The Book of Swords. Gardner Dozois

cooing to comfort it, and saw that some of the men-at-arms had abandoned their weapons when the fiend arrived. He picked up a serviceable sword, and, since he was riding, a long-shafted lance. It had a black-and-gold pennant that he tore off.

      The animal’s iron shoes beat solid notes on the drawbridge as it carried Baldemar out of the castle. The fortification’s surrounds were empty and he suspected that he would find the town similarly deserted. Demons had that effect.

      “Now,” he said to himself, “I’ll ride to the land’s edge and take passage on a ship sailing north. I’ll buy myself a house in one of the Seven Cities of the Sea and invest in the fiduciary pool. Maybe I’ll get a boat and take up fishing.”

      He touched his heels to the black’s sides and the horse began to canter toward the town. Just then, a voice from above him said, “There you are!”

      Baldemar looked up. The flying platform was just overhead, Aumbraj leaning on the balustrade. It settled to the turf, and the wizard said, “Come aboard. We have to go.”

      The man was tempted to urge the horse to a gallop. But the thaumaturge was tapping the palm of one hand with the wand. He climbed aboard and the flying platform turned north. Past the town, he looked down and saw Enolia marching along a lane that led to a capacious stone farmhouse. She paused to roll up her sleeves then used her stick to take a few practice swipes at the weeds that grew beside the track before resuming her methodical progress toward the house. When the platform’s shadow passed over her, she did not look up.

      “The thing is,” the thaumaturge said, “you really ought to be dead.”

      They were flying north over the Sundering Sea at an even faster speed than Baldemar had come south. Aumbraj had fed the imps well on hymetic syrup and conjured an invisible shield to protect him and Baldemar from the shrieking wind of their passage.

      The wizard’s henchman had been watching the waves ripple the surface of the sea. Now he turned to the thaumaturge. “The demon would have given me a fate worse than death,” he said. “He would have taken Enolia and me for playthings.”

      “I’m not talking about the demon. I’m talking about the Sword of Destiny. It is known to be very—touchy about being touched.”

      He grinned at his play on words but Baldemar bored in on the substance of his remark. “You’re saying the Sword … has a will of its own?”

      “A will—and a history of seeing that will turned into ways. And means, if you get what I’m saying.”

      Baldemar said, “So Thelerion was sending me to be killed?” His disaffection for his employer plumbed new depths.

      “I doubt that,” said Aumbraj. “He simply didn’t know what he was getting into—or, more properly, getting you into. But it’s clear from my researches that the moment your hand touched the Sword, you should have found yourself looking at a charred stump somewhere between your wrist and elbow.”

      Baldemar shuddered. But the thaumaturge went on, oblivious to his distress. “Instead, the Sword merely freed the erbs you had sequestered so that they could chase you away. Even then, it did not allow them to catch you, as they certainly should have. The man has not yet been born who can outrun an erb, especially up stairs.”

      Baldemar forced from his mind the image of what would have happened if the beasts had caught him.

      “Then, instead of hacking off a leg, it hampered you just enough to make you leave it behind.”

      “So it didn’t want to kill me, yet it didn’t want me to take it away.”

      Aumbraj thoughtfully tugged his nose, then pointed a conclusive finger at Baldemar. “It did not want you to take it to this Fallowbrain who sent you,” he said, “but I think we have to deduce that it didn’t mind your touch.”

      Baldemar turned back to the sea. “I am confused,” he said.

      “As you ought to be. You’re probably not used to thinking of yourself as a man of destiny.”

      “Indeed, I am not.”

      “Well, you’d better get used to it. Once it makes up its mind, the Sword can be quite adamant.”

      Aumbraj went on to describe the Sword’s history and attributes. Forged on some other Plane of existence, its exact circumstances of origin were now completely forgotten. On the Plane where it was created, it probably had some other shape and function altogether. But here on the Third Plane, it presented as an invincible weapon. Yet it was more than that. It had the inclination sometimes to single out “persons of interest”—that was the Sword’s own term—and assist them to become grand figures of the age.

      “Its own term?” Baldemar said. “It speaks?”

      “When it cares to,” said the wizard. “But to continue, persons possessed of overweening ambition will seek out the Sword and grasp its hilt. Most of them meet with a swift and decisive end of all their dreams. It is not a forgiving entity and hates to be harassed. But, occasionally, it picks out some seeming nonentity and raises him to heights of glory. Some have taken that as a sign the Sword possesses a sense of humor.”

      “Amazing,” said Baldemar.

      “You have never heard of any of this?”

      “My education was largely informal and centered on acquiring practical skills.”

      “Hmm,” said the thaumaturge and spent some time studying Baldemar, after which he said, “You don’t show any signs of being a candidate for glory, but then again, you might be one of those seeming nonentities.”

      Baldemar did not know whether to be insulted or pleased. Situations involving thaumaturges and magical weapons were often hard to read.

      “Well, we’ll just have to see,” Aumbraj said.

      The sun had set long before they crossed the southern downs and the forest of Ilixtrey. Soon the lights of Vanderoy showed themselves, strung atop a long ridge and its lower slopes. Baldemar offered to direct Aumbraj to the building where the Sword resided, but the wizard waved the proposal away.

      “I can find it,” he said. “To one of my abilities, it emits the equivalent of a blinding light and an earsplitting noise.” He made a small sound of contempt, and added, “Your employer, the Great Fullbean, probably managed to catch a faint glow and a fading whisper.”

      They crossed the city wall and began to spiral down toward the rooftop Baldemar remembered so well. “I suppose,” he said, “that’s not really a building at all.”

      “Of course, it is,” said Aumbraj. “But it is an edifice unremarked by even its neighbors, who pass by daily with never a thought as to what lies within. Even the city’s tax collectors will overlook it.”

      “The Sword’s doing?” the man said.

      “As I said, it prefers not to be harassed.”

      The roof was in darkness but as they descended closer, Baldemar saw motion on its flat surface. “Look,” he said.

      The wizard peered, then made a gesture and muttered something. Immediately, the top of the building was bathed in bright light, revealing that someone was bent over the trapdoor, tugging at it with both hands.

      “Oh, my,” said Aumbraj. “Truly a skimpwit of the first water.”

      The figure looked up, shading its eyes against the light, and Baldemar saw that the skimpwit was Thelerion, clad in the Greaves of Indefatigability, the Breastplate of Fortitude, and the Helmet of Sagacity. The Shield Impenetrable lay on the rooftop beside him, but now he snatched it up and slipped an arm through it while his other hand produced a wand tipped with a large, faceted emerald.

      Baldemar knew that wand well. He flinched in anticipation. But Aumbraj said, “Oh, really!” and made a shooing gesture with the backs of his fingers. The Shield glowed briefly as it was thrust back against Thelerion, who stumbled backward