The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (64 page)

“I was sleeping,” Malmury said petulantly. “I was dreaming of—”

The barmaid slapped her again, harder, and this time Malmury
seized her wrist and glared blearily back at Dóta. “I
told
you not to do
that.”

“Aye, and I told
you
to get up off your fat ass and get moving.”
There was another explosion then, nearer than any of the others, and
both women felt the floorboards shift and tilt below them. Malmury
nodded, some dim comprehension wriggling its way through the
brandy and wine.

“My horse is in the stable,” she said. “I cannot leave without my
horse. She was given me by my father.”

Dóta shook her head, straining to help Malmury to her feet. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “It’s too late. The stables are all ablaze.” Then neither
of them said anything more, and the barmaid led the stranger down
the swaying stairs and through the tavern and out into the burning
village.

From a rocky crag high above Invergó, the sea troll’s daughter
watched as the town burned. Even at this distance and altitude, the
earth shuddered with the force of each successive detonation. Loose
stones were shaken free of the talus and rolled away down the steep
slope. The sky was sooty with smoke, and beneath the pall, everything
glowed from the hellish light of the flames.

And, too, she watched the progress of those who’d managed to
escape the fire. Most fled westward, across the mudflats, but some had
filled the hulls of doggers and dories and ventured out into the bay.
She’d seen one of the little boats lurch to starboard and capsize, and
was surprised at how many of those it spilled into the icy cove reached
the other shore. But of all these refugees, only two had headed south,
into the hills, choosing the treacherous pass that led up towards the
glacier and the basalt mountains that flanked it. The daughter of
the sea troll watched their progress with an especial fascination. One
of them appeared to be unconscious and was slung across the back
of a mule, and the other, a woman with hair the color of the sun,
held tight to the mule’s reins and urged it forward. With every new
explosion, the animal bucked and brayed and struggled against her;
once or twice, they almost went over the edge, all three of them. By
the time they gained the wide ledge where Sæhildr crouched, the
sun was setting and nothing much remained of Invergó, nothing that
hadn’t been touched by the devouring fire.

The sun-haired woman lashed the reins securely to a boulder, then
sat down in the rubble. She was trembling, and it was clear she’d
not had time to dress with an eye towards the cold breath of the
mountains. There was a heavy belt cinched about her waist, and from
it hung a sheathed dagger. The sea troll’s daughter noted the blade,
then turned her attention to the mule and its burden. She could see
now that the person slung over the animal’s back was also a woman,
unconscious and partially covered with a moth-eaten bearskin. Her
long black hair hung down almost to the muddy ground.

Invisible from her hiding place in the scree, Sæhildr asked, “Is she
dead, your companion?”

Without raising her head, the sun-haired woman replied, “Now,
why would I have bothered to drag a dead woman all the way up
here?”

“Perhaps she is dear to you,” the daughter of the sea troll replied.
“It may be you did not wish to see her corpse go to ash with the
others.”

“Well, she’s
not
a corpse,” the woman said. “Not yet, anyway.” And
as if to corroborate the claim, the body draped across the mule farted
loudly and then muttered a few unintelligible words.

“Your sister?” the daughter of the sea troll asked, and when the
sun-haired woman told her no, Sæhildr said, “She seems far too
young to be your mother.”

“She’s not my mother. She’s...a friend. More than that, she’s a hero.”

The sea troll’s daughter licked at her lips, then glanced back to the
inferno by the bay. “A hero,” she said, almost too softly to be heard.

“That’s the way it started,” the sun-haired woman said, her teeth
chattering so badly she was having trouble speaking. “She came here
from a kingdom beyond the mountains, and, single-handedly, she
slew the fiend that haunted the bay. But—”

“Then the fire came,” Sæhildr said, and, with that, she stood,
revealing herself to the woman. “My
father’s
fire, the wrath of the
Old Ones, unleashed by the blade there on your hip.”

The woman stared at the sea troll’s daughter, her eyes filling with
wonder and fear and confusion, with panic. Her mouth opened, as
though she meant to say something or to scream, but she uttered not
a sound. Her hand drifted towards the dagger’s hilt.

“
That,
my lady, would be a very poor idea,” Sæhildr said calmly.
Taller by a head than even the tallest of tall men, she stood looking
down at the shivering woman, and her skin glinted oddly in the half-
light. “Why do you think I mean you harm?”

“You,” the woman stammered. “You’re the troll’s whelp. I have
heard the tales. The old witch is your mother.”

Sæhildr made an ugly, derisive noise that was partly a laugh. “Is
that
how they tell it these days, that Gunna is my mother?”

The sun-haired woman only nodded once and stared at the rocks.

“
My
mother is dead,” the troll’s daughter said, moving nearer,
causing the mule to bray and tug at its reins. “And now, it seems, my
father has joined her.”

“I cannot let you harm her,” the woman said, risking a quick
sidewise glance at Sæhildr. The daughter of the sea troll laughed
again, and dipped her head, almost seeming to bow. The distant
firelight reflected off the small, curved horns on either side of her
head, hardly more than nubs and mostly hidden by her thick hair,
and shone off the scales dappling her cheekbones and brow, as well.

“What you
mean
to say, is that you would have to
try
to prevent
me from harming her.”

“Yes,” the sun-haired woman replied, and now she glanced
nervously towards the mule and her unconscious companion.

“If, of course, I
intended
her harm.”

“Are you saying that you don’t?” the woman asked. “That you do
not desire vengeance for your father’s death?”

Sæhildr licked her lips again, then stepped past the seated woman
to stand above the mule. The animal rolled its eyes, neighed horribly,
and kicked at the air, almost dislodging its load. But then the sea
troll’s daughter gently laid a hand on its rump, and immediately the
beast grew calm and silent once more. Sæhildr leaned forwards and
grasped the unconscious woman’s chin, lifting it, wishing to know the
face of the one who’d defeated the brute who’d raped her mother and
made of his daughter so shunned and misshapen a thing.

“This one is drunk,” Sæhildr said, sniffing the air.

“Very much so,” the sun-haired woman replied.

“A
drunkard
slew the troll?”

“She was sober that day. I think.”

Sæhildr snorted and said, “Know that there was no bond but
blood between my father and me. Hence, what need have I to seek
vengeance upon his executioner? Though, I will confess, I’d hoped
she might bring me some measure of sport. But even that seems
unlikely in her current state.” She released the sleeping woman’s jaw,
letting it bump roughly against the mule’s ribs, and stood upright
again. “No, I think you need not fear for your lover’s life. Not this
day. Besides, wouldn’t the utter destruction of your village count as a
more appropriate reprisal?”

The sun-haired woman blinked, and said, “Why do you say that,
that she’s my lover?”

“Liquor is not the only stink on her,” answered the sea troll’s
daughter. “Now,
deny
the truth of this, my lady, and I may yet grow
angry.”

The woman from doomed Invergó didn’t reply, but only sighed
and continued staring into the gravel at her feet.

“This one is practically naked,” Sæhildr said. “And you’re not
much better. You’ll freeze, the both of you, before morning.”

“There was no time to find proper clothes,” the woman protested,
and the wind shifted then, bringing with it the cloying reek of the
burning village.

“Not very much farther along this path, you’ll come to a small
cave,” the sea troll’s daughter said. “I will find you there, tonight,
and bring what furs and provisions I can spare. Enough, perhaps, that
you may yet have some slim chance of making your way through the
mountains.”

“I don’t understand,” Dóta said, exhausted and near tears, and
when the troll’s daughter made no response, the barmaid discovered
that she and the mule and Malmury were alone on the mountain
ledge. She’d not heard the demon take its leave, so maybe the stories
were true, and it could become a fog and float away whenever it so
pleased. Dóta sat a moment longer, watching the raging fire spread
out far below them. And then she got to her feet, took up the mule’s
reins, and began searching for the shelter that the troll’s daughter
had promised her she would discover. She did not spare a thought
for the people of Invergó, not for her lost family, and not even for the
kindly old man who’d owned the Cod’s Demise and had taken her in
off the streets when she was hardly more than a child. They were the
past, and the past would keep neither her nor Malmury alive.

Twice, she lost her way among the boulders, and by the time Dóta
stumbled upon the cave, a heavy snow had begun to fall, large wet
flakes spiraling down from the darkness. But it was warm inside, out
of the howling wind. And, what’s more, she found bundles of wolf
and bear pelts, seal skins, and mammoth hide, some sewn together
into sturdy garments. And there was salted meat, a few potatoes, and
a freshly killed rabbit spitted and roasting above a small cooking fire.
She would never again set eyes on the sea troll’s daughter, but in the
long days ahead, as Dóta and the stranger named Malmury made
their way through blizzards and across fields of ice, she would often
sense someone nearby, watching over them. Or only watching.

JEFFREY FORD

H
is
Sword
’
s
grip
was polished blood coral, its branches perfect
doubles for the aorta. They fed into a guard that was a thin silver
crown, beyond which lay the blade (the heart): slightly curved with
the inscription of a spell in a language no one could read.
 
He was a
devotee of the art of the cut, and when he wielded this weapon, the
blade exactly parallel to the direction of motion, the blood groove
caught the breeze and whistled like a bird of night.
 
He’d learned his
art from a hermit in the mountains where he’d practiced on human
cadavers.

That sword had a history before it fell to Ismet Toler. How it came
to him, he swore he would never tell.
 
Legend had it that the blade
belonged first to the ancient hero who’d beheaded the Gorgon: a
creature whose gaze turned men to smooth marble. After he’d slain
her, he punctured her eyeballs with the tip of his blade and then
bathed the cutting edge in their ichor.
 
The character of the weapon
seized the magic of the Gorgon’s stare and, ever after, if a victim’s
flesh was sliced or punctured to any extent where blood was drawn,
that unlucky soul would be turned instantly to coral.

The statuary of Toler’s skill could be found throughout the
realm.
 
Three hardened headless bodies
 
lay
 
atop the Lowbry Hill,
and on the slopes three hardened heads. A woman crouching at the
entrance to the Funeral Gardens.
 
A score of soldiers at the center of
the market at Camiar.
 
A child missing an arm, twisting away with fear
forever, resting perfectly on one heel, in the southeastern corner of the
Summer Square.
 
All deepest red and gleaming with reflection.
 
There
were those who believed that only insanity could account for the vast
battlefields of coral warriors frozen in the kill, but none was brave
enough to speak it.

The Valator of Camiar once said of The Coral Heart, “He serves
the good because it is a minority, leaving the majority to slay in the
name of Truth.”
 
The Valator is now, himself,
 
red coral, his head
cleaved like a roasted sausage. Ismet dispatched evil with dedication
and stunning haste. It was said that the fate of the sword was tied to
that of the world. When enough of its victims had been turned to
coral, their accumulated
 
weight would affect the spin of the planet
and it would fly out of orbit into darkness.

There are countless stories about The Coral Heart, and nearly all
of them are the same story.
 
Tales about a man who shares a name and
a spirit with his weapon. They’re always filled with fallen ranks of coral
men. Some he kicks and shatters in the mêlée. There is always betrayal
and treachery. A few of these stories involve the hermit master with
whom he’d studied.
 
Most all of them mention his servant, Garone, a
tulpa or thought-form creation physically coalesced from his focused
imagination. The killings in these classical tales are painstaking and
brutal, encrusted with predictable glory.

There are a handful of stories about The Coral Heart, though,
that do not end on a battlefield. You don’t hear them often. Most find
the exploits of the weapon more enchanting than those of the man.
Your average citizen enjoys a tale of slaughter. You, though, if I’m not
mistaken, understand as well the deadly nature of the human heart
and would rather decipher the swordsman’s dreams than the magic
spell engraved upon his blade.

And so...in the last days of summer, in the Year of the Thistle, after
transforming the army of the Igridots, upon the dunes of Weilawan,
into a petrified forest, Ismet Toler wandered north in search of nothing
more than a cold day. He rode upon Nod, his red steed of a rare
archaic stock—toes instead of hooves and short, spiral horns jutting
out from either side of its forelock. Walking beside Toler, appearing
and disappearing like the moon behind wind-driven clouds, was
Garone, his tulpa. The servant, when visible, drifted along, hands
clasped at his waist, slightly hunched, the hood of his brown robe
always obscuring any definitive view of his face. You might catch a
glimpse of one of his yellow eyes, but never both at once.

As they followed a trail that wound beneath giant trees, leaves
falling everywhere, Toler pulled the reins on Nod and was still. “Was
that a breeze, Garone?”

The tulpa disappeared but was as quickly back. “I believe so,” he
said in a whisper only his master could hear.

Another, more perceptible gust came down the trail and washed
over them. Toler sighed as it passed. “I’m weary of turning men to
coral,” he said.

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Garone.

The Coral Heart smiled and nodded slightly.

“Up ahead in these yellow woods, we will find a palace and you
will fall in love,” said the servant.

“There are times I wish you wouldn’t tell me what you know.”

“There are times I wish I didn’t know it. If you command me to
reveal my face to you, I will disappear forever.”

“No,” said Toler, “not yet. That day will come, though. I promise
you.”

“Perhaps sooner rather than later, master.”

“Perhaps not,” said Toler and nudged his mount in the ribs. Again
moving along the trail, the swordsman recalled the frozen expressions
of his victims at Weilawan, each countenance set with the same look
of terrible surprise.

In late afternoon, the travelers came to a fork in the trail, and
Garone said, “We must take the right-hand path to reach that palace.”

“What lies to the left?” asked Toler.

“Tribulation and certain death,” said the servant.

“To the right,” said the swordsman. “You may rest now, Garone.”

Garone became a rippling flame, clear as water, and then disap
peared.

As twilight set in, Toler caught sight of two towers silhouetted
against the orange sky. He coaxed Nod into a gallop, hoping to arrive
at the palace gates before nightfall. As he flew away from the forest
and across barren fields, the cool of the coming night refreshing
him, he thought, “I have never been in love.” Every time he tried to
picture the face of one of his amorous conquests, what came before
him instead were the faces of his victims.

He arrived just as the palace guards were about to lift the moat
bridge. The four men saw him approaching and drew their weapons.

“An appeal for lodging for the night,” called Toler from a safe
distance.

“Who are you?” one of the men shouted.

“A traveler,” said the swordsman.

“Your name, fool,” said the same man.

“Ismet Toler.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a different one of the
guards said, in a far less demanding tone, “The Coral Heart?”

“Yes.”

The guard who had spoken harshly fell to his knees and begged
forgiveness. Two others sheathed their swords and came forward to
help the gentleman from his horse. The fourth ran ahead into the
palace, announcing to all he passed that The Coral Heart was at the
gate.

Toler dismounted and one of the men took Nod’s reins. The
swordsman approached the guard who knelt on the ground, and
said, “I’ll not be killing anyone tonight. I’m too weary. We’ll see what
tomorrow brings.” The man rose up, and then the three guards, with
Toler’s help, turned the huge wooden wheel that lifted the moat bridge.

Inside, the guards dispersed and left Toler standing at the head of
a hall with vaulted ceiling, all fashioned from blue limestone. People
came and went quietly, keeping their distance but stealing glances.
Eventually, he was approached by a very old man, diminutive of
stature, with the snout and mottled skin of a toad. When the little
fellow spoke, he croaked, “A pleasure, sir,” and offered his wet hand
as a sign of welcome.

Toler took it with a shiver. “And you are?” he asked.

“Councilor Greppen. Follow me.” The stranger led on, down the
vast hall, padding along at a weary pace on bare, flat feet. The slap of
his soles echoed into the distance.

“May I ask what manner of creature you are?” said Toler.

“A man, of course,” said the Councilor. “And you?”

“A man.”

“No, no, from what I hear you are Death’s own Angel and will one
day turn the world to coral.”

“What kind of Councilor can you be if you believe everything you
hear?” said Toler.

Greppen puffed out his cheeks and laughed; a shrewd, wet sound.
He shuffled toward the left and turned at another long hall, a line of
magnificent fountains running down its center. “The Hall of Tears,”
he croaked and they passed through glistening mist.

As Toler followed from hall to hall, he gradually adopted the old
man’s pace. The journey was long, but Time suddenly had no bearing.
The swordsman studied the people who passed, noticed the placement
of the guard, marveled at the colors of the fish in the fountains, the
birds that flew overhead, the distant glass ceiling through which the
full moon stared in. As if suddenly awakened, he came to at the touch
of the Councilor’s damp hand on his arm.

“We have arrived,” said Greppen.

Toler looked around. He was on a balcony that jutted off the side
of the palace. The stars were bright and there was a cold breeze, just
the kind he’d wished for when heading north from Weilawan. He took
a seat on a simple divan near the edge of the balcony, and listened as
Greppen’s footfalls grew faint. He closed his eyes and wondered if this
was his lodging for the night. The seat was wonderfully comfortable
and he leaned back into it.

A moment passed, perhaps an hour, he wasn’t sure, before he
opened his eyes. When he did, he was surprised to see something
floating toward the balcony. It was no bird. He blinked and it became
clear in the resplendent starlight. It was a woman, dressed in fine
golden robes, seated in a wooden chair, like a throne, floating toward
him out of the night. When she reached the balcony and hovered
above him, he stood to greet her.

“The Coral Heart,” she said as her chair settled down across from
the divan. “You may be seated.”

Toler bowed slightly before sitting.

“I am Lady Maltomass,” she said.

The swordsman was intoxicated by the sudden scent of lemon
blossoms, and then by the Lady’s eyes—large and luminous. No
matter how he scrutinized her gaze, he could not discern their color.
At the corners of her lips there was the very slightest smile. Her light
brown hair was braided and strung with beads of jade. There was
a thin jade collar around her neck, and from there it was a quick
descent to the path between her breasts and the intricately brocaded
golden gown.

“Ismet Toler,” he finally said.

“I grant you permission to stay this night in the palace,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. There was an awkward pause and then he
asked, “Who makes your furniture?”

She laughed. “The chair, yes. My father was a great scholar. By
way of his research, he discovered it beneath the ruins of an Abbey
at Cardeira-davu.”

“I didn’t think the religious dabbled in magic,” said Toler.

“Who’s to say it’s not the work of God?”

The swordsman nodded. “And your councilor, Greppen? Another
miracle?”