Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXV

by contributors, various

  As they passed through the rich farmland of Westfields, Cinnabar and her escort stayed at inns when they could and camped in the fields when they must. They spoke only about incidental matters. His name was Lan or Lhon or something like that. At first, she took no particular notice of him, beyond observing he wasn't as arrogant or incompetent as she had feared.

  Cinnabar rose early, as was her habit, when the light from behind the eastern ridge of hills was still tentative. Her tough little sorrel mare nickered softly from the picket line beside the soldier's brown cob and the pack mule. She picked up her sword and went among the trees. Here she knelt, her sword sheath tucked through her belt. Moments passed and her heart slowed.

  In one fluid motion, she drew her sword and spiraled to her feet. Her body leapt and soared. She slipped between the trees, feinting around them. Their branches quivered as if they yearned to dance with her.

  She felt the boy's eyes on her. He stood watching, leaning against a tree. She finished the sequence, ending as she had begun, on her knees.

  It is a posture of infinite possibility, her Quallin arms-master had said. Even peace.

  Cinnabar stood, her heart slowing to normal.

  "I've never seen anything like that," the boy said.

  Of course he hadn't, not with that graceless Westfields weapon.

  "Get your sword. I'll show you."

  He handled the sword in a manner that suggested most of his experience was on the training field, not in combat. "It's too long for your style."

  "Every sword has its own rhythm," she said. "You've learned to fight from the straight lines. Now it's time to learn the circles."

  Cinnabar tested the sword's balance. Even though she was strong for a woman, it was too heavy for her. The boy would have an easier time with it. This was not necessarily a good thing, for power too often dulled sensitivity.

  She showed him the beginning position, not a fighting stance, but a learning stance. Using a light touch, she guided him through the opening moves. She stood in back of him, her fingertips resting on his arm and between his shoulders. She remembered how the arms-master at Quallin had taught simply by where she looked or how she stood.

  A trickle of power flowed through the contact between them like river water seeping through a logjam. The boy stepped wide, knees bent, sword arm lifting like a crane spreading one wing to the cooling breeze. Steel caught the dawn light. Birds took flight, wheeling. Oak leaves, warmed by the sun, gave off a bright, pungent scent.

  Step back, pivot... Cinnabar felt a line of fire between her hand and the body of the young soldier. Movement flowed like water pouring from one cup to another—flesh to steel to flesh again—until both came to rest. The closing posture was the same as the beginning.

  He lowered the sword. She felt him trembling. He moved away from her, his face averted.

  I dare not teach him more. It would change him too much.

  She waited, alone in the grove, as he returned to camp.

  * * * *

  As the road climbed, it grew thin and feral. Meadow oak and apple gave way to wilder trees. Scattered flocks of sheep and rangy, half-tame cattle foraged on the slopes. One afternoon, they paused at the top of a hill. Below, Cinnabar made out livestock pens and a shed, thatched with twigs. The fences had been smashed and where a cottage should have stood, there was only an empty, smoking ruin.

  They went down. Stillness hung like a pall over the yard. Fumes from buried embers drifted skyward in a thin haze. The fireplace had collapsed, its stones cracked and blackened.

  Cinnabar dismounted and took a stick from the shed roof. "See what you can find inside. I'll check that," jerking her head towards the house.

  She poked the nearest heap of charred rubble. Ashes billowed up. They stung her eyes and clung to her clothing. She brushed them away and then returned to stirring, more cautiously this time. She was about to give up when a cry came from the shed.

  The low, slant-roofed shed stood open. Cinnabar ducked inside. She took in the rough details as her eyes adapted to the dark. There were several stalls for birthing or tending injured animals. The place stank of sheep dung.

  The young soldier hunched over, one hand clenched over his stomach. He stared fixedly at a pile of carcasses near the far wall.

  "Go and wait by the horses," she told him.

  Gulping, he took an unsteady step towards the door. He barely made it before retching.

  Cinnabar turned back to the pile. The bodies were sheep, somewhat less than a dozen. Something about the way they lay disturbed her.

  At the edge of the pile, by the splintered rails of a stall, she spotted a half-grown lamb on its back, its legs splayed wide. Two of them were broken. From the angle of the neck, the head thrown back and sideways with the mouth frozen open, she thought the sheep's back must have been broken, too.

  The body had been split from sternum to pelvis, the ribs forced up and outward. There were no organs visible in the gaping cavity, only a few scraps of dried tissue. Even the eyes were gone, replaced by knots like shriveled leather.

  And there was no smell of rotted flesh, no sign of blood except for a tracery of dark stains on the curled pelt and a few splatters on the straw. No flies, either buzzing about the carcass or burrowing in its flesh.

  This was not the work of wolves.

  The boy waited by the horses, his face pasty. He did not ask what had killed the sheep in such a horrific manner or where the herders had gone, and she did not offer an opinion. They were, after all, hunting a wizard.

  * * * *

  Through the afternoon, gauzy clouds thickened, darkening as if a shadow were spreading upwards. Finally, the sky became a vault of churning gray. As the sun set, the heavens turned crimson, then black. Cinnabar let the soldier take the first watch when they camped beside the road. Despite her breathing meditations, she would sleep lightly tonight.

  "Sword-lady? Cinnabar?"

  She came fully awake, her sword drawn. The boy crouched over her. The glow from the burned-down fire lit his hair.

  She got soundlessly to her feet. Stillness poured from the night. Velvety blackness pressed in from all sides.

  "There was something..." he said, hushed. "On the road."

  "Let's move camp," she said, pointing to the grove of meadow oak, well away from the road. Once they had moved and were sitting on their bedrolls, she told him to go to sleep. She would finish the watch.

  He hesitated, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. The sheep shed must have shaken him badly. "You've probably guessed by now that I'm no soldier." His words came in a rush. "My name isn't Lon. It's Lionel."

  "Lionel, as in the Duke's son? Fire and Fate, what are you doing here?"

  "It was my father's idea, so that I could take credit, be a big hero. Lionel Wizardbane! Does it matter? There's more here than a few butchered sheep. What I felt in the shed and again on the road—I've felt it before. Do you believe evil can be a tangible thing? I never used to... I was twelve when my father took me to Ettiswan to sign the treaty and pay the tribute—gold, of course, and powdered diamonds and myrrh, all we had. I remember how disappointed I was when we got there. I was hoping to see dragons or demons from hell, not just a man in a mask. Then the wizard—Dherim—then he—I didn't know to be afraid, not then—"

  "He did something to you?"

  "He..." Something stirred in Lionel's voice, a turbulence. "He put his hands on my head. I didn't want him near me. But I was a Duke's son, and I knew my duty. I was too proud to cry, but all I wanted was to run. I don't know why it should have bothered me so much, a thing like that. It's not as if he marked me. I asked my father later, when I could talk to him again. It was part of the bargain, he said, and what harm did it do? I was all right, wasn't I? And Westfields was safe."

  Cinnabar's lip curled in disgust. Wizards never did anything without a reason. She remembered that in the ancient tongue, Dherim meant "dragon." Who could do such a thing to his own son?

  Lionel's head shot
up. He'd caught her expression. "Whatever you may think, my father was a great man. He did what his own father couldn't. He kept the north-raiders out of Westfields. You have no idea what it was like."

  "What's done is done."

  "If you'd been in his place," Lionel persisted, "what would you have done?"

  Thrown myself in the dragon's path? she wondered, or become one myself?

  * * * *

  The hills steepened into slate-blue mountains. Soon whiteness blanketed the peaks rimming the horizon. Fir and amberwood flourished in gorges cut by ice-cold streams. A narrow bridge spanned one such cleft, leading to a path that continued east, winding out of sight.

  Cinnabar reined her sorrel to a halt at the edge of the bridge. "Fire and Fate!"

  A man lay on his back in the stream bed, partly submerged. His eyes were shriveled, as if they'd been pecked out by scavenger birds. He wore the sheepskin jacket of a herder, but it had been torn away. His chest had been split open.

  Cinnabar swung down from the mare's back and clambered down the river bank. Lionel followed. He frowned as he crouched beside the body. For a moment, he stared at the knots of flesh that were once eyes. He passed one hand over the man's face, murmuring words Cinnabar couldn't make out above the splash of running water.

  Cinnabar lowered her gaze, seeing only rock and rushing stream. She became aware of the tiny living things in the eddies along the banks. Rivulets sank into the earth, bathing roots. Below her feet, granite veins reached deep into the earth.

  Bits of twig and leaves, red-brown and gold, had caught against the dead man's legs. With her heightened awareness, Cinnabar sensed the calling of like to like, the yearning of his dead flesh for the earth that had formed it.

  "We can't leave him to foul the river," she said.

  "There's room to bury him by the crossroads." Lionel lifted the dead man. The head with its mutilated eyes rolled forward on his chest.

  Lionel was ashen and panting by the time they reached the crossroads. He lowered the body as gently as if the man had still been alive. Together they built a cairn of river stones. Lionel took the man's belt buckle, the brass so worn the design was barely visible, and wedged it in a crevice.

  "Maybe someone will come looking," he said. "Someone who cared for him."

  "Rest well," Cinnabar whispered the Quallin prayer. "Rest well, return in peace."

  "May the earth receive and bless you," Lionel said.

  He took her hand and she did not pull away as they went to get their horses.

  * * * *

  They set up camp in a little wooded dell where a stream had filled a cup of rock. The horses drank deeply and then bent their heads to the scant forage.

  Lionel lay on the other side of the fire, facing Cinnabar. The light of the embers glinted on his tousled hair. She wanted to touch it, this crude stuff somehow transmuted into purest gold, as if by an esoteric alchemical process. Lionel at his best was like that—taking his father's ambition, his compromises and betrayals, and changing them with his own human magic...

  His lids flickered open. Behind the reflected light of the embers, his eyes were unreadable. Cinnabar got up and leaned over him.

  Lionel's expression shifted. Gently he caressed her throat, fanning his fingers over the skin where her collarbones met, trailing down the opening of her shirt. A wave of heat swept through her.

  His lips felt dry under hers. She ran the tip of her tongue over them and he drew in a shuddering breath. He cupped his fingers around the back of her neck. Her breasts ached as she pulled him on top of her, softness against hard lean muscle. She liked the feel of his weight along her body, the sweetness and passion of his kisses. He asked nothing she had not already offered of her own desire.

  Cinnabar felt an almost unbearable tenderness well up in her, a longing and a hunger. She wanted to take Lionel into herself, spirit and body, to feel his golden alchemical warmth chase away the darkness.

  She kicked away the last tangle of clothing and flexed her legs around him. Her body was more than ready, all her hard angles softened into ripeness.

  She thrust upwards against him and tightened her muscles to join them even more closely. She rocked with him, letting his rhythm fuel her own. A shock of pleasure surged through the center of her body. As he sank on top of her, she felt something more, a wave swelling beneath her.

  One moment she was a mortal woman, making love under the stars, her back against the earth. The next moment, she overshadowed the mountains. In the recesses of her heart, musky-ripe grain bent in the breezes. Winds scoured the high pastures, sending horses running for the sheer joy of it. Rivers danced, cut by leaping trout. Forests teemed with moist living things.

  The riot of images faded, all but a lingering spark within her abdomen. It continued to pulse, quick and shimmering.

  Cinnabar was shivering by the time they pulled on their clothes and smoothed their blankets into a doubled bedroll. Lionel wrapped his arms around her and she fell asleep with her lips against the hollow of his neck.

  * * * *

  Trembling woke her, a tension in the air. She sat up, her heart hammering against her chest, her sword already half drawn. Night lay thick and chill over the camp. Lionel had been sitting watch, his bared sword across his knees.

  The next moment they both scrambled to their feet, swords in hand. Lionel kicked a pile of kindling on to the banked fire and it sprang up.

  Shadows emerged from the darkness. Shapes took form like mist condensing—four-footed, wolf-sized, heads with slicked-back ears and blunted snouts, tails like those of rats. There were three—no, five of them.

  The sorrel mare reared, neighing wildly, straining at her tether. She wheeled and lashed out with her hind feet. The brown cob, terrified, threw itself backwards.

  Cinnabar sprinted as the first phantom shape leapt for the pack mule. She brought the sword down. It was a clean stroke—a normal wolf would have been cut in two, brains and blood spurting over the ground, but this one twisted aside. Whirling, it leaped for her. Claws like vulture's talons slashed a hair's-breadth from her face. Its body slammed against her chest. She staggered under its weight. Behind her, the mule's screaming died abruptly.

  Cinnabar recovered her balance even as she brought the sword around in a circular sweep. Steel whistled through the air.

  Another creature crashed into her, clinging an instant before she struck at it. The thing stank of blood and smoke, a cloying reek that brought tears to her eyes. Talons raked her thigh.

  Cinnabar turned, body and blade reacting as one. This time, steel connected with flesh. She slashed and pivoted, every movement bringing the sword's edge to a new target. Behind her, Lionel shouted as he fought, using his voice to power his strokes.

  The shadow wolves died without a sound. Then no more emerged from the darkness. She stood in a little circle of stillness.

  Lionel?

  He was on his back, pinned to the ground beneath a shadow wolf. Cinnabar sprinted to his side. The creature writhed, struggling. She glimpsed its pig's snout, a gigantic sucker, quivering.

  Searching.

  Lusting.

  Steel sang through flesh and bone. The shadow wolf went limp. She kicked the body aside. Her foot collided with the dense, clay-like flesh. The rest of the camp lay still except for an occasional nervous snort from the mare.

  Lionel rolled to one side, coughing. His hands moved spasmodically on his chest as he clambered to his feet.

  An insistent throbbing in her thigh drew Cinnabar's attention. Weakness suffused her. She swayed as if she had lain abed for a month with a fever. Her knees gave way and she sat down with a jolt. The night was shiveringly cold. The fire, after its brief, intense flare, was almost dead.

  Without a word, Lionel went to build the fire up again. Grimacing, Cinnabar examined her leg. She had fought in worse pain.

  Lionel came back to sit beside her. With a soldier's practiced eye, she measured the stiffness in his movements. It took some coaxing t
o convince him to open his shirt. The cuts and bruises wouldn't even leave scars. But the fading circle of numbness on his chest where the shadow wolf's snout had grazed him worried her.

  She searched his eyes, wondering if the beast had marked Lionel, like the bird-killing wasps of Rizenne, which laid their eggs on the shells of their victims.

  She went to check on the horses. The sorrel reared and snorted, half-crazed with the lingering reek of blood and shadow creature. Both the pack mule and the brown cob were dead. The horse had died of a broken neck. The mule, like the sheep, had been gutted and sucked dry.

  "Enough." Lionel took hold of her shoulders. "Let me see your leg."

  Clenching her teeth, Cinnabar eased her leather pants down to her knees. Lionel rinsed the scratches with brandy from a flask that he produced unexpectedly from his saddle bags.

  "They're not deep, but they look nasty." He looked up at her. "I don't think we should take a chance. The safest thing is to cauterize them."

  Cinnabar nodded. She'd seen infection, blood poisoning, gangrene. She reminded herself that it wouldn't be the first time she'd been burned.

  "We were lucky," he said. "My father isn't paying you for... this."

  Was he offering to cancel her contract? Turn back?

  "I think Dherim has something to do with those things, and so do you. Get on with it."

  Wordlessly, he handed her the flask. She took a long swig. He kissed her fingertips before setting his sword in the bright, leaping flames.

  * * * *

  They left the shadow wolves where they had fallen, packed what they could from the gear of other two animals and loaded it on the sorrel. The mare's ears never stopped twitching.

  By torchlight they followed the mountain's bulk, looking for a place where they both felt safe, one far enough from any scavengers drawn to the dead animals.

  Lionel led the way, torch in hand. Cinnabar held on to the mare's stirrup. Her body swayed, and the world swayed with her. The bandage dug into the flesh of her thigh with each limping step. As soon as they halted, her legs folded under her. Leaves and twigs crackled under her weight. Her body throbbed with weariness.