Orson Card - Maps in a Mirror - The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card

So they came by threes and fours, and fought like demons, but still Bork took them, and when even more than four tried to fight him at once they got in each other’s way and he killed them more easily.

And at last those who still lived despaired. There was no honor in dying so pointlessly. And with fifty men dead, the battle ended, and the rebels laid down their arms in submission.

Then the King emerged from the castle and rode to the battleground, and paraded triumphantly in front of the defeated men.

“You are all sentenced to death at once,” the King declared.

But suddenly he found himself pulled from his horse, and Bork’s great hands held him. The King gasped at the smell of gore; Bork rubbed his bloody hands on the King’s tunic, and took the King’s face between his sticky palms.

“No one dies now. No one dies tomorrow. These men will all live, and you’ll send them home to their lands, and you’ll lower their tribute and let them dwell in peace forever.”

The King imagined his own blood mingling with that which already covered Bork, and he nodded. Bork let him go. The King mounted his horse again, and spoke loudly, so all could hear. “I forgive you all. I pardon you all. You may return to your homes. I confirm you in your lands. And your tribute is cut in half from this day forward. Go in peace. If any man harms you, I’ll have his life.”

The rebels stood in silence.

Winkle shouted at them “Go! You heard the king! You’re free! Go home!”

And they cheered, and long-lived-the-King, and then bellowed their praise to Bork.

But Bork, if he heard them, gave no sign. He stripped off his armor and let it lie in the field. He carried his great ax to the stream, and let the water run over the metal until it was clean. Then he lay in the stream himself, and the water carried off the last of the blood, and when he came out he was clean.

Then he walked away, to the north road, ignoring the calls of the King and his knights, ignoring everything except the dragon who waited for him on the mountain. For this was the last of the acts Bork wold perform in his life for which he would feel shame. He would not kill again. He would only die, bravely, in the dragon’s claws and teeth.

The old woman waited for him on the road.

“Off to kill the dragon, are you?” she asked in a voice that the years had tortured into gravel. “Didn’t learn enough the first time?” She giggled behind her hand.

“Old woman, I learned everything before. Now I’m going to die.”

“Why? So the fools in the castle will think better of you?”

Bork shook his head.

“The villagers already love you. For your deeds today, you’ll already be a legend. If it isn’t for love or fame, why are you going?”

Bork shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he calls to me. I’m through with my life, and all I can see ahead of me are his eyes.”

The old woman nodded. “Well, well, Bork. I think you’re the first knight that the dragon won’t be happy to see. We old wives know, Bork. Just tell him the truth, Bork.”

“I’ve never known the truth to stop a sword,” he said.

“But the dragon doesn’t carry a sword.”

“He might as well.”

“No, Bork, no,” she said, clucking impatiently. “You know better than that. Of all the dragon’s weapons, which cut you the deepest?”

Bork tried to remember. The truth was, he realized, that the dragon had never cut him at all. Not with his teeth nor his claws. Only the armor had been pierced. Yet there had been a wound, a deep one that hadn’t healed, and it had been cut in him, not by teeth or talons, but by the bright fires in the dragon’s eyes.

“The truth,” the old woman said. “Tell the dragon the truth. Tell him the truth, and you’ll live!”

Bork shook his head. “I’m not going there to live,” he said. He pushed past her, and walked on up the road.

But her words rang in his ears long after he stopped hearing her call after him. The truth, she had said. Well, then, why not? Let the dragon have the truth. Much good may it do him.

This time Bork was in no hurry. He slept every night, and paused to hunt for berries and fruit to eat in the woods. It was four days before he reached the dragon’s hill, and he came in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. He was afraid, of course; but still there was a pleasant feeling about the morning, a tingling of excitement about the meeting with the dragon. He felt the end coming near, and he relished it.

Nothing had changed. The dragon roared; Brunhilda screamed. And when he reached the top of the hill, he saw the dragon tickling her with his wing. He was not surprised to see that she hadn’t changed at all—the two years had not aged her, and though her gown still was open and her breasts were open to the sun and the wind, she wasn’t even freckled or tanned. It could have been yesterday that Bork fought with the dragon the first time. And Bork was smiling as he stepped into the flat space where the battle would take place.

Brunhilda saw him first. “Help me! You’re the four hundred and thirtieth knight to try! Surely that’s a lucky number!” Then she recognized him. “Oh, no. You again. Oh well, at least while he’s fighting you I won’t have to put up with his tickling.”

Bork ignored her. He had come for the dragon, not for Brunhilda.

The dragon regarded him calmly. “You are disturbing my nap time.”

“I’m glad,” Bork said. “You’ve disturbed me, sleeping and waking, since I left you. Do you remember me?”

“Ah yes. You’re the only knight who was ever afraid of me.”

“Do you really believe that?” Bork asked.

“It hardly matters what I believe. Are you going to kill me today?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bork. “You’re much stronger than I am, and I’m terrible at battle. I’ve never defeated anyone who was more than half my strength.”

The lights in the dragon’s eyes suddenly grew brighter, and the dragon squinted to look at Bork. “Is that so?” asked the dragon.

“And I’m not very clever. You’ll be able to figure out my next move before I know what it is myself.”

The dragon squinted more, and the eyes grew even brighter.

“Don’t you want to rescue this beautiful woman?” the dragon asked.

“I don’t much care,” he said. “I loved her once. But I’m through with that. I came for you.”

“You don’t love her anymore?” asked the dragon.

Bork almost said, “Not a bit.” But then he stopped. The truth, the old woman had said. And he looked into himself and saw that no matter how much he hated himself for it, the old feelings died hard. “I love her, dragon. But it doesn’t do me any good. She doesn’t love me. And so even though I desire her, I don’t want her.”

Brunhilda was a little miffed. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. But Bork was watching the dragon, whose eyes were dazzlingly bright. The monster was squinting so badly that Bork began to wonder if he could see at all.

“Are you having trouble with your eyes?” Bork asked.

“Do you think you ask the questions here? I ask the questions.”

“Then ask.”

“What in the world do I want to know from you?”

“I can’t think of anything,” Bork answered. “I know almost nothing. What little I do know, you taught me.”

“Did I? What was it that you learned?”

“You taught me that I was not loved by those I thought had loved me. I learned from you that deep within my large body is a very small soul.”

The dragon blinked, and its eyes seemed to dim a little.

“Ah,” said the dragon.

“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?” asked Bork.

“Just ‘Ah,’” the dragon answered. “Does every ah have to mean something?”