Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Aituatea looked rapidly around, caught up a small stool and hurled it at the Temueng, it caught his elbow, his fingers opened involuntarily and the sword went flying to land in the tumbled covers on the bed. The Yaril mastiff went for his throat but he got his arm up in time and the curving yellow teeth closed on that instead of his neck; Yaril began gnawing at the arm, kicking at his gut with her powerful hind legs.

Aituatea backed off. Ludila Dondi was chanting as she circled, a drone of ancient words with a compelling complex rhythm. When the doors flew open and he saw her coming up out of the bed, he thought she was completely naked, but now he saw the mirrors on the silver chain about her neck, the tinier mirrors dangling from her earlobes, others set in wristlets on each arm. She moved her body, her arms, her head in counterpoint to the rhythm of the words, dancing the glitters in a web about herself, trying to weave a web about Brann.

Brann stalked her, avoiding the wild yellow eyes, avoiding the mirror lights, gradually tightening the spiral.

Firesphere Jaril darted at the Dondi, shattering the rhythm of her lights and each time he dived, Brann got a little closer.

The Tekora flung off the mastiff, his torn flesh closing. He threw himself at the bed, came curling up with the sword, rolled onto his feet again. With a grunting roar he charged at Brann.

The mastiff Yaril was suddenly a long snake that whipped itself up and around the Tekora’s legs, wrenching him off his feet, dissolving before he could cut at it with the sword he still held.

Firesphere Jaril came an instant too close to the witch, touching one of the mirrors; the sphere tumbled through the air, melting through a dozen shapes before it was a boy curled in fetal position on, the rug. His fall distracted the Dondi for a second only, but it was enough. Brann’s hands slapped about the Dondi’s ribs; she hugged the smaller woman tight against her, caught her mouth, held her mouth to mouth, muffling the witch’s shriek of rage and despair.

As Yaril melted, Aituatea was on the Tekora, the foot of his good leg jammed between arm and shoulder, hands in a nerve hold on the Temueng’s wrist. The Tekora writhed and struggled but couldn’t break the hold. Aituatea dug his knuckles in. The Tekora’s fingers opened. Aituatea caught the sword as it fell, leaped back, took the Temueng’s head off as he surged up, the sword answering his will like an extension of his arm. He swung it up, whirled it about, grinning, suppressing an urge to whoop; but all too fast his elation chilled. The Tekora’s headless body stirred, hands groping as it got clumsily to its knees. Something bumped against his foot. The Tekora’s head, mouth working, teeth gnashing as it tried to sink them in his flesh. He kicked the head away, wanting to vomit. A hand brushed against him, tried to grab hold of him. He sliced through the body’s knees, kicked the severed legs in separate directions. The body fell, lay still a moment, then the stumps began moving. They found no purchase on the silken rug until the torso raised itself onto its elbows and pulled itself toward him. He cut off the arms at the elbow, groaned as the hands started creeping toward him. He kicked them away but they started crawling for him again.

The kiss went on and on, the witch withering in Brann’s arms-but withering slowly, too slowly, there was too much life in her. Yaril landed beside Jaril, changed. She reached toward the boy, fire snapped between them, then Jaril was up looking around. A look, a nod, then they joined hands and two firespheres darted into the air. They threw themselves at the Soul-Drinker, merged with her until her flesh shimmered with golden fire and the three of them finished drawing the life out of the Dondi.

Brann dropped the woman’s husk, the fire flowed out of her and divided into two children, sated and a bit sleepy. She stared down at the thing crumpled at her feet and shuddered.

Aituatea kicked away a creeping hand, walked over and stared down at what was left of the Kadda witch. An ancient mummy, leathery skin tight over dry bones. “Never seen anyone deader.”

Hotea came from the shadows. “Put her in the water; she has to go in the water.” She rushed to the nearest window and tried to pull the drapes aside, but her hands passed through the soft dark velvet. She shrieked with frustration and darted back at them. “In the water,” she cried, enraged.

Brann nodded. “This one’s too strong to he careless of, let the water rot her and the tides carry her bones away. Open the window for me, or would you rather carry that?” She waved a hand at the husk.

“Gahh, no.” He stepped over a wriggling leg, a crawling hand, circled the silently mouthing head, pulled the drapes aside and opened the shutters.

Wind boomed into the room, cold and full of sea-tang, blowing out the lamp, stirring the silken quilts, almost snatching the shutters from him. It caught at the shorter hair by Brann’s ears, teased it out from her face, bits of blue-white fire crackling off the ends. She wrinkled her nose, brushed impatiently at her hair, her hand lost among the snapping lights. “Hold your head on,” she muttered at Hotea who was chattering again and jigging about her. She lifted the husk, grunting with the effort, carried it to the window and eased it through. Hotea at his shoulder, Aituatea stood beside her and watched the husk plummeting toward wind-whipped water as Hotea had half a year ago, watched it sink.

Hotea gave a little sigh of satisfaction, tapped her brother on the cheek. “A wife,” she said. “Mind me now, get you a wife, brother.” Another sigh and she was gone.

Aituatea rubbed at his shoulder. Rid of her. He stared out the window seeing nothing. He’d cursed her silently and aloud since she’d come back dead. And he’d cursed her alive and resented her. She’d taught him most of what he knew, stung him into forgetting his short leg, scolded him, comforted him, kept him going when times were bad. Always there. And now he was rid of her. Alone.

“Hina.” He heard the word but it didn’t seem important. “Hina!” Sharper voice, a demand for his attention.

“What?” He turned his head, searching vaguely for the speaker.

“That sword. The one you’ve got the death grip on. May I see it?”

He looked down. He was leaning on the long sword, the point sunk into the rug, into the floor beneath. He had to tug it free before he could lift it. He gazed at it, remembering the aliveness of it in his hands, shook his head, not understanding much of anything at that moment, and offered it to her.

She looked down at her hands. They glowed softly in the room’s shadowy twilight. “No. Better not. Lay it on the bed for me.” She hesitated a moment. “Hina, let me touch you.”

“Why?” Apprehensive, still holding the sword, he backed away from her.

“Slya’s breath, man, you think I want more of this in me? Got too much now. Listen, you’re tired, sore, we’ve still got to get out of this and down the cliff. I can give as well as take. You’ll feel like you’ve been chewing awsengatsa weed for a few hours, that’s all. All you have to do is take my hand.” She held out a hand, palm up, waited.

He looked at her; she seemed impatient. His hip was a gnawing pain, he’d used himself hard this night, his shoulders and arms ached, he had toothmarks on one foot and cold knots in his stomach. “The weed, huh?”

“With no hangover.”

“I could use a look at Jah’takash’s better side.” He tossed the sword on the bed, closed his hand about hers.

A feeling like warm water flowing into his body, gentle, soothing, heating away his aches and pains, washing away his weariness. Only a breath or two, then she was pulling free. He didn’t want to let go, but was afraid to cling to her. He opened his eyes. “I owe the Lady of Surprises a fistful of incense.” He looked from the sword-a long glimmer on the silk of the quilt-to the sheath on the wall above the bed. “That’s what you came to Silili for, isn’t it.” He climbed on the bed, pulled the sheath down and slid the sword into it, jumped back onto the floor.