The Reluctant Swordsman (2 page)

At last he reached his objective.

The man was very large indeed—even kneeling, he carried his eyes not much beneath Honakura’s. Swordsmen were rarely large, for speed was more important to them than strength. If this man also had agility he would be formidable, but then he was, reputedly, a Seventh, and there could be none more formidable.
 
Apart from the black rag around his head, he wore only a dirty scrap of black loincloth. He was filthy and sweat-streaked, yet his size and youth made him impressive still. His hair was also black, hanging to his shoulders, and his eyes were utterly black, the pupils lost in the iris. Forceful eyes . . .
 
bearing anger they would strike dread. Looking into them now, Honakura saw other things: pain and fear and despondency. Those came often to the Goddess in the eyes of supplicants—the sick, the dying, the bereaved, the lost—but rarely had he seen them so intense, and their presence in the eyes of this huge and healthy youngster was a staggering shock to him. Awry indeed!
 
“Let us go over to a more private place,” he said quickly. “My lord?” The young man rose effortlessly, rising over the little priest as dawn climbs the sky. He was very big and when he moved he rippled. Even for a swordsman he was young to be a Seventh, probably younger than Priest Jannarlu of the Third.
 
They walked to the end of the facade, and Honakura motioned to the plinth of a badly corroded statue. The swordsman sat without argument. His apathy was astonishing.

“Let us dispense with formalities for the moment,” Honakura said quietly, remaining on his feet, “for we are not unobserved. I am Honakura, priest of the seventh rank.”

“I am Shonsu, swordsman, and also of the Seventh.” His voice was in keeping with the rest of him, massive. Distant thunder. He raised a hand to remove the rag, and Honakura shook his head.

“You seek help from the Goddess?”

“I am haunted by a demon, holiness.”

That explained the eyes. “Demons can be exorcised, but they rarely ravage those of high rank,” Honakura said. “Pray tell me of it.” The fearsome young man shuddered. “It is the color of sour milk. It has yellow hair on its belly and its limbs and its face, but none on top of its head, as though its head were put on upside down.”

Honakura shuddered, also, and made the sign of the Goddess.

The swordsman continued, “It has no foreskin.”

“Do you know its name?”

“Oh yes,” Shonsu sighed. “It babbles at me from dusk until dawn, and lately even by day. Little it says makes sense, but its name is Walliesmith.” “Walliesmith?” Honakura echoed doubtfully.

“Walliesmith,” the swordsman repeated in a voice that could not be doubted.
 
That was not the name of any of the seven hundred and seventy-seven demons—but a demon would naturally not tell the truth unless properly invoked. And, while the sutras catalogued demons of the most hideous and grotesque aspect, Honakura had never heard of one so perverse as to grow hair on its face.
 
“The Goddess will know it, and it can be expelled,” he said. “What offering will you make to Her in return?”

Sadly the young man dropped his gaze. “My lord, I have nothing left to offer, except my strength and my skill.”

A swordsman, and he did not mention honor?

“Perhaps a year or two of service in our temple guard?” Honakura suggested, watching closely. “The reeve is the valorous Lord Hardduju of the Seventh.” The swordsman’s was a hard face, and now he gave the priest a hard look. “How many Sevenths do you need in a temple guard?” he asked warily. “And by what oath would I be sworn?”

Honakura edged a little closer to his meaning. “I am not familiar with all your swordsman oaths, my lord. Now that you mention it, I never remember more than one Seventh in the guard at a time, and I have worked here more than sixty years.”

They studied each other in silence for a moment. The swordsman frowned. While his kind had few scruples at eradicating each other, they did not often appreciate advice on the subject from civilians. Honakura decided to reveal a little more.

“It is rare for highrank swordsmen to visit the temple,” he said. “None at all for at least two years. Curiously, though, I have heard of several who arrived at Hann and stated that to be their intention—at least one Seventh and a couple of Sixths.”

The swordsman’s huge fists clenched. “Implying?” “I imply nothing!” Honakura said hastily. “Pure hearsay. They were reported to be planning to take the ferry, and then that long trail through the trees.
 
Probably they changed their minds. One did make as near as a pilgrims’ hostelry, but was unfortunate enough to partake there of some tainted meat. You are all the more welcome for your rarity, my lord.”

Muscles did not necessarily imply stupidity—the young man understood. A dark flush of fury crept over his cheekbones.

He glanced around, looking at the grandiose facade of the temple and at the great court below, flanked by the shingle beach and the still pool, beyond that to the River frothing and foaming as it emerged from the canyon, and along the canyon to the mist-shrouded splendor of the Judgment. Then he turned his head to survey the wooded park of the temple grounds with the big houses of the senior officials. One of those would certainly go with the office of reeve. “To be a swordsman in Her temple guard would be a great honor,” he said.
 
“It seems to be even better rewarded these days than it used to be,” Honakura remarked helpfully.

The hard face became menacing. “A man could borrow a sword, I expect?”

“That could be arranged.”

The young man nodded. “My service is always to the Goddess.” Now that, Honakura thought happily, was how a deal should be made. Murder had not even been mentioned.

“But first the exorcism?” the swordsman said.

“Certainly, my lord.” Honakura could not remember an exorcism in the last five years, but he was familiar with the ritual. “Fortunately, it does not require that your craft or even rank be mentioned. And your present garb will be adequate.”

The swordsman sighed with relief. “And it will succeed?” One did not become or prevail as Third Deputy Chairman of the Council of Venerables without learning to cover one’s hindquarters. “It will succeed, my lord, unless . . . ”

“Unless?” echoed the swordsman, his broad face darkening with suspicion . . .
 
Or was it guilt? Carefully Honakura said, “Unless the demon has been sent by the Most High Herself. Only you know whether you have committed some grievous transgression against Her.”

An expression of great agony and sorrow fell over the swordsman’s face. He dropped his eyes and was silent for a while. Then he looked up defiantly and growled, “It was sent by the sorcerers.”

Sorcerers! The little priest staggered back a step. “Sorcerers!” he blurted. “My lord, in all my years in this temple, I have never heard a pilgrim mention sorcerers. I had hardly thought that such truly existed any more.” Now the swordsman’s eyes became as terrible as the priest had guessed they might. “Oh, they exist!” he rumbled. “I have come very far, holy one, very far.
 
But sorcerers exist, believe me.”

Honakura pulled himself together. “Sorcerers cannot prevail against the Holiest,” he said confidently. “Certainly not in Her own temple. If they are the origin of your distress, then the exorcism will succeed. Shall we see to it?”

Honakura beckoned over an orange-gowned Fourth and gave orders. Then he led the swordsman through the nearest arch and along the length of the nave to the statue of the Goddess.

The big man sauntered at Honakura’s side, taking one stride to his three, but his head twisted and turned as he gaped around at the splendor, as all visitors must on their first glimpse of this most holy sanctuary—seeing the great blue statue itself, the silver dais before it loaded with heaps of glittering offerings, the multicolored flaming of the stained-glass windows along both sides, the miraculous fan vaulting of the ceiling hanging like distant sky above. The temple was busy, with many priests, priestesses, pilgrims, and other worshipers moving over the shining mosaics of the pavement, yet their tiny figures were dwindled to dust specks by its immensity, and the vast space seemed filled with a still peace.

Inevitably, as he drew near, the swordsman became conscious only of the majesty of the statue, the Goddess Herself, the shape of a robed woman sitting cross-legged with Her hands on Her knees and Her long hair spilling down. Huge and ominous and majestic, She loomed more and more enormous as he approached. At last he reached the edge of the dais and threw himself on the ground in reverence.

An exorcism called for many priests and priestesses, for chanting, dancing, gesturing, ritual, and solemn ceremony. Honakura stood to one side and allowed Perandoro of the Sixth to officiate, for it was a rare opportunity. He himself had led an exorcism only once. The swordsman crouched on his knees within the circle, head down and arms outstretched as he had been instructed—put a tablecloth on that back, and it would hold a dinner for three. Other priests and priestesses watched covertly as they went about their business. Pilgrims were shunted tactfully to the sides. It was very impressive.
 
Honakura paid little attention to the preliminaries. He was busy planning his next move against the unspeakable Hardduju. A sword was easy—he could get one from Athinalani in the armory. A blue kilt for a Seventh was no problem, either, and a hairclip was a trivial detail. But swordsmen sported distinctive boots, and to send for a pair of those, especially in the size required, would certainly provoke suspicion. Furthermore, he was fairly sure that the rituals of dueling required that his new champion obtain a second, and that could make things complicated. It might be that he would have to spirit this dangerous young man out of sight for a day or two while the preparations were put in hand, but so far his presence was a secret. Honakura felt great satisfaction that the Goddess had not only answered the priests’ prayers in this fashion, but had also entrusted him with the subcontracting. He felt sure that Her confidence was not misplaced. He would see that there were no mistakes.
 
Then the chant rose to its climax, and a chorus of, “Avaunt!” The swordsman’s head came up, first looking wildly around, and then up at the Goddess.
 
Honakura frowned. The dolt had been told to keep his head down.
 
“Avaunt!” proclaimed the chanters once more, their rhythm just a fraction off perfection. The swordsman jerked upright on his knees, head back and eyes so wide that the whites were showing all around. The drummers went ragged on their beat, and a trumpeter flubbed a note.

“Avaunt!” cried the chorus a third time. Perandoro raised a silver goblet full of holy water from the River and cast the contents over the swordsman’s head.
 
He spasmed incredibly, leaping straight from his knees into the air and coming down on his feet. The dirty loincloth fluttered to the floor, and he stood there naked, with his arms raised, his head back, water dribbling down his face and chest. He shrieked the loudest noise that Honakura had ever heard uttered by a human throat. For perhaps the first time in the age-old history of the temple, one voice drowned out the chorus, the lutes and flutes, and the distant roar of the Judgment. It was discordant, bestial, horrifying, and full of soul-destroying despair. It reverberated back from the roof. It went on for an incredible, inhuman, unbelievable minute, while the singers and musicians became hopelessly tangled, the dancers stumbled and collided, and every eye went wide.
 
Then the ceremony ended in a chaotic, clattering roll of drums, and the swordsman swayed over backward.

He fell like a marble pillar. In the sudden silence his head hit the tiles with an audible crack.

He lay still, huge and newborn-naked. The rag had fallen off his forehead, revealing for all to see the craftmarks on his forehead, the seven swords.

††

The temple was a building whose origins lay hidden back in the Neolithic. Many times it had been enlarged, and most of the fabric had been replaced from time to time as it had weathered or decayed—not once, but often.
 
Yet the temple was also people. They aged and were replaced much faster. Each fresh-faced acolyte would look in wonder at an ancient sage of the Seventh and marvel that the old man had probably known so-and-so in his youth, little thinking that the old man himself as a neophyte had studied that same so-and-so and mused that he was old enough to have known such-and-such. Thus, like stones in an arch, the men and women of the temple reached from the darkness of the past into the unviewable glare of the future. They nurtured the ancient traditions and holy ways and they worshiped the Goddess in solemnity and veneration . . .

But none of them had ever known a day like that one. Elderly priestesses of the Sixth were seen running; questions and answers were shouted across the very face of the Goddess, violating all tradition; slaves and bearers and healers milled around in the most holy places; and pilgrims wandered unattended before the dais itself. Four of the largest male juniors were led into back rooms by venerable seniors of unquestioned moral probity, then ordered to take off their clothing and lie down. Three respected Sevenths had heart attacks before lunch.
 
The spider at the center of the web of confusion was Honakura. It was he who poked the stick in the ant hill and stirred. He summoned all his authority, his unspoken power, his unparalleled knowledge of the workings of the temple, and his undoubted wits—and he used them to muddle, confuse, confound, and disorder.
 
He used them with expertise and finesse. He issued a torrent of commands—peremptory, obscure, convoluted, misleading, and contradictory.
 
By the time the valiant Lord Hardduju, reeve of the temple guard, had confirmed that truly there was another swordsman of the Seventh within the precincts, the man had totally vanished, and no amount of cajolery, bribery, interrogation, or menace could establish where he had gone.