An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

  Paethor raised his head to see Elian stepping between him and Carcham, who wore a gloating smile. His throat tightened to see her within reach of the deadly Sword, and he uttered a strangled “No!”

  “You’ve won,” said Elian to Carcham. “Let that be enough. Don’t mar this night with more bloodshed.”

  Carcham’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at her, the smile growing into a sneer. He rested the point of his Sword on the ground and draped his hands over the hilt. “If I’ve won,” he drawled, “then I have prizes to claim. Are you one of them?”

  Elian ignored this, saying “You were fighting for this Sword, were you not?” She turned away from Carcham to kneel beside Paethor, looking into his eyes as she reached for Wayfinder’s hilt. Her hands squeezed his gently and she whispered, “Trust me.” Paethor gazed back at her and for an instant he saw her as Athena, light shining glory all around her head. Catching his breath, he released the Sword and let her take it by the hilt.

  “The Sword of Wisdom? Yes, I’ll claim it,” said Carcham triumphantly.

  Elian turned toward him, preparing to stand. “Take it then,” she said, and as she rose she flung Wayfinder hilt-first toward Carcham. His hands shot up automatically to catch it, his own Sword clattering away across the floor and his face falling in horror even as he caught Wayfinder. Elian dove for the fallen Sword, Trent and Carcham doing the same, but before anyone reached it a flash of spectral light and an inhuman howl filled the Hall. Human cries answered, the revelers cringing away from the noise. The sound issued from a third Sword, which had appeared in midair, flying toward Carcham with deadly speed. He tried a desperate parry and then it was over; Carcham lay silent, eyes slowly glazing, the Sword of Vengeance embedded in his chest and his fingers curling away from Wayfinder’s hilt.

  Paethor struggled to his feet and took a step toward the dead man, but Echevarian was there ahead of him. The elder lord brushed his fingers over the white target pattern on the hilt that stood nearly erect, still thrumming with the force of impact.

  “Farslayer,” he murmured, then clasped the hilt with both hands: “I claim this Sword in the name of King Nigel,” and he wrenched it from Carcham’s body.

  “So that’s what you were after,” said the squire, coming forward. “Well, you’re welcome to it. Take it out of my valley.”

  “We will,” said Echevarian, “and the king will see that it doesn’t return.”

  “If that’s Farslayer, which is this?” asked Trent. He stooped to pick up the baron’s Sword and examine the hilt. “Coinspinner!” he said, displaying the small white pattern of dice.

  “He must have been counting on its luck to protect him,” said Echevarian. “Keep his enemies from choosing him as a target.”

  “It worked, apparently,” said Trent.

  “Until he let it go.” Echevarian wiped Farslayer clean on Carcham’s tunic and pulled Coinspinner’s scabbard from the dead man’s belt, handing it to Trent. “You see?” he said. “Your luck came back to you.”

  “Doubled,” said Trent, gazing in wonder at the Sword of Chance.

  Paethor limped forward and looked down at Carcham. “Which of his enemies threw it?”

  “Does it matter?” said Echevarian. “He must have had dozens.”

  Paethor bent down to retrieve Wayfinder, swaying dizzily as he straightened, then Elian was at his side. She put an arm around him and helped him to a chair by the hearth. Paethor clasped her hand tightly. “You took a great risk, coming between us,” he said.

  Elian smiled softly. “No greater than yours,” she said. She urged him to sit, and called for water and bandages. Through a fire-gilt haze Paethor watched her calmly tend his wounded shoulder. A hand entered his sight holding a cup of wine, and Paethor looked up to see the squire, with Trent and Echevarian close behind and Sylva clinging to Trent’s arm.

  “Well fought,” said the squire with a grim smile. Paethor accepted the cup, smiling weakly back. His ankle was throbbing, and his head had begun to ache. He sipped at the wine.

  “Winner take all, eh?” said the squire, glancing at Sylva. “Don’t suppose that means you’ll have my daughter?” he joked.

  Paethor gazed at him, a slow smile spreading over his face, and turned to look up at Elian.

  “If she’ll have me,” he said to her.

  Elian colored, and said, “We’ll discuss it when you’re better,” but he read her answer in her gentle eyes. He leaned back, letting the wine dull his senses, and felt his past glide away from him on silent owl’s wings.

  Luck of the Draw

  Michael A. Stackpole

  As far back as I could remember, I’d never had a hangover this bad. Of course, with my brain pounding as if Vulcan himself were cold hammering it into a fit for my skull, my memory was decidedly unreliable. I did feel certain, however, that the heaving motion and the shrieking creaking of my bones were so remarkable that I would recall having been in such a sorry state before.

  Knowing I was placing myself at risk for greater pain, I opened my eyes. The agonizing lightspikes I expected to pin my eyes to the back of my skull didn’t come. I considered that a minor victory because I’d not been a willing participant in the drinking that left me so sorely used and addle-brained. It struck me as right and just that I not suffer as much as I might have, had I been the one pouring liquor down my throat.

  The pallet on which I’d been laid out felt as if it were rising, and I decided to let it impel me into a sitting position. As I came upright, my forehead slammed into something above me in the dark. Sinking back on the pallet, I saw stars explode, each one shimmering away into a legion of aches. Then the hurt from the hit started to pulse through me. Served me right, I supposed, since I had willingly participated in sitting upright. Something rustled above me, and I idly wondered if I should speak or just feign death—which was not much of a reach for me at that point.

  The thing from above me landed solidly on the floor and unshuttered a lantern. I even faintly recollected having seen that dirty face before. I would have been certain, but he kept bobbing up and down and swaying ever so slightly from side to side.

  “Where in the seven hells am I?” I croaked at him.

  “M’lord, you are on your flagship.”

  “Flagship?”

  “Aye, m’lord. She were the Starfish, but at the duke’s order we renamed her the Barhead Shark to give her the proper aspect to frighten the pirates.” The man—barely that by the curly wisp of beard at his jaws and the unseamed flesh of his face—smiled the proud smile of patriotic fervor. “We’ve got the Leviathan and the Swordfish in our wake, sir, and we’re stealing up on the Pirate Isle same as the sun steals up on dawn. Just as planned, m’lord.”

  “As planned by the duke?” I looked at the boy imploringly.

  “Aye, sir. I’m Marlin, m’lord.” He smiled. “Me brothers Hal and Doc are topside tending sails and tiller. The duke entrusted you to our care, and we’ll die before we let your mission fail.”

  I wanted to ask how many men my fleet had, but something deep down inside told me I really didn’t want to know the answer. “Very good, Marlin.”

  “Count Callisto of Fishkylle will find his men stouthearted and brave, m’lord.”

  “Yes, lad, I mean aye. He, I mean I, I mean we have no doubt of your loyalty.” I tried to think of some more nautical words to spew at him, but pain forked through my brain. “Now, how about your just turning this, ah, Barhead Shark around and head back to Fishkylle?”

  Marlin grinned. “Good, m’lord, you’re playing your part proper like, just as the duke said. I’ll be refusing that order, sir, so it will look like you were kidnapped, as per the plan, sir.”

  “Marlin, that is an order from the Count of Fishkylle.” I tried to put an imperious tone in my voice, but it just started my head aching horribly, so I gave up. I could not tell from the foolish grin on the man’s face if he really understood the sort of danger into which we were sailing, or if he somehow thought—encouraged
by Fabio, no doubt—that I would somehow keep him and his kin safe when we reached Pirate Isle. “Please. I, we, implore you. Put the ship about.”

  “Thank you for making it official, m’lord. Don’t you go worrying about your men, m’lord, we’ll not be causing you any trouble, nor will we get in your way.” Marlin smiled as he headed for the cabin door. “You know, of course, we are doing this out of love for you, and not the reward his Dukeness offered us. I’ll go tell the men we’re to hold steady on our course to Pirate Isle.”

  “Do your duty, lad.” I shielded my eyes as he opened the—I gather hatch is the right word—and beyond his skinny outline I could see the first blue traces of dawn on the horizon. The hatch closed behind him, leaving me in the lantern-lit cabin. In the dim light I came upright, but ducked my head so I’d not again bash it on the bunk above mine.

  Then again, mayhap I should have done just that, as cracking my head open would likely be less painful and just as fatal as the encounter toward which we sailed. “Duke Fabio actually got one up on you this time, Cal. Antonia will look wonderful in mourning gowns, and the duke will get the money he wants to build his fleet.” I started to shake my head, but the drunken woozies warned me off.

  I levered myself to my feet and noticed two things immediately, though they warred between themselves for supremacy in my spirit-steeped brain. The winner was the thought that the queasy disequilibrium I felt came more from the pitching and rolling of the ship than it did from my hangover. Though equally as unpleasant as being hung over, I found being seasick somehow more dignified—despite the fact it made me wish I was dead.

  The second thought, which probably conceded victory to the first out of sheer perversity, was that I would likely have my wish come true. Fabio had taken great delight in laying out his plot for ridding himself of me, and had crowed about my sister’s approval of same. I knew he tossed that in to hurt me, but I also knew Antonia had the sort of intellect that made each new dawn a wondrous experience, largely because she’d forgotten the previous one. Not terribly bright, my sister, but kind, loving, rich, and our father’s heir by virtue of her birth coming four minutes before mine.

  I took a staggered step forward, keeping my head ducked. The fact that I kept my head down was more a commentary on the cosy closeness of the cabin than on my size. Indeed, had the cabin been in scale to the rest of the world, I would have been a giant and would never have found myself in this predicament.

  Alas, I am not a physical giant, and therefore I found myself on a moaning fisher boat bobbing my way to a confrontation with pirates who plied the coast and demanded tribute from the Duchy of Newgrave. All my life some sort of pirates had raided in the area, but these corsairs had become a substantial threat to Newgrave commerce roughly around the time my father died and Antonia’s husband Fabio became Duke-Regent.

  Fabio is a giant—at least physically—and the sort of son my father wishes I had been. My sister had been given the size, charm, and beauty to make her a perfect match for Fabio. On the day they wed my father commissioned a portrait of the wedding party, featuring the happy couple standing tall, blond, and unblemished in the center, and the rest of us gathered around them.

  You can see me back behind the dogs, peeking out from a display of orchids.

  I’m not ugly—I don’t make most children cry when they see me—but I’m just not artistic. And, I will concede, I’m not terribly coordinated, nor am I skillful at arms. I’ve studied all manner of martial skills—my appetite for books is voracious—but have for little time to practice or practically apply what I have learned. Fabio brought this shortcoming to my attention when he used a butter knife to disarm and best me in a sword fight.

  The defeat proved problematic for me in more than the obvious way. What little vanity I have—and my broomstick limbs and thinning hair allow me very little of it indeed—comes from my dignity. I hate being made to play the fool, especially by a man who showed more skill with the knife in our fight than he ever had at a dinner table. The infant dreams I had about somehow, one day, being seen as an epic hero died right there—and only my sister’s heartfelt commiseration over their deaths made the incident bearable.

  I was not so much interested in being a hero for the glory of it all—my studies had showed glory to be, if not fleeting, certainly grossly malleable. I had become unforgivably enamored of folklore and the way things passed into legend. I imagined my grand adventure as being a fantastic experiment because I would know what the truth had been and I could see how it changed and warped with retellings and dissemination. My defeat at Fabio’s hands would likely become a thing of legend; one I could monitor, but one that I had no real desire to follow.

  Reaching out, I steadied myself against a ceiling beam and took a step toward the hatch. I knew, ultimately, my current predicament had been my fault because I had avenged myself on Fabio. While he was regent and able to administer the duchy, the matter of taxation had been left in my sister’s hands. Fabio approached her numerous times with plans to raise an army for this reason or that, each of them requiring a special levy. Having my sister’s ear, I managed to convince her that a tax at this time would be crippling, but maybe next month or the one after it would be permissible.

  If I felt any twinge of regret in thwarting him, it came when he hit upon a plan to build a fleet to destroy the pirate Red Rinaldo. The pirate had managed to consolidate a number of corsair groups by slaying their leaders and accepting the other pirates’ vows of fealty to him. Other leaders had tried the same thing in the past, without success.

  Rinaldo had an edge. He had one of the Swords. He bore Shieldbreaker.

  I knew something of the legend of the Swords, but my information was far from complete—largely because Newgrave is really something of a backwater. Of the reported dozen I could name eight, and Shieldbreaker had to be the most famous. The most fearsome and feared of all, it was supposed to make its owner invincible. The verse concerning it was explicit enough to justify the blade’s reputation.

  I shatter Swords and splinter spears:

  None stands to Shieldbreaker.

  My point’s the fount of orphans’ tears

  My edge the widowmaker.

  I had hoped—though it would have pained my sister—that Rinaldo might make a run at Fabio at some point. Fabio likely feared the same, and he astutely noted that if Newgrave had a fleet, it would be possible to sink Rinaldo’s ship, Sea Slayer, before Rinaldo got a chance to use the Sword in combat. This struck me as an inventive solution to the situation—making me wonder who gave it to Fabio—and solved the puzzle of how so powerful a Sword could be parted from the person wielding it. There were other solutions to that puzzle, were I to take rumors of rumors to be fact—but one and all they struck me as suicidal, especially for someone like me who is more likely to injure himself by fighting unarmed than he is with a weapon in hand.

  I convinced my sister that directly opposing Rinaldo could lead to a slaughter of Newgraveans, if the effort failed, and that some sort of negotiation should be tried first. No one at court was fool enough to volunteer for that sort of diplomatic duty—Rinaldo had a reputation for being something of a sociopath—so Fabio’s brilliant plan ended up in the grave along with my heroic dreams. Satisfied, I considered us even, and therein made a terrible error.

  The thought of having underestimated Fabio combined with the roiling ocean ride to make me nauseous. I dropped to my knees and vomited into a bucket, then pulled myself around to the bulkhead and pressed my back to it. I closed my eyes, then pulled the bucket in between my knees and spit until my mouth lost its sour taste.

  Fabio had convinced my sister that I wanted to be the one to approach Rinaldo. After all, I had suggested the mission. Antonia knew of my dreams about adventure, and Fabio suggested I had been too modest to put myself forward. He had admitted to me that he had deceived Antonia into thinking I had come to him with a plan, begging him not to reveal it to her. He told her that because of his love for her a
nd his knowledge that she would worry about me, he could not keep my plan confidential, and she covertly granted him permission to help me face down Red Rinaldo.

  As they had shoved the funnel in my mouth and started pouring juniper juice into me—a precaution against my thinking of a way out of this before I was at sea—he had laughed and noted that Antonia would obviously give him his fleet to avenge my death at the hands of Red Rinaldo. Not only had he won, but my death would lead to the vindication of his plan. To make matters worse, he had taken volunteers from the fishing village of Fishkylle—a people whose loyalty to me stemmed from the belief that I looked a bit like a mullet—and pressed them into service to convey me to Rinaldo and my death. Adding injury to insult, he took my rapier from me—noting Rinaldo was not known for his skill with a butter knife—and left me with a flaccid scabbard belted around my waist.

  With my elbows resting on the insides of my knees, I ground the heels of my hands into my eye-sockets. Alone, sick, and sent on a mission to a homicidal maniac with a magic Sword. I decided things could not possibly get worse.

  Then the ship listed badly.

  A sword banged me on the knee.

  Swearing, I opened my eyes and snatched at the hilt. I wanted to toss the sword across the cabin, but I lacked the strength or determination to do even that. I rubbed at my knee and realized that I had been less hurt than surprised by the flat of the sword hitting my leg. The blade looked substantial enough that it should have hurt more when it landed on me, and I didn’t think my light, woolen hose enough to pad the kneecap. “Just like Fabio to give me some toy, tin blade,” I thought aloud, and managed to put down to drunkenness the fact that I’d not seen the blade in the cabin before.

  I turned the sword over and brought it into the lantern light. I knew instantly I had something very special in my hands. Despite drink-lees still slowing my brain, I realized the steel in the blade had been forged by someone whose abilities dwarfed those of my father’s master metalworkers. The mottling on the blade and the device worked into the flat of the blade made the weapon appear far thicker than it was.