The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Swords in the Maze

  Wencit’s spell exploded in Wulfra’s brain. The arcane concussion of the disintegrating wall literally blew her out of her chair, and she crawled to her crystal on hands and knees, gabbling out the activating phrase.

  It took her five minutes to find the shattered stone in the maze wall, and she cursed vilely as she spied the unsuspected tunnel through which her defenses had been breached. She was cut off from her guardsmen in the castle; only the summoned creatures on her side of the tunnel could be used, and even her trap spells lay at the maze’s known entry! She’d never expected an invasion into the heart of the tunnels, but she shook off the disbelieving shock which threatened to paralyze her and crouched over her glowing stone, sweating palms glued to it, and sent out orders to marshal her scattered servants for battle.

  * * *

  Thousands of leagues away, a cat-eyed wizard lurched to his feet in the heart of Kontovar, jarred to the marrow by the same arcane shockwave, for this was no wand spell. Wencit had triggered a massive blast of wild magic…one which had lain hidden for over a millennium, and its echoes shook every wizard of both continents.

  A quick gesture woke his stone, and he peered into it, perceiving Wulfra as she hunched over her own crystal. Another sweep showed the broken wall, and like Wulfra, he cursed at sight of the secret entrance, and then cursed more savagely still as the implications seared him.

  The tunnels themselves had been carved by wand wizardry; every test the cat-eyed wizard had applied had proved that, yet Wencit had used a spell which could have been left only by the maze’s maker…and it had been wild magic. No sorcerer would have used wild magic for such a task even if he could, have. It was like cracking an egg with a battleaxe! Yet one huge advantage for a wild wizard was that not only could only a wild wizard trigger such a spell, but few wand wizards would ever notice it, however diligently they searched. That made it the perfect application for a working which must lay hidden for decades—or longer—yet be instantly ready to the hand of anyone who knew where it waited. Yet it could be used only by a wild wizard…and there’d been only one of them since the Fall of Kontovar. That meant Wencit had built the maze—not Chelthys of Garoth—and also that he’d placed the sword there himself!

  The cat-eyed wizard fought to track his foe through the confusing echoes of wild magic filling the maze. It verged on the impossible, but he didn’t head the Council of Carnadosa for nothing. Even from thousands upon thousands of miles away, he found him, and Wencit’s presence blazed in his crystal like a torch as the old man readied his art for battle.

  “The Trident!” the cat-eyed wizard grated to Wulfra. “It’s the Trident!”

  The sorceress nodded, her white face intent as she ordered her forces into position, and he backed quickly out of her crystal. He must not distract her…and he needed time to calm his own gibbering thoughts.

  If it Wencit had built the maze, why had he hidden the sword to begin with? Even in its broken state it could have done so much to aid the unity of the Norfressan refugees in the early days of Norfressa’s settlement. He could have set wards about its broken magic—wards which would have prevented the century after century of degradation which had snarled that magic so hopelessly not even Wencit would dare touch it directly in its present state—and handed it to Duke Kormak as yet another proof of Kormak’s legitimacy as heir to Emperor Toren’s authority in Norfressa. Instead, he’d hidden it in a hole in the ground, locked away but growing steadily more deadly, ever more impossible for anyone ever to control or contain once more. And if he’d hidden it, why wait thirteen centuries to reclaim it? For that matter, why reclaim it at all, when it was useless to him?

  Worse yet, it was suddenly and blindingly obvious that he’d known he was being watched by the Council all along. Oh, it was still unlikely he’d been actively aware of the Carnadosans’ spying, but he’d clearly realized they were watching him far more of the time than they’d ever suspected he’d known. Why else had he demonstrated such amazement, focused so strongly on “examining” the sword and its surroundings, when he “accidentally discovered” it? He’d known it was there all along; his “discovery” and astonishment could only have been feigned for the spies he knew were watching him from afar!

  The cat-eyed wizard’s fist slammed his gramerhain. Had he misjudged? With all the advantages on his side, had he blundered on such a colossal scale? It seemed likely, he thought grimly, and something which might have been fear in a lesser man whispered coldly in the marrow of his bones as he remembered all the other times black wizards had underestimated the subtlety of Wencit of Rūm. Many of those who’d thought they were cleverer than Wencit had paid a painful price for their error. Now he’d added himself to the list, and there was no saying how serious his mistake might prove.

  * * *

  Kenhodan sped through the triple intersection. The hilt of his sword was hard and reassuring in his hand, and his eyes probed for enemies.

  “Watch for the second opening on your right!” Wencit called from behind him.

  “Second right,” Kenhodan panted back. His eyes never stopped their sweeping search. Surely something had to be waiting for them?

  * * *

  It had seemed so reasonable to set her trap spells on the single maze entrance she knew about, but now she was caught in her own web, for Wencit was between her and the outer world and no spell barrier lay between them. She could depend only on her creatures, and more than half of them were behind him now! That knowledge was an icy dagger of panic at her core, but she fought it down and her lips drew back in a snarl equally compounded of fear and defiance. So Wencit knew a few secrets she didn’t? Very well! He hadn’t reached the sword yet, and by Carnadosa’s ebon eyes, he never would!

  * * *

  “There! The second right!” Wencit shouted.

  “I see it.” Kenhodan replied. “But what’s that?”

  His sword pointed to a shadow lurching towards him.

  “A troll,” Wencit said. Then his voice flattened. “I beg your pardon—three trolls.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Kenhodan said, and hurtled down the tunnel towards the hideous creatures.

  * * *

  Trolls had only two instincts: to feed and to reproduce. Their great strength, sorcerous vitality, and sharp talons were well suited to both purposes—nine feet tall and armored in scales, they were such as few creatures might choose to encounter, especially underground and at close quarters—yet they were not among the more brilliant servants of the Dark. These three served Wulfra, and they trembled in anticipation, fired by her rage and the sight of food, but they never paused to reflect that no other meal had ever run towards them. They only spread their arms eagerly to embrace the oncoming bounty as Kenhodan dashed straight at them.

  Something within him recognized them as ancient enemies, and he snarled as he plunged into the foremost monster like an avalanche. Words hammered his throat and broke free in a battle cry he could neither remember nor recognize.

  “Shekarū, Herrik!” he screamed, and his sword hissed.

  Steel struck the troll’s right elbow, shearing hide like paper, and the joint burst with an echoing crack. The hideous forearm thudded gruesomely to the floor, and the wounded horror bellowed and clawed with its other arm.

  Kenhodan ducked under the six-inch talons and darted inside to slam his sword into the monster’s left shoulder. The blow drove the troll to its knees and Kenhodan’s blade swept in to sever half the corded neck. Blood spurted in a stinking fan, but the unnatural monster refused to die. Instead, it surged back up, groping for its prey with both mangled arms and Kenhodan stepped back. His sword struck again, shearing through a double-jointed knee, and the troll staggered with another bellow of anguish. It fell, and as it did, Kenhodan hewed through the rest of its neck with a two-handed blow.

  The creature went down and stayed down as even its vitality passed its limits, and Kenhodan recovered.
He turned into the second monster as a hornet snarled by his ear and Chernion’s arrow buried itself to the feathers in the third troll’s throat. That creature paused to paw at the galling shaft, but Kenhodan barely noticed. He left the floor in a bound, sword extended before him, to slam two feet out of the back of his second opponent’s neck. The creature’s howl of rage and pain became a bubbling moan as the keen blade severed windpipe and spine alike. The nine-foot killing machine toppled with a dying slash, and Kenhodan dodged easily, turning on his heel to spin behind the last troll even as Chernion put a second arrow into its lungs. The monster screamed, clawing at the fletching, and Kenhodan’s sword smashed its spine.

  The last troll crumpled, and Kenhodan stood in steaming blood, panting and feeling the ancient fury slink back into the caverns of his mind. His wet blade saluted the assassin, and he bowed to Wencit with a fierce grin.

  “This way, I believe you said?” he panted.

  “To be sure,” Wencit replied, and Kenhodan plunged ahead down the tunnel once more at a run.

  The entire fight had taken less than a minute.

  * * *

  Wulfra pounded her crystal with both fists. What sort of allies had Wencit found?! She’d expected Bahzell to be a threat, dreaded the thought of confronting a champion of Tomanāk as well as Wencit, yet the hradani hadn’t even struck a blow!

  She mastered her rage and jerked the crystal back to life. The trolls had been only one line of defense, and there were only a handful of routes through the maze; whichever he chose, Wencit had to pass through the Eye of the Needle. When he did, she would be ready.

  * * *

  Kenhodan pressed his back to the stone and wiped sweat from his eyes. The torchlight filled him with a sense of unreality, flashing from every mirrored surface to encase him in a ruby womb of fire while he panted.

  He tried to reckon how far they’d come, but haste, fear, and the wavering light made it impossible to be certain. He thought it might be as much as a mile, and so far they’d met only the trolls, but it was only a matter of time before something worse turned up. He scrubbed his face and shook his head, tossing a fine spatter of sweat against the wall. Then he nodded to Wencit and Chernion and dashed on down the passage.

  * * *

  The cat-eyed wizard gnawed his lip and wondered if this was catastrophe or mere disaster. What did Wencit know about the sword that he didn’t? No one could possibly use it, even if it hadn’t been broken beyond repair. Yet it was glaringly evident Wencit had hidden it for precisely this moment—and made damned sure the Council of Carnadosa would be positive he wasn’t the one who’d done it—so he thought he could use sit somehow. But how? How?!

  His fingers drummed nervously on his thigh as he fought the temptation to intervene. It was almost overwhelming, but yielding to it could all too easily prove fatal. Unless he killed Wencit with his first blow, he would almost certainly be killed himself, and killing such as Wencit required preparation. He must be able to deliver the deathblow precisely on target with every ounce of power the Council could generate, and he could neither locate Wencit precisely with his wild magic echoing in the maze nor assemble the Council and browbeat it into risking everything on a single, desperation throw of the dice. Besides, if the old man had misdirected the Council—and the cat-eyed wizard himself—so completely in other things, it was entirely possible he’d hidden some other accursed working in the tunnels. Some working powerful enough to ward against a direct attack from Kontovar which lay concealed as the tunnel-opening spell had lain concealed, waiting only for him to wake it and turn it against anyone foolish enough to attack him from outside the maze itself. All the records suggested there were such workings, although no one in Kontovar could have created one—and hidden it beyond detection—these days. But as Wencit had just demonstrated, a wild wizard could accomplish things beyond the reach of any wand wizard, be that wizard ever so powerful and well trained.

  No. Direct attack was out of the question—impossible. All that remained was the spell in the sword chamber, and as he contemplated the totality of his miscalculation he suspected the trap spell—like everything else Wencit had faced so far—would not be nearly enough.

  * * *

  “Stop!” Wencit’s shout halted them, and he stepped politely past a panting Chernion and raised his torch to peer ahead down the passage.

  “W-What?” Kenhodan puffed.

  “There’s a dangerous spot up ahead,” the wizard said softly.

  “What a shame, when the rest of the trip’s been after being so pleasant and all!”

  “Hush, Mountain!” Wencit continued to study the tunnel. “There are four ways through the maze from here, but all of them use this next bit. See the arch on the left?” Kenhodan nodded. “The passage narrows for perhaps fifty paces beyond that. It’s called ‘The Eye of the Needle,’ and if I were Wulfra, something extra nasty would be waiting just beyond it.”

  “Any idea what?” Kenhodan asked, panting less heavily as he caught his breath.

  “Her sorcery’s too thick for a good reading, but I’m certain something’s waiting.”

  “I’ve got no sorcery at all, Wizard,” Chernion gasped, her breathing still harder and faster than Kenhodan’s, “but I don’t need any warnings from you to figure that much out!”

  “True, Border Warden, but then we all have our own talents, don’t we?” Wencit tossed her a tight grin. “Just take care, Kenhodan.”

  “I will.” Kenhodan pushed himself off the wall and dried his palms. “Watch my back, Elrytha.”

  Chernion nodded sharply and exchanged bow for sword as Kenhodan glanced once along the tunnel before he ducked under the arch.

  It was indeed far narrower. His body cut off the torchlight, and he moved cautiously, his left hand trailing along the wall while the tip of his blade preceded him. He was just as happy Bahzell was guarding their rear, no matter how comforting it might have been to have the hradani at his side. His friend could never have found fighting room in such cramped quarters, he thought as he counted paces along the narrow stone channel.

  Noise echoed ahead of him, and his skin crawled at the sound. It wasn’t loud, but the soft, throbbing snarl struck a chill in his heart. Another lost memory warned without identifying, and he drew a deep breath and eased forward.

  The snarl came again, louder, and he shuffled on. He must be near the end of the narrow stretch by now, for cool air swirled about him, promising a wider way, and torchlight oozed past him. Strange musk drifted on the breeze blowing into his face, and his stomach knotted in rebellion as he smelled it. Why did—

  Black and ivory flashed at his face.

  He hurled himself back as a taloned paw wider than his chest whipped out of the darkness and smashed into the wall. Stone flakes flew, one chip gashing his cheek, and he recoiled from the strength which could shatter fused stone. The paw came at him again on the backswing, and he hammered it with his sword. The blow jarred his shoulder as if he’d driven steel into the tunnel wall, and rage caterwauled from the darkness, yet the flashing paw darted at him yet again, unharmed and undeterred.

  He ducked the hissing claws and hurled himself forward. They dared not be pinned down while the gods knew what gathered behind them. Their only path lay ahead, and he couldn’t clear the way hacking at an invulnerable limb. He had to face its owner and hope to find a vulnerable spot…somewhere.

  He crashed into something as solid as a mountain, and his head rang as he bounced. He clung to his sword, shaking his head as claws raked at him. He squirmed away from the worst of the blow, but those claws caught in his hauberk, ripping, and metal rings jangled as they bounced away.

  Chernion leapt through the narrow opening, sword bare in her hand, and more light followed her to show their nightmare enemy. Its enormous bulk clogged the tunnel, cat fangs glistened in an apelike head covered with dinner-plate scales, and white claws flashed, long as short swords. The rest was hidden, stretching down the tunnel, but the broad chest rippled with mu
scle and venom oozed from its fangs and hissed on the floor.

  Chernion threw herself forward in a long, lunging thrust and her blade smashed into the massive throat…without effect. The ape head simply shook itself and darted at her, fangs agape. She eluded the teeth and brought her sword crashing down between the blazing eyes in an overhand blow. The head recoiled, but the forelimbs darted out to seize her.

  She was too close for its claws, but the monster locked its forelegs behind her and crushed her mailed the body to its chest. The terrible grip threatened to snap her spine, and the head darted at her again. Her sword arm was trapped, but her dagger flashed as she drove it desperately against one pinning limb. The blade snapped, and the creature gripped tighter.

  Kenhodan hurled himself at the monster and keen steel whined against the scaled body, only to rebound in baffled rage. He struck again, aiming for the shoulder joint, but his blade only bounced once more. Chernion choked and dropped her sword, stabbing more weakly at the creature’s limbs with the stub of her dagger and coughing as the limbs crushed the breath from her. She couldn’t live long in that embrace, and Kenhodan cursed in frustration as he gripped his hilt in both hands and swung with the full power of his arms and back. He hammered the monster’s neck murderously, scales rang like an anvil…and his blade shattered.

  He hurled the broken sword aside. His left hand snatched Gwynna’s dagger from his belt and his right dug into the harsh edged armor as he pulled himself up, climbing his foe as if it were a cliff. The fanged head swept around, striking at him instead of Chernion, but the dagger flashed. One huge eye exploded in hot, stinking fluids and the creature jerked back with a hoarse scream.

  Kenhodan hooked a knee over a forelimb and dragged himself onto the ledge of scales. He hammered his slender blade at the gap between two plates, but underlying scale deflected it. He heaved to his feet on the bent limb and his arm darted out to encircle half the huge neck.

  Chernion gasped a half-scream as bone crunched and blood frothed suddenly in her nostrils. The dagger fell from a suddenly slack hand and the monster dropped her limp body to claw at Kenhodan, but the narrow tunnel and his closeness to its body blocked the blows. The head whipped from side to side, battering him against the wall, but he clung grimly and kicked the toes of his boots into crevices between the outer plates. He refused to be thrown off and dragged himself higher, and its efforts redoubled, hammering his body brutally on an anvil of stone. Ribs broke under the pounding and a shattering thunderbolt of anguish burst against his right knee, but he ignored the blows, absorbed the pain, and hauled himself still higher, his total being focused on reaching the only vulnerable point he’d found.