Swordmistress of Chaos (21 page)

Sword and axe spun a curtain of glittering death before him as he advanced, and Raven knew that she could not fend off the weight of both blades.

‘Victory,’ she snarled, backing away, ‘belongs to the one left alive.’

‘Aye,’ chuckled Donwayne. ‘Me.’

He darted the scimitar forwards as he spoke, driving Raven back to the farther wall. She fended the blade with her shield then a heftier blow hurled her sideways as the axe swung in to cut at mail, seeking the softer flesh beneath. She let herself roll with the blow, tumbling over as though stunned by its force, crawling over the sand until she reached the centre of the arena.

Donwayne followed her, his thick lips smiling behind his helmet. He was relaxed, almost casual now that he was confident of his victory.

Your best advantage is your sex,
she recalled Argor’s words,
for most men will assume you defeated before you begin. Play on that. Lure them to their death before they know the female is stronger.

Karl ir Donwayne’s hands’ hung by his sides as his head tilted back to bellow a triumphal laugh at the watching, waiting crowd. Raven’s hands darted to her belt, lifting two throwing stars.

She cupped the first in her right hand, curling wrist back against chest, unwinding hand and arm in a clean, curved, outward movement. Bright as a shooting star that scuds the heavens the razor-edged steel flew at Donwayne’s throat.

The Swordmaster’s laughter stopped abruptly, choked off by the blood that flooded his windpipe. He dropped his sword, reaching up to tug at the steel imbedded in his neck, eyes opening in surprise as he saw crimson drench his hand, felt the pain of severed flesh and opened air tubes.

The second star cut in beneath his chin, slicing up through lower jaw to imbed itself in the roof of his mouth. He looked at Raven, stark amazement in his eyes as his severed tongue fell from his gaping lips.

‘For my mother!’

A throwing star plucked out an eye and Donwayne screamed a gargling, blood-soaked cry.

‘For the slaves you took.’

Another star blinded the Swordmaster.

He staggered forwards, swinging the axe in sightless circles about him. His mouth was open, howling a wordless, gargling scream that sprayed a froth of blood before him. He set both hands upon the haft of the axe and began to spin around, staggering wildly across the sand. Even wounded he was dangerous, raw ferocity holding him to his purpose, sending him—though blind and in agony—after his opponent. Just as a beast, mortally wounded and aware of the chill hand of death reaching out to grasp it will snap and snarl, seeking to draw its attacker down with it, so did Karl ir Donwayne reach out for Raven.

She hurled another star. Saw its glittering points bed deep in the Xand-hide cuirass. Then the swinging axe glanced across her breasts. Her chainmail protected her, but the force of the blow was such that she pitched back, losing her balance.

Donwayne seemed to sense her position, hefting the axe over and down in a great sweeping blow. Raven rolled from under the blade so that it ploughed deep into the sand. She lifted to her feet, calculating the distance separating her from her sword. As she moved towards it the axe swung again, smashing wind from her lungs, threatening to cleave her ribs but for the fact that she threw herself forwards, riding the blow.

It was as though Donwayne could locate her through some sense, other than sight, as though something guided his blows. She landed heavily, rolling again from under the descending axe. It glanced from a silver torque, denting the metal, numbing her left arm. She pushed backwards with her feet, trying to gain distance, to avoid that swinging blade. Donwayne moved like an automaton, a puppet controlled by some invisible external power. Blood ran from his eyes and mouth, staining his armour, drenching exposed flesh with a thick, crimson sheen. Pain should have stilled him, loss of blood killed him, but still he moved like some eyeless colossus, a blinded god of war intent on bringing all around him down in destruction.

Raven backed away, Donwayne’s whistling axe between her and the fallen sword. For a moment her eyes fastened on the Altan’s gold-encrusted box. M’yrstal was leaning forward, his tongue flickering over his slack lips, beside him Krya stood with one hand fastened on his shoulder, the other knuckled hard against her mouth. Anticipation and fear and excitement were evident in their eyes, an obscene lusting for spilled blood mingled with a desire to see their respective favourites survive the combat. And beyond them was Belthis. His eyes were half shut, as though he concentrated. His lips moved, flecking his chin with spittle as he voiced soundless words that chilled Raven even though she could not hear them.

Abruptly she turned, lifting the final star from her belt. Donwayne moved towards her, crimson globules flying from his arms as he wove the axe in shining circles around him.

She paused, letting him draw closer, then swung her arm out, releasing the star. It moved faster than the eye could follow, guided with all of her strength and Argor’s painstaking training behind it. It hit Donwayne’s wrist, cleaving deep though mail to rend flesh, sever veins and muscles. The Weaponmaster’s right hand sprang open, fingers that were suddenly robbed of feeling or control spreading like the petals of some scarlet flower. The loss of that double-handed grip shifted him off balance and Raven moved in.

Act fast!
Argor had been emphatic on that point.
When an opening shows, use it. Waste no time. Kill swiftly. You may not get a second chance.

She followed that advice with bloodthirsty deliberation.

The sleeve-shield smashed sideways against Donwayne’s left arm, dashing the axe from his grip. It swung back, the sharpened edge cleaving a fresh gout from his throat. Already savaged by the star, his windpipe cut easily, spilling blood in a pluming fountain over the sand. Raven smiled, as the hot, salty fluid splattered her face, drew back her arm...

The needle-point of the Ishkarian shield plunged deep into the neck of Karl ir Donwayne. Withdrew...plunged lower to twist and tear through his manhood.

He doubled over, his screaming drowning Raven’s laughter. For long moments he jerked arid twisted on the sand, a great red pool spreading around his ravaged body. Then he croaked and stiffened. And died.

Raven looked up at the crowd screaming her name, the ovation filling the arena with deafening sound. ‘Raven! RAVEN!
RAVEN!’

And then she saw Belthis. The warlock was smiling, thin lips curled back over yellow teeth as though he enjoyed some dire secret. He caught her eyes and laughed, if so malignant an expression might be termed as laughter.

And Raven felt a sudden, inexplicable chill.

‘When the weapon is shaped, tested, and found true, then it may be used.’

The Books of Kharwhan

Raven became, in that noonday, a legend in Karhsaam.

Few had thought to see her win the challenge, and all that had hailed her as a warrior-saviour, rescuer of the Skull of Quez and Swordmistress supreme. She enjoyed the favour of the Altan in all things but one, and the admiring lust of his sister-wife in everything.

Only Belthis stood against her wishes. And his plans were necessarily cloaked behind a veil of hidden meanings that forbade his hurrying of Spellbinder’s execution. Equally, though, was Raven forced to guise her designs in a camouflage of pride and pleasure such as befitted the pet warrior-maiden of the city.

For two nights she loved with Krya, matching soft limb with pliant breast, tongue with tongue, until the Altana was convinced of her loyalty.

So, thanks to her wiles, it was that she sat in the Altan’s box when Spellbinder was brought out for execution.

The army was arrayed on the plain around the city, geared for battle, waiting only on the sacrifice promised by Belthis for victory in the war. That sacrifice was to take place in the palace arena, where Belthis would work the violent magic of the Skull of Quez on Spellbinder.

For that moment Raven waited.

The day was chill—which suited her purpose—allowing her to wear a cloak of heavy cloth that hid the awkward contours of the weapons set beneath her clothing. Armour would have been too much, and that was hid beside a gate on the city’s eastern wall, accompanied by a suit of mail she hoped would fit her companion, and two swords.

There had been a soldier, a worshipper of the Stone, who had agreed—in return for gold and one afternoon of love—to make available two horses. He had a wife and children within the city, and Raven had let him know that any betrayal would be matched by the death of his kin before he, too, died. Such was her insurance, and there was little else she could trust in other than the fate exclaimed by the Stone of Quell.

And so she waited, huddled within her cloak, for the ritual to begin.

First came the chariot, drawn now by a team of four high-stepping horses, held in by a nervous charioteer. Behind stood Belthis, his robe of green and black shining sombre in the dull light. Then Spellbinder was hauled out, his wrists lifted up to metal rings set into the stone of the amphitheatre, fastened there with ropes that held him spreadeagled against the wall.

Belthis began the incantation, and now it sounded stronger, as though practice taught him more of the skull’s useage. He peered around the tiers of watching nobles, his wizened face seamed with an obscene smile as he adjusted the armour supporting the skull.

Raven loosened the cloak, preparing to strike. She wore the belt of throwing stars and a dagger; no more could be hidden, so she must depend on speed and surprise to effect her rescue.

Her plan was simple: to kill Belthis before he could use the Skull of Quez. Then free Spellbinder in the confusion and escape into the winding streets of Karhsaam. The destruction of the skull she had forgotten, though Spellbinder might use whatever magic was left him to bring that about. If not...they must take their chances. It was the best she could do.

Belthis’ wailing grew in pitch...

Raven felt Krya’s hand grasp her shoulder...

Spellbinder turned his head and she saw, for the first time, the marks of torture upon his face...

Then a voice entered her mind, its demand as soft as it was imperative...

Now! Strike now. The balance depends on you.

She gave no further time to thought or planning, simply acted—or reacted—to the imperious call of that mental cry.

Her cloak fell from her shoulders as she rose up, one hand speeding a throwing star in a curving, downwards arc at Belthis’ face. At the same time she jumped the seats before her, reaching the arena wall before any could reach out to halt her. Up and over she went, legs braced to take the impact of descent.

Then time halted and hell broke loose.

Belthis saw through senses other than his eyes the flight of the star. Threw up a hand to fend the deadly missile off. Magic allied with weak flesh drove the star away, carving a path of spouting crimson from the warlock’s hand. Diverted the missile into the Skull of Quez. And unleashed a fury unimagined by mankind.

A great vaulting column of blue light spouted up from the skull, its farthest edges red as fire, turning over to drip globules of bright flame down onto the screaming, panicked audience.

Belthis was thrown back from the chariot, measuring his length in the sand as Raven crashed, numbed by the shock of that dreadful explosion, beside him.

The warlock clutched at her, but she threw him loose, hurling stars at Spellbinder’s wasted, imprisoned body.

One...two, they landed. The first cutting the ropes securing his right hand; the second, freeing him completely so that he fell forward onto the ground.

Raven ran to him, oblivious of the hellfire spattering about her. She hung her cloak over his body, dragging him up as pain fell upon the chainmail hidden beneath her smouldering dress. All around, the palace was in confusion. Fire sparkled from tapestries and flags; gowns burned bright; brocaded tunics sputtered and stank as flame took hold of perfumed cloth and soft flesh.

Belthis pushed to his feet, trying to mount the chariot, but Spellbinder lashed out a foot, kicking the mage headlong. He jumped onto the platform, dragging Raven up behind him with a strength she had thought lost. Then the reins were in his hands, passed to her as he fastened burned fingers to the shoulders of the black armour.

‘The gate! Steer for the gate!’

His voice was harsh with pain, yet so commanding that she turned the horses without thinking, whipping them to a wild charge at the closed and solid portals.

To one side of her Spellbinder shouted words she could not understand, and from the sundered skull there flashed a spark of light that split the doors of the arena as might a lightning bolt rend a tree. Wood smoked, leaping from molten hinges to crash away as they thundered through. Spearmen blocked their path, fell aside as the chariot hit them, and they were out, racing down towards the gates of the city.

Over silver bridges and through green gardens they raced, spilling pedestrians from their charge like skittles. The chariot bounced wild off the walls of narrow alleys, dashed merchants’ stalls into tumbled ruin. But they reached the wall.

Two horses waited there, armour stowed on the saddles, and weapons.

They mounted, turning the chariot loose to race madly on through the city, adding to the confusion as the inhabitants of Karhsaam ran for shelter from the weird, headless figure that seemed to plunge between the houses.

A guard sought to block their escape, went down beneath Raven’s sword, and they were out and galloping for the farther ring of forts.

Spellbinder wrapped his reins about the pommel of the saddle, lifting the one token of their stay in Karhsaam: the Skull of Quez. Raven’s star was settled deep between eye-socket and nose, splitting the thing so that one blue jewel was gone, the other threatening to tear loose as dried bone parted. Yet still the thing held magic in its dead confines, for a spark of blue light dazzled the guards barring the outer gate, sundered the gate itself to swing it open for their passage.