The wizard’s death would be an added sweetness, but she was no true warrior to go seeking blood vengeance. She was a thief at heart, which is a more patient and practical creature. Her goal was to rescue her sisters’ souls from the spell. The wizard’s death was secondary.
She had left Sidra’s friends behind, all save one, Milon Songsmith. The minstrel leaned back in his chair, a grin on his face. He drained his fourth tankard of ale and grinned wider. He was her bard and had been so for eight years. He had made Sidra Ironfist a legend, and his own talents were in great demand.
He would follow her until she died, and then perhaps he would find another hero to follow.
Sidra had not denied him the right to come on this adventure. If she died here, then Milon would sing of it. There were worse things to leave behind than songs.
But somehow she was not the perfect vengeance seeker she had wanted to be. Her life seemed more precious now than it had fifteen years ago. She wanted to live to see her mercenary band again. Black Abe was all right for a temporary command, but he let his emotions carry him away at awkward times. Sidra had welded them into a fighting force that any king in the civilized lands would welcome. Gannon the Sorcerer, Brant the Ax, Emil Swordmaster, Jayme the Quick, and Thetis the Archer. She would have Black Abe’s heart if he let one of them die without just cause.
Sidra waved the barmaid away when Milon called her over for the fifth time. “You’ve had enough, Songsmith.”
He flashed a crooked smile. “You can never have enough ale or enough adventure.” His rich tenor voice was precise, no slurring. His voice never betrayed him no matter how much he drank.
“Any more ale and there won’t be any adventuring tomorrow, at least not for you. I am not going to wait all morning while you sleep it off.”
He looked pained. “I would not do that to you.”
“You’ve done it before,” Sidra pointed out.
He laughed. “Well, maybe once. To bed then, my dear Sidra, before I embarrass you any further.”
Morning found them the first ones up. They were served cold meat and cheese by a hollow-eyed barmaid. She clasped a shawl around her nightdress, obviously intending to go back to sleep after they had gone. But she brought out some fresh, though cold, bread and dried fruit. And she did not grumble while she did it.
They walked out into a world locked in the fragile darkness just before dawn. The air seemed to shimmer as the dark purple sky faded to blue and the stars were snuffed out like candles in a wind.
Milon drew his cloak about him and said, “It is a chilly morning.”
She did not answer but went for the horses. The stable boy stood patiently holding the reins. Sidra had paid extra for such treatment, but it was worth it to be off before curious eyes could see.
Sidra led the way and Milon clucked to his horse. He and the horse were accustomed to following Sidra without knowing where they were going, or why. The forest trail they followed turned stubbornly away from their destination. Not even a deer path led to where they wanted to go. Then, abruptly, the trees ended. It was a clearing at least fifty feet across. The ground was gray as if covered in ash. Nothing grew in it. Grass and wildflowers chased round the edges but did not enter. In the middle of the ash circle was a tower. It rose arrow straight toward the brightening sky. The first rays of sun glimmered along it as if it were made of black mirrors.
The tower was all of one shining ebony piece. There were no marks of stone or mortar; it seemed to have been drawn from the earth whole and complete. Nothing broke its black perfection. There was no door or window.
But Sebastiane the thief knew that there was always a way in. It was only a matter of finding it. She led the way onto the ash ground and Milon followed. The horses were left loosely tied to the trees some distance away. If neither one of them came back, the horses could eventually break loose and find new homes.
The ground crunched underfoot as if it were formed of ground rock. And yet it couldn’t be stone; stone did not crumble to ash. Milon whispered to her, “Demon work.” She nodded, for she felt it, too. Evil clung to the black tower like a smothering shroud.
Sidra stood beside the tower. She laid her shield on the ground and knelt beside it. She ran hands down the scars of her arms. The scars were far too minor to be battle wounds.
She unlocked the sword guard that held the short sword in place. Rising of its own accord, it sprang to her hand. And the sword laughed, a tinny sound without lungs to hold it.
Milon shifted and moved far away from the naked blade.
Sidra noticed it and politely moved so he would not see the entire ritual. This was one thing that her bard did not like to sing about.
The sword crooned, “Free, bare steel, feel the wind, ahhh.”
Sidra said, “Our greatest task is before us, blood blade.”
The sword hissed, “Name me.”
“You who were Blood-Letter when the world was new. You who were Wound-Maker in the hands of a king. You who were Soul-Piercer and took the life of a hero. You who were Blood-Hunger and ate your way through an army. I name thee blade mine, I name thee Leech.”
It chortled, “Leech, Leech, I am Leech, I live on blood, I crave its crimson flow, I am Leech. So named, power given.”
Sidra had risked her soul five years ago to name the sword. But it had seemed inordinately pleased from the very first at such a name as Leech.
Milon had complained that it wasn’t poetic enough. But she left the poetry to the minstrel. Her job was to survive.
The blade whispered, “Feed me.”
Sidra held the blade out before her, naked steel at face level. She pressed the flat of the blade between the palms of her hands. She spoke the words of invocation. “Feed gently, Leech, for we have much work to do.”
There was always that moment of waiting when Sidra wondered if this time the sword would take too much and kill her. But it bobbed gently between her hands. The razor-sharp blade brought blood in a sharp, painful wash down her hands. But the cut was narrow, slicing just below the skin. The blade said, “Sacrifice made, contract assured.”
Sidra ignored the wound. It would heal in a moment or two to become another scar. She did not bother to clean the blade, as all blood was absorbed cleanly. For it truly did feed.
She resheathed the blade, and it hummed tunelessly to itself, echoing up through the leather sheath. Sidra set to searching the black stone with her fingers. But she found nothing. It was like touching well-made glass without even a bubble to spoil its smoothness.
There was nothing there, but if illusion hid the door, then Leech could find it. She bared the humming sword and said, “Find me a door, Leech.”
The humming picked up a note to a more cheerful tune. She recognized the tune as the new ballad of Cullen Tunemaster. Leech seemed very fond of Cullen’s tunes.
They paced the tower three times before the sword could make the door visible to her. It looked ordinary enough—just a brown wooden door with metal studding. It was man height.
“Can you see the door now, Milon?”
“I see nothing but blackness.”
Sidra reached her hand out toward him, and he moved to take it. Leech fought her left-handed grip and slashed at the man. Sidra jerked the sword sharply, “Behave, Leech.”
“I hunger. You did not feed me.”
“You did not ask.”
It pouted, “I’m asking now.” By the rules she could have refused it, for it had done its task. But keeping the sword happy assured that she could wield it and live; doing both was not always easy. An unhappy blood blade was an untrustworthy blood blade. She held the blade against her left forearm and let it slice its own way into the skin. It was a mere nick of crimson. She offered her hand once more to Milon.
A drop of sweat beaded at Milon’s hairline, and he took her hand tentatively, as far from the sword as possible. “I can see the door.” He released her hand and backed away from the sword once more.
Sidra knelt before the door, but before she could touch the lock, she noticed that the door moved. It wasn’t much of a movement, just a twitch like a horsehide when a fly settles on it. She asked the sword, “What is it?”
“It is an ancient enchantment not much used now.”
“What is the quickest and quietest way to win past it? The wizard will notice us setting his door on fire.”
“True, but would you rather chop through that much meat? Even I cannot kill it, only damage it. Oh, it would be a glorious outpouring of Mood. But it would not be quick.” It sounded disappointed.