hailed Charlie. It sounded like Torstein. The slow load-beast came to a stop, and Aron heard the other party ride up beside them. He peeked out a hole in the cloth wagon-cover. Father was with them.

  “Eh, we got some trouble a little deeper into the forest.... See anything, Charlie?”

  “N-n-no, sir....” Charlie mumbled.

  “Well you better hurry on back to town as fast as you can get there. There’s something funny going on in the forest, and we’re advising everyone to come to safety. Come on, boys, let’s get on up to the house and see how Aron an’ his ma are doing! Hiyah!”

  They were gone.

  Charlie tapped his beast and it crept, pulling them onwards towards the town.

  At last the wagon came to a stop. From the way it rocked and creaked, Aron knew that Charlie was stepping off. Peering out the hole in the cloth he could see the town wall stretching up into the distance. Charlie was swinging the gate open. His beast sputtered a little. He patted it and guided the wagon through to the other side, then came around back to close the gate. Aron ducked as low as he could amongst the kegs. Charlie put the latch carefully in place then turned, but didn’t see him. He went back to the front, the wagon creaked and rocked, and the beast pulled them laboriously through the muddy streets.

  “Charlie!” an anxious voice called out. The wagon ground to a halt. “Did’ya see anyone else on the road, Charlie? Well, good. Looks like you better stay put here for the time being. Something’s up in the forest, not sure what yet.... Vassal’s orders.... I’m gonna go guard that gate right now!”

  Aron leapt from the wagon.

  “The Vassal? Where?” he demanded.

  “Why, at his quarters,” the man he recognized as Grumo answered, bewildered. Aron sprinted. Charlie called out lethargically after him.

  “Hey, wait a minute there, kid....”

  The Vassal’s doorway looked small in the new, still cold sunlight, and Aron burst into the dark quarters without a knock or a wipe of his feet. The Vassal stood, his profile to Aron, his arms crossed, his gaze straight into the blank wall before him. He turned to face his visitor. His eyes widened when he saw that it was Aron who stood facing him.

  “You have something to tell me?” he asked excitedly, coming forward and bending down to face Aron.

  Aron said yes, but he could not find strength to begin his story. The words caught in his throat.

  “How many men is it going to kill before we can kill it?” the Vassal asked, taking Aron by the collar.

  “I don’t know.... How can I know...?”

  “Do you know where it came from?” he pleaded, shaking Aron a little. Aron had not seen the Vassal like this.

  “From Nero’s house,” he mumbled quickly. He felt himself on the verge of tears, and his throat began to hurt. “From a book at Nero’s house.”

  Aron knew that it was stupid, but he expected the Vassal to ask what on earth they had been doing in Nero’s house. But the Vassal said nothing for a long moment. Then he pushed Aron aside and stepped quickly to the door. He flung it open and called to the first man he saw.

  “Feebin! Quick, to the Temple! Bring Takani to me at once! Quickly! Run, Feebin, run!”

  He stepped back to Aron, leaving the door wide to the Square. He bent, facing Aron, but his gaze remained fixed on a brilliantly engraved cabinet in the corner of the room.

  “Listen,” he said. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever it is that happened last night, don’t worry. No one’s blaming you. There’s a lot of things we can do out here if that thing is still hungry. Takani can probably fix us up right away....”

  He took two steps to the cabinet, seemingly oblivious of Aron’s presence. With great care he turned its latch and swung open one door then the other. Blue velvet had been tacked onto its boxy interior. This upright bed kept the Sword, swaddled in blood-colored cloth, its steel blade naked only at the point.

  The Vassal caught his breath for a moment, then took the black hilt into his hand. The red cloth fell away and lay limp in the cabinet as the Sword came to life within his grasp. He held it, and it danced with incredible lightness.

  “You can be sure,” the Vassal breathed to Aron, “that no harm will come to those in the town. I’ve often wondered if this day would come again, or if the Baron and his men would take this blade away first. But I have put them off, and the day has come....”

  “Maybe it won’t come to the town....” Aron said, not knowing what else to say. Then he remembered that the beast was hungry for him. The beast would come. He nearly cried, looking into the Vassal’s eyes, but those cold green eyes stayed fixed on the blade before them. Unimaginable now was the resignation Aron had seen in those eyes not one day ago.

  “Aron,” he said, eyes unmoving. “You stay back here in case we need anything.”

  The back room was small and dark and filled by a short thick wood table and wet brown dust. There was just one small window. Aron sat, and suddenly was confined. There was nothing he could do here but play with his hands. His heart told him to rise a
nd do something, or say something to the Vassal, but he stayed seated.

  Sounds came from the other room.

  “What has happened?” The words were from Takani. Aron heard no response. “So it is true?” Now he heard whispering. “Yes. Yes. Yes....”

  Takani slipped quietly into Aron’s room. He shuffled hunching to the tableside, his body small and vulnerable in the dark morning.

  “So...” he breathed. There was a long silence as he looked Aron over. “Your friend... I am very sorry, my child.”

  Aron remembered Klin. He said nothing.

  “The Vassal tells me you have met Nero also.”

  Aron nodded mutely.

  “For the sake of Aren-Nath, child, tell me, tell me what happened last night, and tell me the whole story.”

  Aron was silent for a long moment.

  “It came out of a book,” he finally choked.

  “A book?”

  “He heard us in his house. I was climbing over shelves of his books to get away. One book fell down to the floor and opened. I looked down. It was inside the book....”

  “What? The beast?”

  “Yes. The book fell open and I saw it on the page.”

  “Then it is beast of magic!” Takani flew to his feet. “Vassal! Your riding-beasts! I must have them! I must reach Nero to know what manner of magic we face! If I cannot reach Nero we all are in peril!”

  The Vassal stepped to the doorway, nodding slowly. Takani darted around him. The Vassal followed him out. There was whispering, an exchange.

  “Send no man with me! By the power of the gods it would do no good! I must ride alone!”

  “If your best men can do no good, what can we hope for, what can we hope for?” a woman’s voice which Aron had not heard before cried out.

  “Our boy had no chance...” a man sobbed.

  Klin’s parents were in the other room.

  The Vassal stood silently, facing the wall.

  “I am gone! Hold me back no longer!”

  Takani fled the room.

  Klin’s mother shuffled slowly to the door of Aron’s room. Her eyes were on the verge of tears.

  Every able man of the town took a post about the perimeter. Some had brought axes or hoes or rusty heirloom swords forged for ancient wars long forgotten. The Vassal had told them that all these would be useless. If the beast came there would be no stopping it, and they should not even try, unless it got hold of a woman or a child. Then of course the men knew what they would do.

  The townsfolk cried as they heard about what Cainy had found in the forest. There were few in the town who had not known Klin.

  The men fingered their weapons nervously, resting the fighting ends in the mud and staring down thoughtfully. The older ones remembered the beast of Takani’s song and thought of their friends who had died before Yordenko’s Sword had bitten the hell-beast’s spongy flesh.

  They thought of the wounds Yordenko had sustained in that battle, and remembered seeing his young body gashed and burnt, being taken by flatwagon to those who knew the mysteries of Draffut.

  Then the men of the town recalled their duty and turned their gazes outward to the forest again. They did not expect it would be over quickly. They could not even know that the beast would come. Aron had told no one for what it hungered. They waited.

  “Where is he?”

  It was Father’s voice from the other room. Aron jumped and ran to see him, to fly into his arms. He stood tall in the doorway to the Square, his face haggard yet intent. Aron ran and grabbed him.

  “But where is Mother?”

  Then he saw her coming towards the door. Her strong arms carried Cainy, and the hard determination in her eyes did not soften until they met his own.

  A woodsman emerging from the forest heard warning shouts from the watchful men on the town walls. The men crowded him as he came to the gate.

  “I saw movement in the woods,” he told them. “That thing you’re looking for... well, it shouldn’t be hard to find....”

  Not an hour had passed when the breach was made, just paces from that spot. A young man had seen some motion amongst the trunks of forest trees and called the others around to look.

  “There it is! Gods!”

  The young man’s father had told him to run and get the Vassal. The young man had watched his father’s gaze turn quietly back towards the vague hulking form which staggered from the trees and towards the town wall. He had seen his father fingering his ancient weapon, but the creature stood the height of two men, its body utterly unnatural, and even the young man knew that no ordinary sword could be enough. He turned and ran.

  Aron heard the cries from the far side of town.

  In a minute the young man was at the door panting.

  “It’s here,” he gasped.

  The Vassal looked up and took a step towards the young man at the door. Then he stopped himself and went to Aron.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. The Sword was now on his belt. It hummed and began to sing in a high tone as keen as its edge. It jutted out behind him and bounced against his leg as he strode into the Square.

  Aron’s parents said nothing. Perhaps they were awed by the Vassal and his Sword. But Aron wanted to tell them that he knew it was himself the beast was after—that if only he gave his own life right now the town would be saved. He wanted to ask them if he should do it. He wanted to tell them he had just killed the Vassal. He had taken the beast here, led it here, it could smell him, and he had brought it, brought it for the selfish hope that the Vassal could kill it with an easy thrust of his Sword—or the hope that, at least, Aron would not have to face the beast’s jaws alone, in the forest, with no one to die with him or hear him die....

  “I have to go,” he said, and broke for the door. Again he had no choice but to keep running away from his mother’s cries.

  There was mud, slippery mud, and old men running.

  “It’s come, it’s come, it’s over by the Schoolroom....” they cried out to him. One tried to pick him up and carry him in flight, but Aron easily broke free and ran toward the Schoolroom.

  Women corralled children through the streets and away from danger. Aaron ran through them and around them.

  In the distance stood the Schoolroom. Closer, to the right, the young man who had brought the news to the Vassal knelt by his father, who was fallen and bloody in the mud.

  The Sword keened its constant song of fate, and below this Aron heard the earthly sounds of shouting men who waved poles and axes. Aron could see that the beast and the Vassal were about to engage.

  The beast caught Aron’s scent on the wind and looked straight up at him, its mouth gaping, its hideous black eyes embedded in dark flesh at the top of its broad head. It took one shuffling step in the direction of its prey. The Vassal circled to cut it off, the delicate Sword dancing in his ready hand.

  The beast regarded him for a moment before its claws swung out on long arms in an effort to cast him aside. The Vassal leapt back and the Sword lashed out, screaming, gashing deeply the hand of the beast.

  Nausea seized Aron’s stomach, and he fell to the ground, trying to fight it off. The beast sensed his weakness and pressed towards where he lay with surprising speed. The Vassal rushed to cut it off. The Sword cried out and leapt in a broad arc and buried itself deep in its chest cavity. It howled, one of its claws tearing at the Vassal, gashing his side badly.

  Aron came to his feet and took a step back. With a cracking of ribs, the Sword of Aren-Nath disentangled itself and swung again, then again, this time low. The legs of the beast buckled beneath it and gushed thick blood into the street. It turned to the Vassal, moaning. The Sword came down on its neck.

  Nearly falling, the beast looked to Aron, its black eyes pleading, before turning to charge the Vassal and tear at the flesh of his face. It scampered over him and he crumpled beneath its claws like a rag doll. It hopped and shuffled on broken legs and the men flew from its path.

  The Vassal lay
motionless, the Sword still keening in his hand. Aron ran toward him, but as he approached the beast stopped its flight and grunted, panting.

  “Yordenko!” Aron cried out.

  The creature hopped towards the fallen body. Then the Vassal moved. He turned to his side and Aron saw that his face was covered with blood. The creature wheezed and bayed like a wounded pup. The men closed in a circle about it, and the Vassal rose with supreme effort to confront it.

  With desperate strength it broke the circle, gashing two men, and stumbled up the Grade, away from the fury of the screaming blade. The Sword guided the Vassal after it, pulling his steps faster and faster in pursuit. Aron chased after them but could not keep up as they raced upwards towards the Temple in a hideous contest that neither could concede.

  The beast broke into the Templeyard, the Vassal just behind it. There, it stopped to use its last strength in combat. When Aron could see over the wall, he saw them come together, two bloodied bodies colliding, both weak but compelled to combat by the power of the gods.

  A claw came down and swiped the Vassal’s right breast from his body. The Sword fell to the mud. He bent and raised it in his left hand. The creature shrunk down, moaning. The blade descended, splitting its side and spilling its innards to the ground. It fell, gurgling and clawing, to the ground beside the Master’s Stump. The Vassal buried the Sword deep into its shuddering carcass, then came to his knees at its side. He laid his own body carefully down along it.

  The men of the town rushed up with their axes and cautiously approached the bodies. Death was like a blanket over them both.

  Mother ran a hand through his hair and hugged him for a long time. Then he told her that he wanted to go back to the Templeyard. With great and silent strength, she let him go.

  He followed the road upward.

  Aron looked uphill to see three men emerging from the Templeyard carrying a heavy sackcloth roll toward the ice-shed by the tavern. Here it would be kept until a pyre could be built, and hearts healed enough to do the dead man proper homage. The front man slipped once in the mud and the roll tumbled on top of him; he swore as they lifted the burden again.