Kedrigern in Wanderland Page 4

  “lt’s possible. I’ll do my best to concentrate on their weapons,” the sword replied.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Louise.”

  “These are not nice men, Hamarak. They’re coming here to kill, rape, loot, and burn. They’re cruel and filled with hatred. They’ll show mercy to no living thing.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Hamarak said, “Maybe it would be all right if I hurt one or two of them. Just a little. To scare the others.”

  “Trust me. If we do this properly, Mergith will be begging to meet us.”

  The brigands advanced on the bridge in something resembling a formation. Hamarak stood his ground, sword in hand. When the first rank came close enough to note his features, one of the men cried out, “lt’s him! It’s the swordsman from the west!” and they all came to a disorderly halt.

  “Go away,” Hamarak called to them. “No killing, raping, looting, or burning.”

  “By whose command? That tinpot wizard on the hill?” someone shouted.

  “It is I, Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, who command it!” cried the sword, her voice like the clang of a tocsin. “Defy me now, and I will show no mercy.”

  The brigands huddled together, chattering, gesticulating in a wild manner. Hamarak waited patiently, yawning from time to time. At last one of them came forward. Hamarak recognized him as a member of the luckless forest quintet.

  “Let us pass unopposed and we’ll spare your life. We’ll even give you a share in the plunder,” he said.

  “No,” Hamarak replied.

  The man returned to his companions. After more bud-

  dling, much shouting, and frequent brandishing of weapons, a different brigand approached him. “Become our leader and help us take Dendorric. We’ll give you a tenfold share and obey you in everything,” he said.

  Hamarak shook his head. “No. You have to go away.”

  “We won’t. We’ll kill you and take Dendorric ourselves.”

  Hamarak saw no point in responding. He waited while the man rejoined his fellows. There was a lot of shouting this time, and some very bad language, and then, without warning, the brigands charged en masse, straight for him.

  Not one passed. The black blade swept across their path, back and forth, like a scythe, and with each stroke a hail of shattered weaponry went pattering into the water below. The force of Hamarak’s strokes sent men reeling, some to collide with their comrades and fall in a tangle, others to topple over the parapet into the swift-running river.

  In a very short time, Hamarak stood alone on the bridge, ankle-deep in fragments of metal and wood. A scattered rout of brigands was heading for the forest, some limping from the bridge, others dragging themselves up the far bank of the river.

  “My arms are tired. That’s hard work,” Hamarak said.

  “I hope you don’t think it was easy for me,” the sword said petulantly.

  “No. But it’s harder than cutting down trees, or using a shovel.”

  Loud noises rose behind him. Tuming, Hamarak saw a crowd assembled at the town end of the bridge. They were cheering and waving to him. Women strewed flowers, and men threw their hats in the air.

  “Just as I planned. You’re their hero,” said the sword.

  “I am?”

  “Of course you are. You’ve just performed a heroic feat and saved their miserable clutter of hovels. In a little while Mergith will hear of it and send for us. This is really going more smoothly than I had hoped.”

  “Will they give me breakfast? I’m hungry.”

  “They’ll give you anything you want, Hamarak. Just don’t get emotionally involved with any of the young ladies. When Mergith summons us, we must be ready. And please don’t forget to call me Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, whenever you refer to me.”

  Hamarak shouldered the blade and trudged toward the crowd, waving genially. They cheered even louder. Children ran forward to greet him and danced along at his side. Pretty ladies threw their arms around his neck and kissed him with great enthusiasm. Men clapped him on the back and clasped his hand warmly.

  With Hamarak at their center, the crowd swept through the narrow streets toward the inn, to celebrate in earnest. On the way, they passed the bakery. The owner, apprised of Dendorric’s deliverance, had resumed the morning’s work. The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air, and at Hamarak’s request, the crowd stopped here.

  “I’d like some fresh bread,” said Hamarak.

  “Have some pastry!” a man cried.

  “Cookies!” a woman urged.

  “A raisin cake!” said a child.

  “I only want bread. I like nice fresh bread. Buttered.”

  “Then nice fresh bread is what you shall have, savior of Dendorric,” said the fat little baker grandly. He stepped inside and emerged with three rounded loaves of bread still warm from the oven. “My thanks and my compliments,” he announced, amid cheers.

  The crowd moved on to the inn, where Hamarak called for butter. While everyone else imbibed, he feasted on the warm bread. Between mouthfuls, he gave an account of the battle on the bridge. Since he was not completely clear in his own mind regarding what had happened, or how, his account was extremely terse. The townspeople were impressed as much by his apparent humility as by his demonstrated prowess. They gazed on him in wonderment.

  “That’s a fine sword. I’ve never seen one like it,” a man said admiringly.

  “It cut right through the brigands’ blades,” said another. “And look—not a nick in it!”

  “It must be magic!” a woman whispered.

  “An enchanted blade!” was buzzed about among the assembled townspeople. They gathered more closely around Hamarak to gaze upon the sword in awe.

  “This is Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, the great black blade of the west,” he said. “I’m Hamarak. I couldn’t have saved Dendorric without her.”

  In the admiring silence that followed this remark, a single figure pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Hamarak. He wore a rust-speckled breastplate and helmet. His cloak was unclean and spattered with mud, and mud was caked on his boots. He carried a pike which he had to hold at an awkward angle because of the low ceiling, and even lower beams, of the inn.

  “Are you the one who held the bridge?” the pikeman asked.

  A voice from the crowd called out, “He’s the one who saved Dendorric from the brigands!” and another added, “When Mergith’s guards ran and hid in the castle!” Some angry murmuring followed.

  The pikeman turned, knocking his pike against a post and drawing amused snickers from the crowd. “Do you think we were afraid of those raggedy beggars?” he asked defiantly.

  “No—we think you were terrified!” someone at the rear of the room called out. There was loud laughter.

  “It so happens that we knew someone was going to hold the bridge. Mergith is a wizard, you know. He foresaw the whole thing. We were just keeping out of this swordsman’s way so he could fulfill his destiny,” the pikeman said.

  This announcement silenced the townspeople. It was a possibility that no one had thought of. They looked at one another uncomfortably. Hamarak, having finished his second loaf, broke the third and began to butter it thickly, a look of quiet contentment on his heavy features. He was quite satisfied to enjoy good bread while he could, and let the others go on talking at each other.

  “If Mergith knew that the brigands were coming, why didn’t he tell us?” a woman demanded.

  “He didn’t want to worry you,” replied the pikeman.

  “He could have told us the swordsman would save us.”

  “He didn’t want you getting complacent, either.”

  “Those wizards are all alike,” someone muttered.

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” said the pikeman. “You’re safe, aren’t you?”

  The crowd of townspeople began to melt away, grumbling. Clearly the celebration was over. Reluctantly, with wistful backward glances at Hamarak and his enchanted swo
rd, they began to shuffle to their day’s tasks.

  The pikeman turned once again to Hamarak. “The Master wants to speak to you,” he said.

  “Do you mean Mergith?”

  “Who else? Mergith is the only master around here.”

  “Is it all right if I finish my bread first?”

  The pikeman glanced about and saw a half-filled pitcher of ale on a nearby table. “You go ahead and finish. I’ll sit over here and wait for you,” he said, commandeering the pitcher.

  The castle on the hilltop was smaller inside than it appeared to be from the outside, and very untidy. All the way to Mergith’s throneroom, Panstygia was making low sounds of disgust and disapproval, just loud enough for Hamarak to hear.

  He said nothing; he was too impressed to speak. This was the first time Hamarak had ever set foot in a castle, and despite Panstygia’s complaints, he thought Mergith’s stronghold a marvelous place. Rubbish was lying about everywhere, true, but it was rubbish of the very highest quality. Even the rats were sleek and well fed. For the first time in his life, it occurred to Hamarak that owning a farm might not be the finest thing in the world. Being a wizardking seemed much nicer.

  Mergith’ s throneroom, the state chamber of Dendorric, was a spacious room at the top of the castle. lt had an uneven flagstone floor and rough stone walls hung with darkened tapestries that quivered in the constant drafts. A roaring fire warmed the room just a bit, and a half-dozen torches mounted in brackets gave illumination. Beside the hearth stood a crude table and a pair of low stools. The only other furniture was an elaborately carved wooden throne which appeared to have been freshly painted. On the throne sat a lean, sharp-faced man dressed all in black. He was as tense as a tightened spring.

  Four guards stood by the throne, and when Hamarak and the pikeman entered, the guards stepped forward, hands on their weapons, to form a box around Hamarak. They said not a word and made no threatening gesture, but their expressions were not friendly.

  The pikeman went to the foot of Mergith’s throne. “This is the man who drove off the brigands, Master,” he said.

  “Indeed. All alone?” said Mergith softly.

  “Entirely alone, Master. His sword is enchanted, the people say.”

  “How very fortunate for him. And for them. What is his name?”

  “He didn’t say, Master. He doesn’t say much.”

  Waving the pikeman aside, Mergith smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Swordsman, come closer that I might convey my gratitude for your service to my subjects,” he called.

  Hamarak came to the foot of the throne, the sword still resting on his shoulder. The guards kept close watch, ready to pounce at the first suspicious move.

  “What is your name, my fine champion?” Mergith asked.

  “Hamarak.”

  “So. A good name. A fine strong name. A hero’s name. And what brings you to Dendorric, Hamarak?”

  “I’m going east. Dendorric is on the way.”

  “So it is, so it is. Particularly if one is coming from the west,” said Mergith, a yellowed smile nearly splitting his narrow face. “And you bear an enchanted sword, I’m told.”

  “Yes. This is Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, the great black blade of the west. She wants to meet you.”

  Mergith shrank back: a momentary flicker of fear ran through him at the thought that Hamarak’s words might be the subtle mocking prelude to a quick and fatal slash; but the sight of Hamarak’s homely open features reassured the wizard. There was no subtlety, nor malice, in that face.

  “Does she?” he responded, raising his black brows in wonder. “How nice of her. How very sociable. May I hold her?”

  “If you want to,” Hamarak said, presenting the hilt of the black sword to Mergith. The wizard stood and grasped it in both his bony, long-fingered hands. He raised the blade high and made a few nimble passes in the air.

  “lt’s beautifully balanced,” he observed.

  “It’s a good sword,” Hamarak said agreeably.

  Mergith returned to the throne, sat down, and laid the black sword across his knees. He pushed back the lank black hair that had fallen over his forehead. Favoring Hamarak with another sallow smile, he gestured to the guards. “You may leave us,” he said. “I would speak with the swordsman in private.”

  No sooner had the door shut behind the last guard than Panstygia said in a clear commanding voice, “Mergith, you must help me.”

  Mergith gave a start and jerked his hands away from the blade. “Did you speak to me?” he asked warily.

  “I did, Mergith. I’ve come a long way to seek your assistance. Do not disappoint me, please.”

  Mergith looked suspiciously at Hamarak, who stood gazing at a half-eaten loaf that lay on the table by the fireplace. The swordsman’s lips had not moved. He could not be a ventriloquist. And yet Mergith had heard of no enchanted talking swords in the area. It could be a trick.

  But who would dare? More to the point, who was capable? The people of Dendorric disliked him; but they were a mob of clods. They could never have come up with such an elaborate ruse. Yet someone had. But was it a ruse, or was this truly an enchanted blade speaking to him, asking his aid?

  There was one easy way to make sure of Hamarak. Mergith summoned the swordsman closer and said, “I have been remiss in my thanks. I must reward you for your service to Dendorric.” He dug deep into the sleeve of his gown and drew forth a large golden coin, which he held up in two fingers, turning it to catch the torchlight. “Look at this coin, Hamarak. It’s a bright, pretty coin, isn’t it? Look how it catches the light.”

  “It’s pretty,” said Hamarak.

  “Look closely. Listen. You’ve worked hard today, Hamarak. You must be tired. Aren’t you tired?”

  “A little. It’s still only morning.”

  “But think of all you’ve done. You need a rest. Wouldn’t you like a nice rest?” Mergith asked in a soft, lulling voice.

  “I wouldn’t mind. My arms are tired.”

  “Then you must rest,” Mergith said, turning the coin, on which Hamarak’s eyes were fixed. “You’re already beginning to feel very sleepy. Your eyes are getting heavy. It would be nice to sit by the warm fire, and rest your weary bones, and go to sleep. Wouldn’t that be nice, Hamarak?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Then you must do it. Go over by the fire and sit on a stool. Have a good long sleep, and don’t wake up until you hear the command. Go, Hamarak.”

  Hamarak walked at his customary slow pace to the fireside, where he settled on a stool and leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands and gazing drowsily into the fire. Mergith looked upon his broad, motionless back, smiled, and patted the hilt of the sword possessively.

  “And now, my dear sword, we can converse in privacy. What would you ask of me?” said Mergith.

  “I am the victim of an enchantment. My brother and sister are victims, too. Only a wizard can help us. Needless to say, you will be rewarded generously.”

  “I can see your problem. What happened to the others?”

  “William was turned into a great iron shield. And Alice dear, sweet little Alice . . . was turned into a golden

  crown.”

  Mergith’s brows rose. He nodded slowly and appreciatively. “That’s a very impressive triple enchantment. Whatever did you do to bring it upon yourselves? And at whose hands?”

  “It was the work of Vorvas the Vindictive,” said the blade coldly

  “I’ve heard of Vorvas. He was legendary for his transformation spells. He’s dead now, you know. Died about twenty years ago, in his cave.”

  “Was it painful?”

  “I should think so. Slow, too, in all likelihood.”

  “Good,” said Panstygia grimly.

  “It was also quite humiliating.”

  “Better and better. Tell me all about it.”

  “Not much to tell, really. Vorvas became rather absentminded in his last century or so. One day he turned himself int
o a vole for some reason, and forgot to notify his familiar of the change. His familiar was a large black cat.”

  “Serves him right. But if Vorvas died, why am I still a sword?”

  “He wasn’t called ‘Vorvas the Vindictive’ for nothing, good blade. He placed an exceptionally strong spell on you to make sure it would outlast his own life. What did you do that got him so angry?”

  The blade hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead with her story. “When our parents died, the neighboring kingdom seized disputed lands on the western border. William and I went off to fight them—his battle name

  was Shield of the Realm, and I was called Sword of Righteousness—while Alice stayed behind to act for the crown. During a lull in the fighting, when the three of us were home together, Vorvas came to offer his magic in our cause. In return, he wanted to marry me.”

  “But you refused him.”

  “Vorvas was three hundred and eighty-nine years old at the time, and exceedingly ugly. He smelled like a dead goat. I spumed him. William threatened him. Alice denounced him. He enchanted us on the spot and carried us off with him. He even put enchantments on distant cousins who happened to be visiting us at the time. He was extremely cruel. I ended up sealed in an oak tree. I don’t know what’s become of William and Alice. Or our cousins,” the sword concluded.

  “It may be difficult to find out. You were sealed in that oak tree for a long time. Just a few months before his fatal oversight, Vorvas celebrated his five hundredth birthday.”

  “One loses track of the days when one is sealed up in a tree. But surely you can help me find the others, and free us from our enchantment,” said the blade confidently.

  “I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” the wizard said, gripping the sword firmly and rising from the throne. “In the first place, I much prefer not to tamper with one of Vorvas’s spells. He was far more powerful than I, and very nasty. And in the second place, I have little need at present for a pair of grateful princesses and a grateful prince, but I could do very well with an enchanted sword. Oh, yes, very well indeed.”