Lara muttered with each step. “I don’t see why I couldn’t fix your leg…. And that hand needs more than a wrap of linen…. Cold night to be out trapping wolves….” She saw Keaf, and her eyes grew wide for a moment before she returned to her interior dialogue. “Cold night for a lord to be out…. Need a warm hearth and strong brandy….”
She passed by Keaf on her way to the inn. Jarmon helped him to his feet. Inside, Ganton appeared in his long nightshirt, and he was mortified to see Keaf hurt. He offered drink and food and had his servants stoke the fire as Lara began her work. The old woman fussed over Keaf, crabbing to herself about kings and nobles and why hadn’t anyone told her it was Keaf. She tended Dellawynn and Kaye next, and came back to fuss over Keaf some more. He finally insisted that he was all right, and she left, still muttering.
A stiff drink of brandy loosened some of the knots, and Keaf sent Ganton and the servants back to bed. Ganton offered anything from his considerable stores, and Keaf silenced him by ordering a repayment to everyone who had used their supplies over the last two days. After a dozen more assurances that they had done everything they could to make him comfortable, the staff retired.
Next, Keaf looked across the tavern bench at Jarmon. “Go, now, Templar,” he said, repeating his earlier dismissal. You have duties to attend at your temple.” He smiled at Dellawynn. He would miss her, but he knew she would leave as soon as she was no longer Sword-bound, and he wanted to set her on a better course than the one she might choose herself. “And you go with him. I think you could use some time in a temple.”
“But Master Keaf…” Jarmon said as he stood.
“A temple?” Dellawynn asked.
“You will be serving me by going,” Keaf persisted. “I’m counting on both of you.”
Jarmon and Dellawynn looked injured, but neither could disobey a direct command. “As you wish,” Jarmon said.
Dellawynn slid around the table next to Keaf and kissed him harder than she might. “I will miss you, Master Keaf. She turned to Jarmon and linked her arm in his. “Temples are quite wealthy, aren’t they, Sir Jarmon?” Where she’d walked with no trouble a little earlier, she now let him ease her weight on her bad leg. Keaf hoped he wasn’t sending Jarmon’s temple too much trouble.
After they’d gone, Keaf turned to Kaye. “Thank you,” he said.
“It was nothing,” Kaye said. “I was out hunting the wolf that’s been after the wool-beasts. I saw you were in trouble, and it was my duty to help.”
Keaf held up his right hand and felt it throb. “It looks like we’re both useless for a while.”
Kaye raised his left hand. “One pair between us.” His voice was flat, but his face showed worry. A man’s hands were his living in these parts.
“Maybe we can work together,” Keaf said. “I could use your help yet tonight.”
“Anything, Master Keaf. I’m here to serve you.”
“Not service,” Keaf corrected. “I want your help working with me, not for me.”
Kaye looked beyond tired, but his Sword-driven enthusiasm still ruled. “Command me.”
Keaf shrugged. There was no stopping the power. “Jarmon made the mistake of not trusting me, but I won’t do that to you. We’re going to bury this Sword,” he said softly, lifting the blade from the bench.
“It’s a fine weapon,” Kaye said. “Why throw away such a thing?”
Keaf pushed to his feet. “Let’s head for the cemetery, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Kaye nodded and stood. “I appreciate your confidence in me, Master Keaf.”
Keaf smiled. “We’ll be friends after tonight or not, but either way we’ll share a trust.” He slid the Sword carefully into a loop of his belt, and together he and Kaye headed out into what remained of the night.
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.