Sword Play (14 page)

“It does not! I hone it every night—” But a glare told him to belt up.

Bemused, the barbarian slid Harvester from its scabbard, put his back to the doorjamb, and worked to hone the edge with a fine stone, though he could have shaved with it already. Greenwillow waited, fuming. Inside the shop, Sunadram and the clerks watched and whispered.

It wasn’t long before they learned what was to transpire. An elderly woman was brought near the door in a sedan chair toted by two sweating porters. Holding her skirts high, the woman stepped into the mucky street, careful not to dirty her red slippers. A pair of maids who’d walked behind flanked her. The lady glanced at Greenwillow, expecting the elf-maid to step aside, but the warrior instead barred the door with her arm. “Sorry, milady, but Sunadram can’t see you. He’s putting his shop in order.”

“But—” The lady frowned with wrinkled lips. “I need fabric! I need a gown fashioned for Baroness Missos’s ball!”

“Sorry, He’s too busy,” was the stoic reply.

From inside the shop came a gasp as Sunadram ran up, all afluster and abluster. But when Sunbright, still holding his naked great sword, turned curiously, the trader quailed. Greenwillow flipped her nose at the lady, who huffed and reboarded her sedan.

“Gods above!” Sunadram wailed. “You’ll ruin me! Do you know who that is? That’s—”

“A lost customer,” Greenwillow stared him down. “The first of many. If you can’t pay your help, you can’t do business.”

“I’ll call the city guard! They’ll throw you in prison or chain you in a galley to toil your lives away at the oars!”

Greenwillow shrugged. “You’d have to bribe them to tackle us, two doughty fighters. It would cost more than you owe us.”

“So?” the merchant demanded. “Will you spend a month at my door just to get your money?”

“We’ve naught else to do,” Greenwillow replied sweetly. “You can’t do much in a city without coin!”

With a groan, the fabric seller hurried back into the shop, knocking clerks aside, and dug around under his counter, counting frantically. Momentarily, he hurried up and counted out five stacks of worn silver coins into Greenwillow’s hand. “There! Take your damned wages and get away from here! If I see you again, I’ll… I’ll…”

“Thank us for escorting you home? I didn’t think so. Come, Sunbright. And put your fool sword away.”

Befuddled as ever, the barbarian slid his sword home in its sheath. “What was that all about? What was he afraid of?”

Greenwillow chuckled. “It was business, and he was afraid of losing money. Come on. We’ve got thirteen more merchants to pester.”

They repeated the process up and down the street, making for a long morning. But while Greenwillow groused about the constant quibbling, Sunbright took it all with the patience of a herdsman and hunter, and his mellow strength and gentle joshing helped pass the hours. The merchants must have spread the word over the midday meal, for the afternoon’s collecting passed more quickly. Some merchants gave the asked-for amount, some dickered to give only their share less what they’d need to collect from their dead colleague’s estates, and one, late in the day, even gave them a bonus, an amphora of sunny southern wine and her hearty thanks.

So they got less than they wanted, but not much less, and ended happily, sharing the amphora with curious clerks and lawyers at the Bursting Book where they took their meals. But there was a lot of wine, and the others had gone home before it was finished, so the elf and barbarian, not wishing to waste such a bounty, tried to drink it all. As a result, they got louder and sillier.

Even the serving girls had gone to bed by the time Greenwillow said, “You know, you could almost pass for an elf. In bad light. If you were skinnier.”

“Oh?” Sunbright made to throw his booted foot up on the table, but missed and dropped it with a crash. ” ‘S slippery. No, elveses is handsome, and I’m all scar … scarey … scarredy … chewed up.”

“Battle scars don’t count,” chuckled Greenwillow. She pointed a wavering finger. “Some elf-maids find ‘em sexy. Like to nibble on ‘em, see where they go.”

“Go where?”

“Scars go. And you sing too. Like a bird. Not much for a hu-human man, but like a crow. Or a bug.”

“Bugs sing?” Sunbright peered at the ceiling, as if to ask a nearby spider its opinion.

“Sing like birds! ‘Cept if they make too much noise, birds eat ‘em. Must taste yuckly, yicky, yucky.” She stuck out her tongue.

Pointing again, she pronounced, “You respect nature too. Not many whatsits do that.” She focused blearily at the bottom of her cup, tilted it up and splashed her chin. “Oops!”

“Oh, your lizard skin! So beau’ful!” Sunbright leaned over the table, knocking her cup crashing, and pawed at the front of her armor to wipe off the wine. Belatedly he saw where his hands stroked, and whipped back. He hit his head on the wall, but didn’t feel it.

Greenwillow doubled over laughing, so weak she could only wheeze. ” ‘S funny! You’re so funny, make me laugh! First time in … long time. Elves’re too dour! Do it again!”

“A’ right!” Sunbright brought his head forward, then snapped it back against the wall with a thump. He still didn’t feel it.

“Noooooo!” The elf covered her mouth and laughed so hard she fell out of her chair onto her knees. “Not your head, your hands!”

“Hands?” The man frowned at his hands, found nothing unusual. “Are they dirty?”

“No, warm! Not there, here!” She pointed at her chest, more or less. Sunbright reached for her and toppled from the chair, landing atop her. The amphora rolled off the table and crashed, spilling the dregs of the wine.

“Ooh, mustn’t waste!” Sopping her hand in the spilled wine, Greenwillow stuffed her fingers into her mouth, then Sunbright’s. Unclear on the concept, the barbarian bit her fingers. “Not bite!” she yelped. “Gentle.”

The half-elf used both hands to grab his ears, tugged him close, and bit his nose gently. Their wine-misted breath mingled. “Help me…up!”

Holding one another and the furniture, they clambered to their feet, kicking cups and chairs every which way. Greenwillow towed Sunbright by his jerkin out the door into the cool of very early morning. “Come on. We can go to the women’s barracks. ‘S a’right if we’re quiet.”

Blundering against a wall, she stepped on an errant cat that squalled hideously. With a gasp, she leaped into Sunbright’s arms, and they both landed squashily in the mucky street. Greenwillow, in his lap, caressed his hair. “You like elf-maids?”

“Oh, yes!” the barbarian assured her as his mouth found hers. “I want… Hey!”

The empty streets were very quiet, and even a soft footfall made enough noise to be noticed. Sunbright jerked as he pointed wildly. “Look! Look, ‘s her!”

Greenwillow peered down the narrow street, saw nothing, then was unceremoniously dumped on her rump as the man scrambled up. Traveling sideways as much as forward, he rebounded off the nearby shop walls and charged into an even narrower street beyond. Cursing, the elf clambered up and trotted after him.

“Ruellana!” the barbarian hollered, his voice incredibly loud in the sleeping city. “Ruellana, stop!”

Ahead, in deeper shadow, a slender white figure in a simple, short shift flitted away. Calling, pleading, swearing, the man blundered after, his war tackle rattling, his boots clumping. Behind him, Greenwillow called out that it was a trap, but he didn’t hear.

The ghost-girl paused and turned, and Sunbright got his first good look at her. It was Ruellana; he’d swear it, for her hair was like living fire. She’d mysteriously appeared at his campfire half a world away, then disappeared to haunt his dreams, and here she was again.

She held out both arms enticingly, then flickered sideways into a dark doorway. Sunbright didn’t notice the shops on this street had no signs hanging above the doors, and the windows were either shuttered or boarded over. He crashed down the street, calling her name, pivoted wildly, and plunged through the door into blackness.

And fell a dozen feet. The crash onto rubble crumpled his legs beneath him, stunning him. Blinking, he cast about, but could see nothing but pitch-blackness and, high overhead, the grayish outline of the doorway.

Then there came a hiss like that of a pit of disturbed snakes, and around him rose a wreath like black fog.

With an oath, he watched the smoke coalesce and harden. Within seconds, he was peering up at a black-cloaked monster with flaming red eyes and hair.

Horrified he might have been, but it was an automatic gesture for Sunbright to haul Harvester from its sheath scabbard. The leather-wrapped pommel felt warm and comforting in his hands. The long steel shank stood up before his face, sturdy as a tree. But inwardly his guts felt pierced by a thousand icy knives, and it was all he could do not to throw the sword away and run in blind terror. Of all the legends of the tundra, the stories of undead monsters who sucked the life from men—and yet left them undead to do the same—were the most fearsome. And here Sunbright, exhausted and drunk but rapidly sobering, was trapped in a death pit with an undead fiend.

The thing provided its own hideous light. A wreath of flame enveloped its head, and empty eye sockets flickered with flames as if through a slot in an iron door. The rest was indistinct in the wavering light, but Sunbright thought he wouldn’t see it well under any conditions. According to folklore, wraiths and wights and ghasts were not entirely of this world, but wafted between the seen and unseen planes, so there might be only a portion of the monster visible, or it might be seen as thinner than it really was. So its shape flowed and folded like shadows on a rippling blanket. And here in the dark, it was master of its element.

Still, whether the creature was dead or undead, a shaft of hardened steel could still dispatch it from this world to the next—or to none—if one could strike hard and fast without shirking.

But his assault started out badly.

His head still reeling, Sunbright kicked himself upright and dropped back to brace for a long swing … and stepped on open air.

His iron-ringed boot jingled across torn rock; then his knee banged excruciatingly on a jagged edge of stone. Yet the misstep might have saved him, for the writhing wraith hooked a taloned hand at him, like a net of fishhooks, but barely grazed the front of his bearskin jerkin.

Gasping in pain, the barbarian dragged back his shorn knee. His long shirt was sopping wet, not with wine this time, and the clammy touch of it chilled his skin like glacier runoff. Shoving the sword straight at the beast to fend it off, he gingerly tested his leg, found that it wasn’t sprained, only smarting. Afraid to fumble another step and cripple himself, he whipped his head around to study the trap.

By rippling hell-flame, he’d first thought the walls were coal, square-cut, and faintly glistening, or else somehow painted black. But neither idea made any sense for a simple cellar in the abandoned part of town. Wary of the advancing ghost-thing, he swished his sword right and left at the glistening walls, but touched nothing.

Frantic, he stabbed far to his left. Still nothing. Yet a glance overhead showed he was almost underneath the threshold he’d tumbled over. So either this cellar undercut the street tremendously, and the threshold sat on nothing, or else …

… or else he’d blundered into another world, another type of space altogether.

A world where wraiths stood triumphant.

The monster undulated like a hovering snake and snatched at his scalp with one hand, then the other, testing. A jab, a poke, and the slashes were turned. But for how long?

Chills raced down Sunbright’s spine, raised hackles on his arms and neck and legs. If this were some other vacuous world, he might stumble into any kind of pit, fall down any slope, become lost in a world of blackness and death.

Or something worse than death.

“Sunbright!” Greenwillow’s shrill brought him back from the edge of fear, back to life. The elf-maid hunched in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other dangling her slim sword blade. She’s going to jump, the barbarian thought in terror.

“Don’t!” His voice was unnaturally high. “Don’t come down here! It’s not real! It’s somewhere else!” He was blathering, spouting nonsense that conveyed no information. “Stay there!”

He had to twist in a half-circle as the wraith circled him, as a fox would circle a caged bird. He tracked the thing, which mimicked his turnings. Sunbright had about screwed himself as far around as possible without moving his feet, when the ghast swooped in.

A clawed hand as wide as a pitchfork grabbed for the barbarian’s shoulder, the other his face. Twisting, Sunbright ripped a figure eight in the air, a pure defense. But somehow a hand got through, raked his cheek, twitched upward for his eye, and Sunbright almost snapped his neck jerking backward. Then he fell in a tangle.

His feet clumped on something solid, but his left elbow disappeared into a hole with a downward-sucking roar that must have vanished into the earth. Rolling in terror from the awful depths suggested, the barbarian found a bigger crevice yawning on his right, one wide enough to swallow his shoulders. Freezing stock-still, he tried desperately to think.

What was the floor made of? His jumbling thoughts couldn’t form a picture. Was he standing on the tops of flat rocks with cracks between? Or poised at the lip of some curvy cliff like a broken-backed snake? Or something else, a terrain the human mind couldn’t map?

Whatever, he had to get up. Rocking forward, he slapped his hands down, found solid footing, and planted his hobnails on it. But where—?

Icy hands like ice picks latched on to his neck from behind. Ten pricks broke skin, brought forth red blood that steamed against the alien claws. A half-inch, an inch into his neck muscles, plunged the nails. Any more, and he’d have his head severed like a chicken’s.

But his feet were secure, so he could strike. With a stomach-wrenching grunt, he slashed his great sword Harvester overhead and down. A satisfying chunk answered him, and the pricking nails retreated. Yet the chilly horror of them lingered and kept his spine crawling, his back muscles spasming.

He had to get out of here, somehow, anyhow. But to panic would be to die, or be lost.