But the onlookers did not heed her, and the dogs fought ever more fiercely. She buried her face in her hands and turned away, but the terrible sounds grew louder and when she looked again she saw not a long, clean length of bone on the ground, but a square of cloth in the jaws of the dogs. Each had a corner of the cloth and was pulling on it, worrying it in his teeth in furious effort to free the cloth from the other dogs. And on the cloth Esme saw a device: a red writhing dragon.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop!”

“BLESS ME bones, Tip, but this trip is ferther than I remember, eh? Yes, quite right. It always seems ferther when ye’re in a hurry. Quite right.” Pym cocked an eye skyward and gauged the day by the sun. “Nearing middleday, Tip. Right enough, an’ I’m hungry. We ‘uns’d ought to athought to bring a bite to eat. Some of Emm’s fresh-baked bread and a noggin of the dark would hit the spot, eh? And a soup bone for ye, Tipper. Yes.”

The black dog wagged her tail to the sound of her master’s voice and walked along beside him, lifting her ears now and then when a rabbit or squirrel rustled the leaves of a holly bush near the road as they passed. But Tip did not give chase, content merely to pad peacefully alongside her master, to press her head into his hand now and then to receive a loving pat on her head or a scratch between her ears.

Presently they came to a place in the road that looked to the tinker somehow familiar. “Ho there, Tip. This be the place, I’ll warrant. What say ye? Looks the place to me, eh? Yes, it does.” Pym gave a quick glance both directions along the road to see if he had been followed, or if any other travelers were about to see him.

They were alone, so he stepped quickly into the forest, pushing through a yew thicket to where the forest thinned somewhat and a trail wound among the trunks of trees.

“Is this the place, Tip?” I tell ye, I don’t know. Thought ‘twas, I did. Now I’m not acertain.” After some time wandering among the trees, Pym decided that they had not remembered the right place after all and so retraced his steps to the road once more and set off.

“Ah!” be cried a little further down the way. “This must be it! Yet, how could I forget?” Again they pushed into the forest only to become disoriented before going very far. “No, sir.” Pym stood with hand on hips, craning his neck up at the tall trees surrounding him. “Tweren’t here. This’s nivver the place, Tipper. Back we go.”

The noonday sun shone down through the interwoven branches above, casting a fretwork of cool shadow upon them as they trudged down the bare earth road yet again. The further they went, the less certain the tinker became. “I don’t know how I’ll ivver find it, Tip. I don’t seem to recall the place-ivverthing looks so unlikely hereabouts.” He stopped and stared around him. “I don’t know what to do, Tip. What we ‘uns need is a sign. That’s it, yessir. A sign!”

So taken was he with the notion of a sign that Pym clasped his hands right then and there and raised them up to the heavens. “Here me, ye gods!” At a sudden thought he added, “ ‘Specially whativver god it is the Dragon King serves. I’ll warrent ye’d be more concerned with the King, so hear me, whativver yer name might be.”

Pym paused here to consider how to proceed, nodded to himself, and then continued, “Ye see, the King has lost his son-snatched away he were, yes. And he needs his sword to get the boy back with. Now, I don’t know fer acertain that the sword we ‘uns found belongs to the King, but might do-’tis a handsome sword.

“Now,” explained Pym carefully, “I have put this sword by in a safely place, ye see. Trouble is, I can’t remember me where. Don’t recognize the place no more, ye see-and me who’s been atraveling this road fer a score of years, too. That’s why I am calling on ye fer to help. I need a sign to show the way to the sword-where I left it, that is.”

The tinker lowered his hands, thought for a moment, then raised them again and added, “It’s not fer me, it’s fer the King, ye see. He’s in trouble bad, he is, and likely needs his sword-leastwise it couldn’t hurt. Since yer his god, maybe ye could send the sign. That is, if ye have a care fer mortal troubles.”

Pym stopped speaking and lowered his hands. “Well, Tipper-” he began, but before he could finish the big black dog began barking. “Shh! What is it, lady girl? Eh, Tip? What is it?”

Out from an immense gorse hedge stepped a black stag. Tip barked furiously, but the deer, moving slowly, regally, head high and antlers glinting in the sun like silver, remained calm and unperturbed. The graceful animal crossed the road, passing not more than a dozen paces in front of them, and then stopped to look at the man and dog watching him.

Tip barked, her tongue hanging sideways out of her mouth, legs stiff, hackles raised. Pym laid a hand to her collar. The stag moved with lordly pomp once more into the forest, paused to eye the spectators one last time-as much as to say, “Follow me, if you dare”-then lifted its forelegs over a bayberry bush and leapt away, its tail bobbing white behind.

Tip could not stay still any longer. She barked wildly and shook her head, pulling free of her master’s grip; the chase was on. “Tip! Come back here!” shouted Pym after the bounding dog. Tip reached the bayberry bush, paused to yap once at her master, and then wriggled through the bush and after the deer.

“By the gods’ beards!” muttered Pym, “I don’t know what’s come on that dog.” He could hear Tip yelping excitedly as she crashed through the brush after her game. Pym sighed and trudged off into the woods to retrieve his pet, knowing she could never catch the stag but would not give up easily.

He shrugged through the brush and stumbled into the trail, hastening after the sounds of the impromptu hunt. The trail widened as he went along, broadening as it reached a place where giant old trees grew tall, clearing all other trees from beneath their overarching limbs: huge old chestnuts, oaks, and hickories. He did not stop to gawk at the trees, but rushed along head down, calling for Tip to come back. Then, without warning, the dog’s yapping ceased. Pym plunged down a shallow bank and through a patch of creeping ivy and glanced up to find himself in a secluded hollow.

Before him, on her haunches, sat Tip, wagging her tail and panting. A little way off from them stood the stag, head lifted high, bearing its crown of antlers as regally as any King, gazing calmly at them with its great dark liquid eyes. As the tinker watched, the stag lifted a hoof and nudged a stone at its feet-a white stone from a neat little pile of white stones.

“Tipper,” whispered Pym, hardly breathing, “lookee there! The stag has led us to our spot!”

The deer turned and regarded them casually once more, then lowered his head and trotted smoothly away, his flowing shape blending with the forest around him and vanishing from sight.

Pym crept forward to the place where the deer had stood. “Yes, sir. This be the spot, Tip. Lookee, here’s the stones we ‘uns left to mark it, and here’s the hazelnut.” He tilted his head to regard the lofty tree, then walked around it to the hole in its hollow trunk. Taking a deep breath, Pym thrust his hand through the hole and grabbed.

His hand closed on thin air. His heart leaped to his throat. Gone, he thought. Someone’s taken it! He shoved his hand deeper into the hollow space and stretched his fingers, feeling the soft, damp interior of the tree, but no sword. Frantically he thrust his arm in again and searched the depths of the hidden space, feeling nothing but the spongy, rotten wood. “It’s gone, Tip!” he cried hopelessly. “The sword is gone!”

Just as he was about to withdraw his arm, the tips of his fingers brushed against something hard. “What’s this?” he said, and pushed his arm back in up to the shoulder, as far as it would go, standing on tiptoes, straining so hard that sweat beaded up on his face and rolled down his neck.