as Kate had described a Blade--strong,
intense, a dagger in a box. Bullwhip and
another stood ready to grasp his arms, but suddenly
Durendal guessed what was going to happen. Hero
worship ...
Prime slapped his hands down on his thighs,
lifted his chin defiantly, and said, "Do it now!"
--the Durendal way.
"Serve or die!" In, three feet of
steel through the chest, back out again. Done!
Durendal saw the contortion of agony, the instant
relief. Surprise, pride ... All so
familiar! Almost no blood at all.
Wolfbiter did not smile even when the waves
of cheering boomed back from the roof and his friends poured
around to congratulate him. He just stood there,
acknowledging the acclaim with quiet dignity, as if
to say that it was no more than his due. He was
obviously popular, which was a good sign in
Ironhall, and his assignment to Durendal was being
hailed as incredible good fortune.
Durendal knelt to give him back his
sword, for that seemed a fitting tribute
to courage and years of effort. The King could not do it
that way, but another Blade should. With more
heartrending deja vu he watched the boy
inspect the bloodstains and then hang the sword
on his belt.
Wait for it!
Wolfbiter was distracted by more knights coming
to compliment him. Suddenly he turned from them
impatiently and glanced around, seeking his ward.
When he located Durendal, his eyes widened in
shock. That was it, the moment of realization, the moment
when the ward became the sun and the moon, the light
of the world.
Remembering the King's words to him four years
ago, Durendal said, "Ready to ride, Sir
Wolfbiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"I think we can eat first."
"As you wish, Sir Durendal."
Did the kid never smile?
During the raucous festivities that followed,
he was shocked to discover that the Litany of Heroes
now included his own exploit at Waterby. The
roar that followed seemed to make the sky of
swords shimmer and glitter more brightly and would not
stop until he rose and took a bow. Very few
Blades lived to hear their own names in the
Litany.
Somewhat later he found himself on his feet
giving the Durendal Night speech and mouthing all
the platitudes he had suffered through five times
during his own youth--honor, duty, service.
Yet the hundred young faces out there did not seem
to recognize banality when they heard it. Perhaps
it helped to have a real hero spreading the
fertilizer, or perhaps fertilizer was more welcome
when one was still growing. No soprano went
to sleep, no senior yawned, and Grand Master
swore that this was an unprecedented compliment.
Prime Candidate Bullwhip conducted the
real hero around the hall, introducing him
to everyone, even the servants, even the Brat. His
Blade followed two steps behind. When Sir
Durendal went to the privy, Sir Wolfbiter
was immediately overcome with the same need.
Dawn found the two of them miles away,
riding into the rising sun. Of course Wolfbiter
was as impressive with a horse as he was with a
rapier--if he had any failings at all, they
would have been mentioned. Even his manner was
appropriate; he knew he was good, but he would
let the world find that out for itself. Everyone wanted
to compare him to Durendal. Had he been like this:
bright, sharp, untested, dangerous? He
suspected he had been a lot more cocky. He
had been younger, of course.
"Ready to hear the story?"
"Yes, sir." Not a smile, though, only that
intense dark stare. Why had he not died of
curiosity before now?
"First, though ... I couldn't tell you this
earlier, but Grand Master submits detailed
reports on all the seniors. The reason you
stayed Prime all those long months is that you are
so fiery good! The King has been saving you for
something special."
did not comment.
"This is the special something. Remember
Everman, just behind me?"
That won a faint frown. "Yes, sir."
"Did you give him his sword, too?"
"No, sir."
"He and his ward were sent on a dangerous
mission to a mythical city halfway around the world,
in Altain. They never returned and were assumed
dead, but word arrived a few months ago that
Everman at least is still alive, probably
enslaved. Two days ago, the King ordered me
to go and get him back. He gave me a Blade
because I'm going to need one. We sail with tomorrow's
tide."
The hooves drummed on the dewy trail. The
riders squinted into the rising sun. Wolfbiter
seemed to be thinking. He certainly did not
volunteer any remarks.
"The journey there will take us at least two
years, by ship, by horse, and eventually by camel.
We shall cross seas and deserts and mountains. We
must evade brigands and wild beasts, storms and
disease, pirates and hostile tribesmen."
Still no reply.
"Well?" Durendal said, exasperated. The
hawk was loosed from the hand at last; he had been
assigned to aid the hero of his dreams on a
fairy-tale mission to the ends of the earth. Was he
pleased or scared? Couldn't he say anything at
all?
His Blade's swift glance seemed
to appraise him: What does he want of me?
What am I doing wrong? "Sir?"
"Sonny, not one Blade in ten ever draws his
sword in anger from the night he is bound till the
day he is knighted and released--his whole
career is one big sham. He struts and
postures and does nothing of any interest except
prod girls. You are going to be fighting for my
life and yours about once a week for the next five
years. Your chances of ever coming back alive are
worse than slim. How does that future look
to you?"
"Oh." Wolfbiter did not exactly smile
then, but he came close. "Very satisfactory
indeed, sir."
WOLFBITER
IV
Eight hundred days later, they rode
into Samarinda, mounted on the shaggy, tough ponies
of Altain, which had no great speed or beauty but
could amble on forever. The Blades were posing
successfully as free swords, two of the dozen
nondescript guards hired to guard Sheik
Akrazzanka's caravan of linen, ivory, and
dyestuffs. Ironically, despite all
Kromman's skilled efforts at masquerading as
an itinerant scholar, the wily traders were quite
convinced he was a spy, just on principle. They
did not care, since most of them were spying for someone
or other.
The sheer size of Altain made men feel like
fleas. Ice-clad peaks lined the horizon--
clear at dawn, fading under the sun, and yet
revealed the next morning unchanged, as if a
whole day's ride had achieved nothing. Compared
to those giants, the nearby gray-brown hills
seemed insignificant, but hours of riding were
needed just to descend a slope or climb out of a
valley. Water holes were scattered and
precious, trees nonexistent, villages even
rarer. From time to time Durendal would catch a
glimpse of watchers in the distance but never of
tents; rare tracks and droppings were the only
sign of herds. In this parched emptiness, life was
a constant struggle against wind and dust, the gentle,
misty landscape of Chivial an incredible dream.
A man might vie all day with a sadistic sun
searing his eyes and flesh, and at night be fending
off bitter frost under crystal stars.
A line of laden camels wound up the long
hillside ahead, but one lone rider came
cantering back, shouting to every trader, driver, and
guard he passed, "Samarinda in sight!" Most
laughed or cheered. When he reached the end of the
column, he wheeled around to retrace his path;
he drew alongside Durendal. He smiled,
teeth very white against his deep-tanned face--
Sir Wolfbiter, of course.
What would the court of Chivial think of the two
of them now? Under conical, comical felt hats,
their faces were as brown as dried dates. They
wore the baggy trousers and shapeless smocks of the
country, colored a muddy shade, and they
reeked of man and horse and camel. Hair and
beards blew wild in the ceaseless wind. Only
the cat's-eye swords at their sides marked them
for what they were--or what they had once been and
might hope to be again.
"We'll make it before sundown?"
Wolfbiter nodded firmly. "Journey's
end! Praise to the spirits!"
Amused by this rare display of enthusiasm,
Durendal said, "It has been an interesting
trip, has it not?"
His Blade glanced appraisingly at him.
"Moderately, sir. You promised me seas and
deserts and mountains--no complaints there.
Brigands, yes. Wild beasts, I think you
mentioned. Not too many of those. Or pirates. But
hostile tribesmen ... yes, you delivered
those." He did not mention the snakes,
scorpions, fevers, shipwreck, avalanche,
forest fire, and dysentery.
"You delivered me. I'd be rotting in an
unmarked grave in Thyrdonia if you had not been
with me. Or feeding fish."
The Blade's faint smile indicated
satisfaction. At least twice he had saved the
life of his friend and ward with a flashing thrust--and that
put him one ahead of Durendal. "But the same
goes for me, too. And we still have to find our way
home again."
"Enjoy it. The rest of our lives will seem
dull after this."
"I am enjoying it, every minute." He stared at
the skyline, where the horses showed as dark dots.
"I'm considering killing Kromman."
"You don't say? Why?"
"He makes my binding itch."
He was probably joking--it was never easy
to tell. Wolfbiter was a peerless companion, as
tough and reliable as a cat's-eye sword,
uncomplaining, resourceful, and usually a voice
of prudence to restrain Durendal's wilder
impulses. Though he was four years younger, his
blood was colder. He would kill the inquisitor
without a scruple if he thought he had reason
to.
"We'd never have made it here without him,"
Durendal said hopefully. "He will probably
be as useful on our way home. Murder needs
evidence, Wolf." Not necessarily, because some
Blades could detect danger to their
wards by pure instinct.
"He told me that they did a reading on you
once, and it foretold that you were a danger to the
King."
Durendal laughed with a confidence he did not quite
feel. "I know that, and the King knows it. It
doesn't worry him, so why should it worry you?
Readings are about as reliable as old wives'
weather lore."
"And I know that. What matters is whether
Kromman believes it. If he does, then
he's a danger to you, out here in nowhere. He may
not want you ever to get home."
"I honestly think he's more of an asset than
a threat, Wolf."
The Blade glanced thoughtfully at his ward.
"But how much of an asset? One reason I
don't trust him is because he doesn't trust us.
He has brought along conjurements he hasn't
told us about. I'd like to know why Inquisitor
Kromman's blanket looks like mine and feels
like mine and yet weighs three times as much."
Durendal had not known that, and Wolfbiter's
satisfaction was irritating.
"I suppose he's just naturally
secretive."
"Then why did he tell me about the reading?
Why is he so unfriendly all the time?"
"Because he was taught sneering at inquisitors'
school. I think he's never forgiven me for
escaping his clutches once, that's all. I know
he's a human slug, but sarcasm isn't a
capital offense. He does have many good
qualities."
"Name one."
"Resourcefulness. And he's loyal to the King
--you just admitted that yourself. Come on, friend, you can't
kill a man just because you don't like him!"
After a moment Wolfbiter said, "You are an
old sourpuss!"
When they crested the rise and looked down the
long slope to Samarinda in the distance, it seemed
disappointingly similar to other places they had
visited in this last stage of their trek. Like
Alzan or Koburtin, the city itself was only a
slightly rougher patch of the same drab brown as
the overwhelming landscape, with a striking lack of
shining towers or domes of jade, but the flat
valley bottom beyond it displayed the lush
green of cultivation. Water made crops,
crops made food, food must be stored, stores
required defenses. In another hour or so,
Durendal discerned walls and a central building
higher than anything else: palace, castle, or
monastery?
Somewhere between Altain and the court in Chivial, the
legend had become distorted. The military order
that Grand Inquisitor had described was known here
as the Brethren of the Gold Sword. She had
spoken of knights in a castle, which in the local
tongue became monks in a monastery.
Durendal had concluded that the distinction was of little
significance; the building would be fortified and the men
would rule by force or reputation, as required.
Otherwise, the tale seemed to be standing up. He
; had expected it to retreat as he approached, like
a rainbow, but it had grown stronger all along the
Jade Road. Yes, agreed the traders, there
was much gold in Samarinda. They had chuckled at
his questions. A swordsman asking about Samarinda
could have only one thing in mind, wealth. What he
would find would be death.
"You are a fool to dream so," old
Akrazzanka wheezed in the talks around the
campfires. "Many strong young men have I guided
to Samarinda on that quest. Only two have I
brought out again, either to east or to west."
"But some win?" Durendal had asked. "Some
succeed?"
"A few. Not that they manage to keep their
gold for long, you understand--any man foolish enough
to enter that contest will succumb to the first woman or
rogue he meets--but yes, a few live and
depart with much fine gold. I have touched it."
All the rest of the legend might be faked, but
real gold leaving the city was inexplicable. No
one knew of mines or miners in the district, and
everyone agreed that Samarinda gold was the purest
gold in all the world, yellow butter-metal so
soft you could score it with your fingernails, let
alone your teeth. Taking gold to Samarinda was a
byword for futility. If the answer was not the
philosophers' stone, what was it?
Journey's end. The two guards would leave the
caravan here, as would the spy who pretended to be a
scholar. At Kromman's insistence, they had
concealed their relationship. If they did not die in
Samarinda, they could catch an eastbound caravan
in a few days or a month or two,
or when the spirits willed.
Not an end, then, a halfway point. Say a
week in Samarinda to solve the Everman mystery,
or a month for a return caravan, and then two more
years home. Two more years until he saw
Kate again.
Or the King.
Kate and the King, the King and Kate. He was still
bound--many nights he woke up sweating, wondering
if his ward was safe.
The true defense of Samarinda must be the
monks' skills in conjuration, for the city walls
stood only three spans high, which was modest for a
place with a reputation for wealth. Few rooftops
within the walls overtopped them except the castle,
or monastery, itself, which brooded above everything like a
hen within her chicks; yet Durendal had seen many
fortresses in Chivial more impressive. Four
stubby towers rose at the corners of the main
keep, each built of the same brown stone and