The Swordbearer

by Glen Cook

  He returned to reality to find someone bending over Ahlert, trying to pry the Staff from his bloody fingers.

  Daubendiek lashed out again.

  Gathrid reeled as the stiff, stubborn personality of Yedon Hildreth hit him. He screamed. As he seemed to have done so many times before.

  For two furious minutes he smashed Daubendiek against the stone of the Maurath. His rage was so overpowering the blade could not stay him.

  Then a cold rationality returned. He bent over Ahlert himself. The Ordrope Diadem he shifted to his own head. He tucked the Staff under his arm. Someday, he thought, Staff, Diadem and both swords would accompany him on a long sea voyage. He could consign them to the deeps . . . .

  A shadow fell across the mouth of the tunnel. A feeling of threat tainted the air. Gathrid left off his silent apologies. His gaze met that of a Toal.

  It was like none he had encountered before. This was a man in the flesh and armor of an Imperial Legate. The body still lived. But Gathrid recognized its spiritual stench. He knew those cold, dead eyes. He knew the Hell-stallion it rode, that only a Toal could master. No mortal animal would permit such a devil to bestride it.

  So. Nieroda had found her way around Ahlert's refusal to reveal how to introduce a Toal into new flesh. She had begun installing her fallen Dead Captains in live bodies. The bodies of Imperials.

  She's close, Ahlert had said . . . .

  This monster was a fit object for his wrath.

  The youth hurtled out of the tunnel, oblivious to the possibility that the flyers might have returned. The Toal's mount reared, screamed.

  Daubendiek protested Gathrid's action. The youth had seized total control. His will was behind his decisions. The soul, the stubbornness of Yedon Hildreth had tilted the balance away from Suchara. At that moment Gathrid was completely confident of his ability to master the Great Sword and defy Suchara.

  Daubendiek whined in fright. Gathrid bid it slay the Dead Captain.

  Suchara fought him. Fought him for no better reason than because this was what he wanted to do. Had he not wanted to slay the Toal, she would have driven him.

  "Kill it!" he thought at the Sword. Reluctantly, the blade went for the Toal.

  The false Legate tried to flee.

  Gathrid slew its mount with the younger sword. He allowed the Toal itself no chance to gain its footing. He drove Daubendiek through its breastplate.

  Deep inside Gathrid, the half-forgotten soul of Mohrhard Horgrebe cackled evilly, spitefully, feeling its former possessor suffering.

  Gathrid did not let the Toal flee with the smoke rising from the corpse of Legate Cervenka. On a subjective level, with his newfound will and a year of anger, he seized the fell spirit. They struggled for a moment, crashing around that nowhere place where he had destroyed his own haunt. He took that demon by the throat and shook it the way a terrier shakes a rat.

  It ended quickly.

  Gathrid bent, recovered a glowing Toal-sword. He tossed it to Theis Rogala, who had pursued him onto the Causeway. "Hang onto that."

  The dwarf gulped, bobbed his head. He was pale and frightened. He could not believe what he was seeing, what he had heard when Ahlert had spoken to Tureck Aarant.

  Gathrid smiled at him, his eyes narrow. "Greetings from Tureck, Theis." Rogala flinched. He would do some heavy thinking before using his dagger to complete this cycle of the Sword's history.

  No need to worry yet, Gathrid thought. Suchara would not order him murdered while Nieroda yet remained in the game.

  Or would she? Would she be that offended?

  He shrugged. Rogala was too disturbed to try anything soon.

  He stared at Sartain. The Dark Champion was there somewhere. The Toal had proved Ahlert's statement. He reached inside and read Legate Cervenka. Sometime after Hildreth and the army had moved into the Maurath, Nieroda had descended on the Raftery. Now she was subverting the Imperial Palace.

  The youth smiled, though he was not amused. Gerdes Mulenex had made a pact with a devil at Katich. The devil had come to collect.

  That was what the Mindak had meant by saying she was looking over their shoulders.

  The youth examined his surroundings. The flyers had vanished. Ahlert's wizards had packed up their witcheries. Easterners lined the ramparts of the Maurath. In their faces he saw awe, fear and dismay. Their officers were trying to get them to withdraw.

  They knew what had happened to their Emperor. The hopes that had brought them west had died with him. Despair had fallen on them like a deadly cloud.

  Gathrid thought of Mead again. Belfiglio, too, would know. The task of informing the Mindak's wife would fall to the old slave. Gathrid did not envy him his mission.

  Hildreth's senior officers began gathering in the tunnel. "Let them depart in peace," Gathrid said, pointing upward with the younger sword. "Muster your battalions. We have work on the island. Nieroda is there."

  He was sure they would revolt. Someone must have seen him fell Hildreth.

  His previous usurpations had accustomed them to accepting his authority. There were no witnesses to Hildreth's murder, apparently. They began forming their units.

  Gathrid gazed down at Count Cuneo. He indulged in a moment of self-loathing. Suchara and Daubendiek had surprised him again. He swore it would be their undoing.

  Being free of self-doubt was a new experience. It pleased him.

  He went roaming through the soul of Legate Cervenka, his quarry knowledge of Nieroda and the Toal. The Legate knew very little. He had been seized during the night, by Red Brothers, while directing a militia regiment in counterattack against Ahlert's Imperial Brigade. He had been spirited into the Raftery. He had been unconscious, so did not know how he had been taken through the Ventimiglian lines. He had wakened possessed by the demon. Nieroda had handed him a Toal sword. The lights had gone out again. He had wakened back at his command post, under instructions to break the siege of the Raftery.

  That siege seemed to bother Nieroda. She had revealed herself in order to press the counterattack.

  The imminence of conflict between Ahlert and the Swordbearer had caused her to rush Toal Cervenka to the Mindak's aid, judging him to be the weaker man. The Toal had arrived too late.

  Two thousand weary survivors of the battle for the Maurath assembled on the Causeway. The rest Gathrid left to oversee the Ventimiglian withdrawal.

  A Colonel Bleibel, who had been an intimate of Count Cuneo, protested the force's weakness and exhaustion.

  "I just want you to keep order, Sir. I'll handle Nieroda and her devils myself. Theis. My horse."

  Ever efficient, Rogala had the animal ready.

  Gathrid mounted, started toward Sartain. He searched the sky, wondering what had become of the flyers. Only their dead remained.

  It won't be long before Theis draws his dagger, he thought. The dwarf had developed a sudden slyness, an evasiveness, which suggested thoughts he did not want to reveal. Might Suchara be ready to concede this round to Bachesta? She might fear losing the Sword more than she disliked losing the Game.

  He surveyed Rogala from the edge of his vision. The dwarf was watching him intently, nervously.

  Should he disarm the man?

  No. That would make him more dangerous. Suchara would provide another blade, in an inconspicuous time and place. And Rogala himself would become less predictable.

  A committee from the Imperial Palace met them at the Causeway's end. They bore instructions from Elgar, who wanted the Raftery relieved. Despite the efforts of the Brotherhood and Anderle's militia, Ahlert's Imperial Brigade remained solidly entrenched.

  The easterners were aware of their Mindak's demise. But their commander, Tracka, felt obligated to fulfill his final charge. He had abandoned all his other operations to concentrate on rooting out Nieroda and the Dead Captains.

  Gathrid glared at the messengers suspiciously. He did not have to be schooled in the treacherous ways of the Great Old Ones to see that, on at least two levels, it was in Elgar's
interest to let the Ventimiglians reduce the Raftery. They would settle a personal score with Gerdes Mulenex and rid Anderle of the long-standing problem of the Brotherhood. An eastern victory would devour the leaders of the Orders.

  He merely nodded to the messengers, then led the surviving Guards Oldani toward Galen.

  "Peace," he told the first Ventimiglian patrol to cross his path. He waved his followers back out of earshot. "Please inform Thaumaturge-General Tracka that the Swordbearer would like to confer."

  He was, it developed, not unexpected. Tracka arrived within fifteen minutes.

  Gathrid had met the brigadier but had seldom spoken to him. Their paths had crossed at both the Karato and Kacalief. Tracka respected the Power Gathrid represented, but did not fear him. Ahlert had been known to remark that his leading commander had only one weakness. He feared nothing at all.

  "You fought well here, General," Gathrid said. "I'd say brilliantly, considering your resources. We've been both enemies and allies. I want to suggest an armistice now, while there's yet something to be saved."

  Tracka, like many men of his class, physically resembled Ahlert. Gathrid had little déjà vu flutters while speaking with him.

  Tracka frowned. He was the most taciturn of the eastern commanders. He communicated more by gesture and expression than by the spoken word.

  "I know your orders, General. I commend you for trying to execute them. But I think it's time you passed this task on. The Western Army is headed home. The wives of the men of the Imperial Brigade await them just beyond Covingont."

  "Vermin infest the Raftery."

  "Is that your opinion, or just the Mindak's?"

  Tracka's face became as lifeless as that of a corpse. "Mine, Swordbearer. The place must be scourged and scoured."

  "I'll go along with that. The point I want to make is, your people don't have to do it. I'll handle it. I owe the Mindak that much."

  Tracka shrugged. "I haven't been relieved of my obligation."

  Gathrid felt Ahlert fuming inside him. "Damn all stubborn men!" he growled. "Can't you compromise? To save the lives of good soldiers?"

  The intransigent general stared at Gathrid for more than a minute. His gaze moved over the youth's swords, neatly avoided the trap of the Ordrope Diadem. "Perhaps," he said at last. "If you can convince me that the traitors will be destroyed."

  "Tell me about their defenses."

  Tracka peered again. His right cheek twitched nervously. He scratched at it, shrugged. "The usual. And the Toal. We've handled them with massed ballistae fire. They keep finding new flesh, though."

  "You gain with every Brother slain."

  "Exactly. They have to run out of bodies sometime."

  "What about Nieroda?"

  "She's most evidenced by her absence. She hasn't involved herself in the fighting."

  "Why would she be so determined to hold the Raftery?"

  Tracka shrugged.

  "The same reason the Mindak wanted it?"

  "His Lordship didn't confide in me."

  Gathrid leaned toward the general, whispered, "I think we'll become allies again. I'll join your next assault. Will you go afterward, win or lose?"

  Tracka did his peering. He had flat, narrow eyes. He was intimidating. Gathrid wondered if there were something wrong with his eyesight. "If your effort satisfies me."

  Gathrid returned to Bleibel, who immediately protested the arrangement. Gathrid ordered him to clear the streets for the Brigade's evacuation. "We won't spill any more blood if we don't have to, Colonel. While you're at it, assemble some boats in case they have to go off that way."

  "Sir . . . . "

  "I'll get them off the hill," Gathrid promised. "But without us paying for it in blood." He allowed his hand to drift suggestively near Daubendiek.

  Bleibel accepted the orders.

  Gathrid returned to Tracka. "How soon can we begin? Some of my officers have a taste for blood. I've put them to work. I'd like to finish before they get back."

  Tracka smiled. "I'll start it now. You'll have Toal to face in a minute."

  Gathrid glanced at Rogala. The dwarf had fallen into one of his dark, brooding moods. He could not stop thinking about Ahlert having called out to Aarant. The possibility that Gathrid had shared his predecessor's soul had shaken him deeply.

  Tracka did not exaggerate his timetable. By the time Gathrid had climbed to the Winged Victories four Toal were leading a counterattack. Small witcheries had set the slopes of Galen aglow. Another two Toal had taken station halfway up the Hundred Steps. No Ventimiglian would battle past them.

  "You'll have to guard me for a while after I make each kill," Gathrid told Tracka. "I'll be making real kills, not just separating them from the flesh. I have to leave my body to manage it."

  The Thaumaturge-General nodded.

  The first two Toal were easy. They were not expecting the fate he brought them. The next two fought more desperately, with more cunning. They consumed more of his strength. They were vicious. They did not mind having their bodies killed, but wanted no part of being done for themselves.

  Six more, Gathrid thought when he finished the fourth. His knees were wobbly. He leaned against the plinth of a Victory. That last one had been tough. He glanced round. The Brothers were losing ground fast now that they had no Toal to give them backbone.

  He pushed off the column, allowed Daubendiek free rein amongst the Raftery's mortal defenders. He and the Sword devoured their energies. That no longer seemed such a wicked thing to do.

  Reds and Mulenex street bullies, the defenders began scurrying amongst the Victories and Pillars in vain flight. A mob surged up the Hundred Steps, only to be turned back by unsympathetic Toal. Daubendiek feasted till they scattered.

  Gathrid went for the Toal. The first was almost too easy.

  The second proved to be a master bladesman. He was a genius both at surviving and delaying.

  Gathrid began to wonder why the thing insisted on holding its ground. It had no long-term hope.

  He saw why soon enough.

  On the narrow veranda surrounding the Raftery the remaining Toal were assembling ballistae and training them down the Hundred Steps. One salvo would end the threat of the Swordbearer. He might deflect a shaft or two, but not an entire flight.

  He retreated a dozen steps, sheathed his weapons, vaulted from the Steps to the steep, rocky slope of Galen. He felt neither trepidation nor lack of self-confidence as he scrambled across and up the hillside. The knowledge and skills of mountaineers came to his mind and muscles freely. He reached the veranda before the Toal could realign their weapons.

  He had, he thought, achieved his potential as Swordbearer. This was the state to which every would-be possessor of the blade aspired.

  Two more Toal perished before his ferocity.

  He staggered to a wall. The last had taken him to his limit. His heart was determined and his will demanding, but his flesh could be pushed no farther.

  And three Toal remained. One held the Steps. One blocked the Raftery door. The third was among the ballistae, the strings of which Gathrid had slashed. It was closing in on him, sensing his weakness. Its sword swayed like a cobra about to strike.

  Tracka engaged the Toal on the Steps. He used a blade plundered from one of the thing's comrades. Rogala scampered back and forth behind the general, looking for a chance to plant his knife. Down among the Pillars and Victories Ventimiglian artillerymen were setting up engines with which to support the assault. The last defenders there had surrendered.

  Gathrid knew the artillery would not save him. It could not be brought to bear in time.

  He tottered away from the Toal, scattering mortals, slaying several. Each gave him a bit more strength.

  He stalked them in moments when he was not beating back some thrust by the Toal.

  His bad leg began to bother him. His conscience called him vampire.

  He went on, ignoring that pitiful little voice. They were just cattle. He would use or slay th
em as he saw fit . . . .

  With the fulfillment of the Swordbearer's potential came Nieroda-thinking, Suchara-Chuchain-Bachesta-Ulalia thinking. He did not realize he was becoming more and more like the things he hated.

  It was ever thus. The more mighty, evil and implacable the foe, the more like him one had to become to overturn him. Then, lo! There was a new power risen, scarcely distinguishable from that which had fallen.