Sword Play

Chapter 1

They'd seen him climbing, and he'd seen them following. He'd scaled as high and fast as he could, but they'd pursued, and now he was trapped.

Making the best of a bad situation, the young barbarian selected a pocket in the sheer wall of red-gray granite. The pocket curled around to his left, then broke off jaggedly. A trail trickling through the mountains kissed the jagged edge, but after that descended into a gorge full of shadows. The shadows he could have used to hide in, despite the midday sun, but he'd peered over the edge and seen the trail was too steep. He'd be tripping down it, wary of breaking his neck and unable to turn around, his back a perfect target when his enemies arrived. He settled for rolling a round boulder into the trail as a temporary barricade. Then he stayed put. They could attack only from the front and the left, and would have to mount a short slope to do it, so they couldn't flank him. As long as they didn't have missile weapons-arrows or slings-he could fight hand to hand to match any warrior.

The sunny cliff was warm against his back as he waited-perhaps to die. It was coming on winter, especially here in the high country bordering the Barren Mountains. The thin wind that sighed and soughed around his legs was cool, but would bite after sundown-if he were still alive to feel it. Away from the warm cliff, patches of snow hugged the northern side of the rocks. It was all rocks here above the tree line, which was a clean cut, as if by the knife of a titan. Sunbright wondered if the gods were closer up here, and if so, to whom he should pray. Garagos, god of war, to give him strength in the fight to come? Or Tyche, Lady Luck? Somehow neither seemed appropriate, so he sent a common prayer for help and guidance to Chauntea, the Earthmother. She was laid out before his feet, miles and miles of scrubby trees down a long sweeping valley over which red-tailed hawks and vultures soared. Sunbright might be visiting her soonest, after all. But if so, he wouldn't go alone. A grunt from below brought his sword up.

They skulked out of the tree line, seven of them. Orcs, but not the usual variety. These had gray-green skin, lank black hair, pug noses, and long knotted arms. They moved warily, watching him and not charging to crush his skull as the usual idiots did.

But this lot, seen for the first time close up, were oddly neat. They wore actual uniforms, almost like human soldiers. Tunics of various leathers had been dyed a consistent lichen gray, and painted on each breast was a not-so-smeary red hand of five spread fingers. Rather than go barefoot, and thus cripple themselves on the scree, they wore sturdy, scuffed boots that came to their knobby knees. And each orc soldier wore a rusty kettle helmet, round with a short brim. In their hands trailed clubs studded with black obsidian, which Sunbright knew to be sharper than his own steel blade, for the layered stone presented not one but a dozen razor edges.

Sunbright could have shot his few arrows, but didn't bother. Somehow it didn't seem right on this momentous, lonely day. He'd work with what the gods had given him, take the contest as it came.

Still, to die now seemed unfair when he'd been so careful to cover his tracks, stepping from stone to stone all morning. How had they discovered him? Were the orcs' gods favouring them?

The orcs grunted again and stopped, consulting about how to attack. They could see their prey, a young human male, tall and gangly, yet laid with ropy muscle. His hair was sun-bright blond, shaved at the temples, then gathered into a topknot from which dangled a short tail. He wore a faded linen shirt that fell to his knees, stout boots of many leather straps and iron rings, and a jerkin made of brown- and white-blotched goatskin, laced across his chest. A rolled blanket was carried over one shoulder, a longbow and quiver over the other, along with his scabbard,

But most curious was his sword. As long as his arm, the blade widened at the tip to make a graceful arc, its back face deeply cut into a hook. It looked more like an elongated brush cutter than a sword, and gave the orcs pause.

"You like this sword?" The young man shook his weapon, impatient to fight, to get the trial over. "Its name is Harvester of Blood. Come up, orcish offal, and hear it sing its name and that of its wielder, Sunbright Steelshanks!"

The ritual battle curses didn't seem to impress the orcs, who merely fanned out along the short slope below him, from the rock he'd propped in the trail to the cliff wall at his right elbow. Strangely, they said nothing until the captain, which had a red hand painted on a placard in the band of its helmet, bellowed, "Rag-faa!"

Then they charged, howling.

Careful not to lift his feet lest he slip on the scree and pebbles, Sunbright hoisted the long blade high over his right shoulder and simultaneously scooted his left foot forward for balance. Then he contracted like a coiled spring. The foot snapped back, and the sword came almost to meet it. Caught between was an orc that had scampered up quicker than its fellows. Keen-eyed, Sunbright avoided the steel helm that might nick his blade. He struck at the juncture of neck and shoulder, steel shaving the orc's collarbone and hunting a major vein. He struck hard, but not hard enough to fetch up the blade in bone. The blow was perfect. At the solid cut, the orc's blood squirted in three directions. The creature dropped more from shock than the actual blow, though the wound would kill within a minute.

Sunbright didn't linger to gloat, or even watch. Conserving every ounce of strength for the battle yet to come, he ripped the blade free and slung it backhand at the next encroaching orc.

Harvester lived up to its name. The deep hook in the blade lodged under an orc's upraised arm. Slashed in the armpit, the orc was knocked off-balance, away from Sunbright, then dragged back by the boy's twisting yank. The hook tore more flesh, skinning muscle from bone, throwing the orc onto its side to writhe in agony.

Normally Sunbright would have ripped out his opponent's throat, finishing it, but he could hear the voices of Thornwing and Blindhawk, who'd schooled the children in swordplay. "Don't focus on one enemy, but on all. Keep your vision wide, like the reindeer and snow wolf. Track movement, not details."

Good advice, for the orc captain had taken the rightmost wing of the attack. Counting on gaining the man's blind side, the creature came silently at a rush, club in its left hand to be out of sight, aiming to hit the human behind the knee.

Sunbright saw all of this, in a half second, as a gray, threatening blur. He didn't really understand the threat before he swung instinctively.

Slinging the long sword blade so fast and viciously it hissed in the thin mountain air, Sunbright aimed for the orc's head below its helmet. Harvester's tip sounded a splotch as it split the captain's face, then a clang as it struck and bounced off the red-gray granite. A well-struck blow and a mistake, dulling a spot on his blade. How would Blindhawk and Thornwing rate that?

Yet even the mistake he exploited. If the sword wanted to bounce off the cliff, so be it. Throwing his shoulders behind the flying steel, he sheared into an orc's arm as it swept for his head. The blow clipped off the wrist so club and hand flew in one direction and the orc's scarlet blood in another.

But so fast, so clean was the blow, the orc failed to notice it had lost a hand. The spurting hand chopped at the barbarian's head, spraying him with blood. Then the orc stumbled-and crashed full into Sunbright.

This is bad, screamed his two phantom instructors.

Stinking like a flyblown goat, the orc sagged against Sunbright's chest, bowling him back against the granite wall. Directly under the young man's nose was a dirty neck speckled with coarse black hairs and flea bites on gray skin. And over that ugly sight, a horde of orcs-How many? He hadn't counted his kills! — pressed him, howling in triumph. The dying orc hung on Sunbright's right arm, dragging it down, entangling Harvester's long blade. Before he could yank free or shove the orc off, a stone-studded club whipped at his head. Ducking, he felt the greasy smoke-stained wood brush his topknot, heard black obsidian teeth crunch on the cliff wall. Another orc punched at his face with a club, and Sunbright almost snapped his neck whipping the other way.

Use what you have, urged his teachers. Use what the gods have given you, Sunbright had told himself moments ago. But what was it?

"Ah!" he gasped aloud. Sensing more than seeing, he judged there was one orc crowding his left, two still alive on his right.

With hysterical strength, Sunbright hoisted the dead orc before him, pitched it, grunting, into the orc at his left. The orc's eyes flew wide as its dead comrade crashed into it like a sack of grain. The orc tumbled onto its back, its steel helmet striking sparks as it skidded down the short slope, its dead brethren atop it.

Still using the dead orc as cover, Sunbright followed. He scurried along the wall of the pocket, slammed his foot down alongside the tumblers, and skipped onto the round rock. It lurched, as did the man; then he vaulted over.

The trail dropped sharply, steep enough to give a goat pause. But Sunbright Steelshanks could outrun and outclimb goats, and with sure steps and reckless abandon he stabbed his feet here to this boulder, there on that flat spot, to that corner, and so on, hopping, skipping, dropping almost as fast as a stone could roll.

Within seconds he was far below the orcs, if they pursued at all. Gasping, laughing, he yipped with delight like a crazed snow wolf puppy. Gone, for the moment, were sullen black thoughts of death and revenge. He was exuberant.

He was alive!

"See? I told you so!"

"You liar! You had no more faith in him than I did!"

"He won; I won. That's all I care about."

A sniff replied.

Two wizards glared at one another, but not hard enough to kill. They had to get along, after all. In their own way.

The two were a study in contrasts. Candlemas was a small, podgy, balding, bearded man in an undyed smock of sackcloth tied with a rope. Sysquemalyn was a woman, taller, flame-haired, dressed in a green tunic that sparkled like fish scales, tight white breeches of soft leather, and pointed red boots that laced to the knee. At her breast hung a pendant sporting a gargoyle face whose expression shifted constantly, but which was always ugly and leering. Her clothes were a statement about her personality, as were those of Candlemas, though in a much different way.

Sysquemalyn touched a gold-painted fingernail to the palantir on the scarred worktable. In the smoky globe, Sunbright could be seen, still goat-skipping down the mountain's shoulder, but more cautiously now, aiming for the thorn and rhododendron tangle at the bottom of the gorge. "He won't last. He'll be full of himself, reveling in victory. He'll probably lie down out in the open and sing to himself and be eaten by wolves before dawn."

Candlemas nudged her finger off the globe and used the sleeve of his smock to polish off her fingerprint. "The way you're always denigrating humans, you'd think you weren't one yourself. That you'd ascended to godhood already."

"I have! Ascended!" The woman arched her back, raked and fluffed up her flaming red hair. "In my dreams, anyway. And what are dreams but portents of the future? I'll be grander than Lady Polaris someday!"

"I hope I live that long," sniped Candlemas. "I can watch the sun crash to earth."

"Oh, pooh! You're jealous because I'm a real wizard and you're a… a hedgehopper."

"Better than a bedhopper. Don't touch anything!"

Sysquemalyn slunk around the other mage's workshop idly, like a cat, but also like a cat, she watched her surroundings. The workshop was huge, big enough for a herd of musk-oxen, and high, wide windows all around made it seem larger, for nothing showed past the windows but winter-blue sky. The red-haired wizard had glided to a window and picked up an exquisite silver statue of a paladin on horseback. Candlemas had hundreds of such objects, all as beautiful as he was squat and plain, scattered around the vast workroom.

The woman turned the statue over as if admiring it, then chucked it out the window.

"Hey!" Candlemas ran to the opening, foolishly sticking his head out. When his head passed the spell shielding the window, cold air kissed his bald pate. The statue, of course, was long gone. And so was the wizard, almost, for Sysquemalyn playfully swatted his rump. If he hadn't grabbed the sill, he'd have followed the statue.

"You bitch!" The brown-clad wizard whirled, felt dizzy, and slumped against the stone wall. "I could have fallen!"

"So? You can fly, can't you?"

"Yes. But I'd fall a long way before I got the spell working! And why'd you chuck out my paladin? That was pilfered from the birthplace of Raliteff the Second!"

"I wanted to strike your barbarian on the head. I cheat, remember?" Idly, Sysquemalyn picked up a pliers and threw it at another window. This time Candlemas shot both hands into the air, first and final fingers erect. The shield spells on the windows, which kept heat in and wind out, thickened, and the pliers bounced off thin air and clanked on the floor. "Sys, you're a guest. Try to be civil, or I'll make you fly home."

"Piffle. I go where-Whoops! Company!"

She pointed a gold nail. The palantir shimmered, ethereal smoke inside clearing from the top downward. But that one glance was enough, for the caller had snow-white hair. Only one person they knew was so adorned.

The wizards waited quietly. Candlemas was high steward of Delia, this magical castle in which they stood, and Sysquemalyn was chamberlain. Their duties meshed, for the steward managed the grounds of the castle and the chamberlain the interior. When not engaged in the Work, the furtherance of their own magical might, Candlemas oversaw the lesser wizards who oversaw other humans who oversaw their brethren in the manuring of crops, culling of forest growth, diverting of streams and dams, and the maintaining of many lesser castles and barns and granaries, all mundane resources that kept the manor and lands thriving. Sysquemalyn oversaw her own staff of wizards who in turn supervised others who directed a staggering number of maids and footmen and cooks who kept the castle neat and its people fed; artisans who made furniture, clothing, and other goods; and entertainers and musicians who needed to be prepared at any moment in case the castle's owner dropped by.

Their methods, however, differed greatly. Candlemas felt he must oversee everything personally and drove his wizards and their clerics and farm stewards and huntsmen crazy with fussy details. Sysquemalyn most often waved a laconic hand, ordering her magical lackeys to "Do it however so." Then she would return in a day or two to scream and rant and order random folks flogged half to death for guessing wrongly about how to execute such vague orders. So the two, Candlemas and Sysquemalyn, worked together, more or less, and often squabbled, though there were weeks when, because of the castle's vast size, they never even met.

Now an image cleared, and the castle's owner could be seen. Lady Polaris was beautiful, her face calm and poised, her white hair setting off perfect golden skin. A groundling might think her a goddess, but despite staggering powers, she was human, though she'd never admit it. The lady was archmage of Delia, one of many small city-states that made up the Netherese Empire. In the pyramidal power of the empire, Lady Polaris ranked fairly high but was still under the thrall of the preeminent mages. Yet she had under her control many powerful mages of her own, as well as many normal humans.

Two of these mages were Candlemas and Sysquemalyn, who, despite their own awesome powers, were mere apprentices compared to Lady Polaris. So when she demanded their attention, the pair were as meek as schoolchildren caught squabbling on the playground.

Lady Polaris had vast holdings and vast powers-neither of which the two wizards knew much about-so she never wasted time with underlings. She spoke immediately. "Candlemas, and Sysquemalyn, this concerns you, too. There is something wrong with the wheat harvest. Everyone at court is talking about it, and I said I would take care of the problem, whatever it is. Fix it." The palantir went blank, a black glass globe again.

Candlemas shook his head. "What did she say? A problem with wheat?"

Sysquemalyn sniffed. "Who is she to treat us like peasants? What does she have that we don't?"

"Enough power to turn this castle into a volcano, if she wished it," muttered Candlemas. "But what's this foolishness about wheat?"

He stopped at a knock on the doorjamb. Two lesser mages from one of the bottommost workshops stood in the hall. Candlemas didn't even know their names. Timidly, one said, "Milord? This basket arrived for you."

Sysquemalyn sniffed, but Candlemas waved them forward with a sigh. Any delivery from Lady Polaris would almost certainly be bad news. "Yes, yes, bring it here; then get out." Almost dropping the basket in their haste, the lesser mages fled.

Candlemas approached the bushel of grain slowly, as if it might explode. Archmages were known to slaughter their thralls on short-or no-notice, and anything sent by one was suspect. But kneeling carefully beside the container, the steward found it contained only wheat, if oddly red-tinged.

Sysquemalyn sauntered over, sniffed again. "What does she expect us to do, bake coriander rolls?"

Candlemas gingerly rolled a wheat kernel between a stubby finger and thumb. "It's hollow. And red."

"So?"

Peering closely, Candlemas crushed another kernel. Instead of resisting, as would solid, food-rich seeds, it flattened like a milkweed pod. The red dust stained his fingers, and he wiped them fastidiously on his robe. "I've never seen this before, though I've heard of it. Rust, the peasants call it. It's a blight that eats the heart of the kernels."

"You're boring me, 'Mas."

"You don't understand." Candlemas dumped the contents of the basket out onto the floor. All the grain was afflicted with rust. "This is bad, and could mean disaster. There's nothing to these kernels but jackets, hulls. There's no food value here. If all the crops are like this, people will starve!"

"We won't starve. There's enough preserved food, dried and jarred and pickled, in the larders and pantries and cellars to last a year or more. Lady Polaris orders it so, in case we're besieged."

"No, no, the peasants will starve, or go hungry, anyway. Wheat makes bread and ale. Without it, they'll have only rye and barley. That means a third of our crops lost, a third fewer cattle and horses and pigs in the spring!"

"You're still boring-"

Agitated, Candlemas grabbed a handful of grain and shook it so some spattered onto Sysquemalyn. "Blatherbrain, listen! Less grain to sell. A third less revenue! Or worse, because we'll have to buy grain. Less money! Get it now? Do you want to explain to Lady Polaris that she'll have less money to gamble, to spend on magic, to squander on lavish presents for her friends? A woman who once bet ten thousand crowns on whether the next drop of candle wax would land inside a dish or without?"

"Oh." Sysquemalyn bit her lower lip. "No, I wouldn't want to tell her. Fortunately, you will, because she sent you the basket."

"She sent us the basket! She included you in the order, remember?"

"No," the woman lied. Then she shrugged. "Maybe it's not a real problem. Maybe it's just a local bug. Or it may be that it's a test she's sending you, hoping you'll find a cure for someone else's crops, someone to whom she owes a debt. We don't know what she thinks or really wants."

"No, that's true." Candlemas tossed down the grain. "Still, I'll have to find a cure. We will. Or she'll feed our livers to the peasants."

A shrug was his answer. Sysquemalyn returned to the palantir, traced an arcane pattern, first circles, then intersecting triangles, and brought up the image of Sunbright, who appeared to be scouting for a defensible hollow under thornbushes at the bottom of the gorge. "Let's get back to our bet."

"What? Oh, yes." Somehow their silly wager didn't seem so important now. They'd begun it this morning out of boredom. They were humans, after all, and had lived an incredible number of years. Not much happened in the castle or grounds, so boredom was their major enemy, and squabbling their main entertainment. Candlemas joined her at the palantir. "So, you still contend surface humans-"

"Mud men."

"Yes, mud men are no better than cows and horses?"

Lifting glittering eyes of green, Sysquemalyn laughed. "Worse, actually. Livestock are tractable. These creatures are independent. When they think, they invariably think about hating us."

Candlemas watched the young man hunt for a campsite. He noticed that the barbarian rejected many spots, places with too many or not enough exits of that were too far from water or likely to flood if it rained. "You don't know humans like I do. Most of those under your command were born in this castle and have never set foot on real soil. I deal with humans all the time, and they're capable of accomplishing a great deal if given proper supervision."

"So are-what are they called? — prairie dogs. They burrow holes and connect them up, and make entire cities, someone told me. Clever things, digging holes in dirt so wolves have a hard time eating them." Scorn tinged her words.

Candlemas pointed at the room around him. "Our castles and cities are of stone, which is merely hardened dirt. And we use humans-mud men, as you call them-to maintain them. If we Netherese get any more decadent, the humans may take over someday and supplant us entirely."

Sysquemalyn laughed long and loud, a rippling trill that chilled the man's spine. "Ah, yes! I can see it now, groundlings sitting at table, eating with silverware, running Toril with brays and squeals and grunts! If you believe that, then by all means, let's firm our wager."

"Fine." Candlemas's eyes strayed to the dumped wheat, which his underwizard was already hurriedly cleaning off the workroom floor. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a nuisance, after all. He'd send his apprentices out with news of a reward, and perhaps someone would produce a cure. If that didn't work, he'd have to be more severe. Perhaps the threat of kidnapping firstborns would make the farmers produce better crops. "What's the bet?"

So far this morning, Sysquemalyn had idly steered the orcish patrol onto Sunbright's trail, and so precipitated their battle. Now the wizard continued, "Let's subject this gruntling to more tests. Increasingly exacting. Until he dies and I win, or he perseveres and you win. The loser loses a limb."

"Limb?" Candlemas looked at his own arms and legs. "I'm rather fond of the ones I have."

"I don't see why." Cattily, Sysquemalyn looked him up and down. "They're podgy and hairy and none too clean, I suspect. You could pass for human."

"Don't sweet-talk me, love," was the snide reply.

Smirking, Sysquemalyn pointed a finger at the man's rope belt. Candlemas jumped as his smock suddenly tilted upward below the knot. He grabbed it and pushed it flat. "That is not a limb!"

"No? Then perhaps you'll miss it less when it's gone. You're not using it overmuch now, according to my maids' gossip,"

Candlemas huffed. "Obviously your maids don't tell you everything, like my stable hands tell me."

Sysquemalyn idly moved the toe of her boot to point at some grain that still lay on the floor. The under-wizard hurried over and scooped it up into a small crock, which the redhead casually took from his hands. "So our bet is on?"

"Yes, yes." Candlemas agreed dismissively. Something was wrong with this wager. It never paid to let someone else set all the terms. But the reminder of the blight had distracted him. What should he do first?

"Fine. I won't be bored for a few days, anyway." Sysquemalyn walked toward the door. "I'll send up a maid with your midday meal. Bellstar, perhaps. She likes hairy men. You can eat the food or have the maid, for all I care."

As she passed the window, she pitched the crock of wheat out, as if dismissing the problem.

Candlemas's shout of dismay went unheard.

Sunbright jumped as a crash sounded a hundred feet down the gorge. He crouched, wary, but no more sounds followed.

Trying to watch everywhere at once, padding silently, nocked bow in his hand, sword at his back, the barbarian moved toward the sound. It took a while to locate the source, and it only confused him.

A redware crock had shattered on the rocks. Scattered among the shards were grains of blighted wheat.

Hunkering between two rhododendron bushes, he craned his neck upward. High overhead, half a league, was the squarish black blotch of Delia, the castle in the sky from whence Lady Polaris and her minions ruled. They dumped dishwater and sewage and garbage on the peasants below, Sunbright knew. But crocks of wheat he'd never heard of.

He watched the castle curiously, waiting for more. The huge structure drifted over the land much like a cloud, though often against the wind. Sometimes in summer it roamed so far north the tundra barbarians saw it. It was said, by old slaves returned from the castle, that the archmage of Delia ruled all she could see, and since the castle drifted a mile or more high, that was a lot of land. But it was still only a tiny fraction of the Netheril Empire, and Sunbright's people's land was the tiniest fragment of that fraction.

And now the young man didn't have even that, just a leaf-strewn hollow under thornbushes. But, more to be stubborn than for any other reason, he'd guard that patch of ground as boldly as a knight would his liege lord's castle.

And with that thought, he peered around at his surroundings once more, then crawled in for some sleep, reciting prayers to various gods, both thanks for deliverance and appeals for the future. He'd need all the help he could get, for he'd have more adventures tomorrow, if night beasts and fiends and dreams didn't carry him away.