The Desecrator: A Tor.com Original (2 page)

“Um, what?”

“There’s nothing there,” he said.

“It’s pretty big to be nothing.”

“Close your eyes when it pounces.”

“I don’t—”

It leapt.

I cursed and closed my eyes.

I opened them a moment later, and there was nothing there.

“Damn good illusion,” I said.

“It was.”

The floor of the cave shifted again, then cracked. I jumped back as a fissure opened up. I took my stance again, waiting for something to emerge from the opening.

Then I felt like I was hurled backward, except that I didn’t move. There was an assault on my mind like I’d never experienced. My vision blurred, and all I could hear was a scream that I eventually realized came from Daymar.

When I could see again, there was a man in front of me—tall, muscled, naked, holding a sword that—yeah. A sword. It was a dull black, giving off no gleam. That would have told me it was Morganti even without the way it was crying into my mind. The man—I couldn’t tell anything about him. No noble’s point, but he didn’t look like a Teckla. His skin was a shade of gold I’d never seen before. His eyes were blue, his hair was long and brown. I don’t know. Couldn’t guess. He was staring at me with all the expression of a Jhereg assassin.

Daymar wasn’t screaming anymore.

I said, “I suppose you’re going to tell me he isn’t real either?”

“He isn’t,” said Daymar.

“You’re kid—”

“The sword, however, is real.”

I made sure my wrist was relaxed, fingers loose, elbows in, knees bent. No matter how many times you’ve fought, it never hurts to review the basics.

“Oh good,” I said.

That sword.

It was bigger than mine—a two-hander with a plain, simple cross guard. From where I stood, I could make out the blood groove running nearly the whole length.

The guy who didn’t exist seemed to know his business. His movements were careful, precise, and matched my own, the point of that monster weapon pointed at my eye—just the form I’d been taught. The odd thing was that the man’s eyes didn’t seem to be focused on me, or on anything else. It was weird, and it was scary.

Fortunately, I enjoy being scared; sharpens my senses and makes everything tingly and—well, you know.

There was no warning before the non-man struck—no eye or muscle twitches—just, there was that blade going for my abdomen. I parried low, moved, and looked for a place to strike, but there was nothing.

“Ignore the man,” said Daymar. “Insubstantial, you can’t touch him.”

“Then how do I win?”

“Interesting question,” he said. “I’ll have to think about that.”

Another strike, this one at my head. So very fast. I leaned back and I felt the swish of its passing. With a Morganti weapon, any wound is fatal, and worse than fatal. With one that powerful, any scratch would do.

An ugly, unclean way to go. No Deathgate, no rebirth, just, well, done. Nothing. I didn’t care for it.

But those thoughts were far in the back of my head; mostly I was concentrating on stillness in movement, motion in tranquility, as I watched for the next attack. The minor, unimportant fact that there was no way to actually stop it was annoying, but didn’t change anything. I watched the sword, not the man, which goes counter to everything I’ve learned.

“It is certainly hard to talk to,” remarked Daymar.

“Because it’s an illusion?” I suggested.

The sword came right at my eyes, which should have been an easy parry, but it was so unexpected—yeah, I got my weapon in the way and the strike slid past my head.

“No, no,” said Daymar. “The sword.”

“It has a mind?”

“It’s what I woke up.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I’ve been trying to talk to it, but it seems not to like me.”

“Hard to believe.”

It came down crosswise, from my left shoulder angled toward my right hip.

I rolled forward, through the non-existent man, and came to my feet.

“What can you tell about it?”

“Does the term ‘pure evil’ bring anything to mind?”

“Not really, no.”

I faced the sword, keeping my own weapon up. It started weaving, small motions. I had to match them, of course. High right, low left, high right, low left. Bugger. Eventually he’d break the pattern, and I’d be out of line.

The piece of metal was a tactician.

“Pure evil,” said Daymar. “Killing for the sake of killing. Pleasure in hearing death screams. Joy in the fear of others.”

“Oh, that’s evil?”

“Yes.”

“I never realized I was evil. Can you be a conduit? Let me talk to it?”

“Hmmm. I think so. I’ll try.”

It broke the pattern, going high twice, then came at me, swinging for my head. I leaned back and swung clumsily.

There was a horrid jarring in my hand. I found myself on my feet again, and I realized I’d rolled backward, then realized it had missed me.

And I was holding about a foot and a half of sword—the other had sheared right through my steel. I was annoyed. It was a good blade, made for me by Hennith two hundred years ago. And this was going to make things significantly more challenging.

“Got it,” said Daymar.

He needn’t have spoken; I felt it.

Does the term “dark spirit” mean anything to you?

I mean, you know me, Sethra. I’m a Dzur. Put me in a place with swords flashing and spells sizzling and plenty of bodies to carve up, and I’m a happy guy. But I tell you, this sword—it likes to kill the way a landlord likes to eat. It’s a being that exists to create as much mayhem as it can. If malice had consciousness, that’s how it would feel.

The illusionary man raised the too-real sword. Parrying with the remains of my sword would be interesting, I decided, but not impossible.

Can we negotiate?
I thought at it.

Die,
it suggested, and swung at my face.

I ducked, twisted, and more or less threw my blade up in the right direction. Elegant it was not, but I survived.

Now look,
I said.
Kill me, and then what? You lie here for another ten thousand years. Come with me, and think of all the carnage.

The illusionary man held it motionless; I had the impression the sword was thinking about it.

Do you have the soul of a killer?

Yes,
I told it.

How can I know?

You aren’t serious!

It waited.

“Daymar,” I said aloud.

“Yes?” he said, drawing the word out.

“If this doesn’t work, could you get a message to Sethra?”

“What message?”

I told him.

“No,” he said carefully. “I do not believe I would care to repeat that to Sethra Lavode.”

I sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

I lowered the stump of my sword.
All right, go ahead.

I made up my mind not to scream, just because Daymar was there. So let’s say I didn’t scream when the sword entered my heart; let’s say I made a very loud, high-pitched, sustained groan.

Great. You killed me even if
—

I can heal you. Stop whining.

All right.

It hurt a lot. In case you’ve never had a piece of steel shoved into your heart, it hurts a lot. It had told me not to whine, so I couldn’t ask him if this would take long.

What’s your name?

Call me Nightslayer.

Nightslayer. All right. Do you think
—

Do not speak or move.

It was there, it was me, it was disembodied fingers reaching through me, touching, touching—

My memories unfolded like a Yendi glove box.

I remember falling down. I was young, so young the memory is just a haze, but I remember a flagstone floor, and feeling I’d been pushed, and a deep voice saying, “Don’t cry.”

I remember my mother blowing up a stone in a flash of fire and light, and I thought, “I want to do that!”

The first time I drew blood in anger I was ninety, and met a Dragonlord on the narrows of Hondra. We exchanged words, and used some terms that angered. When my sword entered his bowels, I twisted it because I wanted to hear him scream, and I did, and I liked it.

Once three peasants coming toward me on the road didn’t get out of my way fast enough. I didn’t kill them, but I did make the ground under their feet rise up so they fell over.

I did once kill a Jhegaala merchant who tried to cheat me with a quick-count. I don’t feel bad about that.

I served in Yinsil’s Private Army, hoping to learn what war was like, but there was an altercation after two months when I killed three Dragonlords in my squad, so that never went anywhere.

I got drunk once and tried to provoke a wizard into a fight, but he laughed me off. I found out later it was Calfri, who could have burned me to ashes without effort.

Then I decided to destroy Sethra Lavode, so I went to Dzur Mountain, and after she’d immobilized me, she offered to teach me.

You’ll do.
Nightslayer pulled out of me.

That hurt too, and I once again did the thing that I’d prefer not be called a scream.

Then the pain was gone, and Nightslayer was in my hand.

Can we start by killing that Hawklord?

I guess that’s when I figured out why you made me take the slow way to Adrilankha, and you needn’t have bothered. I don’t need to meet a few peasants to not want to slaughter them, and if I wanted to slaughter them, meeting a few wouldn’t have changed my mind. Uh, where was I? Right.

Sure,
I said. Then,
Oh, I guess he’s gone.

Smart. Can we go kill some innocents?

Let’s negotiate,
I said.
How about if we start with the less than completely guilty?

I guess that’ll do,
said Nightslayer.

Once we were out of the cave, I teleported. I don’t think you need to know who, I mean, what we did for the next few days. Then I came back here.

So, anyway, that’s the story. You know Nightslayer’s power will stand out like a Lyorn at a harvest festival. Can you help me make a sheath?

END

Copyright © 2011 by Steven Brust

Art copyright © 2011 by John Stanko