The Destiny of the Sword (27 page)

Boariyi was too far off for his expression to be discerned. Probably he had been granted no more time for sword practice these last few days than Waliie, but he had not been bouncing around in Griffon’s madhouse, either, and that thought made Waliie realize how incredibly weary he felt.

Tivanixi, standing with the other Sevenths, had a bandaged arm.

Walh’e glanced around at his own party. The sorcerer stood with hands bound, unkempt in an ill,fitting blue gown, fixed sneer on haggard face. Nnanji held the other end of his tether, trying to look cheerful—Nnanji said this was not going to work and Nnanji was usually correct when it came to judging swordsmen. Thana had insisted on coming, and Katanji was there, also, looking tiny and absurdly young and grinning widely, black eyes sparkling in the gloom.

Katanji had a small leather bag dangling at his waist and suddenly Waliie guessed that it must be his ill,gotten loot from Gi, a fortune in jewels. If Nnanji had returned that tainted hoard to his

brother, then Nnanji did not think he was going to survive this day.

The congregation was starting to fidget and twitch. The unseen juniors at the back would be into spitballs soon.

At Harm the sides of the nave had been lined by stained glass. Here they were walls of mosaic, much of which seemed to be crumbling off. Waliie glanced up to check the roof, wondering how safe that was.

He decided that he might be the only person present who was not anxious for the interminable chanting to end. He had the sorcerer’s pistol stuck in his belt, and some spare powder and shot in his pouch, but he would never have time to reload. There was a climax coming. The odds against him were probably about a hundred to one, yet he felt more resigned than nervous. The gods had forced this, snapping at his heels and driving him like a sheep into this pen. Perhaps this was the last line of the riddle. And to its destiny accord—give it to Boariyi. How old was Alexander the Great when he took his father’s army and set off to conquer the Earth? Twenty? Boariyi was probably older than that. He just did not look like an Alexander, somehow.

The sun vanished behind a cloud; shadow flooded the high, cold place.

At welcome last the chant was over, dying away into a quiet sigh of collective relief from the audience. The choir genuflected and trooped back in two lines to stand on either side of the idol, out of Wallie’s view. A tiny figure in blue shuffled forward, eased down on ancient knees to make obeisance, rose even more slowly, and turned to face the congregation. The high priest, Kadywinsi, his snowy hair shining in the gloom, raised his arms and began a long ritual of blessing. Boariyi and his Sevenths relaxed —evidently the ceremony was nearing its end. The old man wailed away to silence. Then he swung around and faced the idol.

“Holiest!” he bleated. “Your castellan and I had the honor of calling this tryst and the honor of seeing You bless it. We thank You for hearing our prayers, for sending us the novices, the apprentices, the swordsmen, the adepts, the masters, their honors, and their lordships... but most of all for sending us Your chosen champion, a noble and courageous swordsman, a man who has

met the sorcerers before and has shown he can defeat them, a worthy leader, sent by You, bearing Your own sword.”

A gasp of surprise from the congregation grew to an angry, animal roar. Hints of riot filled the temple. Boariyi straightened up and put his hands on his hips, thrusting his head forward. The other five Sevenths registered shock, most of them turning a furious red at the suggestion that they had sworn to the wrong man.

Wallie reached for the curtain and a command came from behind: “Not yet!” He turned to frown at the priest—surely this was the dramatic moment?

In a sudden silence the sun reappeared, flooding the nave with brilliance, gleaming on Kadywinsi’s silver hair and on a tall woman in blue strolling forward, carrying a lute.

ttt ttt

Wallie wheeled to stare at the others. “I thought she was still on board!” he snapped, loud enough to make them jump.

Nnanji nodded, but Thana shook her head. “She went with the priests.”

Wallie had been in the shower. Furious, he turned back to watch. Doa was clean and groomed. She was calm, now, and dignified. Her streaming brown hair shone again, no longer tangled like tumble weed. Her dress was a priest’s cotton gown, a cheap thing, baggy and not long enough, yet she wore it regally, as if it had been tailored for her by a master couturier. The audience was rustling. Wallie could only hope that Honakura knew what he was doing. Perhaps he had interrogated her in the dinghy. It was equally possible that he was flying this whole thing on blind faith.

Doa made no salute, announced no title for her epic. She showed neither nervousness nor excitement, only an air of intense concentration as she stood and plucked the lute quietly, adjusting the tuning. Then she raised her head, struck a chord, and filled the temple with a voice dark and shining as zircon.

The swordsmen in the morning come with glory on their brows, With justice on their shoulders borne, And honor in their vows.

Evil they will overcome and righteousness espouse. Her swords go marching on!

Again Wallie glanced back at Nnanji, and his astonished expression showed that he had never heard of a marching song in an epic, either.

It was a rousing tune, though, and... No! Could it be? He listened carefully to the chorus, and the second verse...

No, even allowing for the seven,tone scale, it was not the same. Close... but even better, more rousing, than what he had just for a moment suspected. He could guess that it would be adopted at once by the tryst. Feet were beginning to tap. Or perhaps not—it was about Shonsu, leading his army through the mountains to Vul. Now he was about to hear what had happened hi that disaster—if Rotanxi had told the truth to Doa, and if Doa had not changed it for her own purposes.

The music slipped to classic epic style while the villainous sorcerers plotted their defense. The chief of the evildoers was, of course, Lord Rotanxi, swearing hatred against all swordsmen, summoning a fire demon. Wallie looked around, and the sorcerer’s face was a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, amusement, and surprise.

Another change, to a restless, anguished theme, and the singer’s voice changed, also. The swordsmen had reached a bridge over a chasm, could see Vul itself in the distance. They began to cross. The sorcerer’s fire demon struck in dissonance, in thunder and flame. Bridge and swordsmen all plunged into the abyss.

A mined bridge? Of course! What would have been easier for the sorcerers than that, or more unexpected to the swordsmen? Without thinking, Wallie turned to Rotanxi and whispered, “Is that what happened?”

He received a look of astonishment, but no answer.

Only Shonsu had escaped, marching in front of his army. Struck to the ground by the fire demon’s passing, he had lost his sword and been seized by the triumphant sorcerers. Then the

music changed again, to a dirge, and Wallie began to appreciate that what he was hearing was the birth of a whole new art form, the heroic oratorio. Nnanji’s jaw was hanging open. Epics were the news and entertainment of the World. Swordsmen hankered after them as Italians craved opera. This was superb, the audience transfixed.

The names and ranks of the dead... of course Doa had known those all the time. She had been Shonsu’s mistress. Had Tivanixi never thought to ask her, or had she refused to talk?

Then the dirge ended. A wild, galloping theme accompanied the story of Shonsu’s escape. Tied to a tree, about to be tortured, he snapped his bonds and plunged naked and unarmed into the forest...

A haunting lament told how the Goddess’ demons drove him to Harm. Doa had made a masterly selection of the facts. Shonsu demanded an exorcism. It failed. He hurled himself into the sacred falls in penance—no mention that his only alternative was to be thrown.

Now the Goddess sang an aria, refusing the offer of his soul, lamenting the deaths of the forty,nine and the injured honor of Her swordsmen. The melody was the theme that Wallie had heard Doa try twice before, but now she had brought it to perfection; it soared, it tore at the heart, it filled the temple with sorrow and anguish. He saw the entranced swordsmen blinking back tears and felt his own eyes prickle. But subtly the theme changed from plaint to resolve, as the Goddess commanded Shonsu to go back and try again, taking Her sword... Tears dried and blood surged with righteous fury.

Back in traditional epic style, Rotanxi plotted again. He sent the kilts to Casr, the tryst was called, the swordsmen assembled, and Shonsu appeared, bearing the seventh sword—and a jigging, mocking theme described how the swordsmen spumed him and drove him from the lodge. It had not happened that way, but everyone knew, even Nnanji, that one did not believe everything one heard in epics.

Drama returned. The sorcerers plotted once more, in an echo of the earlier scene, but this time in an unnamed port on the River, foreseeing the arrival of the swordsmen, summoning their demons to destroy the tryst—the temple had never held a more

attentive congregation than it did right then. The fiendish Lord Rotanxi stalked the dock, proclaiming the horrors he would release.

Then, with music that started creepily and mysteriously and mounted steadily in excitement until it peaked in triumph, a ship arrived. Shonsu appeared on its deck and mockingly explained mat he had blocked the tryst’s departure and balked the sorcerers’ evil scheme. Dramatic speeches flew to and fro until Rotanxi announced that he would deal with this arrogant young swordsman himself. He marched on board—and his magic failed before the holy sword.

Griffon cast off, and Shonsu claimed Rotanxi as his prisoner, to be taken back to Casr to die. Just for a moment the audience could be heard muttering in disbelief, then it fell silent once more, hanging on the minstrel’s words.

Motto vivace! Now the demons were released—fire demons, water demons, sky demons, demons of lightning and storm. They roared and blazed and boiled around the ship, but in godlike defiance Shonsu brandished the sword of the Goddess and turned aside the evil. The spirits slunk away, defeated...

And the finale, a repeat of the rousing opening theme, a victory march now, the words slightly altered as the swordsmen tramped on to certain glory.

Silence—utter, total silence.

Wallie blinked and looked around. Nnanji’s mouth had closed, but his eyes were glazed and he had dropped the prisoner’s tether. Rotanxi could have slipped away unnoticed, except that he, also, was entranced. So was Thana. Katanji caught Wallie’s eye and grinned. Wallie grabbed the rope and handed it back to Nnanji with a scowl that broke the spell.

And the audience in the temple had also been spellbound until that same moment. Usually swordsmen applauded by stamping their boots, sometimes by clapping, and rarely by cheering. Now they did all three, and every man in the vast throng seemed to be making as much noise as he could. A hurricane of sound crashed back toward the singer. Even the Sevenths were applauding, even Boariyi. And Doa herself seemed to snap out of a trance. She smiled slightly, bowed, and then turned to genuflect before the idol. Old Kadywinsi was still standing there. He gave her a

blessing, and she walked out of view, while the tumult of applause went on and on. Wallie was sure that he had been present at something as significant as the opening night of Hamlet... Mr. Homer will recite from his new poem about Odysseus... The epics of the World would never be the same.

She had done what she had promised. Could a vote now be called, he would be elected leader by acclamation after that performance. But the tryst was sworn. Autocracy ruled, not democracy.

“My lord,” he said to the sorcerer, almost having to shout, “even if we die mis day, we two, we have achieved immortality.”

He did not get the usual sneer. The old man studied him for a moment and then said, “I believe you are right, Lord Shonsu. It is, perhaps, a small comfort.”

“Now, my lord!” the priest said.

“In a moment.” The din was continuing unabated. “What’s next on the program?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

Obviously that must be changed. Wallie looked out into the nave again, just in time to see Boariyi raise a hand for silence— and get it, instantly. Impressive as hell! So Wallie pushed through the curtain and walked out to meet the tryst.

He very nearly wrecked his chances totally by tripping over a step and falling flat on his face; he had not noticed that the speakers’ area was slightly raised. That obstacle surmounted, he walked forward until he was almost at the center tine, but not quite. He faced the idol and made the salute to the Goddess, then wheeled to salute the company. The echoes of his sepulchral voice came rumbling back from the glassed arches.

Facing him, just below the step, were the five Sevenths. Zoariyi, the shortest, was expressionless except for a wariness in his eyes. Tivanixi looking contused and unhappy. One quite elderly man must be the Lord Chin,something whom Nnanji had mentioned. There was a chubby man with a scar, and a younger, nondescript man. Beyond them the line of green,kilted Sixths, some frowning, some puzzled, one or two grinning at the drama

... and behind them, halfway to the arches, rows and rows of sword hilts and male faces.