The Sword & Sorcery Anthology

by David G. Hartwell

  “Someone’s in a fishing smack coming this way,” said Alyx.

  Edarra burst into tears.

  “Now, now, now!” said Alyx. “Why that? Come!” and she tried to lift the girl up, but Edarra held stubbornly to the deck.

  “What’s the matter?” said Alyx.

  “You!” cried Edarra, bouncing bolt upright. “You; you treat me like a baby.”

  “You are a baby,” said Alyx.

  “How’m I ever going to stop if you treat me like one?” shouted the girl. Alyx got up and padded over to her new clothes, her face thoughtful. She slipped into a sleeveless black shift and belted it; it came to just above the knee. Then she took a comb from the pocket and began to comb out her straight, silky black hair. “I was remembering,” she said.

  “What?” said Edarra.

  “Things.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.” Alyx stood for a moment, one blue-green earring on her ear and the other in her fingers. She smiled at the innocence of this red-headed daughter of the wickedest city on earth; she saw her own youth over again (though she had been unnaturally knowing almost from birth), and so she smiled, with rare sweetness.

  “I’ll tell you,” she whispered conspiratorially, dropping to her knees beside Edarra, “I was remembering a man.”

  “Oh!” said Edarra.

  “I remembered,” said Alyx, “one week in spring when the night sky above Ourdh was hung as brilliantly with stars as the jewelers’ trays on the Street of a Thousand Follies. Ah! what a man. A big Northman with hair like yours and a gold-red beard—God, what a beard!—Fafnir—no, Fafh—well, something ridiculous. But he was far from ridiculous. He was amazing.”

  Edarra said nothing, rapt.

  “He was strong,” said Alyx, laughing, “and hairy, beautifully hairy. And willful! I said to him, ‘Man, if you must follow your eyes into every whorehouse—’ And we fought! At a place called the Silver Fish. Overturned tables. What a fuss! And a week later,” (she shrugged ruefully) “gone. There it is. And I can’t even remember his name.”

  “Is that sad?” said Edarra.

  “I don’t think so,” said Alyx. “After all, I remember his beard,” and she smiled wickedly. “There’s a man in that boat,” she said, “and that boat comes from a fishing village of maybe ten, maybe twelve families. That symbol painted on the side of the boat—I can make it out; perhaps you can’t; it’s a red cross on a blue circle—indicates a single man. Now the chances of there being two single men between the ages of eighteen and forty in a village of twelve families is not—”

  “A man!” exploded Edarra. “That’s why you’re primping like a hen. Can I wear your clothes? Mine are full of salt,” and she buried herself in the piled wearables on deck, humming, dragged out a brush and began to brush her hair. She lay flat on her stomach, catching her underlip between her teeth, saying over and over “Oh—oh—oh—”

  “Look here,” said Alyx, back at the rudder, “before you get too free, let me tell you: there are rules.”

  “I’m going to wear this white thing,” said Edarra busily.

  “Married men are not considered proper. It’s too acquisitive. If I know you, you’ll want to get married inside three weeks, but you must remember—”

  “My shoes don’t fit!” wailed Edarra, hopping about with one shoe on and one off.

  “Horrid,” said Alyx briefly.

  “My feet have gotten bigger,” said Edarra, plumping down beside her. “Do you think they spread when I go barefoot? Do you think that’s ladylike? Do you think—”

  “For the sake of peace, be quiet!” said Alyx. Her whole attention was taken up by what was far off on the sea; she nudged Edarra and the girl sat still, only emitting little explosions of breath as she tried to fit her feet into her old shoes. At last she gave up and sat—quite motionless—with her hands in her lap.

  “There’s only one man there,” said Alyx.

  “He’s probably too young for you.” (Alyx’s mouth twitched.)

  “Well?” added Edarra plaintively.

  “Well what?”

  “Well,” said Edarra, embarrassed, “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Oh! I don’t mind,” said Alyx.

  “I suppose,” said Edarra helpfully, “that it’ll be dull for you, won’t it?”

  “I can find some old grandfather,” said Alyx.

  Edarra blushed.

  “And I can always cook,” added the pick-lock.

  “You must be a good cook.”

  “I am.”

  “That’s nice. You remind me of a cat we once had, a very fierce, black, female cat who was a very good mother,” (she choked and continued hurriedly) “she was a ripping fighter, too, and we just couldn’t keep her in the house whenever she—uh—”

  “Yes?” said Alyx.

  “Wanted to get out,” said Edarra feebly. She giggled. “And she always came back pr—I mean—”

  “Yes?”

  “She was a popular cat.”

  “Ah,” said Alyx, “but old, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” said Edarra unhappily. “Look here,” she added quickly, “I hope you understand that I like you and I esteem you and it’s not that I want to cut you out, but I am younger and you can’t expect—” Alyx raised one hand. She was laughing. Her hair blew about her face like a skein of black silk. Her gray eyes glowed.

  “Great are the ways of Yp,” she said, “and some men prefer the ways of experience. Very odd of them, no doubt, but lucky for some of us. I have been told—but never mind. Infatuated men are bad judges. Besides, maid, if you look out across the water you will see a ship much closer than it was before, and in that ship a young man. Such is life. But if you look more carefully and shade your red, red brows, you will perceive—” and here she poked Edarra with her toe—“that surprise and mercy share the world between them. Yp is generous.” She tweaked Edarra by the nose.

  “Praise God, maid, there be two of them!”

  So they waved, Edarra scarcely restraining herself from jumping into the sea and swimming to the other craft, Alyx with full sweeps of the arm, standing both at the stern of their stolen fishing boat on that late summer’s morning while the fishermen in the other boat wondered—and disbelieved—and then believed—while behind all rose the green land in the distance and the sky was blue as blue. Perhaps it was the thought of her fifteen hundred ounces of gold stowed belowdecks, or perhaps it was an intimation of the extraordinary future, or perhaps it was only her own queer nature, but in the sunlight Alyx’s eyes had a strange look, like those of Loh, the first woman, who had kept her own counsel at the very moment of creation, only looking about her with an immediate, intense, serpentine curiosity, already planning secret plans and guessing at who knows what unguessable mysteries...

  (“You old villain!” whispered Edarra. “We made it!”)

  But that’s another story.

  Gimmile’s Songs

  CHARLES R. SAUNDERS

  The banks of the Kambi River were low and misty, crowded with waterbucks and wading birds and trees draped in green skeins of moss. Dossouye, once an ahosi—a woman soldier of the Kingdom of Abomey—rode toward the Kambi.

  Slowly the ahosi guided her war-bull to the riverbank. She knew the Kambi flowed through Mossi, a sparsely populated kingdom bordering Abomey. Between the few cities of Mossi stretched miles of uninhabited bushland speckled with clumps of low-growing trees. Dossouye watched sunlight sparkle through veils of humid mist rising from the Kambi.

  “Gbo—stop,” she commanded when the war-bull came to the edge of the river. At the sight of the huge, horned mount, the birds fled in multicolored clouds and the waterbucks stampeded for the protection of the trees.

  The war-bull halted. Dossouye gazed across the lazily flowing river. “What do we do now, Gbo?” she murmured. “Cross the river, or continue along the bank?”

  The war-bull snorted and shook its curving horns. In size and form, Dossouye’s mount differed little from the wild buff
alo from which its ancestors had been bred generations ago. Although the savage disposition of its forebears was controllable now, a war-bull was still as much weapon as mount. Dossouye had named hers “Gbo,” meaning “protection.”

  With a fluid motion, the ahosi dismounted. Her light leather armor stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Days had passed since her last opportunity to bathe. Glancing along the banks of the Kambi, she saw no creature larger than a dragonfly. The prospect of immersing herself in the warm depths of the Kambi hastened her decision.

  “We will cross the river, Gbo,” she said, speaking as though the beast could understand her words. “But first, we’ll enjoy ourselves!”

  So saying, she peeled the leather armor from her tall, lean frame and laid it on the riverbank alongside her sword, shield, and spear. Knowing Gbo would also prefer to swim unencumbered, she removed the war-bull’s saddle and bridle.

  Naked, she was all sinew and bone, with only a suggestion of breast and hip. Her skin gleamed like indigo satin, black as the hide of her war-bull. When she pulled off her close-fitting helmet, her hair sprung outward in a kinky mane.

  She waded into the warm water. Gbo plunged in ahead of her, sending spumes of the Kambi splashing into her face. Laughing, Dossouye dove deeper into the river. The water flowed clear enough for her to see the silvery scales of fish darting away from her sudden intrusion. Dossouye surfaced, gulped air, and resubmerged, diving toward the weed-carpeted floor of the Kambi. When her feet touched bottom, she kicked upward to the bright surface. Suddenly she felt a nudge at her shoulder, gentle yet possessed of sufficient force to send her spinning sideways.

  For a moment, Dossouye panicked, her lungs growing empty of air. Then she saw a huge, dark bulk floating at her side. Gbo! she realized. Shifting in the water, she hovered over the war-bull’s back. Then she grasped his horns and urged him toward the surface. With an immense surge of power, Gbo shot upward, nearly tearing his horns from Dossouye’s grip.

  In a sun-dazzling cascade, they broke the surface. Still clinging to the war-bull’s horns, Dossouye laughed. For the first time, she felt free of the burden of melancholy she had borne since her bitter departure from Abomey. Lazily she stretched across the length of Gbo’s back as the war-bull began to wade shoreward.

  Abruptly Gbo stiffened. Dossouye felt a warning tremor course through the giant muscles beneath her. Blinking water from her eyes, she looked toward the bank—and her own thews tensed as tautly as Gbo’s.

  There were two men on the riverbank. Armed men, mounted on horses. The spears of the intruders were leveled at Dossouye and Gbo. The men were clad in flowing trousers of black silk-cotton. Turbans of the same material capped their heads. Above the waist, they wore only brass-studded baldrics to which curved Mossi swords were sheathed. Along with their swords, they carried long-bladed spears and round shields of rhinoceros hide bossed with iron.

  One rider was bearded, the other smooth-chinned. In their narrow, umber faces, Dossouye discerned few other differences. Their dark eyes stared directly into hers. They sat poised in their saddles like beasts of prey regarding a victim.

  Dossouye knew the horsemen for what they were: daju, footloose armsmen who sometimes served as mercenaries, though they were more often marauding thieves. The daju roamed like packs of wild dogs through the empty lands between the insular Mossi cities.

  Through luck and skill, Dossouye had until now managed to avoid unwelcome encounters with the daju. Now...she had run out of luck. Her weapons and armor lay piled behind the horsemen.

  Her face framed by Gbo’s horns, Dossouye lay motionless, sunlight gemming the water beaded on her bare skin. The two daju smiled....

  Dossouye pressed her knees against Gbo’s back. Slowly the war-bull waded up the incline of the riverbottom. The bearded daju spoke sharply, his Mossi words meaningless to Dossouye. But the eloquence of the accompanying gesture he made with his spear was compelling. His companion raised his own weapon, cocking his elbow for an instant cast.

  Gbo continued to advance. Dossouye flattened on his back, tension visible in the long, smooth muscles of her back and thighs. As the war-bull drew closer, the bearded daju repeated his gesture. This time he spoke in slurred but recognizable Abomean, demanding that Dossouye dismount immediately.

  Whispering a command, Dossouye poked a toe into Gbo’s right flank. Together they moved with an explosive swiftness that bewildered even the cunning daju.

  Hoofs churning in the mud of the bank the war-bull shouldered between the startled horses. Then Gbo whirled to the left, horned head swinging like a giant’s bludgeon and smashing full into the flank of the bearded daju’s mount. Shrieking in an almost human tone, the horse collapsed, blood spouting from a pair of widely spaced punctures. Though the daju hurled himself clear when his horse fell, he landed clumsily and lay half-stunned while Gbo gored his screaming, kicking steed.

  At the beginning of Gbo’s charge, Dossouye had slid downward from the war-bull’s back. When Gbo hit the daju’s horse, she clung briefly to her mount’s flank, fingers and toes her only purchase against water-slick hide. Dossouye was gambling, hoping the unexpected attack would unnerve the daju sufficiently long for her to reach a weapon.

  When the horse crashed to the ground, Dossouye leaped free, hitting the riverbank lightly like a cat pouncing from a tree. Her luck returned; the second daju’s horse was rearing and pawing the air uncontrollably, its rider cursing as he hauled savagely on the reins. A swift scan showed Dossouye that nothing stood between her and her weapons. As she darted toward them, she shouted another command over her shoulder to Gbo.

  Hoofbeats drummed behind her. Still running, Dossouye snatched up her spear. Then she whirled to face the onrushing daju.

  The beardless warrior charged recklessly, Mossi oaths spilling from his lips. Without hesitation, Dossouye drew back her arm and hurled her weapon full into the breast of the oncoming horse. Though the distance of the cast was not great, the power of the ahosi’s whiplike arm drove the spearpoint deep into the flesh of the daju’s steed. In the fraction of a moment she’d had to decide, Dossouye had chosen the larger target. Had she aimed at the man, he could have dodged or deflected the spear, then easily slain her.

  With a shrill neigh of pain, the horse pitched to its knees. The sudden stop sent the daju hurtling through the air. He landed only a few paces from Dossouye. As the ahosi bent to retrieve her sword, she thought she saw a bright yellow flash, a spark of sunlight from something that flew from the daju’s body when he fell.

  Dossouye’s curiosity concerning that flash was only momentary. To save her life now, she must move as swiftly as ever on an Abomean battlefield. Sword hilt firmly in hand, she reached the fallen daju in two catlike bounds. His spear had flown from his hand—he was struggling frantically to pull his sword from its scabbard when Dossouye’s point penetrated the base of his skull, killing him instantly.

  Turning from the daju’s corpse, Dossouye surveyed the scene of sudden slaughter. The horse she’d speared had joined its rider in death. Its own fall had driven Dossouye’s spearpoint into its heart. The bearded daju’s steed was also dead, blood still leaking from gaping horn wounds.

  The bearded daju lay face-down in the mud. Gbo stood over him, one red-smeared horn pressing against the marauder’s back. The daju trembled visibly, as if he realized he lived only because of the command Dossouye had earlier flung at the war-bull. Because the daju spoke Abomean Dossouye wished to question him. Without the ahosi’s word, Gbo would have trampled the man into an unrecognizable pulp.

  Like a great, lean panther, Dossouye stalked toward the prone daju. Anger burned hot within her; the high spirits she had allowed herself earlier were gone now, leaving her emotions as naked as her body. Reaching Gbo, Dossouye stroked his side and murmured words of praise in his ear. Once again, the war-bull had lived up to the meaning of his name. Dossouye spoke another command, and Gbo lifted his horn from the daju’s back...but only slightly. When the man attempted to rise, his spi
ne bumped against Gbo’s horn. Instantly he dropped back into the mire. He managed to turn his head sufficiently far to gaze one-eyed at the ahosi standing grimly at the side of her mount.

  “Spare...me,” the daju croaked.

  Snorting in contempt, Dossouye knelt next to the daju’s head.

  “Where are the rest of your dogs?” she demanded. “From what I’ve heard, you daju travel in packs.”

  “Only...Mahadu and me,” the daju replied haltingly. “Please...where is the moso? Mahadu had it....”

  “What is a ‘moso’?”

  “Moso is...small figure...cast from brass. Very valuable...will share...with you.”

  “I know exactly what you wanted to ‘share’ with me!” snapped Dossouye. Then she remembered the bright reflection she had spotted when the beardless daju fell from his horse. Valuable?

  “I saw no ‘moso,’” she said. “Now I’m going to tell my war-bull to step away from you. Then I want you to get up and run. Do not look back; do not even think about recovering your weapons. I want you out of my sight very quickly. Understand?”

  The daju nodded vigorously. At a word from Dossouye, Gbo backed away from the prone man. Without further speech, the daju scrambled to his feet and fled, not looking back. Swiftly he disappeared in a copse of mist-clad trees.

  Gbo strained against Dossouye’s command as though it were a tether immobilizing him. Dossouye trailed her hand along his neck and ears, gentling him. She could not have explained why she spared the daju. In the Abomean army, she had slain on command, as well-trained as Gbo. Now, she killed only to protect herself. She felt no compunctions at having dispatched the daju named Mahadu from behind. Yet she had just allowed an equally dangerous foe to live. Perhaps she had grown weary of dealing death.

  Impatiently she shook aside her mood. Again she recalled the fleeting reflection she had seen only moments ago. A moso, the daju had said. Valuable....