Dead Gods
July 16, 2010 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
The tired legs of horses and men trudged through thick brown slop.
Domlen was one of the lucky ones, sitting astride his dappled rouncey at the head of the column, though he didn’t feel particularly fortunate. His celebrant’s robes were filthy and the rain pattered relentlessly against his hood, soaking through to the mail beneath.
Trailing behind were scores of soaked spearmen, lugging their shields and armor and what lean possessions they had brought with them. Many were starving and all were weary as they waded along the endless trail, attacked by midges intent on sucking them dry.
Domlen would have found it tragic had he not been the one tasked with raising their spirits. As a celebrant of the Ministratum it was his job to rally the troops in their time of need, to spur them on with rousing litanies, sing the praises of the Demagon, and inspire them to a battle fervor.
Shit on that!
It was pissing down, he was cold, wet and hungry, and his arse felt like it had been treated to the lash. His horse kept trying to bite him every time he dug it with his spurs and the tips of his fingers had gone white. Who was here to inspire him? Who would spur on Celebrant Domlen when he needed it? Who would raise his morale in the face of the enemy – the unyielding, unbeatable, invincible fucking enemy?
No answers.
And still the rain beat down.
Well, at least he was spared the walk.
‘We’ll make camp on that rise,’ commanded Lord Mellos. Huge, stern, unmovable Lord Mellos. Let him be in charge of raising the men’s spirits, why not. He was the one that had led them here, he was the one in charge of this whole gods-be-damned mess.
At Lord Mellos’s order, officers barked at adjutants, who in turn barked at sergeants and soon there was a mess of barking, running, soaking, miserable men, scampering through the mud in their eagerness to set up camp.
Celebrant Domlen merely sat, retreating as far as he could into the shadow of his hooded robe, watching from its confines and wishing for sweet release from the rain and cold and the pain in his arse.
Despite the miles they had trudged and their inevitable fatigue, the speed and discipline of the men was beyond reproach, and within an hour every tent had been erected and the coppery reek of thin greasy stew was wafting through the rain. Domlen guessed that such efficiency was what they meant by the term “military precision”.
He was lucky that his position within the Ministratum granted him certain privileges and, just as for the senior officers, someone else erected his tent for him. It was just as well really; Domlen was hopeless at manual labor. Back at the Minster, he had always been selected for “light” duties – extinguishing votives, collecting prayer tomes, clearing the trenchers after repast – but when tasked with anything that required a modicum of skill, he had always failed abysmally. He still winced when he thought of the filly he had lamed when in service to the Minster’s smithy. To this day he couldn’t bear to watch a horse being shoed.
Later, as he sat in his tent, the bowl of tepid slop he had been given to eat sitting untouched at his side, Domlen could hear the boisterous laughter of the troops outside. Despite the misery of their current predicament they would still be out there making the best of things – playing dice, sharing tales and swigging spirits from half empty flasks. And here he was alone, a man apart, expected to grant them strength when eventually they came across their foe, and to instill their belief in the divine hand that guided them to victory.
But how was he to do that when he did not even believe in himself?
Domlen glanced across at the dog-eared tome that sat beside his bedroll. The Pantheonicum had remained unopened and unread since he had been sent from the Minster, but he had stopped believing long before that. The Faith had never been strong within him, even when he had first taken his vows, but nowadays Domlen was sure there were no gods to hear his prayers.
He suddenly remembered a lecture Exalted Carnassus had given his celebrants on loss of faith. The tests they would face would be many and varied – doubt was but a single facet of the trials ahead – but by the light of Sollos and through the strength of the Demagon, the right path of illumination would always show itself.
Good old Exalted Carnassus.
Stupid old bastard more like. He wasn’t the one who had been forced into joining this fool’s errand. He wasn’t the one who had been trudging for days in the mud and rain and cold. He wasn’t the one who had been stuck with mad Lord Mellos and his stinking, boorish troops atop a horse that fucking hated him. He hadn’t been the one under constant attack from the enemy–
Domlen shuddered at the sudden thought of the Necrotii.
Over the past few years the Necrotii Dominion had conquered nation after nation in the east, spreading its empire like a canker and crushing any who stood in the way. Its troops were without match – stone killers to a man, inhuman to the last – and they were supported by wielders of fell magicks. Some said they could raise the dead to fight alongside them, but Domlen thought this mere fancy.
At least he prayed it was.
Or he would have, if he still prayed.
The flap of his tent was suddenly thrown back, and Domlen almost jumped out of his skin, visions of the shambling dead still ripe in his mind.
What entered was far more menacing.
‘Celebrant Domlen, I trust you are well.’
It wasn’t a question.
Lord Mellos stared down at him with that commanding visage. His piercing eyes were not to be questioned, set in a face so stern Domlen doubted it had ever cracked a smile. Everything about the man was hard and angular, his white beard cropped straight across his square jaw, his hairline rising in a severe widow’s peak. Despite his age he was still broad and vital, encased in heavy armor from neck to foot, burnished green with a gold symbol of the hawk rising emblazoned on the breastplate.
‘Er… yes, my lord. Everything is well. I am quite comfortable,’ Domlen lied, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. If truth be told his thighs felt like jelly and he had scabs forming on his arse cheeks, but it would have done no good to try and explain his grievances. Lord Mellos cared little for the hardships of others.
‘I am glad to hear it, Celebrant. Though I am curious as to why you have chosen to cloister yourself inside when the men are so sorely in need of your benediction?’
Mellos stared with those severe eyes. This was something that he was expecting to have explained, but Domlen was hard pressed to come up with an excuse. In truth he would do little good preaching to these soldiers – they were battle-hardened warriors, not frightened children. The veterans amongst them only treated him with contempt and the rest merely tolerated his presence. No matter what words Domlen said, or which blessings he bestowed it made scant difference to the morale of the men.
Of course, he could not tell that to Mellos.
‘I was simply making preparations, my lord.’ Domlen replied. ‘Inspiring liturgies don’t just write themselves.’ He smiled weakly but Mellos’s expression of disdain did not shift. ‘Besides, the men seem quite content with their own company. I did not wish to bother them with ecclesiastical doctrine at this time of night.’
Mellos took a menacing step forward, and Domlen reciprocated by retreating further into the corner of his tent. It was an instinctual reaction, and one he instantly regretted. How must he have looked to this warrior lord? Like a pitiful coward no doubt, but then cowardly is as cowardly does.
‘Listen to me, Domlen.’ Mellos reached forward with a huge grasping hand encased in a gauntlet of steel. He stopped short of grabbing hold of Domlen’s robe and merely held the hand aloft, as though it were a deadly weapon poised to strike. ‘You were sent here for a reason. You have a purpose to serve, one that will not be satisfied by you hiding away in your tent.’
‘I– I can assure you I was–’
‘Assurances I don’t need, Celebrant. What I need are warriors. Hard warriors instilled with an unremitting faith in the gods they worship. I need men who are ready to face the fanatics that would tear their kingdom apart. What I don’t need is dead weight.’ He moved even closer but Domlen found he had no room to retreat further into the tent. He could smell Mellos’s hot breath as he spoke and found it scented with a hint of garlic and cloves. Mellos’s rations were obviously a cut above the slop the rest of the army was given. ‘Are you dead weight, Celebrant?’
Domlen shook his head.
Lord Mellos took a step back, his expression softening by the tiniest margin. Domlen let out a sigh of relief that was much louder than he had intended, but Mellos either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
‘None of us want to be here, believe me. Do you think I enjoy riding through the mud and rain? Trudging miles to face an enemy that might never appear? The fact is we all have our duties to perform and that’s that. Whether you like it or not, Celebrant, you are stuck here. It would serve you well to make the best of your lot.’
‘I understand, my lord. I will administer to the men immediately.’
Mellos gave a subtle nod of his head, then glanced up and down Domlen’s shoddy robes. ‘You might want to give some attention to your attire as well. We should be setting an example, Celebrant. In all aspects of deportment.’
With that he was gone.
As the flap of the tent closed behind him, Domlen let out another sigh.
How the fuck was he supposed to give attention to his attire? They were on top of a muddy hill in the middle of nowhere. And it was pissing down.
Bloody Mellos! Who did he think he was anyway? Even the Lords of the Lines were supposed to show deference to members of the Ministratum. He couldn’t speak that way to a celebrant.
Perhaps he should mention Mellos’s behavior to the Exalted. Not that it would do any good. The Ministratum had little enough power as it was. Besides, they had more important things to worry about than breaches of protocol and a lowly celebrant’s damaged ego.
As Domlen took up his Pantheonicum he girded himself to face the apathy of the troops. He took small solace in the fact that this couldn’t last forever. It would all be over soon and he could return to the Minster with tales of his expedition to the back of beyond. It would make his brother celebrants laugh to hear Domlen had administered to Lord Mellos himself. Then he could return to his light duties and carry on living the lie.
‘Living the lie,’ Domlen said.
When he spoke the words out loud it didn’t seem that bad after all. Surely he wasn’t the only one among his brothers who did not believe. He couldn’t be the only one who knew their gods were dead.
But whether he believed or not, Lord Mellos expected him to perform his duties.
Brushing some of the dirt from his white and crimson robes, Domlen stepped out into the night amongst the gruff laughter and campfire smoke, and began to preach his empty words.
Sharp voices woke him.
It was dawn – there was barely any light outside the tent and few birds chirruped in the trees. But at least the rain had stopped; its pitter patter having relented against the canvas.
‘Arms!’ cried a raised voice, and Domlen was suddenly gripped with panic. Were they under attack?
‘Defensive lines,’ bellowed another, from a distant part of the camp.
With rising terror, Domlen began to pull on his mail surcoat. His backside still hurt and his thighs throbbed painfully, but such was his desperation to don his armor that he ignored the discomfort.
As he pulled his damp robe over his head, the flap to his tent was pulled aside, allowing a little more light to stream in.
‘Celebrant!’
The voice sounded panicked, and as Domlen pulled the robe down he could see one of the adjutants standing there, a naked sword in his hand.
‘What is it?’ replied Domlen, trying his best to sound calm. He doubted his success.
‘The Necrotii,’ said the adjutant, his eyes wide with fear, ‘they are here.’
Domlen froze. It was the one thing he had dreaded the most.
‘Lord Mellos requires your presence.’ The adjutant moved back, holding the flap of the tent open for Domlen to pass through.
Bollocks.
Desperate as he was, Domlen could think of no way out of this. Curse his foul luck, and curse Lord Mellos.
Like a condemned man walking to the gallows, Domlen dipped his head and stepped out into the open air. Troops were running all about the camp, some carrying weapons, others desperately strapping on armor and shields as they moved to join their units. Despite the seeming chaos, Domlen was sure that every man knew his place and his duty. They were disciplined, well ordered men. Unlike Domlen. But he didn’t know whether the fact that he knew his own limitations – the fact he knew he was a coward – made it any better.
‘This way, Celebrant,’ beckoned the adjutant, as he took the lead and made his way across camp.
Domlen followed, squelching across the damp ground, the cold invading his boots and numbing his toes. He could see that a defensive line had been spread around the entire perimeter. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields locked and spears poised in defense. Domlen could not see beyond the impenetrable phalanx, and part of him did not want to. It was as if not seeing the Necrotii with his own eyes meant they were not there.
By the light of the sun rising over a nearby copse of trees, Domlen could see Lord Mellos standing with his officers. Some were gesturing frantically, others waving parchments with various stratagems beneath his nose, and they were all talking in a frantic buzz, each one trying to grab their commander’s attention. Mellos merely stood emotionless, occasionally gazing towards the perimeter of the camp, as though silently contemplating what lay just beyond the armored ranks of his men.
Domlen noticed that beside all this stood the small form of Tomos, Lord Mellos’s son and heir. The boy was twelve, brought on this expedition to learn the craft of war from his father no doubt. He was as stern and unmoving as Mellos, similarly bedecked in shining green armor with the hawk symbol of their Line emblazoned on his chest. Domlen began to wonder if now, with the enemy so close, surrounding them as they were, Mellos regretted bringing the boy along. But whatever Mellos’s thoughts were on the danger to his heir, he showed no sign of apprehension or fear as he listened to his officers argue their plans, disagreeing with one another noisily as to the best course of action.
‘We should hold the summit,’ shouted Captain Praest, his jowls wobbling with distress. ‘Protecting the high ground is our only hope.’
‘No, the Necrotii will simply wait for our supplies to dwindle,’ bellowed burly Captain Gretz. ‘We should attack now, and decisively–’
‘No, look at their positions,’ cut in Captain Horst, waving a hastily sketched map in front of them both with one bony hand. ‘Our only option is to withdraw. By using our cavalry we can cut a furrow in their lines and–’
‘Warriors of the Gask!’
The words came from beyond the ring of defenders and silenced the officers’ bickering instantly.
Domlen thought his heart had suddenly stopped beating, and he lifted a hand to his chest to check. He sighed in relief as he felt the quick thud of it banging against his ribcage.
‘I would speak with your commander!’
All eyes turned to Lord Mellos. Domlen could see that some of the troops manning the perimeter were glancing back over their shoulders, looking uncertainly towards their officers. Mellos must have spotted it too. Seeing the need for a decisive move, the Lord of Karrn strode towards the perimeter from where the raised voice had come, gripping his sword to his side.
‘Celebrant, with me,’ he growled over one shoulder.
For several moments, Domlen didn’t register what had been said. Then he noticed that all eyes were now on him – the bickering captains, the adjutant, even Mellos’s young heir, were all staring at him expectantly.
Domlen began to move, feeling his pulse quicken as he sped his step to match the long stride of Lord Mellos.
‘My Lord, what are you doing?’ said Captain Horst. He sounded panicked, almost desperate, but he made no move to stop Mellos as he strode towards his line of warriors.
Finally Domlen managed to catch up, walking beside Mellos, his fists clenched as tightly as he could to stop his hands shaking. At Mellos’s approach, one of the sergeants ordered his men to form a breach in the shield wall, revealing the waiting army beyond.
And then he saw them.
Domlen didn’t know what he had been expecting but this certainly wasn’t it. In his nightmares the Necrotii were a ravenous horde of undead, seething and stinking, eager to consume all in their path. In truth they were a motionless wall of black iron. Sentinels one and all, showing no emotion – no anger, no fear, no pity. He couldn’t tell which was worse; the furious host of his nightmares or the dispassionate ranks he could see before him now.
Lord Mellos did not even seem to register the superior numbers that were arrayed before him. He didn’t take breath or break his stride as he made his way towards the lone warrior that stood to the fore of the Necrotii army.
The man was fully seven feet tall, a black silhouette from head to foot, but for the silver of the blade he held in his hand. He bore no shield, and his armor looked light, Domlen surmised for maneuverability in battle, with an iron helm that concealed his face but for a pair of piercing gray eyes.
Mellos stopped not five feet in front of the Necrotii warrior, eyeing him in his usual grim manner. Domlen’s eyes flickered from the massed ranks beyond, to the seven foot behemoth that stood before him, unsure of which was the most terrifying.
‘I am Lord Mellos, of the Line of Karrn. General of the Gask Third Army,’ said Mellos. ‘You are encroaching on Gask lands. Turn your men around and march them back beyond the border. You will find nothing to your advantage here.’
The Necrotii looked down. Though Mellos himself was well over six feet he was still dwarfed by the dark warrior.
‘Lay down your arms, Gask.’ The Necrotii’s voice was surprisingly warm, almost melodious, and Domlen found the exotic accent quite pleasing to the ear. ‘Then your men will be allowed to leave the field. Resistance will only result in your deaths.’
‘In the Gask Nation it is customary to announce oneself before parlay. With whom do I speak?’
‘I am Blademaster,’ replied the Necrotii, sounding proud of the title.
‘Blademaster who?’ said Mellos, struggling to hide his annoyance.
‘I am Blademaster.’ This time the Necrotii sounded confused, as though he did not understand Mellos’s question.
‘Very well, Blademaster. This is what will happen. You will turn your army around and march from Gask territory or we will do battle and many of us will die. Ultimately you will lose. Whether you return to your dead lands as corpses or not is up to you.’
Domlen was amazed at Mellos’s confidence. It was taking all his own strength of will just to suppress the bile of fear that was rising in his throat.
The Blademaster stared down with unblinking eyes, considering the words. Then, Domlen noticed those eyes seemed to be smiling behind the black iron helm.
‘You should know we do not fear death, Lord Mellos of the Gask,’ he said. ‘But I have a better solution for avoiding needless slaughter.’ With that he took a step back, his hand straying to the long elegant hilt of the sword by his side. Domlen thought he was about to strike and suddenly stiffened. Mellos must have also anticipated an attack, his hand quickly moving to the hilt of his own sword. But the Blademaster simply lifted his head, raising his voice so it echoed across the hillside.
‘Hear me warriors of the Gask. I am Blademaster, of the Necrotii Dominion. Servant of the Elder Ones who will one day be your masters. Soon your empire will fall and we will be brothers, so I offer this. Bring forth a single warrior who can best me in combat, and we will retreat from the field and your lands. Send as many as you may, but know this – if there is no one who can best me you will give yourselves over to us as our prisoners.’
Despite the heavy helm that covered his face, the Blademaster’s words rang out like a capon’s morning crow. By the murmur coming from the Gask lines, Domlen could tell every man had heard.
Lord Mellos merely looked on with that stern face, considering the Blademaster’s words. The two regarded one another for several seconds, but to Domlen it seemed like hours. This was a pretty challenge indeed – it was the one chance to prove Gask mettle against the reputation of the Necrotii. It was one that Lord Mellos could plainly not resist.
‘Very well, Blademaster,’ said Mellos, finally. ‘You have made your challenge, and you will have your challenger.’
With that he span on his heel and began to stride back toward the Gask defensive line. Domlen hastily followed, and cold relief washed over him when he was finally within the relative safety of the Gask perimeter.
Mellos strode ahead, returning to the disbelieving stares of his captains.
‘But we do not have a warrior who could stand up to that,’ bellowed Captain Praest, his reddened cheeks glowing with exasperation. ‘No one will face–’
‘Madness!’ cut in the rumbling voice of Captain Gretz. ‘Putting everything on the skills of one warrior is tantamount to–’
‘We could still make a tactical withdrawal,’ piped in Captain Horst, his voice shriller than Domlen had ever heard it. ‘They have no cavalry and–’
‘Silence!’ Mellos’s voice held a visceral menace that quieted the captains instantly. ‘Call yourselves officers of the Gask Nation? I have heard enough of your dissent, any more and it will be you I send to face the Necrotii rather than going myself.’
The gathered officers remained silent, and Domlen felt the discomfort growing as they realized what Mellos had just announced.
It was Horst who dared speak first.
‘Surely you cannot be suggesting–’
‘Bring my shield and helm,’ Mellos ordered one of the adjutants. The man scurried off as fast as he could.
‘But my lord, surely there is someone else?’ said Praest.
As much as Domlen disliked Mellos, and he would indeed have loved to see him skewered on a Necrotii blade, he knew this plan was folly. If Mellos fell the Gask force would be left leaderless before an overwhelming enemy. Then what would they do? He doubted the three bickering captains would be able to agree on what to order for dinner, let alone order an effective defense of their position.
‘We must show these Necrotii what they are dealing with,’ said Lord Mellos. ‘I am in command of this expedition, and as Lord of the Line of Karrn, it is my right… my obligation to represent the Gask in single combat.’
‘Y-yes, my lord,’ said Captain Horst, ‘but should we not wait–’
‘Wait for what? Winter snows? We have waited long enough to face these corpse-loving animals. It is time we taught them the consequences of challenging the Gask in the field.’
Domlen could see that the captains were beaten – it would be folly to question Mellos’s decision any further. When the Lord of Karrn’s mind was made there would be no turning him.
The adjutant scurried back carrying Mellos’s shield and helm. Domlen caught Mellos’s eye for the briefest of instants as the huge winged helmet was placed over his head. He was sure he saw something in the eyes, some kind of communication between them, but Domlen could not decipher its meaning before Mellos’s face was concealed.
As his huge shield was strapped to his arm, Mellos drew the ceremonial sword of his Line. It was a magnificent weapon, the cross guard carved into the shape of wings, the embossed pommel a hawk’s head.
When he was ready he saluted his captains, who all duly returned the gesture, then he turned back towards the perimeter. Lord Mellos strode with purpose, looking unbeatable in full armor, but Domlen still had a pang of doubt within him. What stood beyond the shield wall was the best the Necrotii had to offer, and they had conquered a dozen nations with such warriors. Perhaps even Lord Mellos would not be able to stand against such an enemy. Such was Domlen’s doubt that he almost forgot to bestow the blessing of the Demagon on Mellos before he faced his foe, and he stumbled after his lord as he made his way towards the edge of the encampment. Lord Mellos ignored Domlen as he made the sanctification, striding away as the spearmen opened a gap in the wall to allow him access to the enemy. Perhaps he knew that Domlen’s words were empty, a simple recitation without meaning or passion. Perhaps he just could not wait to face his foe.
Ahead, Domlen could see that the Blademaster still stood impassively, like a huge black vulture waiting for carrion.
‘Watch closely, Celebrant. This is where we show our steel. You would do well to learn the lesson I am about to teach.’
It took several moments for Domlen to realize that Mellos was addressing him. He thought desperately for a reply but could think of nothing to say. This was not his arena – the tough words and bravado of warriors were as alien to him as he guessed the cloistered life of a celebrant was to Mellos. What lessons he could possibly take from the coming battle were beyond him.
Lord Mellos stopped some feet in front of the Blademaster, and raised his wide bladed sword in a salute.
The Blademaster nodded back. ‘Admirable,’ he said from beneath his helm. ‘It is rare to find a leader who would not rely on the strength of a champion. Perhaps you Gask will make worthy countrymen when we have subjugated your lands.’
He drew his slender sword and grasped the long hilt in both hands. It was a strange weapon and Domlen had never seen its like before. The blade was long and slim with a slight curve, the cross guard short and round, and the handle almost half as long as the blade. It must have been awkwardly weighted for someone ill used to wielding it, but this man called himself Blademaster. Domlen doubted his title was ironic.
‘Begin,’ ordered Lord Mellos, his stern voice echoing from within his huge winged helmet. The Blademaster raised his blade, its edge almost brushing against his helmet as he saluted the Lord of the Line.
Mellos hefted his shield and crouched in a defensive stance, peering over its edge and holding his sword at waist height, pointed towards his foe. The Blademaster did not move, and made no attempt to adjust his stance. He merely stood, waiting for Mellos to make the first move.
Some of the Gask spearmen began to jeer at the Blademaster, others shouting words of encouragement to Lord Mellos, but neither of the warriors seemed to hear them.
The steel ranks of the Necrotii made not a sound, simply standing and watching in silence as the two leaders assessed one another’s tactics.
Then Mellos stepped in, raising his sword high and bringing it down swiftly in a deadly arc. The Blademaster did not react until the last second, raising his own strange blade and turning the heavy sword aside. Mellos scrambled back, holding his shield aloft, but the Necrotii warrior did not counter, seeming content to allow his heavily armored opponent to come forward again. This Mellos did, seizing on the Blademaster’s reticence to attack. The hawk sword flashed in the sun as Mellos let forth a flurry of vicious thrusts and swipes, but his opponent seemed to anticipate every one, stepping left and right out of range, and using his long narrow weapon in the most economical manner to parry the blows he could not dodge.
As Mellos’s incessant attacks wore on, Domlen began to get an unnerving feeling. This battle was reminiscent of a bear being baited – tiring itself out against a host of foes it could never defeat. Even from this distance, he could hear Lord Mellos’s labored breathing. The man was growing more tired with every swing of his great sword and the armor he had previously worn so easily was starting to wear heavily.
The Gask soldiers were becoming ever more vocal, urging their general on, seeing him valiantly facing their enemy, but Mellos was waning with every second, and it would take more than the shouts of his men to renew his vigor.
Domlen suddenly found himself wishing for faith – yearning that the gods he had so long ago spurned were real, and that he could call on the Demagon to power Mellos’s blade and smite the Necrotii Blademaster where he stood.
It was not to be.
Lord Mellos charged in, grunting with all his might, churning up the soft earth beneath his feet. His blow, like so many others, missed its mark by quite a margin, and this time his heavy shield did not rise quickly enough. In a flash the Blademaster struck, his weapon punching a hole in Mellos’s armor just below the left breast. The long curved blade sank in almost to the hilt.
As one, the Gask troops fell silent, and Mellos staggered back, dropping his ineffectual shield to the ground as the keen blade was pulled from his body. The Blademaster made no move to advance, allowing his enemy to retreat rather than moving in for the kill.
Mellos staggered, dropping to one knee, but managing to keep hold of the hawk sword. His opponent took a step back, swiping his blade to the side and flicking a trail of crimson from its edge.
Domlen could suddenly hear voices shouting in alarm. Men moved past him, running to aid their general, but he found he could not move. Officers and armored men grasped Mellos before he could fall and began to carry him back to the encampment, but all Domlen could do was stand and stare. As he did so he was sure the Blademaster was watching him from within the black helm, those striking gray eyes looking on, bereft of emotion.
As Mellos’s sagging body was dragged past him, the Blademaster’s words began to echo in Domlen’s head. ‘If there is no one who can best me you will give yourselves over to us as our prisoners.’
As he recalled the words, Domlen strained to fight the urge to puke.
Three loud and familiar voices filled the command tent. Captains Gretz, Horst and Praest were arguing about their next course of action.
Domlen heard words like, surrender, retreat and attack bandied between the trio ad nauseum, and he had mostly managed to filter their pointless diatribe into an annoying background buzz.
All he could think was that soon he would be called upon to perform the Rites of Ascendancy for Lord Mellos, who now lay prone and unmoving in one corner of the tent. Beside him stood his son, Tomos, regaled in his miniature armor, looking on at the pale and mute form of his wounded father, his face an immature mirror of Mellos’s own grim visage.
A single apothecary administered to the Lord of the Line, who had dismissed everyone else from the command tent while he still had the strength. Try as he might to stem the wound in Mellos’s side, it had simply been beyond the man’s skills. Mellos had been punctured through spleen, kidney and lung, and it was a miracle he still breathed.
A miracle that Domlen doubted would last for much longer.
The apothecary took a large squirming leach from a jar and began to nervously place it on Mellos’s pale flesh, but a firm hand suddenly grasped him by the wrist. The apothecary gasped at the strength of Mellos’s grip, which did not seem to be stymied by his nearness to death. Domlen could see the general’s lips moving, and the apothecary stooped to listen. When Mellos had finished and released the trembling physician, the man scurried over to Domlen.
‘He wishes to speak with you,’ the man whispered, as he scampered past and through the flap of the command tent.
Domlen glanced around nervously. The three captains still argued, and thoughts of escape fleetingly danced through Domlen’s head. Whatever Mellos wanted could not be good. If he could leave the tent unnoticed, perhaps Mellos would be dead by the time anyone found him, and by then, whatever bad news the Lord of the Line of Karrn wanted to give him would be lost.
Then he noticed that though he was beneath the attention of Mellos’s officers, his son was more observant. The boy stood proudly next to the prone form of his dying sire, his expectant frown fixed solidly on Domlen.
Bollocks, he thought, as he took his first reluctant step towards the fading general.
Mellos’s breath was shallow, his face a pale mask of its former dour countenance. Only near his end did the Lord of the Line of Karrn truly look his age.
Domlen stooped closer, reluctant to hear the words of his general, but duty bound to do so. Hopefully the dying man would simply want to confess his sins, and that would be an end to it, but the way Domlen’s luck had been over the past few days the chances of that were slim at best.
‘It has to be you,’ whispered Mellos, his words cracking from a parched throat.
‘It has to be me, what?’ replied Domlen, unsure of where this was heading.
‘For the men. And for the Gask. It has to be you… who faces the Blademaster next.’
Domlen suddenly blanched. He looked around quickly to make sure no one had heard. The captains were still bickering, but Tomos was there, watching with a sternness that no adolescent should have borne. It was obvious he had heard his father’s words.
‘B-but I am no warrior,’ said Domlen desperately. ‘My lord, I’ll be killed.’
Mellos did not answer immediately, instead grasping Domlen’s wrist and squeezing so tight it made the Celebrant wince. ‘You represent the gods. By defeating their champion in battle you will show our superiority.’ His words were spat through gritted teeth, his voice retaining some of its former strength.
Domlen wanted to shout, wanted to refuse, wanted to explain that it was not his place, but the words would not come. There could be no excuse that would free him of this obligation.
Only the truth could save him now.
‘But I don’t believe,’ he said, tears filling his eyes. ‘And I don’t want to die.’
Mellos’s reaction was the last that Domlen would have expected. The dying general laughed. As he did so he spat a fleck of blood onto his cheek, and Domlen made to wipe it away. Mellos batted the celebrant’s hand aside before he could touch him.
‘Do you think I believe?’ he said, the laughter now ended. ‘Do you think I want to die? There are no gods, Domlen. No seat by their side for the best of their servants. There is only blackness – a quiet pit of nothing. But it is a damn sight better than what the Necrotii offer. Whether we believe or not doesn’t matter a shit. It’s whether we keep faith in ourselves that’s important.’ Domlen frowned, unsure of what Mellos meant, but the Lord of Karrn continued. ‘The men don’t care about gods and blessings. They care about strength. Show them that and your dead gods won’t matter – the men will still follow you into the burning pits of hell. And if you die with honor, with a weapon in your hand and fire in your eyes, then they’ll still have a hope that they could die the same way.’
Domlen felt like he was about to be sick. He swallowed it down as best he could, and looked around. The captains were looking on silently.
Shit! They had heard.
Mellos let out a sigh and seemed to recede further into the wood-framed bed. Domlen looked around in panic as the captains began to nod in agreement with their general.
This was it. There was nowhere to run or hide. He had been condemned by the bastard Mellos in front of his officers and his heir.
What had he done to deserve this? Why was this happening to him?
Just plain old bad luck, he supposed.
His sleep was fitful and he had been wide awake since long before dawn, staring up into the dark recesses of his tent.
Just as a dim light began to encroach on the blackness, two adjutants came to inform him Mellos was dead.
Domlen dressed in a daze, walking to the command tent dutifully and performing the Rites of Ascendancy with little conviction.
No one seemed to care.
Young Tomos watched the proceedings impassively, the three captains stood by with stern resolve, and when it was all done they looked to Celebrant Domlen for guidance.
He didn’t have a clue what to say to console them. He knew there were no words that would make their hopeless situation seem any better. Instead, Domlen returned to his small tent, breathing in the stench of damp and fear, and unwrapped his censer-maul from its linen covering. From a small pouch he took some incense, relieved to see it was still dry despite the inclement weather, and placed it within the maul’s head.
With the sun rising over the trees, Domlen walked out into the cool morning air. No one spoke a word to him as he stopped before the shield wall. The troops looked weary after their nightlong vigil and it was obvious they would not last much longer without rest. But with the enemy in such close proximity, rest was not a luxury they could be afforded.
Domlen knelt, striking a small flint to spark a flame among the long sticks of incense housed in the maul’s head. It was a symbolic act. Before a celebrant of the Ministratum went to war he would say his prayers to the Demagon and light the censer-maul, spouting liturgies and drumming himself into a fervor. And such was the reverie that the Demagon would hear, and he would answer – granting divine strength in the face of the celebrant’s enemies.
He knew it was not true. He knew it would make little difference in the coming battle. The Blademaster would kill him, and it would be done, but as Mellos had said, by his death – by his observances of the rites and rituals of the Pantheonicum – he might inspire these tired fearful men to one last defense in the face of the Necrotii mass.
The incense caught, immediately exuding its pungent mist into the dawn air. Strangely, as he began to smell its sweet aroma Domlen felt some comfort. Despite his doubts and his lack of faith, he would at least die a hero of the Gask nation. It mattered little that no one would hear of his bravery. All that mattered was that at last he was deserving of his title. No longer was he useless, troublesome Domlen, given light duties because of his ineptitude. Now he was Celebrant Domlen, striding to war in defense of the Gask Nation and its Faith. And it was these thoughts that quickly grew into a confidence Domlen had never before held in himself.
He stood, and the shield wall parted before him. And there, standing in the same spot, as though he had not moved for a night and a day, waited the Blademaster.
Domlen walked forward, and his legs did not shake from fear. Neither did he stumble on the slippery surface nor make of himself a fool. As he walked his lips formed the karneus recus, the battle song of the Demagon, the Gask god of war, the immortal warrior lord who watched over them all. And from the ranks of soldiers now at his back came calls of encouragement and cries of hope that their celebrant, their one link to the gods above, would be victorious.
He stopped before the black-clad killer, regarding those cold gray eyes. Domlen was not defiant or aggressive – he merely was; sure in himself, shrouded in an incense scent and filled with a knowing he had not borne since his first days in service to the Ministratum.
‘I take it you have not then come to surrender?’ said the Blademaster.
‘No, I have not come to surrender.’
‘Then you have come to die?’
Domlen inclined his head. ‘If the Demagon wills it.’
‘Faith in your false gods will not see you through the morning, priest. Throw down your arms and surrender, for the good of your men if nothing else.’
Yesterday Domlen might have happily accepted those terms, but today was different. Colors seemed more vivid, noises held more clarity and everything made sense. Today Domlen was without any doubt.
‘Our talk is finished,’ he said, hefting his maul and sweeping a line of sweet smelling mist before him.
‘Very well,’ said the Blademaster, lifting his sword in salute.
And the battle was on.
The one thing that Domlen had not been a complete failure at during his time in the Minster was close in combat. Though his fingers were as deft as a cow’s udders his arm was strong, and he could wield a maul as well as any of his brother celebrants.
His first swing was merely a tester, a straight blow at chest height, but it still served to show the Blademaster he was not dealing with a mere soothsayer and preacher of moral asides.
Immediately the Necrotii warrior was on his guard, adopting a low stance, his strange blade held with both hands.
Domlen had watched Mellos exhaust himself against the Blademaster’s dodges and parries, and he was determined not to do the same. He would have to bring the huge warrior to him and force him to attack.
As the Gask line raised their voices in support, Domlen rushed in again, this time holding the maul upright to block the Blademaster’s weapon. Blade met maul and the two men were locked together, the Blademaster staring down at Domlen impassively with those deep gray eyes. There was no emotion there; he was a detached killer, awaiting his moment to strike.
Domlen was determined not to give it.
The head of the censer-maul was braced between them as their weapons locked, and a wispy trail of incense billowed from the head. After swallowing in a lungful of sweet air, Domlen quickly blew, expelling the air from his lungs and into the head of the maul. Sparks flared as the incense was ignited into life, spitting shards of hot ash into the face of the Blademaster.
The Necrotii reeled back, momentarily blinded, sweeping his great sword in mighty arcs to keep Domlen at bay, but the Celebrant was not about to spurn his chance. He swept the maul down and smashed it into the Blademaster’s sword arm. The weapon dropped from his grip and he retreated further, suddenly desperate to put distance between himself and the priest’s onslaught. Domlen moved in again, smashing his maul into the Blademaster’s hip and with a grunt the mighty warrior was felled to his knees, to flounder in the dirt.
Domlen stood over him victorious, the Gask behind him now silent. The Blademaster glared up, those gray eyes now reddening from the cinders of incense. Domlen raised his maul high.
‘Wait–’ said the Blademaster
Domlen smashed his maul into the side of the warrior’s head and he span, the helmet spinning with him until it faced backward. He fell lifeless to the muddy earth.
A mighty cheer went up, echoing around the valley and Domlen felt his limbs begin to tremble in the aftermath of the combat. He had never fought for his life before, and would be quite happy never to have to do it again. But behind it all there was still a quiet whisper of praise, as though someone were congratulating him, an unknown presence instilling Domlen with deserved pride. Whether it was the spirit of Mellos or the manifestation of the Demagon he did not know. All he knew was that he was victorious, and he had saved the lives of those men who had placed so much faith in him.
But it appeared the promises of the Necrotii held little weight.
As one, the massed ranks of black iron soldiers locked their shields, threading spears between them. Like a single line of unremitting death they headed up the hill towards him.
This wasn’t fair. Domlen had done his part, had fulfilled every task he had been asked, and this was his reward?
He stared down at the still body of the Blademaster at his feet. The lying bastard!
It was too much.
Domlen began to kick the corpse, feeling his toes numbing with each blow. It didn’t make him feel any better about the way he had been cheated but it went some way to distracting him from the relentless advance of the Necrotii horde.
When he could kick no more he stopped, and resolved to face the enemy. They were close now, only twenty yards away. Soon he would be able to see their eyes within those shadowed visors, but with any luck he would take a spear to the chest before then.
‘Strength of the Demagon!’ came the cry.
‘For the Gask and the Line of Karrn!’ came another, this one close to Domlen’s shoulder. He glanced to his side in time to see a valiant charge. The line of spearmen were striding down the hillside, their rising hawk standard held proudly to the fore. They were advancing to meet the terror of the Necrotii shield wall head on.
Before the two phalanxes could meet there was a sudden thunderous rumble, as steel-shod hooves beat furrows in the ground. The Necrotii barely had time to look to their flank before it was assaulted by a solid wedge of cavalry. Domlen could see Captain Gretz at its head, charging with a previously unseen zeal, followed by troops that looked as deadly and ferocious as the black clad enemy they bore down on.
Celebrant Domlen was suddenly gripped by the battle lust that hung heavy on the air. Later he would have little memory of the events that followed, but after the battle it took him a full day to clean his weapon and his garb.
They buried Lord Karrn on the hilltop. His son Tomos shed no tears, but the same could not be said for some of the men.
Domlen performed his funereal rites, blessing the ground around the grave and anointing the hillside with fire and water.
This time though, there was a stark difference to the prayers he said.
This time when he read from the Pantheonicum, Domlen’s words were no longer empty and lacking in Faith.
This time, Celebrant Domlen knew there were no such things as dead gods.
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Fantasy, Richard Ford, Short Fantasy Stories
July 16th, 2010 Issue
July 16, 2010 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
We are pleased to present “Dead Gods” by Richard Ford.
Filed under Afterburn SF Posts, Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Fantasy, Issue, Richard Ford, Short Fantasy Stories
Microsorce
The attack began while Sorcerer Drak and his personal staff stood around the crystal ball in his office. Chief Analyst Flong was explaining that the image of a bull devouring a bear meant their stock was about to go up. Suddenly, the bull and bear disappeared, replaced by large red letters: “You are under attack. Duck to avoid incoming darts.”
Drak hadn’t earned his position as CEO of Microsorce, Inc., without fast reactions. He ducked. His personal staff–Flong, Argyle, Jan and Craig–did not.
The cloud of darts flew by. With strangling sounds, all four of the staffers fell to the ground. Several darts hit the crystal ball, knocking it off its stand. It rolled across the table and fell to the floor. A large crack appeared on its surface. Other darts dug into the souvenir witch’s broom on the wall behind Drak’s desk, and into an engraving of a dragon.
Drak rose to a half crouch, looking for the source of the darts. A man holding a wand leaned out of a horizontal slit in mid-air from across the room. His head and upper body floated in mid-air as the rest of him disappeared into the spatial gate. He was completely bald, wearing a bright red robe, with dark, riveting eyes that locked onto Drak’s eyes. His face was horribly disfigured by crisscrossing scars.
Drak found the situation perplexing. Microsorce was protected by the best computer defenses in the world. And yet, here was this intruder, in his personal office on the top–100th–floor of Microsorce. Only the now ruined crystal ball had given warning, but just barely.
“Computer, defend!” Drak called. But nothing happened. The computer should have deactivated sorcery by anyone not of Microsorce. The sorceware was flawless–something was wrong.
He hadn’t bothered going through the daily defense enchantment to activate his personal defenses since he worked and lived inside “Fortress Microsorce.” And so he was defenseless until he had time to do the enchantment. Worse, he realized that his wand was on his desk behind him, tantalizingly just out of reach.
The intruder grinned with crooked teeth. “You look well. I’m glad to see that.” He looked about. “Your office–it’s even bigger than I remembered! Very nice. I like it.” The man applauded mockingly, clapping his wand slowly into his other hand. “Don’t you recognize me?”
Drak couldn’t quite place the accent–Australian? There was something vaguely familiar about the man. “Never seen you before in my life,” he said. As he spoke, his right hand, hidden by his body, inched backward to his wand.
The man grinned even wider. “Think back eighteen years–when you first started out. Remember your first sorceware? The sorcery that launched Microsorce?”
The blood drained from his face as Drak remembered. “Loz!“ The man was one of Microsorce’s first sorcerers. It had been many years–and a head full of hair–since Drak had last seen him. The horrible scars were also new; Drak could only imagine where they came from. He had hoped never to see this man again.
“Now you recognize me. Yes, I’ve had a little battle seasoning since you last saw me.” He grinned, which came out more as a grimace, making the scars stand out even more.
“I wanted you to know who killed you.” As Loz spoke, Drak’s hand felt what must be his wand. “And now. . . .” Loz raised his wand and pointed it at Drak. Drak grabbed for his wand and came up in full offensive mode.
Loz laughed as Drak stood there, holding the remote for his office TV.
“I believe the wand you are looking for is over there.” Loz gestured with his wand. Drak’s wand had been knocked off the table and lay on the floor, partly impaled by a dart. “What a picture you are. How the mighty have fallen!” He laughed. He laughed through his nose and sounded like he had a monster case of the sniffles.
“I didn’t expect it to be this easy,” Loz continued. “I have a backup plan–a very expensive one–but that won’t be necessary now.” His voice rose in pitch and loudness. “Who would believe the great Drak could be defeated in minutes!” Loz suddenly feinted with his wand, and Drak started to duck. But Loz only laughed again.
“And now,” Loz said, “let me introduce you to my good buddy, Flong. May he rise from the dead!”
The lifeless body of Flong was suddenly no longer lifeless as Flong got up, pulling darts out of his neck, shoulders and purple coveralls, and wiping away blood from his aging and balding head with a handkerchief. He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, chief.”
So Flong had given Loz the computer codes.
“Tomorrow, everyone will read about the hostile takeover of Microsorce, and the world will go on,” Loz said. “But you, like your wandslingers downstairs, will not. This is business–but it’s also personal. My face will be the last thing you see. And now, you die.” He grinned and pointed his wand at Drak, and a horde of darts shot toward him. Drak started to duck, but knew there were too many.
In a whirlwind of motion, another of the bodies jumped off the floor. With impossible speed, the body leaped in front of the darts, taking them all in the face and chest. The whirlwind body–Argyle, Drak’s chief of staff–went for Loz. With superhuman speed, Argyle reached him and connected with a punch to the face.
But the punch went right through the Loz, and his image only flickered for a second. It was a phantom image, as Drak already knew. Loz grinned out of the spatial gate as Argyle threw several more punches at the empty air.
During the distraction, Drak grabbed his wand, with the dart still stuck in it. Loz shrieked as a bolt of force hit him. Drak knew how to battle phantoms, and started to throw another bolt. There was a small burst of light and the spatial gate disappeared. As it did so, so did all the darts in the office–phantom darts, which had served their deadly purpose.
Flong made a break for the door, but Argyle easily caught him. Drak took the time to bring up his personal defenses. He wouldn’t be caught like that again. He brushed his fingers through his long hair, already white at fifty-eight, then collapsed his gangling form onto his chair behind his desk. His leathery face cascaded with wrinkles, both from the stress of running the largest corporation in the world and, he suspected, from an unknown magical mishap from a past battle.
“Good work, Arg,” Drak said, examining his wand to make sure the phantom dart hadn’t damaged it. The short and stocky Argyle had small punctures all over his tanned face and chest–but instead of blood, white fluid leaked out. No one else knew that his chief of staff, a well-known sorcerer and wandslinger with an infamous shock of unruly blond hair, was an android. If others did, there would have been major protests. Prejudice against androids was alive and well. But now, his choice to reward the best and most trusted person he knew–even if his insides were half plastic–in the position that required the most trust had paid off.
Flong’s mouth was agape. Drak wasn’t sure if he was more shocked at the sudden turn of events, or at the discovery that his colleague Argyle was an android. Or that the powerful android now held him in a headlock.
Drak looked down on the bodies of the tall Jan and the short and stocky Craig. He half expected them to get up, as Flong and Argyle had. But he knew it was not to be. He could sense the presence of death, but squatted down and checked each for a pulse, just in case. There was none. They’d been with him since the start, and had met at Microsorce. The two had worked by day, dated by night, and had soon married. Drak had been best man. Their kids were ages three and five.
Flong had a lot to answer for.
Loz had hinted that the wandslingers downstairs were dead. Drak pushed the button on his phone for the wandslinger room, but nobody answered.
“Sorry I couldn’t act sooner, chief,” the android said. “I had to wait and see what the situation was.” Then he looked at Flong, still in his headlock. “What’ll we do with him, chief?”
“What do you recommend?” Drak asked. He found Flong’s betrayal hard to believe. He’d hired Flong many years before and had always trusted the man, the best analyst in the world. Fortunately, an analyst can only interpret a crystal ball; he can’t stop it from giving warnings.
“A little pain might loosen his tongue, chief. I think he has a story to tell.” The android dug his fist into Flong’s flabby belly. As he slowly pushed in, Flong gasped.
“That’s not necessary.” Drak raised his wand. “I’m sure I can get anything out of him we need.”
“But I’d rather do it this way.” The android pushed harder. Despite Argyle’s humble beginnings as a servant android, Drak believed his rather creative sorcery had made the android more human than most humans.
“Okay, okay, stop it! I’ll talk!” Flong croaked, barely able to breathe with the android’s fist painfully pushing into his stomach.
And so the story poured out. Loz had contacted him, and the money he offered was just too much to turn down. He’d given Loz the computer codes, and Loz had given him the antidote and told him when to take it.
After hearing the story, Drak waved his wand and tied Flong up with lines of force. He then reactivated the computer. With all the complicated Microsorce spells to enact, it would take about ten minutes for the computer to restart, and another five minutes for the powerful computer defenses to do so. Like the vast majority of computers in the world, it was run by sorceware created by the sorcerers at Microsorce.
Drak was sure it was outsourced sorceware that had allowed Loz’s attack. Even with the proper codes, the defenses shouldn’t have gone down so easily. Heads were going to roll and he was going to do the bowling.
While the computer restarted, Argyle went downstairs to check on the ten wandslingers that Microsorce kept on hand. They were normally used when negotiation failed, and Microsorce had to resort to a hostile takeover.
A few minutes later, he returned. Loz had paid them a visit as well. The scene he described was horrible. All ten wandslingers, some of the best in the business, were dead from phantom darts.
There went the last of Microsorce’s defenses–other than wandslingers Drak and Argyle–until the computer defenses were back up. But there was still more bad news.
“I am sorry, Drak,” the newly-activated computer said in its slow, correct way. “I was not able to help you. I heard your calls for help, but my defenses and audio systems had been deactivated. Macropods are marsupials belonging to the family Macropodidae, which includes kangaroos, wallabies, pademelons and quokka, all native to Australia.”
Drak and Argyle looked up sharply. “What did you say?”
“I said I was not able to help you. I heard-”
“No, about kangaroos and Australia!” Drak exclaimed.
“I gave basic info on Macropods,” the computer said. “But I see the problem. This had nothing to do with the context of the conversation. There has been some damage to my logic programming. Australia is the sixth largest country in the world.”
“Great. Just what we need, a computer spouting about Australia,” Drak said. “Any other problems with your programming?”
“I am afraid that there is another problem,” the computer said. “While our defenses will be up in about a minute, my sorceware has been compromised. Our defenses can be closed down again. Australia’s neighboring countries include Indonesia, East Timor and Papua New Guinea.”
“How do you mean?” Argyle ignored the Australian info.
“There is new sorceware planted inside me that leaves me open to attack. Australia has . . . there, I fixed the Australian problem.”
“Thank god!” Argyle said.
“They cannot control me, or deactivate my audio system again, but they can send in a sorce signal that will activate the planted sorceware. This will turn off our defenses and keep them off.
“The sorceware they installed in me is quite ingenious and cannot be removed directly. The only way to fix this is to completely resorce me. It will take your best sorceware programmer two days to do so.”
“It’s true,” Flong said. “There’s no way to defend against him–you really should give up and maybe he’ll let you live. He’ll attack again, and you heard the computer–you can’t win. Why not–” but Flong went silent as Drak waved his wand at him. Flong fell over, sound asleep for at least a day, Drak figured.
“It wouldn’t take me two days to resorce the computer,” Argyle said. “I can do it in one.”
“But with no computer defenses, and you and I the only wandslingers, Microsorce would be nearly defenseless,” Drak said. “We don’t even have a working crystal ball.”
Argyle looked at Drak curiously. “Who was that? You two seemed to have been acquainted.”
Long forgotten memories of Loz now flooded Drak. “He was the most talented sorce programmer I ever knew. I recruited him from Australia. He was a real hot-shot, responsible for some of the most creative sorcery in the Microsorce code.” He sighed.
“And then?” Argyle prompted.
“He was careless and sloppy,” Drak continued. “Remember Microsorce 1.0, with all the bugs? That was his programming. I forgave him for that. But with all the problems with 2.0, 3.0 and 4.0, I lost patience. Creative sorcery doesn’t help if the product doesn’t work right, and we were losing ground to Applesorce. So I fired him.” Drak remembered the overly dramatic scene. “He didn’t take it too well.”
Drak remembered Loz’s last words from so long ago, shouted at him from the doorway as the enraged Loz was escorted out by two wandslingers holding his arms. “Someday I’ll be back to make hell for you!”
“He will attack again,” Drak said. “But I don’t think he’ll try the same attack–that type of sorcery is very difficult and it’ll take him days to prepare it again. I think it’ll be a more direct attack.”
Argyle bit his lower lip, a human trait he’d learned to do when deep in thought. “You could organize the sorceware programmers to defend Microsorce.”
Drak shook his head. “They aren’t wandslingers. They are programmers who spend their days chanting at computer screens. You and I are the only ones who can fight–and I’m guessing we’ll be way outnumbered.”
“We can’t just give up!” Argyle said.
Drak held his head in his hands, deep in thought. “Listen closely. This is what we’re going to do. It’s risky, but it’s our only chance.”
#
“Hey, it looks like you’ve had a slight tussle!” one of Loz’s wandslingers exclaimed at the new additions to Loz’s face.
Loz rubbed at his head. The burning wouldn’t stop–it was more than a simple burn from Drak, and Loz would have to get a sorcerdoc to treat it. Loz swore vengeance, something he did a number of times each day.
He licked his lips as he thought of what was about to happen. He’d been caught off guard by what must have been an android. Such speed! He had let it distract him. He was too good to fall for such things. When he took over Microsorce, his first act–after killing Drak and Argyle–would be to kill Flong as painfully as possible for failing to alert him about this. Imagine! An android chief of staff.
He and his twenty wandslingers, half men, half women, were gathered in a coffee shop several blocks from Microsorce. Loz had done his initial dart attack from a booth there.
The wandslingers were a varied lot. There were nine from Brazil, dressed in green, yellow and blue, led by the efficient Rantonio. There were six from Poland, dressed in red and white, led by the flamboyant Brolak. And there were five from China, dressed in red and yellow, led by the beautiful Jia. All had wands at their waists, ready to draw at an instant’s notice.
Loz called together the leaders. “Let’s consider the tactical situation,” he said.
“It’s simple,” Rantonio said. “We have the planted sorceware to take down their defenses, inside info on Microsorce’s defenses, and twenty-one wandslingers, including you.” Loz had paid for the wandslingers by the fruits of computer crime and the compounded interest of his severance pay from Microsorce. Ironic, he thought.
Rantonio continued. “They have only two wandslingers, a tainted computer and a 100-story building staffed by overweight sorceware programmers who spend more time eating Bon-Bons than fighting with wands.” He chuckled at his joke.
Loz also smiled. The overweight programmers–sheep to be herded as assets–would soon be his property. He had been the greatest of sorceware programmers; now, after years of training, he would be the greatest wandslinger. And then he would be the greatest of CEOs, running Microsorce, the greatest and richest company in the world.
Killing Microsorce’s ten wandslingers had been too easy. The Microsorce people were getting soft. He smiled, thinking about the bit of additional sorceware he’d stuck in the computer, the Australian joke.
“It’d take another few days to set up another spatial gate,” Loz said. “By then, their defenses will be back up. So, we go to Plan B: the frontal attack of Microsorce.” He fingered his wand at the thought of it. It would be a glorious victory.
#
Drak didn’t have long to wait before the computer alerted him that it was under attack. “They have sent the sorce signal–their sorceware is activated. I am fighting it, but I can only do so for a few minutes.”
“Just stick to the plan,” Drak said.
“I will do so,” the computer said.
“Chief, you know your plan is crazy, right?” Argyle said. “Why not fight them like true wandslingers, and die like heroes?”
“You may be right, Arg; you may be right,” Drak said. “But dead heroes tend to be dead, and it’s hard to run a major corporation when you’re dead. You’ll have your chance at them when the time comes.”
A short time later, the computer announced, “The defenses are down.”
A few minutes later, the computer spoke again. “I see them on my outside scanners. There are twenty-one of them. They are approaching the front of the building now and should be entering in approximately fifteen seconds. They wear the colors of Brazil, Poland, and China.”
Drak knew what that meant. Rantonio, Brolak and Jia! It was worse than he thought. He knew the first two only by reputation, but he knew Jia from personal experience. He’d barely defeated the medallioned sorceress many years ago in a hostile takeover of Chinasorce–a battle that had raged all day. Against the three of them combined, he and Argyle had little chance. Throw in Loz and the other seventeen wandslingers, and it was going to be a very short fight.
“Should we have the computer execute the plan now?” Argyle asked.
Drak considered it, but decided against it. “I’d rather use the computer to spy on them for now. There’s plenty of time to do it when they’re on the way up.”
#
Loz and his wandslingers entered Microsorce uncontested, wands at the ready. With their personal defenses on, it would take great sorcery to threaten them.
Loz wondered if Drak would try to defend the building with the sorceware programmers–which would not only be a slaughter, but would lower the company’s value if too many of the programmers were killed. Or Drak could simply take them on, two against twenty-one. Either way, Drak would lose. Loz would stay in the back, and take the lead at the end, when Drak and the android were beaten and about to die.
Jia motioned for him to come over, several medallions jingling around her neck as she did so. “They could be setting a trap,” the Chinese sorceress said. “The logical place is by the elevators.”
“It’s the only way up unless you want to walk up a hundred flights of stairs,” Loz said. “So check them out.” Jia approached the elevator and began muttering incantations while clutching a medallion engraved with a dragon.
The Microsorce receptionist had watched the wandslingers as they entered, eyes wide. Loz had seen her reach down with her hand–he knew she was hitting the “alert” button. He didn’t care. By now, Drak knew they were coming.
The receptionist avoided staring at Loz’s hideous face. “May I help you, gentlemen?”
Loz grinned. “Yes. I’m here to kill your CEO and take over your company. Could you set up an appointment for me?”
Several of the wandslingers laughed.
Jia glared. “I don’t think you’re serious enough.”
But Brolak joined in the fun. “Madam, I’d like to apologize for the poor manners of my colleague here,” he said in his suave Polish accent. “He’s not a gentleman. Now me, I’m all man, and I’m gentle–and I’d like to pick you up for dinner tonight.”
“Sorry, not interested,” the frightened receptionist said.
“Never stopped me before,” replied Brolak, and raised his wand. Some of the Poles laughed. Jia glared silently.
“Work before play,” Rantonio said. “There’ll be plenty of time later.”
Half their wandslingers were women and all were glaring at Brolak. He lowered his wand. “We’ll finish this later.”
Loz didn’t mind the interplay. All that mattered was the end, and that meant making it to the 100th floor and taking Drak.
Loz saw the phone on the receptionist’s desk, and had a thought. “Where’s the staff phone listing?” he asked.
#
Soon after the alert had sounded from the receptionist, the phone on Drak’s desk rang. From the blinking light on the phone, he could see it was from the lobby. He picked it up. “Hello, Loz.”
“Greetings from below,” Loz answered. “How’s Flong?”
“He’s sort of tied up at the moment.”
“I expected better puns from such a sorcerer as you. Of course, I didn’t think you’d have the heart to kill Flong. I don’t have that weakness. However, I’m impressed with how you wrecked my spatial gate before I was done with it. They’re pretty expensive to set up. I’ll send you a bill.”
“Gates are easy.” Drak said, “And I look forward to wrecking more of your toys. So . . . how’s your face?”
Loz’s face flushed as he rubbed it self-consciously.
Before he could respond, Drak said, “So, what can I do for you?”
Loz took a deep breath. “Why not save us the trouble of coming all the way up there? Just meet us in the lobby. We can have it out here. Otherwise I might have to wreck a few things on the way up.”
“That wouldn’t be nice,” Drak said. “But I think I’ll stay here. Send me that bill!”
“Then I’ll see you shortly!” Loz said. “Perhaps then we can discuss a few things I’d like to get off my chest. You know, like stealing my sorceware, taking credit for it, and using it to get rich and famous!”
Drak had done none of those things, but knew it was pointless to argue with a fanatic. “I’d like that discussion very much. While we’re at it, we can discuss your sloppy sorceware that almost let Applesorce take over the market.”
“There was nothing wrong with my sorceware!” Loz screamed over the phone. “Your other sorcerers–weak ones, stupid ones–they conspired against me; they put in the defects; they ruined me! You were part of it, and now you’ll pay for it!” Loz slammed the phone down.
#
Jia glared at Loz in the suddenly tense atmosphere.
“We have a job to do and losing your cool doesn’t help,” she said, shaking her medallions in an orchestra of disapproval.
Loz realized he’d really lost it just then. That wasn’t smart, and it wouldn’t happen again. Breathe easy, he thought, taking a slow, deep breath.
“Listen to me,” Loz said, increasing the volume of his voice with a wave of his wand to get the wandslingers’ attention. “I did that to distract him. Now he thinks I’m raving mad, and maybe it’ll scare him and anyone else up there to give up.”
Jia glared at him; most of the rest avoided looking in his direction, although Loz thought he heard some quiet chuckling, and Brolak looked like he was about to burst out laughing. Loz’s face flushed again.
“Forget it,” he said. “Let’s take the building.” The army of wandslingers moved toward the elevators.
Jia finished checking the elevators and found no trap. She was frowning. “This is too easy,” she muttered. “Something is wrong here.” She joined the others in the two elevators.
Loz was impatient. With a wave of his wand, he set both to go to the 100th floor at breakneck speed. He also locked in the artificial gravity system so it couldn’t be turned off. He entered one of the elevators, and with another wave of his wand, the elevators started their rapid ascent.
#
“They are in the elevators, coming directly here,” said the computer. “They have locked the controls and gravity systems. They have also greatly increased the velocity of the elevator and will arrive on this floor in one minute and 26.6 seconds.”
That was unexpected and very, very bad–Drak knew that everything depended on timing, and now the timing was off. “Computer, execute Plan A.”
“Executing,” the computer said.
“We don’t have enough time,” Argyle said. “They’ll be here way too soon.”
“It looks like you were right,” Drak said. “We should have started earlier, like you suggested, when they first entered the building. All we can do now is stall and hope.”
A moment later, there was a sound in the corridor. “So soon!” Argyle exclaimed.
#
After the rapid upward journey, the wandslingers left the elevators on the 100th floor. They quickly secured the floor, taking a number of prisoners and lining them up against the wall. Rantonio waved his wand at them, and lines of force attached them to the wall. They were company assets, not to be killed.
The twenty-one wandslingers jammed in the hallway outside Drak’s door. He was not an asset.
Loz gazed at the door and the “Drak Draylor, CEO” nameplate. He remembered happier days, glory days when he was on top of the world, when he’d go through this door a happy man to report on his latest creations. Until that last day, when he’d been summoned to see the CEO, surely to be congratulated for his brilliant work–but instead to be fired by Drak. He’d entered a happy man, and left in ruins. Now it was his turn.
Once again, he would go through this doorway a happy man. He stepped forward and knocked three times sharply.
There was no answer.
Loz nodded, and Brolak and his five wandslingers stepped forward. With a wave of his wand, Brolak broke the door down and the six charged in, wands raised.
Argyle raised his wand and took on all six. He whizzed about the room, acrobatically avoiding most of their attacks while unleashing his own.
Then Drak, sitting behind his desk, raised his wand. He had far greater powers than Argyle or any of the others. He scorched and knocked sorcerers about like bowling pins, personal defenses or not. Two sorcerers dropped, stunned, but Brolak and one other went after Drak while two others held Argyle at bay. Brolak waved his wand and the desk exploded into pieces, leaving Drak out in the open. Drak raised his wand and the tide turned as Brolak and the three wandslingers still on their feet were slammed against the wall.
Rantonio and his eight wandslingers now entered the fray. The nine had been recruited for their ability to combine forces. They spread out, each pointing their wands at Drak, their primary target. Brolak and his five wandslingers, somewhat shaken but all of them back on their feet, were now free to focus on Argyle.
Drak slammed Rantonio’s men against the wall and each other, and they danced about like rag dolls shaking at the beckoning of Drak’s wand.
However, when Drak attacked, he was open to attack. Rantonio’s men threw lines of force about him, one by one, each one encumbering the sorcerer and slowing him down. Bolts of energy flew back and forth, weakening the wandslingers–with Drak getting the bulk of it from the nine attackers.
As the battle progressed, the end was inevitable. Loz had run every possible computer simulation and they could not lose. The simulations did not take into account Argyle’s speed, but that would only put off the inevitable. As if that weren’t enough, he’d brought in Jia and her four wandslingers as backup, just in case. He had every possibility covered.
Soon Drak and Argyle, badly weakened, were cornered, with lines of force slowing them down as bolts of energy flew about.
A flash of light came out of Drak’s wand, and the infamous Jaws of Death appeared. No other sorcerer could match this feat. They were like a dragon’s skull, but much wider, and pure black. The jaws closed down over a wandslinger, cutting him in half. Both halves disappeared down its throat.
But creating such magic weakened Drak and left him open to attack. Even as the Jaws of Death flew about the room, Drak felt himself weaken from the unrelenting attacks from the wandslingers.
Now Jia and her four wandslingers entered. Even as it bore down upon her, Jia herself shot the bolt down the throat of the Jaws of Death that destroyed it.
The office was quickly secured as the wandslingers surrounded Argyle and Drak. They still clutched their wands, but spells kept them from using them. Other than the wandslinger that had been swallowed, Loz’s forces had not suffered a single serious casualty, although most were banged up.
Loz, who had watched from the doorway, entered the room in grand fashion. “Greetings, chief!”
“Hello Loz,” Drak said, held down by lines of force from the fourteen upheld wands of Rantonio and Jia and their wandslingers, while Brolak and his wandslingers held Argyle.
Loz put his hands on his hips. He wanted to cherish these few minutes before killing them and assuming his role as CEO as the rightful victor in this legitimate hostile takeover. Then he spied the witch’s broom on the wall, a souvenir from a famous past victory by Drak.
“I’ve always wanted to do this.” He grabbed the broom off the wall and brought it down hard on his leg. The broom broke in two. He flung the two pieces aside. As he did so, Jia gazed at the dragon engraving on the wall next to where the broom had been.
“Now Drak,” he began, “I’ve read everything that’s been written about you over the years.” He began to pace. “You’re a hero to hundreds of millions, maybe billions. You’re the best wandslinger. You make perfect sorceware, give to charity, and are just an all-around great guy.” Then, much more loudly, he said, “Or at least that’s what I’ve read.” He stopped pacing and swooped in on Drak. “But it’s all a lie!”
Loz realized he was losing it again, his face flushing. Get control, he thought. Relax. Breathe easy.
“It should be me, not you,” he continued, once again in control. “And now it’s going to be.” He began pacing back and forth again, and noticed Flong off to the side, still in a magic-induced sleep. He kicked him in the head and turned back to Drak.
“I know what a great hero you’re supposed to be, and I know you aren’t going to accept this, but I’m going to give you a chance to live. All you have to do is get down on your knees, place your wand at my feet, and surrender.” Loz smiled. He knew Drak would fight to the death.
Drak glanced at his watch, then slowly rose to his feet–followed by fourteen wands and many lines of force, which made his movement like walking underwater. He walked in front of Loz and dropped to his knees. Kneeling, he placed his wand at Loz’s feet. “I surrender. I surrender!”
The room went silent.
“I never would have believed this!” Loz exclaimed. The most powerful wandslinger of them all, the CEO of Microsorce, the most famous man on the planet, was surrendering to Him! The wandslingers looked on in stunned amazement.
Jia was the first to recover. “This has to be a trick! Only a moron wouldn’t see that.”
Loz considered this. Jia was no fool. On the other hand, she tended to overreact. “Do you see any evidence of a trick? Anything we’ve overlooked?”
Jia answered with silence.
“This is even better than I thought possible.” Perhaps Loz wouldn’t kill Drak–at least not right away. He would humiliate him instead! “Computer, do you have a recording of Drak surrendering?”
“Yes,” the computer said.
“Download it onto a disk and give me the disk,” Loz said. A moment later, a small disk popped out of a slot in the wall. He stuck it in his pocket.
“Do you realize what is going to happen tomorrow?” Loz gloated over Drak, still on his knees, head bowed. “I am going to make copies and send this to every news program in the world. You will not go down in history as Drak, the great wandslinger and Microsorce boss. You will go down as a simple coward!”
Drak’s head bowed lower. “Will you promise to treat the employees of Microsorce well? They are innocent, and when you take over they’ll serve you as they served me.”
Loz shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? You are in no position to bargain! I am in control here, and I will do as I choose. And to start with–I choose to kill that one.” He motioned at Argyle. “How can you pollute this place with–with such a thing?”
“Something is definitely wrong here.” Jia looked at Loz. “End this now, or you’ll regret it.”
Loz sighed. “OK, we’ll end this now. First I’ll kill the android and then I’ll kill Drak.”
“You said you’d let him live if he surrendered!” Argyle exclaimed.
“I lied,” Loz explained. “I was going to kill him either way, but now–with this tape–things could not have worked out better. And now–it’s time to turn you off! Brolak?”
Brolak and his wandslingers ripped into Argyle with bolts of energy. The android writhed in pain as he struggled to defend himself. He finally dropped his wand and sat helpless. The wandslingers ceased their attack and Loz moved in to end it. He raised his wand at Argyle. . . .
“Wait a minute,” Drak said. Loz hesitated.
“He’s stalling,” Jia said. “Don’t you see that? Something is not right here.” She pointed her wand at Drak.
“No. No trick,” Drak said. “Please. I have no wand and we’re both helpless. I’d just like to say goodbye to Argyle.”
Loz stared at him. “Are you for real?”
“Just for a minute?” Drak pleaded.
Loz shook his head.
Just then, the computer spoke up. “Defense systems back up. I can keep them activated for perhaps four minutes.”
The silence in the room was a thunderclap. “Computer, what do you mean?” Loz asked.
“It means the game is over.” Drak rose to his feet. The lines of force holding him and Argyle were gone. He scooped up his wand from Loz’s feet.
Jia raised her wand and thrust it at Drak. Nothing happened. Drak’s upward smile was matched by the downward look of horror on Loz’s face. Loz raised his wand and waved it at Drak–again, nothing. The other wandslingers also tried, but to no avail.
Drak raised his wand, and with a gesture, all the wands in the room–save his own and Argyle’s–crumbled to dust.
“But…how is this possible?” Loz exclaimed. “My sorceware–what happened?”
“Arg, secure everyone,” Drak said.
Argyle rose to his feet. With a wave of his wand, several shelves and cabinets slid away from the wall, leaving bare walls. “All of you, against the walls. Now!” Soon lines of force cemented all twenty to the walls.
“Loz, you had the codes and sorce signal to bring down our computer defenses and we couldn’t stop it,” Drak said. “Your sorceware would activate any time we tried to put the defenses back up, and would take them down.”
“But the defenses are back up!” Loz exclaimed. “How?”
A look of realization passed over Jia’s face. “If the computer defenses are not turned on, the sorceware doesn’t activate.”
Drak smiled. “Exactly. I ordered the computer to restart while you were on the elevator coming up–but without turning on the defenses, so your sorceware never activated during the restart.” He paused for dramatic effect as realization clouded over Loz’s face. He then continued.
“After we’d stalled and given the computer ten minutes to restart, I gave it a secret signal to turn on the defenses–and the signal was the phrase, ‘I surrender.’ Turning them on takes another five minutes, so we had five more minutes to stall. I was going to volunteer to surrender to save our employees, but Loz made it somewhat easier by asking me to surrender.”
Drak stopped for a moment and nonchalantly aimed his wand at the broken broomstick. The broomstick snapped back together and refastened itself to the wall behind the desk, as good as new. Drak continued.
“Once the defenses were up, there would only be a window of a few minutes before your sorceware would bring the defenses down again. So we had to time it just right.”
Jia was shaking her head. “You timed it so we’d be trapped up here when the defenses came back on. Brilliant. If the defenses came on too soon, then they’d also turn off too soon. If the defenses turned on too late, then you’d be helpless for too long.”
“We were lucky,” Drak confessed. “When you pulled the elevator trick, we had to stall while the computer took ten minutes to restart, and then five more minutes while it restarted the defenses after I gave it the signal.”
Drak looked over to Loz. “As to you, Loz, once again your sorcery was brilliant but sloppy.”
The computer interrupted. “The planted sorceware has been reactivated. I regret to inform you that our defenses are down again. The name Australia derives from Latin australis meaning southern.”
Drak looked up sharply. “Sorry,” the computer said. “I’ll need to be resorced. Australia has been inhabited for over 40,000 years by indigenous Australians.”
“I’ll get to work on that now, before we hear any more Australian lectures,” Argyle said. With lightning speed, he began waving his wand as he chanted, a high-pitched, incoherent whine due to the speed.
Gritting his teeth, Loz said, “But you still surrendered.”
“Did I?” With a wave of his wand, the disk in Loz’s pocket floated out and disappeared in a cloud of dust. “Computer, erase recording of me surrendering.”
“Recording erased,” the computer said.
“If a witch burns in the forest and nobody hears her cries, did she really burn?” Drak asked.
He turned to Loz’s wandslingers and muttered a series of incantations. “You’ll find a new bit of sorce code in your personal defenses. Starting in ten minutes, if any of you comes within a hundred meters of any Microsorce building, you’ll get a rather nasty headache and have about fifteen seconds to get away before your head explodes. You’ll find this code impossible to remove. I suggest you leave.” With a wave of his wand, they were released from the wall. All but Loz and Jia quickly vacated the office and rushed for the elevators.
He turned to Flong. “We still have need of your excellent abilities. But you’ll be working in the Antarctica branch of Microsorce. For quite a long time.”
Drak had not pointed his wand at Loz or Jia. “Jia, I think this is yours?” He took down the dragon engraving behind his desk and handed it to her. It had been a souvenir from their last encounter. Jia nodded her head as she accepted it.
“Jia, we’ve battled twice now, and I’ve been thinking I’d rather have you on my side next time,” Drak said. “I’d like you to join Microsorce. We pay well. We could use a wise but suspicious wandslinger–even if you did try to kill me–again! But you would have to swear loyalty with a sorcerer’s oath.”
After a solemn moment of thought and some absentminded medallion jingling, Jia said, “Agreed. You’ll have my oath.”
Drak turned to Loz. “What should we do with you?”
“Let me go!” Loz struggled furiously against the lines of force. The blood was rushing to his face, and his scars and burns stood out even more.
“I think I know!” Argyle said. “With a rather delicate memory wipe and some plastic sorcery…”
#
The following day, Jia reported for her first day of work as head wandslinger at Microsorce. The previous receptionist had been promoted. Jia smiled at the new one, who smiled back and said, “May I help you?” in his Australian accent.
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Fantasy, Larry Hodges
Gauntlet of Winter, Sword of Spring
“I am the guardian of Ashwood Village,” Sanluth called out. He glanced about, trembling, his knuckles white on the oak staff that was his only weapon. The beech trees stood huge and gnarled around him in the failing evening light, their trunks and branches glittering with frost. He repeated his statement in a louder voice.
But the wood wisp didn’t show herself. Sanluth glanced at the two wolves that stood guard beside him. Their fur bristled and they growled. “Easy,” he said, stroking them. He could sense mischievous magic in the air. Whispers seemed to speak to him, telling him he’d made a terrible choice in coming to this region of the forest.
Laughter and a burst of blue sparks erupted in the treetops, as a dark shadow dove toward Sanluth. He raised his staff defensively, the wolves roaring their challenge. But the shadow vanished, leaving a trail of curling fog that groped at Sanluth like fingers.
He waved the fog away. “The ancient trees are dying!” he cried. “The winter has gone on too long and has stung them too bitterly. Won’t you help me, for the sake of the trees?”
A finger of mist beckoned to him, and he followed it to a small clearing. His boots crunched loudly in the snow, his breath coming out in pale gusts. A few stars shone in the deep blue heavens above the clearing. He waited, shivering beneath his fur cloak. “Enough with the games,” he said. “Time grows short. The elder trees are your kin.”
At last, a pale-skinned woman stepped into the clearing. She was covered only in a gown of fog that wound about her in a spiral. Her eyes were like blue ice, her hair a wavy ribbon of silver. She walked atop the snow.
The wolves whined and hunkered down.
“What would you ask of me, Sanluth?” she said. “I don’t control the weather. I can’t make the winter give way to spring, as long as it lies in the grasp of an iron hand.”
“Then you can’t help me?” Sanluth said. His knees sagged beneath him. “I’ve come so far to see you. You’re the wood wisp who guards the forest, who knows everything and whose power cannot be matched. If you can’t end this winter, who can?”
“You’ve come on a fool’s quest,” she said. “I’m not the guardian of this forest, and I certainly don’t know everything. I’m just a creature who lives here. And you’re just a boy expected to do the work that a hundred men wouldn’t be able to do. Your village declared you guardian because the wild wolves came to you and offered their protection. Is this true?”
“You know it is, my lady,” said Sanluth. He was weary, hungry, and cold–to the depths of his soul. But the magnificent creature before him held him spellbound to the point where he couldn’t so much as blink. She seemed to have absolute power over him.
“Yes, but it still amazes me,” the wood wisp said. “You’ve barely lived eighteen years, and yet they send you off on a quest to save the forest.”
Sanluth nodded. “I’ll do what I must. If the elder trees die, the magic of the woodlands will fail. Many blessed things will pass from the world.”
She looked away. “Yes…I know it to be true. But if I point you to the right path, I fear you will be going to your death. The deepest frost and the darkest greed choke our land, born from a place where no warm-blooded human should ever go.”
“But I have to,” Sanluth said. He knew he appeared young and weak to her. He was slight of build, his smooth face bearing only a shadow of a beard. He tried to stand taller and straighter.
The wood wisp stood in silence for several moments. At last she spoke. “I will give you answers. But your death will not be my responsibility. I am immortal, and I pity those who must shed their bodies and leave the earth behind. No one should have to leave this precious world.”
“I don’t fear death,” Sanluth said. “My people believe it leads to a better place.”
“I could never imagine straying from this forest,” she said. “But you humans are strange.”
“Where must I journey?” said Sanluth.
“North,” she said, “to the Iron Teeth Mountains. There you will find the frozen heart of insanity–a place even I wouldn’t dare venture into.”
Sanluth didn’t know what she spoke of, but for a creature as ancient and powerful as the wood wisp to make such a statement terrified him. “The mountains are vast. How will I find whatever I’m seeking?”
“I will send a guide,” she said, “one of my kin. It deeply saddens me to do this, because the creature I’ll send with you should never leave this forest. Yet unless I send this guide, you have no hope of success.”
A figure that seemed to be made of twisted roots crept into the clearing. It was hunched over, with long, crooked arms. Two crimson eyes smoldered in its gnarled head.
The wolves growled, and Sanluth took a step back.
“Do not fear,” the wood wisp said. “This is my brother, the root master. I think you’ll find him to be charming company.” But the sour expression on her face said otherwise.
***
Sanluth camped in a small cave that the wood wisp led him to. The next day, he set out for the Iron Teeth Mountains with his wolves and the root master for company. The root master seemed to antagonize the wolves constantly, deliberately walking close to them and making them nervous. Often, he crept along silently behind Sanluth atop the snow, prompting Sanluth to keep glancing behind him. Most troubling of all was the fact that the root master never spoke.
Sometimes, the creature raced ahead, and Sanluth had to struggle to keep pace. Sanluth found himself questioning everything. Not long ago, he’d been proud to be named guardian of his village. But he wasn’t well trained for combat or survival. He had no idea why the wolves had chosen him. They were mysterious creatures with motives no human could fathom.
That night, it began to snow heavily. They made camp under a massive ash tree, Sanluth setting up a small tent of animal furs. He ate a dinner of jerky along with some bread that was so hard he could barely chew it. He fed some of the meat to the wolves, but the root master didn’t seem interested in eating. He crept about through the trees as if searching for something, occasionally peering at Sanluth with eyes that shone bloody red in the light of a campfire Sanluth was barely managing to keep lit.
Later, Sanluth awoke to gnawing sounds and he left his tent. The root master was chewing on a dead oak branch. He held the limb up to the cleft of his mouth, and his twisted jaws ground back and forth, wood chips falling down the beard-like roots of his chin.
The wolves took position beside Sanluth, snarling. He patted them on their heads to reassure them, and they flinched. Slowly, he approached the root master.
The creature glanced up and tossed the branch aside. A hiss escaped his jaws, and he shifted about, his long arms tensing up.
“Can you speak?” Sanluth said. “If so, can you tell me what awaits me? The wood wisp was right–I’m no experienced warrior. I don’t know why I’m the village guardian or why the wise men sent me on this quest. But you’re a magical creature and you must know!”
The root master raised a hand, its tapering fingers like bony spider legs. He squeezed his hand into a huge fist, his eyes gleaming with malice.
Sanluth shrank back, but the wolves threw themselves at the root master. The creature caught one wolf in each hand in mid-air by the throat. He shook them, and then he whispered in their ears–first in one wolf’s ear and then the other. He released them.
The wolves trotted over to the campfire and lay down.
Sanluth gazed in disbelief. “Whisper in my ear,” he said, “like you did to the wolves. Give me answers!”
But the root master simply gazed at him, his eyes now revealing a hint of sorrow, and once again he clenched his hand into a great first. A freezing wind whipped through the forest, warning that spring would never warm the face of the land again, and the snow became blinding.
***
The journey into the Iron Teeth Mountains became treacherous. The winds howled down the slopes, the snow drifting up beneath towering pines. Sanluth and his wolves hunkered down against the blizzard, their progress slowed. The root master seemed unaffected, though, as he scurried over the snow. The wind seemed to blow around him, and the snowflakes never settled upon him.
They camped beneath a stone ledge that night. Sanluth couldn’t get a fire lit, and he sat shivering with his wolves, eating frozen jerky.
The wolves gazed at him with sad eyes, as if they sensed there was no return for him. Sanluth wondered why he should continue. There were other lands, other villages. And the wood wisp had all but predicted he would die on this journey. Was it any wonder the wise men had sent him with only the wolves as company? If he didn’t starve or freeze to death, whatever awaited him in these mountains would surely finish him off. Something had held spring captive for nearly a decade now–something of such power he dared not try to imagine it. He could see no point in continuing on.
“Should we turn back?” Sanluth asked his wolves.
They raised their heads.
The root master took interest, creeping close, his crimson eyes widening.
“That’s right!” Sanluth yelled at him. “I want to give up. This is pointless. Come morning, I’m heading off to a village somewhere to get a job, get married, and raise a few children.”
The root master pointed toward the tops of the peaks and hissed.
“No,” Sanluth insisted. He pointed down away from the mountains. “No more climbing.”
The root master lowered his head. Suddenly, he looked withered and dried up, ready to break apart and fall into a heap of rot.
Sanluth gasped, and the illusion vanished. The root master looked healthy again.
Sanluth thought back to the ancient trees, remembering sitting in clefts in their roots tossing stones into the river–how they’d spoken to him so soothingly in whispers. They needed him now, or soon they would wither away as the root master had showed him, their magic lost forever from the world. The forest would become pale and weak, the trees small and mindless. The elves, gnomes, wisps, and fairies would move on.
The root master again pointed upward.
Sighing, Sanluth nodded. The wolves whined.
***
The root master led them higher and higher into the mountains, until at last they stood before an ancient and crumbling stone castle. This was the frozen heart of insanity that the wood wisp had spoken of. The castle was draped in huge icicles that hung down like spears, beneath an ugly gray sky. Sanluth had to struggle to steady his nerves and force his legs to carry him onward.
They entered a frozen courtyard. Stone statues of knights stood covered with snow, missing limbs or heads that had crumbled away. A huge iron door marked the castle entrance beyond the courtyard. The icicles hanging above that door were like teeth waiting to chomp down on anyone who dared enter.
The wind sought to shove them back, but they fought their way forward. A devilish whirlwind whipped through the courtyard, spinning the snow into a giant hand. The hand closed into a fist and tried to smash them.
Sanluth and the wolves leapt aside, the fist crunching down where they’d been. The fist rose again, preparing to squash them.
The root master glanced knowingly at Sanluth. Then he stepped in front of the boy and his wolves, and the snowy fist crashed down on him. The fist sprang open as it descended, and it seized the root master and lifted him into the air. It began to squeeze him, and noises like breaking branches arose.
Sanluth howled and smashed at the hand with his staff, but it did no damage. The hand dropped the root master into the snow, then broke apart into a cloud of snowflakes and settled all over the courtyard.
Sanluth knelt by the root master, brushing snow from his face. His eyes were open wide, but he was as still as a log. The wolves sniffed at him.
Sanluth rose, wondering if he should flee. But the wolves had other ideas. They bounded to the iron door and stood waiting.
“What are you doing?” Sanluth yelled. “We can’t defeat this foe.” But the wolves were stubborn, and once they made a decision there was no changing their minds.
Sanluth lifted the root master’s body and went to the door. The root master was as light as driftwood. Cracking noises split the air, and Sanluth looked around in confusion. The wolves seized him and dragged him backward–as several massive icicles dropped from above the door and stabbed into the snow where he’d been.
Then, with a rumbling screech of metal, the door slid inward.
“Wait!” yelled Sanluth, but the wolves had already disappeared inside. He ran in after them.
They stood in a long hall with a huge wooden table. A great fireplace stood at the end of the room, holding only gray ash. Otherwise, the room was bare.
Seated at the table was an old man counting silver coins. He had a big heap of them laid out before him. As he spotted Sanluth and his wolves, he pulled the coins to him defensively. “Wretched thieves!” he snarled. “Why have you come to torment me?”
“We’re not thieves,” Sanluth said. “We’ve come to break the spell that holds springtime hostage. We’ve heard the spell originates from in here.”
“I know nothing of any spells,” the old man said. “As far as I know, you’re here to steal my silver. Well, you won’t get so much as a coin. It’s all mine, forever!”
Sanluth stepped close to him. “So, you’re nothing but an old miser, shut away in here with your treasure. How could you be responsible for the endless winter?”
The wolves growled as a gray mist engulfed the old man. Something was lurking behind him, around him, but he didn’t seem to be aware of it.
“What is that abomination you carry?” the old man said. “Some type of forest filth. I’m glad he’s dead. Now he can’t steal my money, either. Soon you’ll be joining him.”
The old man lifted an iron glove off the table that was engraved with runes. “Don’t think I’m not capable of defending myself against thieves.”
“What is that curse you bear?” Sanluth asked, pointing at the gray mist.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the old man. “All I care about is my money. Don’t you understand? All my life, people have wanted to rob me blind. That’s why I came to this castle, to hide away with my wealth. Yet still they seek me out.”
The old man put on the iron glove and rose. “Now I shall crush you, thief.” Before Sanluth could react, he lunged forward and seized Sanluth’s shoulder. His touch was like burning ice. The wolves leapt forward, but the phantom mist left the old man and shoved them back. They snarled and bit at the mist, to no avail.
Sanluth grew weak, as if his life force were being drained. He thought he was finished. But then he felt the body of the root master shudder, and it burst into green flames. With a cry, the old man reeled back, throwing his hand over his face. Sanluth tried to drop the root master, but he found himself paralyzed for a moment. The flames didn’t harm him, though. The root master burned away, revealing a wooden sword.
Sanluth lifted the sword.
The old man sneered. “What trickery is this? You may get one strike with your toy sword, boy. But then you’ll be finished.” He extended his iron hand and leapt forward.
Sanluth prepared to meet his charge, then wheeled about and plunged the wooden sword into the gray mist. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the mist flew out of the castle and was gone.
The iron gauntlet split apart and fell to the floor.
The old man dropped to one knee, looking dazed. Sanluth helped him up.
“My greed,” the old man whispered, bowing his head. “My greed led me here, to this cursed place. My heart was frozen with the love of coin and the phantom fed off it. The curse spread like frost all over the land. How could I have been so foolish?”
A beam of sunlight broke in through a window.
Sanluth patted him on the back and together they left the keep. Already, the ice was breaking off the castle, and the snows were melting. A new magic was sweeping the land–the magic of spring. The floodgates were open, and the earth was hungry for warmth.
Sanluth felt a tugging on the sword, the tip being drawn to the earth. He plunged it into the snow, and it shuddered as it planted itself in the soil underneath. The root master would live again.
The old man turned about. “My silver,” he said, starting toward the keep.
The wolves threw back their heads and howled. Then they blocked his path.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I’ll just find a job, then. Of course, I could always return later for it, right?”
Sanluth smiled. “Not very likely. The wolves have claimed this keep, and soon it will be overrun with them. I’m guessing it means something quite significant to them.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
“Because they’ve abandoned me,” said Sanluth, knowing in his heart it was true. He could see it in their eyes. That was the sadness he’d glimpsed before. The wolves had accomplished some important goal, and their pact with Sanluth’s village was ended.
Sanluth seized the old man by the arm. “Come on, my friend. We’ve got some walking to do. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.”
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Fantasy, Robert E. Keller, Short Fantasy Stories
Thrice Upon a Time
January 1, 2010 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
Thrice upon a time I rescued a princess from a tower. It goes with being a prince, I suppose.
I’d booked my companion, Pat, through the website www. trusty-sidekicks-R-us.com, and I’d had my doubts at first — he seemed a bit puny for dragon-hunting. But he was well very prepared. He’d brought along his own horse, and a sheep, and accurate satellite co-ordinates on the castle, so we found it after a mere week.
The sheep wasn’t keen on being thrown to the dragon, but sheep are stupid, and Pat got its legs tied together easy enough. Then I poured enough sleeping draft down its throat to stop an army. It baaaaed sleepily as we swung it between us.
“One, two, three, HUP!”
And it flew over the wall to the dragon. Soon the dragon was snoring like a ride-on lawnmower, and we went over the wall too.
It was easy after that. Pat kept an eye on the dragon while I went inside. Fifteen minutes later I was kissing the princess. Her name was Aurora. Brunette, curvy – absolutely jumbo-sized.
She tasted of garlic.
“I’ll get you lunch,” she said.
“Thanks, but I just ate.” I hadn’t felt like chucking the sheep over the wall on an empty stomach.
“It’s Chateaubriand.”
“I couldn’t do it justice.”
“And strawberry soufflé to follow.”
“But I’m full.”
She pouted. “I’ve been spending all my time practicing cooking. For years. They said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Only with a stiletto, Dear.” Obviously she was two sandwiches short of a picnic. Did she really think a queen does her own cooking? If I can afford to search for a classy wife, I can afford a professional cook.
Still, it would have been ungentlemanly to leave her there, so I helped her past the snoring dragon and took her home. I even gave her a job in the kitchens.
Of course I was still wifeless, so I went on another quest.
I booked Pat again, but sheep are depressing to travel with, so I told him to bring a goat. Big mistake. It kept trying to eat our armor. It was a positive pleasure to tie it up, drug it silly, and chuck it to the next dragon. The only drawback was that it died happily floating on a drug-induced pink cloud.
Anyway, it did the job, and I left Pat reading True Romance beside the dragon and walked confidently into the tower. The trap almost shot a spear though me, but I’d turned back to ask Pat the princess’s name, so it missed.
And then I found Princess Margaret. This one was blond and skinny. Every bit of her outfit was perfect, every button fastened, every eyelash darkened without sticking.
She kissed with her eyes open, and they had dollar signs in them.
She said, “I’ve been studying political theory while I waited for rescue. Machiavelli and all that. I’ll make a great queen.”
I wasn’t marrying her. It would be like sharing a bed with a carnivorous iceberg. Once fertilized she wouldn’t need a mere male, any more than a female spider does.
So we talked for a while, and somehow I made her Prime Minister. I’ve a feeling that was a bad idea. If she plots a coup, the first I’ll know about it will be when they throw me over the battlements. Still better than marrying her.
Third time lucky, I told myself, and we set off again. “Bring a pig this time,” I told Pat. Worse mistake than the goat. It snored every night and stank the whole way. Then it didn’t fancy being dragon-bait. I never knew pigs could fight so well. It charged Pat and knocked him flying.
“Ow, my boobs!” he said.
Boobs? Had I missed something here? I looked at Pat: chin-high, very slim, loose-fitting jerkin. I started to say something about girls not questing, but that would have meant admitting I hadn’t noticed before, so I shut up.
We were black and blue before I gave up trying to hog-tie the pig, and let Pat do it her way.
“The pig must be thirsty after all that,” she said. So she gave the pig a bucket of water with added sleeping draught. It worked like a charm.
“One, two, three, HUP!”
And over the wall to the dragon it went.
I passed the dragon, used a long spear to set off the trap, and ran up the stairs, between the two guards, who crashed into each other and knocked themselves out.
By now I was something of a connoisseur of princesses. This one was a redhead, medium size, no makeup, and ink-stained fingers. Went by the name of Roxanne.
Ink stains?
“Er, Princess Roxanne, how did you pass the time, all alone here for all those hours?”
“Oh, I write. Spec fiction mostly.”
And then I kissed her.
Wow!
Double wow!
“Where did you learn that?” I gasped, when we came up for air.
“Learn what?”
“Kissing like that!”
“Well, I’ve never had anyone to kiss before, so I just used my imagination.”
I liked the idea of sharing a bed with an imagination like that! I asked Roxanne to marry me.
“Well…” she said. “We’ve only just met, you know? Let’s get acquainted, first.”
So I took her home. But every time I tried to get her to set a date for the wedding, she’d say we weren’t compatible. And then she’d go into a long explanation and I’d zone out. If talking was an Olympic sport, that woman would take the gold. Honestly! I rescued her, what more does she want? In the end, I organized the whole thing for her. Only come the wedding morning she wasn’t there. Skedaddled.
She left a note:
I am eternally grateful to you for rescuing me, but I cannot imagine ever being happy with a man who simply won’t listen.
She sold her story to the celebrity magazines and Hollywood, and lived luxuriously ever after.
Screw princesses. I’ll marry Pat.
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Sheila Crosby, Short Fantasy Fiction, Short Fantasy Stories
Rina’s Last Love Song
January 1, 2010 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
Rina opened her bedroom door to a confident knock, and found herself face-to-face with a large bouquet, sprouting from a pair of leather-clad legs. She groaned. “Is that you under there, Tam?”
“’Fraid so. Can I come in?”
She moved aside to let him negotiate the bunch of flowers through the narrow door frame. “I don’t know where you’re going to put them. Just chuck them on the bed for now.”
Every spare surface in the room was adorned with flowers. Some of the flagons from the bar downstairs had even been converted into makeshift vases, to Tam’s mother Merab’s disapproval. The sickly-sweet aroma of pollen hanging in the air made Rina feel queasy.
“Shall I take some of the old ones away?” Tam offered, emerging red-faced from behind the latest bouquet.
“Please do.” Rina flicked the stable boy a copper which he caught easily, one-handed. “Can’t you tell him to stop sending them?”
“And have my backside whipped for cheek? Not likely! You should tell him yourself.” Rina shrugged and curled up on the bed, idly picking at the petals as Tam removed the rest of the flowers, a great armful of drooping heads and dripping stems. “I’ll be back later for the vases,” he assured her as he left. Rina nodded in reply, not really listening. She had found something interesting, tucked deep into the tangle of flower stems.
She heard Tam exchange greetings with someone on the stairs, and a moment later her tambourette player Dorian came into the room. He hesitated in the doorway, and sniffed.
“Something’s changed. You’re got anicanthus in here.”
Rina shrugged. “They might be. Flowers are flowers. Tam got rid of the rest.”
“Good thing too. They were beginning to get overpowering. Are the anicanthus from our good friend Jalez?”
“Who else? Even better –” she flipped open the jewellery box she had found hidden amongst the blooms, and gasped.
“What is it?”
“A broach. There must be a dozen starstones on this!” She held it up to the light, letting it gleam off the multi-faceted gems. “Good ones, too. I can’t accept this!”
“Let me hold it.” Rina watched as Dorian weighed the broach in his hand, fingers tracing its contours, while his milky eyes stared blankly in front of him. “It’s a good weight,” he said. “Feels like a ribbon shape. Am I right?”
“A crossed-over green ribbon.” Something about the broach tugged her memory. She had seen the design before, worn on men’s lapels. “That means something, doesn’t it?”
Dorian gave back the broach. “It means Estmarch Freedom,” he said. “Why would a wealthy Northpoint man give you an Estmarch Freedom broach?”
“Because he’s freakish! Why should I care about freedom for the Estmarch, when it‘s the other side of the country? And why does he keep sending me flowers?”
“Enchanted by your lovely voice, maybe?” Dorian chuckled.
Rina felt a sour taste in her throat. She thought she had left that kind of attention behind her when she ran away from home. She had learnt to accept her gift, but there were still times it proved a nuisance.
“Well, I’m not wearing it,” she declared, laying the broach on her dresser. “Messing with politics brings nothing but trouble. Tam can take it back.”
“Or we could sell it?” Dorian suggested. “Something like that would bring in far more coin than singing in taverns.”
Rina glanced at the broach, tempted, then shook her head. “I’ll have Tam return it,” she said, as a knock sounded at the door.
“Are you ready?” Tam called.
“A moment!” Rina checked her appearance in the mirror, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before turning her attention to Dorian. His pale, almost white hair and pink cheeks reminded her of a white kitten she had briefly owned, before her father drowned it in the sea. A tuft of hair was sticking up at the front, and she licked her hand and plastered it down to his broad forehead. “There, you look fine!”
“Why thank you, my lady!” He mock-bowed to her, and followed her downstairs to the tavern-room of the Castle View Inn.
#
Rina was surprised when Merab beckoned her into the kitchen almost as soon as her foot left the bottom step. The landlady must have been waiting. Merab never usually had much to say to her resident singer.
“I wondered if you could do me a favour, Rina?”
“Certainly, if I can.” Rina’s attempts to be affable had yet to win Merab’s favour, but maybe the older woman’s stance had thawed a little.
“My nieces are staying with us. Twins, you know. Isn’t that lucky?”
Rina made polite noises, wondering what was coming. She had seen the twins in passing, but had yet to speak to them.
“They asked if they might come on stage with you tonight, as back-up singers.”
“I don’t need –” Rina realised she had taken offence too quickly, and tried to calm herself. It might be fun. And the twins, Suza and Clarine, were comely. Having pretty girls on stage might draw Jalez’s attention away from her. “Can they hold a tune?”
“They’ve got fine lungs,” Merab assured her.
“Then I’d be happy to sing with them.” She could hear the rhythmic stamp of feet in the bar. The audience grew impatient. “You’d best call then down quickly!”
Merab hurried away, and Rina checked her reflection once more, in the back of the saucepans hanging in a neat row on the wall. Taking in a deep breath, she slipped out into the bar. No one paid her any attention until she stepped up onto the makeshift stage.
Cheers rose from the crowd, and Rina stood for a long moment, drinking in the applause. It had been a revelation, still surprised her every time, that her singing could bring joy. In the past, it had brought only death.
She bowed. “Thank you for coming. This is a song called ‘Midsummer Morning’. It’s very old.”
Dorian struck up a rousing tune on the tambourette. ‘Midsummer Morning’ was a bawdy romp, just the thing to get the crowd in a good humour. By the end of the song, most of them were red-faced and breathless with laughter. Over Dorian’s own chuckles, Rina heard a loud cough to her left. Merab stood there, arms folded, face tight with disapproval, presumably at the ribald nature of the lyrics. Behind her, the twins nudged each other and giggled.
Rina smiled, warming to the girls. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce my new back-up singers, Suza and Clarine!”
She wasn’t sure which was which, but she waved vaguely towards the two girls, as they took the stage to a murmur of appreciation. She was delighted to discover that both girls had confident, tuneful singing voices. They knew most of the songs in her repertoire, and had the sense to keep quiet for the ones they didn’t. She ended her long set with a solo rendition of ‘The Ballad of Elena’. The ancient, tragic love song was a favourite of hers, and she always included it. The powerful tune combined with the mysterious magic of her voice, and she sang it unaccompanied. She felt the wave of emotion ripple through the room, a deep, endless longing that left burly fishermen with tears welling in their eyes. It gave her a thrill of power every time. And nobody had to die; they could return home carrying the peace of emotional catharsis her singing brought about. At last, she could do some good.
The last haunting notes died away. She made a deep bow, and slipped back off the stage into anonymity. She smiled to herself as she heard Suza and Clarine being lauded. It wasn’t praise she needed, but copper. Dorian took the bucket around, knowing that no one would allow his neighbour to rob a blind man.
#
“How did we do?” Dorian upended the money bucket on the bed, and a copper stream gushed out. “Sounds promising!”
“It’s not bad.” Rina divided the spoils, remembering to put some aside for the twins. “Enough to pay the rent, and some extra – what’s this?”
“I hope you’re going to tell me it’s a priceless gem.” Dorian leant forward, hands tightening around his cane.
“You wish. It’s a note.” She unfolded it, and sighed. “It’s Jalez again.”
“Not attached to any jewellery this time, I take it?”
“No.” Rina scanned the note. “He says he’s sorry his gift didn’t please me. He wants to meet with me, to apologise, and to explain.”
“Meet with you? Here?”
“At the Upstream. Is that a tavern?”
Dorian shook his head. “Throw it away,” he advised. “Ignore him. He gives me a shiver right up my spine.”
“Why? Because you’re jealous I have an admirer, no matter how odd?”
“No! You said yourself, he’s freakish. You’ve never spoken to the man and now he wants to meet you. And right out of town, too! It smells of trouble to me.”
Rina glared at him. His blank, unreadable eyes were fixed on a spot just past her left ear, and there was a high colour in his cheeks. Dorian had survived on the streets of Northpoint by never losing his temper. To have pushed him so far that his fists were balled tightly against his knees, Rina knew she had broken an unspoken boundary. She took a deep breath to calm herself.
“I can take care of myself. I’m not a helpless little girl.”
“I think you’ve charmed him enough already with your magic. What are you going to do, sing a song to convince him you’re ugly?” He leapt to his feet and did a shuffling, on the spot dance, using his cane as a prop, and singing. “La la la, I’m a hideous warty witch!”
Rina snorted with laughter at the ungainly sight. “Sit down, you great fool! Tell me about the Upstream. You said it was out of town; is it a rough place?”
He bowed in her direction and resumed his seat. “I can’t believe you’ve been in Northpoint six moons, but you’ve never heard of the Upstream. It’s no tavern, for a start.”
“What is it, then, as you’re a Northpoint native who knows everything?”
He lowered his voice. “People don’t talk much about the Upstream. It’s a sacred place.”
“Then how am I supposed to know about it?” Rina snapped. “Let me guess. Ale flows out of the ground there?”
“Rina, I’m serious. There’s a powerful charm on the place. It’s a hill, about two miles from the town, and a stream flows up it. Backwards.”
“I’d have to see that to believe it.”
Dorian clasped his hands. “It’s true. The water is said to have healing properties. When I was losing my sight, my mother took me there many times, to bathe my eyes.”
Rina swallowed an acid comment about the healing powers obviously being a myth. Dorian looked so serious she was overwhelmed by the urge to leap up and embrace him.
“Hey, what was that for?” Through his thin, ashen hair, the tips of Dorian’s ears glowed pink.
“No reason. To thank you, for being so worried about me. I can’t remember anyone worrying about me as much as you do.”
“Does that mean you won’t meet Jalez?”
“It means I’ll think about it.”
#
The note had asked her to meet Jalez the following afternoon, a fact she had been careful not to tell Dorian. Rina spent a sleepless night ruminating on it. Her friend might not want her to go, but she was curious to meet her pursuer at last. It was only polite to turn him down face-to-face. She couldn’t ignore his attentions forever, whatever Dorian said. By the time dawn pushed probing fingers of light through the cracks in her shutters, she had made up her mind. She would go to the meeting, but she wouldn’t tell Dorian. With fortune, she would be back before he missed her.
She slipped away from the Castle View just after lunch, with no word to anyone. Dorian would only try and stop her, and she didn’t relish another argument. She headed to the Causeway, where at low tide carts and carriages shuttled constantly between the shore and the island. If she lurked here for long enough, someone was bound to offer her a ride.
The sentry on duty in the little hut that guarded the entrance to the Causeway came to the window and looked her up and down appreciatively. “You waiting for someone, lady?”
“I’m hoping someone will give me a lift to the Upstream, if anyone’s going that way.”
“You’re in luck.” He grinned. “I’m done here as soon as the tide turns. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Really?” Rina tapped her money pouch nervously. “I can’t pay much –”
“No charge. I live out that way, and I could use company on the road. Wait for me by the sea wall.”
She did as he bid, and it was only a short while before they were trotting through the town astride his horse, her arms clasped around the waist of this generous stranger. He smelt musky, of sweat and armour oil. She couldn’t help daydreaming of Jalez as they rode. Maybe he would turn out to be kind and handsome, like the men she had dreamed of to relieve the misery of living in her parents’ home. Certainly he was rich, and generous. A fine catch, her mother would tell her. But was that enough?
She caught herself drifting off, and jerked sharply upright. They had left the town behind and were riding through rolling countryside, a region of low hills and tightly clustered copses. To Rina, who had never ventured far from the rugged coast, the land seemed neat and attractive, despite the rain clouds gathering to the north. She inhaled, puzzled. Something was missing in the air, and it took a moment for her to realise what it was. For the first time in her life, she could no longer smell the sea.
“Are you awake?” Her companion glanced back over his shoulder. “We’re nearly there. Mind if I drop you off, so I don’t have to go out of my way?”
“Not at all.” Rina slipped down from the horse, feeling a nervous clench in her belly. “Is it far from here?”
“Just beyond that stand of trees.” He pointed. “You can see the top of the hill. It’s an easy walk.”
“Thank you,” but he was already trotting away with a cheery wave. She watched until the horse was out of sight, then, humming a tune to give her courage, she set off for the Upstream.
#
Rina found herself following the course of a little river, that chattered and burbled between deep, sandy banks. It seemed to be behaving as flowing water should, but she didn’t want to risk a drink. She had heard too many legends of the evil fates that befell those who sipped from enchanted streams.
The ground rose steadily, and Rina kept a watchful eye on the water. It unsettled her to see it flowing, with no change of pace, up the hill. There was something mesmerising, yet at the same time repellent about it, as if the whole balance of nature was slightly askew. Feeling dizzy, she tore her eyes from the taunting stream and focussed on the hill ahead of her. Its steeply sloping sides and sliced-off summit were too regular to be natural. Man or magic had created this mound. Had they created the Upstream, too? What power in the world could make a river flow uphill? Tempted, she tried a few experimental notes, which the water completely ignored.
She was still chewing on this troubling thought when she crested the brow of the hill and saw Jalez for the first time. Her pursuer was sitting cross-legged by the side of a small, rippling pool that was fed by the Upstream. He rose at her approach, and bowed. “Miss Rina. It’s been a hard road to bring you to me.”
“What do you want?” The question was abrupt, but the climb up the hill had tired her, and the unnatural place made her edgy and uncomfortable. “As you said, it’s been a hard road to get here. Why not meet in town?”
“What I want to say to you is personal. There are no prying ears up here. Come, sit beside me.”
He took her unresisting hand between both of his own, and led her to the edge of the water. His fingers were heavy with rings, golden and bejewelled. His face, pointed and with high cheekbones, seemed to thin for his muscular body. Rina wondered if he was a merchant, but the sword slung across his back suggested a more adventurous nature.
“I came,” she said, “to ask you to stop sending me flowers and gifts. I’m flattered, but I have no time for romance, and I can’t accept them. Especially the jewellery. I wouldn’t want you to think I was mining you for your wealth –”
“You have more wealth than me, Rina.”
She chuckled. “I doubt that.”
“You have your song, and that weaves a powerful charm.” He was silent a moment. Rina heard insects buzzing in the grass, and the distant rumble of a carriage on the road. Jalez still had hold of her hand, and she wondered if she should ask him to let go. Was he going to kiss her, as he leant in?
“I know all about your song, Rina. What it can make men do.”
She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened until his rings dug into her flesh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I think you do. The first time I heard you singing in the Castle View… At first, I didn’t know what you’d done to me. You chewed up my mind and spat me out on the Causeway. When my head cleared, I made a few enquiries. I’m a powerful man and I have many acquaintances up and down the coast. It didn’t take long to find out who you are, and your special…talents.”
“I don’t do that anymore!” She snatched her hand away, tearing the skin on her knuckles. “Why must you remind me? The wrecked ships, the dead men… It was my fault, and I ran away to escape that life!”
“Does your friend know? Your mousey, blind friend? What would he say?”
“Are you blackmailing me? I don’t have any money.” She rose. “I think I should leave now.”
He followed her to her feet. “You don’t understand! I’m offering you an opportunity, to work at my side for the good of us both!”
She hesitated. His eyes were wide, his voice pleading. “Go on.”
He clutched her wrist. “Your voice is a weapon, Rina. The man who controls it could raise an army to follow him.”
“No man controls my voice,” she said coldly. Then, with a flash of insight, “This is some Estmarch Freedom thing, isn’t it?”
He beamed. “I hoped you would recognise the symbol when I gave you the broach. Will you ride by my side, and help me raise an army to free the Estmarch from the King’s oppression?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t give a rusty nail for the Estmarch. Your problems are not mine.”
“Then I’ll make them your problems!” He twisted her arm fiercely behind her back. Rina cried out in sudden pain, but her voice was stifled as he slipped a gag over her mouth and knotted it hard at the base of her skull.
“There!” He dodged her legs as she kicked and struggled. “You won’t charm me into letting you go. And stop that.”
Rina froze as she felt the point of a dagger jab into her spine. Sweat prickled under the stinking gag. Robbed of her voice, she hadn’t felt so helpless since her father forced her to lure ships onto the rocks with the power of her song. The memory brought stinging tears to her eyes. It was happening again; she would be forced to use her powers to kill. I’ll die first, she thought.
Jalez prodded her with the blade. “Walk forward,” he ordered. “My carriage is at the bottom of the hill. We should reach the Estmarch in –”
He broke off, and Rina felt the dagger fall. She spun around to see Jalez’s eyes roll back in his head until only the whites showed. His knees buckled, and she grabbed him under the arms and lowered him to the turf. Behind him, Dorian hefted his cane. “I knocked him out, right?”
Rina ripped off the gag. “Dorian!” She threw her arms around her friend. “How did you get here?”
“I found Jalez’s note on your bed. I got one of the twins to read it to me, and I guessed that was where you’d gone, so I jumped in a carriage. I followed the sound of water up the hill until I heard your voices. Easy!”
“Thank the stars you came!” Her confidence faltered a little. “What exactly did you hear?”
“Just that he was going to take you to the Estmarch.” Dorian sank down next to Jalez’s prone body. His hands were still shaking. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me!”
“Next time? What makes you think I’m such a fool I’d let this happen again?”
“Rina, your voice has the power to drive men mad. When they’re already a little unravelled, like our friend here –” he poked Jalez with his cane, “you can tip them right over the cliff, without meaning to.”
She nodded thoughtfully, and checked Jalez’s pulse. “He’s still alive. What do we do with him?”
“Lay him in the Upstream, I suppose. If it really has healing powers, maybe it will mend his head, and soothe his mind at the same time.”
It seemed a good idea to Rina, and between them they shifted Jalez’s inert body until it lay face up in the rushing stream, the water making a shining play over his narrow face. He groaned.
“Let’s go before he wakes up.” Dorian slipped his arm through Rina’s and she helped him down the precipitous slope. “What will you do now? You can’t go back to Northpoint; Jalez’s powerful friends will probably be looking for you.”
“You heard that, did you? How long were you listening for?”
“Long enough.” He squeezed her arm. “Whatever you’ve done in the past doesn’t matter to me, Rina. The future –”
“The future looks bleak enough,” she interrupted him, not wanting to talk about it. “You half-murdered one of the most powerful men on the coast. We’ll have to head inland.”
“We?” She wondered if he knew he was blushing.
“Of course. I can’t travel without my faithful tambourette player, even if you didn’t know all my secrets. But we’ll have to change the act.”
“In what way?”
Rina frowned. “No more love songs. Not ever. They cause too much trouble.”
“Every man who hears them falls in love with you, that’s why.” Dorian hesitated on the slope as the first drops of rain brushed Rina’s face.
“Love is something I’m better off without, it seems. No more men for me, I swear!” She spotted the carriage in the distance and quickened her stride. “Come on Dorian, the midlands are waiting for us. What were you saying about the future?”
Dorian shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing important.” The rain was falling in great drops and the moment tumbled away, like a stream flowing eternally uphill.
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Joanne Hall, Short Fantasy Fiction, Short Fantasy Stories
Echoes of Eroin
October 9, 2009 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
Bastien pressed his back against the cold stone wall, his knees tight against his chest. He wrapped an arm around Linette’s bony shoulders. Her skin was still pudgy and wan after the Vision; blue veins still lined her eyes and her breath still came in short, sharp gasps. He listened to the sounds of footsteps on the road outside and tried to blink away the memory of the bridge of white gold that had torn at his mind as she clutched at him through her Vision.
He squeezed her shoulder and rolled away to a jagged hole in the wall. Tough yellow grass grew from the blackened stone around the hole and he had to hold it aside to look out onto the road. The First Sun, pale and yellow, was hanging low in the sky. Night wasn’t far away and long sullen shadows hung in empty windows, skulked in corners or stretched grasping fingers across the only road in the desolate village.
And still Bastien couldn’t see the source of those footsteps.
They had made a mistake coming to the village. For two weeks they had been travelling through the Broken Lands, a shattered landscape where the only trees were twisted thorny things and the grasses were sparse and tough and yellow. They had passed a score of villages like this, villages where the houses echoed to nothing but the barren winds and the walls were black and broken as rotted teeth. Finally the lure of spending a night with a roof over their heads had been too much to resist. And now they were trapped in a house in a nameless village in the Broken Lands.
He rested his cheek against the scorched black stone. Even the stones and rocks hadn’t been spared the fury of the Great Schism. He closed his eyes and listened. He listened to the rustle of leather on leather, the skitter of a small stone disturbed by a careless boot, the muffled cough of a man who had spent too many years out in the arid wilderness of the Broken Lands.
“One,” Bastien breathed, “there is only one man out there.”
There was no answer, though Linette turned to look at him. She raised an eyebrow and her hair fell across a dark eye, the swelling now fading. Already the hold of the Vision was relaxing and she was returning to the woman he had known these past weeks.
It was always the same Vision she shared with him. Each time she held him, her eyes swollen and pale as she burned the image into his mind: a bridge of the most brilliant white, gleaming and glinting under a pale yellow sun. Underneath the bridge, water, more water than Bastien had ever seen in his life, crashed and frothed against the unshakable foundations. It was the bridge which remained in Bastien’s mind after each Vision. It burned his eyes to look at it, so bright it was under the afternoon sun, but its burnished beauty held him. It had two layers of arches; the upper layer was narrower and in these arches were seated figures carved from the blackest of stones and around these figures were tiles decorated with scenes tantalizingly out of reach.
He finally saw the man. A lean, rangy bandit with sparse grey hair and wearing a battered leather jerkin. Bandits were cowards, Bastien had come to realize. It was the brave who stayed in the villages and towns and cities and tried to rebuild what had been lost when the three Viurdans had united their magicks in their unending quest for power. It was the cowards who fled to the hills to live the life of scavengers after the Great Schism and it was these men who stumbled upon Linette and Bastien as they travelled through the Broken Lands. It was these men who took one look upon the size of Bastien and the sword he held in his hand, and fled back to their friends hiding in their caves and quarries and waited for easier prey.
Six had stayed and fought and six had died. Bastien hoped this wouldn’t be the seventh. He smiled back at Linette; she had the bow in her lap as she leaned against the blackened wall of the cottage.
They had been a small people, the shepherds of Eroin. Bastien had seen a faded painting of a group of them working in a field of green. He had never seen such hardy people before, had never seen fields of such lush green, had never seen sheep before. He had torn the canvas from the frame and carried it with him and stared at it before he went to sleep on a night. Now that painting was lost in the Broken Lands. Lost as so many other things had been lost.
Bastien had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the frame of the doorway. A cool wind rolled down the road that split the village. The footfalls finally fell silent as the bandit stopped in the centre of that road, his wispy hair fluttering in the breeze. He carried a knife; it was the length of his forearm and speckled with rust.
Bastien drew his sword. It was the sight of Bastien wielding such a weapon that had sent most of the bandits scurrying back into the hills.
This was not one of those times.
The bandit smiled. He pointed at Bastien with the knife. “You can leave. The woman stays.” His speech sounded thick. He had a heavy accent Bastien recognized from Ruritan, a city beyond the Castelian Mountains. He was a long way from home.
Bastien resisted the urge to look to the house where Linette was hiding; the bandit must have been watching them to know he was with a woman but that didn’t mean he knew where she was now. He fought against every inclination in his body and took a step towards the bandit. He could feel the baleful black windows of the surrounding houses watching him. He forced himself to smile. “You know that isn’t going to happen.” He moved closer to the bandit. Each step felt heavy. “Instead I’m going to give you this one chance to go and join your friends in the mountains. One chance to spare your life. Don’t be a fool.” This last was almost a plea as Bastien raised his sword. He was close enough that the bandit might make a lunge for him. Close enough to see that, despite his age, the bandit looked to have a wiry strength in the shoulders that tensed under the leather tunic, that the boots the bandit wore weren’t ridden with holes as the other bandits’ had been. Close enough to see that the confidence in that ugly smile hadn’t faltered.
“Foolish boy. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.” The bandit shook his head almost sadly, a wisp of grey hair falling across his broad forehead. He ran a bony hand along a cheek flecked with dirty-white stubble.
Bastien’s stomach tightened and he gripped his sword. Somewhere behind him there was a steady, rhythmic pounding, a rotted door buffeted by the breeze rolling down the road.
The bandit’s faded blue eyes never moved from Bastien. “You follow a young woman into the Broken Lands and you think a strong arm and a rusted sword can protect you? You think you can hope to understand what it is that has called her here?” He took a step towards Bastien, the dagger loose at his side.
Bastien could feel his heart beating in his throat and his hands shook. He would protect Linette, whatever happened. He had promised himself as much when he had found her curled and shivering in a broken doorway on a rain-sodden night in Ruritan.
She had reminded him of a younger girl, the four-year old sister he had found writhing with hunger pains on a cold stone floor. And the night he had found Linette, he had promised himself that he would never leave her as he had left his sister starving and crying in pain, calling out his name.
The bandit was still smiling and within striking distance. Bastien saw the tendons in the bandit’s neck, saw the grey, papery skin stretched over those tendons. One stroke. He raised the sword.
“Bastien.” It wasn’t a panicked shout. It wasn’t a shrill cry. They had been travelling together for twelve weeks and he knew her well enough to recognize the warning in the timbre of that serious voice.
Bastien froze. The bandit’s expression didn’t change, still that same confident smile as he nodded once to Bastien. The breeze still swept down the road and still there was that insistent pounding as Bastien looked over his shoulder and cursed under his breath.
Linette was standing in the doorway of the house. She was a short, spare woman and didn’t need to stoop. She had the bow and arrow aimed at the young bandit standing across the road from her. Her strong wiry arms held the taut string easily. Bastien dimly realized she was using one of the arrows he had made the day before; one with the gleaming silver feathers of the bitterhawk they had watched die as it was mobbed by a swarm of berragulls.
There was a polite, almost apologetic cough which came from behind, and Bastien whirled again and saw another bandit step out from a house at the end of the street; this one carried a wooden club which he held between crossed arms.
And still that insistent pounding from back down the road.
The first bandit shrugged. “Not so cocky now, eh? The offer still stands. You leave and the woman stays. Your last chance.”
The bandit cried out in pain as Bastien’s foot connected with his balls. The blade should have sliced through his neck but, rusted and nicked as it was, it only cut just past the collar bone as the bandit fell forward. It was enough. The bandit grasped uselessly at the blade as his life’s blood spilled onto the road and Bastien struggled to free his sword.
There was a cry and the sound of a body hitting the ground.
“No! The Master said to take her alive!”
Bastien didn’t recognize the voice. He shook the sword loose, thicker blood spilling onto the ground.
There was the sound of running feet.
Bastien freed the blade just in time. He blocked the incoming blow with the raised sword, the force of the parry jarring his arm to the shoulder.
It was a bandit he hadn’t seen before. Bastien’s left fist caught the younger man flush in the jaw, sending him reeling backwards. Before the boy had regained his footing, Bastien’s boot slammed into his ribs, followed by a two-handed thrust of the sword into his belly. The boy’s shrill cry of pain was terrible to hear.
The sword slid easily out of the young bandit’s stomach and Bastien turned, squinting against the swiftly gathering gloom. There was a body slumped in the shadowy porch of a house, the silver feathers of the arrow protruding from his chest bright even in the twilight. And there was the sound of scurrying feet in a darkened house.
“Don’t move.” There seemed to be bandits everywhere. This one was dark, his skin was ebony and he had the soft, slurred accent of the Eastern Marches. He held a wickedly curved bow, the black arrow pointed firmly at Bastien’s chest.
Only then did Bastien hear the pounding of the horse’s hooves as it ran from behind the deserted tavern.
He saw the breath steaming from the great destrier’s nostrils, the cloaked figure raise a blade of blue silver in his left hand, the dark bandit turn in horror, the bow raised in one last feeble defence. And then he saw the blade, fine and deadly, slice through the bow like so much tinder and follow clean through the exposed ribs. The bandit was dead before he hit the ground, the destrier snorting and rearing in triumph over the corpse.
Three bodies lay on the road. Bastien looked up at the rider. Green eyes held Bastien’s own. The horse pranced and reared, its hooves harsh on the grey stone. The rider held the reins easily, he had short black hair scattered with dust and he was wearing a red cloak which reached nearly to the horse’s tail.
Bastien said nothing. The rider said nothing. That was enough for Bastien; he turned away from the snorting horse and the stare of the rider and ran back down the road; blank empty windows stared impassively at him as he ran, each one looking the same as the last.
His heart leapt painfully as he heard a scream rip the night air. Was it a man’s scream? He followed it, his breath loud in his ears. He dodged through an alley, shattered black walls on either side of him and the smell of rodent shit ripe in the air. And then he was on the hill leading to the Jostian Mountains. A bandit called out to him; he was on his knees in the thin dirt, one hand clutching the other wrist. It was slick with dark blood and the hand hung at an unnatural angle.
Bastien ignored him. He could see Linette scrabbling up the hill and she had two men chasing her. She was struggling; the men were gaining. Withered grass clung to the thin soil and dry, gnarled trees leaned at precarious angles. And ahead of him, black against the night, were the Jostian Mountains, silent and impassive as they watched Bastien desperately try to reach Linette’s pursuers.
He wasn’t going to make it. Bastien was big and he was strong, but he had never been a fast runner, and the two bandits were gaining on Linette all the while. Knowledge of certain failure lent him speed and his legs burned as he ran.
He heard the horse behind him. He heard its hooves pounding. He heard it snort as it fought against the bit. He heard the scrape of steel on steel. And still he ran.
The horse passed him easily. The rider, his red cloak billowing, already had his sword drawn. He leaned over the reins, his face grim.
So set on the chase were the bandits that it was only as the horse was upon them that they turned. The youngest, a youth yet to see his twentieth summer was struck down, a measured slash across his chest by that blade of blue silver.
The destrier ran on for a moment before the rider jerked the reins and managed to turn the horse, clouds of dirt flying under its hooves. Linette carried on running, her hands digging into the papery yellow grasses. The last bandit took one last look at her before he stopped and took the crossbow from his belt. He was older, this bandit, his hair streaked with grey. And he was afraid. He blinked and his arm shook as he aimed the crossbow at the rider bearing down upon him, the magnificent blade already raised.
Bastien heard the thrum even as he continued running. The bolt struck the rider firmly in the thigh. The destrier didn’t miss a step. The blade remained raised and the bandit turned to run but it was too late. He fell face first into the dirt as the blade of blue silver cut through his shoulder blade.
Bastien leaped over the body and ran after Linette. The rider had climbed from his horse and in his hand he had a silver dagger to match the magnificence of his sword.
“Linette!” Bastien called, his throat raw with exertion. Still she continued running, though she was slower now. “Linette!” he shouted again and this time she did stop, stumbling onto her back as she turned, thick brown hair falling across her narrow pale face. There was no change in her expression as she saw the scene below: the two bloodied bandits, the great destrier shining black in the gloom, the swordsman in the red cloak stooped over the bandit. And Bastien running after her.
She rested back on her elbows, her chest rising and falling in short breaths. Even then, her hair awry and falling across her face, a smear of dirt marring a high cheekbone, the collar of her white shirt loose and torn, even then she was beautiful.
Bastien finally reached her and fell to his knees. He reached out and pushed her hair away from her face, searching those eyes of grey, pale as a winter’s morning. “Did they hurt you?” His heart pounded in his throat.
Linette shook her head, leaning away from his hand to show him a fine red streak on her neck leading from below her ear to her collarbone. “Just when one of them tried to grab me. I don’t think he’ll be doing it again.” She gestured at him with a dagger, the end was chipped and broken and smeared with dark blood. Bastien thought of the bandit with his hand hanging by bloodied strips of skin. The dagger turned and pointed further down the slope. A fat drop of thick red blood fell slowly to the ground. “Who is that?”
Bastien turned to look over his shoulder and saw the rider still bent over the fallen bandit. His head was bowed and he was wiping the dagger clean on the bandit’s tunic. He tried not to think about what had just happened. “I don’t know. He helped us. I don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t turned up.”
“Really?” Linette smiled. Her eyes creased at the corners and she slapped him playfully on the arm. “There is only one?” She laughed and rose to her feet. “And you’re supposed to be my protector?”
Though she spoke in jest, her words stung him. He prided himself on being her protector, on being the only person she could tell her secret to, on being the man who would take her to her destiny. On that night in the fractured doorway in Ruritan when Linette had caught him by his collar and told him of her Vision of the White Gold Bridge, her tears mingling with the rain, Bastien had seen past his horror and revulsion and he had seen his own redemption. This young woman, weeping and shivering, would be his salvation for leaving his sister broken and crying silently on a cold stone floor all those years ago.
Shalanaia, his sister, would be long dead by now but this frail young woman, lost and bereft as she was, would be his penance. “Never tell anybody what you have just told me,” he had told her on that rain-sodden night. “They would have you killed for such things. Tell nobody.” And she had blinked against the rain and nodded.
Bastien followed that gaze back down the slope and saw the man who had protected the protector, who had saved the life of his Linette. All Bastien felt was jealousy as he watched the rider leave the body of the bandit and slowly walk towards them. He was tall, perhaps only a hand shorter than Bastien himself; black stubble lined his cheek and he had high cheekbones and a hooked nose a little too large for his face. And he had a crossbow bolt sticking from his thigh, blood congealing about it. He was barely limping. All his weapons were safely sheathed as he looked at the younger couple.
Bastien hastened to his feet. “Many thanks for your intervention, stranger.”
The stranger nodded once, his searing green eyes only on Linette. Bastien hated any man looking at her; his fingers ached to reach for his sword. Linette fidgeted under the scrutiny. “Might we know the name of our rescuer?” Bastien had never seen her so nervous.
“Cael. My name is Cael.” He pointed back down the slope to where his horse was tied to a tree. “And that is Risakin.”
Linette watched him; she was chewing her lip and her nose was wrinkled. Bastien felt a vague sense of nostalgia for the weeks he’d been alone with her. Weeks in which he’d somehow never found the time to tell her all the things he wanted to say. And now his heart tore at him as he watched her study this stranger.
Cael smiled, a wry and surprisingly youthful smile as he gestured at the bolt. “Would one of you mind?”
Bastien looked to Linette. She only had eyes for the stranger. “I will. My name is Linette, and this,” still her eyes never left Cael’s, “is Bastien.”
Cael sat in the dirt, his injured leg stretched in front of him as Linette approached with her bloodied, rusted dagger drawn. He raised a hand. “Wait.” He drew his dagger of blue silver. Bastien noticed there was a faint script that he could never hope to read twined around the blade. Cael flipped the weapon in his hand and offered her the hilt. “I’d rather you use this.”
Linette turned it over in her hand, her eyes following the strange lettering etched on its blade. “It’s beautiful.”
Cael leaned back on his elbows. “It’s sharp and it’s clean, which are my only concerns for the moment.”
Linette smiled and knelt over the injured leg.
“Not often we see strangers travelling alone in the Broken Lands.” Bastien said as he watched Linette pierce the skin just above the crossbow bolt. A trickle of blood ran down Cael’s thigh.
There was a faint sheen of sweat on Cael’s narrow forehead. “I can see why that would be, my young friend.” Green eyes shifted from Bastien to Linette and back again. “Though I cannot help but wonder why a Gaaldinian and a Ruritarian are wandering the Broken Lands together. Where is it you’re headed?” It was asked in a conversational tone, though his eyes betrayed him.
It was the question Bastien had been dreading. He did his best to meet that green gaze. “West.” He nodded in the direction of the slowly sinking sun, hazy and pale in a dark sky.
“Ah.” Cael nodded as though this explained everything. There was the sound of tearing flesh; Linette grimaced as she cut around the head of the crossbow bolt. The skin around the wound was purple. “So you are going to Haral Setun?”
“Haral Setun…” Bastien repeated, the breeze suddenly seeming to cool as it washed down the slope from the brooding mountains. “I don’t think we’ll be travelling so far as that.”
Cael looked between the two of them. “Haral Setun is a day’s ride away.” Linette slowly worked the dagger, cutting away the wounded flesh, but Bastien could tell she was listening intently by the way her head was tilted. “Two travellers in the Broken Lands with no food and water and heading for Haral Setun without even knowing it.” Cael shook his head and smiled, his green eyes bright despite the rapidly darkening sky. There was a frightened cry overhead, a small hawk chased by some winged creature with loose grey skin and a scattering of feathers around its unnaturally long neck; it had wide black eyes and a cruel beak.
“Haral Setun, The City of the Seven Nights.” Linette said, her voice quiet as green eyes turned to focus on her. The crossbow bolt came free with a satisfying sucking sound and she rose to her feet, bloodied bolt in one hand and bloodied dagger in the other. Cael was pale, his hair darkened with sweat. “That is where Viurdan Serath ruled before he joined Viurdan Lykos and Viurdan Ashran in forming the Overlords of the North.”
Just hearing those names aloud was enough to make Bastien’s stomach roil. The Three Despisers, the Three Destroyers. The three mages who had brought the Great Schism to the world.
Cael smiled. “You know your history.” He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Though I think it is not the history of the city that we should fear on our travels. My master informs me that Haral Setun has been attracting a certain type of bandit of late.” He gestured to the ragged red hole in his leg. “As you have seen.”
There was a distant screech; the hawk had finally been caught by its pursuer. A dark shadow plummeted to the ground.
“Your master?” Bastien asked.
Cael grinned. He had deep lines at the corners of his mouth. “My master,” he agreed. “Your master. Linette’s master. Even those bandits’ master. The man who is going to restore this world to what it once was. To more than it once was.”
Bastien’s heart missed a beat, but it was Linette who spoke. “Your master is Meskin Pyrphoros.”
Cael reached into a pouch hanging from his belt and withdrew a needle and a thread. He wet the end of the thread with his tongue and nodded. “Our hope, our defence against the return of the scourge. And I and my brothers are his weapons in the fight.”
Bastien looked anywhere but at Linette. Anywhere but there. “You are a Maccassir.” He felt faint as he looked at the dark-haired man before him, this agent of the Meskin.
Cael carefully threaded the needle. “I’ve heard some people call us that, the Maccassir, old tongue for Slayers. We prefer to call ourselves the Hunters.” The First Sun had nearly set and dark shadows played on Cael’s hard face. “The Meskin has decreed that no magickers shall foul his new world and risk another Schism and it is our job to make sure that order is followed.”
It took all Bastien’s strength not to look at Linette as Cael spoke.
“And why is the Meskin interested in the City of the Seven Nights?” Linette asked. Bastien found himself loving her all the more for how composed she seemed.
“You are travelling through the Broken Lands toward Haral Setun and you mean to tell me that you have never heard of Jenoch Kreshnik?” For the first time, Bastien saw a slight narrowing of those green eyes, the merest hint of suspicion before once more they widened and the previous friendliness prevailed.
“Bastien and I have been reluctant to keep company lately as you might understand.” Linette said.
Cael shrugged as he pulled the skin around the wound together. “It seems Jenoch Kreshnik has taken the city and has been forming quite the army for himself. An army of wastrels and thieves and vagabonds ready to follow Kreshnik to the pits of the netherworld, prepared to take on the might of the Meskin himself.” Cael spoke matter-of-factly, his attention more on his leg as he leaned forward and pierced the puckered flesh with the needle. He pulled the needle through, the thread following with a strange rasping sound. “It’s said this Kreshnik performs miracles for these scavengers on a nightly basis and he calls more magickers to him from all corners of the world.”
Bastien had to look away as Cael leaned forward to work more on the wound. Out in the distance there was a great flapping of wings; the grey-skinned creature had finished feeding on the hawk and flew away, its great neck bending with each sweep of its giant wings. “It’s getting late,” he said.
Cael nodded and looked up at the sky, a sky of deep blues and darker blues and fat black clouds. “Well, seeing as it’s so late, you wouldn’t mind me camping with you both, I hope?” He pulled the thread tight, the ridged flesh tugged wetly together.
That night, for the first time, Linette came to lie next to Bastien and she rested her head on his shoulder as she slept.
Bastien lay wide awake. He stared at the moon, blue and pale as ice as he smelled Linette’s hair and thought of bridges made of white gold.
#
“We have to leave. We can’t stay with him.” Bastien stood next to Linette and watched Cael fastening his saddle. The sun was high in the sky, lighting a plain of flat rocks, of thin soil, of scraggly bushes and dry, coiling trees.
Linette had her arms crossed across her thin chest as she watched Cael work. “We could do with the extra sword arm, you can’t argue with that.”
Bastien took a deep breath. “I’ve seen you have these Visions, Linette. I’ve seen what happens to you.” She said she remembered nothing afterwards, nothing but the Vision. Bastien had seen her eyes swell, pale as an egg and lined with blue veins. He had seen her face become pudgy and sallow and listened to her voice, a voice of endless ages and bottomless voids, speak of this bridge of white gold. And he had watched it, watched this creature steal her body. “You change.” He wanted to look away. She didn’t know, and yet she must know, must know of this thing that possessed her.
Linette chewed her lip, looking anywhere but into his eyes and Bastien wanted to hold her, but he saw Cael was almost finished readying Risakin. The great destrier was stepping in the dirt, eager to be away. “You can’t hide it from him, Linette. If you have a Vision he will see. And he will kill you.” Bastien looked away, unwilling to see the hurt, the fear in those dark eyes. “We can’t stay with him.” This last was whispered as he saw the Hunter returning to them. He was barely limping.
“We should be moving. Haral Setun is still the better part of a day’s walk.”
Bastien saw his chance and leaped at it gratefully. “Perhaps you would be better riding ahead? I don’t know what it is you have planned there, but Linette and I,” he found himself touching Linette’s elbow under the gaze of the Meskin’s Hunter, “we thought we’d steer wide of this city and avoid this magicker you were talking about.” Despite being a hand taller than Cael, Bastien still found himself nervous under that green gaze.
Cael didn’t blink as he looked at Bastien. “I think after yesterday’s excitement we should perhaps stay together a while longer.” There was a challenge in his voice that was difficult to ignore.
“Should we be expecting more trouble?”
“We are in the Broken Lands. There is always trouble ahead.” And with that Cael turned back to Risakin, his cloak hanging loose from his shoulders.
Bastien looked down at Linette by his side. She was pale under her shock of dark hair. “When we get the chance,” she whispered.
“Linette…” Bastien said, but already she was following Cael.
The Hunter kept a slow pace, Risakin stepping warily across a landscape of dull browns and shattered rocks. The First Sun was bright in a sky of parched blue.
They had been named the Broken Lands because they were the starkest reminder of all that had been lost in the Great Schism. The hills that now rolled before them like the muddy swells of a dirty river had once glistened a dew-drenched green; the blackened, hollow houses that echoed to nothing but a dry wind had once been full of life, windows and doors open to welcome the warm winds that swept down from the Jostian Mountains.
The Great Schism hadn’t been so long ago. There were still some that claimed to remember the laughter, the music, the hunts, the rains, the cities of floating pyramids and towering fountains. To Bastien, when he had sat by a faltering fire in the ruins of the amphitheatre of Ruritan and listened to the tales of the aged Survivor, it hadn’t been real; it had been stories from another world. Bastien listened to these stories of great wars where tens of thousands of men in shining armour faced each other across fields of green, tales of golden pyramids floating in the air above a city feasting and celebrating The One; and in that flickering firelight, he thought he could see ghostly-white faces of the Lost sitting on the benches of the great amphitheatre. These faces made him shiver; these were bitter, angry faces that hovered and shimmered just beyond the glow of the flames, angry at all that had been lost in the Great Magickers’ quest for power.
Cael became quieter the further they travelled. Each step closer to the City Of The Seven Nights he seemed to become sterner, older. “So the Meskin sends you, one man, to face an army?” Bastien spoke to break the uneasy silence.
Cael smiled, but there was no humour in it and his green eyes were hard. His stubble was thicker now and Bastien noticed it was flecked with grey. “The Meskin sends me against no army. I am here to watch and to listen and to learn.”
Bastien knew of the Hunters, an order of warriors who were said to undergo the most rigorous training before being accepted as one of their rank. He wondered how even a magickal messiah could hope to face an army of these warriors.
Cael turned Risakin towards a winding valley leading away from the Jostian Mountains. The river bed was dry, the stones looked bleached under the First Sun. Risakin’s pace had increased enough that Bastien and Linette had to quicken their step.
Linette had been quiet. Almost every step they took, Bastien had found himself glancing fearfully in her direction, dreading that her skin would be turning pudgy and pale as milk, dreading her turning to him, reaching for him, her eyes swelling even as she looked at him.
Cael would kill her. Bastien had no doubt of that. He knew of the Meskin and his seat of power in Sharakeen. A small, serious man with thinning hair who had risen to power through the armies of that once glorious city. A man who had risen to power on his promises that never again would the magickers live in a world they had destroyed. A man who had declared war on an unseen enemy and the people loved him for it.
Bastien could stand the fear no longer. Cael couldn’t make them stay with him. “We will leave you here, Cael.” Scarcely a day passed without Linette suffering a Vision and he wasn’t going to risk this Hunter seeing it.
Risakin whinnied and snorted as Cael wheeled the destrier around, and looked down at Bastien. “You go nowhere, Bastien.” Cael swung his leg and climbed down from the horse. They had reached the bottom of the valley, the Jostian Mountains towering behind them and the dry riverbed winding before them, the rocks rounded and smoothed from rushing waters now nothing but a distant memory. “You are to stay with me until I decide otherwise.”
A chill spread through Bastien’s stomach. Cael knew. “Who are you to say where Linette and I go?” Bastien looked around his surroundings; the banks of the riverbed were dry and shear. They were trapped.
The silver sword was pulled from its scabbard, a whisper of death. Cael faced Linette and Bastien, the sword loose by his side and his red cloak reaching to just above his black boots. His tone was conversational, casual. “The Meskin has his agents spread far and wide; we see everything. We see the Magicker calling his kind to him.”
There was a long silence broken only by Risakin stepping on the pebbles of the river bed and the beating wings of a giant grey-skinned creature flying overhead. Another monster created by the magick of the Great Schism.
It was Linette who finally spoke, and for the first time since that night in the dark doorway in Ruritan, Bastien could hear fear in her voice. “You’re wrong. We have nothing to do with this Kreshnik or Haral Setun.”
Still that smile remained. Loose rocks and pebbles chinked under his booted feet as Cael took a step towards them. “I had hoped to wait until you changed. You think I haven’t watched the magicker take hold of you? I wanted to look into its eyes as I cut it away. Hear its screams as I sliced its foulness from your bones.”
Bastien felt the familiar shaking in his hands, the chill in the pit of his stomach. However often he fought, however often he killed, these feelings never changed. “You’ve been following us,” he said.
“I’ve followed many people these past months. None of them knew of Jenoch Kreshnik. Many of them didn’t know how close they were to Haral Setun. And yet,” Cael continued, “each one was heading straight to Haral Setun, called there by the foul magicker and his taint.”
Had this new magicker, this messiah, been calling Linette to him? Bastien thought of the bridge of white gold, the Vision he had seen as Linette shivered and clutched to him and spoke to him through her Visions. Linette hadn’t known what the Visions meant, but Bastien had seen the bridge, he had seen the setting sun behind that bridge of white gold with its sombre, foreboding figures of the blackest stone. And he had known this bridge was in the west, and he had remembered the winding river and he had thought of the only river he knew so wide and he had led Linette to it. The river bed they were now standing in, the greatest river outside the Eastern Marches, was now as dry and parched as any stream in the Broken Lands. But had the messiah, this Kreshnik, known that Linette would meet Bastien and that Bastien would know where to lead her? His head hurt at all the implications of this thought, and instead he met Cael’s viscous green eyes. “You’re wrong. We know no magick. And we are being called nowhere.”
“You think those bandits just happened to be in that village? You didn’t know they had been following you for three days?” Cael took another step towards them. Bastien pulled Linette to him as he took a step backwards, stumbling over a rounded rock. “My brothers and I have been watching the Broken Lands. We have seen those called here by the Magicker, and the Meskin pays us handsomely when we take him the hands of these magickers. And so Kreshnik sends his agents out to protect those he calls to him.” Cael pointed at Linette with the sword, “But you…you are different…”
Bastien had been watching the way Cael moved on the uneven surface of the river bed, stepping lightly across the pebbles and stones without even having to look at his feet. Bastien had seen the way he handled a sword. He knew that his only chance was surprise. He pushed Linette away from Cael, heard her cry out and fall among the bleached pebbles. “Run!” he shouted, while at the same time drawing his sword and in one smooth motion aiming a back-handed slash at Cael’s neck.
Without moving his feet, Cael raised his sword to block the blow. The force of the parry was nearly enough to make Bastien drop his weapon. He heard Linette struggle to her feet behind him. “Bastien, no.”
Bastein stepped to his side, his eyes fixed on Cael all the time as he tried to keep himself between Linette and the Hunter. “Run, Linette.” Before he had finished speaking, he lunged again, another blow easily parried.
Bastien had learned to fight on the streets of Sharakeen, a city that had once had a glass pyramid floating above towers that gleamed silver under the sun. A city that was now a warren of broken black walls, rubble lining the streets and people with haunted eyes. A city where a twelve-year-old boy who had left his starving sister far behind could earn enough to stay alive. He had been fourteen when he first killed a man, a young merchant with oily hair and clean hands.
Never in those dark, dangerous gang-filled streets, or in any of his travels before he found the young woman weeping in a doorway, had Bastien met a man like Cael. Bastien struck and thrust and every strike was met by a blurring blade of blue silver. Cael didn’t attack, but with each parry he stepped forward, forcing Bastien to stumble backwards over the rocks of the parched river bed. He couldn’t hear Linette behind.
Bastien’s hands ached so much that he could barely hold the sword; he thought he heard himself sobbing as his shoulders and arms burned and he saw the green eyes of death before him. One last feeble blow and the sword fell from his hands as Cael batted it aside.
He saw the blade, glinting under the First Sun, arc towards his ribs. And then mind-shattering pain as the flat of the blade swiped into his chest and Bastien bent over, unable to breathe. He fell backwards as Cael’s knee shattered his nose and Bastien found himself looking up at the Hunter, his green eyes hard and cold. The sword was gone and he now held the dagger. His voice was as cold and expressionless as those eyes. “It is people like you that will see an end to this world. You see what the magickers have done in their pride and stupidity and yet you still seek to help them. Why?”
Bastien spat a gob of blood from his mouth. It trickled down his cheek as he looked up at the Hunter.
Cael grimaced at the sight and showed Bastien the dagger. “The Meskin only paid us for the hands of the magickers. People like you and those bandits back there have forced him to reconsider. There is a war coming, Bastien. And you are a traitor to your kind.” He laid the cool blade against Bastien’s wrist, holding the arm still with a booted foot pressed against his elbow.
Bastien felt something wet and cold against his head. He thought he was bleeding but then the coldness trickled around his ears and his shoulders.
He felt the foot loosening on his elbow as Cael looked up, uncomprehending fear in his eyes at what he saw. It was Bastien’s last chance. With his free hand he reached for his sword lying neglected among the rocks and he swung, his ribs screaming in pain, at Cael’s calf. The rusted blade cut deep enough for Bastien to feel bone.
Cael fell to his knees, his screams combating with a different kind of roaring in Bastien’s ears. He picked up a rock the size of his fist and dashed it against Cael’s temple. The roaring was getting louder as Bastien climbed onto the Hunter slumped among the rocks. He raised the rock, blood dripping from his face onto the man beneath him. Only then did he look up and know that the roaring, crashing sound wasn’t coming from his ears.
He barely had time to think that he never knew water could be so loud before he was swept away in the torrent of white, churning, frothing water that poured along the path of the dead river. He fought against the water. Rocks battered against his body as they too were carried on the tide.
Bastien’s ribs burned in agony as he reached for branches, rocks, anything to pull himself free. Finally the waters battered him against an overhanging branch and he clung on, screaming at the pain in his side. He pulled himself up, the branch creaking and cracking under his weight. And then a hand, a small hand grasped his and he looked up to see Linette, her hair wild in the wind and her eyes wide with fear.
And then, as she held his hand, she smiled.
#
When Bastien woke he kept his eyes closed. He could feel a small, rough hand stroking his hair. He could feel the sun warm on his face. He could hear the swells and ripples of a nearby river.
And it hurt every time he breathed.
He opened his eyes and squinted against the sun as he looked up at Linette. “I thought I told you to run.”
Linette smiled and carried on stroking his hair. “I was running. Then I saw you shooting past me in the river.”
Bastien laughed, the pain in his side soon making him stop. Linette smiled again, though there was something sad in her dark eyes. “Have you seen it?”
“What?” Bastien sat up and turned to where she had pointed.
It was bigger than he had ever imagined. And more beautiful. Glaring perfect white under the sun, it spanned the river like a gateway to a better world.
Through the lower arches, Bastien could see the river stretching onwards, fields of green on either bank. In the upper arches of the bridge were the carved figures. Crafted from stone as black as the bridge was white, each figure was perhaps four times the size of Bastien. They were all seated, black eyes staring straight ahead. They looked human, but there was an otherness about them; some were infinitely aged, some young and yet all were breathtakingly beautiful. And painted on the tiles around these figures were scenes of their deeds in ages past. One seated figure, an aged man with long flowing hair which Bastien somehow thought of as white despite the blackness of the stone from which he was carved, had a scene showing him playing a harp in the middle of a meadow across which two armies faced each other. Another showed him playing a flute as two kings faced each other across a table piled with food the like of which Bastien had never seen.
And there were twelve of these figures on either side of the bridge’s tower which loomed so high that Bastien had to crane his neck to see the golden spire which seemed to pierce the very sky.
Bastien had no words. He slipped his hand into Linette’s. Somehow his shyness during their journey through the Broken Lands didn’t seem to matter anymore. “You were right” was all he could think to say.
“We were both right.”
Bastien nodded. He looked at the river; it looked like diamonds had been scattered across its surface, glinting under the sun.
He tried to let go of Linette’s hand, but she held him tightly. “Come with me; come and find my answers with me,” she said.
Bastien looked away. Away from Linette’s dark eyes, away from the watching eyes of the giant figures towering far above him.
There is a war coming, Cael had said. A war for the future of the world. But for now, there was the sun. There was Linette smiling at him. There was a river which glinted like diamonds running by his side. And there was the promise of a new life, a new world ahead.
Bastien smiled, and together, hand in hand, they stepped into the cool shade of the bridge of white gold.
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Martin Turton, Short Fantasy Fiction, Short Fantasy Stories
Bad Milk
August 28, 2009 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
Big Rose watched the obese giant jump up from his seat with a scream, knocking over his chair so that it thudded down behind him. He continued to shout as he turned to and fro, swinging massive arms like a maddened bear. Patrons scrambled from their seats around him and scurried away, too late for one couple drenched by the mugs full of ale his flailing launched through the air. The male victim cursed at him, and behind him the barkeep ducked to retrieve a stout club from beneath the counter.
Rose frowned, bouncing her leg up and down under her corner table while she struggled over her course of action. She had seen innumerable bar fights, and participated in no few. Her involvement here could make the difference between someone getting seriously hurt or not. But, far from home and without her braggart husband at her side, today was a rare time she got to enjoy a drink in peace without being recognized. So she sipped at her bowl of whiskey and waited, hoping things would not escalate.
The behemoth slammed huge fists down on his table, causing it to split and crash down in pieces. Rose bit her lip; it would have taken considerable force to do that. The barkeep stepped in front of him, talking to try and calm him. A backhand sent him sprawling as blood sprayed from his nose, and Rose stood.
The giant advanced on the stunned man, whom two waitresses rushed to aid. One woman tried to drag the barkeep away, while the other brave girl grabbed his attacker in an attempt to restrain him. He flung her away and into a bunch of chairs. A youth ran to aid her, while two friends stepped towards her assailant. His hands shot out in a flash and cracked their skulls together. One fell, senseless at best; the other stood reeling, defenseless against the fist drawn back to end him.
“Enough!” Rose said as she caught the haymaker in her hand, a powerful blow but no more so than one of her husband’s. She squeezed, relatively calm if resigned to unwanted attention later. Few men even of his size could match her strength, and she expected him to be incapacitated by pain. But when his glazed eyes met hers, she saw something she had rarely encountered off the battlefield–the madness of a berserker rage. No wonder he didn’t speak. Nor did he show any regard for the crushing pressure on his hand, and before Rose could adjust to this surprise his other fist smashed into her face.
She staggered, tasting blood as her lips were mashed against her teeth, and his hand slipped out of her grip. He punched her again, half turning her around. He rushed in, running into a kick to his gut. She hit him with an uppercut, lifting him on his toes. He hammered down with both fists, striking the joint of her neck and shoulder. She grunted, bent over by the impact, but rammed a shoulder into his chest and shoved him back.
Again he came on. Her fist put a dent in his solar plexus, but he did not react beyond a loud exhalation of breath as he pounded on her chest and head. His face, however, was turning redder and covered with sweat. Rose worried she might kill him. She caught hold of a wrist and attempted to leverage him down, but again his disregard for pain availed him. He jerked away, likely damaging his arm, and pulled her into a headlock.
Throwing her arms about his hips, Rose heaved him into the air. Wooden planks snapped when his five hundred pound body hit the floor. Yet he kept his hold, and they grappled squirming on the ground. Rose pried at his forearm and slipped free. She tried to roll over atop him, but he elbowed her face and pushed her away. They both stood. He hurled a chair which shattered over her blocking arm and charged, tackling her through the bar.
On her back among the splinters, Rose wrapped her legs around his neck, but he bit into her inner thigh and twisted free. She kneed him in the head, scrambled to her feet. Again he charged, driving her into the back shelves. Broken kegs splashed their contents down on her. She managed to trap his head underarm, and he punched repeatedly into her ribs. She switched her grip to his left arm, wrenching it behind him as she bore him facedown to the ground.
Even trapped in her arm lock, he tried to rise on his knees and she heard tendons in his shoulder creak on the verge of breaking. She shifted again, hooking her legs around one of his, and held him down on his belly. His free hand still clawed at the floor.
“What are you all waiting for?” she gasped. “Somebody get something to tie him up with!”
#
“So who is he?” Rose asked between gulps of the barkeep’s gift of whiskey, glancing at the giant snarling with his limbs chained behind his back. Her face stung, as did her bitten thigh. “Is he known for being crazy?”
“I don’t know,” an aging waitress said, dabbing with a rag at the barkeep’s broken nose. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“She’s new here,” put in the barkeep. He sneered. “He is Thomas the Tremor, head of the Black Axe robber gang and known for the lion-killing strength of his hands.”
No wonder he’d put up the fight he had. Robber gang? Maybe she shouldn’t have taken so much care not to hurt him. “The head of them? I would hope he isn’t normally this out of control, then.” He couldn’t be, really. He had to at least know how to speak…
The barkeep nodded grudgingly. “Thomas is known for being callous and cruel, not animalistic.”
Rose grew suspicious; in her experience, those without conscience were among the least likely to go foaming mad. She knelt beside the robber chief, leaning back from the spittle which flew towards her face. His eyes were wild and glassy. “It’s been a while since we subdued him, so this isn’t a momentary fit of rage. Might it be the effect of some drug?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure. But he’s been here many times before, and I’ve never seen him like this… which does remind me of something I heard about earlier today.”
“What?”
“A merchant from the wealthy district of town killed his family and went on a rampage in the streets before being slain by the guards. I didn’t know him, but hear he had an outstanding reputation. They said he was like a wild beast at the end.”
Rose became more alarmed, increasingly worried something bigger was going on. Suddenly there was a commotion at the door, a group of roughly dressed men pushing their way into the tavern.
“Where is our leader?” a stocky ruffian asked at their front. He spotted Thomas, chained and prone. “Let him go now!”
Seeing the blades bare in their hands, Rose reached towards the hilt of her broadsword. Then she stopped, thinking of the possible need for their help. She pondered what to say…
“I don’t think so,” burst in the aging waitress from before. “Even if we did, I doubt he’d recognize you.”
The robbers stared at their leader, eyes narrowing with the realization something was wrong. “What have you done to him?” a gaunt-faced man demanded, and looked at Rose. “Have you enspelled him, you monstrous witch?”
Rose frowned. She hardly thought she looked like a witch, unless the battle scars covering her body were to be taken as ritual disfigurement. “I did nothing of the sort, though I’ll have to consider magic as a possibility.”
“What happened?” the stocky robber asked. “Did you feed him some tainted brew, barkeep?”
“He had shrimp noodle soup and ale, same as he always does!”
“He just got up in the middle of his meal and started making trouble,” said the quick-tongued waitress. “You should be grateful this heroine was willing to spare his life!”
The robbers broke into angry shouting, and Rose wished the waitress would just shut up. As unskilled a diplomat she thought herself, even she wouldn’t be so careless to risk the temperance of the other party. At least no one had divulged her identity yet.
“I did spare him,” she said loudly, “and I’m willing to help find a cure for him.” That last part she added with a sigh; she hated robbers, and normally had little use for them. But whatever had caused Thomas’ sudden insanity warranted temporary cooperation, in case it posed a danger to others. “Has he been acting strangely lately, at all? Have any of you noticed that anything seemed to be bothering him?”
Grumbling among themselves, the robbers seemed to agree they hadn’t. “What’s he done recently, that’s been different from usual?” she asked then. “Where has he been, and what has he eaten?”
“Same as the rest of us,” the gaunt-faced robber replied in an accusing tone. “We haven’t gone mad.”
“Then I hope you do,” the outspoken waitress said, “and kill each other off, you scum!”
The robbers surged forward. Rose leveled her sword at them, but they kept coming. She cleaved through the haft of a man’s axe; put him to sleep with a straight punch. A sword thrust past her face as she parried, then elbowed the wielder away. She kicked another foe into the arms of his comrades, then yelled and slashed in a wide arc to drive them back. She hoped she wasn’t forced to shed blood here. That would make a real mess of things, once the authorities got involved.
“Brothers,” one of the rogues cried, “stop! This must be Rose Agen, she of the thousand scars and army-slaying sword!”
“Rose Agen, the Iron Flower? So that’s who you are, heroine! I should have recognized that fearsome face and gigantic shoulders. Will you not give these dogs their comeuppance?”
Rose sighed at the unflattering remarks, then turned to glare at the waitress. “Shut up!” More softly, “Issues with the robbers can be settled later. Right now, I want to get to the bottom of this insanity problem.”
“Will you kill them for us, then?” the woman whispered. “They are a terrible menace to our people. We’d pay you!”
As much as she loathed robbers, Rose wasn’t thrilled to be thought of as the equivalent of a hired killer. “We’ll discuss it later.” She looked to Thomas’ cohorts, who edged warily back from her. “Are you sure he didn’t encounter anything unusual recently?”
Before anyone could respond, the gaunt-faced robber said, “Wait! Don’t listen to her. She is known for being a bane to men like us, countless of whom have died at her hand. How do we know this isn’t a trick to cause us harm?”
“If I slay armies, as your friend so eloquently put it, why wouldn’t I just kill you all if I wanted to harm you?” She swept her threatening stare over the rest of them. “Now, are you going to answer my question, or keep tempting me to harm you?”
“It’s not really unusual for him,” a cowering robber blurted out, “because he goes every month, but he did go to the temple of Eleina yesterday.”
Eleina? Rose’s eyes widened. Wasn’t that..? “Don’t tell me a robber chief pays homage to a goddess of beauty.”
“What are you laughing at?” asked the stocky robber who had first spoken. “Do you have a problem with a man appreciating things of beauty?”
“Women, you mean?” she asked, recognizing his lusty grin. “I suppose there isn’t, technically… just makes an odd image in my head.” She turned to the barkeep. “What about that rich man? Did he visit that temple, too?”
“I didn’t hear if he did or not. Still, it would seem more likely that a rich man would, than a robber chief…”
Rose nodded. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”
“What about these robbers?” asked the waitress. “Aren’t you going to get rid of them now?”
“We’ve answered your questions,” said a robber. “Can we have our leader back?”
She groaned and hung her head, then glanced at the barkeep. “Fine, give him back.” Though unwilling to start killing here, she would hardly be grieved if the robbers’ leader wound up eliminating a few of them.
#
Rose peered down into the valley, shaking her head as she glimpsed the shining temple obscured by purple-flowered trees. Climbing up mountains was one of her biggest annoyances in traveling, but going down presented only a little less difficulty. It was understandable for worshippers of evil, but why did even followers of “good” deities choose to build their temples in such inconvenient places? Baffling. She knew there was a road down into the other side of the valley, but had no desire to waste time by taking the long way around.
Luckily she was an excellent climber, and descended the sheer cliffs without equipment, if a bit miffed at the strain on her fingers. For all her prowess she was still a girl, and this one of the reasons she always looked so unpresentable!
Her self-consciousness grew while through lush woods she approached the temple itself, and along the way observed many a statue of beautifully formed, naked men and women. Not only was she far larger than any of the slender female figures, but even bulkier than these “ideal” men. When she reached the temple, she was sure she would be made to feel like a still bigger freak than she already did.
Her fears were confirmed when, upon coming into view of the first red-dressed temple maiden strolling through the forest, the girl gasped, made a holy sign at her, and hurried past.
“Beauty may be subjective,” Rose muttered gazing skyward, “but a lot of people sure seem to share the same standards…” Then she wondered about Thomas the Tremor and how they had reacted to him. He wasn’t exactly attractive.
Continuing on, she met an older but perfectly groomed priestess tending the front garden of the temple, who seemed to repress a shudder before greeting her. “Welcome to the Goat Valley Temple of Eleina. Are you here to feel beautiful?”
Feel beautiful? Rose knew she was ugly to most, so how could these people make her feel otherwise? She knew her husband Finn thought her beautiful, and that made her happy; but if these devotees did not believe the same, wouldn’t any comfort they offered be a lie? Though skeptical, she decided to indulge her curiosity. “Yes,” she said. “Where do I go?”
“Head around to the right of the temple. You’ll see the line.”
She followed the directions to the building’s side, where she took in an amazing sight. Standing before a door framed by carvings of graceful, elongated bodies was a long line of the oddest looking people she’d ever seen. Cripples, dwarfs, the deformed, diseased, horribly scarred, incredibly ancient, and just plain ugly, all boasted representatives on this procession out of nightmare. Some even looked worse than her. Others, however, seemed to lack more in confidence than anything else.
Rose took her place at the end of the line, actually feeling more grotesque among others of her “kind”. It was as though being here confirmed her ugliness. She even spotted another female warrior ahead, with a face much less scarred than hers. Rose yearned to flee, but realized Thomas had probably come for just this and willed herself to stay, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. She wished the barkeep was here so she could ask if the rich man had been ugly, too.
“So, do you know Thomas the Tremor?” she asked the balding hunchback in front of her.
He made a slow, clumsy turn to face her. “Who? I might know him. What does he look like?”
“A few inches taller than me, pasty faced, brown hair… unbelievably fat. Ring a bell?”
“I’ve seen him around,” he said with a look of disdain. “Is he your friend?”
“We’ve met. Did he come here to feel beautiful?” The hunchback nodded. “What about a rich merchant, successful in business and life, but still anxious over his appearance?”
“Another friend? You have an odd variety. I’m not sure, but I have seen someone I suspected might be that… I was sure he would be here today, though. Where is he?”
Dead, it seemed. “What does feeling beautiful involve, anyhow?”
“This is your first time? It’s pretty simple, really. They clean you, dress you up, and give you something to drink, all while giving you a speech about how lovely everything is. Don’t frown like that; it’s a lot better than it sounds. You have to experience it to know how pleasurable it is.”
“What do they give you to drink?”
“Some kind of soup they make themselves. I don’t know what goes into it, but it does taste good.” He gave an irritated scowl. “There sure are a lot more people waiting for it than normal, though.”
While not certain of it, Rose got a strong feeling she was on the right track. Not eager to see all the folks ahead of her become deprived of minds as well as looks, she ran past the protesting line and through the door.
#
“What are you doing?” a priestess asked admonishingly as Rose entered, a pair of teenage assistants stepping up to bar her path. She heard the irate shouts at her back, and hoped the people in line wouldn’t barge in after her. The priestess too looked nervously past her. “You can’t just rush in here!”
“Sorry if I’m breaking a rule, but I can’t let you serve soup to the people outside either. I’m afraid something might be wrong with it.”
“What do you mean?” the priestess asked in a worried voice. “But that’s impossible. It’s made from our sacred recipe; how could there be anything wrong with it?”
“Well, maybe there isn’t, but I’d like to check and make sure. Somebody… went insane after drinking it.”
“How could that be? Explain what happened.”
She did, only to see the woman’s expression change from one of concern to doubt. “A robber and a merchant go crazy, and you think they must be related? Are you sure? What proof do you have?”
“None exactly, but they did apparently come here.” She paused. “Could one of the ingredients have become tainted? Has there been any change to their sources recently?”
“No,” the priestess said, but her hesitation and averted gaze showed she was lying, if badly.
“Please just tell me. This is your problem, too.”
“But there’s no way that… We started using different milk two days ago. A ravishing goat, which we believed sent by our goddess, walked into our garden last week, and after some deliberation it was decided she must be intended to provide the milk for our soup. So we started using it…”
A ravishing goat? Rose’s face was blank as she tried to picture it. She wondered how its milk could cause insanity, and if some supernatural power might be at work. “Take me to it.”
“I-I don’t know if I should. The prefect would not take kindly to such commotion.”
“Yeah? And if there is trouble in the future, and he finds out you knew about it and did nothing, how much angrier will he be then?”
The priestess bowed her head and waved her assistants aside, then reluctantly led Rose inside. She smiled in anticipation of seeing the goat. Even if it turned out not to be the culprit, she would at least get to see how a goat could be ravishing!
#
Guided by the priestess, Rose walked into the enclosed garden at the center of the temple. On a small grassy field ringed by flowers grazed a plump goat of enormous size, six feet at the shoulder with snow white hair and horns which shone like gold. Despite its size, it walked almost daintily, carrying itself with a measured grace unseen in animals save perhaps the pets of the rich. This was considered ravishing? Maybe it was beautiful for a goat, but Rose wasn’t impressed.
She walked closer, and its head swung up to regard her with stupid cow eyes. She would have expected better from a goddess’ gift, considering wild goats seemed much more alert. A man came into view from behind it, eyes repulsed as they fixed on her. “What are you doing in here?” he cried. “Visitors are not allowed into the inner haven!”
“Master,” the priestess interjected hastily, “Rose Agen the Iron Flower. Rose, Master Cameron of the Goat Valley Temple.”
Rose extended her hand, frowning slightly at the varnish on the middle-aged prefect’s nails. His handshake was limp-wristed and weak. “This animal’s milk might be unsafe,” she said after reviewing the situation. “I’d like for you to stop using it until we can determine if that’s the case–or better yet, stop serving your special soup until then.”
He recoiled. “What? Stop serving?! Why, that is impossible! This has been our tradition for decades. Surely, you can’t be blaming us for the failings of the ugly…”
Painfully aware of her inclusion in that group, Rose let a harsh edge slip into her tone. “Listen, this isn’t hard. All you have to do is let me test the milk on a… robber or something, and we’ll know if it’s responsible. And if not, we’ll do the same with the rest of the ingredients.”
“And how long will that take? You cannot deprive our followers of the goddess’ blessing.”
“But don’t you care about their well-being at all?” Or would he be glad to see the world rid of some of the ugly?
“Our temple’s fame has grown greatly since this goat’s arrival,” the priestess whispered into her ear. “We have seen a huge increase in visitors and donations since we started serving its milk.”
Oh. So that was why the line outside was so long. “I’ll pay you for your losses,” she said wearily. “I have some money, from killing enough armies.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked the prefect. “And what if you do deem it unsafe? Would you compensate us for all the funds we would miss out on then? Will you expect us to stand by while you slaughter our sacred beast?”
“I wouldn’t kill it, as long as you stopped giving its milk to the public and there was no other danger. As for your funds, no, I wouldn’t keep paying you for possible losses, but you can’t think to continue getting rich off tainted milk?”
“Getting rich? Blasphemer! We-”
“Sorry, I meant to say, ‘furthering your goddess’ cause’. But anyway, can I just test the milk?”
The prefect coldly met her eyes. “I cannot consider that our sacred animal may be harmful. Find something else to blame the troubles of the world on.”
Again Rose eyed the beast. It didn’t seem that glorious, really, almost more like a caricature of goatly beauty than the real thing. It conveyed a sense of being well-fed and pampered, but lacked the majesty of a wild animal in its element. Would a goddess of beauty really consider this ideal? “What if it wasn’t sent by your goddess? What if it’s… something else?”
The prefect scowled. “We are the earthly representatives of Eleina, and have already passed judgment. Who are you to question it?”
“Maybe I could prove it. Is there some way you can positively identify her creatures?”
His reply was firm. “We have established its status already.”
“Maybe we should give her a chance,” the priestess said. “There could be serious trouble in the future, if something is wrong.”
“It disappoints me your faith is so weak,” he said with a reproachful look. He smirked contemptuously at Rose. “But perhaps… if you can find me anything in the world more beautiful than this goat, I will give you the benefit of the doubt and allow you to test it.”
The offer should have pleased Rose, as she did not find the goat very attractive. However, she suspected that in his blindness, the prefect might hold its beauty above any she showed him. Too, she did not want to leave in search of some such beauty and give the insanity more time to spread. Her jaw clenched, she looked past him to the goat. She figured she could get by him easily enough and kill it. But that might start no small grudge with the temple of Edeina, and she didn’t want that–especially if the milk really deserved no blame.
She thought of something Finn had said to sooth her during their anniversary, and realized there was one thing she could try. She might look like a fool for doing it, but she had to risk it. Preparing to embarrass herself worse than she had in years, she grasped the bottom of her shirt and pulled up.
The priestess gaped, and the prefect staggered back and covered his eyes. Then they realized she had not exposed her maimed breasts (one of which was missing its nipple), but only the scar-covered mass of her abdomen, and looked again. Still, the disgust was clear in their eyes. Trying her best to keep her voice steady, Rose began to speak.
“See these scars? This body’s been skewered and gutted more times than I could count on my hands and feet, and every day I suffer pain that would have most people begging to die. I’m not complaining, not really–I can take it, and my life’s work has been fairly worthwhile in my eyes.
“But when I was pregnant, especially towards the end, the pain got much worse, to the point you probably couldn’t come close to imagining. No, actually, try thinking what it would be like to be impaled with a dozen swords at once, and have them twisted around inside you; that was what it felt like when my twins kicked. As my belly got big, it was like all my old wounds opened up again and wouldn’t close. For half a year I bore that, from when the agony began to the birth of my children.”
She smiled now, with genuine bliss, and dropped her shirt. “Now my kids are three, and I know it was all worth it. Isn’t motherly love that much more beautiful than some fat goat?”
“It is,” the priestess said in a hushed, awed voice. “Yes, it is.”
The prefect stared at her face, admiration filling his wide eyes. So he was human after all, she was glad to see. “But that’s not fair,” he mumbled. “Love isn’t a physical thing.”
Rose grinned in the crafty way her husband sometimes did. “You never said it had to be physical beauty that I showed you. Now, are you going to let me test your goat?”
He stood there and looked around, hesitating. Then the priestess said, “I think we should let her do it. It will do no harm, if there is no problem.”
At last he gave a defeated nod. “So,” Rose asked, “where do you keep its milk?”
But there proved no need for that, for the “goat” must have known the game was up. There was a sound of crunching bone and tearing flesh, and when Rose looked it had reshaped itself into a ten-foot tall, squat and lanky apelike thing with short white fur and an old woman’s face.
“I am Liselaora,” it croaked, “true master of the valley. I was hoping to see this frivolous temple razed to the ground by its own vengeful supplicants, but I suppose I will have to settle for destroying you all myself.”
It lunged for the prefect, long arms raised. Rose took an overhand blow on her shield and slashed across both wrists with her sword. Liselaora shrieked and hopped back, then spat a sizzling gob of acid. Rose smacked it out of the air with her blade, then chopped into Liselaora’s shoulder and dragged it through its fur to remove the acid. Bleeding profusely, the monster fell to its rump, but desperately grabbed Rose’s shield in a prehensile foot.
It wrenched her off balance and rushed, only for her to spin aside and slice its back. It stumbled to all fours. But as Rose’s sword came down for the finishing blow, its flesh seemed to flow away like a receding tide. The little crow Liselaora had shrunken itself into took flight, clumsily for its injuries.
“I won’t forget this, you ugly witch!” wailed its shrill voice. “I’ll have my revenge if it takes a hundred years!”
Rose drew a dagger and threw. The blade tore Liselaora’s tiny body nearly in half, and it plummeted dead to the ground.
“So it was a demon, or shapeshifter, or whatever it was,” Rose grumbled as she dropped her sword, hissing at the droplets of corrosive saliva which burned her arm. “Some thing she was, to be calling me ugly. But did you know there was such a creature sharing your valley?”
The prefect was silent, but the priestess said, “We had heard legends, but after centuries, we didn’t think…”
“Yeah, I understand. You make sure to destroy all of its milk, then. Yes, prefect?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do now?” the priestess asked. “Are you going to try to find a cure?”
Rose washed her arm with water from her canteen and shook her head. “The only person still alive who I know’s been afflicted is Thomas the robber, and I don’t care enough to bother with him. His friends can look for a cure themselves, if they value him that much.” She smiled. “As for me, I’ve been having a rough time about my appearance recently.
“So why don’t we go, and you can make me… feel beautiful.”
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Billy Wong, Short Fantasy Fiction, Short Fantasy Stories
King of Heroes
May 22, 2009 by Publisher · Leave a Comment
Two huge warriors fought their way up the spiraling steps that encircled the tower, cutting down gremlin after drooling, bat-winged gremlin. Even their inhuman foes shrank back from the exuberant thunder of Finn’s battle cries, while Rose did her bloody work mostly in silence. Their feet slipped on stone slick with multicolored gore, and still they could hardly see past the monstrous crowd which surrounded them. Above, a portal roared as a nightmare realm strove to connect with their world.
“Hurry,” Finn yelled over the howling winds and screaming monsters, “before the gateway fully opens!”
An immense two-headed viper reared up around the tower’s side, thick as a man’s waist. It snapped at Rose, who took its massive fangs through her left forearm before chopping down between its necks to split its body. Prying the slack jaws from her arm, she shoved it aside and ran on. The poison would have killed a normal human within seconds, but her extraordinary constitution reduced its effect to mere agony. Her blood boiled within her, every heartbeat sending lances of flame through her veins, and sweat drenched the padding under her plate armor.
She staggered with the pain, but recovered and spun into a slash which cut through three gremlins flying from the tower windows. “There are so many!” she gasped breathlessly. “How could old Bolloxo keep this many unnatural freaks up here?”
Finn’s mace came down on the misshapen skull of a frog-cat hybrid the size of a bull, smashing it to pulp. “What do you expect from an ancient mage?” he asked as he ran up its body and bashed in the head of the towering amphibian-like biped behind it. “Must’ve had plenty of spare time to breed these things.”
Dashing past him, Rose used her shield to smash a leaping man-sized spider to the ground. Her sword chopped down, cleaving its torso. Spraying acid stung her hand, but she shook it off with a hiss and joined Finn to hack their way through a mass of gremlin flesh and claws. “Almost there,” she said, jaw clenched with resolve as she glimpsed the roof’s edge past the thinning mob.
The last of the gremlins fell, crushed or slashed apart. “Easy work,” Finn beamed with a smug grin.
“Indulge your pride later,” Rose said as she dragged him after her. “We’ve got an otherworldly invasion to stop!”
They darted for the opening in the wall around the roof, at the center of which swirled a cloud of unnamable colors from which issued an overwhelming salty, bitter stench. “We’re too late,” Rose breathed, as the four-toed crimson claw of Vrilluos, king of the Entropic Land, stepped out of the maelstrom.
Seemingly unperturbed, Finn readied his mace. “We’ll fight him, then. We’ve taken his like before.”
It was true, but Rose felt her usual worry and fear against a powerful foe. Too, she grew distressingly conscious of the ache of her muscles and pain of her wounds. At least she was already practically made of scars; if she lived, a few more would hardly matter. She advanced with her husband, her face grim.
A mighty wind blasted into her eyes, and she squinted. She looked up as a great scaled bird with a thick neck and heavy beak landed before them, blocking their way to the portal. Another one of Bolloxo’s creatures? But then she saw the rider drop down behind it and walk towards Vrilluos, sword and shield in hand.
Rose leaned out to the side, calling to the man in the bulky golden-brown armor covered in runes and beaked full-face helm. “Are you crazy? What do you think you’re doing? Tell your mount to get out of the way!” Finn, of course, was already advancing.
“Stay back!” the large man said, authority in his booming voice. “I’ll handle it.”
Finn raised his mace to strike, only for the bird-thing to kick him in the chest and knock him to his back. “Kill it, Rose! Before Vrilluos comes through all the way.”
“I don’t know if we should,” she said, her sword wavering in her hand. “It’s not ours, and he seems to be here to help.”
The man strode calmly for the portal, where Vrilluos’ body above the chest had already emerged. It was an ungainly behemoth, with an oversized, bull-horned elk’s head and grotesquely muscled neck, and long, sinewy arms attached to shoulders with a breadth of ten feet supported it in a lizard’s sprawl. “You really want to face all of that thing?” Finn asked.
Rose feigned a dash to the left. “No, but we don’t have to kill to get to it.” The birdlike mount pecked down, its beak scraping the ground as she ducked between its legs. It turned to follow, and Finn tackled one of its legs from behind. It toppled backwards over his head, and he ran after her.
Just then the stranger reached the portal, and Vrilluos lunged to bite him. For a moment Rose thought he would surely be overpowered, but without hesitation he raised a spiked shield like a metal wall above his head. Vrilluos roared as the spikes impaled it below the jaw, and Rose stared as the man held its weight back by strength alone.
Then he brought up the immense curved sword in his other hand and slashed down. Her jaw dropped as the blade sheared straight through Vrilluos’ skull, and the king of the Entropic Land slumped down dead. Without its will to hold it open, the portal fell in on itself and disappeared, severing Vrilluos’ upper torso so that it dropped with a thump to the tower roof.
Rose came to a halt, regarding the warrior before her in awe. She had never seen such a legendary monster defeated so casually before. Behind her and Finn, the birdlike mount scrambled back to its feet. “I appreciate your desire to help,” its master said, quickly looking each of them over. “But as you see, I did not need it.”
“Who are you?” Rose asked, her voice small.
“I am Phanim, King of Heroes.”
“King of Heroes?” Finn asked in a contemptuous tone. “Isn’t that a bit of a presumptuous title, especially for someone I’ve never even heard of before?”
Phanim shrugged. “You’ve heard of me now.” He walked past them, grasped the saddle on his mount, and pulled himself smoothly up. “And you can expect to hear more soon enough.” The avian bunched its legs and leapt into flight, bearing itself away on powerful wings.
“What a bastard,” Finn said, “stealing our kill.”
Rose looked after Phanim and nodded weakly. She did not much care who had slain Vrilluos, only that it had been stopped, though the hard-fought battle to get up the tower felt a bit wasted. But in over ten years as one of Kayland’s foremost warriors, she had rarely been impressed the way she had today; and after all these years, she knew full well that any stranger of such power would have to be treated with caution. Still, she held on to her hope he might prove as benevolent as his moniker implied.
#
Three weeks later, Rose and Finn stood watching as Phanim’s messenger spoke from the elevated stage. He was a thin, stringy man, with a shrill voice which carried through the air like a bell. All around him the square was packed with listeners, much to the delight of the street merchants who regarded them all as potential customers. “Phanim, King of Heroes has deposed the tyrant Count of Ludy!” he announced to the roaring approval of the crowd. “Another blow for justice and freedom!”
“Why didn’t we ever do that?” Finn asked at the back of the gathering.
“Because he wasn’t that evil or much of a tyrant,” Rose said with a sigh, “even if something of a high taxer and slow to provide services. Deposing him has never been worth it.”
“No? The people look happy enough that he’s gone.”
“Happy for now, sure, but this is sure to cause unneeded unrest. I’m sure the regent won’t stand for this.”
Finn nodded. “That’s true. Phanim can’t be stupid enough not to realize that. What could he be planning?”
“Rumor says the Regent Nicholas is marshalling forces to exercise Phanim’s arrest,” said the man on the stage. “People, what do you say to that?”
Immediately, a chorus of boos filled the air. Then, someone shouted, “Down with Nicholas! Down with the pretender!”
Rose looked at Finn, an exasperated frown on her face. Not long ago, Baron Nicholas had been one of Kayland’s most popular noblemen. But his reign as regent had been troubled, through no fault of his own, and the favor of the masses had predictably faded. The civil war started by Prince Victor in his bid for the throne had played no small part in that.
“Think this will cause another civil war?” Finn asked, echoing her worst fears.
Rose bit her lip. “It won’t come to that,” she said, as much to reassure herself as anything else. “He doesn’t have the clout to do it.”
“Seems like he already has plenty of support among the people, and will have a lot more if this keeps up.” Sarcastically, he added, “And ‘King of Heroes’ does sound like a pretty big deal.”
“Why would he want a civil war? We shouldn’t assume everyone is heartless and out to create conflict.”
“Maybe he just wants to take over Kayland. We’ve seen more than enough of those types.”
It was a real possibility, especially considering that the nation had not nearly recovered from the last war. The weakness of the government would indeed tempt ambitious would-be conquerors. “So what do you think we should do? I share your suspicion, but we don’t know for sure. He might still have good intentions–I think we should find out more.”
Finn grunted. “We don’t know his motives for sure, but deposing the Count is proof enough of his misplaced priorities. An educational talk with him is the least we’ll have to do, if he doesn’t smarten up.”
“We might not have to do anything, if Nicholas takes care of it.”
“Since when does Nicholas get anything done by himself?”
Rose shoved him, smiling. “Oh, don’t be cruel. It’s not his fault he’s not a brute like you.”
A man walked onstage from the crowd and said something to the speaker. At once, his gaze swung to Rose and Finn. “You two!” he said, pointing at them. “I am told you disapprove of Phanim’s actions. Why do you oppose the King of Heroes’ quest for progress?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Finn snapped right back. “Are you blind, or just an ignorant fool?”
“I know you, Finn, and your mighty wife too. But after all you’ve done to fight against oppression, it surprises me that you would not be more supportive of our cause.”
“It wasn’t worth it to get rid of Ludy,” Rose said. “He had his faults, but they were small prices to pay for a stable government. People will only suffer more in the chaos with him gone.” She heard little agreement from the crowd; it did not help that, even after many years as a public figure, she was still a none-too-confident speaker.
“We must always suffer as we strive for good; you of all people must understand that. Should we sit around and stand for unfair treatment, just for fear of struggle and hardship?” Once again, the mob screamed its assent.
Rose stood silent, gnashing her teeth in frustration. She had used the same argument many times before, and rarely had it turned around on her. She believed she was right, that the issue here was a matter of degree, but it seemed the man had backed her and her reason into a corner.
“And does Phanim think his cause more important than Nicholas’ authority, too?” At the sound of Finn’s powerful voice, the crowd fell silent. “Would he tear our country apart to get his way?”
“Finn!” Rose whispered. “Don’t be so brazen.”
Ignoring her, he continued, “Your master wants to incite a rebellion? He’s welcome to try, but we’ve learned since before. He won’t get as far as Victor.”
At the mention of the polarizing prince, hated by many yet still loved by some, emotions flared. Shouting filled the square as the gathering disintegrated into mayhem. People screamed at each other, some threw punches, and many ran. Finn smiled as he led Rose from the volatile scene. “What did you do that for?” she asked. “Did you have to make it that clear where we stand?”
“Why not? That ought to get his attention; hopefully, it’ll be enough to make him a little more cautious.”
Understanding now, Rose nodded. “And slow him down some while we figure out what he’s up to, right?”
He draped a heavy arm over her shoulders and hugged her close. “You got it. I may be a brute, but I’m hardly stupid.”
#
The couple returned to their stark tower home, where they found their good friend Derrick waiting. The young scholar was helping them dig up information about Phanim; Rose had worried he might get in trouble, but Finn reassured her many people must be doing the same. The excitement in his eyes now could not be mistaken. “Guess what I found out,” he said, his wide mouth twitching with anticipation.
“That Phanim is out to start a civil war?” Finn asked. “It seems a likely conclusion, from our encounter today.”
“It does? Tell me what happened.” They did, and he nodded. “Sounds like a dangerous situation. Anyway, I found his name in a history book!”
At that, Rose snapped to attention. “Phanim’s?”
“Yes. Apparently, it used to be the name of a famous warrior king.”
Rose and Finn exchanged glances. “Probably just somebody who adopted the name,” Finn said.
Rose’s brow furrowed with concern. “Maybe, but not necessarily; he was really powerful, and we’ve fought revived ancients before . . . Derrick, did the book say anything about how he fought?”
“Not specifically–but it did mention that he was known for possessing incredible strength, and a suit of enchanted armor.”
Her eyes widened. “Enchanted armor? Was it golden brown and covered in runes?”
“It wasn’t described in detail.” Derrick paused, thinking. “But it did say where he was buried.”
Finn touched Rose’s hand. “Don’t say it. You want to go check it out, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. Let’s see if he’s still buried or not. How far away is it?”
Derrick smiled. “Not far. He ruled a kingdom which used to be where Jugeld is now, so at least you won’t have to leave the country. Should I keep researching the current Phanim’s intentions, whoever he is, while you two are gone?”
“Yes, Derrick, but be careful. We might be targets now, and I don’t want you getting killed for Finn here’s recklessness!”
#
Rose and Finn headed south to the province of Jugeld, where they roamed lush valleys and rolling hills in search of Phanim’s tomb. It took some time before they found the entrance hidden behind the rocks behind a waterfall. Soaking wet, they entered into a square chamber carved into the cliffside.
Huge statues of Phanim lined the flat walls, nearly filling the space and complete with reproductions of the armor his namesake had worn; but as his face had been covered, they could not know if it matched the wide, strong-boned one on the stone figures. Behind those, intricate relief sculptures detailed the king’s life and battles.
At the back of the tomb loomed a rectangular sarcophagus, iron-gray, unadorned if perfectly symmetrical, and nearly eight feet tall. Finn pried it open to reveal what at first glance appeared to be an empty interior. Then Rose looked down, to see the disordered pile of bones at its bottom.
“That’s some way to bury a king,” Finn said.
Rose nodded. “I think someone’s been here.”
“Yeah, and I’m fairly certain they took his armor, considering all indications are he was buried in it.” He looked up and to the left. “That wall carving even shows that.”
She skimmed over the stories carved into the walls. “Looks like he did fight with a curved sword and spiked shield, though. Wait, let me check something.” She knelt and examined the collapsed skeleton. “Never mind, these are old bones. I was wondering if maybe someone actually awoke the dead king, and that poor soul got thrown in here. But I guess this is the king. His bones are really long, too; he was a giant, and the Phanim out there wouldn’t have filled his coffin.”
“Then at least we’re dealing with an imposter, and not an ancient undead.” Finn spat. “How is he so damn strong, though?”
Rose’s gaze shifted to another section of wall. “Seems like Phanim’s armor was a gift from the gods, or at least that’s how the legend goes. It must have given him his strength . . . and our friend’s, too.”
“Useful to know, if we get the chance to take him without it. Now, if you’re done taking in the artwork, let’s go.”
Rose followed her husband out, clinging to her last bit of hope that the battle he foresaw could be avoided. Even if he was an imposter, Phanim did not have to be evil . . .
#
They returned home to find Derrick missing, and queried frantically about his whereabouts in the local inns and taverns, but it was he who found them on the way out of one run-down establishment. He looked haggard and exhausted, his eyes red from lack of sleep, and bore a long healing cut along his scalp. “What happened?” Rose asked, though she all but knew the answer.
“Someone tried to kill me,” he said flatly. “Phanim sent him.”
Though not surprised, Rose felt disappointed that Phanim was as bad as she had feared. “How do you know? Did he tell you?”
“He underestimated me. So I subdued him and made him tell.” There was not a shred of pride in his voice.
“What did you do after that?” Finn asked eagerly.
“I killed him. It was the safest thing to do.”
If not as mighty as his friends, Derrick was a warrior too. Rose gave him a comforting squeeze to the shoulder, then asked, “What else? Has there been any other news of Phanim?”
Derrick looked worriedly at her. “He killed the men Nicholas sent to bring him in, and overthrew another noble too. And people have been supporting him more and more . . .”
Finn scowled. “Then it’s time to do away with him once and for all. Do we know where he lives?”
“Yes. In fact, he’s made that a constant reminder of his merit . . .”
#
Once more, Rose and Finn headed for the tower where Bolloxo had dwelt. That “Phanim” had tried to kill Derrick was more than enough to warrant confronting him; that he was surely plotting to take over the country only added to their justification. Over thirty retainers loyal to the imposter tried to stop them, but proved no match as they were cut down like wheat. The couple arrived atop the tower to find him waiting in armor and helm, standing with arms crossed in the very spot he had slain Vrilluos. Crouched behind him was his birdlike mount.
“Who are you?” Finn asked. “We know you’re not Phanim. Are you going to hide behind that mask forever?”
“No, but why should I reveal myself to you? You will be too dead to care, soon enough.”
“If that’s the case, what harm is there in showing us?” He grinned. “Then again, I doubt you’re significant enough for us to recognize you.”
The man chuckled. “I am hardly one to be blinded by your taunting. But I suppose you are right; there will be no harm in letting you know your killer. Before I show you, though, let me ask you: Kayland is an unstable land, which has lost a king and two regents in the past four years. What makes you so adamantly against a strong steadying hand to replace the failing monarchy? What makes you cling so rigidly to your dated tradition?”
The back of her neck growing hot with anger, Rose stared him in the eye and shook her head. “Two things. One, our government isn’t inherently unstable. Events in these past years could have thrown any system into shambles. And two . . . arrogant, selfish men of ambition like you are the flag bearers of evil. I’ve heard the exact same line of reasoning from Prince Victor, and did I open my arms to him? We’re taking you down, just like we did him.”
“Funny you should mention that name.” He lifted his helm free, revealing an extremely familiar face. Prince Victor’s face. “You are the same as you always were, Rose. So righteous, yet are you not a butcher, a monster? Remember that you have killed thousands in your short life! And Finn is the same, only less righteous. Well, after today you will both change–and permanently, in death.”
“You changed your look,” was Finn’s simple response.
Finding her voice, Rose said, “I-it’s you! How the hell did you get your hands on another powerful magical artifact, when I’d just relieved you of Clearsky?” The sentient trident at the center of his last scheme, she meant. And, she thought, what about the bird?
“How else, but by the will of the gods? Always, things fall into place to my benefit. No matter if you thwart me temporarily, you cannot deny my destiny. For inevitably, in the end, I will emerge as that which I am fated to be–the victor.”
“You do tend to have luck on your side,” Finn said. “But let’s see you bounce back this time, from losing your life.”
Victor smiled and set his helm back in place. “All right. Let’s see if the result today is what you predict.”
He drew his sword and lifted the great shield at his feet, and Finn charged. Before he could reach Victor, the birdlike mount sprang over its master to pounce upon him. Finn crashed down beneath its slashing claws, slapping wings, and snapping beak, flailing with his mace as he sought desperately to land a solid blow.
Rose and Victor ran to meet one another, and as he deflected her first cut she could already feel the difference. They had fought before, and she had always been the stronger; now it was reversed, his parry alone sending a numbing jolt up her arm. She knew he was about her weight, and just slightly taller, but his oversized armor made him look much more massive and his strength reflected that illusion.
She pressed him with everything she had, trying to keep him from bringing that power fully to bear. Her slashes and cuts assailed him from every direction, sometimes turning into thrusts at scarcely a moment’s notice, and he struggled to defend them all. For all his terrible strength, she was still the more skilled of the two.
Finn managed to pitch his avian foe off himself, but only bought an instant’s respite as it rolled back atop him before he could rise. His face grew bloody as its wings pounded into him again and again with brutal force, and from the ground he could not put all his force behind his blows and little damage showed on its resilient hide. Its beak stabbed down and his mace knocked it aside, but only stunned it momentarily before it resumed its attack with raking talons.
Rose blocked a blow which staggered her though it glanced off her shield. Victor rushed with his shield before him, and she twisted around to strike at his back. The first hit made him stumble and gave her hope, then he caught her sword between two shield spikes and wrenched it aside. He chopped down with his sword; Rose sidestepped, and his blow smashed thick cracks into the stone. Her sword rang against the top of his helm. It drove him to one knee, but the metal barely dented.
“You are strong, Rose,” Victor said, “but the godly magic of Phanim is stronger!” With a triumphant yell, he rammed the front of his shield into her body. Five wicked spikes pierced her at once, into her shoulder, chest, stomach, side, and thigh, and she screamed in agony.
He pushed her back, impaled on his shield, and in her anguish she could hardly see. She lashed out past the shield, but though he grunted under the impacts her sword would not breach his armor. Feeling utterly helpless as she was forced towards the edge of the roof, she called out through the blood welling up her throat, “F-Finn . . . Finn!”
Hearing her distress, Finn struck the bird-thing a blow to the neck which threw it off him and scrambled to his feet. He ran to aid Rose, but the bird bit down on his shoulder from behind and jerked him back. He swung his mace back over his head, bursting one of its eyes, and as it let go spun into a crouching swipe which snapped its left leg. Again he turned to Rose, blood pouring down his chest. Behind him, the crippled bird hopped up and flew into him. It bore him off the tower, thrashing in midair as it attempted to rip him to pieces.
Meanwhile Victor had pinned Rose against the wall around the roof, driving the spikes deeper into her to flood her mouth with choking blood. Even her freakish vitality barely allowed her to cling to life. But seeing her husband’s peril ignited her will to fight, and as Victor drew back his sword to lop off her head she kicked him away. Blood gushed from her wounds as the spikes tore free. Sagging against the wall, she fought to stand on wobbly legs.
Victor stomped in, and she threw herself forward and right to avoid the downward slash which nicked her arm. Falling to her knees, face to his groin, she felt dreadfully powerless. But then she realized her chance, and gripping him about his thighs forced herself to rise. Lifting Victor into the air, she slammed him down on his back. His head bounced off the floor, and the sword flew from his hand. Even with his helm, the fall must have rattled his brain.
He tried to sit, but Rose raised her shield in both hands and brought it down rim-first into his visored face. Again his skull cracked against the stone. He reached up to rake at her face, and she hit him with the shield again. His hand fell back, and his eyes rolled up into their sockets. Once more she struck. There was a wet crunch from inside the helm, and dark blood pooled beneath his head.
Gasping for breath as she hugged her tortured body, Rose dragged herself up against the wall. On the ground far below, she saw the prince’s mount motionless atop her equally still husband. “Oh, Finn,” she breathed, “please don’t be dead . . .”
Rose staggered down the tower, falling down several flights of stairs on the way. She was within two yards of reaching him when she collapsed to her hands and knees, whereupon he began dragging himself out from under the avian carcass. “Finn!” she cried, smiling despite the hellish pain. “You’re alive!”
“Of course,” he said, grimacing as his leg got stuck. “You’ve fallen much farther than this; how damn weak did you think I am?” His voice grew softer. “Damn, you’re a mess. You should bind those wounds, before you bleed out.”
Rose crawled forward, defying her body’s urge to sleep, and helped him get free. “How did you kill it?” she asked.
“Tore out its tongue.” He raised a mangled arm, ripped to the bone and clearly broken. “Took a nice big bite doing it, too.”
“You need to wrap that, too. Do mine, and I’ll do yours?”
Finn nodded, then looked seriously towards the top of the tower. “What about him? Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Did you check?”
“No, but I’m sure-” She paused, frowning at the possibility that Victor might get away to trouble their land again. “Let’s bandage ourselves quick and hurry up. And hope he doesn’t escape while we’re doing that!”
They did so, and supporting each other returned to the roof as promptly as they could. Victor’s body lay there still, quite dead. Their great enemy had fallen, and they headed home arm in arm, their hurts more than redeemed by the relief in their hearts. There may not have been a king of heroes anymore, but one was hardly needed in the first place.
Besides, Finn would never have been content with someone else holding that title anyway.
Filed under Short Fantasy Stories · Tagged with Billy Wong, Short Fantasy Fiction, Short Fantasy Stories
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