Fred Saberhagen - Swords 03 - The Third Book Of Swords

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The Third Book of Swords

Fred Saberhagen

Version 1.0

CHAPTER 1

Up at the unpeopled borderland of cloudy

heaven, where unending wind drove eternal snow

between and over high gray rocks, the gods and

goddesses were gathering.

In the grayness just before dawn, their tall forms

came like smoke out of the gray and smoking wind,

to take on solidity and detail. Unperturbed by wind

or weather, their garments flapping in the shriek-

ing howl of air, they stood upon the rooftop of the

world and waited as their numbers grew. Steadily

more powers streaked across the sky, bringing rein-

forcement.

The shortest of the standing figures was taller

than humanity, but from the shortest to tallest, all

were indisputably of human shape. The dress of

most members of the assembly displayed a more

than mortal elegance, running to crowns and jewels

and snow-white furs; the attire of a few was, by

human standards, almost ordinary; that of many

was bizarre.

By an unspoken agreement amounting to tradi-

tion the deities stood in a rough circle, symbol of a

rude equality. It was a mutually enforced equality,

meaning only that none of their number was will-

ing to concede pride of place to any other. When

graybearded Zeus, a laurel wreath embracing his

massive head, moved forward majestically as if

after all he intended to occupy the center of the cir-

cle, a muttering at once began around him. The

sound grew louder, and it did not subside until the

Graybearded One, with a frown, had converted his

forward movement into a mere circular pacing,

that soon brought him back to his old place in the

large circle. There lie stopped. And only when he

stopped did the muttering die down completely.

And still with each passing moment the shape of

another god or goddess materialized out of the rest-

less air. By now two dozen or more tall forms were

in place around the circle. They eyed one another

suspiciously, and exchanged cautious nods and

signs of greeting. Neighbor to neighbor they mut-

tered in near-whispers through the wind, trading

warily in warnings and backbitings about those

who were more distant in the circle, or still absent.

The more of them that gathered, the more their

diversity was evident. They were dark or fair, old-

looking or young-looking. Handsome-as gods-or

beautiful-as goddesses-or ugly, as only certain

gods and goddesses could be.

Twice more Zeus opened his mouth as if he

intended to address them all. Twice more he

seemed on the verge of stepping forward, taking the

center of the circle, and trying to command the

meeting. Each time he did so that warning murmur

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swelled up into the frozen air, through the blasting

wind, giving notice that no such attempt was going

to be tolerated. Zeus remained silently at his own

station in the ring, stamping his feet now and then

and scowling his impatience.

At last the individual gossipings around the ring

began to fade toward quiet, give way to silent wait-

ing. There was some general agreement, tacitly

attained, that now a quorum had been reached.

There was no use trying to wait until all the gods

and goddesses were here, all of them never

attended a meeting at the same time. Never had

they been able to agree unanimously on anything at

all, not even on a place or an agenda for their argu-

ments.

But now the assembly was large enough.

It was Mars, spear-armed and helmeted, who

broke the silence; Mars speaking in a voice that

smoldered and rumbled with old anger. The tones

of it were like the sounds of displaced boulders roll-

ing down a glacier.

Mars banged his spear upon his shield to get the

attention of the assembly. Then he said to them:

"There is news now of the Mindsword. The man

that other humans call the Dark King has it. He is,

of course, going to use it to try to get the whole

world into his hands. What effect this will have on

our own Game is something that we must evaluate

for ourselves, each according to his or her own posi-

tion."

It was not this news he had just announced to the

assembly that was really angering Mars. Rather it

was something else, something that he wanted to

keep secret in his own thoughts, that made him

almost choke on rage. Mars did not conceal his feel-

ings well. As he finished speaking he used a savage

gesture, a blow that almost split the air, simply to

signify the fact that he was ready now to relinquish

the floor to someone else.

Next to speak was Vulcan-Vulcan the Smith with

the twisted leg, the armorer and Sword-forger to the

gods.

"I am sorry," began Vulcan, slyly, "that my so-

worthy colleague is unable to continue at the moment.

Perhaps he is brooding too much about a certain

setback-one might even call it a defeatthat he suffered

at the hands--or should one say the paws-of a certain

mortal opponent, some eight or nine years past?"

The response of Mars to this was more sullen,

angry rumbling. There also was a murmuring around

the circle, some of it laughter at Mars, some a

denunciation of Vulcan for this obvious attempt to

start an argument.

Aphrodite asked softly, "Is this what we have come

here for, to have another quarrel?" Her tall body, all

curves, all essence of the female, was wrapped in

nothing but a diaphanous veil that seemed always on

the verge of blowing away in the fierce wind but

never did. She like the other deities was perfectly

indifferent to the arctic cold.

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Near her, Apollo's taller form appeared emphasized

for a moment in a lone ray of light from the newly

risen sun. The Sun's bright lance steadily pierced the

scudding clouds for just as long as it took the god to

speak, and held his body in its light. Apollo demanded,

"I take it that we are all agreed upon one thing at

least?"

Someone else was cooperative enough to ask

Apollo: "What?"

The tall god replied, "That Hermes has not come

back from his mission to gather up the Swords again.

That he is never going to come back."

"That's two things," another member of the group

objected.

Apollo took no notice of such carping. "That our

divine Messenger, who no doubt thought himself as

secure in his immortality as most of us still think we

are in ours, has now been for four years dead?`

That word, of all words, had power to jolt them all.

Many faced it bravely. Some tried to pretend that it

had not been spoken, or if spoken certainly not heard.

But there was a long moment in which even the wind

was voiceless. No other word, surely, could have

brought the same quality and duration of silence to this

assembly.

It was the relentless voice of Apollo that entered

into this new silence and destroyed it, repeating: "For

four years dead."

The repetition provoked not more silence, but the

beginning of an uproar of protest; still the voice of

Apollo overrode the tumult even as it swelled.

"Dead!" he roared. "And if Hermes Messenger can

be slain by one of the Swords, why so can we. And

what have we done about it, during these past four

years? Nothing! Nothing at all! Wrangled among

ourselves, as always-no more than that!"

When Apollo paused, Mars seized the chance to

speak. "And there is the one who forged those

Swords!" The God of War pointed with his long war-

spear, and aimed an angry stare at the crippled Smith.

"I tell you, we must make him melt them down again.

I've said all along that the Swords are going to destroy

us all, unless we are able to destroy them first!"

Leaning awkwardly on his lame leg, Vulcan

turned at bay. "Don't blame. me!" Wind whipped

at his fur garments, his ornaments of dragon-scale

clashing and fluttering in the gale. But his words

ate through the windstorm plainly, suffering no

interference from mere physical air. "The blunder,

if there was one, was not mine. These very faces

that I see all about me now spoke urging me, com-

manding me, to forge the Swords."

He turned accusingly from one to another of his

peers. "We needed the Swords, we had to have

them, you all told me, for the Game. The Game was

going to be a great delight, something we hadn't

tried before. You said the Swords must be distrib-

uted among the humans, who in the Game would be

our pawns. Now what kind of pawns have they

turned into? But no, you all insisted on it, no matter

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how I warned you-"

Again an uproar of protest was breaking out, and

this time it was too loud for any one voice to over-

come. Objectors were shouting that, on the con-

trary, they had been the ones against the whole idea

of the Swords and the Game from the very start.

Naturally this provoked a strong counterreaction

from others present. "What you mean is, you've

been against the Game ever since you started losing

in it! As long as you thought that you were winning,

it was a great idea!"

One of the graybeard elder gods, not Zeus, put in:

"Let's get back to our immediate problem. You say

that the man they call the Dark King has the

Mindsword now. Well, that may be good or bad

news for some of us in terms of the Game, but does

it matter beyond that? The Game is only a game,

and what real difference does it make?"

"You fool! Are you incapable of understanding?

This Game, that you're so proud of winning-it got

out of hand long ago. Haven't you been listening?

Did you hear nothing that Apollo just said about the

death of Hermes?"

"All right. All right. Let's talk about Hermes Mes-

senger. He had supposedly gone to collect all the

Swords again, to get them out of human hands,

because some of us were getting worried. But do

you think he would really have destroyed the

Swords, once he had them all collected? I don't

think so."

That suggestion was greeted by a thoughtful

pause, a general silence.

And that silence broken by a slow and thoughtful

voice: "Besides, are we really sure that Hermes is

dead? What solid evidence do we have?"

Now even Apollo the reasoner felt compelled to

howl his rage at such thickheadedness. "One of the

Swords killed Hermes! Farslayer, hurled from the

hands of a mere human!"

Apollo got a venomous retort. "How can we be

sure that that's what really happened? Has anyone

seen the Sword Farslayer since then? Did any one of

us see Hermes fall?"

At this moment, Zeus once more stepped for-

ward. He conveyed the impression of one who had

been waiting for the exactly proper instant to take

action. And it seemed that he had at last timed an

attempt correctly, because for once he was not

howled down before he could begin to speak.

"Wisdom comes with experience," Zeus intoned,

"and experience with age. To learn from the past is

the surest way to secure the future. In peace and

wisdom there is strength. In strength and wisdom

there is peace. In wisdom and-"

No one howled him down this time, but after the

first dozen words hardly any of his fellow deities

were still listening. Instead they resumed their

separate conversations around the circle, taking time

out from the general debate while they waited for

Zeus to be finished. This treatment was even deadlier

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than the other. Zeus soon realized what was

happening. He retreated again to his own place in the

ring, and there withdrew into a total, sulky silence.

Now-at another place along the ring there was a

stirring and a swirling movement among the snow and

rocks. Attention became focused on this spot, just as a

new member joined the company there. Rather than

coming out of the sky as the others had, this god

emerged up out of the Earth. The form of Hades was

indistinct, all dimness and darkness, a difficult object

even for the faculties of another deity to comprehend.

Hades in his formless voice said that yes, Hermes

was certainly dead. No, he, Hades, hadn't actually

seen the Messenger fall, or die. But he had been with

Hermes shortly before what must have been the

moment of that death, when Hermes was engaged in

taking some Swords away from some humans. It was

Hades' opinion that Hermes had been acting in good

faith in his attempt to collect the Blades, though

unfortunately they had been lost again.

Now another side discussion was developing. What

about that offending human, the one that had

apparently thrown Farslayer at Hermes and brought

him down? The awful hubris that could strike a god,

any god, to earth cried out to heaven for vengeance.

What punishment had been dealt to

the culprit? Surely someone had already seen to it that

some special and eternal retaliation had been

inflicted?

The same thought had already occurred, long ago,

to certain other members of the group. Alas, they had

to report now that when they first heard of the

offending human he was already beyond the reach of

even divine revenge.

"Then we must exact some sort of retribution from

humanity in general."

"Aha, now we come to it! Just which part of

humanity do you propose to strike at? Those who are

your pawns in the Game, or those I claim as mine?"

Apollo's disgust at this argument was beyond all

measure. "How can you fools still talk of pawns, and

games? Do you not see-?" But words failed him for

the moment.

Hades spoke up again, this time with his own

suggestion for the permanent disposal of the Swords.

If all those god-forged weapons could somehow be

collected, and delivered to him, he would see to their

burial. All the other deities present could permanently

cease to worry.

"We might cease doing a lot of things permanently,

once you had all the Swords! Of course you'd be

willing to accept twelve for yourself-and incidentally

to win the Game by doing so! Where would that leave

us? What kind of fools do you take us for?"

Hades was, or at least pretended to be, affronted by

this attitude. "What do I care now about a game?

Now, when our very existence is at stake. Haven't

you been listening to Apollo?"

"Our very existence, bah! Tell that stuff to some

one who'll believe it. Gods are immortal. We all

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know that. Hermes is playing dead, hiding out

somewhere. It's part of a ploy to win the Game.

Well, I don't intend to lose, whatever happens. Not

to Hermes, and not to Apollo, and particularly not

to you!"

Aphrodite, murmuring softly, announced to all

who would listen that she could think up her own

ideas for getting back the Swords. Those who had

the Swords, or most of them anyway, were only

mere men, were they not?

Apollo spoke again. This time he prefaced his

remarks by waving his bow, a gesture that gained

him notably greater attention. He said that if the

Swords could be regathered, they should then be

turned over to him, as the most logical and trust-

worthy of gods. He would then put an end to the

threat the weapons posed, by the simple expedient

of shooting them, like so many arrows, clean off the

Earth.

Before Apollo had finished his short speech most

of his audience were ignoring him, bow and all,

even as they had ignored Zeus. Meanwhile in the

background Mars was rumbling threats against

unspecified enemies. Others were laughing,

secretly or openly, at Mars.

Vulcan was quietly passing the word around the

circle that if others were to gather up the Blades

and bring them back to him, and if a majority of his

peers were to assure him that that was what they

really wanted, he'd do his best to melt all of the

Twelve back into harmless iron again.

No one was paying the least attention to Zeus

mighty sulking, and he reverted to speech in a last

effort to establish some authority. "It seems to me

that the Smith here incorporated far too much of

humanity into the Swords. Why was it necessary to

quench -the Blades, when they came from the fire

and anvil, in living human blood? And why were so

much human sweat and human tears introduced

into the process?"

Vulcan bristled defensively at this. "Are you try-

ing to tell me my trade? What do you know about it,

anyway?"

Here Mars, gloating to see his rival stung, jumped

into the argument. "And then there was that last

little trick you played at the forging. Taking off the

right arm of the human smith who helped you-

what was that all about?"

The Smith's answer-if indeed he gave one-was

lost in a new burst of noise. A dozen voices flared

up, arguing on several different subjects. The meet-

ing was giving every sign of breaking up, despite

Apollo's best thundering efforts to hold it together a

little longer. As usual there had been no general

agreement on what their common problems were,

much less on any course of action. Already the cir-

cle of the gods was thinning as the figures that com-

posed it began to vanish into the air. The wind

hummed with their departing powers. Hades,

eschewing aerial flight as usual, vanished again

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straight down into the Earth beneath his feet.

But one voice in the council was still roaring on,

bellowing with monotonous urgency. Against all

odds, its owner was at last able to achieve some-

thing like an attentive silence among the handful of

deities who remained.

"Look! Look!" was all that voice was saying. And

with one mighty arm the roaring god was pointing

steadily downslope, indicating a single, simple line

of markings in the snow, tracks that the mundane

wind was rapidly effacing.

There could be no doubt about those markings.

They were a line of departing footprints, heading

straight down the mountainside, disappearing behind

snow-buried rocks before they had gone more than a

few meters. Though they marked strides too long and

impressions too broad and deep to have been made by

any human being, there was no doubt that they had

been left by mortal feet.

CHAPTER 2

The one-armed man came stumbling along through

midnight rain, following a twisted cobblestone alley

into the lightless heart of the great city of Tashigang.

He was suffering with fresh wounds now-one knife-

gash bleeding in his side and another one in his knee-

besides the old maiming loss of his right arm. Still he

was better off than the man who had just attacked

him. That blunderer was some meters back along the

twisted alley, face down in a puddle.

Now, just when the one-armed man was about on

the point of going down himself, he steered toward a

wall and leaned against it. Standing with his broad

back in its homespun shirt pressed to the stone wall of

somebody's house, he squeezed himself in as far as

possible under the thin overhang of roof, until the

eaves blocked at least some of the steady rain from

hitting him in the face. The man felt frightened by

what had happened to his knee.

From the way the injured leg felt now when he tried

to put his weight on it, he wasn't going to be able to

walk much farther.

He hadn't had a chance yet to start worrying

about what might have happened when the knife

went into his side.

The one-armed man was tall, and strongly built.

Still, by definition, he was a cripple, and therefore

the robber-if that was all he had been-might

have taken it for granted that he'd be easy game.

Even had the attacker guessed that his intended

victim carried a good oaken cudgel tucked into his

belt under his loose shirt, he could hardly have pre-

dicted how quickly his quarry would be able to

draw that club and with what authority he'd use it.

Now, leaning against the building for support, he

had tucked his cudgel away in his belt again, and

was pressing his fingers to his side under his shirt.

He could feel the blood coming out, a frighteningly

fast trickle.

Except for the rain, the city around him was

silent. And all the windows he could see through the

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rain were dark, and most of them were shuttered.

No one else in the huge city appeared to have taken

the least notice of the brief clash he had just sur-

vived.

Or had he survived it, air all? Real walking, he

had to admit, was no longer possible on his dam-

aged knee. For the present, at least, he could still

stand upright. He thought he must be near his des-

tination now, and it was essential that he reach it.

Pushing himself along the wall that he was leaning

on, and then the next wall, one stone surface after

another, he stumbled on, hobbled on.

He remembered the directions he had been given,

and he made progress of a sort. Every time his

weight came on the knee at all he had to bite back

an outcry of pain. And now dizziness, lightheaded-

ness, came welling up inside his skull. He clenched

his will like a fist, gripping the treasure of con-

sciousness, knowing that if that slipped from him

now, life itself was likely to drain quickly after it.

His memorized directions told him that at this

point he had to cross the alley. Momentarily

forsaking the support of walls, divorcing his mind

from pain, he somehow managed it.

Leaning on another wall, he rested, and rebuilt

his courage. He'd crawl the rest of the way to get

there if he had to, or do what crawling he could on

one hand and one knee. But once he went down to

try crawling he didn't know he'd ever get back up

on his feet again.

At last the building that had been described to

him as his goal, the House of Courtenay, came into

sight, limned by distant lightning. The description

had been accurate: four stories tall, flat-roofed,

half-timbered construction on the upper levels,

stone below. The house occupied its own small

block, with streets or alleys on every side. The seek-

er's first view was of the front of the building, but

the back was where he was supposed to go in order

to get in. Gritting his teeth, not letting his imagina-

tion try to count up how many steps there might be

yet to take, he made the necessary detour. He

splashed through puddles, out of one alley and into

an even narrower one. From that he passed to one

so narrow it was a mere paved path, running beside

the softly gurgling, stone-channeled Corgo. The sur-

face of the river, innocent now of boats, hissed in

the heavier bursts of rain.

The man had almost reached the building he

wanted when his hurt knee gave way completely.

He broke his fall as best he could with his one

arm. Then, painfully, dizzily, he dragged himself

along on his one arm and his one functioning leg.

He could imagine the trail of blood he must be

leaving. No matter, the rain would wash it all

away.

Presently his slow progress brought him in out of

the rain, under the roof of a short, narrow passage

that connected directly with the door he wanted.

He crawled on and reached the narrow door. It

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was of course locked shut. He propped himself up

in a sitting position against it, and began to

pound on the door with the flat of his large hand.

The pounding of his calloused hand seemed to the

man to be making no noise at all. At first it felt

like he was beating uselessly, noiselessly, on some

thick solid treetrunk . . . and then it felt like noth-

ing at all. There was no longer any feeling in his

hand.

Maybe no one would hear him. Because he was no

longer able to hear anything himself. Not even the

rain beating on the flat passage roof. Nor could he

see anything through the gathering grayness. Not

even his hand before his face ....

At a little after midnight Denis the Quick was

lying awake, listening to the rain. That usually

made him sleepy, as long as he knew that he was

securely warm and dry indoors. But tonight he was

having trouble sleeping. The images of two attract-

ive women were coming and going like provocative

dancers in his imagination. If he tried to concen-

trate on one, then the other intruded as if jealous.

He knew both women in real life, but his real-life

problem was not that he had to choose between

them. No, he was not so fortunate, he told himself,

as to have problems of just that kind.

Denis was well accusomed to the normal night

sounds of the house. The sound he began to hear

now, distracting him from the pleasant torment of

waking dreams, was certainly not one of them.

Denis got up quickly, pulled on a pair of trousers,

and went out of his small bedchamber to investi-

gate.

His room on the ground floor of the house gave

almost directly on the main workshop, which was a

large chamber now illumined faintly by a sullen

smoldering of coals banked in the central forge.

Faint ghost-gleams of firelight touched tools

around the forge and weapons racked on the walls.

Most of the work down here was on some form of

weaponry.

Denis paused for a moment beside the fire,

intending to light a taper from its coals. But then

he changed his mind, and instead reached up to

the high wall niche where the Old World light was

kept.

The back door leading into the shop from outside

ground level was fitted with a special peephole.

This was a smooth little bulge of glass, cleverly

shaped so that anyone looking through it from

inside saw out at a wide angle. Another lens, set

into the door near its very top, was there to let the

precious flameless torch shine out. Denis now lifted

the antique instrument into position there and

turned it on; immediately the narrow passage just

outside the door was flooded with clear, brilliant

light. And even as Denis did this, the sound that had

caught his attention came again, a faint thumping

on the door itself. Now through the fish-eye lens he

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Fred Saberhagen - Swords 03 - The Third Book Of Swords

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