Nor did he move to unsling his bow. Even his best
shot, placed perfectly into the eye, the only even
semi-vulnerable target, might do no more than
madden a dragon of the size of this one before him.
His best hope of survival lay in standing still. If he
could manage to do that, there was a bare chance
that his earlier rapid movement would be forgotten
and he would be ignored.
Then something happened that surprised the
young men profoundly, so that now it was astonish-
ment more than either terror or conscious effort
that kept him standing like a statue.
The dragon’s vast mouth, scarred round the lips
with its own quondam flames, opened almost deli-
cately, revealing yellowed and blackened teeth the
size of human forearms. From that mouth emerged
a voice, a kind of cavernous whisper. It was per-
fectly intelligible,. though so soft that the motion-
less man could scarcely be sure that he was really
hearing it.
“Put down your little knife,” the dragon said to
him. “I will not hurt you.”
The man, who had thought he was remaining
perfectly motionless, looked down at his right
hand. Without realizing it he had drawn the dagger
from his belt. Mechanically he put the useless
weapon back into its sheath.
Even as the man did this, the dragon, perhaps
three times his height as it stood tall on its hind
legs, moved closer to him by one great stride. It
reached out for him with one enormous forelimb,
armed at the fingertips with what looked like pitch-
fork tines. But that frightening grip picked up the
man so gently that he felt no harm. In a moment he
had been lifted, tossed spinning in the air, and
softly, safely, caught again. At this moment, that
seemed to him certain to be the moment of his
death, he felt curiously free from fear.
Death did not come, nor even pain. He was being
tossed and mauled quite tenderly. Here we went up
again, propelled with a grim playfulness that
tended to jolt the breath out of his chest, but did
him no real damage. In one of these revolving
airborne jaunts, momentarily facing back up the
side canyon, he got his clearest look yet at the whole
small gang of his surviving human pursuers. They
had been even closer behind him than he had
thought, but now with every instant they were
meters farther away. The three of them, two look-
ing forward and away, one looking back in terror,
were astride their riding beasts again, and never
mind the chance that a mount might stumble here.
All three in panic were galloping at full stretch back
up the barren floor of the side canyon.
The dragon roared. The tossed man’s own whirl-
ing motion whirled the riders away, out of his field
of vision. He felt his flying body brush through a
fringe of greenery. His landing was almost gentle,
on shaded ground soft as a bed with moss and mois-
ture. He lay there on his back, beneath great danc-
ing fronds. This position afforded him a fine view of
the dragon’s scaly green back just as, roaring like
an avalanche, it launched a charge after the three
riders.
In another moment the riders were completely
out of sight around the first curve of the side can-
yon. The dragon at once aborted its charge and
ceased its noise. It turned, and with an undragonly
air of calm purpose came striding back to where the
man lay. He just lay there, watching its approach.
The creature hadn’t killed him yet, and anyway he
could never have outrun it even had his lungs been
full of breath.
Once more the huge dragon gently picked him
up. It carried him carefully for a little distance,
deeper into the heavy riverside growth of vegeta-
tion. Through the last layer of branches ahead the
man could plainly see the swift narrow stream that
threaded the canyon’s floor.
The dragon spoke above the endless frantic mur-
mur of the water. “They will never,” it told the
man in its sepulchral voice, “come back and follow
a dragon into this thicket. Instead they will return
to their masters and report that you are dead, that
with their own eyes they saw you crushed and
eaten.” Saying this, the dragon again deposited the
man on soft ground, this time very gently.
Then the dragon took a long step back. Its image
in the man’s eyes flickered, and for one moment he
had the definite impression that the huge creature
was wearing a broad leather belt around its scaly,
bulging midsection. And there was a second,
momentary impression, that from this belt there
hung a scabbard, and that the scabbard held a
sword.
The belt and Sword were no longer visible. Then
they reappeared. The man blinked, he shook his
head and rubbed his eyes and looked again. Some
kind of enchantment was in operation. It had to be
that. If it-
The Swordbelt, now unquestionably real, was
now hanging looped from a great furry hand-it
was undeniably a hand, and not a dragon’s forefoot.
The fur covering the hand, and covering the arm
and body attached, was basically a silver gray, but
it glowed remarkably with its own inner light. As
the man watched, the glow shifted, flirting with all
the colors of the rainbow.
The enormous hand let the belt drop.
Standing before the youth now was a furred beast
on two legs, as tall and large as the dragon had been,
but otherwise much transformed. Claws had been
replaced by fingers, on hands of human shape. There
were still great fangs, but they were bonewhite now,
and the head in which they were set no longer had
anything in the least reptilian about it. Although the
figure was standing like a man, the face was not
human. It was-unique.
The great dark eyes observed with intelligence the
man’s reaction to the transformation.
The young man’s first outward response was to get
back to his feet, slowly and shakily. Then he walked
slowly to where the belt and Sword were lying, on
shaded moss. Bending over, he observed that the jet-
black hilt of the Sword was marked with one small
white symbol; but, though the man dropped to his
knees to look more closely, he was unable to make out
what that symbol was. His eyes for some reason had
trouble getting it into clear focus. Then he reached out
and put his fingers on that hilt, and with that touch he
felt the power he had expected enter into him. Now he
was able to see the symbol plainly. It was the simple
outline of an observant human eye.
Turning his head to look up at the waiting giant, the
young man said: “I am Mark, son of Jord.” As he
spoke he got to his feet, and as he stood up he drew
the Sword. His right hand held up that bright
magnificence of steel in a salute.
The giant’s answer came in an inhumanly deep
bass, quite different from the dragon’s voice: “You are
Mark of Arin-on-Aldan.”
The youth regarded him steadily for a moment.
Then he nodded. “That also,” he agreed. Then,
lowering the Sword, he added, “I have held
Sightblinder here once before.”
“You have held others of the Swords as well. I
know something of you, Mark, though we have not
met. I am Draffut, as you must have realized by now.
The man called Nestor, who was your friend, was
also mine.”
Mark did not answer immediately. Now that he was
holding the Sword of Stealth, some inward things
about the being he was looking at had become
apparent to him. Just how they were apparent was
something he could not have explained had his life
depended on it; but across Draffut’s image in Mark’s
eyes some part of Draffut’s history was now written,
in symbols that Mark would not be able to see, much
less interpret, once he put down the Sword again.
Mark said, “You are the same Draffut who is
prayed to as the God of Healing. Who knew Ardneh
the Blessed, as your living friend two thousand years
ago . . . but still I will not call you a god. Lord of
Beasts, as others name you, yes. For certainly you
are that, and more.” And Mark bowed low. “I thank
you for my life.”
“You are welcome . . . and Beastlord is a title that I
can at least tolerate.” Actually the huge being seemed
to enjoy it to some extent. “With Sightblinder in your
hand I am sure you can see I am no god. But I have
just come from an assembly of them.”
Mark was startled. “What?”
“I say that I have just come from an assembly of
the gods,” Draffut repeated patiently. “And I had
Sightblinder in my own hand as I stood among