Sword Play

by Clayton Emery

  Stunned by this tirade, Sunbright could only stand as the elf marched down the road, nose high. He hadn’t whined at all. Had he? And he hadn’t suggested they not go. She was being obstinate and heaping blame on him for nothing. With his dizzy thoughts and aching back and clumsy feet, he didn’t know what transpired, or even what he was anymore.

  Nor did he know what Greenwillow was. She was an elf, which was mystery enough, and a woman, so doubly mysterious.

  He could only go on and hope for the best. If he died, then perhaps that’s what the gods intended for him. He wouldn’t linger, or whine.

  He did, however, curse a great deal, and that made him feel somewhat better.

  * * * * *

  That night, thinking that orcs preferred open reaches, they made a cold camp in the woods. Greenwillow had shot two fat rabbits, but they dared not light a fire, so Sunbright sliced the tough meat very thin, and they chewed it raw.

  The elf agreed to take first watch, sitting against a tree, arms across her knees. Sunbright, who was exhausted, folded his blanket, pinned it shut with splinters, and flopped on his back. His throbbing head had whirled the day long, and finally he’d realized he lacked one thing: information. So, fighting fatigue and sleep, he asked quietly as the late sun set, “Greenwillow, why?”

  For a long time there was silence. Then a soft sob choked her. Arching his neck, the man saw a tear course down her pale cheek. Sniffing, she whispered, “I was drunk, I’ll admit. Elves tend to hold their emotions close, especially around humans. And it works against us sometimes, for too much wine or too much magic or too much fighting can make us lose our heads, go berserk or lust-mad. But I liked you and was lonely, and wanted to share myself with you.

  “But in an eye-blink you pushed me away and chased another. I was forgotten, but I shan’t forget.

  “We can march side by side, fight shoulder to shoulder as comrades-in-arms. But that is all we’ll be.”

  * * * * *

  Day by day, as summer aged to autumn and the highland woods were tinged with red and yellow and orange, they pressed on. The lands of greater Dalekeva ended not far into the hills, and there were miles and miles of unsettled hinterlands. They made good time, even though they slid through the forest parallel to the road, never traveling on it. Out in the open, eating well, drinking pure springwater, tramping steadily and sleeping deeply, Sunbright found his strength of limb and leg returning, though an ache deep inside lingered. At the end of a day’s march he swore if he thumped his chest it would ring hollowly, like a cracked bell. But the lack inside would heal, the cleric had promised, so he waited patiently.

  With Greenwillow he talked once again, but only of incidentals. Which trail to follow, whether they might flush quail from a thicket, whether footprints they came across were those of men or orcs, or both. But they said nothing of the heart and shared no stories. Their evening camps were quiet enough that they could hear squirrels scrambling amidst their acorn harvests, and owls on tufted wings beating the night air to seek scurrying mice.

  Eventually they passed into the realm of Tinnainen, though the city was still miles off. First was an isolated cabin, empty, with the door ajar. Then a stronghold cabin, two stories of logs with arrow slits on the second floor, not burned, but abandoned. Then late one afternoon they topped a rise and saw, curving below, a long, narrow valley. There were farms at the bottom, the fields harvested, the granaries full, the livestock corralled for the night, the chickens and geese penned. The road to Tinnainen cut straight across, due east.

  “Looks quiet enough, for an occupied territory,” hissed Greenwillow. Neither had spoken loudly since leaving the river.

  “Even conquerors must eat,” the barbarian whispered back. “You can’t feed an army on rape and loot. Better to threaten the peasants into farming their hardest and leave them to it.”

  Greenwillow scooted forward and peered north and south. Both could see the valley ran for miles. “It’s either walk miles out of our way to keep to the woods or wait until night.” To never cross open land by day was an ingrained rule of the wilderness.

  Without speaking, they decided to wait. They found a hollow spot, propped their baggage as pillows, and napped. Cool night air filling the hollow woke them, and they strapped on their packs and weapons in the dark.

  Down the slope, slipping from tree trunk to tree trunk, they made their way. They paused a long time at the edge of the woods, tiptoed out to peer at the road, and listened. Finally they set out, hands free, wary. Sunbright hissed at the first field, for his heavy feet crunched grain stubble. Greenwillow moved with no more noise than fog.

  They passed downwind of a large farm, but something roused the dogs, and they set up a ferocious barking.

  Hard after came a long, low whistle from the woods ahead.

  Sunbright locked his feet even as Greenwillow grabbed his arm. “Look!”

  The elf’s eyes had picked out what roused the dog. Straining, Sunbright saw it too.

  A patrol of soldiers: hunched, knotty-armed, bowlegged. The two turned to discover another patrol coming up behind them. They were caught.

  In the past, Sunbright Steelshanks would have put down his head and outrun them. But his old strength was gone, and he’d marched the entire day. Quietly he shed his baggage and drew Harvester, the leather-steel heft a comfort in his hands.

  “Run. I’ll hold them.”

  But Greenwillow, too, dropped her burdens and drew her slim ornate sword with a silvery shiver. “Comrades we are and shall remain.”

  Back to back, the two leveled their weapons and awaited the oncoming enemy.

  Chapter 9

  Many strange things had happened to Sunbright since he first fled his tribe, but what happened next was the strangest of all.

  Taking a fresh grip on Harvester, he was judging in which direction to swing first when a growly orcish voice sounded in the still night. “Good evening. Would you care to break bread?”

  “What?” the barbarian gasped aloud. Break heads, he must have said. Behind him, Greenwillow squeaked.

  The patrol fanned out as if to attack, but halted a dozen feet away. The barbarian saw now that there were men scattered amidst the orcs, confirming the rumors they’d heard in the marketplace. These were the same sort of orcs that had attacked him a year ago in the Barren Mountains: Thousand Fist orcs with neat gray tunics embellished with a red splayed hand. There were six of them, with obsidian-studded clubs or short swords, and three humans. The men wore the same uniforms, and all three had shaved their heads, probably because the tunics came infested with lice and fleas. Sunbright would expect to find only the lowest sort of lazy scoundrels mingling with orcs, but these seemed average sorts, if quiet. Lack of bathing had turned their skin grayish in the manner of orcs, however. Their eyes roved over the half-elf.

  Over his shoulder, Sunbright hissed, “What have you?”

  Her rump bumping his, Greenwillow reported three orcs and two men. She added, “Do we cut and run?”

  “Come, come.” The orcish commander was framed in darkness. “There is no need to fight. We shall make our small fire here and invite you to join us.”

  Safe in their own territory, the war party tramped to the road and dropped their packs and satchels. One soldier dumped wood while another sparked a fire. A third toted a blackened kettle toward the farm for well water, sending the dogs into a frenzy of barking.

  The orcish commander waved a gray hand at the tiny camp. “Come. We’ll have tea. You’ll learn much besides.” Then he walked toward his men.

  “Learn much?” Sunbright asked the night air. “I’ve already seen wonders no storyteller could concoct.”

  Greenwillow nodded numbly. Far behind them, the owner of the farm—a human—opened a thick door and whistled in her dogs, then shut it with a thump. “That humans could live peaceably so close by …” The elf shivered.

  “And an orc offer a tea party like some merchant luring customers into his shop …” added Sunbright.<
br />
  “We’ve no choice. Should they will it, they can slay us on the spot.” But Greenwillow trembled uncontrollably, and Sunbright remembered that, of all the speaking races, elves hated orcs the most. Perhaps because, ran the rumors, elves and orcs were two sides of the same coin, opposites, and so were linked in some light-against-dark fashion. Still, it was the elf who picked up her bundles and edged toward the fire first.

  “Glad to have you with us. Sit, please,” growled the commander. Sunbright and Greenwillow squatted on their heels in the road and studied their erstwhile foes, who steadfastly ignored them. Some, seasoned veterans, pillowed their heads on bundles and dozed in the lull. Some gnawed dark jerked meat while waiting for the herb tea to boil. One honed a bronze sword until the commander ordered him to sheathe it.

  The commander intrigued Sunbright. He had a gray pallor, a pug nose, pointed teeth, and bushy eyebrows as thick as caterpillars. But he was tall and held his head up, without the characteristic hunch of Thousand Fist orcs. With a shock, Sunbright realized he was only half-orc and the rest man. A product of rape, no doubt, yet with an oddly noble quality. Certainly he seemed suited to command, as much as one could command slovenly orcs.

  The commander unwrapped an oilskin pouch and withdrew jerky, grinning wolfishly when Sunbright and Greenwillow refused. They had no idea what—or who—the meat had been originally. For something to do, they dug out their own jerky and chewed.

  “The One King means to harm no one,” said the commander abruptly. “He merely wishes to bring order to the chaos raging across our lands.”

  “Chaos?” Greenwillow was shocked into speech. “People farm the land and trade! Rarely do they fight, and there are no plagues that I’ve heard of!”

  “The chaos of the heart and mind, then,” continued the commander. Most of his soldiers didn’t listen. Obviously they’d heard this speech before, many times. But a couple of the men followed the arguments as if memorizing them. “And the chaos wrought by the Neth.”

  “The Neth? You’d challenge the Neth?” asked Greenwillow. Sunbright elbowed her sharply, a signal not to antagonize their host.

  “Aye, we would. The day has come for a new order, a new way of doing things—especially about the Netherese. But this new order can be achieved only through the imposition of a strong authority, a wise but absolute ruler. A broad broom cleanses the land. See what the One King has wrought already: orcs and men and even elves sitting and discoursing peaceably by a fire.”

  The last was pure moose dung, thought the barbarian. If he and the elf had their way, they’d have topped three hills by now. Only the threat of superior numbers kept them still. And any argument founded on a lie, he knew, would just form a bigger heap of lies.

  But to keep the man-orc talking, Greenwillow asked, “Please, tell us more about this One King.”

  As if she’d plucked her finger from a dam, a torrent of words spilled forth from the zealous commander. The One King was all-wise, for he could see into the past and future, and into other parts of the world. He knew the minds of men and orcs and elves and Netherese. He’d lived a long time, studying in his youth, suffering to seek knowledge in the far reaches of the world, meditating on high, rocky crags until the snow came to his chin, questioning the wisest of the wise. And, learning at last all there was to learn, he’d come to understand the world and how its ills might be corrected … once he gained the cooperation of every living thing.

  Cooperation! The barbarian wanted to spit. More, he wanted to leap up and smite off this smug bastard’s head. How could anyone be so dense as to surrender himself to a tyrant who’d either have your “cooperation” or else boil you alive? It was madness! But a frightening madness, if this king’s rantings could inspire such fervent loyalty in a pack of hideous orcs that they bypassed fat human farms and camped by night in the open road lest their campfire ignite the fields. This One King must be as persuasive as Selûne, She Who Guides. Or more so.

  Seething, disputing everything in his head, though wisely not aloud, Sunbright bore the twisted arguments like someone staked on an anthill. And eventually the orcish commander ran out of steam, yawned, and excused himself. Unrolling his blanket, he insisted Greenwillow and Sunbright pass the night here, “safe,” for he would post a guard. Quietly, the two agreed and unfurled their blankets.

  But in the bustle, Sunbright hissed, “How could you stand to debate that lunkhead? He’s as loony as a moon maid!”

  “Hush!” snapped Greenwillow. “Any fact about the One King is another arrow in my quiver. You can never know too much about an enemy. I’ll take first watch.”

  “Agreed.” The camp would have two posted guards and one unposted one, for the barbarian and half-elf would keep surreptitious watch themselves. As he settled down, Sunbright eased Harvester into his blanket alongside him. He did that every night anyway, but this night, he drew the naked blade and slept against that.

  And dreamed of orcs and elves and humans dancing around a maypole. They were singing gaily, naked except for garlands of flowers around their necks and brows. Impaled atop the pole was Sunbright’s head, eyes staring in disbelief.

  * * * * *

  Candlemas scratched the back of his left hand, which had finally healed, although it itched as if fiends cavorted under the skin. He then scratched his neck, which was confined in a high stock of red leather that gouged the underside of his chin. He hated fine clothes and parties, for both were invariably uncomfortable. And the room was hot from hundreds of bodies and a thousand candles.

  The whole mansion, in fact, was lit with candles from one end to another, and the mage reckoned only powerful shield spells kept the place from igniting. There was not a spot anywhere that wasn’t decorated with triple-thick gilt or bright paint or some mural of great deeds and fantastic beasts and sorrowful romances. There were layers of curtains, tapestries, and paintings, as well as crystal and silver chandeliers, stuffed beasts and monsters, and items and oddities from the world over. And this fantastic palace, he reminded himself, was only one of several owned by his host, Tyralhorn the Archmage, who was in turn only one of several in this city of Anauria, a High City second only to Most-High Karsus. Lady Polaris herself owned two palaces here and others elsewhere, as well as her “country cottage,” what she sometimes called the vast floating castle of Delia, where Candlemas was steward. The highest archmages of Netheril pursued mainly magics and excitement, but somehow wealth and property seemed to stick to their fingers in their search.

  And the entirety of this mansion—every candlestick and bauble and self-emptying golden chamber pot—existed to impress other archmages, in a vast unending quest of competition to be the largest, richest, and gaudiest.

  Sometimes Candlemas found himself wondering why the archmages sought to surround themselves with ever more gewgaws and gadgets. Yet he knew, if he had the chance to do the same …

  “ ’Mas, you came! How wonderful!”

  Breezing toward him came Sysquemalyn. She wore a vast flowing gown in all the colors of the rainbow, yards of silken material that sprouted from her shoulders and trailed behind her, even sweeping in an arch behind her head of piled and bejeweled red hair, yet managing somehow to leave both breasts nearly bare. Oohing and ahhing, she circled Candlemas and twitted him about his fine clothes, a short brocade toga that crossed one shoulder and hung behind him and breeches of silk, hand-painted with interlaced flowers, and worn with red leather shoes. “My, my. You won’t want to mix your stinky potions in those clothes! Were they to catch fire, you’d be days getting the flaming remnants off! And look at your lovely hand! So much nicer than the last one!”

  Giggling, she caught his left hand and kissed the hairy back, but Candlemas yanked it away. He’d had a serving girl grind powder and mix makeup to disguise the lighter color of the new skin, hoping no one would notice, for if they did, the knowledge that Sysquemalyn had shorn off his arm would get around. One thing all the bored archmages collected avidly was gossip.

  �
��Don’t mock me,” the mage growled. “This hand keeps me awake nights for itching. And you cheated in removing it, I’ll remind you. Just as you cheated siccing that Hunt on my barbarian! He’s supposed to survive tests of strength, but that was outside the rules!”

  “Oh, come now!” Sysquemalyn, smiling at a young mage who pranced behind a jutting green codpiece and little else, patted her hair into place. “We all know that the only rule about magic is that there are no rules.”

  “But there are wagers, and honest bets require honest players. But you—”

  “Honest?” The mage objected loudly. “You had him escort a traveling party of delegates! And sent him a raven for a familiar!”

  “The merest buffer because I knew you’d cheat!”

  “So,” countered Sysquemalyn, “we’re left wondering who cheated first. Which just adds to the game and makes it more diverting. We never know what will happen next. I haven’t had this much fun in years, so let’s not quit now. I’ve got something absolutely devilish planned for your barbarian. But excuse me, dear ’Mas, I must prepare for my entertainment. The Great White Cow—excuse me, Lady Polaris—commands, and I obey. Ta ta!”

  Grumbling, Candlemas realized it was probably Sysquemalyn who had dragged him here. Somehow the chamberlain had offered Lady Polaris an entertainment, and her ladyship had accepted, then commanded Candlemas also to attend. Why, he didn’t know. But as he sweated in the heavy clothes and simpered and smiled at his superiors—which included nearly everyone present—he wished he were home in his workshop.

  There were entertainments going on everywhere, in gardens, drawing rooms, the front lawn, and even on the roof. Some were wrestling contests or fights to the death between slaves hoping to win their freedom, some were ancient plays and some were new ones, anything to keep the bored archmages diverted for even a moment. But Sysquemalyn’s entertainment was rumored to be something spectacular, something new, and everyone buzzed about what it might be. So even Candlemas joined the throng jamming the largest drawing room, though he stood at the back wall as befit his station.