Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 (9 page)

"I thought you said something about those runes protecting the traveler," Del murmured. "So much for desert courtesy."

"Against tribes, yes. Not much of anything protects anybody against scavengers like borjuni--unless you want to count on a sword." I stared at the eight gathered men mounted on stocky Punja-bred horses. They were all typically Southron: black-haired, dark-eyed, swart-skinned, robed against the rising sun, aglitter with knives and stickers and swords. "A camp," I muttered thoughtfully. "There must be a camp nearby...."

Del, from beside me, "Do you want to pay a visit?"

I grinned. "Maybe later. After we're done with these."

It was said for their benefit in clear, precise Desert, though Del's was accented. Not that it mattered: language skill was the last thing the eight mounted borjuni considered while staring down at the Northern woman so different from their own.

Which really was all right, when you looked at the scheme of things. It meant they didn't notice--or didn't care--that a sword was in her hands.

More likely, didn't care. It's hard not to notice Boreal.

Deep inside, I laughed. I had a jivatma, too.

"Well?" I invited.

One of the men stirred. His dark face was pocked by childhood disease. Long hair, greased back, glistened with too much oil. The curling ends stained grimy gray-brown the shoulders of his dusty cream-colored burnous. He challenged me with a stare.

"Sword-dancer?" he asked.

I altered the tilt of my blade minutely, just enough to catch the newborn sunlight and throw it back into his eyes. Answer enough, I thought; you don't mess around with borjuni, or consider subtleties of feelings. You go straight to the point; in this case, it was my point, blackened by Chosa Dei.

The borjuni swore, squinted, thrust up a forearm to ward away the light. Behind him, his men muttered, but a single sibilant word held them in their places. He brought down his arm, settled a hand on his knife-hilt, glared down the length of his pocked, bony nose.

He didn't look at Del. But then, he didn't need to. He'd seen all he needed to see, to know how much he wanted.

The other hand he took from the reins and waved in a fluid gesture of encompassing possession: seven mounted men, all dangerously ruthless. Their worth was already proven, if you counted the bodies we'd buried.

The hand settled once more. He waited expectantly.

"I'm not impressed," I told him.

Dark eyes narrowed. He flicked a glance at Del, eyed the bared blade a moment, then looked back at me. "The woman," he growled, "and you go free."

A bargain, yet. Very unlike a borjuni. Being a sword-dancer has its uses--except in this case I wasn't so sure of things. Eight to two were not good odds, even if the borjuni, in their ignorance, believed it eight to one. I am big, yes, and quick, and I've cultivated a tough appearance, but I'm not that big or quick or mean.

Still, I was willing to play up the chance.

I displayed a cheerful, toothy grin. "I go free anyway. Do you think you can take the Sandtiger?"

Del, trained according to the exquisite honor codes of Staal-Ysta, no doubt considered it unnecessary braggadocio, but it's the way things are in the South. With borjuni, you need every edge. If they were at all concerned about me and the dangers of trying my skill, all the better. It could tip the balance in our favor.

Black eyes flickered. The borjuni leader tried a different approach. "Why has the woman a sword?"

"Because she, too, is a sword-dancer." I didn't see the sense in lying; besides, he wouldn't believe me. "And she has magic," I added casually. "Powerful Northern magic."

He squinted, assessing Del. Looking for magic, no doubt. Except he wouldn't see any, not so obviously, other than the magic of a leggy Northern beauty with a thick plait of white-blonde silk falling over one muscled shoulder bared by the almost sleeveless leather tunic. It didn't occur to him to consider the sword seriously, or what it was capable of.

Then again, who would? Boreal is very good at keeping secrets. Almost as good as Del.

A subtle flick of fingers. The seven men behind him began to spread apart. Del and I, without speaking, shifted stance at once, moving to stand back-to-back. I balanced very precisely, feeling familiar tension in thighs and calves, the tightening of abdomen.

Behind me, Del hummed. Prelude to the song. Prologue to the dance.

The leader did not move. "Sandtiger," he said, as if to be very sure.

It occurred to me then, and only then, that even borjuni might find it opportune to listen to the rumors. Maybe I hadn't been so smart in giving him my name. Maybe I'd been downright stupid, handing him the truth to lend credence to the tales. If what Rhashad had said were true--and I had no reason to doubt him--gold had been set on our heads.

Very softly, I swore.

Del's song gained in volume just as the borjuni charged.

Nine

One of the easiest--and most violent--ways of taking out a mounted enemy is by cutting down his horse. It isn't clean, it isn't nice; what it is, is quick. It also has the occasional benefit of doing the whole job for you; I have known opponents killed by falling horses, or by the fall alone. It saves time and energy. And while you can't always hope for that, you do hope for the shock alone to drop the mounted man into your path. Then you finish the work.

When I fight, whether within the confines of the circle or outside in the codeless world, I experience an odd sort of slowing in time. While nothing is really still, it is nonetheless slowed so that my vision is unobscured by motion too fast to follow.

Once I'd thought it was the way everyone viewed fight or dance, until I'd mentioned it in passing to my shodo. The next day he had kicked me up a training level and handed me over to a well-known, established sword-dancer by the name of Abbu Bensir in order to test my claim. Whom I had not only beaten, but had also marked for life by nearly crushing his throat.

I'd explained to my shodo, once I'd gotten over the shock of actually winning the sparring dance, that Abbu's patterns had been relatively easy to block, because he'd been lazy and complacent, but mostly because I'd seen the path-within-the-path: the angles and sweeps and snaps before Abbu carried through. It was simply a matter of seeing the possibilities, probabilities, and alternatives, and selecting the action judged by my opponent as most likely to succeed. It required snap judgments of his technique, a rapid assessment of his style, and an immediate counter move.

I thought everybody did it. How else is the dance won?

Eventually I was told no, that not everyone had the ability to see motion before it happened, or to select the likeliest course for the opponent to follow, and then fashion a counter measure before the action occured. Such anticipation and countering ability was, my shodo explained, the truest gift a sword-dancer could ever hope for. And that I, more gifted than most, would reap the reward for a very long time, years, even--if I didn't throw the gift away by growing lazy, or too complacent.

Arrogant, always. Robustly confident. But never, ever complacent.

The mounted borjuni came on. Everything dutifully slowed, so I could see all the possibilities, and the path-within-the-path. Patiently I waited, sword at the ready, and watched him come riding at me, keening a promise of death.

Oh, it was promised, all right. But it wasn't my death.

I cut the horse out from under him, then spitted him on the way down.

One gone: seven to go. Of course, some of them would be Del's.

I spun in place even as the horse thrashed and screamed, briefly sorry about the waste, but knowing that survival requires many distasteful things. Later, if I lived, I'd dispatch the horse completely, but for now--

Senses thrummed. My ears focused on the sussuration of hooves digging through sand; the clatter of bridle brasses; the thick snort of a horse reined up short. I ducked, darted a false cut at the forelegs, let the borjuni jerk his horse aside as he swooped down with glinting blade. I caught it on my own, steel screeching; hooked, twisted, counter-rotated; snapped free, flowed aside, ducked a second time. Yet again the dart at the forelegs; yet again the sideways jerk: he valued his mount too well. It split his concentration.

I snap-chopped with a leveled blade, cut deeply into his calf-booted leg, heard him scream in shock and rage. The pain would follow quickly enough--except I didn't wait for it. As he slopped sideways in the saddle, clutching impotently at the nearly severed leg, I reached up, caught an arm, jerked him down from the horse. Sliced fragile throat effortlessly.

Two.

The rune-worked blade ran wet with bright new blood. In my head I heard a song, a whispered murmur of song, creeping into my bones. This was what it was for, my gods-blessed jivatma. This was its special task, to spill the blood of the enemy. This was its special talent: to part the flesh from bone, sundering even that, and unmake the enemy--

Rage and power and need.

Dimly I recognized none was born of me, but of something--someone--else.

The song wouldn't go away.

I spun, lunged, sliced. Horses everywhere, crowding the tiny oasis, compressing my personal circle. I heard Del's harsh breathing, the snatches of Northern song, the muttered self-exhortations spilled on choppy, blurted breath. Horses everywhere, snorting and stomping and squealing and thrashing--

--teeth snapping, hooves slashing--

--wild, rolling eyes--

--shouted Southron curses and threats of dismemberment--

--the thick hot scent of blood commingling with the sand--

--Del weaving sunlight with a shuttle of magicked steel--

--rage--and power--and NEED--

Chosa Dei wanted free.

The daylight around me exploded.

The enemy was shouting. I couldn't understand, couldn't decipher the words; knew only the enemy was required to be unmade--

"Tiger--Tiger, no--"

Trapped at the end of the blade; transfixed by discoloration: all I had to do was cut into the enemy's neck, barely slit the fragile flesh, and the enemy was unmade.

"Tiger--don't make me do this--"

It whispered in my head. A tiny, perfect song.

Take her now, it sang. Take her NOW, and set me free.

So many horses destroyed. So many enemies--

The swearing, now, was in Northern. For a moment it nonplussed me... then the song swelled in my head.

"--unmake--" I muttered aloud.

I had only to touch her throat with the blackened tip of the blade--

"You thrice-cursed son of a goat!" she cried. "What kind of an idiot are you? Do you want this dance, you fool? Do you really want us to do to each other what no one else can do?"

No one else?

Rage.

And power.

And need.

Blood dripped from the blade. A droplet ran down the sweep of Northern-fair collar bone and beneath the ivory tunic.

Del lifted her weapon. In her eyes I saw frantic appeal replaced by grim determination.

Something occurred to me.

I leapt, even as she snapped the blade aside in preparation of engagement. I leapt, lunged, dropped, and rolled, scraping through blood-soaked sand. Somehow got rid of the sword and came up empty-handed--

--to kiss turgid Northern steel as it lingered on my mouth.

I hung there on my knees, sucking air, trying very hard not to twitch or itch or blink, while Del gazed down at me out of angry banshee-storm eyes.

She looked at me, measuring. Looked at the sword, lying ten feet away. Stared hard at me again.

After a long, tense moment, Del gritted teeth. "How in hoolies am I to know when it's you, and when it's not?"

Because I could, because I knew her name, I put a finger on Boreal's edge and moved her slightly away from my mouth. "You could ask," I suggested mildly.

"Ask! Ask! In the midst of hostilities, not knowing if I am to be spitted by a borjuni blade--or on yours--I am to ask if I can trust the man supposedly my partner?" Blue eyes blazed as she shaped a sarcastic tone. " 'Excuse me, Sandtiger, are you feeling friendly today, or not?' " Del shook her head. "What kind of a fool are you?"

"Bad joke," I murmured. "Either that, or you have no sense of humor."

"I find very little humorous about what just happened." Del scowled blackly. "Do you even know what happened?"

"I think I killed some people." I glanced around briefly, absently noting bodies. I counted eight of them. "Do you mind if I stand up?"

"You may piss rocks for all I care, so long as you do not go near that sword."

My, but she was perturbed. I sucked in a breath and got myself to my feet, marking aches and pains and twinges and tweaks, all epilogue to the battle.

I took a step. "Del, I'm not--" I broke if off on a throttled oath of discovery. Then sat down awkwardly on the sand.

"What is it?" Del asked suspiciously.

I was too busy swearing to answer. With great care I stretched out my right leg, felt the grinding pop within, then bent over it in supplication to the gods of ruined knees.

"Hoolies--not my knee--please not my knee--" I sucked in a ragged breath, sweat stinging scrapes and cuts. "I don't need this--I really don't need this... oh, hoolies, not my knee--"

Del's tone sounded more normal. "Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right--do I look all right? Do I sound all right?" I glared up at her, trying to will away the pain. "If you hadn't made me lunge and roll just now--"

"My fault! My fault? You son of a goat--that was my throat at the end of your sword!"

"I know--I know--I'm sorry ..." I was, too, but couldn't deal with it just then; it was too big, too threatening--besides, my knee was killing me, and it was easier to focus on that rather than on what I'd done--or nearly done--to Del. "Oh, hoolies, let it be all right--not something permanent--"

"What have you done?" she asked.

"Twisted it," I blurted. "Oh, hoolies, I hate knees ... all they do is give out just when you need them most, or keep you awake at night ..." I scrubbed sweat away from eyes. "I suppose you're just fine. You with your twenty-one years."