Dragon's Boy by Jane Yolen Read Free Book Online Page B

and…”
    Artos made his escape quickly, still swordless. He guessed it would be more weeks yet before the smith began anew ( bang ). He’d probably spend the next weeks fashioning plowshares and door latches and forks and hoes.
    The third sword was still bright from its tempering, with a lovely pattern running down the blade, when Lancot claimed it. Artos didn’t even have a chance to try. He came into the smithy just as Lancot was slicing the air with the steel.
    â€œCai and Bed have new swords,” Lancot was saying, “and I want this.”
    Before Artos could complain, Old Linn hobbled in. It had been quite a while since Artos had seen the apothecary. He’d decided not to seek out the old man but rather to puzzle through the dragon’s book on his own, and had been delighted to find he’d some skill at deciphering the Latin after all. But he was shocked at Old Linn’s appearance. His mouth and hair were yellowed with a lingering illness and his hands trembled. Still, when he spoke, his voice had its old strength, with none of the whine about it.
    â€œYou were always a man true to his word,” Old Linn reminded the smith.
    â€œAnd true to my swords,” Magnus Pieter replied, seemingly delighted to be playing with his old friend again.
    â€œThat sword was promised elsewhere,” Old Linn said. “Remember!”
    Artos bit his lip, wondering how the old man had known, then smiled. Of course. Magnus Pieter would have told him.
    The smith looked down at his hands and Artos was surprised to see them trembling fully as much as the apothecary’s. Taking his cue, Artos stepped from the shadows and held out his own hand. The smith took the sword from Lancot and gave it to Artos, who turned it this way and that to catch the light. The watering on the blade made a pattern that looked a great deal like the flames from a dragon’s mouth. It sat well and balanced in his hand, feeling like an extension of his own arm. When he sliced it through the air, the sword actually hummed, a note he could feel straight through to his heart.
    â€œHe likes the blade,” said Old Linn. “So it was meant.”
    Magnus Pieter shrugged and hid his hands behind him.
    Artos gave the sword a few more cuts through the air just to feel that note again. When he turned to thank the apothecary, the old man was gone. So was Lancot. He could see them through the smithy door, walking arm and arm up the castle wynd.
    â€œSo, you’ve got your Inter Linea now,” said Magnus Pieter. “And about time you chose one. There was nothing wrong with them other two.”
    â€œYou got good prices for them,” Artos reminded him.
    The smith turned back to his anvil, the clang of hammer on steel ending their conversation.
    At his long break, Artos ran out of the castle by the Cowgate, halloing so loudly and waving the sword with such vigor that the guards laughed and pointed at him. Even the ancient tortoise dozing on the rusted helm lifted its sleepy head for a moment. Overhead a lapwing and a golden plover crossed the roads of air. Artos lifted his face to the sky, a kind of pagan thanks.
    Holding the sword with two hands, he fairly leaped over the two lumpy rocks in the path. He recalled one of the stories the dragon had told him—of the wild, naked Scots. For a moment as he leaped, he pretended he was one of them—a Douglas or a MacGregor. Landing on his knees, he did a forward roll and then stood up, the sword still before him. A naked Scot, he thought with a smile, would have gotten terribly bruised with that maneuver. He was suddenly thankful for his jerkin and hose.
    At the cave entrance, he brushed himself off carefully. Then, hefting the sword, he called out as he walked in.
    â€œHo! Old flame tongue.” The sword seemed to allow him a certain familiarity he’d never attempted with the dragon before. “Furnace lung, look what I’ve got. My sword. From