The Sword & Sorcery Anthology

by David G. Hartwell

  “I will...bring moso to life...without you,” he grated. “Now...Abomean bitch...die!”

  He raised his curved blade. Dossouye lay stunned, helpless. Without a weapon in her hand, not even her ahosi-trained quickness could save her now. She tensed to accept the blow that would slay her.

  The daju brought his weapon down. But before it reached Dossouye’s breast, a brown-clad figure hurled itself into the path of the blade. Metal bit flesh, a voice cried out in wrenching agony, and Gimmile lay stretched between Dossouye and the daju. Blood welled from a wound that bisected his side.

  The daju stared down at Gimmile, mouth hanging open, eyes white with dread and disbelief. Dossouye, consumed with almost feral rage, leaped to her feet, tore the daju’s sword from his nerveless grasp, and plunged the blade so deeply through his midsection that the point ripped in a bloody shower through the flesh of his back.

  Without a sound, without any alteration of the expression of shock frozen on his face, the daju sank to the floor. Death took him more quickly than he deserved.

  Dossouye bent to Gimmile’s side. The bela sprawled face-down, unmoving. Gently Dossouye turned him onto his back and cradled his braided head in her lap. Though his life leaked in a scarlet stream from his wound, Gimmile’s face betrayed no pain. His hands clutched his kalimba, but the instrument was broken. It would never play again.

  “I never lied to you, Dossouye,” Gimmile said, his voice still like music. “But I did not tell you everything. The king of Dedougou has been dead three hundred rains. So have I. After I sang my vengeance against Konondo and Bankassi, after I sang this tower to escape those who wanted to use me, the truth of Legba’s curse became clear. I would forever be a moso, a unifying thing of metal. Only great emotions—love, hate, joy, sorrow—can restore me to life. But such life never lasts long.

  “It was your rage at the daju who stole me that brought me to life by the river. I saw you...wanted you, even as the daju did. The Baraka of Legba gave you to me. I wish...I had not needed the Baraka to gain your love. Now...the kalimba is broken; the Baraka is gone from me. I can feel it flowing out with my blood. This time, I will not come back to life.”

  Dossouye bowed her head and shut her eyes. She did not want to hear more or see more; she wished never to hear or see again.

  “Dossouye.”

  The bela’s voice bore no sorcerous compulsion now. Still, Dossouye opened her eyes and looked into those of Gimmile. Neither deceit nor fear of death lay in those earth-brown depths. Only resignation—and peace.

  “I know your thoughts, Dossouye. You bear the seed of a—ghost. There will be no child inside you. Now, please turn from me, Dossouye. I do not want you to see me die.”

  He closed his eyes. Dossouye touched his cheeks, his lips. Then she rose and turned away. His blood smeared her bare thighs.

  Memories diverted by the fight with the daju returned in a rush of pain. Even as she gazed sorrowfully at the dust-laden remnants of the accouterments of Gimmile’s chamber, Dossouye remembered his warmth, his kindness, the love they had shared too briefly. The memories scalded her eyes.

  Dossouye and Gbo stood quietly by the bank of the Kambi. The sun had set and risen once since they last saw the heat-mist rise from the river. Dossouye stroked Gbo’s side, thankful that Gimmile had penned him the day before. Formidable though the war-bull was, there was still a chance the daju might have brought him down with a lucky thrust of sword or spear. In her swordhand, Dossouye held a brass figurine of a bela with a broken kalimba. Tarnish trickled like blood down the metal side of the moso.

  “You never needed Legba, Gimmile,” Dossouye murmured sadly. “You could have sung your vengeance in other cities, and all the kings of Mossi would have laughed at Konondo’s pettiness, and the laughter would have reached Dedougou. The sting of your songs would have long outlived the sting of his lash.”

  She closed her fist around the moso.

  “You did not need Legba for me, either, Gimmile.”

  Drawing back her arm, Dossouye hurled the moso into the Kambi. It sank with a splash as infinitesimal as the ranting of woman and man against the gods.

  Mounting Gbo, Dossouye urged him into the water. Now she would complete the crossing that had been interrupted the day before. Her road still led to nowhere. But Gimmile sang in her soul....

  Undertow

  KARL EDWARD WAGNER

  Prologue

  “She was brought in not long past dark,” wheezed the custodian, scuttling crablike along the rows of silent, shrouded slabs. “The city guard found her, carried her in. Sounds like the one you’re asking about.”

  He paused beside one of the waist-high stone tables and lifted its filthy sheet. A girl’s contorted face turned sightlessly upward—painted and rouged, a ghastly strumpet’s mask against the pallor of her skin. Clots of congealed blood hung like a necklace of dark rubies along the gash across her throat.

  The cloaked man shook his head curtly within the shadow of his hood, and the moon-faced custodian let the sheet drop back.

  “Not the one I was thinking of,” he murmured apologetically. “It gets confusing sometimes, you know, what with so many, and them coming and going all the while.” Sniffling in the cool air, he pushed his rotund bulk between the narrow aisles, careful to avoid the stained and filthy shrouds. Looming over his guide, the cloaked figure followed in silence.

  Low-flamed lamps cast dismal light across the necrotorium of Carsultyal. Smoldering braziers spewed fitful, heavy fumed clouds of clinging incense that merged with the darkness and the stones and the decay—its cloying sweetness more nauseating than the stench of death it embraced. Through the thick gloom echoed the monotonous drip-drip-drip of melting ice, at times chorused suggestively by some heavier splash. The municipal morgue was crowded tonight—as always. Only a few of its hundred or more slate beds stood dark and bare; the others all displayed anonymous shapes bulging beneath blotched sheets—some protruding at curious angles, as if these restless dead struggled to burst free of the coarse folds. Night now hung over Carsultyal, but within this windowless subterranean chamber it was always night. In shadow pierced only by the sickly flame of funereal lamps, the nameless dead of Carsultyal lay unmourned—waited the required interval of time for someone to claim them, else to be carted off to some unmarked communal grave beyond the city walls.

  “Here, I believe,” announced the custodian. “Yes. I’ll just get a lamp.”

  “Show me,” demanded a voice from within the hood. The portly official glanced at the other uneasily. There was an aura of power, of blighted majesty about the cloaked figure that boded ill in arrogant Carsultyal, whose clustered, star-reaching towers were whispered to be overawed by cellars whose depths plunged farther still. “Light’s poor back here,” he protested, drawing back the tattered shroud.

  The visitor cursed low in his throat—an inhuman sound touched less by grief than feral rage.

  The face that stared at them with too wide eyes had been beautiful in life; in death it was purpled, bloated, contorted in pain. Dark blood stained the tip of her protruding tongue, and her neck seemed bent at an unnatural angle. A gown of light-colored silk was stained and disordered. She lay supine, hands clenched into tight fists at her side.

  “The city guard found her?” repeated the visitor in a harsh voice.

  “Yes, just after nightfall. In the park overlooking the harbor. She was hanging from a branch—there in the grove with all the white flowers every spring. Must have just happened—said her body was warm as life, though there’s a chill to the sea breeze tonight. Looks like she done it herself—climbed out on the branch, tied the noose, and jumped off. Wonder why they do it—her as pretty a young thing as I’ve seen brought in, and took well care of, too.”

  The stranger stood in rigid silence, staring at the strangled girl.

  “Will you come back in the morning to claim her, or do you want to wait upstairs?” suggested the custodian.

  “I’ll take her now.”<
br />
  The plump attendant fingered the gold coin his visitor had tossed him a short time before. His lips tightened in calculation. Often there appeared at the necrotorium those who wished to remove bodies clandestinely for strange and secret reasons—a circumstance which made lucrative this disagreeable office. “Can’t allow that,” he argued. “There’s laws and forms—you shouldn’t even be here at this hour. They’ll be wanting their questions answered. And there’s fees....”

  With a snarl of inexpressible fury, the stranger turned on him. The sudden movement flung back his hood. The caretaker for the first time saw his visitor’s eyes. He had breath for a short bleat of terror, before the dirk he did not see smashed through his heart.

  Workers the next day, puzzling over the custodian’s disappearance, were shocked to discover, on examining the night’s new tenants for the necrotorium, that he had not disappeared after all.

  I. Seekers in the Night

  There—he heard the sound again.

  Mavrsal left off his disgruntled contemplation of the near-empty wine bottle and stealthily came to his feet. The captain of the Tuab was alone in his cabin, and the hour was late. For hours the only sounds close at hand had been the slap of waves on the barnacled hull, the creak of cordage, and the dull thud of the caravel’s aged timbers against the quay. Then had come a soft footfall, a muffled fumbling among the deck gear outside his half-open door. Too loud for rats—a thief, then?

  Grimly Mavrsal unsheathed his heavy cutlass and caught up a lantern. He cat-footed onto the deck, reflecting bitterly over his worthless crew. From cook to first mate, they had deserted his ship a few days before, angered over wages months unpaid. An unseasonable squall had forced them to jettison most of their cargo of copper ingots, and the Tuab had limped into the harbor of Carsultyal with shredded sails, a cracked mainmast, a dozen new leaks from wrenched timbers, and the rest of her worn fittings in no better shape. Instead of the expected wealth, the decimated cargo had brought in barely enough capital to cover the expense of refitting. Mavrsal argued that until refitted, the Tuab was unseaworthy, and that once repairs were complete, another cargo could be found (somehow), and then wages long in arrears could be paid—with a bonus for patient loyalty. The crew cared neither for his logic nor his promises and defected amidst stormy threats.

  Had one of them returned to carry out...? Mavrsal hunched his thick shoulders truculently and hefted the cutlass. The master of the Tuab had never run from a brawl, much less a sneak thief or slinking assassin.

  Night skies of autumn were bright over Carsultyal, making the lantern almost unneeded. Mavrsal surveyed the soft shadows of the caravel’s deck, his brown eyes narrowed and alert beneath shaggy brows. But he heard the low sobbing almost at once, so there was no need to prowl about the deck.

  He strode quickly to the mound of torn sail and rigging at the far rail. “All right, come out of that!” he rumbled, beckoning with the tip of his blade to the half-seen figure crouched against the rail. The sobbing choked into silence. Mavrsal prodded the canvas with an impatient boot. “Out of there, damn it!” he repeated.

  The canvas gave a wriggle and a pair of sandaled feet backed out, followed by bare legs and rounded hips that strained against the bunched fabric of her gown. Mavrsal pursed his lips thoughtfully as the girl emerged and stood before him. There were no tears in the eyes that met his gaze. The aristocratic face was defiant, although the flared nostrils and tightly pressed lips hinted that her defiance was a mask. Nervous fingers smoothed the silken gown and adjusted her cloak of dark brown wool.

  “Inside.” Mavrsal gestured with his cutlass to the lighted cabin.

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” she protested.

  “Looking for something to steal.”

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “We’ll talk inside.” He nudged her forward, and sullenly she complied.

  Following her through the door, Mavrsal locked it behind him and replaced the lantern. Returning the cutlass to its scabbard, he dropped back into his chair and contemplated his discovery.

  “I’m no thief,” she repeated, fidgeting with the fastenings of her cloak.

  No, he decided, she probably wasn’t—not that there was much aboard a decrepit caravel like the Tuab to attract a thief. But why had she crept aboard? She was a harlot, he assumed—what other business drew a girl of her beauty alone into the night of Carsultyal’s waterfront? And she was beautiful, he noted with growing surprise. A tangle of loosely bound red hair fell over her shoulders and framed a face whose pale-skinned classic beauty was enhanced rather than flawed by a dust of freckles across her thin-bridged nose. Eyes of startling green gazed at him with a defiance that seemed somehow haunted. She was tall, willowy. Before she settled the dark cloak about her shoulders, he had noted the high, conical breasts and softly rounded figure beneath the clinging gown of green silk. An emerald of good quality graced her hand, and about her neck she wore a wide collar of dark leather and red silk from which glinted a larger emerald.

  No, thought Mavrsal—again revising his judgment—she was too lovely, her garments too costly, for the quality of street tart who plied these waters. His bewilderment deepened. “Why were you on board, then?” he demanded in a manner less abrupt.

  Her eyes darted about the cabin. “I don’t know,” she returned.

  Mavrsal grunted in vexation. “Were you trying to stow away?”

  She responded with a small shrug. “I suppose so.” The sea captain gave a snort and drew his stocky frame erect. “Then you’re a damn fool—or must think I’m one! Stow away on a battered old warrior like the Tuab, when there’s plainly no cargo to put to sea, and any eye can see the damn ship’s being refitted! Why, that ring you’re wearing would book passage to any port you’d care to see, and on a first-class vessel! And to wander these streets at this hour! Well, maybe that’s your business, and maybe you aren’t careful of your trade, but there’s scum along these waterfront dives that would slit a wench’s throat as soon as pay her! Vaul! I’ve been in port three days and four nights, and already I’ve heard talk of enough depraved murders of pretty girls like you to—”

  “Will you stop it!” she hissed in a tight voice. Slumping into the cabin’s one other chair, she propped her elbows onto the rough table and jammed her fists against her forehead. Russet tresses tumbled over her face like a veil, so that Mavrsal could not read the emotions etched there. In the hollow of the cloak’s parted folds, her breasts trembled with the quick pounding of her heart.

  Sighing, he drained the last of the wine into his mug and pushed the pewter vessel toward the girl. There was another bottle in his cupboard; rising, he drew it out along with another cup. She was carefully sipping from the proffered mug when he resumed his place.

  “Look, what’s your name?” he asked her.

  She paused so tensely before replying, “Dessylyn.”

  The name meant nothing to Mavrsal, although as the tension waxed and receded from her bearing, he understood that she had been concerned that her name would bring recognition.

  Mavrsal smoothed his close-trimmed brown beard. There was a rough-and-ready toughness about his face that belied the fact that he had not quite reached thirty years, and women liked to tell him his rugged features were handsome. His left ear—badly scarred in a tavern brawl—gave him some concern, but it lay hidden beneath the unruly mass of his hair. “Well, Dessylyn,” he grinned. “My name’s Mavrsal, and this is my ship. And if you’re worried about finding a place, you can spend the night here.”

  There was dread in her face. “I can’t.”

  Mavrsal frowned, thinking he had been snubbed, and started to make an angry retort.

  “I dare not...stay here too long,” Dessylyn interposed, fear glowing in her eyes.

  Mavrsal made an exasperated grimace. “Girl, you sneaked aboard my ship like a thief, but I’m inclined to forget your trespassing. Now, my cabin’s cozy, girls tell me I’m a pleasant companion, and I’m generous with my coin.
So why wander off into the night, where in the first filthy alley some pox-ridden drunk is going to take for free what I’m willing to pay for?”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “Very plainly I don’t.” He watched her fidget with the pewter mug for a moment, then added pointedly, “Besides, you can hide here.”

  “By the gods! I wish I could!” she cried out. “If only I could hide from him!”

  Brows knit in puzzlement, Mavrsal listened to the strangled sobs that rose muffled through the tousled auburn mane. He had not expected so unsettling a response to his probe. Thinking that every effort to penetrate the mystery surrounding Dessylyn only left him further in the dark, he measured out another portion of wine—and wondered if he should apologize for something.

  “I suppose that’s why I did it,” she was mumbling. “I was able to slip away for a short while. So I walked along the shore, and I saw all the ships poised for flight along the harbor, and I thought how wonderful to be free like that! To step on board some strange ship, and to sail into the night to some unknown land—where he could never find me! To be free! Oh, I knew I could never escape him like that, but still when I walked by your ship, I wanted to try! I thought I could go through the motions—pretend I was escaping him!

  “Only I know there’s no escape from Kane!”

  “Kane!” Mavrsal breathed a curse. Anger toward the girl’s tormentor that had started to flare within him abruptly shuddered under the chill blast of fear.

  Kane! Even to a stranger in Carsultyal, greatest city of mankind’s dawn, that name evoked the specter of terror. A thousand tales were whispered of Kane; even in this city of sorcery, where the lost knowledge of pre-human Earth had been recovered to forge man’s stolen civilization, Kane was a figure of awe and mystery. Despite uncounted tales of strange and disturbing nature, almost nothing was known for certain of the man save that for generations his tower had brooded over Carsultyal. There he followed the secret paths along which his dark genius led him, and the hand of Kane was rarely seen (though it was often felt) in the affairs of Carsultyal. Brother sorcerers and masters of powers temporal alike spoke his name with dread, and those who dared to make him an enemy seldom were given long, to repent their audacity.