Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (18 page)

"I'm not asking Adara. I know what she thinks. I'm asking the Sandtiger."

I snorted. "I'm a fine one to ask. We share a profession, bascha... and other things as well." I paused significantly. "Sometimes, that is. When loki aren't

around."

Del sighed and shut her eyes. "Can't you ever be serious?"

"I'm serious most of the time. As for you--"

"What do you want in a woman, Tiger?"

I froze. "What?"

"What do you want in a woman?" She hitched herself up on an elbow. "A soft, helpless thing, requiring your protection? Or a woman like Elamain was, hungry

for constant bedding?" She sighed a little, looking over my shoulder toward the

wagon. "Do you want a woman who cooks for you, cleans for you, bears you countless children... do you want a woman like Adara?"

"Yes," I answered promptly.

Her eyes came back to me. "Which? Like Adara?" Surprise flickered in her tone.

"No. Like all of them."

Del's mouth twisted. "You want three women. Why am I not surprised?"

I grinned. "You don't understand men, bascha."

"No," she agreed dryly, "I have met few examples worth the trouble of learning."

I ignored that. "There are times when softness in a woman appeals to me.

There

are times when an appetite like Elamain's rouses me. There are times when I think about raising a family. And there you are, bascha--all three women, but preferably in one body. I really don't want a harem... too much trouble when you

move."

She was not in the mood for flippancy. "Have you any children?"

"Probably somewhere; I haven't been celibate. But none that I'm certain about."

"And does it bother you, that you may have sired sons and daughters but don't know who--or what--they are?"

I groaned and rolled onto my back, scratching at my forehead. "I don't know, Del. I never think about it."

Her voice was soft. "Never?"

I scowled into the darkness. "If I worried about all the children I may or may

not have sired, I'd have time for nothing else."

"But if you died, Tiger... if you died with no son or daughter, there would be

no one left to sing the songs of you."

"Songs?" I cast her a suspicious scowl. "What songs, bascha?"

Del tightened the blankets around her shoulders. "In the North, it is family custom to sing songs of those who have gone before. When an old one dies--or even a newborn baby--kinfolk gather to honor that person with songs and feasting."

I frowned. "You sure sing a lot in the North. Sing to your sword, sing to your

dead ..." I shook my head and stared up at the stars. "I'm a Southroner, Del.

There is no one to sing for me."

"Yet," she said distinctly, as if it made a difference.

I smiled, laughed, gave in. "Yet," I agreed. "Now may I go to sleep?"

Thirteen

I felt it before I knew it. An itch and tickle all over my body, teasing arms and legs, my scalp, even across my belly. I sat up, swearing, and tore the blankets off.

"Tiger--?" Del, blurry-toned; I was on my feet.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know--"

And then, abruptly, I did. I recalled the sensation too well.

I scooped up my sword and drew it, scraping it out of the sheath.

Del knew better than to question me again. She was on her feet, like me; wide awake, like me, unsheathing her own blade.

I pointed toward the saddle slung between two slanting hills. The track was hard

to see. "There," I said clearly.

"I see nothing, Tiger."

"It's there. It's there." And it was; I could feel it. Creeping relentlessly over the saddle. Dribbling down the track, heading unerringly for the wagon.

"Wake them up," I told her, "but have them stay in the wagon. I want them in one

place, not scattered to the winds."

The old piebald mare nickered uneasily, testing the weight of her line. I recalled the flight of Del's speckled gelding and the loss of my own stud.

Del went to the wagon in silence, parted the woven hangings, said something quietly. I heard Adara's stifled outcry, Cipriana's rising tone, Massou's excited voice. And then I was by the wagon, near the shafts, waiting for the arrival.

Something fluttered deep in my belly. Fear, a little, but mostly an odd, frustrated anger, that something could offer such threat and I didn't know what

it was.

I could see nothing at all, save the silhouette of the saddle. Beyond it lay the

sky and stars, and blacker shadows yet. "Hoolies ..." I muttered uneasily, "I wish we were in the desert."

"They'll stay." Del slipped into place beside me. "What can you tell me, Tiger?"

"Don't you feel it, bascha?"

"No. Nothing."

It made me feel even worse. How could something so strong go unmarked by Del?

"Right there," I said sharply, and suddenly there it was.

There they were: four men on horseback, riding down the track. Little more than

shapeless shadows, blackest black, shrouded in cloaks or burnouses. The horses

they rode were soundless.

"I don't like it, bascha."

"Tiger--look!"

I squinted, even as she did, using a hand to shield my eyes, for the sudden firelight was blinding. It exploded behind each of the riders, crowning the saddleback, and made them silhouettes instead of men.

"Ah, booties," I growled, disgusted, as each of them bared a sword.

Horses are afraid of fire. It makes them crazy. It makes them stupid. It makes

them do silly things. But these four horses were untouched by the blaze behind

them or the flames dancing on each of the blades held so precariously near their

heads. They just kept coming, in an eerie, uncanny silence.

And then they began to run.

"Del," I said lightly, "now might be a good time for you to start singing.

We'll

need every advantage we can get."

Del sang, and the horses came on, exhaling smoke. Swords blazed like brands in

the night.

The riders split up, driving in four directions. Two dropped back, outflanked the others, circled the wagon. The swords were torches in their hands, lighting

four familiar faces.

Four dead faces; we had already killed them once. But somehow they lived again.

Del's song wavered. Breath caught in her throat, then ran raggedly out of her mouth. "Tiger--do you see--?"

"I see, bascha. Keep singing."

She didn't. "How is it possible?"

"It's not. At least, not without using magic." I swallowed heavily. "You beat them once, Del. I know you can do it again."

"But I cut them to pieces, Tiger! These are whole men!"

Whole men, each of them, coming down from the Northern sky. Swathed again in Southron silks, baring blazing Southron blades, mouthing Southron words. But everything was soundless.

How is it possible?

"Never mind," I said grimly. "The trick is to win again."

"Loki," Del breathed. "It has to be the loki. They are powerful enough."

"To stitch them together again?" I drew in a deep breath. "Then let's take them

apart--again."

"Last time they were men."

This time they were not.

"Sing," I said fervently. "Sing for all you're worth."

Loki, men, whatever, they knew how to handle swords. And did so very well, whipping in, whipping out, playing with us on the run. Del and I were forced back against the wagon, then cut away from it, herded like mindless sheep.

But

we fought back with all our skill, tantalizing the mounted men, until their game

became less than a game and more like an execution.

I heard the old mare scream. I snatched a glance out of the corner of my eye and

saw a flaming sword cut her rope. She spun awkwardly, staggered two steps, went

down heavily. She did not move again.

My world was little more than noise and flame. I smelled fire and the stink of

decaying flesh, the tang of sweat-soaked wool, the salt of sweat-caked leather.

Blades rang on blades, filling the air with swordsong; the sweetest sound I know, and by far the deadliest.

I gasped, sucked air, wheezed, coughed, spat mucus out of my mouth. Tried to turn back the two swords that came at me time and time again. Looked for Del, saw her engaging two flaming swords, and knew that no matter who--or what--our

opponents were, living or resurrected, they also were more than a little deadly.

I never touched flesh with my sword. Not even horseflesh. I couldn't get close

enough, beat off by blazing steel. And then one of them made a mistake; he came

a little too close. I swung, cut, tore through, and the horse disappeared into

smoke.

"Del!" I cried. "They're not real!"

"--real enough," she panted.

"Duck the swords and go for the horses. None of the mounts are real, just specters made out of smoke."

I'll give the girl this much, she does know how to listen. In a moment another

was unhorsed, left to ride nothing but smoke, which left us with two still mounted. The men on foot approached, but now they were vulnerable.

More than that, in the end; the men on foot were falling apart.

Piece by piece, things dropped away. An arm, a head, a hand. The stink of them

nearly choked me.

Two were whole, and mounted. One came for me, the other targeted Del.

Whatever

else they were, they weren't fazed by the behavior of their comrades. Their minds were fixed on us.

One came riding. I ducked, spun, swung back, trying to notch a hock. But the rider set the horse back on his heels and rolled left, swinging his flaming sword. I ducked, but not enough; something bathed my left arm in pain.

I don't know what I shouted. Undoubtedly something obscene. But for the moment I

was one-armed, handling the sword with only one hand as well. It was made for a

two-handed grip and that's what I'm accustomed to. The balance was off, I was off, my arm was nearly off.

I heard Del's grunt of effort, followed by an outcry, I tried to look, could not; the rider was on me again.

I slipped. Went to one knee. Tried to scrabble up, to lurch aside, but the footing was treacherous. I saw the blade swing down at my head, tried to block

it with my useless left arm, heard someone scream behind me.

Hoolies, bascha, not you--

Not Del. Cipriana.

I flattened, rolled, came up in time to see her jam the end of her quarterstaff

into the horse's chest, then brace the butt against the wagon to support the staff as well as she could. The horse spitted himself, bled smoke instead of blood. Then wisped into nothingness.

The rider landed, grinned, fell down, broke into pieces on the ground. The sword

no longer blazed, but was dead, cold steel.

Four feet away, Del severed the last horse's throat. And then we were alone, waving off smoke, except for Cipriana.

She sucked in harsh, gasping breaths. There was blood spattered on her face, but

none of it was hers. What she wore was mine.

"Cipriana." I grunted, heaved myself up, staggered over to her. "Cipriana, it's

over. Over." I wrenched the staff out of rigid hands. "No more need for this."

Empty hands clawed for the staff, found air, then masked her face from me. In the wagon, I heard sobbing. Not Massou's: Adara's.

It made me oddly angry. The woman cried for a daughter who had acquitted herself

quite well. Better than crying, she might come outside instead and see what that

daughter had done.

"Tiger." It was Del, at my side, touching a charred sleeve. "Tiger, let me see."

"What? That?" I tried to shrug the arm away, hissed and wished I hadn't.

"Hoolies, bascha, what are you doing?"

"Looking," she said firmly. "Hold still--" She tore wool; her face was grim.

"Well, one thing for burning swords--the wound is cauterized. About all we need

to do is clean it, bandage it... it ought to heal well enough."

My mind was on Cipriana, still hidden behind her hands. "Cipriana, you did well.

You saved my life. No sense in shutting it out."

"She'll be fine," Del said flatly. "Can we get this taken care of?"

"I'll be fine." I touched Cipriana's shoulder. "Bascha, it's all right--" And then I stopped short, because Del had gone quite still.

Oh, hoolies, why the slip of the tongue?

I started to say something, anything, but coughing got in the way. I bent over,

braced myself against the wagon, brought up gouts of mucus. My chest was tearing

apart.

Through the hacking and retching, I heard Massou say the mare was dead.

Somehow

it didn't surprise me. And I hurt too much to care.

"Adara," Del said quietly, "can you make him tea?"

I stopped coughing. Whispered. "No more of that stuff. I'd rather have aqivi."

Del put a hand on my brow. "You're hot."

"Best put him in the wagon." Adara's voice. "He'll be warmer in there."

"Don't need warmth," I protested in a croak. "Bascha, can you whistle up a storm? One of those Northern snowstorms?"

"No," Del said firmly, and steered me toward the back of the wagon.

"Is he all right?" Cipriana asked, forgetting her own ordeal.

"He will be," Del remarked, "once he's had some sleep. First the cold and now a

wound... even sandtigers need time to recover."

"Hoolies, Del--I'm fine."

"Your lungs roar like a bellows, you croak like you've eaten steel, your arm was

carved open and burned. You are not fine, Tiger... and you'll thank us in the morning."

I knew better. But I also knew that I hurt inside and out. Shutting my teeth on

curses, I crawled into the wagon and stretched out my bulk on the pallet. The interior was hardly large enough for all of me; I wondered how in hoolies Adara

and her children managed to get any sleep.

Painfully, I turned over onto my back. Blinked dazedly at the opening with its