Farslayer's Story (25 page)

She waved across the water with the Sword, offering a mocking greeting to the people in the boats.

“Row! Get us over there!” the prince commanded. Oars clashed and labored. But boats were slow and clumsy, and they were not going to catch a mermaid in the water.

In fact it appeared that they were not going to catch Soft Ripple, even though she was content to remain out of the water for the time being.

“Stop her!”

The mermaid was swinging the heavy Sword slowly, tentatively, awkwardly around her head; the thin muscles of her arms and shoulders stood out with the effort.

Zoltan on hearing that last order from his prince had reached mechanically for his bow, and someone else was reaching for a sling. But both people stayed their hands. If the Sword were to fall into the water from where the mermaid held it now, it would plunge once more into the channel’s hopeless depths.

Mark was cursing at the rowers: “Get us over there, quick!”

As fast as the rowers could propel them, the two fishing boats were now approaching Magicians’ Island from the south. And still the mermaid, sitting safely out of everyone’s reach, twirled the Sword, and still she seemed not quite able to bring herself to let it go. Perhaps for some reason she could not feel Farslayer’s power—or perhaps—

Mark issued orders in a low voice: “Ben! Take your boat, land on the far side of the island. I’ll take this one to where we can get close enough to argue with her from the water.”

It seemed to Zoltan a very long time before the prow of the boat now carrying Ben and himself grated ashore at the nearest feasible landing spot that was just out of sight of Mark’s boat, and of the mermaid on her rock.

Ben and Zoltan leaped from their boat and hit the beach running. As they did so, a small horde of minor powers took to the air around them, just as had happened when Black Pearl’s body was first disturbed in the water. Zoltan had seen their like on occasion in the past, and more experienced observers than he had never been able to determine whether powerful wizards somehow created such swarming entities, or were only capable of calling them from some other plane of existence. However that might be, Zoltan knew that in a disorganized swarm like this one the miniature entities, for the most part indifferent to human beings, were hardly more dangerous than so many mosquitoes would have been.

Not that danger would have mattered to him just now. He ran forward, hoping to get into position to hurl himself at the mermaid before she threw the Sword, and drag Farslayer somehow from her grip. Still the little powers, doubtless sent here long ago to guard the island from nonmagicians, swarmed about. They were only semisentient at best. One could hear them buzzing faintly in the air, and see them like small ripples of atmospheric heat. Any human with even a minimal sensitivity to the things of magic could feel them in the air as well.

Zoltan had left ponderous Ben some strides behind. Now, approaching the hummock that concealed him from the mermaid, Zoltan slowed and raised his head cautiously over the obstacle. He could see his uncle Mark, standing in the boat, still trying to argue Soft Ripple out of throwing the Sword.

Now he could see the mermaid, too.

Zoltan eased forward, hoping to get close before she saw him. Mark continued his argument. Ben came up silently behind Zoltan, and a little to one side.

But they were all too late, or ineffective. “If he is still alive, I kill him. If dead, let my hate follow him to hell!”

With a last hideous, obscene malediction against Cosmo Malolo, the mermaid let the bright blade fly.

Chapter Seventeen

G
elimer had just finished the painful task of burying his faithful Geelong in the cemetery grove, when the Sword of Vengeance entered his life again.

It had taken the hermit a long struggle to get the beast’s mangled body down from the thorntrees, and Geelong had died well before the process could be completed; had died for which Gelimer was thankful even before the hermit could get into position to administer the mercy stroke himself.

After that it had been a struggle for the hermit, himself wracked by physical as well as mental pain, to get the animal’s body uphill to his house. His arms and legs were bruised and every muscle in his body ached, making it a slow and painful process for him to do anything. All through the following night Gelimer, lying beside his pet’s blanket wrapped body, had tried to rest, tried to recover from the injuries caused by the demon’s manhandling.

And in the morning, for the first time, he thought he knew what it felt like to be old. Moving as in a dream of pain and suffering, he had lifted the rude bundle containing his companion’s mangled body, placed it on a kind of travois, and had urged his own battered body to pull the contrivance in the direction of the cemetery.

He could not have said how much time was taken by the work of pulling, selecting a gravesite, and digging. He had just finished his prayers to Ardneh over the refilled grave, had turned and started for home, when the Sword came.

Gelimer first saw the rainbow streak moving across the distant sky, coming from the north and angling to the west. Then the bright track curved, until it appeared to be coming directly at him. And now he heard and felt the all-too-familiar onrush of its approaching magic.

For just a brief moment Gelimer believed that Farslayer was coming for him, and he stood motionless and unalarmed while something in him responded with eagerness to the thought of death. But the Sword rushed by overhead. The truth was that nobody hated him, no one was his enemy, no one any longer even knew him well enough to want to waste a Sword-blow on him.

The Sword of Vengeance had not been sent to strike the hermit’s heart. The rainbow streak of the Sword, swifter than any arrow Gelimer had ever seen in flight, arced close over his head, coming down directly into the cemetery grove he had just left. There, somewhere under those tall trees, it struck home with an earthen impact, dull and loud as a blow from a god’s hammer.

Gelimer dropped the handle of the empty travois he had been dragging, and with his shovel still clutched in one hand hurried back under the trees. The spot of impact was impossible to miss. Something had cratered the black dirt and the spring flowers, sending earthy debris far and wide. The flying Sword had landed directly on the site of the last grave but one that he had dug.

The hermit ran forward. Regardless of the slippery mud, regardless of the protests of his own painful body, he plunged his shovel into the cratered ground and began to dig again.

Presently the smell of old death, as if at some opening of hell, came surging up to meet him. He choked on it, but persisted.

In a few moments he was sure of what had happened. He could see now that the body of Cosmo Malolo, which had been decomposing for the past month inside its crude blanket-shroud, had for a second time been pierced through the heart by the Sword of the Gods.

Gelimer threw down his shovel. His muddy fingers, trembling, closed upon that black, mud-spattered hilt. With that contact his fingers ceased to tremble. Muttering half-finished prayers of gratitude to Ardneh, and perhaps to other, darker gods as well, the hermit carried the Sword up out of the shallow, blasted pit.

Exactly who had thrown the Sword this time, and why vengeance had been wasted upon a victim already dead, were questions that did not now even cross his mind.

The grove around him was as silent and tranquil as ever. Though the day was bright, here under the trees it was almost dim with their heavy shading. Standing erect, Gelimer saluted the grave of Geelong with the Sword. Then, gripping the knurled hilt in both hands, the hermit began a ponderous, spinning dance—

His dance was carrying him, step by step, out of the grove and into the open air, where you could see for kilometers in all directions except that of the mountain whose shoulder he was standing on. He had not whirled thrice beyond the trees before there appeared to him, standing only forty or fifty meters away in sunlight, the image of the demon Rabisu. The demon came in the guise of an armored man, tall as a house, half transparent but immense, who ran forward threateningly, raising some blurred weapon—

Gelimer saw the approaching shape, and uttered a hoarse cry. In the next instant he felt the Sword fly free, tearing itself by its own power out of his grip, an instant before he would have let it go.

The blade passed straight through the demon’s image as through a mirage, seeming to do no harm. Then, like an intelligent arrow, Farslayer curved its own pathway in mid-flight. But not back toward the apparition. Instead the Sword went down on the north side of the river, somewhere over the Senones stronghold.

The figure of the demon had stopped in its tracks, and turned to watch that darting descent. Now it turned back to confront Gelimer. Rabisu’s assumed countenance, which had been recognizable as the semblance of a human face, was now chaotic, indescribable. The apparition stood as if paralyzed, and from its demonic throat there issued a last cry, a great howl that went on and on.

That outcry lingered in the air even after the image of the demon had disappeared.

* * *

The mermaid, Soft Ripple, had plunged into the river immediately after she threw the Sword. But she surfaced again very quickly, risking retaliation by the angry men around her, unable to resist the attraction of watching the weapon in flight. Not that there was much to see, a mere rainbow flicker toward the slope of the mountain to the south.

A moment of silence hung over the boats and the island. It was broken by another loud outcry, near at hand.

This scream had come from the throat of a woman Zoltan had never seen before. Her thin figure, wrapped in the robes of a sorceress, came tottering forward from a recess among the rocks of Magicians’ Island. Facing the mermaid, this apparition halted, and uttered another hoarse scream. “Not Cosmo! No! You shall not kill him!”

Bonar raised a hand and pointed. “That is the Lady Megara Senones, the bitch- sorceress. We must take her prisoner. Gesner, can you deal with her magic?”

Gesner opened his mouth and closed it again, making no promises, not even of effort.

But Prince Mark was paying little attention to his immediate companions. “My lady,” he called to the figure on the rock. “Are you in need of help?”

The woman Bonar had called Megara, the supposed sorceress, turned a distracted gaze in Mark’s direction. And Zoltan, as he got his first full look at her face, took her for an old woman, even older than Yambu perhaps. At a second look he was not so sure of her age, but certain that she had been through terrible things.

Soft Ripple, thrashing in the water nearby, shrilled at her “I know who you are, old woman. Your Cosmo is dead now! Even for you there can be no stopping that Sword. Not even you damned arrogant magicians can manage that!”

Slowly, in small jerky movements and little slumps, Megara standing on her rock relaxed from a posture of rage and anger into one of weariness and despair.

When she spoke again, she glanced toward the mermaid, and her voice was very tired. “I fear that you are right, fishgirl. If Cosmo was not dead before this…” Then she saw Bonar glaring at her in something like triumph. She cried to her hereditary enemy: “Will you kill me, then? Strike, if you will, there is nothing to prevent you now!”

Ben edged a little nearer Bonar, ready to restrain him from accepting this invitation.

Mark, still speaking calmly, told the lady: “We are going to the south shore, after the Sword. Come with us, if you will.”

“It no longer matters to me where I go,” the sorceress said after a pause. “What magic I can attempt no longer works. Except my little boat … yes. I accept. I’ll go with you. If I could even see his body there—it would be better if I could know with certainty that he is dead.”

“Cosmo Malolo?”

“Of course. He and I are lovers.” The claim was made proudly but it seemed grotesque.

“Ah,” said Yambu, who until now had been attending silently. “And that night, on this island, where the killing started—the two of you were discovered by your father?”

“Yes. That is what happened. And Cosmo killed him, with the Sword.”

Mark had by now gone to the lady’s side, and was offering her his arm, while Bonar seethed in not-quite-silent protest. His protests had no effect. Both boats were shortly under way again, Megara riding with Prince Mark aboard the one that did not hold the clan chief of the Malolo. Soft Ripple followed swimming, staying within easy earshot.

The young mermaid had more that she wanted to tell Megara about Cosmo.

“I knew what you were doing, the two of you, meeting on the island. I watched your two boats coming and going. And I knew what he did to my friend Black Pearl. Did you know that your marvelous Cosmo screwed around with mermaids?”

Megara was sitting straight in her seat, looking straight ahead, as if she could not hear.

“Tell us about it later,” Ben grumbled at the mermaid in a low voice.

 
“No,” said the prince. “No, I think that we should hear Soft Ripple’s story now.”

The oarsmen worked, the two boats moved steadily toward the south shore of the river. Soft Ripple kept on talking.

“I knew Black Pearl was up to something,” the mermaid said. “Finally I followed her, and I found out that she made many visits to Magicians’ Island. Eventually I found an underwater tunnel there.”

Soft Ripple went on to relate how she had discovered that a Malolo boat, the same one, was invariably tied up in one of the island’s concealed coves when Black Pearl paid her secret visits there. Later on she became aware of another boat, one that came out to Magicians’ Island from the Senones side of the river, propelled by sail and with a single occupant. It was a small craft, and Soft Ripple thought that perhaps it was partly propelled by magic. Certainly magic had somewhat protected it from observation. It had invariably come out to the island when Cosmo’s craft was also there. On the first occasion this might have happened by accident, but on later occasions their meetings had obviously been planned.