The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  Fetid breath choked him as the creature hissed. A flying talon ripped the heel from his right boot, but he dug his fingers between two scales and leaned back. Fangs hurtled at him, able to strike at last, and his hand snapped forward as he buried the dagger in its remaining eye.

  Agony screamed in the tunnel as the steel pierced, and Kenhodan drove the blade inward grimly. Fluids gushed over his hand in a hot tide and he set his teeth in his lip and forced the dagger still deeper into the socket, feeling for the deathblow. Steel grated on bone, turned, and slid into the brainpan. The monster shrieked, and its head bludgeoned the stone in madness. The power of its agony hurled Kenhodan from his stubborn grip at last and a clawed paw lashed in a glancing blow that smashed him into the wall. The blinded, dying creature’s braced forelimbs shoved it up from the floor, its head battering the roof madly, and Kenhodan passed out gratefully.

  * * *

  Wulfra gasped as death broke her link with the graumau and blanked her crystal. She hadn’t believed anything short of wizardry could slay it, but Kenhodan had done it with a dagger?! She shook her head in shock, yet at least she’d done for the assassin, and possibly Kenhodan, too. She hoped so. She had too few such defenders to wear her enemies down one at a time!

  * * *

  Kenhodan opened his eyes and blinked up at a roof of reflected torchlight. Bahzell knelt beside him, one hand on his chest. The hradani’s sword was in his other hand, reversed, and as Kenhodan’s eyes tried to focus it pulsed with one last flare of blue brilliance.

  He felt no desire to sit up, for every inch of his body reported its own pains, yet he seemed remarkably in one piece given what had just happened. He raised his head and saw Wencit standing, sword in hand, gazing alertly back down the tunnel along which they’d come.

  “Easy, Kenhodan,” Bahzell rumbled. “It’s my best I’ve done, but that’s not to be saying as how you’re after being right as rain.”

  “Easy?!” Kenhodan chuckled weakly. “There was nothing easy about it. What in Fiendark’s name was that thing?”

  “A graumau,” Wencit said over his shoulder, never looking away from the tunnel. “Many a Kontovaran soldier died of them.”

  “Died of—? Elrytha!”

  “Easy, I said!” Bahzell held him motionless. “It’s not such very good shape she’s in, but I’m thinking she’ll live.”

  “If any of us do,” Chernion said for herself in a hoarse voice.

  “Can you walk?” Kenhodan asked her, then gasped at an incautious movement of his own.

  “Take it easy and give her a minute, too,” Wencit said tartly. “She was hurt far worse than you were, Kenhodan. Without Bahzell, we’d be the poorer for one border warden at the moment!”

  Kenhodan’s jaw tightened as memory replayed that crackling crunch of bone and the blood suddenly bursting from Chernion’s nostrils. He’d been certain then she was dead, and he reached up to grip Bahzell’s forearm as he realized why she wasn’t.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said.

  “Aye?” Bahzell sat back on his heels. “As to that, I’m thinking as the two of you were after being just a mite busier than me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Mountain,” Wencit said, and spared a moment to glance over Bahzell’s shoulder at Kenhodan. “The Border Warden’s ribs were crushed like a straw basket, Kenhodan, and I’m pretty sure her spine was broken, as well. Believe me, putting her back together again was a challenge, even for a champion of Tomanāk—especially under these conditions.”

  “Maybe so,” Bahzell said, “but I’m thinking as she’s after feeling none too spry just at the moment, lad, and it’s not so very surprised I’d be if you were after feeling a mite less than fit as a fiddle your own self.”

  “Six broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and a shattered right kneecap would do that to just about anyone, Bahzell,” Wencit said dryly. “At least you got all the bits and pieces glued back together again! I imagine Kenhodan will forgive you for the odd lingering bruise or sprain.”

  “He’s right about that, Bahzell!” Kenhodan gripped the hradani’s forearm again, then shoved himself into a sitting position with a suppressed—mostly—groan of pain. Given the wizard’s gruesome catalog of his own and Chernion’s injuries, he felt far better—or in one piece, at least—than he had any right to feel. From the weariness which seemed to have sapped—momentarily, at any rate—even Bahzell’s elemental vitality, it was clear the repairs hadn’t come easy.

  “Take it easy, I said!” Wencit’s voice was far tarter than it had been. “All three of you need at least a little rest before we move on. What did you and Elrytha think you were doing, Kenhodan? Mountain climbing?!”

  “Yes—and the mountain fell on us.” Kenhodan chuckled again, a bit more strongly. “It was all I could think of.” He shook his head cautiously, making certain nothing rattled. “A graumau, eh?”

  “Not a pretty beast,” Wencit said.

  “No argument there.”

  Kenhodan shoved himself up and nearly fell as he discovered his missing bootheel. He bit off a curse and kicked out of both boots. The stone was cold underfoot, but at least he could stand without falling, and he limped over to kneel beside Chernion.

  “Greetings, Border Warden.”

  “Greetings, yourself,” she replied.

  He reached down to clasp forearms with her, and she winced as she reached up in response. Her face was drawn and haggard, entirely too pale for Kenhodan’s comfort, and a dried trail of the blood which had flowed from her nostrils still streaked one cheek.

  “Thanks for distracting it,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” She managed a lopsided smile. “Next time, you get to do the distracting!”

  “It’s a bargain,” he said with a smile of his own, and Wencit snorted.

  “You two make a matched pair of idiots,” he grumbled.

  “Aye,” Bahzell agreed. “And a pretty mess the graumau’s been and made of our advanced guard and reserve, too. I’m thinking as how the Border Warden’s not likely to be fit for aught more than walking—and that none too quickly—until I’ve time and opportunity to be seeing to her hurts completely. And I’m not so very sure about you, Kenhodan, come to that!”

  “I can fight if I have to,” Kenhodan assured him. “I’m more or less intact, thanks to you. I’m afraid that’s more than I can say for Brandark’s sword, though.”

  “Ah, well! It happens. Here.” Bahzell handed him Gwynna’s dagger. “It was after throwing it clear in its death struggle.”

  “Thanks.” Kenhodan wiped the sticky hilt and then cleaned the blade and remembered Gwynna’s awful contempt for handkerchiefs. “That’s three or four times this has saved my life, Bahzell. Remind me to think Gwynna when we get home.”

  “Never fear, lad.”

  “Still,” Chernion said, her lips tight as she pushed herself into a sitting position, “it’s no substitute for a sword.”

  “Don’t worry, Border Warden.” Wencit’s eyes flared in the torch lit darkness as he smiled. “We’ll find another one somewhere.”

  “Use this until you do,” Chernion suggested pointedly, passing Kenhodan her sword left-handed. “It’s light for you but longer than that bit of steel. And as the Bloody Hand just suggested, I—” she grimaced wryly “—won’t need it for a while.

  “Thanks.” Kenhodan tried its weight and smiled. “I prefer having a little distance between me and the enemy.”

  “Speaking of which,” Wencit said, “I think it might be best if we were moving on. I don’t want to sound alarmist, but something large and unpleasant is headed through the Eye of the Needle behind us.”

  “Then let’s be going,” Kenhodan said.

  Chernion’s sword was loose in his scabbard, but it freed his hands for climbing. He clambered over the graumau on bare feet and leaned back down to give Chernion a hand, but it wasn’t needed. Bahzell boosted the assassin effortlessly up beside him as if she weighed no more than a child.

&nbs
p; The dead monster was even larger than Kenhodan had thought. Its armored bulk stretched almost twenty feet, nearly filling the passage. No wonder it had waited here! It could never have squeezed through the Eye of the Needle. In fact, as he scrambled over the catlike hindquarters, he wondered how it had gotten into the maze in the first place. A naked, ratlike tail stretched another thirty feet down the tunnel, thick as his thigh and stinger-tipped. He drew Chernion’s sword once more and stood straddling that tail’s tree-trunk thickness with the sword in one hand and a torch in the other, gazing ahead as far as the spill of light allowed while he waited for the others to join him.

  Chernion slid down behind him and leaned back against the graumau’s body for support while Wencit clambered past her to join him.

  “What now, Wencit?”

  “Now we pick a route,” the wizard said. “There are four, separated widely enough to prevent the same guards from watching more than one. Wulfra should have to stretch her creatures thin to cover all of them.”

  “Could she have another of these?” Kenhodan kicked the inert flesh.

  “I doubt it. There aren’t many left—thank the gods!—and I was under the impression all of them had been left behind in Kontovar. I haven’t encountered one of them since the Fall, at least. Of course, that leads to the interesting question of how she got her hands on this one, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it does, and I’m sure you’ll eventually get to the bottom of it. For right now, though, I’ll spend my time being grateful she doesn’t have any more of them…assuming, of course, that it turns out that way in the end!”

  Wencit chuckled without a great deal of humor and took the torch to free both of Kenhodan’s hands, and grunting sounds announced Bahzell’s arrival as he squeezed between the body and roof.

  “Whew!” He wiped his forehead and sat nonchalantly on the graumau’s haunch. “I’ve no idea at all, at all, what’s after following us, but whatever it may be, it’s a mite too big to be passing this beauty anytime soon.”

  “Then let’s use the delay to move on.” Chernion’ voice came in jagged spurts and her face was taut with pain, but she was on her feet.

  “Agreed.” Kenhodan nodded and glanced at Wencit. “What does it look like immediately in front of us, Wencit?”

  “Straight ahead for two hundred paces or so to reach that four-way intersection. Then I think we’d best bear right. It’s the longer path, and that may cause Wulfra to pay less attention to it.”

  “Fine,” Kenhodan said grimly. “Elrytha, can you walk alone?” Chernion gave a sharp, ragged nod. “Then you stay with Wencit in the middle. Bahzell, be ready to move up fast if I need you.”

  “Aye, lad.” Bahzell grinned. “So far, so good, seeing as we’re all still alive and all. If we’re after being very good, Tomanāk may be helping us all stay that way, eh?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to give him a little assistance on that point.”

  “And I’ll not disagree with you. Himself’s after helping them as help themselves.”

  They set out once more, urged on their way by wet snufflings and crunchings as whatever followed them stopped to dine, and Kenhodan approved of any delay of something capable of chewing that armored hide. His bare feet were silent on the cool stone as he walked to the edge of the light. Then he stopped.

  “Wencit, this light reflects too far ahead. Anything waiting for us will see us long before we see it, unless we get rid of the torch. Can we?”

  “Yes,” the wizard nodded approvingly. “There’s a simple spell for seeing in the dark—I worked it out some years ago, after Bahzell and I found ourselves in a situation unpleasantly like this one.” The hradani’s ears flicked in what might have been amusement, but Wencit ignored him. “I’m afraid it will only last for five or six hours, though.”

  “I hope that’s as long as we’ll need,” Kenhodan replied.

  “Why, so it will be,” Bahzell chuckled. “One way or the other!”

  Kenhodan could have gone indefinitely without that qualifier.

  * * *

  Wulfra considered her remaining strength with hard-won calm. She couldn’t cover all four approaches adequately, and her survival might well hinge on guessing which one was the true threat.

  Her remaining fighting power would be impressive, were it all in one place. But that was impossible, unless she waited to defend the sword chamber itself, and if Wencit got that close, he could attack her directly. Whether he killed her outright or not, half her strength—her golems—would be useless while she defended herself. No, she had to stop them before they got that close.

  But how to distribute her strength? Obviously, Wencit was at least as familiar with the maze as she, and that turned the placement of her guards into a guessing game in which he held the edge.

  She inventoried her remaining forces carefully.

  Most potent where the two demons her patron had loaned her. They could certainly kill any mortal, and wizardry—especially wizardry extemporized in the face of an unexpected threat—would have little effect upon them. Demons were also extraordinarily difficult, but not impossible, for a wizard to bind. That meant it was unlikely—or should have been unlikely, at any rate—Wencit would suspect she had them, so he probably hadn’t prepared any spells for dealing with them in advance. Unfortunately, he had brought along a champion of Tomanāk who’d earned the title “Demon Slayer” the hard way, and neither of her two pets were remotely as powerful as the greater demons Bahzell had slain in the past. Of course, this time he wouldn’t have Walsharno’s support, and there were two of them. On the other hand, the tunnels meant they could only come at him one at a time, and she’d have to deploy them alone. Despite the control spells, they’d be as likely to attack any of her other guardians as to attack Wencit and his allies once combat actually began.

  Next most powerful were the chimeras. She had three of them, and Bahzell’s link to Tomanāk would avail him no more against them than it had against the black dragon or any other non-demonic threat. That meant they’d have an excellent chance of killing him and Kenhodan, but they’d stand no chance at all against Wencit of Rūm if the others could buy him even a few seconds in which to summon the wild magic.

  After that, came her golems. They were potentially the most potent of her remaining guards, yet they had absolutely no minds or volition of their own. They were essentially huge and deadly marionettes; hers would be the mind animating and controlling them in every sense of the word, which was why she couldn’t risk using them after Wencit had reached striking range, able to take advantage of her distraction.

  Her three stone golems were enormously powerful—considerably more powerful than the chimeras, actually—but they were far too large to fit into most of the tunnels. Worse, she’d required the cat-eyed wizard’s assistance to create them in the first place, and if she was right about her suspicions—if he truly had seen her all along as nothing more than bait to draw Wencit into some trap of his own—she might just find he’d buried some nasty little bit of treachery within them. She could think of at least three different spells he might have hidden within the basic working, any of which would have created a blast of destruction which might very well destroy Wencit but would certainly destroy her if she was anywhere in the vicinity when it detonated. Better to keep them as far away from her as possible, she decided.

  That left only the score of flesh golems. She’d created all of them herself in a working which had effectively depopulated a small village on Darsil of Scarthū’s lands. That had been risky, but she’d needed the spare parts from somewhere, and she’d covered her tracks well. In fact, Darsil had blamed Doral of Korwin for the attack, which had helped fan that particular hatred quite nicely.

  They were individually weaker than the stone golems, although collectively they were theoretically more powerful than even the demons, for each had the strength and vitality of a dozen men. Unfortunately, like the stone golems they required individual direction, and coord
inating all of them would be difficult. She was no warrior, and she doubted she could use their strength fully, for she lacked the trained reflexes for close combat. On the other hand, they were entirely her own creation, with no opportunity for the cat-eyed wizard to have sabotaged the working which had brought them into existence.

  North and south where the shortest routes, she thought, and the northern path was the shortest of all. She doubted Wencit would come by so obvious a path, but she couldn’t leave it unguarded on no more than a hunch. A quick mental command sent the chimeras off to block it.

  South was more likely, she thought. It was short, but less obvious. She rather suspected Wencit would choose south, so she sent the demons to watch that path.

  The other routes covered less straight-line distance, but they were longer because of their twists and turns. The more northern of them was the longest of all, and Wulfra suspected Wencit was equally unlikely to choose the shortest or longest path, which made the southern approach more likely once more. Besides, it passed through a moderately large cavern which made a natural ambush point…and was far enough from the heart of the maze to put her outside the blast radius of any spell the cat-eyed wizard was likely to have embedded in her stone golems. That made the decision for her, and she sent them there while her flesh golems marched stolidly off to protect the last line of approach.

  There. She sat back. It was done; now she could only wait and hope she’d guessed right. Given her record to date, she was far from certain she had.