by John Shirley
“Some illusion again!” Outrage, as well as the first inklings of fear, filled the ogre’s voice. “You said you would use only your sword!”
From behind him, a powerful feline shape stepped forward and gestured. A pale essence coalesced around Mulk, engulfing him in otherness. As a strand of it grew dense around his throat, the frightened ogre spun and swung wildly, striking at the smoke. As soon as he faced the ogre, Bijendra swung his enchanted sword around in a wide, powerful arc, striking—
With the flat of his blade. As it made contact with the side of the ogre’s skull, Mulk let out a gurgle. His eyes rolled backward into his head and he collapsed into a pile of unconscious, motionless meat. Stepping forward, Bijendra stared down at the unmoving body.
“I lied. It’s clear you don’t know much of anything about my kind or you would be aware that we are known for deception in word as well as in image.” Wiping clean the gore-streaked blade on the ogre’s backside, he slid it neatly into the sheath slung against his back as he turned and strode toward the bar. Brave and confident dwarf that he was, Norgen was ready for him.
“Drink?” the dwarf mumbled, swallowing hard as he held out the sloshing goblet. “On the house.”
Bijendra looked over his shoulder and said, “Three mighty ogres in a heap, who upon awakening will wish that they were dead. I could oblige them that, but I must not linger here. I have leagues to cross still, and they would be better traversed without having to always look behind me.”
Norgen knew what the rakshasa was getting at, and said, “The ogres have other kinsfolk in Hammerfast. And there’s always the outside chance that Goldspinner, the leader of the Merchant Guild and the current High Master of the town, might take an official’s interest in the brawl—though we dwarves tend to look first after our own.”
“That being the case,” Bijendra said, “I’ll content myself that I have one friendly witness to the fight on my side. It would be easy enough to persuade the individual in question.” The ranger reached in the direction of his longsword.
Sensible coward that he was, Norgen tried to bury himself in the lower reaches of the back bar. “Please, noble sir! I beg of you, mind twist me if you must, but spare my life! I am but a day removed from departing hence for the wedding of my second cousin’s eldest sister, and if my body arrives without its head it will most surely put a damper on the nuptials!”
Stopping well short of his sword, Bijendra’s hand dipped into a purse sequestered in his belt sash. He flung a couple of gold pieces onto the bar. “Calm yourself, good innkeeper. I seek your silence and possibly your witnessing, not your blood.”
Peeping tentatively out from his hasty hiding place, Norgen eyed the stranger uncertainly. Then he spotted the glint of gold on the bar and emerged the rest of the way. The coins looked real enough. So did the stranger’s grin, though it revealed all too many teeth for the dwarf’s liking.
“Silence you shall have, noble rakshasa.” He quickly scooped the coins off the scarred and gouged wood. “Are you truly a ranger?”
His long thick tail switching sharply back and forth, the visitor with the face and body of a backward-handed snow leopard and the bearing of a knight paused at the entrance to the inn.
“I go where I will, unconstrained by house, family, or friend. I journey freely and without encumbrance. No obligation lies upon my head as I travel to the Gray Downs.”
Norgen emerged further from behind the bar. “The Gray Downs! You’ll find nothing there but bare rock and cold memories. Why would a nobleman such as yourself seek such a place when temptation and good comfort lie the same distance away to the south in Fallcrest?”
“You may have heard me say that I seek a legend, told to me since youth of a place in the Gray Downs. It is called the Sword Barrow, and I would seek it out to learn the truth of the story. For I am on a journey on behalf of another more so than for myself.”
“Sword Barrow.” Norgen shook his head sadly as he regarded the stranger. “You have come a long way in search of a trash heap. Nothing lies there but rusting blades of ancient design.”
“Then I will return home satisfied in self and content in mind that I have done my best to learn that truth. Your concern is touching, innkeeper.”
“As is your gold.” One thick-fingered fist clutched the two coins the stranger had given him. “Journey well, then, noble cat-face. Journey safe. And beware the ancient warding magic they say lingers about that place like an outhouse stink.”
“I will be careful.” Bijendra indicated the unconscious ogres. “Will you be able to manage this lot? When they wake up, they will be discontented.”
Norgen smiled through his beard as he turned to take a sip from the untouched goblet. No sense in wasting good ale. “I have excellent clean-up people. Do not worry yourself on that score, stranger. Stranger?”
But in an elegant swirl of silks and scent, money and musk, the rakshasa ranger had disappeared.
On the southern edge of the Winterbole Forest, the Gray Downs formed an unhappy bulge between the Nentir and Winter Rivers. All soil fled, little but tough grass and determined bracken grew on the otherwise bare stone. Diced and broken by the contortions of a disturbed geology, the Downs promised a visitor rough walking and the likely prospect of a turned ankle.
Hailing from higher mountains, Bijendra was not intimidated by the crushed terrain. Picking his way westward, he soon found himself in the depths of the Downs themselves. Around him there was no sign of higher life, no calling of boars or bugling of deer—far less that of civilized conversation. Even the rats and mice, of whose presence there was ample evidence, were reluctant to show themselves in that place.
The Downs presented a prospect that was bleak enough during the day. Night was worse. The nearly treeless, rolling landscape lay barren and silent beneath a full moon, as if the spirit of life itself lay chained and jailed beneath the rocks. He had timed his traveling to be there on just such a night, because the legend told that it was then that She might appear.
It was when he entered the Sword Barrow that his hitherto austere surrounds for the first time took on a quietly threatening tone. Without having to search, his footsteps turned up first one half-buried blade, then another, and still another. Of ancient design and still retaining hints of superb workmanship, they lay scattered wherever he looked. Blades broken and whole poked out of the turned ground from among pockets of gravel or between split stones. At first they appeared to have nothing in common. On closer inspection, he saw that regardless of size or shape, design or composition, all pointed toward the center of the barrow.
That made it easier for him to find it.
So did the dozen or so rotting, disarticulating skeletons of those who had come before him.
Choosing a level platform among the rocks, he drew Furcleave. Holding it vertically before him with its point aimed straight at the ground, he murmured a soft incantation. Though the handle twisted violently in his clenched hands, he held it firmly. On the hilt, the two cat-faces ceased arguing. After a pause of consideration, they realigned themselves so that both were facing in the same direction.
Opening his eyes, Bijendra started in the direction they were staring and searched carefully until he found what he was looking for. By the light of the full moon it was easy enough to locate: a slot between two slabs of stone where he could carefully insert the blade, point first. Once that was done, he stepped back, stretched out both hands, and backward clawed the night air as he recited the words he had been told to say.
“I, Ruhan Bijendra, call upon the savants of the swords in the name of my brother Layak Bijendra, gravely wounded in battle at Giriraj Keep! Remove the sliver of metal that lies deep in his side and that the chirurgeons cannot touch for fear of cutting his heart. The metal splinter has been thrice bellicose-blessed, and if it kills him, he will not be able to reincarnate. Do this and I will promise my own blood for the quenching of a sacred blade to be dedicated to the brotherhood of swords everywhere!” D
ropping to his knees, he brought his knuckles together. One tear escaped the corner of a reluctant eye to moisten the fur of his left cheek.
When he opened his eyes again, something was stirring.
Under the light of the moon, the ancient, buried weapons that encircled the barrow were in motion. Twitching, jerking, heaving, one by one they pulled or yanked or drew themselves from the stones and gravel in which they were entombed. Each imbued with a pale blue glow, they rose softly and silently into the air. While the awed yet alert noble looked on, they sloughed off the rust of ages like so many snakes shedding their skins. As he rose to his feet, the circle they formed began to close in around him. Before his eyes, Furcleave was likewise glowing. It had partaken unbidden of the magic of the place.
Then She appeared.
The Steel Princess. Mistress of the Old Blades. Her legs were longswords melded together, her face all angles and sharpness. Spikes protruded from the helmeted metal hills of breasts and her fingers were tapered stilettos. In place of wrists and ankles were sword hilts. As she came toward him, her intricately arabesqued metal limbs made faint scraping sounds, and the moonlight made of her a walking armory. Light glinted off her polished body from the swords and sabers, daggers and dirks of which she was composed. The long, silvery hair that fell swaying to her waist was fashioned of hundreds of strangler’s cables.
Truly, Bijendra thought as he stayed close to Furcleave but made no attempt to draw it forth from the rocks, a hard-edged woman.
She halted barely an arm’s length away. Around them the storm of swords circled closer, their intense blue phosphorescence brighter than before. Her right hand rose and the index finger extended toward him. As sharp as a poet’s tongue, the tip was aimed directly at his heart. When she spoke, the moonlight shining from her eyes like a blacksmith’s fever dream, even her words were cutting.
“Whoever comes to this place with hope or supplication leaves fallow. Whoever comes on the night of the full moon when I assemble myself and perform my rounds, must die. So say I, Jiriyel, Wardress of the Weapons.”
Back ramrod straight, Bijendra met her metallic gaze without flinching. “Beautiful dreamer, I come on behalf of my brother, who is already dying. You who command the ancient blades, who know their ways and moods, could draw the broken metal from his body as a chirurgeon would draw a poison. You can save his life.” For the second time that night he spread his arms wide, the fingers of the backward-facing palms opening outward as he lowered his head. “I offer mine in exchange. Pierce me as you will. Cut me quick or slow, as is your pleasure. But do that which is necessary to spare him.” He lowered his head and waited for whatever might come.
Faultless metal in the moonlight, the lethal finger moved forward—to stop a thumb’s length from the noble’s chest.
“You could fight me, Ruhan Bijendra.” From her throat sounded a grinding as of gears. “Your longsword is near. Yet you forgo your own weapon.”
He raised his eyes to meet hers anew. “I would not insult the Steel Princess by presuming to assault her with one of her own. I come to you as a supplicant, not as a challenger.”
“Even if it is to mean your life?” she queried him.
“Even if so,” he replied, resigned.
Around them, the halo of drifting swords—short and long, single-edged and double, slim and broad—rotated like a pulsing blue ring around a distant planet. The deep turquoise light that shone forth from them was bright enough to outshine the moon. Occasionally one blade would make contact with another. At such moments a swift zinging sound would sting the otherwise silent night air. It reminded Bijendra of the sound of blades being drawn from metal scabbards.
The swords were whispering among themselves.
Her index finger continued to hover a hand’s breadth from his heart, but the fatal thrust continued to be withheld.
“You are unlike any of the many who have come this way and dared to confront me. You are without fear, yet you are prepared to spend your courage and life on behalf of another.” Fluttering steel eyelids made the faintest of cymbal sounds. “Were I not cursed to forever serve as wardress to these blades, I would do for you what I might wish. But I am as you see me, and can do naught but continue to fulfill my sorrowful destiny.”
His tone turned curious. “What were you before you were cursed, woman of sharp edges?”
“I was once a princess of the eladrin. Unknowing, I gravely offended the greatest witch of the hill folk who lived in these Downs. As you know, eladrin do not sleep but must enter trance for several hours each day. Catching me helpless in such a state, she cursed me to watch over the orphaned swords of this place until I should rust away to nothing, as will they all eventually. She made me of them, and so I am as you see me.” The finger pointed at his chest trembled. “Nothing can break this curse or return me to flesh. And as Wardress of the Weapons, when I make my rounds beneath the light of the full moon, I am compelled to slay any who trespass here.”
He could have run, but Bijendra did not flee. Not even from death. He held his ground. “I am rakshasa. You are eladrin. As rakshasa I can do nothing for you. As eladrin you can do nothing for yourself. But I have traveled wide and spoken to many outstandingly knowledgeable representatives of many races. More important than talking, I have listened. Among the humans there is one thing, one gesture, one magic that can sometimes break the strongest curse. It is uncommon—nay, largely unknown—among my kind. But I have learned it.”
She was beyond doubtful. Her tone was spiteful. “There is no spell that can release me. Symbols do not touch my feet. Potions make me rust. You are wasting your time, rakshasa.”
Black-blotched white ears flicked in the moonlight. “Then if I am to die anyway …”
Thrusting himself forward, he planted his mouth directly over hers. Eyes like polished silver pieces widened. Her left arm was flung backward while the right continued to hover in the vicinity of his heart. Sharpened small steel shutters closed halfway over her eyes. He held the kiss as long as he could before the pain made him draw back. Blood trickled from his mouth to stain the white fur of his chin. He had cut himself on her scalpel of a tongue.
She stared at him, for the first time wordless, her right hand still extended in his direction. Around them, the risen sword blades whirled so fast that the two figures appeared to be encircled by a solid ring of blue luminance. The princess staggered backward another step, recovered her balance, and started toward him anew. Then she looked down at herself.
Dull steel gray was fading to a pale pinkish white. Edges formerly cutting softened and flowed. From the tips of her fingers, life surged backward to replace steel. Her ears remained pointed but were no longer deadly sharp. From metal eyes, a bright, pupilless eladrin green spread forth as though they had been stained with the dye of life.
Around them, the singing of the sword circle had risen to an overpowering metallic hum.
She stood before him, unclothed but no longer shining, her pale flesh glistening rather than reflective in the moonlight. Shining—and shivering. Removing his gleaming argent cape, he placed it around her shoulders. She drew the fine soft fabric close around her, not to hide her nakedness but to ward off the chill.
“You—you broke the curse.” Standing as tall as him, she did not have to look up to meet his gaze. “So many years … it is not possible!” While one hand held the cape snug around her, the fingers of the other touched here and there, as if to confirm that she was once again a woman of flesh and blood and not of cold, unfeeling steel.
“Among the humans, many strange things are possible.” Bijendra stood looking back at her. “I do not seek out their company, but neither do I forswear it.” Moving to his left, he drew Furcleave from where he had placed it in the crack in the rocks. All but powerless and still in shock, she stared at him uncertainly.
“I am no longer Mistress of Steel, Wardress of the Sword Barrow. At the very last instant, before the beginning of the changing, I whispered a word to t
he weapons. The message was carried instantly. Whether it arrived at your keep whole and in time to do any good I do not know.” She dropped her head. “I tried. I owe you everything, but I can do no more. Kill me if you will.”
“You did not kill me. Why would I kill you? Come with me to my home and we will see together if you have saved him. I would never slay one who tried. If he lives, he will want to thank you himself. Afterward, if you wish, I will escort you safely to a feyhold, where you may dwell in happiness for what remains of your natural life. Without fear of rust.”
Her eyes fluttered again—noiselessly, this time. “I owe you my true life, Ruhan Bijendra.”
“And I owe you the life of my brother—I hope. Come, Princess. It is dark, it is cold, and I am hungry from this night’s work.”
A furry, muscular arm went around her shoulders, drawing her forward. With the other he held Furcleave stiffly out before him. As they approached the fading but still glowing circle of floating swords, the ring parted to let them pass. As soon as Jiriyel had stepped through, the blue lambency vanished. Inanimate metal once again, the ancient blades fell to the ground. The single loud, unified clanging of their fall resounded across the Downs—a vast metal sigh. Together, the two figures strode with lengthening steps in the direction of distant Hammerfast. Eyes half shut, the eladrin Jiriyel leaned close against the protective bulk of Ruhan Bijendra.
“You know,” she whispered softly, “I had a kitten once …”
