--
'A good attack, but your guard was sloppy,' said a familiar voice behind her. She whirled, her sword ready.
He stood before her, his own sword sheathed. She risked a glance to her rear; the body was gone.
'Truce, you have earned a respite and a reward,' he said. 'Ask me what you will, I am sure you have many questions. I know I did.'
'Who are you?' she cried eagerly. 'What are you?'
'I cannot give you my name, Sworn One. I am only one of many servants of the Warrior; I am the first of your teachers -- and I am what you will become if you should die while still under Oath. Does that disturb you? The Warrior will release you at any time you wish to be freed. She does not want the unwilling. Of course, if you are freed, you must relinquish the blood-feud.'
Tarma shook her head.
'Then ready yourself, Sworn One, and look to that sloppy guard.'
There came a time when their combats always ended in draws or with his 'death.' When that had happened three nights running, she woke the fourth night to face a new opponent -- a woman, and armed with daggers.
Meanwhile she tracked her quarry, by rumor, by the depredations left in their wake, by report from those who had profited or suffered in their passing. It seemed that what she tracked was a roving band of freebooters, and her Clan was not the only group to have been made victims. They chose their quarry carefully, never picking anyone the authorities might feel urged to avenge, nor anyone with friends in power. As a result, they managed to operate almost completely unmolested.
When she had mastered the use of sword, dagger, bow, and staff, her trainers appeared severally rather than singly; she learned the arts of the single combatant against many.
Every time she gained a victory, they instructed her further in what her Oath meant.
One of those things was that her body no longer felt the least stirrings of sexual desire. The Sword-sworn were as devoid of concupiscence as their weapons.
'The gain outweighs the loss,' the first of them told her. After being taught the disciplines and rewards of the meditative trance they called 'The Moonpaths,' she agreed. After that, she spent at least part of every night walking those paths, surrounded by a curious kind of ecstasy, renewing her strength and her bond with her Goddess.
Inexorably, she began to catch up with her quarry. When she had begun this quest, she was months behind them; now she was only days. The closer she drew, the more intensely did her spirit-trainers drill her.
Then one night, they did not come. She woke on her own and waited, waited until well past midnight, waited until she was certain they were not coming at all. She dozed off for a moment, when she felt a presence. She rose with one swift motion, pulling her sword from the scabbard on her back.
The first of her trainers held out empty hands. 'It has been a year, Sworn One. Are you ready? Your foes lair in the town not two hours' ride from here, and the town is truly their lair, for they have made it their own.'
So near as that? His words came as a shock, ripping the protective magics that veiled her mind and heart, sending her to her knees with the shrilling pain and raging anger she had felt before the winds of the Goddess answered her prayers. No longer was she protected against her own emotions, and the wounds were as raw as they had ever been.
He regarded her thoughtfully, his eyes pitying above the veil. 'No, you are not ready. Your hate will undo you, your hurt will disarm you. But you have little choice, Sworn One. This task is one you bound yourself to, you cannot free yourself of it. Will you heed advice, or will you throw yourself uselessly into the arms of Death?'
'What advice?' she asked dully.
'When you are offered aid unlocked for, do not cast it aside,' he said and vanished.
She could not sleep; she set out at first light for the town , and then hovered about outside the walls until just before the gates were closed for the night. She soothed the ruffled feathers of the guard with a coin, offered as 'payment' for directions to the inn.
The inn was noisy, hot, and crowded. She wrinkled her nose at the unaccustomed stench of old cooking smells, spilled wine, and unwashed bodies. Another small coin bought her a jug of sour wine and a seat in a dark corner, from which she could hear nearly everything said in the room. It did not take long to determine from chance-dropped comments that the brigand-troop made their headquarters in the long-abandoned mansion of a merchant who had lost everything he had to their depredations, including his life. Their presence was very unwelcome. They seemed to regard the townsfolk as their lawful prey; having been freed from their attentions for
