The Enchantress of World's End

“Grrff too!” he rumbled complacently. Sitting up, he poked through the bundle until he found his weapon, which he lifted for Silvermane to see. It was a ygdraxel, the traditional weapon of the Tigermen. Ganelon grunted and nodded. Grrff lay back with a yawn.

“Grandfather Dragon is the most thoughtful of hosts,” said the Tigerman. “There’s breakfast over there on that rock.”

Ganelon drank from the small cascade that poured down over the rocks to join the pool; the water was crisp, cold, deliciously pure. Then he ambled over to study the array of eatables. Hot-cakes and syrup steamed amidst melting glick butter; sausages still sizzled in a hot pan; fresh, foaming milk stood in a tall frosted tumbler.

“Where’s the lad?” he asked, sitting down to eat Grrff nodded over in one direction. “With the Old Dragon,” he mumbled, “the cub’s fascinated by ‘im.” Ganelon started to say something else, then saw that the Karjixian was settling into a doze, and returned his full attention to the superb breakfast.

A while later he found the Old One stretched out before the mouth of his cave, enjoying the dim gold sun of Faerie. He was so enormous that parts of him were lost in the forest that grew up almost to the cave’s mouth. Ridges and hillocks of his vast length appeared here and there, rising out of the forest like far hills. By daylight his scales, each as huge as a knight’s shield, were dark, deep green and sparkling.

Phadia sat on the broad flat nose of the Dragon, leaning back against his nostril-ridges, staring up into the great, sleepy, amused eyes of the Old One. They were chatting, and as Ganelon approached he could hear the lad’s bright, clear tones over the subterranean rumble of the Dragon’s voice. The giant grinned to himself. The lad was completely in awe of the ponderous old creature, yet thoroughly unafraid of him. Just to look upon a Dragon sent a creepy thrill up the boy’s spine, for Dragons were to a child of his era every bit as awful, grand and mysterious as they would be to you or I. They looked up at his approach.

Good-morrow, Silverhazr, the Dragon greeted him affably. Slept you well in my Deep?

“That’s the name of his cave, you know,” the boy said pertly. ” ‘Dzimdazoul’s Deep.’ There used to be myths about it, the cave I mean; but that was three hundred million years ago!”

“I slept—”

“Did you bathe in the pool?” the boy chattered on. ‘I did! I was up this morning before either of you. I’ve been all over—except in the Armory. ‘The Armory of Time’, that’s what he calls it. There are all kinds of magic weapons there, left behind by the famous heroes. Grandfather Dragon has promised to show them to me! You and Grrff can come along if you like.”

Ganelon was interested, of course: fighting was, after all, his profession.

“All right,” he said. “Let me go wake up Grrff.”

They came into an immense gallery, cathedral-like in its reverent hush, its ghostly gleams and echoes, its shadowy and timeless serenity. Above them, a forest of slender pillars soared to join Gothic arches far overhead; the dim glory of Faerie smote through splendid windows of gules and emerald and purple glass.

The walls were of clean smooth stone, polished marble for the most part, and to these walls there were affixed many swords … swords almost beyond the numbering. Old they were, and well-used, their handgrips stained with the sweat, and the blood of heroes, the long gleaming blades bearing many dints. Above the each of these swords was set its name and history, in characters of lapis set in red-gold. And they were very famous names.

All the swords of all the heroes that ever were or will be are hung here, said the Old Dragon softly. Here were they left behind by the heroes of olden myth and legend, who came trooping through the dim ways of Faerie on their way to their Reward. This wall here, below an old and shining banner called the Oriflamme, bears the charmed weapons of the heroes of France.

The Twelve Peers, they were called, and here at their head is bright Joyeuse, that was borne by their Emperor, Charlemagne . . . three years went into the fashioning thereof, and after him it passed to the strong hand of William of Orange. And here, beneath it, hangs proud Durandal. Vulcan, the smith of the gods, forged it for Hector the Trojan in the fires of Tartarus. When that Prince of Troy fell it was taken from his hand by Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons., from whom it passed down the generations to her descendant, Almontes, till Roland wrested it away. His dearest friend in all the world was Oliver, and here by Durandal hangs Hautclear: once Closamont the Roman Emperor bore it on the field, but it was more bravely borne by gallant Oliver. Here hang the blades of all the other Peers: Almace that was the Bishop Turpin’s sword, and Flamberge that was Renaud de Montau-ban’s, Sauvagine the Relentless, Murgles, and bright Gloreuse that cut through the nine swords made by Ansias, and Galas, and Munifican … and that world-famous sword, Curtana the Short, that was made by the giant-smith, Brumadant, who forged it twenty times, and twenty times he tempered it in the blood of dragons; ‘twas the great sword of Ogier the Dane, who won it from Caraheut, the King of the Saracens. And here, hung in a row beneath them, are the swords of their enemies, the Moors, Tartars and the Saracens: this is Preciuse, once owned by Baligant of Araby, and Tranchera, the magic sword of Agricane, the King of Tartary. Here is hung the thrice-enchanted Balisardo: the sorceress Falerina fashioned it wherewith to slay Roland, but she failed …