Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  Del grinned. “Guess not.”

  It began imperceptibly, as the worst of them usually do. The tiniest of breezes, lifting a ruffle of sand; a wisp of wind swirling down to ripple silken burnous; the pressure of air against face, stripping hair from brow and eyes. Sand kicked up by the stud was caught, trapped, blown free, stinging ankles and eyes. Del and I, riding double, retreated beneath drawn hoods, until I yanked mine off my head and reined the stud to a halt.

  “Samiel,” I said; meaning the wind, not my sword.

  It took Del a moment. Then she stiffened against me. “Are you sure?”

  “I can smell it.” I squinted. The sun still blinded the eye, unobscured by rising sand, but if the wind grew much stronger the samiel would transform itself into simoom. A hot wind was bad enough. A sandstorm was worse. “Our best bet would be to find some sort of shelter, like a sandwall at an oasis—” I shook my head, blocking sun and sand with a shielding hand. “We’re too far. The best we can do is a sandrill blown against the scrub.”

  Del shivered. “I recall the simoom.…” She let it trail off.

  I recalled it, too. We’d barely met, and Del was still most distinctly unobtainable.…

  I smiled crookedly, recalling those days. And the long, dark nights of frustration.

  Del poked me in the spine. “Do we ride on? Or stay here?”

  “One of us needs to walk. Give the stud a rest.”

  Delicate irony: “Oh, let me be the one.…” She slid off, patting the stud’s brown rump, and moved to his head. “There are bushes just ahead.”

  I shrugged. “Might as well. Much as I hate to stop, with the new hounds of hoolies on our trail…” I twisted, squinting back the way we had come. “If they’re as close as Nezbet said they were, it won’t take long before they catch up. Some of them. We’re slowed like this. Much too much.”

  “What else is there to do? If we stop and wait for them, they will surely outnumber us.”

  “Eventually,” I agreed. “Let’s just hope if any more show up soon, it’s because they did what Nezbet did: rode ahead of the larger contingent.”

  Del’s face was grim. “I like not the idea that so many sword-dancers have been hired to hunt down two of their own.”

  I turned back. “Sword-dancers we can handle. We’re two of the best, remember? If not the best.” I gave her the benefit of the doubt by saying “we,” figuring she’d earned it. “And besides, they won’t converge upon us—that’s not the way of the circle. They’d take us one by one. No, I’m more concerned with the tribes.”

  Del was stuck on the sword-dancers. “And how many can you defeat, even in single combat, injured as you are?”

  “Me? Hoolies, bascha—I can plead sore knee for a very long time.” I grinned. “Maybe until they get tired of waiting and give up.”

  “Did you ever give up when hired to do a job?”

  “Once. The man got real sick… he was dying, so I let him go. Didn’t pick up the second half of my hire fee, either, which should restore some of your faith in me.”

  “Some,” she agreed. “But you should have returned the first half, since you did not complete your contract.”

  “Yes, well…” I blinked against stinging sand. “Let’s get to those bushes. And hope this blows itself out before it becomes a full-fledged simoom.”

  A little while later, as we huddled amid the bushes, Del stated the obvious: “It’s not stopping.”

  “No.”

  “If anything, it is worse.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it will become a simoom.”

  “Seems like.” I shifted my knee, swearing absently, and sat up judiciously. She was right. It wasn’t stopping. It was worse. And it was just on the verge of becoming—

  No. It was.

  “Hoolies,” I murmured.

  Del, hunkered down against the scrubby bush, twisted. And saw what I saw: ocher-dark cloud of sand and debris rolling across the horizon.

  The stud whickered uneasily and pawed, adding to the mess. I got up, hobbled the two steps to him, passed a soothing hand down his neck. “Easy, old son. You know the dance. Lie down for me, shut your eyes…” I put my hand on his headstall, intending to urge him down.

  A thought blossomed into idea.

  Frowning, I scowled out at the roiling mass of sand as it blew across the horizon. At the moment it was still samiel, not simoom, in our location, but in a matter of minutes the true strength and fury of the sandstorm would swallow us. It was not impossible that we could die from it, although unlikely; we had water and blankets and food, so even if the simoom lasted days—

  No. Let’s not think about that.

  Think about something else. Like magic.

  Nezbet had said it: I had called fire from the sky with my sword. I had also made glass but a day or two before. Twice I had created something out of nothing, by using the magic in Samiel and enforcing my will upon it. In Iskandar I had created a controllable firestorm to ease our flight. The circle of glass had been unintentional, and only vaguely interesting—to me—but it did indicate I could do strange and wondrous things with Samiel, given the motivation, the need, the wherewithal.

  And the control.

  The jhihadi, the tribes believed, could do impossible things, like changing the sand to grass. So why didn’t they believe I was the jhihadi since I called fire out of the sky?

  Because the Sandtiger was a only sword-dancer who once had been a chula. Ajani—huge, powerful, clever Ajani, whose burning, as Bellin the Cat had put it, was very bright indeed—had swayed them in his direction. With lengthy, meticulous care.

  The only way I could ever prove to them their Oracle had pointed at me was to show them what I could do.

  In properly jhihadi-ish ways.

  Which meant, of course, magic.

  The stud nodded unhappiness, then swung his head to plant a forehead against my chest and rub very hard. It destroyed my already precarious balance; I stayed upright only by clutching at the saddle, swearing as my sore knee blared a protest.

  The song of the wind altered.

  “Tiger—”

  I quit swearing and looked. Night was engulfing day.

  No more time.

  Purposely, I untied the stud from the bush he could easily have uprooted, but didn’t, because it hadn’t occurred to him that he was considerably stronger—and smarter—than the bush. Horses are like that. I looped the reins up over his neck and hooked them to the saddle. If he needed to run, as I feared, I wanted him unencumbered. A dangling rein usually breaks when stepped upon. But I’d seen a runaway once plunge a foreleg into a loop of loose rein, snug himself tight, and fall. He’d broken his neck on landing.

  “Stay down,” I told Del. “Lie down, if you like. You might even cover your eyes, or hide under a blanket. I don’t really know what might happen.”

  Del sat bolt upright. “What are you… Tiger!”

  I unsheathed the sword. “Long as I’ve got the thing, I may as well see what I can do with it.”

  “And what it can do to you!”

  “Yes, well…” I squinted against the sand, spat grit, shrugged. “Chance I’ll have to take. Look at it this way, bascha—it might slow down our hounds.”

  “It might kill you!”

  “Nah,” I scoffed. “That will be for you to do, if Chosa Dei gets too uppity.”

  It silenced her instantly.

  Sort of the way I planned it; I wasn’t any happier about what I was about to do than Del.

  And a whole lot more at risk.

  I think.

  Hoolies, but I hate magic.

  Thirteen

  I thought of a song. Just a silly little thing; I’m not much good at singing (Del would say I’m not any good), and therefore I always feel a trifle stupid standing in the middle of the desert thinking up a song, let alone singing it, but it seemed to be required. At least, it had been all the other times.

  The Northerners on Staal-Ysta had explained it th
oroughly to me, the rite of singing to focus the sword, to focus the dancer, and to summon whatever power there was in the ritual- and rune-bathed jivatma. Left to my own devices, singing a focus was about the last thing I’d do. I’d been taught the inner path, the way to summon the soul within a soul, as you prepare to enter the dance. There are mental preparations—

  Ah, hoolies, it all sounds silly, when you think about it; and even stupider if you say it out loud. So let me make it easy: I look at myself as a weapon, and the sword an extension of me. So that when I think about me cutting in a certain direction, or twisting a specific way just so, the sword does it, too.

  Singlestroke had been perfect for me, before he’d broken in combat against a Northern sword-dancer who’d requenched his jivatma. Together we’d carved out a piece of the South as our domain, though unacknowledged by the tanzeers who really ruled; but in the way of the sword-dancer, who rules the South by fighting skills and a willingness to kill for pay, Singlestroke and I had been perceived as the best.

  Of course, Abbu Bensir might object, claiming himself the best, but Abbu and I had only rarely crossed paths. He had his portion of the South, I had mine. We respected one another.

  Whether he still respected me, I couldn’t say. Probably. That he’d hired on to track us down didn’t mean he respected us any less, just that we were worth money. After all, it was Abbu who’d tossed me his sword in the midst of the confusion in Iskandar, when I’d briefly lost mine.

  Of course, that was before I was worth money.

  Now he wouldn’t toss me a sword to replace the one I’d lost. He’d take mine, if he could get it… which brought me around to Samiel—and Chosa Dei—once again.

  Wind and sand buffeted my ears. I heard a low-pitched growling, the complaint of a sandstorm trying to satisfy an insatiable appetite. I’d heard the noise before, and felt the power. If I didn’t do something very soon, it might be the last thing I heard—and felt.

  I flicked a glance over my shoulder at Del. She was huddled down against the sandrill—a mound of sand created by wind blowing it into a lopsided pile against some kind of obstruction—with burnous hood pulled up and a blanket swaddled around her body. I thought momentarily of that body, recalling long limbs entangled with my own, the scent of white-silk hair, the taste of Northern flesh. I did not want to lose it—or the spirit that went with it—to a simoom.

  Nor to untamed magic.

  Hoolies.

  Nothing for it, then, but to prove I was the master.

  “All right,” I muttered into the wind, “let’s have a little talk, you and I, about the merits of blowing in this patch of desert—or in the patch holding all those sword-dancers after our hides… and the money that comes with it, of course.”

  The simoom growled on, whining and hissing and roaring. Even with my eyes squinted nearly closed, sand and grit stung them. My lashes were fouled and crusty, my nostrils halfway obstructed, my mouth stiff and caked. Sand grated in my teeth, scouring gums and throat. But if I turned my back to the wind, I gave precedence to the simoom.

  From behind me, the stud made verbal protest. I was faintly surprised he hadn’t gone yet. But, then, likely he thought he was still tied… I should have whopped him on the rump and sent him off.

  Two-handed, I gripped the hilt and lifted the sword into the air. Wind whined against steel, screeching and shrieking as the edge bit in. Around me the world howled. Hair was stripped from my face, blown back almost painfully. I spread and braced both legs as best I could, hampered by my sore right knee, and dug supporting hollows for sandaled feet, ridding myself of precarious underpinning. I raised both hands high above my head, slicing vertically through the storm, until arms—and blade—were outstretched.

  It is the classic pose of the conqueror; the barbaric swordsman counting coup, or singing his own praises with posture rather than voice. “I am master,” it says. “I am the lord. You who would have my place must first remove me from it.”

  I thought it rather fitting, in light of the situation.

  “Mine,” I said aloud.

  The storm was unabated.

  “Mine,” I said more forcefully.

  The simoom sang on, scouring at wind-bared legs and arms. And then more than legs and arms; it ripped the burnous and underrobe from my body, shredding them like rotted gauze, and left me bare on all counts, save for sandtiger necklet, which rattled; the suede dhoti anchored too firmly around my hips; Southron sandals cross-gartered to my knees; and the Northern harness hugging ribs and spine and shoulders.

  Barbarian, indeed.

  “MINE,” I roared, and the song in my head rose up to deafen me.

  Samiel answered simoom. I felt it before I heard it: a thrumming, numbing, gut-deep tingle that rattled the bones of my elbows and threatened to shatter wrists. I clamped down every muscle I owned, locking joints into position. The power I sensed was sweet, seductive, oh so attractive. It knew me. It knew my song. I had quenched it, then requenched. We were doubly bonded, Samiel and I.

  And then the power changed. The essence of Samiel winked out, like a spark caught in a maelstrom, and I felt something else burst into flame to take his place. Something very strong. Something very angry.

  It sheeted down from the sword, coruscating like heat lightning across the Punja’s horizon. Black light. Black light. Not true illumination, because it wasn’t sunlight or moonlight or firelight. It was black. And yet it glowed.

  Sweat broke out on my flesh. Sand adhered at once. Every hollow, crease, and furrow began to itch.

  Hoolies. Here we go again.

  Black light, radiating. It flooded down the blade, tapped tentatively at my hands upon the grip, then flowed downward again, engulfing fingers, hands, wrists.

  I swore. I said something very rude. Because I was, abruptly, more frightened than I had ever been before.

  The light was touching me—

  Black, radiant light, coating flesh in darkness.

  “Hoolies,” I croaked.

  Not magic. I knew it. Not magic. Something worse. Something more powerful. Something infinitely more dangerous.

  The sword had been partly black. The discoloring had waxed and waned, like the moon, dependent upon Chosa Dei. Dependent upon me, and the strength of will I employed to drive the sorcerer down.

  The entire blade was black. The hilt. The hands upon it.

  Black-braceleted wrists.

  He had been waiting for this.

  I shouted. Tried to let go. Tried to cast off the blackened sword, to throw it arcing far into the wind, where the simoom would swallow it. But I could not let go of the weapon that imprisoned Chosa Dei.

  Who now imprisoned me.

  I felt him, then. A feather-touch. Caress. The merest whisper of breath across my soul. Blackness spread.

  “Del,” I croaked. “Del, do it now—”

  But Del didn’t—or couldn’t—hear me.

  I thought, If I turn this on myself— wondering if my death would indeed destroy Chosa; remembering belatedly that by giving up my life I also gave up my body. Chosa had already proved himself capable of unmaking and remaking things he found suitable to his needs. A dying body would hardly stop him. Even mine.

  The simoom howled on. It stopped up eyes, and ears; took residence in my soul. I felt Chosa’s fingertip—or something—touch my right forearm. Then my left. Blackness welled coyly, flirting, then swallowed another portion of my flesh.

  The hairs stood up on my flesh. My belly twisted and cramped, threatening to spew everything I’d eaten.

  Oh, hoolies, what have I done?

  Blackness.

  So much blackness.

  Eating me inch by inch.

  Deep inside, bones ached.

  Was he trying to unmake them?

  Fear and sand had scoured my mouth dry. I swallowed painfully, wishing for water; for wine. For the strength and courage I needed so desperately.

  I gripped the sword more tightly, squeezing leather wrappings unt
il my knuckles complained. Toes curled against leather soles, cracking noisily. Even my good knee ached; I flexed muscle, reset, locked everything down once again.

  One last try.

  “Mine,” I mouthed soundlessly. “This sword, this body, this soul—”

  Abruptly my eyes snapped open. Staring sightlessly into the storm, unheeding of sand and grit and wind, I knew. I knew.

  There were things Chosa didn’t understand. About the spirit. He knew magic and flesh and bone; he knew nothing about the spirit.

  Nothing about the obsessive compulsion of a young Southron chula sentenced to life as a beast of burden … and finally being given something no one else knew about. Something secret. Something he could keep. Something he could touch, and stroke, and talk to, speaking of dreams of someday; of spells to destroy his demons, living and dead.

  Something of his own.

  I grinned grittily into simoom.

  “Mine,” I whispered triumphantly, with a powerful, peculiar virulence born of a chula’s childhood; of the man-sized boy branded foreign, and strange, and stupid.

  Who believed everything he was told.

  “Mine,” I said again.

  This time Chosa heard me.

  Pain.

  It drove me to my knees.

  Ground me into sand.

  Fragmented wits and awareness and sense of self, stripping me of everything but fear and comprehension.

  Chosa Dei was no legend. The story of his imprisonment at the hands of his brother-sorcerer, Shaka Obre, was truth, not a tale-spinner’s unfounded maundering. Chosa Dei was everything they said he was.

  Chosa Dei was more.

  In my hands, the sword turned. The blackened tip—no. Not black. The tip was silver. Like steel. Clean, unblemished steel, tempered in Northern fires, cooled in Northern water, blessed by Northern gods.

  Samiel?

  Black light coruscated. Chosa Dei lashed out, swallowed another piece of me, climbed higher on my forearms. Halfway to my elbows.

  The sword was aimed downward, twisting in my grip. Another sliver of Samiel showed his true colors.

  And then I understood.

  Chosa Dei was leaving. Chosa was deserting. Chosa was trading a Northern-made jivatma for a Southronbred sword-dancer.