Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (11 page)

opposition to their name.

I looked out across the distances, disliking the thickness of the night. In the

South, even full dark seems bright enough. It is because the moon, spilling illumination across the miles of flattened sand, knows no obstacles. Light, unhindered, runs forever along the ground. But here, where there are hills and

mountains and trees, the moonlight contests for dominance, and nearly always loses.

I shivered. "I don't like it," I said quietly. "And yes, I have a reason... I just don't know it, yet."

Below me, the stud whickered. Talking to me, or to the gelding, or maybe to himself. The sound carried clearly, sounding closer than it was. Looking down, I

could see the fire, and the black blot of Del's silhouette, hunched contentedly

before the flames.

Well, she would be content. She was, at last, home, after too many years.

Something goosed me in the spine. I swore. Swung around. Lost myself in the sudden shadows and stumbled over a stone. Swore again against the pain in my big

toe. The stone rolled, clacked, stopped against another. There it rested. I saw

it clearly, cheek-by-jowl with the second. And a third, and a fourth... I stopped counting at twenty-seven.

Rocks. Just rocks. But oddly rounded, smooth, as if they had been shaped and carefully polished. One after another poured out in a long curving line, like a

necklet of Punja crystals. Black in the light of a waning moon; by daylight, by

sunlight, perhaps a different color. I followed them around until the last met

the first--or would have, had I not knocked it out of its bed.

The symmetry was pleasing. I was a sword-dancer, born of a Southron circle, and

here I faced another. Northern instead of Southron, made of rocks instead of a

line drawn in the sand, but nonetheless a circle. It made me feel better.

Considerably better.

It made me feel intensely good.

Grinning, I bent and scooped up the displaced stone. It was cool, silky, soothing, nestled into the palm of my hand. Its touch sucked away the last residue of unease and put pleasure in its place, an intense, abiding pleasure that made me fondle the stone. Reluctantly, I bent and put it back into the nakedness of the pocket I had uncovered. Satisfied, I nodded; the symmetry was

repaired.

A surge of well-being filled me. No longer was I oppressed or depressed but filled with a virulent satisfaction.

And a need for sharing it.

I straightened. "Hey, Del!" Echoes abounded. "Feel like sparring? There's just

enough light to make it interesting--and someone kindly left us a circle." I entered, stepping over the stone I had handled, and unsheathed Theron's sword.

The pale purple glow was gone, but the moonlight set the silver afire. In the glint I saw the runes etched into the blade and sensed again a strangeness working. But the discomfort was gone entirely; what I felt was complacent joy,

an anticipation of true pleasure. It was almost sexual. "Come on, Del...you could use the exercise!"

She topped the hill slowly, a shadow amid other shadows. "Why are you shouting?"

she asked crossly. "I was enjoying the peace of the night, and you are destroying it with your noise."

I gestured. "See the circle? I thought we could spar a little."

Del frowned. "What circle--" And then she shut up, abruptly, biting off the inflection of her question. "Come out," she said plainly. "Come out of there now!"

"What in hoolies for?"

She ignored my question entirely. "Did you touch anything? Anything in or of the

circle?"

"I moved a rock back after I accidentally kicked it aside. Why?"

Del swore. Pale hair was aglow in the wan moonlight. Her eyes were hidden in pockets of shadow. "It's a loki ring, Tiger. I can't come in, not now--but you

can still come out. Do it now, before they are awakened."

"Bascha, you're being ridiculous. There's nothing here--"

There was now. And I felt it coming.

Something jerked me to my knees. The sword fell out of my hands as I flopped forward, splaying fingers against the turf. Something had me, and yet I could feel nothing at all. No fingers, no ropes, no traps. Merely a power, and that power was dragging me down into an obscene intercourse with the earth.

I lay flat, stretched out, belly-down, and pinned. My face, turned sideways, ground into the turf and through it, into dirt, into a cold, clammy darkness that invaded eyes and nose and mouth.

I meant to cry out, but all I did was swallow dirt and turf.

Writhing, I tried to pull free. Tried to wrench myself from the grip that held

me with unrelenting strength. Dimly I heard Del shouting, but her words made no

sense. My ears were stopped up with turf.

I hacked and coughed, trying to breathe, trying to spit out choking dirt and dampness. I was aware of an almost obscene urgency in my body, a need to release

myself into the earth, like a man into a woman. It made me want to vomit.

The turf was alive. It made way for my body, then linked roots and blades with

hair, fingers, toes. It tickled mouth and nostrils, tried to invade my eyes as

it wove itself into my lashes. I squeezed lids shut and tried to shout again, but the opened mouth merely made way for encroaching grass. I gagged as coy blades caressed the back of my throat.

Hoolies, bascha, do something!

She did. She snatched off the necklet she wore and threw it into the circle.

"Take that instead!" she shouted. "Take it and leave me the man!"

I was, I knew, little more than a man-shaped mound against the earth, half consumed by soil and turf. A moment longer, there would be nothing left of me at

all. But something contemplated the choice. Considered Del's words. Assessed the

gift she offered.

And accepted.

I wrenched free in a gout of dirt and turf, hearing the protests of ripping roots and shredded grass. I staggered, fell, thrust myself up again, trying to

throw myself over the ring of rocks.

"The sword," Del shouted. "Don't leave them a jivatma."

Somehow I caught it, clutched it, carried it out of the circle, where Del grabbed my wrist, I was weak and disoriented, wool-witted; she began to haul me

away.

"Bascha--"

"We must repack and resaddle as quickly as we can, and pray the necklet will be

enough for now," she said firmly. "Later, I can speak to the gods and ask their

intervention."

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 after-effects, 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