Sword Play

by Clayton Emery

  That made Sunbright furious. Spitting out the howler’s thumb, he gave a battle shriek that raised hackles and set dogs barking all over the village.

  Ten minutes later, his tackle torn from his shoulders, his topknot spilled down around his face, his knuckles skinned and bleeding, his shirt torn, Sunbright was bashing the head of the last man standing—actually, he’d found him cowering behind the short bar—against the bar, yelling in time with the thumping, “Never, never, treat me that way again! You hear me? Never—”

  A sharp whistle cut him off. He squinted at the doorway. A lumpy shape filled it sideways, but left the top half full of sunlight. Not a man, the barbarian thought dazedly.

  The squat shadow asked, “You Sunbright?”

  “Aye.” He let go of the barkeep’s ears.

  “Someone wishes to speak with you.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Creaking, groggy from battle lust and the following weakness, the warrior combed back his yellow hair, picked up his tackle, and ducked low under dark beams, heading for the door.

  The squat shadow was gone.

  Chapter 5

  Outside, the sun had retreated behind some clouds, and Sunbright smelled rain coming. A party of traders ill-dressed for traveling milled awkwardly at the ferry crossing. A handful of capable-looking bodyguards were busily strapping bundles and bedrolls to a dozen pack animals. The squat figure who’d summoned him stumped in that direction: a dwarf, the first real one Sunbright had ever seen.

  With the party was Chandler, the plain-dressed steward of the local castle, who’d sauntered into Sunbright’s camp thirteen leagues hence with gifts and odd propositions. Now he left the party and walked over, but halted when he got a whiff of the barbarian’s scent.

  Looking at his jerkin and shirt, Sunbright found vomit, ale, candle wax, blood, and other fluids. He strode to the riverbank and, notwithstanding an audience, stripped and washed his shirt and himself. On his forearm he discovered a deep bite he didn’t recall getting. Chandler stood nearby and talked.

  “I’ve chosen a task for you,” said the erstwhile steward. “I wish you to travel with this party. They seek audience with a would-be emperor in the east called the One King.”

  Sunbright wrung out his shirt, scattering curious minnows in the rippling water. He thought it over, knew the party would have directions and such, so asked only, “Then what?”

  “Eh?” Chandler, really Candlemas, was startled by the barbarian’s cutting to the heart of the matter. The groundling was not slow-witted. If he survived the journey and audience with the One King, which was unlikely, Candlemas hoped to send him for Lady Polaris’s benighted book. “Uh, find out all you can about this One King and come back. Would I were one of those cloud-living wizards who can see down into the world at a snap of the fingers, but alas.”

  Shrugging on his shirt and lacing his jerkin, Sunbright squinted. “I thought your master, the lord of the castle, wanted information about local grain prices. What’s a foreign ruler got to do with that?”

  Chandler almost smiled. The barbarian wasn’t that bright, and lying was a wizard’s specialty. “Oh, quite a bit. People hoard food in times of trouble, so prices go up. If armies attack from the east, there’ll be a greater demand there than locally. So it might profit to freight the grain down the river, for instance.”

  “I see.” The barbarian didn’t, really. His people lived by barter. Chandler’s coins in his pouch were the first he’d ever owned, and he couldn’t comprehend their value. How could disks of metal be worth a set price when everything was negotiable? Nor did he believe all Chandler wanted was information, but then wizards were supposed to be devious and mysterious. And dangerous, so it wouldn’t do to rile this one with too many questions. It would be best to keep on his good side.

  He shrugged as he whipped his hair through its topknot. “Very well. What will I be paid when I return?”

  That, Chandler thought, was not a worry. So he lied, “A twentieth part of the profits, perhaps? Or a flat fee? Or would you prefer some magical item?”

  The words gave Sunbright pause. Seeing his piqued interest, Chandler pulled from a belt pouch a small corked vial. “I thought you’d welcome that idea. Give me your sword.” Sunbright slapped his hand on the pommel so fast the wizard backstepped. “Uh, wait. This will make your weapon more potent! I’ll just pour it on the blade, and then the sword can wound enchanted beings!”

  The barbarian glared from under blond brows. “You’ll spoil the temper.”

  What a moron, thought Chandler, as if he’d reforge the blade here by a riverside. “Look, may I demonstrate? Just ease the blade out a hair. Watch.”

  Fooling a peasant would be easy. Laying his left thumb on the sharp edge, Chandler pushed hard enough to dent the skin. “See there? I’m only a hedge wizard, but I’ve enough power to shield myself from harm.” He pulled the cork and tipped the clear fluid onto the edge, then reapplied his thumb. Instantly, the razor edge split the skin. A tiny trickle of blood stained the steel. “See?”

  Despite himself, Sunbright was impressed. Trying to hide his eagerness, he drew the sword and held it while Chandler poured the liquid from the vial all along the blade. The potion ran like water and dripped off. “Do I rub it in or let it dry?”

  “Oh, just wipe it off. One touch is enough, as I showed you. Now your blade is enchanted and can rend the flesh of any magical creature: harpies, liches, bugbears, anything.”

  “And I’ll receive more enchantments when I return?” Carefully, Sunbright dried Harvester with a rag, then slowly slid it home in the sheath. “That’s a promising reward. Thank you. I’ll do my best to get your information on the One King.”

  “Please do.” Chandler raised his left hand in farewell, his right hanging at his side.

  Sunbright turned toward the party of traders, then suddenly whirled. “Oh, I almost forgot. You must know everyone here. Where lives a girl named Ruellana?”

  Chandler frowned. He didn’t know any of these peasants, but was supposed to command them. To stall, he asked, “Ruellana? There are so many young women here. How does she appear?”

  “Curves like a walrus tusk. Green eyes, red hair.” Lust dripped in his voice.

  Red hair? A warning flag rose in the wizard’s mind. Was Sysquemalyn sticking her oar into his machinations? “Uh, I’m not sure. I’ll ask around, and see she’s available when you return.”

  Thwarted, Sunbright frowned, but nodded curtly and, without another word, turned to go.

  Chandler, or Candlemas, was glad to see him leave. The enchanting, of course, was a trick. He’d simply shielded his thumb from the first cut, relaxed it for the second. The “magic potion” had been river water this morning. Humans were easy to fool, and barbarians more so than most, it seemed. Still, the groundling was a fast learner. He wouldn’t be tractable forever.

  * * * * *

  Right away, Sunbright saw problems.

  The party milling by the ferry head didn’t look or sound right. Travelers would normally be busy, preoccupied, a little nervous, giddy at the thought of adventure. This group milled like cattle in a slaughter pen: cursing each other and the packhorses, bickering with the bodyguards, screaming orders at locals fetching supplies, weeping openly and crying to the gods for protection. Many wore gaudy long robes, impossible for walking any distance, and slippers on their feet instead of shoes or boots. But these were lowlanders, the barbarian told himself, and so were soft in the arm, rump, and head.

  He began to walk toward the dwarf, who was quietly organizing things, but a woman intercepted him with a glare as hard as glacier ice. “What do you want?”

  The warrior lifted his chin. “I want nothing. I’m to join your party.”

  “You’re not!”

  Sunbright blinked, nonplussed by her rudeness—and the exotic looks of a half-elf. Her face was as pale as milk, with high arching brows and pointed ears, her hair jet black, drawn straight back into a braid intertwined with silver wire and rawhide
. She wore a shirt of silk rife with white embroidery, boiled and molded leather armor of a glistening emerald green and breeches of the same color, with a wide black belt and boots. She looked like a brilliant banded lizard from the southlands that Sunbright had once seen at a market stall. An ornate sword with a basket hilt, very slim, jingled at her belt with a matching dagger, and on her back was a black bow as slender as a fox’s rib.

  She was beautiful but unfriendly, so Sunbright simply went around her. He hailed the dwarf. “I am Sunbright, Raven Clan of the Rengarth. I’m to join the party.”

  “Dorlas, son of Drigor. Welcome.” They shook hands, the dwarf’s like a sun-warmed rock. With a sigh, he pointed a craggy finger at a trader who’d dropped a bundle and then collapsed weeping atop it. “Cease your blubbering, Fendril! We’ve been over this. Consign your soul to the gods and get your sorry arse into motion!”

  Sunbright gestured at the party. “Why are they so reluctant to depart?”

  “Because it’s a cock-up, that’s why. Because they’re idiots. Because I’m cursed,” the dwarf rumbled. He wasn’t that small, as the legends told, but came almost to the barbarian’s breastbone, though he was twice as wide with arms like the rope hawsers restraining the ferry. His beard was strawberry-blond and braided, his hair the same under a simple steel helmet painted with a compass on the top. He wore all rough-out leather and a steel cuirass besides, easily toted a pack almost as big as himself and a fluted warhammer that Sunbright would have swung to kill an ox.

  The half-elf interrupted. “This barbarian is not joining our party!”

  The two males looked at her, querying. Green-gray eyes flashing, she snapped, “Barbarians can’t be trusted! They’re savages, not much risen above orcs! They’ve no sense of honor or decency, but pillage and rape and raid without mercy! And they’re dirty and infested!”

  Sunbright scratched his ear insolently. “Those traits are the same as I’ve heard attributed to elves. And I took a bath this morning.” He held up his damp shirttail.

  Dorlas rumbled again, a chuckle this time. “I’ve heard the same said of dwarves.”

  “I won’t have him with us!” the elf went on. “Dorlas, if you’re responsible—”

  “I am, and so’s he, if his scars are any proof. And part of this disaster was to employ a barbarian named Sunbright, if you recall. And we need another sword. Tears of Jannath, we need a dozen! Hoy there, don’t strike that animal or I’ll tie you to its tail!”

  Sweetly, Sunbright said, “You haven’t introduced yourself, sister.”

  “Greenwillow of the Moon Elves, cousin to the High Elves of Cormanthyr! Too high-born to wallow in a trough with human barbarians!”

  Still smiling, Sunbright bowed. “Then please, your ladyship, don’t speak to me.” Huffing and jingling, the elf swung away.

  “Never mind her. She’s joined us with some mission to somewhere, and paid to do it, so thinks she has a say in my doings.” The dwarf hooked a calloused thumb down the road through the village, where a round-backed wizard plodded toward the forest. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Not a friend. That’s Chandler, steward of the local castle.”

  “No, he isn’t.” At the barbarian’s angry look, as if he’d been accused of lying, the dwarf explained, “We bunked at the local castle last night. The steward’s a tall cob that lacks two front teeth.”

  Sunbright didn’t argue, only pondered. If there was no reason for the dwarf to lie, then Chandler must be lying about his true identity. For sure, he was a wizard, but who was he really?

  “What a mess.” Dorlas interrupted his thoughts. “I can’t believe I signed on with these clowns. They’ll be dead in the first five miles. Help them strap on these provisions, or we won’t even cross the river before nightfall.”

  “In a moment. First I must seek a girl.”

  Dorlas peered up at him from under bushy brows. “Night’s the time for loving. Day’s for working. But go and hurry up. And boy, you’d better be a fighter. We’ll need that sword.”

  * * * * *

  Sunbright had no luck finding Ruellana. None of the villagers knew a girl by that name. He supposed some might lie to keep a rapacious barbarian away from the local girls, but many answers seemed sincere. Strangely, the people he believed most were the lumpy, bruised men he’d brawled with. They were nursing their hurts while picking up the mess in the tavern, but gave grudging admiration to a stranger who could bring down the house. But no, there was no Ruellana living nearby. No redheads at all within a dozen miles, in fact. One old duffer rasped, “If you spent the night with a fire-faerie or whatever she be, think yourself lucky to escape still a man and not a gelding.”

  Sunbright did not feel lucky and, remembering her firm, ripe body under his hands, found it hard to believe her a phantom. He’d hoped to find her quickly and ask her to accompany him, or at least wait until he returned. But maybe she was, after all, only a dream: the shaman’s double blessing and curse.

  Reluctantly, he rejoined the party, strapped tents and leather cases and satchels of food and finally a few traders to the horses, and slapped and prodded and dragged beasts and men onto the wobbly ferry raft.

  It was before nightfall, but well after noon, by the time they were assembled on the other side and blundering into the spring-leafy cathedral of a forest.

  * * * * *

  The party trended east, southeast, and east again. For weeks, as spring ripened to summer, they threaded forests, skirted hills, forded rivers, picked their way cautiously through swamps, passed villages and towns and fields and orchards. Names learned from locals blew by Sunbright like birds and butterflies: Red Lake, Hidden Lake, Shylock Mountains, Conifer City, Zweihaus River, High Ice, Fluvion, Frostypaw, Froth-water, Cede Run, Gillan River, Hatchet Mountains, Remembrance, Gods’ Legion. The Dalekevans grumbled at every step. They had to walk all the way home, when earlier they’d been whisked by magic portals to Delia, the castle in the air. Yet even on that they couldn’t agree, for some took a perverse pride in the lofty ways of the high wizards and were disdainful of those who had to travel afoot. Sunbright thought they should have been happy to be able to return home at all, but some lamented how the elder council would condemn their failed mission, while the rest fretted into the future, of their ongoing mission to meet the One King. By the evening campfires, snivelers delighted in tormenting one another about the hideous deaths they would no doubt reap. Then the bickering would flare up again, and accusations would make the air ring like crows fighting over a dead horse.

  The way was sometimes easy, a saunter across open fields with new grass to the horses’ hocks. Often it was hard, when rain was pounding them senseless yet they had to ford a river to their chins before it rose higher and blocked them for days, or on one stretch where there was no groundwater at all, and everyone plodded along with gasping, protruding tongues.

  There were deaths. An elderly merchant, already half dead with fear and fatigue, tripped over his now-tattered gown and landed in the campfire. Folks dragged him out and rolled him in dirt, but he died of burns two days later. One woman panicked and drowned while fording a river. One bodyguard left her bedroll one night, walked into the woods, and never returned, and even Sunbright couldn’t track her.

  The barbarian heard strange and wondrous stories, mostly of wizards and their stupendous spells, usually ending with some deserving trader gaining a fortune. The bodyguards, most of whom Sunbright liked, told tales of heroes and beasts, some new to him. He would have liked to hear other people’s stories as well, but the dwarf had little to say unless it involved the caravan moving on, and Greenwillow was often gone by night, wandering the woods on strange errands of her own, for she never seemed to sleep.

  Sunbright spent his nights uneasily, for by dusk and dawn he was haunted by memories of Ruellana. He relived his night with her over and over, savoring the details, then fretting over what had happened the next morning. Who was she? Why did she appear and disappear? Was she human, or
even real? He half dreaded the thought she was enchanted, for then he’d probably never see her again. But by that token, he hoped she was, for a spirit might surprise him no matter how far he traveled. Often he felt her warm flesh under his calloused hands, the nibble of her teeth on his chest. Yet he always woke alone by a cold fire. So he was quiet in his own way, and pondered, and knew he’d eventually forget her. Yet every night’s dreams possessed the same intensity as before, as if she brought her astral self to him but not her body. And what a body …

  Occasionally, too, to his dreams would come the raven-haired woman. But that one, he knew, was just the raven in another form. Wasn’t it? When he asked either the dream-woman or the raven, he got no answer. All in all, portents could be a pain.

  The barbarian proved a valuable member of the party right off. His wilderness training, shaman abilities, and honed reflexes let him follow any sort of trail, warn of danger or changing terrain ahead, predict bad weather, identify poisonous plants, and more. He could heal minor wounds too, and often did, for all the traders were incompetent. None had been allowed to bring servants along with the delegation, and now the coin counters were stranded in the wilds having to learn the most basic camping and walking and survival skills. Sunbright swore he healed burns and cuts on every finger of every trader in the party at least once. Yet when they tried to haughtily order him to do so, he growled them into submission. The bodyguards all agreed they were not servants.

  So they plodded on. The young man tried to learn from his surroundings, absorbing whatever the land and creatures might teach. Although many of these lowland animals were not denizens of the tundra, and thus were unfamiliar, he could usually read their behavior. He could tell whether an animal was calm and unworried or nervous, and if so, from what. An ambling bear too close to the road was pushed by wolves. Deer feeding in an open field near coyote scat told him one of their kind had died that morning, and the hunters were sated for the nonce. Beavers improving their dams warned of heavy rain to come. In some swamps and fens the barbarian even spotted some antique reptiles, the great long-necked honkers and screechers like giant lizards. But, caught up in their own clumsy struggles after food and life, they had little to teach him, for their time was fading away, their lands and numbers shrinking.