The Reluctant Swordsman (13 page)

“Master?” he whispered.

“Ah!” The skinny little boy turned back to him with a satisfied and gap-toothed smile. He did not wait for any attempt at apology. “You have recovered! I see you have scraped some more skin off. Well, now that we have straightened out your soul, more or less cured your body, and improved your attitude, perhaps we can get down to business?”

“Yes?”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Master,” Wallie said as humbly as he could. Obviously gods did not take kindly to smart-aleck mortals.

The boy put an elbow on a knee and wagged a finger in the air, as though telling a story. “Now—Shonsu was a very great swordsman. There is perhaps no greater in the World at the moment.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Possibly one about equal. Hard to say—we shall see.” He grinned mischievously. “Shonsu had a mission, a task. He failed, and the penalty was death.” Wallie opened his mouth, and the little boy said, “You must not question the justice of the gods!” in a voice that stopped anything Wallie might have been about to say.

“No, Master.”

“The Goddess requires you to bring about what Shonsu could not.” How far dare he question? “Master, why me? How and why was I brought here? How can I succeed where the greatest—” The boy held up a hand and snapped, “You expect an explanation? You could not even understand the politics of the temple, let alone what all this is about. I have stopped time so that we may talk, but I haven’t stopped it for you, and if I tried to explain the whole thing, then you would die of old age before you got out of here.” He sighed.

“Truth is like a fine jewel, Mr. Smith, with a million facets. If I show you one facet of this jewel, will you be content, but remember that it is only one and that there are many others?”

“I shall try, Master,” Wallie said. He squirmed some more on his rock and eventually sat on the edge and dangled his legs over the abyss.
 
The boy eyed him thoughtfully. “After all,” he said, “you believe that life is worth living, yet you know that death is inevitable. You believe that an electron is a particle and a wave at the same time, don’t you? You know that love and lust are the finest and most base of human motives, and yet are frequently almost inseparable. You do have some capacity for reconciling incompatible truths?”

Wallie nodded and waited.

“Well, then . . . I gave you a couple of hints.” “Chess and bridge? The gods play games?” Wallie did not want to believe that; all human history merely a game to amuse the gods?
 
“That is one facet of the jewel,” the boy said. “Think of it as an allegory. And somebody made a bad lead, as your dream showed you. There is no rule against profiting from a bad lead! In the affairs of gods, you see, there is no coincidence and no unexpected, but sometimes there is the unusual. You were unusual. It explains why you were available. That is all I can tell you.” He gave Wallie a disgusted look. “And don’t go rushing off to found a religion over this—that is a hazard for mortals who are told things by gods. You see, whereas that one facet means that certain . . . powers . . . are opponents, on other facets of the jewel, they are partners. Confusing, isn’t it?” Wallie nodded. Confusing was not half of it.

“And on many other facets there is no game at all. So don’t think my parable means that you are unimportant. In your former world, when the tin-chested, square-jawed warriors gathered to play war games, were they playing games?” Wallie smiled. “Yes and no, Master.”

The boy looked relieved. “All right, then. Let’s go on, and not worry about explanations. You have shown that you have courage. You have Shonsu’s body and his language and you can be given his skill. Are you worthy?” Wallie thought that this had to be the strangest job interview in the history of the galaxy—whatever galaxy this was. A small naked boy interviewing a large naked man on the side of a cliff behind an immobilized waterfall? “I am a better man than Hardduju. He is the only standard I have to judge by.” The boy snarled something inaudible about Hardduju. “All the crafts have their sutras,” he said, “and in most cases the first one contains a code. When a boy becomes a swordsman he swears to follow the code of the swordsmen. Listen!” He reeled off a long string of promises. Wallie listened with growing dismay and skepticism. The swordsmen, apparently, were something between Knights Templar and Boy Scouts. No mortal could ever live to such a standard . . . at least, not Wallie Smith.

I will be evermore true to the will of the Goddess, the sutras of the swordsmen, and the laws of the People.

I will be mighty against the mighty, gentle to the weak, generous to the poor, and merciless to the rapacious.

I will do nothing of which I may be ashamed, but avoid no honor.

I will give no less than justice to others, and seek no more for myself.

I will be valiant in adversity, and humble in prosperity.

I will live with joy.

I will die bravely.

“I will swear it,” he said cautiously. “And I hope I will keep it as well as any man may, but it is more a code for gods than mere humans.” “The swordsmen are addicted to fearsome oaths,” the boy said ominously and stared at him for a time, until he trembled. “Yes,” he said at last, “I think you will try quite hard. You are starting at the top, as a Seventh, and you not have the advantage of a long apprenticeship to teach you the proper attitudes.
 
Your past life has hardly been a suitable training. You need to understand that the battle against evil may require harsh measures, and that sweet reason is not enough.”

“Well, I have some idea,” Wallie protested. “My father was a policeman.” The little god leaned back on his pipe-stem arms and laughed a long and childishly shrill laugh, for which Wallie could see no cause at all. The crystal echoed it back until the ice cave rang.

“You are learning, Mr. Smith! Very well, then. The first thing you have to do is to go back to the temple and kill Hardduju. That is not your task! It is your duty to the Goddess, and a favor from Her to you. He is insufferable. Obviously the Goddess could dispose of him—a heart attack or a poisoned finger—but he is so bad that he must be made an example. She could throw a lightning bolt at him, but that would be a very crude miracle. Miracles should be subtle and unobtrusive. There is justice in having a better swordsman come along and execute him in public. Can you do that?”

“It will be a pleasure,” Wallie said, surprising himself, but remembering that fat, red face sweating with joy in the jail. “I shall need a weapon, preferably napalm.”

The boy smiled slightly and shook his head. “You may use this weapon,” he announced. He pulled another leaf from his twig.
 
A sword and harness appeared on the rock beside Wallie.
 
The hilt was silver, trimmed with gold, and the guard was shaped like some heraldic beast, so finely wrought that every muscle, every hair was visible.
 
Held between the beak and the tiny claws of the forelegs, forming the top of the hilt, an enormous stone shone like a blue sun. The artistry was superb.
 
Reverently Wallie raised it and drew it from the scabbard. The blade was a ribbon of winter moonlight, chased with scenes of battles between heroes and monsters. It flashed and shone more brightly than anything else in the shiny crystal cave. It was a Rembrandt, a da Vinci of swords. No, a Cellini: it belonged with the crown jewels of a world empire.
 
Wallie was not sure which impressed him more—the artistic beauty or the sheer monetary value of such a marvel. He looked up at the boy and said wonderingly, “It’s magnificent! I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” The demigod sneered. “You may find that it comes at a heavy price. Every alley thief will sharpen his knife as you go by. Every swordsman in the World will be ready to challenge you to get it.”

That was a disturbing thought, if the swordsmen were the police.
 
“I can guess,” Wallie said apprehensively. What would the god do to him if he let the sword be stolen? “And the first one up is going to get it. I can handle a pool cue better than this. I’m just not a swordsman, Master.” The boy said, “I promised you Shonsu’s skill.” Another leaf fell.
 
Wallie felt nothing in himself, but the sword was transformed in his hand. It was still a masterpiece of art, but now he could see that it was also a masterpiece of the swordmaker’s craft—a da Vinci, but also a Stradivarius. It was no longer heavy, it was amazingly light. He jumped to his feet and swung it.
 
Guard at quarte . . .

Lunge . . .

Parry . . .

Riposte quinte!

The balance was perfect, the grip firm. Now he could see the superb combination of flexibility for strength and rigidity for sharpness. He could have shaved with it, had he any need now to shave. It was an incredible triumph of metallurgy and design and beauty, and a fingerlength longer than most swords, to balance the ornate hilt. Yet the metal was so fine that he need not fear that the extra length would weaken the weapon. With his long arms he could draw such a sword—and he would have a fearsome advantage in reach. Instinctively he quoted from the fourth sutra, “On the Care of Swords:” “The sword is the life of the swordsman and the death of his foe.”

Then he stopped and stared in astonishment at the cross-legged boy on the rock.
 
There were eleven hundred and forty-four sutras. He could have recited any of them. Together they gave him all he needed to know . . .
 
He was a swordsman of the seventh rank.

“Truly, you do a great miracle, Master.”

The child giggled like a child. “One rarely gets the chance. But be warned—that is a mortal sword. It has no magic powers. It can be lost or broken, and you are a mortal. I have given you the skill and knowledge of Shonsu, that is all. You can be defeated.”

Wallie picked up the harness, slipped it on, and slid the sword expertly into the scabbard. He fastened the buckles, and the fit was perfect. Faith and confidence poured through his veins, and now, suddenly, he could revel in this unfamiliar but wonderful youth and strength and ability that he had been given.
 
His terror of the god had faded to a wary respect. For the first time since he had awakened in the pilgrim cottage he could look forward to the future. He discovered that he even had some idea of what those seven swords on his face meant—in medieval earthly terms he was roughly a royal duke. The World was his to enjoy. Small wonder that the god had questioned his ability to handle such absolute authority. All power corrupts! The townsfolk had shown their feelings toward swordsmen of the Seventh.

“May I swear that oath to you now, Master?” he said, taking a firm grip on his excitement.

“That oath is not sworn to me!” the boy snapped. He sprang up. “But I will witness it for you. Go ahead.”

So Wallie drew the sword again. He raised it to the oath position and swore to follow the code of the swordsmen. The ancient words filled him with reverence, and he felt very satisfied as he sheathed the blade once more. Now he need not worry about keeping it straight on his back—Shonsu’s reflexes would handle that for him.

“What is my task, Master?” he asked.

The boy has resumed his seat on the rock, now dangling his legs over the edge.

He pondered for a moment, studying Wallie.

Then he said:

“First your brother you must chain.

And from another wisdom gain.

When the mighty has been spurned,

An army earned, a circle turned,

So the lesson may be learned.

Finally return that sword

And to its destiny accord.”

Pause.

“But . . . ” Wallie said and stopped.

The boy laughed. “You expected to be told to go and kill a dragon, or put down a revolution or something, didn’t you? Your task is much more important than anything like that.”

“But, Master, I don’t understand!”

“Of course not! I am being Delphic—it is a tradition amongst gods.” Wallie lowered his eyes, standing on his rocky perch, his recent euphoria withered away. Why give a man a task and then not tell him what it is? He could think of only one reason—the demigod did not trust him. What did he not trust—Wallie’s courage or his honesty? Then his neck muscles jerked, so that his head came up to face the grinning boy on the higher rock.
 
“It is like the faith thing,” the boy said gently. “You will have to make your own choices. A great deed done of your own will is more pleasing to the gods than one done to order.”

That sounded to Wallie suspiciously like a rule in a game. The god seemed to read the thought and he frowned, then laughed.

“Go and be a swordsman, Shonsu! Be honorable and valorous. And enjoy yourself, for the World is yours to savor. Your task will be revealed to you. You will understand my riddle at the right time.”

“Am I to be reeve of the temple, as the priest wanted?” The boy snorted. “Why not use the temple to store onions? The temple doesn’t need a Shonsu.” He gave Wallie one of his intensely penetrating glances and said, “As well make Napoleon Bonaparte king of Elba.” “But this brother?” Wallie protested. “You have given me language and skill, Master, but what about all the other memories? Home and family? I don’t know where to start or what my brother looks like. I’m going to be making mistakes all the time, things like table manners—” Once more the child screamed with laughter. “Who will complain about a Seventh’s table manners? If I gave you all of Shonsu’s memories then you would be Shonsu and make the same mistakes he made. You don’t think like Shonsu, and that pleases me. You will be guided.”