Sword-Maker, page 3
Two sockets stared up at me. The eyes in them had melted.
For longer than I care to remember, I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even move. All I could do was stare, remembering the heat of the hilt. I’d begun to believe it imagined; now I knew better.
Swords don’t melt eyes. Nor do they singe whiskers or char lips into a rictus. Swords slice, thrust, cut open; on occasion they will hack, if the swordsman has no skill. But never do they melt things.
Something inside me whispered: Maybe jivatmas do.
I looked again at my hands. Still whole. Grimy and callused, but whole.
Only the cat had burned.
Well, parts of him. The parts the sword had touched.
Empty eyesockets were black. I realized there was no blood; the sword had swallowed it all.
Oh, hoolies, bascha, I’ve done what I swore I wouldn’t.
In the distance, beasts bayed. Like a pack of hounds, they belled. As they had for Boreal whenever Del had keyed.
And in answer, the stud snorted.
Stud—
I left the cat and the sword and went at once to the stud. He hadn’t gone far, just far enough to put distance between himself and the cat, and now he waited quietly, sweat running down flanks and shoulders.
Sweat mixed with blood.
“Oh, hoolies,” I said aloud, “he got you good, didn’t he?”
The stud nosed me as I came up to him. Grimly I peeled ragged dark mane off his withers—down South, we crop manes short; up North, they leave them long—and saw the cat had dug in pretty deep across brown withers, though the saddle had helped protect the stud a little. I found teeth and claw marks, carving gouges in his hide. There were more claw marks low on the stud’s right shoulder from the cat’s hind legs, and a few others here and there. All in all, the stud was lucky; the cat had been distracted, by me or the sword. I’ve seen half-grown sandtigers, in the Punja, take down larger horses much as this cat had done. But they finished the job more quickly by tearing open the jugular.
Then again, I—or the sword—hadn’t given the cat the chance to finish the job properly.
Something like fear pinched deep in my belly. But I ignored it with effort, purposefully turning my attention to the stud. “Well, old man,” I consoled him, “looks like we’ll make a pair. You match my cheek, now—maybe I should name you Snowcat. To go with the Sandtiger.”
The stud snorted messily.
“Maybe not,” I agreed.
The death-stink of the cat—and the smell of burned flesh—made the stud uneasy, so I tied him to the nearest tree and unsaddled him there, taking weight off his sore hide. I knew I’d do no more riding for a day or two, so I set up camp.
When a horse is the only thing between you and a long walk—or death—a man learns to value his mount, and the stud’s health and safety came first. If it slowed us down, too bad; the hounds, I knew, would wait, and the South wasn’t going anywhere. So I picked up the remaining bota of amnit. I didn’t dare risk infection; liquor leaches well enough.
I paused to pat the stud gently, and to check the strength of rope and knot. “Easy, old man. I won’t lie—this’ll hurt. Just don’t take it out on me.”
I aimed carefully and squirted, hitting every stripe and bite I could see. Ruthless, maybe, but sponging each wound gently would clean out only one, because the stud wouldn’t let me near enough to do any more once he’d felt the bite of the amnit. At least this way I got almost all of them at once.
Squealing, he bunched himself and kicked. A horse—especially a stallion—cutting loose with both hind hooves is a dangerous, deadly creature capable of murder. Prudently I moved another pace away, just to be sure, and grinned as he slewed an angry eye around to find me. Once found, he tried a scooping sideways kick with a single hind hoof, hoping to catch me on the sly. When that one missed, he pawed testily, digging craters in the turf.
“You dig a hole, you stand in it,” I told him. “I know you’re mad—I’d be, too—but it’s better than dying, you know. So just stand there like a quiet old ladies’ mare and think about what you’d be facing if I didn’t have this stuff.” I paused, checking the contents. “Good waste of liquor, if you ask me. Might as well drink the rest.”
The stud blinked a baleful eye.
I relented. “Tell you what, old son—I’ll give you extra grain. That ought to make you feel better.”
I dug into one of the pouches and pulled out a fistful of grain, moving within striking range to offer it. But the stud wasn’t hungry. He lipped listlessly at the grain, spilling most of it between slack lips. He didn’t even want sweetgrass, which was beginning to show signs of life now that most of the snow was going.
Something pinched again inside my belly. “Better not sicken on me,” I warned, “after all that amnit I wasted.” While thinking instead of the sword.
But the stud made no answer.
It came swift and clear and sharp: If he up and dies on me—
No. I cut it off. No sense in borrowing grief.
The stud shifted restlessly, knocking stone against stone. I didn’t want to leave him just yet, so I leaned against his tree and squirted amnit into my throat.
“You’ve just been out of the South too long, old man … like me. Just like me; you’re a sandtiger drug out of his desert, swallowing snow instead of sand … best get yourself right back home before the cold stiffens all your joints.”
Well, it already had stiffened some of mine. In the North, bones age faster. In the South, skin does.
Which means, I guess, I’m growing old inside and out.
Gack. What a thought.
I moved off the tree and rubbed a hand down the stud’s backbone, smoothing coarse, thick hair. He quivered, expecting amnit; I soothed him with a few words. Over his rump I stared at the cat with its alien steel tongue.
I recalled the emotions I’d felt. The need to quench the sword; how it had sung its private song. How I, too easily seduced in my moment of fear for the stud, had turned my back on self-made wards and let the song commence. Giving the blade its freedom.
For the stud.
Worth it? Maybe. For that moment. For that particular moment.
But what was I to do now? I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. Not now. Not ever. I’d tasted too much of its power.
“Leave it,” I said aloud. “You can get another sword.”
Well, so I could. Somewhere. Someday. Meanwhile, I needed a weapon.
“Leave it,” I repeated.
Hoolies, I wish I could.
Three
A small, soft song. A private, intimate song. Powerful in its promise, weakened by neglect.
Deep in sleep, I muttered.
A small, sad song; a trace of desire only hinted at, too shy to speak of need.
Memories of both.
The stud, stirring, woke me. I sat up, stared hard into darkness, oriented myself. Got up and went to the stud, who pawed listlessly at turf.
His head drooped, hanging heavily on the end of a slackened neck. He shifted from hoof to hoof. When I touched him, he barely took note.
I was, abruptly, afraid.
Singlestroke and this horse were all I’d ever had. And Singlestroke was gone.
A small, soft, seductive song, promising me companionship such as no one had ever known.
Companionship—and power.
Beneath my hand, he stiffened. I felt the tension in his body; heard it in his rattling snort, in the crunching of gravel beneath shod hooves. His ears lanced erect, then slapped back against his head.
“Hey—” But abruptly I shut it off.
I hadn’t felt it for weeks. At first it was so alien I didn’t recognize it, and then the strangeness slid away and familiarity took its place. A man doesn’t forget what it’s like to be sick.
Not sick sick. I’ve been that before, from wound fever or the Northern malady called a “cold.” And not sick from too much liquor; I’ve been that, too, more often than I care to recall. No. This sickness wasn’t of the body but of the soul, all wrapped up like a nameday gift in a sash called fear.
And even that was different.
All the hair stood up on my arms. Tickled the back of my neck. Tightened scalp against skull. I shivered involuntarily, cursing myself for a fool, then felt nausea knot my belly.
Don’t ask me what it is. Del called it an affinity for magic. Kem, the sword-maker, said I was sensitive to the essence of it, whatever that means. All I know is it makes me sick and uncomfortable, and very sour in my outlook. Being a conspicuously lighthearted, good-humored soul—or at least one lacking in personal demons—I don’t much like having my sensibilities mangled by something as dark and erratic as magic.
If it just didn’t make me feel sick.
Maybe it was the cat. I’d eaten too much cat. Too much Northern cat stuffed into a Southroner’s belly.
But the stud hadn’t had any, and he wasn’t happy, either.
Or, more likely, the sword. Trust it to make my life miserable in more ways than one.
Then again—
“Ah, hoolies,” I muttered, as I smelled the stink of the hounds.
I’d forgotten what it was to be up close, to see white eyes ashine in the darkness. To smell their stink. To sense the press of numbers crowding so close to me.
I had played tracker. Now they hunted me.
The stud knew the stench, too. He, like me, had killed, smashing furred bodies beneath cold Southron iron, but liked it no better than I. We weren’t made for magic, either of us, being bred only to travel the sands beneath a Southron sun. Without benefit of magic.
The sword lay sheathed by the fire, set beside my bedding. It was, I thought grimly, a mark of decay in habits that I had left my weapon to go to the stud. It displayed an unaccustomed trend toward worrying, which has never been my vice, as well as pointing up my distinct dislike for the Northern sword. I mean, it was a sword, like it or not; it could save my life even if I disliked it. But at the moment it couldn’t do anything, because I’d left it behind. All I had was a knife, and no horse to use for escape. Or attack, if it came to that; I’d have to do it on foot.
White eyes shone bright in darkness. In silence the hounds gathered, wearing shadows in place of clothes. Black and gray on gray and black; I couldn’t count their numbers.
It crossed my mind that maybe the stud could be ridden after all, pain or no pain. Not far, not far enough to injure him, just far enough; enough to leave beasts behind.
But retreat wasn’t what I’d come for. It wasn’t the promise I’d made.
I sucked in a guts-deep breath. “Come on,” I said, “try me.”
Sheer bravado, maybe. Nothing more than noise. But it’s always worth a try, because sometimes it will work.
Sometimes.
They crept out of the shadows into the red-gray glow of dying coals. Maned, gray, dappled beasts: part dog, part wolf, part nightmare. Without a shred of beauty, or a trace of independence. What they did was at someone’s bidding, not a decision of their own.
The stud shifted uneasily. He stamped, breaking stone.
“Try me,” I repeated. “Have I come too close to the lair?”
They came all at once, like a wave of slushy water. In spate, they swallowed the campsite, then ebbed back toward the trees.
But the tide had taken the sword.
Gaping in disbelief, I saw the glint of the pommel, a flash of moonlight off the hilt. Saw teeth close on the sheath and shed it, leaving it behind; apparently the warding magic inherent in a named blade made no difference to equally magical beasts.
Which made me wonder why it existed at all, if it was useless against the hounds.
Two of them mouthed the sword awkwardly. One held the hilt, the other the blade, busily growling at one another like two dogs fighting over a stick. But this stick was made of steel. Magicked, gods-blessed steel.
The others surrounded them like a tanzeer’s phalanx of guards. They headed for the trees, for the shadows I couldn’t pierce.
Hoolies, they wanted the sword.
So much for my own value.
I very nearly laughed. If they wanted the thrice-cursed thing that much, let them have it. I didn’t want it. It was one way of getting rid of it.
Except I knew better than that. The beasts could never use it, but the man who made them could. And that I couldn’t risk, since he was the one I sought.
Very calmly I drew the ward-whistle from beneath my woolen tunic and stuck it between my lips. Such a tiny, inconsequential geegaw, but made by beings I still had trouble believing in, even though I’d seen—and heard—them myself. Cantéada. I recalled their silvery skin, feathery scalp crests, nimble fingers and froglike throats. And I recalled their music.
Music was in the whistle, as was power. And so I waited a moment, to build up false hopes, then blew an inaudible blast.
It did its job, as always. They dropped the sword and fled.
Grinning around the whistle, I went over and picked up the blade.
And wished I hadn’t touched it.
Shame flooded me. Shame and anger and grief, that I had treated the sword so poorly when it was deserving of so much better. What had it done to me?
In disbelief, I spat out the whistle. I hadn’t thought those thoughts. And wouldn’t; of that I was certain. But the thoughts had come from somewhere. The feelings had come from somewhere.
I threw the sword down again. It thumped dully against turf, glinting red-white in coals and moonlight. “Look, you,” I said, “you may not be like any sword I’ve ever known, but it doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to think. It doesn’t give you the right to make me feel guilty, or ashamed, or angry—or anything, hear me? Magic, schmagic—I want nothing to do with you and nothing will ever change that. As far as I’m concerned, the hounds can have you … except I’m not about to let you fall into the hands of someone who can tap into whatever power you possess—”
I broke it off abruptly. I realized precisely how stupid I sounded, talking to a sword.
Well, talking to a sword isn’t so bad; I think we all do it from time to time, before we step into a circle. But talking to a magicked blade made me most distinctly uneasy; I was afraid it might understand.
I wiped sweaty palms on my clothing. I hadn’t imagined the feelings. I hadn’t imagined the shame.
And, most definitely, I hadn’t imagined the power demanding to be unleashed.
Coiling itself so tightly, like a cat before it springs.
In my head, I heard a song. A small, soft song, promising health and wealth and longevity, as if it were a god.
“Jivatmas die,” I said hoarsely. “I’ve seen it before, twice. You aren’t invincible, and you don’t make us immortal. Don’t promise me what you can’t.”
Notes wavered, then died away. I bent and scooped up the sword.
In my hands, it burned.
“Hoolies—” Flesh fused itself to steel. “Let go!” I shouted. “You thrice-cursed son of a goat—let go of my hands!”
Steel clung, caressed, absorbed. I thought again of melted eyes in a blade-riven skull.
“Hoolies take you!” I yelled. “What do you want, my soul?”
Or was it trying to give one?
—on my knees, now—
—hoolies, oh, hoolies—stuck to a sword … oh, hoolies, stuck to a sword—
—and for how long?
Sweat ran down my body. In the cold night air, I steamed. “No one ever told me—no one ever said—no one warned me about this—”
Well, maybe they had. I just didn’t listen much.
Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked, ducked my head into a shoulder, rubbed wet hair away. I stank of sweat, old wool and grime, with the acrid tang of fear.
I drew in a ragged breath. “What in hoolies am I—”
Fire lit up the sky.
At least, I think it was fire. It was something. Something bright and blinding. Something that damped the moon and the stars with a delicate, lace-edged beauty.
And beauty it was, like nothing I’ve ever seen. Nothing I’ve ever dreamed. Kneeling with the sword clutched in my hands—or the sword clutching me—I stared, mouth open, and let my head tip back so I could see the glory of Northern lights. The magic of sky-born steel, rune-wrought by the gods, baptised in human blood.
Celebrated by song.
Dancing in the sky was a curtain of luminescence. The colors were muted magnificence, flowing one into the other. They rippled. Dripped. Changed places. Met and melted together, forming other colors. Bright, burning colors, like fire in the sky. The night was alive with it.
In my head I heard a song. A new and powerful song. It wasn’t one I knew. It wasn’t from my sword, too new to sing like that. From a sword with a little age. From a sword who understood power, being cognizant of its own, and how to guard the gift. A sword born of the North, born of ice and snow and storm; of the cold winter wailing of a keen-edged banshee-storm.
A sword who knew my name; whose name I knew as well.
Samiel fell out of my hands. “Hoolies,” I croaked, “she’s alive.”
Four
I denied it. Immediately. Vehemently. With everything I had; I did not dare allow myself to believe it might be true, because hopes hauled up too high have that much farther to fall.
Oh, bascha. Bascha.
I denied it. Desperately. All the way down through the darkness, picking my way with care. All the way down through boulders, slipping and skidding on rubble. Through the shadows of looming trees.
Choking on painful certainty: Del is dead. I killed her.
Fire filled the sky. Such clean, vivid colors, rippling like Southron silks. Boreal’s doing, no other: steel brush against black sky, with artistry born of magic.
Doubts, like smoke, blew away, leaving me empty of breath.
—Delilah is alive—
I stopped walking. Stopping sliding. Stopped cursing myself for a fool. And stood awkwardly, rigidly clutching a tree. Trying to breathe again. Trying to comprehend. Trying to sort out a welter of feelings too complex to decipher.
