Sword-Maker(7)

I’d forgotten what it was to be up close, to see white eyes ashine in the darkness. To smell their stink. To sense the press of numbers crowding so close to me.

I had played tracker. Now they hunted me.

The stud knew the stench, too. He, like me, had killed, smashing furred bodies beneath cold Southron iron, but liked it no better than I. We weren’t made for magic, either of us, being bred only to travel the sands beneath a Southron sun. Without benefit of magic.

The sword lay sheathed by the fire, set beside my bedding. It was, I thought grimly, a mark of decay in habits that I had left my weapon to go to the stud. It displayed an unaccustomed trend toward worrying, which has never been my vice, as well as pointing up my distinct dislike for the Northern sword. I mean, it was a sword, like it or not; it could save my life even if I disliked it. But at the moment it couldn’t do anything, because I’d left it behind. All I had was a knife, and no horse to use for escape. Or attack, if it came to that; I’d have to do it on foot.

White eyes shone bright in darkness. In silence the hounds gathered, wearing shadows in place of clothes. Black and gray on gray and black; I couldn’t count their numbers.

It crossed my mind that maybe the stud could be ridden after all, pain or no pain. Not far, not far enough to injure him, just far enough; enough to leave beasts behind.

But retreat wasn’t what I’d come for. It wasn’t the promise I’d made.

I sucked in a guts-deep breath. “Come on,” I said, “try me.”

Sheer bravado, maybe. Nothing more than noise. But it’s always worth a try, because sometimes it will work.

Sometimes.

They crept out of the shadows into the red-gray glow of dying coals. Maned, gray, dappled beasts: part dog, part wolf, part nightmare. Without a shred of beauty, or a trace of independence. What they did was at someone’s bidding, not a decision of their own.

The stud shifted uneasily. He stamped, breaking stone.

“Try me,” I repeated. “Have I come too close to the lair?”

They came all at once, like a wave of slushy water. In spate, they swallowed the campsite, then ebbed back toward the trees.

But the tide had taken the sword.

Gaping in disbelief, I saw the glint of the pommel, a flash of moonlight off the hilt. Saw teeth close on the sheath and shed it, leaving it behind; apparently the warding magic inherent in a named blade made no difference to equally magical beasts.

Which made me wonder why it existed at all, if it was useless against the hounds.

Two of them mouthed the sword awkwardly. One held the hilt, the other the blade, busily growling at one another like two dogs fighting over a stick. But this stick was made of steel. Magicked, gods-blessed steel.

The others surrounded them like a tanzeer’s phalanx of guards. They headed for the trees, for the shadows I couldn’t pierce.

Hoolies, they wanted the sword.

So much for my own value.

I very nearly laughed. If they wanted the thrice-cursed thing that much, let them have it. I didn’t want it. It was one way of getting rid of it.

Except I knew better than that. The beasts could never use it, but the man who made them could. And that I couldn’t risk, since he was the one I sought.

Very calmly I drew the ward-whistle from beneath my woolen tunic and stuck it between my lips. Such a tiny, inconsequential geegaw, but made by beings I still had trouble believing in, even though I’d seen—and heard—them myself. Cantéada. I recalled their silvery skin, feathery scalp crests, nimble fingers and froglike throats. And I recalled their music.

Music was in the whistle, as was power. And so I waited a moment, to build up false hopes, then blew an inaudible blast.

It did its job, as always. They dropped the sword and fled.

Grinning around the whistle, I went over and picked up the blade.

And wished I hadn’t touched it.

Shame flooded me. Shame and anger and grief, that I had treated the sword so poorly when it was deserving of so much better. What had it done to me?

In disbelief, I spat out the whistle. I hadn’t thought those thoughts. And wouldn’t; of that I was certain. But the thoughts had come from somewhere. The feelings had come from somewhere.

I threw the sword down again. It thumped dully against turf, glinting red-white in coals and moonlight. “Look, you,” I said, “you may not be like any sword I’ve ever known, but it doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to think. It doesn’t give you the right to make me feel guilty, or ashamed, or angry—or anything, hear me? Magic, schmagic—I want nothing to do with you and nothing will ever change that. As far as I’m concerned, the hounds can have you … except I’m not about to let you fall into the hands of someone who can tap into whatever power you possess—”