Swordmistress of Chaos (6 page)

‘I was investing part of my pay in decent wine, in a tavern owned by a charming friend of mine.’

‘She’s so charming she attracts every disease in the Three Cities,’ grunted Spellbinder.

Argor ignored the interruption, his smile lascivious with memory.

‘A fight broke out. Five of Lyand’s City Guard thought to have found a Tirwand spy. The poor fellow was struggling to defend himself, though he had little chance as I guessed it.’

Spellbinder snorted in disgust.

‘Hard-pressed, he was,’ continued Argor, ‘and like to fall beneath their swords. I was paid off and of a benevolent nature, so I took pity on the hapless fellow. I drew my sword and cut two of the Guardsmen with one magnificent stroke. The others turned on me, and my defence threw them back against the unfortunate fellow. He managed to account for one of them, whilst I slew the others with two devastating strokes.

‘The blood was thick upon the sawdust, and it was Guardsman blood. I could only flee, taking the unfortunate with me, else he should be blamed for the slaughter. We took a pair of handy horses and escaped to the Outlands, where we introduced ourselves, Spellbinder, he called himself.’

As Argor finished his narration, Spellbinder choked on his wine, tears of laughter running down his lean face.

‘Braggart’ he spluttered. ‘Liar. Boaster. There were three Guardsmen, the extra two were supplied by your wine-fuddled eyes. I killed one before you even managed to untangle yourself from the arms of that painted strumpet. One, you slew. As I recall, you staggered in your drunkenness and knocked him over when you fell against him. The third, I took.’

‘Perhaps.’ Argor filled a third goblet. ‘But Lyand would still welcome both our heads on watch-skulls on the gate.’

‘So I’ll darken my face and change my clothing. There’s no more danger in it than trusting in Titus.’

Argor grimaced and was about to speak again, but Raven interrupted him.

‘I’ll come with you. I’d life see the city again; maybe Donwayne, too.’

A sudden silence fell upon the men, as though both were nervous of such a meeting. Then, slowly, Spellbinder nodded.

‘Very well. It’s unlikely anyone will recognize you, but follow my example, act as I do. And remember that caution must be our watchword.’

Raven smiled her agreement, suddenly excited at the prospect of seeing hated Lyand again.

‘Whatever the weapon, it must be tested. The making may have concealed imperfections such as show only in use.’

The Books of Kharwhan

The city rose like a jewel from the yellow sand. Its contours were those of the country around it, undulating softly upwards in shades of gold and ochre and brown. Around the farthest perimeter, there stretched a great wall, twice the height of a tall man. It was a stone-built thing, the sun-mellowed rock washed by the light to the same shades as glazed up from the desert. Along the top was a wooden barrier, some five feet high, behind which stood archers and javelin men. Beyond the wall Raven could see the familiar spires of the place reflecting the afternoon sun in a myriad patterns of dancing light. The spires were built of the same solid stone as the wall, though coloured, so that they shone blue and green and grey, silver and gold, dark umber and deeper black; iridescent, they were, the cupola surmounting each structure bright gold where the sun struck from the beaten metal plates.

At several places along the wall were gates. Each one a massive, heavy-timbered thing of weathered beams and great metal rivets, inset with small watch-doors and peep-holes. Around each gate there were cave-like openings in the stone of the wall, black holes little higher than a man’s thigh. Those, Raven knew, were the exit points for the slavehounds; she shuddered at the thought.

As they approached the main gates, crossbows sighted upon them, and the harsh voice of the watch-serjeant called for them to halt. They reined in, waiting while a section of the fortified gate was swung open to reveal a space just wide enough for a single horse to pass through. Then they were beckoned on.

Spellbinder led the way. He had applied a dye to his skin, so that he appeared swarthy as some Xandrone herder and in place of his armour he wore flowing robes of a rich brown colour. Beneath the folds of cloth there was a mail war-shirt, and daggers were hidden about his person. Raven was similarly disguised in robes of virginal white, a deep-fronted cowl obscuring her features. She, too, wore mail beneath the robe and carried a knife in addition to the throwing stars belted around her slender waist.

‘Who comes?’

An officer appeared in the entrance, behind him, a troop of swordsmen.

‘Two wanderers,’ shouted Spellbinder. ‘Pilgrims out of Ghorm, bound for the North.’

‘Ride closer.’

Spellbinder urged his mount through the portal, Raven close at his back. They were allowed to enter the gate, finding themselves in a stone-walled enclave betwixt the great outer wall and a smaller, inner circle. Between both walls there was an open space, blocked off from the entry gate by sturdy wooden palings. Within the space paced the gaunt shapes of the slavehounds, while the upper reaches of both walls were patrolled by archers.

‘What business have you in Lyand?’ For the captain of a merchant city’s army, the officer was distinctly unfriendly. ‘How came you here?’

‘We seek rest and a safe place to pass the night,’ answered Spellbinder. ‘The southern wastes are a trifle unfriendly to unarmed travelers. As to our coming, why, we rode here.’

‘Bound for the North, you said,’ grunted the soldier. ‘Why?’

‘We go to worship at the Temple of the Stone in Quell,’ said Spellbinder, softly.

‘So, Stone-kissers.’ The tone was contemptuous. ‘Then there’s little to fear from you. Pass on.’

The appellation of Stone pilgrims was sufficient passport to allow them entry into the city, though both wondered why the merchant-centre closed her defences so tight.

They found out when they reached the tavern Argor had described to them.

There, the greeting was warmer. It was a small, snug place, redolent of pungent khif and spilled wine. Rich odours of cooking meat entranced their stomachs, and the smiling woman who came out to direct them to the stableyard was dumpy and flour-stained, a motherly figure totally unlike the surly watchmen.

‘Is she,’ asked Raven, ‘Argor’s paramour?’

‘Aye,’ whispered Spellbinder, chuckling, ‘though it seems she’s aged somewhat in the last years.’

‘What if she remembers you?’ Raven was abruptly conscious of the city patrols. ‘What then?’

‘How should she know me?’ Spellbinder murmured. ‘She saw me once, three years ago. Then I dressed in silver mail. Now, what am I? A humble pilgrim en route to Quell to bend my knee to the Stone.’

‘Soon,’ replied Raven, ‘you must tell me what this stone is, that it calls for pilgrims. I’ve not heard of it before.’

‘Soon,’ smiled Spellbinder, ‘you shall see it for yourself. And it, you. Then you may learn a little more about your future.’

He turned before Raven could ask a further question, and she followed him into the tavern, irritated and intrigued: it seemed that some great design unwove about her, revealing itself in small parts. She lusted to know the whole of it, yet simultaneously realised, intuitively, that it must come in fragments.

What I can, I shall explain…

Those had been Spellbinder’s words, and slowly, little bit by little, he had revealed things to her. Still, however, she felt that he kept much back; knew far more of her future—were that possible?—than he revealed. Certainly, she felt, he was guiding her into a particular path, steering her towards some destiny she knew nothing of. Though, still, she felt unable to argue against it; there was something in Spellbinder that compelled her to heed him, whatever his purpose. It was as though he held her entranced, bound round by the magic Argor’s men had hinted he controlled.

What is he?
she wondered, studying the broad back disappearing into the tavern,
a bandit? Or something more? Is he from the Isle of Ghosts? Some sorcerer-priest who works his secret purpose on the world for his own strange ends, or what? No ordinary outlaw, he; that for certain. But what? What is he?

Her thoughts were broken off by the smell of food and the goblet of wine Spellbinder thrust into her hand. He had chosen them a secluded table to the rear of the tavern, sheltered from the main hall by a cobwebbed pillar. The other occupants were mostly, it appeared, local tradesmen and merchants, a few soldiers, and the customary sprinkling of doxies. Two pilgrims attracted no more attention than the odd glance and a muffled laugh at their robes. Yet Argor had advised them well, for above the planking of the serving table, set carefully out of the reach of drunken customers, hung a shard of granite. It was no more than a chip from some larger block of alluvial rock, but it was polished so that it glistened green and blue in the candles’ light, the platinum chain suspending it from the low ceiling, shining palely silver above the duller gleam of the stone. A hole had been bored out to accommodate a silver ring, through which the chain was fastened, and a broad metal shade was mounted into the ceiling to protect the thing from smoke.

Raven had never heard of the Stone of Quell, but when Spellbinder showed the tavern-owner a silver-ring surmounted by a tiny chip of rock, she began to realise its power. The woman backed away, her mouth opening in surprise as mumbled incantations fell from her lips. Then she came forward, taking Spellbinder’s hands in hers to raise them to her mouth. She kissed his fingers and back away, still mouthing incoherent prayers.

Spellbinder turned to Raven, smiling: ‘We shall fare well here. Mistress Clara is a Stone-worshipper. She thinks me a priest of the sect; you, an acolyte.’

‘What is the Stone?’ Raven asked. ‘Are you a priest of the cult?’

‘The Stone,’ chuckled Spellbinder, cynicism tinging his words, ‘is a chunk from the nether end of a falling star. It came to earth some ninety years ago, and was hailed as a falling god. It stands, now, in Quell with a temple built around it, where people can go to worship a piece of senseless star-rock. There is no more power in it than you’ll find in a corpse; but legends are easily built, and people like to believe what they will.

‘So, the priests grow fat on the donations of the worshippers, and wanderers like us find friends in falsity. Something is afoot in Lyand and I must know what it is; being a pilgrim to the Stone is as good a reason as any for being here.’

‘But are you not a priest of another cult?’ Raven asked.

‘Which?’ Spellbinder answered, evasively.

‘Kharwhan,’ she said. ‘Are you not a sorcerer-priest?’

‘Wait,’ was all he answered, ‘wait, if you will. Take it for now that I hold your interest. No, more than that: you, over all else. That I hold closest to my heart. In time I shall explain everything, but there must be time. The world turns and events depend upon the hands of those who turn it. Bide patient, Raven, and we’ll do great things together. For now, though, wait if you will.’

She nodded, wondering.

Mistress Clara returned with platters of rich-odoured food and a large flask of decent wine. She served them herself, setting the victuals before Spellbinder as a worshipper sets an offering before the guardian of a god. Her treatment of Raven was respectful, but subtly less reverential—after all, an acolyte does not have the status of a full-blown priest.

Spellbinder waited until she had finished her ministrations, then motioned for her to join them.

‘What’s afoot?’ he spoke through a mouthful of food, ‘Lyand boasts more soldiery on her walls than flies on a dungpile.’

‘You’ve not heard?’ Mistress Clara sounded surprised, as though the affairs of Lyland should be common knowledge.

Spellbinder shook his head: ‘Tell me.’

‘Why, sir priest, the war horns trumpet again. These past months we’ve lost seven caravans to raiders, and four ships to sea-rievers. At first it was assumed they had fallen victim to common outlaws, but the word now is that Karhsaam ventures to extend her power. The Altan has been ever ambitious, and he feels his power threatened by the Three Cities. Urged on by his Stone-damned bride, he flexes his muscles, planning to move against us.’

‘Why Stone-damned?’ interrupted Spellbinder, adding by way of explanation for his ignorance ‘I have been long in the wilderness.’

‘His sister!’ Mistress Clara spat the words. ‘M’yrstal took to wife his own blood-kin, Krya, proclaiming that he returned to the old ways, that the blood of the M’yrstal altans was too pure to mingle with that of a lesser person. Fagh!’ She shaped a horn with her clenched fist, driving index and little finger at the table in the universal sign of disgust. ‘Pure as the warped mind of a sister-lover.’

‘How comes a tavern-mistress to hold such knowledge?’ Spellbinder asked. ‘Surely such matters are the province of the high powers?’

Mistress Clara set a grubby finger to the side of her nose.

‘A tavern can be a sounding-box, sensitive as the fylar. One with ears to hear may listen to resonances of great interest. The soldiers favour this place—knowing it to be clean and honest—and from them I hear much. Why, only three days ago I learned that the Weaponmaster Donwayne quit the city to seek sword-service with the Altan.’

Beneath the table, out of sight of prying eyes, Spellbinder’s hand clasped tight around Raven’s thigh. His fingers probed for the nerves that would paralyse her leg, stifling her hate-born movement before she could rise in blood-anger.

‘So he reneged his tenure here in favour of the larger game?’

‘Aye,’ nodded the tavern-mistress, ‘the eyes of that one were ever fixed on the greater game.’

‘So he quit Lyand when the gold glinted brighter to the north,’ prompted Spellbinder.

Clara nodded. ‘Yes. While we prepare for war, he rides to the Altan, taking a full troop of Beastmen with him.’

‘So it goes,’ murmured Spellbinder.

Beside him, Raven boiled with impatient fury. One reason for visiting Lyand again had been the opportunity of matching Karl ir Donwayne blade-to-blade. She lusted for the Weaponmaster’s death with a ferocity unknown until she realised that she could wield a sword near as well as he. As a runaway slave, she had entertained little hope of revenging herself upon him; as a weapon-trained outlaw, she felt capable of besting him in fair battle. Now the opportunity seemed lost to her.