The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (34 page)

“But I am!” laughed Kane, parrying the youth’s flashing
counterattack with ease. His speed was uncanny, and the awesome
power of his thick shoulders drove his blade with deadly force.

Lightning seemed to flash with the ringing thunder of their
blades. Rune-stamped star-metal hammered against the finest steel
of Carsultyal’s far-fanned forges, and their clangor seemed the cries of
two warring demons—harsh, strident with pain and rage.

Sweat shone on Dragar’s naked body, and his breath spat foam
through his clenched teeth. A few times only had he crossed blades
with an opponent his equal in strength, and then the youth’s superior
speed had carried the victory. Now, as in some impossible nightmare,
he faced a skilled and cunning swordsman whose speed was at least
his equal—and whose strength seemed somewhat greater. After his
initial attack had been deftly turned away, Dragar’s swordplay became
less reckless, less confident. Grimly he set about wearing down
his opponent’s endurance, reasoning that the sorcerer’s physical
conditioning could not equal that of a hardened mercenary.

In all the world there was no sound but their ringing blades,
the desperate rush of their bodies, the hoarse gusts of their breath.
Everywhere time stood frozen, save for the deadly fury of their duel,
as they leaped and lunged about the bare-timbered room.

Dragar caught a thin slash across his left arm from a blow he did
not remember deflecting. Kane’s left-handed attack was dangerously
unfamiliar to him, and only his desperate parries had saved him from
worse. Uneasily he realized that Kane’s sword arm did not falter
as the minutes dragged past and that more and more he was being
confined to the defensive. Wizard’s Bane grew ragged with notches
from the Carsultyal blade, and its hilt slippery with sweat. Kane’s
heavier sword was similarly scarred from their relentless slash, parry,
thrust.

Then as Kane deflected Dragar’s powerful stroke, the youth made
a quick thrust with the turning blade—enough so that its tip gashed
diagonally across Kane’s brow, severing his headband. A shallow cut,
but blood flowed freely, matted the clinging strands of his unbound
hair. Kane gave back, flung the blood and loose hair from his eyes.

And Dragar lunged. Too quick for Kane to parry fully, his blade
gored a furrow the length of the sorcerer’s left forearm. Kane’s long
sword faltered. Instantly the barbarian hammered at his guard.

The sword left Kane’s grip as it clumsily threw back the star-blade.
For a fraction of a second it turned free in midair. Dragar exulted that
he had at last torn the blade from Kane’s grasp—as he raised his arm
for a killing stroke.

But Kane’s right hand caught up the spinning blade with practiced
surety. Wielding the sword with skill scarcely inferior to his natural
sword arm, Kane parried Dragar’s flashing blow. Then, before the
startled barbarian could recover, Kane’s sword smashed through
Dragar’s ribs.

The force of the blow hurled the stricken youth back against the
bed. Wizard’s Bane dropped from nerveless fingers and skidded across
the wide oaken planks.

From Dessylyn’s throat came a cry of inexpressible pain. She
rushed to him and cradled Dragar’s head against her lap. Desperately
she pressed ineffectual fingers against the pulsing wound in his chest.
“Please, Kane!” she sobbed. “Spare him!”

Kane glanced through burning eyes at the youth’s ruined chest
and laughed. “I give him to you, Dessylyn,” he told her insolently.
“And I’ll await you in my tower—unless, of course, you young lovers
still plan on running off together.”

Blood trailing from his arm—and darker blood from his sword—
he stalked from the room and into the night mists.

“Dragar! Dragar!” Dessylyn moaned, kissing his haggard face and
blood-foamed lips. “Please don’t die, beloved! Onthe, don’t let him
die!”

Tears fell from her eyes to his as she pressed her face against his
pallid visage. “You didn’t believe him, did you, Dragar? What if I did
engineer our meeting, dearest! Still I love you! It’s true that I love
you! I’ll always love you, Dragar!”

He looked at her through glazing eyes. “Bitch!” he spat, and died.

How many times, Dessylyn?

How many times will you play this game?

(But this was the first!)

The first? Are you sure, Dessylyn?

(I swear it!... How can I be sure?)

And how many after? How many circles, Dessylyn?

(Circles? Why this darkness in my mind?)

How many times, Dessylyn, have you played at Lorelei?

How many are those who have known your summoning eye?

How many are those who have heard your siren cry, Dessylyn?

How many souls have swum out to you, Dessylyn?

And perished by the shadows that hide below,

And are drawn down to Hell by the undertow?

How many times, Dessylyn?

(I can’t remember....)

VII. “He’ll Have to Die....”

“You know he’ll have to die.”

Dessylyn shook her head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Clearly it’s far more dangerous to let him live,” Mavrsal pointed
out grimly. “From what you’ve told me, Kane will never permit you to
leave him—and this isn’t like trying to get away from some jealous lord.
A sorcerer’s tentacles reach farther than those of the fabled Oraycha.
What good is it to escape Carsultyal, only to have Kane’s magic strike
at us later? Even on the high sea his shadow can follow us.”

“But we might escape him,” murmured Dessylyn. “The oceans are
limitless, and the waves carry no trail.”

“A wizard of Kane’s power will have ways to follow us.”

“It’s still too dangerous. I’m not even sure Kane can be killed!”
Dessylyn’s fingers toyed anxiously with the emerald at her throat; her
lips were tightly pressed.

Angrily Mavrsal watched her fingers twist the wide silk and
leather collar. Fine ladies might consider the fashion stylish here in
Carsultyal, but it annoyed him that she wore the ornament even in
bed. “You’ll never be free of Kane’s slave collar,” he growled, voicing
his thought, “until that devil is dead.”

“I know,” breathed the girl softly, more than fear shining in her
green eyes.

“Yours is the hand that can kill him,” he continued. Her lips
moved, but no sound issued.

Soft harbor sounds whispered through the night as the
Tuab
gently
rocked with the waves. Against the quay, her timbers creaked and
groaned, thudded against the buffers of waste hemp cordage. Distant
ly, her watch paced the deck; low conversation, dimly heard, marked
the presence of other crewmen—not yet in their hammocks, despite
a hard day’s work. In the captain’s cabin a lamp swung slowly with the
vessel’s roll, playing soft shadows back and forth against the objects
within. Snug and sheltered from the sea mists, the atmosphere was
almost cozy—could the cabin only have been secure against a darker
phantom that haunted the night.

“Kane claims to love you,” Mavrsal persisted shrewdly. “He won’t
accept your hatred of him. In other words, he’ll unconsciously lower
his guard with you. He’ll let you stand at his back and never suspect
that your hand might drive a dagger through his ribs.”

“It’s true,” she acknowledged in a strange voice.

Mavrsal held her shoulders and turned her face to his. “I can’t see
why you haven’t tried this before. Was it fear?”

“Yes. I’m terrified of Kane.”

“Or was it something else? Do you still feel some secret love for
him, Dessylyn?”

She did not reply immediately. “I don’t know.”

He swore and took her chin in his hand. The collar, with its symbol
of Kane’s mastery, enraged him—so that he roughly tore it from her
throat. Her fingers flew to the bared flesh.

Again he cursed. “Did Kane do that to you?”

She nodded, her eyes wide with intense emotion.

“He treats you as a slave, and you haven’t the spirit to rebel—or
even to hate him for what he does to you!”

“That’s not true! I hate Kane!”

“Then show some courage! What can the devil do to you that’s
any worse than your present lot?”

“I just don’t want you to die, too!”

The captain laughed grimly. “If you’d remain his slave to spare my
life, then you’re worth dying for! But the only death will be Kane’s—if
we lay our plans well. Will you try, Dessylyn? Will you rebel against
this tyrant—win freedom for yourself, and love for us both?”

“I’ll try, Mavrsal,” she promised, unable to avoid his eyes. “But I
can’t do it alone.”

“Nor would any man ask you to. Can I get into Kane’s tower?”

“An army couldn’t assail that tower if Kane wished to defend it.”

“So I’ve heard. But can
I
get inside? Kane must have a secret
entrance to his lair.”

She bit her fist. “I know of one. Perhaps you could enter without
his knowing it.”

“I can if you can warn me of any hidden guardians or pitfalls,” he
told her with more confidence than he felt. “And I’ll want to try this
when he won’t be as vigilant as normal. Since there seem to be regular
periods when you can slip away from the tower, I see no reason why I
can’t steal inside under the same circumstances.”

Dessylyn nodded, her face showing less fear now. “When he’s deep
into his necromancies, Kane is oblivious to all else. He’s begun again
with some of his black spells—he’ll be so occupied until tomorrow
night, when he’ll force me to partake of his dark ritual.”

Mavrsal flushed with outrage. “Then that will be his last journey
into the demonlands—until we send him down to Hell forever! Repairs
are all but complete. If I push the men and rush reprovisioning, the
Tuab
can sail with the tide of another dawn. Tomorrow night it will
be, then, Dessylyn. While Kane is exhausted and preoccupied with
his black sorcery, I’ll slip into his tower.

“Be with him then. If he sees me before I can strike, wait until
he turns to meet my attack—then strike with this!” And he drew a
slender dirk from a sheath fixed beneath the head of his bunk.

As if hypnotized by his words, by the shining sliver of steel, Dessylyn
turned the dagger about in her hands, again and again, staring at the
flash of light on its keen edge. “I’ll try. By Onthe, I’ll try to do as you
say!”

“He’ll have to die,” Mavrsal assured her. “You know he’ll have to
die.”

VIII. Drink a Final Cup....

Spread out far below lay Carsultyal, fog swirling through her wide brick
streets and crooked filthy alleys, hovering over squalid tenements
and palatial manors—although her arrogant towers pierced its veil
and reared toward the stars in lordly grandeur. Born of two elements,
air and water, the mist swirled and drifted, sought to strangle a third
element, fire, but could do no more than dim with tears its thousand
glowing eyes. Patches of murky yellow in the roiling fog, the lights
of Carsultyal gained the illusion of movement, so that one might be
uncertain at any one moment whether he gazed down into the mist-
hung city or upward toward the cloud-buried stars.

“Your mood is strange tonight, Dessylyn,” Kane observed,
meticulously adjusting the fire beneath the tertiary alembic.

She moved away from the tower window. “Is it strange to you,
Kane? I marvel that you notice. I’ve told you countless times that
this necromancy disgusts me, but always before have my sentiments
meant nothing to you.”

“Your sentiments mean a great deal to me, Dessylyn. But as for
demanding your attendance here, I only do what I must.”

“Like that?” she hissed in loathing, and pointed to the young girl’s
mutilated corpse.