The Destiny of the Sword

by David Duncan

  Nnanji snorted. "Challenge a thousand men? He would send them up in threes and save the last place for himself."

  Boariyi was paramount. The ways of honor would not apply now unless he wished them to. "Then I need counsel," Wallie said. "We did catch a sorcerer, the wizard of Sen himself, the man who provoked the tryst."

  Honakura gasped and beamed. "That is a great triumph! Another miracle? No, a Great Deed! Wonderful, Lord Shonsu! How can we use him, do you suppose?" He screwed up his wrinkles in thought.

  The wind blew, the sun shone, the ship rocked, and after a while he shook his head. Everyone looked blankly at everyone else.

  No ideas.

  "You could call another tryst, my lord," Nnanji suggested.

  "The Goddess has blessed this one," the priest said. "Surely She sent Her sword for the leader to use? Otherwise, I just don't understand."

  Wallie rose stiffly to his feet. "If you don't, holy one, then none of us do. It is a long sword. It needs a tall swordsman. Boariyi is taller than I am. I suppose I must give him his chance at it."

  "But you need a fair match!" Nnanji shouted. "You can't fight the whole tryst!"

  "If the swordsmen are gathered," a rich contralto voice said, "then I shall sing them my new epic."

  Doa had come aboard and was standing behind the listening sailors, peering over their heads. She looked worse than anyone, her eyes sunk into her head, her face drawn and bonier than ever, her hair a tangled bush. She had probably not slept at all since Sen. She had done what she had said, spending two hours locked up with Rotanxi-interrogating him, Wallie supposed, although perhaps merely reporting to him, if she were indeed a sorcerer spy. Then she had retreated to a corner of the hold to strum aimlessly on her lute at all hours of day and night. She had refused food and conversation. Any attempts to reason with her had been met with screams that she was to be left alone, that she was composing an epic without blood. He had been expecting her to lapse into complete autism.

  Now, astonishingly, she seemed to have recovered her former arrogance and poise, despite her haggard appearance. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion, but the wildness had gone. So the epic was complete? Wallie had commissioned an epic and he was going to get one, but he had no intention at all of letting her loose with it until he had had a chance to hear it himself-and probably not then.

  The sailors moved aside hurriedly to let her in, immensely tall and barely decent in her two twists of filthy blue silk. Honakura gaped toothlessly at her, and then at Wallie. He rose to his feet and she saluted calmly.

  "What is this epic about, then?" he asked, cautiously.

  "It is about Lord Shonsu. It is very good."

  Swordsman and priest exchanged glances again. Wallie rolled his eyes to convey disapproval.

  "I never heard of a minstrel performing in a temple," Honakura said. "I should have to discuss it with Lord Kadywinsi."

  "My lady," Wallie said, "you are tired and need refreshment. Thana, would you show Lady Doa the showers, find her some food and perhaps a place she could rest?"

  Thana gave him a knowing glance and agreed. She led the minstrel away, and she went quietly. Wallie breathed more easily. Now back to the real problem...

  "An epic?" Honakura mused.

  "No!" Wallie sighed and avoided Jja's eye. "I was a fool to take her in the first place-I was thinking with the wrong end of my spine. Perhaps she has composed something, but what good could it do? Another song about Lord Shonsu hiding in a ship and being devious? Forget Doa!"

  The old man nodded doubtfully.

  "If I go to the temple, am I safe there?" Wallie asked.

  Honakura said, "Certainly!" as Nnanji said, "No!"

  There was another silence.

  Wallie felt angry and baffled. "This blessing? Who is blessed? The men? The leaders? The tryst itself?"

  Honakura stared up at him, and then a wicked little smile settled in around his shriveled lips. "Why not the sword?" he asked.

  * * *

  The tiny cabin was dim and rank. Its port had been boarded over before Griffon departed, and it had held a captive for two days and three nights. He was sitting in a corner, wrapped in his blankets, when Wallie and Nnanji went in.

  Confinement had taken toll of a man accustomed to authority and respect. His face was skull-like, with dark caves around his eyes, and the lines near his mouth had deepened to slashes. His thin white hair was disheveled. Yet this prisoner had been well treated by the standards of the World-Wallie knew that from experience.

  "We are at Casr," Wallie said. "The tryst did not sail."

  "So you won?"

  "So far. If you will accompany us on board Sapphire now, my lord, we shall allow you to bathe and we shall provide clean clothes, although not your own. Sorcerers' gowns are what give them their power, you understand. That's how we made you harmless."

  Rotanxi frowned and then nodded admiringly. "And what happens then?" The arrogance had softened, and he was almost pathetic, instinctively huddling back against the wall.

  Wallie held up a rope. "I'm damned if I know! I shall have to keep you tethered, of course. I never imagined that we would capture a Seventh." He chuckled. "You see, my Lord Rotanxi, the position is rather complicated at the moment. On one bank there are sorcerers and on the other swordsmen. The infamous Shonsu and his nefarious gang have been running up and down between the two camps, playing havoc with both. If you were to auction me off at the moment, I think the swordsmen might even outbid the sorcerers to get their hands on me."

  The sorcerer stared at him curiously for a moment and then reached for his shoes. "I doubt that," he said. "Are you open to bribes?"

  Wallie thought of the power of the demigod and smiled. "Not if you offered me the World! I shall display you as my captive, of course, but I swear you my oath that there will be no torture, and as little degradation as is possible under the circumstances. And as you are likely to be of more value alive than dead, you will not be harmed."

  "So I am to behave myself? You take me for a fool, Shonsu." Rotanxi was not too humbled to sneer. He rose stiffly.

  Wallie shrugged. "I cannot make any real promises, because my own life is at risk this day, but if Master Nnanji succeeds me as your captor, he will respect my wishes."

  He led the way to the ladder. He and Nnanji were clean now. Thana and Katanji were dressing. Honakura and the priests had departed already.

  "Where are you taking me in such a hurry? Are your coals cooling off?"

  "The tryst is assembling in the temple," Wallie explained. "I shall produce you before the swordsmen and claim the leadership."

  The sorcerer regarded him warily. "And then what happens?"

  "Then," Nnanji snarled, "the swordsmen will denounce him as a traitor, and he will not be protected by the ways of honor, and they will kill him."

  "I see!" Rotanxi glanced from one to the other thoughtfully. "I detect a disagreement on strategy. And when Shonsu is dead, whose prisoner am I?"

  "You're mine," Nnanji said savagely. "But I die right after. Then you will belong to the tryst. Have a nice day, my lord."

  * * *

  Their dinghy was met at the familiar ruined jetty by a nervous-looking priest of the Sixth, pudgy and elderly. Wallie knelt on the slimy planks and held out a hand to Tomiyano, still down in the boat.

  "Captain," he said, "if neither Nnanji or I... well, look after Jja and Vixini? And thanks for everything."

  Tomiyano's eyebrows rose, pushing his shipmarks into his hair. He shook hands. "What do you fancy for dinner, my lord? I'll tell Lina."

  Wallie smiled and rose to follow the impatient priest.

  The way led past the well-remembered refectory, then between the disused buildings, along paths choked with weeds, through canted fences with fallen gates... past old icehouses and deserted chapels, abandoned stables, dormitories, and erstwhile lawns now converted to impenetrable bush. The tide was out in Casr, but in some other century prosperity would return, and all this would again b
e needed by a waxing temple bureaucracy.

  The way led also toward the towering bulk of the temple itself, and soon it dominated half the sky. Then... an unobtrusive side door and endless dark corridors and hallways smelling of mold and rot. A distant sound of chanting ahead, and the guiding priest turned and put his finger to his lips. He opened a door, very slowly, and the chanting became loud.

  It was more a large alcove than a small room, for one side was a bead curtain, beyond which lay the nave of the temple. The watchers could see out and not be seen; the half dozen could spy on the thousand. So Wallie stopped to watch and his followers crowded around to peer by him.

  His first impression was how much smaller this temple was than the great edifice at Hann. Yet to his left stood the swordsmen of the tryst-five Sevenths in blue; behind them, at a respectful distance, a row of thirty or forty Sixths; and behind them, in turn, ranks of red-kilted Fifths. A thousand men and more-the Fifths hid the middlerank colors, so that only their heads and sword hilts showed-but the nave was not crowded, so smallness was relative. This was still as large as any cathedral Wallie had ever seen. Not all were swordsmen. Behind the narrow-shouldered Firsts at the back was a collection without swords-heralds, bandsmen, armorers, healers, minstrels, and perhaps notables from the town.

  To his right stood the choir, endlessly warbling up and down their dissonant scale. They faced toward the Goddess, an idol of carved stone that copied the great, naturally weathered figure at Harm-a seated and robed woman, hair streaming down, featureless face staring along the nave to the seven arches and the River beyond. Yet the sculptor had failed to catch the same air of majesty. The blue paint was flaking from the stone, giving it a scabby appearance, a Goddess with eczema. The dais bore treasures, but nothing to compare to the immeasurable hoard at Hann. Perhaps this temple had been looted a few times.

  Wallie discovered that his Shonsu instincts were busily checking for escape routes. Some hope! The main doors would be in the arches at the front, of course, below the glass screens. From the interior the missing panes showed as bright spots, unsoiled by the grime that blurred most of the vista of the River and far-off RegiVul under its guardian smoke plume. Between him and those doors stood the swordsmen. There was another bead curtain opposite him and there was probably a door behind that. There would be others behind the idol, also.

  Then he saw Boariyi, standing by himself and looking very lonely. By rights, surely, he should have been directly in front of the Sevenths, at the head of his army. Instead, he had been placed well toward the far side. That seemed a strange location, but he was opposite Wallie. If Wallie emerged through this bead curtain, the two of them would be facing each other across the nave like equals. That was a welcome sign that the priests were indeed under Honakura's control. Obviously Kadywinsi was an uncertain and unreliable ally, given to supporting whoever had spoken to him most recently. Hopefully, while this interminable chanting went on, Honakura was busy somewhere else, keeping the high priest's vertebrae fused.

  Boariyi was too far off for his expression to be discerned. Probably he had been granted no more time for sword practice these last few days than Wallie, but he had not been bouncing around in Griffon's madhouse, either, and that thought made Wallie realize how incredibly weary he felt.

  Tivanixi, standing with the other Sevenths, had a bandaged arm.

  Wallie glanced around at his own party. The sorcerer stood with hands bound, unkempt in an ill-fitting blue gown, fixed sneer on haggard face. Nnanji held the other end of his tether, trying to look cheerful-Nnanji said this was not going to work and Nnanji was usually correct when it came to judging swordsmen. Thana had insisted on coming, and Katanji was there, also, looking tiny and absurdly young and grinning widely, black eyes sparkling in the gloom.

  Katanji had a small leather bag dangling at his waist and suddenly Wallie guessed that it must be his ill-gotten loot from Gi, a fortune in jewels. If Nnanji had returned that tainted hoard to his brother, then Nnanji did not think he was going to survive this day.

  The congregation was starting to fidget and twitch. The unseen juniors at the back would be into spitballs soon.

  At Hann the sides of the nave had been lined by stained glass. Here they were walls of mosaic, much of which seemed to be crumbling off. Wallie glanced up to check the roof, wondering how safe that was.

  He decided that he might be the only person present who was not anxious for the interminable chanting to end. He had the sorcerer's pistol stuck in his belt, and some spare powder and shot in his pouch, but he would never have time to reload. There was a climax coming. The odds against him were probably about a hundred to one, yet he felt more resigned than nervous. The gods had forced this, snapping at his heels and driving him like a sheep into this pen. Perhaps this was the last line of the riddle. And to its destiny accord-give it to Boariyi. How old was Alexander the Great when he took his father's army and set off to conquer the Earth? Twenty? Boariyi was probably older than that. He just did not look like an Alexander, somehow.

  The sun vanished behind a cloud; shadow flooded the high, cold place.

  At welcome last the chant was over, dying away into a quiet sigh of collective relief from the audience. The choir genuflected and trooped back in two lines to stand on either side of the idol, out of Wallie's view. A tiny figure in blue shuffled forward, eased down on ancient knees to make obeisance, rose even more slowly, and turned to face the congregation. The high priest, Kadywinsi, his snowy hair shining in the gloom, raised his arms and began a long ritual of blessing. Boariyi and his Sevenths relaxed-evidently the ceremony was nearing its end. The old man wailed away to silence. Then he swung around and faced the idol.

  "Holiest!" he bleated. "Your castellan and I had the honor of calling this tryst and the honor of seeing You bless it. We thank You for hearing our prayers, for sending us the novices, the apprentices, the swordsmen, the adepts, the masters, their honors, and their lordships... but most of all for sending us Your chosen champion, a noble and courageous swordsman, a man who has met the sorcerers before and has shown he can defeat them, a worthy leader, sent by You, bearing Your own sword."

  A gasp of surprise from the congregation grew to an angry, animal roar. Hints of riot filled the temple. Boariyi straightened up and put his hands on his hips, thrusting his head forward. The other five Sevenths registered shock, most of them turning a furious red at the suggestion that they had sworn to the wrong man.

  Wallie reached for the curtain and a command came from behind: "Not yet!" He turned to frown at the priest-surely this was the dramatic moment?

  In a sudden silence the sun reappeared, flooding the nave with brilliance, gleaming on Kadywinsi's silver hair and on a tall woman in blue strolling forward, carrying a lute.

  ††† †††

  Wallie wheeled to stare at the others. "I thought she was still on board!" he snapped, loud enough to make them jump.

  Nnanji nodded, but Thana shook her head. "She went with the priests."

  Wallie had been in the shower. Furious, he turned back to watch. Doa was clean and groomed. She was calm, now, and dignified. Her streaming brown hair shone again, no longer tangled like tumble weed. Her dress was a priest's cotton gown, a cheap thing, baggy and not long enough, yet she wore it regally, as if it had been tailored for her by a master couturier. The audience was rustling. Wallie could only hope that Honakura knew what he was doing. Perhaps he had interrogated her in the dinghy. It was equally possible that he was flying this whole thing on blind faith.

  Doa made no salute, announced no title for her epic. She showed neither nervousness nor excitement, only an air of intense concentration as she stood and plucked the lute quietly, adjusting the tuning. Then she raised her head, struck a chord, and filled the temple with a voice dark and shining as zircon.

  The swordsmen in the morning come with glory on their brows,

  With justice on their shoulders borne,

  And honor in their vows.

  Evil t
hey will overcome and righteousness espouse.

  Her swords go marching on!

  Again Wallie glanced back at Nnanji, and his astonished expression showed that he had never heard of a marching song in an epic, either.

  It was a rousing tune, though, and... No! Could it be? He listened carefully to the chorus, and the second verse...

  No, even allowing for the seven-tone scale, it was not the same. Close... but even better, more rousing, than what he had just for a moment suspected. He could guess that it would be adopted at once by the tryst. Feet were beginning to tap. Or perhaps not-it was about Shonsu, leading his army through the mountains to Vul. Now he was about to hear what had happened in that disaster-if Rotanxi had told the truth to Doa, and if Doa had not changed it for her own purposes.

  The music slipped to classic epic style while the villainous sorcerers plotted their defense. The chief of the evildoers was, of course, Lord Rotanxi, swearing hatred against all swordsmen, summoning a fire demon. Wallie looked around, and the sorcerer's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, amusement, and surprise.

  Another change, to a restless, anguished theme, and the singer's voice changed, also. The swordsmen had reached a bridge over a chasm, could see Vul itself in the distance. They began to cross. The sorcerer's fire demon struck in dissonance, in thunder and flame. Bridge and swordsmen all plunged into the abyss.

  A mined bridge? Of course! What would have been easier for the sorcerers than that, or more unexpected to the swordsmen? Without thinking, Wallie turned to Rotanxi and whispered, "Is that what happened?"

  He received a look of astonishment, but no answer.

  Only Shonsu had escaped, marching in front of his army. Struck to the ground by the fire demon's passing, he had lost his sword and been seized by the triumphant sorcerers. Then the music changed again, to a dirge, and Wallie began to appreciate that what he was hearing was the birth of a whole new art form, the heroic oratorio. Nnanji's jaw was hanging open. Epics were the news and entertainment of the World. Swordsmen hankered after them as Italians craved opera. This was superb, the audience transfixed.