Swordmistress of Chaos Read online

  When the sun shifted downwards they started out again, the new line of marchers held a good half kli from the women. They moved through the afternoon, halting at sun’s set to eat and rest through the cold night.

  The girl woke with a strange luminescence paling her face. It appeared as though the moon had come down to the earth and lit her with a cold radiance that both excited and stilled her. She was unable to move her limbs, and when she cried out there was no stirring among the watchful guards. She felt curiously warmed, as though bound in heavy furs, and she could not draw her gaze from the strange light.

  She closed her eyes, assuming that she dreamed. And a voice came in to her mind.

  Tomorrow, it said, be ready. You are chosen, and you shall be free. When the time comes, move fast. The Black One will help again, but most depends on you. The when of it, I cannot give you; the certainty, I promise. Be ready.

  She turned restlessly, images of revenge seeping through the fibres of her mind, filling her with a comforting warmth that slid her back into sleep whilst leaving the message imprinted stark upon her consciousness.

  She woke warm while the others shivered from the night’s chill, and ate a breakfast of porridge and water, rising to her feet while the others still slumped in the chains, unwilling to go on until the eunuchs applied the flails.

  They marched as they had on the previous day, but now the girl paced eagerly over the hot sand. She could no more explain why than she could understand the curious certainty of her message. She only knew that she must. It was, she thought, as though one of the ghost-priest of Kharwhan had spoken to her, a sorcerous demon-being from the Isle of Ghosts. One of the lost ones whom people said were evil or good, according to the turn of their fortunes. She, though, knew the voice had filled her with hope: it was good. Why, she could not say; only know that she must walk ready.

  When the sun was preparing to settle beyond the ridge of the farther dunes she knew why.

  A dark-fletched arrow took Ra’alla from his saddle, choking him on his life’s blood as he pitched down with the shaft protruding from his chest. Three more slaveguards fell with the black shafts sticking from their bodies, and then the sand came alive with leaping figures.

  They seemed to erupt from the ground itself, leaping out of the earth with straight-bladed swords caring a swath of death amongst the eunuchs. Tirwanian steel clashed on riveted warshields, horses screamed as black-metal blades cut them down to bring the riders in range of the shorter swords of the raiders. The high-pitched yells of the dying neuters rang against the fading sky, and bloody swords lifted in grim triumph.

  Half a kli away, the heavier guard that surrounded the men was going down into bloody ruin. Here, the ambushers were more cautious. They used their arrows to bring down most of the armoured guards, closing only when they were sure of victory.

  The screams of the dying guards delighted the girl. She watched the raiders with admiration. They were tall men, for the most part, tanned by sun and by wind, their faces lined and seamed as though accustomed to living in the open. They wore shirts of linked mail and cuirasses of stone-hard Xand hide. Their shields and bucklers were of metal and cured skin and wood; their swords boasting a myriad origins, from the straight-bladed stabbing swords of Sara to the scythe-like blades of Xandrone. The bows were of Ishkarian origin, and the cleaving broadswords spoke of Kragg and Vartha’an.

  Amalgamated, they spoke of death.

  They spoke of it in many ways, and very bloodily, and when it was finished the sand stank of it, so that the girl gagged and choked, for she had never smelt it or seen it in this way before. She tugged at her anklet, striving to break free before some new master might claim her.

  And then he came out of the sun’s set, the dying radiance surrounding him with an aura of burning gold, so that his helm shone bright as the rune-graved breastplate he wore, emphasizing the macabre shadows of his helmet where the eye holes stood bright-dark from the pale-washed blankness of its face. Tall, he was, and wreathed in iron and bronze and steel, the broadsword in his hand dripping bright blood, the droplets falling to the laughter that rang from his face-hiding battle-helm.

  ‘This one!’ His voice was a ringing cry, overriding the moans of the dying guards, a bull-roar of command that brooked no defying. ‘I’ll take this one.’

  Around the girl, the battlefield fell silent as bloodied men paused, staring towards their leader, magnificent in his stained armour, broken from their own pursuits to notice what had caught his attention—or whom.

  Then one voice sounded. Quiet, it was, and soft, yet tinged with the same impenetrable vein of defying hardness that marks the cut of flint through softer stone.

  ‘No.’

  It was said quiet enough that some missed it, turning to ask what had been stated so firm that the rievers halted their looting and waited for the answer. But it stopped the warrior in his tracks as surely as a steel-bound buckler might halt his sword.

  ‘Who says no to Argor?’

  The blank visage of the warmask turned, surveying the field of battle, and the broadsword lifted, ready to strike again.

  ‘I do.’

  The voice remained soft, but now there was a figure to which it might be attached, striding from amongst a group of slaughtered eunuchs with bright blood coating his sword, and more on the facing of his round warshield. He was tall, even in the company of tall men, and pale, as though the desert sun could make no impression on his skin. A silvered helmet protected his skull, nose and cheek plates hiding much of his face, though the girl could see his eyes and his mouth. The eyes were of a translucent blue, the colour of a summer sky when the sun beats hot enough to bleach the azure from the heavens so that they appear almost silver. The mouth was wide, full-lipped and hard, set in a determined line that etched a shadow across the beardless jaw. He was dressed in black armour, his Xandian cuirass dark as a moonless night, the link-mail covering his arms and legs forged black. The knee-high boots of soft Yr leather matched the darkness of his other gear, and the long, straight sword he carried was of black Quwhon steel. His shield was of the same metal as his helm, glinting bright silver in the sun, and graved with symbols she cold not read.

  She watched, waiting, as the two men faced one another. Then the sword of the first warrior drooped and a laugh bellowed from his helmet.

  ‘So, Spellbinder! You’d have her for yourself?’

  The black and silver man shook his head slowly: ‘No, Argor. Not for myself.’

  ‘Then why? Shades of the gods, man; I’ll share her with you if you wish.’

  The silvered helm moved from side to side. The mouth smiled, half friendly, half resigned.

  ‘It’s for her to decide, Argor. But she is no outlaw’s bedmate. This one bears a higher destiny. She’ll bed you if she wished, but I’ll kill you if you try to take her by force.’

  ‘Kill me?’ Doubt tinged the mockery of the outlaw’s voice. ‘You think you could?’

  ‘Aye. And you know it.’

  ‘Perhaps. Steel to steel it would be an interesting combat. But where’s the sense?’ The bloodied broadsword dropped to bury its tip in the sand. ‘I’d as lief fight you as I’d kill my brother. And I have a feeling seated deep in my gut that you might win, if not by the sword, then by your sorcery.’

  The one called Spellbinder laughed, and it was a sound of humour tinged with sadness, as though he knew the outcome of such a combat and preferred to avoid it. He sheathed his black sword and clapped a hand to Argor’s armoured shoulder.

  ‘Free them, old friend, and let’s away before some patrol happens upon us.’

  Argor turned, shouting orders at his waiting men, and they set to breaking the golden slavechains, ushering the women and the male slaves off towards a nearby ridge. The girl was one of the last to be freed, though she scarcely noticed the cleaving of her anklet: her eyes were fixed firm on the face of the black and silver warrior. In turn, he appeared to study her with inexplicable interest, as though he had found
some long-sought treasure of unguessable value. She waited for him to speak, wondering what prompted his curious interest. It was clear that the lust she had roused in Argor was not shared by this one—or I shared, controlled with care. He looked the kind of man to rule his emotions with a firm will, unlike his outlaw companions, and she felt a strange, instinctive kinship.

  He sheathed the black sword and gestured for her to rise.

  ‘Come.’

  She followed obediently.

  The outlaws had horses concealed beyond the ridge, and those, together with the animals of the dead slavers, mounted most of the freed prisoners. The black and silver warrior lifted the girl onto his own beast, mounting behind her. There was something oddly comforting about the encirclement of his mailed arms, and she leant against him as they rode away across the sand.

  Behind them, kites and buzzards spiraled down from the sky, their raucous cries hoarse with anticipation.

  The outlaw camp was situated around a small oasis, tall palms growing from the luxuriant sward edging the water. Tents of green and blue and black were scattered amongst the trees, and guards armed with longbows watched their approach.

  The man had not spoken during the journey, and now he reined in before a tent of black silk, its sides marked with the same strange symbols that covered his shield. He handed her to the ground and tugged on the chinstraps of his helmet. When he removed the headgear, a mane of jet-black hair tumbled around his shoulders and he pushed it back with a long-fingered hand. He was, she noticed, exceeding handsome in a fine-boned way. Were it not for the steel in his pale eyes, and the firm, almost sad, set of his mouth, he might have looked weak in this company of fierce, hand-eyed men.

  ‘This is my tent.’ His voice was soft and rich, its tone gentle. ‘Inside there are clothes and perfumes, dresses. Clean yourself and await my return.’

  Oddly, she felt that his words constituted a request rather than an order.

  ‘Should anyone molest you, tell them you belong to Spellbinder.’

  She nodded, waiting until he turned away to unsaddle his horse before entering the tent. It was spacious and cool inside, rugs and cushions of bright colours giving a simply luxury. An awning of some material she had never seen before partitioned the rearward section, and behind it she found a tub and the promised unguents. With a delighted cry, she tore off her flimsy shift and sank into the water. To her surprise it was warm, and she wondered—for a brief instant—how the strange warrior had arranged for it to be heated. Comfort overrode curiosity and she enjoyed the unaccustomed luxury with the unthinking pleasure of a happy animal.

  She had no idea how long she spent in the tub, for the water remained pleasantly tepid and then there were lotions and balms to intrigue her. After those, dresses of silk and find-spun cotton, necklaces of silver and of gold, bands of platinum and precious gems to contain her hair, and rings of foreign design. She chose a dress of black silk that clung to the contours of her body, emphasizing the fullness of her breasts, the smooth, clean curve of her hips. It was sleeveless, and she set a silver torque about her upper arm, matching it with a heavy silver bracelet around her left wrist. A slender belt of platinum links encircled her waist, further emphasizing the enticing fullness of her hips, and she drew small sandals of black and silver over her feet. She left her hair free, so that it cascaded in waves of gold onto, and past, her shoulders.

  When she was done, she studied her reflection in a great mirror of polished silver, and wondered at the result. The reflection showed her a woman in the first flowering of her maturity, little more than a girl, but shapely and sensual: a woman to please a man’s eye.

  She had never worn clothes like these before, nor even seen some of the ornaments, but they fitted her as though the finest of Lyand’s many fine dressmakers had worked long to suit her. She was, she realized with a start of surprise, beautiful.

  Her own assessment was born out by Spellbinder’s admiring glance. The warrior was waiting for her in the outer tent, sipping a goblet of rich Saran wine. He, too, had changed his attire and now sat in a flowing shirt of black cotton, belted round with a wide swathe of black leather. He wore tight-fitting black trousers tucked into high, black boots and his weapons and armour were stowed neatly to one side of the tent. A long-bladed dagger was sheathed on his left, and the girl noticed the hilt of a second protruding from his right boot. She smiled and curtsied as he rose to his feet.

  ‘Sit here.’ He filled a second goblet as she sank to the cushions. ‘There are things I would know about you. And things you must learn about yourself.’

  Curious, she waited for him to continue. She felt safe, though she knew not why. The fate of a captured slavegirl was usually pre-ordained: life if she pleased the man who took her—at least until he grew bored—or death if she argued the rape. She had been prepared to die. Once was enough.

  ‘How are you called?’ He asked it as though he knew already.

  ‘Su’uan.’

  ‘No other name? No patronym?’

  She shook her head so that her hair flew around her eyes. ‘Slaves have only one name.’

  ‘So it goes.’ He smiled, and the smile seemed to light the dusky tent. ‘Your parents? You knew them?’

  ‘They came from Ishkar. My father was called Zan, a farmer. My mother, Cara. She carried me when the Lyand slaveship came raiding along the coast, so they let her keep me. I was born in the slaveyards. When my father tried to see my mother they took him away and killed him. I was still a baby then.’ Her voice was filled with bitter resignation. ‘The first thing I can remember is my father screaming as they branded him. They used the irons until he died. It was an example to the others.’

  ‘Your mother?’ His voice was gentle, comforting. ‘She lives?’

  ‘No.’ The girl shook her head, swallowing wine to drown out the hatred and despair. ‘Lyand was fighting Vartha’an, and hired mercenaries. The soldiers wanted women—my mother was one of the chosen. They took her one by one and killed her for their pleasure. After that I was alone.’

  ‘Not now. You escaped.’

  ‘Aye. Better the desert than Karl ir Donwayne.’

  ‘Donwayne?’ The pale face was abruptly intense, blue-silver eyes probing hers. ‘What dealings had you with Donwayne?’

  ‘What dealings has Donwayne with anyeone?’ Her voice was bitter. ‘Destruction in his trade. Suffering, his entertainment.’

  She paused, choking on the bitter bile of hatred that stopped her throat, her blue eyes staring at some vision of things past, things branded on her memory as sure as the brand upon her thigh.

  ‘Karl ir Donwayne commanded the mercenaries who killed my mother. He remained in Lyand after the war was ended to become the city’s Weaponmaster. I grew, and Donwayne saw me. He watched me after that, waiting for the years to pass, waiting until he deemed me ready. Then he took me.’ Her words, now, came from between clenched teeth and her voice grew flat. ‘They called me from the slavepen one evening. The overseer had me stripped and bathed, dressed in a fresh shift. They lead me through the city to the Weaponhall. Donwayne waited there. He was drunk, his cheeks red with excess so scars stood white against is skin. The overseer left me. Donwayne tore the shift from me and when I tried to run, he beat me until I bled. Then he raped me. He told me, as he did it, that he liked it better with the blood on me.

  ‘The next day I was given a room in the hall. It was two levels from the ground and the door was locked. I was to await the pleasure of Karl ir Donwayne. Before he came, I risked the drop and fled. I climbed the wall and ran into the desert. I knew the slavehounds would be loosed, but even they seemed better than a life as Donwayne’s whore.

  ‘It was strange. The hounds were on me when something came out of the night. A bird—something—I cannot be sure, except that it saved me. I woke a prisoner of the eunuchs. The rest you know.’

  ‘Aye,’ murmured Spellbinder, ‘and perhaps more than that, even. Perhaps too much.’

  He sat in silence
for a moment, his eyes blank so that the girl stared at him, wondering what he meant.

  Then, soft and slow, he began to recite a verse as though chanting a litany:

  ‘Out of Ikshar into Lyand,

  Squalling soft the baby comes,

  Doomed to suffer, doomed to conquer,

  Knowing not the sacred tomes.

  Life and death, they both are hidden

  In the chosen, infant frame.

  New world born and old one dying,

  Who to guess the godlike game?’

  A chill that was both cold and simultaneously warm settled over the girl. She felt terror and joy, a great, overwhelming doubt and an uplifting wave of certainty. Though certainty of what, she could not guess. Spellbinder looked up, smiling, his eyes suddenly clear again as though a decision had been made and he saw a path clear before him.

  ‘You are no longer Su’uan,’ he said quietly, though his voice rang like a war-bell in her mind. ‘You are Raven. Raven, Chaos-bringer. The chosen one.’

  She began to protest, unknowing the ordained pattern he described, aware only of a watershed in her life, that somewhere on the cosmic plane powers shifted and fell into place as though a great storm of mystic proportion gathered around her.

  ‘Come.’ His voice was awed, yet commanding, and she followed him from the tent.

  Outside, the night was dark and the wine-rich shouting of the outlaws rang loud around the oasis. Spellbinder lifted his arms to the sky and called something in a tongue she could not understand.

  There was a beating of wings, a hoarse cry that seemed to block out all others sounds. And from the night there descended a great black shape. Wings beat around her head, and she saw the flash of razor talons, the glint of curved beak. Then two eyes, red and fierce and knowing, peered at her. Something gripped her shoulder, but she ignored the pain, aware only of a strange inner strength. A weight settled upon her and she knew the great bird that had saved her from the slavehounds perched upon her shoulder.