Weirdbook #43. Darrell Schweitzer
crowd stood gathered into a circle ahead of him, most of them swordsmen wearing demon masks, some of them well-dressed noblemen making bets with one another. All eyes turned to Shango as he entered the plaza and approached the pit. The swordsmen and spectators together must have numbered in the hundreds, and they spread wide before him as he progressed. Finally he stood at the edge of a deep square hole and saw Shira Zo sitting cross-legged on the far edge. Between them lay the open space of the pit, and the mass of crawling, hissing serpents that littered its floor.
Shira’s long white hair was tied in a traditional top-knot, something Shango had forsaken years ago. Shango wore his dark hair in a single long braid now, like a southern-born barbarian. A drum began to beat somewhere in the crowded plaza, and someone played melodies on a wooden flute.
Shango sat down on his side of the pit, laying his great-grandfather’s sword upon his knees. Directly across from him Shira sat in the same position, naked steel gleaming across his lap. His eyes were closed as Shango approached, but now they opened. Shango hated the deep green of them, eyes so bright and yet so empty. He longed to see the light go out of them as Shira’s head rolled across bloody ground.
“You have been given the opportunity to avoid this death,” Shira said. He did not move a finger or a muscle, but he caught Shango in the grip of his emerald gaze.
“I have,” Shango said. “I refused it.”
“I see,” Shira said. “You are impervious to reason.”
“To seek revenge one must be impervious to reason and oblivious to fate,” Shango said.
Shira smiled. “You quote the Book of Elder Wisdom well. Yet your fate is to die here, today, at my hand. Can you be so oblivious to this fact?”
“The spirits of the murdered dead bring me here,” Shango said. “The children you hacked to pieces in Huan-gao…the women…”
“Your child…” said Shira. “Your woman. I remember them well…”
Shango winced. “You have no honor, and I have forsaken mine to face you. So I will gladly die to sink this blade deep into your heart. With my dying breath, I will rip out your life and offer it to the Gods of Hell. If that is to be my fate, then I cherish the unfolding of it.”
Shira grunted. His head turned sideways a bit.
“Then follow me into the pit,” he said, and jumped.
Shango followed him immediately, his sandals crushing the coils of several angry vipers. He swept the blade about his feet and legs, sheering off the heads of the nearest serpents, dodging their swift fangs as he cleared a tiny space for himself amid the slithering mass.
Shira stood calm amid the serpents, his blade poised. The snakes glided about his feet like kittens, raising not a single fang to molest him. Shango had known it would be this way. Pit-viper venom was deadly, but Shira had raised these snakes and weaned himself on their venom. This was his way of ensuring a victory—the murderer of innocents doubted his skill. He feared the kiss of Shango’s sword, or he would not have met him here. With a pit duel Shira could preserve his honor while giving himself an unfair advantage.
A viper dug its fangs deep into Shango’s heel as he leaped across the pit floor. The two swords clanged and silver sparks flew. Shango guessed the viper’s poison would begin to kill him in seconds, so he must take his revenge quickly. There was no time for anything but a killing blow.
The two men danced about the pit while their clanging blades sang a discordant song. The bored noblemen cheered at the lively entertainment, but the demon-faced disciples of Sangzara merely stared. Perhaps they would leap into the pit and finish what the vipers had started if Shango struck down his foe. He did not care. Let them slice him to bits, let the serpents live among his bones. He had come for only one reason: To kill Shira Zo.
Shira’s blade sliced Shango’s chest. Shango answered the hit with a shallow slice across Shira’s abdomen. The Swordmaster of Zo paused his attack to tear off his sliced and bloody robe. Two more serpents dug their fangs into Shango’s lower legs as he lunged for a killing stroke. Shira swirled and parried his blade, then scored a deep cut on Shango’s left shoulder. If it had been his sword-arm, the fight would have been over in that second.
Shango dodged a swipe that would have taken his head off. He sliced again and again at Shira’s defenses but drew little blood. The longer they fought, the more viper venom slowed his blood, made his limbs grow heavy. Death rose up from the earth like a black fog to cloud his vision. He fought on, dancing through a swarm of blows, the shock of each one shivering his arm bones. Sweat poured from his brow into his eyes.
No longer could he feel his legs at all. He countered a downward stroke but fell backward into the incensed vipers. They latched onto his body with curving fangs, at least a dozen more sending their poison into his blood. Shira stood above him now, grinning, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, sweat and blood glimmering on his naked chest.
Shango released all the energy of his dying heart. It flowed into his numb legs and burst like a flame from his eyes. He leaped to his feet trailing a cloak of serpents that would not let go of his flesh. For one brief moment, he saw the fear shining in Shira’s eyes. The snake-breeder had hesitated a moment to make his deathblow more dramatic for the crowd. In that moment, Shango’s blade flashed through his exposed neck. Shira’s head tumbled into the viper’s nest, and Shango fell to lay beside it.
Shira’s headless body stood for a few seconds, spewing crimson across the masks of the observers about the pit’s edge. Then it collapsed into the snakes, hand still wrapped about its useless sword. Shango’s limbs had gone completely numb. He bled from twice as many cuts as he had given Shira, and the venom of multiple bites overpowered his blood. He lay in the squirming pit but felt as if he were floating on the surface of a warm pond. The red demon faces staring down at him slowly withdrew. He turned his head and found himself looking into the face of Shira’s fallen head. Now the green eyes were truly empty, and the mouth wore a child’s expression.
As Shango lay dying in the pit of vipers, the faces of his dead wife and daughter came to him like spirits, floating above him as he faded. He spoke their names, but so softly that no one else could hear him. No one but the viper crawling past his cheek.
Suddenly Magtone was there above the pit, sitting on his carpet that floated like a cloud. It lowered him toward the pit floor, and he peered over its edge at Shango.
Shango coughed blood and blinked cold sweat from his eyes.
“Have you come to watch me die?” he asked.
Magtone shook his head. “That depends,” he said. “Are you truly oblivious to fate?”
“I am dying,” Shango said. “This is my fate.”
“If you wish to die, I cannot stop you,” Magtone said. “But I can save you. I have the magic inside me. I know the ancient words that mend the flesh and anchor the spirit.”
“I have taken my vengeance,” Shango said. “Now let me die.”
“Have you?” Magtone asked. “You said Shira Zo served Sangzara. Is that not the same Sangzara who dwells in this hideous castle? Did he not give the orders that sent Shira and the Swordsmen of Zo to Huan-gao? Your wife and child are avenged, but how many others have died in Sangzara’s reign? Will you not defy fate to avenge them too?”
“You…” Shango said, spitting more blood. His eyes grew blind, and he barely heard his own words. “You came for the wizard. You came to face Sangzara…”
“Not at first,” Magtone said. “But apparently he has the only library in town. Plus from what I’ve gathered he’s a terrible governor. Take my hand and live. Deny your fate.”
Shango laughed. Death seemed terribly humorous all of a sudden.
“I thought you had decided not to follow me after all,” he said.
“Oh, I followed you every step of the way,” Magtone said. “You simply