Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  One gone: seven to go. Of course, some of them would be Del’s.

  I spun in place even as the horse thrashed and screamed, briefly sorry about the waste, but knowing that survival requires many distasteful things. Later, if I lived, I’d dispatch the horse completely, but for now—

  Senses thrummed. My ears focused on the susurration of hooves digging through sand; the clatter of bridle brasses; the thick snort of a horse reined up short. I ducked, darted a false cut at the forelegs, let the borjuni jerk his horse aside as he swooped down with glinting blade. I caught it on my own, steel screeching; hooked, twisted, counter-rotated; snapped free, flowed aside, ducked a second time. Yet again the dart at the forelegs; yet again the sideways jerk: he valued his mount too well. It split his concentration.

  I snap-chopped with a leveled blade, cut deeply into his calf-booted leg, heard him scream in shock and rage. The pain would follow quickly enough—except I didn’t wait for it. As he slopped sideways in the saddle, clutching impotently at the nearly severed leg, I reached up, caught an arm, jerked him down from the horse. Sliced fragile throat effortlessly.

  Two.

  The rune-worked blade ran wet with bright new blood. In my head I heard a song, a whispered murmur of song, creeping into my bones. This was what it was for, my gods-blessed jivatma. This was its special task, to spill the blood of the enemy. This was its special talent: to part the flesh from bone, sundering even that, and unmake the enemy—

  Rage and power and need.

  Dimly I recognized none was born of me, but of something—someone—else.

  The song wouldn’t go away.

  I spun, lunged, sliced. Horses everywhere, crowding the tiny oasis, compressing my personal circle. I heard Del’s harsh breathing, the snatches of Northern song, the muttered self-exhortations spilled on choppy, blurted breath. Horses everywhere, snorting and stomping and squealing and thrashing—

  —teeth snapping, hooves slashing—

  —wild, rolling eyes—

  —shouted Southron curses and threats of dismemberment—

  —the thick hot scent of blood commingling with the sand—

  —Del weaving sunlight with a shuttle of magicked steel—

  —rage—and power—and NEED—

  Chosa Dei wanted free.

  The daylight around me exploded.

  The enemy was shouting. I couldn’t understand, couldn’t decipher the words; knew only the enemy was required to be unmade—

  “Tiger—Tiger, no—”

  Trapped at the end of the blade; transfixed by discoloration: all I had to do was cut into the enemy’s neck, barely slit the fragile flesh, and the enemy was unmade.

  “Tiger—don’t make me do this—”

  It whispered in my head. A tiny, perfect song.

  Take her now, it sang. Take her NOW, and set me free.

  So many horses destroyed. So many enemies—

  The swearing, now, was in Northern. For a moment it nonplussed me… then the song swelled in my head.

  “—unmake—” I muttered aloud.

  I had only to touch her throat with the blackened tip of the blade—

  “You thrice-cursed son of a goat!” she cried. “What kind of an idiot are you? Do you want this dance, you fool? Do you really want us to do to each other what no one else can do?”

  No one else?

  Rage.

  And power.

  And need.

  Blood dripped from the blade. A droplet ran down the sweep of Northern-fair collar bone and beneath the ivory tunic.

  Del lifted her weapon. In her eyes I saw frantic appeal replaced by grim determination.

  Something occurred to me.

  I leapt, even as she snapped the blade aside in preparation of engagement. I leapt, lunged, dropped, and rolled, scraping through blood-soaked sand. Somehow got rid of the sword and came up empty-handed—

  —to kiss turgid Northern steel as it lingered on my mouth.

  I hung there on my knees, sucking air, trying very hard not to twitch or itch or blink, while Del gazed down at me out of angry banshee-storm eyes.

  She looked at me, measuring. Looked at the sword, lying ten feet away. Stared hard at me again.

  After a long, tense moment, Del gritted teeth. “How in hoolies am I to know when it’s you, and when it’s not?”

  Because I could, because I knew her name, I put a finger on Boreal’s edge and moved her slightly away from my mouth. “You could ask,” I suggested mildly.

  “Ask! Ask! In the midst of hostilities, not knowing if I am to be spitted by a borjuni blade—or on yours—I am to ask if I can trust the man supposedly my partner?” Blue eyes blazed as she shaped a sarcastic tone. “‘Excuse me, Sandtiger, are you feeling friendly today, or not?’” Del shook her head. “What kind of a fool are you?”

  “Bad joke,” I murmured. “Either that, or you have no sense of humor.”

  “I find very little humorous about what just happened.” Del scowled blackly. “Do you even know what happened?”

  “I think I killed some people.” I glanced around briefly, absently noting bodies. I counted eight of them. “Do you mind if I stand up?”

  “You may piss rocks for all I care, so long as you do not go near that sword.”

  My, but she was perturbed. I sucked in a breath and got myself to my feet, marking aches and pains and twinges and tweaks, all epilogue to the battle.

  I took a step. “Del, I’m not—” I broke if off on a throttled oath of discovery. Then sat down awkwardly on the sand.

  “What is it?” Del asked suspiciously.

  I was too busy swearing to answer. With great care I stretched out my right leg, felt the grinding pop within, then bent over it in supplication to the gods of ruined knees.

  “Hoolies—not my knee—please not my knee—” I sucked in a ragged breath, sweat stinging scrapes and cuts. “I don’t need this—I really don’t need this… oh, hoolies, not my knee—”

  Del’s tone sounded more normal. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right—do I look all right? Do I sound all right?” I glared up at her, trying to will away the pain. “If you hadn’t made me lunge and roll just now—”

  “My fault! My fault? You son of a goat—that was my throat at the end of your sword!”

  “I know—I know—I’m sorry…” I was, too, but couldn’t deal with it just then; it was too big, too threatening—besides, my knee was killing me, and it was easier to focus on that rather than on what I’d done—or nearly done—to Del. “Oh, hoolies, let it be all right—not something permanent—”

  “What have you done?” she asked.

  “Twisted it,” I blurted. “Oh, hoolies, I hate knees… all they do is give out just when you need them most, or keep you awake at night…” I scrubbed sweat away from eyes. “I suppose you’re just fine. You with your twenty-one years.”

  “Twenty-two,” she corrected.

  “Twenty-one, twenty-two—who cares? You can do anything you want, ask anything of your body, and it does it without fanfare…” I probed gently at the knee, checking for things that shouldn’t be there, wincing at the pain. “I wish I were your age again.…”

  “No, you don’t,” she said briskly, finally sheathing her sword to squat down beside me, examining my knee. “I don’t know a soul who would trade the wisdom he’s gained for a younger, more ignorant body.” She paused. “Of course, that’s if he has any wisdom.”

  I saw blood on arms and legs, staining the ivory tunic. Her braid was sticky with it. “Are you all right?”

  “One of us has to be, and you are already damaged.” Her palm was cool on my knee. “Will you be able to ride?”

  “Not if I have a choice.”

  Del’s mouth quirked. “That depends,” she said, “on whether you want to wait and see if their fellow borjuni come out to discover what’s keeping the rest from the midday meal.”

  I glanced again at the bodies. Eight of them, as before
. Also a handful of dead and dying horses. My stud was where I’d left him, tied to a palm tree. He was not particularly happy, surrounded by so much death.

  I frowned. “Four are missing.”

  “They galloped off. If there is a camp, that is where they will go.”

  “Thereby carrying word.” I stretched the leg again, testing the knee. “You’re right: there is no choice. Find me something to bind this with, and we’ll be on our way. We don’t dare stay long enough even to tend the bodies—we’ll let the other borjuni do that.” And as she walked away, “Don’t forget to refill the botas.”

  Del shot me an eloquent glance that said she knew very well what was to be done before we departed, but she checked it without saying a word. Grimly she went to the nearest body, cut a portion of burnous, came back ripping it. She dropped the pieces down to me. “There. I will see to the botas. You tend your knee—and then you will tend that sword.”

  That sword.

  As she walked away I looked, and saw the suspect sword. Lying quietly in the sand, stained red and black and silver.

  The sword with which I had killed a handful of borjuni, who without question deserved it… and had also tried to kill Del?

  Hoolies, I was afraid. But I didn’t dare let her see it, because then she would realize how precarious was my control.

  I rubbed wearily at my face. Then bound up my aching knee.

  Ten

  I waited. I watched her unsaddle the stud and stake him out, doing my work for me in deference to my knee, and then I watched her settle us in for the night. It wasn’t precisely night yet, but close enough; besides, the stud was extra tired because I hadn’t been able to do my share of walking in order to rest him.

  We had no shelter to speak of, just a scattered cluster of spare, scrubby trees with next to no foliage on knotty branches, and a fringe of sparse, sere desert grass. A few rocks and a little kindling served as a fire cairn. A sad, shabby encampment, but adequate to our needs.

  Whatever those needs might be, under the circumstances.

  I waited. I watched her spread blankets, build the tiny fire, portion out food and water. She didn’t say much. Didn’t look at me much. Just did what needed doing, then settled down on her blanket.

  Across the fire from me.

  Foreboding flickered, but I ignored it, seeking a restoration to normality by falling back on familiar banter. “It’s only a knee,” I told her. “Not exactly catching.”

  Del’s frown was brief, but significant. There is a look she gets in her eyes no matter how hard she tries to hide it. She masks herself to the world—and still to me, sometimes—but I can read her better now than when we first met. Which is to be expected.

  With effort, I maintained a light tone. “Ah,” I nodded, “it isn’t the knee at all. That must mean it’s me.”

  Del’s mouth flattened minutely. She flicked me a glance, chewed briefly and thoughtfully on her bottom lip, then twisted it into a crooked grimace of futility.

  “Well?” I prodded. “I know it’s been a long time since I had a proper bath, but that goes for you, too. And that never stopped me.”

  “Because you have no self-control. Most men do not.” But the rejoinder was halfhearted; no sting underlay the tone.

  I gave up on normality. “All right, bascha—say what you have to say.”

  Del was clearly unhappy. “Trust,” she said softly.

  I put my hand upon the sheathed sword lying next to me. “This.”

  “It is abomination. The soul of the sword is black. Chosa Dei has perverted the jivatma, perverted the honor codes—”

  “—and you’re afraid he’s perverted me.”

  Del didn’t answer at once. Color bloomed in her face, then drained away as quickly. “It shames me,” she said finally. “To trust, and then not trust. To question the truth of the loyalty…” She gestured emptily, as if lacking the proper words. “We have done much, you and I, in the name of honor, and other things. Trust was never questioned, as is proper in the circle, whether drawn or merely believed.” Her accent was thicker, twisting the Southron words. “But now, there is question. Now there must be question.”

  I sighed heavily. My bound knee ached unremittingly, but so did everything else. “I suppose I should ask you what it was I did. Just to understand. I don’t remember much after the second borjuni.”

  “You killed them,” Del said simply. “And then you tried to kill me.”

  “Tried? Or merely appeared—” I let the irony go. The shield fashioned of bluster and sarcasm was not required. The imagery was too lurid; the truth too painful. “Bascha—”

  “I am sure,” she forestalled. “I know it wasn’t you, not really you—but does that matter? Chosa Dei wants me. Chosa Dei wants you… and for a time today, he had you.” Del picked violently at her blanket, shredding a fraying corner. “The song you sang was—not right. It wasn’t a song of your making. It was a song of his—”

  The first stirrings of comprehension made me itchy, shifting on the blanket. It was easier to dismiss her fears than consider them. “I can control him, Del. It’s just a matter of being stronger.”

  “He is growing stronger. Tiger, don’t you see? If you give in to violence, it lends the power to him. Once he collects enough, he will use the sword as a bridge to you, then use you for his body.” Distaste briefly warped her expression. “I saw it today, Tiger. I saw him today, as I saw him inside the dragon.”

  Denial was swift. Was easy. “I don’t think—”

  She didn’t let me finish. “Chosa Dei looked out of your eyes. Chosa Dei was in your soul.”

  The tiniest flicker of fear lighted itself in my belly. “I beat him,” I blurted urgently. “Last night, and again today. I’ll go on beating him.”

  The setting sun was gone. Firelight overlay her face. “Until he grows too strong.”

  Desperation combined with impotent anger. The explosion was potent. “What do you expect? I can’t get rid of this sword the way any sane man would—you said it’s too dangerous to sell, give away, or cast off, because then he’d have his body. And I can’t destroy the sword—you said it would free his spirit. So what does that leave me? What in hoolies am I to do?”

  Del’s voice was steady. “Two choices,” she said quietly. “One you already know: find a way to discharge the sword. The other is harder yet.”

  I swore creatively. “What in hoolies is harder than tracking down a sorcerer out of legend—Chosa’s brother, no less!—who may not even exist?”

  “Dying,” she answered softly.

  It was a punch in the gut, but I didn’t let her see it. “Dying’s easy,” I retorted. “Look at what I do for a living.”

  Del didn’t answer.

  “And besides, Chosa—in this sword—already tried to kill me once. Remember? So how would dying serve any purpose?”

  Her mouth twisted. “I doubt he wanted to kill you. More like he wanted to wound you; seriously, yes, because then you would be weakened. Then he could swallow the sword… and eventually swallow you. But if you were to die…” She let it trail off. No more was necessary.

  Trying not to jar my knee, I flopped spine-down on my blanket and stared up at the darkening sky. As always in the desert, the air at night was cool, counterpoint to the heat of day. “So, as I understand it—” I frowned “—all I have to do is stay alive—and in one piece—long enough to find Shaka Obre, who can help me discharge this thrice-cursed sword… or avoid all kinds of violence so as not to give him power… or not turn my back on you.”

  It startled her. “On me!”

  I rolled my head to look at her. “Sure. So you won’t start thinking of ways to defeat Chosa—through me—without benefit of discharging.”

  Stunned, Del gaped. It was almost comical.

  I managed a halfhearted grin. “That’s a joke, bascha. But then I keep forgetting: you don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “I would not—I could not—I would never…” She broke it off
angrily, giving up on coherency.

  “I said it was a joke!” I rolled over onto a hip, easing my sore knee, and leaned upon an elbow. “See what I mean about no sense of humor?”

  “There is nothing amusing about loss of honor, of self—”

  Abruptly very tired, I smeared a palm across my face. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. Forget I’m even here.”

  “I can’t. You are here…and so is that sword.”

  “That sword,” again. I sighed heavily, aware of a weary depression, and lay down again on my blanket. “Go to sleep,” I suggested. “It’ll be better in the morning. Everything’s better in the morning—it’s why they invented it.”

  “Who?”

  “The gods, I guess.” I shrugged. “How in hoolies should I know? I’m only a jhihadi.”

  Del didn’t lie down. She sat there on her blanket, staring pensively at me.

  “Go to sleep,” I said.

  A dismissive shrug. “I will sit up for a while. To guard.”

  I also shrugged, accepting it readily enough; it was a common enough occurrence. I snugged down carefully beneath a blanket, swearing softly at the taut bindings that made it hard to settle my knee comfortably, then stopped moving entirely.

  Something new occurred. Something I didn’t like, but knew was possible. More likely probable.

  “Guarding, are you?” I growled. “Guarding me against danger—or guarding against me?”

  Del’s voice was even. “Whatever is necessary.”

  Eleven

  I woke up surly, which I do sometimes. Not very often, on the whole; like I’ve said before, I’m generally a good-natured soul. But occasionally, it catches up to the best of us.

  Usually it’s after a night of too much aqivi (and, once upon a time, too many women, but it seems like everything changes as you get older); in this case, it was after a night of too-active sleep, and a sore knee less than pleased about having to move.

  Del, one of those perfectly disgusting people who wakens with relative ease and no disgruntlement that the sun has reappeared, watched me untangle the blanket, muttering beneath my breath as I did so, and then, equally silently, watched me try to lever myself up. Sitting was easy enough. Standing was not. Walking was worse.