The Desecrator: A Tor.com Original Read Free

whole length.
    The guy who didn’t exist seemed to know his business. His movements were careful, precise, and matched my own, the point of that monster weapon pointed at my eye—just the form I’d been taught. The odd thing was that the man’s eyes didn’t seem to be focused on me, or on anything else. It was weird, and it was scary.
    Fortunately, I enjoy being scared; sharpens my senses and makes everything tingly and—well, you know.
    There was no warning before the non-man struck—no eye or muscle twitches—just, there was that blade going for my abdomen. I parried low, moved, and looked for a place to strike, but there was nothing.
    “Ignore the man,” said Daymar. “Insubstantial, you can’t touch him.”
    “Then how do I win?”
    “Interesting question,” he said. “I’ll have to think about that.”
    Another strike, this one at my head. So very fast. I leaned back and I felt the swish of its passing. With a Morganti weapon, any wound is fatal, and worse than fatal. With one that powerful, any scratch would do.
    An ugly, unclean way to go. No Deathgate, no rebirth, just, well, done. Nothing. I didn’t care for it.
    But those thoughts were far in the back of my head; mostly I was concentrating on stillness in movement, motion in tranquility, as I watched for the next attack. The minor, unimportant fact that there was no way to actually stop it was annoying, but didn’t change anything. I watched the sword, not the man, which goes counter to everything I’ve learned.
    “It is certainly hard to talk to,” remarked Daymar.
    “Because it’s an illusion?” I suggested.
    The sword came right at my eyes, which should have been an easy parry, but it was so unexpected—yeah, I got my weapon in the way and the strike slid past my head.
    “No, no,” said Daymar. “The sword.”
    “It has a mind?”
    “It’s what I woke up.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    “I’ve been trying to talk to it, but it seems not to like me.”
    “Hard to believe.”
    It came down crosswise, from my left shoulder angled toward my right hip.
    I rolled forward, through the non-existent man, and came to my feet.
    “What can you tell about it?”
    “Does the term ‘pure evil’ bring anything to mind?”
    “Not really, no.”
    I faced the sword, keeping my own weapon up. It started weaving, small motions. I had to match them, of course. High right, low left, high right, low left. Bugger. Eventually he’d break the pattern, and I’d be out of line.
    The piece of metal was a tactician.
    “Pure evil,” said Daymar. “Killing for the sake of killing. Pleasure in hearing death screams. Joy in the fear of others.”
    “Oh, that’s evil?”
    “Yes.”
    “I never realized I was evil. Can you be a conduit? Let me talk to it?”
    “Hmmm. I think so. I’ll try.”
    It broke the pattern, going high twice, then came at me, swinging for my head. I leaned back and swung clumsily.
    There was a horrid jarring in my hand. I found myself on my feet again, and I realized I’d rolled backward, then realized it had missed me.
    And I was holding about a foot and a half of sword—the other had sheared right through my steel. I was annoyed. It was a good blade, made for me by Hennith two hundred years ago. And this was going to make things significantly more challenging.
    “Got it,” said Daymar.
    He needn’t have spoken; I felt it.
    Does the term “dark spirit” mean anything to you?
    I mean, you know me, Sethra. I’m a Dzur. Put me in a place with swords flashing and spells sizzling and plenty of bodies to carve up, and I’m a happy guy. But I tell you, this sword—it likes to kill the way a landlord likes to eat. It’s a being that exists to create as much mayhem as it can. If malice had consciousness, that’s how it would feel.
    The illusionary man raised the too-real sword. Parrying with the remains of my sword would be interesting, I decided, but not impossible.
    Can we negotiate? I thought at it.
    Die, it suggested, and swung