The Warslayer(51)

She looked down at the sword-blade-shaped slot in the stone on the floor, and then at the sword in the air, and then at the one in her hand.

They say King Arthur got his way by pulling a sword OUT of the stone, but he was a Pom. Let's see if things go by opposites.

She flipped her sword up and dropped it, point-first, into the slot in the stone.

It had been quiet before, but suddenly it was as if a sound she'd gotten used to hearing had suddenly ceased. She jumped back with a startled yelp as The Sword of Cinnas fell down out of the air like a startled rock and clattered on the floor, bouncing and ringing on the stone floor like a crowbar flung from a speeding car.

When it was lying perfectly still, she approached it warily. The bright neon glow had faded, though the jewels set in the hilt were still rather bright, but the whole thing still looked weird as hell. Eldritch, that was the word. The sword looked eldritch.

She went back over to her prop-sword, and gave it an experimental tug, but it was now welded fast to the stone. She nodded, obscurely satisfied. Give a sword to get a sword. It made sense. She only hoped that the next bright laddie who came along needing a good blade would appreciate what she was leaving for him, and would have the mother wit to be able to winkle it out of the rock. But that wasn't her problem.

The armory was darker now, the background glow slowly fading, as if the Temple itself were telling her she had no more business in this room. She turned back to Cinnas' blade and reached for it cautiously. It seemed to be finished with signs and wonders, though, because it was nothing more than a sword in her hand, if a bit lighter than the one she'd given up. She touched the edge of the blade gingerly. And sharp as she'd thought. That was a plus. She swung it experimentally and felt herself smile. Hairy buggers beware. This time when she hit them, she'd split them for sure.

Carrying the sword carefully away from her body, she left the armory, picked up her bucket, and headed back for the front of the temple.

She didn't look back.

Getting her loot down the stairs took her a couple of trips, and by the time she wrestled the mattresses down, Belegir was awake again. Fortunately, she'd gotten the sword down on the first trip—no sense in giving the old fellow heart failure when she didn't have to. She'd tell him about the sword later.

"We'll give you a nice wash-up straight from the Oracle," Glory told him, with the spurious cheerfulness of the sickroom matron, "and then pop you into one of these lovely angel-robes and I can brew you a nice cuppa. How's that?"

Belegir had a strange look on his face, not entirely due to his discovery of the close proximity of Gordon.

"Slayer, I have no magic. And I did not think to bring flint and steel. I am sorry."

It took her a moment to figure out what he was getting at, and when she did, she smiled in relief, even if it did make her face hurt.

"No worries. For once, I brought something useful along with me. I've got a lighter. I can make the fire. We'll have tea, no worries. Now let's get you squared away. Do you think you could get a couple of pills down you?"

She got out the bottle of aspirin and shook some tablets into her hand. Two for her, two for Belegir. She thought it over, then dissolved his in one of the tea-mugs with a bit of the mead. It'd make a nasty-tasting drink, but probably easier on his bruised throat than the whole pills.

"This is going to taste foul," she said, bringing over the cup, "but it might help."

He swallowed it down without complaint, though he did shudder at the taste. She followed it with as much as he could hold of the Oracle-water—if it worked, it would probably do as much good inside as out—then sorted through the robes, selecting the largest two for Belegir's use. The hooked knife made short work of another two, converting them into large bandage-squares and a number of long binding strips.

About half the bucket was left. She dipped her rags into it, daubing off the blood on his face and chest as gently as she could.

"You are . . . very efficient," Belegir said in a breathy voice.

Glory smiled to herself.

"I grew up on a— well, I guess you might call it a farm. Sheep station. Dad's still there, but Mum was a city girl at heart. Out in the country, you have to do for yourself. No one to do for you."

With the blood gone, the bruising was spectacular, and to her concealed dismay, the gashes on Belegir's chest were already bright red and puffy and starting to ooze a straw-colored fluid. She wrung out a cold compress for his bruised face and sopped up a couple of wooly squares to cover his chest.

"Now you just let that perk for a while. I found a nice pot of goose-grease in the back to make a proper dressing with. Not all according to Hoyle, but it should make you more comfortable." If it doesn't kill you outright. She covered him up with the blankets again. No sense him catching pneumonia while she was trying to save his life.