The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (48 page)

“Nothing. He’s still a Tervola Aspirant. He’s been given a mission.
Nothing will deflect him. He might shed a tear for our childhood
afterward. He was always too emotional for his chosen path.”

She surveyed his gear while he helped Steban off the mule. “You
mean you have to run to have a chance?”

“Yes.”

“Then run. Anything you did now would be pointless, anyway.”

“No. A soldier’s honor is involved. To abandon a task in the face
of a secondary danger would be to betray a code which has been my
life. I’m a soldier. I can’t stop being one. And soldiers of the Dread
Empire don’t retreat. We don’t flee because we face defeat. There
may be a purpose in sacrifice. We withdraw only if ordered.”

“There’s nobody to order you. You could go. You’re your own
commander now.”

“I know. That’s why it’s so difficult.”

“I can’t help you, Tain.” The weight of Toma’s demise had begun
to crack her barriers against grief.

“You can. Tell me what you’ll do.”

“About what?”

He indicated the stead. “You can’t stay. Can you?”

She shrugged.

“Will you go with me if I go?”

She shrugged again. The grief was upon her now. She wasn’t
listening.

Tain massaged his aching temples, then started unpacking his
armor.

Piece by piece, he became a leading centurion of the Demon Guard.
Steban watched with wide eyes. He recognized the armor. The legions
were known far beyond lands that had endured their unstoppable
passing.

Tain donned his helmet, his swords and witch kit. He paused with
his mask in hand. Rula said nothing. She stared at Toma, remembering.

Tain shook his head, donned the mask, walked to the roan. He
started toward the Tower.

He didn’t look back.

The armor began to feel comfortable. The roan pranced along,
glad to be a soldier’s steed once more. He felt halfway home....

What he had said penetrated Rula’s brain soon after he passed out
of view. She glanced around in panic.

The mule remained. As did all Tain’s possessions except his
weapons and armor. “He left his things!”

Quiet tears dribbled from Steban’s eyes. “Ma. I don’t think he
expects to come back. He thinks he’s going to die.”

“Steban, we’ve got to stop him.”

XIX

Tain came to the dark tower in the day’s last hour. Caydarmen manned
its ramparts. An arrow dropped from the sky. It whistled off his armor.

Torfin stood beside the Witch. Tain heard her say, “He’s not the
same one. He wore robes. And walked.”

And Torfin responded, awed, “It’s Tain. The man who stayed with
your father.”

There was no thought in the old soldier. He was a machine come
to destroy the Tower. He let decades of combat schooling guide him.

He began with the gate.

From his witch pouch he drew a short, slim rod and a tiny glass
vial. He thrust the rod into the vial, making sure the entire shaft was
moist. He spoke words he had learned long ago.

Fire exploded in his hand. He hurled a flaming javelin.

It flew perfectly flat, immune to gravity. It struck the gate, made a
sound like the beating of a brass gong.

Timbers flew as the gate shattered.

Caydarmen scrambled down from the ramparts.

Tain returned to his pouch. He removed the jar and silver box
he had used in the pass. He greased his hands, obtained one of the
deadly peas. He concentrated, breathed. The cerulean glow came
into being. He hurled a fiery blue ball upward.

It rose slowly, drifted like gossamer toward the ramparts.

The Witch didn’t recognize her peril until too late. The ball
jumped at her, enveloping her left hand.

She screamed.

Torfin bellowed, followed his confederates downstairs.

Tain dismounted and strode through the gate.

Grimnir met him first. Fear filled the big man’s eyes. He fought
with desperate genius.

And he died.

As did his comrades, though they tried to team against the man
in black.

Trolledyngjans were feared throughout the west. They were deadly
fighters. These were amazed by their own ineffectuality. But they
had never faced a soldier of the Dread Empire, let alone a leading
centurion of the Demon Guard.

The last fell. Tain faced Torfin. “Yield, boy,” he said, breaking
battle discipline. “You’re the one good man in this viper’s nest. Go.”

“Release her.” The youth indicated the ramparts. The girl’s
screams had declined to moans. She had begun fighting the ball. Tain
knew she had the strength to beat it, if she could find and harness it.

He smiled. If she failed, she would die. Even if she succeeded, she
would never be the same. No matter what happened to him, he had
won something. At her age pain could be a powerful purgative for
evil.

Still, he had to try to make the situation absolute. “Stand aside,
Torfin. You can’t beat me.”

“I have to try. I love her, Tain.”

“You’re no good to her dead.”

At the bottom of it, Torfin was Trolledyngjan. Like Tain, he
could do nothing but be what he was. Trolledyngjans were stubborn,
inflexible, and saw all settlements, finally, in terms of the stronger
sword.

Torfin fell into a slight crouch, presenting his blade in a tentative
figure eight.

Tain nodded, began murmuring the Battle Ritual. He had to relax,
to give his reflexes complete control. Torfin was more skilled than his
confederates. He was young and quick.

He shrieked and lunged.

Tain turned his rush in silence. The soldiers of Shinsan fought,
and died, without a word or cry. Their silence had unnerved men
more experienced than Torfin.

Tain’s cool, wordless competence told. Torfin retreated a step,
then another and another. Sweat ran down his forehead.

Tain’s shortsword flicked across and pinked Torfin’s left hand.
The dagger flew away. The youth had used the weapon cunningly,
wickedly. Its neutralization had been Tain’s immediate goal.

Torfin danced away, sucked his wound. He looked into faceted
crystal and knew the old soldier had spoken the truth when claiming
he couldn’t be beaten.

Both glanced upward. Shirl’s moans were fading.

Tain advanced, engaging with his longsword while forcing Torfin
to give ground to the short. Torfin reached the ladder to the ramparts.
He scrambled up.

Tain pursued him mercilessly, despite the disadvantage. The youth
was a natural swordsman. Even against two blades he kept his guard
almost impenetrable.

Tain pushed. Torfin was relying on youth’s stamina, hoping he
would tire.

Tain wouldn’t. He could still spend a day in his hot armor, matching
blows with the enemy. He hadn’t survived his legion years by yielding
to fatigue.

Tain stepped onto the battlements. Torfin had lost his last
advantage. Tain paused to glance at the Witch.

The blue ball had eaten half her arm. But she was getting the best
of it. Only a few sparks still gnawed at her mutilated flesh.

She looked extremely young and vulnerable.

Torfin looked, too.

Tain feinted with the longsword, struck with the short.

It was his best move.

Torfin’s blade tumbled away into the courtyard. Blood stained
both of his hands now.

He backed away quickly, seized a dagger his love carried at her
waist.

Tain sighed, broke battle discipline. “Boy, you’re just too stubborn.”
He sheathed his swords, discarded their harness. He removed his
helmet, placed it between his blades.

He went to Torfin.

The youth scoured Tain’s armor twice before the soldier took the
dagger and arced it out into the grass of the Zemstvi.

Torfin still would not yield.

Tain kicked his feet from beneath him, laid the edge of one hand
across the side of his neck.

Tain backed away, glanced down. Torfin’s dagger had found a chink.
Red oozed down the shiny ebony of his breastplate. A brutalized rib
began aching.

He recovered his shortsword, went toward the Witch.

In seconds she would complete her conquest of his magick. In
seconds she would be able to destroy him.

Yet he hesitated.

He considered her youth, her vulnerability, her beauty, and
understood how she had captivated Torfin and the Baron.

She bleated plaintively, “Mother!”

Tain whirled.

Rula stepped onto the ramparts. “Tain. Don’t. Please?”

Seconds fled.

Tain sheathed his blade.

Shirl sighed and gave up consciousness.

“Tain, I brought your things. And your mule.” Rula pushed past
him to her daughter.

“The wound is cauterized. I’ll take care of the bone.”

“You’re wounded. Take care of yourself.”

“It can wait.”

He finished Shirl’s arm ten minutes later. Then he removed his
breastplate and let Rula tend to his injury. It was minor. The scar
would become lost among its predecessors.

Rula finished. “You’d better go. The hunter....”

“You’re staying?” An infinite sadness filled him as he drew his eyes
from hers to scan the Zemstvi. Kai Ling was out there somewhere. He
could sense nothing, but that had no meaning. His hunter would be
more cunning than he. The trap might have closed already.

“She’s my daughter. She needs me.”

Sadly, Tain collected his possessions and started for the ladder.

Torfin groaned.

Tain laid his things aside, knelt beside the youth. “Ah. She does
have this stubborn ass, you know.” He gathered his possessions again.
This time he descended without pausing.

Soldiers of the Dread Empire seldom surrendered to their emotions.

He had a hand on Steban’s shoulder, trying to think of some final
word, when Rula came to him. “Tain. I’ll go.”

He looked into her eyes. Yes, he thought. She would. Dared he?...

Sometimes a soldier did surrender. “Steban. Go find you and your
mother some horses. Rula, get some things from the Tower. Food.
Utensils. Clothes. Whatever you’ll need. And hurry.” He scanned the
horizon.

Where was Kai Ling?

“Old friend, are you coming?” he whispered.

Not even the breeze responded. It giggled round the Tower as if
the gathering of Death’s daughters were a cosmic joke.

Their shadows scurried impatiently round the old stronghold.

They were a hundred yards along the road to nowhere.

“Tain!”

He whirled the gelding.

Torfin leaned on the battlements, right hand grasping his neck.
Then he raised the other. “Good luck, centurion.”

Tain waved. He didn’t reply. His ribs ached too much for shouting.

The day was dead. He set a night course for the last bit of sunlight.
Rula rode to his left, Steban to his right. The mule plodded along
behind, snapping at the tails of the newcomers.

He glanced back just once, to eye the destruction he had wrought.
Death’s daughters had descended to the feast. The corner of his
mouth quirked downward.

His name was Tain, and he was still a man to beware.

XX

The wind of dark wings wakened Kai Ling. The daughters of Death
circled close. One bold vulture had landed a few feet from his
outstretched hand.

He moved.

The vulture took wing.

He rose slowly. Pain gnawed his nerve ends. He surveyed the stead,
the smoking ruins, and understood. He had survived his mistake. He
was a lucky man.