Sword Play

by Clayton Emery

  She caroled the last, for Sysquemalyn, dragged on skinless fingers that left a bloody trail, had been dragged wholly into the slot.

  With a pop, the portal snapped shut.

  “Candlemas.”

  The podgy mage jumped as if jabbed with a spear, for all his mistress’s quiet tones. Sweat ran off his bald head, trickled out of his beard. Off to one side, Sunbright wished he were somewhere—anywhere—else. At least he’d had a chance when fighting fiends.

  “Don’t fret, child. I’m not angry at you—much.” The lady paced back and forth, from table to window and back, a sign she was already eager to move on to other pursuits. Perhaps the worst was over, the two men hoped. “No, I’m pleased with your performance, overall. You recovered the book from Wrathburn’s hoard, and it pleases me.”

  Reaching into a black sleeve no larger than a sock, she extracted the massive book with the ruby-studded cover, the tome of ancient, magical lore of some lost race. Sunbright recalled he’d collected that book, but he kept the information to himself.

  Casually she dropped the book on a window ledge, then continued pacing, the men tracking her movements with the sick fascination of a wounded bird watching a cat. “True, you were foolish enough to abet Sysquemalyn in her inane wager, but gambling is a curse of the Netherese, and we’ll chalk you up as having been led into temptation. And you kept her from committing worse sins, I suppose, so we’ll excuse your part. And besides, I can’t expel both my chamberlain and steward, or there’ll be no one to run my estate. So, as a reward, I’ll forward you some scrolls and divinations that will let you exploit some higher resources previously denied you.”

  All this time, it seemed, Candlemas hadn’t breathed. He sucked air now as if unable to believe his good fortune. Not only had he not been crushed like an insect, or worse, but he’d been rewarded with access to superior knowledge. Perhaps, if he absorbed it correctly, he could step up a level and become an archmage himself. It was more than he could have hoped for, and it made him dizzy … and wary of his dangerous, unpredictable mistress.

  So his head jerked as she finished, “And please remember, dear ’Mas. A wise master—or mistress—treats his servitors well.”

  Candlemas had to swallow to get out the words, “Yes, mistress. I’ll remember.”

  “Good.” The archmage propped her hands on the windowsill and raised herself on tiptoes, like a little girl, to see around a tower of the castle. “Now get back to work, for there’s much cleanup left. I believe there are at least a dozen dead bats littering the wine cellar and poisoning the well. And we’ve lost our chamberlain to her little dollhouse, so you’ll have twice the work to keep you out of trouble. Go now, and attend your chores.”

  “Yes, mistress!” Scrambling off his fat backside, churning his chunky legs, the mage left dust spinning in the air as he ran for the doorway and down the corridor.

  Lady Polaris sniffed, rubbed the end of her nose, then turned and gathered up the ancient tome. Hefting it as if for an evening’s read, she started for the door, striding as elegantly as a deer.

  Greatly daring, Sunbright cleared his throat.

  Was it with a flash of irritation that Lady Polaris paused and regarded him? Certainly her voice was cool. “Oh, yes. What are we to do with you?”

  Sunbright wasn’t even sure the question was addressed to him, or if she were simply thinking aloud. But he spoke out boldly. “If you please, send me back to the surface. I’ve been too long below and above it.”

  A white eyebrow arched. “You wish no other reward?”

  The barbarian almost sighed with exhaustion, both physical and mental. But he bit his tongue, careful to show nothing that could be conveyed as disrespect. Like an animal hunted to its lair, he could only beware and hope. “No, milady.”

  A shrug. “Done.” The eyebrow arched in his direction.

  The world spun for a second, a stone ceiling replaced by blue sky replaced by a mountaintop replaced by pine branches. Sunbright had thrown his hands to the side to grab hold and now clutched pine needles. Blinking, he sat up, making sure Harvester was safe at home in its sheath. If he had his sword, he had all he needed.

  Except, upon finally finding himself alone and safe once more, he remembered the ache in his breast, as if his heart had been removed.

  He was alone, because …

  “Wait!” Suddenly his brain was clear and throbbing, and he shouted a name at the sky. “What about Greenwillow? Milady! Please, if you can, bring back Greenwillow! Please!”

  Only echoes returned.

  After a while, his voice cracking in grief, the barbarian collapsed and knew no more.

  * * * * *

  Far below human trouble, deep in the crust of Abeir-Toril in a cavern that had never known sunshine, a clutch of upright cones poised on stinger tails that were as hard as diamonds. The creatures were agitated and often whirled in place, as if eager to be away, somewhere, anywhere. That they could not go where they wished was their reason for gathering.

  Lost. Two more of us, gone.

  Dead forever.

  And not even our magic can re-form them.

  Magic is too much for humans to handle. They do not understand it and never will.

  We must wipe them out before they spread too far.

  I suggested that centuries ago, but no one listened.

  We’re listening now.

  Too late.

  Too late for us, then.

  Returning to my suggestion …

  That again?

  Gentle beings, we’ve just witnessed the worst magic-storm in our history. It occurred far below the surface, farther than humans and other spined ilk have ventured before, and killed two of our tribe. Magic seeps downward, and the humans expend it like rainfall. Soon there will be no room for the phaerimm. We can perch here and bewail our fate, but words accomplish nothing. Nor has anyone offered a good suggestion.

  Our lifedrain has weakened the humans’ hold on the earth and generated instability. The lowest masses, the workers, will rise against their masters on the day the last loaf is eaten. Even the high Neth begin to grasp that As pressures build from below, like a volcano, and resources grow shorter, the strain will tell in the upper levels of their society. Let us contribute to that pressure rather than seek to avoid it, as we cannot. To undermine the Neth, to stir up their magics as tornadoes stir the atmosphere, will force them to expend more. Let them burn bright and hot, and extinguish that much quicker. Let us heap fuel on their fires!

  Fight fire with fire, as humans say?

  Yes, until the inferno overtakes them.

  And we take what is left, which will be next to nothing?

  We take what remains, true. But now even the earth is not our own.

  I am in agreement.

  I, too.

  And I.

  So say we all, then. Heap magic on their heads until it burns them.

  Where do we start?

  Chapter 18

  “Sunbright!”

  The barbarian whirled to peer at the darkness and aimed Harvester at the voice. This was no cave, but an old mine, cut square and pillared, but with a very low ceiling, scarcely the height of a dwarf. Sunbright didn’t like the looming confinement, but he’d endured worse. The gray-square exit was no more than thirty feet behind him.

  And before him …

  “Greenwillow!”

  The half-elf stood farther on in the darkness, her pale skin almost glowing in the dim, reflected light. She stood tall and proud, but with her arms held before her enticingly. Sunbright could see every feature plainly: her peaked eyebrows, slanted green eyes, pointed ears, slim neck. She wore only a thin sheath made of some clinging fabric the color of spring leaves. Her statuesque beauty and slim, curved body set the warrior’s heart racing.

  “Greenwillow!” He trotted forward a dozen steps, almost doubled under the low ceiling. One beam had slipped off its post and hung at an angle blocking the way, so he had to scoot underneath it. “How did yo
u escape from the Nine Hells?”

  Oddly, the elf didn’t advance. She stood still, arms outstretched, hands reaching for him. “I yearned for you, Sunbright! I wanted you so badly, and I finally found you. Come to me, darling!”

  Half under the obstructing beam, the barbarian paused. Something was wrong. Greenwillow had never called him “darling.” But she’d been missing for several months now.

  She took another step, her small bare feet sinking into the dust and clinkers scattered on the mine floor. Her movements were slinky, powerful but controlled. Her slim arms were inviting, and Sunbright longed to feel them around his neck.

  Sliding under the beam, he crept toward her, now only a dozen feet away. Every step deeper into the mine meant less daylight, and his own huge shadow eclipsed Greenwillow’s white form as she cried, “Come to me!”

  The barbarian halted. What was wrong? A year or two ago, when he was younger and less experienced, he would gladly have run to the arms of any beautiful woman who beckoned him. But he’d learned to be wary in many things, and warning bells were sounding in his mind. “Come out here, Willow Out into the light. We can’t stay in this cave.”

  The elf suddenly wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t; you have to come in.”

  Almost alive in his fist, Harvester’s wide tip bobbed in the air like a hound sensing danger. “Why can’t you come out? Are you enspelled? Under a geas?”

  Still hugging herself, the half-elf looked at the ground as though ashamed. “Yes, my love. They said I couldn’t leave until rescued by a worthy man.”

  “Oh?” That sounded like a vague sort of curse. Slowly, Sunbright hunkered on his heels and scooched to one side to let more dim light fall on Greenwillow. Squatting helped him resist the pull, too. What exactly the pull was he couldn’t say: lust, the scent of a woman, a lonely aching in his heart, the need for another’s touch. His heart warred with his head to go on, go on.

  But his head had powerful arguments that kept him rooted. Now that he had a moment to think, Greenwillow’s state of undress disturbed him. He always pictured her dressed as she had been when he first met her, in a long green shirt and boiled black armor. In the court of the lich king, she’d worn a shimmery mackerel-scale gown, and later he’d seen her naked for a brief moment while she donned her traveling clothes and armor again.

  So if she wore only a filmy sheath, whence had it come?

  And why wouldn’t she come closer to the light?

  “Darling.” The word rang foreign on his tongue, but then he hadn’t used it much. “Tell me how I might free you.”

  “Oh, I’m so cold!” Hugging herself, she shivered, and Sunbright saw real gooseflesh. “Won’t you just hold me while we talk?”

  Sunbright shook his head, but found his thoughts growing increasingly murky. The smell of the mine seemed normal enough: cool earth, stale water somewhere, a tang of bat guano. Why then was he muzzy-headed? He’d heard some mines gave off poison air that was invisible and felled a man unawares. Perhaps that was the problem. He couldn’t even see Greenwillow clearly anymore. But if he were to rush forward and just grab her and run, then outside they could …

  That’s what was wrong.

  Blinking, he peered at her, really sized her up for the first time. She stood erect, with her arms seductively wrapped around breasts and loins. A small smile showed under glowing green eyes. Sunbright found his own loins aching to join her, wanted to hold her tight and never let go.

  Except … How could she stand upright when the cave was only dwarf-high? Greenwillow was nearly as tall as he was, but he couldn’t straighten to more than a crouch. Either the cave opened up farther down, or this was some kind of illusion.

  If it was an illusion, then it had a purpose.

  A trap.

  And if a trap, his first step backward would spring it.

  Still, he hesitated, with his sword held out before him. He couldn’t be sure this was a trap, or that this was or wasn’t Greenwillow. The one truism he’d learned in his travels was that nothing was certain.

  “Greenwillow.” He talked quietly, thinking madly. “How did you get out of the Nine Hells?”

  “I walked, darling.” Her voice was assured, calming. “The caverns of hell are convoluted, true, but they have exits. You’ve seen them.”

  Had he? the barbarian wondered. For months now, he’d tracked rumors of openings into the Nine Hells, seeking a way in for himself or a passage out for Greenwillow. His heart thumped at the thought he’d finally found her. But she acted so queerly.

  Breath tight in his lungs, stomach clenched hard, he asked, “The fire?”

  “I fell through. The chasm opened below, and though the flames spanned it, they were not deep. I passed through them, incurring only minor burns, and landed in a deep lake in another cavern. You know how the corridors twist. But I was lost and alone, and called your name for hours. You didn’t come.” Her voice turned pitiful, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Now Sunbright’s fingers clenched so hard on the tilted beam they dug splinters. It was possible that she’d fallen into yet another corner of hell. Anything was possible in that mad maelstrom. Yet he stayed put.

  It might truly be Greenwillow, under some mind-clouding spell. How else could she know she’d fallen into fire? Yet …

  “Take my hand.” The warrior would compromise. He extended his left hand, Harvester clenched in his right. “Meet me halfway, and we’ll leave together.”

  “I told you, I’m under a spell! If you won’t rescue me, it means you don’t love me.”

  Clinging to the beam like a drowning man, Sunbright extended his left hand until his shoulder creaked. “I do … love you. I think I always did. But we have to work together. Help me help you. You were a warrior!” Strangely he found himself speaking of her as part of the past.

  “No! You’re cruel and hateful. I’m going!” She spun around, showing a straight back and long legs.

  “Don’t go!” Sunbright stood up so fast he banged his topknot on rotted boards. Dirt speckled his shoulders. Releasing the beam, he took a step forward. How queerly she was acting, enspelled or not. “Come …”

  Greenwillow whirled in place, the sheath clinging to her small breasts and flat belly. “You do love me!”

  But her sudden turn had startled the befuddled barbarian, and he stepped back, raising his sword.

  And sprang the trap.

  With a hissing snarl like that of a giant snake, Greenwillow was replaced by her opposite. Not pale skin, but skin so black it glistened violet. Not soft hair, but scruffy patches that stood up all around her head. Not yearning, outstretched hands, but hooked claws as black as chert. The face was all beaky nose and glaring round eyes, as red as embers in a dying fire.

  The night hag snarled some curse or command that Sunbright couldn’t understand. Then she pointed her palms at him, as if by doing so she could shove him backward.

  And something did. The barbarian grunted as a punch like an invisible sling ball slammed his breast. His bearskin vest and tough muscles absorbed the blow, preventing his ribs from breaking, but he’d be bruised to the bone. And he flinched at the thought of being struck invisibly in the face.

  Mind racing, he weighed the odds of a charge versus a retreat. It was no contest; to stay and fight a night hag was pointless. He’d run.

  Harvester aimed straight at the creature, the warrior felt behind him as he hunkered to clamber under the tilted beam. It wasn’t more than fifty feet to daylight, and he guessed the hag couldn’t follow him into the sun. At the cost of thumping his head again, he moved free of the beam, backing steadily.

  The hag came on, hands upraised and hooked. She paused at the beam, screaming and gibbering at him. More curses, but he dismissed them as he scuttled away, watching her warily.

  Until he sensed something behind him.

  A smashing blow, like that of a giant whip, slapped his leg, shot pain clear to the top of his head. At the same time, claws like red-hot n
ails sank into his neck. Strong arms leaned on the claws to shove him flat.

  The whip came again, low, raking his knee. Sunbright squirmed to get under the claws without kneeling or being squashed on his belly, helpless. He couldn’t swing Harvester behind him, nor free Dorlas’s warhammer from his belt without dropping his sword, so he fought otherwise.

  Sidestepping, he rammed his right elbow backward with all his strength. Something grunted and let go of his neck.

  Slinging Harvester before him, Sunbright whirled and struck hard at whatever had attacked.

  It was a black silhouette against distant daylight, but he recognized the pointed head, barbed spine and tail and knees. A barbed fiend, poised to strike.

  But first came such a rush of fear that the barbarian paused for a near-fatal second. He didn’t want to die, or suffer, to feel pain or be flayed alive or … Thoughts of death and mutilation rattled in his head, overwhelming him.

  Yet part of him stayed cool, for he knew the fear to be induced by this creature. Another part recalled he’d fought these things by the dozens in the Nine Hells. One was not much threat.

  Biting on his fear and swallowing it, still hampered by the low ceiling, he braced his off foot far back, took aim, and swung Harvester in a sizzling arc.

  Overconfident with its spells and fearsome appearance, the barbed monstrosity was unprepared for an attack. Harvester’s heavy tip slammed into the fiend’s side directly below the armpit, where the heart would be in a human.

  Sunbright didn’t know if he struck the creature’s heart or not, or even if it had one, but he proceeded as if he had. Twisting Harvester in the deep wound, he set the hook in the fiend’s armpit and yanked. He expected a shower of blood, but got instead a gout of reddish glop like lava. Still, it was bloody enough. Hopping sideways and shoving, he plied Harvester like a pry bar to thrust the creature down, then leaned with all his might. If he could, he’d puncture the thing, run it through until Harvester bit dust.

  But instead he stumbled forward, crashed to his knees, and almost sliced his own forearm. The fiend had disappeared.