A fight was brewing. The old man dozing with his back against a pillar opened his eyes.
“You are a foul-smelling, child-molesting, brigand rapist!”
“From you, that is a compliment.”
“Your own mother pukes at the sound of your name.”
“Vultures won’t eat your fungoid carcase if we spread jam on it.”
The setting was the courtyard of the Caravanserai Almukus, a lonely desert station on the Skag Road. The sun had just set behind the smoky Ramparts of Heaven Range, and the camel drivers were seeing to their stock, squabbling over stalls, eyeing one another’s wares and women, and preparing for another night of lying, drinking, trading, thieving, and general enjoyment. The two men stoking the fires of fury were both young, both armed with swords, both clearly intent on spilling lifeblood.
One of them was a giant in billowing red robes and a black turban shaped like a puffball. He bore a shiny curved scimitar hung at his belt and a dagger almost as big tucked in the other side of it.
His opponent was younger and clean-shaven, carrying a massive two-handed broadsword on his back. He was not as large as Turban, although quite large enough, and wore very little, so as to display his remarkable muscle definition; he sported a mane of brilliant red hair on his head and a mat of orange moss on his chest.
The old man sighed at having to witness a contest so unequal, so unfair. The conclusion was foregone. In such encounters the gods would invariably award the verdict to the one with red hair.
The caravanserai was a rectangular stone structure, open to the sky. Livestock, slaves, and beggars were bedded on ground level, real people in their own tents on a balcony that went all around. Guards patrolled the battlements above. Brigands lurked in the hills, except when they took temporary work as guards.
“When I have done with you, boy,” Turban declaimed, “the dogs will feast on the scraps.”
“You are all wind,” Redhead retorted. “When I cut off that beard there will be nothing left of you.” He not only looked the hero, he had one of those sepulchral voices that vibrate through the soles of listeners’ feet.
The cause of the dispute could only be the silk-clad beauty sitting cross-legged under a canopy on the balcony, watching the contest below with glittering black eyes. Her hair was draped with a golden net and her lower face with a silver veil. Enough of her shape showed through her robes to justify several murders in such a place as Almukus. She had ridden in on a westbound caravan, a private parade of just her and her intimidating escort. Had she somehow indicated to Redhead that an opening could be created for a new chief guard by creating an opening in her present one?
The moment had almost come. The audience had ceased work and settled down to watch. The caravanserai was unusually full that evening, sheltering a large host of traders who had entered by the west gate and would leave on the morrow by the east one.
“. . . pox-ridden son of a . . .”
“. . . yellow-livered, tea-drinking, gelded . . .”
Tea drinking? Either that was a bad translation or they were running out of epithets. Action must follow.
“I will cut off your privates and feed them to the ravens.”
“Yours would not make snacks for sparrows.” Better. Redhead was still standing with fists on hips, smirking, seemingly dangerously open until he drew that massive pig-sticker hung on his back.
Wisely deciding not to give him the chance to do so, Turban whipped out scimitar and dagger and charged. He very nearly impaled himself on the broadsword, which had appeared as if by magic, extended between them. He stumbled to a halt and tried to slam it aside with his scimitar. It barely wavered. Redhead lunged forward and kept coming, blade outstretched before him like a lance.
With his advantage in reach cancelled out by the absurd length of his opponent’s blade, Turban retreated furiously, vainly trying to turn that deadly point aside. He backed into a kneeling camel, thus ending both himself and the camel. Truly the gods are merciless. Could the idiot not tell a budding hero from a brash-mouthed kid?
Redhead wiped his sword on the camel. Its owner was already whimpering and weeping, but not about to make a fuss.
“Take his weapons and clothes and throw his corpse in the midden pit,” Redhead boomed. “You will come out ahead unless you catch plague from his vermin.” Turning on his heel he headed for the nearest stair and the black-eyed beauty above, who had already withdrawn into the depths of her tent. He followed her in and the flap closed.
In less than two minutes he emerged, his face a startling white under the red mane. He advanced to the parapet, seized it in an ivory-knuckled grip, and scanned the audience with a ferocious gaze, seeking the least trace of amusement at his rejection.
The old man against the pillar beckoned.
The raging swordsman ignored him as beneath contempt and continued to hunt for someone worthy of his bloodlust. No one was looking remotely near him. He did not exist. The naked body of his first victim was being dragged away and there were no volunteers to be his second.
The old man beckoned again.
With a snarl, the swordsman vaulted over the parapet, landed as lightly as a bird, and strode across the sand with murder in his eye.
“What do you want, prune?” he demanded.
“Want?” said the old man wistfully. “To be an indomitable swordsman of less than twenty winters, brave as a lion, handsome as a young god, and nigh irresistible to women.”
The swordsman hesitated over that “nigh” word and decided to ignore it. “Quite understandable. It is very nice.”
“But you could have so much more. . . . Know that I am Dextrus of Speel, famous in my day.”
“Which is long past, since I never heard of you. I am Ahdogon son of Abish, the world’s greatest swordsman. What were you famous for, ugly old man?”
“For innumerable great sorceries.”
“It is my swordsman duty to slay a sorcerer on sight.”
“And mine to turn you into a reptile, but I don’t feel up to it today.”
The son of Abish raised his hand to his sword hilt. “I do.”
“Not so hasty!” Dextrus of Speel said quickly. “Consider what a swordsman and a sorcerer could achieve if they cooperated!”
“An obscene suggestion,” Ahdogon said, but he lowered his hand. “Such as?”
“Why I could make you ruler of a great empire, master of innumerable servants, owner of countless vast palaces, commander of the world’s greatest army, and lord of the world’s greatest harem, with thousands of gorgeous maidens eager to satisfy your slightest whim.”
Ahdogon considered the prospect narrowly. “How do I know that you are a sorcerer?”
“I shall offer a complimentary sample of my wares.” The sorcerer reached in his tattered robes, took the opportunity to scratch a couple of fleabites, and produced a small box of ivory carved with images of demons and reptiles. “I could not help but observe that your encounter with your lady lasted only a few moments. No man could—or would want to—complete his business as fast as that, so she clearly rejected your advances. Kindly control that sword arm of yours; I have no wish to die because of some scatterbrained female’s fickle moods. This tiny casket contains a priceless unguent, which I guarantee will fire her ardour and cause her to clasp you fervently to her bosom.”
The young swordsman took the box, opened it and sniffed. He gasped and blinked.
“It is powerful!”
“It has to be.”
“What’s in it?”
“Mostly musk, with a dash of lye.”
“What do I do with it?”
“Simply smear a small amount in your left armpit and another in the right.”
Once again the old man’s life hung by a slender thread as the swordsman decided whether he detected mockery. “If this does not work, magician, I shall seek you out and stamp you so flat that they
will use you as a prayer mat.”
“I shall be here. The gates were closed at sunset.”
Ahdogon strode off to try his fortune a second time. Dextrus looked around to see who might be persuaded to provide his evening meal.
He was kicked awake at dawn.
A sonorous bass voice said, “I have used up all the unguent. Give me more.”
The sorcerer blinked up at the menace looming over him. “Gods preserve me! A single application should have sufficed for the entire night.”
“Far from it. Now give!”
“Alas I have none and the ingredients are not available here.”
Ahdogon knelt down on the sand beside him. “Then tell me of this kingdom you mentioned.”
“Ah!” Dextrus levered himself up to a sitting posture with much effort and creaking of joints. “I referred to the fabled Empire of the East, the greatest and richest of all domains, ruled since the dawn of time by the tyrannical Son of the Sun on the Golden Throne.”
“Who is defended by an army of millions.”
“But not guarded from dragons.”
“Dragons?” the swordsman repeated warily.
“Indeed. Know that when the Son of the Sun’s line withers and grows feeble, then the Dragon of the Moon descends upon the Empire and the Son of the Sun must go forth with a sword and slay it in single combat. This is no small feat, which only he can perform. A dragon arrived some three years ago, and the Son of the Sun was wheeled out to meet it. He was over ninety at the time, but the dragon was a small one and appeared satisfied with the meagre nourishment he provided, for it departed.”
“And his successor?”
“A grandson succeeded as twentieth emperor of the thirty-first dynasty. But of course at the next full moon the dragon returned, slightly larger and no less ferocious. It ate Number Twenty as well.”
“The imperial family was large?” The swordsman was obviously managing to follow the storyline.
“Sons, brothers, uncles, cousins . . . But at every full moon since, the dragon has returned, ever larger and stronger and fiercer. In the meantime, it wastes the land. Armies sent against it are wiped out, but only an imperial sword arm can slay it, and on the evening of the full moon. Now the empire has ran out of princes.”
“Wait!” Ahdogon said. “You spoke of a harem of thousands. Sons of the Sun must breed princes uncountable.”
“A shrewd observation, valiant sir. But you overlook the rivalry among their honoured mothers, which is expressed in a widespread use of poison and silken cords. Even without dragon difficulties, very few princes survive to manhood, and these days many candidates prefer to end their own lives with some soporific potion than challenge the lizard and die so horribly.”
“Um. So what happens now?”
“Now any man may apply to try his luck. The dragon’s evil little mind assumes that any single challenger must be the emperor. The first one to slay it will be the next Son of the Sun and found the thirty-second dynasty.”
Ahdogon son of Abish sat down and crossed his legs. The bulging money purse now hung on his belt clinked suggestively. That had not been there last night.
“This sounds like a proposition where I do all the work and you only talk. What do you expect to get out of it?”
“What can I hope for at my age but peace and comfort: good food, a soft bed, and the care of a couple of comely body servants? Little enough for an emperor to bestow.”
Yet still the world’s greatest swordsman demurred. “And you can show me how to slay the dragon?”
“I can. The answer is written in ancient lore I have studied. It has been done thirty times before, remember! Dragon wastings come centuries apart, so the secret gets forgotten. I am sure you can contrive some arrangement such that I do not survive you for more than a few minutes if my counsel proves wanting.”
“Very well. It will be a worthy feat. We shall leave as soon as the eastern gate is opened.”
“Only if you can provide me with transportation. My aged limbs will not carry me far.”
The son of Abish patted his money pouch. “I shall make a reasonable offer on two strong camels.” If it had been employment he had applied for in the night, he must be prepared to renege on the deal and abscond with his salary advance. Or else his rewards had been for other services.
Many months of travel and many great perils lay before the two adventurers. The innumerable feats of swordsmanship performed by Ahdogon son of Abish and the incredible supernatural efforts of Dextrus of Speel are best forgotten, but eventually the noble pair did reach the Eastern Empire. And the closer they came to the Forbidding City, the more evident were the misery and devastation created by the dragon: houses and crops wasted, the people homeless, hopeless, and hungry.
“I was informed of this problem only just in time,” Ahdogon announced. “Had my arrival been delayed much longer, there would be no empire left for me to inherit.” All successful swordsmen lack the wit to question their own abilities.
He was far from the only candidate to step forward that month. On the night of the next full moon, almost a dozen aspiring heroes were admitted to a high balcony overlooking the famous Encircled Square at the heart of the palace, where the dragon would be challenged by the next up, a northerner known as Glutius the Great. Each swordsman was allowed to bring no more than two attendants, whether pupils, trainers, or sorcerers. The entire crowd was surrounded by a sizable company of watchful imperial guards under the command of the Chief Eunuch, who was running the empire until a new dynasty could begin.
As dusk descended and the great golden globe arose, the baleful shadow of the dragon swooped overhead, come for its monthly snack of wannabe-imperial flesh. Trumpets shrilled, and the doughty man from the north strode forth. He was of impressive size, clad in the minimal costume that tradition demanded. Reached the centre of the vast plaza, he brandished his sword and bellowed his defiance to the worm
The dragon saw him, circled down, and landed. It was of enormous size now, and fearsome of aspect: “The body of a snake, the scales of a fish, the antlers of a deer, the talons of an eagle, and the eyes of a demon.” It extended its long neck and roared.
It did not breathe fire at the hero. Contrary to common belief, dragons prefer their challengers raw, and reserve fire power for use against armies, property, and commoners. Yet something about that roar seemed to unman Glutius. He dropped his sword, spun around, and fled. The dragon lunged after him.
Dextrus of Speel closed his eyes. He opened them again when the noise stopped, just in time to see the monster launch itself upward, and fly away in search of more sustenance.
“He died quickly,” the sorcerer muttered to Ahdogon’s muscular back.
“His lower half did. Did you not hear all that fuss his upper half made?”
“My lords!” proclaimed the Chief Eunuch. “If you will kindly move indoors, to the Hall of Lanterns, we shall proceed at once with the elimination bouts that will determine next month’s lucky challenger.”
Shepherded by the guards, and thus having little option, the candidates and their companions moved as directed. The Hall of Lanterns seemed very bright after the dark balcony, being ablaze with bright tiles and golden tracery. Its magnificence offered a small hint of the uncountable wealth that awaited the successful dragon slayer.
A crowd of courtiers assembled to cheer the would-be heroes. Chief Eunuch stepped up on a dais, where his eyes were closer to level with the swordsmen’s. “My lords, you may, if you so wish, now withdraw from the contest, the palace, and the Forbidding City. Your names will be booed at a public gathering scheduled for noon, and you must never return. Those who remain will now fight it out until only one survives to face the monster next full moon. Candidates, please step forward.”
Ahdogon strolled forward, idly twirling his broadsword like a balsa wood baton.
The other swordsmen conferred with their
advisors. There was much muttering. One by one, they slunk away.
Chief Eunuch bowed to the winner. “Your Temporary Majesty, you may now take the oath as Heir Presumptuous and Die Facto ruler for the next month. Your attendance at the next dragon visitation will be compulsory, though.”
“I would not dream of missing it,” the son of Abish announced cheerily. “I will take up my duties immediately. Show me the way to the harem.”
“Wait!” Dextrus bleated.
The courtiers hissed in disapproval of this disrespect to the Heir Presumptuous, but Ahdogon took no offense.
“Ah, yes. This decrepit old relic will require a place to attend to his studies. Supply his needs.”
Chief Eunuch guessed at once what sort of studies were involved. “As Your Imperial Majesty commands, so it is. The Magi’s Tower is available. Does Your Majesty wish him chained in there?”
“No, but do not let him escape. Now—the harem?”
Dextrus spent the next month pottering around in the best-equipped sorcerers’ tower he had ever encountered. The library alone could have kept him occupied for years, had he been able to read the local script. In the laboratory he found everything he needed, once he had obtained the services of a scribe to translate the labels for him, and he had all his preparations made before the turn of the moon.
His only concern was that Ahdogon might not hold to his side of the bargain, but he need not have worried. A couple of hours before sunset, the door was unlocked and the swordsman wandered it, yawning.
“Came to say farewell, old man,” he announced. “I am grateful for your company. More than anyone else I have ever met, you have always made me appreciate my own superiority.”
“You do not intend to slay the dragon?”
“I certainly intend to try, but its scales are known to be totally impervious to steel, no matter how strong the wielder. I shall not flee from it like Glutius, and I certainly hope I will not make such a fuss as he did while it eats me, but winning? Not a hope. No matter,” he continued around another yawn. “The last month has been worth it. Had I lived to be as ancient as you, old fossil, I could not have—”
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