Sword Play

by Clayton Emery

  Frantic, he stabbed far to his left. Still nothing. Yet a glance overhead showed he was almost underneath the threshold he’d tumbled over. So either this cellar undercut the street tremendously, and the threshold sat on nothing, or else …

  … or else he’d blundered into another world, another type of space altogether.

  A world where wraiths stood triumphant.

  The monster undulated like a hovering snake and snatched at his scalp with one hand, then the other, testing. A jab, a poke, and the slashes were turned. But for how long?

  Chills raced down Sunbright’s spine, raised hackles on his arms and neck and legs. If this were some other vacuous world, he might stumble into any kind of pit, fall down any slope, become lost in a world of blackness and death.

  Or something worse than death.

  “Sunbright!” Greenwillow’s shrill brought him back from the edge of fear, back to life. The elf-maid hunched in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other dangling her slim sword blade. She’s going to jump, the barbarian thought in terror.

  “Don’t!” His voice was unnaturally high. “Don’t come down here! It’s not real! It’s somewhere else!” He was blathering, spouting nonsense that conveyed no information. “Stay there!”

  He had to twist in a half-circle as the wraith circled him, as a fox would circle a caged bird. He tracked the thing, which mimicked his turnings. Sunbright had about screwed himself as far around as possible without moving his feet, when the ghast swooped in.

  A clawed hand as wide as a pitchfork grabbed for the barbarian’s shoulder, the other his face. Twisting, Sunbright ripped a figure eight in the air, a pure defense. But somehow a hand got through, raked his cheek, twitched upward for his eye, and Sunbright almost snapped his neck jerking backward. Then he fell in a tangle.

  His feet clumped on something solid, but his left elbow disappeared into a hole with a downward-sucking roar that must have vanished into the earth. Rolling in terror from the awful depths suggested, the barbarian found a bigger crevice yawning on his right, one wide enough to swallow his shoulders. Freezing stock-still, he tried desperately to think.

  What was the floor made of? His jumbling thoughts couldn’t form a picture. Was he standing on the tops of flat rocks with cracks between? Or poised at the lip of some curvy cliff like a broken-backed snake? Or something else, a terrain the human mind couldn’t map?

  Whatever, he had to get up. Rocking forward, he slapped his hands down, found solid footing, and planted his hobnails on it. But where …?

  Icy hands like ice picks latched on to his neck from behind. Ten pricks broke skin, brought forth red blood that steamed against the alien claws. A half-inch, an inch into his neck muscles, plunged the nails. Any more, and he’d have his head severed like a chicken’s.

  But his feet were secure, so he could strike. With a stomach-wrenching grunt, he slashed his great sword Harvester overhead and down. A satisfying chunk answered him, and the pricking nails retreated. Yet the chilly horror of them lingered and kept his spine crawling, his back muscles spasming.

  He had to get out of here, somehow, anyhow. But to panic would be to die, or be lost.

  “Sunbright!” Greenwillow shrilled again. She’d been screaming at him steadily, he guessed, but he heard little. It was as if the pit sucked up sound as well as life. “Lead it over here! My sword is silver and ensorceled!”

  But so is mine, he thought. Chandler poured an enchanting potion over the steel. It lets me wound shielded creatures. Yet assessing the blow he’d struck, he couldn’t be sure if he’d wounded the wraith or simply knocked it back.

  Stooping, feeling the ground with one hand, he swung blindly behind him with his sword and crept a couple of paces forward. His left toes were suspended over a pit. How could that be?

  And why was he dizzy? He’d thought the effects of the wine gone by now, sweated out in buckets of terror. This was more a weakness, a sapping, as if he’d swum too long in icy water and developed chills. But perhaps that was a function of this nightmarish not-world.

  Swinging behind him again, he eased to the right, felt solid ground, took a step. Greenwillow was above him, but seemed higher up now. She’d lain flat on her stomach, hanging her arms and sword inside, yet he couldn’t have touched her sword with his own. Was the ground sinking farther? Would it continue to drop, like water behind a leaking dam, until he’d sunk to the bowels of … hell? No, not hell, for that place was warm. This was home to ice worms and ghasts.

  And here the flaming beast returned, now outside sword range. So he had hurt it! He hawked to spit and throw it a challenge, but his throat was dry and his voice a pipsqueak. Never mind the bravado, he thought. Escape.

  With no sound, the thing rushed. Red flames filled Sunbright’s vision. How had he ever mistaken this for Ruellana? Swinging wildly from his left hip, he carved frigid air and forced the wraith to veer, but it only swooped low, fastening needle fingers on his leg.

  Down he smashed with the pommel onto the thing’s back, at the ring of fire, its head. But it ignored the blows. Like some northern shark intent only on prey, it fastened deeper into his flesh, freezing muscle to the bone, chilling the marrow. Desperate, the warrior sliced Harvester hard and fast inside, close enough to shave hair off his own leg. The cold blade thrummed on the skinny black arms, chipped flesh like ice. The wraith let go, and Sunbright felt blood pulse through his leg, and out of it.

  But the thing slid under his defenses and clawed for his face. He’d never slash this close …

  Above, Greenwillow called, and a caw answered. A tremendous flapping exploded in Sunbright’s face—and the wraith’s. A croaking rasp whipsawed the air.

  A raven, thought the barbarian dully. The raven, the one that talked! It pecked and bated and shrilled, and the wraith backed off. Frenzied wings riffled the fire around the black head, and the ghast fell even farther back.

  “Here!” called a voice from above, and Sunbright looked up. Greenwillow was closer again, almost within touching range. Had the broken earth heaved? Had the raven yanked it up as if on a string? The elven warrior trailed her sturdy black belt into the pit.

  Unable to slash at the wraith for fear of striking the raven, Sunbright fumbled his way toward the belt, his free hand in front of his boots to feel for holes. Twice he had to stop, cut back, and sidestep. But then—glory be!—his hand clamped on to the warm loop of leather.

  Surprisingly, he had no strength to haul himself up, despite his terror. He could barely retain his grip on the sword. In the anthracite-lined pit, the raven flew tight circles around the wraith, which shadowboxed away from it. Then Greenwillow’s warm hands, immensely strong, grabbed Sunbright’s hand, then wrist. Grunting, he was dragged belly-first over the rough stone threshold and into the mucky street of Dalekeva.

  “You’re safe! Safe!” The elf-woman wept openly, pulling him facedown across her lap, dragging his boots across the threshold.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Glad to be … with you. But I don’t … feel well.”

  Those were his last thoughts.

  * * * * *

  Sunbright opened his eyes to sunshine, billowing curtains, and Greenwillow’s face hovering above him. Others were in the room as well, he realized. Dimly he recognized the fat woman by the door: one of the merchant delegates, the only one to pay them a bonus and add thanks.

  The elf saw his gaze and said, “Mistress Keenid was the only one I could think of. Out of the kindness of her heart, she’s taken us in, hired nurses and a cleric to tend you.”

  Sunbright tried to joke, to say, “We owe her a bonus,” to show them he was fine, in good spirits. But all that came from his mouth was a ghostly sough. The weakness, the hollowness of it, terrified him. What was wrong with him?

  Greenwillow touched his lips. “Hush. Sister Fjord will explain.”

  A dark-skinned woman with long braided tresses came to his bedside. She wore an unadorned blue gown, the uniform of some sect popular in the city. Sunbrigh
t hadn’t bothered to sort them out; he had his own gods. But they failed you, a voice added. But then, he’d left this world behind, hadn’t he?

  As if reading his thoughts, Sister Fjord said, “You’re both an unfortunate and fortunate young man. Unfortunate to stumble into a pit of the Underdark. It’s an old curse laid against the city’s founders, according to legend. Like a volcano or hot springs, eruptions sometimes split the surface. In the abandoned quarters, they can go unnoticed and grow. Exorcism and barrowloads of rock plug them, but sometimes …” She shrugged with a cleric’s detachment.

  “Girl?” That one word hurt to gasp out, as if Sunbright had swallowed fire.

  Greenwillow’s voice was flat. “He means, did a redheaded girl stumble into the pit too?”

  Sister Fjord shook her head. “No, we searched to see if others were trapped. There was no one.”

  Sunbright closed his eyes for a second, and upon opening them, he found it dark outside. Night noises, of owls and watchmen, rustled along with the curtains. He sat up with a start, feeling lost and alone. At his cry, Greenwillow appeared as if by magic. And so he slept again. And woke. And slept.

  Most times he was dead to the world. But drifting in and out, he saw the red-haired Ruellana, smiling, laughing. Then her face would char and blacken, her hair ignite, and she’d try to claw his face off, laughing all the while.

  * * * * *

  Sunbright was up and tottering around in a few days, but he knew part of his essence had been left in that pit. Inside he felt hollow, and he was subject to queer dizzy spells that made him stagger to grab a solid surface. He was sore in several places, especially the back of his neck where the wraith had punctured him and ten fat, black-centered lumps still lingered. But finally he could dress himself and strap Harvester across his back, and shove Dorlas’s warhammer in his belt, though both felt as heavy as anvils.

  Three women were there to see him leave: Mistress Keenid, owner of the house; Sister Fjord, the cleric and healer; and Greenwillow, who seemed a stranger and sister to him at the same time.

  Motherly Sister Fjord felt his forehead, looked in his mouth, slipped her hand into his armpit to tell his body temperature. “Your stamina saved you. Only the iron in your muscle helped you fight off the lifedrain. But eat lots of meat and eggs, drink red port, and you’ll grow robust in a few weeks. But … you had magical abilities before, didn’t you?”

  Sunbright disliked that word “before.” “I was … have … I think of myself as a shaman in training, on a spiritual journey of sorts. My father was a great medicine-healer, and my mother said I had the Sight. But all my people have some abilities with animals and nature and the edges of the world.”

  The woman nodded even as she frowned. “But those abilities come from the soul, the ka, or essence, whatever you call it. Yours has been shrunk, shriveled, crippled, I would wager. The … thing that attacked”—she would not say the word “wraith” lest she invoke one—“was only partly of this sphere. Had it wasted you away, you would have moved to that plane. Some of your essence did, and it’s lost. I can’t explain it all, or promise anything, but know that, if your heart remains pure and your vision true, your essence may heal. Meditate, observe your rituals religiously, look inward and outward, and continue your quest. No matter what, you’ll be a stronger person for this ordeal, in spirit and in body. So do the gods test us, and prove us worthy or find us wanting.”

  Numbly, Sunbright nodded. Her words at least gave him hope that this debilitating weakness—internal and external—would someday end. Lacking any other way to thank her, he leaned forward and kissed her dark cheek, then that of Mistress Keenid, who cried. But when he turned to Greenwillow, she stepped outside ahead of him. And so, like a boy sent off to school by his aunts, Sunbright returned to the world.

  He was glad to get outside, for having lived his life in the wilderness, he was never comfortable under a roof. Yet the sun overhead seemed watery, the cries of fishmongers and children muted and whispery, the rich, mingled smells of the city—privies and spices and fish and manure and perfume—seemed as thin as dust in an old cave. A pair of fork-tailed swallows jigging overhead were just birds; they could tell him nothing. Briefly Sunbright wondered how much of him pulsed in the Underdark and its sinister nothingness. Then he shook his head and dizzied himself.

  “Where … where are we bound?” he asked Greenwillow.

  The elf strode along ahead of him, and he struggled to keep up with her. Without turning, she called, “We’re off to see the city council. They’ve requested an audience when you’re available.”

  “Requested?” gasped Sunbright. But that was all he could say, and so he plodded after Greenwillow’s stiff back.

  They waited on a bench in the council hall for hours as endless piddling business and squabbling went back and forth. Before, Sunbright was able to ignore it; now he could barely endure the bickering, for his head throbbed and he wanted to scream at them to shut up. Greenwillow never said a word, which confused him. Hadn’t she stood by him in battle with the wraith, and then nursed him through his sickness with tears in her eyes? Why, then, was she so angry and cold?

  Finally a clerk called their names, and they stepped before the council’s table. Sunbright, tired and still a bit weak, tried not to sway like some errant drunk.

  The speaker for the council barely looked at them before reading from notes chalked on a slate. “Greenwillow. After much deliberation, the council has decided. You may continue your journey to the One King in Tinnainen. We are aware this king may be affronted by your missive from the High Elves of Cormanthyr, yet there is, we calculate, little chance he will unleash his fury at Dalekeva, since you are an elf and not of our city. We will enter our own negotiations with the One King, and so will neither hinder you nor send you succor. We wish you good luck.”

  Stupefied by this garble of pomposity, dismissal, treachery, and outright cowardice, Sunbright merely stared in openmouthed wonder. Then dust motes swirled in a shaft of sunlight by his side. He was alone. Without a word, Greenwillow had quitted the council hall.

  The heavy-footed barbarian caught up as she marched toward the river. “Can you believe that lot?” he jabbered. “Saying they don’t care if you go to be skinned alive, that you don’t matter because you’re an elf? They’re negotiating with this butcher to save their own hides. And they won’t hinder us, won’t prevent us from leaving?”

  “What did you expect, country boy?” She neither slowed her stride nor turned to look at him. “That they’d pick up swords and march east, keening battle songs while tripping over their gowns? They’re businessmen who believe everything has a price, including freedom and safety. And you don’t have to go, just I.”

  “Yes, I do.” Sunbright stumbled over a cobblestone and almost fell. Wilt-legged, he ran to catch up again. He felt like a child striding alongside his father so many years ago, and found himself wishing Greenwillow would be more of a friend, and not such a stern master. “I said I’d accompany you, and I shall.”

  “Go or stay; I don’t care. But don’t whine about the ways of the world. It’s tiresome.”

  Stunned, Sunbright stayed silent and followed her meekly.

  Grim-lipped, Greenwillow bustled through the marketplace garnering supplies for their journey: rations of meat and dried fruit and hardtack and burlap satchels to carry them in, skins filled with water and wine, long arrows, extra blankets for the highland nights, waxed tinder, a new bow for Sunbright, small coins for the smaller villages. Hurried, she didn’t haggle overlong, and the vendors’ good fortune made them garrulous and curious. Yet when they asked the travelers’ destination and were told, they quieted. One said, “Tinnainen? Where the One King’s made his headquarters? You should know patrols of orcs and men scour the countryside east of here. Mixed groups, I mean, men and orcs traveling together!”

  Another offered, “Aye, farmers across the river have lost sheep, cows, you name it. ’Course they say there’s a red dragon been seen
in the eastern skies around sunset.”

  “There’s an ill omen, the worst kind. Or else the dragon was in Tinnainen already, and the One King drove it out. Or else it’s struck a deal with him.”

  Still another said, “And these councilors. They’ll sell us all into slavery once the army arrives. Right now they’ve got clerics and mages up on the top of Crying Tower, slaughtering goats and pigs and what-all in hopes of driving the dragon off or bribing it. I don’t know which.”

  “Some say the council plans to raise taxes on us, maybe sweep the jails and drive the criminals out into the open for dragon fodder.”

  “We should be mustering an army, and the council’s bickering about who to blame. But that’s politicians for you.”

  And so it went. All had something to say … and none of it boded well.

  * * * * *

  Late that afternoon, Greenwillow stepped off a ferry onto the eastern side of the river. Sunbright, laden, as was the elf, with satchels and weapons, leaned into his burdens and faced east. Past rocky farmland there arose tree-covered hills and a broad flat road, for in better times Dalekeva and Tinnainen had traded mutton and beef and hides and ironware for dried fish and silver and grain. Sunbright looked at the hills and couldn’t resist saying, “Perhaps we should camp for the night and think this through. We’ll need a strategy for moving through enemy territory if we’re to reach Tinnainen alive.”

  Greenwillow, eyes hot and brows puckered, rounded on him. “Whining again? Know this, mortal man. Perhaps I do go to throw my life away! It’s no matter. I’ve been ordered to go, and I shall—alone, if need be! To cast defiance into the One King’s face will teach him that there are those who oppose him, real fighters, not coin-counters!

  “As for you,” she added, “stop dragging your feet! I remember a man who strode boldly down the roads and disdained all danger. Now I’m saddled with a carping cripple! Obviously the wraith drew more than strength from you; it ripped out your heart as well! If you wish to continue your ‘spiritual journey’—as much as humans can have spirits—you’d best get on with it! Hiding behind stone walls will not restore your strength or spunk. Choose that, if you will. Choose to fail! But don’t whine at me about your losses! I’ve lost more than you’ll ever have!”