Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Yes,” I answered promptly.

  Her eyes came back to me. “Which? Like Adara?” Surprise flickered in her tone.

  “No. Like all of them.”

  Del’s mouth twisted. “You want three women. Why am I not surprised?”

  I grinned. “You don’t understand men, bascha.”

  “No,” she agreed dryly. “I have met few examples worth the trouble of learning.”

  I ignored that. “There are times when softness in a woman appeals to me. There are times when an appetite like Elamain’s rouses me. There are times when I think about raising a family. And there you are, bascha—all three women, but preferably in one body. I really don’t want a harem…too much trouble when you move.”

  She was not in the mood for flippancy. “Have you any children?”

  “Probably somewhere; I haven’t been celibate. But none that I’m certain about.”

  “And does it bother you, that you may have sired sons and daughters but don’t know who—or what—they are?”

  I groaned and rolled onto my back, scratching at my forehead. “I don’t know, Del. I never think about it.”

  Her voice was soft. “Never?”

  I scowled into the darkness. “If I worried about all the children I may or may not have sired, I’d have time for nothing else.”

  “But if you died, Tiger…if you died with no son or daughter, there would be no one left to sing the songs of you.”

  “Songs?” I cast her a suspicious scowl. “What songs, bascha?”

  Del tightened the blankets around her shoulders. “In the North, it is family custom to sing songs of those who have gone before. When an old one dies—or even a newborn baby—kinfolk gather to honor that person with songs and feasting.”

  I frowned. “You sure sing a lot in the North. Sing to your sword, sing to your dead…” I shook my head and stared up at the stars. “I’m a Southroner, Del. There is no one to sing for me.”

  “Yet,” she said distinctly, as if it made a difference.

  I smiled, laughed, gave in. “Yet,” I agreed. “Now may I go to sleep?”

  Thirteen

  I felt it before I knew it. An itch and tickle all over my body, teasing arms and legs, my scalp, even across my belly. I sat up, swearing, and tore the blankets off.

  “Tiger—?” Del, blurry-toned; I was on my feet.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know—”

  And then, abruptly, I did. I recalled the sensation too well.

  I scooped up my sword and drew it, scraping it out of the sheath.

  Del knew better than to question me again. She was on her feet, like me; wide awake, like me, unsheathing her own blade.

  I pointed toward the saddle slung between two slanting hills. The track was hard to see. “There,” I said clearly.

  “I see nothing, Tiger.”

  “It’s there. It’s there.” And it was; I could feel it. Creeping relentlessly over the saddle. Dribbling down the track, heading unerringly for the wagon. “Wake them up,” I told her, “but have them stay in the wagon. I want them in one place, not scattered to the winds.”

  The old piebald mare nickered uneasily, testing the weight of her line. I recalled the flight of Del’s speckled gelding and the loss of my own stud.

  Del went to the wagon in silence, parted the woven hangings, said something quietly. I heard Adara’s stifled outcry, Cipriana’s rising tone, Massou’s excited voice. And then I was by the wagon, near the shafts, waiting for the arrival.

  Something fluttered deep in my belly. Fear, a little, but mostly an odd, frustrated anger, that something could offer such threat and I didn’t know what it was.

  I could see nothing at all, save the silhouette of the saddle. Beyond it lay the sky and stars, and blacker shadows yet. “Hoolies…” I muttered uneasily, “I wish we were in the desert.”

  “They’ll stay.” Del slipped into place beside me. “What can you tell me, Tiger?”

  “Don’t you feel it, bascha?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  It made me feel even worse. How could something so strong go unmarked by Del?

  “Right there,” I said sharply, and suddenly there it was.

  There they were: four men on horseback, riding down the track. Little more than shapeless shadows, blackest black, shrouded in cloaks or burnouses. The horses they rode were soundless.

  “I don’t like it, bascha.”

  “Tiger—look!”

  I squinted, even as she did, using a hand to shield my eyes, for the sudden firelight was blinding. It exploded behind each of the riders, crowning the saddleback, and made them silhouettes instead of men.

  “Ah, hoolies,” I growled, disgusted, as each of them bared a sword.

  Horses are afraid of fire. It makes them crazy. It makes them stupid. It makes them do silly things. But these four horses were untouched by the blaze behind them or the flames dancing on each of the blades held so precariously near their heads. They just kept coming, in an eerie, uncanny silence.

  And then they began to run.

  “Del,” I said lightly, “now might be a good time for you to start singing. We’ll need every advantage we can get.”

  Del sang, and the horses came on, exhaling smoke. Swords blazed like brands in the night.

  The riders split up, driving in four directions. Two dropped back, outflanked the others, circled the wagon. The swords were torches in their hands, lighting four familiar faces.

  Four dead faces; we had already killed them once. But somehow they lived again.

  Del’s song wavered. Breath caught in her throat, then ran raggedly out of her mouth. “Tiger—do you see—?”

  “I see, bascha. Keep singing.”

  She didn’t. “How is it possible?”

  “It’s not. At least, not without using magic.” I swallowed heavily. “You beat them once, Del. I know you can do it again.”

  “But I cut them to pieces, Tiger! These are whole men!”

  Whole men, each of them, coming down from the Northern sky. Swathed again in Southron silks, baring blazing Southron blades, mouthing Southron words. But everything was soundless.

  How is it possible?

  “Never mind,” I said grimly. “The trick is to win again.”

  “Loki,” Del breathed. “It has to be the loki. They are powerful enough.”

  “To stitch them together again?” I drew in a deep breath. “Then let’s take them apart—again.”

  “Last time they were men.”

  This time they were not.

  “Sing,” I said fervently. “Sing for all you’re worth.”

  Loki, men, whatever, they knew how to handle swords. And did so very well, whipping in, whipping out, playing with us on the run. Del and I were forced back against the wagon, then cut away from it, herded like mindless sheep. But we fought back with all our skill, tantalizing the mounted men, until their game became less than a game and more like an execution.

  I heard the old mare scream. I snatched a glance out of the corner of my eye and saw a flaming sword cut her rope. She spun awkwardly, staggered two steps, went down heavily. She did not move again.

  My world was little more than noise and flame. I smelled fire and the stink of decaying flesh, the tang of sweat-soaked wool, the salt of sweat-caked leather. Blades rang on blades, filling the air with swordsong; the sweetest sound I know, and by far the deadliest.

  I gasped, sucked air, wheezed, coughed, spat mucus out of my mouth. Tried to turn back the two swords that came at me time and time again. Looked for Del, saw her engaging two flaming swords, and knew that no matter who—or what—our opponents were, living or resurrected, they also were more than a little deadly.

  I never touched flesh with my sword. Not even horseflesh. I couldn’t get close enough, beat off by blazing steel. And then one of them made a mistake; he came a little too close. I swung, cut, tore through, and the horse disappeared into smoke.

  “Del!” I cried. “Th
ey’re not real!”

  “—real enough,” she panted.

  “Duck the swords and go for the horses. None of the mounts are real, just specters made out of smoke.”

  I’ll give the girl this much, she does know how to listen. In a moment another was unhorsed, left to ride nothing but smoke, which left us with two still mounted. The men on foot approached, but now they were vulnerable.

  More than that, in the end; the men on foot were falling apart.

  Piece by piece, things dropped away. An arm, a head, a hand. The stink of them nearly choked me.

  Two were whole, and mounted. One came for me, the other targeted Del. Whatever else they were, they weren’t fazed by the behavior of their comrades. Their minds were fixed on us.

  One came riding. I ducked, spun, swung back, trying to notch a hock. But the rider set the horse back on his heels and rolled left, swinging his flaming sword. I ducked, but not enough; something bathed my left arm in pain.

  I don’t know what I shouted. Undoubtedly something obscene. But for the moment I was one-armed, handling the sword with only one hand as well. It was made for a two-handed grip and that’s what I’m accustomed to. The balance was off, I was off, my arm was nearly off.

  I heard Del’s grunt of effort, followed by an outcry. I tried to look, could not; the rider was on me again.

  I slipped. Went to one knee. Tried to scrabble up, to lurch aside, but the footing was treacherous. I saw the blade swing down at my head, tried to block it with my useless left arm, heard someone scream behind me.

  Hoolies, bascha, not you—

  Not Del. Cipriana.

  I flattened, rolled, came up in time to see her jam the end of her quarterstaff into the horse’s chest, then brace the butt against the wagon to support the staff as well as she could. The horse spitted himself, bled smoke instead of blood. Then wisped into nothingness.

  The rider landed, grinned, fell down, broke into pieces on the ground. The sword no longer blazed, but was dead, cold steel.

  Four feet away, Del severed the last horse’s throat. And then we were alone, waving off smoke, except for Cipriana.

  She sucked in harsh, gasping breaths. There was blood spattered on her face, but none of it was hers. What she wore was mine.

  “Cipriana.” I grunted, heaved myself up, staggered over to her. “Cipriana, it’s over. Over.” I wrenched the staff out of rigid hands. “No more need for this.”

  Empty hands clawed for the staff, found air, then masked her face from me. In the wagon, I heard sobbing. Not Massou’s: Adara’s.

  It made me oddly angry. The woman cried for a daughter who had acquitted herself quite well. Better than crying, she might come outside instead and see what that daughter had done.

  “Tiger.” It was Del, at my side, touching a charred sleeve. “Tiger, let me see.”

  “What? That?” I tried to shrug the arm away, hissed and wished I hadn’t. “Hoolies, bascha, what are you doing?”

  “Looking,” she said firmly. “Hold still—” She tore wool; her face was grim. “Well, one thing for burning swords—the wound is cauterized. About all we need to do is clean it, bandage it…it ought to heal well enough.”

  My mind was on Cipriana, still hidden behind her hands. “Cipriana, you did well. You saved my life. No sense in shutting it out.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Del said flatly. “Can we get this taken care of?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I touched Cipriana’s shoulder. “Bascha, it’s all right—” And then I stopped short, because Del had gone quite still.

  Oh, hoolies, why the slip of the tongue?

  I started to say something, anything, but coughing got in the way. I bent over, braced myself against the wagon, brought up gouts of mucus. My chest was tearing apart.

  Through the hacking and retching, I heard Massou say the mare was dead. Somehow it didn’t surprise me. And I hurt too much to care.

  “Adara,” Del said quietly, “can you make him tea?”

  I stopped coughing. Whispered. “No more of that stuff. I’d rather have aqivi.”

  Del put a hand on my brow. “You’re hot.”

  “Best put him in the wagon.” Adara’s voice. “He’ll be warmer in there.”

  “Don’t need warmth,” I protested in a croak. “Bascha, can you whistle up a storm? One of those Northern snowstorms?”

  “No,” Del said firmly, and steered me toward the back of the wagon.

  “Is he all right?” Cipriana asked, forgetting her own ordeal.

  “He will be,” Del remarked, “once he’s had some sleep. First the cold and now a wound…even sandtigers need time to recover.”

  “Hoolies, Del—I’m fine.”

  “Your lungs roar like a bellows, you croak like you’ve eaten steel, your arm was carved open and burned. You are not fine, Tiger…and you’ll thank us in the morning.”

  I knew better. But I also knew that I hurt inside and out. Shutting my teeth on curses, I crawled into the wagon and stretched out my bulk on the pallet. The interior was hardly large enough for all of me; I wondered how in hoolies Adara and her children managed to get any sleep.

  Painfully, I turned over onto my back. Blinked dazedly at the opening with its woven cloth curtain pulled back. I saw blonde hair, blue eyes, concern. “Bascha—?”

  “Maybe,” Del said dryly. “Which one of us did you want?”

  Silence, I decided hastily, was the better part of valor.

  Fourteen

  I was in the Punja. In a hyort. Bathed in heat and sweat and stink.

  I stirred. Tried to talk. A cool, callused hand touched my mouth gently, quieting my mumbles, and I subsided into silence.

  I knew I had killed the sandtiger. But he had also nearly killed me. My face was alive with pain; venom ran through my veins and set my flesh afire.

  But I was still alive. And now I was free as well.

  I stirred. Surely the shukar would see his way clear to giving me freedom now. How could he deny it? I had killed the beast that had killed so many of us—no, not us; I am not a Salset, being merely chula—and now the tribe would have to reward me for it. They would have to, and the reward I craved was freedom.

  The reward I demanded was freedom.

  Gods of valhail, hounds of hoolies—would they give it to me at last?

  My lips were parched; I licked them. Tried to wet them and found my mouth too dry. All of me was too dry, until a cool hand with a dampened cloth bathed my face, my neck, my chest, dipped to belly and paused. I heard an indrawn breath.

  Sula?

  Through closed eyes, I summoned her before me. A young Salset woman with characteristic coloring: lustrous black hair, golden skin, liquid, dark brown eyes. Sula was still unmarried but of an age to take a husband; that she hadn’t yet was attributable to me. And a definite breach of custom. I was a chula, she was not; yet another reason the shukar hated me. He might have taken her for himself, although Sula herself would have denied him.

  The vision-Sula wavered, faded, renewed itself. Only this time it wasn’t the Sula who had given me manhood and dignity; who had argued for my freedom; who had told me to go when I had fairly won it. This time it was the Sula who had rescued Del and me from the Punja and brought us back among the living. An older, fatter Sula: broad of face, graying of hair, now a widow. But still a woman of enduring strength and courage.

  Del.

  And I realized I was dreaming.

  “Bascha?” It came out on a broken croak.

  The hand with the damp cloth spasmed against my flesh, withdrew itself hastily. “No,” she said, “it’s Adara.”

  Adara. I opened my eyes. And realized how far I’d gone in my dreams.

  I was in the wagon, the little horseless wagon, stuffed full of Borderer belongings. Adara knelt next to me, though there was hardly room, and held a dampened cloth in both hands. Fingers twisted and knotted it, then smoothed it out to begin again. Bits of red hair straggled down the sides of her neck, caught in sweat a
gainst flesh. Her face was sheened with it. She wiped her brow with the back of an arm.

  A handsome woman, Adara. And strong, in her own way, though a bit blind about swords and dancing. “Here,” she said, “I have water.”

  It was tepid, tasting of goatskin bota. But I sucked it down, savoring the wetness, and felt my throat come alive again. I thanked her and pushed it away.

  “I have apologies to make,” she said quietly.

  I raised both brows.

  “I have been too harsh with the children. I have been rude to you and Del.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “I just figured you had your reasons.”

  “I do. I did.” She sighed and shredded the cloth again. “My husband was a sword-dancer.”

  Part of me was surprised. Part of me wasn’t at all.

  Adara, avoiding my eyes, stared at rigid hands. “He came down from the North to the border, to our settlement; a strong blond giant, and my heart was lost at once. I was barely fifteen—he was older by twenty years, but somehow that didn’t matter. I wanted him for my husband. But he was a man who lived by the sword, and I feared he would die by it also.” Her mouth was thin and flattened, hardening the set of her jaw. “I made him give it up.”

  “How?”

  “By giving him a choice: the woman or the circle. Kesar chose the woman.”

  “And you’ve raised your children accordingly.”

  “Yes.” Her gaze, now raised, was unflinching. Green as my own; as a sandtiger’s. “I wanted Cipriana to have a softer life than I, and I wanted Massou never to take up the sword.”

  “Wanted,” I said clearly. “Now you’ve changed your mind?”

  Adara drew in a deep, noisy breath. “What Del has said is true. I can’t hide my children from life, and life is rarely kind. So I’ve told Massou and Cipriana, if she wants, to learn what they can from you and Del, because one day they may need it.”

  And maybe sooner than she’d like. But at least she’d give them a chance. “Water,” I croaked.