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attention, and Hunkapa Aub paused in his exertions to stare mesmerized at the shards that were rising
from the ooze beneath his very feet.
Everywhere splinters and fragments from the sky-metal sword had landed it was the same. Every flake
and chip, no matter how small, no matter how seemingly insignificant, was rapidly regenerating itself as a
smaller version of the matriarchal sword. At the sight the diabolic butchers slowed but did not halt their
attack.
Then Ehomba took a step back from the conflict. Holding the sword hilt tightly in both hands, he raised
the remnants of the primary blade over his head. In concert, a thousand smaller versions of the original
weapon rose skyward and hung, glowing, parallel to the ground. The field of battle before the demonic
slaughterhouse was engulfed in lambent blue.
When next the herdsman swung the peerless weapon aggressively, a thousand lustrous offspring
mimicked the blow to glistening metallic perfection.
XVII
A cerulean wind moaned as the thousand blades struck at the loathsome assailants. When the
demon-butchers attempted to rally and strike back, Ehomba dipped his sword and their blows were met
by a thousand unyielding parries. At that moment more than the tide of battle turned: The dark heart, the
evil essence of the enemy, evaporated like a palmful of water on the scorched approach to Skawpane.
Not that they ran. Flight was not in their nature. They fought on, continuing their efforts to slaughter the
handful of obstreperous mortals. All that had changed was that one of their human opponents now
wielded a thousand blades where moments ago there had been only one.
Come to think of it, everything had changed.
So elated by this unexpected turn of events was Simna ibn Sind that he forgot to taunt his lanky
companion about his supposed lack of sorceral skills. The swordsman was too busy thrusting and
hacking as he threw himself at their adversaries. One on one, he was convinced that nothing lived, of this
Earth or anywhere else, that could stand against him. Part of this was due to actual skill, part to
confidence, and part to pure bluster. Stirred together in the anima of the stocky swordsman, they made
him a dangerously unpredictable opponent.
Bellowing defiance, Hunkapa Aub was breaking limbs and heaving opponents into nearby walls with
unbridled gusto, his great strength and boundless energy giving even the most formidable of the fiends
pause. The black litah was a dark streak of feline dynamism; blurred destruction. Fang and claw left their
multiple marks on many assailants, who searched in vain for a tormentor who had already moved off to
attack someone else.
A monstrous cleaver descended, only to have its path blocked by a hundred blades. Many splintered
under the impact, but many did not. Bringing his weapon up and around, Ehomba visited a hundred deep
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cuts on his assailant. The towering brute gasped and clutched at its flank, unable to stop the flow of green
blood from its side. And each of the metallic splinters from the dozens of smaller swords it had shattered
arose afresh to give birth to a hundred new sharp points and edges.
Amputated arms and tentacles lay twitching in the street, some still futilely clutching their weapons. Green
blood ran in rivers into animate sewers that sucked greedily at the flow. Blinded and crippled, sliced into
smaller and smaller pieces, confronting a hostile and terrible magic where traditionally there should have
been none, the would-be butchers fell back. Those that were still capable of movement retreated into the
depths of the slaughterhouse and the unmentionable horrors that hung curing within. Others limped or
crawled or dragged themselves into side alleys and away from the theater of battle.
They found neither safety nor surcease there, and certainly no compassion, the latter being an emotion as
alien to Skawpane as love or understanding. From their places of concealment in dark byways and dank
vents, fanged orifices and greedy claws shivered forth to drag the wounded away. Drifting faintly back to
the main street, the sounds of this muted slaughter were dreadful in the extreme.
Only two of the foul crew of expectant butchers that had originally confronted the travelers were still
capable of rapid movement. Without a word, they gave up at the same time, throwing their weapons and
butchering tools aside as they hobbled for the safety of the slaughterhouse, slamming the great doors shut
behind them and sealing themselves tightly inside.
Face alight with blood-lust, Simna was all for pursuing and finishing them off. Ehomba first restrained,
then calmed, his friend.
 It is enough. I do not think they will trouble us for the duration of our stay in Skawpane.
 Gierot well right they won t! Breathing hard, the swordsman employed his weapon to make several
obscene gestures in the direction of the shut-up slaughterhouse.  What say you, shit-spawn? Not bad
work for a few scraps of  little meat, hoy?
Nearby, Hunkapa Aub was picking curiously through a pile of severed limbs, holding each one up for
closer inspection, then tossing it aside as he moved on to the next. Ahlitah was sitting on the highest
chunk of volcanic paving stone he had been able to find, one that was moderately free of slime, and was
cleaning himself, licking his forepaws and using them to glean green gore, varicolored guts, and bits of
torn flesh from his jaws and feet.
As Simna relaxed and his levels of excitement, energy, and adrenaline began to decline, he and his
companions were treated to another piece of sorcery that, if asked, Etjole Ehomba would insist he had
nothing to do with. Using a slightly different two-handed grip to hold the damaged sword out in front of
him, the herdsman held himself steady and watched blue effulgence expand. Soon the chipped and
scored blade was throbbing and vibrating like a live thing. The effort Ehomba was expending to hold it in
place showed in the whitened knuckles of his fingers and the strained lines of his face.
Gradually, and then more swiftly, in ones and twos and small groups, the thousand-plus miniature
swords that the conflict had given birth to returned to their metal of origin. Streaks of drifting,
razor-edged silver-gray and blue bolted in the herdsman s direction, the combined rush of their mass
returning generating a small blue typhoon that roared and howled above Ehomba s clenched hands. Steel
swirled giddily about the parent blade. The etched span of sky metal drank them down, soaking up each
and every sibling sword in an orgy of resplendent sapphire metalogenesis.
Then the last was gone; vanished, redigested and amalgamated by the original length of star steel. The
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cerulean glow faded, the complaining roar of displaced air fell to a whisper, and the sky-metal sword was
once again whole.
Without a word of comment, its owner slid it back into its empty sheath. As was usually the case,
Ehomba s expression could not be read, but it was clear that the effort had cost him. Perspiration poured
in small vertical rivers down his face and body, staining his shirt and kilt and running off down his legs and
between his toes. If he was not breathing as hard as Simna, he was certainly fatigued.
 I need something to eat, he informed his companions,  and a place to rest.
 Not rest here. As he delivered himself of the obvious, Hunkapa Aub kicked aside a mutilated,
multimouthed length of tentacle as thick around as his thigh.
 No. Tired as he was, Ehomba was in complete agreement with his hirsute crony.  We will find a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]