It was worse to look at than to smell. Four priests were dead, and a girl was pinned to the altar by six daggers with bright green hilts.
No. Namali sounded broken, and Leanna knew the girl was the vessel. For a moment, she was overwhelmed with the despair.
"Isn't there a back up?"
Yes. Yes, of course, there is. Not here, though.
They ran. Leanna didn't try to take control from Namali, but the warrior was too upset to fully lead them. So they ran together and it was a feeling unlike any Leanna had ever known. She could feel so much more of Namali, as if the woman had let all her barriers down. Life after life teased at her, she got glimpses into battles, into mayhem and vengeance and all the things the Warrior of Settet was called to do.
But no love. Never any love.
Love is for others.
They rounded a corner and Namali groaned again.
The building was nothing but ashes and smoldering bits of wood. An onlooker saw her, seemed confused at her fine dress and swords, but moved closer to her.
Are they gone?
"Did they suffer?" Leanna asked instead.
The man looked down. "We tried to get them out. Someone had locked the doors. We couldn't break through." He took a deep breath. "I heard them screaming."
She touched his arm, gulped hard but somehow this scene wasn't as bad as what she'd seen earlier—smoke smelled clean, at least compared to innards.
"They were such nice girls. Always training. Dedicated. You don't see that anymore."
How many of them? How many? Namali seized control. "How many of them died?"
"All of them."
The answer hit Namali like a wave, causing Leanna to nearly fall down. She wrested control back just to stay on her feet. Then she ran, far away from the building and the temple, until she found a secluded spot that seemed safe. "Now what? These were all the vessels?"
They were brought here when it was known that I was nearly ready to move on. So that in case the chosen one did not please me, there would be others.
"So there aren't any more vessels?"
No.
"That's great." She thought furiously. "You know, I think there's a warrior training camp in the next town over. Maybe one of them worships Settet and will help you."
There are priests of Settet there, too. They can... end this partnership.
"If the warriors won't work, there may be other options. I didn't say you had to get out of my body."
That is not what I meant.
It took a minute for the words to sink in, and the tone in Namali's mind-voice sent chills down Leanna's spine. She heard regret—and utter resolve. "What? You think I'm getting out?"
I can tell you don't want to.
"It's my body."
You will be reborn.
"How do you know?"
I am.
"Technically, you never die—you just jump from body to body. So you really don't know what will happen." She wondered if there was a way to get Namali out of her head—or wherever she'd taken up residence. "Anyway, it's my body and I'm not leaving. And it's not as if you can force me." She felt something—a guilty twinge sort of. "You can't force me, can you?"
The priests can excise you.
"Excise?"
It has not been done in centuries.
Leanna felt as if she couldn't get enough air. Her heart was racing, and sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.
Please, don't panic. It will not hurt.
"You're asking me to give up my life just when it's getting interesting."
I know what I'm asking you to do. Please, you showed such honor before. Show it again.
"Honor? It's my life and I have a right to live it." And by gods, she wanted to live it. "If you force me out, then you really are a murderer."
There was no reply and Namali seemed to go quiet inside her. Leanna tried to still her shaking hands. Could she walk one way if Namali wanted to go another? Could she refuse to go to Settet's temple? Could she fight off his chosen warrior for long?
I have never had to share a body.
"Well, me either. I've never even had to share a room. So I think it's going to be an adjustment on both sides."
There is no precedent for this.
Something in Namali's voice told her she wanted to be convinced.
"Okay, sure, no precedent. But think about it. We could learn from each other. You could obviously teach me a lot about fighting and honor and well, smoky taverns filled with men with bad teeth and last year's pants. And I could... " A vision of her host's house filled her, the dances, the elaborate dinners. "And I could teach you what fork to use." She could tell that wasn't the strongest argument. "How to blend, Namali. How to get into places you've never had access to. Someone betrayed you—they knew exactly where to look for you—and I bet that it was someone high up. Don't you want to have every opportunity to find that person?"
She felt something relax inside her, a moment of surrender. A rush of happiness filled her, and she wasn't sure if it was coming from herself or from Namali.
What you say makes sense. We will try it.
"Oh, good." She wondered if Namali would consider it bad form to vomit in relief.
Are you all right?
"I will be." She could tell Namali was nervous just sitting around, not killing anything, so she got up unsteadily and made her way to the stable. "Why walk? We can afford to ride, after all."
We could just steal the horse.
"I am the daughter of one of the richest merchants around. We will buy the damn horse."
As you wish.
"So, what do you wear most of the time?"
Leathers. Armor. Metal shod boots.
She tried picturing herself in that. "I don't think so."
It is for your own protection.
"Prudence is no excuse for poor fashion sense. You teach me to fight; I'll teach you to dress, how's that?"
I need no lessons on how to dress, you dim girl.
"Aww, you haven't insulted me since we met. I have to say, wasn't missing it."
You are making me reconsider my decision.
"Decision's made. Honor demands you abide by it." She waited, hoping she was right. She could tell by the way Namali was fidgeting inside her, which made her a little dizzy, that she was on the mark. "And just for the record, if you had been able to take your vessel over, I would have missed you. I've enjoyed the company."
I am the warrior of Settet, not your houseguest.
"You are too my houseguest. Inviting you in was pretty hospitable. And are you saying you didn't enjoy the company?"
I respect the bravery you have shown.
"But nothing more than that? You'll come around. I know it doesn't compare with hacking up evildoers, but eventually, you'll admit how much I mean to—" Her attention was diverted by a cobbler who was setting out a table of samples in front of his shop. "Oooh, shoes!"
Polish On, Polish Off:
A Dragon Tale
by Tom Inister
I've often heard the phrase "a knight in shining armor," but I never really considered its implications until I read this story. This is Tom Inister's first fiction sale, although he's had a fair amount of non-fiction published.
Tom can often be found at his church, on a wrestling mat, or wherever there are lots of books. He has been a pastor since an otherwise-sensible church asked him to. He has wrestled since discovering that it's okay to throw people so long as a mat and a referee are involved. He has written the occasional article, column, or story ever since he supposedly recovered from doing those research papers in seminary. The writing is therapeutic. So is the throwing people.
#
In the hilly part of Brittany where the dread dragon Biggun ravaged the countryside and the koi in his pond swam in solemn patterns, a knight and a maid met on a trail.
George the Greathearted had the most polished armor in Brittany. Madeleine the farmer's daughter possessed more radiant be
auty than even the three maidens locked in towers around the countryside. Thus, it should have been he who went to face the dragon and she who warned him of the danger. This being a fairy tale, he would have nobly ignored her warnings and gone on to perform deeds worthy of his nickname, and everyone but the dragon would have lived happily ever after. But this is not that sort of fairy tale.
Madeleine met George on her way up the mountain toward the lair of the dread dragon Biggun. Behind her, she dragged the sword she had surreptitiously borrowed from above the hearth of the village chieftain. George sat beside the road, using more force than necessary to polish scorch marks from the steel of his greaves.
Upon hearing the scraping of the scabbard of the chieftain's sword on the trail, George looked up. Seeing Madeleine, he stood and put on his most gleaming smile. "Where are you going, my pretty maid?"
Madeleine paused to lean on the hilt of the sword, which reached from the ground to her breastbone. Though she much preferred warmth over shine in smiles, the knight on the path gave her a good excuse to rest a moment on her mission of deliverance. "I'm going to slay the dread dragon Biggun," she said.
To laugh at a beautiful maiden upon first making her acquaintance, however deranged she may sound, is terrible knightly etiquette, so George turned his guffaws into a coughing spell. When he recovered, he replied, "I'm sorry, pretty maid, I had some smoke in my throat. You mean you were taking that sword to one of the men who set out to slay Biggun?" He eyed the magnificent sword. As the last survivor of said group of men, it ought surely to devolve upon him.
"No. None of the men of my village dare to oppose him. But he has taken my sister, so I am going to slay him. Though if you wish to accompany me, I'm sure you have more experience with this sort of thing than I do."
"But pretty maid, I have just come from the lair of the dread dragon Biggun. I am the only survivor of nine who went. We hoped to take for ourselves the dragon's great hoard of gir... that is, of his gold."
Madeleine looked at him askance, for she thought this not at all the proper motivation for knightly deeds. Seeing her look, he continued hastily, "and to rescue any prisoners, of course, and to, um, deliver the countryside from his ravages. But he had the mastery of us. No one can stand against him."
"Well, I will not let him have my sister." She nodded her head and turned to go.
George hated to see anything beautiful wasted. And he believed that allowing Madeleine to go up to the dragon's lair would be a terrible waste. "Wait, fair maiden! Would losing your own life make any better the loss of your sister?"
"I don't intend to lose my life. I intend for Biggun to lose his."
This time, when she started back up the trail dragging the sword, George could think of nothing more effectual to say than, "But... " In spite of her beauty, her clothing declared her to be a poor farmer's daughter. He couldn't tie himself to some pretty face with no money to support him while he went knighting about.
George returned to polishing his armor. It wouldn't do at all to arrive back at court with smudges on his greaves. The sound of the dragging sword receded up the trail, along with its pretty bearer. Such a shame for a girl like that to be burnt to a crisp.
A thought struck George like a flash of sunlight off a burnished shield. Just because the girl would be burnt alive or enslaved by a dragon didn't mean the sword had to be lost. If he was going to lose his comrades and his chance at the gold and the girls, at least he could come out of this venture with a big sword. None of the knights he knew had a sword as big as that one—it would take hours just to sharpen it, much less shine it properly. His greaves almost forgotten, George slipped up the trail behind Madeleine's scraping passage, glad for all the oil he used biweekly on his armor joints.
When Madeleine reached the pool at the mouth of the dragon's cave, she could hear her sister inside beginning to go hoarse from wailing. Her sister had always wailed far better than she cooked or cleaned. Although her chief talent, it had not yet been adequate to find her a husband. It had, however, preserved Madeleine from having to marry Peter of the pigpen, who had worried that this tendency might run in the family. Since marriage to Peter of the pigpen would have been slightly more horrible than death by the pox, Madeleine felt she owed her sister the effort of a rescue. At worst, Madeleine would end up burnt to death, which would still put her ahead of being married to Peter, a far longer-lasting and smellier torment.
Madeleine examined the entrance to Biggun's lair. Heaps of armor displaying the smoky signs of having been recently inhabited lay crumpled near the cave mouth. A puff of the smoke wafted over to Madeleine, making her gag. Perhaps marriage to Peter wouldn't have been all that smelly, after all. She considered a moment. At least if she were burnt to death, she wouldn't have to live with the smell.
With renewed determination, Madeleine surveyed the clearing around the dragon's cave. A steep slope rose above the cave mouth, and a ledge above it actually overhung the cavern's entrance. With a sigh for her tired legs, she slung the sword over her shoulder and clambered to the ledge as silently as she could, having learned from her skirmishes with mice in the kitchen that being higher than the enemy is of at least mental comfort, if not actual advantage.
George crept up in the brush surrounding the dragon's pool in time to observe Madeleine climb to the ledge. He enjoyed watching her ascent, but decided she was lucky some girl was screaming inside. If it weren't for all that racket, surely Biggun would have heard her climbing. So far as George knew, there was no way into the cave but through the entrance beneath her; he began to wonder what Madeleine would do from the ledge.
Madeleine was pondering the same problem. Every element for her plan was in place—she had a massive sword, she had arrived at the dragon's lair, and wisps of smoke from the entrance showed that the dragon was puffing away inside. Now, she just needed the plan. Preferably one that didn't result in her body smoking and stinking like the ones in the suits of armor below.
She eased the sword from its sheath. What would a knight like the one she had met on the trail do with such a sword, a sword long enough and probably heavy enough to smite completely through a dragon's neck? She looked again at the heaps of armor and roast knight. Ah. She decided she should try something different than whatever the current knightly strategy for dragon slaying was. It had probably involved a courageous charge and shouting of mighty battle cries. Right. No charging, and certainly no battle cries. Her sister was doing enough crying inside the cave to suffice for several battles, anyhow.
Madeleine hefted the sword, trying to get a feel for it, and nearly dropped it off the ledge. George, watching from the bushes, smirked. She'd probably give up soon and go back, in which case, he'd meet her on the trail and tell her he'd changed his mind and would gladly go smite Biggun if she'd just give him the sword. That, or she'd go down to the cave waiving the sword around like a twenty-pound spatula, and Biggun would fry her before she stepped inside. Then, under cover of that amazingly perpetual wailing, George could just stroll over and walk away with the sword. He eased closer, right up to the edge of the brush.
The near loss of the sword, however, had given Madeleine an idea. Why not drop the sword? Wait until the dragon began to emerge, then drop it on his head or neck? It certainly was heavy enough to cut into Biggun if she dropped it, and the point gave up little in sharpness to her best sewing needle. The problem lay in getting Biggun to come out slowly enough that she could time dropping the sword right. If she missed, not even her sister's wailing could get her out of the mess she'd be in.
What could she do that would encourage the dragon to creep out to investigate rather than rush out to incinerate? Her eyes fell on the pool near the cave entrance. If she could make something splash in the pool, perhaps the dragon would come out to take a look. Madeleine positioned herself on the ledge with the sword propped awkwardly against her hip, took a deep breath, and tossed a stone into the pool.
An event that completely satisfies one person may leave ano
ther quite disturbed. Though Madeleine was pleased with the splash produced by her stone-throw, George was horrified. The stone landed no more than ten feet from where he crouched in the brush, and he thought for a moment that she had spotted him and thrown it at him. This, he decided, was the problem with taking novices dragon-hunting. At least his fellow knights only managed to get themselves killed—they had felt no need to drag him down with them. He crouched in the bushes, hoping the dragon wouldn't notice his motionless form in the brush when it came out to roast Madeleine.
Biggun, meanwhile, was lying in the shadows near the entrance of his cave. He was rather beginning to like the notion of eating this latest prisoner instead of keeping her, in spite of the oily taste. At least the others had eventually learned to just whimper. This one wouldn't even have any trading value if she wouldn't quiet down. He'd been hoping to swap her for that redhead Belchor had grabbed; good redheads were so hard to come by, and he needed one to fill out his collection. A splash from his pond drew his attention. Normally, his koi didn't jump about like a lot of unmannerly mullet.
One of the problems with making something so shiny that no one can miss seeing it is that someone might see it when you wish they wouldn't. George had spent the last ten years perfecting his polishing skills. And now the sun gleamed off that almost perfectly shined suit of armor.
Biggun saw the flash of sunlight and heaved himself to his feet. Maybe one of those knights was still hanging around. It was one thing to charge his cave with all the battle-crying and sword-waving, but it was something else if some oaf of a knight disturbed his koi pond. Those fish had cost him a blonde and two brunettes in trade with Sheng Fui. If a knight had hurt one of his koi, he'd slow-roast him for sure.
He wondered for a moment if he could chase the knight far enough to get out of earshot of that wailing. Just on principle, he decided to cook the next three women he saw unless they happened to be redheads. The other dragons would all make fun of him if he torched part of his own collection, but no one would know the difference if he just happened to accidentally fry a few women bystanders.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII Page 7
