Sword-Singer Page 9

  I dropped the sword, which I hadn’t managed to put back into the sheath, bent to pick it up. “Del—”

  “There’s no time to waste, Tiger. The loki are capricious as well as insatiable.”

  “But what are they?” I tried to shake off the aftereffects, couldn’t. Rage and horror made me want to empty my belly entirely. “What in hoolies had me?”

  She let go of me as we reached camp and began stuffing objects back into the saddlepouches. “I’ll explain later.” And when I did not move quickly enough to suit her, she straightened and fixed me with an angry, unblinking glare. “In the South, I was expected to do whatever you said when you said it, because you knew the land better than I. This is now the North—will you not do the same for me?”

  Point well taken. I nodded woozily and went off to ready the horses.

  At least, I tried to ready the horses. The stud, perverse animal that he is, decided he had done his work for the day and now was the time to rest. I couldn’t really blame him; like me, he had eaten, drunk, relaxed—he was ready to contemplate whatever it is horses contemplate when they have nothing better to do. And now I was interrupting.

  My mind was on Del’s urgency and whatever additional threat the now-awakened loki ring presented. I was unwilling to fuss with the stud, even though he was more than willing to fuss with me.

  “Tiger—are you coming?”

  I slapped the pad and blanket on the stud’s back, saw both start to slip as he sashayed sideways, caught them, held them, deftly avoided a head butt, grabbed the saddle, swung it up and over. The stud, well-versed in this sort of dance, tried to sidestep the descending saddle. I persevered, plopped it down, dodged a tentative hoof. “Not now,” I suggested firmly; to the stud, not to Del, who was too busy to hear me anyway.

  He stomped, snorted, caught an elbow with the hard bone of his face, and shoved. With equine emphasis.

  “Tiger—” Anxious and impatient.

  “Del, I’m coming—” I swore, stuffed an elbow into his ribs, shoved back. Then repeated the move as the head swung around to protest.

  Nose met elbow. Elbow won.

  “This is not a game, Tiger.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t—” I snugged girth with malicious dedication and buckled buckles, then swung around to bridle him, “—but sometimes I have to convince him of that.”

  She sounded distracted, urgent, impatient. “Convince him another time.”

  A hoof came down on my foot. I wear sandals; it hurt. “You son of a—” But I stopped speaking abruptly as the crest of the hill caught fire. “What in hoolies is that?”

  “The loki still want us,” Del said grimly. “The necklet wasn’t enough.”

  One bright-glazed rock tumbled over the crest of the hill. In it wake was flame.

  “Hoolies—” But I never finished it. Del’s giddy gelding decided to cut and run.

  Picket stake parted company with the ground. Now free, though dragging rope and stake, the speckled horse stampeded by the stud and headed down the hillside at a plunging run.

  My horse, being a competitive sort, decided to go with him. And would have, somewhat abruptly, had I not snatched Del’s blanket from the ground and flung it over his head.

  Blinded, he stopped his flight and stood there, quivering, snorting, sweating.

  “Not now,” I reminded him, and swung myself up into the saddle. “Del, if you’re coming, come on.”

  She came, dragging a saddle-pouch behind her. She handed it up as best she could without excess dramatics, but the stud, feeling the unexpected scrape of leather against his shoulders as I draped pouches in front of the pommel, lunged sideways. The blanket slid off his head; the glare of burning rocks was reflected in bulging eyes.

  I swore, hauled in reins and pouches, sorted them out, spun him around to face Del. Behind her reared the hillside with its unearthly crown of flames.

  “He’s going to run,” I warned. “Be ready to jump—I’ll swing you up behind—”

  The stud fought me, I fought him; Del waited on the ground. I spun him, spun him again, setting him back on his hocks. And then, as I let him run, I leaned down to thrust out an arm.

  Del braced, reached, stretched; I caught, swung her up at a run; she slung a leg up and over, clamping onto the stud with legs and me with both her arms.

  I shouted, and we were running.

  One glance back showed me runnels of melting stone dripping over the crest of the hill. Which crept, with alarming accuracy, toward the tumbled remains of our campsite.

  Del was pressed against my spine. “Don’t stop, Tiger. Don’t even think about stopping.”

  I didn’t, because I couldn’t; the stud had the bit in his teeth.

  Eight

  I was not happy. With each plunging stride, the stud—heading across, over, down and around hills I could barely see—humped and hopped, ducking his head in eloquent promise of his intent to shed both riders. The only thing that kept him from thrusting head between knees and really working at it was the terrain; he could see no better than we, and—thank valhail—wasn’t much interested in trying anything too hazardous in the darkness.

  But I still wasn’t happy. Because each leap and lunge either sucked the saddle out from under me entirely (not a nice sensation), or thrust it skyward awkwardly, bashing thighs and buttocks and other more tender portions of my anatomy.

  Hoolies, I’d be lucky if I could speak at all by the time he was done, let alone in a tone approaching masculinity.

  Del clung to me with both arms locked around my midsection. The ride for her must have been even more precarious; she lacked stirrups, pommel, cantle—anything even remotely resembling a seat—and was reduced to bouncing up and down on the stud’s solid rump. He is slick and she wore silk; I knew she was in danger with every stride he took.

  “Don’t stop!” she repeated. “Not for anything!”

  “Hoolies, bascha, I can’t just let him run! He’s liable to trip and break a leg, or his neck, or ours—” I broke off, swore, tried to recover my breath as the saddle slammed against netherparts.

  She clutched more tightly. “If the loki catch us, we’ll wish our necks were broken. Don’t stop, Tiger. Not yet.”

  For the moment, the stud decided it for us. The bit was firmly gripped in large, strong teeth, and until I could wrench it back down into the tender, toothless bars of his mouth, my control was negligible. All I could do was try to aim him away from the worst terrain.

  Down and down we went, heading south. Maybe the stud realized it and intended to go home. The thought crossed my mind that maybe I could sort of encourage him to continue his runaway all the way back across the border, but I knew it wouldn’t be fair. (To the stud, that is; undoubtedly Del would complain, but mostly I was concerned with my horse’s welfare.)

  And then, abruptly, he veered, turning west. No more a straight shot home, but a diagonal slash across the foothills Del called downlands. He slowed, breathing hard, trying to negotiate treacherous ups and downs. I took the opportunity to pop the bit free of teeth and began to apply my will, which was to stop entirely.

  “Tiger—”

  “I don’t want to kill him, Del! Whatever those loki-things are, I’ll deal with them if I have to…right now, I need to rest this horse.”

  “All I meant—”

  “Later.” I said it more sharply than I’d intended, too tied up with the stud to moderate my tone. I felt her stiffen against my back, but couldn’t spare the time to placate bruised feelings. “Easy, old man…go easy…give it a rest, now, all right? Easy, now—easy…let’s keep all four legs in one piece—I think we’ll need them later.”

  He slowed, blowing hard. In the poor moonlight I saw sweat on neck and shoulders. Grimly I shook my head; he was too good a horse to burn out in futile flights.

  Del dropped off as the pace was eased. I walked the stud out, circled back, saw her standing in moonglow. Boreal was in her hands.

  “You going to cut me,
or the stud?”

  “Neither,” she said, “for the moment.” Her face was grim. “What I was trying to tell you was to stop…there is something I must do.”

  I snorted inelegantly. “Fight invisible beings?”

  “Not yet,” she said coolly. “First I will try other methods.”

  I circled the stud around her. “Do what you want, bascha—I’ve got a horse to tend.”

  “I don’t need you for this.” Pointedly. “The ritual requires things you cannot offer, being a Southroner ignorant of such things, and wholly unblooded, lacking even a sword of your own.” Moonlight glinted off her rune-worked blade. “Forgive my bluntness, Tiger, but you are not a man who would find much favor with the gods. They prefer believers, not skeptics.”

  “I’m skeptical for a reason.” I stopped the stud, slid off, undid buckles and stripped him clean of everything save bridle. I checked legs and hooves. “As I have said before, religion is a crutch. It’s used by people who don’t know how to take responsibility for their own lives, and abused by those who have a perverse need to enforce their wills upon the weak.” I braced myself as the stud pressed his head against my shoulder and began to rub violently, soaking through my burnous to dampen bare skin. “Hoolies, Del—don’t you think I did my own share of talking to the gods when I was a slave with the Salset? You think I didn’t ask for my freedom?”

  “And you got it, Tiger.”

  “Because I made it happen myself, not through any appeal to capricious gods.”

  She sighed, shrugged, shook her head. “For now, this must wait. But I promise you, whatever you may have known in the South is different in the North. You will face power you have never dreamed of, even in the depths of aqivi fog. I promise, Tiger, that here you will see unbelievable things. Things that may even prove fatal.”

  “Uh-huh. Like these loki-creatures.”

  Del shook her head. “Have you forgotten what nearly happened to you? How the loki sought to take you?”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing,” I threw back. “I don’t know what exactly happened back there, Del, but I do know it had nothing to do with creatures. What I sensed was sorcery.”

  She sighed. “Tend your horse, Tiger. I will tend our futures.”

  I soothed and settled the stud as he steamed in the coolness of the night. Under a blanket I walked him out, around and around, doing my best to avoid the playful head threatening to knock me down. He was tired, but not exhausted; too often he sought out the little ways of making my life miserable.

  Del walked away from us, climbed a swell of turf-cloaked hill to pause at the jagged crest. Boreal was a slash of silver in her hands, throwing back the moonglow. And then, as I circled with the stud plodding along behind me, I saw her slowly sheathe the upright sword in the flesh of the earth, and kneel.

  Softly, Del began to sing.

  I had heard it before in the room in Harquhal. I had seen it before, as well; slowly, bead by bead, droplet by droplet, the blade began to bleed luminescence, flooding the hilltop with a salmon-silver glow.

  It ran up the sword, not down. Filled the runes, jumped along double edges, reached up to caress hilt and crosspieces. Twisted, writhed, pulsed, changed shape against the shadows.

  I drew in a breath that jumped in my chest. I thought again of the circle of stones, called a loki ring, where grass had come alive and tried to swallow a man. The memory made me shudder, which in turn made me angry; abruptly irritable, I shook it off. Northern sorcery, I knew, no more. Not power of itself, undirected and free. What I’d felt required a man to use it, or a woman, in order to make it work. Power required a source, and someone to control it.

  I looked at Del, singing to her sword. And what, I wondered, was the difference? Here there was a sword set afire by a song, by a woman. There, I had touched a rock, walked into a circle, had nearly been consumed.

  Was there really a difference?

  Uneasily, I looked at Del. She was silhouetted against the bladeglow, still singing her soft little song. So easily she keyed the sword and summoned forth the power.

  Power. Just as she had promised.

  “Hoolies,” I muttered aloud. “What am I doing here?”

  The stud whickered, walked on, nudged my right shoulder as I circled him back again.

  Del came down from the hill a little later. The stud was dry, quiet, contentedly foraging at the end of his picket line, seemingly unconcerned that his equine partner was missing. For that matter, maybe he was glad; Del’s silly gelding had continually indicated amorous interest in the stud, who had not returned the favor. All he had returned was an occasional nip or kick; I’d forcibly prevented anything worse.

  I sat hunched on a blanket with a bota of wine, waiting for her to explain the who, the how, the why.

  “How is the stud?”

  “Fine. He’ll probably be a bit sore in the morning, but nothing much to worry about.” I looked up at her. “I didn’t lay a fire because I thought we might be running again.”

  She sighed and dropped into a squat. “Not yet. Not for now. Maybe later.”

  “Then we can go back in the morning and pick up the rest of our things.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Too large a risk, and there will be nothing left anyway. Nothing worth salvaging. The loki are—destructive.”

  I sighed. “Burning rocks and illusion don’t seem to pose that much of a threat.” I shrugged, scratching scars and rattling the string of claws around my neck. “Not if you can run fast.”

  “Illusion?”

  “What I felt,” I answered. “You know as well as I do none of it was real.”

  Del snagged the bota from me and drank. “You are a fool,” she said pleasantly when she had finished swallowing. “How often did you warn me against the dangers of the South, saying I should never trust to what I did not know, nor make of myself a target?” Her gaze was level as she tossed the bota back. “I give you warning of similar things here, in the North, my home, and you will not give me—or the dangers—credence.” She tilted her head. “Why, I wonder? Because I am a woman?”

  I sprawled back and plopped the bota across my ribs, staring up at the star-pocked heavens. “Why do you always reduce it to gender, Del? I admit that Southron women aren’t accorded the same respect as men—I admit it!—but must we always lay the blame for everything in this world on what shape our bodies are? Hoolies, bascha, there are other things to worry about!”

  “Then perhaps you will listen to me as I tell you what they are.”

  I rolled my head and looked at her. She was serious. “Such as burning rocks and illusion.”

  “It was not illusion,” she said coolly. “What happened, happened. The loki are powerful and tenacious, working in ways no one may fully understand. Using the soil and turf against you was merely a facet of their power. A game, Tiger; the loki enjoy such things.”

  I nodded sagely, humoring her. “So, you’re saying they’re real beings, these loki. Not merely a manifestation of some sorcerer’s power.”

  “They are spirits, demons, devils…apply whatever term you like. They are evil, Tiger, and their only goal in life is to drive mortals into death—or insanity…sometimes, the latter precedes the former.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I stopped her dead. She stared at me, plainly baffled. “Why?”

  “Why?” I shrugged. “Don’t they have a reason?”

  “Do demons need a reason?”

  I spread my hands. “Something I’ve always wondered about. Here all these stories abound about evil taking on human form to niggle at mortal people—and yet no one ever seems to know why. These beings just seem to exist for no particular reason…which makes me wonder if they aren’t simply little pieces of a storyteller’s tale that have somehow escaped the magical words: ‘the end.’” I smiled. “You called me a skeptic earlier. Well, I won’t deny it. I’m not certain I believe in your evil demons any more than I believe in your Northern gods.”

  D
el nearly gaped. “Tiger, that was you up there! That was you the loki so nearly took! How can you be so stupid?”

  I recalled the things I’d felt while pinned against the earth. But admitting it was real—no, I couldn’t do it. Call it safety in ignorance if you like, but I was convinced that so long as I refused to believe in such things as loki, they’d hold no power over me. “I’m not stupid. I’m just not the kind of man overwhelmed by tricks and illusion.” I sighed as she shook her head in disbelief. “Did you ever stop and think that just because we can’t explain things doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation? A reason other than magic or gods or evil?” I patted the bota. “I don’t know where wine comes from, bascha, but there must be an explanation. I don’t think wine is magic.”

  Her tone was peculiar. “Wine is from grapes, Tiger. Didn’t you know that?”

  I shrugged, unconcerned. “There are many things I don’t know, Del. Call me ignorant, stupid, crazy…I just figure there are more important things to think about, like how to stay alive.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And it might be just as well, in the face of awakened loki.” She sighed, dropped out of her squat, hugged drawn-up knees. “I swear, Tiger, loki are real. And I swear, they can be dangerous.”

  “So you threw your mother’s necklace into the circle of stones in order to appease them, and then sang through your sword to your gods.” I nodded. “Sounds fair enough.”

  “The necklace was of heartwood blood, Tiger…blood that flows from a wounded tree and, later, hardens. Heartwood possesses power; the man or woman who possesses the stone formed of its blood shares in that power, that protection. I gave it to the loki as a bribe. Surely you have done the same with men and women.”

  I grunted.

  “It might be enough,” she said, “but maybe not. The loki don’t play fair. So I petitioned the gods to intervene on our behalf, to convince the loki to return to their circle.”

  I frowned, diverted, and chewed thoughtfully at my bottom lip. “In the South, a circle represents power. That’s why a sword-dance always takes place in one.”