Sword Play

by Clayton Emery

  As he should. Without looking back, he turned to bolt for the exit.

  Teeth sank into his upper arm from behind.

  The fangs were cold, biting to the bone. He felt his heart jump at the frosty touch. He had to get free.

  Jumping, he grazed a beam with his head and wrenched his arm loose, losing skin and muscle in the process. The night hag hissed in frustration. Spinning, he found her racing to claw out his eyes, his blood bright on her long fangs and pointed chin.

  A new wave of emotion flooded him. Not fear, but anger. He didn’t know if it were induced or not: madness to cloud his thinking. But something within him snapped. This monster had probed his mind to find his utmost desire, then perverted it to lure him close and feast on his blood and meat. It was no more deceptive than a fox giving a rabbit’s cry, he knew, but still it enraged him to have his mind raped.

  Howling, forgetting even his sword, he swung his left fist and smashed the hag in the face. He struck her long nose, and broke it, pounding it flat. Another punch bashed her upper lip, snapping a long fang loose. A third in the throat gagged her. Sunbright howled, cursed, and raged incoherently, months of pent-up anger flooding from him, driving his fist to smash again and again. He could barely see for a red mist before his eyes and knew he’d keep pounding until the hag was black pulp on the mine floor.

  But suddenly his fist struck dirt, then again.

  Shaking his head, cursing feebly, he cast about for the hag. All he saw was a dark gray mist low to the ground that slowly trickled back into the black depths of the mine.

  Shivering with cold and blood loss and the aftermath of battle fury, the barbarian turned and dragged himself outside, toward the sunlight and realm of humankind.

  He emerged, squinting, into dim sunlight, only to find a war party awaiting him.

  Grimy and blood-spattered, the warrior hefted Harvester in one fist. The easy way he toted the weapon gave the war party pause. There were nine in all, six orcs and three men. Five wore gray tunics with a familiar red splayed hand painted on the breasts. The others wore red armbands on both arms.

  The lead orc, with a red-hand placard on his rusty helmet, asked, “What do you in there?”

  Sunbright hawked and spit dust. “I stabbed a barbed fiend and smashed in the face of a night hag. Now, step aside.”

  They stepped aside.

  Warrior’s instinct on the alert, the barbarian didn’t walk through them to invite a stab in the back. Rather, he stooped and picked up his blanket roll, satchel, and bow and quiver with one hand, then sidled around the party. A stream ran between the hills not far off, and he made his way toward it. This was climbing country east of Netheril, the farthest east he’d ever gone, discounting journeys to the netherworld. In eight months of searching, he’d quartered a goodly portion of the known lands, and some unknown. Only in these reaches, though, had he found a semblance of peace, for the hills reminded him of the foothills of the Barren Mountains above the Great Forest.

  Stomping through yellow grass and buttercups—it was again late summer, with autumn’s breath in the morning mists—he hopped to a rock to vault the small stream, set down his baggage, then placed Harvester flat on the grass close at hand. If the orcs and orc-men crossed the stream, he decided, he’d kill those he could and run. If they stayed on their own side, he’d leave them be. That they were nine and he one didn’t bother him much: he’d faced bigger odds and survived. He’d remain wary but calm and in control.

  It occurred to him, like a distant song, that as a lad he’d dreamed of returning to his tribe someday, a tall, scarred, confident warrior who feared nothing. Somewhere in his journeys, he’d become that man. And someday, he knew now, he would return, to settle old scores and rejoin his people.

  After he found Greenwillow.

  Scooching, not kneeling, he washed his hands and face and drank from his palms of the cold, clean water. Too, he watched the war party descend the slope, talking among themselves. They argued loudly, where conspirators would have whispered, so they probably were peaceful enough. But he didn’t stray far from Harvester.

  Keeping to their side of the stream, out of weapon’s reach, they clustered behind their leader. Without preamble, the orc said, “One of us went inside and saw the tracks. You are a mighty warrior.”

  Two years back, Sunbright would have grinned cockily. Now he just smoothed his hair through his topknot. He knew what he was, no matter what others thought.

  “You should join us,” continued the leader, a hunchbacked orc with a gray muzzle, old to be campaigning. The others were a mix of seasoned and green. Two of the men appeared to be father and son. The last had scars enough to be a warrior. “We journey to the camp of the Lich Lord to join his army. It will be the mightiest army ever formed and will conquer the world from sea to sea. Now is the time to join, to share the glory and receive a goodly portion of land and wealth in the aftermath of peace.”

  There was no fool like an old fool, Sunbright thought. Joining a madman’s army to grow rich and retire. The barbarian had already guessed their purpose, since they’d painted themselves with smeary homemade renditions of the Red Hand banner. But as he scrubbed dirt from Harvester’s blade, he said, “I’ve heard of the Lich Lord’s army. Do you really think following an undead ghoul will lead to peace?”

  “Truly.” The old orc straightened its back as much as possible. “Wherever his army travels they find chaos, and wherever they conquer grows quiet.”

  Chaos because sensible folk flee before them, and no one’s alive afterward, thought Sunbright disgustedly. But it had been a while since he’d talked to anyone, and his native curiosity won out. “I know men flock to the banner, but I fail to see why. This Lich Lord called himself the One King until his real identity was exposed. At the same time, a red dragon descended on his city and incinerated his army and him, or so I heard. So how can he—”

  “Not true, not true,” the old orc interrupted. It squatted painfully, balancing, getting comfortable for a bout of storytelling. The other orcs and men remained standing. Sunbright honed Harvester and listened. He was in no hurry.

  “The great red dragon Wrathburn was sent to assassinate the One King by the conniving Netherese, who were jealous of his power. But the One King’s bravery brought defeat to the dragon, which was slain. His ribs and spine have been erected in an arch leading to the gates of the city Tinnainen, and the king now wears a pair of dragon’s teeth in his crown. After such a glorious and dire battle, he pronounced himself the Lich Lord so his followers might have a better picture of him and more easily see his great plan. Angriman is his loyal aide, the servitor of the king, and sees the Lich Lord’s orders are carried out. Even now the One Lord’s army pacifies the lands east of Cormanthyr, for he felt the land of the Netherese unworthy of his attentions and moved on to remove the threat of the elves, who are the enemy of men and plot their deaths in many forms.

  “Some cowards went weak-kneed and watered their loincloths when they beheld their master’s true form, and those were quickly dispersed to the six winds. But a greater form means greater power. Other, better men flock from all the corners of the kingdoms to join him. His ranks grow larger than ever, for these days the Lich Lord is less lenient with his foes, and his punishments ghastly to receive. But his victories are glorious, and we shall all reap the benefits.”

  Sunbright stifled a sigh as he laid Harvester back down on the grass. Pure, purest horseshit, he wanted to shout. He had been there to see the lich and black-browed Angriman blasted to ashes, had witnessed Wrathburn flying serenely away, the obvious victor. And how could any soldier be stupid enough to pledge himself to a dead fiend and an army that fled Netheril for the hinterlands to attack the homelands of the elves? That was sticking one’s head into a hornet’s nest! Greenwillow had been the doughtiest fighter he’d ever met, barring the dwarf Dorlas, and …

  Thoughts of Greenwillow set him drifting off. The mine still beckoned. He’d entered only because a shepherdess had
told him of seeing light inside on rainy days. It wasn’t much to go on, but neither had been a hundred other rumors.

  But his thoughts were drifting like dandelion fluff, which was not a sound practice when faced with nine fanatical orcs and orc-friends.

  Having decided, the barbarian stood, slid his sword home in its scabbard on his back, and picked up his belongings. Oddly, the fact he’d sheathed his sword made him look more dangerous than when the blade was naked. “That’s all very well and good,” he said politely to the orc, “but I’ve other fish to fry. Good luck on your quest to serve the Lich Lord. I hope you receive your just rewards.”

  The old orc frowned so its tusky teeth dented its lower lip. “Anyone not of the army will suffer when it arrives. You’ll be sorry you turned us down.”

  Sunbright reflected that, like most fanatics, the orc had begun with a soft pitch and finished with a dire threat. “I’ve much to be sorry for now; one more thing won’t be a burden. Good day.”

  And, tackle swinging around him, he swung off down the hill. He wasn’t pursued, and hadn’t expected to be.

  * * * * *

  Weeks later, Sunbright huddled under his blanket strung between four trees and nursed a small, damp fire. He hoped to get the fire hot enough to roast a brace of rabbits he’d shot earlier with his long arrows. So far he had a lot of smoke and precious little heat.

  It had rained for three days, and everything he owned was either soaked or rusty. Further, winter was settling in, and he’d come far north in his quest—and hit the biggest dead end of all. For in topping a rise this afternoon, he’d seen a cleft mountain in the west and below it a tiny town split by a river. He’d forgotten the town’s name, but remembered the place. It was the first town he’d encountered when dumped from Lady Polaris’s high castle so many months ago. It had been in this town where he’d started his quest to track down all rumors of openings to the Nine Hells. For almost a year, he’d hoped and prayed to find a way to slip back inside those hellish tunnels, to find a way, somehow, to rescue Greenwillow. But each lead had proven false.

  He’d persisted, even though, deep down, he knew Greenwillow was probably dead, that she had perished in hellfire or been killed by the fall onto stone. But part of him wouldn’t accept it. It might be his native stubbornness, a flat-out refusal to believe anything until it was proven before his very eyes. Or perhaps he was simply becoming mush-brained.

  And besides, if she were dead, wouldn’t her spirit have visited him by now?

  That would not be possible if she was still alive, and despite everything, he believed she was. Perhaps his shamanistic abilities, which came and went like dreams before sunrise, somehow were attuned to the half-elf, alive but trapped somewhere. Perhaps that signal, that siren’s call, that promise led him on. Perhaps. Since he couldn’t switch on his priestly powers like an ale tap, he could only wait for more to be revealed: in dreams, in campfire flames, in the murmurings of animals and the wind. Perhaps he shouldn’t be using his legs to search, but his mind.

  But he didn’t know how.

  He didn’t know what he knew, except that his quest had ended in failure. Today he’d come full circle, back to his starting point, with winter crashing down, and no hope of searching through the snows. That hope was dashed, and there was nothing to take its place.

  So what now?

  “Ho, the camp!”

  Instantly the barbarian located the source of the voice in the gathering gloom and located his weapons, sword and bow and warhammer. But too, he recognized the voice, a familiar one.

  “Ho, Sunbright! May I enter your camp?”

  Cursing inwardly, the barbarian kept his mouth shut. Although it was the worst of wilderness manners not to invite someone to his campfire, he bit his tongue. Perhaps the speaker, if ignored, would go away.

  No such luck. The voice called, “I’m coming in! Don’t shoot!”

  From the dark shuffled a figure in a plain shepherd’s smock, with a blanket cloak folded around his shoulders and head. The man squatted and duck-walked under Sunbright’s sodden blanket. The hood was pulled back, revealing a shiny bald head. Candlemas eased to his knees and warmed his stubby hands by the fire.

  Without speaking, Sunbright studied the mage. He looked older, his eyes more sunken and pouchy, his beard speckled with white. The barbarian had thought mages didn’t age, or aged only slowly, but Candlemas looked like a grandfather after only a year. Some great strain must be pressing down on him, but the warrior felt no sympathy.

  Rubbing his craggy hands, hissing as if from arthritis, the mage said, “I know you probably don’t want to talk, but we should.”

  “Why?” The word was jerked from Sunbright, who hadn’t talked to anyone in days. “Do you have more dirty work no sane man would tackle, so an innocent must be tricked?”

  “I used you; I admit it.” Candlemas didn’t look at Sunbright, but at the tiny fire. “I can spark your fire higher, if you like.”

  “Leave it be. I’m done with magic.”

  “I always intended to reward you, you know.” Candlemas ignored the barbarian’s rudeness.

  “Likely,” Sunbright snorted. For something to do, he skinned his rabbits, which didn’t take long. “I was nothing but a tool. If I didn’t meet your expectations, you were willing to see me destroyed readily enough, and look elsewhere.”

  A casual shrug made the warrior grab the warhammer, so Candlemas sat still. The patter of rain in the oak forest and the constant drip of runoff from the blankets was a small music around them. “But you did live up to my expectations, them and more. You have the most amazing ability to survive I’ve ever seen or heard of.”

  Another snort. “A horse can climb a mountain if whipped hard enough. That means nothing.”

  “No, it’s true. You survived where a dozen men would have died. And you bested your foes in a remarkable fashion: a dragon, a lich lord, fiends. I can’t think it was luck or mere brawn or even fighting savvy. I think you possess something that even you don’t suspect.”

  Despite his effort at disinterest, Sunbright paused in slicing the rabbit. The mage’s words were an echo of his own bleak thoughts of only moments ago. If his brawn couldn’t find Greenwillow, perhaps it was time to try something else.

  “Anyway, I always pay my debts,” Candlemas droned on. “I would see you properly rewarded.”

  “What could you possibly give me? I need nothing.”

  Well, one thing he needed.

  “Not true. I can give you, well, more than you can imagine. Training in magic, for one. I cannot make you the equal of a Netherese archmage; I haven’t made that rank myself, yet. And I doubt you’d ever make much of a surface mage. Somehow I don’t picture you scrying secrets for kings or fashioning magic jewelry boxes, or overseeing farms and orchards as I do. But I can point the way to some magics you’d find interesting. Magical devices and scrolls and potions that would make you the equal of any groundling wizard in your own field of study: the ways of animals and plants and rivers and trees and stone. I know these things matter to you, else why would you be here in a rainy, cold forest when you could be elsewhere in comfort?”

  Sunbright didn’t tell the wizard that, in contrast to living on the snow of the tundra, this rainy forest was paradise. Rather, he fought down the desire that swelled in his bosom, the desire to know natural things in the real sense, not just on the surface but down to their very core. His father Sevenhaunt had had that ability. That had been the source of his name, for he’d been haunted the seven days around by questions without answers. And Sunbright was his only son and, according to his mother’s words, heir to that power—or curse.

  “You’re quiet.” Candlemas cut into his thoughts.

  “It’s late. I’m tired,” quipped the warrior. But his hands hung idle while his mind raced.

  The podgy mage hunkered close, one hand balled to a fist to contain his excitement. “Come with me, Sunbright. Work for me—with no more games, I promise. I’ll make it w
orth your while. Every day you’re with me, helping me find what I need, you’ll learn more about yourself and how to get what you—”

  “Can you bring back Greenwillow?”

  A cloud crossed the worried face, and he shook his head. “No.”

  “Can Lady Polaris, or any of the high mages?”

  Another denial.

  Sunbright shook his own head, rejecting everything Candlemas had said. “Then what good is magic? I can’t bear to think of her, trapped in that place because of me!”

  “You’ve been trying to get back there.” Candlemas didn’t need to make it a question, for he already knew the answer. “The High Neth worked day and night for months to find and seal all Sysquemalyn’s leaks from the Nine Hells. Things are largely back to normal. I knew you’d been searching for a way in. Did you ever find one?”

  Sunbright debated whether to tell this man—who might be an enemy or might be a friend—the truth, then answered, “No. I came close a few times, got into depths that blistered my eyebrows and got me jumped by monsters from … But no, I never got close to the Nine Hells.”

  “Do you really think she’d want you to?” Candlemas saw the barbarian’s eyes snap, but he didn’t quail. “Greenwillow gave her life to save yours. As Sysquemalyn said, you mustn’t throw away that gift, her sacrifice. You’re meant for greater things. You need to find what they are.”

  Sunbright rejected talk of himself to cling to the memory of Greenwillow. Talking of her lessened the ache within him. “Tell me something useful. Is there any way she can be saved?”

  Candlemas blew out his breath, made the tiny blaze dance. “If she died there, as she must have, then no magic I know, or even suspect, can resurrect her to this plane. But her spirit may linger, trapped. With work, it might—might, I say—be set free.”

  “So.” Sunbright picked up a stick and prodded the fire. “If I work for you, will we try to find a way?”

  “I’ll do what I can, if you will. That much I promise.” If Candlemas felt any thrill at getting his way, he didn’t show it. Mostly he sounded tired. “What I can’t promise is results.”