Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (4 page)

Companionship--and power.

Beneath my hand, he stiffened. I felt the tension in his body; heard it in his

rattling snort, in the crunching of gravel beneath shod hooves. His ears lanced

erect, then slapped back against his head.

"Hey--" But abruptly I shut it off.

I hadn't felt it for weeks. At first it was so alien I didn't recognize it, and

then the strangeness slid away and familiarity took its place. A man doesn't forget what it's like to be sick.

Not sick sick. I've been that before, from wound fever or the Northern malady called a "cold." And not sick from too much liquor; I've been that, too, more often than I care to recall. No. This sickness wasn't of the body but of the soul, all wrapped up like a nameday gift in a sash called fear.

And even that was different.

All the hair stood up on my arms. Tickled the back of my neck. Tightened scalp

against skull. I shivered involuntarily, cursing myself for a fool, then felt nausea knot my belly.

Don't ask me what it is. Del called it an affinity for magic. Kem, the sword-maker, said I was sensitive to the essence of it, whatever that means.

All

I know is it makes me sick and uncomfortable, and very sour in my outlook.

Being

a conspicuously lighthearted, good-humored soul--or at least one lacking in personal demons--I don't much like having my sensibilities mangled by something

as dark and erratic as magic.

If it just didn't make me feel sick.

Maybe it was the cat. I'd eaten too much cat. Too much Northern cat stuffed into

a Southroner's belly.

But the stud hadn't had any, and he wasn't happy, either.

Or, more likely, the sword. Trust it to make my life miserable in more ways than

one.

Then again--

"Ah, hoolies," I muttered, as I smelled the stink of the hounds.

I'd forgotten what it was to be up close, to see white eyes ashine in the darkness. To smell their stink. To sense the press of numbers crowding so close

to me.

I had played tracker. Now they hunted me.

The stud knew the stench, too. He, like me, had killed, smashing furred bodies

beneath cold Southron iron, but liked it no better than I. We weren't made for

magic, either of us, being bred only to travel the sands beneath a Southron sun.

Without benefit of magic.

The sword lay sheathed by the fire, set beside my bedding. It was, I thought grimly, a mark of decay in habits that I had left my weapon to go to the stud.

It displayed an unaccustomed trend toward worrying, which has never been my vice, as well as pointing up my distinct dislike for the Northern sword. I mean,

it was a sword, like it or not; it could save my life even if I disliked it.

But

at the moment it couldn't do anything, because I'd left it behind. All I had was

a knife, and no horse to use for escape. Or attack, if it came to that; I'd have

to do it on foot.

White eyes shone bright in darkness. In silence the hounds gathered, wearing shadows in place of clothes. Black and gray on gray and black; I couldn't count

their numbers.

It crossed my mind that maybe the stud could be ridden after all, pain or no pain. Not far, not far enough to injure him, just far enough; enough to leave beasts behind.

But retreat wasn't what I'd come for. It wasn't the promise I'd made.

I sucked in a guts-deep breath. "Come on," I said, "try me."

Sheer bravado, maybe. Nothing more than noise. But it's always worth a try, because sometimes it will work.

Sometimes.

They crept out of the shadows into the red-gray glow of dying coals. Maned, gray, dappled beasts: part dog, part wolf, part nightmare. Without a shred of beauty, or a trace of independence. What they did was at someone's bidding, not

a decision of their own.

The stud shifted uneasily. He stamped, breaking stone.

"Try me," I repeated. "Have I come too close to the lair?"

They came all at once, like a wave of slushy water. In spate, they swallowed the

campsite, then ebbed back toward the trees.

But the tide had taken the sword.

Gaping in disbelief, I saw the glint of the pommel, a flash of moonlight off the

hilt. Saw teeth close on the sheath and shed it, leaving it behind; apparently

the warding magic inherent in a named blade made no difference to equally magical beasts.

Which made me wonder why it existed at all, if it was useless against the hounds.

Two of them mouthed the sword awkwardly. One held the hilt, the other the blade,

busily growling at one another like two dogs fighting over a stick. But this stick was made of steel. Magicked, gods-blessed steel.

The others surrounded them like a tanzeer's phalanx of guards. They headed for

the trees, for the shadows I couldn't pierce.

Hoolies, they wanted the sword.

So much for my own value.

I very nearly laughed. If they wanted the thrice-cursed thing that much, let them have it. I didn't want it. It was one way of getting rid of it.

Except I knew better than that. The beasts could never use it, but the man who

made them could. And that I couldn't risk, since he was the one I sought.

Very calmly I drew the ward-whistle from beneath my woolen tunic and stuck it between my lips. Such a tiny, inconsequential geegaw, but made by beings I still

had trouble believing in, even though I'd seen--and heard--them myself.

Canteada. I recalled their silvery skin, feathery scalp crests, nimble fingers

and froglike throats. And I recalled their music.

Music was in the whistle, as was power. And so I waited a moment, to build up false hopes, then blew an inaudible blast.

It did its job, as always. They dropped the sword and fled.

Grinning around the whistle, I went over and picked up the blade.

And wished I hadn't touched it.

Shame flooded me. Shame and anger and grief, that I had treated the sword so poorly when it was deserving of so much better. What had it done to me?

In disbelief, I spat out the whistle. I hadn't thought those thoughts. And wouldn't; of that I was certain. But the thoughts had come from somewhere.

The

feelings had come from somewhere.

I threw the sword down again. It thumped dully against turf, glinting red-white

in coals and moonlight. "Look, you," I said, "you may not be like any sword I've

ever known, but it doesn't give you the right to tell me what to think. It doesn't give you the right to make me feel guilty, or ashamed, or angry--or anything, hear me? Magic, schmagic--I want nothing to do with you and nothing will ever change that. As far as I'm concerned, the hounds can have you...

except I'm not about to let you fall into the hands of someone who can tap into

whatever power you possess--"

I broke it off abruptly. I realized precisely how stupid I sounded, talking to a

sword.

Well, talking to a sword isn't so bad; I think we all do it from time to time,

before we step into a circle. But talking to a magicked blade made me most distinctly uneasy; I was afraid it might understand.

I wiped sweaty palms on my clothing. I hadn't imagined the feelings. I hadn't imagined the shame.

And, most definitely, I hadn't imagined the power demanding to be unleashed.

Coiling itself so tightly, like a cat before it springs.

In my head, I heard a song. A small, soft song, promising health and wealth and

longevity, as if it were a god.

"Jivatmas die," I said hoarsely. "I've seen it before, twice. You aren't invincible, and you don't make us immortal. Don't promise me what you can't."

Notes wavered, then died away. I bent and scooped up the sword.

In my hands, it burned.

"Hoolies--" Flesh fused itself to steel. "Let go!" I shouted. "You thrice-cursed

son of a goat--let go of my hands!"

Steel clung, caressed, absorbed. I thought again of melted eyes in a blade-riven

skull.

"Hoolies take you!" I yelled. "What do you want, my soul?"

Or was it trying to give one?

--on my knees, now--

--hoolies, oh, hoolies--stuck to a sword... oh, hoolies, stuck to a sword--

--and for how long?

Sweat ran down my body. In the cold night air, I steamed. "No one ever told me--no one ever said--no one warned me about this--"

Well, maybe they had. I just didn't listen much.

Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked, ducked my head into a shoulder, rubbed wet hair

away. I stank of sweat, old wool and grime, with the acrid tang of fear.

I drew in a ragged breath. "What in hoolies am I--"

Fire lit up the sky.

At least, I think it was fire. It was something. Something bright and blinding.

Something that damped the moon and the stars with a delicate, lace-edged beauty.

And beauty it was, like nothing I've ever seen. Nothing I've ever dreamed.

Kneeling with the sword clutched in my hands--or the sword clutching me--I stared, mouth open, and let my head tip back so I could see the glory of Northern lights. The magic of sky-born steel, rune-wrought by the gods, baptised

in human blood.

Celebrated by song.

Dancing in the sky was a curtain of luminescence. The colors were muted magnificence, flowing one into the other. They rippled. Dripped. Changed places.

Met and melted together, forming other colors. Bright, burning colors, like fire

in the sky. The night was alive with it.

In my head I heard a song. A new and powerful song. It wasn't one I knew. It wasn't from my sword, too new to sing like that. From a sword with a little age.

From a sword who understood power, being cognizant of its own, and how to guard

the gift. A sword born of the North, born of ice and snow and storm; of the cold

winter wailing of a keen-edged banshee-storm.

A sword who knew my name; whose name I knew as well.

Samiel fell out of my hands. "Hoolies," I croaked, "she's alive."

Four

I denied it. Immediately. Vehemently. With everything I had; I did not dare allow myself to believe it might be true, because hopes hauled up too high have

that much farther to fall.

Oh, bascha. Bascha.

I denied it. Desperately. All the way down through the darkness, picking my way

with care. All the way down through boulders, slipping and skidding on rubble.

Through the shadows of looming trees.

Choking on painful certainty: Del is dead. I killed her.

Fire filled the sky. Such clean, vivid colors, rippling like Southron silks.

Boreal's doing, no other: steel brush against black sky, with artistry born of

magic.

Doubts, like smoke, blew away, leaving me empty of breath.

--Delilah is alive--

I stopped walking. Stopping sliding. Stopped cursing myself for a fool. And stood awkwardly, rigidly clutching a tree. Trying to breathe again. Trying to comprehend. Trying to sort out a welter of feelings too complex to decipher.

--Delilah is alive--

Sweat bathed me. I leaned against the tree and shut my eyes, shivering, releasing the air I'd finally gulped. Sucking it back in even more loudly.

Nearly choking. Ignoring the knot in my belly, the cramping of my guts, the trembling in my hands.

Trying to understand.

Relief. Shock. Amazement. An overwhelming joy. But also compelling guilt and an

odd, swelling fear. A deep and abiding despair.

Delilah is alive.

Gods of valhail, help me.

Colors poured out of the sky like layers of ruffled silks: rose, red, violet, emerald, a hint of Southron yellow, traces of amber-gold. The blush of burnished

orange. The richness of blue on black and all the shadings in between.

I scrubbed sweat off my face. Took pains to steady my breathing. Then silently

followed the brightness down and stepped out of a tree-striped, hollow darkness

into frost and fog and rainbow, where a sword held dominance. Alien, rune-wrought steel, naked in Del's bare hands.

Delilah was alive.

She stood as I have seen her stand before, paying homage to the North, or to the

sword herself. With legs spread, braced; with arms stretched wide above her head, balancing blade across flattened palms. Three feet of deadly steel, shining whitely in the night; a foot of knotted silver twisted carefully into a

hilt. Ornate and yet oddly plain, with a magnificent symmetry. Simplistic in promised power, lethal in promises kept.

All in white, Delilah. Tunic, trews, hair. And the stark, ravaged face, devoid

of all save desperation.

Thin fog purled down from the blade. Streamers licked Del's hands, face, clothing, frothed around her ankles, spilled out across the ground. Drops of moisture glistened, reflecting sword-born rainbows. All in white, Delilah; uncompromising white. A blank, stark canvas. Behind her was the night; uncompromising black. But arrayed above us both were the colors of the world, summoned by rune-wrought steel.

White on black, and light. A brilliant, blinding light that made me want to squint.

Ghost, I thought; wraith. A spirit made of shadows, lent light by a playful demon. Nothing more than a fetch, or a trick of imagination. It wasn't really Del. It couldn't really be Del.

Gods, let it be Del--

I felt the touch of wind. It blew softly across the clearing, shredding sword-born fog, and gently touched my face. The testing fingers of a blind man;

the subtle caress of a lover's touch. A cold, winter wind, bordering on banshee.

Letting me taste its strength. Letting me sense its power.

Believe, it told me plainly. I am born of Boreal, and only one commands her.

Only one can summon her power. To key it, and control it. To make me substance

out of nothing; to give me life out of proper season.

Winter was in the clearing. It numbed my ears, my nose; stiffened aging joints.