The Warslayer(77)
The Warmother . . . recoiled.
And suddenly Glory knew.
* * *
"Father?"
"Only a little farther, Charane."
"Where are we going?"
"Only to the top of the mountain. . . ."
* * *
"Charane was his daughter," Glory said hoarsely, stunned. Cinnas had brought her here, chained her just as Ivradan was chained now, and enchanted the spirit of War into her body, trapping the Warmother for a thousand years.
The spell had killed her.
He'd killed his own daughter.
And now Glory could do the same thing. Kill Ivradan, and chain the Warmother again. Because Cinnas had left the spells behind. The sword-blade wasn't the true weapon. It was the gems in the hilt, the spell-gems that were the magic of Erchane in solid form, just as Belegir had been telling her all along.
::Well?:: the Warmother said. The dragon opened its mouth. Black teeth glistened with venom. It spread membranous wings, blotting out the light.
Glory threw herself sideways out of sheer expectation, and a moment later a fine mist of venom sprayed the ground where she'd been standing, just missing Ivradan. Glory brandished the sword threateningly, gripping the hilt tightly.
::No warrior born of woman, no weapon forged in the world, can unmake my form, for I am made of all warriors and all weapons. Prepare to die, Vixen the Slayer!:: the Warmother cried gloatingly.
The gems blazed, leaking light in a thousand directions. Its demand to be used was so insistent it nearly distracted Glory from the creature that was trying to kill her. She could feel the ghost of Cinnas in the purple light, trying to take over her body and make her do as he had done before.
The Warmother must think she didn't know what to do with the sword, but she did. She could see it all so clearly in her mind. The day had been fair and bright. There had been a young girl in a blue dress, crowned with flowers. Blue flowers. She'd loved her father. She'd trusted him.
Use the sword, came the voice inside her mind. The sword's voice. A voice she thought she knew.
"Silly me. I've been using the wrong end of the sword."
Sacrifice an innocent. For an ideal.
No!
Slowly, she backed away from the dragon, moving slowly, as if that would keep it from striking at her. Its eyes glowed blue, blue as Charane's magic. Blue as the flowers in a child's hair.
Was Dylan Her last try at tricking the spell? Or someone's? Chain Dylan there instead of Ivradan? But it would have made no difference to Glory. Dylan or Ivradan, either one would have been an innocent victim. Neither could be sacrificed.
Who comes UP with these ideas?
The Warmother reared back, and its body seemed to stretch, its contours crawling and changing until it resembled an insect rather than a reptile: a mantis. It was the size of a city bus, its body the color of tarnished copper, its giant faceted eyes a glowing glittering blue. Glory stared in amazement, her terror dissolving in the face of this fresh impossibility. Then the monstrous head dipped toward her, mandibles flexing, and she scrambled back out of the way. No matter what shape the creature took on, the Warmother was still trying to kill her.
She ran backwards, dragging the balky sword with her, pulling the fight away from the rock where Ivradan was chained. The Warmother was fast, but Glory had plenty of room to move, and adrenaline to keep her faster. And she thought the Warmother was still a little afraid of the sword, which was all to the good. In fact, Glory was getting to be afraid of it, too. If it could take her over— If it could make her do what it wanted—
If she threw the sword over the edge of the cliff she'd break Cinnas' attempts to bespell her. And the Warmother would kill her and Ivradan both, and then everyone else. One life for the many, the sword whispered, is that such a bad trade?
No!
Heroes did not kill the innocent.
She could hear the little girl Charane had been inside her head. Charane was screaming, the high disbelieving screams of an abandoned child.
He'd chained her to the rock. . . .
This is no way to persuade me!
The mantis-thing scuttled forward and she slashed at it. The blade struck the creature across the top of its skull and bounced, as if Glory had struck stone. The mantis reared back and pounced, but Glory wasn't there. You could cover a lot of ground with a series of standing back-layouts, and she did. The mantis-thing sprang after her, but Glory had room to manoeuvre and plenty of incentive.
The wind was picking up again. It was getting harder to see, but there wasn't much up here to trip over. And the sword provided plenty of light. It was magic, after all—magic that had trapped her, tricked her, lied to her. Kept her from asking any of the right questions, until it was too late.
But she could still be a hero. She could still win.
All she had to do was let go. . . .
Let the magic take over.