Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Iskandar,” I muttered. “Is this how it happened with you?”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Hands. They invaded burnous, belt, unbuckling and stripping away. A hand lingered on my rib cage, then withdrew.

  “Dead,” a man said.

  “Or dying,” said another.

  Then a voice I knew. “Take the horse and the sword, and any coin he might have. Leave the rest for Sabra. I don’t care about him. I just want the woman.”

  Tentatively: “He is—the Sandtiger.”

  Umir, impatient: “What do I care about that? He’s not worthy of my collection.”

  No. Abbu was.

  Hands again. The belt was yanked from under me, leaving me bare from chest to dhoti. Coppers rattled briefly; someone cursed. If I could have, I would have smiled: a nearly empty pouch. Small pickings from the legend.

  Sound: movement. A hand at my throat, grasping sandtiger claws. “Leave that,” Umir ordered. “We want to make certain Sabra knows who he was.”

  “There is his face,” someone said. “The scars…”

  “Vermin may eat his face—and the rest of him—before Sabra arrives. Leave the necklet. Abbu Bensir himself may choose to make it a keepsake.”

  Abbu? Abbu—with Sabra?

  “Water.” Another voice.

  “Put it on the horse. We’ll take it all.” Umir strode away. “Waste no more time recalling legends. His is finished now, and I want the woman.”

  I heard the stud snort. Then the urgent, rumbling nicker that wasn’t greeting, but warning. Southron voices called out. Then the stud screamed. Then a man did.

  Ah. Good boy.

  Voices, gabbling about the stud. He had crushed a man’s head.

  “Leave him,” Umir snapped. “You won’t get close to him now.”

  Someone by me, bending. He picked up the harness, the scabbard. Paused. Through sealed lids, I could see it: The man looking upon it. The legendary sword. His hand so very close—why not unsheathe the blade and see what the balance is like? The Sandtiger’s sword—

  He screamed. Long and loud and horrified, as the magic ate into his bones.

  Stupid Punja-mite.

  Gabbling again, all around me. The man still screamed.

  “Kill him,” Umir said. “I will not have such noise.”

  In a moment, the screaming stopped.

  Silence. A gathering of others as they contemplated the sword.

  “Pick it up,” Umir ordered.

  One man protested that it was a magicked blade, and no one knew the spell.

  “Pick it up,” Umir repeated. “Use something to shield yourself—here, use the blanket.”

  They ripped it from under me, spilling limbs and head awry. Stupid Punja-mite. A blanket against Samiel?

  A second man shrieked, called on his (deaf) god, then fell into sobbing. Dispassionately, Umir the Ruthless ordered him killed, too, because he did not like the noise.

  “Leave it,” he said curtly. “Magicked blade it may be, but I won’t lose the woman. If no one can pick it up, it will be here when we return.”

  “But—what if Sabra herself—?”

  Umir laughed. “Let us hope she tries. A woman has no business attempting to rule in a man’s stead.”

  Retreat. Horses remounted. Men riding off.

  I lay slack-limbed on the sand and wondered if it was worth it.

  Maybe I wasn’t. But Del was worth everything.

  The merest breath of sound hissed through dry, unmoving lips. “Chosa?” I whispered.

  Inside me, something rustled. Then flared into life, gibbering exaltation: the battle had been won.

  Now there was the war.

  “Ah, hoolies,” I mumbled, “I really don’t want to do this.”

  Thirty-two

  I hunched beside the sword: obscene, unintended obeisance. But my bones were so brittle I expected them to shatter and crumble into dust even inside my living flesh.

  Mottled, discolored flesh, but living nonetheless.

  I stretched out a hand. Fingers trembled. The nails were bluish again; the forearms streaky black, tinged with violet, outlined luridly with traceries of yellow. What had begun as normal—if painful—bruising had spread to swallow me whole. The skin was puffy and squishy, swollen by leaking fluid.

  Hoolies, I was a mess. No wonder Del got mad.

  Because she was scared, too.

  Pain centered in the small of my back. Fire burned brilliantly, climbing the length of my spine, then out along each of the ribs to curve around my chest and meet at the breastbone, where more pain lived. My whole body was a pyre.

  Time to put it out.

  The sword lay bare in the sand. I was very grateful; had Umir’s man dropped it in its sheath, someone could have picked it up and carried it away. The blanket was no shield—nor anything else so plain—but the runes worked into the leather muted the weapon’s bite. While sheathed in my harness, touching only the straps or scabbard, anyone could steal it.

  “—song—” I croaked. “Hoolies, I hate singing—” I wavered, nearly fell. I’d made no promises to Chosa—wouldn’t keep them anyway—and he knew it well. He was taking no chances. By summoning the healing, I opened the door for him. And he would try to snatch it and tear it away from the wall, rushing in to fill the room that doubled as my body.

  I didn’t like the risk. I didn’t like it at all.

  But Umir was after Del.

  I summoned my little song. Croaked it into the day. Reached down and caught the sword, then dragged it into my lap.

  —circle, Tiger. Don’t forget the circle—

  Inside me, Chosa stirred.

  He’d wanted me to forget.

  On knees and one hand, I swung-dragged the tip of the sword in a ragged circle, taking care to seal the ends together. There could be no break, no crack in the drawn line, or Chosa would find and use it.

  Circle. I hunched within the confines, cradling the sword, and sang my little song.

  What a waste of—

  Power reached out and caught me. It shook me from head to toe, rattling every bone, then threw me down again.

  Belly climbed up my gullet. Chosa, crawling out?

  “—sick—” I gulped. “—worse than aqivi—”

  Every bone was wracked, twisting in sockets, pulling free of tendons.

  “—wait—”

  Blood broke from my nose.

  “I take it back—” I mumbled. “—don’t want it after all—”

  Power dug into my hair and jerked my head up straight. I have a tough scalp, but this was too much.

  “—s-ssstop—”

  The sword glowed dully black. Inside me, Chosa answered.

  I panted. Labored to swallow. Twitched from Chosa’s touch, sensing his invasion. Tried to shut it—him—off, to deny him entrance.

  But trying to deny Chosa also denied the magic.

  Power had no patience. I’d sent it an invitation, and it was bringing friends.

  “I take it back—” I shouted. “Forget I said anyth—”

  Power bent very low and looked into my eyes, as if to judge the truth. As if to judge me.

  “I’m just—a sword-dancer.…”

  Power disagreed. It dangled me from its hand, as Umir had dangled the runes.

  Blood ran down my chin. I lacked the strength to wipe it away; to do anything but breathe.

  Hoolies, what have I done? What have I unleashed?

  So much for the binding circle.

  But it was meant to keep Chosa in, not keep Power out.

  And who would even try?

  “I just—need—to be better… to go—and help Delilah—”

  The little piece of Chosa played hop-rock with my heartbeat. It waxed and waned, like the moon.

  The spasm wracked my body. Power shook me again. Then released my hair.

  The sword spilled from lax hands and out of elbow crooks. I fell on top of it.

  The edge snicked into one arm, shaving h
air from flesh. All I could do was laugh, stirring dust and sand with my breath.

  Then the laughter died.

  Because Chosa was very angry.

  Chosa would take his revenge, one way or another.

  I lay in the sand, on the sword. Wondering what in hoolies I was.

  Wondering what I could do.

  And what Chosa Dei would try.

  Oasis. Near dusk, with the sun painting everything orange. Palm trees in sharp silhouette sprouted haphazardly, dangling beards and dates. Below, around the water, ranged Umir and his men.

  One body lay on the ground, with a fallen sword nearby. I wondered if Del had killed him; or Umir, for his noise.

  She stood on foot, and braced, with naked blade in her hands. Blood ran down the steel, regulated by runes, carried off the hilt before it could stain her hands. Although some would argue the stain was on her soul.

  Umir, I realized, was hampered by his greed, as well as his upbringing. He wanted her unscathed, unharmed, for addition to his collection. No matter how unique her vocation, she was a woman, and he a Southroner. He certainly hadn’t reckoned on Del herself taking steps to refuse him so violently.

  It was almost laughable. But nobody was laughing.

  I reined up quietly before anyone noticed me, putting Umir and his men between Del and me. They outnumbered us, but we had the major advantage. Umir wanted her whole. Del and I were not so picky with regard to Umir’s men.

  She looked past them. Saw me. Didn’t so much as flick an eyelash. Returned her attention to Umir before anyone even noticed.

  I began to smile, anticipating the surprise, the overwhelming shock. . then the stud took a hand in the game by whinnying imperatively to the mare, who answered with shrill welcome.

  “Hoolies,” I muttered, disgusted, and yanked the sword free of sheath as Umir and company whirled, swordblades glinting in sunset.

  Mouths dropped open, gaping. Widened eyes displayed whites. Someone muttered a prayer to the god of apparitions.

  Umir the Ruthless just scowled.

  A flutter of pleasure tautened my belly. I leaned forward with grave deliberation, perfectly at ease; perfectly prepared. “Someone,” I said lightly, “has my belt and my money. Care to give them back?”

  “Kill him,” Umir ordered.

  Nobody moved a muscle. Until one man did just barely, dropping belt and pouch.

  I grinned. I knew very well what I looked like: me. Me me, which all on its own can be rather threatening, since I have practiced for many years. The legend in the flesh—firm, swift, dangerous flesh—not the puffy, mottled, discolored body Umir’s men had discovered. “Dead, am I?” I asked. “Near dead, maybe? Or maybe neither one, merely the deviser of a trap—or of great and powerful magic.”

  And for once I wasn’t lying.

  Well, half, maybe. It had never been a trap, but why tell them that?

  Umir’s men stirred. But no one obeyed his repeated order to kill me. Who could kill a man who was already dead?

  I waggled the naked blade. “Anyone else care to take my sword? I think he’s still hungry.”

  “Fools,” Umir snapped. “He’s a man like any of you. Don’t let him goad you—kill him!”

  “Go home,” I said softly, “before I lose my temper.”

  Umir’s men went home. Or somewhere; nonetheless, they all departed, making ward-signs against great magic. Leaving Umir by himself.

  I walked the stud up to him, slowly and purposefully. Flicked a glance at Del. Then pinned Umir with a stare. “You made three mistakes,” I explained. “First, you bound me with magic, and challenged me to escape. Second, you left me for dead, which I consider an insult. You wouldn’t do that to Abbu.”

  Umir, eloquently unruffled, folded his hands in wide, gem-weighted sleeves. “What is the third?”

  I pointed with the blade. “You discounted her.”

  He didn’t even look. “Perhaps I underestimated you. Perhaps you are better than Abbu Bensir, and perhaps I should reconsider.”

  I grinned. “That’s better.” A glance at Del. “Do you want to kill him?”

  She hunched a shoulder. “I’ve killed one man today. Another would be surfeit.”

  I nodded as she bent to clean her blade on the dead man’s burnous. “Then I will tend to it.”

  Umir paled, but only slightly. “I could have killed you twice. I left you the chance to escape… and both times you succeeded.”

  “And I’ll leave you a chance.” I sheathed the sword with a snap, jumped off the stud, approached Umir the Ruthless. “Your hands,” I said gently.

  Thin lips smiled. “You must take what you will have.”

  “All right.” I caught his wrists, squeezed; hands spasmed rigidly as he gasped, and stabbed out of the heavy sleeves. Still squeezing, I made him sit. Then shut the wrists in one large hand, drew my knife with the other, nicked him to free the blood.

  Umir grayed. “Do you mean me to bleed to death?”

  “I don’t mean you to do anything, except sit here.” I shot the knife home again, then carefully smeared blood all over both wrists. “Nice bracelets,” I commented. “Now, a little piece of advice…”

  Umir’s lips were pale. “What do you—?” He winced.

  Del came over. She stood next to me and watched, one hand gripping her sword. I heard her indrawn breath.

  “There.” I released his wrists. Both were bound tightly by thick, twined ropes of rune-wrought blood, red-black in the setting sun. “Now, for that advice…” I leaned down close to Umir. “Never annoy a man whose magic is greater than yours.”

  Thirty-three

  “Come on,” I said to Del. “No need to stay here.”

  She stared after me as I turned back to the stud. I swung up smoothly, gathered reins, saw the tension in her shoulders; the questions in her eyes. But she asked none of them, because she knew better: you do not put even a small weapon into the hands of the enemy. She simply sheathed her newly-cleaned blade and went to her own mount.

  Umir’s mouth opened. “You’re leaving?”

  I shrugged as the stud danced, wanting to go to the mare. “No reason to stay. I don’t like the company.”

  “But—” He lifted his blood-bound hands. “What about this?”

  “Good color on you.” I angled the stud southerly, discussing matters through reins. “You ought to make it a habit.”

  “You can’t leave me here!”

  “Of course I can. You have water, don’t you?—right there in the basin. Binding your hands doesn’t mean you can’t drink. As for food, well…” I shrugged, bunching the stud under me. “Guess you’ll just have to wait for Sabra.”

  “But—” He broke it off.

  I took a deeper seat in the saddle and stilled the stud deftly, leaning forward toward Umir. “Unless you’ve lied. Unless she isn’t coming at all.”

  Indecision warped his features. Then grimness settled. “She’s coming,” he said flatly. “From Iskandar to Julah. She will have left Quumi by now.”

  “Good. She can feed you when she gets here.” The stud danced again as I gave him rein and glanced at Del. “You ready?”

  Mutely, she nodded.

  “Good. Then let’s ride. We’re burning the last little bit of daylight.” But even as Del rode off, I reined the stud back once more. He didn’t like it a bit, snorting and tossing his head. “Umir,” I said quietly, “I wouldn’t struggle too much. Those runes won’t strangle you, but they might cut off your hands.”

  Umir sat very still.

  I turned the stud loose and went after Del, laughing into the stud-born wind.

  The amusement was short-lived. Del, as expected, did not allow me to get very far before taxing me with questions. The trouble was, she had too many, even for her mouth; she started out fine, but ended up in a Northern tangle.

  “Start over,” I suggested.

  Del stared at me hard, teeth clenched. “You start,” she ordered.

  “I didn’t di
e.” I arched eyebrows at her expression. “I did what you wanted me to, so why are you complaining?”

  Teeth remained clenched. “Because you might have done it before.”

  “Before what? Umir’s arrival? Hoolies, it worked out very well. Now his men are hightailing it back to Quumi telling tales of a Sandtiger fetch… should add something to the legend, and save us a bit of hide.”

  “How?”

  “Some would-be captors may decide not to try their luck.”

  She thought about it. “But you felt it was necessary to drive me away—”

  “No.” The humor died. “I felt it necessary to give nothing to Chosa Dei. That is why I refused to summon the magic again.”

  She stared angrily, weighing the truth. Assessing my expression; the sincerity of my tone. Her expression eventually softened, but doubt remained paramount. “But you did summon it.”

  “Yes. But not for me.”

  “If it was such a risk, as you say, then why—?” She let it die. Realization blanched her pale as her hair, plaited off her face. “But not for you,” she said numbly.

  I did not pursue that topic. “As for why I wanted us to leave Umir where he was, and in such haste, it’s because I don’t know how long in hoolies those rune-ropes will last. For all I know, he’s already loose.”

  Brows lanced down. “How did you do that? How did you make them? What did you do to him?”

  “Borrowed a little trick from Chosa Dei.”

  Del jerked the mare to a halt. She is not ordinarily heavy-handed, and the mare has a soft mouth. Gape-mouthed, the mare stopped, dark eyes rolling. I also reined in the stud. “What have you done?” Del asked. Her eyes searched my face. “What have you done to yourself?”

  I shrugged.

  Pupils spread in blue eyes, altering them to black. She studied everything in my face with avid intensity. Then some of the tension faded. Now she looked for something else; for a different kind of truth. “Umir’s men didn’t kill you because they thought you were dead already. That’s why you scared them off.”

  I shrugged again. “Close enough.”

  It clearly unsettled her. “Did you fail to come after me because of pride? Or because you couldn’t?”