Jennifer Roberson Sword Dancer 4 Sword Breaker

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head. "I remember all too clearly what Chosa Dei, in that sword, did to Nabir.
How it unmade Nabir's feet
--" I shook off a sudden chill. "Imagine what it--
he
--might do if he got control of a weaker man."
"You're saying
Chosa
--?" Del let it trail off, staring at the sword. "The tip is still black."
"And will be, I'm beginning to think, until it's fully discharged. And you
know what that means."
"Shaka Obre," she breathed.
"Shaka Obre," I echoed, "and the strength to destroy Chosa Dei before he
destroys me."
Five
We rode for maybe an hour, heading due south. A straight line would take us
into the heart of the Punja. I had no plans at that particular moment to
actually enter the Punja, but then the beast is often perverse; thanks to
frequent sandstorms, called simooms, the Punja is rarely where you expect it
to be. Wind-powered, scouring, it moves. Anything in its way, including
something so trivial as a boundary--or a city, or a tanzeer's entire
domain--is swallowed by acres of sand. Which means sometimes no matter how
hard you try to avoid it, the Punja gets in your way.
We stopped riding because I knew if we kept going we'd stand a very good
chance of getting lost. Getting lost in the South is ridiculously easy,
especially if you're stupid enough to ask for it by riding too far on a night
with no moon, and only stars to see by. Stars make it easy to choose a general
direction, but they're not so great at providing light enough to ride by.
So we stopped, and Del asked why, and I explained. Somewhat testily, I'll
admit; I was not particularly happy about life, and when I am not happy I can
be surly. Sometimes downright unpleasant. But not very often; I am, by nature,
a particularly good-natured, even-tempered individual.
"Enough already," I growled. "Get off, bascha--you're sitting over his
kidneys. And you're not what I'd call light."
Del, who was seated behind me, stiffened. But, for once, did as she was told:
she slid backward over the stud's rump and then down his tail.
"Well?" she said after a moment. "You outweigh me
--are you not going to dismount?"
Engaged in untangling my harness straps from bota thongs fastened in front of
my knee--not being a fool, I had not put the harness back on where the sword
might next decide to try for my neck--I did not immediately answer. The stud,
for his part, snorted noisily. Then he shook himself. Violently. From head to
tail.
"Oh, hoolies
--" A horse, shaking himself, spares no thought for the rider on his back. He
simply shakes, like a big, wet dog, only with much more enthusiasm.
Botas sloshed. Bridle ornaments clashed. Assorted gear rattled. As for me,
every joint protested.
As did my innards.
"Jug-headed, flea-bitten goat
--" I climbed down painfully, dragging harness and sword with me, and made
sure my head was attached. Just when it had begun to feel better....
"Well?" Del asked.
"Well what?"
"What are we doing?"
"What does it look like we're doing?"
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She considered it seriously. "Stopping?"
"Good guess!" I said heartily, then stomped off into the darkness.
Del caught the stud before he could follow. "Where are you going?"
Did she have to know everything? "Something I have to do."
"Are you sick again?"
"No."
"Then what--oh. Never mind."
"Not that, either," I muttered. "First things first."
Or last things last, depending on who you are, and what you intend to do.
With a sword.
My sword.
Whose true name was Samiel: hot desert wind, with the strength of storm behind
it.
Whose name had been perverted by a man known as Chosa Dei, a sorcerer out of
legend whose gift, when he could use it, was to collect powerful magic. Duly
collected, its original form was unmade, and Chosa Dei reshaped it to serve
his own purposes.
He had unmade many things, including much of the South. He had unmade human
beings.
And now he wanted me.
I stripped out of burnous, clad now only in suede dhoti and the necklet of
sandtiger claws. Not even sandals adorned my feet; grit lodged itself beneath
toenails. For a long time I just stood there in the desert darkness, holding
harnessed sword. The mere thought of pulling the blade
free of the rune-scribed scabbard and summoning life to it set my bones to
itching. Magic does that to me: it eats its way into my bones, making even my
teeth ache, and sets up housekeeping. A belly sick on magic is worse than the
biting dog who lives in a wine bota.
Futility welled up. My voice was thick with it.
"Gods-cursed, hoolies-begotten sword... why couldn't those Northerners let me
borrow a blade, instead of making me take--instead of making me
'make'
--this thrice-cursed thing called a jivatma?
"
Sweat ran down my temples; down the scarred corrugations of ribs encased in
muscle and flesh.
Like I said, I hadn't had a bath in too long. I smelled me, I smelled sweat, I
smelled fear. And the acrid tang of magic that coated even my teeth.
I jerked Samiel free. In starlight, the steelglow was muted. A flash, a sheen,
a shimmer. And the blackness of Chosa Dei climbing a third of the way up the
blade.
I leaned. Spat. Wished for wine, aqivi, water. For something to cut the taste.
Something to settle my belly. Something to still the itching that ached inside
my bones.
A brief shudder wracked me. Hairs writhed on arms and thighs. The back of my
neck prickled.
"I know you're there," I whispered tightly. "I know you're in there, Chosa.
And you know I'm out here."
A rolling drop of sweat threatened one eye. I wiped the salty dampness away
impatiently with a brusque, thick forearm, scrubbing wrist against itching
eyebrow. And clenched my jaws tightly shut as I let the memories flow in
prelude to the dance.
I recalled what I had done, in the depths of the Dragon's gullet. How I had,
pushed to the farthest extremes of strength and will and need, somehow managed
to defeat Chosa Dei within the walls of his prison, deep in Dragon Mountain.
By calling on all my reserves and banishing all my beliefs in things other
than magic; in powers of the flesh, not of gods or sorcery. I had, because I'd
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