But he, himself-what of him? What body-oh, yes, the huge-thewed, giant young man. Dor had never before experienced such ready power; the massive sword felt light in his hands, though he knew that in his real body he would barely have been able to swing it two-handed. This was the kind of body he had daydreamed about!
Something stung him on the head. Dor clapped his hand there, knocking himself momentarily dizzy, but whatever it was, was gone. It had felt, however, like a louse or flea. He had no antifleas spell with him. Already the penalties of the primitive life were manifesting.
The jungle was close. Great-leaved branches formed a seemingly solid wall of green. There were fewer magic plants than he was used to; these more closely resembled Mundane trees. Which, again, made sense; the Land of Xanth was closer to Mundania in nature than it would be in Dor's day. Evolution-the pedagogue centaur had taught him about that, how magic things evolved into more magical things, to compete and survive better.
Something entered the periphery of his vision as he looked around. Dor whirled-and discovered that it had not been his sword that made the goblins retreat. Behind him stood a spider-the height of a man. Dor forgot all about the lurking goblins. He lifted the great sword, feeling the facility with which his body handled it. This was a trained warrior whose muscles had been augmented by experience and skill-which was fortunate, because Dor himself was no swordsman. He could have sliced himself up, if this body hadn't possessed good reflexes.
The spider reacted similarly. It carried no sword, but hardly needed to. It had eight hairy legs and two huge green eyes-no, four eyes, two large and two small-no, there were at least six, scattered about its head. Two sharp fangs projected inward from the mouth parts, and two mouth-legs fitted outside. Overall, the creature was as horrible as Dor could imagine. Now it was preparing to pounce on him.
On top of that, the thing was chittering at him, making a series of clicking sounds that could only be some sort of threat. Grundy the golem could have translated instantly-but Grundy was eight hundred years or so away, now. The spider's two larger forelegs were raised; though they had neither fingers nor claws, they looked formidable. And those mandibles behind them, and those eyes-
Dor made a feint with his sword, surprising himself; his body was bringing its own expertise into play. The monster drew back, clicking angrily. 'What's that thing trying to say?' Dor asked himself nervously, not at all sure he could fend the monster off despite his own greatly enhanced size and strength.
The sword he held thought he had spoken to it. 'I know battle language. The monster says he doesn't really want to fight, but he's never seen a horror like you before. He wonders whether you are good to eat.'
'A horror like me!' Dor exclaimed incredulously. 'Is the monster crazy?'
'I can't be the judge of that,' the sword said. 'I only understand battle competence. This creature seems disoriented but competent enough to me. For all I know, you could be the crazy one.'
'I'm a twelve-year-old boy from eight hundred years in the future-or from outside this tapestry, whichever makes more sense.'
'Now my doubt has been allayed. You are indubitably crazy.'
'Well, you're in my hand now,' Dor said, nettled. 'You'll do as I direct.'
'By all means. Swords have ever been the best servants of crazy men.'
The monster spider had not actually attacked. Its attention seemed to be diverted. It was hard to tell what was the object of its diversion, because its eyes aimed in so many directions at once. Maybe it was only trying to understand his dialogue with the sword. Dor tried to spot what it was looking at-and saw the goblins returning.
One thing about goblins: they were enemies. No one knew exactly what had happened to them, but it had been conjectured that they had been driven underground after centuries of warfare, because of their implacable hatred of man. Once, legend claimed, the goblins had gotten along with man; indeed, they were distantly related to men. But something had changed-
'This is no good,' Dor said. 'If I fight the monster, the goblins will attack me from behind. But if I turn my back on the spider, it will eat me. Or something.'
'So slay the monster, then fight the goblins,' the sword said. 'Die in honorable combat. It is the warrior's way.'
'I'm no warrior!' Dor cried, thoroughly frightened. It had not occurred to him that the world of the tapestry would pose an immediate threat to him. But now he was in it, this world seemed thoroughly real, and he didn't want to find out whether he could die here. Maybe his death would merely catapult him back prematurely, terminating the spell, dumping him into his own body, mission unaccomplished. Maybe it would be more final.
'You were a warrior until a few minutes ago,' the sword said, 'A very stupid one, to be sure, to have gotten yourself trapped by this motley band of goblins, but nevertheless a warrior. Brains never were a requirement for war anyway; in fact they tend to be a liability. Now all of a sudden you're timid as hell, and you're also talking to me. You never did that before.'
'It's my talent. Talking to inanimate objects.'
'That sounds like an insult,' the sword said, glinting ominously.
'No, not at all,' Dor said hastily. He certainly didn't need to have his own sword mad at him now! 'I am the only person privileged to talk to swords. All other people must talk to other people.'
'Oh,' it said, mollified. 'That is an unusual honor. How come you never did it before?'
Dor shrugged. He didn't want to go into the insanity bit again. 'Maybe I just didn't feel worthy.'
'Must be,' the sword agreed. 'Now let's slay that monster.'
'No. If it hasn't attacked by this time, I believe it when it says it doesn't want to fight. My father always says it's best to be friends if you can. He even made friends with a dragon once.'
'You forget I was your father's sword before you inherited me. He never said anything of the kind. He said, 'Gorge, guzzle, and wench, for tomorrow we get gutted.' Then a wench's husband caught up with him while he was gorged and guzzled, and he got gutted.'
