The Oathbound (24 page)

His eyes glowed yet more brightly and seductively, and they filled her vision.

“Think of the pleasure ...”

Pain lancing across her thoughts woke her from the dreams called up by those eyes. She looked down at the blood trickling along her right hand—she’d clenched it around the bare blade of her sword with enough force to cut her palm. And with the pain came the return of independent thought. Even if everything he said were true, and not the usual truth-twisting demons found so easy, she was not free to follow her own will.

There were other, older promises that bound her. There was the geas she had willingly taken with the fighting-gifts bestowed by Need, and the pledge she had made as a White Winds sorceress to use her powers for the greater good of mankind. And by no means least, there was the vow she had made before all of Liha‘irden; pledging Tarma that one day she would take a mate (or mates) and raise a clutch of children to bear the banner and name of Tarma’s lost Clan. Only death itself could keep her from fulfilling that vow. And it would kill Tarma should she violate it.

She stared back at the demon’s inhuman eyes, defiance written in every fiber.

He flared with anger. “You are the more foolish, then!” he growled—and backhanded her into the wall as casually as he had Warrl.

She was halfway expecting such a move, and managed to relax enough to take the blow limply. It felt rather like being hit with a battering ram, but the semiconsciousness she displayed as she slid into a heap was mostly feigned.

“You will find you have ample leisure to regret your defiance later!” he snarled in the same petulant tones as a thwarted spoiled child.

Now he turned his attentions to Tarma.

“So—the nomad—”

Tarma did her best to simulate a fascination with the demon that she did not in the least feel.

“It seems that I must needs petition the swordswoman. Well enough, it may be that you are even more suitable than your foolish companion.”

The heat of his gaze was easily dissipated by the cool armoring of her Goddess that sheathed Tarma’s heart and soul. There simply was
nothing
there for the demon to work on; the sensual, emotional parts of her nature had been subsumed into devotion to the Warrior when Tarma had Sworn Sword-Oath. But he couldn’t know that—or could he?

At any rate her attempt to counterfeit the same bemused rapture his brides had shown was apparently successful.

“You are no beauty; well, then—look into my eyes, and see the face and body that might be yours as my priestess.”

Tarma looked—she dared not look away. His eyes turned mirrorlike; she saw herself reflected in them, then she saw herself change.

The lovely, lithe creature that gazed back at her was still recognizably Tarma—but oh, the differences that a few simple changes made! This was a beauty that was a match for Thalhkarsh’s own. For a scant second, Tarma allowed herself to be truly caught by that vision.

The demon felt her waver—and in that moment of weakness, exerted
his
power on the bond that made her Kal‘enedral.

And Tarma realized at that instant that Thalhkarsh was truly on the verge of attaining godlike powers, for she felt the bond weaken—

Thalhkarsh frowned at the unexpected resistance he encountered, then turned his full attention to breaking the stubborn strength of the bond.

And that changing of the focus of his attention in turn released Tarma from her entrapment. Not much—but enough for her to act.

Tarma had resisted the demon with every ounce of stubbornness in her soul, augmenting the strength of the bond, but she wasn’t blind to what was going on around her.

And to her horror she saw Kethry creeping up on the demon’s back, a fierce and stubborn anger in her eyes.

Tarma knew that no blow the sorceress struck would do more than anger Thalhkarsh. She decided to yield the tiniest bit, timing her moment of weakness with care, waiting until the instant Need was poised to strike at the demon’s unprotected back.

And as Thalhkarsh’s magical grip loosened, her own blade-hand snapped out, hilt foremost, to strike and break the demon’s focus-bottle.

At the exact moment Tarma moved, Kethry buried Need to the hilt in the demon’s back, as the sound of breaking glass echoed and re-echoed the length and breadth of the temple.

Any one of those actions, by itself, might not have been sufficient to defeat him; but combined—

 

Thalhkarsh screamed in pain, unanticipated, unexpected, and all the worse for that. He felt at the same moment a good half of his stored power flowing out of him like water from a broken bottle—

—a
broken bottle!

His focus—was gone!

And pain like a red-hot iron seared through him, shaking him to the roots of his being.

He lost his carefully cultivated control.

His focus was destroyed, and with it, the power he had been using to hold his followers in thrall. And the pain—it could not destroy him, but he was not used to being the recipient of pain. It took him by surprise, and broke his concentration and cost him yet more power.

He lost mastery of his form. He took on his true demonic aspect—as horrifying as he had been beautiful.

And now his followers saw for the first time the true appearance of what they had been calling a god. Their faith had been shaken when he did nothing to save the life of his High Priest. Now it was destroyed by the panic they felt on seeing what he was.

They screamed, turned mindlessly, and attempted to flee.

His storehouse of power was gone. His other power-source was fleeing madly in fear. His focus was destroyed, and he was racked with pain, he who had never felt so much as a tiny pinprick before. Every spell he had woven fell to ruins about him.

 

Thalhkarsh gave a howling screech that rose until the sound was nearly unbearable; he again slapped Kethry into the wall. Somehow she managed to take her blade with her, but this time her limp unconsciousness as she slid down the wall was not feigned.

 

He howled again, burst into a tower of red and green flame, and the walls began to shift.

Tarma dodged past him and dragged Kethry under the heavy marble slab of the altar, then made a second trip to drag Warrl under its dubious shelter.

The ground shook, and the remaining devotees rushed in panic-stricken confusion from one hoped-for exit to another. The ceiling groaned with a living voice, and the air was beginning to cloud with a sulfurous fog. Then cracks appeared in the roof, and the trapped worshipers screeched hopelessly as it began to crumble and fall in on them.

Tarma crouched beneath the altar stone, protecting the bodies of Kethry and Warrl with her own—and hoped the altar was strong enough to shelter them as the temple began falling to ruins around them.

 

It seemed like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour or two before dawn that they crawled out from under the battered slab, pushing and digging rubble out of the way with hands that were soon cut and bleeding. Warrl did his best to help, but his claws and paws were meant for climbing and clinging, not digging; and besides that, he was suffering from more than one cracked rib. Eventually Tarma made him stop trying to help before he lamed himself.

“Feh,” she said distastefully, when they emerged. The stone—or whatever it was—that the building had been made of was rotting away, and the odor was overpowering. She heaved herself wearily up onto the cleaner marble of the altar and surveyed the wreckage about them.

“Gods—to think I wanted to do this quietly! Well, is it gone, I wonder, or did we just chase it away for a while?”

Kethry crawled up beside her, wincing. “I can’t tell; there’s too many factors involved. I don’t
think
Need is a demon-killer, but I don’t know everything there is to know about her. Did we get rid of him because he lost the faith of his devotees, because you broke the focus, because of the wound I gave him, or all three? And does it matter? He won’t be able to return unless he’s called, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to call him, not for a long, long time.” She paused, then continued. “You had me frightened,
she‘enedsa.”

“Whyfor?”

“I didn’t know what he was offering you in return for your services. I was afraid if he could see your heart—”

“He didn’t offer me anything I really wanted, dearling. I was never in any danger. All he wanted to give me was a face and figure to match his own.”

“But if he’d offered you your Clan and your voice back—” Kethry replied soberly.

“I still wouldn’t have been in any danger,” Tarma replied with a little more force than she intended. “My people are dead, and no demon could bring them back to life. They’ve gone on elsewhere and he could never touch them. And without them—” she made a tiny, tired shrug, “—without them, what use is my voice—or for that matter, the most glorious face and body, and all the power in the universe?”

“I thought he had you for a moment—”

“So did he. He was trying to break my bond with the Star-Eyed. What he didn’t know was all he was arousing was my disgust. I’d die before I’d give in to something that uses people as casually as
that
thing did.”

Kethry got her belt and sheath off Warrl and slung Need in her accustomed place on her hip. Tarma suppressed the urge to giggle, despite pain and weariness. Kethry, in the sorceress’ robes she usually wore, and belted with a blade looked odd enough. Kethry, dressed in three spangles and a scrap of cloth and wearing the sword looked totally absurd.

Nevertheless Tarma copied her example. “Well, that damn goatsticker of yours got us into another one we won’t get paid for,” she said in more normal tones, fastening the buckle so that her sword hung properly on her back. “Bloody Hell! If you count in the ale we had to pour and the bribes we had to pay, we
lost
money on this one.”

“Don’t be so certain of that,
she‘enedra.”
Kethry’s face was exhausted and bloodstreaked, one of her eyes was blackened and swelling shut and she had livid bruises all over her body. On top of that she was covered in dust, and filthy, sweat-lank locks of hair were straggling into her face. But despite all of that, her eyes still held a certain amusement. “In case you hadn’t noticed, these little costumes of ours are real gold and gems. We happen to be wearing a small fortune in jewelry.”

“Warrior’s Truth!” Tarma looked a good deal more closely at her scanty attire, and discovered her partner was right. She grinned with real satisfaction. “I guess I owe that damn blade of yours an apology.”

“Only,” Kethry grinned back, “If we get back into our own clothing before dawn.”

“Why dawn?”

“Because that’s when the rightful owners of these trinkets are likely to wake up. I don’t think they’d let us keep them when we’re found here if they know we have them.”

“Good point—but why should we want anyone to know
we’re
responsible for this mess?”

“Because when the rest of the population scrapes up enough nerve to find out what happened, we’re going to be heroines—or at least we will until they find out how many of their fathers and brothers and husbands were trapped here tonight. By then, we’ll be long gone. Even if they don’t reward us—and they might, for delivering the town from a demon—our reputation has just been made!”

Tarma’s jaw dropped as she realized the truth of that.
“Shek,”
she said. “Turn me into a sheep! You’re right!” She threw back her head and laughed into the morning sky.
“Now
all we need is the fortune and a king’s blessing!”

“Don’t laugh, oathkin,” Kethry replied with a grin. “We just might get those, and sooner than you think. After all, aren’t we demon-slayers?”

S
omeone wrote a song about it—but that was later. Much later—when the dust and dirt were gone from the legend. When the sweat and blood were only memories, and the pain was less than that. And when the dead were all but forgotten except to their own.

“And every packtrain we’ve sent out for the past two months has vanished without a trace—and without survivors,” the silk merchant Grumio concluded, twisting an old iron ring on one finger. “Yet the decoy trains were allowed to reach their destinations unmolested. It’s uncanny—and if it goes on much longer, we’ll be ruined.”

In the silence that followed his words, he studied the odd pair of mercenaries before him. He knew very well that
they
knew he was doing so. Eventually there would be no secrets in this room—eventually. But he would parcel his out as if they were bits of his heart—and he knew they would do the same. It was all part of the bargaining process.

Neither of the two women seemed in any great hurry to reply to his speech. The crackle of the fire behind him in this tiny private eating room sounded unnaturally loud in the absence of conversation. Equally loud were the steady whisking of a whetstone on blade-edge, and the muted murmur of voices from the common room of the inn beyond their closed door.

The whetstone was being wielded by the swordswoman, Tarma by name, who was keeping to her self-appointed task with an indifference to Grumio’s words that might—or might not—be feigned. She sat across the table from him, straddling her bench in a position that left him mostly with a view of her back and the back of her head. What little he might have been able to see of her face was screened by her unruly shock of coarse black hair. He was just as glad of that; there was something about her cold, expressionless, hawklike face with its wintry blue eyes that sent shivers up his spine. “The eyes of a killer,” whispered one part of him. “Or a fanatic.”