The Warslayer

by Edghill, Rosemary

  "Ivradan—come here."

  She could wield the sword, she could play the hero, but she couldn't believe in this as much as the Allimir could. And what they needed right now was belief. Whole cartloads of it.

  Reluctantly, Ivradan approached, still clutching Gordon. The bullet had blown the back of the stuffed elephant open, and most of its stuffing had escaped, so Gordon was now a rather saggy baggy elephant, but that didn't matter. If they got out of here, Glory promised herself she'd get him the best new innards money could buy.

  "This is the Sword of Cinnas, with which he chained the Warmother back in the Time of Legend. It is full of Erchane's magic, and it is strong enough to destroy this illusion. Put your hand over mine," she said in Vixen's ringing tones.

  She felt Ivradan's hand tremble as he placed it over hers. And then, slowly, keeping her mind studiously blank, she moved the glowing crosspiece of the sword toward the wall, trying not to expect failure.

  As the power crystals neared the wall, she felt resistance, the kind you'd get if you tried to push two magnets together the wrong way. Glory became enormously heartened by this, suddenly believing it all herself. This was an illusion. The sword would get them out. She wasn't thinking beyond that, to actually getting away.

  It became harder to push the sword forward, and she felt a pang of alarm—suppose it was destroyed the way the bear-wolf's talisman had been when she brought it into the Oracle-cave? But even with all the jewels dark, the sword would still be a sword, its blade still sharp, and they had to get out of here.

  They had to get out of here.

  The hilt clattered against the wall, and Glory felt a sharp pang of cheated disappointment. It hadn't worked. The wall was still there.

  But wasn't the sound of the sword's impact a little wrong, the feel of it hitting the wall not quite right? She forced herself to notice those subtle things, to believe them, to keep pushing as if there were someplace for the sword to go, because the wall mustn't be there, the dungeon couldn't hold them. It was all false, unreal, a thing of illusion, and an illusion that had just been routed by superior firepower, at that. She told herself that fervently, demanding that it be true, because she needed it to be true. For Ivradan's sake, and Belegir's, and because she wasn't dead yet, and she'd promised to destroy the Warmother. . . .

  And suddenly she realized that the wall wasn't a wall at all. It was mist, and wet cardboard, and old mop-strings. Glory could see nothing, and instinctively closed her eyes. She reached across herself with her free hand and grabbed Ivradan's wrist fiercely, making sure he held fast to the sword, and pushed forward.

  Suddenly they were in the middle of a storm. Wind and rain tore at her, knocking her down, pulling Ivradan away from her. She had an instant to choose between holding onto him or the sword, and with a pang of grief, she chose the sword. The wind knocked her sprawling; she fell and rolled, clinging to the hilt and trying to force her eyes open against the freezing, soaking gusts of rain-heavy wind.

  Then, as if the storm had only been another wall to pass through, it, too, was gone. She shook the water out of her eyes and stood. Her braid hung down her back like a wet snake, heavy and clinging.

  "Ivradan!"

  She was back where they'd started—the top of Grey Arlinn. But nothing else was the same. It was twilight; that meant a couple of hours of light left at this altitude. Stone-colored thunderheads were piled among the mountains, and the setting sun shone between them; a spectacular view, not that she cared. Her leather was soaked through—still flexible, but she was shivering with cold. She looked around quickly.

  The fairy-princess castle, the lawn, all the silly-bugger trappings, were gone.

  Except for one.

  In the center of the flat open space stood a huge cantilevered slab of smooth black stone. Manacles were set into it, and Ivradan was locked into them, spread-eagled as though he were waiting for a vulture to come and tear out his liver. He'd dropped Gordon, and the little elephant was a blot of bright color at the foot of the stone, like an offering of flowers to a sacrificial prince.

  Glory ran across the mountaintop toward the stone. The whole set-up looked remarkably like one of the concept-sketches from TITAoVtS's "For Whom the Belle Trolls" episode they'd been supposed to shoot next season. In her hand, the Sword of Cinnas was vibrating madly, as though somebody had flicked a switch inside it.

  "No worries, mate," she said breathlessly. "I reckon I can get you out of there, and—" As she reached out to touch the stone, Ivradan's face went . . . strange.

  ::Have you come to chain me once more, little mortal?:: a voice said inside Glory's head.

  She froze, not turning, part of her mind waiting for someone to call out and tell her they had the shot, fine, cut for lunch. The twilight faded from the sky as someone had shut off the lights, and then it went right on getting darker. At the same time, cold rolled toward her as if someone had opened a freezer.

  Ivradan gazed at her hopelessly for a moment, and then closed his eyes in surrender.

  Glory turned, slowly, telling herself desperately that it didn't matter what she saw, she wouldn't scream, she wouldn't.

  The sound she made instead emerged as a desolate moan.

  Charane had gotten tired of playing. This was her true form at last, it must be—and it looked like every nightmare Ridley Scott'd had for the past twenty years.

  The monster towered over Glory in the greenish dusk, a few meters away, but close enough that it only had to bend down to bite off her head. Its hide was a crusty glistening tarnished black, and there was something horribly serpentlike about its movements. Dragon—dragon—dragon— her mind babbled idiotically.

  Glory's stunned gaze stumbled over its unfamiliar contours, unable to figure out what she was seeing. A dragon. A monster. A nightmare. Something that could not possibly exist. She took a step backward and bumped into the stone, and Ivradan's body. She could feel the rough homespun of his trousers, the warmth of his body, through the bare flesh of the top of her thighs. He was still alive.

  Meant to be. All this. A set-up. The last act. Her thoughts were a disjointed commentary that even she wasn't listening to. She desperately wanted to run, to be anywhere that wasn't here, looking at that. If she threw down the sword and ran, the dragon would let her go. She knew that—or at least it was worth a try. Better that— Better that—

  The sword was blazing in her hands, as hot as the rest of her was cold, vibrating so hard she was afraid she'd drop it. She could see it wobble, its movement only partly because her hands were shaking so hard. If she took a single step, her knees would buckle and she'd fall. She couldn't remember a single thing Bruce had ever told her about fighting, and even if she could remember, it would do her no good against something like this.

  But she would not run. She was too terrified to think clearly, but Ross, her gymnastics coach, had spent hours and days and years training her to go beyond thought. Her mind blank with an emotion too profound to be called fear, Glory wrapped both hands around the hilt and raised her sword.

  The Warmother . . . recoiled.

  And suddenly Glory knew.

  * * *

  "Father?"

  "Only a little farther, Charane."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Only to the top of the mountain. . . ."

  * * *

  "Charane was his daughter," Glory said hoarsely, stunned. Cinnas had brought her here, chained her just as Ivradan was chained now, and enchanted the spirit of War into her body, trapping the Warmother for a thousand years.

  The spell had killed her.

  He'd killed his own daughter.

  And now Glory could do the same thing. Kill Ivradan, and chain the Warmother again. Because Cinnas had left the spells behind. The sword-blade wasn't the true weapon. It was the gems in the hilt, the spell-gems that were the magic of Erchane in solid form, just as Belegir had been telling her all along.

  ::Well?:: the Warmother said. The dragon opened its mouth. Black t
eeth glistened with venom. It spread membranous wings, blotting out the light.

  Glory threw herself sideways out of sheer expectation, and a moment later a fine mist of venom sprayed the ground where she'd been standing, just missing Ivradan. Glory brandished the sword threateningly, gripping the hilt tightly.

  ::No warrior born of woman, no weapon forged in the world, can unmake my form, for I am made of all warriors and all weapons. Prepare to die, Vixen the Slayer!:: the Warmother cried gloatingly.

  The gems blazed, leaking light in a thousand directions. Its demand to be used was so insistent it nearly distracted Glory from the creature that was trying to kill her. She could feel the ghost of Cinnas in the purple light, trying to take over her body and make her do as he had done before.

  The Warmother must think she didn't know what to do with the sword, but she did. She could see it all so clearly in her mind. The day had been fair and bright. There had been a young girl in a blue dress, crowned with flowers. Blue flowers. She'd loved her father. She'd trusted him.

  Use the sword, came the voice inside her mind. The sword's voice. A voice she thought she knew.

  "Silly me. I've been using the wrong end of the sword."

  Sacrifice an innocent. For an ideal.

  No!

  Slowly, she backed away from the dragon, moving slowly, as if that would keep it from striking at her. Its eyes glowed blue, blue as Charane's magic. Blue as the flowers in a child's hair.

  Was Dylan Her last try at tricking the spell? Or someone's? Chain Dylan there instead of Ivradan? But it would have made no difference to Glory. Dylan or Ivradan, either one would have been an innocent victim. Neither could be sacrificed.

  Who comes UP with these ideas?

  The Warmother reared back, and its body seemed to stretch, its contours crawling and changing until it resembled an insect rather than a reptile: a mantis. It was the size of a city bus, its body the color of tarnished copper, its giant faceted eyes a glowing glittering blue. Glory stared in amazement, her terror dissolving in the face of this fresh impossibility. Then the monstrous head dipped toward her, mandibles flexing, and she scrambled back out of the way. No matter what shape the creature took on, the Warmother was still trying to kill her.

  She ran backwards, dragging the balky sword with her, pulling the fight away from the rock where Ivradan was chained. The Warmother was fast, but Glory had plenty of room to move, and adrenaline to keep her faster. And she thought the Warmother was still a little afraid of the sword, which was all to the good. In fact, Glory was getting to be afraid of it, too. If it could take her over— If it could make her do what it wanted—

  If she threw the sword over the edge of the cliff she'd break Cinnas' attempts to bespell her. And the Warmother would kill her and Ivradan both, and then everyone else. One life for the many, the sword whispered, is that such a bad trade?

  No!

  Heroes did not kill the innocent.

  She could hear the little girl Charane had been inside her head. Charane was screaming, the high disbelieving screams of an abandoned child.

  He'd chained her to the rock. . . .

  This is no way to persuade me!

  The mantis-thing scuttled forward and she slashed at it. The blade struck the creature across the top of its skull and bounced, as if Glory had struck stone. The mantis reared back and pounced, but Glory wasn't there. You could cover a lot of ground with a series of standing back-layouts, and she did. The mantis-thing sprang after her, but Glory had room to manoeuvre and plenty of incentive.

  The wind was picking up again. It was getting harder to see, but there wasn't much up here to trip over. And the sword provided plenty of light. It was magic, after all—magic that had trapped her, tricked her, lied to her. Kept her from asking any of the right questions, until it was too late.

  But she could still be a hero. She could still win.

  All she had to do was let go. . . .

  Let the magic take over.

  Believe.

  And hit the Warmother with the other end of the sword.

  Chain her again.

  And kill Ivradan to do it.

  He could have died anyway, right? Any time this past five years. Any time today, in fact.

  She could be a hero. . . .

  No!

  The sword twisted in her hands, desperate now to fulfill its purpose. She could feel sharp pieces of metal working their way loose in the hilt, cutting her hands until they bled. She gripped it tighter, ignoring the pain. She'd been an Olympic-class gymnast. Pain was an old friend.

  There has to be another way!

  The mantis looked fragile. Cut its head off, and maybe it would go away, at least for a while. If she could get back to Belegir—tell him what she knew—get his advice—

  Then the monster darted forward—much faster than it had moved until now—and plucked the sword, blade first, from her hands, flaying her palms raw as it tore the hilt from her grip. Even over the sound of the rising storm, Glory could hear the faint pinging as the Warmother crumpled the blade in its mandibles. The hilt, with its cargo of magic, went spinning off out of reach across the stone. It burned like a beacon. Easy to spot. Impossible to reach.

  As she stood, dumbfounded at this sudden disaster, the Warmother lashed at her with one barbed foreleg, and Glory flung herself out of the way, automatically catching herself on her hands. But they were slick now with her own blood, and instead of going into a forward rollout, she slipped and fell heavily onto her right shoulder, knocking herself breathless.

  She'd lost.

  I guess I wasn't the right sort of hero after all, she thought bitterly. I'm sorry.

  Nothing happened. She raised her head. The Warmother was waiting, still chewing on the blade as if it were a stalk of grass. Waiting for her to get up, so it could chase her some more.

  Slowly, Glory got to her feet, but she didn't run. There was no point. She was damned if she was going to exert herself just to amuse that thing. She straightened up and stood waiting, wiping her bloody palms down over her bedraggled velvet panniers. Nice to know they were finally good for something. Fresh blood welled up almost immediately from a thousand tiny cuts.

  ::I don't need this form to destroy you:: the Warmother sneered. It began to melt away, dwindling until it had taken the form of a naked woman, impossibly old. Her mottled skin hung in folds on her emaciated body and only a few wisps of white hair clung to her waxy scalp. Her face was fallen in, her cheeks were slack and hollow over toothless gums. She drooled. Only her eyes were alive, black pits of malignant fire.

  ::This is what you fear most.::

  Age. Death. Incapacity.

  "Everybody dies," Glory said flatly. And everybody got too old to be what they wanted to be. It was the prevailing fear of an actor, but Glory had already faced it as a gymnast. And in comparison to what had just happened, it seemed like such a petty thing to be afraid of.

  You've won. And it's not enough for you. You still want to play around. The resignation of a moment before vanished, replaced by cold fury and a desire to at least piss the Warmother off before she died. Think, stupid! What would Vixen do? She's lost her sword before. Lots of times.

  And the sword wasn't Vixen's only weapon. . . .

  Moving as slowly as she dared, Glory let her hands drop to her sides as the hag walked slowly toward her. She groped along the side of her boot for one of the row of stakes—Genuine English Rowan (not)—sheathed there. I guess I'm not through fighting after all. While her sword had been some kind of magic wizard metal, these stakes weren't even wood. They were cast plastic. They wouldn't do any better than the sword had, but at least she'd go down fighting. Her fingers closed painfully over one of the stakes and eased it gently from its sheath.

  The Warmother reached for her, a gloating smile on its hideous crone's face.

  ::But you will die NOW, Vixen the Slayer.::

  Its flesh was colder than snow where it touched her, even through her costume, and Glory felt
her heartbeat slow as she was gathered into the hag's embrace. She gritted her teeth, and raised her arms to embrace the Warmother in return, filling herself up with all her anger, all her hatred of petty bullies and pointless cruelty.

  "Up yours, Granny," Glory whispered in helpless defiance, gripping the stake.

  And thrust inward as hard as she could.

  She felt a crunch. The stake had gone in. But it wasn't supposed to do that, was it? It was supposed to just bounce off, the way the sword had.

  There was a yelp of astonished pain right in her ear, and something hot and thick and nasty spurted over the back of Glory's hand. It burned caustically where it touched her open wounds, and she hissed with the bright pain of it. The cold reptilian embrace slackened, and Glory recoiled, jerking free and staring at the thick black blood on her hand, wondering if she were poisoned.

  ::No warrior born of woman, no weapon forged in the world can unmake my form!:: the Warmother said in disbelief. The hag took a staggering step backward, still staring at Glory in shock.

  Glory kicked her in the face. The impact sent the hag sprawling onto the prop-stake in her back, driving the point through her ribs in front, but Glory wasn't willing to settle for that. She'd already pulled a second stake from its boot-sheath, and dropped to her knees beside the hag's squirming body. With a practiced gesture, she hammered it down through the sternum, driving it home with the heel of her hand. Black goo, thick as watery gruel, pushed up out of the hag's mouth and ran down the sides of her face. Glory reached for a third stake, ignoring the burning in her hands, talking as she hammered it home beside the other.

  "I'm a Phys Ed teacher, mate, not a warrior. And that's a prop, not a weapon. Didn't anybody think to tell you?" Cast, not forged, and in another world than this. Tailor-made for the circumventing of prophecies, as a matter of fact.

  She reached for a fourth—Vixen carried six—but the Warmother had stopped moving.

  As Glory stared, the ancient hag withered away to a skeletal mummyish bundle, then began to melt like a chunk of dry ice, a thick mist rising skyward from her huddled form.