Sword Play

by Clayton Emery

  “Mine too.”

  For a second, the barbarian thought Greenwillow meant his life was precious to her. Then he realized that, of course, she meant her own.

  So the three companions, two living, one dead, trudged silently back to the city they’d spent almost two seasons trying to reach.

  * * * * *

  In the end, Dorlas was neither buried nor burned. Three dwarves had taken custody of the body and worked the night through to plane and hammer a coffin that was only partly watertight. At dawn, as the sun rose rimmed in blood, the three carried the short coffin on their shoulders to the edge of the river. A quiet word had passed to the city elders that there would be no ornate state funeral. The only observers to the ceremony were Sunbright and Greenwillow, who argued they had been friends of the dead man, or at least comrades.

  The dwarves eased the coffin down on the pebbly shingle. Each bent to pluck a handful of gravel that was then sprinkled over the wooden box. The rattling was loud enough to startle sleeping ducks from the cattails on the other side of the river. When invited, Sunbright and Dorlas also stepped forward and sprinkled handfuls of soil on the coffin.

  The dwarf in charge of the funeral, Mondar, explained, “These stones will cover him as he begins his journey to his homeland.” Dorlas, they’d been told, was originally from a tribe called the Sons of Baltar in the Iron Mountains far to the south. Since the river wended that way, the leaky coffin would be consigned to it. Somewhere along the way it would surely sink, but the idea was that the dead Dorlas could travel the rest of the way underground once he reached the riverbed. Together, the five participants pushed the coffin into the quiet water. It bobbed and tipped, then straightened side-on to the current and sailed southward. Mondar called, “Go, brother, and lead the way!”

  Dorlas’s warrior tackle had been stripped from his body, for it was thought there was no fighting in the afterlife, only simple pleasures and fulfilling work. Solemnly, Mondar held up the dead man’s knife, and asked, “Who will take this knife, that it might work well and honor its master’s name?” A dwarf held out his hand and received it. So went the crossbow and quarrels, baldric, even his file and fishhooks and compass. The dwarves were all workmen in the city and could find a use for the tools. At the last, Mondar held up the fearsome warhammer, frowning at it, for with its long narrow head and sharp parrot’s beak on the back face, it would make a poor tool for blacksmith or cobbler or silversmith. At the ritual question “Who will take this warhammer, that it might work well and honor its master’s name?” no one extended his hand.

  In the awkward silence, Sunbright surprised himself and everyone else by saying, “I will.”

  The dwarves squinted in the bright light of dawn. Needing to explain, Sunbright said, “I have more battles ahead, and can do honor to Dorlas’s name. But I promise that someday I will return the hammer to his family in the Iron Mountains. I’ll tell them how he died and saved our lives.”

  “It is not necessary.” Mondar frowned. “We know of his dying. Word will pass to his relatives.”

  “Good. For if I’m killed, I won’t be able to relate the tale. But if I live, I will make that journey. I owe him that much.” Behind him Greenwillow sniffed, but this time to hold back tears.

  Without a word, Mondar laid the cold, heavy warhammer in the young man’s hand. Sunbright slid it in his belt, felt it nestle beneath his ribs. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it or made that vow. Perhaps he was only being selfish, and hoped that when he was killed, someone would make an effort to see that his family knew. But whatever the reason, he was glad.

  * * * * *

  Barbarian and elf had slept for a few short hours in a soldiers’ hostel where the women were separated from the men. Over a breakfast of bread and ale and cheese served at long tables in a surprisingly quiet throng, Sunbright suggested, “Since this is my first time in a city, you’d best lead the way. What do we do?”

  Greenwillow used her crust to sop up the last of her ale and stuffed it in her mouth. “First we collect our wages, before anyone forgets they owe us. Let’s go.” Getting up from the table, she dropped her mug in a tub by the door and strode into the sunshine. Unerringly, she marched to the left and up the center of the street. Sunbright had no idea where they were bound, or what their destination was, so he simply trotted along at her side like a child. Housewives and masons and fishmongers and schoolchildren watched them curiously as they passed.

  Thinking aloud, Greenwillow said, “We body-guarded them for six months, give or take. One hundred eighty days … at two silver crowns a day … with two of us … is seven hundred twenty crowns. The traders who survived were fourteen, so that’s … fifty-odd apiece they owe us. Cheap enough for saving their lives, and they don’t have to pay Dorlas or the other dead bodyguards. Still, I imagine they’ll squeal like trapped pigs. We could go to the piepowder court for our wages, but that would take forever. There’s one!”

  Sunbright was flummoxed by her ciphering. He’d been fuzzy on the whole idea of being paid in coins, anyway. In his tribe, you bargained for the completion of a job, usually for supplies. So what she was doing was a mystery. But he recognized the flag over the shop door. It was a bluebird on a yellow circle, symbol of the house of Sunadram, a middle-aged trader with a yellow beard.

  Sunadram was in his shop, which was heaped high on all sides with fabrics in every color. He held an account book, jabbing a finger repeatedly, demanding of his cringing clerks why the figures didn’t add up. Greenwillow had to shout his name several times to get his attention.

  When she did, Sunadram slammed the book shut and rubbed his face. “Oh, you two. What do you want?”

  Sunbright didn’t like his tone of voice, and would have punched the man for his insolence, but Greenwillow only spread her feet, planted her hands on her hips, and stated simply, “Our wages for bodyguarding. We kept you alive, so well take fifty silver crowns, if you please.”

  Already the fabric seller was shaking his head. “No, no, no. I pay no bills without a proper invoice. You’ll need to write up your request, then have it notarized by the city clerk. I’ll consider it then, but you’ll have to wait. My shop is in chaos because of my long absence. These idiots can’t add two and two without slipping three into their pockets. Now, I’m busy, so good day.”

  Greenwillow only nodded, which Sunbright found astonishing. The man, who’d bargained fairly at the beginning of the journey, now reneged. By barbarian code, the two fighters could cut him down, chop off his head, then take their pay in money or goods, or else enslave some of these clerks, though they were puny specimens. But Greenwillow only turned for the door.

  “Wait!” Sunbright whirled after her, tackle jingling. “What about our—”

  “Hush!” She stepped through the door into the morning bustle, then pointed to the doorjamb. “Stand there and be quiet. And sharpen your sword; it must need it.”

  “It does not! I hone it every night—” But a glare told him to belt up.

  Bemused, the barbarian slid Harvester from its scabbard, put his back to the doorjamb, and worked to hone the edge with a fine stone, though he could have shaved with it already. Greenwillow waited, fuming. Inside the shop, Sunadram and the clerks watched and whispered.

  It wasn’t long before they learned what was to transpire. An elderly woman was brought near the door in a sedan chair toted by two sweating porters. Holding her skirts high, the woman stepped into the mucky street, careful not to dirty her red slippers. A pair of maids who’d walked behind flanked her. The lady glanced at Greenwillow, expecting the elf-maid to step aside, but the warrior instead barred the door with her arm. “Sorry, milady, but Sunadram can’t see you. He’s putting his shop in order.”

  “But—” The lady frowned with wrinkled lips. “I need fabric! I need a gown fashioned for Baroness Missos’s ball!”

  “Sorry. He’s too busy,” was the stoic reply.

  From inside the shop came a gasp as Sunadram ran up, all afluster and ab
luster. But when Sunbright, still holding his naked great sword, turned curiously, the trader quailed. Greenwillow flipped her nose at the lady, who huffed and reboarded her sedan.

  “Gods above!” Sunadram wailed. “You’ll ruin me! Do you know who that is? That’s—”

  “A lost customer,” Greenwillow stared him down. “The first of many. If you can’t pay your help, you can’t do business.”

  “I’ll call the city guard! They’ll throw you in prison or chain you in a galley to toil your lives away at the oars!”

  Greenwillow shrugged. “You’d have to bribe them to tackle us, two doughty fighters. It would cost more than you owe us.”

  “So?” the merchant demanded. “Will you spend a month at my door just to get your money?”

  “We’ve naught else to do,” Greenwillow replied sweetly. “You can’t do much in a city without coin!”

  With a groan, the fabric seller hurried back into the shop, knocking clerks aside, and dug around under his counter, counting frantically. Momentarily, he hurried up and counted out five stacks of worn silver coins into Greenwillow’s hand. “There! Take your damned wages and get away from here! If I see you again, I’ll … I’ll …”

  “Thank us for escorting you home? I didn’t think so. Come, Sunbright. And put your fool sword away.”

  Befuddled as ever, the barbarian slid his sword home in its sheath. “What was that all about? What was he afraid of?”

  Greenwillow chuckled. “It was business, and he was afraid of losing money. Come on. We’ve got thirteen more merchants to pester.”

  They repeated the process up and down the street, making for a long morning. But while Greenwillow groused about the constant quibbling, Sunbright took it all with the patience of a herdsman and hunter, and his mellow strength and gentle joshing helped pass the hours. The merchants must have spread the word over the midday meal, for the afternoon’s collecting passed more quickly. Some merchants gave the asked-for amount, some dickered to give only their share less what they’d need to collect from their dead colleague’s estates, and one, late in the day, even gave them a bonus, an amphora of sunny southern wine and her hearty thanks.

  So they got less than they wanted, but not much less, and ended happily, sharing the amphora with curious clerks and lawyers at the Bursting Book where they took their meals. But there was a lot of wine, and the others had gone home before it was finished, so the elf and barbarian, not wishing to waste such a bounty, tried to drink it all. As a result, they got louder and sillier.

  Even the serving girls had gone to bed by the time Greenwillow said, “You know, you could almost pass for an elf. In bad light. If you were skinnier.”

  “Oh?” Sunbright made to throw his booted foot up on the table, but missed and dropped it with a crash. “ ’S slippery. No, elveses is handsome, and I’m all scar … scarey … scarredy … chewed up.”

  “Battle scars don’t count,” chuckled Greenwillow. She pointed a wavering finger. “Some elf-maids find ’em sexy. Like to nibble on ’em, see where they go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Scars go. And you sing too. Like a bird. Not much for a hu-human man, but like a crow. Or a bug.”

  “Bugs sing?” Sunbright peered at the ceiling, as if to ask a nearby spider its opinion.

  “Sing like birds! ’Cept if they make too much noise, birds eat ’em. Must taste yuckly, yicky, yucky.” She stuck out her tongue.

  Pointing again, she pronounced, “You respect nature too. Not many whatsits do that.” She focused blearily at the bottom of her cup, tilted it up and splashed her chin. “Oops!”

  “Oh, your lizard skin! So beau’ful!” Sunbright leaned over the table, knocking her cup crashing, and pawed at the front of her armor to wipe off the wine. Belatedly he saw where his hands stroked, and whipped back. He hit his head on the wall, but didn’t feel it.

  Greenwillow doubled over laughing, so weak she could only wheeze. “ ’S funny! You’re so funny, make me laugh! First time in … long time. Elves’re too dour! Do it again!”

  “A’ right!” Sunbright brought his head forward, then snapped it back against the wall with a thump. He still didn’t feel it.

  “Noooooo!” The elf covered her mouth and laughed so hard she fell out of her chair onto her knees. “Not your head, your hands!”

  “Hands?” The man frowned at his hands, found nothing unusual. “Are they dirty?”

  “No, warm! Not there, here!” She pointed at her chest, more or less. Sunbright reached for her and toppled from the chair, landing atop her. The amphora rolled off the table and crashed, spilling the dregs of the wine.

  “Ooh, mustn’t waste!” Sopping her hand in the spilled wine, Greenwillow stuffed her fingers into her mouth, then Sunbright’s. Unclear on the concept, the barbarian bit her fingers. “Not bite!” she yelped. “Gentle.”

  The half-elf used both hands to grab his ears, tugged him close, and bit his nose gently. Their wine-misted breath mingled. “Help me … up!”

  Holding one another and the furniture, they clambered to their feet, kicking cups and chairs every which way. Greenwillow towed Sunbright by his jerkin out the door into the cool of very early morning. “Come on. We can go to the women’s barracks. ’S a’right if we’re quiet.”

  Blundering against a wall, she stepped on an errant cat that squalled hideously. With a gasp, she leaped into Sunbright’s arms, and they both landed squashily in the mucky street. Greenwillow, in his lap, caressed his hair. “You like elf-maids?”

  “Oh, yes!” the barbarian assured her as his mouth found hers. “I want … Hey!”

  The empty streets were very quiet, and even a soft footfall made enough noise to be noticed. Sunbright jerked as he pointed wildly. “Look! Look, ’s her!”

  Greenwillow peered down the narrow street, saw nothing, then was unceremoniously dumped on her rump as the man scrambled up. Traveling sideways as much as forward, he rebounded off the nearby shop walls and charged into an even narrower street beyond. Cursing, the elf clambered up and trotted after him.

  “Ruellana!” the barbarian hollered, his voice incredibly loud in the sleeping city. “Ruellana, stop!”

  Ahead, in deeper shadow, a slender white figure in a simple, short shift flitted away. Calling, pleading, swearing, the man blundered after, his war tackle rattling, his boots clumping. Behind him, Greenwillow called out that it was a trap, but he didn’t hear.

  The ghost-girl paused and turned, and Sunbright got his first good look at her. It was Ruellana; he’d swear it, for her hair was like living fire. She’d mysteriously appeared at his campfire half a world away, then disappeared to haunt his dreams, and here she was again.

  She held out both arms enticingly, then flickered sideways into a dark doorway. Sunbright didn’t notice the shops on this street had no signs hanging above the doors, and the windows were either shuttered or boarded over. He crashed down the street, calling her name, pivoted wildly, and plunged through the door into blackness.

  And fell a dozen feet. The crash onto rubble crumpled his legs beneath him, stunning him. Blinking, he cast about, but could see nothing but pitch-blackness and, high overhead, the grayish outline of the doorway.

  Then there came a hiss like that of a pit of disturbed snakes, and around him rose a wreath like black fog.

  With an oath, he watched the smoke coalesce and harden. Within seconds, he was peering up at a black-cloaked monster with flaming red eyes and hair.

  Chapter 8

  Horrified he might have been, but it was an automatic gesture for Sunbright to haul Harvester from its sheath scabbard. The leather-wrapped pommel felt warm and comforting in his hands. The long steel shank stood up before his face, sturdy as a tree. But inwardly his guts felt pierced by a thousand icy knives, and it was all he could do not to throw the sword away and run in blind terror. Of all the legends of the tundra, the stories of undead monsters who sucked the life from men—and yet left them undead to do the same—were the most fearsome. And her
e Sunbright, exhausted and drunk but rapidly sobering, was trapped in a death pit with an undead fiend.

  The thing provided its own hideous light. A wreath of flame enveloped its head, and empty eye sockets flickered with flames as if through a slot in an iron door. The rest was indistinct in the wavering light, but Sunbright thought he wouldn’t see it well under any conditions. According to folklore, wraiths and wights and ghasts were not entirely of this world, but wafted between the seen and unseen planes, so there might be only a portion of the monster visible, or it might be seen as thinner than it really was. So its shape flowed and folded like shadows on a rippling blanket. And here in the dark, it was master of its element.

  Still, whether the creature was dead or undead, a shaft of hardened steel could still dispatch it from this world to the next—or to none—if one could strike hard and fast without shirking.

  But his assault started out badly.

  His head still reeling, Sunbright kicked himself upright and dropped back to brace for a long swing … and stepped on open air.

  His iron-ringed boot jingled across torn rock; then his knee banged excruciatingly on a jagged edge of stone. Yet the misstep might have saved him, for the writhing wraith hooked a taloned hand at him, like a net of fishhooks, but barely grazed the front of his bearskin jerkin.

  Gasping in pain, the barbarian dragged back his shorn knee. His long shirt was sopping wet, not with wine this time, and the clammy touch of it chilled his skin like glacier runoff. Shoving the sword straight at the beast to fend it off, he gingerly tested his leg, found that it wasn’t sprained, only smarting. Afraid to fumble another step and cripple himself, he whipped his head around to study the trap.

  By rippling hell-flame, he’d first thought the walls were coal, square-cut, and faintly glistening, or else somehow painted black. But neither idea made any sense for a simple cellar in the abandoned part of town. Wary of the advancing ghost-thing, he swished his sword right and left at the glistening walls, but touched nothing.