Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  tion was laid, thought for a moment, weighing the

  mage's efforts, and smiled mirthlessly. "All right,

  old fraud—I guess you've earned it. Come and get

  it."

  The mage didn't wait for a second invitation, or

  give the man-woman a chance to take the reluctant

  consent back. He scrambled forward, tripping over

  the tattered edges of his robes, and sagged to his

  knees as he snatched the bottle greedily.

  He had it open in a trice, and began sucking at

  the neck like a calf at the udder, eyes closing and

  face slackening in mindless ecstasy. Within mo-

  ments he was near-collapsing to the floor, half-

  empty bottle cradled in his arms, oblivion in his

  eyes.

  His visitor walked over with a softly sinister tread

  and prodded him with a toe. "You'd better have

  worked this right, you old bastard," he muttered,

  "Or you won't be waking—"

  His last words were swallowed in the sudden

  roar, like the howl of a tornado, that rose without

  warning behind him. As he spun to face the area of

  inscriptions, that whole section of floor burst into

  sickening blood-red and hellish green flame; flame

  that scorched his face, though it did nothing to

  harm the beams of the ceiling. He jumped back,

  frightened in spite of his bold resolutions to fear

  nothing.

  But before he touched the ground again, a mon-

  strous, clawed hand formed itself out of the flame

  and slapped him back against the rear wall of the

  cellar. A second hand, the color of molten bronze,

  reached for the oblivious mage.

  A face worse than anything from the realm of

  nightmare materialized from the flame between the

  two hands. A neck, arms, and torso followed. The

  hands brought the mage within the fire—the visitor

  coughed on the stench of the old man's robes and

  beard scorching. There was no doubt that the fire

  was real, no matter that it left the ceiling intact.

  The mage woke from his drugged trance, screaming

  in mindless pain and terror. The smell of his flesh

  and garments burning was spreading through the

  cellar, and reached even to where the man-woman

  lay huddled against the dank wall; he choked and

  gagged at the horrible reek.

  And the thing in the flames calmly bit the mage's

  head off, like a child with a gingerbread manikin.

  It was too much for even the man-woman to en-

  dure. He rolled to one side and puked up the entire

  contents of his stomach. When he looked up again,

  eyes watering and the taste of bile in his mouth,

  the thing was staring at him, licking the blood off

  its hands.

  He swallowed as his gorge rose again, and waited

  for the thing to take him for dessert.

  "You smell of magic." The thing's voice was like

  a dozen bells ringing; bells just slightly out-of-tune

  with one another. It made the man-woman nau-

  seous and disoriented, but he swallowed again and

  tried to, answer.

  "I... have a curse."

  "So I see. I assume that was why I was sum-

  moned here. Well, unless we enter into an agree-

  ment, I have no choice but to remain here or return

  to the Abyssal Planes. Talk to me, puny one; I do

  not desire the latter."

  "How—why did you—the old man—"

  "I dislike being coerced, and your friend made

  the mistake of remaining within reach of the circle.

  But I have, as yet, no quarrel with you. I take it you

  wish to be rid of what you bear. Will you bargain to

  have your curse broken? What can you offer me?"

  "Gold?"

  The demon laughed, molten-gold eyes slitted. "I

  have more than that in mind."

  "Sacrifice? Death?"

  "I can have those intangibles readily enough on

  my own—starting with yours. You are within my

  reach also."

  The man-woman thought frantically. "The curse

  was cast by one you have reason to hate."

  "This should make me love you?"

  "It should make us allies, at least. I could offer

  revenge—"

  "Now you interest me." The demon's eyes slitted.

  "Come closer, little man."

  The man-woman clutched his rags about himself

  and ventured nearer, step by cautious step.

  "A quaint curse. Why?"

  "To make me a victim. It succeeded. It was not

  intended that I survive the experience."

  "I can imagine." A cruel smile parted the de-

  mon's lips. "A pretty thing you are; didn't care for

  being raped, hmm?"

  The man-woman's face flamed. He felt the de-

  mon inside of his mind, picking over all of his

  memories of the past year, lingering painfully over

  several he'd rather have died than seen revealed.

  Anger and shame almost replaced his fear.

  The demon's smile grew wider. "Or did you be-

  gin to care for it after all?"

  "Get out of my mind, you bastard!" He stifled what-

  ever else he had been about to scream, wondering if

  he'd just written his own death-glyph.

  "I think I like you, little man. How can you give

  me revenge?"

  He took a deep breath, and tried to clear his

  mind. "I know where they are, the sorceress and

  her partner. I know how to lure them here—and I

  have a plan to take them when they come—"

  "I have many such plans—but I did not know

  how to bring them within my grasp. Good." The

  demon nodded. "I think perhaps we have a bargain.

  I shall give you the form you need to make you

  powerful against them, and I shall let you bring

  them here. Come, and I will work the magic to

  change you, and free myself with the sealing of our

  bargain. I must touch you—"

  The man-woman approached the very edge of the

  flames, cautious and apprehensive in spite of the

  demon's assurance that he would bargain. He still

  did not entirely trust this creature—and he more

  than certainly still feared its power. The demon

  reached out with one long, molten-bronze talon,

  and briefly caressed the side of his face.

  The stranger screamed in agony, for it felt as if

  that single touch had set every nerve afire. He

  wrapped his arms over his head and face, folded

  slowly at the waist and knees, still crying out; and

  finally collapsed to the floor, huddled in his rags,

  quivering. Had there been anything left in his stom-

  ach, he would have lost it then.

  The demon waited, as patient as a snake, drink-

  ing in the tingles of power and the heady aura of

  agony that the man was exuding. He bent over the

  shaking pile of rags in avid curiosity, waiting for

  the moment when the pain of transformation would

  pass. His expression was oddly human—the same

  expression to be seen on the face of a cruel child

  watching the gyrations of a beetle from which it

  has pulled all the legs but one.

  The huddled, trembl
ing creature at the edge of

  his flames slowly regained control of itself. The

  quivering ceased; rags rose a little, then moved

  again with more purpose. Long, delicate arms ap-

  peared from the huddle, and pushed away from the

  floor. The rags fell away, and the rest of the stranger

  was revealed.

  The visitor raised one hand to her face, then

  froze at the sight of that hand. She pushed herself

  into a more upright position, frowning and shaking

  her head; she examined the other hand and felt of

  her face as her expression changed to one of total

  disbelief. Frantic now, she tore away the rags that

  shrouded her chest and stared in horror at two

  lovely, lily-white—and very female —breasts.

  "No—" she whispered, "—it's not possible—"

  "Not for a human perhaps," the demon replied

  with faint irony, "But I am not subject to a hu-

  man's limitations."

  "What have you done to me?" she shrieked, even

  her voice having changed to a thin soprano.

  "I told you, I would give you a form that would

  make you powerful against them. The sorceress'

  geas prevents her from allowing any harm to befall

  a woman—so I merely made you woman in reality,

  to match the woman you were in illusion. They

  will be powerless against you now, your enemies

  and mine—"

  "But I am not a woman! I can't be a woman!" She

  looked around her for something to throw at the

  demon's laughing face, and finding nothing, hurled

  curses instead. "Make me a man again, damn you!

  Make me a man!"

  "Perhaps. Later, perhaps. When you have earned

  a boon from me. You still retain your strength and

  your weapon's expertise. Only the swordswoman

  could be any danger to you now, and the sorceress

  will be bound to see that she cannot touch you. My

  bargain now, bandit." The demon smiled still wider.

  "Serve me, and it may well be I shall make you a

  man again. But your new body serves me far better

  than your old would have. And meanwhile—"

  He drew a swirl of flame about himself. When he

  emerged from it, he had assumed the shape of a

  handsome human man, quite naked; one whose

  beauty repulsed even as it attracted. He was still

  larger than a normal human in every regard, but he

  no longer filled a quarter of the cellar. He stepped

  confidently across the boundaries of the circle,

  reached forward and gathered the frozen woman to

  him. She struggled wildly; he delighted in her

  struggles.

  "Oh, you make a charming wench, little toy; you

  play the part as if you had been born to it! A man

  would have sought to slay me, but you think only to

  flee. And I do not think a man would have guessed

  my intentions, but you have, haven't you, little one.

  I think I can teach you some of the pleasures of

  being a female, as well as the fears, hmm? Perhaps I

  can make you forget you ever were anything else—"

  His laughter echoed through the entire house—

  but the rest of the inhabitants did no more than

  check the fastenings of their doors and return to

  the safety of their beds, hoping that whatever it

  was that was laughing would overlook them.

  With another gesture, the demon transformed the

  bleak basement into a setting from a whore's night-

  mare; with his other hand he held his victim crushed

  against his chest while he reached into her mind

  with his.

  She gasped in shock and dismay, feeling her will

  crumble before his, feeling him take over her senses,

  and feeling those senses rousing as he wished them

  to. He ran his hands over her body, stripping away

  the rags until she was as nude as he, and in the

  wake of his hands her skin burned with fever she

  could not repress.

  As the last remains of her will fell to dust before

  his onslaught, her body, too, betrayed her; respond-

  ing as the demon desired.

  And at the end, she did, indeed, forget for that

  one moment what it had been like to be a man.

  Kethry twined a lock of amber hair around her

  fingers, leaned over her cup and hid a smile. She

  found the side of herself that her swordswoman-

  partner was revealing disarming, and quite de-

  lightful—but she doubted Tarma would appreciate

  her amusement.

  The common room of their inn was far from

  being crowded, and the atmosphere was relaxed

  and convivial. This was really the best such place

  they'd stayed in for months; it was well-lit, the

  food was excellent, the beds comfortable and free

  of vermin, the prices not outrageously extortionate.

  And Tarma was certainly enjoying the company.

  As she had been every night for the past three,

  Tarma was embroiled in a religious discussion—

  a discussion, not an argument; although the two

  participants often waxed passionate, neither ever

  found offense or became angered during their

  disagreements.

  Her fellow-scholar was a plump little priest of

  Anathei of the Purifying Flame. He was certainly a

  full priest, and might even (from his cultured ac-

  cent) be a higher prelate, yet he wore only the same

  soft, dark brown, unornamented robes of the least

  of his order's acolytes. He was clean-shaven and

  quite bald, and his cheerful brown eyes seemed to

  regard everything and everyone with the open-

  hearted joy of an unspoiled child. No straitlaced

  ascetic, he—he and Tarma had been trading rounds

  of good wine; tonight reds, last night whites.

  Tarma looked even more out of place seated across

  from him than she did with her sorceress-partner.

  She towered over him by a head, her every move-

  ment proclaiming she knew very well how to man-

  age that sword slung on her back, her hawklike face

  and ice-blue eyes holding a controlled intensity that

  could easily have been frightening or intimidating

  to a stranger. With every article of her weaponry

  and earth-brown clothing so precisely arranged that

  what she wore might almost have been some kind

  of uniform, and her coarse black hair braided and

  coiled with militant neatness, she looked as much

  the priest or more than he—half-barbarian priest of

  some warlike order, that is. She hardly looked as if

  she could have anything in common with the schol-

  arly little priest.

  She hardly looked literate. Certainly no one would

  expect erudite philosophy from her lips, not with

  the warlike accoutrements she bore; yet she had

  been quoting fully as many learned tomes as the

  priest—to his evident delight and Kethry's mild

  surprise. It would appear that service as a Sworn

  One did not exclude knowledge as a possible arena

  of combat. Kethry had long known that Tarma was

  literate, and in more than one language, but she

  had never before gues
sed that her partner was so

  erudite.

  Kethry herself was staying out of the conversa-

  tion for the moment. This evening she and her

  partner had had an argument, the first serious dis-

  agreement of their association. She wanted to give

  Tarma a chance to cool down—and to mull over

  what she'd said.

  Because while it had been unpleasant, it was

  also, unfortunately, nothing less than the truth.

  "You're not going out there alone, are you?" Tarma

  had asked doubtfully, when Kethry had voiced her

  intention to prowl the rather dubious quarter that

  housed the gypsy-mages. Kethry had heard that one

  of her old classmates had taken up with the wan-

  derers, and was looking for news of him.

  "Why not?" she asked, a little more sharply than

  she had intended.

  "Because it's no place for a woman alone."

  "Dammit, Tarma, I'm not just any woman! I'm

  perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

  "Look—even I can get taken out by a gang of

  street toughs."

  "In the name of the gods, Tarma, leave me alone

  for once! You're smothering me! I can't go any-

  where or do anything without you rushing to wrap

  me in gauze, like a piece of china—"

  She'd stopped then, appalled by the stricken look

  on her partner's face.

  Then, like lightning, the expression changed.

  "You're imagining things," Tarma replied flatly.

  "All right—have it your way." Kethry was too

  tired to fight with her. "You will anyway. Any time

  you hear something you don't like, you deny it and