Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

Borosan looked up after Ciras had stripped himself to the waist. “Finally decided you will use it?”

The swordsman nodded and slipped the ancient sword into the sash around his middle. “A swordsman is a union of sword and man. The blade I have carried with me has been in my family for generations. It is not enchanted-it’s not one of your gyanrigot-but it helps me focus. It is hard to explain.”

Borosan warmed his hands over the fire. “I’ve heard it explained that it is easier to walk in boots that have been broken-in rather than those that are brand-new.”

“But you scoff at this.”

Borosan shook his head. “Not at all. You think a blade that is well-used helps you to focus. If I were to use gyanri to build a blade, my purpose would still be to aid the warrior. The difference would be that the focus and guidance would be stronger because the person using it would know little of fighting.”

Ciras’ expression soured. “That would be terribly wrong.”

“So I have come to learn through my association with you, Master Dejote.” Borosan smiled. “If I venture into designing weapons, I will work on armor, to keep people alive.”

“But that’s no better than…”

“Isn’t it? Your objection to my thanatons is that they could kill without reason. The same would hold true for gyanrigot swords and spears. They would make anyone capable of fighting and killing without training. I agree that helping people kill without discretion is wrong. The reverse of that, however, should not be true. I would be saving people from dying.”

The swordsman folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like Borosan’s turning his argument back on itself. There was something wrong with what he was saying, but on the surface it was hard to argue with. If I say it is wrong to stop people from dying, I am as foolish as those who would kill without discrimination. Death is death, and if one believes it should be limited, one cannot pick and choose cases and be consistent.

“If you make someone invulnerable, Borosan, then he will be as dangerous with a simple knife as he might be with a gyanrigot sword.”

“But he will likely do little harm and the armor will work only until the thaumston is exhausted. Facing someone such as you, he would do no harm. Your attacks would wear the thaumston down and you would kill him eventually.”

“What if someone else supplies him a gyanrigot sword?”

That question contorted Borosan’s face. “I’d not thought of that.”

Ciras nodded. “It should be considered.” Then he turned away from the inventor as the chubby man went digging for his journal. Ciras took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began his exercises.

He drew the sword and dropped into the third Dragon form. Closing his eyes, he imagined a foe in fourth Wolf across from him. Ciras stamped a foot and the man came in, slashing low. The swordsman easily leaped above that strike and was ready to land in sixth Dragon. Instead, his right foot flicked out and caught his enemy in the face, snapping his head around.

Ciras landed in a crouch and spun, aware of another foe coming in at his back. This enemy was a Turasynd of the Tiger clan. Strips of orange fur covered his arms and chest. The Turasynd’s heavy saber whistled down in a cut that would bisect him, but his own sword came up and around in a double-handed circular parry.

Ciras would have slashed back across the Turasynd’s body, but for awareness of another attack at his back. He stabbed back over his right shoulder and could feel the blade punching through breastbone and heart. He looked up and saw his imaginary Turasynd foe looming over him, transfixed by both the blade and surprise. The enemy had raised his sword over his head with two hands and it still descended, but Ciras caught his wrists and pulled, flipping the man forward and into the other Tiger.

Ciras came up and whirled, slashing blindly at waist height. A third Tiger folded over the blade’s edge. Ciras slid his blade free and continued the spin. He dropped his blade’s tip, then slashed up, catching the first Tiger beneath the chin as he threw off his dead comrade. Both of them fell back into a tangle of limbs, allowing Ciras to leap over them and turn to face other enemies.

The supply of Turasynd seemed endless. Endless and eager. They rushed forward, two coming for each one fallen. Ciras retreated, then lunged, slashed, then parried and riposted. He beat blades down, then cut above them, or ducked a blow and stabbed deep through an enemy’s vitals. His blade licked out, opening armpits and groins, throats and bellies. He had no time to employ the fine cuts that would all but sever a head or cleave wrist from arm.

Scenes blurred as foes came faster and faster. Some he saw as whole and normal, others appeared far larger than they ever could have been. Some even appeared in degrees of decay, as if they had clawed their way from a grave to have a second chance at the man who had killed them. Regardless of how they looked or moved, Ciras fought each back, ending their lives again and again.

Then he spun to the right, coming about in the same cut he’d used to take Dragright’s leg off. His blade bit deep into his enemy’s left side. It carved through his robe and overshirt, the blade’s forte all but reaching his spine. It would have, too, had Ciras not stopped, had he not let go of the blade.

But he did, and sank to his knees. The visions he’d been fighting melted. The sword thudded to the ground before him and sweat stung his eyes. He’d have been happy if the sweat burned them completely from his head, but he knew that even that would not steal the vision of what he’d seen.

Borosan knelt at his side and pressed a waterskin into his hands. “What’s wrong, Ciras?”

The swordsman didn’t answer. He raised the waterskin and directed the stream over his face and head. He shook his head, spraying water, but Borosan did not complain. Ciras drank a bit of water, spat it out, then drank again and swallowed. He waited a moment to see if he would keep it down, then opened his eyes but stared straight ahead, down the length of the blade.

“How long was I exercising?”

“Nine minutes, perhaps eighteen, no more than that.” The inventor shrugged. “I didn’t really pay attention until you started mumbling.”

The swordsman glanced at him. “What did I say?”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t like it. Once you started speaking, strange things began to happen.” Borosan pointed to Ciras’ left.

Ciras followed the line of his finger. The bluesward showed signs of where he’d been. His feet had depressed grasses but, more significantly, his footprints had filled with blood.

“What happened, Ciras?”

“I don’t know. I began my exercises as always, then they became something more. My foes became Turasynd. They came in an endless stream.” The swordsman looked around, baffled. “I think, perhaps, they all died here. The man who owned that blade met them here and killed them. Their ghosts recognized the sword and wanted revenge.”

Borosan’s mismatched eyes widened. “I’ll start packing now.”

Ciras smiled. “That would be wise.”

He remained on his knees and looked at the blade a little longer. He would help Borosan pack, but for the moment was glad for the other man’s preoccupation. He knew the inventor would ask the logical question at some point, and wanted a chance to think about the answer before he ever gave it.

Why did I stop?

The image of the blade slicing through a robe came again. The robe had been white save where blood began to seep into it. The red line spread slowly upward, toward the crest embroidered in black on the overshirt’s back. A tiger hunting.

A crest he had seen before.