The Warslayer(80)

Of course, alternatively, they could all be dead.

She found the notion insanely funny. It was raining, they were stuck on top of a mountain, Ivradan was shouting at her in a red-faced fury—thanks to her—and every time she looked at him it set her off again, until Glory was lying helplessly on the ground at his feet, clutching Gordon to her and whimpering helplessly because her ribs hurt from laughing so hard.

"Don't you see, Ivro?" she finally managed to get out. "War's back. She's back in all of you, just like before."

There was a moment of silence.

"Back? But you killed her, Slayer. I saw it." He sounded halfway between impatient and worried.

Wearily, Glory pushed herself to her feet again. She realized she was stiff with cold and soaking wet and if they didn't get down off this mountaintop, there'd be nobody to bring the good news about this day's work to the home folks.

"You can't kill War," Glory said, figuring it out as she spoke. "Cinnas reasoned that out back in the day. He bound her into corporeal form. She got loose of her chains, but she was still in one piece and one place, as it were. What the sword was supposed to do was chain her up again." She thought she'd leave out the part about Ivradan getting killed in the process. Belegir could have the whole story. Let him decide how much the rest of the Allimir needed to know about what their great hero had really been like, and what he'd done to gain them their thousand years of peace.

"But you didn't do that," Ivradan said.

"Nope. I reckon I unmade her, back the way she was before old Cinnas did all his spells to make you lot into pacifists. So I guess you've got a lot to re-learn."

And fast, if any of Charane's imported frighteners were still wandering around loose.

"I . . . see," said Ivradan, who obviously didn't. "Now will you unchain me? I'm cold."

"Cut. Print. Save it for the day, kiddies, we'll go again tomorrow," Glory said to nobody in particular. She looked around for the sword—or what (as Ivradan had so kindly reminded her) was left of it. It was still glowing, making it easy to spot. She could wrap her hands up in the pannier-cloth so she wouldn't have to actually touch it. She walked over to the glowing sword hilt, wrapping the cloth around her hands.

It wasn't glowing as brightly now—and was it her imagination, or did it look just the least bit pissed off?

"Sorry, mate," she said to it. "But where I come from, we don't do things like what you did. Heroes don't, any how."

Captain Kirk would have made a fine speech about how cultures needed to change and grow and overcome their warlike natures naturally the way Earthlings had, but Glory was tired and she didn't have a scriptwriter handy anyway. She bent over—stiffly, everything hurt—and picked up the sword by what was left of the blade. Her hands hurt, and every finger-twitch seemed to start fresh bleeding.

What if this didn't work? What if the sword wouldn't open the shackles? Neither she nor Ivradan would survive a night spent here on top of this mountain. She wasn't even sure they could get down it in the dark.

But they had to give it a try.

She carried the sword back to the slab, moving with a slow shuffle an arthritic tortoise could have bettered. The gems in the hilt glowed faintly, as if they were slowly going out.

Hurry up, damn you! she told herself.

She reached the slab, and as she did, her foot skidded in a puddle of wet. She fell forward, catching herself automatically on her hands, slamming the sword-hilt into the stone and falling full-length against Ivradan. He grunted as the breath whooshed out of him.

There was a sort of a crackling sound, as though someone were crumpling cellophane next to her ear.

"Get off me," Ivradan said, pushing her away.

Pushing her away.

"Hey," Glory said, pleased, surprised, and irritated all at once. She rolled away, looking and then feeling for the sword-hilt. "I liked you the other way better," she muttered under her breath.

It was gone. Metal hilt, jewels, everything. Gone. "Returned to Erchane's embrace," I reckon, just like the one in the staff. And good riddance, if you ask me. Where the iron shackles had been, there was nothing more than rusty stubs set into the rock.

Ivradan slid down the rock and stood, hugging himself against the chill and the wet. "Now what do we—"

"Why ask me?" Glory snapped. "Seems to me you're the bossy-boots with all the ideas around here! 'Slayer, get me off this rock!' 'Slayer, you broke the magic sword!' 'Slayer, go find the rest of the magic sword and undo my shackles!' 'Slayer, I'm wet,' 'Slayer, I'm cold,' Well, I'm the one who just slew the damned dragon, and does anybody think about how I'm feeling? Oh, no, it's all Me—Me—Me. Well, you can just—"