The giant shook it once in Nestor's direction, as if to emphasize to the man the fact of its existence. The larva made no response to the shaking. 'This outh cannot breathe,' the giant said. 'Or even eat or drink, much less speak, or sing. It can only whine as you have just heard, or howl. It can only make noises that I think are intended to inspire human terror.'
Nestor gestured helplessly with the sword that he still carried. 'I do not understand.'
'Nor do I, as yet. I had feared for a time that the gods themselves, or some among them, were for their own reasons causing these things to come into existence. Just as, for their own reasons, some of the gods decided that you should be given great power to kill dragons. But so far I can discover no connection between the two gifts. So I do not know if it is the gods who are raising these larvae, or some magician of great power. Whoever is doing it, I must find a way to stop it. The life energies of the land about the swamp will be exhausted to no good purpose. Already the crops in nearby fields are failing, human beings are sickening with hunger.'
Nestor, looking at the larva, tried to think. 'I believe I can tell you one thing. I doubt that the gods had any hand in making these. Because the swords made by the gods are beautiful things in themselves, whatever the purpose behind them may be.' And Nestor raised the weapon in his right hand.
The giant, looking at the sword, rumbled out what might have been a quotation:
'Gong roads the Sword of Fury makes
Hard walls it builds around the soft… '
Nestor waited for more that did not come. Then he lowered the sword, and suddenly demanded: 'Why do you deny that you are a god yourself?'
The enormous furred fist tightened. The gray carapace of the larva resisted that pressure only for a moment, then broke with an ugly noise. Gray foulness in a variety of indistinct shapes gushed from the broken torso. What Nestor could see of the spill in the moonlight reminded him more of dung than of anything else. The gray limbs twitched. Wildly, the spear waved once and was still.
The giant cast the wreckage from him with a splash, then washed his hands of it in the black water of the swamp. He said: 'I am too small and weak by far, to be a proper god for humankind.'
Nestor was almost angry. 'You are larger than Hermes was, and I did not doubt the divinity of Hermes for a moment once I had seen him. Nor have I any doubts about you. Is this some riddle with which you are testing me? If so, I am too tired and worn right now to deal with riddles.' And too much in need of help. Indeed, the feeling of strength and well-being that Nestor had experienced when the giant first touched him was rapidly declining into weariness again.
The other gazed at him for a moment in silence, and then in silence waded out of the swamp. The mud of the swamp would not stick to his fur, which still glimmered faintly, radiant on the edge of vision. He paced back in the direction of the center of the island, where stood the temple.
Nestor, following, had to trot in his effort to keep up. He cried to the giant's back: 'You are no demon, surely?'
The other answered without turning, maintaining his fast pace. 'I surely am not.'
Nestor surprised himself, and ran. Almost staggering with the effort, he got ahead of the giant and confronted him face to face. With his path thus blocked, the giant halted. Nestor was breathing hard, as if from a long run, or as if he had been fighting. Leaning on his sword, he said: 'Before I saw Hermes face to face, I did not believe in the gods at all. But I have seen him, and I believe. And now when I see — well, slay me for it if you will…'
Surprising himself again, he went down on one knee before the other. He had the feeling that his heart, or something else vital inside him, was about to burst, overloaded by feelings he did not, could not, understand.
The giant rumbled: 'I will not slay you. I will not knowingly kill any human being.'
'…but whether you admit you are a god or not, I know you. I recognize you from a hundred prayers and stories. You are the Beastlord, God of Healing, Draffut.'
Chapter 10
The high gray walls of Kind Sir Andrew's castle were growing higher still, and darkening into black against the sunset. Mark watched their slow approach from his place in the middle of the wagon's seat. Barbara, slumping tiredly for once, was at his right, and Ben at his left with driver's reins in hand.
Now that their road had emerged from the forest and brought the castle into view, Barbara stirred, and. broke a silence that had lasted for some little time. 'I guess we're as ready as can be. Let's go right on in.'
No one else said anything immediately. From its battered cage back in the wagon's covered rear, the battered dragon chirped. Ben looked unhappy about their imminent arrival, but he twitched the reins without argument and clucked to the team, trying to rouse the limping, weary loadbeasts to an enthusiasm he obviously did not feel himself. Earlier in the day Ben had suggested that they ought to travel more slowly though they were late already, delaying their arrival at Sir Andrew's fair for one more day, giving Nestor one more chance to catch up with them before they got there. But Ben hadn't argued this idea very strongly. Mark thought now that neither Ben nor Barbara really believed any longer that Nestor was going to catch up with them at all.
As for Mark himself, he pretty well had to believe that Nestor was going to meet them somewhere, with Townsaver in hand. Otherwise Mark's sword was truly lost.
It had been pretty well established, in the few days that the three of them had been traveling without Nestor, that Barbara was now the one in charge. She was little if any older than Ben was — Mark guessed she was about seventeen — and probably not half Ben's weight. But such details seemed to have little to do with determining who was in charge. Barbara had stepped in and made decisions when they had to be made, and had held the little group and the enterprise together.
Before they'd left the place where the wagon had tipped, shed had them cut off the ears of the freshly dead landwalker, and nail them to the front of the wagon as trophies to show their hunting prowess. Later she'd got Ben and Mark to tighten up all the loosened wagon parts as well as possible, and then to help her wash and mend the cloth cover. All their clothes had been washed and mended too, since the great struggle in the mud. Mark thought that the outfit looked better now that it had when he'd joined up.
After the fight they'd traveled as fast as they could for some hours. Then, when they'd reached a secluded spot along a riverbank, Barbara had decreed a layover for a whole night and a day. The animals had been given a chance to eat and drink and rest, and their hurts had been tended. Medicine of supposed magical power had been applied to Mark's burned face, and it had seemed to help, a little. That night Ben had made his one real effort to assert himself, deciding that he wanted to sleep in the wagon too. But it had been quickly established who was now in command. Ben had wound up snoring on the ground again.
A small hidden compartment directly under the wagon's seat held a secret hoard of coin, tightly wrapped in cloth to keep it from jingling when the wagon moved. Ben and Barbara knew already of the existence of this cache, and during that day of rest they'd brought out the money in Mark's presence and counted it up. It amounted to no fortune, in fact to less than Mark had sometimes seen in his father's hands back at the mill. Nestor's success in hunting dragons evidently hadn't paid him all that well in terms of money — or else Nestor had already squandered the bulk of his payment somehow, or had contrived to hide it or invest it somewhere else. He had been paying both Ben and Barbara small wages, amounts agreed upon in advance. They said that beyond that he dad never discussed money with either of them.
As soon as the coins were counted, Barbara wrapped them tightly up again and stuffed them back into their hiding place and closed it carefully. 'We'll use this only as needed,' she said, looking at the others solemnly: 'If Nestor comes back, he'll understand.'
Ben nodded, looking very serious. All in all it was a solemn moment, a pledging of mutual trust amid shared dangers; at least that was how it impressed Mark. Before he had really thought out what he was going to do, he found himself telling Ben and Barbara his own truthful story, even including his killing of the seneschal, and his own right name.
'Those soldiers of the Duke's were really after me,' he added. 'And my sword. Maybe they got the sword; I still keep hoping that Nestor has it, and that he's going to meet us somewhere. Anyway, even if we're over the border now the Duke will probably still be after me. You two have a right to know about it if I'm going to go on
