He threw the knife at Shandri’s head, but it flew wide of the mark, and she didn’t even bother ducking. He told himself it didn’t matter. The real point had been to free up a hand. He reached into his pocket, fumbled out his bit of ram’s horn, and she feinted high and cut low. He recognized the true attack just in time to leap backward and avoid a fatal chop to the guts. Still, the dark blade sliced his arm. His fingers flew open, and he dropped the spell trigger.
The greatsword pounced at him. It was a blur now. It was like dark lightning flickering in an infernal sky. He realized he had no more time to grope for and manipulate another talisman, even if she’d permit him to hold on to it, nor could he possibly stand still long enough to execute any sort of cabalistic pass without her burying the sentient blade in his body. His only hope was a spell purely verbal in nature.
He couldn’t believe it would actually save him, but he gasped out the rhyming words. The greatsword leaped at him, and as he’d feared, with his attention divided, he failed to defend as nimbly as before. He caught the blow on the ruined cutlass, but the dark blade smashed through the battered guard and sheared deep into his arm just below the wrist.
Perhaps because of the virulence in the living sword, the shock of the blow, harbinger of pain to come, was nearly enough to arrest thought. Nearly, but he wouldn’t let it ruin the spell. He fought to maintain the cadence, to enunciate precisely, to grit the remaining syllables out.
Magic sighed through the air, and responding to the charm of opening, each of Shandri’s many bracelets and necklaces unfastened itself to drop clinking and glittering to the ground. The diamonds even fell away from her earlobes.
Anton had suspected that even if he managed to complete the spell, it wouldn’t matter. Furious as she was, she wouldn’t care when the baubles dropped off. She might not even notice.
Yet she did. Maybe it was because she so loved the jewelry or simply because she was so surprised, but she stopped attacking. She took her eyes off her adversary to glance down at the treasure strewn around her feet.
Anton rushed her.
The greatsword cut at him but too late. At last he was too close for it to threaten him. He drove the broken cutlass at Shandri’s face, half slashing with the jagged stump of blade and half bashing with what remained of the bell. He grabbed her, hooked his leg behind her, and threw her down. The back of her head cracked against the ground. He cut at her neck, and his ruined sword made a ragged cut. Blood gushed. The pirate thrashed for a moment, and she was gone.
Panting, Anton looked around. Tu’ala’keth was still fighting, the outcome of the battle still in doubt. He twisted the greatsword’s hilt from Shandri’s death grip.
As soon as he grasped it himself, a surge of gleeful viciousness washed away his weariness and the throbbing in his wounded arms. For a moment, the influx of the greatsword’s savagery sickened him, but he accepted the contamination anyway because he suspected that, in his spent and injured condition, it was only by surrendering himself to the weapon’s bloodlust that he could prevail.
He jumped to his feet and charged Sealmid. The bowman was aiming another shaft at Tu’ala’keth but must have glimpsed Anton from the corner of his eye, because he pivoted and sent the arrow streaking directly at him.
Anton should have died then, pierced through the heart. But the greatsword, of its own volition, shifted across his body and knocked the arrow off course. Anton struck Sealmid down, and felt an exultation as the blade bit deep. He jerked it free and turned to find the next foe.
After that, he lost himself in the dizzying joy of slaughter. Until only one target remained within reach. He raised the sword to cut it down.
“Enough!” said Tu’ala’keth. “I am your comrade. The fight is won.”
With that, he recognized her but yearned to kill her even so. Fortunately, though, revulsion at the cruelty welled up from deep inside him, a sort of counterweight that enabled him to push the alien passions back into the sword. He threw the weapon down, sensing a twinge of its irritation just as it left his hand.
“Umberlee has blessed us,” the shalarin continued. She knelt, gripped the arrow transfixing her leg beneath the point, and drew the fletchings through the wound. “We were outnumbered. I had not wholly recovered from my mistreatment at Vurgrom’s hands. Yet we are victorious.”
“For now,” whispered Sealmid, still lying where he’d fallen. Anton was surprised the first mate was alive, but it was plain he wouldn’t be much longer. Blood soaked his clothes from neck to crotch, and more of it bubbled on his lips.
“What do you mean?” asked Tu’ala’keth.
“Vurgrom’th thending everybody to kill you bath-tardth, not… jutht uth. Had to round everyone up, haul them out… of the tavernth, but… ” The dark froth stopped swelling and popping in his mouth.
Anton found it easy enough to complete the dead man’s thought. “But by now, Vurgrom’s got men patrolling the waterfront to cut off our escape. Curse it, anyway!” He gripped the more serious of his gashes in an effort to stanch the bleeding.
“After I heal my leg,” said Tu’ala’keth, “I will help you with that.”
“Do it fast. We need to move away from here. Somebody else may have heard Shandri yelling, or all the commotion afterwards.”
“Where shall we move to?”
“Good question, considering that the whole island hates a spy.” But wherever they went, he meant to go well armed. He stepped over the greatsword to examine one of the pirate’s cutlasses.
Tu’ala’keth rose stiffly to her feet. “Take Shandri Clayhill’s sword.”
“It clouds my mind.”
“It purifies you. When you hold it, you are truly fit to serve Umberlee. It would not surprise me to learn that some of her worshipers here on land had a hand in the forging of it.”
“Then they can have it back.”
“It is the finest weapon here. You are too shrewd to spurn such an instrument.”
He realized with a pang of resentment that she was right. He survived by his wits and shrank from using any magic that could muddle them, but in the present desperate circumstances, the greatsword might prove more useful than any lie or ruse. He still chose a cutlass, but when he and Tu’ala’keth skulked onward, he carried the living blade, drowsing in its scabbard once more, as well.
‹§›SS‹§›S SSS
Teldar gazed out over the entertainments his largess had provided, at his followers guzzling grog and ale, gnawing chicken legs and slabs of pork and beef, ogling and pawing the dancing girls, and flinging clattering dice or slapping cards down on a tabletop in a game of trap-the-badger. As the clamor attested, everyone was having a good time, and he reckoned he’d lingered long enough to play the part of a proper pirate chieftain. Now he was free to retire to diversions more in keeping with his own humor, a volume of old Chon-dathan verse and a dram of cinnamon liqueur.
He pushed back his chair, nodded goodnight to anyone who might be looking in his direction, and exited the hall. Outside in the lamp-lit gloom of the corridor, the relative quiet and fresh air, untainted by the odor of dozens of sweaty, grubby reavers packed in too small a space, came as an immediate relief.
He took a deep breath, savoring the moment. Then Anton Falloneif that was his real namestepped from a doorway farther up the passageway. Teldar reached for the hilts of his short sword and poniard, drew them, and came on guard. He accomplished it all in one quick, smooth motion, as a master-of-arms had taught him in another life, more years ago than he generally cared to recall.
“You don’t need your weapons,” Anton said.
“What are you doing here?” Teldar asked.
The younger man grinned. “Well, you did tell me I’m welcome anytime.”
“That was before Vurgrom put out the word that you and the shalarin are spies. Where is she, by the way?”