Tarma moved her head cautiously; her muscles all ached. There was someone in the cage with her, crumpled in a heap in the corner; by the shaking of her shoulders, the source of the weeping—but—
That’s not Kethry!
Not her body, but her spirit. The demon gave her body to the bandit.
What bandit?
The kyree gave a mental growl. It’s too hard to explain; I’m going to break the trance. Tend to your she‘enedra.
Tarma licked lips that were swollen and bruised. She’d felt this badly used once before, a time she preferred not to think about.
There was something missing; something missing—
“No,” she whispered, eyes opening wide with shock, all thought driven from her in that instant by her realization of what was missing. “Oh, no!”
The stranger’s head snapped up; swollen and red-rimmed amethyst eyes turned toward her. “T-t-tarma?”
“It’s gone,” she choked, unable to comprehend her loss. “The vysaka—the Goddess-bond—it’s gone!” She could feel her sanity slipping; feel herself going over the edge. Without the Goddess-bond—
Take hold of yourself! the voice in her mind snapped. It’s probably all that damn demon’s fault; break his spells and it will come back! And anyway, you’re alive and I’m alive and Kethry’s alive; I want us all to STAY that way!
Warrl’s annoyance was like a slap in the face; it brought her back to a precarious sanity. And with his reminder that Kethry was still alive, she turned back toward the stranger whose tear-streaked face peered through the gloom at her.
“Keth? Is that you?”
“You’re back! Oh, Goddess bless, you’re back!” The platinum-haired beauty flung herself into Tarma’s arms, and clung there. “I thought he’d destroyed you, and it was all my fault for insisting that we do this ourselves instead of going for help like you wanted.”
“Here, now.” Tarma gulped back tears of her own, and pushed Kethry away with hands that shook. “We’re not out of this yet.”
“T-tarma—Warrl—he‘s—”
Very much alive, thank you. The great furry shape on the table outside their cage rose slowly to its four feet, and shook itself painfully. I hurt. If you hurt like I hurt, we are all in very sad condition.
Tarma sympathized with Kethry’s bewilderment. “He pulled a kyree trick on us all, she‘enedra. He told me that when the demon’s magic hit him, it sent him into little-death—a kind of trance. He figured it was better to stay that way until we were alone.” She examined the confused countenance before her. “He also said something about you trading bodies with a bandit ... and don’t I know that face?”
“Lastel Longknife,” she replied shakily. “He lived; he’s the one that had Thalhkarsh conjured up, and I guess he got more than he bargained for, because the demon turned him into a real woman. He was the one spreading the rumors to lure us in here, I’ll bet. Now he’s got my body—”
“I have the sinking feeling that you’re going to tell me you can’t work magic in this one.”
“Not very well,” she admitted. “Though I haven’t tried any of the power magics that need more training than Talent.”
“All right then; we can’t magic our way out of this cage, let’s see if we can think our way out.”
Tarma did her best to ignore the aching void within her and took careful stock of the situation. Their prison consisted of the back half of a stone-walled room; crude iron bars welded across the middle made their half into a cage. It had an equally crude door, padlocked shut. There was only one door to the room itself, in the front half, and there were no windows; the floor was of slate. In half of the room beyond their cage was a table on which Warri—and something else—lay.
“Fur-face, is that Need next to you?”
The same.
“Then Thalhkarsh just made one big mistake,” she said, narrowing her eyes with grim satisfaction. “Get your tail over here, and bring the blade with you.”
Warrl snorted, picked up the hilt of the blade gingerly in his mouth, and jumped down off the table with it. He dragged it across the floor, complaining mentally to Tarma the entire time.
“All right, Keth. I saw that thing shear clean through armor and more than once. Have a crack at the latch. It’ll have to be you, she won’t answer physically to me.”
“But—” Kethry looked doubtfully at the frail arms of her new body, then told herself sternly to remember that Need was a magical weapon, that it responded (as the runes on its blade said) to woman’s need. And they certainly needed out of this prison—
She raised the sword high over her head, and brought it down on the latch-bar with all of her strength.
With a shriek like a dying thing, the metal sheared 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 missing this morning. I will confess to being quite confused to find one of them here.”
He cast a meaningful glance at the demon’s companion, 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 driving 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 between the women and their target.
“Your anger is strong, little toy,” Thalhkarsh laughed, looking down at her. “Use it, then. Become 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 nee
ded 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 stupified expression. 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 awakening, 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 reactions 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 rightful, 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 moment 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 anything 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 coverlet 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 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 essentially helpless woman, given momentary strength by hysteria, but a highly trained martial artist. Tarma’s anger and hysteria were as carefully channeled as a powerful stream diverted to turn a mill. As they rushed her, evidently intending to overpower 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 normally 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 lodging, 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 either 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 bleeding, disemboweled bodies of their erstwhile comrades, shocked and numb by the turn in fortunes. Just last night this woman had been their plaything. 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 marvelously 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 fear of striking 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 blasting 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 survived his other companions. Now she had a problem. There was no one to get in his way, and the unfamiliar feel of her transformed body was a distraction 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 pretended 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 satisfaction 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 replied, 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 swordswoman 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 not 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 breaking her oath to her she‘enedra.
The Oathbound Page 28
