The Last Dragon: Book Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Elizabeth said to Bran, “Are there a lot of those evil creatures flying about here?”

Bran said in a hushed tone, “I’ve never seen one of them before. I’ve heard of dragons, of course, but never seen one.”

“Those are Wyvern,” I said automatically. “Not dragons.”

Bran fought with the reigns to control the horse. It may have never seen a Wyvern either, but it knew when to be scared. I ignored him, the horse, the people who ran in the streets, and the few screams. I focused on drawing water from nearby sources and concentrating it into five equal measures. If the Wyvern attacked, I’d scald them with steam again, all five at once if my magic allowed. But for now, they remained too far away.

Not that these were the same Wyvern that had attacked our boat. They might be, but I doubted it. They were fresh recruits flown in by the Young Mage. They’d never been seen here before, so the coincidence of their arrival and ours was too much to ignore.

They didn’t attack us. Instead, they flew off to the west, flying high over the city and upsetting everyone living in it. Everyone we passed seemed to be talking about the sudden appearance of Wyvern, a creature most had regulated to myth until today. Most called them dragons which irritated me in some primal way.

Elizabeth and I listened, commented when required, but otherwise allowed the city to speak to us instead of the other way around. As we passed under a stone bridge over a small, shallow river, a voice called out to Bran. He looked up and waved as he pulled the carriage to a halt.

A young woman raced to meet us, her long brown hair flowing in the air behind her. My eyes couldn’t look away. She was beautiful. While she talked briefly to Bran, her eyes never left me. Mine never left her.

Bran turned to us and said, “Your invitation for the ball is being delivered to the Black Swan right now.”

As simple as that, unknown Elizabeth had entered a city and before sunset, without telling anyone who she was, had secured an invitation to a royal ball. In a city where perhaps one in ten had ever laid eyes on their king, she had managed to attract so much attention the city elite were begging for information about her. That proved the power of rumors.

The people who had tended to us in the Black Swan, as well as those working there, had unwittingly done her bidding with their gossiping too. A few seamstresses, tailors, or employees speaking to their friends about the mysterious new arrival, along with rumors spread in the palace by Bran’s friends had taken only one day for royalty to become curious about her.

Bran sat smiling as we whooped and laughed at his news. He finally asked, “Where would you like to go next?”

Before I could suggest returning to the inn for the evening, Elizabeth spoke up, “I’ve heard Malawi has the best sword makers in the known world. Would the best of their shops still be open?”

Bran spun and slapped the horse in the rump. “If we hurry. The best is usually open until sunset this time of the year.”

The carriage bounced along the cobblestones as I tried to catch Elizabeth’s eye. She playfully avoided me. Yet, she was giving me a present almost as great as the sword itself. The carriage careened around corners, down hills, and ended up near the bay where it narrowed and was surrounded by an industrial area. Bran pulled to a stop beside a low stone building and pointed to a door.

I entered with Elizabeth to find a very large room, open to the working furnaces at the back. Inside were three men, two working at a smoky forge and one older man at the counter sitting on a stool and carefully carving scrolls on a blade. He laid his tools down and looked us up and down without a greeting.

I nodded.

He was old, his face like leather left in the sun to soak up water to crack and dry in the heat. His hands were pale, veined, and as wrinkled as his face. Only his eyes were young and alert. I had the impression his body had aged while his mind hadn’t.

He glanced at my old, everyday scabbard and the crude addition intended to hold a bow, which it seldom did. He didn’t grimace but could have. He said, “I think you have come to the wrong shop. Perhaps I can recommend one more suitable?”

The tone was not insulting, simply flat and void of friendliness. I strode confidently to the counter while thinking that if he picked up his tools as a way to dismiss me, I’d use my magic to push his hand aside and ruin his work. I said, “I’m in need of a new scabbard, and someone to repair my blade. Our driver says you are the best in the city.”

“Your driver does us a favor, but we work for the wealthy and have no time for anything else.”

“Do you have the ability to repair a nick on a blade?”

“Of course, but as I told you . . .”

While he answered, I pulled my blade and placed it on the counter in front of him. His mouth quit working. His eyes grew large and he drew back as if the blade would leap from the counter and strike him. I said, “Is this blade something of the quality you might work on?”

His thumb tested the chip on the cutting edge without lifting the sword. He said, “I have only seen three of these masterpieces made by my ancestors in my life, only one of the three was this quality.”

“The chip?”

“The blade cannot be touched with the heat of a forge.” He used a bit of soot to mark the blade, the chip in the center. “No metal will bind with this for a repair. However, the edge can be reshaped near the chip in such a way that nobody will ever know it has been repaired. The chip is not deep, nor repairable otherwise. That is the best anyone can do.”

I waited.

He gently moved his index finger along the edge to indicate where it would be changed. “There is nobody else in Malawi who should touch this, nobody in the world. Did you cause this damage?”

“In battle,” I admitted.

He gave me a bit of a smile. “Good. The sword is beautiful but made to fight.”

“The cost?” I asked, my eyes looking to Elizabeth for permission to pay.

He snorted in derision. “This blade, this work of art, was created right here in this building, in the forge behind me, by an ancestor with skills that no longer exist. It is a family heirloom. The cost, you ask? I have not enough money to pay you for the privilege of making the repair.”

Confused, I said, “No, you don’t understand. I will pay you.”

“No, it is you who does not understand. These swords were sold to last a lifetime. Not the lifetime of the buyer, but of the sword. You will never pay for a repair. It is my honor and duty to make this small repair.”

Elizabeth had joined me in being stunned at his explanation. She stood at my side and asked, “Do you sell scabbards? I mean, we are to go to the king’s ball tomorrow and my brother cannot wear that.” She pointed to my hip. “It is a working scabbard intended to hide the perfection of his blade and not draw attention to it.”

He called over his shoulder and the pair working at the forge raced to join him. They were at least as impressed, nudging each other to get a better look at the damage. What impressed me most was that neither touched the blade, their respect was so great. While they discussed the repair processes they might use, the first man escorted us to a small door leading to a room. Inside were scabbards, hundreds of them hanging on three walls.

Some were tipped in silver or gold, others were made of exotic leathers, and some had the tool-work of masters for their intricate designs. There were scabbards for long blades, short ones, wide or narrow, and even a few for the hated tri-cornered blades that made wounds that refuse to heal.

He brushed aside several and lifted three from a hook. He handed them to me as he said, “These are made for imitations of your sword, the best swords we can make for the last century. Any of them will do, so it is your preference as to which you like the best.”

I held them up for Elizabeth to see. She selected the same one I had my eye on, the plainest of the three, but the smooth leather held a sheen the others couldn’t match. He gave me a single nod of agreement as he returned the other two to the hook.

I said, “Those other swords you spoke of. May we see the best? Not the prettiest, but the one most functional? Please do not consider the price.” Since I was not paying for the repair, I felt confident in selecting one for Will without consideration to cost.

“For you?” he asked.

“No. For a warrior so great the King of Dire has rewarded him with titles and land, but no sword. I would like the King’s favorite daughter, Princess Elizabeth to present it to him.” I looked at her to find a blush like few I’d ever seen.

“Follow me,” was his only response—if you don’t count the sly grin at her embarrassment.

He went to another door, which surprised me. Swords of every kind hung on the walls and behind the counter, flat blades, short ones and long, narrow and thick, heavy and light, gray, silver, and black. A few were decorated so heavily with gold they were yellow. Some blades curved slightly, others more. A few curved forward, looking deadly and awkward.

But he ignored all those and worked a lock that refused to budge, which hinted that it hadn’t been opened in a long time. A solid click finally sounded, and he swung the door open. Inside was a locked case, which was fastened to the floor with iron pegs. The walls were solid wood, thicker than the length of my longest fingers. Nobody was going to get into the room, and if they did, they would find the treasure was locked inside an unmovable box.

He went to the far wall and touched a place on the wood, higher than his head. A hinged panel opened and his gnarly fingers held another key. He opened the lock on the box as we stood quietly aside. Inside lay four swords on a bed of green silk, all different.

I didn’t speak or look at Elizabeth. We waited.

He motioned to them. “Any of these will be what you are seeking. Two are magnificent, not as good as yours, but close. One is extraordinary and certainly fit for a king’s reward for exceptional service. The last better than any will wear at the ball, in this city, or kingdom, but a poor sister to the other three. Please make your selection.”

He didn’t say which was which. I ignored him and picked up the nearest. Next, to mine, it was the finest sword I’d ever held. I slashed the air and could have purchased it without a second thought. The second I tried was the ugly sister.

The third felt even better in my hand than the first.

I replaced it carefully and lifted the last one. Without slashes, parries, or thrusts, I knew it was the sword for Will. “I’ll take this one.”

“I knew you would choose that one,” he chuckled as he closed and locked the case.

The sword was longer and slightly heavier than mine, but Will was larger and stronger. There were no engravings, no fancy gold inlays, and no jewels inset in the handle. A curved hilt protected the hand during battle and on it was a trace of scrolled decoration. Generations of hands had worn the metal of the hilt smooth, but the blade appeared as if made this very day.

“How old is it?” I asked.

“Who can know such things?” he said.

“Did your ancestors make it too?”

“I wish we could take credit, but no. We have no factual information on its origin, but next to yours, this is the finest sword we have ever sold.”

“Can I afford it?” I looked at Elizabeth.

She lifted her chin. “If you have pen and paper, I will have my father pay whatever you ask if you will keep it here unsold until you receive payment via our fastest ship.”

He held up his hands in the surrender mode. “We have only a few clients, we select them carefully. None have ever failed to pay, so that is not an issue. The price of the sword is something my brothers and I have debated for decades. It came to my grandfather from his grandfather with only one caveat from the previous owner. It must be given to a good man.”

I erupted, “You cannot give such a sword away!”

He chuckled. “You misunderstand. The price of the sword was paid to us by the previous owner. It has already been paid for. We only held it here until we found a good man.”

“You don’t even know Will,” Elizabeth said.

He turned away and led us back to the counter, the sword held gently in both hands.

“You didn’t answer me,” she said.

He placed the sword in front of me. “A good man is judged by the quality of his friends. That is a proverb as old as Malawi. Our decision is final.” He asked me, “Where are your accommodations?”

“The Black Swan,” Elizabeth said before I could answer.

“Your sword will be delivered there my mid-day. Take this one for your friend. Again, I thank you for allowing me to enhance the pride of my family.”

We left the forge more than somewhat stunned. I didn’t like leaving my sword there, but inside my heart, I knew it couldn’t be in better hands. I held Will’s new sword as if it was made of glass. Honest Bran sat in his seat smiling and waiting.

“The inn,” she told him. “And we won’t need you tonight. Go home. Be back in the morning.”

He let us off at the front of the building and used the circular driveway to leave. The coachman recognized us and as we passed by him, whispered that he could arrange a proper coach and driver if we wanted. Elizabeth refused, of course.

Inside, we were quickly escorted into the main dining room, this time. There were over thirty tables, half of them occupied. We sat at one near the center where we had a good line of sight to the woman softly singing to the strumming of the man with the lute behind her. The tune was unknown to me, but her voice captured the setting of the room filled with the rich and powerful.

We ordered sweet white wine and listened both to the singer and to the conversation around us. We ignored the curious stares and questioning looks. Finally, a man came to our table and waited to be recognized. When I looked at him, he bowed and presented a small white paper in the center of a golden plate.

Elizabeth unfolded it and read silently. She turned to the man. “We would be delighted to attend.”

He quickly and quietly withdrew as if a vanishing spell had been placed on him. The room had quieted when he entered, and after he left, the level of conversation rose. They recognized the king’s messenger. I knew they talked about us, so I minded my manners and was sensitive to the changes in temperature of the diners. They would treat us warmer from now on.

Elizabeth leaned closer, still clutching the invitation. “Learn a lesson, Damon. The people in this room are wealthy. They have money, probably a lot of it. But they are not royalty and never will be.”

She sat up straighter.

I wondered at her statement. More than the appearance of Wyvern in Malawi had happened. I knew she was assuming a role, but the changes were not all likable. We talked little, listened a lot, and learned almost nothing of what we wanted.

The night was peaceful and the music relaxing. Although we were the center of what felt like a thousand stares, I had the impression it would be the last relaxing evening we might have for a while.