The Dragon in the Sword (5 page)

It seemed to me that the air was growing colder and there was a hint of rain. This time I insisted that von Bek take my cloak and he at last agreed. I leaned my pike upon a hillock, close to a bed of particularly tall reeds, and he placed his fishing gaff on the ground so that he could settle the leather garment better about his shoulders.

“Is the sky darkening?” he wondered, looking up. “I have difficulty telling time here. I’ve been here for two full nights but have yet to work out how long the days are.”

I had a feeling that twilight was approaching and was about to suggest we have another look in my pouch to see if I possessed any means of making a fire when something struck my shoulder a heavy blow and sent me face forward onto the ground.

I was on one knee and turning, trying to reach my pike which, apart from the short knife, was my only weapon, when about a dozen weirdly armoured warriors rose up out of the reed bed and moved rapidly towards us.

One of them had cast a club and it had been that which had thrown me down. Von Bek was yelling, stooping to reach for his gaff, when a second club caught him on the side of the head.

“Stop!” I cried to the men. “Why don’t you parley? We are not your enemies!”

“That’s your delusion, my friend,” one of them growled while the others uttered unpleasant laughs in response.

Von Bek was rolling on his side, clutching his face. It was livid from where the club had hit him.

“Will you kill us without challenging us?” he shouted.

“We’ll kill you any way we choose. Marsh vermin are fair game for anyone and you know it.”

Their armour was a mixture of metal and leather plates, painted light green and grey to merge with the landscape. Even their weapons had the same colouring and they had smeared mud on their exposed skin to further disguise themselves. Their appearance was barbaric enough, but worst of all was the noxious smell which came off them—a mixture of human stink, animal ordure and the filth of the swamps. This alone might have been enough to knock a victim off his feet!

I did not know what marsh vermin were, but I knew that we had little chance of surviving the attack as, with raised clubs and swords, they advanced, chuckling, towards us.

I tried to reach my pike but I had been knocked too far away from it. Even as I scrambled across the wet and yielding grass I knew that another club or a sword would find me before I could get to my weapon.

And von Bek was in an even worse position than I was.

All I could think of to do was to shout at him.

“Run, man! Run, von Bek! There’s no sense in us both dying!”

It was growing darker by the moment. There was a slight chance that my companion could escape into the night.

As for myself, I threw up my arms instinctively as a mass of weapons was lifted to dispatch me.

2

T
HE FIRST BLOW
landed on my arm and came close to breaking it. I waited for the second and the third. One was bound to make me unconscious and that was all I could hope for—a swift and painless death.

Then I heard an unfamiliar sound which, at the same time, I recognised. A sharp report swiftly followed by two more. My closest assailants had fallen, evidently stone dead. Without pausing to question my good fortune I seized first one sword and then another. They were awkward, heavy blades of the sort favoured by butchers rather than fencers, but they were all I wanted. I now had a chance at life!

I backed to where I had last seen von Bek and from the corner of my eye saw him rising from a kneeling position, a smoking automatic pistol held in both hands.

It had been a long while since I had seen or heard such a weapon. I felt a certain grim amusement when I realised that von Bek had not come completely unarmed from his realm to the Maaschanheem. He had possessed the presence of mind to bring with him something of considerable use in such a world as this!

“Give me a blade!” shouted my companion. “I’ve no more than two shots left and I prefer to save those.”

Scarcely glancing at him I tossed him one of my swords and together we advanced on our enemies who were already badly demoralised from the unexpected shots. Plainly they had never experienced pistol-fire before.

The leader snarled and flung another club at me, but I dodged it. The rest followed suit so that we received a barrage of those crude weapons which we either avoided or deflected. Then we were face to face with our attackers, who seemed to have little further stomach for fighting.

I had killed two scarcely before I thought about it. I had had an eternity of such contests and knew that one must kill in them or risk losing one’s own life. By the third man, I had recovered my senses enough to knock the sword from his hand. Meanwhile, von Bek, plainly an expert with the sabre, like so many of his class, had dealt with another couple until only four or five of the fellows remained.

At this the leader roared for us to stop.

“I take it back! You’re no marsh vermin, after all. We were wrong to attack you without parleying. Hold your swords, gentlemen, and we’ll talk. The gods know I’m not one who refuses to admit a mistake.”

Warily, we put up our blades, ready for any likely treachery from him and his men.

They made a great play, however, of sheathing their weapons and of helping their surviving comrades to their feet. The dead they automatically stripped of their purses and remaining weapons. But their leader growled at them to stop. “We’ll unshell ’em when this business is dealt with to everyone’s satisfaction. Look, home’s close enough now.”

I stared in the direction he had indicated to them and saw to my utter astonishment that the building—or two—von Bek and I had been making for was now considerably nearer. I could see the smoke from its chimneys, the flags on its turrets, lights flickering here and there.

“Now, gentlemen,” says the leader. “What’s to be done? You’ve killed a good few of ours, so I’d say we’re at least even on the score, given that we attacked you but that you have no serious injuries. Also you have two of our swords, which are of fair value. Would you go on your way and no more said on the matter?”

“Is this world so lawless you can attack another human creature at will and not suffer further consequences?” von Bek asked. “If so, it’s no better than the one I’ve recently departed!”

I saw no great point in continuing this kind of argument. I had learned that men such as these, whatever sort of world they lived in, had neither stomach for nor understanding of a fine moral point. It seemed to me that they had characterised us as some kind of outlaw and that, upon finding us to be otherwise, were showing more, if grudging, respect. My own idea was that we should take our chances in their town and see what services we could offer its rulers.

The substance of this I whispered to von Bek, who seemed reluctant to let the matter go. It was obvious that he was a man of considerable principle (it took such people to stand against the terror instilled by Hitler) and I respected him for it. But I begged him to judge these people later, when we knew a little more about them. “They are fairly primitive, it seems to me. We should not expect too much of them. Also, they could be our only means of discovering more of this world and, if necessary, escaping it.”

Rather like a grumbling wolfhound which desires only to protect its owners (or in this case an ideal), von Bek desisted. “But I think we should keep the swords,” he said.

It was growing steadily darker. Our attackers appeared to become more nervous. “If there’s more parleying to be done,” said the leader, “maybe you’d care to do it as our guests. We’ll offer you no more harm tonight, I promise. You have a Boarding Promise on that.”

This seemed to mean a great deal to him and I was prepared to accept his word. Thinking we hesitated he pulled off his grey-green helmet and put this over his heart.

“Do you know, gentlemen,” said he, “that I be called Mopher Gorb, Binkeeper to Armiad-naam-Sliforg-ig-Vortan.” This giving of names also seemed to have significance.

“Who is this Armiad?” I asked and saw a look of considerable surprise cross his ugly features.

“Why, he’s Baron Captain of our home hull, which is called the
Frowning Shield
, accountant to our anchorage, The Clutching Hand. You have heard of these, if not of Armiad. He succeeded Baron Captain Nedau-naam-Sliforg-ig-Vortan…”

With a cry, von Bek held up his hand. “Enough. All these names give me a headache. I agree that we should accept your hospitality and I thank you for it.”

Mopher Gorb, however, made no move. He waited expectantly for something. Then I realised what I must do. I removed my own conical helmet and placed it over my heart. “I am John Daker called Erekosë, sometime Champion of King Rigenos, late of the Frozen Keep and the Scarlet Fjord, and this is my sword-brother Count Ulric von Bek, late of Bek in the principality of Saxony in the land of the Germans…” I continued a little further in this vein until he seemed satisfied that enough names and titles had been uttered, even if he failed to understand a word of them. Plainly the offering of names and titles was a sign that you meant to keep your word.

By this time von Bek, less versed in these matters and less flexible than myself, was close to laughing, so much so that he refused to meet my eye.

While this had been going on, the “home hull” had been growing in size. It now became apparent that its monstrous bulk was on the move. It was not so much an ordinary city or castle as a lumbering ship of some kind, unbelievably big (though I suppose a deal smaller than some of our transatlantic liners) and powered by some form of engine which was responsible for the smoke I had mistaken for ordinary signs of domestic life. Yet I might have been forgiven for thinking it a medieval stronghold from a distance. The chimneys seemed to be positioned at random here and there. The turrets, towers, spires and crenellations had the appearance of stone, though more likely were of wood and lath, and what I had thought were flagposts were actually tall masts from which were hung yards, a certain amount of canvas, a wealth of rigging, like the work of a mad spider, and a rich variety of rather dirty banners. The smoke from the funnels was yellowish grey and occasionally bore with it a sudden gouting of hot cinders which presumably did not much threaten the decks below but which surely must cover them with ash from top to bottom. I wondered how the people could bear to live in such filth.

As the massive, bellowing vessel made its slow progress through the shallow waters of the marsh I knew that the smell of our attackers was characteristic of their ship. Even from that distance I could smell a thousand hideous stinks, including the cloying smoke. The furnaces feeding those chimneys must burn every sort of offal and waste, I thought.

Von Bek looked at me and was for refusing Mopher Gorb’s hospitality, but I knew it was too late. I wished to find out more of this world, not insult its inhabitants so thoroughly that they would feel honour-bound to hunt us down. He said something to me which I could not hear above the shouting and booming of the ship which now towered above us, framed against the grey twilight clouds.

I shook my head. He shrugged and drew a neatly folded silk handkerchief from a pocket. He placed this fastidiously to his mouth and pretended, as far as I could tell, that he had a cold.

All around the gigantic hull, which was a patchwork of metal and timber, repaired and rebuilt a hundred times over, the muddy waters of the swamp were churning and flying in every direction, covering us with spray, a few clumps of turf and not a little mud. It was almost a relief when a kind of drawbridge was lowered from close to the vessel’s bottom, near its great curving back, and Mopher Gorb stepped forward to shout reassurance to someone within.

“They are not marsh vermin. They are honoured guests. I believe they are from another realm and go to the Massing. We have exchanged names. Let us embark in peace!”

Some tiny part of my brain was suddenly alerted. There was one familiar word in all this which I could not quite identify.

Mopher had referred to “the Massing”. Where had I heard that expression used? In what dream? In what previous incarnation? Or had it been a premonition? For it was the doom of the Eternal Champion to remember the future as well as the past. Time and Consequences are not the same thing to the likes of us.