Dragon Debt by Robert E. Vardeman The gleaming, impossibly sharp sword slashed so close that Trav German 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 ear-lobe. 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 German. "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. "I know dragons. I have seen them. What does this one know of the biggest dragons? Nothing. Come and listen. Sit and I shall tell you of glorious lands and magical weapons and..." Kennick, after giving the old man a glance of amused contempt, had turned away. No one else paid Wyatt any attention. The old man spat, the spittle hissing as it struck the ground. "Why can't you see what a liar Kennick is?" Trav muttered as he, too, backed away, bumping into Wyatt and almost knocking the one-legged man into the mud. No one else heard his mumbled retort. The village of Slake was as short on dreams as Merrow German, and dreams were what Ken-nick offered with his wild tales. Trav ran through the village, passing no great houses, no fine stores brimming with merchandise such as in Westering and other big towns. Worst of all, he passed too many deserted homes, miserable sod huts left empty by the withering sickness that had held Slake hostage for three long months.' Tears welled in the corners ofTrav's eyes as he thought of his lost mother and three brothers. He brushed the wetness away. There was work to do, and standing about lionizing a stranger who had come to Slake only a week before accomplished nothing. Trav could only wish his sister saw with clearer vision. He didn't want her hurt. She and his father were the only family he had left. "A braggart, that's all he is. Well fed because foolish people listen to his stories and believe them and give him food to be lied to again!" Why was he the only one who heard the hollowness ofKennick's tales? Trav knew the answer and it burned inside him like a festering wound. The people needed a hero to take their minds off their dreary, dangerous lives, and even Wyatt's wild tales had turned stale and predictable over the years. The withering fever and poor crops and the demon that had ravaged Slake a year earlier, all had broken spirits and made any diversion welcome. And Trav knew his father wanted Juliana to marry well. No man under the age of forty remaining in Slake qualified. Those unmarried were all dim, dirt poor, or crippled. A wandering paladin expertly swinging one of the Twelve Swords-the Sword of Heroes!-seemed a miraculous opportunity. "But he lies," moaned Trav, going over the conflicting tales Kennick had spun. The braggart had a story-teller's knack, all right. With each repetition the tales grew like tumors, and always so that the teller fought greater battles and triumphed more heroically. Trav slowed his run and turned toward the chain of S-shaped lakes that gave the village its name. Haifa hundred streams fed the lakes, and he had found his special place along a streamlet ignored by others in the village. Leaves were turning into a rainbow of shimmering colors, and a sharpness hung in the air from dying summer and birthing winter. Walking along his special stream, he found the black- and red-striped berries that would supplement their meals for months after the snows came. Trav gathered slowly, picking with care, trying to forget his father and sister and Kennick and the entire village. Surrounded by the forest, he dared to imagine life being better. Movement at the edge of his vision caused him to stop his work and whirl about. The gnarled, black-barked limbs of a walnut tree vibrated and a few dead leaves fluttered softly to the ground. "Who's there?" he called. Trav put down his capful of berries when he heard a distant crashing sound, as if something heavy had fallen through the leafless tree limbs. Investigating, he moved forward warily through brambles, soon reaching the edge of a small clearing, where a streamlet came wandering through to form a glade of beauty. And amid the beauty stalked death. Not thirty meters distant, its back fortunately to Trav, its long barbed tail twitching nervously, there lumbered a dragon of such immense size that Trav turned white with fear. Shaken, he backed away for several meters, then turned and ran. How long he ran, Trav couldn't say, but he eventually stumbled onto the Slake-Westering Road. He knew where help lay. With legs rubbery from fear and long exertion, he rushed into his village and found Kennick sitting with Juliana beside the public watering trough. "Dragon!" he blurted, gasping. Kennick turned, gave him a sour look and continued his witty discussion with Juliana. Trav's sister turned and gestured angrily at him. "Go away, Trav. You're bothering us. I must tell Kennick of available lodging. He intends to stay in Slake!" Trav saw Dragonslicer in its hand-tooled leather sheath leaning against the trough and started to reach for the weapon. Kennick snatched up the magical sword and laid the long blade across his lap. "Don't go telling stories, boy," Kennick chided. "There aren't any dragons in these woods. I've already killed them all." He laughed and returned to romancing Juliana. Trav backed off, not knowing what to do, where to go. But some dark instinct drew him dragonward. He ran hard back into the woods, braving the gathering darkness and chill rising wind. He found...
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