Фред Сейберхэген - The First Book of Swords

Slowly Mark stood up straight, still holding the sword that the dragon had dropped in front of him. It was by now, he found, he was able to tell one from another by the feeling, needing no look at the hilt.

The world that had been trying to alter around him was now trying to come back. But its swift shifting had been too violent for that to be accomplished in an instant.

The stocky man who had attacked Barbara and had been chasing Mark had now caught up with him once more. But the man only stood in front of Mark in absolute consternation, gazing first at Mark and then up into the night sky after the vanished courier.

From somewhere in the gathering crowd, Barbara came stumbling, staggering, screaming incoherent accusations. The dandy, bemused and rumpled, turned on her with his dagger drawn. Before Mark could react, a huge hand reached from behind the man to grab him by one shoulder and turn him, spinning him into the impact of a fist that seemed to break him like a toy.

Men in orange and black had Ben surrounded. But now, from the direction of the drawbridge, another small group of men in black and orange came charging. These were halfarmored with helms and shields, and held drawn swords. Led by a graybeard nobleman, they hurled themselves with a warcry at the first group. Mark knew that his own hand still held a sword. He told himself that he should be doing something. But the sense that his place in the world had changed still held him. It was not like anything he had ever felt before. He thought that he could still feel the two hilts, one in each hand. And then he could feel nothing at all.

"Yes, I am Draffut, once called by humans the Lord of Beasts. And now they call me a god." In the deep voice were tired tones that mocked the foolishness of humans. "Stand up, man. No human being should kneel to me."

All around Nestor and the giant the night creatures of the swamp were awakening, from whatever daytime dreams they had to noisy life. Nestor stood up. His emotional outburst, whether or not it had been based on some misconception, had relieved something in him and he felt calmer. "Very well," he said. "What shall I call you, then?"

"I am Draffut. It is enough. And you are Nestor, who kills dragons. Now come with me, you will need food and rest."

"Rest, first, I think." Nestor rubbed at his eyes: exhaustion was rapidly overtaking him. The sword dragged down whichever hand he held it in.

Draffut led the way back to the ancient temple. Standing beside the building, he raised a shaggy arm to indicate a place where, he said, Nestor should be able to rest in safety. This was a half-ruined room on an upper level, in a portion of the structure that once had had a second floor. The stairway nearby had almost entirely disappeared, but Nestor was agile and he found a way to scramble up. His assigned resting place was open to the sky, but at least it should offer him some degree of isolation from creeping things. When Nestor turned from a quick inspection of the place to speak to Draffut again, he saw to his surprise that the giant had disappeared.

Neither the hard floor of his high chamber, nor the possibility of danger, kept Nestor from falling quickly into a deep sleep, that turned almost at once into a vivid dream.

In this dream he beheld a fantastic procession, that was made up partly of human beings, and partly of others who were only vaguely visualized. The procession was marching through brilliant sunlight to the temple, at some time in the days of that building's wholeness and glory. At first the dream was quite a pleasant experience. Then came the point when Nestor realized that in the midst of the procession was being borne a maiden meant for sacrifice — and that the prospective victim was Barbara.

In the dream Barbara was straining at the bonds that held her, and crying out to him for help. But in terror Nestor turned away from her. Clasping the hilt of his precious sword, which he knew he must not lose no matter what, he ran with it into the jungle surrounding the temple closely. This was a dreamgrowth of spectacular colors, very different from the scrubby woods that his waking eyes had beheld covering most of the island. But as soon as Nestor had reached the jungle, the sword-hilt in his hand turned into something else — and before he could understand what it had become, he was waking up, gasping with his fear.

Night-creatures were being noisy at a little distance, yet the darkness round him was peaceful enough, though he was breathing as hard as if he had been fighting. The gibbous moon was by now almost directly overhead, in a sky patched with clouds; it was some time near the middle of the night.

The image of Barbara remained vividly with Nestor for some time after he had awakened. Ought he to have stood by the spilled wagon, sword in hand, to fight for her and for the others?

Nonsense. Before he'd managed to get his hand on a sword, they'd all run away, scattering and hiding as best they could. He would have been killed, and it would have done no one any good at all.

Maybe he knew that he would have run away, even if the others hadn't. But it was nonsense, dredging up such theoretical things to worry about.

Though the unpleasantness of the dream lingered, Nestor soon fell asleep again. He woke with the feeling that no time at all had passed, though the sun was now fully up in a bright sky, and monkbirds were exchanging loud cries in branches not far above his head.

Nestor sat up, reflecting on how well he felt, how rested. He rubbed the shoulder that yesterday had been — he was sure of it broken. It felt as good as the other shoulder now.

He vaguely remembered having some disagreeable dream, but he no longer remembered what it had been about.

The sword was at his side, just where he had put it down. What had Draffut said, that sounded like quoted verse?

Long roads the Sword of Fury makes,

Hard walls it builds around the soft…

Nestor would have given something to hear the rest.

Beside the sword now was a pile of fresh fruit that certainly had not been there when he last fell asleep. Nestor sniffed at something yellow and round then nibbled cautiously. Then, suddenly ravenous, he fell to. The sword made a convenient tool to slice and peel.

Before Nestor had fully satisfied his appetite, Draffut appeared, walking tree-tall from among the trees. The giant exchanged rather casual greetings with Nestor, and claimed credit for the provision of the marls breakfast, for which Nestor thanked him. In the bright morning Draffut's fur glowed delicately, just as it had in twilight and after dark, holding its own light. As Draffut stood on the ground outside the temple his face was approximately on a level with Nestor's, who was standing on what had once been a second floor.

This morning Nestor felt no impulse to kneel. He realized that his awe of Draffut was already fading into something that approached familiarity, and in an obscure way the man partially regretted the fact. As soon as a few conversational preliminaries had been gone through, he asked: "Draffut, will you tell me about the gods? And about yourself. If you maintain you are not one of them, I don't intend to argue with you. But perhaps you can understand why I thought you were."

Draffut answered thoughtfully. "I understand that humans often show a need for beings greater than themselves. But I repeat that I can tell you very little about the gods. Their ways are often beyond my understanding. As for my own story, it is very long and I think that now is not the time for me to begin to tell it. Right now it is more important that I learn more about your sword."

"Very well." Nestor looked down at the blade with which he had been halving fruit, that was not really his. He sighed, and shook his head, thinking of the one he'd lost. Then he explained as briefly as he could how the wagon he had been driving had been pursued, and had tipped over, and what had happened to him after that, and what he surmised might have happened to his companions. "So, the landwalker, which I suppose was your creature too, attacked Duke Fraktin's men in the vicinity of the wagon — or at least that's what it sounded like. I could not stay to see who won the fight, for your messenger came to invite me to be your guest. So, that boy may have my sword now. Or the Duke might have it, or some of his soldiers. As for this blade here, the boy told me that it can kill fighting men with great efficiency. I've never put it to the test."