Prologue
The seething dragon crouched, quivering with pain and rage. His red-tinged eyes tried in vain to watch every figure moving around him. Another lance bit into his flesh and he twisted like an enraged cat, snapping at the offending object with jaws powerful enough to crimp the steel.
The attack stopped short as shining chains as thick as his legs jerked tight, halting his retribution. He roared with frustration, bloody froth dripping from his jaws. He had always been treated gently, talked to kindly, until this day. He was confused, frustrated, and enraged that he could be treated like this.
The two-legged demons circled him, lances carried at the ready, dark blood—his blood—staining the blades and the thick wooden handles. Each man wore a mask that covered everything but the eyes. The masks were useless as protection against his wrath, but they frustrated him.
He would always remember this experience, and he tried desperately to see something of his attackers that would allow him to hunt them down. He could not see their faces, and every whiff of his human attackers burned his sensitive nostrils with a stink that was obviously intentional. If he could find something to identify them, he would hunt them down if it took his entire lifetime. Such was the persistence of his species.
A sharp pain and a gush of warmth burst on his shoulder as another lance penetrated his young, soft armor plates. A small flood of steaming blood splashed down his scales and was immediately chewed into mud by his churning claws. If it weren’t for the chains he could end the punishment. In mere seconds the mismatched fight would be over.
Then the command came. To him the words of the Master were a feeling more than a sound. They washed over his consciousness like a warm caress, calming the pain of his wounds and closing his gaping jaws. There was no question of his obedience; he did as the command said as quickly as if it had been his own thought. He stood calmly, his head bowed, his eyes closed, waiting for his Master’s touch.
He waited, trying not to quiver in anticipation, until the touch came. The Master touched him on the shoulder, next to a deep lance wound that was still seeping blood.
Another command and he was lying on his stomach, his Master standing next to his horned head. He had already forgotten about his attackers, the frustration gone. His entire world was his Master and the spoken commands. In some corner of his mind he recognized that the attacks had ceased, but it was a trivial detail.
He heard a sound above him, but it was not a command, and while his Master stood near him only the commands mattered.
The saltwater mixture was too thick to splash, but the murky flood bathed his entire body with scalding, burning liquid. He wanted to roar, to scream in outrage and pain, but that was not allowed of him—the command was to lie still, not to react to pain. His muscles locked solid with pain, the pressure pushing more blood from dozens of wounds.
When the flood ceased, he lay shaking violently, dripping with blood and salt sludge. His entire body was burning, tearing with pain.
Another command brought him to his feet, and one more allowed him to rest his head against the breastplate of the Master himself. He felt a slow hand rub the side of his head, and he hummed with pleasure, a sound that rumbled out of his massive chest like distant thunder. His armor scales warmed from a solid, inky black to a dark red as he hummed in happiness.
The Master was smaller than he was, in fact the top of the Master’s head would not have reached the top of his shoulder, but none of that mattered.
Human screams warned him of another man’s approach a moment before the scream’s owner landed on his back on the floor. The newcomer struggled to drag himself back toward the wall from which he had been thrown. The man’s screams had stopped with the impact, whether from injury or terror, no one would ever know.
A mask, like the one his attackers wore, had been bolted in place seconds earlier.
The stroking stopped and the Master stepped away. The humming in the dragon’s throat stopped. He knew not to question, not to be frustrated with the end of the Master’s affection. Still, on this very trying day he wanted very much to stay with his Master. With the Master everything was always okay, always nice.
The man in the mask was talking from the ground, meaningless human mumbling. The Master responded with the same. The words were not commands, and therefore gibberish to him.
He stood waiting, watching the man in the mask and listening to the Master’s voice. Then, a moment later, he heard the command he was hoping to hear.
With a baring of teeth that looked eerily like a smile, he launched his bulk forward with the speed and agility of a massive panther, and the first strike of his tail tore the man in the mask into two pieces.
Chapter One
Artair laid the man’s arm down across his chest as Calum stood. Walking around the dragon, he retrieved his own sword and sheathed it. Then he wrenched Moray’s from the monster’s flank and returned to the group, carrying their friend’s weapon in his hands. Taking it by the blade, he handed it across Moray’s body to Artair, who stood and reverently accepted the now-crimson sword.
He studied the blade sadly for a moment, wiped it clean on his cloak, then bent down and picked up the sheath from beside its former owner. He strapped it to his back, crossing it over his own.
As the leader of the attack, it was his responsibility to carry his friend’s sword until he could find someone to take Moray’s place as a Sword Bearer. There were many who would be willing to take the sword, but none he knew of who were ready.
Most of his memories were of battle, of swords and shields and painful mistakes. All Helvetians were warriors, trained to fight from their infancy, but the Sword Bearers were a full measure above their countrymen—they had to be.
Moray’s body, wrapped in his own cloak, bounced along behind Calum in a makeshift litter made of two lances and a couple of the green cloaks. The litter had taken only minutes to assemble, and no words were necessary. Sadly, they had a lot of practice.
The group was quiet during the first leg of their return journey. If they had not lost a man there would have been exuberance and lighthearted laughter. The death of a dragon was to be celebrated.
The death of a Bearer was a tragedy, however, and Moray had been one of the best. His strength had gained him a kill, but it had not saved him. He had been with them almost from the beginning and had saved the lives of his comrades on countless occasions. He was the most recent casualty in a war that seemed to have no end, or at least no end they wished to contemplate.
The dragons were coming more often now. They all knew it, and it haunted them. As far back as their history reached, the Helveti had been warriors, ferocious fighters that had battled all takers as quickly as they would come, and each other when there was no one else.
All of the men were old enough to remember the time when dragons were only a myth and a scary story to tell small children. That had all changed not long ago, and the great beasts had proved to be a nightmare to more than children.
They were too far out to make it back to the city before dark, so Artair stopped the group at dusk and the men made camp next to the ruins of a stone tower. This one had been used as recently as fifty years before, and had fallen from natural causes. None of the tribes had claimed it and it had fallen during a fierce winter storm.
There had been talk, by one tribe or another, of rebuilding it, but the dragons had put a stop to that. Now anything beyond the line of walled cities that had repelled the initial wave of dragons had been abandoned.
After a scant trail dinner, they lounged around their small fire and tried to relax. Dragons were attracted to fire, they had learned that. So they kept their fires small and found ways to hide them whenever possible. Most likely it was the smell that drew them, as that was their best sense, but there was no way to tell for sure. Fire was also extremely dangerous for dragons, though it was difficult to create a fire big enough to catch them.
“So, Artair,” Calum began, “why can’t you be satisfied to leave your helmet on when you’re fighting? That’s why it’s there you know!” He was lying on his side next to the fire, a small twig rolling in his calloused fingers. Handsome by anyone’s standards, still there was something about him that kept women away.
In Helveti it was the women who initiated relationships, and yet none had ever dared approach him. Some had said it was the sense that he was continually fighting, whether he was physically in a battle or not. There was simply no way to distance him from the cause he was committed to.
Artair smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess that I just want to even the odds a little. I mean, one of me, one of him, the poor creatures don’t really stand a chance.” He grinned and Calum threw the twig at him from across the fire.
“You’re one to talk! What’s with that sword you threw at me today? It was sheer luck that it missed and hit that dragon!” Artair’s tone was serious, but his eyes twinkled as he spoke. His hand touched his ear for emphasis. The cut the sword had left there was no more than a scratch, but he planned to remind his friend of it for as long as possible.
Calum rolled his eyes. “Wear your helmet and you wouldn’t have to worry about it. This is a good example of how little you know about the higher skills of battle, Artair. My blade did as much damage as yours, and I didn’t have to be hugging the beast to get the job done!” Calum’s voice was a model of mock superiority.
“Sure, you just try throwing that thing when I’m not around to distract the dragon with my hugging, and you’ll get nothing but a good chance to practice your rolling after you lose your sword!” Artair said.
Calum laughed.
“Real funny, you two, but I don’t see the humor in any of this.” The speaker’s name was Iain, one of the archers. “To you this is all funny, but we lost a man today.”
Artair’s smile disappeared, and he stared thoughtfully into the coals of the fire. When he looked up, the archer was glaring at him. No one else around the fire spoke. They all knew what would happen if the Sword Bearer decided to take offense at the statement. They knew their leader and the limits of his self-control.
“You don’t need to spout your bitterness at us, Iain, especially not at me. We’re all fighting the same fight, and some of us have been fighting it for a lot longer than you. If we choose to keep our sense of humor, that is our right.
“With luck,” at this he paused and smiled with all the warmth of a dragon baring its teeth, “and the help of our swords, you may live long enough to learn that not everything has to be as serious as combat. However, if you would like to experience a different kind of battle, I will gladly provide it.” In an instant, almost too fast to separate the start of his movement from the conclusion, Artair was standing.
Artair’s words left no room for further conversation and Iain finally dropped his gaze to the flames of the campfire. Rash in speaking he might be, but he was no fool. Everyone at the fire, and possibly everyone in the empire, knew the story behind the first two Sword Bearers. They were the first, the best, and their only real hope for a future.
“Douse the fire, spread out. May the sun rise.” Artair said over his shoulder as he left the fire’s light.
“May the sun rise.” Each of the men repeated as they faded into the darkness of the woods.
Chapter Two
Artair laid the man’s arm down across his chest as Calum stood. Walking around the dragon, he retrieved his own sword and sheathed it. Then he wrenched Moray’s from the monster’s flank and returned to the group, carrying their friend’s weapon in his hands. Taking it by the blade, he handed it across Moray’s body to Artair, who stood and reverently accepted the now-crimson sword.
He studied the blade sadly for a moment, wiped it clean on his cloak, then bent down and picked up the sheath from beside its former owner. He strapped it to his back, crossing it over his own.
As the leader of the attack, it was his responsibility to carry his friend’s sword until he could find someone to take Moray’s place as a Sword Bearer. There were many who would be willing to take the sword, but none he knew of who were ready.
Most of his memories were of battle, of swords and shields and painful mistakes. All Helvetians were warriors, trained to fight from their infancy, but the Sword Bearers were a full measure above their countrymen—they had to be.
Moray’s body, wrapped in his own cloak, bounced along behind Calum in a makeshift litter made of two lances and a couple of the green cloaks. The litter had taken only minutes to assemble, and no words were necessary. Sadly, they had a lot of practice.
The group was quiet during the first leg of their return journey. If they had not lost a man there would have been exuberance and lighthearted laughter. The death of a dragon was to be celebrated.
The death of a Bearer was a tragedy, however, and Moray had been one of the best. His strength had gained him a kill, but it had not saved him. He had been with them almost from the beginning and had saved the lives of his comrades on countless occasions. He was the most recent casualty in a war that seemed to have no end, or at least no end they wished to contemplate.
The dragons were coming more often now. They all knew it, and it haunted them. As far back as their history reached, the Helveti had been warriors, ferocious fighters that had battled all takers as quickly as they would come, and each other when there was no one else.
All of the men were old enough to remember the time when dragons were only a myth and a scary story to tell small children. That had all changed not long ago, and the great beasts had proved to be a nightmare to more than children.
They were too far out to make it back to the city before dark, so Artair stopped the group at dusk and the men made camp next to the ruins of a stone tower. This one had been used as recently as fifty years before, and had fallen from natural causes. None of the tribes had claimed it and it had fallen during a fierce winter storm.
There had been talk, by one tribe or another, of rebuilding it, but the dragons had put a stop to that. Now anything beyond the line of walled cities that had repelled the initial wave of dragons had been abandoned.
After a scant trail dinner, they lounged around their small fire and tried to relax. Dragons were attracted to fire, they had learned that. So they kept their fires small and found ways to hide them whenever possible. Most likely it was the smell that drew them, as that was their best sense, but there was no way to tell for sure. Fire was also extremely dangerous for dragons, though it was difficult to create a fire big enough to catch them.
“So, Artair,” Calum began, “why can’t you be satisfied to leave your helmet on when you’re fighting? That’s why it’s there you know!” He was lying on his side next to the fire, a small twig rolling in his calloused fingers. Handsome by anyone’s standards, still there was something about him that kept women away.
In Helveti it was the women who initiated relationships, and yet none had ever dared approach him. Some had said it was the sense that he was continually fighting, whether he was physically in a battle or not. There was simply no way to distance him from the cause he was committed to.
Artair smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess that I just want to even the odds a little. I mean, one of me, one of him, the poor creatures don’t really stand a chance.” He grinned and Calum threw the twig at him from across the fire.
“You’re one to talk! What’s with that sword you threw at me today? It was sheer luck that it missed and hit that dragon!” Artair’s tone was serious, but his eyes twinkled as he spoke. His hand touched his ear for emphasis. The cut the sword had left there was no more than a scratch, but he planned to remind his friend of it for as long as possible.
Calum rolled his eyes. “Wear your helmet and you wouldn’t have to worry about it. This is a good example of how little you know about the higher skills of battle, Artair. My blade did as much damage as yours, and I didn’t have to be hugging the beast to get the job done!” Calum’s voice was a model of mock superiority.
“Sure, you just try throwing that thing when I’m not around to distract the dragon with my hugging, and you’ll get nothing but a good chance to practice your rolling after you lose your sword!” Artair said.
Calum laughed.
“Real funny, you two, but I don’t see the humor in any of this.” The speaker’s name was Iain, one of the archers. “To you this is all funny, but we lost a man today.”
Artair’s smile disappeared, and he stared thoughtfully into the coals of the fire. When he looked up, the archer was glaring at him. No one else around the fire spoke. They all knew what would happen if the Sword Bearer decided to take offense at the statement. They knew their leader and the limits of his self-control.
“You don’t need to spout your bitterness at us, Iain, especially not at me. We’re all fighting the same fight, and some of us have been fighting it for a lot longer than you. If we choose to keep our sense of humor, that is our right.
“With luck,” at this he paused and smiled with all the warmth of a dragon baring its teeth, “and the help of our swords, you may live long enough to learn that not everything has to be as serious as combat. However, if you would like to experience a different kind of battle, I will gladly provide it.” In an instant, almost too fast to separate the start of his movement from the conclusion, Artair was standing.
Artair’s words left no room for further conversation and Iain finally dropped his gaze to the flames of the campfire. Rash in speaking he might be, but he was no fool. Everyone at the fire, and possibly everyone in the empire, knew the story behind the first two Sword Bearers. They were the first, the best, and their only real hope for a future.
“Douse the fire, spread out. May the sun rise.” Artair said over his shoulder as he left the fire’s light.
“May the sun rise.” Each of the men repeated as they faded into the darkness of the woods.
Chapter Three
Artair wrapped his cloak around him and settled back against the trunk of a large tree. The team didn’t sleep around the campfire anymore, ever since the mate of a dragon they had killed tracked them back to their camp.
They’d lost several men that night before driving the animal away,. Now they slept apart and in the dark. They all agreed that they preferred the cold to fighting dragons in the dark. Artair’s fingers traced the hilt of his sword for a few short moments, pondering the strange nature of the weapon. Each of the ancient swords was unique, beautifully crafted as if for display instead of use. Upon first seeing one, you had to assume that a master craftsman had once presented each of the swords as his crowning achievement. Just by looking at them, you would never guess their true potential and power.
Most Helvetians knew about the sharpness of the swords, their durability that bordered on invincibility. Very few, however, knew how unique the blades really were. He had tried to explain it every time a new Sword Bearer was brought onto the team, but in the end it worked out better to let the newcomer discover for himself.
The swords were, at very least, temperamental. It started there, to be sure, and sometimes would graduate to something more complex. Nearly all of them seemed lighter or heavier depending on the person. His own sword, for example, was as heavy as three regular swords to almost any other man. It was heavy enough to be almost unusable, except to him. To him it was as light as a practice foil, the kind given to children when they were first taught swordsmanship.
That was where it began, but some of them had other attributes. One was said to actually hum while in combat, especially after a killing blow was dealt. The blade hummed loud enough to be heard two paces away.
What was more troubling is that everyone agreed it sounded like a happy humming, almost a purring. Other swords seemed to have either a moral compass or a lazy streak, and would suddenly become heavy to even their masters when the cause was suspect or it was early in the morning.
His own sword was never stubborn, and did not hum, but it had its ways of telling him when it was pleased or disturbed. It warmed in his hands when in combat, and cooled to an icy frost if he stayed too long in town, even in the heat of summer. In essence, his sword enjoyed the heat of battle, and was displeased if kept from it.
His fingers continued to stroke the handle of his sword as sleep slowly overtook him.
…two dragons stood side by side, watching the men run at them. Although they had never seen such creatures before, it was obvious what they were. The animals were motionless as they were surrounded except for the catlike twitching of their tails.
On signal, the men surrounding them attacked. Their actions were smooth and fluid, displaying long practice and instinctual obedience to training. For several seconds, dust clouded everything except a general sense of violent movement, but the roars of the dragons and the screams of the men reached and terrified the watching youth.
The battle stopped suddenly, and the dust slowly settled. At least half the attackers now lay on the ground, crumpled heaps of blood and dust. The remaining men huddled in a small group several yards from the beasts. Fear marked them plainly, and several were already bleeding from gaping wounds as they struggled to stay standing.
The reptiles again stood still, waiting for the men’s next move. The group moved abruptly as they ran in pairs straight at the big creatures and then broke away to either side as they came within reach of them. The maneuver was designed to pull the animals away from each other and allow the men to get in close to the dragons’ flanks.
It worked.
The creatures spun in opposite directions, tearing the first two men down with tail and claw. The town’s blacksmith ran in beside the bigger of the two monsters and thrust his sword up into the belly of the reptile.
Or, at least, he tried. The blacksmith’s sword bounced off the dragon’s armor and skidded across its pebbled skin, barely scratching the great beast. The dragon whipped around and cleaved the man off his feet with one slicing swing of a paw.
The surviving men gave up and ran desperately for their homes, but this time the reptiles attacked, running down the fleeing villagers with dumbfounding speed. The last man screamed as he died, and then there was no sound. The dragon’s bloodstained jaws gaped wide as it roared…
Artair awoke with a jerk, sweat beading on his forehead. He was breathing heavily, the sound of it loud in the night air. The Sword Bearer switched from panting to holding his breath as he realized that, other than the noise he was making, the night was silent. He had fallen asleep to the sound of insects and other noises of the night. All those were now still. He rose to a crouch, his eyes probing the darkness. Brutally awakened by the dream, all sleep had fled from him.
A twig crunched a few feet to his left and Artair pivoted toward the sound. Motionless, the Helvetian was close to invisible to the man who walked into his sight and stopped within a few feet of him. The stranger was dressed in dark greens and browns, like the Sword Bearers themselves, but not in dragon plate armor. The clothing was not that of a Helvetian. He was looking toward the long-cold site of the campfire. It seemed that he had not yet seen Artair as he took another slow step in his direction.
The warrior stayed perfectly still, both swords still in their sheaths, waiting. He knew exactly what he would do when he decided to attack. He would try to disarm the stranger, but would kill him if necessary. Above all, he would keep the man from raising any alarm. No matter who he was, he wasn’t likely to be alone. He did not worry about his own men. As skilled as they were, fighting men was not a challenge.
Another step and the man stood almost within arm’s reach of the Sword Bearer. The stranger took another half step toward Artair and then pivoted to face him and yelled a word in a strange language. The Helvetian could see the shine of the other man’s eyes as he reached for his sword. The other man’s shout meant he was truly not alone, and he no longer had the choice of holding back.
Artair’s sword was half out of its sheath when a heavy, shapeless force hit him from above and to the side. The weight of the net staggered him and forced his sword back into its sheath. The stranger dove at the Sword Bearer and hit him in the stomach with his shoulder.
Artair fell back and instinctively rolled to the side, gasping for breath while further tangling his arms and legs in the net. As he attempted to stand, his attacker jumped onto his back, forcing him to the ground with his knees on his shoulder blades.
Hearing someone else rush from the trees, he turned his head in hopes that it was a member of his team only to see the newcomer swing something in the darkness. Then bright lights exploded in his head and he saw nothing…
*
Calum’s eyes opened at the sound of the foreign yell, and he rose to a crouch. The sound had come from the other side of the campfire, where Artair had headed to sleep. There were sounds of a brief struggle, and then silence.
He started moving, skirting the edge of the clearing as he came closer to where the sound had originated. He was sure that it had awakened the others, but he did not expect to see or hear the practiced woodsmen in the dark. They were all alive at least in part because of their ability to move without making noise—even in the dark.
The men running from the trees were almost as quiet as the Sword Bearers until they got close. Calum stopped short, his sword in his hand without a thought. He didn’t have time to shout before the first stranger swung a heavy weapon at his head. He diverted the blow, stepped back, and barked orders to his unseen men. There were clangs of steel as the Sword Bearers engaged their attackers all around him. His attacker swung again, a ponderous blow that had no hope of connecting.
Then, as quickly as they had come, the strangers were gone, melting away into the forest.
**
“Who were they?” Calum demanded, the light of the fire dancing off the hard planes of his face. They had chased the strangers into the trees, the trained warriors instinctively trying to finish the fight.
When there was no answer, Calum looked around for Artair. Not finding him, he looked again.
“Where’s Artair?”
The rest of the men looked around them, puzzled.
“Wh-where’s Iain?” Another man asked. Without another word, the men faded into the trees, searching for their friends. They found Artair’s helmet, and Iain’s bow, but nothing else.
The rising sun found the Sword Bearers still searching, trying to track the strange attackers—but to no avail. As the sun was setting the next evening, the team finally conceded defeat and headed for home. This was to be a somber day in Greenock. Two Sword Bearers were gone, but even worse was the fact that they had lost two of the swords. New men could be trained, but the weapons were irreplaceable.
Calum’s head bowed low as he pulled Moray’s litter, and the team traveled in silence.
