Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (18 page)

haunches--the man was no more a man but a thing in bestial form.

Eyes shone whitely. A tail was pulled out of buttocks. He--it--the thing--bent

upon the rock floor with the joints and hair of a hound, and nothing at all of

humanity.

"No," Del repeated, but the tone was shaped by horror.

"Unmade," Chosa said. "Now he will join the others. And perhaps he will take your throat."

Oh, hoolies. Oh, gods--

I shut my eyes a moment, then forced myself to look.

Smoke gushed up from the forge. Most of it was sucked through the curtain as the

wards allowed it to go. The rest dispersed in the chamber, escaping through cracks, fissures, and holes.

Cracks, fissures, and holes; mouthing obscenities, I pressed my face more tightly against the fissure and looked for the proper sign. Saw it almost immediately; lunged up and ran down the tunnel all of twelve paces farther, where the hole greeted me. My entrance into the chamber.

It was the largest of them all; I knew from watching the smoke. The greatest amount had been sucked through here, but it wasn't saying much. Del couldn't get

through, maybe, but I doubted I could. Unless I was stark naked and painted with

alia salve.

Flesh quailed; so did spirit. The idea of dropping down unannounced--and bare-butted--to face a sorcerer was not a pretty thought. A lot of me didn't like it.

Especially my gehetties.

So, I'd compromise. Half of my clothes would come off.

I knelt by the hole and set the sword aside, then unhooked the wide leather belt

with its weight of ornamental bosses, which could catch and scrape and grate.

Then off came the harness itself, stripped over arms and head without undoing the buckles. And finally both tunics, which I dropped aside without thought.

Cool tunnel air chafed bare chest and arms and set the flesh to rising.

First to test briefly: I eased boots and legs down into the hole punched through

the rock, then braced forearms and elbows on either side and channeled my weight

through shoulders. I lowered myself carefully. Felt hips catch briefly; a twist

eased them through. But above them the spread of my rib cage and shoulder sockets promised to wedge me painfully if I didn't take steps to avoid it.

Hoolies, but it hurt--I pulled myself up again, blowing noisy breath between gritted teeth, and clambered out of the hole once more.

Chosa's voice drifted up: "My beasts are growing hungry. Tell me the name of your sword."

Come on, Del; hang on... I'm doing what I can.

A quick glance showed me jagged protrusions in the rock wall. I knew I'd have to

jump when it came right down to it, but I wanted to shorten the distance. The easiest way was to use belt and harness to lower myself through the hole as far

as I could go, then drop the rest of the way.

I'd risk breaking a leg. But I was risking so much anyway it didn't really matter.

I snugged the belt around the most promising stone protrusion, then buckled it

firmly. I cut the sheath free of the harness, which left me with a crisscross affair of leather straps, and quickly severed the thong stitching. Then looped

everything through the belt and dangled it down the hole.

Not very much. But something.

Meanwhile, there was the sword. I couldn't very well carry it down with me as I

worked my way through the hole; the extra bulk would end the attempt. And I didn't dare tie it to my body with shredded bits of tunic; if I lost it by accident, Chosa would have a new jivatma. And I sort of wanted to keep it until

I could stick it in him.

So I very carefully placed it beside the hole opposite my planned entry, and began to ease myself down.

In the tunnel, a beast bayed.

I froze. I didn't particularly relish the thought of being attacked while wedged

in the hole; I prefer a fair fight. So I pulled myself up again, grabbed the sword, and made it as far as my knees as the hound leaped out of shadow.

I was getting tired of this. I'd just as soon not have to do it.

On knees, I battled the hound. My balance was off, and my leverage, but clean steel still parts beast flesh. The spray of blood slicked my chest and dribbled

down my belly to the drawstring of my trews.

Which gave me an idea.

In the dimness, I saw eyes. The shine of white hound eyes. But this beast turned

tail and ran, which was a welcome change.

Again I set the blade carefully beside the jagged hole. Then scooped up dripping

handfuls of beast blood and slapped it all over my chest and sides, paying particular attention to the rib cage beneath my armpits, where the spread of bone and muscle was greatest, and to the shoulder joints themselves where they

met my upper arms.

Hoolies, but I stink.

No more time to waste--

I slid boots over the lip, took an extra wrap in the harness straps around my left wrist, and lowered myself down.

Hips slid through again, though fabric snagged a little. And my waist, all slick

with blood even though it didn't need it. And then my lower ribs. The upper ones

stuck fast.

It is a particularly vulnerable sensation to be stuck like a cork in a bottle.

From the waist down I was completely accessible, but I couldn't see past my rib

cage.

There was still slack in the harness straps. I braced my right arm against the

lip of the hole and pushed, trying to twist myself free. Layers of skin peeled

away, stinging in protest. And finally I slipped free, leaving bits of me on stone teeth. My shoulder joints lost flesh also, then obligingly added my own blood to the slime already present.

It was enough to loosen the cork; I dropped, felt the straps tauten, winced as

the loop snugged around my left wrist. All of my weight hung from it; I wished I

weighed a bit less.

My head was level with the bottom of the hole. I peered down past my body and tried to judge the distance. It was still dangerously far from the floor--about

seven of me hooked together--and the landing would be on rock. If I didn't break

a leg, I'd probably break my head.

The sword still lay in the tunnel. Carefully I began pulling myself back up one-armed, sliding my right arm up through the hole. All I needed was a little

lift; then I'd snatch the sword, hold it vertically, and drop straight down to

the floor.

To get my bearings, I glanced down. And saw Chosa Dei with a hound.

Hoolies, he was eating it!--no, no he wasn't... he was--hoolies, I don't know...

something, something disgusting... he knelt down before it and put his hands on

its head... he said something to it, did something to it--and the hound began to

change.

It melted. I have no better word for it. The beast melted from this known shape

into something else. Something vaguely human, but without humanity.

He was unmaking the beast. Making the man again.

Hanging from my harness, I was very nearly sick. I had not, until that moment,

realized the full implication of Chosa Dei's powers. If he was free, if he got

free... once he unmade his brother, what would he do to others? By

"collecting"

all the magic, would he then remake the world?

Chosa Dei rose, leaving the half-made thing on the floor where it twitched and

spasmed and died. "Someone is here," he said. "Someone else is here... hiding in

the tunnels. Hiding in my mountain." He swept the chamber with a glance. "And he

has a second jivatma, fully quenched and blooded."

Hoolies. Oh, hoolies--

"There!" Chosa cried, and pointed directly at me.

I saw Del's upturned face. I saw the mass of hounds. Knew what I had to do.

Unmake Chosa Dei.

Straining upward, I thrust my right hand up through the hole and scrabbled at the lip. Touched the blade, traced it back to the hilt, lurched up to lock fingers around it. Began to think of a song as I dropped back through the hole

to dangle on my harness.

Beneath me swarmed the hounds, waiting for me to fall.

A song. Think of a song. Of something personal. Of something powerful. Of something no one but the Sandtiger fully comprehends.

I thought of the South. I thought of the desert. And then I thought of the Punja

with its deadly simooms and sciroccos, the scouring wind-blast of sand that could strip a man bare of flesh, polishing his bones. I thought of the sun and

the sand and the heat and the power of a storm blowing the Punja here and there,

feckless as a goat kid, going where it was told. Because there is a greater power than merely heat and sand. There is also the desert wind. A hot dry wind.

A wind composed of a violence equal to Chosa Dei's.

Scorching desert windstorm stripping everything down to the bone. Scirocco and

simoom. But also called samiel.

Inside, I sang a song. Of blooding, of quenching, of keying. Of unmaking a sorcerer who thought only Del's jivatma was capable of great power.

Your mistake, Chosa. Now come grapple with me--

I sliced through the harness and dropped.

Sixteen

I landed in squirming bodies full of teeth and claws and foul breath. Thanked them for breaking my fall. Then disengaged myself, though my body remained where

it was.

Heat--sand--sun... the blast of a samiel--

The blast of Samiel, loosed to cleanse the mountain of beasts and sorcerer.

Scorching, scouring sun--blistered, weeping flesh--cracked and bleeding lips--

Del and I had lived it. But Chosa wouldn't survive.

The chanting of the Salset, gathered to celebrate the changing of the year...

the high-pitched whining of the shukar praying to his gods... the hoots and shrieks of desert borjuni, riding down a caravan... the clash and clatter of Hanjii with gold rings in nose and ears...

Music; all of it music; the song of desert life. The music of the Punja; the music of my life.

--dull chiming of the chains binding me into the mine--

--chink of chisel on rock; the crumble of falling reef thick with the promise of

gold--

--squealing and snorting and stomping as the stud protests my wishes--

A personal, powerful song no one else can sing.

--the sobbing of a boy with a back afire from the lash, trying to hide his pain;

trying to hide humiliation--

No one else knew these things.

--the song of a blued-steel blade; the song of

Singlestroke, gifting me with freedom; with life and pride and strength--

And the scream of an angry cat flowing down from a pile of stones.

Only I knew these things.

Only I could sing my life.

Only I could unmake Chosa Dei--

Scirocco. Simoom. Samiel.

Try your best, Chosa Dei--you can't unsing this song.

Dimly I heard the hounds. The whine of Boreal. The snatch of Delilah's song as

she hewed through flesh and bone.

Dimly I heard Chosa Dei, but I couldn't make out his words. Everything in my head was part of my personal song.

Everything in my song was part of Samiel.

Take him. Take him. Take him.

Dimly, Del shouted.

Take him--take him--take him--

Del was shouting at me.

--take him--take him--

--unmake him--

"Tiger--Tiger, no... you don't know what you're doing--"

--sing him into your song--

"Tiger, it's forbidden--"

Samiel splintered ribs.

Flesh, blood, muscle and bone; Samiel wanted it all.

"Tiger--Tiger no--"

Samiel sang his song.

All I could do was listen.

Muscles spasmed. Arms and legs jerked; so did my head. I smacked it against the

chamber floor.

Why is my head on the floor?

Why is any of me on the floor?

Opened eyes: saw chamber ceiling. Saw several chamber ceilings, until I could focus again.

Hoolies, what's wrong with me?

I sat up, wished I hadn't, lay back down again.

Hoolies. Oh, hoolies.

What have I been doing?

Much as I'm a man for keeping my aches to myself, I emitted a raspy groan. As well as a favorite obscenity, followed by a string of lesser favorites, until I

ran out of breath.

By then Del was back.

"So," she said, "you survived."

I waited a beat. "Did I?"

Del's face was blood-spattered. Hair hung in ruddy ribbons. "I had my doubts at

first when I saw you weren't breathing. But I punched you in the chest and you

started right up again."

Thoughtfully, I rubbed a sore spot. It was right over my heart. "Why did you punch me?"

"I told you: you weren't breathing. It was your own fault, and I was angry."

She

shrugged. "It seems a valuable trick, this punching in the chest."

I explored my blood-crusted chest which seemed to be sore in more than one place. There were bite wounds and claw welts in addition to stinging scrapes.

"Why wasn't I breathing?"

"Because you were a stupid, senseless, deaf, dumb and blind fool... a man so full of himself he has no time for others, and gives no heed to others when they're trying to save his life, since he seemed bent on losing it. And you nearly did; Tiger, you are a fool! What did you think to accomplish?

Sacrificing

yourself or your sanity is not a useful thing. Not a useful thing; did you spare

no thought for me? Did you think I wanted you dead just to pay you back for nearly killing me?"

From the floor, I stared up at her. Her anger was truly awesome. "What did I do?" I asked.

"What did you do? What did you do?"

I nodded. "What did I do?"

Del pointed. "That."

It was hard to see from the floor. So I very slowly and very carefully levered

myself up and leaned on one elbow. Looked at where she was pointing.