Swordmistress of Chaos Read online

  “Battle!” cried Raven,

  selecting her weapon.

  Gondar roared, his great body hurtly forward as the axe whistled in an arc at Raven’s midriff. She countered, jumping to the side to let the swinging blade pass before her as her own darted in to cut at his ribs. The edge touched as Gondar spun aside, reversing his swing to bring the axe back along its path in a blow that would have tumbled Raven to the ground had it landed.

  The axe swung like a toy before him, arcing to right and left in a flashing curtain of impenetrable steel through which she sough to thrust her spear. Once she drove through to jab at his side, but then the axe smashed the wood away and she fell back to avoid a crushing blow.

  Gauging her timing, she let the spear droop, allowing Gondar’s axe to swing closer. As the riever closed in she withdrew around the circle, luring him on until she deemed her position suitable to her purpose. A curving blow glanced the spear aside, swinging back to connect with her ribs. It passed close and as the apex of the swing was reached, Raven thrust the spear between Gondar’s legs, twisting savagely…

  Raven

  SWORDMISTRESS

  OF CHAOS

  Richard Kirk

  FOR Gabrielle,

  who brings her own kind of Chaos.

  Prologue

  The hut settled against the bare ground like a hunched beast, crouching under the lee of a stonefall from the farther edge of the promontory. It was set apart from the others, though like them in construction: a crude affair of bent wood and roughly cured hides, playing fitfully with the pale glow of the tallow lantern that was the only illumination within the dark interior. The hut was cold and damp, and not even the furs piled around its earthen floor warmed the occupants enough that they felt comfortable.

  One young man fumbled a pile of twigs into a cone, striking his tinderbox to light the wood. Others passed a stone jar from hand to hand, sucking enthusiastically on the fiery contents. In the cold times, inner fire might serve in lieu of real comfort.

  They wore furs, the three young warriors, and small pieces of metal and chainmail, little tidbits of armour looted from dead men. They carried swords of a dark metal that were never far from their hands, but their eyes were fixed upon the face of the man seated across the growing fire. He was old, his face lined with the deep cracks of age, his skin spread taut over the fine bones of his skull. A mane of silver hair cascaded from his high-domed forehead onto his broad shoulders, hunched in now against the cold and the inexorable passage of years. His eyes, though, were bright, darting pale blue sparks through the faint light, seeking out each watching gaze and holding it as a stalking ferret holds the rabbit’s eye in hypnotic trance, bending it to the hunter’s will. He was very thin—even amongst a company of men starved of meat—and his clothes were rags and furs that spoke silently of better days, long past. On the earth beside his left hand rested a great sword, its blade shining silver in the growing light, the hilt wrapped round with golden wire, a huge green gemstone set into the pommel. His right hand was bound in rough bandages, the contours of the dirty cloth showing where his fingers had been severed from the palm.

  He smiled and began to speak:

  ‘Aye, you laugh at me. I know that. Youth is a gift that can afford laughter. When the arm is strong, the lips stretch easily; for a woman, a clean kill, a blue sky…an old man. I am old now, but once I was young like you, and as foolish. I gave up more than you whelps will ever dream to know. Once I sat in halls of marble, their pillars girt with gold and precious stones. The food came on platters of silver, roasted meats and spitted birds, pure bread and fruits long forgotten, cheeses and wines nursed carefully as the offspring of a chieftan.

  ‘Aye, in the good times. The old times.

  ‘You hairy savages are too young to remember, though I do. I cannot forget. Shroud of the Stone, I wish I could; it would make this damp exile easier. But what can an old man do? He sits in his cold and stinking tent wondering where his next meal will come from, remembering things best forgotten.’

  The timeless blue eyes glazed over, though whether from pain or delight, it was impossible for the young men to guess. They continued to pass the stone flask around, watching the old man, waiting for him to continue his story.

  At last he nodded, pointing the stump of his hand towards them, and spoke again.

  ‘She was a woman, Raven! There are none like her today. Tall, she was; her hair as golden soft as the sun on a late summer evening. And her eyes blue as a mist-kissed sea pool, blue and green and grey mingled together in a manner that could suck the soul out of a man, if she chose. Though I’ve seen them red with blood and cold as the wind from the northern ice wastes. She was a woman you whelps might dream about, damping your blankets with the thought. She smiled as she killed, and if she chose a man, he went to the furs ready to die for sheer pleasure.

  ‘Two men only, in all the hundreds she slew, could stand against her. I was one—and I still bear the scars of knowing her, albeit they are gladly borne. The other was Karl ir Donwayne, and if he went to the hell he deserved, I trust his soul rots there, for he did her a mighty wrong. Not even the omnipresent sorcerers of Kharwhan would degrade a woman so.

  ‘But I ramble. Donwayne is long-ago fed to the worms. So, too, is Raven, unless she survived that last armageddic battle. I know not: I fell there, and Gondar took my hand. I never saw her again, except in dreams. Perhaps dreams are the best way to remember, now.’

  The wind renewed its attack on the hut, howling through the seams of rough-tied skin like the keening of a widowed woman. The fire sparkled, struggling against the draught, and the lantern flickered shadows over the watching faces. They were tensed, now, staring at the empty blue eyes that looked into a distance reaching beyond the ghost-hide hut into an age gone down into chaos, reaching out for a dream, a memory, a woman.

  ‘She was a woman, aye. A swordmistress, too. But always a woman. Raven, we called her. I shall tell you how she got that name, tell you of our first meeting…’

  One

  ‘A tool must be chosen carefully to affect a successful pattern of creation. Only the finest will suffice.’

  The Books of Kharwhan

  The girl crouched on the moonlit sand listening to the baying of the slavehounds. The unearthly howling seemed to match the heaving of her air-starved breasts as they thrust against the skimpy Lyandian cotton of her shift, moving the soft material over the cuts decorating her lithe body. The cuts hurt, and she could feel blood thickening along her back and buttocks. She ignored the pain, thrusting to her feet, steeling her body to make the impossible effort of outrunning the slavehounds.

  Once she had seen the hounds bring down a runaway slave. The man had broached the walls of the Lyand slavepen at noon, trusting in the desert sun to keep the guards asleep. He had omitted remembrance of the dogs. And along the high-picketed walls, there were small exist holes that allowed the gaunt, grey beasts ready access to the blank wastes beyond the walled city. The hounds had gone out, three of them, with weird, unholy cries, their great red-lipped jaws slavering a joyful anticipation of the unexpected sport. They had brought the man down in sight of the city, and the slave guards had lined their squads upon the wall; to watch. The hounds stood high as a man’s hip and their mouths were lined around with ivory fangs that pierced flesh as easily as a Tirwand saber. They were near as fast as a Xand, and they had brought the runaway down no more than a quarter kli from the walls.

  They had played with him for too long.

  The girl rose up and ran. She ignored the pain that seemed to shred her feet to bloody, spoor-filled ribbons of blood over the desertland of the Southern Kingdoms. She ignored the aching agony that threatened
to burst her lungs beneath her jouncing breasts. She ignored the stinging pain of the lash marks. She ran.

  She could imagine the slavehounds at her rear. Even feel, in her mind, the wet-painful kiss of those great jaws, the ivory fangs closing and tugging on her skin; shredding and ripping until she was brought down, yet alive, for the sport of the hounds and their Lyand masters.

  Terrified, hating, she ran.

  She ran over the sands surrounding the great walled city of Lyand, heading towards…something. She had no clear idea of what it might be, knew only that she must escape the slavery that had destroyed her parents. And never again face the lash.

  Behind her, the slavehounds closed in.

  They spread out, the six of them, into a confining semicircle. It was a pattern bred by the expert slavemasters of the city: the hounds ran down their prey until it was weary, then they moved out to form a horned pattern, so that the victim ran within a half circle of inescapable pursuers.

  Then the slavehounds completed the circle. And fed.

  The girl wanted no part of that dread circle, and yet saw no way by which she might escape it. Lacking plan—almost lacking thought—she ran as an animal runs: blind, desperate, seeking only the unattainable. Her feet thudded over the burning sand, hot even now in this southern clime, here eyes darted around the moonwashed dunes, seeking refuge she knew could not be found.

  But she refused to give in. She had no hope, nor any weapons except her soft limbs. But she would not resign herself to death anymore than she would agree to slavery, the whip, and the brand.

  She ran. And the hounds drew closer.

  Their baying wafted on her ears, culling the nightsounds from the desert until there existed only the weird howling, and the soft swift pad of stealthy feet. She sensed, rather than saw, the shapes close in around her; but the waft of fetid breath, the clacking of the fangs, they were real enough. Then, out of the darkness, came a great black shape. Slavering jaws spread wide to take her, and she hurled herself away, tumbling hopelessly over the sand as huge, clawed paws drew fresh blood from her skin. She screamed—for raw fear is a hard emotion to suppress—and rolled down the dune towards the waiting, gaping eyes glowing crimson in the waning light. She came to her feet and clenched her fists, knowing it was useless—nothing could stand against the slavehounds of Lyand. But still she rose up and readied herself to die, hoping to hook one hand at least into the eye sockets of a demon-dog.

  The slavehounds sat back on heavy-muscled haunches, their tongues lolling out from between curved teeth. Their eyes were red with blood lust, an almost human sadism glinting in their scarlet orbs.

  Their waiting was their undoing. Had they charged in, they might have changed the course of history; cut a line of evolution off from its start; ended an empire and given birth to a new order.

  But they were trained to wait, to anticipate, to savour.

  And so they failed.

  They closed in slowly around the panting, helpless girl, their great jaws gaping wide to rend suppliant flesh, crunch bone, teach suffering to a recalcitrant slave.

  And the girl watched them come, prepared to sell her worthless life as dear as she might, knowing she had no hope, that no benevolent god would stoop down to life her clear of the slavering death surrounding her quaking body.

  But then something came. Perhaps not a god, but equally effective.

  It came out of the night, and it was black as the night, so black she could not more make out its shape than she could tell what it did. All she heard was the sudden yelping of the slavehounds: howls of rage and squealings of pain ,whimpers of fear and barks of frustration. She saw a blackness dart across the moon, plummet downwards. A larger shape rose into the sky, split apart, one section falling as the other swooped towards the nearest slavehound. There was a howl of agony, close followed by a second, and a sound of wings beating like war drums on the desert air. She smelt blood, thick and salt as the cuts on her back, and knew that something attacked the dogs. It moved faster than any beast she knew, turning in one black wingbeat to rake talons over the muzzle of a darting hound, lifting to drop a moon-brightened beak to the eyes of another. Then back into the air, and down again, beak and talons and wings flailing like a hellstorm around the slavehounds.

  Four of the great beasts added their blood to the shadows on the sand. The remaining two turned tail and ran, pursued by the…thing; she could give no name o it. Only feel gratitude, allied with fear, for she had no idea what it might be, nor if it fought to save her for itself or herself.

  She climbed to her feet again and began to run eastwards.

  She ran until she could move no more, until her watered eyes glazed over and her breath came like liquid fire into her lungs. She had no idea where it was that she fell, and slept under the lea of a tall dune, nor whether the black night-thing watched her. She simply collapsed and gave herself over to sleep.

  It was a slumber troubled by dreams. Visions of the slavehounds mingled with the lofting walls of Lyand, the spired city fading into the faces of her parents…Zan, her father, lips twisting as the slavemaster’s brand bit redly into his flesh; her mother, Cara, screaming as the mercenaries took her one by one. The long lines of wharf slaves padding down to the harbour, the snarling dogs and the barbed whips holding them to their shuffling pace. The clanking of chains. The stink of the pens. The soft hands of the overseer. The harder touch of Karl ir Donwayne. The sting of white-hot brand on flesh…

  An she woke gasping, with sweat on her brow.

  And a chain around her ankle.

  There was a face smiling down at her. It was a fat face surrounded by greasy curls that tumbled over golden hoops to the black silk shoulders of the man’s robe. The gold rings were set into pierced ears, and the curls were flecked with twists of bright ribbon and tiny spangles. The wide-spread lips were painted red, the laughing eyes shadowed with kohl. His right hand clutched an ornate saber, the hilt and tang chased round with silver workings. The tip rested beside her throat.

  She cursed silently, recognizing a Karhsaam eunuch.

  ‘Pretty, pretty.’ The neuter’s voice was a sibilant chuckle that belied the strength in his sword arm. ‘A pretty little gift for the Altan. A bath, a little perfume…a clean robe. Worth ten kush at the least.’

  ‘I am free!’ Her voice was both demanding and frightened, anger mingling with abhorrence and terror. ‘I am no slave to be taken in the night. Let me go.’

  The saber moved to prick a droplet of blood from her neck, and the eunuch’s smile changed slightly, becoming malignant.

  ‘You are a slave.’ He dropped the sword to lift a fold of her shift from her thigh, exposing the brand. ‘You bear the mark of Lyand.’ He chuckled. ‘But you are far from Lyand. The walled city holds no sway out here on the eternal sand. Here you belong to whoever finds you. The slavehounds I heard baying last night, the vultures—or me. You survived the beasts and I set the anklet on you. You belong to me.’

  The girl started to answer him, using every foulness heard in the slaveyards, but the eunuch set the point of his sword between her lips so that it pricked her tongue and she fell silent for fear of losing speech altogether.

  ‘Listen to me, girl.’ His tone was almost friendly, betrayed only by the cold hate in his eyes. ‘Were I yet a man, I’d take you here and now. You’re of the age, and you’re pretty enough. That golden hair, those thrusting buds, they excite a man. The Altan will welcome you to his bed. And it’s a deal softer than the sand or a vulture’s peck. The chains are on you, so make the best of it. Or die now.’

  He withdrew the saber, letting the tip rest lightly against her left breast.

  The girl sat up, staring at the golden ring that held her ankle. It was very fine gold, and from it ran a slender chain that linked her to the next girl. There were twenty, she noticed, all watching her, their expressions alternation between the hope that she would resist and die, and a bored resignation. She shrugged: she had little hope of freedom now, and a Karhs
aamian bordello was a better fate than sand or slavehounds.

  ‘I will go with you.’

  She said it proudly, as though agreeing to a journey rather than bending to a command, and the eunuch laughed.

  ‘Thank you,’ he giggled sarcastically. ‘You are kind to grace us with your company. I, Ra’alla, chief slavemaster of the Altan’s stable, welcome you. Prepare to march in one hour.’

  He lifted the saber from her body and walked away, chuckling enough to flutter the black robes girding his bulk. The girl let her head droop back silently bemoaning her brief-won freedom. High above her, floating on the clear desert sky, she saw a black shape. And shuddered, though she knew not why.

  In the hot light of the after-dawn, they struck out across the sands. The girl was one more stumbling figure in the line. The golden chain riveted to her ankle ring connected her to the girl before her, and she was the last in the slaveline. The column stretched out before her, the shapes of the farthest women wavering in the heat-haze lifting from the tropical sand. Around the column went the slavemasters, sitting comfortably on the heavy Karhsaamian saddles of their sturdy horses. Like Ra’alla, they were dressed uniformly in black silk and armed with curved sabers; in addition, now, they carried three-tongued flails of knotted leather. The flakes were used to urge on those captives too weak, or too obstinate, to match the pace of the chief slavemaster, around whose saddlehorn was wound the end of the golden slavechain.

  The girl cursed him as she marched, matching each step with an obscenity. But she kept pace and never felt the lash: there was little point in fighting the inevitable. Until some chance offered itself.

  They marched throughout the long morning, halting at noon to rest and drink. No food was given them, and little water; just enough to keep them alive and capable of movement, though skin shades were set up to protect them from the burning sun. They waited until a second slavetrain joined them. This one was comprised of men, mostly Ishkarian and Xandronian males, though the girl glimpsed the odd blond hair of a Kragg riever amongst them, and a few black-skinned Slys. The outriders were much thicker around that train, restless horsemen pacing the line with lances and sabers drawn, and the three-tongued flails fell heavier across the shoulders of the men.