An Armory of Swords

Dragon Debt

Robert E. Vardeman

The gleaming, impossibly sharp sword slashed so close that Trav Gorman jumped back in panic. The blade swung around and the fifteen-year-old couldn’t take his eyes off its steely meter-long length. For a brief instant it split sunlight into a delicate fan of colors, then came whirring back at him. This time he forced himself to remain rigidly immobile, no matter the cost to his nerves.

The little crowd of onlookers drew in breath, as the dragon-slaying blade lightly touched the young man’s earlobe. Trav had thought it would be warm with its special Vulcan-forged magic. Instead, it was as cold as any ordinary metal blade.

“And that’s how I slew the last of the great dragons preying on my village of Hues,” Kennick Strongarm boasted loudly. The tall, muscular man twisted his wrist slightly and the god-forged Dragonslicer dropped heavily to Trav’s shoulder, as if conferring knighthood.

But such was distant from Kennick’s mind-and Trav’s. Trav’s face burned hotly with shame at showing any emotion. Kennick, to bolster his own image, seemed to do all he could to disgrace Trav, and today was the worst yet with half the village of Slake looking on. Worse than this, Trav’s sister Juliana stood just behind Kennick, laughing at her brother’s discomfort.

“You’re so brave,” Juliana said, hanging on to Kennick’s sword arm. “Tell us again. How many dragons have you slain with this marvelous weapon?”

“Eight,” Kennick said, puffing up and turning to slide the blade back into its gaudy sheath. Trav couldn’t tear his eyes from the blade. Its length was encrusted with gems the size of his thumbnail, and the silver wire-wrapped handle seemed made for Kennick’s huge grip.

“I thought you said nine,” spoke up Trav’s father, Merrow Gorman. “I definitely counted nine in your tale.”

“Eight, nine, I lose count in the heat of battle. There has never been such a weapon as Dragonslicer,” Kennick said, again whipping out the blade and holding it high in the autumn sun. His dramatic gesture quelled more questions, but Trav saw only reflected glory in the blade and nothing in the wielder. “And the gods have granted its power to me!”

“Juliana,” Trav said, trying to pull attention from Kennick. “We were on our way to gather berries.”

“You go,” Merrow Gorman told his son. The man was slightly stooped from too many years of desperately hard work in fields that produced too little. His lined face, more leather than skin after the long sweltering summer, beamed with approbation for the newcomer. “Let Juliana have some time with the champion of Slake.”

“Champion!” cried Trav. He spat angrily. “He’s no champion. He’s only-”

Merrow Gorman slapped his son and sent him reeling. “Don’t speak of Kennick that way. Don’t forget that he carries one of the Twelve Swords forged by Vulcan. For that alone, he deserves your respect.”

Trav saw the fear in his father’s muddy eyes-and hope, hope that was seldom there of late. To marry his only daughter to a hero, a slayer of dragons, commanded his ambition and imagination. The opinion of a fifteen-year-old boy with no particular skill nor hope for apprenticeship mattered far less to him at the moment. And Trav had to admit the glow in Juliana’s tanned face was more than adulation.

It might be love. That rankled more than any prolonged emptiness in his belly. He was the only one who saw Kennick for what he was.

An unexpected ally hobbled up, what remained of his left leg bound in dirty rags. Wyatt leaned heavily on his crutch as he shouldered through the small crowd.

“Did I hear someone mention Dragonslicer? I know that blade!” He looked about him, but Kennick had already re-sheathed his weapon. “Let me tell you of the time-”

“Not now, Wyatt. Spin your miserable tales some other time. We want to hear Kennick,” interrupted Merrow Gorman.

“I have seen Vulcan’s blade,” protested the village story-spinner. “I-”

“Who wants to listen to made-up stories when we have a real champion to tell us what it is like fighting dragons?” Juliana’s eyes were only for the paladin in his fine clothing. She ignored Wyatt as a man who told tall tales to supplement his meager income from cleaning the muddy streets of Slake and performing other, even less desirable jobs.

“I know dragons. I have seen them. What does this one know of the biggest dragons? Nothing. Come and listen. Sit and I shall tell you of glorious lands and magical weapons and…” Kennick, after giving the old man a glance of amused contempt, had turned away. No one else paid Wyatt any attention. The old man spat, the spittle hissing as it struck the ground.

“Why can’t you see what a liar Kennick is?” Trav muttered as he, too, backed away, bumping into Wyatt and almost knocking the one-legged man into the mud. No one else heard his mumbled retort. The village of Slake was as short on dreams as Merrow Gorman, and dreams were what Kennick offered with his wild tales. Trav ran through the village, passing no great houses, no fine stores brimming with merchandise such as in Westering and other big towns. Worst of all, he passed too many deserted homes, miserable sod huts left empty by the withering sickness that had held Slake hostage for three long months.

Tears welled in the corners of Trav’s eyes as he thought of his lost mother and three brothers. He brushed the wetness away. There was work to do, and standing about lionizing a stranger who had come to Slake only a week before accomplished nothing. Trav could only wish his sister saw with clearer vision. He didn’t want her hurt. She and his father were the only family he had left.

“A braggart, that’s all he is. Well fed because foolish people listen to his stories and believe them and give him food to be lied to again!” Why was he the only one who heard the hollowness of Kennick’s tales?

Trav knew the answer and it burned inside him like a festering wound. The people needed a hero to take their minds off their dreary, dangerous lives, and even Wyatt’s wild tales had turned stale and predictable over the years. The withering fever and poor crops and the demon that had ravaged Slake a year earlier, all had broken spirits and made any diversion welcome. And Trav knew his father wanted Juliana to marry well. No man under the age of forty remaining in Slake qualified. Those unmarried were all dim, dirt poor, or crippled. A wandering paladin expertly swinging one of the Twelve Swords-the Sword of Heroes! — seemed a miraculous opportunity.

“But he lies,” moaned Trav, going over the conflicting tales Kennick had spun. The braggart had a story-teller’s knack, all right. With each repetition the tales grew like tumors, and always so that the teller fought greater battles and triumphed more heroically.

Trav slowed his run and turned toward the chain of S-shaped lakes that gave the village its name. Half a hundred streams fed the lakes, and he had found his special place along a streamlet ignored by others in the village. Leaves were turning into a rainbow of shimmering colors, and a sharpness hung in the air from dying summer and birthing winter.

Walking along his special stream, he found the black- and red-striped berries that would supplement their meals for months after the snows came. Trav gathered slowly, picking with care, trying to forget his father and sister and Kennick and the entire village. Surrounded by the forest, he dared to imagine life being better.

Movement at the edge of his vision caused him to stop his work and whirl about. The gnarled, black-barked limbs of a walnut tree vibrated and a few dead leaves fluttered softly to the ground.

“Who’s there?” he called. Trav put down his capful of berries when he heard a distant crashing sound, as if something heavy had fallen through the leafless tree limbs. Investigating, he moved forward warily through brambles, soon reaching the edge of a small clearing, where a streamlet came wandering through to form a glade of beauty.

And amid the beauty stalked death. Not thirty meters distant, its back fortunately to Trav, its long barbed tail twitching nervously, there lumbered a dragon of such immense size that Trav turned white with fear.

Shaken, he backed away for several meters, then turned and ran. How long he ran, Trav couldn’t say, but he eventually stumbled onto the Slake-Westering Road. He knew where help lay. With legs rubbery from fear and long exertion, he rushed into his village and found Kennick sitting with Juliana beside the public watering trough.

“Dragon!” he blurted, gasping. Kennick turned, gave him a sour look and continued his witty discussion with Juliana.

Trav’s sister turned and gestured angrily at him. “Go away, Trav. You’re bothering us. I must tell Kennick of available lodging. He intends to stay in Slake!”

Trav saw Dragonslicer in its hand-tooled leather sheath leaning against the trough and started to reach for the weapon. Kennick snatched up the magical sword and laid the long blade across his lap.

“Don’t go telling stories, boy,” Kennick chided. “There aren’t any dragons in these woods. I’ve already killed them all.” He laughed and returned to romancing Juliana.

Trav backed off, not knowing what to do, where to go. But some dark instinct drew him dragonward. He ran hard back into the woods, braving the gathering darkness and chill rising wind. He found the streamlet and worked his way up it. The closer he got to the meadow, the slower he crept and the harder his heart pounded.

At the edge of the clearing Trav looked around warily, suspicious of the silence. The huge dragon had departed. A milky whiteness in the sluggishly flowing stream caught his eye. Trav dropped to his knees and cupped his hands, scooping at the water’s surface and coming away with dozens of small, slick-coated spheres. In the darkness, they shone with a cool opalescence that Trav had never seen before. Holding one up, he fancied he could see shadows drifting within. Opening his palm, he let one egg rest there, only to have it dance and roll about, impelled by inner magic.

Trav scooped more tiny globes from the streamlet and broke open a few. A pungent yellow-and-white fluid gushed forth.

“Dragon eggs,” he whispered. He had never seen one before, but he had heard the tales, the fearful warnings. “The she-dragon was laying eggs in the stream.” Fish were feasting on them already.

He looked at the slick of millions of dragon eggs and saw not untold misery and destruction but opportunity. Trav carefully gathered a select small handful of the eggs and went looking for a cool, wet, hidden nest.

Winter wind whined past the tumble of rocks Trav had pulled into the mouth of the cave. Small sweeps of crystalline snow blew past the rock and stopped a few feet from the nest Trav had built. Cave mice had eaten most of the eggs, but he had saved a few. Keeping them damp had been easy for the first few weeks. Small drips running down the cave walls formed puddles deep enough to cover the eggs, but Trav had worried when, after a month, the eggs began drying out in spite of his care. The shells had turned a mottled brown and hardened-and a few weeks earlier, just before the first heavy storm brought blankets of clinging wet snow, the shells began cracking.

Trav sat on the cold floor and poked at the four dragons weakly tumbling over each other, looking more like bugs than the land behemoth that Trav knew had laid the eggs. He picked up the smallest of the clutch, a dragon hardly larger than the end of his thumb.

Holding it aloft, he peered into the unfocused yellow-slit eyes. Trav stroked over the dragon’s head, marvelling at brown scales softer than fleece covering the miniature body. A tiny black tongue flicked out of a mouth too small for Trav to insert even his little finger.

“You’re so tiny, you’re a nothing,” he said, cradling the dragonlet in one hand. With more bitterness, he added, “You’re just like me. Piddling. Nothing more. The runt of the clutch.” Trav smiled slowly and said, “That’s your name. Piddling.” He laughed with delight and allowed himself to imagine that the yellow eyes had fixed on him with childlike adoration.

Trav put Piddling back into the tiny puddle and watched the dragon stumble and fall, splashing water everywhere in its uncoordinated attempts to stay upright on mouselike feet. Picking up another dragon, Trav recoiled when the beast made a savage snap at his finger. The small mouth failed to circle his finger, but he felt bony ridges scraping his skin. He dropped the green-and-gray dragon back into the puddle. The dragon glared at him, then turned and snapped at Piddling, frightening the smaller dragon.

“You are the biggest,” Trav said, “and will grow up larger than the Great Worm Yilgam.” He pushed Piddling away from the more combative dragon. “I’ll call you Yilg. And you,” he said, poking another dragon, “you are ferocious and the stuff of legends. You will be the one to challenge Kennick Strongarm.” Trav spat the name. “I’ll call you Grendl.”

The fourth dragon curled its long, thin tail around itself and went to sleep, oblivious to the struggles between Grendl and Yilg. Piddling stood to one side, watching its brothers fight, with what Trav interpreted as anticipation and anxiety on its expressive face.

“And you, sleepy one, I will name Drowsy.” The sleeping dragon snorted and rolled over, never waking.

Trav got his feet under him, rubbing his freezing hindquarters. He worried that the cave was too cold for his small charges, yet they seemed to thrive. A small dark insect scuttled along the cave floor. Trav grabbed quickly, trapping the carnivorous pig-bug. The scavenger bug went into frenzied motion when he dropped it between Yilg and Grendl. The two newborns snapped at the pig-bug and each other. The larger Yilg won after a brief but fierce skirmish, gulping the bug down whole and looking for more.

Trav had already caught several more torpid pig-bugs and dumped them where the young dragons could feed. “Enjoy your dinner,” Trav said, his own belly growling. He watched, marveling at how different the four dragons were. When they had finished their feast, Yilg and Grendl turned on the smaller Piddling.

“Hey, stop that,” Trav said, picking up the small dragon and holding it close. Piddling hissed slightly, and Trav jerked in surprise. The dragon had burned him with a tiny spark from its nostrils.

“So, you’re growing,” Trav said, knowing a full-sized dragon could bum down a house with a single flare. “Let’s see if this puts out your fire.” He carried Piddling to the cave opening and dropped the young dragon into a snow bank. The dragon floundered about, legs thrashing. Then Piddling snorted real flames.

Trav grinned and finally applauded his small ward. A plume of steam rose from the superheated snow. Piddling lapped at the puddle he had created, backing off when it froze against his tongue. A second gust of flame was larger, stronger, and created a veiling curtain of steam.

Trav watched in silence. It would be some time before Piddling-or even Yilg or Grendl-grew to a size capable of battling Kennick, but the day would come. Dragons grew quickly. Trav would enjoy watching the swaggering dragon-killer face a real opponent.

Trav shivered hard, trying to keep his teeth from clacking. Juliana lay on the far side of the room, a blanket thrown over her quaking body. The way she shook gave the only sign that his sister still lived. The unnatural quiet after the storm had settled both inside and out, preventing them from getting outside for more than a day.

“Where is he?” muttered Merrow Gorman, walking painfully back and forth across the small room in a vain attempt to keep himself warm. “Kennick should have been here by now.”

Trav tried to speak but his teeth began chattering. He wanted to tell his father that Kennick wasn’t likely to return from Westering if it meant any discomfort. He might have promised to bring wood and much-needed food, but Trav would believe the dragon-killing paladin when he saw tangible proof. Warm proof. Food proof.

“We need wood for the stove,” Trav got out. “We cannot last another night. It is still now, but cold, colder than I can remember.”

“So fetch the wood,” snapped his father. “There is no way to get to the woods and chop enough to last more than a few hours, not in this damned cold.” He looked at their pot-bellied metal stove, long since cold from lack of fuel. “Why your mother wanted that monstrosity is a mystery to me. A good stone fireplace would serve us better.”

Trav wanted to point out that any heat would be appreciated, but he lacked the strength to argue. He saw from the way his father’s left leg increasingly dragged that he would be unable to gather firewood, even if a new storm wasn’t threatening. And Juliana was in no condition to move. All she could do was lie under her inadequate blanket and mutter Kennick’s name from between gray-blue lips.

Trav pushed to his feet and went to the door. Snow had drifted high, leaving only a small, open rectangle of wan daylight at the top. He burrowed a few minutes, ignoring his father’s orders to shut the door. At last scrambling out onto the crusted snow, he looked out over a land that had been totally altered. Slake had vanished, save for a few chimneys sputtering fitful puffs of smoke. Gone was the poverty and the horror of the past months; replacing it was a blinding whiteness, a snowy renewal that brought beauty and threatened death.

Trav pulled his thin coat tighter around him and began trudging toward the distant woods. It was far to go, too far. The easy wood had been collected long since, and he had scant notion what he might do once he found decent forest. His father had traded their axe for two bushels of grain, on Kennick’s advice. The grain had proven of poor quality and hadn’t lasted nearly as long as Merrow Gorman had anticipated when making such an extravagant exchange.

Razor-edged wind began blowing, and ice crystals slashed Trav’s exposed face. He pulled a long, woolen scarf woven by his mother over his mouth and nose. The cold still insinuated itself and slowly paralyzed both body and brain.

Hardly knowing where he walked, Trav blundered across the ice-encrusted lakes and up the streamlet toward the cave where, he was sure, his baby dragons must have frozen by now. It had been weeks since he had been able to tend them.

Trav broke through the tough rind of snow over the cave mouth and was met by a blast of hot air. He rocked back, the sudden heat painful against his frozen cheeks. For a moment, he thought some strange volcanic activity had warmed the cave. Then he realized the heat came from the dragons’ own magical internal fire. The dragons huddled together, their considerable fiery breaths splashing against rocks until they glowed red-hot. The dragons then settled down and basked in the radiated warmth.

Trav scrambled gratefully into the warmth of the once-cold cave. He hunkered down and stared at the beasts. It had been a month since he had tended them, but they had thrived. Trav reached out and waited for the cat-sized Piddling, identifiable only by facial markings, to waddle over to him and nuzzle his frozen hand.

“You’ve done well for yourselves,” Trav said, picking up the dragon and stroking its head. The dragon snorted and made growly noises. Trav no longer felt softness in the nut-brown scales. Piddling made no move to wiggle free of his grip. The dragon turned its head up, as if begging to have its chin scratched. Trav started to run his fingers along the neck and belly but Piddling snapped, yellow eyes glaring.

“So, you’ve developed a personality,” Trav marveled. He saw Yilg and Grendl sitting near their heated rock, but nowhere did he see Drowsy. He stood and walked around the cave, hunting for the fourth hatchling. He paused when he saw the tiny skeleton at the rear of the cave.

“The winter has been cruel,” he told Piddling. The dragon growled and snorted again, this time snuggling closer to Trav’s chest. The youth jumped when an unexpected spot of heat burned into his coat. Trav rubbed at the charred area Piddling’s fire breathing had sparked. The dragon peered up at him again, and this time Trav at least imagined that he saw affection in its expression. Like a dog marking territory, Piddling marked its with fire.

An idea formed in Trav’s cold-numbed brain. Of the dragons, Piddling was the smallest and most amenable to handling. Trav wasted no time stuffing Piddling under his coat. He winced as sharp scales nicked his flesh, but he didn’t want the dragon exposed to the bitter cold outside-it would either kill the hatchling or provoke dangerous blasts of flame.

Darkness had settled over the still fall of snow and the wind had died, leaving behind a glacial temperature. Head down, Trav made his way back to his home, trying not to get turned around in the dark. Everything looked different with a meter of snow covering familiar landmarks. Hours later, his feet turned into numb lumps of frozen flesh, Trav found the cold chimney of his family’s hut.

“In,” called Trav, “let me in.” He knocked on the closed door but got no answer. Again and again he banged, to no avail. Frantic, Trav burrowed down through snow until he reached the latch. The door opened with a suddenness that sent him tumbling into the still, cold interior.

For a ghastly moment, Trav thought both Juliana and his father were dead, but their slow, tortured breaths left faint, feathery trails in the air. Trav went to the iron stove and clanged open its door. He carefully drew Piddling from under his coat. The dragon shivered with the exposure and crouched inside the stove, eyes wide and questioning.

“Here, Piddling, try this,” Trav said, giving the dragon a small amount of the household’s remaining grain. The dragon sniffed at the kernels and turned away. Trav shivered with the cold and remembered dragons did not eat grain.

But what could he feed the carnivorous dragon? No bugs or mice were visible.

There was only one source for the needed meat. Dazedly Trav slumped to the floor and began pulling off his boots. His toes had turned blue from frostbite, too numb for any feeling. He had seen frozen digits on other folk, and these were dead. Trav placed a knife against his smallest toe, closed his eyes and shoved down hard. For a moment, he dared not look-it hardly seemed that anything had happened. Then Trav saw he had severed not one but two of his toes and had never felt the pain.

“Here,” he said, placing his severed toes inside the stove next to Piddling. The dragon sniffed at them, then stared balefully at Trav, as if asking permission. Trav felt a giddiness from shock at what he had done. He waved a hand, hoping Piddling interpreted the gesture properly.

The dragon sniffed some more, then began daintily nibbling, using its rudimentary claws as hands to hold the frozen meal. Trav tried to turn away but watched in rapt horror and fascination as Piddling cleaned his toe-bones of all meat. Then the dragon belched a powerful flame that spread inside the stove. Not content with a single short blast, Piddling kept up the flame until the iron glowed dully. Then the small dragon settled down to eating the second digit Trav had given him.

Retreating a little from the glowing stove, Trav did his best to bind his foot. Then he pulled his father and sister closer to the stove. They stirred, then turned toward the heat. The hut would soon be warm enough, and would stay warm for a time.

Especially after Trav fed Piddling four more frozen toes.

“A great day, it is,” said Merrow Gorman, briskly rubbing his hands together. “It is a truly great day for an engagement.”

“Father, please,” said Juliana, blushing. “Kennick doesn’t want any fuss over our betrothal.”

“I’m telling the entire town!” Merrow, despite his bad leg, almost danced about the small room, now lit with warm spring sun pouring through the door.

Trav stood painfully and hobbled outside. He couldn’t bear the notion he had saved his sister from freezing-Piddling had saved her-just to marry Kennick Strongarm. The small dragon, nourished on occasional bugs and food scraps as well as frozen human flesh, had continued warming the iron stove for a week until the cold broke. Trav had not offered his father and sister any explanation of his heating system, nor had they demanded any. Neither did they seem curious about where Kennick had spent the winter.

Trav had returned Piddling to the small cave, where he had made sure his three remaining dragons were well fed with insects and a small rabbit that might have gone into his own stew pot. Those dragons would be Kennick’s undoing. When they grew larger, Trav would use them to show the paladin’s true colors. Dragonslicer was a fierce, magical blade, but the wielder was weak. Why couldn’t Juliana see that? Why couldn’t his father?

Trav hobbled out of his house into the sun, then paused. From behind the sod hut not twenty meters away, Trav saw a hunched-over figure watching him. The village smith and his family had all perished during the winter, and their house had been taken over by another. For some reason, Trav was startled to recognize the old story spinner, Wyatt.

“You hobble along, Trav,” observed Wyatt. “You will end up like me.” He spat, the gob hissing where it struck the ground. Trav retreated a pace, not wanting to be near the ragpicker. Sometime during the winter, Wyatt’s face had become covered with thick, scaly patches, giving him a repulsive, almost reptilian aspect.

“My feet were frostbitten,” Trav explained tersely, not wanting to engage in conversation with the old man.

“Wait, don’t go.” Wyatt’s voice carried a startling snap of command. “You will be cursed if you continue on your course.”

“Whatever are you saying? Is this another tale? I have no money, so save your breath.”

“No tale, no tale. I, too, know Kennick for the liar he is. I know dragons, and I know Dragonslicer. Oh, how I know that blade!” Wyatt edged closer, his crutch making sucking sounds in the soft ground as he moved. In a conspiratorial whisper, he added: “Dragons will eat more than your flesh. They will steal your soul.”

“What do you know about it?” Trav felt a growing uneasiness. Had Wyatt spied on him?

“I know more than you will ever know-I hope.” Wyatt tried to grab Trav’s shoulder and hold him, but the youth slipped away. Wyatt called after him, “I know! Let me tell you a true tale for once. A dragon ate my leg! It ate my leg, and I killed it with Dragonslicer!”

Trav shook his head and walked as fast as he could to get away from the crazy old man. It was a shame Wyatt would say anything to regain the audience-and coins-stolen from him by Kennick’s tales. In a way, Trav felt betrayed. Old Wyatt was the only one in Slake who also thought Kennick was a fraud. Still, some of the old story-spinner’s words struck a chord in Trav’s conscience.

What he intended to do with the dragons was dangerous, but he did it for a good reason. Trav was sure that if Kennick was faced with a dragon of any size, he would turn and run.

On his maimed feet Trav now needed a long time to make his way to the cave. Along the way he picked up a few choice bugs, special treats for the dragons. He approached the cave with some trepidation, worrying about Wyatt spying on him. He ducked in.

The dim light wasn’t sufficient for him to see at first. Only slowly did his vision adjust. The musky smell of nesting reptiles came to him-and more, something he could not place.

Trav jumped when something hard and sharp rubbed against his leg. He helped and grabbed at the scratched place before seeing that it was Piddling rubbing against him.

“Piddling!” he cried in genuine glee. “You have grown so!” Trav knelt and held the dog-sized dragon’s head in his hands, not moving to stroke or pet as he had once done. “I have a treat for you. And for Grendl and Yilg.” He pulled the pig-bugs from his pocket and held them out.

Trav jerked back when Piddling snapped ferociously, one fang impaling the pig-bug before it hit the floor. The dragon ate noisily, then turned yellow eyes to him begging for more.

“I want you to share,” Trav said, but he gave the hungry dragon another bug. As Piddling ate, Trav hunted for the other dragons. He found one, small and huddled at the rear of the cave. Trav frowned and tried to identify the dragon. It might have been Grendl, but he thought it was Yilg. Of the third dragon, he saw no trace.

Trav dropped a few squeaking pig-bugs and the small dragon-he finally identified it as Yilg-avidly devoured them, but something was wrong.

“You are so small compared to Piddling,” Trav said in wonder. The runt had grown twice as fast as his egg mates, leaving the once large Yilg far behind. Yilg was hardly bigger than he had been in the midst of the winter storms.

Trav winced as Piddling rubbed against him once more, begging for more bugs. Trav pulled the last one from his pocket, looked from Yilg to Piddling and back. He dropped the bug between them. Piddling snorted once and sent a gust of flame in Yilg’s direction. The smaller dragon backed away and let Piddling eat uncontested.

Trav went to the mouth of the cave and looked around, concerned about possible hiding places a spy might use. Something crunched under his foot. White bones, well-chewed, were scattered around the mouth of the cave. Most had sunk in deep mud, partially hiding the remains, but it was obvious the dragons inside had begun foraging on their own.

A moment of fear surged through Trav, then passed. He had known how dangerous the dragons were when he had rescued their eggs from the stream. If they hadn’t been, Kennick would never be shown for the coward Trav knew he was. The dragons were not as deadly as those allowed to grow up in the wild, away from human contact. These were-still, perhaps-more pets than predators. But had he really done the right thing nurturing Yilg and Piddling?

Trav didn’t know.

“Please, Trav, listen to my words,” Wyatt pleaded. His eyes, something inhuman about them, glowed a dull ocher that reminded Trav uncomfortably of his dragons. Trav looked at the tight knot of villagers gathered around Kennick and Juliana and wanted to join them, if only to shout denunciations.

Wyatt whispered to him, pleading. “Believe me. I might tell stories for a few pennies, but there is truth in much of what I say.”

“What? That a dragon bit off your leg?” In other times, Trav might have been interested. Now he wanted only to get to his special cave and tend his reptilian wards.

“More. I lost the leg just as you did your toes.”

“I told you, that was frostbite,” Trav said in a flat voice.

Wyatt ignored the response. “I swung Dragonslicer. I used the true Sword to kill my dragon.” He sniffed hard and wiggled his scaly nose as if scenting the air. “The Sword is magical.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Trav said, distracted.

“I still have it,” Wyatt said unexpectedly. Trav stared at him. Wyatt rushed on: “I was entrusted with the true Blade. The one Kennick calls Dragonslicer is a piece of trash. It looks no more like the real thing than I resemble Kennick.” Wyatt spat out the words contemptuously.

“I must go.” Trav’s head was buzzing with wild stories. He had things to do and didn’t want Wyatt around.

“They kill!” Wyatt shouted after him. “They are creatures of evil! I spent my life killing them, but they killed me. Look at me. Look!”

Trav gazed back over his shoulder. “I see an old fool, fit for nothing but to muck stables and clean privies. And now no one wants your yarns!” Trav’s anger was directed inward as much as it was toward Wyatt. He was being forced to admit to himself that raising the dragons had been wrong.

The old man hobbled on after him, still speaking in low tones no one else could hear. “Trav, Trav, I killed dragons with Dragonslicer. That is no yarn. But the burden was too great.” Trav, fascinated despite himself, could not tear himself away, as Wyatt pursued him. The old man sobbed: “In pride, in madness, I even thought to have a dragon for a pet. But the beasts cannot be controlled. I became like them. I killed dragons until I was no longer able, then I put aside the Sword.”

“Enough!” Trav clenched his eyes shut, refusing to listen, refusing to think. “You are old, ancient. You have no business following me.” He opened his eyes into a silence.

Wyatt was standing with his head cocked on one side. Bright eyes looked out of his hideous face. “You go to the cave? They’re not there now. Both are out killing.”

Trav felt a hand of ice clutch at his heart.

Wyatt went on: “They range farther now, out to slay humans. I have watched them growing this past week. Quick, very quick. Out on the road this mom, the bigger one killed a riding-beast-and its rider.”

“None will believe you.”

“Why do you nurture them? Why do you loose them on the country? Can’t you see their evil? Feel it?” Wyatt straightened, surprising Trav with his height. The two were on a par in both height and girth. For the first time, Trav feared the old man.

“Whatever your reason, you are the one who must undo the evil you have created. The Sword-” Wyatt coughed and pointed, with a finger gnarled as an old tree root. “It is hidden-” He broke off, coughing so hard he couldn’t stop.

Turning his back on the momentarily helpless man, Trav hobbled away as fast as he could. Wyatt might destroy all he had worked for. Piddling and Yilg weren’t killers. Not in the way Wyatt claimed. He, Trav, had raised them, and they were gentled to humans. That wouldn’t stop the pair from intimidating anyone who lacked a backbone. Kennick would never stand and fight a pair of dragons, even ones hardly larger than a dog.

Instead of visiting the cave, Trav wandered for hours through the spring woodlands, thinking hard. Kennick might hear Wyatt’s accusation of Trav raising dragons. No matter that Piddling and Yilg were still small. It was time for him to expose Kennick as the coward he must be.

Returning to Slake, Trav’s resolve hardened when Kennick rode into the village on a fine new riding-beast and a tooled saddle chased with silver. Kennick jumped to the ground and embraced Juliana.

As Trav hobbled up, he heard the paladin say, “Juliana, my love! I am glad you are safe! There is a dragon marauding along the roadway. I feared for you.”

“With you here, there can be no danger,” Juliana said, adoration glowing in her eyes. She clung tightly to him.

Trav wanted to spit. Instead he hurried forward and said loudly, “I’ve seen the dragon. I know where it lairs.”

“What? What’s that you say?” Kennick spun, his face suddenly pale. He touched Dragonslicer’s hilt, fingers drumming nervously. The fear in the champion’s face was all Trav might have hoped for, but Juliana still did not see it.

“Less than a day’s walk from here,” said Trav.

“You do not joke?” Kennick tried to recover his composure. To Trav’s critical eye, he failed. Trav dared not let the paladin escape now that he had set the hook. One look at a real dragon and only Kennick’s dust would be seen in Slake.

“You must face the dragon, or Juliana will be in jeopardy. You spoke of depredation.”

“But it was far from here. That way. The reports-” Kennick swallowed hard, and Trav reveled even more in the man’s discomfort. Revenge was sweet.

“Only Dragonslicer can slay this dragon.” Trav’s voice prodded the reluctant hero. “I can show you the cave they-it-lives in.”

“No, Kennick, don’t go!” cried Juliana, true fear in her voice for the man she thought she loved.

“He must!” Trav prompted, as innocently as he could. “Otherwise, who can tell what the dragon might do to Slake?”

Kennick moved his lips as if his mouth were dry. But the man managed to summon up some courage. “Then come with me, youngling. Show me this dragon, and I’ll slay it.” He turned to Juliana. “I dedicate this creature’s death to you, my love.”

They kissed, and Trav for a moment was tempted to snatch Dragonslicer from Kennick’s sheath and end the farce.

Moments later, Kennick had grabbed Trav’s arm and was hoisting the youth behind him in the high-backed saddle. They charged off, Trav doing his best to hang on while he gave directions. He had to admit riding was superior to hobbling along on his mutilated feet.

In less than an hour, Trav and Kennick were dismounting in front of the dragons’ cave.

Kennick Strongarm stared at the cave entrance but made no move to approach it more closely. In a low voice he said, “It hasn’t the look of a dragon’s lair about it. I know. I’ve seen dozens.” The man struggled to keep the quaver from his voice. He fingered Dragonslicer again, then drew the sword and advanced on the cave. Kennick stopped outside and called, “Come meet your death, vile beast!”

“You’ll have to go in after the dragon,” Trav said, enjoying the paladin’s fright. “I’m not sure a dragon understands our language.”

“They are clever monsters,” Kennick said, but he didn’t argue. He edged forward, hand trembling on the sword’s handle. Kennick looked back at Trav, a glare of hate and desperation, then plunged into the low cave. Trav saw fat blue sparks explode from the steel blade as Kennick swung wildly at nothing, striking rock.

Then there was only silence.

Trav frowned. Yilg ought to be growling and Piddling snorting fire-or Kennick screaming in abject fright. There was nothing. Trav shuffled toward the cave mouth and peered inside. It took a few seconds for him to understand what he saw.

Kennick stood over a dragon’s skeleton, but plainly the champion had not killed the creature. The flesh had been stripped from these bones some time ago. Looking closer, Trav saw that one of the creatures he’d raised-perhaps Yilg? — had been eaten. The gnaw marks on the gleaming white bones were unmistakable.

“What did this?” Trav asked, confused.

Kennick’s voice was hoarse, but had regained some strength. “It matters little. The dragon is dead. Once more I have triumphed!”

“You’ve done nothing!” cried Trav, outraged that Kennick would take credit for an accident. “You can’t claim any honor in finding a dead dragon.” He tried, physically, to stop Kennick from taking the skull as proof of death, but failed. The man was too strong for him.

“Walk back, youngling,” Kennick ordered with satisfaction, hurrying from the cave and mounting his riding-beast. He never looked back as he held his trophy in his lap. Trav grumbled and started walking home as fast as his feet would take him. Anger burned away pain. He returned to Slake almost as quickly as if he had possessed a full set of toes.

But he did not return to the celebration he thought sure to be in progress. The village was deserted. Even during the withering fever, some people had been outside, wandering the muddy trails between the pitiful dwellings. Not now.

Frowning, Trav made his way to his home and stopped at a little distance. The roof had been burned off, leaving only a charred shell.

“Father!” he called. “Juliana! Where are you? What’s happened?” Trav rushed to the door and peered into the charred husk of building. He blinked in surprise when he saw Kennick huddled in the far comer, arms curled around his knees and mewling pitifully. Taking a single step, Trav stopped and then vomited.

His father’s body, burned and dismembered, had been partially eaten by monstrous jaws.

“It was a dragon, a big dragon,” moaned Kennick, his voice unrecognizable. “When they eat human flesh they grow huge quickly.”

“Where is Juliana?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Trav spun when he heard feet pounding behind him. His relief was boundless when he saw Juliana. Her dark hair was disarranged, and she was flushed, but unharmed. It was up to him to tell her of their father’s death.

“Juliana, wait,” Trav said, trying to keep her out of their house.

“I know he’s dead, Trav, I know. I saw it and I ran and hid. The dragon! It’s half the size of this house, and it’s coming back.” Juliana pushed Trav out of the way and dropped to her knees in front of Kennick.

She grabbed him and shook him hard. “Kennick, you’ve got to fight the dragon. It’s vicious! Terrible! And it’s coming back!”

“No, no!” Kennick threw the sword from himself.

“Kennick, you must. You’re our only hope. The dragon feeds constantly on us. It… it’s out there!”

Trav looked from Juliana to Kennick to the monstrous dragon lumbering outside, heading toward them. It shocked him to see, by the pattern of facial markings, that the marauding dragon was Piddling, the once-puny hatchling.

Giving a last frantic look at his father’s half-eaten body, Trav scooped up Kennick’s fallen sword and ran outside, screaming. He swung Dragonslicer as hard as he could, counting on Vulcan’s magic to pierce the thick brown scales on Piddling’s chest.

The blade glanced off, not even scratching the outer surface. The recoil staggered him and for a moment he stared up into the dragon’s yellow eyes. Trav wasn’t sure what he read there. Not anger. Not malevolence. It was more like surprise or even delight.

Piddling roared and let out a long belch of flame that surged above Trav’s head. He ducked low and swung. Again the blade bounced off the dragon’s hide. This time Piddling spun with startling speed and caught the blade between imposing jaws. The dragon’s neck muscles tensed, and the sword shattered like glass.

Trav stared at the sundered blade shining on the ground, then backed off from the dragon. He stopped and stood his ground.

“Piddling, here,” Trav said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a crushed pig-bug, and holding it in a surprisingly steady hand. The dragon bent, and its darting black tongue flicked across Trav’s palm. The pig-bug vanished.

Trav didn’t know what to feel. In the shock of his father’s death, all he could think of at the moment was that Piddling had probably killed Yilg, Grendl, and Drowsy, cannibalizing its own kind to grow this large.

“Trav, get back,” called Juliana.

“No, wait, I-” Trav screamed when Piddling moved with dazzling quickness and caught Juliana in heavy jaws. The girl screamed once before being broken in half.

Trav’s mind snapped. Dragonslicer had failed against Piddling; he beat at the dragon’s haunches with his bare hands. Somehow, this attack made Piddling stop his feasting and turn his head with its bloody jaws, staring at him with wide, questioning yellow eyes. Then Piddling snorted flame and walked away slowly until he vanished into the gathering twilight.

Trav sobbed. He wanted to kill himself. He couldn’t bear to look at the thing that had been Juliana. He was responsible-and all because of Kennick.

“Kennick!” he cried. Suddenly he had a target for his towering wrath. He hobbled to his burned-out house and looked around wildly, trying to find the object of his hatred.

“He’s gone. Saw him running away toward Westering. Might be there by now, the way he was running.”

“What?” Trav whipped around, fists balled and ready to fight, to confront Wyatt’s hunched figure.

“That wasn’t Dragonslicer. I carried the true Sword and know. He lied about everything.” Wyatt spat a gray-green gob that hissed on the ground. He grimaced, displaying blackened, broken teeth, then coughed. The rattle sounded deep in his chest.

“Go away. Let me be.” Trav wanted to strike out, and now there was nothing to hit.

“Kennick was a fool and liar, a blowhard who never saw Dragonslicer. That’s not even a good copy. A jeweled blade-bah! Too long, not sharp enough-and lacking in any god-forged magic. And those gems. Fake. Fake, just like Kennick.”

“You are as big a liar. You never held Dragonslicer.”

“Take this,” Wyatt said, shoving into Trav’s hands a long package wrapped in old, cracked oilcloth.

Before Trav could reply, he heard Kennick’s loud shout. “That’s him. He’s the one. He’s a demon! He commanded the dragon to do his bidding!” Kennick, advancing, stumbled at the head of a dozen people, most from Slake but a few Trav had never seen before.

Trav jerked around to face Wyatt. “You? You’re a demon?”

Wyatt coughed and spat. “Would a demon take such a sorry form? No, my young fool, he means you. He’s damning you. You might not be a demon, but you’re responsible.” Wyatt sank down, amid a loud crackling of joints. He shivered, though the air was warm, and stared at Trav.

“You’d best run, my boy. They want someone to blame-and you know you are responsible. You know it-and so do I.”

“I didn’t mean for all this to happen.” But Trav darted away as fast as his feet would take him, clutching the package Wyatt had forced upon him. The stumps of his toes, never well healed, turned bloody with his relentless flight, but he never stopped or looked behind him. If there was any pursuit, it fell behind. Slake was a world carried to the far side of the moon and beyond. His life was gone, his family, his friends, everything gone. He ran without knowing where his feet took him until he fell to the ground, exhausted.

It might have been the next morning or the next or even the next when he opened the package and realized where his destiny lay. The instant Trav touched the sword, he knew that Wyatt had told the truth.

On this plain, black hilt in bold relief there reared a small, white dragon, and the keen steel blade gleamed even in the pre-dawn darkness, catching the smallest ray of starlight and magnifying it until the weapon shone brightly. Even real jewels would have been superfluous. Trav, though no magician, could feel the latent power as he swung the Sword and listened to the shrill whine, a beautiful keening that tore at his senses and made him want to cry with pain. But he did not stop swinging the blade. Power flowed through him and grew until he knew he could stand against any beast, dragon or demon.

“Revenge,” Trav said, then fell silent. He shook his head and amended this. “Justice. It will be nothing more than justice.”

He whipped the blade, now feeling feather light, in a broad arc and created a new shrilling, a higher pitched wail that rose in frequency until he no longer heard it. But in the distance came a trumpeting reply he knew well.

“Piddling,” he whispered. Trav continued to whirl Dragonslicer about, the shrilling an allurement for his monster. When his arms began to tire, a deep rumbling approached and Trav saw his one-time pet.

Piddling stood half again as large as in the village, the diet of human flesh augmenting both bulk and height. The dragon moved with a litheness that astounded Trav.

Juliana. Their father.

“Come here. Piddling, come to me,” Trav urged. He swung Dragonslicer about his head and moved forward, his legs rubbery and feet bloody from the hard journey.

The dragon’s head bobbed about, its long black tongue snaking forth as it sampled the air. Tiny sparks ignited in its nostrils and flames leaped out, only to die a few meters short of Trav. He paid no heed to the dragon’s warning and surged forward, Dragonslicer moving with magic-driven power.

The blade touched Piddling’s chest scales and did not bounce off. The Sword cut deeply into the dragon’s body. Trav shoved as hard as he could, Dragonslicer gouging out a deep chunk of flesh. Piddling snorted, more in surprise than pain, and lowered his head, as if to butt Trav playfully.

The youth gripped the Sword of Heroes with both hands and drew the keening blade through a long swift arc that did not stop till it was more than halfway through the dragon’s neck, devastating flesh and bone. Piddling twisted and tried to escape, then dropped to the ground, mortally wounded. The huge beast twitched and kicked, and the fires of its nostrils faded to dull-burning embers.

“Got you,” Trav panted. “Damn you. You killed my father and sister and-”

Trav’s voice trailed off. An eyelid twitched and opened; one large yellow eye fixed on him. Piddling tried to reach out a taloned forelimb-as if, Trav thought, to ask a question. But the move did not get far before the dragon died.

For what seemed a long time, Trav could not move. He stood staring at the great corpse, which was already drawing insects. There were the pig-bugs Piddling had loved as a hatchling.

At last Trav turned away, conscious of the fact that Dragonslicer weighed down his arms and made them tremble. He hurled the blade from him. It spun through the air and landed point-down in the dirt a dozen paces away.

But Trav kept looking at the Sword. Slowly he realized the burden he had assumed. He hobbled to Dragonslicer and pulled it from the ground, gripping the black hilt with tired but steady hands. Now he must work to slay all dragons-as Wyatt had before him.