An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

  The others exchanged a glance, then Paethor said, “We saw a—a messenger.”

  “A talking owl,” added Echevarian. “It mistook me for Carcham.”

  “What did it say?” asked Trent.

  “I didn’t hear the message. It flew away.”

  “News from the south,” said Trent. “Damn! I wish you’d heard it.”

  “So we’d better be on guard tonight,” said Echevarian, taking up the wineskin. “Let’s give this to the squire. A Yule gift.”

  “That’s all we have left,” protested Trent. “That’s our luck for the way home!”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘Share your luck and double it’?” said Echevarian.

  Trent sighed. “All right,” he said, lifting his horn. “Here’s good fortune to us.” He sipped and handed the horn to Echevarian, who took a swallow. Trent carried the wine to Paethor. “Some luck for you?” he offered.

  Paethor’s face softened into a wistful smile. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup. “I suppose I need all I can get.”

  Shadows lengthened as the shortest day of the year came to a close. Inside the Lodge torches were lit, fire blazed on the great hearth, and fresh candles glowed in all the sconces. Tables laden with food lined the east wall of the Hall, and valley-folk, all in their holiday best, thronged in. The three lords, dressed again in court clothes and each wearing his weapon, entered the Hall to find it already crowded. A trio of musicians sat in the south gallery, blaring away. In the little room under the stairs a group of young men were playing spinnikens, their occasional roar attesting to another victory. The squire bustled up, saying “Welcome, my lords, welcome! Merry Yule!”

  “Merry Yule, Squire Fuller,” said Echevarian, bowing. “Here’s a small gift from the three of us.” He handed the wineskin to the squire.

  “It’s wine from the King’s cellars,” added Trent. “His Majesty’s best.”

  “Ho! Well, I’ll put it away, or it’ll be gone before I get a taste of it. Thank you, m’lords! Help yourselves to supper—no sitting down at table, I’m afraid, in this crowd.” He waved them toward the food, and hurried away with the wineskin under his arm.

  The lords took up plates and piled them with good, hearty fare. The valley-folk had brought out their best treasures, and besides the huge mounds of bread, meat, and cheese there were dishes of pickled vegetables, candied fruits, and even a steaming bowl of carrots that had been dug from the frozen ground that morning. The lords carried their supper to chairs along the south wall and sat watching the revelers. Baron Carcham came out of the gaming-room carrying a bulging pouch. He tossed it in one hand and the heavy chink of coins was heard. Carcham’s tunic was scarlet and black, and he wore a wolf-pelt over his shoulders and heavy bronze bracelets at his wrists. He paused before Paethor’s chair, a slow, unpleasant smile sliding onto his face as he glanced at Wayfinder.

  “Good evening, your Excellency,” said Paethor.

  Carcham nodded, tucking the pouch into his belt, but his answer was stopped by a cheer that went up as the squire returned with his ladies. Sylva danced in on his arm, wearing a gown of deep burgundy trimmed across the shoulders with soft, white fur. A spray of holly berries was pinned to the trim, blood-red drops against the snowy white; winter colors. Her eyes were alight with festival fire, and the laughter on her lips enhanced her loveliness.

  Mari, escorted by her cousin Damon, looked festive as well, chestnut curls glowing against her gold satin dress. Elian followed them, her fair tresses forming a pale waterfall over blue velvet. The squire, bellowing greetings, led them forward to meet the valley people. Carcham strode up to them, the crowd parting before him, and bowed over Sylva’s hand. She beamed and curtsied, and let him lead her to the feast-table. The squire clapped his hands, the musicians blew a fanfare, and the chattering fell to a murmur.

  “Welcome, good friends,” shouted the squire. “I wish you all a Happy Yule!” He waited for the answering cheer to subside. “There’s food and drink for all, and dancing afterward—” Here another cheer stopped him and he waved his hands for quiet. “But first, the Yule Cake!” A roar went up from the crowd as a servant brought out a great round platter on which lay a golden cake. All the young girls came forward to take some. Baron Carcham led Sylva up to the platter, holding her right hand close to his side as she chose a piece. There was a moment’s hush as the young girls, colorful as a flock of summer birds, gobbled their cake eagerly. Then a cry went up and Sylva skipped into the center of the room, holding one hand aloft and still chewing, her eyes gleeful. “The bean, the bean!” yelled the crowd, applauding.

  “Come on,” said Trent, urging his companions to set aside their empty plates. A circle was forming around Sylva, this time of young men.

  “You go,” said Echevarian. “We’ll watch.”

  “No,” said Trent, grabbing him and Paethor by the hands, “I need you to remind them we’re glorious lords from Argonhall!” He dragged them forward to the circle. Echevarian and Paethor stood behind him, wedged between eager young valley men. Sylva had traded her lucky bean for the holly-wreath and cape, and prowled the edge of the circle, laughing as the valley youths all begged her to choose them. Hushed whispers and stifled mirth formed a background to the steady drum beat provided by the minstrels. Sylva slowed her steps, pausing to smile slyly up at Baron Carcham, then skipping away from him to the laughter of the crowd. She made her way around the circle and stopped before Trent, who grinned down at her. She glanced coyly at him through her eyelashes, and slowly raised the holly crown. Then she turned quick as lightning, and reached over his shoulder to set the wreath on Paethor’s brow. Hoots and cheers rose from the revelers, some of whom grabbed the cape and threw it around Paethor’s shoulders.

  “Now you have to dance with me!” cried Sylva.

  Paethor stared at her in dismay, his face going pale beneath the holly, then he glanced up to see Carcham scowling across the circle. He pulled himself together, managing to smile, and offered Sylva his arm. “Very well, lady,” he said. “Let the dancing begin!” The crowd applauded as more couples joined them and the musicians struck up a lively tune.

  Echevarian turned to the crestfallen Trent. “Hard luck,” he said, “but there are plenty of ladies to dance with.”

  “I think I’ll cultivate a melancholy air instead,” said Trent. “It worked for Paethor.”

  “Console yourself,” said Echevarian. “He likes it less than you do.”

  They stepped back to make room for the dancers. Trent watched with folded arms, but soon his feet were tapping to the music, and before long he spotted Mari standing shyly in a corner.

  “She looks lonely,” he said to Echevarian. “I’d better go ask her to dance. Just to be polite,” he added.

  Echevarian grinned at him, and Trent shrugged, smiling crookedly back. Then he went to lead Mari into the dance.

  The revelry continued, Paethor dutifully dancing with all the young valley girls. Echevarian kept an eye on Carcham, who leaned against the wall and glowered, his gaze following Paethor. Midway through the evening the minstrels took a break, and the revelers milled about the Hall, nibbling sweets and cheeses from the board and drinking the Midsummer mead. The valley folk crowded around Paethor, who had recovered enough to assume his court manners, scattering smiles among them and cutting a joke now and then. Sylva claimed his attention again, flirting furiously. Carcham, disgusted, marched back to the gaming room.

  A small commotion attended the entrance of two servants bearing a holly-trimmed platter on which stood a huge bread pudding. Blue alcohol flames danced over it. Sylva and the others clapped their hands. Paethor took advantage of the diversion, slipping away to climb the stairs to the gallery. Here he found Elian watching the revelers below. She turned to see him framed in the stairwell, golden torchlight gleaming on the holly leaves at his brow.

  “Forgive me, lady,” he said, pausing on the top step. “I came up for some air. Shall I leave you?”


  “No, no,” she said. “Breathe while you can!”

  Paethor smiled fleetingly. “Thank you.”

  “It’s you who should be thanked, for being so patient,” said Elian.

  “Patient?”

  “With Sylva. For making you the Holly King.”

  Paethor hesitated, then said, “I understand it’s a great honor.”

  Elian smiled softly. “For the valley-folk, yes. For you I imagine it’s more of a trial.” Then she glanced anxiously up at his startled face. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You weren’t,” said Paethor. “But what did you mean? Have I seemed reluctant?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’re very gracious.” She flashed him a smile, and said, “Please pardon me. The mead must have made me giddy.”

  Elian picked up a cloak from a gallery bench and opened the door to the balcony. Paethor frowned, then followed her outside. She stood at the railing, her cloak wrapped around her, gazing up at the full moon. Wisps of gray cloud drifted softly, blue-white stars peeking out between them and moonlight setting cold fire to their edges. Elian turned as Paethor came up beside her.

  “I do appreciate the honor,” he said.

  Elian met his gaze calmly. “But you don’t enjoy it. You’re a private person,” she said. “You keep your thoughts to yourself, and you don’t like being the center of attention.” She looked out at the valley. “When you first came here I thought you were in mourning, but I see now it isn’t so. Or if it is, the grief is old.”

  Paethor inhaled sharply, surprised at the accuracy of her insight.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “your courtesy does you great credit. I’m sure none of the valley people know how hard this is for you.” She glanced up at Paethor, whose eyes seemed to stare through her, out at the trees. The holly berries in his hair shone black in the moonlight and the gay cloak fluttered about him, too light to keep away the cold.

  “This is not your rightful role,” said Elian softly, reaching up to take the holly from his brow. “For you this is a crown of thorns.”

  He blinked, but his eyes wandered away again, back into distant memory.

  “My Lord,” said Elian, “I pray that you will find a way to release whatever past disturbs you. It’s Yule, the time of new beginnings.” She paused, afraid she’d said too much, and stepped away from him to look at the moon.

  “Stay,” he cried softly, and Elian turned, surprised by the grief in his voice. She saw torment in the black depths of his eyes, and sensed he spoke not to her but to some bygone ghost. “Lady of Wisdom, you’ve taken my clothes,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’ve taken nothing,” she said uneasily, holding out the holly crown. His hands came up to receive it, and as they touched he stirred, and looked into her eyes as if seeing her for the first time. Elian returned his wondering gaze, a slow blush darkening her cheeks.

  “It was you,” he whispered. “I thought I came to find my death, but it was you!”

  Elian blinked in confusion. She wasn’t frightened, but something in his eyes made her heart beat quickly.

  “Forgive me,” said Paethor, with a soft laugh. “You must think I’m insane.”

  “No—” said Elian uncertainly.

  Paethor gazed at her for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. His hand went to the sheath at his side and lifted the black Sword-hilt. “This is Wayfinder,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”

  Elian nodded. “The Sword of Wisdom,” she said.

  “Wisdom,” said Paethor, his eyes wandering to the trees again. “Yes. And it led me to you.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Elian. “Why?”

  Paethor’s fingers caressed her hand. “Because you can see beyond my face, I think,” he said softly. “I wish...” Then he shook his head and looked back at her, a strange mix of hunger and fear in his eyes. “King Nigel sent us to find another Sword. That’s why he loaned us Wayfinder, and that task also led us here.”

  “Baron Carcham?” whispered Elian.

  “We think so. Have you ever seen him draw that Sword, or seen a marking on its hilt?”

  Elian shook her head. “He keeps it close.” She laid a hand on his arm. “What Sword did the king send you for?”

  Paethor met her anxious gaze. “Farslayer,” he answered softly. “Don’t be afraid,” he added. “We’ll get it away from him.”

  “How?” asked Elian.

  “That’s the trouble. If we try to take it from him, he’ll throw it for certain. Our only hope...”

  “Is for him to challenge you,” whispered Elian. Her gaze drifted to Wayfinder’s hilt. “Does he know which Sword you have?”

  Paethor shook his head. “If he knew, he wouldn’t hesitate. Wayfinder’s no threat to him.”

  “Maybe I can help,” murmured Elian. “I could tell Sylva I saw the arrow on your Sword. She loves to spread secrets. And from what I’ve seen of the baron, he’d be happy to collect another Sword of Power.” She looked up at him, her face grave. “Can you defeat him?”

  Paethor took both her hands in his and held them tightly. “I’ll have to, won’t I?” he said, searching her eyes. “You’re willing to do this?”

  “If it will help,” whispered Elian.

  “It will help,” he said. They gazed at each other for a moment, then Paethor bent his head and kissed her hesitantly.

  A commotion from the gallery made them step apart; the musicians were returning to their places. A deeper blush sprang to Elian’s face.

  “You’d better go in,” said Paethor, “before the dancing starts again. I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.”

  “Your crown,” said Elian, bending to pick up the forgotten holly wreath. She started to brush the snow from it but Paethor took it out of her hands.

  “Let me do that,” he said. “I don’t want you to be hurt.” He shook the snow from the leaves and put on the wreath with a wistful smile. Elian smiled bravely back and Paethor squeezed her hand. “No matter what happens,” he said softly, “I thank you. You’ve set me free.”

  Elian stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his cheek, then with a final fleeting smile she hurried inside. Paethor looked up at the moon, riding clear above the pines. A gray shape perched in one of the treetops, and as he watched it spread wings and took flight, its haunting call echoing back; the white owl. He watched it circle and come to rest on a nearer tree. He felt no more fear of it; perhaps because of the more immediate threat of Baron Carcham. The bird gazed at him silently.

  “Give your mistress my thanks for the lesson,” he whispered, then turned to go inside.

  He hurried past the musicians, who were tuning up their instruments, and ran down the stairs to the Hall. The crowd had thinned, many of the valley-folk having stepped outside to get away from the heat of the room. The squire and his family were by the hearth chatting over goblets of mead, and as Paethor entered the Hall he saw Carcham bending his head to Sylva, who whispered into his ear. Paethor glanced at Elian, standing with her father, and she nodded softly. He took a deep breath, then strode purposefully toward them.

  As he approached Carcham stepped forward. “Stand back, King of Fools,” he said, sneering.

  “There’s room for all,” said Paethor calmly.

  In one swift motion Carcham whipped his Sword from its sheath and flicked the holly from Paethor’s head. “You’ve had your share of Sylva’s charms,” he said.

  Paethor stood his ground. “I have no quarrel with you, sir,” he said with a glance at the squire. “You are welcome to Sylva’s charms—”

  “No stomach for a fight, eh?” said Carcham. “I’ve heard that King Nigel’s subjects are cowards.”

  Paethor’s brows snapped into a frown, but he kept silent. From the corner of his eye he saw Echevarian stepping into place behind Carcham, and Trent hurrying up from the side.

  “Come, come, Carcham,” said the squire. “Put your Sword away. This is no time for brawlin
g—”

  “Stay out of this, old man, if you want to keep your pretty little valley,” said Carcham.

  “Squire Fuller is an Argonian subject and under King Nigel’s protection,” said Paethor.

  “Protect him, then,” said Carcham, stepping forward and leveling his Sword’s point at Paethor’s throat. “Come on, King of Fools,” he said, with a nod toward Paethor’s Sword. He beckoned with his free hand. “Winner take all.”

  Paethor met his gaze coldly, nodding his understanding, then tore the cape from his throat and threw it away behind him as he drew Wayfinder. Someone screamed; the crowd backed away. The squire started toward them, crying “My Lords!” Elian and her brother caught him by the arms, holding him back from the deadly blades, and Elian spoke into his ear.

  Paethor and Carcham circled, the points of their Swords ringing softly as they tested their reach, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Carcham took the initiative and swung, Paethor moving swiftly to parry, and more screams went up from the crowd.

  Carcham was stronger, but Paethor had speed and agility on his side. He stayed on the defensive, waiting for Carcham to drop his guard. He caught a glimpse of Elian standing against the wall with her father, then narrowed his focus to the Sword in Carcham’s hand. Carcham swung his arm upward and for a heart-stopping moment Paethor thought he would throw the Sword, but he kept hold of it, bringing it crashing down toward Paethor’s head. Paethor barely managed to parry the blow and skip back out of harm’s way. He thought he saw an opening and stabbed, but his blade glanced off Carcham’s metal bracelet and he felt a sharp bite on his left shoulder. He spun aside, avoiding the worst of the cut, but felt blood trickling down his arm. Carcham smirked, and pressed him harder.

  Paethor knew his strength would fade quickly now. He held the Sword in both hands, and when he saw another opening he lunged forward, faithfully repeating the thrust Echevarian had taught him. But chance brought Carcham’s blade between them on a backswing, and Paethor was flung back, losing his balance and falling heavily, wrenching his ankle in the process. Pain blinded him; he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Instinct commanded him to rise or be slain, then he heard Elian’s voice calling “Stop!”