Swords of the Six (24 page)

Cut off from the world outside the serpent's mouth, he could see nothing. But by the way his captor relaxed and by the feeling of the jaws impacting against something, he guessed that he had killed it. He tried to move again, to escape his slimy prison. His mind clouded with uncertainty and all turned to darkness.

Chapter 2: Pursuing Visions

As he slipped in and out of consciousness, Ilfedo struggled through delirium. Time passed but not in its ordinary cycle. Sometimes moments lasted for what seemed like eternities. At other times his exhaustion forced him to sleep and time sped by, unhindered by his weary mind.

In his dreams he saw himself, back turned, holding the hand of a woman. Who she was he could not tell, though he thought he had seen her in another dream. Among women she was the most beautiful he had ever laid eyes on.

Then he found himself standing on a field, battle raging around him, men and dragons fighting side by side. It seemed that he was fighting alongside them, drenched in his own blood, the enemy closing in. He tried to discern against whom they fought, but smoke billowed up, hiding the enemy from sight.

* * *

When Ilfedo regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a large bed in a rough-paneled room. A small woodstove pumped heat from one corner, a little more heat than he felt comfortable with. Instead of one pillow, he had four.

He reached his arm from under the soft, clean sheets and touched his tender shoulder. The swelled flesh kneaded like dough under his fingers. Some sort of milky balm lay soaking into his skin, covering two narrow scars that ran parallel to one another, four inches apart.

The bedroom door opened and the innkeeper ambled into the room. A ray of morning sunlight slipped through the east window, reflected off the metallic tray in his hands, and glinted in his dark eyes. The door remained ajar as he set the tray on a stand beside the bed, placed his hands on his hips, and slowly nodded.

"You're looking much better," he said.

Ilfedo saw people through the doorway. A pair of elderly men set down their mugs and looked in his direction. A young woman with long dark hair whispered into an aristocratic, finely dressed man's ear. The man nodded, folded his arms. Three young men glanced at him from where they leaned their heads together over a table. Others, wandering around the inn, ceased what they were doing and returned Ilfedo's gaze.

Other men might have found it uncomfortable to be thus exposed to the public eye, but Ilfedo didn't care. He'd been treated as an object of curiosity ever since he'd slain that first man-killing bear in the wilderness. Though not—he admitted to himself—by this many people at once.

Taking a deep breath, Ilfedo sat up, leaned against the bed's headboard.

The innkeeper nodded again then gestured to the breakfast tray. "Do you like waffles? They're fresh . . . and I've put some apple juice here—it's cold—also some bacon." He rubbed his hands together. "We owe you a debt of gratitude, young man. So, if you want anything, just let me know."

"The serpents are dead then?" He twisted quickly to reach for some bacon strips but drew back as a sharp pang shot through his head. He held his hand to his head until a wave of dizziness passed.

"It was amazing!" The man threw up his hands and grinned. "Everyone, and I mean the
whole
town, ran out of here with anything they could grab to use as a weapon.

He jabbed his finger into his own chest. "I joined a couple others in searching for you. We cut you out of the serpent's mouth and brought you back here. You were quite a mess. The rest of the town scoured the corn fields and found one other serpent. But it slithered its black, slimy hide to the sea as soon as it saw how greatly outnumbered it was."

Slipping a piece of bacon from the tray, Ilfedo held it in his fingers, eyeing it as his thoughts wandered elsewhere. At last, setting the bacon on his tongue, he said, "How long have I been out?"

The innkeeper's cheeks puffed out, his eyes turned to look at the ceiling. "One week . . . I think." His eyes shifted back to Ilfedo. "You've been in and out of consciousness for
at least
a week."

A week!
Ilfedo sat bolt upright, immediately regretting it as the dizziness returned.

"Then I'll lend you some horses. I have some of the best around, and I'll send a boy along with you. He'll help out along the way and bring the animals back when you've reached your destination."

Ilfedo started to thank the man but he was cut off as the innkeeper started walking to the door, continuing to talk.

"We've cut the serpent meat into generous portions and spread it among the people hereabouts. For you"—he pointed at Ilfedo and smiled—"for you we've set aside a load of the stuff."

"Thanks for the offer," Ilfedo began, "but the meat won't last long on the trail."

The innkeeper cast Ilfedo's concern aside with a wave of his hand. "Not a problem. We smoked it for you and packed it in an ice cellar. We'll put the ice and meat in leather bags . . . that ought to keep it for long enough.

"Now"—the innkeeper put his hand on the door latch—"I suggest that—if you wish to avoid the crowd of admirers you've picked up over the past week—you wait until dawn. Besides, I think you could use a bit more rest." The man chuckled and shut the door behind him, leaving Ilfedo to rest.

* * *

Ilfedo leaned against the stable's wood doorway. He felt a bit unsteady on his feet. A gentle breeze cast moist early morning air against his face. He breathed the air, deep and slow, letting it refresh his fogged mind.

He had his bearskin coat opened to the air and his long sword was swinging from just above his left hip. He glanced to his other side, to the axe tucked under his belt, the prize of his victory that the innkeeper had willingly hunted down and given to him.

Letting go of the doorframe, he stepped into the stable's long, dim corridor. The sweet smell of fresh straw filled his nostrils. Whinnies greeted his ears as he walked on the cool, dirt floor between the stalls. One stallion shoved its head over the gate and nudged Ilfedo.

He reached around the horse's nose and massaged it. "Hello there, big fellow."

At that moment a burly man ambled out of the shadows. "A bright and early morning to you, Sir," he said. "Can I help you?"

Ilfedo did not reply immediately. The feel of the magnificent creature's muzzle beneath his hand calmed his weakened body.

The man crossed his arms. "Can I help you,
Sir
?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

But when Ilfedo turned to face the man—

The man uncrossed his arms, dropped them to his sides, and his eyes widened. "You're the Mathaliah guy, aren't you?!" Before Ilfedo could respond, the man looked back into the shadows and snapped his fingers with such force that it made Ilfedo's ear ring. "Boy!" he hollered. "Got them horses ready?"

"Just 'bout," a cheery youth replied.

"The name's Barlin." The burly fellow thrust his hand at Ilfedo with a smile that seemed to twist up on one side of his mouth and down on the other.

Ilfedo shook his hand and looked past him, tried to distinguish the lad amid the random clouds of straw dust.

Barlin did not seem to notice. He slapped one arm around Ilfedo's shoulders. Ilfedo cringed, feeling some pain. Barlin walked him away from the stall. "It was a great thing you did when you killed them serpents for us! Any time you come back 'round these parts, visit us, will you?" He pulled back his arm and slapped Ilfedo's shoulder hard.

"I can't promise anything," Ilfedo said. He looked down at the other man, amused. Did he always treat ill people in this manner, or just those who'd been poisoned in the act of saving human lives?

"Ah, very well." Barlin stood back and shouted into the stable. "Ramul! Get them horses out here now."

Without a word, a curly red-haired young man strode on gangly legs from the dim recesses of the stable. His green eyes stared up at Ilfedo from a face spotted with freckles.

"How long do you need the boy?" Barlin tousled the youth's hair and fixed a hard gaze on Ilfedo.

Ilfedo ran his hand along one stallion's neck and then down to the saddle. He checked the cinch. It was tight. Swinging himself onto the animal's broad back, he reached down to shake Barlin's hand. "It is a couple days' ride to my place. I'll send the lad back as soon as possible." He wrapped the reins around his right fist. "Look for him to return within five days' time."

He smiled down at the red-headed boy. "Your name is Ramul?"

"Yes, Mr. Mathaliah." The lad mounted the horse next to Ilfedo's and grasped the reins of the two pack horses behind him, loaded down with leather bags no doubt holding the serpent meat.

"Since we will be traveling together for the next couple of days"—Ilfedo turned in his saddle to face the doors leading to the inn's courtyard—"I'd prefer you to call me Ilfedo."

Beaming, Ramul urged his horse forward as Ilfedo rode out of the stable, into the courtyard, and down the deserted cobblestone streets. He glanced back one time to look at the sign swinging above the inn door. The Wooden Mug. He would remember that name. Maybe if he returned to this place he would look it up.

* * *

Somewhere in the Western Wood, Dantress slipped out of the cave, parting the vines hanging over the entrance before stepping barefoot on the moist forest floor. A thorn pricked her heel. She leaned over and pulled it out. No matter how often she'd walked without shoes, her feet seemed to remain smooth and tender.

Standing, she stepped over a moss-covered log and made her way through the thick forest growth. When she'd gone out of earshot of the cave, she untied her laces from her belt and put the shoes on her feet. Owls hooted in the darkness, no doubt preparing to swoop from the branches and catch any unsuspecting rodents in their talons.

A couple of miles from the cave she walked into a clearing. The soft starlight mirrored in a pool of water. The pool was fed by water gushing over stone polished smooth. Twice her dreams had showed her this place. Twice she had come, hoping—that he'd be there.

But no one stood on the other side of the pool, no one looked at her with adoring eyes. She sighed, chiding herself for hoping that this fantasy would become reality. That one day the dreams would prove true—and he'd stand there, tall and strong.

She recalled the warmth of Kesla's child sleeping in her arms and loneliness pricked her with one of its long, hard fingers. Someone to have and someone to hold—for even a day—would be enough. She wanted it more than anything in the world. But could she ever have that? Could she bring herself to accept the price of such a union? She was not of human blood.

Thinking that she'd wasted her time, Dantress turned to go, her head bowed.

A tall, hooded figure stepped out of the forest on the opposite bank, glowing with grayish light in the darkness. The figure walked around the pool toward her. Startled, she reached down to the fold in her skirt and leaned over to draw out her blade. But her fingers touched an empty scabbard!

The ghostly figure stood still—a dozen feet away from her—and she noticed the glowing scythe in his right hand. Its blade brought to mind a memory. She struggled to recall where she'd seen it before.

"I am the master of this sword," the decidedly masculine voice replied. "I am its first bearer—the master of the Six."

"
Xavion?
" She stared in disbelief. "But I thought you were dead—"

"Xavion
is
dead, dragon child." He strode a bit closer and starlight reflected off his scythe. "And dead he will remain. I am Specter, agent of your father . . . protector of all that he holds most dear."

Specter neared her and held out the sword . . .
his
sword. A shiver ran unhindered down Dantress's spine. "I think," she managed, "that you should keep it."

His blue eyes glowed down at her and sparked. She couldn't explain how, but somehow she knew that it had been a long time since this warrior had felt as pleased as he felt now. And she couldn't help noticing how handsome, how young he looked. But he had to be around one thousand years old.

"It is kind of you to offer me this gift," Specter said. "Nevertheless, I will not accept, and I don't want to. This sword is destined to be wielded by one other aside from myself and you, and I would not trade the future it has—through your blood—for the temporary gratification of using it against my enemies." He slid the sword adroitly into her scabbard.

"Now"—he stepped back, his robes shimmering—"do not leave this place so soon. I believe the great white dragon would advise you to stay and follow your heart to where it leads you.

His hooded form vanished as he spoke and then his voice whispered close in her ear. "And do not worry about the wild beasts while you sleep. I will stay and keep watch."

Another shiver ran down her spine. Dantress smiled and lay down on the wet grass, uncaring. The dragon had promised that he would watch over his children and, it seemed, he'd also assigned a guardian to keep an eye on them during his absence.