Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  neatly in two, and the door swung open.

  "You are bold, priest," the demon rumbled.

  "I am curious; perhaps foolish—but never bold,"

  responded the plump, balding priest of Anathei. "I

  was curious when I first heard the rumors of your

  return. I was even more curious when the two who

  were responsible for your defeat before were miss-

  ing this morning. I will confess to being quite con-

  fused to find one of them here."

  He cast a meaningful glance at the demon's com-

  panion, curled sullenly on the velvet beside him.

  The sorceress did not appear to be happy, but she

  also did not appear coerced in any way. Come to

  that, there was something oddly different about

  her... .

  "I repeat, you are bold; but you amuse me. Why

  are you here?" Thalhkarsh settled back onto his

  cushions, and with a flicker of thought increased

  the intensity of the light coming from his crimson

  lanterns. The musky incense he favored wafted

  upward toward the ceiling from a brazier at the

  edge of the padded platform where he reclined.

  This priest had presented himself at the door and

  simply asked to be taken to the demon; Thalhkarsh's

  followers had been so nonplussed by his quiet air of

  authority that they had done as he asked. Now he

  stood before Thalhkarsh, an unimpressive figure in

  a plain brown cassock, plump and aging, with his

  hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. And he,

  in his turn, did not seem the least afraid of the

  demon; nor did it appear that anything, from the

  obscene carvings to the orgy still in progress on the

  platform behind the demon, was bothering him the

  slightest bit.

  And that had the demon thoroughly puzzled.

  "I am here to try to convince you that what you

  are doing is wrong."

  "Wrong? Wrong?" The demon laughed heartily.

  "I could break you with one finger, and you wish to

  tell me that I am guilty of doing wrong?"

  "Since you seem to wish to live in this world, you

  must live by some of its rules—and one of those is

  that to cause harm or pain to another is wrong."

  "And who will punish me, priest?" The demon's

  eyes glowed redly, his lips thinning in anger. "You?"

  "You yourself will cause your own punishment,"

  the priest replied earnestly. "For by your actions

  you will drive away what even you must need—

  admiration, trust, friendship, love—"

  He was interrupted by the sound of shouting and

  of clashing blades; he stared in surprise to see

  Tarma—a transformed Tarma—wearing an acolyte's

  tunic and nothing else, charging into the room driv-

  ing several guards ahead of her. And with her was

  the platinum-haired child he had last seen at his

  own temple, telling his brothers of the rumors of

  Thalhkarsh.

  But the blade in her hands was the one he had

  last seen in the sorceress' hands.

  The woman at the demon's side made a tight

  little sound of smothered rage as the demon's guards

  moved to bar the exits or interpose themselves be-

  tween the women and their target.

  "Your anger is strong, little toy," Thalhkarsh

  laughed, looking down at her. "Use it, then. Be-

  come the instrument of my revenge. Kill her, and

  this time I promise you that I shall give you your

  man's body back." He plucked a sword from the

  hand of the guard next to him and handed it to his

  amber-tressed companion.

  And the priest stared in complete bewilderment.

  Given the weapon, the bandit needed no further

  urging, and flung himself at Kethry's throat.

  Kethry, now no longer the tough, fit creature she

  had been, but a frail, delicate wraith, went down

  before him. Tarma tried to get to her, knowing that

  she was going to be too late—

  But Warrl intervened, bursting from behind the

  crimson velvet hangings, flinging himself between

  the combatants long enough for Kethry to regain

  her footing and recover Need. She fumbled it up

  into a pathetic semblance of guard position; then

  stared at her own hands, wearing a stupefied ex-

  pression. After a moment Tarma realized why. Need

  was not responding to her—because Need could not

  act against a woman, not even for a woman.

  And between Tarma and her she'enedra were a

  dozen or so followers of the demon.

  But some of them were the ones who had so

  lately been sharing her own body with their master.

  She let herself, for the first time since her awak-

  ening, truly realize what had been done to her—

  physically and mentally. Within an eyeblink she

  had roused herself to a killing battle-frenzy, a state

  in which all her senses were heightened, her reac-

  tions quickened, her strength nearly doubled. She

  would pay for this energized state later—if there

  was a later.

  She gathered herself carefully, and sprang at the

  nearest, taking with her one of the heavy silken

  hangings that had been nearest her. She managed,

  despite the handicap of no longer having her right-

  ful, battle-trained body, to catch him by surprise

  and tangle him in the folds of it. The only weapon

  the Shin'a'in had been able to find had been a heavy

  dagger; before the others had a chance to react to

  her first rush, she stabbed down at him, taking a

  fierce pleasure in plunging it into him again and

  again, until the silk was dyed scarlet with his

  blood—

  Kethry was defending herself as best she could;

  only the fact that the bandit was once again not in a

  body that was his own was giving her any chance at

  all. Warrl's appearance had given her a brief mo-

  ment of aid when she most needed it. Now Warrl

  was busy with one of the other acolytes. And it was

  apparent that Tarma, too, had her hands full, though

  she was showing a good portion of her old speed

  and skill. At least she wasn't in that shocked and

  bereft half-daze she'd fallen into when she first

  came back to herself.

  But Kethry had enough to think about; she could

  only spare a scant second to rejoice at Tarma's

  recovery. She was doing more dodging than any-

  thing else; the bandit was plainly out for her death.

  As had occurred once before, the demon was merely

  watching, content to let his pawns play out their

  moves before making any of his own.

  Tarma had taken a torch and set the trapped

  acolyte aflame, laughing wildly when he tried to

  free himself of the entangling folds of the silk cov-

  erlet and succeeding only in getting in the way of

  those that remained. Warrl had disposed of one,

  and was heading off a second. Kethry was facing a

  terrible dilemma—Need was responding sluggishly

  now, but only in pure defense. She knew she dared

  not kill the former bandit. If she did, there would
r />   be no chance of ever getting her own body back.

  There was no way of telling what would happen if

  she killed what was, essentially, her body. She might

  survive, trapped in this helpless form that lacked

  the stamina and strength and mage-Talents of her

  own—or she might die along with her body.

  Nor did she have any notion of what Need might

  do to her if she killed another woman. Possibly

  nothing—or the magical backlash of breaking the

  geas might well leave her a burned-out husk, a fate

  far worse than simply dying.

  Now Tarma had laid hands on another sword—

  one lighter than the broadsword she was used to,

  and with an odd curve to it. She had never used a

  weapon quite like this before, but a blade was a

  blade. The rest of the acolytes made a rush for her,

  forgetting for the moment—if, indeed, they had ever

  known—that they were not dealing with an essen-

  tially helpless woman, given momentary strength

  by hysteria, but a highly trained martial artist.

  Tarma's anger and hysteria were as carefully chan-

  neled as a powerful stream diverted to turn a mill.

  As they rushed her, evidently intending to over-

  power her by sheer numbers, she took the hilt in

  both hands, rose and pivoted in one motion, and

  made a powerful, sweeping cut at waist level that

  literally sliced four of them in half.

  Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, a nor-

  mally calm, analytical part of her went wild with

  joy. This strange sword was better than any blade

  she'd ever used before; the curve kept it from lodg-

  ing, the edge was as keen as the breath of the North

  Wind, and the grip, with a place for her to curl her

  forefinger around it, made it almost an extension of

  her hand. It was perfectly balanced for use by ei-

  ther one hand or two. Her eyes lit with a kind of

  fire, and it wasn't all the reflection of torch-flames.

  Her remaining opponents stumbled over the bleed-

  ing, disemboweled bodies of their erstwhile com-

  rades, shocked and numb by the turn in fortunes.

  Just last night this woman had been their play-

  thing. Now she stood, blood-spattered and half-naked

  as she was, over the prone bodies of five of them.

  They hesitated, confused.

  Warrl leapt on two from the rear, breaking the

  neck of one and driving the other onto Tarma's

  waiting blade.

  Eight down, seven standing.

  Seven? There were only six—

  Tarma felt, more than saw, the approach of one

  from the rear. She pivoted, slashing behind her

  with the marvellously liquid blade as she did so,

  and caught him across the throat. Even as he went

  down, another, braver than the rest, lunged for her.

  Her kick caught him in the temple; his head snapped

  to one side and he fell, eyes glazing with more than

  unconsciousness; Warrl made sure of him with a

  single snap of his massive jaws, then dashed away

  again to vanish somewhere.

  Five.

  I come from behind you.

  Tarma held her ground, and Warrl ran in from

  under the hangings. The man he jumped had both a

  short sword and shield, but failed to bring either

  up in time. Warrl tore his throat out and leapt

  away, leaving him to drown in his own blood.

  Four.

  Tarma charged between two of those remaining,

  slashing with a figure-eight motion, knowing they

  would hesitate to strike at her with the swords

  they'd snatched from their sheaths for tear of strik-

  ing each other. She caught the first across the eyes,

  the second across the gut. The one she'd blinded

  stumbled toward her with blood pouring between

  his fingers, and she finished him as she whirled

  around at the end of her rush.

  Two.

  Kethry tried to simply defend herself, but the

  bandit wasn't holding back.

  So she did the only thing she could; she cast

  Need away from her, and backed off far enough to

  raise her hands over her head, preparatory to blast-

  ing the bandit with a bolt of arcane power.

  Warrl leaped on the right-hand man; tore at his

  thigh and brought him down, then ripped out his

  gut. Tarma's final opponent was the first that

  showed any real ability or forethought; he was

  crouching where Warrl couldn't come at him from

  the rear, with a sword in one hand and a dagger in

  the other. His posture showed he was no stranger

  to the blade. She knew after a feint or two that he

  was very good, which was probably why he'd sur-

  vived his other companions. Now she had a prob-

  lem. There was no one to get in his way, and the

  unfamiliar feel of her transformed body was a dis-

  traction and a handicap. Then she saw his eyes

  narrow as she moved her new sword slightly—and

  knew she had a psychological weapon to use against

  him. This was his blade she held, and he wanted it

  back. Very badly.

  She made her plan, and moved.

  She pretended to make a short rush, then pre-

  tended to stumble, dropping the sword. When he

  grabbed for it, dropping his own blade, Tarma

  snatched a torch from the wall beside her and thrust

  it at his face, and when he winced away from it,

  grabbed a dagger from the litter of weapons on the

  floor and flung it straight for his throat, knowing

  that marksmanship was not a thing that depended

  on weight and balance, but on the coordination of

  hand and eye—things that wouldn't change even

  though her body had shifted form considerably. As

  he went down, gurgling and choking, to drown in

  his own blood like one of the men Warrl had taken

  out, she saw that Kethry was being forced to take

  the offensive—and saw the look of smug satisfac-

  tion on the demon's face as she did so.

  And she realized with a sudden flash of insight

  that they had played right into his hands.

  "Why do you do nothing?" the little priest asked

  in pure confusion.

  "Because this is a test, human," the demon re-

  plied, watching with legs stretched out comfortably

  along the platform. "I have planned for this, though

  I shall admit candidly to you that I did not expect

  this moment to come quite so soon, nor did I expect

  that the beast should regain its life and the swords-

  woman her mind. But these are minor flaws in my

  plan; however it comes out, I shall win. As you may

  have guessed, it is the sorceress' spirit that inhabits

  my servant's body; should he slay her, I shall be

  well rid of her, and my servant in possession of a

  mage-Talented form. Should the swordswoman die,

  I shall be equally well rid of her; should she live, I

  shall simply deal with her as I did before. Should

  my servant die, I shall still have the sorceress, and

  her geas-blade will blast her for harming a woman,

  even though she does no
t hold it in her hand—for

  she has been soul-bonded to it. And that will render

  her useful to me. Or should it kill her, she may

  well be damned to my realm, for the breaking of the

  oaths she swore. So you see, no matter the outcome,

  I win—and I am in no danger, for only my own

  magics could touch me in any way."

  "I ... see," the priest replied, staring at the

  bloody combat before them, mesmerized by the sight.

  Tarma realized that they were once again playing

  right into the demon's hands. For if Kethry killed

  the one wearing her form, she would damn herself

  irrevocably, once by committing a kind of suicide,

  and twice by breaking the geas and the vow her

  bond with Need had set upon her—never to raise

  her hand against a woman—three times by break-

  ing her oath to her she'enedra.

  And by such a betrayal she would probably die,

  for surely Thalhkarsh had warded his creature

  against magics. Or Need would blast her into death

  or mindlessness. Should she die, she could damn

  herself forever to Thalhkarsh's particular corner of

  the Abyssal Plane, putting herself eternally in his

  power. It was a good bet he had planned that she

  must slay the bandit by magic, since Need would

  not serve against a woman—and certainly he had

  woven a spell that would backlash all her unleashed

  power on the caster. Kethry would be worse than

  dead—for she would be his for the rest of time, to

  wreak revenge on until even he should grow weary

  of it.

  Unless Tarma could stop her before she commit-

  ted such self-damnation. And with time running

  out, there was only one way to save her.

  With an aching heart she cried out in her mind to