The Warslayer

by Edghill, Rosemary

  He sipped his tea.

  "I'm going to turn the horses loose tomorrow. We can't feed them. Maybe they'll find their way home," Glory said.

  "You should go with them. Ride east. You will find the wagons easily enough," Belegir said.

  "You know I don't ride as well as all that." Not with the Allimir idea of a saddle and bridle, not with all of Serenthodial to get lost in. Not that either of those things made any difference to her decision. Belegir had called her a hero, and she guessed she was going to have to try to be one. And heroes did not leave their wounded behind them to die alone.

  She got up to stir the soup, pleased to see that the fruit had dissolved into a sort of sweet mush by now.

  Had she come all this way to die here just for a run of bad luck? She didn't believe it. But maybe that was what all fools told themselves, until it was too late to say otherwise.

  Never mind. They'd have dinner and a good sleep, and she'd think about what to do next in the morning.

  After they'd eaten there was nothing to do but sleep, in the endless magical twilight of the enormous cavern, and she was more than ready for it. She took one of the last of the white robes, and with some merciless plying of one of the harness-knives, tailored herself a passable nightgown. A little tight across the chest and hips, but worlds better than either her armor or another night spent in her grubby jeans. After Belegir was settled and she'd performed her final ablutions, she examined her face in the small compact mirror. Yes, a lovely bruise, right along her right cheekbone. It gave her a rather dangerous appearance, the battered hero in the last reel of the summer actioner, sallying forth to kick butt and take names.

  She wished it were true. She wished she'd brought a gun with her, instead of a bag full of licensed tie-ins and makeup. Or a bar of soap and some shampoo. At least she had her toothbrush. Thank heaven for small favors.

  But what she had was what she had. And hey, at least now she had a magic sword. That was something.

  She unbraided her hair and spent a long time brushing it, thinking of nothing, the purple sword lying unsheathed at her side.

  If only she'd brought her cell phone. If only there was someone to call. If only Belegir weren't hurt, so he could be a cell phone. If only the monster hadn't been out there this morning. If only the horses hadn't wandered off in the first place. If only they'd brought more food. If only there'd been food stockpiled here.

  If. Only. If only somebody'd listened to Belegir in the first place, and the Warmother hadn't gotten loose.

  Brush—brush—brush— Until finally she was tired of it, and her red hair shone, crackling and curling around her brush and her hand with every stroke. Then she braided it up again, this time loosely, and curled up under the blanket Belegir had insisted she take—Gordon under one arm, the hilt of the sword loosely clutched in her other hand.

  Sleep was instant and deep.

  * * *

  Glory woke to a confused clatter of sound. She was too tired to come instantly awake, but she was up and moving without true wakefulness, knowing nothing more of who and where she was than that she must hold onto the sword.

  The shouts—of fear, of surprise and dismay—galvanized her further, without bringing her very much closer to consciousness. She swept her sword before her in a threatening gesture, trying to force her eyes open, knowing she had to move toward the right without remembering what was there that she needed to protect. At the best of times, Glory McArdle had never been a morning person.

  People. Strangers. Horses. Belegir! She got her back against the cart that held him and prepared to sell both their lives dear.

  "Slayer! Slayer! They are friends—friends!" Belegir gasped hoarsely, before collapsing into another coughing fit.

  She lowered the sword quickly and went to help him sit upright, ignoring the others completely. Slowly, Belegir's spasm eased. Only then did she look back at the others.

  It was Ivradan—Helevrin's other son—and two other Allimir she didn't know, leading half a dozen fully laden pack horses and staring at her as if she were the Warmother incarnate. She could have kissed them all out of sheer relief.

  "Well?" Vixen the Slayer growled. "He's hurt. Aren't you going to help him? I hope to God you've brought coffee with you." She lowered Belegir gently down again and stalked off to the other side of the fountain, her mood abruptly darkening.

  She should be happy they were here. Their presence meant she and Belegir were going to live. But instead she felt unreasonably irritated, angry without understanding why. She leaned over the fountain, splashing water on her face, finishing the job of bringing herself awake.

  Ivradan and the others had clustered around Belegir, talking in low voices. The new arrivals were darting her quick worried looks. As happy as she'd been to see them a moment before, she wished them at the devil now, and she didn't know why.

  Best to get out of their way until she was feeling more human, then.

  She gathered up her Vixen costume, slipping Cinnas' sword into the sheath—it fit as if it had been made for it—and bundling the lot (and Gordon) under her arm. She slung her tote-bag over her shoulder and made a determined—if not entirely dignified—exit up the temple stairs. No one tried to stop her. Probably all quaking in their fuzzy little felt boots, that lot.

  She went back into the Presence Chamber and sat down on one of the benches, dumping her gear at her feet. Away from the others, her black mood lifted, and she was able to reason her way to the bottom of it.

  When it was just her and Belegir, well, he'd seen her pretty much at her worst. She didn't have to pretend for him. But the others . . . they'd be expecting Vixen the Slayer, not Glory McArdle, and she felt obligated to put on a show for them, like it or not. And she didn't like it, while knowing it was something she had to do.

  No rush, but she'd best get on with things before they came looking for her.

  She prodded at her shoulder, and was relieved to find that while it was sore, it wasn't much worse than it had been the night before. She peeled off the wool shift and went through her complete routine of morning stretches, ending with a slow walkover that assured her that everything still worked as well as it ever had. Now that she knew Glory was in good working order, it was time to add the fancy dress.

  The Vixen costume was like an old friend, with its friendly false promise that she knew how to go on in the world.

  She took out her compact and inspected her face. The bruises had ripened in the night, a glorious black and green welt along her cheek, and her freckles had disappeared beneath a new coat of tan, making her eyes, even without makeup, almost as gold as Vixen's.

  Oh. Nice. No wonder they turned tail and bolted. Well, that's why God made Max Factor.

  She daubed pancake gingerly over the bruise until the worst of the damage was covered, trying to blend it into her newly darkened complexion—the puffiness was still there, but they'd all have to live with that. A little kohl, a lot of mascara, some blood-red lipstick, and Hell's Own Harpy glared back at her out of the mirror. She smiled.

  "I don't know if you scare the enemy, but by damn, you scare me, mate."

  She unbraided her hair and brushed it out, using the mirror to inspect the roots critically for lighter growth. A few weeks yet before her own natural color became obvious, and by that time . . . well, maybe there was henna somewhere here in the Land of Erchanen. Belegir had been wearing mascara when he'd first showed up in her dressing room. These people weren't barbarians, after all.

  Time to face the music.

  She stuffed all her leftover bits and pieces back into her tote-bag and walked back out of the temple.

  The Allimir had been busy while she'd been gone.

  The horses, including her two survivors, were all picketed at the far end of the cavern, watched over by a couple of random dogs and one of the Allimir riders. A small fire under a portable cooking tripod was heating something that smelled a great deal like breakfast. Ivradan was tending to that, while the remaining All
imir fussed over Belegir in a reassuring fashion. They'd moved him out of the cart and onto a pallet onto the ground while Glory'd been gone, and she—at least Glory thought it was a "she"—had opened a large pack full of businesslike jars, tins, and bottles, and was re-dressing his chest-wounds. There was a large whiffy dressing covering his face as well—Glory could smell it from the foot of the stairs; something swampy and astringent, with just a hint of mint.

  Glory approached Ivradan, who got warily to his feet. Remembering her lessons in dealing with Belegir, she did her best to look cheerful and nonthreatening, while feeling anything but. She realized Ivradan wasn't staring at her, but past her, and after a moment, she realized why. The Sword of Cinnas, with its hilt full of purple neon magic Erchane power crystals, was highly visible over her left shoulder.

  So much for subtlety. On the other hand, he had seen it earlier, when she'd been waving it at him half-awake.

  "Good morning, Ivradan." There was a pause. "Ivradan?"

  "Good morning, Slayer." With a great effort, Ivradan transferred his gaze from her sword-hilt to her face.

  "I'm glad you got here," Glory continued with teeth-gritting bland patience.

  "I— That is, we— Helevrin thought— When you didn't—"

  "Helevrin sent you after us?" she suggested.

  "Yes," Ivradan said with relief. "She said that the Warmother was waiting for you at the Oracle. I found this in the Hall of History—" He reached into the pocket of his smock and pulled something out, holding it out to her.

  It was the pendant the monster had been wearing, the one she'd dropped. In all the confusion, she'd forgotten about it until now.

  "Yah!" Without thinking, Glory swatted it out of his hand. It went skittering across the floor.

  Ivradan cowered back, terrified, and all her good work was undone.

  "No— Wait, look, Ivradan, I'm sorry," Glory said quickly. "But that is very bad magic. It was around the neck of a monster I killed. It's Her magic."

  Ivradan stared down at it in horror, and then at his hands. "I touched it," he said in a frightened whisper.

  You aren't making things better.

  "Well, I don't reckon it can do anything in here," Glory said hastily. "It was glowing when the critter was wearing it, but when I brought it in here, it stopped glowing. I forgot about it until now."

  Ivradan was staring at her as if she'd just grown another head.

  You FORGOT about it? Are you listening to yourself, Gloria Emmeline McArdle?

  "Bring it here," Belegir said. His voice was stronger now.

  Glory went over and picked it up—by the cord, she still wasn't going to touch it without a damned good reason—and carried it over to Belegir. The Allimir girl who was tending him backed away as if Glory were radioactive.

  Glory knelt beside Belegir, holding the pendant toward him gingerly. She was a little bit shocked to see him grasp the pendant itself as if it were nothing much out of the ordinary, holding it up close to his good eye.

  "You say the creature was wearing this?"

  "I didn't see it until I searched the body. But it glowed. Blue. And after I took it off him, it . . . tried to get away, so I stuck it to the ground with one of my stakes while I went looking for the horses." She looked at Belegir. "I forgot about it," she said defensively. "I was going to show it to you. It stuck, sort of, in the doorway, and when I pulled it through, it popped, and then it stopped glowing. And then the horses were getting away, and well, I just forgot about it. . . ." she finished lamely.

  "This is very bad," Belegir said. "Far worse than I'd feared, if She is twisting our own magic against us. As we have Called you to us to be our Defender, so She must have Called others to be her allies. The creature will have used this to Call the animals out to it in the night. If we had not slumbered in Erchane's embrace, we would have fallen prey to its foul casting as well."

  There was a murmur of frightened agreement from the others.

  Glory sighed in exasperation. "Yes, but Belegir, what does it mean? Is this blue stuff some kind of voodoo? What?"

  "She uses it to enslave the will of lesser creatures and bend them to Her will, as well as lending them Her power," Belegir said. "As our magic is a link to Erchane, so this—and others like it—is a link to Her. You must destroy it," he finished firmly.

  "Just promise me it doesn't involve a long trip to the top of an active volcano," Glory muttered grumpily.

  "No. Nothing so distant. You must drop it into the Oracle's spring."

  "But— Crikey, Bel, don't you reckon Erchane'll mind?" Glory sputtered, nonplussed.

  "It must be done," Belegir said somberly. "If it is removed from the Temple it will come to life once more, and She will know all that has been done here."

  "Well, we can't have that, now, can we? But d'you reckon it could wait until after breakfast?" Glory said hopefully.

  "Yes. Of course. And you must let Tavara tend your injury, so that it does not grow poisoned," Belegir told her.

  Tavara was the Allimir girl who had been seeing to Belegir—shy as a fawn she was, but judged against Belegir, all of the Allimir commonfolk were timid little things, ill-at-ease with the magic that Belegir lived with as a matter of course and that even Glory had come to take for granted. With trembling fingers, the girl peeled away Glory's makeshift bandage. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of the gashes, though Glory was relieved to see they didn't look much worse than they had yesterday.

  "You should see the other guy," Glory said encouragingly.

  Tavara blushed hotly, too tongue-tied to speak, but her movements were quick and deft as she cleaned away the greasy salve and carefully prodded the flesh around the gouges.

  "The wound is clean," she pronounced. "It will heal well." From one of the containers at her side she took a small handful of greenish dough, first rolling it into a ball, then working it into a thick patch big enough to cover the whole area. This she bound into place with a long strip of what looked like homespun linen. "You must leave this in place until it is dry. When it begins to itch, then you may take it off." She sounded as stern as a Public Health Nurse, and Glory stifled a smile.

  "Gotcha. Belegir—he's going to be all right, isn't he?" She'd rather have had this conversation somewhere out of Belegir's earshot, but doubted her ability to get Tavara off somewhere private without giving the girl heart failure.

  "He is old, and weak, and badly hurt. It will be many days before he can ride even as far as the edge of the forest," Tavara said matter-of-factly.

  "But the day will come, right?" Glory insisted.

  "If Erchane wills it," Tavara said, casting her eyes demurely downward.

  Fortunately, Ivradan chose that moment to appear with the local version of a McDonald's Happy Meal—a big bowl of boiled grain spiced with raisins and cubes of smoked meat, a thick slice of buttered bread, and a wooden mug full of tea. Glory accepted all three with avaricious gratitude, and wolfed the bread down in a few short bites.

  "You lot came prepared, I'll give you that," she said around bites of bread, reaching for the tea. It was scaldingly hot, but she had no complaints. It was food, and there'd been little enough of that in the past day or so.

  "Helevrin told us we must. If only her True Dream had come sooner—!" Ivradan agonized.

  " 'If only' gets you nothing in this life, Ivradan," Glory said with rough kindness. "You came, and you came in time to save our bacon. That's more than enough. I'm sorry about the other horse. And Kurfan. He died game." She blinked back unexpected tears. "I wish I could have saved him."

  "You saved Belegir," Ivradan said, putting an awkward hand on her shoulder.

  "I hope." She glanced over her shoulder. Tavara and the other Allimir were sitting beside Belegir, having their own breakfasts. Tavara was feeding Belegir sips of gruel from a small spouted cup. "She says he'll be okay?"

  "When I was younger, I fell from the roof of our barn at haying time, and spent the whole season in bed. But I am here today. Whe
n he can ride again, Tavara will release the spell that Helevrin sent with us, and the Allimir will come to bear him away."

  "But you and I will be gone by then," Glory guessed, looking straight at him.

  Ivradan didn't flinch. "Helevrin said that also."

  Glory sighed and ate weird oatmeal. It wasn't bad, particularly if you couldn't remember the last time you'd had a full meal.

  "That's why you brought so much stuff."

  "She said the Oracle would speak to you."

  Only it hadn't spoken to her, and apparently it'd told Belegir she'd go toes-up at the first opportunity. All she'd had was a wacky dream she couldn't quite remember any more. Well, bugger that for a game of soldiers. She was going to muddle on as long as she could, and damn anybody who got in her way.

  After she'd eaten, Glory got carefully to her feet. She'd eaten too much too fast, and in combination with the corset, felt like she'd swallowed a young pig, trotters and all. Still, she'd rather be full than empty.

  "So, Ivradan. Want to come see the Oracle?"

  She could tell from the look on his face that he'd much rather not, thank you very much. But if he was going to be her native guide to the wonders of Elboroth-Haden, the former Grey Arlinn, it'd be just as well for him to get his feet wet with some nice friendly magic first.

  So, Glor, just when did you get so ruthless?

  "C'mon, mate. Y'wanna live forever? Besides, there's a map in there I want you to see."

  Looking as if he'd been told off to be hanged, Ivradan followed her up the stairs into the temple. She was actually getting used to the treachery of the stairs, after all this time.

  He was on familiar ground as far as the Presence Chamber, but once she took him through the back wall and into the Old Temple, Ivradan's eyes bulged, and he stared at everything at once.

  "Belegir says this is the part they used to use a long time ago. The floor's a map. Look. We're here." She pointed at the purple triangle on the floor that represented the Oracle. "And we need to go . . . here."