Many Fine Blades

‘They sent me here to kill you,’ said the boy.

The Dragon spread its wings and arose from its hoard, gold and gemstones falling from its scales like dust from a comet. ‘They sent you here to die.’

Its claws were longer than the boy was tall; brutal and sharp and deadly. Its jaws were strong enough to rend steel. When it breathed, the flames were of such heat as to turn the earth to glass.

A single beat of its mighty wings and it was upon him, and the boy knew this was the end of him.

He held up his sword in a futile attempt to protect himself and his town. It had been three months. Three months, the Dragon had been raiding his people. Two months since it had been tracked here, to the mountains. One month since the others had placed the sword in his hand and sent him on his quest.

And now he’d be eaten without so much as a glancing blow to the Dragon’s hide.

He opened one eye. He hadn’t even realised he’d closed them.

The Dragon had halted its advance, though its massive form still surrounded him, its tail cutting off any potential escape. ‘What… is that?’ it asked, green-orange eyes transfixed upon his blade.

Could it be? thought the boy. Is there more to this weapon? Could this sword be a Dragon-slayer? The craftsmen in town were adamant I take this one. They rarely tell me anything; what if it’s ensorcelled?

‘You fear my blade, wyrm?’ he tried, with false bravado. Dragons could perform magic innately, influencing their surroundings or changing shape to play tricks on their victims. Could it sense the power he’d been given?

‘What?’ said the Dragon. ‘No. Look at that piece of shit. Who gave you this?’

The boy didn’t move, still holding up the sword as more a talisman than a weapon. But his eyes, staring at his adversary until now, strayed to the blade itself.

It wasn’t much to look at. The steel was shoddy and rusted in places, and the edge was pocked and nicked in so many places the thing was practically a saw.

‘Hold it up,’ said the Dragon. It sounded like it was in shock. ‘Turn it over, could you? See that crack on both sides? Ugh, you’d have a better chance coming at me with bronze. What’s your name, child?’

‘My name is Petri and I am no child. I came from Kotska to slay you, and save my people.’

‘Well, boy, I see you’re no warrior. It would be unsporting to kill you. Take your stick and be on your way.’

Petri gripped the hilt of his stick. His sword. ‘No. I am here to save my people. To prove myself.’

Something close to humour flashed in the Dragon’s eyes. ‘You wish to prove yourself to a people that can’t even forge a decent sword for their questing hero?’

‘My people are the greatest weapon-smiths in the land.’

‘Oh, are they?’ said the Dragon. It paused when it caught the boy’s expression. ‘Wait. Are they?’

Its tail had moved from the lair’s entrance now. Perhaps the boy could escape, and then sneak back in and slay the wyrm while it slumbered? Perhaps he could persuade the others in town to help him? But they’d already voted that he go alone, and it was a month’s journey, and if he came back alive without proof…

‘Boy!’

He snapped out of his rumination.

‘I asked you a question,’ said the Dragon, its voice in calm contrast to the spears of flame coming from its nostrils. The humour had melted from its words.

‘They are,’ said Petri, trying not to sound too proud. The blades produced by Kotska apprentices were issued to armies. The blades produced by Kotska masters were coveted by kings. And Dragons. Petri could see several such blades in the Dragon’s accumulated hoard.

‘And they sent you, a boy with no training or experience in combat, to face me with this… tent pole?’ The Dragon’s wings folded and it slunk back to its pile of riches. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, boy.’

Petri shouted at its retreat. ‘You’re dismissing me?!’ As well? he didn’t say. ‘What, am I not man enough for you to kill? Is this pity?’

The Dragon opened one eye. Petri hadn’t realised it had closed them. ‘Yes,’ it said.

‘I will not leave, wyrm. They sent me here to–’

‘They sent you here to die.’

‘Your threats are–’

A gout of flame wider than any river Petri had seen rolled across the ceiling of the Dragon’s lair, causing him to stumble back in alarm, dropping his sword. Metal struck stone, and the blade snapped.

‘It’s not a threat, boy!’ the Dragon roared. ‘I understand what led you here. You aren’t on some noble quest. They sent you to die, be it here or dashed upon the rocks below.’

‘I know! Don’t you think I know that?!’ Petri’s voice was strained, the pitch too high in his ears. His eyes swam. ‘Yes, they wanted rid of me! I admit it! I accept it! It doesn’t matter. This is my chance to prove I’m one of them.’

‘One of them?’

‘The men fight and work the forges.’ He glared at the broken sword on the floor. ‘Had I been allowed to forge a blade myself, your body would already be cold.’

A pause. Then the Dragon laughed, filling the valley below with its booming voice. ‘Fucking hell,’ it said, after regaining some of its composure. ‘You’re brave, boy. Your heart is fierce. You only lack experience.’

Petri stuck out his jaw, and moved to retrieve his weapon, preparing to charge. Better to die fighting than be mocked like this.

‘But we can remedy that,’ finished the Dragon. And it changed.

Its form blurred and shrank in on itself. Petri scrambled with his half-sword. Its reach was next to nothing now, but if he didn’t care to live through this, he could perhaps get a few strikes in before he died.

The Dragon shrank further and further, stepping from its glittering bed, and Petri realised – just as its features coalesced into perfect beauty – that it had shifted to the form of a man.

He was more than a head taller than Petri was, wearing gleaming plate armor of the same shade as his scales. Gods, he looks like royalty, thought Petri.

The Dragon’s wings had become a long cloak. His claws were perfectly manicured fingernails. His eyes, still green and orange with the same slitted pupils, held a curiosity that Petri hadn’t seen until they were seated in a human face.

He also held a sword, selected from his pile of treasures; a blade of such exquisite craftsmanship that Kotska’s forges would go cold forever should any of the townsfolk see it.

‘My name is of less importance to me than your own is to you,’ said the Dragon. ‘I did not choose it for myself. I am called Valnir.’ He held up his sword, and in its mirrored edge Petri saw the setting sun beyond the mouth of the lair.

‘If you can strike me, even once, I will leave this place and my wings shall never again darken Kotska’s skies,’ said Valnir. ‘On this I give my word.’

Petri said nothing.

‘You’re supposed to, uh, accept my oath,’ said the Dragon.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Petri, his voice less than a whisper.

‘You think they won’t believe you? I’ll sweeten the deal. If you strike me, I’ll never again raid your town, and I’ll give you one of my scales. Think of the blade you could craft with that.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Petri again, louder this time.

Valnir sheathed his blade and came closer. ‘It mattered very much just a moment ago,’ he said. ‘Are, uh, you okay? Look, don’t be scared, this isn’t like a duel to the death, it’s only–‘

Petri slugged him in the face. Valnir didn’t see it coming, and the blow landed squarely on the bridge of his nose – but he was a Dragon, even if at this moment he was shaped like a man. It didn’t even move his head back.

Petri had slumped down to the floor now, the broken sword discarded and forgotten. Tears were rolling down his cheeks in fat, briny drops.

He hated crying. He hated how easily the tears came. ‘I already told you it doesn’t matter!’ he said, furiously wiping at his eyes. ‘They don’t want you gone, they want me gone. So, they sent me here, even if I can’t fight. And then you just change your shape like it’s nothing and you offer me a pity duel?! How am I supposed to go home after that?’

‘I thought you wanted to prove yourself,’ said Valnir, sitting at Petri’s side. ‘To your townsfolk.’

There was silence. They watched the last light of the sun vanish behind the mountains.

‘I do want to prove myself,’ said Petri, after a long while. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet, kicking the sword to one side as he moved toward the entrance. ‘Just not to them.’

‘Wait, boy,’ said Valnir. ‘I still owe you a scale.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘You struck me!’ Valnir pointed to his nose. ‘So, as agreed, I–‘

‘I never accepted your oath.’

‘Then let us strike a new one!’ Valnir skidded into Petri’s path, blocking the exit once again. He kept himself in the human shape. ‘I’ll teach you to wield a sword, if you’ll teach me to forge one.’

‘You already have many fine blades, Valnir.’

‘Other craftsmen’s blades. You know full well that others’ work is meaningless. I want to make something for myself. I want us both to do that, Petri.’

Petri held his eyes for an endless breath. ‘Okay,’ he said.