The SPFBO Sampler

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover art and design by Luke Tarzian, Tarzian Book Design

Compiled by Jon Auerbach

Foreword

Mark Lawrence

The Self-Published Fantasy Blog-Off (SPFBO) exists to shine a light on self-published fantasy.

It exists to find excellent books that might otherwise have gone unnoticed.

It exists to help readers select, from the enormous range of options, books that have a better chance of entertaining them than a random choice, thereby increasing reader faith in finding a quality self-published read.

You have before you 70 some-odd samples from the 300 books that entered this year’s contest and past contests.

Never underestimate the value of a sample.

Most traditionally published books you pick from the shelves are there because a literary agent with a huge stack of manuscripts in their inbox read the first few pages of each and selected a tiny percentage of them to accept on their list and to try to get published.

Now you can be that agent.

Flick through these works of imagination and see if you can find a hidden gem that maybe the SPFBO's net will let slip in past years, or perhaps you'll select for further consideration one of the titles that our judges picked as a semi-finalist or finalist.

Or should have!

Mark Lawrence

December 2019

How to read this sampler

The SPFBO Sampler is organized by fantasy subgenre: dark, epic, flintlock, historical, humorous, romantic, science fantasy, steampunk, sword & sorcery, urban, and young adult.

Simply click on a subgenre within the table of contents and you’ll be taken to a listing of the samples in that genre.

At the start of each sample, you’ll find the back-of-the-book blurb or a teaser about what you’re about to read, along with what year the book was entered in SPFBO and a “grit level” from 1 to 10.

A grit level of 1 is equivalent to puppies and squirrels playing in a meadow and a grit level of 10 is equivalent to an R-rated movie.

At the end of each sample, you’ll find a link to where you can purchase the full book as well as links to the author’s website and social media profiles.

Acknowledgments

We would like to thank the SPFBO judges, past and present, for their hard work and dedication. Reading and reviewing 30 books on top of their already-busy reading schedules is no small feat, and we are incredibly appreciative and grateful for the time you devote to SPFBO.

We would also like to thank Mark Lawrence for creating, organizing, and shepherding the Self-Published Fantasy Blog-Off. It is not an understatement to say that SPFBO has changed the lives of many of the authors who have entered and none of that would have been possible without Mark’s tireless efforts.

Contents

I. Dark fantasy

1. Necromantica

2. Books and Bones

3. Up To The Throne

4. Chasing Graves

5. A Wizard’s Forge

6. The Gods of Men

7. Blood and Shadow

8. Sweetblade

9. The Bastard from Fairyland

10. Vultures

II. Epic fantasy

1. Children of the Dead City

2. A Threat of Shadows

3. Shard & Shield

4. Fortune’s Fool

5. City of Masks

6. The Gates of Golorath

7. The Engineer

8. The Ventifact Colossus

9. Beggar’s Rebellion

10. The Seal of Throkar

11. Songs of Insurrection

12. Blade’s Edge

13. Symphony of the Wind

14. Shadow’s Hand

15. The Innkeeper

16. Shadow of the Overlord

17. Spark City

18. Kalanon’s Rising

19. A Change of Rules

20. The Dragons of Esternes

21. A Flight of Marewings

22. The Sword of Kaigen

23. Chosen

24. Kingshold

25. A Time of Turmoil

III. Flintlock fantasy

1. The Blackbird and the Ghost

2. A Sea of Broken Glass

IV. Historical fantasy

1. The Songweaver’s Vow

2. From Legend

3. The Prince of Cats

V. Humorous fantasy

1. Hell Comes to Hogtown

2. River of Thieves

VI. Romantic fantasy

1. The Lord of Stariel

2. Torn Apart

VII. Science fantasy

1. Iron

2. Moon Deeds

VIII. Steampunk

1. Our Bloody Pearl

2. The Steel Discord

3. A Quiet Rebellion: Guilt

4. Skies of the Empire

5. Riwenne & the Mechanical Beasts

IX. Urban fantasy

1. Guild of Tokens

2. Rogue Arcanist

3. Hero Forged

4. Ten Thousand Days

5. Hound and Key

6. Mirror Bound

7. Hell of a Deal

8. The Shadow Rises

9. Living in Times of Dragons

10. Weird Theology

11. The Narrows

12. Nite Fire: Flash Point

13. Silvertongue

14. The City Screams

15. Monster City

X. Sword & Sorcery

1. A Tale of Stars and Shadow

2. The Pact

3. Never Die

4. Broken Crossroads

5. Sorcerous Rivalry

6. Banebringer

7. Lords of Asylum

XI. Young adult

1. Earthcore Book 1: RotoVegas

2. Princess of the Elves

Part I

Dark fantasy

Contents

1. Necromantica

2. Books and Bones

3. Up To The Throne

4. Chasing Graves

5. A Wizard’s Forge

6. The Gods of Men

7. Blood and Shadow

8. Sweetblade

9. The Bastard from Fairyland

10. Vultures

1

Necromantica

Keith Blenman

In this heart-stopping, dark fantasy, two thieves charge through an epic battle between monsters and men. One, a necromancer, a sorceress who uses black magic to manipulate the dead. The other, a rogue assassin and skilled swordsman. Enemies to both armies, allied only to each other, they face doom at every moment on a suicide mission to steal from a holy king.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

This humiliates me. Of course I understand the need for theatrics. The entire kingdom wishes to adorn pikes with our heads. Disguises are a necessity and your portion of the plan has carried us this far. Just as always. For your part you’ve never once lead me astray. You’ve never given me reason to pause or reconsider. But this disguise? With an inch short of a year to prepare this outfit is all you conceived of? Not that the breeze doesn’t sooth, but Milady? This disguise? This?

Walking our horse along the open road, I can feel the passing eyes linger over me. Every elderly stranger. All the small children and crippled fools who stumble along opposite us meet me with wide-eyed glares and questioning glances. And all I can do to maintain dignity is keep my head forward, my back straight, and a hand rested warningly on the hilt of my sword. As you sit comfortably within the carriage, I muster all the energy of the great gods who carry our moons and bless our lives just to maintain the illusion that this attire is my normal.

It is quite the carriage by the by. The horse too is a magnificent specimen with its braided mane and chocolate coat. Sturdy and proud, whoever you stole the beast from must’ve truly loved it. Walking alongside this animal I can’t help but feel feeble. While the horse and carriage gleam in the dewy morning sun, I sweat and stink. And all the world sees it. If any one prop will give away our nature I’m afraid it is myself. The horse and ride are infallible. Even in –especially in- this disguise I’m a platter of sin.

I should’ve been more open to my objections in prior days. But having never been one to question your mind, I uncomfortably obeyed. You had said, “I’ll be a gypsy priestess from the southern mountains.”

Standing in what I’d assumed to be undergarments, I had been foolish as always and quick to assumptions. “So I’ll be a monk then? Or perhaps I can disguise myself as a Fortan soldier to be your escort?”

“Close,” you had said with that cunning little smirk of yours. “Do keep thinking along the lines of an escort.”

I hadn’t understood.

You explained. Slowly, thoughtfully, you brought me to realize my new character. “Priests and shaman elves from the Folding Rock Mountains often indulge in rituals similar to those performed on the king before meeting council. They are serviced in such ways that pacify and bring clarity. You, to a priestess of the pure kingdom, would be regarded as property. No different than a utensil of sorts. Needless to say your presence in my life would be that of a servant.”

“That shouldn’t prove difficult,” I’d said, somewhat perplexed. “I am and always will be your loyal servant.” For the past eight years I’ve pledged to you my life. Although this had never been an official title, I’ve always felt clear in my status. You carried me through our escape. You gave me a second chance after the life I’d condemned myself to. I have always made clear that I am yours to do with as you wish. In my heart I can never see myself beside anyone else.

But even with that obvious truth half spoken you had made no sound. You simply grinned and brushed a lock of your raven hair to the side of your face. I didn’t understand but felt there was no doubt some amount of mischief afoot. A bitter lump of hesitation grew in my throat. But I brought myself to swallow it down and asked, “What sort of servitude?”

And then you instructed me that undergarment I wore was the extent of my character. In private perhaps we would’ve both enjoyed its simplicity. At least I secretly hoped as much. But to wear it on the open road? As we pass caravan after caravan of weak and weathered travelers, I do my utmost to keep from feeling them paint their judgments over my bare body. I do hope you’re amused. Hobbled men and beardless dwarves find themselves in chuckles. A small business of ferrelfs point and nudge each other to look. Oh and how I hear the whispered snickers of women. Never mind the robust laughter of children as they pass. “I can see his butt!” they say. They all say. Every last one of them. And oh yes. Yes, they most certainly can see my butt.

“Ho there!” calls a decrepit old hag on horseback. She trots from her caravan to meet us, toting a rusted lance in one hand and the reigns of a ragged mare in her other. She carries the weapon loose. I watch how sweat traces her wrinkles and sagging jowl. She is no threat and I have no need to treat her as such. She says, “You! Hooded man in the loincloth! Ho there!” and suddenly I’d very much like to treat her as an enemy. I don’t though. I keep to our charade.

As the customs require I lower myself to one knee and bow my head, just as any seasoned servant would. From how you’ve instructed my actions, I act accordingly. “Good lady,” I say, keeping my head low and not looking any higher than her dirt encrusted feet. The hood helps. Unfortunately for me it only covers my head and shoulders from the sun. You had told me something of its religious purpose. The human wearing it was no longer regarded a free man to the outside world. The hood may only be removed when the servant and priestess are alone. The rest of me remains exposed, except for those bits covered by the strategically placed flap of wolf skin. It seems I’m more trophy now than man. I would feel entirely naked if you hadn’t permitted me to wear my belt and short swords.

“Whom do I address?” the hag asks, reining her horse.

I lie. In the kingdom of Fortia, admitting to the name Lama Percuor is a death sentence. Telling them the lady I travel with is none other than the infamous necromancer, Mornia D’Onnyxa, would cause her to run screaming for protection. Amusing as that could be we must save ourselves for the real fight. I defer to our story. “My name is of no consequence,” I tell the hag. “I am merely the loyal guardian and cabana boy of High Priestess Limilia Fortuna, speaker for the great sixth moon god, Shersher, and humble hand of Xevious, our great savior. May his veil be lifted and his strength guide us once again.”

“May his veil be lifted,” the hag repeats my prayer as we both bow our heads and pass an open palm over our own faces.

The ritual over, I stand on both feet again. I lift my head enough for the woman to see my face, but I keep my eyes low. “Milady is on the road to Dromn to seek the wisdom of-”

“Zerisk?” you yell from within the carriage. “Zerisk? Why have we stopped?”

“Forgive me, milady,” I say, dropping to both knees and bowing my head toward the carriage. From the morning air I can feel my backside exposed directly at the hag. Never in my life have I truly appreciated the fine comforts of trousers until this day.

“Twas my fault, High Priestess,” the old hag says, no doubt bowing her head in your direction. “I meant no harm but the road ahead is treacherous. I was uncertain if you are aware.”

“Treacherous?” you yell. “Zerisk! Where hath you led us this time? Come thither and open my door!”

I dash to the side of the carriage and open its door, kneeling. From within you make no movement, except to gesture with your eyes that I should lower myself to the ground. It is all part of our ruse, but I’m certain you’re most entertained. I do as you silently command, aligning myself with the doorway and dropping to all fours. I then feel your elfin feet step lightly onto my back. Although it is common for a priestess to use her servants as steps when entering and exiting transport, to stand on one is perhaps too commanding of a display. You certainly make the most of it. Resting the butt of your staff at the peak of my crevice is unexpected to say the least. I do my best to maintain composure.

“Forgive me, my child,” you say to the hag in a far more patient tone than the one you use against me. “You say there is danger ahead?”

“Not so much ahead, good lady,” the hag says and then points her lance to the West. “Danger is on route to intersect you. We only head toward it now because our road soon turns North to the Crystal Bay. We’re fleeing to the Northern continent. Have you heard nothing of the fall of Bersmick, Calantra, and Brindenmire?”

You shake your head, which is a lie. The collapse of those towns is the reason we were heading for the capital city, Dromn, in the first place. But the old hag proceeds to inform us of the things we already know. She speaks of how the mining town of Bermisck stands, or rather stood, at the far edge of the Fortan kingdom. A place of untold wealth and riches, oft compared by humans to the bejeweled dwarf city Ara, it also had the unfortunate business of being located along the edge of orc territory. As a result, the town served as a key military outpost for the Fortan Kingdom. This of course led to some mild strife between the soldiers and civilian miners. Nothing that couldn’t be settled without high taxes on the civilians striking it rich, which in turn allowed for generous pay to the soldiers who served the region. Although there had been some small squabbles and segregation between the two groups for years they were never of much importance. It wasn’t until the past year that the miners finally grew fed up with the soldiers and began to take greater offense. In turn the soldiers became restless. Although no citizen of the kingdom knew how the riot began or who threw the first blow, the entire squabbling town had become a battlefield overnight.

Of course a number of orc scouts saw this as a compelling opportunity to expand their lands and devour some human flesh along the way. Who can blame them? So what began as a small riot escalated into a full-scale orc invasion. Several other towns and settlements fell before the kingdom had even known it was under attack. Instead of facing the orc army on open ground the king, former arch bishop Torquemada Stolzel, decided it was more strategically sound to use the mighty walls of Dromn to make their stand. All able bodied men were asked to stay and fight. Soldiers from every corner of the kingdom were called in as well. Of course when all the soldiers arrived the city became far too bloated for anything to be shared. The king decreed that all those who couldn’t fight should flee for their own safety. “Can you imagine that?” the old hag says at the conclusion of her history lesson. “The largest, most fortified city in all the world, and the king orders his subjects to evacuate? I was uprooted from my home by a gang of thugs calling themselves loyal soldiers to the holy king. Uprooted by the very people sworn to protect me. ‘Tis for the greater good,’ they said as the largest of them rummaged through my cupboards, deciding which of my stores they’d keep and what food I was welcome to leave with. I had baked three fresh cakes the prior evening to lift the spirits of my grandchildren. Those were confiscated for morale.”

“Good woman,” you say with a shake of your head. “Xavious and the moons weep for your suffering. Although our great king no doubt acts with the intentions of the greater good, I can see how those beneath his grace acted as such. It is shameful indeed. Tell me more of your woes and I shall hold your restitution in my prayers.”

“I am honored,” the hag says. She becomes silent a moment, and as I peek up from my hood, I watch her gaze off into nothing in particular. “I have lived through the rule of four kings. Riminiuth and Bont Vichier were both good men. Riminiuth saw us through great plague and the years where mokata birds and dragons waged their wars in our skies. Vichier was stubborn and perhaps failed to hear his people during the long drought. But there was peace. Mine and my husband’s woes were few. Then came the war monger, Yoffison. I do not mean to speak ill of any man before a priestess, good lady.”

“Please,” you say. “I will hear you through.”

The hag looks to you with uncertainty in her eyes before she says, “He matters not. His chef saw to that. The butcher met the blade , as they say. We seldom think of how easily the few may change the fate of the world.”

I lower my head. Light as you are, milady, the weight of you on my back begins to take its toll. I begin to think of stiffening my arms or at least giving my neck a good crack. But apart from the slightest droop of my head, I make no movement. I patiently remain on all fours with you on me and the woman leading herself into stories she’s likely stored up in her mind for years.

“Kind King Stolzel was never fit to rule. He wields Yoffison’s army like any other tune on that cursed violin he carries. I thought once of the peace to follow from appointing a holy man king. A man of Xavious should be just and yet, the witch hunts? The cleansing of the frontiers? Holy rule and dogmatic law. Most of my husband’s earnings are taxed away under the guise that humbleness is the way of righteousness. Easy for the king to say from his new brass palace. Now the curfews and marital laws? Never mind those blasted citywide hymns every day. And it’s only worse for the young. My grandchildren don’t fear death like I had at their age. They fear life. They fear their own thoughts. The lessons they’re given surely are not the will of Xavious. This cannot be the order of the world. For the greater good they claim. And my cost for that is only my home and risking my family on the open road during an orc invasion whilst the infantry sleep cozy in my bed. I suppose if the city stands after the war I will not be so troubled. Good king or no, Dromn has always been my home.”

You finally step off my back and walk toward the hag. “You say every soldier in the kingdom stands in the walls of Dromn?”

The hag nods. “All those that still stand.”

“Tis better news than I’d expected.” You smile, more to yourself than the woman. You pet her horse on its side. Strands of its fur shed through your fingers. “Fear not, good woman. Think only of protecting your grandchildren. With every soldier there to save your city I have no doubt your home will be vacant soon. I will speak to my God and his brethren this night. I will pray the king be given a greater wisdom to guide this battle. I will pray the orc armies be defeated. And I will pray Fortia be given the rest it deserves.”

Beneath my hood, I’m unable to stop myself from smirking over your words. The orc brood outnumber the Fortan army eleven to one. Although orcs have never been especially good fighters, they make up for their unseasoned flailing in pure numbers. With the battle about to ensue it seems unlikely the old woman will have a home left to return to.

“My thanks, your grace,” the hag says. “Will you still travel to the city despite this news? If you like you’re most welcome to join my caravan.”

“I think not,” you say. “Your offer is generous, but Zerisk is an able fighter and I require the knowledge of higher powers.” In a manner of speaking, every word of that sentence is true, except my name of course. I am most certainly an able fighter. You are definitely seeking a higher power. You left out the details of breaking into the palace while the city is distracted by war in an effort to steal this higher power in the form of a trinket. But for the most part everything you say to the woman is honest.

“But High Priestess, the road to Dromn is almost certainly one of death,” the old hag pleads.

And to this, you nod. You turn from the woman and climb back over me into the carriage. “I have little doubt of that, good woman,” you say. “Little doubt of that indeed. Now, come Zerisk. We must make haste. I want to arrive in Dromn well before its expected guests.”

“Yes, milady,” I say. “With haste.” Once you’ve seated I stand, wink to you, and shut the carriage door. The hag begins to turn her horse but I ask she delays for just another moment. I then go to the back of the carriage and open its rear compartment.

“Zerisk,” you call from within. “Why have we not yet moved?”

“Just checking the gear, milady,” I call back. I find a mokata feathered pack among our things, gaze fondly at it for a lingering moment, and then allow myself the nerve to part with it. “For you,” I say to the hag, raising it to her in both hands. “Four short swords. I carry no more than two. They are light weapons. And fast. Should they be required your grandchildren will have little trouble wielding these blades.”

The old hag stares at the pack before accepting it and resting it over her saddle. She nods and thanks me.

“If you make it to the port in Crystal Bay give them to an elf by the name of Ylrang Wind Catcher. He’ll recognize the steel but if he doesn’t tell them they’re a gift from one dog to another. He’ll understand. He will help you find passage across the ocean.”

The old hag thanks me and asks, “Shall he hold the blades for you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I sigh, staring at the pack and recalling the weight of the swords and how they’d whistle through every slice of the air. “They’re payment for your voyage North. If milady’s errand ends as we all predict I’ll never have need of them again.”

* * *

For More Necromantica is available at on Amazon

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Blue Donut Books

2

Books and Bones

Victoria Corva

A Librarians-and-Necromancy Fantasy with Small Town Charm in a City of the Dead

The others believe in blood and bone. Ree believes in books.

She manages the libraries and draws maps for the denizens of her hometown, a secret society of necromancers hiding in a sprawling underground crypt. Though they look down on her for not practicing their craft, Ree has bigger ambitions than raising the dead. She’s going to resurrect therianthropy, the ancient magic of shapeshifting. Or at least -- she’ll do it if it really exists. And if she can find the books that prove it.

But Smythe, a chatty historian from the world above, stumbles into the crypt and takes a curse meant for Ree. Now she has to find a way to save him, keep the townsfolk off her back, and convince her necromancer parents that shapeshifting is a viable career path.

Ree is certain that if she and Smythe combine their scholarly skill sets, they’ll find the right books to solve their problems. But Ree’s search for power might put the entire town in danger, and her father and the other townsfolk want Smythe dead lest he reveal their home to a world that hates them.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 4

* * *

Drawn by rumours of bounteous dead and macabre knowledge, seven necromancers from all across Ard came to the lost crypt of many kings. At the heart of the crypt, they prepared to battle, each intending to claim it for themselves. But a priestess, Arthura, walked among them.

As they gathered their power, a pillar of red spirits screamed down to consume her, and when it cleared, there was a hole straight through her head, as if the goddess of undeath herself stood before them. ‘Don’t be idiots,’ she said in the yawning voice of Morrin the Undying. ‘This is my city, and I won’t have you ruining it. Play nice.’

The necromancers were awed, so when the goddess left her human vessel whole and unharmed, they only battled a little. Thus was Tombtown first settled.

~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

THE BOY IN THE CRYPT

There was a boy in the crypt, and he wasn’t dead. Ree gripped the doorframe, transfixed by the sight of him as he crouched and muttered to himself. Not an adventurer, come to plunder, or an acolyte seeking to disturb the dead, but a boy — curly haired, sepia-skinned, and shockingly, hypnotically alive.

‘Rats and rotten luck!’ The boy touched the shards of the ceramic jar at his feet. The sound of it shattering had drawn Ree here. He tsked and tutted, sifting through the remnants. ‘Oh it’s all broken — and over there, look. Drat! It’ll take an age to reassemble this.’

Ree had never heard someone with such scattered speech. It made her want to smile — or grimace.

He was in one of the old embalming rooms. Narrow and cold, with rusted tools and dusty jars scattered among the many shelves. A gnarl-legged table stood in the centre, and beneath the grime and moss, Ree could still make out the dark stains of the grisly work it had once seen.

The boy was lit by a flickering torch he’d propped into one of the sconces. Orange light, shifting and angry, made a monster of his shadow. Nobody Ree knew had need of torchlight. Like Ree, they could see in even pitch black — a ritual her father had done for her when she was first born. One of many small magicks required to live among the dusty dead, far away from sun and sky.

He shouldn’t be here. The thought was intrusive, pushing to the fore of her mind again and again. He shouldn’t be here. Upworlders only came in two kinds: those that would kill her people, and those that would be killed by them. She had no idea which kind he was.

She ought to run. Let the crypt kill him, before he had a chance to kill her. But though her pulse ran fast, her legs wouldn’t move. He looked so different to anyone she’d ever known, so bright and vibrant. Utterly misplaced among the crumbling stone and heavy dust.

Someone leaned over Ree’s shoulder, drooling and moaning. ‘Not now, Larry!’ Ree swatted at the undead man trying to gnaw at her shoulder. Some of his flesh flaked off as he backed up, his yellowed eyes rolling in his head. He didn’t groan, which was a mercy, but she couldn’t completely repress the spike of guilt as he shook his head in confusion, slack jaw lolling.

Inside the room, the boy was still thinking aloud. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘You’re the foremost burial scholar in the Grand University — surely you can identify a few gooey remains without the accompanying script.’ His accent was strong and strange to Ree — full of the nasal twang of the upworlder upper class, much like old Emberlon’s, the town archivist and her teacher.

He shouldn’t be here; she shouldn’t be here. But Ree’s curiosity had always been terrible. She eased into the room on soft-soled boots, the split skirt of her dusty robes swishing around her legs. She had a better look at him now — bespectacled, in a plain, fine-clothed shirt and trousers, a much-mauled leather satchel hanging from his shoulder. He might be eighteen or nineteen, only a few years older than her.

He didn’t look dangerous. Odd, maybe — but then, what was odd to a necromancer’s daughter?

He poked gingerly at the jellified organ mulch at his feet. ‘Brain!’ he said confidently. He drew a journal and pen from his pack and began to scribble.

Ree wrinkled her nose and made a decision. ‘That’s clearly liver,’ she said. The boy yelped and scrambled back along the floor, knocking into the embalming table. A rusty hook fell from the surface and bounced from his shoulder to ping across the stone bricks. The torchlight glittered against his glasses.

The boy rummaged in his pack. ‘Stay back, undead creature!’ He drew a solid iron sarakat from his pack and held it out as if to ward her off. It was the twisting, tree-shaped religious symbol of some upworlder life god or other. Hard to imagine what protection he hoped to gain from it.

Probably not dangerous. The boy, nor the sarakat.

Ree raised her eyebrows.

The boy lowered the sarakat slightly. ‘Pardon me, but … you are an undead creature, aren’t you?’

‘I’m Ree,’ said Ree, because she didn’t know how to respond to ‘you’re an undead creature’.

It was also completely unfair. In a town full of necromancers, she looked the least undead. Long exposure to death from life in the crypts had made her skin a bit ashen, and maybe there were dark smudges around her eyes, but as she wasn’t a practitioner, the changes were minor. She noted again his flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Maybe not minor compared to him.

Larry stumbled through the doorway.

‘Ah!’ The boy raised his sarakat again. Larry shuffled toward him, arms outstretched. ‘Ah! Get back, you fiend!’

‘That’s an undead creature.’ Ree straightened as the boy cowered away. She gave Larry a shove; he toppled, gargling as he went.

The boy scrambled to his feet and sidled to the opposite side of the room, keeping the wall at his back. As if Larry was a ghoul or a sentinel, or any kind of greater undead, instead of a moronic, masterless minion.

The boy’s eyes flicked to Ree. ‘You pushed him.’ Larry groaned and flailed, drawing the boy’s gaze once more. ‘Is he alright, do you think?’

Ree’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Barely a breath ago, you called him a fiend.’

‘Yes. Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Will he get up again?’

Ree watched Larry kicking his legs like a turtle flipped on its back. ‘Eventually.’ She glanced at the boy; his wide-eyed terror was softening into confusion.

‘Aren’t undead creatures meant to be dangerous?’

Ree shrugged. ‘Most are. Larry isn’t.’

‘Larry?’

Ree crossed her arms, beginning to regret her curiosity. She wasn’t used to this much conversation. And certainly not with a stranger. She darkened her expression, hoping to make her discomfort look like power, as her father would. ‘Do you have a name?’ She asked it as imperiously as she could.

‘Uh … yes, of course. Terribly rude of me — I’m Chandrian Smythe, Third Rank Historian at the Grand University and the foremost burial scholar in the southern reaches.’ This formality seemed to have brought him back to himself; he puffed up his chest.

Ree wasn’t certain he ought to be proud. She’d not met many scholars before — certainly not those who didn’t practice the Craft — but it was hard to be impressed by someone who couldn’t tell a jellified brain from a jellified liver. After all, this was a third era embalming room — third era culture ate the brains of their dead to preserve their souls, and embalmed the bodies to preserve the spirit. She’d played with enough embalming jars in her childhood to know there wouldn’t be any brains in this sector of crypts.

Ree smoothed her robes and sat down on a heavy urn in the corner. ‘What are you doing here?’

The boy, Smythe, blustered a moment. ‘I — well, I’m a historian! I’m doing some very important excavation work. I have plenty of reason to be here. The real question is what are you doing here?’

He asked it as if he were speaking to another upworlder. Ree’s cheeks heated. ‘I live here.’ She nearly mumbled the words, relieved that her grey-tinged skin wouldn’t show her blush.

Larry managed to roll onto his side. He started to gnaw the table leg.

‘You shouldn’t do that, Larry, you’ll ruin what’s left of your teeth.’

‘Live here,’ said Smythe.

‘Or hereabouts.’

Smythe took out his journal again. ‘How did you end up here? You must be terribly lonely.’

Ree frowned. ‘Not especially.’ She didn’t completely understand the concept. There had always been plenty of people around, even if they tended to ignore each other. And there were always the dead. Honestly, she spent a large portion of her time travelling so she could get away from all of them.

‘Did you run away from home? Or get lost from a — a merchant caravan, perhaps. Festering rats —’ he looked like something awful had just occurred to him. ‘You weren’t abandoned here, were you?’

‘No, of course not.’ Ree glared. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her — like she was equal parts pitiable and fascinating — not unlike the reaction children had to Wandering Larry. Her parents had been among the first settlers of the crypt, and she was proud of her heritage. ‘I was born here.’

There was a moment of silence and indrawn breath broken only by the sound of Larry howling as he chipped a tooth.

Ree sighed and stood up. ’Look, you really shouldn’t be here. Even if the undead don’t kill you, an adventurer won’t think twice before running you through, and we do seem to get a lot of them. That’s what I came to tell you — that you should leave, and that you won’t find any brains in a third era embalming room. That’s just common sense.’

That, and she’d so badly wanted to see the boy — a living upworlder boy who wouldn’t stab her as soon as look at her. Her cheeks heated again, and before Smythe could ask any more questions, she fled into the musty corridor.

‘Wait! Where are you going?’

Ree skipped up onto a crate and hauled herself onto a thick wooden crossbeam just as Smythe skidded into the corridor, torch in hand. She crouched above, holding her breath as he looked each way and scratched his head. He picked a direction and started to jog, running beneath her crossbeam and down the corridor, torchlight surrounding him in a flickering orange globe.

Ree put her back to cold stone, breathing deeply. She’d done more than anyone would ask of her. She’d given him a solid warning, and once he realised she was gone, he would surely pack up his things and head back upworld. Given his reaction to Larry, she didn’t think he’d have a taste for the night horrors and guardians that wandered the crypts, so it shouldn’t take him long to come to his senses.

She swung herself down from the crossbeam and landed lightly on the stone floor. She cringed as she landed, imagining how much better it would be if she were as light as a cat or as graceful as a cave spider. She tracked back down the other side of the corridor and squeezed through a damaged bit of wall that let her into one of the resting rooms, stacked with corpses on stone shelves like children in bunk beds. As she passed, a pale hand reached for her. ‘None of that,’ she said absently.

She took a pinch of herbs from the pouch at her belt and threw it in the creature’s face. The corpse withdrew its hand and stilled. Though she had never desired to learn the Craft and had no power over the dead, she'd learned some priestess tricks from her mother — such as using the herbs, fluids, and sometimes incense used to prepare corpses to calm lesser undead.

If she had the Craft, like her father, she could turn them with an exertion of will. If she’d been a healer, like her mother, she could destroy them in a pulse of warm light. But she’d not chosen either of her parents’ fields, and without magic, the best she could do was trick them into sleep with prayers and plants — and when that failed, flee.

Her thoughts turned again to the upworlder. Smythe had been a bit rude, calling her an undead creature. Not that she didn’t get mistaken for one from time to time, but she’d never been called one by someone her own age. By someone who wasn’t trying to kill her. She flushed at the thought — that he’d looked at her and mistaken her for a corpse. It was true that denizens tended to look a little greyer and more hollow-eyed than upworlders, but she’d always thought she looked very normal, for a denizen. She was stockier and stronger than anyone she knew — physical fitness being a necessity for life in the crypts without magic. That was a healthy look, surely.

‘I’m seventeen,’ she said to one of the corpses. ‘Do I look old and rotten to you?’

It gazed lifelessly at the stone above it. Ree sighed and rubbed her eyes.

It didn’t matter what some random boy thought she looked like. Certainly not one so stupid as Smythe. ‘Right.’ She shook herself and drew a long breath. Smythe was almost certainly gone by now. It was time to collect Larry and head back into the eastern archives, where she’d been sorting books before Smythe had drawn her out. ‘Rest well,’ she advised the room of corpses. Her father would point out that her words meant nothing to the dead; her mother would remind her that she owed the dead her respect.

Her eyes lingered on those faces, slack with death, wrapped lovingly centuries before in treated bandages to preserve their physical forms. For those above, the sight of them would elicit fear or disgust, but for Ree there was only a sense of warm familiarity edged with caution. She was not a necromancer like her father and nearly everyone she had ever known. But there was no-one who loved the crypt as she did. None who had explored it as deeply, nor plumbed as many of its secrets. There was no-one who had a stronger claim on it.

And she knew that there was no place here for someone like Chandrian Smythe.

She eased back through the crack in the wall into the previous corridor, smoothed the creases from her robes, and followed the slow, shuffling sound of dragged feet. It wasn’t long before she caught sight of the shambling creature, with his cobweb hair and green-tinged skin. ‘Larry,’ she called. She snapped her fingers.

Larry turned ponderously, arms swinging like pendulums, and shuffled toward Ree, drool pooling at the corners of his lolling mouth.

They called him Wandering Larry, though who had first named him, Ree didn’t know. He was an anomaly, a minion without a master, but he was a harmless one. He’d been here before the town was founded, bumbling after this person or that, pathetically failing in his attempts to eat people. As the first child born in the crypt, Ree had grown up with him. She was equal parts fond of him and frustrated by him, like an old, smelly, family dog.

Now that he’d caught her scent again, he would reliably follow her back to town. She set off down the corridor, up a spindly staircase and up a crumbling stone wall, trailed by the putrescent Larry. It felt good to be moving again; it loosened something in her brain, as if her thoughts had been lodged by a hard rock and could now flow freely.

At times like this, she usually thought about her personal research. This place in her mind — and in her journal, tucked safely in her pack — was solely for her. It was as much a promise as a comfort. One day, when her research was complete, everyone would be forced to acknowledge her power. They would be more polite when they asked her to fetch books then.

And yet the river of her thoughts kept winding back over and over to the moment she revealed herself. ‘Pardon me, but … you are an undead creature, aren’t you?’

Ree gritted her teeth. She dropped from a ledge into a shallow pit, old bones crunching under her feet. She stepped aside just as Larry landed on his face, flailing among the bones. Ree sighed and flicked a knucklebone from her collar. ‘It’s more than a little insulting,’ she murmured. While Larry struggled, she pulled herself up on the other side.

She tried to think of herself as other people saw her. Stocky build, sickly skin, shadowed brown eyes, and with dark hair pinned and trapped beneath her hood. Unremarkable among the denizens. Maybe unremarkable anywhere.

She’d never put much thought into her appearance. It wasn’t like people spent a lot of time looking at her. And on the rare occasion she attracted a snide comment, it had slipped from her mind without care. But it was different this time. She would grit her teeth and force her mind to other things, and yet it still kept circling back. The look of horror on his face ...

They carried on their journey upwards, across a rattling bridge and along the side of a steep black ravine. ‘Think about it, Larry. It’s not like I march into people’s homes and compare them to apes or goblins. I bet when you were alive, you wouldn’t have put up with that.’

Larry gargled at her and tried to bite her arm. She shook him off with an admonishing tap on his forehead. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Ree turned the corner. ‘I don’t care —’

Ree froze midstep, panic seizing her muscles as surely as a healer’s spell. Cold pierced her like an arctic wind. Her gaze locked with white marble eyes in a translucent-skinned face, mere feet from her own. Horror clung to Ree like sweat.

She reached for her father’s training, for the mental wards that would protect her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from its pale gaze and already she could feel herself disappearing into it as if caught in a blizzard.

The Lich leaned closer. It was a pale, man-like thing that hovered an inch above the ground, robes swirling like tentacles. Its breath rattled through peeled-back lips and its long-nailed fingers reached for her, slowly.

There was only one being in the crypt with such tangible, arresting power. It had been a necromancer, once. So old and so far-gone into the Craft that it had forgotten how to be human. It was the biggest monster of the crypts, but also its most powerful protector — so long as nobody crossed its path.

Ree’s chest squeezed. She leaned away from the Lich, torn between the danger of getting caught and the danger of running. A lifetime of her parents’ warnings drummed in her mind, a constant litany of ‘Don’t get caught. Don’t let it see. Do not disturb the dead.’

And now, just as they’d always warned, she could feel the air grow heavy with tiredness as its magic pooled around her. Her eyelids drooped, her body sagged.

It spread its arms wide. ‘Imaz kwizzat?’ it whispered, with magic as dry as parchment. ‘Kwizzat erd vizzin?’

Its power pressed on her, leeching energy from body and mind. She felt exhausted by it all; by her life in the catacombs, by her fear of the Lich, the constant twitchy thoughts of whether to run or hide. It would be so much easier to give in …

‘Don’t close your eyes. Don’t fall asleep. Don’t forget you’re alive.’

Its arms started to close around her, a cold embrace with the overpowering smell of dust. She heard it chanting the words of binding even as its magic drained the life from her and let it bleed into the stone. It was just so very hard to care …

‘I say, Ree, is that a friend of yours?’

Smythe’s cultured, upworlder accent shocked Ree out of her stupor. She reeled back, even as the Lich whirled and glided toward this new intruder, death magic trailing it like red mist.

‘Run!’ Ree shouted, but her tongue was thick and sluggish.

‘Wha —?’ Smythe froze as the Lich rose up in front of him, the tatters of its robes swirling about it in slow motion as if underwater.

Adrenaline surged; Ree leapt for Smythe, but the Lich was already sliding one withered hand under his chin.

Smythe stared into its marble eyes. ‘I — I beg your —’

‘Erd.’ The word curled in the air. Smythe’s eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed to the floor.

The Lich started chanting; Ree snatched at Smythe’s hands, steeling her mind to the Lich’s cloying necromancy. The Lich reached for her and its magic pressed down on her, a suffocating force. As lethargy set in, she savagely bit her lip; pain seared as hot blood poured down her chin, reminding her she was alive.

She tried to drag Smythe away but he was heavy, made all the more so with the Lich’s eyes on them. She just needed a moment, just to get Smythe out of its sight ...

Larry shambled in, groaning forlornly. The Lich’s back straightened; its nostrils flared. It turned slowly on the spot to face Larry.

Its magic faded along with its attention. Ree seized her moment. She grabbed Smythe, cursing him for his considerable weight even as she fought the tail of the Lich’s lethargy. She dragged him behind a stack of crates, her pulse pounding in her throat. Escape routes flashed through her mind: the drainage tunnel at the back, the trap door beneath the southern wall, but she could take advantage of none of these without abandoning Smythe, who was even now rapidly paling, his skin growing as clammy as a corpse.

She ought to leave him. What was he to her, really, this boy from the world above?

This boy who had saved her life.

When the Lich turned back from Larry to find his quarries missing, Ree held her breath. His white marble eyes swept the room, and Ree pressed further back behind the crate. Then, the energy in the room eased; the Lich folded its magic back into itself. It hunched in, and the light in its eyes died. It crooked a finger at Larry, almost an invitation, but the minion only gawped at it. Its arm dropped; it glided from the room as if nothing had ever happened.

Ree peered out from behind the box, her entire body tensed to flee. Larry spotted her, gargled what might have been delight, and tottered toward her. Ree slumped in relief.

Larry bumped into her shoulder and she patted his leg fondly. ‘You did well, Larry.’

He tried to nibble her hair, and she swatted him away.

Though the immediate danger had passed, it was hard to let the tension from her body. They had come so close to a fate worse than death; to be a minion of an immortal Lich, forever enslaved.

She had lived under the threat of the Lich for as long as she could remember. How many times had she watched it from afar as it searched through the archives or chanted its rituals? It had always seemed to her some kind of sinister automaton, but its danger had felt contained, its threat unreal. It lived its life on rails, unaware of anything that didn’t directly interrupt it. She’d been taught its schedule, where to avoid and when. It had become familiar. She had almost felt fond of it.

Now, she trembled from the memory of its magic. Larry touched her head with his clammy hands, groaning piteously. Bizarre to think that if he’d been following anyone else today, Ree would now be dead — or undead.

Her gaze fell on Smythe. His chest barely rose and all colour had drained from his face. ‘And what am I supposed to do with you?’ Ree murmured. Larry leaned around her, drool dangling from his open mouth. ‘Okay, Larry, I need you to — no, don’t chew on him! Just hold still …’

* * *

The denizens of Tombtown were loathe to chain themselves with rules and regulations. In those early days, they agreed on only one: no outsiders, unless they were fellow necromancers. They had all been ill-used by those of the world above, and intended the crypt to be their sanctuary. But six years after founding, that law would be put to the test when a healer of considerable power descended into the crypt. After disintegrating the defending minions with a single fell blast of magic like sunlight, she put her lone hand on her hip. ‘I’m building a house. Don’t bother me.’

The necromancers were awed, so when the healer settled in their town, they only bothered her a little. The law was given a very small addendum: no outsiders, unless they were fellow necromancers — or otherwise too powerful to chase out.

If there is one thing all necromancers can be trusted to respect, it is power.

~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

THE TOWN HEALERS

Girl and minion dragged Smythe’s limp body through dusty tunnels and crumbling halls, right into the heart of the town: the central mausoleum. There, winding between tombhomes and with a worried eye over her shoulder, Ree smuggled Smythe into her house without catching the attention of curious necromancers. She was still panting from the effort, her hair plastered to her forehead.

Now, she stood before the tall, wan form of one of the only other non-practitioners in town, not quite meeting her eyes.

’You’ve brought home a dying man? Such a dutiful daughter.’ Ree’s mother’s lips quirked, the iciness in her eyes melting minutely. She stalked around the body sprawled across her kitchen table, darting gaze taking in the colour in his skin, the healthy fullness of his cheeks. Her fur cloak flared as she walked; her cassock scritched along the floor.

They stood in the family tombhome, a repurposed small stone tomb that her family had lived in since the town had first been settled some nineteen years earlier. With exposed stone-brick walls, scratched marble floors, and aged furniture padded with limp cushions, it had a certain ‘small-town cemetery’ charm — and gravemould smell. The uncluttered serenity of home.

Ree squared her shoulders, trying to push away the discomfort she always felt when her mother went into priestess-mode. While her father was on the town council and so deep into the Craft that he barely looked human anymore, he was a steady and predictable force in her life — if not always a positive one. Her mother, though, with her brittle mane of ash blonde hair, the eyes of a fanatic, and a manner that shifted between eerie priestess and hard-hearted huntress, was something else entirely. Ree trusted her mother, but she never knew quite what to expect from her. Such was the trouble of a mother who was also the Priestess of Morrin the Undying.

Ree took a deep breath while her mother peeled Smythe’s eyelids back and peered into his rolled-back eyes. ‘Mother, I need —’

‘What twist of fate led you to an upworlder boy? No — nevermind. I know better than to question what Morrin provides. You can help me with the burial rights — the goddess prefers them with a little life left.’ She pinched Smythe’s wrist to take his pulse, then let it fall again. Smythe’s lips moved, mumbling unintelligibly.

Ree’s stomach lurched with something between hope and dismay. ‘He’s not for sacrifice, he’s —’

Ree’s mother cupped her cheek, the rough cloth of her cassock sleeve scratching her skin. Ree jumped at her touch; an unexpected show of affection. ‘We’ll have to move quickly if we’re to get him to the Altar of Many Gods before your father returns.’

Smythe moaned something that sounded a little like ‘fascinating’, his head turning.

‘Mother.’ Ree mimicked her father’s tone of command, wishing she could imitate the crack of power that went with it. She couldn’t quite suppress a sigh when her mother stopped, her head tilting to one side. She was so tired of being spoken over, even within her own family. ‘I intend to save him,’ she said.

Her mother’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Save him,’ she repeated. The disbelief in her voice encompassed a hundred questions.

‘I owe him.’ Ree rubbed her eyes. ‘Look, it’s … sort of a long story.’ And if she revealed the Lich’s part in it, she would be in a world of trouble. The town council forbade interacting with the Lich, for fear that it might follow someone back to the town. ‘Can you heal him?’

Her mother clasped her hands in front of her. ‘There’s no shame or dishonour in letting the dead pass, Reanima.’ Her voice was gentle, reassuring, but Ree wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘It is the natural order of the world. The living die, and their souls pass into the keeping of the gods. The bodies are exalted and put to service of the living. You may not practice, like your father, but you know it’s true.’

She wanted to snap at her mother that she could make up her own mind. That Smythe wasn’t dead yet, and Morrin was welcome to him when he was. But an argument would get her no closer to saving him, so she stored it away in the black pit in her chest where she kept all her resentments. ‘Can you heal him?’ she repeated, as evenly as she could.

Ree’s mother pursed her lips. ‘Possibly. But the town council will be furious if they hear. Did anyone see you bring him?’

Ree shook her head. She’d used all her knowledge of secret pathways to get him into town unnoticed.

Ree’s mother shrugged off her patchy fur cloak and rolled up the voluminous sleeves of her brown cassock. She hovered her hands over him, closing her eyes; white light shone through her skin and limned Smythe where he lay. Warmth pulsed from her in a heartbeat rhythm.

Even under a death curse, Smythe looked out of place in Ree’s home. The old stone walls of what had once been a small tomb were cold and dull, the marble floor carpeted not in fabric but in straw and moss and hardy cave mushrooms. Bricks had been pulled from the walls in places, and filled with pottery and urns taken from the surrounding tombs. Once great treasures or works of art, now they held food or trinkets, the odds and ends of daily life. The furniture, largely made of reclaimed crate wood or scavenged from embalming rooms, was old and rickety, and frequently scattered with knuckle bones or femurs, such as Ree’s father required for his Craft.

Amongst the grey and green, and the flickering light cast by the tallow candles, Smythe looked altogether too alive, jarringly vibrant amongst the gloom.

Ree’s mother’s eyebrows pinched together. ‘This is no normal curse. It’s knit deep into him, hooked into his bones. Do you know what cursed him?’

Ree crossed her arms. She didn’t want to tell her mother about the encounter with the Lich if she could possibly avoid it. The town council would be nothing compared to the fear and anger of her worried parents. That she had been so foolish as to walk directly into his path was bad enough; that she had dragged this idiot with her was beyond careless.

Her mother took her silence for uncertainty. ‘It must have been a greater dead, at least. Maybe even a greywraith.’ Her lips pursed. She’d named a minion so powerful that few could summon one — a creature of rags and grey flesh, only half-corporeal. The essence of a body, pure and dangerous, with none of the physical drawbacks of a minion like Larry. But nothing compared to the Lich.

The trouble Ree would be in if her parents found out she’d crossed the Lich didn’t bear thinking about. They’d try to force her into learning the Craft, and that didn’t suit Ree at all. Once you started using a school of magic — necromancy or healing — you were locked in. And Ree had other plans.

Her thoughts flickered uneasily, torn between the boy she owed and her determination to continue her study at all costs.

Ree’s mother turned from Smythe and considered her daughter. ‘How much do you like this boy?’

Ree shuffled her feet, She didn’t like where this was going. ‘I just met him.’

The light faded from Ree’s mother, gradually returning her to her wan, haggard self. Her eyes were solemn as she considered her daughter. ‘I haven’t the skill to save him. He’ll die on this table before the day is out. We could take him to Andomerys …’ She trailed off, but Ree knew where the sentence ended.

They could take him to Andomerys, but then the whole town would know. And that was dangerous in an entirely different way.

If Andomerys even agreed to save him.

Ree’s mother wasn’t concerned about the danger to Smythe. She was only thinking of the trouble it would mean for Ree. Ree would have to face the wrath of the town council, and she’d always gone out of her way to avoid their ire.

There were very few rules that a town full of necromancers would agree on, but Ree had broken the only one that mattered: no outsiders allowed. If the upworlders found out about Tombtown, it would bring disaster (or worse, priests) down on all their heads.

It would be a blow for her. Another reason for her parents to claim she was helpless and the council to call her clueless, an outsider in her own town. They might finally force her to learn the Craft, as they had been threatening for years, as if being a practitioner would somehow give her better judgement.

And of course they would kill Smythe.

She looked at Smythe, greying and shallow-breathed. He might not even live. What did it matter that he’d taken a curse meant for her? It would be a mercy to die quietly now, before the council got their claws into him.

Ree scowled and scrubbed at her face. ‘We’ll use the back stairs,’ she said.

Her mother canted her head to one side, as if Ree had surprised her. Ree shrugged off her scrutiny.

Smythe was all arms and legs as they bundled him out the door and dragged him up the back stairs, no doubt adding several back-bruises to whatever lumps and bumps he’d received when Ree and Larry first hauled him into town.

‘Morrin’s teeth! He’s gangly as a spider.’ Ree’s mother puffed with the effort of carrying him.

Smythe’s back hit another step; he grunted, and mumbled, ‘foremost burial scholar at the biggest …’ He trailed off into incoherence.

Ree’s mother wrinkled her nose. ‘Urgh. There’s no shame in letting him pass beyond, Ree. He’ll be welcomed into Her court.’

‘Mother. ’

Her mother made a snorting sound that Ree interpreted as ‘you can stop using that tone on me’, but they eventually heaved him up the final flight of moss-strewn steps and laid him in front of the door of a crumbling wooden shack — the only true ‘house’ in the whole town.

There was a story behind its construction. There was a story for almost every house in the town, of course, and Ree had been present for most of them. But though this wooden shack was an intimidating replica of upworld society, Ree was much more interested in the woman who had built it.

Ree scanned the town behind them, stretching below in a honeycomb of repurposed tombs and altars. Robed figures milled about the town square, and a cabal oversaw a small horde of minions at the northern passage, but there was nobody close enough to question why Ree and her mother were dragging around a body that was still breathing.

‘Andomerys!’ Ree’s mother rapped on the door. ‘My daughter requires your assistance. Perhaps for once, you will not shirk your sacred calling!’

Ree nudged her mother. ‘Maybe don’t antagonise her, since we’re asking her for help?’

‘The Goddess asks us to live as honestly in life as we will in death.’ Ree’s mother sniffed.

Andomerys yanked the door open. Her rosy cheeks glowed with health, her skin a warm brown. Her thickly curled hair made a dark halo about her head. One arm ended at the elbow. She wore robes of ocean blue, and though Ree had known her since she was a small child, it never stopped being shocking how vital and bright she appeared. Her scowl, however, was plenty dark. ‘Arthura. Ree.’ She looked down. ‘A body.’ She nodded, as if confirming something to herself, and slammed the door in their faces.

Ree’s mother immediately banged on the door again. ‘You dare slam a door in the face of Morrin’s chosen?’

A muffled bark of laughter was her only answer.

‘Mother —’

‘Morrin as my witness, you will show me respect —’

‘Mother!’ Ree tugged sharply at her mother’s sleeve.

The priestess stopped and blinked at her, the red rage fading from her eyes. Healers rarely looked as necromantic as Ree’s mother — but then, few were also priestesses of undeath.

‘I can handle this,’ said Ree. ‘Go home.’

Her mother’s gaze shifted from her, to Andomerys’ door, then back again. Her lips parted, as if to argue, but she only inclined her head and swept away.

Leaving Ree on Andomerys’ doorstep with a dying man at her feet and no clue how to gain the healer’s help.

Andomerys was the most powerful healer Ree had ever heard of, with reserves of magic so deep that she had passed into legend. But thirteen years ago, she’d fled the surface and made it clear that she was leaving healing behind. Townsfolk came to her with everything from cursed hearts to broken limbs, but she turned almost everyone away.

Ree did not consider herself a persuasive person. But the stakes were high. She liked Andomerys; maybe Andomerys liked her too. She could only hope it would be enough.

She leaned against the door. ‘Andomerys?’

No answer.

‘It’s just me. I sent mother away.’ She paused a moment, then continued, ‘You’re probably at least a little curious as to how I came across an upworlder.’

Footsteps. The door creaked open. ‘You finally went to the surface on your own?’

Andomerys had encouraged her, over the years, to seek companionship in the upworld. ‘There’s a world of opportunity up there, for a smart girl with her wits about her.’ she’d said. ‘You wouldn’t have to be the bottom of the heap then.’

‘I won’t always be the bottom.’ Ree’s tone had been conspiratorial. ‘There are other kinds of power —’

‘Ugh.’

‘Well, it’s not like you liked it up there either.’

Andomerys’ eyes had grown distant. ‘I liked it plenty. Nobody chooses to hide away, Ree. Not even necromancers.’

Now, Ree grimaced at the healer. ‘Of course I didn’t. But I did talk to him a little. He seems … different.’

Andomerys’ expression didn’t flicker. ‘Different.’

Ree shifted her weight. ‘... Nice.’ She paused. ‘He saved my life. Please, Andomerys.’

‘I won’t heal him.’

‘Will you at least look at him?’ She looked down at Smythe, muttering at her feet. The curse was slowly leeching the colour from his skin. He looked faded, like a painting left too long in the sun. It was an effect she’d found fascinating on her excursions to the surface with her father for supplies, but it was disconcerting on a human. ‘I don’t even know whether he could be saved.’

‘Ree …’ They locked gazes, blue eyes meeting brown. Andomerys made a sound like a cat guarding its dinner. ‘I’ll look, all right? Just look.’

Hope bloomed in Ree, strong enough to choke. ‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t need your thanks.’ Andomerys looked away. ‘I doubt I’ll do anything to deserve it.’

* * *

The seven founding necromancers set themselves up as a town council to settle disputes among the denizens and to intimidate unruly necromancers into obedience. As necromancers naturally form into cabals under more powerful practitioners, this shape of governance worked with little rebellion.

As of the time of writing, only three of the seven founding council members have been executed for treason and mutiny.

This success is much celebrated, and at solstices, the tortured souls of the offending council members are summoned to warn young denizens of the dangers of trying to grab too much power. It is a delightful tradition and a favourite of children.

~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

STRONG-WILLED INDEED

Andomerys’ house was like the woman herself: full of bright draperies and busy carpets, an explosion of colour that Ree found eye-watering but wonderful. Cushions and blankets were cast about, each crafted from old but expensive fabric that was soft to the skin and gleamed in the candlelight. Clear relics from her life on the surface.

Now, that same woman hustled Ree, begrudgingly, through her house.

‘Through the back, through the back — and try not to drop him!’ The healer used her hand and arms to help manoeuvre Smythe around her armchair.

Ree had seen the back room a few times before that she could remember — once, when she had crushed her leg when the floor in one of the towers collapsed, and once when she’d accidentally awakened a slumbering knight and he’d cut her across the middle. Andomerys had broken her no-healing rule to save a child. It looked just as it had then — white stone walls and a meticulously clean steel table, with a cabinet of cruel-looking tools to one side. Ree wondered what it said about Andomerys that she had come here to give up healing, but had built a healer’s room and filled it with equipment.

‘Not a delicately built fellow, is he?’ said Andomerys.

‘Very important discoveries,’ Smythe mumbled. ‘You must take me serious-largh …’

Ree narrowed her eyes at him. Somehow, he couldn’t stop talking even when unconscious. ‘Humble, too.’

They hustled Smythe onto the healer’s table. His head lolled at the movement. Andomerys looked him over, hovering her hand and her short arm over the patient. Now, a golden light suffused her, just as it had Ree’s mother, but Andomerys’ light was brighter, warmer, transforming the sterile stone cube into a sunroom. Ree gritted her teeth against the force of it. The heat was slick and humid against her skin.

‘A powerful curse.’ Andomerys’ gaze flicked up to Ree, as if she knew Ree had had something to do with it. ‘If it had been completed, I doubt he’d have lasted this long.’

‘But?’

The light around Andomerys pulsed, then faded. ‘He’s resisting. He must have a strong will indeed.’

Smythe’s head whipped to the other side. ‘I demand to speak to your superior,’ he mumbled.

Andomerys raised her eyebrows. ‘Or maybe just a strong ego.’

Ree’s eyes widened and she looked at Smythe uncertainly. ‘Strong-willed’ seemed a poor description of the bumbling scholar. Perhaps he had hidden depths. She bit her lip. Very hidden.

‘So.’ Andomerys leaned against the healing table. ‘You tangled with the Lich.’

Ree’s mouth dried. If the healer told Ree’s parents or the town council, it would mean more trouble for Ree than just an upworlder could bring. Bringing an upworlder home would make her look foolish. Angering the Lich would make her a liability — and necromancers tended to kill those pretty quickly. With effort, she nodded, her thoughts racing for an explanation.

Andomerys cursed and rubbed her eyes. ‘Don’t look at me like I’m your executioner, young Ree. I won’t tell if I don’t have to, but I know the Lich’s work when I see it. You understand?’

Ree nodded. Andomerys would only tell if Ree had upset the balance — if encountering the Lich had somehow woken it up and drawn it back to the town.

Do not disturb the dead, her parents always told her. It was her one true rule, a mantra never to be forgotten. It was why she kept a pouch of herbs on her belt, her mother’s prayers on her lips, and an amulet full of her father’s magic against her heart. All the denizens of Tombtown put together couldn’t hope to stand against the Lich if it woke up the entire crypt and brought judgement down upon them. This was their home, but it belonged first and last to the dead. She must never forget that.

If she'd started learning the Craft at sixteen, as the other teenage denizens did, and as her father urged, she might not have to be so wary. But her sixteenth birthday had come and gone, and then her seventeenth, and now her father could barely look at her, and her mother thought her odd.

But there were other kinds of power. Forgotten magicks so old that they’d passed into myth. She thought of her research journal, hidden away where nobody would ever find it, and drew some strength from it.

But if she'd learned the Craft like her parents wanted, she might have been able to protect Smythe, at least a little ...

Andomerys narrowed her eyes. ‘Take that hangdog look outside. I need a moment to study him properly — so I can send you in the right direction, if there’s help to be had. Not to heal him myself.’ She waved Ree away, crushing the spike of hope her words had created.

So Ree sat on the crumbling step in front of Andomerys’ house and rested her chin in her hands. Her mind was on Smythe, crouching over shattered ceramics, lying cold and grey on Andomerys’ table. She thought about his shock on meeting her, about him following her into the Lich’s path, about Andomerys’ words, ‘He must have a strong will indeed.’

How strong-willed did you have to be to resist a curse from something more powerful than all the denizens put together?

Down below, a group of young acolytes about her age had dragged in a wolf carcass and were setting up a ritual to raise it. Across from them, Mazerin the Bold, a weedy little necromancer, had set up his weekly Bone Market stall and was trying to coax the acolytes into buying some of his fresh scry-bones. It all looked so normal, such a sleepy, small-town scene, that it might have sent Ree off into the deepest, unexplored levels of the crypt just to bring some excitement into her life. But right now, Ree didn’t feel normal. Bees buzzed in her head and anxiety pecked at her belly like angry birds.

She’d never had much cause to worry about other people. Larry was already dead, her parents were as dangerous as anything else in the crypts, and Emberlon was as careful as she was. In truth, she’d always lived in a world where people were worried for her.

In Smythe’s case, she couldn’t decide whether she was worried for him, or worried what he might cause. But for better or worse, she’d brought an upworlder into the town. Now, all she could do was wait.

* * *

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3

Up To The Throne

Toby Frost

Revenge is never simple...

Giulia Degarno returns to the city-state of Pagalia with one intention: to kill the man who scarred her and left her for dead. But Publius Severra is no longer a mere criminal, and has risen to become a powerful politician - and perhaps the only man who can save Pagalia from anarchy. Now, as Severra stands poised to seize the throne, Giulia must choose between taking her revenge, and saving her home.

Up To The Throne is a dark fantasy novel set in a magically-enhanced Renaissance: a dangerous world of assassins, alchemists and flying machines. It is a world where artists and scholars cross paths with feuding nobles and clockwork monsters - and death is never far away.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

1

Giulia reached Carlo’s house at dusk. She raised her hand to knock on the front door – and stopped. The door was already open.

Carlo always kept his house locked up. Giulia drew the long knife from her belt and held it so the folds of her cloak would hide the blade.

Fear settled in her chest like ice. She took a deep breath and slipped inside.

She closed the door behind her. The house was silent. The ground floor smelled of dust and the ashes of last night’s fire.

There were two chairs next to the table. One lay on its back, as if someone had got up too quickly and knocked it over. Giulia crossed the room, treading carefully. There were a few crumbs on the tabletop. That was all.

She turned to the staircase.

The boards creaked softly under her boots. As Giulia reached the top of the stairs, she saw him.

Carlo lay on his back, mouth open. The blood on his chest was as black as shadow.

They had cut his throat.

She saw the fingers of his left hand, how they had been twisted and broken.

“Shit.” Giulia stepped back from the body. She sheathed her knife and looked for the chest where he kept his cash. Relief ran over her like sweat as she saw that it was still there, pushed into the darkest corner of the room. She crouched down and fumbled with the lid of the chest. The metal felt wrong.

No, no .

The lock was twisted, wrenched out of shape. They’d blown it open with gunpowder, or magic or something—

She lifted the lid. Even in this bad light, she knew at once that the chest was empty.

My money .

She clamped her hand over her mouth and screamed silently into the palm.

Think, damn it. Think .

Then she realised that she was kneeling beside a corpse, looking into a chest that had been full of stolen coins, and that whoever had murdered Carlo was probably still nearby.

“You’re the woman.”

She looked around. A man stood at the top of the stairs, a mace in his hands. He was about twenty, stocky, slightly hunched. There was something dead in his eyes: he was a living man, but he had the dull menace of a revenant. He seemed to blot out her way of escape, to swell up until she was trapped in here with him.

She heard the threat in his voice and knew that there would be no talking her way out of this. She knew his type: the kind of scum who’d carved her face six years ago.

Giulia stood up. “I’m the woman,” she said.

“You stay still.”

She glanced towards the stairs.

“No! You stay still or I fucking smash you.”

He took a step forward, remarkably quiet for his bulk, and she knew he meant to beat her, no matter what. Something inside her tensed, hardened itself, ready to break loose. She felt the old fury rise up inside her, together with vicious contempt.

He raised the mace in his right fist and grabbed at her with his left hand. His thick fingers caught hold of her shirt.

Giulia sidestepped, pulled his left arm taut and chopped down onto his locked elbow with the edge of her right hand.

He bellowed with pain. She tore free and he swung the mace at her head. She ducked and pulled the long knife from her belt. He raised the mace for a downward blow, and suddenly his front was wide open. She darted forward, threw her weight against him and stabbed him in the neck.

He collapsed against the wall like a dropped marionette. He made a coughing noise and blood ran down his front. The man looked up at her, as if with wonder, his hand pressed to his throat. Then something went out in his eyes and he slumped back.

It was him or me , she thought. She made the Sign of the Sword across her chest – not for his soul, but for her own.

She hurried downstairs. As she reached the front door, a voice came from the street outside: stern, educated. “Luca! Luca, what the hell’s going on in there?”

Giulia crept back through the house. She reached the back door, slipped outside, and ran.

* * *

She reached the Gauntlet twenty minutes later. Giulia took one last look to see if she was being followed. The road was empty. She pushed the door open.

The Gauntlet was long and narrow, and it smelled of fireplaces and spilled ale. There was no bar, just a row of barrels at the back from which the drink was scooped.

The usual crew were starting the night’s drinking: people to whom she would nod but never speak. At the far end of the room the landlady, Irmgard, was putting clay cups on a shelf.

Irmgard was a Teut. She’d once told Giulia that she had fled Sudestenland after its bishops declared for the New Church, early enough to avoid the worst of the religious violence. She had three sons and four daughters, and all the toughness of a matriarch. Over the last year, she’d put a few jobs Giulia’s way, linked her up with two good fences.

One of whom was now very dead.

Giulia closed the door and walked down the hall. Irmgard looked around. The landlady’s eyes widened. She beckoned Giulia over.

“Yulia,” Irmgard said. Even after ten years in Astrago, her Teutic accent was still strong. “Come round the back, now. Quick. Out of sight. Sophie,” she called, and a girl stepped out of the shadows. “You mind the front.”

Giulia followed her through a door, into the rear of the inn. The room was half-full of empty barrels. Irmgard closed the door behind her.

“Two men were in here earlier, looking for you.”

Oh, no . “What were they like?”

“An older man, well-spoken but you could tell he was tough. The young one was wrong in the head. He frightened me. He looked like he was going to go crazy at any moment.”

Giulia wondered what Irmgard had told them. She tried to look unconcerned. “Are you sure it was me they were looking for?”

“Pretty much. They didn’t use your name, but one of them described you. He said you had scars like this.” She held up her hand, pressed two fingers against her left cheek as if surreptitiously giving Giulia the Bowman’s Salute.

“That’s me, all right.” Giulia screwed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head swam. She remembered the corpses in Carlo’s house, the clumsy way that dead bodies lay. Fuck. This is all I need . “What did you tell them?”

“The truth,” Irmgard said. “They said there was no point lying: they had a flask of Veritatis and they’d make me drink it if they thought I was messing them around. I told them you came here sometimes, and right now, you were out.”

“Fair enough. What were they, Watchmen?”

Irmgard shook her head. “Bounty hunters.”

“Great. Bloody wonderful.” Giulia leaned against the wall. “Irmgard, Carlo’s dead. I just went to his house to get some money he owes me.”

Quietly, Irmgard said, “What happened to him?”

“The bounty men got him. It wasn’t pretty. They nearly got me, too. I had to kill one of theirs. I think it was the crazy man you said about.” Giulia felt terribly weary, as if all her muscles had been pulled too hard. “I’ve got to go. It’s not safe me staying here, not for either of us.” She took a step towards the door. “You take care.”

“Hey,” Irmgard said. “You owe me money, Yulia. You’ve had two bottles of good wine off me for free.”

“I know. I’m a little short at the moment. I’ll get it to you later.”

The landlady glared at her. Then the hardness in her eyes faded. “Be careful, woman. You can’t pay me back if you’re dead.”

* * *

Giulia put it together as she strode towards her apartment. It wasn’t hard to work out.

She’d done a job for Carlo last week, a simple in-and-out burglary at the Lombaro mansion on the edge of town. It had gone perfectly, and she’d escaped with the painting Carlo wanted and a fair bit of extra stuff for him to fence.

Maybe Carlo had become greedy, and had been too obvious about trying to find a buyer. Or else one of the other fences had sold him out to get his work.

It didn’t matter now. What mattered was the gear and the money she had stashed away. It looked as if the coin from the Lombaro job was gone for good. Fine , she thought, call it a lesson learned . But she couldn’t afford to lose the rest of her stash. Not when she was so close to being ready to go back to Pagalia.

The thought of losing it all made the Melancholia swell up inside her like a rising black tide. She pulled her hood up and made herself focus. Stop it. You’re not beaten yet .

As she rounded the corner and caught sight of her tenement block, fury washed over her. She stood in the shadows, her mind swimming with outrage for being ripped off like this. For a moment she wanted to scream at the sky, to curse God and the angels for cheating her.

And then she was back again. Giulia narrowed her eyes and looked at the tenement like a boxer sizing up an opponent. Her apartment was at the top of the block, on the third floor. The shutters were closed, but she could tell if there was a light burning inside. Right now, it was dark.

Maybe it’s empty. Maybe they’re inside, waiting. Maybe they’ve bought a flask of night-eye so they can see me coming .

There was no time for excuses. Either she went in or she accepted that her money, and her plans, were done with.

Someone moved in the doorway. Moonlight glinted on the handguard of a sword. Then something dropped over the sword and the man drew back, out of sight.

So, they had a man on the door, waiting to ambush her. Giulia realised that any attempt to enter by the ground floor, whether through the doors or the windows, would be too dangerous.

She slipped into an alleyway. The walls loomed high above her. Her boots sounded very loud on the stones.

The apartment block next to hers was almost drowned in shadow. Giulia strode to the back of the building and stopped beside the porch. The windows were shuttered, held in place with latches.

The tip of her knife slipped easily between the shutters. She flicked it up and the blade caught the latch and knocked it open.

Nobody shouted, nobody shot at her.

Giulia climbed over the sill. The ground floor of the block was one large area, where half a dozen shopkeepers would lay out their wares in the daytime. Now the moonlight turned it into a landscape of boxes and sacks, like a massive attic. The real valuables would have been taken upstairs for the night, locked safely away. She picked her way across the room, to the staircase. She began to climb.

The boards creaked softly under her boots. She tried not to think too much, made herself focus on what she was going to do rather than what might go wrong. She passed the first landing, then the second.

The stairs ended at the third landing. Each floor was slightly wider than the one below. This high up, the eaves would almost be touching above the road.

The window on the right would work. She lifted the latch and, very carefully, pushed the shutters back.

Giulia looked out of the window, felt the cool night air on her skin. The sloping roof of her own tenement was six feet away.

A light moved below: someone was carrying a lantern. She waited for the light to disappear around the corner.

Here we go .

Giulia climbed into the window and perched on the frame. The air felt very still, as if God was holding his breath. Giulia licked her lips. She braced her legs on the wall below her. Then she leaped across the gap.

She landed on the roof of her tenement. Quickly, she scrambled up to the peak of the roof, where she knew that the beams would take her weight. She crouched there, suddenly able to see the city of Astrago spread out around her on all sides: the smoke in the moonlight from a thousand chimneys, the soft glow of alchemical streetlamps around the mansions of the rich. On the far side of the bay, the new lighthouse flashed its warning.

I’ve got to get out. I’m done with Astrago – and it’s done with me .

She had delayed enough. Now, with hired men looking for her, there could be no more waiting about. It was time to go back across the bay, to Pagalia.

Home , she thought. That’s a bloody joke .

Back to Pagalia, to finish what Publius Severra had started six years ago. She’d spent money and time preparing for it, had thought of little else, but it still seemed like a huge step to take.

First, let’s get this money .

Giulia crawled along the spine of the roof. She’d done this journey once before, shortly after renting the apartment, except in reverse. She had chosen the tenement partly for its seclusion, and partly because, if the place was surrounded, she could climb out through the ceiling. She hadn’t ever expected to be breaking in.

A scrap of white rag protruded from the roof, pinned down by a loose tile. She crawled over and began to lift the tiles away around the rag. Giulia set each tile down very carefully. After ten tiles she paused, listening. Nothing. She got back to work.

Soon the hole was big enough to let her down. The room below was dark and, as far as she could tell, empty. Moonlight caught weakly on bare floorboards.

Easy does it .

She put her weight onto her hands and lowered her feet into the hole.

Something moved on her right. Giulia whipped around. A tile slipped down the side of the roof, almost lazily. Powerless to stop it, she watched the tile slide towards the edge.

No – don’t fall—

It dropped into the street. For a second everything was still, and then the tile smashed on the road below.

She winced. Nobody could have failed to hear that. They’d go to see what the noise had been, and some clever bastard would suggest looking on the roof.

She didn’t have long. Giulia slid down until half her body was in the hole. She, dropped, landed neatly and was up and ready in an instant.

The room had always been pretty empty. They’d searched it well enough, tearing the sheets off the bed and pulling it out from the wall. They’d broken the lock on the big fancy chest and tossed the junk out. She saw that they’d taken the money bag full of coppers that she kept there as a distraction. Worse, the whoresons had stolen all three of her books.

Giulia tugged the bed forward and climbed up on it. She jumped, caught hold of one of the cross-beams and pulled herself up to chin-height. Her satchel was still there, wedged out of sight.

One good shove and it fell down onto the bed. Giulia dropped beside it. She didn’t need to check the contents. She pulled it on and took a long look around the room.

She’d miss this place. It seemed cruel, somehow, to leave the things she’d bought to make it more homely: the tin bath, the plaster saints’ figures, the cheap lamp in the shape of a leaping dryad.

Don’t get soft now. Time to go .

She crossed the room and listened at the door. She opened it a crack and looked into the hall, then sneaked out. Almost bent double, Giulia crept down the stairs.

Two flights down and she heard them open the front door. “Up here, you mean?” a voice said. It sounded like the educated man she’d heard outside Carlo’s house, the captain that Irmgard had talked about. Giulia hurried to the window and opened the shutters.

She climbed onto the sill and lowered herself down until she was hanging by her fingertips. Then she let go.

The landing knocked the air out of her chest. Up, now . She got to her feet, heart pounding.

“The window! Someone jumped out the window!”

Giulia turned and sprinted away.

* * *

She slowed to a walk and checked the road behind her. The street was deserted. It seemed that she’d lost them in the alleyways, thank God.

Giulia picked her way through the city, keeping to the shadows. There was one thing left to do before she left Astrago.

One of Irmgard’s sons loitered outside the Gauntlet. Giulia pulled her hood back, waiting for him to recognise her scars. The lad nodded and stepped aside, keeping one hand under his tatty cloak.

Irmgard was waiting for her. “Thought you’d be back,” the landlady said, handing her a cup. “This one’s on the house. Unlike all the others.”

Giulia took a deep swig of wine. It was cheap stuff, probably watered down, but it tasted like pure life. “I needed that,” she said. “They had people at my apartment, waiting for me. It was close.”

“Did you get your things?”

“Most of them. All the stuff I need.” She finished the cup. “I’m leaving the city for a while. Thought I’d wait for things to calm down.”

“Where will you go?”

Giulia shook her head. “Probably best if I don’t say. I’ve got business to take care of. Have had for a long while.” She sighed. “I’d nearly saved up all the money I needed. This last job was going to be the lot. Looks like I’ll be leaving the city a little lighter in the purse than I intended.”

The landlady said, “You can stay here this evening, if you’d like. You’ll have to sleep out the back, out of sight—”

“Thanks, but no. It’s too dangerous me staying here, for both of us. I can get out tonight if I start now.” Giulia reached to her belt and took out a purse. She counted coins onto the tabletop. “This is for the first bottle I owe you for. This is for the second. And this is for a third, so you can drink yourself silly and forget that I was ever here.”

Irmgard looked at the pile of coins for a moment. Then she shrugged and swept them off the table, into her apron. “Thank you.”

“That’s all right. God knows I’ve sinned in my lifetime, but I always pay a debt. The dwarrows say you should know a man by the debts he pays. That’s what I’m going away to do.”

“You owe someone for something?”

“Yes.” Giulia stood up. “I owe them for a lot. But they’re the ones who’re going to pay.”

* * *

Buy the full book here .

Toby Frost is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novel Straken and several short stories set in the Warhammer 40,000 world. He has also written six comedy novels about the adventures of Space Captain Smith, published by Myrmidon Books. Up To The Throne is his first fantasy book. The sequel, Blood Under Water , is out now. More details are available at www.tobyfrost.com .

4

Chasing Graves

Ben Galley

Welcome to Araxes, where getting murdered is just the start of your problems.

Meet Caltro Basalt. He’s a master locksmith, a selfish bastard, and as of his first night in Araxes, stone cold dead.

They call it the City of Countless Souls, the colossal jewel of the Arctian Empire, and all it takes to be its ruler is to own more ghosts than any other. For in Araxes, the dead do not rest in peace in the afterlife, but live on as slaves for the rich.

While Caltro struggles to survive, those around him strive for the emperor’s throne in Araxes’ cutthroat game of power. The dead gods whisper from corpses, a soulstealer seeks to make a name for himself with the help of an ancient cult, a princess plots to purge the emperor from his armoured Sanctuary, and a murderer drags a body across the desert, intent on reaching Araxes no matter the cost.

Only one thing is certain in Araxes: death is just the beginning.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

Prelude

The last droplets of water trembled on the lip of the flask, beads of dirty glass refusing to let go. She shook them, and one met her parched tongue. The other fell between her boots, striking the blistered sand with a hiss. She clenched a fist, buckling the tin flask.

The day was an oven, determined to roast her.

With an exasperated growl, she stared down at the dead things. One was considerably larger than the other: a horse with one leg bent at an unnatural angle. Splinters of bone poked through its piebald hair. Its chestnut eyes were bulged and clouded in the desert heat.

The other corpse was smaller, man-sized, and wrapped in leather sacking. It had been trussed in thick rope, the tail of which was tied in several knots about her waist.

Both had begun to stink.

The woman scanned the horizon once again, blurred as it was by heat. It was no different than the last time she looked. The golden dunes rolled out an endless and featureless carpet beneath a sky of overpowering blue: an upside-down ocean, beckoning to be dived into yet unreachable, and in that way cruel and taunting.

The sun was high overhead, beating down on her cotton shirt and the white leather hood which prevented the rays from baking her brain. Ash-rubbed leather trews, black gloves and boots saw to the rest of her.

When she could wait beside the corpses no more, she forced herself upright. Somehow it felt hotter further away from the sand. Not a breath of wind stirred. The rope came taut as she thrust herself onwards on foot. There were many miles yet to conquer. Far too many.

‘Your funeral.’

The words came malformed, untested. He had broken his silence at last. She didn’t deign to look at him, but she could tell by the cold waft of air that he was close. She wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, but she longed for him to come closer, to escape the scorch for just a moment.

‘I said it’s your—’

‘I heard what you said, you old goat. Go back to your brooding.’

Walking in the desert was not a joyful roaming, as one might enjoy on the high-roads of great Araxes. In the Long Sands, it became more a test of endurance. Every step was a parry in a duel between the ferocious desert and her determination. She had plenty of that. She leashed her mind to her task. As she trudged, the woman held onto a lump hiding beneath her coarse shirt: a coin dangling on a metal chain.

Hollow threats were spouted behind her. ‘They’ll find your body right next to mine. Bloated in the sun. All trace of that legendary beauty burned away.’

Trudge . Trudge . Trudge .

He chuckled; a wet, gnarled sound. His voice was still forming. She jerked the body, rope sharp against her cracked hands.

‘They’ll drag your corpse away like a piece of week-old beetle meat. Just as you have the temerity to treat mine.’

The woman whirled. ‘SILENCE!’ On instinct, she reached to grab his throat. Her fingers found only cold mist between their grip.

He stepped back, his blue throat untouched save for the jagged and broken scar where her knife had ended his life. It glowed a brighter blue than the rest of his swirling vapours, almost white at its edges.

‘Forgetting something?’ He smiled; a hateful little smile that in life had found its way to his face far too frequently. She’d hoped it had died with his body, but alas, no luck.

‘Are you?’ She patted the copper dagger hanging at her hip.

He shook a finger, baring teeth. ‘You might have slain me once, but you wouldn’t dare kill me twice.’

She tugged at the dagger’s hilt. The copper blade flashed in the sunlight. ‘Why don’t you keep talking, and we’ll see exactly what I dare, hmm?’

There came no smart reply, no spiteful, hate-filled remarks. The ghost slunk back to trailing his body, scowling as it slid without ceremony across the wind-rippled dunes.

The woman yanked her hood up to shade her face. ‘See? You were always more enjoyable when you kept your mouth shut.’

* * *

Chapter 1

Arrivals & Departures

Whomsoever holds the greatest number of shades shall rule this kingdom.

Decree of Emperor Phaera of the Arc, 916 years ago

When a welcome to a city comes in the form of being chased through its streets by a bloodthirsty mob, you might assume you’ve done something wrong. Perhaps you’re a murderer. A heretic. Maybe you’re plagued, or owe silver to men who don’t know the meaning of scruples.

I was no murderer. I was a thief, of course, but not a taker of lives. Religion had died in my country long ago just as it had in this one. I carried no disease, and my accounts were in scant but decent order. There could be only one reason I was somebody’s quarry that night, I decided, between frantic looks over my shoulder, breath slobbering out over my lapels like a hound’s. I had simply set foot on the wrong dock at the wrong time of night in a city where laws are laughed at and crime is king.

Innocence doesn’t lend any more speed to legs than guilt.

* * *

Two hours earlier

‘Come on, come on, come on…’

Burglaries are tense activities, made up of many heart-racing, sweat-inducing and lip-pursing stages. From the picking of the front gate to the dashing back through it, arms bulging with swag, it takes years of practice to not crumble under the pressure. It’s what separates the dabblers from the daring, the lost causes from the true locksmiths.

I happened to belong to the latter camp.

‘Hnnnnng!’

And yet, even the most seasoned locksmith can have a bad day. Sometimes the stress gets to a man, tightening him in areas where he doesn’t want to be tightened. Then he thinks of the sand running through the hourglass, and he tenses all the more.

‘Fucking come on!’ I strained again.

Me . The best locksmith and thief in all the Reaches, clamming up like a freshpick. My only solace was that it wasn’t my prized fingers that were failing me, just my unwilling arsehole. Tension is never useful when you need to take a shit in some imbecile’s lockbox.

‘Damn it!’ I readjusted myself to see if a higher angle would help, and strained again.

I was rewarded with a precursory fart. I hunkered down and felt my bowels give way. I heard the splatter against the papyrus below, shook myself free, and used the nearby velvet cloth to wipe myself before shimmying up my trews.

Sparing a moment to assess my leavings before I slammed the lockbox shut, I couldn’t help but wince. The documents were official business of some kind, judging from their wilted gold trims and grand swirls. They had all been thoroughly and gruesomely defaced. Possibly a bit extreme, I thought, but in my defence, the ship’s cook had been producing a lot of salt-meat stews in recent days. Besides, the old hag who owned the chest had treated me like some Skol peasant for the entire voyage. It was her own fault for not having anything of worth to steal.

I shrugged as I fastened my belt. It would be a good surprise when she arrived at her destination; hopefully some sort of public family proceedings.

With two of my slender picks and a series of sharp movements, I relocked the box. I broke the rest of my tools into their respective pieces and slid them into the hidden pockets in the hem of my coat. I spared one to jimmy the door to lock when closed. That way I wouldn’t have to bumble about in the corridor like a novice.

The door produced a pleasant click behind me and I adopted a nonchalant amble. I could have split my face with a grin when I saw my victim’s fur-trimmed boots and velvet coat descending the stairs. I paused at their foot, my joy condensed into a polite smile. She snorted at me as always, and tilted her head away as if I reeked of farm work. Her lanky, leather-bound guard followed a step behind, giving me his usual blank but discouraging stare.

‘Madam.’ I met her grey-blue Skol eyes. Her lip wrinkled.

‘You again. Lurking as always, I see.’ She made her distaste clear with a swish of her coat, striking me in the chest. The guard pushed me back, and I found myself immensely pleased I’d finally found some lockpicking to do whilst aboard, even if it had taken three long weeks. I flicked the collars of my coat upright with a crack, and ascended to the top deck with a spring in my step.

The air had grown dastardly hot since passing through the Scatter Isles, and I went to the bulwark to replace the sweat on my forehead with cooler sea-spray. Whilst I lounged over the rail of the ship, listening to the seagulls mewing overhead and the waves slapping against the bow, I stared at the city that occupied half the horizon: my long-awaited destination. The City of Countless Souls.

Over the great stretch of seawater, Araxes had the look of a vast colony of sea urchins left to dry in the desert heat. To say the city was humongous was a dire understatement. Smoke-bound dockyards and piers stretched along the coastline for miles upon miles. Behind the sprawling warehouses, spires and pyramids reached up high, myriad and needle-pointed, all save for one bulging tower, poised like a column holding up the sky. Streaks of orange cloud stretched across its summit. Even from the sea I had to crane my neck to take it in.

The Cloudpiercer must have been half a mile thick at the base, and more than twice that high. The long tale of its construction was told by the bands of colour in its stone. Decade upon decade reached into the sky, tapering to a sharp point that shone like a diamond. At its very tip lived the emperor of the Arc, hidden away in an armoured Sanctuary – a smart decision when you rule an empire where everybody wants to kill you.

Word had it that if the Cloudpiercer ever fell, the heavens would fall with it. I’d scoffed at that when I first heard it, over a pint in some tavern, and I scoffed at it now. The tower was gigantic, true, but the Arctians were famed for having egos as bloated as their coin-purses, and I had no intention of feeding either on my first visit to Araxes.

The sun balanced on the ship’s railing, and that meant we were running late. As I had strongly suspected since the moment I’d stepped aboard this cursed vessel, the captain had turned out to be a liar. I’d paid him an extra pair of silvers to set us in port during the daylight, as had many other passengers, no doubt. And yet, despite his repeated assurances, it appeared we would be landing past dusk. I should have paid him two pairs, or taken another ship west. One with a better name than The Pickled Kipper .

I cast a glance at the captain. He hadn’t moved many degrees from horizontal for most of the day. He sprawled beside his wheel, yawning and flicking the rope tied about his big toe that held the spokes in place. I was not a violent man, and infinitely patient – in my line of work, patience pays – but at that moment I found myself aching to throw the fat fuck overboard. There was a reason Araxes had another name: the City of Countless Doors. In a city where you can kill a man, claim his ghost and everything he owns, or sell him for a profit, murder tends to flourish. Araxes’ streets were dangerous after dark, patrolled not by lawmen or soldiers, but gangs and what the Arctians affectionately called soulstealers. It wasn’t that they had no laws; just that with a city so huge, it was impossible to enforce them. I felt the sweat drip from my finger tip. For years, I had avoided working in the Arc, given their thirst for murder and their cutthroat politics. As the saying goes in the underworld of the Reaches: an Arctian would rather pay with steel than silver.

As the sun dipped into the Troublesome Sea, the sky to my left bruised to purple. The mouth of the port began to sparkle with ships’ lights, and then the city followed suit with myriad oil-lamps. By the time the ship nosed into the busy waters, the adobe and sandstone of the buildings glowed almost as brightly as it had in the daylight. I wondered, somewhat aghast, at the number of whales that must have been speared each year to feed the city’s thirst for oil. We had crossed wakes with a pair of whalers not three days out from Krass, and I scowled now as I had at them.

I paced impatiently between the masts as a boatful of armoured port guards came aboard from a skiff to conduct their checks of the passengers. Their questions were standard. My answers, as always, were lies. In my line of work it pays never to tell the same lie twice, even to a stranger. I’d always had a wonderful knack with fiction. In another life, perhaps I would have told my lies on papyrus, and sold scrolls by the thousand. But that was some other Caltro Basalt, and I was currently concerned with keeping this Caltro incognito.

The only truth I told them was my last name, and that my business lay within the Cloudpiercer. They snorted in disbelief until I showed them the papyrus summons that had appeared on my doorstep almost two months ago. I had almost tripped over the damn thing in my hungover exit from my pitiful excuse for lodgings. The document held only a smattering of words, written in green ink:

Mr Basalt,

Your presence is requested at the Cloudpiercer concerning matters of employment. Present this seal for admittance.

Etane.

I had recognised neither the black wax seal of daggers and desert roses, nor the name ‘Etane’, but it was official and intriguing enough to lure me to the mighty Araxes despite the city’s blatant risks. I have done business with and robbed from some powerful names in my time, but none quite so prestigious as to call the Cloudpiercer home. Like a vulture drawn to a fresh carcass, I had sold my room and everything in it, bought a new coat, and boarded the cheapest ship to Araxes. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact I hadn’t been offered a job in months, and my coffers held more dust than they did silver. It was nothing to do with my desperate state of affairs whatsoever, and I had repeated that to myself for most of the journey.

The papyrus seemed official enough for the port guards, too, and they moved on to the next passenger. After half an hour of procedural horseshit, which I spent tapping my feet and eyeing the sinking sun, the ship was finally given permission to enter the port. Once the guards had disembarked, the rotund captain roused himself to steer the ship to an empty berth, somewhere amongst the press of vessels from every corner of the map. Several passengers cheered. The rest remained quietly uneasy, too busy clenching jaws, fists, buttocks, or if they were like me, all three.

Every moment the ship spent inching towards its quay, my eyes roved the dockside and the honeycomb alleys leading into the city. A few scores of ghosts glowed faintly here and there, working away. No signs of any living besides some bored overseers. Despite the clap of waves and the hum of distant industry, there were no screams. No baying gangs. No fact to the ghastly rumours I’d been told of Araxes. In truth, the only thing that concerned me was the overwhelming stink of fish and tar. My nervous heart calmed a fraction.

The other passengers gathered behind me. Some had loud complaints of their own for our captain, but he shrugged them off and occupied himself with his steering. Many didn’t seem bothered, since they had bodyguards and soldiers arranged around them. The rest were too foreign, too naive, or too stupid to be paying much attention. The traders of the group were busy swapping stiff sheets of papyrus, and the Krassmen – my own countrymen – were too drunk for anything beyond standing still and trying not to vomit as the ship waddled up to the quay. Swarthy, stocky with muscle, they sweated in their furs and cackled in my harsh tongue. I wasn’t sure whether they didn’t know or didn’t care about the fabled dangers of Araxes after dark. Perhaps it was the latter. Unlike me, they were big men, broad in the shoulder and thick in the arm. If I were to be honest, the only place I’m thick is the waist. I wondered if I could stick with them for safety, but a scowl from one of them told me I was not as much a countryman as I had assumed.

I caught the eye of the old Skol hag one last time. Her scowl was no deeper than usual, her eyes no more disdainful, and so I wagered she had yet to open her lockbox. If I wasn’t deceived by the crowd, her guard appeared to be clutching it to his chest. For the first time, that bland, ivory face of his was wrinkled. I would have laughed had it not been for the ship knocking against the quay, and the dark, silent mouths of the streets beyond it.

I took another look at the purple sky and the faint remnants of sunset, and spat at my feet. ‘Fuck this.’

As the sailors herded the stragglers towards the bulwark, I found a gap towards the mast and hopped up the greasy stairs to the aftcastle. The captain was still sloped in his chair. At the sight of me, he issued a half-arsed, half-mumbled order to show he was busy.

‘Tie off! Ingrates! What is it, passenger? I’m very busy.’

‘You promised a daylight arrival, sir. It is clearly nighttime. I wish to stay aboard for the night and disembark in the morning. You know as well as I do how dangerous this city can be after dusk. Otherwise I wouldn’t have paid the extra silvers.’

That got him vertical. He waved his flabby arms in an effort to shoo me down the stairs. ‘Impossible, just like I told the others. The Kipper ’s being cleaned and loaded for a dawn sailing. Tide waits for no—’ His bluster was interrupted by a yawn. ‘You get the idea.’

An unsettling holler came from somewhere deep in the dockyards, and I set my feet against the man. We stood belly to belly for a moment, mine happily outmatched. I heard a few encouraging murmurs from the spread of passengers below us.

‘Another silver for your smallest cabin. I’ll be off before sunrise.’

He had the gall to push me. If not for the handrail, Araxes would have claimed me before I’d even touched its boardwalk. ‘You heard me. No! Farn, get this passenger off my ship.’

A gruff sailor took up the job. ‘Aye.’

Hands of calloused leather saw me back to the waiting crowd. ‘Two silvers!’ I yelled, but to no avail.

At the scrape of the gangplank, I was away, barging others aside so that I could be second off the blasted ship. In dangerous situations, it’s always wise to let somebody else go first. That way you can scarper while they’re busy screaming and dying.

It was working well until the line of passengers dispersed like smoke in a gale. I was left standing with three clueless traders, facing an empty canyon of a street that led vaguely south.

‘After you.’ I said, smiling and gesturing.

‘To lodgehouse?’ one said, in broken Commontongue. His accent was thick, of the Scatter Isles.

‘Of course.’ The odds were high that a lodgehouse lay somewhere in that direction. All things lie in all directions, if you’re committed to walking far enough.

‘Thanken,’ chorused the three. Clutching their scroll-bags and coattails to their round stomachs, they led the way. I followed a few steps behind, using them like canaries in a mine to test the way, pointing and smiling whenever they turned around.

Sandstone warehouses, factories and granaries hemmed us in on either side, reaching high into the dark purple sky. The heat had not faded with the sun, as it did in Krass, and between the buildings it was muggy. Smoke was thick in the air, still creeping from the tall factory chimneys above. Foreign smells wafted in waves as we passed doorway after doorway, and with them came the various noises of toil. It seemed the working day was not over, at least not for the dead. Between slits in the stone walls, I glimpsed crowds of ghosts beavering away at mills or forges or various clockwork machines.

When I wasn’t peering warily into the shadows, I kept my eyes on the glimmer of the Cloudpiercer, using it as a sailor uses the Undying Stars to navigate. I was eager to know the measure of my new employer Etane.

Despite a few ghosts that came ambling past with handcarts or lugging sacks, no others crossed our path. I was about to exhale for the first time since leaving the ship when a yell came ricocheting down the street and turned my blood to ice.

‘Get ready!’ it ordered me, though for what I had no idea. I assumed it would be something painful.

The traders stalled, swapping quizzical looks. I was already backing away, searching for nooks, crannies or any other apertures that would hide me. My heart was trying to punch its way through my ribcage. The rumours were true after all.

The sound of boots on sand was all I needed to hurtle back the way we’d come. I decided I would blabber something about forgotten luggage and hide on the Pickled Kipper until dawn. I’d give that oafish captain however many silvers he wanted. Being penniless was better than being murdered.

I made it around one corner before a door flew open and a pale-skinned man brandishing a curved blade jumped out to block my path.

Now, I am not a fighter. My hands are trained for more delicate work. But when death comes knocking, like most I’ll do anything to frustrate its call, even if it involves tackling a gap-toothed bandit to the ground and kicking him in the face before his eyes can stop rolling around.

I was halfway back to the quay when his comrades took up the chase. I looked over my shoulder and saw a monster of a woman leading a bedraggled band clad in mismatched black armour. Half a dozen, I counted, and four more heading me off at the next crossroads. As I was forced to change direction, I threw a longing glance at the sliver of ship I could see between the buildings. Despite my shouts, nobody came to my aid. I would have bet a tooth the captain was horizontal once more, yawning as he counted his fee for putting in late, the fucking blaggard. He must have been in on it. Him and the port guards, no doubt.

Curses streamed from my mouth as I fled down a side street, men baying like hounds at my coattails.

* * *

Soulstealers . That was the only explanation. I longed to have stayed at home in Taymar, where most people stuck to chasing you for your coin-purse, not your soul. I cursed myself for not using Etane’s invitation as tinder.

‘Fuck it!’ The infernal sand tricked my feet, sent me stumbling. Something swished behind me, far too close. I thanked the dead gods I had a penchant for tight and tidy laces. I’ve known far too many locksmiths who have been caught by the guards because of something so petty as a shoelace.

Only ghosts witnessed my harassment. They hugged the walls, daubing the sandstone a faint blue. Even fainter were their looks of pity. Even if they’d had the inclination, there was no help they could have offered. I found myself cursing the weak creatures in desperation. I looked up at the hazy swathe of black above me, bereft of all but the brightest stars. No gods to help me either. I was alone, and that is a deep and ancient fear to all.

I am not an athletic man. In fact, my build is that of a man whose only exercise comes from raising a pint glass to his lips. However, through terror alone, I managed to outpace most of my attackers. Only one stuck with me.

I swerved between a stack of crates, forcing the chaser to go around where I dashed ahead. An alley yawned and I threw myself into it. I fumbled into the dark before my eyes adjusted to the shadows. My breath came in panicked gulps. All I could hear was the panting of the man behind me and my heart vying with my heels to see which could pound faster.

Using the confusing nature of the streets, I weaved between the alleyways and the boardwalk, knitting an overlapping path for my would-be murderer. And yet every turn I thundered down, every zig I zagged, he clung on. His animal snorting stayed just a spear’s reach behind me. With each violent swerve, the more my chest began to burn. Every breath felt shallower than the one before it.

A courtyard sprawled between crooked old buildings, tarred black and dead of light. I ran for a street sprouting from its far side. At the last moment, I veered left for another, smaller street. I heard the crash and curse of a body against brick.

I skidded down another alley, thinking myself clever until I found it blocked by a wall of crab pots. I let loose a whimper as I collided headlong with them and fell to the sand. It was barely moments before I heard feet behind me once more.

‘N—!’

The knife punctured me before I found my feet, cutting short my desperate cry. The steel came in through my back, to the left of my spine, and out through my belly. My shirt pulled around its point like a circus tent. I stared down at it, swaying on one knee and a hand, wondering why in dead gods’ names I hadn’t gotten a different ship.

The knife was dragged from me, and the pain came, blossoming like smoke over a Scatter Isle volcano. It crippled me, and I would have fallen had it not been for the iron arms that grasped me.

My head was yanked skyward. The steel raked across my throat, merciless. My chest and lap became wet and warm. Every time I tried to breathe, I drowned.

The arms released me, and I fell onto my back. A bloody-faced man stared back at me, standing against a backdrop of stars. He spat on me and bit his lip in a sneer.

I couldn’t think of a more distasteful person to spend my last moments with, and yet here I was: the life eking out of me by the jugful, and my gurning murderer looming over me like a wood troll. There was blood at the corners of his mouth and nose. His dark hair hung in lank, greasy strands, making shadows of his lumpy face. I should have kicked him harder when I had the chance. I could have taken a different ship. I should have stayed at home. That was all I had for comfort: should haves and could haves.

My fight was with the darkness now, and with his patience, which it turned out was thin. He was soon on his knees, knife at work once again. He cut me four more holes before my blood ran out and my body gave in. The shadows came swooping, and all I could do was scream silently at the injustice, the outrage and the hopelessness.

Fuck it .

* * *

Chapter 2

Rituals

As per the Tenets of the Bound Dead, the soul of a body that dies in turmoil – whether through accident or unnatural causes – will naturally rise several days later. The shade has the chance to surrender its body to the Nyx should no other claim it first. In cases of the latter, only once said shade is bound can the master own all the soul’s belongings and estates.

Article 1, S8 of The Code of Indenturement

‘What is this sloppy shit, Kech?’

The man gesticulated wildly at his split face, oozing with blood. His words whistled through the gaps in his teeth. There were a few new ones since he had started the night. ‘‘ave you seen my fuckin’ face, Ani?’

Ani Jexebel had no patience for backchat. These newcomers needed to learn that. The back of her fist connected with the man’s jaw and he performed a twirl before he hit the sand. He wiped a bloody smear onto the back of his hand and snivelled.

‘Scars cost silvers! Boss Temsa wants clean kills only. You know how fickle buyers are these days?’

‘Sorry.’

She tapped her ear irritably, like a fearsome school-madam picking on an errant child. ‘What?’

‘Sorry, Ani!’

‘Better.’

Ani looked down at the corpse, throat splayed open to the white bone. Three – no, four – holes in his belly and chest. His sun-soaked skin was turning ashen as the blood bubbled from him. She made a furrow of her brow. He’d fetch twenty if they were lucky. Maybe with some shade-dust to cover the holes. She sheathed her axe in its leather loop with a grunt.

Ole Jenk liked to be quick with the rickety corpse-wagon. Time in the prisons made a man twitchy, but twitchy men made good lookouts. Despite his furtive looks and spasmodic movements, he kept the white horses still as desert bones as the men loaded the new corpses onto the older ones. Blood escaped in rivulets from the tail of the wagon. It had been a poor night for prey.

‘Right, you fetid bastards. Back to the Slab before the guards get off their arses.’

Ole Jenk mumbled something between the matted wires of his silver beard.

‘What?’ said Ani.

‘I said right away!’

‘Better! You know how I hate mumbling.’ And how she did. More so in recent months. Either her ears were not as clear as they used to be, or people in the city were talking quieter. In any case, it was great cause for irritation.

Ani stood on the back of the cart, watching the bodies shake as the wheels bounced through the myriad potholes. The others jogged alongside, the newcomers huffing and puffing louder than the rest. Too fat on beer and too fond of their bedrolls. She’d have the flabby fuckers mopping the cart until dawn. She ran a tight ship.

They curved away from the docklands and into the honeycomb sprawl of a housing district. Squares roofed with bright red awnings broke the monotony of the endless streets. Alleys flashed by, strung with clotheslines and bunting, and littered with the cornucopia of refuse usually found in a city’s gutters. Now and again a scream would ring out into the dark night, or the concussive thwack of a triggerbow would echo across the stone: other soulstealer crews plying their labour.

Their road came to an open junction of five streets. A pyramidal building dominated one corner, and its great square door blazed with yellow lamplight. Pipe-smoke and noise poured out into the evening. Cackles of laughter and broken song flooded the junction. A steady stream of bodies came and went, the latter decidedly more unsteady on their feet. A band of stone sat above the lintel of the door, three words chiselled and painted into its weathered face: The Rusty Slab.

With great care, Ani’s crew hugged the opposite street, heading for a squat iron entrance tucked into the building’s backside. Ani knocked nine times, and with the crunch of a lock the door swung inwards. Jenk tapped the horse forward, down a slope and into a bare and lamplit room with a low ceiling. Two alcoves had been carved into the walls, occupied by wooden platforms held by curtains of thick chains.

Boss Boran Temsa was waiting for them as always. He stood alone on a stone platform, elbow on his cane, thumbing his oiled beard, eyes narrow and hungry. No matter how busy he found himself, he would invariably welcome his new arrivals. Attention to detail was one of his greater talents, vital in the business of soultrading. That virtue had been the reason Ani sold him her services. That, and he paid better than most.

‘How many?’ he yelled as Ani trudged up the steps of his platform, her weapons and leather-plate armour clanking.

‘Six, Boss. From one of our captains at the Low Docks. The Pickled Kipper .’

Temsa banged his cane on the stone. ‘Only six? Tut tut, gentlemen! I had expected better! Especially of you, Ani.’

Ani shrugged. ‘We’ve only got so many ships, and they’re away for weeks at a time.’

‘Excuses are the hallmarks of failure, m’dear. We’ve been through this.’

They had. Many times. Ani wasn’t in the mood for another of his lessons. She bowed stiffly. ‘I’ll play smarter.’

Temsa moved past her and she shuffled out of his way. It was more to avoid his copper claws than to be respectful. His left leg was missing below the knee, thanks to some old gambling debt gone awry. Temsa had rejected the customary wooden or ivory replacement in favour of a copper and gold version, carved in the shape of an eagle’s foot. A hallmark that was known all through Bes District and beyond. It was so notorious that none had ever dared to suggest a nickname. The last man to do so had called him ‘Goldylegs’, and he had quickly found a dagger in his eye. Temsa preferred to be known simply as Boss Temsa, and that was final.

He clanked and tapped his way to the wagon, an odd rhythm of claws, cane and boot. His long coat of gold thread and purple silk swished about him. Ole Jenk stayed by his horses, but the other men parted like woodcutters before a falling tree as Temsa roamed the night’s catch. They had been dumped in a rough line, lying on crude brushstrokes of blood.

Temsa’s olive eyes moved quickly, hawk-like. ‘Hmm. At least they’re travellers, fresher than what we usu—What the fuck is this mess?’ His cane stabbed at the stone floor again. ‘Look at his fucking neck, Ani!’

Ani leaned on the railing, picking at her dirty nails. She knew exactly which mess he was referring to without having to look.

‘Our new Kech got a little personal with that one, Boss. Wanted revenge for bootin’ him in the face, apparently.’

Bloody-faced Kech had frozen. No complaints of a broken nose now.

Ani watched as Temsa pondered, his eyes distant. Boran Temsa was a man of quick decisions. She could tell he’d already decided to kill the man. He only nodded like that when mulling over how to kill something.

He spoke as he walked, taking a meandering route between men and corpses. Kech was undoubtedly at the end of his path.

‘Forty silvers. That’s the average value of a cleanly killed shade in today’s market. Lowest it’s been in six months despite this Nyxwater shortage. Top price – and I’m talking poisoned or smothered – is fifty to fifty-five. Old or young, thirty-five. But with a slashed throat like this poor soul? That’s maybe twenty on the nose. Twenty-five with a bit of dust. Follow?’

The men nodded emphatically. Armour squeaked as heads bobbed.

‘Ten of you to get the bodies. Coin a piece per body, that’s sixty. Then I’ve got to pay the binders at six coins a body. That’s twenty-four. And another fifteen to the Nyxites for their Nyxwater. Can anybody tell me what that adds up to?’ Temsa came to a halt beside Kech. ‘Anybody?’

‘Ninety-nine,’ said Ani, after far too long a pause.

‘Well done, Miss Jexebel. So, saying I get even one hundred and fifty for this lot, that leaves me just over one body in profit. Fifty silvers. A razor-thin margin, so the traders say. Do you think I got into soultrading to make razor-thin profits, Mr Kech?’

‘No, Boss.’

The man was right to be shaking. Ani had seen men almost as big as her shake in Temsa’s proximity. He might have been small in stature, but he cast the shadow of a daemon. His olive eyes, though small and pinched in wrinkles, held nothing in the way of predictability. Just the hunger and rage of a starving wolf.

The cane struck Kech hard across the backs of his legs. Its hook dragged him onto his arse, and his skull smacked on the stone. Temsa raised his foot above the man’s torso, his four sharp talons hovering inches from his poorly-leathered tabard.

‘I’m sorry, Boss! I swear I’ll do better!’

‘I’ve no doubt. You’ll fetch a good price at the soulmarket, and what’s more, I no longer have to pay you. You’re doing better already.’

Temsa pressed down, driving the claws into the man’s gut. Kech curled around them like a speared woodlouse, his mouth open in a silent, gap-toothed scream.

The copper came away bloody, and left streaks in the dust as Temsa left Kech behind to writhe and die. ‘Load them up, gentlemen!’

Ani was waiting in the smaller of the alcoves. While the men went to work carting the bodies onto the other, wider platform, theirs fell in jerky increments and the ratatat of chainlink against pulleys. They descended into another domed room, this one twice as big. They stepped around two gangs of shades heaving on wheels and levers to crank the lift back up.

Ani had been pondering. ‘You don’t pay the binders six. You pay them four.’

‘I think you’re getting deafer and louder at the same time, m’dear.’ Temsa waggled a finger in his ear. ‘A little exaggeration is sometimes necessary.’

‘Sure your mind isn’t slipping? Forgetting your numbers?’

‘Not a chance.’ Temsa gave her a sly look.

The bodies floated down next, and the binders scurried forwards to unload them. Ani and Temsa followed the short train of corpses to an area lit by whale-oil lamps. There, the binders began their ritual, hands flitting about, sharp and quick. First, the hooded men picked the pockets and bags, digging for valuables before removing clothing. They piled belongings neatly at the heads of the bodies for later fencing.

Temsa always liked to poke, to see what extra treasures he could glean. Every so often, he found something he liked and saved it from the fence’s piles. Ani pointed at the body whose throat Kech had slashed; the one whose belly sported four gaping holes.

‘Why’s this one got no stuff?’ she asked. ‘Who comes off a ship with no luggage?’

Judging by his dark skin and bright emerald eyes, the corpse was from the east. His hair was a few shades from black. Short, but shaggy and unkempt. Dried blood matted it over one pierced ear. He had the beginnings of a beard on his chubby cheeks. The man had no jewellery on his person, and nothing with him besides a smart grey coat, a folded document and a plain metal flask still sloshing with liquid. Palmshine, by the smell of it. She snatched up the papyrus, reading slowly.

‘Mr Basalt. Krassman, I wager. Summons to the Piercer for a job, no less! Must be important. The name’s all bloodied, but there’s a wax seal on it.’

‘Give it here.’ The name was obscured by a dark smear. Something like Etan or Eran . Temsa thumbed the seal, a design of desert roses with thorns like daggers. He did not seem to recognise it. There were so many nobles in this city it was impossible to keep track.

Temsa snapped the seal from the papyrus and slid it into a pocket. He said something, but Ani’s deaf ears didn’t catch it over the shuffling of the binders.

‘What?’

‘I said a smith, by his trews and shirt.’

‘You sure? What smith doesn’t carry tools with him?’

Temsa felt around the lining of the coat, teasing a dozen small pieces of metal and springs out of the fabric. They looked like the shattered parts of some simple device.

‘How peculiar.’ He pieced a few of them together, making a small cross. One piece looked like a file. ‘I’ll have to see what Tor Busk makes of these.’

‘That old fucktart? Prick gave me some bad advice on an axe.’

‘No, he gave you good advice. You just didn’t take it.’

The binders began to strip the undergarments with shears. They didn’t bother to tend the darkening wounds. Instead, they wedged open the corpses’ jaws with blocks of wood, then fetched a basket of copper coins bearing the royal seal of a spiked crown. Each coin was chiselled down the centre, and the binders snapped each one in two, placing one half in the open mouth of the dead while holding the other firmly betwixt finger and thumb.

With the blocks removed, the naked, bloody bodies were dragged towards a covered well at the edge of the room. The boards were moved aside and a pool of grey water revealed. Its ripples moved languidly, more like oil rather than water, but it had no sheen to it. No depth, either. The waters were too inky to see the bottom of the stone pool. Ani knew it was barely three feet deep. That was all the Nyx needed.

A body at a time, they were surrendered to the wet with a hiss, like virgin blades being quenched. It was not a matter of hot and cold; it was the sizzling of the magic in the coins as the bind set.

The Krassman’s corpse was last, and once he’d slid into the waters, still with that gawping look on his face, the binders took their places around the stone rim. In silence they donned their copper-thread gloves and hovered, ready.

It took a moment for the shades to appear. First in, first out. Always the way. The shades always retched, too, as if they thought themselves revived, not yet realising their new state of being. Copper hands hauled their naked, vaporous forms from the ashen water and dumped them on the stone, where it shone with their blue colour. The shades wheezed and winced like newborns until realisation made them thrash. Their vapours, although bound to the shape and moment of their death, flowed and billowed as they struggled. The binders’ gloves taught them stillness. Wherever they touched seemed to scald the blue vapour. The shades slumped to the stone, quivering.

Six had come out, including Kech, but the seventh was proving stubborn and taking his time. The Krassman. Some liked to hold on once they had glimpsed the gates of the afterlife. Ani snorted. The binding always dragged them back to the world of the living. Magic always outweighed will.

And yet, the moment stretched out. The binders’ hands danced impatiently over the sloshing waters. Concerned glances darted under cowls. Ani looked to Temsa. His eyes were growing narrower, his good foot tapping with impatience.

* * *

Ben Galley is an author of dark and epic fantasy who currently hails from Victoria, Canada. Since publishing his debut The Written in 2010, Ben has released a range of award-winning fantasy novels, including the weird western Bloodrush and the epic standalone The Heart of Stone . When he isn’t conjuring up strange new stories or arguing the finer points of magic and dragons, Ben works as a self-publishing consultant, helping fellow authors from around the world to publish their books. Ben enjoys exploring the Canadian wilds and sipping Scotch single malts, and will forever and always play a dark elf in The Elder Scrolls .

For more about Ben, visit his website at www. bengalley.com , or say hello at hello@bengalley.com . You can also follow Ben on Twitter and YouTube @BenGalley, and on Facebook and Instagram @BenGalleyAuthor .

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5

A Wizard’s Forge

A.M. Justice

Introduction

A Wizard’s Forge is an origin story. In fact, the Australian reviewer Luke Goura summarized Vic’s journey from scholar to slave, warrior to wizard, better than I could:

A Wizard's Forge is an origin story relating the genesis of the character Victoria, the protagonist of this novel.

As protagonists go, Victoria is complex character, beginning her life as a scholar before an unexpected transition to slave and mistress, but after seizing an opportunity to escape, transitions once again to badass war hero.

Author A.M Justice paints an incredible picture of a fantasy world that has its roots in science fiction. In fact, I’d love to see more of the world depicted in this novel, particularly some prequel stories to give us a deeper background into Knownearth.

Usually in books with a larger cast of characters, many of them become two-dimensional, hard to discern from others...I'm very happy to say that this is most definitely not the case in this book with each of the characters being wonderfully vibrant and very relatable.

The following two-chapter teaser isn’t the beginning of the novel; it’s from the second act, when Vic stands on the cusp of destiny. By this point, the traumas that shaped her into a warrior are behind her, but the confrontation with her nemesis looms ahead. These chapters encapsulate Vic in all her glory and her failings, and also hint at the fate to be explored in the sequel, A Wizard’s Sacrifice . I hope this teaser captures your interest enough to go back and find out how Vic reaches this point, and what happens afterward.

SPBFO 2018

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter 20. Sand Cast

The breeze blowing off the Kragnashian headland stoked the sun’s blaze and fired the sand. Land and sky were a vise, squeezing sweat from every pore as the hot air dried the throat. Vic counted the barrels being loaded onto a sledge, hoping they’d brought enough water. “Captain,” she called to Carl, her command third. “Ask the ship captain for two more barrels.”

The hint of a sneer twisted his lips before he pressed them together and answered. “I wouldn’t add more weight, Marshall. The horses will already be pulling their limit in this heat.”

She nodded, swallowing a curse. The ship lay at anchor in a turbulent bay, their supplies ferried ashore in a pair of rowboats. The last of the horses kicked and struggled in a winch as sailors lowered it to the water. Its squeals resounded off the yellow sand, and its herdmates shied and whinnied in their traces. A pair of cavalry troopers bobbed in the surge below the animal, dodged its hooves and teeth as it thrashed. Draylune soothed with soft words and stroking while her partner Nedden unfastened the winch harness. When the horse was free and swimming for shore, the troopers lay back and floated in the sea, relieved all the animals had survived the voyage and debarkation.

As Vic paid the ship captain, he peered at the yellow sand and shook his head, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Before the company had all the provisions sorted, his ship had become a speck, running before the wind off the headland.

When everything was loaded, the horses trudged up the dunes on splayed hooves, harnesses creaking as the sledges rutted the sand. The humans gouged the dune after them, backs bent under packs. Reaching the top of the first rise, Vic shaded her eyes and gazed at the yellow landscape undulating to the horizon. Already grit rubbed against her heels and sweat rolled down her back. She resisted the urge to cast off her djellaba, knowing it would be her only defense against the sun. Wineyll and Bethniel clambored up the dune and stopped beside her.

“How long before we meet the Kragnashians?” Vic asked.

“I’m sure they sent out a greeting party as soon as Mother’s message arrived in Direiellene. They’ll find us soon,” Beth replied.

“Shouldn’t we wait here for them?” Wineyll asked, staring at the endless dunes.

“We don’t have time for that,” Vic said. Bethniel nodded, then slipped down the slope after the others. “Keep up the dagger practice with Carl, Drak, or Valion,” Vic told the minstrel. “Relmans and”—she waved at the desert—“Kragnashians may not be charmed by your flute.”

Grinning, Wineyll glanced at the case at her hip. “I am pretty good.”

“Nobody’s that good. Not even Ashel.”

The girl’s smile faded and she followed the company down the dune. Vic watched her go, blinking at tears that dried before they reached her cheeks. Ashel—she prayed to Elesendar or fate or pure damn luck he was well. He’s the son of a sovereign, not a powerless slave, she reassured herself, but her spine clenched at the memory of Lornk’s glacial gaze. The land ahead taunted her, promising failure. Clearing her throat, she fell in after the company.

* * *

The first afternoon, the heat killed a horse and nearly killed three troopers. After that, they marched at night, when the air was cooler. Although they followed the course prescribed in Elekia’s agreement with the Kragnashian Center, no guides appeared. Only sand surrounded them, as featureless as the ocean, the sky endless, empty blue by day, heavy with glitter by night. Progress slow, in a month they’d walked the distance they’d expected to cover in two. In two they’d covered only half the route to Relm, when they thought they’d be crossing the Plu—though without the Kragnashians’ help, Elesendar knew how they’d manage that. The Umbrachlorn Plu looked like a river on maps but was a gash in the earth’s crust, bubbling with sulfurous mud and lava, and only the Kragnashians knew how to cross it. Dune after dune sucked strength from calves; grit blistered heels and ravaged throats. Time and distance blended together, marked only by the emptying of another water barrel and the butchering of another horse, killed for its flesh and to spare the water as the sledge grew lighter. As the supplies shrank and the Desert People failed to meet them, discontent grew.

“Cut again?” Valion, one of the junior officers, asked one morning, hefting his canteen after Marenye, the quartermaster, doled out the day’s ration.

“Could be worse.” Marenye angled her head at thin strips of slaughtered horseflesh drying in the sun.

“This little water won’t leave me far from that,” Valion complained.

“But there’ll be blood stew for supper,” Bethniel cut in with a laugh. “And as a bonus, I’m not making it.”

Valion raised his canteen. “Hear that, boys and girls? Her Highness is letting someone else cook tonight! Three cheers for Latha’s Heir!” A ragged hurrah and round of guffaws echoed off the sand. Vic exchanged a smile and wink with Bethniel, but the levity evaporated as quickly as spit on the hot sand.

The sun paced across the sky, dragging a cape of green-gray clouds. People talked of rain over their blood stew and fresh jerky that evening, yet only sand showered them. And on the horizon, one smudge stayed stubbornly brown while the setting sun painted other clouds pink and orange.

Skin prickling, Vic called over the captains and jutted her chin at the smudge. “Another sandstorm.” Each had stalled them for hours, and one had halted progress for two days when they had to dig the sledges out from under a dune.

Drak shrugged. “The wind’s blowing it away from us.”

“Hope it stays that way.” At Vic’s wave, the company plodded up the next slope. No one spoke, in mindspeech or aloud. Throat aching, Vic forgot everything but pulling each foot out of the sand and pushing it forward. No one had ever been this deep into Kragnash. They might find themselves on flat ground at any moment. Vic smiled, imagining her legs free of sucking sand, running for the joy of running across a hard-packed plain.

Without warning, the storm slammed into them, thrashing skin and clogging nostrils. Horses whinnied and charged toward the lights at the head of the column, sledges rattling behind them while their drivers shouted and sawed the reins. Orders flew from the captains: “Get the tents up!” “Cover the provisions!”

“Horses’ tent first,” Vic shouted. Canvas tore out of hands, whipped and cracked above heads as sand pelted them. Troopers fought the animals, hanging onto their lines as they bucked and kicked and tried to bolt away. At last the horses were inside their shelter with troopers to tend them. Stinging sand blizzarding around them, a second tent went up and everyone else dove inside.

Prayers for sturdy seams murmured as the wind shook the canvas like an angry mother punishing her child. The air reeked of fear, cloying against the skin, and the lamps cast fitful shadows of elbows and chins and noses—all sharp angles. Its fury indefatigable, the storm raged for hours. Vic dozed on a camp stool, jerking awake each time the gale spun and hurled sand from a new direction. Others bedded down, but few slept as a wall bulged inward, the willowwood struts bending toward their limit.

With a low rumble, sand began to slide out from under them. Shouts echoed as canvas stretched and seams popped. The ceiling caved inward. “Hold those struts!” Drak yelled as troopers scrambled in the landslide. Lamps fell and went out. A bedroll caught fire. Pouring sand snuffed the flames, pitching them into darkness. People tumbled into one another amid screams, crashes, and clatters. When the motion stopped, the tent was a crawlspace, the air thick with dust. Coughing, Vic ordered a roll call; eight names went unanswered.

“Listen, the wind’s stopped,” Wineyll said hopefully. “Do you think it’s over?”

“I think we’re buried,” growled Carl.

“Find some lanterns and get us some light,” Vic snapped. “Carl, get a team and start digging. Drak, find those missing troopers.”

Lamps flared alight, and Bethniel crawled through the crowd to Vic’s side. “Maybe we should stay here until the storm’s over.”

The princess was shaking, her eyes big as saucers. Vic swallowed a curse at Elekia for sending her daughter on this mission. “As bad as it is outside, it’s also where the air is. We don’t know how long we have in here.”

The princess pointed at a broken strut, jutting out of its sleeve. “They’re hollow.”

Vic blinked, a grin blooming despite their dire straits. The willowwood struts were hollow, each segment a little smaller than the next, down to the width of a man’s thumb, so they could be pushed together or pulled apart to alter their length as needed. They were also strong enough to hold the tent up in the storm, until a mountain fell on them, and even then they had saved the company from being crushed altogether. “Carl,” she said, “disregard my last order. Use the willowwood to get us some air until the storm blows itself out.”

An hour later, troopers lay in the sand, exhausted from the effort of pushing the struts through to the surface and digging for their missing comrades. They found them all, seven still alive, though one of those was coughing blood. Air moaned through the willowwood, and the stream of sand piling beneath each duct told them the storm still raged, but at least they could breathe. Vic slept a few hours, then moved among the troopers, speaking to them as one speaks the night before a hopeless battle, of faith and bravery and luck. Bethniel spoke as well, reminding them that Elesendar still made His rounds above the storm, that He still watched. Some nodded and shared comfort and courage with their comrades, but others turned their heads away when the princess mentioned their god. Vic settled next to Orlon and put a hand on his shoulder, urging resolve. Fists curled into balls, the healer chewed on his lip. “I’m sorry they took him,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

The apology bit like an accusation. It was madness to try to cross Kragnash—the desert had proved a barrier stronger than a thousand-foot wall. Despair sinking into her bowels, Vic retreated to a corner of their tomb to listen to the wind, as the others did, in silence.

* * *

Chapter 22. The Rewards of Greed

Sand spilled through the willowwood tubes, measuring long hours. When the strident whistles finally faded, and the last grains of sand rattled into the crawlspace, eyes studied the sagging canvas and lips exchanged murmurs of the damned.

“We survived the night,” Vic said, pulling the eyes to her and silencing the whispers. “We’re not done until we’re dead.”

Carl ordered two troopers to dig under the canvas and head for the surface. Before their boots had disappeared, both came scuttling back into the shelter, sputtering sand. “It’s like swimming through rocks,” Selmar said, coughing. “We can’t make any headway.”

“We’ll have to hope the horse teams can dig us out,” Drak said.

“How long will that be?” someone asked.

The big captain shrugged and shook his head. Vic studied the sagging canvas and willowwood struts. “Drak,” she said, crawling over troopers to her command second and waving Carl over. Even seated, neither man could raise his head; their shoulders pressed against the canvas ceiling. “We didn’t use more than fifteen feet of willowwood to reach the surface. It’s not that far—we could all push through together, dragging the tent with us to keep the sand from falling into what we’ve dug.”

“We’ll have to dig laterally,” Drak said, “and there’s no telling how wide this dune is.”

“We go at an angle. We can’t wait for the horse teams—they may not be able to see sign of us.”

The captains agreed and issued orders for gear to be gathered and stowed in packs. Drak broke down one of the camp stools and fashioned a plow that he pressed into the canvas, while troopers clambored over each other to line up in wedges, the largest taking point in each row to support the tent as the company crawled forward. Bethniel and Orlon wrapped the injured trooper’s arms over their shoulders. Wineyll gathered the dead trooper’s boots and said a prayer for him. When all were ready, Drak, Carl, and Valion—the largest and strongest—threw their weight against the plow, and the canvas inched into the sand. Thighs straining, they pushed again; one of the remaining struts snapped, and canvas pressed down on them.

“We expected that,” Vic called over squawks. “It’s going to happen. Just keep the canvas between you and the sand above, and stay together.”

The three men at the head pressed forward, and the wedges condensed into a tangle of arms and knees, faces pressed into rumps, shoulders straining under the weight of the sand. The ducts twisted and broke away, and the air grew dense. Vic’s eyes stung with sweat. Yet they slid slowly ahead like a great worm. “It’s working,” Marenye cried. The captains and Valion pushed again and again, and inches turned into feet. Spirits rose with each press forward, until suddenly a yelp came from the front and the plow and Drak slipped out of sight. Carl and Valion dove after him, and fresh air wafted beneath a flap of canvas. The first rank rose to their knees, the captains clamboring back up the dune, and soon everyone crawled out of the sand tomb and tumbled down the slope, coughing and laughing.

On the other side of the ridge, whoops and tight hugs wove through the reunited company. The horseteams had survived the night unharmed, and the sledges lay only half buried. In celebration, Vic ordered an extra half ration for all, then presided over a memorial for the lost trooper. Carl oversaw the repair of the damaged tent, and Bethniel led a prayer of thanks to Elesendar before they retired inside for the rest of the day. Listening to contented snores, Vic closed her eyes and felt the sand flay her cheeks and grind into her eyes, stripping her away like fire denuding a piece of ore.

Lornk’s eyes shine, his teeth gleam. Fingers creep slowly down her belly, wedge into the space between her thighs. Her breath draws in with each press, out with each release, heat surging. Craving sifts through every nerve. “I have something for you,” he whispers. “Come look.” Trembling with need, she slides off a bare black mattress and follows him to a pile of clockwork gears. At the top sits a figure made of brass, the limbs and torso a cage round a network of gears. Drawing her with him, Lornk climbs to the figure. “My finest creation. Isn’t he beautiful?”

The head turns, revealing a bronze facsimile of Ashel’s face. Gears whir, and the figure’s lips open over bright ivory teeth. “Hello, Kara.”

Vic jolted awake. Afternoon sunlight stoked the tent’s heat and cast diffuse shadows across snoozing figures. Tears ran into her hair, and she rolled over and pressed her face into her blanket. Each time she woke from a dream of Lornk, she expected to see white stone walls and jagged glass in a window. In Kragnash as in Traine, the days passed like too many versions of the same nightmare. Fetching a comb, she unplaited her hair, brushed it free of sand, and folded it back into her braid. We’re still alive, she reminded herself, as fiercely as she’d reminded the company during the storm. We’re still alive.

Shouts from the watch echoed down into the bowl where they camped, followed by screams from the horses. Vic scrambled toward the tent flap, Carl and Drak on her heels. Enormous beasts lined a dune crest, three on their way down the slope.

“Shrinejump,” she breathed, her eyes rising to huge triangular heads and bulbous eyes. She’d walked upon the woolen Kragnashians woven into the carpet of her room; she’d seen pictures of them in books, read about their stature and strangeness, but the actual sight of them shivered down her spine like a forgotten memory. The creatures sweeping toward them stood at least three times as tall as Drak, sported elaborate tattoos on segmented thoraxes and abdomens and bore powerful mandibles large enough to grasp a trooper and snap her in half. “Holy Shrinejumping fuck,” she said aloud. The carpet in her room showed people fighting these creatures.

“Marshall,” Bethniel scolded as she emerged from the tent, “mind your language!”

Antennae jerked and waved, mouthparts clicked. Bethniel clapped at the creatures, speaking in mindspeech for the company’s benefit. “I am Bethniel of Narath,” she spoke her name aloud, “Lathan Emissary and Heir.”

One creature dipped its head and rippled toward her on a shining gray curtain composed of thousands of legs. As wingcovers snapped and mouthparts clacked, Bethniel translated: “You have trespassed into our lands. Why have you come?”

Vic exchanged a puzzled look with the princess, then stepped forward. Bethniel clapped and snapped her fingers, translating Vic’s response: “I am Marshall Victoria of Ourtown, in command of this mission to rescue Prince Ashel of Narath from captivity and end Latha’s war with Relm. Per the agreement between Queen Elekia and the Center, we seek your help crossing the Umbrachlorn Plu.”

“What will you give us in return?” Bethniel said while the Kragnashian spoke, then clapped her reply: “We will honor the contract sealed by my mother, Ruler of Latha, when she informed the Center of our arrival.”

“Have you iron? Copper?”

“We have diamonds in agreement with the bargain already struck,” Bethniel clapped irritably.

The Kragnashians conferred, and the largest said, “We will share water with you tonight. The horses smell like good meat. A messenger will come at sunset to bring the Dealmaker’s Offspring to our camp.”

“Who?” Vic asked as they watched the creatures flow smoothly up and over the crest of a dune.

The princess’s shoulders twitched. “The Dealmaker is what they call Mother—I’m the Offspring. That was odd, though. They act like they weren’t expecting us.”

Vic frowned. “Maybe it’s not the escort party—maybe something happened to them, but it’s a group of Kragnashians, and we need their help, whatever it takes. Lieutenant Marenye, time to break out those diamonds. Drak, you’ll come with us tonight. I’m sure the princess could use an extra pair of hands to talk to our guides.” She grinned up at the captain. “Plus I may need to climb on your shoulders so I can speak to them eye to eye.”

* * *

That evening, Bethniel ducked out of the tent with a large crystal bound to her forehead, shoulders back and proud as the Ruler she’d be one day. A breeze dusted sand from the crests, but not a cloud marred the purpling sky as they met a small Kragnashian—this one only as tall as Drak—at the top of a dune. Laughter and hope echoed from camp as they followed it down the other side.

A sharp whistle welcomed them when they sloshed into the Kragnashians’ camp. A single silken dome stood in the center of four large sleds, all packed and arranged in a circle. Bethniel cocked her head as she scanned the hollow. “More oddities. They should be ready to camp—they usually sleep at night.”

Drak scowled. “I don’t like this, Marshall.”

Vic nodded. “Agreed. Marenye,” she said, turning to the quartermaster. “Take the diamonds back to camp and tell Carl I want two spear squads watching this place while we meet with them.”

Marenye saluted and dashed over the crest, loping through the sand as fast as she could go. The small Kragnashian guiding them spun after her, clicking wildly, but Bethniel clapped at it, telling it Marenye had only left to tell the others the meeting had begun.

“What if it comes to a fight, Marshall?”

“It won’t,” Bethniel replied firmly, frowning at Drak.

“Spears,” Vic said. “We should have brought our own.”

He nodded. “I’ll bring some back.”

“You will not!” Bethniel said, drawing herself up. “This is diplomacy, not warfare, and right now, I’m in charge. You are both here to assist me in negotiations, understood?”

“We’re here to protect you,” Vic retorted.

“No, you are not. Your mission is to rescue my brother and end the war. My mission is to make sure you get to Relm so you can do it. Don’t interfere with my job, and I won’t interfere with yours.” Bethniel strode down the duneface toward the waiting Kragnashians, and Vic and Drak hurried to flank her. The largest Kragnashian chittered a welcome, signaling for them to go inside the dome, where white light glowed from orbs set in floorstands, the air clear of smoke or scent of oil. The Kragnashians invited them to sit on a large cushion woven from white fibers. Bethniel lowered herself gracefully into the nest. When Vic sat beside her, the material molded itself around her thighs and back, and she felt like she’d sat upon a cloud. Drak remained standing. Three Desert People sat on a floor spun from the same fabric, while a fourth served the party, passing round a transluscent bowl containing a blue gel. Beth drank first, handing the bowl to Vic, then clapping her thanks.

Vic sniffed at the gel, found it odorless, then tipped it into her mouth. Her sinuses draining and eyes tearing, she flexed her jaw. “What was that?”

“You don’t want to know,” Drak said with a wink as he took a sip and passed it back to the creatures. The leader sucked at the gel, then faced them, thousands of tiny facets on its eyes sparkling in the white glow. Each segment of its underbelly bore stylized paintings of horses and hammers—the trades it had profited from, Vic guessed. How had the Wizard Meylnara enslaved these creatures? They made Vic sorry for every bug she’d ever stepped on.

The leader clacked mandibles and snapped wing covers as Drak translated: “I welcome you to my nest. Please tell us your desire, and we shall try to make an agreement.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Bethniel replied, clapping and snapping fingers, “and formally convey greetings from my mother, Elekia of Reinoll Parish, Ruler of Latha. As stated by Marshall Victoria of Ourtown, we are headed to Relm and have been promised your aid reaching it.”

The Kragnashians chittered among themselves, and then the leader spoke again. Bethniel’s eyebrows furrowed, she touched the curls spilling out the top of the headwrap bearing the diamond. “It claims to know nothing of Mother’s agreement, but it wants to buy my hair.”

Vic suppressed a shiver as her scalp recalled the pull and saw of Lornk’s scissors. “Why?”

Beth shrugged and shook her head, eyes going to the Kragnashian as it spoke again. “It’ll give us five barrels of water.”

“For hair?”

The princess’s mouth tilted in consternation, then shook into a smile. “For my hair. Hair of the Heir.” She quickly unwound the headwrap, combing her fingers through the black mane to shake it loose. Vic marveled at how months of sweat and sand had hardly dampened the luxurious spirals. The leader squealed, and one of the others approached, a bundle of its legs twisted around a shining steel dagger.

“Your Highness, no!” Drak exclaimed, putting himself in front of her.

“I said I’d sell it, Captain. Stand aside,” Bethniel commanded.

“Beth, how do you know they won’t cut your throat?”

The princess cast Vic a scathing glance. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d have snapped our heads off the moment they saw us. Captain, stand aside!”

Drak reluctantly dropped back, and the Kragnashian set to work, pulling small bundles of hair taut and slicing it inches from Beth’s scalp. The princess grimaced and winced, but otherwise held still and silent until only black fuzz covered her head. The Kragnashians put some of the hair in another white bowl, chittering excitedly as they poured a viscous liquid over the hair and stirred it around.

Bethniel tied the diamond back round her forehead. “How do I look?”

Vic exchanged wry glances with Drak. “Still gorgeous.” Then a lump formed in her throat. “You look even more like Ashel.”

The Kragnashian leader clacked another question, and Bethniel looked at Vic quizzically. “It wants yours now.”

Vic shook her head emphatically. “No. I’m not going to let it shear me like an erin.”

Bethniel huffed indignantly. “I did!”

“You enjoyed the attention.”

“If you weren’t my sister…” Bethniel grumbled, then spoke to the Kragnashian, her lips curving petulantly at its response. “It must really like red, because it said it’ll provision the company all the way to Relm, for a single lock!”

Vic glanced at Drak, who stared suspiciously at the Kragnashians. “I should have gone back for the spears,” he growled.

Scowling, Vic wished she had enough saliva to spit. “Tell them they can have some hair for the provisions and if they take us across the Plu. But I’ll cut it myself.”

Beth nodded approvingly and passed on the demand. The Kragnashians conferred, then handed over the dagger. “We will give all aid required to cross the Plu.” Admiring the balance and gleam of the steel, Vic pulled the thong off the end of her braid and shook it loose, slicing off a lock from behind her ear. Looping the hair round her hand, she offered it to the leader and reluctantly returned the dagger. They put her hair in another bowl, poured the same liquid over it, and squealed as they stirred it.

“I see a whole new opportunity for Lathan merchants,” Bethniel said thoughtfully as the creatures pressed their heads together, antennae beating wildly and mouthparts clicking. The leader’s tail curled upward, and filigreed wings fanned from another creature’s back.

“What are they saying?” Vic asked.

“Not sure—they’re talking very fast. Captain?”

Drak shook his head. “It’s hard to make out. Something about a fulcrum?”

Bethniel nodded. “I heard that too, but it’s so odd that can’t be right. But, yes, they’re saying, ‘The one and fulcrum are confirmed. We must take them—’” The princess blanched.

Two of the creatures moved to block the pavilion’s opening, while the leader loomed over them.

“Spears!” Drak swore, launching himself at the smallest, hitting it hard enough to clear a path. Bethniel darted out as Vic dodged a pair of snapping mandibles and dove after her. Outside, they zigzagged through the loaded sleds as Desert People flowed up the dune, cutting off escape. Vic ran wide, hoping to outflank them as the creatures converged. Shouts echoed as troopers charged into the bowl, spears raised. Vic ducked the sweep of a mandible, rolled out of reach, and scrambled on all fours toward a gap. A Kragnashian struck Valion, sending him flying. Drak was caught in a pair of mandibles, roaring and pounding the chitin with his fists. The creatures swept easily after the humans, batting weapons away, mowing them down. Troopers lay prone all over the bowl. Vic howled and drove her dagger at the nearest abdomen. The crystal blade glanced off the chitin, and the creature snagged Vic’s hood and yanked her off the ground. Another restrained her legs and arms with a sticky silken cord. They flipped her upside down as a third Kragnashian appeared with a large sack full of orange goo. Slotaen. Her face plunged into sunshine. Serenity seeped into her pores. Elesendar, she thought as her eyes drooped closed, not again.

* * *

White walls. White ceiling. White floor. Finding herself surrounded in white, Vic bit her tongue, dread gripping her throat. But the walls weren’t stone and her waist and wrists were free of a mistress’s jewels. Her eyes closed in relief, but in her gut, fury still raged.

She lay atop one of the cushions; as she sat up, the material puffed out to fill depressions left by elbows and shoulders. Her clothes, clean and neatly folded, lay beside her. Shivering, she pulled on tunic and trousers and socks, swallowing bitter memories. The slotaen had cleaned out all the vileness left by months of sand with too little water, but she shuddered at the memory of a Betheljin slave trader’s hands around her waist.

On the floor lay her boots, the leather buffed to a soft glow, and they seemed to fit better than they had before. The floor gave a little under her weight, like a tarp stretched over the hull of a dry-docked boat. Around the oval room, the wall material thinned to transparency high overhead. At one end, a seam marked what had to be a door. A brown foot and hand hung over the side of another cushion. Shrinejump, Vic thought, her knees weak. The hand jerked. With a squeak, Bethniel snatched her tunic to her front and sat up. “Well, that was a diplomatic success,” Vic said bitterly.

The princess glared as she slipped the shirt over her head, then rubbed her shorn hair. “Damn, that feels weird.” Standing atop her cushion, she tried to peer out a window. “We must be in Direiellene.”

“Why would they kidnap us?”

The princess shook her head, mouth grim. “I’m guessing the Waters of the Dead.”

“What are those?”

Bethniel cast her a scathing look. “Some history buff. They called it the Elixir in the time of wizards? You’ve never heard of it?”

“Beth, I studied real history, not the fancies of poets and hucksters.” She grimaced, thinking of Ashel’s admissions about Elekia. “Frankly, I only accepted that your mother’s powers might be real last winter, and I’ve been too busy fighting a war for you to study up on how she might have gained them.”

Bethniel’s glare softened. “Well, the Waters are how. The Kragnashians make anyone who comes to Direiellene drink it.”

“So they make you a wizard?” Vic’s mind leapt at the advantages Elekia’s power, weak as it was, could give.

“It’s not a boon.” Bethniel’s shoulders hunched around her ears. “The Waters are the price of entry into Direiellene, and the price my mother paid for my father’s throne. The merchants who trade with the Kragnashians, they never leave the beach because the Waters kill most people, and it’s a horrible death. Of those who don’t die, most go insane.”

“Your mother didn’t.”

Bethniel shrugged. “I guess she was one of the lucky few.”

Warm air drafted into the room, followed by a Kragnashian. It bowed its head to Bethniel. “I welcome Latha’s Heir,” the princess translated, “and apologize for the manner of your transport here. But it was necessary that the One should come here and speak with the Center, and that the journey should be made quickly and in secret.”

“Where are our people?” Vic demanded. Bethniel translated the question, adding, “Are they safe?”

“We intended no harm and respectfully remind the Heir that your clan attacked us. We killed none of your clanmates and have tended the wounds of those hurt. The others remain well and have been told where you are. As we promised in exchange for the follicles of the One, your clan will be provisioned until you reach Relm.”

“Why must I speak to your Center?” Vic asked. “The Lathan Ruler gained permission for us to cross your lands before we even left Narath.”

Bethniel continued, “The Ruler was told we would meet guides within days of our arrival, not months, and it was never our intent to come to your sacred city. The Ruler will not be pleased with this breach of contract and will demand recompense.”

The creature’s antennae whipped to and fro. “We found you on our lands by chance.”

“By chance?” Bethniel snapped. “What happened to the party sent to guide us?”

The Kragnashian quivered. “You must ask the Center. Come.”

Scowling, Vic clenched her fists, wished for a spear, but she and the princess followed the creature down a spiraling hallway. Bethniel swallowed repeatedly, eyes wide. Shrine, she’s out of her depth, Vic thought. Relaxing her fists, she clasped the other woman’s hand, pasted on an encouraging smile that she feared looked more like a grimace. Their guide touched a spot on a wall, and light and heat spilled into the hall as a panel slid aside. Vic’s jaw dropped as they came outside. Thousands of cocoon-shaped buildings obscured the desert in a haze of white, broken by scattered brown-green copses. Orange, the sky could signal dawn or dusk, but she didn’t trust her sense of direction to guess which. The oven-like air made her think dusk.

Cables stretched from hexagonal doorways, connecting the cocoons around them. They stood on the landing of a wide bridge leading to a mountainous trio of domes. Thousands of Kragnashians, most smaller than their guide, crawled along the bridge and cables above them. Those headed away walked on top; those coming toward them walked upside down below. Bethniel grabbed Vic’s arm and pointed toward the top of a nearby building. Hanging by half its feet from a cable anchored to the roof, a Kragnashian held a grub in its jaws and was using its excretions to caulk a rent in the building.

“That must be a larva,” Beth said, then turned to their guide as it spoke. “It says we should ride. Our boots won’t stick to the bridge, and we won’t be able to keep up with the traffic.”

Vic nodded and they scrambled up the creature’s abdomen. Faster than a galloping horse, their guide sped past others on the bridge, clicking at them to make way. More Kragnashians carried larvae to repair holes or spin out new cables. “They don’t gain their intelligence until after the first metamorphosis,” Bethniel observed grimly.

“What do they feed all these people?”

“They must have crops and herds somewhere. And they’re cannibals.”

“Kragnashian leather is Kragnashian leather.”

“Best leather money can buy.”

Vic shifted in her seat, hair rising on the back of her neck as she watched thousands of Desert People swarm all around them.

Hexagonal cells fit together to form the domes of the Center’s complex; whorling stonework adorned the arching doorways. Anchored to the path at odd intervals stood stone statues of horses and trees and humans. The bridge divided in three as they approached; the widest lane led straight to the middle dome, but the traffic split off to the other two.

Two guards with grotesquely large mandibles stood before the central dome’s entrance, an opening so large a merchanter might sail through. Within, birds soared in cool air to the ceiling, dove back toward a park of trees and grass. Vines climbed over trellises and arbors, and the scent of flowers teased Vic’s nose. Vic fought against tranquility as their guide shuffled across a cable to a huge dais in the dome’s center—a stone foundation, then a band of copper glowing like sunrise in all this white. A gleaming parquet floor capped the stone and copper, together forming a small mesa. Dismounting, they approached a nest draped with blue erinsheen and gold silk where sat a Kragnashian twice as large as any they’d seen. Following Bethniel’s lead, Vic bowed to it, both arms extending straight from her sides.

“I bring greetings from my mother, Ruler of Latha,” Beth clapped and snapped.

The Kragnashian in the nest gazed between them, its eyes twinkling as the facets caught the light. Vic stared back at it, unwilling to buckle under its gaze. Finally it spoke. “The Dealmaker has twice done what few humans dare once. The first bargain remains only half paid.” It stared hard at Bethniel, then turned to Vic so abruptly she took a step back. Squaring her shoulders, she spread her feet, determined to hold her ground. “You have a solid face.”

Bethniel clarified: “It means you look honest, for a human. That isn’t a compliment, it’s an observation.”

The Kragnashian continued, “I am the Center. All aims are to me. How can I profit you?”

Vic kept her eyes fixed on the Center’s. “We wish to know why no guides met us as promised.”

“We found no sign of you and assumed your party had been lost at sea. You may keep the diamonds.”

Bethniel pushed her shoulders back. “No sign? We were to meet you en route!”

“The route was searched; no sign was found. You may keep the diamonds, but you must pay for entry to Direiellene.” The Center slid off the nest and came to stand directly in front of Vic, forcing her to arch her neck to keep eye contact. “You are the One. You must take the Waters of the Dead. Three leagues south of this city lie the ruins of the Oppressor’s fortress. A pool is there. You must drink.”

Bethniel stepped between them. “We did not come to Direiellene of our own will. The People brought us here. The price shall not be paid under duress.”

“You are the One,” the Center said, ignoring Bethniel. “From century to century since the death of magic, we have allowed humans to take the waters because magic grows from belief as a tree grows from soil. Belief washes away unless it is replenished. We have allowed the humans to come because we have waited for you to come. You are the One who will destroy the Oppressor.”

“You, Captain, have a famous wizard for a namesake…It’s a mystery how an Oreseeker ended up on the Council. But it’s a historical fact a woman with your name fought in that war.”

“And had a lover and a husband. She was busy.”

“This is absurd!” Vic broke eyelock with the Center. She looked down at the Center’s garden, choked, then doubled over, her voice caught between a sob and a laugh. She heard the Kragnashian move away and felt Bethniel’s hand on her neck as she tried to catch her breath, only to lose it again as her shoulders shook and her lungs heaved.

“I’ll fix this,” Bethniel promised.

Scraping the tears on her face, Vic straightened. Another chuckling sob bubbled out of her. She didn’t know herself if she was laughing or crying. “It’s the two of us alone here,” she said. “How can you?”

Bethniel pressed her lips together and clapped and hummed at the Center. “You forced us to come to this city. No contract is valid when made under duress.”

“All land beyond the beach is Direiellene, and when you did not meet your designated guides, you became trespassers. We are at peace with Relm. You entered this country to end your war, but in doing so you disrupted our peace. We must be compensated.”

“You may have the diamonds as originally agreed. We came as agreed and traveled the designated route in good faith. It is not our breach if the designated guides failed to find us.” Bethniel added silently, “I doubt they looked very hard.”

“Your entire company are trespassers, but we are satisfied to have only the One take the Waters of the Dead. That is the price of entry to this land, and the price of your return to your companions.”

“I’ll take them,” Bethniel blurted.

The Kragnashian’s eyefacets turned to an oily black. “The Heir will die if the power comes to her.”

“Shrinejump.” Vic paced, her heart pounding the blood into her face, heat traveling to the roots of her hair. Her fingers curled into fists and punched the air in front of her. She knew she shouldn’t show her anger like this but couldn’t help it—didn’t care to. Curtly signaling Bethniel to follow her forward, she strode up to the Center. “She will not take your Waters, and I cannot. I am not who you think I am. I cannot be. I do not believe it.”

“Your face is among those of the dead waiting by the Waters. Sometimes the magic takes time to grow. If no magic manifests by the Plu, we will help you cross in exchange for your herd.”

Bethniel said, “We have already paid for help crossing the Plu.”

The Center stared, stock still, then moved back to its seat. “The One must drink. There is no negotiation on this point.”

Vic looked at her boots. With Elekia’s power, she might squash Lornk with a wall of air as he’d stifled her with blankets. Yet she gaped at the idea she had killed someone a thousand years ago. The entire world was full of mad religions: talking trees birthing humans, giant insects with time-travel prophesies. Curious to see this face at the pool, she was enraged that once again someone wanted her as a tool. Logkeeper. Mistress. Blade. How much of choice and how much of circumstance put her here? How much of either would save Ashel and push Lornk from her heart once and for all? Nausea bubbling up her throat, Vic turned on her heel and strode to the edge of the dais where their guide waited. Pointing at it and then at the door, she signaled she wished to leave.

Bethniel clapped something at the Center, then ran down to join them. Hanging itself upside down on the bridge, the Kragnashian hooked the tip of its abdomen over the edge of the dais near their feet. Vic slid carefully down to rest cross-legged between the creature’s legs. The Kragnashian’s body swung slightly as Bethniel joined her, then it started off, its legs whisking along the bridge. The entire ride back, Vic held her hand over her mouth as bitterness welled from her stomach.

In their room, they found a basket of plump blue fruit and a jar of water. Vic took a long draft from the jar. She wasn’t used to talking out loud for so long, and the sun was just as hot here as in the rest of the desert. Ignoring the fruit, she climbed up onto her cushion and tried to peer out the windows, but she could see nothing but the yellowing sky. It had been dawn after all.

“How far are we from camp?”

Bethniel swallowed a bite of fruit before answering. “The city’s in the southwest. The old maps showed Meylnara’s keep about three hundred leagues south of the coast, probably twice that from camp.”

Vic swore. “How long has the company—”

“I’d wager we came here by Device. I’d be surprised if we’ve been gone more than a few days to a week.”

“A single day is a day too long. Shrine-fucking-jump, Beth. Some of those people are pretty rattled by the journey so far—I don’t know if Drak can hold them together.” And how many more days had Ashel been at Lornk’s mercy? She thought of the clockwork facsimile in her dream and felt sick again.

“Vic,” Bethniel said quietly. “Do you remember you dreamed of Kragnashians when you went into Fembrosh?”

“Yes,” Vic said grimly.

“Fembrosh remembers the past. A wizard named Victoria was with the Council when they defeated Meylnara and freed the Kragnashians.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Vic snapped, anger foaming to a head. “With all their technology, our ancestors could never travel in time. How could I be ‘the One’ to do anything a thousand years ago? I don’t know what they’re up to, but I’m not going to save anybody from the Oppressor. At least not that one!”

“Of course you’re not the One. But the Kragnashians believe you are, or might be, so why not use that to our advantage?”

“If you think so, what were you doing volunteering?”

Bethniel’s cheeks darkened. “It just popped out.”

“You had to clap it, Beth!”

She shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know what was in my head. It just seemed…the right thing to say.” Eyes fixed on intertwined fingers, Bethniel grated, “I couldn’t take the throne if I were a wizard.” She looked up, mouth flat. “My mother flouts the laws she’s supposed to uphold, but I won’t.”

A pang of sympathy squeezed Vic’s lungs. “She does what she believes is best for Latha.”

Bethniel snorted. “The Vic I know would never defend my mother. You haven’t even drunk the Waters and you’ve already gone mad.”

“Death or madness. Some choice, Beth.”

“Or wizardry, if you’re lucky.”

A low growl bubbled from Vic’s throat. The day Caleisbahn pirates had taken her from her homeland and sold her to Lornk, they’d put her on the road here. Every fork she’d chosen since—escaping from Traine, joining the Lathan army, refusing Ashel’s marriage proposal—had led her here, and it was a dead end.

* * *

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6

The Gods of Men

Barbara Kloss

Sable hated the gods. She hated what men did in their name.

Magic is forbidden throughout the Five Provinces; those born with it are hunted and killed. Sable doesn’t know her music holds power over souls—not until, at age nine, she plays her flute before the desert court and accidentally stops her baby sister’s heart, killing her. Horrified by what she’s done and fearing for her life, she flees north, out of Provincial jurisdiction and into the frigid land of exiles and thieves, known as The Wilds. There, Sable lives in hiding, burdened by guilt, and survives as a healer. But now, ten years later, someone—or something —is hunting her.

On the run again, Sable’s best chance for survival is Jos, a lethal man from the Five Provinces, who claims to need her skills as a healer to save his dying father, and she needs the large sum of money he’s offered. There’s something about him Sable doesn’t trust, but she doesn’t have many options. A spirit of the dead is hunting her, summoned by a mysterious necromancer, and it’s getting closer.

Sable soon discovers she’s just the start of the necromancer’s plan to take over the Five Provinces, and she’s the only one with the power to stop it. But harnessing her forbidden power means revealing it to the world, and the dangerous Provincial, Jos, she’s beginning to fall for.

Fans of Brandon Sanderson, Naomi Novik, and Victoria Schwab will love this dark and epic fantasy adventure.

SPFBO 2018 (Finalist)

Grit level: 8

* * *

Prologue

Imari stood upon the palace rooftop, the tip of her toes peeking over the stone ledge. Hot desert wind ripped through her thin clothing, and her loose pants swelled like two small sails. She blinked, and her teeth ground on grit. There’d been a good bit of sand with that gust.

She’d always loved the view from this side of the desert palace. A huge orange sun floated over the Baraga Mountains like a great balloon, the sky around it the colors of Ricón’s fires. Her oldest brother called it magic fire, but Imari knew that magic didn’t exist within the Five Provinces. Their ancestors had seen to that. Besides, she’d seen the powder he’d put in the flames.

A heavy blanket of bruised and swollen clouds marked the endless desert lands due south: Ziyan, her people called it, though the rest of the Five Provinces called it the Forgotten Wastes. There, the sky remained forever volatile and angry. Even though Ziyan’s edge lay a few days’ ride from the palace, she’d never been allowed anywhere near.

Imari had heard the stories of wanderers who’d braved the endless sea of sand, searching for treasures that’d been left behind by a forgotten people. Those wanderers never returned. Vana, her kunari, said the wanderers found refuge in an oasis deep within the sands and simply did not want to return. Ricón said the sands ate them alive. Imari believed Ricón. Ricón was the only one who didn’t treat her like she was nine years old. Which she was.

“Surina Imari…?”

It was Vana, which meant it was time to perform.

“Sano kei,” Imari said, climbing down from the rooftop.

Vana stepped around the potted palm just as Imari jumped from the parapet and landed upon the hot, dusty tiles below.

Vana frowned, dangling Imari’s sandals like two pieces of incriminating evidence. “Surina, you know how Sar Branón feels about your climbing all over the palace like a chimp.”

Imari smiled. “Yes, that’s why I always make sure to do it when he’s not watching.”

Vana rolled her dark eyes to the setting sun and motioned for Imari to come to her. Imari crossed the veranda, but Vana grabbed her arm as she passed. Vana tried desperately to tame Imari’s loose braid, then licked her thumb and rubbed at a spot on Imari’s jaw. With a helpless sigh, Vana handed over the sandals and shoved Imari at the open archway.

Imari slipped her sandals onto her feet, then stepped into the great dining hall where her papa’s guests were gathered. Her papa, the sar of Istraa, entertained his rois often, but tonight marked an important dinner. The divide between the Five Provinces’ two most powerful territories—Corinth and Brevera—grew increasingly hostile, as in the days of the rebellion from her papa’s youth, and her papa feared for their border. This dinner was his plea to the rois of Istraa’s various districts, asking for their assistance in fortifying the northern boundary, which separated Istraa from the other Provinces.

Of course, her papa hadn’t told her this. It’d been Ricón. He really was the only one who ever told her anything. And if he hadn’t told her this news, she wouldn’t have agreed to perform tonight.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like performing—she did. But the past few days, playing made her feel strange. Her fingers would tingle, and it didn’t stop there. The tingling would travel down her arms and into her chest, where it would build and build and push against her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. She thought it some sort of illness, and she would’ve said as much to her papa had she not known the importance of this dinner.

Perhaps Ricón shouldn’t always tell her everything.

Plates of seasonal fruits and spiced tea had been set out—a final course to enjoy while Imari performed. Good, then perhaps no one would notice if she faltered.

Anja, the sura of Trier and her papa’s wife, waited beside the stool set at the front of the room, tapping her long finger impatiently upon the seat. Her heavily painted eyes narrowed as they raked over Imari, and then darted accusatively to Vana. Imari didn’t look to see Vana’s expression, but she imagined it well enough.

Anja handed Imari the little bone flute and leaned in close, as if to bestow an encouraging kiss. “I hope you take your playing this evening more seriously than you take your appearance,” she whispered instead.

Imari glanced down and her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. She wanted Anja to like her. She really did. It wasn’t that Anja was mean to her. Anja had just never understood Imari. On top of that, Imari was a constant reminder to Sura Anja of her papa’s unfaithfulness. It was as if Anja couldn’t look upon Imari without seeing the vile temptress herself. Whoever she was. Imari didn’t know. No one spoke of it. Not even Ricón.

Anja’s gaze slid over her once more, as if to say “the sieta are punishing me for some past ill,” before returning to the table.

Vana stood near one of the large columns, providing no solace.

Imari climbed on the stool and let both feet rest upon the support. She couldn’t reach the travertine floor, anyway. She spotted her brother Kai first, sitting between two rois from the western ridge. Kai’s onyx hair was tied back in a long ponytail that looked neater and tighter than anything Imari had ever managed, and he wore a bronze sash over his white tunic, marking him as a sur of Trier. He was much too deep in conversation with the two rois to catch her eye. There were many other prominent men and women—most she recognized, some she did not—and then she spotted Ricón, sitting beside their papa.

Ricón kept his black hair long and free but neatly combed. Like Kai, he wore the traditional bronze sash over his tunic, though his bore an embroidered black stripe at the shoulder, marking him as the oldest sur and Trier’s heir. He spoke to an elderly gentleman with braided black and silver hair, but, feeling Imari’s attention, he glanced up and met her gaze. His lips turned in a slow grin, which spread wider and wider as he took in her appearance.

Her papa glanced over at her then, with joy at first. She saw the moment her appearance registered, and rather than watch his disappointment flourish, she turned her attention back to her flute. She angled her legs, lifted the instrument to her lips, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and played.

This particular piece wasn’t her choice, but her papa had requested it. It was the ballad of Istraa, telling the story of the war with Ziyan, formerly known as Sol Velor. Imari didn’t know all the details of that battle, but she’d been forced to memorize the important parts, thanks to Vana’s scrupulous tutoring. A little over a century ago, that war had almost destroyed the Five Provinces, because it was spearheaded by Azir Mubarék, leader of the Liagé—a title given to those few Sol Velorians who’d been born with supernatural power, called the Shah. According to the histories, vague as they were, Azir Mubarék had grown consumed with his power, and so the world united to stop him, thank the spirits above.

The ballad, however, was much too bombastic for Imari’s tastes, but her papa’s guests seemed to appreciate it. When she finished, they all stood and applauded. Ricón’s was loudest, and his broad smile said just how much he knew she hated the piece.

The guests settled in, which meant the remainder of the musical menu was in her control. She played on. She chose other favorites of Istraa, moving fluidly from one piece to the next, but when she slid into the fourth piece, Soul a mon Sieta , she hesitated.

One note sustained, soft. Uncertain and wavering.

It was as if the flute didn’t want to play Soul a mon Sieta . As if it had awoken, latched on to that note with all its might, and now that it had hold, it wasn’t letting go. Not only would it not let go, it wanted to direct the next note.

Imari was quickly running out of air for her E flat. She ended the note and dropped into an A sharp.

The note breathed, swelling as if opening its lungs for the first time. Something stirred inside of her. She thought it mere improvisation—instinct. She had no idea how wrong she was.

She followed that instinct through a pentatonic scale, dancing with flourishes and augments. Losing herself in the notes, the melody, drifting with the sound as it filled the empty spaces, slipping out the door and onto the rooftops of the palace she’d climbed only moments ago. But this time she jumped off, soaring through the air, weightless, heading straight toward the Baraga Mountains. No, not the Baraga Mountains.

Ziyan.

A gale scooped her up, whipping and tossing her, clawing her deeper and deeper into forbidden wastelands. Melodies screamed out of her flute for the voice she did not have. Her fingers flew faster and faster, notes rose and fell like the tides of the great dunes, and with one final gust, she was thrown from the sky, dropping and spinning to the ground in a whirl of sound. Spinning and falling in a melody of dizzying madness, and then…

Silence.

Imari gasped and pulled the flute from her lips, her body drenched in sweat. Her arms tingled, a pressure throbbed in her chest, and the symbols etched upon her flute glowed a pale white, fading even as she watched.

She looked up. She wasn’t in Ziyan. She was at the palace, seated upon her stool. She put a hand to her chest, trying to calm herself, and then she saw the dinner party.

Each and every one of them had slumped over their plates; some had faces in food—even Ricón lay with his chin drowning in cream, his hand still wrapped around his goblet. An entire court… sound asleep.

At least, she hoped they merely slept.

Trembling, Imari slipped from the stool. The air sizzled and hummed strangely, and her arms and legs tingled with energy as she padded over to Vana. Her kunari had slumped down the column she’d been leaning against, her head bent forward, chin resting upon her generous bosom.

“Vana!” Imari whispered, tucking her flute beneath one arm and using her other to feel around Vana’s face.

Vana didn’t move.

With growing horror, Imari pressed her ear to Vana’s heart.

There was a slow beat. But it beat.

And Imari knew: She had done this. She had lulled everyone in this room into a deep sleep, with music.

No, with the Shah .

Her pulse drummed in her ears. If her papa’s guests realized what she’d done—what she had the ability to do—and if word got out…

Metal clanked on the table. Imari’s gaze whipped back. A few of the guests stirred. Ricón slowly lifted his head, one hand pressed to his forehead as if he suffered from an immense headache. His gaze whirled and landed on Imari.

“Go ,” he mouthed, but the fear in his gaze terrified her.

She got to her feet and ran out the side doors of the dining hall, and she stopped short.

Her little sister, Sorai, lay on the floor wedged against the door. No doubt listening in on the performance. Sorai loved hearing Imari play, and she’d thrown quite the tantrum when her mama had forbidden her from attending this dinner. It looked like she’d come anyway. Imari could hear Anja now, scolding her for teaching the littlest princess of Trier bad habits.

The music had affected Sorai even out here. Imari glanced around. The dark and narrow hall lay empty. Still, it wouldn’t do for Sorai to be caught like this.

“Mi a’drala ,” Imari whispered, bending down beside her sister to wake her.

Sorai didn’t move.

It was then Imari noticed Sorai wasn’t breathing.

The flute slid out from beneath Imari’s arm and clattered to the floor, but Imari barely heard it. She pressed her ear to her little sister’s chest.

Only silence greeted her.

And Imari ran.

* * *

Chapter 1

Ten Years Later

Sable lit the small candle, and her nose wrinkled. The butcher’s cellar reeked of rust.

Storage crates vomited chicken feet on the floor, shelving bowed beneath the weight of too many brining jars, and bird carcasses dangled from the ceiling in macabre decoration, dripping remnants of life all over everything. Garlands of meat casing draped like beaded curtains, and Sable almost missed the enormous workbench, buried beneath a tangle of bloodied cleavers, meathooks, and feathers. Overall, Velik’s cellar was a bloody mess. Not that she’d expected any different.

If I were Velik, where would I store bones? Her gaze snagged on a hutch.

Sable slipped around the table, careful not to knock into anything, which was no small feat, considering, and opened the top drawer. Inside, she found wads of cloth and rope, but no bones. She opened the next drawer, and the next, and frowned. They had to be there somewhere. She’d watched him carry some in just this afternoon.

And then, beneath the smothered table, she spotted a huge bucket of animal fat, with the pale end of a femur sticking out of it.

Not where I’d keep them, but I’m not Velik, thank the wards.

Sable crouched beside the table, set down her candle, and grabbed the femur and a greasy hip joint. She tucked them into the pouch secured at her belt, slipped her hand back through the fat, and she’d just found a boar’s foot when the latch on the cellar door clicked.

Sable cursed, snuffed out her candle, and bolted beneath the stairs. The cellar door creaked open, and lantern light split the shadows.

“I know you’re down there,” Velik growled. Heavy boots thumped down the wooden stairs. Through the slats, Sable caught the glint of a meat cleaver in his hand.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Come out, come out,” he taunted, setting his lantern on the table. “The longer you wait, the more painful I’ll make it.” He bent lower to search beneath the table.

Sable seized the opportunity. She chucked the boar’s foot at the lantern. Bone struck, glass shattered, and the lantern crashed to the floor, plunging the cellar in darkness. Sable leapt onto the staircase, bounding up two steps at a time, then shoved through the door and out into the fresh, wintry night air.

Behind her, Velik exploded through the cellar door. “Come back here, you bastard!” Velik yelled, charging after her.

Sable grabbed hold of a neighboring fence post, used it to pin her momentum, and made a hard left. A dozen more yards, and she’d be under the cover of the village center, where she could lose Velik. She hurdled over another fence.

“Skanden won’t hide you forever!” Velik shouted, thundering after her.

Sable’s boots pounded the frozen earth, and her arms pumped, propelling her faster. The lights of Skanden’s main square flickered ahead, but Velik was still too close. Whatever happened, she absolutely could not give away her destination.

Making a last minute and possibly very stupid decision, she dodged right, sprinting through the lower residences. This side of town had a climbable section of wall. She used it sometimes when she wanted to avoid the guards at the main gate. She’d just never used it at night. No one in their right mind went beyond the village walls after dusk. She decided not to dwell on that fact.

She bolted past the last house, wiped her greasy hands on her pants, then scrambled up storage barrels and jumped to the handholds in the palisade, compliments of a resident woodpecker. She pulled herself up, hoisted one leg over the tip of the wall, then the other, careful not to kick over the stone wards secured with nails and thin strips of leather, and jumped down on the other side, landing in a low crouch. There, she stopped to listen.

On the other side of the wall, wood crashed and exploded. Sable pinched her lips together and studied the trees, wary. She’d wandered the forest’s edge often enough to pick herbs, but always during the day. She knew it well, but night brought a very different forest. Now, the dark pines loomed like giant sentinels, hiding the evil festering within.

A grunt sounded above her, and she glanced up as one of Velik’s boots poked over the top of the wall. With a curse, Sable shoved herself to her feet and bolted into the forest.

“Come back here, you filthy little maggot!” Velik yelled.

By the wards, he made it sound so tempting…

Low branches slapped her legs and hands, stinging her face. With each stride, her unease intensified. She shouldn’t be there. She should turn around before the forest took her as it’d taken so many others. As a healer, she knew firsthand what this forest could do to a man’s body, and his mind. She stole a glance back, but Velik followed stubbornly on.

Sable cursed again. She couldn’t let him catch her, but she also couldn’t run much deeper into the woods. With quick decision, she skidded around a boulder, bolted for the low branches of a huge pine she’d gathered sap from just this morning, and started climbing. Hand over hand, scrambling up the fat tree trunk, careful not to make too much noise as she tucked herself away in its branches.

Velik’s hulking silhouette lumbered around the boulder, and Sable held her breath. Velik stopped at the base of her tree and looked around.

One second.

Two.

Her lungs burst, but she didn’t dare breathe. She needed him to go, because they both needed to get the burning wards out of there.

At last, Sable heard him growl in frustration. She peered through the branches to see him retreating toward the village. She loosed a relieved breath but hid in the boughs until she was certain Velik had gone before climbing down. Her boots had just grazed the hard earth when she heard whispers.

They slipped in on a breeze, the hush of many, muffled and obscured, but faded as quickly as they’d come.

Sable froze, still gripping the lowest branch. Her gaze swept the shadows, but the forest lay quiet. The trees wouldn’t help. They never did. They prided themselves in keeping secrets, but she couldn’t fault them for that. They’d also kept her own. She was starting for the village when an unnatural stillness fell over everything.

Sable stopped in her tracks, eyes pinned on the roiling darkness, and the back of her neck tingled.

Something was here.

The air grew teeth, pierced her bones, and the rotten stench of decay soiled the air—so pungent, Sable stifled a gag.

“I…ma…ri…”

The name drifted from the past, haunting and inhuman, and a chill ran through Sable from head to toe.

She bolted.

Her boots crunched over dead leaves and fallen twigs, but she ran on, trusting her memory to guide her back to the village.

“Imari…” the shadows repeated, closer this time. The wind raked icy claws down her back. “You… cannot hide…”

Pure terror pushed her faster than she’d ever run before, and finally she reached the wall. She scrambled up the small divots in the wood, and her hands slipped twice, trembling. She cursed and gripped again, climbing higher and higher, hoisting her legs over the wall and between the stone wards before dropping down on the other side. She staggered to her feet and glanced back.

The wall blocked most of her view of the forest beyond, though she could still make out the forest’s spired silhouettes against a starlit sky. The warded stones cresting the wall slept. She waited a breath, then took a few steps back, trying to see farther beyond the wall. Just to be sure.

Nothing.

Sable exhaled and wiped sweaty palms on her pants. Whatever it was, at least it wasn’t foolish enough to test Skanden’s centuries-old enchantments. She’d started turning back to the village when a spark of light caught her eye.

It’d come from one of the warded stones.

Pale blue light pulsed from the ward directly before her. Sable stilled. With each passing second, its overlapping circular etchings burned brighter and brighter, slowly waking. A second stone sparked to life, its etched lines and angles burning bright, just like the first.

Skanden’s warded stones ran the perimeter of the wall, spaced at regular intervals. They all looked the same: oval in shape, smooth and pressed into a disc, with wards etched upon both faces. Ward enchantment was a lost art, but villages like Skanden, nestled deep within the heart of The Wilds, relied upon that old art to protect themselves from the dangerous remnants of the Shah that still existed in these parts. Most dangerous creatures stayed away from the villages, but every so often, something wandered close enough to wake a ward. But never, in all of Sable’s ten years living in this place, had she seen one glow so brightly, let alone two at once.

A third pulsed to life.

Sable was searching the darkness beyond, trying to find the source, when a shadow stretched forward in a tendril of smoke. It leaked from the night like ink, and reached for one of the stones. Sable prayed to no one in particular that those wards would hold.

The strange smoke stretched closer and closer, dancing around each ward, teasing and testing. The wards burned bright and insistent as the darkness poked and prodded and touched.

Sable knew she should run—that she should get far away from whatever this was—but she had to know if the wards would hold. If the wards didn’t hold, no amount of running would save her from this. That, she felt deep in her bones. It’d said her name. Her true name. How it’d known, she had no idea, but if it’d found her here, it would find her anywhere.

The smoke slid forward like a serpent and enveloped one of the glowing stones. The stone hissed and flickered like a candle struggling in the wind, and the ward light vanished.

A heavy weight settled deep in Sable’s gut.

Maker’s mercy.

The smoke slid to the next stone, and the next, putting each out in turn. A finger snuffing out flames.

Sable took slow steps back, watching in horror as the smoke slid past the dark wards and leaked over the wall. Closer and closer, its serpentine finger stretching across the ground, reaching for her.

One of the stones sparked. A sphere of blinding blue light exploded out of it, blasting through Sable, and she shut her eyes against the brightness. A keening wail shattered the quiet, followed by a sizzling hiss, and then…

Silence.

Sable opened her eyes. The world muted to night once more, though one stone pulsed brightly atop the wall. A beacon, a warning. No signs remained of the otherworldly darkness, and the shadows were left to themselves again.

* * *

To continue reading, CLICK HERE .

Barbara Kloss is an epic fantasy author for teens and adults. Her books are about more than just the magic, focusing on characters so real, they blur fiction with reality.

Barbara studied biochemistry at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, CA, and then worked for years as a Clinical Laboratory Scientist. Always an avid reader, especially of fantasy, she began drafting her own stories, writing worlds and characters that are never beyond saving.

She currently lives in northern California, with her gorgeous husband, three kids, and pup. When she's not writing, you can usually find her adventuring with her guys, gaming, lifting, or drinking coffee somewhere.

Sign up for her newsletter to be kept up to date on latest releases: www. subscribepage. com/ g1b3v6

7

Blood and Shadow

Robin Lythgoe

He wanted nothing of war. Now he must face a ruthless enemy to save his family from ruin.

Sherakai dan Tameko would rather tend his horses than ride them into battle. As the fourth son of a famous soldier, he’s content to embrace his animal magic and let his siblings carry on his father’s warrior legacy. But Sherakai’s plans shatter when all his brothers go missing, and one is returned home dead.

Determined to bring the others back alive, he defies his father and follows his power down a trail of clues, only to be captured and escorted to his relative’s estate. But instead of a sanctuary, he discovers dark forces conspiring to twist his powers for their own treacherous gain.

Will Sherakai succumb to sorcery and torture, or can he awaken his inner hero and prevent his family’s doom? If you like heroic tales, moral dilemmas, and page-turning action, then you’ll love Robin Lythgoe’s captivating novel.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

Prologue

The Parting manifested as a delicate shimmer in the air, like sunlight on a mist. It stood deeper and higher than the eye could perceive. The passage of time had done nothing to mellow the strength of the magical barrier. Impenetrable and indifferent, it stood between Bairith Rilsingyr Mindar and all that rightfully belonged to him: a kingdom, a people, land and wealth beyond imagination. More, a life; his life. His need to get it back filled his every breath, piquant and rich with potential. He would swallow his pride, pay any cost. That one such as he should be reduced to such depths infuriated him.

The nearer he drew to it, the more aware of its presence he became. Its many-faceted existence jittered along his nerves. A lively flush touched pale skin and filled him with an intense desire to turn back, to be anywhere but here. He could no more ignore the sense of dread than he could ignore the darkening of his vision. He pressed on with teeth clenched. His fists knotted. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Bile rose sour in his throat. Before long the threat of insensibility slowed his steps to a halt.

“Master?”

The single word jolted him back to the present, back to his purpose. If he lost focus his plan would fail, and he refused to allow such a thing to happen again. Years he had spent. Day after day, coin after coin. That the barrier had affected him so quickly only sharpened his resolve.

Behind him, the mages murmured about the prickling on their skin. The soldiers sensed nothing. It had not been built for them after all. Their blood had not gone into the making of it as his had. It endowed him with a peculiar, perverse sort of ownership.

“My lord, might we rest for a moment?” Daerowyn asked, head bowed in deference.

The murmur of her voice soothed the jangle of Bairith’s nerves and the chaotic leap of his temper. She was lovely as always. Her golden-brown braid and blue gown spurned the heat and dust of the trek. She might have just stepped out of a shady forest bower. Advisor, witch, and mistress, she continued to intrigue him after all these years, in spite of her continued failure. Lavender eyes held his then slid away, shuttering their knowledge of his weakness. Anger quivered to life again.

“I should check on the boy,” she said, anticipating his rebuke.

He turned to inspect the procession. “He is fine.”

Daerowyn inclined her head. She would not contradict him, whatever she thought. “May I give him some water?”

“To what end?” he asked shortly. “You’ve done your duty, go back to the horses.”

“I would stay and see this through.”

“He is not yours.” The flicker in her eyes, there and gone, told him he’d scored a wound. He didn’t have the time or energy to coddle her.

Silent, she bowed her head and stepped aside.

Bairith faced the Parting again and directed his attention to strengthening wards he’d spent countless hours creating. After a time, he resumed his journey, eyes on the dimming brightness. Behind him came the crunch of boots on the road. The men spoke little, and only in undertones. Their confusion and uncertainty suited him. “Stay close to me,” he ordered. When they bunched near he drew on their nervous energy to fortify himself. No sense letting it go to waste.

The company had left the horses some two hundred yards away from the barrier to keep them out of harm’s way. It was no great distance, yet the further Bairith walked, the more of a strain motion became. The air itself closed around him. An indefinable pressure bent his shoulders, dragged at his soul, clogged his lungs. When he could go no further, he stopped and drew himself up.

“Bring the animal.” His voice rasped like an unoiled hinge.

A pair of guards pushed through the group, half dragging a young stallion. It alternated between an uneasy dance and straight-legged balking. Terror rimmed its eyes with white.

Bairith found it curious that the magic affected a dumb brute more than it did the men. He ignored its swiveling ears and lashing tail. Laying a hand between its eyes, he sought the vital energy of its life and drew it into himself. He needed every bit of strength for the ordeal.

The men leaped out of the way as the animal collapsed between them. One of them swore.

“Now the child.”

Another guard stepped forward, his expression apprehensive. Mouth tight, he deposited his burden on the ground.

The boy swayed on chubby legs, golden curls limp, green eyes dull and unfocused. The drugs that had laced his sweets counteracted the inevitable screaming and thrashing. Children were prone to such behavior, and Bairith wouldn’t have it interrupting his spell-casting. Or spell-breaking , as the case might be.

“Walk with me, little one,” he invited. He had to take the boy’s hand himself, then tug him into motion. How remarkable that one so small should play such an important part of history. The magic lay dormant within the child, but it ran through his veins even so. Such was the gift of his remarkable inheritance. Its presence gave Bairith something to focus on besides the increasingly oppressive Parting. A gentle name for something so grotesque.

A straight path lay before him, cutting through the broad mountain pass in a wide, cream-colored ribbon. The Parting no longer marked the southern reach of the Suminian Empire. That great nation’s borders shrank more with every passing year. Fools.

Bairith drew a vial from beneath his layered silken tunics. A gold filigreed dragonfly embellished plain black glass. With no hand to hold onto, the boy sank silently to the ground and stared into the distance. Ignoring him, Bairith removed the vial’s stopper and drank down the contents, savoring the ethereal flavors of time and determination along with the more earthy flavor of blood, berries, and the karuda spice. His eyes closed as he tracked the revivifying effect of the potion within him. Its liquid heat lit a flame of confidence and brought the magic—the aro —within easy reach.

The aro was in everything, including his companions. One mage for each aspect of the magic, one guard for each mage. It took only a moment to tug threads of essence from each of the mages, knot them, and bind them to himself. They did not protest; they accompanied him for the express purpose of giving him aid.

“Shall we?” he inquired politely. Without waiting for a response he swept his hands in an elegant motion that brought them into a rough circle. From another place within his robes he produced a small embroidered pouch. He poured the fine, coppery powder it held into patterns on the hard surface of the road. Residual dust drifted in little eddies over each symbol, writhing independently in a space gone broody and still. The guardsmen shifted to stand behind their charges, faces grim, stances ready.

Eagerness filled him. Soon, by the grace of the gods, soon. From his belt he drew a small ceremonial blade the length of his hand. He whispered a prayer, kissed it, and pricked the meaty part of his palm. He directed the dribble of blood to fall upon one of the linked runes he had drawn. The lines changed color, the stain spreading to either side. He followed the new energy as it percolated through the circle, anticipation growing. When the two points met on the far side, the energy level leaped and he smiled in satisfaction. The power was enough to muffle the repulsing influence of the barrier and give him focus.

He crouched and took the boy’s chin in his hand, studying the glazed eyes. “Do not be afraid. You and I have a magnificent future ahead of us.”

The fabric of his robes rustled as he stood and began the first of the incantations. Lilting, beguiling, his clear tenor rose through the sultry air. The entire world stilled to listen. That was as it should be. As he began the verse again, the voices of the other mages joined his to lift and twist around each other. Here the higher voice of the little Earth-shaper, there the deep tones of the broad Water Master. With voice and will, Bairith brought each of them into perfect harmony. The combined magics rippled the fabric of time and place.

The very foundations beneath his feet shook. Stone grated, raw and powerful. The vibration trembled up Bairith’s frame to his skull. Dust swirled in a wind that whipped sable locks away from his face in long streamers. Water weighed the dust, turning it to a perfume of rain-washed earth, dampening his skin. A pair of droplets formed to slip down his cheek and kiss his lips, but the sear of heat burned it away. Crackling. Intense. Vital. Then the spirits shrieked through the circle, each claiming their part—thundering desire, howling challenge, weeping grief, burning passion. Glorious, so glorious…

Bairith drew the magic and the elation of the moment close. The breaking of blood magic promised hours of strain, and he settled in. He countenanced no failure. When they wavered, he spurred them onward. When they staggered and stumbled, he compelled them to continue.

Teeth bared in a savage grimace of determination, Bairith fought to gain absolute control. A single thread, Fire, flickered and sparkled just beyond his grasp. He needed it. Energy snapped and crackled all around. The stench of burning pervaded the air: ozone, silk, hair, skin. A quiet sound like a puppy panting came from the boy huddled at his feet. The taste and smell of blood teased Bairith, but he could no longer work out whether it belonged to him, his companions, or even the life that had long ago been sacrificed to create this wretched wall. Jaw and teeth groaning beneath the pressure of purpose, he commanded the magic to obey. He drew ruthlessly on the strength of the others, particularly the firebrand who wielded the one thread he could not control on his own.

A moan grated across his eardrums.

He answered with a growl from deep in his throat.

“Master, stop. Please—”

A meaty slap cut off the plea, a guard reminding someone of their duty. A single whimper followed.

The energy surged to a new height, so intense it threatened to obliterate consciousness. Exhilarated by power, Bairith closed his will upon the evasive Fire. It did not come easily, yet every aspect of the magic had been used to exile him, every aspect must be used to restore him. He refused to let it go, no matter how it burned.

It was time.

For the barest instant, he regretted sending the woman away. He knelt with effort and, chanting still, drew the child into his arms. The flaring magic nearly blinded him and he had to feel his way. A high-pitched whine followed by broken sobbing announced his success. Precious blood ran, thick and rich and tangy. He did not much care for the scent, but such weakness had no place here. “Blood for blood,” he croaked.

For an instant the energy hovered in the center of the circle, gathering. Then shocking power rent him. Fire escaped his grasp with a booming explosion, then Air careened away. He made a wild motion to recapture them—screamed—fell. Dizziness and pain dragged him into a leaden darkness. Beyond it he could hear the murmur of voices twined with the incessant, scraping whisper of spirits so close, so present , he could surely touch them. He reached for them to force them to his will and succeeded only in making himself black out.

When Bairith opened eyes again, it was to a gem-studded sky and the bitter stench of failure. Still, he had to know for certain. Reaching out with his senses sent exquisite pain lancing through his skull. Daerowyn forestalled his attempt to sit up with a firm hand against his shoulder. He hissed as the world slipped sideways.

“Your hands and your chest, Master,” she murmured, her voice an anchor to reality. “Please do not move. The healer should be here soon. The magic frightened the horses. They escaped, and we had to send someone on foot.”

They’d left the healer in the village, safely out of danger. Bairith lifted one hand, looking blankly at the bandages wrapped around it. The memory of escaping Fire awakened his senses to a fierce agony, and it didn’t abide only in his hands, but riddled his torso as well. It took a moment to find his breath and force words into a rasp. “The wards failed. Will I be scarred?”

Daerowyn hid her expression by reaching for a flask, distressed. Light from a tiny fire nearby danced across her face. “They have not failed yet. You live. May the gods speed the healer on his way.”

That he should experience such acute pain meant the wards were badly weakened. He felt them crumble further with each breath. Bairith let his counselor lift him to drink, though he almost passed out again in the process. The fortified wine sent relief creeping through his body. From his raised position he saw a second fire situated a short distance away. The silhouetted shapes of men obscured the flames. He squinted to try to chase away an unwelcome blur. “How many lived?”

“A third. I expect we’ll lose two more before dawn.” Daerowyn set the flask aside and carefully lowered Bairith to the blankets again. She stank of charred meat and wet wool. Strange…

Breath scraped through scorched lungs. “The boy?” he wheezed after a moment. He kept his eyes closed.

Silence preceded a drawn breath. “He did not survive.”

Bairith’s heart skipped a beat. All that potential power gone! Sudden fury scorched him, equal in measure to the burns on his body. “I told the guards to get him away after I cut him.”

“Yes.”

The inability to see or sense Daerowyn’s emotions reminded Bairith of the deafness he’d once experienced after an explosion. “Yet they failed.”

“No, lord, they got him out. The water followed. He—drowned.” A thick swallow followed the pronouncement.

The boy’s blood had failed. His body and all the precious latent magic within it had failed. “How unfortunate,” he managed through clenched teeth.

A log on the fire popped.

“What will we do with him? Shall we return him to his parents?” Daerowyn whispered. The drape of her veil hid her expression.

“Don’t be a fool.” What a ridiculous idea, ferrying a useless corpse across the sea. Bad enough he had to suffer the stench of the soldiers and the over-salted fish that would feed them. “Send the two dying to their gods, along with any others that will needlessly tax the healer. And get me another drink. Water.”

Daerowyn’s breath hitched, but she did not protest. She was only a servant after all. “Is all lost, Master?”

The water, in spite of the flavor it had picked up from the leather flask, went down sweetly. The barrier still remained; what options did he have left? One idea after another tumbled through his mind, alternatives he’d already considered a hundred times over and discarded like chaff from wheat. Today’s failure galled him. A single crack in the Parting was all he’d needed to bring the entire thing tumbling down, yet the boy’s blood had failed. The efforts of the most powerful mages in three realms had failed .

“The boy has siblings. Cousins. Aunts and uncles. I will find which of them is the key.”

“Master—”

He cut her off with a gesture. Held his breath against the pain, then exhaled slowly as conviction suffused him. “Whatever it takes.”

* * *

Chapter 1

On hands and knees, the black-haired youth peered into shadowy water, searching for his reflection. A ripple ruined the surface. When it settled, the wide pool offered an indistinct, ghostly image. Sherakai dan Tameko, youngest son of House Tanoshi and fourth in line to inherit the title of jansu , turned his head until he had a good view of the left side of his face. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he ventured. Cautious fingertips explored the swollen, purpling skin around his eye.

“Not yet. Wait until tomorrow,” his companion predicted. Chakkan dan Maeda propped his hands on his hips. “You know you’re supposed to duck when someone’s throwing a punch, don’t you?”

“I’d have never guessed.” A faint smile turned up one side of Sherakai’s mouth. He pressed a thick dollop of mud to the bruise with a heartfelt sigh. Whatever its appearance, it throbbed like a wild thing. “Imitoru is wonderfully fast, isn’t he?”

“And undisciplined. He shouldn’t have hit you at all, but at the very least he could have pulled that punch when you didn’t duck.”

“He wouldn’t have had to if I’d done it properly.” Eyes closed, he reveled in the cool of his compress. “It was an accident. Sparring practice isn’t embroidery, you know.”

“Your brothers are happy to embroider you, and you know it,” Chakkan grunted. He took a seat on a low rock, brushing arching jade fronds out of his way. The leaves smelled like hay and secrets.

Nestled within the rugged embrace of towering canyon walls, the waters of the Starglass lay deep and still. A swath of blue sky decorated the silken surface, the image framed by the jagged silhouette of encircling trees high overhead. The walls leaned inward. The shadows they cast bled into the reflected greenery until there was no telling where one ended and the other began. Here and there tiny lances of sunlight pierced the water but did not reveal the depth. The protection of the cliffs provided a lovely relief from the sweltering heat of high summer.

“Tasan doesn’t.” In fact, Tasan rarely had time to practice with the men, let alone his youngest brother. Fourteen years separated the two, and his duties kept him well occupied. “But as you have all pointed out, I’ll keep getting black eyes until I learn to duck.”

“You do other things—crazy things—and don’t get hurt.”

“Don’t get hurt much ,” Sherakai corrected with a grin and dipped his hand in the water to wash away the mud.

Chakkan’s brows lowered. “Why can you throw yourself off the back of a running horse and still land on your feet, but you can’t get out of the way of a fist or a sword?”

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, face dripping. “I want to ride.” When his friend didn’t answer, and the silence stretched out between them, Sherakai looked up. Chakkan wore a worried expression. Friends and playmates since they’d been toddlers, the two had no secrets. As close as the laces on a sandal, his father always said. “What?”

“You know you’re expected to be a warrior like your brothers, your father, his father…”

“You.”

“Yes.”

“I am not you,” he said mildly. “I am not them.”

Chakkan threw his hands up, baffled. “You can’t just refuse. What would you do if you weren’t a warrior?”

Sherakai wiped his hands on his pants and got to his feet. Brown and green stains marked his shins. With mud on his face and his long, dark hair coming loose from its elaborate braids he didn’t look like a noble. Neither did he look the part of the warrior. Slender as the proverbial reed, he lacked the height and the muscle of his companion. Chakkan had a year on him, and Sherakai dreaded a similar growth spurt. It would rob him of an important advantage when he raced the horses.

“I would be Master of the Horse for the future jansu, whose other brothers will be off seeking fame and honor and horrible scars on the battlefield. Or I might go to sea,” he said, considering. Thank the stars, he need never be jansu himself. In the hierarchy of Alshani nobility, a jansu ranked below a ryoshi who were the heads of the Twelve Ruling Houses and answerable only to the king himself.

“You’d have to leave the horses.”

Sherakai beamed. “True! Horse Master it is, then.”

Chakkan looked up at the cloudless sky. “Does your father know about this?”

“Not yet.”

“He won’t agree.”

“Guess I’ll have to run away to sea after all.” He would miss the horses dearly, and his family as well, but he’d come back to them one day. The chance to see the world and explore far places ignited his imagination. “Who knows? Perhaps I might even command my own ship.” The idea brought a gleam to his green, green eyes. Alshan had no coastline or seaport for him to explore.

“Saints,” Chakkan complained, and shoved his hand through his own hair. Cropped short in the way of the lower classes, braids didn't catch his fingers. “You know you can’t do any such thing.”

“Who will stop me?”

“Honor. Loyalty.”

Sherakai rolled his eyes. Dragging his shirt off over his head, he dropped it on a rock. Boots and pants joined it. He made his way on sure feet across boulders he’d crossed uncounted times. Without a pause, he knifed into the water, surfaced a few yards out, and swam across the pool. Broad as a barn, it offered plenty of room for exercise or play. The cool water washed away the grime of the practice ring and eased the strain of overworked muscles. Stories claimed that if one surrendered a small token of personal value to the pool, they would discover their path to peace. Sherakai and Chakkan weren't the only ones to dive in search of those tokens. A trinket so blessed might grant all sorts of wishes or visions, but the Starglass kept her treasures and her secrets far beneath the surface.

“Have the mages of air and water not already explored the depths?” he’d once asked his mother.

“It is forbidden,” she replied.

“And the lawbreakers?”

“They have their reward.”

She had not explained further, but something in her expression had kept him from pressing for details. It did not keep him from searching, though, whenever he had the chance. While taking from the Starglass was forbidden, it didn’t mean one couldn’t look at the riches she protected. Taking a long, slow breath, he sank into the dark water.

“Sherakai!”

Down, down he went. Brilliant shafts of light speared the gloom but did little to relieve the darkness. He had never found the bottom, even when he’d used a pole to extend his reach. He’d touched nothing but Chakkan’s indignation. A pole was cheating; and if he happened to find the ever-elusive palm of earth that cradled the pool, he might not like what he poked down there. Like all boys, they had to scare each other with tales of monsters, wraiths, and shades. Sometimes the stories were so good they had to dare each other to go into the pool again.

Floating in the silence, a finger of apprehension trailed up Sherakai’s spine. It served him right, he thought, for dwelling on that nonsense. Deliberately, he swept cupped palms upward, keeping his position a little longer. When his lungs burned for air, he reversed direction, kicking his way upward again. Head tipped back as he breached the surface, water streamed from his face. He sucked in a deep, sweet breath. The light made him blink, then squint.

“Sun and moon and stars!” Chakkan exploded. Poised at the edge of the pool, shirtless and bootless now, he expelled a harsh breath. “Don’t scare me like that again. I’m done. You hear?”

Sherakai’s mouth formed a tentative smile. “Was I down a long time?”

“The longest. Ever.”

“Really?” He licked sweet water from his lips.

“Yes, beetle brain. I swear you’re either a sog or a puffer.” He dropped to one knee to scoop a wave of water in Sherakai’s direction.

The youth only closed his eyes. He couldn’t get any wetter. “Even if I were, are you allowed to call me such insulting bynames?” A sog was a water mage, a puffer manipulated air.

“I’ve called you worse.”

“Like beetle brain? I feel a swoon coming on.” He lay back in the water, one limp wrist draped over his forehead. Between slitted lids he saw Chakkan make a face, trying not to smile.

“Go ahead and swoon, princess, I’m not coming in to save you.”

“Then come in to swim.” Surrendering his pose, he floated lazily. A fallen fir tree across the top of the canyon captured and held his attention. The trunk stretched out straight as an arrow. Or a bridge. It had not been there before. Bare along a good part of its length, a tangle of branches blocked passage halfway across. That did not make it completely useless. He swam to the edge of the pool and heaved himself out. Water dripping from his body made the rock slick. He reached for the pants Chakkan handed him and dried his feet. Tossing the clothing aside, Sherakai stood and surveyed the surrounding walls critically.

“What?” His friend’s brow crinkled with suspicion.

“Did you see that?” he asked, pointing up at the tree.

Chakkan’s gaze followed. “It must have fallen in the storm the other day.” He paused. “Is it important?”

“It’s a challenge.” Anticipation gleamed in Sherakai’s eyes. “Are you coming?”

“You’re going to climb up there and then—what, jump?”

“Yes. It’s perfect, don’t you think?” He drew his finger back and forth through the air, tracing the shape of the log. “We should have thought of it a long time ago and put our own tree there.”

“No! Have you lost your mind? That’s got to be as high as the roof of the keep.”

He still wanted to do it. Sherakai saw it in his face and in the way he stood, indecisive and jittering his fingers against one leg.

“We’ve climbed up and jumped before—” he began.

“Not that high!”

“—and the water’s deep.”

“And if you break yourself?” Chakkan shot back.

“Are you afraid?” Sherakai countered, chin lifting.

“I’m afraid of what your father will do if I let anything happen to you.”

A grimace distorted Sherakai’s fine features. He struck one finger against his companion’s broad chest. “You’re no fun anymore. Ever since you entered the guard you’ve been serious and careful . You’re not even a real soldier yet!” The jabbing finger became an elegant, dismissive wave. Turning on his heel, he started for the sheer rock wall.

Chakkan’s hand on his shoulder spun him right back around again. Sherakai used the momentum, bringing his forearm across his body and up to knock away the hold. He shoved Chakkan’s hand down, completed the circle, then sprinted away. Lessons in self defense hadn’t been completely in vain. What he lacked in size and bulk he made up for in grace and speed, a fact that confounded his family and his teachers for the way it so often deserted him in the practice ring.

“Kai, wait!”

He’d made the climb scores of times. He didn’t stop until he could stand safely on a jutting shelf out of Chakkan’s reach. His swift ascent left pebbles and the previous year’s decaying leaves tumbling in his wake. The stones plinked into the pool and disappeared. A single green leaf, heart-shaped, rocked back and forth on the surface. Sherakai watched it, then his gaze went to Chakkan.

On the first steppingstone, Chakkan shaded his eyes against the brightness of the sky. “I’ll come, but you have to let me jump first.”

Angry words died on Sherakai’s lips. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering. Irritation and a budding sense of betrayal chafed at him. He was usually willing to either take turns or play a choosing game to decide the outcome. He wanted to jump first. And if he did manage to get seriously hurt, then it would be good to have Chakkan handy to save him. “No, just wait there.”

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to watch out for you, Kai, keep you safe.”

A soft grunt greeted that announcement. Chakkan was expected to pursue an apprenticeship and a career. His father had been a member of the Tanoshi Guard. It surprised no one when Chakkan chose to do the same. “I wondered how long that would take.”

“It’s always been that way.” Sincerity and belief threaded his companion’s voice, his countenance.

“I liked it better when you got into as much trouble as I did.”

Chakkan had the good grace to blush. “I still looked after you.”

Sherakai could remember several occasions when his companion had kept him from doing something fatally foolish. He had thought the older boy smart and clever. And, while that remained true, the purposeful protecting shed a new and rather unflattering light on their relationship. “We are friends because my father tasked you with my welfare?”

“No.” Chakkan blinked in surprise, then one brow twisted up, a sure sign of his anger. He punctuated the air with a stabbing finger. “No, of course not, you idiot. I’ve been in trouble with you more times than I can count. You think I had to do that? Oh no, my friend. I could have left you to get out of your messes all by yourself. I could have run to your father or your brothers so they could go save your scrawny hide while I cadged pastries from Cook in the kitchens. Did I do that?”

Chakkan made it sound as if the two of them were in trouble all the time and that Sherakai held sole responsibility. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Chakkan had not finished blasting him yet.

“No, I did not! I stuck with you because I like you, because I like the things we do.” He shook his head once, hard, and his jaw knotted. “It’s just—life can’t be all fun and games, Kai! We have to grow up.”

A dozen scathing retorts flashed through his mind. Does that mean you’re too old to have fun anymore? Well, don’t let me hold you back, old man. I never made you come along. His brothers had no trouble at all roughhousing with each other—and him—teasing, daring, challenging. Clearly age hadn’t ruined their lives. You’re not growing up, you’re old already.

Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “And your idea of growing up is to be the first one to jump off that log and into the pool?”

Chakkan glared at him for a long time. “I’d hope you were friend enough to stop me from doing something so stupid and dangerous. And if you weren’t, I’d have either proved it was safe, or I’d be the one with the broken neck instead of you.”

“I will not break my neck.”

“You know that because you can see the future.” He added something else under his breath. Probably rude.

“It’s just a dive, Chakkan. You used to like diving and swimming. Oh, I forgot, that was before you grew up.”

Chakkan shoved his feet into his boots and yanked his tunic over his head. “You get home however you please—or not.”

“Where are you going?” Leaving made little sense. If he were Sherakai’s friend, he’d stay. They’d fight, and they’d settle their differences the way they always did. If he were merely a guard, he’d stay and convince Sherakai not to take the dive or physically prevent him.

Strapping on his belt, Chakkan headed for the path. “I’m going to find your brothers.”

“You are not.” Would he? No, surely he was just being sarcastic. It was hard to tell at this distance. Sherakai watched him disappear around a corner and into the trees. Dismay battled with disgust.

He was not a child. Wanting to climb the rock wall and dive into the water did not make him childish. Yes, the jump was higher than anything he’d done before, but he was a good swimmer. They both were. Chakkan would have done it before he’d starting sparring with the Guard—as if that and the killing and maiming that went with the job weren’t genuinely dangerous.

With a snort of derision, Sherakai turned back to the cliff and started up. This dive would be the stuff of legend.

* * *

Chapter 2

The climb challenged him. Twice, the steep, inward-leaning walls threatened to dump him prematurely into the pool. His shoulders burned and the scrapes the rocks gave him stung sharply. When he reached the top, he flopped on his back in the grass and grinned up at the sky. It took awhile until his breathing returned to normal and his limbs stopped quivering. Then he rolled onto his stomach to peer over the edge into the black depths below. A rush of adrenaline propelled Sherakai to his feet again.

He walked around for a moment to make sure everything worked the way it ought. Contrary to popular opinion, he listened to his elders; he just didn’t always follow their advice.

The sound of voices from below drew his attention. When he approached the edge, he saw his brothers dismounting their horses. He blinked in astonishment. He hadn’t expected them to answer Chakkan’s summons so fast! And all three of them, no less. Only an extremely reckless escapade would set them after him in force. If he was going to be in that much trouble, he’d best make it worthwhile for all concerned.

“Sherakai?”

He heard his name as clearly as if Fazare stood next to him, so perfect were the hollow’s acoustics. With no time to waste, he went to the recently fallen tree. Both ends lay on firm ground, and a shove against the thing didn’t cause it to rock. Roots on one end and branches on the other kept it steady. Pulling himself up, he strode to the middle and turned toward the canyon opening.

“Great sun! He’s up there! Sherakai, come down!” Tasan shouted.

He spared a moment to line himself up properly. His extended his left arm, palm flat. Then he pressed the backs of his fingers to his forehead and then the palm of his hand to his heart in salute.

“Not that way!” Fazare yelped.

Imitoru took one look and moved to the edge of the water, shedding his belt and tunic. The more venturesome of the three, he didn't waste time yelling.

“Sherakai, don’t you—”

The jump stole Tasan’s words. Arms sweeping back, then forward and up, Sherakai propelled himself into space. The log did not even tremble under his slight weight. He brought his knees to his chest, touched them lightly, spun backward… He knew the technique for such dives, but the height shocked him now that he was committed. Crazy. Maybe he would reach the bottom of the pool after all . Too late to turn back, a moment’s fear shot through him. Fear is a choice, the words of his arms teacher, Master Chimoke, reminded. He had no time for fear.

He arched his back as he untucked himself. Legs stretched and toes pointed, his arms reached outward like a bird. All the way around he somersaulted, until his feet came under him again. What a marvel to feel such freedom and such exhilaration! What must it be like to fly?

The cliff walls sped past. He brought his hands down, elbows pressed tight to his sides just the way Tasan had taught him, and sucked in as much air as he could. Had Chakkan come back with them? He hadn’t thought to check.

He knifed into the water, the shock of impact stealing away a portion of the breath he held. Deep and sudden silence enfolded him. The entire world might have ceased to exist. His descent continued, slower, slower, yet his feet did not meet the pool’s floor. He loosed his breath in increments, tiny bubbles disappearing as soon as they left his nose. Slender beams of light glimmered all around, bright and beautiful. His hands went right through them. He looked down to see if they revealed any of the pool’s secrets, but saw only darkness. No mystic spell tugged at him, no strange creatures lurking in the depths nibbled at his toes.

The gloom grew; the silence seeped into his bones.

An involuntary shiver shook him.

Instinct spurred him to action. He kicked upward and pulled at the water with his hands. Like heavy silk, it stroked over his body, head to toe, cool but not cold. The gleaming sky beckoned, stained to gray through the watery lens. He kicked harder, aching now to breathe. The water distorted distance, and he had no idea how much further he needed to go.

Shadows loomed on the edges of the light. A muffled thud came to him, distorted voices from a distance, then a hand wound around his arm. A tug dragged him to the surface. One of his brothers shouted, far too loud after the encompassing silence, but the light, and oh, the air! He gasped, inhaled water, choked. Imitoru pounded his back, nearly sending him under again.

“That was beautiful! ” Imitoru exclaimed. He beamed as wide as if he’d been the one to make the dive.

Sherakai caught hold of a sturdy shoulder and gave him a quick, crooked grin. Dizziness and breathlessness made him glad for the support.

“It was crazy!” Tasan contradicted. He’d stripped off the weapons belt he always wore. It lay at a careless angle against a boulder while he stood in the edge of the water in his boots, his tunic half undone.

“Crazy beautiful.” Imitoru’s dripping hand lifted, illustrating an arch.

“Sherakai, what were you thinking?” Fazare, safe and dry atop a boulder, stood arms akimbo. It would have been a good place to jump from had a rescue required it, but he still had his boots and tunic on. “Don’t you ever listen?”

Sherakai wiped water from his face, but Toru answered for him. “Obviously he does. He made the jump and controlled his position the way Tasan taught him.” He tapped his own chest. “Kept his head up the way I taught him.”

“It was reckless,” Tasan said again, stern-faced in spite of palpable relief.

Sherakai looked from one to the other. A pale, clean light suffused each of them, hovering most brightly around Tasan. He blinked, thinking his eyes played tricks on him, but the light remained. He had never beheld such a thing before. Oblivious, the others carried on their conversation over his head.

“You’re just jealous that you never had the nerve to do such a thing. I know I never did.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Fazare shot back as he vaulted from his perch. “I like my legs and my neck whole, thank you.”

“Don’t even think about doing it now,” Tasan ordered.

“But if our little wisp can do it—”

“I am not a wisp,” Sherakai cut in. Deliberately, he skimmed a hand across the surface. The wave splashed into Imitoru’s face and set his brother to spluttering.

“Can’t be,” Fazare agreed, both hands on his hips. “He sank like a rock. Come on, Toru, get him out of there.”

“I am not a rock, either.” Sherakai made his way to the edge of the pool. One hand balancing him against the boulders, he looked up at his diving platform. So high, and such a perfect place to leap from. Next time he would try more twists and flips, but for today—The other hand came up out of the water in a fist, proclaiming his victory with a whoop of glee.

Imitoru laughed and echoed him as he swam up alongside. “You did very well, little dragon,” he pronounced, and heaved himself up out of the pool. Water streamed from his fine braids and over his broad shoulders.

The byname usually riled him, but Sherakai refused to let it ruin the moment. “Thank you.”

“You did,” Tasan agreed, “but never do that again.” He splashed and squelched along the edge, then leaned down to offer his hand.

Sherakai took it, braced his feet against the side, and let Tasan pull him up. He might as well be a wisp for all the effort it took. “Why not? It was glorious. Like flying.” He smiled his thanks and pulled his braid over his shoulder to squeeze some of the water from it.

“We could keep an eye on him next time, be here in case something goes wrong.” Imitoru gathered his own braids and twisted them, leaning out over the pool. A fierce red blotch marked his ribs where he’d received his latest injury, the result of a hammer biting into his chain mail. It was not the only mark he bore.

Sherakai didn’t like to look. When his brothers came home to heal from their battle wounds he could scarcely bear to remain in the keep, so sensitive was he to their agony. Papa had taught him how to shield himself a little, but it never seemed like enough.

“There will be no ‘next time.’ Either of you.” Tasan’s grip tightened and the furrow in his brow deepened.

Tension clotted the air, and below that something keen and somehow desperate. It took Sherakai’s breath. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said, gaze to the ground.

“You put yourself in danger time after time, and it scares me. Watching you fall off that cliff and knowing none of us could do a thing to prevent you getting hurt made me—” He pressed his first two fingers against his thumb to gesture between himself and Sherakai helplessly. “If you cannot concern yourself with your own welfare, I wish you would at least think of what your actions do to others.”

“But I’m fine.” All of this fretting over a simple dive into the water! “You taught me to dive, and I did it perfectly. Tell me I did not. The three of you train every single day so you can go to war and get yourselves killed on purpose. But if I do anything outside of that, I’m the reckless one. I can ride and swim and dive and dance. I can sing and read and write. I can make your babies stop crying, Tasan, and yours, Fazare, but if I’m not swinging a sword, I am—”

Frustration choked off his words. He didn’t want to be a warrior. Why was that so difficult to understand? All three of them stared at him in varying degrees of surprise and puzzlement. “I’m not you,” he managed. He brushed past Imitoru to collect his pants. Yanking them on over wet skin, he tied the cord with crisp, efficient movements.

Fazare followed Sherakai but stopped several feet away, folding his arms across his chest. Like the other two, he enjoyed an enviable breadth of shoulder and strength of muscle. The Tanoshi family had a tradition of big, strapping men and tall women. Sherakai could not even claim decent height. He couldn’t even claim to look like them. He and his little sister took after their mother with her black hair and green eyes. Everyone else was a copy of their father with his golden-brown hair and bright blue eyes.

“You are right,” Fazare said. “You are not us, but you are Tanoshi, and the Tanoshi are warriors.”

“Be quiet, Zar,” Tasan ordered in a low voice.

Fazare tossed his chin like a horse objecting to the bridle. “What will he do if he is not a warrior? Father expects his service. The king expects it.”

“Not all men are warriors, and there are other ways to serve both Father and king.”

“How?” Fazare demanded.

Tasan strapped his belt on, weapons clattering. “Whether he becomes a cook or a diplomat, the decision is between Kai and Father.”

“But the House—”

“Will suffer no shame for his honest endeavors.”

Imitoru slipped between the pair to head off an argument, wet tunic slung over one shoulder. “Oh, I think he’d make a better astrologer than a cook. Or perhaps a harper.”

Sherakai couldn’t play a harp or any other musical instrument to save his life, but the idea amused them. “I would like to work with the horses,” he said.

“Yes.” Tasan squeezed Sherakai’s shoulder, half approval and half steering him toward their mounts. “You’d be good at that.”

Jansu Tanoshi bred and raised the rare Indimi-o per’la Tojitu —the Children of the Wind. Not even he had the ability with horses that Sherakai did.

“I’ve got it—a basket weaver!”

“A cheesemonger!” Fazare declared.

“I like cheese.”

“You are cheese.”

The pair’s attempts to come up with the most unlikely career choice brought a reluctant smile to Sherakai’s face, but he wasn’t ready to laugh yet. “I’ll race you home,” he said, settling onto his stallion’s bare back. The creature tossed his pretty head and danced in place.

“Bareback? Not even a bridle?” Imitoru shook his head.

“I can outride any of you any time, anywhere.”

“Ha!”

“He probably can,” was Tasan’s opinion.

“Without tack? No, the advantage is ours.”

“Zar, the lines you think in are too straight. Little Brother doesn’t even see them.” Tasan’s outstretched arm brought them into position. “We’ll start here on my word.”

“Why’s it always have to be your word?” Imitoru complained, eyes sparkling, ready for the race whether he won or not.

“If you were honest, it would be yours!” Sherakai shot back, grinning.

Fazare leveled a warning finger at him. “No using your magic tricks on my horse, or I’ll rearrange your pretty face.”

“I won’t need to. I’m going to win.”

Saddles creaked as the others mounted.

“You got coin to back that up?”

“No, no coin, but when you lose I get that new hunting horn of yours.”

“What? You don’t even like to hunt!”

Sherakai shrugged. “I like the carving on it.”

“Artwork!” Imitoru snickered. “Just goes to show that one man’s tool is another man’s treasure.”

“And if you lose?” Fazare pressed.

“I don’t know, you’ve already stolen everything that appeals to you.”

“Won! I won everything legally and honestly!”

Tasan and Imitoru exchanged a look, and the latter rolled his eyes. The brothers were forever challenging each other, but Fazare liked to make things interesting. Sherakai didn’t always make the wisest wagers, but he was learning.

“How about that silver ear cuff that looks like feathers? You were admiring it just last week.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Fazare nodded, looking pleased with himself and perhaps a little possessive.

“Fine, but it will never happen.” Sherakai guided Aishe to the starting line. “Your horn, though, will look very handsome on the mantel in my room. Especially after I fill it with wax and make a candle out of it.” An insulting proposition to be sure.

“On your marks,” Tasan cut in before Fazare could protest. “No pushing, no cheating. This will be a clean race, current handicaps excepted.” He looked dubiously at Sherakai, then nudged his own horse forward. “First one to the gatehouse.”

“Touching?”

“Touching,” he nodded firmly then leaned forward. “Three. Two—”

With a noisy whoop , Imitoru dug in his heels and leaped ahead.

* * *

~ End of BLOOD AND SHADOW preview~

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Website: robinlythgoe.com

8

Sweetblade

Carol A. Park

A Stand-Alone Heretic Gods Novel

Every decision she had thought was right had led her astray.

Perhaps it was time to make the wrong decision.

LIVES ARE SHAPED BY DECISIONS, and Ivana's decisions have destroyed her life.

She finds herself on the streets of Carradon, broken, destitute, and utterly alone. But perhaps not entirely without hope. A man named Elidor comes to her rescue and welcomes her into his home. But Elidor holds secrets of his own.

Lives may turn upon a single moment, and Ivana's decision to accept the hospitality of this stranger will transform her in ways she never imagined...or feared.

Content Notice: This book contains references to/depictions of self-harm.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 9

* * *

Chapter One

Ivana huddled against the side of the building, but all it offered was shelter from the wind. The stone wall was cold, shadowed in a narrow alley and thus prevented from soaking in what little warmth it might have gained from the sun.

Ivana blew into her hands and, from her own place in the shadows, watched the fur-cloaked passersby on the thoroughfare before her. Their heads were tucked down and their hands were shoved into pockets or gathered beneath the warmth of their cloaks as they hurried toward their destinations at the end of a long day—for most, a warm hearth, a hot meal, and a cozy bed.

Her stomach clenched and she flexed her fingers. She had never expected it to be so cold so early on in the season.

In retrospect, she should have. Her father had included Setanan geography in her lessons, after all. She knew the cold came sooner than it did at home here in Carradon, the capital of Cadmyr.

Yet another bad decision in her long line of recent failures. She would have been better off heading south.

But the thought of staying longer than necessary in Ferehar, the place where everyone she loved had died because of her…

She shivered and pulled her threadbare cloak around herself, determined to try again. There had to be someone who needed a copyist.

She tossed up a brief prayer to Temoth, the Conclave’s god of luck—what could it hurt?—and stepped out of the alley onto the main street. A woman with three children trailing behind stopped to read a notice on a community board. Ivana approached her, trying to look as pitiful as possible. She was sure that wasn’t hard; she looked pretty pitiful without even trying.

“Please, Da,” Ivana said. “I’m looking for work. Do you have any need for a tutor—or even a copyist?”

The woman spun toward her. “Oh!” she said. Her eyes flicked down over Ivana. “I…No, I’m so sorry.” She averted her eyes and drew her children closer, as if they would be contaminated, and started to move away.

Ivana bit her lip and swallowed her pride, as she had many times in the weeks prior. “A coin, then?” She held out her hand.

She didn’t need to work to make it tremble. She had watched how the street urchins squeezed pity out of otherwise unconcerned people—and learned. “It’s so cold, Da.” In silent agreement, her breath puffed out frozen clouds with each word.

The woman paused. Her gaze darted around the street, and then she plucked a coin from inside her sleeve. She pressed it into Ivana’s hand and hurried off, children in tow, without another glance.

Ivana touched the coin. A single selma. A sixth of what used to be her monthly allowance. At the tavern back home, it would have bought a mug of steaming cider and a thick slice of warm, buttered bread; here, in the city, she might be able to buy a hot bun from a street vendor in the poorer districts.

Would it be wiser to save it for a better cloak, or boots, or gloves?

Her stomach grumbled.

But that could take weeks, and she was hungry now. Death by starvation now, or death by frostbite later.

The choices before her weren’t promising.

“Hey, rat!”

She spun around. A city guardsman was headed her direction. Begging was illegal.

She curled stiff fingers around the selma and ran—like she always did.

* * *

Ivana may have had no luck obtaining work, but that didn’t mean the day had been without value. She found a street vendor who was trying, at the end of the working day, to get rid of the remainder of the buns he had made, and she purchased two for the cost of one. She began devouring the first one as she headed back to the space she had claimed in one of the slums, in an abandoned alley that no one seemed to want.

The stone wall she slept against must have had a furnace on the other side because the wall was always warm rather than cold to the touch. As a bonus, the house at the end of the alley kept a lantern hanging outside most nights, providing enough light to keep her sane.

It had been hard to find that spot. The others guarded their spaces like they had bought and paid for them, and they didn’t trust her yet. Every once in a while a beggar would be willing to share their garbage fire for a night.

All that being true, she could hardly believe she was the first one to stumble across such an ideal location, which could only mean there was something else wrong with it she was too inexperienced to know about—or perhaps that her mind was too numb with cold to work out.

So she had managed to claim it—at least until someone stronger than her ousted her.

It wouldn’t take long for that to happen.

Sure enough, when she arrived at her stretch of wall, she was disappointed to see a human-shaped shadow disappearing into the dark end of the alley. It seemed her spot had been found. She waited to be challenged, but no one stepped forward.

Instead, a voice spoke from behind her—from the lit end of the alley. “Whatcha got there, girl?”

Damn . She shoved the rest of the half-eaten bun in her mouth and clutched the other to her chest before turning to face the newcomer. “Moffin,” she mumbled around the bread.

The man leered at her. “Sneaky lil’ sprite,” he drawled. “How about you hand over the other, and I’ll let you alone?”

She eyed him. His cloak was tattered around the edges but intact, and his gloves had holes, but, burning skies, at least he had gloves. If he wanted that bun, he’d have to pry it out from between her teeth.

“Go to the abyss.” She swallowed the remnants of the first bun and stuffed the second, whole, in her mouth.

Anger flashed across his face, and all at once the gravity of miscalculation hit her. This wasn’t another beggar trying to pinch her food. He was drunk, and he was itching for the excuse she had just given him to expend his pent-up aggression.

She hadn’t known it was possible for her to feel colder than she already did. But it was.

He lurched toward her, and she lunged out of his reach, but he caught the edge of her thin cloak. He yanked her down to the ground, and she scrabbled against the hard stone to push herself upright as he dragged her back to himself. She strained against the strangling hold of the cloak around her throat, fumbling with cold-numbed fingers to release the simple pin that held the cloak together.

Never had she hoped that the cloak would rip, but she did then.

It didn’t.

She struggled in vain as he turned her around and yanked her to her feet so he could breathe his hot, liquor-drenched breath into her face. “You think you’re better than me, eh? You deserve that more than me?” She opened her mouth to scream, but he backhanded her cheek, and the sound died as a sob wrenched from her throat. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. No one would come to her aid even if they heard her.

She flailed in time to her racing heart, hoping for a stroke of the luck that had abandoned her.

He fought to wrest her thrashing body under his control, bruising her arms and wrists in the process, and he was winning.

So finally, in a last-ditch effort to at least gain enough distance and control to be able to ram her knee into his groin, she dug her heels into the ground and pitched all her weight back against his grasp, forcing him to try to yank her back with all his own strength—and then went limp.

The sudden release of the tension caused him to stumble backward.

And then, it happened: Temoth looked upon her with favor once more.

The man’s heel caught on something. He tripped, and as he lost his balance, he let go of her—and fell backward.

She staggered away, regaining her own balance, and prepared to run…

Until she noticed that he wasn’t moving.

She froze. What…?

His eyes were frozen in wide-eyed astonishment, and no breath formed in the air in front of his parted lips. Her heart still hammering, she crept closer.

A jagged stone stuck out from the side of the wall near where he lay, and the end of the stone was smeared with a dark substance. After a moment of hesitation, she rolled the man over. His hair was wet and matted. She touched the back of his head with a trembling hand and turned her fingers in the light.

Blood.

Burning skies, I killed him! Her recently devoured hot buns rose in her throat on a tide of acid.

She swallowed hard, determined to keep the little food she had where it belonged.

Her mind raced, and the thought flipped over into a new light. I killed him!

She hadn’t done it on purpose, of course, but no one would care that it had been an accident, or that she had acted in self-defense. If they found her here with a body, the consequence would be worse than being hustled off to a workhouse for begging.

She frantically wiped the blood off her fingers onto the man’s own clothes and ran.

* * *

A week later, huddled against a less friendly wall, she was cursing herself. Why hadn’t she stolen his gloves, his cloak—his shirt even? It wasn’t as if the march of guards had been imminent. For that matter, he might have had coins in his pocket.

She still wasn’t thinking enough like one of them . That was why she was barely surviving.

It was a bitter irony that her exceptional education was apparently useless to her now.

She dragged a finger through the grit on the ground, starting to trace the Xambrian word for cold , and then thought better of it and drew her hand back under her cloak.

The weather had turned even more bitter this week. Her fingers and toes were growing numb as the temperature had fallen along with the night. The cold seeped into her so thoroughly that she could even forget the hollow ache in her stomach for a time.

How did the others manage it? If she didn’t find somewhere warmer to sleep, she would die out here, for sure, sooner or later.

She touched the pocket of her trousers, where her sister’s necklace had traveled with her all these months. It might buy her gloves and food for a week. And she would still be shivering on the streets.

She clenched her fist together and pulled the necklace into her lap. A last resort.

When she thought she couldn’t bear it anymore—were the workhouses so bad, really?—light flooded her corner of the world.

She blinked, eyes watering against the suddenness of it.

“Are you cold?” a male voice said from above her—presumably the person holding the lantern. She couldn’t see any more than that blinding light.

She shrank back against the wall, the memory of what had happened the last time a man had spoken to her still too fresh in her mind, and then she sprang to the side and half-ran, half-stumbled down the alley. She put as much distance between him and her as fast as her frozen body would allow before realizing that he wasn’t following her.

She turned a corner, stopped, and pressed herself back against the wall. She didn’t hear any footsteps. Indeed, he hadn’t even made an attempt to grab at her.

Another few moments passed with no sign of pursuit, so she peered around the corner.

The alley was dark.

She closed her eyes and breathed out in relief.

She heard nothing. No scrape of a boot against the stones. No rustle of fabric. Not even the soft whisper of breath.

But the darkness within her eyelids lessened. She opened her eyes. Light spilled forward, casting her own shadow and that of someone else on the ground in front of her.

Her heart thudded double-time as she dared to turn. The same man stood behind her, this time closer.

Where in the abyss had he come from?

He made no move toward her, spoke no other words. Just stared at her, holding that same blinding light. She crept backward, as if there were some insane chance he hadn’t noticed her, until she was out of his reach. Then she turned and fled again. This time, she ran for longer.

She finally stumbled to a halt, hands on her knees, breath coming in short, misty gasps in the cold night air. She sank back against another wall to wait for her heart to slow but kept her eyes wide open this time. She strained her eyes to catch any sliver of the yellow light, but only the half-lidded moon in the sky above illuminated the alley.

At last, she was convinced that she had lost him. She straightened up again, turned—

And ran right into the man, who had snuck up behind her in the darkness, his lantern now shielded.

She recoiled, but he grabbed her arm and held her fast—though he made no further move to thwart another escape attempt.

Instead, he flipped over her arm and forced her frozen fingers open. He ran his gloved thumb over the fingertips.

The burst of energy that fear had given her drained away and immobilized her instead. She was now unable to do anything else but watch him as he caressed her fingers as though they—her fingers —were a long-lost lover.

Finally, he dropped her hand. He unshielded the lantern and she flinched back from the light once more.

She squinted at him. “Who are you?” she managed to squeeze through her chattering jaw, though her lips were so cold it came out more like, “Huahyu?”

“Are you cold?” he asked once again.

What in the abyss? Was he mocking her? “Of course I’m cold,” she answered at last.

He didn’t seem to care that he was blinding her. Instead, he regarded her silently, long enough that her eyes adjusted, and she could finally see the stranger clearly, though his face was shrouded in the hood of a fur-lined cloak. The ensemble was complete with sturdy boots and the thick fingers of gloves wrapped around the handle of the lantern.

He looked so warm . Annoyance spiked through her fear. Were the slums offering tours to wealthy folk now, so as to assure them that they were in no danger of descending to these depths? “What do you want?” she asked. “Do you intend to stand there blinding me with your lantern all night?”

He looked at his lantern and then back at her. “You don’t speak like a street urchin.”

Why in the abyss did it matter how she spoke? What was wrong with him?

When he still didn’t move, she gathered herself up and made to move away. Maybe if she didn’t run this time…

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She turned. “To another cold wall to die in peace.”

“Come with me.” He began to turn, as though he expected no protest.

She laughed, though it sounded more like a hiccough. “Right.”

He paused. Without turning, he said, “My house is warm, and I will feed you.”

Her body shuddered and her stomach ached at the words.

No. Ivana, no. It was profoundly foolish to follow a strange man with no way of knowing what he really intended. Hadn’t she already made enough foolish decisions for a lifetime?

He walked away.

But what were her other options? To freeze to death on this bitterly cold night? To give herself up to the workhouses and hope to Temoth that she wouldn’t be skimmed by slavers or pimps? Even if the stranger had no better intentions, she would be no worse off. Right?

Against her better judgment, but without other recourse, she hurried to catch up with him.

* * *

Chapter Two

The stranger led Ivana to a modest house near the southern wall of the city. The neighborhood was near the sprawling commercial district that encompassed the docks, far enough away from the slums Ivana had made her home in that she noticed a change in the ambient odor in the air—or lack thereof.

She had become used to the stench of rotting garbage. It followed them for a while until she realized that at some point she smelled herself.

A middle-aged woman met them at the door, which alleviated some of Ivana’s fears. His wife? Surely, if his intentions were malicious, he would not have brought her home to his wife.

“I have a guest,” he said without preamble once the door had closed behind them. “Prepare a late dinner for her.” He held up a finger. “But first, draw a bath. She stinks.”

The woman eyed her but curtsied without comment, which dispelled the theory that she was his wife. More likely, a housekeeper. Still. That seemed normal, right?

The strange man disappeared, and the woman did as he asked.

The bath felt heavenly. Ivana hadn’t had such a bath since she had fled home. No, since before they had left Kadmon’s estate. Ten, eleven months?

Had it been that long?

It was difficult to tell if the ache in her gut intensified because of that thought or because her limbs had thawed enough that she could now pay more attention to the emptiness of her stomach.

She might have preferred to eat first and bathe later, especially given that the housekeeper provided her with only a clean, soft robe when she was done drying off, but in either sequence, his orders had satisfied—or were about to satisfy—her most pressing needs.

The housekeeper led her to a dining table that could hold six or eight people. An empty plate and clean cutlery had been set out at one end. It was the promise of a meal to come, which her stomach was eagerly anticipating, and noisily, now that she was warm. The man sat at the opposite end of the table, but he had no place setting; Ivana supposed he had already eaten.

Ivana lowered herself into the seat across from him, and the housekeeper scurried away.

He watched Ivana. Silently. In fact, aside from his terse commands when they had entered, no one had spoken. Not even the presumed housekeeper, who had been more concerned with carrying out her employer’s orders than conversation.

She didn’t dare speak first. So she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and fingered her sister’s rose necklace, which she had fastened around her neck when the housekeeper had made her change out of her filthy clothes.

Finally, the housekeeper brought out several silver-lidded platters and a pitcher of beer.

The smells wafting from the platters were almost too much to bear, but she held herself, waiting for the man’s leave—if only to prove to herself that she could still act like a civilized person.

The housekeeper lifted off the lids, prepared a plate for her, and then stood back. “Dal, by your leave? I’m later than usual,” she said.

The man held one hand up in vague dismissal, and she curtsied again and disappeared back through what Ivana assumed was the kitchen door.

Ivana watched her go with dismay. Now, she and the strange man were alone. No witnesses. No one to hear her if she screamed.

She almost laughed at her own melodramatic thoughts until she reflected that her situation was actually that bad.

There had been no one who cared about her screams for a very long time.

She stared down at her plate, her mouth watering. This wasn’t just a meal. This was a feast, especially for mid-winter. Rare roast beef with braised turnips and sesame oil, sweet barley cakes, and boiled eggs. Was this how this man ate all the time? Was he some middling noble who chose to locate his city home near where he did the most business?

That thought was almost worse than her previous. She had suffered more than enough at the hand of nobles; what irony would it be that her supposed benefactor was yet another?

“Are you not going to eat?” the man asked, breaking the long silence.

She looked up to find him still watching her. “I—by your leave, Dal?” she stammered, unnerved by his scrutiny.

“Obviously.”

She swallowed and inclined her head.

Her manners and the man’s gaze were forgotten the moment the food touched her tongue. In no time the plate was empty again, and she filled and emptied it twice over before she began to feel sated.

The man didn’t speak to her while she was eating, and as she finally slowed, she became conscious again of his gaze.

She flushed and wiped her mouth with the napkin set on the table above her plate. Now I find out what he wants with me , she thought. He didn’t seem the type to pluck a waif off the street out of the kindness of his heart, and if his purpose were carnal—or only carnal—why feed her first?

She hesitated and then lifted her eyes to meet his. For the first time, she studied the stranger more closely. The tone of his skin was the creamy medium beige of native Setanans, so that told her nothing more than that he was likely from Cadmyr, Weylyn, or Arlana. His hair and eyes were dark brown to match. He was of average height for a man and had a medium build—from what she could tell, given his loose-fitting clothing—and, indeed, he seemed middle-aged.

Everything about his physical appearance was unremarkable.

Except his eyes. They were penetrating, as if they could cut right through her every thought. He didn’t look away at her scrutiny, and the continued silence became once again uncomfortable.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “You’ve been uncommonly kind,” she said. “Thank you.”

He didn’t respond immediately, in word or gesture. When he did, it was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Why were you on the streets?”

She hadn’t expected that question. Her name, perhaps, or finally an indication of what he wanted from her, but not that. Was he a slaver, perhaps, looking to make easy money by abducting beggars who looked like they could be nursed back to a salable state?

And where did she even begin? “I-I-I don’t—”

“Don’t stutter. It’s irritating.” His eyes swept over her. “You’re from Ferehar.”

She swallowed. An obvious enough observation, given the deep amber-bronze tone of her skin. “Yes, Dal.”

“A long way from home.”

Was he trying to determine if anyone would miss her?

The food in her stomach was heavy. There was no one. None at all. Not anymore. Because of her own foolishness.

She found herself taking a few gulps of air in response to a tightening feeling in her lungs. She looked down at her lap and curled her hands into fists. She had lived with the struggle to meet her most basic needs for too long. Now that they had been met in full, at least temporarily, the reminder of how she had ended up here swept in to fill the void—and she didn’t want to have this stranger prying and prodding her about it. “Let me save you the trouble, Dal,” she said quietly. “My father and mother are dead, and my sister—” Her voice broke, and her hand went reflexively to the rose pendant again. “If you intend me for ill use, there is no one alive who would rise to my defense. Please, may we skip the feigned pleasantries?”

He was silent for long enough that she felt the need to look back up at him if only to see what he was doing.

He was doing nothing. Only watching her, his face impassive and unreadable. “You’re afraid of me,” he said, not quite a question, but almost.

She had been. She still was—a bit. But right now resignation and despair were competing with that fear—and winning. But how could she explain that? “Wouldn’t you be?”

To her surprise, he chuckled. It wasn’t the sort of chuckle one might expect in response to a jest; instead, it was low and soft, as though to himself, and he wore no smile to match his supposed merriment. “What’s your name?”

She furrowed her brow. She didn’t understand his game. “Ivana,” she replied. Not Ana. She would never be Ana again.

“Ivana.” He rolled the name around on his tongue, as if tasting it. “Ivana. You may be assured that you are quite safe from ill-use while here.” He stood up. “Follow.”

* * *

Once again, Ivana felt as though she had little choice but to follow the stranger. With a lamp in his hand, he led her down a short hall and to a room that was barely large enough to deserve the moniker—it was more of a large closet.

He ushered her inside. “You will stay here,” he said. “And you will dine with me when I am home. When I am not, my housekeeper will see to your needs.”

Ivana was speechless. He didn’t intend to mistreat her—or so he said—and had opened his home to her with no conditions, for no apparent reason? “I… What do you want from me in return?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But perhaps one day I’ll find a use for you.”

He secured the lamp to a bracket on the wall and turned to leave.

“Dal,” she said.

He waited but didn’t turn around.

“May I know your name?” she asked.

There was a long pause and then, “Elidor.” With that, he disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

Ivana turned around once in the tiny room; there was room to do little else. The only pieces of furniture were a cot, on which someone—she presumed the housekeeper—had laid out a clean dress and a nightgown, and a small stand holding an empty washbasin with a cracked mirror above it. A single step would take her to the cot, and the step she had already taken into the room had brought her in front of the washbasin. The half-shelf above it held a clock, and the shelf under it held a pitcher of clear water, a chunk of soap, and a hand towel.

And then there was the mirror. She took a step back and bumped into the cot. It was the first time she had seen such a clear reflection of herself since leaving Ferehar. She hardly recognized the gaunt face and hollow eyes staring back at her. She looked every bit the part of a beggar, except cleaner—now. The gods only knew what she must have looked like when her face had been filthy and her hair tangled, and how she must have stunk! It was no wonder she hadn’t convinced anyone to hire her.

The rose pendant that hung at the end of her sister’s necklace rested beneath the hollow of her throat. The bright, delicate flower was out of place against the canvas of her leaden countenance.

She was tired. She wanted to lie down and, frankly, never get up again. She sank down on the cot, propped her back against the wall, and crushed her knees to her chest with her arms—as though if she could only compact herself enough, she might squeeze the aching in her chest right out of herself.

It didn’t work. Instead, she stared at the pitcher of water and the light flickering on its glazed surface. She wished the lump in her throat would break and provide some sort of imagined release through tears.

Except that never worked, either. She cried, and nothing ever changed. No amount of tears would bring back everything she had lost. Her sobs could never erase the terrible mistakes she had made that had ruined them all.

The futility was maddening. Something inside her urged her to scream, to lash out, to punch the bed, or even the wall—as though that would somehow release the pain. But that wouldn’t work, either.

Why had she fought for survival for so long, anyway? What had been her goal? To restart a life for herself, empty and alone?

The light danced a different step for a moment—an unfelt movement in the air, perhaps, or a piece of the burned wick falling down. But it caught on something on the floor, under the lower shelf of the washbasin—a glimmer, a reflection on a polished surface, perhaps.

She sat up straight again, reached down to feel under the shelf, and pulled out a small blade, like one a man might use to shave.

She stared down at it and turned it around in her hand. She didn’t want to die. But neither did she want to exist in this wreckage known as her life.

She ran her thumb over the blade lightly, absently, and recoiled as it bit into her skin.

Stupid . What had she expected?

Blood welled up from the cut, and she grabbed the towel to press it against her thumb for a few moments.

She peeled it away, examined the tiny wound, and then nodded in satisfaction. Barely a paper cut. The pain had lasted but a few moments.

There and then gone. So easy, so quick. If only her life could mimic that little cut.

She drew the razor gently across her forearm. Blood beaded up from the cut once again. So…controlled .

It was hardly even a conscious decision that drove her hand to make another cut and then another. The screams inside fell silent. The aching in her chest, instead of threatening to rip her apart from the inside out, seeped from her skin. It was…comforting. While the cuts were stinging, she could forget.

I’m going crazy , she thought.

As if to prove to herself she wasn’t, she wiped off the razor and put it on the lower shelf. She then lay back down on the cot with the towel wedged between the inside of her arm and her body, and finally fell asleep.

* * *

Outsider

A year and eight months ago

Interestingly, Old Fereharian does not appear to be related to any of the other languages of the continent. Of course, having no written form, it is difficult to—

“Ana, look at this.”

Ivana cradled her forehead in one hand and shifted to bring herself closer to her book and farther from the disturbance. —it is difficult to compare as one might—

“Ana?”

Ivana blinked. Oh . She tore her eyes away and lifted her head to see what her father was looking at. He had one eye pressed to the end of a wooden tube and was peering through it and down to a thin pane of glass that rested beneath.

She sighed but smiled. His latest project: the microscope. They were relatively new, and only a handful of scholars at the universities around Setana had them yet. Her father had no hope of purchasing one himself on his wages, even had they been easy to obtain.

So he had made one.

When she didn’t get up, he looked up from the device and gestured to her.

She placed a bookmark in the book, set it aside, and went to her father so she could see what had him so excited this time.

“Go on,” he said. “Take a look.”

She obediently looked through the tube, stared for a moment, mystified, and then slid the glass out from under the tube to see what the sample was. It held a segment of a thin leaf. She put it back and looked again. Burning skies . Hundreds of spidery lines surrounded dozens of orderly boxes. His microscope had never shown this much detail before. “We’ve studied leaves before,” she said. “What changed?”

He grinned and slid a thick circle of glass—a lens, he called it, like from a pair of spectacles—out of the body of the microscope. “I finally perfected the glass lenses,” he said. “Isn’t it amazing?”

She had to admit it was. “Have the scholars at the universities seen this?”

“Who knows? And even if they haven’t, they aren’t going to listen to a personal tutor with his crude, homemade microscope.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Oh—” He set aside the notebook he had just picked up, no doubt intending to make a note, and instead picked up his hat and set it on his head. He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Can’t be late for the young lord’s afternoon session,” he said with a wink, then left.

Ivana shook her head. She picked up his notebook and flipped absently through it. A year’s worth of notes and discoveries, the latest of the notebooks he had made over the years. He had dozens of them locked away in a chest in her parents’ bedroom.

His talents were wasted on those brats. By now, he ought to have been at one of the universities researching and mentoring other promising young scholars and disseminating his discoveries for the benefit of all Setana.

He had started on that path, but he had given it up when he’d married her mother and she’d become pregnant with Ivana. Now, he was here, in their home region of Ferehar, tutoring the four children of Lord Kadmon.

He had a family to take care of and tutoring for a noble paid better than being a fledgling scholar.

The front door swung open, and she set the notebook down quickly, afraid it was her father having forgotten something—he was protective of his notebooks—but it was only her younger sister, Izel.

She flew in the door like a bird before a storm. “Ana, are you still in here?” she chided. “It’s a gorgeous day, and I’m walking to town for some cider. Come with me!”

Ivana looked toward her book, but Izel moved between Ivana and the table and picked the book up. She paged through it and raised an eyebrow at Ivana. “You shouldn’t leave these lying around,” she said. “If someone were to search our house…”

Ivana snatched the book out of her hand, removed it to their room, and locked it in her trunk.

When she returned to the living room, Izel made a face at her. “I don’t know why you even take such terrible risks.”

“Mama says you can’t understand a culture until you understand the people’s language.”

“We’re not supposed to be learning other languages,” Izel said. “It’s forbidden, if you recall.” She tugged on her arm. “Come on, before Mama comes in from hanging the wash and finds some chore for us to do!”

Ivana sighed. She supposed she could use the chance to stretch her legs. She had been cloistered in the house all day, and a frothy mug of cider at the end of a brisk walk would be nice—especially on one of the first nice days since winter had begun to lose ground to the creep of spring. She retrieved her coin purse, tucked it into the pocket sewn on the inside of her sleeve, and joined Izel, who had already opened the door again.

“Good,” Izel said smugly. “I would hate to have had to threaten you.”

“Threaten me?” Ivana asked, following Izel out the door.

“Yes. With telling Mama and Papa about your thing with Cern.”

Ivana halted, flushing. “What? How do you know about that?”

Izel rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows about that.”

What rumors had Cern being spreading exactly? She shouldn’t have let him kiss her. But she had just wanted to feel, for once, that she wasn’t an outsider among the others her age on Lord Kadmon’s estate and in town. For a few minutes, she had felt appreciated.

Ivana set her jaw and marched forward again, trying to cool her cheeks by force of will alone. “It wasn’t a thing ,” she said. “It was a little bit of kissing. That’s it.”

Izel smirked, but she wisely said nothing further.

* * *

Until they reached the clothier, that is.

Ivana hung back as Izel pressed her hands against the glass window and gazed at the dress displayed there.

“It’s so gorgeous,” Izel said with a sigh.

Ivana eyed the gauzy dress critically. With winter finally giving way to spring, the other girls had been anticipating discovering what that year’s new summer fashions would be. Ironic that Ivana would end up being one of the first to find out, considering what little interest she had in the subject.

The sleeves came down to just above the elbow, where they split and hung free for another handspan. The shoulders held up a plunging neckline, and virtually no back. “Where’s the back of the dress?” she asked, incredulous.

“It’s the latest style from the cities,” Izel said, a hint of reproach in her voice.

“It’s a wonder it stays up at all.”

“Oh, please,” Izel said. “If you were a noble, you’d be wearing one, whatever you thought of it.”

“Well, I’m not.” Ivana craned her neck to see the advertised price. “And nor could either of us ever afford such a thing. Do they raise the price in correlation to how little material the dress contains?”

“It would look fabulous on you,” Izel said, looking Ivana up and down.

There was the tiniest bit of jealousy in her voice, and Ivana found herself flushing again. Ivana wrapped her arms around her bosom, which had blossomed rapidly in the past year—far beyond that of other girls her age.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Staring at it isn’t going to make it more within our reach.”

Izel moved away from the window without further comment.

Ivana, however, found herself glancing back as they continued down the street. It would look good on her, wouldn’t it? The way that neckline plunged…

The thought of the attention it would draw from real men gave her a tiny thrill, and she shivered.

Foolishness .

The word was in her father’s voice.

They walked in silence for a moment until Izel looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “So,” she said. “How was it?”

“How was what?”

“You know. With Cern?”

Ivana glanced at Izel. She appeared to be perfectly serious, even eager to hear the details.

She frowned. “It was all right, I guess.”

“All right? All right ? That’s not how those silt novels you’ve been reading make it sound.”

Ivana’s eyes widened. “What—how—!”

Izel smirked again. “I found one under our pallet. Fascinating stuff.”

“You shouldn’t be reading those filthy things,” Ivana said.

“Oh, and you should? You’re only a year older than me, Ana.”

Ivana swallowed. “A year and a half. And it’s research.”

Izel snorted. “For what ? Future encounters with Cern?”

Not on her life. “All Cern and I did was kiss a little bit. Besides, Cern is a child. The men in those stories are…”

“Experienced?”

“Different.”

Izel harrumphed and appeared to be ready to belabor the point when a long whistle sounded.

“Ana! Heard about you and Cern. Got any left for us?” Whooping laughter rang out from a group of boys loitering on the street ahead. One of them made a rude gesture near his groin.

Ivana’s fists clenched tightly. “Tell Cern,” she said, once they had approached, “that if he spreads any more lies—”

“You’ll what? Suffocate him between your melons?” They laughed again

“Come on, Ana,” Izel said, tugging on her sleeve with one hand and fiddling with the rose pendant she wore around her neck on a fine chain with the other.

Ivana turned away, her face red from more than embarrassment. Stupid, childish—

“Aw, Ana, don’t be mad,” another boy, named Tavil, said. “At least you have something.” He snickered.

Izel flushed, ducked her head, and hurried forward.

Ivana whirled around, and before she could think, she punched Tavil square on the nose.

He yelped and stumbled back, then yelped again when blood spurted from his nose. He glared at Ivana, but she had achieved her goal; he and his friends dispersed.

Ivana rolled her shoulders and flexed her hand. That had felt good—but burning skies, her knuckles hurt.

Izel gaped at her. “Oh, Ana—you shouldn’t have! If Mama and Papa find out—”

“They won’t. That idiot isn’t going to go spreading a story of how a girl decked him.” She sniffed. “Come on. I could really use that cider now.”

* * *

Ivana and Izel chose a table near the door in The Golden Chalice—the nicer of the two town taverns—and ordered a single cider and a plate of honey cakes to share. They split the cost—one selma each, a sixth of their respective monthly allowances. It was an expensive treat for them, but worth it every once in a while.

As they waited for the server to bring their order, Ivana eyed the mistress of the inn. She was hanging a notice on the door. Once she moved out of the way, Ivana read the notice. Apparently, they were looking for extra help.

“What’s so interesting over there?” Izel twisted round in her chair to follow Ivana’s gaze, and then she spun back, her eyes alight. “Think Mama and Papa would let us work here? We could earn some extra coins…”

“I doubt it,” Ivana said. Still, she eyed the notice. The idea of working was appealing. It would distinguish her from idiots like Cern.

The server plunked the cider and honey cakes down in the middle of the table, and at the same time, the door to the tavern swung open again.

The man who stepped through could have stepped out of one of those silt novels. He was tall, young, and handsome, and he had a creamy beige complexion with a layer of bronze underneath—typical of someone who was only part-Fereharian. He stopped for a moment, his eyes scanning the interior of the tavern. They flitted over their table and then roved back. His eyes met her gaze, and, incredibly, he smiled at her.

She turned around, certain that he must have been looking at someone else, but when she turned back, his smile had grown.

She flushed, gave him a tiny smile back, and ducked her head, embarrassed to be caught staring.

To her horror, a moment later he had approached their table. “Ladies,” he said, his voice as warm as his skin. “Only one cider today?”

Izel’s eyes were wide and her mouth open. She swallowed. “Uh—well, we can’t really afford—”

Ivana kicked her under the table, and Izel swiveled her head to look at her, her brow furrowed.

“No reason to overdo it,” Ivana said, conjuring up her most mature voice.

His eyes twinkled. “Indeed,” he said. He smiled again, rapped the table with his knuckles once, and moved on to the bar.

“Burning skies,” Izel said, staring after him. “What’s he doing in a place like this?”

Ivana frowned at her. “Stop gawking,” she said. “This is a respectable tavern; why shouldn’t he stop on the way to wherever he’s going?”

Still, Ivana had to force herself not to turn around to see what he was doing.

It didn’t matter. He was being kind to a pair of girls, that was all.

Except then, her head jerked up as he reappeared at the side of their table.

He picked up their mug of cider, set it directly in front of Izel, and set down another mug in front of Ivana. “Hard to overdo it on cider,” he said, amusement still in his voice, and then he returned to the bar without another word.

Ivana was perplexed. Had he bought them another drink? Surely he must know they couldn’t pay him back.

She took a long drink of the cider, then coughed and put it back down, her eyes watering.

It was cider, but made stronger than she ever drank it.

“Something wrong with it?” Izel asked.

Ivana steeled herself and took another long drink. “No,” she said. “It’s just fine.” She did turn, then, to look at the stranger. He was watching her, and when he saw her glance his way, he winked before turning back to the bar.

What did that mean? Had he given her his drink by accident? But no, he would have figured that out by now. She stared down into the mug, feeling a little nervous.

Izel began chattering away, the incident forgotten, but Ivana was quiet. She finished the cider, not wanting him to think she couldn’t handle it—though, in truth, it burned her throat and stomach.

The handsome stranger didn’t stop to speak to them again on his way out, but he did favor Ivana with another smile before leaving the inn.

This time, it went straight to her gut, and her stomach churned in a way it never had before. Maybe it was the alcohol.

“I think he likes you,” Izel said.

She turned back to look at Izel. “What? Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He thinks we’re sweet little girls, that’s all.”

Izel downed the rest of her cider. “Didn’t smile like that at me,” she said into her mug, and then she stood up and winked at Ivana. “Come on. We should get back.”

Ivana was still too shaken to consider the irony that it was her little sister dragging her home.

* * *

Enjoyed this sample? Sweetblade is available in e-book, paperback, Kindle Unlimited here.

Also by Carol A. Park:

The Heretic Gods

Banebringer (The Heretic Gods #1) – May 2018

Cursebreaker (The Heretic Gods #2) – Dec 2019

Chronicles of the Lady Sar

A World Broken (Chronicles of the Lady Sar #1) – Forthcoming May 2020

Website: carolapark.com

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9

The Bastard from Fairyland

Phil Parker

The world’s sea levels have risen and washed civilisation away. Survival is a constant compromise, made worse when the Fae invade; a cruel and sadistic race eager to turn humanity into slaves. Robin Goodfellow is an elite Fae warrior with a long life steeped in blood and his loyalty has been rewarded by betrayal. Now he lives among humans, growing bitter and lonely, and wants no part in the war.

But Robin holds the key to victory for the Fae, the man who betrayed him demands his help and he’s brought Robin’s ex-lover along to ensure his cooperation. Trapped in the middle of the conflict and despised by both sides, Robin races across a flooded English landscape to rescue the two children who can help him make a difference.

What he doesn’t know is that powerful members of the Fae are manipulating him to succumb to his psychotic alter-ego, Puck, who’s ready to cause even more bloodshed .

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 9

* * *

Chapter 1

There were fairies at the bottom of my garden and they were torturing someone.

Technically they weren’t Fae. My people didn’t like to bloody their hands, they preferred to use sadistic bastards like Spriggans. Their seven-foot height and ape-like limbs made them ideal fighters, it also made them easy to spot through the spy-hole in my boarded windows. What bothered me was why they’d chosen my garden to have fun with their latest victim, currently screaming in a high falsetto. It had to be deliberate provocation.

They’d come for me. Finally. After centuries of waiting, my people had demonstrated how long they could hold a grudge.

They must have thought that by dragging some hapless human to my door and doing unspeakable things to him, it would bring me running. Screams turned into a high-pitched wail. It had to be a kid. They were trying to yank my heart strings, obviously no one had told them they’d been severed long ago. This wasn’t my fight, whoever was screaming wasn’t my responsibility, I’d be stupid to give up the safety of my cottage, booby-trapped for just this eventuality.

More screams. A plea for it to stop. Silence.

I waited. Listened.

A loud, protracted howl, like a wounded animal. A pause. Next, gibbering calls for help, designed to draw me out. They’d know I’d been a Trooping Fairy once, how the need to save others had been hard-wired into my brain. Indoctrination I’d spent centuries in the human realm trying to repress.

Another plea for help, desperate and raw now. They’d keep it going, Spriggans knew how to make torture last, it was an art form to them. It all came down to how long I could hold out listening to its orchestration.

Whoever was in charge of fetching me home, knew what they were doing. It was the screams of a kid. I couldn’t stand by and listen to the injustice of it any longer.

Well, never let it be said Robin Goodfellow didn’t answer the call, no matter if it was from a bloody refugee’s brat who was nothing more than bait. I grabbed my iron sword from where it hung, pride of place, on my kitchen wall. Unlocked the door, threw it open.

‘All right, you Spriggan bastards. Want a fight, do you?’

Sword aloft, running for all I was worth, battle fury rediscovered after all this time.

‘Come on then!’

Four Spriggans, built like enormous orang-utans, turned their attention from a teenage boy strung up between two apple trees in my orchard, the skin on his back striped red. He was a pathetic specimen of humanity, a bag of bones in rags plastered to his body by the freezing rain. Confident in their greater number, the four Spriggans lazily raised swords and cudgels, ignorant of what it meant to be a Trooping Fairy. I smiled. I’d enjoy teaching them never to underestimate an assailant, a lesson I’d learned painfully long ago.

One of them, the tallest, strode towards me, heavy footsteps squelching in the mud, cudgel raised over his bald head. He picked up speed as I got within striking distance, with a circular movement of his arm he swung his cudgel to drive my jaw into my brain. Except I wasn’t where he expected me to be. I pivoted, turned through ninety degrees, heard the swish of the cudgel as it flew past my handsome features. It left his seven-foot frame exposed for a second, enough time to run my blade through a bloated stomach that brought him tumbling to the ground. I sliced the throat as I turned to face my next opponent who was rapidly reassessing the threat it faced.

Spriggans are good fighters but they’re not quick. At moving or thinking. By the time it had decided I wasn’t going to be a pushover, I’d sliced a bloody gash across its thighs so it fell to its knees, a better height from which to cut its throat. It fell next to its comrade, their blood forming red pools amidst the tussocks of long grass.

A strong wind, straight off the Bristol Channel, strafed us with pellets of ice. I was used to our new form of extreme British weather; my chums weren’t. The next Spriggan roared its anger as it held its long blade aloft and ran towards me, wiping rainwater off its face. All you need is a distraction, a second where your opponent is focused on something else. I was trained to ignore all extraneous factors, schooled in ways so painful you never forgot the lesson, I allowed the rain and the ice to hit my face and kept my eyes fixed on my rangy and angry adversary.

The trouble with fighting Spriggans lies in their length of reach, they can slice your head off before you can inflict a scratch, the answer lies in getting inside their arms before your head hits the floor and rolls away. Wiping his eyes at just the right moment gave me that chance, I ducked my head and ran at him. I gambled on the mud allowing me to push him backwards while preventing his greater strength from getting the traction needed to stop me. My bet paid off, my head hit firm stomach muscle but I had enough momentum to cause him to lose his balance. His arms windmilled as he tried to remain upright, an action that made him commit the gravest sin any warrior could commit. He dropped his sword. I grinned as I remembered the beatings I’d suffered for doing the same thing, memories are fickle like that. As he toppled backwards, like a demolished chimney stack, I ran him through. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The fourth spriggan looked aghast at the carnage and then glanced at his knife, then at me. His fear was evident in the way his hand shook as he drew back the knife he’d used to get the sound effects he wanted from the boy. With a deft flick of its wrist, he flung it, I ducked and it struck the apple tree behind me, no more than an inch from my head.

I didn’t take my eyes off him as I reached up and pulled it out of the wood, he stared back at me through the rain, rooted to the spot, unwilling to commit to any other reaction until he knew my intention. I flipped the knife so the handle fitted snugly in my hand, making it obvious what I intended to do.

‘Who sent you?’

The Spriggan’s eye focused on the knife, waiting for me to throw it. In the silence that followed the kid’s snivelling sobs and gasps were the only answer I received. I deliberately looked at his body and allowed my face to show anger.

‘I’m not going to kill you. Not straight away.’ I pantomimed weighing the knife in my hand and looked into the creature’s face. ‘I’ll stop you from running away first. You’re going to get this in your groin. Then I’ll string you up.’

Spriggans aren’t cowards but I suspected this one had been brought along for his skill at torturing rather than his ability to fight, he was squat and lumpy in comparison to the rest. He swallowed heavily and did nothing to hide his panic.

‘So, unless you want to answer my question in a high voice, who sent you?’

He looked beyond my garden fence, to the empty street, then to the pathway at the side of my cottage. He was expecting reinforcements.

So was I. It made no sense to send a handful of spriggans, they had to know I’d defeat them easily. None of this made any sense.

He must have thought he’d distracted me sufficiently to give him time to hide behind the spread-eagled boy, as though those scarecrow dimensions offered any protection. Before he’d moved two steps he screamed as the knife struck him squarely between his legs and he crumbled to the wet earth, holding what was left of his genitals, blood coursed through his fingers.

I strode over to him, he watched, petrified and blubbering.

‘I told you. Next answer in a high voice. Who sent you?’

I yanked him up by the collar, exposing his throat, with my other hand I pressed my blade against it. He squealed loudly, like a stuck pig.

‘Last chance…’

Amidst pleas for mercy, his snivelling delivered my answer, ‘The High Lord.’

I sighed. Oberon had finally decided to punish me. There would be others arriving shortly, this little incident was no more than a calling card. They’d turn up in greater numbers, I doubted they’d care if they took me back dead or alive. I certainly wasn’t bothered.

I ran the blade across soft flesh and let the body drop to the ground.

I was soaking wet and freezing cold, as the adrenalin from the fight faded, I felt empty and flat. I began to plan my resistance for when the rest arrived. I certainly wasn’t going to cooperate and accompany them without taking as many out as I could. I had a reputation to uphold.

The boy’s sobbing penetrated my deliberations. I ambled over, cut his ropes with my sword and watched him slump to the muddy ground. All he wore was a thin pair of trousers and shoes that were falling apart, his skin was blue with cold, where it wasn’t streaked with his blood. In this weather, he’d die of hypothermia, it was common among refugees at this time of year. Bodies like his littered the countryside. He looked up at me as I turned to make my way back to the cottage, I needed to get ready.

‘Please. Help me. Please. Mister Goodfellow.’

I froze. The kid knew my name. My mind raced with explanations, paranoia fed every one of them. I turned and looked into the desperate features of the lad, he had to be no more than fifteen though he was so thin it was difficult to tell. The kid tried to smile but the freezing rain washed it off.

It was his deep brown eyes and high cheek bones that reminded me of an older version of the youth staring up at me.

‘Are you…?’ I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

The kid nodded, the smile appeared again. ‘Mickey’s brother. Yeah. I’m Simon.’

‘Where is he?’

A flicker of eyes and snatched breath told me what to expect.

‘Dead.’ Eyes found the mud at his feet and stared at it. ‘The Taunton gang. Two months ago.’

I stared at the kid as feelings, pushed down deep, found their way back to the surface. Mickey had always looked for the best in people, he was naïve in that way. He’d been the same with me, insisted I found a purpose to life again, laughed at my rants, dismissed my dark moods and made my bed a place of happiness. Qualities that had got him killed.

The kid looked up at me, red eyes full of tears, breath coming in spasms. He didn’t need to repeat his plea for help, my expression probably showed the regret. I pulled my attention away from the kid, tried to remind myself of those severed heart strings but apparently, they’d regrown. I looked around the garden, at the street beyond, expectant. I still couldn’t work out why the Fae had used this kid, unless it had just been some awful coincidence.

‘Oh, fucking hell. Get inside.’

The lad struggled to stand, in the end it was quicker to pick him up and carry him indoors, he weighed so little it was like carrying an infant. I took him into the bathroom, cleaned his wounds and ran a bath.

‘I’ll find some clothes. There’ll be food downstairs afterwards.’

‘Mickey said you were a good man. He loved you, you know.’

I did. That was why I’d driven him away. Towards a murderous bunch of bastards who ruled like medieval warlords. I went downstairs, furious at myself for breaking my golden rule of not getting involved with humans. Like my rabbit casserole, my resentment simmered for the next fifteen minutes, until the kid turned up, wrapped in a towel.

I nodded to the pile of clothes on a chair, left behind by his brother. While he dressed, I ladled casserole into two bowls. I turned around and sighed at the scarecrow lost in the clothes of a man with a muscular body, one I’d savoured getting to know.

Those Taunton bastards had murdered a soldier, a man who’d fought at the Battle of Swindon to protect them from the Fae invasion, the injustice of it stirred resentment into anger. I stared at the kid as he wolfed down the casserole, at the features that summoned his brother’s ghost. It had been good to spend time with another warrior, someone who understood what it meant to fight so others could live. The memory only made me aware of how lonely I was now, so I dismissed it. I filled the kid’s bowl a second time, it was gone in no time. I filled our mugs with cider, the lad drank it thirstily, and thanked me.

‘What happened to Mickey?’ I ground my teeth, furious at myself for wanting to know the details. ‘What were you doing getting caught by those Taunton bastards?’

The kid shuddered and, for a moment, he looked like he was going to blub again. He controlled himself with a few deep breaths.

‘There was no work here in Glastonbury, except for those with boats brave enough to risk the storms at sea. There was supposed to be work picking apples…’

‘He should have known better. There haven’t been large orchards since the mega-storms destroyed them a decade ago. There isn’t work anywhere. It’s just stories of hope passed around by refugees. He shouldn’t have gone. He should have stayed here.’

My tempest blew itself out the moment I uttered that final sentence. The kid looked at me, wide-eyed. Quieter now. So was my own voice.

‘I told him not to trust people.’

Wind hurtled down the chimney, making sparks dance like hyperactive fireflies. Nothing I’d learned so far explained why the Fae had used this kid for bait. Or why they weren’t already attacking me. With the meal finished I motioned for the lad to join me in front of the fire in the hope he could provide some answers.

‘And why did you come back?’

He stared into the flames, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the landscape beyond my walls.

‘I used to live here. Till the floods destroyed everything. I thought I stood a better chance in a place I knew. Except nothing’s the same any more, is it?’

‘And you travelled all this way without getting caught by slavers? Or by the Fae?’

He looked at me just a little too long before turning back to the fire, watching me out of the corners of his eyes. I growled a threat and it was enough. His words tumbled from his mouth, like he was desperate to spew them out.

‘They found me. Near the coast. They were going to kill me.’ He shuddered. ‘Until they asked me if I knew this town, when I said I did, that was when they got interested.’

I held my breath.

‘They asked me if I knew you.’

There we were. Finally.

‘What did you say?’ The kid had stopped, probably expecting me to vent my fury. I felt vaguely surprised there wasn’t any fury to vent.

‘I didn’t want to tell them, Mister Goodfellow.’

‘But you did.’

A tight nod. ‘I’m not very good at lying. And I was scared. I told them everything I knew. All the stuff Mickey had told me about you.’

I wasn’t angry at the kid, I’d got the answers I needed. I stood up, I had to get ready. I took my supply of salt from the cupboard, it has a painfully astringent effect on Spriggan skin. The kid watched, his question didn’t disguise the hope in his voice.

‘You’re going to fight them, aren’t you? Like you did the others.’ He ignored my grunt of disinterest. ‘Mickey said you used to be a soldier for them. You know, the fairies. Is that true?’

I ignored him and started to clean Spriggan blood from my sword.

‘It’s just that you don’t look like a fairy. When I was a kid, you know, before the floods and stuff, I thought fairies were small, with wings and looked like flowers.’

‘We have the Victorians to thank for that.’

‘Who?’ He scrutinised my face with a frown, when I didn’t reply he continued. ‘Mickey said you’re really old too. But you look like a young man, there’s no lines on your face or stuff like that. You look the same age as Mickey.’

‘Yeah, it’s all down to a healthy diet.’

He scowled, uncertain if I was being serious.

‘Mickey said you could see how old you were by looking in your eyes but I can’t, they’re just really deep blue.’

‘Yeah. Well. Mickey talked a load of shit.’

The lad blinked, realised he was treading on thin ice. His endless references to Mickey made my simmering anger return to the boil, I needed to bring this cosy situation to an end.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’m not a nice man. For a very long time, do you know how your people described me?’ A shake of the head. ‘A demon. A hobgoblin. They even wrote a play about me, I wasn’t very nice in that either. I’m something more than a soldier. It’s why, when they come for me, you need to be long gone. It won’t be safe to be near me. Do you understand?’

We both heard the heavy footsteps outside, the kid looked at me, panic written across his face in capital letters. He wasn’t going to escape and we both knew it. I ran to the spyholes in my boarded windows, there were Spriggans everywhere, standing like sentinels. They’d be waiting for whoever was in charge to give the order to attack. I grabbed my sword and turned to the kid.

‘Get upstairs, quick. Find somewhere to hide.’

He didn’t hesitate, he hauled up his clown trousers and hurried to the staircase.

An explosion rocked the cottage, dust fell from the ceiling beams. They’d tried to get in upstairs, it looked like my ancient booby-traps still worked. Outside urgent commands were bellowed. Another explosion and outside things landed heavily on the ground. More commands, growled and furious this time. They were going to make me suffer for this but I didn’t care, I was a Trooping Fairy and we always ran towards a fight, never away. A loud thud smacked against the door and I held my sword ready.

* * *

‘The Bastard from Fairyland’ is available from Amazon via http:// viewauthor. at/ PhilParker priced 99p/99c.

More details about the book and author can be found via https:// www. philparker- fantasywriter.com/

Phil can be found on Twitter at https:// twitter. com/ PhilSpeculates or on Facebook https:// www. facebook. com/ philparkerfantasywriter where he administers the British & Irish Writing Community and is editor of their Bard of the Isles e-zine .

10

Vultures

Luke Tarzian

An enemy slain is not a conflict won...

After decades of war the demon Te Mirkvahíl is dead. But its progeny endure, spilling from the Heart of Mirkúr, sowing death across the land of Ariath. If the people are to finally know peace, the Heart must be destroyed. Theailys An believes he can do just that with The Keepers' Wrath, an infamous power focus wrought in Ariath's yesteryears--but the weapon first must be reforged.

War spares no on e...

Serece never intended to get involved in Ariath's war. But history and demons have a way of pulling strings. When she learns Theailys An, a man whom she abhors, bears striking similarity to the first creator of The Keepers' Wrath, Serece departs her mountain world for Ariath to ascertain the truth.

From patience, hope...

For millennia Behtréal has walked the world alone. Rewriting history to resurrect his people is easier said than done. But Ariath holds the key--soon The Keepers' Wrath will be remade.

Truth fro m madness...

As paths converge and a shadow falls across Ariath, one thing becomes increasingly and horrifyingly clear--these events have played out many times before .

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

1

The Month of Jul, Mid Year 1169

Theailys An retched and the odor was almost as foul as that of the mangled corpse a few feet from where he knelt. A fantastic way to ring in his thirtieth year, to be sure. His younger self would have been surprised, horrified by the headless torso and the limbs strewn across the grass, by the gossamer threads of shadow leaking from the wounds—but that was then. Blackouts and mutilated bodies had become commonplace these last few years and it was hard to find shock in something so perversely routine.

Ignoring the carnage, Theailys stood and started through the moonlit trees. This has got to stop, he thought, though he knew the words held little weight. The breathing exercises his mother had taught him as a child did little to quell the murderous voice in his head, and his medication was as useful as a torch in rain. Had Theailys’ victims been human he was sure the Faithbringers would have locked him up ages ago. Keepers, sometimes he wished the corpses had been, if only to validate his guilt.

He arrived at Helveden’s southern periphery gate. A cold sweat rose from his pores. Nearly two dozen corpses lay strewn across the road; blood stained the cobbles black in the dark of night. Theailys had never before seen this many after a blackout. He had never seen human bodies after a blackout.

What did you do ? he hissed inwardly.

The voice in his head giggled, manifesting as a spindly white-eyed silhouette. It’d taken to calling itself Faro, a once common name made infamous four centuries prior by the wartime slaughter and treason of Faro Fatego. History told he too had seen shadows, had whispered to the voices in his head. Taking that into consideration it was an aptly appropriated name.

Answer me, Theailys growled as they walked in step.

“You—demon!”

Armored footsteps clanked his way. Theailys blinked, then found himself swarmed by half a dozen Faithbringers, collared by the tips of their crystalline longswords as Faro paced circles around them; the Faithbringers could not see him. Their blades were slick with blood and their white half-plate bore signs of conflict. Theailys sucked in a ragged breath, then exhaled.

“Did you call the lokyns here?” growled the lead Faithbringer.

“No.” Theailys stole a glance at Faro, who had taken to licking the Faithbringer’s cheeks. He took another breath to compose himself. “What reason would I have for doing so?”

“You tell me,” the Faithbringer said. His face twitched and Faro snickered. “The enemy are your ancient brethren.”

“Aren’t you an astute one?” Theailys crossed his arms. “Yes, my people are a lokyn sect, but we are no more the enemy than you are.” Then, stepping forward so the sword tip touched his throat and drew a dot of blood: “Recall it was the mirkúr-wielding human Faro Fatego whom the enemy tasked to lead its brood, to whom our city nearly fell.”

The Faithbringer snarled. Theailys had touched a nerve, though not one tender enough to provoke assault, not that the Faithbringers actually had grounds, nor were they dense enough to severely maim the only man who could finally bring an end to the new lokyn war. The Faithbringer sheathed his dragon’s tooth of a blade, the others following his lead, then grabbed Theailys by the collar of his robes and shoved him toward the gate.

Theailys crossed the threshold, the southern farmlands stretching out before him, vast and gold, the late-night air imbued with an amalgamation of wet grass, rot, and death. As his blackouts had become commonplace so too had this perfume. It would remain as such so long as the lokyns ran amok.

“You could reap the demon scum.. Keep their essence for your own, ” Faro said. “The power of those blackened souls and the mirkúr they possess— ”

No, Theailys thought. Keepers only know what I do when you take control, but I refuse to reap while I’m awake, not until I have to at least. Not until I’m standing at the Heart of Mirkúr with The Keepers’ Wrath in hand.

Faro snickered. “Oh, my Flesh… ”—Theailys hated the byname—“You amuse me so! You truly expect your little power focus to imbue you with the strength to reap the barrier that yet surrounds the Heart! ”

Considering the recreation of The Keepers’ Wrath has been my life these past five years, yes, I do, Theailys thought as they continued on. Pray tell, what do you find amusing about that?

“History, ” the white-eyed shadow said. “I sometimes read while you’re asleep. ”

Better than maiming, Theailys thought.

“Debatable. ” Faro grinned at Theailys. “My amusement though, dear Flesh, is in the irony of you taking up the very weapon Faro Fatego used to nearly bring your country to its knees. ”

The irony of this had not been lost on Theailys. In fact, it had nearly caused him to abandon the endeavor completely on several occasions. As far as Theailys was concerned the end of this war couldn’t come soon enough. With any luck, soon enough was perhaps three weeks away, four at the most.

He held his hand out to Faro. The grinning shadow took it gleefully and the two were made one as they entered Helveden proper, abuzz with the apprehensive merriment evoked by wartime fear and drink. Here the farmland stench dissolved, replaced by horse shit, piss, and bile. Theailys yawned, continuing up the oak-lined promenade, heading northeast toward the Hall of Illumurgists and sleep. He had gone perhaps half a mile when he heard his name.

A pale man in black Hall robes approached from the west. He carried a slip of parchment. “Mistress Khal and Queen Ahnil require your immediate presence at the Bastion,” he said, fingering the hour-old timestamp. “The, um…requisitions team has, um…returned.”

Theailys raised an eyebrow. He’d not been expecting them for another week. He yanked the summons from the man and scanned it hastily, groaning. The requisitions team had returned, indeed—as body parts in silken sacks.

* * *

The queen’s council sat sequestered in the Bastion’s war room. They’d convened an hour prior to Theailys’ arrival, but his tardiness was the least of their concerns.

“This is bad, to put it mildly,” Mistress Khal said. The Master Illumurgist sat parallel to Theailys, brow furrowed. “If word gets out about this people will call for blood and the generals may very well oblige them.”

“At which point we’ll have grossly smeared our covenant with the phantaxians,” Theailys said. “The…remains they sent us were a sign, a simple warning to respect the laws laid out on either side, not a declaration of war.”

“Yes, but do you really think a people festering in fear will see it like that?” Khal asked.

“Of course not,” Theailys scoffed. “Our country is historically, barbarically rash. Any non-human is a perceivable threat. The phantaxians were forcefully exiled from the enclaves because of a plague unique unto their race and the dissident are routinely beaten and hung. Just yesterday a child was found strung up in the western farmlands. A child !”

Theailys stood to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Regardless—” He heaved a sigh. “Regardless, this business sets completion of The Keepers’ Wrath even further behind schedule than it already was.”

“You have a thought, then, brother?” asked Searyn, Theailys’ twin sister and Faithbringer general.

Theailys offered the room a reluctant nod. “The conception of this weapon was my doing; I’m the only one who can wield it. I’ll fulfill the requisitions myself. Time is of the essence and we can ill afford offending the phantaxians again. I hold favor with their king; that should help to some degree.” He paused. “If my queen and council approve, of course.”

They did, unanimously.

“I’ll need three weeks, four at the most depending on how smoothly things go,” Theailys said to Searyn. Round trip, it was about a three-week undertaking, but it was necessary to have a bit of a cushion considering the state of things. “Will your forces be able to hold ground near the Heart?”

“It’s doable, though the quicker you are, the better. Our numbers are stretched thin as of late,” she admitted, grimacing. “Te Mirkvahíl is dead by my own blade, which makes things a bit easier, but recent reports suggest the rate at which the Heart of Mirkúr is spawning lokyns has increased tenfold.”

“These are substantiated by the frequency with which they slaughter villages in the west,” Queen Ahnil said. “Not to mention the prevalence of their attempts to breach our walls.”

“Understood. I’ll make preparations to depart in two days’ time.” Theailys rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “If there is nothing else…”

The queen obliged him with a nod. “You are free to retire.”

Theailys touched his right hand to his left shoulder in the formal salute and withdrew.

Footsteps trailed behind him, soft against the stone floor. “Feeling all right, brother?”

Theailys slowed to walk in step with Searyn. “Relatively speaking. It was only one corpse this time.”

“A good day then.” Searyn pushed a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “You aren’t tired.”

“No.” There was no point in lying, Searyn could read him like a book. “Just distracted. Three years to the day. Three years since…” Theailys tensed his jaw. Even after all this time he still had difficulty saying his wife’s name. Part of it was grief, but most of it was guilt. He swallowed the lump in his throat and allowed a ragged sigh to escape his lips.

Searyn offered a sad smile and squeezed his arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Theailys said. “If I do it’ll be impossible for me to focus. But…”

Searyn raised an eyebrow. “But…?”

“Sometimes I think myself a fool to have embarked on such an undertaking,” Theailys said. “History has not been kind where The Keepers’ Wrath is concerned. Have you heard of Anasharon Anor?” Searyn shook her head. “She was Faro Fatego’s wife, and in his quest to forge this weapon he accidentally reaped her soul, same as I did to Anayela.”

“Perdition,” Searyn murmured. “That’s awful.”

“War is awful,” Theailys said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But you know that more than most…” The question sat on the tip of his tongue. In all the months since Searyn had returned there was one thing they’d yet to speak at length about. “What was it like running your blade through that monster?”

“Awful,” Searyn said. She offered nothing more and Theailys knew better than to press, especially at such a thing as this. “Are you heading off to sleep?”

“Not yet,” Theailys said. “The burial grounds.”

“I’ll take my leave.” Searyn kissed him on the cheek. “Try not to linger longer than you need.”

“Hmm.”

Presently Theailys withdrew into the cold night, starting south for the burial mounds. They were swathed in thick mist by the time he arrived, analogous of the pressure in his chest. Privy to this parallel, Faro roused from slumber with a shriek. Theailys offered nothing in response. The past three years had numbed him to the sound.

“Mmm. Fun ,” Faro hissed as he took shape to Theailys’ right. “Smells like fun here with the dead, my Flesh. Have you come to kiss your Anayela’s corpse? ”

Theailys rubbed his thumb against his index finger. A wisp of illum bloomed to light his way along the path. Faro snarled as they continued on. His abhorrence for Theailys’ use of illum, minimal as it was these days, was perhaps as strong as Helveden’s fear of Theailys’ ability to wield mirkúr. The power of betrayers and demons, the people said. The weapon of Te Mirkvahíl.

A face from nightmare memory flashed across Theailys’ mind. He clenched his teeth. Maybe they were right . He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“You see, Flesh? Light makes you weak. You could be stronger if you snuffed it out, silenced it like night does the sun .” Faro grabbed Theailys’ hand. “Let me show you. Let me help you feel while you’re awake. ”

Theailys yanked his hand out of the shadow’s grasp. Not. Here. Keepers, anywhere but here! He refused to let this darkness take control where corpses slept. Where Anayela’s body lay at rest. He’d already let the mirkúr take her soul—the best he could do now was to keep it from tasting her dead flesh.

“Are you sure? Not just this once? ” Faro pled, stroking Theailys’ face and arms. “I could ease your suffering with just a thread, a string of smoke to make her rise— ”

Stop. Theailys’ fingertips were cold; the mirkúr was aroused.

“—and you could hold her in your arms, my Flesh. ”

Theailys gnashed his teeth together as the world spun into obscurity. Please!

“Dance beneath the starlight like you used to do.

Before you reaped her soul. ”

* * *

A raven landed on the branch of an oak tree. It bore no leaves and its bark was the color of old ash. Theailys held his arm out and the raven came to him. It cocked its head, its beady eyes unmoving.

“Varésh,” Theailys said, acknowledging the creature by its name. He stroked its head, the feathers soft, if not a bit oily. “The world sits in your eyes.”

The raven’s eyes fluctuated cyclically from black to white.

“The darkness and the light,” Theailys said. “You have seen it all.”

Varésh squawked.

Theailys chuckled. “Why fly so far? What do you hope to find?”

Varésh clucked, flapping his wings.

Theailys sighed. “If you must. What do you make of dreams, old friend?”

Varésh hopped along Theailys’ arm until he rested on his shoulder. He snapped his beak at a measured pace.

Theailys nodded. “I see. Is this always so? Is there always an ounce of truth to things we dream or is this simply your opinion, bird?”

Varésh clucked, taking flight. He landed on a tree branch, then bird and branch erupted into flames. Theailys simply stared. He took a seat in the grass and watched the oak tree turn to ash. From the ruin arose a slender silhouette. Theailys eyed the faceless shape, unmoving as he too caught fire and burned to ash, his remnants scattering in the wind.

* * *

Starlight twinkled into being. Theailys jolted upward from the dirt, a scream caught in his throat, subdued only by his need to gulp the wet air. He trembled as the silhouette persisted in his thoughts, leering with her eyeless stare, taunting wordlessly just as she had done every week for the past three years. A monument to Theailys’ failure.

He retched—a near certainty after a blackout—then scanned the area for remains. Keepers only knew what Faro had made him do. He saw nothing, but his heart thumped wildly when he realized Anayela’s burial mound stood several feet from where he knelt. He pushed himself to his feet, knees knocking together, and approached. His stomach dropped, and urine dripped down his legs.

Mirkúr tendrils clung to shards of broken earth. Where once his wife had lain was now a vacant tomb.

Anayela’s corpse was gone.

* * *

2

Serece yanked her crystalline blade from the lokyn’s forehead with a grinding squelch. The demon’s essence turned to ash and scattered in the wind, leaving behind the rotted remains of whomever it’d possessed. Disgusting things, these parasitic shadows. Absolute abominations of nature.

She pressed east, distant shrieks muffled by her hood. She hoped they belonged to lokyns falling prey to phantaxian blades, but the demons were so horrifically adept at mimicking voices it was sometimes hard to tell. A sound in the darkness of the pine trees ahead slowed her pace. She advanced in a crouch, fingers dancing on the hilt of her dagger.

“Serece.”

Serece kept on, eyes narrowed, heart thumping. The voice sounded like Sharya.

“Temper Yssa,” Serece recited, grip tightening.

“Don’t let it harness you,” Sharya replied.

Serece took a deep breath.

Then launched a crystalline throwing knife in the direction of the voice. The unseen impact drew a guttural wheeze. When after several seconds no retaliation came, Serece entered the trees to collect her knife.

She looked at the naked corpse, at the blade hilt-deep in the black, rotted skull. It was a lesser demon; the others didn’t fall so easily. She yanked the weapon free and spat.

“Sharya doesn’t speak using contractions, víthurstyg.”

Serece continued on her way, the night now still and quiet. Her ears twitched occasionally as they always did when she was anxious. She arrived at the village square whereupon she found Sharya and her adoptive sisters, Sorin and Taür, gathering the newly dead.

“The others?” Serece asked.

“Lighting pyres in the east,” Sharya said. “What of the west?”

“Abandoned,” Serece said. “Save a couple of lokyns.” She looked at the corpses. “Were there any survivors?” Sharya heaved a sigh, and Serece understood. Her chest tightened and her free hand balled into a fist. “This is the third village this week. I—”

“Should suppress what anger you have stewing and refrain from asking why ,” Taür suggested. “The lokyns kill for sport. It’s as simple as that.”

Serece frowned. “I know, and I’ve never questioned that. What strikes me as odd, sister , is their very existence. The Ariathans claim to have finally slain Te Mirkvahíl, yet its progeny infest our lands like the plague does our flesh.”

“You assume the demons’ lives are bound to Te Mirkvahíl’s own,” said Sorin, “but there is no evidence to give credence to that belief. Te Mirkvahíl was the puppet master, the head of the serpent if you will, and when you rend a serpent’s head from its body it will cease to function properly. For just a moment it will writhe, its actions uncontrolled.”

Serece looked to Sharya for support, but the captain offered nothing more than a shrug and small shake of her head.

Serece turned her back to the women, grumbling. “Father believes me.”

“Of course he does,” Sorin said. “Now that Rejya’s dead who better to indulge his theories than the royal bastard, hmm?”

Serece wheeled around and smacked Sorin across the face. The shorter woman yelped and staggered to the side, strands of silver hair peeking out from beneath her hood. She glared at Serece, cold blue eyes shifting back and forth between shock and anger.

Sharya stepped between the two, glancing disgustedly at each in turn. “You are childish with your words,” she said to Sorin. To Serece, “And you are quick to give yourself to anger. In doing so you both disrespect the phantaxian tenets and put us in danger of provoking Yssa’s wrath.”

“Idiots,” Taür muttered, rolling her eyes.

Serece drew her hood further past her eyes. Rejya’s narrow-eyed image took shape in her mind, chiding her with pursed lips and a tilted head.

I know, I know, Serece thought. Temper Yssa.

Temper fury.

Rejya’s image arched an eyebrow. “If you know, ” she seemed to say, “then why do I still sense Yssa feeding off of you? ”

To that, Serece had no answer, and she let the memory of her fallen sister dissipate with shame, a centuries-old emptiness welling in the center of her chest. A void created first by her infant daughter’s death, followed by Rejya’s death, then widened by the gradual loss of friends and family as the years had passed. She chewed her lower lip, sniffing back tears, then finally let a ragged breath escape and linger in the air.

“I’m sorry.”

Sorin shrugged at the apology—she was prone to holding grudges. She brushed past Serece and set to helping a trio of newcomers erect the funeral pyre. Taür followed suit, the pair whispering back and forth.

Half an hour later the pyre blazed, and thick, acrid plumes of smoke carried fallen spirits upward to the Second Life. Or so Serece had always been told they did, and in this instance, liked to believe.

“Burn the buildings,” Sharya ordered, handing Serece a torch.

Serece made for the structures north of the square, their pane-less windows not unlike the lifeless eyes of the bodies charring on the pyre behind her. The timber had begun to rot, its soul and structural integrity compromised by the degenerative nature of the mirkúr. To leave the village standing was to sow a plague.

She set fire to the building nearest her, listening to the rot and darkness crackle as the flames began to feast. Black smoke rose to meet the night. Serece walked the village at a measured pace, leaving conflagration in her wake and ash to fertilize the earth. She hoped, in time, something beautiful might grow, though in a frozen hellscape like the Phantaxis Mountains that was little more than wishful thinking.

An hour later they withdrew, the ash-dusted snow the only hint of what’d transpired.

The descent into the Érahnjë Valley was a silent, single-file down a switchback stairway in the rocks. Serece trailed several yards behind the rest, ears twitching madly, fingers dancing on her daggers’ hilts. The air smelled mostly of virgin snow and pyre smoke, but beyond that, past the hint of pine, hiding in the darkest crevice of the night, Serece discerned the source of her unease—a scent like kindling aflame. It stoked her still-simmering agitation toward Taür. The atmosphere crackled and Serece cursed.

Yssa was about to go berserk.

Serece hissed, chiding herself mentally as she shoved past her pale-skinned kinsfolk to inform Sharya. She was almost there when a guttural shriek destroyed the midnight calm, like a thousand children screaming their demise. A half dozen plumes of smoke javelined from the sky, making impact in the valley at the stairway base. Snow and rock flew all directions; the phantaxians drew their blades. From the flurry manifested six slender silhouettes with eyes like full moons—the Shades of Yssa, phantaxian rage and frenzy made manifest. Each held a broadsword. Each reeked of flames and death. Each had been present thirteen years ago the night that Rejya died.

The Shades erupted toward the phantaxians. Normally a narrow corridor or stairway such as this would have offered a distinct advantage, but the Shades’ fluidity and incorporeal nature negated this.

Serece danced beneath a cleave. Using the momentum, she thrust upwards and sheathed her dagger in the lower jaw of the Shade, its ethereal composition beginning to harden at the touch of her crystalline blade.

It shrieked and kicked Serece square in the chest, knocking her back. She slipped on the icy stone, lost her footing, and tumbled over the edge of the stairway. She hit the ground with a thud , the force of impact from the near ten-foot fall knocking the wind from her lungs. For a moment the world swam in and out of focus, the skirmish above a swirl of black and white, light and dark as crystal screamed through smoke.

A deep baying snapped Serece from her trance, just in time to see Sorin’s body soar past her into the valley. Serece screamed and scrambled to her feet. Equilibrium not yet intact, she tripped and rolled down the hill, coming to rest a yard from where Sorin’s body lay sprawled. Serece bellied herself to her sister’s side, a ragged gasp escaping her mouth.

Blood stained Sorin’s pale skin and silver hair. Her eyes, once the coldest blue, were a swirl of fog. Serece could see no wound, the little good that did. She brushed her hand over Sorin’s eyes, closing the lids. Then, choking back tears and swallowing the lump in her throat, she rose and started up the hill.

She crested, teeth bared, lips curled back in a rictus of rage, and—

* * *

Taür lay bleeding in the snow, her entrails hanging from her gut. She was not long for the world. With every blink the darkness became more profound. Every breath came weaker than the last. She rolled her head to the right, toward the stairway in the rock, and watched the Shades pin Sharya with their blades. Taür reached weakly, desperately for her friend, though there was little use in doing so. ‘I see, and I feel,’ was all it meant.

She started, wheezing at a breath on her neck, but she kept her eyes on Sharya, now limp and bleeding in the snow. Taür knew what had found her and she felt no inclination, no desire to gaze upon the thing that’d come to take her life.

Yet still she turned, if only to look her spellbound bastard sister in the eyes and curse her name, to rue the day their mother’s faithlessness and general loathing of Serece had brought this pawn of ire to life. Behind Serece loomed the puppeteer, a black wolf wrought from smoke. An Avatar of Yssa, Serece’s unbounded rage made manifest.

Taür grasped for the buckle of Serece’s cloak and pulled her close so that their noses touched, so she could see coherence flood her sister’s eyes as clarity left her own. “I…h-h-hate you. ” Taür coughed blood, taking care to spit a generous amount in Serece’s face. “Always…did. ”

The first blade entered just above her hip, the second through her gut and into her spine. At the very least her physical pain had dispersed. I hope this night haunts you for the rest of your days. She closed her eyes, a muffled shriek the final sound she heard before the darkness took her home.

* * *

Serece blinked. The night was still and she lay sprawled on her back, daggers clutched in her hands. The pain came first to her chest, then to her head, like a blade sheathed slowly in her flesh, then twisted. The image of a black wolf in blood-spattered snow flashed across her mind, followed by her sister’s battered corpse. The scent of iron clung to the air, to her skin and garb, and Rejya’s words rung loudly in her head: “Temper Yssa. Do not let it harness you .”

Trembling, Serece lolled her head to the left, met by the moonlit dead and a massive wolf formed from smoke. It approached, each footfall leaving threads of shadow in its wake. It sniffed Serece, then raised its nose and bayed. The sound exhumed bits and pieces of a fractured memory. She had heard this howl the night that Rejya died; she had bathed in the blood drawn by her blades.

Not again, she thought. She tried to scream but was too weak. Fuck. Not again!

Tears dripped slowly from her eyes. Tears of sorrow and despair. Tears wrought by fear of an old truth she’d done her best to bury and the guilt that’d festered all these years. She had to tell her mother and father now, for her sake and for theirs. But how would they react? How would they look at her when she told them she had slaughtered Rejya and Taür?

* * *

3

Wine and whiskey were an awful mix.

Theailys tossed the wretched cocktail back, then wiped the dribble off his chin. It was a day for drink. A week, propriety be damned. He’d searched for Anayela’s corpse until the sun shone bright and all he’d found was misery and worry in a mystery that never should have been.

What, he snarled inwardly at Faro for the umpteenth time, did you make me do? What happened at the burial mounds last night you sadistic prick?

And, for the umpteenth time, Faro held his tongue and refused to manifest, undoubtedly amused by the desperation his cruelty had wrought. Had the implications of his silence not been so severe, it would have been a welcome change.

Theailys growled and started from his chamber at the Hall. There was still much to do before his departure tomorrow and Keepers knew stewing in the darkness with a drink or five would accomplish little, if any, of the tasks at hand.

“You reek something fierce,” Mistress Khal said when he approached her in the courtyard several minutes later.

“Good old liquid vigor.” Theailys wiped his nose with his forearm and cleared his throat.

“A shit brand I’d guess,” Khal scoffed. “You look like you’ve not slept in days.”

Theailys relayed to her the previous night’s events as best he could.

She nodded. “So that’s what’s got the Faithbringers in fits today.”

“By ‘fits’ do you mean they’re going door to door and snarling at the dissident again?” Theailys said. Khal’s grimace confirmed his assumption. “Great. Don’t suppose they’ll overlook me just this once?”

Khal shook her head. “Not a chance.”

They started on their way.

“You’ve spent time trying to interpret dreams,” Theailys said.

Khal shrugged, the late-morning sun a glint in her amber eyes. “I have. Certainly not enough to have mastered illumancy, but enough to more or less make sense of what I see. Something on your mind?”

Theailys told her about the raven, silhouette, and flames.

Khal thumbed her chin pensively. “There are some who believe dreams are more than dreams. That they are cries from the subconscious, distortions of truths, either yet to come or those that have already come to pass.”

“Funny,” Theailys said. “The bird said roughly the same thing.”

“Interesting,” Khal mused. “Considering.”

Theailys arched an eyebrow. “Considering…?”

They passed into the shade of the oak-lined campus entry lane. Khal took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. “Considering,” she said, “ravens are often times depicted as tricksters. In illumancy they are seen as omens of ill tidings.”

Anayela’s missing corpse certainly qualified as such, but it didn’t necessarily fit the narrative of his dream. Theailys frowned. “Maybe it’s just old wounds unstitched. Old wartime fears.” This wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream. It’d been a regular affair with the occasional variation when Searyn went away to fight, and after Anayela’s death. Now? Maybe it was the dread of failure—what would happen if The Keepers’ Wrath didn’t work? Thoughts of civil war, of Helveden choked by flames and ripped to shreds by demons turned Theailys’ skin to gooseflesh underneath his robes.

“Maybe,” Khal said, giving Theailys’ shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Probably. Keepers know these last years have been rough. For all of us.” Like Theailys, Khal too had lost her wife, and occasionally they would share a drink or eight and reminisce about the days before the shadows had begun to laugh.

They passed beneath the archway, nodded at one another, then departed opposite directions, Theailys southward for the farmlands and the sanatorium manor in which Searyn resided. A spur of the moment detour before wartime responsibility: it was the five-year anniversary of their older brother’s death.

* * *

“I was half sure you’d forgotten,” Searyn said. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a braid, making apparent the myriad scars on her pale face.

“Almost did,” Theailys said, as they started for the apple grove behind the house.

Searyn smiled softly. “I suppose I don’t blame you, considering.” A Faithbringer general, she was undoubtedly privy to what’d transpired in the burial mounds. “How’re you feeling?”

“Somewhere in between exhausted and drunk,” Theailys said. “Garnished with disgust and fear. The usual, pretty much.” He yawned, and his breath tasted like a foul amalgamation of liquor and bile. “How about you?”

“Well enough that Warden Mira granted me this walk,” Searyn said. “Sniffed my smoke this morning, so the voices are asleep. Sky’s not falling toward me anymore.” She heaved a sigh. “War’s a bitch. Phrenzka’s worse.”

Theailys took Searyn’s hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze.

They entered the grove a short time later, halting in the center before a polished black stone embedded in the earth: their memorial to their brother, Mar. Searyn knelt and caressed the stone, chewing her lower lip. Eventually it began to quiver, and she choked back whatever she’d been about to say.

Theailys sat beside her, legs crossed, gazing at his reflection in the smooth surface. “I think we were about seven or eight years when we found this stone on the beach. D’you remember?” Searyn tensed her jaw, nodding. Theailys sniffled, then chuckled. “You thought it would be a stupid birthday present. Said it was too pretty, and…” Again, he sniffled, sighing raggedly. “Shit.”

The tears came steadily, silently. This time, Searyn took his hand and squeezed, hard enough to make it go numb. It’d been a dark day, Mar’s death; Searyn had watched him fall. Theailys still had her tear-stained letter, splotchy ink and all. ‘Went a hero,’ she had written. ‘Saved us all.’

“I’m sure he’s watching over us from Rapture,” Searyn said finally. “With mother and father, no doubt.”

Theailys nodded, despite the pain radiating from his skull down into his back and arms. Despite the ethereal giggle signaling Faro’s presence. He clenched a fist at the tickle of frigidity in his fingers, breathing deeply just as his mother had taught him as a child. To his relief, Faro faded back to the corner of his mind from whence he’d come.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Searyn said. “When you leave the city.”

“My neuroses forbid me from being otherwise,” Theailys said.

Searyn turned and looked him in the eyes. “Promise me, Theailys. Things are dark these days, even with Te Mirkvahíl dead, and the last thing I need is for my light to burn out.” Her nails dug into the top of his hand. Her left eye twitched. “Please. ”

“All right…all right.” He pulled Searyn into a tight embrace. “I promise. You too, yeah?”

“I swear,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I swear.”

* * *

Clouds had gathered by the time they returned to the sanatorium—so had the Faithbringers. Adorned in bone-white plate they approached, hands resting on the hilts of crystal swords, the air about them tense with zealous ire.

“General Khoren has called for your arrest,” the first proclaimed, voice distorted by a faceless helm. “For your desecration of the burial mounds.” Then, snidely: “Imagine my shock—the dissident at the root of such abominable affairs. I never would have guessed.”

Searyn gaped at Theailys.

“I wore that very expression just hours ago,” the Faithbringer said. “A strange and horrible thing to learn your commanding officer is the very wretch her people swear they are not.”

Her people.

It was Theailys’ turn to gape. Had he heard the Faithbringer right? He looked at Searyn, whose expression was a cross between disgust and incredulity, peppered with unease. “…What proof do you have?” he asked. It was an inquiry, the strength of which accompanied his sister’s mien, which was to say that neither was particularly confident. The Faithbringers had something, lest they wrongly swarm a wartime sanatorium. But what?

The lead offered a writ. “General Khoren’s command, complete with testimony from Wardens Mira, Lee, and Drahl.” Searyn’s handlers, as it were. “They spied you dragging bodies from the burial mounds. They found you hanging corpses in a barn .” The Faithbringer paused. One produced a pair of shackles and the others drew their blades, as if anticipating noncompliance. “They saw you wreathed in and wielding mirkúr.”

Searyn put a hand to her head and frowned. “I…don’t remember any of that.”

“A shame,” came the distorted, disgusted reply, “that your mind prevents you from reliving sin. If I could make it so, you would dream it every night as retribution. I suppose tattooing the faces of the defiled to your flesh will have to do.”

Theailys tensed his jaw and grimaced. An archaic practice, that. The oldest and still highly popular form of branding murderers and the like. He turned his gaze away—how could he look at her? Memory or not, the deposition in the writ was clear—his sister had profaned the dead.

So they say, you idiot, his conscience snarled. This is Searyn—your twin sister. Are you going to fall in with these xenophobic, virtue-preaching fucks, or are you going to do what you do best?

Theailys furrowed his brow and set himself between Searyn and the lead Faithbringer. “Show us proof.” He smacked the writ. “This is just ink. General Khoren’s opinion of the dissident is the worst kept secret in the country. Show. Us. Proof. ”

The Faithbringer backhanded Theailys across the face and he dropped to the grass, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The Faithbringer pressed the toe of its boot to Theailys’ neck, the tapered point of the sabaton resting on his spine. In his periphery Theailys watched them place the shackles on Searyn’s wrists. Crystalline like their blades, thus impervious to demonry.

“Foster incredulity all you want,” the lead Faithbringer said as they withdrew. “It will not absolve your sister of her wicked truth. There is no exoneration for your kind, nor will there ever be.”

“Theailys…” Searyn’s eyes were wet as she was led away.

He pressed himself to stand, to give chase, but they were far too quick in mounting up and starting from the grounds. Theailys stood there, shaking, tiny threads of mirkúr streaming sadly, ineffectually from his hands as Faro cackled in his head, as Searyn vanished overtop the farmland hills.

You could have stopped them, Theailys snarled.

“Indeed, my Flesh, ” Faro said. “But you forbade my interference where the Faithbringers were concerned long ago, so I did not. ”

Theailys clenched his fists. …I hate you.

Faro cackled. “Self-loathing manifests in such peculiar ways. Like a voice inside your head or a shadow at your side. Embrace me. Embrace us, my Flesh . Free yourself of reservation—be your best self. ”

Not if that means reaping, wielding demon smoke, Theailys thought. I refuse—

“Because you are weak, ” Faro sneered. He took shape in an instant, bringing Theailys to the grass with but the twitch of a wispy finger. “This is what weakness looks like: on your knees as they take everything away. As they destroy and desecrate your kind. Do not fear your strength—find strength in your fear, as Khar Am once said. ”

At that, Faro fell away, leaving Theailys warm with moderate rage at the scrutiny and xenophobia his people faced and rightfully puzzled by the voice’s sudden clarity of speech. Where had that come from? And quoting the Faithbringer Khar Am of all people? What. In. Perdition.

Theailys stood, spat, then began the slog to Helveden proper, thoughts an anxious whirl and taste buds screaming for a drink.

* * *

Cailean Catil was smashed. To the point his flayed left arm didn’t make him feel inadequate. To the point his left hand didn’t seem a lump of scarred and fissured flesh with what some might consider fingers. He sauntered into the Nasty Rabbit Tavern and grinned at the irony of having ever thought himself a handsome man. The myriad sun-red scars, the thrice broken nose, and crystal eye—now so commonplace Cailean could not recall his Keeper-given face, not even in his dreams.

He scratched his stubbled jaw, then produced a flask and sucked down what little drink remained: hot whiskey, with the taste of warfront piss. He wiped the dribble from his mouth and chin as he started toward the tavern door.

The low-lit room was welcoming to Cailean’s good eye, the amalgamated stench of alcohol, mirth, and misery to his nose. He took up his usual seat beside the window and leaned against the booth.

“You look like shit,” a blurred face said not long thereafter, its owner dropping down opposite Cailean.

Cailean rubbed his eye, chuckling wryly as the face forsook its haze. “Theailys An. Could say the same of you.” The dark-haired, gray-eyed fucker heaved a sigh and signaled for drinks. Cailean raised an eyebrow. “Really—you’re uglier than usual you depressed sod. What’s wrong?”

Theailys opened his mouth and out spilled a day’s worth of misery with a dash of guilt and an extra pinch of fuck you for General Khoren.

“Oh,” Cailean murmured. “Oh.” He downed the rest of his ale, grimacing. “Shit.” Then, lowering his voice: “Zealous hilt stroker probably framed her. Khoren’s been looking for a reason to invalidate Searyn ever since the marshal made her Second General.”

Theailys drank.

Cailean leaned back against the booth. “I was looking for you earlier at the Hall. I’m coming with you.” He grinned wide at Theailys’ tensing. “Heh. Searyn’s orders. Queen’s too.” Cailean pulled his knife out and began to play. “Don’t worry. Won’t say anything mean about those paleskin bastards ‘less the situation warrants it.”

Theailys glared. “I’ve no qualms with letting the phantaxians send you back to Helveden in a silken bag if you call them that. Country over person, Cailean. I’ll let them gut you if it means procuring the argentium I need.”

Cailean chuckled, fingering the knife. He knew Theailys wasn’t joking.

“Try smoke sometime,” he said, standing. “Takes the edge off reality.”

Cailean dropped seven silver square on the table, then tottered happily toward the pelvis-thrusting, rabbit ear-wearing men at the far end of the room.

* * *

Theailys sat in the Hall courtyard with Mistress Khal. The moon was full, the air perfumed with honey-scented smoke. What an absolutely shit day it had been. First Anayela’s missing corpse, then Searyn, now Cailean. Keepers scorch the earth, but why in Perdition did that drunkard piss stain have to tag along? They weren’t friends, and the last time they had gone somewhere together they had nearly come to blows.

Theailys took a whiff of smoke, held it for a seven-count, then blew it out.

Khal snorted, took the pipe, and took a hit. The smoke escaped her lips in wispy tendrils as she fixed her eyes upon the moon. “Do you think they’re up there? Ridge and Anayela? Hell, everyone who’s ever been ascended? Are they up there in the halls of Rapture, looking down on us, or is it all just one big lie?” She looked at Theailys, strands of raven hair falling past her bloodshot eyes.

“Yes,” Theailys said, “and no. I think…I think they’re up there so long as we put stock in the concept of Rapture. The moment we lose faith and decide it’s something fabricated by the Church, Ridge and Anayela cease to exist. Spiritually, I mean.”

“Makes sense,” Khal said. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Theailys offered a sardonic guffaw. “Funny. Did Searyn teach you that one?”

Khal took his hand and squeezed it sympathetically. “I’ll keep an eye on things—on Searyn. You just make sure you keep a level enough head to see this through.”

We’re fucked if you fail, Theailys knew she meant.

He nodded. Then, taking a page from Cailean’s book, he produced a flask and knocked the medicine back.

* * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Fantasy Author. Long Doggo Enthusiast. Snoot Booper. Shouter of Profanities. Drinker of Whiskey. These are all titles. Luke is the Khaleesi nobody wanted and the one they certainly didn’t deserve, but here we are, friendos…

He lives in Pasadena, California with his wife. Somehow, she tolerates him.

Website: www. luketarzian.com

Twitter: @luke_tarzian

Part II

Epic fantasy

Contents

1. Children of the Dead City

2. A Threat of Shadows

3. Shard & Shield

4. Fortune’s Fool

5. City of Masks

6. The Gates of Golorath

7. The Engineer

8. The Ventifact Colossus

9. Beggar’s Rebellion

10. The Seal of Throkar

11. Songs of Insurrection

12. Blade’s Edge

13. Symphony of the Wind

14. Shadow’s Hand

15. The Innkeeper

16. Shadow of the Overlord

17. Spark City

18. Kalanon’s Rising

19. A Change of Rules

20. The Dragons of Esternes

21. A Flight of Marewings

22. The Sword of Kaigen

23. Chosen

24. Kingshold

25. A Time of Turmoil

1

Children of the Dead City

Noor Al-Shanti

A Mad Sorcerer.

A weak King.

A defenseless city.

When a unit of trained soldiers kidnaps Dargoth from his mother’s arms, claiming he is needed to fight in the war, his mother tries to protect him. But she is no match for the unit of trained soldiers at her door.

As Dargoth and his mother struggle to reunite, the Mad Sorcerer’s relentless attacks throw their Kingdom into chaos and despair, and they find themselves up against forces and intrigues far beyond what they could have imagined.

SPFBO 2019

* * *

Part 1: Dagor

The Mountain’s Hat was supposed to be impenetrable, the perfectly defensible fortress city, but when news of the Sorcerer King began to creep up the mountainside it seemed inevitable that he would take it for his own. The King Sharr’s wife had died only months ago leaving the King with a fresh wound and a little daughter to care for in his mourning.

So the King fled the Fortress City of the Mountain’s Hat, leaving a small number of soldiers there to defend his people, and made his abode in Dalaiabeth: the King’s City. His palace lay behind high walls on one side of the great lake and Dalaiabeth lay almost defenseless on the other. It was a small, quietly prosperous city, so when the Sorcerer King took the Mountain’s Hat he let it be for a time.

But even behind the high walls of his palace the King worried. His First Advisor fed his fears and worries, reveling in the opportunities that the King’s preoccupation provided him with. King Sharr was not blind, nor was he a bad ruler; he saw the increasing hold his First Advisor was gaining over matters of state and he understood his responsibilities as King, but the fear that had taken hold could not be shaken.

It was Azad, the palace Blacksmith, that offered the King salvation from his fears. “Why not adopt an orphan boy from the city?” he asked one day, observing the King’s face carefully as he handed him a sword for inspection. “He will grow up with the Lady Shila, learn to love her as a sister, and he will protect her when the matters of the Kingdom take you away from her.”

So King Sharr called upon the people of the palace and he brought the princess Shila into the throne room for the first time so that he could announce before them that he was to adopt a young orphan boy from the city. He had worked with his loyal men to ensure that there could be no lawful objection to the boy’s adoption. The King’s First Advisor was forced to sign and seal the adoption declaration himself before the inhabitants of the castle, and, with an unpleasant, cornered look on his face he was ordered to hand that declaration to the leader of the Palace Guard, a man completely loyal to the King.

That afternoon behind the closed doors of the council chambers the First Advisor spoke out carefully, but beseechingly, urging the King to allow him to send some of his own men along with the leader of the palace guard. “After all, my Lord, the boy will become part of the ruling family… it is a matter of state and your loyal advisors should have a say in-”

“No,” the King said with finality, “The leader of the Palace guard will go with two of his men and no one else.”

* * *

Chapter 1: Soldiers

It was a beautiful day outside. Mother had thrown open all the windows to let in the breeze. She had cooked all of her most delicious recipes, all of Dargoth’s favorites, so that the house smelled just like the bakery. Dargoth could not help the smile that stretched across his face. Mother had done everything she could possibly do to make sure that they celebrated his new year just like they always did.

He put his small school book away carefully and hugged her tightly. “Thank you,” he whispered.

The main course was fish, as always on special occasions, but this time Mother had made it herself. It did not taste as good as Father’s fish, but Dargoth did not say so. His mother was staring at something over his shoulder and he knew she must be looking at the sword that was hanging on the wall behind him.

He thought he should say something. She had tried so hard to make this day a happy one for him, but it was clear that she was sad. He should try to make her happy, but he did not know how.

A loud banging at the door made him drop his fork. He jumped to his feet, but his mother gestured for him to stay where he was. She opened the door a tiny crack and stood just in front of it. It couldn’t be the sorcerers. Dargoth couldn’t hear what they were saying. He ran to the bench by the window and pulled the big knife out of the cake.

“My son is only eight years old!” his mother’s voice was raised in anger.

“The Sorcerer is at our doorstep. Your own husband died defending this city from his men so you must understand how important this is. By order of the Commander of the armies we have been sent here to take your son to be trained as a soldier. Now step aside-”

Mother slammed the door in their faces and barred it. Father had put in that bar to stop the Sorcerers getting in. The soldiers were banging on the door so hard it shook on its hinges. Dargoth felt frozen in place. The knife felt very heavy in his arm.

Suddenly, mother was kneeling in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. “Run, Dargoth, use the back door. Go to the shipyard and find Garth. He will keep you safe until I come get you.”

“But-”

The door was smashed off its hinges and the soldiers spilled in. Mother stood up to face the soldiers and raised the sword in front of her; father’s sword. Dargoth had not seen her take it off the wall.

“Go!” his mother yelled, and by the tone of her voice he knew that he had to go. She was doing this, fighting the soldiers, only so that he could escape. He couldn’t let them catch him and take him away from mother.

He turned and ran into the back room, the knife still held out protectively in front of him. He leapt down the steps and then crept quietly between the plants in the garden. The water of the Shining Lake was so close, almost lapping at his feet. He wondered if it would be easier, safer, to get into the water and swim. The soldiers probably didn’t know how to swim.

He looked back one last time and then stepped into the cool water. A sharp pain in his shoulder and something heavy around his middle and suddenly he was lying like a sack across a soldier’s back.

Dargoth lashed out with both hands, hitting his captor over and over anywhere he could reach. He realized that the knife was no longer in his hands. He hit harder and harder. They moved back closer to the front door of the house and he could smell the fish and the cakes again.

“Mother!” he yelled as loud as he could in the soldier’s ear and kicked at him.

The man bent over and dropped him to the ground. Dargoth scrambled to his feet, a little disoriented, and grabbed a rock. He began to run, throwing the rock at the nearest soldier, but he knew at that moment that there were too many of them. He was surrounded and they would get him eventually.

“I’m going to hurt you!” he screamed at them.

One of the soldiers laughed. They closed in around him. One of them had a rope. He wished he still had the knife. He kicked and screamed and scratched at their hands and eyes, but in less than minute they had him tied up so tightly that he could barely move.

“Going to hurt us now?” one of the soldiers said. Dargoth noticed the man’s strong, muscular arms under his rolled up shirtsleeves. Unexpectedly, they reminded him of father’s strong sailor’s arms and he felt a frog in his throat.

The laughing soldier wrapped a piece of cloth around Dargoth’s mouth so he could not even speak and carried him over one shoulder as if he was a sack of flour.

“Soldiers!” one of the men yelled, “lines straight! Ready to march!”

Soldiers came spilling out of Dargoth’s house, stepping over the broken pieces of the door, and Dargoth strained his head to look into the house. He tried to yell out; he had to make sure his mother was not hurt.

She came running out the door after the soldiers, still gripping the sword. She was bloody and limping. She was screaming at them and running after them, but her injury wouldn’t let her keep up. Dargoth looked back helplessly at her and she looked back at him with a mixture of helplessness and fire.

“I’ll come find you, Dargoth!” she called. “You stay safe and I will find you!”

It was a promise that he knew she would keep. But what could she do when she found him, surrounded not by tens, but hundreds of soldiers? What could a lonely woman and a small boy do if the soldiers were determined to keep him? Maybe she would get Garth to help. Maybe they weren’t really allowed to take eight year old boys to war and she would talk to their leader and he would apologize and let Dargoth go home.

His mother fell to her knees just as the soldiers carrying him rounded the corner of the main street. Her words echoed in his ears. I will find you.

* * *

Chapter 2: The Terror on the Mountain

The soldiers did not let him down to walk; they took turns carrying him and they walked outside the city, sneaking around on small out of the way paths. It was as if they felt that they’d done something wrong. Dargoth felt it in their eyes, too, and in the way they kept halting and sending lookouts.

He realized, after a couple of hours that they were not taking him to the Soldier’s training barracks or to the Commander of the armies. Everyone in the city knew where the soldiers lived. He had once been dared by his friends to go up to the gate and talk to the guard without running away. Even the way they were traveling, avoiding walking through the city and going by hidden paths, they should have been there by now. They should be within hearing of the big stream at least.

His mother wasn’t going to find him.

Wherever they were going was not somewhere that the city people knew about. His mother wouldn’t know where to look for him. And, the way they were acting, secretive and afraid, he guessed that once they got there it would be very hard for him to escape. He wished he still had that knife.

Night fell and Dargoth was beginning to panic. When they next halted they huddled together under a rock outcropping and half of them settled down to sleep while the remaining four kept a watch. They did not light a fire despite the cold. One of the soldiers came up to Dargoth and covered him with a blanket. The only gesture all day that they knew they were carrying around a living person and not a sack of flour or a cargo of spices.

They wouldn’t even untie the gag around his mouth.

Dargoth closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. After some time, when he felt that the men around him were asleep, he wiggled around under the blanket, trying to find a rock to rub against and loosen the ropes around his hands. One of the soldiers kicked him and Dargoth realized that none of them were asleep either. They were afraid of something.

Dargoth was still awake, still worrying and afraid, still wondering how he would escape, when they changed their watch. While the men were moving around, handing each other blankets, whispering instructions to one another, complaining about the cold, Dargoth inched closer to a sharp rock.

He did his best not to look around at them. His sharp-eyed reading teacher had taught him that this was a sure way to get caught. They had settled down again and Dargoth began, very slowly, moving his hands up and down against the jagged rock.

“Stop fidgeting, boy!”

Dargoth ignored this. His left hand was almost free, one or two more times and he would-

A blast of hot air and a choking smell came so suddenly that Dargoth’s head snapped up. He strained to look around, at the same time working his hands against the rock to loosen the rope. Yells and the sounds of swords being drawn from their scabbards rose up around him. Dargoth’s left hand finally came free and he forced himself to ignore the things happening around him and bend over to untie his feet.

The point of a long, gleaming sword appeared before his face. He looked up to find one of the soldiers. The one that always had his sleeves rolled up, looking down at him. Dargoth gulped in fear.

There was a small stab of pain in his foot and then the soldier was gone. Dargoth looked down and realized that the man had freed him. He jumped to his feet and looked around. There were shadowy figures with bright shining hair all around, closing in on the soldiers and Dargoth. They had no swords, but they moved confidently forward, the soldiers retreating before them.

Dargoth had enough sense left in him to crawl slowly back towards the nearest rock large enough to conceal him. He hid behind it and listened, trying to find out what was happening. Escape seemed to be impossible now.

He saw one of the soldiers retreating past the rock, his shield held out before him. They made eye contact, but the soldier did not acknowledge Dargoth, he kept retreating backwards slowly. A very small arrow came zooming towards the man, but when it hit the shield it didn’t embed itself into the wood. Flame suddenly ignited from its tip and two more arrows came out of it and zoomed around the shield in a circle to embed themselves into either side of the soldier’s neck.

Dargoth held his breath.

The sorcerers, for that must be what they were, worked a chilling silence over the battle. They themselves only laughed occasionally and they seemed to be suppressing the soldier’s shouts as well. Or maybe the soldiers were too afraid to make a sound. Dargoth wondered if they could all be dead already, but no… there were still metallic clanging sounds.

A horn blew nearby and the sounds of marching feet came from over the outcropping on Dargoth’s left. He looked up and saw several sorcerers form a line above the outcropping. They could surely see him clearly. If he didn’t move to the other side of the rock he would be completely exposed to these new sorcerers. But Dargoth couldn’t move. The soldier’s shield hadn’t protected him and Dargoth doubted that this rock would be any better. He simply looked up at them, frozen in place, hoping that they would assume he was dead.

The line of sorcerers parted and Dargoth noticed the even more frightening figures of four very large men. They were almost demon-like, with metallic rings around their throats that gleamed in the moonlight and more weapons than a normal human should be able to carry. They stood in pairs, leaving a space between them into which a single figure stepped.

He wore a silver robe that seemed to glow as if it was a second moon. His body was thin and almost small compared to his demonic guards, but it was somehow much more impressive than all of them put together and fear made Dargoth’s heart jump. The figure’s exposed arms were so scarred and burnt they almost looked like they were covered with scales. Bright silver hair hung down over the man’s frighteningly large, glowing eyes.

He raised his hands once and dropped them in a decisive gesture and then turned away as if nothing in this place interested him. All of his men followed, and Dargoth waited and waited for a soldier or a sorcerer from behind the rock to come and find him, but no one did.

The sun began to rise and no one came. Dargoth suddenly realized that the gag was still around his mouth and ripped it off. He forced himself to edge sideways, to look around at the place of the battle, the place where he had so recently been lying. A vulture landed beside him and hobbled over to the body of the solider nearby, pecking at the man’s already punctured neck. Dargoth yelled out and ran towards the man, chasing the bird away.

He did not know why he cared – the man had kidnapped him from his home, hurt his mother, and treated him like a nothing. Dargoth bent over and picked up the man’s sword, turning towards the others. They were all dead. Even the sorcerers that had attacked them were dead.

The figure on the outcropping had killed them all.

Dargoth ran. He could not keep his eyes off the dead bodies, and he was stumbling backwards, falling back and tripping over rocks. He stepped on something oily and slipped, falling into it. The world began to spin wildly and his head burned from the inside. He struggled to get up, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see.

* * *

Chapter 3: A King

Dargoth felt the warm rays of the sun on his face. He was warm and surrounded by soft cushions and blankets. He heard voices approaching, and footsteps, but he did not want to open his eyes in fear of seeing the dead bodies, the silver-clad figure... the vulture pecking at the man’s neck…

“There you are, safe and sound!”

Dargoth opened his eyes at the sudden voice, his heart leaping, but it was not someone he knew. He was not anywhere he had ever been. An old man was staring at him with an unsettling overly large smile. There were soldiers next to all the doors.

“Where am I?”

“Why, at home, of course!” the man said in the same overly cheerful voice. As he went on Dargoth realized that this was the man’s way of talking down to him, treating him like a stupid baby.

“…and everyone is eager to meet you formally now that you are awake. Your sister, especially, the sweet child…”

“I don’t have a sister,” Dargoth interrupted in the most condescending tone he could muster. “Let me go – my mother will be worrying about me.”

“Mother? Poor child, you know as well as I do that your mother is dead and everyone here is determined to be so kind to you, so generous, they chose you especially out of all the other orphans, so you mustn’t distress them with this talk-”

“My mother is not dead and I don’t know who you or any of these people are,” Dargoth pushed himself off the soft cushions and threw the blanket off himself, making for the nearest door.

The soldiers did not make any move to stop him, but the old man grabbed his arm and pulled him close so he could whisper. “Listen, my boy, I understand how you must be feeling, being flung into a new place, but this is no ordinary family that’s taken you in. The King himself has chosen you; he sent his own Palace guard to bring you here so you could be a companion to the little princess and keep her… entertained.”

The man paused at that word as if it should mean something else; as if Dargoth was supposed to understand some secret message or understand that he was on his side. All Dargoth knew was that anger like nothing he had ever felt was rising inside him.

“I was against the idea from the beginning, but you are dealing with a King here, and rulers, Kings and Princesses and Lords and Ladies, they get what they want how they want it no matter what the objections and who makes them. All you can do now is accept your new place and enjoy it. Grown men would die for the honor-”

“Then let them have it,” Dargoth said, pushing the man away. “I’m going home.”

He left the room and no one stopped him, but he heard a small sigh from the old man. This palace was big. Everything sparkled with gems and gold and the floor was clean white marble. Dargoth realized that he wasn’t wearing his own clothes anymore. His feet were no longer bare as they had been since his kidnap. Now he was wearing thick socks of a green color to match the rich green overcoat he wore.

Two soldiers were following him. He turned a corner and walked down a wide hallway. People stared at him from the windows all around and he tried to ignore them, to think only about his goal, but he had no idea where he was going. There were too many turns and twists in this place and nowhere seemed to lead out.

Suddenly, a horn blew and Dargoth felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and steer him to the right. He struggled against his captor, but they were suddenly surrounded by hundreds of people all going in the same direction, pressing in on him from all sides.

They approached a large stone archway and passed underneath it into the biggest room that Dargoth had ever seen. It was bigger than five houses put together. Rows and rows of stone seats lined the walls and the people began to sit down, but the soldier steered Dargoth ever forward towards the throne. Dargoth was looking around for a way to escape. If he could just slip away when they were all busy here...

He stopped suddenly, the soldier behind him bumping into him and almost tripping over him. Ten bodies lay on the ground before him. The eight men that had captured him and two more he did not recognize. They stared up sightlessly at the ceiling, their faces pale and blank.

* * *

“He is traumatized by what he has seen, my Lord,” his First Advisor said in his uncomfortable scratchy voice.

King Sharr stared out through the holes in the patterned wood, past his throne and at the bodies and the small, frightened boy standing behind them. His plan had gone so very wrong and he was now responsible for the deaths of all these men. And the poor boy… it was a miracle he survived.

He turned back to the council chamber behind him, ignoring the First Advisor and addressing the men that had discovered the bodies and saved the boy. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“We were on our regular patrol duty, my lord. The boy was lying in a puddle of some kind of potion the sorcerers use, at little distance from the other bodies. He was bruised, but only a little. He was holding this sword.”

The soldier handed King Sharr the sword. It was Demerion’s sword. His most loyal man and the leader of the Palace guard. The man must have given the sword to the boy and told him to escape.

“Continue,” he said.

“The bodies of the third patrol, the one that didn’t come back last night, were lying a little distance from the boy, all killed of course. They must have saved him when the sorcerers attacked commander Demerion and his men, but they didn’t get far.”

“Where did you find commander Demerion’s body?”

“By the lake, my Lord. Their bodies were worse. Mutilated. You can’t see it from here, but… the sorcerers they… and we couldn’t find the third man…”

King Sharr took a deep breath.

“My Lord,” his youngest councilor, Falcon of the palace guard, spoke up. “Please allow me to lead a search party. The man may still be alive, in need of our help. And we would like to examine the place where they fell. They were brave men, my lord, and their families deserve to know all they can about their deaths.”

King Sharr nodded. “A search party will go out within an hour, Councilor Falcon, and you will make the necessary arrangements, but first we must honor the bodies.”

He turned to his First Advisor, who was on the point of speaking, his mouth open.

“Has the boy said anything?” King Sharr said. “I hear you were with him when he woke.”

“Yes, my lord, I had just heard the news and I wanted to go speak to the survivors… they did not tell me that all the men had died… I saw the boy in there, just beginning to stir, but he was impossible to reason with. He is clearly deeply affected by the shock of what he’s seen. Not only that, I fear that your men did not choose wisely. I was against this idea the whole time as you know, but it may have been better if they had chosen a boy who could not remember his real parents, or whose wound was not so fresh…”

“What do you mean?”

“The boy is delirious, my Lord. He keeps calling out for his mother and he becomes quite violent if he’s reminded that he is an orphan. I believe the events of yesterday could only have reopened some deep wounds. As you know many of the city folk died during the sorcerers’ last attack and many had to witness the horrors that the Sorcerers preformed upon them before killing them. The boy is not well and-”

“Enough!” King Sharr raised a quelling hand and turned away from his advisor. “He is no longer an orphan, so no one need remind him of it and if he needs time to heal and forget then he will get that time here. We have other matters to attend to now.”

He opened the wooden door and stepped out into the throne room.

* * *

More trumpets sounded and Dargoth looked up. For a strange second he expected to see the silvery figure again, the terror from the mountainside that had killed all these men. Instead, a fat middle aged man stepped forward to the middle of the dais and raised his hands in a quieting gesture.

The trumpets stopped immediately and the man’s crown glittered in the sunlight. More men, including the old man that had spoken to Dargoth came to stand on the steps near the King.

“We had all hoped to gather here tonight for a happy occasion,” the King said in a loud, strong voice that carried across the huge room. “As you see before you no such celebration can take place. Brave men, loyal men, died just before the sunrise. They were brutally murdered by the sorcerers that now treat our lands like hunting grounds. Their bodies were recovered by the men of the eighth patrol early this morning, but one man, Halcfar of Bridgetown, remains missing. I will lead the search party to find him.”

Exclamations and protests rose up from the men on the steps and the people in the seats around the hall. The king waited for silence and then continued.

“I will lead the search party to find him. I will go with the true men who have begged to be allowed to examine the site of the battle to gather any shred of evidence, of information. And then I will visit each of the victims’ families, both here in the Palace and in the villages of Bridgetown and Highreach. We will not rest until these men’s souls and bodies are honored.”

A loud thundering cry rose up from all around Dargoth that made him feel sick in his stomach. He knew that none of the people screaming excitedly now had actually lost anyone they loved. He knew that the sons and daughters and mothers and friends of the dead soldiers were standing silently, feeling a sick anger in their guts just like him.

“I leave these men, and my guest, to you. Treat them honorably. Bury the dead with all the songs due to heroes. Mourn them as brave defenders of the Kingdom are mourned.”

Dargoth wondered, as he looked back down at the bodies, what kind of thieves and murderers the rest of the soldiers were if these kidnappers were called defenders of the Kingdom.

* * *

Chapter 4: Lady Shila

The sun was setting over the lake and the soldiers changed shifts. A single soldier marched, straight-backed and in a hurry, out of the gates of the barracks. He made his way all around the wall; lighting all the torches. The archers at the top of the wall shifted nervously, their attention waning, but one sharp-eyed youth cried out.

“Someone approaching!”

His companions jumped back to their posts, readying their arrows, but they did not see anyone at first.

“There on the path. Lone figure approaching.”

The man lighting the torches fumbled with the last one and ran back inside in a hurry, the gates shutting behind him with a muffled bang. The figure came closer very slowly. Men began to whisper guesses. Was it an injured soldier coming back seeking help? Could it be a sorcerer?

When the figure stepped into the light of the torches it became clear that it was a woman. She wore ripped clothes and she was bleeding. One of the archers called out to the gatekeeper to let her in – he recognized her from the city.

The gates were half open when the leader of the night watch called the men to order. He stepped out himself, sword drawn, and ordered the gates shut behind him.

“State your name and purpose!” he said loudly so that his voice echoed across the mountainside.

“My name,” the woman said with unsuppressed anger, “is Rikkitta. My husband died only weeks ago defending the city, fighting the brutal sorcerers and he was not afraid of unarmed women. I baked hundreds of pies and breads and cakes for your guard in the last two years and here you stand: alive and less polite than ever. I am here to speak to your Commander.”

“The Commander-”

“-will meet with me immediately.”

“Look here, woman-” the leader of the night watch began, but one of the archers yelled down.

“She’s not lying. My uncle lives right next door to her bakery. Lalaith the Londsword was her husband.”

The leader of the night watch pursed his lips angrily. Many of the men who had been long under his command knew that the archer would be punished for speaking out. However, he lowered his sword and cleared his throat.

“In honor of your husband’s great deeds and your contribution to the war you will be allowed inside – despite your insubordinate-”

Rikkitta pushed past him and walked through the now open gates. “It’d be insubordination if I worked for you lad, now step aside.”

Despite her attitude the woman seemed nervous and afraid as she looked around at all the soldier’s faces. One of the older men showed her the way to the Commander’s quarters, offering her a helping hand. She refused his help and continued to limp forwards.

The Commander agreed to see her immediately, ordering his men to call for the army healer, but Rikkitta waved them away like flies and refused to sit down. “I am here for my son, Commander. I do not know when you began taking eight year old boys to fight in the war, but you will not have my son.”

“I don’t understand you…”

“This afternoon at least eight of your men came knocking at my door claiming that they were taking my son to the war by your order. They took him from me, from his home, by force. They gave me these injuries and spilled my blood and they took away my son. I want him back. Immediately.”

“My dear woman, the youngest boys we have are thirteen years of age and as you know very well all our soldiers are volunteers, we would never-”

“Nevertheless eight of your soldiers did take my son and in your name. I will not leave this place without him.”

“We haven’t had any new recruits in a week…”

Rikkitta continued to stare at him with a hard determination. The commander turned away and called to his personal guard. “Call a meeting in the square. The younger boys and new recruits will stand in front lines today. I want every single breathing soul in the square within five rounds of trumpet calls.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

* * *

The King was away on his mission to search for the missing soldier and the inhabitants of the castle left Dargoth mostly to himself, with an occasional glance and some hidden whispers. But he knew that he was being watched and followed. He spent the first day after the King’s speech and the funeral walking around the castle and trying to find a way out.

There was only one main gate and two smaller back-doors, but they were all guarded heavily and the soldiers had strict orders not to let him out. When he told them that he needed to go home to his mother many of the men’s eyes laughed at him and the rest pitied him. He continued to explore the palace until his feet hurt and his mind was full of halls and turns. It would be very difficult to escape. The best way to get out of here would be to convince the King to let him go, but Dargoth knew that that was almost hopeless. The King hadn’t even spoken one word to him. He clearly didn’t care what Dargoth felt or wanted. He was the King and he thought everyone else lived to do his bidding and obey his orders.

Dargoth hated all kings.

About an hour after nightfall the two soldiers that were following him told him that he was to have his supper in the King’s quarters with the princess and then sleep in his new room.

“I’m not hungry or tired.”

“Look, son,” one of the soldiers said with a longsuffering sigh, as if Dargoth was wasting his time on purpose. “I didn’t decide to become a soldier so I could follow you around all day and all night, but here I am, following orders. My orders were to bring you to the King’s quarters for supper – you can sit there and stare at the food and you can spend the whole night jumping up and down on your bed for all I care, as long as you go with me now to the King’s quarters.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll carry you there kicking and screaming if I have to.”

“Now I know why my father never wanted to be a soldier.” Dargoth said; consenting to be led towards the King’s quarters. It had just occurred to him that the King and his family must have their own secret ways of escaping the palace in emergencies.

“Why is that?” the soldier said unexpectedly.

“Because he liked to think for himself and do what he thought was right, not what someone else ordered him to do.”

The second soldier laughed. “And while you and your father were fishing in the lake the real men were fighting the sorcerers.”

They had reached a large wooden door carved with birds of prey, the symbolic protectors of the kingdom. The soldiers stood one on each side of the door waiting for him to go in.

Dargoth paused on the threshold. “My father died defending the city from the sorcerers. Sorcerers killed him, but not before he killed many of them. What were you doing here in the castle while the city burned?”

“Go inside and have your supper, son,” the first, older soldier said. “There’s no use arguing with this one.”

* * *

Rikkitta marched down the rows and rows of soldiers for the third time, forcing herself to breathe. There was no sign of her son. None of the soldiers knew why it was she was here. She heard two young men joking about whether she was to be their new guard leader or weapons trainer and chuckling behind her back.

“He has to be here,” she said aloud. “They said they were bringing him here, by your orders!”

“I promise you I would never order or allow an only child of only eight years old to be taken from his mother. Especially not Lalaith’s son. You’ve suffered enough loss already, I know, but whoever it was that took your son was not working under my orders or my command.”

“They wore uniforms just like yours.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!”

“There is another barracks near Bridgetown. I will send word to them and ask about your son.”

“Bridgetown? That’s more than two days away!”

“I’ll send a man on a horse. If your son is there he will be returned to you in less than a week.”

Rikkitta clenched her fists angrily. She would not sit home and wait. She would go to Bridgetown herself. But first she had to find her husband’s friend Garth and tell him to keep an eye out on the house for her in case Dargoth came back.

* * *

It was fish. They wanted him to eat fish. Dargoth looked down at the plate for many minutes, seeing the face of his dead father, of his brave mother who would be worried about him, but not seeing a way of getting a message to her.

Finally, he pushed the plate away and got up.

“Hamma said it was bad manners to leave the table like that,” squeaked the little princess.

Dargoth ignored her and went to explore the rooms. There were no soldiers in here, but he could see them stationed all around the windows and doors. This was ridiculous. Didn’t the people living in this palace realize they were prisoners? Or maybe it was only Dargoth that was not allowed to leave.

He decided to sit in front of one of the windows that looked out on the private quarters and watch the soldiers’ movements, see when they changed the watch, how many there were.

He had barely sat down on the windowsill when the girl appeared at his elbow again. She must be four or five. Her voice was very annoying, but of course she had to keep on asking stupid questions.

“Are you my brother?”

“No.”

“Father said I was getting a new brother soon and-”

“Brothers aren’t like toys,” Dargoth said angrily. “You don’t just get them whenever you feel bored.”

That kept her quiet for a few moments, long enough for Dargoth to notice that there was a soldier walking up and down the long hallway.

“My name is Lady Shila,” the little girl said. “What’s your name?”

“Dargoth,” he said reflexively, not bothering to look at her.

There was a moment’s silence before she asked. “Dagor?”

“No, it’s Dargoth!”

“I have a dagor. Look!” She pulled out a tiny blade and put it on his lap for inspection. It had many designs on it, but it was blunt. Dargoth handed it back and stood up. If he was going to plan his escape he had to get away from this girl.

“I’m going to bed!” he announced as he strode out the door.

“Goodnight, Dagor!” he heard her squeak as one of the soldiers escorted him to ‘his new bedroom.’

* * *

Chapter 5: Escape

Dargoth’s first real escape attempt, the first time in which he actually had a chance, was three nights after he first woke up in the castle. He waited until they were all asleep and just when the guards outside his door were changing shifts he risked opening his window. It made a loud creaking noise when it opened, but none of the soldiers had heard. Anyway, they didn’t come in to check the source of the noise so he assumed they hadn’t heard it.

He waited for a few moments, looking outside carefully, and then he turned so that he was lying with his stomach on the windowsill. His feet moved around in thin air for a little while before he found the small ledge and put his weight on it. He walked along the ledge slowly, carefully, knowing that if he fell from this height he would probably die.

He inched past Shila’s window and, unfortunately, her curtains were not closed. His shadow filled her room for a moment, but she did not wake up. By the next window along there was a tree. Dargoth was not an expert on climbing trees, but he had often gone with his father on the ships and climbing a tree could not be very different from climbing the rigging.

He reached out carefully and found a tough branch that should hold his weight. With one hand and then two he gripped this branch and then swung his feet towards the tree. His left hand slid along the rough bark and he had to bite his lip to suppress the cry of pain that almost came out. Finally, his feet found a hold and he pushed his way quickly towards the trunk of the tree.

The climb down was slow, but he was excited. A short way below was a low roof with no guards anywhere near it. He could run across the roof quickly and be at the gates in no time. Climbing down there should be easy as long as he wasn’t spotted by a guard.

He lowered himself onto the small roof and ran across it at a crouch, looking around from left to right and occasionally glancing up at the windows above. Finally, he reached the end of the roof closest to the wall. He had thought that they were attached, but there was actually a space between them. Below him, guards were marching up and down a long passage next to the wall.

There did not seem to be any soldiers on top of the wall, but Dargoth did not see how he would be able to get to it from the roof. It was too far to jump. He walked along the edge of the wall looking for something, anything, to help him get across. There were window-like holes in some parts of the wall and a tiny ledge, probably for archers… if he only had a long wooden board or a rope he might use the archers’ windows and-

Strong arms suddenly grabbed Dargoth around the waist and he was lifted in the air. The world spun madly for a moment and he was carried and dragged across the roof, down some small, stone steps and into the main courtyard of the castle.

Dargoth kicked at his captors angrily, but in his mind a new plan was already forming, involving those tiny hidden steps. Next time, he would make it out of this stupid castle.

* * *

Rikkitta ran across the wooden plank onto the familiar deck of Garth’s ship. Her husband had been great friends with Garth and had sailed on his ship with him for many years. The sailors did not just stare at her like the soldiers had, most of them knew her by name and they showed genuine concern at her state. She still hadn’t changed out of her ripped and bloody clothes and the limp would probably never go away after she walked on this leg to Bridgetown.

She dodged all their questions and weaved her way between them, stepping over ropes and buckets and nets and up the stairs until she was on the captain’s deck beside Garth. He took in a sharp breath and began bandaging one of her shoulder wounds immediately without asking permission.

“They took my son, Garth. I need your help.”

“Sorcerers?” there was fear in his voice with the question.

“No, soldiers. They said they were taking him to fight in the war against the sorcerers. I went to the barracks outside the city, but I couldn’t find him. The commander denied having anything to do with it. He said they might be soldiers from Bridgetown that took him.”

“Bridgetown?” Garth examined her bandage and guided her gently to a seat on a bucket so he could look at her injured leg. “Rikkitta, you’re no use to the boy if you find him and then die of infection a week later. You should have gone to a healer immediately.”

“They’re not serious,” Rikkitta dismissed the wounds. “I’m going to Bridgetown myself. The commander said he would send a letter, but I have to go see for myself. Will you watch the house while I’m away in case he comes back?”

Garth looked up from his work on her leg and called for the ship’s healer. “And I suppose you think you’re going to walk all the way to Bridgetown by yourself on this leg?”

Rikkitta stared back at him, daring him to laugh, but of course Garth would never laugh. He shook his head sadly and stood up, allowing the healer to finish tending to her wound. “I’m leaving the dock tomorrow at first light. We will stop at the Two Streams, you remember the town. It’s only half a day’s walk to Bridgetown from there, less if we hire horses.”

“It will be faster than going by yourself and you might as well spend the night at home getting some actual sleep in case Dargoth comes. My father knew a man, an old soldier that lives up at the North end of the city. I’ll visit him tonight and see if he can help.”

“I want to go with you and speak to him myself.”

Garth sighed. “Only if you promise to eat before we go.”

* * *

They made Dargoth sit with the girl every morning after breakfast for an hour and every night after supper until he went to sleep. Usually some of her servants were around the room, cleaning or dusting shelves, but he felt like they were watching him, making sure he didn’t try to escape again.

She did not stop asking questions. Dargoth was sure that he had not asked as many questions in his whole life as she asked in a single day. She asked him what his favorite story was and if he’d ever seen a sorcerer in the King’s City – that was what they called Dalaiabeth here – and she even asked him why he didn’t talk much.

“I never met a boy who was this quiet,” she said, trying to sound wise in her squeaky voice.

“I never met anyone who asked as many questions as you.”

“Dagor,” it was as if she hadn’t even heard. “Why don’t you want to live with us in the castle?”

“Because it’s not my home, my mother is looking for me out there.”

She paused for a few moments. He wasn’t sure if it was so she could breathe or just so she could examine him very carefully as she was staring intently at his face.

“My mother died,” she said, “two years ago when I was a baby.”

He wanted to tell her that she was still a baby, but he couldn’t bring himself to be that nasty. Mother had always taught him to be good and polite even if he didn’t like someone. She would not like him to be too rude to this girl, even if she was the spoiled little monster for whose entertainment his life had been ruined.

* * *

Keep reading: https:// books2read. com/ u/ bQ6Yqd

2

A Threat of Shadows

JA Andrews

Alaric betrayed everything he believed to save Evangeline — and failed.

His last chance to save the woman he loves lies in an ancient Wellstone, a repository of power, buried and lost long ago.

Luck—or something more troubling—leads him to a small group searching for the same stone.

A disgruntled dwarf,

a bumbling wizard,

and an elf with an unsettling amount of power.

If he can gain their trust, they might help him find the cure.

But the Wellstone holds more than he knows, and a terrible evil he’d thought defeated is stirring again, searching for the stone.

Can the companions survive a traitor, a dragon, and their own pasts to reach the stone before time runs out?

SPFBO 2017

Grit level: 3

* * *

Chapter 1

The deeper Alaric rode into the woods, the more something felt… off. This forest had always fit like a well-worn cloak. But tonight, the way the forest wrapped around felt familiar, but not quite comfortable, as though it remembered wrapping around a slightly different shape.

“This path used to be easier to follow,” Alaric said to his horse, Beast, as they paused between patches of late spring moonlight. Alaric peered ahead, looking for the trail leading to the Stronghold. He found it running like a scratch through the low brush to the right. “If the Keepers weren’t too meek to hold grudges, I’d think the old men were hiding it from me.”

All the usual smells of pine and moss and dirt wove through the air, the usual sounds of little animals going about their lives, but Alaric kept catching a hint of something different. Something more complicated than he wanted to deal with.

Around the next turn, the trail ran straight into a wide tree trunk. Alaric leaned as far to the side as he could, but he couldn’t see around it. “I could be wrong about the Keepers holding grudges.”

Well, if they didn’t want him at the Stronghold, that was too bad. He didn’t need a warm welcome. He just needed to find one book with one antidote. With a little luck, the book would be easy to find and he could leave quickly. With a lot of luck, he’d get in and out without having to answer anyone’s questions about what he’d been doing for the past year.

Beast circled the tree and found the path again, snaking out the other side. As his hooves thudded down on it, a howl echoed through the woods.

The horse froze, and Alaric grabbed the pouch hanging around his neck, protecting it against his chest. He closed his eyes, casting out past the nearest trees and through the woods, searching for the blazing energy of the wolf. He sensed nothing beyond the tranquil glow of the trees and the dashing flashes of frightened rabbits.

“That’s new.” Alaric opened his eyes and peered into the darkness.

A louder howl broke through the night. Beast shuddered.

“It’s all right.” Alaric patted Beast’s neck as he cast farther out. The life energy of an animal as large as a wolf would be like a bonfire among the trees, but there was nothing near them. “It’s not wolves. Just disembodied howls.” He kept his voice soothing, hoping to calm the animal.

“That didn’t sound as reassuring as I meant it to. But a real wolf pack wouldn’t keep howling as they got closer. If we were being tracked by wolves, we wouldn’t know it.”

Beast’s ears flicked back and forth, alert for another howl.

“Okay, that wasn’t reassuring, either.” Alaric nudged him forward. “C’mon we’re almost to the Wall.”

A third howl tore out of the darkness right beside them.

Beast reared back, whinnying in terror. Alaric grabbed for the saddle and swore. He pressed his hand to Beast’s neck.

“Paxa ,” he said, focusing energy through his hand and into Beast. A shock of pain raced across Alaric’s palm where it touched the horse, as the energy rushed through.

Mid-snort, Beast settled and stood still.

Alaric shook out his hand and looked thoughtfully into the woods. This wasn’t about a grudge, or at least the howls weren’t directed at him. Any Keeper would know there were no wolves. Even one as inadequate as he would know there was no energy, no vitalle , behind the sounds. So what was the purpose of it? The path had never been like this before.

With Beast calm, Alaric set him back into a steady walk. Two more howls rang out from the woods, but Beast ambled along, unruffled. Alaric rubbed his still-tingling palm.

Beast paused again as the trail ran into another wide tree.

Alaric growled in frustration. The path to the Keepers’ Stronghold shouldn’t be this troublesome for a Keeper.

Unless it no longer recognized him as one. That was a sobering thought.

As they skirted around the tree, a white face thrust itself out of the trunk. Alaric jerked away as the hazy form of a man leaned out toward him. When the figure didn’t move, Alaric reined in Beast and forced himself to study it. It held no life energy, it was just an illusion—like the wolves.

The figure was a young man. He had faded yellow hair and milky white skin. Once the initial shock wore off, the man was not particularly frightening.

“What are you supposed be? A friendly ghost?” Alaric asked.

It hung silent on the tree. Alaric leaned forward and backward, but the ghost remained still, staring off into the woods.

“The howls were more frightening than you.” Alaric set Beast to walking again.

“You are lost,” the ghost whispered as he passed.

Alaric gave a short laugh. “I’ve been lost many times in my life, but this isn’t one of them. And if it’s your job to scare people off, you should consider saying something more chilling and less…depressing.”

Beast kept walking, and Alaric turned to watch the ghost fade into the darkness behind them.

A rasp pulled his attention forward. Another white form slid out of the tree they were approaching. This one was a young woman. She was rather pretty, for a ghost.

“Hello.” Alaric gave her a polite nod.

“You have failed,” she whispered. “You have failed everyone.”

Alaric scowled. The words rang uncomfortably true.

Alaric stopped Beast in front of the ghost. Behind the woman’s face, Alaric saw thin, silver runes carved on the bark. He couldn’t read them through the ghost, but he didn’t need to. Narrowing his focus, he cast out ahead of them along the trail, brushing against the trunks with his senses. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he felt the subtle humming runes dotting the trees ahead.

Alaric sat back in the saddle. This wasn’t what he expected from the Keepers. The old men protected their privacy like paranoid hermits, but they’d never tried to scare people away before. Of course, these ghosts weren’t frightening. If the Keepers were going to make ghosts, these are the kind they would make.

Years ago, during his “Defeat by Demoralization” lesson, Keeper Gerone had declared, “Control the emotions, control the man!” Gerone was probably responsible for the depressing ghosts.

The ghost runes were on almost every tree now, faces appearing every few steps.

“Your powers are worthless,” the next whispered and Alaric flinched.

“It’s your fault,” another rasped. “All your fault.”

Alaric clenched his jaw and stared ahead as the whispers surrounded him.

When he passed close to one large tree, a ghost thrust out close to him. Alaric turned toward it and saw his own face looking back at him. A pale, wasted version of himself. His black hair was faded to a lifeless grey, and his skin, far from being tanned from traveling, was bleached a wrinkly bone white. Only his eyes had stayed dark, sinking from a healthy brown to deep, black pits.

Alaric stared, repulsed, at the withered apparition of himself—it was decades older than his forty years. The ghost looked tired, a deep crease furrowed between its brows. Alaric reached up and rubbed his own forehead.

The ghost leaned closer.

“She’s dead,” it whispered.

Guilt stabbed into him, deep and familiar. He shuddered, grabbing the pouch at his neck, his mind flooded with the image of Evangeline’s sunken face.

Alaric slammed his palm against the rune on the trunk.

“Uro !” Pain raced through his hand again. He poured energy into the tree, willing it to burn. The bark smoked as he seared the rune off.

Out of the corner of his eye, pulses of white light appeared along the path ahead of them. He glanced at them, but the distraction had consequences, and the pain flared, arcing up each finger. He gasped and narrowed his focus back to the energy flowing through his palm. The pain receded slightly. The ghost stared a moment longer, then faded away. Alaric dropped his arm, leaving a hand-shaped scorch mark on the trunk where the rune had been.

“She’s dead.”

Alaric’s head snapped forward.

The trees ahead of him were full of ghosts, each a washed-out version of himself.

“Dead… She’s dead… Dead.” The words filled the air.

Alaric clutched the pouch at his neck until he felt the rough stone inside.

A ghost reached toward him. “She’s dead…” Its voice rattled in a long sigh.

Alaric spurred Beast into a gallop, trusting the horse to follow the trail. The whispers clung to them as they ran. Alaric shrank down, hunching his shoulders, wresting his mind away from the memory of his wife’s tired eyes, her pale skin.

The trees ended, and they raced out into a silent swath of grass, running up to the base of an immense cliff. Alaric pulled Beast to a stop, both of them breathing hard. Gripping the saddle, Alaric looked back into the trees. The forest was dark and quiet.

“I take it back,” he said, catching his breath, “the ghosts were worse than the wolves.” He sat in the saddle, pushing back the dread that was enveloping him. She wasn’t dead. The ghosts were just illusions. He’d get the antidote tonight. She’d be fine.

When his heart finally slowed, he gave Beast an exhausted pat on the neck.

“This path used to be a lot easier to follow.”

* * *

Chapter 2

Alaric turned away from the forest. Before him stood a short section of stone wall twice his height. The unusual thing about the Wall was that, instead of enclosing anything, it sat flush against the base of the Marsham Cliffs.

Ignoring the looming presence of the forest behind him, Alaric cast out toward the Wall until he sensed the stone with the vibrating runes. His left hand ached from the last two spells, but there was no point in having both hands sore. This time, he gathered some vitalle from the grass around him. With a grim smile, he pulled some from the nearest ghost-trees as well and lifted his hand toward the Wall.

“Aperi .” Pain burst through his hand like fire. He let out a groan as the stones shifted. An arch opened, revealing a dark tunnel boring deep into the cliff.

Alaric walked Beast inside and turned to look back at the trees. He caught sight of a milky white face, and his stomach clenched.

Alaric thrust his hand toward the entrance. “Cluda. ”

This time, the shock raced all the way up to his elbow. Alaric gasped and clutched his arm to his chest as the opening of the tunnel sealed itself off, leaving them in blackness. He clenched his jaw until the pain faded. He should have used the other hand for that last one.

Alaric started Beast toward the bright moonlight at the far end of the tunnel, wishing he could use the paxa spell to calm himself.

In the calmness of the tunnel, the memory of Evangeline’s hollowed face flooded his mind again, followed by the familiar anguish.

He pushed that image away and drew out the memory of the night they had walked together along the edge of the Greenwood. She had peered into the woods hoping to catch a glimpse of an elf. He had explained that no one caught sight of an elf by chance, but she had ignored him, jumping at every flash of a bird or a squirrel.

He held that idea for a long moment. The way she had looked. The way she had been. The way she would be again.

He tucked the memory away and refocused on tonight. All he needed was to slip into the library and find one book. It should be easy.

Of course, the path should have been easy, too. The wolves and ghosts made no sense. Alaric had lived at the Stronghold for two decades and had traveled that path countless times. It had never given him trouble. It had never needed to. The Wall was more than enough defense for the Stronghold.

To anyone but a Keeper, the Wall would appear to be just an odd bit of wall sitting right against a cliff face. None but a Keeper knew how to open the tunnel, and the tunnel was the only entrance to the valley holding the Keepers’ Stronghold.

The obvious question was whether the Keepers had changed the path in the year since Alaric had stormed out, or whether Alaric had changed, and this was how the path had always treated strangers.

Beast nickered as the tunnel spilled out into a grassy field in a narrow valley. Ahead of them a tower rose, its white stones shining in the moonlight. The smells of the day lingered in the valley, bread and smoke and drying herbs, but this late at night, everything was quiet.

A glitter of light from the very top of the tower beckoned him. The Wellstone.

It tempted him to go up, to dive into the pool of Keeper memories that it held. It was the other option besides the book, the quicker option. He needed knowledge from Kordan, and Kordan had been a Keeper. He would have stored his memories in the Wellstone, just like every other Keeper for the last two hundred years. Certainly, the information Alaric needed would be there.

But the price to use the Wellstone was too high. Evangeline was safe for now. The reference Alaric had found about Kordan had mentioned a book, so he was here for a book. Please let the antidote be in the book.

Alaric crossed the grass to the wooden front doors of the tower, bleached to grey in the moonlight and flung wide open as always. Alaric stepped through them into the heavy stillness of the entry hall. He ignored the lanterns sitting on the shelf next to the door, reluctant to disturb the darkness. Hopefully, he could find the book and leave without having to explain himself, or his long absence, to anyone.

On his left, the wall was dark with cloaks. Reaching out, he brushed his hand along the soft fabric. True Keepers’ robes, managing to be both substantial and light, might be the thing he missed the most.

Before he left, he would take one. He’d leave this thin, worn cloak behind, the one that wasn’t quite black and wasn’t quite right, and take a real Keeper’s robe with him.

He walked out the end of the hall, through the open center of the tower to the entrance of the library.

He paused near the door, hanging back in the shadows. The library was lit by glowing golden orbs tucked into nooks between the bookshelves. He could hear the scratching of a pen as a Keeper wrote somewhere deep in the library, but there was no one to be seen. He stepped up to the wooden railing in front of him and looked out into an immense circular room. Four stories below him lay a tiled floor with patterns swirling like eddies in a stream. Three stories above him, a glass ceiling showed the starry sky. A narrow walkway stretched around the room alongside age-darkened bookshelves.

If the Keepers could be relied on for anything, it was to record things. And then cross-reference that knowledge. Repeatedly. Alaric wasn’t sure where Kordan’s book would be shelved, but all of his works should be recorded in the Keeper’s Registry.

Alaric walked to the winding ramp spiraling along the inside of the railing, connecting each floor to the next, grateful for the thick rugs that muffled his steps. He climbed up two floors, still seeing no one, and made his way to the thick black tome that recorded the life’s work of each Keeper.

A puff of air breezed past him as he opened the Registry, as though the book was crammed with more knowledge than it could hold. It had always felt strange to hold this book, knowing that one day, there would be an entry in it under his own name.

Alaric flipped to the index. No listing for Kordan. He tried alternate spellings, but found nothing. He growled in frustration.

“That has got to be the most boring book in the library,” a voice said from behind him.

Alaric’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of the Shield’s voice. Silently cursing the thick step-muffling rugs, he turned to face the leader of the Keepers.

“You’ve been gone over a year, Alaric. Please tell me you didn’t come back just to browse the Registry.”

The tiny form of the Shield stood behind him smiling, his bald head barely above Alaric’s elbow. His clear eyes peered up at Alaric from below wooly white eyebrows. Alaric braced for questions, but the Shield just smiled benignly, displaying none of the accusation that Alaric expected.

“How did you know I was here?”

The Shield shrugged. “I’m so old that at this point, I’m bordering on omniscient.”

Alaric let out a short laugh, his tension releasing with it.

The Shield glanced down at the book in Alaric’s hand. “As any omniscient would ask, what are you looking for? And can I help you find it?”

Alaric almost said no, but though the Shield was not omniscient, the amount of knowledge contained behind those fluffy brows was astounding. He could save Alaric hours of research.

Alaric offered the book to him. “I’m looking for information on a Keeper named Kordan. He lived about a hundred years ago.”

The Shield weighed the words for a moment, and Alaric knew he was making connections and filling in blanks until he understood far more than Alaric had said. The old man waved away the Registry and turned toward the shelves. “You’re looking in the wrong book. Kordan was a Keeper, but after dabbling in some darker magic, he left the Stronghold and requested to be removed from the ranks of Keepers. He’ll be recorded over here.” He pulled another book off the shelf, Histories and Works of the Gifted. “Specifically, he’ll be under the Magic-Capable, Affiliation-Unknown section since he never aligned himself with any other group. He’s under Kordan the Harvester.”

Magic-Capable, Affiliation-Unknown. Alaric sighed. I’m right there with you, Kordan.

“He has a town named after him,” the Shield continued. “Kordan’s Blight. It’s up near the foot of the Wolfsbane Mountains.”

“Kordan’s Blight? That sounds… ominous.” Alaric slid the Registry back into place on the shelf.

“Mmm,” the Shield agreed, flipping pages. “There wasn’t much of a town when he lived there, just a few homesteads. Kordan lived there for some time doing experiments. I’m sure you can guess that his time there didn’t end well. You know how local legends are. The memory of him stuck, and when a town did grow there, it inherited the name. Ahh, here it is.” The Shield set his finger on a paragraph then looked up at Alaric with a searching look.

“So… you came back looking for information on a Keeper, and you decided to come down here. To the library…”

Alaric didn’t answer the unspoken question.

“…when we have a Wellstone upstairs which holds all of Kordan’s memories.”

“I’m not using it,” Alaric said flatly. He wouldn’t pay the Wellstone’s fee. He wouldn’t share with it all his memories since the last time he used it. The memories of meeting Evangeline, of when she was poisoned, of the things he had done to save her and the dark days since. “My memories are my own. I’m not interested in sharing them with the Wellstone so they can be studied and analyzed.” His voice came out sharper than he had intended.

The Shield considered him for a long moment. “Then it is safe to assume you don’t intend to stay.”

Alaric let his eyes run over the books in front of him. Shelves and shelves of annals, a running history of Queensland kept by the Keepers for hundreds of years.

“But I need you back at court,” the Shield said when Alaric didn’t answer. “The queen needs you back.”

“I can’t.”

“Queen Saren needs a Keeper to advise her.”

“Send someone else.”

“Who?” The calmness in the Shield’s voice cracked. “Who here has the strength to travel two days to the palace, then keep up with the pressure of life at court?”

The answer to that was obvious. There was only one other Keeper young enough to travel. “Send Will.”

“Will never came back from the Greenwood. It’s been over a year, and we’ve received no word.”

Alaric looked sharply at the Shield. Will should have only been gone a couple of months. He was in his thirties, barely younger than Alaric. He’d been like a brother to Alaric since they had joined the Keepers twenty years ago.

“Well, let someone else read some books and take over,” Alaric snapped.

“If all Saren needed was books, I’d send her books. But I don’t even have another Keeper who can piece together history and politics and answers the way you can. No one else who can draw out the important parts of history and make it useful.”

Alaric shook his head. He couldn’t go back to court. Not right now.

The Shield’s voice grew quieter. “How is Evangeline?”

Alaric felt the familiar stab of guilt. He took a deep breath. The library air smelled of paper and ink and knowledge. He’d missed that smell. He took another breath. That was all he seemed to do these days, take deep breaths.

The Shield let the question drop. “What are you looking for from Kordan?”

Another hard question. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell the Shield, exactly, but it was hard to say out loud. The hope was too fragile, like the new skin of ice over a pond. Just the effort of shaping it into words could shatter it.

But that fear was irrational. He looked down into the Shield’s face. “I’m looking for the antidote to rock snake venom.”

The old man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I wouldn't have thought to look in Kordan's work.”

Under other circumstances, Alaric would be pleased that he’d told the Shield something he didn’t already know.

The Shield turned back to the book, and his surprise turned into a scowl. “This lists one reference in the library from Kordan, a scroll. But it’s not in the medicinal section.” He glanced up at Alaric. “It’s on the restricted shelves.”

The restricted shelves? Alaric felt the hope he’d been carrying so carefully crack.

The Shield gave Alaric a long, measured look. “I hope you find the answers you need, Alaric.” He turned to go.

“There were ghosts outside the Wall,” Alaric said quietly.

The Shield paused and turned back. “There are always ghosts on the path back home. They must have never had anything to say to you before.”

Alaric looked at the old man in surprise. “You see them?”

The Shield gave a short, bitter laugh. “Every time. The sentinels may be the reason that so few of the older Keepers ever leave. They’re too afraid to take the path back. You live long enough, Alaric, and you build up quite a few ghosts.” The smile he gave Alaric now was tinged with sadness. “I meant what I told you before you left. No one is defined by a single choice. All of us have ghosts. And regrets. If you ever see a road back to us, I will be glad of it.”

Alaric felt a momentary swell of gratitude. But the Shield didn’t know what Alaric had done, the places he’d gone, the things he’d been a part of. He didn’t know how many lines Alaric had crossed trying to save Evangeline, only to fail again and again. He tried to return the old man’s parting smile, but he couldn’t quite force one out before the Shield was too far away to see it.

* * *

Chapter 3

Alaric watched the Shield leave the library before he moved. Then he went to the ramp and headed to the lowest floor. Two levels down, he almost ran into another Keeper walking with his nose in a book.

The man looked up with an apologetic smile. When he saw Alaric’s face, his smile withered. Alaric held in a sigh.

“Mikal,” Alaric said, nodding his head slightly. Of course it had to be Mikal.

Mikal narrowed his eyes. “Back so soon?”

Alaric felt a pang of regret at the Keeper’s reaction. But here, at least, was the welcome Alaric had expected. “I’m not really back at all.”

Mikal gave a little snort, his eyes running down Alaric’s worn cloak. “Never thought you would be.” He stepped around Alaric and disappeared up the ramp.

Alaric stood still for a moment. It was surprisingly depressing to realize he was living up to Mikal’s expectations, not the Shield’s.

Alaric descended quickly all the way to the deepest floor of the library where the oldest books were stored. Their spines, even with the meticulous preservation of the Keepers, were flaking off, leaving a fine dust along the front of the shelves. There were books on this level written in runes so ancient that none but a Keeper could read them.

He crossed the floor to a bookshelf covered by a wooden gate. When Alaric touched the wood, red words flared into existence.

Herein lie words of darkness and death.

A year ago when he’d touched this gate, he’d been looking for a way to save Evangeline’s life among these restricted books. A way that was different from all the ways a Keeper would try. A way that might work. Most of these writings were from Sidion, works the Shade Seekers had written. They spoke of dark magic that the Keepers would not consider using. When the red warning had sprung up that time, Alaric had almost walked away.

Almost. He hadn’t heeded the words. He thought he had found new paths of life. He had been wrong.

“Darkness and death,” he agreed quietly.

He opened the gate and began to look carefully through the first shelf that held scrolls. At one end of it, he found one ruined, crumpled red scroll. Alaric winced in guilt and skipped down to the lower shelves. On the very bottom sat the unassuming brown scroll labeled, Death and Life of a Seed by Kordan the Harvester.

He pulled the parchment from its place and moved to a nearby desk positioned between the shelves. The cheerful glow of the golden orb above it felt out of place.

He unrolled the thin, crinkling paper.

Herein, I write the final record of my work. I cannot bear to write any more. I will store all of my memories in the Wellstone, and bury my treasure beneath a young oak. Then I am finished with it all.

It is only now that I see the darkness in what I have been studying.

I realized, as every farmer does, it is only in dying that a seed creates a new plant. I remembered that the Shade Seekers have a way of manipulating the energy of a creature at the moment of its death. If I could use that power with a seed, I might grow a plant greater than expected. I failed many times before I finally succeeded. I was elated when a sunflower sprouted and grew to an enormous height overnight.

I was coming to understand the exact nature of the seeds, the exact way in which they died, the exact moment in which to impart my magic. I began to see that I could control death, even stop it and replace it with life. Far from frightening me, I was thrilled by this new power.

Everything went perfectly for a quarter of a year.

Then came the day when Peros, the farmer’s son, was bitten by a rock snake. Roused by the commotion, I ran outside and saw his parents holding him in despair. A man had killed the snake, but too late. Blackness was seeping up the boy’s leg. There was nothing to do. No way to stop it.

Sometimes, I try to justify myself by remembering that I had been cooped up for months, focused exclusively on my seeds. But I know that does not excuse me.

When I saw the boy dying, it was as though he were a seed. I could see the life in him and knew how it would leave. I knew the moment of action. The despair of his parents drove any thought from my head, and I raced to the boy, cradling his head in my hands, whispering the words of death and life. Through his pain, he looked up at me, and I know that at the last moment, he understood what I did. Oh, worthless man! To have that moment back and watch the life fade from his eyes!

The boy did not die. A seed, when it is ‘reborn’, splits open and a new life springs from within it. But a boy is not a seed—Peros had nothing inside him to grow. There was nothing but the snake’s venom and death.

The fear that he would split open paralyzed me for a moment, but he did not. He writhed and screamed in agony, an agony far worse than the bite. His parents tried to calm him, but everyone else drew back in terror. What came out of him was his energy, the essence of him. I can still hear the scream he let out as a green glow radiated from every part of his body. This glow swirled and pulled away from him, causing him terrible pain. It coalesced into a green focus of light as the last tendrils were torn from him.

The screaming stopped, and he collapsed to the ground. His eyes were glazed and empty, but he breathed. An enormous rough emerald dropped onto his chest, the solid form of the green light, the solid form of the boy’s vitalle. His father cast the gem off the boy and clung to him. He spoke his son’s name, but there was no response. The boy’s eyes stared vacantly. He was alive, but hollow.

Eventually, they stood him up and led him away. He followed their every command, but lifelessly. They had never trusted my powers, but now they looked at me in horror as they left.

I picked up the emerald. It was warm and pulsed with a swirling green light. The Shade Seekers call it a Reservoir Stone. I almost took it to his family, but I did not. I do not know what I hoped to learn from it. Maybe it was a sort of punishment to keep it with me and remember what I had done. I did nothing with the gem but look at it and weep.

Although the boy felt no more pain, the venom continued to eat away at him.

The light in the emerald dimmed through the night. When the boy died near dawn, the gem grew dark and cold.

It wasn’t until days later that I realized that I have an antidote to the snakebite. It had never occurred to me. Perhaps this is the danger the Keepers warned me of. Not that my experiments were evil, but that they focused on death to the extent that I stopped looking for life.

Tonight, I end the record of my experiments. I have not the heart to work even with the seeds again. I will return to the Stronghold one last time. I know they will accept this scroll, even if they no longer can accept me. After what I have done, I can no longer call myself a Keeper. There are decisions that can’t be unmade, paths that cannot be unchosen, choices that change us too much for us to ever change back.

The emerald sits next to me now, dark and empty.

I will leave here and give the villagers their peace.

Tomorrow, I deliver this scroll to the Stronghold. May it serve as a warning.

Alaric stared at the page in horror. His hand reached for the pouch around his neck. Trembling, he yanked it open, dropping its contents into his hand.

Out fell a huge, rough, uncut ruby filled with swirls of blood-red light.

Alaric rested his forehead against the warm gem, shutting his eyes against the red light. The same red light that had glowed while Evangeline had screamed in agony as he’d slowly drained her of her life energy to form the Reservoir Stone.

He opened his eyes and watched the eddies move through the ruby, the light scattering between the irregular faces of the gem. The energy was still there, still moving, just as it had for the last year. The crystal he had placed around her body to preserve it was working. She lived, and would until he removed the crystal. But that wouldn’t matter, not if he couldn’t find the antidote.

Alaric set the ruby off to the side and picked up Kordan’s scroll and scanned it again, desperation rising. Kordan must have written something more. He had an antidote to rock snake venom. He must have recorded it somewhere.

With a growl of frustration, he flung the scroll away.

I will store all of my memories in the Wellstone.

Alaric dropped his head onto the table with a thud. How hard would it have been to write out one antidote?

He turned his head to look at the ruby again, letting the swirls of light calm him.

A sliver of darkness spun past the surface.

Alaric grabbed the ruby. He watched it closely. The currents flowed around each other until the black line appeared again, no wider than a blade of grass, wrapped around and through one of the streams of light.

Alaric’s hand clenched the stone.

When the boy died near dawn, the gem grew dark and cold.

Alaric held the ruby with shaking hands. The bit of blackness continued to swirl in with the red. When had the darkness appeared? He studied it for a long time, but the black line didn’t change. How long did he have before the ruby went dark?

He needed the antidote. Soon. If Kordan had put it in the Wellstone, then Alaric would use the Wellstone.

Alaric put the ruby back into the pouch at his neck. A tight ball of anger began to grow in his gut at the thought of sharing with the Keepers the things he had done during the last year. Once they knew, Alaric would never be welcomed back here. They wouldn’t be able to look past it.

But he needed the antidote, so he would use the Wellstone, and then he would leave before they had to ask him to. He would get the antidote and go back to Evangeline.

Alaric stood up and placed Kordan’s scroll back where it belonged. The warning gate closed on the bookshelf with a click.

He left the library quickly. The center of the Stronghold tower was open to the ceiling, its white walls rising up a half-dozen stories, drawing closer together as the diameter of the tower shrank. Along the wall, a ramp led upward. Dotted with arched doorways, it spiraled up until it passed through the ceiling. Through that opening, he could see flashes of light from the Wellstone.

Alaric began to climb the ramp. He passed his favorite study, the one with the deep fireplace and deep chair that always smelled like bread from the kitchen below.

Up near the top of the tower, Alaric passed his old room. It was thickly rugged, the walls blanketed by shelves of books, scrolls, and jars. All the things he used to value sat patiently, waiting for him to come back.

He moved on, climbing upward until the ramp led up through the opening in the ceiling and out into the night. The room at the top of the tower was walled almost entirely with open windows. The warm breeze swirled through, tucking dried leaves and dirt deeper into the corners.

The Wellstone, more valuable than everything else the Keepers owned, sat on a small silver pedestal in the center of a table.

It was a round, multifaceted crystal the size of a small melon. Colors flashed erratically through each of its facets, a few of them shining brilliantly.

The Wellstone served as a vessel, storing both energy and memories. The Keepers had been sharing their memories with it for centuries, helping to keep the things they recorded as close to fact as possible.

A chair sat next to the table, and Alaric sank into it. He touched the Wellstone, the edges cold and sharp beneath his fingers.

It would be here, all the knowledge Kordan had shared with the Wellstone when he had come to the Stronghold to deliver his book.

I might have an antidote to the snakebite.

Alaric took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was about to happen. Forcing himself not to consider it any longer, he reached out and cupped his hands around the Wellstone.

Connecting his mind to the crystal was like stepping into a raging storm. Images and sounds battered against him, not because it was trying to push him out, but because Alaric was too insignificant for the Wellstone to notice. He fought for a place in the chaos, fought to be stronger, louder.

When the Wellstone finally noticed him, it drew him in hungrily, the chaos shifting to swirl around him. He stayed still in the center of it all, still reluctant to release his memories. It tugged on his mind. With a groan, Alaric let go.

* * *

Chapter 4

The chaos faded, and the Wellstone swept him along through his own memories. The first images were from court, flashes of the queen, the beginning of his trip to investigate troubling rumors from countries to the south.

Then two eyes, somewhere between green and brown, caught his attention. Alaric grabbed at the stream of memories, slowing them, watching them unfold.

The eyes peered out of a window at him, curious and amused.

Alaric froze, tottering on an upturned bucket, reaching his arm up as high as he could toward one specific apple high on the tree. He laughed self-consciously. With the break in his concentration, his spell faltered and the apple hanging far above him stopped quivering.

“Hello,” the woman said politely.

“Hello,” he answered, smoothing out his black robe and stepping off the bucket.

The woman raised her eyebrows and looked up at the tree laden with apples.

“Would you like a boost up?”

“No, thank you,” Alaric said. “There’s something undignified about a grown man climbing to the top of an apple tree for an apple when there are perfectly good ones within arm’s reach.”

“Was dignified the look you were going for?”

Alaric laughed again. He looked back up at the apple high on the tree and sighed in resignation. “I’d love a boost up.”

The woman came outside and looked up at the tree. She was almost as tall as Alaric, with golden hair that was trying valiantly to escape from a long braid. Her face, while not striking, was open and happy.

“That particular apple is worth this much work?” She gestured to his robe with a grin. “Not to mention the destruction of your reputation as a respectable Keeper?”

Alaric considered the apple for a moment, knowing it seemed odd. “It’s worth at least that much.”

She offered her hands as a step, and between the two of them, Alaric was able to scramble up onto the first branch of the apple tree. Several minutes later, Alaric dropped back down out of the tree, holding his apple victoriously.

“I hate to tell you this,” the woman said, “but your prize apple has been nibbled on.”

Alaric turned the apple around to look at the bites taken from the side of the fruit.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I wanted it.”

“You’re a very strange man,” she said.

“This apple was bitten by a green-breasted robin,” Alaric explained. “The saliva of a green-breasted robin is very rare and has some unusual qualities. It’s very exciting to find this apple.”

“Thrilling.”

Alaric grinned and gave the woman a bow. “I’m Alaric. You have the thanks of the Keepers for your assistance in my quest. If there is any way the Keepers or I can repay you, we are in your debt.”

She laughed and curtsied. “Well, Keeper Alaric, I am Evangeline, and this is my inn. If you would honor me with your patronage and some Keeper-storytelling for my customers, I would feel overpaid.”

Alaric agreed to the storytelling and followed Evangeline into the inn. The walls were rough grey stone. The wooden planks of the floor were worn smooth by years of traffic. The hearth held a cheery fire, and smells of dinner and comfort wafted out of the kitchen. It was everything an inn should be. Alaric found himself relaxing, wanting nothing more than to prop his feet up on the hearth and enjoy a meal.

The common room was full for mid-afternoon. Workers wandered in and out for quick drinks, and a gaggle of old women played a noisy game of cards at a corner table. Three equally old men sat nearby, heckling the card players. Evangeline walked Alaric to a table near the fire.

“I bring you all a treat today,” Evangeline announced to the room, handing Alaric a mug of cider. “A storyteller!”

A cheer went up from the room, and there was a scuffle of chairs as people rearranged themselves to take advantage of the new entertainment.

Alaric rubbed his hands together. “Are there any requests?”

Several suggestions were shouted from different parts of the room.

“Tomkin and the Dragon,” Evangeline said.

A round of hollers agreed with the choice and Alaric nodded. It was a good choice. He took a deep drink of cider, pulled his hood up over his head, and looked down at the floor, letting the room fall into silence. From beneath his hood, he glanced at Evangeline and saw her leaning on the bar, her face set in a look of anticipation. Pleased by her interest, he began.

Images flashed by, of him and Evangeline traveling south. How nervous she had been to meet with the king of Napon.

His memories reached the evening on the sea cliffs.

Did the Wellstone know that some of these memories were more worn than others? Pulled out more often and clung to?

The moon sat low over the ocean, embodying every bit of poetry ever written about such a moment. Evangeline held his hands while the local holy man spoke the wedding pledges.

The image shifted.

The two of them pulled the unwieldy rowboat up onto the lakeshore and collapsed on the sand, half laughing, half groaning. Alaric could barely move his arms, and his back ached. The wind that had risen, making the water so choppy, blew across the beach, cooling him off so quickly he began to shiver.

“That is the worst rowboat ever made,” she said, panting.

“With the world’s smallest oars,” he added. So much for a relaxing afternoon of fishing.

“If we find that obnoxious woman who was yelling, ‘Row! Row!’ from the shore, can you turn her into a rock?”

Alaric laughed. “I’m not good at messing with the boundary between the living and the non-living.”

“A frog, then?”

“A frog is a possibility.”

Alaric loosened his grip, letting images flow past faster, like water through his fingers. Images of walking a forested road with Evangeline, talking about everything and nothing. Sitting around a bonfire, watching village children dance. Scenes of easy happiness.

But then he caught a glimpse of the Lumen Greenwood in the distance, and a small village. The village that had been terrorized by an enormous fire lizard, which had been preying on their flocks and killed a child.

Alaric’s heart faltered, and he grabbed at the flow of memories to stop them, but the Wellstone pulled him on.

Alaric set out with the three villagers to find and kill the fire lizard. Evangeline hadn’t wanted to stay behind, but he’d gotten her to agree at last.

The dull orange lizard attacked them when they were barely out of the village.

Alaric drew vitalle out from it, slowing the lizard, but it was still so fast. The men shot arrows at it, most of them missing wildly as the creature darted around them, spitting burning liquid, raking the men with its claws.

The beast was finally brought down, its body prickling with black-fletched arrows. Alaric stumbled over to the men strewn on the ground. Not one had survived.

There was a noise behind him, and he spun around. Evangeline staggered toward him, a black-fletched arrow lodged in her thigh. His heart faltered.

“No,” he cried, catching her as she fell. “I thought you were in the village.”

She clutched at him, her face white with pain.

Alaric set her down gently. The arrow wasn’t deep. A simple, clean wound like this would heal relatively quickly.

He gave her a moment to brace for the pain before he pulled it out.

She screamed.

Alaric clawed at the memories, frantically trying to stop them, to change them, to block the arrow, to change the story.

The wound had been simple, but it had not been clean. Of course the villagers had poisoned the arrows. But in their terror, they had poisoned them with things they didn’t even have an antidote for.

Alaric climbed the stone steps of the small mountain keep, carrying her in his arms. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her face was gaunt and pale.

The blanket he had wrapped her in slid off her black, swollen leg. Lines of dark red snaked up her thigh, tracing the poison’s path. He tried to carry her gently, but she shuddered in pain with each step.

Alaric reeled away from the memory, but the Wellstone dragged him relentlessly on.

Alaric stood in the Stronghold council chamber trying not to crush the red scroll in his fist. Sixteen Keepers in black robes were seated at the long, map-strewn table, looking at him with troubled faces.

The Shield smiled warmly. “Brother Alaric, you have a request for the council?”

Alaric held the red scroll from Sidion securely in his hand, feeling the rich thrum of power it held. A power with more fire than the Keepers’ books held. “I would like to travel to Sidion.”

Most of the faces remained impassive. Keeper Gerone sighed, and Keeper Mikal huffed in disapproval.

“For what purpose?” the Shield asked.

They already knew the answer, but Alaric forced the words out, anyway.

“All my attempts have failed. Evangeline is at rest in a holding trance, but I cannot completely stop the progression of the rock snake venom. Our skills cannot save her. I need a way to extract it from her body without killing her.”

Several men murmured in disapproval.

“And you think this is wise?”

“I think my wife is too young to die,” Alaric snapped. “It’s arrogant to think we have all the answers. There are references”—he waved the red scroll at them, causing little bits to crumble off—”of magic beyond what we practice. The Shade Seekers can sever the vitalle from the body—”

“Sever!” cried out Keeper Mikal above the muttering that filled the room. “The body is nothing without vitalle. The life energy and the body are intertwined—”

“Peace, brother,” the Shield broke in. The room fell silent. “Alaric knows all these things. His learning has never been deficient.”

“Any man can become a fool,” muttered Mikal.

“Yes, and any man can stop being a fool and become something better,” the Shield answered. “I, myself, have done both—more than once.” He turned to Alaric. “You knew that we wouldn’t approve this, and you knew why.”

Alaric thought of Evangeline, the blackness of the venom twisting through her body. “Your reasons aren’t as compelling as they used to be.”

The Shield sighed. “No, I don’t suppose they are.”

“This is why Keepers don’t waste time marrying,” Mikal said. “It divides loyalties.”

Alaric’s anger flared, but he refused to look at Mikal, refused to have this fight again. “Will you give me leave to go?”

“No.” The Shield’s answer was simple. More sad than angry.

“Then you sentence my wife to death.” Alaric flung the word across the table.

The Shield did not flinch. “I would save her, and you, from something worse.”

“You sit here in your tower,” Alaric said, biting off each word, “isolated from the world, judging and recording only part of it. You disregard and forbid things you are ignorant of.”

“It is not from ignorance that we have banned the practices of Sidion.”

“You’ve been there? You’ve studied their arts?” Alaric shot at the Shield.

“Yes.”

Several heads turned sharply toward their leader.

“One of those choices that made me more of a fool.”

Alaric paused at that. But then her face came back to him. Her desperate eyes, her hollowed cheeks.

“I must go.”

“Then you will no longer be a Keeper.” Mikal shoved his chair back as he stood.

“No one is discussing casting Alaric out,” the Shield said firmly.

Mikal glared at Alaric before slamming back down into his chair.

The Shield looked around the room. “We do not cast men out for a single choice because no man is defined by a single choice. With each day, we decide anew who we are, what we will grow toward. Alaric has chosen to be a Keeper a thousand times in a thousand ways. No one is discussing his place here, only his request to travel to Sidion.” He turned back to Alaric. “We cannot give you leave to go. It is forbidden.”

Alaric stood, looking down the table at the frail old man. “I asked as a courtesy. I don’t need your permission.”

“We will not stop you, of course, and you will be welcomed back when you return.” The Shield met Alaric’s gaze. “But I beg you to reconsider. This is not what you want. Shade Seekers do not value the things we do. Please do not go. For her sake.”

Alaric stared hard at the man. “I will not sit by and watch her die,” Alaric said, crushing the scroll in his hand. Keeper Gerone’s face grew white, and he stretched his hand toward the ruined red parchment.

Alaric would not be swayed.

He would not lose her.

The Wellstone continued to pull him on. Alaric was at Sidion, reading dark, heartless books. Then he was standing over Evangeline, drawing the red light out from her, apologizing over and over while she screamed in pain. Finally, the ruby solidified, swirling with red light.

Alaric let the memories flow, letting the Wellstone pull them out as quickly as it wanted. When Alaric reached the Death Caves of the southern blood doctors in Napon, the memories slowed. Alaric tried to push them faster, but the Stone recognized that here was a place no Keeper had ever been before. It spent too long absorbing the horrors of that place. Watching healthy people, even women and young children, poisoned. Their symptoms, responses to antidotes, and deaths recorded meticulously. There was so much blood and sickness in those caves you could taste it in the air.

The Wellstone sifted through every memory as Alaric stood by, watching the doctors perform experiment after experiment with the rock snake venom he had brought. They didn’t have rock snakes this far south. He hadn’t known what they would do when he brought it to them. He hadn’t known how many people they would kill trying to develop an antidote. How many people Alaric would have to watch die, unable to stop them.

And even the blood doctors found no antidote.

The Wellstone’s pull on him lessened as the pool of unshared memories shrank. It settled finally on an image of the small keep where Evangeline lay, pale and still. Moonlight fell through the balcony doors onto her thin face, her limp hair. It glinted off the crystal surrounding her, keeping her body alive.

With a moan, Alaric pulled his hands off the Wellstone.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

3

Shard & Shield

Laura VanArendonk Baugh

He can save her life—if he sacrifices himself and those he swore to protect.

King’s bastard Shianan Becknam buries himself in his military career to avoid the family that never wanted him and the dangers of drawing political attention. When the artifact intended to end an interdimensional war is damaged, the mage Ariana is trapped on the other side of the rift with her servant—only the cheery young boy is really one of the monstrous enemy, disguised as a human. Shianan is desperate to rescue Ariana, one of his few friends, but to do so requires committing treason and betraying his duty, leaving his people open to attack.

State mage Ariana struggles to survive as a prisoner of war in a world of deadly magic and unfamiliar customs. Her only ally is her former servant, now a renowned warrior caught up in political machinations. To survive, he’ll have to once again take up the fight against Ariana’s world.

As their people’s wasted armies prepare for fresh battle that will devastate both sides, bastard, mage, and monster must set aside prejudices and rivalries to find an end to centuries of conflict, before they die as traitors.

Book 1 in a new series  The Shard of Elan.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

Chapter 1

Ariana spotted Shianan Becknam in the traffic almost immediately, but she pretended to search a moment longer. It was a guilty opportunity to study his features for telltale characteristics.

Beside her, young Tam pointed too helpfully. “He’s there, near the soldiers.”

Ariana crossed the road to the bench outside the public house, untangling a few dark strands of hair from her pack strap. Becknam gestured to waiting ales. “Was the market worthwhile?”

“I bought some chocolate.”

Becknam gave her a flat glance. “Only a few bites, I hope.”

Tam led the way inside and crouched to tuck their packs beneath a table. Ariana shook her head. “Not much.”

Not much for Becknam to carry, anyway, as the packet was in her bag. She probably shouldn’t have purchased the chocolate, as every pound would matter in the mountains. It would make a nice treat one night, though. She wanted something for Tam as well; he had not yet complained despite the difficult journey.

She glanced sidelong at Becknam. He, too, had made no complaint, but that was to be expected.

A smiling, stout man emerged from the kitchen, a child toddling curiously behind him. “Welcome! Suppers for all? Mutton and herbed roots tonight. Sing out if you find the bottom of your cup.”

Ariana began to reclaim her windblown hair into a braid. Watching Becknam across the table, she thought the line of his jaw was reminiscent of the king’s. She wondered if he had considered a beard to conceal that, or if he preferred the resemblance to be seen. She wondered if everyone wondered such things as they looked at him.

The room was filling with locals, and soon they were sharing their table and benches. Ariana sipped at her drink and traced a finger through its condensation on the table, drawing loose geometric designs. Idly she asked, “Did you know some ancient art includes winged men as icons of beauty? Not quite Ryuven, but wings, anyway.”

“Then it was ancient art indeed,” said Becknam, “from well before the Ryuven. Those monsters aren’t winged men, and they aren’t beautiful.” He cast a suspicious eye toward her. “If my lady had seen—”

“I am quite aware of what the Ryuven can do. I only—it’s odd that we should have imagined men with wings, don’t you think?”

“Artists have more imagination than sense, and more sense than usefulness.”

Ariana drew a bolder design on the table.

Tam shifted the ales to make room for cold mutton and warm turnips and parsnips, sprinkled with shredded herbs and chunks of butter. The landlord beamed at Ariana’s praise for the food and retreated to the kitchen, shooing the child ahead of him.

The man to her right was intent on a story for his other tablemates. “And so there was Sergeant Vanguilder, pulling his last arrow, and then out of the sky comes this Ryuven—”

“The Ryuven in front of him?” asked another.

“No, another Ryuven, come from above. And he strikes the sergeant like a lightning bolt and he goes face down—the sergeant—and I don’t have to say the arrow goes wide, and the Ryuven—the first one, now, the one on the ground—jumps for him like a terrier on a rat.”

One of the listeners rolled his eyes. “Maybe a stunted terrier. On a fat rat.”

“Eh? The sergeant ain’t fat.”

“Or maybe if the rat had a bow and a pike, and the terrier had a mace and magic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the storyteller demanded. “Stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“Well, that’s a stupid way to describe it, terrier and rat. You ever seen a Ryuven shake a soldier by the spine? Say plainly he went for the sergeant with his hammer or whatever he had. He didn’t use magic, I’ll guess, or you wouldn’t go on about terriers.”

“You done for a bit? Can I tell on?”

Ariana hid her smile behind her hand.

“So I use my sword and I cut a steak out of this Ryuven, and then over us comes this shadow, and—”

“And it’s Pairvyn ni Ai himself, right? Only he sees you and he runs for his life? And then King Jerome comes and says he wants you in his personal guard—” The rest of the listener’s heckling was drowned in a chorus of mocking laughter.

“Shuddup!”

“It wasn’t yet that the king asked him,” protested someone else, laughing hard enough to muddy his words. “He had to go and save His Majesty’s life first, right?”

“Shuddup,” repeated the storyteller, sullen. “I did so guard the king at Ason Field.”

“Right you are! Wait, I thought you said it was at Scout’s End?”

Ariana glanced at Tam with a conspiratorial smile and whispered, “The king wasn’t even at Scout’s End.”

Tam pursed his lips. “Was so.”

“How would you know?”

“Same as you—I’ve listened to your father’s stories.”

“And my father said the king wasn’t at Scout’s End!” Ariana laughed.

Tam’s grin vanished and he started up from the bench. Ariana caught a flash of movement and then the storyteller’s hand twisted into her shirt collar, pulling her off-balance. “You calling me a liar, girl?”

She blinked and struggled to find words. “No! No, I wasn’t even—”

The storyteller curled his lip, glad to vent his frustration. “We fought and bled and died there, and you got no call to be mocking those men who—”

“I’m sorry.” Ariana gathered power into her palm, just enough to knock him off his feet if necessary. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I have only the highest respect for—”

Becknam appeared beside them, his eyes on the soldier. “Let her be.”

“I won’t be mocked by a piptit not old enough to—”

Becknam’s hand rested lightly on Ariana’s shoulder, very near the soldier’s. “Let her be.”

For response, the man released Ariana and pivoted, driving a fist toward Becknam. Ariana ducked and Tam seized her, pulling her into a stumble.

Becknam parried the fist outward with his left hand as his right jabbed the end of Ariana’s wooden spoon deep into the attacker’s bicep. The man’s fist recoiled, and Becknam slid the spoon beneath the storyteller’s upper arm and over the wrist, pressing his arm back. The storyteller stuttered back a few steps but could not reclaim his balance, and Shianan eased him backward to the floor, pinned by the spoon on his wrist and a knee on his chest.

The room went quiet.

“Now, she’s said she was sorry and wished no harm,” Becknam said, “and I’m sure you mean the same, so let’s all be neighborly.” He rose and offered the man a hand.

The soldier frowned and didn’t take the hand. “That was too slick to be farm work.”

Becknam shrugged. “Farms need defending.”

“You’re in?”

Becknam nodded, and Ariana caught her breath. But he added casually, “I’m posted at Stoneship, on leave to visit home.”

“Stoneship?” The soldier held out a hand, and Becknam pulled him to his feet. “That’s where I did two years.”

“No joking?”

“And Edgar was there, too. Hear that, Edgar?” The soldier slapped Shianan’s shoulder. “That was a slick turn, but you’re lucky I didn’t see it coming.”

Becknam laughed and turned into the group, nodding and smiling and clasping wrists like old friends.

Ariana sighed and sank down on the bench. “I could have defended myself,” she murmured to Tam. “I was ready.”

Tam was irritatingly practical. “Magic would have been harder to explain than fisticuffs, and less soothing than trading soldier stories.”

“Maybe. But I was ready.”

Tam scooted onto the bench beside her, watching Becknam accept an ale. “It was Steward’s End.”

“What?”

“The king went back to Alham before Steward’s End, not Scout’s End.”

Ariana clenched her jaw; her history error had nearly cost a great deal. “You’d better not let his lordship hear you correcting your betters so lightly.”

Tam barely suppressed his usual grin. “Right, my lady.”

The landlord appeared beside her. “You’re all right, I think?” he asked with concern. “They’re not an unfriendly bunch, though they can be loud.” He nodded toward the group, still exchanging eager anecdotes with Becknam. “But your friend seems to know his way around old soldiers.”

She nodded. “Did he say we wanted two rooms for the night?”

“I told him I’ve only the one. We don’t see much traffic here. The merchants mostly use the south pass, it being open all the year.”

“One room,” Ariana repeated. She couldn’t expect the Count of Bailaha to sleep in a public room, even if they were traveling covertly.

“It has two beds,” the landlord offered, though his face betrayed surprise at her hesitation.

“That will be fine,” Becknam said, returning.

Ariana nodded. They would do without social niceties like walls once they were beyond inns.

“I’ll just take up fresh bedding after I get ales around, then, if you’ll wait a bit. Or send the boy back with me now, and I’ll send him up with the linens.”

Tam followed the landlord to the kitchen, and Becknam leaned an elbow on the table. “You trust him to run about on his own?”

“What?”

“Will he talk?”

“Tam’s a model of discretion.” Ariana nodded toward the kitchen door. “He’s a servant of the White Mage—a famulus, even. There isn’t much Father’s hidden from him.”

“So I saw when I met with your father.” He gestured. “I just don’t feel settled.”

That was understandable. It had happened so fast once her father had announced his discovery. He had introduced Ariana to Commander Shianan Becknam, Count of Bailaha, a man she had always heard of and never known, and barely a day later, they had set out to retrieve the Shard.

The landlord passed again, trading a folded blanket for Ariana’s empty plate. “Your boy’s gone up now, so whenever you’re ready. Here’s an extra blanket I found. You’ll want breakfast?”

“Early, if you please,” Becknam answered. “We don’t want to lose daylight.”

The guest room was small but comfortably heated by the kitchen chimney. Becknam dropped the blanket on the sheets Tam was tucking into place. “Extra bedding for you tonight.”

“How nice.” Tam pulled a sheet tight. “I carried his lordship’s bedding, and he carried mine.”

Becknam stiffened. “Few would confuse a commander with a slave.”

Tam shrugged. “You take orders just as I do.”

“I give them as well.”

“Tam!” Ariana said. “That’s enough. I’m sorry, your lordship.”

Becknam shook his head and sat on the other bed, his muscular frame making the ropes creak. Tam looked away.

It was not like him to be rude. Ariana took his wrist, the metal cuff cool against her fingers, and drew him to the other side of the too-small room. “You were out of place,” she warned softly. “Think on what you say.”

“But he shouldn’t—a prince might become a slave. It’s happened, it’s in stories. And a slave might be—”

“You are not a prince!” She checked herself. “Tam, you know better than to fixate on stories, and saying such things could get us all into trouble. You would reflect badly on Father, and someone might demand you be punished. Do you understand?”

Something unreadable crossed Tam’s face. “Yes, mistress.”

She sighed. “Don’t be like that, Tam. I’m saying this for your own good.”

Tam was an intelligent boy, too old to imagine himself a lost prince. She sighed. They were both on edge, nervous around Becknam and the enormity of their task. It had been a long time since she’d exchanged a joke with the boy.

She watched Tam finish the bed. If their journey tired her, what strain must it be on him? That might have been weariness speaking.

The room was too quiet. “I should confess,” Ariana offered, “I’m excited to reach the citadel. This is an adventure of sorts. So many tales start with a quest for a wondrous artifact: Kalen and the Forgotten Diamond Diadem, Gabriev and the Sword of Light….”

Becknam gave her a flat look. “Think less of stories and more of duty, my lady. There’s little connecting a taproom tale and a true battle.”

Ariana stiffened, but her eye caught Tam’s before she could retort. Stories , he mouthed.

She fluffed her pillow.

Becknam lay back and turned to face the wall. Tam made a nest of blankets beside their beds and curled into them like an animal, leaving only his blond hair visible.

Ariana considered Tam’s choice. There was space between the foot of her bed and the wall, where he could have slept without danger of being trod upon. Yet Tam always slept between her and Becknam—did he think to protect Ariana from dangerous intentions? The thought made her stifle a giggle. Becknam might be a commander and now a count, but Ariana was the daughter of the White Mage Ewan Hazelrig. And as a grey mage, she could defend herself. And Tam was a mere boy—how could he hope to stop a soldier?

Still, there was something endearing about the gesture. And Tam would soon relax. They couldn’t afford suspicion or friction if they were to travel efficiently and quietly.

“Wake, Tam. Time to go.” Ariana frowned at the curled drape of blankets on the floor. “Tam?” She flipped the end she guessed covered his head, ruffling his fair hair, and he protested inarticulately. “Tam, up. Now.”

The boy shielded his eyes. “Morning?”

“Morning,” she confirmed. “His lordship woke early,” she added, trying not to sound as resentful as she felt. “As always.”

Across the room, the commander’s mouth quirked upward. “I had an effective education—each dawn, my mattress inverted. I learned to wake in the dark.”

Ariana was not sure how to respond. “That’s not….”

He looked away. “I’m sorry. It was an awkward thing to mention to a lady.”

“I am not so naïve as that, my lord.”

“I wasn’t my lord then.”

His embarrassment embarrassed her, and now Tam sat smugly concealing his smile at the two of them embarrassing themselves before a slave boy.

Becknam pointed at Tam. “Up and ready,” he said gruffly. “We’re losing daylight.”

After a quick breakfast they were on the road again. “No more inns,” Becknam said as he shouldered his pack. “We’ll sleep under the stars tonight.”

“We always sleep beneath the stars,” Tam offered. “Whether we have a roof makes no difference to their place.”

Ariana stifled her chuckle when Becknam frowned. Stick-in-the-mud.

The mountain terrain, just beginning to green, dazzled Ariana’s urban eyes. Spring melts had filled every rivulet to a run, and they never escaped the plashy sound of running or falling water. The air took on a tang of spicy cold which had nothing to do with the temperature, energizing Ariana. “I never knew mountains were like this! It’s—amazing.”

“You’re not properly in the mountains yet,” called Becknam from his place at the front. The brown hair bound in a tail down his back was not so dark as the king’s. “These are just foothills; there are still some farms and holdings along here.”

“What’s the difference?”

Becknam glanced over his shoulder. “A mountain is taller.”

“No, between a farm and a holding?”

“A farm is a thin hide of arable land and a few hills of goats, and a holding is the shale ledge from which the farmer is trying to keep from falling.”

Ariana frowned at his back. “I have either misheard or misjudged your lordship. Was that a joke?”

He grinned over his shoulder, and the expression looked out of place on his face. “I may be out of practice.”

The road narrowed to a cart track, still smooth but more flexible as it ascended the hills. They would leave it soon. Becknam knew a quicker route for those without wagons, and speed mattered during the Migrations.

Ariana paused and turned, but the twisting road did not permit a view of the plain beyond. Would there be a clear sky for stargazing tonight? As Tam passed she started uphill again, muscles protesting. Or perhaps she would be too tired for stars.

Ahead on the road, Becknam halted, extending one arm as if to block their progress. Tam stopped instantly, and Ariana glanced at him before looking back to Becknam and coming to a slow halt. “What?”

He slid his pack to the road, slipping a sword from its wrapping as he straightened. “Wait here.”

Ariana looked past him and saw a shape near the next curve, a dark mass lying at the edge of the road. Her arms tingled with sudden gooseflesh. “Is that…?”

Becknam didn’t go to the body directly, but circled it, his eyes scanning the brush and the sky. After a moment, he knelt beside it. “Magic and mace,” he reported. “If this isn’t Ryuven, it’s meant to look like it.”

Tam edged forward. Ariana moved with him. “Here? On the road? But there’s no reason….”

Becknam shook his head as he rose. “A farmer, by the look of him. Probably had a place near here. He was trying to get out, for help or maybe just to run.” He sighed. “I suppose we ought to look. There are usually survivors.”

Ariana kept her eyes on Becknam and away from the mass between them. “Survivors?”

Becknam nodded, turning to look up the road. “The Ryuven are butchers, but they’re not stupid. You kill a farm’s people, you get one harvest. Raid and run, without killing more than you can help, you get a harvest once or maybe twice a year.”

The body stank. Ariana glanced down, unable to stop herself, and stared in mute horrified fascination. The man lay face-down, for which she was grateful—she didn’t want nightmares of gaping mouth and dried-out eyes. His shoulder and back had been crushed with heavy blows, and magic had scorched his torso. He smelled of old blood and feces and flyblown meat.

Tam reached for her hand, and she took it and squeezed reassuringly. She had to be strong for the boy.

“Here,” called Becknam, ahead on the road. “Here’s the track to his place. Tam, bring my pack.”

The turn-off led downhill, toward a natural basin where warmth might linger in the hills. Becknam kept his sword in his hand. “Stay behind me,” he warned. “That was a good two days ago, but we don’t want to startle anyone. Even farmers have weapons.”

“And you have a mage.” A Mage of the Circle, she should have been able to say. “If they have arrows, I can shield us.”

“Heh.”

“What?”

“Mages aren’t so free with their shields in battle,” he said gruffly. “Soldiers die by Ryuven magic while our mages stand on a hillside and watch.”

“No!”

He glanced back. “Do you contradict me on battle experience?”

“No, of course not,” she amended. “But you have it all wrong. First, that’s an energy well, not a shield, and—”

“I don’t care what—”

“And the dissipation efficiency decreases with reach,” she continued over him, “putting the caster at increased risk, so a mage cannot hope to sufficiently cover a group of soldiers at a range of—”

“Quiet!” Becknam snapped. “We’re close.”

The track dipped toward a compact, well-tended homestead. The tidy image of a stone home with an attached stock shed was destroyed by the presence of two more corpses lying before the door. Becknam swore.

Ariana caught her breath and stumbled; the chickens had been at one body. The other lay near a tethered brown and cream goat, which bleated anxiously at their approach.

“No survivors,” Becknam muttered. “Not this.”

The body near the goat was a child, younger than Tam. Ariana stopped. “What—what do we do now?”

“Look for the survivors we know aren’t here,” Becknam answered wearily, “and bury these. We’ll tell the village on our way back, after we have the Shard, if no one’s noticed by then.” He nodded to Tam. “Turn the goat loose, and I hear sheep around back. They can fend for themselves until someone comes for them. And keep an eye for a shovel.”

“I’ll get the sheep,” Ariana said quickly, wanting to be away from the dead.

The outlying shed was open and empty of stores but for a few small burlap bags, a barrel, and two crates. The door creaked as it shifted in the breeze. Tam moved to unknot the goat’s rope.

Ariana set down her pack and started around the house. Her heart jumped as she saw more bodies. One was a dead man, a slave by his wrist cuffs. The other was a dead Ryuven.

Ariana crept forward, drawn by a morbid fascination. She had never seen a Ryuven before, alive or dead—not in person. She stepped around the slave and looked at the monster.

It was almost less horrible because of its strangeness. Its shape was similar to a man’s, but leaner and lighter, as if made of birds’ bones. A pitchfork protruded from its chest, and dark blood stained its light leather armor around the puncture wounds. On either side lay crumpled membranous wings, set into the widened torso like a second set of shoulders.

“Lady Ariana?” It was Tam’s voice, worried.

“I’m all right,” she called. “But there are more dead.”

Becknam came into view, holding a pick, and swore tiredly. “And one of the monsters, too. Well, no time to waste. Tam’s got a shovel; free the sheep and let’s get to work.”

Ariana nodded and looked at the dead Ryuven again. Its face was the most unnerving aspect, narrow and fine and nearly human. It had died grimacing, pulling at the pitchfork.

Ariana tore her eyes away and went to the sheep pen. Sheep skittered around and circled back, calling worriedly, and bunched together before bolting free of the pen and dashing across the yard, splitting neatly around the dead slave and Ryuven.

Becknam looked down at the packed earth, tamped solid by generations of stock. “There’s not a chance of digging here,” he observed. “I’ll try the far side.”

Tam came from behind the house and looked at the new bodies with wide eyes. He had likely never seen a Ryuven either, Ariana reflected. He approached with an awkward, jerking gait and squatted to peer at the dead thing.

“Good strike,” he said softly, reaching out to touch the pitchfork. “Right through the heart. He never had a chance to heal that wound.”

Ariana nodded. Ryuven could not regenerate something so devastating as a severed limb, but with enough time they usually could repair a cut or crushing blow—though not all, as human armies had learned and as this farm slave had demonstrated.

Tam left the pitchfork and crouched nearer the Ryuven’s head. He seemed peculiarly still, as if the rigidity of death had spread to him.

“Tam!” Becknam barked. “Stop poking at dead things and come dig. Lady Ariana, are you able to bring the ones out front?”

Her stomach heaved, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes,” she managed, worried more syllables might betray her. She opened her eyes, keeping her gaze above the bodies, and took a breath of death-flavored air.

Tam rose and looked at her worriedly. “My lady….”

“I’ll be fine,” she said more quickly than necessary.

He nodded. “There will be blankets in the house.”

She hadn’t thought of that and gave him a grateful nod. “You’d better go help his lordship.”

Fortunately, the little house held no further gruesome discoveries. The tidy home felt suspended, between breaths, so oddly interrupted mid-routine. The fire had gone out beneath a pot, and a single chicken which followed her in pecked enthusiastically at a ball of over-risen dough. She snatched the chicken and left with the blankets, closing the door behind her.

The goat pushed close, bleating insistently. She needed milking. Ariana didn’t know how to milk and shoved the goat aside.

Metal chinked against rocky earth at the far side of the basin; Becknam’s guess about suitable ground had been good. Ariana held one blanket before her, high to shield her vision, and started toward the chicken-pecked corpse. The buzzing of flies told her when she was near, and she dropped the blanket over the upper half of the body. Somewhat protected, she steeled herself to roll the corpse into a concealing bundle. It had been a woman, stout and strong with work. Ariana flipped the body one more time over the goat’s tether and tied it tightly.

The smaller body was easier to handle, if she kept herself from thinking of a little girl. Becknam had said the raids killed few, and there could be no advantage to killing a child. Had she fought? Had these Ryuven been particularly bloodthirsty?

It wasn’t too difficult to lift the girl, and she carried the body to the pit the others were digging. They were making surprisingly good progress; the narrow hole was already knee-deep. “Here’s the first.”

The goat butted her from behind, sending her stumbling toward the grave. She caught herself and whirled to shove it away. “Shoo!”

Becknam threw a clod of dirt which struck the cream-colored flank. The goat tossed her horns and trotted away, bleating reproachfully.

“She needs milking,” Ariana said unhappily.

“These need burying.” Becknam rubbed sweat from his forehead.

A fly buzzed around the blanket, seeking the dead girl’s face. Ariana’s stomach heaved and she twisted away, fighting the burning at the back of her throat. She folded her arms tightly to her abdomen and tried to force slow breaths.

“Keep moving, keep breathing,” Becknam suggested dryly. He dropped the pick. “Here, Tam, take this. My lady, use his shovel to clear what we break out. I’ll bring the other bodies, including that fellow from the road.”

Tam traded tools, and Ariana began clearing the loosened dirt, ashamed. A Mage of the Circle would need a stronger stomach.

By the time Becknam had returned with both the man and woman, Tam was panting behind the pick. The commander motioned him out and took the pick himself. Tam stood at the edge for a moment, breathing hard, and then moved away.

“He’d better not think he’s done here,” Becknam growled.

But a moment later, Tam reappeared, dragging the dead slave. He paused a moment, panting, and then started off again.

“Wait.” Becknam straightened. “We’ll bury the slave, but don’t you dare to bring that monster.”

Tam hesitated. “But—”

“No. We’ll not take time to dig for him, too. He invaded, he died, he has no right to expect us to do for him. Let the beasts have him.”

Tam’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. Becknam turned and tore into the earth.

Ariana didn’t know how long they worked, she and Tam taking turns while Becknam opened the ground. It became harder and harder to toss the dirt out as the hole deepened. “Can’t get too deep,” Becknam observed. “Still frost here.”

When it was her turn again, Tam disappeared. Ariana thought he had just gone to the farm’s privy, but he didn’t return. “What’s taking him so long?”

Becknam, now down to his shirt, straightened and shrugged. “He’s tired, he’s lazy, he’s gone back to peer at the dead Ryuven. I’ll help clear; this is nearly finished anyway.”

They cleared most of the loose dirt and then Ariana tried to climb out of the pit. Her trembling arms wouldn’t hold her weight, and she slid down twice. Becknam bent and extended an arm. “Come on, then.”

His arm was damp with sweat, but he pulled her steadily upward and she was able to scrabble over the edge. She dropped to the ground, breathing hard, and didn’t realize for a moment she was sitting beside the bodies.

“Where is that boy?” Becknam moved to the other side of the bodies. “Let’s get these in. Drop them straight, or they won’t all fit.”

Ariana took the feet, and they swung in the bodies one by one. Becknam handed her the pick. “Rake what you can; I’ll shovel.”

Ariana looked down at the tangled limbs. “What about end-rites?”

“Wouldn’t do much for them.” Becknam kept working. “What do the priests say of it?”

“They say the dead made their choices in life, and the rites comfort the living.”

“So, then.”

Ariana swallowed. “I’m one of the living.”

Becknam’s rhythmic motion slowed, and after a moment he straightened. He didn’t look at Ariana, but he held his right hand over the open grave, palm down, and closed his eyes. “You have fought well and done well, and your trouble here is ended. May the Holy One remember all that was sacrificed for you, and may you be welcomed into your eternal reward. May you be remembered and honored for all you have done.”

It was the shortest end-rite Ariana had heard, efficient and military, but it seemed appropriate and familiar in Becknam’s voice. She wondered how often he had recited it.

He began shoveling again, and Ariana joined him.

Finally the dirt was mounded over the crude grave, and Ariana dropped the pick in relief. “Thank the Holy One that’s done. I don’t think I could move any more dirt.”

Becknam smiled tiredly. “Not so squeamish now? That’s what happens, burns it right out of you.” He collected both tools, a soldier’s habit to be careful of his gear, and turned toward the stone house. “Where’s that boy? If he’s been hiding to shirk—”

But Tam was coming around the house now, dirt-stained and slumped with weariness. They must all look so, Ariana guessed.

“Where have you been?” demanded Becknam.

Tam’s eyes shifted. “Digging.”

Becknam scowled. “You buried the Ryuven? You left us to bury the farm folk while you wasted time on that monster?”

Tam’s jaw protruded slightly. “He was just as dead.”

“Through his own bloody actions.” Becknam blew out his breath sharply. “If you were mine and I had the strength left…. Put these away and get the packs. There’s still an hour or more of daylight.”

Ariana’s heart sank. “More climbing?”

“We could stay the night here,” he allowed, “but we’ve lost much of the day already, and we’ve had ample reminder of the urgency of our errand.”

It was hard to counter his argument. Becknam went back for his tunic as Tam headed to replace the tools. Ariana started toward the packs.

Near where they had entered was a steep embankment of eroded earth, now with a fresh mound at its base. Tam had set the Ryuven in the eroded trough and torn down the exposed dirt as cover. It wasn’t so safe a grave as that given the farmers, but it was some protection from the scavengers.

Becknam returned, fully-clothed, and shouldered his pack, the sword safely wrapped once more but convenient at the side of the pack. His eyes flicked over the makeshift grave and then to Ariana. “Let’s go.”

“Tam’s still coming.”

“It’s a clear road. He’ll catch up.”

* * *

Chapter 2

They’d made good progress despite their weariness and the time lost to the slave boy’s digression, Shianan Becknam decided. He chose an open place and halted. “Here for tonight,” he said, sliding his pack from his shoulders.

“What I’d give for a hot bath.” Lady Ariana dropped to the ground, her face flushed, and stretched her legs before her. “Enough of climbing. I’ll be glad to be into the pass.”

“We’ll have other worries there. Supper?”

Tam was already bending over his pack. “It’s coming.”

“I’m not worried about the pass,” Ariana said.

Shianan looked at her. “Not worried about the pass? The Migrations?”

Though this pass was easier than the steeper one to the south, none but the desperate or foolhardy crossed here during the Migrations. The great beasts which had long retreated into the mountains were rarely encountered these days except by foolhardy hunters in search of hides and tusks to bring riches. But during the seasonal Migrations, the beasts used the northern pass.

Ariana shrugged. “We’ll be careful, and if we meet something I can defend against it.”

Shianan shook his head. Another gentle-born know-nothing mage, and mine to bear on this fetch-and-carry . “If I may say so, Lady Ariana, I think you’re overconfident. We must take all precautions.”

“I’m only saying it won’t be as dangerous to us as to merchants or farmers.”

“And I’m saying I saw twenty men die in this pass!”

Ariana blinked and twisted her raw fingers into the short growth under her. “Those men—those men had no mage.”

“I beg your pardon, but they did. He slowed one beast for a moment as it savaged him.”

“But surely that was not a skilled mage—not one highly trained.”

He set his jaw. “With respect, Lady Ariana, you failed your entrance to the Circle.”

Ariana twitched. For a long moment she did not speak. Finally she forced, “That is the reason I am here now. Excuse me, please.” She rose and made her way into the brush.

Shianan watched her go, unable to call her back. Heat burned his face. He had not meant to speak so harshly—but he had been a sergeant then, too young for the post, and felt keenly his responsibility to those who died. Still, there must have been a gentler way to remind her of the risk. He squeezed his fists.

It was difficult enough being a royal bastard by birth. He didn’t have to make himself one by deed as well.

Tam cleared his throat behind Shianan. “She was very disappointed to have been denied.”

Shianan ground his teeth. “I know that.”

But Tam spoke again, his tone reproachful. “You should not have—”

Shianan whirled and struck at the boy. “I know that!”

He froze, already regretting his loss of control. Tam had ducked the blow incompletely, and Shianan’s knuckles stung where they had skimmed the boy’s skull. Tam stared back at him, more startled than frightened. His expression was one of cold outrage.

That pricked Shianan more. He should not have struck the boy—should not have lost his temper, should not have insulted the mage in the first place—but he was well within his rights to rebuke an insubordinate slave. He set his jaw. “What about supper?”

“It’s ready. If there’s nothing else you need, my lord, I’ll be excused.”

Shianan watched as the boy started away, uncertain if he’d been carefully disdained. Lady Ariana, returning to the circle of firelight, stopped to speak to the boy. “Tam?”

“The supper is ready,” Tam said a little more naturally. “Is there anything else you’ll need of me?” She shook her head. “Then may I be excused for a bit?”

“Certainly.” He slipped past her into the darkness, and she came to the fire. “I wonder what that was about,” she mused, ladling food into a shallow bowl.

Shianan shrugged. Should he apologize, or let his words lie?

She didn’t give him time to decide. “We’ll be careful in the pass, your lordship.” She took a bite without looking at him. “I know I am young, both in years and in experience. Please tell me if something worries you.” She paused and turned to meet his eyes. “But I am as capable as any mage. My father said as much after my examination.”

Shianan nodded. “I did not mean to disparage your abilities.” She was not incompetent, or she would not be here with him.

She shook her head. “You said nothing inaccurate. I did fail—something I mean to rectify when we return.” She looked around them. “Tam didn’t take anything with him, did he? To eat?”

“No, he didn’t. But… I know he’s not my watch, but he could go without a meal or two if it would tighten his tongue.”

Ariana winced. “Did he say something inappropriate?”

“Not exactly—no, he didn’t.” The boy had only defended his mistress; he wouldn’t see him chastised for that. “And we’re all a bit short after today.” He avoided her eyes. “But he generally—that is, he isn’t over-courteous.”

“Tam has been with us for years,” Ariana said, a little defensive. “He’s practically family. We’ve found little fault with him.”

Shianan clenched his jaw, frustrated with himself and the conversation. “The boy likes you,” he said uncomfortably. “Not as a slave should feel toward his mistress.”

She failed to suppress her smile. “Oh, please!”

“Even boys can have ambitions.”

“Not Tam. He’s been a perfect servant. We couldn’t ask for better.”

Shianan laughed. “No one’s that good, and certainly not a boy of—what is he, twelve?”

“Older, I think, but—” she glanced over her shoulder—“he’s never really matured physically. And no, I mean it. He’s different—odd, even. He never went out with other children, even when he was small. He hardly even played with me when we were younger. Always inside with my father, always in the workroom.”

Shianan frowned. “Always locked away with your father?”

“As a famulus, an assistant.” Ariana regarded him warily, ready to be outraged. “What are you suggesting?”

“Why does your father have a slave?” He held up a hand to forestall her until he could explain. “During the arguments over the Furmelle prisoners, I ended up reading much of the debates of twenty years ago. Your father was already White Mage, and the archives show quite a lot of his opinions.”

“What of it?”

“Twenty years ago, your father was one of slavery’s most vehement opponents. He wanted stringent reforms and a contracted term of servitude rather than an indefinite condition. The details aren’t important now, but the point remains—how did such a vocal reformist come to keep a slave?”

Ariana waved a hand. “I suspect Father felt sorry for him. He brought him back from the Luenda battles. There were a lot of orphans, and it was probably easier to make him a slave in a benevolent household than to—”

“The Luenda battles?” Shianan repeated. An owl hooted from the dark trees.

She nodded. “As White Mage, my father was in the front lines.” Her voice gained a note of pride. “He drove more Ryuven back to their own world than any other—”

“Wait a moment. Lady Ariana, Luenda was fifteen years ago.”

Her brow furrowed. “But that can’t be right.”

“It is. I was young to be sent, even in that desperate need.” Shianan carefully modulated his tone. “You might be remembering some other time your father was away.”

Ariana shook her head. “No, Pairvyn ni’Ai was still fighting. It was Luenda.”

“Then why does Tam look so young?”

“I don’t know!” Ariana snapped. “I don’t know. He’s always been Tam—just Tam. I said he was underdeveloped. Would you hold that against him?”

Shianan frowned. It was possible Tam was cursed with bad blood, a heritage of poor development so he looked forever under-aged. It would be easy to underestimate such a slave.

Ariana was trying to peer about the darkness. “It’s late. Should we look for him?”

If Tam were older, his ill-conceived infatuation for Ariana might be dangerously real, and his recalcitrance a sign of greater trouble to come. “He’ll find his way back. Let’s get some sleep before the pass tomorrow.”

Was it his imagination that Lady Ariana turned away too quickly, dismissing the curious riddle too easily? Whatever Tam was, he wasn’t the cheeky but harmless boy he seemed. Shianan would keep an eye on him.

* * *

Chapter 3

They descended toward Davan, a scrubby town dominated by the weathered citadel left from centuries past. The citadel was maintained now by the Gehrn, a faction which clung to the idea that ancient wars had been prophetic warnings of greater wars to come. Ariana had never understood exactly what else the Gehrn beliefs included, as the predominant idea seemed always to be preparation for unceasing war, and her whirlwind study prior to departure hadn’t clarified their views. They tended to cloister themselves in remote strongholds, and this was their center.

Somewhere inside the citadel rested the Shard of Elan, a relic handed down through history and owned by any number of kings and leaders and revolutionaries. Some had attributed religious significance to it, some magical, some cultural. The Gehrn had it now.

The three were noted immediately as they entered Davan; travelers were rare here during the Migrations. Becknam kept his eyes forward as he strode ahead, ignoring the curious glances they received. Ariana wanted to look around but found herself quickening her stride to keep pace. They always stare at home, she realized. He had learned to outpace rude eyes.

Becknam turned on Tam. “You,” he said, “will be absolutely silent. Do not speak. Nor will you even move. You will simply follow us and stand like a rock. Do you understand?”

Tam blinked. “I am to be still.”

“No insolence.”

“I understand,” Tam said a little petulantly.

“My lord!” Ariana protested.

Becknam seemed to catch himself, and he glanced from Tam to her and then away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I only wanted…. Let’s go.”

The citadel had a long ramp beginning in the center of town and leading to the high gate. It was a gradual, weaving climb but narrow, designed to slow charging armies. At the top they had a chance to catch their breath while the gatekeeper sent word of their request for an audience.

They were led to an austere chamber, and shortly a man in layered blue garments entered. “I am Manceps Ande, Flamen here. You asked for me?”

Becknam bowed. “Shianan Becknam, Count of Bailaha and commander in the king’s army. This is the mage Lady Ariana Hazelrig.”

Ande bowed slightly. Very slightly. “Ah, we expected you. Please, sit.”

Tam remained by the wall. Becknam looked a little uncomfortable in the chair; he was likely used to standing. “We have come representing the council and the Great Circle.”

Ande glanced again at Ariana, assessing her plain travel clothes. “I did not realize my lady mage was of the Circle.”

Ariana’s cheeks warmed. “I am not. Not yet.”

“Hm.” Ande leaned back in his chair. “Do you know what the Shard of Elan is?”

Ariana did know. Only recently the Great Circle, studying a fragment broken away from the Shard centuries before and newly rediscovered in a dusty archive, had discerned the Shard’s actual nature. It seemed to be a piece of starry ether, a condensed chunk of the vaporous substance which made up the streaming light of the night sky.

But that was unlikely to be the answer Flamen Ande sought.

Ande looked from Becknam to Ariana. “It is the symbol of our obligation,” he said. “The Shard must be defended at all costs. It is sacred to us.”

“The Shard is not to be defended,” Ariana amended. “It is the key to defense. With the Shard we can erect a barrier against the Ryuven and end the raids.”

“The message said you would take it from here.”

“You say the site where the Shard rests must be protected,” Ariana said. “But it is not of this world. Its presence here may be a sign that it is this world which must be protected, using the gift of the Shard.”

Becknam raised an eyebrow appreciatively.

Ande frowned. “And why must the Shard leave this place?”

“Such magic will require regular maintenance,” Ariana said. “It will be far easier for the Great Circle to perpetuate the shield with the Shard within Alham.”

“We know how important the Shard is to you,” Becknam said. “But we ask it only for the greater good of the kingdom—of our world. We offer the Gehrn a chance to protect us all.”

Ande, unimpressed, eyed them coolly. “One might think that were the Shard so critical, they might have sent someone greater than a mere commander. Could not a general be found to explain the urgency? Surely if this were the answer to save the kingdom, a prince would come?”

Becknam’s wince was barely perceptible.

“And a common grey mage…. You have just explained this is the most valuable artifact in the whole of the world, and yet I see here a girl, hardly even a woman, and certainly no mage of the Great Circle.”

Ariana bristled. “His lordship and I were selected personally for this task. The Circle believes me capable of seeing the Shard safely to Alham.” She took a sharp breath. “My name, as we’ve said, is Ariana Hazelrig. My father is Ewan Hazelrig, the White Mage. That I am not yet ranked within the Circle is irrelevant—I was sent for the Shard and I—”

“The council believed,” Becknam cut in, “the Shard’s safety was paramount. We could not risk its loss to bandits or Ryuven.” He faltered.

But his interruption had given Ariana time to recover. “Exactly. While the Shard deserves the highest respect and honor, none of the personages you mention could safely travel from Alham without attracting undue attention. If it were known, for example, that the White Mage and the prince-heir had come to Davan, who would not think there must be a great treasure to draw them? And if the Ryuven were to attack this impressive procession, all might be lost.”

Becknam gave her another appreciative glance, and she recognized the telltale look of Tam suppressing a smile.

Ande frowned. “I see.” He looked between them. “Still, I have nothing but your word as to who you are.”

“As to that….” Becknam withdrew a packet. The waxed outer layers protected the heavy inner parchment with its broad, deeply embossed closure. “The royal seal, of course. Inside you will find descriptions of my lady and myself, with attestations of our commission.”

Ande broke the thick seal and scanned the letter, his eyes flicking from the page to each of them in turn. “I see,” he conceded at last.

“I regret we are not the notable persons you mentioned,” Becknam said, “but for the safety of the Shard and the kingdom, they could not have come personally. You see, though, how closely they take an interest in your assistance.”

Ande drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “This is a weighty decision for us.” He stood, and they rose with him. “Will you wait here, so you may answer our concerns as necessary?”

“Of course,” Becknam said with a slight bow. “We await your need.”

The flamen left without glancing at Tam by the door, and Ariana sank back into a chair. She looked at Becknam. She had expected a man of the court to be more confident in his negotiations. “I thought it would be settled already.”

“It seems not.” Becknam frowned. “They want something.”

* * *

Laura VanArendonk Baugh is an award-winning writer who by day teaches about animal behavior and training and by night enjoys dark fair-trade chocolate, orchestral rock, and making her imaginary friends fight for her cruel amusement. Shard & Shield is epic fantasy about doing the wrong things for the right reasons. Get free stories and previews or read the rest of the story .

4

Fortune’s Fool

Angela Boord

A secret affair. A disfiguring punishment. A burning need for revenge.

Kyrra d’Aliente has a bad reputation and an arm made of metal.

Cast out of the safe and luxurious world of silk to which she was born, played as a pawn in a game of feuding Houses, Kyrra navigates a dangerous world of mercenaries, spies, and smugglers while disguising herself as a man.

War destroyed her family and the man she loved.

Vengeance is within her grasp.

But is she willing to pay its price?

SPFBO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 7

* * *

Chapter One

My right arm is made of metal.

A man named Arsenault made it for me, but he never told me its secrets. He didn’t have time. He gave me the arm and sent me to safety, then he rode off to die.

My arm shines like silver and withstands all weather and all blows, but it isn’t a dead thing. No leather straps attach it to my stump, no belts or buckles of any kind. The metal grows right into my flesh. From the sculpted whorls of my metal fingerprints to the dimple of my metal elbow, it might be the arm with which I was born.

Except that it’s not.

That arm lies rotting in a cedar casket in the ground beneath a cork tree, an arm of meat, skin and blood like any other woman’s.

Not that anyone can tell I’m a woman. I dress like a man and work as a gavaro, wielding my sword for coin. People know me as Kyris. But the name I was born with is Kyrra. Kyrra d’Aliente, only child of Pallo, the Householder of House Aliente.

My father is dead now, and the name Aliente is no longer my own. I am forbidden to use it, upon pain of execution. I may be the last Aliente alive, but I can’t even say so.

The men beside whom I fight don’t usually want to know House names anyway. Every gavaro tells his own lies of how he came to this mercenary life. After five years of saying it, I have almost come to believe that my name is Kyris di Nada, and that I sprang full-grown, metal-armed, from the rocky brow ridge of the Irondels.

Kyris No-Name. Of Nothing, Nowhere.

The name with which I was born caused a war. Ask anyone in the city of Liera and they’ll tell you, Kyrra d’Aliente did it. Cutting off her arm wasn’t enough. They know whom to blame for the crumbling walls of their once-elegant buildings, the deep pits left by cannonballs in the stone canal moorings. The tumbled brickwork still clogs the canals maintained by lesser Houses, who can’t afford to dredge them out.

As if I might have been somehow more than incidental in the great games of the Houses. The Prinze controlled an entire fleet and a quarter of the coastline of the Eterean peninsula. Of what consequence was my arm to them? They cast it aside and trod over my family the way their horses trampled our land in battle.

I wasn’t there for the battles. Arsenault asked me to go north to Rojornick, out of Eterea entirely, and I did. Some would call me a coward for honoring that promise. Maybe they’re right.

But now I’ve come home, and answers are what I seek. About the five years that have passed since Geoffre di Prinze staged his first raid on my father’s land. About where Arsenault might be, if he’s not dead and buried. Information has become scarcer and more precious even than a black-market gun, snatched for a small fortune from under the omnipresent eyes of the Prinze.

Every new fact is like a shining flake of gold glittering in the waters of a stream. I sift through them, examining each with care. Then I tuck them away along with all my other secrets. My sex. My name. My arm.

Like a pilgrim, I come to Liera seeking truth.

* * *

A sailor’s inn, dockside.

The smell of sweat and perfume, garlic and wine. Glowing orange light and jittery black shadows on board walls, men rattling carved bones in metal cups, swilling wine, kacin smoke swirling white out of worn wood pipes. Light glints off everything: the sweat on the brows of men and women, gap-toothed smiles, silver table knives, the eel-skin wrap of dagger hilts.

“Hey, Kyris!” Shevadzic calls, waving at me from his seat at the kai dahn table. He’s been teaching me to play. His Rojornicki accent is somehow comforting even here among my own people; I got used to it during the five years I was away, and didn’t realize that I would miss it when I came home. I did a lot of fighting alongside the Rojornicki.

I’m not sure what he thinks about me or if he knows about my arm and or what I’m like in battle, but he treats me with a fatherly kind of respect. Gray salts his red hair.

I thread my way through the crowd and over to the table in time for the next game. “Kyris,” a man sitting at the corner says with a grin as I take my seat. He’s wearing Qalfan robes, but he’s pulled his headcloths down in a casual manner, revealing a thicket of wavy black hair, bronze skin above a stubbled black beard, and that long slash of a grin he’s not afraid to use. “I’m winning too much tonight, and Vadz is putting me off.”

“Vadz isn’t putting you off, Razi,” the man beside him says. The glass beads braided into his black hair tinkle when he turns his head. Nibas and I fought together in Rojornick, where he was one of our archers, but when I switched sides and went over to the Kavol, he left Rojornick and headed south, saying he was done with snow and cold and just wanted his native sunny Tiresian drylands. I was surprised to find that he’d gotten hung up here, but happy to see a friendly face.

“Sure, he is,” Razi says. “Or else I’d have enough coin by now to head upstairs and find some company.”

“Maybe I should thank Vadz for keeping you out of trouble. Every time you go upstairs, I end up hauling your ass out of some fight.” Nibas turns to watch Vadz roll the bones and swears. “Vadz. You’re a whore. Look at that shit you just threw.”

Vadz chuckles as he takes the handful of trinkets—no coin yet—that the men have laid out on the table. “Shit only stinks when you’re downwind,” he says, grinning.

The men swear while I study the bones he cast. Kai dahn is a complicated game of interpreting number combinations. Vadz’s bones have carvings of women on them, too, which give them meanings I’m still trying to remember.

“Do you understand why I won?” Vadz asks me.

I finger the first bone, which lies on its side, showing both a 5 and a woman sitting astride a horse. “Five was in the first position. A lucky number, especially when seven and nine are in the second and third position and twelve is last. The five can therefore be read as a porpoise, a fortunate animal.”

“Very good,” he says, nodding. “You have a head for this game.”

I shrug. “It’s just rules, luck, and a little bit of mathematics. There isn’t any strategy.”

“On the surface, perhaps,” Vadz replies calmly, sweeping his bones back into the cup with the side of his palm. “The trick is to know more about the game than your opponent. There are different interpretations. I could call your attention to the three at the sixth position, which alters your reading slightly. The five is not only a porpoise but a woman underneath: a mermaid.” He grins.

I pick up the bone and squint at it. The woman on the horse is naked, covered only by the fall of her hair. “Five’s a woman, I understand, but why the horse?”

“ Kai dahn is a game Eterean sailors stole a long time ago, from one of the lost tribes of the Saien. To these tribes, everything had two sides. The other numbers in this cast make the five a lucky number, a most fortunate number. But cast in a less auspicious way…” He shrugs, a little shrug. “Five can be the worst number. It causes a lot of arguments, on ship. Interpretations differ.”

“But the horse?”

“Love and death, she comes the same.”

I frown, staring at the bone in my hands. Those lost Saien tribes have hit a little too close for comfort tonight. I had the day off and spent it playing cards on the Talos, the street where our contracts are traded, hoping to hear just one mention of Arsenault that gave me hope. But all I heard were the same old war stories.

“Hey, Kyris, you look like you could use some wine,” Razi says. “You’re off duty, yes? Time to have a little fun.”

“I would if I had any coin.”

“Vadz—float him a loan, get him some wine. He’s going to ruin our night with that face.”

“It’s more likely to be your fault if the night gets ruined,” Nibas tells Razi. “Stop blaming Kyris.”

Razi shoots Nibas a sour look, then turns to me. “Live a little every once in a while, Kyris; that’s all I’m saying.”

“Eh, leave him alone,” Vadz says. “He probably did more work than you did today, Razi. At least, I hope he did, because he owes me rent.”

He eyes me hopefully.

I sigh. “Haven’t gotten paid yet, Vadz, sorry.”

Nibas picks up his own cup of wine. “You still working that job guarding that Caprine girl?”

“That…ended,” I say. “A fortnight ago.”

Razi laughs. “What he’s not telling you, Nibas, is the girl decided she liked him. Probably all that yellow hair.”

Nibas gives me one of the small curves of his mouth that passes as a smile. “That true, Kyris?”

I shift uncomfortably. “Maybe.”

“And her father tore up his contract right there.”

Vadz crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “When were you going to tell me, Kyris?” Then he sighs. “I suppose I can float you another loan. But no more after this. What about that other job you’ve got?”

“Right,” Nibas says. “Weren’t you looking for a gavaro? The Aliente captain?”

He means Arsenault. I nod carefully. I’ve invented this job because I need the information, and it would seem odd and dangerous for me to ask for it outright. I’m definitely not getting paid for it, and I’m not sure how many times I can put Vadz off. “You got any information for me tonight, Vadz?”

Vadz shakes the bones in the cup. “Everyone in Liera would like to find that man, Kyris. But he’s probably dead. Most of the Aliente gavaros are.”

“You still think he died at Kafrin Gorge.”

Nibas was in Rojornick with me during the wars, but Razi and Vadz fought in Liera. Both of them heard the stories of Kafrin firsthand. Razi looks uncharacteristically serious, and Vadz shudders and makes a sign against evil in the air before him. “Yes, I still think he died at Kafrin. If I was betting, no one would bet against me. You know what happened.”

“But no one could place him there. And his body was never found.”

Vadz shrugs. “Doesn’t mean his body didn’t burn up in the fire. There were lots of bodies and all of them unrecognizable, down to cinders and ashes—not even bones left. Haven’t you heard the stories the Prinze gavaros tell?”

I’ve heard too many stories from too many people. There aren’t that many firsthand accounts, and I’m ashamed to say that part of me is relieved when I don’t have to sit through one. Listening to those stories is like having a chirurgeon dig at a rotten wound.

But I make myself shrug. There are things Vadz doesn’t need to know. “I’m wearing a green armband. I don’t get a chance to talk to many Prinze.”

“Well, they’d be happy if I could lead them to the Aliente captain, too, wouldn’t they? They’ve still got posters up for him. Ten thousand astra on his head, dead or alive. I’d be a rich man if I turned him in.”

“As if you would give the Prinze anything, Vadz. I know what happened to your men in the war.”

Vadz leans forward on the table and points at me, ready to elaborate on his favorite complaints yet again. “The Prinze had no call to fire on that ship. We were hauling grain.”

Nibas shifts in his seat. “Come on, Vadz. How many times can you tell this story? You were hauling guns.”

“But they didn’t know that, did they? They fired even though I’d begun to run up the white flag. The guns were all hid in the grain. They’d never have found them, and we were carrying injured, too, up to the Qalfans in the Quarter.”

“So, why would you turn Arsenault over to men like that?” I say.

“I just wonder why you’re so persistent in your search for him. What can he matter to you?”

“I have employers who’d like to know, that’s all.”

“Caprine? That would make a pickle of the peace accords, wouldn’t it?”

“If anyone found out. But my employer isn’t Caprine. So, you don’t have to worry on that account, Vadz.”

“Dakkaran, then, maybe,” Vadz says sagely. “Didn’t your captain have some link to Dakkar? Guns? Kacin?”

The Dakkarans used to hold the monopoly on the guns they smithed and the powdery white drug made from berries from their jungles, a long time ago. But that was before the Prinze stole both from them.

“There might have been some kind of link,” I say, hoping I’ve kept my voice noncommittal. “Guns, I think.”

“Whoever your employer is, he doesn’t pay you very well,” Vadz says skeptically.

“He’s paying me for information, isn’t he? I haven’t brought him much.”

In truth, I’ve found hardly anything at all. It’s as if Arsenault has disappeared from the face of the earth. Probably, that does mean he’s dead.

Maybe.

Vadz sighs. “Well. If you could use another job, there’s been a man in here. Looking for you.”

I’m still holding the bone. I lean the chair up so the front legs rest on the floor again, and put the bone down. “What kind of man?”

Again, the little shrug. “A gavaro; how am I supposed to know? Qalfan. He looked hard.”

Razi perks up and scans the room.

“Did he say why he wanted me?” I ask.

“He told me to tell you his employer wanted to talk to you about a job.” Vadz gestures with his cup. “In the back room.”

My eyebrows lift. If you have business you want to keep hidden, you can rent Laudio’s back room, but you’d better pay him well and hope he walks away.

“The gavaro was Caprine, then?”

“Not Caprine,” Vadz says. “Sere. He wore an indigo armband.”

I stiffen. Sere are almost as bad as Prinze, except that they’ve managed to retain their neutrality, with ties to both Prinze and Caprine, the two rival families around which the lesser families flit, hoping to sip of their nectar. Lieran politics are a morass of kin alliances, but when it comes down to it, the most important question is Do you stand with Prinze or Caprine?

The major feat of the Sere is that they’ve avoided becoming attached to either House and instead have grown their tendrils into both.

Nibas gives a low whistle. “Working for the Sere would put you in coin.”

“And is this employer in the back room tonight?” I ask Vadz.

He glances at me out the corner of his eye. “Do you see that man standing just to the left of the Marquis painting? He’s the one who’s been asking.”

“Found him,” Razi says. “If he’s working for the Sere, I don’t know who he is.”

I try to look up without looking up. The Marquis painting is a painting of a Vençalan nobleman in his boudoir with a courtesan, while Cythia, the goddess of love, looks down on him in approval. Laudio probably got it cheap.

The Qalfan gavaro looks out of place beside it.

In contrast to the lush greens and oranges of the painting, he is one lean, angular expanse of black. Black—from the leather boots that show beneath the hem of his allaq, the body robes that are usually white, to the urqa he wears wrapped around his face and head. From this distance, I can’t even see his eyes, the slit in his urqa is so narrow.

Black isn’t a color you see often in Liera. It’s the color of ravens, of carrion-eaters—of death.

I wear a black cloak and a black-and-silver tunic. Those were the colors of the Rojornicki boyar I fought for, and I still wear them in honor of him. Arsenault gave me the cloak, but I’m not sure he would appreciate the irony.

But there is a familiarity to the gavaro’s stance. He’s the kind of gavaro you’d notice anywhere, no matter what he wore. Like he’s quick with his sword and knows how to use it. And with his height, he probably has the reach to do some damage.

I push myself back from the table with my right hand, forgetting for the moment that Vadz has seen me most often use my left. Nibas and Razi know about my arm because they’ve fought beside me, but they also know why I like to keep it secret. Vadz frowns at me slightly, but my right hand looks normal enough when it’s gloved. It makes the wrong noise when I bump it against wood, though, not a fleshy sound but a slight metallic ting .

I close my fingers against my palm and stand up.

Vadz trades a glance with Razi and Nibas. “You know…the war’s over and you’re not in Rojornick anymore. Jobs are just jobs. You make your money and you get out.”

I pick up my own wine and drain it while I watch the Qalfan. He sees me and straightens. Good. I set the empty goblet down and pick up Vadz’s dice. “Jobs are always just jobs, aren’t they?” I say, shaking the bones.

“Sometimes, I don’t like that look in your eye, Kyris.”

I tip the cup, and the bones come rattling out.

A five in the first position again. After that, the numbers are all a random jumble, some of them lying on their sides.

“Dread gods,” Vadz says. “I’ve never seen a throw so bad.”

I grin at him. “Death’s my job, isn’t it?”

* * *

The Qalfan gavaro doesn’t speak as he walks ahead of me up a narrow staircase to the room where Laudio keeps his books, not to the back room. But he flashes a glance at me before we walk into Laudio’s study. He has light eyes but not obviously blue. The way his brows pull down over them when he sees me up close is somehow familiar too.

He hooks his indigo armband with his thumb, and the gavaros guarding Laudio’s door let us in.

“Who are you taking me to see?” I ask as we cross the threshold of the doorway. He doesn’t answer, just keeps walking past Laudio. Laudio comes half out of his velvet upholstered chair, putting his kacin pipe down on a leather-bound book of carefully penned figures. The gavaro doesn’t raise his head until he reaches the paneling at the back of the room.

“Tell your mistress she’ll have the Imisi rosé if she wishes,” Laudio says, sitting back down, hands wandering over the cover of the book. The Qalfan—half-Qalfan or a slave, with those eyes—looks back at him and nods.

Laudio bends his neck stiffly but keeps his eye on us.

Mistress , he said.

My hopes die. A man who’s looking for me might have been Arsenault at last, but a woman…it really is about a job.

It was probably a stupid hope, anyway. I’ve been in Liera six months now without a single lead on where he might be, except for dead.

The gavaro pushes the paneling into the wall with the flat of his hand, revealing a swing-door leading to a secret staircase. Clean-burning beeswax candles glow on peeling blue paint, outlined in white—waves for Tekus, the Father God. We’re close enough to the water that the passage might once have led to a cave that opened into or above the sea, Tekus’s domain. The Etereans riddled the high sections and cliffs of Liera with catacombs and filled them with the bones of their ancestors. Perhaps we walk above them now.

Once down the staircase, the hallway winds around the corner of the building, and the walls become so narrow that the Qalfan’s shoulders push against them. He glances back at me once but says nothing. Then out of the darkness ahead of us a door appears, illuminated in yellow light. He raps on it twice before pushing it open.

Mistress.

A woman sits there, waiting for us. The room is over-decorated with gilt and panels painted with scenes of goddesses and carpeted in blue velvet so deep, my heels sink into it. Incense laces the air with the scent of cloves, and the warmth of the fire blazing in the marble fireplace raises sweat on my forehead. My metal arm throbs with the sudden change in temperature.

The woman reclining on the mahogany settee makes the room look tawdry in her simplicity. Her pewter silk gown shimmers in the candlelight, modest and yet somehow revealing the way it clings to her body. A pair of ivory combs secure curls the color of black-cherry wood in a fashionable sweep atop her head. She wears no jewelry but a lustrous pearl choker, probably worth more than five years of my pay. Her blue eyes are the color of gathering storm clouds. She narrows them on me.

I know this Sere. Her name is Tonia, and she used to be Caprine before she married. I can only hope she doesn’t recognize me.

“Kyris di Nada,” she says. “My Qalfan was right; it is you.” She smiles at me, a cold, fake smile, one I saw often enough on my mother’s lips as she welcomed our neighbors into the conservatory for tea. My mother fought her own wars, not of swords but of teacups, waged on sunlit afternoons with women who filled their husbands’ ears with secrets when they went home.

The Qalfan slips behind her to sit on the floor, legs crossed, head bent.

Tonia notices me looking at him. “He’s no matter. I trust him to keep information where it needs to be kept.”

His silence begins to bother me. “Is he mute?” I know he’s watching me from under the wrapped cloths of his urqa, but I can’t see his eyes.

“Falin? No. But he’s smart enough to keep his mouth closed. And he’s handy enough with a sword to keep you from getting ideas.”

I eye her warily. “My friend said you might have a job for me.”

“They told me you liked to get to the point. Yes, I have a job for you. But surely, you’ll let me entertain you first. Will you have some wine?”

Warily, with my hand near the hilt of my sword, I edge over to a chair covered in claret velvet. I sit, and she pours wine of the same color—not the rosé—into a crystal goblet.

“I do have a job for you,” she repeats. “But I must know that you’ll say nothing to anyone of what is said here. I’ve heard, through various channels, that you’re good at keeping secrets, but I need assurance. You must not speak of what transpires tonight. Is that clear?”

Her gaze meets mine again.

I set my glass down on the table between us. “Do you think I’m that stupid? You’ve brought your assurance. If I refuse to accept your offer, you’ll have me killed before I leave the tavern.”

Tonia arches an eyebrow. “You can always leave now. Before you hear what I have to say. But there’s a great deal of coin involved.”

I’m only too aware of my purse hanging limp inside my cloak. But this won’t be a simple matter of guarding a few bolts of silk. Not if Tonia di Sere is in charge of it.

“Coin’s not all I care about,” I say.

“I’ve heard that you like to take jobs based on ideals… of a sort.”

My right hand twitches and my fingers clack together, softened by the leather of my glove. I clench it into a fist and pick up the wineglass with my left hand. “I wonder who you’ve been talking to.” I drink quick, the way a man might. When I set the glass down again, only a small puddle of red swirls in the bottom, the color of blood.

“I have my sources.” She adjusts her legs under her skirts and smooths the fabric over them. “I also hear that this job may appeal to you on a somewhat baser level.”

She sips her wine and watches me over the rim.

Something in the way Tonia looks at me makes me think she knows who I am. And wants to use me.

I have been used before.

I stand up. “You can keep your gold and your wine and your Householder intrigues. It’s a mess to get involved.”

“Don’t be a fool. You must have known what was at stake when you learned I wanted to meet you in the back room. You did know where my Qalfan was taking you, didn’t you? Or have you been gone so long that you’ve forgotten the ways of Houses?”

I was right. She knows who I am.

She knew I wouldn’t be able to resist a job handed out from the back room of Laudio’s, and maybe she also knew the kinds of questions I’ve been asking. But a job based on the tangled skein of loyalties lying in wait for me here in Liera…

“Keep your House ways,” I say. “I’m in for something more honest.”

I start for the door. The Qalfan rises in one quick motion, but before he can reach me, Tonia blurts, “Cassis di Prinze is at the Aliente hunting lodge. And I want you to kill him.”

* * *

“Cassis di Prinze?”

Is my voice steady as I say his name?

Tonia flicks her hand at me. “Go ahead. Walk out that door. My gavaro won’t kill you. Maybe you can even see what Cassis does to my family this time. You once had Caprine ties, didn’t you?”

“Once,” I say, dropping my hand from the doorknob. “But your father sat on the Circle that voted them away.”

“And given the chance you’d exact your revenge on him rather than Cassis? Cassis has taken my sister to the Aliente hunting lodge; Cassis oversees the Forza and the Aliente estate. You’d walk away from that?”

No. I can’t walk away from that.

A long time ago, I fell in love.

Many ladies had run themselves through on this spear before me, but they hid their wounds in lesser marriages or else moved through the temples, the cripple colonies, silent as a winter chill. I paid them no attention. Instead, I played my scales and worked my embroidery obliviously, hating the frivolous poems my tutor made me memorize about birds and chaste women.

What I wanted was passion.

The summer I turned sixteen, I thought I found it. He walked in like the scent of orange blossoms, immediate and beautiful. His mahogany hair, the same color as his eyes, was caught at the nape of his neck in a silver clasp, and he wore a silver-hilted sword at his side. Here, I felt, was a man who could do what women whispered about over my mother’s teacups, whose touch could burn away the chaste bonds that kept me stiff as brocade.

His name was Cassis. The son of a family that had no business treating with mine.

Prinze.

I move slowly back to the chair with the empty wineglass next to it. I sit down and curl my hands around the ornately carved wooden balls at the end of its arms.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll listen.”

* * *

“Cassis has sequestered himself on the old Aliente hunting lands,” Tonia says, rising to pace. “And taken my sister with him. He says he means to have her as second wife.”

“And you believe him?” I ask.

“If I did, would you be here?”

“His father will never allow it. But it might be good for you. You’re Sere now. Why should it matter to the Sere if a Prinze marries a Caprine?”

Tonia glares at me. “Second wife,” she says. “If he stoops to that. I am a Caprine by blood and birth, of the main branch, and the wife of a man who lies at the bottom of the sea because of the bloody Prinze; have you forgotten that?”

I haven’t. What Lieran could forget how Ricar di Sere died, leaving the Prinze with the sole claim on the gun trade?

I wonder what game Tonia is playing. I’ve been too long away from the ways of Houses. “If Driese were to marry Cassis, there would be kin ties. The Caprine could buy guns.”

Tonia waves my statement away. “At what prices? My father would never debase himself so, and he will never consent to Driese becoming a man’s second wife when she could have her pick of suitors otherwise.”

Except that the pool from which Driese might choose a suitor has diminished. The loyalty of the Sere, Tonia’s in-laws, is somewhat vague, and there are no Aliente anymore. Or at least, I haven’t found any yet.

“She could have her pick of suitors,” Tonia says again, as if she can read my thoughts. Her expression grows troubled and she starts pacing again.

“I want you to rescue her,” she says, without turning around. “Bring her back and kill Cassis.”

Do I want to kill him? It’s a ridiculous question. Almost rhetorical. The issue has never been whether I want to kill him but how. Slowly, with poison? Dramatically, running Arsenault’s sword straight through his heart? Or perhaps ironically—using only my right arm to bash his skull in?

The options I’ve entertained over the years have been endless but never more detailed than in the past year. I’ve acquired much more experience in killing people, for one thing, and for another, it’s not just myself I’d be avenging now. Not just my family.

Because if Arsenault is dead, there’s no one who had a hand in it more than Cassis did.

But I don’t want to look too eager. If I’m to take this job, I need to keep my head.

“Perhaps your sister doesn’t want to be rescued. And what will happen when Geoffre di Prinze finds his son dead? Who else knows about this?”

“My sister is a fool,” she says, “and doesn’t know the import of what she does. Would you tell me to leave her?”

“Perhaps not. But you didn’t answer my other questions.”

Tight-lipped, she says, “No one else knows. Driese and Cassis escaped in secret. She met him at a crossroads, but it won’t take long for either of our houses to discover their subterfuge. As for what will happen after Cassis is dead...I expect that you will be sufficiently discreet that the murder is not traceable to me or the Caprine or the Sere, and that no one discovers that Driese was there at all.”

My brow furrows. “Won’t Cassis’s retainers know? Or Driese’s maids?”

“Driese has gone in disguise,” Tonia says. “She sneaked out with the help of one of her maids under cover of darkness, and my parents are trying to keep the news contained to prevent scandal. I assume Geoffre is doing the same thing on his end.”

“How do you know where Driese is, then? If Driese took such pains to avoid notice and your parents and Geoffre are hushing it up?”

Tonia brings her head up like a nervous horse. “I have my sources. You don’t need to know more.”

How often have I heard those words? I spin the wineglass with my right hand and watch the way it throws the light back at the room.

“I’m not a philanthropist,” I say. “I lost an arm because of Cassis di Prinze. I’d rather not lay my life at his altar, too. How much will you pay me?”

Some of the color comes back into Tonia’s face and she smiles.

“I am a Sere,” she says. “The regent of my husband’s estate, with all his gold at my disposal. I think we can decide upon a reasonable amount.”

“Fifty thousand astra ,” I say abruptly. “And we’ll have a deal.”

The gavaro against the wall jerks his head up. But Tonia never even blinks. She sits back down on her settee and stretches out like a lioness back from the hunt. Triumph flashes in her eyes.

“Done. Bring Driese back to me safe, and proof of Cassis’s death, and fifty thousand astra will be a small price to pay.”

I’d do it for free, but I should have asked for more. To kill the son of the most powerful man on the Eterean peninsula?

Tonia pours me more wine. I drink it all at once and it goes to my head.

Just like revenge.

* * *

If you liked this sample of Fortune’s Fool , you can pick up a copy on Amazon , or read for free on Kindle Unlimited!

Angela Boord is an SPFBO5 Finalist. She lives in northwestern Mississippi with her husband and their nine kids, plus two dogs, a cat named Mouse, and varying numbers of chickens. She is currently working hard on more books and stories in the Eterean Empire series.

Look for Eterean Empire #2, Fool’s Promise , coming in 2020!

Subscribe to Angela’s mailing list at Angelaboord.com for information on upcoming books and to receive the short Eterean Empire novel Smuggler’s Fortune , coming free to newsletter subscribers in late December 2019, months before it’s released for sale!

5

City of Masks

Ashley Capes

Sick of elves and orcs? Then this is the epic fantasy for you!

When a royal conspiracy topples the noble House Falco, Sofia must take up the burden of her father's mantle and assume guardianship of his Greatmask. Yet the sentient bone mask, powerful enough to Compel those around her, will not speak, and Sofia, the first female Protector in a hundred years, is left defenceless.

Hunted by the king, she is driven from the palace and must fight for survival, alone in the cold streets of Anaskar. There, she crosses paths with Notch, a bitter mercenary with problems of his own...

SPFBO 2017

Grit level: 6

* * *

Chapter 1

The chill of prison bars against his temple did little to ease Notch’s headache. Decades of dank didn’t help either, nor snoring from another cell, where someone was impersonating a bear. Or dying. In the poor light it was hard to tell.

Notch squinted. Noon sun barely crept through the small, grated windows on his side of the building. Even cells across the way were shadowed. Sunlight, in addition to a piece of bread and some water, were high points, while the straw ‘bed’ and stale body odour of criminals were typically unpleasant. Worse places than Anaskar City prison existed. At least he hadn’t been beaten yet – a twinge in his shoulder reminded him how much some guards enjoyed their work.

His cellmate raised his voice and Notch turned. The man had probably been speaking for some time; his drawn face was expectant. Years of imprisonment had washed out his Anaskari tan.

Notch leaned against the bars. “What is it, Bren?”

“Did you kill her, truly?”

“No.”

Bren nodded. “Innocent then.” He knelt in the corner, his fine coat of blue long since gone to grime, his face pressed against the stone wall. “Listen to this one.” He scratched at an armpit with some vigour. “It’s hard to see but I think it says ‘death to the Shields of Anaskar’ and it’s got a signature, but I can’t make it out.”

Notch grunted. Nothing special for a convicted man to write; since waking on a pile of old blankets that morning and meeting his cellmate, he’d heard a dozen similar sentiments. Through Bren’s meandering introduction, Notch had winced, probing his body. Both arms and chest were heavily bruised and his head so fragile he wouldn’t be surprised to learn a wagon rolled over it last night. Possibly twice. He wasn’t drunk, though the smell of ale was on his breath. One damn drink, that was all.

And there was blood.

His leathers and tunic were splattered a dark red. Not his own blood, the City Vigil told him as much when they hauled him off the street, as if he couldn’t figure that much out. But whose? His own memory was unreliable, which made no sense. He hadn’t been drunk, truly drunk, since right after the war. When he bore another name. A name he left on some tavern floor, after making a convincing go of drinking the memories away. A good bath did for the sand on his body, but the blood-soaked sand in his mind? No amount of ale had washed that away.

And now the Vigil were telling him he’d been so intoxicated he had to be dragged to the prison?

Unlikely.

“The Shields probably caught him doing something bad, that’s why he wrote this,” Bren continued, tapping on the wall. His too-bright eyes looked up at Notch.

“I’d say so.”

“Like us, Notch. We’ve done bad things, we have.”

“So you keep saying.”

Bren laughed, its shrillness cutting through Notch’s skull. If it hadn’t been unsettling, Notch would have thumped him, but there was something wrong with Bren. Any fool could see that.

“The guards say you’ve got a few days. That they can’t hang you sooner, because there’s too many in the queue. Waiting to hang.”

“Thanks, Bren.”

A moment of quiet fell between them. Distant voices drifted from beyond the prison walls. Notch clenched his jaw. He should have been out there. On his way to another job. The Blue Lady , a fat merchant ship, would have sailed with most of his possessions on board.

His father’s sword.

No chance of seeing it again. He wrapped his hands around cold bars and squeezed.

“The guards say it too, the guards say you killed her,” Bren said, unperturbed.

“I know.”

He crept forward. “So?”

“So I don’t remember.” He frowned. “But I wouldn’t harm a child.”

Bren grinned, as if he thought it all a joke, and went back to the wall. A scraping sound followed. “This one says ‘down with the Shields’ and has no name. I wonder how many people have been here before us, eh Notch?”

“Maybe just you, Bren,” he muttered, rubbing at his temples.

Bren prattled on. “I could deal with the Mascare too, you know. They aren’t so powerful. It’s just their precious bone masks. And their robes. All that crimson. They scare people, the faces. And the eyes too. Did you ever meet any, Notch, before you murdered that girl?”

He ignored the last bit. “I’ve seen the Mascare plenty of times.”

“And were they protecting ‘the city, the people and its history’ as they love to claim?”

“Each time?”

Bren laughed. “Ever ask them why they won’t show their faces?”

“They aren’t very talkative, Bren.”

Bren stopped scratching and moved to a spot beneath the window, running a set of cracked fingernails over the stone. “This is my favourite. I think it’s the oldest one.”

The clank of a key in a lock did not deter Bren from his examination, but Notch took hold of the bars again, letting the man’s voice recede into the background. At the far end of their row, the guard, a scruffy man who’d made some effort to straighten his blue and silver uniform, led three figures toward the cell.

“Quiet now, Bren,” he said as the group approached, their footfalls echoing. A slender woman – a Lady no doubt – stopped before Notch’s cell. She was accompanied by a girl and a stony-faced man with broad shoulders, the orange tunic and gleaming breastplate of a Palace Shield in stark contrast with the prison keeper’s appearance. The woman’s hair was pulled back from her face, fanning down around her shoulders and covering the collar of an impeccably clean white dress. Bone earrings swung when she turned her head. A sneer that must have been permanent marred her otherwise smooth face.

Notch adjusted his grip on the bars. To come to Anaskar Prison in such clothing – she was either mighty vain or mighty important. Most likely both. Which meant trouble.

The girl stood in similar attire and shared the sneer but had trouble meeting his gaze.

“Here’s the mercenary, my lady.” The prison guard pointed with his key, making a low bow before scurrying off.

The woman took a single step forward, glaring at him. Her footfall clapped. “Your name?”

He blinked. Her distaste was like a battering ram. “Notch.”

The palace guard bristled and she waved a clean hand at him. “Bring the torch, Holindo.”

“Yes, my lady.” His voice was a rasp.

Behind him, Bren shrunk back into the corner. He did not resume his scraping.

The woman levelled a finger at Notch. “You will address me as ‘Lady Cera,’ or not at all. Now, do not move.”

“Can I ask why, Lady Cera?”

“Because if you do not I will have the Captain here gut you.”

Notch did as he was told. The impulse to wipe her face clean of its expression was strong enough that he had to school his features. Palace folk. Even before he’d taken to the life of a hired sword, they’d looked down their noses at him. ‘Mountain Family’, they’d say to each other and snigger.

When Captain Holindo returned, the soldier thrust the torch forward, catching Notch’s shoulder with his free hand. He narrowed his eyes but said nothing, only adding a crease to his brow. Did Holindo recognise him? Notch couldn’t place the man.

“Be still now,” the solider said.

The flames singed a little of Notch’s hair and he started to sweat. No-one moved or spoke, though the girl he took for Lady Cera’s daughter stared wide-eyed at the blood on his clothing.

“Well?” The Lady snapped. “Look. Is it him? Is that the man?”

“I… I think so, mother,” said the girl.

Lady Cera and her captain shared a glance before she addressed her daughter again, her tones becoming honeyed. “Dear, are you sure? This is the man they caught by her body, in the street on our way from the harbour –”

“It’s hard to tell. I didn’t see him that well.” She met his gaze. “I suppose it could be this man.”

Captain Holindo withdrew the torch. “We have other witnesses, my lady. You’ve done far more than enough by coming here; it will satisfy the Justice. Furthermore, your own daughter identified the prisoner, that’s enough for any man of law.” Such a long string of words strained the man’s voice, and for the first time Notch noticed a long, faded scar crossing his throat.

She gave a short nod. “Truly. I’ve had more than enough of this stench in any event. Take my daughter back to the palace.”

“Of course, Lady Cera.”

He ushered the girl toward the exit. Lady Cera did not follow. “I don’t know the whole truth of what happened. But you are a criminal, of that I have no doubt.”

“Mercenary, Lady Cera.”

“Do you think there’s a difference?”

“There can be.”

“Well, Notch the Mercenary, I will ensure you hang for this. The girl might have only been a pale-skinned, half-blood brat, but I can ill-afford to replace her.”

Notch sneered. “That all she was to you? Something to be replaced?”

She raised her arm but he stepped back.

“Fool.” Lady Cera spun and stormed off.

Notch spat. He was already going to hang, what did it matter if some bone-headed noblewoman wanted him dead? Bren shuffled forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. Notch had forgotten him. “She knows what you are. What we are.”

“You might be right,” Notch said, sitting on the floor and scratching at a new, disturbingly persistent itch in his hair. “But I didn’t kill that girl.”

* * *

Chapter 2

“Listen. Footsteps.” Bren mimed a soldier’s march, managing only a few steps before having to turn. “Coming to hang you. Early too.”

Notch straightened on the straw. Three days of Bren’s prattle disappeared between one breath and another. He could have raged at the injustice of it, that his final days had been pointless. That stepping into the Iron Pig, the inn near the harbour, got him killed. And just a haze of useless images to take with him to the grave. The inn’s floorboards. An ale mug. Black water sloshing on stone. Ship masts. A fat beggar? None of it made sense, so what did it matter?

And worse. Otonos’s betrayal would go unanswered.

“Doesn’t matter now.”

Bren continued to march. “Matter?”

The footsteps paused at another cell and Notch stood. His pulse quickened but he didn’t flinch or make a sound. No true soldier would. The dull jangle of the jailor’s heavy key neared and he made a fist. If only he’d been able to remember what really happened. It wouldn’t matter to the poor girl, but it mattered to Notch. He’d never killed a child.

“I’ll miss you, Notch. You’re a good one.”

Notch didn’t reply.

He’d witnessed a hanging as a boy. There was no black cloth for the criminal’s head and the man’s face soon turned purple. Eyes strained from their sockets and the kicking went on a long time. Someone stole the man’s boots afterwards, bare feet hanging over the grim-cart’s tailgate.

Whoever got Notch’s boots would have to make do with scuff marks and a thinning left sole.

A scraping sound rose from below his feet. He listened and it came again.

“Bren, did you hear –”

The floor gave way, dumping him several feet below. Stone crashed around him, straw and dust swirling as he scrambled to his feet, blinking when he found himself eye to eye with the edge of the floor. Bren gaped down at him.

“Come on,” a voice hissed.

Shouts filtered down from the guards, but Notch was already being pulled into a crouch, then dragged along a pitch tunnel. The grip on his hand was strong, almost enough to break his fingers, and he coughed in the dust, unable to ask a question or even call to Bren. His knees smacked on damp stone and his free hand scrambled to keep pace.

Several turns later, lost, blind and trembling with adrenaline, Notch stopped, dragging back whoever held him. “Flir? Is that you?”

A small hand patted his cheek and a woman’s voice whispered. “Of course. Now keep moving. I’ve got something for the guards.”

She led him round a corner and pushed him up against a wall. “Stay a moment.”

“Wait, I can’t see.” His chest still heaved but his heart rate slowed.

“Then don’t move,” she called as her footsteps slipped away.

“Good advice,” he said to the dark. Soon after, a crack echoed and the crashing of stone rumbled the tunnels.

Flir returned, sounding satisfied. “That should stop them.”

She led him on a steady descent, the floor uneven. He at least had control of both hands, using the damp brickwork as a guide. The scraping of their feet filled the quiet until he spoke. “Where are we going?”

“Out of here.” Her voice echoed. “You should be able to stand now.”

He did so slowly, squinting when light bloomed. Flir stood, a grin on her round face, pale skin and slight frame yellowed by the lantern she held.

Barely as tall as his chest, and dressed as she was in the rags of a pickpocket, he might have mistaken her for a child. It happened often enough in Anaskar, something she just as often turned to her advantage. And he had made that very mistake upon meeting her across a battlefield years past, staying his blow long enough for her to put him on his backside with a kick.

Renovar folk all had her pale complexion, though he assumed she was considered short even there. He rubbed his hand. Small as she was, she was still the strongest person he knew. He smiled. “It’s good to see you, Flir. I appreciate the rescue too, but you didn’t have to crush my hand.”

She laughed. “I was gentle.”

Notch snorted.

“Come on, we have a ways to go yet.” She stepped out of the tunnel and into a much wider passage with a narrow path at its edge. The brickwork was more elaborate here, with larger slabs resting beneath patterned walls, where the king’s leaping swordfish also sat. The crest, along with the rest of the walls, had a distinct green tint in the lamp light.

“We’re in the aqueducts.”

“You’re a clever man, Notch.”

Water flowed, dark and slithering over the stones, separating them from the path opposite, which was barely visible. He couldn’t see the roof but it was up there, not too far above, judging from the echo of their footsteps. Access points appeared as gaping maws as they passed, most grated by rusting steel. “How did you find me? I thought you were still at the iron mines with Silenna?”

“She brought us back early. You should have seen it, Notch. The rebels weren’t organised. They were just a bunch of thieves – and mostly Mountain-men at that. That first strike of theirs was a lucky one.”

He stepped over the corpse of a rat. “And me?”

“Asked around. Even Braonn half-bloods get attention when they’re murdered.” A sneer crept into her voice. “The benefits of being part Anaskari are endless, aren’t they? The whole First Tier has heard of Notch the Mercenary now. Probably a good deal of the Second and Lower too.”

He swore.

“I paid a kid to show me a way in to the aqueducts,” she said, slowing. She lowered her lamp. “Quiet now.”

He reached for his blade... and muttered another curse. Gone with the Blue Lady . Even his cloak and purse were back at the jail. Flir had stopped.

“What is it?”

She touched his arm. “I thought I heard something.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I must have imagined it.”

Flir resumed walking, and Notch kept on, straining his ears. Not a thing out of place. The tiny ripples of water, the scrape of their boots or the faint squeak of the lamp’s handle was all. He stepped over another rat, this one bloated. Two more steps and he found three more. Then a whole pile, which he had to nudge aside with his boot. Flir had leapt over them without a hitch, casting wild shadows, but Notch wasn’t feeling so nimble.

When one of the rats rolled aside, it left a trail of fresh blood.

“Flir, have you noticed all the –”

The light died.

Notch fell into a crouch, the stench of wet rat filling his nose. He searched for a weapon, fingers passing over furry, sticky bodies before closing over a shard of brick. It was heavy enough to do some damage, but he was blind. A big splash broke the hush, followed by a low sound, as if a man were humming half a bar of a song. It came from up ahead, from where Flir had stood.

His fingers tightened. The hum came again, closer now. It didn’t sound entirely natural. It could have been a man making a sound of curiosity. A ‘hmmm’ sound. But it was lazier. Wetter, as if a tongue got in the way.

Notch suppressed a shiver, raising the brick.

The sound came again, this time from the water before him. He shifted so his back was against the wall. Where was Flir? And was that a trickle of water from something slipping from the flow? A dank breath stirring the hairs on his wrist? Notch swung the brick but met only air.

The hum came from above.

Something wet and hard slapped over his face. A weight pressed on him and a fetid and slimy substance was forced between his lips. The hum swelled as he gagged, slamming the brick into his attacker. A wet slap rang out. He struck out again and broke free long enough to stagger forward, only to lose his footing.

He crashed into chill water.

Notch thrashed up to his knees in the waist-deep flow, breathing hard. There. Another sound. He swung even as something crashed into him. His attacker caught his head and tried to force his face into the water. His nails tore at what had to be scales and his chest strained as he struggled for air. He tore most of the gunk away and sucked in a breath before he was pressed into the water. Driving an elbow back, he struck out repeatedly, chest expanding as he fought. Nothing changed.

Notch heaved his entire body, roaring as he broke the surface, flinging the creature from his back. The hum came again, closer now, and Notch swung the brick.

A crack echoed in the aqueduct, cutting the hum short. Something heavy splashed and was still. Notch heaved in air, kneeling in the channel. He kept the brick raised, but the creature did not move. He would not touch it. Instead, he cupped his hand to the flow and washed his mouth out, spitting with some vehemence. The slime made his teeth tingle and his lips were... thicker. Numb. He tried to frown but couldn’t. Was the slime poison? He dunked his head and washed out his mouth again before moving back to the path.

“Flir?”

Nothing.

He scrambled forward and ran his hands across the path, but found neither Flir nor lamp. He’d gone too far. She should have been no more than a few steps away when the light disappeared. He moved into the water, taking slow steps and searching with his arms, bent like an old man. The channel was wide enough that it was slow going. If she’d been cast into the water, she wouldn’t be able to breathe and here he was floundering in the dark.

Notch slammed a fist into his thigh. “Flir, answer me.”

His voice echoed. Only the sloshing of his legs replied. His hands grew numb, from the cold or the poison he didn’t know. When his foot brushed up against something he spun.

“Flir.” He scooped her up, waterlogged body heavy.

Laying her on the path, he searched her body for wounds. She was breathing at least. He flinched when his hand brushed against slime. It covered her ears and face, blocking her nose and mouth. Notch tore at it, scraping the gunk from inside her cheeks with his fingers before moving back to the water and attempting to wash the slime away. He snarled. It wasn’t very effective. She could choke if he wasn’t careful, but he didn’t know what the slime was doing to her.

Still she wasn’t responding – despite her chest rising and falling.

She lived, and yet he could not wake her.

* * *

Chapter 3

Blood blossomed on Sofia’s finger and she cursed, chisel clattering to the bench beside an unfinished mask. Bone dust stirred and a row of heads popped up in bright lamplight as young women in the Carver’s chamber turned to her.

“What’s wrong?” Pietta spun on her stool. Both her grey carver’s robe and face were smudged with fine white dust.

“It’s nothing.” Sofia wiped her finger on the rough fabric of her own robe. “Just a tiny cut.”

Pietta pointed. “It’s on your mask too.”

Sofia groaned. A pink smear marred the otherwise pristine surface of the mask. She had completed one eye. The groove for the mouth and ridges for nose and cheeks were already carved, but she’d have to start again if she couldn’t clean it. The Mascare would not accept a mask dishonoured by any stain. Not that it really mattered – the masks were just symbols of office, costume for tradition. A way to honour the past and intimidate the populace.

It wasn’t as though she was carving a Greatmask.

She wound a strip of fabric over her cut and reached for a small vial with a clear solution. A few drops and a dry cloth were enough to remove most of the stain. “That’s better.” She kept rubbing.

“Aren’t you annoyed?”

“Of course. But it’s not so bad.” Sofia grinned. “I’m still one mask ahead.”

Pietta glared at her, but her own smile was not far behind. She kept her voice low. “You know, I heard the Mascare might open the order to common folk. To bolster numbers.”

“That’s just a rumour. Father said it’s only being discussed.”

Conversations hushed and chisels slowed. Two figures approached. Lady Alda escorted a Shield across the chamber. He stared directly ahead, as if unaware of the sets of eyes trained upon him. Captain Emilio. Youngest member of the Honour Guard.

Pietta stared up at him but Sofia saw only the grave expression on Lady Alda’s plump face. “Sofia dear, that will be all for today. The Lord Protector has returned. He wishes to speak with you. Captain Emilio will escort you.”

“Has something happened?”

“Not here.” The two ushered Sofia toward the exit. The scrape of chisels resumed. Alda pulled open the large doors, their beaten-steel surface showing a looming mask and chisel. Sofia glanced back. Pietta’s expression was caught between worry and envy, as the doors swung shut.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Lady Alda patted Sofia’s hand and went back inside.

Emilio’s expression was difficult to read. “Your father wishes for you to meet him in his rooms at once.” His deep voice filled the hall. “Regarding your brother.”

Sofia froze. Tantos was on his way home. Had something happened? Pirates? A storm? Or was it something simple like a delay? But if so, why send for her? “What’s wrong?”

“Lord Danillo only sent word that he wished to see you.”

Sofia hurried down a dim passage, Emilio trailing, turning into a well-lit corridor where she nearly bumped into one of the Mascare. The man stepped aside, red robes twirling. His mask seemed to glare at her and she apologised, moving on.

She came to a halt beside a floor-to-ceiling statue of Ana – the Goddess carried a seahorse in one arm and a storm cloud in the other.

“My lady?” Captain Emilio paused beside her.

“This way is quicker.” She ran her hand along the wall beside the Goddess, flicking a switch. The statue slid aside and she slipped into darkness, Emilio close behind. No-one but the Mascare were permitted in the hidden ways but Tantos had shown her dozens of shortcuts over the years. “How else can I make hide and seek fair?” He would laugh each time.

“Isn’t this forbidden?” Emilio asked.

“Only if we’re caught.” Sofia hit the switch to slide Ana back into place. “Follow me.”

Counting steps, she took a turn, then at twenty paces, a second.

“How do you navigate?”

“Practice.”

Several more turns and she stopped. Lady Alda’s face had not been encouraging; what was going on?

“Are we lost, my lady?”

“No. I just... you didn’t have to escort me, you know. It’s kind, but father didn’t need to send you.”

“I volunteered.”

“Oh.” Sofia flushed, glad of the dark. She flicked another switch to slide open yet another doorway. The glittering thread of a tapestry soaked up torchlight. She took a breath before slipping out from behind it, waving for Emilio to follow.

An empty hall. The corridor connected her to a servant’s passage. She strode along it, stopping outside the Protector’s chambers.

Two Palace Shields flanked the doors, their orange tunics and silver breastplates shining in the lamplight. Only four keys opened the locked doors. One each for Sofia’s family, and one for the king, whose life her father was sworn to protect, just as her brother, as Successor, was to protect the Prince. Such duties ensured their hours were not her hours.

Emilio stopped, meeting her eyes. “I hope everything is well, Sofia.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

He bowed and strode off, armour catching torchlight. Sofia turned to the guards.

“Is my father in?”

“We haven’t seen Lord Danillo, my lady.”

She nodded, fitting her key to the lock and stepping inside. That didn’t mean he hadn’t returned. Father used the secret passages within the palace as a matter of habit. Her soft shoes slid on the marble floors of the entryway as she hurried to the bright study, its walls lined with shelves. “Father, what’s –”

Empty.

Warm light fell on a large writing desk and chairs arranged before crackling flames in the fireplace. Above the mantle, set in a specially crafted setting, rested her father’s Greatmask. Argeon’s ancient face of bone stared down at her and she shivered. Impossible not to think of the mask as watching her. He was not a typical mask by any stretch. A presence, a life, lurked within Argeon’s dark sockets.

Sofia walked into her father’s bedchambers. Its small fireplace glowed red in the quiet.

“Here, Petal.”

He wore his travel mask, vermilion robe open to reveal belts strapped over plain black clothing. He was removing each one, placing the attached knives and pouches on a small table by the bed, his large hands moving with a deftness that spoke of long years performing the routine.

She rushed forward and he enfolded her in strong arms. “Father, what’s happening?”

His voice was tight. “The King’s Cutter was lost in a storm.”

She pulled back. “Is Tantos...”

“A longboat was found, driven ashore.”

Hope flared. “Then he’s safe?”

He turned to the fire, holding out his hands. “No. I rode days along the coast myself, the moment I heard. I saw what remained. He is gone.”

“No.” Tantos. No warning, no goodbye. Nothing. Sofia wiped tears from her face. When had her hands become so clumsy? Her voice wavered. “How can you be so calm, father?”

“Because I must.”

She swallowed a sob. The deep dark of the ocean had her brother. First Mother’s illness and now Tantos. Why? Had the Gods seen fit to punish her family? What was the last thing she said to him? Hurry home. She exhaled a shuddering breath.

Her father strode to a cabinet and produced two glasses and a dark bottle. Fire-lemon. He poured a small amount and handed it to her. “Take sips.”

She did as instructed. She coughed at first, but welcomed the burning liqueur.

Tantos sent word, barely a week ago. He would leave the Far Islands early, to beat the winter storms. On assignment for father, the trip was to be the final part of Tantos’ training. She hadn’t seen him for months and missed the chance to send him off, so hasty was his departure. “He was coming home.”

Her father had removed his travel-mask, though he still wore his under-mask; an article of office she knew as well as his face, made of white cloth with subtle openings for breathing and holes for his eyes. How quickly did the cruel marks of grief come? Now that Tantos was gone, there would be more lines beneath his eyes. She could imagine more grey at his temples and in his beard too.

He moved to the bed, drink in hand. Sofia sat beside him. She took another sip, and another until it was done.

His arms surrounded her and she wept.

* * *

She woke on her father’s bed to a dim room. How much time had passed? Her throat was dry and her eyes puffy. Tantos.

She rose, muscles stiff. “Father?”

An adjoining door opened. He came to sit beside her, taking her hand. “Sofia, we must talk.”

“Can it be Face to Face?”

“Very well.” He stepped into the hall a moment, then returned with a lamp, which he lit before closing the door. He so rarely lowered his guard nowadays, even here, nestled behind the walls of the highest tier of the city, hidden in the depths of the palace.

When he peeled the under-mask away, she smiled. To actually see him... his broad nose, his close beard and dark eyes crinkled at the corners. Smiling, as he would when mother was alive. But there were more lines than she remembered. She stroked his cheek, stubble rough beneath her fingertips. “I miss your face.”

“It is our way...” he began.

“I know – Secrecy is Safety.”

Silence again. He held his empty glass, running a thumb along the rim. “Sofia, things must change now that Tantos is... gone.” He kept his voice gentle. “You must take his place as Successor.”

A chill crossed her body. “Father...” She opened her mouth and closed it. She tried again. “Even though I’m a carver, and a woman?”

“Not every man sees women as carvers and mothers only.”

“But all I know of weapons and poisons are what little you and Tantos have shown me! And I don’t know anything about the Greatmasks. How can I take his place?” She shook her head. “And I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Argue?”

“Like you and Tantos did sometimes. About his training.”

“That won’t happen. And Tantos was never angry for long, he understood his duty.”

Sofia frowned. How could she even begin to take his place? “The Mascare won’t accept me.”

“They will. You’re Falco.” He paused. “You are strong, Sofia. And King Otonos demands a Successor. I know he would give Argeon to another house to serve the greater good. That is his duty.”

“What? But Argeon is ours.”

He smiled. “Long have I felt the same. But we can’t own the Greatmasks, not truly. Nevertheless, I’ve tied Argeon to Falco blood, to protect us. It would be extremely difficult for another house to use him now.”

“But not impossible?”

“Arduous. Dangerous even. I made certain.”

“So if I’m able to become Successor, the king cannot refuse me?”

“What I’ve done is forbidden. He doesn’t know. Nor can he.” He paused. “Sofia, the king will see who you can become. Who you need to become. Especially now that it seems Casa Cavallo’s Greatmask has fallen silent.”

She gasped. Osani was silent? Had that ever happened to a Greatmask in the history of the city? “What does that mean for House Cavallo? For the city?”

“If the rumours are true, and Osani has stopped responding, then Cavallo will lose much of its standing. But what worries me, is that Anaskar will have but one Greatmask left to defend its people. Argeon.”

“You are its defender.”

He took both her hands in his own. The calluses from years of knife work were rough against her hands. “Not forever.”

Her shoulders slumped.

“I will help you, Petal. It will be difficult, but you must do this. With your mother gone and now your brother, we are the last of Falco House. You must take up Argeon and protect us. There is no-one else I can trust.”

His face was set and there was a note of worry to his voice.

Sofia bit her lip. There truly was no-one else. And Tantos would have taken her place, had their roles been reversed. Father needed her. The whole city needed her.

She would learn. She would bear the weight of the new role. Become Successor, then eventually Protector... She would be the first woman in a hundred years to do so. She would make him proud.

Sofia squeezed his hands. “I will do my best.”

“And I will be here for you.”

* * *

Chapter 4

A cruel wind played in the mountains, lashing at her robe where she stood with hands gripping the parapet, Pietta at her side.

How long before the city below would be hers to protect? Perched on the mountainous coast, steep peaks sheltered Anaskar on three sides where the city stepped down to the harbour, three tiers each with formidable walls.

Nestled behind the walls of the First Tier sat the palace, its carefully arranged grounds a home she’d left but rarely – the last time to stand before the ocean, clinging to Tantos as mother’s funeral pyre glowed on the horizon. In the Second Tier, a mixture of mansions, markets, shops, homes and gardens that even the palace folk sometimes visited. And finally, crammed behind and sometimes against the walls of the Lower Tier, warehouses, shipyards, slums and factories, from which grey lines of smoke climbed, and where the scurrying figures became antlike. The masts of dozens of ships, their sails rippling, were black against the sunset.

If she ran down and tried to book passage on one of the ships, would they allow her? A rueful smile for a child’s thought. No. Abandoning her father was no option.

Beside Sofia, Pietta put her back to the harbour, shielding her face from the sun and closing her eyes. They’d both been up since dawn trying to finish Sofia’s quota of masks. When her father woke her and explained she need not work, Sofia shook her head. “I want to. It will keep my mind busy.” Only it hadn’t. Images of Tantos, his dark hair slipping beneath choppy water, lurked behind her eyelids.

“Are you sure you can do it, Sofia?” Pietta asked.

“I have no choice.” She straightened. “Father believes I can.”

“I do too, Sofia.”

She smiled. “Then I’d better start training. Tantos was two years before he took the Mask, and another year before he came close to learning the role of Successor to Father’s satisfaction. I bet I’ll have to prove myself in less time.”

“Lord Danillo has high standards, doesn’t he?”

Sofia sighed. “He once had Tantos pronounce a word in Neutral Voice near to a hundred times before he was satisfied. I remember because I had to count.”

“And that’s something you’ll have to do, learn to speak that way? The same as all the other Mascare?” Pietta made a face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like it. I never know who I’m speaking to.”

“That’s the whole point, Pietta.”

She frowned. “Won’t it be hard to disguise your voice? You’re a young woman and they’re men.”

“Very hard.”

“Oh.” She paused. “You know, I once saw one of them save a woman in the street from criminals. He was like a whirlwind of knives. Will they teach you to do that?”

“They’ll try.” Sofia shrugged. “But I think I’ll end up spying on visiting dignitaries. I’m hardly built like a soldier and father won’t risk the Successor.” She fell silent.

“At least wearing a Greatmask will be fun,” Pietta offered.

“I’m not sure of that. Argeon scares me.”

“But the Greatmasks are meant to protect us – aren’t they always watching, you know, if we’re attacked by the Medah or something? Aren’t they good?”

“Some legends say a Greatmask can wipe out entire battalions.” She gave a wry smile. “Doesn’t sound that good.”

“But they are, deep down, right?”

“Father used to tell Tantos that Argeon had a will, but that the wearer was the one who decided whether the mask was used for good or ill.”

An arch look, “Well, you can always have Captain Emilio protect you personally if you get into trouble.”

“Pietta!” Sofia blushed.

Someone cleared their throat.

Prince Oson leant against a stairwell wall, black hair caught in the wind. His thick cloak was thrown open and he toyed with a dagger. “Good evening to you both – though I regret to say, Pietta my dear, that you must leave us now.”

Pietta was caught with her mouth half open. She shut it and performed a deep curtsey before slipping away.

The Prince strolled over. “Ah, sweet Sofia, have you thought upon my offer?”

Not again. And not that honeyed tone. She suppressed a shudder, controlling her features. “I have.”

“And?” He placed the tip of the dagger against his chin.

“And I cannot accept, your Highness.”

“That is a... rash decision.” He took a deep breath, leaning close to whisper, breath hot on her ear. “Imagine, Sofia, if our houses were joined, what we could accomplish for the city. What prosperity, what safety.”

“That might be true, but we are not in love.”

“Couldn’t we be?” A slimy smile.

Polite but firm. “No, your Highness.”

Oson moved to the wall with a shake of his head. When he turned to her, his eyes were narrowed and his voice grown cold. His moods were fickle. Like a damned animal or a madman. “You will regret such a decision.”

She stepped back. “Your Highness?”

“I have heard your father’s pitiful idea, Carver.”

“What does that mean?”

He looked down on the city with a proprietary expression. “It means there’s no way I will accept you as my Protector, Falco. You’re simply not strong enough.” He met her eyes. “And not only because you’re a woman. Your whole family is withering.”

Sofia flushed but held her tongue. How quickly his contempt resurfaced. For years he’d ignored her, but recently, he’d begun to court her. All political manoeuvring. He’d certainly had little time for Tantos.

If she lashed out now, Falco would be ruined. “And has the king said he will not allow it? The Heads of the Houses?”

He snickered. “We all know where House Falco stands on the matter. Those Falcos which are left in any event. I understand your brother is now fish food?”

She clenched a fist behind her back. Driving a chisel into his throat wouldn’t fix anything. “Did you wish for something from me, your Highness? Because if not, I will be leaving.”

She made to sweep by, but he caught her arm. His fingers dug into her flesh. “Not yet you won’t.”

“Let me go.”

He shook her. “You will listen to me.”

Sofia broke his grip, breathing hard, but stood her ground. “Say what you have to say then.”

He sneered. “Very well. A warning then. Just remember, Mascare training can be especially... taxing.”

“What does that mean?”

He turned and headed for the stairwell. “My father has called the Heads of the Houses to meet. You’ll find out what it means then.”

Sofia glared at his back a moment, then slapped the parapet with a curse. What was he getting at? Did the king know what his son was doing? Likely not. More important, did Father know?

Sofia ran to a stairwell opposite and took the steps three at a time, a guiding hand held close to the wall. She only stopped when she reached her rooms, mumbling a greeting to the Shields and bursting inside.

Charging into the study, she slid to a halt.

Her father stood before the fire, his shadow large on the wall. He stared up at Argeon, lips moving soundlessly.

“Father.”

He turned to smile at her. “Sofia.”

“Is everything well with Argeon?”

“Yes. I was explaining that you and he were to speak.”

She shifted. “Now? Don’t we have to wait for the Successor’s Ceremony?”

“Soon.” He moved closer. “You are troubled.”

“Father, the Prince came to me earlier. He means to block us. He said the king was calling a meeting tonight.”

“Weasel.” Her father’s voice was hard. “Centuries of cooperation between the Houses, centuries of loyalty to the kingdom and now this upstart. I suspected he would try as much, but it is I who asked the king to call a meeting. He supports us, Sofia.”

He stroked her cheek and the tension in her shoulders eased. “Good. But there’s more.”

“Oh?”

“He asked again for me to consider the union of our Houses.”

“With your hand?”

She nodded.

“Never.”

Sofia hugged her father. Let the Prince think he could stop them. Falco was stronger than he knew.

* * *

Rain pattered against tall windows lining the throne room. House tapestries hung between patches of darkness, illuminated by lamplight. The proud yellow of Casa Falco hung across from the throne, as did the Stallion and Sea Turtle – though the King’s Swordfish dominated the entire back wall in a dark orange.

Each banner lay bold against dark stone. The few times Sofia visited the throne room they’d been part of the walls, nothing more. Now, seeing her falcon spearing the sky, it was as though the bird called to her. Its continued flight rested on her own as much as her father’s shoulders. Everything was different now.

King Otonos looked around the table. His dark eyes were sunken and his beard grey – he was so different from his sneering son. Oson took after the Queen, a sickly woman Sofia had rarely seen. “Let us proceed.” His voice had lost the boom that once startled her as a child. A pallor lurked beneath his tan.

Her father stood. He wore only his travel mask but his robes were those of his office, trimmed with silver. “Thank you, my King. I will be brief, as I believe my intention tonight is well known. In light of my son’s death I would offer my daughter, Sofia, as candidate to the role of Successor. His strength is her strength. She will serve Anaskar and its King well.”

From across the table, Oson raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The two Mascare beside him were silent also. One would represent Cavallo, the Stallion, the other Tartaruga – the Turtle. All eyes rested on the king.

He leaned toward her. “Sofia, this is a grave responsibility. The guardianship of a Greatmask, of my family and our city, is nothing you can accept and then walk away from. You must be certain, above all else.”

She lifted her chin. “I am ready to learn, your Majesty.”

“A fine answer.” A smile flicked across his lips. “Know that I have no objections. I trust in your father and believe that you will become a fine Protector for my son.”

“Your Majesty, if I may?”

Sofia wasn’t sure which House the Mascare spoke for, but his voice was the same, unemotional tone his kind spoke with. Soon to be her kind.

The king waved a hand. “You may, Solicci.”

“I’ve no doubt Danillo’s daughter has merit, but it’s an unorthodox move which may cause her trouble. Regrettably, Sofia might face undue opposition from her fellow students.”

The other Mask murmured his agreement.

“It’s been over a hundred years since a woman took the robes, Father.” The Prince’s tone was entirely reasonable, moving into mock apology. “I fear the Mascare might take offence, but I say now that I suspect they would sooner accept Lord Hosan’s ridiculous notion of allowing common folk to enter training, before accepting a woman. Such is the state of things.”

Sofia clenched her hands together, keeping them beneath the table. Eels, the three of them. They were hardly concerned about her, and without use of Osani, Cavallo would find it difficult to put forth their own candidate. Not without first sullying her ability.

Her father offered no response, waiting for the king. Otonos glanced to the banners a moment. “That is worth considering. But as heads of your Houses, I’ve no doubt you will be able to adequately prepare your flocks. If there are no other speakers?” His expression did not encourage further discussion. The Prince straightened, but at a bare flick of movement from Solicci’s hand he was still. The king did not seem to notice, speaking to her father.

“Train her well, Danillo.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Now.” He spread his hands on the table. “To matters of an equally pressing nature. Renovar. What have you discovered?”

Her father answered, his voice even. To Sofia, there was a strain but his bearing was firm. “Storms have kept ships from returning even as near as the Far Islands, so I cannot confirm what is happening in Renovar at present. But the last report spoke of a powerful weapon, held by an ambitious new Conclave. It bears watching, and in fact, I maintain a full Quarter ought to be sent to Renovar.”

“A different Conclave? That is new,” the king said.

“Yes. Former leaders were replaced due to an ‘unpatriotic stance.’ If word of a weapon of power is true, then I wish to know more.”

“And I still disagree, my king,” Solicci said. “We cannot afford to waste time and risk the lives of four Mascare on a fishing expedition based on rumour alone. Or further, risk our standing with Renovar. They have long been among our closest trade partners. It’s unlikely they would become aggressors.”

“Ambassador Lallor remains evasive, Sire,” her father said. “He claims not to know of any changes in the Conclave, yet he is clearly concerned about his homeland. I see it in his eyes.”

Solicci shook his head. “The Ambassador has been in Anaskar for years – what would he know of any developments in regards to the Conclave?”

“Messenger birds do leave the city.”

Solicci snorted. “And few return in winter. Lallor’s fear is just that – fear. He has heard rumours and fears they will impact trade and so he talks them down.”

“Perhaps.”

The rest of the conversation washed over her as they began talking in circles.

Oson scowled at the tabletop, barely acknowledging questions directed his way. Sofia hid her grin. The prince wasn’t going to make anything easy for her, but she would be ready. She would carry the honour of her house.

Become Successor.

* * *

Hello!

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this sample – if you’d like to continue on with Notch and Sofia’s story, you can read more right here:

City of Masks

Thanks for taking a look

Ashley

6

The Gates of Golorath

R.M. Garino

At the edge of the world stands a gate to another realm. The fallen angels, the Lethen'al, sealed it when they fled the Apostate. It has lain dormant, forgotten for seven thousand years. But the Lethen'al have not been idle in their absence. They have mastered the arts of magic and of war, in preparation for their enemy's return.

Arielle is descended from the founder of the Areth'kon, the martial school. She dreams of becoming a Mala'kar, a Bladeless Master, like her parents before her. But she lived in the shadow of other's expectations for so long, followed the path they set for her without question, and forgotten her own desires. To reclaim who she is, she leaves her former life and lover behind to start anew at the Gates. But her past claims a stake in her future, and refuses to let her go.

Angus is driven by a secret, a failure he is ashamed of. To rectify his disgrace, he is determined to learn the ways of the sword. Forsaking the teachings of the Magi, he arrived at the Gates to train with his father's people. Raised on the heroic tales of the Blademasters, he strives to live by their example. But the Blademasters here are nothing like the stories.

When their squads arrive at the Gates for their final year of military training, Angus and Arielle are drawn together. The truth of who they are has the power to reshape the history and purpose of their people, but it is guarded by royal decree.

Will they be able to handle the truth of who they are? Can the world? Can they contain the magnificent powers they wield or will they destroy everyone in their way?

All the while, a new enemy stirs in the shadows.

Fans of J.R.R Tolkien, Brandon Sanderson, Patrick Rothfuss and J.K. Rowling will feel right at home in this elaborately layered fantasy world that combines military society with a unique magical system.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

The Elder

The forest of Aklediem: Present day: 1 month until the Feast of Night

The shrulk paused on the edge of the clearing. It scented the air, and opened its mouth. Doubled rows of teeth glistened with the faint orange glow of the fire. Two of its kind pushed up next to it, silent and slow in their progress.

A human family hunkered before the concealed fire, their dinner hung above the flames in a small iron pot. Others were grouped further afield, clustered in compact groups around similar camps.

A small female child walked about the periphery of the family, gathering kindling in her tiny arms. The shrulk salivated and watched its prey draw closer. Talons extended from its forelimbs and feet.

A soft growl rumbled low in its throat, and the muscles of its legs tightened.

The child drew nearer.

The shrulk burst from its cover and launched itself into the air. Its brethren exploded from the foliage behind it. With its claws distended, it fell upon the screaming child and pinned her to the ground. Jaws opened wide, the shrulk reached in for the first bite.

An axe smashed into the side of its head and separated it from the body. Behind the axe came a figure, larger than the humans, the light of his exposed soul shone bright in the night.

The other two shrulks stumbled, stunned by the entrance, and refocused their attention on the new threat. The feathers adorning their backs rose in an aggressive display.

A Lethen'al stood before them.

Shrulks were bred to hunt the Lethen'al.

The first monster rushed in, low to the ground, while the second leapt to attack from above.

The Lethen'al threw the large, two handed axe, and it took the airborne shrulk full in the chest. It sailed backward, and landed amidst the camps.

Unarmed, he pivoted to face the final beast with raised fists. It came in low and from the side in an attempt to strike his flank. He stepped to the left before its teeth clamped down, and punched it in the side of its head. The skull shattered, and it staggered. Another blow to the neck collapsed its windpipe.

The shrulk twitched upon the forest floor, and gasped for breath which refused to come.

He ignored it, and approached the injured child. Her cries filled the clearing, to the disharmony of her parent's soothing words. The family extracted her from beneath the shrulk, and did their best to triage the damage.

"Elder?" There was a note of desperation in the father's voice.

The Lethen'al placed a hand on the man's arm to reassure him, and bent toward the child. There were two wounds, one on either shoulder. Both were contaminated from the foulness of the beast. He extended his sin'del, his life force, and touched it to the child's aura. Her cries ceased, though an occasional sob escaped. The filth bubbled from the wounds in a rush of blood. The punctures drew together and sealed.

"There, little one." The Elder smoothed the hair from her forehead. "You'll be right as rain now."

The mother embraced the child, and muttered her thanks in a repeated mantra. Her own tears erupted now that the danger was passed. The father embraced them both.

"Thank ye, Elder." he said. "The Covenant still surely holds."

"Does it now?"

"Till the end of our days!" The father's aura was aglow with his joy.

"Then act like it." The Elder grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. "There are more shrulks about. Tend to the perimeter. Send the scouts out a quarter mile further. One member of each family stands guard by the fires. They can take shifts through the night. Every three hours."

The father's elation was replaced by shock, followed by an acceptance of the commands. After a quick kiss for his daughter, he was off to spread the message.

The Elder returned to the shrulks. He pried his axe free and wiped it clean, before he gave the bearded blade and balancing spike a careful examination. With a flourish, he flipped it over his shoulder, and the weapon disappeared.

One monster still twitched. He drew a knife from behind his back, and with a swift thrust, put the brute out of its misery.

"See to the bodies," he said to the men who stood around the beasts. He saw the fear in their eyes. Best to keep them busy for now. He wiped the blade off on the feathers. "Drag them off a ways. We don't need the smell of them keeping everyone awake."

An older man stood nearby. He watched the younger grab hold of the shrulks and drag them off into the undergrowth.

"We're in yer debt again, Elder," he said.

"Nonsense, Josef." The Elder cast a glance at his companion and returned his gaze to the surroundings. "I said I would get you all to Red River. That means guarding you along the way."

"Guarding us, aye." Josef wrinkled his nose when one of the beasts were dragged near enough to catch the scent. "But ye canna say the girl would be alive right now without ye. Nary a one o' us would be, for that matter."

The Elder lowered his gaze, his attention locked on the fire burning in the small ring of stones.

"Think nothing of it, my friend." The Elder patted him on the shoulder.

"How do ye make yer axe disappear in such a manner?" Josef looked behind the Elder, as if to see the weapon hanging there.

"Tend to your dinner, Josef."

Josef bowed, and the Elder walked off to check the rest of the families.

"Oh." Josef held up a finger, as if to stay attached to the thought he recalled. "The children wanted me ta remind ye. They were promised a story after dinner. They're eager ta know why ye left yer home. We all are, for that matter."

"I haven't forgotten." The Elder watched him to see if there was anything else. Josef bowed again, and continued on his way.

Why had he agreed to tell the story?

Logan and the feckin' Sur, he thought. I'm back for less than a fortnight, and I still can't get my mind off it all.

Given the new information, the new perspectives he encountered, he needed to understand what happened.

Thoughts of home, of his Pride, of Arielle drifted through his mind. The images were fresh and clear, and he cursed the precision of his memory. Damned Magi and their damned training. It was bad enough she intruded on his dreams whenever he closed his eyes. Bringing the memories forward in a conscious act made him apprehensive.

He wanted to forget, not dredge up buried feelings.

The two moons, Clarusluna and Little Bear made their appearance, with the smaller beginning to peak over the horizon. The Elder wandered the camp, before he admitted to himself he was stalling.

There were seven fires spread around the clearing.

Seven families.

They comprised the entire population of Ehrlich, a small farming village at the edge of the Great Forest of Aklediem. They were refugees one and all, and all under his self-imposed protection. He convinced them to abandon their homes prior to the dark of the Feast of Night; convinced them to follow him to the relative safety of Red River and its towering walls of stone; convinced them to run from the hordes of the Sur that surged through the forests.

The long night was coming, and the signs and portents he followed through the forest gave him pause. The shrulks were out in greater numbers than any time in the three centuries of his banishment.

He adjusted the codex gemstone he wore on his wrist.

Beneath all other considerations was the truth: he was still a Blade of the Areth'kon, regardless of his excommunication. This was a fight he was unable to turn away from, nor did he want to. He knew, in his heart, he was equal to the arrogant Elc'atar, and even to the Mala'kar, though he was never formally tested.

But he was alone now, bereft of his usual hunting partner. There was no word or message for the delay, and the vast foe moved from the depths of the forest.

He was born of House Kal'Parev, so he would hold the field, boots in the blood.

He had to fight.

Was it so terrible others knew his story? She might hear it one day, should she ever pass through the Gates again.

He approached Josef's fire.

The flickering shadows danced low to the ground, and held the surrounding humans in a half light. They waited, eager for him to begin. Families wandered over from other camps. The fire crackled, sputtering a spray of sparks into the night. This illuminated the puckered scars that peeked out from beneath the edges of his cowl.

"My people are the Lethen'al." He settled his cloak about him to ward against the seeping chill. "When we fell from Heaven, a vengeance was placed upon us. As terrible as the fragmenting of our souls was, this was worse. The way home was sealed to us. The breach was removed from the world, and thus the Sur, the Otherworld, was formed."

"Where is the Sur," asked a child.

An adult, sensed the opportunity, and added his own question.

"Is it between Heaven and earth?"

"The Sur is removed from this world." The Elder considered their questions, and sought his answer in the flames. "And well it should be. It is the home of the Apostate. It is neither above us, nor below, but rather exists off to the side of creation."

"Do Tarek and the Lo'ademn be the only ones who live there?"

The Elder shook his head.

"Mostly there are evil things born of hatred. The Apostate brought them together for a common cause, with the promise of revenge and escape from their prison. But there are also others, like the Lost Guard. Those who have lost themselves, but found new purpose protecting creation."

Those gathered about murmured in understanding.

"Yeh dinna tell a very good story," a child said, louder than the others. She craned her neck to see his face.

The hint of a smile played around the corners of the Elder's mouth, and caused the scars on his face to pull tight. The adults hushed and admonished the child, in an attempt to not cause too much of a stir. He held up a finger to forestall their attempts.

"Why is that, little one?"

He sat cross-legged with his hands upon his knees.

"Because the story ye were tellin' dinna have anything to do with ye." She was unaffected by the adult insistence around her.

"Not directly," the Elder said, "but it has to do with all of us, even you. It's the history of all things."

She shook her small head, which made her reddish-brown braid sway.

"Yeh tellin' the wrong part of it then." Her eyelids fluttered with an affectation of arrogance borne from the surety of her convictions.

"Am I, now?"

"Master Collins asked ye this morning why yeh were in the human lands, instead o' beyond the Gates. That's the story yeh were supposed to tell."

The nascent smile died upon the Elder's face. His gray-blue eyes drifted back to the fire, and silence descended upon the group.

Larria frowned and crossed her arms in front of her.

"It's not a love story," he warned. "Although it does, to some degree involve a most tremendous, most spectacular love. Does that disappoint you, little Larria?"

She shook her head without hesitation.

The Elder glanced around at the faces gathered before him. Eighty-one souls in total. Seven families. If he pitched his voice right, his story carried to the fires at the edges. They all shared the child's excitement, and followed him with eager, expectant expressions.

He closed his eyes and sought the power which lay beyond the periphery of his awareness. It rushed into him, and made his life force swell. Using the energy from the Temple, he saw all the elements of his tale, even those hidden in the past. He motioned the humans closer.

"When humans marry," he said, "you exchange rings to symbolize your union. A glance at an individual's left hand will show whether you are bound to another, as we can all see with Eleanor and Josef here."

He indicated the couple seated before him with a wave. They, in their turn, showed their rings. Both radiated pride, and they intertwined their hands before they lowered them.

"We Lethen'al do not have such a custom." He avoided the sight of the elderly couple. "Once wedded, a unity is formed between our sin'dels, our life force. Consider it a merging of the two souls so that they overlap without any division. To us, it's seen as an ethereal, golden cord connecting the two. For some of us, there is no need of a marriage for such to form."

"Do ye have one?" Larria squinted in examination from her grandmother's lap.

"No." He shook his head, and returned his attention to the flames. "I once did, but…it was a mistake, and it is no longer so."

The little girl watched him, as did her family. At the surrounding fires, the other six families looked on. Concern tinged the auras of some, sympathy and worry decorated others.

"You wanted to know why I left the Patresilen," he said. "It was a betrayal bade me leave. It started in the autumn of the year, more than three centuries ago."

"I began my apprenticeship at the Gates nine days before, and I would have been of an age of one of your older teenagers were I human. She arrived with her squad as the sun slipped behind the mountains."

* * *

Arrival

The Patresilen: Autumn: 304 years earlier

Arielle Rhen'val stopped and stared in awe when her platoon crested the rise. A swirl of orange and golden leaves played about their feet and threw themselves at the walls of the compound. The entrance to the fortress was open, and allowed them their first view inside.

The Gates of Golorath loomed before them, set tall and imposing in the ragged outcrops of granite. Red stone was layered with tan striations, that created a shadowed effect which augmented the gloaming, and softened the contrast between the natural surface and carved façade. The Gates were not a natural formation, but neither were they hewn from rock. This was the portal into the land of the Lethen'al, and as such, it was an archway grown from the mountain without seam or division. High above the cloud layer they sat silent, proud, and brooding throughout the eons. The freestanding empty arch did not quite meet in the middle, but rather rose at an oblique angle like a pair of sharp-edged teeth. It nevertheless exuded a sense of finality that was hard to ignore, for this was the edge of the world.

Here, outside the fortification, the walls were carved in an intricate design of leaves and vines, interwoven and interconnected. Within the folds of the vines was told the story of her people, the scenes standing out in sharp bas-relief. From beneath the entrance, she saw the images of the rise of the Apostate, the Lo'ademn-Lord Tarek, and the devastation he wrought against her kind.

Her gaze returned to the Gates, proud and aloof on the citadel's parade field. The mountain continued upward behind it, and unabated on either side, cresting in summits that glowed golden in the setting sun. She was anxious to unpack her paints and capture this image on a canvas.

A cold, leaf laden wind threw itself against the mountain and through the open arch, only to be thrust aside by the indomitable will of the stone. The swirl of eddies formed stray gusts that battered her companions from every side. Her platoon stood high above the valley floor, and the cold of the altitude had sharp, biting teeth. She reminded herself to move, to keep in step when they continued toward the Gates.

Elsewhere, the forests were encouraged to grow deep and dark, but here they were cleared away to keep the stronghold's sight lines clear. Between the forest and the fortress walls sat covered gardens and small orchards in ordered rows. Pens for sheep, pigs, goats, and cows were interspersed throughout. Cultivated vines climbed terraced tiers. Squat, low-lying glass buildings, barely a meter above the ground, encased other crops, and massive barns were built against the mountain wall.

A single, slanted-roof building, the edges of whose eves curled back upward, stood by itself in the middle of the grounds. That, Arielle said to herself, has to be the infirmary.

At the center of the complex was a large parade field, as well as obstacle courses and fighting pits. Arielle spent years training on such equipment, and the familiar spaces brought a sense of relief, a touch of the known to the strange world she entered.

Their steps drew them closer, and she made out the towering structures cut into the mountainside to either side of the Gates. Soaring doorways, with intricately carved lintels and deep-set windows were visible from this distance. Pillars framed the doors, and created wide covered cloisters that undercut the rock face by several yards.

Check out the House Barracks , Ba'ril, one of the teammates, telepathically sent to her and the rest of the squad. He was unable to mask his excitement. His long black hair was pulled back in a bun at the back of his head, accentuating the points of his ears indicative of the Lethen'al.

That has to be House Fel'Mekrin , another graduate, Nessah, sent along an awed impression of the largest and most ornate structure.

Indeed, it is, Gwen sent back. Home sweet home, folks.

So Mer'Chien is next to it? Denuelle sent, and mentally pointed to the smaller structure off to the side.

Yes , Gwen said, her pride evident in her thoughts. Le'Manon and Kal'Parev keep to their side, across the parade field.

Why are there no Rhen'val barracks? Nessah sent.

We're too small, Arielle sent. We don't need barracks of our own.

Yeah, but still, Denuelle sent. The Great Houses get barracks, but the Noble House doesn't? That doesn't sound right.

Life's not fair. Gwen hitched her pack higher up on her shoulders.

That has to be the Ledge , Darien sent. His dark hair was worn short, shorn close to his scalp, which gave his rounded features a more pronounced effect.

A vertical platform loomed high above the arch of the Gates, and connected two separate cliff faces. Tiny figures walked across its span at sporadic intervals.

Note the covered archer platforms, Ba'ril added, and the stairs cut into the rock .

Today was their first day at the Gates; the first day of what promised to be the start of a difficult, if dull and uneventful tour. Her platoon comprised three squads of new graduates from the Areth'kon, the martial school all her people attended. They called the soldiers "the Blades", and the Areth'kon was the Gathering of the Blades. Tradition dictated they spend a segment of time in isolation, here in the most desolate part of the realm, to contemplate their future. After today, this group would disperse into its three components, be at odds and compete against each other for top rank in the tiers. Here they would perfect the skills they learned, and harden their discipline, but it was doubtful she would gain any experience in unsupervised combat.

They say it hasn't been opened for seven thousand years, Caradoc sent, his sense of wonder clear.

Nonsense , Gwen said. They open a sally port twice a year. They need to let the Yearlings test their mettle outside the walls. How else are they going to choose the next batch of Elc'atar?

I thought there were no native creatures living in the Pass beyond the Gates , Denuelle sent.

There's not , Arielle told her. It's a place of sadness. The Magi made it that way so no one enters. Nothing can stay there. It's said that not even the hordes of the Apostate can break through to the Gates.

So, why do the Yearlings go out if there's nothing to fight? Nessah sent.

There's plenty to fight, Gwen sent. They just have to go out beyond the pass to do so.

They leave the pass? Nessah sent. They enter the human lands?

Not really, Arielle sent. They keep to the forest of Aklediem. It's so thick with shrulks that humans never enter.

Thought you wanted to become Elc'atar, Ness, Gwen teased. Didn't you pay attention?

Members of the other squads already stationed here, one of which her own replaced, appeared while they marched. Some waved, some cheered, while others watched with distant, somber expressions. Most returned to whatever it was they did prior to the platoon's arrival. Work needed to be done, tasks performed, duties fulfilled, and steam let off. Apparently, fresh-minted graduates were nothing new here. Much to the delight of the new arrivals, two squads were embroiled in a Hurlin' match in a far corner of the field. The shouts and cheers floated across the intervening distance arriving small and insignificant while the two teams fought to move the small ball into the opposing net using their curved sticks.

Glad I brought my hurley. Darien arched his neck to keep the match in view.

Creft mentioned that another company arrived several days ago . Gwen nudged Darien back to focus. Another should be coming soon after us.

I heard one group is coming from Reven Marthal, and not the Vaults like everyone else. Ba'ril sent.

Look , Denuelle called to them all. Lo'el!

Large creatures that resembled wolves in all but their tremendous size, walked beside some Lethen'al, while others bore a Blade upon their backs. Arielle was thrilled to see them, but suppressed her excitement; soon she too would be able to choose a companion. If, she reminded herself, she was found worthy.

Arielle's platoon remained in formation, as they did for the past eight days during their trek across the valley. They stepped as one unit, stared straight ahead, and when the order came to halt, froze in place and waited.

"At ease!" came the barked command.

In time with her companions, Arielle shrugged off her pack and swung it to the ground before her. Every one of them took a step to the left and clasped their hands behind their backs, settling into their parade rest stance. And they waited. Creft, a pledged Blade and their commanding officer, walked up and down the lines to inspect their posture.

This was their first appearance as graduates to the larger Areth'kon community. The way they were viewed after the grueling journey would establish their reputations, both collectively and individually.

It's official, Gwen sent. Eight days for the march from the Vaults .

Only took Logan four , Ba'ril sent.

Shane took nine . Arielle allowed her pride and pleasure to shine forth.

I heard a company took twelve , Caradoc sent. Last year, I think .

Wouldn't want to be them , Darien said. Imagine having that hung around your neck on first night?

Eight is respectable, Arielle told them all. I'll take it .

A stray gust of wind moved a strand of her silver hair free of the severe ponytail she wore, and she tucked it behind the elongated point of her ear.

From one of the doors walked a Blade, his form long and lean, and his gait purposeful. The sides of his head were shaved to the skin, and the center tuft of dark hair was braided and hung over his left shoulder. A large swirling design was tattooed across his right side, with pointed barbs that climbed across his face and neck. Several bone fragments pierced both of his pointed ears.

Elc'atar Guard. Ba'ril warned them of the approaching Blademaster. Twelve o'clock.

Check out his sin'del , Darien sent, referring to the aura of energy that emanated from him. Arielle already took note. She did not need to see the way the colors drifted and swirled together, indicating a capability for sudden and drastic carnage.

Arielle's hazel eyes flicked back to the bas-relief on the Gates. One image in particular caught her attention: El'Cain and his guards as they held the mouth of Golan's Pass, while the rest of the race fled through the mountains toward safety.

Arielle stood a little straighter, her chin lifted a little higher.

"Attention!" Creft barked when the officer drew near. As one, the graduates squared their feet and shoulders, arms at their sides. All silent communication ceased at the command.

He stopped in front of Creft, and the newcomer loomed above their commanding officer.

"Sir!" Creft said, his voice pitched to project, but not so forceful as before. "Squads Twelve, Five, and Nine reporting for duty. Sir!"

"Eight days." He scrutinized the assembled company.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Creft said, although he was not asked a question.

The officer continued his appraisal. He lingered a moment on Arielle, although she ignored the raised eyebrow that followed.

"Very well, XO, stand down," he said.

The commanding officer slapped his arms across his chest and bowed in salute. He straightened and stepped to the side, relieved of his duty.

"I am Trenton." His tone was harsh, his voice thick and gruff. "Welcome to my Gate. I say it is mine, because I am charged with making sure it continues to stand. Make no mistake: though it may cost me every one of your miserable feckin' lives to ensure it, my Gate will continue to stand."

Not an Elc'atar, Arielle realized. He was Mala'kar, a Bladeless Master.

His thumbs were hooked behind his belt, and he moved with an arrogant swagger. He wore no weapon, and squinted into each of the twenty-one faces while he spoke as if to commit each to memory.

"The tour," he said, "is long. It will appear longer if your discipline is weak, or if you forget what you should have learned. We are self-sufficient, and each of you will take turns doing your share. Do your work, follow orders."

He stopped before Arielle.

"There will be no special treatment. You are defined by your actions, not those of your family. You earn your own honor here."

He continued onward, and Arielle allowed herself to swallow. There was no doubt in her mind his words were specifically meant for her. Mother's family would not help her here; Father's name would not help her, nor would Shane's or Logan's. Here, she would be forced to create her own name. Her pulse and sin'del quickened at the thought. This was what she waited a lifetime for: to step out from beneath the shadows of her family, and carve a place for herself in the world.

"Your tasks," Trenton said, "will help you decide what your future will hold. Some of you will return to your families when the tour is done. Some will wash out before that. Some of you will decide to stay. Some may even elect to seek entry into the Elc'atar Guard. Your time at the Gates will wash away all your illusions and reveal who, and what, you truly are."

Trenton stepped away from the platoon.

"Right face!" he barked, and twenty bodies moved in unison to the command.

"The first exhibit of your education." He indicated the formation hidden from their view when they entered the field.

A large, flat outcrop of granite jutted from the base of the cliff. Atop the rock stood a young graduate who swayed from side to side. He was shackled, and the heavy chain led down to the rock. His long, white hair was tangled and covered large swaths of his face. Dark, angry bruises peeked out from beneath the falls of hair, and decorated his countenance. Arielle's eyes widened. As if aware of their scrutiny, he straightened as far as the chains allowed, and squared his broad shoulders.

Trenton watched him a moment, and returned his glower to the garrison. "If you forget your place here, you will be reminded."

He continued, and explained the importance of adhering to schedules. The graduate on the rock threw his head back, and his disheveled white hair cleared his visage. Trenton's words rolled over Arielle while she watched the prisoner, her being magnified at the sight of him. The mischievous smirk on the prisoner's face froze in formation when he caught sight of Arielle. His sin'del increased in a brilliant display of light.

She felt her sense of self swell, lift out and beyond the bounds of what she knew. Her sin'del also expanded, and seemed to raise her off her feet. Her hazel-eyed gaze latched onto his gray-blue eyes, and across the distance of the field she felt herself reach out to him. His face tugged the edges of her memory, pulled at the long forgotten shards she pushed to the side.

Trenton's face intruded into her line of sight, his nose pressed against hers. Arielle jumped back in surprise, but regained her composure with efficient discipline. Why was everyone facing the wrong way?

"Would you care to join graduate Kal'Parev on the stockade, Rhen'val?" Trenton's voice was soft, low, intimate, but held far more menace than a shout.

"Sir, no sir!" Arielle locked her gaze to a position above his head, but only after she darted a quick glance at the rock.

"Then I suggest you turn with the rest of your platoon, and stop making lights at the prisoner."

"Sir, yes sir!" Arielle executed a sharp pirouette the moment he finished. She made sure to keep her gaze fastened to the back of the head before her in line. Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment, her sin'del contracted tight against her, and she felt the laughter and scorn that radiated from the company. Some smiled, others turned to peek. From the six other members of her squad she sensed concern, surprise, and indignation. Twenty turned in perfect unison, and she stood gaping at the boy on the rock.

"Graduates get the first night to rest, write home, and acclimatize to the height," Trenton's voice returned to its natural cadence of contemptuous scorn. "Graduate Rhen'val, however, needs to be reminded where she feckin' is, and what is expected of her. The march seems to have made her forget her basic training in company mechanics. So she will spend her first night on the Ledge to ponder what she has forgotten."

Trenton paused. His glare swept over the company.

"Have I made myself clear?"

The garrison responded with a choral shout of, "Sir, yes sir!"

"Creft, show them to their quarters," Trenton said. "Rhen'val, you have ten minutes to stow your gear. Report to Kolsch on the Ledge at the top of the hour. Welcome to the Gates, scrubs. Dismissed."

The company broke formation and grouped themselves by squad to head toward Creft. Arielle hefted her pack, aware of the puzzled and amused glances her cohort cast her way, and the questions they sent. She was also conscious of the boy on the rock, and her pulse raced with the knowledge. She forced herself to square her shoulders against the collective scrutiny.

The Ledge? Nessah sent, as though unable to believe the words she spoke. That's the worst possible assignment, isn't it?

And on first night , Denuelle sent, her words echoed and enhanced the pull that formed at the bottom of Arielle's stomach.

So much for celebrating our arrival , Ba'ril sent. Thanks, Arielle. We just get here and you blow first night.

I'm not on the Ledge , Darien sent. Damned well better believe I'll be celebrating. No offense, Arielle.

None taken , she sent without emotion. Eight days is a respectable time. You have every reason to celebrate.

For forty years they'd heard the stories of first night. How other cohorts would come to their quarters to meet and celebrate with them, forge the bonds that would define their careers for years to come. Letters would be written home, to present their thoughts and first impressions of the Gates. And finally, exhausted from the forced march through the valley, the excitement of arrival, and the frenzied friend-making, a warm cot and twelve hours of sleep.

Arielle would get no sleep tonight.

She bowed her head and followed the others. She had ten minutes to drop her gear and get herself to the Ledge.

When she approached the carved entrance to House Fel'Mekrin she paused, and chanced a glance back at the prisoner on the stockade. He still watched her, she knew, his face and form indistinct in the distance. His sin'del, however, flared when she cast a glance his way. The problem was, hers responded in kind. He raised his hand as best he was able and waved to her.

Arielle jogged into the cavern.

* * *

The Prisoner

Angus Kal'Parev stood on the Rock. He started his tour at the Gates nine days ago. For the past five he'd stood in the icy, seeping chill which worked its way by slow degrees into his bones. For five nights he'd endured the sharp, freezing cold that tore against his skin in an effort to scour and leave sere his soul. For five days he woke shackled and forced to hunch, for he refused to rest until pulled down by the grips of exhaustion.

He would not give them the pleasure. No. He would stand until he fell, or until his allocated time was done. He promised himself this, and he was, after all, a Kal'Parev.

His thoughts slid through an endless chain of associations, and took leaps his more ordered intellect avoided. For the first four days he separated his mind. This allowed his primal mind to attend to the privations of his flesh and thereby ignore the pain, as the Magi trained him to do. His higher mind was therefore free to explore more esoteric paths. He was able to review and fully visualize all nine chains that formed the Orotund structure, create a proof to contradict Belg's Continuum , and opened no less than twenty verses of Ts'an's Perdition of Perception .

He knew was a matter of time until they broke him. Anyone could be broken. That was not his point. This was not even an attempt to show how strong he was. Rather, he wanted to expose them for their injustice through the only means they left him. He wanted to push them, to drive them to great lengths to break him; great public lengths to show everyone how far they had fallen, how far these arrogant Elc'atar Guards strayed from the truth in their hubris.

They demand uniformity, he raged in his mind. They promoted discipline to such a degree it bred compliance, subservience. That was the exact opposite of what El'Cain stood for. He championed individuality. Angus read the journals, knew entire sections by rote, and held them close to his heart. The expression of creativity. The development of the soul. It was in the embrace of these ideals El'Cain died. It was not discipline which enabled him to face the hordes of the Apostate. That came from the core of who he was, and a love for those he protected. It did not come from any indoctrination he received.

On the evening of the fifth day Angus' ability to resist crumbled. A set of hazel eyes met his, and forced the two halves of his mind to unify. The agonies and deprivations of the past days sought to pull him down beneath their weight. Only his mulish stubbornness kept him upright now. His thoughts stumbled and tripped over themselves; different ideas careened off each other, while others were subsumed in the maelstrom. He did not have the strength to separate his awareness again.

And through it all, a singular face stared up at him in his memory, and a pulsing radiance of light drove all the shadows from his mind.

She returned to him.

* * *

The Ledge

Another Mala'kar, Kolsch, waited for her when she stepped into the biting cold of the platform. A thin, towering officer, he stood with his bare arms crossed against his chest in defiance of the elements. His head was shaved bald, bundled tattoos ran up his arms, and piercings of gold and silver decorated each of his pointed ears. In an unusual display, the tuft of a long, braided beard protruded from his chin. His smooth, hollow cheeks only enhanced the elongated effect. Arielle's throat went dry when she met his glower.

"Welcome to my Ledge, Rhen'val," he said when she came to attention before him.

"Thank you, sir."

Kolsch's smile was a predatory, unpleasant thing. He unfolded his arms, tilted his head, and slid up to her, far too close to be polite. His gaze roamed across her form, and made a show of moving in slow sweeps from her feet to her crown. He walked around her, his pace measured with a casual, deliberate tread.

"I hear you made quite a display of yourself," his voice a near whisper which tickled her ear. With him behind her, Arielle forced herself to keep her attention focused ahead.

His lips played across the side of her neck while he spoke. He ran his hand along the silver ponytail which hung down her back and swayed in the endless breeze. The color of her hair marked her family, and its meaning would not be lost on him. Still, he persisted. She clenched her fists, and willed herself to unlock them.

"Took a fancy to our captive Kal'Parev, you did," he said. "Showed the entire parade field your pretty little lights. We saw them all the way up here."

"I am not aware--"

Kolsch pulled her head back by her hair, the movement sharp and unexpected. Her arms rose of their own accord as she fought to regain her balance. His solid grip prevented her from turning her head the slightest fraction. Her jaw ached from the force with which she gritted her teeth, but she lowered her arms and relaxed her shoulders.

"This is not a discussion, bitch," he said. "You will speak when I give you leave to do so. Understood?"

Arielle did not answer.

"Try nodding," Kolsch said. She did so, and it felt as if half her hair tried to free itself from her scalp. Not a sound escaped her lips.

"Good girl," he said. "You're a fast learner. Not like your brother. He was a stubborn one. I was forced to show him time and time again who is Master of the Ledge. But you're a smart girl, are you not? Good. So listen, and listen once. None of your pretty, little lights up here. You keep your goodies tucked away good and tight. I see you making eyes at anyone, and I'll throw you from the heights myself. Do I make myself clear?"

Arielle inclined her head again. It felt like she severed the remainder of her ponytail.

Kolsch pushed her away. Arielle prided herself for not losing her balance.

"You have the center left circuit, harlot," Kolsch said. "One hour before dawn you'll be relieved. Stay awake. Stay alert. I find you sleeping, and you'll wish I hadn't."

Arielle glared at him over her shoulder, her nostrils flared while she fought back her outrage. Kolsch threw his head back and laughed. He turned his back to her and walked away.

She noticed the graduates and Blades watching, mirth filling their faces. Arielle squared her shoulders and walked to her assigned position. Let one of them say anything, she told herself. She let her fury smolder. Just one.

They stared at her. One waved. One blew her a kiss. But all held their silence and continued their circuits.

Arielle stalked through hers, and tried to retain her dignity. Her fists clenched and unclenched. She controlled the rage, but it rolled through her sin'del in a viscous tumult.

The stars drifted across the sky and the night crept past.

The view differed from this vantage. Below, the observer only saw the empty archway. High above the Gates, however, she saw not only the complex, but also a swirling eddy of light and energy which framed the nighttime landscape beyond. The darkness was thick and unwelcome on the other side of the Gates, it plunged down into the ragged landscape of Golan's Pass. She scanned the moonlit scene when she marched west. A sadness crept over her at this point of the circuit, and she pushed it back. This was the backwash of despair from the Gate's enchantments, and it contained an element of rage she was unable to place. She ignored it and made a quick turn on the balls of her feet. She headed east, and scanned the barracks. All lights were extinguished, and the rest of her squad were comfortable in their bunks. The cold of the parade field did not compare to the temperature on the Ledge as the night wore on. Her constant movement did little to keep her warm.

The platform was wider than she expected, but her previous view was only from the canyon floor. From there, it was a dark bridge above the multicolored granite; the heads and shoulders of those manning it were indistinct specks in the distance. The vantage from here held a different truth; the avenue was deep enough for four soldiers to stand abreast, with a raised wall that protected against the sheer drop to either side. She saw the top of the wall, but little else. Not for the first time in life, she cursed her lack of height.

Disappointment

The first light of dawn tinted the mountain peaks when a Blade finally approached Arielle.

She stopped her circuit, and fingered the hilt of the sword at her waist. Her left foot slid behind her. He was more than an hour late. The Areth'kon prized punctuality among its many virtues, especially when reporting to an assigned post. She pressed her thumb against the scabbard and exposed an inch of the blade, ready for what was to come. The fabled city of Sa'Doran fell to the Apostate through the treachery of a single Lethen'al. Despite her exhaustion, Arielle would not let the Gates fall during her watch. She measured his approach, noted the terrain and studied his movements. If he did not reveal his intention before he entered the range of her sword, she intended to strike him down.

She tightened her grip on her sword, and her sin'del contracted around her. The Blade stopped a scant few steps outside her range, his thumbs hooked behind the buckle of his belt. His dark hair blew carelessly in the wind, and his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"El'Cain sends his regards." He voiced the correct password, and waved her away. His sword was buckled on the right side.

Arielle did not move.

"Have you forgotten the pass phrase, little one?" Now, he smiled outright.

Arielle did not respond. Her breathing slowed, and she focused on the movements she was about to make.

As expected, he moved closer. He bent forward to erase his height advantage and get a better look at her face.

Arielle lunged, grabbed him by the side of his neck and dragged him to his knees. He came to rest across her leg in an unnatural position. The point of her thumb pressed against the hollow of his throat, and she twisted his right wrist with her other hand. She pinched her fingers into the meat, as her grandfather taught her, to aggravate the nerves beneath. The Blade gasped and grimaced against the pain. All traces of humor washed away in his agony. He shifted a fraction, and Arielle increased the pressure on his wrist. His movement stopped.

"You are relieved, graduate," he said through gritted teeth.

Still, Arielle did not reply.

"Ye're over an hour late, Laundrin," a voice called from behind Arielle. She did not turn, but extended her sin'del behind her. "Ye give the right phrases, but offer no explanation for the delay. What do ye expect her to do?"

"Piss off, Kal'Parev!" he called back to the figure behind Arielle. "I don't talk to mongrels."

Arielle's stomach clenched at the mention of the name, but still she did not turn.

"'Tis sound advice, ye stupid Mer'Chien bastard," the newcomer laughed. "The girl's exhausted, and deserves an explanation. Now have some courtesy and explain yeh self, or we'll air our differences when she's done with ye."

The color of Laundrin's face deepened to a rich purple. Arielle added a bit more pressure to help convince him.

"Kolsch told me to wait!" Laundrin said. "He's fecking watching right now! So let go, and get yourself off this Ledge to where he's waiting!"

Still, Arielle did not reply.

"What more do you want from me?" Laundrin yelled, exasperated by Arielle's silence. She studied the substance and texture of his sin'del. Underlying the frustration, there was an undercurrent of indignation, and yes, hostility as well. Arielle adjusted the pressure on his wrist and pushed him away. He landed sprawled on his back, with nothing bruised save his ego.

"Thank you," Arielle said.

She watched him while he stood. He cast her a venomous glance and stalked past her to begin his circuit, while he rubbed his sore wrist. Arielle followed him with her eyes until he was out of range.

A quiet chuckle reminded her of Kal'Parev's presence. He fell into step beside her. She expected the graduate from the rock, but it was not he. They were similar, clearly related by the cast of face and form, although this one was smaller and slighter. The sides of his long white hair were tied away from his face, to reveal high cheekbones and bright blue eyes, as well as the yellow and brown of healing bruises. Arielle felt a vast disappointment well within her.

He threw his head back and laughed a deep, hearty chuckle from the depths of his belly. Arielle blushed with the realization she did not hide her feelings. As his laughter continued, she smiled. There was something about him that bespoke good humor in copious amounts.

"No, darlin'," he said, "Aye'm not Angus, but folk do say we look alike. Aye'm Thomlin, the dear rouge's more respectable cousin."

He stopped walking, and held out his hand. A mischievous light danced in his energy field. Arielle stopped to consider a moment before she accepted the offer. Thomlin clasped his left hand over hers and gave a slight bow.

"By the honor of House Kal'Parev, we are well met," he said. The words held a ritualistic tenor, and Arielle responded in kind as she was brought up to do.

"By the honor of House Rhen'val, we are indeed well met," she rested her left hand over his and returned the bow.

He did not let go, but rather quirked an eyebrow at her. She frowned in response, as she did not understand his implied question. He threw back his head and laughed again.

"Ye must be tired, darling." He let go of her hand. "Aye gave ye both my name and my House."

Arielle grimaced at the slight she offered and averted her gaze. By giving her House but not her name, she claimed a higher status than him. She possessed the right do so, but it would be bad form while still a graduate. She opened one eye, peeked back and was relieved to see him still smiling.

"My apologies, Thomlin. I am Arielle."

"As Aye thought ye would be. A pleasure, my dear," he inclined his head. Arielle fell into step beside him, and chastised herself for her lapse of courtesy.

"Aye can see why my cousin is so taken with ye." He perused the night, but smiled nevertheless.

Arielle stumbled at the sudden change of topic. "What?"

"Aye can see why my cousin is so taken with ye."

"What makes you think he's taken with me?"

Thomlin rocked his head while he considered his answer. "Well, for one, it was obvious to everyone ye made an impression on each other."

Arielle blushed again. No one would be quick to forget her arrival at the Gates.

"And there was the vapid expression on his face when Aye passed him on my way up here. Honestly, it's as if he never--"

"Why is he in the stockade?" Arielle said. A cousin was an excellent source to clarify her question on a criminal's honor.

Thomlin's smile took an embarrassed cast. "Well." He searched the surroundings for an answer. "Really, it's the same reason Aye'm stuck on the Ledge for a fortnight."

"And that would be . . ." Arielle prompted when he did not elaborate.

Thomlin sighed, and shrugged. "We pulled a prank in an Elc'atar's quarters."

"So why are you on the Ledge, and he in the stockade?"

"Well, Angus isn't allowed up here anymore, as per Kolsch's orders from first night. So, they found something else to do with the poor dumb bastard he is."

Arielle had difficulty believing his words. They intentionally provoked an Elc'atar. No one with any sense would do such a thing.

"It was just a lark, really," Thomlin said upon seeing her expression. "We had no intention of sending him to the infirmary. Well, Aye didn't, at least. But, to be fair to us, Bowler is a frightful dick, and he deserved what he got and then some. And, Angus did heal the more serious fractures to his skull."

Arielle was not sure if it was her fatigue that made the tale so strange, or simply the fact someone would behave in such an audacious fashion.

"Yeh shocked, Aye know," Thomlin said. "Most everyone was, to be honest. Not that we're angels, mind ye, but we're usually better than this. We almost never get caught."

The admission made Arielle miss a step and stumble.

"Aye chalk it up to a bad bought of conscience, myself," he said. "That, and we had a fair amount of Bowler's blood coating us from trying to piece him back together. Not our finest hour, if ye ask me."

"But when he gets out of the infirmary, won't he be mad?"

"Oh, he was howling with rage," Thomlin threw his head back. "Literally! The man is a bit of a lunatic, if ye ask me. Not at all right in the head. Probably less so after his accident, now that Aye think of it."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing terribly original, Aye'm afraid," Thomlin twirled a finger to indicate the bruises on his face. "Bowler set upon my squad in Siege class, and beat us soundly and thoroughly in front of four combined cohorts. Spent two days in the infirmary ourselves, as no one had the decency to heal us at all. But, at least we all had adjoining rooms. That was a plus. As soon as we got out, whoosh! Aye'm on the Ledge. Bowler beat Angus again while he was still chained on the rock. That's why he looks so ghastly."

"You sound like they were overreacting."

"Well, don't ye think they are? We made a play against Bowler and sent him to bed. He got better, and did the same to us. Aye'd say we were even."

"Thomlin," Arielle was careful to weigh her words, "you assaulted a superior officer . . ."

"Aye wouldn't call him superior, exactly," Thomlin said. "Older, perhaps."

The casual insubordination Thomlin displayed shocked her. She was raised in a noble Areth'kon family, one that prided itself on duty and discipline. Both her parents and her older brother were Mala'kar. They held the chain of command sacrosanct, always to be respected and never violated. They taught Arielle to do the same.

"Ah, here we are." Thomlin stopped before the recessed door. He offered Arielle his arm with a casual and unassuming manner. She dismissed it with a disdainful glance and proceeded down the steps. Thomlin chuckled in response and followed her.

"Took your time, harlot," Kolsch said once Arielle's foot touched the floor. "And you did not follow my advice. Found the nearest Kal'Parev bastard to tuck into, I see."

"Morning Kolsch," Thomlin said. "Glad to see yeh as cheerful as ever. A bit tardy with the shift change, though. Bad night again? A little cranky, are we?"

"None of your cheek, mongrel," Kolsch flicked his hand. "Get back to your barracks before I send you the quick way down."

Despite her fatigue, Arielle forced herself to stand at attention, and waited to be addressed. Thomlin, she noticed, slouched against the far wall, beyond Kolsch's reach and sight. He might not have a care in the world, but she had to prove herself her parents' child.

Kolsch watched her, his arms crossed.

"Why are you late? You were instructed to end your shift an hour before dawn. Taking the mongrel for a quick slap and tickle? What did I tell you about keeping your goodies to yourself?"

Arielle focused on her breath. She let Kolsch's words wash over her and roll away without a reaction. Getting riled would not serve her here. He goaded her, but that was his job. Command needed to gauge her strength and measure her abilities.

She was stronger than this.

"Well? I asked you a question, harlot!"

"Sir." Arielle's voice was calm and even. "I remained at my post until relieved. The replacement sentry was late, and did not arrive until dawn. As per protocol, I did not leave my post unmanned."

"Those were not your orders," Kolsch said, "and I'll have none of your excuses or backtalk. You were told you would be relieved an hour before dawn. You are now an hour late. Return tonight for another shift, and we will see if you can learn to be punctual. Dismissed."

Arielle saluted and walked away with her teeth clamped shut. Thomlin joined her after he expressed his displeasure with a rude gesture at Kolsch's back. They walked in silence, and Thomlin guided her through the labyrinth of corridors and stairwells toward her barracks.

He stopped at a junction, and pointed down the hall. "Turn right at the crossing," he said. "This is about as far as it's safe for me to go, my being Kal'Parev and all."

"Thank you, Thomlin," Arielle said. The lack of sleep was now a painful pulse that started behind her brow and radiated down her neck to settle in her shoulders. It was a struggle to remember her manners, but she knew she would not have found her way back so fast without Thomlin's help. "You have shown me the first act of kindness since my arrival."

"A pleasure, Arielle," he said. "We'll meet again tonight, it would seem."

He offered her a bow and walked away. Arielle felt herself sway where she stood. She pushed herself down the corridor, thankful to head toward her bed.

* * *

If you liked the sample, continue here with the series and for bonus content, visit my website rmgarino.com

The Chaos of Souls Series

The Gates of Golorath: Chaos of Souls Series, Book 1

Angels of Perdition: Chaos of Souls Series, Book 2

The Chaos of Souls Novella Series

Requiem’s Reach: Chaos of Souls Novella, Volume 1

The Gate of Fang and Thorn; Chaos of Souls Novella, Volume 2

A Free Chaos of Souls Short Story

Initiating Angels

7

The Engineer

Darran Handshaw

"We are born in the shadow of fading memories and fallen dreams, living our days within the decaying bones of an age long gone."

When the Engineer, Actaeon, arrives at Pyramid in the heart of Redemption, nothing goes according to plan. Mysterious raiders pursue him relentlessly across the shattered remains of the ancient metropolis, and the leaders of his homeland pay no heed to his ambitious ideas. Meanwhile, deep beneath Pyramid, a deadly creature stirs. And, when Actaeon meets a skilled young Knight Arbiter with brilliant blue eyes, he starts down a path he could never have imagined.

The vast, fallen city of the Ancients is home to a new people who face the constant struggle to find resources needed to survive in the dangerous ruins. For the Engineer, however, Redemption is a treasure trove of technology, opportunity, and answers. But his unique skills make him a target for those who would use his talents to achieve their own dreams of power and control.

In his endless quest for the truth, will Actaeon discover the fallen city's greatest secrets? Or will he share the same fate as the Ancients of whom nothing remains but a whisper?

One thing is certain: in Redemption, everything comes with a cost.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 7

* * *

87 A.R., the 47th day of Arrival

The Escape

The Engineer eluded them for hours as he fled across the ruins, but in the end they captured him.

Surrounded, Actaeon knelt upon a large, moss-covered tile and lowered his polished recurve bow gently to the ground before him. Then he raised his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed them with cheerful confidence. “It appears we have had a misunderstanding.”

Through the lenses of his goggles, Actaeon studied his three remaining pursuers as they closed in on him. The sunlight reflected off their clean shaven pates and their expressionless faces were each divided into four quadrants by a sharp, black cross. They wore boiled leather armor and carried blades fashioned from sharpened shards of debris. One carried a short bow. All of them ignored his friendly greeting.

“If there is something that you wish to discuss; a proposal perhaps? I would be more than willing to-” Actaeon‘s words were cut off abruptly as one of the cross-faced raiders lowered his bow and kicked him in the stomach, causing him to double over onto his side. The recurve bow he had set on the ground so carefully was kicked unceremoniously aside to be collected by another raider. That same raider also took the time to work Actaeon‘s halberd free from the body of one of their less fortunate comrades.

“Careful with that bow, it is not designed for such abuse,” Actaeon said, earning himself another kick that knocked the wind from him. He grimaced and rolled onto his back where he could gaze up at the raider who had kicked him. He was rewarded with a faceful of sunlight instead and pulled his goggles down over his eyes to block some of the rays.

Just as the Engineer had begun to catch his breath, he was hauled to his feet by the raider that had kicked him.

Actaeon took the opportunity to study his captor‘s face for any insight. He found there only dull eyes, devoid of all emotion. Without words, the raider pointed north, where the ruins stretched out to disappear over the horizon in a turbulent mess of shattered structures and overgrown debris fields.

“You must mean to communicate your desire for me to walk in that direction,” Actaeon responded, as though it were up for discussion. “You would, of course, be welcome to join me heading south towards Pyramid, that is, if you would be willing to reconsider.” He was rewarded with a smack to the back of his head.

Actaeon grinned at the raider behind him, “I will take that as the implied negative that it would appear to be.” He led the way along then and the three silent raiders followed him closely, letting him choose the path northward.

* * *

For hours they wound through the treacherous ruins of the northern Boneyards, not pausing for rest. Their path took them past ancient, flickering luminaries and conduits arcing dangerously with blue tendrils of lightning. They climbed over mountains of scree and archaic rubble, up slides of debris from old collapsed structures and through the framework of buildings that had fallen to pieces long before any of the current inhabitants of the city had arrived. Thorny bushes poked through the wreckage and flowering creepers wound their way through ancient structural supports and tangled wires, soaking up every available inch of sunlight-soaked real estate to feed persistent roots in soil far below the degraded remains of a society lost.

Nobody knew what had happened to the civilization that once had flourished there. When people arrived in the ruined city that had eventually come to be known as their Redemption, there was no sign of those that had lived there before, nothing but ghosts and discarded remnants of technology, dangerous and unknown. All had disappeared suddenly, leaving their once great city to fall to ruin. Actaeon had his theories about what happened. The Ancients had left behind evidence aplenty to help answer the great unknown mystery of Redemption.

It was one of the reasons that, for the second time in his twenty-five years, Actaeon had left the safety of his home in southern Redemption, a hold in Raedelle known as Shore, to explore the ruins of the city. The other reason was the fact that nothing else remained there for him.

The young Engineer was nineteen when he returned home after his first three year excursion into the ruins of Redemption, only to find that his father had been killed in battle and his mother was deathly ill. He‘d studied with every anatomist and herbalist he could find, looking for a cure to her ailment – a disease called Rogue‘s Bane, where the joints would swell and cause tremendous pain. Every case that he had researched he found the same outcome: the lungs would slowly fill with fluid and within a season or two, the victim would essentially drown.

Actaeon had even gone to the gates of Travail after hearing from one healer that they had seen a man be cured by the Loresworn there. Despite his heartfelt request for the knowledge to save his mother‘s life, they had turned him away. As a child, he had thought to join the ranks of the Loresworn one day – to study the relics of the Ancients and unlock the keys to their technology with them. But the Loresworn kept such artifacts and the knowledge they gleaned from them to themselves, with the declared purpose of preventing another cataclysmic event like the one that had been the downfall of the city. They were protecting people, they said. It was the opposite of everything that Actaeon believed; given the chance, he‘d share the truth of that knowledge with the world for the betterment of all.

His mother fought a long battle with the Rogue‘s Bane at Actaeon‘s behest, to give him time to search for a cure, but she eventually succumbed to the illness, leaving Actaeon alone and heartbroken. He gave up his studies of healing and started a metal-casting business, having learned that he could cast many different parts of varying shapes and complexities out of dies made from a refined clay. He took orders from across Shore and even traveled as far as Lakehold on occasion to make some part or another for a Lord or Lady of the Raedelle Dominion.

The metalwork occupied him for several years. It wasn‘t enough for him though; it didn‘t answer any of the big questions. Once he‘d earned enough money to fund another expedition, he ventured out into the ruins of Redemption again. This time his ultimate destination was the Pyramid of the Sun. There he would make sure his plans came together.

One of the raiders gave Actaeon a shove, interrupting his thoughts. By Actaeon‘s reckoning, they were headed northwest towards Craters, a region in the Czeryn Dominion. He frowned at the thought. The people there liked to solve problems and disputes and all matters political with the edge of a sword or the strike of a fist, not a technique of which he was fond. The Czeryn Dominion was also the one Dominion that permitted slavery. Actaeon had heard the stories of the slavers that would wander the unclaimed regions of Redemption, looking for people to capture and sell to the Czerynians. He wondered if these cross-faced raiders were slavers. That would explain why they went to such extremes to capture him alive instead of killing him. Still, they had lost one of their men during the process and that just didn‘t seem worth the capture of a single slave. No – these men were after something different.

* * *

The moment came nearly five hours into the trek. The raiders were getting tired. Actaeon heard them stumble several times on the debris as they followed his carefully selected path towards Craters. When he came out of the winding path between two foundation walls, he spotted exactly what he had been looking for. Before them a rubble pile sloped upwards at a dramatic angle in every direction. To the left and right the ascent looked feasible, but straight ahead was one of those areas he‘d learned about the difficult way: the incline ramped up at a steep, unstable angle.

The Engineer started up in that direction and the raiders followed him unaware. In the next moments, he thought, the precision of his actions would determine whether he lived or died.

Actaeon set a strong pace for the climb, hoping to push the raiders to the limit. As he neared the top, he spotted what he had seen earlier: a large bar protruding from the side of the rubble pile. He paused and looked down at the raiders below. They were breathing hard and struggled to catch up with him; they had yet to realize their mistake.

Once he reached the bar, he placed his scuffed leather boot at the exposed end of the bar, and stepped up onto it, throwing his full weight behind it. Just as he had hoped, the bar acted like a lever and shifted. Below him he heard rubble breaking loose from the steep incline. He gave the lever one final shove before he leapt clear of the debris slide he had started. He scrambled to pull himself up the rest of the pile towards the summit as the ruin fragments below destabilized rapidly in a roaring tumult and a cloud of dust. He heard their cries of alarm and warning and grinned at the thought that this is what it took to get them to finally speak.

The thought was interrupted rather suddenly, however, as the debris beneath him began to lose cohesion and slide down the pile as well. Actaeon‘s heart pounded hard in his chest as he scrambled upward desperately while the ground came loose beneath him and threatened to catch him in the debris slide. With a great effort, he reached the top of the pile and rolled away until he began rolling down another slope. He stopped and scrambled back up to the summit to look down at his captors.

The Engineer surveyed the scene through the scratched lenses of his goggles. Once the dust settled, two of the raiders were nowhere to be found. The third, the one that had kicked him, struggled to pull free, his legs trapped beneath two large beams that had rolled down atop him. Actaeon pulled himself to his feet and maneuvered carefully down the incline towards the survivor. He had a few questions for his former captor.

When the last cross-faced raider noticed the Engineer‘s approach, his eyes went wide. He dug down into the rubble with both hands, shredding them on sharp fragments in the process as he searched for his weapon. Actaeon slowed as he grew closer to the trapped raider, prepared for a confrontation.

The raider withdrew his hands and, as Actaeon had anticipated, held up a dagger. However, the Engineer did not expect the man‘s next move and with one swift motion, the raider drew the dagger across his throat to spill thick, crimson blood down his brown leather armor.

In a moment, the raider was dead and Actaeon sat down heavily, taking the entire scene in. Luck and a carefully calculated maneuver had saved his life today, but he was nowhere closer to an answer as to why these men were pursuing him. It was both fortunate and unfortunate at once, he thought.

At the bottom of the incline he spotted his halberd as its finely wrought, curved blade reflected the growing moonlight. He scrambled down the rest of the way to retrieve it. An inspection of both ends found that the pointed wedge at the bottom of the reinforced shaft was intact, but there was a notch near the end of the blade where it hooked back on itself.

“How unfortunate,” he said aloud.

That done, he set about the task of digging carefully to locate his recurve bow, with the valuable spotting scope attached to its midsection. It took him the better part of the evening, but he managed to locate it buried beside one of the dead raiders as he worked under the bright moonlight. Everything was miraculously intact and he unstrung the bow before he fastened it back into the special clasp on the left shoulder of his ribbed leather jacket.

As an afterthought, he searched both of the dead raiders. There was nothing enlightening to be found on them, so the Engineer turned and started his way back south across the unforgiving terrain of the Boneyards, named for the gigantic struts of ancient structures that loomed like the bones of an enormous beast and cast long, eerie shadows in the moonlight.

* * *

As the early morning sun cast its spectrum of color across the ruins, Actaeon summited one of the last debris piles. From there he could see the sunlight gleam off of the reflective tip of the Pyramid in the distance. An appropriate name, he thought: Pyramid of the Sun. Just a few more hours now. From his vantage point, he could make out the collapsed north face of the Pyramid. The enormous building of the Ancients was full of fissures and crevices on that side. Likely the consequence of some manner of great cataclysm, thought the Engineer, perhaps the same one that formed the wreckage he was standing atop.

The fatigue finally found its way into his joints and bones, so he leaned on the halberd and lowered himself until he was seated on a smooth block of elderstone. He could rest here for just a short while now, with his goal in sight. Everything he had planned depended on whether he could convince the people there, in that Pyramid, of his worth to them.

* * *

The Engineer was a semi-finalist in SPFBO4 where Fantasy Faction had this to say about it:

"The whole book is produced with a such a high degree of polish and finish that any of the Big 5 would be proud to put their name to it."

If you enjoyed this sample, you can get The Engineer here:

http:// getbook. at/ engineer

Darran M. Handshaw is the author of The Engineer, his debut novel. In addition to writing, Darran works as an R&D Engineer at a technology company. There he designs and invents new products; he holds nearly 30 patents in firefighting and data capture. Darran also volunteers as a firefighter with his local fire department, where he is currently serving as the First Assistant Chief. Darran hails from Long Island, NY, where he lives with his wife, Stefanie, and son, Corwin, who fill his life with love, wisdom, and endless adventures.

Follow Darran below:

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Also by the Author:

The Machine in the Mountain

A Chronicles of Actaeon Tale

A short story in The Quantum Soul : A Sci Fi Roundtable Anthology

Get The Quantum Soul here: http:// getbook. at/ quantum

Guardians of Redemption

A Chronicles of Actaeon Story

(In progress – keep a lookout for this exciting standalone sequel to The Engineer!)

8

The Ventifact Colossus

Dorian Hart

Banished to an otherworldly prison for centuries, the monstrous Emperor Naradawk is about to break free and wreak havoc upon the world of Spira. The archmage Abernathy can no longer keep Naradawk at bay, and has summoned a collection of would-be heroes to help set things right.

Surely he made a mistake. These can’t be the right people.

Dranko is a priest-turned-pickpocket, expelled from his church for his antics. Kibilhathur is a painfully shy craftsman who speaks to stones. Aravia is a wizard’s apprentice whose intellect is eclipsed only by her arrogance. Ernest is a terrified baker’s son. Morningstar is a priestess forbidden from daylight. Tor is a young nobleman with attention issues. Ysabel is an elderly farm woman. Grey Wolf is a hard-bitten mercenary.

None of them are qualified to save the world, but they’ll have to do. Even Abernathy himself seems uncertain as to why he chose them.

What starts with a simple scouting mission soon spirals into something more far-reaching and sinister. The heroes will contest with dream warriors, evil cultists, sentient gemstones, and a devious yet infuriatingly polite gentleman with a perfect mustache, on their way to a desperate encounter with the unstoppable: The Ventifact Colossus.

SPFBO 2017

Grit level: 3

CHAPTER ONE

Despite the woolen hood that masked his face, a few drops of wind-blown rain found Dranko’s cheeks and wiggled their way through his latticework of scars. The largest and deepest scar—earned eight years ago when he was caught applying glue from the church bindery to the inside of the head chaplain’s hat—tended to divert rainwater into the corner of his mouth. Every minute or two he wiped his cheek with a damp sleeve.

He lurked in an alley’s shadow and watched the citizens of Tal Hae hurry along the street. A chilly breeze whipped stinging needles of water sideways into their faces, which made it the perfect day for Dranko to ply his trade; people were inattentive to their surroundings in a rainstorm. They would be casting their eyes downward to avoid puddles, while their minds would be on dry rooms and warm fires.

His patience was rewarded in the hour before noon when a likely looking mark walked past his alley. A fancy merchant was trying to keep the rain from his fancy clothes with a fancy umbrella, while the wind played havoc with its fabric. A bodyguard walked ahead of him, head tilted down to keep water from his eyes. The bottom of a coin purse peeked from beneath the hem of the merchant’s silk tunic.

Dranko smiled. They never learn .

After drying his face one more time, he slipped out of the alley and started the tail. At first he ignored his target and instead scanned the foot traffic for the two blocks ahead and the block behind. He took stock of everyone in his field of view. A doddering old woman lurched around pools of rainwater; a pair of waifs chased a weaving path between rain barrels and dripping vendor carts; a despondent young man with a basket of bread took shelter beneath an awning. Dranko didn’t need to locate the city guardsmen, as he knew their routes and positions by heart after years of experience. He’d long since memorized every side street and narrow lane that might be useful during a hasty exit.

Satisfied he had plotted a safe approach, Dranko strode forward, drawing a small knife but keeping it concealed beneath his cloak. He caught up with his prey. The knife flashed. The coin pouch dropped into his off hand. The merchant kept walking, oblivious.

There was always a chance of such thefts being spotted by a meddling third party, so Dranko turned calmly down a small side street, then darted into an even narrower alleyway before scaling the back wall of a dilapidated chandlery. Once on the rooftops he scooted from building to building in a low crouch until he was several blocks from the scene of his crime. Only then did he sit with his back to a crumbling chimney and examine his gains.

It wasn’t much. Given the tailoring of the merchant’s clothes and the muscles of his bodyguard Dranko had expected better, but turned inside out the money pouch produced only one silver talon and six copper chits. Still, it would pay a week’s rent and keep him fed for a couple of days, and “fed” was not a condition he took for granted. He returned the coins to their purse, stuffed the purse deep into his pack, and splashed along the puddled rooftops towards his home.

Four blocks from his abode on Fishwife Row, on a gently tilted roof atop a row of weather-beaten tenements, Dranko stopped, lay flat, and cocked an ear. Over the din of the rain came an unusual cry from the street below. Had he been spotted by the Tal Hae constabulary? Had someone been tracking him since his bit of larceny? It was always a danger in his line of work. But he heard the cry again, and this time there was no mistake: it was one of pain. He peered down from the roof. An old beggar crawled into a narrow alley, its cramped width littered with damp, smelly refuse. The poor man slumped against the wall and clutched his ankle. Dranko squinted; there was a pool of blood forming beneath the beggar’s leg, mixing with the runoff from the building wall. His filthy rags were soaked through.

“Gods damn it.” Dranko pulled his head back and out of sight. He’d wait, is what he’d do. He’d wait, and someone else would come along and give the man aid.

Three minutes later there came another pained shout, and the sounds of sobbing cut through the hammering of the rain. Once more Dranko poked his nose over the edge of the roof. The beggar attempted to stand but collapsed and lay still.

I’m wet, thought Dranko. I’m cold. I’m tired. I just want to get home and drink something besides rainwater.

Thunder pealed in the pipe-smoke sky.

Damn the Gods. You especially, Delioch.

Dranko unslung his pack and pulled out a rumpled cream-colored robe with faded gold trim. It was too small for him; now in his mid-twenties, he’d grown broad-shouldered and pot-bellied since the church elders had given it to him. It was a struggle to get the wet fabric sorted out, but he managed to pull the robe over his street clothes. From a small pocket inside the pack, he fished out a cheap pendant on a silver chain and forced it over his hood. Both robe and pendant featured the stylized open-fingered pattern that indicated Delioch, God of the Healing Hand.

Properly attired, Dranko carefully descended the wall and approached the beggar. The old man’s ankle was broken, a compound fracture, bone poking through the skin and blood leaking out.

“What happened?” Dranko’s voice was low, gruff, almost guttural.

The beggar looked up, squinting into the rain. When he saw Dranko’s face, he shrank away, cowering against the wall. Dranko sighed—he knew the beggar had ignored his robe, his necklace, and probably even his alarming network of scars. Others, including some in the church, had looked at him in the same way many times over the years. What the beggar noticed were the tusks. Two thick teeth like small boar tusks protruded from Dranko’s lower jaw, marking him as goblin-touched.

“I’m not gonna stand here in the rain all day,” Dranko growled. “You want me to heal that ankle, or would you rather bleed to death in a pile of garbage?”

Water plastered the vagrant’s straggly hair to his face. “I was begging for coins,” he croaked. “All I wanted was a chit or two for a meal, but he pushed me aside. I fell, and my leg…”

Dranko leant down and examined the break. Gods, it was an ugly one. For all his expertise at healing—the one skill for which he had shown aptitude during his time at the church, if one discounted scaling walls and picking locks—he wasn’t sure he could fix this. He didn’t have any of his salves in his pack, only a small roll of bandages along with a few dirty rags. In the best case this poor fellow would live out his days enduring a painful limp.

But maybe…

Some of the more senior priests at the church could channel the divine restorative power of Delioch, but Dranko and his church had parted ways years ago, long before he had mastered any sort of proficiency in the art of divinely inspired healing. Faith, piety, and devotion—these were the things that determined the strength of healing one channeled through Delioch. That’s what Mokad had always told him, especially during his scarring sessions. But despite Mokad’s sharp-edged ministrations, or perhaps because of them, Dranko’s devotion had never been a thing worthy of mention. Though Dranko had tried channeling several times, he had never been successful.

He took a deep breath.

“This is going to hurt.” Dranko offered the man a leather strip from his pack. “A lot. So bite on this and not your tongue.”

None too gently he put the strip in the beggar’s mouth, and before the old man could protest, he twisted and pulled on the broken leg. His patient screamed through clenched teeth.

“It beats being dead.” Dranko prodded the wound with his fingers, felt the bone beneath the bloody shreds of flesh. “Now hold still and scream quieter. I’ve got to get this right or you’ll live out your life a cripple.” He nudged everything back into place as best he could.

Delioch, please let this work.

With one hand clutching his pendant and the other gripping the old man’s ankle, Dranko shut his eyes and entreated his God. “Lord, I pray for healing, that this man be made sound and whole.”

Nothing happened. He spoke the words again, louder. “Lord, I pray for healing, that this man be made sound and whole!” The beggar spat out his bit and screamed in agony. Dranko had rolled the divine dice and lost.

“Lord! Please! I pray for…”

A chill ran through his body, like he had swallowed a bucket of ice water. The beggar stopped screaming. Dranko’s hand grew bright, and a thrilling warmth flowed down his arm into the man’s wound. For all of Dranko’s transgressions, and surely Delioch knew them just as well as Mokad, the God of Healing found him a worthy vessel.

Bones knitted, veins reattached, skin closed. It was more than his own body could endure. Dranko passed out a second later, falling limp beside the beggar in the rain.

* * *

Sometime later Dranko awoke in a fit of coughing, a rivulet of rainwater seeping into his open mouth. The slick wet cobblestones pressed cold against his scarred cheek as he lay on his side, still in the tiny street where he had cured the beggar.

I did it. I channeled.

His body felt drained of its defining energy, as though he had gone a week without food or sleep. He tried to recall the feeling of Delioch’s divinity rushing through him but couldn’t muster up the memory. What he had was a surety that he had served as a conduit for a power infinitely greater than himself. Also, a splitting headache.

There was no sign of the beggar. Dranko set his back to the alley wall and surged to his feet, an unwise maneuver that brought dancing lights to his eyes. He leaned heavily against the wall and willed himself to stay conscious. When his senses returned in full, he cast about for his pack, but there was no point. Someone had lifted it while he napped. His hand dropped to his belt; at least his knife was still there. But his newly acquired coin purse was gone, along with an old apple and some expensive burglar’s tools he’d kept in the bottom of the pack.

Dranko’s first instinct was to rant and rail against the heavens. He had offered up a piece of his soul to heal a stranger, and this was his thanks? To be robbed? A curse upon his god came to his lips, but he left it unspoken. Yes, he had taken Delioch’s name in vain on dozens of occasions before now, for all the indignities of his life, but this time he lacked the animus. He had channeled! Forget all of the scorn heaped upon him at the church; Delioch had worked His perfect grace through Dranko’s scarred body.

Now he was feverish and weak. A channeler was not merely a conduit for Delioch’s might; some of his own essential vitality was given irrevocably to the supplicant. A bit of his soul was gone forever. Doubt and fear crept into his heart.

I’m not doing anything better with my soul these days. Maybe that’s why Delioch let me put it to good use.

He glanced up at the wall of the building, and the thought of climbing it made his head spin. But he was in his priestly raiment, soaked though his robes might be, and seeing as no one had come along to arrest him while he was unconscious, there was no reason not to walk the rest of the way home.

Dranko lived on the third and highest floor of a rotting tenement that leaned precariously over Fishwife Row. He rented a squalid room from a coarse woman named Berthel, who in four years had shown a complete lack of interest in repairing the holes in the roof or purchasing any charms to keep away the bugs. The climb up two flights of stairs left him winded and faint, and he barely had the wherewithal to strip off his drenched robes and change into dry clothes before collapsing into a rickety chair.

He had set out a collection of pots and buckets to catch the drips on days like this. One of them nearby was misplaced, and a puddle was forming on the warped wooden floorboards. Dranko stretched out a foot and nudged the bucket beneath the drip. When the sound changed to the plunk of water into water, he closed his eyes. All he wanted now was to have a few minutes of relaxa—

“Drank-ooooooooooo!”

The sound of his name carried over that of a fist pounding on his door.

“Go away,” he groaned. “We’re closed.”

“Dranko, open up. Rent’s due.”

“That’s why I want you to go away.”

The door opened. Berthel was large, loud, lazy, and never waited to be invited in. She stepped carefully over the drip-catchers while pretending not to notice them.

“And how are we today, beautiful?” she asked.

“Poor.”

Berthel laughed. “Then being a bit poorer won’t matter much, will it? How about that rent?”

Dranko rubbed his temples. “I had it, but I got rolled on the way back here. Someone took my pack, and my pack had your coins in it.”

“You? Someone robbed you ?” Berthel gave him a look of pure skepticism.

“Yeah. Me. So how about I pay you next week with an extra silver thrown in to reward your patience?”

Berthel crossed her arms and said nothing.

“Hey, look, when have I ever gone more than two weeks without paying rent?”

“Last month.”

“Er, okay, fine, but when have I ever gone more than four weeks without—”

“Yes, yes,” said Berthel. “One week from today, with two extra silvers, and I won’t kick you to the curb.”

Dranko sat up a bit. “Thanks. Though maybe I should hold off paying you until you’ve done something about this drafty strainer I live in.” He looked pointedly at his collection of containers.

“Right.” Berthel laughed again. “You got somewhere else to go?”

Dranko paused. He imagined the sanctuary of the Church of Delioch, God of the Healing Hand, where those who needed succor were given harbor and comfort. Six years he had spent beneath that roof, wearing out his welcome day by day and year by year until, drained of patience, they had turned him out. His one friend there, a girl a couple of years his junior named Praska, had tried to warn him, but he hadn’t listened.

“No,” he said. “I guess I don’t. Now if you don’t mind, your perfume is obscuring the aroma of my chamber pot. Also I have to figure out where my next meal is coming from, and after that your rent. One week, I’ll have your money.”

“I know you will,” said Berthel. “And…are you okay? I mean, whoever took your money, did they hurt you much? You look like crap, even more than usual.”

Dranko grimaced. “I’ll be okay. Thanks, Berthel.”

His landlady turned and picked her way between the buckets to the door. “Oh, almost forgot. Some kid came by today and left this for you. Said it was important.” She produced a small envelope and tossed it to Dranko, who caught it deftly before it could land in a puddle. “I didn’t know you could read,” she added, then gave one last braying laugh before departing.

Dranko turned over the letter in his pruned fingers. Its beautiful wax seal and fine calligraphy were an absurd opulence in his grungy apartment.

“What in the twelve Hells is this?”

He ripped open the envelope and slid out a thick beige card.

You will appear at the tower of the Archmage Abernathy in the city of Tal Hae at sundown on the first day of spring in the year 828.

Dranko peered with suspicion at this unlikely invitation, its words glowing with faint enchantment. He flipped it over, saw that nothing was written on the back, then ran his fingers along the heavy parchment. From his time working in the church’s bindery he knew that this sort of paper was rare and pricey. (Among his dozens of scars from Mokad was a long one on his elbow, testament to a moment of carelessness wherein he had knocked over a pot of ink and ruined a sheaf of vellum.) The expense of the paper made the obvious conclusion—that this was some odd prank—harder to countenance, though it was still more likely than him being summoned by the elusive archmage of Tal Hae.

His life not having much overlap with wizarding circles, assuming there even were such things, Dranko knew only the usual street gossip about the archmagi. Powerful, mysterious, and never seen outside of their stone towers, the archmagi were said to be working on some grand project on the orders of King Crunard himself. Typical citizens had heard only faint rumors of them, rumors they probably disbelieved.

Other possibilities: the letter was a ploy to lure him either into a trap, or out of his house so someone could rob the place. The first of those was more likely. Unless someone desperately needed buckets of rainwater or a stiff straw mattress with a few fleas in it, his apartment was not much of a target for premeditated burglary. But a trap, that he could believe. Careful though he was, his cutpurse hobby had occasional repercussions. Someone may have tracked him home after one of his outings, and now was planning revenge.

The letter…there was certainly some sort of glamour making the words glow. Had he inadvertently robbed a wizard on one of his extralegal excursions? Or maybe, maybe, the invitation was on the level. This was already a momentous day, the day he had channeled Delioch’s healing energies, years after being cast out of the church. Was the letter related? Had Abernathy used his wizardry to sense the power he had so briefly touched? Who knew? He didn’t have much time to think about it—the first day of spring was tomorrow—but the possibility made it worth the risk.

* * *

Dranko Blackhope arrived at Abernathy’s tower the following afternoon and noticed for the first time that it had no doors. Though he had ranged far and wide through Tal Hae over the years in search of prospects, targets, and cheap liquor, Dranko had never visited the wizard’s tower in the city’s northwest corner, in an old park that offered few opportunities for his ignoble trade. He had seen the upper portion of the smooth stone cylinder from afar but had no clear picture in his head of what the place looked like at ground level. Now that he stood before it, he found that its bottommost section was no different than the rest of it—seamless stone, unsullied by carving or graffiti or anything else. The tower was a tall featureless post thirty feet across and nearly a hundred feet high, rising from the grass like an ancient menhir. Indeed there was no reason to think it was hollow, save for the fact that a mighty wizard was purported to live inside of it.

There were no windows either, and Dranko didn’t give himself good odds of being able to scale the smooth tower wall to check out the roof. His mind flashed to his friend Praska, a fellow novice in the church and a co-conspirator in many of his childhood pranks. She’d try to climb the tower, no question; she could climb almost anything. Gods, what would she say if she could see him now, answering an invitation from an archmage? Whatever happened next, this might occasion his first trip back to the church since his exile, just to tell her all about it.

After a quick scout-around that revealed no immediate ambush, Dranko walked a slow, careful perimeter of the tower, running his hands over the stone in case there was a door masked by illusion. That seemed like the kind of thing a wizard might do—test Dranko’s reasoning and resolve to see if he was truly worthy of whatever it was he’d been summoned for. But, no, there was nothing. The sun had already dropped behind Tal Hae’s western wall, and sunset was imminent.

He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hello? Abernathy? I’m here. You going to let me in, or what?”

A bird chirped and the sound of a dog barking came from several blocks away, but Abernathy, if he was really inside this pillar of rock, did not respond.

“Great,” Dranko muttered. “I should have guessed this was some kind of idiot joke. Maybe someone from the church who still—”

With no noise, lights, or warning of any kind, Dranko found himself somewhere else. He blinked his eyes. Gone were the park and the tower and the fish smell of Tal Hae, and in their place was something more like a parlor, or a library. (Not that he had much experience with parlors and libraries; the church of Delioch had both, but with his reputation for troublemaking Dranko had seldom been allowed to visit them.) This place had a cozy, comfortable, happily disorganized feel despite being quite a large room. Bookshelves lined the stone walls, and many of the scrolls and books lay on their sides or had spilled onto the floor. A half dozen small tables were heaped with more books and leaves of parchment, as well as inkpots, quills, pots of wax, and an assortment of small curios. Among them were valuable figurines and objects d’art, small and easily palmed.

But while the objects and furnishings of this scholar’s lounge were interesting, Dranko quickly focused his attention on the people who stood nearby. Five others, three men and two women, were looking around in confusion or wonderment, and Dranko guessed that they had not been expecting to get magicked directly into Abernathy’s tower, or to find themselves part of a larger group. They stood in different parts of the library, none too close to any of the others. It seemed that each of the six of them was waiting for someone else to speak, so Dranko broke the silence. “I don’t suppose one of you is Abernathy?”

Everyone looked expectantly at everyone else.

“Did all of you get one of these?” asked a sandy-haired kid, holding up a card that matched Dranko’s. “I’m Ernest Roundhill, by the way. My friends call me Ernie. Nice to meet you.” He was an honest-faced young fellow with a sword at his belt. Dranko pegged him at eighteen years old.

“I’m Aravia Telmir,” said a girl on his left. She looked out at the others from beneath the brim of a large and ridiculous conical hat, purple, adorned with little stars and moons. Did she think she was going to impress a powerful wizard by playing dress-up? The hat shaded her face enough that he couldn’t know her age, though from her voice he guessed late teens or early twenties.

On the other side of Ernie was an elderly woman holding a cleaver dripping with blood. She was in her sixties, and dressed like Dranko imagined someone’s mom would dress: long peasant skirt, dingy blouse, tattered scarf, bonnet around her gray hair. Laugh lines dominated her face.

“My name is Ysabel,” said the old woman. “You young people can call me Mrs. Horn.” She held up her cleaver and graced the room with a friendly smile. “Try anything, and you’ll be my next victim.” When Ernie took a quick step away from her, she laughed. “No, no, don’t get the wrong idea, young man. I was butchering a deer a moment ago. Never thought that invitation was really from a wizard.”

Dranko grinned at her. “Noted.” Her return smile went straight to his eyes, not his tusks. He liked her.

“Tor. Tor Bladebearer.” Tor was a tall, muscular, and well-dressed youth who carried himself with a grace and confidence Dranko didn’t see much of in the poorer parts of town. A nobleman’s son, maybe? There was a sheathed sword strapped to the boy’s back, and the kid could doubtless do some serious damage with it, but his face was guileless and full of wonder. Dranko would have bet a gold crescent that “Tor” was a pseudonym.

Closest to Tor was a grim, dour-faced man, probably in his mid-forties, and like the two youths he carried a sword. His right hand was on its grip, though he had not yet drawn it, and his eyes were wary, flicking around between Dranko and the others. Of his fellow guests in the library, this guy was the only one sizing him up in the same way he was doing to them. Competent and humorless; probably a soldier or mercenary.

“I’m Grey Wolf.”

Dranko tried not to laugh, but a poorly-stifled snort came out. “Your name is Grey Wolf?”

“No,” said Grey Wolf. “But it’s what I prefer to be called. Is that a problem?”

“Hey, no, that’s great. Whatever makes you happy. I’m Dranko Blackhope.”

Grey Wolf scowled and narrowed his eyes.

Ernest squirmed uncomfortably at the exchange. “So, anyone know why we were…magicked here by an archmage?”

“Teleported,” said Aravia. “The correct term is ‘teleported.’”

Dranko updated his impression of the girl. Maybe she was a wizard herself? The hat was still outlandish.

“Teleported,” Ernie repeated. But no one answered the question, and an awkward silence lasted almost half a minute.

Dranko hated silence as a rule. “Maybe this is a test. Maybe we’re supposed to find Abernathy somewhere in his tower, and the first person to catch him wins a sack of gold.”

Ernie laughed and Grey Wolf rolled his eyes, but Dranko was only half-kidding. He walked to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. He shook it, turned it both ways, and even put his shoulder into the door in case it was merely stuck, but they appeared to be trapped in the library. Maybe there was a hidden exit somewhere, but it would take hours to search properly through all the clutter. He glared at the door. If only he had his tools…

Grey Wolf sighed and sat down in one of the room’s wooden chairs.

The boy who had called himself Tor Bladebearer (a name no less silly than Grey Wolf) picked up a little onyx dog from the table nearest him and examined it idly. “All of the archmagi work for the king, right? I’ll bet King Crunard asked Abernathy to assemble a team for some kind of secret mission. He must have picked me because of my swordsmanship. What about the rest of you?”

“I am a wizard,” said Aravia proudly. “I have been studying under the master Serpicore for over two years and have learned several significant spells.”

That answered that, then. A young wizardess, full of herself.

“Really?” exclaimed Ernie. “That’s amazing! What kind of spells do you know?”

Aravia smiled, straightened, and spoke in a crisp and practiced manner. “I’ve learned heatless light , minor arcanokinesis , minor lockbreaker …”

“Lockbreaker?” Dranko interrupted. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” He gestured to the door. “How about lock-breaking us out of here so we can find Abernathy and let him know we’re waiting for him.”

“Do you really think Abernathy would have locked us in here if he wanted us to break out?”

All eyes turned to the far side of the library, where a woman stood mostly hidden in a shadow. She was almost a ghost, with cheesecloth-white skin and hair so pale it must have been bleached or dyed. But the odd thing was, she was wearing black Ellish robes, and everyone knew that all Ellish sisters had dark hair. Maybe she was part of a weird secret sect within the Ellish temple? Who knew? But like the rest of her sisters she didn’t like the light; though she stood in the darkest corner of the room, both of her hands were shielding her eyes from the library’s lamps.

She also had a weapon on her belt, a stout club with a spiky flanged head. Dranko frowned. Had he missed a follow-up message that warned the wizard’s guests to come armed? Was there going to be some kind of arena battle staged for Abernathy’s amusement? The general feeling among the citizens of Charagan was that the mighty wizards in their towers were of a benevolent sort—wouldn’t they have taken over by now if they weren’t?—but no one knew for certain. Perhaps Abernathy was a cruel, ruthless sorcerer who enjoyed making strangers fight one another for sport. Dranko hoped not; the tenets of his faith would put him at a severe disadvantage.

“Maybe,” he said. The closer he looked, the more freakish he found her appearance. It was possible that Ell had put a curse on her, but he didn’t know much about the Ellish religion. Ell was the Goddess of Night. Her clergy were all women, who never went outside during the day.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Morningstar of Ell.”

“Well, Morningstar of Ell, maybe Abernathy is testing our initiative, and wants us to figure a way out. Aravia, what do you say about that lock?”

An eager expression came over Aravia’s face and she moved toward the door, but before she had crossed half the distance the door swung inward without needing her arcane persuasion. In walked an elderly man, in his seventies at least, with a long hooked nose, wrinkled face, and startling blue eyes. An untended white beard sprouted from his chin. He was dressed in a plain white robe and had white slippers on his feet.

Dranko repressed a snort. The wizard was certainly dressing the part.

The old man stopped inside the doorway and sighed with relief. “Ah. Good.” His voice was aged and crackly. Wizardy. “All here then?” He counted them with a wrinkled finger, but frowned when he was finished. “Are there any more of you? Did anyone leave the room?”

“No, sir,” said Ernie. “It’s just the seven of us.”

“There are supposed to be eight,” said the old man.

“You must be Abernathy,” said Dranko. “Nice place you have here.”

“I must be, and I do. Now, tell me your names, please.”

One by one the guests introduced themselves to the wizard. When Grey Wolf gave his nom de lupine, Abernathy shook his head. “No, I mean your real name, Mr. Wolf.”

Grey Wolf stared at the wizard for a moment. “Ivellios Forrester.”

“And you, ‘Tor Bladebearer,’” said Abernathy. “That’s not your real name either, is it?”

“N…no,” stammered Tor. “But I’d rather not say it in front of strangers. Uh, no offense.”

Abernathy scratched his face through his beard. “Very well. Are your initials ‘K.B.’?”

“No.”

“How about ‘D.F.’”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

Dranko held his breath, but Abernathy didn’t come back to challenge him. Was it because he had chosen the name “Dranko” at such a young age?

Abernathy looked around the room one more time, then stooped to glance under the nearest table. “Do any of you know a man named Kibilhathur Bimson?”

The question was met by blank stares and shaking heads.

“Well, it was an old spell, and my tower is built to prevent…oh, never mind. You seven will have to do.”

“Do what, exactly?” Dranko asked. At the same moment Morningstar said, “Why have you brought us here?”

Dranko expected the old man to launch into some grandiose speech, but instead the wizard merely brought his fingertips to his lips. Several seconds passed during which Abernathy did nothing but pass his gaze around his guests.

“The world is in some danger,” Abernathy said at last. “It has been for some time. Recently that danger has grown more immediate, to a degree such that I felt I needed a team of…agents would be the correct term, I think. For—”

“I knew it!” Tor interrupted gleefully, only seeming to realize afterward that he had interrupted one of the (supposedly) most powerful men in the world.

Abernathy smiled indulgently at Tor and continued. “…For reasons I don’t have time to explain, we archmagi don’t leave our towers and don’t have an adequate sense of what goes on outside of them. You will be my eyes, ears, and hands out in Charagan.”

“For how long?” asked Grey Wolf. “I have a job to get back to, you know.”

Dranko wondered the same thing himself, but he bristled at the guy’s self-important impatience. He forced out a smile, showing his tusks.

“What are you, a bouncer, Mr. Wolf? Or can I call you ‘Grey?’”

Grey Wolf glared at him silently.

Abernathy fixed his penetrating blue eyes on each of his guests in turn. When they were turned to Dranko, he squirmed in spite of himself. Could wizards read minds?

“I don’t know for how long, exactly,” Abernathy admitted. “Maybe a long time. And perhaps this will become a permanent arrangement.”

“No thank you, then,” said Morningstar. “I appreciate the offer, but I should not stay away from my duties at the temple for very long.”

The wizard sighed and walked to the nearest wall. With a wave of his hand a window appeared in the stone; he gazed out of it upon the rooftops of Tal Hae.

“I could compel you,” he said wearily. “Some of the others felt I should.”

“Others? Others who?” Tor’s voice was clear and deep, but his inflections were boyish.

“The other archmagi,” said Abernathy. “Some disapprove of me summoning you at all, and the others feel that I should simply coerce you with threats. For instance, I could say something like, ‘Serve me in our kingdom’s hour of need, or I will turn you all into toads!’ But I am disinclined to that sort of bullying.”

Grey Wolf looked meaningfully toward the door. “So we can say no?”

“You may,” said Abernathy. “But I will put one condition upon you, in return for my forbearance regarding transforming you into amphibians. And that is, I would like each of you, in good faith, to allow me to try convincing you without threat of force, or blackmail, or any kind of improper strong-arming. I’ll visit you each tonight at the Greenhouse. If you promise to hear me out, and should I not sway you to service of the Kingdom of Charagan, you will be free to return to your lives.”

“That sounds more than fair, Mr. Abernathy,” said Mrs. Horn, every bit as polite as Grey Wolf was insolent. “But if you don’t mind my asking, why did you summon us to be your…agents? If the world is in danger, shouldn’t you have picked great warriors or other powerful wizards?”

Ernie Roundhill’s eyes went wide. “Am I here because of the statue of me in Murgy’s basement? Do you need us to hold up the sky?”

Abernathy’s expression became hard to read. “I don’t know who Murgy is, or about any statues, although I’m sure that’s an interesting tale. And the sky is not falling, except in the most metaphorical of senses. No, you were chosen by a very unusual spell I cast three days ago. The spell was designed to select several people who will be instrumental in helping protect Charagan from the evils that beset it. It chose you. But why you specifically? I don’t know.”

The old wizard didn’t have much experience in lying to people, that was certain.

“What kinds of missions are you going to send us on?” asked Tor. He looked like a puppy eager for a walk.

“Scouting, initially,” said Abernathy. “After that, it will depend on what you learn.”

Tor’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Will there be fighting? Battles against the forces of evil? Monsters?”

Dranko snorted. “Monsters? Forces of evil? Are you serious?”

But Abernathy wasn’t laughing. “That is entirely possible,” said the old wizard. “My boy, whatever your life was like before today, it is likely that should you accept my offer, you will be afforded opportunities for adventure and glory that few in a generation are given.”

Tor grinned like a six-year-old offered an entire apple pie, but Ysabel—Mrs. Horn—clicked her tongue. “Abernathy, don’t you think I’m a trifle old for adventures and glory? And I’m just a farmer. Unless you intend adventurous sewing, or a glorious feeding of the chickens, I can’t see that I’ll be much good.”

Abernathy gave the old woman an apologetic look.

Ernie’s voice had a noticeable wobble. “So it’s, uh, dangerous, then?”

“Very likely,” said Abernathy. “I won’t lie to you. Though some among the archmagi feel you should be left in the dark until you earn our trust, I think it is important for you to know what we’re dealing with.”

From somewhere distant in the tower, a single chime sounded. Abernathy tugged his beard and looked nervously at the door to the library, at which point the conjured window, deprived of the wizard’s attention, shrank to a point and vanished.

“I will briefly summarize, as I shouldn’t be away from my work any longer than necessary. It would be a bitter irony if I let things get out of hand because I took too much time talking with you.”

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“There is a very powerful and dangerous man—no, not even a man, a monster, a being of a sort we do not know how to kill. He is currently locked away, but we believe he is figuring out how to escape. If he succeeds and comes to Spira, he may decide to conquer the world or destroy it, but it would be best it not come to that. I and the other archmagi have spent many, many years maintaining the locks on his door. Your first assignment will be to go to where that door is and inspect it. It’s all much more complicated than that, and I’ll explain in detail when I have more time, but for…”

He was interrupted by a low grinding roar, a nearly subsonic groaning, as if giant hands had grasped the tower and now were trying to bend and twist its stones. Dranko was overcome by a sourceless vertigo and lurched involuntarily. Holy Hells! Aravia stumbled and fell to the floor, though nothing was actually moving. Abernathy braced himself against a table, his eyes wide.

“Is it the monster?” cried Ernie.

Then it stopped. A burly red-faced man in workman’s clothes, with a bulbous nose and a bristling black beard, had appeared in the center of the library. He was in the very act of bringing a hammer down upon a chisel. When his swing did not meet with any resistance, the man overbalanced, stumbled, and dropped his tools.

He looked around as he bent to pick up his instruments. “Well, damn. So that fancy card weren’t no joke then.”

Dranko let out his breath; it was only the missing invitee.

Abernathy held up his hand and, eyes closed, turned a slow circle in place, muttering syllables beneath his breath that Dranko couldn’t quite make out. When the wizard opened his eyes again, he was obviously relieved.

“The tower’s wards appear to be uncompromised,” he said. “Good. I’m surprised something like that didn’t happen when the rest of you arrived.” He walked to the newcomer. “Please tell me you are Kibilhathur Bimson.”

“Be glad to, seein’ as it’s true,” said the man. “And you must be the Archmage Abernathy, and this here’s your tower?”

“Welcome to the team!” said Dranko. “Abernathy here was telling us about our new careers as prison door inspectors.”

Abernathy gave Dranko an aggrieved look. “Kibilhathur, as I was telling your new companions, it’s not quite so simple.”

The man with the chisel scratched his beard. “My new what?”

Dranko cleared his throat. “Do we get paid to be your lackeys? ’Cause I have some back rent to pay.”

“Hmm,” said Abernathy. “I confess that I have an unusual relationship with money. I can’t simply produce it from the aether. Creating permanent solid objects is extremely difficult even for the most skilled wizard, and the spells for it are typically limited to wood, stone, and poor-quality iron. Conjuring up gold or gemstones would be quite out of the question.”

“Yeah,” said Dranko. “Okay. But what about money you get the old-fashioned way? Does anyone pay you to be a wizard?”

“I used to have a decent amount saved by, but that was a long time ago. What I had left, I’ve recently spent on things for you. I’ve purchased you a house, a converted bakery called the Greenhouse on the Street of Bakers. As for working expenses, I think that in the course of your employment, should you choose to accept it, you may find valuables that you will be welcome to sell or keep.”

“Great,” said Dranko. “What about up-front money?”

“Oh, well.” Abernathy looked around the library, made a few halting steps in several different directions, and finally strode to a tall bookshelf where he took down a jade owl figurine. It was six inches tall and had small rubies for eyes. He handed it to Dranko. “How about this? Are there still jewelers in Tal Hae who will give you coins for it?”

Dranko’s eyes nearly bulged from his head. Having done a bit of fencing in his day—and not the kind where you poked holes in people—he had a decent sense of the value of things, and even if the gems in the eyes were fake, he could imagine fetching ten gold crescents for this little owl. More, if the rubies were authentic.

He composed himself. “That’ll do for a start.”

The chime sounded again from somewhere deep in the tower’s heart. Abernathy flinched at the noise. “I have to go,” he said hurriedly. “Our enemy is ever battering at the door. As soon as I’m able, I’ll visit you at the Greenhouse. Good luck!”

Before Dranko could even open his mouth to ask one of the dozens of questions he still had, the bearded wizard wiggled his fingers and the library disappeared.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

9

Beggar’s Rebellion

Levi Jacobs

Levi Jacobs was born in North Dakota and grew up in Japan and Uganda, so he was bound to have a speculative take on modern life. Currently writing books four and five of his epic fantasy series The Resonant Saga, he runs a small fruit company to pay the bills. 

This selection is from the first book in that series, Beggar’s Rebellion , which was chosen as a finalist in the 2019 Self-Published Fantasy Blog Off. For more information and a free novella, visit www. levijacobs.com .

Grit level: 4

* * *

1

Ellumia Aygla leaned against the ship’s wood rail, fingers of wind in her hair. It was a warm afternoon, even for the chilly south, and the sun’s light played off the river water, glinting like gems in a jeweler’s market. Scents of roast fish and lamb rolled from the top deck, over the clatter and rattle of men taking afternoon tea. The Swallowtail Mistress was one of the finest riverboats to ply the Ein, offering its passengers song and drink and game on the three-month journey from the capital through the provinces. Most were bound for the last stop, Ayugen, capital of the swelling trade in power-inducing yura moss, along with more traditional deforestation and slave collection.

She could smell the slaves, the sour odor of the galley ahead pulling them up the current, indentured men and woman made to row six years for their crimes. It was disgusting, but so much about the Councilate was disgusting: its worship of money, its flagrant excess, its destruction of cultures and people for the sake of material gain.

It was disgusting, and it was home.

Or, it had been—the Swallowtail was home now, a floating escape from her past, a way to save the money to leave it for good. For two years she’d been traveling the river, balancing the books of rich passengers to pay her berthage and save money towards the crossing the sea. It was glorious, in allowing her to make money without attachment to House or husband. Glorious, too, in the access it gave her to all the ports and peoples of the continent.

Glorious and maddening. From the main river you could reach all six of the colonies, either directly on the banks or up a tributary. The Swallowtail stopped at all of them, and for a few hours every few weeks she could mingle with the people of the docks, hear their tongues and taste their foods and admire the strangeness of their crafts. For a few precious hours she could add sight and smell and touch and taste to the travelogues she’d been reading since youth. Then it was back on the ship, back to the bureaucrats and dull ledgers and long afternoons of watching the world roll by.

She was, as far as she knew, the only tax calculor working the river. It made sense for the bureaucrats, who tended to leave the capital with personal and business ledgers in need of calculating. They could arrive in port with books ready for audit, and meeting about tax strategy gave them something to do in the long months of transit. It made sense for her too—she was able to travel, to save money towards studying at the Thousand Spires, and the lack of competition meant she didn’t have to worry about other calculors lowering rates.

That, and they’d know she was a fake.

Not that she was a fake, exactly—she kept up with the tax codes, knew the loopholes to maximize her clients’ savings, and kept clean enough books that men regularly offered to hire her. She just didn’t have a license. She’d taught herself calculism, working under her brother’s guidance. And when he was killed, spending five years getting licensure training in the city had been impossible. Besides, it was fun to spit in the eye of Councilate law.

Prophet knew they’d spit in hers.

Ella turned back to the rail. They were passing through southern Yatiland now, the hilltribe’s iconic circular settlements topping the scattered hills of the river valley. The Councilate had conquered them twenty-odd years ago, and already their port looked like Worldsmouth, their people spoke passable Yersh, and their children traveled to the capital for jobs and training. Who or what the city had been before was gone. Out here, though, days from any port or Councilate stronghold, the hilltribes held to the old ways. Squinting against the light on the water, she could make out red-haired men and woman at work in the dog kennels and terraces ringing their wooden hilltop settlements, grasses green and lush in mid-summer.

“Wild beasts they are, wild beasts,” she spoke, quoting one of her favorite travelogues. “The Yati war and kill and procreate with all the abandon of a pack of curs.” She had only been in their major port, but the Yati she met never struck her as bestial.

“Aye, and beasts they are, Miss Ella.” She turned to find Captain Ralhens, pipe clenched in a broad smile. “Never let ‘em on the Swallowtail , not once.”

She quirked her eyebrow at him. “Perhaps we are the ones who seem uncivilized to them, Captain, rowing ourselves up and down this river in search of coin, when they have all they need in the space of one hilltop.”

He shook his head. “That’s fine, if all you want is sheep and sour beer. Sounds to me like you’ve been reading too many of those books.”

“What else is a lady to do with her time at water?”

The captain hitched his leg on the lower rail. “You might find yourself a man on one of these voyages. Plenty of fine men headed south in this economy.”

Ella snorted. “All they see in me is free calculism and a set of hips.”

Ralhens reddened—the Yersh were notoriously prudish. “I think some of them would be a great improvement to the House Aygla.”

“Oh I don’t doubt that.” Aygla was the false name she’d taken, a bastard mix of major Houses Alsthen and Gayla, common to those who worked for the Houses but could claim no direct lineage. By marrying a real Alsthen or Galya, or even closer bastards like Alson or Gaya, a calculor could improve her standing, and that of her children. It was the reason many women studied in the first place, to turn wealthy clients into husbands.

She’d rather die. Ella smiled at the captain. “Soon enough.”

The captain frowned around his unlit pipe. “You’ve what, twenty-five summers now?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Descending Gods but you’re young still!”

She stood a bit straighter. “I’ve lived a full life.”

“I don’t doubt it, ma’am.” Ralhens cleared his throat, no doubt remembering the condition in which she first came to him. “There’s a soiree tonight, last of the voyage. You might think of going—I believe Lieutenant Warmsmith is recently widowed.”

“What do you think all this is for?” Ella gestured at her dress, one of the Brinerider gowns she kept for special occasions.

“Oh, ah, yes.” He cleared his throat, reddening now for a different reason. She had that effect on men. “Well.” He tipped his hat to her.

Ella smiled, watching him go. They had some version of this talk on every voyage, and she believed he was genuinely concerned for her. Naive, and no idea who she was even after two years, but a good man nonetheless. He was the closest thing she had to a friend here.

I’m almost offended , her voice said.

Her smile turned wry. “You’re hardly a friend, LeTwi. More like a virulent and inescapable pest.”

At least I’m not trying to marry you off. His tone was educated and world-weary, as if speaking was barely worth the effort.

“Ralhens means well. He just can’t see past the ideas of his parents.”

Ah. And you can?

“I can see the whole thing is fishscat, if that’s what you mean. You did too!” Before dying and becoming her voice, LeTwi had been a highly respected scholar, one of the Advisors to the Council, though he hadn’t much involved himself in politics. She’d read everything he wrote.

My approach was slightly different. I said everything is fishscat, to use your terms. The challenge is to be brave enough to live with that knowledge .

“I—“ Ella cut off, a man coming from topdeck and passing by. Councilate culture held that voices were childish fancies, something to be suppressed by adulthood. Though she knew other cultures viewed them differently, it was still embarrassing to be caught talking to herself. “And you think I don’t have that courage?”

I think your search for meaning in primitive cultures is a clever way of running from the facts. But no, if you must know.

“And if I find something out there that is truly different than Councilate fishscat?”

LeTwi sighed—he was good at sighing. There is a certain inertia to history, dear. Even if you do find something, it will take a long time to change minds.

“Not if I become an Advisor.” The Council had just gotten its first female Councilor, Salea Deyenal. It wasn’t so far off to imagine she could become an Advisor.

Ah yes. The old irony of hating the Councilate, but intending to work for it.

“To make it better. What else can I do? The whole world will be under its control before long.”

There is nothing else, my dear. Though I did find solace in wine. Speaking of which, aren’t there husbands you’re meant to be wooing? The band had struck up a song on the top deck.

“Clients, LeTwi.” She stood from the rail—there were still a few men on board who hadn’t come to her for bookkeeping. “One last job would bring us to a nice even total for the voyage.”

And you say you’re above Councilate money-grubbing .

Ella opened her mouth, then turned for the topdeck. LeTwi had an annoying way of getting the last word.

* * *

The soiree was held under the canopy on top deck, polished wood floorboards reflecting the warm light of lanterns as the sun sank. Musicians played at the rear, merry Worldsmouth strings over tuned Seinjial drums. Smoke rolled from the grill, lemon sizzling over perch and lamb, and Ella’s stomach rumbled. There were perks to working on a top-class riverboat—travelers on most other boats ate rice and beans the entire voyage.

Ella scanned the clusters of men, looking for those she hadn’t done books for. Colonel Olgsby stood near the bar with two House men she hadn’t done books for—Odril and Gettels, she thought they were. Ella approached them. “Gentlemen. I’m glad to see concerns of the coming port haven’t dampened your spirits.”

Odril grinned, showing too many teeth. “Never.”

The old Colonel inclined his head. “You’re referring to the so-called rebellion? Hardly worth losing a supper for, my lady. Would you care to join us?”

She gave them a practiced smile. “I would love to.” She had already done Olgsby’s personal books, but perhaps she could get one of the others to bite.

They took a table near the bow, star tinting the sunset a lovely purple on the river’s waters. “I don’t know why you don’t just quash them,” Odril was saying. He was a mid-level bureaucrat with a sallow complexion and beady eyes. “I thought the rebels were wiped out years ago.”

“This is a new breed,” Olgsby waved his hand as though brushing aside gnats. “Guerilla fighters, cowards, hiding down in the yura mines. They haven’t done much more than property damage—fifty, maybe a hundred untrained fighters maximum. If they try anything real the garrison will sort them out.”

“Well I say we bring the Titans in. Crush ‘em.” Odril watched her as he said this, and Ella kept a polite smile on her mouth. Male posturing among men old enough to be one’s father was a professional hazard.

“Perhaps what they need is to be included in the political process,” she said, arranging a napkin on her lap.

“An Achuri House?” the old colonel spluttered. “Never! We only just began recognizing Seinjial Houses last year!”

“With the costs I hear of troop deployment and maintenance, it might save us money in the long run, to just let them have a small say in things.” She didn’t need LeTwi’s snide remark to know how likely the idea was to fall on deaf ears, but she had to try.

Odril gave her a patronizing smile. “Oh we hardly need to save money. With the amount we’re making in yura, the whole city could rise up and it wouldn’t dent our profits.”

Profitability was a point of pride among these men, and one of contention between the Houses. Perhaps if she could start them boasting about money, she could work one of them into a job. “So Alsthen is doing well then?”

The sallow bureaucrat puffed up. She had noticed men, when they were competing for a woman’s attention, tended to act like preening turkeys. Odril certainly fit the bill at present. “Extremely well. Ninety percent of the construction in New Ayugen is ours.”

Was that a light of jealousy in Gettels’ eyes? “Mr. Gettels, I hear your House has been turning quite a profit on dried winterfoods of late.”

He puffed his own chest out. “We have, it—“

“Passing fad,” Odril cut in. “It’ll never match yura for demand.”

“On the contrary,” the other said, back straightening, “it appears the two complement each other quite nicely.”

Ella nodded. “Recent broadsheets are theorizing the reason so many of us can’t use yura, or only weakly, is the lack of winterfoods in our diet. Without it, you can’t metabolize uai , and without uai , there is no power for yura to offer.”

Odril glanced between them, deflating slightly. “Well yura will always be more important.”

Ella took a glass of wine from a serving man. “I suppose the measure of that would be whose House is doing better.”

Gettels eyed Odril. “We’re doing remarkably well.”

Odril eyed him back. “Alsthen is doing ludicrously well.”

Ella struck an innocent expression. “You must have so many books to calculate.”

“Oh piles and piles.”

She smiled. “You know I’m offering calculism aboard the ship, if you’d rather arrive with books ready for audit.”

Gettels paused, fully inflated and caught in her trap. But Odril waved a hand. “I have my own calculors.”

“How disappointing.” She turned her shoulder to him, knowing it would appear to the other men that he’d lost her favor. “And you, Mr. Gettels? Have you any need? I am free tomorrow. We could meet mid-morning.”

“I—well, I don’t have much with me, but I suppose—“

“I’ll take that meeting, Miss Aygla,” Odril cut in, glaring at the other man. “I have quite a few books that need calculating, and it couldn’t hurt to have some done early.”

She smiled at him, while LeTwi made some sarcastic comment and the colonel goggled at the whole affair. A little competition could work wonders. “Excellent. Have them sent over, and I’ll calculate them by tomorrow evening.”

Odril’s smile was oily. “I’ll bring them myself.”

Another professional hazard—men mistaking an offer of services for something more. Fortunately, she had a supply of yura and a resonant power no one could match, should things go wrong.

Commotion at another table caught her attention—a darkhaired serving boy was sprawled on the deck, one of the white-coated military men standing over him, wine staining his trousers. “I’ll have the price of that out of your hide, boy!”

The other men at the table chuckled, apparently enjoying the show. The ‘boy’ was not much younger or smaller than the soldier, but he stayed where he was on the floor, clearly aware none of his options were good.

Ella stood. “Unhand him, sir.”

The soldier turned, startled, then softened on seeing her. “Ah. My apologies, madam—this is no sight for a lady. But justice must be had.”

She cocked her head. “Do you think he did it to you on purpose?”

“I wager he did, the mudhaired lout!”

“And to what advantage would that have been? Not only are you armed with military training and blade, but with money and background he could never hope to have.”

“Why, for spite itself, if naught else,” the man rejoined, but he was deflating some as more began to watch.

“And have you previous offense with this man, to cause such spite? Nay, goodsir, this was accident alone. And if accident it was, there is no crime for which to demand justice.”

“And my trousers?” he demanded, gesturing to the spreading stain. “Shall I pay for them out of pocket?”

Ella scoffed. “If you are too mean to cover such damages I shall pay for them myself, sir. Have the bill sent to my room.”

The soldier stuttered, then with a stiff bow said, “That won’t be necessary.” The serving boy, sensing his opportunity, scrambled away.

Ella couldn’t keep a satisfied grin from her face as she sat back down. The Colonel nodded to her. “I’ll see no harm befalls the boy. The man was overreacting.”

“Quite right,” Gettels put in, and Odril nodding, watching her with new attention.

Ella smiled to them. Who said you couldn’t change the world with a different set of ideas?

* * *

Odril sent his books over the next morning, and she spent the day working the ledgers, taking breaks to eat or stand at the rail, watching the passage from the Ein to the narrower Genga that lead to Ayugen. It was dry work, but she found a certain satisfaction in ordering disparate ledgers and logbooks into tidy forms the Councilate inspectors could audit.

The sallow bureaucrat came for his books that evening, then lingered unpleasantly in her cabin.

She gave him a smile, tongueing the yura ball in upper lip, in case she’d need it. “Thanks again for your business. Now I really ought to do some packing before Ayugen.”

The sallow bureaucrat hovered inside the door, nearly the only place to stand in the cramped cabin. “Yes. Though you—look quite settled here.”

She knew it looked odd—in contrast to most of the Swallowtail ’s sparsely furnished cabins, she had a bureau, bookshelves and a writing desk all crammed between the mattress and the wall. “Well, a lady should be comfortable.”

He smiled, eyes darting glances at her body. “Yes. You know, I could easily find work for you in Ayugen. And likely pay you a lot more than you make here.”

This sort of offer was common. “That’s very kind of you, but I enjoy the freedom.”

He didn’t look pleased at the answer. “I imagine it keeps prying eyes away too.”

Her heart clenched. “I’m—not sure what you mean.” Did he know she wasn’t licensed?

“Nothing, my darling.” His hand reached up to brush her cheek, and Ella flinched back. “But let me know if you ever change your mind.”

He moved toward the door. Finally. “Will do. Thanks again!”

She shut the door and locked it after him, then took a moment to shudder the slime from her. Odril gave her the creeps. Then again most bureaucrats did, in one way or another.

He knows, Ella.

She took Odril’s money from the bureau top. “He doesn’t know. He was probably talking about having a lie with me.”

He was thinking about having a lie with you. He was talking about why a licensed calculor would work on a riverboat instead of dry land.

She bit her lip. “Well he’s not the first to wonder. It’s only a few days to port anyway.”

LeTwi gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. I’d just keep your yura handy.

Ella rolled the ball of moss in her mouth, outer coating of beeswax keeping it from digesting until she chewed on it. Yura was too expensive to use except in real need. “Always do.” There were men who had gone farther than Odril, who thought that her services implied more. They’d learned their lesson.

Ella sat down on the bed. Odril would likely be her last customer of the voyage—she’d balanced books for most of the men on board, and those remaining likely had wives or House associates who would do it cheaper in port.

Still, it had been a profitable voyage. Ella took a bust of Markels from her nightstand and flipped it to reveal a cleverly hidden latch. Inside were three more balls of yura and a mess of redgold coins. She set them on the bed in neat rows of ten: six thousand one hundred sixty marks. After paying her return fare and picking up some sundries in Ayugen, that would leave her forty three hundred or so. Not a bad profit for a few months’ work. Two trips more, or three, and she would have enough for tuition and passage across the sea.

And a chance for real scholarship.

“Yes.” She laid back, imagining the passage across the open sea, a trip precious few managed to book with the reclusive Brineriders, and then the Thousand Spires beyond, amongst a people famed for their science and untouched by the Councilate. She’d read accounts of the Gyolla, but what would they be like? How different their system of voting and mass labor? Would they accept her application? Most of the Council’s advisors had studied with them, though they were famously close-lipped about their experiences. Maybe it was because—

A noise at the window made her look up. She caught a glimpse of something pale on the dark walkway outside—a face?—then it was gone.

“Prophets piece!” she cursed.

What?

“A face. I thought I saw a face at the window.” Fear clicked a moment later, and her heart began beating.

A bird, maybe.

Ella looked hard at the window. “It didn’t look like a bird.” It looked like a face, watching from outside the window. From the hull of the ship?

She swept up her pile of coins, put the ball of yura back in her mouth. “I should have closed the curtains.”

She did now, and checked the lock on the door. The little cabin suddenly felt vulnerable, her place on this ship full of men vulnerable, and she drew out the metal shank she kept under her pillow. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, packing the money away. She would hide the money elsewhere—in a hollow in the mattress, this time. Ella tensed at every sound, jumped at every creak, but nothing more happened.

She lay back down. “Just a couple of days left anyway. It was probably nothing.”

Maybe it was the Prophet come back from the dead.

She laughed. “Come to peep in at me? How flattering.” She laid back on the bed and willed herself to relax. “It probably was just a bird. And if it wasn’t,” she tongued the yura in her mouth, “I guess it’s their bad luck.”

* * *

2

Ella leaned back in her chair, ship rocking in the current, and reached for another book from her stack. Morning light caught in the leafy trees thick along the shore, and the rowing songs of the slaveship echoed from upriver. She was on the narrow back deck, passing the morning rereading accounts of the Achuri in preparation for their arrival.

These days and nights were filled with wonder. Already known in the North for their singing ability, in their winter caves the Achuri performed feats of strength, aerial dances and guessing games with startling accuracy, and all imbued with the subtle resonances of the spheres. The locals assured me they were not under the effects of their shamanic cave-moss, though one must wonder if perhaps an extended diet of the moss has given them lasting powers, such as we experienced only for a brief time after eating the earthy substance.

Ella bit the nib of her pen, rereading the passage. It was this account in Markels, and those of others who came after to verify it, that began the rush for yura and the Councilate’s eventual expansion further south. But his claims of people using resonances without yura had never been substantiated, despite rumors from returning soldiers having fought the local resistance.

Kellandrials had recounted a similar anecdote—she flipped to the page in his much-slimmer collection of broadsheets, margins dark with her notes:

We met a local woman, really a quite simple dobby woman of the mudflats, who claimed to no longer need yura to twist thoughts with her speech—a mosstongue, you’ll recall we’ve labeled them. It is of course likely fancy and attempts to win into our good graces, but as her tale is rather entertaining, dear readers, we recount it here—

Ella skimmed the page, used to Kellandrial’s verbose and self-involved style. The woman claimed to have stolen a great amount of yura, then fearing discovery to have eaten it all at once—and afterwards to resonate without taking anything. Now, dear readers, Kellandrials continued, burning with curiosity we repeated the experiment, yay even unto the thirtieth ball she estimated, at great expense to our person, but found on the morrow no greater remnants than an empty purse and a raging headache…

Ella bit her nib again, ink bitter on her tongue. It was widely known that the Councilate’s Titans, trained high in the mountains above Seinjial, were able to use their resonances without yura—though few survived the training. Could they be taking massive doses of yura, as Kellandrials’s dobby woman had? Had the Achuri lied to Markels, and been using yura during his visit? Or was there another way to use the resonances?

He suggests it is due to a long diet of yura , she scribbled, but that hasn’t panned out in Worldsmouth. Perhaps it is diet, but a diet of southern foods, like mavenstym.

Ella nodded. With the discovery that southern foods like mavenstym and wintermelon deepened yura experiences, Kellandrials had put forth a theory that such foods—winterfoods, he called them, as they grew in winter, when the star’s light was strong—provided the energy needed to resonate. There was precious little of it in the north, as the days never shortened as they did in the south, and the weather was too warm for such plants, rumored to grow directly out of the snow. Were they the key to using resonances without yura, as the Titans and the Achuri were rumored to do? A massive dose of yura combined with a diet of winterfoods? Titan soldiers would have plenty of access to such foods, training above the snowline of the Seinjial peaks.

Titans have been able to resonate long before yura was discovered, LeTwi cut in. That’s part of the reason the Councilate was so unstoppable.

“Yes,” she said, stopping herself from biting the pen this time. It was a bad habit to speak to her voice aloud, but she indulged it when no one was around. “But if all it took was eating plenty of winterfoods, wouldn’t all the Achuri have this power? Markels say it’s nearly all they eat in winter, alongside game.”

Maybe they all do .

Prophets. Imagine an entire people able to use their resonances…

Ella tipped her chair further back, trying to grasp what that would mean for a people, for their livelihood and politics and warfare. This was the sort of thing that would make a powerful entrance essay, and give her research direction in the villages—

She leaned too far, and with a cry toppled over backward, books flying and head banging painfully off the wooden deck.

Of course that would be the moment Captain Ralhens appeared, cold pipe clutched between his teeth. “Excuse me,” she said, cheeks heating. The inkwell had spilled, but thankfully not on her books or clothes. It was embarrassing how many such stains she’d made back here. “I—seem to have gotten lost in my thoughts.”

“Aye. T’wouldn’t be the first time.” There was no humor in his eyes, though. “Some men wanting to see you, on top deck.”

“Some…men?” He did not sound pleased. “What’s going on?”

“Would you come with me?”

“I—“ Ella gathered her things and stood up, smoothing her muslin gown. “I’m not really dressed for it. Give me a minute to change.”

He nodded, pulling on his pipe, and she went into her room. A few minutes later he was leading her to the top deck, where a crowd of twenty or so men were gathered at the front rail, watching the passage up the Genga. Three waited for her under the covered area where they’d supped last night—Olgsby, Pruitt and one other she didn’t remember, a man who’d come to her just once on the trip.

Ella nodded to them. “Gentleman. You wanted something?”

At this Pruitt spat, but Oglsby was the one who spoke. “You lied to us.” He raised a finger to point at her, voice warbling. “You deceived us.”

She summoned her most serene face. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Colonel.”

“A fake,” Pruitt spat. “A common girl, masquerading as a calculor so she can catch us out here and rob of us of our money!”

Fishscat. They must have heard that she didn’t have a proper license. “Gentleman, I assure you—“

“You’ve already assured us, with lies!” the third man cut in. A few faces turned from the crowd at the front railing.

“Perhaps,” the captain said, “we should move this discussion somewhere more private?”

“Nothing of it,” Pruitt said, hot. “I’ll see her papers here and now, or I demand my money back, every last pig iron!”

Ella put on a smile, thinking fast. “Mr. Pruitt, I’m afraid my papers are in Worldsmouth, for safe keeping. If something were to happen during the voyage…”

“Pah,” the third one spat. “I knew you were a title-grabber the first time I met you. Trying to turn your looks into a decent name and comfortable position in one of the Houses.”

“Oh aye, she came on to me,” Pruitt said, puffing up. “Though I had the good sense to decline at the time.”

Another snorted. “I’ll bet you declined.” Even now, the men ogled her as they spoke. Ella clenched her teeth, crushing the ball of yura in her mouth. This was likely to get ugly.

“Ellumia,” Olgsby said, looking uncomfortable at the men’s words, “are you a licensed calculor or aren’t you? You have a chance here to clear your name.”

And to repay all the money she’d made—for solid work, save her licensing? Prophets, she wouldn’t even have enough to cover return passage. Fortunately, when your job involved playing a part, lying was easy. “There’s nothing to clear, Colonel. I am a certified calculor, trained under Owengild and Feddles at the Ibex Academy for Councilium Businesswork. My work has rarely come under criticism, and never led to correction or audit. Or has anyone experienced otherwise?”

It was a calculated risk—while she had never heard of her work coming up short under Councilate inspection, she also didn’t keep as regular a tie with her customers as land-based calculors did. Still, she had plenty of repeat customers on Ralhen’s ship, and none had complained.

No one spoke up. She was beginning to smile when Pruitt swiped his arm, as though to wipe away her lies. “Doesn’t matter. Councilate law requires you carry a certified affidavit, signed in triplicate, proof in absentia of your status.” He was a minor functionary in the Councilate bureaucracy, she recalled. He held out his hand. “So let’s see it. Or I see the coins.”

A few of the men at the rail began to drift over. This was not the kind of attention she needed. Let them once start talking to port authorities and she would be behind bars, or worse. Ella drew herself up. “Gentleman I don’t know what to tell you. My word is good. I defer judgment to Captain Ralhens. He has known me the longest, and his word is law aboard this ship.”

Ralhens looked troubled at this, and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, someone else cut in, a newcomer. “What’s going on here?”

“Gettels!” Pruitt cried. “Just the man. Turns out this girl’s no calculor, she’s a common title-grabber. We’re trying to get our money back, and she’s refusing.”

“A title-grabber?” he cried. “I paid top coin for her!”

“As did we,” Pruitt said, grinning. “Arrest the wench, if she won’t repay our coin.”

Gettels had been a lawkeeper before his time in House Galya, she recalled. He was no doubt still deputized. Ella tried to speak, to defend herself, but the crowd overrode her, and she had that sense again, that feeling of being alone on a ship full of hostile men. “Won’t pay?” “Not licensed?”

“Gentlemen!” The captain was crying, but they wouldn’t listen. Something more than words was needed here. Her yura had had time to take effect. Ella reached inside and struck her resonance.

At once, as always, the air seemed to thicken to honey. The men’s voices dropped in pitch, their motions slowed, the very breeze stilling against her cheek. This was timeslip, the brief moments her resonance afforded her to move at three or four times regular speed. She would not waste it.

Ella spun in the thick air and grabbed the hilt of Ralhens’s sword. While the man remained essentially frozen she swung it out, and aimed the point at Pruitt’s throat. That should do it. She stilled the resonance, air melting and men slurring back into motion.

For a moment—then they all froze, faces shocked.

Pruitt yelped, and in the brief silence that followed Ella spoke. “You men may have no regard for a woman’s honor, but you will at least listen to the captain when he has something to say. And if you speak another word, Pruitt, I swear to the Descending God I’ll cut your throat.” Nevermind that the sword tip wobbled like a drunk sailor. All she needed was for Pruitt to shut up.

It worked. Ralhens recovered himself quickly, swinging his pipe at the men. “Stand down! Stand down at once! Men!” He gave a shrill whistle and two or three deck hands appeared. “I will have order on my ship! Order!”

Ella risked a glance and the captain’s face was red—she’d never seen him this angry, or angry at all for that matter.

“As legal captain of a chartered Councilium vessel my word is law on these decks, and I say Miss Ella will not be charged nor defamed simply for accusations. You men all attended her with money ready and no questions in your mind, and now when the books are balanced you turn to me, turn to accusations! Pah,” he spit, a much coarser sailor coming out for a moment. “I’d wash my deck of the lot of you if I could do it. Back to your cabins each one.”

Ella heaved a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t done. “And Miss Ella, you’re hereby cast off this ship at the next port for want of proper paperwork, and there’s an end to it!”

“Wha—“

“But the next port’s last stop!” a man overrode her. “It’s where she’s going anyway!”

“And there’s an end to it I say!” the captain roared, and the men began to back off, under the watchful eyes of the captain’s hefty deckhands. Ralhens turned to her. “I’ll have my sword back now, if you please.”

Pruitt remained frozen at the other end of the blade, and it took some doing to not give him a nick for his troubles. Ella was gratified to see, at least, that his hands shook and his skin was pale as egg whites. She lowered the sword, handed it back to the captain. “I thank you, sir, for the use of your blade, and moreso for taking control of these men.”

Ralhens met her eyes for a moment, face still red, then shook his head and stormed off.

Gettels passed her on his way to the stairs. “Our money, woman,” he growled. “Or I arrest you the minute your feet touch dry land.”

3

Ella clenched her fists, making her way back to her cabin. It wasn’t fair—yes, she’d lied about licensing, but the work was good, had always been good. And she did it for less than the going rate, anyway. And now they wanted her to repay it? To be left penniless on the streets of a foreign city—or get arrested?

It was less than unfair. It was fishscatter. Maybe some threats could change Gettels’ mind—she could take a ball of yura…

Or, you could pay the men their coin.

“Never,” she growled, pushing into her room. “Word would spread. Soon they’d all be trying it at voyage’s end.”

Consider what you’re risking. What will happen if the Councilium logs you in jail.

She stopped. “You’re saying even if I scare Gettels…”

It won’t matter. Some other man among them will go to the lawkeepers, and they’ll arrest you on suspicion. Then when they learn your real identity—“

Fear struck cold in her belly. “We can’t let that happen. Gods. But Prophet scatter it!” she cried, fists balling again. “The nerve of these men! I should at least throw their books over the side, all of them.”

You will do nothing of the sort. If you want to keep working on boats like this, if you want to ever have a chance at the Thousand Spires, you will pay them back and move on.

“And smile while I do it, right?” she snarled, a black wave coming over her. “Scatter that!” Ella threw herself on the bed, aware she was being childish, unable to stop it.

After some time her breathing calmed, and logic replaced raw anger. When it did, she saw that LeTwi was right, that there was no way she could risk discovery. “Fishscatting bureaucrats,” she muttered, rolling aside and digging for the Markels statue. “Why did I ever think it was a good idea to work for Councilate bureaucrats?”

The statue wasn’t there. Ella checked the desk drawer, checked the bookshelves, checked her pillows in case she’d put it next to the shank.

Nothing. “What the hell?”

It has to be somewhere.

It wasn’t. Ella searched the entire room, chest tightening, rifling through places she hadn’t looked all voyage. The bust was gone. “What the hell ?” she demanded of the empty space, heart pounding.

Then it clicked: the open door. She hadn’t left it unlocked—she never did—but it had opened without a key when she came in. Someone had forced their way in.

And stolen her savings.

Ella sat down on the bed, hard. No savings. That meant no money to pay the men back. No money to return to Worldsmouth. No money to eat, even. Her chest seized. “Who would do this?”

Anyone. Pruitt. Olgsby. Ralhens. Hell hath no spite like a publicly-fooled man.

“Mothershatterers !” Ella pounded a fist on her thigh. “They can’t do this to me!”

They can do anything they want. You know that.

“But steal my savings? How did they even know where to look?” Her eyes blurred, and she rubbed an arm across them. “Either way, they’re still on the ship.” Cold determination rose up, replacing the fire in her chest. She would timeslip. She would find the man who did it, tie him up tight and—

Prophets. No money meant no yura either—she’d kept her balls in the bust too. “Then I’ll do it without resonance,” she growled. “Catch them in the night—“

Ella. Slow down. Hurting them won’t get you anywhere. And you still have some slip left—the ball you ate. It will stay in your system another few hours at least.

“Right.” She could act now—not attack the men, yes obviously that was a bad plan, much as she wanted to. But search their cabins, maybe. Find the bust and the culprit and at least get her money back.

There’s not nearly enough time to search all of them in slip, even if you manage to get in.

“But I have to do something. Have to look for him. The captain. Captain Ralhens will help me.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Ella left her cabin, not bothering to lock it—nothing of value there but books now, and she doubted any of these men would take much interest in Markels or LeTwi. An older man was coming from abovedecks, not one of her customers, but they’d exchanged a few words on the voyage. “Excuse me,” she asked. “Have you seen the captain?”

The man cleared his throat, giving her a disapproving look, and brushed past.

Word had spread then. It tended to on a ship this small. “Excuse me ,” Ella snarled.

It was the same with the other men she passed, searching the upper decks: sideways looks or outright refusals to help, nasty words. Hell hath no fury like a man hit in the pocketbooks, she thought. LeTwi ought to have written that .

Finally one of the crewhands, a swarthy Seinjial, answered her. “Believe he’s belowdecks, Madame,” he said in rural Yersh. “But in a piss of a mood. I wouldn’t bother him.”

Ella didn’t have time for moods. She either found her thief now, before Ayugen, or the money was gone and she was in jail. She found her way belowdecks, passing the crew dorm with its reek of sweat and must. She had only been down here a few times in her two years on the ship, but knew the captain’s quarters were at the front. She wove her way past the midships with its stacks of goods and luggage, found her way to his door and knocked.

No answer. She knocked again.

“Who is it?” Ralhens’s voice was muffled through the door, but he sounded more calm.

“Ella, sir.”

“Ella?” There was a long pause, then the door opened. Ralhens looked better, but still not his content self. “There’s no sense begging for it, Ella, I made my choice. You’re off in port tomorrow.”

She smelled yura on his breath. He must have taken some to calm down, quiet his self-talk. “It’s not about that. Someone’s been in my cabin. They took my savings.”

“Your savings?” He looked around, then stepped aside for her to come in.

The interior was dark, the room too low for windows. A few lanterns swung on the wall, casting shadows in time with the swaying of the ship. “Yes. Sixty-six hundred marks.”

The captain let out a long whistle. “That’s how much you’ve been… making? Prophet’s teeth. And now you want it back.”

“Of course I want it back!”

Ralhens sighed, leaning on the desk that lined one wall. “All in coins?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know how you’ll get that back, Miss Ella, even were the ship more inclined to you. There’s no way of proving it. The men are hot for your blood as is, or your money at least.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing. “Do you think they’re connected? The men getting angry and my robbery?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Could be. But who knew about your savings? Did you show em where it was?”

“No!” Ella took a breath. “I always kept it hidden. Someone must have figured it out.”

The face at the window. The one you think you saw .

“Fishscatter!” she cursed. Ralhens gave her a look. “Ah, sorry. I just—I realized, someone might have been looking in last night.”

He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry to say it, Miss Ella, but I think your savings are gone. Anyone smart enough to set the men against you, then get into your room while you were gone, they’re going to have hidden the money by now. And if it’s your word against theirs…” He left the thought unfinished.

“You won’t take my side.” It was only half a question.

Of course he won’t.

“I’m afraid I have to be fair,” he said. “This is the first I’ve known of your savings, and you have plenty of motivation to want to get back at some of these men. Everyone here has coinage saved up for Ayugen. That’s part of the reason they take my boat, to keep away from the lower class that’d be wanting to steal it.”

“Someone clearly was anyway,” she said, bitter. “And nothing you can do for me? Not even an announcement or a search?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Ella looked around, grasping for something else. “I won’t be able to give you the normal tip. I am clean dry.”

He nodded. “I believe you. I don’t have to believe you, Miss Ella, but I do. There’s just nothing I can do about it.”

A thought came to her. “Can you at least board me back to Worldsmouth? I have savings there, and I can work up passage in the meantime—“

Ralhens pursed his lips, eyes sad. “I can’t do that, Ella. Wish I could. It’s been pleasant having you on board, it really has, but I can’t risk it now, you know that. I could lose my boat.”

Of course. Of course he could.

“But I can pay you,” she insisted. “In Worldsmouth. Just get me back there. Think about how much I have, if I made sixty-six on this trip alone.” He was shaking his head. “Double! I’ll pay you double! Triple!”

Ralhens stood. “I’m sorry, Ella. I can’t do it. Now if you’ll kindly leave me, I have some paperwork to prepare before port.”

She bit her lip, trying to think of something, anything she could say, but there was nothing. “Thanks, then, Captain. I mean it.” She didn’t, but knew she should, knew she would if things were different.

He nodded and she left the cabin fuming. “Not a decent man among them,” she growled.

Not a decent man on the globe.

It was a quote from LeTwi’s books. Ella sighed, unclenching her jaw. “I’ve handled worse than this. Far worse.”

Still, she had few options for the time being. There was little chance she could find any more work in the next twenty-four hours, let alone enough to pay the men back.

So what, then? Jump ship before they reached port and lay low in some Achuri village? Change identities again?

The idea had a certain charm, especially laying low in a traditional village, but leaving her books behind, and leaving this ship full of men to spread her bad reputation meanwhile…

You’d never work as a calculor again. Not without dying your hair, at least.

She grimaced. “If I could find my way back to Worldsmouth, I could use some savings to try a different ship.”

LeTwi tsked. If you let these men leave the ship disgruntled, I have no doubt the tale of a false calculor on a riverboat will chase you wherever you go.

“Their accounts,” she said. “I know the details now, remember most of them. If I could blackmail them somehow…”

On other voyages, maybe, but I don’t recall anything particularly illegal or salacious this trip.

He was right. “Then how am I going to pay them off in the next twenty-four hours? I’m literally broke. Unless—” There were times when she wasn’t sure whether a thought was hers or LeTwi’s, but as long as they were good, it didn’t matter.

Patronage.

“Yes.” Plenty of men onboard had offered her permanent work under their patronage, and not all of them had been abovedecks today. While they’d likely heard by now, still a few might be sympathetic--Olgsby, Densfeir, Tannets, Odril.”

You’d be working under indenture, paying off the money they use to repay your fees this voyage.

She clenched her teeth, still furious about it. But there was a time for fury, and a time to do something real. “Yes,” she said. “I will pay off my debts under indenture. And the minute I’ve made that much, plus the cheapest fare back to the capital, I’m gone .”

* * *

Thanks for reading! Ella’s story continues in Beggar’s Rebellion , available now on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

Other books in the Resonant Saga:

Pauper’s Empire

Apostate’s Pilgrimage

Assassin’s Tribute

For more information and a free novella, visit www. levijacobs.com .

10

The Seal of Throkar

MARNIY JONES

In a world walked by gods and their immortal avatars, a hidden war is brewing.

Quinthian, handmaiden to the fertility goddess, only has two reasons to wake up in the morning—to serve her goddess and to kill Dalanar, the terrifying sorcerer responsible for her mother’s death.

When the immortal avatar of a god is shockingly murdered, the remaining avatars suspend their hostilities and flee to the safest place they know: the fortress of the goddess of war. The move unexpectedly forces Quin and Dalanar under the same roof. An ancient truce might keep them from each other’s throats but doesn’t stop them from dreaming about each other’s destruction.

For Quin, the situation goes from merely intolerable to catastrophic when she is ordered to investigate the crime alongside Dalanar. The man is intelligent, cunning, and unforgivably attractive. Despite the hatred between them, they must cooperate if they are to save the avatars they are pledged to protect from the mysterious assassin’s hand.

In a game where the gods themselves are pawns, the man Quin has sworn to kill could be her only hope of defending those she loves. But first, she must decide who can be trusted and who is worth saving.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Four corpses dangled from the branches of a dead oak. Blood still dripped from their fingertips, hair, and feet. Steam still rose from the bodies of their protectors, tumbled together beneath them like storm-driven wheat. Quin swallowed hard and glanced at Sarael.

The Avatar of Healing hunched miserably at the edge of the clearing, mud clutching at the hem of her plain gown, face ashen. She usually appeared to be nearing her third decade, but now Sarael’s wide, horror-filled eyes reminded Quin of a young girl who had lost everything.

Quin unpinned the wool cloak from her brigandine and swung it around the other woman’s shoulders. “We can’t stay—”

“Cut them down. Please. Just ... get them down.”

“We’ll come back. After we find the others, and those cultists move on.” Quin scanned the forest. Branches drooped with water, and the patter of heavy drops landing on the thick pad of fallen leaves could easily mask the footsteps of an enemy. She tightened the grip on her sword hilt and took Sarael’s hand, pulling her toward the game trail that provided the only way in or out of the glade. Any other direction would require hacking at brambles with a blade.

A pheasant erupted from the underbrush with a shrill cry, shaking a torrent of water loose. Something startled the creature into flight. Quin stepped in front of Sarael, sword drawn. She heard nothing but blood and rain and the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. “Let’s go.”

Down the path, another cascade of water accompanied a curse. “It was right around here we left ‘em.” The voice was faint.

Quin hitched her breath. Tree cultists. If she and Sarael ran, the sound of their passage would alert everyone to their presence. No choice but to hide. The oak had split and soured years before and sported no leafy canopy that might conceal them. The wide trunk might hide them, but only if their pursuers were blind or fools. How many were there? Could Quin fight?

Sarael’s eyes widened. “Go! I’ll ... I’ll try to stop them.”

“I’m supposed to protect you .” Quin’s gaze returned to the pile of bodies, and she paused.

Sarael paled further. “May blessed Yhellania forgive us.”

Quin huffed. “She likes you. You’ll be fine.” She pulled the reluctant woman over to the tree and pushed her down between the corpses of the soldiers and the blackened trunk. “You have to admit, they’d never think to find you there.” She covered Sarael’s dress and pale hair with the cloak and shifted the body of a scarlet-clad man over her hips and legs. Quin tried to smile, but bile rose in the back of her throat. She resisted the urge to scrub her hands clean. Liquid dripped on them from above. Hot and cold.

A lighter voice laughed. “Dalanar is quick to send us out in this weather. I notice he ain’t so quick to join in.”

Quin jerked upright and turned toward the path. Dalanar was here? Had he been at the village that betrayed the slaughtered Servant-priests to the cultists? Had it been him who betrayed them?

“Keep your damned tongue civil,’’ the first voice growled, ‘‘if you don’t want it burnt to ash. Sorcerers don’t have a sense of humor.”

“I warn’t joking.” The lighter voice sounded baffled. “He’s on our side, anyway.”

The growling man grunted. “Maybe.’’

“Quinthian,” Sarael’s tone held ice. “I order you to hide.”

“But....” Dalanar was tucked up warm and cozy at some inn not three miles from her. This was probably the closest Quin had ever been to the rotting sorcerer, and she had no way to get to him.

“Now.”

Quin clenched her teeth and wiggled into the morbid pile, her skin shuddering away from contact. These were her friends, companions, and peers. That they passed into the realm of death shouldn’t change anything. She gulped down nausea. The proscription against touching the dead was too strong. She couldn’t do this. A scream built inside her chest.

“Hush, child.” Sarael’s fingers brushed Quin’s arm. “Hush.”

Warmth and comfort flooded through Quin like sinking into a hot bath on a frosty day, making her sleepy. She shouldn’t be tired. They might have to fight for their lives at any moment. She tried to pull away but failed.

“This will only work if they don’t burn the bodies,” Quin whispered.

“Tree cultists never burn Yhellani bodies.”

* * *

Five people dressed in oilskin cloaks and hoods sauntered into the clearing. Rain had blurred the ash-drawn tree symbols cultists used to identify themselves; only smudges remained on their foreheads. Too many for Quin to take on alone. She might beat two. Possibly, hold off three—long enough for Sarael to escape. Not five.

Where were the other members of Sarael’s party? The guardsworn and the Servant-priests? Had they survived the ambush that had forced Quin and Sarael into the forest and to the site of this massacre? Quin’s stomach clenched. They couldn’t be dead. Barrand would never allow that to happen. She smiled grimly at the thought of his reaction to her method of hiding Sarael. Quin would gladly endure his lecture on the respect due an avatar as long as he was safe. As long as they all came through this alive.

“Doesn’t look like any of them’ve been here.” The light-voiced man threw back his hood to reveal an unlined face and thinning hair.

A cultist with a jutting black beard kicked one of the bodies to Quin’s right. “They always come for their dead meat.” The gruff-voiced man. He called over his shoulder to the others, “We wait.” He pointed at the young man. “Go to the end of the trail and hide. Whistle if you see anyone coming.”

“Aww, Cass—”

“Quit whining. It’s your turn.”

The young man shuffled down the trace muttering to himself.

Four. Could Quin kill them before the boy returned? She’d have the advantage of surprise.

Two of the hooded figures began swinging the suspended bodies back and forth, setting them spinning like obscene children’s toys.

“Fine bunch of crab apples.’’ A female cultist brayed with laughter.

Hanged Servants had been nicknamed crab apples for the color they turned when their pain had ended and they were allowed to begin dying. It had been an abundant year for the terrible harvest. Quin’s cheeks burned and fury grayed out the edges of her vision. The two cultists stood so close to where she hid, the hems of their cloaks brushed her boots. They would die. She would send them to meet their foul god in person.

One of them poked the smallest of the Servants in the thigh with a sword. In life, the woman had been a quietly competent healer, with a knack for dice that left a number of guardsworn penniless. Quin blinked away tears.

Sarael made a dangerous sound low in her throat. Her grip on Quin’s arm hardened. Oh, no. Not now. Quin grabbed for the avatar, but the woman shifted out of reach. Sarael wasn’t in control any longer. The goddess was coming.

The sword tip ripped the Servant’s robe open. “We shoulda left them naked. Yhellania likes that sort of thing.”

Sarael erupted from her hiding spot with an animalistic roar, eyes blazing with white fire.

Quin had only seconds to act. She heaved aside the sheltering bodies and leapt to her feet, shoving three feet of steel between the ribs of the cultist closest to her. Without pausing, she swung around and decapitated the second.

The goddess glowered out through Sarael’s eyes, incandescent with wrath. Her body straightened, the unassuming woman taking on the bearing of an empress. Yhellania’s divine presence thrust everyone down, grinding them into the wet earth with heads bowed and air forced from their lungs. “Who has done this to my children ?” The avatar’s hair swirled around her, blown by eddies of power.

Quin turned her head to one side to avoid a puddle, but mud oozed into her ear. She sucked in a breath and hoped the goddess relaxed her hold before she passed out. “These ... cultists, Great Lady.”

The cultists whimpered somewhere nearby.

The air crackled and hissed. “Where is Barrand? Why are you not in Csiz Luan? ”

The pressure eased enough for Quin to breathe. “We were separated by an ambush. Dalanar knew we were coming, and—”

The goddess scanned the dead. The glow from her eyes cast deep shadows into the woodland beyond. “This does not look like Dalanar’s work. ”

“It’s Dalanar who locates your Servants. Dalanar who passes the information on to the cultists. If we stop him, we can slow or prevent these massacres.” Quin managed to sound calm. This was her last hope of getting permission to kill the sorcerer; Sarael and Barrand had already forbidden it. If she convinced Yhellania, who could object?

Yhellania peered down at Quin, the goddess’s regard pressing like a mountain against her spine.

“Slay them, Quinthian. We shall discuss your hatred of Dalanar another time. ”

“He’s so close! We—”

“Now .”

The pressure lifted. Quin leapt up, the sudden weightlessness giving her energy. She drew the dagger from the sheath at her lower back and raised her sword. Would the one on the right throw her ax before the bearded man charged?

The cultists remained motionless.

Quin paused. They were to fight as the goddess demanded. Were they surrendering?

It took several moments to realize that they remained trapped by Yhellania’s presence.

“But they can’t move.”

“Are you defying my command? ”

“No, I....” The cultists deserved to die, probably more gruesome and painful deaths than Quin could deliver, but to simply kill them when they had no chance to defend themselves? It wasn’t right.

Quin shook her head. She was being a hypocrite. The cultists she had slain moments before had no chance to defend themselves, either. That hadn’t been a fair fight. This was ... different.

How could the goddess of healing ask this of her? How could she disobey?

Reluctantly, Quin moved toward the bearded cultist. Cass? The man’s eyes were wide with terror. He had shown no mercy to the Servants still swinging from their makeshift gallows. She gripped the hilt tighter, attempting to muster her resolve. Quin had never executed an incapacitated enemy. A prisoner. She was a soldier, not a headsman. The cultist stared at her with helpless resignation.

“You disappoint me, Quinthian. Kill them. Now. ” The words held divine compulsion.

Quin’s resistance evaporated.

With two strokes of her blades, the cultists lay dead, their blood dripping into the soil to mix with that of their innocent victims. Quin retched when Yhellania’s command faded. She fell to her hands and knees, weapons discarded by her side.

“These sights cause Sarael great pain. See to her. ” The goddess gestured at the corpses of the Servants and the soldiers beside them. In a flare of light, they disappeared, leaving only sparks rising to the leaden sky.

The crushing presence of Yhellania vanished, and the glow faded. Sarael alone occupied the space vacated by the goddess. Quin rose with a curse. She wiped her face on the last dry spot on her shirt and attempted to tuck a tendril of dark hair back into a braid.

Her brigandine was covered with mud. She swiped at it, but only succeeded in smearing the muck around. It would take weeks to scrape the filth from the leather plates. Her conscience might never come clean.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

A trilling whistle from somewhere at the end of the trail cut off with a sharp cry, then silence. Seconds later, Barrand and the other guardsworn burst into the clearing, weapons drawn and teeth bared for violence. They stared around wildly for a moment before Barrand straightened and sheathed his sword, panting with reaction.

He strode over to Sarael. “Are you all right? Are you injured?” Graying red hair lay plastered against the guardsworn commander’s scalp, and water funneled into the creases of his sunburnt face. Barrand mopped at his eyes with the sleeve of his coarse brown tunic and returned to inspecting the avatar. The blood on her clothing elicited a deep frown and a disapproving glance at Quin.

Sarael nodded gravely, but a small dimple appeared on her cheek.

Quin’s shoulders relaxed, and she took her first full breath since she and Sarael had been separated from the others. The avatar no longer depended on her for protection.

The top of Sarael’s head only reached Barrand’s shoulder, and he ducked down to listen as she spoke to him in a low voice. Although the commander hovered solicitously, he never stopped watching for danger.

A cluster of Servants peaked into the grove, leading their horses and the pack mule loaded with herbs and medicine. When they saw the area was free of conflict, smiles of relief broke out.

Several of them rushed to till the soil where the goddess had appeared, reverently sprinkling the damp earth with handfuls of seeds. Quin doubted anything would grow in the blood-cursed ground under the tree. Perhaps it would be a miracle.

At last, Barrand turned to Quin. “What happened?”

“Sarael and I escaped down a game trail when the cultists attacked. We tried to circle away from the fight, until we stumbled on this.” The signs of the horror that had taken place were obvious to anyone who had seen them before: singed ropes, deep furrows in the dirt, blood droplets on sheltered leaves.

“A group of them returned, and we hid. Yhellania decided not to wait for you to arrive.” Quin paused. She didn’t want to tell him about killing those prisoners. It felt raw and dirty. Something shameful, even if it had been a command. “How did you find us?”

Barrand snorted. “I can tell when Yhellania manifests from miles away. Sarael told me what you did. I’m disappointed, but I suppose you’re predictable.”

Quin looked down, unable to meet his eyes. What did that mean?

Sarael frowned at Quin, a flush of pink rising into her cheeks. “How dare you try to go around me with Yhellania? I do not give you permission to pursue Dalanar. You are my handmaiden, and you belong with me.” No trace of the goddess remained.

Quin exhaled. They were talking about the rotting sorcerer. She lifted her chin and didn’t bother to act repentant. She was a terrible liar. “I am also your personal guard, and I will protect you. If I could find a way to kill him and his master, I could sleep at night. We all could.”

Barrand crossed his arms over his barrel-chest. “The most important thing right now is getting Sarael to Csiz Luan. No one is running off to get killed while I’m in charge.”

“They said he’s close. In the last village—”

“Then we’ll stay as far out of his way as we can. Someone murdered an avatar. I don’t know how, but I will not let Sarael be next. We keep together.”

“Conthal might be with him.”

“By the godless void, then we stay even farther from the both of them.” Barrand glared at Quin. “Go away.” He pointed. “Find my lieutenant, get everyone mounted and moving. I don’t want to remain in this wretched place any longer.”

* * *

The rolling hills of the region provided ideal farmland. Dark, rich soil covered fields filled with young plants beginning their growth in earnest. Clumps of patchy forest shielded homesteads and villages from the dusty road leading south to the Kingdom of Dacten and the main trade routes.

When the sun eventually broke through the oppressive layer of clouds, it burned away the shadows that had fallen over Quin’s mood. It didn’t undo the effects of the two cold, sleepless nights spent in the deep woods after the ambush, but it helped. The farther they got from the massacre, the more she relaxed.

The Servants finally felt safe enough to insist upon stopping to tend one of the countless shrines that dotted the countryside. The chest-high wall of crumbling stone was the oldest Quin had ever seen. It held deep niches dedicated to each of the four gods. Leaves and blown debris mixed with dried herbs and woven sun circlets inside Yhellania’s space. One of the priests swept it out, while the others collected flowers and constructed a new wreath from the long grass beside the road. As the goddess of healing and fertility, Yhellania was beloved by farmers.

Quin examined the other shrines. The God of Art’s alcove had been painted again and again until the pigment was caked on inches thick. Worshipful visitors added to the collage until it was a bright clash of color and design. A placard inlaid with the Goddess of War’s dagger and scales was bolted in the next hollow. A few coppers and tiny bags of spices were piled inside by passing merchants seeking blessings for their endeavors. With a petition for the strength to slay Dalanar, Quin tossed in a tarnished coin. It clinked against the metal and settled beneath the blade. A good omen.

Some gifted carpenter built a wooden door for the God of Knowledge’s niche, the tree the cultists venerated painted on the front. The shelter protected a precious collection of books that formed a small library. Only a prosperous community could afford such luxury.

One end of the wall had been chipped away in antiquity. The edge was uneven, and showed signs of tool marks, even after years of weathering. Why would anyone risk defacing a shrine? Rocks grew like weeds in the fields; they couldn’t have needed the extra stone for construction.

Hoof beats drew her attention. Barrand cantered back from a nearby farm with a grim expression. Her commander wouldn’t meet her eyes, and Quin knew what he was going to say.

Barrand reined his mare in beside the avatar. “They passed by several days ago.”

“I told you they would come this way.” Quin muttered a prayer for rot to bury itself in Dalanar’s genitals. The Servants cast her disapproving glances. “If we headed straight here, we might have caught them.”

Barrand shifted in his saddle, and the leather creaked in protest. He sighed and surveyed the land across the border. Jagged peaks watched over the neat orchards and olive groves from the east and west. In the valley between mountain ranges, smoke from small settlements curled above the trees.

Barrand spoke again, his gruff voice unusually gentle, “Waiting is hard, I understand. And what he did was unspeakable, but Sarael comes first.” He rubbed the knots where his nose had been broken and re-broken. “Don’t waste your life hating him.”

Quin opened her mouth to object. He cut her off.

“This is too personal for you.” Barrand studied her face. “Let it go.”

“She was murdered.”

“So were those Servants. So were countless others.”

Quin wanted justice for the dead. Retribution. Was that so hard to understand?

“You don’t act like any handmaiden I’ve ever heard of.” Barrand snorted. “You’re supposed to delight Sarael with your wit and charm. Provide cheer and sagacious advice. Not stomp around, plotting against avatars and their pet sorcerers.”

She grimaced. Unsuitable would be the kindest way to describe Quin’s service. But after Dalanar destroyed a town to kill her mother, she was the only remaining heir. Sarael had been adamant that Quin assume the role. The avatar wasn’t always practical.

Barrand cleared his throat. “Think they’re heading back to Utur?”

“They’ll probably take the Road.” The words tasted like ash. They traveled freely, while the Servants were forced into hiding.

“You know the area. What’s the safest town between here and Csiz Luan?”

Quin sifted through her mental maps. They needed a place sympathetic to Yhellani and large enough to provide anonymity. “Crador, if we’re willing to travel after dark. It might be full of drunken mercenaries, but they’ll take care of us.”

Barrand shrugged and signaled for the group to proceed. “Start now and we’ll sleep in real beds tonight.”

Quin frowned west toward the disappearing chance of confronting her enemy.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

Quin led them into Crador before midnight, although they lost their way more than once in the darkness. A few dogs ran out to bark at them as they passed the hushed fieldstone cottages on the outskirts of town. Smoke hung in the chilly air and swirled around their shoulders. The stench of refuse strewn in the gutters and alleyways crept out at each intersection to assault their noses. Quin started out of her doze when the horses’ hooves clattered on the cobbled streets of the city proper.

“Well, Quin, where do we go?” Haze and dim light blurred Barrand’s outline.

She pondered for a moment, trying to place their location. Quin had only visited the town twice, briefly. “There should be an inn ahead.”

“You’re not sure?” Father Jol’s voice pierced the mist like an arrow.

The weasel-faced priest was still annoyed that Quin hadn’t taken the vows of service. His lack of authority over her made him peevish. More peevish. She snorted. “No, Jol. I’m not. If you can do better, lead on.”

Sarael touched her arm. “Please continue, Quinthian.”

The first inn they encountered stood defiantly in the middle of the road, forcing travelers to either side to pass by the imposing building. It was not the place Quin expected to find, but she shrugged inwardly. Anything was better than sleeping on the rain-soaked ground again. Jol never needed to know of her mistake.

The only disadvantage to the site was the boisterous taverns that surrounded it. Alcohol and entertainment were the lifeblood of the town. To judge by the numbers of staggering off-duty Ravendi mercenaries crowding the street, Crador thrived.

Jol regarded her with a curled lip. “I see why your memory is hazy.”

Quin ignored him. He was probably right, though. She had done her part to enrich the local economy.

Barrand handed his reins to one of the guardsworn. “This is good enough, if they have room.”

“I’m not sure any place will. We may need to split up,” Quin said.

A Servant groaned. “I just want a bed.”

“Where’s your commitment to a life of deprivation?” Barrand sounded far too cheerful. Indistinct grumbles greeted his comment.

Sarael patted the exhausted priest on the shoulder, and a tiny spark passed between them. The man straightened, shoulders relaxing. He smiled and bowed his head to the avatar.

* * *

The inn could have been any in a hundred towns Quin had visited. The door from the street opened into a central chamber that stretched the full height of the two-story building. Hot breezes laden with tempting spices washed over her from the kitchen on the right, fighting against the pungent scent of wine and stale beer from the bar on the left. Two simple staircases ran up the rear wall to sleeping chambers; between them hung the quartered shield representing the gods. Although a few tables and chairs lined the walls, most of the floor space was dominated by a sunken seating area that ringed a bonfire.

The smell of juniper smoke and saffron brought back memories of Quin’s service with the corps. She smiled fondly at a group of cadets who eyed her fighting braids and nodded politely as they stumbled past and out into the street in search of excitement. Those had been good times.

More rosy-cheeked soldiers lounged on the pillows and thick carpets that covered the broad ledge running along the inside of the pit. Several spice traders idled among them, their rich robes clashing with the scarlet uniforms.

The innkeeper pushed his way over but stopped when he caught sight of the Servants. The white edges of their rough-woven smocks glowed in the firelight. He looked anxiously around the room, and paled, his coppery skin turning sallow. “I don’t want any trouble. Get them out.”

“Are tree cultists in town?” Quin scanned the crowd, fingering her sword hilt. Who was he searching for?

The innkeeper shook his head and gestured to the street.

Quin and Barrand exchanged a glance, and he ushered the group out.

“Have there been attacks on Yhellani?” Quin stared pointedly at the shield, then back at the man. It was reprehensible to appeal to the gods for protection and turn away the priests of Yhellania.

He pursed his lips. “No Servants. Too risky.” The man’s tension eased slightly when the door closed behind Barrand. “You’d best go with them.”

“Why?” Overt prejudice against Yhellani was rare in larger towns, and surprising to find close to the fortress of Csiz Luan. The ties between the Ravendi and the Servants were strong. Maybe he thought they’d be too poor to cover the charges? “We have money.”

The man’s gaze flickered toward the staircases before he leaned closer. “I can recommend another place. But no room for Yhellani.” He jerked his head towards a beefy bouncer leaning against the bar.

Quin raised her hands in defeat. It was too late at night to start a fight. “Fine. I’ll go.” She hoped he remembered this the next time he needed healing. The Yhellani would. “Where is this other place?’’

* * *

“Quin, I don’t like this,” Barrand said when they reconvened in a sheltered corner of the street. “That was more than simple bigotry. The man was scared—of the Servants or for them.”

“Maybe those cultists came through here first. Stirred up trouble.”

“He didn’t warn us to leave town. Sending us to another place doesn’t sound like he’s concerned now.”

“He seemed confident we’d find rooms ... I don’t know. We can move on.”

Barrand surveyed their tired faces and relented. “Wouldn’t be any safer thrashing around in the woods with those Throkari sorcerers close by.”

* * *

The innkeeper’s recommendation lay hidden on a pleasant street away from the tavern district. The inn was clean and quiet, despite being named The Gilded Rat.

As soon as the proprietor showed them to their bunkroom, Sarael collapsed in the rickety chair. The Servants and soldiers threw their packs down and sprawled on the cots with relieved sighs. A few of them fell asleep without bothering to spread out their bedrolls.

Quin sat on a bed near the door. Something about the exchange with the first innkeeper still bothered her. He had been scared. Nervous. He kept looking at that staircase. Who was up there that he didn’t want them to meet? Not tree cultists. Throkari priests?

“I’m going out,” Quin said. “I’ll try to find out what’s been happening. There must be rumors.”

Barrand rumbled his approval. “Glad you volunteered before I had to order you out into the cold. I’d order you to do it just the same, but I’d feel guilty.” He sobered. “You know the place better than us. Just, be careful.”

Quin nodded and pulled her cloak closed again. The bed looked inviting, if thinly padded. She tucked her pack under the frame and unrolled the bundle of blankets she used on the road. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be too many bedbugs.

Sarael motioned Quin closer. As she did every night, the avatar pressed her fingertips against Quin’s temples, and shut her eyes. A sensation of affection and security eased into Quin like a sip of mulled wine. The barrier the avatar had set in her mind was strengthened and refreshed. A necessary precaution when being persecuted by sorcerers capable of performing the geis. It was Quin’s favorite time of day. To be reassured of the goddess’ protection, and enjoy Sarael’s closeness, however fleeting.

Jol sniffed. “Try not to get so inebriated you forget your purpose.”

Quin shrugged at the annoying weasel. “No promises.”

* * *

The tavern was nearly empty when Quin returned. A sleepy scullion swept around the feet of the last few patrons lingering over a dice game at a low table.

Quin stood near the serving counter until the proprietor emerged from the kitchens. If there was one thing she had learned from Barrand, it was that tact was almost always a waste of time. “What are you hiding?”

“What are you doing back here?” The innkeeper took her elbow and pulled her towards the door. “Hurry,” he whispered.

A creak on the floor above caught her attention. A tall man of about forty, wrapped in a thick coat, paused at the landing. His face was lean, almost gaunt, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His alabaster skin was touched with sun, and ink-dark hair swept back from his forehead. A spark of desire fluttered low in her belly. It had been a long time since the goddess stirred inside her. Quin smiled. Maybe he would join in her devotions and help wash away the stain of death that clung to her.

The man, who had been surveying the room, turned to them. He inclined his head like a lord deigning to notice unimportant servants. Quin bristled at the arrogance of the gesture. Yhellania wanted her to pair with this ass? Was he intended as a punishment or a reward? The man stared at her for a moment before starting down the stairs.

“My lord,” the innkeeper wheezed. “How may I serve?”

Recognition cut through Quin’s sleep-deprived haze, and her throat squeezed shut. She understood the proprietor’s fear. Although she’d never seen him in person, he had been described a hundred different ways. Drawings that did little to capture the intensity of his presence had been posted at the Chapterhouse. Dalanar.

The innkeeper squeaked and slid away, but Quin stood transfixed, her insides icy. This was the murderer she wanted to destroy since she was barely older than a child. Everything slowed; even sounds became muted. Wood creaked as the sorcerer descended. The man beside her moaned softly. The rhythmic rasp of a water pump came from the kitchen.

By the time Dalanar reached the bottom of the stairs, Quin couldn’t draw air. He moved like a predator. Unhurried. Implacable. Terrifying. Heat radiated from him, through his clothes. He burned with casting Fever. Magic turned his body into a kiln capable of scorching any who touched him. He stopped before her, and she looked into his eyes. They held no emotion, no curiosity. Reflecting her image like shattered obsidian, revealing nothing.

I am about to die. He will geis me and force Sarael’s location from my mind. As he did to my mother.

The sorcerer shook his head as if clearing it and walked to the door. The smell of fog and chill night air seeped in as it closed behind him.

This was her chance to kill Dalanar. After years of searching, Quin needed only to follow him into the darkness and cut him down. But ... if she lost, it would put Sarael at risk. The avatar had to be warned. Quin’s sense of duty warred with her desire for revenge. So close.

If she killed him, Sarael would no longer be in so much danger. No more children would be orphaned. No more nightmares of her mother burnt and broken at Dalanar’s hands.

Quin clasped her sword hilt and walked towards the entrance.

“Don’t do it,” the innkeeper whispered.

She jerked her head at him and opened the door.

* * *

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About the Author

Marniy lives in Portland, Oregon with a husband, an elderly bassett-doodle, and a young Newfoundland dog.

She is currently working on the second book of the Sundered Tree trilogy and researching for a new fantasy series set in Cairo during the Ottoman Empire.

She writes mostly at night. Mostly.

Find her online:

Web: In Accordance with Prophecy

Twitter: MarniyJ

Facebook: Marniy Jones - Author

11

Songs of Insurrection

John Kang

SPFBO 2018 Semi-Finalist.

Lose yourself in this fusion of Asian and Western fantasy, which critics extol as “wonderfully opulent,” “Breathtaking,” and “Unique.”

Only the lost magic of Dragon Songs can save the world. Only an awkward girl with the perfect voice can rediscover it.

The Dragon Singers of old summoned typhoons and routed armies, liberating mankind from the orcs before fading into legend. Now, with the world again facing a new cataclysm, the power of music stirs in Kaiya, a naïve misfit with the perfect voice.

Without a master to guide her, she must rely on Hardeep, a foreign paladin, to help awaken her latent magic. His motives might not be entirely noble. When he leads her to the fabled Dragon Scale Lute, which only a Dragon Singer can wield, it is up to Black Lotus Clan to intervene.

Because the instrument’s fell power can save the world…

Or destroy it.

Grit level: 9

* * *

CHAPTER 1

Not-So-Chance Meetings

If marriage were a woman’s grave, as the proverb claimed, sixteen-year-old Kaiya suspected the emperor was arranging her funeral. Entourage in tow, she shuffled through the castle halls toward the garden where General Lu waited. Given his notorious dislike of the arts, the self-proclaimed Guardian Dragon of Hua had undoubtedly envisioned a different kind of audition when he requested to hear her sing.

After all, she was dressed like a potential bride.

She buried a snort. The Guardian Dragon—such a pretentious nickname. The only real dragon, Avarax, who lorded over some faraway land, might make for a more appealing audience. A quick trip down his gullet would spare her a slow death in a marriage with neither love nor music.

And she wouldn’t have to wear this gaudy dress. It compensated for her numerous physical imperfections, but stifled the only thing that made her special. How was she supposed to sing with the inner robe and gold sash squeezing her chest, in a futile attempt to misrepresent her woefully underdeveloped curves? The tight fold of the skirts concealed her lanky legs, but forced a deliberate pace. At least the short stride delayed the inevitable, while preventing her unsightly feet from tripping on the hanging sleeves of the vermilion outer gown.

At her side, Crown Princess Xiulan glided across the chirping floorboards. Kaiya suppressed a sigh. If only she could move with the nonchalant grace of her sister-in-law, or even the six handmaidens trailing them. She dug her nails into clammy palms. Through this choreographed farce, appearances had to be maintained, lest she embarrass her father, the Tianzi .

Chin up, back straight. A racing heart threatened to ruin her already meager semblance of imperial grace. Eyes forward. Servants knelt on either side of the looming double doors, ready to slide them open. She forced a smile, with her best approximation of feminine charm. If only she’d lived before Dragon Songs had faded into legend, she could’ve sent the realm’s victorious hero fleeing with the song he supposedly wanted to hear.

An aging palace official stepped into her line of sight.

Singular focus on the doors broken, she blinked. Her fluttering pulse lurched to a stop as she blew out a breath.

His blue robes ruffled as he tottered forward with averted eyes and a bobbing head. He creaked down into a bow. “Emergency, Dian-xia ,” he said, using the formal address for her rank. “The Tianzi commands you to greet a foreign delegation in the Hall of Bountiful Harvests.”

Her heart remembered to beat again, and she looked first toward the doors and then down at the man, whose insignias marked him as a secretary for the Ministry of Appointments. Outlandish excuses had mercifully cut short each of her previous meetings with eligible young lords: six times in all.

But a foreign delegation? Before even meeting the suitor? That was a first. Her expression slipped as much as it could beneath the layers of pearl powder caked to her face. Mouth dry, her voice came out hoarse. “There must be a mistake. Surely the honor would fall to the Crown Prince.”

He bowed his head again. “No, Dian-xia . With your linguistic talents, the Tianzi thought you better suited to meet with them.”

Apparently, small talk with some foreign lord’s wife constituted an emergency these days. Still, the unspoken message needed little interpretation: the foreigners were beneath a prince.

At least it meant delaying the matchmaking. Kaiya cast a glance at Xiulan. “Then shall the Crown Prince take my place and sing to General Lu?”

Her supposed chaperone covered a giggle with slender fingers. The wide sleeves of her aquamarine gown slid and bunched in her elbow, revealing the porcelain-like skin of her arm. It was as perfect as her complexion.

The man’s eyes darted back and forth, his lips quivering. “I…I…”

Xiulan stepped forward and brushed a gentle hand across Kaiya’s arm. “Go on, meet with the foreigners. I will explain things to the general.”

Kaiya bowed her head. “As you command, Eldest Sister.” She turned to the official, gesturing with an open hand for him to take the lead.

As she wobbled after him, two of her handmaidens fell in behind. They were more beautiful than her, even after her hours of preening to smother meddlesome acne and subdue unruly hair.

Which now meant she’d look ridiculous receiving dignitaries. Like an opera singer, maybe. “Who are our guests?”

The official coughed. “Prince Hardeep Vaswani of Ankira.”

A man? Kaiya’s stomach leapt into her throat. With limited court training, she might be able to entertain a lady. But a prince… Without any experience in diplomacy, that was an international incident waiting to happen. Given the choice between greeting foreign royalty and the prospect of marriage, that trip into Avarax’s jaws sounded tempting. “What does he want?” she asked.

“He has been in the capital for a week now, incessantly requesting an audience.”

And now they were sending her, an awkward sixteen-year-old, undoubtedly as a message. Prince Hardeep wouldn’t see the Tianzi until her complexion cleared or the orc gods returned on their flaming chariots, whichever came first. A betting princess would put her money on the orc gods.

She sighed. After preparing to play the role of demure and dainty maiden before a potential husband, this new situation required a confident demeanor…and neither came easily.

There was no time to tone down the make-up or change the extravagant gown. Unpinning the outer robe’s constraining fold, she squared her shoulders and lengthened her gait.

No, this wasn’t bad. A reprieve from meeting a dour general. She could do this. How hard could it be? With each step, she concentrated on composing a dignified expression. By the time they arrived at the moat separating the castle from the rest of the sprawling palace grounds, she’d mentally transformed herself from prospective bride into imperial representative.

Right. She still looked like the former, and felt like neither.

At the head of the bridge waited eight imperial guards dressed in blue court robes. The magic etched into their breastplates’ five-clawed dragon evoked awe, though she’d grown used to it over the years.

“Dian-xia ,” the guards shouted in unison. They each dropped to one knee, fist to the ground. The most talented swordsmen in the realm submitted to a pimply girl, for nothing more than the circumstances of her birth.

If only she could live up to the accompanying expectations. Kaiya acknowledged them with a nod. Bowing, the handmaidens shuffled back. The imperial guards deployed behind her. She crossed the stone bridge, leaving behind the relative comfort of private life to enter the formal world of the imperial court.

They wound through stone-paved alleys. White buildings with blue-tiled eaves rose up beyond spotless courtyard walls with circular windows. At the Hall of Bountiful Harvests, Kaiya walked up the veranda and stepped over the ghost-tripping threshold.

Inside, three chattering men gestured at the green ceiling panels and gold latticework. Their burgundy kurta shirts hung to their knees, collars riding high on their necks. On their left breasts sparkled an embroidered nine-pointed lotus, the crest of the embattled nation of Ankira.

The visitors’ discussion came to an abrupt halt as they turned to greet her, heads bowed and palms pressed together. Dark bronze skin and rounded features marked them as ethnic Ayuri. Meticulously coifed black hair fell to their shoulders. The centermost man looked no older than twenty. Taller and more handsome than his companions, he met her gaze.

With blue irises. Luminous like the Blue Moon, Guanyin’s Eye. They captured her image in their liquid depths and reflected it back, more beautiful than make-up could ever accomplish. Maybe even as beautiful as Xiulan.

He tilted his head and flashed…a smoldering smile.

Kaiya cast her eyes down, only to peek up through her lashes. Her lips twitched, struggling against all discipline in their urge to return the smile. Ridiculous! Where had the carefully crafted mask of an imperial diplomat fled to? She tightened her mouth, squared her chin, and looked up.

When he spoke, his deep, baritone voice flowed out of his mouth like honeysuckle vines, entangling her. “I am Prince Hardeep. You must be the Princess of Cathay. The stories of your beauty do you no justice.”

What? Nobody could say her plain looks warranted praise, at least not sincerely. Yet his earnest words sounded nothing like the hollow compliments of court sycophants and suitors.

Heat rose to her cheeks, threatening to melt away her make-up, and her nominally dignified expression with it. His language tumbled off her tongue, accent lilting in her ears. “Welcome to Sun-Moon Palace, Prince Hardeep. I act as the ears of my father, the emperor.”

Cringe-worthy. She could speak Ayuri better than that. Almost perfectly, but—

“And your voice! Saraswati, our people’s Goddess of the Arts, would be jealous. Perhaps you would sing for me?”

Kaiya’s head swam. Her mouth opened to beg off the unexpected request, but no words came out.

He waved a hand, and his manner stiffened. “I forget myself. Your song would certainly invigorate me, and I confess I hoped to catch a glimpse of you during my visit. However, my country’s needs are more pressing. I have a request of your emperor.”

Whatever spell his previous tone had woven through her mind loosened enough for her to find her voice. “I am afraid you misinterpret his intentions. By sending me, he has already denied you.”

No. Did she just say that out loud? Kaiya covered her mouth. If only Avarax would swoop in and devour her now.

The Ankiran prince’s lips melted into a frown and his attention shifted to her slippers. “Please hear our entreaty. The Kingdom of Madura occupies almost all of Ankira, in part because of their twice-renewed trade agreement with Cathay. For almost thirty years, you have sold them firepowder. Now, our soldiers are weary and our coffers depleted. The agreement expires soon. We ask—no, beg—that you not renew it.”

Released from his gaze, her mind began to clear. “How were you able to make it through the Maduran lines?”

Prince Hardeep raised his head. Kaiya avoided those mesmerizing eyes, and instead focused on his chin as he spoke. “One of your lords, Peng Kai-Long, has long supported us. I came with him on a Cathayi trade ship.”

It made sense. Cousin Kai-Long served as a trade negotiator in Ayuri lands and knew many influential people in Tivaralan’s South. He had recently returned to the capital to attend the upcoming wedding of Second Brother.

“He is my father’s favorite nephew,” she said. “I am sure he could present a more convincing argument to the Son of Heaven than I.”

Prince Hardeep shook his head. “Search inside yourself and speak with your heart. A father cannot deny the compassionate voice of his beloved daughter. Please. Our riches have been plundered, our people enslaved.” His voice beckoned her head up. “Widows must sell their bodies, while orphans starve in the streets.”

His dejected gaze twisted into her. Her heart, suddenly hot, sank into her belly. All those unfortunate people, suffering because of Hua’s firepowder, while she enjoyed the comfort of the palace. Father must not have known the consequences of the trade agreement, since he ruled with the moral authority of Heaven. Someone had to speak for these downtrodden people.

“I will convey your message. Please make yourself comfortable until my return.” She paused for a moment to search his expression. All signs of his earlier frivolity were gone. He’d just been toying with her to get what he wanted.

It didn’t matter. It was the right thing to do. All the heroes from her favorite songs would’ve done the same. With an inward sigh, she turned and swept out of the hall, her guards marching behind her.

Outside, Kaiya took a deep breath of cool spring air to calm her thoughts and ease the hot constriction in her chest. Never before had a man made her pulse race like that. Then again, she had nothing but six fawning suitors with which to compare him.

No, this had nothing to do with Prince Hardeep’s charm. An entire nation suffered, with Hua’s complicity. Father had always preached morality, demanded her to always do the right thing.

In her mind, she hummed a ballad recounting heroic Dragon Singers and the perils they willingly faced. Her heart swelled, and she turned to the official. “Where is the Tianzi now?”

The old man gawked. “I do not think—”

She cast a silencing glare.

He bowed his head. “In the Hall of Supreme Harmony.”

As the palace’s central audience chamber, the Hall of Supreme Harmony was just a few minutes away, up one hundred sixty-eight arduous steps. Father rode an ornate golden palanquin to the top, but Kaiya, like anyone else who wasn’t the Tianzi , had to climb.

Each step planted a seed of doubt in her head. A princess had no business in politics, besides solidifying loyalties through marriage. Remonstrating the Tianzi in front of all the lords and ministers would embarrass Father, so much that he would have no choice but to punish her.

* * *

CHAPTER 2

Treacherous Intents

Eighteen-year-old Zheng Tian knelt by the blockwood door, cursing under his breath. In his former life as Princess Kaiya’s childhood confidante, he would’ve never broken into a warehouse. Now a Moquan spy, whose clan served the Tianzi , he should’ve already picked the lock.

“Hurry up.” Cell leader Yan Jie’s whisper tickled his ear. “The guards are halfway to the corner.”

Tian glanced up to the south, where the alley between the warehouses provided a view of the smallest of the three moons, Caiyue.

Swirling with colors like a soap bubble, it waned to fourth gibbous—two hours before dawn. The guards were running ahead of schedule. He hadn’t heard them coming, but Jie’s half-elf blood gave her adorable pointed ears with exceptional hearing.

He motioned to the lock. “Shine the light there.”

The roll of her eyes carried in her hushed tone. “A blindfolded orc with three fingers missing would have broken in by now.”

Now, even his ears picked up the guards’ laughter. He twisted the pick in the narrow hole for the third time. With a soft click, the lock yielded. A little pressure on the door confirmed the hinges were well-oiled, and he pushed it open. Without a sound, he pulled Jie in and closed the door behind them.

In the silent darkness, Jie tapped her fingers on his forearm in their clan code. Two guards, now turning corner… Now passing door… All clear .

He blew out a breath. As risky as the work was, he fit in better among spies and assassins than with the realm’s ruling elite. Not like he could ever go back to that life. Not after what he’d done to Princess Kaiya.

A dim light from Jie’s magic bauble spilled from between her fingers, casting her childlike features in a shadowed hue. Though ten years, three months and two days his senior, she looked no older than twelve, thanks to her elf heritage.

He rotated the lock back into place with another quiet snick . “It’s a new device. Dwarf-made. Very expensive. I noticed it during the last harbormaster inspection.”

Jie’s large almond eyes narrowed to normal Hua size as she squinted at the door. That look…she was more interested than she let on, if only about the dwarven lock. “A nice lock doesn’t mean they are hiding anything.”

How could he even begin to explain the incremental increase in value on deliveries using specific ships in specific months, to this specific warehouse, when specific customs officials were on duty? The patterns, so clear to him, never made sense to anyone else. “Their manifests were suspicious. Come on.” He beckoned her toward the dozens of wooden crates.

Yawning, she padded after him. It was doubtless feigned boredom—if anyone ever supported him, it was Jie, the clan master’s adopted daughter.

He stopped at a crate with the word fragile painted around the lid. Its markings listed an origin of Wailian County in the unsettled North, with a destination of Yutou Province in the South.

He slid a finger over the rough edge of a crate and held it up. “Ground rice powder.”

“So, they want to keep something dry. That could be just about anything. Beef jerky and pearl powder aren’t going to lead to the realm’s downfall.” Shrugging, she produced a nail extractor from one of the twenty-seven hidden pockets in her utility suit.

“Wait.” Tian stayed her hand. If only he could explain things as quickly as the thoughts came to him. Customs forms declared the box’s contents to be sesame seeds, whose oils would be ruined by rice powder. Not to mention that Yutou Province was the largest supplier of sesame seeds in the realm. So unless Yutou’s Tai-Ming Lord Liang planned on cornering a low-margin market by buying up every seed in the nation and labelling them fragile, it wasn’t sesame seeds in that crate.

He picked up a nearby crowbar and gingerly wedged it under the lid, far from any of the nails. Wailian County’s chief resource was saltpeter, shipments of which were restricted to the capital. It wouldn’t do to send any sparks flying. Opening the lid sent a cloud of rice dust into the air.

Jie waved a hand in front of her eyes and peeled open the cloth lining inside, revealing… “Imagine that, a box marked sesame seeds having…sesame seeds.”

With a frown, Tian knifed his hand into the seeds. Half a chi in, his fingers, rough from ironpalm training, thunked against wood.

Her ears twitched. “How deep?”

“Seven cun .” He indicated a handlength, then eased a large box out with a rustling of sesame. This was why he was meant for spying. Even if it meant never seeing Princess Kaiya again.

He cast a triumphant glance at Jie. “There’s more in there. Several.”

“I could’ve told you that.” She blinked innocently as she ran a hand across the lid.

Of course. He swatted her hands away. Opening the box revealed a fine black powder. Tian had expected coarse white saltpeter. He exchanged glances with Jie. “What is it?”

She sucked on the right side of her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”

“Take a sample—”

Jie’s ears perked up and her head jerked toward the door. She stashed the light bauble, drowning the room in darkness.

The door whispered open with a breeze, and light crept in from a light bauble lamp. Three cloaked men pushed their way in and closed the door behind them. None of them looked familiar; they were certainly none of the sixteen guards who rotated shifts around this building. Their clothes bore no identifying sigils.

Pulse racing, Tian eased the lid back on top of the incriminating crate as quietly as he could. His fingers worked the nails back into their holes. If the conspirators discovered the tampering, they would cover their tracks.

“There are twenty crates marked fragile,” said the smallest of the men, his enunciation thick with the North. He held up the lamp and opened its shutters. It illuminated the front third of the building, leaving Tian and Jie in the dark. “I’ll show you where they are spread throughout the warehouse.”

The largest man crossed his arms. “You could have put them all together, close to the front. The porters’ guild would charge you an extra ten percent.”

“Then it’s a good thing you aren’t with the guild.” Lamp Man’s lips drew into a tight frown.

The porter crossed his arms. “I’m sure the porters’ guild, harbormaster, and other authorities might take issue with, how shall I say…”

The third man, a fellow with a fat nose and the telltale bump of a short sword concealed beneath his cloak, exchanged glances with Lamp Man, then waved a hand. “My lord is more than willing to pay five percent.”

Tian’s ears perked up. Fat Nose’s lord was someone from the South, if he shared the same rough features and accent.

The porter grinned. “Plus a silver jiao for dragging me over here at this hour.”

“Two silver jiao for the inconvenience and discretion,” Fat Nose said.

The porter licked his lips. “The porter guild is scheduled to unload the Wild Orchid at first light. My other men will come to collect your shipment tonight.”

Tian tapped his chin. The Wild Orchid , belonging to Tai-Ming Lord Peng in Nanling Province, had been sighted at sea late this night. Yu-Ming Lord Tong of Wailian County had never before used it to transport the questionable shipments.

“Then we are agreed.” Fat Nose gestured toward the crates, inviting the men to follow him.

Tian’s muscles tensed. If the conspirators discovered them, someone would likely die. He backed deeper into the warehouse, with Jie pressing her back into his stomach as if he needed the prompting. Her fingers tapped on his forearm. Left two mine. If necessary. On my signal.

Of course she would leave the one with the sword to him. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. What was the old proverb Princess Kaiya had first told him, four thousand, twenty-one days ago? Hold the dragonfly with care , for even their fleeting lives have value .

What was the value of a man’s life? Tian looked from face to face. As long as these new arrivals didn’t find evidence of tampering, they would live to see the morning.

There had to be a way to ensure that, if only because the porter had a family to go home to. At least, the carp marriage charm around his neck implied as much. He tapped on Jie’s forearm. I distract, you seal crate .

“That one.” Lamp Man led the way, pointing to several of the boxes marked fragile.

Treading quietly just outside the edge of the lamp’s light, Tian worked his way toward the entrance. If they moved the light over too much, they’d see him.

As the three men continued, the light shifted deeper into the warehouse. Once the darkness enveloped the front door, he eased it open and slipped out. On the other side, he closed the door and looked past the setting full Blue Moon to the Iridescent Moon. Never moving from its seat in the heavens, it now waned halfway between its fourth and fifth crescents. An hour and a half to dawn. He rapped on the door. “Harbormaster’s office here,” he yelled.

A brief commotion broke out, followed by silence. A set of footsteps approached the door. It opened, and Lamp Man peered out and scrutinized Tian up and down.

“Harbormaster’s office.” Tian flashed an apologetic grin. With a black utility suit instead of the blue robes marking him as a government official… “Two ships coming in. Before dawn. Anything to declare?”

Lamp Man’s forehead crinkled. “Who are you?”

“I’m from the Harbormaster’s office. On my way to work. I saw you three enter.” Tian memorized Lamp Man’s fine features and light complexion as he stalled…with the light at the door, Jie could work those nails back into place with her iron palms.

Lamp Man looked Tian over again. “You don’t look like an official.”

“Just a scribe, sir.” Tian wiped his hands over his clothes. Almost all people in Hua believed the Moquan to be nothing more than boogeymen who kidnapped unruly children. At least, that’s what mothers told children to keep them in line. “My robes are at work.”

Lamp Man reached into his cloak, sending Tian’s hand for his hidden knife. Then, Lamp Man proffered a copper fen . “What’s your name, boy?”

“Zheng.” Tian peered at the coin for a few seconds, then plucked it up and bobbed his head. Let Lamp Man believe a bribe went a long way, as it certainly did with many government officials, and it might be a means of finding out more information.

“Well, Little Zheng, I may need you in the future.”

Tian bobbed his head a few more times. “Happy to help. But soon. I will be transferred in a few weeks.”

Lamp Man nodded. “I will be visiting the harbormaster’s office this afternoon. I will need some help filing some documents.” A silver jiao appeared in his hand.

Filing, or perhaps forging. Tian feigned an avaricious grin and swiped it. There was a conspiracy of some sort, and he would soon find out its nature.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

Incendiary Rumors

As a half-elf raised among humans, Jie hated being treated like someone half her age. Especially by Tian. Now that they were safe in a nearby alley, she swatted his hand away as he tousled her hair. His impertinence would be annoying if he weren’t so handsome.

“You left me!” she said. And not for the first time in their lives as partners.

“My improvisation worked, right?” Tian’s grin begged to be slapped.

Jie snorted. When he improvised, it usually led to disaster. His plans, on the other hand, had a high rate of success, as long as she was the one executing them.

He tapped his chin. “Did you push the nails back in place?”

Jie made a show of examining her fingernails. “Yes, but with such calloused fingers, I won’t be sent to the Floating World to trawl for information anytime soon.”

“You wouldn’t belong there, anyway. The Night Blossoms of Floating World are beautiful beyond compare.” Tian reached for her hair again.

His tone carried no hint of malice, and it would be expected with his lack of social graces, but still. What a boor! With a swipe of her hand, she seized his and pushed up on his elbow to put him in a chicken-wing lock. Before she could finish the motion, he grasped her wrist and twisted. Not to be outdone, she snaked her arm out of his grasp. “Are you quite done?”

“Yes.” Tian pointed to the warehouse entrance, a block away. “I’ll keep an eye on Fat Nose until I report to work. You check out the Wild Orchid ’s cargo.”

Jie sucked on her lower lip. Not only did he treat her like a little girl, he also gave orders–even though she was his senior, the clan master’s adopted daughter, and the cell leader. The things she tolerated, if only from Tian. “Fine.”

He didn’t even notice, so intent was he on crouching by a stack of kegs and peering at the warehouse. Harrumphing, Jie turned toward the docks.

Night still hung over Jiangkou. Even if her no-good father had abandoned her as a baby, at least he had left her with exceptional elven senses. Now that the crescent White Moon Renyue and the Blue Moon Guanyin’s Eye had set, human eyes would strain in the darkness. However, the world appeared clearly in shades of green to her elven vision.

Pausing in an alley between warehouses, she uncovered the plain breeches and shirt she’d stashed just for this purpose. After slipping into them, Jie adjusted a thick headband to cover her ears. When the clan needed someone disguised as a kid, she was the one who invariably got stuck playing the part.

She peered out onto the long stretch of wharfs along the harbor front. An enormous sablewood vessel towered over the already large Hua trading ships. A handful of likely non-guild longshoremen milled about, scrounging for a piece of Hua’s wealth. With its ships and trade routes dominating the western seas, the nation was like a golden pig, fattened to the point that the lords swam in riches and even the poor wanted for little. If only the citizens knew what the Black Lotus Clan did: that a rebellion brewed in the North. Fueled by greed, it was kept in check only by the delicate systems of interdependence set up by the dynasty’s founder.

Out in the water, the Wild Orchid made its way toward a pier. Sails lowered, its oarsmen rowed to the beat of a drum. Jie headed in the same direction, slipping between the growing crowds of workers. With dawn stretching tendrils of red and pink through the morning clouds, her vision shifted to color. Her attention was drawn from the Wild Orchid to a huge black ship, already docked. Its green flag, emblazoned with a silver sun with nine points, marked it as Tarkothi. With treaties demarcating trade spheres between the world’s great naval powers, it was strange to see them this far west.

By the time she reached the Wild Orchid , dockworkers were already tying down the moorings. Jie sighed as she mixed in with the queue of child laborers. With the possibility of insurrection, there were a dozen more interesting places to be than here. All on Tian’s hunch. The sailors’ banter, laced with language that could make a Night Blossom fake a blush, provided the only entertainment during the wait.

At last, the gangplank lowered. Twenty-one black-haired, bronze-skinned people wobbled down. The men wore threadbare kurta shirts, while faded sari hung from the women’s shoulders. Ayuri folk, but from which nation, and why would they come to Hua?

“Finally!” Speaking in the Ayuri language, a middle-aged man with a scar on his cheek dropped to his knees on the dock.

A woman patted him on his shoulder. She had a large birthmark on her neck, and a toe ring marked her as married, per Ayuri custom. “We can start a new life here.”

A younger woman, face partially obscured by a scarf, found Jie’s gaze. Unlike her comrades, this one had a lighter, cinnamon complexion and more slanted eyes. Half-Hua, perhaps, and beautiful in an exotic way. She ducked her head and hid her face beneath the scarf. In that flash of her hand, a black birthmark, or perhaps a tattoo, peeked out from the brown henna patterns on her wrist.

As curious as she was about these people, Jie couldn’t ask in their language lest she reveal herself as anything other than a boy looking for a job. Still, it wasn’t hard to deduce their story: refugees from Ankira, which was steadily losing a thirty-year war to Madura.

At the head of the dock, a group of Hua men dressed in the red-and-black livery of Nanling Province approached. Their leader pressed his palms together and bowed his head in Ayuri fashion to the refugees. In perfect Ayuri he said, “On behalf of Young Lord Peng Kai-Long, I welcome you to Cathay.”

All the refugees returned his salute.

“You must be tired after your long journey. Young Lord Peng has made arrangements for you to join your countrymen. Please come with me.”

“I need ten boys,” yelled a voice in Hua from the gangplank. “Two copper fen for a day’s work.”

Just what she had been waiting for. Forgetting the Ankirans, Jie deftly slipped between the reaching, shouting boys. At the front, a man with a leathery complexion chewed on what appeared to be salted meat, pointing at recruits. Jie hip-butted a kid and placed herself in the line of his finger.

He started to shake his head, but paused. His focus locked on her. “No, you’ll do. It takes small, nimble hands for the job I have in mind.” He beckoned the boys up the gangplank, but smacked an unchosen one who tried to board. He led the group across the deck, pointing out work.

When they passed the hatch to the lower decks, Jie waited for him to turn his back, then dashed through and took the steps down two at a time. Dimly lit by banks of oar holes, the open space was full of benches and oars, small chests and hammocks. It reeked of sweat and seawater. Crew berths, in all likelihood, with plenty of places to hide. With their backs to her, six men worked winches, bringing a platform of crates up from yet another hatch near the middle of the ship.

Using the creaking of pulleys and yawning of ropes to mask her footsteps, Jie crept closer, and then dropped behind a nearby bench. They unloaded the crates and lowered the platform.

“Load up!” a man shouted down.

When they carried the crates to the upper deck, Jie slunk forward and inspected the hatch. Ropes attached to pulleys and winches led down into the very bowels of the ship; below the waterline, by her best estimate. Below, a man set a keg on the platform and spun around.

She leapt down, catching one winch line and swinging to another before landing in a forward roll. It stank of sweat and curry powder. Even her elven vision wouldn’t penetrate the darkness here; luckily light bauble lamps provided illumination as well as shadows in which to hide. If any of the porters had seen her before she ducked behind a crate, they were hopefully too concerned with their own work to care about a trespasser.

Jie picked her way among the cargo, glancing back at every voice and footstep. Red paint marked contents and destinations. The bulk of the crates were labelled as Ayuri gooseweed and Levanthi spices, imported by Golden Fu Trading Company, bound for Nanling Province’s villa in the capital. Tian’s suspicions, though rarely wrong, were wrong now. Hardly worth the risk of mingling among boisterous sailors. If they discovered her, found out she was a girl…

The smell of rotten eggs, unmistakable but likely undetectable to a human nose, caught her attention. She sniffed, following the scent to several kegs. The writing marked the contents as turmeric, a ubiquitous ingredient of Ayuri cooking, originating from Pelastya and bound for Wailian County.

Jie examined one of the kegs. Well-sealed, no residue. There was no way of telling the contents without opening it. However, turmeric didn’t smell like rotting eggs, and Pelastya didn’t grow turmeric. It did have volcanoes and sulfur mines.

Sulfur, bound for Wailian County, the world’s only major source of saltpeter. As clan master’s daughter, she was privy to the closely guarded recipe for firepowder. The only major ingredient left would be charcoal.

Against the laws of interdependence that kept the nation at peace, someone was making firepowder in the rebellious North. If that was the mysterious substance they’d found in the warehouse, it was being sent south to Yutou Province. An alliance of North and South, ready to fall on the capital.

Jie needed to alert the clan. She started back toward the hatch.

“You!” a male voice called.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

12

Blade’s Edge

Virginia McClain

Foreword

So, first things first, if you’re not the kind of person who really enjoys reading forewords… probably best if you go ahead and skip to the story. No really, there’s nothing all that exciting here. The good bits are in the story!

Of course, now you’re probably wondering why I’m writing this at all, if it’s not part of the ‘good bits.’ A very fair question. The answer is, this book has a lot of stuff borrowed from feudal Japan and I’m here to clear up a few things about why that is, and how it is in NO WAY historical fiction, even though there are a couple nuggets of inspiration from feudal Japanese samurai culture. So, if hearing about that sounds like your cup of tea, by all means, stick around! If not, head to the story. That’s why we’re all here anyway. You can come back and read this later if you decide you’re curious.

It’s your call, but you’ve been warned. The good stuff lies ahead. This is just a lengthy disclaimer about how this book isn’t actually about Japan.

Ahem.

Hi there! If you’re still here then that must mean you like forewords a lot, or perhaps you’ve gotten to the end of the book and thought, I can’t decide if that was supposed to be historically accurate or not. Is this book really about Japan?

The answers, quite simply, are No and No.

This is a fantasy book. The world in which it takes place is completely fictitious, in both space and time. Gensokai doesn’t exist anywhere, and it never has. That said, if parts of the story make you think of Japan (or of the Japanese language) that’s because I was living in Japan at the time that I wrote the first draft of the story, and the more I learned about Japanese history, culture, and geography the more bits of inspiration I found for this tale. The fictional culture of the book was inspired by feudal Japanese samurai culture. The physical landscape of the book was inspired by the Japanese landscape. And the thing that was most heavily inspired was the language. As a language nerd (I majored in Spanish linguistics in University, and have been obsessed with learning other languages since I was a kid) I thoroughly enjoyed picking words (or sometimes just pieces of words) out of Japanese and using them to make my own.

So, as you go through this story, you might find that parts of it seem taken from a Japan you recognize as either current or historic, and then you may find other pieces that don’t fit that mold at all. I’m afraid the inspiration was loose, driven by a love and appreciation for all the things I was learning at the time, but not bound by the reality of any of them. I definitely made up words that do not exist in Japanese, and the place and history of Gensokai is entirely a product of my own imagination. The only reason I use Japanese at all, instead of a completely fictional language, was that I felt it helped establish the feel of the book, and also I lack Tolkien’s patience when it comes to creating a new language from scratch.

SPFBO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 6

* * *

Glossary of Terms

Some of the following terms are actual Japanese words, however, most of them are fabricated words made strictly for the purpose of this fictional work. Some are based in Japanese roots, while others are simply English terms made to apply to things in the book. While Gensokai is a fictional world and is not actually based on Japan, much of the vocabulary for the book is taken from Japanese to help give it the feel of the feudal Japanese culture that the world was inspired by.

Please note that Japanese plurals are not denoted with an s, so you will see things such as: “three kimono” or “a hundred sanzoku” throughout the book.

cycle - *See seasoncycle

chawan - bowl or cup used to serve tea (an actual Japanese term)

eihei - The elite guard of the Rōjū (an actual Japanese term meaning elite guard)

fuchi - The well of one’s ki (taken from the actual Japanese word for abyss)

Gensokai - The name of the island realm in which our adventure takes place (taken from the Japanese words for element and world)

ha - The actual Japanese word for the sharp edge of a blade

hakama - The pants worn by Kisōshi (actual Japanese term for divided skirts that men wear on formal occasions or for certain martial arts)

hebi-dan - This is a made up term containing the actual Japanese word for snake (hebi) and the actual Japanese word for level or rank (dan). In the context of the book, Hebi-dan is the lowest rank for a Kisōshi (it is the first rank they achieve through testing) whereas the highest is Ryū-dan.

hishi - The elite assassins used by the Rōjū (taken from the Japanese word for secret history)

izakaya - A tavern-like place where people go for drinks and food, most often consisting of private rooms for friends to meet and talk (taken from the actual Japanese word)

Josankō - The school where all josanpu are trained (taken from the Japanese words for midwifery and school)

josanpu - A woman trained in the arts of birthing and care for women’s health (the actual Japanese word for midwife)

Kami/kami - This word is taken from the actual Japanese for spirit or deity. For the purposes of this book the capitalized Kami means deity and the lowercase kami means spirit.

katana - the long curved blade used by all Kisōshi (the actual Japanese word for a single edged sword)

ki - A person’s spirit or energy (actual Japanese word for spirit/essence)

kimono - Traditional clothing worn by men and women throughout Gensokai (the Japanese word for clothing –especially traditional Japanese clothing)

kisaki - The point of a blade (actual Japanese word for the point of a blade)

kisō - Energy manipulation (taken from the Japanese words for energy and manipulation –note that the actual Japanese definition differs from this made up usage)

kisōseki - A rare person who, due to an overlap in elemental powers, is able to track using kisō (word fabricated from a combination of energy manipulation and tracking)

Kisōshi - Elite warriors trained in fighting who possess an innate ability to manipulate one element (word taken from Japanese for “energy manipulation person”)

mooncycle (moon) - Three tendays in Gensokai. Most common usage is “moon”

mune - The blunt back edge of a blade (actual Japanese word)

obi - The wide decorative belt worn with kimono (actual Japanese word)

oni - Demons or bad spirits

raiko - A rare kisōshi who can call on both water and wind (taken from Japanese roots for storm and caller)

Rōjū - The ruling council of elder Kisōshi in charge of making all decisions for Gensokai (using the actual Japanese word for the Shogun’s council of Elders)

ryokan - A traditional inn (actual Japanese word)

ryū-dan - See “hebi-dan”

sanzoku - A mountain bandit (actual Japanese word for mountain bandit)

saya - A scabbard (actual Japanese word)

seiza - A folded seating position (actual Japanese word)

senkisō - A Kisōshi with elemental ties to fire or air and thus to battle (taken from the Japanese words for energy manipulation and war/battle)

seasoncycle (cycle) - The term for a year in Gensokai, most commonly referred to as a “cycle”

shoji - sliding screen door or window (actual Japanese word)

shinogi - The widest part of a katana, the part between the mune and the hasami (actual Japanese word)

shuriken - A small sharpened disk used as a weapon by the hishi, often coated in poison (actual Japanese word for “throwing star”)

tatami - A mat made of dried woven grass and straw typically used as flooring, also a standard measure of length: approximately one meter by two meters in size (actual Japanese word)

tenday - A period of ten days (taking the place of weeks in this world)

tsuka - The hilt of a katana

uwagi - The jacket worn by all Kisōshi (taken from the Japanese word for a traditional jacket)

wa - Harmony (taken from the actual Japanese)

wakizashi - The short sword worn by kisōshi to accompany a katana.

yukisō - A Kisōshi with elemental ties to earth or water and thus to healing (taken from the Japanese words for energy manipulation and healing/medicine)

Yūwaku - The all female ruling power in Gensokai before the Rōjū took power

zanto - An ally of the Rōjū after they were deposed (taken from the actual Japanese)

* * *

Anatomy of a Katana

tsuka - hilt

mune - back edge

shinogi - middle (widest point if looking at a cross section)

ha - front edge (cutting edge)

kisaki - point of blade

saya - scabbard

* * *

1109年

In winter we see

the reality of trees

exposed in cold truth

* * *

30日 12月 老中 1109年

30th Day, 12th Moon, Cycle 1111 of the Rōjū Council

Taka

THE SCREAM MADE Taka drop the snowball she had just been aiming at her best friend’s head and turn towards the gate to see what was happening. In a single heartbeat Mishi was by her side and crawling onto her shoulders to get a better view.

“Mishi-chan!” she hissed. “I can’t see when you do that!”

She brushed her younger friend’s hands from her face, where they had strayed to cover her eyes. Mishi was a cycle younger than she, but barely smaller. Still, the girl insisted that her two fingers’ width of height deficiency meant she could use Taka as a staircase whenever she pleased. Mostly Taka didn’t mind, but someone had just screamed. This was serious.

Once she had cleared her vision of her friend’s hands, she was able to see what was happening at the small gate that led into the snow covered garden.

“Mishi-chan… is that… is that Rika-san?”

She didn’t give Mishi time to reply, for in a single breath they both recognized the older girl, and in one move Mishi had dismounted from Taka’s shoulders and they had both begun running in Rika’s direction. As they neared her, they saw that her face was streaked with dirt and tears, her clothes soaked with melting snow, and her body a mere shadow of what it had been when she had left them only two moons before.

“Rika-san?” they both called, as they ran towards her. Why had the older girl screamed? She was stumbling now, through the small wooden gate and towards the door to the orphanage’s kitchen, which lay only a few tatami lengths away from her across the snow buried garden. Her breath faltered and her limbs shook, and Taka was sure that the girl would collapse at any moment.

Taka and Mishi were rushing to help the older girl when they heard a deep voice shout from the gateway.

“Stop her! Stop that girl!”

They had no sooner heard the voice than they were nearly thrown to the ground by three grown men rushing forward to grab Rika. Just as the men reached her, the girl let out another yowl of despair. The noise was so awful that Taka would have covered her ears if her hands hadn’t been busy holding Mishi up from the packed snow that she and her friend had been flung down on.

Taka couldn’t make sense of what she saw before her. The men appeared to be normal villagers, men she would have recognized from the town market if it had been a normal day. But these men were all grabbing Rika as though she were some sort of dangerous criminal and dragging her back towards the gate with them. They were forced to drag her, her legs flailing as she tried to free herself, her ragged clothing and jagged bones cutting an ugly scar in the snow as they pulled her towards the gate and the black clad man who had first shouted that she should be stopped.

Mishi regained her footing first and jumped forward as though to confront the men, but Taka grabbed her friend’s shoulder in order to hold her in check.

“But Taka-chan, she doesn’t want to go with them,” Mishi said, and Taka knew it was true. She didn’t need to read the girl’s emotions with her kisō to know that Rika wished to be anywhere but in the hands of the men who held her, a fact made clear enough by the way she thrashed with what little strength was left in her frail body.

“I know Mishi-chan, but what are you going to do against three men and a Yukisō?” she asked, her grip firm on Mishi’s shoulder. “They’ll never let her go just because you punch someone in the knees.”

Mishi’s lips turned down at the reminder of how small she was, but Taka still held the younger girl’s shoulder. Taka was having a difficult time restraining herself from helping Rika too, but she was convinced that there was nothing that either of them could do except…

Mishi-chan, run and get Haha-san! she said without speaking, projecting her thoughts and emotions at her best friend instead. Mishi nodded, turned on her heel, and began running towards the kitchen door, but when she was still a full tatami length away from the door it opened on its own and out came Haha-san.

“What’s going on here?” the older woman demanded, as she hurried into the garden and wrapped herself more firmly in her winter shawl. Hope began to bloom in Taka’s chest. Haha-san wouldn’t let these men take Rika when she was so clearly upset. Haha-san took good care of the children in her orphanage. She would protect Rika. Taka was sure of it.

The black clad man’s lips narrowed and his gaze fixed coldly on Haha-san’s face before he replied.

“This miscreant has run away from the Josankō and is to be punished,” he said.

Haha-san hesitated before replying, and stepped back from where the man stood with the three villagers encircling the now quietly sobbing girl. Taka’s hope began to waver.

“Has she done something wrong?” Haha-san asked, her voice now subservient and her gaze directed at the ground before her, rather than the man clad in black.

“Aside from being born a josanpu and disobeying her instructors, nothing at all.” The tone of the man’s voice suggested that either of those offenses were more than enough to condemn a woman.

Taka’s hopes shattered then, as she watched Haha-san simply stand back and observe as the three villagers and the man clad in black walked away with a sobbing Rika carried between them.

Taka had been sure that Haha-san would do something to protect the older girl. Were they really going to stand there and let her be dragged back to whatever place had left her looking like a shade? She had seemed half starved. Haha-san might occasionally treat her wards harshly, or punish them for breaking rules, but she had always done what she could to make sure that the children at the orphanage were healthy and well cared for. Taka didn’t think she was the kind of person to let a girl be so poorly treated, especially not one of her girls.

“You two should get back inside before the cold gets to you,” Haha-san’s voice rang out from the door to the kitchen. Taka had been so focused on watching Rika’s procession away from the orphanage that she hadn’t even noticed the woman’s retreat. As she registered the older woman returning to the kitchen door, a small part of her world view shattered.

Taka turned to look at Mishi and saw that her friend was staring just as wide eyed at the procession of men and girl as she had been herself only moments ago.

“Taka-chan?” Mishi whispered. Even as Taka grabbed Mishi’s shoulder to turn them both back to the orphanage and what small warmth the place had to offer, she began to wonder if it could truly protect them from anything worse than the cold.

“Yes, Mishi-chan?” she replied at length.

“You’ll never let them take me away like that, will you?” Mishi’s voice was as small as the spots on a sparrow’s back.

“No, Mishi-chan,” Taka replied, hoping the words were the truth.

Rika had been the only other girl in the orphanage that Mishi and Taka had shared their secret with. Taka had been only three cycles old when Rika had caught her healing a small scrape on Mishi’s arm after the two cycle old toddler had fallen. She had warned her very sternly then that Taka should never allow anyone to see her using her powers, that she should hide her kisō as though her life depended on it.

Despite the initial warning and the occasional reminders, the older girl hadn’t been very close to either Taka or Mishi. She was three cycles older than Taka, four cycles older than Mishi, and much too old to care about what they did with themselves. But Taka had learned enough in the intervening years to know that Rika’s warning had saved her from a horrible fate, the same fate that had somehow found Rika now. Taka wondered how the girl had found herself exposed? Had she healed someone and been turned in because of it? Taka thought that the most likely answer. Was it impossible to hide who you really were forever? She already knew how difficult it was to know you could help someone, but have to sit by and watch instead because healing them would condemn you.

Taka swallowed then, her mouth suddenly much drier than it should have been, as she took in the silver grey gaze of her best friend.

Mishi was a hundred times more powerful than Rika would ever be. Was there really any way that Taka could protect her from the people who would notice her abilities? She didn’t know what she could do to stop the people who would try to take Mishi away from her, but she was certain that she would do her best.

She nodded then, more to assure herself than anything else.

“I’ll never let them take you away.”

* * *

1111年

The spring tadpole

changes to a summer frog

the tail falls away

* * *

21日 ６月 老中 1111年

21st Day, 6th Moon, Cycle 1111 of the Rōjū Council

Mishi

MISHI STRUGGLED AGAINST Haha-san’s grip. She tried to sit down, tried to make herself as heavy as the sun; as heavy as the weight in her chest that told her that leaving Taka behind would never be alright, no matter what the adults told her.

It didn’t do any good. The plain, white halls of the orphanage passed by in a tear blurred haze, despite her best efforts to burden Haha-san to the point where she would be unable to move forward. The only acknowledgment of her hollow sobs was their echo off the paper walls that enclosed them, and the tang of her sorrow on her lips.

Mishi’s mind flipped through every scenario of a life without Taka and every thought left her feeling another slice of herself being torn away. No more Taka to share secrets with, no more Taka to heal her when she fell from the garden wall, no more Taka to tell her stories, no more Taka to show off her new fire tricks to. It was more than she could bear to think about. She didn’t know what she had done to anger the Kami, but she would do anything she could to appease them. She would light a hundred sticks of incense and meditate for a cycle if that’s what it took, but they couldn’t take her away from Taka!

A hand struck the side of her face then, and she realized she must have cried part of that last thought aloud because Haha-san was shaking her and saying, “Stupid girl. You’ll have a good life. You’ll be a servant to Kisōshi in training. It’s an honor most honest women would die for. I don’t know what you’ve done to please the Kami so, but you should be thankful, not crying about your worthless friend.”

Haha-san shook Mishi once more and then straightened her clothes and wiped the tears and snot from Mishi’s face with a cloth she pulled from her obi.

“Don’t embarrass yourself with such a display, little idiot. You should be proud. If Taka-chan is any kind of friend at all she’ll be happy for you. Now stop blubbering and disturbing everyone’s wa.”

Mishi tried to take a deep breath, but she choked on a sob instead. Haha-san grabbed her and pulled her forward to push her out of the open doorway before she had a chance to drag in another shuddering breath.

“Here she is,” Haha-san said to a woman who stood next to a small cart drawn by a single, giant horse. The woman, who still looked young but had a streak of silver that ran the length of her thick, black hair, smiled at Mishi and bent down to talk to her.

“You look upset, child,” she said as she put a hand on Mishi’s shoulder. “Why is that?”

Mishi tried to answer, but couldn’t get words to form without bringing forth all the tears once more.

“She’s just frightened of the horse,” Haha-san said dismissively.

That made the woman squatting before her raise an eyebrow, but Mishi was unable to utter any other explanation. The woman with the silver streak in her hair raised her hand to Mishi’s cheek and wiped away a tear. Somehow the gesture was much more tender than it had been when Haha-san had done it mere moments before, and something about the contact pulled some of the sadness from Mishi and lessened the emptiness that she thought might swallow her.

“Whatever is upsetting you, child, you should know that where you are going is not a bad place. You’ll be well looked after and be among friends.”

Mishi was about to explain how no number of ‘friends’ could make up for losing Taka, when a faint but familiar contact brushed against her mind.

An image of Mishi in her favorite hiding place in the vegetable garden filled her mind. A message with a clear meaning, one full of hope, that enabled Mishi to step forward and put her hand in the older woman’s outstretched one.

“My name is Tenshi,” the silver streaked woman said.

“My name is Mishiranu,” Mishi answered through the next sob.

I will always find you , said the image that Taka had sent to Mishi’s mind.

* * *

Taka

Taka tried not to scream. She wouldn’t scream, because this couldn’t be happening. Haha-san wouldn’t do this to her, not really. Not in the same day she’d taken Mishi away. It was too cruel.

She denied the scroll that she’d seen Haha-san sign, the koku of rice—enough to feed her fellow orphans for the next mooncycle—that the man had unloaded from his cart. Her eyes had seen it all, but her mind refused to accept it.

The Kisōshi ran his hand from her kimono covered shoulder down to her exposed wrist and yanked her along by the arm. Taka bit her lip and tried to breathe through her nose. She wouldn’t cry. She’d cried all morning for the loss of her best friend. Now she didn’t need to cry, because this couldn’t be real.

She had seen it happen before, of course. She and Mishi had watched from the kitchen door, too stunned to move or help, as this same Kisōshi had bought another girl five moons ago. The way the man had laughed as he’d carried the screaming girl from the orphanage had been enough to terrify them both. But nothing he could have done that day would have frightened Taka more than seeing the same girl three moons later when she had wandered into the vegetable garden looking like a starved and broken doll, much the same way Rika-san had two cycles before, but with less fight in her. The emptiness behind the other girl’s eyes had given Taka nightmares for tendays afterwards. Haha-san had taken the empty-eyed girl across the village and Taka had never seen her again.

Her mind could not accept that this thing was happening to her, even as she was pulled from the hallway of the orphanage that had been her home since the time she was only a single cycle old and into the bright light of the afternoon sun.

Then the smell of dirt and horse manure somehow made the whole scene real to her and, just a few arm spans from the man’s cart, Taka began to dig her heels into the earth beneath her.

“No,” she said, trying to wrest her arm away from him, her voice finally emerging with the waking of her mind. “No!” she said more forcefully.

The Kisōshi didn’t speak. He barely turned to look at her. Without releasing her wrist with his right hand, his open left palm came across her face, making heat spring to her cheek and tears jump to her eyes.

Taka knew that screaming wouldn’t help, she knew that fighting back would only give him more reason to hurt her, and that since the man had bought her he could hurt, or even kill, her without anyone objecting. It didn’t matter that Kisōshi were supposed to be the protectors of all of Gensokai. It didn’t matter that he was supposed to represent justice and be a bringer of peace to the land they all lived in. He was Kisōshi and his word was law. He had bought her, and as far as anyone else was concerned, he had every right to kill her.

Taka knew all of this, had known it since she was old enough to know anything, but suddenly, she didn’t care. She didn’t care if he killed her here in the street, she didn’t care if no one thought she had the right to protest, to defend herself. She wanted to live but, more importantly, she didn’t want to end up with the empty gaze of the girl that Haha-san had sold to this man five moons before.

All of this coalesced in her mind in a single instant. She never made a conscious decision to scream, never made a conscious decision to claw at the man’s face with her free hand. She barely felt the blows he rained down on her as she did it. Barely noticed her lip split beneath his fist, barely felt the skin separate over her eyebrow, never felt the skin swell her right eye shut.

Yet she felt the arm that wrapped around her waist and pulled her away from the man, and she felt the voice rattle through the chest of the man that held her.

“Iizuna-san, I see that you are having some trouble,” said the voice. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

“Washi-san,” the Kisōshi who had bought her said with a slight bow of deference. “I did not know anyone was patrolling through our fair village.”

“Oh?” Washi-san asked. “It’s on the regular patrol schedule. Though I admit I might be moving a day or two ahead of schedule. The roads have been unseasonably dry. Can I help you resolve some dispute?”

Taka didn’t have to turn around and look at the man behind her to know that he was another Kisōshi. It was obvious in Iizuna’s face, and in the fact that the man hadn’t drawn his katana to ‘protect’ his property. Taka tried not to allow hope to surge through her. She reminded herself that another Kisōshi was the one who had just bloodied her face.

“No, no, Washi-san,” Iizuna said, trying to sound casual. “I’m merely teaching some discipline to my new servant.”

“Ah, a new servant, is it? I see. So you’ll be paying her for her work then?” Washi-san’s voice sounded pleasant enough to the ear, but Taka could sense the anger rolling off of him.

“Paying? Yes, of course. She’ll have all the food and shelter she could want,” Iizuna muttered.

Washi-san said nothing for a moment and Taka wondered what he thought of the other man’s lie. Certainly, providing food, clothing and shelter to a servant was considered sufficient pay in many regions of Gensokai, but Taka was well aware that ‘all she could want’ was downright untruth, and she suspected that Washi-san knew it too. He was Kisōshi after all, and just as capable of detecting untruths as she was.

“Iizuna-san, this girl’s face is bleeding rather badly. Do you mind if I inspect her wounds for a moment?”

Taka took a deep breath to steady herself. If Washi-san didn’t take her away from Iizuna, she was fairly certain she would not survive the night, but she didn’t know what Washi-san could do that would be within his rights. He gently led her to the other side of the dirt road that formed the center of their small town and knelt down to look at her. Taka was so bewildered by a Kisōshi meeting her eyes that she saw nothing else of the man’s face, just earthy pools of light creased with gentle concern.

“Iya, child! That bastard has made a mess of your face,” Washi-san said in a low rumble, as she stared thoughtlessly at his earth colored eyes. She didn’t know what to say to that. She was already using her kisō to assess her wounds. She couldn’t heal herself with anyone else around to see it, she knew better than that, but her kisō reached out and assessed the damage almost automatically.

“Eh?” the man turned his head to one side and looked at her through half lidded eyes. Then Taka felt a soft wave of contact, the same as whenever Mishi extended her own kisō to Taka to see how she was doing. Taka had never experienced that touch from someone else, and it startled her enough to stop her assessment of her wounds.

“Josanpu?” he asked, though Taka wasn’t sure who he was asking. Taka simply stared at him. “Child, do you have a name?” he asked, and this time Taka was sure he expected an answer.

“Taka,” she said.

“Taka-chan, do you have some healing power?” he asked again, his eyes suddenly serious. “You’re very young for it, but… do you have some ability to close up cuts, or make pain go away?”

Taka nodded. Those were the least of her powers, but she didn’t think she should say that. In fact, she shook herself, and was horrified at what she’d just admitted. Had she learned nothing from Rika-chan’s capture from the garden all those cycles before? Baka! She’d never told anyone her secret before except Mishi. How had this man gotten it out of her? He must have tricked her, must have used his kisō to make her tell the truth. She started to shift out of his grasp.

“Taka-chan, hold still, please, just for a moment. Let me ask you another question. Do you want to go with Iizuna-san?”

She shook her head violently. That was an easy question to answer.

“I would rather die,” she said, and as the words left her mouth, she knew that they were true.

Washi-san’s eyes widened briefly and Taka wondered if he was surprised by the answer, or only by her willingness to say it out loud. Then he nodded.

“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I’m afraid I can’t stop Iizuna-san from taking you.”

He must have seen Taka’s eyes widen in horror, because he continued quickly.

“But, I can give you over to people who can.”

Taka’s eyebrows met in confusion above her nose.

“I’m not sure how much safer you’ll be with them,” the man said, and there was something in his voice that Taka couldn’t place. Was it sorrow? “But if you’d rather die than go with Iizuna-san, then they’re probably a decent alternative.”

Taka said nothing, but nodded once more. She didn’t trust her voice not to betray her at that moment. Was it possible that this man could actually save her?

“Iizuna-san!” Washi-san called from where they stood. “I’m afraid this girl cannot go with you today.”

“Eh!?” Iizuna bellowed from his cart as he stomped towards them. “I paid for her. She’s mine. I can show you the contract.”

“I understand, Iizuna-san,” Washi-san said, with mock formality. “However, I have discovered that the girl is a josanpu. I will be taking her to the Josankō immediately.”

Taka felt the blood drain from her face as the meaning of the words cascaded over her. She’d heard the man say josanpu earlier, but she hadn’t understood why until just now. If this man thought she was a josanpu, then he was obligated by Gensokai law to take her to the Josankō. Taka took a deep breath and tried to steady herself against the knowledge. She had meant it when she’d said she would rather die than go with Iizuna-san, but the Josankō was the very place that Rika-san had been attempting to escape on the day that she’d been captured in the garden.

* * *

3日 ７月 老中 1111年

3rd Day, 7th Moon, Cycle 1111 of the Rōjū Council

Mishi

MISHI HAD BEEN trying not to let her hope be crushed under the weight of the thirteen days that she had spent in this Kami-forsaken cart. Tenshi had tried to speak with her, but Mishi had limited herself to one word replies and let her attention slip back to watching the green beauty of the mountains slip past her without appreciating any of it. All the rice fields they passed, and the mountains and rivers that lined their passage, were clouded by the knowledge that each day made it that much less likely that Taka would ever find her. Finally, on the afternoon of the thirteenth day, she was jarred from her sullen thoughts by the cart coming to a halt.

Mishi looked up and blinked as though waking from a dream, her senses returning to her as if she had been asleep since the moment she left the orphanage and only now could see and smell all that surrounded her. The air was suddenly hot and thick with the smell of wet, green life; the dirt so recently kicked up by the horse still hazed the world around her. The gate they had stopped in front of was massive; taller than a man, wider than a horse was long, and made entirely of iron.

Mishi worked to keep her mouth from dropping open as Tenshi offered to help her climb down from the cart. She ignored the woman’s proffered hand and simply dropped to the ground.

“This is Kuma-sensei’s school for young Kisōshi,” Tenshi said, as she pushed open the large iron gate and led them through. “During the day, young Kisōshi train here to learn how to fight, and how to control their kisō, and you will be their servant.”

Mishi began to follow Tenshi, but paused briefly to wonder if it was safe to leave the horse in the street. Just as she hesitated, she saw a girl only a few cycles older than herself shuffle forward with a quick bow to Tenshi and go to meet the animal.

“One of your duties will also be to tend the horses,” Tenshi said, as she returned the bow and kept walking through the large gravel courtyard. The news made Mishi stumble briefly and Tenshi reached out a hand to steady her.

“You aren’t truly afraid of horses are you?” Tenshi asked, with sympathy in her eyes.

Mishi shook her head and was finally able to find words. “I don’t know. They’re very big. I’d never seen one so close until we rode behind the one that brought us here.”

Tenshi smiled and put a hand on Mishi’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, your duties will be explained in detail tomorrow. For now, I’m just to give you a brief tour and explain the generalities.”

Mishi nodded. She wasn’t sure what ‘generalities’ meant, but the idea that someone would explain her duties tomorrow helped to steady her breathing.

“This is the main courtyard,” Tenshi explained, as they walked straight across it towards one of the three buildings that enclosed the gravel square.

“On your right are the classrooms for history, geography, mathematics, reading, and writing… scroll studies. The library is also in that building.”

Mishi followed the woman’s hand with her gaze and tried not to be overwhelmed by the idea of books, scrolls, and learning that many subjects. Would she be expected to take lessons and learn to read and write? The idea excited her, but she shook her head to deny the thought; surely there was no reason to teach a servant such things.

“On your left are the classrooms for kisō and budō, weapons classes, emptyhanded training, meditation rooms… all of those studies take place in that building, and in the courtyard on the other side of the residence hall.”

“Do the students live here?” she asked, before she could stop herself. She dropped her chin and hoped she wouldn’t be reprimanded for speaking out of turn. Tenshi did nothing but answer her question.

“Kuma-sensei and I, and the other servant girls, live here,” she said, gesturing to the building that they were directly in front of. “This will be your new home. The male Kisōshi who study here go home at night, or if they are from farther away they board at a nearby ryokan.”

Mishi was too awed by her surroundings to notice anything odd about Tenshi choosing the words ‘male Kisōshi.’ Mishi tried to take in the details of the building even as she attempted to keep up with Tenshi’s stride. The sheer size of everything, not to mention the covered walkways that surrounded all the buildings, almost made her stumble as she walked. The orphanage she’d lived in her whole life along with dozens of other children could have fit within the main courtyard alone.

“I’ll show you to your room in just a moment, Mishiranu-san,” Tenshi said, as they entered the long low building that was the residence hall. “But, first I’m to take you into Kuma-sensei’s rooms. He likes to meet all new students as soon as they arrive.”

Mishi nodded again, but her brain tripped over Tenshi’s last statement. New students? The woman must be tired after the long trip.

Mishi didn’t correct her, worried that it would only earn her a scolding. Haha-san would have smacked her for correcting an elder.

Tenshi said nothing else as she led Mishi down the entire length of the sparingly decorated residential hall, dotted with sliding doors to the left and right, to the door farthest from the main entrance. Tenshi slid the shoji open and gestured for Mishi to enter.

Inside Mishi found a nine tatami room that was sparsely decorated with scrolls containing landscapes that captured all the beauty Gensokai had to offer. The first breath she took within its walls smelled of the dried grass of the tatami mats and the steam of green tea.

In the center of the room, a large man sat in seiza before a low table which held a small pot and two cups. The uwagi and hakama the man wore, along with the katana and wakizashi sticking out of his obi, marked him as a Kisōshi. As that truth dawned on Mishi, she threw her knees to the floor and pressed her forehead down to meet them.

“Get up, child,” said the gruff voice on the other side of the table, even as Mishi heard the shoji slide closed behind her.

Mishi froze for a moment with her head still pressed to the tatami. Of course she should have known that the instructor at a school for Kisōshi would be a Kisōshi himself, but somehow she hadn’t made the connection between that obvious fact and the name of the man Tenshi had been bringing her to meet.

Now, here she sat, frozen in obeisance to a man who could kill her simply for making eye contact with him, and he was insisting that she get up; an act that would require raising her head above the level of his own. An act punishable by death.

Was it a trick?

“It’s not a trick or trap, child,” Kuma-sensei said from his place behind the table. “I wish to see your face, and wish for you to see mine.”

Mishi cautiously raised her head, though she still knelt, and her eyes instantly began to scan the room, looking for anything to focus on other than the man who sat behind the low table.

“Come closer, child. You can’t drink tea from back there.”

The man’s voice was deep and gravelly, like a pile of rocks being pushed down the side of a mountain, but it was calm and kind. She could find no trace of anger in it.

“You need not fear me, Mishiranu-san. I have been searching for you for many cycles, and I wish you no harm.”

That statement was so startling that Mishi forgot her fear and confusion for a moment and looked directly into the man’s eyes. His eyes were the green of a deep forest, and shone with a light that Mishi thought she recognized. Was it mischief? His face was broad and open, golden from having spent cycles in the sun, and he had a few small scars on his brow and chin. His black hair was pulled into a tight knot on the top of his head, the style typical of most Kisōshi.

“Aha! There you are!” he said, as their eyes met. “This is much better, Mishiranu-san. I will not allow my students to hide their eyes from me. Yours are such a lovely grey. Haha-san informed me that that’s why they called you Mishiranu at the orphanage. Understandable, I suppose, but I think I prefer the name your mother gave you.”

Mishi’s vision blurred, though not from tears, and she found her eyes locked on Kuma-sensei’s even though she kept meaning to look away. Two thoughts warred in her mind and she couldn’t decide which required her more immediate attention. Kuma-sensei had called her his student, and he had mentioned her mother. She was still trying to decide which statement made less sense to her when Kuma-sensei continued.

“Mishiranu-san, you are my student, or you will be if you like, as you are a Kisōshi, just like your mother before you.”

* * *

Mishi sat on the tatami of her room–her room, no one else’s, just hers alone–and tried to force her mind to understand all that she had been told.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she murmured to her hands in her lap.

“I can answer your questions!” chimed a voice from the doorway, where her shoji stood open. Mishi looked up to see a girl quite a bit smaller than she was dressed in the same type of kimono that Mishi had found folded into her new dresser. The girl’s face was hidden behind a wide smile, but she had bright open eyes of a tawny shade and a wide forehead that made her face look pleasantly welcoming.

“Who are you?” Mishi asked, before she could stop herself. Iyah! Haha-san would have smacked her for her rudeness.

“My name is Ami,” the other girl said, apparently taking the question as an invitation to enter, and folding herself onto the floor in front of Mishi.

“I’m Mishi,” she replied.

“Nice to meet you, Mishi-san! I’m your sister! Sachi-san is around here too somewhere, but she said she doesn’t want to meet you.”

Mishi didn’t know what to make of a statement like that so she stuck to the things that made sense to her.

“Nice to meet you, Ami-san. What do you mean you’re my sister? I’m an orphan, I don’t have any family.”

“Oh? What’s that like?” Ami smiled as she asked the question and then shook herself as though in scolding. “I’m sorry. You asked about being your sister. Well, all Kisōshi are considered brothers, so we are sisters.”

Mishi tried to make sense of that statement, but was struggling.

“The boys who train here are brothers, even if they come from different families,” Ami continued, as though she could sense Mishi’s confusion. “So we must be sisters! Ne?”

Mishi nodded, simply because she didn’t see any other way out of that particular point of conversation. Ami smiled again, and nodded enthusiastically.

“See,” she said, still beaming, “I told you I could answer your questions. What else don’t you understand?”

Mishi didn’t think she could even list all of the things that she didn’t understand, even if she just limited herself to things she had learned today, but she tried to focus on something simple. Like how the school worked.

“How is it that we can train here and no one knows about us?” Kuma-sensei had focused mostly on how Mishi’s mother had come to be his student, but Mishi still didn’t understand how this school managed to exist in secret.

“Because to everyone else, this is a school for male Kisōshi. The normal kind. What everyone expects. No one thinks female Kisōshi exist, so they don’t look for us. The boys practice here during the day, which explains why Kuma-sensei has a school full of training equipment, and he even sends them off to test for rank when they reach their 17th cycles! They test with the Rōjū and everything.” The look on Ami’s face as she said this made it look as though she were envious of this distinction, but Mishi couldn’t imagine why.

“So everyone is convinced that this is just a normal school for Kisōshi?”

“Yes!” Ami beamed at her, her smile radiating approval that Mishi had picked up the idea so quickly.

“But we train here at night?” she asked.

“Yes! And on holidays, when the boys don’t come to train at all, we train all day.”

“But we act as servants normally?”

Ami shook her head, and that confused Mishi even more thoroughly until she said, “We don’t act as servants, Mishi-san. We are servants. We spend all day cleaning and mending, tending the horses. You will learn many useful skills here.”

The way Ami said that last sentence made it seem as though it was something she’d been taught to repeat, but held little enthusiasm for.

“And after we spend all day working, we train?” Mishi asked, beginning to wonder when she was supposed to sleep.

“Oh yes!” Ami said, and the way her eyes lit up at the mention of training made Mishi suddenly more eager for it than she had been. “We learn everything that the boys do! History, math, geography, poetry… everything!”

Mishi’s heart felt like it was burrowing its way to her stomach. Her face must have fallen as well because Ami asked, “Mishi-san, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t read or write,” she admitted, before she thought to stop herself. She felt the blood run to her cheeks as she realized how stupid the other girl would think her now.

“Oh? Have you tried it before?” Ami asked, her face suddenly serious.

“No. No one has ever taught me.”

Ami’s face cleared and her grin spread wide.

“Silly, Mishi-san, if you haven’t tried it then you don’t know that you can’t!”

Mishi almost smiled then. Ami’s laugh was so infectious, but she couldn’t help but wonder how many times she would hear that same expression in the next few days, and how many times her ignorance would prove that she was in no way meant to be a Kisōshi.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

13

Symphony of the Wind

Steven McKinnon

Introduction

At first, I was going to take the easy way out and use Chapter One from Symphony of the Wind as my contribution to this sampler—copy-paste, and boom! All done.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realised I wanted something a bit more immediate —something that conveyed the tone of the novel while illustrating the kind of mischief the characters stumble into in the novel proper.

In her write-up for Fantasy Book Review , Emma Davis noted, “There’s a moment in the third chapter where Gallows and Damien, two Hunters (mercs), get sent out on a grunt job and encounter a snake problem more sizeable than they imagined. I was so stunned by how much I was enjoying myself that I had to actually put the book down and think about it.”

So, with that in mind (and because I couldn’t resist the pun), please find an excerpt I’ve entitled “Snakes on a Plain” — I hope you enjoy it as much as Emma did.

With thanks to my fellow SPFBO authors for contributing to this sampler, Jon Auerbach for co-ordinating it, Mark Lawrence for spearheading the competition, and—most importantly of all—every blogger who’s reviewed one of our books, and every reader who’s followed the contest—you’re the ones who let us keep doing what we love.

SPFBO 2018 (Finalist)

Grit level: 8

* * *

Symphony of the Wind excerpt – “Snakes on a Plain”

‘Shit!’ said Gallows as the fangs buried into his shoulder.

The viper squirmed in his hands as Gallows thrashed and twisted on the dirt, struggling to pry it from him. ‘Urrghhh …’

Blood spurted from the two punctures in his skin. The snake hissed, mandibles snapping.

‘Come on, you little bastard…’ Gallows tightened his grip around the viper’s throat. Its tail lashed at his legs and its fangs dripped with pearly venom. ‘Come on, come on…’ Blood raging, Gallows rolled onto his front, pinning the snake’s rigid, taut body into the dirt with his forearm. ‘Shit!’ Its tail whipped upward at him. His free hand scrambled to the smaller sheath at his side, grasping for the knife.

His fingers curled around its hilt. ‘Hah! ’ He drew the blade towards the viper—but its tail darted out and whipped it from his hand.

Keeping his arm on the snake, Gallows slithered to the side, the tail striking his face. ‘I’ve actually eaten snake.’ Gallows’ fingers found the knife. As the viper lashed again, he flicked his wrist, cutting its tail clean off. He stabbed the snake’s belly, the point bursting through and scoring into the earth. He sheared downwards, splitting the creature in two. ‘But I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of shitting you out.’

He got to his feet, the sprawling, baking desert stretching out forever, the horizon quivering in a shimmering haze. He wiped the blood on his trousers. Most of the hilt’s lettering had rubbed off, but he could still make out ‘B-KNIFE’ running along its shaft. Can’t count the number of times it’s saved my ass.

A lightning Spire stretched out in the distance, a grey smudge reaching for the sky. Hessian Homestead. The only cattle farm left. In years gone by, irrigation made for plentiful cattle farming here. They had all withered and died along with the water. Most of the farmers who managed to survive took what savings they had and left for Mercuria and Phadros.

But not Regina Hessian.

Gallows faced her. She stood in a cattle pen, glaring out at him beneath a tattered parasol that did little to shield her from the sun. She wore an ancient but well-kept overall, and was flanked by cattle that had seen better days.

‘Yeah, hey there,’ he said under his breath, offering a limp wave. ‘Let’s act like you didn’t see me get my ass kicked by a worm.’

The Hunters’ Guild horses stood tethered to a post by her house. Galileo was a black Tarevian Thoroughbred, and Sunbeam a chestnut Aludanian Clydesider with a fringe of white hair on his legs. They both looked bored.

Gallows choked down a lungful of air and padded to the mouth of a nearby rock cave. ‘Damn it.’ He lowered himself to his haunches and called into the yawning mouth of the cave. ‘Damien! Hey, you there? Goddamn typical. Last one, always the last one.’ Silence. ‘Hey! Damien! I might be dying here! ’

Damien’s face materialised from the blackness of the cavern. He climbed out and unhooked himself from his rope and harness. He’d swapped his fancy attire for more practical khaki trousers, light shirt, boots and light leather armour. He clutched a bag in his hands. ‘Tyson, hello. Status?’

‘Injured, tired and poisoned. Give me the anti-venom.’

‘Let me look… Doesn’t seem serious. The venom of the dalthic viperidae is only deadly if left untreated for seven or eight hours.’

‘Reassuring as that is—not including your obsession with poisons—I’d rather not wait.’

Damien produced a vial and syringe from his supply belt, and used the needle to pierce the foil lid of the container. He drew the milk-white anti-venom into the chamber, examined the needle and nodded. ‘This will sting, but I suspect not as much as viper fangs.’

‘Here, I’ll do it myself.’

‘As you wish. Any vein in the left arm will suffice. Also, use a salve on the wound and-’

‘And bandage it, yeah. Not my first stabbing.’ Gallows tapped his arm to draw a vein and injected the anti-venom. He winced as the needle entered him. ‘Damn it. And thanks.’

Damien nodded. ‘You said that was the last of them?’

Gallows smeared a healing salve from his supply kit onto his wound. ‘Yeah, yeah. Did you find the nest?’

‘Indeed. There were unhatched eggs behind the cave here. Some inside but not many. All gone, but I’ve set a small ignium charge to go off in ten minutes to seal the cave entrance. The Watch should have performed safety checks. Still, I’m surprised a small number of weak vipers gave Miss Hessian cause to seek the Guild’s help.’

‘Maybe she’s lazy.’

‘Lazy people don’t run cattle farms by themselves. Drink whatever water you have left. It’s in our contract for the client to replenish our supply.’

‘Generous.’ Gallows wiped the grime from his face with the bandana hanging around his neck.

Damien strode towards Miss Hessian, Gallows trailing behind.

‘Miss Hessian,’ said Damien.

‘Misters Fieri and Gallows.’ Hessian sounded like she ate gravel for breakfast every morning. ‘Some weird-ass names you got.’ She was pushing seventy, but her eyes were sharp, her face hard.

It would be , Gallows thought. The work, the climate, the conditions—not to mention having five sons go off to war and not one of them coming home.

‘You get ’em all?’ The words carried more than a note of scepticism.

‘Indeed,’ answered Damien. ‘One nest destroyed and the ones in and around your premises killed. Might I suggest bolstering your barbed wire fence?’

Her lips curved. ‘Come with me.’ She strolled past the farmhouse towards the barn. ‘In there.’

Gallows stepped inside first, and the rotten smell punched him. It carried a tinge of sweetness. ‘Aerulus , what the hell is that?’ He clenched the bandana against his mouth.

The mountainous red-brown remains of a large cow lay in a heap in the corner, hounded by a whirlwind of flies.

Damien examined the room in silence. ‘Was that one of your cattle?’ he asked.

‘Three,’ she replied. ‘These are the bits that weren’t eaten.’

‘What the hell ate three living cows?’

‘Snake, boy. Big ’un too. Most of ’em was swallowed whole. Took my new cow I was fixing to make a tidy profit on too. That’s three hundred aerons I won’t be seeing again. Prime condition she was. Not four days later, disappears with the others. Scared my other beasts shitless too. Them Watch boys in town didn’t give half a shit when I asked ’em to go into that cave. I been pissing money every day waitin’.’

Damien peered down. ‘The dalthic viperidae couldn’t do this.’

‘Agreed,’ said Regina.

‘Didn’t you say it was snakes?’ asked Gallows.

‘Snake ,’ she snapped. ‘Start listenin’ better.’

‘One snake couldn’t do this. Did you see those things? They’re what, three, four feet long?’

‘Big enough to best you, I noticed.’

‘Still,’ said Damien. He stalked around the pile of gore. ‘To swallow three adult cows whole, leaving almost no trace of struggle… Forgive me, Miss Hessian. Is it possible your livestock was simply stolen, with these being butchered and left behind to account for the remains?’

A twinge of a smile flashed on Hessian’s face again. She thumbed a switch on the wall, sparking an overhead ignium lamp into life. It made the stinking remains look worse. ‘Look in the left corner, boy. See it?’

‘Yes,’ Damien confirmed.

Half the wall had been ripped away, split and jagged and stained with gore. Sand swirled through the gap. ‘How many bandits you reckon sneak into a place by hammering through walls?’

‘Point taken,’ said Gallows. ‘Whatever crashed through here was powerful. You get wild dogs around here, or a pack of coyotes maybe?’

‘I goddamned told you more’n once. It was a snake . Don’t look at me like that boy, I might be old but I ain’t gone senile yet.’

‘Apologies,’ said Damien. ‘It’s a little hard to comprehend.’

‘Well it ain’t for me,’ she rasped. ‘I saw it and I shot it and I been waiting for it to come back. Before that happens, I want you two lunkheads to find it, catch it an’ kill it. Ain’t that what hunters do?’

‘We shall investigate further, Miss Hessian,’ said Damien. ‘Apologies.’

‘I oughta withhold my fee.’ She walked around the stinking remains and growled. ‘Gone in one. Prize beast she was, too. Shame.’

Damien stood rigid and placed a fist under his chin, analysing the scene.

The smell made Gallows want to gag. Just as he was about to speak, a muffled explosion sounded outside. ‘That’ll be the ignium charge. Listen, fun as staring at the desecrated remains of a prize cow is, I think we can discuss this outs-’

The ground tremored and sent Regina to the floor.

Gallows lunged to help her. ‘You okay?’ He had to shout to be heard above the aftershock. Hessian accepted his hand and he yanked her up.

The ceiling split.

‘Outside!’ Damien commanded.

Gallows wrapped his arm around Regina’s waist and helped her outside. ‘Holy shit,’ she said. Gallows followed her gaze—ahead of them, a rupture cleaved through the earth, throwing rock and dirt—and racing towards them.

‘Damn boy!’ Regina shouted. ‘What kind of bombs did you use?’

‘None that would cause this,’ Damien called back. ‘Move!’

Gallows couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The earth between him and Regina split and shuddered, throwing Hessian onto her back. A mound rose from the earth, growing bigger with each second.

Something was breaking free from the ground.

‘Go!’ Gallows urged, pulling Hessian to her feet. ‘Get inside!’

Regina didn’t argue.

‘Tyson, move!’ Damien dived out of the way but Gallows was a second too slow: The ground lurched, sending him spinning through the air. He landed hard on his chest, the fresh wound in his shoulder oozing more blood. ‘What in pissin’ Irros…?’

He twisted onto his back—and his blood froze at the sight before him.

Bright red and pitiless eyes leered down at Gallows, belonging to a viper so big it blotted out the sun.

Its skin was flaming gold and blood red—like the sand and earth—and its head was crowned with dark black bone, which twisted into a nest of horns. The fangs in its hinged jaw gleamed like steel.

They snapped at him, clamping like some monstrous machine.

Gallows rolled, evading the beast’s attack. Its tongue darted back and forth as Gallows scrambled backwards on his elbows. It hissed—a cacophony of anguished screams, suffocating his senses. It reared its head back, poised for another strike.

Gallows twisted again, lumbered to his feet and drew his shortsword—it felt pathetic, but he spun and brought it up-

The snake wasn’t there.

What the hell?

Gallows checked behind him, sword raised. His breathing was the only thing he heard. Damien stood some distance away, head angled like he was listening for something.

Then, by Regina’s house, the horses brayed in terror, twisting and skidding on the dirt, trying in desperation to escape their bonds.

The viper erupted from the earth and—swift, brutal—buried its fangs into the nearest horse, Galileo, painting the area scarlet. Sunbeam nickered, legs skidding on the cracked earth.

‘Holy shit!’

Regina . The beast would turn her house into sawdust and swallow her whole.

Gallows tightened his grip and charged. Sensing the challenge, the snake’s red eyes turned on him.

His skin knotted. Fear spread through him like black ink in a cup of water, infecting everything inside—but Gallows kept running.

The viper’s tongue whipped the air. Gallows deflected it with his sword, ducked beneath its fangs, and slashed his knife across its belly. He may as well have attacked it with a feather.

Gallows ducked and ran, rolling along the ground as the snake’s barbed tail spun towards him, drilling into the earth. He sliced at it with his sword, arcing blood into the soil.

Again and again he lured it and slashed, chipping away at its skin—but it wasn’t enough.

Damien. Gallows had to reach Damien. He couldn’t hope to beat this thing on his own.

It unleashed its merciless hiss again; Gallows fell to one knee and pressed his fist against his ear. He couldn’t hear his own scream, but he felt it well enough.

The beast came at Gallows like a train. He tumbled from its path, scything his sword at it to no avail.

Where the hell is-

Damien shot past Gallows and vaulted onto the beast’s back, his two daggers gouging skin and gore. The viper howled and thrashed and unhinged Damien from its back, fangs bared to the sky.

Damien rolled on the ground—and the snake disappeared again.

‘You okay?’ Gallows called. Damien nodded and drew his blades again.

Where in all hells is it?

Gallows had to concentrate to see it, but the outline was there—a heat haze on the horizon, flitting between fists of bleached rock. Gallows’ heart rocked in his chest. He struggled for breath, a great weight pressing on his lungs. ‘What the hell… is this thing? What kind of monster can camouflage itself like that?’

Damien said nothing. He stood as still as stone and closed his eyes.

A split-second later, Damien spun as the snake re-emerged. Its two lower jaws snapped with speed and power, but they only caught air.

Damien buried one of his daggers in its left eye. The beast shrieked and whipped its tail back and forth, but Damien weaved between its strikes.

And then it turned a sickly yellow-white before disappearing again.

‘Damn coyotes my ass!’ called Regina. Gallows turned to find her brandishing a shotgun. She tossed it to him. It was a military-issue Millarburg; not the double-barrelled kind most farmers had lying around. ‘Belonged to my boys,’ Regina explained. ‘See it gets put to good use.’

‘Get back!’ Gallows called. The weight of the shotgun felt good in his hands.

Damien scrambled onto a chalk-white rock, eyes closed, sunlight glinting on his raised daggers.

Sure, you take the high ground. Gallows drew the firearm to his shoulder. He snapped his aim at every shimmer in the air, every small movement.

Silence rolled across the rocky terrain. No croak from critters, no birdsong, no breeze…

Where are you?

The ground lurched.

‘Ty, look out!’

But Damien’s warning came too late.

Rock exploded and a great fissure opened up, swallowing Gallows and pulling him down; he plummeted through the earth, head glancing off rock. His face mashed into dirt, and the shotgun slipped from his fingers.

He landed belly-first in a dark cavern. The impact punched the air from his lungs and the taste of copper flooded his mouth.

With immense effort, Gallows pushed himself to his feet. A shaft of light from above speared through the blackness of the cave, and nearby vibrations told him the snake was nearby.

The shadows reminded him of his old cell—and the interrogations.

Nidra was worse than this thing—and I survived her.

Stone and dirt spilled around Gallows’ feet. He threw himself back as the snake’s crown of horns sheared through rock. The vague outline of its body shifted in the shadows, and the red of its good eye glinted like a ruby.

Damien zipped down from above and landed on the beast’s back. His knives sank into flesh and the snake shrieked. Its hiss was ten times louder down here, but Damien remained, the blade in his right hand jackhammering into its back, gouts of blood erupting.

A snarl clawed from the snake’s mouth, and it shook Damien free. He hung there, suspended in mid-air.

His harness , Gallows realised. Damien had tied the rope to the white rock above.

The beast’s fangs snapped up at Damien, but every time it got close, he activated the winch, pulling him higher and out of reach.

It gave Gallows time to retrieve the shotgun.

Damien wavered in the air, frustrating the viper. He taunted it, lured it—and when its great jaws widened again, he activated an ignium charge and hurled it into the snake’s mouth.

‘Thirty seconds!’ Damien yelled.

Gallows took aim. ‘Hey! Asshole!’ The pellets roared through the snake’s barbed tail, turning spiked bone into nothing.

It howled in pain and drew away from Damien. The beast rocketed towards Gallows, jaws wide enough to swallow him whole.

‘Twenty!’ called Damien.

Gallows screamed and wrenched the shotgun up, the viper’s razor fangs staring down at him. The gun quaked in his arms as he fired—once, twice…

Five times he pulled the trigger into the roof of its mouth, turning its head into a ruined mash.

But it was still alive.

‘Ten!’

The snake’s body lashed in slow, heavy movements. Gallows hooked a boot into the gap where its face used to be, heaved himself up and ran across its undulating back. It almost sent him flying off.

‘Five!’ Damien dropped lower and held out an arm.

Heart racing, Gallows kept running and leapt towards his partner…

Damien grabbed him. With his free hand, he activated the winch.

They flew to the surface as the explosion thundered below, a stew of bloodied guts and bone erupting. Flames licked Gallows’ boots.

Gallows rolled on the ground and breathed, grateful for the clean air. He waited for his heart to slow down before he spoke.

‘Hey! Remember the time we killed a giant mutant snake?’

* * *

Symphony of the Wind is available from Amazon . You can keep in touch with Steven via his website, or follow him on Twitter , Facebook and Instagram . Alternatively, you can subscribe to his newsletter , and receive The Fury Yet To Come absolutely free.

14

Shadow’s Hand

Noelle NIchols

False warriors destroyed their homes.

Now two heroes must delve into ancient magic to save their realm from doom.

Kilo lives and dies by the truth of the Shadow’s Creed. So when brutal raiders raze his village, the leader is honor-bound to put aside his fighting staff and help his people rebuild. After discovering the attackers were impersonating Shadow warriors and have befouled his beloved code with blood, he’s torn between duty and vengeance.

Shenrae’s childhood burned in the fire that claimed her parents’ souls. Knowing the assailants will attack again, she swallows her self-doubt to focus on her grueling Shadow warrior training. But when she realizes the immoral enemies are tapping into deadly primeval powers, she’s not sure even the best among her brethren are safe.

Now both face the biggest challenge of their lives: Shenrae must unlock her inner strength and Kilo could risk forsaking his code. And their only hope may be to embrace the very power that is out to kill them.

Can Kilo and Shenrae find a way to uphold their honor and defeat the dark forces?

Shadow’s Hand is the first book in The Shadow’s Creed Saga epic fantasy series. If you like honorable champions, archaic magic, and vivid world building inspired by feudal Japan , then you’ll love Noelle Nichols’ fast-paced adventure.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 5

* * *

chapter one

SHADOW MISSION

Smoke trailed across crimson skies. So much for an easy Shadow mission. I drew my staff from the leather holder affixed to my back and ran over the rickety dock. Water splashed onto the worn planks, dampening the fabric around my two-toed boots. The faint smell of smoke mingled with the fishy aroma of Leiko’s ocean shore.

A little girl’s shriek echoed from the town, sending a chill up my spine. Instincts and guilt quickened my pace. I abandoned my sister more than I liked—though not by choice. Like all Shadows, duty took me where my Phantom bid. Finae might be alone, but she was safe, under the protection of the Phantoms and Shadows. And that’s all that mattered.

My penance was to protect those I could.

I wound between cottages that sat upon stilts, their damp wood eroding from the harsh weather. Despite the moisture in the air, smoke burned my eyes. I pulled the scarf up from around my neck and secured it over my mouth and nose.

The girl screamed again. She was close. I ducked under a low balcony, turning sideways down an alleyway to reach the street on the other side.

A tall, burly man had cornered a woman against a building. At her feet, a small girl balled her hands in the fabric of the woman’s skirts. The girl was most likely her daughter. The woman brandished a broken piece of wood and swung at the man. He caught her arm, throwing her into the side of the building.

I held my staff against my side and charged, drawing the man’s gaze. He grinned at me, confidence exuding from his walk. His smile widened as he unsheathed the sword from his belt. Without losing momentum, I thrust my staff toward the man. He stepped to the side, and I pivoted the staff in my hands, jabbing the end of the pole into his body. The man took the blow and lashed out at me. I jumped back, the sword tip catching the edge of my leather armor.

I kept my face masked from emotion. Any person who attacked another to feel powerful was neither honorable nor honest. I would need to watch out for his blackened ways. The woman and child were not close, but this man would use them against me if the opportunity arose.

A man without morals was a dangerous one.

I shifted my attention back to the man. He eyed the tear in my side. Behind him, the woman tried to pull her child to safety, but the girl would not move. Fear paralyzed her.

I shifted the staff in my hand as the man came at me, thrusting toward his knee. The direction of the man’s sword changed, and I realized my error. I dipped my staff, blocking the sword from slicing into my stomach. The wood splintered, creating a large crack that ran along my staff. I pressed my lips into a thin line and kicked the man in the chest. His sword dislodged as he stumbled back. Before he could recover, I hit him with the heel of my staff and forced him to the ground, stomping on his sword hand.

The Shadow’s Creed I was bound by required us to value all life, even someone as pitiful as this man. I took a breath and calmed the anger inside me. It wasn’t my place to judge a man for a single deed. Though I doubted he had many redeeming qualities. Before I could contemplate further, I hit a pressure point in the man’s neck to knock him unconscious.

I shifted the staff in my hand. The damage to it was severe, but the integrity of the wood still held. I would need to be wary of using it. I checked for danger before I returned to the mother and child. The little girl’s eyes widened at my approach. She grasped onto her mother’s skirts, pulling the fabric over her face.

They were shaken. Understandably so.

“T-thank you,” the child’s mother said, brushing a piece of golden hair behind her ear. I nodded and dropped to one knee, placing my staff on the ground. The little girl stared at me with eyes as blue as Leiko Gulf. I pulled the scarf from my face and set it around my neck.

Despite my intentions, I knew I looked no less threatening.

I smiled anyway. The girl reached out a cautious hand, touching the bond on my right forearm. Her mother reached to stop her, but I shook my head.

“Let her be,” I said as the girl’s tiny fingers traced the silver metal strands that wound around my arm. I had received my bond upon completing my Shadow training. Almost two decades now, I had served under the Phantoms. The bond was a symbol of pride among our homeland and across the lands of Kiriku. As a Shadow, I didn’t want her to be afraid of me or who the Shadows were.

The girl finished tracing the metal encasing and withdrew her fingers. She raised her eyes to me. She didn’t return my smile, but she seemed less afraid.

Somewhere behind me, a sound caught my attention, and I froze. It sounded like wood straining. A bow? I snatched my staff up from the ground and sprang to my feet, looking for the blur of an arrow. I pushed the woman back against the building. She jumped, startled. The arrow pierced my skin between the metal threading of my bond. I grimaced and pulled the shaft free. The girl shrieked from her place on the ground, and I ran at the man. My enemy fumbled with an arrow in his hand; his eyes darted between his trembling fingers and my approach. Horse hooves pattered behind me, and I caught sight of green banners and mounted riders.

General Mirai’s men.

Allies.

I returned my full attention to the archer and ducked as an arrow scraped by my ear. Ignoring the momentary sting, I locked the staff behind the man’s knee and swept him to the ground. The wind had been knocked out of him.

I scanned the men on horseback, and found General Mirai, his downturned eyes making him appear more approachable than status dictated. He wore light leather armor painted in various hues of green and gold. The rest of his men were not adorned with such fanciful coloring. In total, there were seven men on horseback. More would be in town.

Overhead, an arrow flew through the air.

I traced the curve of an arrow as General Mirai moved his horse closer. One of his men dismounted and attended to the man on the ground. “My men are sweeping the town. We can secure this part of the town and protect these two if you’d like to take care of the other archers.”

I gave a sidelong glance at the mother and child. General Mirai would see to their safety. With his group, he would be able to ensure the townspeople were protected.

I nodded my agreement as another arrow flew overhead.

Fire burned on the arrowhead, but no smoke trailed behind. When it clattered against the stone pavement, I stooped to retrieve it, placing my finger on the arrowhead. The tip was cool, but there had been fire before. How could that be? I discarded the arrow, focusing on the task before me—finding the archer. Speculations could wait. I wound between cottages, dodging a wave of people as they ran for cover. I paused and glanced up as another arrow shot through the air. This one, too, had fire on the head but was without a trail of smoke. Exhaustion did strange things to the body, but I was well within my limits. It was no illusion.

Something was not right.

At the edge of town, I crouched and inched forward. I kept my back bent, staying close to the ground, circling the archer’s location. The area lacked vegetation. Some large rocks and dead flora spotted the field, but it did little to hide my advance. I sat back on the heels of my feet, behind an overgrown bush as something moved ahead. A cloaked archer raised an arm, the folds of the sleeve drooping to the elbow. Silver metal glinted around the archer’s forearm.

Whoever this person was, they wore a bond. Hair rose on the back of my neck. Only the Shadows and the Phantoms wore bonds. Phantom Kural was in the town, and all the other Shadows were back home in Vaiyene, which was at least a three-day ride.

Who was this person?

I tensed, my hand shifting around my staff. A white mist rose from the person’s bond, collecting in the archer’s palm. A reddish hue permeated the smoke as it became more turbulent. The archer dipped the arrow into the flames. The arrowhead caught fire. When the archer picked up the bow, I stood, shaking the disbelief from my mind. The archer turned to me, relaxing the bowstring. They were shorter than I was, with slim shoulders. Their planted feet showed defiance at my approach.

The fire on the arrowhead still burned.

I contemplated my next move. If this person was using fake fire, her purpose was not to harm the townspeople. From this vantage point, aiming was impossible. Even a skilled archer would be firing at random targets. I kept my grip on my staff but did not raise it. I wanted answers, not to fight.

“Why do you wear a Shadow’s bond?”

The person lowered their bow, the flame snuffing out as they exhaled. “You should be with your Phantom. There’s no telling what he’ll do this time.”

A female voice.

She seemed exasperated at my presence.

Phantom Kural was one of the Shadow leaders. I had been under his command for almost a decade. He was in town picking up supplies as was our agreement with the town leader. I had not seen him since this morning before the raid started.

What was she implying?

Despite my unease, I kept the emotion from my face. There was no reason to give this woman leverage over me. From what I could see of her face, she had distinctive emerald-green eyes and high cheekbones. No one from the northern regions of Kiriku had green eyes. Few had the same pigment of skin as she did. They were characteristics of the Phia region, farther south than this town.

I kept my eyes trained on her. She did not hesitate with her approach. Her eyes narrowed at me. The bow in her hand posed no immediate threat. With my staff’s reach, I would be able to disable her before she could reach me.

She stopped a few feet from me and reached out, touching the end of my staff. A thread of silver melted from her bond, snaking over her hand and fingers and into the splintered wood. I stood, dumbfounded. This woman created fire that was not fire, and she could also move silver from her bond and command it to move to another surface. It was…incredible.

Unnatural.

I had never seen anything like it.

When she pulled back, the splinter remained silver. I raised the staff to my eyes. The metal had filled the cracks. I brushed my fingertips over the surface, and a white mist puffed out at my touch. She had disarmed my usual quick battle wit by her unexpected kindness.

“Who are you?” I asked.

And why was she helping me?

She ignored me and walked back to the spot where her arrows lay on the ground. “Now that I’ve stopped my attack, the others will begin the final assault. Find your Phantom. He’ll be in the forest, where the villagers won’t go.”

A group of cloaked riders burst from the edge of the town, their cloaks splayed in the wind, metal bonds prominent on their arms. I grew cold watching them—a chill of uncertainty. If they wore bonds, they would be mistaken for Shadows. The people—the little girl—they would think we were the ones attacking the village. My throat went dry as I took a step back, away from the cloaked woman. I slid my right foot back, assuming a battle-ready stance. I did not sense ill-will from the woman, but the approach of her comrades demanded caution.

A Shadow was always ready.

One of the riders strode past me, the horse’s ears pinned back. The stallion’s tail swished in agitation as the others began encircling me. I drew in a breath and prepared myself for a fight—but they kept their swords sheathed. I held my stance, and the riders stopped. A black horse trotted through the circle, parting the others as it headed to the woman.

“We’re done here,” she said.

I stepped after her, cautious of the surrounding riders. “Wait. Tell me who you are.”

She clicked her heels against the horse’s side, saying, “Go to the forest.” The irritation in her voice still there.

I gritted my teeth as her people fell into formation around her, heading south at a rapid pace. She knew something about Phantom Kural and why the raiders were here in Leiko. I wanted to pursue them, but my Shadow duty lay with my Phantom and the people. The townspeople’s safety came first; finding Phantom Kural came second.

I put my fingers to my lips and whistled—long, then short. From across the field on the edge of the forest line, my white mare, Whitestar, trotted toward me. I reached my hand up and traced the hidden star in her fur. In the moonlight, a faint silver star became visible in her white hair. She nuzzled my neck as I fixed the staff into its holder on my back.

Little smoke rose from the town, and from this distance, it seemed only a single house had caught fire. I frowned, mulling over the situation. If the woman’s intention had not been to burn down the town, what then had it been? What had she gained? I saw little motivation. In fact, based on her casual indifference to my arrival and her direct words about my Phantom, it almost seemed like she had expected me. Had that been her purpose? To warn me about Phantom Kural? Or had it been to spread lies about the Shadows, by assuming the bonds we wore? I bristled. We had worked too hard to let others ruin our alliances and blacken our good name.

Whoever these people were, they needed to be stopped.

I nudged Whitestar to the right, heading instead toward the smoke left in town. General Mirai’s men gathered around a tall building near the docks. Flames engulfed the building. The fire billowed and wavered in the wind, overwhelming the remaining wood on the upper level. It wouldn’t be long before the structure collapsed. Nothing could be done to save it.

General Mirai and his men held the line and kept the villagers back from the flames. Everything seemed under control. I would help out later with any casualties, but before doing so, I needed to confirm or refute the woman’s words.

I guided Whitestar along the edge of the gulf near the Kinsaan Forest. Whispers told of how the people feared walking in the forest and refused to go there. Back in Vaiyene, we shared stories of a boy who had found himself lost in the caves leading into our village. He had never escaped, and his cries echoed to this day. The story kept children from exploring the caves and getting lost. It scared most, though it did encourage others, like me, to search the caverns for the truth. I never found any truth in Vaiyene’s story, but the possibility something had happened to frighten the townspeople remained a possibility.

A gust of wind blew, dislodging a colorful array of leaves from the gnarled branches in the forest. Lack of sunlight caused trees to twist their reach, but these trees bathed in sunlight. It was unusual, but not enough to deter me from entering.

I dismounted and held onto Whitestar’s reins, leading us inside the forest’s edge. Pushing aside my cloak, I withdrew my light canteen. A tube sat inside, fixed to the center with sinew, containing oil to create a portable lantern. With a quick flick of a flintstone, the light brightened and surrounded us with a warm glow. The air smelled thin and dank. It wasn’t the usual smell of decay, but a darker, fouler scent mingled with the forest’s natural aroma. I stepped over a tree root, squinting against the meager light from my canteen, trying to navigate the maze of roots as they became twisted and overgrown. It had become too difficult to continue with Whitestar. I patted her side and commanded her to stay. Nothing seemed to be lurking, and she could take care of herself.

Birds no longer called in the trees. No animals or insects roamed underfoot. I remained patient, relying on my skill. I walked on the side of my foot, rolling from toe to heel to disturb the undergrowth as little as possible. Voices carried on the wind—at least two of them—the sound echoing off the twisted trees and forest canopy. I dimmed my light and tied it to my side, crouching and inching across the rotting leaves. The damp foliage softened my advance. Someone, or something, shuffled in front of me. I froze. My breath quickened as I reached my hand back to grasp my staff.

“The villagers are still cautious of us; we need to find some way to gain their complete trust,” a male voice said. His tone was hushed but firm. “We’ve made steps to better your position, but we need more information.”

“I’ve given you all the information I have.”

The second voice I recognized. Phantom Kural. I shifted my weight and slipped behind a gnarled tree, trying to adjust and gain a better position. Who was he talking with?

“There will be consequences in Vaiyene should you refuse,” the unknown man said.

My body tensed, and I suppressed the urge to intervene. I needed to know all the details. Phantom Kural had agreed to something, but what? And why was Vaiyene now under threat? The encounter did not feel right to me. Phantoms did not keep secrets from their Shadows. The mission was to set up a trade for fish oil to help get us through winter. Or had that been a lie?

Metal scraped against metal in a flurry of movements, but I hesitated as I caught a glimpse of two metal bonds. One belonged to Phantom Kural, but who did the other belong to? In the dark, all I could see were the outlines of two silver bonds flashing in the darkness as they caught the scant sunlight. I pressed my back against the trunk of the tree, my distrust growing.

A white mist rose from one of the silver bonds. It snaked around the forearm of the bonded stranger as the man brought his sword up high over his head. Phantom Kural swung his axe, overpowering the man. The sword went flying, and Phantom Kural followed through with his movement, circling it above his head and lopping the man’s head off. The body crumpled to the ground, and I slid behind the gnarled trunk.

My trust in Phantom Kural tore as clean as the man’s severed neck. No matter the reasoning, I could not serve a man who chose not to obey the Shadow’s Creed.

A Shadow does not take life, killing only when no other option can be found.

Phantom Kural’s life had not been in danger.

We could have questioned the man.

Unease choked my breath. Was it possible Phantom Kural had killed him so no one could ask questions? I tried to push the thought from my mind. It was not my place to question my Phantom, but this was not the Phantom Kural I knew. The man I served under would never…

I pressed my hand against my temple. First the woman and now Phantom Kural. What was the connection?

What was Phantom Kural’s real purpose here in Leiko?

I needed more information before I confronted the others with what I had seen. If Phantom Kural had defected to the people masquerading as Shadows, it would be my word against his. I was a Shadow; he was my superior. None would believe my account.

I pushed myself onto my feet and stepped over a gnarled root, peering through the overgrown forest. Phantom Kural stood in a pool of blood, with his axe plunged into the ground. The severed head lay a few paces away.

Lifeless eyes stared back at me.

I began picking my way back toward town, keeping my movement slow and deliberate. Whatever had happened, I would find the truth.

* * *

chapter two

DOUBT & BETRAYAL

Did something happen?” General Mirai asked, his sword unsheathed at his side. I eyed the blade. As a warrior himself, the general understood the strain of battle on a man’s soul. Watching Phantom Kural behead an unarmed man had shaken the foundation I’d built my life on.

A Phantom never broke the Shadow’s Creed.

Shadows did not kill.

The threat from the man in the forest warranted interrogation. What if he had been working with the woman with the bond? I would not be able to follow the connection now that she was gone, and the man now lay dead.

General Mirai shifted next to me. It was hard to speculate about Phantom Kural’s motives with him near me. As if, somehow, his presence would expose my traitorous thoughts. I gave a sidelong glance at our long-term ally, my thoughts darkening as skepticism ate away at our friendship.

Was the general also involved?

At General Mirai’s continued presence, I let out a long, drawn out breath. “Was there something you wanted?”

General Mirai chuckled, a smile spreading across his face. “I never thought I’d see the day you lost your composure.”

He seemed amused by my irritation, which only irritated me further. I held my tongue, hoping if I kept quiet, he would leave.

He did not.

“Spar with me,” General Mirai insisted. He glanced around and shifted the sword in his hand, lowering his voice. “I can’t tell you here.”

Curiosity stifled my annoyance.

I removed the staff at my back and followed him along the edge of the gulf. Mirai’s men had erected a temporary camp on the border of Leiko. It was quite impressive. Small, tidy, and portable. Their accommodations were anything but lavish, but it served their wandering lifestyle. His men roared into laughter at some joke. They seemed more than content with their arrangements. The lifestyle did not appeal to me. My Shadow duties took me away from Vaiyene, but home was home, and I missed the camaraderie of my friends. We had trained for years together and had been friends long before then. We shared a bond only Shadows could. They were with me on most missions. In fact, being the only Shadow on this mission might have been the first sign something was amiss.

Shadows worked in teams.

I hadn’t thought to question it before.

A group of men stumbled past us, their arms around one another’s shoulders. Foaming liquid splashed lavishly from the mugs they held. It had been a long time since I had not been on a mission.

General Mirai pointed his sword at me, and my mind returned to the present. The waves of Leiko Gulf broke against a line of rocks near the shore. Water from the tide sloshed across the sand. I flexed my toes against the sole, digging myself deeper to create a solid foundation. Mirai adjusted his grip. He wielded a sword that required two hands instead of a sword that required one. It was an intentional switch to combat my staff.

“I have some information you’ll find interesting,” the general said as he extended his sword.

I gripped my staff near the end with both hands, waiting for the general to make the first move. “Have you told Phantom Kural about this?”

General Mirai lunged forward, and I knocked his strike away from my body, stopping my attack midway.

“I have not.” He took a step back, lowering his sword, and giving me a nod to acknowledge the hit. “My trust in Kural has wavered. It’s why I agreed to help on this mission.”

I met his gaze and swung forward, but he blocked me. His eyes flicked to the silver filling in my staff. I slammed the end of my staff into his knee.

I didn’t need him asking questions.

Mirai winced. I had softened the blow, but my anger got the better of me. I opened my mouth to say something, but he waved off my apology.

I’d sparred with Mirai before, but never with words. What did he know? I needed to know what he implied before making any decisions on how to deal with Phantom Kural. If his information was reliable, it would make confronting Phantom Kural easier.

Accusing a Phantom of misconduct would not be taken lightly, even with the general’s evidence.

General Mirai’s sword dropped to the ground, and he stepped closer to me, his hand withdrawing a letter from his pocket. The Shadow emblem was drawn on the paper: a black circle with a white crescent moon.

“One of my people found this on a body not too far from here. The dead man was wearing a bond on his arm. My men didn’t recognize him as a Shadow.”

I stared down at the emblem, my mouth dry. I stuffed the crude drawing into my pocket. Phantom Kural had gotten himself mixed up in something much bigger than himself.

“When was this person found?” I asked. I twirled my staff in my hands, then swiped at Mirai’s side. Our sparring was for show, but the comfort of drills eased my mind.

The general blocked my attack. “A few days ago, but this False Shadow wasn’t working alone. My men found three dead bodies following the first, all of which bore the same Shadow crest and silver bonds.”

False Shadows. It was like a sword in my chest.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. The Shadows did not carry a crest. Nor did we wear it. Phantoms used the emblem on official messages, nothing else. Whoever these people were, their intentions were to be mistaken for Shadows.

But why?

“Did something happen with Phantom Kural?”

General Mirai stared at me.

I was bound by the Shadow’s Creed to obey my Phantom. If I were wrong about Phantom Kural’s involvement, about him being mixed up with these False Shadows, there would be consequences. General Mirai could testify, but the loyalty of the Shadows ran deep.

At least, it did for most of them.

“Kilo—” I met Mirai’s harsh gaze. “Kural arrived back in camp before you did. His boots were stained with blood.”

The image of the severed head and lifeless eyes of Phantom Kural’s victim surfaced. I grimaced at the memory. I placed my right arm over my chest, bowing at the waist in Shadow fashion.

“Thank you for your help.”

General Mirai gave a slight bow in return and sheathed his sword. “I will keep you informed.” He kept his voice low as he walked by me. “Watch your back, Kilo.”

General Mirai still appeared loyal. I glanced over my shoulder, watching Mirai as his men gathered around him. They slapped him on the back and shoved a mug enthusiastically into his hand, inciting him to join them in celebration.

Until today, Phantom Kural had been someone I admired. It was the same affection General Mirai’s men carried for him. Kural, along with the other two Phantoms, had trained me in the Shadow ways. He had saved my life a few times, as I had saved his. For all my life, I had never considered myself anything but a Shadow. It defined who I was and what I dedicated myself to.

What if everything I had believed in was wrong?

Was there some way Phantom Kural was protecting a life? Had I missed something? I wanted to believe in Phantom Kural—in the Phantoms—but all my mind could fixate on was a man who had killed in anger.

A man trying to cover his mistakes.

I closed my eyes and calmed the thoughts within my mind.

A Shadow does what he is capable of; no

more can be asked of him.

I had sworn to abide by the principles of the Shadow’s Creed. While it didn’t illuminate how to deal with Phantom Kural, I found some shred of comfort knowing I had fulfilled my duty.

I had done what I could given the situation.

Behind me, the sunlight disappeared behind the mountains, casting an amber glow that bathed the landscape in a deep orange tone. My heart darkened. The fire the general and his men gathered around became more appealing, and not for warmth. I left the water’s edge, the merriment of celebration a more attractive choice than solitude. That much I knew of heartache and indecision. A man was better not left alone when his mind lay burdened with uncertainty. Better to live in the light than in darkness.

When I was within the fire’s glow, one of General Mirai’s men handed me a mug. He clapped my shoulder, sloshing the dark ale over the edge of the wooden pint.

“To the Shadows!”

I met General Mirai’s gaze across the flames. He raised his mug in my direction, knowing as well as I, that tonight was not a night to celebrate the Shadows.

* * *

Thoughts of betrayal plagued my hard-won sleep. It was a cold night, but I enjoyed lying beneath the stars’ light. My thoughts were quiet as the heat of dying embers warmed me. A twig snapped near me, and I closed my eyes.

The scent of old blood carried over to me.

Phantom Kural had returned.

I kept my eyes closed to better focus on Kural’s voice. It was quiet, yet loud enough to make out his words. “I’ll relieve you from your post.”

General Mirai’s men would not think it out of the ordinary to hand over the watch to a trusted ally.

After much rustling, the men settled into an adjacent tent. I inched around, trying to move without catching Phantom Kural’s eye. He pretended to keep a lookout. As the minutes passed, I grew drained watching him, his gaze remaining fixed on the barren plains of Phia. I was about ready to give up when he stiffened. An arrow landed at his feet, a letter tied to the shaft. He retrieved the note, and moments later crumpled it and tossed it into the flames. Embers flared up. Dark shadows danced across his face. Then he turned his gaze on me. I snapped my eyes shut and held my breath.

A hand shook my shoulder, and I pretended to wake as Kural’s voice broke the silence.

“We ride for Vaiyene.”

I bolted upright, knocking my staff near the edge of the fire. Phantom Kural’s back was rigid. I snatched the letter from the coals, wincing as my fingers burned. Phantom Kural strode past, a fire alight in his eyes. The paper burned against my palm, but only when I was certain he was gone, did I uncurl my fingers.

I peeled the charred paper apart.

Vaiyene will burn.

All weariness of the day faded. Phantom Kural—no, just Kural—was no longer my Phantom. His betrayal was more than a mere blow to the ego. These False Shadows were a danger, and our people would be the ones to suffer for it.

* * *

For more information on Shadow’s Hand or the author, please visit www. noellenichols.com .

15

The Innkeeper

J.E. Porter

Mann has a secret he can tell no one, and it’s not that the beguiling whores of Slutet believe he’s the best shag they’ve ever had.

No, being able to summon anything he wants, from thin air, is not something he wants to share. Neither is the fact that he has no recollection of his past, or that, as time goes on, his life never ends. (He doesn’t mind if the whores want to tell everyone about his prowess in the bedchamber, mind, and neither does he mind sharing it with all who come asking).

Not that his summoning power is his only secret, but the end of the millennia and a meeting of apparent strangers might be about to answer the questions he never even realised he had.

Whether a Nine or a None, Mann has a duty only he can fulfill, and this cycle, he’s failed, spectacularly. But there’s always tomorrow, or, rather, yesterday, to do it all over again, if he can only find what he lost.

As a Nine or a None, Mann must uncover his destiny by revisiting the past.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

The Innkeeper

Mann has a secret he can tell no one, and it’s not that the beguiling whores of Slutet believe he’s the best shag they’ve ever had.

No, being able to summon anything he wants, from thin air, is not something he wants to share. Neither is the fact that he has no recollection of his past, or that, as time goes on, his life never ends. (He doesn’t mind if the whores want to tell everyone about his prowess in the bedchamber, mind, and neither does he mind sharing it with all who come asking).

Not that his summoning power is his only secret, but the end of the millennia and a meeting of apparent strangers might be about to answer the questions he never even realised he had.

Whether a Nine or a None, Mann has a duty only he can fulfil, and this cycle, he’s failed, spectacularly. But there’s always tomorrow, or, rather, yesterday, to do it all over again, if he can only find what he lost.

As a Nine or a None, Mann must uncover his destiny by revisiting the past.

Chapter One - A Beginning

There was silence.

And then there wasn’t.

A swirl of snow and hail, a blizzard of ice and sleet fell on the deserted wintry spot where before there’d been nothing but endless white. A silence rang out deeper than quiet, as complete as nothingness.

“Fuck,” the voice boomed preternaturally loud as the revolving snowstorm of ice disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, depositing in its wake the most ridiculous of sights. A naked man, struggling for balance and sinking knee deep in the snowy landscape. In his wake, a more natural whiteout continued to blow, making it hard to focus on his quivering shape.

“Fuck,” echoed once more, the voice strong and thunderous, although there was no one to hear it.

“Fuck,” resounded again, accompanied by a jiggling from foot to foot that should have been impossible in the thigh-high snow yet which he accomplished easily all the same. His feet, already turning blue in the cold, reached almost to shoulder height as he tried to save them from the perils of frostbite.

“A fucking blizzard,” he managed to shout, his anger and rage causing spittle to fly from his mouth where it immediately froze, landing on his exposed chest with an icy tinkle of broken glass.

“Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck,” he gasped, rage adding intensity to a voice that he’d never heard before.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkkkkkk.”

Chapter Two - An Ending

The cackle of laughter set Mann’s perfectly white teeth on edge, as he turned to glare at the person it had emanated from. He wasn’t surprised to discover it came from the sour-faced woman who’d arrived that day. He didn’t know where she’d come from, or even why she was here, or how she could afford a room in his well-appointed inn, and quite frankly, he’d be pleased when she damn well left.

Mann had known she’d be trouble when he’d first laid eyes on her, but the cause of her hawking amusement was beyond him.

As such he was astonished to feel her grey eyes on him, mocking as she gurgled and gesticulated at him. Mann didn’t know the woman other than the occasional passing word or request that he do something for her. Why would she be laughing at him now and in such an unpleasant way?

Surprised, his head swivelled behind him, just to make sure he was the object of her amusement. Convinced he was, stood as he was in front of the Inn’s back wall with nothing behind him but his shelves of almost priceless spirits, Mann returned her gaze levelly. His eyes were hard and his expression nonplus. He’d long learned the best way to deal with out-of-control drunks like her.

Still, it annoyed him. What the fuck was up with the old bag?

Mann considered her. She was reasonably well-dressed, and certainly, she’d been handing out enough copper coins during the last few days for him not to be unduly worried by her. They were of a low denomination, but they were still a high enough denomination, just, to pay her way.

She was no-looker; her appearance resembled that of an old boot, once well made but now very well-worn and down at heel.

Mann wracked his brain but didn’t recognise her other than the glimpses of the last few days. But, and he’d learnt this over his long years of experience, it was no good attempting an altercation with someone such as this, in her current condition. Mann held his tongue, but still, she gurgled at him with delight. The noise was harsh, abrasive, and he gritted his teeth against a knee-jerk reaction that would see her jettisoned from the inn.

“You don’t know me,” the woman gasped, sucking in breaths through her old and tired teeth, as Mann shook his head in disgust at her actions. She’d had too much to drink. Or perhaps she’d inhaled too much of the good old spice being pedalled in the corner of the room by an enterprising young woman, convinced Mann didn’t know what she was up to. Mann rolled his eyes at that thought. Nothing happened in his inn, and never had, that he didn’t know about.

Mann tolerated the young woman’s presence, both because he admired her outrageous audacity and also because he liked to imbibe himself, on occasion. It was always worth having a ready contact for when he needed it.

“But I know you,” the cackling woman continued, and this brought him up short. Mann had met few people over the aeons who’d known him intimately, but no one like this. Never.

“How do you know me?” Mann asked neutrally, seeing if she really did know him or if she was just letting the spice fill her mind with its promises of illusions.

“You really don’t know me?” the disbelief clear in her voice, between amusement filled grunts and groans and her high-pitched cackles. “It really worked?” she quizzed, her delight coming under control at the same time that her expression intensified in incredulity.

“Truly, you don’t know me?” the woman asked once more, her tone a little more normal now, her breathing regular as Mann shook his head at her words. Something in his movement, innocuous as it was, set her off again, and once more she gasped and chortled, maliciousness washing from her. Mann didn’t understand any of this but held his ground.

Mann had had more than enough experience of neutralising difficult patrons.

Mann made to turn away, convinced he should be anywhere but here, but a claw-edged hand abruptly grabbed his arm and he only just managed to turn around once more without viciously snatching his arm away from her contact.

Mann didn’t want her to touch him, not with her shrivelled, ancient hand, its long nails yellowed with age.

Before he could do more than shrug her off, another voice joined what he thought had been a private conversation.

“Leave off,” a younger man drawled, drawing Mann’s attention from where he’d been hiding in a darkened corner of the inn. Mann hadn’t served the meddler, but he held a jug of ale in one hand, a cup in the other that he was slowly filling with the contents of the other and so he’d clearly been inside the inn since the early morning. The stranger wore a dark hood over his face, and there was little to differentiate him from his murky surroundings. All Mann caught was a flash of bright, white teeth when the man spoke, and nothing else.

The voice was light, airy, and Mann mused that the contrast between the two other participants in the conversation couldn’t be greater.

“Feck off you cock,” the older woman spat toward the younger man, and immediately four regular inn goers who’d been sharing a table with the man who’d spoken, stood and lifted their ale from the table before moving away to the far corner. Mann only wished he could do the same.

“We keep it clean and polite in this establishment,” Mann tried to admonish only for the woman to chuckle and start laughing again.

The younger man, moving further back into the uninhabited shadows, gave an eloquent shrug, visible even through the gloom and under his thick, fur-lined cloak.

“You can keep it anything you want,” the younger voice trilled, “it won’t mean shit when the midnight hour strikes.”

It sounded like a threat, and yet Mann couldn’t help thinking that he’d never seen anyone who looked quite so benign or a threat offered in such a pleasant tone.

Mann had seen bar fights before, too many to count, although he’d never lost a single one of them, but this didn’t look like developing into one.

“What won’t mean shit?” Mann asked, drawn to ask the question even though he wanted to ignore the two strange characters. If possible he’d evict them from his inn and out into the stark blizzard that howled around every corner, dumping feet and feet of snow wherever it could find space to do so.

When Mann had glanced outside the inn door earlier, he’d wondered where more snow could possibly be deposited. He’d also begun to fear for his roof. He winced every time he heard a creaking groan coming from the rafters high above his head.

Already Mann had made the decision that tomorrow, no matter the weather, he’d have to make the perilous climb onto the slanted roof and clear away the clumping snow before the roof collapsed under the massive weight of yet another snowfall.

“Any of this,” the youth said expansively, his arm snaking from inside his cloak to take in the interior of the Inn. Mann noticed the stranger’s sleeve gleamed a little in the light from the fire and the lamps. Whoever this man was, he had money enough to dress impeccably well, even within this remote inn, far from the markets and fairs where such fine cloth as his sleeve were made from could be exchanged for coins or barter of equally precious fabrics. Such wealth rarely made it so far North. The extra tariffs made it prohibitively expensive.

“What? The inn?” Mann asked, trying to determine whether it was a threat or just the bantering of two people deep in their cups.

“All of this,” the youth tried again, but the old woman screeched in denial.

“You don’t know that, young sprout?” she chortled merrily to herself, and Mann found himself watching them both, his head going from side to side as though he watched a game of chance and not a conversation between two apparent strangers. He genuinely had no idea who would say what next.

“I know,” the youth trilled decisively, and now the old woman stepped toward him, anger in those steps that reverberated thanks to the inn’s thick wooden floors and stout wooden walls. Mann was suddenly aware of a silence filling his home, and it angered him. It was the end of the year, the end of the millennia no less, and this wasn’t what he had planned for the occasion. Far from it in fact. He pondered on who had let these two into his inn. He knew he hadn’t, and wished they’d damn well leave. Immediately, no matter the baying storm outside.

“You can’t know anything,” the woman stomped, her hands resting either side of the ale jug on the youth’s table, as she menaced him. “I know what’s about to happen,” she stated, trying to infuse her voice with the disdain of earlier but failed, as her voice wavered with a question at its end. For all her laughter, it seemed she was far less confident than she’d first appeared.

“You know nothing, and you never have,” the youth sighed, anger crossing his unlined face as she roughly shoved back his all-encompassing hood to reveal thick silver hair that threaded its way down his shoulders and put paid to the idea of youth that his light voice and unlined face had initially given Mann.

The silver-haired man sat back on his wooden chair, crossing his arms and trying to stay away from the spitting face of the woman, as he winced and curled his body away from her.

“I’ve been around long enough, thank you, young sprout,” she hissed, and Mann struggled to understand what they were discussing. It sounded very much like an argument that had been on-going for a lot longer than the last few moments, and yet he’d thought they were strangers. They appeared as strangers. The attitude toward the other lacked either the amiability or the intense displeasure that arose from knowing someone for any significant length of time. Instead the silver-haired man exhibited only disdain to the older woman’s angry words.

“You’ve been around just as long as me, and I know that you comprehend nothing. You never have. Neither does Mann here, is it?” The question was directed at him, but there was no pause for an answer.

“Mann got his wish. You didn’t get yours, and I doubt you ever will.”

Now the woman’s face scrunched into an ugly glare, rage seeming to cascade from her like flames through kindling. She flared almost as brightly as flint on tinder and Mann flinched away from her, desperate, suddenly, not to be caught in the wake of her wrathfulness. At the same time, Mann tried to decide if he’d been introduced to them or if they just knew his name because they’d been in his inn and everyone knew who he was. Everyone in the settlement knew his name. In fact, people from much further afield knew the name of the innkeeper of Slutet, people from places he’d never visited, and never would.

“He only got his wish because he’s a None,” the woman further hissed, jerking her head toward Mann, and something like ridicule crossed the youthful face of the ancient silver-haired man.

“He got his wish because he’s a Nine, you daft old coot. No one bothers with a None. I thought you knew that by now.” The silver stranger’s voice had lost its softness to be replaced with a steely resolve, and very evident contempt.

“They wouldn’t have allowed a Nine to do what he did,” the woman gobbled, as though desperate to convince herself, her body shaking with each word she spoke as though to reinforce it.

“They’d allow a Nine to do anything they wanted. They’ve nothing to gain from this ever ending. Why not give the daft sod what he wanted?”

They were both watching him now, and Mann found his mind prickling with unease. They spoke about him as though they knew him and yet he knew he’d never met them before. Ever. And they talked as though old adversaries, ancient adversaries. The fact they seemed to know more about him than he did was also unnerving. Despite everything he knew to the contrary, they still claimed to know him.

“No,” the woman howled, the sound so screechy that it set the hairs on the back of Mann’s neck on end. Annoyed Mann rubbed his neck with his weathered hand, cracked from the intense cold outside, and red from the constant work of pouring ale and washing mugs and looked at them both again. He needed to remember to coat his hands in scented fat to stop them disintegrating further.

“Yes,” the ancient youth responded, his voice weakening now that he’d said what needed to be said. There was finality in his voice that Man took to be acceptance. “Once more it will all begin,” the silver man muttered softly, and now the woman’s shriek was so terrifying that Mann was sure he heard one of the thick spirit bottles crack and the subsequent trickle of liquid off the back shelf.

“As soon as the sandtimer turns to the middle of the night, there’ll be a reckoning, as there should be, and everything will begin once more. You know that. I know that. The only poor fucker who doesn’t know that is stood in front of us with his mouth wide open, listening to his finest spirit drain away into the wooden floorboards.”

Mann shut his mouth abruptly, wishing he didn’t feel the urge to retrieve his expensive bottle of spirits rather than complain about being called a ‘poor fucker’. It seemed the silver-haired youth did know something about him. But what was a bit of fluid, if what these two hinted at was really true?

“What will begin?” Mann was finally forced to ask. He refrained from asking what a Nine or a None was. Why did he need to know, after all?

“The new age,” the youth muttered ominously, but Mann was nodding. He knew about that. For the last twenty or so years, it was all anyone had spoken about.

“The new millennia doesn’t mean a new age,” Mann tried, his voice reasonable as it had been whenever his clientele had become a bit rowdy in the past discussing the passing of the millennium.

“You don’t know what it means?” the woman squawked again, and he scowled in irritation. Mann was sure that all the bottles of spirits were slowly leaking now from cracks caused by her shrieking. Far better to use barrels and jugs to store his expensive stock, Mann thought to himself, resorting to his usual innkeeper priorities in the wake of the strange events unfolding before him. Forget the fact that it might disturb the taste a bit, as Helbe had once cautioned him. It would save him a bloody fortune.

“And how do you know what it means?” Mann prodded, trying to stay focused on the conversation, but she pursed her lips, sliding onto a seat next to the silver-haired youth as though they now shared a secret and weren’t about to divulge its meaning to Mann.

The silver-haired youth’s face curdled in disgust at the rancid older woman, and he tried to move away from her, but his mouth didn’t open to answer the question. He simply watched Mann with apathy, when he was settled as far away from the woman as he could get while remaining at the same table.

“If it was about to happen,” the youthful silver-haired man finally said, turning to face the older woman as though Man hadn’t spoken, “then we’d all be here.” He spoke calmly, no trace of the older woman’s bitterness on his face. Whatever it was that they conversed about, it seemed that he was reconciled to it in a way that she wasn’t.

“What do you mean?” she shrieked once more, trying to turn her back on Mann, as though the conversation had suddenly become private. Mann bit back a smirk of amusement at the strange characters. “Of course we’re all here,” the woman insisted, but the silver-haired man just raised his eyebrows at her, disbelieving her words.

“There are three of us. We need all of us. You know that?” he provoked, and she shook her head with delight.

“But everyone’s here. Really, you hadn’t noticed them?” This time something like interest flickered across the, until now, remarkably impassive face of the man.

“Where, there’s no one I recognise?”

“I suggest you look a little more closely,” she muttered, a chortle of delight forming on her lips with the anticipation of him agreeing with her assertions now that she’d shown the lie to his assertion.

As though pleased to have something to do, other than sitting by the woman, the silver-haired youth stood suddenly, and took stock of his surroundings.

He was a tall man, almost painfully thin. Although he swirled his cloak around him as though to disguise himself, Mann still noticed the extremely long limbs, and the large hands as they wrapped the cloak tight to his body. Mann wondered how the stranger could scrunch himself into such a small chair without discomfort. Surely his legs must have been too high to rest under the table top.

Mann followed the stranger’s line of sight, but saw nothing other than people he both knew, and had known for many long years, or travellers, seeking shelter from the raging winter storm outside, or a few characters determined to see in the new millennium at Slutet.

No one looked like the two unlikely acquaintances. Mann had been studying them as they spoke, and he’d decided, although it was difficult to imagine two people looking more different from each other, that they shared a ‘look’ about them, not one of desperation, but rather of both determination and understanding.

They knew something Mann didn’t know, that was most obvious, but it also appeared as though they knew a lot more than anyone else within the inn as well. In fact, more than anyone he’d ever met.

Mann wracked his long memory. There was something about them that was familiar, and it ached inside his head. A memory that didn’t want to be remembered. He had many of them and rarely paid them much heed. This, though, was different.

A decision made, the silver-haired youth strolled to the right of the bar, his long legs making the movement lightning fast. A group of regular patrons were huddled there. They’d been watching events unfold with wary eyes, but quickly convinced that Mann had everything under control, they’d returned to their card game and their drinks. They weren’t even aware of the scrutiny they were under as they bickered and argued over their game, the cards before them exchanging hands at some speed, and then slowing as one or other considered the next move, the next gamble, from the piles of coins before them.

Mann knew they’d been planning this game for half of the year. They’d been discussing the size of the stakes for most of that time, and even he wasn’t sure what they’d finally agreed upon. He could see they all had huge piles of copper coins in front of them, and some even had more treasured items, precious stones gleamed from the glossy expanse of the highly polished table, or small pots of herbs and the even more sought after, spice, in front of them. The stakes appeared entirely acceptable, just enough to give an edge to the game, but not enough to impoverish any of them. Mann had been firm on that point.

Mann had envisaged that they’d gamble and card all night long and long into the new millennia without any care or thought for the doomsayers amongst the general population. He’d hoped to join them, and there was an empty seat for him, but he doubted now that he’d get the chance to game. Not with these two strange characters within his inn.

Mann sighed, thinking of his own stack of coins waiting for him in his locked chest. The days were long gone when he needed to ‘ask’ for his coins, or in fact, for anything. He was a well-appointed man, in a small community, where he’d managed to remain for almost all of his long life, occasionally disappearing for a year or two before some ‘nephew’ or other came along to take over his business. He’d been content. Until now. Not for the first time, he wished the two daft bastards would disappear and leave him with his contented patrons.

Mann was distracted from his thoughts by the intent expression on the face of the youth when he looked at Sal. Sal had been coming to his inn for nigh on fifty years. Why would the old man be of any interest to the silver-haired man? As Mann pondered the question, the stranger moved on, seemingly dismissing Sal from his thoughts.

Now the silver-haired man turned his attention to a solitary woman sat before the fire. She was of middle years, and Mann had been amusing himself with thoughts of making a better acquaintance with her, if he could manage it without Halla noticing.

She was a traveller, but she’d decided to stay in the inn for the last seven days, as the mid-winter storm had raged and rolled against the sturdy wooden construction and barred doors.

Mann had never met her before, and although she raised her eyes from her examination of some gems in front of her, the ancient youth barely registered her mild interest before he moved on again. She too reminded Mann of someone he’d known, long ago, but then, most people did.

The next group were a rag-tag selection of young men. There were three of them altogether, ranging in height from really quite small, to almost as tall as Mann himself. They’d only arrived that day, covered in snow and freezing cold, but with huge grins on their faces to have made it to the most desolate place possible for the mid-winter night. Mann had overheard them talking about some of the more rampant rumours about what would happen when the millennium turned over, smirking to himself to hear the belief and fear in their voices.

The young men had decided well over three years ago to venture north in the hope of avoiding whatever plague or catastrophe was about to be inflicted on the general population as the new millennium began.

Mann thought them fools but admired them all the same. Not content with the empty words of reassurance from family and friends, and even from the higher authorities, they’d decided to take action. Mann couldn’t fault them for their firm commitment to staying alive when the new millennium started, not that he thought they had anything to fear. The worrying rumours were little but that.

Well, Mann hadn’t feared. Now he wasn’t so sure, not based on what the mad old woman and the silver-haired young man had been talking about.

Here the youth stopped and really examined the men, lingering on their faces, and also, Mann noticed, on any visible skin that they showed at cuffs, necks and faces. Which wasn’t much, even with the fires raging away, the storm outside was violent and routinely seemed to suck much of the heat from his inn. Most still wore their cloaks even though the fires raged at the centre of the inn.

Mann was just relieved that he had supplies enough to last near enough a decade in his cellar and stables, and in his more private store. Mann wouldn’t freeze to death, and neither would his patrons while they remained inside the inn. Although the cost might increase. Mann never guaranteed his prices. Especially not when a storm struck. There was always room for a fresh negotiation.

One of the three men was uninterested in the silver-haired youth, but two of them, the smallest and the tallest, met his gaze openly and without fear. Perhaps, just perhaps, these men had met the silver-haired youth before, but if they had, they gave no other sign. Not like the older woman, who cackled with delight and shouted, “I told you as much,” as the silver-haired man continued to survey the occupants of the inn.

By now some of the small parties had become aware of the inspection they were under, and some were openly hostile while others called out disparaging remarks, telling the man to go back to his ‘woman’ friend and stop seeking out someone more salubrious.

Mann held his amusement in check for as long as it took the silver-haired youth to turn his gaze onto Halla. Returning to the main room in the inn from whatever errand she’d been running within the complex of patron rooms upstairs, Halla immediately noticed the silver-haired young man and fixed him with a saucy stare, a look of amusement on her face as she became aware of Mann’s scrutiny.

Mann cursed quietly in his throat. Damn the woman. How she could still arouse such fierce jealousy in him after all this time never failed to amaze him, especially when he’d only just been considering a little dalliance with another himself?

“Good evening traveller,” Halla trilled, her voice low and husky, and Mann growled once more, as the silver-haired youth became aware of his study. He turned and offered Mann a puzzled glance before turning away from Halla with barely a glance.

Halla used it as an opportunity to saunter over to Mann. She’d been making her demands well known all day about her expectations of the evening to come, and they’d not involved him playing games and cards with his friends until the ‘morning’ came. Now, though, Halla seemed distracted by the silver-haired youth.

“I didn’t see him come in?” she commented, her breath warm and inviting in his ear as she stood on tip-toes to reach him.

“Then who served him, because I bloody didn’t? Or the old hag?” Mann asked, nodding toward the older woman. She was lasciviously slugging down the youth’s ale with a relish that should never be seen in a public place, or so Mann decided with a grimace of distaste

“Nope, neither of them. Didn’t you? I know the woman has a room, but he’s new?”

Now that Halla mentioned it, Mann realised that she was right.

Mann looked around the inn. The room was full, almost to bursting. The silver-haired youth would need to sleep on the floor if he planned on spending the night, as he surely must, with the weather so fierce outside.

“How did they get drinks then?” Mann continued to muse, and Halla laughed.

“You know Sal will serve anyone when you’re not around. I imagine he did. Sal probably thought he was helping. He’s a bit strange though,” she muttered, sliding past Man suggestively as she went to check the contents of the cook pots over the twin fires. Mann watched her go, his mind far from where she wanted it to be that evening, and he knew she’d be disappointed if he should ever tell her. Thoughts of a warm bed, and a warmer woman, were banished to the extremities in the face of this mystery.

Who the fuck were these two strangers?

Mann continued to watch the silver-haired youth as he turned and examined everyone within the inn. Some, his eyes lingered over, and others, he barely glanced at. Mann tried to determine what the silver-haired youth was looking for, but other than prying eyes over exposed skin, it seemed to always be something different that either caught his attention or didn’t.

Belatedly, Mann realised his own neck was exposed, his shirt button undone lower than usual, and he rushed to cover the traces of his strange marks that had long covered and stretched over his tall body, being added to each year on this evening. They were a constant reminder of his strange longevity, appearing with fixed regularity time and time again. He’d long stopped trying to count them. There were simply too many, and his scattering of chest hair at his neckline was simply not thick enough to mask them all.

Still, he smoothed his plain brown shirt straight, aware the action would cover most of the marks, and rearranged his white apron around his waist, as though to cover the action.

He’d dressed carefully that day, keen to look his part for the new millennium. Highly polished black boots covered his large feet, and half way up his calf, they met his best trousers, fashioned from green velvet and cut just tight enough to show his fine legs to their best advantage. Not that he thought they were good, but enough people had commented throughout the ages for him to pay particular attention to them. On his upper body, he wore a silk brown shirt, perhaps not the most suitable for the Hvite Lands, and the job of innkeeper, but one he felt comfortable in all the same.

His hair was thick and iron grey, despite his age, curling around his ears, although he preferred to be clean shaven and had only that day spent some time scraping all the previous weeks growth from his upper lip, cheeks and neck. His hair had been the same colour for so long, he almost wished it would turn the white of old age.

But what was it this that the youth was looking for? Mann tugged his rolled sleeves down. It was rare that anyone ever asked him about his unusual marks, they’d all known him far too long for there to be even the hint of a mystery about him, even though he preferred to keep them covered. But the silver-haired youth and the old woman, had they noticed them and was it that which had set them off on whatever mad escapade they were currently taking part in?

Eventually, the silver-haired youth returned to the older woman. She was watching him avidly, but any interest he’d had seemed to evaporate.

“You’re wrong. There are no more than six of us here, and that’s including him,” he nodded in Mann’s direction, and Mann felt a razor sharp-shock of surprise down his back. They were counting him in their number? But what number and why?

“There’s time yet,” the old woman cackled again. “They’ll come. I have their word. Four of the Nine are here, and three of the None, when you include Mann.”

A desultory smirk crossed the youth’s face.

“You have that the wrong way round. I told you. You’re the None, I’m a Nine, and so is Mann. I suggest you try and count a little better.”

“Blane, you’ve always been a fool. We all know who’s who, and no longer will we Nine,” and she stressed the word, taking in the expanse of the inn without pointing to anyone in particular, “listen to your lies, and accept that we’re the None. We know who we are. It’s about time that you accepted the truth as well. It would get all this over and done with much sooner.”

“Think what you want, Jenna, but we’re the Nine, well, Mann and I are, and the rest of you poor souls are just the None. And it will not happen tonight. The Nine will not come. They know, and they’ve known since the second year that this was not the correct cycle. Time will roll around once more, as it has done before, and you must accept it. Not that there’s anything you can do about it.” The silver-haired youth spoke with passion, for the first time an emotion other than disdain or mild interest riding over his young looking face, mobile after being straight for so long.

Mann truly wanted to ask what all the nonsense about Nine’s or None’s was, but at that moment, a stray gust of wind ruffled the long silver hair trailing down Blane’s back, and Mann caught sight of similar markings to his own snaking down the exposed neck. Was Blane right in what he said? Were he and Mann similar? Had Blane also lived nearly a millennia? The thought confounded Man. He’d long known he was alone. To realise he might not have been was a dizzying realisation.

But Mann had no time to consider the possibilities for the old woman was hawking and gasping once more, her fingers pointing at the new arrival who’d forced their way into the warm inn without so much as a please or thank-you. Behind, Mann caught sight of Sal struggling to seal the door tightly, his stocky body forcing the sturdy door closed, from where it opened inwards. Always inwards. A precaution against falling snow blocking the doorway and preventing anyone from leaving after each snowstorm.

Unable to tell whether a man or a woman had walked into their midst, Mann still strode to welcome the new appearance, Sal still struggling to seal the door tightly closed. The new arrival was swathed from head to toe in a thick white cloak, perhaps the fur of the rare white bear, more myth than reality in the Hvite Lands, and Mann immediately knew that this person was wealthy beyond measure. Mann was unsure what they’d think of his humble inn at the end of the known world.

As Mann opened his mouth to speak, a hand came up to rest on his chest, while the other hand silenced him with a cold finger on his warm lips. Quietened, Mann merely stood and watched as long gloves were rolled from slim fingers, and the deep hood of the cloak was finally pushed back to reveal bright golden eyes, reflecting the firelight of the fires and lamps, and a smiling face set inside the brightest blonde hair he’d ever seen.

But before he could enjoy the spectacle, Mann groaned. This woman was no stranger to him. In fact, he knew her rather too well.

“Branwen,” Mann croaked, his voice strangled and immediately on edge. Branwen grinned at him as she flung her cloak from her shoulders and dumped it unceremoniously in his arms, with a kiss on his cheek and a swirl of the icy cold about her.

“Hello darling,” she purred, and immediately he was transported back in time to many centuries before. Mann knew this woman. He’d thought her long dead. Certainly, she’d never alluded to her long life for the short time they’d been avid lovers, before she’d just disappeared, never to be seen again.

She squealed with delight on seeing Blane and crashed into his arms. Blane looked anything but pleased to see the much shorter woman, but as with Mann, she blithely ignored his annoyance and settled beside him at the table he was sharing with the older woman. Only then did a grimace touch the golden face.

“Oh,” Branwen moaned, “I’d forgotten you’d be here,” Branwen grimaced at the older woman and shuffled closer to Blane, as though for protection.

“I don’t see everyone,” Branwen whined, and Mann, discarding her cloak in an untidy heap near the door, having absent-mindedly given Sal the help he needed in closing and sealing the door, strode over toward her. Mann bent his head low and growled into her ear, inhaling her intoxicating fragrance at the same time.

“Branwen, what the fuck are you doing here? And how is it even possible?” Mann could feel his head spinning wildly with the possibilities.

“You always were so self-centred,” Branwen admonished, as though they spoke of small matters and not half a year of loving that had ended with her abrupt departure. She turned her golden eyes to face him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mann demanded, as Branwen ran her finger down his face, cupping his chin as she’d once done when she’d wanted to win him over.

“You weren’t ready to hear what I had to say. It looks suspiciously like you still aren’t. How bloody disappointing?” Branwen pouted, turning to wink at Blane, as though this was all a great game she was pleased to be included in.

“I knew it wasn’t worth the journey, but well, it’s always such fun to see what he’ll think of next. Mann, the only Nine to never have accepted his fate.” Blane, as Mann now knew the silver-haired youth was called, almost sounded disappointed.

“Why did you leave?” Mann demanded from Branwen, as her molten eyes flashed back to him.

“You thought we were in love, but you only ever love yourself, and quite frankly, I was bored of you. Even with all the time in the world, a girl needs to have some fun. Why did you choose to live here, in the arse of beyond, all your long damn life? There’s so much else to see.” And then Branwen smirked. “So many men and women to ‘do’ as well.”

Mann thought back to their time together, and then over the years of his life. Was he truly ‘boring?” Was he genuinely only concerned with himself? Certainly, Mann had been troubled with keeping his secrets for all that time. It seemed that Branwen had been, and also hadn’t been.

“Why are you here you screeching bitch?” Branwen suddenly spoke with malice dripping from her usually pleasant voice, angling her conversation toward the older woman who’d been watching their exchange in disbelief.

“You’ve met before?” the old woman croaked, and Mann hoped her high-pitched squeaks and squawks had robbed her of her voice for the time being.

“Yes, why? Haven’t you?” Branwen sneered. “Did you think you’d worked it all out this time? Dear Jenna, you’ve always believed you had far more skill than you truly do.” Branwen’s voice dripped with derision. Once more Mann listened to them. It was evident they all knew each other, and very well as well.

“Look, little bitch girl with your golden locks and simpering smile, I worked it all out long ago, and as you can see, we’re all here. The Nine are nearly all here,” she once more indicated the entire inn with her outstretched arms ending in claw edges, “and when the rest of the useless None arrive, it will all be over, and we’ll be free of this age.”

Branwen’s laughter warbled delightfully at the words, and immediately Jenna leaned toward her, with a threatening pose.

“Jenna, you think you’re a Nine? That’s a new one. Where’ve you spent your time? Clearly learning to delude yourself into thinking you’re something that you’re not. And no, the rest of the Nine, the real Nine, aren’t coming. I sent word to them all years ago to say there was no point. Everyone else is holed up where they hope to begin once more.”

Anger flashed through Jenna’s eyes, but then she hooted once more.

“They will come. I told them to, when I visited them.”

Now Branwen’s eyes flashed with the fire of molten lava, and she reached across the table to grab Jenna’s neck roughly. The old woman squealed in surprise, and Mann felt it best to block the view of those nosy patrons who had, finally, been distracted by this strange tableau playing out in their usual drinking establishment.

“If you’ve put their lives in danger, I’ll kill you myself as soon as the new era rolls around and then at least I’ll get some peace from you, you damn bitch.”

Jenna was sucking in deep breaths and trying to twist free when Blane placed his own cautionary hand over Branwen’s.

“Let the old hag go,” Blane reproved. “It would be good to see everyone again, even if there’s no need for it.” Blane’s voice was once more laced with boredom and Branwen released Jenna too fast, so that the older woman, gasping for breath, slumped and fell to the floor, banging her head on the thick wooden table on the way down, losing consciousness in the process.

“Thank fuck for that, silence at last,” Blane growled, and Mann found himself unsure what to do for the best, as he looked from the collapsed form to the grinning Branwen. Mann had never experienced such violence from Branwen before.

“Just leave her dearie,” Branwen trilled. “And get me a drink. I’m damn thirsty after all that time on the road. I hope my poor horse will be well cared for in your stables.”

“You brought a horse out, in this weather?” Mann raged, finding some solace in such a normal concern. No one rode when it was this bitterly cold. Most barely ventured more than a few footfalls from their home. The cold attacked everyone who opened their mouth or breathed too deeply through their nose, literally freezing the air as it tried to enter their body.

“The beast is fine. I ensured it was well warmed, fed and cossetted each night. She’s a beautiful beastie. A shame she’ll be gone come the morning.” Branwen ended her words on an elongated sigh.

Mann didn’t understand those words, and he thought he probably didn’t want to. They all seemed to know a great deal more about ‘something’ compared to him. Instead, Mann busied himself at his bar, finding and then decanting the deep red spirit she’d always favoured, flavoured with some exotic spice from the deep-south. It was poured from a bottle thick with dust, under which a blue glow could just about be detected.

Mann had never met another person who liked the flavouring. Why the fuck he’d kept this for over five hundred years he honestly didn’t know.

With a swirl into a small goblet, the smell of the drink pulled him back half a millennia and by the time he passed Branwen the drink, Mann could feel all of his anger at her abrupt departure filling his large frame. Yet he wasn’t about to ask. Not again.

Absentmindedly he kicked the prone frame of Jenna. He was tempted to leave her where she lay but decided against it. Wrinkling his nose, and taking a sharp breath so that he needn’t inhale again, he lifted her, surprised by her weight when she was such a slight woman, and carried her to the only spare seats in the inn, before the fire where it tended to get too hot for anyone to sit comfortably. Sleep was apparently a different matter entirely.

As Mann laid her down, one of the men sauntered over to him. He’d been sitting in the group of three, playing games of chance, and Mann had harboured the belief that he knew Jenna. Mann now had that confirmed.

“Daft old boot,” the man muttered, disdainfully lifting her hair from across her face and looking at her intently. “She’s dragged me here, and now she’s three sheets to the wind. I should have bloody stayed in the South.” The man was hard to age, but his complexion reflected a lifetime spent in warmer climates, even without his mass of thick black curls and piercing yellow eyes. He seemed to be a piece of volcanic rock, shot through with the deepest gold.

Mann thought he’d walk away then, but he didn’t.

“This is all your damn fault, you know. You and your bloody high ideals of what it means to be a Nine. Yours, because you’re so bored with the same millennium time and time again. If only you’d kept your memory, this might have been the last time I had to endure this shit.”

* * *

Buy the full book here .

16

Shadow of the Overlord

Kevin Potter

In a world of dark creatures and darker magic, one girl dares to rise above and become something more…

It has always been Taliesimon’s dream to overcome the naysayers and become the first female Dragoon warrior, and now she has her chance.

She’s finally old enough to enter the Gauntlet with the boys and prove she can best any of them in the proving grounds the dragoons are chosen from.

But there are darker forces at work than just the Dragoon Commander and his misogynistic views.

Will Taliesimon find a way to overcome all obstacles, or will she end up just one more failed recruit?

Please note, it is intentional that the chapter numbers jump about in this sample. The full novel includes multiple point of view characters with numerous plots and subplots threaded throughout. What follows is but one of those threads.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

THE WIND KEENED, high and sharp, through the leaves of the few trees to either side of the path, which led from the smattering of farms into Cuularan. Though early in the day still, it had been nearly two full turns of the glass since the orbs of the dual fire gods had risen over the towering Spine of the World Mountains in the west.

Kaustere, the crimson orb, sat slightly above his black cousin, Asmodere, leaving only a sliver of black crescent visible, trailing after the red. Both served to bake the ground hard. Taliesimon wondered idly if one could fry an egg on a rock in the heat of those twin orbs.

The floorboards beneath her creaked as the flat bed of the wain leaned to one side on the uneven path, then jounced to the other without warning. She fell, cracking her knee against the sturdy, if weathered, oak.

“Blast it,” she muttered, massaging her knee. “That’s going to bruise.”

“Maybe that will teach you not to stand in the back of a moving wain,” Father said gruffly, without turning back to face her.

He meant well, of course. She knew that. But he didn’t understand. He could never understand. She couldn’t sit. She couldn’t be patient. Not on a day like today. Today, she was too excited to keep calm or hold still.

Today is The Day, she thought. You’re content to be a farmer, Father, but not me. Oh no! Not me! I’m going to be a warrior, see if I don’t!

“Don’t know what you’re so excited about,” Jalaisen said. “They only agreed to let you test to shut you up. They don’t let girls into the Dragoons.”

Her temper flared, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You take that back!” she shouted.

“I will not,” he said, unperturbed.

“Take it back, Jay!” she yelled, pitching her voice even higher, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides. Somehow, she wasn’t sure how, exactly, she had gotten back to her feet. She glared at her older brother through a haze of crimson. She would make him take back his stupid words. She would be a dragoon.

He glared right back, arms folded. “I will not. It is truth. You shall see.”

Taliesimon thrust her small fists against her hips. “I will be a dragoon, Jay. You’ll see. I don’t care if they’ve never accepted a girl before. I’ll be the first.”

Jalaisen scoffed. “We’ll see, little sister.”

She clenched her teeth in frustration. I’ll show them all, she thought. They’ll see.

“Don’t pout, little one,” Father said.

She ground her teeth. “I’m not.” She hated when that whiny note crept into her voice.

Father shook his head. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Taly?”

“Yep.”

Father sighed again. “Jalaisen, stop antagonizing your sister. She’s made her choice. She’ll stand or fall by merit of her own skills. Nothing you can say or do will change it.”

“Yes, Father.” Jalaisen turned his attention back to the road and took a few jogging steps to pull up even with Father, who sat on the bench at the front of the old wain.

Taliesimon did her best to push her outrage to the back of her mind. That was pride in his voice, talking about my skills, wasn’t it?

She smiled.

The wain jounced again, leaning wildly to one side as the wheel fell into a rut in the path.

This time, Taliesimon slid her feet with the motion and managed to stay standing.

Her grin broadened.

* * *

Cuularan was large. Easily the biggest place Taliesimon had ever seen.

Like most of the Free States, Cuularan had no fence, no walls, and no gate. The forest had been cleared for a full league around the outbuildings— to aid in defense, she supposed —and a three-span-wide stream cut through the center of town.

Arching her back and neck, Taliesimon counted as many of the brick, stucco, wood, and stone buildings as she could. Since the last time Father had brought them into the city two years ago, she had discovered— with almost unseemly delight —that she could count beyond ten by using her fingers multiple times. All she had to do was use a raised finger to denote each repetition of ten.

She used the trick now, and added raised toes within her soft doeskin boots when she ran out of fingers.

At two-hundred she stopped, being out of tricks to help her count higher, and marveled. These were only the buildings she could see from the outskirts, which was obviously only a small part of the total within. Never mind that there were many more that she didn’t have an accurate way to count!

Woodcutters chopping firewood; mills, where millers did whatever it was millers did, she wasn’t certain; storefronts where goods of all descriptions were bought and sold; inns for the weary; taverns for the thirsty; guard towers, manned primarily by dragoons on the lookout for torthugra; gem cutters who made jewelry; tanners, she was pretty sure they made leather; shaperates, who carved bone into useful shapes, primarily weapons and armors; coopers making barrels; wainwrights building wains and carts; this place had absolutely everything!

Why had she never noticed all this before? The last time she was here, none of it had been important. The food, specifically the pastries, and the toys available here that couldn’t be had in her home village had been all that occupied her attention.

But now she marveled at everything!

“Papa, where do you think the testing grounds will be this year?”

“Same as always.”

She chewed her lip nervously.

“Don’t worry, Taly,” Father said without looking back at her. “I’ll get you there. As soon as we unload these wine casks at the Birdsong Inn, we’ll head that way.”

She nodded. It seemed silly, nodding when his back was to her. But she knew that somehow he knew she’d nodded. Father always knew. A part of her suspected he knew everything.

Ahead, the road leveled out and widened enough to accommodate three wains side-by-side.

Why don’t they keep the ruts out on the whole road? she wondered. Surely that would make the trip into town far more pleasant for everyone.

Without warning, the wain’s wheels hit… something. Something hard and unyielding. The wain rose in a high bounce and Taliesimon pitched forward. The back of Papa’s bench flew up toward her with sickening speed and met her face in a bright flash of white, followed by darkness.

Strangely, rather than the pain she expected, her face blossomed with a burst of numbness. The world spun around her, even with her eyes closed. How does that work? she wondered.

Trying to ignore the spinning, she opened her eyes and focused her attention on her hands, which seemed to be planted flat on the floor of the wain. She noticed the whorls and grain lines in the wood as she never had before.

She tried to smell the old oak, it was a scent she had always loved, yet the wood smell didn’t reach her nose. The only scent reaching her nose was something she couldn’t place. Something bitter and acrid with an unusual tang to it.

Her cheeks felt wet. With tremendous effort, she rolled over and her head slammed against the floor of the wain. Pain exploded in her skull.

Blinking rapidly, she looked up into the bright midday sky. The azure was broken by puffy clouds and the twin orbs above. Her eyes burned and flooded with moisture.

Father’s face broke her view of crimson Kaustere on one side and Jalaisen’s did so on the other. The burning in her eyes eased a bit. Concern showed in their eyes, but though their lips moved, no sound penetrated the high, sharp ringing in her ears. Why hadn’t she noticed the sound before?

Did I black out? she wondered.

She didn’t know how to tell if she had or not. She hadn’t dreamed. She hadn’t seen blackness overshadow her sight. She remembered her fall and even the impact— she winced at the memory. It was similar to the sudden numbness of being struck with a shield or the flat of a wooden blade.

Initially, the numbness had been isolated to her nose and mouth, but now it seemed like her entire face was numb.

She reached up to feel her cheeks, chin and nose. Her fingers touched wetness and cold flesh— was her nose crooked now? —but it was as though she were touching someone else’s face. The flesh had no sensation at all.

She couldn’t help thinking it was a bad sign.

Father and Jalaisen looked worried, their expressions drawn.

“Father,” she tried to say. She couldn’t hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears though, and was not at all certain she was actually speaking. “I can’t hear you. But I think I’m okay. My face feels numb.”

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

TALIESIMON STOOD PROUD, the only girl in a long line of boys, at the start line of a course of obstacles meant to test the mettle of those who wished to join the honorable order of the dragoons.

The boy to her left, like many others, had a shaved head and wore nothing aside from his torn and filthy breeches. The boy to her right, however, wore his short, blond hair combed back and his pristine linen clothing and fine doeskin boots smelled like money.

The boy on the blond boy’s other side shied away from him, as though he had a contagious disease.

He was shunned by them as much as she was, it seemed.

“Ready?” a tall dragoon called from the front, but several voices growling from behind her brought everyone’s attention around to the back of the line. A bald-headed, shirtless boy in soft, black leather breeches and sandaled feet strode toward the line while three older boys, initiates, Taliesimon felt certain, chased after him.

Hold on, she thought. Is that a… another girl?

The shirtless youth had narrow, angular features but thick, full lips and just the slightest swelling of her chest. The earliest beginnings of breasts, perhaps? If so, she lacked any degree of modesty or sense of decorum.

The child hurried to the line and sidled in between Taliesimon and the bare-headed boy to her left.

“Dragoons!” the middle chaser, the oldest, called. “That girl cannot be allowed to test. It is against all–”

“It is against nothing,” the dragoon in front barked. “It is unorthodox, to be sure, but young Taliesimon here had prior approval to compete. Allowing another girl in will change nothing.”

“But ser! We have never–”

“It matters not, initiate. Just because there has never been a female dragoon does not mean there cannot be. We will allow them to compete.”

The three initiates frowned and Taliesimon grinned. Glancing at the new arrival, she found the bald girl grinning as well.

“Way to make an entrance,” she said, impressed.

“Thanks,” the girl said as she ran a hand over her smooth head, looking almost shy.

Taliesimon extended a hand. “I’m Taliesimon.”

The girl touched a palm to hers and said, “Okara,” and they both grinned again.

“Ready positions!” The dragoon barked and Taliesimon spun to face forward, her right leg forward, knee bent, and the left one stretched out behind her.

“Do you know what’s ahead?” Okara asked softly.

Taliesimon gaped. “You haven’t studied the course?”

The smaller girl shrugged.

She’s going to die, Taliesimon thought. They’re going to eat her alive.

From the small cart at his side, the dragoon ahead of them produced a tall staff of ash with a long, wide banner depicting a black longsword protruding from a brown serpent’s fanged head on a field of pristine white. He waved the banner back and forth above his head three times while the lines of dragoons on either side of the narrow path chanted, “From the fires of youth, dragoons will rise. Only the strong will overcome.”

They repeated the phrase with each wave of the banner.

“Be careful,” Taliesimon whispered urgently. “Keep your eyes open. Don’t get in their way.”

“In their way?” The girl was incredulous.

“The boys will hurt you. It’s all competition to them. They don’t care who they hurt to get ahead.”

The girl’s eyes widened for a moment, then her expression went blank, her eyes hardened, and she nodded.

After the fourth wave of the banner and the fourth repetition of the chant, the lead dragoon stabbed the staff into the muddy ground and barked, “Begin!”

Pandemonium erupted around Taliesimon as the boys ripped and tore at one another’s hair and clothing, throwing opponents to the muddy ground. The boy to Taliesimon’s right was pulled down by his finely groomed blond hair and trampled. Blood poured from his mouth. Taliesimon waited at the line drawn into the mud before her, gripping the smaller girl’s bare arm.

For a moment, Okara struggled against her, trying to run forward, then she seemed to notice the violence being bandied about and relaxed in Taliesimon’s grip.

All the boys with bare chests and shaved heads made a lot more sense now. She’d known the start especially would not be pleasant, but she hadn’t fully expected the amount of hair and shirt pulling and the violent trampling that had occurred.

But, if Okara didn’t expect this, why is she –

Wrenching pain in the back of her head cut off the thought and she was flung forward. The muddy ground flew up toward her face.

She clenched her eyes tight as her face struck home for the second time today. Once again, even through her closed eyes, the world seemed to spin around her.

A laugh sounded above her, though it seemed far away and indistinct. Footsteps pounded past her and the laughter, vicious and mocking, dissipated.

With her mouth full of thick fluid, Taliesimon choked and coughed, but the fluid remained. She tried to roll herself over, but her body did not respond. Holy Trevandor, she thought. Please don’t let me die here! Why won’t my body cooperate?

Then a small hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her over. The crimson light of Kaustere burned through her eyelids and she coughed again. This time, the fluid vacated her mouth and she sucked in a gasping, labored breath. Though the breath burned all the way down, it felt sweet and refreshing. As she drew in her third breath, she opened her eyes and found her lids sticky with thick crimson blood.

She lay dazed for several moments before she tried to move again. Okara’s hairless head appeared above her, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Her eyes are beautiful, Taliesimon thought, and accepted the thought as the dazed nonsense it was. They shine like sapphires in the light, but brighter, so much brighter.

The wide sapphire eyes blinked and Taliesimon blinked as well.

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

She coughed again, then turned her head and spit a build-up of fluid from her mouth. She tasted blood and finally made sense of the situation.

With a slight nod to the smaller girl, she struggled to sit up. After a moment, the other girl gripped her hands and pulled her up to a sitting position.

“We have to move,” she croaked.

Okara nodded and pulled Taliesimon to her feet. “They did that purely out of spite, didn’t they?”

“I expect so,” Taliesimon rasped as she took her first wobbly steps toward the lead dragoon ahead. He now stood a pace off the path, just before it curved into the dark woods.

Though her knee still ached from hitting the wain, she refused to allow it to slow her. With Okara at her side, she pushed her steps into a jog and then a full run. Dimly, she wondered if there was going to be permanent damage to her face from the repeated strikes today.

With a shake of her head, she forced the thought away. It was not important. Catching up with the boys and fighting her way into the Dragoon Order was important.

The Dragoon just off the path offered her a nod and a grim smile as she dashed past him with Okara in tow.

“Our advantage,” Taliesimon gasped as she ran. “Is that we have nowhere to go but up.”

“And now we’re the ones,” Okara added, not sounding the least bit winded. “Who can crack skulls from behind. They’ll never see us coming.”

Taliesimon nodded, but kept silent. Already out of breath, the less of it she wasted, the better off she would be. And I’m not sure how to respond to her viciousness , she added silently.

Turning the bend into the woods, Taliesimon grunted. “Faster, Okara. Jump soon.”

Without a sound, the small girl ran faster. Within moments, she came up even with Taliesimon then seemed to force herself to slow, as though she were unwilling to move farther ahead. “Sharpened. Stakes. In. Pit,” she gasped and Okara nodded.

Ahead, a tall, muscular boy ran. The muscles of his back rippled with every movement and his freshly shaven head was marred by numerous razor cuts.

Either he did it himself, or his father’s face must look like a torture victim, she thought in sympathy. It had to be terribly painful.

“I’d wager that’s the snake who hit you,” Okara growled.

Taliesimon wanted to smack herself. Of course he was! He must have had the same idea she did, wait for the others to bloody each other, then jump ahead of them all. But that idea had clearly been a spectacular failure. Somehow, they were still the last three in the course.

How did this happen? she wondered. Surely, at least some of them had to be bloodied worse than me.

She couldn’t argue with the reality, however. There hadn’t been a single beaten or bloodied boy ahead of her on the field when she’d risen and they’d finally started moving.

Clearly, she had miscalculated somewhere and now it was going to take everything she had to come in well enough to continue the testing.

The blue-eyed girl sped up, pulling away from her. What was she planning to do? Taliesimon tried to increase her pace to match, but her thighs burned already. Her knees and feet were beginning to ache, her lungs were on fire, and the roiling nausea in her belly was too much to ignore.

Even pushing herself as hard as she could, she could not match the smaller girl’s pace.

The path curved to the left and the boy disappeared around it, followed by Okara, who was rapidly gaining on the older boy. After a few moments, Taliesimon rounded the bend herself. Ahead, three boys leaped a chasm in the path almost in unison. The two on the outsides cleared it easily, but the boy in the center, the blond boy who’d been at her right hand in the line, stumbled on his jump and leaped much lower than the others. He fell just before the far edge, only just catching himself with his arms.

He hung there a moment, still, as though in shock. Then he seemed to paw at the lip of the chasm. Over and over, his fingers dug into the dirt for purchase and came up empty. It was only a matter of time, she saw. Unless he found a stone or tree root or something else firm enough to hold his weight, he would fall.

The boy who’d hurt her was almost to the edge of the pit and Okara was little more than a pace behind him. The slight tremble in the boy’s legs and the increased tightness in his arms made it clear to her that he feared the jump.

Taliesimon scoffed silently. With that muscular body, he should have no difficulty in making the jump. Easy as spilt milk, as the saying went.

The entire world seemed to slow, as though time itself had almost stopped. The boy’s foot landed at the edge of the chasm and he thrust up with all the strength of that powerful leg to make the leap.

Impossibly, Okara’s left leg shot sideways in the instant before her own right leg touched down for her own jump. Her left foot struck the boy’s right and a resounding crack accompanied the crumpling of the boy’s ankle. She moved upward in her leap across the chasm.

Taliesimon’s eyes were locked on the boy as he fell almost straight down into the pit. His high, terrified shriek reverberated, as loud as it was short-lived.

She couldn’t stop herself staring in shock at the spot from which he’d fallen.

I would never have, she thought, dazed. This is important, but… what am I going to do? She’s a murderer.

Taliesimon snapped her jaw closed and the world seemed to return to normal time. She glared straight forward, determined as never before to make the jump and overcome the course.

Her last few steps before the chasm passed in a blur, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She shortened her last three steps before the edge, to ensure her right foot landed at the very edge of the pit.

She sucked in a deep breath and held it, then her foot touched down.

She thrust up from her right foot with all her might. Her thigh, calf, and torso seemed a single muscle as all worked perfectly to send her sailing into the air.

Taliesimon glanced down as she arced up and caught sight of the broken body, and a dozen more just like it, impaled by the stakes.

Oh no, she thought. I’m not going to make it.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

I’M GOING TO die, Taliesimon thought as she flew through the air above the chasm, though certainly much too low to make the jump.

She felt as though she were hanging, frozen, over the sharp stakes at the bottom. Surely, in a jump like this a person shouldn’t have so much time to think. So much time to dwell on her failure, to recognize her jump was much too low to make it.

In a near-panic, she arched her back and stretched out her right leg in front of her. She prayed to Trevandor to save her from her folly and let her survive this.

Her foot struck the edge of the pit and her leg crumpled beneath her. Her left knee crunched into a hard stone a pace in from the lip of the chasm and she fell forward, her face striking the hard ground and bludgeoning her face for the third time today.

Darkness began to encroach on the edges of her vision and she ground her teeth together, determined not to black out again. The sound of clapping next to her helped to keep her conscious. Driving her palms under her chest, she pushed up from the ground to stand, but fell hard onto her rump. Blood dripped down her chin, darkening her tunic.

“You’re trying really hard to mess up that pretty face,” Okara laughed above her.

Taliesimon grimaced. She supposed the other girl was right. And it was working. It being entirely unintentional didn’t change anything.

With a grunt, she leaned forward and pushed her way to her feet. Her knee almost crumpled beneath her when she put weight on it, but the smaller girl caught her by the arm and steadied her.

“You okay?”

Taliesimon nodded. “I will be. Just have to walk it off.” Turning back to the chasm, she almost jumped. A hand gripped the hard ground at the lip of the pit.

“Gods,” she whispered as she limped toward the edge of the pit, where she dropped to her belly, wincing against the pain her knee. She reached down and grasped the boy’s forearm with both her hands. The blond boy jerked his face up and stared, wide-eyed, into her eyes.

“You’re… helping me?” he gasped.

She smiled. “Am I that transparent?” Before he could respond, she turned her head and called, “Okara, help me.”

The girl growled softly behind her.

“Okara, come on,” her voice was pleading now. She gritted her teeth and wanted to kick herself for allowing such a weak sound to come from her mouth.

“He’s one of them,” Okara growled.

Sweat slicked Taliesimon’s palms and the boy’s arm started to slip from her grasp. “Okara,” she called, desperate now. “He didn’t hurt us. The older boys hurt him as much as they did us! He can help us, Okara!”

This is hopeless, she thought. Does she just hate all boys? Why is she even here?

Soft footsteps to her right surprised her, and she smiled when Okara crouched and reached her hands down to the boy. “Give me your other hand.”

The boy offered a grim smile and swung his left hand up to Okara. She pulled him up almost a pace, then held steady. Still gripping the boy’s arm, Taliesimon struggled to her feet and adjusted her grip on the boy’s arm.

Together, they pulled the boy up and over the edge of the pit. As his feet cleared it, Taliesimon fell backward in exhaustion, the boy lying on the ground half on top of her.

Okara cleared her throat pointedly and the boy raised his head from Taliesimon’s shoulder. Flushing bright red, he rolled off of her onto his hands and knees. He panted for breath, which didn’t seem to come, regardless of how hard or rapid his breath.

“What’s… your… name?” Taliesimon gasped between breaths.

“Jonah,” he whispered, his voice ragged.

“This is very sweet,” Okara said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “But if we want to have any chance of moving forward in the testing, we need to move. Now.”

Taliesimon took a deep breath and nodded. She rolled onto her stomach and pushed her way to her feet. Jonah followed after her, his arms trembling with the strain. Okara turned away, but Taliesimon saw the disgust on her face.

So he’s weak! she wanted to scream. So what! After how long he hung there, from that ledge, you would be too! Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d helped him sooner!

She clasped the boy’s shoulder and gently pushed him forward. She limped forward herself, pushing her steps to a jog as often as she could handle the pain of it. She winced with the agony every time, but each time the pain in her knee lessened a bit more and her steps grew a bit more fluid.

Unsurprisingly, Okara loped ahead with ease.

Taliesimon clenched her teeth in frustration and tried to focus her mind. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t recall which part of the course came next. She still had the various obstacles in her mind, at least she thought she did, but couldn’t recall the order they came in.

“Jonah,” she gasped.

He nodded, but kept silent.

“Do you… remember which… which part of… of the course… comes next?”

He shook his head, and she clenched her jaw tighter.

What is wrong with these kids? Did they think they’d just come in and figure it out as they went?

By the time they turned the next curve in the path, Taliesimon’s knee had stopped hurting and she was almost back to her normal pace.

Okara stopped moving and her sandals skidded to a stop in the dirt path. Taliesimon slowed and stopped next to the smaller girl, Jonah doing likewise beside her. She stared at the shocked, wide-eyed look on the girl’s face for a moment before she turned to look at what had caught the bald girl’s attention and felt her own jaw fall open.

“Oh, gods. How could I have forgotten this?”

The other two nodded vaguely, as though they barely heard her.

She gazed out over the field before them and only just repressed a shudder.

For hundreds of spans ahead was a huge mud pit, but it didn’t look right. The mud was too dark. If it wasn’t black, it was near enough as made no matter.

How did the mud get so dark?

Around the edge of the pit was a row of thick logs sharpened to points and angled toward the inside of the mud pit. At several points throughout the huge pit, the mud roiled and steamed, but everywhere else it was smooth and still. At its center stood an oak tower with smooth legs sticking down into the mud, which roiled more violently under the tower than anywhere else.

A number of braided vine ropes were tied to the other side of the tower and stretched up to the trees several hundred spans above. What their purpose was, she could only guess.

She saw no way to get to the tower aside from walking through the mud, as the boys were doing. The black mud coated several of their bare backs like nothing she’d ever seen. It glistened wetly in the crimson light of Kaustere, as though it had no intention of drying.

“Maybe we can go around?” Jonah asked.

Taliesimon shook her head. “It would take too long. And besides, they want us to ride out on those vine ropes.”

Okara narrowed her eyes and looked up at Taliesimon. “How do you know that?”

She sighed. I’m not a fool! she wanted to yell at the younger girl. Aloud, however, she said, “I studied the Gauntlet before it started. I’ve been planning for this for months. They have put this together specifically so we have to find a way to the top of the tower and ride the vine ropes to the next section of the Gauntlet.”

Okara lowered her eyes, her lips turned down in a frown.

“Are we even big enough to push through that mud?” Jonah asked. “Look how deep they are in it. That would probably come up to my chest, and Okara’s chin.” He shivered.

Taliesimon nodded. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Okara stepped over to the stakes at the nearest edge of the pit. She rubbed her palm across her mouth several times, as though in thought. She ran her other hand over her bare scalp, leaving it to rest on the back of her neck for a moment.

Taliesimon looked to Jonah, who shrugged, looking helpless. She turned back to Okara. What was she thinking?

Okara reached out to grasp the stake, the span of both her hands scarcely covering half its diameter, and pulled on it. It didn’t budge. She tried again, but with no more success. A third try, but still nothing. “Help me,” she said through clenched teeth.

Taliesimon shrugged as she glanced back to Jonah. He nodded. They moved around to either side of Okara and gripped the stake above and below Okara’s hands. “Ready?” she asked.

Taliesimon nodded, and Jonah did likewise.

Okara nodded in turn. “One, two three!” and the three pulled together, each grunting with the effort.

Slowly, excruciatingly, the stake began moving up, out of the ground. Taliesimon tried not to smile, but she couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her lips. The farther the stake moved, the easier it became to pull. After almost a minute, they pulled the log all the way out of the mud and the solid earth beneath it. The suddenness caused the stake to flip toward them and all three stumbled back and fell. Taliesimon’s backside struck the earth with a numbing thud.

Okara held the stake tight to her chest, hugging it. Taliesimon giggled madly at the sight as the sticky, black mud clung to the girl’s bare chest and leather breeches.

After a moment, Jonah sat up, looking confused. Then he glanced from Okara to Taliesimon and joined her helpless giggling. Looking down at herself, Okara joined them as well.

“What are you doing?” asked a deep voice to Taliesimon’s right.

She froze. The silence was palpable. Slowly, she sat up and looked toward the voice. There stood a dragoon clad in a diamondwood chest plate who carried a spear tipped in shiny black bone.

Okara cleared her throat. “I’m going to use the stakes to speed through the mud. Unless, of course, that is somehow against the rules?”

For a bare instant, the dragoon’s eyes widened. His lips remained a thin, grim line. “You are welcome to try. But,” he gestured to the boys who’d reached the legs of the tower in the center of the mud pit. “I’d suggest you hurry if you want to proceed.”

Taliesimon nodded, and found her companions nodding with her. The dragoon withdrew, disappearing behind the foliage next to the pit, and she turned to face her companions. Their gazes were locked on her, Jonah expectantly and Okara with wide, hopeful eyes.

“So what’s the plan?” Taliesimon asked.

“Let’s get one more stake, then we’ll see if this is going to work.”

Taliesimon sighed. She didn’t like not knowing what the younger girl had in mind, but since she didn’t have a plan of her own, she stood and followed, repeating the process with the other two, pulling a second stake from the ground. Having already learned the process, the second one came much easier.

“Now what?”

Instead of answering, Okara stood with a stake in hand and stepped to the edge of the pit. Raising the stake in both hands, she plunged it straight down into the mud. It stabbed in deep. Okara let go and turned back to grin at Taliesimon.

The stake held but a moment, then tilted to one side as it began to fall.

“Okara!” she snapped, pointing at the falling stake. The smaller girl jerked her head around and snaked her hand out, only just snatching the stake before it was lost in the mud.

“Well, so much for that idea,” Okara said, despondent.

“Let me try,” Jonah said.

Taliesimon nodded. “Me too,” though she still couldn’t see what the other girl intended.

Okara eyed her askance, then shrugged and sat down. She stared at her knees with narrowed eyes.

Taliesimon and Jonah each took a stake and stepped to the edge. She let Jonah go first. He thrust down with all his might. Without waiting to see if his stuck, she lifted her own stake, took a deep breath, and slammed down with all her strength.

She released her stake and it leaned a moment before Jonah’s did.

“Tevandor’s axe!” Okara swore.

“Other ideas?” Taliesimon asked, forcing the despair from her voice.

Jonah pawed at the ground with a sandaled foot. “I think… maybe I might have one.”

Taliesimon wished he didn’t sound so meek. What hope did his idea have if even he didn’t think it was good? But she nodded. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m sure it’ll be better than mine,” Okara muttered.

Jonah shrugged. “Well…” he trailed off before he’d even begun.

“Come one, Jonah,” Taliesimon said. “Any idea is better than nothing, and we’re running out of time.”

“Okay,” he said with a tentative smile. “Well, even diamondwood floats, doesn’t it?”

Taliesimon thought for a moment. “I… think so. I think I remember hearing Father talk about it once. About river rafts made of it. Maybe.”

Okara nodded, her face uncertain, though she kept silent.

“What do you have in mind?”

The boy stood a little straighter. “Well, assuming they do float, we could lash three or four stakes together and ride them across. Like a raft, as Taliesimon says. It’s the simplest water craft that might work here, I think.” He lowered his eyes to his feet.

Taliesimon considered, looking for any problems with the plan.

Okara stood. “What will we lash them together with?”

Jonah’s slight smile faltered. “Oh. I didn’t think about that.”

“Our shirts,” Taliesimon blurted without thinking. The other two turned to look at her, eyes wide and mouths agape. “What? Will it work?”

Okara’s face lit up. “You. Are. Brilliant!”

Taliesimon allowed herself a congratulatory smile.

Jonah pulled his shirt off immediately and started tearing it into strips for maximum length.

“Come on,” Okara said. “We need at least two more stakes, maybe three.”

“Right,” Jonah said. “We’ll need a pole.”

With a smile, Taliesimon went to the edge with her friends to work on the additional stakes.

When they finally pulled the fifth stake out of the ground, Taliesimon collapsed into the dry dirt near the edge and stared out into the pit.

The last of the boys in the mud were just reaching the stilted legs of the tower. A larger boy pushed a smaller boy into the violently roiling mud between the tower’s legs and the victim shrieked. He leaped up from beneath the mud, his flesh crimson.

His shriek ripped at Taliesimon’s heart, her soul wailed with the boy, and her eyes filled with tears.

“You okay?” Jonah asked from above her, somehow still standing.

“It just disgusts me. I understand hurting others in the competition. I understand violence.” The boy shrieked again, louder than before. “But that was just sadistic. There was no reason for him to do that! Cruel bastards.”

Okara sat up and shrugged. Clearly nothing about this bothered her.

Jonah nodded. “I understand, but this is the world we live in, Taliesimon.”

She grimaced. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

With a shake of her head, Okara leaped to her feet and rolled the stakes next to each other. That done, she collected the strips of Jonah’s shirt and started lashing the stakes together with them. She yanked on the strips as she tied the knots, color rising to her cheeks.

Jonah turned from Taliesimon and knelt at the end of the stakes opposite Okara. “We need your shirt, Tal.”

“Oh.” I didn’t think mine would actually be necessary, she thought. Hmm. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. “Um, are you certain you truly need–”

“Taly!” Okara snapped. “There’s nothing else we can use. Unless you’d rather lose your breeches. I sure don’t. Come on, we’re both shirtless. Stop being such a grauk and take off your damned shirt so we can get to that tower!”

Taliesimon gritted her teeth and nodded. A grauk, am I! she thought vehemently. At least I have the decency not to show off as much skin as the boys from the very start of the Gauntlet!

Pushing her reservations to the back of her mind, she pulled the wool tunic over her head. A rush of blood warmed her neck and face and she imagined her flesh must now be the color of ripe strawberries.

She struggled against her instinct to cover her almost-flat chest with her hands as she tossed the garment down to Jonah. She winced as he tore it into strips and began lashing the stakes together.

* * *

When the knot work was finished, Taliesimon helped her companions push their makeshift raft into the black mud, with she and Jonah each carrying an additional stake to push the raft across the surface with.

The raft slid into the thick stuff without resistance. Jonah stepped onto it and plunged his stake into the mud. The raft seemed stable, He tested pushing and pulling the stake and the raft obediently moved forward and back, if a bit slower that Taliesimon would have liked.

Okara leaped the short stretch of mud and landed, cat-like, with bent knees in the center of the raft. The craft drifted a few spans out with her momentum, but was otherwise unaffected.

Taliesimon took a deep breath, stepped back a few steps, and ran toward the pit. At its edge, she leaped toward the raft.

Oh, no, she thought. It’s still drifting!

After a small eternity, she landed at the left edge of the raft with her feet only half on its surface. The raft dipped toward her with the added weight and one foot slipped off the raft. Her arms pinwheeled as she tried to maintain her balance, but she leaned farther and farther out over the edge of the raft. She shrieked as the bubbling mud came up to meet her.

The screaming face of the boy who had been pushed in below the tower to boil alive flashed through her mind and she prayed it ended quickly. She slammed her eyes closed to wait for the end.

But that agonizing end didn’t come.

She hung, suspended. The heat of the roiling mud warmed her face and she became aware of the pressure on her right hand, an insistent squeeze.

Am I already dead? she wondered.

“Come on, Taly, you are killing me here,” Jonah grunted.

Taliesimon snapped her eyes open and found the roiling black mud little more than a hand-width from her face. She turned to her right in a daze. Jonah had a hold of her right hand and Okara gripped him around the waist, anchoring them all onto the raft.

“A little help here,” Okara growled.

Taliesimon blinked and finally comprehended what had happened. Glancing down, she realized her feet were balanced around the curve of the stake at the end of the raft. With a mental cringe, she turned her body as much as she dared and reached up to grasp Jonah’s hand with her other hand as well, then pulled with all her strength.

With their combined effort, the three finally pulled her up onto the raft and all three fell to their knees, panting with exhaustion.

“What in the Nine Hells was that?” Okara spat, furious.

“Sorry,” Taliesimon panted. “I thought. I was dead.”

Okara rolled her eyes and turned toward the front of the raft. “Let’s go.”

Taliesimon nodded and climbed to her feet. She reached down for her stake before she realized there was a problem. “Oh, torthugra fangs!”

Turning, she found Jonah with his stake in the mud, pushing the raft toward the center. More than a dozen boys were there now, struggling to climb up the tower legs. They tried to jump up, out of the mud, to grasp the legs, but slipped down. One boy gripped the leg with his feet and struggled to pull himself up. He did well, pulling himself upward until just after his feet cleared the mud and he slipped back down to the laughter of his peers.

“Are the legs greased?” Jonah asked.

“So it would seem,” Okara said grimly.

Taliesimon nodded again and said distantly, “I’ll take over the paddling whenever you want, Jonah.”

Okara scoffed. “Why?” Her voice was bitter and deprecating. “So you can lose the other one too? We’ve wasted enough time already.”

Taliesimon’s mouth fell open. But… but I didn’t… Even her thought faded as her vision clouded with tears. She wiped at them angrily.

Jonah smiled at her, sympathy in his eyes, and nodded toward the tower. “I’m a lot more worried about how we’re going to deal with that .

* * *

To continue the tale, please download the full novel at getbook. at/ Shadow- of- the- Overlord

(Free in Kindle Unlimited)

To learn more about the author or join his mailing list, visit http:// www. kevinpotterauthor.com

17

Spark City

Robert J. Power

The Hunt is Coming.

Despite his warriors’ lineage, Erroh would rather waste his potential stumbling alone from one tavern to the next, drinking and gambling. Fate, however, has greater plans for him.

After decades of peace, a great war draws near, and though he doesn’t know it, he is standing in the way of the first wave. What is more, and very much to his dismay, he’s about to find out he’s not entirely alone either. But Erroh has a plan, a simple plan.

It’ll never work.

A reluctant coming of age epic packed with heroic sword fights, fierce battles and slow-burn romance. Perfect for fans of Patrick Rothfuss and Brandon Sanderson, find out why thousands of readers have fallen for Amazon #1 Best Selling Author Robert J Power’s epic fantasy series.

SPBFO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 7

1. Erroh

“My friends call me Erroh.” He grinned.

“I’m not your friend.” Wrek pointed his sword menacingly in the smoky air. This was going wonderfully.

Cards were always a weakness for Erroh. He loved the slow tantalising progression of a great hand played out perfectly, the unknown outcome of the game as the first card was dealt and the mystery of players and their participation. What they brought to the table and what absence was felt when they left the game. Accomplished card players never revealed any obvious details until the game reached its epic conclusion. Sometimes it was not about winning the hand. Sometimes it was about the journey itself.

Erroh’s head was spinning from the smoke billowing out from a scorched fireplace in the corner of the dimly lit tavern. He could smell the matured odour of a thousand former clients and the sweetness of fresh sawdust concealing unwelcome wastes under his feet, but mostly he could smell the liquor that stood at attention in a clear goblet in front of him. He knew he must be on his fifth glass already, or maybe his ninth. His heart was beating out of rhythm, and he was feeling right at home.

“You dealt from the bottom and I’ve had enough!” cried the behemoth with the sword whose tip remained steady, lingering menacingly close to his forehead. The world had slowed down, and Erroh’s stronger arm began to itch. His sword lay snugly in its scabbard, hanging on his chair behind him. It may as well have been a mile from his reach. He liked when the world slowed down. It gave him a few moments to formulate plans, simple plans, which never worked.

Across from the gambling table, the outburst had disturbed the innkeeper Sigi from his stirring.

“Don’t deny it or I’ll have your pelt. Maybe I’ll have it anyway.” Blood was in the air.

Far off in the distance thunder began to rumble through the forest-covered valleys. The last of the sun’s rays disappeared under the horizon and the final flickers of natural light escaped through the one grubby, cracked window of “The Rats Nest Tavern”. Broken picture frames adorned the walls, the art they once held lost a lifetime ago. Perhaps several lifetimes. Who was counting?

Erroh hated thunder. He had discovered that loud noises brought very bad things. He hated bad things. In truth, he hated a great many things, such as drunken wretches, swords in his face and accusations of cheating. Most of all he hated being caught cheating.

Erroh offered a smile, raising both his hands in the most neutral gesture he could muster. “A mere misunderstanding between comrades of the road.” He wondered if his opponent wandered the wastes like himself, or was the tall warrior weighed down by a mate and a life of boredom. Erroh didn’t want a mate. He reminded himself of this almost every day. He was far too young, having been born in the last year of the “Faction Wars,” almost two decades ago. To many, he had just come of age. To some, he still had a great deal to learn. The weapon’s tip came a little closer and grabbed his attention.

Two farmers dressed in their finest work clothes sat at the table in stony silence watching the events unfold. They were not part of this fight. They held their cards close to their chests, eager to live through the oncoming storm. The volatile atmosphere was about to explode and they wanted little part in the fireworks.

Besides, it wasn’t their bet.

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” admitted Erroh, slowly lowering his trembling hands and letting them lie on the dark brown table.

“You owe me more than that!” Wrek roared. The weapon shifted menacingly with every word.

“Let me buy you a drink and we’ll be square,” he countered, smiling his best “don’t stab me” smile. Many females would swoon at his disarming charms (sharp, attractive features with eyes that dazzled). Wrek was unmoved.

A flash lit up the night sky and for a moment, the room was illuminated.

“My apologies. I offer a drink in reparation.” Erroh spoke as if speaking with a dear friend while reaching under the table and flipping open his trouser pocket in one fluid motion.

“What are you doing?” snarled Wrek.

Erroh was scared, but that offered advantages according to his father. Adrenaline could gift a warrior further speed or strength. Not a great deal but sometimes enough to be the difference in battle. His father was always willing to offer advice on such matters. Adrenaline also helped when running away. Erroh had learned that trick all by himself. Unfortunately, Wrek stood between him and the door.

“I’ll plead with no man for my life,” begged Erroh. With his free hand, he rolled a coin across the old cracked playing table.

“Have a drink,” he whispered, disguising the fear in his voice. This was just another way to play a hand. When he played cards, he gave very little away. When faced with a sharp blade, he gave even less away. This moment was taking an eternity. It was all in the lap of the gods. Erroh wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the gods. He wondered if they played cards.

The moment ended.

The large figure of Wrek suddenly struck downwards. It sounded like thunder. Cards flew, mugs spilled and goblets shattered. Wonderfully cheated coins took flight as the sword struck the old wooden table leaving a fresh scar upon its surface. One solitary coin spun its last and came to a stop and then silence.

“I will have a drink!” boomed Wrek magnificently.

Erroh breathed a sigh of relief. The night wasn’t a complete ruin after all. His glass was lost to him forever but that was a small matter.

Wrek reached across the table. “For my troubles.” He grabbed what remained of the little pot of pieces in front of Erroh. They chinked beautifully as he dragged them back through the carnage into his loving embrace where they belonged.

Finally sitting down Wrek adjusted his seat with little grace and stretched out his arm. With one grubby hand, he lifted his chalice and motioned to the barman for his volatile sine. He was a rich man again.

“Don’t splash the pot,” quipped one of the farmers, testing the waters and shuffling a fresh hand. Wrek picked up the sword from the centre of the table and sheathed it.

Erroh relaxed. He inhaled softly and calmed himself but his hand remained under the table. He leaned back and stared into the eyes of the big man. Was he wise enough to learn from this? He certainly hoped not. How rewarding could life be if he took the same steps as his father Magnus? His father’s steps had been great strides, while his own were far less impressive. He pulled an object from his pocket and threw it violently at the richest man at the table. It flew gracefully like a dagger in the harsh light. Wrek had just enough time to close his eyes before the projectile struck him.

It was no dagger. It was something else entirely.

It was the ace of Queens, the primary card of the deck and it ruled above all others. A card that could guarantee victory if used shrewdly, but catastrophic if lost in a fool’s gambit, and a fine card to call upon when all other attacks have failed.

“Will we play again?” asked Erroh, grinning as he returned a second hidden card to the deck. For now, he would play fairly.

“Aye, we will, Erroh.” Wrek laughed, taking delight in the younger man’s boldness.

This was living on the road. Everything was different out on the road.

* * *

Erroh opened the doorway and stepped through, into the night. The glorious fresh air brushed up against his face, he took a deep long breath and closed his throbbing, blood shot eyes. After a few seconds, he started to feel human again. He braved a few tentative steps away from the sounds of merriment. His body struggled with simple orders and his mouth was dry, abused from the evening’s festivities of beverages and conversations and narrow escapes. He looked around the yard. It was nothing more than a dilapidated wall doing its best to hold off the thick growth of wilderness that spread across all corners of the Four Factions. At the far end of the enclosure, there was a sign that hung from an old wooden post. “Welcome to the Rat’s Nest” it said. A welcoming place indeed.

He reached down to his pack and took out a battered metal hipflask. It had been a few days since he had last come upon a stream, but he opened the lid and drank deeply. Immediate relief poured its way down. Draining the contents, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze against his clean-shaven face.

“Where you headed, friend?” Sigi said as he stepped through the doorway carrying a bucket of sawdust. He tossed the waste casually over the wall nearest.

“A little further up the road.” The shattered moon’s light caught the leaves of the one tree hanging over the perimeter wall. It swayed in the breeze sending eerie, skulking shadows across the courtyard like giant roving fingers. At least the rain had cleared. Erroh never liked sharing sleeping quarters with anyone else. He preferred his solitude out on the silent peaceful road where it was safer.

“Count the stars in the sky, they say,” said Sigi, tossing the bucket back through the doorway before walking to an outhouse beside the tavern. With a grunt, he pulled the rusty bolt and the door creaked open.

“Aye, they do.” Erroh glanced above and absently counting the little bright dots. It was a habit most wanderers were afflicted with when sleeping out under their gaze. He needed to bathe. He needed to sooth away the aches of the last few day’s miles and despite his misgivings, it might be a fine idea not to appear a complete wretch once he reached the city of light.

Erroh began stretching for the walk ahead, a daily routine that he had followed for two lonely years. No longer could he find ways to delay his last march and the dreadful fate about to befall him. Soon he would reach journeys end. Spark City was calling.

* * *

Sigi was busy sorting through his treasures. He lit a candle and shined it over the shelves that hung across the wall. He loved the art of trade. His little brewery afforded him the luxury of accepting over-inflated offers. Hidden a half mile from his tavern, only he knew of its existence, a secret he kept wisely. He loved his place in the world. Many people loved his place in the world also, until the following morning.

Sigi was very generous with his sine in dealings. Alcohol was the blood of this world and brewing great yielding alcohol was a fine way to make money. Making money was all he had learned, it was all he had ever needed to learn.

“Are you going to the city?” Sigi asked wiping the dust from the bottle. Breathing over the glass and wiping it a second time, he held it up above his head and looked at it in the moonlight. Satisfied that the fluid was clear and at its most enticing, he walked under the old oak and waited for the opportunity to engage in some trade. He watched patiently as Erroh limbered up.

“I’m headed to The Spark all right,” Erroh grunted, touching his toes.

“It’s a long way to the city.”

“I’ve come a long way.”

“Where have you come from?” Sigi asked, readying himself for the pitch.

“East.”

This transaction is going splendidly, thought the tavern owner. Low murmurs from within the Nest interrupted the quiet as the clients dispersed for the night. One of the two farmers stumbled out the door and staggered towards the faded grey stables alongside the tavern, uttering only a muffled profanity after stepping on something unsavoury behind the wall nearest. Nothing more was heard save for the familiar thump sound of a drunken body falling into a mound of hay. That will be an extra few pieces for lodging and some breakfast, thought Sigi cheerfully. He would make eggs.

Wrek would take his usual bed in the sawdust, or behind a wall, anywhere he felt like falling unconscious really. For now, the sound of Wrek singing to one of the picture frames filled the night.

Sigi folded his arms taking the young man in. “Bit of a walk to go. A good sleep will help you on your way. Better to travel in the light as well.”

“If it’s all the same, the road calls,” Erroh replied and bent down to his rucksack, flipped the top button then untied a knot that held the contents. “I suppose I could use some salt.” Salt was a staple ingredient in even the blandest meals while walking the road. It also had many other qualities, to those in the know, and it was very expensive.

Sigi produced the small cloth pouch. He handed it to Erroh and allowed him inspect it for rocks.

“What else are you willing to part with?” Erroh asked as he dug into his bag. He pulled out a small purse and unbuttoned the seal.

He presented a small capsule to the innkeeper. A light metal case, two fingers in length, a smooth surface that, when twisted and opened, revealed the most precious commodity in the world.

They were ancient words from before.

Sigi stared at the little slip of paper inside. His fingers trembled slightly. He had never seen a lost capsule before, let alone been this close to any scroll of history. Most people hadn’t; though they spoke of the great mysteries that each one revealed.

“What else are you willing to part with?” enquired Erroh again.

“I have sine. Plenty of sine,” uttered Sigi excitedly. The little sheet of paper had only a few sentences, some words smudged from age and wear but it did not matter. The beautiful letters would likely find a caring home in the Nest.

“I have a map too, a reliable one.” Counter-offer made.

Erroh raised an eyebrow. It was amazing the improved quality in merchandise offered when a capsule was involved. His last map had ceased to bear any relevance to his path at least a hundred miles back. The last few weeks he had simply followed the sun, but this close to the end, a map would serve him well. Knowing his luck, he could miss the city by a handful of miles and keep walking north. Would that really be so bad?

“Have you any soaps?” Erroh still had a fair amount of credit to spend.

“I do.” Sigi rushed towards the doorway and disappeared inside. It was a generous trade, but Erroh was satisfied enough. From experience, a map was only as good as its locality.

The eager barman returned after a few moments leaving the door swinging behind him. In his hand were some finely bartered goods. Erroh accepted the soaps, the bottle of sine, and the map. His eyes scanned the creased parchment and tried to decipher the crudely drawn lines and oddly marked points. It would suffice, though barely.

“It’ll serve you well, as accurate as you’ll ever get out here. I made it myself,” Sigi whispered knowingly.

“Going to the city, going to get me a family,” sang Wrek from inside the tavern. Erroh knew that song; it was not one of his favourites.

He donned his leather vest and tied the buckles tightly. He hated this armour. The weight was restricting and his movement was never as fluid. There was also a flaw along the shoulder. An interior strip of thin metal had fallen away, leaving a fine chink for any wandering arrow to devastate. At the city it would cost a fortune to repair, he would need to hone his skills at cards. He buckled his sword around his waist and picked his pack up.

“At least don’t gamble with an Alpha when you reach the gates. Most are bigger and meaner than Wrek,” warned Sigi. “More beast than man when angered.”

Ah yes, the old glorified fear of Alphalines. Bigger? They were exactly the same size as anyone else. Erroh wasn’t going to delay his departure by sharing his thoughts on the matter. Better to agree and perhaps throw in a jest at their expense.

“I’ve heard they practise on horses before they mate with their own kind,” Erroh said grinning and walked from the tavern, his feet silent upon a threadbare muddy path. Somewhere a little farther it led to hollow darkness and an almost endless forest.

“I’d keep those particular jests to myself,” called Sigi before returning into the warmth of his tavern to close up for the night. However, not before he joined Wrek in a fine duet, a song about the mysterious trials for those entitled few who made the long walk to Spark City.

* * *

2. Rock

The dawn’s rays glinted down through the branches above his head – his tired, spinning head. The leaves rustled softly as each bough rocked gently in the breeze. Throughout the night, he had slipped further from any sign of civilisation, but Erroh was more at ease in this quiet forest than in his own place of birth. There was a serenity to walking in such solitude, embracing the natural world, enjoying the morning air after the musky tavern. He even found a smile forming on his lips until he cracked his left knee against a fallen log.

Pain.

And tearing.

Some stumbling as well.

He fell in a heap and shockwaves coursed through him. They started somewhere around the kneecap and erupted spitefully through his body. Pulsing wet surges of agony with potentially dire consequences. Who would leave a jagged log out here in the middle of “The Wastes” anyway? He had always thought it a curious name for eternal forests of green that covered most Four Factions of the world. It was a title from a different era still used to this day. The Road was the path taken with a taste of civilisation but the Wastes were the glorious freedom of silence and wilderness. Moreover, The Wastes had torn his fuken knee apart.

He instinctively blamed the absent gods, even if he struggled to believe in anything other than his own actions. The absent gods however had quite the faith in him but rarely did they let him know and when they did whisper thoughts in his head, he was disinclined to hear them.

He crawled beneath the branches of an ageless tree to escape the morning heat and rested his head upon one of its gnarled roots. It was a fine place to lament in the quiet and gather his miserable thoughts. When the first wave of pain had passed, he dared an inspection of the wound. A crow above him sat on one of the branches and peered down. He imagined it mocking his clumsiness, a fair criticism, for his knee was a mess.

Blood seeped out through a deep slit in his skin in a steady flow that could lead to unfortunate things if not treated swiftly. The crow had its own opinions on the matter. It began heckling him. Erroh wasn’t sure it knew the finer points of a healer’s touch. He took a clean rag from his rucksack and poured a few drops of sine into the centre before placing it across the wound. He tied a knot tightly and carefully bent his knee. It would do for the time being, but he knew there would be a cost for such gracelessness.

As the day drew on, the morning breeze dissipated. The sky became a radiant blue; it stretched out magnificently with no blemishes to mar its beauty, and Erroh hobbled slowly through the wilderness in search of a suitable site to camp. Leaning on a sturdy fallen branch, each step he took was painful, but he followed the scribblings of the innkeeper’s map and finally he heard the most welcome sound to any wanderer, the beautiful and babbling sound of a stream.

The brook’s cool water flowed seductively through the clearing, untainted by the sun’s heat, meandering with each crease in the land. Erroh was in love. It expanded into a slow moving pool, and Erroh had his place to recover. Reeds and long grasses grew along the sides, a large willow tree hung out over the water providing wonderful shade. He left his belongings in the long grass within easy reach and carefully he dropped into the water.

Dipping under the surface, he drank deeply. He hadn’t realised the thirst he had earned. Lost in pleasure, he let himself float across the still surface, enjoying the gentle drag of the current easing him towards the nearest bank. This was it; this little sanctuary was his new home. He was done. It would be a grand life to live, floating along the banks of this little oasis without unwanted responsibilities. This was a life better suited to him than any Spark City promised. He was happy alone, was he not?

Erroh stripped off his clothes and threw them under the trunk of the tree. Gliding to the edge, he pulled himself out into the scorching dry grass. The water on his body began to evaporate in the heat immediately. He reached down apprehensively to the discoloured tourniquet. Crimson fluid had begun to leak out steadily.

He opened up the little tin and sighed dejectedly. Taking out the needle and thread and some dressing, he poured a few drops of sine into the deep hole, then he poured a few more down his throat. Both caused a great deal of stinging. His arms began to shake as he held the threaded needle. He closed his eyes and took a few deep calming breaths. The first few seconds were the worst. It took him two attempts to break through the skin.

He sat in silence for a while, performing the operation. His resolve was pushed to the edge of madness, and he battled the urge to fall unconscious every few moments or so. He did his best. He never screamed out and his hands stayed firm. Finishing the last disordered stitch, he cut the thread and fell back in the grass. His short black hair was drenched in sweat and involuntary tears sneaked out of his eyes. They did so in silence as he curled up in a ball and held himself until the shivering stopped. He never saw the sleep steal up behind him.

The first drops of rain woke him from his slumber. He opened his eyes, and tentatively got to his feet. The sky had turned from vibrant blue to something far less agreeable. The shattered moon was barely visible in the gloomy night and a deep cold had covered the land where once there had been burning warmth. Retrieving his cloak to stave off the chill he grabbed his pack and damp clothing and shuffled around the clearing searching for shelter. The rising wind blew on his hood and caught the rain as it began to fall heavily. He thought about seeking cover among the trees, but he didn’t trust his senses in this light, and besides, they would offer little reprieve from a cutting wind. He cursed his stupidity for not making a camp. The cold crept into his bones and took hold. He pushed on from his wonderful pool into complete darkness, dreaming of finding sanctuary in a little shack or a mossy cave.

What he found was a rock.

It was a very nice rock because it was the only object that could provide any type of cover. He burrowed his frame into the long grass at the foot of the grey boulder, which stood as high as a southern steed, and placed his pack under his head while pulling the heavy cloak over his trembling body. Droplets of rain struck from above, they rolled down his covering and were lost in the grass. There were worse places than under a cloak, protected by rock, to spend a night. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands. It was something his mother had taught him. Soon enough, there was less a chill running through his body. The sounds of the storm calmed him and after a little time he surrendered to fatigue and fell into a more natural sleep.

* * *

At first light, he stuck his head from out under the makeshift cover and tasked himself with assembling his bow. It was a stunning, and useless, bow. In truth, it was useless in his hands alone. To anyone else with the slightest skill at archery, it was quite a treasure. His stomach rumbled as he attached the top arm to the centrepiece, patiently screwing the bolts tightly with its accompanying tool-key. He flipped it upside down and did the same again with the bottom limb. He hated this weapon, and he really hated this process. Grunting, he attached the thick cord securely to each end. Testing the draw and stability, he reached for his quiver. A bow was not a blade. It was a weapon for hunting and little more. Some would agree while others less so.

He hobbled cautiously towards the trees using the grand weapon as little more than a walking staff. As usual, it took a few shots before he downed a bird. He imagined his father’s sarcastic comment as he finally made the kill. It would likely involve something about a barn door. It was a fair jest. He felt a pang of regret as he retrieved his meal. A little for the pigeon’s life he had taken, more so for the lost arrows. He knew he should practise more, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care enough. He was simply no archer.

He gathered some damp twigs and after stripping them of their bark, placed a few in a small triangle. The rest he stripped into delicate strips of kindling. Unlike his skills with a bow, fire-lighting was a natural ability. Such a morning was no test of his skill, but he was not complaining. After a few moments, a spark ignited the tinder beside the miniature tower of twigs and a comforting crackle filled his ear. It helped his racing mind find peace. In the far distance, he saw a thin stream of smoke emanating from behind one of the countless tree-filled rises that shaped the land. He watched the smoke disappear into the blue above. Looking down at his own miniature flames, he turned the little handmade spit expertly. His fire was just as impressive in its own way.

Erroh was stuck here. A prisoner in this beautiful haven until he was certain there was no sign of infection. However if he did spot the first warning signs, he knew that tainted things could be cleansed by fire. He had learned that from his father. Salvaging fallen logs from the forest, he was able to dig a few holes around his rock and wedge them in tightly. With some rope, he tied a long slender branch across both logs. He stripped a few large branches and spread them across the roof of his shelter. It took hours with his injury but by day’s end, he had made a perfect little life for himself at “Rock.”

* * *

Every day was the same, predictable and peaceful. Each morning he would crawl out from beneath his castle, check the stitching for infection, and then bathe in the water. After stretching his muscular body, he would step tentatively into the woods and attempt to hunt a few birds.

In the afternoon he would sit, lost in useless thoughts staring out over the hills watching the smoke in the distance. The innkeeper’s map had a distinctive blotch in that vicinity. Big enough to be a place of interest, yet like every other scribble barring the one, it had no name. Perhaps it was just a stain.

Eventually, restlessness pushed him to unsheathe his sword. In truth, his father would not allow such a thing as a simple wound around the knee to come between his studies of warring. They were fine stitches, they would hold.

He always held “Mercy” in his left hand. Unlike most perfectly adequate swords found out in the wastes, the weapon was a marvel and put many others to shame. Forged many years before the Faction Wars, its steel was near flawless. Its hilt suggested nobility, baring a crest of goat’s horns wearing a crown. Its guard was sturdy and bore suggestions of many failed strikes and its body was strong and thick. Erroh kept the edge sharp and well oiled. When held in the sun its finish was capable of blinding.

Aye, a marvellous weapon indeed but in truth, its leathered grip felt wrong in his hand.

Perhaps that was the point.

Careful not to tear his knee apart Erroh always began by spinning the deadly blade in an arc above his head, faster and faster until it was a blur. Without stopping, he dragged the blade to his side. It always looked impressive, extravagant but it was little more than childish bravado. Few however would dare such reckless manoeuvres themselves. His father considered it as little more than a habit. However, not all habits were necessarily bad things.

* * *

As days blurred into one, so did the nights. He exhausted his mind with solitary card games. More often than not, when unable to solve a game out, he would cast the little grubby cards aside in annoyance, convinced they plotted against him. A few breaths later he would pick them all back up and deal himself a hand once again. To finish most nights, his thoughts would return to “the Cull” in Spark City. The fuken Cull, the event he knew little about but was destined to attend. An event he had waited his entire life for, and still the only knowledge he had were whispered embellishments. Some said it was life or death to attend. Some said that those who failed were castrated and bled to death. Some said it was simply a test of prowess as a male. Others merely suggested it was a divine meeting of the minds where wits were tested and the winner was gifted a female Alphaline to mate with and spend a life.

Such a treasure was terrifying.

Only a select few were chosen to attend, and Erroh was one such individual. It was not through luck either. His fate was sealed, and he felt his doom nearing as each day passed. They were wonderful thoughts to have as sleep took hold.

* * *

It started as a low rumbling noise.

Sprawled out under his cloak, he woke and reached for his blade instinctively. The wind was still, the night was clear and something was coming. The shattered moon was full and it lit up the lands. Crawling out of his camp quickly, he shook his head to wake his senses and listened for the threat. It was approaching from a path on the far side of the clearing. He slid the leather armour over his head, desperately trying to regain his composure, as his fingers became numb tools. He struggled with the buckles and his arm began to itch. Wishing the absent gods had delivered a cave in which to hide, he stood alone in the centre of the clearing, sword outstretched.

Onwards came the ominous rumble, building in intensity. It owned the darkness. Erroh saw birds scatter from their nests in terror; they flapped confusingly in the dim light. Their crying protests were lost in the disturbance.

It was louder than thunder.

Vibrations stirred the tall grass, they danced in unison with every thump from beyond the trees, and he waited for certain death. The first of the many sounds began to emerge from the wall of noise. He expected to see some terrible beast break though the tree line and crash into his world, some loud beast that could probably fly. That made no sense, he knew this world, and he knew her creatures.

He heard incomprehensible voices in the air, vulgar throaty tones of indistinguishable words, horribly foreign to his ear. The thunder surrounded him. It caught in the valley’s walls and reverberated right back at him deep down to where all his fears and instincts lay. He had walked the road and never truly felt fear before. His father would have urged him to gather the fear and use it to strike harder.

After the many days spent in the glade, he knew he could make his way through the forests if needs be. Aye, the stitches would tear but anything was better than facing whatever lay a few trees away from him.

“Pass by,” he whispered to the gods who he did not believe in. In the noise, who would hear him anyway?

His mind raced. If it was not some mythical monster, than perhaps it was an army. He had heard many marches in his young life though he himself had never donned a uniform nor waved a flag of allegiance. Moreover, what army could march anyway? There were no armies in this region anymore. The world was at peace. Only the brutes from the frozen lands of the southern territories bore grudges, and though much of the world was uninhabited he found it difficult to imagine they would ever venture this far north unnoticed. Whatever the southerners were up to, it was keeping them busy. Maybe it was a convoy of Alphalines, alluring, uninterested, and returning home to their tower in the city. None of these thoughts helped.

Hooves beat the ground and long grass danced merrily in time with the cacophony of noise all around him. Closer still.

Then something happened.

The thunder began to pass by. He saw a few flickers of burning light through the dark, their brightness making little impact against the thick shroud of leaves, which covered the camp. It was the leading voices of riders. Yelling their mounts onwards, Erroh listened as the wave marched further on down the valley. Howls, barks, and squeals from a thousand beasts met his ears and a deadly curiosity came upon Erroh, but he ignored any instinct to seek out the noise. Instead, he took uneasy breaths and listened for the noise to fade.

Only when the last of the torches reached the bottom of the valley did his nerves begin to settle. They headed towards Spark, but there were many miles between here and there.

Aware that hunting packs frequently left one or two scouts a mile or two behind, to catch any creatures foolish enough to come above the ground too soon after they passed, Erroh waited.

A calm breeze played across the dell, leaves took flight playing soothing songs. It was glorious after the deafening symphony. With the distant rumble finally lost in the noises of the forest, he took his place by the side of Rock. Opening the plug on the bottle, he leaned back and drank in the angry liquid. Keeping one ear on the road, he downed another healthy swig, corked it, and lay back in the grass. After counting the little specks in the sky for a while, he closed his eyes and slept lightly.

* * *

He wanted bread. Bread and cheese. Melted cheese with some bread. All of the bread. He would love some boar as well. All he wanted was boar. Huddled around the tiny fire under his shelter he turned the pigeon-laden spit. The smoke stung his eyes but it couldn’t be helped. The soothing tapping sounds from the rain, now grated his head. He was eating pigeon again. A slimy bit of grey meat fell from the body and dropped into the centre of the flames. A little black cloud rose up from the oily piece and into Erroh’s face. A few drops of water fell onto his forehead, through a gap in the shelter above his head. It just added to his misery.

He wiped the drips away and sighed. He did not bother adding salt to the horrible meal. It brought little flavour, so why bother waste any? The first bite of the oily meat was the worst but then again, swallowing was almost as bad. Every day the meal became less appetising. He grimaced as it slid down his throat. He cast his gaze out through the downpour. The smoke behind the hills had not appeared today. He imagined it was because of the heavy rainfall. Distracting himself from the taste, he set about picking at the stitching with his knife. Each thread snapped apart satisfyingly as his wrist flicked the tip gently. An uneven scar ran across his knee as he tugged the remaining stitches free. He had been here long enough. Time flew when you were hiding from your fate. The city was calling and beneath his immature longings of freedom where he kept safe his loneliness, hope and warmth, something was beginning to stir, as his father had suggested it would.

Stretching his knee, it felt good enough to face the road, and good enough to step into the Alphas’ domain.

He knew most of the lore surrounding them and enjoyed hearing the ridiculous tales in every tavern along the road. The reverence with which all “lowerlines” treated Alphalines was mythical. Some thought them wild brutes, often whispering they were less man and more animal, capable of incredible deeds, should they feel the whim: wild, like fire in the night.

Magnus insisted that Alphas were no different to any supposed lowerline male or female. They were human but they were dangerous. Every one of them was considered an elite warrior. Every one of them had endured a demanding life of education and training. Every one of them was a master in the art of war. Erroh liked to think he was good with a blade himself.

Meeting Alphas was not the only reason to be in the city. His little sister lived there now. Would she even remember him? Sent there a decade ago, apart from a few exchanged letters a season they were strangers. When he’d begun his walk, the letters had stopped. Maybe she would have word of his parents. That would be nice.

He stretched his knee and stood out in the downpour. Dressed in only his black leather trousers, he spread his arms out and stood on his toes. Favouring his stronger side these past weeks would not serve him well. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he stood as still as possible. He had always struggled to master his balance but it was a battle he would win eventually. This, he was certain of.

Erroh reached for the steel and fought the pommel’s weight ever so much. It trembled in his hand and the rain splashed down upon the metal. The driving wind delivered another harsh gust against his cold body. He took his stance. Muscles screeched with the strain as he began the first slash. The cold bit into him, and he felt involuntary shakes throughout his body as he performed the second manoeuvre. His body knew the sword form instinctively. By the third move, his body flowed smoothly and his knee offered little complaint. He followed the strikes with a few slight feints and then he thrust, slashed, and killed invisible opponents with great violence. Throughout the storm, he trained. His mind clear and his body warming, he found a peace. He twisted, spun, and let the beauty of swordplay overwhelm him completely. He performed his tricks and he did so with proficient violence and speed. He pushed himself through all his routines completely and his knee held firm.

The following morning, once dawn had broken, Erroh took a little blade and brought it to the surface of his rock. He scraped at the massive stone and eventually dust fell away. It would be wrong not to leave some mark upon his sanctuary. Standing back, he surveyed his mark for time, allowing himself the slightest bit of pride. “Rock of Erroh.” It was a fine name. It had been a fine rock.

He considered tearing down his shack but thought better of it. Perhaps it would be a welcome port of call to another lonely traveller along the way, some windswept night having prayed to the gods of shelters for grace. Perhaps time would simply cover it up in a thick canopy of green as it did the rest of the world.

After gathering his belongings, he disassembled the great stringed bow and stored it back in his pack. As the first warm rays of the sun began to warm the road, Erroh stretched his limbs for the walk. He did so with the skill of a young man that had walked many miles already. He picked up his pack, left the parting of the trees, looking forward. There was no need to look back.

* * *

3. Leather and Steel

He would never eat pigeon again. Fuk pigeon. He thought about that boar he had promised himself instead, and then the melted cheese. They were fine thoughts to occupy his mind, as he stepped further into the wood. The ground underneath him was soft and broken. Never being a terribly skilled tracker, he struggled to make sense of the many marks from the mysterious noise, save for them being fresh, varied, and plentiful. In the light of the day, they seemed far less terrifying. He headed towards the smoke following the route a pigeon might take, desperate to flee inaccurate arrows. His eyes were thin slits of concentration and each step was as careful as the last, wary of subtle obstacles like gnarled roots, greasy mossy patches and fallen jagged logs.

The warm rays shone down through the leaves of the ancient trees. Their massive trunks, sturdy and aged like mountains. They probably stood grandly before the birth of this world. They had seen things he had only read about. They survived such things and now they swayed in the wind almost soundlessly.

“This is freedom,” he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. He had been alone so long he sometimes forgot his own voice. It was a strange thing to hear his quiet words in this eternal green, a single voice with lonely words. Thoughts of the city, and his few days of freedom left, returned to him. He still had miles to walk. Alone.

Eventually the heat caught up with his determination, and he forced himself to take rest at the bottom of a pine-covered valley.

He sat in the grass under a break in the trees and let the sun shine down on his face. It was only here that he finally noticed the difference. The smoke was black, a dark bruise on the radiant blue, and an affront to the beauty of the day. He stared up at the ominous sign and felt a chill run down his spine. The monstrous black clouds looked like death. Something terrible lay ahead. He considered changing course. “They might have boar,” he whispered.

A few hours later, he reached the top of a valley edge and looked down to the settlement below. It was little more than a few decrepit buildings clustered together, slowly losing the battle to the certainty of time. A faded road ran through them, cracked, grey, and ancient. It turned to nothing but mud and grass beyond the town’s boundaries. It was a glimmer of the old world and all was deathly still. There was no sound in the air but the flapping of the flames. There would be no boar tonight.

Various pieces of cloth hung across the windows of some of the ruins, acting as braces against the harsh winds but there was no one left for them to protect. In the centre, a fire rose into the evening sky and it was terrible. The flames would never stop burning in his mind, and he would not let them either. Cattle and swine ran freely throughout the devastated town, their pens knocked down during the attack. They were oblivious to the horrors that surrounded them, happy to graze in their newly obtained freedom. Chickens pecked at grain that had spilt messily onto the ground from torn open bags. Some grains were lost from the chickens grasp and carried to the bottom of the street in a steady little stream of red.

Terrified.

Touching his sword along his waist as if a comfort, Erroh walked cautiously into the village to search for anyone left alive. Even he was able to recognise a cavalry’s tracks in the soft muddy ground as he drew nearer. The path turned from mud to hard stone as he neared the town and each step he took became louder. They echoed in the stony silence and each step nearer seemed to steal his hope and replace it with an awful despair. It is no small thing to walk among the dead, no matter what bards, poets and storytellers declare.

The nearest body still held a pike in its hand and a hole in its chest. The strike had gone through cheap armour and downed the defender where the road met the town. The body lay in a heap, it would never move again. Its eyes unfocused, staring into the heavens, the wind ruffled its hair. Erroh moved on from the dead man towards the rest of the devastation.

Slowly he stepped between each structure, his eyes darting each and every way, his sword still sheathed, peering into the ground floor windows where he could. His heart dropped like a heavy weight with every grisly corpse he discovered. He found quite a few. He discovered an old man still asleep in a little dark room in the last building. He looked so peaceful with a warm blanket covering his body; Erroh almost went as far as checking for a pulse when he saw the slit across his neck. The blood had soaked up in the straw underneath.

It was too much. He had seen death before, though nothing like this. He ran from the building, his sadness and horror giving way to an anger he had never known himself capable of.

“Face me you animals!” he roared, pulling the blade from its scabbard, challenging the world to a duel. He charged through the town, his mind a furnace of rage. He could not see sense. He could only see the injustice of the world. It was all he could do. He wanted to destroy. To tear these brutes apart, whoever they were. He wanted vengeance for those whom he had never known.

When he had calmed himself he returned to the centre of the town where most of the bodies were strewn like discarded delicacies for feasting carrion birds. Their shields and bodies were splintered and split alike, and their masculine limbs still gripped swords, flails and battle-axes. Of all the horrors, when he came upon the smallest fighter of them all it was the image of the broken pale boy which stayed with him longest.

And then he braved the females burning in the pyre. They had been chained to each other and set alight and now the flames rose as high as a killer seated atop a great horse. He hoped their throats were slit before the end. Through his weeping eyes, he could still make out their shapes.

There was nobody left but the dead. The fire would run its course, the sun would set, the ashes would scatter and the world would carry on. All he could do was remember and hate. A hate far deeper than the simmering revulsion his father held for those who ruled this world now. He wished his father were with him now.

* * *

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18

Kalanon’s Rising

Darian Smith

Solve the murder. Save the world.

Sir Brannon Kesh spent years building a new life as a physician, leaving the name Bloodhawk and the war that spawned it behind. But when the King's cousin is murdered, duty calls him back. The crime scene suggests dark magic and the evidence points to the ambassador of Nilar, an alluring woman with secrets of her own, who sees Bloodhawk as little more than a war criminal.

As bodies pile up and political ramifications escalate, Brannon must join forces with a vain mage, a socially awkward priest, and a corpse animating shaman to solve the murders and prevent another war. But who can he trust when the phases of a larger plan take shape?

The Risen are the greatest danger Brannon has ever faced. If he and his team cannot stop the killer then all of Kalanon - and the world - will descend into darkn ess.

SPFBO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 7

* * *

PROLOGUE

The gas lamps on the street corners of Alapra cast deep shadows. Keldan Sandilar skulked in their darkness with a woman of dubious repute. He felt a kind of thrill across his skin as he moved through the back streets, that had little to do with the coolness of the night air. The son of a duke, mere steps from the Kalan throne, rarely had occasion to skulk. Here, in the capital, he had a lifestyle that could be publicly enjoyed. His name was a skeleton key for the highest echelons of society and there wasn’t a craftsman or trader who wouldn’t throw open their doors, day or night, for his convenience.

But tonight was for activities best kept in darkness.

“We really should have done this somewhere else,” he muttered, as they neared their destination. “They know me at the Rose.”

The floral fragrance from walled, scented gardens mixed with that of horse manure and lantern smoke. The sound of laughter and music spilled from up ahead and the full moon slipped from behind a cloud. Keldan’s footsteps sounded very loud on the familiar cobblestones. He was grateful, at least, that he had left the carriage some distance away.

His companion shrugged. “It was your choice, Your Highness. And a wise general fights on familiar ground, they say. Don’t worry, my employer is very discreet.” Her voice lowered to a throaty purr as she added, “And so am I.”

Keldan noticed the front of her cloak had parted and the cut of her bodice offered an inviting glimpse of bosom. He chuckled. “Thus far I have enjoyed our dealings very much. I’m sure that will continue.”

The Blue Rose came into sight ahead and Keldan’s steps quickened. The sooner they were in a private room, the better. The Rose was an elegant, stone and plaster, converted manor house built well before the war. A mosaic path led up to the wide double doors, through an outdoor dining area ringed by balustrades and climbing, steel-hued roses. The area was strung with colored lanterns, giving it a joyful air. There were few patrons outside this time of night, however. The main action was inside, where some of the best singers and dancers the city had to offer were regularly seen on the ballroom’s stage.

He had almost reached the door when a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out into the light. Keldan recognized the man’s easy movement well before the familiar scar came into view. He gestured for his companion to move and tried to step aside before the King’s Champion saw him but, exposed as he was in the center of the mosaic path, there was nowhere to go.

“Prince Keldan.” The man known as Bloodhawk nodded in Keldan’s direction. “Good to see you. How’s your father?”

Keldan forced a smile and walked forward. Of all the timing! “Very well, Sir Brannon. You know Father—he’s a prize stallion. I can pass on your regards when I next see him.”

Brannon nodded. “I’d appreciate it. I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like these days. Nor you, in fact. Would you care to join me for a drink?”

Keldan wondered, as he often did seeing Sir Brannon’s simple clothes and military style haircut, how he managed to stay so well connected at court. The reality and the legend were strange bedfellows in this man. “Another time. I’m afraid I have business to attend to right now.”

The girl giggled at that, giving the perfect vapid impression. She’d arranged her cowled cloak so that the comely shape of her body was unmistakable beneath the fabric, but the details of her face were lost.

Brannon’s expression barely flickered. “Of course.” He inclined his head slightly to them both. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“That could’ve been a disaster,” Keldan murmured as he guided the girl through the back corridors of the Blue Rose to the VIP area and then into the private room he’d booked. “The last thing I need tonight is for a war hero friend of my father to discover me making a deal with Nilarians.”

She pushed back her hood and flashed him a pretty smile as he closed the door behind them. “It’s just a meeting. To be honest, I think you’ll have to be an even shrewder businessman than your father to get a deal with my employer.”

Keldan felt his jaw tighten. He turned his focus to the room, allowing the tension in his body to ease.

It was a room he’d used many times before, decorated in his favorite sky-blue and deep mahogany. The fresco cherubs always made him smile to think of all they’d witnessed in that spacious, four-post bed. Today, there was a box on the scroll-worked writing desk in the corner.

“Yours?” he said as the girl stripped off her cloak and laid it across the bed. The gown underneath clung to her curves.

“My employer’s. I had it sent over earlier to make things easier for us.”

Keldan smiled. “Easy is good.”

Her full lips twitched upward. “It has its advantages. Shall I set up?”

He nodded, moving to the liquor cabinet. A decanter of his favorite wine had been set out and he poured himself a glass while the girl opened the box and laid its contents on the desk. A selection of fabric swatches, pots of pigment, a knife, and some brushes.

Keldan wondered if his father had ever seen the secrets of Nilarian silk. He doubted it. The old man was too bound up in the old enmity to have gotten so close. He was a shrewd businessman, all right, but Keldan’s own skills were nothing to be sniffed at and this extra, personal touch of showing interest in the details would secure the deal. He was certain of it.

He lifted the wine to his lips and savored the taste of successfully out-dealing his father. Delicious.

“I should go and fetch my employer now,” the girl said, turning away from the carefully arranged desk. She lowered her head a little and looked up at him, slyly. “Perhaps I could come back after the business is completed?”

Keldan chuckled softly. “You do that. I’ll be here all night.”

As the door closed behind her, Keldan wondered which outcome he was looking forward to more—the closing of the business deal or the return of the girl. Already he could feel his body reacting to the excitement of both. His stomach fluttered and his skin felt more sensitive, like a cool breeze was brushing through the room. His lips, especially, tingled as though from a phantom kiss.

He took a breath and shook it off. He wasn’t some nervous virgin at his first ball. He tugged at his sleeve, straightened his back, and considered how he would greet the Nilarian.

The tingling in his lips intensified.

Keldan frowned. He took a few steps toward the bed before the tingling began in his legs as well. His toe caught on the thick carpet and he fell, sprawled, face down on the bed.

The sensation spread up his thighs, and crippled his hands and forearms. His tongue felt like a handful of needles in his mouth. Then the tingling was replaced by a terrible numbness, swallowing his body’s ability to move, like a mouse down a cold, reptilian throat. He struggled against it and almost managed to pull himself up before his muscles gave out completely and he fell back on his face.

The world huddled close around him, pressing in with his fear. A shout for help produced only a weak sound, muffled by bedding. After that, it was an effort to draw in enough air just to stay conscious. Time was lost. There was nothing in existence but his own fast-beating heart and loud, rasping breaths.

A rivulet of sweat ran across the skin of his forehead, grazed the side of his temple, and slipped into his wide open eye with the sting of salt. The sensation penetrated his panicked mind: the numbness was wearing off. Perhaps the paralysis would too.

Relief almost deafened him to the sound of the opening door. Footsteps approached the bed.

“Ah,” said a voice. “I believe you’re almost ready.”

Keldan tried to respond but the paralysis had now completely taken his voice.

The footsteps moved over to the desk. “Here we are.” The scrape of the knife blade on the wood as the intruder picked it up was un m istakable. “Now, let’s have some fun.”

CHAPTER ONE

Brannon was trying to not kill a man. It wasn’t easy. The hot sun pricked at his skin and he blinked salt from his eyes. The air smelled of dust and sweat and the tang of blood. Not a lot. Not like it once was. But there, nonetheless. This tiny battleground, circled with stone and law, was enough to remind him of things he’d rather forget.

The court building was one of the older structures in Alapra, grand with carved masonry and walls painted with historical murals. The magistrate and witnesses needed a clear outcome and, technically, that meant death. They huddled around the edges of the arena in their formal robes, waiting for the moment they could go back into the courtroom and approve the blood result in ink.

Brannon watched his opponent approach again, nose bloody, and pitched his voice so the magistrate wouldn’t hear it. “You can still back out of this, you know, Darnec. Plead guilty.”

The younger son of the Earl of Raldene had been caught stealing to pay for gambling debts and had chosen trial by combat rather than magistrate. He had the pride of his family name and the confidence of his youth egging him on. He almost had the skill to back it up, but not the experience.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” young Raldene sneered.

Brannon sighed. “Yeah, I would. But, hey, it’s your trial.” Over the younger man’s shoulder, Brannon could see Master Jordell and a small team of physicians. And an undertaker.

Darnec swung his sword and Brannon quickly moved to block it with his own. The clang echoed loudly in the arena. Brannon pushed his opponent’s sword aside with his blade, then twisted it to strike at Darnec’s shoulder. The young man was too quick, and slipped away before he could be cut.

“You’ve been taught well.” Another swing and block, followed by a lunge.

“I may not have fought in your war, Bloodhawk, but I know my way around a blade.” This time Darnec faked a move to the left, then swung for the jugular.

Brannon dodged, and his own sword snaked across the younger man’s thigh, sharp and fast. Red licked out from the blade’s bite. Brannon stepped back. “Imagine if you applied that discipline to the rest of your life.”

Darnec’s eyes stayed on Brannon. He shifted his weight, testing his wounded leg. “It’s a bit late for that now,” he said.

Brannon shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Darnec took a slow breath and the point of his sword drifted slightly downward. Then he took another. Brannon began to hope. The Earl of Raldene would be embarrassed to have a son sent to the mines for thievery, but when the sentence was done, he would still have his son.

“Perhaps not.” With those words, Darnec launched himself as if from a catapult, his sword aimed at Brannon’s heart.

Brannon turned his body and rammed forward his arm, blade vertical, pushing the thrust aside but it sliced his left arm, just below the shoulder. Blood and Tears! The boy was quick.

Or, he thought, I’ve gotten slow.

The fight was on in earnest now. Darnec was a demonic fury, intent on Brannon’s death. His sword thrust and swung again and again. Each time was intended a killing blow. Each time, it was blocked.

Years of battle experience gave Brannon a kind of detached calm when fighting. He could see where the blade was intended to go almost before it began to move. His muscles remembered even when he would rather not. He saw an opportunity in the younger man’s style and lashed out. His sword spiked Darnec’s thigh and pulled back. The muscle was damaged, but he had stayed clear of the artery.

Darnec screamed, but kept fighting.

The opportunity rose again. This time Brannon slashed across his opponent’s stomach, tearing through leather and cloth. Flesh and muscle parted, but not enough to expose entrails.

Darnec clutched at the wound with his left hand, his voice an animalistic sob as it came away covered in blood. He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and swung hard.

Brannon double-handed his own sword, bringing it up to meet head on. The arena rang with an awful crack and the younger man’s blade shattered against the Bloodhawk’s.

Darnec’s eyes widened. He stared at the stump of his sword and then at Brannon, his mouth open and wordless.

“Nilarian steel,” Brannon said, hefting his own blade. “I got this in that war you mentioned.” He turned to the magistrate. “I believe that satisfies the requirements of defeat.”

The robed figure shook his head. “Not yet, Champion.”

The sound of boots scuffing the dirt provided a warning. Brannon turned in time to see Darnec lurch toward him, the remnant of his sword outstretched.

“Oh, for Blood’s sake!” Brannon grabbed the boy’s wrist with his left hand and twisted his arm up and away, bringing his own sword up to skewer Darnec’s shoulder. Darnec screamed and his knees buckled. Brannon let go of his wrist and pulled his sword free, giving him a nudge so that he fell forward onto the ground. “Now?”

The magistrate nodded. “Now.”

Brannon turned and strode from the arena. He brushed past Master Jordell and into the medical annex. The old physician followed him in, green robes billowing at the shoulders.

“You’re angry.”

Brannon scowled. “I’m fine.”

Master Jordell chuckled, his face becoming even more wrinkled than usual beneath his mop of white hair. “Then I’d hate to see you irritated.” He gestured and a servant hurried forward. “Here, let this lad clean up your sword and you sit down with me a while.”

Blood dripped down the blade and onto Brannon’s fingers. “How can you expect me to mentor an apprentice physician when I can be called up to do this at any time?” he asked, handing over the sword.

The medical annex of the courthouse was set up to deal with the results of trial by combat. It was a requirement that both parties be assessed here after the fight. The room was divided by a long bench covered in bandages, needles and thread, scalpels and bone-saws. To either side of this was a mirror image of bed and hot bath.

Brannon walked across to one of the beds and sat down.

“The reason I expect it,” Master Jordell said, “is because it is part of what you have dedicated your last six years to.” He hooked a stool from the center bench and sat facing Brannon. “You’re a physician now, no matter what else you are, and physicians at your level are required to take an apprentice.”

Brannon snorted. “You don’t see the hypocrisy in my teaching anyone healing?”

Master Jordell’s eyes grew flinty. “No, I do not. Your role as King’s Champion did not stop you seeking physician training. Nor did your history as a war hero. I don’t see why they should become an impediment to you now.”

“But . . . ”

“No buts. Part of your training is to mentor others as I have mentored y ou. Just do your duty, Brannon, and stop behaving like a child!”

Brannon sat up sharply. “A child?”

Jordell’s face was impassive. “Clearly. You’ve only recently come to your new career. Thus, this is your second childhood. Some wait for senility, but you were always an overachiever.”

Brannon shook his head slowly, a chuckle low in his throat. “Now I see why you had that boy take my sword. Don’t you have something better to do than pester me? Seeing to the Pride of Raldene, perhaps?”

“He’s in good hands. Get out of that shirt and I’ll stitch your arm.”

As if summoned by their words, the other physicians entered the room, Darnec Raldene carried on a stretcher between them. The young man was pale and sweaty, but conscious.

“He’s losing a lot of blood,” Brannon muttered as they placed Darnec on the other bed. Two of them pressed wadded bandages over the leg and shoulder wounds while a young woman with a blond ponytail peered at the abdominal slash.

Master Jordell pushed him back with surprisingly strong hands when he tried to get up to take a closer look. “He’ll be fine.” The old man picked up a pair of scissors and Brannon knew better than to resist as his shirt was cut away from his still bleeding shoulder.

“You’re sure?”

Jordell pursed his lips and reached for a wet cloth and bowl to wash the cut. Across the room the blond woman was doing the same with the abdominal wound. “Yes, Sir Brannon, I’m sure. You were very precise. Nothing vital was hit and you know it. You sterilized your sword beforehand?”

Brannon felt his face flush. “Yes.”

Jordell shrugged. “There you go then—not even much chance of infection. You did all you could for the fool. Now, for goodness’ sake, lay back and try not to be one yourself!”

Brannon did as he was told and held still as his mentor pulled needle and thread through the cut on his shoulder, tugging the flesh gently back into place. He separated himself from the pain and let the detached part of his mind simply observe. He’d experienced Jordell’s stitching many times in the war. On so light a wound, he probably wouldn’t even be left with a scar.

Unlike his opponent. The blond haired girl was about to work on the stomach cut and, at her age, it was unlikely she was as deft as the Master.

“Jordell, why don’t you stitch the Raldene boy? That girl doesn’t look too experienced.”

The old physician didn’t even look up. “Jessamine? She’s perfectly adequate to the task. Better than most at her level.” He pulled the thread tight on the last stitch and cut the thread. “Actually, she’s even been requested by of some of the nobility—your friend, Duke Roydan, for example.”

Brannon sat up and flexed his arm a little, testing the stitches. “Really? Roydan?” He looked across and watched as the girl continued to work. She looked very young. “I’m surprised she’s high enough level for that.”

Jordell shrugged. “She’s not. But she’s very talented and he’s asked for her specifically.”

“Ah.” Brannon grinned. “He always did like a pretty face. She should be careful there.”

“Well then, it’s lucky she’ll have you to guide her.” Master Jordell beamed. “She’s your new apprentice.”

Brannon’s grin vanished. “What? No! It’s still a bad idea for me to have an apprentice.”

“Second childhood!” Jordell teased. Then his voice grew serious. “It’s not optional.”

Brannon sighed, the energy that had sustained him through the fight draining away in a rush. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed at his eyes. When he pulled them away, nothing had changed. “Fine.”

Master Jordell turned and called across the room. “Jessamine, let one of the others finish up, would you? I want to introduce you to your mentor.”

“Yes, Master Jordell.” The girl waited until one of her colleagues had taken the needle, then fairly bounced across the room. Up close, she looked even younger than Brannon had thought. Blue eyes peered at him from beneath a slightly too-long fringe of blond hair that had escaped the ponytail. Her small nose was kept company by a scattering of freckles to either side. Her pale lips were parted slightly in an open smile. “Sir Brannon,” she said, bobbing into an almost curtsey. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Brannon stifled another sigh. She was going to be difficult to keep track of. Roydan wasn’t the only man in court to like a pretty face. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Jessamine,” he said. “I’m told you’re ready to apprentice. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two, sir.”

Brannon turned to Jordell, an eyebrow raised. “Really? A twenty-two-year-old? My raw recruit days are well behind me.”

“It’ll do you good,” Master Jordell said. “Anyway, the girl can’t help her age. You went to war younger than that.”

“True. I’m not sure when it started looking so young though.”

Jordell snorted. “Wait until you’re my age!”

“No thanks.” He turned back to the girl, who had watched the exchange with her head tilted to one side. “My apologies, Jessamine. I’m a little out of sorts today. Apparently you’re very skilled already, so I’m sure you’ll do fine. Even if I’m not sure what you’ll learn from me at court.”

She straightened up with a smile. “No problem, sir. I hope you don’t mind that I asked to be matched with you. When I heard the famous Bloodhawk needed a physician’s apprentice—”

Brannon held up a hand to stop her. “Do you want to be a physician or a soldier?”

“A physician, of course.”

“Then don’t talk to me about Bloodhawk. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Brannon is fine.” He stood up and pulled what was left of his shirt around him. The top of her head barely reached his chin. “Now, tell me about your patient.”

“Well, he’ll need some time to heal and we’ll have to work his arm to get full movement back to his shoulder, but, for the losing side of a trial by combat, he’s in remarkably good shape,” Jessamine said, leading the way back to where Darnec Raldene lay, now sleeping thanks to an application of fumes. “Although he must be very skilled because he managed to cut the King’s Champion and people say that’s only happened once before.”

Brannon studied Darnec’s wounds. The thigh damage was minimal. The skewered shoulder had two physicians working on it still. The abdominal cut was stitched surprisingly well, a red belt across his middle with black notches all the way across. “Good work. Put the stitches a little closer together next time, but good.” He looked up at her and pointed to the scar on his own cheek. “And if you really believe I got through the entire war with only one scratch, you’re an idiot.”

Jessamine grinned. “No. But I have to admit, the legend of it is appealing.”

Brannon rolled his eyes. “Appealing to idiots. But there may be hope for you yet.”

She gave her little curtsey-bob again. “I hope so.”

“Sir Brannon Kesh!” A voice sounded loudly from the doorway where a messenger in full court livery waited for an answer.

“Yes?”

“The king has sent for you. Something’s happened to his cousin.”

CHAPTER TWO

Brannon forced himself not to run as he hurried through the corridors of the royal palace. His footsteps sounded like hoof beats on the marble tiles, echoed by the lighter, more rapid taps of Jessamine trying to keep up. His suggestion to Master Jordell that she begin her apprenticeship another day had fallen on deaf ears so she would simply have to follow him as best she could.

The corridor leading to the king’s private audience chamber ran along the east side of the palace and was lined with open windows showing all of Alapra spread below. Anyone approaching was reminded of the huge domain ruled by the monarch they were about to speak with. Raised up as the palace was, it was possible to see not just the older stonework buildings like the courthouse and town palaces of the Kalan elite, but beyond to the lesser neighborhoods and even to the edges of the city, where new wooden buildings had been hastily constructed during the war to house those driven from their homes as the Nilarian invaders cut their way ever closer to the river Tilal. Here and there, blue and gold banners heralding the upcoming fiftieth birthday celebrations for the king draped buildings and crossed streets, giving the city an air of festival it hadn’t had for as long as Brannon could remember.

With the messenger’s words replaying in his mind, Brannon felt as though it had taken hours to quickly change and travel the short distance to see his friend the king. When the gilt door handles of the audience chamber finally came into view, a small bubble of relief swelled in him, and he slowed his steps, took deep, calming breaths, and allowed the guards to let them inside.

The chamber was richly and comfortably appointed. There was no throne, but then Aldan had never needed the trappings of royalty to command respect. The walls held heroic frescos of kings and queens of old in colors that competed with the sunlight.

King Aldan and two others sat at a small table near the window. One of them was Duke Roydan, the king’s cousin. The other was a stylish young man in his early twenties. They looked up as Brannon led Jessamine forward. Roydan’s eyes were red and tears gleamed wetly on his grizzled face.

Brannon faltered. “What’s happened?” He’d known the older two since the beginning of the war and the seven years since and he’d never seen Roydan weep.

“Take a seat, Brannon,” the king said. His eyes flickered over Jessamine. “Who is this with you?”

“My apprentice.”

Aldan frowned a moment, then nodded. “Right. The physician thing.” He fixed Jessamine with a stern look. “You may stay, but you are to repeat nothing of what you hear, understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Brannon ignored the exchange, trying instead to catch Roydan’s eye. The man turned away, his body shaking in silent sobs. “Aldan, what’s going on? What’s happened?”

The king sighed. “Keldan was killed last night. They found his body in a room at the Blue Rose this morning. Apparently he was tortured.”

Brannon felt his eyes widen and his stomach dropped away. “But . . . why?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

Brannon stared at his king for a long time, trying to process what was being said. Keldan, the son of his longtime friend, had been murdered. “You want me to investigate. I . . . Ahpra’s Tears, I saw him last night. At the Blue Rose. It must have been just a little while before . . . ” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The pain in both men was too clear. This was not a loss in battle—they had experienced plenty of those. This had been a personal attack—a family member slaughtered in a place he believed to be safe.

Brannon might not be of royal blood, but these men were family to him just the same. They’d protected each other since long before Aldan inherited the crown. Their lives and responsibilities since the war might have molded them differently, but at heart they were still three young men fighting back to back against the Nilarian horde. He saw the same feeling in Aldan’s eyes and the king gave a small nod. One of their number had been wounded. They would hunt down those responsible and pay it back in kind.

Brannon reached out to squeeze his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get whoever did it, Roydan. I’ll find them.”

Roydan turned to meet his eyes with a fierce hardness in his face. “They killed my heir, Brannon. My first son! I’ve not even been allowed to see his body. You bring his murderer to me and I’ll take my revenge with a sword!”

King Aldan leaned forward and the sunlight caught the silver in his golden beard. “It’s best you don’t see him yet, Roydan. I don’t want you remembering him like that.”

The duke’s face darkened with fury. “He’s my son. Do you think this memory could get any worse?”

Aldan sighed.

“My Lord Roydan.” Jessamine’s voice was soft and gentle. “Perhaps you and I could take a break. I brew an excellent comforting tea.”

Roydan was still and for a moment Brannon wasn’t sure if he had heard, but then he shook himself and nodded. “Yes.” He stood up and followed Jessamine. “A cup of your tea would be good.”

“She’s good, that apprentice of yours,” Aldan said as the door closed behind them.

“So it seems,” Brannon said.

“I suppose you can brew medicinal teas as well, now?”

“I can.” Brannon nodded, then offered a weak smile. “But I doubt Roydan would drink it.”

The king chuckled softly. “You’re probably right. You never were much of a cook.”

The young man at the table leaned forward. Brannon had almost forgotten he was there. “Even I remember that,” he said. “Your attempt at a campfire stew was possibly the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And that’s saying something.”

He had brilliant blue eyes that were quite striking beneath dark, stylishly cut hair. His clothes were flattering and modern enough to be fashionable while being individual enough to catch attention. Brannon frowned. “Do I know you?”

The pretty young man smiled. “Maybe if you think really hard, you’ll remember.”

“I hardly think this is the time to play games,” Brannon began, but then trailed off as the man turned his head and stretched his neck. Curled between the edge of his jaw and his earlobe was a tattoo of a sleeping dragon. Brannon blinked and looked again. “That’s not possible.”

“That’s what I said when he first showed up like that,” King Aldan said.

Brannon looked between the two men, his mind fumbling for understanding. “Magus Draeson? But . . . but . . . you’re old!”

“Ever the wordsmith, I see,” Draeson drawled. “Aldan, do you really think this murder could be a political attack?”

The king shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I need people I can trust to investigate it.” He looked from one to the other. “Both of you.”

Brannon held up his hands. “Whoa. Before we go any further I’m going to need more of an explanation as to why the oldest man I’ve ever met now looks twenty-three.”

“I’ve been keeping out of the sun,” Draeson said.

“At the Battle of Tilal, you looked decrepit.”

The mage shrugged. “Yes, well, I’ve had time to study since then. I’ve learned some new tricks. Why shouldn’t I do something nice for myself after chasing you lot around for more than three hundred years?” He turned to the king. “Speaking of which, you haven’t forgotten the deal, I trust. That’ll need to be settled.”

Aldan waved them both to be quiet. “Yes, yes. We can all talk when the current issues are dealt with. In the meantime, I need you to work together and find out what happened to Keldan and why. Brannon, you’re my representative in this. Take what resources you need. I’ll send you what help I can, but I trust my champion and my mage have the skills between them to solve this. Soon.”

“Of course.”

“Now go. I’ve ordered the room where Keldan was found guarded until you arrive.”

They rose to their feet and bowed. As he turned to leave the room, Brannon hesitated. “My apprentice, Jessamine . . . ”

The king nodded. “Yes, take her with you, definitely. It will be good for you to have a young pair of eyes on the team.”

Brannon nodded, his lips pressed together. There was no getting rid of the girl now. He’d just have to make the best of it. “Thank you.”

He followed Draeson from the audience chamber, watching the magus for any sign of the age that had crippled his body a decade ago. There was none. The man walked with the energized stride of the youth he now appeared to be.

“Draeson, this deal you mentioned. Is it something to do with your . . . ” He waved his hand to indicate the mage’s new body.

“Why? You think the king pisses the Fountain of Youth and forgot to mention it? My magic is my own, Brannon. Nothing to worry your soldier boy head about.”

“Then what is the deal?”

Draeson smiled, the expression turning his attractive face into a sculpture of handsome innocence. “None of your business.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Blue Rose in daylight was a more somber affair than at night. Music came from a quiet string quartet and the staff served light lunches and scones with tea. On a sunny day like this one, most of the patrons were in the outdoor area. On a day when a murder had taken place on the premises, there weren’t many patrons at all.

The day manager, a short, rounded woman in a mauve dress and gray hair, met them at the door. “Sir Brannon,” she said, her eyes roving over Jessamine and Draeson before settling back to him. “You and your friends are here regarding the incident?”

Brannon nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mala. Can you tell us what happened?”

She swallowed and glanced at the customers. “Of course, dear. Why don’t we go inside?”

The bar was deserted at this time of day. Mala hoisted herself up onto one of the stools, increasing her height almost to that of Jessamine. “Nasty business,” she said. “Horrid.”

“I saw Prince Keldan arrive last night, just before ten o’clock. Did any of the staff see him?”

Mala’s head bobbed like a cork in a bathtub. “That’s right. He’d booked one of the private rooms early yesterday but didn’t come to use it until late, just as you say. He’s a good friend to the Blue Rose. The staff all like him ’cause he tips well. And the lads say his lady friends are always worth looking at twice.” She reached out and patted his hand. “You know how boys are.”

Brannon gave her the expected chuckle and she jiggled with mirth.

“Did he have a lady friend with him last night?” Jessamine asked. “Or his wife, perhaps?”

“Oooh, asks the right questions this one,” Mala cooed. “Or the wrong ones! The likes of Prince Keldan don’t bring a wife here, my dear. But, yes, he did have a lady friend with him last night.”

“So I recall,” said Brannon, remembering the giggling cloaked figure. Exactly the sort of girl Keldan liked to play with. His father too, for that matter. “And is she still here?”

Mala looked horrified. “Is she dead in the room too, you mean? No, thank Valdan. One of them like that is more than enough. No, I don’t know what happened to her, but she’s gone.”

“I take it once they checked in, they weren’t disturbed,” Draeson said. “So when did you realize something was wrong?”

“Not until I went up to get the breakfast orders.” Mala shuddered. “I’ll not forget that shock in a hurry. And I don’t envy you the job of looking at it now.”

Brannon shrugged. “Best we get it over with then.”

Mala led them to a back corridor and upstairs to a closed door with an armed royal guard on either side. The guards snapped to attention when the saw Brannon. “At ease,” he told them. “Unlock the door and wait here while we’re inside. We won’t want to be disturbed.”

“Good luck with that,” Mala muttered while one of the guards reached for the key she held out. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She made the sign against evil and hurried back downstairs.

The guard stepped back, seemingly reluctant to open the now unlocked door.

Brannon glanced at his companions. Draeson, for all his newfound youth, had seen plenty of horror in his centuries of life. Jessamine, however, seemed a little pale.

“You don’t have to go in, you know. You can wait for us here.”

She pressed her lips firmly and shook her head. “If I’m going to be a physician I have to get used to dead bodies. It’s funny, I can handle sewing up live ones, but . . . ”

Brannon closed his mind to the images of gored and hacked flesh on the battlefield. “It’s not something you need to rush,” he said.

“It’s not something we need to stand here talking about all day either,” Draeson said.

Brannon shot the mage a sharp look.

Jessamine shrugged. “I’m fine,” she said.

Brannon nodded. “Okay then. By the way, you did a good job with Duke Roydan earlier. Well done.”

Jessamine beamed at him.

“Oh good,” muttered Draeson. “Daddy issues.”

“Dry up and get your own apprentice,” Brannon told him.

The door opened onto death.

The bed had been pushed out into the center of the room and stripped of curtains, sheets, and mattress. Keldan Sandilar was positioned on the base, spread-eagled and nude, his arms and legs tied to the four posts. His genitals were a mass of gore, as was the hole in the center of his chest. His stomach, legs, arms, and even neck and face had been covered with rune-like symbols that twisted like vines over his skin. On the walls, the same symbols were smeared in black, brown, and red, standing out harshly against sky blue. His eyes were open wide and glassy.

“Blood and Tears.” Brannon could barely recognize the man he knew. He heard a retching sound behind him as Jessamine fought her stomach. “Thank the gods Roydan hasn’t seen this.”

As he stepped into the room, the stench of blood and meat filled his nose. The smell of death was still familiar after almost a decade of peace. It’d accompanied the loss of too many friends and comrades. Sometimes he would even smell it in his dreams and he would wake with sweat-soaked sheets believing, for a moment, that he was still covered with enemy blood.

Keldan’s white face stared up at the ceiling where a fresco cherub gazed down, splatters of red ruining its innocent expression. Another friend fallen. The son of a friend.

Brannon took a deep breath. “Try not to touch anything until we’ve looked at it closely. You never know what might be a clue.”

The others followed him carefully. Jessamine had her arms folded around herself.

Draeson whistled softly. “He pissed somebody off.”

Brannon scowled. “He was a friend, Draeson. Have some respect.”

“I knew him too,” the mage said, pointing to the dead man’s mutilated crotch. “But that looks personal. Maybe the woman he was with? Or her husband?”

Brannon turned away, concentrating on Keldan’s arms. The bindings were tight but there was no evidence of rope burn on the wrists. “He didn’t struggle against the rope so he was probably already dead when they tied him up.”

“He wasn’t dead when they stabbed him though,” Jessamine said. “There’s too much blood for that. Right?”

Brannon nodded. “They must have held him down. He’s a big man and he would’ve fought. It wouldn’t have been easy. Definitely not something a woman could do on her own. Or a woman and a man for that matter. I’d say at least one man for each limb and one to wield the knife.”

Draeson shook his head. “I find it hard to believe a group of five men got in and out of here without being seen or heard. What if it was a surprise attack that incapacitated him right from the start?”

“That might work if he was hit in the head,” Brannon said. He ran his fingers over Keldan’s scalp, checking for bumps, cuts, or soft-spots. There was no sign of head injury. The chest wound was filled with semi-congealed blood. Brannon probed it gently with his fingers. “This doesn’t hit his heart either, so he probably didn’t die quickly.”

He fell silent, trying not to think about how Keldan must have felt as he died. The physician-trained part of his mind kicked in and began identifying how the patient could have been treated if he’d been found in time. Staunch the blood flow, sew up the damage, bathe the wounds in antiseptic to try to prevent infection, give a tonic to help replace the blood.

Brannon looked away. With the amount of damage that had been done, there was no way Keldan could have been saved.

“Either way, if he was dead or incapacitated, why tie him up at all? Why position him like this? And what about the markings?” Brannon waved his arm to take in the entire room. Now that he could see past the corpse and the lurid symbols, he noticed other small items that were out of place: candles on the floor, ash on the discarded bedspread, dirt in small piles around the room. “This is more than just a murder. This was a ritual. Draeson, is there magic in this?”

The mage frowned. “Nothing local.” His mouth twisted as he studied the symbols closer. “It could be Djin. They use runes and earth in their Raisings.”

Jessamine gasped. “Djin? You mean the dead armies?”

Brannon shot her a look and she went quiet. “Jessamine, could you see what else you can find that might provide clues?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Of course, Sir . . . um, Brannon. Sorry.”

“Djinan has been neutral as long as anyone can remember,” Brannon said, turning back to the mage. “Do you really think they’d do something like this?”

Draeson shrugged. “Attack a member of our royal house on our own soil? No, that doesn’t sound like them. But from what I know of their ways, this ritual does.”

Brannon chewed his lip. “Kalanon isn’t ready for another war, and we certainly wouldn’t survive one with Djinan, so let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet. It could be that someone is setting this out as a red herring. Or that it’s a rogue Djin. Either way, no one’s been Raised, so I don’t think we need to panic. Maybe it was done as a scare tactic.”

Draeson shrugged again. “To be honest, I’ve had very little to do with the Djin. They’re all about dirt and death and elementals. I can’t say for sure if this is their kind of thing but it’s enough like it that we should ask them to send us an expert to take a look.”

“Agreed,” Brannon said. “Jessamine, can you take a message to the palace bird master, please?” He turned to find the apprentice studying the writing desk in the corner of the room.

“I’m not sure,” she said, “but is this silk?” She held up a square of fabric.

Brannon ran his fingers over it, feeling the smoothness. “Yes,” he said, amazed. “Where did you find that?”

Jessamine pointed to the desk. “There’s a selection of them, just laying here.”

“Well, well,” Draeson muttered, coming closer. “Djin rituals, Nilarian silk, and a dead Kalan prince all in one room.”

The three investigators crowded in close around the desk. The squares were spread in a patchwork of vibrant colors. Some had patterns picked out in the thread, others birds or horses, and still more were a single hue. All were obscenely out of place in a Kalan room.

“How does silk end up in Prince Keldan’s room?” Jessamine said. “I didn’t think there was any in the whole country.”

“There’s some,” Draeson said darkly. “In the Nilarian ambassador’s wardrobe.”

“That’s not what this is, though,” Brannon pointed out. “These are samples. Why would Keldan have samples of Nilarian silk in his room?” He turned away from the desk and froze. They were no longer alone in the room.

A young man in clerical robes bent over Prince Keldan’s corpse. He was slim, average in looks, with light brown hair, and a slightly pointed nose. As Brannon watched, the young priest put out his tongue and licked the dead man’s lips.

“What in all Hooded hells are you doing?” Brannon bellowed, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

The priest jumped. “Oh,” he said, his eyes wide. He took in Brannon, with Draeson and Jessamine crowding behind, then looked around the room as if surprised to find himself there. “Oh,” he said again, looking back down at the body. “Oh! You mean . . . No! Nothing like that! I’m not doing anything!”

Brannon raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Well, yes, something, obviously,” the young man admitted. “I’m checking for poison. Well, not one that would kill him, obviously, but a paralytic drug. It leaves a very particular taste on the lips. Do you want to see?” He gestured at the bed.

Brannon stared, incredulous. “Who are you?”

The man stepped forward with a piece of paper in his outstretched hand. “Brother Taran of the Third Alapran Monastery. King Aldan sent me to help out. I’m something of a chemist, you see. Drugs and poisons are sort of a hobby.”

Brannon carefully took the paper. It verified that the bearer was Brother Taran, allocated to work with the King’s Champion on the murder of Prince Keldan. At the bottom was the royal seal.

“Typical of Kalan kings to send people blundering into things,” said Draeson. “Although Aldan did mention he’d be sending us help.”

Brannon called one of the guards at the door and handed him the paper. “Take this to the palace, verify it, then report back. While you’re there, tell the bird master to prepare for a message to be sent to Djinan. I’ll send it along later.”

“Wow,” said Brother Taran. “Not very trusting.”

“I’ll trust you well enough until I know otherwise,” Brannon said. “Tell me about this poison you think Keldan was given.”

“Oh, I’ll need to do some tests to be sure, but I think it’s loredin. It puts the muscles to sleep.” Taran waved his hand over Keldan’s body. “It made it so he couldn’t fight back.”

Brannon chewed his lip. “That would explain why there’s no sign of him struggling against the ropes.”

“It also means the whole thing could have been done by one person after all,” Draeson pointed out.

“Hooded Blood and crap,” Brannon swore. “We’re back to square one.”

“Sorry.” Taran shrugged and bent over the body again. “Hey, what’s with the bite marks? Does he have a kitten or something?”

“What?”

“There.” Brother Taran pointed to the inside of Keldan’s wrist, where two small teeth marks were almost healed.

“Is that likely to be how he was poisoned?”

“Oh, um, no, he’d have eaten or drunk the poison.”

Brannon sighed and covered his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. “Then I don’t really care about an old cat bite. Let’s try to focus on what’s relevant, shall we?”

Draeson stepped forward. “I think we should preserve this room and the body exactly as they are until the expert arrives from Djinan to tell us if it matches their ritual.”

Brannon pulled his hands away. “You can do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good. And in the meantime, we look into how Keldan came to have samples of silk, any enemies he may have personally, and what happened to the woman he was with. The gods only know if this is personal, political, or something else entirely. We need to follow up on all the possibilities.”

“That sounds very sensible,” Brother Taran said.

Brannon glared at him. “Do you need anything more for your tests?”

The priest held up a ball of cloth. “I swabbed his mouth already.”

“Then I suggest we let Magus Draeson seal the room.”

They watched from the hallway as Draeson reached his arm back through the door and placed his hand on the wall inside the room. His sleeve fell back, revealing the dragon tattoo on his bicep. For several breaths, nothing happened. Then there was an eerie crackling noise and what looked like green chunks of glass spilled out from the walls and began piling up on the floor. They settled softly over the desk, the bed, and Keldan’s body. The chunks were flexible and light, melding to the shapes of the things they came into contact with, not shifting or pushing them, but oozing over and around them. When the chunks had finally reached the ceiling, they shimmered and their edges blurred into one another, becoming seamless so that the entire room was trapped in a transparent magical resin. A wave of cold flowed out from the doorway as Draeson pulled back his arm.

“That should do it,” the mage said.

Brannon pushed the door shut, hiding the scene from view. “Good work.”

As the others headed for the stairs, Brannon felt Jessamine’s hand on his arm and she pulled him aside, her brow furrowed.

“Haven’t you seen magic before?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Yes. Well, no, but that’s not it.” She paused. “I just saw Magus Draeson’s dragon tattoo on his arm.”

“Yes.” Brannon said, knowing what was coming next.

She looked up at him, her head tilted to one side. “But, earlier . . . wasn’t it on his neck?”

Brannon sighed. If only that were the biggest puzzle facing them. “Yes,” he said. “Yes it was.”

* * *

Buy Kalanon’s Rising to continue reading.

19

A Change of Rules

L.L. Thomsen

In a world where a forgotten war between life and chaos is about to re-kindle, the truth of many things lies buried by the passage of time, including the memory of magic and the existence of other races.

Now as the millennium draws to a conclusion and Veils begin to weaken between realms, the Creator’s immortal Avatars are once again called to perform their sacred duty as Guardians against the mad gods and their monsters, but all is not well. Betrayal and disaster have left the once all-powerful Avatars weakened and bewildered. To protect the future, sacrifice and fortitude must be reshaped in a way that they might never have thought possible, but time is short. Can old wrongs be set right? Can the ancient champions see past their own arrogance and agendas for long enough to unite like they are called to, or is the future already lost?

Amidst this uncertainty, it falls to commanding Spell-Weaver Malandar Denarlin to recover an ancient artefact, as well as the missing twins who must wield its’ power, but with the magic of the lands broken and his strength compromised, Malandar knows he may yet fail. However, a weapon that should not exist, could still help him turn the tides. He could secure it… if only he is bold enough to break every rule and oath to go claim it before the enemy.

Meanwhile, in the Human realm of Ostravah, Royal Life-Shield Solancei Calverhana is forced by clandestine circumstances to meet the challenge of an unpredictable opponent in an illegal back- alley duel, but although her extensive talents should have been enough to extricate herself from trouble, this time everything is different.

Fighting to win and return unscathed to her friend and cousin, the Princess Iambre, Solancei must dig deep, but sometimes… just sometimes… a bad day can only have one outcome; and sometimes… just sometimes…he first day of the rest of your life can have only one start: the worst kind!

Solancei and Iambre were never born to be ordinary. The future is about to claim them for its cause. And it will not take no for an answer…

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 9

* * *

An Unusual Dance

“What’s the matter? Can’t get the girl you want?”

Solancei heard the teasing, double-edged words fly forth before she could check herself, but didn’t much care anyway. The perfectly-honed New Wood accent helped add slight to every syllable and with her eyes locked upon her sparring partner in casual readiness, her sardonic ‘concern’ held just the right measure of caustic disdain to make his nostrils flare, if only for a broken heartbeat.

It was precious little to feel encouraged by, but hey... right now she’d take what she could and run with it; the banter was a welcome chance to relieve some of the stress that came with the fact that she’d been stupid enough to almost let a rookie mistake cost her this jackal fight in the very first round. It was not good enough! She was uncommonly distracted today; for this, her mentor would have her guts – and worse. The thought made her want to grimace. She didn’t.

“Oh you may rest assured wench: I always get the ‘girl’ I want!” her opponent told her with a chilling slow drag of syllables. “It’s only ever a question of time – but I like to prolong the chase since it is by far the most enjoyable part.”

Smirking just enough to show his words were not meant to be all good-natured, the pale-eyed man faced her with a wolfish smile and flourished his haitu as if to remind her of the threat he posed, but she did not retreat, and he was unfortunately not put off.

“Now clearly,” he continued lightly, “you must be of a similar persuasion or we would not still be finding ourselves in filth to our boot laces, now would we?”

Sweeping a creeping unease aside and looking pointedly down her own once-green, now mud-splattered leathers, Solancei kept her feelings under lid.

“Speak for yourself,” she warned with a disdain-ripped grin, “As of yet, I can assure you there is no filth upon my laces! Nor, might I add, do I intend there to be anytime soon, but hey… chase me for pleasure if you like. It’s all you’ll get, I fear.”

Somewhere, someone in the audience guffawed their appreciation for the remarks, but the individual was lost in amongst the crowd of impersonal, swathed forms that made up the undulating ranks of spectators and neither Solancei nor her opponent gave them a second glance. Instead, he touched her with a hard smile as though to mock the perception of humour, and it occurred to her that he was very good at this game too. Still…

As she scrutinized him across the vertical slant of her raised wooden blade, the haitu, hoping to gain some kind of insight into his flaws or weaknesses whilst they both caught their breath getting ready for the second round, Solancei drew on her self-discipline not to let her recrimination spread, but her nuisance was steadily brewing. The spitting rain, the crowd, the foul back-yard stench, the thought of having no choice but to curb her skills, the memory of this morning’s statutory argument with Iambre, her continuous problem reaching and linking to the State of Veranto… yes, it was all a pretty stack-up.

As though in confirmation, water ran from one of her tightly wound plaits down the back of her ear, splitting: one rivulet soon soaked up by her raised leather collar, the other rolling forward along her jaw to drip off her chin. She dragged the back of her simple leather vambrace across her face too late to matter. It was pointless. She wished she’d never come here but Klaas could be so damn persistent. Now she’d probably catch a cold, which might force her to bed for days, possibly leaving Ina and Palea to care for her, and she could already hear their complaints.

But for her present situation, Solancei could’ve rolled her eyes at the image. Instead, she rolled her neck, hoping to catch an opening; a glitch in her opponent’s odd veneer; anything to show her the way to success.

As of yet, she was without luck and the rain was getting heavier. In truth, she wanted to get the fight underway again anyway, but Zanzier seemed to enjoy the interlude of banter and she could still hear the clink of coins exchanged on wagers. She supposed it gave them a stronger sense of participation, but gods!

In her head, she turned pragmatic. Since there was no choice but to stay here and get soaked, why disappoint?

“So Simaro – or whatever you do wish to call yourself whilst slumming it in a jackal fight?”

Centring her eyes on the man she was fighting, she grinned insolently. “-I guess it’s not every day this backwards city has the honour of entertaining a queen of my character? Say, what would you wager against the possibility that I will have you on your back within the next quarter turn? We can go both ways on that if you like, though a hot tip would be not to bet against the lady.”

Winking like a conspirator, she whirled her own haitu twice in a tight circle as to punctuate the words. A few sporadic laughs made it through the downpour and someone shouted out a dare, but if it was to salute her wit or to ridicule her opponent she couldn’t tell. Simaro himself looked ever un-moved and Solancei felt like kicking him just to get a different reaction.

“So what d’you say?” she pushed, “Care for an additional gamble?”

“Gamble?” Simaro shot back at her. “Gods grey-eyes, I wasn’t even going to lower myself to a reply but you have the sweetest tongue. Say: if it matches an equally sweet furrow, your efforts here seem wasted, no?”

It was almost not worth it, but in response, she raised a dark eyebrow and flashed him a tired, sardonic look.

“If you like, we can make wagers on the likelihood of you ever finding out about that too, but the odds will not be in your favour this time either,” she warned him sweetly.

Nodding his head as though with a dawning understanding of something he hadn’t previously thought about, Simaro cocked his chin as though better to judge her mettle. In a low voice, he told her, “Well I wouldn’t be so sure grey-eyes. Perhaps I will have my men check it out when I land first-touch . After I put that shapely ass of yours in the dirt, of course.”

Solancei ignored the ensuing heckles rolling off the spectators, some lewd, some telling her what to do to Simaro in turn. Men! So predictable in most things, and yet…

For a split beat, her eyes ran towards the three Regulators, charged with keeping the ‘lock-down’ until this fight was at an end and wagers settled. The men in question looked a formality: little more than cheap mercenary stock, although they had at least been furnished with padded shirts and surcoats, as well as suitably armed with seven-foot, spear-pointed halberds and identical short blades. The latter were currently sheathed at their hips whilst they guarded the temporary, makeshift wood- and wicker-gate erected to shut off the only exit from the brick-enclosed backyard, but as to the extent of their skills with said weapons…?

Seemed the good Simaro had a sense of humour after all. She grinned to herself, then dismissed their presence. Usually, the Regulators had a bit more ‘presence’ about them, but hey…

She glanced at her opponent with a denigrating look for his choice. She was pretty certain that Simaro himself stood surety for the fact that the Town Watch would not bother their gathering here today and in this case, she supposed it showed in his choice of soldiers. Still… it was not one to pass up.

“Oh I honestly think my honour quite safe,” she told him with a teasing lilt of sympathy to her assumed accent as she dipped her chin towards the three guards, “But when I win, I shall buy them each wine and a whore with my returns, whilst you will have to make do for yourself, uselessly pondering how you could so foolishly have underestimated the sweet speed of my blade. Now, how’s that, m’lord?”

Simaro simply tutted. “Grey-eyes, must I spend breath reminding you that sweet things have a tendency to sour? Why string out the inevitable? We both know that words are no substitute for skill. I feel generous, so you may end this now: throw up your haitu this instance and let me deliver first-touch . I swear on what god you want that this will be the sum of it.”

His tone held a pleasantly persuasive lilt, so at odds with the situation that for a moment Solancei simply stared at him. Of all the things she’d expected...

A sudden hush fell over the backyard and his eyes slashed into hers, a light of strange candour building. “You can end this now,” he repeated; simply. “A chance to walk away from this with everything you own intact. Consider our spectators now also. Would you have them linger to catch consumption? That hardly seems fair.”

People muttered then. Whispers of displeasure like waves of confusion and inherent disbelief. Fair? Really? Chancing an askance look at the scores of impersonal faces surrounding them in uneven rows of two to three deep along the grimy confines of the tall brick walls, Solancei almost burst out laughing. Without really meaning to, she looked for her mentor through the corner of her eye. Klaas Mehadja was nowhere in sight, of course, but that meant nothing – and she didn’t bother entertaining Simaro’s offer anyway. It was not in her spirit to back down. It never had been.

Her eyes skipped across the crowd again, and now she did smile. At this rate, the tempestuous weather of this province would render any pleasure of wagers-won a dubious delight indeed. And it served these Zanzierian double-standard pricks just right, she thought. Hunched against the elements and buried deep beneath cowls or wide-brimmed sodden hats, their oft-keen audience looked more than a little uncomfortable. Sure, their enthusiasm might soar or wean with the flow of action and it was of course also what determined her takings – but truthfully, right this very instance – she possessed little capacity to pity their choice.

She did not want to be here – that much was true – but her backside would not be worth a silver fleck if she left this thing unsettled. Klaas had sent her here to train and she was doing this for Iambre, and for her oaths, and for her peace of mind. In hilarious contrast, the audience needn’t have come. But they had. By now they might have longed to be away from this enclosed courtyard with its damaged gutters, heavy stench of something rotten, and heightened chances of hefty-fines-including-visits-to-the-local-dungeon if caught by the Law – yet ultimately their lust to pocket favourable wagers had nevertheless brought them here. So what did she care? Let them have the enjoyment – and choke on it!

Shifting her balance, Solancei flicked her chin towards the nearest spectators.

“Your offer reeks,” she told him flatly. “These people here all knew what they let themselves in for. We are all stuck here until this jackal fight is done. You seem so keen to end the game prematurely, but why? The wagers would be rendered void. Are you not equal to the task?”

As expected, people heckled in agreement then, projecting their contemptuous opinions through the rain as though their voices mattered. Her opponent’s unusual offer was seriously pushing everyone’s patience, she sensed – and she’d be more the fool to accept than to carry on. People wanted a fight, and in the dance of jackals where no rules figured, only one thing remained ever-sacred: the first-touch

“I am not in the habit of fighting women for sport,” he informed her, quite as though she was the only one not to realise this, “Or at least not out of the bedchamber, that is; my offer reeks? See, unless you avail yourself of it, you will never know how good. That I guarantee!”

“Oh honey,” she flung at him with a peal of laughter, deliberately thickening the ‘New Wood’ accent, “You win no favours here.”

“Then let’s pretend I am offering you the opportunity of a graceful retreat because this is a special day. How’s that?”

A crooked sense of humour awakening, Solancei’s smile widened a notch. Much one had to hear…

“A special day?” she quested with badly drawn grace, “How bloody droll!”

“Gods girl, have you no sense?” Simaro sighed – she thought with genuine exasperation. “We all know that you will not be the victor here anyway. Avail yourself of this opportunity whilst you still can; I am rarely this generous, so take the offer. If you lack a place to stay for failure of winning, we can work something out.”

“Hah – yep you’d sure like that,” Solancei quipped, truly grinning now at his rude arrogance. Men! Sometimes they were unbelievable, indeed! “Your platitudes offend me and time go wasted.”

Simaro grimaced once. Then shrugging water-darkened, leather-clad shoulders, he raised his voice to be heard over the spectators’ ensuing heckles against her disrespectful behaviour, “Grey-eyes... my rules, my dance. It’s simple. Understand now that one way or another I will win. Do you think you can you afford to lose?”

“Oh I can afford a lot of things,” Solancei retorted without pause, lips pulling into a wry smile. “But perhaps with all this talk, it is you who deliberately stalls? Do you perchance lack… stamina?”

Muted heckles saluted her crude insult. Zanzier! Bloody typical!

Her nose crinkled with distaste. If she carried on, surely she must raise something of use.

From experience she knew most men would have felt a sense of wounded pride gnawing at their temper by now – surely a true-born Zanzierian like Simaro must be feeling just a little disgruntled! Surely…

Spinning her blade in another lazy circle, she let the casual sweep serve them all as a lingering reminder of his inability to pass her guard. Even without the State of Veranto to lend her focus and strength she was accomplished, yet he still seemed to believe her inferior. Perhaps it was that early blunder…

“What is ailing you, m’lord?” she taunted through catcalls and blunt comments and imagined – if but for a moment – to have spotted his lip curl in the direction of negative. “I would end this and be under roof by nightfall, but if you need to prolong every break…”

To keep herself lose, she spun the haitu yet again. The polished sandy-coloured practice blade winked dully in the rain; inviting. It was no longer the newest, nor the flashiest thing she owned, but it had won her more than a fair few victories, the worn appearances also furthering the promotion of her cover. With just a tad more luck, it would help her win this day as well. If only she could get behind the man’s veneer . If only…

If only she also still had the use of Veranto, then-

Solancei ripped her mind from the sore subject before it could distract her from the man before her. Fleck – and she’d done so well not raking up the embers around that problem, but now-

Something she’d done – or maybe not done – found Simaro suddenly offering her a shaded smile. In a voice that cut in over the general din, he said, “Very well, grey-eyes. I see you will not bend and your words appear to have inspired our spectators’ imagination, all right. Would that you knew the mistake just made, but it can’t be helped.”

Spinning his own haitu in a provocative circle, the smile on his pale features turned toothy. “Final chance. Fold now. Does my offer not tempt?”

“Fold yourself,” she retorted, never the one to let on the state of her fluctuating mind. Returning his insincere smile, she said, “I think you forgot I’m here to win this silly little game, not to culture undesirable liaisons. You are killing the fun and boring me to death, but perhaps that is your intention? Considering that glitch in your stamina and all!”

And with that, ever-ignoring the angry hiss of voices rising all around her, Solancei smiled defiantly, tilting her chin slightly upwards in her usual fashion that she knew to be both disarming and challenging.

“Well…” Simaro breathed the word under a breath that carried the tint of winter. His pale-blue eyes shifted across her features languidly, and she picked up the sense of subtle change then.

A new readiness stabbed through her and though she tried to prevent it, her heartbeat sped up. Finally. Simaro’s patience appeared spent, his expression suddenly lifting the veil of theatrics she hadn’t even realised there.

Eyes flat as stone, his mouth distorted to expel a glob of spittle with the same virulent show of derision, as someone ridding themselves of a bad taste in the mouth and within blinks the spectators grew still – she sensed with anticipation.

Rolling his shoulder just once, Simaro looked colder than ice. Perhaps it was the insult on his prowess? Perhaps it was spurning his offer? No matter what, this would soon be done, thank the gods!

Every word an icicle boring slowly into to her, he said, “Grey-eyes, I pray you remember this later; I pray you recall how I told you that it’s only ever a question of time. Only ever time!”

“Yeah honey, promises, whatever.” Solancei simpered, hiding behind perfunctory cheek and earning herself a compact sidelong look off her opponent. She shivered: chilled by more than the weather.

Across from her, Simaro nodded without another word, dropping his haitu smoothly into the second ready-position, then began to circle with new purpose, this time a-gauche.

It was a relief. Solancei kept her face neutrally bland, yet retained a lingering light of mockery in her eyes as she sidestepped, gingerly mirroring his moves with the graceful care of a cat caught sneaking along the narrow ledge of a river barge.

Breathing out slowly through her nose, she ignored cold rain long-last leaking inconveniently

past the collar of her worn leather jerkin, just as she pushed her thoughts about Veranto and Klaas to one side. Watching her with a denigrating expression, Simaro slipped a hand down his face, the action a seemingly unconscious effort to clear rain from his eyes but Solancei did not fall for his small show of offhanded casualness. It would have been a gross mistake; an invitation for him to take advantage whilst under the pretence of discomfort.

Submerging her own feelings beneath a feinted veil of indifference, she searched for an opening. She’d been in multiple jackal fights and had lived to push the offender’s face in the dirt. She would do so again today. Somewhere amongst the heavily cloaked audience, someone called out a particularly poignant suggestion for the apparently-delicious shape of her ‘saddle’ – and feeling annoyed, she flicked the idiot an offending gesture without a single glance for his reaction.

It inspired another heckle but though it raised a few mutters, the words were muffled and could have been meant for either of the two combatants. Solancei let it slide. Simaro seemed oblivious.

“Sure you will not yield, bitch?”

She sniffed and gave him a sublime smile. “Go suck your ventail, rat! It’ll be the dawn of a new century before I yield to you!”

“We’ll see… we’ll see, but done then,” he concluded with strange lack of rancour, shifting his balance to circle the other way.

“Done indeed.” She echoed, rectifying her stance to suit. With the words, a strange feeling of inevitability seemed to steal over her and she drew a breath to absolve it. The flecking link to the State of Veranto was nowhere to be found within her. Above the rain kept coming – huge drops like tears of the gods, spilling down from the thoroughly grey-cloaked sky to soak everything straight to the bone with their misery. She’d known worse…

With the back of one rain-darkened leather cuff, she allowed herself the luxury of clearing the water from her own eyes with an economic swipe.

“Let’s see then, how much time you might steal for yourself, grey-eyes,” Simaro invited, silver-veined haitu ready as he glided a step towards her. “Let’s dance!”

* * *

To Carve Out Agreement

“By the Hundred Ancestors!”

Guardian Utarion’s disbelieving glare matched his dismissive outburst. Across the floor third-in-command Cahmerhin gasped in a most uncommon, daintily manner, and from near the Speaker, Mehand’Arun’s caustic spirit flared as he issued a contemptuous snort that clearly mirrored Utarion’s – but this…

This could be just what the Speaker needed.

With an expression so steady it might have rivalled a hovering hawk about to swoop down on prey, Guardian Orleara looked beyond the need of justification. “Guardians, what I am saying, is not that we are craven to consider an alternative, only that the Speaker has a point.

“What if we have truly overlooked the simple detail that could tip the scales out of favour once more? We’d be fools not to re-address the matter.”

“The only thing that might tip the scale of anything will be found out there! Within the Realms themselves,” Guardian Emara refuted, vehemence returning. “It’s the only place we haven’t searched! We must return to the Realms, go to Aellnaron! We need to corner the monsters in their halls and seize the answers we demand!”

“Guardian Emara, I beseech you! See the danger of your view!” Agonised by her blindness, the Speaker shook his head. “Is it not obvious that my aim is to ensure that none of us perishes like Envalair?! Surely you concur that mine is a reasonable avenue of approach; surely-”

“Envalair?” Thessilia Emara cut in, voice flat, sizzling anger held tight. “So is that what he is reduced to now? Envalair?”

Too late, Sinuhé realised his mistake even without looking at Guardian Denarlin – who’d doubtlessly be frowning now. Several Guardians mirrored the sentiment. Thessilia Emara had gathered her searing anger and held it close, but as though she could not contain it, nor herself, her consternation reared up but a blink later.

Words spilling like heart’s blood, she said, “Richarmarlan Envalair was one of us, Guardian Speaker! Our second-in-command, if you are in fact still able to recall such fact?! Do not presume to denote him so easily. It is not your place and don’t you forget it! Gods End, call him by his due title or do not mention his name at all!”

“But of course.” Consternation flashed through Sinuhé. “Please, accept my apology. Dear Maker, it was not my intention, but it seems that in my haste to find your approval, I am in fact achieving just the opposite. Guardian Envalair will not be dishonoured, nor forgotten – and let me be the first to acknowledge that for the affront of his killing, our path will lead to war! I simply stand here to dispute the timing, nothing else!”

Thessilia flung him a suspicious stare and Sinuhé knew she’d be wondering what he was doing but it was suddenly simple. It hadn’t been his motive to mention ‘war’ with the apology, but as though he’d weaved a little magic, the others appeared unexpectedly a sliver sharper; a sliver more honed by interest.

He nodded grimly, but at least he was telling them no lie. There would be war. Eventually…

Only Emara was not impressed and her stare deepened when Guardian Utarion mumbled to himself with a glint of magma in the eye, that if such be the case, the Speaker had won his support after all.

Ever-used to hot-headed Utarion’s need to fight ‘something’, Sinuhé did not comment, but the change he’d been looking for was in the air, and indeed even Commander Denarlin had flexed a raven eyebrow in interest. Good…

Emara’s scowl deepened. She sensed it too. Sinuhé had no doubt that she would’ve loved to box his ears right then. It didn’t matter. The cold air no longer seemed chilling with ‘loss’, but with promise. Seemed even the caretaking Elementals approved…

“Guardians of the Upper Circle… ” The Speaker drew himself up with new purpose. “War we will have – but how will we honour Guardian Envalair if our retaliation is not backed by adequate intelligence?

“Let us not bring the Mad Ones fair warning of our Quickening! Let us discover first how they brought one of the Maker’s own to know death again; let us discover how a Drehstragian was permitted and able to enter our sanctuary, and how the Magic ripped; how we lost control of the Venzoians!”

A few heads nodded sagely to concur, so he quickly carried on, “Fellows, Guardian Emara would see prudence as a weakness; she believes the enemy will see it thus also, but in counter, I say: let us prepare in the right way so that when our return is revealed, it will be too late for them to rise against it. Tell me: is such strategy not of sound and worthy merit? Indeed, is it not worth a little restraint to face the coming battle armed to erase past failures as we should? I believe that if Guardian Envalair had still been amongst us, he would have been the first to stand in accord with this. Guardians you must assuredly also see this clearly?”

“I find myself wondering,-” Guardian Emara sounded the essence of reason, “-how it is that the Guardian Speaker believes himself entitled to form decisions on the basis of what he imagines Guardian Envalair might or might not have wanted. Indeed, I personally rather suspect that Richarmarlan Envalair would have agreed with little else but the need to rain down fury – unless of course, Guardian Sedjem-Alhath’naar has indeed had confirmation from the highest place that this is not the case?”

“My fellows, are those the words of reason you wish to follow?” the Speaker retorted with an overbearing expression that would have suited better, had he stood before a group of bickering children. It appeared to raise Thessilia’s hackles as per subtle design to make her appear brash, and as he yet held the other Guardians’ attention as he continued, “Well, the Maker defend, I cannot condone it! And, as Guardian Emara well-knows, I need not explain my reasoning! Mark my words, though: ignore the past at your peril; understand your present to improve opportunities, but plan your future to live another day! That is the core my goal!”

“I am not usually in favour of the word ‘caution’, but I cannot deny Guardian Sedjem-Alhath’naar,-” Giant Guardian Cahmerhin injected before Thessilia could draw breath to speak, “-so on this day, the Destiny of Ice and Blood will officially stand in accord with the Guardian Speaker. Let it be known.”

“As will the Song of Perish,” came the melodic, oddly-hypnotic voice of Guardian Arachk’thea. “There is little need for further explanation. On this day, I too will stand for caution. Let it be known.”

Sinuhé lowered his bright blue gaze in gracious thanks, the path to his success marred only by the hairline cracks below the surface of the symmetrical beauty of the perfect central floor.

He’d almost achieved what he must, but Thessilia Emara’s consternation at this turn of events did not feel good. To her like none others, the loss of Richarmarlan Envalair was particularly painful and in her lingering grief and outrage, she did not seem able to acknowledge the actual enormity of the Upper Circle’s next step. She had already argued nigh on a millennium back now, that there’d been nothing foul at play to twist the events in this dreadful manner. In her view, the Venzoians had just been down-right lucky on that fateful eve that ‘took’ Envalair. The Twins had been young – barely more than children: the Veils had swayed on the cusp of failing and the Mad Ones had managed to pass some of their spawn through the Boundaries as a result. ‘It must be so,’ she’d maintained, ‘it had to be so!’ Clearly, in spite of everything, her views had not changed.

“Guardian Speaker, if I may?”

Sinuhé righted his gaze to settle on Guardian Utarion, simultaneously shifting a notion of mild surprise from his face; for a moment he had no tongue for words because the other Guardian’s civilised manner instilled confusion. However, feeling inspired by the Guardian’s unusually agreeable conduct, and thus hoping that the Dayle would bring forth some valid point of consideration rather than just the dross of a battle-seeking crusader, Sinuhé inclined his chin to permit the man his say.

“So you wish us to entertain your little side-step for how long, exactly?” Guardian Utarion enquired after a blink, unconsciously fingering his ancestral ring as he continued to display a bewildering amount of composure in comparison to his normally hot-blooded attitude. “Also, whilst on the topic of adding up, tell me again: what do we gain for the time we lose, Speaker Guardian?”

“Yes, honourable Speaker, what do we gain?” Thessilia echoed tersely – as for a moment – Sinuhé and Utarion looked each other in the eye with an understanding they’d rarely shared over the millennia.

“Much! We gain much!” Sinuhé never blinked. “Now, think upon it! Each one of you considers himself indestructible, but so did Guardian Envalair!

“Dear Alérathnar, don’t you see? I only wish to spend a little more time researching the Library again. Regardless of Guardian Emara’s persuasions, consulting with the Story-Makers first will prove the most logical step. There were many avenues left unexplored when we were forced to return to the Oratorio; many an issue still too-confused to make sense, and that be even with the aid of the Council, but you see, now…

“Well, now we can go back: get to the crux of the matter!”

“Aye, you may have a right point there, Guardian Speaker,” Utarion allowed in a voice as though confessing and with a frown on his wide forehead that made the normally-assured Dayle seem uncharacteristically torn by his own words.

“Time lends perspective, aye,” the Speaker reiterated, mirroring the other Guardian’s choice of expression to create an illusion of solidarity, “And so I say we may begin to understand how the Mad Ones were capable of doing the impossible by returning to our first point of reference! It has never failed us in the past and that way I might learn how that Venzoian filth was capable of slaying-“

“Guardian-”Isavelia Cahmerhin interrupted with a touch of discomfort, “-that will suffice, I think! Now, who else in the Circle will stand with the Guardian Speaker?”

“The Path of Twilight will join your council,” arose the steady voice of the swarthy-faced Guardian Orleara, though her sharp Sunerai features strained with reluctance, as she added, “Let it be known.”

“As will the Wisdom of Knowledge,-” the golden-eyed Guardian Lucareo hastily echoed,“-for now, let it be known.”

Isavelia Cahmerhin’s silvery eyes looked across the assembly, for a moment longer lingering markedly upon Emara, but the reluctant woman refuted the other Guardian’s scrutiny with a simple, curt shake of her head.

“Any others?” Isavelia Cahmerhin enquired at length, turning a questioning glance to the First Guardian, “Commander Denarlin?”

Sinuhé allowed himself to drift sideways to trail Cahmerhin’s gaze. He noted Thessilia following her example, as did the others. In Emara’s eyes, he spied a sliver of doubt, but also hope. She did not think Guardian Denarlin would stand for this.

The Speaker exhaled softly, distilling rising disquiet. It was a possibility.

Throughout Sinuhé’s talk, their leader had never said a word of disagreement or encouragement, though. As Speaker, Sinuhé had risked using the notion of Envalair’s preferences as a touch of propaganda, yet in this moment he was very much aware that no one – including Thessilia Emara, with her very prolific sentiments – would stand even half as qualified to speak on behalf of their lost fellow, as was Malandaar’Vahran Denarlin Cor’Esardan. The argument was not yet won…

Of course, Emara knew this much too and he sensed her lean forward on the edge of her cathedra as if she might impress upon their general her present state of persuasion to help sway him, but she could not reach for his mind within the circle without incurring condemnation. It would be considered a slight by their fellow Guardians and he didn’t think she’d risk the offence. He hoped she would not.

For luck, it appeared he was right. As though appeased by the idea of imminent settlement, Emara’s curls even alighted across her shoulders to rest once more as she waited with what might have been baited breath for the First Guardian to speak – yet for a curious handful of heartbeats, Guardian Denarlin looked set to ignore them all, when he gave no indication that he’d honour Cahmerhin any kind of intelligible answer. Then, just as Sinuhé began to ponder whether Denarlin had in fact been listening in the first place, their Commander looked up, centring his gaze directly on their third-in-command with all of his usual, all-too-familiar, lack of compromise.

“I am... as of yet... not of any singular persuasion,” he informed in a musing voice that carried overtones of preoccupation, “Still, I suspect it will not be long.”

Bemused, the Speaker drew himself tall, “But First Guardian, I-“

Though seemingly of a hazy disposition, Denarlin raised his gaze to the Speaker with an expression of cool neutrality that somehow still had the power to silence the roar of argument through cutting candour. At a loss, for he did not know how to interpret their Commander’s behaviour, the Speaker swallowed words and action in favour of patience. The First Guardian was never pre-occupied. Whatever would be next?

* * *

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20

The Dragons of Esternes

Steve Turnbull

What value is freedom when you can’t even ride a dragon?

As the life of a slave goes, Kantees doesn't have it too bad. Being responsible for a racing dragon means her existence is more than just drudgery and fear, even if her life is at the whim of her masters and their rules.

But when her dragon wakes her in the middle of the night Kantees is forced to make a life-or-death decision that breaks her masters’ rules and means her life is forfeit.

Escaping on the back of dragons, with a hodgepodge of unwelcome associates, she attempts to right a wrong that can never be fixed. Until, ultimately, she must put her own life on the line to keep the freedom she has stolen for herself.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 5

* * *

1

The floorboards trembled and she came awake with a jump.

The air in the eyrie was cold against her skin, and the light of the smaller moon, Colimar, shone red through the arched window in the tower’s stone wall. It was still deepest night.

Must have been a dream , thought Kantees, as she re-adjusted the thin blanket and tried to burrow deeper into the pricking straw. The boards beneath her shifted again and there was a quiet grumble. Oh, by the Mother’s milk. What now? Stupid animal.

She contemplated doing nothing, pretending not to wake up. Maybe Sheesha would lose interest and go back to sleep. The boards jumped again and Kantees groaned.

“Go back to sleep, Sheesha, it’s not even close to morning,” she hissed through the cracks. There was nothing to see since the gaps were smaller than her finger-width and there was no light down there anyway. Her reward was to have the boards bumped three more times. Sheesha must be stretching.

While Sheesha might be an animal, he was cleverer than most, even those of his own species. But that didn’t stop him behaving like a spoilt child, like little Jelamie, the mistress’s youngest. He was always getting into things and places he shouldn’t.

Sheesha snuffled at her. The noise he made when he wanted something. Perhaps he’d spilt his water bucket again. He was forever doing that with his tail; it was like he didn’t even know he had it.

Maybe it was important. What if Sheesha was ill? If there was a problem with her charge and Kantees ignored it, there’d be trouble.

“And,” she said, “if there’s nothing wrong, I’ll make trouble for you .”

Kantees climbed to her feet. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark and she could see the mounds of straw and the dark shadow that was the path through them. The hole in the floor to the lower level was a black pit. She picked up the gauntlets and slipped her fingers into the soft leather, then donned the protective hat. Sheesha had never attacked her but it was better to be safe than sorry. The zirichak had never woken her in the night either.

Before he had learnt to fly, Sheesha had been very demanding and very annoying. Kantees was glad those days were long past and, what with Sheesha and Jelamie, had decided she was never going to have any children. Even if the master chose someone for her to marry.

Not bothering with the stairs, Kantees grabbed the rope, swung out, wrapped her legs around it and slid to the next level. After all these years she barely noticed the smell—she would be mucking out in the morning—but was almost knocked over when Sheesha rattled over and nudged her in the shoulder. He was almost twice her height

Automatically Kantees reached up and scratched beneath the feathers in the place Sheesha liked the most.

Sheesha pulled back. In the dim light the zirichak waddled back—he was far more elegant in the air—brought his hook-beaked head down to Kantees and, with one eye, stared at her.

Kantees had no idea what he wanted. This behaviour was completely new.

“What?” hissed Kantees, as if Sheesha could understand, which was ridiculous because ziri were just animals, to be raced by the masters.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the distant sound of an arrow. It was only a momentary whine; it ended with a thump.

Sheesha turned his head and lifted it as if he were looking out of the window.

Taking care not to trip on the hobble chain that prevented Sheesha trying to fly inside, Kantees hurried across to the open hatch. She stuck her head out into a freezing breeze. Squinting, she tried to see.

With only Colimar in the sky, lying close to the horizon, the shadows were long and deep. But at least the sky was clear—if it hadn’t been she would have been able to see nothing. As it was, she could make out the shapes of the buildings—she was familiar with them, anyway—but hanging in the air near the wall was something huge like a growth.

She shook her head and looked again. Was she still dreaming? A great bulbous shape, where the light caught it there were bumps and lines that looked, for all the world, like leaves. But leaves as big as a house. It couldn’t be a tekrak ; they never grew that big. But her eyes said it was.

And hanging beneath it, some sort of construction that was hard to make out. And from that, shadowy human shapes were jumping onto the main wall.

An attack?

Sheesha bumped her in the middle of her back, knocking her forwards onto the deep windowsill.

Kantees turned and stroked the huge head, and made settling noises. “It’s all right, nothing to worry about.”

Nothing for us to worry about . They were heading into the main building. It was nothing to do with her. If the masters wanted to fight, why should she care?

She stared out once more at the massive tekrak poised above the wall. No family she knew of had such things. Even now she could scarce believe what she was seeing. Could the Slissac have returned to put all the Taymalin to the sword?

The master and mistress, Lord and Lady Jakalain, were decent people even if they had no idea how to bring up children, nor did they treat the slaves badly. Every one of the Kadralin knew how lucky they were, they knew the stories about families that punished their slaves for the slightest crime, and even killed them for pleasure. Kantees enjoyed her life looking after Sheesha and some of the other zirichasa . If the Jakalain were killed, what would happen to her? What would happen to Sheesha?

Perhaps the castle would be taken over by another family who would not be decent.

Mother’s milk .

But what could she do? She was here in the Ziri Tower, and by the time she got to ground level and across to the other side it would all be over—and she might well run into a raider. Then she would be dead.

Sheesha prodded her in the back again.

Kantees turned round slowly. She knew Sheesha was intelligent, at least for a zirichak, but he couldn’t possibly understand what was happening. Surely he did not want Kantees to ride him? For a start, that was a hanging offence and Kantees was quite fond of her life. That also meant Kantees had never flown, although she knew all the equipment and had sat in the saddle holding the reins. Never mind she was a slave.

She looked out of the window again to see more men on the wall now.

But she dared not—it could mean her life. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t someone else make the decision? Why hadn’t any of the other zirichasa noticed? Why hadn’t any armsmen seen what was happening? That was their job.

Because they’re dead .

Kantees let out a cry of angry frustration. She turned and pushed Sheesha’s head out of the way as she half ran to the tack room. It was too dark to see but she had everything in its correct place and knew where to find the lightest practice saddle.

Sheesha was crouched and waiting with his head down for her to slip the bridle over.

It took a couple of minutes to get the saddle in position and strapped firmly. What a laugh it would be if she took off and then slipped and fell to smash her head open on the rocks. Ha.

The one thing she didn’t have was a flying suit. Why would she? There would be almost nothing between her and the freezing air. If she didn’t fall, she would probably die of the cold. At least the protective hat would help keep her head warm.

Pulling the last strap tight, she paused. Sheesha dipped his chest so his wings were folded high above them, his claws scratching on the boards. Kantees went to the wall and unhooked the chain that ran from there through the metal collar to the cuffs on his feet. She was a little nervous. He was acting so strangely. There were tales of zirichak killing their keepers, but that had never happened here as far as she knew. Those keepers probably had mistreated their charges.

The chain rattled as it went through the cuff. There still hadn’t been any noise from outside. What was she going to do when she got out there? She had never been in the main parts of the castle—except the kitchens. She did not know her way around.

For the hundredth time, it seemed, she wondered what she was doing.

Then it occurred to her. Why hadn’t the warning bell sounded? It was mounted on one of the side towers and would wake everyone. She opened the great doors that were big enough to let Sheesha fly, then went back to him. She could see by the way he kept dipping his head he was impatient.

She was about to commit a capital crime. She would be hanged for it.

Sheesha squawked and shuffled in his crouched, cramped position. Perhaps she could claim, in her defence, that Sheesha had demanded she ride him. Somehow she did not think that would be very convincing.

She slipped her right foot into the stirrup and brought her left leg up and over. The straps were too long so she shortened them so she could rest her feet firmly. She sat awkwardly and grabbed for the belt that held the rider in position. Sheesha edged towards the door, his great wings moving forwards to hold up his body. Kantees grabbed the reins and pulled them back, not too tight but just taking up the slack along Sheesha’s sinuous, feathered neck.

It was then she remembered he always gave a loud trumpet whenever he launched himself into the air. Announcing his emergence into the world, like a challenge.

The attackers would know and they would shoot their arrows, at the very least they would hit Sheesha and that would be enough to kill him.

Sheesha reached the edge and raised his clawed wings to hook them into the frame above the opening. His head poked out and she could see him surveying the air.

Then she was flung back as he dropped into the dark. She tried not to yank on the reins, which were only for guidance. A zirichak knew how to fly; the rider only needed to direct the creature left and right, up and down.

Sheesha’s wings flicked out but he was diving. All she could see was the small courtyard between the Ziri Tower and the main building. There was a man standing there. He carried an unsheathed sword but she could only see the top of his head.

Could Sheesha tell friends from enemies? Kantees knew he had a sense of smell but how good was it? And another thing, she had been given to understand that zirichasa did not fly at night. That was the wisdom passed to her from old Romain. Perhaps he was wrong.

The freezing air shot through her clothes as if they were not even there.

The ground was coming at them. She knew he would pull up. She prayed to the Mother he would pull up. Perhaps they didn’t fly at night because they crashed into the ground.

Something changed and her weight was forced into the saddle. The world tilted up slightly and Sheesha passed across the outside wall, still going down but now at a flatter angle. All right, he could fly at night.

They were in shadow now. The castle was built atop one of the foothills that encircled the great mountains that made up the heart of Esternes.

Sheesha was flying level now, the wall of the castle beside them. Every now and then she saw the light of a torch or lamp in the interior through the arrow slits. Then they were past and out into moonlight again, flashing across the scrubland that was only useful for grazing animals.

Where was he going? They needed to do something at the castle … but what?

Gingerly she pulled on the right rein. The response from Sheesha was instantaneous as he banked giddily and the world turned. And there was the rear of the castle, with its walls as high and impregnable as the rest.

Walls easily breached by men aboard a tekrak of such enormous size it could carry them in a basket beneath. She shook her head. She had never heard of such a thing.

She focused on the towers. They had already passed the bell tower once on the flight out. It was not as high as the main tower, and it was narrow. With gentle tugs she steered Sheesha to ensure he would fly back the way he had come. She did not want to be on the other side, where the tekrak hung.

How could she make him gain height? They were flying only a few feet above the ground. She pulled the reins again and leaned back. Up to now Sheesha had barely flapped his wings. She knew from Romain the wild zirichasa soared on the air currents in the mountains and could glide all day without a single beat of their wings if the winds were with them.

But now Sheesha’s powerful wings stroked hard and with each downbeat he rose and she was pushed down into the saddle. She was not sure of the best way to approach the tower. It would be best if she was not seen, since she had no desire to become a pincushion for arrows. But the tower itself went high above the level of the walls and Sheesha could not climb vertically. She pulled on his right rein again and leaned forwards. He banked right and flew directly away from the castle.

Kantees looked back over her shoulder. The dark silhouette of the castle with the tekrak like a bulbous growth was highlighted against the dull red light of Colimar. She was desperately cold but had to keep going.

She pulled hard on the left rein and Sheesha almost turned over as he banked left. The ground was a long way away. Kantees urged him forwards, goading him with her heels and words. He beat faster and they sped up; she pulled back and he climbed. She judged they were on exactly the right course for the top of the tower.

Kantees reached with her numb fingers for the belt buckle.

They came up over the top of the bell tower from below. Kantees threw her weight forwards and Sheesha almost fell out of the sky to land on the roof, hind legs first, pulling in his wings to act as his front legs.

Then someone said, “Oi!”

* * *

2

Kantees almost fell out of the saddle and ended up on her hands and knees. She had not realised how cold she was—or how much warmth she had been taking from Sheesha’s body. The muscles in her legs ached from the unaccustomed strain, and her inner thighs were rubbed raw.

She hadn’t even noticed while they’d been in the air.

“Who are you?”

She lifted her head and, looking under Sheesha’s neck, could see a man’s legs. He was only a short distance away but probably nervous of the zirichak .

“You with the Dunor?”

She wasn’t going to say she wasn’t. She reached out, grabbed a handful of Sheesha’s feathers and pulled herself to her feet. It was dark, and as long as she stayed on this side of Sheesha’s neck the man wouldn’t be able to tell who she was.

The bell stood in its frame only a short distance away. Next to it lay a body. The longer she delayed, the more likely people would be killed.

“Of course.” She tried to give her voice a deeper sound, as if she were a messenger. Not that messengers rode fine beasts like Sheesha, nobody rode the ziri except racers, but perhaps he wasn’t an expert. No, he’d been relegated to guarding the bell tower. No use for anything else. Though she was not sure how he could have got up here undetected.

That he had done so was enough for her. She took hold of the reins and walked across the roof, keeping Sheesha between them.

“What’s the message then, boy?”

“The message?”

She had covered a third of the distance. Sheesha’s wings scraped the roof as he moved beside her, taking much smaller strides than he was used to.

“Stop,” he said.

She stopped. What could she do? She was no fighter and even if she was she had no weapon. And no armour—barely any clothes at all. Her teeth were chattering. Trying to be clever was just not working and the cold was biting through her skin. Her very dark skin.

“Kadralin slave!”

She dropped the reins and ran for the bell. She did not know how long it would take him to react, or whether he had any throwing weapons. Or worse, a bow.

There had been no rain for a few days but there was plenty of frost on the roof. She was only a couple of paces from the bell when her left foot flew out from under her and she pitched forwards.

The thudding of his heavy feet pounded closer. She turned to see him with his sword raised above his head. It came down. Instinctively she rolled towards him. The blow landed where she had been as she impacted with his legs; it knocked the wind from her and she cried out in pain. He went flying as he tripped over her and his head smashed into the bell. It rang out with a sonorous gong that bounced off the towers and echoed through the courtyard below. Ignoring her screaming ribs, she got to her feet and found the metal striker in a bucket at the side.

She hit the bell again and again.

The soldier pushed himself up, so she hit him as well, whacking his temple with the striker’s bulbous head. He let out a groan of pain and slumped back. She trod on his hand and returned to bashing the bell with all her strength.

Sheesha snapped his beak in displeasure at the noise.

“Big strong ziri like you? It’s only a bit of noise!” shouted Kantees with a laugh. She moved the striker further down the bell and the noise became deeper and louder. She turned to look at the main tower. Lights were being lit and showing at the window. Silhouetted figures stood for a moment looking out and then disappeared fast back inside. She hoped they were readying themselves for battle.

The tekrak was big—no, it was huge—but she guessed its complement of soldiers could not be more than thirty at most. And there were many times that number of armsmen in the castle. The attackers could only prevail by stealth, and they no longer had that advantage.

A horn winded from the far side of the castle walls. Torches were being lit inside the huge basket hanging from the tekrak . It had windows just like the castle.

Men streamed back along the walls. They were retreating.

The one at her feet tried to crawl away.

“Sheesha! Come!” she called and the zirichak thumped and scraped his way over. Long ago, Romain had drawn the bones of the creature for her so she could learn them by heart. Their wings were like hands but with one less finger and much bigger and spread out. When they walked it was as if they were on their elbows with their forearms and fingers pointing upwards. It wasn’t elegant.

They had back legs, of course, and sometimes they went up on those alone—usually when threatening or mating.

“If you try to run away, I will let Sheesha eat you,” she said and the man froze on the ground. She stopped banging the bell, having succeeded in what she was attempting, and went to Sheesha, walking him closer to the prone guard.

“Throw your sword away,” she commanded.

He gripped it tighter.

“Sheesha, speak!”

And the zirichak let out an intense squawk, which was a version of the sound he used when complaining but the guard didn’t know that. It wasn’t Kantees’ fault that, despite being told not to teach Sheesha tricks, he learnt things very quickly.

The sword skittered across the roof.

“And your knife.”

It went in the other direction.

There was a thunderous roar from across the castle and the Zirichak Tower was lit almost like daylight. The tekrak had started its burn. Of course she had seen the swarms of tekrasa crossing the skies in spring and autumn. Usually they were mere dots, so high did they float, but at night they descended to earth and their roots dug into the soil so they could feed.

In places where crops grew, the farmers and villagers would come out into the fields to destroy them. Each tekrak had a tube at one end, effectively the rear, and they propelled themselves by generating a fire that shot out. It was their magic. They had to be killed because their fire could burn the crops.

The ones that landed in the castle couldn’t root anyway, and they were easy to get rid of. But when they took off in the morning the roots came up, their bodies—now bloated with gas—lifted them into the sky, and their fire-tubes drove them away in their swarm.

But this tekrak had a fire-tube that shot a flame almost the length of the protective wall. It moved with incredible slowness, a leviathan of the air.

Kantees turned her attention back to the guard. “I want your cloak.”

His hands fumbled at his neck.

Sheesha pulled at the reins and shrieked at the tekrak as it floated across the courtyard, ropes dangling from the basket. She could even see inside. A man, in the robes of a patterner, sat in the front concentrating. His eyes were closed. Soldiers looked back at her and one barked orders.

The tekrak accelerated. Sheesha dragged her up as he rose on his hind legs and beat his wings, threatening the monstrous plant.

“No, Sheesha!” she called at him but he wasn’t listening. She clung to the reins. Romain had told her a zirichak could not go aloft if someone held the reins. So she clung to them swinging and twisting as Sheesha pulled her off her feet.

The tekrak filled the sky and roared overhead. She saw a door open in the side of the basket from which a man with a bow leaned out. The roaring of the massive fire-tube drowned out all other sound. But when she saw him loose three arrows in quick succession, she was terrified he was aiming for her or, even worse, at Sheesha. Then the tekrak went over them. And she felt no pain, while Sheesha continued to screech his defiance at the monster.

Heat and flame roared across them. Sheesha squealed and curled up into a tight ball. Kantees thudded to the ground and rolled over.

The wash of heat was gone almost as quickly as it arrived but it left behind a disgusting stench that made the bile rise in her throat. The flame tube lit the top of the tower with its eerie blue light. Raising her head she saw the three arrows, planted in the body of the man she had overpowered.

They could not stop for him, but they would not let him remain alive to reveal any secrets. Hard-hearted as it seemed, she understood the logic.

Kantees went to Sheesha and flung her arms around him, burying herself in his feathers. It was partly to comfort him and give him something familiar. But it also meant she could keep warm, since she did not desire to wrap herself in a cloak now wet with blood.

As she clung to his warmth, a cold certainty crept through her. She was in trouble.

It was true she had saved the castle, they would not be able to deny it, but the fact remained she had ridden Sheesha. And the law was the law. There were so many stories where slaves had done something wrong in an attempt to do the right thing and were punished regardless of the balance.

She had ridden a zirichak in defiance of the law. The punishment was death.

But what if they never found out?

The castle was coming alive. Sounds of shouts and arguments floated up from the courtyard. There were armsmen moving on the walls opposite. She did not know if she had been seen but perhaps if she could get Sheesha back into his eyrie they might get away with it.

The trapdoor rattled. Even Sheesha jumped.

“Sheesha, come on,” she said and grabbed the reins. With the excitement over, he moved without haste. She yanked at the reins to make him move faster. It didn’t work. Once he reached the outside edge of the tower she mounted and dug her heels in.

He spread his wings, hopped up onto the wall, and dropped over the side. This time she was ready for it, and happy since it took them out of sight instantly.

The ground rushed at them. She allowed Sheesha his head and, barely a man’s height from the ground, he snapped his wings out into horizontal flight, careening across the ground.

The entrance to Sheesha’s eyrie faced the courtyard but if they came in fast from the far side they might not be seen. As she arched him away to the south, she glanced to see if the tekrak was still in view but she saw nothing. The bright glow in the sky could just as easily be another star while the false dawn of Lostimal, the second, larger moon, glowed on the horizon. Unlike the dull red of Colimar, Lostimal was white.

She turned to look ahead. The town of Beedun’s Ford had already passed behind them, she was not concerned about that. The town would be asleep at this time and would know nothing of the fight at the castle.

Just as she had done before, she brought Sheesha round in a tight turn and headed him back towards the castle. As Lostimal rose, this side of the structure was bathed in its white light, which was inconvenient but unavoidable.

She had been into the town during feast days and the times when she had gone to fetch for the masters, and had thought it was big. Somehow, from the back of a zirichak it did not seem quite so large. The Beedun ran through it, splitting off the miners’ quarter from the rest. The river was milky—the colour it had as it flowed from the mountains—but now it looked red like blood, reflecting the light of Colimar, though Lostimal would soon take over.

The old ford was in the north, but bridges spanned the river now and was only used by the miners’ wagons because either the bridges were too narrow or the cargo too heavy.

And then she was past it and following the rising land. Sheesha beat his wings in deep powerful strokes. She pulled back more and Sheesha gained even more height. The Ziri Tower was coming at her. She knew the height of the eyrie; she thought she even recognised her window. She pulled Sheesha to the left to stay in shadow and out of the light of Lostimal, at least until the last moment.

Which arrived in the blink of an eye.

As she turned Sheesha round the curve of the tower she came into full view of every person on the walls and in the courtyard. She prayed to the Mother no one would look up at exactly that moment.

Sheesha did not require guidance now. Although he entered the eyrie at a sharper angle than usual and came to a crashing halt inside, thumping into the bales of hay. The hay wasn’t for eating since zirichasa ate meat, but provided warmth and something to sleep on, like a nest the wild animals would make for themselves.

Kantees unbuckled herself from the seat and slid to the ground. Her legs gave way again and she was freezing but she forced herself to the eyrie doors and closed them. She could not decide whether fast or slow was better. Fast because it got them shut, or slow because they would not attract attention.

Sheesha was already curled up into a tight ball and probably asleep. His breathing was unhurried. More than could be said for hers.

Was that real? Had she really just ridden Sheesha across the sky and saved the castle? It was like being a hero from a story. Except she would be a hero strung up on a gibbet if anyone else knew what she had done. Although that was a very sobering thought, the excitement refused to leave her. And so did the cold.

It was also forbidden to sleep with the zirichasa . One reason was that they might decide to eat you in the night. She had never heard of that happening except in Romain’s stories. The other reason—probably the real one, she now realised—was that they did not want any zirichak to form too strong a bond with their keepers, who were always slaves. And a slave might get it into their head that they could ride.

And she had. She had not fallen off.

“Kadralin cannot fly,” Romain had said. “We do not have the skill, and we do not have the command. That is why we are slaves and the Taymalin are the masters.”

Not true. She had flown and she had survived—and she had loved it.

She shivered and looked at the compact form of Sheesha. What did it matter if he ate her? After all, in the morning she might be arrested and hanged. Why avoid one risk of death when another was just as likely?

She walked over to Sheesha and petted his neck, saying his name quietly. She leaned her weight on him and as he moved slightly, a space opened up under a wing and she pushed into it. With her head against his chest, hearing his breathing and feeling his powerful heart, she closed her eyes. His wing dropped down to cover her and she slept in his warmth.

* * *

3

The next morning the castle was in uproar. From the eyrie, Kantees could hear all the shouting and the arguments. Armsmen marched down to the town. The house patterner, with a retinue, was sent to the Jakalain Circle so that he could send messages.

After tending to Sheesha, who was tired and irritable—just as she was—Kantees descended to the kitchen in the base of the tower. No one looked at her in any way other than the usual. But there seemed no time for talk.

Libbibet, a middle-aged Kadralin woman who ran the servants’ kitchen below the tower, was serving as usual and put a couple of spoonfuls of porridge into Kantees’ bowl. But instead of her usual expression of merriment and a kind word, her face was serious and her lips pressed together in concerned silence.

Kantees had already decided—after discussing it with the irritable Sheesha, who had failed to offer any advice—that she would pretend she knew nothing. She did not think anyone would have recognised Sheesha in the dark anyway. Even with the light of Lostimal, it only seemed bright because it had been so dark before.

“What’s the fuss?” said Kantees.

Libbibet paused, her hand poised with the third spoonful hanging over Kantees’ bowl. She glanced around as if she did not wish to be overheard.

“Lord Jelamie has been stolen away,” she hissed. “Raiders in the night.”

Kantees was as shocked as the woman. Jelamie was barely seven. He might be a precocious little tyrant, but to be taken from one’s family by force? Kantees was doubly shocked because she had seen what had happened, though she did not remember seeing anyone carrying a child.

But she could say nothing.

“Why would someone do that?”

Libbibet leaned forwards conspiratorially. “They say it was the Slissac returned.”

Kantees had to fight back the words of denial that threatened to burst from her. It had not been the mythical lizard people. She knew it was just the Taymalin. But she could tell no one.

“I wouldn’t believe that,” she said. “Whenever anything bad happens it’s always the Slissac that are blamed and no one has seen one for a thousand years or more.”

“Children get stolen away in the night by them,” said Libbibet. “For their monstrous patterns and ceremonies.”

Kantees just shook her head and looked down at the spoon still suspended above her bowl. “Can I have that, then?”

Libbibet slopped it down. “You may scoff all you like.” And then she went off into the Kadralin tongue, which Kantees had never learnt because she had been bred and born in slavery and use of the Kadralin tongue would earn any slave a lashing.

Kantees moved away and went to one of the benches reserved for the keepers. Old Romain was there, as was Galiko, who helped look after the older zirichasa that no longer flew races. He was simple but had a good heart.

“Where are the others?” she asked as she sat on the bench and put down her bowl.

“Called to the grand hall,” said Romain. “To be interrogated until they reveal the truth.”

Kantees hid her nervousness with a spoonful of porridge.

“Am I not to go?” she said, thinking that with the house patterner gone off to the ley-circle, she would not be subject to any magic that might force her to betray the truth.

“Later,” was all Romain said.

She nodded and applied herself to her breakfast to avoid further conversation.

“The race in the next ten-day has been cancelled,” said Romain. “Sheesha will not be required.”

“Is it true Jelamie has been stolen away, as Libbibet says?” she asked.

“It is true,” said Romain. “The Lady is distraught and has taken to her rooms. The master is in a dangerous mood and it would not do to cross him.”

“Look, Sheesha crapping in the middle of the parade of winners wasn’t my fault.”

“You embarrassed our masters,” said Romain.

She knew better than to talk back but she didn’t think a zirichak doing its business in a parade was on the same level as having one’s child stolen away. No matter how embarrassing it might have been at the time. And she had been punished, although not even Romain with all his experience had any guidance to offer on how to stop an excited animal pooing in public, even if it did offend the sensibilities of some of the more elite of the masters.

Kantees certainly didn’t blame Sheesha. He had just come second in an important race and he was excited.

“And they came in the night?”

“Riding a monstrous tekrak by all accounts,” said Romain.

“Flyer beaten by a flyer,” said Galiko. It was barely more than a mutter but Kantees heard it and stared at him. Galiko went on eating his porridge using a tiny spoon he kept with him. He would not use one of the big spoons so it always took him a long time, but no one got angry.

“Why was I not called with the other keepers?” she said to Romain.

“They sleep together. You are separate.”

They were all male and had a dormitory off the eyries of the yearlings. She cared for the only racer the Jakalain had; there would be no more unless they bought in new stock or until the yearlings matured. And she was a girl.

The Jakalain had only begun to keep racing zirichasa at the request of the heir, their much older son, Daybian. The tower had been there but unused. The boy who had been stolen away, Jelamie, was just the spare to inherit, in case something happened to his elder brother.

“You should present yourself at the hall before midday,” said Romain as he got up. He glanced over at Galiko, as he always did, and sighed at the boy’s slowness. “Gally!”

The boy beamed. “Romain, sir.”

Kantees felt it was impossible to be angry with such innocence, though Romain often was.

“We must winch new hay to the old ones,” said Romain, speaking loudly and slowly as if Galiko were deaf and stupid. “Hurry up and finish.”

“Yes, Romain.”

Galiko went back to his porridge and took another slow spoonful.

The stool Kantees was sitting on scraped as she pushed it back and moved across to sit opposite Galiko.

“What did you mean about a flyer beating a flyer?”

“Gally is stupid. And Gally is slow,” said Galiko not looking up from his own food. He took another small mouthful, sucking the spoon clean.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “Gally is clever and Gally is quiet. And”—she glanced around to make sure no one was close—“if Gally saw anything last night that might get someone into trouble then he has to keep his mouth shut.”

His gaze flicked up to meet hers for a moment and then slid away.

“Gally, please,” she said quietly. “If you tell them, they will hang me.”

He frowned into his porridge. “Kill Kantees?”

“Yes, kill me.”

He sat up and put his hand on hers and squeezed it. “Don’t want Kantees killed.”

“Neither do I.”

He grinned at that. “Gally keeps secrets,” he said. “Gally keeps lots of secrets.”

“Really?” she said. “Like what?”

“Romain loves Kantees,” he said.

She imagined, for a brief moment, kissing the face of the old man, laughed, and then realised this was not the time and turned it into a cough.

“Yes, well, Gally,” she said. “That’s a secret you can keep to the end of time because it’s certainly not true.”

He squeezed her hand and nodded.

“Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked because then it’s not a secret.” She hesitated. “So, if someone asks about last night and my secret, you won’t tell them, will you?”

He shook his head and let go of her hand.

“Promise me, Gally.”

“Gally promises, Kantees.”

* * *

She tried to delay going to the grand hall. Even though she knew it would be better to get it over with. It was like having a splinter, it was uncomfortable but the thought of taking it out was so much worse.

Instead she went back to the eyrie and worked hard doing the chores she had been putting off for many a five-day. Tidying the riding gear, putting aside those items that needed repair. Reorganising the hay bales—exhausting work that made her sweat despite the cold wind blowing through.

But there came a point when it could not be delayed any longer—because otherwise it would be past midday instead of before, then she would have disobeyed, and with that would come punishment. And, quite possibly, the assumption that she was either guilty or knew something.

She gave Sheesha a pat on the neck and he offered the place under his chin for her to scratch. She gave it a little rub, just to show she cared, and then headed for the ladder. The eyrie itself, unlike her loft, had stone slabs for a floor. Zirichasa did not like wooden floors. Kantees guessed this was because they nested on the ground. They were big enough that they would have few enemies to worry about.

The ladder went through a small hole in the stone. On the far side was a walled-off area with a wooden trapdoor through which the hay bales were lifted. She had heard the doors crashing shut as each bale went up to the higher eyrie where Romain and Gally worked.

She arrived at the kitchen level and set off towards the main part of the castle. She had been there so rarely it made her nervous.

The guards on the inner gate were more alert than usual, though it was clearly a case of closing the cage after the bird had flown. But they didn’t know that. She even heard people calling Jelamie’s name. And it looked as if they had sent someone down into the well. After all, it was possible he had just wandered off. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But as Kantees crossed the wide courtyard she glanced up at the wall where the tekrak had been tethered. Its fire had blackened the stone of the building with a great soot stain. She glanced up at the bell tower but there was nothing to be seen. They would have found the man with the three arrows in his body.

Someone had rung the bell to warn the castle. One might think it was him and he had been silenced by the arrows. But then it would be realised that he was not a member of the household, and the real guard was there too. Perhaps they would attribute the bell ringing to the original guard, though that made little sense.

No one would imagine that a slave had, in defiance of the law, ridden a zirichak to ring the bell and warn the castle.

She started to go down some steps to a small door. Since she was no more than a slave, the idea of going through the main entrance did not even cross her mind.

“Wait,” said an armsman. She did not recognise him, but there was no reason why she should. Her life was secluded.

“Sir?”

“What’s your name?”

“Kantees, sir.” She gestured in the direction of the tower.

“The keeper of Sheesha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come with me. You’re late.”

She hesitated for a moment but returned to the courtyard. He waited for her and then headed in through the main door. She stopped before it.

“Sir?”

He turned. “Stop wasting my time and come along.”

She swallowed, this was another rule. Not punishable by death but a whipping certainly. The fact that she had been told to do it by someone in authority did not make it any easier. Her early life had been a game of ensuring no rules were broken so that she was not punished. And of protecting others if she could, even if it meant she would be punished instead.

Then again, she had broken so many rules now, what difference did this one make?

She followed her escort. He did not go to the main hall, though she could see its massive grandeur of pillars and balconies through open doors as she passed. As far as she could tell they went the full length of a passage that ran along the hall and then turned right along another one where doors led off into smaller rooms.

Finally the armsman deposited her in a room with huge windows that looked out towards the mountains. Jakalain was a lonely place on the edge of the wilderness. The heart of the island of Esternes was massive peaks and deep valleys where the wild zirichasa, as well as other creatures she knew nothing of, flew free. At least, that’s what she’d heard.

There was no one else in the room. Behind a table of dark wood stood three chairs, and on its surface lay writing implements—being a slave she could neither read nor write.

There was another chair facing the table.

“Sit there,” said the armsman.

“Sit?”

“When the lord enters, you stand up. After he and anyone else with him has sat down, you can sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“You will sit.”

He sounded tired. But he had probably been up all night.

“Is there any knowledge of the lordling?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of it?”

She was terrified her guilt stood out on her face. “Nothing, just gossip in the kitchen.”

“Keep your gossip to yourself.”

With that he left her alone in the room with the chair that had both a padded seat and a padded back. It looked comfortable but she could not bring herself to sit in it. She had been working in the eyrie and had not cleaned herself up. She was probably soiling the rugs on which she stood; she certainly did not want to dirty the beautiful chair.

Being alone and waiting was terrifying. She felt her heart pounding and she sweated—though that could have been from her earlier exertions. She probably stank, and cursed herself for being so stupid as to engage in hard manual labour before meeting with such important people. But perhaps they expected her to stink.

The armsman had implied that Lord Jakalain himself would be here. It was true that she was often in close proximity to the lords, because she was usually in attendance with Sheesha. But they never spoke to her.

She closed her eyes as a door in the wall beyond the table opened.

* * *

Continue reading the ebook on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited . You can get the print book at most online stores, or order through your local bookshop using the paperback ISBN 978-1-913199-06-7 (hard cover is available).

21

A Flight of Marewings

Kristen S. Walker

Marewings: part horse, part demon, all monster. Only the bravest riders dare to catch and tame them, and most die in the attempt. Not the best choice for a young woman who only knows how to run a farm.

But Korinna is running out of options. Her father, the duke of Kyratia City, danced himself to death in a strange madness. He wanted her to marry his warlord, Galenos, and inherit his titles. But the power-hungry Council seized control of the city and left her with nothing. Her father’s ghost haunts her, demanding more.

The duke’s mage warns that the dancing madness is spreading while the usurping Council does nothing. Galenos promises to take the city back by force, but then he won’t need Korinna. She’s not strong enough to fight alongside him—unless she becomes a marewing rider.

One chance to catch a marewing and learn to fly. Or her father’s spirit could haunt her forever.

SPFBO 2016

Grit level: 6

* * *

Korinna I

Korinna looked up from the group of farm workers she was supervising and saw her father’s ghost. He stood at the far end of the field, staring at her; she could see straight through him to the forest beyond. Dust clogged her mouth, making it difficult to breathe. She stared back at him as feelings washed over her: shock, rage, sorrow.

Curse the gods’ timing! She had only a few days of the harvest left. The last member of her family was dead. Her father, the duke of the powerful port city Kyratia, had rarely come to visit his mistress and illegitimate daughter at the remote farm at Anoberesovo, and not at all since her mother’s death years before. Yet he had remained her protector from afar, funding her estate, and promising to arrange her a powerful marriage. Korinna had received a letter only a week prior about his illness. The ghost’s haggard appearance told her the outcome.

Korinna closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a prayer for her father’s soul. Then she took a deep breath to steel herself; she didn’t have time to mourn, and she had been anticipating this chain of events for several years. Without another heir for her father’s title, she would marry his warlord so he could become the next duke. But she’d never met him and had no idea how he would treat her. This could be her chance to gain her freedom to the world beyond her small farm—or become a prisoner to a cruel man.

She beckoned to a young boy helping in the field. “Run and tell the foreman that everyone must stop their work and go back to their homes. They may gather what they can quickly, but everyone must be indoors before nightfall.”

He nodded, then spun on his heel and sprinted away. She turned without watching him leave and went up the hill to the manor.

The four wooden walls of the courtyard closed around her, providing the safety of the home she had always known. Anoberesovo was a modest estate, encompassing enough grain fields to support fifty families, a stream to irrigate the crops from the nearby river, and grazing land for sheep. Servants and guards also lived in the manor, which was too large for Korinna alone, and she could afford a blacksmith, a healer, and a musician in residence as well. As a child, the courtyard with its out buildings and vegetable garden had felt enormous to her. At nineteen, she knew every pane of glass in the windows, every board in the walls. Putting her hand out to the worn wood reassured and steadied her.

Her steward, Myron, rushed out of the storehouse to her side. “My lady, what is wrong? You look ill.” He put a hand on her forehead.

Korinna brushed off his concerned touch. “I’ve called the workers from the fields. Send everyone we can spare back to their homes and tell them to stay there. We must lock the gates before nightfall, and I want all of my people safe.”

Myron looked past her to the empty road. “Are we being attacked?”

“I don’t know.” Korinna rubbed her hands together, trying to stay calm. “Duke Basileos is dead, and his Warlord is coming here. He will want to seal the marriage pact that my father once proposed, and we can’t be sure of his intentions. We must be prepared to defend our home if he comes in force.”

Myron spat on the ground to avert evil. “Your father is dead? How do you know?”

She took a deep breath. “I saw his ghost.”

The old man’s eyes widened and he cupped his hand to his forehead, invoking Deyos. “The gods guide his soul through the Dry Lands. Oh, my poor child.”

Korinna murmured another prayer and glanced behind her.

The shade now stood just outside the gate, staring at her with hollow eyes. He pointed to the sun and traced a line down to the western horizon.

She nodded and turned back to Myron. “We must prepare, quickly. The Warlord will arrive after sunset.”

Myron bowed his balding head and shuffled off to carry out her instructions.

She summoned the captain of her guard next and told him to prepare their defenses, but she knew even as she spoke to him that they wouldn’t be enough. Anoberesovo was not a fortress, and her guards were not war veterans. If Warlord Galenos came there with a company of his trained soldiers and tried to take her from the house by force, she would have to surrender or see her home destroyed.

As the shadows stretched longer across the empty fields with each passing hour, Korinna was too caught up in the wave of activity to stop and fret about what could happen. Her people fled the manor for the safety of their own homes, leaving her and Myron alone to prepare a simple dinner. The guards pulled on their armor and ranged on the wall around the courtyard.

In the kitchen, Korinna rolled out flatbread while Myron peeled garlic for the artichokes. A grate over the hearth allowed them to roast vegetables and lamb on skewers, which only needed to be turned on occasion. By assembling each dish in a line and keeping to simple preparations, the two of them were able to prepare a large quantity of food at once.

At sunset, Korinna left the kitchens and went upstairs to her rooms. Her maidservant had fled, so she attended herself. She opened the windows to admit the cool evening breeze into the stuffy space. A bowl of water still stood on the table from the morning, with a folded cloth beside it. Without time for a bath, Korinna wiped away the dirt as best she could.

The wardrobe was half-empty, holding mostly practical clothing and one red robe saved for festival days at the temple, but she looked beneath these for a small chest. Inside, she found a full-skirted linen dress, dyed a rich, dark yellow with saffron, with crimson embroidery on the hem. It was old-fashioned—once her mother’s dress, a present from her father—but her mother had shortened it to her short height, and she knew it suited her well. She changed quickly from her dirty work clothes. The fine clothes would be her armor, a proper appearance for a duke’s daughter.

Surrounded by her mother’s things, her scent still lingering after all of these years, it felt as if Pherenia was present in the room with her. She could hear her voice echoing with advice: “The most important thing you can do is to be confident. If you act like you belong, others will accept that. But if you show fear or hesitation, they will take advantage of any weakness and tear you apart.”

From the box, Korinna selected a sapphire-studded comb and used it to fix her hair up into a bun, the nicest arrangement she could manage on her own. She left the rest of her mother’s jewels in the box, keeping her customary ornament: a chain at her throat holding a single coin, the only one she hadn’t spent to feed her people that hard year when the harvest burned in a chimaera attack.

Dressing up gave her no pleasure, and she kept glancing out the window to check the position of the sun on the horizon. When the Warlord arrived, she must appear in complete control, a fine lady running her estate with skill.

Korinna examined her reflection in her small brass hand mirror. Her breath caught in her throat. Everything about her—from the clothes to the work-worn hand gripping the mirror—was the same as her mother, dressed up to see her father on one of his visits. But where her mother’s face had been lit by joyful anticipation, Korinna’s lips were pressed together to hide her anxiety. And her father would never come to visit again.

Her eyes glistened with unwanted tears. She put the mirror face down on the table and held her head high, steeling herself. Whatever was coming, she must be prepared now.

When she went downstairs, she paused by the alcove in the front hall and knelt at the ancestors’ shrine. She touched her mother’s death mask, a small painting, and said a prayer of remembrance. “Mama, I hope you can be with him now,” she added.

There was no answer. Her mother’s spirit was more polite than her father’s. If she still remained to watch over her daughter, she did so without being seen.

Myron met her in the kitchen and reported on the situation. “Everyone but the guards has left, my lady. Supper is finished and waiting on the hearth. The house has been secured and the guards are positioned on the walls by the front gate. No riders have been sighted yet.”

Korinna nodded. “Well done. We have a little time, so take two guards with you to carry ale up from the cellars. We will need enough to serve the Warlord’s men.”

A good steward would simply accept her orders and see them carried out, but Myron had served as the head of the household at Anoberesovo since Korinna was a young girl. He raised his thick eyebrows and grunted. “You mean to let the Warlord in? What will prevent him from simply carrying you off and letting his men raid our home?”

She held her head high and, with as much confidence as she could manage, she said, “I hope that the warlord and I can negotiate like rational people.”

Myron bowed his head in deference to her wishes, but he muttered, “I hope so too, my lady.”

Korinna knew that she was taking a risk, but she wouldn’t simply cower in the corner and pray for the gods to save her. She went outside and climbed the walls to look over the gate. It was growing dark and she couldn’t see very far down the road by the light of the torches. Would Galenos carry torches, or would he swoop out of the darkness and surprise them?

All eight of the guards turned and stared at her. Captain Aeson approached and bowed to her. With his head still down, he said, “My lady, won’t you go below? We can’t guarantee your safety if you stay up here.”

She shook her head and strode straight up to the edge of the wall, planting herself with her back straight and her chin up. “I will watch here with you. I want to be the first to greet our guests.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers, pleading with things left unsaid. “Are you sure you want to do this, Korinna?”

Once, Aeson had been her friend, the one who comforted her when she lost her mother. But she’d warned him that she would leave someday, and his affection for her wasn’t enough to keep her on the little farm. She had a duty to fulfill, and while she feared what could happen if she left her home, she was also excited about the chance of a better future.

She couldn’t make him understand, so she looked away into the darkness. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is my fate and I won’t try to run from it.”

The captain bowed again and moved away, but she could hear the other men talking in low voices behind her. Korinna made no outward sign that she heard them.

* * *

A powerful wave of fear swept over her, causing her to look up. Dark shapes blotted out the moon and stars, sweeping toward them with the rustle of wings.

Korinna gasped. The guards around her looked up and raised their spears in readiness.

They were too late. A company of marewings—sixteen wyld monsters, captured and trained for the sole purpose of war, each one carrying a veteran soldier armed with weapons and armor worth a year of Korinna’s farming profits—came gliding over the walls and landed in the courtyard. They were bigger than she had imagined, taller than a man by half, and their wings were even larger. The wings weren’t feathered like a bird’s, but were leathery like a bat’s, with shining scales along the back. Their cloven hooves rang out strangely on the paving stones. Even at a distance, she could see their red eyes gleaming in the darkness, and one opened its mouth, baring long, sharp teeth.

One of the mercenaries vaulted off a black marewing and looked around the courtyard with his hands on his hips. He was dressed the same as all of the other men, in tight-fitting leather dyed deep blue with the black trim of the Storm Petrels. Taller, broader than any man she’d ever met, he drew the eye by his impressive stature. But it was the way that he stood and looked around, surveying her estate as if it already belonged to him, that told her who he was.

Korinna recovered from her shock and started to make for the stairs, then stopped. She took a torch from its holder on the wall and held it aloft. “Warlord Galenos,” she called down into the courtyard. “Welcome to Anoberesovo.”

She smiled to herself as he looked around the courtyard and failed to find her. Then he turned and looked up. Even at a distance, she could feel the force of his gaze as their eyes met.

“Good evening, Lady Korinna.” He smiled back, teeth glinting in the torchlight. “I must apologize for calling on you so late in the evening.”

She handed the torch to the guard at her side, then turned and walked down the stairs to the ground. Galenos watched her approach, and she took the time to size him up, as well. His large size and well-developed muscles were all things that she would expect from a seasoned warrior. What took her by surprise was the dark color of his skin, darker even than workers burnt by the sun. He spoke Meresto without an accent, but his broad, flat features marked him as a foreigner.

When she came to stand in front of him, she had to crane her head back to look up at his face. “I would like to extend the hospitality of my household to you and your men. We had some warning of your coming, so there is food and drink waiting inside.”

He blinked rapidly in surprise. “How did you know?”

She hid her satisfaction at catching him off-guard. “When I saw my father’s ghost, I knew that you wouldn’t be far behind.”

His brow furrowed and he scanned the courtyard with furtive glances. “Of course he did. Is he still here?”

The superstitious reaction surprised her. Should she tell him that he lingered to make the powerful warlord nervous? “I don’t see him just now,” she said vaguely.

Galenos shook himself, then bent and gave her the briefest of kisses on each cheek in greeting. “We will be happy to join you for dinner, once our mounts are taken care of. Do you have a pasture where they can stay for the night?”

Korinna looked around at the beasts. Each one remained motionless in the same place where they had landed; if they weren’t breathing now, barely labored from their flight, she would have thought they were stone. Where could she put the marewings that they wouldn’t frighten her flocks? “I have a field of grain, already harvested, which is empty. There’s a stream with water…” What kind of refreshment should she offer to a creature that was half demon? “Will they need anything else?”

He shook his head and took hold of his marewing’s bridle. “Lead us there, and we shall see that they are properly cared for.”

Korinna suppressed a sigh of relief. She could have sent for her head shepherd, a man with a knack for raising livestock, but she doubted that even he would know what to do with the marewings. That reminded her that she had no servants to send on the errand. She gestured to the gate. “This way.”

She walked across the courtyard, trying to keep her head high and her steps even. She had to circle around the edge, because the yard was crowded: sixteen marewings took up almost all of the space. On the way, she signaled for guards to join her and bring torches for the dark fields. One of the guards hurried forward to help her open the gate.

The evening was warm, since it was nearly summer, but Korinna shivered. Behind her, she heard the clip-clop of hooves across the paved ground, and she knew that the others were following her.

She crossed to the field that they had harvested the day before and opened that gate. The wooden fence was low, meant for keeping out sheep and deer—hardly effective for penning a beast that could fly wherever it willed. But there was not enough space in her stables, which housed four cows, so the mercenaries would have to figure out how to keep their marewings from escaping.

She stood next to the gate and watched them pass by. All of the riders were on foot, leading their mounts behind them. Galenos brought up the rear.

Before he entered the field, he nodded at her. “Thank you. We will come and join you in your hall…” He looked up at the sky. “We should be ready by moonrise.”

“We will see you then.” Korinna closed the gate. She gestured for the guards to remain behind and hold the torches up for light—and to keep an eye on her “guests.”

She turned and started to walk back to the house alone. After a few steps, she looked back over her shoulder. She was surprised to see that Galenos hadn’t handed his marewing off to another soldier—like the rest of his men, he cared for his mount himself, taking off the riding tack and rubbing her down with a piece of cloth.

Korinna hurried back indoors. She found Myron hovering by the door. “There are sixteen of them. Hurry, we can bring the food out before they come back.”

Together they went to the kitchen and carried the dinner out into the main hall: flatbread, roasted artichokes stuffed with garlic, wooden skewers with grilled lamb and vegetables, soft cheese, and a bowl of the season’s first fresh fruits. Guards brought in two heavy casks of ale from the cellar. Korinna also unlocked her stores for a bowl of salt and a small flask of olive oil.

The main hall was a plain room with a high ceiling, a long table, and a hearth at either end, large enough that she could sit with the head of every family in Anoberesovo. Tonight, Korinna instructed Captain Aeson to sit at the foot with his guards, while she took her place at the head with Myron on her left.

Galenos looked around the room when he entered. Korinna rose and offered him the seat to her right, and he sat with a smile. “This is a nice spread. We thank you for your hospitality.”

The other soldiers came in and sat down around the table. As Korinna looked at their faces, she realized that three of them were women.

Galenos saw her expression and smiled. “I thought that you would be more comfortable if I brought a few of my female officers with me. I apologize for our rough attire, but we traveled fast and could not bring a change of clothes.”

She shook her head. “We are not so formal here.”

His eyes drifted down to her fine dress, then down the table. “You keep a very small household. Your father did not provide you with any staff to help you?”

She shook her head. “I have a few people, but every available hand has been in the fields to help with the harvest, and they’e tired. We can manage for ourselves.”

While they ate, Galenos made polite conversation, asking about the harvest and how the estate was managing. The other soldiers didn’t speak, and neither did the guards, except to pass the food back and forth and refill the tankards of ale. Aeson kept a wary eye on the warlord.

At last Galenos looked down at his ale. “I came to tell you what you already know. Basileos Votsis died earlier today without officially declaring an heir, so now Kyratia is without a ruler.”

Korinna murmured another prayer. “The Council must be very concerned. Do you know what they plan to do?”

He looked up at her expectantly. “They’re meeting tomorrow to discuss the issue.”

She met his gaze evenly, but her pulse quickened. “You’re here to take me back with you to the meeting.” It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “Your father once promised me that I would marry you and become his heir.”

She clutched the coin around her neck. “There was never a formal contract.”

His dark eyes stared at her. “However, you’re old enough now that you could make the choice yourself.”

“Even if I married you, it would not make you the duke of Kyratia.” She met his stare without flinching. “He never acknowledged me as his daughter by law.”

“That’s just a technicality. You’re his only surviving offspring.” Galenos stood up, scraping his chair against the floor. “In the morning, we’re flying back to the capital to face the council. Will you come with me?”

The question ran through her with a jolt. She stared up at the warlord. “Are you asking me if I’ll marry you?”

“As I said, it is your choice.” He did not look as if he were joking.

She couldn’t tell much about him yet, but the fact that he asked her permission had to be a good sign. Korinna stood up to face him, although the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. “If the Council will grant us the right to take my father’s place, then I will marry you.”

* * *

Before dawn the next morning, Galenos and his company had their marewings saddled and ready for flight. Korinna met them in the field with a small bag containing her personal belongings. The hour was even earlier than when she began her work each day, but she was wide awake, her empty stomach twisted into a knot. Her fate rested in the hands of this strange man and the Council, and for all that she pretended like she knew what she was doing, she had no idea of what lay ahead. She prayed to all the gods for protection.

Galenos looked down at the bag with a frown. “What’s all this?”

She held up the bag and her stomach turned at the tone of his voice. “These are what I can’t afford to leave behind: my clothing, my jewels—”

He took the bag away from her and handed it to the waiting steward. “It’s too much extra weight. We can buy you new clothes when we get there.”

Korinna and Myron stared at one another, but when she opened her mouth to protest, the old steward shook his head. “Pick your battles,” he whispered.

She pulled herself up straight and fingered the coin at her throat. Many of her things had meaning for her—most of them had belonged to her mother. Would he strip away the rest of her identity so easily?

She clasped hands with Myron. “I know that you’ll take good care of the place while I’m gone. I wish you all a good harvest.”

He patted her hands and kissed her cheeks firmly, so that she felt the tickle of his beard. “We will all miss you, lady. May the gods bless your journey.”

Galenos cleared his throat. “We need to leave.”

He handed Korinna a heavy leather flight jacket and led her near the huge black beast he rode. “Nightshade is temperamental and doesn’t tolerate strangers. Stay calm and listen closely to my instructions.”

Her breath caught in her throat. His marewing was the largest of all: Korinna’s head didn’t even come up to Nightshade’s shoulder. As they approached, the marewing swung her head around and fixed her with one blazing red eye. She curled back her lips, showing teeth like small daggers.

Galenos put a hand on Korinna’s shoulder and bent to whisper into her ear. “Try to stay calm. She can sense your emotions. Just take deep breaths and stand still.”

She tried to do as he said, drawing in a ragged breath and letting it out again. She felt a little steadier on the second breath. The red eye burned into her, probing into her soul, but she dared not look away.

Then Nightshade blinked and turned her head away.

Galenos squeezed her shoulder. “Put out your hand, palm up, and keep it flat. She will get your scent.”

Korinna reached out her hand and stood rooted to the spot.

Nightshade turned back and closed the distance between them with a single step. She lowered her head to Korinna’s hand and her nostrils flared; her breath was hot on Korinna’s palm.

Galenos took a pouch off of his belt and reached inside. He pulled out a small, shriveled blue fruit, dripping with some kind of pickling brine, and placed it in Korinna’s other hand. “Feed this to her.”

Korinna glanced down at the strange fruit—she’d never seen one that was blue before. Her hand tingled where she touched it, and the cold wetness sent a shiver up her spine. “What is it?”

“Cloudfruit. Just give it to her, before she loses patience.”

Nightshade’s ears had perked up at the sight of the cloudfruit, and she shifted closer to them, still sniffing. Korinna barely had time to open her hand and get her fingers out of the way before the marewing snatched the fruit from her.

Galenos reached out and scratched Nightshade behind her ear. The marewing permitted the caress for a moment and then stepped back out of the way. “She’ll let you ride if you behave,” he said. “Are you ready?”

There was a flurry of activity as the other riders mounted their marewings and made ready to fly.

Korinna slid her arms into the heavy leather jacket and fastened the carved bone buttons down the front. It was too large for her, and threatened to slide off of her shoulders, but she wrapped it around herself as best she could. She lifted her head proudly. “Yes.”

He led her to the marewing’s side, then picked her up by her waist and swung her up into the saddle as if she weighed nothing.

Korinna clutched the front of the saddle to steady herself as the world spun dizzyingly around her. It was so high. She managed to get her leg up and over to the other side, grateful as she did that she’d worn a simple tunic and leggings for travel, and settled in as best she could. Her legs ached to span the broad marewing’s back.

Galenos mounted behind her in a single fluid movement and reached around her to take the reins. “You’re too stiff. Relax and lean back into me,” he said.

She tried to do as he said, but she felt self-conscious about his arms around her. The Warlord had asked for her permission the night before, but today all he did was bark orders like she was a member of his company.

He cleared his throat. “I apologize for the familiarity, Lady, but I must hold onto you. It’s difficult to keep your seat in the air and there will be no one to catch you if you fall.”

Nightshade flicked her ears back at them, and she could feel the marewing’s impatience to leave. Everyone else was waiting.

She closed her eyes and leaned back, trying not to think about who she was touching. The Warlord’s arms encircled her and held her close. Underneath them, Nightshade’s muscles tensed and she sprang forward. Everything shook, hooves pounded the ground, and then with a great leap and a rush of air, they took to the sky.

Korinna opened her eyes and looked down. Her home was far below, and as she watched, the land fell away and soon her fields had disappeared. The farm and its daily grind were behind them. Somewhere ahead of them was the capital of Kyratia and her future.

* * *

The flight was over in a few hours, a journey that took several days on foot. Korinna watched the ground go by below: rolling hills, dense forests, and the occasional village surrounded by farmland tucked in between. Then it changed to a long valley with a wide, slow-moving river full of boats. The river grew wider as it led down to the sea and the great trade port that was the capital: Kyratia City.

Korinna had never seen the capital or the ocean before. The farthest that she had ever been from her home was the local temple for the major festival days, almost ten miles away. She turned her head back and forth, trying to take in every sight at once: the expanse of the ocean shining in the mid-morning sun and the spread of the city below her. Sailing ships lined the docks of the bay on the south side of the city, rows upon rows of buildings stretched out in either direction from the docks, and in the middle of the city were three tall, domed buildings of gleaming white stone. She was too high to see the people, but she knew that tens of thousands lived and worked there—more people than she could possibly imagine.

From up in the air, she could see that there was actually a city within a city, one built around the other. The inner city was laid out in concentric circles, with broad streets radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. Most of these buildings looked old—including an ancient palace falling to ruin—except for the three white domes rising high above in the middle. An old wall surrounded the inner city. Outside this wall, a newer city had sprung up haphazardly, with streets that seemed to meander with no rhyme or reason. On the east side, the new buildings were large and opulent, but to the west there were shanties and blocky warehouses. To the north, she recognized the large squares as marketplaces full of stalls. Around the new city, there was a second wall, taller and wider than the first, and outside the wall were deep canals fed by the river. Six bridges led to six gates that formed the entrances to the city.

The strangest part was that the whole city spread in an almost perfect circle, except where it pushed up against the sea. And the ground outside the city, the delta of the river, was all sand. How could the city stand without solid ground for its foundation? The buildings should be sinking into the water.

She tipped her head up to yell in Galenos’s general direction. “How does the city stand on sand?”

He chuckled and Korinna felt the rumble deep in his chest. “Magestone. The foundation of the city was created with magic. It also repels monsters—so we don’t have to defend the city itself.”

She looked the walls. They were high, but the marewings flew over them easily. “What about attacks from the air?”

“That’s our job, and the guards’ job.” Galenos pointed at the nearest wall and the city guard patrolling along the walkway. He also pointed at three large cannons erected along the walls: two pointing inland to the northeast and the southeast, and one pointing west over the harbor.

Korinna felt as if she were being watched by eyes unseen somewhere down below, as if the whole city was staring up at her. How many people lived here? Many more times larger than the biggest crowd she had ever seen at a temple festival or the Summer Athletic Games.

The marewings flew over one of the gates and glided down to a wide field in the northwest corner of the city. Korinna felt the jolt of the landing in every muscle up her legs and back, sore from the long ride. The day’s work had barely begun, and she felt as tired as if she had spent hours laboring out in the fields. She couldn’t imagine being astride a marewing every day.

She looked around the field and saw the other riders swinging over their saddles and stepping down with the ease of long practice, but she could not hope to copy that movement on her own.

Galenos dismounted behind her and held up his hands to her.

“Here, let me help you with that, Lady.” His face was a blank mask, but she thought she heard a note of pity in his voice.

Korinna was too tired to protest. She let him lift her up again, and leaned heavily against him for support, though she avoided his gaze.

Galenos set her on the ground and turned to another man standing beside him. “Lady Korinna, this is my brother and second-in-command, Varranor.”

She looked up and saw the same broad features and dark skin, but this man looked completely different from the stern warlord. Varranor flashed her a cheerful grin, took her by the shoulders, and planted a kiss on each of her cheeks in enthusiastic greeting. “Lady Korinna! We’re so happy to see you here in the city at last! The old duke shouldn’t have kept a beauty like you exiled in the country for so long. Oh, I’m sorry—my condolences on the loss of your father.”

Korinna looked down at the ground. “May Meyrissa guide his soul through the Dry Lands.”

Galenos cleared his throat. “I’ve summoned a handmaid to take you inside and prepare a bath after your journey. She’ll also take your measurements so another servant can fetch you proper attire. We’ll meet with the council at midday, so you must be ready quickly. We will speak again before the meeting.”

Korinna nodded and turned to see where she would go inside. Most of the area looked like a military complex: the riders were already busy caring for their marewings, men and women in uniform drilled in nearby fields, and the buildings were all utilitarian and drab—except for one lavish house at the far end of the field. On the path in front of the house, a young woman caught her eye and beckoned for her to follow.

She looked back to thank Galenos, but he was already walking back to his own mount with his brother at his side. She could overhear Varranor’s eager voice carrying back to her: “The council members were meeting last night after you left. They already know that you are bringing the duke’s daughter, and my sources tell me that at least four members plan to oppose your succession.”

Galenos scowled. “Which members, and what did they say? I need to know as much detail as possible.”

The maid appeared at her side. “This way, please, my lady. The bath will already be hot inside.”

She wanted to go hear what the warlord was discussing, but the maid was insistent. Korinna let herself be led away.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

22

The Sword of Kaigen

M.L. Wang

"Fantasy and martial arts aficionados alike should enjoy this emotionally supercharged novel about love and loss, which pierces readers' hearts with the precision of a samurai's razor-sharp blade." - Blue Ink ★ Starred Review

"The Poppy War's darkness meets The Last Airbender's Elemental Magic... I haven't been so emotionally moved by a book in a long while." - JC Kang, Author of The Dragon Songs Saga  

On a mountainside at the edge of the Kaigenese Empire live the most powerful warriors in the world, superhumans capable of raising the sea and wielding blades of ice. For hundreds of years, the fighters of the Kusanagi Peninsula have held the Empire's enemies at bay, earning their frozen spit of land the name 'The Sword of Kaigen.'

Born into Kusanagi's legendary Matsuda family, fourteen-year-old Mamoru has always known his purpose: to master his family's fighting techniques and defend his homeland. But when an outsider arrives and pulls back the curtain on Kaigen's alleged age of peace, Mamoru realizes that he might not have much time to become the fighter he was bred to be. Worse, the empire he was bred to defend may stand on a foundation of lies.

Misaki told herself that she left the passions of her youth behind when she married into the Matsuda house. Determined to be a good housewife and mother, she hid away her sword, along with everything from her days as a fighter in a faraway country. But with her growing son asking questions about the outside world, the threat of an impending invasion looming across the sea, and her frigid husband grating on her nerves, Misaki finds the fighter in her clawing its way back to the surface. 

When the winds of war reach their peninsula, will the Matsuda family have the strength to defend their empire? Or will they tear each other apart before the true enemies even reach their shores? 

SPFBO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter One: The Northerner

Mt. Takayubi, Kusanagi Peninsula

Shirojima Province

The Kaigenese Empire

Planet Duna

5369 y. s. p.

It was a harrowing climb to the high school. Eight hundred twenty-one steps. Mamoru had counted one time on his way up—no easy feat while focusing on not toppling off the side of a mountain. For most fourteen-year-old fighters, the winding way up to the school was a true test of nerve and agility, but Mamoru, with his springy legs and boundless energy, woke each morning looking forward to the challenge.

“Mamoru!” his friends panted from the steps far below him. “Not so fast!”

Itsuki and Yuuta had no choice but to take the steep path to the school because they lived in the western village, further down the mountain. Mamoru’s family compound was built high enough that he could have taken an easier way if he chose, but Matsudas weren’t known for taking the easy way to anything. He rose every day before dawn, amid the chanting of crickets, so he could make the loop down the mountain toward the western village and tackle the steep climb with his friends.

“You two are too slow!” Mamoru called back. “We don’t want to be late!”

“We’re not going to be late,” Itsuki heaved in exasperation from the mist below. “Just wait up! Please!”

“Fine, fine.” Mamoru lowered himself to the rock ledge and sat, letting his feet hang over the edge.

It had still been dark when the three boys began their climb, but by now, morning had seeped through the veil of fog to touch the rock face with its pale brushstrokes. It was rarely possible to see the base of the mountain from the Kumono steps. Beneath Mamoru’s dangling legs, there was only mist, rolling in slow waves against the cliff side, growing gradually lighter with the sunrise.

The moment Itsuki and Yuuta dragged themselves over the ridge where Mamoru was perched, he grinned and bounced to his feet.

“Finally!” he said. “Are you two ready to keep up now?”

“Are you kidding?” Yuuta gasped, doubling over to catch his breath.

“You’re a monster!” Itsuki groaned.

Mamoru slapped each of them on the back. “I’ll wait for you at the school,” he said cheerfully and took off up the mountain.

His toes knew each crevice, each jutting rock, and he took the steepest part of the path in swift, confident bounds, skipping six steps at a time. He had just rounded the last curve when his feet slowed. There was a figure hunched over in the fog up ahead, a boy clinging hard to the rock wall as he gasped for breath. Mamoru wouldn’t have thought much of it—there were dozens of students who climbed these steps each morning—but this boy’s clothing wasn’t right. Instead of Kumono blue, he wore a modern-looking black uniform Mamoru had never seen before.

“Good morning,” Mamoru said, approaching slowly, so as not to startle the newcomer off the edge.

“Morning.” The boy raised a hand in greeting before putting it to his chest, still breathing hard. He had a heavy accent.

“Are you…” Mamoru started and then switched to Kaigengua, the imperial standard. “Are you a transfer student?”

The boy nodded. “I’m Kwang Chul-hee. Nice to meet you.”

A northern name. This boy hadn’t just transferred from a neighboring province; he had come from a long way away. His uniform was the kind worn in the big cities on the Jungsan Peninsula, with its Yammanka-style cut and military bogolan patterns.

“Matsuda Mamoru,” Mamoru introduced himself, bowing.

“Matsuda Mamoru…” the boy repeated. “How much farther is it to your damn school?”

“You’re almost there ,” Mamoru laughed. “I can walk with you the rest of the w ay.”

“I’m not afraid I’ll get lost.” Kwang looked vaguely exasperated. “I’m afraid I’ll fall off the edge.”

“No one’s ever died falling from the steps.” Below the mist, there was a spring-fed lake that never froze waiting to catch clumsy students who lost their footing.

“That’s what I heard,” Kwang said, “but I bet it still hurts.”

“It does.” One time, in his first year, Mamoru had jumped from the steps to see what it felt like to fly. He had regretted the decision deeply when he hit the surface tension of the lake, but he would never forget the feeling of the wind roaring around him, so ferocious it started to feel like ocean.

“But don’t worry,” Mamoru reassured the boy. “I’ve climbed these steps a hundred times. I know where the rough places are, so if you miss a step, I’ll catch you.”

“You’re that fast?” Kwang didn’t look convinced. Mamoru didn’t mind. Let him think what he wanted.

“Speed is valued in this village,” Mamoru said by way of explanation. “We’re all swordsmen here.”

“I see that.” Kwang nodded at the wooden practice sword sticking out of Mamoru’s schoolbag.

“We can fight empty-handed too,” Mamoru assured him, “but traditional swordplay is the preferred fighting style.”

“You any good at it?”

“I’m a Matsuda.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means ‘yes,’” Mamoru said. “And what fighting style is popular in your region?” he asked, curious about what kind of warrior this boy was.

“What fighting style?” Kwang raised his eyebrows. “Video games.”

Mamoru laughed. “We don’t play many of those here.”

“Why not? You do have info-com devices, don’t you?”

Mamoru shook his head.

“What?” Kwang looked stunned.

“Well, the mayor has one, I think. We’re a fairly traditional village.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Itsuki and Yuuta caught up to the pair on the last stretch of stairs, and the western village boys introduced themselves.

“I’m Mizumaki Itsuki,” Itsuki said, unthinkingly using the Shirojima Dialect the boys all spoke with each other. “This is Yukino Yuuta.”

“Oh. I-I’m Kwang Chul-hee,” Kwang said in a valiant attempt at a Shirojima Dialect greeting. “Yoroshiku onegashimasu.”

“You mean ‘o-ne-ga-i’,” Mamoru corrected him. “Onegaishimasu. And you don’t really pronounce the ‘su’ part unless you’re a little kid.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” Mamoru said. “A lot of the classes are taught in Kaigengua.” That was standard across the Empire.

By the time they reached the school, the city boy was out of breath again. The stately pillars were the first part of the building that came into view through the mist, their black finish slick with condensation, followed by the curving clay-tiled roof. Kumono Academy was built into the rock face, its inner structures carved right out of the mountain. The intricate wood and lacquer front of the building was supported by a network of pillars and beams that creaked in high winds but had held the structure in place for a hundred years.

Kwang paused at the front steps, clinging to a carved wooden railing for support, looking like he might empty his stomach into the mists below.

“Why would you build a school in a place like this?” he said in horror.

“Kumono wasn’t actually built to be a school,” Yuuta said. “It used to be a monastery.”

“Oh. That explains the decor,” Kwang said, eyeing the fearsome statues of Ryuhon Falleya saints standing guard at the doors.

“The place was left vacant after the fina monks built the new temple, further down the mountain in the western village,” Yuuta said.

“And they decided it was a good place for a school?” Kwang said, incredulous.

“Well, Kumono is Takayubi’s elite koro school,” Mamoru explained as the boys mounted the front steps into the genkan. “The village officials thought it would be appropriate if you had to be an elite koro to reach it.”

The smell of incense had never quite left the wooden halls of Kumono. The familiar scent enveloped the four boys as they joined the sleepy gaggle of students at the shoe shelves and knelt to undo the fastenings on their tabi. As Kwang, still shaking, fumbled with his shoes, Mamoru’s gaze was drawn to the northern boy’s feet. Instead of the two-toed tabi the Takayubi boys wore, Kwang was sporting bulky, shiny Yammanka-style shoes that fastened with magnets around the ankles. Mamoru had seen shoes like that on TV, but no one in Shirojima had ever owned a pair.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to make that climb every morning,” Kwang said, cramming his oversized shoes into an open slot.

“If you want an easier walk, you could always transfer to Takayubi Public High School,” Itsuki suggested.

“Oh, no,” Kwang laughed. “My father won’t have me in any school but the best in the region whenever we move to a new place.”

“You move often?” Yuuta asked.

Kwang nodded. “My father’s a traveling representative for a communications company, so we move all over the country, sometimes outside it.”

“Outside it?” Itsuki said in astonishment. “Where have you been?”

“Um…” Kwang took a moment to think. “I’ve been to Yamma a few times, Kudazwe a few times, Sizwe once, for a few weeks—”

“Boys,” a voice said, “if your shoes are put away, you should be in your classrooms.”

“Yukino Sensei!” Itsuki exclaimed as he and the other boys bowed. “We’re sorry.”

Yukino Dai was the best swordsman in the province—or the second best, depending on who you asked. There was debate about whether he could beat Mamoru’s father, Matsuda Takeru, or his uncle, Matsuda Takashi in a duel. The Yukino clan had none of the Matsudas’ secret bloodline techniques, but Yukino Dai was about as good as a man could get with a naked blade.

“We have a new student with us, Sensei,” Mamoru explained. “He isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go.”

“I see.” Yukino Sensei looked past Mamoru at the new boy, who stuck out starkly in his bogolan uniform. “You must be Kwang Chul-hee?”

“Yes, sir.” Kwang bowed and said very carefully, “Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

The swordmaster visibly suppressed a smile at Kwang’s pronunciation. “Welcome to Kumono Academy,” he said in Kaigengua. “How was your first time up the steps?”

“Super easy, sir,” Kwang said, despite the obvious flush in his cheeks. “I can’t wait to do it again.”

Yukino Sensei’s face broke into an open smile. “I like you, Kwang,” he said. “You can follow me to the office to pick up your schedule. Matsuda-san.” He turned to Mamoru. “Run to the storeroom and find a uniform for Kwang-san. Your size should do.”

“Yes, sir.” Mamoru bowed and hurried to do as he was told.

He moved quickly through the narrow halls to the supply closet, his legs absorbing the shifting of the floor as the school swayed on its posts.

“Morning, Mamoru-kun!” other boys greeted him.

“Good morning, Matsuda-senpai!”

He made sure he gave each of them a bow and a smile as he went.

There was no lock on the storeroom door. Kumono was a small enough high school—Takayubi was a small enough town —that no one worried much about theft. Where would a thief even keep a stolen item? Where would he try to sell it? Everyone here knew everyone.

Mamoru had to clamber over a box of broken practice swords and a stack of dummies to reach the shelf of spare uniforms. Keeping his footing became a challenge as the school creaked and the dummies shifted beneath him, but what kind of Matsuda would he be if a little breeze threw him off balance? With the next gust of wind, the stack of dummies tipped toward the shelves. Mamoru leaned forward, snatched a size-four uniform from its shelf, and sprang from the top of the stack to the floor before anything fell.

After double checking the uniform size, he hurried to the office to meet Yukino Sensei and Kwang.

“Thank you, Matsuda-san,” Yukino Sensei said as Mamoru handed the new boy his uniform. “Now, Kwang-san is going to be entering our second-year class, which means his schedule is identical to yours.” Mamoru nodded. Being the more exclusive of two high schools in a small town, Kumono Academy had only one class per grade level. “I’m putting him in your charge. You’ll look after him for today.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Start by showing him where the changing rooms are. And be quick. You boys only have a few siiranu before classes start.”

Kwang took longer than Mamoru would have thought to change into his new uniform, and Mamoru found himself pacing impatiently on the creaking floor before the changing room door. When Kwang finally emerged, he was still fiddling with the waist tie as if he had all the time in the world.

“This is so funny,” he said, shaking out the uniform’s broad blue sleeves. “I feel like I’m in one of those old samurai movies.”

“Well, for us, this is just a normal school uniform,” Mamoru said, frowning.

“This place is weird.” Kwang ran his hands over his sleeves, looking at the ornately-carved temple halls around him. “It’s like I stepped through a portal back in time.”

Mamoru felt annoyance bristle up inside him. He wasn’t sure why. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could come up with the right words, the old temple bell sounded. The single ancient note reverberated through the hall, as it had done for a hundred years, calling the boys of Takayubi to class.

* * *

MISAKI

“Healthy, just like his brothers?” Hyori asked, leaning in to put a hand on the infant’s head.

“Yes,” Misaki said, “if a little smaller.”

“I can’t believe this one is your fourth!”

“Yes,” Misaki sighed, trying to make her tone light, despite the heaviness in her limbs, “hopefully the last.”

“No!” Hyori exclaimed, scandalized. “How can you say that?”

“Yeah, you’re doing so well, why stop now?” Setsuko joked, shifting her own baby to her other hip to nudge her sister-in-law.

“Seriously, Misaki-san!” Hyori said with an ache in her voice. “You’re so lucky!”

“Mmm.” Misaki nodded, forcing a smile. “I suppose I am.”

And Misaki was lucky. By Shirojima standards, she was the luckiest woman in the world. Fresh out of theonite academy, she had been fortunate enough to marry into Shirojima’s greatest warrior family. And following that, she had been blessed with son, after son, after son. There had been a rough space of years, after Mamoru, when she hadn’t been able to give birth, but five years ago, she had borne Hiroshi, then soon after him, Nagasa, and now Izumo. Four healthy boys, every Shirojima woman’s dream.

“May I?” Hyori asked, an eager sparkle in her eyes.

“Of course.” Careful to support the infant’s unsteady head, Misaki handed Izumo to her friend.

“You’re looking much better,” Setsuko commented as Hyori gushed and cooed over an oblivious Izumo.

“I feel much better,” Misaki said, rolling her shoulders, “at least now that you’re here. I missed you two.”

Normally, the three housewives spent the majority of their waking hours together, letting their little ones play together, passing around the babies as they did their shopping, laundry, cooking, and sewing. Since giving birth to Izumo, Misaki had been too exhausted to do much except look after the infant, and Takeru had insisted that she wasn’t well enough for company. This was the first time Izumo was meeting Hyori and his aunt, Setsuko. He could be a fussy baby, but he didn’t seem bothered by the new faces—if he could even make out facial features. He was still so young that his eyes hadn’t found their focus yet.

“Four sons,” Setsuko mused, burping her own daughter, Ayumi, on her shoulder. “I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to catch up to that. Although, look at these chunky little arms! Ayumi could almost pass for a boy. Perhaps I’ll start dressing her in boy clothes and just pretend I’ve given my husband a healthy son.” Baby Ayumi, only two months Izumo’s senior, was nearly twice his size. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s perfect the way she is.” Misaki was being honest, but of course, the other two women laughed.

When she was younger, Misaki had always pictured herself having daughters. She had enjoyed the vague fantasy of raising powerful, forward-thinking young women with the courage to amount to more than their mother, but it was just that: a fantasy. Misaki had long since let go of the idea that she could raise her children the way she wanted—or that they were even her children at all. Her sons were Matsudas first and foremost. Their sole purpose was to grow to be powerful warriors, like their father before them, and his father before him. They belonged to the Matsuda house, as she did.

“I’m being serious,” Misaki insisted as Hyori passed baby Izumo back to her. “I would be happy to have a daughter.” With a daughter, at least, she might be allowed to pass some of herself on to her own child.

“Easy for you to say when you’re on your fourth son!” Hyori said indignantly.

Setsuko hummed in agreement. “You’re going to have to tell us how you pulled it off.”

“I want to know how she pulled it off and kept her figure!” Hyori said.

“Oh, shut up you!” Setsuko swatted Hyori on the back of the head. “The prettiest little slip of a woman in the village doesn’t get to say things like that!”

“Setsuko-san,” Hyori said, blushing furiously. “I’m not the prettiest—”

“Shut your pretty mouth, Hyori-chan,” Misaki said fondly. “You don’t need to play dumb with us. We like you better when you’re smart.”

Hyori was rarely smart, but Misaki thought she might as well keep encouraging her. Popular wisdom said that a woman as pretty as Hyori didn’t need to be smart. ‘Pretty’ wasn’t even the right word to describe Hyori, in Misaki’s opinion. The woman was achingly, devastatingly beautiful, with an artless smile and eyes as soft as melting snow. Many Shirojima women were ‘pretty,’ but Hyori was the kind of legendary beauty men went to war for.

“Couple of pure-bred princesses, both of you!” Setsuko said, looking from Hyori to Misaki in exasperation. “With your smooth skin, and your teensy little waists. Don’t you sit there and complain about your weight to me when I could fit the two of you inside me.”

Ironically, it was Setsuko who Misaki considered to be the most beautiful woman on the mountain. When the fisherman’s daughter had married into the Matsuda family, she had brought with her all the crude shameless joy Misaki missed so much from her life before Takayubi. Her sort of beauty had little to do with physical attributes. It wasn’t the short hair cropped about her ears; it was the way she shook it out and sighed in pleasure when she was enjoying the weather. It wasn’t her big eyes with their dark lashes; it was the way they crinkled up with mirth at the smallest things. It wasn’t her bulky frame; it was the way she threw it around with careless confidence in a world where everyone, ladies and swordsmen alike, stepped so lightly.

Before they were sisters-in-law, Misaki had known Setsuko—as everyone had known her—as the fresh fish lady. Her voice could be heard on any trip to the markets at the base of the mountain. “Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!”

It wasn’t a glamorous job, but Setsuko was the kind of person who could be at her most charming elbows deep in fish guts, with loose strands of hair sticking to the sweat on her temples. Misaki had to imagine that many people had fallen in love with the stocky fisherwoman with the carefree grin, but it was Matsuda Takashi, the first son of the highest house in the region, who fell the hardest.

Misaki had first suspected the morning her brother-in-law stopped her on her way out the door and said, “You look tired, Misaki. I can go to the market for you.”

For a moment, Misaki had only managed to blink up at him. “You want to go to the market?” she said blankly. Shopping for meals wasn’t something a man was supposed to do—certainly not a nobleman like Takashi.

“I—uhh—I have business to attend to at the base of the mountain anyway.” Takashi didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m feeling fine, Nii-sama,” Misaki assured him. “If you have important business, you shouldn’t trouble yourself—”

“It’s no trouble,” Takashi said and Misaki realized that he was speaking in a low voice, as if worried that his father and brother would hear from inside the house. “Just give me a list of what you need.”

“Alright.” Confused as she was, Misaki wasn’t going to argue.

“And Misaki?”

“Yes, Nii-sama?”

“If you could maybe… not mention this to my father?”

Misaki’s suspicions were confirmed when Takashi returned late that afternoon and deposited eight bulging baskets of fish in her kitchen. No man but a Matsuda could have carried such a load all the way up the mountain. As strong as Takashi was, the effort had lent his face a bright flush.

“Fish,” he said with a drunken smile that ill became the son of a warrior family. “You said you wanted fresh fish, right? I’m sorry. I might have missed the other things on your list.”

“Um…” Misaki looked in horror at the heaping baskets on her kitchen floor. “I’m sorry, Nii-sama, what do you want me to do with all this?” The Matsuda compound didn’t have freezer space to store this many fish. “Are you expecting company?”

“What? No. Why? Is this too much?”

Misaki looked up at her brother-in-law, incredulous and more than a little annoyed. If you like the girl, just tell her straight, she wanted to snap. Don’t blow the family fortune on fish! But it wasn’t her place to question him, and it wasn’t that simple. A nobleman couldn’t just propose to a fisherman’s daughter and whisk her away up the mountain. Not in Takayubi. Peasants with no bloodlines to protect might marry whoever they liked, but men and women of noble houses didn’t have that luxury.

“Is it too much?” Takashi asked again, still dazed and so much giddier than usual, like a love-struck teenager—like Misaki had been once. The thought pierced her chest with a sudden and unexpected pain.

Be careful, big brother , she wanted to say then, be careful how hard you love what you know you can’t have, but that also was not her place.

So instead, she pursed her lips, looked down at the fish and said, “I’ll think of something.”

“Good,” Takashi said, though he didn’t really seem to see or hear her. “Good,” and he wandered out of the kitchen, still smiling. On his way out, he passed Takeru, who regarded his older brother with the same sour expression he took on whenever he saw someone happy.

“Is my brother ill?” he asked when Takashi had gone.

No, Misaki thought sadly, just doomed to misery .

But Takashi had been lucky—or rather, just the right combination of lucky, reckless, and clever. He had struggled, and schemed, and spun excuses, and somehow managed to hold off marriage until his tyrannical father had passed away and there were no Matsuda elders left to tell him what to do. Then, instead of marrying a pure-blooded noblewoman of his family’s choosing, Takashi married the woman he loved—the peasant with the loud laugh who sold him his fresh fish.

Takashi would never know, but in marrying Setsuko, he might have saved Misaki’s life. The fisherwoman had moved into the Matsuda compound shortly after Misaki’s second miscarriage, a loud burst of color when everything seemed gray.

“You haven’t smiled the whole time I’ve been here,” Setsuko had observed as Misaki helped her unpack the few belongings she had brought with her. “Why so glum, little sister?”

Misaki was two years older than her new sister-in-law, but Setsuko had married the older of the two Matsuda brothers, and in this world, the man’s status was the only thing that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” Misaki murmured. It had become her default response to anything over the past few years.

Setsuko planted her hands on her hips. “That’s not good enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, you and I are going to be here in this house together until we’re both wrinkly old hags with all our teeth falling out. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to spend the next forty years with a woman who doesn’t know how to smile.”

“I know how to smile.” There had been a time Misaki had been accused of smiling too much, but over the years, Takayubi had worn away at her, turning her into this quivering, brittle thing, afraid the sound of her own voice might shake her to pieces if she spoke too loud.

“I’ve never seen you smile,” Setsuko said skeptically. “What’s wrong with you? Are the corners of your mouth busted or something?”

No . It was the inside of Misaki that was broken. “I miscarried,” she said bluntly, “twice.”

“Oh.” Setsuko pulled up short, her joking demeanor evaporating in an instant. “Oh, sweetheart… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

Misaki thought she might crumble under the concern in Setsuko’s eyes. The years had hardened her against her father-in-law’s cruelty and her husband’s indifference, but she had no armor against that honest gaze.

“You really wanted those children?” Setsuko asked, and the softness of her voice stripped Misaki bare.

“I don’t know,” she replied, stunned—and slightly horrified—at her own honesty. She waited, shoulders tense, for Setsuko to berate her for her selfishness, to blame her for losing the children, to tell her she was lucky to have such a tolerant husband, like everyone else did.

Setsuko only said, “Oh. Then why are you so sad?”

“I…” When, Misaki wondered, had her voice gotten so small? When had she become afraid to put a single thought into words? “I’m here to give my husband sons. I don’t want to be a disappointment.”

“You’re not a disappointment.”

“What?”

“I said, you’re not a disappointment. You couldn’t be if you tried.” It had been a long time since someone had spoken of Misaki with that sort of simple confidence—taking for granted that she was right and good. She stared at Setsuko for a moment and realized that she had forgotten how to respond to this type of kindness. It was something she thought she had left behind nine years ago.

“Look at you,” Setsuko continued earnestly. “What could a man possibly complain about? You’re sweet, you’re beautiful, I get the feeling you’re pretty smart too, you’ve already borne a perfect son, and my husband tells me your cooking is to die for.”

“That’s nice of him to say. I do my best.”

“You like cooking?”

Misaki nodded.

“Well, that’s good because I’m a lousy cook.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Misaki said politely.

“Oh, it is. Ask anyone who’s ever eaten one of my meals. Now, why don’t you make yourself useful and teach me to cook something for my fancy husband and his refined Matsuda palate.”

“Matsuda palates aren’t that refined,” Misaki said. “Your husband likes the same food as everyone else.”

“Not when I make it, he won’t. Why do you think I was always the one hauling the fish to market instead of staying home to help in the kitchen? My family tried my cooking exactly once and then decided they’d rather live.”

Misaki felt her face split into a smile, and for the first time in an age, she giggled.

“There’s that smile!” Setsuko exclaimed, triumphant. “And look at that!” She poked a finger into Misaki’s cheek.

“What?” Misaki put her hand to her face, thinking maybe there was a piece of rice stuck to it.

“You’ve got dimples!”

Misaki had never had any sisters, but from that day, she decided that she was glad to call Setsuko her sister. Their husbands carried with them all the tension that accompanied growing up as brothers, a first and second son competing for their father’s approval, but the sisters-in-law never let any of that bad nyama in between them.

After Misaki had lived in the Matsuda compound almost a decade, it was Setsuko who made its cold halls feel like a home. When Misaki was in pain, it was Setsuko who went to the western village to buy her remedies. When she got lost in the undertow of her thoughts, it was Setsuko who pulled her back with a joke. A few months after Hiroshi was born, it was Setsuko who said, “That pretty little thing who lives in the Yukino compound. Who’s she?”

“You mean Hyori?” Misaki said. “She’s Yukino Dai’s wife.”

“Yukino who?”

“Yukino Dai,” Misaki said, “the house patriarch, the Lightning Swordsman.”

“I thought the Yukino patriarch was Yukino Ryosuke.”

“It is—it was . He passed away a little while before you moved here, while you were getting ready for your wedding. Didn’t you know?”

“No!” Setsuko exclaimed. “Nami, I haven’t been in on the market gossip! That’s where I used to get all my news. Gods in the Deep, I don’t know how you noblewomen live cooped up like this!”

“You’re a noblewoman too now,” Misaki reminded her.

Setsuko made a dismissive, “Bah!” waving her hand.

“Yukino Ryosuke’s funeral was just before you got married. Someone had to assume control of the estate, and the Yukinos’ oldest son didn’t want to move his family all the way back from Jungsan. Dai-san is the second son, so he moved in with his wife.”

“Does he keep his wife cloistered or some kind of weird noble thing like that?” Setsuko asked. “How come we never see her?”

“I think she spends most of her time caring for Dai-san’s mother. She’s old and very ill, so I imagine it takes up most of her time.”

“That must get lonely,” Setsuko said. “We should go visit tomorrow.”

That was how the sisters-in-law had met Hyori. Now, five years later, the three women were inseparable.

Hyori and Setsuko were still teasing one another about their waistlines when there was a tug at Misaki’s arm. She looked down to find her third son, two-year-old Nagasa, clutching the flowered sleeve of her kimono.

“See?” he asked in his tiny voice. “See baby?” It was his favorite question since Izumo had arrived.

“Of course,” Misaki said, kneeling on the tatami to place Izumo on her lap before Nagasa. “Remember to be gentle, Naga-kun. He’s still very small.”

“Hold baby?” Nagasa asked hopefully, holding out his arms.

“Oh, isn’t he the cutest thing!” Hyori squealed.

“I’m going to hold him for now,” Misaki told Nagasa gently. “You concentrate on growing a few koyinu taller and we’ll talk.”

“Isn’t your older brother around?” Hyori asked, stooping so that she was at eye-level with the two-year-old. “Why don’t you go play with him?”

“Hiro-nii-san gone,” Nagasa pouted.

“Oh? Where did he go?” Hyori asked, looking at Misaki.

“Hiro-kun is at the elementary school dojo,” Misaki said, jouncing Izumo on her knees.

“That’s right,” Hyori said. “He likes to watch the older boys train, doesn’t he?”

“He’s actually training with them now,” Misaki said, “started as soon as he was big enough to lift the practice sword.”

“Isn’t he only five?” Hyori said in astonishment. “I thought that was against policy.”

“The instructors made an exception,” Misaki said. No five-year-old had ever been admitted to the elementary school’s beginner sword class, but Misaki’s second son, Hiroshi, was not like other five-year-olds.

“He’s a serious little boy, isn’t he?” Setsuko said. “Like a miniature version of his father. It’s a little scary.”

“How come you can’t be more like that, hmm, Ryo-kun?” Hyori prodded her own son, Ryota. She said it in a joking voice, but there was a distinct undercurrent of seriousness.

“Well, he’s still very young,” Misaki said. “Ryota-kun, how old are you?”

“Four,” Ryota said proudly.

“There, you see,” Misaki said. “You may be a little swordsman like Hiroshi by next year. Who knows?”

“I am a sword-man!” Ryota announced, brandishing his toy katana. “I’m the best sword-man in the world!”

“Is that so?” Misaki couldn’t help but tease.

“I challenge you to a duel!” Ryota shouted, seemingly to no one in particular, probably quoting a cartoon he had seen. “I challenge you to a duel!”

On a whim, Misaki pooled her jiya, pulled the surrounding water molecules to her hand and froze them into a makeshift sword—well, more of a blunt icicle than a sword—the perfect size for combat with a four-year-old.

“I accept!” she announced.

“Misaki-san, what are you doing?” Hyori asked.

“Fight me, Yukino Ryota!” Misaki intoned in her best cartoon villain voice, shifting Izumo over to her left hip where he was out of danger.

“Ryo-kun, don’t,” Hyori warned. “Misaki-san is a lady. It’s not—” but the boy, overcome with joy at having a playmate, was already whaling away at Misaki with his wooden sword.

Misaki’s arm moved on an almost forgotten impulse. In two moves, she had disarmed little Ryota. With another flick of her play-sword, she had swept the boy off his feet. He landed on his back with a hard ‘oof!’ and Misaki pointed the icicle down at his chest.

“I am victorious!” she said dramatically. “Admit defeat or I shall tickle you!”

“Oh no!” Ryota shrieked, and scrambled away, giggling. “No, no!”

And Misaki couldn’t help it. She hiked up her kimono and ran after him. The quick little boy probably hadn’t expected a refined housewife like Misaki to catch up to him in three strides. He screamed when she scooped him up around the middle with one arm, and laughed, and laughed as she took him to the floor with tickles.

“Misaki-san, what are you doing?” Hyori cried, seemingly unsure whether to be scandalized or amused.

“Don’t worry, Hyori-chan,” Setsuko said. “This is something Misaki does every once in a while, when she’s in a happy mood.” What Setsuko didn’t understand was that this unfamiliar creature—this fearless, ridiculous woman who ran fast and played with swords—was an echo from a time when Misaki’s whole life had been happy.

Having recovered from the tickle attack, a giggling Ryota picked up his sword and came at Misaki again. This time, she gave some ground, letting the boy pick up on her rhythm and get a few good swings in before she disarmed him again.

“I’m afraid Ryo-kun is a ways away from being like Hiro-kun,” Hyori laughed, “if he loses to a woman.”

Misaki could have mentioned that losing a fight against her was nothing for a young boy—or even a man—to be ashamed of, but that was a part of herself she didn’t talk about anymore. Takeru had forbidden it.

“Me too!” Nagasa squealed, getting his own play sword and bouncing up and down. “Kaa-chan, me too!”

“Boys, careful of the baby!” Hyori warned as Ryota and Nagasa charged Misaki at the same time.

But Misaki was more than capable of fending off two children with her right arm while keeping her infant cradled comfortably in her left. It was only when the noise became too much for Izumo that he started crying and Misaki had to call off the duel.

“Sorry, boys,” she said, turning her icicle sword to vapor with a wave of her hand. “That’s all for today. I yield. Good fight, Yukino-dono.” She ruffled Ryota’s hair. “Matsuda-dono.” She chucked Nagasa under the chin. “We’ll have to duel again sometime.”

Smiling, she retreated to the couch to comfort Izumo.

“Oh no!” Nagasa dropped his play sword and followed his mother to the couch with a look of genuine worry. “Baby crying!”

“He’s not upset with you, Naga-kun,” Misaki assured the two-year-old. “He’s just hungry.”

Tugging the front of her kimono open, Misaki maneuvered the bawling infant inside and gave him her breast. The squalling stopped almost immediately.

“You can’t be too scared of a little carnage,” Setsuko teased, prodding Izumo’s foot. “After all, you’ve got to grow up to be a great warrior, just like your grumpy father.”

“Hey now, Setsuko,” Misaki said with a smile. “Don’t make fun of my grumpy husband. He works hard to keep that frown plastered on his face all day.”

“Mattaku!” Hyori exclaimed with an annoyed ‘tsk’ of her tongue. “Do you know how happy Dai would be if I could give him four good sons. I tell you, he would smile all day if he had a son like your Mamoru.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think Mamoru would be just as happy to have Dai-san as his father,” Misaki said.

“Oh yeah?” Hyori perked up.

“You didn’t know? Dai-san is his favorite instructor he’s ever had, for sword and jiya.”

That sent Hyori into a fit of giggles. “Misaki-san, don’t tease!”

“I’m not teasing,” Misaki said honestly.

“His father is Matsuda Takeru,” Hyori said, “master of the Whispering Blade, the greatest swordsman on the mountain.”

“And a terrible teacher,” Misaki said. “The extent of his instruction is to cross his arms, and glower, and say, ‘Bad. Do it again.” She pulled her face into a scowl, and plunged to the lower limit of her vocal register to affect her husband’s clipped monotone. “Still bad. Do it again. Listen. Get it right or I’ll gut you, you disgrace. What do you mean you don’t understand? What’s to understand? Just do it right .”

“Stop! Stop!” Setsuko begged, clutching her stomach with laughter. “Your Takeru impression is too good! I’m going to die!”

“How do you even get your voice that low?” Hyori laughed.

“What? You mean like this?” Misaki thundered. “Silly woman, you couldn’t possibly understand such matters. My manliness does not allow for human inflection.”

The trio plunged into another fit of giggles, and because their mothers were laughing, Ryota and Nagasa ended up laughing too.

Misaki had spent years trying to belong with these people. They weren’t like her friends from her school days. They weren’t scrappy visionaries like Elleen, or geniuses like Koli, or unstoppable forces of energy like Robin. They would never change the world, nor understand why someone would want to, but they loved her. She could laugh with them, and that was enough.

There were days Misaki could convince herself that it was enough.

* * *

Chapter Two: The Mist

The training arena was a broad shelf of rock that the monks used to use for exercise and meditation. According to legend, the flattened half-moon had been hewn out of the mountainside by the Whispering Blades of Matsudas long dead—Mamoru’s ancestors.

“Perfect weather for today’s practice!” Yukino Sensei bellowed over the wind whipping across the arena. “Now we’ll have a true test of accuracy!”

Mamoru heard teeth chattering and turned to see Kwang with his arms pulled all the way into his uniform.

“Is it always so cold up here?” The new boy shivered.

Mamoru almost laughed. “Wait until the winter.”

Human-sized bundles of straw stood at intervals across the arena, frozen to the rock by Yukino Sensei’s ice. Tied to each bundle was a coarse cloth sign with a number painted on it. Mamoru’s jiya was already itching to surge into action as Yukino Sensei raised his voice above the wind to explain the day’s exercise.

“For most of this week, we’ve been working on forming aerodynamic ice projectiles. Now, you boys still have a great deal of work to do on that front,” Yukino Sensei said, stopping in front of Mamoru to give him a pointed look, “especially those of you who hope to one day master a certain bloodline technique.” Mamoru gave his teacher a small, determined nod, and Yukino Sensei turned to address the entire class. “Despite your sub-par forming work, I’m going to cut you all some slack so that we can train the next technique. Today, I’ve made your projectiles for you.” He gestured to a stack of perfectly-formed ice spears, each one three strides long, with a fine point at one end and a broad base at the other to allow for a strong launch.

“What bloodline technique is he talking about?” Kwang asked Mamoru as Yukino Sensei paced further down the line of boys. “What does your family do that’s so special?”

“You’re joking, right?” Itsuki interjected with an incredulous look at Kwang. “Mamoru is a Matsuda.”

No understanding registered on Kwang’s face. “Yes?”

“The Matsudas are the masters of the Whispering Blade,” Itsuki said. “You must have heard of the Whispering Blade in the capital.”

“Well—sure—but it’s just a myth,” Kwang laughed, but when the serious look on Itsuki’s face didn’t change, his smile faded and he turned to Mamoru with wide eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Mamoru shrugged. “Some myths are true.”

“But it’s not possible,” Kwang protested. “No jijaka can make ice strong enough to cut through steel!”

“Some can.”

“Are you one of them?” Kwang asked in awe.

Mamoru set his jaw. “I will be.”

Kwang considered Mamoru, his eyes squinted in thought. “I don’t believe you,” he said after a moment. “Even Kusanagi jijakalu can’t be that powerful.”

Instead of retorting, Mamoru just nodded toward Yukino Sensei and said, “Watch.”

The master jijaka had lifted one of the spears from the pile with a gentle gesture of his hand. His two fingers were enough to keep the projectile hovering perfectly still in the air before him as he spoke.

“The strongest tajaka can throw a spear sixteen bounds,” Yukino Sensei bellowed, pointing with his free hand across the arena to the straw dummy painted with the Kaigengua numeral 16. “The best fonyaka can use wind to launch a solid projectile twenty-five bounds.” He pointed beyond the first dummy to one farther away labeled with a number 25. “As a jijaka, you can do much more.”

Placing a hand against the flattened end of the projectile, Yukino Sensei planted his feet and launched the ice forward. Mamoru had seen Lightning Dai’s jiya in action enough times that it no longer set his heart leaping into his throat. But beside him, he heard Kwang gasp.

The spear blasted through the 16-bound dummy, through the 25-bound dummy, all the way to the end of the arena where it stuck into a third dummy marked with a barely discernible number 40.

“Holy Falleke!” Kwang breathed, gawking at the destroyed 16-bound bundle.

“Tajakalu may be able to use their physical strength to throw a projectile,” Yukino Sensei said, turning back to his class, “fonyakalu may be able to use their nyama to push against one. Our nyama is the projectile. When a weapon is made of ice, we can control it down to the molecule. As jijakalu, we are the only race of theonite who can fight with a solid weapon that is truly an extension of the self.”

Yukino Sensei gave each student a stack of projectiles and had them line up across the arena to practice firing at the army of straw targets.

Using his jiya to lift a spear, Mamoru laid his palm against the flat end and let his power rise. The ocean may not have been visible from Kumono Academy, but when Mamoru pooled his jiya in his core, it seemed to reach all the way down the mountain, to the waves that crashed at its base, and deeper than that, into the crushing depths where Mount Takayubi’s roots met the seafloor.

Ryuhon tradition claimed that the great families of Kusanagi were descended from the ocean gods who had dwelt in the Sea of Kaigen at the dawn of time. Most people of the peninsula regarded this part of their tradition as more metaphor than fact. Logically, there was no way human beings could be the direct descendants of titanic fish and sea dragons.

But like many Matsudas before him, Mamoru experienced surges of madness, when the feeling of his jiya consumed him. In those moments, he knew that the power rolling through his body was born from the ancient forces that had raised Kaigen from the sea. It was more than faith. It was fact.

The power of gods rose, thunderous, like a wave inside Mamoru, and he rode the swell, moving his body with it. As the wave hit its apex, he sent its full force down his arm, through his open palm, into the ice. The projectile exploded through the air, shooting farther than anyone else’s, but it didn’t fly straight. It glanced off the stone shelf, breaking its fletching blades, and skidded to a stop off to the side of the 25-bound target. Mamoru frowned and shook out his hands. He was just getting warmed up. With his full power, he would launch the spear so hard that it would have no choice but to go straight through the target.

Letting a new wave of nyama build in his body, Mamoru launched again. This spear managed to clip the 25-bound target, but it wasn’t a clean hit, and the ice broke apart instead of penetrating.

“Stop pushing so hard, Matsuda-san,” Yukino Sensei said patiently. “You have more than enough power to send a projectile clear across this arena. Relax your shoulders and focus on accuracy over force.”

“Yes, Sensei,” Mamoru breathed and raised another projectile.

“Slow down.” Yukino Sensei reached out and placed his fingertips on the ice, stilling it before Mamoru could raise it level with the target. “Your jiya is too excited; I can feel it roaring every which way inside you. Take a moment to calm it. Focus your energy, then try again.”

* * *

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23

Chosen

Casey White

Jas expected to hear a tale of glory and heroism. He hadn’t planned on living it.

Drenwell is in trouble. The idyllic nation teeters on the brink of disaster as one trouble after another lines up before it. Crops fail. Animals flee. Earthquakes rattle the land. In the midst of it all is the mountain, rising tall over the plains and forests. Legends passed down over the years place it as the center of the kingdom’s woes, host to an ancient, looming threat.

Tucked away in the countryside, Jas isn’t worried. Drenwell has a savior waiting, a man chosen by their god to defeat this evil. He knows it better than anyone, since this Chosen is his childhood friend, Darren. Jas knows that Darren will be the one to end the threat and keep them safe.

But their Chosen is clever, armed with his god-given gifts and talents, and he’s no fool. He can see the truth of the mission laid in front of him, its dangers and risks. The expectations placed on him are strong, but the will to live is stronger still.

When faced with his ‘heroic’ fate, he chooses an option no one expected - least of all Jas. With no way left to him but forward, Jas finds himself trapped into playing hero in Darren’s place.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 5

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

“Wait! Wait for me!” Sal cried, a grin stretching from ear to ear as she bounded towards me. Paulson and I already clutched rods in our hands, ready to be on our way. He sighed, the sound rippling with fond exasperation as she tripped in a whirlwind of black hair and brown skirts. Squeaking, she caught herself an instant before she faceplanted into the dirt and skidded to a halt next to our little group.

I shook my head. “No. No way. Why do you want to go? You don’t even- Where did you get a rod?” I caught myself before I could finish, seeing the slender wooden fishing rod caught in the ten-year-old’s fist.

The girl only grinned, kicki ng me in the shin. “I am too coming. Darren said I could take his.” She held the fishing rod out proudly.

I scowled at her, shoving her back. That kick hurt. “What? Why would he give it to you? Isn’t he-” I stopped, seeing her shake her head.

“Nope,” she said. “That old priest asked him to stay today. Extra lessons.” She made a face, her opinion of the haughty man all too clear.

Paulson shrugged. “Whatever. Can we go already, Jas?” He glanced to me for an instant before wheeling towards the path, not so much as waiting for a reply.

“But-” I started. Extra lessons? Darren? That didn’t make any sense to me. Darren was...Well, he was head and shoulders ahead of the rest of us in just about everything, as much as it hurt to admit. Why would the priest want him to spend more time in the village’s tiny, ramshackle chapel? He hardly needed the extra studying.

Those were the thoughts circling in my head, but there was nothing more to say. We’d promised to walk to the river a week ago. A whole week. And now he couldn’t make it? I stared back at Goldenvale, the lonely rows of cabins pressed together amidst the fields. Somewhere in there, our friend was spending his day in lessons i nstead of with us. That was wrong. But try as I might, I couldn’t think of a way to get him out of it.

“Jas!” Paulson yelled, halfway down the path already. “Come on!” Sal bounced ahead of him, g iggling.

“Slow down! I’m coming,” I yelled, pulling my eyes away from the village as I tore after them.

* * *

“Just a little longer,” I said, my voice wheedling.

Sal pouted. “What? It’s getting dark. I’m cold. And bored.” The girl spun in place before throwing herself onto the ground, just a little farther up the bank. She’d given up fishing some time ago. I wasn’t surprised.

“You wanted to come,” I muttered.

“I d idn’t think you’d want to fish until night,” she said, glaring at me. The three of us sat on the sharply angled riverbank, perched on rocks over the fast-running water. Drenwell was a quiet, warm country, splashed with forests and farmland. The mountains looming in the distance were a different matter entirely, though, and the rivers flowing down off their slopes were cold and clear. Perfect for fishing, even if it wound up being a bit of a hike to get out to anywhere worth our time.

I glared right back. “Well, we did. If you have a problem with that, walk home alone.” I pointed to the trail.

She drew back. “But...It’s dark.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, smirking at her.

“It is getting pretty dark out,” Paulson said. “Maybe we should-”

“Come on…” I said, turning to him.

He grinned, shrugging. “Well, it is.”

I huffed a little while longer, staring down at the line of fish strung out on the rock-studded embankment. We’d had a good afternoon, it was true, and the sun hung low in the sky. Already, the trail through the woods was near-black with the heavy shadows draped over i t. But I didn’t want to go back just because she wanted to go back. The only things waiting for us back in Goldenvale would be chores and lectures about staying out too late.

“Jas,” Paulson said. I glanced up. He was gathering up the day’s catch, pulling his own line in from the water. Sal bounced nearby, all smiles again. He shrugged. “It’s late. Let’s go.”

There was no sense in sulking over it, I told myself. It had been a good day. And so I stood to join Paulson, slowly winding my own line back onto the ramshackle spool.

“Hurry up!” Sal said. She just couldn’t sit still, impatiently bouncing from rock to rock on the riverbank.

I kept reeling in my line with careful deliberation. “I am hurrying.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re being slow because you’re grumpy.” Arms flying, she leapt to another boulder.

“Sal, be careful,” Paulson said, straightening as he watched her.

“You don’t look like my mom. Why do you sound like her?” she said, laughing as she landed in a clatter on the stone.

“Jas, grab Darren’s rod, would you?” he said, turning away from the girl with an exasperated sigh.

Glaring at Paulson, I trudged over to where the disca rded rod lay on the shore. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t know why I have to-”

I spun at the sound of her panicked yelp, my muttered complaint dying on my lips. Sal teetered, off-balance and windmilling desperately as the rock beneath her shifted in the muddy soil of the riverbank. We didn't even have time to yell. We could only watch as she staggered, tumbling, to land awkwardly on a boulder farther out.

The crack of her ankle breaking carried perfectly across the still evening air. The sound of crashing water followed immediately after, as she fell head-first into the river.

“Sal!” Paulson yelled, his face gone pale as he stood frozen. The string of fish hung limp from his hands.

I was closer. Tossing my rod aside, I hurled myself into the water. The icy chill of it knocked my breath from me in a single rush.

Sal broke the surface ahead of me, spluttering desperately. She didn’t waste her breath on crying. Her teeth were gritted, clenched against the pain, but her eyes were wide and terrified. In another instant, she slipped back under the surface.

I gasped a l ungful of air in as I surged towards her. The river here looked passable enough at a glance, but it was deeper than it seemed and carved out by a fast-running current at its heart. The frigid bite of it made dipping into the waters a whole different beast. It was a pleasure to swim there in the height of summer, to come up shivering in the hot air. But with a broken ankle, off-balance and unprepared with the night setting in?

I kept my eyes fixed on the churning waters where she’d slipped back under. Paulson was bellowin g something from the shore, but he didn’t follow me in.

Where was she? My mind raced, a thousand thoughts all fighting for control, but through it all was the single, burning realization that I needed to find her, now. I thrashed onward, my arms spread desperately.

Something connected wit h my hand. I latched on for all I was worth, feeling a painful pop in my shoulder as it overextended. Sal’s head broke the surface as she gasped for air again.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Hold on,” I said, the words falling out of me in a rush as I tried to convey a confidence I didn’t feel. I had her by the wrist, somehow. The river was still pulling at me, surging with a power that was quickly sending a tingling, painful numbness through my legs, but I co uld stand. That was more than she could do on one leg.

“Jas! Here! Hurry!” a voice yelled from the shoreline. Paulson. He’d finally broken free of his trance, it seemed. His hand was extended towards us, ready and waiting for me to grab.

My hand ached, caught between the hot burn of my muscles’ complaint and the cold of the river. There was no way I was going to let go, though. Slowly, all too slowly, I pulled her in closer to the riverbank.

Close enough. My palm slapped down against Paulson’s. He was towing us in a heartbeat later, inch by inch.

A few minutes and a lifetime of fear later, we collapsed in a heap on the rocky shore. Sal whimpered softly, curling as she coughed up water. One hand stretched towards her ankle. I could see it swelling, even with the little bit of light we had left.

“I-I’m going to- I’ll go find someone,” Paulson said, his voice trembling as he stumbled backwards. I was too busy trying to catch my breath to tell him to stop. In a moment he was gone, the sound of his flight vanishing into the forest.

He was right - we needed an adult. That was a good plan. But I was already shivering, my clothes soaked through and rapidly chilling. I was sure Sal was faring no better. We couldn’t just wait here for however long it took our friend to track help down.

“Hey. C’mere,” I said, forcing myself to take one deep breath after another as I inched closer to Sal. She shook her head. She was crying, ever so softly. The sound made me feel even worse than I already did. “Here. We need to get back to the village. Just...can you grab on?” I swiveled, my back pointed towards her as I crouched down.

She sniffled. “C-can’t.”

I scowled. “Can too. Come on, Sal. Just climb on, and we’ll get you some help.” I glared back over my shoulder, making my face hard and cold enough that she finally stopped fighting. Her hands trembled as she wrapped them across my shoulders, arms pressed tight against my neck.

“It’s dark,” she said, half-whining.

I sighed. And then I focused all of my will into a tiny point, squeezing my eyes shut with the effort of it. I just had to find it, the well that I knew was waiting somewhere under my skin. For a second, with the nig ht pressing in on me and my whole body shivering, it slipped away. But - there. At her indrawn gasp, my eyes slid back open.

A tiny ball of pale green light floated in front of me, hovering in midair ahead of us. “There,” I said, trying to keep the self-satisfaction out of my words. “Now it’s not so dark. Just hold on.” It was true - the ball of light shimmered, looking for all the world like a tiny orb of green fire, but it lit the trail back home well enough to walk by. Sal buried her face in my shoulder.

That was going to have to be good enough . Gritting my teeth and feeling all too clearly the exertion of carrying her and casting a ball of mage-light, I stood up and started walking onward.

As the river slid away into the night behind us, the rush of water fading out into the songs of crickets and owls, I began to regret that little ball of light. I’d walked this trail dozens - hundreds - of times, but that was in the day. At night, with only that pale, wan light, every shadow loomed like a monster waiting to jump out from behind a tree. Despite all my best intentions, my nerves were beginning to fray. Even the moon was half-hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, vanishing entirely once we were well and truly into the forest.

Sal, for her part, hadn’t moved since I’d stood up. Her face was still hidden against my back, her sniffles carrying through the night air. It wasn’t easy to hold her without grabbing her broken ankle, but I wasn’t about to complain, either.

One step at a time, that was the trick. If I worried too much about what was around us, the wolves creeping out of the dark and the monsters waiting just behind the nearest tree, then it was all I could do to keep from running screaming and crying back to my mother’s arms, leaving Sal behind in the night. I just had to not, to focus on keeping my feet on the trail and moving forwar d. I was just trembling from the cold and exertion, I told myself. I wasn’t scared.

The distant lights of Goldenvale were a relief as we worked our way out of the forest and onto the smoother, well-packed road weaving between the village’s fields.

Sal sighed, her voice filled with fear, pain, and longing in even measure. “I’m going to be in so much trouble,” she said, her voice a thin, pale reflection of its normally bright tones.

I shook my h ead. “No way. We’ll be fine.” Contrary to my words, I was pretty sure that we were in for a good lecture. But she was already sniffling, pushed nearly to the breaking point. Telling her she was going to get yelled at on top of that wasn’t going to help anything. I tried to smile instead, but the sight of something bounding through the fields towards us put an end to that before it had so much as begun.

Instantly, all of those fears surged back as I stopped fast enough to set Sal to crying anew. My mind was complete ly frozen, carrying my limbs along with it as I stared wide-eyed towards where something charged noisily through the dense rows of crops.

“What’s that?” Sal whispered, wiping her eyes dry as she looked up.

I shook my head, taking a step backwards. “I...I don’t know.” It was just too dark, the stalks too thick. There was no way for me to get a clear look at whatever it was that was approaching us.

Another sob rose in her chest. “Jas, I’m scared. Let’s go. Now.”

I couldn’t agree more. Half-stumbling, my feet began retracing their steps back towards the woods even as I peered through the night, still fixated on that distant rustling.

My heart skipped a beat as the incessant waving of the stalks gave way to a dark figure leaping free onto the path. No. Two figures, lean and leggy as they loped along. Spirits, coming to steal us away, or monsters hungry for our blood. I was sure of it. My legs trembled, nearly giving way underneath me, but I managed to keep my footing. We had to run. Goldenvale was right there. We could-

“Jas!” a voice bellowed, from somewhere ahead of us. Adrenaline coursed through my veins all over again as I flinched at the sudden noise. Before my eyes, the two looming creatures gave way to the lanky forms of our friends. Paulson grinned, his face visibly red even through the pale glow my mage-light afforded. Darren ran out front, half a head taller than Paulson and covering the distance with ease. He smiled, seeing I’d heard his call, but it was strained, worried.

I stopped right where I was, feeling for the first time the pure exhaustion in my limbs, the way my legs trembled from the effort of carrying Sal this far. Within moments, Paulson and Darren were upon us, lifting the girl off my back.

“Sun and spirit,” I swore, shaking my head at the two of them. “Give me a little warning next time before you scare the life straight out of me.” They flashed apologetic waves my way, but were too intent on our friend to pay me much mind.

Sal whimpered at the movement as she slid from my back, but offered them a wan smile. “You’re late,” she complained, her face pale. Her leg was horribly swollen by the n, clearly sensitive to the slightest touch.

“Sorry. Finally got away. Old idiot just would not stop talking,” Darren said, grinning back. “Did you have fun fishing?”

“I forgot your rod,” Sal whispered, her face crumpling.

I tumbled to a seat on the grass, trying to catch my breat h. In a single instant, I’d been relegated to the role of bystander. It hadn’t been either of them that had fished her out or carried her all the way here.

“That’s ok,” Darren said, his too-blue eyes bright as he patted her head reassuringly. “It’ll be there.” He was talking to Sal, but I could tell that all of his attentions were on her leg. Slowly, gingerly, he pulled the leg on her breeches up so that he could see it.

I winced, despite myself. It was worse than it had looked before, horribly twisted and a deep shade of purple from all the blood rushing there. Sal twisted, trying to get a look at it, but Paulson grabbed her shoulders.

“There, see, it’s nothing at all,” Darren said slowly, looking it up and down. I frowned. Nothing at all? She’d be off the leg for weeks - if she were lucky. Months, if we wasted any more time getting her to a proper healer.

Even as I stared down at her ankle, trying to hide the sweat pouring down the back of my neck, Darren reached out his hand and laid it on her swollen skin.

“Everbright, grant me your warmth and your light,” he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. “Stay my hand, guide it and bestow upon it your divine grace, that I might mend that which has broken.”

Paulson and I both fell into stunned silence, unable to do more than watch. Before our eyes, the dim glow of my green mage-light was dwarfed, outshone by the golden light pouring from Darren’s palm. It flickered here and there with blue fire, spreading across Sal’s leg. I flinched, reaching for her. She would burn, she would-

Darren cracked one eye, fixing me with a glare, and I froze.

On and on he murmured, intoning one nonsensical-sounding prayer after another. I’d learned the usual lessons from the Order’s priests stationed in Goldenvale, but within moments I was hopelessly out of my depth. Paulson seemed to fare no better, staring at him wide-eyed and silent.

But Darren at least seemed to have complete confidence in whatever he was doing. He didn’t falter, didn’t stumble over words or lose his breath. And little by little, the swelling was going down. Sal’s tears slowed, finally stopping altogether as her leg straightened before her eyes.

When at last it was whole, just as perfect and unblemished as when we’d left that afternoon, the gold-and-blue lights faded away. It was easier, under the cover of darkness that remained. I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t gaping, didn’t have to hide the fact that my face was as white as a sheet.

Cautiously, Sal rose, her hands clasped in Darren’s as he eased her to her feet. Slowly, carefully, she tested her weight, leaning delicately onto her leg.

When it held, without so much as a quiver, she beamed. Her grin spread from ear to ear. Laughin g uproariously, she launched herself at Darren.

“How did you do that?” she crowed as he chuckled. “That’s crazy. What was that, Darren?” Paulson wasn’t far behind her, although he was better at holding himself back. Darren flashed me a smile and a nod, his little acknowledgment of my efforts. Both of our friends were ecstatic, shocked and surprised at the unexpected talents of our friend, keeping him from saying much more on the matter.

Well. Those talents might have been unexpected for them. I wasn’t surprised in the least, and even though I grinned right alongside Paulson and Sal, I knew better than to throw myself on Darren like he was just another kid. Even then, I knew it. Paulson and Sal, and the rest of the kids running wild in our backwater village? We were little more than peasants, when it came down to it. I was just the son of a woodsman and an herbalist, and I knew that whatever I wound up being, it wouldn’t stray far from that.

Darren, though? Our friend, who could heal with a touch, effortlessly working magic that even Goldenvale’s priest would shed sweat and tears to learn? The world was wide open before him.

Even then, I knew it.

Darren was different from the rest of us.

* * *

Years have a way of passing before you’re even aware that time is slipping away. We treated those fields and forests as though we owned them, learning every creek and every cave as we tore new trails across the wilderness. We thought we had an eternity in front of us, one endless summer to while away. An eternal, blissful reverie, filled with certain things we held constant, anchors against the world.

No one ever left the village. Very few ever came. Now and again a trader would slip through, bearing with him relics of far-away lands filled with mountains and ocean shores, treasures too expensive to more than look at from afar. Even their comings and goings were a constant in their own way, bringing with them a rhythm to life in the village.

Surrounded by that illusion of constancy, our childhood slipped away before we knew it, unchanging. I knew the truth of Goldenvale all too well, the reality of my little world that proved itself time and time again. It was useless to fight it, I knew, leaving me exhausted from all of the effort I’d wasted. And yet I simply couldn’t bring myself to stop. No matter how hard I tried, though, there was a singular truth that stared me straight back in the face.

We each had our talents, but above all else, we were just painfully normal children. Darren, though? Darren was different from the rest of us. Special, in a way we weren’t. He stood apart from us - gifted. Chosen.

Everyone knew it, from the very first day that our little group of adolescents picked up stick 'swords' under our elderly teacher’s careful eyes. Darren had swung circles around the rest of us stripling boys and girls without even a thought. No matter how much we tried, no matter how hard we pra cticed, we were always the ones who wound up on our asses in the dirt. The town guards watched him. Always watching. They knew something was wrong, could see the strangeness in him. But we were just kids - we didn’t know anything was different. Darren was just...Darren. He was strong. He was our friend.

I was no different from the rest, of course. That much had never changed, no matter how many years passed. I admired him, clinging to the little gang of our fellows we ran around the countryside with. His right-hand boy, his best friend. But hidden where he couldn’t see me, I practiced just a little bit harder than the rest. Some part of me was always chasing after him, desperately trying to catch up. It didn’t make a difference. I still couldn't beat him.

The same story played out time and time again. Magic lessons from the local hedgewoman? I could make a flower bloom, coaxing its petals open with a shimmer of green fire. Darren could send a hillside into full blossom. Church school with the priest? I could bless a cup of water, clearing the murk and leaving it clear and pure. Darren?

Darren ascended. Beams of light, divine voices from above, the complete package. The priest fainted on the spot. Our friends tittered and gaped, falling over themselves in their awe. His mother cried.

I watched as the Order scooped him up and carted him away to Drenwell for ceremony after ceremony. That was all I could do - watch. That was all I could ever do. He came back, exhausted and beaming, but the divide between us had never been more clear.

The great calamity was coming, the rumors said, and we all knew it was true. The whole village could tell something was wrong. The mountain looming on the horizon was rumbling, shaking the ground even from such a distance. The birds were fewer each spring, finding other places to call home for the summer. The animals fled our little village, year after year, until our hunters could barely find enough to feed everyone. The world itself seemed to be holding its breath. Waiting.

Something was coming, and Darren was our key to stopping it. That was what they said - the Order, the clerics that seemed to visit our village in greater numbers every year. Who were we to argue with what the god’s priests said? Every time it was brought up to him, he just smirked with that proud little grin. His chest would puff out, and his head would swell just a little bit bigger.

Darren was my friend, but I'll admit it. I was jealous. I was tired of being second best, tired of always living in his shadow as the friend of the god’s chosen. So I practiced. When the adults weren't looking, I'd practice swordplay. I'd sneak off in the woods to hunt, learning how to track, how to shoot a bow. I'd try to remember just the way he moved when he blocked a strike, or the pattern his hands traced in the air as he cast a spell. Slowly but surely, I was improving.

But it wasn't fast enough. It never was.

* * *

That spring, the spring of our 19th year, a platoon of soldiers rode into town. Everyone just stood around and stared, mouths hanging open. I was no different, standing gaping and dumbfounded outside the ramshackle little home where I lived - alone, ever since a fever had taken my parents a few years past. No one had ever seen a procession like that come to our little village, which was in truth little more than a few haggard cabins carved from the hillsides and forest. The soldiers stood and waited while a man wearing brilliantly polished armor over pristine white-and-gold robes carefully dismounted.

Darren didn’t look happy. Not at all, in fact. He was rapidly going white as a sheet, and even as I watched, his eyes flicked to mine. I froze. There was fear there, hidden under the easy, casual nonchalance he always wore. Even though he’d always been different, and enjoyed that, he’d always seemed reluctant, somehow. Not in front of everyone else, of course - he’d never admit it if you asked him - but I knew Darren too well not to see it. I’d thought it was just nerves. It would have been understandable.

But there was fear in his eyes, looking back at me.

The garishly-dressed man went to Darren. I don't know how he knew my friend even existed, or how he knew which one he was. But he put a hand on his shoulder, like an old friend, and they went into the temple together.

The door slid shut behind them, leaving me standing clueless with the rest.

I heard what details we got through the grapevine. Rumor spreads fast in a town that small, just as fast as tiny legs can carry the message, and before an hour had passed it seemed everyone knew. Darren was leaving, they said. Gone, for who knew how long. He’d be away in the morning, off to the grand, bustling capital. His time had come at last, they said. The archbishop had come for him, and he was to go to the mountain. He would defeat the evil inside it, and we would be safe. So they all said.

The rumors all sounded so confident, so sure of things. I t sounded like another load of nonsense to me. One man and a few soldiers? Against a mountain? That just didn't make sense. Fighting what? For the first time, the jealousy waned. He could have that glory. I wanted no part of a suicide mission like that.

I went to bed, sad at the thought of losing my friend the next morning, but secretly...happy. Happy to be sleeping in my own bed, without that pressure on me.

The door creaked, too loud in the quiet house. My eyes shot ope n, pulling me out of my half-slumber instantly. Someone was here. In my home, where no one should be but me. Everyone in the whole damn town was supposed to be asleep. So why was someone here?

Slowly, carefully, I reached over the side of my bed to where my knife lay, carelessly tossed there the night before. I could hear footsteps coming down the hallway all the while, the floorboard gently complaining. My searching fingers found the handle at last. I seized it, clutching it to my chest protectively, and threw the covers back.

Darren crouched at the foot of my bed, a finger pressed desperately to his lips. I stopped mid-toss, staring at him.

"What are you doing?" I hissed. "You're supposed to be asleep. Gods, if anyone notices you’re gone…If the village thinks I'm keeping the damned Chosen awake the night before his big adventure, they'd-"

"Probably excommunicate you. And throw you from the village," he whispered back, a grin teasing around the corners of his lips. Despite myself, I chuckled too. "Scary stuff. I just...I just wanted to talk, y'know?" He sighed, and just for a moment, I saw through it.

Beneath the facade of the Chosen, beneath the veneer of the pomp and ceremony of it all, I could once again see the fear in my friend's eyes. The sight of it brought with it the first hints of honest shame, for being happy at how this had all played out. He was a bit of an ass sometimes, sure. Mo re often than not. But he was still my friend.

"It's not so bad," I heard myself saying. "It won't be so awful."

"They want me to fight a mountain, Jas." His voice was quiet, but I could hear the strain in it. "A godsdamned mountain. Or whatever's in it, anyway. How am I supposed to do that? What does that even mean?"

I opened my mouth to respond, and stopped. I'd asked myself the same questions only a few hours ago. "Damned if I know. But if anyone can do it, you can," I said finally.

His eyes flicked away, like he didn't want to meet my gaze.

I frowned. "You can. You're strong, Darren. Stronger than any of us."

"I never wanted to be." His voice was quiet and low, his eyes downcast.

I grabbed his shoulder, catching myself a moment before I got too loud. "Rellan’s shiny ass, Darren, I would have wanted to take a few less spills in the dirt while you were learning how to fight, but we don't all get what we want, right? You got power. There are worse things to wind up with. Being strong isn’t such a bad thing."

"You're strong too, you know.” For the first time, his voice was contemplative.

My frown deepened as I pulled away. "Well, some of us had to work to keep up, you know. I'm glad you noticed." A note of bitterness crept into my voice despite my best efforts.

He grinned wryly. "Oh, I always noticed. You thought you were so sneaky. Always sli pping away to practice on your own. You thought no one saw, didn't you?"

I rubbed my nose awkwardly. I could already feel my ears tingeing red. I was not comfortable in the spotlight. It wasn't meant for me. I was happy being the second fiddle in this play. "I just..I did what I had to, you know?"

"...I think I do." His hand landed on my shoulder, comfortably resting there. But something was wrong. His voice wasn't comfortable. There was a tension running deep within it. My eyes flipped up, to his face.

And then I saw the flickers of magic, rising deep within the blue of his eyes. Gold-touched blue flames d anced out, to spin in the air between us. I tried to pull away, but it was like I was wrapped in iron. His hand held me fast.

"I'm just...I'm just doing what I have to do too, you know?" Darren said, his voice rising plaintively. His eyes stared back at me, wide and with that horrible fe ar somewhere deep down in their core. I glared at him, horrified, stricken to silence by whatever he was doing. He smiled sadly. "I don't want to die. I can't die. Not here, not now. I'm the Chosen One, after all."

The magic rose in a crescendo around us, wrapping the two of us in an azure cocoon. I could still hear his voice, even as the world went to white around me. Something was happening. Even as he spoke, even as I sat frozen, I could feel myself...changing. As though something were pulling at my skin, my bones.

"All these fools think they can force the hand of fat e. But It's not time. I can't die on this mission. I can’t go. But they won't take no for an answer."

I was beginning to see where this was going, and I did not like it.

"You, though. You're good, you know. You're better than anyone else here. At magic, and swordplay, and hunting. You watched me for so long, didn't you? You wanted to be the hero. For so many years, you must have kept it in. I'm sorry." His tone was wistful. He almost sounded as though he had regrets about everything happening. That didn’t change what he was doing.

The magic fell from the air, leaving it acrid and stale. I star ed, still held fast, at my own face looking back at me.

"I'm so sorry."

It was my voice, but it was coming from his mouth, crouching there by my bedside. He wore my eyes, the green eyes that were the spitting image of my mother's, and his frame was stocky and ungraceful, just like my father's.

I didn't even have to move or look in a mirror to know what he'd done. To know that my own eyes were now blue, and my frame long like a dancer’s. I glared at him, the only thing I could do while he held me.

He smiled sadly. "You were always my best friend, you know. It's for the world. I can't die here." His hand fell away from my shoulder, but I was still stuck in place like a statue. He raised an eyebrow at me.

"What are you doing? You're in my bed, Darren. And it's late. You should get going. You have a big day tomorrow."

I could feel my fee t rising under me, pushing me out of bed. The world loo ked different, and I realized that this was what it felt like to be taller. Darren had a good four inches on me. He climbed into my bed, still smiling at me.

"You asshole," I managed, finding that I could speak again.

He sighed. "Please don't be like that. I appreciate your sacrifice. It's for the good of everyone. Now go be a hero, just like you've always wanted." His teeth, my teeth, were pearly white as he grinned, all of his earlier sadness hidden behind the self-satisfied smile of one who had won the game. “Chosen.”

I could hear his comfortable groan as he settled into my bed. And then my feet were moving, carrying me out the door towards ‘my’ house- towards Darren's house. I struggled against it, and found that I could control myself, so long as I was cooperating with the intent of whatever binding he had set on me.

I cursed it silently, but it didn't seem to make a difference.

The guards at my door smiled at me as I approached. "Have a good walk, Master Darren?"

I opened my mouth. I tried to tell him that he was wrong, that I wasn't Darren at all. I tried to say that my name was Jas. I tried to ask for help. The binding snapped up all of the words, leaving me only able to nod curtly.

The Chosen One walked wordlessly past his guards. The door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

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More from Casey White

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The Flameweaver Saga

Chosen

Charred

Nightsworn

Ascendant

-

Reverie

—————

Remnants of Magic

Silvertongue

Wanderer

Legion

—————

Halfway to Home

Unknown Horizons

24

Kingshold

D.P. Woolliscroft

Longlisted for the Booknest 2018 Fantasy Awards - Best Self Published Fantasy Novel and Best Debut Novel

Semi-Finalist - 2018 Self Published Fantasy Blog Off (SPFBO)

Quarter-Finalist - 2019 Effys (Epic Fantasy Fanatics)

The King is Dead. Long Live the People!

Mareth is a bard, a serial under achiever, a professional drunk, and general disappointment to his father. Despite this, Mareth has one thing going for him. He can smell opportunity. The King is dead and an election for the new Lord Protector has been called. If he plays his cards right, if he can sing a story that will put the right person in that chair, his future fame and drinking money is all but assured. But, alas, it turns out Mareth has a conscience after all.

Neenahwi is the daughter of Jyuth, the ancient wizard who founded the Kingdom of Edland and she is not happy. It's not just that her father was the one who killed the King, or that he didn't tell her about his plans. She's not happy because her father is leaving, slinking off into retirement and now she has to clean up his mess.

Alana is a servant at the palace and the unfortunate soul to draw the short straw to attend to Jyuth. Alana knows that intelligence and curiosity aren't valued in someone of her station, but sometimes she can't help herself. And so she finds herself drawn into the Wizard's schemes, and worst of all, coming up with her own plans.

Chance brings this unlikely band together to battle through civil unrest, assassinations, political machinations, pirates and monsters, all for a common cause that they know, deep down, has no chance of succeeding - bringing hope to the people of Kingshold.

Grit level: 8

* * *

Endings And Beginnings

The king and queen looked down from the Floral Gate, their features bereft of emotion as the people of Kingshold celebrated in the street before them. Mareth stood at the side of the cobbled road known as the Lance (both for its arms and armor merchants and that it stretched in a dead straight line from the Inner to the Outer Wall). Considering the scene around him, he gave passing attention to the ache behind his eyes. Another late night at the Swallow and Sixpence.

It was said, when King Roland had wed the then Lady Tulip, that Kingshold had really partied. Hundreds of bonfires, minstrels, dancing. Good old cavorting. Unfortunately, Mareth had missed out on that particular celebration, not being in the city at the time. That was back in his adventuring days, but he had heard about it on his return; after all, it was his job to gather stories as a Bard from the College of Longford. Mareth had just woken up to the impromptu party across the city (outside of the Upper Circle, of course; the rich preferred their parties indoors); it promised to make the royal wedding look like a harvest festival.

But the king did not smile to see such joy in his subjects. And the queen wore her distinctive frown of disapproval. She was known to detest the sight of commoners , as she would put it.

Five years ago, the king’s reign had begun with much enthusiasm from the general populace—nobility to royal servant, merchant to thief—what with Roland being the beloved son of King Randolph, widely regarded as one of the wisest rulers of Kingshold in a thousand years. Mareth didn’t know if things went downhill because Roland married Tulip, or if it just took him a little while to get into his incompetent stride, but after a year, the honeymoon was over. The hike in taxes, the associated crucifixions for non-payment of said taxes, and the stories of excess that seeped from the palace like pus from a boil created a hatred of the royal couple not experienced since the Red Queen killed hundreds of citizens over one weekend centuries past.

Mareth looked up to gaze at the royal couple in the evening sun. It was nearly the summer solstice, and the days were long. Long enough where he would wake up in the light of the afternoon—usually hung over as he was now—stay up through the night, and head back to his flop house after the sun had risen. But he had told himself many times, those were the hours of a bard. When people drink, they want to hear song and story, and people drink through the night. He didn’t need the ale, or the whiskey, but no one wanted to mix with someone in a drinking room who wasn’t drinking. Obviously. And so, the occasional headache, and maybe some nausea, were just professional hazards. He shielded his eyes as he looked up, considering how he liked the royal couple much more today than he had yesterday, or even the day before.

It seemed like that was the opinion held by most of the throng around him. One man—obviously drunk, with a scraggly black beard over a pockmarked face—shouted something incomprehensible in the direction of the royal couple, and then hurled a turnip. It whistled past their faces with nary a batted eyelid.

It was always amazing how a head or two on a spike could improve the mood of so many. And it wasn’t every day that the king and queen were the crow food.

Of course, this could be a short-lived exuberance. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Would they be trading one turd for a big steaming cow pat?

Mareth took a rolled cigarette out of his pocket—half smoked already—and asked a smith’s assistant for a light. As he leaned against the wall of the smithy, the smoke made his head spin and his throat rough. He closed his eyes, lights dancing against his lids. His dream from last night resurfaced. In it he had written a poem, which was so eloquent, so vivid and heart wrenching, it started a civilian rebellion. Thousands of common people rose up against the king and the nobles of Edland, all motivated by his words like the bards of old. Mareth didn’t necessarily think of himself as a revolutionary. After all, he’d grown up in relative comfort compared to most. But it had been a long time since he had left his father’s house and made his way out into the world. What he had observed since then—literally and figuratively—stunk. No, not a revolutionary, more of an agitator or a herald of what could come.

And then he had woken up today—later than probably nine tenths of the city—to find the object of his hatred cast down! How inconvenient! He considered it a shame he had not finished that poem. One particular stanza caused many lost months and numerous visits to the Giant’s Toe in Four Points to lubricate the words to the page. And now, someone else would take the plaudits for the deaths of the twisted pair. But who? There had not been street fighting, or fires in the palace, or other evidence of a coup, to accompany the deaths of the royal couple.

The cigarette had made him feel ill. Mareth dashed around the corner into an alley and vomited, but nothing but bile was forthcoming.

He should have eaten.

He should stop smoking.

He needed a drink.

He needed more to his life than this squalid existence!

When Mareth had completed his studies, the dean had high hopes for him, even offered him employment at the college, but adventure had called. Back then it wasn’t enough to tell the stories. Mareth had wanted the stories to be about him. These days, Mareth still desired the fame of epic bards like Garm the Glorious and Malia Silk Tongue, those whose portraits adorned the walls of the great college dining hall, and who had also been once-in-a-generation Song Weavers like him. But now he’d be content for his stories to be about anything but him. The adventuring life had proven too painful.

Still, the question lingered. How did the heads of the king and queen magically appear on spikes without any violence elsewhere? There had to be a story here that he could be the one to write. It might not be as big as something to ignite a peasant rebellion, but a bit of fame, fortune, and maybe a companion for the night would be better than his current situation. He considered this to be a good plan. But where to start?

Wiping the spittle from his beard with his sleeve, and walking back out onto the Lance—the contents of his stomach left behind—he considered where he was and the viable options. The royal couple now called the Floral Gate home, so Market Street was just up there, and the Royal Oak couldn’t be more than five minutes away. There was always a better class of drinker in the Royal Oak, and Mareth considered that would be quieter than the streets right now. Not that he was planning on having a drink. No, he just needed to eat. And where better to gather research for his new tale than in a tavern, the place where the gossip of the city flowed before circling the drain. Lovable rogues with rumors aplenty. Traders with secrets fresh from the palace ready to confide in him after sharing a tankard or two. But that was just part of the job, too. He loosely retied his shoulder-length auburn hair behind his head and checked his green trousers and jerkin to make sure there weren’t too many visible stains. After all, he didn’t want to look out of place.

Mareth, feet already moving him in the direction of the Royal Oak, stopped in his tracks. He remembered he would need to apologize to Jules for what happened last time. He couldn’t recall the details of what it was he had done, though he knew it was something. But she’d forgiven him at least three other times in the past, so he was sure it would be alright.

And so, he continued on his way, passing a broad tree, snapdragons sheltering underneath. A small taste of nature’s color in the stone-grey city. Mareth gathered up the yellow flowers, a gift to ease admittance into Jules’s good graces once more.

* * *

Snake Belly Visions

The journey south and east from Kingshold—over the Arz Sea, and then across the northern reaches of Pyrfew, the independent city states of the Green Desert that clung to the edge of the Sea of Night, to eventually arrive at this sweaty, stinky jungle—had taken roughly a week. Neenahwi’s preferred form for a long journey like this was a goose, the wing span and aerodynamic body making the flight smoother and less arduous than if she was to take one of the other forms she used for shorter distances or for hunting.

In the days when she lived on the plains of Missapik, what seemed a lifetime ago, the arrival of geese heralded the beginning of winter. The large birds weren’t native to the prairies or the hills bordering the lands of her tribe. They came from the east and disappeared to the west, only pausing to rest and take on water. Those would be a frantic few days each season, to see how many birds the tribe could take down with arrow and spear, while remembering to be respectful of the strength in those wings and what it could do to a hunter if they got too close.

Years later, after the destruction of her clan, the death of her parents and the estrangement of her brother, Neenahwi had noticed many of these large brown geese spent much of the year around Kingshold, her new home.

As she had mastered the ability to change her form, the goose had been the second one she had sought to master, so she knew she could always fly home at any time. The first being the wolf, to be able to remember the spirit animal of her tribe.

Nearly twelve years had passed since then, and she had yet to make the long journey back. Who knew what was left of her homeland since Pyrfew had started the steady shipment of slaves and resources from what these easterners called the Wild Continent? But that land still called to her, still drove many of her actions. If she were to trace her steps, even this journey was driven by her need to one day go home and right wrongs.

Neenahwi sat cross-legged on the damp earth by a campfire she had coerced to life, using magic when the humid air had foiled traditional means. She could tell her destination was close, but she meant to find out more.

She wore a simple silk robe of purple, wrinkled from being in the pack she had carried as she flew. Transformation only affected her physical body, so clothing was always an issue, and Neenahwi had decided a few years ago that being naked often created problems when dealing with easterners. So, she had crafted a small leather pack to use for travel, wearable over her neck while in the form of a goose, and able to carry a few small essentials. The silk robe being chief among them and the smallest item of clothing she could pack.

Her hair reached down to the middle of her back. When in Kingshold, she would braid it to keep it out of her face. Here in the jungle, she settled for the old methods and used fresh mud from the bank of a small stream to slick it back and hold it in place. Neenahwi’s skin was olive brown with thin scars slightly visible on her arms and face from a life that had held a certain number of challenges.

One of the snakes she had caught after landing, constrictors that were far from fully grown, was already dressed and roasting over the fire. The second squirmed in her grasp as she moved one hand closer to its head.

“Stay still! Bloody snakes!” grunted Neenahwi through clenched teeth. They were always much harder to handle than rabbits or squirrels or raccoons. The squirming (and the fangs on some) was unwelcome, but the results were frequently worth the effort.

One hand held the snake below the head, pushing it close to the earth, while her other hand gently placed a large rock on it to keep it belly up. A second large rock pinned the tail down, and she pulled out the small steel knife she had brought with her. She had learnt how to read the entrails at the feet of Greytooth, her clan’s old shaman, how to answer questions or see shadows of the future. She had loved her old teacher once, but now his memory was fractured like an image on running water, and her skills greatly surpassed what the shaman knew.

Shaman, witch doctors, hedge wizards. They were all the same. They all had some connection with the unseen energies that powered this world and connected all living things. But they relied on crutches to make their magic. Ceremonies or drugs to set their minds at just the right angle to grab hold of the threads and weave.

What set real magicians apart was mental discipline, even though she had to admit she didn’t know many (mainly just her new father). Magician, mage, wizard, sorcerer. She had heard all the labels applied to her father. But it all came back to the confidence to grab the world with a metaphysical hand and mold it, and the practice to be able to use the mind like a tool that was readily available and didn’t require a roomful of acolytes singing in harmony to get in the mood.

She brought forth her concentration, quickly releasing other unrequited thoughts, and then divided her consciousness in her meditating mind. Two Neenahwi’s in one shell, both calm and at peace. One aspect of Neenahwi held the knife over the exposed lighter skin of the snake belly that continued to squirm away from its bound position. The other aspect of Neenahwi saw the energy of the nagual, the little ball of red light hovering around its heart.

It was an odd fact: certain energy sources were better for certain tasks than others. She didn’t know why, but snakes, calves, and virgins had long been the sacrifices of choice for the uncultured magic worker; their selection, chosen by experiment or even luck, did not dim their suitability.

She watched detached as her arm struck down and drove the knife into the snake’s body, and as she did so, the red ball of energy leaked out in tendrils from the wound. Greytooth would have used invocations and chanting to channel and spin this energy into the needed Thread, but she knew those words did nothing.

Her mind was in control, and it seized the living mana, pulling it forcefully from the beast’s body and stretching it into a long, fine filament. One end connected to her forehead, and she cast the other out before her as if she was fishing with a rod. The thread flew through the air and appeared to catch on something in the distance, the end wavering in her sight…

…the jungle camp disappeared, and a stone door, hidden beneath overgrowth, appeared…

…now a dark cavern, lit by torches; two humans, naked with tattoos on their arms and faces, feeding a captured jungle cat kept in a bamboo cage…

…across to the other side of the cavern where two tattooed naked women knelt before another woman, almost blue from ink inscribed in her skin…

…something hung around her neck…

…a red stone on a dull iron chain…

…tainted green meat forced into the mouths of the kneeling women…

…smoke from censers, stinging the eyes…

…a wet red mist exploding into the air…

The vision was brief but useful. Neenahwi knew they had what she wanted, and a few foolish demon cultists should not pose much trouble.

Nevertheless, she wouldn’t take anything for granted. An approach in stealth at night would be best. And so, she looked forward to having a good long sleep on a full belly of snake.

* * *

Shit, I’m not ready for this . Neenahwi’s mind raced. No one had been on watch when she had entered the caverns through the stone door she had seen in the snake vision. That in itself was not too concerning, so she had crept down the tunnel, walking barefoot and able to feel every contour of the floor. She sidestepped three different alarms: crude but effective bone and string contraptions that would create quite a racket for anyone blundering through them in the dark. Neenahwi did not make a habit of blundering around.

No one was on guard at the end of the passageway either, which seemed more unusual; someone should be on watch during the night, especially with five of them. She wondered if they were even more amateurish than she had anticipated, which wouldn’t be a bad thing; five cuts of the knife in the dark were better than a fight any day.

That was when she saw a glistening darkness on the wall opposite, by a tunnel leading from the chamber. As she stared, it became apparent it was blood, and what she had first mistaken for lichen and mold on the rocks was bits of flesh and hair.

Shit! What did those idiots do?

Neenahwi’s hand went to the quiver tied to her waist by a thin cord. She pulled out three identical arrows: sleek pointed tips without barbs, a foot of thin steel, flights made of sharp razor blades instead of feathers.

Stepping slowly forward, she crossed the chamber and into the short tunnel, being careful not to be heard. From the dark, she could see the cavern beyond, a large hexagonal space, apparently carved by some sentient creature, with tunnels at each angle. She counted three bodies around the room and saw a fourth cultist leaning against the wall across from her. He moaned, pawing at his pale face, losing blood from a leg that ended without a foot.

In the middle of the room, contained within a circle protected by runes, stood a large figure, female from the waist down with the broad chest, long-taloned arms, and the head of a jungle panther. The demon—because that was clearly what the cultists had done, gone and summoned an actual demon, and likely a queen by the size—paced her circle of confinement looking for ways of escape.

It seemed like the cultists had set the circle warding correctly, a pentagram with a binding rune at each corner, but they must have done it with them on the inside. And once the demon had appeared and attacked, the cultists had been tossed across the cavern. The remains of the one Neenahwi had seen on the wall would have been smashed into it with tremendous force.

The type of mistake you only make once.

The blue-furred face of the demon sniffed at the air, eyes turning to where Neenahwi lurked in the shadows. “I see you, mortal. I have no fight with you. Come out into the open and let me free. I will bring you such wealth you never dreamed of.” The voice was deep and proud. The R sounds vividly reminded Neenahwi of her cat at home, the sound it made when she rubbed behind its ear.

“Demon,” Neenahwi called, “I am not as foolish as those scattered about this cave. I have imprisoned and killed your brethren before, and I have no interest in doing so today. You are bound, and you can stay bound for all I care.”

Neenahwi stepped out from the tunnel and ambled toward the runed circle. The cat beast turned to face her fully and proceeded to bang her claws against the shimmering shape of force surrounding her. She spat and snarled at the affront of being caged.

Oh shit.

Around the cat’s neck was the gem she had traveled such a long distance to obtain, the object of years of research. She was not going to let it stay imprisoned with the demon. So now the question was, would she have to do this the hard way or the really hard way?

She split her mind once, one aspect staying focused on the demon, the other focused on the cultist at the back of the room who was not yet dead but getting close.

In humans, some thought the equivalent of the red ball in the snake as the soul, and it might well be, but it was still the same basic magic that could be used by someone skillful enough. And as Jyuth had taught her, all magic had to come from somewhere, and it was better it came from someone else other than you. So, she weaved a thin thread of mana from the cultist to her, and then back to the cultist, creating a delicate lattice across all of his body, the blood flow slowing from the wounded leg as it became encased by the invisible energy.

“Maybe I have been too hasty, oh queen of lies, countess of codswallop. Tell me what you will give me. Tell me how you think we can make a deal…”

The rage in the demon subsided, and the feline head tilted to one side as it considered Neenahwi afresh. The look it gave her reminded her of the camp cats from when she was a child—hoping for a treat from the dinner bowl. She needed to stop thinking this thing was like a tabby.

“Your words are mocking human, but you should know, in your language you would consider me royalty. I have thousands of minions who do my bidding and fight my wars. I’m not to be fucked around with—”

“That may be, but you seem to be short of minions right about now,” interrupted Neenahwi, “and I’m pretty sure they don’t know where you are. It won’t take long for one of your ambitious captains to see there’s an empty throne that needs keeping warm.” As she spoke, Neenahwi twirled one of the arrows nimbly in her fingers, the other two clasped in her left hand.

“What are you going to do with that, girl?” asked the demon. “You have no bow! And these walls that stop me from getting out stop you from getting in. If I were free, you would only have time to loose one before I would be upon you. But, of course, if you were to free me, I would guarantee your health. And I would grant you one wish. You can name any item, any amount of money, and nothing in this world could stop me from bringing it to you. I, Barax, would be your ally against any foe.”

“How will you bind this oath, Barax? I don’t trust you, and I’m sure you don’t blame me for that. I know what I would have for payment, but I still call you a liar.”

“I swear with blood,” said the demon. A claw raked deep furrows across her chest, brown ichor seeping out. “With eye”—a yellow nail put out an eye from the panther’s socket, and then pulled a canine from her mouth—“and with fang, and that I will be permanently banished to this annoying mudball for all eternity if I break my word. Your health is safeguarded, and your reward is assured. There, I have spoken binding words; now free me!”

Neenahwi considered the situation for a moment and gave a shrug. That little show was more than she had expected. Maybe it would turn out fine after all.

She nodded toward the body her other aspect had been concentrating on, which, even though she had stanched the bleeding, was rapidly nearing death. The cultist lurched upright as if a marionette, a small whimper coming from him, but his eyes not opening. The unconscious cultist stumbled over to the side of the circle imprisoning the demon, and then began rubbing out the runes with his one remaining foot. He balanced on the other stump of a leg, the shuffling action looking like a drunkard trying to dance at a wedding.

“It seems I underestimated you, girl. You have talent…” The demon stared intently at the man as he danced in place, eventually rubbing away at the rune until the shimmering translucent wall around the demon disappeared. “Ah, freedom!” Barax stretched her arms wide, and she seemed to grow in height and width. “So now, my liberator, what is it you would have?”

“I’ll take the amulet around your neck.”

“No. I will not give that up. Choose something else.” The demon took a step forward past the cultist who had slumped over but remained upright.

“I’m afraid that is all I want. And you made an oath, Barax. Do the oaths of demon queens mean nothing anymore?”

“I made you an oath on my freedom, on my ability to go back to my world, and my home. I need this bauble to do that. With what you ask, then I am cursed either way.”

Shit. Neenahwi knew this demon was not the brightest, but Barax was catching up now; she was cornered. Facing off against a cornered panther was not a fun way to spend a weekday. Doing the same with a panther demon is a death sentence for most. Neenahwi knew she likely had five seconds to be ready for the assault, and be ready with her offense. Withdrawing further into her mind, she fractured it once, twice, three times more, ready to—

—on the three-second mark, the demon roared and leaped toward Neenahwi, teeth bared, claws outstretched, a look of madness on the crazed feline visage. However, the cultist had snapped to attention and a fighting stance a second before, no longer the shambling laughing stock. The cultist stood on the blind side of Barax, and so, the demon did not see as the cultist dove to tackle it to the ground.

The demon spun, and with one claw, ripped the head from the cultist, his body thrown across the floor. Barax got to her feet, but so did the body of the cultist, only a little blood bubbling up from its broken neck, and the walking corpse positioned itself between Neenahwi and beast.

On the count of five, the three arrows Neenahwi held in her hands lifted into the air, twisting to point toward their target. A separate aspect of her mind controlled each missile, creating a thread from her own oh-so-valuable and oh-so-finite life force to enable the deliberately constructed items to ignore the laws of gravity. Each arrow paused for a split second and pointed at Barax before flying off in various arcs.

The demon moved forward intent on rending the former cultist limb from limb, to stop this annoyance so it could move to kill Neenahwi.

She realized it was always going to end this way. The demon was cursed now, forever bereft of its home, and now it just wanted to get at the bitch which had caused it. She didn’t blame it.

It took one step forward, and then the first arrow flew down from the cavern’s unlit ceiling, moving at tremendous speed and hitting it in the breast. The arrow pierced the demon’s skin, and without a reduction in speed, continued to travel through its torso, exiting around the small of its back. The sharp razor flights on the arrow inflicted greater damage as the missile sliced through. The demon roared as the second arrow came from behind and punctured a kneecap, bringing it to the floor. The third bolt adjusted its flight as its target fell, and it came down to bury itself in the back of the panther’s skull, a metal on stone snick as the arrow tip made contact with the smooth granite surface of the floor.

Moments passed. The demon’s chest heaved. Brown blood oozed onto the floor around its chest and knee. In the momentary lull, Neenahwi became aware of a sound coming from elsewhere underground, a distant rumbling. Hopefully it was nothing more than an underground river she hadn’t noticed before because there was still life in Barax.

The demon clambered to its feet, lower leg below the broken knee impossibly twisted but still, somehow, holding the weight of the beast. Feline teeth clenched around the arrow head piercing the back of its head. A clawed hand reached up and gripped the tip of the arrow, opened its jaws, and pulled the arrow through, not seeming to notice the damage the sharp tail of the missile caused in its passage. Grasping the shaft in both hands, the demon snapped it in two.

“Nice try, little woman, but a wasp sting will not kill a panther. It’s just going to make it pissed off.”

The dead cultist moved once again to block the demon’s progression to Neenahwi, but the demon was truly upset now. A powerful blow sent the body flying back to hit Neenahwi and knock her against the wall.

Her concentration on the connection to the mangled cultist’s body wavered as the last of its life force flowed away. The magical forces moving the body disappeared along with the containment energies that had been keeping the body largely in one piece. Blood erupted over Neenahwi from the multiple wounds released as one, blinding her to the demon’s deliberate advance on its injured leg.

The demon continued to track the two remaining arrows in the air, swatting at them as they neared it. Once or twice the arrows were deflected onto the floor, with a metallic ting , only to lift again into the air and buzz around Barax.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Neenahwi couldn’t see a way out of this without using a serious amount of personal mana. The barren cave offered no other sources of energy. This gem had better be worth it. It could take a long time to recover, and as she considered the thought of recuperating in the hot, humid, bug-infested jungle, it didn’t please her.

But the noise from the tunnel to the south of the cavern was definitely growing louder. Not a river then. Something was getting closer.

The sound turned out to be not so much an it as roughly two hundred its , the its being a whole tribe of jungle goblins, armed to the teeth with bows, curved swords, and notched daggers. Neenahwi sighed.

If she could bring those cultists back to life right now, she would do it in a heartbeat. Just so she could show them how stupid they were to pick a hideout in the annex to a goblin hive where they were planning to summon a demon to do their bidding while on the wrong side of the protective wardings! She would bring them back to life, and then kill them again just for really screwing up her day.

The appearance of scores of upset goblins did not improve Barax’s mood either, though it did distract her for a moment, especially as the first goblin arrows arced toward her. The body of the cultist provided some cover for Neenahwi, so the goblins had yet to notice her. Taking advantage of the demon’s new shift in focus, she sent the two remaining arrows toward the demon at the same time, the first parried away, but the second striking the chain of the amulet, causing it to snap. The necklace fell to the floor.

The first arrow swooped around and threaded through the clasp of the amulet to lift it into the air and deposit it into Neenahwi’s hand. The demon tried to scramble after the amulet, but the first wave of goblins hit her at the same time. The goblins were no match for the demon: each swing of a furred, clawed arm smashed into three or four of the grey, scrawny humanoids, only for more to replace them.

Neenahwi finished wiping the blood from her eyes and considered which way to run, because running was definitely the best course of action. She could sense some stirring of fresh air from the corridor to the north of this room, hopefully a way out and not just an air duct. She crouched, collected the aspects of her mind so she would be fully present, and then sprang from her place of cover, running for the passageway ahead.

More goblins had joined the fight against the demon, but a few had also realized it was not a good fight to get into if you were a goblin that valued its scrawny neck. The appearance of a new figure running across the cavern that was definitely not goblin—and equally definitively, and more importantly, not demon—caused a score of goblins to break off in pursuit of Neenahwi.

As she ran, she stole one last look at the demon that was carving its way through an entire goblin village, a demon now trapped in this world by her, and which was probably not going to die of its current wounds. But her feet pounding into the hard stone of the passageway reminded her that would be a problem for tomorrow.

The tunnel went upwards and upwards, twisting left and right—so there was no clear shot for a goblin arrow—until it eventually reached a breach in the wall. She dove into the crack, squirming her way forward, and for the first time that day, she had some luck as she burst out from a fissure in a rock face covered in jungle growth.

She could hear the pursuing goblins scrabbling through the breach, so Neenahwi turned to run again. But with her first step, the ground fell away from her, and before she knew it, she was sliding down a muddy hillside on her backside toward an impending edge, and then into the blue of the open sky.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttt.

Merchant Gossip

“Mareth!”

Mareth’s eyes opened slightly, and though he meant to say, “Who is that,” it came out more like, “Mmmmo ffss vvhrrt?” His face stuck to something solid and stopped his mouth from moving.

With a wrench, he jerked upright, pain exploding behind his eyes. “Where am I?” Mareth focused on his surroundings; the large common room full of customers, at long tables, in private booths, and seated in front of a great stone fireplace came into focus. And so did the memories of last night. This was the Royal Oak.

“Mareth, you need to get up from that bloody table and let me clean up. It’s dinnertime. It’s busy. And I need the table for punters who actually pay me in coin, not song.” The woman who spoke was of middle years, wearing a simple well-cut dress of cotton, lavender in color (which as an uncommon pigment showed her wealth), with a leather apron worn over the top tied at her trim waist. She had a handsome face and dark brown hair pulled back into a bun on the top of her head, a few lines of grey showing. But that didn’t matter to Mareth, he found the landlady of the Royal Oak to be quite alluring.

“Why, hello, beautiful Jules,” he said, trying to make himself somewhat presentable, acutely aware the beard on one side of his face had become rather matted and stuck out at an angle. “How are you this morning? It seems like I dozed off.”

He smiled at her and considered her appearance further. Yes, she was a few years older than him, but those years had been kind to her. Some would say that was the product of hard work, and owning this place was surely hard work. It made her lean and strong. He had seen her extract many a drunken trouble-causer herself over the years, even though a bouncer was usually on duty. She was not a woman to be trifled with, though he often tried. “Wait. Did you say it was dinnertime? How long have I been sitting here?”

“How much of last night do you remember? Come to think of it, how much of the night before can you remember?” she asked.

Mareth held up two fingers in a pinch, indicating not much.

“Well, last night you were still telling tales and singing songs when I went to bed and left Garth in charge. That was two or three o’clock. And then you were still in the same place when I woke up to make sure breakfast was being made.” She shook her head. “I was at least glad to see you’d managed to keep more than a dozen punters here all night with you. Folks who actually paid their tabs…” She let the point hang there for a moment, the meaning all too clear, before continuing. “Anyway, when I came down, you were all telling me how you created these hilarious new songs about various lords and ladies, I think. I suggested you write them down while you could still remember them. So, I brought you parchment and pen from my own collection.”

“You did, Jules? You are truly an amazing woman.” Hope rose in Mareth. Maybe this would be it, his start of something more important in life. It almost made him ignore the queasiness climbing up from his stomach. “Do you have the notes?”

“Hah! I don’t have anything, you sweet fool.” Jules patted him on the cheek, as one might a boy on his way to his first day at school. “There is the paper on the table in front of you. And the only thing you managed to put down is six hours of drool.”

Mareth clapped his hands to his head and stared down.

“You can’t remember anything about those songs now?”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t. Again.” The need to vomit rose in him. Somebody stoked a bonfire in the space behind his eyes. The combined smell of flower water Jules used on her hair with the leather of her apron was not helping matters.

She bent closer and whispered gently, “You’ve gone white as a sheet, Mareth. Come over here, and you can sit at the bar. I’ll get you something to eat. Something nice and greasy with a beer to wash it down.” She helped him to his feet. “And then I can have a whole party of folks at this table, too.”

She smiled and winked at him. His stomach flipped; as a result of the smile or the after effects of the night before? He considered it to be too difficult a question to answer at that moment, so he followed her back over to the long oaken bar.

* * *

“…I heard that Eden is going to stand to be protector. Him and Hoxteth. Also, Jimmy said a woman down the wash house told his wife that Lady Chalice is going to sign up at the palace. Oh, yeah, and Chancellor Hoskin, too, but who’d want that miserable toady as lord protector?”

Mareth had recovered enough to be able to focus on devouring the plate of greasy pig, bread, and gravy in front of him, but his ears were drawn to the conversation of two merchants along the bar. From the looks of them, they were reasonably successful, doing better than a single store owner, but not one of the ones with a handful of warehouses to their name. The first one who spoke was fair-skinned with a beard of blond whiskers kept short to match his trim haircut, apparently the style right now, though Mareth had no truck with that.

“Where’d you hear that rubbish? Eden and Hoxteth, I’ll buy, but Chalice ain’t going to get in the middle of this. Except for a contract. The Hollow Syndicate will make a mint.” The second who spoke was dark-skinned and clean shaven, and he had a leather satchel on the bar in front of him next to the bottle of wine they were sharing.

Mareth topped a nice piece of gravy-soaked bread with a lump of fat and popped it into his mouth. He knew a little about Hoxteth. Self-made merchant, some said by running goods through the embargo with Pyrfew, avoiding the customs officers and the navy until, one day, he went legit and married into a family with a title. Became guild leader, and now treasurer of the realm. Gambler, odds-player, and coin-counter. Maybe not the traditional stuff of legends, but he was a winner.

Eden, on the other hand, people thought he was a hero already. Five years ago, he led the Second Company to liberate the city of Redpool, Edland’s only holding on the mainland of the Jeweled Continent. The governor of Redpool thought he could test the new king and switch sides to the emperor of Pyrfew, taking the city with him.

Mareth had held many a commoner rapt telling the story of how, in parley, Eden was able to rile the governor so much he marched back behind the walls of the city, roused his fighters, and rode out to meet the Second on the field. Eden, though, had hidden his cavalry a good ten miles away from the city walls. The occupying army thought the infantry in front of them was all they faced. But the cavalry came when they saw the signal fires, and half an hour after stepping out of the city, those foot soldiers had two thousand cavalry smashing into their rear. They officially changed the name of the city to Redsmoke in Eden’s (and the signal fires’) honor, even though everyone still called it Redpool.

Eden was already rich and well-connected—you don’t lead the Second without the connections to begin at captain when others start digging the latrines—but he made a pretty penny out of the liberation. King Roland levied an extra copper on the crown in customs charges that went straight into Eden’s pocket (another example of Roland’s brilliant new taxes). Probably made the liberator the richest man in the whole kingdom.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” said Blond Beard. “Wonder who will make it to the end of the month?”

“Good question,” replied Dark Skin. “My vote is going to be for Hoxteth, of course. He’s one of us. Got to be good for business. You know, I started working for him as a warehouse hand—”

“Bullshit,” interrupted Blond Beard. “You ain’t going to be voting. That’ll be all your coin. And you’ve told me a hundred times if you’ve told me once about how you learnt everything at the knee of Hoxteth. And we all know you got the boot for having your fingers in the cash drawer. Got the boot and only just avoided a blade to your fingers, too.”

“Hey, that ain’t true.”

Mareth mopped his plate with the bread and took a long draught of the ale. He was beginning to feel human again. Like he could talk without heaving over his shoes or sounding like a dull-witted idiot.

“Excuse me, sirs. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting. My name is Mareth. Some call me Mareth of the Melody, perhaps you’ve heard of me? No? Well, I did overhear you talking while I was eating my meal. Are either of you obvious men of means going to take part in this selection of the new protector?”

“Yes, I am,” said Dark Skin. “I’ve wanted to have a say in this country of mine since I was a boy. I’ve worked hard every day, but never thought to have this chance.”

“I say bullshit again,” said Blond Beard to his friend, then he switched his attention to the bard. “Begging your pardon, Mareth, for the bluntness of my words. You may not know the price of admission to vote is one thousand crowns.” Blond Beard turned back to his fellow merchant. “As I said, that has to be all of your worth. At least your liquid capital. And you’re really going to hand it over to the palace?”

“Aye, I am. In fact, I already did. They give it back to you after the election, you know, and who’s safer than the crown, or whatever they’re going to call it now. Anyway, it was the wizard who I gave it to. I got to meet him in person and shake his hand.” Dark Skin shook his head in slight disbelief at the memory. “And look, I got my demon. It’s in my bag. You want to see it?”

Dark Skin reached into the leather satchel, taking out a pink creature and placing it on the shiny wooden bar. Mareth and Blond Beard leaned in to get a good look. Five inches of naked strangeness, with smooth, unblemished skin, a tuft of shocking yellow hair on the top of its head, and tiny fangs sticking out over its lower lip.

“It’s a pyxie,” said the merchant. The creature scurried over to his tankard of ale, and using the handle as a step, climbed up the side of the mug to take a drink of the contents.

Mareth couldn’t conceal his surprise at the little demon. He had heard the wizard was using them for the election, but he thought it was a joke, or a case of too many people twisting a story as it passed along. “How does it work?” Mareth asked.

“When I’ve made my mind up, I tell the pyxie, and then he’ll disappear back to the palace. And, apparently, on the solstice, all the pyxies get together and tally up the votes. Probably with some kind of magical chalkboard.”

“Truly remarkable, sir,” said Mareth.

The dark-skinned merchant clearly enjoyed the attention. “Yes, indeed. These are remarkable times,” said Dark Skin.

Blond Beard looked as if he was chewing on a wasp, likely considering how he, too, was going to be able to scrape the coin together for his own little pink demon.

“And apologies if you think I was eavesdropping, but did I happen to hear you know Lord Hoxteth personally? And you’ll be voting for him? As I mentioned, I’m a bard of some renown, and I intend to document this fabled time in our realm’s history through song and poem, and you, dear sir, could be part of the story.”

Now it was time for the merchant to lean in. He had been enjoying showing off to his friend and the rest of the bar, and he visibly salivated at the thought of being in a famous song.

“What’s your name, good sir,” asked Mareth, “and can I enlist your help?”

“I am Master Gonal. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said reaching over and shaking Mareth’s hand. “What help are you thinking? I do believe it’s very important to support the arts. However are we to have a history if not for our stories and songs? And the citizens of the realm far from Kingshold, they need to have confidence in this process, too. They won’t get that from the message delivered by the criers, that’s for sure. Everyone knows they’re just the mouthpiece. No, sir. It requires people like your good self to tell the real story. So, what can I do to help?”

“It’s such a small thing. Very slight for one such as yourself, I’m sure.” Mareth smiled and patted his new friend on the shoulder. He’d always been good at making friends. “I’d like to meet with Lord Hoxteth.”

* * *

Mareth stared at the ceiling of his room. Damp stained the whitewashed plaster, and the paint hung from the walls like an old crone’s skin. He gave little mind to his surroundings, though. Mareth had lived much better in the past, but also in worse circumstances, too. He considered the rest of last night, putting the pieces back together that were causing him to lie awake in bed. There was the merchant Gonal. And then the blonde girl…

His memory was imperfect, but Mareth recalled Gonal buying him more ale while they talked about the merchant’s childhood in the city, growing up as an only son to a tailor in the Middle. Not rich, but not struggling for food like many in the city, until the day his father died from the pox. His mother ran the business then, and probably did a better job than his father, but it left Gonal with a lot of time to himself.

That was when he discovered a young merchant working his way up from a single stall in the market to owning many stalls, to then securing his own warehouse after winning a month’s rent at the card table. That was Hoxteth, of course, the canny lord treasurer getting a foothold in life via his wits and ability to count cards.

Gonal said he shadowed the young Hoxteth, whining for work and taking any errands he was given, until, one day, he was taken onboard as an apprentice bookkeeper. Mareth struggled to remember the exact details of what happened next, but there was definitely some falling-out. It was something like the senior bookkeeper had been dipping into the cash deposits and hiding it in the books, small amounts, difficult to find. But Hoxteth reviewed the details himself, and so, one day, some of Hoxteth’s hired guards brought Gonal into the office and questioned him. The merchant actually cried into his mug as he had told the story to Mareth.

Gonal had been so ashamed when he was fired and told to leave, with a scolding that he should have noticed the theft himself ringing in his ears. But an unsigned letter came a week later, informing him of an opportunity to buy a delivery of wool from upland and deliver it to a crew from Pyrfew—not strictly legal at the time, but Gonal took his opportunity, borrowing the seed capital from his mother. Gonal swore blind the letter had to have come from Hoxteth, and it had started him on his way.

A month after being fired, Gonal learnt the bookkeeper had never been seen again, he hadn’t reported to the office, and he hadn’t been seen by his neighbors. Mareth wondered whether he had been tipped off and fled, or if Hoxteth had taken care of business in another way. Hoxteth wouldn’t be the first merchant to know how to take care of business permanently.

The stories of how Hoxteth and Gonal had made their way in the city were good backstory for Mareth. He did not yet know how these details could be crafted into the telling, but it was always better to have more material to call on.

Gonal had left him around midnight, but he had secured the promise to meet this very day, so they could see Hoxteth together. Mareth remembered there was even some talk about Gonal being his patron. The merchant had settled his account for the evening and even some days past, which Mareth greatly appreciated, but he knew he could aim higher than a cloth merchant.

He had left his reputable family behind to join the Bard’s College, and he needed to be mindful of his reputation. However, Mareth prided himself on not being a man to take advantage of another, and so, he resolved to talk to him once Gonal had followed through on his introduction. Of course, Mareth would still include him in the tale, which would be payment enough.

Once Gonal had left, he recalled singing songs again for the common room crowd. Eventually, it became the reserve of the usual faces, and they had called his name, patting him on the back and asking for more. He had made them laugh with the tale of Old Edward’s Finger and some had cried with The Shipwife’s Lament . There must have been other songs, too, but he struggled to recall them as the tankards of ale had accumulated.

But one thing did stand out. At the end of one song, as he had raised his head from his mandolin, he had seen a beautiful vision. A young woman with blonde hair and eyes as green as the meadows of his home. Her name was Penny or Petra or Ponna.

Her name was not the important thing to Mareth at that moment. It was that he was lying there alone. He remembered her appearing somewhat smitten with him. And he had heard from some women in the past that he sang as a siren would, attracting women to the rocks of his bed. Mareth also considered himself to be quite handsome, though he might have lost some of the luster of youth he once had. So, why was he on his lonesome?

He had many things to think about.

A girl and the thrill of the chase.

A story to be written.

Who knew purpose traveled in pairs?

* * *

About D.P. Woolliscroft

Born in Derby in England, on the day before mid-summers day, David Peter Woolliscroft was very nearly magical. If only his dear old mum could have held on for another day. But magic called out to him over the years, with a many a book being devoured for its arcane properties. David studied Accounting at Cardiff University where numbers weaved their own kind of magic and he has since been a successful business leader in the intervening twenty years.

Adventures have been had. More books devoured and then one day, David had read enough where the ideas he had kept bottled up needed a release valve. And thus, rising out of the self doubt like a phoenix at a clicky keyboard, a writer was born. The Wildfire Cycle is David’s debut series.

He is married to his wife Haneen and has a daughter Liberty, who all live with their mini golden doodle Rosie in Princeton NJ.

David is one of the few crabs to escape the crab pot.

You can sign up for news of new releases and check out the good stuff that David gets up to at www. dpwoolliscroft.com .

Kingshold is the first book in The Wildfire Cycle, of which there are currently three books published. All are available on Kindle Unlimited and can be found at https:// author. to/ dpwoolliscroft

25

A Time of Turmoil

Nicole Zoltack

Tenoch knew peace long ago when the dragons three ruled over the evil, susceptible peoples. Now, however, the dragons are long since dead, and humans rule.

For better or worse.

The king is a broken sloth. The crowned princess doesn’t want the throne. The prince is intellectually delayed. The younger princess is vain and spoiled.

The queen committing adultery sets off a chain of reactions that will leave the world in a time of turmoil. Will peace ever return to the land?

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 4

* * *

1.

Princess Vivian Rivera

The scene threatened to overwhelm Princess Vivian Rivera. All the sights, the sounds, the smells… So many people pushed and shoved, vying for better positions to see better. The crowd all shouted and cursed and called for Dicun Lewis to be killed. The stench of the unwashed mixed with body odor masked the scent of the cooked meat being given out to the masses.

Disgusting and appalling, to be certain. Vivian shuddered with revulsion. The only good aspect to her being the youngest meant that she would never have to oversee these terrible proceedings.

That would fall on the shoulders of her sister. Already, the task lay before Princess Rosalynne. Their father, King Jankin, was nowhere in sight. Hardly a shock. He could not walk, had not been able to for years. He never left the castle proper. His wife, not their mother, Queen Aldith, was not present either. This suited Vivian just fine. She did not care for Aldith, not that Vivian would ever be anything but pleasant to the woman’s face.

The outer courtyard held a few trees, the buds just beginning to bloom. A single pink petal floated on the gentle breeze, and Vivian plucked it out of the air. The softness rivaled the silk of her turquoise dress. Silver beads adorned her chest and the last several inches of the gown. Faint silver spirals decorated the skirt. The hem was slightly higher in the front, just enough that the tips of her silver slippers were visible. Not her ankles, of course. The back just brushed the ground.

Beside her on the dais, her sister stood tall but awkward. Her gown was of a similar design, only emerald with gold. At seventeen, Rosalynne would appear beautiful if she would only smile. She was frowning, though.

She wants to be here as much as I do.

On Vivian’s other side was their brother. Noll was not a typical prince. He had his own way about him, and everyone just let him be. His trousers and shirt were a slight shade of gray that almost seemed silver. His surcoat matched Rosalynne’s gown. The sigil of Rivera was embroidered upon it. The gold of the sun and her rays glinted in the day’s sunlight. The green grass of the hills was upraised and as soft as actual blades. Twin eagles soared above, fierce and demanding.

Noll was fiddling with the sleeves, and Vivian coughed slightly in his direction.

He ignored her.

“Stop,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “We are about to begin.”

“Begin what?” he asked simply.

She sighed. Five times already, she had to explain this to him. He hated to wear his surcoat and continually fussed about wearing it. His memory was terrible. When she had been younger, she thought he repeated questions to annoy her. Oh, no. That was simply Noll. A year older than her at fifteen but he acted like a child yet. She did love him as much as she could, but this was not the time to be anything but proper. A man was about to be killed for crimes against their family and all the land of Tenoch Proper.

If one dared to mention the Li family, they must be killed. It was as simple as that, a crime punishable by death to ensure that peace and harmony lasted throughout the Rivera reign, long let that be.

“Stand still. Pretend you are a sentinel. Can you do that?” Vivian asked Noll.

He clicked the heels of his shiny black boots together and stared straight ahead, arms out.

“Put your arms at your side!”

“What is he doing?” Rosalynne demanded.

“I’ll handle it,” Vivian said. “What are you doing?”

“Being a tree.”

She sighed. “I didn’t say to be a tree. A sentinel. A guard. Pretend you’re a guard at attention. Stand tall, like that, but with your arms—”

“Do I get a sword then?” he asked eagerly.

Vivian blinked a few times in dismay. She hadn’t thought it wise for him to be here, to witness this. Last time, he had nightmares for weeks. Did anyone ask her opinion of the matter? Certainly not but well they should. She would make a fine, grand queen someday.

If only she had been first and not last.

With the king and, surprisingly, the queen both absent, Noll must be here.

Noll slowly lowered his arms, but he slouched now, wearing an awful scowl.

Rosalynne was scowling herself. She nodded to a guard dressed all in black. He disappeared and returned with five other guards, the prisoner between them. The other guards wore a surcoat to match Noll’s.

The crowd roared with approval that the day’s frightful activities might finally commence.

Dirt covered Dicun Lewis’s face. Surely the guards must have washed him. How peculiar. His skin appeared weatherworn, his face horrifically thin. The rags he wore seemed too baggy for his gaunt form. His head hung low as the crowd slowly parted for the procession along the cobblestones. The crowd’s cheers reverted to screams and howls of disapproval. They spat at Dicun Lewis and threw food at him, and someone even landed a punch.

The guard in black did not appreciate this, not at all. A raised fist halted the procession, and he towered over the offending man. The mob hushed, and an eerie silence settled over the courtyard.

“He is not yours to handle,” the guard said.

The man nodded, cowering away, but those around him forced him to stay there.

“Do not interfere again,” the guard warned.

Again, the man nodded. His nose was large, his eyes small, and he bobbled his head up and down furiously.

“Apologize to your princesses and prince,” the guard directed.

“A thousand pardons, Your Highnesses.” The man fell to his knees.

Rosalynne nodded once, the movement crisp and regal.

Vivian’s stomach churned. She appreciated being bowed to, but this display of force always bothered her. Yes, she wished to be queen, but her king, whoever he would be, would be the one to handle the terrible side of the royal duties.

Father has the right of it, hiding away.

Without further delay, the guards marched Dicun Lewis up the stairs to the dais. Rosalynne stepped forward. Noll did likewise, but Vivian gripped his arm, shook her head, and tugged him closer to her.

“Dicun Lewis,” Rosalynne said. Her thin voice only carried in the breeze because of the absolute stillness of the crowd. “Do you deny the charges against you?”

The prisoner lifted his head. “What charges?” he asked. “You Riveras came here, stole the crown from the rightful rulers, and—”

“The Li family is no more. Right or wrong, that is the way of things. To speak out against the royal family courts death. As you have done so in the presence of all those here in this assembly, I have no choice in my decree.”

Vivian swallowed hard. Noll grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly. She squeezed back.

“Cut off his head!” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Kill him!”

“Make him kneel first!”

The mob was growing unruly. Vivian stared at her sister. Rosalynne appeared a bit worried herself. This was not the first time Rosalynne had to oversee an execution, and Vivian was not in the least bit envious. In fact, she assumed it would be rather awful to have to administer the lethal sentence. It was terrible enough witnessing the punishment up here. The last time, the stench of loosed bowels had been enough to make Vivian nearly grow sick. Previous to that offensive occasion, blood had splattered onto the hem of that gown. Vivian had the hem cut off and the gown completely redone into two new ones so that she never had to wear that repugnant dress again.

Plus, she had two gowns instead of one. A princess could never have too many gowns.

Yes, she was focusing on that instead of the proceedings. Her sister was speaking more, but Vivian ignored her in favor of watching the crowd. One woman’s cheeks were blotchy. A man’s hair was thinning, and the shine from his bald spot distracted her.

Nothing, however, could cause her to not mind the rolling of the heavy guillotine up the ramp to the dais. Dicun Lewis, to his credit, did not cower. He stood straight and rigid, almost like a perfect soldier, as he awaited his death.

The guard in black gripped a mask and slipped it over his head. At this point, Vivian wondered why the guard bothered, but she would not be able to swing the axe herself while looking at the man she was about to kill. Her lip would quiver, her guilt all over her face…

Then again, this man wished for her and her family to not be princesses and king. He wanted to go back to the previous rulers.

The Li family had been destroyed and for good reason. They were weak and pushovers, and if they had remained in power for much longer, all of Tenoch Proper would have been in an uproar. War would have broken out if the Riveras had not stepped up.

We saved thousands of lives by killing one family. We do not have blood on our hands.

This all happened before Vivian and her siblings were born. Her father had been only two years older than Vivian was when he first became king.

How could this Dicun Lewis wish to go back to that time? The Lis hadn’t been able to stand up to anyone. How they even became the royal family Vivian didn’t understand.

You have to be strong. Powerful. Just. It’s not a matter of being good. You have to do what is right even when it’s difficult.

Which meant Vivian should not be acting like a child for this execution.

She continued to hold Noll’s hand for his sake and watched as the guards halted the guillotine. Dicun Lewis climbed willingly into position, and the guard in black stepped forward.

Rosalynne swallowed audibly. “Dicun Lewis, I sentence you to die. May you burn for your betrayal unless you wish to admit your error now.”

“I admit no such thing.”

“Then die and burn.”

The glint of the axe flashed. The rope was cut, and the blade sliced down. Blood squirted some. The head landed in the basket. The crowd cheered, but Vivian’s stomach churned with disgust and even fear. If the crowd ever turned against them, they would be the ones to die.

That would never happen. They were too strong for that.

Her father, who could not walk…

The queen, who was as gaunt as Dicun Lewis…

Noll, who was not quite right…

Sun above, protect us all.

* * *

2.

Prince Noll Rivera

The man’s head fell into the basket. It was such a strange thing.

“Why did that happen?” Noll asked Vivian.

She sighed. She always sighed around him. Then again, a lot of people sighed around him.

“I told you. He…”

His sister continued to talk, but Noll was looking out into the crowd. They all seemed happy. Was that man playing a game? Had he won?

“I want to play the game.”

“What game?” Vivian asked. “No. No, Noll.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a game for you. Trust me.”

Noll did trust her.

The wooden contraption was wheeled away, and the crowd slowly left. The guards all left, and Rosalynne walked off too.

Vivian released Noll’s hand. “Time to go back to your room.”

“Yes,” Noll lied.

He did enter the castle, but then he went to the inner courtyard. Noll wasn’t supposed to go there without a guard. That day, though, Noll wanted to be independent. He was a prince, after all. He shouldn’t have to have a guard at all times. There was no reason for him to need a guard while in the castle. Outside in the marketplace, maybe. Not here.

Far more trees grew within the inner courtyard. Oaks and elms and poplars. Flowering bushes blossomed all around him.

Here, Noll felt most at home. People sometimes looked at him strangely or would talk down to him. Plants didn’t judge. Plants grew. Plants smelled nice. Plants amazed him.

Plants never disappointed him.

Well, there was the one tree. Noll had loved that tree. He’d planted the seed, and he waited and waited for it to grow. And it did. It grew and grew and grew, and then it just died. A large black spot attacked it. Noll tried to pick away at the bark, but it hadn’t mattered. They had to chop down the tree. The stump remained, and Noll often came here to sit on it.

He sat on the stump and watched a spider spin a web. The silk sparkled and winked in the sunlight. The overlay of the silk in such a strange pattern mesmerized Noll for so long that his rear end grew sore. Noll stood, stretched, and still.

A twig had snapped.

It was late in the afternoon. The gardeners came to work in the courtyard in the morning. No one should be here presently, not even Noll.

He hesitated and then dashed behind a tree. Noll did not wish to be seen. He didn’t have many friends who were his age, but he had been told he was tall for his age. Fifteen. There were more than fifteen trees here.

Focus! He needed to avoid detection so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

He crouched down and held still.

The rustling of a skirt whispered by. Noll held even more still. A lady was here? He’d be in even more trouble then.

“I do not understand how this could have happened,” the lady said.

She sounded familiar. Not his sisters. Someone else.

“Nothing is without consequence,” a male said.

Consequence. What did that mean? Noll knew that everything happened for a reason. Rosalynne often said that when she was upset about something or another and was trying to accept it anyhow.

Noll understood that well. He couldn’t fathom why he was a prince yet he wasn’t allowed to do all that he wished. Shouldn’t he be able to do whatever he wanted? Climbing trees did ruin his clothes, but they could have more made. It provided work for the peasants. When he did go to the market, he overheard peasants talking about needing jobs. So his destroying clothes would actually be a good thing. Plus, if he got hurt, the physicians would have to be paid to heal him… Yes. See? He should climb more often!

“…not supposed to happen,” the lady said.

“We can deal with it.”

“It is too late for…”

The sound of retching disgusted Noll. His stomach churned, and the stench made him all the more nauseous. He risked taking a few steps to bury his face in some flowers so their cool, refreshing scent could overwhelm the repugnant stink.

“When he finds out…” the man said.

“He will not be able to do a thing. No one will stand for him if he dares to lay a hand against me.”

Who was she talking about? Who was she?

“He is not the man he once was.”

“Maybe not.” The lady had sounded so firm and unyielding before, but suddenly, she seemed uncertain and worried.

Her anxiety made Noll unnerved. Who was she? Her voice sounded so familiar. He knew who she was. If only he didn’t tend to ignore everyone around him. The world would sometimes fall away for him, and all he would see would be a bird or an insect or a flower. Nothing else would matter.

“Be careful. The world must not learn the truth,” the man said.

“He does not care about me.”

“And you do him?”

The lady said nothing.

“I’ll send someone to clean up this mess,” the man offered.

“Yes. If only someone could clean up ours.”

“Yours,” the man said. His tone was shockingly angry.

“You will not stand with me?” She sounded so small and weak.

“If you do not stand up for yourself, no one will stand with you.”

“You—”

“I will fetch a servant now. If you will excuse me.”

Footsteps hurried away, but Noll remained still, his face still in the flowers. Eventually, he thought he heard the whisper of the lady’s skirt as she walked by. Once he heard nothing, Noll raced away. Those two, whoever they were, had issues, and Noll did not want to be drawn into their mess. It smelled disgusting. While Noll loved animals and didn’t mind when they were gross, humans were another matter.

I should’ve been born a dog.

* * *

3.

Princess Rosalynne Rivera

The whole incident bothered Rosalynne so much that she retired to her room. Having to carry out executions was by far her least favorite duty as the crowned princess.

Honestly, it should not be my duty yet.

Her father, the king, should be the one to pronounce the sentence. He should be ordering the axe swung, not her.

But her father had need of her, and one day, she would be queen, whether she wished to be or not. Someone must handle these issues, and if her father wouldn’t, she must stand up. She must remain firm. She must already be queen.

Even though it killed her.

Twenty years ago, the Riveras were not royals. They were merely nobles. Rosalynne would’ve been fine with that. Truly, she would rather be out and about, living as a peasant. Then at least she would have some measure of freedom. Instead, she must rule because her father would not.

How could he rule over the kingdom when he wouldn’t leave the castle and go out to see the people? He had saved them from the threat of internal collapse, and yet, as of this very moment, he himself was weak.

If someone wishes to rise against us…

That was why she had to force herself to handle the terrible proceedings. The executions were repugnant to her, but she must be strong. She must be the face of the future of Tenoch Proper with Riveras as the rulers, or another would rise up and dismantle them.

We will not be the Lis.

The sanctuary of her room only held Rosalynne’s interest for so long. The bed was not inviting. Her clothes were all in the trunk at the foot of her bed or in the wardrobe. Her mirror showed her reflection. Were worry lines already etching into her pale skin? She would not be surprised. Seventeen and already she felt as if she were twenty-seven or even thirty-seven.

Too young for this heavy burden.

The servants were loyal to the Riveras without a fault. They had to be. Any who had served the Lis and refused to swear fealty to Jankin had been killed. As had the Lis, of course, the rulers those servants had had refused to turn aside.

Her father had once been a fierce and proud man, or so Rosalynne had been told. She scarcely remembered those days. Once Vivian was born and their mother died, her father died too. He’d married because he had to for the sake of Tenoch Proper, but ever since, he did little and less with each passing day. At thirty-four, he seemed as if he had already died too.

And if Rosalynne stayed within this room much longer, she would die herself. It felt like a coffin, closed and confining, and she could not breathe. The image of Dicun Lewis peacefully waiting for the axe haunted her. Guilt ate away at her. It was ridiculous. If Dicun Lewis had rallied the public against the Riveras, it would have proven devastating. Killing one to save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives was necessary. She had not been in the wrong.

Still, it ate away at her as she marched through the castle. She would go to the stable, pick out a horse, and ride for hours. Maybe she would return. Maybe not.

At the end of the hallway stood Queen Aldith. Her normally listless blond hair was curled and fashioned in a surprisingly lovely updo. The queen had always been a frail creature, a mouse of a lady, and Rosalynne often wondered why her father had married the queen in the first place. That day, she appeared beautiful. Her skin was paler than normal, her cheeks flushed prettily.

Rosalynne crossed over to her. “Why did you not come?”

Queen Aldith blinked a few times as if shocked to be addressed. “Come to what?”

“The execution. Are you all right?”

Aldith nodded. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem… Are you sure?”

Aldith went to nod again and then gripped Rosalynne’s shoulder. The queen’s other hand rushed up to cover her mouth.

“Do you need—”

The queen rushed away. Worried, Rosalynne followed her. They hurried to the kitchen, and the queen dashed to an enormous pot over the fire. She promptly emptied her stomach into the contents of the pot.

The scullery maids and the cooks stared at them. Wordlessly, a maid handed the queen a cloth. Rosalynne snatched it and patted the queen’s mouth, cleaning her.

Even more pale and yet flushed, the queen leaned heavily on Rosalynne. They exited the kitchen and staggered their way to the queen’s chambers. The heavy door was not easy to open while holding up the queen. For being so weak, the queen weighed heavily against Rosalynne. The neckline of her gown dropped, gapping away from skin. Rosalynne could not help noticing that the queen’s chest seemed much larger than normal.

Shoving her other shoulder against the door, Rosalynne finally got them into the room. She helped the queen to her massive bed and covered the blanket over her before closing the door and returning to the bed.

“Do you need water?” Rosalynne asked.

“Please. And a bucket. Maybe close the curtains? The sun is bright.”

The sun did not shine that brightly in the room, but Rosalynne complied with that request. The others could wait a moment.

“Are you with child?” Rosalynne asked.

Aldith’s face perplexingly grew even more pale. “Yes.”

A baby. Rosalynne shuddered with disgust. The idea of having a child was not something she wished to consider, and she must. It was almost a disservice to Tenoch Proper that Rosalynne had not married yet. She was seventeen. She should have been wed two or even three years ago so that she herself already had a child. An heir. One day, her child would rule.

Rosalynne had already given up much for Tenoch Proper. Her sense of pride, her compassion, her sense of self had all been destroyed and replaced by worry, fear, and anger. So much anger. She was furious all the time.

Marriage and children. Not for her. Not now.

Soon. Very soon.

She took a breath to calm herself. Of course, it did not help.

“Why have you not told everyone yet?” Rosalynne asked.

The queen had fallen asleep.

Rosalynne slipped out, fetched a pitcher and bucket, and gave them to a nurse to stand by the queen. Down the hall, Rosalynne knocked on her father’s large, golden doors. A guard from the inside opened the doors.

“A moment please,” Rosalynne said.

The three guards all left and closed the doors with a thud.

On a large silver floral-patterned settee, her father reclined. He was the size of three men. His head shifted slightly, and he stared at her.

“Rosalynne. Why are you here?” His dark eyes bore through her. Her eyes were the same shade, and their chestnut-colored hair matched as well.

“Dicun Lewis has been killed.”

“Good, good.” Her father closed his eyes.

“Congratulations,” Rosalynne ventured.

Her father’s eyes flew open. “Congratulations for what?”

Rosalynne winced. Aldith hadn’t told anyone yet, not even her husband.

“Congratulations on seeing to it that Tenoch Proper is safe,” Rosalynne said hastily. “A thousand villagers came to Atlan to witness the execution. The people know to inform us if anyone speaks highly of the Lis and—”

“Rosalynne, do not lie to me.”

“Oh?” she asked innocently.

Her father shifted slightly and shuffled back somewhat so that he was almost sitting up. Almost. “That is not why you congratulated me. Speak the truth now, or else I will have your tongue ripped out.”

Rosalynne closed her eyes so she would not roll them. “You will not do such a thing.”

“Because you will tell me the truth.”

Rosalynne almost smiled. For once, her father seemed like the commander he had once been. In order for him to unite the people behind him and against the Lis, her father had to be powerful and strong. Unbelievably, her father had claimed the land and the throne without a single battle. Yes, lives had been lost, but an entire war had been averted. Since her father had become king, there had been almost two decades of peace.

“Your child,” Rosalynne said. “It took you and Aldith a long time to become pregnant, but I am happy for you both.”

Her father held unnaturally still.

“She should have told you. She didn’t, did she? She seems to be all right, but she’s a little weak.”

“She’s always been weak,” her father said.

“Be nice,” Rosalynne admonished. “She is carrying your child.”

Her father did not respond.

“Do you need anything?” Rosalynne asked. “Do you want me to tell Aldith anything?”

“Thank you, Rosalynne, for handling the execution. One day, you will be queen. You have already shown yourself to be strong.”

Had she? Truly? Asking another to swing the axe felt so impersonal. She had condemned the man to die, yet she had not executed the sentence. Certainly, she did not wish to cut that cord. Regardless, because of her actions, a man was dead.

Another man. Others had already fallen because of her decree.

Despite the praise he was lavishing upon her, her father’s lips were twisted into a terrible scowl.

“Are you not happy?”

“With you? Always.”

Rosalynne flinched, unsettled. It plagued and disgusted her that their father would not even talk to Noll. As for Vivian, their father thought her a fool. It was wrong of him, but her father did not care. The old maid Diot Lopez had explained the situation to Rosalynne once after their father had left Vivian in tears.

“Her mother had the prettiest eyes in all the land. Such bright blue eyes,” Diot had said.

“So Vivian’s remind him of Mother’s? But my sister’s eyes are a dark blue.”

“When one is grieving, one does not see things properly. To him, Vivian has your mother’s eyes.”

It most certainly did not help any that their mother died giving birth to Vivian. One time, Vivian had confessed to Rosalynne that Vivian never once felt as if their father loved her.

It was wrong. Terrible and wrong.

If I have a child, it will only be one.

If. I must. When. When I have a child, I will only have one. If by chance I do have multiples, I will treat them all equally.

“You may go, Rosalynne," her father said in a tone that suggested he had said this more than once.

“Of course.”

Rosalynne left the room and then the entire castle. There was time for a ride before supper yet. Besides, her father would be eating in his room, as he always did. She would not be missed.

Not until the next execution.

A storm of anger and frustration welled within Rosalynne. A quarter of an hour later, air raced through her hair as she and the horse galloped along River Zim. For that moment, she would live as she wished even if it could only last until suppertime.

* * *

4.

Prince Noll Rivera

No one in the kitchen would pay any attention to Noll. Sometimes, one of the maids would give him an apple or the chef would allow him to taste the soup, but there was no pot bubbling over the fire this day. Everyone seemed so busy and frantic, anxious and worried, that Noll left the kitchen behind.

Where should he go? Not back to the inner courtyard. He did not want to risk smelling that disgusting sickness any longer.

Back to his room? No. He was not tired. Honestly, he was not even hungry, but the kitchen was one place where he felt welcomed.

Noll decided to just wander the castle. He did that a lot. Sometimes, people ignored him, and he didn’t always mind. He could pretend he was important. He was a prince after all, not that anyone truly acted like he was a prince, although he could not be certain how a prince should be treated.

He climbed the grand spiral staircase and passed the queen’s chambers. He didn’t like Aldith. She ignored him whenever he tried to speak with her, so now he ignored her.

Then again, his father did not always talk to him. Truthfully, Noll did not like his father much either. For some reason, Noll seemed to disappoint his father. He couldn’t understand what he did wrong. Noll tried to be a good prince. When Vivian or Rosalynne told him to do something, Noll listened. He mightn’t always get it right the first time, but he did try. He didn’t want anyone to be upset with him.

It had been a few days since he last saw his father. Maybe a week. Longer possibly? If he could make his father happy, that would make a day wonderful. Noll was still upset that he hadn’t been able to play the game that the man had won earlier. Everyone had cheered the man on. Noll wished they all had cheered for him.

One day they will.

How could he impress his father? Maybe if he talked about the game. No. No, better not. He wasn’t sure how the game was played other than the man winning. He didn’t even know the man’s name. Better not to mention that.

A dog! Yes. Maybe he could ask his father for a pet dog. He saw many dogs in the marketplace. Why couldn’t he have one?

Noll ran down the hallway toward his father’s room. Should he knock? Yes, yes, he should.

He raised his fist.

“How dare you!”

Noll lowered his hand. Someone was already in there with his father, and the king did not seem happy at all with them.

Curious, Noll hesitated. Maybe it would be better to leave, but he was curious.

“What did you expect?” a lady asked.

“For you to be faithful!” the king roared. “Is that too much to ask of my wife?”

“Your wife?” Queen Aldith repeated. “Do you treat me like your wife? No. You ignore me. You stay here, in your room. What kind of a king are you?”

“Don’t you dare question me!”

Noll felt uncomfortable and glanced over his shoulder. No one was around, but still, Noll felt guilty. Rosalynne had once berated Noll for listening to her conversation with another lady. Noll hadn’t even cared about what they had been talking about. He couldn’t even recall what the two ladies discussed, but Rosalynne had been so upset. His father would not be pleased to learn Noll was listening. Maybe he should leave before he was found.

But if he left, he would never get a dog. Yet if his father was in a poor mood, he would never agree to a dog.

Noll could not bring himself to leave. He wanted a dog that badly.

“I do not have to explain myself to you. I am king!”

“King of what? Your settee?”

A loud groaning sounded. His father? The settee? Noll had no way to know, but it sounded unpleasant.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”

Noll rubbed the back of his neck. At least his father had never talked to Noll in that terrible of a tone of voice. Ignoring his father would be preferable to this awful, almost hateful tone. It almost disgusted Noll to hear his father talk to Aldith like that, which was saying something considering Noll did not care for the queen.

“You have done nothing for anyone, not even yourself. Not unless you count—”

Noll had never heard the queen so angry before. He had always thought of her as kind of mild. She reminded him of a calf or a lamb. No, not quite. More like a cub. Weak and almost worthless without a mama bear around.

“I made you queen. Isn’t that enough for you? Obviously, considering you went behind my back and—”

“Can you blame me? You ignored me. You wouldn’t even look at me. You pretended I wasn’t your wife. So what if I did the same to you? Why was it acceptable for you but not for me?” the queen demanded.

That seemed like a valid point to Noll. The king cared about himself and no one else. His father didn’t seem to care about anyone except maybe for Rosalynne. It hurt Noll that his father wouldn’t look at him either. Noll used to tell his father that he loved him all the time. Noll had been perhaps five at the time. His father never said it back, and eventually, Noll stopped saying it. What was the point? The wind captured Noll’s words and whisked them away. Maybe his father had never heard Noll’s declaration. Perhaps he had, and the king hadn’t cared. Could it be that kings were beyond love? If so, Noll was grateful he wasn’t the oldest. He would rather love than rule. Would Rosalynne be a good and just ruler one day? Noll did not know. She seemed more capable of love than their father, but she was also easily exasperated, at least as far as Noll was concerned.

“You have no place questioning me. None at all.” The king never sounded more furious, more irate. “I made you. I can destroy you.”

“From where you sit? Your men follow my orders more than they do yours.”

“Do you want to try me?”

Another groan sounded. This one was so loud and wooden that Noll knew it must have originated because of the settee. Surely the king hadn’t stood. Noll couldn’t remember the last time the king stood.

“Go ahead. I am the king. Let us see who they will listen to. I assure you, they belong to me.”

“No one belongs to you. Not the kingdom, not anyone. Your children hate you. Your people despise you. They have not seen you in how long? You are not a king they see. You are not a king they stand behind. You can hardly stand yourself!”

Noll hung his head. Did the king think that Noll hated him because Noll no longer said that he loved his father? Maybe he should tell the king how he felt. Maybe that would help. Noll did not like how angry they both sounded. The queen was being so vicious, and the king was not being nice either. Why must they fight?

“So that is your justification for committing adultery? Against your king and husband?”

“You are not my husband, not truly, and you know it.”

Adultery? Noll wrinkled his nose and glanced around. He should leave. This was boring anyhow. Why was he waiting around? He wanted something. What was it? Oh, yes, the dog! He still wanted a dog so badly. Maybe once the queen left, Noll could make his father happy. If his father was in a good mood, surely Noll would be rewarded with the puppy he so desperately wanted.

“You cannot deny that the child you bear is not mine.”

“Of course not. You won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. You won’t even be in the same room with me.”

“If you came to me—”

“I shouldn’t have to! Also, you could come to me. But, no. You can’t move unless the guards carry you in a litter. Do you realize how sad that is?” the queen berated Noll’s father. “You’re not a king. You’re a fat sloth. That’s what you are.”

“And you,” the king snapped, “you are not half the queen Rohesia had been.”

Rohesia. Noll straightened. That was his mother’s name. He didn’t remember her. How could he? He’d only been a little older than one year old when she’d died. It always made Noll sad to think of her. He knew she had blue eyes and dark blond hair. Several rooms in the castle had pictures of the previous queen. It saddened him to look at her. Truly, only one painting of her did he like. The one that hung in the kitchen was the only one where his mother had been smiling. Noll wasn’t supposed to go to the kitchen, but the scullery maids would sneak him treats and desserts. He went to the kitchen most days to eat and watch the chaos. It wasn’t easy to cook for so many. Noll didn’t envy the chefs and the cooks and the maids.

“Tell me the name of the man who impregnated you,” the king demanded, his voice booming.

“No,” Aldith said, suddenly sounding calm.

“Give me his name!”

“I refuse.”

“If you will not name him, then you give me no choice. You will die after you give birth to that man’s child. Does his life mean more to you than your own?”

If there was an answer, Noll did not hear it. Out of fear that Aldith would storm out of the room, Noll took off, hurrying away as quietly as possible. Never before had he wished he could disappear. If he were to be discovered after his father had sentenced his wife to die, Noll was afraid he’d be killed too.

Noll wanted a dog, but even more so, he wanted to live. His life might not be perfect, but he wasn’t ready to die.

* * *

Other Books By N. M. Zoltack

In the Eye of the Dragon

A Time of Turmoil

The Deceit of Tongues

Keepers of the Flames

The Triumphant Return

When Claws and Swords Collide - coming soon

The Might of Magic - coming soon

Blood and Ashes - coming soon

N. M. Zoltack loves epic fantasy more than life. Game of Thrones is amazing, and George RR Martin really needs to finish the last books. More than willing to talk theories and it’s up for debate which is better—the books or the show.

For more information:

Email nmzoltack@ gmail.com

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Part III

Flintlock fantasy

Contents

1. The Blackbird and the Ghost

2. A Sea of Broken Glass

1

The Blackbird and the Ghost

Hûw Steer

The Boiling Seas are the mariner’s bane – and the adventurer’s delight. The waters may be hot enough to warp wood and boil a hapless swimmer, but their scalding expanse is full of wonders. Strange islands lurk in the steamy mists, and stranger ruins hold ancient secrets, remnants of forgotten empires waiting for the bold… or lying in wait for the unwary.

On the Corpus Isles, gateway to the Boiling Seas, Tal Wenlock, the Blackbird, seeks a fortune of his own. The treasure he pursues could change the world – but he just wants to change a single life, and it’s not his own. To reach it, he’ll descend into the bowels of the earth and take ship on burning waters, brave dark streets and steal forbidden knowledge. He’ll lie, cheat, steal and fight – but he won’t get far alone. The ghosts of Tal’s past dog his every step – and one in particular keeps his knives sharp.

The Blackbird will need help to reach his goal… and he’ll need all his luck to get back home alive.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

He clicked his fingers, a spark leaping from their calloused tips to flare in his palm as a handful of flames, and golden light bloomed from his hand to drip, liquid, from the ancient stone of the tunnel walls.

He picked his way forwards, careful steps across uneven flags, his burning hand held forth before him. His other hand was loose, fingers curled at his side, ready to seize upon a knife-hilt, or on the leatherbound book that hung heavily in the satchel on his shoulder. He’d definitely need the book soon. Hopefully he’d not need the knife. His eyes were adjusting poorly to the sudden firelight, and he squinted past his own hand as best he could, trying to pierce the shadows ahead. The night without the tunnel was dark and star-filled, but as soon as he had dropped down into these catacombs the night’s glow had been utterly extinguished for him. No matter. He had his witchlight, and he had his knife, and he had his wits. He’d needed little else before.

Down into the tunnel he crept. The stones that surrounded him were truly ancient. Dust carpeted them thickly, centimetres deep in places, but beneath their grey blanket they were likewise coloured. Plain they were, and not entirely smooth and ordered; many had fallen from their rightful places to lie shattered on the floor. The tunnel roof and walls were gap-toothed now, and it was across their ruined, missing molars that he now carefully walked. Deeper and deeper he plunged, in every step the utmost care contained, as before and behind him the ruined tunnel stretched; the gullet of some ancient beast. But it was that beast’s belly that he sought.

He carried little. Such was his habit: too often, in his early days, had he been forced to flee some bind or plight with nothing but the clothes on his back and the gear in his bag. Therefore it was in that bag and those clothes that he kept the few things he could not do without. Clothes, food – all these things could be replaced, with ease. His tools were his life. On his feet he wore high boots of leather; a good pair, well worn-in by now; simple trousers and a plain shirt, beneath a battered leather jacket with a deceptive number of pockets. In those were a few useful bits and pieces; spyglass, tinderbox, some coin. He kept many of the pockets empty, however, in case he had to abandon some larger luggage at short notice. On his belt was strapped his well-honed knife; a long-bladed thing, sharp, strong and slender steel. The knife was his most versatile tool, and it had never let him down. In his canvas satchel were his other sundries; water-flask, some travelling food, a fresh shirt, coin-purse, his whetstone… and a single, slim book. The book was the reason he was here, in this pitch-black tunnel, questing deep beneath the earth through this ancient, abandoned passage. The book was his map, the book was his guide. The book was his key to riches unimaginable.

Dimly before him, far down the tunnel, the faintest scrap of light was visible. Unconsciously his weight shifted as he walked, forwards into a tense crouch, his offhand adjusting the sheath of his knife for an easy draw. He squinted into the dark as he walked, doing his best to pierce the darkness. Steadily the light was drawing nearer, growing brighter, and he frowned as he tried to remember the first chamber on the map. Recollection failing, he unlimbered the surprisingly heavy book from his satchel and paused, propping it open awkwardly in one hand and holding his flaming hand, carefully, over the crackling pages. He flipped through slowly, until he came on the rough diagram he sought. In black ink was sketched a simple map of a tunnel system; the tunnel he was in. His eyes narrowed as he traced the long entrance tunnel, following its slender passage until he found its end. The first chamber bloomed round at the tunnel’s end, and there were notes in a spidery hand surrounding the illustrated room. Entrance hall. First traps, basic traps. Take care.

Carefully, he moved forwards again, and, moments later, stepped into the first chamber.

The slender tunnel ended abruptly in a great hall, long, broad, and many-pillared. The light he had seen came from a crack in the ceiling, high above. As in the tunnel, many blocks of facing stone had fallen down, revealing the raw rock above, and a broad fissure in that rock let the pale moonlight lance down, dimly lighting the great entrance hall. Steps led down from the tunnel entrance to the main floor, and pillars flanked a path of immaculate flagstones, leading through the hall to a set of broad doors at its other end. The doors held firm still, though their wood appeared ancient and brittle. Along the walls of the entrance hall were inlaid great and intricate mosaics, their polished stones glinting still under his proffered witchlight. Great cities of white and azure seas were displayed in glorious fashion, turning the dust-grey, artless construction of the hall into a thing of beauty, of majesty. The great hall had been well made, all those centuries ago. The ancients had been skilled builders.

Aesthetic appreciation was all well and good, but he had a job to do. He stood at the top of the steps, fire blazing in his hand, and surveyed the floor and pillars with a practiced eye. There were no apertures visible in the pillars, ready to spit forth darts of poison or entangling chains. Neither could he see any tripwires – and surely they would have been triggered already when the great blocks of stone had crashed down from the ceiling, rupturing the even flags asunder. Nothing obvious. But then what did I expect? If the tomb-builders had wanted this to be easy, they would not have buried their masterpiece hundreds of feet below the ground. But there were no bodies lying in the hall, which was a good sign. He’d seen tombs with far less promising entrances. Either nobody had been here before – which, despite the trouble he had gone through to obtain his book of secrets, he highly doubted – or the first traps were simple, and the inevitable bodies were lying further into the underground complex. Somebody had to be unlucky. That was something he’d learned, over a few years of heavy experience in this trade, the trade of a treasure-hunter. Usually, the unlucky one wasn’t him, but there was a first time for everything and he knew it well.  Carefully, he stepped forward onto the flagstones.

One pace at a time, he crept on across the suspiciously clear pathway. He felt ahead of him with his foot, gently, feather-light, testing for concealed pressure plates that would spring some swift death upon him. He found only a few, and avoided them like a plague. When he came to the first of the fallen ceiling stones, his eyes snagged on a buckled piece of metal beneath the rock, and he realised that the stone must have shattered at least one of the traps that would have sprung upon him. There was no sense in being incautious, however, and he continued his slow creep until he reached the end of the hall, and the great doors. Nice and easy does it. He raised his witchlight to the doors, examining them, checking for the intricate locks and delicate, subtle traps that he had seen so many times before in ruins such as these. To his surprise, there were no traps. To his further surprise, when his hand pressed lightly against the door, checking for a hidden catch, the door simply swung open. Someone has been here before. Figures. Whether they had been here recently or not, he couldn’t say – but unconsciously he had already raised his guard and sharpened his wits. He had come too far, worked too hard, to have this chance seized from him by some other agency. His head ran through a list of rivals, discounting the dead, the retired, and the distant. Only a few potential foes remained. A select elite plied his opportunistic trade, and he knew them all by name and deed; Iron Kennit, the Vagabond Three, Dace Blackhame, and a dozen more. Some he had worked with, others fought against – often these were the same person. It was the way of the world that some other would seek the same glory as he, and it was the way of his world that he would make sure he got there first.

He stepped through the door, into the second chamber, and finally found his bodies. Four of them lay about the room, in various states of grisly death. The iron tang of blood was absent, but the terrible sweetness of decay made him gag. Months, years old, even. The chamber was smaller than the entrance-hall, but longer, and at his entrance lanterns had flickered into life, casting the room in a warm yellow glow to reveal the dust-thick floor. Ancient technology lasted. He extinguished his witchlight at last, and felt a surge of returned energy that he hadn’t even realised he was missing. Got to be careful with that. But now both hands were free, and they turned to the heavy book. Rooted in place, he examined the diagram of the second chamber, eyes flitting between the chamber itself and the black ink of the old map. It was broader, but shorter. Its pillars had been shoved to the outside walls, leaving the floor clear to house a number of low coffins. Each was of dark wood, the grain so fine and the planks so dark as to be true voids beneath the golden lantern-light of the Ancients. Servants, probably. It was honour enough to be interred in one of these great tombs at all, but the prime inhabitant would be in a chamber of their own. These must have been valued friends or retainers. The coffins were sealed shut, all eight of them, still perfect and unbroken, and he longed to be able to see within, to learn the secrets that they held, safe from the outside world. But he knew he could not. Nothing he possessed could pierce that midnight wood – nothing of any human agency whatsoever had ever managed it. The coffins of the Ancients were proof against the thieves of the future. Luckily for him, not every treasure of theirs was sealed within nightwood.

The first body lay at the foot of the first coffin. It had been a man of middle years, bearded and greying, emaciated from decay. There was a shockingly large hole punched clean through his abdomen, just under the ribs. Judging by the trail of dried blood on the flagstones, he’d crawled some distance from where he was injured. His eyes followed the trail, the dull crimson smear glinting weakly in patches. It led, to his complete lack of surprise, to the area near the doors at the room’s far end. Traps there. The second and third bodies were together, halfway down the chamber in the middle of the coffins. He couldn’t see them properly from where he stood. The final body was draped across a far coffin, a woman in red, though whether that was from old blood or cloth he couldn’t tell.  Four hunters, all seeking the treasures of the Ancients. And none of them made it. The dark doors were firmly sealed still. It seemed he would be the first to pass into the third and final chamber – if I make it. Don’t get cocky now. That would be thanks to the book he held.

On the diagram, he saw the needle symbols that long experience with such manuscripts told him meant spike-traps. That explained the hole in his first unlucky predecessor. The symbols flanked the doorway, and filled the space between the coffins. Liberal. But how were the spikes triggered? There had to be a safe path through the room, or legitimate visitors would be unable to make their way through the tomb – even if the tomb had been intended to remain sealed for a thousand years more, there was always the possibility that some trusted descendant or friend would need access. Otherwise the tombs would simply be isolated chambers deep in the earth, with no entrances or exits. Poring over the diagram, his eye caught a few lines of spidery handwriting in an upper corner, an untidy scrawl just like the rest of writing in the slim book. Most of the slender volume had been devoted to guiding him to the tomb, which had been a complex process indeed. Only the last few pages detailed what lay within. It wasn’t just the age of the thing that made it hard to understand; the archaic style of the writing, the poor-quality ink on thick, uneven paper… whoever had written this guide had either been a poor writer, or in a hurry. The lines were dashed hastily across the upper half of the page.

Tread the void and spurn the dead

But crimson spells your end.

Fantastic. I just love riddles. It seemed an interminable vice of all ancient tomb-designers to couch their secret guides and notes in some cryptic form. Just once I’d like a clear instruction. If the designer had been in such a hurry to set down his guide to the tomb’s secrets before some agent of the deceased caught up with him, why hadn’t he just been simple? But then, this is half the fun of it. He felt a grin spread across his face as he contemplated the mystery of the tomb, the low burn of adrenaline that was always banked within him, ready to be flared at a moment’s notice whenever his limbs had to be quickened, his mind set to race. It was excitement, anticipation, eagerness, and it was the heart of his very being.

‘Spurn the dead’ was clear enough, at least – don’t touch the coffins. The bodies that lay atop them were testament to that already. Void and crimson, void and crimson… Red and black? He had to ‘tread’ it, whatever that meant. But apart from the blood, which was irrelevant, and the coffins, which were already ruled out, there was neither red nor black anywhere in the room. All was grey with dust, save those areas already walked upon by the dead would-be robbers. He examined those footprints, crouching and peering forwards, but taking care not to leave his safe spot – and saw, beneath a thin layer of recovering dust, a sable floor tile. Got it. Walk only on the black tiles. Must be some red under there too. But the floor was carpeted thickly with dust, far too thickly for him to see the colour of the floor beneath. Before he took a pace, he’d have to clear his path. Time for another trick or two. He drew back his arm, concentrating, channelling his mind and being into the palm of that upraised hand. Flow and gust, the caress of that winter’s breeze… And he swept his hand forwards, and a surge of wind buffeted the room, pushing the thick dust aside and clearing a long line of tiles to the doors at the room’s far end. Nothing else moved, however, and the tiles still clung to a thin layer of dust. He grimaced. Really need to work on that. He was only newly come to the magic of the winds, and his power was still extremely weak. But it was enough for today. Before him stretched a long swathe of red-and-black tiles. Most of them were red. Damnit. This would be a little tricky.

Coiling the wiry muscles of his legs, he sprang forwards from his little safe haven, to land squarely on the first black tile. Immediately he dropped to a foetal crouch, ready to dodge whatever brutal machinery was swinging his way. None came. Alright. Best to be careful. With another careful hop, he sprang to the next tile, clearing seven feet of scarlet killing ground. He landed hard, but firmly. One at a time. There were a further seven black tiles between him and the far doors, which he was relieved to see were bordered by a line of black tiles. Seven till safe haven. Here we go. He sprang, sprang, and sprang again, nimble hops propelling him from black to black. He took an angled leap, steering well clear of the trapped coffins, and nearly fell as he landed awkwardly on one foot. But he recovered his balance, and sprang on again. A final leap took him to the tiles at the door’s foot, and he was safe. He straightened, pressing a hand to the door, and it swung open on soundless hinges at his touch. Before him, a stairwell stretched downwards, towards a distant, golden glow of lantern-light. He stepped through the threshold, then paused. Curiosity had the better of him. He bent down and snagged a small piece of fallen rubble, turned, and tossed it into the chamber, landing the stone perfectly on a scarlet tile.

A five-foot spike of gleaming, oiled steel punched up through a flap in the centre of the tile with the speed of a snake and the force of an explosion.

Well. He patted the book at his side. That’s one point for you. He strode onwards, down the stairs, and into the third chamber.

The heart of the tomb opened itself to him, as he pushed open the great double doors of the final room. It was cavernous, far larger than either of those that had come before it, and was illuminated brightly by the eternal golden light of a single, vast lantern, that hung from the ceiling like an artificial sun. As he opened the doors, there was a great rush of air from behind him, and the room inhaled, sucking in fresh atmosphere for the first time in hundreds of years. That’s a good seal. Indeed, none of the surfaces before him bore the slightest speck of dust. Instead they gleamed, polished stone and shining gold. The great pillars that held the domed ceiling were of iridescent black marble, veined with spidery webs of quartz. The flagstones of the floor were the opposite; white marble veined with black, fitted snugly, without mortar or grout, so that the entire floor was a marbled mirror. At the foot of each pillar, a golden sentry stood; a statue in gilded armour, stood at attention with mighty spears in their hands. A dozen of these flanked the marble floor, with seven more standing tall at the top of the room’s raised dais. Before the back wall, which bore a vast and beautiful mosaic of a thousand scintillating colours, stood a mighty coffin of the same black nightwood as before, though this one was edged and ornamented with gleaming gold. The seven sentries stood guard behind the coffin, eternal watchmen. But it was what lined the room’s walls, what surrounded the foot of the dais, that first drew his eye. Great chests stood uniform, their lids open to the domed ceiling, and every one was filled with golden gifts; priceless treasures of gold, jewels, precious stones and manuscripts. But even these were not his goal. The book hung heavily in his hand, as he contemplated the pedestal that stood behind the central, ornate coffin, and the slender scroll-case that it held.

Finally.

Long months had he worked, trawling the islands, searching endlessly to find this tomb. It was the longest search he had undertaken in his career as a tomb trawler, as an archaeological thief. It had taken him an age to find the guidebook, still longer to learn enough of the ancient tongue it was written in to be able to translate its instructions. He had dodged his rivals, outwitted his foes, and barely managed to escape with his life on a dozen occasions. But that was business as usual. Finally, he had taken a little boat from Port Malice to the Palm, and delved into the ruins that littered its surface, in the search for his fortune. Now it lay before him, his for the taking, the scroll that would change the world, in the right hands. His weren’t those hands – but he was prepared to sell it to whoever had them. But first he had to make his way across the final chamber, and reach the pedestal. And then get out alive.

That last task might be more difficult than it sounded. The gold-armoured statues made him unaccountably nervous. They were impossibly lifelike, their muscles bulging with repressed and lethal energy. Those he would avoid, ever-wary of the tricks of the ancient tomb-builders. The idea of a living statue defending the tomb was not as far-fetched as some of the things he’d seen placed as traps before. Unconsciously his hand went to the wooden pendant around his neck, the rune-charm he’d worn for the last fifteen years, carved simply with the F-rune of luck. He’d need all of it. He deployed his own instincts before he opened the book, testing his wit and experience. No sense making this too easy, now, is there? His eyes scanned the room, carefully, piercingly. The flagstones, holding no dust, fit so closely that a sheet of paper would scarcely be able to slide through the gaps between them. None were obviously loose, concealing some deadly spring-trap – but none of the spikes in the last chamber had been obvious either. Nor were there visible apertures for projectile traps in wall, pillar, or ceiling. The room had been perfectly sealed for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. No stones had fallen from the ceiling, no dust had clogged any mechanisms. Any trap within the chamber would likely be in perfect working condition.

Scowling, he opened the book. The diagram was detailed, showing the location of every treasure-chest, every statue. Peering closely at an annotation, he read: Stay away from the statues. Spears still sharp. His suspicions had been correct. On an impulse, he picked up another piece of rubble from the stairwell behind him, weighed it in his hand, and tossed it upwards. The stone landed three paces in front of the first statue, and with the speed of lightning the statue whirled its spear about and lanced down, the golden blade plunging to within an inch of the floor tile. After a long moment, the statue returned to its resting position. Automated. A fancy trap, but a predictable one. If the statues could lance the ground in front of them, the path down the centre of the room would be narrow indeed. Sighing, he turned, gathering several more stones from outside the chamber. He’d have to map their ranges first before he dared set foot on the chamber floor. Optimistically, he checked the book’s diagram, but it gave no measurements. No matter. He hefted the next stone, and set to work.

What felt like a half-ton of rock later, he was fairly certain he had the ranges of the statues. There was a narrow path, one flagstone wide, which was, deceptively, two stones to the left of the room’s exact centre. Rocks lobbed onto the flags of that line had elicited no deadly reaction. There would inevitably be more traps near the altar, but first he had to get there. Smiling, he stepped forwards, and began to walk slowly along the safe line. He passed two statues, and confidence rose in him. Easy as breathing. He stepped forward, onto the next flagstone – and hurled himself backwards, away from the darting spear that had nearly skewered his questing foot. By blind luck he landed on safe flagstones. What the hell? I thought that line was safe! He picked up one of his launched pieces of rubble, and verified. Sure enough, the flagstone triggered the spear-thrust. But the adjacent flagstone, one that he’d thought had been trapped, did not. Oh, wonderful. It was a maze – a maze with invisible walls and very literal dead ends. He’d have to check every flagstone individually to traverse the rest of the floor – or I can speed things up a little. Picking up a rock, he hopped onto the safe flagstone, and rolled the stone forwards, sending it skittering across the floor. He pulled a pencil from his pocket, and as the spear-thrusts flashed downwards, marked which plates had triggered the statues. His next rock triggered the next row of flagstones, and he made two steps forward on safe tiles. Row by row, he marked the trapped flagstones, and within a few minutes he had a safe path marked on the book’s diagram.

With a few careful jumps he was across the killing floor, and standing at the foot of the great dais. The book made no mention of trapped stairs, but he proceeded with great caution, creeping up the smooth steps with his limbs coiled, ready to spring back. A single dart or pitfall would end his journey in a brutal instant. There were none, however, and he made the top of the dais without incident. Before him lay the gilded coffin, its midnight majesty only enhanced by the gleaming golden fittings, the sarcophagus appearing as pure void caged in gold. Who lay within? An ancient king, or so the book claimed; his name unpronounceable and lost to the ages, one of the Boiling Sea’s first monarchs. The book had waxed lyrical on his epithets and deeds, but he’d skipped that section. The guide was all that interested him; the guide to the scroll that sat not ten feet away. The scroll’s provenance he knew well, its power, its history. Long, long research had finally given him its location, after a dozen false (though admittedly profitable) expeditions into the depths of the earth. Finally, it was within his grasp. Almost. And with it, he could fix everything.

The book’s pages crackled as he opened the next page. Worryingly, the ancient text devoted an entire page to the pedestal and coffin. While only a few pages actually bore instructions to cracking open the tomb, the rest was padded with admittedly fascinating information about the tomb’s construction, its inhabitant, and a few titbits about the author. It had made a fascinating read on the boat ride from Port Malice to the Palm. But the detailed sketch of the coffin and pedestal took up far too much room for his taste. The coffin he could bypass entirely, thankfully. Within it lay the ancient king, and a number of supposedly magical items of incalculable value. Any other thief would salivate at the chance to seize such treasures for themselves. He, however, was not any other thief, but a clever thief. The coffin would be the most heavily protected thing in the entire tomb. He’d seen trapped coffins before; pressure plates, razor-sharp hinges, poisonous gases… The risk of certain death outweighed any reward imaginable. No way in hell I’m going in there.

He approached the pedestal. There were no pressure plates marked, so he crept closer to the plinth and examined the slim scroll-case. It was coated in dull bronze, weathered by long age. When did it get put in here? The tomb was so well-sealed that the scroll could not possibly have been corroded by its long stay. It’s seen hard use. Carefully, he leaned in, examining the delicate rack that topped the pedestal. There were no obvious signs of a mechanism or trap. He consulted the book. Well, I need to get my eyes checked. According to the text, removing the scroll would trigger a pitfall trap directly beneath his feet; a forty-foot fall at least. The only way to disable the trap was to use a key on the small keyhole that he only now noticed, his eyes roving across the smooth stone of the plinth. And where’s that key? He scanned the next line of text. Oh, fantastic. The key was around the neck of the tomb’s interred king – a neck that was firmly situated within the deadly gilded coffin. The writers of my life are cruel masters indeed.

Steeling himself, he turned to the coffin, and consulted the book. ‘To open the tomb is to invite a grisly end.’ Wonderful. ‘Your first concern is the edges of the coffin-lid. These are lined with the edges of the finest knife-blades, of imperishable and rust-proof steel. Lifting the lid will cost you your fingers.’ Well, lucky I came prepared for that. From his bag he produced his heaviest cargo. It was a small, mechanical jack, of the kind used by shipwrights and builders to hold up hulls and walls while work was performed on the underside of their projects. He set it down gingerly on the floor below the coffin, and pulled out a slender crowbar. With this, he could hold open the coffin without touching its edges. Just have to worry about what’s inside now. He read the next lines of the passage, setting the book down on the coffin-lid safely as he fiddled with his jack. ‘Within are a number of triplights, which will cause venomous darts to shoot forth. The agent on these darts is fast-acting and inevitably deadly. Keep your hands to the shadows, or block the darts.’ Triplights? He hadn’t the faintest clue what those were. He would simply have to be careful – very careful. He read on. ‘The last guardian of the key is the King himself. Avoid his hands, for they wear crushing gloves. The key is around his neck, exposed.’ Alright then. Dodge the light, don’t touch anything. Got it.

With deft, swift fingers, he wedged the end of his crowbar beneath the coffin-lid. With a swift heave, he levered it up a few inches and slotted the jack in place with lightning speed. Releasing the crow, he put it away and began to spin the jack’s handle. It expanded, to four times its usual height, and soon he had an opening some two feet high. He could see the razor-edges of the lid gleaming in the ancient lamplight, and reminded himself to buy a set of very thick gloves, just in case. Into the coffin he peered, and beheld the serene and gilded visage of the ancient death-mask of the king. Arms folded, the king lay in state, surrounded by weapons and arcane artefacts of a thousand scintillating varieties. His death-garb was golden armour, like that of the sentry statues that lined the hall but far more ornate; inlaid with rich lapis and crimson gemstones. The mask was of a cruel face, with a hooked nose and narrow eyes. Lifelike, not flattering. I’m impressed. Clearly, the king had relied on other things than looks to impress in life. The inside of the coffin was lit by a number of small lights, set into the sides of the coffin and shining bright beams above the gleaming armour in a complex web. Triplights. I see. The lights were each set next to a tiny, but tell-tale aperture; a dart-thrower if ever he’d seen one. His fingers would have to be nimble indeed to pluck the key from the king’s breast, for above that chest was where the web was thickest. Under the lights, atop the golden breastplate, atop the delicate filigree, was a simple leather thong, and a tiny silver key.

He steeled himself, and leaned forwards to examine the web of lights. There was a gap, just above the key; some three inches wide. How the hell do I cut the cord? There would have to be some deft knife-work here. He drew his knife, thankful that he’d sharpened it to a hair-fine edge before descending into the tomb. Leaning over the body in the coffin, he lowered his knife-tip with the utmost care, keeping his fingers well above the line of the triplights, and pressed delicately down on the leather cord with his blade. With a little pressure, the cord parted like butter before a burning blade. He pushed it carefully aside, leaving the tiny key unbound and glinting silver in the triplight glow. And now the tricky bit. Tentatively, carefully, he lowered his hand towards the light, two fingers outstretched, narrowing his hand as much as possible, sliding his slender fingers between the beams of deadly light, a thread through the needle’s eye. The slightest slip would kill him.

His fingers closed about the tiny key, and, resisting the urge to yank his hand away, he slowly raised his fingers free of the triplights, and gripped the key triumphantly in his hand. It gleamed the silver of starlight. Gotcha.

He quelled the sudden shaking in his fingers; of anticipation or avoided danger he knew not. He turned back to the pedestal, and slotted the miniscule key into its lock. With a swift twist, he disarmed the trap. The clunk of the mechanism was shockingly audible in the silent tomb, echoing eerily from the towering pillars. And that’s that. The traps were disarmed, the key retrieved. The book gave no indication of any further perils, other than the caution he’d have to take as he left the tomb. He had but to take the scroll, and leave. Automatically, he retrieved his jack and crowbar, carefully lowering the coffin-lid with the bar, sealing once more the ancient king within. He could find nothing else with which to distract himself, to put off the resolution of his long, long quest. Finally.

With quivering hands, he took the battered scroll-case from its pedestal, and unfurled it gently, the paper crackling, to reveal line after line of ancient, cursive script. The instructions he had so desperately craved for so long were finally, finally in his grasp. He couldn’t read them – the language was even older than that of the tomb’s builders – but he knew who could. Max, you saint, I’m going home! He would translate the instructions, read the scroll, and then… It would all be his again.

He furled the scroll again, and shoved it firmly into his satchel, making sure it was safely ensconced. He sheathed his knife, and exhaled shakily, the relief of his successful errand washing over him. He forced himself to concentrate, remembering the complexities of his journey into the tomb. Before he did anything else, he had to escape the tomb, return to the Heart and Port Malice. Only then could he make the trek upriver to visit Maximillian.

He turned, stepping back down the stairs, and was met by a searing, freezing pain in his gut. The knife left his belly, and vicelike hands lowered him to the steps, strangely careful, setting him down. As vision returned, he blinked, seeing the bowed head of a man all in black, rummaging through his satchel. With a grunt of satisfaction, the man pulled free the bronze scroll-case.

“My thanks, Blackbird. You’ve saved me a lot of work.” The velvet tones were all too familiar to him.

“Mikhail. Of course.”

“Damn right,” Mikhail said. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.” He stood, unfolding a burly frame, scroll in one hand and a bloody knife in the other. “I’ll be taking this. Thanks for your help.”

“How?”

“You know I’ve got the tricks.” It was true. Mikhail was an irritatingly skilled illusionist, master of concealment and shadow. Must have followed me in after all. Careless. He’d thought that he’d shaken his pursuers back on the Heel three days ago, but he’d clearly not been careful enough in handling Mikhail. Without even realising it, he’d led Mikhail through the entire tomb, showing him the safe path without even considering that someone might have been following, silent and invisible, led him by the hand through the deadly passages, setting Mikhail up with the perfect opportunity to take everything from him. Idiot!

“Why, Mikhail?” The question came weakly, as he forced his lungs to breathe in, every movement abruptly an effort. Mikhail looked down, a sneer curling.

“Why d’you think? The money, of course!”

“But that scroll…”

“Is worth a fortune to the right buyer.” The tall killer grimaced. “I’m sure it’s priceless to you, too. But tough shit, Blackbird. This is the world we live in.”

Mikhail turned, the scroll in hand, and walked away down the steps.

“Better luck next time, Blackbird.” Shadow wreathed him, the light slipping away, and he disappeared from view.

As Tal Wenlock, the Blackbird, began to bleed to death, he wondered what the hell the universe was holding against him this time.

* * *

PRAISE FOR  THE BLACKBIRD AND THE GHOST:

★★★★★ - “my dream come true” - The Wood Between the Worlds

“full of imagination… over far too soon” - Beauty In Ruins

"wonderful worldbuilding... deeply engaging" - The Qwillery

★★★★★ - "a real page-turner" - The Voracious Bibliophile

Hûw Steer  is an author, historian and sketch comedian from London. You may have seen him with the UCL Graters at the Edinburgh Fringe, read his theses on ancient Roman science-fiction, or even read one of his short stories. You probably haven’t, but at least you’re reading this.

Hûw has previously been published in ‘Making Monsters’ (The Future Fire, 2018), and the UCL Publisher’s Prize anthologies for 2018 and 2016. This is his first published novel.

You can reach him at huwsteerofficial@gmail.com , and read more of his work at huwsteer.wordpress.com .

2

A Sea of Broken Glass

Sonya Black

Secrets have a price.

After enduring weeks of torture and being convicted of witchery, Ris escapes, only to discover the Darkness and the Lady are hunting her. They need the magic that sings within her.

Creator of all, the imprisoned Lady needs Ris, her last vessel, to find the Heart of Creation. The Darkness seeks to corrupt the vessel and retain his hold on the Lady, and with it, the world.

Ris finds help from a pair of Paladins of Light who aid her in cleansing the evil taint from the lands. As her power grows, so do her questions. How can she restore balance to the world and free the Lady? Should the Lady be trusted or is she as much at fault for the evil in the world as the Darkness? With powerful demons War, Ruin, and Plague at her heels, Ris struggles to stay alive as she tries to unravel the secrets hidden within her before it's too late.

Secrets that may cost Ris her soul even if she does succeed.

SPFBO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 6

* * *

Prologue

Light, help us all! Why did the Lady of Light unleash such a foul curse? Everyone touched by it turns into a demon or ghoul. She is the creator of the world. Why would she destroy us?

The Lady and the Darkness walked the world hand in hand as husband and wife. We, who swore to protect the Light, did not see the danger.

Now it is too late. The Lady is lost to us. The Heart of Creation tainted.

Why did the Darkness have to follow her from the Void?

The Lady’s daughters have survived. They are the last of her vessels, but even they cannot save us. Should the Lady attempt to fill a vessel it would turn into something worse than the demons that pour from the Bonelands.

There is no hope left to us. No way to restore the balance. Why did they have to come to the world? Gods were not meant to walk among men. They should have stayed in the Void.

~From the journal of Llyr d’Idris, Lord of Light

* * *

1

Ris

I am betrayed. I have given all to my love and my creation. But, I will have my revenge. It is all that I have left. I clutch it like a cold, dead thing and hold it tightly in my heart. I cast my curse into the Void so he will feel my wrath.

~Excerpt from “The Lady and the Darkness” as translated by Sir Gwilam Cavanaugh

“Mistress Marissa LaRoche, you have been found guilty of the crime of witchery and are hereby sentenced to death. May you find mercy in the Void.” The gavel thundered like a gunshot through the silence of the packed courtroom.

Time stood still as my vision tunneled and the verdict settled over me like a shroud. My breath froze and my heart knocked a frenzied rhythm in my chest. Dread at what would come warred with burning anger as I held onto my composure by a tenuous thread. Fear and panic lodged in my throat. Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Refused to let anyone see the terror that threatened to swallow me whole.

Light help me, the Inquisitor won.

Whispers interrupted the silence following my verdict. They buzzed like flies on a corpse as they rolled from the back of the courtroom toward me. I stared at a spot on the wall, willing myself not to flinch or acknowledge the people who’d known me since I was a babe. It seemed as though everyone had turned against me. I wanted to be anywhere else, but instead I sat in the accused’s box, sentenced to death for a crime I hadn’t committed.

Townsfolk packed the benches to watch the spectacle, and the stuffy room reeked of stale sweat and overly sweet perfume. Women huddled like gossiping hens in their bustles and lace trimmed dresses. All starch and feathers with no substance. Men in their finest suits, their faces shiny and clean, the buttons on their waistcoats polished. They stared at me with eyes that said they were glad for the verdict. It felt like a festival and I was the main attraction. The mayor could have sold tickets and made a hundred ara.

“A waste. She’s food for the fishes now.” This from the miller who had begged me for a fertility charm to help his wife conceive.

Twenty-eight years of living beside them and they believed the lies. Betrayal bubbled beneath the surface of my detached facade, and I pressed my lips together to keep myself from screaming. It wasn’t fair. How could they believe the Inquisitor?

“Our sweet Ris convicted of witchery?” The blacksmith whispered loudly to his wife. “As if she’d cast a curse to make Count Allard fall in love with her.”

Maybe I had misjudged some of them. Maybe a few were still on my side.

The injustice of the situation caused my anger to bubble close to the surface, but I pushed it down. I was no witch, dealing in death magic and curses. I was a healer and my payment for helping the good folk of Greendale was a death sentence. The verdict was no surprise to me. I’d expected it. The Inquisitor had the town and the judge firmly in his grip.

“This is wrong.” A woman in the front row shook her head and the peacock feathers on her large hat bobbed up and down. “Master d’Idris will be furious when he finds out. Shame he’s not here.”

“Aye,” her companion said. “He might’ve stopped this nonsense.”

The murmurs washed over me until they were nothing but a dull hiss in the background. My defiance lodged in my throat as unshed tears pressed against my eyes. I wanted to fling my anger at the people of Greendale; they were so easily misled by the Inquisitor.

Not that the truth would save me.

How had Bran let it go this far? Where was he? Where was Aeron? The Bastion had called my Shield and Cloak, leaving me vulnerable. Was this planned? Did the Bastion know my secret? Were they using the Inquisitor as a tool to get to me?

I swallowed the bitter taste of betrayal, knowing it hadn’t been Bran or Aeron’s fault, and held tight to the slim hope they would still come for me, though it was likely they’d arrive too late.

The Inquisitor’s chilling black eyes met mine from across the courtroom, and his charming smile made me shiver. He tipped his head slightly.

Fear swallowed my anger whole and left me cold. My body tensed as I held his gaze. I may have been sentenced to death, but that didn’t mean I had given up. I would find a way to kill him for what he’d done to me. I forced myself to breathe and bow my head in return, an acknowledgment of his victory.

A throat cleared, and I looked up into the scowling face of Guardsman Prachett. His broad shoulders looked broader in the formal black wool great coat. I stared at the polished brass buttons that ran in twin lines from collar to waist. I didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. It’s all I’d seen for the last eight weeks. I couldn’t face more of it. Pity was the last thing I needed.

He held out a set of manacles, and I offered my wrists. His gentle touch provided little comfort as he closed the metal bracelets with an audible click. I glanced up and noticed that he avoided looking at my hands.

No surprise there. I avoided looking at my mangled digits as well.

Greendale Guardsmen were not familiar with torture. That was solely the province of the Inquisitor. He had broken my fingers one by one the second night of my arrest. He claimed it was to prevent me from hexing another poor soul. I hadn’t believed him since he’d done it after I’d picked the lock on my cell and made it halfway out of the jail.

Weeks later and without being properly set, my fingers had healed so I couldn’t use them, but they were the least of my problems. The silver collar that circled my throat prevented me from accessing magic. All part of the Inquisitor’s attempt to break me. It had nearly worked. It still might if I couldn’t find a way to escape.

“Are you ready, Mistress LaRoche?” Guardsman Prachett held the swinging gate to my box open as I stepped off the raised platform onto the parquet floor. He offered his arm, a gentlemanly gesture that touched me. He had no cause to treat me like a lady after the sentencing, but he had a good heart.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself before I set my hand on his arm. He led me through the crowded courtroom past the townsfolk. Their eyes followed me. The poisonous touch of their rabid gazes caused my skin to crawl. I kept my eyes locked on the face of the Lady carved above the exit. My secrets were linked to her, and I refused to go to my death cowering. I would find a way out of this.

The crowd pushed toward me, but a handful of Guardsmen kept them at bay, and the frustrated growl of their voices died as the door swung shut.

My boot heels clicked on the marble floor of the empty foyer. “Where is everyone?”

“Inside the courtroom,” Prachett replied. “Inquisitor’s orders.”

“Ah, no timely escape into the crowd then.” I offered him a weak smile, trying to keep the bitter edge out of my voice.

“No, Mistress, I’m sorry.”

“Have no fear, Guardsman, this isn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not, but I did nothing to prevent him….” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re no witch, Mistress. No matter what the Inquisitor says.”

I stared at the heavy wooden doors that led outside. His words were kind, but they couldn’t stop what was coming. “Thank you.”

Two Guardsmen pushed the outside doors open as we approached, but when we were three steps from the exit, the courtroom doors flew open behind us.

“Ris!” My father’s voice bounced off the vaulted ceiling and threatened to cut my knees out from under me.

My stomach lurched. I couldn’t speak with him. Couldn’t handle the pain in his eyes.

He hurried to me and pulled me into a tight embrace. I flinched. Memories from the last eight weeks tried to surface, but I pushed them away.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” my father murmured into my ear. “I didn’t protect you well enough. I am so sorry.”

A lump formed in my throat. I buried my face in the soft silk of his waistcoat, taking in the familiar scent of pipe tobacco as I wished the entire fiasco undone. Wished I could ease his fears along with my own.

“It’s all right, Papa.” I tried to tug at one side of his grey mustache, but my fingers refused to behave.

“It’s not all right. This,” —he carefully took my hands in his— “will never be all right.”

Guardsman Prachett cleared his throat. “Mistress, we must go before the—”

The doors to the courtroom opened again, and townsfolk spilled out.

“Ris,” my father said, loud enough that people quieted to hear his words. “The Inquisitor bribed the judge. I have proof. I’m going to the Bastion to appeal.”

The hope on my father’s face brought my tears dangerously close to the surface. He didn’t understand. He was going to get himself killed. My kind-hearted father would never be able to stand up to the Inquisitor, and the Bastion would never allow an appeal.

“Oh, Papa, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Hush, my girl. Help is on the way.”

“Please, Papa. Don’t do this. He’ll—”

“It’s too late, Ris. I will not let this stand.”

“Did you hear? She’s innocent,” someone cried out.

“The Inquisitor bribed the judge,” another person yelled.

Their words froze my blood as they spread like fire amongst summer-dried woods. They knew I was innocent. My knees trembled. I had misjudged the townspeople. Somehow, they knew it was all a lie.

“Bran will set things right,” my father whispered in my ear. He kissed my forehead and disappeared into the outraged crowd.

The Inquisitor would burn Greendale from the map. No one would survive his wrath.

Light keep my father and the townsfolk safe! I closed my eyes and whispered the prayer, my stomach twisting in knots.

Guardsman Prachett hurried me out the doors and down the steps into a beautiful spring afternoon where cherry blossoms covered the street in pink snow.

The bell at the station platform chimed the arrival of a train. A bright sound in the otherwise oppressive silence of the town. The prison wagon, parked in front of the courthouse, waited like a fine carriage to take me back to the jail.

“Let me help you, Mistress,” Guardsman Prachett said. “It’s best we go before it gets ugly.”

He boosted me into the back of the wagon, careful not to touch my hands and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked into place with a ring of finality that made my heart lurch.

A scream built in my chest. It had been building since the day the Inquisitor made his accusation. But seeing my father, hearing the hope in his voice, drew that scream up into my throat. I pressed my hands over my mouth, trying to hold it back. A soft whimper squeezed its way past my fingers as tears leaked from my eyes. How was I going to get out of this mess?

* * *

I woke with a start. The darkness pressed against me like a living thing. It brushed against my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I pulled my scratchy blanket to my chin, its musty smell a reminder that I wasn’t safe in my own bed. Sibilant whispers caressed my ears, and I shivered. They promised freedom at the expense of my soul.

After I’d arrived back at the jail, I’d been escorted to my cell, given a meal, and promptly forgotten. The Inquisitor had left me be.

Thank the Light.

Sleep had drawn me into its dark embrace, but something menacing hovered in the shadows. Something wanted to claim me. Nothing good came from listening to the Darkness. That’s what Aeron always said.

I stared into the shadows of my cell and tried to make out shapes in the faint moonlight that spilled in through the barred window. A puff of air caressed my cheek, bringing with it the soft scent of dew. An owl hooted, a lonely sound in the stillness. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The sound of fabric brushing against stone sounded loud in the quiet of my cell.

I wasn’t alone.

I fumbled with the oil lamp dropping the striker three times before my injured hands cooperated.

“Ris,” a gravelly voice said from the darkness. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

The wick bloomed with flame and caused shadows to dance on the stone walls.

Relief washed through me at the sight of my Shield. Dark circles lined his grey eyes, and his blond hair hung limply around his face. Stubble covered his jaw and his normally tidy clothes were rumpled.

“How did you get in here?” I asked. “Where have you been? Why did you leave me alone?”

Bran’s steely eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I don’t have much time. The Inquisitor set wards, and I barely got through them.”

“What—?”

Bran touched a finger to my lips. “For once in your life, little lark, listen and don’t ask questions.”

His admonishment rankled.

“But—”

“I’ll get you out of here. I promise.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the door.

“Bran—”

“The Inquisitor is as good as dead when I get my hands on him,” he growled.

“Only after I get a shot at him.”

“I can’t stand to see you like this.” Bran carefully took my hands, and I shuddered with memory. A melody filled the air, unheard by the ear, more feeling than sound. It tickled my mind. Magic flowed into me, a hot knife of pain that ran from the tips of my fingers up my wrists. My twisted fingers slowly straightened and the dull ache that had settled in my hands faded. They weren’t fully healed, but it was enough for me to use them.

“I can’t do more than that. Does Tolbert know your secret?” The urgency in his voice frightened me.

“No,” I whispered. “I didn’t tell him.”

My secret was one that only a few in the world knew, but it was so vast that death would be a luxury if the wrong people found out. I was the last of the Lady’s vessels. If the Lady or the Darkness found me, it meant the end of the world. They would try to fill me with their power and I would turn into something dark and terrible. I shivered at the thought.

“Good,” Bran replied. “I’ve got a plan to get you out—”

Keys rattled outside the cell.

Bran’s eyes widened. “Help is on its way. Be ready.”

Shadows wrapped around him, condensed and shrank until the man disappeared and a raven remained in his place. With a flap of his wings, Bran flew between the bars of the window and vanished into the night.

I turned my back to the door, laid down, and pretended to be asleep. The door opened with a squeak.

“Mistress LaRoche?”

I rolled over. “Yes?”

“I thought I heard voices.” Guardsman Winston swung his oil lamp around the cell.

“I must’ve been talking in my sleep,” I replied.

“I heard a man’s voice, Mistress.”

“No one is here but me.”

Guardsman Winston looked around the cell, his face pinched as if he’d swallowed something sour. “Good night, Mistress.”

“Good night, Guardsman.”

He closed the door and locked it.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Hope bloomed in the desert of my heart. Bran would save me. He always did.

* * *

Morning brought fear to life. The Inquisitor stood in my cell, his black eyes holding me in place. I was a butterfly, my wings pinned to a velvet cushion, prone so he could gloat over his success. I kept my hands tucked under my legs, afraid of what he would do if he saw them.

“Well, my dear, that went as expected.” He stroked his thin blond goatee.

I longed to pay him back for every hurt he’d given me. One day, I would.

“It is unfortunate that your father planted rumors of sedition within the townspeople.” He tapped his silver-tipped cane on the floor.

Bile rose in my throat. I refused to look him in the eye. He would take it as a challenge and that would lead to more pain.

“Your father has disappeared, but I will find him. I caught the messenger he sent to the Bastion. Father Delancy will be missing one of his acolytes. There will be no appeal.” His words shivered over my skin.

I closed my eyes. Relief that my father hadn’t been caught loosened the clenched muscles of my stomach.

“As for the townspeople, it never hurts to remind them of their place.”

“No!” I covered my mouth with my hands to hold back any more words.

How many would suffer? How many would bleed before this man was appeased?

The Inquisitor inhaled sharply, and I froze. His eyes locked onto my newly healed hands before rising slowly to meet mine. “Give me your hands, my dear.”

Horror crawled up my spine and threatened to discharge my stomach at his feet. I tucked my hands under my legs.

“No,” I choked out.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Now, Marissa.”

I shook my head. Defiance warred with fear.

He knelt in front of me and pulled one of my hands out from beneath my leg. I resisted but to no avail. My vision blurred. I tensed, ready for the pain, for the sickening crunch I knew would come.

Light, please, not again.

“Ah,” he said, tracing my healed fingers. “You had a visitor.”

He kissed each finger, and my skin crawled. “You are mine, Marissa. I will not tolerate another man touching you.”

“Why are you doing this?” I pressed my lips together in a poor attempt to hold back more words.

He cupped my cheek, rubbing his thumb back and forth. I held perfectly still, ruthlessly crushing the urge to pull away.

His dark eyes sparked with the knowledge that his touch made me squirm. “Very good, my dear. But, you’ll have to do better if you want to hide your hatred from me.”

Sour fear filled my mouth. Death would be preferable to this.

“You are mine, and I intend to make you more than you ever dreamed you could be.”

Never. I grabbed my knees to keep from striking him. That would lead to more pain, and I couldn’t afford to be broken if I planned on escaping. Bran said he would get me out. I clung to that promise and tried desperately to keep my hope afloat.

The Inquisitor stood and straightened his waistcoat and jacket. “The Lord of Ravens is getting too bold, sneaking through my wards.”

My mouth went dry as he hefted his cane. I flinched and regretted the movement as his eyes danced.

He placed the tip of the cane carefully on the floor. “You are my prize. There will be no more midnight visits from your…Shield.” He spat the last word out like a curse.

I refused to respond. Bran would find a way.

“The train leaves tomorrow.” The Inquisitor leaned in, his lips and nose brushing across my cheek. His breath feathered my ear and left behind the scent of dark and rotten things. “I look forward to spending more private time with you, my dear. Your fear and hatred are delicious.”

I couldn’t help the shudder that crept over me. Cold certainty settled on my skin. I had to find a way to escape. Bran said help was coming, but I needed a backup plan. Perhaps, I could use the skills Aeron taught me to disappear into the crowd at the station. Ideas began to form. Dangerous and reckless ideas.

The Inquisitor leaned back and raised my hand to his lips again. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Not if I could help it.

I was a statue carved of winter. The door closed, leaving me alone in the silence of my tiny cell as a tear traced its way down my cheek.

* * *

2

Michel

Sir Michel Durant checked his pocket watch for the fifth time in ten minutes as the train pulled away from the platform in a cloud of steam. Where was Bran? Mid-afternoon sun glared off the white-washed town of Greendale with its neatly trimmed hedges and tidy picket fences. A cool breeze carried the sweet scent of lilacs and cherry blossoms and reminded Michel this stop was not planned. He was supposed to be on his way to the Western Wilds where the air was arid and smelled of horse sweat and sage.

What was he doing here? Rescuing some chit who’d gotten herself convicted of witchery? Bran owed him for this. Michel put the watch back in his pocket. His job was fighting demons, not rescuing silly girls.

Greenwood Province was among his favorites, and the village of Greendale a frequent stop on his way home to the Bastion of Light. It was a good place to fish when Michel needed to set aside the burden of being a paladin. However, fishing was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

He scanned the street for signs of the elusive Lord of Ravens. Bran’s terse message had brought him to this village but hadn’t given him many details.

A raven on a nearby roof cawed and dropped to the ground in front of him.

“About time,” Michel muttered.

The raven lifted into the air with a heavy flap of wings and flew to a nearby alley.

Michel followed, looking around to see if anyone noticed. No curtains twitched in the windows as he walked by and there were few pedestrians on the street. Strange.

Shadows in the alley drifted like smoke around the brazen bird until it disappeared and a man stood in its place.

“Bran.” Michel tugged his cambric waistcoat.

Bran didn’t bat an eye at the terse greeting. He was usually well kept and tidy, but the Lord of Ravens looked like a mess. Honey blond shoulder-length hair slipped from its tie. His jacket needed a good brushing and his shirt was rumpled and stained. Deep purple circles lined the underside of his grey eyes. When was the last time he’d slept?

Michel fiddled with his watch chain. “You said something about rescuing a witch.”

“Ris is not a witch.” The air around Bran thickened and fury rolled off him in waves. “I’m her Shield.”

Michel stepped back. “I apologize. I didn’t realize she was one of ours.”

“She’s not…exactly. The Lords of Light have kept her family a secret from all but a select few.”

“Why—?”

Bran held up a hand to stop him. “She’s the last of the Lady’s vessels.”

“Light!” Michel rubbed at his chin. “No wonder you’re trying to keep her a secret from the Bastion.” All paladins belonged to the Bastion, but the organization had changed drastically from the time of its founding, foregoing its ties to the Lady in favor of political and social power. At times like these, Michel worried that it was turning more to the Darkness. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get her to Raven’s Keep. I’ll keep Tolbert off your back.”

Michel touched the scar on his cheek, a reminder of his ongoing feud with the self-righteous Inquisitor. “How do I get to her?”

“After Cre and I have distracted the Inquisitor, go to the jail. Guardsman Prachett will help you.” Bran handed him two tickets. “Take the train to Easton. From there, take the Copper Line to the Mining Outpost where Aeron will meet you. He’s Ris’s Cloak. The train leaves in an hour and fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

“She has a Cloak and Shield?” Not surprising considering what she was, but Void take it, what was Bran dragging him into? Michel took off his wool great coat and folded it over his arm. “This is going to be tricky.”

Bran’s jaw tightened. “Just get her out.”

Michel raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t you do it? You’ve never needed, or wanted, my help before.”

Bran turned away, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Someone has to stay behind and take care of Tolbert.”

“What happens if he’s in the jail?” Michel asked.

“He’s always in the jail. Cre and I will make sure he’s not a problem.” Bran reached into a pocket and pulled something out. He held it for a minute before he handed the object to Michel. “Give Ris this. She won’t go with you unless she knows I sent you. Tell her it’s a present from the raven to his little lark.”

Michel closed his hand around the small, hard item. Earth magic thrummed softly from it. It was a worry stone carved from onyx. It looked like one of Cre’s, one side worn and smooth and the other carved with the Light’s Blessing. Michel pocketed the stone and looked out of the alley. “Where is everyone?”

“Cowering in their homes,” Bran growled. “Be ready to go in an hour.”

“That’s cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

Bran frowned. “Tolbert will have a chance to recover if we take her too early. Make sure she’s on that train.”

Michel checked his watch. “I’ll be in the pub if you need me.”

Bran hesitated, then nodded once before transforming back into a raven. He flew into the sky with a raucous caw.

Michel envied Bran’s wings, and his ability to soar above the troubles of the world, to fly free. Michel’s abilities were associated with water, not air. Freedom of the waves wasn’t as impressive as flight. He straightened his jacket and headed for the pub.

The Bear and Buzzard wasn’t far from the train station, and it was the best place to get the local gossip. The usual bustle of factory workers headed to the textile mills, coupled with the train station meant Greendale streets were never truly quiet. Yet, no one looked Michel’s way or met his gaze as they passed. They studiously ignored him, which was unusual.

Michel pushed the door open, and a bell jingled overhead. Master Hamford looked up from behind the dark wood counter that took up more than a third of the room. Stools, normally filled with regulars, were empty.

Master Hamford narrowed his eyes before returning to polishing a glass, his bald head gleaming in the bright oil lamps.

Michel took a seat at the bar and waited. Hamford was usually a chatty bartender, but the tight lines of his lips and jaw spoke of wariness.

“A pint of your finest.” Michel wanted to hear what Tolbert had been up to and needed to get a feel for the girl he was about to rescue. It was one thing to trust Bran to have his back, but another entirely to walk into a situation blind.

Hamford set the glass carefully under the tap and poured a frothy brew, then set the foaming beer in front of Michel.

“What’s the news?” Michel took a long pull on the mug, enjoying the sharp, earthy tang.

Hamford fiddled with his rag. “Nothing much, Sir Durant. It’s been a while since your last visit. What brings you here?”

“Just passing through on my way back to the Bastion. Greendale has fine fishing this time of year.”

“That it does.” Hamford scrubbed his rag in quick circles. “There are rumors of plague in the south and demons have been spotted near the Ford.”

“Hm.” Michel took another sip. “Plague is never a good sign. Any demons spotted near here?”

“No, sir.”

Michel dug into his pocket and laid five aran on the counter. Half the length of his smallest finger and stamped with the Bastion’s crest, the silver rods gleamed against the dark wood of the bar.

Hamford licked his lips as he eyed the money.

Michel took another sip of his drink. “I heard rumors about a woman convicted of witchery.”

Hamford nodded, eyes glued to the silver Michel had set between them.

Michel slid an aran closer to Hamford. “Tell me about her.”

Hamford wiped the rag over the bar, and the aran disappeared. “Mistress LaRoche is the town healer, but takes after her mother.”

Michel recalled hearing stories about the Greendale healer. She was rumored to be quite talented, but he’d never met her. “How so?”

“She’s a lovely thing, but stubborn as the day is long. Feisty, too. Though she didn’t look that way in the courtroom.” Hamford’s last words were tinged with sorrow.

“Healers aren’t witches.” Michel wiped a bit of foam from his mug and licked it from his thumb. “Why was she accused?”

“The Inquisitor claimed she used a curse to make Count Allard fall in love with her.”

Michel snorted. Curses couldn’t make someone fall in love. A charm maybe, but they weren’t illegal. Charms were a healer’s bread and butter. “Was there any proof?”

“None.”

Michel slid another aran closer to the man. It too disappeared. “So, she wasn’t guilty?”

Hamford paled. Michel watched in fascination as a drop of sweat slid from the bald man’s temple and down his cheek.

Hamford’s hands trembled as he wrung his rag between his stubby fingers. “It don’t matter.”

Michel passed Master Hamford the last three rods. “Why not?”

“The townsfolk were angry when they found out the judge had been bribed. Mistress Walker and Master Grimsby organized a group to go to the Bastion and appeal. The Inquisitor had ’em hung ’cause they spoke out against him. For treason, he said.” The last words came out in a strangled whisper.

Hangings went against everything the Bastion stood for. How had Tolbert gotten permission to go that far?

Or perhaps he hadn’t.

Michel tucked the thought away for later.

“Tell me more about the girl.”

Hamford shrugged. “Not much more to tell.”

Michel downed the last of his ale. “Thank you, Master Hamford.” He laid an ara on the counter.

Hamford looked at the gold rod and then around the empty room before snatching it and the remaining three aran up. “Good fishing, sir paladin.”

Michel nodded at the barkeep and left.

Once outside, he checked his pocket watch. Forty-five minutes to go. Time to find a spot to wait. He hated waiting. He found an alley within sight of the jail and checked his watch again. He still had a half hour. Seated on an empty crate, he watched from the shadows.

Michel still didn’t understand why Bran needed his help. Bran was a Lord of Light. The last of three. Michel was one of the original paladins, one of six left after the Lady’s fall. He was stronger than the modern paladins, but still not nearly as strong as Bran. So why did Bran need Michel’s help? Surely, Bran could rescue the girl on his own.

The fact that she was the last of the Lady’s vessels astounded Michel. He’d thought the Lady’s line had died out with Elecia. How had Tolbert found out about the girl? And why was he interested? Did he know that she was the last of the Lady’s vessels? Tolbert did nothing unless it benefited him personally. So why bribe a judge and get her convicted of witchery?

It made no sense.

Magic tingled in the air, raising gooseflesh on Michel’s arms. He heard a melody of woodwinds matched with the deep boom of a kettle drum. The song rose and fell in notes that weren’t heard, but felt. His magic wanted to respond to the song, to thread mellow violins through it and create a harmony of water, earth, and air. He held back. It wasn’t his fight.

The song hit the wards surrounding the jail and got tangled up, the notes turning sour. The wards rippled with each strike, just enough to be irritating to the one who’d created them, but not enough to take them down. With the sustained barrage of magic, the wards tightened, shrinking to a small, contained area.

Minutes passed slowly, and it was all Michel could do not to keep checking his watch. He closed his eyes and opened his mind.

The wards, made from red flames with black streaks, swirled around the jail and prevented other magic users from getting near. The discordant clang of Tolbert’s magic reverberated in Michel’s head. The pressing jangle of poisonous notes set his teeth on edge, grinding against his brain. He pressed his fingers into his temples to stave off a headache. There was something off about the magic. Something Michel hesitated to put into words.

At ten minutes to the hour, the ripples of music turned into a cacophony that rained like hail on the shuddering wards. Michel had to give Bran and Cre credit; they knew how to create a diversion. With the thunder of kettle drums, the wards popped like a soap bubble, dissolving into the ether.

That was certain to get the Inquisitor’s attention.

Another long minute passed while magic crackled in the air in an invisible exchange of blows. The music crescendoed in a frenzied staccato. A shimmering wave of power danced around the building. Gold and green flames taunted red and black while the dissonant notes fought for dominance. Slowly, the music shifted. Michel felt the moment when the Inquisitor lost the battle. Oboes and drums overrode the squeal of an out-of-tune violin. A sure sign the Inquisitor was incapacitated.

That was Michel’s cue. He stood, brushed off his pants, and straightened his jacket. Time to rescue Mistress LaRoche.

The brick jailhouse squatted on the edge of Greendale like a demon waiting for its next meal, ugly and uninviting. Michel rapped on the heavy wooden door. The window of opportunity to get the girl out would be slim since Tolbert probably wouldn’t remain out of commission for long.

A Guardsman opened the door and looked Michel over, his eyes pausing at the silver pin on his collar that identified him as a paladin.

“You here for Mistress LaRoche?” the Guardsman asked.

Michel nodded.

“Come on then.” He opened the door and ushered Michel inside.

“What will happen to you?” Michel asked.

The Guardsman’s gaze darted around. “I don’t plan on sticking around to take the blame for an escaped prisoner, if that’s what you mean. No sense in getting myself hanged.”

Guardsman Prachett didn’t want to be on the bad side of the Inquisitor. Smart man.

A door to the left swung open, and Inquisitor Tolbert leaned out, using the frame to hold himself upright. Sweat beaded his pasty grey skin, and his shoulder-length blond hair fell free of its black ribbon. His eyes widened when he saw Michel.

Void take it! He should have been out longer than a few seconds.

“What are you doing here?” Tolbert hissed.

Michel held his arms open and grinned. “I’m here to help. I was passing through and heard rumors about a witch.”

Tolbert waved Michel off. “You’re in over your head, Durant. Go back to the Bastion and let your betters deal with the real problems.”

Michel kept smiling as he stepped closer. “Betters? You were never my better. You know how to lick boots, but that’s about all you’re capable of.”

Tolbert’s face turned red. “You little—”

Michel’s fist collided with Tolbert’s stomach, doubling him over. He grabbed Tolbert’s head and held him down while he delivered a knee to Tolbert’s face. Once. Twice. Three times, and the Inquisitor crumpled to the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Michel checked for a pulse. “Still alive. Shame.”

He glanced into the room. Tolbert’s favorite torture devices were laid out neatly next to a chair. Anger burned in his veins. He understood Bran’s desperation to get Mistress LaRoche away from Tolbert if that was what she’d been subjected to.

“We’ll need to tie him up,” Michel said. “Where is everyone else?”

Prachett helped Michel drag Tolbert to the chair. “The rest of the Guardsmen are off duty. Tolbert wouldn’t let more than one of us in the jail house at a time.”

“No wonder, if he bribed the judge.”

“Horrible man,” Prachett said as he secured Tolbert’s arm with a thick leather restraint. The look of distaste on his face spoke volumes.

“Get rid of those.” Michel nodded to the items on the table. “I don’t want him to be able to cut himself loose.”

“With pleasure, sir.” Prachett disappeared into the hall, taking the offending tools with him.

Michel touched the bone handle of the blade tucked into his boot. A knife to Tolbert’s heart would remove a great many difficulties. He pressed his fist into his thigh. It was tempting, but he served the Light. Tolbert’s murder would be a step into the Darkness.

Prachett returned with a smug smile. “That’s done.”

Michel picked up a dirty rag from the nearby table and shoved it into Tolbert’s mouth. “Take me to Mistress LaRoche.”

“She’s this way.”

Prachett led him further down the hall, fiddling with the keys on his belt. He opened a door and motioned Michel inside.

Michel peered around the door frame. It wasn’t a young girl that met his gaze, but a full-grown woman. He could see where a man might feel bewitched by her high cheekbones and rose petal skin. Honey colored hair fell around her face, cut short in ragged chunks, probably as a means to humiliate her. It hadn’t worked. Sky-blue eyes met his with a hard glare. Even in a worn linen shirt and old wool trousers, she presented an elegant picture. There was a strength to her. She’d hidden her hands behind her back as Michel entered. What was she up to?

Michel offered her a graceful bow. “Mistress LaRoche, Lord Bran d’Idris has requested your presence at Raven’s Keep. I’m charged with your escort.”

* * *

3

Ris

My Heart lies in ruins and ash, buried in a wasteland where once there was life. These desiccated sands birth Darkness and demons. Taint and lies. It has become corrupted and foul. Light help me, what have I done?

~Excerpt from “The Lady and the Darkness” as translated by Sir Gwilam Cavanaugh

The man standing in the doorway rose from his elegant bow. I glimpsed a rapier and a pair of pistols before he hid them with his great coat. He was a handsome specimen with black curls pulled back in a queue and stubble that lined his swarthy, broad jaw, but there was an arrogance in his demeanor that set my teeth on edge.

I hid my hands behind my back, clutching my makeshift weapon. I’d only managed to sharpen the handle of my spoon slightly by rubbing it against the stone wall. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. I’d planned on using it on the Inquisitor when we got to the train station, but I might need it sooner.

The stranger looked me over with amber eyes that saw too much.

“Who are you?” I loaded the question with as much distrust as I could.

He blinked once, then a second time, and a look of consternation passed over his face. “Sir Michel Durant, at your service.” The silver pin on his collar told me he was a paladin which could be good or bad.

“Who did you say sent you?” I asked.

“Bran.”

“And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Michel held out his hand, a stone resting in his palm. “It’s a present from the Lord of Ravens to his little lark.”

My breath stopped as I grabbed the stone and ran my fingers over the well-known lines of it. I gripped it to my chest, feeling the familiar surge of peace from the magic it held. Cre had made this for me. I’d left it on my dressing table when I was arrested. Relief loosened the knots in my stomach. Bran had held up his promise. I was still wary of this man, but his words were a code Bran and I established long ago to confirm which paladins to put my faith in.

“Shall we be going?” I asked.

One dark eyebrow rose. “Of course.”

“I’ve got some supplies for you,” Guardsman Pratchett said, from the hallway.

Michel turned and patted the Guardsman on his shoulder. “We’ll grab it on the way out.”

“What’s the plan?” I wrapped the battered shreds of my dignity around myself. To appear more put together than I felt.

“We’re catching the train, but first—” In a movement too fast for me to counter, Michel grabbed my hand and pulled it from behind my back. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the makeshift weapon.

“You won’t be needing that.” He took the spoon and dropped it on the floor. “Take this, instead.” He pulled a knife from his boot and pressed the ivory handle into my palm.

My fingers closed reflexively around it. “Why…?”

“I won’t have you completely defenseless. Ready?”

I nodded, unable to find words to express my surprise and relief. Sir Michel was not what I’d expected.

Prachett led us through the silent hallway. There’d been no other prisoners since my capture. Not even the town drunk. Even the Guardsmen avoided the jail. No one wanted to be on the bad side of Tolbert.

I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder as Michel rushed me down the hall. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“Durant?” Inquisitor Tolbert’s voice echoed in the hall. “Untie me, you demon-cursed wretch. I’ll see you hanged for this.”

That voice. My breath came in shallow pants. Michel grabbed my hand and threaded his fingers through mine. A hint of song wound from him to me as he pulled me down the hall toward the front door. I’d been alone and terrified for so long, that the simple touch of his hand was a beacon of comfort. The magic intensified the feeling, melting the icy fear that lodged itself in my chest.

The Inquisitor’s yells grew more frantic as if he knew I was on the edge of escaping his grasp.

“Here, Mistress.” Guardsman Prachett passed me a greatcoat with a deep hood, and after I’d fastened it, he handed me a leather satchel. “You’ll be needing this.”

I yanked the hood up and tucked the knife into a front pocket of the coat. “Light bless you, Guardsman.”

Michel took my hand again and steered me outside and down the road. I blinked in the bright afternoon sun and drank in my surroundings.

All the streets were the same. The neat picket fences, the tidy yards. Cherry trees filled with blossoms. The birch and elms that lined the streets were covered in fresh, green buds. Everything was unchanged from the day before. Yet, all of it held a mystic quality, and was far more beautiful due to that. Freedom had never felt so good. I wasn’t completely safe yet, but was closer than I had been in eight weeks.

I wanted to pull away from Michel but knew that it would be pointless. “Where are we headed?”

“Raven’s Keep.”

With his words, the bell at the station rang out the news of an incoming train.

Michel’s magic continued to wrap around us. I couldn’t see the it. Not with the collar on my neck, but I felt the music. Was he hiding our trail?

No, that couldn’t be. The mellow violins of his magic signified an affinity for water, not earth, which meant he wasn’t a Cloak. Shields used air magic so the water magic meant he was a Sword. I hadn’t had many dealings with Swords so I wasn’t sure what to expect.

I kept my hood pulled low, avoiding the eyes of those few townsfolk brave enough to be on the street. Our escape was too easy. Surely, Tolbert had something waiting for us. Someone to spring out of the shadows and drag me back into that Void-cursed pit.

I spotted a Guardsman on the street corner. “Sir Michel—”

“I see him. Just act like you belong. We’ll be fine.”

Aeron had taught me how to sneak through a crowd undetected, but my nerves, and the knowledge that the Inquisitor knew I was escaping, made me careless. I bumped into Mistress Cabbot, her eyes widening when she peered under my hood. She looked over my shoulder in the direction of the Guardsman.

I held my breath, waiting for her outcry.

Mistress Cabbot’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned back to her business.

Only seconds had passed, but it felt like an eternity.

The station was a hub-bub of activity when we reached the platform. Michel pushed through the press of people exiting the train, elbowing his way forward. I waited for the alarm to sound. For Guardsmen to close in from every direction and surround us. Every passing look made me huddle further into the depths of the greatcoat. We would be discovered. I was sure of it. My mouth dried, and I clutched the satchel in a steel grip. It felt as if every eye was on me.

The jail’s alarm clanged and created a wave of stillness that spread across the platform like ripples on a pond. My heart stopped, and I shared a look with Michel. He shook his head and pressed forward. I stuck close to his side and looked for ways to escape should the worst happen. The fields of flax across the platform held promise.

“All aboard!” The conductor’s voice acted like a whip on the people around us, driving the crowd on the platform toward the train.

Michel helped me to board and then searched for an empty compartment. Birds beat frantic wings in my stomach. When would we be found out?

“Here.” Michel pulled me into a small compartment that held two cushioned benches that faced each other with luggage racks overhead. He made a quick check of the tiny space. Drawers beneath the benches held blankets for overnighting on the train, and a slender door slid back to reveal a tiny wash closet.

I sat on the edge of one bench, every muscle and nerve in my body tense as I waited for my inevitable recapture.

* * *

Check out these other books by Sonya M. Black :

Happily Never After

The Twisted Files Series

The Snow White Files

The Riding Hood Files

The Beanstalk Files**

The Lady and the Darkness Series

A Sea of Broken Glass

From Bone and Ash**

**To be released

Part IV

Historical fantasy

Contents

1. The Songweaver’s Vow

2. From Legend

3. The Prince of Cats

1

The Songweaver’s Vow

Laura VanArendonk Baugh

She tells Greek legends to entertain Norse gods—until one of her stories leads to murder.

When Euthalia’s father trades her to Viking raiders, her best hope is to be made a wife instead of a slave. She gets her wish—sort of—when she is sacrificed as a bride to a god.

Her inhuman husband seems kind, but he visits only in the dark of night and will not allow her to look upon him. By day Euthalia becomes known as a storyteller, spinning ancient Greek tales to entertain Asgard’s gods and monsters.

When one of her stories precipitates a god’s murder and horrific retribution, Euthalia discovers there is a monster in her bed as well. Alone in a hostile Asgard, Euthalia must ally with a spiteful goddess to sway Odin himself before bloody tragedy opens Ragnarok, the prophesied end of the world.

SPFBO 2017

Grit level: 5

* * *

Chapter 1

The attack came at dawn.

Euthalia woke to the terse, worried voices of men, and she crawled into the dawn light. “What is it?” she asked, only half-expecting an answer.

But Miloslav stopped mid-sentence to turn toward her. “Get back!” he snapped. “Hide yourself!”

Euthalia swept her eyes across the camp, seeing men picking up weapons, and looked up the river, where she saw a dragon.

Its head rose from the water and curled upward, glaring down upon the surface in disdain. The river barely rippled around its sinuous neck. Its body was long and narrow, and she saw now oars protruded from either side, launching it across the river. Behind it came other boats, also bearing beast heads, but somehow—because she had seen it first, or because it was the nearest, or because for just a moment it had been a real sea serpent in her mind—the first one seemed the most frightening.

Pirates, she realized. Terrifying, horrific men who went a-viking to prey on traders.

Traders like them.

She shrank backward. “Do we run? Hide?”

“Get out of sight,” repeated Miloslav. “They may wish to trade, not fight. They are traders themselves as often as pirates. They may wish only for news of Byzantium, or trade in southern goods.”

But Euthalia, who had never been a warrior, yet looked at the ships and knew this was not the approach of a trading party. And the men with Miloslav knew it, by the way they gripped their weapons, and Miloslav knew it too, by the way his mouth stayed tight at the corners as he spoke. Her father knew it by the way he came to join Miloslav, weapon in hand and looking more worried than ever she had seen him, even on this trip when he had failed to marry her to a Byzantine merchant.

Euthalia turned and scanned for a place to hide. She settled for a bundle of fabric, bright with southern dyes, and wriggled beneath it. Any part of her which remained exposed would look like spilled fabric and would not betray her.

She could see nothing now. She curled up, trying to disappear beneath the pile, and listened through the muting of the fabric.

Her father’s voice came first, calling down the river. “What do you carry to trade?”

For a moment there was no answer, and she tried to imagine the dragon-boat sailing by, eyes forward and passing unseeing over their camp, the sea-serpent leaving them all untouched. But a moment later, there was the unmistakable scrape of a hull running aground, like massive claws against sandy rock, and she knew the dragon had landed.

“What do you carry?” The voice was gruff, huge, the voice of a sea serpent or a man who rode a dragon. It wrapped about the words as if familiar with them but not quite comfortable, a second language.

“Good sailing to you, and safe travels to you as to ourselves,” called her father Tikhomir. His voice held a note she had never heard before, not only the unexpected deference she had heard in Byzantium but an additional undertone of fear. Her father, a chief and a chief of warriors, feared these Northmen come down the river.

Come down the river, she realized, through her father’s lands, or near enough to them. For it was impossible to reach the south and east from the north and west without passing through the middle, and certainly these boats had sailed this river down from their North home. She wavered between fierce indignation at the effrontery of sailing through her father’s lands without permission and horror that they might have sailed past her home, might have stopped, might have killed or taken her mother and her brothers and all the people she knew there.

The man with the dragon voice did not return her father’s greeting. “You come from the city, I see. Tell us what you bring away.”

“Spices,” said Tikhomir, “and silks, and dyes for fabrics. And iron ore, to be smelted into steel. It will make fine weapons.”

“Hm.” The voice seemed to consider. “Their ore is better, no argument. It will make better weapons, that is true.” There was a slight sound of steps, and the voice faded and rose as it spoke; Euthalia guessed he was turning to take in all their men, Miloslav and the others. “We will take the ore and the dyes, and half the spices.”

Tikhomir hesitated only just noticeably. “And will you pay in coin or barter?”

A laugh arose from the dragon’s throat, and then from many, many more throats. Euthalia did not know how many men rode the dragon-ship and the other boats, but she knew she had seen many oars. How many? Twenty at a side? That was a fair guess, making forty per boat. And there had been three boats. That made one hundred twenty hostile men, warriors who rode dragons and spoke like sea serpents.

One hundred twenty, to oppose her father’s band of sixteen.

Euthalia could stand it no longer. She pressed herself against the ground, the weight of the fabric over her, and peered out with one eye from beneath the bales of cloth. Now she could see, though it was hardly enough to be helpful. She knew her father’s boots, and those were Miloslav’s beside him, and the big set of leather-wrapped feet facing them, visible between their ankles, must belong to the man with the dragon’s voice.

The laughter slowed, and the man with the dragon voice spoke again, a trace of levity still coloring his tone. “The ore, and the dyes, and half the spices, or all and as many slaves as survive the fight.”

Her father did not answer immediately, and that was his mistake. There was a nearly-imperceptible movement in the third set of feet, simultaneous with a rub of oiled leather and a soft sound like a punch into a cow’s flank. Miloslav’s right foot took a step back, hesitated, and then he folded to his knees, clutching somewhere on the front of his torso.

“He will not be one of the slaves,” said the dragon voice.

Miloslav tipped forward into the sandy dirt, one arm splayed and the other trapped beneath him. He had not even struck a blow in his defense or his chieftain’s, a sad and pitiful death.

“Now,” said the dragon voice, “will you fight, and die? Or will you surrender, and live as slaves?”

“Wait,” urged her father. “I have another prize to offer. We are traders, and we would do business as men of trade.”

“Oh?” The dragon voice was only faintly curious. “What can you offer that is worth your lives?”

Her father’s feet turned away from Miloslav, bleeding his last on the sand, and came directly toward the pile of goods where Euthalia hid. She only just had time to wonder for one horrific instant if he meant her when he flung back the fabrics and seized her by the upper arm.

“Here!” he said, pulling her upward. “Here, what do you think of this?”

Euthalia stared at him, unable to look even to the river pirate standing just beyond Miloslav’s fallen body. He could not—he would not—

But her father was not looking at her. “She will certainly be a prettier prize to bring home,” he said, and he was using his merchant’s voice. “A woman is useful in ways a man is not.”

“Father!” she gasped, pulling weakly away from him. “You can’t do this!”

Now he turned on her. “I said I would get you a husband on this trip,” he snarled. “You knew it would not be one of your choosing.”

“Father?” repeated the dragon voice. Euthalia looked at the raider, tall and armored in mail and carrying an axe worn with experience. His helmet wrapped about his eyes, shielding them and hiding half his expression. What was visible, however, showed a curious blend of emotions: pride, at having driven a chieftain to offer his own daughter in payment for his life, and disgust, that such a man could be so driven.

“It is not a husband you ask for her, I think,” said the man with the dragon voice. “Nor is she, even a pretty and, as you say, useful girl, worth the price of sixteen male slaves.” He glanced down. “Fifteen.”

Now her father straightened. “You will not have fifteen slaves, not from us. I will die before I am taken, and I have other fine fighters who will not be taken easily, and you will need to kill them. You have enough men to overrun us, but not without losses of your own.”

“My men are not afraid to die in battle. They would be pleased, in fact, and would consider it honorable.” The helmeted man frowned as he looked over the remaining warriors of Tikhomir’s party. “Though perhaps it would be less of an honor to die facing so few, and so disreputable, it is true.”

“Whether they are pleased to die or not, it leaves you with fewer men to make your next raid,” pressed Euthalia’s father. “You may take our goods without risk by accepting the girl, to your profit, or you may fight us and take only what remains.” He put a knife to Euthalia’s throat. “To your loss.”

What was he saying? Euthalia reeled. He was bartering her like an ingot of ore or a bag of spice!

The helmeted man quirked one corner of his mouth upward in a smile. “We will take the girl,” he said, “and I will go one better for you, since you are such a reasonable man of trade. I will make her a dragon’s bride, a sacrifice to purchase your life.” He shook his head. “But even so fine a bride is not worth fifteen male slaves, and not after an insult to my men’s valor. You will send thralls as her dowry.”

And then everything happened at once. The men behind the man with the dragon’s voice rushed forward, raising axes and hammers and swords, and Tikhomir’s band clustered together about their chief, or at least some of them. Tikhomir flung her down and stepped back.

Euthalia hit the ground hard and saw, between the ankles of the surrounding men, that a half-dozen had run for the woods, leaving their chieftain and their comrades. Leather-armored warriors followed hard after, disappearing with them into the trees. On the beach, a warrior called Daniil charged the pirates, shouting for others to follow, and was cut down mid-cry.

Tikhomir’s voice barked out orders. “Stand down, men! Those who fled are given as slaves. A man who lacks faith in his chieftain deserves none. And those who remain—take Kazimir, and hold him for the ropes. He defied me thrice last year, and I’ll not fight for him now.”

Kazimir blinked once at his treacherous chief and then lunged desperately with his axe, swinging at both pirate and tribal comrade. But he could not face all directions at once, and the men from the beast-headed boats seized him from behind, dragging him backward and down and disarming him. Euthalia saw several men taking his sword and knife and other gear, but none of Kazimir’s comrades protested. They were glad to be rid of him, as her father was, or glad he had been chosen rather than them, or simply afraid to upset the fragile equilibrium by challenging the pirates’ assumption.

Kazimir was bound and held on his knees in the sand, heavy hands on his shoulders to keep him in place. His hands were bound behind his back, but his mouth was unhindered, and he cursed Tikhomir freely and fiercely, swearing to return and wreak his vengeance upon Tikhomir and his family and all their village. He had threats for his former brothers-in-arms, too, and vile words for their treachery in allowing him to be taken, listening to such an untrustworthy lord. “It will come!” he warned. “Your turn will come, when he will toss you like a half-gnawed bone to a stray dog! And pray that day of betrayal comes before I return to avenge myself, for no treachery can stand against the weight of the revenge I will take upon you all!”

The man in the helmet was utterly unimpressed by these continuous threats, and he turned his back on Kazimir and spoke, his dragon’s voice carrying easily over Kazimir’s insistent invective. “Let us wait here a short time, to see how many of your men have been brought back to their new fate.”

And so they waited, uneasy in the knowledge that if not enough tribesmen were brought back to thralldom, the number would be made up from those standing upon the sandy bar. Euthalia looked up at the familiar faces around her, reading their conflict as they hoped for their friends to escape and yet hoped they would be caught.

No one spoke.

Warriors are not accustomed to fleeing, and these woods were not familiar to Tikhomir’s men. Within fifteen minutes, the first captive emerged, bound and pushed ahead by three river pirates. A few moments later, another appeared, and then another. With each appearance, a painful throb of unhappy relief went through the little band about Euthalia, surrounded by countless mailed and leather-clad men.

Someone had gone to the beast-headed boats and brought back iron shackles, which were fitted upon Kazimir and the new captives.

“And now,” said the man with the dragon’s voice, “the girl.”

Euthalia couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She looked up, and her father grasped her roughly under the arm and hauled her to her feet. “Don’t be difficult now,” he warned. “Be a good bride. You knew you’d take a husband on this trip.”

Euthalia stared at the men on their knees, their shackled hands hanging before them. She was not going as a wife, no matter what her father might say.

Her throat seized, and she could not decide what to say even if she could speak. Should she plead for mercy from her father? Useless. Threaten vengeance, like Kazimir? Her revenge was even less likely than his, and threats were unbecoming in a woman. Should she weep, as she saw one young captive doing quietly on his knees? That would only please her captors, she thought, for they were vicious and cruel men. Quietly and stoically accept her fate, as other captives were doing? It seemed unthinkable.

But one of the beast-boat men was reaching for her, and she had to say something, had to act now or she would forever lose the opportunity. She gulped, choked on the first word, and then spat at her father, “I hope the sale of your daughter and your warriors’ respect was worth your cowardly life.”

A laugh and a whoop went up from a few of the beast-boat men who understood her, or at least her tone, and the dragon’s-voice laugh boomed over them all. It surprised her. Euthalia had not meant to amuse them, had only meant to shame the father exposed as a lying and weak man despite his position, and she was a little afraid of their response.

She did not have the opportunity to see her father’s reaction, for she was already being drawn away, but she imagined—she hoped—he flushed hot with shame, and she hoped his remaining warriors turned baleful eyes on him. Perhaps, when they reached home again, her father’s stories would not be the only ones told. Perhaps others would explain that they had not lost comrades in a fearful and honorable battle, but that husbands and sons and fathers had been traded away for the life of a chieftain who would not fight, who hid behind the sale of his eldest child and daughter.

She could hope that would be how it ended.

Euthalia was guided into the boat with the dragon’s head. She was not bound, not like the men, but she knew that was a mere formality. She was just as much a prisoner—more, because she did not know how to fight as they did. She could not fight, she could not flee; she was a thrall, just as they were. Helpless, just as they were.

Afraid, just like they were.

The other captives were shared out among the boats, two or three each. The crying boy went to another boat, which pained Euthalia for some reason. Maybe she wanted someone who expressed what she could not yet. Kazimir came to her boat, still snarling between his teeth, and was pushed into the belly of the boat. The trade goods, already sorted as they waited for the captives to be brought, were loaded onto the boats.

Euthalia would not—would not —look back as the boats were pushed again into the river. She did not want to see her father standing upon the shore, safe with his remaining men. He would not see her afraid and miserable in the slavery into which he had sold her. He would see her sailing into her new life with the fearsome Vikings as boldly as he should have faced them himself.

And if the brisk wind drew slow, hot tears to her eyes as she turned into it, he was too far to see them, and so it did not matter.

* * *

Chapter 2

There were many more men than forty in each boat; nearly twice that many, Euthalia observed when she came to herself enough to start looking around her. Not all rowed at once, and alternating benches were left empty. As she watched the rowers at work she saw that the benches were very close to one another, so that if each had been manned, the rowers would have had to curtail their strokes to avoid bumping one another. The extra benches then were for urgent work, maybe, or some situation other than cruising down an easily-navigable river.

She had been placed at the center of the boat, where warriors surrounded her on all sides and made escape, by either flight or suicide into the river, difficult. Below the planking upon which she sat, water swished with the boat’s movement, the inevitable bilge which crept always into any vessel. Several men were bailing with casual efficiency, handing buckets up and tossing water over the side.

There was an exchange among a couple of these men standing ankle-deep in the belly of the boat, and then with a couple of the men on the decking itself. Euthalia could not understand their speech, but she followed their meaning well enough when one of the warriors turned to the two new slaves and gestured them down into the sloshing water.

One of the men had remained grim-faced and silent since his first reappearance as a captive. Euthalia had seen him of course, but she hardly knew the man. Now, he seemed both resigned and pragmatic; he rose and went to the hold, stepping with hardly a flinch into the cold water, taking the bucket with his shackled hands and starting to bail and pass up the bucket.

Kazimir was not so willing to bow under his new obligations. He got to his feet and spat on the decking. “Down there? I am no catfish to mildew in the belly of a ship. I am a warrior, and if you want my service, you’ll take me as a fighter. I am a fighting man, and I’m meant to hold a sword or an axe, not a bucket. You can take your bucket and—”

The sailors did not understand Kazimir’s words any more than he understood theirs, but they followed his meaning and defiance well enough, and at this point one bent and snatched his ankles as another shoved him hard backwards. Kazimir went down on the decking like felled timber, and before he could even roll or sit up, the two had lifted him and heaved his shoulders overboard between the working oars.

His feet they kept, braced against the shield-rail. Euthalia leapt to her feet and rushed to the edge. Another sailor caught her shoulder, but he did not pull her back. Perhaps he wanted her to see.

Kazimir hung with his head below the water, his bound arms working frantically to snatch at the shifting oars. He was trying to lift himself by the strength of his torso, but the continuous stroke of the oars kept pushing him down. His movements grew more frenzied as he jerked upward, twice striking his head against an oar, and then his movements weakened.

At this, the two warriors hauled him up by his ankles, dragging him none too gently over the edge and dropping him beside an empty rowing bench. Kazimir was alive and awake, and he choked and coughed for a moment, wiping his face on his dripping sleeve, and then he began to curse his captors once more.

A sailor pointed to the water in the hold, where the other new slave was bailing steadily, his eyes well away from Kazimir. Kazimir looked at the pointing sailor and spat in his face.

As quick as a bird, they heaved him over once more, as the rowers laughed and pulled steadily. On another boat, other captives had been pushed to the rail to watch Kazimir hang and struggle and choke.

Euthalia squeezed her fingers into the worn wood. Surely this was too long—surely they would kill him. Would they kill him for mere defiance? But of course they might. Her father had never suffered a recalcitrant slave, either. Kazimir was no use to them as he was, and already his punishment was encouraging obedience in the others newly taken.

At last Kazimir’s struggles slowed again, and after a moment without any writhing or clawing at the oars, the two warriors hauled him up again. This time Kazimir did not respond. One bent to slap him awake. Kazimir choked and jerked as if astounded to find himself alive, and his eyes were white-rimmed as he stretched to feel the decking beneath him.

They pushed him toward the hold and kicked him over the edge, and he splashed heavily into the swill as the others dodged. Kazimir took the bucket someone shoved at him, and he began to bail, still coughing up water.

Euthalia drew a shuddering breath. What cruel madmen these were. All that she had ever heard of them was true. And she had been given to them, a sacrifice to their monstrous cruelty.

She was half-surprised, if grateful, that none of them had yet simply forced her right there on the deck, in full view of the others. She had heard of such things. Such things were probably yet to come. She wondered if she should hope for escape or for death, and wondered which might be less difficult.

She had no idea of how far they traveled before twilight, but with the regular rotation of rowers, she guessed it was much further than her father’s party had ever traveled in a day, and well beyond his reach to follow and reclaim his daughter and warriors even had he dared to try. They beached the boats and made several small fires, where cooking was begun. The slaves were tethered by their shackles to several saplings, near enough to see one another but not so near that they could reach one another.

Euthalia was led to a fire and pointed to a place to sit, where she did so. She was given food, like the warriors and the new slaves. Then a helmeted figure came out of the deepening twilight, and she realized she had not seen the man with the dragon voice—how could she have forgotten him?—since the first hour of her captivity.

“You will stay on the boat tonight,” he said in his deep, enormous voice, and her stomach coiled painfully about the food she had just eaten. This—this is it. Father offered me to this man, and he’s come to claim his prize. On the boat, out of the view of his men—he’ll take me first, and then leave me to them.

When he gestured for her to rise, her legs had turned to porridge and she could not obey. He reached down, and she flinched, and he took her forearm in a warrior’s clasp and pulled her upright. He led her toward the dragon-headed boat.

He took her to the stern, farthest from the land, and pointed her toward the deck. Every fiber in her screamed at her not to go down upon that planking, even as some other part of her warned her to obey him lest he hurt her worse. And if they had half-drowned Kazimir for refusing to bail water, what would they not do to a mere woman who refused a woman’s duty to the man who claimed her?

He handed her a heavy fur—bearskin, she thought without looking, for she could not take her eyes from him, though the helmet and the shadows hid his face entirely. “Sleep here,” he said. “If you slip over the side, the night guards will hear you in the water. If you come down the boat, you will wake the warriors sleeping on the deck. If you get into the woods, you will die of hunger or be caught by the local tribes, a fate far worse than yours here. Stay, and you will be an offering.”

Offering. The words made her shiver with thoughts of the ancient sacrifices to the spirits of the land. But her head nodded once, as if she understood or agreed, and he turned and left her standing on the upward sloping decking.

At last, after several minutes of staring toward the fires, as if she could pick him out, she sat with her back against the rising beam which formed the stern, and she wrapped herself in the bearskin. It was warm, and the most comfort she had known all the day, and against all expectation she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke in the night, disturbed by something—a snore or fart from the sleeping warriors scattered across the boat, maybe. She could just make out their sleeping forms gently outlined by the moonlight.

Her captor had been right; she could not have picked her way through them without waking at least one. They lay close together, with hardly space for a girl’s foot to slip between, and even with the moon it was difficult to distinguish men from boat.

She stood, slowly, keeping the bearskin wrapped about her, and looked over either side of the boat. Due to the upward curve of the stern, it was a fair drop to the river below, and it would be impossible to enter the water silently. The man with the dragon voice had chosen his prison well; it was open and spacious and inescapable.

She let her eyes wander along the shore and picked out more men sleeping near the remnants of the cookfires. Beyond them, dark shapes moved, barely discernible against the trees: sentries to guard the men and the boats by night, and to prevent any of the new captives from escaping as well.

Euthalia slid back to her place on the deck. Even if she could escape, she had nowhere to go. She could find her way home only by following the river, the same water-road her captors would be taking. She did not have the woodcraft, much less the tools she would need, to survive alone in the deep woods, even if she did not meet any of the tribes hostile to her father’s people. And if she did meet them, she would hardly be in a better position than she was here.

She settled the bearskin over herself, tucking in the edges. No, she was not surrendering, not entirely. She was simply awaiting her more opportune moment. The foolish warrior acted with no chance of success, and if she were not a warrior, she was also not a fool.

They would grow careless, if she appeared quiet and compliant. Already they did not bind her like they did the men. Eventually they would forget to guard her, and she could make her way out of their camp, perhaps even freeing one of her father’s warriors to guide and protect her on the journey home. Yes, she would wait, and she would succeed.

* * *

Chapter 3

They traveled north for days, following the winding of the rivers. Four times they stopped and traded for goods with small towns or at sandy bars where other merchants—sometimes in boats like their own, sometimes with wagons—waited. They traded in silver, in beads, in slaves. Two of her father’s warriors were sold, including the boy who had cried. Euthalia wished she could recall his name, so she had some other way to remember him and could name him when she would eventually tell of her father’s treachery. Though perhaps it would be no favor to describe his tears to his family.

The silver coins they received looked much like the coins she had seen in Byzantium, and she marveled at their ubiquitous value. The warrior-traders also took or gave gold and silver arm rings, or silver chains. She watched one man cut links from a silver chain to pay for a worked copper brooch. She found a silver coin in the mud, nearly lost in a footprint, and she tucked it into her boot. She would need money, to bribe aid or to buy supplies on her flight. This was a start.

Thrice she saw the river pirates take gold, spices, ivory, and fine fabrics from merchants who were not quick enough to flee the beast-headed boats. Twice the merchants were left alive and mostly unharmed; once the pirates killed the men who offered resistance and then took all their goods.

She began to learn their language, too. She tried not to let on how many words she had picked up—best if they underestimated her and believed her stupid and ignorant—but gradually she began to learn the more common names of things and the daily actions on the boat.

And then, after three weeks of rowing northward, they veered from the river into a tributary, and then into a stream which fed it, and so on upstream. At last the crews cheered as they drew within sight of a village on the water, full of low earthen houses with grass-growing roofs or low-hanging thatch. Women, children, and a smaller number of men appeared to wave and welcome. With a sinking stomach, Euthalia realized that this was the raiders’ home. She had missed her chance for escaping along the route; this was where they would stay.

Rough planking provided docks along the marshy edges, and each of the boats—without their beast heads, now—were guided expertly into place. There was much noise and embracing and calling back and forth, and twice someone was crowded off the dock and into the water by the joyful greeters. But there was much laughter each time as they were rescued, and it was apparent that no harm was done and no offense was taken.

Then the unloading of the cargo began, and this included the captives. The new slaves were set to work carrying coffers of precious metals or iron ore or other heavy goods, and Euthalia was pointed toward a woman older than her mother. Words were exchanged, none of them any she knew, and the woman gestured for Euthalia to follow her. Clutching her bearskin, Euthalia did.

Perhaps this was her fate, and this was her new mistress. She had a lined face, from smiles or scowls or weathering, and no hair visible beneath her white hood. Euthalia wondered if she were a reasonable owner or a harridan who would make her miserable.

The woman led Euthalia past a dark longhouse to a smaller, square house set into a mound of earth, with grass from the roof overhanging the door, and took her hand to tug her inside. The house was small and simply furnished, but it was as complete a home as Euthalia had seen, with a raised sleeping area and a table and chairs and shelves of utensils and a few stored pots of food. The woman guided Euthalia into a chair, saying something which must mean sit down , and opened a trunk. She withdrew several articles of clothing and spread them on the table for Euthalia’s perusal.

The clothing looked lovely, even in its strangeness. Anything would have looked good to Euthalia—her own clothing was stiff and stinking after weeks in the boat—but this was appealing on its own. It was made of wool and flax, and the pinafore to hang over the shift was dyed a dark blue, making it a fine and expensive piece. Euthalia’s father had paid a premium price for such a dye. The shift was a pale natural color and pleated, another luxury.

The woman fingered the material and offered it to Euthalia. She asked a question and waited with eyebrows raised. Euthalia fingered the material just as she had done and nodded obligingly.

The woman picked up the clothing and gestured for Euthalia to rise and follow. They went toward the stream again, but upward of the docks, where they came to a small wooden house set on the shore. It was, Euthalia was delighted to find, a bathhouse. The woman took off her white hood, revealing short-cropped hair, and indicated for Euthalia to strip off her filthy clothing.

She had never been so grateful for a bath in her life. The woman even produced a comb, finely carved of antler or horn, and helped Euthalia pick apart the weeks’ worth of tangles which had taken over her hair. When they had finished, Euthalia put on the shift and pinafore, fastening the latter with two small domed brooches. Euthalia ran her hands down the pinafore, reveling in the feeling of being clean.

“Good, good,” praised the woman, using one of the first words Euthalia had grasped.

They returned to the house, the woman continuing with a stream of words Euthalia could not catch. This time she noticed the door latch, an ingenious device entirely of wood to both latch and bar the door. They were clever craftsmen here.

Once inside, the woman went back to the chest and this time drew out a red cape. It was a full half-circle and hung to Euthalia’s ankles, and with it over her shoulders Euthalia felt herself a great lady. The cape was trimmed in fox fur, and she stroked the fur as she looked down at herself. For the first time, she wondered if she might not find herself in total despair in this new place. Surely they would not treat their whores in such fine fashion. Perhaps she was not to be a thrall after all.

The woman pointed to herself. “Birna,” she said. “Birna. I am Birna.” She pointed to Euthalia and made a questioning face, eyebrows raised.

Euthalia realized this was the first time anyone had asked her about herself, even just her name. “Euthalia,” she said. There was no need to specify her family; she was her father’s daughter no more.

Birna nodded. “Euthalia.” And she pointed for Euthalia to sit in the chair again.

This was not so bad. Birna had combed out Euthalia’s hair, though her own was cropped short like the other thralls Euthalia had noticed. That might imply that Euthalia was not to be a slave, at least not yet. She hoped that was the case, anyway.

But of course, the man in the dragon helmet. The man who had taken her from her father. He had said she would be a dragon’s bride; of course he referred to himself. It seemed he really meant to marry her, not just take her as a thrall.

Euthalia took a breath. It was not what she would have wanted, but it was not after all so different from what she had expected, a husband unknown to her in a strange land. Instead of rich Byzantium, she was in a Northland village, but in the end it was not so different. She was prepared for this.

Birna gestured with an open, flat palm toward Euthalia—Stop? Stay?—and went out, leaving the door open. Euthalia watched as she crossed a short distance to an open shelter with an earthen oven, where she collected several pieces. She returned and offered a flatbread to Euthalia.

It was fresher than the boat’s provisions, at least, as they had saved the spices and treats to bring back to the village. And Euthalia, no longer surrounded by dozens of strange male warriors, found herself relaxing enough to feel real hunger. She devoured the bread.

“Good, good,” praised Birna. She nodded. “Eat. Tomorrow, blóta .”

Euthalia did not know the word. “Blo—what?”

Birna smiled, a little tightly, and drew her hand across her throat.

Euthalia stared at her, the bread going tasteless in her mouth.

* * *

Chapter 4

The entire village had turned out, and to Euthalia’s unskilled eye, they seemed to be dressed in finer array than before. Everywhere the clothing was bright with color and trimmed with embroidery or fur. The men’s cheeks were freshly shaved, and slightly reddened skin around the eyebrows showed where both men and women had subjected themselves to the same plucking Euthalia had undergone that morning.

They cheered when they saw her, whooping and clapping, and she felt very self-conscious. What did they expect of her? Had Birna meant her death?

The crowd surrounded her loosely and walked toward the edge of the village, where a newly-built house waited, conspicuous with its raw unweathered wood and the younger, greener grass on its roof. A shallow pit, long and wide like the base of another house which had not been built, lay to one side. Two men were leading a brown horse across the field toward them.

An old man came toward her, bent with years and work, and she saw by his close-cropped hair and the rounded iron collar about his neck that he was a thrall, kept for light work or charity in his old age. He nodded toward her several times and worked his mouth around a language rusty with disuse. “Wife,” he said in her own tongue, his voice high with age. “Wife. Bride. You are the bride.”

She remembered the words of the helmeted man, the man with the dragon’s voice, accepting her father’s offer of her. Her father had argued he had promised her a husband, and the helmeted man had agreed to fulfill his promise despite Tikhomir’s cowardly bargain. Euthalia had not believed him then nor at any time during the journey. But had he spoken the truth? Was she to be properly wed, instead of given as a slave?

“A bride to whom?” she asked the old man. “Where is my husband?”

“Bride,” he repeated, obviously pleased that he remembered the word. “To the dragon.”

She started at him, certain she had not heard him correctly. Or perhaps he had not remembered the word, as it was obviously long years since he had spoken his native tongue. “No, who is my husband? The man with the helmet, where is he?”

He nodded. “The dragon,” he repeated. “You are the bride. A sacrifice bride, to the dragon.”

An agonized bellow interrupted him, and she looked up as a man finished drawing a knife across the throat of the horse in the shallow pit. Two other men held it by the ears as it bled, eyes wide, until it went to its knees. The crowd cheered.

Euthalia’s heart froze and her breath stopped in her throat. A sacrifice bride.

The horse dropped to the ground and rolled partly to one side, tongue lolling. Several men stepped forward and began to butcher it, blood running freely over the ground.

Euthalia bent and vomited onto the grass.

The old man took her shoulder, leaning upon her as much as steadying her. “No, no,” he said, “you go in. Sacrifice, big honor. He comes tonight. Not man. Dragon’s bride.”

Euthalia pushed at him, her heart racing. “No, stop,” she breathed. “Not me. Not that. I will be a slave, but don’t do that.”

The villagers closed about her, speaking rapidly in excited tones, and they pressed her toward the house. She saw several of them carried torches, and she realized they would burn her within the new wooden house. “No!” she screamed. “No!”

But she could not escape them, for in each direction she turned she was pushed back, and as she grabbed at the edges of the door to hold herself back they pressed together against her, still cheerily arguing in words she could not understand, and she shouted protest as she fell through the doorway. The wooden door, with the clever wooden latch she had admired, closed solidly behind her.

There were no windows. Some light crept through the high parts of the roof, where the woven wattle abutted the thatching, but the interior was only dimly visible. She could make out a table, and two chairs, and a long chest, and two shelves upon the wall lined with objects she could not quite see. Along one wall was a raised sleeping surface, with painted sliding panels to enclose it for warmth in the winter. Now the door stood open, and she could see a pile of sheepskins.

It was a very lifelike grave, if it were a grave. But she had heard that the great men of the North were sent to death with all the possessions they might need in the next life, and so the completeness only frightened her further.

The torches were not set to the house. Instead she heard singing, and then the crackling of fire, but at a safe distance. They were roasting the horse, she decided, feasting upon her death.

Or maybe, if they had not killed her yet, maybe she was not to die. Maybe she really was a bride, and she had been put here to await her new husband, a man so dangerous and so respected in battle that he was called the Dragon, and the old slave had not had the words to explain a sobriquet.

She tried the door, hoping they had gone far enough and were distracted enough, but it was barred from without. She was trapped within the little house, helpless. She could only wait.

* * *

The dragon came at night.

Euthalia had sat long in the dark, her knees hugged close to her chest, wrapped in the bearskin the helmeted man had given her on the boat. She sat on the trunk pushed against the wall; she could not bear to sit upon the bed. Once in a while she looked at it and then looked away.

Was the dragon a figurative name for a dreadful man, a warrior feared above all others? Or was it a literal monster she awaited? Would she be raped or devoured? It was hard, not speaking a language. She could not even know what she should fear.

Birna had not seemed to worry for her, and she had even seemed happy as she prepared Euthalia for her bridal day. But that did not mean safety; Euthalia had seen people happily sacrifice animals, even precious ones, without grief or reservation. How much more should a dragon’s prize be offered willingly?

And then there was a sound outside, a subtle sound which could have meant nothing on its own, but Euthalia knew, she knew , that he had come and now stood outside the door.

Warrior or beast? Man or monster?

She was seized with the sudden terror that she would scream when the door opened, and if it were a monster a scream would incite it, and if it were a man a scream would infuriate him, and so she pressed a handful of the fox-edged cape into her mouth as the wooden latch lifted.

The door swung open.

Euthalia made a tiny whimpering sound into the cape and squeezed her eyes shut. Instantly she could not stand her helplessness and opened her eyes again. But it did her no more good to look than to not—the moonless night offered no aid to her eyes, and as the door swung shut she could only get a sense of a bulk before it. He was tall and broad, if a man.

She could hear breathing. It was not her own; she was holding her breath, she realized. She swallowed and forced herself to speak. Her voice was unsteady. “Welcome, husband. I am the dragon’s bride.” If a man, would he even understand her?

“What are you called?”

Relief ran through her like water at hearing words so plainly spoken. For a moment she could hardly answer. “My name is Euthalia.”

“Euthalia.” He tested the foreign word, trying it, tasting it. After a moment, he seemed to approve it. “Euthalia. My bride.”

She was so grateful to find he was human that she thought suddenly she might be able to bear what would come next. They said it was not unpleasant, if not done by force, and could even be agreeable, if the man took care to please his woman as well. She giggled a little with nervous confusion and embarrassment at her own inconsistency.

“Why do you laugh?” came the voice. It was a deep voice, and powerful, as if even the helmeted man had been only a child and had grown at last to full manhood.

She shook her head, embarrassed further. She had the uncomfortable impression that he could see her despite the darkness. “I do not laugh at you, of course, I only—I was so afraid, and now I am so relieved you are human.”

There was a shifting in the darkness, and the pressure of the air about her changed as he leaned closer, lowering his head near hers. “Why do you think I am human?”

Euthalia froze, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to think of anything but the powerful voice and all her terrors of the dragon. Arms—or claws, or something —grasped her about the bearskin, cocooning her like a child, and then there was a brilliant prismatic burst of light, just for an instant, and she screamed without hesitation or shame.

* * *

Laura VanArendonk Baugh is an award-winning writer who by day teaches about animal behavior and training and by night enjoys dark fair trade chocolate, orchestral rock, and making her imaginary friends fight for her cruel amusement. Get free stories and previews or read the rest of the story .

2

From Legend

Ian Lewis

Sober, serious, and driven, Logan Hale is the highest peace officer in Beldenridge, and he knows his city better than anyone: the labyrinthine streets, the vaulted architecture, and all the dark corners where tales of mutations and a vicious enemy still linger like hushed secrets. Logan is quick to dismiss these accounts as part of a storied past with which he’d rather not contend, but when a suicide investigation leads him to believe there’s something more sinister at hand, he questions whether that near-forgotten lore isn’t the stuff of legend after all.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

Assumptions

Man once pursued alchemy seeking the purification of the human body and soul. Fueled by his vanity and pride, his pursuit gave birth instead to bastard mutations and obfuscation of knowledge, culture, and religion. The world has since been plunged into darkness.

* * *

1

Arkady stepped along the edge of the barren prairie chewing a piece of hardtack. He worked the coarse biscuit with his molars until it was moist enough to swallow. After it reached his stomach, it would help to soak up the strong, roasty stout he drank a half hour before.

Pale husks of dead vegetation, matted down from weeks of leaden snow, made a damp crunch under his buckskin boots. A biting wind rustled clumps of brown tallgrass stems. It was an austere landscape that lay before a dismal gray sky, but winter's grip was slipping.

He stopped at the crest of a rolling slope. Taking in the sparse breadth below, he imagined the line of fire that would soon sweep across the plain, burning off the duff and making way for new growth in the late spring.

He'd create the firebreaks, planning out their location and the order in which he'd burn them. With an established perimeter to maintain the main fire, he'd work in solemn, methodical strokes, dragging an iron rake across the prairie to spread the burning embers across the dry grass.

It was a necessary task, and one that required ideal temperature, humidity, and wind direction. He undertook it every year as the sole occupant of the land immediately south of the Potakihiipi River. However, it wasn’t his only burden, nor the most important.

He bore a mantel that had long since burned a mark into his soul; it was an all-consuming thing from which he could never walk away, much less control. With or without zeal, he was bound to it until he died.

Arkady was an instrument, the last proclaimer of whom he knew only as the Absolute, the Uncaused One. It was something he'd always understood on an elemental level—even as a boy, when he first considered the world around him.

Gazing at the muted browns and golds of the prairie, his mind began to drift...

I live in the house of Sadayoshi. A pale, scrawny twelve-year-old, much the same as when Sadayoshi-san found me scavenging the filthy back streets of Fort Losanti. No recollection of parents; no familial ties. No lineage.

Not like the Gen No, anyway. Sadayoshi-san speaks of them. The "original." His lineage, a thread connecting his simple, quiet life to the generation that sailed from the Land of the Rising Sun. His home bears the fleeting aesthetic of his people, fading into obscurity where it sits tucked into the rolling hills of bluegrass dotted with bark-covered Shawnee wigwams.

Inside, square wooden posts are hewn in their natural color. Woven grass mats cover the floor. Movable walls, elegantly constructed with wood and paper screens, are arranged with forethought. Their murky, opaque sheets diffuse the afternoon sun, casting varying depths of shadow that stretch long and contemplative.

I kneel on my own mat as I study Sadayoshi-san's delicate pruning of his miniature maple. It's a reverent process, the way he removes the potted tree from its resting place in the recessed, cinnabar-colored alcove in the wall. He carries it across the room with an undisturbed grace and sets it on the low table. The work is never complete.

He trims with near imperceptible clips of the shears, honing his vision, realizing the asymmetrical and embracing it. There are moments of emptiness there in his celebration of imperfection, yet the nuanced flow of the branches creates a yearning that is wonderful in itself, something elusive that would be marred by a sense of completeness.

And yet when Sadayoshi-san recites his poetry to me, "Glimpse impermanence, always sowing seeds of life, reaping brief harvests," he does so with a tired resignation as if the fleeting beauty isn't enough for him.

I carry this sentiment with me as I watch the earth bring forth renewal each year. The blossoming of buds, the delicate yet relentless tendril that breaks through the soil, and the terrible, raw beauty of beasts birthing their young. In turn, this ballad of seeds, of seminal beginnings carried forth and repeated from one moment to the next, echoes a truth without refrain: this fantastic procession bears no explanation for why it exists at all.

It seems very likely that any of these things could have failed to be: a young stem trampled upon by a careless foot, the beast falling prey to another. Each state of affairs is dependent upon the states before it. I can account for my own existence no more than this regress of cause and effect.

This pattern, from all the countless, imperceptible dependencies to the most pivotal choices wrought by man, is wholly inadequate as an account of why anything exists. Reason demands there be another class of explanation, a foundational truth that exists by necessity of its own nature, the very reason why there is something rather than nothing.

I wrestle with this until I am left with the Absolute, and soon I will heed the call that will be the only vocation I'll ever know...

Arkady returned to the present. The faint tremor in his bones told him it was time to hand down his annual message. That feeling always accompanied the handing down of his message, and it often came near the beginning of the year. And just like every year before, not a soul would hear what he would say. The world wasn’t ready to listen.

He dropped to his knees, pressing his gray wool trousers into the sodden earth. His tall, sinewy frame tensed under the bearskin cloak wrapped around his upper body. He emptied his mind as he placed chapped hands onto the ground. He bent his head forward, and his features remained as severe as ever: a narrow face with a bony nose and an ashen, wiry, chinstrap beard. He pressed his sunken eyes closed.

Then he saw everything.

A warring clan races westward with a persistence unmatched. Feeding a penchant for slaughter, the Wojiin consume all in their path. Blood and fire lay in their wake. Their butchery arises from a forgotten history, their brutality from legend.

Their vicious bloodline—a mutated branch of two races intertwined—finds its embodiment in the ghost-witch Nazuseke. Drunk with violence, she fornicates with carnage and bathes in massacre as she propagates her ethic of subjugation and domination.

She calls out in a wailing, haunting scream, her voice carrying over the swell of scouts and riders and horse hooves, breaking and binding the men to her will. The howling directs the relentless procession toward their destination: Beldenridge.

The Wojiin will lay siege to that city, slashing throats, scalping, torching, and raping as they go, bringing forth their unnatural befoulment upon it. And Beldenridge will fall.

Arkady opened his eyes. His mouth drew a stoic line. He moved to one knee and then stood up, taking one last look at the lifeless prairie. Turning, he sauntered back the way he came, another message come and gone.

It was the year 2017.

* * *

2

The climb up Fordham Hill is the same as always. Damp in places, gravelly in others. The path levels off at intervals before almost disappearing into overgrowth. It doesn't bother me. Not when it gets steep or the shale slips underfoot. There's dirt and grit under my nails by the time I crest the top. Stepping up and around an outcropping of large stones, I see her.

Clara Courtright.

She cuts an agreeable figure in the waning sunlight. Her dark, wavy hair falls to the middle of her back; the wind catches it just right so it flies like a flag across her face. She turns to see me. "I was wondering when you'd get here." She smiles her easy grin as she brushes the hair away with the casual indifference that women do. "This is starting to become something of a habit."

I approach, but stop short of her, maybe four feet. "I suppose so."

She's wearing a simple linen dress, dark blue. It doesn't show any evidence of her trip up the hill, but the way she moves always seems effortless anyway. Her skin carries a hint of duskiness; her locks frame the subtle balance of her pert features. I could go on at length about the beauty of simplicity, her bewitching eyes, or the sculpted poise of her jawline, but I don't think there's really any way to capture her with words.

"You know, I've sent all of my other callers away," Clara says.

I want to say, "I'd expect nothing less," but I don't. She's referring of course to the fact that in years past, the tradition for courting couples was to meet at the top of Fordham Hill. The idea was to maintain some sense of propriety, since the peak is visible from the majority of Beldenridge.

"Did you let them down easy?" I ask.

"Oh, it doesn't matter. They're not serious. Well, some of them aren't. They think it's a joke that I come up here. I just happen to like the view."

I picture all of the other men who've come and gone before me, even the surly-looking bricklayer I passed on his way down. "Well, you haven't turned me away yet."

This elicits a grin from her. "Hmm, that's true, but I might like to keep my options open."

I laugh out loud at that. We're in the moment where we both know the unspoken truth that I'm hers and she's mine, or would be if she'd let her guard down. But she doesn't. Instead she turns and looks at the skyline south of the city like she always does.

I feel my smile begin to fade. "There's that look again. What goes on in that head of yours?"

"It's all just musing, really. I've been thinking a lot about the Higher Aggregate."

A swirling mix of history and folktale floods my mind. It's a combination of stories I was told as a child and common knowledge as a resident of Beldenridge. The Higher Aggregate is a fable, an ideal, a vision, and it's the foundation upon which the city was built. "That's a heady thought. What's brought that on?"

"I've been speaking with Eli Walcott lately." She says it casually, flippantly, even.

"The Rector?" I know the man to see him. Walcott holds a "meeting house" at the old cathedral. His call to piety amounts to some dusty fragments of lost texts. "What for?"

"He wants to restore the Higher Aggregate." Clara pauses as if to gauge my reaction. "He says we should carry it with us to the ends of the earth."

I let the comment sink in. There's a heaviness, a weight there that I don't want to lift. Wars have been fought over the Higher Aggregate. I'd just as soon leave it in the past. "And what do you think?"

"I'm inclined to agree with him."

I fold my arms across my chest, obstinate, but attempt to make light of her remark. "The ends of the earth, huh? I don't know that there's much to see past Vantlintown. All that's left anymore are smaller communities. You know, earthy people. Simple lives. Certainly nothing as cosmopolitan as the Higher Aggregate."

There's a pained, almost pleading edge to her voice. "That's just it. We have to build up the world around us; we have to build stability."

Stability. One of the hallowed tenets of the Higher Aggregate. I nearly spit my reply. "I build my own stability."

She ignores me, continuing. "You can't leave people to their ignorance. We have an obligation—a responsibility—to further the Aggregate wherever we can." She speaks like she's a believer and then falls silent. "There are missions, you know. Small groups that go out and try to shine a light in all those forgotten places."

"Right, forgotten places with all their forgotten, nightmarish lore." I was brought up with tales of aberrations and bastard species just the same as anyone else, but those things don't exist anymore, let alone the legendary fabrications they became. I shake my head. "It just seems like a waste of time."

"I don't think it's a waste of time." Her green eyes drill into me before she turns away. "I'd like to go myself one day."

Logan Hale slipped from his daydream. He gazed out toward the shadowy protrusion of Fordham Hill painted against a foggy sky of dusk. From his perch along the grimy stone of the cathedral's clock tower, it looked forlorn and forgotten beyond the patchwork of flying buttresses, spires, and vaulted architecture of old Beldenridge.

Below, a white mist wound through the cobblestone streets which were peppered with two-wheeled, horse-drawn hansoms. Fuzzy orbs of lamplight shown from intermittent windows. In others, the warm, orange glow of hearth fires diffused into the murkiness.

The few people trudging through the streets were obscure figures of indeterminate size. Whether they were making their way home or going about some last-minute business, their slow cadence matched the dreary, hypnotic sway of the night.

Built on the rocky shores of Lake Peril, Beldenridge encompassed thirty square miles of raw field and forest. Veins of choking woodland ran like tributaries into its stone heart; they interspersed the two-hundred-ten-year-old architecture that lived on as a testament to the founder's obsession with building the perfect city.

Silas Belden.

Logan knew the history the same as anyone else. The progeny of a wealthy family, Belden lived during a brief resurgence of learning, sophistication, and technology known as the Higher Aggregate. The outskirts of the city had since given way to more utilitarian structures as was the fashion of the day.

Logan shifted his position, his grip secured with the small iron hooks in his leather gauntlets. Attached to his wrists, he would slide them over his calloused palms when he needed to climb. A heavy canvas jacket kept out the damp autumn air; constructed with a wide leather belt and brass buckle, it wrapped his oxbow shoulders in a snug embrace. The cloak-like tails of his father's old war cowl trailed out from beneath the jacket and feathered his dark wool trousers, the hems of which were tucked into black leather fold over boots.

His gray eyes, set within his square, bearded face, scanned the city with a cold reserve. He'd swivel his head around when he heard the rattle of a lock or the quick scuffle of feet. The sounds around him were like the air that expanded his lungs; he drew them in, processed them, and then expelled the dross. If anything seemed amiss, he would propel his two-hundred-pound frame toward it with animal-like ferocity. It was his duty as the Reeve—the highest peace officer in Beldenridge.

He'd taken an oath to protect the innocent and uphold the Known Law, and it was a commitment he undertook with a steely resolve. His physical conditioning came before anything. He pushed himself past limits few men had, honing his strength and agility with grueling endurance training.

He was known to plunge into the lake with both hands bound behind his back, bobbing up and down, using the thrust of his legs to surface for air before swimming out a hundred yards and back again. Other times he would hoist a log across his shoulders and barrel through the forest at full sprint until his body shook on the verge of collapse.

Even his mental acuity bested most. Time spent in the City Archives enhanced his aptitude for psychology and basic chemistry. He immersed himself in the city’s history and mastered legal theory as well as any magistrate. The city in turn respected and trusted him, and he now looked at Beldenridge as his own.

Operating with minimal oversight from the Court, he was able to get away with what others might deem his eccentricities, such as his solitary desire to prowl from above. He argued that it allowed him to better observe everything. The sounds of everyday life would bounce from one ornate façade to another. Even the occasional scream would find its way across the rooftops, urging him to action.

He made enough public appearances throughout any given week that the citizens of Beldenridge knew he was still there, so he stole every chance he could get to return to the dark, brooding places of the city. He found himself retreating there just as much as he caught himself thinking of Clara.

He hadn’t seen or heard from her in ten years. She would've written at least once if she ever cared anything for him. He expected more from her, of course. Even if it was only a periodic letter, some chain of recognition showing he still mattered to her, however small the sentiment was now.

Deep down, he knew she must be dead. It could have been disease, an animal, or even a human predator. Or maybe she fell into the arms of another man. The last possibility soured him the most; it compressed his stomach into a cold, acidic lump. He hated to consider any of them at all, and so he clung to his disbelief.

Logan shifted his position once more. The muted calm continued in the streets below. There was the snap of a switch and the click-clack of horse hooves. Far-off voices drifted away until out of earshot. He was nearly lulled by the city's trance when he heard a shriek.

It was a shrill, piercing sound.

The synapses in Logan's head sparked to life, and his core flushed with warmth as he tried to peer through the fog and determine from where the sound came. He tensed and waited for another.

A tortured, melancholy wailing called out, a woman sobbing.

South. The pubs? The bridge? Whatever the disturbance, he'd find out soon enough.

Logan crouched, readied himself, and then leapt off the edge of the tower.

* * *

3

Logan stretched out his muscled form, suspended in the moment right before freefall. The city lay before him like a charcoal blanket; its uneven chorus filled his ears and enveloped him.

One...two...

He timed his descent, poised to land both feet together on the stone ledge below. The narrow lip surged up to meet him at what should have been a troubling speed. On one side lay a hard, unforgiving terrace that wrapped the clock tower. On the other, a sheer drop to the street beneath.

He connected with the ledge and collapsed into a crouch, all the kinetic energy coiled up inside his legs. Before the momentum could upset his balance in either direction, he sprung off the ledge, lancing out toward a flat portico that jutted out from the rear of the cathedral.

Landing, he tucked into a roll to temper some of his velocity. Coming off the arch of his back, he was on his feet again, and very nearly at the other end of the portico. He took two steps and leapt once more.

He aimed for the shallow outcropping of a window ledge as he plummeted. It would require precise footing since there was barely enough room for the balls of his feet. It didn't matter; he'd only be there for half a second, only long enough to slow his descent.

His feet found enough purchase to absorb the force of his body. With his gauntlets dug into the stone trim around the window, he shoved off again.

Ten more feet.

His boots took the brunt of the landing. Ignoring the jarring sensation that racked his body, Logan dashed forward in a sprint. He ran a hundred feet ahead to where his horse was tied to an iron hitching post.

Heedless was a deep chestnut brown courser, named for his blind willingness to run through any terrain at breakneck speed. Light, fast, and strong, he pawed at the ground in anticipation as Logan neared.

Logan untethered him, mounted, and then spurred him on at a brisk pace.

Heedless didn't shimmy or shy away for lack of visibility in the gloomy fog; the bulging muscles of his hindquarters propelled them down an unlit alley with the reckless trust forged between them both.

Logan found his rhythm, leaning forward as horse and rider raced to the narrow end of the vaulted passage. They burst out onto the next street where Logan steered Heedless to the right and urged him into a thundering gallop.

With the panting snorts of the horse in his ear, he navigated the labyrinthine maze of streets, passing under cast-iron tracery and weathered stone archways. A lone citizen who found themselves in their path would quickly scatter to one side of the street or another.

From one patch of mist to the next, they were swallowed and then spit out until they arrived at a row of two-story stone structures at the outskirts of old Beldenridge. Mainly pubs and storefronts for tradesmen, their foundations were cracked and shifting, their windows smudged and filthy.

Logan pulled back on the reins until Heedless slowed to a trot.

From the pubs on the right came the muffled sound of patrons talking, laughing, and singing. Yellow light from open doorways spilled out into the street while several silent onlookers, pints in hand, looked on like vultures just outside the doors.

Across from them, an open, grassy expanse lay before the hulking sandstone foundations of Station Bridge, the grand entryway to the city. Anchored at each end by squat towers, the sixteen arched vaults upon which the bridge lay sprung from the upper concourse of the city and ran to a low ridge immediately southward. In the thicket of dead reeds near a massive stone abutment, a small crowd of people stood holding lanterns, huddled around something he couldn't see.

Logan prodded Heedless toward them. Once near, he slowed and reached for the lightweight, single-edged backsword in the scabbard attached to the saddle. He slung the custom sling over his shoulder—the one he could swivel around to his waist for a draw stroke in a split second if necessary—before he dismounted. Then he hurried over to the group.

The lantern light showed grungy trousers, moth-eaten wool jackets, and slumped shoulders. There were lips bulging with chaw and crumpled caps held in nervous clenches. Shifty eyes set within chapped, reddened faces met his searching glare with reluctance.

The wailing came from a woman who had collapsed to her knees. Pear-shaped and stodgy, she wore a tattered green shawl and a frumpy white hat. Tears stained her contorted face. "My boy! Oh, my boy!"

Logan recognized her as Pearl Niedham, a widow who lived in a small cottage on a scrap of land she leased with her son.

Sprawled out before her lay a body wearing gray, washed-out clothing. The clothes were soaking wet, and the trail of broken reeds suggested the body had been dragged from the shallow creek in the ravine beneath the bridge. Even with the bloody lacerations on the face, the stringy, disheveled hair and pale stubble on the chin gave it away: it was Otto, Pearl's son.

Logan stepped between the crowd. "What happened?" He knelt down to inspect the body. "Did he fall?"

Pearl continued to sob, burying her face into her son's body until her face was wet. Her eyes glistened with the flicker of lamplight when she finally looked up. "He...he jumped." She broke down again, gently pounding the ground with her fist.

Logan let her be for the moment. He turned back to the body as the people around him murmured.

Otto's left arm was twisted in an unnatural way, clearly broken. One eye socket was sunken, suggesting he had landed on that side of his face. Various cuts and scrapes on his hands and neck were evidence of the jagged rocks at the bottom.

Logan stood. He looked down the grade that ran to the creek, and then up at the swell of the balustrade that rose up along the lip of the bridge. Once crested, the drop would be near fifty feet. To Logan, it seemed obvious enough that Otto fell to his death; however, without a witness, it would be hard to say whether he leapt of his own accord. "Why do you think he jumped?"

Pearl now held Otto's body in her arms, rocking back and forth on her knees. She whimpered and mumbled to herself; her blank stare seemed to look through the small crowd.

"Mrs. Niedham, I need you to tell me why you think Otto jumped."

She halted in her rocking; even her crying came to a stop. Her eyes narrowed, accusatory, and she glared at Logan for two seconds before answering. "Because he left a note saying he would."

Logan shifted his stance. "Did it say why?"

Pearl looked past him, and her lower lip quivered. She pointed with an outstretched arm. "Because of her!"

* * *

4

The cold drizzle sweeps in with each gust of the biting wind. I've been standing in it long enough that my bangs are plastered to my forehead, but I can't tear myself away. The scene is an old one.

My father stands with both hands on the shovel. He leans on it to support his gaunt, gnarled frame. His shoulders are rounded from years spent toiling in our rocky, infertile field, and his fine hair is parted down the middle.

A small, wooden cottage sits beyond the soggy field. It's built with rotted boards and a thatched roof. A faint twirl of smoke escapes from the stovepipe chimney. It's been our home for as long as I can remember. It's where I was born, and it's where my mother died from complications shortly thereafter. My father was left to pick up the pieces, now a widower twice-over.

I am his only daughter.

The short, stocky form of Harley Kingsolver stands nearby. His beady eyes are as black as his coat, and his cigar-chomping grins are as deceptive as his words.

"Emit, I do appreciate your circumstances." Harley places a meaty hand over his heart like he wants to appear sincere. "Raising the girl on your own must be trying. But these are trying times for everyone. Not enough to go around. Why I just had old Abe Stroop tell me how hard it was to put food on the table. And I told him the same thing I'll tell you. I can't make an exception for you, because then I'd have to make an exception for everyone."

I stop listening. It's the same shakedown as always. Harley comes to collect rent for the scrap of land we lease from him. And once again, he's raised the price.

My father's face drops; it's as if every feature sags at once: his tired eyes, reddened chin, and the loose skin around his neck. He stumbles over a few non-committal words before reaching into the pocket of his threadbare jacket and passing some coins to Harley's outstretched hand.

I'm nauseous. It's not because my stomach is turning inside out since I haven't eaten in two days; it's because of having to watch my father work himself to the bone for nothing. And then it comes.

Harley reaches out and grabs my father by the shirt. He barks his words with bared teeth, and spittle flies like a tangible form of disrespect. "This isn't enough, Emit! Didn't you hear what I said?"

My father's face goes pale, and his eyes are frightened white circles. "It...it's all we have."

Harley grips his fistful of filthy linen even tighter and glares at my father before his anger relents. His raging demeanor melts, and he recovers his false piety. "Of course, of course. I know you're an honest man and good for your word. So, I shall return next week, and the week after that until I recover the difference." Harley puts his hands on his hips and squares his stance. "However, if by the end of the month I find that you cannot abide by my terms, then I will be forced to remove you and your daughter from this land."

Amelia Rathbone shook her head to clear it of her turbid memories. She leaned over the rooftop of the Dirty Sparrow Alehouse and tried to regain her focus. Her lithe frame trembled, partly because of the chill, and partly because of what she was about to do. However, an observer wouldn't have seen it due to the black war cowl draped over her shoulders.

Hooded, it was too big for her when she first scavenged it from a box of relics in the City Archives, so she made her own modifications. She first shortened it so that the cloak-like body fell to the knees of her canvas trousers. The piece of fabric meant to cover the upper half of the face—the one with the eye holes—not only didn't fit well, but also obstructed her vision. Because she still wanted to preserve her anonymity, she repurposed it as a face covering and sewed it into the hood. It now covered her nose and mouth and earned her a nickname in quiet corners: The Veil .

The cowl served a dual purpose, though. When turned inside out with the hood tucked in, it sufficed as her daily outerwear. The fact that she was a poor orphan further lent obscurity to her secret life; no one paid much attention to the nineteen-year-old girl with light auburn hair who ran errands for tradesmen. Her thin lips, button nose, and pale face were easily forgotten.

In the alley below, her mark entered just like he always did after picking pockets in the pubs. He was a young ruffian who went by the name of Merl. Tall and with a confident swagger, he wore a ratty brown shirt under a worn leather vest. His boots were spit-shined, though, and his polished brass belt buckle spoke to the dandy image for which he strove. He sauntered into the shadows to count his money with a devious smirk across his face.

Amelia reached into a leather satchel fastened at her beltline and produced a set of bolas. She braced herself, spun them in the air, and aimed.

Merl stopped and looked from side to side, alerted to the sound of the twirling cords. When he realized the sound came from above, he looked up, but it was too late.

Amelia flung the spinning bolas at his legs, following through with deft precision.

Merl turned to run, but the bolas caught him at the ankles and he tripped.

Amelia launched herself off the roof. For a second her thrust took her upward, a cloaked figure blacking out the dismal moonlight. Then gravity claimed her, and with an acrobatic gracefulness, she landed on the ground with a soft bound.

Merl struggled to his feet, looking back wide-eyed and with mouth agape as he stuffed the money inside his vest. He tried to hop away from her.

Amelia was deceptively strong given sufficient momentum, and she estimated the ten feet between them would be enough for her to soundly knock him down. She dashed after Merl, listening to the panic and exertion that came with each one of his breaths. She fed off his fear knowing she had the upper hand.

One more stride...aim low.

She dove into him, catching him at the waist.

Merl fell headlong and crashed his elbows into the cobblestone. He gasped in pain as he twisted and turned beneath her.

Amelia drove her forearm into his neck; it was all she could do to stay on top of him with her knees pinning down his shoulders.

Merl continued to thrash, frantic to escape. His face contorted, peach fuzz spread wide across his upper lip.

Amelia drove her other fist into his nose to disorient him. Ignoring the sharp ache in her knuckles, she leaned close to his face and spoke in a whisper. "I don't want to see you picking pockets anymore. Give it up." She dug her forearm deeper into this throat. "I'll know. Got it?"

Merl gasped and choked. His blood-shot eyes bugged out, and his face was near purple, but he nodded.

She landed a hard blow to Merl's chin to make her point clear. Sliding off of him, she yanked the bolas from his legs and ran off down the alley. Her plan was to disappear in the dense grove of trees across from the Alehouse. Halfway there, she saw the flicker of lanterns and heard the murmur of a crowd down the row of buildings.

She stopped near the tree line and knelt.

A crowd of approximately fifteen people was gathered at the other side of the bridge. A smaller group congregated outside a nearby pub.

A fight? A struggle? Somebody hurt?

Amelia wagered that she could steal through the fog and get close enough to see what was going on without detection. She moved swiftly along the tree line until it met the ravine. Under the cover of the fog, she crept along the water's edge until she came to the abutment. With a cat-like leap, she jumped up onto the lower base where there was sure-footing. With her body pressed against the stone, she edged as far as she dared and peeked around the corner.

A woman on her knees cradled the lifeless body of a young man. Her distraught features were lit by lantern light. She pointed with an outstretched arm. "Because of her!"

The small crowd parted, ensuring there was no confusion as to the accused.

A gaunt, pale, sickly-looking girl remained; she wore a formless brown dress and a dingy white shawl. Her upturned nose looked even more pig-like with the defensive scowl that displayed her prominent front teeth. She fought the sobs that threatened to overtake her, though she couldn't stop the tears.

Emma Hepperlin.

Amelia put it all together. The body was Otto Niedham's, and the distressed woman was his mother.

Emma spit back at the accusations. "Don't blame me! I loved him!"

The mother clutched Otto's lifeless head to her bosom. "Don't lie, you little bitch! I read the letter. He killed himself because you wouldn't marry him!"

Emma stepped forward with a forceful stride. "I wouldn't marry him because he couldn't hold down a job! How can he support us when he won't work?"

Otto's mother wailed a sigh of dismay. "Oh, you're just a gold-digger. My Otto was a good boy. He was a good boy and a hard worker. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, you little snot. Never worked a day in your life, I'm sure."

Emma coughed, maybe for real or for effect, and then nearly shouted her reply. "I have health concerns. Everybody knows that!"

Otto's mother gingerly laid down her son's body and then stood, pointing again. "Lies. You don't have an honest bone in your little whore body. My Otto might not have had all manner of privileges in his home life, but at least his father wasn't a drunk!"

Emma's face flushed red. She began to stomp her way closer to Otto's mother when someone stepped from the shadows and stood between them.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose dark hair lay upon a meaty neck. The blockish, bearded jawline and stern brow were unmistakable; it was Logan Hale.

Amelia instinctively shrunk back behind the abutment, not wanting to be seen by the Reeve.

* * *

5

Logan held back Emma with one arm and Pearl with the other.

Emma squirmed and snarled her discontent as she tried to twist out of Logan's grip. "I'll not have you talk about my family that way!"

Pearl crashed against Logan's arm like a charging bear. Her eyes glared large and bulbous. "You wretched little creature! My Otto was too good for you!"

"This isn't going to help either of you." Logan scanned the crowd and then called out to a stout-looking man who stood nearby; he nodded at Emma. "Take her."

The man obeyed, wrapping his hands like hooks around Emma's arms, holding her back.

Logan led the tearful Pearl a few steps away. He spoke to her quietly, but firmly. "Now listen, I don't care what spat you might have with that girl. It's my job to inspect the body and report back to the Court. I need you to be civil."

Pearl's lip quivered, but she nodded that she understood. She turned away from him and sobbed to herself.

Several more people approached from the pubs, clutching the overcoats they had hastily pulled on over their grease-smudged clothing. Their faces were split between amusement and curiosity.

Logan knelt next to Otto's body and tried to ignore the inevitable questions.

"What've we got, a jumper?"

"Was he pushed? I'll say that would be something, wouldn't it?"

"Suspect any foul play, Hale?"

"That's Otto Niedham. I daresay I saw him earlier today. He looked right as rain to me."

Logan didn't answer any of them, but continued his inspection.

Otto's lips were blue, and his eyes were open in an expressionless stare. The blood on his face had nearly dried to a dark crust on his pale skin. Blood vessels in his neck were hemorrhaged in small, red splotches. The body itself was not yet stiff, so Logan reasoned Otto hadn't been dead for long.

He stood, looked out toward the middle of the bridge, and then inquired of a bystander where the body was found and in what way. Then he knelt again and inspected Otto's appendages for any other broken bones. He mapped out a picture in his mind: the drop over the edge, the fall, the landing.

Seems to add up, except for the burst vessels. Logan looked closer at the tiny, spider web veins that tracked along the jaw; they weren't consistent with a fall. Then he pulled back one of Otto’s open eyelids with his index finger and noted the red splotches in the white of the eye. Asphyxiation? But there aren't any ligature marks...

A bellicose voice cut in, louder than the others in the crowd. "Well now, Mr. Hale. I believe I have a right to an examination of the body."

Logan looked up to see a rotund man standing with his hands on his hips.

Bald, bearded, and with a stump of a cigar pressed between his yellowed teeth, Harley Kingsolver's stance suggested he wouldn't be moved easily. He wore a black waistcoat under a frock coat of the same color and material. A red cravat wrapped his bulging neck, and the chain of a hefty watch hung from a pocket. His deep, close-set eyes implored Logan for compliance.

Logan stood. "And what gives you that right, Mr. Kingsolver?"

"Why, for insurance purposes, of course. The late Mr. Niedham and his mother both have insurance policies with me as part of their lease agreement." Harley looked down at the body and twisted his mouth in distaste. "Mr. Niedham's policy is null and void if his unfortunate demise came at his own hands."

Pearl, all the while trembling in silence, lost her composure again. "You just don't want to pay out! My Otto is gone, and all you care about is money!" She shook her fist at Harley as she wailed.

Logan held her back, his cheek catching the spray from her mouth.

The tension in Harley's face eased, and his eyebrows rose in an "I'm above that behavior" sort of way. "Now, now. Mrs. Niedham. I'm only concerned with operating within the bounds of the law." He cast a forced grin at Logan.

Logan didn't bother to hide his smirk. "You can make your requests of the Court, Mr. Kingsolver. Until such time as I turn the body over to them, this is an open inquiry on my part."

"But I need to satisfy my obligations as an insurer..."

Logan stepped in front of Otto's body and loaded his voice with authority. "Take it up with the Court."

Harley huffed and puffed to himself in consternation, but waddled off obediently.

Logan warily eyed the crowd that had begun to swell with more pub patrons. He needed to get a closer inspection of Otto without the gawking onlookers. He wanted to be able to turn the body over to the Court and simply call it a suicide, but now he had nagging questions.

There was motive on Pearl's part with regard to the insurance policy. It would be necessary to absolve her of any implication even though he had no strong suspicions of her. In the end, the letter would support the suicide claim and likely swing the scales the other way. The burst vessels were the outlier, but he wasn't sure they’d amount to much given the other evidence.

Logan turned to Pearl. "I'm going to need that letter." Then he began to direct the people away. As he did so, he took note of the figure lurking behind the bridge abutment.

The Veil.

* * *

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3

The Prince of Cats

Daniel Olesen

To stay alive, Jawad must succeed where all others have failed: he must catch the Prince of Cats. More legend than man, the Prince is draped in rumours. He can steal the silver teeth from your mouth in the blink of a smile. He is a ghost to walls and vaults, he laughs at locks, and Jawad must capture him before powerful people lose their patience and send the young rogue to the scaffold.

Ever the opportunist, Jawad begins his hunt while carrying out his own schemes. He pits the factions of the city against each other, lining his own pockets in the process and using the Prince as a scapegoat. This is made easy as nobody knows when or where the Prince will strike, or even why.

As plots collide, Jawad finds himself pressured from all sides. Aristocrats, cutthroats, and the Prince himself is breathing down his neck. Unless Jawad wants a knife in his back or an appointment with the executioner, he must answer three questions: Who is the Prince of Cats, what is his true purpose, and how can he be stopped?

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 5

* * *

1. The House of Colour

It took several skills to be a good thief. Dextrous fingers to pick pockets and locks. Light footfall to sneak about. Good eyes to keep sharp observations of the surroundings. Cunning wit to know where to ply your trade. But the most important thing was luck. Jawad was convinced that while he possessed the former skills in abundance, it was purely a case of ill luck that saw him currently incarcerated in the Finger.

He had done everything right. In disguise, he watched the jeweller’s workshop for days, waiting until a moonless night. In the blink of an eye, his fingers picked the lock on the front door without arousing attention. Moving with quiet, feline grace, he passed by the small chamber where the apprentice was fast asleep. Foregoing the splinters of gemstones and petty valuables in the workshop itself, Jawad went up the stairs to seek the real treasure. The thief had it on good authority that no less than three emeralds, one ruby, and two sapphires were waiting in a strongbox upstairs.

Unfortunately, a vicious dog also waited for him in the jeweller’s inner sanctum, kept chained and apparently starved to enflame its temper. As if Fortune were playing a cruel trick on Jawad, the dog’s fur was stark black. He had not noticed anything until a pair of yellow eyes opened, followed by slobbering jaws. The dog’s barking, not to mention its fangs, sent Jawad backwards and tumbling down the flight of stairs. This caused the apprentice to run out wielding a broomstick, and the thief had to beat a hasty retreat straight into the arms of the city guard. Even those bumbling fools were able to comprehend the situation and react before Jawad could leg it.

Thus his present, involuntary stay at the Finger. Among decent folk, it was called the Tower of Justice. Among the indecent, it was named after what it resembled, a giant middle finger sticking out of the ground.

His thoughts circling back to his imprisonment, Jawad repeated this belief to himself. Fate had placed him here, and he was otherwise blameless. If anyone asked, that was his story. Settling into the meagre straw strewn across his cell floor, the thief let this comfort him. Fortune had gotten him here, and she was sure to get him out of it again. In return, he would be suitably grateful and leave an offering at her altar. Not just any altar, but the one with the voluptuous statue of her wearing a green, flowing dress and a garland of silver flowers in her hair.

Jawad’s reveries concerning the goddess were interrupted as the door to his austere accommodations opened. A guard with a face suggesting bestial ancestry stepped inside, aiming a lazy kick at the prisoner’s leg. “On your feet, scum.”

“That seemed unnecessary,” Jawad complained even as he complied.

Behind the guard, someone else appeared in sight. The thief wondered if Fortune had finally sent her messenger, although this auspicious character looked nothing like the statue of Jawad’s fantasies. Probably for the best, the newcomer did not wear a flowing dress or a flower garland; neither would have gone well with his muscular frame. Jawad’s eyes ran across the man, noting the short sword by his side and the reinforced leather with a linen tunic underneath. The hilt of the weapon was lain with gold, making it worth at least twenty pieces of silver to an honourable fence. Jawad smiled at the contradiction.

“You having a laugh?” asked the guard, cuffing Jawad on the head. His demeanour did not imply he wanted an answer. “Glad you’re enjoying our hospitality. You’ll be leaving behind a hand as thanks, after all.” He grabbed his own groin. “Guess what use we put it to.”

Jawad pulled back in a futile attempt to create distance between himself and his captor in the cramped space. “Let it never be said I am prone to sentimental attachment to anything once lost,” the thief claimed.

“Shut your fuckhole,” the guard spat. “You’ve been ratting on that you know about the Prince of Cats. Get to talking.”

“Shut up, start talking. Consistency would be nice,” Jawad mumbled.

The warden grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, revealing to Jawad that garlic was being served in the guardroom. “If you don’t put that tongue to use, I’ll be taking it with me! Guess what we’ll do with it!”

“No need to further illustrate your point,” Jawad replied meekly, suppressing a tired groan at the repetitive threat. It showed lack of imagination. Instead, he glanced over the guard’s shoulder at the imposing warrior standing by the doorway. “But if I am to cooperate in this manner, I hope it will be remembered.” The guard slapped him across the face. “Point taken,” he gulped. “It is said that the Prince of Cats seeks to ruin al-Badawi and has chosen the merchant’s warehouse for his next jaunt.”

For the first time, the warrior by the cell door spoke. “Al-Badawi has many warehouses.”

“The Prince is still waiting to determine his mark,” Jawad replied. “Rumour has it that a shipment should be arriving from Gadir with valuable anil dye. He needs only follow the cargo from the ship to the warehouse to find his target and strike when the time suits him.”

The guard turned to look at the visitor beyond the door. “Good enough?”

A slight nod came in response. “It’ll do.”

The warden relaxed his hold on Jawad’s tattered shirt. “If you’re lucky, maybe we’ll only take a few fingers instead of your hand.” He grinned, releasing the thief, who sank to the floor.

Jawad rubbed the skin on his throat, watching the door close behind the other men. Once alone, he relaxed and leaned his head against the wall with a satisfied expression.

* * *

Jawad spent the next two days with only rats for company. As they possessed poor conversation skills, he passed the time talking to himself and inspecting the slender fingers on his right hand. The penalty for thievery, if the crime was deemed severe enough, was loss of limb. As justice worked swiftly in Alcázar, Jawad could expect this fate in less than a week.

On the third day, Jawad’s visitor returned along with the guard. He quickly got on his feet. “Looks like even stray dogs can be trained,” the guard laughed.

Ignoring him, the thief looked at the muscular warrior. “I see you’ve taken a liking to me.”

“What more can you tell me about the Prince of Cats?”

“Sadly, my ability to find information has been subdued of late.” Jawad glanced at the guard, who was mostly preoccupied with scratching his privates. “I can’t very well find out while I’m locked up with only this charming sentinel for company.”

“My master expected as much. He has a task for you. In return, he has secured your release,” the warrior explained. “Should you attempt to weasel away, I am to cut you into pieces. Slowly.” His hand casually rested on the sword hilt by his side.

Jawad gave a subservient smile. “I would expect nothing less, good master.” He raised his chained hands towards the guards and let them jangle. “If you would be so kind?”

With a disgruntled look, the guard did as requested. “You’ll be back here within a week.”

The warrior stepped forward to tie rope around Jawad’s wrists and twist it around the thief’s neck a few times, letting him use one end as a leash. With an impatient tug, he led the bound thief out of the cell. “In the meantime,” Jawad called out, looking over his shoulder at the warden, “I will give your regards to your mother, your sisters, your grandmothers, your aunts, your cousins, your second cousins –”

A violent jerk of the rope cut Jawad’s stream of words short.

* * *

Leaving the Finger, the warrior and the thief stepped onto the streets of Alcázar. In front of them was the maswar, the open square that lay as the heart of the city, connecting roads in every direction. Once a week, a scaffold would be raised, letting the crowds watch criminals receive their just due. Today, the square only held the usual throng of people crossing in every direction. Clasping his still attached hands, Jawad followed his new captor.

“What might be your name, good master?”

“Salah.”

“A fitting name for a devoted servant,” Jawad remarked. His companion’s only response was to pull at the rope, forcing the captive to walk faster and talk less. “Your master –” the thief managed to utter. “Does not employ you –” Another pull of the rope. “For your conversation, I take it.”

Salah stopped abruptly, turning to stare down at Jawad. “He employs me for my tendency to violence.”

“Duly noted. Well, are we to prattle all day, or should we continue?” The thief made an impatient gesture towards the street ahead of them. “Your master must be waiting.”

A sneer ran across Salah’s face. With a forceful grip on the rope, he resumed their march.

* * *

After a few hours of walking, the pair reached the quarters reserved for wealthier merchants. The narrow streets grew wider, and the tall, closely built houses were replaced by wide palaces with gardens and walls to surround them. Stopping outside one such estate, Salah knocked on the gate.

“Of course, by then I was long gone,” Jawad related, deep in the telling of a tale. “But not without every ring on her fingers.” His companion’s only response was to roll his eyes.

A spyhole opened, revealing a wrinkled face peering out between the bars; a moment after, the door in the gate was opened.

“Much obliged,” Jawad said with a smile to the gatekeeper, an old man who merely grunted in reply. Nothing about his appearance indicated any wealth to speak of, and while his collar hid his neck, Jawad imagined he was a slave.

Salah led him along the path to the buildings in the centre of the enclosure; on either side, they were surrounded by gardens, lush in the prime of spring. Above the main entrance, a few lines from a famous poem by al-Tayir were carved into the stone arch. Stallions run in war as fast as they are able, yet behold their pace grow quicker near the stable. Smiling to himself, Jawad followed his guide inside. All the times he had wanted to get inside Dār al-Allawn, and now he was being walked through the front door.

“Tell the steward I’ve returned,” Salah commanded a servant. As they waited, Jawad glanced around the salāmlik of the estate. As could be expected, the entrance hall was pompous with pillars of marble. The floor was made from the same material, except through the middle where an unbroken line of glass ran; underneath, a stream of water flowed. The pillars were arranged to flank the water, thereby protecting the glass and naturally leading people to walk around it. Along the walls were numerous niches, all of which contained exquisitely carved statues. Jawad made a note of how well they would serve as hiding spots for anyone sneaking around.

The steward of the household arrived, casting one look at Jawad. “For gods’ sake, Salah,” he exclaimed. He wore a thin silver thread tightly around his neck, showing his status as a valued slave. His attire was made from cotton, not linen, looking soft and worth fifteen silver or more. “He cannot be presented to the master like this. Have him bathed and put in clothes that are not infested with fleas!”

“Summon one of the mamluks,” Salah demanded. “I was only to bring him home. I’m not his foot slave.”

“They are occupied,” the steward sniffed. “There is none to do it but you.”

“Hakar’s shit,” Salah cursed, earning him a scandalised look from the steward. “Fine. I’ll continue watching him like a damned wet-nurse,” he added, pushing the thief in the back to make him move.

To Jawad’s chagrin, his brutish captor did not lead him to the luxurious baths that were certain to exist in a palace of this size. Instead, the inevitable pull of the rope took him to the slave quarters.

At last, Jawad’s bindings were removed; not only that, he was made to strip entirely. Cold water was poured into a tub by a slave, Jawad was given cloth and coarse soap, and Salah gruffly told him to get in. His rags were taken away and burned.

Shivering slightly in the water, Jawad stared up at Salah, who was attempting to keep the thief within line of sight without actually looking at his naked form.

“Does your master make you bathe under these conditions as well, Salah? You would hardly fit in here,” Jawad mused. The image of the big warrior trying to squeeze into the tub brought a smile to his face.

“I am no slave,” Salah scoffed. “When I wish, I use the hammām in the palace.”

“I am not either, yet here we are.”

“You’re less than a slave,” Salah sneered. “You’re a thief.” He pronounced the word with the utmost disdain.

“Where do you belong in this hierarchy? Given your task is to watch me, a lowly thief, take my bath,” Jawad said serenely, scrubbing his arms.

Various expressions crossed Salah’s face before it finally settled on a grin. “With a mouth like that, mongrel, you’ll not take ten steps before you get into trouble that tongue of yours can’t save you from. If the gods are kind, I’ll not only be watching, I’ll be participating.” He flexed his fingers into fists.

Jawad looked up at him, extending a hand. “Towel?”

“Fuck you.”

* * *

An hour after his arrival, Jawad was presentable. Salah, his constant companion, led him from the slave quarters through a labyrinth of corridors at such a pace, it took considerable effort for Jawad to build a map of the building in his mind. They moved constantly inwards until they reached a section of the palace sequestered from the remainder. This had to be the harāmlik, where only the family and the most trusted servants could enter. While the other parts of the great house had been mostly empty, several mamluks guarded this place, eyeing Jawad with contempt as he progressed.

Abruptly, Salah stopped in front of a large door. “Speak when spoken to,” he impressed upon Jawad.

“I am civility and servility itself.”

“And I shit gold,” Salah muttered, pushing the door open.

Involuntarily, Jawad swallowed the remark on his tongue. Before his sight, a wonder made incarnate in stone appeared. He gazed upon a courtyard that was partly covered by a roof, allowing streams of light to illuminate the tiled floor. Water fell and flowed along the walls, creating the soft sound of trickling brooks. Countless pillars of slender shape rose up across the hall; they cast long shadows across the space, giving the impression of a forest made from marble. The tender touch of sunlight caressed his skin as he stepped forward while the shade of the artificial trees kept him cool. He was, at one and the same time, standing in nature’s beauty while surrounded by the unrivalled artistry of men.

Following after Salah, Jawad took note of the various corners and niches that might conceal a man seeking to move around unnoticed, and where to step to avoid the water that flowed along the edges of the room.

“This is the thief, effendim,” Salah spoke. Jawad turned his eyes on what resembled a forest clearing ahead of him. Inside a pavilion, attended by two slaves, sat the merchant al-Badawi.

He was dressed in silk and cotton; each item of clothing would fetch at least fifty silver and possibly up to twice that on the market. A necklace of gold hung around his neck with a few gemstones as ornaments, giving it a value of around two hundred and twenty pieces of silver. As he stroked his thin beard, he revealed several rings on his left hand, each worth around seventy or eighty coins. Jawad glanced at the merchant’s right hand, upon which sat a single ring made from silver; it marked al-Badawi as counted among the Hundred Houses of Alcázar, and its value could not be ascertained in coin.

“Approach,” al-Badawi commanded with a nasal voice. One slave was fanning him, keeping the noon heat at bay, while the other held a tray of edible delights.

Jawad stood still, staring at the merchant while lost in thought; only Salah’s push made the young thief move forward. “Effendi,” he greeted al-Badawi hoarsely along with a bow.

The merchant sent the thief a scrutinising glance. “Do you know why I have summoned you?”

“To help you, effendi.”

“Yes. That wretched villain, whose name is too ridiculous to speak, seeks to steal from me.” Still stroking his beard, al-Badawi began talking as much to himself as to anyone present. “Me! The head of Dār al-Allawn, pre-eminent among the Hundred Houses, richest among my peers, supplier to the Kabir’s court!” Salah cleared his throat, making al-Badawi’s attention return to his company. “You, although a lowly criminal, will play a part in bringing this cur to justice.”

“I am happy to serve, effendi,” Jawad claimed with a straight face.

“Of course you are,” al-Badawi said. “Were it not for me, you would be a hand shorter.”

“Speaking of that, effendim,” Salah interjected, “he bears the brand on his arm. He is not a citizen, but alhajin.” Several pairs of eyes moved to Jawad’s right wrist with a crude cross seared into the skin.

“No matter.” Al-Badawi waved his hand dismissively. “He will not be out on the streets at night.” Salah looked doubtful but made no reply, and the merchant spoke again. “What is your name, thief?”

“Jawad, effendi.”

“How did you know my warehouse would be raided by this, this Prince?” The epithet was spoken with extreme reluctance.

“Men only keep secrets if they are buried with them,” Jawad quoted. Seeing the merchant scowl, he quickly continued. “He is not working alone, effendi. It takes a whole crew to subdue the guards and cart the goods away, not to mention he must sell the stolen wares if he wants coin for his trouble.”

“So these brigands that do his bidding, they are open-mouthed?”

“Exactly, effendi.”

Al-Badawi toyed with his necklace; the chain jingled against the metal of his rings. “I want you to do this again, but in greater detail. Find out his plans that we may lay a trap and catch this bastard. I want the birds pecking at his corpse on the maswar.”

Jawad gave a bow, his face placid. “As you wish, effendi.”

“Salah will accompany you,” al-Badawi added almost as an afterthought, placing a small cake inside his mouth and chewing loudly. “He will ensure you do not stray from your task.” Crumbs spilled onto his clothes.

“With all due respect, obtaining this information will require an ability to blend in.” Jawad glanced at the big warrior by his side. “Where I need to go, Salah will be as inconspicuous as a belly dancer in an orphanage.” Salah growled like an angry dog.

“Do you wish to return to the Tower of Justice?” al-Badawi asked sharply.

“No, effendi.”

“Then do as you are told and be gone. Do not return until your task is complete, but do not test my patience either. I plucked you from retribution’s grasp, and I can send you back with but a snap of my fingers,” the merchant threatened.

Jawad bowed deeply, hiding his sardonic smile. “Understood, effendi.”

* * *

2. Teacher, Teeth, and Tribute

Shortly after his audience with al-Badawi, Jawad found himself on the streets of Alcázar again; as before, Salah was his shadow. Looking at the warrior towering over him, Jawad let out a small sigh. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” asked Salah as they set into motion, moving southeast.

“The small market.”

“What will we do there?”

“You’ll do nothing,” Jawad snorted. “Other than be in my way.”

“You have high thoughts of yourself for someone who was in prison just hours ago.”

“I’ll make this clear to you,” Jawad declared as he wove in and out of the crowd on the street; behind him, Salah moved forward by splitting the throng through sheer size. “There’s nothing you can contribute here. Just let me do my work.”

Salah reached out to grab Jawad by the shoulder in an iron grip, and he turned the thief around. “Let me make this clear to you,” he growled into Jawad’s face. “I do not trust you in the least. I think this is a terrible idea and that you will betray us at first chance. The moment I even suspect this, you’ll find my blade cutting every sinew in your body and leaving you to bleed out on the street.”

Jawad stared up at the warrior. “Great!” He lit up in a smile. “I dare say we understand each other. I have a good feeling about this.” With opposite emotions expressed on their faces, they continued.

* * *

The small market was not named due to its size, as it contained hundreds of stalls and took up a larger area than the great market did; instead, the name came from what was bartered. While its counterpart dealt with livestock, above all slaves, and raw goods for other merchants or craftsmen to purchase, the small market supplied Alcázar with food of every kind, household sundries, clothing, and the like.

“So what are we doing here?” Salah asked in his brusque fashion, using his menacing look to keep the hawkers from approaching him.

“We need some food. All part of the plan,” Jawad told him, steering through the crowd. The marketplace was packed, mostly by women, servants, and children.

“And the plan is?”

“Patience, good Salah, patience,” the thief told him, placing a reassuring hand on Salah’s arm. The warrior looked down, wrestling his arm free of Jawad’s grasp without noticing what Jawad’s other hand was doing.

Haggling, Jawad quickly procured various pieces of fruit and a large wheel of goat cheese; he deposited it all in Salah’s left arm except for some figs that he ate with delight.

Watching Jawad hand over some silver coins to the vendor, Salah frowned in sudden suspicion. “Where did you get money from?”

Jawad threw a coin purse into Salah’s empty hand. “Your generosity is appreciated.”

“You stole from me?” he roared.

“All sales are final,” the vendor squeaked, pulling his wares away.

Salah’s fist clenched around the deflated purse, prompting Jawad to take a step backwards. “It felt uncouth to ask your master for money, but really, am I expected to complete this task without spending even a measly copper coin?” He continued his retreat as Salah strode forward.

“I’ll rip your bowels out and sell them as goat feed,” Salah yelled, preparing his fist for a punch, “and you’ll have your coin then!”

Despite Salah’s quick movement and the fact that Jawad was walking backwards, the thief had no trouble keeping distance between them in the crowd. “That’s hardly advisable,” he replied. “Feeding goats with guts? It’s bound to spoil the milk!”

Unable to catch the nimble thief, Salah stopped to look down at the cheese wheel he was still holding. He looked back at Jawad. “You’re a curse shat out by Haktar,” he mumbled.

“Salah, Salah,” his companion spoke soothingly, “it’s all for the mission. Just come with me, and you’ll see soon enough.”

“I’m keeping count,” Salah promised with a threatening voice. “Every trick you pull, every ploy, I will remember it all. When this is done, I’ll pay you back.”

“You strike me as a man of your word. I am sure you will.” Jawad gave a cautious smile. “Now, can we proceed?”

Salah let out a deep breath. “Lead the way, you miserable mongrel. The sooner this is done, the better.” Jawad did as told, making sure to stay outside of Salah’s reach.

* * *

Leaving the small market, their path took them deeper into the city, southwards where the poorest neighbourhoods lay. Reaching one of the medinas that lay close to the southern walls, Jawad crossed an open square to enter its madrasa.

Nothing from the outside indicated that it was a place of learning, not even a small inscription above its door; it was simply an abandoned building appropriated for this purpose. There was a lack of materials inside as well, but the place had the two fundamental things to constitute a madrasa, a teacher and pupils. More than twenty children sat on the bare floor, repeating the famous poem ‘Time and Season’ by al-Tayir in a chorus led by their instructor.

“If you brought me here for poetry lessons, I’ll push this cheese wheel up your arse until you spit it out whole,” Salah remarked with a glance towards Jawad.

“That sounds like a terrible waste of cheese. No, this is my old madrasa, and I am on friendly terms with the teacher. He is going to help us.”

“You’re alhajin,” Salah pointed out with a nod towards the brand on Jawad’s wrist. “You’re telling me that street scum like you were allowed to study here?”

“Yes. Unlike many others, Hasief never let prejudice keep him from beating knowledge into our little heads. Come on.” Jawad moved forward to approach the teacher, waiting a brief moment until the recitation was concluded. “Effendi,” he spoke warmly.

Hearing the voice, Hasief turned his eyes; both were glassy, and he stared without seeing at his guests. “Jawad,” he spoke after a moment. “Already back.”

“I have good occasion, effendi,” Jawad smiled. “This is my friend, Salah.” The warrior coughed. “He has food for you and your pupils.”

“You are a kind and generous soul, Salah,” spoke the teacher.

“I’m happy to help,” he mumbled, sending a disgruntled look at Jawad.

“Please, come with me. Bring the food here.” The teacher moved past them to leave the main room and enter a corridor. Salah followed him down the hallway, reaching a small kitchen. Hasief gestured towards the table in the middle, where Salah dumped the food. “Thank you both,” the old man spoke.

An expression ran across Salah’s face. “Jawad?” He turned on his heel and looked down the empty corridor. “Jawad!” he roared, sprinting back the way he came, but it was too late. The thief had vanished.

* * *

Leaving his shadow behind, Jawad moved through the narrow alleys of this particular medina, choosing his path with the certainty only a former child of these streets would possess. If there had been any chance of Salah spotting him leaving the madrasa, Jawad was sure to have lost him in the winding alleyways.

Taking a more leisurely pace, the thief continued through the southern quarters of Alcázar. The afternoon heat was gone, being replaced by the coolness of evening. Public houses and teashops were slowly becoming crowded; the day’s work being done, people were congregating for their daily ritual of evening tea and chatting with neighbours.

Passing by, Jawad felt no temptation to stop and partake; he moved with a clear goal in mind. Eventually, he left the main street to enter the small alleys and courtyards behind the crowded buildings. Glancing around, he made sure none was watching. Certain that he was alone, Jawad reached up to grab a stone that extended slightly from a wall. Using it for support, he managed to take hold of another higher up and use that to reach a ledge.

With a few more displays of acrobatic prowess, he moved along the wall to reach a window with its shutters closed. A thin strip of metal lay waiting for him on the windowsill from his last visit; he prodded it in through the small gap between the shutters and gently pushed the hatch open. Moments later, he was inside.

* * *

Carrying a bag, a woman entered one of the buildings that littered the southern medinas, providing cramped homes for many people. She greeted the women downstairs with a flicker of a nod, moving swiftly up the stairs to unlock the door to her room. Once inside, she locked it securely behind her and put the bag on a table. Emptying its contents, several apples fell out. The woman grabbed a knife, sat down, and began carefully making an incision into one of the fruits.

“I always enjoy watching you work.”

She jumped to her feet, wielding the knife. From behind a curtain that covered an alcove with a bed, Jawad stepped out with a grin. “Fuck you and every donkey you call ancestor,” she swore at him, almost gasping for breath. “Why can’t you knock and use the fucking door?”

“It helps me practise.”

The woman sat down, grumbling as she resumed her work. “Do you have anything for me? What about the old jeweller?”

“Sadly, it did not go as planned. The old man had a hound that chased me away. I had to run like a dog at the butcher to escape the guards.”

She grinned. “Not like you to botch a mark, Jawad.”

“There’s a first time for everything. One of the reasons I am here. I lost my tools.”

Prying a piece of apple out, the woman took a small ruby and inserted it by the core before placing the removed piece back, making the apple whole again. “Got money for it now?”

“I’ll pay you back with my next mark, which brings me to the other reason I have come. If you have any rumours for me…”

“You want both tools and your next job? What’s next, how about I do the actual thieving?”

“Amal, Amal, no need to be prickly. You know that helping me is worth your while.”

She gave a twisted expression. “Yeah, like emptying the boils on an old beggar. That’s sure to pay off.” Getting up, she opened a drawer and pulled out a set of picks on a ring. “You better bring me some goods soon. It’s been weeks if not months since you last brought me anything worth fencing.”

“I am reliability itself,” Jawad smiled. “Any leads? Maybe the Black Teeth need a set of quick fingers on their next outing?”

“I can’t help you there,” Amal told him, returning to her work with dissecting apples. “I gave the boys a mark some days ago, and it didn’t work out.”

“Oh?” Jawad’s face displayed pure innocence.

“It was a simple warehouse job, but Hashim and his morons fucked it up somehow. Of course, they blame it on me, so my reputation is blacker than their teeth these days.”

“My sympathies,” Jawad expressed. “I guess I will have to seek them out myself.”

Amal gave him a suspicious look. “You’ve never wanted to join up with the Teeth before, even when I recommended it. Why the change of heart?”

“I got to pay you back for these, don’t I?” He jangled the lock picks.

“Suit yourself.” She sent a glance towards the bed in her room. “You can stay a while before you head over to the Broken Tooth, if you want.”

Jawad sent her a regretful smile. “Business before pleasure, kitten, and tonight, I am a busy boy.”

She scoffed. “As if anything you could do would bring me pleasure. I’m putting business first too. This is just a negotiation technique.”

“Before I leave,” Jawad continued. “Have you heard anything about the Prince of Cats?”

“Just the usual rumours. He pisses gold and shits diamonds,” Amal snorted. “What’s it to you?”

“Idle curiosity,” he smiled.

“Then I suggest you put your time to better use, you limp-dicked mongrel! You can laze about after you bring me my coin.”

“When the lioness roars, the horse should run,” Jawad quoted with a grin. Swiftly, he opened the shutters to the window and jumped out.

“And learn to use the door, you fucking savage!”

* * *

The area around the western docks was littered with taverns and brothels, serving sailors, harbour workers, and anyone else with more coin than self-respect. Possessing little of the former but plenty of the later, Jawad steered elsewhere, treading deep into the medinas of southern Alcázar. These were streets where the city guard did not enter, nor did any who valued their money or their life; being so close to the cliffs and the water edge, disposal of bodies was an afterthought.

By now, evening had arrived in full. The moonlight struggled to illuminate Jawad’s path, and the shadows of the surrounding buildings seemed to encroach on him. Keeping any feelings of discomfort from surfacing, Jawad acted as if he belonged and walked at a deliberately casual pace until he reached his destination.

The building had no sign of any kind, but lights and noise from the inside revealed it to be a public house. The locals knew three things about this place. Firstly, that while having no public name, it was commonly referred to as the Broken Tooth. Secondly, it was a gathering spot for the gang known as the Black Teeth. Thirdly, if the uninitiated entered, it was a gamble whether they would be able to leave.

Although his teeth were whole and white as ivory, Jawad entered with a confident smile.

The common room was packed with people. Some were having hushed conversations, others were playing dice or cards, most were drinking. Young men and women were drifting from table to table, plying the oldest trade. Jawad drew looks as he entered, but there was no immediate reaction to his presence. Besides the door behind him, there was a staircase leading to the upper floor. There was also a door far in the back; while Jawad had never been through it, he knew it would not lead to any kind of escape route, quite the opposite. Keeping his breathing steady, the thief walked up the counter. “Not too late for evening tea, is it?”

The surly-looking woman gave him a quick glance. “Three petties.”

Jawad did not bother to argue the inflated price. Instead, he pulled out Salah’s coin purse, which had mysteriously found its way back into his hands, and counted out three copper coins. “There we are.” The barkeep made a growling sound but accepted the money and poured some tea into a cup. “Is Hashim here tonight?”

“You got eyes yourself, don’t you,” came the reply.

“None as enchanting as yours,” Jawad flattered, eliciting only a snort. Instead, the thief turned around, gazing around the room until he saw his target.

Sitting by a table, Hashim was surrounded by his henchmen; all of them were engaged in a game of cards, and several were deep in the cups. As befitted the ringleader of such a group, Hashim was the largest and strongest. Numerous scars covered his body, telling a tale of having survived countless fights. One ear was mangled, looking like a dog had chewed it through. As Jawad walked up to the group, Hashim glanced at him. “Who let this piss ant in?”

Jawad kept his face blank; it had always been a challenge to understand Hashim’s moods. “Hashim, I always bring you something of value,” Jawad reminded him. While he spoke, he noticed the earring in Hashim’s undamaged ear, worth about five silver pieces, and the dagger in his belt, worth only trouble.

“I’m not in the mood for your tongue and tail wagging tonight,” the burly man replied. “Piss off before you get pissed on.”

Jawad licked his lips, resisting the urge to remark on Hashim’s preoccupation with urine. “This is the most valuable mark I’ve brought you yet, and it’ll also be easy.”

“It better be worth more than the usual dog shit,” Hashim snorted, throwing his cards on the table with disdain as he lost the round.

“Several bolts of silk,” Jawad said in a gamble.

The brute’s demeanour changed entirely. “Now there’s a good boy,” he grinned. “Come, sit next to me, Jawad.” He pushed one of his companions off the chair next to him. Swallowing, the young thief took the seat. Hashim’s meaty hand fell heavy down on Jawad’s neck. “You’ve never brought me silk before. Weapons, cotton, incense, spices, but never this. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Best of all, it’s sitting in a warehouse barely guarded,” Jawad continued.

“Let me guess, the only guard is a naked jinni, hotter than the desert and begging to be fucked,” Hashim laughed. His companions joined in.

“Close. They don’t want to draw attention. It arrives tomorrow at the warehouse, being moved the day after. Kept in a plain looking crate to throw off suspicion,” Jawad explained. “Each bolt is worth at least a hundred birds.”

“And my grandma is the Kabir’s courtesan,” one of the rogues grinned.

“Shut up, you fuckwit,” Hashim sneered at his henchman. The table immediately became quiet. His hand on Jawad’s neck began a kneading motion. “How many bolts?”

“Three.” Jawad swallowed again, trying not to dwell on the unpleasant sensation of Hashim’s hand or the stench of his body so close.

“How many guards?”

“One inside the warehouse. Another four patrol the district. They appear about once every hour,” Jawad explained. “Plenty of time to force the doors open, get the crate, and be gone.”

“What’s the warehouse?”

“The one belonging to al-Badawi by the meat market,” Jawad elaborated.

Hashim’s expression darkened. “I have a bone to pick with that fat silk beard.” His hand squeezed uncomfortably tight on Jawad’s neck.

“Here’s your chance. The crate will be easy to find, too. It looks ordinary from the outside, but it’s been marked with a black cross on top, so those in the know can distinguish it. People like us,” Jawad added.

“How did a degenerate pickpocket like you come across this?” The question came from Rifat; gaunt and scarred, Jawad knew he had a gift with knives and liked to make use of it. Even now, questioning Jawad, Rifat was twirling a dagger between his fingers.

“Dock workers like to drink and talk,” Jawad explained. “The crate got damaged during transport, revealing its content. That’s why they’ve had to disguise and move it until it gets sold.”

Hashim leaned back in his seat, finally withdrawing his hand. “Tomorrow night, you say.”

“An easy job,” Jawad repeated with confidence. “You just need to handle the guard inside.”

The leader of the gang broke into a smile. “Looks like we got ourselves a mark, my brothers.” His companions grinned back at him.

“What’s my pay?” Jawad asked. It was always good to appear greedy; people never questioned the motivations of a greedy thief.

“The fuck are you talking about, pay,” Rifat snorted. “You’re not one of the Teeth.” He gave a scornful smile, revealing how the lower part of his right fang had been painted black, making it look broken and jagged.

“Now, now, dear Jawad deserves something for telling us what his ear heard,” Hashim declared magnanimously, winking at the small thief. He reached out to rub Jawad’s earlobe between his fingers. “Such a good, useful ear.” Jawad was acutely aware that silence on his part was worth gold in this moment. “For something of this value, why, thirty silver would be reasonable.” Hashim’s fingers began to pull down, threatening to tear his ear. “If the silk is there. You wouldn’t be mistaken, Jawad, would you?”

“Never.” Jawad wished he had sounded more confident. It did not escape his attention that some of the thieves from the other tables had gotten up and moved behind him, keeping him surrounded.

Hashim brought his face close to Jawad, like a dog sniffing a dead animal. Jawad kept himself facing straight ahead without moving a muscle. “After all, you’re not one of us. Just a street rat,” Hashim mumbled. His wet breath landed on Jawad’s ear.

“He’s a cocky fellow, chief,” Rifat pointed out. In an instant, he had a knife pointed at Jawad’s groin. “Let’s cut him down to size.”

“Maybe we should initiate him,” someone suggested. “The real way. Break his teeth.” The cutthroats pressed against Jawad from every side, keeping him trapped.

“Quiet,” Hashim barked. He released his hold on Jawad and patted the young rogue on the head affectionately. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head. If the mark is solid, Hashim will pay you in full.”

“Thanks,” Jawad mumbled, not daring to say anything else.

“But if you’ve whetted my appetite and there’s nothing tasty at the end of this mark,” Hashim continued, his voice turning into a growl, “there won’t be anywhere for you to hide. The Teeth got people watching every street, every ship, every cart in this gods-forsaken city. You hear?”

“I do.”

“I don’t care what rat hole you scurry down, we’ll find you.” Hashim pushed his nails into Jawad’s ear, talking directly into it. “I’ll make you drink lamp oil and piss on fire.”

“Understood.”

Hashim patted his cheek. “Good boy. Now fuck off!” He pushed Jawad off the chair. Turning around, Jawad crawled as much as walked, moving frantically to escape the tavern while their laughter rang in his ears.

Once outside, the thief got on his feet and hurried away.

* * *

Jawad walked through the night. He stayed in the southern medinas, navigating their labyrinthine streets until he reached a small building; unlike all others, it was built standing free. It was in fact little more than an empty space with an altar inside, serving as a shrine to Elat. Her epithets were many, including the Lady of Luck, the Courtesan of Fortune, the Shadow’s Friend, and so forth. Her true name, fitting to her elusive nature, was hidden, and so she was simply referred to as Elat, the goddess.

While thieves were not known for their religious zeal, they all showed her respect; it could be the difference between a patrol walking closer or further away, between the moon illuminating you or hiding behind a cloud, and countless other little coincidences that decided whether your fate was wealth or poverty.

A roughly hewn statue of a woman stood upon the altar, which was otherwise bare; priests from the temple came by daily to collect offerings. Jawad left what little remained of Salah’s coin purse on the altar and bowed forward to kiss the foot of the statue. Straightening up, he winked at the statue. “So far, so good.” Outside, the horizon was slowly brightening.

* * *

Visit http:// www. annalsofadal. net/ chronicles to find this and other books by the author. Thank you for reading!

Part V

Humorous fantasy

1

Hell Comes to Hogtown

C.D. Gallant-King

Fitz is a broke night manager for a grubby comic book store. His only friend Dee is a drugged-out, womanizing pro-wrestler. Together they’re the most pathetic losers on the face of the planet. Their lives cannot possibly get any worse.

And then they’re implicated in the kidnapping of the prime minister’s wife.

On the run from the cops, Fitz and Dee discover there is something far worse than the RCMP stalking the dark streets of Toronto. They are being hunted by an ancient demon of unspeakable evil with an insatiable taste for blood... or maybe it’s just your run-of-the-mill giant murderous hobo?

Either way, life in prison might be better than whatever the creepy drifter has in store for them...

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 10

* * *

Prologue

Millicent Duquette walked through her front door, locked it behind her, and tossed her keys in the dish on the small table in the front hall. The dish was green and ugly and shaped like a fish. The table was full of dents from where her husband kept bumping into it in the dark and tossing it out onto the front lawn. Luc wasn’t a drunk, nor did he have rage issues, per se. He just had an underlying grudge against furniture Millicent bought at antique stores. To be fair, she felt the same way about his collection of stupidly expensive sports dolls (or “figurines,” as he called them) that she let the boys play with when he wasn’t looking.

Millicent and Luc actually got along wonderfully outside of disagreements about antique furniture and creepy plastic Patrick Roy dolls. Especially, she thought, for two people who had been married for over ten years and had two crazy young boys. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to enjoy being alone in the house. Luc was out at a movie with the kids. She had been left behind because she had worked late once again. Normally, she hated missing out on family nights—she adored her kids and loved Luc despite his irrational hatred of decorative cabinetry—but tonight she wasn’t going to get too worked up about it. She was not at all disappointed that she would be missing another superhero movie with exactly the same plot as every other superhero movie. Seriously, how many times did they have to save the world/city from some alien wormhole/asteroid/spaceship floating in the sky? Couldn’t any of the bad guys ever try a land-based assault?

With at least another hour of peace to herself, Millicent retired to the bedroom to enjoy that elusive treasure mothers so rarely get to experience—a quiet, uninterrupted soak in the tub. She turned on the water in the master bath—if you could even give the rusty, leaky tub a name so grandiose—and rummaged through the little shelf by the toilet. She sighed when she realized it wouldn’t be a particularly luxurious bath tonight. She didn’t have any bath oils or even proper bubbles. She found some kids’ bubble bath in a container shaped like a Ninja Turtle and an old bottle of soothing eucalyptus-scented baby bath soap. They would have to do. She dumped both into the large tub, ignoring the fact that she couldn’t remember the last time she had cleaned it, and went to look for a book while the water filled up.

On the way downstairs she glanced at her iPhone to find a reminder from her sister Ariadne about her visit next week. Millicent deleted it without even reading the whole message.

Located in the “scenic” Toronto suburb of Scarborough, the Duquette house was not large, but it was cozy and lived in. It was their home. Their tiny lawn seriously needed to be mowed, but the lawnmower had been broken for weeks and Luc was too cheap to get it fixed. The front porch needed a coat of paint and the floor in the front hall was covered in scratches and scuff marks from the kids’ shoes and toys. Their heights at various ages were carved into the door frame of the main floor bathroom. Millicent had always told Luc that it was a terrible place to measure them, but now that they had nearly eight years of scratches all over the wall, Millicent wouldn’t dream of having it any other way. If they ever moved, she would have to pry the moulding off the doorframe and take it with them.

She went back downstairs to grab the book she had been reading off the breakfast table. She was eager to find out which innocent person Jodi Picoult was going to butcher in the climax for a cheap emotional response. On her way back upstairs she noticed the front door was unlocked. She slowed, her hand on the railing, and frowned. Hadn’t she locked it when she came in? She couldn’t remember. She stilled, listening intently, but the house was silent. No, just must have forgotten to lock it. She shrugged and turned the deadbolt. She bounded up the stairs, where she was greeted with the heady smell of baby soap and eucalyptus. She closed the door, leaving it open just a crack so she would hear if her family came home, and slipped out of her clothes.

As she tossed her slacks, blouse and underwear on the floor—the rest of the family did it, why couldn’t she for one night?—Millicent wondered if her sister ever had trouble finding proper bubble bath. Probably not. Ariadne lived in a huge house with servants who likely kept her bathroom well-stocked with fancy toiletries.

Millicent cued up some Debussy on her iPhone and placed it next to the sink. She lit a couple of candles that her husband kept on the back of the toilet tank for decidedly different purposes and turned off the light. Suddenly her small, cramped bathroom that desperately needed to be cleaned became a relaxing and peaceful sanctuary. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she was even pleased to note that in the dim lighting, she could admit to herself that she was looking pretty good. Not as good as Ariadne, but...

Ah, fuck Ariadne and her perfect body and amazing life. She had to stop comparing herself to her. It would be impossible to ignore her during her impending visit, but there was no way she was going to screw up Millicent’s few fleeting moments of happiness right now. She slipped into the bathtub and sank into the pillowy mounds of mutagenic-turtle-powered bubbles.

The first time she came up from under the water, her black hair slicked back against her head and neck, she felt suddenly at peace with herself. She was not going to be jealous of her sister. Not now, not ever. Despite her fairy-tale life, Ariadne did have some issues that few people knew about. Even Millicent didn’t know all the details, but there had been hints the last time she saw her—what, six months ago? But more importantly, Ariadne didn’t have the wonderful family that Millicent did, the family that would be home soon, so she shouldn’t waste another minute not relaxing and enjoying herself.

The second time she surfaced, Millicent noticed the music had stopped playing on her phone. The stupid Wi-Fi must have crapped out again. She couldn’t wait until their contract was up so she could get a new model that actually worked properly. Maybe she would try a Samsung this time.

The third time she came up, the blade stabbed into Millicent right between her breasts. She screamed, and the blade came down again, and again, and again, until she stopped screaming.

* * *

A little while later, Luc came home, having dropped the kids off with his mother to give him and his wife some special private time. He found Millicent in the bathtub.

And in the front hallway.

And in the living room.

And in the kitchen.

When the police came, it took them several days to find all of Millicent around the house.

* * *

Chapter 1

Fitz was working the closing shift on Saturday night at The Spider’s Parlour Comics, Toys & Games. He was alone in the store reading an old issue of Battle Pope just minutes before locking up. He should have been cleaning up or putting stock away, but he rationalized that the place was so filthy that no single evening of tidying was going to make a difference. In fact, the only thing that might have helped was a flamethrower. Or maybe an exorcist.

The dingy, hole-in-the-wall shop on Yonge Street in downtown Toronto had long been a fixture of the nerd scene in TO, and it probably hadn’t been cleaned since Gary Hawthorn opened it in the late eighties. Back then it was surrounded by strip clubs and dive bars, but while the city cleaned up the rest of the neighbourhood, the Parlour hung on like a filthy hobo clutching the bumper of an Audi by his fingernails as he was dragged through the gentrified streets, leaving greasy skid marks in his wake.

The Spider’s Parlour possessed that special kind of filth that can only be accumulated through twenty-five years of neglect and poor hygiene. The dust in some corners was older than The Simpsons , and there was certainly no shortage of corners.

Though it had started small, the Parlour had, over the years, bought up surrounding apartments and stores until it became the Frankenstein-like abomination it was today. Through a long string of shady contracting it had morphed into a labyrinthine maze of store, stockroom, and living space. The ceilings were low, the lighting was dim, and the bowed shelves were overflowing with at least three times as much stock as they were designed to hold. The overflow spilled into unruly stacks on the floor, creating an obstacle course of Spider-Man comics and Mace Windu bobbleheads. The unholy shrine of geekdom smelled of mould, unwashed bodies, patchouli, and dirty cat litter. The last was particularly concerning because Gary hadn’t owned a cat in over a decade. Once, Fitz had spent an entire weekend trying to determine the source of the smell. He had moved a few boxes and found a small storeroom he had never seen before. Inside were yellowed second edition Dungeons & Dragons books, several cases of unopened juice boxes that Fitz was pretty sure hadn’t been on the market for over twenty years, and the mummified remains of a family of bats. He’d carefully replaced the boxes and never tried to clean the place again.

Fitz had worked at the Parlour for almost seven years, rising to the illustrious position of Assistant Night Manager, though his hourly rate was still the same as the day he started. When he stopped to think about it, he was also still wearing the same faded University of Waterloo sweatshirt he had worn the day he started. And possibly the same underwear.

No one would have mistaken Fitz for a successful man, nor a handsome man, or even a smart man. Hell, there was some days he wasn’t even sure if he was a man, or if somehow a pile of lint had become sentient and started coming to work at the Spider’s Parlour. His only proof that he was an adult human was the student loan bills he continued to receive from the half-finished visual arts degree he had abandoned eight years ago. On his current schedule, the loan would be repaid sometime around 2040, but Fitz knew the joke was on the National Student Loan Service. At the rate he was going, there was no fucking way he’d live that long.

That thought made Fitz wonder what he would eat tonight, and if he had anything in the fridge besides mayonnaise and parmesan cheese. He had pulled out a pencil and was scribbling in a sketchpad, aping Tony Moore’s style and daydreaming about the McDonald’s value menu, when the woman who was going to change his life walked in.

She dropped a soaking wet crimson umbrella on the floor by the door. Her beige overcoat was drenched and the light scarf wrapped around her hair might as well have been a bucket of water for all the defence it had provided against the rain.

“Thank God you’re still open,” she said, pulling off the sopping head gear and brushing her fingers through sodden black hair.

Fitz glanced at his watch. “Shit, actually, I was supposed to close five minutes ago. I lost track of time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can go—”

“No!” Fitz said, a little louder and more desperately than he had intended. Gary would have told him to stay open to make the sale, but Fitz suddenly realized he just wanted this woman to stick around as long as possible. “I mean, no rush. Look around. Let me know if you need anything.”

She smiled and Fitz felt a flutter in his chest. It felt nothing like when checked out the barely legal Asian teens drinking unspeakable things from fancy wineglasses online. Her lips were perfect (the woman in the store, not the Asian teens—though their lips were generally pretty good too, if a bit sticky). But it wasn’t just her lips; her whole face looked like it had been put together by a Renaissance painter, and the running mascara and sopping hair only added to the overall aura of her beauty, dulling the edges of her perfection and making her a little more human.

She was about Fitz’s age, maybe a few years older. Certainly under forty, unless she had some incredible personal care routines and maybe a plastic surgeon. Under her coat was a dark, simple, but well-cut skirt and jacket and a string of huge pearls. She looked professional, mature, grown-up, and completely contrary to everyone else who had ever set foot in the Parlour. She was so incongruous to the place that Fitz’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment just having her in the building, breathing the mouldy air, standing next to a waist-high stack of Moon Knight comics that had been stuck together since some obnoxious kid spilled a Diet Coke on it years ago. Gary had refused to throw them out or even move them, choosing instead to leave them there as a reminder to never let that fucking kid into the store again.

“I haven’t been in a place like this in ages,” she said, strolling around the store and taking it all in with a childlike sense of wonder. Her obvious happiness was infectious, and it made Fitz feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time. “I don’t even know where to start. Do you have Hyper Dolls ?”

“Really?” Hyper Dolls was an ancient manga about two alien androids that looked like human school girls in skimpy outfits. Not at all what he would have expected from her. “It hasn’t been published in years, but the owner never cleans the shelves, so I think we might have a couple of books back here somewhere...”

Fitz crossed the cluttered floor, tripped over a crate of miniature lead figures that were so water damaged that all the cardboard packages were melting into lumps, and led the woman into the manga section. Fortunately, it was in a corner of the store that smelled slightly less of cat pee.

“Here it is,” he said, taking a slim, dusty book off the shelf. “Sorry, looks like I only have volume two.”

“That’s okay,” she said, taking the book reverently. Her grey eyes sparkled and Fitz couldn’t stop himself from staring at them. “Oh, I remember this! I had this one! I remember reading it on my bed when I was about fifteen years old.”

Fitz tried not to think about her in bed, certainly not as a fifteen-year-old.

“I always liked Matsuri Akino better, but this was one of my favourite books.”

Fitz smiled. “You certainly know your mid-nineties manga.”

“Well, I haven’t followed it since then. I went away to university and I guess I kinda fell away from it. There weren’t a lot of girls my age into comics.”

“You were a trend setter,” Fitz said, trying not to smile too broadly for fear of showing her his crooked teeth. “Way ahead of your time. We get lots of girls in here now buying comics, games… well, except Magic the Gathering. Girls are smart enough to stay away from that shit.”

She laughed. She actually laughed. Not at Fitz, but at something he’d said. “People still play Magic cards?”

“Technically, yes, but honestly, it’s more of a cult-like vocation than a game.”

“You’re funny,” she said, and then in a shock to end all shocks, she held out her hand. “My name is Ariadne.”

He looked down at her hand like it was an endangered animal. Was he supposed to kiss it? Stunned, Fitz took her hand and shook it. “Fitz,” he said. Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm and confident—in other words, the complete opposite of Fitz’s own dry, scabby, limp-wristed handshake.

“Is that short for Fitzgerald?”

“No.”

“Fitzgibbons?”

“No.”

“Sorry, I was just curious. Is it short for something?”

Fitz felt his intestines curl up and harden like a rock. Great, this was where she stopped laughing with him and started mocking him like a sadistic hyena (which incidentally had been his pet name for his high school girlfriend). Fitz had experienced it before, but it was going to be extra hard coming from her.

“Sort of,” he breathed.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me—”

“Fistpunch.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fistpunch. My real name is Fistpunch.”

To her credit, Ariadne didn’t even blink.

“Impressive. You completely no-sold that,” he said.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s a pro-wrestling term. It means you didn’t react.”

“Oh.” Her face was equally impassive for a moment, probably while she digested the reference to pro-wrestling. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Did your parents actually name you ‘Fistpunch’?”

“They were a little eccentric.”

“I call bullshit.”

Wow. Fitz hadn’t expected her to swear. He was both unnerved and intrigued.

Without even thinking about it, Fitz pulled out his wallet—which had been repaired so many times it was actually more duct tape than leather—and produced his driver’s licence. Since he rarely drove and couldn’t afford the eighty bucks to have the licence renewed, it was expired, but it still showed his legal name.

“Holy shit,” Ariadne said, staring at the plastic card with amazement. “Why would your parents do that to you?”

“They thought it would make me tough and manly.”

“That’s just... that makes no sense.”

“I told you, they were pretty fucking weird.”

She handed back the licence. “You look good clean-shaven, you know.” She glanced down at the card. “In your picture.”

“Uh, thanks.” Fitz was physically unable to handle a compliment. It set off his instinctive response to flee from any situation where he might be exposed to emotion. He wanted to crawl under the counter and die. Was that even a compliment, though? Did she mean he didn’t look good now? Surely she didn’t mean three weeks of half-assed stubble wasn’t attractive?

Ariadne paid for the book with cash and they exchanged just a few more words. Fitz searched desperately for an excuse to keep her in the store, but his flirtatious small talk was limited to typing into search bars. Should he just ask her out? She probably had a boyfriend. Hell, she was probably married. He hadn’t thought to look at her finger for a ring and now she had pulled her soft leather gloves back on, so he couldn’t check.

Fitz knew that if he didn’t say anything or ask for her number or something, he would regret it for a very long time. He had no idea how long. He had never felt this way before.

Fuck it.

“Look, I—” he started, and the shop door opened.

Two men dressed in black suits, both with buzz cuts, stepped into the shop. They were big, rugged-looking, and, combined, appeared to have the sense of humour of a stump. An old, dead, rotting stump infested with bugs. Not a mossy stump with flowers—that would have been whimsical.

“Madame ,” said one of the guys in a thick Quebecois accent. The other slab of masculinity was an Asian guy who wouldn’t have looked out of place as the villain in one of Ariadne’s trashy manga comics. His eyes looked like they had seen the blood of his enemies soak into ground steeped with the tears of widows and orphans. He glanced around the store with purpose, not like he was looking for the latest issue of X-Men , but like he’d just stepped into a hovel in Kabul and was searching for a sniper.

“Hey, Richard, I’m fine,” Ariadne said with a smile. She pronounced it the Quebecois way—Ree-shad—but then corrected herself. “Sorry, Inspector Bouchard . I just needed to get out of the rain.”

“The car is waiting outside,” said the Frenchman, with less emotion than a chair. Fitz wasn’t sure if he was pissed or if his parents had beaten the love out of him with his dead puppy.

“Right,” she sighed. “Maybe you should pick up an Archie comic or something while we’re here, Richard. You look like you could use a laugh.”

“Actually, we don’t sell Archie —”

The robot called Ree-shad glared at Fitz so hard that the already-peeling paint behind his head dissolved into its fundamental atoms. Which were mostly lead. Fitz swallowed his words so quickly they shot past his stomach and colon into his underpants, leaving behind a skid mark shaped suspiciously like the Frenchman’s cold, dead brown irises.

“Madame ,” Ree-shad said again, somehow with even less feeling.

Ariadne sighed and headed for the door. The Asian dude held it open for her. She turned back quickly at the last moment and smiled. “Thanks, Fitz.”

Then she gave him a wink and was gone.

Fitz stood in the dark, empty shop for a long time. What the hell had just happened? The most amazing woman he had ever seen had just stepped into the Parlour and stopped to talk to him for five whole minutes. Those had probably been the best minutes of his past year. He had come this close to asking her for her number, and then she had been whisked away by two extras from Agents of SHIELD .

He couldn’t wait to tell Dee about this.

Fitz headed for the door to lock it before anyone else slipped in. At this hour it would probably just be junkies, anyway. He heard someone outside on the stairs, and everything suddenly felt wrong. He put his hand on the handle and felt a terrible chill pass through his body. The world fell unnaturally quiet, and he could hear his own heart beating. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. Some basic animal instinct kicked in, warning him that he needed to get the fuck out of there, right fucking now.

“Excuse me,” said a voice outside the door. “Are you still open?”

* * *

Chapter 2

The Spider’s Parlour was located on the second floor above a cigar shop, the owners of which probably loathed their weird, smelly neighbours who attracted a wide cross-section of antisocial nerds at all hours of the day and night (though to be fair, the nerds were mostly harmless, unless they were fighting over a mint-condition copy of New Mutants #98). To enter the store, one had to climb a dark, narrow, creaky staircase, the walls of which were plastered with posters for comics dating back to at least the early nineties. The posters and the occasional flyer seeking Dungeons & Dragons players were all that distinguished the staircase from the back entrance to a crack den. Often, Fitz or Gary would have to kick bums out of the narrow space before locking up for the night. There were two heavy old wooden doors, one at street level and one at the top of the stairs, and if you forgot to lock the bottom one, you would inevitably find the staircase full of unconscious meth heads in the morning.

When Fitz opened the top door, there was a huge man standing in the middle of the staircase, halfway between the two doors. He was in mid-step, his black-booted right foot planted a half-dozen steps below where Fitz stood.

“Are you open?” the man asked again. The only lighting in the stairwell came from a single, flickering fluorescent tube that had probably been installed before the Y2K bug was sorted out. It was so dark Fitz couldn’t make out any of the man’s features besides his gargantuan size and thick, reddish beard. The flickering light gave the stranger an unnerving aura. His deep, rumbling voice was indistinct as well, as if the darkness somehow obscured that too. There was a hint of a European accent, but Fitz couldn’t place it.

“Sorry, I’m just closing up,” Fitz said, suddenly certain that he had to be somewhere—anywhere—but here.

The man said nothing and did not move. He just continued to stare, his face still masked by shadow. The figure was two metres tall or more, with huge shoulders and a large head. He wore a ratty coat and a wool cap pulled down over his ears. Oh, great, another homeless bum.

A gigantic homeless bum, but a bum nonetheless.

Fitz waited a moment, but still the man didn’t move. Fitz could have just closed the top door, but he knew he really needed to get the bottom one as well. He couldn’t let weirdos like this guy have free rein of the stairwell all night. He would be picking up syringes until next week. But there was no way he was going anywhere near that creepy fucker, either. He would just have to wait until the dude left.

“Is the proprietor here?” the man asked, apparently sensing Fitz’s discomfort and looking to see how far he could stretch his time.

“No, Gary’s out,” Fitz replied.

Still the guy didn’t move.

Fitz closed the door. His heart was racing. He hated shit like this. A crack whore had wandered in at closing time once and Fitz had run away without shutting the downstairs door. The next day they found a family of hobos had set up camp in the staircase, fire barrel and everything. Gary had been out of town for a couple of days and came home to discover a tent city on his front step. Fitz just didn’t do well with conflict. He had the courage of a snail.

Calling the cops was not an option. Gary was into some shady shit, and would have flipped out if the police showed up in his store for anything short of a murder at the front counter. Even then he would probably think twice about making that call.

Fitz listened intently but couldn’t tell if the weirdo had left. Finally taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, Fitz opened the door and peered down the stairs.

The guy hadn’t moved.

“Look, man, we’re closed. You have to go.”

There was a long pause. It had taken all of Fitz’s courage to manage the words. He had nothing left but to hold his breath and hope desperately that the guy was going to just go away and not come up and stab him in the face.

“Yes.” He tilted his head ever so slightly and looked up to meet Fitz’s gaze. His eyes shone yellow like a cat’s in the dark.

Fitz closed the door again and locked it.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, and went around the store, flicking off the lights and locking the register. He should have counted the cash, but screw it, Gary could do it tomorrow.

He could have gone out the back way. Gary lived in an apartment above the store; Fitz could have cut through there and out Gary’s door. He could just leave the front door open and leave Gary a note to lock it when he got home. At least the inside door was locked, and it wasn’t worth risking his life for a bunch of back issues of Daredevil and a plush Cthulhu doll that smelled like pot. And his sketch book—he would have to grab his sketchbook on the way out.

But for some reason, Fitz didn’t leave. He did go upstairs to Gary’s small, dank, pot-scented apartment (which was of course where Cthulhu picked it up), but instead of escaping, he got the baseball bat the old man kept by the front door for just such occasions. Fitz had no idea why Gary insisted on keeping the bat there when he was a professed pacifist and wrote scathing anti-violence blogs every other month. It also wasn’t, technically-speaking, a baseball bat. The tip of it was kind of bulbous and lumpy, and weird veiny things ran up and down the sides. Fitz actually had to admit it sort of looked like a giant dildo, though he could not fathom what human orifice could withstand such a beast. Better to think about it like a bat. It was the right size, and Fitz didn’t really know anything about baseball anyway. Maybe that’s what the Blue Jays were using these days.

So Fitz took the weird bat and—feeling less like a badass and more like a little kid who had just stolen twenty bucks out of his father’s wallet—walked back to the front door of the store. He wasn’t planning to go out there and attack the guy or even threaten him, but if he opened the door and the bastard came at him, Fitz was going to close his eyes and start swinging.

He took a deep breath. He regretted that if he died tonight, he hadn’t gotten around to having kids, reading Neil Patrick Harris’ Choose-Your-Own-Adventure autobiography, or seeing Ariadne’s boobs. He had imagined all three, and he had imagined they were all pretty good.

Fitz opened the door. The stairway was empty.

He let out a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. He still had to go down and close the other door. He was often startled by homeless guys lurking just out of sight under the awning above the front door. A large, creepy serial rapist with a gross beard could easily hide there as well.

As Fitz started to creep down the steps, his legs took on the consistency of half-set raspberry Jell-O. Sadly, the air did not smell like raspberry Jell-O. All Fitz could smell was his own boogers and fear, and the fear smelled like hobo piss. Or maybe that was just the stairwell.

His knuckles were white from clutching the bat when he reached the bottom of the stairs. A few people and cars passed by on brightly-lit Yonge Street, oblivious to the danger that lay in wait for him, ready to pounce at any second like a cat attacking ankles from under the couch. A hundred-and-fifty-kilo cat that was probably wielding a straight razor.

Fitz didn’t look out around the corner. He didn’t step out onto the sidewalk to collect the A-frame sign that proudly announced the store’s existence in faded, chipped paint. There was no way any part of his body was going past that door frame. Instead, he slammed the door shut and turned both deadbolts.

Finally relaxing a little and confident he was past the risk of peeing himself, Fitz took yet another deep breath (he was breathing really well tonight), turned around, and...

...saw nothing. The stairway was empty behind him, of course. He went back up the stairs and finished closing up the shop.

He was gone when the men in black suits came back a few minutes later to ask him some questions.

* * *

Chapter 3

Alexandre Croteau stood silently in the crowded maze of cubicles at Toronto Metropolitan Police 52 Division, his hulking partner standing even stonier and quieter behind him. The TO cops gave them a wide berth as they skittered past, doing their best to ignore the two black-suited automatons. It mattered little to Croteau whether they wanted to help him or not. While this wasn’t his city, his office, or his subordinates, the jurisdiction of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police technically extended everywhere—even across international borders—so he wasn’t going to let a bunch of donut-chewing cowboys get in the way of his job. If they were cowboys, he was the army cavalry, and God help those fuckers if they got in the way of him getting his man.

He had spent hours at 41 Division across town talking to the widower, Luc Duquette, and had gotten nowhere. It was bad enough the poor man was beside himself with grief, but he truly did not know of anyone who would want to hurt his wife. Croteau hadn’t expected him to, though anything to go on would have been nice. As of now they had nothing. He enjoyed going into a murder case with nothing about as much as he enjoyed getting his fingernails pulled out by Taliban torturers. At least his boss hadn’t yelled at him after getting his fingernails pulled out.

There were no prints in the house, no DNA besides that of the family, no sign of forced entry, no witnesses. The woman had been killed by either a ghost or someone really, really good at killing people. That seemed to suggest (the good killer part, not the ghost part) that it was someone with a beef against the victim’s sister and her husband. Duquette’s brother-in-law was hardly the most loved man in the country. There were regular nationwide polls that statistically quantified exactly how many people hated him.

Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that the murderer was a random lunatic, which was why Croteau was in the busy downtown Toronto division right now.

Croteau absently checked his BlackBerry for the fortieth time in the last three minutes. Still nothing. Richard had better call soon, or this night was going to get a whole lot worse.

It was well past midnight and though they were surrounded by bleary-eyed police officers and strung-out junkies and criminals, both Croteau and his partner Mbaye—a broad-shouldered Senegalese man with the bedside manner of a meat cleaver—were as calm, collected, and put-together as he was at any other hour of the day. Their black suits were immaculately pressed, their blue neckties knotted perfectly. Croteau’s hair, thinning and greying a little around the temples, was carefully trimmed and neatly slicked back.

Croteau also wore the stereotypical black sunglasses even though he was inside and it was the middle of the night. Even he knew this was terribly douchey, but he was committed to looking the part. He had invested too many years of training and hard work to not wear the damn sunglasses—they were part of the uniform, like a fire fighter’s red helmet. Besides, the fluorescent lighting in the station was terrible. It was giving him a headache.

The officer in charge—a short, tough woman with hair pulled back in a bun so tight it popped blood vessels around her eyes—finally finished booking the crackhead with a broken nose and a black eye. Apparently the bastard had attacked his neighbour with a machete, but the would-be victim fought back and came after his drugged-out assailant with an iPhone. Yes, the “victim” had beaten in a machete-wielding lunatic’s face with a cell phone, and then pressed charges and threatened to sue for the cost of replacing the phone. Only in Toronto. Or maybe Florida.

Croteau pitied these poor bastards who worked the beat, especially the night shift. Sure, the Metro police might have been apes, but the creeps and weirdos they had to deal with were rabid jackals. Coked-up, strung-out-of-their-minds jackals. And that was just the municipal politicians.

“Staff Sergeant Barnes,” Croteau said, incongruously polite, as the woman approached, rubbing her head with a sigh. “Rough night?” He might have been irritated, but he was still Canadian.

“This is pretty standard for a Saturday,” she moaned, flopping into a chair next to Croteau. She assumed a very un-ladylike pose as she tipped her head back and fanned herself with a booking report. “Sorry, I know it’s not actually that hot, but I’m on the change, you know? My hormones are fucking me right up the ass.”

Charming . “I’m sure it’s terrible.”

“Honey, you have no idea.” Barnes straightened up and rifled through the papers on the desk in front of her. The screen saver on her monitor showed a continuous stream of cat, unicorn, and wolf pictures. “Special Inspector Clouseau, was it?”

“Croteau.”

“Right. It’s all French to me, honey. I really don’t know what Protective Policing Services are doing here in the middle of the goddamn night.”

Croteau noticed she didn’t actually ask what he was doing here, which would have been above her pay grade to know, but that wasn’t about to stop her from needling around for information.

“You have a suspect you picked up a few hours ago by the name of Nuruddin Samatar?” Croteau was fairly certain he was pronouncing it correctly. He had practiced saying it under his breath for twenty minutes while waiting for Barnes to finish with iPhone guy.

If he hadn’t said it right she didn’t notice, or most likely didn’t care. It was all French to her, including Somali. “Yeah, that’s a piece of work. He on some kind of federal watch list?”

“Something like that. I need to speak with him.”

Barnes hissed through her teeth. “I dunno. He’s wanted in a case out in 41 Division. Inspector Cavanaugh is on her way here right now to talk to him.”

“I just need a few minutes.”

“I really don’t think—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a tall, elderly man with wild grey hair and an unshaven chin. He burst into the room like he owned the place and made a beeline toward Croteau and Barnes, who immediately jumped to her feet and to attention. “What in blue bippy boondocks is going on here?” he demanded.

“Excuse me?” It took a lot to shake Croteau, but an elderly gentleman wearing an official dress tunic and hat with what appeared to be pink pajama pants and white fluffy slippers shook even his generally cool and ironclad countenance.

“Gosh dag it, son, are you deaf? What the holy hockey helmet are you doing in my division?”

“Your division?” Croteau glanced at Barnes. “Should he be in a holding cell?”

“Special Inspector Croteau, this is our CO, Superintendent Mackenzie,” Barnes said, making official introductions.

“Of course,” Croteau nodded, hoping this wasn’t going to be as painful as he imagined. Those were definitely white fluffy slippers. “Superintendent, I didn’t mean to get you out of bed in the middle of the night.”

“I always leave my constables instructions to call me if anything unusual happens, and the feds shoving their dim-wobbly noses in my business at all hours of the night is definitely not on the up-and-up!” Mackenzie wiped his unfathomably sweaty neck and forehead with a powder blue handkerchief. “Besides, I wasn’t sleeping. I was lawn-bowling with the missus.”

Croteau glanced at Barnes, who didn’t so much as bat an eye at the admission that a sixty-odd-year-old man was out fucking lawn bowling in the middle of the goddamn night dressed in the top half of his uniform and the bottom half of his pink flannel pajamas. She must be used to it.

Croteau risked a look at his partner, but the rock-faced Mbaye was as silent and unmoving as ever. That bastard could no-sell a shotgun blast to the face.

Realizing he was alone in this, Croteau turned back to Mackenzie. “I won’t keep you from your game or your wife, sir. I just needed to speak to one of your suspects.”

“Pardon my French, Inspector Clouseau—”

“Croteau.”

“—but this is not your motor-flowering jurisdiction. That snake-hugging son-of-a-gun homicided a poor woman out in 41 Division. We and the fine constables at 41 are more than capable of handling this bumble-tug.”

Croteau couldn’t help it. He turned to Barnes. “He really talks like this? All the time?”

Barnes smiled broadly, but gave him a barely-perceptible nod.

“Actually, Superintendent, Madame Duquette is exactly why I’m here. And she falls very much under my jurisdiction. Do you have any idea who she is?”

Mackenzie huffed and puffed and blew out his chest a moment, looking thoroughly offended. He glanced around the room wildly as if he was about to explode with anger, but Croteau could tell he was actually lost and looking for something to say. Sweat drained in a torrent from every pore in his face like blood from a Taliban insurgent peppered with a burst from an MP5. Barnes must have picked up on some cue, because she smoothly slipped a file folder into his hand.

The superintendent immediately regained his composure, licked his thumb, and whipped open the file with authority and a haughty “harrumph” on his grey jowly face. “Millicent Duquette, née Charest. Age forty-one. Program manager for Ministry of Francophone Affairs. Husband Luc Duquette, age forty-two, and two sons, aged eight and seven. Perfect record, no priors whatsoever. A victim of senseless, random violence.”

“You’re missing a very large part of the picture,” Croteau said.

“Am I?” MacKenzie scoffed.

Croteau nodded to his partner and Mbaye produced his own folder, placing it on top of the other in the eccentric superintendent’s hand. Mackenzie harrumphed again and wiped his neck some more as he opened it, but his face immediately lost all colour as soon as he read the first page.

“Oh, bull mud floppy.” He gingerly patted at the beads of sweat on his forehead. “Well, this makes a sticky pickle, doesn’t it?”

Croteau grimaced. “I have no idea what that means.”

Mackenzie closed the folder and handed it back to the silent ebony statue behind Croteau. He gestured to Barnes. “Let them see Samatar.”

Just before Croteau stepped into the interrogation room with Mbaye, his BlackBerry finally buzzed.

“Richard,” Croteau said as he picked up the line, his sunglasses hiding the worry in his eyes.

“We have her,” the voice on the other end confirmed.

“Well done, sir.” Croteau let out a sigh of relief. He had not been looking forward to telling his boss that they had misplaced the prime minister’s wife. Certainly not in the current situation. “You saved yourself a spanking later.”

Though his voice revealed nothing, Croteau knew Richard was smiling. “We found her at a comic book shop, a place called The Spider’s Parlour down on Yonge Street. She says she just went in to get out of the rain.”

“Or she was looking for an Archie comic. The woman is a bit odd.”

“They said they don’t sell Archie comics.”

Croteau’s brow furrowed. Did Richard ask for a Betty and Veronica Double Digest or something? “What?”

“Nevermind.”

“Run a check on the owner and any employees, just in case. And be careful.”

“When am I not careful?”

Croteau hung up. Richard’s cockiness aside, the phone call made him feel a lot better going into his conversation with Samatar. No matter what happened, at least Ariadne was safe.

Nuruddin Samatar slouched in a stainless steel chair, picking his nails, his wrists cuffed to the plain metal table. Shoeless and unkempt, he was a small man, dressed only in a white undershirt and dirty cargo pants. His shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent light. Garish, faded tattoos covered his arms. He was the biggest piece of shit Croteau had ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes upon.

Croteau had read his file, which was an extensive condemnation of the justice system. He was a person of interest in several cases and was known to be involved in low-level Somali gang activity. He had been picked up for a few minor drug and assault charges, but they had all been either dropped or thrown out for various reasons. There was no evidence that Samatar had a direct link to the group that supplied drugs to the former mayor, but in Toronto that was always a distinct possibility.

There had been one case a few years ago in which Samatar was charged and very nearly went to trial for the murder of at least two prostitutes, but it was tossed out at the last minute due to evidence and witness tampering. Though he’d known nothing of the case until a few minutes ago, it was obvious to Croteau that a crooked cop or lawyer had gotten their hands on it and let this sadist back out on the street.

Croteau hated working in Toronto. Sure, God had burned down Sodom and Gomorrah over a bit of butt-fucking, but he’d allow the big T-Dot wallow and fester in rampant gang warfare and a corrupt justice system. There was something seriously messed up in that deity’s moral priorities.

“Who the fuck are you?” Samatar asked as the two men in black suits entered the interrogation room and closed the door. “Agent Smith?”

“Something like that.”

Samatar leaned back in his chair, smirking. “I want my lawyer.”

“He’ll show up eventually.”

“I ain’t talking until my lawyer’s here.”

“Under normal circumstances that would be a reasonable request. But you see, our fine country has recently passed laws making it much easier for people like me to talk to individuals suspected to be threats to national security without the meddling interference of lawyers.”

“National security? I ain’t no fucking terrorist.”

“That’s not what I said.” Calling someone a terrorist was the most damning of accusations, the twenty-first-century equivalent of naming someone a witch. Even rapists and murderers didn’t want to be sullied by being called a terrorist. “But you are a threat to the safety and well being of this country’s leadership.” Croteau pulled out a photograph and placed it on the table in front of Samatar. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Millicent Duquette-Charest.”

Croteau interrogated the perp for forty-five minutes. At first he denied everything, and just screamed for his lawyer, but as Croteau threatened verbally and Mbaye threatened physically, eventually they got some information out of him. He admitted to recognizing Millicent, and to having been in her neighbourhood on the night in question, though he claimed to have been visiting an acquaintance. He swore he didn’t kill her, and Croteau was even inclined to believe him. He had a nose for telling when people were lying. If he ever had kids, they would never be able to get away with anything.

Croteau had already realized the discussion was going nowhere when he received the call from Richard. He ignored it at first, hoping to get the interrogation back on track, but Richard followed it up with several frantic text messages. His anxiety rising, Croteau finally excused himself and left Mbaye alone in the room with Samatar, hoping it would make the little man sweat some more.

“Are you okay?” Croteau said into his phone in the hall outside the interrogation room after dialing Richard back.

There was dead air on the line for a moment before Richard replied, so quietly Croteau could barely hear him. “We lost her again,” he said.

“Tabarnak de calisse d’osti ! How the hell did you lose her in less than an hour?”

“You know she’s slippery, Alex.”

Fuck. If Ariadne was on the street without protection with her sister’s killer running loose… “You had better hope we have the right guy here, Richard, or we are in serious fucking trouble.”

* * *

Writer, tabletop gamer, pro-wrestling aficionado. Dad.

C.D. Gallant-King is an independent writer originally from Newfoundland, Canada, though he's not fond of fishing and hates boats. He moved to Toronto to study theatre, and then later moved to Ottawa where he does absolutely nothing related to theatre.

Links:

http:// cdgallantking.ca

https:// www. facebook. com/ cdgallantking/

https:// twitter. com/ cdgallantking

https:// www. amazon. com/ C- D- Gallant- King/ e/ B00XAZHYGA

2

River of Thieves

Clayton Snyder

After a robbery gone horribly wrong, cursed thief Cord broadens his horizons and plans to execute the heist of a lifetime. With fellow thief and knife connoisseur Nenn in tow, the two build their ragtag crew to target the heart of the kingdom - Midian, the seat of tyrant King Anaxos Mane. As treachery, horrifying creatures of nightmare, and opposition bar their path at every turn, the gang must depend on skill - intellectual, martial, and magical - to deliver them an endless summer and keep them free from the clutches of evil despotism. If they don’t sh*t the bed first.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter 1

As corpses go, Cord proved a constant thorn in my side. Don’t get me wrong. I liked the old thief, but dying merely inconvenienced him. Dealing with the mess after, however, dug into my ass like a persistent nettle. Given the choice of a nettle in your ass for years, or a small beetle that bores into your guts and then chews its way up your torso like a man slathered in horse shit runs to a bath, most people are going to choose the quicker, less annoying option. Fortunately, I am not most people. I might even be a saint. Or an idiot. I guess I’ll find out when the gods hand out prizes at the end.

I sank down against the wall, avoiding the still-glistening blood. I lit a cigar and watched curls of blue-white smoke drift off into the summer night. My brain drifted with them, wondering what a normal life might look like. House, field, two kids, husband. Dog? Probably a dog. I snorted. None of that fit me. Even if my family made the choice to keep me, the path of life veered like a bird caught in a high wind.

I shook myself and looked down at Cord. After a minute, I poked a finger into his empty eye socket. It came away with a wet squelch and I wiped it on my trousers. Gross, sure. But caring about gross passed me by roughly eighteen months ago, and little in the way of squeamishness remained. I still don’t know how he talked me into it the first time. I thought back to that first conversation.

“Look, it’s easy, one quick jab in the eye, and we’re in the money,” he said.

“Why not the lung? Or the heart?”

“Because it hurts.” He rubbed his chest. “It really hurts,” he muttered.

“A knife in the eye doesn’t?”

He shrugged. “I mean, only for a minute, then it’s into the brain, and plop, splat, I’m dead.”

“What if I only jiggle up your noodle?”

“Then you’ll be changing my trousers for a month.”

“Right, so the long knife.”

He raised an eyebrow, and I mimed jabbing a blade into his face.

“So it goes deeper. Might need to scrape the back of the skull to be sure,” I said.

“That’s the spirit. The disturbing, way too eager spirit,” he said, and went about packing our gear.

Wind rustling paper under the bridge snapped my attention back to the present. I looked up at the poster of King Mane plastered to the brick and shot it a sneer. The royal propagandist’s work impressed me as an example of sweetening horseshit to make fudge. The royal twit appeared on the poster sporting a bulging chest and suspiciously well-endowed codpiece. The art depicted the king handing out gold coins to waifs in rags. They held shining faces uplifted and beaming in thankfulness.

I suspected the reason Cord chose this spot to die sprouted from a tree of simple spite. He hated Mane with a passion that bordered on obsession. His favorite epithet for the king remained The Royal Shit, despite his ever-rotating vocabulary of disdain. I didn’t blame him. Even a short tour of the kingdom gave you an idea of just how much bullshit those posters peddled. Still, some of the king’s policies proved useful. Opposite the lie of his largesse stood the truth of his paranoia. As a result, Mane employed a great many mercenaries to patrol even small cities and roads. Rumors abounded that he saw enemies around every corner.

Which brought me to my next task - calling the guards. Our take sat on a boat about 300 yards away, along with my bloody clothes. I didn’t have a scratch on me. Cord did the dirty work - well, maybe the painful work. If you think stabbing a guy in the eye doesn’t make for some interesting dreams, I’d like to speak to you about the definition of disturbing. But I didn’t envy Cord’s part--committing the robbery and ensuring someone spotted him so I could point out his corpse. After, constables being what they are in the backwaters of the Veldt, they’d mark it as a bad deal and close the case. We’d even leave a bit of gold around Cord’s body to let them think he’d been the victim of a double-cross in the end. Lay low for a bit and repeat every couple hundred miles.

I tossed the cigar into the canal. I mussed my hair, then knuckled my fingers into my eyes until the whites went red. I ran for the local guard shack just up the road, sniffling. Once I let them calm me down―weeping women make even big guys with pointy swords uncomfortable―they followed me to the body. Over time, I’ve perfected my role as distraught citizen to the point I expected them to melt down Gunter Horvath’s awards and recast the shiny gold in honor of my performance.

Once they left the guard station, I slipped away and hid in the shadows until they passed from sight, carting Cord’s body off like flotsam washed up in their clean little hamlet. No littering. Mind the dung. Thanks for visiting. I hopped in the boat and rowed out of the berth, the water sending a chill froth over the bow in the night air. A clear dark night with a bright moon hung before me, lighting the river.

* * *

The mortuary stood at the edge of town. I beached the boat just up the river, and crept out, tugging it into the reeds. They’d eventually find it, but by then, then we’d be long gone. Once done, I straightened, wiped my face clean, and checked my clothing. Rough, but passable. I strode into the building. A teen sat behind the counter, idly twirling a pencil. I gave him a bright smile, and he glowered back and rolled his eyes.

“What?” he asked.

He clearly possessed dickish tendencies. Not the most charming trait. Or maybe just stupidity. In which case, I pitied him a little. We’d all been there. I thought of Cord’s advice: never attribute evil to dumb. So I smiled through teeth I wanted to use to bite him in the face.

“I’m here to pick up a body.”

“Look, I can’t do anything without my boss’s say-so,” the kid said.

“Sure, sure.”

“I’m not even supposed to be here today. You think I want to spend the night with a dead guy?”

I shook my head and let the smile drop. “Look at it this way - I sign the paperwork, take the dead guy off your hands, and we’re both on our merry way. Your boss can’t bitch about that, right? I mean, he’ll have my signature, and you’ll be short one corpse.”

The kid’s eyes shifted to the steel door behind him, uncertainty twisting his lips. He shuffled his feet and let out a huff of air.

“Fine. Your signature and a fiver.”

The smile slid back to my face. “Sure, sure.”

I signed his parchment with a name that meant something like Bearded Taint in Gentian and plopped a crown worth at least five lesser gold on the table. The privilege of screwing with people in charge paid for itself. When you’re handling dead guys and dealing with bureaucracy, you have fun when you can. He pulled the sheet back without looking at it. I felt a pang of disappointment at his inattention as he turned and unlocked the door, but squashed it. Some battles you won after you left the battlefield. One of Cord’s sayings. Like most of his little nuggets of wisdom, it carried the double edge of horseshit and truth.

A chill rippled across the room. Low mist clung to the floor, carrying the mingled scents of dried blood and slow rot. We toted Cord’s body out of the building and onto a small cart waiting in the yard. We dropped the dead man with a shared grunt. He probably wouldn’t wake up with a headache. When we finished, the kid leaned against the wall and reached into a pocket, pulling out a tobacco twist and setting light to it with a small striker.

“Your guy’s all fucked up. Chiurgeon said it looked like someone was playing with his eye after they stabbed him.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah. Sick. What’s wrong with people?”

I shrugged. “Lotta weirdos out there.”

“Yeah.”

I wheeled Cord around the building, and chucked the bag of gold down beside him. Then I headed down the street, keeping to the shadows, the soft squeak of the cart’s wheels keeping me company.

* * *

The first time you cart a body down the road in the middle of the night, and the dead guy farts, you scream a little. And pee. About the eighteenth time, you sigh and keep downwind. The walk back to the rented cottage wound through town, and I spent a lot of it humming under my breath. Something nonsensical--Dead Hon and the Elephant Boys, or Sketchy Gan.

I crested the slope of a hill, the roof of the rented cottage showing. I managed to drag Cord’s body through the front door, and after a bit of flopping about and grunting, propped him up on the divan, then sat down to wait. He used to come back quick. After this many deaths in a row though, his resurrections crept forward in increasing increments.

The first time Cord woke up in a mortuary, the damn chiurgeon tried to drive a stake through his heart. Nothing like rearranging a guy’s organs a second time to delay his flight back to the real world. On the upside, it allowed me time to retrieve the body and avoid nastiness like that. On the down, I wondered if the slow return marked a decline in his overall health.

I’d made it halfway through an article in the local one-sheet about the proliferation of morons in government. (Granted, the editor probably wouldn’t have let them print those exact words, mostly because they would have ended their career at the end of a rope.) They’d somehow managed to transfer the monthly farm subsidies to a fund meant for young debutantes. Now the crop yield flagged, but the would-be princesses wore diamonds the size of their skulls. Leave it to the rich to fuck the country over with an impressive tidal wave of shit and still come out smelling like roses.

Cord sat bolt upright, screamed once, and vomited up a lump of purple flesh, interrupting my train of thought. The thing squirmed against the rug, smearing crimson on the cream-colored wool, and stubby limbs sprouted from its sides. I smashed it with the hammer beside me. Cord coughed, blood spattering the floor, and vomited again. This time only vomit, no creepy living organ.

His chest heaved, and he made a sound like a sick dog. I waited for a minute. This passed for normalcy these days - the resurrections grew worse, each one taking something out of him. The first death I’d witnessed had only been his third death. He’d come back so easily then. Now we’d reached fifteen or so. A life of running and robbing sucked the sense out of the days. Nailing the exact number down felt like more than I wanted to trouble myself with. Especially when what I really wanted was a warm bed and a night of sleep. Cord sucked in one more breath and sat back, his face pale. He reached shaking fingers for the mug of water on the table beside him and took a long swallow, then finished with a small cough and a wan smile.

“How long?”

“Three days.”

“Gods.”

“Yeah.” I set the paper down. “Look, we gotta take a break. If you die for real, the gravy train’s over.”

He nodded and waved a hand, tipping the mug up again, draining the dregs. He set it down and leaned forward.

“I’ve got a plan.”

“I hope so. That looks like your spleen on the carpet. But your spleen had legs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a spleen with legs.”

He looked down and grimaced, then back at me. “One more job. Then we can break.”

I nodded. My gut knew better. One more job is never just one more job for people like Cord. Or worse, it really is the last job, ever. Retirement looked like death or prison. I didn’t know which held the greater likelihood. If death continued to avoid Cord, he’d find himself vying with stone walls in a contest to see which rotted first. On the other hand, if the slowing rate of his resurrection indicated anything, true death loomed nearer than either of us expected. Neither of those things mattered much. The question that hung over both of us, like a sword suspended by a hair, was how many more deaths did he have left?

* * *

“The Gentleman Bastards,” Cord said.

“What?” We’d been quietly preparing for the next job, and Cord’s statement took me by surprise.

“Our name,” he said.

“I’m a woman. Also, I think that’s taken.”

Cord looked up from lacing his boot. “Oh.”

“What’s the plan here?”

“I go in, take the gold from the safe, and we live out the next few months someplace sunny. You know, nice beaches, pretty women.”

I shook my head. “Not what I meant.”

The question reared its head before, but Cord dodged it the way you dodge a bit of snot someone’s spat on the walk.

“Why do we need all this gold?” I asked. 100 pieces provided a modest, but comfortable retirement. 1000 might buy a small castle and servants. 10,000, a duchy. We probably had enough for a few duchies by now.

He frowned and straightened, boots laced tight to his ankles. “I don’t understand.”

“This is more money than you can spend in one lifetime.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“Well, who here has a bit more than one lifetime?”

“That it? Planning well into your low thousands?”

“Well…”

“What?”

“Rich people piss me off.”

“Why?”

“All that money. What do they do with it?”

I thought about. “Well, there’s upkeep for their properties, pay for the staff, food, ponies, weapons, armor, maybe a wizard―”

“Think about that. They have a wizard on retainer. How many of the guys in the Dripping Bucket could say that?”

“To be fair, if those guys had a wizard, they’d just use it to make an endless beer fountain.”

“Would they? Fet would have paid the guy to keep his crops growing. Al, his children healthy. Yellyn – she would have made sure everyone in her parish had books. But these guys – ‘ooh, my sword’s on fire’ – does that sound all that bloody useful?”

“What about the staff? They’ve got to have jobs.”

“Jobs they wouldn’t need if their high and mighty lord of the taint hadn’t annexed their land and used it for his personal sewer.”

“Are you proposing a redistribution of wealth?”

“In a way,” he hedged.

“There really should be a word for that.”

“There is. It’s called justice.”

“No… look – what do you get out of this?” He’d led the conversation in a circle, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that this felt urgent, though I didn’t know why.

He looked up at me, then at the moon, hanging in the sky like a weight, and promptly changed the subject.

“Time to go.”

* * *

The robbery went the way they always do. That is to say, a combination of chaos and blood and short moments of terror. Cord grabbed the money, let them see his face, let them give chase, and slipped his pursuers before the second turn. We left behind an obvious trail. We happened upon one of the rare hamlets without a constable station, and needed to make our path clear enough to follow. Without Cord’s body and evidence of a robbery, the possibility of endless pursuit became more likely.

We stepped into a glade not far from the main track, sweat dripping from the strain of carrying the gold. We broke branches and stomped prints into the dirt as we went, leaving a path easy enough for a blind bear to track. Cord set the bag down and leaned against a tree, wiping a palm across his forehead.

“Okay, that shoul-”

An arrow sprouted from his eye mid-sentence and he collapsed. Men in dark leather appeared as if from nowhere and filled the clearing. They bristled with weapons, potential violence, and some sort of perfume. A man with a pinched face and a hungry look in his eye stepped toward me. He held a naked blade in his hand, the heavy edge glinting in the moonlight. His eyes gleamed with menace. His codpiece hung limp.

“We are the Knights of Axe!” he proclaimed.

I waved a hand, trying to dispel the stink.

“That is a powerful scent, sir knight,” I said.

“Yea, the alchemist what sold me it assured me it would attract only the finest of maidens.”

I coughed. “It’s certainly attracting something.”

A fly landed on his trousers and buzzed frantically before falling to the ground. We watched as it spun a circle on its back, wings fluttering like an erratic heartbeat. Finally, it died. He looked up, eyes meeting mine.

“Tell no one of this,” he said.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I replied.

I heard the clank of coins and saw the bag disappear into the trees, one of his men toting it. I looked from it to him, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Not a word,” he said.

“My lips are sealed,” I replied.

He looked me over once, then turned and disappeared into the woods, leaving me alone with Cord and the sound of running feet. I put on my best crying face and sobbed as the constable burst into the clearing.

“Ma’am. Ma’am!”

I looked up. “Yes?”

“What happened here?”

I widened my eyes and tried to look shocked. “Thieves!”

“Where?”

“There!” I pointed to the tree line.

He glanced around, noting Cord’s body, the fletching of the arrow still pointing to the sky. He looked back to me and narrowed his eyes.

“And how did you survive?”

I batted my eyelashes and gave him a smile. “They thought me too fine to despoil, sire. But they have my broach. If only someone could retrieve it. It belonged to my gran, and I’d be sore glad to have it back.”

He looked from my chest to my eyes and back again. I coughed, and he lifted his eyes once more, face bright red. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes,” he raised his voice, “Men, search the trees! We must have these scoundrels! Not to worry, ma’am. We’ll have your jewels back to your bosom in no time.”

My eyes strained to not roll into the back of my head and cause permanent blindness. “My hero.”

He grinned and left to supervise the search, shouting orders as he went, chest puffed like a rooster. They quickly forgot me in the bustle. I slunk away.

* * *

While the guards were busy beating the bush, I circled back. I’d stolen the uniform of a worker of Gren. Thick overalls, black mask, and heavy boots and gloves. I hauled Cord’s body into the cart and wheeled him out, nodding to the same captain who’d stopped me earlier. He averted his gaze. Workers of Gren were considered bad luck in the smaller backwaters--stupid country superstition. It was like being afraid of the trash men. No one wanted a flood of maggots in the streets. These guys should be getting parades. The guard turned back to his business, and I hauled my partner’s dead ass back to the cottage.

Cord woke sans one arrow in his skull, as is the preferred way to wake for most of the known world. He coughed, choked, and spat up another little critter, this one near in size to the last. Again, I hammered it with a mallet, and let Cord recover. He sipped his water and looked out the window over the long field of summer wheat and wildflowers.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I said.

“That’s a weird saying. Are you implying my thoughts are worth only a single cent?”

“Just an expression.”

“Yeah, well, next time offer a crown,” he grumbled.

“What were you thinking?” I asked, trying to keep the exasperation from my voice.

“I was thinking it’s time we go for bigger fish. This last job—well, I’ve had more successful shits. Fuck those guys.”

“Sadly, I don’t think anyone ever will,” I replied.

“What?”

“Nothing. You were saying?”

He gave me a look with one eye squinted, then shook his head and went on. “I think it’s time for a change of pace, maybe time to set us up for retirement. There’s an old Gentian saying: ‘Why borrow from men when you can steal from gods?’.”

“What is wrong with the Gentians?”

“A lot. You’re ignoring my point, though.”

“Are you suggesting we rob the gods?”

“Are you suggesting we shouldn’t? What’ve they given us? Aside from an insatiable blood lust, a horrible curse, and threadbare socks?” he held up one foot, toes poking from the stocking.

“Hey, it’s not insatiable. I’m just saying, if you want to spend the rest of your life with a dick for a face, go ahead.”

Cord waved it away. “One bridge at a time. The point is, all this small shit is exactly that. Rabbit turds.”

“And?”

He fell quiet for a moment, gray eyes searching for something out beyond the flowers. I followed his line of sight, to the ribbon of the river cutting across the Veldt and beyond, to Midian, the capitol.

“Okay,” I sighed, “crown for your thoughts.”

“Better,” he muttered.

“Well?”

“You ever wonder if there’s more?”

“Like less horseshit and blood? A little less of the flux and a little more flesh?”

“Yeah, something like that. I just... look, there’s no reason for this to go on as long as it has. I’m getting older, and these deaths, they’re taking something out of me. And you. You’ve got a long life ahead, if we pull this off, you can live it in a place that isn’t covered in shit.”

“Like a king?”

Cord grimaced for a split second. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay, so what’s the plan?”

“First, we’re gonna need a crew.”

Inwardly, I groaned. He gave me one of his lunatic grins, and my stomach dropped. I knew that look. Outwardly, I groaned.

* * *

Chapter 2

We’d moved up the river again to a hamlet called Cait Ap Sith. The locals referred to it by a more colorful name, Cat Shite City. Mostly because of all the cats. They swarmed the local fishery, lounged in alleys, and occasionally pounced from eaves and trees like tiny stupid panthers. I watched a fat tabby chase a small mouse across an alley, giving up halfway through and sitting on its haunches like a winded mule. Further into town, the growls and painful cries of cats in heat echoed through the small alleys. I turned to Cord.

“We’re not robbing this place, are we? I’m already going to be picking cat hair out of my food for weeks.”

Cord shook his head. “No one here to rob. No, we’re here for a friend.”

“Friend? You?”

Cord shrugged. “We had mutual interests once upon a time.”

“What’s their name?”

“Rek.”

“Uh huh. And what happened?”

“We had a falling out. I thought we should rob a Harrower, he didn’t.”

“So what makes you think he’s going to want to see you now?”

“We’re going to blackmail him.”

“You’re going to blackmail him, you mean.”

“Yes. We.”

I gave up. “And he’ll be so grateful he’ll follow us like a puppy?”

“Hopefully. If not, I’ll tell him we paid a Harrower to curse him.”

“You think he’d fall for that?”

Cord shrugged and led us down a path into the greater part of town, a dirt rut that wound its way between fields of nodding sunflowers. Green clumps of catnip sprouted between the stalks, and the flowers swayed with the passage of perpetually stoned cats. To our left, the river ran south and east. Through the drowsy midlands, it pushed its way toward the sea and Midian, the city. Here, most everyone bore pale or slightly tan skin tones, some taking on the blue and green hue of the great algae farms to the north. There, between the tall mountains and the wide snowfields, they grew the snotty stuff in glacial lakebeds. They fed it to their cattle, their children, and themselves. I’d tasted it once, leaving me wishing I’d just licked a snot toad.

The fields gave way to more muddy ruts and ramshackle homes pressed tight like syphilitic lovers, leaning on one another for support. Farther in, the roads made a circle. Rough stalls served as Cait’s market. Fishmongers and farmers hawked their wares, stalls of fresh and dried fish, roasted sunflower seeds, and thick clumps of algae sending up a peculiar stink. We took a quick left, back toward the water, and entered a long series of alleys marked by small homes with tin roofs.

“Tell me about this guy,” I said.

Cord shrugged. “Rek? Whaddya wanna know?”

“What’s he like?”

“Mostly big.”

“Big?”

Cord held his hands apart, and then adjusted so he took in the width of one of the houses.

“You pissed him off? And you’re going to blackmail him? I thought you were supposed to be some sort of criminal genius.”

He shrugged again. “Harrower contract law is interesting. You’ll see. Besides, he’s a softy.”

He led us to a house only marginally larger than the others, which in Cait is like saying four sardines fit in this can rather than three. Cats infested the small garden out front, lazed on the steps, and peered from a rough window. They looked like a furry tribunal, and I ducked my head, tried to look innocent. Cord snorted, then raised his hand and knocked, sending a few scattering and at least one hissing. I tried not to think about tiny claws ripping me a new sphincter.

No answer came, and he knocked again.

“Go away.” The voice inside sounded like someone taught a boulder speech.

“Rek,” Cord said.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Rek, open the door.”

“No Rek here. Just cats.” A pause. And then, “Meow.”

Cord shifted as silence from the other side of the door met us. “Quick Rek! Mr. Meowington’s in danger!”

“MR. MEOWINGTON?!”

The shout made my ears ache. I stepped off the stoop in time to see a fleshy mountain the color of sandstone nearly tear the door off its hinges. He bounded into the yard, peering into every crevasse and corner, shouting the cat’s name. I fell back further while Cord stifled a laugh. Rek turned to him, brow beetling, and the smile died on Cord’s lips.

“Where is the kitty, Cord?”

Cord raised his hands. “Look, I had to get you out of the house, Mr. Meowington is fi-”

One of Rek’s turkey-sized hands grabbed Cord by the throat and squeezed. Cord’s eyes bulged and a croak escaped his throat. His neck gave a thick snap and he went limp, limbs flopping to his side. Rek dropped the body into the mud, Cord hitting the ground with an unceremonious thump. The big man turned to me.

“You like tea?” he asked.

I eyed Cord’s body. “Yeah. What about him?”

Rek waved a hand. “Leave him. The cats give him new cologne, he learns a lesson. When he gets up, he can have tea, too,” he shook a finger at the body. “If he behaves.”

I followed Rek into the house. It teemed with cats and overstuffed floral print furniture. Small wood tables dotted the place, heaped with boxes of tea and cookies and cat treats. He wedged himself into a chair and gestured for me to sit. He loomed over the room from his chair, bent slightly so to reach the tray on the table beside him.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

He fiddled with a small pot, filling first one delicate cup, then the other. He handed me one. “Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

“FUCK,” Cord interrupted as he stomped through the door.

An angry purple bruise still lingered on his throat, and the sclera of one eye nearly glowed bright red with burst blood vessels. I looked up from my tea. Rek dropped two lumps of sugar in and gave a grunt. He didn’t glance over. Cord’s recovery time surprised me.

“I thought you were dead,” I said.

Cord shook his head, winced, and rubbed his neck. “Bastard just paralyzed me.”

“Take off your boots,” Rek said.

Cord sputtered. “The whole place is covered in cat hair. A little mud isn’t going to-”

“Take. Off. Your. Boots.” Rek glared at Cord and dropped the last bit of sugar into the tea.

I stirred my drink as quietly as possible while Cord tugged his boots off, tossing them by the door. He muttered under his breath.

“Why are you here?” Rek asked him.

I took a sip of tea.

“I need your help, Rek,” Cord said and sank heavily into an overstuffed chair decorated with bright pink floral print and cat hair.

“Why should I care what you need?” Rek asked. He turned to me with an apologetic smile and patted my hand. “No offense, dear.”

“None taken. He’s a bit of a shit.”

Cord shot me a withering glare. I returned a smile.

“Because I’m gonna make us rich.”

“Nuh-uh. Last time you told me that, you ended up cursed. The time before that, I ended up in debt.”

“I bought your debt.”

A frown creased Rek’s forehead. “Bought my debt?”

Cord nodded. “You owe me now.”

Rek grumbled low in his chest, the sound like a bass drum. “What if I just take it out of your hide?”

Cord spread his hands. “The debt defaults back to the man you owed before. Remember the Harrower? Who would you rather owe, Rek?”

Rek cursed and tossed his teacup at the wall. It shattered, peppering the room with tea and ceramic. Cats scattered at the explosion, scurrying under chairs and into the kitchen. Cord smirked, and I raised an eyebrow at him. He ignored me.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

Rek heaved a sigh. “Yes. But when the debt is paid, I’ll kill you for real.”

Cord looked a little queasy for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Deal.”

We filed out of the house, leaving the big man behind to gather his belongings. He’d meet us at the boat after. On the way there, I stopped Cord.

“You going to blackmail everyone we recruit?”

He shook his head. “Rek just needs motivation. He’s really a decent guy.”

“Aside from the murdering you in the street thing.”

Cord shrugged and continued down the path. “Technically, he didn’t kill me. And I deserved it. Probably more. I really screwed him with that Harrower job.”

“Yeah? Did you really buy his debt?”

“I did.”

“From the same man who cursed you?”

“Yeah.”

“That can’t have been comfortable.”

“He’s really proud of that curse.”

“I would be, too.” I considered. “It can’t be good being in debt to one of those things.”

“Nope.”

“So really, you did him a favor.”

“That’s how I see it.”

“Will Rek?”

“The world is full of unknowable questions, Nenn.”

“So?”

He shrugged. “Probably not.”

* * *

We made it quayside, finding Rek in the bow of the boat, the back poking out of the water. He wore a scowl and held an oar. We waded over and climbed in, settling the craft, and Rek pushed us off, moving the boat forward with powerful strokes. We rode in silence as Cait dwindled, and then disappeared past the first bend.

“Kitties better be okay,” Rek said.

Cord just swallowed and watched the trees pass.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

Twitter: @claytonsnyder2

Website: claytonwsnyder.com

Part VI

Romantic fantasy

Contents

1. The Lord of Stariel

2. Torn Apart

1

The Lord of Stariel

AJ Lancaster

The Lord of Stariel is dead. Long live the Lord of Stariel. Whoever that is.

Everyone knows who the magical estate will choose for its next ruler. Or do they?

Will it be the lord’s eldest son, who he despised?

His favourite nephew, with the strongest magical land-sense?

His scandalous daughter, who ran away from home years ago to study illusion?

Hetta knows it won’t be her, and she’s glad of it. Returning home for her father’s funeral, all Hetta has to do is survive the family drama and avoid entanglements with irritatingly attractive local men until the Choosing. Then she can leave.

But whoever Stariel chooses will have bigger problems than eccentric relatives to deal with.

Winged, beautifully deadly problems.

For the first time in centuries, the fae are returning to the Mortal Realm, and only the Lord of Stariel can keep the estate safe.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 2

* * *

An Ominous Prologue

King Aeros approached the Gate, boots echoing on the polished marble floor. For three centuries, the Gate had stood firm against everything he could throw at it. Now, though…

He fanned out his wings in a glory of silver and crimson feathers. Behind him, his court's interest sharpened, but not a wing, tail, horn, or ear among its various members twitched. They knew not to distract him—or risk drawing his ire if the Gate resisted him again. King Aeros smiled. A well-trained court was truly a thing of joy, but they need not have worried. Obviously, he would not try this publicly without being certain of the result; he’d run his own private tests last night.

Still, his court did not need to know that. He ran his fingers down the stone columns, savouring their palpable anticipation, following the pattern of oak leaves. There were no oaks in Faerie, but this Gate did not lead to one of Faerie's many kingdoms.

His touch fell upon a stone acorn buried among the leaves. He drew up ropes of magic, filling the air with his signature of storms and metal, and twisted. The space between the stone columns shimmered.

The Gate activated.

King Aeros paused for effect, taking a moment to sweep his long silver-white hair back from his face, the jewels woven into the braids chiming gently as he did so. Then, with deliberate slowness, he extended his hand. It passed through the shimmer and disappeared. He pulled it back, inspecting the faint hint of moisture on his skin; it was raining on the other side. Mortal rain.

Closing his hand into a fist, he turned back to the court, letting rivulets of storm charge wash over his wings in triumph, the lightning tamed to his will. He spread his primaries to maximise the impact. Drama should accompany this sort of announcement.

“The Iron Law is revoked. The Mortal Realm is open to us once again.” His smile widened.

It was not a nice smile.

* * *

1

Stariel House

Hetta Valstar rummaged through her makeup bag and frowned. Was cherry a sombre enough shade? Or was it too cheerful? Maybe a paler shade would be better. It was easy to visualise a demure rose, which meant it would be equally easy to illuse her lips to appear the same colour. But if someone was rude enough to inspect Hetta with a quizzing glass, they’d know it for illusion. My aunts will almost certainly be that rude. In fact, they’d probably disapprove of real lipstick almost as much as the illusory kind; Hetta doubted the North was up to date with Southern fashions. Perhaps no lipstick at all would be preferable.

Hetta began emptying her bag of its contents. She’d just spotted the lipstick tube when the train crossed the border into Stariel Estate. Between one second and the next, a tidal wave of homecoming surged over her. She gasped, dropped the bag, and groped for the side of the bunk bed. The world spun.

Stariel. All the Valstars had at least a touch of the land-sense, but she’d underestimated how it would feel to have that connection snap back into place. A part of her that had lain dormant for years burst into life, as alarming and exhilarating as a second heartbeat. Home , it pulsed. Home , in direct counterpoint to the fact that the estate wasn’t home anymore. How could she have forgotten the intensity of it? All those years in the South—where the idea of a land magically connecting with its people would be deemed preposterous—had dimmed the memory.

She leaned against the bunk, heart pounding, and tried to centre herself. Lipstick. I was searching for lipstick. It had rolled out of the bag and under her berth. She knelt, cursing the dress’s unyielding hemline. The land’s vast presence loomed over her, both familiar and alien, as she fished about haphazardly for the lipstick, three-quarters distracted.

Her land-sense slowly settled into its accustomed place, taking that first rush of intensity with it. Despite Hetta’s unrelenting—and unwanted—sense of homecoming, the estate itself didn’t so much as flicker as it accepted her back. No emotion at all emanated from it. Hetta tried not to feel a tiny bit disappointed at Stariel’s lack of reaction, even though it was egotistical to expect otherwise; she was, after all, just one of many Valstars. It probably hadn’t even noticed she’d been gone for so long. Did it know why she was here now, why everyone of Valstar blood was swarming back? Her stomach clenched, a slow feeling of dread settling, and she angrily shook her head. Where was the dashed lipstick?

Hetta mentally poked at her land-sense as her fingers brushed the cool metal tube. Well, at least Stariel accepted me back without a fuss. Perhaps her family would take their cue from the land; neutral acceptance would be preferable to the disapproving reception she feared was coming.

She stood, weighing the lipstick in one hand. They have no power over me now , she reminded herself firmly. I am a grown and independent woman. She’d built a life for herself outside Stariel’s grasp—a life she’d be returning to in two weeks, after the Choosing. Surely she and her relatives could maintain civility for two weeks? Especially since her father wouldn’t be there.

My father is dead . Stariel’s lord is dead .

The words struck soft as feathers. They weren’t real enough yet to have weight, though they’d hummed in the background for a little over twelve hours now. Dead.

She opened her mirror-compact with a snap. This was no time for wool-gathering. The train would reach Stariel Station soon, and she needed to be ready by then. But exactly what form should her readiness take? She drew in a long, steadying breath, filling herself with determination. Her family would see only a confident, put-together young woman when she arrived. And a fashionable one too , she decided. Her aunts’ sensibilities could go hang. I don’t care what they think of me.

A tiny voice pointed out that she was spending an awful lot of time worrying about what to wear for someone who didn’t care what her relatives thought of her. She ignored it and focused on carefully applying the cherry colour. By the time her lips were painted, the mirror showed a picture of perfect composure. Let Aunt Sybil call the colour vulgar; she wouldn’t recognise glamourous sophistication if it bit her on the nose! Hetta pursed her lips in satisfaction and began to pack up her things.

When the train stopped at Stariel Station, Hetta was the only passenger to alight. A handful of assorted goods were unloaded along with her trunk, presumably awaiting pickup, before the train pulled away from the station. Hetta watched it until it curved around a bend and disappeared, taking her tangible connection to the South with it and leaving her entirely alone.

Small sounds magnified with the train’s absence—jarringly natural sounds, rather than those of the city she’d become accustomed to. She swallowed, feeling suddenly small and out of place. Wind rustled in the bracken, and in the distance came the baaing of sheep. Stariel Station was some distance from Stariel Village, properly known as Stariel-on-Starwater, and there was only farmland and forest in sight.

It was only then that Hetta realised no one knew she needed collecting from the station.

“Drat.” She’d forgotten to arrange it in the scramble to pack and book a ticket on the sleeper train. The telegram notifying her of her father’s death had arrived only the day before, in the break between the matinee and evening performances. I was performing illusions without even knowing he was dead. The thought slid in, quiet and unsettling as a ghost—and just as unnecessarily morbid. It made not a jot of difference, so why dwell on it?

She arranged her scarf more securely around her neck. In Meridon, the great Southern capital, the weather was still mild, but here in the North the air held the bite of coming winter.

Would any of her family think to meet the sleeper train after sending that telegram? After all, it was the only way for Hetta to return home, and they must be expecting her. But she didn’t fancy sitting with her luggage in the bitter wind on the strength of that hope. If no one was already here waiting for her, then whoever had sent the telegram hadn’t told Wyn, Stariel’s butler as well as Hetta’s friend, that she’d been summoned. Wyn would never leave her here to wait in the cold. That meant she was probably relying on Aunt Sybil to remember her, since the terseness of the telegram had been very much in that aunt’s style.

Aunt Sybil wouldn’t deliberately forget about Hetta, would she? Perhaps she just hadn’t made the logical connection between sending the telegram and the arrival of the sleeper train the next morning. The oversight would be understandable, with everyone preoccupied with funeral and Choosing arrangements.

Perhaps there was a public telephone somewhere nearby. Her spirits lifted at this thought, though she didn’t know whether her father had seen fit to install the new technology at Stariel House. There’d been no telephone line when she’d left. But it was worth a try. She burrowed her hands into her coat pockets and went in search.

Ten unfruitful minutes later, she concluded there was no public telephone. But the ticket office would have one inside, surely? She checked her watch again—it was just before eight o’clock on Monday morning. What time did the office open? Memories of the village stores’ opening schedules didn’t fill her with optimism. Unlike Meridon, where one could depend on stores opening at the same time each day, as advertised, Stariel marched to a more flexible drumbeat.

She went over to examine the goods that had been unloaded from the train. They consisted of such thrilling items as the mailbag and a small crate marked ‘Smithson’s Manufacturing’. In Meridon, someone would have taken charge of them as soon as they were delivered. Here, it was anyone’s guess when someone might be along to collect them. It didn’t help her, but she couldn’t help smiling at the more lackadaisical attitude of the countryside.

Of course, there was one other way she could attract attention. She pulled off her left glove and stared thoughtfully at her palm. Concentrating, she called up an image she’d used in the play yesterday: glittering purple snake-demons writhing in smoke. She’d meant to summon an illusion only a few inches high, more as an idle thought than any serious attempt at a signal, but the snake-demons that emerged were as tall as she was. They burst from her in a riot of colour, their eyes glowing with life, scales realistic enough that they flashed in the weak sunlight. Startled, she snuffed them out of existence and frowned at the space they’d filled. She’d fed the illusion too much power—and a Master of Illusion should not make such a miscalculation. She must be more rattled than she’d realised. That was the first principle of magic, after all: controlling one’s emotions.

She took a few deep breaths, though she already felt quite calm. Should she send a giant signal leaping fifty feet into the sky? On the one hand, someone would be bound to come and investigate. On the other, since her decision to train in magic had been a key factor in her exile, it probably wasn’t the best way to begin her visit. Besides, it’s childish to deliberately try to shock my family at such a time , she told herself sternly. Even if it’s still completely nonsensical of them to disapprove of my choices, given how magical Stariel is! But she knew the cases weren’t the same, much as she might rail against the unfairness of it. Quite apart from the magic, Stariel wasn’t a well-born woman working in a theatre house. Dens of iniquity and loose morals , Hetta thought with a smile. She’d quite enjoyed the loose morals, truth be told.

She’d just decided to walk towards the village in search of someone when the whirring sound of a vehicle came from the road. She went to wave it down, but it proved unnecessary. The vehicle, one of the new kineticars, was clearly heading for the station. The kineticar pulled up, and a man Hetta knew well got out. He was large and broad-shouldered, with cherubic brown curls, warm hazel eyes, and a ready smile that Hetta knew from personal experience could set hearts a-flutter.

“Angus!” she burst out as he came towards the station. “Oh, how glad I am to see you.”

It took a few seconds for comprehension to replace confusion on the man’s face.

“Henrietta Valstar! I nearly didn’t recognise you.” His gaze travelled swiftly over her person, from her neatly styled auburn hair to her smart black boots, warming with approval as he took in her trim figure. “By Simulsen, Hetta, you’ve turned out well.”

“Yes, I know.” She held out her arms and made a show of making a half-pirouette for his inspection. “Feel free to continue complimenting me.” Angus laughed, and her heart gave a traitorous flutter. She’d been hopelessly infatuated with Angus as a gawky teen; he’d been oblivious to the interest of someone he saw as a mere schoolgirl. He wasn’t looking at her like a schoolgirl now. “But I ought to call you Lord Penharrow now, hadn’t I?” She’d heard he had succeeded his father to Penharrow Estate, Stariel’s neighbour, three years ago.

Lord Angus Penharrow broke into a broad grin, showing the dimple in his left cheek. She’d forgotten the unfairly attractive impact of that dimple. “Nay, you’d best call me Angus. It makes me feel ancient to have you calling me ‘Lord Penharrow’. Unless you wish me to call you Miss Valstar. I don’t want to offend your notions of propriety.”

Hetta laughed. “You have no idea, Angus, of the impropriety I’ve been involved with these last few years. The shoe is on the other foot. No doubt I’ll scandalise the locals with my modern ways.”

He chuckled. “That I’d like to see.” He took in the trunk resting beside her and his expression abruptly sobered. “You’ve come up from Meridon for the funeral, I suppose.” He shook his head. “A sad business. I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I’ve always held Lord Valstar in high esteem.”

Hetta narrowly avoided raising her eyebrows. The younger Angus had treated her father with disinterested politeness on the rare occasions she’d seen them interact. She doubted their relationship had grown any closer in the intervening years. Her father wasn’t an easy man to get along with, even sober, and letters from home had given her the impression that he’d only become more so as age and infirmity caught up with him.

“Thank you,” she said diplomatically. “And yes, I’m here for the funeral—and the Choosing.” She assumed an expression of self-deprecation. “But I’m afraid in the rush to get here I forgot to inform my family of my arrival.” She batted her eyelashes at him with exaggerated motions. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in rescuing a damsel in distress? It is, I know, somewhat out of your way, but you would win my undying gratitude and a warm feeling of virtue from getting to play the white knight.”

The dimple made another appearance. “I can hardly leave you stranded here on the platform, can I, with an offer like that?”

She grinned. “Thank you, my lord.” She went to gather her luggage. Angus seemed surprised when she deposited her trunk next to the kineticar while he fetched the small crate he’d originally come for.

“You thought I’d turn you into my porter as well,” Hetta said shrewdly.

“None of my sisters would carry their own trunks,” Angus replied, an odd expression crossing his face. Hetta had the strong impression that he thought her behaviour unnatural. She gave an internal sigh. It wasn’t unexpected. The North was more old-fashioned than Meridon. How lowering it was to find that one’s childhood hero was only a mortal man after all. However, Angus recovered quickly and stowed her things securely in the vehicle. Determined not to unsettle her rescuer further, Hetta allowed him to open the door for her.

“Your chariot, my lady,” he said with a grin.

They conversed amicably as they drove. Angus shook his head as they passed water-logged fields occupied by sad-looking sheep. “Drains are the future of modern farming,” he remarked. “My father started them at Penharrow years ago, and I can’t say he was wrong to do so. Increases productivity remarkably.”

“Father was always very traditional,” Hetta said. She knew very little of farming. Father hadn’t considered it an appropriate subject for a girl. “But perhaps the new lord will be keen to modernise.”

Angus shot her a quick, searching glance. “Perhaps,” he said, and Hetta knew he wanted to ask who she thought would be chosen. Though why he thinks I’d have any insight into it when I haven’t set foot here in years is a mystery. On the other hand, surely her family’s dynamics wouldn’t have changed that much? She turned the possibilities for the new lord over in her mind; she hadn’t yet given it much thought. It was hard to imagine anyone other than Lord Henry Valstar in that role. My father is dead . Her chest tightened, and she had to force her fingers not to curl into fists. How dare her father be dead when she was still so very angry at him?

No one ever knew for sure who Stariel would choose, but historically it did often go from father to eldest son. That would mean Marius. Marius had always taken her side. He’d openly risked their father’s displeasure, visiting her in the great Southern capital when he could. Father never thought Marius would be chosen though. No, unless things had changed significantly, Hetta knew exactly who was expected to inherit: her cousin Jack. He was everything Lord Henry’s eldest son was not: blunt and practical, and traditionally masculine in all the ways that counted with the old lord. He had the strongest land-sense in Hetta’s generation. Hetta frowned at the passing countryside. Even if Father thought Jack would inherit, it didn’t justify treating Marius as a failure. There was more to life than this dashed estate!

They passed through the village of Stariel-on-Starwater. Not much had changed in six years, and Hetta’s anger at her father’s favouritism faded under a swell of nostalgia. She and Marius had ridden down to the village often. There was the tea shop where they’d frequently over-indulged in clotted cream scones. There was the farrier’s workshop. There was the post office with its odd carved owl on the sign, the building impossibly quaint now in comparison to the much larger ones in Meridon. Had the village always been this small? And yet each difference gaped at her like a missing tooth: the apothecary had transformed into a hat shop; the white fence was grey and peeling; and one of the mature walnut trees on the village green had become a rotting stump.

“Have you missed it?” Angus asked.

Hetta started, pulled from her memories. She considered her answer. “In part,” she said after a pause. “How little it has changed since I left! I feel like I’ve gone back in time.”

“We must seem terribly provincial to you,” Angus remarked. He said this with an unruffled assurance that belied his words. He did not value the so-called sophistication of the South.

Hetta couldn’t resist the urge to tease. “Oh, yes. I confess I don’t know how I’ll occupy myself in such a backwater until the Choosing. I’m sure there won’t be any conversation worth having with anyone here. In fact,” she added seriously, “I’ve become steadily more convinced of this all morning.”

Angus snorted, but again that odd look crossed his face. Hetta gave herself a stern mental lecture on appropriate moments for levity, but she couldn’t help wishing that one of her Meridon theatre friends were here.

It began to rain as they drove, a sudden downpour typical of the North’s climate at this time of year. In seconds, the world faded into greyness, and the sound of rain on the kineticar’s roof made conversation difficult. They slowed to cross the Home Bridge, and Hetta knew they were only a few miles away from Stariel House. The kineticar’s tyres clattered on the uneven surface.

The rain eased as they rounded a bend and the house came into view. With its trio of turrets, stone walls, and high, arched main entrance, the central part of the structure bore a strong resemblance to a medieval castle. The Valstar crest flew at half-mast from the highest turret, but other than that it was much the same as when she’d left all those years ago. The sight hit Hetta with the force of a blow. Home , her land-sense pulsed again. Hetta huffed internally at the sensation. This wasn’t home anymore, magical connection notwithstanding, and she refused to be sentimental about a building. Stariel House wasn’t even a pretty building, taken in its entirety, since generations of Valstars had seen fit to add a mish-mash of architectural styles to the central castle core.

Before she could ask him to do otherwise, Angus had pulled up outside the formal front entrance and switched off the engine. Why had she let herself get so distracted, drinking in the sight of the house? She would’ve preferred to arrive at the back tradesman’s entrance near the kitchens, where she could have slipped in without fuss, but she supposed that was wishful thinking. There was, inevitably, going to be fuss. A strange heaviness formed in her chest. What if they didn’t accept her back now Father was gone?

She took a deep breath and got out of the car. Angus followed and lifted out her trunk before she could make a move for it.

“Thank you,” she said.

The formal entryway rose before her, familiar and intimidating all at once. Mythical creatures made of stone guarded the bottom of the stairs. Hetta had named them Spot and Reginald in a fit of whimsy long ago. Reginald was a horned greyhound-like creature; Spot was a large cat with three tails. Both came from local fairy stories.

Heart racing, she mustered her courage and marched up the steps to the main door before raising the knocker and bringing it down in a four-beat tattoo. As she stood waiting, oddly dizzy with anticipation, she found herself thinking of a scene from the play where the hero entered the demon’s lair. She dismissed the likeness as fanciful, a little annoyed with herself. There were no theatrical snake-demons here. Unless we count Aunt Sybil , she thought. Besides, in all probability it would be Wyn opening the door, since he was apparently butler now, and not one of her relatives, so there was no reason for this anxiety in any case.

Despite these reassurances, her nerves stretched, waiting. She was just wondering if she should knock again when the door opened and Hetta found herself staring into her older brother Marius’s spectacle-framed eyes.

* * *

2

An Old Friend

“Why are you opening the door?” she said inanely as his grey eyes lit up. Thank goodness it wasn’t one of her more antagonistic relatives, but, really, Marius shouldn’t be manning the front door either. If Wyn wasn’t available, it should’ve been the footman. They did still have a footman, didn’t they? The thought felt oddly alien. Hetta-the-no-name-illusionist didn’t have servants.

“Hetta! You came!” Marius pulled the door fully open and caught her up in a tight embrace. “Oh, Hetta.” He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and Hetta could feel his body trembling. Was the excess of emotion purely on her account? Oh, Marius, what have they been saying to you? But the knot in her stomach eased a little nonetheless at the warm welcome.

“It’s good to see you too, Marius.” She returned the embrace before drawing back to examine him. They shared the same long nose and high, flying brows. She’d last seen her oldest brother more than a year ago when he’d come down to Meridon to visit. The silver threading Marius’s thick black hair at his temples had grown more pronounced, though Marius was only twenty-seven. Their father had gone grey young too, Hetta remembered being told.

“You look well,” she told him fondly, raising a hand to touch the silver. Though stressed , she added silently, taking in the circles under his eyes. Was it only Father’s death and the funeral arrangements, or was it what came after? Their entire family, like Angus, would be speculating about whether Marius would inherit—hopefully not to his face, but she wouldn’t put it past some of them. Even if everyone had somehow managed to be abnormally tactful and refrained from doing so, Marius would still be sensitive to the undercurrents.

Marius looked past her and frowned.

“Whatever is Penharrow doing in our driveway?” he murmured before raising his voice and greeting him. “Lord Penharrow.” He nodded politely at Angus.

“Valstar,” Angus acknowledged.

It had previously struck Hetta as unfortunate that the two men were civil acquaintances rather than friends, despite their proximity of age, location, and birth. Of course, her younger self had thought it unfortunate mainly because it meant fewer opportunities to see Angus. Yes, how very unreasonable for two dissimilar personalities not to form a close friendship simply for my convenience, she thought, hiding a smile.

“Angus was kind enough to drive me from the station,” Hetta explained. “I’m afraid I forgot to tell anyone when I was coming. I can’t think how I came to be so scatter-brained.”

Marius’s brows drew together. “That’s not like you, Hetta.” The delight at her arrival drained from him. “Although I suppose these are hardly usual circumstances.” They shared a look, and Hetta could see the echo of her own recurring thought, the same complicated mix of emotions accompanying it: Father is dead.

Marius shook himself. “Anyway, thank you, Penharrow, for rescuing my sister. Would you like to come in?” This last was said with a little pause of reluctance.

Angus smiled sympathetically as he gave his refusal. “No, no. I imagine you’ve enough chaos in the household at the moment, and I really should be getting back.”

Marius and Hetta paused to wave as he drove away and out of sight. Marius took in Hetta’s trunk.

“You travel lighter than I thought you would.”

She shrugged. “I manage. I left my bricks at home.”

Marius heaved her trunk under an arm, and Hetta let him. Her brother didn’t provoke the same desire to prove her independence as Angus, perhaps because Marius had always taken her seriously. Besides, her bedroom was up two flights of stairs. And no doubt brotherly solicitude will wear off sooner rather than later once he gets over the novelty of my presence.

The open, hard-tiled space of the grand entryway amplified sounds, carrying strains of voices from distant rooms, but they met no one as they made their way up the main staircase. Still, her heart pounded, as if they might turn a corner and run straight into one or other of her relatives. It was strange to think the person she dreaded meeting most was the one person she was guaranteed not to run into. But it was somehow impossible to convince herself he wasn’t here anymore, not while walking these familiar hallways.

“Who else is here?”

“Everyone,” Marius said with a sigh. “That’s why I answered the door, actually. Wyn is trying to be in sixteen places at once. The footman was supposed to be manning the door for visitors, but he’s in the breakfast room with Phoebe.” He adjusted his grip on her trunk. “Something Aunt Sybil said about blue china and mourning aesthetics. I may have suggested he would be better able to aid her than I.”

Hetta raised a brow at him, and he gave a sheepish smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Poor Marius—and poor Phoebe. Their stepmother hated disapproval and tended to throw herself with frantic earnestness into the effort of avoiding it. Hetta had no doubt Phoebe’s nerves would be strung tight as she tried to arrange a funeral with ‘helpful’ and conflicting suggestions from the rest of her relatives. It would be a losing battle; there was no way to please every single Valstar simultaneously.

“How is Phoebe holding up?” She’d never been sure how much affection her stepmother held for Father. Hetta and Marius’s stepmother had married the late Lord Valstar seven years after the death of his first wife, who hadn’t survived birthing Hetta. Phoebe had been very young indeed when Lord Valstar married her, at seventeen—only a handful of years older than Marius, in fact. And younger than I am now . Hetta wrinkled her nose. What a distasteful thought.

Marius shrugged. “Much as we all are, really.” Something very dark flickered in his gaze. “Though I haven’t had any hysterics over the china just yet.” He didn’t say the words Everyone thinks cousin Jack is going to be chosen rather than me , but they clamoured unspoken in the air around them nonetheless.

Hetta wanted to hug him but couldn’t since he was carrying her trunk. She settled for a bright smile instead. “Well, let me know if you feel some coming on and I’ll help you find the dustpan and brush.”

He didn’t reply as they turned towards the west wing, the intersection marked by a portrait of their deceased grandfather, Lord Marius Valstar II—her brother’s namesake. Present-day Marius avoided the portrait’s severe gaze.

An unpleasant thought occurred, and Hetta paused.

“My room?” She’d just assumed it would still be hers, but it had been years since she’d left, with not much expectation of ever returning. What if Father had decided to expunge any sign of her presence from the house?

“Oh, you’re safe,” Marius assured her. “Though it was a near thing. We’re pretty tightly pressed for bedrooms, what with all our relatives descending upon us.”

“I would’ve thought there were plenty of bedrooms?” Stariel House was enormous.

“Not habitable ones, there aren’t.” Marius began to tick off names on his fingers and then abandoned the motion since there were far more Valstars than there were digits. “Not counting those of us already in residence, there’s all our aunts and uncles, every one of our first cousins, and most of our seconds.”

“And Grandmamma?” Hetta would not mind unexpectedly bumping into Grandmamma in the hallway. “Is she still in the Dower House?”

Marius snorted. “No, that’s got even less habitable bedrooms than this one. They shut up the Dower House last month. Grandmamma’s living here now.”

There was no way Hetta could’ve known that, given the freshness of the news. “Oh.” Why had Father shut up the Dower House? Wyn, by far her most reliable correspondent, hadn’t mentioned anything in his last letter, but then perhaps he hadn’t known at the time. “Is Grandmamma well?”

“She’ll outlast us all,” Marius reassured her. He picked up on her silent question without prompting; he’d always had a knack for subtext, when he wasn’t distracted by his own thoughts. “I think Father was concerned at the ongoing expense of keeping the house open.” He examined his own words and frowned, as if it were the first time he’d reflected on the question. “Though I don’t know why. I guess it doesn’t make sense, running two households rather than just the one.”

As Marius said, it didn’t make sense, but Hetta thought of the grey, peeling fences in the village, and unease stirred. Most likely Father’s steward simply hasn’t gotten around to organising the repairs yet , she told herself. She hoped so, for the new lord’s sake. Neither Jack nor Marius deserved to inherit financial woes.

They arrived at her old bedroom, and it took Hetta six years back in time. The walls were still the same pale yellow. The theatre posters and cut-outs she’d pinned up in defiance of respectability remained, the colours faded now with age. A faint smell of cleaning products tickled her nose, and she saw with relief that the linen looked freshly changed. Evidently someone had prepared for her coming despite her lack of communication.

Father didn’t change anything at all in my absence. Hetta turned in a slow circle, not sure what to do with that thought. Maybe he simply closed the door and forgot about me.

Marius had just deposited her trunk next to the dresser when footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“Marius?” a soft voice inquired, and the door to the bedroom swung open.

There stood the eldest of their half-siblings, and Hetta stared. When had Gregory gotten so tall ? She performed a rapid mental calculation—he must be seventeen now. Tallness was not so unreasonable, in that context, but she struggled to match her chubby little brother with the gangly youth now rocking uncertainly on the threshold. In general, the Valstars tended towards darker hair, owing to the strong dose of Noorish blood in their lineage, but Gregory had inherited his mother’s curling golden locks, pale skin, and delicate features. Only his grey eyes betrayed his Valstar inheritance. As a boy, he’d been rather adorable, like a cherub. No doubt he wouldn’t appreciate being referred to as such anymore. Not that he exactly appreciated it as a boy.

“Henrietta?” he said unsurely.

“Gregory,” she said blankly. “How tall you’ve grown. I clearly can’t keep addressing you as ‘little brother’ in my correspondence.” Gregory now stood half a head taller than Hetta.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Gregory blurted out, then flushed. “Oh—sorry, I mean, it’s great to see you—” He faltered as he remembered the solemnity of the occasion. “I mean, not great, but—”

“I’m glad to see you again in person too,” Hetta interjected kindly. “It’s been too long. I hope we’ll see more of each other while I’m here.”

Gregory recovered his composure enough to ask how long she meant to stay.

“Till the Choosing, of course, brat,” Marius said without venom. But he shot Hetta a sharp look nonetheless, and she realised with a start that he would like some reassurance on that point himself. Evidently Hetta had become outrageous enough that even the family member she was closest to wasn’t sure whether she would be bound by this last and greatest tradition of their house. For a moment, all she could do was blink at him, unsure if she was annoyed or not by that. It had never crossed her mind that she could simply not come home on such an occasion, but if Marius thought it, then so had everyone else.

A spark of temper flared. “I’ll be here for the Choosing, of course.” The words came out more defiantly than she’d intended. Why did she care if her family thought her lost to all sense of familial duty?

But Marius didn’t pick up on her mood, the mention of the ceremony making him grimace. “Good, good,” he said vaguely. He’d gone far away, lost in his own thoughts. It was typical of him—one second intuitive, the next entirely oblivious. She still couldn’t tell whether his anxiety about the Choosing Ceremony sprang from a wish to be chosen or a fear of it. Perhaps it was both.

“You’re older than cousin Jack,” Gregory said, as though the thought were so sudden and strange that he couldn’t keep from speaking it.

“Yes.” Hetta smiled at her younger brother. “He is two months my junior, though it isn’t polite to remind me of it.”

“That means you—” Gregory broke off, darting a look at his brother.

Marius came out of his distraction and said sharply: “Yes, Hetta goes before Jack in the ceremony. Though I hope you haven’t forgotten cousin Cecily—she’s even older than me.” The Choosing Ceremony went according to birth order.

“And Aunt Sybil may yet rule over us all,” Hetta said lightly, though that wasn’t very likely. There had never been a recorded instance of Stariel choosing within the same generation as the deceased lord if the members of younger generations were of age.

Gregory gave a nervous laugh, and Hetta decided it was time for a change to a less fraught subject.

“But what did you come racing in here for, Gregory? You were looking for Marius?” she prompted.

Gregory’s eyes widened. “Oh! Yes. I forgot. Grandmamma said the flowers for the casket must be grown at Stariel, but Aunt Sybil said it’s more important that they’re lilies, even if we have to order them from Greymark, and Grandmamma said ordering flowers from elsewhere would be bad luck for the lord’s funeral, and Aunt Sybil said that was ridiculous superstition, and Grandmamma said there was nothing wrong with a little spirituality and her bones told her that lilies were bound to appear if they were wanted, and Aunt Sybil said even the most superstitious fool couldn’t conjure lilies outside a hothouse in October, and so I said I would check the greenhouse, but I don’t know a lily from lavender.”

Marius’s lips twitched at this unbroken recitation, but he shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter if you did—Aunt Sybil is right. There’s no lilies to be had.” He said it with regret. Like Gregory, he would clearly have liked to support their often hare-brained but infinitely more sympathetic grandmother. The greenhouse was Marius’s domain. Strangely, for one so deeply disinterested in farming, he had a great passion for botany.

“Oh. I guess they’ll have to sort it out between them then.” A heaviness crept over Gregory, as if he had suddenly remembered why they needed lilies. “Do you think it matters if the flowers come from Stariel or not?” It clearly mattered to Gregory, but he looked to his older brother for direction, his face still so young , despite the changes time had wrought.

“Well,” Hetta said, taking a deep breath to hide her nerves. “There can be lilies from Stariel, if you want.” She waggled her fingers theatrically. “Or at least, flowers from Stariel that will appear to be lilies.” Her heart stuck in her throat as she waited for their reaction, and she formulated half a dozen defensive responses as to why she wasn’t ashamed of her profession in the time it took for comprehension to dawn in her brothers’ faces.

Gregory brightened. “Could you really?”

Hetta was suddenly off-balance. How did you cope with enthusiasm when you’d steeled yourself for disapproval? “Er—yes, I think so, if Marius will direct me to some appropriate stems for the base of the spell. They only need last for a few days.”

Gregory practically vibrated with excitement, and she caught a glimpse of the cheerful eleven-year-old she’d known. Oh—of course Father’s denouncement of me would only make my profession more appealing to a teenage boy , she realised with a lurch of perspective.

Marius wasn’t a teenage boy, but he was also the family member most familiar with her abilities. His reaction was somewhere between consternation and amusement.

“I don’t know, Hetta…illusory lilies on Father’s casket…” He trailed off as she met his eyes.

“Appropriate, though, don’t you think?” Gregory missed the sharp subtext, but Marius didn’t. His mouth thinned. Their father had always cared more for the look of the thing than the reality below. “But he would have wanted the flowers to come from Stariel, lilies or not.” That, Hetta was sure of; Father had always thought anything inside the estate infinitely superior to the rest of the world’s offerings.

That darkness from earlier shadowed Marius’s face again, but he covered it with a smile. “Very well, Hetta. Let’s smuggle you out to the greenhouse before the others realise you’re here, or the game will be up when Greg announces there are lilies aplenty.”

* * *

Hetta had imagined many scenarios for her return to Stariel House. None had involved illusory lilies, and she had to repress the urge to laugh as they made their way down the hallway and to the back western stairwell. Of course nothing here would be predictable. She ignored the knot of tension gathering in her stomach. Why not simply enjoy the chance to put off confronting her older relatives for a little while more—even if it was for a slightly ridiculous reason?

Gregory eagerly offered himself as a potential distraction, should they encounter any of their aunts, but his willingness wasn’t put to the test. They met only a few house servants, who nodded politely as they passed but were otherwise entirely preoccupied with their own tasks. Hetta suffered a sad blow to her sense of self-importance—apparently she didn’t warrant more than a flicker of mild interest, even from the servants who had been here before she’d left. But I suppose they must be busy, given the excessive number of Valstar relatives descending upon them all at once.

They reached the greenhouse and encountered its sole occupant, a tall, brown-skinned man with pale blond hair. He was crouched, cutting a sprig of mint, and he rose with smooth grace at the sound of their footsteps. His eyes widened slightly as Hetta followed her brothers in. In his surprise, he spoke, she thought, without regard for their presence.

“Henrietta Isadore Valstar,” Wyn said, drawing the syllables out as if enjoying the sound of them. His eyes were still the same deep russet-brown of horse chestnuts, his mouth still full and shaped for humour, but everything else was…changed.

Attraction coursed through her, unexpected as a lightning bolt, and shocked Hetta temporarily mute. Wyn Tempest had come to Stariel House several years before Hetta had left home. He’d been a friend to the young, rebellious Hetta, and they’d written to each other in the intervening years—unofficially, of course; young men did not write letters to unmarried ladies to whom they were not related. But Hetta had written those letters with the mental image of a stork-like, wary youth fixed unchanging in her head, not this quietly confident man. The sharp angles that she remembered hadn’t softened, but they were somehow transformed into a cut-glass, alien beauty.

How could he have changed so? Surely she would have noticed if Wyn had been like this before? She felt both strangely breathless and annoyed at herself for being so.

Wyn’s eyes sparkled. Hetta flushed and hoped he hadn’t guessed somehow what she’d been thinking.

“Do you not recognise me, Miss Hetta?” he said slowly, each word quivering with amusement. His voice had ripened too; now it made her think of plum brandy. “Allow me to reintroduce myself.” He gave a little bow. “You may recall me as a stray who turned up some years ago and who has since proven difficult to dislodge.”

“Of course Hetta remembers you, Wyn,” Gregory said before Hetta could answer. “What are you doing in the greenhouse?”

Wyn waved the green mint leaves he’d just cut. “Mint-and-berry friands.” His eyes met Hetta’s. “I’m Acting Assistant Head Cook at this precise moment,” he told her solemnly. “Although it is not my usual role. One of the maidservants is ill.”

“I know that!” I’ve been exchanging letters with you for years , she nearly said but managed to snap the words off. She didn’t care what people thought of her reputation, but she didn’t want to get Wyn in trouble.

Wyn beamed. “So you do know who I am! I did not like to assume, Miss Hetta. You looked very surprised just now.” His eyes gleamed. He had guessed what she’d been thinking. Curse him. She narrowed her eyes at him, in part for that and in part for all the ‘Miss Hetta’-ing.

He didn’t seem at all repentant as he bowed and excused himself, leaving Hetta alone with her brothers in the greenhouse. Hetta stared thoughtfully after him. That’s two unreasonably attractive men in the space of half an hour , she thought distantly. Goodness knows what the next two weeks will bring, if that’s a representative sample of the populace now .

She was recalled by Gregory, who shifted from foot to foot with anticipation.

“Are you going to illuse the lilies or not?”

* * *

Thank you for checking out this sample of The Lord of Stariel , the first book in the Stariel Quartet. I was delighted to enter my novel into SPFBO5, and even more delighted when it was chosen as a semi-finalist and Senlin Safety Net option for Superstardrifter.com!

Click the link if you’d like to read more.

About AJ Lancaster

Growing up on a farm in rural New Zealand, AJ Lancaster avoided chores by hiding up trees with a book. She wrote in the same way she breathed—constantly and without thinking much of it—so it took many years and accumulating a pile of manuscripts for her to realise that she might want to be a writer and, in fact, already was. On the way to this realisation she collected a degree in science, worked in environmental planning, and became an editor. 

Now she lives in the windy coastal city of Wellington and writes romantic, whimsical fantasy books about fae, magic, and complicated families. The Lord of Stariel is her first novel.

2

Torn Apart

J.M. Riddles

As a priestess in the service of the dragon goddess, Halea must roam the land hunting demons and sealing tears caused by the Chaos Dimension that seeks to converge with their world. She has sworn an oath to devote herself only to her goddess, and if necessary, will even die for her mission.

One day she discovers that her beloved childhood friend, Varg, has survived the devastation of the last convergence and has since risen to become the alpha of his people, the lycans. Together they battle the forces of Chaos, but when Varg wants Halea to be his mate, she is torn between her oath and her desire to be with the Wolf King who loves her. Only a blood sacrifice can stop the coming of the next convergence, and with Halea’s life on the line, Varg will do anything to save her.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 10

* * *

PROLOGUE – RETURNED FROM THE DEAD

It had been seven long years since she last saw the two trees that stretched as giants beyond the forest canopy. Their mighty boughs swayed gently in the soft summer breeze. Time had decayed the structures that once adorned those trees. Vines grew through the little window holes, and slippery moss had overtaken the steps they had once carefully constructed. The world they had once built for just the two of them.

Forts - not tree houses. They did not play house like normal children, for they had never been like other children.

She looked at the tree that had once been her fort and then over to the tree that had once belonged to him. His had withstood the ravages of time somewhat better than hers, and she smiled as she remembered him teaching her how to build her fort, and at how exasperated he would get at her lack of skill.

She had not come to relive childhood memories because some were too painful to bear. She had come in search of the tear. She had tracked three demons for the past four days, hoping they would lead her to the source. She had already killed two and couldn't afford to let the last one get away.

Suddenly she had found herself in familiar surroundings. An inexplicable grip of nostalgia possessed her, and she began wandering – searching.

She felt a painful ache in her chest as she walked towards the tree that had once been his fort, and her hand instinctively clutched at the icy blue crystal hanging from her neck. She circled the base of the mighty tree and found the worn ladder. Some of the wooden steps had rotted off, but most appeared intact and still sturdy. Not being able to climb with her spear, she left it at the base of the tree along with her light travel bag. Even without a weapon, she was far from defenseless.

Carefully, she tested each handhold and foothold as she pulled her way up. When she finally reached the top and looked around, a flood of vivid memories from her past caused her breath to hitch in her chest. The little wooden door was missing, torn from its hinges, but the walls remained. The old boards groaned beneath her feet, but she was impressed with how structurally sound they still felt. The thatched roof had long since blown away, revealing the swaying branches above. She looked out the window that faced towards her own fort and remembered the way they used to bicker over the rules they made for the games they played. Both tree forts were just close enough to where they could throw things through each other’s windows and heckle each other with ease. She smiled again, but the pain in her heart only increased.

The happiest years of her youth were gone. He was gone. She had lost everything that day - her best friend, her mother, her home. Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she struggled to fight back the memories of the day the ritual failed.

Something buried under a pile of dead leaves in the corner caught her eye, and she reached down to pick it up.

It was an earth-colored pottery bowl. It had a few chips, but still intact. It was the bowl they had used to mix the herbs she had to drink, the potion that temporarily masked her human scent. They were not allowed to be together. She was a human, and he was a wolf - a lycan. If he returned to his pack smelling like a human, they would have forbidden him from ever seeing her again, but for years they had played together in secret. They had let no one stand in their way.

This time she couldn’t hold it back. It hurt too much, and the bowl trembled in her hands as tears rolled down her face.

She was so distracted, so lost in her painful memories; she hadn’t sensed that she was no longer alone until the wooden floor groaned beneath her.

A moment of terror gripped her as she spun around and saw the large and menacing form of a therian male. He was poised as if to strike; the claws of his powerful hands pointing at her in threat and he was baring his fangs. His eyes glared at her.

His eyes.

The moment they locked eyes with each other, they both froze.

His eyes were a vivid and icy shade of blue, which stood out starkly against his deeply tanned skin and his ears were long and pointed. His dark brown hair grew untamed past his shoulders, and his face looked rugged and wild. He towered over her in height and was very broad and muscular. He was mostly clad in leather and fur and wore only a light amount of armor. Despite his fighting stance and hostile expression, his wild face was oddly handsome, as most therians were wont to be, but it was his piercing eyes that struck something inside of her like a thunderbolt – those eyes. She could never forget them.

The moment she looked deep into those piercing blue eyes a small gasp escaped her, and the bowl slipped from her fingers and shattered to pieces at her feet.

“Varg?”

His expression changed subtly. He had been startled by the way she looked at him. Did he know her? He had been hunting a demon that posed a threat to his pack when he picked up the scent of a strange human in his territory. He followed the scent and instantly flew into a rage that any human would dare to trespass, not only on his territory but in one of the few places he held sacred. He had seen the spear at the base of the tree and stealthily climbed with the aid of his powerful claws. He would allow no one to trespass, but there was something strange about this human’s scent – almost familiar, but not.

Her back was to him when he first saw her, and he distinctly picked up the scent of tears. He had too much honor to kill like a coward from behind, so he purposely leaned into a weak floorboard to gain her attention. When she spun to face him, something caused him to stay his hand against her. She had long golden hair that was worn loosely except where it was pulled back from her face. She was tall and wore the white robe of a priestess; a robe that was snugly fit but designed to allow the wearer freedom of movement for combat. She was beautiful, especially for a human, but there was something familiar about her face, something odd about the way she looked at him with her hazel green eyes still wet with tears. She looked at him as if she knew him – but it was impossible.

And then she said his name.

“Varg? It is you!” she said and approached him without fear. He stood motionless in confusion.

“You’re alive!” she cried while throwing her arms around his neck in a tight embrace.

He stood motionless and tense against her as she laid her head on his chest and new tears flooded her eyes. Eventually, she sensed his confusion and pulled back, but didn't entirely remove her arms from around his neck.

“Don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Halea!” she explained while looking up into his startled face.

“Impossible,” he said in a whisper. “It can’t be.”

She gently disentangled herself from him and stepped back. “Have I changed so much that you can’t even recognize my scent?”

He leaned into her until his nose came close to where her neck and jaw met and gently inhaled her scent. He could faintly hear her heart and pulse begin to race at his intimate proximity, but instead, he focused on the many notes of her scent as they tripped across his memories.

There!

The Halea he had known was a young girl - a child. The warm scent he breathed now was that of a woman; more matured, anxious, and fertile, but buried beneath all of that was the one scent he had memorized since he was a boy, and it had not changed.

He pulled back to look into her face. “Halea…it is really you!” he cried while snatching her into a crushing embrace.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and wept again in joy and relief.

“I thought I lost you! I thought you had died with your people the day the city was destroyed,” he spoke into her hair as he held her close.

“As soon as it appeared, I was taken to the Citadel with the rest of the priestesses. We received news that the lycans were destroyed when the great convergence tear opened, but I didn’t want to believe them. It took me almost a year to return, and when I did, I tried looking for you. I went to your den...there was nothing left. Everything had been destroyed; only bones and the shattered remains of what your people had built…and then I found this,” she said, reaching into the front of her robe and lifting the blue crystal she wore around her neck. It was the same shade of blue as his eyes.

He recognized it the moment she held it up for him.

“I lost it that day. Many of my pack were slaughtered. I wanted to look for you the moment the great tear opened, but father needed me to help lead the survivors to safety. We fled deep into the mountains and have only just recently returned. I went to the ruined city, hoping that you could have survived, but no one could have survived what happened in that place.”

Already she wanted to forget that terrible day that was again threatening to resurface in her mind. She reached up and gently touched his face.

“What happened to you? You’re all scruffy now. Where’s that skinny little wolf I used to know? Seriously, how’d you even fit through that door?” she teased with a smile.

Oh yes, he knew that smile.

He chuckled in a deep voice so unlike the one she had once known.

“What happened to me? What happened to you? Wow…you’ve changed…you look beautiful,” he said trying not to blush or let his eyes wander too much. She had certainly matured in all the best ways. He had thought she was beautiful when they were still kids, but now she was a grown woman, and every inch of her seemed to be calling for his attention.

She beamed at his compliment. She couldn’t help but notice that he had grown ruggedly handsome in the past eight years, but she decided to shift the topic away from appearances as she didn’t want to feel awkward with the man who had once been her closest and dearest friend.

“I’m a priestess now. That’s why I’m here. A tear has opened,” she explained.

“I figured one couldn’t be far. The demons are growing in number again. I was hunting one when I found you. Halea…” he said suddenly changing the subject. “What happened? I know you don’t want to talk about that day…I can smell your anxiety, but please, I need to know. What went wrong? What happened at the Citadel?”

She inhaled deeply and once again felt the pain in her heart. She did not want to relive those memories, but for him, she would.

* * *

CHAPTER 1 – WOLF BOY

“Can I play too?” she asked as the children outside the city walls picked opponents for their wrestling games.

It was a beautiful morning, and her grandfather had decided to spare her her lessons for the day at her mother’s behest.

“She should have time to be a child. Let her play,” her mother had pleaded to her cleric father-in-law. Theia doted on her only child, especially after the death of her husband. Halea was all she had left. She had hoped to give her child a happy, ordinary life, but destiny had not worked out that way. Halea had been born blessed by the Goddess Tiamet, the world dragon of creation.

No one knew which children would be blessed, or why. Theia was distraught to discover that her daughter had been given the light of Tiamet. When she grew up, she would be expected to serve the Goddess. She did not wish the life of a priestess for her child, but Uro had explained that the Goddess had her reasons for choosing Halea, and it would be unwise to deny her daughter the path Tiamet had laid before her.

Theia had brought her daughter to her father-in-law in the holy city of Ruinac by the sea as soon as she discovered her daughter’s gifts, and Uro had convinced her to stay and make their home in the city with him, where Halea could be raised in the ways of the Goddess. Uro had lost all of his children, and Halea was his only surviving grandchild. While he loved her, he was strict with her when it came to her training. Halea was all he had left and Tiamet’s greatest gift to him.

He had watched her stare wistfully out the windows that morning, and it did pain him to see his grandchild so lonely. She was only ten years old, and she longed to play with children her own age. When Theia had pleaded with him to allow the child to play, he couldn’t deny her after he saw the hopeful gleam in the child’s eyes. But he doubted she would be gone for long. He knew that other children shunned her.

“Sure!” replied one of the girls, her chestnut hair bound in short braids.

“No! Not her!” interjected one of the bigger boys. “She’s one of those freaks that pray to the dragon god. She hurt Ben the last time we let her near us.”

Ben stood back from the others, looking solemn and nervous.

“I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him!” cried Halea.

The gifts of Tiamet would someday serve to make her a powerful warrior against the forces of Chaos, but in the meantime, they made it difficult for her to fit in. She was much stronger than most children her own age and much faster, but the most formidable of her gifts was the power to purify.

“You get out of here! We told you last time we don’t want you around!” shouted another boy who picked up a rock and threw it at her. She easily dodged the stone but when the others joined in she was soon injured when one of the projectiles struck her painfully on the arm, causing her to cry out. While Halea was hurt and distracted, another girl took the opportunity to shove her from behind, causing her to fall hard on her hands and knees.

Painfully she pulled herself up, turned, and ran away as they shouted taunts after her. Her grandfather had told her most people feared what they didn’t understand, and there were very few who understood the ways of those who were blessed by Tiamet. She did not understand how a blessing could feel so much like a curse.

She ran away from the city and into the forest. She did not want to go home. She did not want to see the sadness and disappointment in her mother’s eyes again. Her mother so desperately wanted her to have friends, to be happy, to fit in. The only thing that hurt worse than her loneliness was her mother’s pity, and at that moment she couldn’t bear to face it. She made up her mind that she would hide in the forest until sunset, then later return home to her mother and pretend that she had a lovely day and for once had made a friend. She’d make something up; she would have to.

She slowed down a little as she made her way deeper into the forest. She was getting tired, her hands and knees stung from where she had skinned them falling, and her arm ached terribly. She knew she should not go too deeply into woods. There were dangerous wild beasts within, and worse – therians.

Despite the warnings, she had always dreamed of exploring the forest. It looked so lush and green as she would stare from her window over the city wall. Birds were singing as she passed through the trees and the fragrance of flowers filled the air. The warm sun filtered through the leaves, casting dancing flecks of light wherever she turned. The longer she walked, the more she began to forget the pain in her arm and the stinging taunts of the other children. Here, she felt at peace.

Whenever she saw a rabbit, she would follow it until it dodged into its hole. She would watch the squirrels until they ran up the trees and chattered down at her from above. She roamed and laughed and forgot, if only for a moment, everything she had left behind.

And then it occurred to her – she no longer knew the direction home.

Her heart pounded in her chest as panic welled up inside of her. How could she have let it happen?

Once again, she began to run, looking for anything familiar that might indicate the direction home, but the longer she ran, the thicker the trees became, and the more desolate she began to feel. She slipped on soft moss and fell hard on her hands and knees, reopening her scrapes. She tried to wipe her sweaty hair out of her face with her grimy hands and calm herself, but the panic within her was reaching a frenzy.

And that was when she heard the growling.

Her heart nearly stopped as she turned her head to the side and found herself staring directly into the eyes of a wolf.

It wasn’t very far away, and it was crouching low to the ground, growling at her and baring its gleaming white fangs. Slowly she turned her body from where she was still kneeling and crept backward. The wolf’s growls grew louder, but it remained still. Ever so slowly she rose to her feet, never for a moment turning her gaze away from the threatening beast. Its mesmerizing eyes were a shade of blue that was as cold as a winter’s sky, but its fur was brown and shaggy.

Then, it was gone.

In its place crouched a young boy. He appeared to be close to her in age, perhaps a year older. His thick brown hair was strewn wildly around his head, and as he jumped to his feet, he revealed a wiry frame clad in strange furs and animal skins. But his eyes were unmistakable, the same startling shade of blue as she had just seen in the wolf.

“If you come one step closer, I’ll kill ya! I’ll bite your head off, I will!” he shouted while frantically pacing a short distance back and forth and never taking his eyes off her.

It was then that she noticed the strange markings upon one of the trees. She knew those runes.

“Are you stuck?” she asked.

“Did you do this? I bet you think it’s funny. Well, when I get out, you’ll be sorry! I’ll eat you!”

Suddenly the last of the panic and fear dissipated from her and she found herself beginning to laugh. She tried not to laugh too hard, she could tell it was making the strange boy furious, but there was something so surreal about the entire situation that she couldn’t help herself.

“Oh, you are dead meat, human!” he threatened as he paced even faster, glaring at her the whole time and snarling which revealed his sharp fangs. She observed that his ears were long and pointed, and instead of fingernails, he had claws, and they looked rather sharp.

“Don’t be mad at me! You’re in a barrier. Clerics and priestesses use them sometimes to prevent demons from passing through.”

“I’m not a demon…you…stupid girl!” he retorted in frustration.

“Are you a therian?”

Therians inhabited the wild places, and they could come in many forms. They were the immortal descendants of the ancient gods, and as such, they were powerful and dangerous. Therianthropes possessed some of the qualities and gifts of whatever animal deity they descended from. They appeared as mostly human, and often attractive as a means of drawing in their prey, but most possessed the ability to transform into beasts.

Therians and humans did not often get along. There had been many wars waged over the ages; over territory, resources, or just to survive. Most therians had no qualms about killing and devouring humans; they were the predators, and the weaker humans, their prey.

“I’m a lycan!” he corrected.

Lycans were therians who descended from the ancient wolf gods. They shared many similarities to common wolves, and that knowledge did not comfort her.

“I guess they work on therian…I mean, lycans too. How did you get in there?” she asked.

“I was scouting from up there,” he said, pointing to a large mossy boulder behind him.

She giggled before realizing it, and he shot her another deadly glare, but she couldn’t help it. It was clear that he had slipped on the slimy moss from high above and landed right into the barrier. He could have just as easily walked into it, but the fact that he fell into it from above, was particularly comical to her. It was hard to not laugh at such a mental image, and she wished she could have seen it with her own eyes.

Apparently, he guessed her train of thought and growled. It was the distinct growl of a beast and not the imitation sound a child would make. It snapped her back into the reality of the danger of her situation. While he appeared to her as just another child, which put her off her guard, she had to remember he was still a therian, and he could, and probably would carry through with his threats.

“I’m sorry. Please, don’t be mad. It’s not my fault there’s a barrier. I didn’t do it. I…I might be able to get you out, though.”

He quieted down but was still regarding her with his cold and angry eyes.

“I’m going to be a priestess for Tiamet when I grow up. My grandfather is a cleric, and he taught me how to read the ancient language and even some easy spells. I might be able to break this barrier, but if I get you out, you have to promise me you won’t try to eat me once you’re free.”

He frowned.

“Well, do you want out or not? You’re not my problem, I can just go home!” she bluffed despite having no idea of how to get back, but he didn’t know that.

She noticed him sniffing at the air, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“You’re lying to me, human! I smell deceit!” he accused.

She hadn’t realized the scent of anxiety had risen from her as she lied about her ability to go home, and fearing that he had some strange power to read the mind, she instantly confessed in her guilt.

“Fine! I can’t go home! There! Are you happy? I’m lost! I didn’t mean to come this far into the forest, and now I don’t know how to get back,” she shouted while bursting into tears.

He watched her uncomfortably as she buried her face in her hands and cried, the scent of her salty tears reaching his sensitive nose. Of all the reactions in the world, he had not expected her to start crying, and he had no idea how to handle it. All he knew was that it bothered him and he didn’t like it.

“Stop bawling! Geez! Look, let me out of here, and I promise I won’t eat ya. Just don’t cry anymore.”

“What if you kill me and don’t eat me?” she asked while trying to dry her eyes. Her grandfather had always warned her that therians were dangerous and not to be trusted. She had no way of knowing if this one would keep his word, and his threatening behavior left her with a lot of doubts.

He seemed to look insulted as if he sensed she doubted his honor.

His father had raised him with a code that his word was his bond, even if it was given to a lowly human. “I won’t hurt you, kill you, or eat you, I swear it. Please…come on; just get me out of here.”

She looked him directly in the eye as he spoke. Would she be able to trust her life to him? He appeared to have finally calmed down, and now that he wasn’t snarling at her, he seemed like he might actually be nice. Perhaps.

“Okay, I’ll try it, but if I get you out…can you…can you tell me how to get back to the city?”

“Well…that would be extra generous on my part. I mean, I’m already letting you live…”

“Bye!” she said and turned.

“Okay, wait! Stop! All right – fine! You get me out, and I’ll let you live AND show you the way home,” he amended.

A devilish grin passed her lips, but she made sure to make her expression neutral before turning back to face him.

“Deal! Now give me a minute to figure out these runes,” she said as she began inspecting the trees surrounding him.

Truthfully, barriers were not meant to contain therians, their spell was intended for, and worked best, on beings from the Chaos Dimension. An older and stronger therian would have no trouble breaking through the seals, but a weaker therian child could very easily get stuck. This was a fact she had no desire to mention, as the lycan clearly had a sense of pride and she didn’t want him going back on their deal by angering him again.

She read the dark red markings on the tree, and could tell that it was an old trap, probably long forgotten. There would be two places around the trap where the markings would be visible, and the rest that created the perimeter of the barrier would be invisible so a demon could wander unaware into the trap. Once inside, any attempt to escape would result in purification. Purification didn’t quite work on therians. Experiencing purification for them could be painful, but not lethal.

She placed her hand over the red mark and focused as best as she could with the strange wolf boy staring at her back. She felt tense, and prayed she was strong enough to activate the runes. She was not a priestess and was still new to being an acolyte. Her powers weren't mature yet, but she forced herself to concentrate knowing that successfully freeing this lycan might be her only way home. After a tense moment, the rune began to glow.

“I did it!” she cried with glee.

“All right!” replied the wolf boy, who immediately ran forward.

“Don’t!” she shouted, but it was too late, he walked straight into the barrier. A blinding white light flashed, and there was a sizzling sound as the lycan screamed out in pain.

He lay prone on the ground and steam was slowly rising from him. At first, she thought he might be dead, but then he slowly beg an to move, and she heard him groan.

“You’re dead, human!” he threatened in a weak voice.

“I’m sorry! I tried to tell you ‘don’t!’ I wasn’t done yet. I only activated the first rune. There’s one more I have to find and activate. It’s not my fault you were impatient.”

“You are a terrible priestess!” he said as he sat up and dusted himself off. The steam was gone, and despite the initial shock and pain, he seemed no worse for wear. She suspected it wasn’t the first time he walked into the barrier. He must have discovered he was trapped somehow. The thought of him being shocked multiple times threatened to make her burst into laughter again, and she bit her lip as hard as possible to control herself.

“I’m not a priestess yet! I’m just a kid, gimme a break!”

He scowled and grunted as he pulled himself to his feet.

“I just gotta find the last rune,” she explained while slowly circling him. She could feel the edges of the barrier as she moved around him. It crackled against her skin like static electricity. As she walked, she inspected the trees and the ground. At last, she came to a stop once she had entirely circled the barrier.

“Well?” he asked, clearly getting impatient.

“Uh…I didn’t find it,” she confessed and tried not to cringe as he growled in frustration. “It should be visible somewhere! I didn’t see it!”

“Well, keep looking. I don’t want to be in here forever,” he pleaded.

“Well, what about you, do you see any more markings?”

He began looking around inside of the barrier as she tried circling it once again.

“Wait! I think I see something!” he said and pointed to the tall boulder from which he fell. There at the base, faded, but still visible was the other mark.

“That’s it!” she cried while approaching and kneeling before it.

She placed her hands in front of the mark and focused all of her energy into activating the rune. There was a strong resistance this time. Her hands trembled with the strain, and soft white lights began dancing at the tips of her fingers. More, she needed more power, but she was giving it everything she had.

He watched as perspiration began to bead on her brow. “Come on; you can do it! Keep trying!” he encouraged.

At last with a loud crack, the rune glowed, and the barrier snapped. The force of the spell breaking nearly knocked her over and left her feeling a little dizzy from the exertion.

“I think I did it!” she said while leaning against the cold boulder and slowly pulling herself up.

This time he stepped forward slowly, gently extending his hand to feel for the charge, instead, there was none. “It’s gone! Hey, you did it! Great job!” he exclaimed, but when he turned to face her, he stopped short. She looked a little sick. “Are you okay?”

She wiped the sweat from her face, smearing more dirt around in the process, and took a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine…just tired. My powers aren’t very strong, and I think I wore myself out a little.”

To her surprise, he started to laugh.

“What?” she asked.

“Your hair!” he pointed.

She reached up and felt that almost all of her hair was sticking up on end from the barrier’s charge. It must have looked ridiculous, and suddenly she too was laughing. They stood there l aughing together for a little while as she futilely tried to tame her hair, but not much seemed to be helping, and eventually, she gave up.

“Well, you did get me out. I suppose I owe you. I’ll show you to a stream. If you follow it west, it’ll take you straight to the city. They seem to get most of their water from our mountains.”

“I hope you guys don’t pee in it,” she said.

He chuckled at her joke. “Only a little. Come on, human. The sun’s already high.”

“Halea, my name is Halea,” she corrected while following him into the woods.

“I’m Varg, and this is my territory, well, it’s my pack’s territory, which means it’ll be mine someday. It’s not very smart to go wandering around in it without my permission.”

“I didn’t come cause I wanted to! So can I?”

“Can I – what?”

“Can I have your permission?”

He wasn’t expecting her to ask such a question. “Why?”

“Maybe someday I’ll want to come back. I only ran into the forest today to get away from the city. Nobody there really likes me anyway,” she said the last part quietly, but with his sensitive ears he easily heard her, and was surprised she would confide such a thing to him. It made him feel a little bad.

“As long as you don’t go past where the great oaks stop growing, I don’t care if you come to the forest. Past that point is close to our hunting grounds and beyond that the den, and it’s not like the other lycans owe you any favors.”

Her heart swelled with joy at the idea of being able to come back to the forest. Except for the getting lost part, she liked it, and the wolf boy wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t snapping at her.

“Thank you!” she shouted while running to keep up with him as he hopped over logs and moved through the brush with ease.

They walked in companionable silence for several more minutes. She snatched berries from bushes as they walked along to ease her hunger. Her mother was probably wondering why she hadn’t come home for lunch.

“Why were you scouting out here by yourself? Where’s the rest of your pack?” she finally asked, knowing that wolves usually hunted in packs. She had been wondering, but it had taken her a little time to muster up the courage to ask.

“Some are out hunting. Most are back at the den today. I just wanted some time alone. Nothin’ wrong with it,” he explained, and she sensed that he seemed a little defensive, though she had no idea why, so she decided to change the subject.

“Will you come out by yourself again?”

“I can do it whenever I want!” he explained.

Eventually, they reached a shallow stream surrounded by fern patches.

“This is it. Just follow it downstream, and it’ll take you all the way back. A wolf could make that distance in no time at all, but, well, you’re just a human. It’ll probably take you an hour.”

“I’m faster than all the other kids where I come from,” she defended. Speed was one of the gifts of Tiamet.

“Still not faster than a wolf! You’ve been dragging the whole way here.”

“I’m tired! I did just have to break a barrier. I’d like to see you do that. And I bet I could outrun you too…if I weren’t tired. I’d show ya!”

He gave her a strange wolfish grin, exposing the tips of his fangs. “Are you challenging me?”

Varg was a wolf, and what’s more, he exhibited all the traits that would someday make him an alpha male. Being the strongest and fastest over everyone and everything was a growing obsession for him, and he was not about to let some human female challenge his dominance.

“Yeah, maybe I am. I bet I could beat ya!” she announced, refusing to be intimidated.

“Fine, human, come back here to the fern patch tomorrow when the sun is high. And don’t go tiring yourself out before you arrive, that way when I whip ya, you can’t make any excuses.”

She grinned at the invitation. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

Theia stood staring out the front door. Children would run and play past the front steps of their home, but she never saw Halea, and she hadn’t come home for lunch. She was beginning to worry. Eventually, she decided to wait inside. Maybe this was a good sign. Perhaps she was finally out somewhere making a friend and having fun like a normal child.

She went to the kitchen and began cutting vegetables for dinner when she heard the front door open and close. Theia immediately put down her utensils and went to see her daughter, when she stopped short and gasped.

There stood Halea. The romper she wore that morning was stained, and her shoes were caked in mud. She had scrapes on her knees, a giant bruise on her arm, her hands and fingernails were filthy, her face was smeared with dirt, and her hair was a disaster, but despite it all, she had the brightest smile on her face.

“Halea?”

“Mother, I had a wonderful day!”

* * *

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Part VII

Science fantasy

Contents

1. Iron

2. Moon Deeds

1

Iron

Aiki Flinthart

Kalima, an Earth-colony world with little iron ore and no fossil fuels, is entrenched in a peaceful feudal society. The Jundom of Mamalakah is ruled by the ambitious Hanna Zah-Hill, wife of the Jun First. Deep in debt, she wants technological progress. But Mistress Li of Xintou House prefers to keep the status quo. And has the power to do so.

When Alere Connor – failed xintou-telepath but skilled swordswoman – is sent to act as mistress to Jun First Radan Zah-Hill, she unwittingly triggers a revolution against the House and against the throne. On his deathbed, Radan reveals the existence of a hidden iron deposit. With several factions vying for political domination of the Jundom, control of the iron would tip the balance of power.

Alere is accused of the Jun First's murder and flees for her life. She must reach and warn the Jun Second, Rafi Koh-Lin, on whose lands the iron ore lies. If she fails, all-out war is inevitable - the first ever war in the seven hundred year history of Kalima.

On the way, Alere will uncover the old and bloody secret of her own existence; the reason for her failure as a xintou-telepath; and unlock and even darker future for herself and her companions.

But only if she survives.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

ALERE

Freedom, however imaginary and brief, should be savoured.

Alere danced a few steps along the cobbles. Each moment in the blood-orange sunlight was a gift to be treasured; hoarded against days to come. She raised her face to the warmth. But the veil, though it softened the grey cityscape into dusty shades of gold, clouded her vision; a cage and a reminder. She shoved the gossamer silk up onto her forehead. Then, with arms flung wide, she embraced the jewel-mirage of free will; perfect and unattainable as a yanstone. The long sleeves of her gold silk Xintou-House robe fluttered like a jin-bird’s wing.

She smiled and strolled on through the Zalam slums of Madina. Her steps slowed, even though she was already late returning to Xintou House. With the veil lifted, reality’s sharp edges cut into her pleasant delusion.

Overhead, drunken houses – held up by washing lines and hope – crowded the narrow street and threw shadows the colour of day-old bruises. Mud and dung mired her embroidered shoes, and it took effort to ignore the stench of rotting food and human waste. A small child, filthy hands upraised in supplication, watched with hollow eyes as Alere and her weishi-guards passed.

Alere hesitated, but her purse was empty and the child was one of thousands in the slums these days. Regretfully, she turned aside and concentrated on the sky, visible as fragments of pale peridot between the uneven rooftops. The people here were poor, but they were also free to choose their own path. She envied them that. Tomorrow she would lose even this small independence of walking home from Jiaoji House. For now—

She bumped into Kett’s back and the illusion shattered, as it had to.

‘What is it?’ Alere peered around him.

Ahead, five people had someone cornered in the mouth of an alley that reeked of urine and vomit. Coarse laughter rattled off the surrounding patchwork of violet bamboo and mudbrick walls. Window shutters closed as tenants hid from the future.

‘Looks like another brawl,’ Kett said. ‘Blocking our route back to Xintou House. And before you ask, no, you can’t help.’

With work and food scarcer every day, fights were rife in the Zalam. Annoyingly, Kett never interfered lest his actions endanger Alere.

‘Fine. We can try a different way.’ Alere pointed over her shoulder. ‘This place is a maze. I’ve never been down that street two blocks back. Could be interesting.’

‘Interesting is what I’m trying to avoid,’ Kett replied. ‘Which would be easier if you didn’t insist on coming this way every week.’ He continued to frown at the group ahead. ‘But there’s something…’

What made him hesitate? Kett was the senior weishi-bodyguard of Xintou House, calm and fearful of nothing. Were there threats he’d seen and she’d missed? The motley assemblage blocking the path was nothing unusual: four men and a woman, all in shabby versions of various trades-House uniforms. They clustered around a figure curled on the cobbles. Nearby, the bodies of three Madina city junren-guards lay sprawled on the road, their black and gold uniforms spattered with blood. The junren must have been protecting someone important for they usually avoided the Zalam.

The biggest of the five aggressors, a blond xiao-bear of a man, drew a dagger and prodded the figure huddled at his feet. His companions egged him on. Their victim whimpered.

Alere bared her teeth; half a grin, half a grimace of anticipation. This was her last day. Her last chance. Kett had to allow her some experience. She pushed past him, one hand on her short-sword.

‘I said no, Shunu Alere.’ Kett gripped her shoulder.

She glared at him. ‘And I told you not to call me that. I don’t deserve the title.’

Kett’s grey eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Take it up with Mistress Li. She pays my wages.’ He nodded towards the altercation ahead. ‘Remember your training? Observe first, act second.’

Alere tried to shake free, but his fingers bit deep into her shoulder. She didn’t protest, though she rarely allowed such familiarity. But Kett was her personal weishi, shifu-master, and friend. He had earned the right. He gestured to Bren and Tamir, and the two black-uniformed weishi boxed Alere in. She fumed in silence.

Kett paid no attention so she let irritation slide away.

‘Please, don’t,’ sobbed a female voice.

Kett stiffened and released Alere’s shoulder. His hand dropped to his sword. He scanned the surrounding buildings.

‘Now?’ Alere slid her ceramic blade from its sheath. ‘It’s a woman, Kett. A healer, I think. Looks like a grey robe she’s wearing. We have to help. It’s the weishi credo to protect those in need. There’s only five of them and four of us.’

‘I have to help. You’re not weishi. It could be a trap. You keep giving money away every time we pass through. People notice.’

‘It’s the only thing I can do. You won’t let me fight. I’ve trained for ten years, Kett. I’ll just—’

‘Killing those who prey on the weaker isn’t always the answer.’

‘This, from you?’ She lifted her brows. ‘After all those talks about how wrong the kin-child murders were? How much the junren who carried out those orders deserve to die?’

‘That’s different,’ he replied, his eyes narrowing. ‘These men are just desperate, they’re not choosing to act on orders they know are wrong. Besides, your training was for self-defence, not murder. And you’re due at the Alcazar tomorrow. Mistress Li would have my head if something happened to you.’

‘We’re due at the Alcazar, you mean.’

Kett said nothing, only continued to watch the alley.

‘Besides,’ Alere muttered, ‘I’d be better off dead than in the Alcazar as jiaoji to the Jun.’

‘You don’t mean that. Stay here.’ Kett swept a swift look around. ‘They’ve killed three city junren. It’s not safe.’

‘But you said the city guard’s hiring complete shazis these days. I can—’

‘You’ll stay here with Tamir.’ His face was stone; an expression she knew well. She glowered, but sheathed her sword with a snap of ceramic against wood. At this rate she’d never get to test her skills in a real fight.

‘And cover your face,’ he added.

She yanked the gold veil down and scraped long strands of dark hair back out of the way. Kett didn’t normally object to her lifting it. He knew Alere felt like a fraud wearing the veil. But he was right: the scrap of silk was a symbol of Xintou House and should provide some protection in this neighbourhood.

Kett and Bren drew their weapons and strode into the alley. Carmine afternoon light glinted bloody off Kett’s steel sword blade. The weapon attracted furtive stares from onlookers scurrying past. Unlike Bren’s ceramic blade, steel swords were rare; worth more than a year’s wages.

Alere held her breath, waiting for her weishi to engage. It wasn’t often she got to see Kett in action.

One of the thugs yelled a warning and turned. He stabbed a bronze dagger at Kett, who struck it aside. Steel cleaved the soft metal in half. Kett’s blade continued its arc and sliced through brown leather, into a thin chest. The tradesman slumped to the ground. Bren lunged and skewered a man wearing tattered merchant-green. Blood dripped from the protruding tip of his blade. Alere resisted the urge to shout encouragement, lest she distract her weishi.

The female in the group screamed a curse and slashed a chipped ceramic knife at Kett’s head. Kett caught the strike with his dagger. The clash of ceramic split the cool air. The woman struck again. Kett sidestepped and thrust his blade into her chest. Her shriek lanced through the scuff of Kett’s boots and Bren’s grunt of effort.

Only two men still stood against them. The giant blond bared yellowed teeth and snarled something in old Mandrin. Alere caught only selb and erheyi. The words meant nothing to her, but Bren paled. Kett replied in the same tongue, low and calm, too quiet for Alere to hear. She frowned, straining to catch their interchange.

‘Farran.’ The blond grinned at his companion, a stocky bald man in grey, and switched to the common tongue. ‘Seems these weishi are interfering in our business.’ He spat into the dirt at Kett’s feet.

‘Finish it, Dennat.’ Farran wiped a hand over his sweat-slicked pate. ‘We’ve got no time for this.’

Dennat chortled. His teeth showed brown, darkened by chewing the narcotic blackweed favoured in the Zalam slums. ‘But these Xintou House tunnel-pigs think they have us beat.’

‘Then they’d be wrong.’ Farran yanked their female captive off the ground and held a bronze knife to her throat.

Kett raised his dagger-hand, palm out. ‘She’s a healer. Are you mad? Let her go.’

‘Interfere again and she’s a dead healer.’ Farran backed away and dug the knife point into the woman’s honey skin. Blood trickled down her neck and stained scarlet the high collar of her grey and white healer’s robe.

Alere peered closer. A fluttering white veil hid the upper half of the healer’s face. But something about the sharp jawline and the shape of her full lips seemed familiar. The only healers Alere knew were two dignified old men who attended her House-sisters.

The woman whimpered. Her nails tore at Farran’s arm, leaving long, red welts.

‘Stop it, chouhuo,’ he snarled, laying the blade along her cheek. ‘Slavers won’t pay as much if you’re cut up.’

Alere growled and gripped the hilt of her weapon. This had gone too far.

Kett took a half-step forward, bloody sword raised.

‘Don’t do it, weishi.’ Farran slipped the dagger under the healer’s collar and slit open her robe to the shoulder. A thin line of blood welled on her skin. Farran’s fingers whitened on her arm and the girl’s cry of pain became a sob.

‘Please!’ She gasped as Farran pressed the knife edge to her throat again.

Kett shifted his feet, hands flexing on dagger and sword.

Alere half-drew her blade.

A footfall scuffed on the cobbles behind her.

‘Shunu Alere! Watch—’ Tamir yelped.

Alere spun, weapon drawn, slicing before she knew why. Her blade clashed with another. The sharp clang of ceramic on bronze ricocheted in the street’s narrow confines. A sixth man had snuck up from behind. He struck again, a vicious overhead blow. Alere froze, her mind numb. Her arms hung heavy and limp at her sides.

The bronze edge cut at her head in slow motion. She watched, detached as her arm jerked up reflexively. But the sword-grip felt clumsy and thick in her hand. She forced her feet to move though she couldn’t feel the ground. Her blade caught his and she spun aside. Her attacker stumbled past. Alere sucked quick, panting breaths and faced him.

He ran at her again, at full speed, his lips twisting into a snarl as he swung the sword. Alere deflected. She struck at his stomach; thrust the blade deep into flesh until it jarred on bone. His mouth and eyes widened in a silent scream. With shaking hands, Alere yanked the sword free. He collapsed, twitching, movements slowing as he scrabbled on the stones.

Blood roared in her ears. Alere gritted her teeth against an urge to throw up. There was no time for that. Where was Tamir? She turned. Tamir lay huddled on the ground, curled into the foetal position.

An arm snaked around her throat. She drove an elbow backwards. A hand seized hers and wrenched the sword loose. The world faded to sepia. Alere gasped for air and clawed at the forearm across her neck. Seven seconds. Kett’s teaching rang in her head. She had seven seconds before unconsciousness. Panic swelled from high in her chest, strangling thought. Three seconds. No! The blind urge to scream and lash out in panic lodged in her throat. She quelled it and dug her thumb into his elbow pressure-point.

The choke relaxed and blood rushed back to her brain. She jabbed an elbow into her assailant’s ribs. He grunted, but instead of loosening, his grip tightened again. A knifeblade touched her throat.

‘Now, shunu,’ a gravelly voice muttered in her ear, ‘you and me are gonna have a chat with your weishi friends.’ The sick stench of rotten teeth and jiu-alcohol made her gag. How had she let yet another of these hmari scum sneak up on her?

Her captor half-dragged her to the alley where Kett and Bren still faced off against the men holding the healer.

‘Alere!’ Kett took a half-step but stopped when Alere’s captor dug the knife in, under her jaw.

Pain sleeted across her skin and she sucked a quick breath. With her head tilted back she could barely keep balance, let alone free herself. Anger flared, deep in her stomach. She was better than this.

Farran, still holding the healer, chortled. ‘Nicely done, Yeno. Well, we’ve got a fine haul for the slavers today, don’t we lads?’

‘Let them go,’ Kett growled.

With a cool smile for Kett, Farran studied Alere. ‘No mind-tricks, xintou? Seen you come this way before, throwing coin around like it’ll fix what ails people. You got no idea what we need, chouhuo. Didn’t think you were a real gold-robe, either. Seems I was right, huh? High and mighty xintou’d never come here. Well, that’ll change soon.’ He jerked his head at Yeno. ‘Take ‘em to the docks and put ‘em on the ship to Melcor. Dennat and I’ll take care of these weishi and join you later.’

‘No!’ The healer struggled in his arms. ‘No, don’t. You can’t take her. Please. Let them all go and I’ll come with you peacefully, I promise.’

‘Awww,’ Farran said, ‘how gouri noble. Sorry, girlie. Slaves are valuable and a few less weishi’s a good thing. And I fancy that steel sword.’

‘Shunu Alere?’ Kett’s attention was fixed on Farran.

Alere tensed. The wrong choice would end everything. But did it matter? Her life was worthless, no longer her own. And life in the Alcazar was little more than slavery, anyway: duty-bound, without choices. The blade dug deeper into her skin. Warm liquid trickled down her chest.

But at least, in the Alcazar, there was a chance of freedom – once her duty was complete. And the healer woman deserved better than slavery, too. Alere shifted her feet, trying to get better purchase on the blood-slippery cobbles.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, little shunu,’ Yeno whispered in her ear.

Fury blossomed, obliterating despair.

‘Do it, Kett,’ she commanded.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Kett leapt. He grabbed Farran’s dagger and wrenched it away from the healer’s throat. Bren sliced open Dennat’s neck in one stroke. Alere seized Yeno’s hand and twisted it away from her collar. His wrist dislocated in a series of sickening pops. She smashed her elbow into his cheekbone. Something crunched. Perfect. Yeno screamed and staggered backwards, clutching his face. The bronze knife dropped to the cobbles, clanging a death-knell. Alere snatched up the dagger and rounded on her attacker with rage in her heart. She shortened her arm for the strike.

A length of steel stabbed through Yeno’s barrel chest from behind. Alere jumped back and choked off a cry. Yeno gaped at the red-slicked sword. The blade vanished. He crumpled at her feet, eyes rolling into his head. Blood flowered across his shirt.

Kett flicked gore from his steel and scanned the surrounds. Scarlet drops glistened on the cobbles and spattered Alere’s robe. Only Bren, the healer, Alere, and Kett remained alive. The whole fight had taken less than five minutes but it felt like an hour. Her memory of the action was blurred and warped as though seen through the bottom of a dirty glass.

‘Bren,’ Kett said, ‘check for survivors.’

The ground steadied beneath Alere’s feet and she followed Bren’s movements, morbidly fascinated. Asu-flies already buzzed around the bodies sprawled on the ground. The skinny beggar-child Alere had seen before scurried from the doorway and rummaged through the corpses’ pockets. The healer-woman lay crumpled on the cobbles, sobbing. Alere looked away lest the woman’s distress eat into her own artificial calm.

‘You alright?’ Kett pointed at Alere’s neck.

She touched her skin and her fingers came away bloodstained. Was she alright? She opened her mouth to deny it, but the calm expectation in Kett’s eyes silenced her. Instead, she nodded, swallowing down fear and adrenalin. The bronze dagger lay heavy in her hand. She hurled it aside.

Behind her, Tamir groaned. ‘Master Kett.’

‘Tamir…’ she managed.

‘You see to him,’ Kett said. ‘I’ll help Bren make sure the rest of these lowlife hmari are not a threat, and check the city guardsmen.’ Kett strode away, stained sword ready in his hand.

Tamir lay on the road, curled around an oozing wound in his side. Gasping pleas for help stretched his mouth wide and his life snaked away, crimson, between the cobblestones. Alere gathered her wits. Tamir needed her and focusing on him gave her purpose. She pushed the gold veil up so she could see clearly. With fingers made clumsy by fear, she tore two long strips from her under-robe, folded one and used the other to tie it in place against the ugly wound.

‘Don’t you die on me, Tamir. Kett would never forgive us. Besides, you and Kett are supposed to escort me to the Alcazar tomorrow. Not going to let me down, are you?’

‘No, Shunu Alere,’ he whispered. His head sagged to one side, eyes closed.

‘Tamir?’ She slapped his cheek lightly. He couldn’t die. Kett had made her responsible. ‘Stay awake. That’s an order. Kett?’

In the alley, Bren helped the healer rise, his arm around her waist. The girl buried her face in his neck. Kett broke away from them and strode to Alere’s side. He pulled the gold veil down to cover her eyes again. Alere was too rattled to object. The veils should have made her, and the healer, both, unassailable. The telepaths of Xintou House and the healers of Healer House were revered throughout the land.

‘Tamir is…’ She waved a helpless hand. She should have been watching for threats with him, not focussing on Kett and Bren.

‘We need to get him back to Xintou House.’ Kett’s voice was strained.

‘No. Healer House is closer.’ The healer stepped away from Bren. She smoothed the front of her stained robe with trembling hands. She crouched beside Tamir, lifted the reddened bandage and inspected his wound. Then she turned to the man Alere had stabbed. ‘This one lives, too. Bring both to the Master surgeons in Healer House. Quickly.’ She pointed up the street. ‘It’s only three blocks away.’

‘Him?’ Alere scowled. ‘He tried to kill me.’

‘Healer House is for everyone.’ There was no mistaking the gentle rebuke in the healer’s tone. ‘Do you want his death on your conscience? Look. He’s just a child.’

Alere tried to ignore the lurch in her stomach at the sight of the ragged hole in the boy’s body. He was scrawny and young; dressed in patched rags, his skin filthy and darkened by old bruises. Hardly a worthy opponent. Kett was right: the healer’s attackers were just as desperate as anyone else in the Zalam slums. Alere turned away, sickened by her handiwork.

‘Master Kett.’ Bren knelt beside Tamir. ‘Tamir’s unconscious. There’s so much blood. He’ll—’

Kett waved Bren to silence. Doubt clouded Kett’s eyes as he glanced first at Tamir, then back and forth between the healer and Alere. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing a stray dark hair back into the mawei tied low at his collar. His gaze lingered on the healer.

‘Very well.’ Kett crouched and, with a grunt of effort, scooped Tamir into his arms. Tamir’s blood smeared on his hands. Kett nodded to the healer. ‘Lead us. Your name?’

‘Mina,’ she replied.

‘Why did they attack you?’ Kett frowned at her exposed shoulder. ‘Did they hurt you before we arrived?’

Mina clutched together the torn pieces of her dress. A flush crept up her slender neck. Below the white veil, her lips pressed together. ‘They didn’t hurt me. They wanted the city junren who escorted me.’ She glanced at the bodies lying in the alley and shivered. ‘They called themselves the selb. Said something about the city junren persecuting them. I think I just got in the way.’

‘You were brave,’ Kett replied. ‘You’re safe now. Lead us, please.’

‘The House is this way.’ She flushed and pointed.

Bren gathered the injured boy into his arms.

‘Shunu.’ Kett jerked his chin at Alere. ‘You next, where I can keep an eye on you. Keep that blade sheathed. I’ll have enough explanations to make to the city guard Shangwei as it is. Bren,’ he called. ‘When we get to Healer House, report to the city guardhouse. Advise the Shangwei what’s happened. Then go to Xintou House and bring two men to escort Shunu Alere home. And send a message to Weishi House-Master Anh. He can advise Tamir’s family. I’ll wait to hear about Tamir.’

‘Bai, shifu,’ Bren acknowledged.

‘Don’t you think we should—’ Alere began, but the look in Kett’s eye stopped the hot words on her tongue. She’d never seen him so troubled. If only she possessed the telepathic skills the Xintou House veil implied and could read his Outer thoughts. He switched his gaze back to Mina and the tension in his jaw deepened.

Silenced, Alere studied Mina as they walked. But the white and gold veils obscured all but a suggestion of dark eyes. A few strands of black hair escaped Mina’s white coif. But something about the healer obviously unnerved Alere’s stoic weishi. Had he seen beneath Mina’s veil, perhaps? Did he know her?

An unwelcome suspicion formed. Had Kett fallen for a pretty face? Surely not. He wasn’t so impulsive or shallow. She quashed the glimmer of unease in her stomach. For the last decade Kett had been not only her weishi and training master, but also surrogate brother and best friend. He was pledged to come with her to the Alcazar on the morrow. He wouldn’t abandon his duty for a girl he’d just met, would he?

Alere slowed her steps to walk beside Kett. She eyed the healer’s straight back as Mina picked her way along the muck-strewn street.

‘Do you know her? Is she someone important? If she’s not, why on Kalima would someone attack a healer?’ Alere looked sidelong at her weishi, trying to judge Kett’s reaction. Knowing Mina’s first name wasn’t helpful. Her last name was the key to her heritage. Did she have a family name extending back to the First Ships? Or was she a kin-child – the offspring of unwed parents? No, that was unlikely. The laws that had made kin-children illegal for the Juns and other nobility twenty years before, meant there were fewer such children these days, even amongst common folk.

‘No idea.’

‘She seems ordinary enough,’ Alere said. ‘Maybe from a Trade family? They apprentice their children to the Houses. Isn’t that how you came to be in Weishi House?’ He never mentioned his family and she’d long-since stopped asking.

Kett said nothing, but cradled Tamir’s limp body closer against his broad chest.

‘Obviously, she’s not the daughter of a Jun family,’ Alere continued. The twenty-one ruling Juns traced their names back to the original Funding families, financiers of Kalima’s colonisation. ‘No daughter of a Jun would ever be allowed to serve in a House. So maybe Mina’s right and it was the Madina city junren they were after. What do you think?’

‘I think,’ Kett said, ‘you should be worrying about Tamir.’

‘Bai, shifu,’ Alere responded, flushing. He was right. Mina’s family was none of her business.

Mina turned a corner and vanished into a cramped passage between a food market and a hostelry. Alere lifted her robe to avoid a pile of decomposing wedi leaves and gidfruit scraps. The stench of urine and decaying fruit thickened the cool autumn air. She screwed up her nose and half-ran to keep up as Mina hurried through the narrow alley.

The lane opened onto a broader street, with rutted stone paving and leaf-clogged, broken gutters. A huoche, stacked high with baskets of black jilla-fruit, rolled past. Its bronze-strapped timber wheels rattled on the road. One wheel dropped into the hole left by a missing paving stone. The che-ma towing the huoche shook its stiff, red-striped mane and nickered in protest, straining against the load. The driver swore and cracked a whip over the animal’s long ears.

‘Only a few years ago this area was one of the best in Madina,’ Kett said, scanning the houses on the opposite side of the street.

Alere studied the once-regal sandstone and sulcrete dwellings and shivered. Jagged glass made empty windows into gaping mouths and despairing eyes. Formal gardens were withered and weed choked. She looked away from a pot-bellied boy in filthy rags who crouched in front of a door half-ripped off its bronze hinges.

Mina cast a pitying glance at the toddler. ‘Every day more of Madina feels the bite of poverty. At Healer House we try to feed those we can, but our resources are small. The Alcazar withholds tithes that are rightfully ours.’

‘Why won’t the Jun First come and see what’s happening to his city?’ Alere asked. ‘He never leaves the Alcazar these days.’

‘It’s not Jun Radan causing this,’ Kett replied, his tone bitter. ‘He’s been unwell for months. It’s his wife, Shunu Hanna, who’s behind this. She—’

‘Here.’ Mina ushered them through the side entrance to a massive sandstone building, into a stark, windowless room that smelled of cleaning fluid. Lights glared and Alere jumped, squinting against the aching brilliance. So few buildings had electricity any more, but she should have expected it in Healer House.

Mina gestured to a pair of alzin tables and gathered bandages as Kett placed Tamir gently on the polished metal. Bren dropped his burden unceremoniously onto the other table. Mina pressed a button by the door then lifted the bandage on Tamir’s wound. Blood oozed from the torn skin and she pressed the cloth hard again.

Kett touched her arm. She flinched, her lips falling open in a gasp.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ Kett said. ‘I just wanted to ask if he’ll be alright.’

‘Yes, you need not wait. I believe they’ll both recover.’ Her warm smile held professional assurance. ‘I’ll send a runner to Xintou House when I have news.’

Alere’s guilt eased. The boy wouldn’t die at her hand, nor Tamir through her neglect.

‘I’m lucky you came along,’ the healer added, still addressing Kett. ‘But why were you in the Zalam area? It’s nowhere near Xintou House.’

‘We escort the shunu to Jiaoji House three times a week for lessons,’ Kett said. ‘She insists on walking and it’s quicker to go through the Zalam.’

Mina’s brows rose. ‘Jiaoji House? Lessons in seduction for a xintou? I didn’t think—’

‘And music and dancing,’ Alere said stiffly, irritated that they spoke as though she was absent. ‘Kett, we have to get back. I’ll be late for dinner.’

He bowed. ‘Of course. Bren and I will escort you and he can report to the city guard Shangwei after.’

‘I’m sorry to detain you, shunu,’ Mina said, bowing. She rose on tiptoes and brushed her lips across Kett’s cheek. ‘And thank you.’ She smiled gently and returned to her patients.

Alere spun on her heel and marched from the room. After a brief silence, Kett and Bren’s steady footsteps followed close behind. Relief swept through her. She stalked in the direction of Xintou House, unwilling to speak until she had mastered herself.

* * *

When Alere arrived at the House, thoughts of tomorrow crowded back, supplanting all other worries. She stared at the steel-studded door that proclaimed the House’s wealth and power. Above the door, carved in Old Anglish, Rabic and Mandrin, was the House motto:

Clarity, stability, responsibility, and compassion.

The House had been her home for the past ten years; those tenets reinforced every day. After tonight that part of her life would be over – yet inescapable.

The Jun First’s palace, the Alcazar, stood a bowshot away in the city centre, dominating the blood-lit skyline. To the people of Madina, the Alcazar’s twin steel towers were a monument to freedom and hope; the last remnants of the first colony ship. Seven hundred years ago, twenty thousand idealistic people had escaped war and oppression by fleeing from Earth to Kalima. Now the blunt-nosed towers loomed over a city of a hundred thousand miserable souls, mired in poverty.

Alere blinked back angry tears as she studied the gleaming spires that would be her home. Most people believed the Alcazar to be steel – rarest of all metals. But the Jun’s towers were an aluminium alloy; as hollow and false as the Jun who lived inside.

The Alcazar embodied not hope, but the end of her dreams. Tomorrow she would become jiaoji to the Jun First. No matter what her true role in the Alcazar, to the world she would be just another contracted courtesan. Jun First Radan Zah-Hill already had four jiaoji. Why had he asked for her? Alere’s shoulders sagged under the weight of duty and resignation. Why not? Jiaoji was her only real option. Mistress Li seemed to think Alere was fit for nothing else.

The sun dipped behind the Alcazar, casting purple shadows across the empty street. An evening breeze picked snow-cold off the distant mountains and threw the chill over the city. Alere shivered.

She steeled herself and headed to the stable to clean her sword. To meet the House mother with a bloodied blade in hand would be unforgivable. For a xintou to even carry a weapon was frowned upon by most in the House. A true telepath had no need of weapons. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.

‘Shunu Alere.’ Kett’s deep voice halted her as they entered the yard. He dismissed Bren.

She lifted her veil. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘That girl, the healer—’

‘What about her? You seemed quite impressed.’ Alere regretted the sarcastic words as soon as they left her mouth; more so when Kett responded with an admonitory look. He was her shifu-master and she had no right to question him. Her cheeks burned.

‘She was you,’ he said.

‘What?’ His words made no sense, so she waited.

‘I saw her for a moment,’ Kett continued. ‘She wears your face, Alli.’

That got her attention. He’d used her familiar name, not the formal adult name she’d chosen at her Threshold ceremony two years before. Kett only called her Alli when they were alone and he was off duty.

‘What do you mean? She looks like me?’

‘Exactly like you.’

‘She wore the veil, Kett. You couldn’t have seen her clearly. I’m sure it was just a similarity.’

A gong sounded inside the House, calling her house sisters to dinner. The conversation would have to wait until the morrow. Tonight’s dinner was her last in the House and she couldn’t be late. She was to be honoured with a ceremonial leave-taking. To arrive splashed with blood and her robe torn would be an insult to Mistress Li.

‘We’ll discuss it later. I must change for dinner.’ Alere unbuckled her belt and held out her scabbard. ‘Clean this for me, please?’

He hesitated but took the weapon.

‘Your first blood. Well done too. I’ll bring it to your room.’

She rubbed at a spot of blood on her wrist. ‘It wasn’t well done. I almost killed a child, Kett. Younger than me. And so…I should have done better.’ She bit back self-disgust.

‘He was young, but he would’ve slain you without hesitation. But I am glad you didn’t kill him.’ Kett grimaced. ‘Once you cross that line, there’s no going back. I don’t want that for you.’

‘But I let two of them sneak up on me. I should have been watching, with Tamir. And I froze.’ She dropped her head, unable to meet his eyes. As her shifu he had every right to be angry that she’d failed Tamir. ‘I panicked, shifu. When I did fight back, I wasn’t calm. I was so angry I could hardly think straight. I feel like I’ve disgraced my sword.’

Kett lifted her chin with a knuckle. His grey eyes searched hers. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself. It was your first real fight. Freezing is normal, but you overcame it and did your training proud. Anger’s just another face of fear. You’ll overcome that, too.’ He hesitated and frowned. ‘But when that knife was at your throat, what were you thinking then?’

Alere glanced at the Alcazar. ‘That I was already a slave. That no-one really cares what happens to me. That I have no choice; no chance to be free. Maybe ever.’

‘I care. As does your mother, Elmira.’ He laid both hands on her shoulders. ‘There are always choices, Alli. You could run away again, but you’ve chosen to do your duty by the House and there’s nothing wrong with that.’

She smiled bleakly. ‘I haven’t run away since I was fourteen. It never did me any good. I always knew you’d be sent to find me. Besides, duty isn’t a choice. Mistress Li needs my help in the Alcazar.’ She shoved his hands off. ‘In my position I have to do what people expect.’ Her eyes blurred with tears. ‘And as everyone here keeps telling me: I’ll never be xintou. I’m a disappointment to Elmira. I’m nothing. What option do I have but to do my duty?’

Kett opened his mouth then sighed. ‘You’re wrong, Alli, but I know you don’t believe me. Duty and responsibility doesn’t have to be a cage. But I agree that you need to stop letting others choose your path for you. Freedom isn’t out there.’ He indicated the high, sandstone walls surrounding the House, then tapped his temple. ‘It’s in here. You are free to think whatever you like. To do whatever you like.’

Alere gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Think what I like in a House full of telepaths? I’m a non-telepath so I can’t tell if they’ve breached my wards. I watch every thought, Kett. You know that.’

He grimaced. ‘Imagine how the rest of the world feels, then. They don’t get trained to ward at all so they have no hope of keeping their thoughts private. You are free, Alli, you’ve just chosen to believe you’re not.’ He sighed again. ‘One of these days, you’ll start choosing to live, instead of just waiting for life to be handed to you. I’m looking forward to that.’ With another bow, he vanished into the guardhouse.

Alere stared after him as darkness slipped across the city. He was wrong. So wrong. She had no choice and her life was over before it had even begun.

* * *

She hurried to her room, stripped off the torn robe, washed her hands and face, and dabbed healing cream on her neck. If only she could wash away the memory of blood as easily. Putting the attack out of mind was simpler for Kett, perhaps, than for her.

The bell rang again as Alere dragged the plain yellow house-robe of a student xintou over her shoulders. She fumbled with the toggles and her mind drifted to tomorrow. No, she shouldn’t torture herself. She need only focus on getting through dinner. Morning would come, regardless of how much she worried. She would handle whatever happened.

With face and mind schooled to serenity, she hurried through whitewashed halls to the dining room. A servant slid open the black, lacquered door. Silence swept the room. Thirty-three women turned towards her. Alere held her head high and strode to the main table to make her bow.

Mistress Li, as leader of Xintou House, sat enthroned at the head of the hall, flanked by her assistant, Renna, and the House-mistress, Mara. Mistress Li acknowledged Alere with an inclination of her smoothly-coiffured head. She indicated the vacant seat at the end of the main table. Alere hesitated. That position was an honour reserved for girls on their last evening before telepathic Bonding with one of the twenty-one Jun-families.

If only that were her fate: to be a Bonded Xintou. Alere sank into the seat. She hid the ache in her chest and endured the tedious dinner, tasting nothing, hearing none of the conversations, either spoken or telepathic. Her last night in the House. Her last night deluding herself with the hope that she could ever be xintou.

When the meal was over, she stood before the high table. In a corner, a servant beat a heart-rhythm on a drum twice his height. The heavy thudding silenced the room. Three senior xintou stripped off Alere’s plain yellow house-robe. Traditionally, the xintou dressed their departing sister in a Bonded Xintou’s fine gold formal robe.

The audience gasped when, instead, Mistress Renna draped a jiaoji’s ornate red robe over Alere’s shoulders. Humiliation and anger churned in Alere’s stomach. Why must Mistress Li demean her before her sisters? This red-robing might be a pretence for others, but that thought failed to bring comfort. Jiaoji were respected, but not revered in the same way xintou were.

The jiaoji veil fell over Alere’s eyes and washed the room red, wiping away her dreams.

She lifted her chin. The tears built in her throat, but she refused to let them fall before her peers. No, not her peers. Her superiors now.

The drumming ceased. Heavy silence held the room in thrall.

Alere avoided every eye and, unbowed, stalked from the room. She strengthened her mental wards. The last thing she wanted was her Outer thoughts to be Read, for she was in no mood for sympathy or derision.

In the safety of her shielded room, Alere finally relaxed her wards. With a sob, she ripped the veil off, flung it into a corner and collapsed onto the plank-bed. She let the tears fall at last, not caring if they stained the blood-red silk of her robe.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

A knock on the door sent Alere scrabbling for a cloth to wipe her face.

‘Come in.’ Her voice cracked. She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and stood.

The door slid open and Mistress Li entered. With a wave of an elegant, parchment hand, she motioned for Alere to close the door. Mistress Li eased herself onto the bed and nodded for Alere to sit.

‘You’re frightened, child, and angry.’ Mistress Li cocked her head like a small, grey bird. It was a statement, not a question. ‘Control yourself, and we shall speak.’

Alere avoided the Xintou’s eyes and dropped back onto the bed, studying instead at the bare, windowless walls and scuffed bamboo floorboards. Xintou were meant to be above fear and anger. One more way in which she failed. She didn’t question how the Mistress knew. After all, the woman had been a xintou for at least a hundred years and had led the House for sixty. Her telepathic skills were legendary.

‘I do understand.’ Mistress Li’s lined mouth cracked into a rare, sympathetic smile. ‘But remember: you’re special and in a unique position.’

‘What, Elmira’s genetic mistake? And in a horizontal position in the Alcazar?’ The words spilled from Alere’s mouth. ‘Such a comfort when the Jun-First—’ She snapped her teeth shut.

‘You are not Elmira’s mista…’ Mistress Li pursed her lips. ‘That is a conversation for later, when you’re older.’

Not a mistake? Was that a deliberate slip of the tongue? If so, it made no sense. Everyone knew the great Elmira Connor, Bonded Xintou to the Jun Second Ma-Safra family, had created a flawed gene-daughter in Alere. A daughter without xintou powers. Useless.

‘For now, child,’ Mistress Li continued, ‘you must remember your job in the Alcazar.’

‘Oh yes, I know.’ Alere folded her arms. ‘Contracted to a man more than twice my age so I can spy for you. What I don’t know is who to watch and why ?’

Mistress Li patted Alere’s knee. ‘I’m here to tell you.’

‘And why can’t I be weishi instead of jiaoji?’ Tears stung Alere’s eyes. ‘I’ve trained with Kett as weishi for ten years and only three with Mistress Houlia at Jiaoji House. I won’t need jiaoji skills to seduce Jun Radan. Being female is enough, from what I hear. So why? It makes no sense.’

‘It makes perfect sense,’ Mistress Li replied, ‘if you take a moment to think calmly, child.’

Alere glowered and bit down on a hot retort.

‘As a jiaoji to the Jun First,’ Mistress Li continued, ‘you’ll have more freedom to move about in the Alcazar.’ She smiled thinly. ‘If you were weishi, you would be under orders from the Shangwei, Master Penon, and his most-distasteful second, Khaler. Believe me, jiaoji is better.’

Alere opened her mouth to argue, but Mistress Li raised a finger. Years of obedience held Alere’s tongue.

‘Trust me. It is for your own protection. More important,’ Mistress Li said, ‘is who you must watch: the Jun-Heir, Ven, and his mother, First Shunu Hanna.’

Alere suppressed the fear fluttering in her stomach and waited.

Mistress Li’s small eyes rested shrewdly on Alere. ‘Madina – no, the whole Jundom of Mamlakah – has descended into poverty over the last decade. The Jun First is a weak-willed man. For years, the First Shunu has manipulated him; bent him to her wishes. In her insecurity and desire for power, she has drained the people, but still she seeks more. Until recently, her reach has been limited.’ With twisted fingers, she smoothed the gold silk over her knees. ‘Now, Jun First Radan’s illness has worsened and he has lost what little control he had over Hanna. She’s planning something.’ Mistress Li frowned.

‘And you want me to find out what?’ Sweat prickled on Alere’s back. Her heart stuttered, thudding against her ribs. Madness. Everyone knew what happened to people who crossed the First Shunu. Their bodies swung from the top of the walls for weeks, their families with them. This must be serious if Mistress Li was willing to endanger not only Alere, but Elmira and the House as well.

‘It’s crucial for the Jundom that we stop her.’ Mistress Li drew herself up. ‘Radan’s weakness creeps through the country like a disease. Melcori slavers make forays into our realm. The trade Houses rebel against the Juns, demanding changes that can only harm us. A Jun-Bonded Xintou was allowed to conceive twins. It’s only a matter of time before a boy-xintou is birthed.’

‘But twins and boys are forbidden to xintou in the Teachings of Lei.’ Alere shuddered. ‘It’s dangerous. Even commoners fear twin-births. How could a Bonded Xintou do such a thing?’

Li clutched at the heavy gold chain tucked into the front of her robe. Whatever hung at the end of the chain lay concealed beneath the gold silk, but the gesture seemed to calm her.

‘That’s not an issue for you to worry about.’ Mistress Li’s fingers crushed the silk tighter, balling the cloth and hidden pendant in her fist. ‘You must find out what the First Shunu is planning.’

‘But what about Jun Radan’s Bonded Xintou? Isn’t that her job?’

‘Celia Edwards has recently replaced her mother as the Xintou in the Alcazar. But she has closed her mind to me. I fear she’s joined the First Shunu and Turned against the House.’

‘That’s impossible!’

‘There have been others, in the past,’ Mistress Li said. ‘Xintou, Bonded to lesser Jun, have succumbed to the life of luxury in a Jun family. Or gone to their Jun for support. Usually when the House demanded the death of a boy-child or twins. But this is something else.’ For the first time, Mistress Li’s eyes glittered with fear. Her hands trembled in her lap. ‘You must find out what Celia and Hanna are planning.’

Alere shrank away. Mistress Li was never afraid. She was the rock that anchored the Jundom of Mamlakah in stability. Her wisdom guided the incorruptible Xintou, who worked for a higher good and kept the twenty-one Jun families from tearing each other apart. Mamlakah’s peace rested in her hands. In the hands of all xintou. Yet now the Xintou to the First had betrayed her House. How could that be?

Alere smoothed a curl of dark hair behind her ear. She wasn’t the right person for such an important task. She was nothing – not a xintou, not a jiaoji, not a weishi – a crude, half-done mix of all three and mistress of none.

Mistress Li rose, graceful even in age though her silk robe draped heavily from her thin frame. She stroked Alere’s cheek.

‘You underestimate yourself, child. You always have. You must overcome that – and your regrettable tendency to be impulsive. You may not be a telepath, but you’ve learned all the skills you’ll need. Self-defence from Kett. Seduction and control from Jiaoji House. And Xintou House has taught you politics. Use these to your advantage in the Alcazar.’

‘But Mistress—’

‘None of your instructors, I notice, have curbed your impatience,’ Mistress Li said. ‘In the Alcazar, you must think before you act. Then act with the knowledge that I have confidence in you.’

‘But Mistress, I don’t want to be jiaoji to the First.’ Alere seized the red-robe in both fists and shook it. ‘I thought I’d be free when my time here was done. I’m not xintou and I’m not jiaoji. Let me find my true path in life.’

Power and superiority slipped like a veil over Mistress Li’s face. ‘Have you not yet learnt, child? What you desire and what’s important is not always the same thing. Xintou or not, you will obey. You will do your duty, as we all must. Your path is what I deem it to be.’

She hobbled to the door and paused. ‘One more thing. While at the Alcazar, you’ll wear your veil at all times. Understood?’

Etiquette in the Alcazar court was stricter than elsewhere in Madina, but the fashion for the veil was dying out. Alere hated the thing, as Mistress Li well knew.

‘Jiche! Is that why I must be jiaoji and not weishi? Because you want me to hide my face?’

‘Yes.’ Mistress Li ignored Alere’s expletive. ‘It is necessary. One day you’ll thank me for insisting. Do not fail.’ She indicated the bed. ‘Sleep now. Morning will bring light into darkness. I’ll give you further instructions before you leave. Tonight, let the austerity of this room remind you of the truth and certainty you’ve learned here. Tomorrow you’ll need it when you’re surrounded by luxury and corruption.’

But Alere slept little that night. No matter how Mistress Li dressed the situation up, Alere was being sold to a man she’d never met, her dreams of freedom and a meaningful life gone. Jiaoji skills were respected and in high demand. Most jiaoji had full control over their contract and choice of partner, but Alere was denied even that. She was Mistress Li’s pawn on a qi game board, being moved for unfathomable reasons. And duty to Xintou House was a cold comfort to take to the Jun First’s bed.

* * *

Alere rose drained and haggard. Dressed in the hateful red robe, she endured her twentieth nameday ceremony; her mind elsewhere and the day forgotten before it ended. Not until she stood in her room for the last time, with a small, wooden trunk of belongings under one arm, did Alere return to the present. She paused in the door of the bare cell that had been her home for ten years and bit back tears of despair and loss. The walls were scratched and dented by her childish anger. The ceiling had never been repaired from her third attempt to run away. But the room represented a secure haven from a tumultuous world she comprehended only in theory.

She pulled back her shoulders and held down sorrow. She would find some way to make her time in the Alcazar bearable. Somehow.

In the hall, her sisters formed an honour guard. From each, she received a word, a touch, a kiss, a kind glance, which buoyed her flagging will. As a non-xintou, Alere had always been set apart, unable to form strong connections with her house sisters. They lived in a world beyond the physical. A world of the mind, which she could not enter. Thoughtful as the farewell was, the xintou wouldn’t miss her.

As Alere neared the door a senior student, with dark troubled eyes, pressed her cheek to Alere’s.

‘Be careful,’ the girl murmured. ‘My mother, Celia, the Xintou to the Jun First, she is—’

‘Tali Edwards.’ Mistress Li’s command cut through the silent hall. Tali stepped back into line, silken black hair falling forward to hide her flushed face.

What had that been about?

Alere emerged into the sunlight. She smiled as Kett and his men snapped to attention as they lined the steps from the front door to the cobbled road. The six weishi bowed formally, both hands pressed flat to their chests. Alere cast a final look at the House’s imposing facade. The great steel-studded doors clanged shut with resounding finality. Would it be the last time she ever saw the inside? It seemed impossible to believe; frightening, but somehow…liberating.

But what if she wasn’t up to the task set for her? Would she be caught and hang from the wall?

Kett handed her up the step, into the huoche. With a word to the driver, Kett climbed in and closed the door. When the huoche was in motion and the House behind, Alere lifted the red veil and covered her face with her hands.

‘Shunu...Alere.’ Kett’s hesitant words pulled her from behind the protection of her fingers.

‘Kett.’ She grasped his hand. She fought to keep tears from falling. ‘How would I cope without you? I’m glad Mistress Li’s allowing you to attend me in the Alcazar.’

He studied their linked fingers and grimaced. ‘There’s no need to be frightened, Alli. The Alcazar’s not the monstrous bed of iniquity Mistress Li makes it out to be. They’re people, just like you and me. No better, that’s certain. Keep that in mind. Just stay out of Ven and Hanna’s way.’

‘You sound as though you know them.’ Alere smiled to ward off the doubt creeping into her heart.

He shrugged. The huoche turned into the Alcazar’s back gate. ‘I know people and I’ve known you since you were ten.’ The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘It’s hard to believe a decade has passed. Remember that first day you came to Xintou House?’

‘Of course. I was dressed in my finest. Terrified; clinging onto Elmira’s arm. And you were a newly-made full weishi. So proud of your uniform and tattoo. And what, seventeen? Barely old enough to tie your hair into a man’s mawei.’ She touched the throwing-star tattoo, blue with age, on the inside of his wrist.

‘And I recognised trouble the minute you walked in,’ he said, smiling.

‘I know I haven’t been your best student—’

Kett chuckled. ‘Stop fishing for compliments. You’re my best student – and the one I’ve lost the most sleep over. Especially every time you ran away.’

‘Be serious.’ Alere brought his hand to her cheek. ‘I’m trying to thank you. And apologise for being rude yesterday. You’ve been a brother to me, Kett. Guarding and guiding me. Even when I didn’t want it.’

He sobered and stroked her cheek, then pulled his hand away and gazed out the window, frowning.

The huoche halted at the servants’ entrance. Kett paused in the act of reaching for the door. ‘Alere. I’ve dreaded this moment and put it off far too long. I’m sorry. Hopefully you will, in time, forgive me.’

Dismay snaked through her stomach. ‘You’re scaring me, Kett. Put what off?’

‘I can’t come with you. I’m... It’s impossible for me to enter the Alcazar.’ He looked away. ‘Believe me, I want to protect you. I can’t.’

‘No. Kett!’ The cry spilled from her. She clutched at his sleeve.

He tore his arm free. The black silk ripped. Without another word, he opened the door and climbed down. He stood rigid outside the huoche, his face blank.

A slap across the cheek would have been less shocking. Alere’s breathing faltered. She caressed the scrap of silk like a talisman. Kett would not come. Could not come? The concept made no sense. He was honour-bound. She stared at the black cloth then closed her eyes.

He’d deliberately waited until they reached the Alcazar’s door. Four black-and-silver-clad servants, two weishi and one of the Jun’s red-robed jiaoji waited to receive her. She could hardly cling to Kett like a frightened child, or draw back from her duty to the House.

She pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin. Her throat and chest tight with unshed tears, she stepped from the huoche and swept past Kett without another word or look.

* * *

The Kalima Chronicles (YA Sci/Fantasy)

IRON (#1)

FIRE (#2)

STEEL (#3)

A Future, Forged (Prequel – publication 2020)

Discover other titles by Aiki Flinthart at: www. aikiflinthart.com

The 80AD series (YA Adventure/Fantasy)

80AD Book 1: The Jewel of Asgard

80AD Book 2: The Hammer of Thor

80AD Book 3: The Tekhen of Anuket

80AD Book 4: The Sudarshana

80AD Book 5: The Yu Dragon

80AD: The Warrior’s Way (prequel – publication 2020)

The Ruadhan Sidhe novels (YA Urban fantasy)

Shadows Wake (Bk1)

Shadows Bane (Bk2)

Shadows Fate (Bk 3)

Healing Heather (#4 – publication 2020)

Other Novels

Sold! (Contemporary Romance/Adventure)

Short Story Anthologies

Return

Like a Woman

Elemental

2

Moon Deeds

Palmer Pickering

It's 2090: the last outpost of freedom is the moon, the best defense against technology is magic, and the only hope for humankind rests in the hands of the Star Children.

Twins Cassidy and Torr must save Earth from a ruthless enemy at a time when the only force more powerful than alien technology is magic. Moon Deeds launches the siblings' journey across the galaxy, where they must learn their power as the Star Children, claim their shamanic heritage, and battle dark forces that threaten humankind.

The Star Children Saga follows Cassidy and Torr as they slowly awaken to their destiny as the twin Star Children, born every millennium to reconnect with the source of all life. They come to discover the sheer enormity of their task: to find our ancestors on a lost planet across the galaxy and save humanity from a spiraling descent into darkness. The powers they must wield to accomplish this task are truly frightening and put at risk everything they love.

Come along with twenty-year-old twins Cassidy and Torr, who inherited deeds to land parcels on the moon. They want to use their moon deeds to get off Earth and escape a brutal dictatorship. But first they must unlock their shaman powers.

A rollicking yet poignant adventure in the not too distant future, when we have colonized the moon and nearly lost Earth to a dictatorship. Only the shamans remain free, plus the lucky ones who escaped to the moon.

Join the adventure! An addictive space opera, science-fantasy series.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter 1

Star Song

West San Jose, California, Western Free States, Planet Earth

July 8, 2090

Cassidy stood in the backyard, staring up at the sky and listening to the music of the stars. The ash clouds of the Shaman’s Shield loomed far overhead, enclosing the sky in a luminescent, vaulted ceiling, imbuing everything with an otherworldly glow. Ever since the Shaman’s Shield had appeared three years ago, she had not seen the stars nor heard their music. But today the thin, ethereal strains wove through the neighborhood noise. The music was faint, but it was there.

It had been louder when she was a child, before Grandma Leann had shielded her. Cassidy had thought everyone could hear the music, a constant background noise of such poignant sweetness that sometimes it was painful to listen to. But she had realized over time that others did not hear it. Or perhaps they heard it subconsciously, or in their dreams, because sometimes she heard an echo of it when musicians played their instruments or choirs sang. Cassidy had tried to replicate the sound, studying violin as a child, then piano, but neither instrument captured the elusive tones.

The only one who understood was her twin brother, Torr. They had shared a room as children, and she used to sing to him.

“I recognize that song,” he had said one time in the middle of the night. She had been sitting up in bed humming the tune that was streaming through her head. Torr had awoken from a deep sleep and sat upright, staring at her. “I heard it in my dream.”

“You heard me humming,” she corrected him.

“No,” Torr said stubbornly. “The golden people were singing to me. Their song said you and I have to find them. We have to follow their voices.” Torr closed his eyes and sang the melody more truly than she ever had, picking out parts of the multi-layered harmony she had never captured before. And he added something resembling words that she did not understand, but which made her cry.

In the morning he had remembered the dream, but he could not remember the song. For days afterwards he had tried to get her to sing it back to him, but she could not get the melody quite right, and she did not know the strange language. Then when Grandma Leann laid the blanket of silence over her, the song stopped. As time passed, Cassidy forgot the tune she had always hummed. She could only recall hints of it, like wisps of clouds that slipped away as she tried to grab them.

Now the sky was singing to her again. The melody came to her, carried on the wind as though from a distant mountaintop. She was filled with joy to hear it, though the song was more mournful than she recalled. She still could not understand the words, but she remembered what Torr had told her that night in their attic bedroom, that the two of them had to follow the golden people’s voices and find them. She did not know who they were, or where they were, but they were still out there singing to her. Calling to her. Waiting.

* * *

Chapter 2

Miramar

San Diego California, Western Free States, Planet Earth

July 9, 2090

Something was not right with the air. There was a crackling that Torr could only sense when he stopped breathing. An intermittent wave of whispering, skin-tingling static. He lay on the platform inside the shadows of the cement bunker and stared through his rifle scope at the Shaman’s Shield. For three years the cloud barrier had stood between the Western Free States and the Tegs. Torr had joined the Gaia United rebels at the southern border two years ago, facing the massive wall every day. It soared up into the sky as if it were a towering marble cliff or a plunging waterfall, five miles high, stretching east to west as far as the eye could see, shimmering like water but solid as stone. The most likely explanation was that it was a cumulonimbus cloud made of ash from the volcanic mountains, held together by an unknown shamanic magic. The scientists called it an electro- magnetic force field, of a sort no one had ever seen before. At its peak, the wall curved overhead, sealing them in from above in a thick cloud cover. But today the southern wall had receded from its normal position, exposing flat desert scrubland and skeletal bushes coated in ash. Since dawn, dark, vertical shadows had appeared at the base of the wall, as though some giant creature had attacked it overnight with long, jagged claws.

Torr crawled forward and poked his head out through the open front of the bunker half-buried in the hillside, and peered up at the sky. The cloud barrier overhead still appeared intact; the sky was as gloomy as ever, though it smelled like a storm was brewing. He pulled himself back inside and settled down behind his gun, tightening its bipod and adjusting the sandbag under the butt of the rifle. He inhaled deeply, held in his breath for three seconds, then exhaled and held it out for three seconds, hoping the breathing exercise would stop his cheek from twitching. It hadn’t bothered him in months—now his left cheek was spasming non-stop. He could not shoot with it jittering like that.

Inhale, one two three. Exhale, one two three.

He glanced over his right shoulder at Reina, propped up on her elbows on the plywood platform between him and the cement wall. She was staring through her spotting scope. Her TAFT stood on its bipod next to her, loaded and ready to mow down Tegs should they come streaming across the plain. Torr wanted to die before she did; he didn’t think he could bear to watch her suffer, or see her dead eyes staring up at him. It was a selfish thing to wish, but he wished it anyway. And then there was Bobby, lying on the platform to his left—two hundred pounds of solid muscle. If he died before Bobby, Torr would lean into him as he died, and Bobby would tell him that everything was going to be all right—even though they both knew it wasn’t.

The bunker was a cement box, a single room with a hip-high wall spanning the length of the open front, and one door at the side. Their ten shooting positions—the three-person platform, six benches, and a machine gun—were lined up next to each other against the front rampart, close enough that hot, spent brass would hit their neighbors if they ever ended up engaging the enemy. Torr figured at that point they’d have more to worry about than flying shells.

Five cots lined the back wall, which they used in shifts. Each person had a footlocker stuffed under the cots, overflowing with dirty clothes, books, and toiletries. Duffel bags and towels hung from hooks, and more belongings were stuffed into cubbies set against the side walls. A table and workout area took up the remaining floor space.

Bobby always joked that their bunker was a tomb, and now Torr saw the truth of it. They would die right here along with the rest of their company, dug into the hills of Scripps Ranch. Teg troops would come storming in from the south. His squad would shoot at wave after wave of enemy soldiers until he and each of his nine comrades-in-arms were killed. Torr hoped for a clean bullet to the head.

His left cheek finally grew still. He pressed his right cheek against the stock of his Dashiel, then set his eye to the rifle scope. The distance readout in the upper left field of view changed as he panned across the base of the cloud wall.

“It’s pulled back another hundred yards,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” Reina said at his side. “It’s at eleven-thirty-two yards now.”

“The wind is crazy,” he said.

“I can just barely pick up a mirage,” Reina said. Her voice penetrated his earplugs as though she spoke to him through a thin metal pipe.

Torr dialed back his scope and examined the faint heat waves at five hundred yards. They were angling left to right. Five miles per hour. At seven hundred and fifty yards they went right to left, and at a thousand they were bubbling straight up. A few minutes ago he had smelled a sea breeze, then a couple minutes later it was a dry, desert breeze from the east, and now the stink of the bunker and ten sweating bodies overwhelmed his nostrils. A few of the leafless bushes on the newly exposed ground swayed back and forth, while others were completely still. It was going to be a trick to shoot in this.

“Rashon,” Torr called across the bunker. “I know you’ve got your earplugs in.” Rashon grumbled and shoved in his ear protection. “I’m gonna take a shot,” Torr warned. Smiley and Bates fumbled for theirs. They were supposed to always wear them, but a whole lot of nothing had been going on for so long people had slid into bad habits.

He slowly let out his breath and aimed for a spot dead ahead, angling towards the ground just beyond the visible edge of the Shaman’s Shield, and gently pulled back on the trigger. The rifle recoiled sharply against his shoulder with a loud report. The bullet did not skitter and hiss along the face of the wall as it should have, but instead pierced the cottony mass.

“Bates,” Torr called to his buddy down the line as he threw back the bolt and the empty shell casing landed with a clink at his elbow. His heart was pounding in his ears. He was aware that he was shouting, but his voice sounded far away. “Go tell Lieutenant James the shield barrier is gone. We should send in some scouts.” The lieutenant would yell at Torr for shooting without his command, but Torr didn’t care.

Bates looked through his binoculars, and everyone else grabbed theirs. “Glad I’m not a scout,” Bates muttered.

They had never sent in scouts before. Normally, nothing but filtered light could penetrate the Shaman’s Shield. Torr stared into the ghostly magic, the last place he would willingly step into. Staying in the bunker was not much better. They should run for their lives. Torr sucked in his breath and tried to focus his attention on the air entering and leaving his lungs. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The gun metal was warm in his hands. His pulse throbbed in his fingers. He would pull the trigger between heartbeats.

Bates left their position, and Torr tracked the sound of foot- steps running towards Lieutenant James’s bunker in the hillock behind them. Torr switched from his scope to his binoculars and scanned the base of the Shaman’s Shield. The clouds shivered, and a new expanse of what looked like snow-covered ground became visible through a shroud of floating ashes.

His cheek resumed its twitching. “Damn it,” he muttered, focusing on his pulse to quiet the nervous tic. The tic grew stronger, and he shifted his attention to a long, dark shadow. Something had moved. He held his breath to hold the image steady in his lenses. Masses of thick black tentacles crept from a crack in the wall and waved slowly through the air as though seeking prey.

He squeezed his eyes shut to clear the nightmarish image, and when he opened them the tentacles were gone. He stared into the dark fissure. Nothing was there, and his twitch calmed to a throbbing pulse.

His imagination was getting the better of him. It was bad enough that his dreams kept him awake at night, but now they were bleeding over into his waking life. He checked other rifts in the cloud wall. There were no signs of creeping tentacles. He swallowed down an upwelling of panic and concentrated on his breathing and pulse.

One of their Gaia United scout vehicles rumbled by, bouncing over the rough terrain. Torr counted his breaths until the armored jeep disappeared completely into the murky border- land. Another followed behind. Then a third. A hawk keened overhead. Torr got back on his rifle and focused in on the gap where the scouts had disappeared, wondering if they were riding on solid ground headed to face the enemy, or entering an unknown dimension, a gray netherworld they would never emerge from. He stared into the void. There was nothing to shoot at. Breathe. Relax.

“Torr, come here.” It was Lieutenant James’s deep voice.

Torr scrambled to the floor and stepped outside the bunker onto the dirt. “Yes, sir.”

“Did I tell you to shoot?”

“No, sir.”

The large black man towered a full head over Torr’s six-foot stature. He glared down at him, and Torr stood tall, meeting his gaze. Lieutenant James cleared his throat and said, “The shield barrier is gone.”

“I know, sir.”

“We’re going to need your sharp eyes,” the lieutenant said sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Back to your station.”

“Yes, sir.” Torr saluted and hurried inside, exhaling with relief that the lieutenant wasn’t going to discipline him like he had the time Torr had taken his squad target shooting without his per- mission and used up all their ammunition. That time, Lieutenant James had made him crawl on his elbows and knees around the desert floor in his boxer shorts, looking for shell casings until his skin bled. Then he’d made Torr hand load every single intact shell. Torr had spent all his breaks in the armament shack, with the guys who normally reloaded ammo inspecting his work and being perfectionist pricks about it. It had taken him days.

He had gotten off easy this time, which did not really comfort him much—it just meant the shit was about to hit the fan. He wedged himself between Reina and Bobby, who gave him sidelong glances. Torr’s lips quirked up as he adjusted his elbow pads and settled into his prone shooting position behind the Dashiel. His TAFT assault rifle rested at his side. He should switch out his bolt-action Dashiel for the semi-automatic so he could execute the hordes of enemies when they broke through the wall and charged across the valley. But TAFTs did not have the range or precision of the Dashiel. He was the Designated Marksman of the squad. His job was to take out long-range targets. That meant he would shoot first. Focus in on a man’s chest. Or head. Pull the trigger and confirm the kill. Watch a man die. A man he killed.

“You okay?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah.”

“Your buddies up in Shasta will fix the Shaman’s Shield, right?” Bobby asked, trying to mask the desperation in his voice with a raspy chuckle.

Torr did not reply. His squad teased him mercilessly because he had grown up in Shasta, a fact he had let slip one drunken afternoon when a few of them had spent a rare day of leave at Del Mar beach, swimming in the ocean and drinking as much beer as they could haul out to the hot sand. He had made the even greater error of telling them his mother had been a Shasta Shaman when she was younger. They regarded him with awe and suspicion after that. Everyone thought the Shasta Shamans were crazy sorcerers. Dangerous saviors. They liked to ask him if he knew any magic. He didn’t, but they never quite believed him. He thought they teased him just so they could keep asking him the same question, hoping that he really did.

Torr thought about how furious the Shaman’s Shield must make General Tegea. He could picture the skinny, sour-faced leader of the Teg army pacing back and forth like a raving lunatic, screaming at his generals to do something about those pig-faced mountain wizards. He was probably trying to find magic for himself. But magic wasn’t something you could buy or learn by studying books and following schematics. It required a calm mind and a connection to nature and spirit that someone like Tegea could never understand, much less master. Sure, he could hire shamans, but if they had bad intent, as Torr was sure they would, their power would eventually turn back on them. That’s how it worked, his mother always said.

“They’re gonna fix it, right?” Reina repeated.

He turned to her. She was staring at him with those great big brown eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure they will,” he lied. Their hands found each other and he squeezed tight, trying to send her courage. They released their grip and turned back to their guns.

Reina reminded him of Cassidy. He tried not to worry about what would happen to his sister if the Shaman’s Shield fell. She would be fine. She and their parents would retreat to Shasta and hide in the mountain caverns. He wanted to get online and contact his family, but Johnson was hogging the only wired connection, playing games on his laptop, as usual.

“Johnson, find out what’s going on,” Torr said.

“I’m trying. The WestWeb’s crazy slow today. I can’t even connect to the Gaia United portal.”

Cell phones were useless inside the Shaman’s Shield, which jammed all electromagnetic frequencies, making it impossible to call anyone over the cell network, or even to text. Torr’s phone had died a while ago, and he hadn’t bothered to replace it—he had his laptop for games and music. He had used the dead phone one time for target practice, taking a small delight in watching it explode.

He could run five miles to the base’s communication center and call home to warn his family from their wired phones, but he was squad leader and couldn’t abandon his post. Not now.

“Check the radio,” he said to Johnson.

Radios hadn’t worked the whole time they’d been here, for the same reason the cell network didn’t function, but Johnson still checked occasionally, mostly because he was the Communications Tech and he was supposed to. Johnson put on his headset and started scanning frequencies for a signal. Without the Shaman’s Shield, they would have access to the electromagnetic spectrum again, but so would the Tegs. Even worse, without the Shaman’s Shield General Tegea would be free to bomb the shit out of them, or unleash some other alien Cephean weapon technology.

Reina got out her cell phone and tried to connect. Torr watched her screen over her shoulder. No service.

“Do you hear anything?” Reina asked Johnson.

He shook his head and continued scanning. “Wait. No.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to him.

“Static. Wait. Voices. No.”

“Let me hear.” Smiley was the closest and grabbed the headset off Johnson’s head, receiving a shove in return.

Johnson unplugged the headset and tossed the wire at Smiley as the tinny speaker of the radio filled the bunker with a high-pitched whine.

Torr sat up. It was more noise than they’d ever gotten before; not the usual soft static of the Shaman’s Shield. Johnson continued scanning the frequencies. Short snippets of voices and buzzing static phased in and out. There was nothing intelligible, but signals were reaching the radio. The Shaman’s Shield was definitely losing its magic. Torr met Bobby’s eyes, and they both turned to stare at the thinning barrier.

* * *

Morning turned to afternoon, and Torr watched the distance readout of his scope as the Shaman’s Shield steadily receded. It now stood one mile from the bunker, and its half-mile retreat had exposed hills that rose up from the flat valley floor. The cloud wall itself was supposedly a mile thick. Best case, it was still a half-mile thick, or better yet, it was migrating south and would push the enemy back with it. Worst case, it was eroding from each side and would soon vanish completely.

The familiar squeak of a cleaning rod passing through a rifle barrel made Torr turn his head. Smiley was sitting at their make-shift table cleaning his TAFT again.

“You haven’t shot that thing since you cleaned it this morning,” Torr said.

“Shut the fuck up, Torr.”

“That’s squad leader to you,” Torr said.

“Shut the fuck up, squad leader,” Smiley said as he pushed the rod through again.

Torr watched as Smiley pulled the rod back out and replaced the brush with a cleaning patch. “You’re gonna use up all the solvent.”

“Don’t matter none,” Smiley said, casting a dark look towards the Shaman’s Shield.

Torr scanned the dim bunker. Donald was huddled on a cot in the back, scribbling furiously in his journal. Rashon was grunting as he did a set of pull-ups on the pipe they had stolen from the supply yard and mounted to the cement ceiling. At the far end of the rampart, Jessimar sat on a stool behind his belt-fed machine gun, running his fingers back and forth along the chain of bullets. Bates and Mike were seated at their benches holding their TAFTs, staring sullenly through their scopes towards Teg territory. Johnson was at the table, cursing at his laptop’s screen.

The wind picked up, and the Shaman’s Shield shook and rumbled as though a thunderstorm was approaching. Torr found himself praying, muttering under his breath, “Golden stars, shine down upon us. Let your golden light wash over us.”

Johnson hopped to his feet and began pacing back and forth in the narrow floor space between the shooting benches and the table, fists clenched at his sides. His loud voice cut off Torr’s prayer. “I’m gonna shoot those motherfucking Tegs all the way to Algol’s hell. Those motherfuckers. I’ll motherfucking fuck them all.”

Rashon dropped to the floor and pulled his laptop out from under a cot. He sat at the table and disconnected the network cable from Johnson’s rig and plugged it into his computer.

“WestWeb’s down,” Rashon announced.

“No shit, Einstein,” Johnson said, and went to the table. He reached over Rashon’s shoulder and unplugged and then reinserted the cable. He nudged Rashon aside and tapped loudly at the keyboard.

Torr and Bobby joined them. People took turns plugging the cable into their devices. Torr had been online just last night playing games. He got his laptop, plugged in the cable, and went to his browser. Page not found. He went into network settings. It showed that he was not connected.

“Let me check the cable,” Johnson said, and ran outside.

Torr and Bobby went back to the shooting platform and got behind their guns.

Johnson returned a few minutes later. “Lieutenant James said the WestWeb’s down. He sent somebody to the base to find out what’s going on.”

“It’s the Tegs,” Donald said, voicing what everyone was thinking.

The bunker fell into a cavernous silence.

A loud sob from Jessimar broke the stillness. “My momma. I ain’t said goodbye to my momma.”

“Stop that bawling,” Johnson snapped.

Another sob shook the big man’s shoulders. “I told her I’d be back. I promised.”

Torr looked away irritably. Reina lay motionless at his side, staring through her scope. Jessimar’s sobbing grew louder.

“Stop it, I said.” Johnson’s voice was sharp.

Johnson pulled Jessimar from his stool, and they hit the ground with a thud, scrabbling on the cement floor. The pair rolled into the table leg, toppling Smiley’s rifle off its stand. Smiley cursed and grabbed the rifle with one hand and the bottle of solvent with the other. Johnson pinned Jessimar with his knees and punched his face as Jessimar’s big hands wrapped around Johnson’s neck. Mike and Rashon pulled Johnson off, and he turned on them, the three of them falling to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Donald and Bates joined in the scuffle.

Torr let them fight. Anything to break the intolerable tension of watching the Shaman’s Shield fade away to nothing. Soon the men were cursing and grumbling and stepping away from one another. Jessimar had a bloody nose and shoved a wad of toilet paper up his nostril, but at least he’d stopped crying.

A whistle sounded. Torr and the rest of them jumped; it was not a command whistle from Lieutenant James but an alert signal from a bunker down the line. Torr tensed and peered through his binoculars. A speck was approaching. Several specks. Teg vehicles. They were racing down the newly exposed hills.

“Tegs incoming,” Reina shouted, and rattled off coordinates of the enemy vehicles. The bunker erupted in a chaotic flurry as Smiley assembled his gun and the others ran to their positions.

“Recon,” Bobby said beside him.

Yes, they appeared to be scouts. Torr counted six Teg vehicles at two-hundred-yard intervals speeding towards the bunkers, trailed by clouds of ash. They had come to assess the Gaia United forces—their weak, strung out, meager forces. Taking footage that was no doubt trying to upload through the fading Shaman’s Shield to the waiting satellites above, to download the Gaia United positions to a Teg command center somewhere in the world. To General Tegea himself.

Lieutenant James’s whistle rang out. At your stations. Prepare to attack.

Torr’s heart leapt into his throat. He wiped his sweaty palms on a rag and went back to his gun. A strange calm overtook him. His cheek was still, his hands had stopped shaking, and he realized with detachment that he no longer felt afraid. His muscles were relaxed. He slowed his breathing, pausing for a count of three between each inbreath and outbreath, feeling the heartbeat in his trigger finger. He found the closest vehicle in his scope. It was coming fast. He exhaled slowly. His nervous tension was replaced with cold calculation. The gun felt natural in his hands. He was good at this.

“The closest one is at eleven o’clock,” Reina said. “Altitude three hundred feet ... two-ninety ... two-eighty. Fifty miles per hour. Distance fourteen hundred yards. Thirteen-fifty. Thirteen- ten. I can’t get a good read on the wind, it keeps shifting.”

Torr adjusted his scope to her data as she talked, getting a feel for the vehicle’s speed and trajectory. The wind would be a crapshoot, so he left his crosshairs dead center. The Teg vehicle was a low-slung gray thing on wheels, bouncing over the uneven terrain. It had a thin slit for a windshield and a spinning camera globe the size of a soccer ball mounted on its roof. The vehicle’s oncoming angle showed Torr a three-quarter view, the blood- red shield insignia of the Tegs visible on its door. It did not look like an assault vehicle. No guns or launchers poked from the windows or roof. The Teg recon unit would report that the Gaia United forces were pathetic—that without the Shaman’s Shield their defenses were a joke.

“We have to take them out,” Torr said.

Lieutenant James’s whistle pierced through Torr’s ear- plugs. Fire.

“Get ’em, get ’em, get ’em,” Johnson yelled, his voice pitched high and sounding far away.

Gunfire went off around him. Curses bounced off the bunker walls between shuddering rounds. Torr dwelt in alert calmness, gauging the distance, speed, and angle of the oncoming vehicle as Reina reported its changing position.

“Eight hundred yards. Updraft. Strong gust,” she said.

He dialed back his scope and up one click. The vehicle was on flat land now, and moving faster. “Right front tire, center,” he said.

Torr pressed his cheek against the stock, aimed at the wide tire, and hit it. The vehicle did not slow.

“You hit the right edge,” Reina said. “Half click right. He’s at six hundred yards. No wind.”

Torr smoothly cycled the action and adjusted his scope. “Center,” he said, and then aimed and hit the tire. The vehicle kept coming.

“Center,” Reina said, confirming his hit. “But no damage. The tires are made to be hit.”

His squadmates continued firing, splattering the ground, sending up little chunks of dirt. Bullets hit the vehicle like rain on a tin roof, and did as little damage. Gun blasts resounded in the bunker, shaking Torr’s bones. A blue line of light from Bates’s laser rifle sliced through the air, leaving a long scorch mark across the vehicle.

“Windshield, dead center,” Torr said. He fired at the narrow windshield and hit it easily, but it sustained no damage.

“Spot on,” Reina said.

“What the fuck is that thing made of?” Torr grumbled. His heart was pounding in a steady drumbeat.

Reina said, “He’s accelerating. Seventy miles per hour. Four- fifty yards. Sea breeze five miles per hour. No. Desert breeze, eight to ten miles per hour. No, wait. Updraft. Damn it.”

Torr went to adjust his scope, but the conditions were changing too fast. He had a feel for it. Fuck the scope. He always did better when he aimed with his heart instead of his head anyway. He reached out with his senses and felt the air. The wind was battering the open terrain from all sides. “Going for the camera,” he said.

“It’s two yards above the roof, dead center,” Reina said.

Torr locked onto the target like he’d always done during shooting competitions as a boy, hooking his target as though with a grappling line, connecting to it with a strand of pulsating energy that spanned the space between. His gut senses dwelled in the energy thread, waiting for a lull in the wind, while his point of focus locked onto the camera. He stilled his breathing and pulled gently on the trigger. His blood sped and burned with the bullet. His chest contracted and expanded as the surveillance camera exploded in a starburst of flashing metal and sparks. Torr’s body warped and shuddered, then grew still. Hollers of approval echoed from his squad as Torr ejected the spent shell and seated the next round.

“Torr, baby!” Rashon shouted, and fired his own weapon in jubilant bursts. But the vehicle kept coming.

Inhale, one two three. Exhale, one two three. Reina was talking but he didn’t understand her words. The bunker shook as the field artillery section fired their weapons nearby. Torr widened the field of view of his scope and watched the scout vehicle barreling towards them. Shells exploded on the ground, leaving large craters that the vehicle swerved around. Suddenly it curved away. The Teg scouts had seen enough. They didn’t need their spinning camera. The Gaia United positions were plain to see with the naked eye. The Tegs would escape to report in person what they’d observed. The vehicle sped off, ash billowing behind it.

“Five hundred yards,” Reina said as the vehicle accelerated. “Six hundred. Seven.”

Torr hit its bumper, reloaded, and shot again, peppering it with bullets, with no effect. It was made of hardened steel, or something more sinister—some Cephean material Torr was unfamiliar with. It started up the hillside, angling to the right.

An artillery round hit its mark and exploded under the fleeing vehicle, tossing the gray metal box into the air and flipping it. The vehicle landed on its roof, wheels spinning, the ground smoking. Torr snapped in a full magazine and got the vehicle in his sights. Rashon yelled out that a second vehicle was disabled, but Torr did not leave his target to look. Reina reported artillery shells exploding around his target vehicle and missing by several yards; automatic fire fanned the air but fell short.

Torr’s eye focused on the door of the upside-down vehicle. The door slowly swung open.

“Target at nearside door,” Reina said, her voice tight.

“I see it,” Torr said.

“Sea breeze, eight miles per hour,” Reina said.

A man’s head and shoulders emerged from the wreck. Torr kept him in his crosshairs as the Teg wriggled from the vehicle and dropped to his feet. The man’s eyes scanned Gaia United’s defenses. He did not look afraid.

The Teg’s hands came up together, aiming a large black handgun towards their bunker and obscuring his center mass. Torr locked his heart line onto the spot between the man’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. The rifle recoiled against his shoulder, and a dark spot appeared on the man’s forehead. Torr’s forehead twinged, a spike of numbness passing through his brain. The scout fell, and a wave of dizziness took Torr with him. Torr held his breath and disconnected from the man—he was dead.

Torr steadied his breathing and relaxed his hands, ejecting the spent round and reseating the next in one swift motion.

“Man down,” Reina said. “Target at the other door, far side.” Everyone in the bunker was screaming at him, but Torr was dialed into Reina’s voice, which was shaking but firm. “Head in sight,” she said.

At the other side of the vehicle a man’s eyes peeked over the wreck. The man glanced towards the bunkers, then took off at a run towards Teg territory. Torr’s cheek was on the stock, his gaze locked on the enemy, his pulse throbbing in his fingers. The wind had died. Torr expelled his breath, drew a bead on the man’s back between the shoulder blades, and in the space of a heartbeat squeezed the trigger. The man jerked and tripped, falling in a motionless heap. Torr’s chest muscles seized for a moment, and he stopped breathing.

Torr’s buddies shouted in victory.

“Man down,” Reina said. “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Torr said, sucking in a mouthful of air as he pulled back on the bolt and pushed the next bullet into the chamber.

“Are you sure?”

Torr was floating in a haze. He blinked and focused on the limp body. It did not move. The man’s face was visible, head tilted against the ash-covered ground. Torr found the man’s eye and shot again. The head jerked, then was still. Torr felt nothing. The man’s face was young. His skin smooth. Fluid leaked from his eye socket. Torr loaded the next round and pulled the gun- sight back to the vehicle as Reina looked for the next target.

Torr remained still and silent while his squad yelled reports of the other five vehicles: three were disabled and two escaped into the remnants of the Shaman’s Shield. Two Gaia United jeeps took off in pursuit. Other skirmishes died down in the distance. The squad’s chatter faded to muted background noise as Torr kept the upside-down vehicle in his sights. The vehicle felt cold and quiet. The wind kicked up, forming little spinning cyclones, man-sized dust devils that floated across Torr’s field of view, disembodied spirits trying to distract him. Minutes passed, and no more scouts emerged.

“I’ll watch,” Reina said. “You can rest your eyes.”

Torr lifted his head, and his hands started shaking. His cheek twitched. And he thought of his sister.

* * *

Chapter 3

Sweet Alyssum

Cassidy held her hand to her chest and thought of Torr. Her heart felt strange, like a piece of it had been ripped away. “Mom,” she called out. She heard her mother enter the kitchen. Cassidy turned away from the counter to face her. “Something’s wrong with Torr.”

Brianna looked sharply at Cassidy, then grew very still and closed her eyes as if she was listening. “He’s not dead,” Brianna said softly.

“No,” Cassidy agreed. “But he’s hurt. On the inside. Like he’s got a broken heart or something. Not like a romantic broken heart, but like ...” She stopped, trying to put the sensation into words. “Like his spirit is torn, or something.”

Brianna opened her eyes and gave a long sigh. “Yes,” she said, as though it was inevitable. As though a broken spirit was a part of life, something her children would have to face eventually no matter what she did. Brianna joined her at the counter and stared out over the backyard, her face blank.

The normally still roof of clouds flowed and roiled overhead like a rushing river. “What’s happening to the Shaman’s Shield?” Cassidy asked.

Brianna’s wild, curly black hair floated with static electricity, as it did whenever she was upset or excited. Her moss-green eyes gazed darkly at the clouds. “The connection has been broken,” she said softly. “The energy is returning to the mountains.”

The air left Cassidy’s lungs. When she could speak again, she voiced what they both were thinking. “What about Torr?”

Brianna said nothing and looked down at the sink. Cassidy watched as her mother’s hands sank into the hot, soapy water and began scouring a pot.

Cassidy left her mother and went to her bedroom, and logged onto her laptop to try and contact Torr. She opened her messaging app to see if Torr was online, which he rarely was—but it was worth a try. Oops. Something went wrong! Try again later. She tried again, then opened her email. Page not found. Same thing with video chat. She unplugged the cable and plugged it back in. It still didn’t work.

She went back into the kitchen to look for her mother. “The WestWeb’s down,” Cassidy said.

Brianna looked up from the sink. Her eyes were penetrating. “The Tegs have broken through the Shaman’s Shield.” She turned back to the suds and stared out the window.

Cassidy stepped outside, her heart tripping frantically. It was happening. The Tegs were coming. She needed to reach Torr. Were they fighting the Tegs? Who was winning? Was Torr injured? She walked on trembling legs across the yard, weaving between the lush garden beds to the center, where a cement birdbath topped a pedestal. She gazed down into the still water, longing for an image of Torr to appear. But try as she might, none came. Despair overwhelmed her. Her grandmother had tried to teach her how to use water to see things, but all Cassidy ever saw were shadows and reflections.

She would beg her mother to look later, but most likely Brianna would refuse. Except for working with her precious herbs, her mother shunned the old powers. She said they were dangerous. Easy to fall prey to, easy to get lost in their magic. She even regarded the Shaman’s Shield with fear, even though it had protected them from the Tegs for so long. Still, Cassidy would ask her to look into the water to search for Torr.

Cassidy gazed impotently into the birdbath and cursed herself for being so useless. She breathed deeply, trying to cultivate the inner calm Grandma Leann had told her water scrying required. It could be water, could be a mirror. Crystal balls were best. Cassidy even had a small one, a gift from Great-Aunt Sophie, but it never revealed anything.

She blamed her grandmother for her blindness. Grandma Leann was dead now, but Cassidy remained bound by the shield her grandmother had placed on her that blocked her ability to see things from afar. Grandma Leann hadn’t known how to remove it, even though she’d placed it there herself. Sometimes Cassidy thought Grandma Leann had been lying about that—that she did know how to remove it and could restore Cassidy’s second sight, but had chosen not to. Now that her grandmother was dead, Cassidy was afraid she would be cut off from her vision forever.

At first the shield had been an enormous relief. It had felt like a giant, cool, dark blanket smothering a thundering, blinding inferno. She recalled clearly the night it had happened. It had been the winter before they’d moved from Shasta, when she and Torr were six. Cassidy had been sitting up in bed in their little garret bedroom, crying with loud, shaking sobs.

“What is it, darling?” her grandmother asked, turning on the light and rushing into the room. She sat on the bed and pulled Cassidy into her arms.

Cassidy talked through streaming tears as she buried her face in her grandmother’s warm bosom. “Jasper’s mother and father are screaming at each other again,” she sobbed. “And Jasper is curled up in a ball under his blanket. He wants to come here. Can we go get him?”

“No, honey. Not now. It’s the middle of the night.”

“And, and,” she sobbed, her world expanding, the pain increasing. “Men in gray jackets, in somebody’s house, hitting the man with a stick, he’s bleeding, the woman is crying and the bad men are dragging her into a room, and ...”

“Shhh,” Grandma Leann said. “Quiet now, quiet. Everything will be fine.”

The horrific images swirled and fought for her attention. The men tearing clothing off the shrieking woman. Uniformed men storming the street, dragging people from their homes, fires blazing in the distance, screeches and booms as blue and white fireballs exploded, blinding her. She was screaming, and her grandmother shook her by the shoulders and forced her to look into her eyes.

“BE STILL!” her grandmother commanded. And suddenly the blazing, screaming images stopped. A soft darkness settled over her mind’s eye, muting everything to dull grays and muffled sounds, distant yells heard vaguely as though from underwater, shushed away by gentle, lapping waves.

She stopped crying abruptly and stared into her grand- mother’s eyes. The small room came sharply into focus. The small wooden dresser was piled high with teddy bears. The rug with a rocking horse design that Grandma Leann had hooked herself filled the small space between Cassidy’s and Torr’s single beds. Yellow gingham curtains that she had found so ugly seemed suddenly familiar and comforting.

Grandma Leann’s lined face gazed at her with a mixture of concern and hope. “How do you feel now?” her grandmother asked gently, hesitantly, her arthritic hand smoothing Cassidy’s mussed hair.

“Fine,” she said.

And she had felt fine. And her life had gone on. Though ever since that night it felt like a piece of herself was missing. As though a world continued on, without her, behind a black curtain. As though someone very close to her had suddenly disappeared from her life. Someone she could not quite remember. She could recall the feelings she’d had when they had been together. She’d felt nourished. Alive. Filled with fire. But it was only a vague memory hovering at the edge of her consciousness. A fleeting shadow. A forgotten dream.

Cassidy’s face stared up at her from the birdbath. She gave up and turned her gaze to the sky where the tattered clouds of the Shaman’s Shield rushed by. Faint music teased her from beyond the cloud layer. She closed her eyes and listened.

* * *

Moon Deeds is available at all online booksellers in Paperback, eBook, and Audiobook.

For more information, visit us at www.mythologypress.com

Part VIII

Steampunk

Contents

1. Our Bloody Pearl

2. The Steel Discord

3. A Quiet Rebellion: Guilt

4. Skies of the Empire

5. Riwenne & the Mechanical Beasts

1

Our Bloody Pearl

D.N. Bryn

Our Bloody Pearl is a short adult fantasy novel with YA crossover appeal, slight steampunk world building, and a bit of both romance and deep friendships. The story revolves around a bloodthirsty siren fighting to return home after a year of captivity, while avoiding the lure of a suspiciously friendly and eccentric pirate captain. It has a simplistic but endearing plot, with strong themes of family, forgiveness, and home, and features an ownvoices nonbinary disabled protagonist. There are content warnings for some mild gore due to carnivorous sirens as well as sensations of drowning.

The ocean is uncontrollable and dangerous. But to the sirens who swim the warm island waters, it’s a home more than worth protecting from the humans and their steam-propelled ships. Between their hypnotic voices and the strength of their powerful tails, sirens have little to fear.

That is, until the ruthless pirate captain, Kian, creates a device to cancel out their songs. 

Perle was the first siren captured, and while all since have either been sold or killed, Kian still keeps them prisoner. Though their song is muted and their tail paralyzed, Perle’s hope for escape rekindles as another pirating vessel seizes Kian’s ship. This new captain seems different, with his brilliant smile and his promises that Kian will never again be Perle’s master. But he’s still a human, and a captor in his own way. The compassion he and his rag-tag human family show can’t be sincere… or can it? 

Soon it becomes clear that Kian will hunt Perle relentlessly, taking down any siren in her path. As the tides turn, Perle must decide whether to run from Kian forever, or ride the forming wave into battle, hoping their newfound human companions will fight with them. 

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 4

[1]

SWELL BEGINNINGS

There is one thing I know for certain:

We were right to hate the humans.

HUNGER HAUNTS ME like a bull shark. With every roll of the ship, the gunk inside my stagnant tub sloshes against my waist, stinging anew. The tight wooden room's stale air burns my lungs.

Steam whistles in the pipes that run along the walls, their copper gleaming in the dim ceiling light. My wrists throb where the metal cuffs locking me to the tub dig into my silver scales. The gill slits along my neck are clamped shut after a year without seawater and my head fins stick to my scalp like barnacles to rock.

I try to anchor myself with the memory of home, of fine sands and vibrant reefs, but I can barely recall the rush of the warm current or the thrill of the hunt. Even a single wrasse sounds like a feast now. Or a few human fingers.

At least I can still smell the sharp brine of the ocean. When the ship rocks, the small, circular window to my left reveals the sea rolling in an endless stretch of deep blue, begging me to return. The silhouette of an approaching vessel forms a blur on its horizon.

I squint at the hazy shape, but Captain Kian’s roar of irritation from an upper deck makes me recoil. My captor’s harsh voice is so loud it seems to shudder its way down my spine.

The new vessel leaves my sight as the ship I’m captive on—the Oyster —turns toward it. The steam stacks clatter to life somewhere beneath me. Fabric and metal wings stretch out from the sides of the Oyster , and the ship bursts forward, riding just above the crests of the waves.

The sudden change in speed shoves me backward, tossing up my putrid water. As the liquid recoils, it grazes my largest tail fin, lying limp over the far edge of the tub. For all the pain I suffer, I nearly forget my tail exists, its iridescent gleam washed away by the filth and grime of the tub. It must still be impaired from the massive, anchor-like weight my captor crushed it beneath when she first locked me here. I can’t bring myself to focus on its lifeless form for long. I wasn’t meant for this.

I need the sea.

The ship tilts, turning again, and the ocean rises into view. The vessel from earlier reappears, skimming above the shimmering crests, much nearer now. A marauder’s flag flies from its highest mast, a harsh scarlet with a crossed gun and sword, only a slight variation from the one the Oyster boasts. Just another pirate. Useless.

But this ship looks fancier than others the Oyster has fought. A series of small propellers spin in a blur along its scooping metal wings. Five main decks are visible, not including the levels piled at each end, all dark wood and silver finishings. Steam rises from four stacks sticking out of its back like mechanical dorsal spines. Its broad sails are in full bloom, pressed open like the stretched skin between an octopus’s tentacles.

Wisps of smoke stream from the approaching ship’s bow as its cannons fire. The Oyster rocks to the song of crunching wood. A rush of giddiness runs through me, and I tighten my hands around the edges of the tub. But then my stomach drops.

If the Oyster sinks, I sink with it, the metal weight trapping me inside this foreign container of wood until I’m crushed or I starve. A better death than what surely awaits me now, but death all the same. Not that my worries and hopes make any difference. The Oyster never loses.

The Oyster returns fire, its assault twice as powerful as the attacking ship. Before the cannonballs hit, a flash of light covers the sides of the enemy vessel, some form of translucent shielding unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I blink to convince myself it’s there. The cannonballs deflect off it, plunging uselessly to the water.

With the attacking ship almost upon us, the Oyster fires again. This time it’s not the harsh boom of the cannon, but a terrible, soft sputter. Purple light shoots from the Oyster , dividing and glowing like lightning. It hits the approaching vessel and engulfs it. Some of the crew jerk about and fall, near enough that I can make out their stunned faces.

The enemy ship loses speed until its hull hits the water, careening as it crashes into us. Its sturdier, propellered wings crush through the Oyster ’s in a jarring twist of metal and fabric. Its hull slams against the Oyster , filling up my window and blocking out all but the faintest light. The tub rocks with such force that some of the foul water spills out of it, and pain shoots through my side as my ribs hit the edge. My chest burns, my heart rattling.

On the decks above, roars of attack and bellows of pain mix with gunshots and clashes of metal. The Oyster . . . boarded? The thought flounders through my mind as I struggle to process it.

Just overhead, the wood creaks under the weight of running feet. The sound dies in the bang of a pistol and the thud of a body. Slowly, a crack in the wood turns red. The liquid drips.

I lunge forward, catching the drop on my tongue. A soft, instinctive moan rises in my throat as the sharp taste spreads, hot and wonderful. The first fresh blood I’ve had in weeks. I open my mouth and let the rest drizzle in. What I miss trickles along my face, sliding down my neck and tinting the water pink. It’s not the ocean, but it feels better than the air or the foul stuff in the tub. I would bathe in it if I could.

As the sounds of battle fade, the ships slip apart, revealing a stretch of sea and sky beyond the window. One of the Oyster ’s small, flying dinghies races through the air. Steam blows from the dinghy’s miniature stacks as a single massive propeller shoots it forward, its huge side fins providing lift. Captain Kian grips its sail, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun.

The sight of her drives a tremble down my spine, and I shrink back in the tub. She can’t see me in here. She can’t reach me. But even her gaze can hurt, the mere sound of her voice a tidal wave of silt and poison, stunning me from the inside out.

I force myself to watch her, because if I don’t, I’ll never truly believe she’s leaving the Oyster . Her first mate sits beside her, shadowed by the mast. A cannonball shoots by them, but they vanish into the clouds, unscathed. The attacker’s ship moves again, blocking the window once more.

I wait for relief to settle in. Kian’s gone—gone with her fists and her raised voice. And she left me behind. But I can’t feel her absence, not while the chains bite my wrists and the shouts of humans ring around me.

Beyond this bathtub room, the door to the main cabin rattles and opens with a bang. The thud of two sets of boots follow. A chill rises in my bones.

These new humans can be here for only one purpose: to learn how Kian captured my kind without succumbing to our songs. But what will they do with me? Kian held the other sirens she caught for a week or two, their voices echoing from the other end of the ship in choruses I can no longer create. Once we reached a harbor, they were sold to humans on shore. But through every cycle, Kian kept me.

I must have been the first she caught, the first anyone caught alive. I was her prize to herself for doing the impossible. My kind were untouchable—until Kian netted us.

Now, we’re the humans’ prey.

The hinges of Kian’s chests squeak, followed by the scraping and banging of drawers. Someone curses, their voice deeper than Kian’s. Their footsteps come nearer until they’re just beyond the door separating my little room from Kian’s large one. The latch opens with a ghastly click that jars my bones. Someone pulls the door outward.

I flinch away from the light that pours in from the large, ornate windows in the main cabin. Three orange shell lamps add to the radiance, glistening off the trinkets on the desk and accenting the golden embroidery on the bed covers. The gears of the hanging clock spin and click rhythmically.

Two humans stand in the midst of it all.

Both of them are broad of shoulder, with chests like mine, flat but with more muscle. The braided silver ring on the nearest one is something I’ve only seen worn in the right ear by the version of human they call a she . Her skin reminds me of the blotches of a flounder, patches of light and dark. Her straight black hair pools from beneath a broad-rimmed hat. The fluffy, blood-red feather tucked into the hat’s ribbon bounces as she moves, matching her swirling cape and tight waist cinch.

“Get out,” I tell her. I use the language of my kind, the words part vocal and part expression, with as much body signaling mixed in as I can manage, bound as I am. The humans understand nothing of it, but it feels good to speak in my own tongue. It’s a language where you sing your soul bare, where words are concepts you define with your whole being.

Her thin eyes narrow as she looks me over, curving like dolphins in mid jump. “That bastard kept one,” she mutters in the human speech, so rough and verbal and diminutive.

“I think you should close the cabin door, Simone,” her companion adds.

Simone leaves my view, heading toward the front of Kian’s quarters.

The one who remains must be a he , his earring on the opposite ear and made of something shiny and brown. His skin is the color of the wooden wall I’ve been staring at for weeks, a million little dark spots coating every bit I can see. Around his face, a mess of hair spirals in all directions, forming coppery, stormy waves.

He’s tall for a human, but his light blue coat still caresses the back of his knees, the dark, rippling patterns on the edges contrasting with the deep golden vest beneath it. On his silken, brown belt lies both a pistol—which Kian once proved is good for three shots at close range—and a thin sword.

He whistles, standing in the doorway. “A live siren—can you believe it?”

My heart thumps like a fleeing fish and I hate it, but I can’t force the terror away. What does he want with me? What could he want, but to do to me what Kian has already done? Or worse.

The main cabin’s locking mechanism chimes and Simone returns. She leans against the wall at the other human’s side. “They’re smaller than I imagined. What do you think this one is, about eight feet long at most?”

“Their carcasses come in all different sizes,” he replies with a dry grin. “But a live siren , Simone. Captain Kian was a lucky bastard.” He steps into the little room.

I jerk away from him until the metal cuffs bite my skin. The bruises Kian left this morning show the reaction is worthless, yet some part of me still believes it will help, no matter how many times I’m proved wrong. But he doesn’t move to touch me. Instead, he steps back.

“Find a corpse, would you? I think I’ll be needing some entrails.” A salty smile hangs from his words, a cutting sort of amusement.

Simone snorts, her nose wrinkling. “It would be a pleasure, Dejean.” She sounds as though she means the opposite, but she makes her way back toward the door all the same.

“You’re the best first mate!” Dejean shouts after her. “Never replacing you.”

I stare at him. These are strange humans; Kian would have thrown a knife at her first mate on his way out. I shake the thought away. Dejean must not have enough blades to spare. Or maybe he’s saving them for me.

As he creeps across the room, I draw a great hiss up the back of my throat, wishing with everything I have that I could sing. But my gills clamp to the sides of my neck like barnacles, dried to a crisp. “I told you to get out.”

“It’s all right, pearly, I’m just gonna sit here. No need to be angry.” Dejean plops onto the floor, leaning against the wooden wall.

He doesn’t reach for me, not with fingers or fists. But he’s up to something. I don’t trust him.

“Sneaky, vile human,” I say. “What’s your game?”

“What should I call you?”

“I don’t want your nicknames.” I have many already, all given to me by other sirens. But the humans won’t comprehend them any more than they could understand the rest of my beautiful, melodious language, and I have no desire to be labeled with his rough jabber.

“Right then. How does Perle sound? You do shine like one.”

I growl, leaning as far away from him as I can.

Dejean ignores the protest, humming. “Worth more pearls than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime,” he mutters under his breath.

Baring my teeth, I hiss again. I’m no treasure to be hoarded or traded, no matter what Kian thought.

The scruffy copper hairs that ride over his eyes lift. “You know some of those words, don’t you?”

“I’m not an animal.” But it matters little what I say; he’s just as dense as the rest of his barbaric kind. He’ll never understand me.

Kian’s cabin door opens with an ominous creak that makes me flinch even after watching her flee. The strong scent of blood precedes Simone’s entry. She’s pulled back her sleeves to her elbows, but scarlet from the fresh meat in her hands soaks the edges of them and drips along her breeches, staining the sandy fabric in splotches.

I’ve never felt so hungry before in my life.

“This is the most disgusting thing I have ever done. I do hope you’re happy.” She hands Dejean a liver.

He grips the organ with one hand and draws out a small blade with the other. “What about that time you fed a man’s privates to a shark?”

“He deserved it.”

“And the grave robbing expedition you took in search of cultist metal implants?”

“Skeletons don’t bleed.”

“I distinctly remember you shoving a woman’s severed finger down her throat once,” Dejean counters.

Simone huffs, moving out of view to bang around Kian’s room. “That was a personal grudge and shouldn’t be counted.”

“Fair enough.” With a shrug and a quick slice of his blade, Dejean cuts off a piece of the liver.

My mouth waters, and my stomach makes a noise I’m ashamed of. But when he shifts closer I jerk away, hiding my face.

“You can eat it. It’s all right.” His words are softened into what the humans seem to perceive as soothing.

I would much rather sink into a bottomless chasm, but I peek at him. He dangles the bit of liver just within my reach. It kills me to smell it, one snatch of my jaws away, but held by a human. I stretch my mouth toward the meat, so slow and cautious it’s agonizing. The metal cuffs dig into my wrist as I lean farther. I catch the liver between my teeth and yank the food from him.

It saturates my mouth with a jolt of everything I’ve been craving these last months and more. I devour it, far too ravenous to savor the sliver of blood-slick meat. I need the rest.

Dejean chuckles, cutting off another slice and scooting closer. He holds it out. His fingers look temping, but there’s not much chance I’ll be offered anything more if I bite them off. I take the liver out of his hand as delicately as my insatiable hunger will allow.

Oh merciful tides, it tastes divine .

Dejean scoots forward another fist-length, nearing the edge of the tub. Whatever his game is, he can keep playing it, because his offerings are the first fresh meat I’ve had in so very long. I should be embarrassed that a human could buy my trust with so little, but my stomach is larger than my brain will ever be. Most marine creatures are like that.

I savor the next piece, holding it in my mouth for a moment before scarfing it down like the rest. Dejean places a hand on the side of the tub. A hiss rises in my throat, and my subconscious screams for me to hide before he can hit me. I hide my face in my shoulder, a tremble running down my back.

“Perle?”

He doesn’t sound as close. Forcing myself to look at him, I find he’s leaned away. He holds a bit of liver over the center of the tub, though. I take it from him slowly, catching the juice and blood that’s accumulated. It holds a different tang this time, as though mixed with the blood of another human. Cuts run along Dejean’s fingertips.

I stare at them, the red slits thickening until a drop of scarlet trickles down. My teeth must have nicked him earlier, yet he hadn’t made a sound. How odd. This is a very strange game, and Dejean is a very strange human.

He rises slowly onto his knees. I glare at him and fight the instinct to hide, but his gaze fixes on the metal around my wrists.

“Simone, you find a key yet?” he asks.

“Found eight keys.” Simone pops her head back into the little room. “What sort are you looking for?”

“Small. Brass or bronze. I’m thinking two bits, maybe three.”

“Here.” She tosses him one that’s the same color as my tub.

I flinch as he catches it, and it takes all my concentration just to steady myself. Whatever he needs the key for, I don’t want to be caught off guard.

But then he slides it into the lock on the cuff around my wrist, and my heart stops. The metal unclamps with a click, and Dejean pulls it open the rest of the way. A rush of something hot and fierce pounds through me. I yank my hand out of the restraint, knocking my elbow into the tub’s edge in my hurry. Yelping, I pull it toward my chest, but my arm stays locked in its half-bent state, pain shooting up to my shoulder.

No. This can’t be. My arms are strong; not as powerful as my tail, but still sure and capable. I’m built for the water. The air should not hold me back.

But it does. My arm refuses to bend or straighten fully, locked in the same position. I swing it about, slamming it against the side of the tub. Knives of pain spring from the sore on my elbow, and I shriek a raw, hideous noise that grates my throat.

“Easy there! You’ll hurt yourself.”

Dejean’s words sound distant to my ears, hidden in a rush like the crashing of the ocean, but the smell of the liver under my nose overpowers my fear. I snatch it between my teeth. He winces this time. I can still taste his blood.

He holds the next piece further out, but within reach of my freed hand. “Careful now,” he says gently. “Go slow.”

“Slow,” I grumble. I try it though. My arm tingles, tight and painful, and it shakes as I hold it in the air. But I can bend it a little more each time I move. I drop it back onto the edge of the tub, shifting my shoulder to avoid touching my elbow sore to the metal or my fingers to the restraint.

Dejean watches me, his gaze piercing. “You do know our language, don’t you?” He says it slow and precise, as though that will somehow help me understand him better.

“Again, not an animal,” I snap.

At least he has some level of comprehension. However small.

Dejean’s brows pinch, but he nods, his lips turning up. He continues to observe me so intently that I want to pull deeper into the tub just to avoid his gaze. I prefer this to fear though; more cringing, less quailing.

“Would you let me touch your arm?” he asks.

“No,” I hiss at him.

“All right, I get it.” He holds his hands up, palms facing me. I have no idea what he means by the motion, but his expression is open, submissive. “I just want to look at that sore. I might have something I can bandage it with.”

A bandage. Those are the white skins humans stretch over wounds. I don’t know if their healing techniques work on sirens, but the sores are painful. It might be worth a try. I hold out my arm to him, glaring as I do, narrowing my eyes.

The rough skin of his fingers makes me itch, but he stays clear of my more tender scales. “You should know, I have not the slightest idea what I’m doing.”

“Clearly.”

“This doesn’t look terrible. Sirens must be made of different stuff than humans.” Dejean’s finger brushes the edge of the sore, and I cringe, a growl burning up my throat. He lets go, handing me a chunk of liver. “Here. You did well.”

I move my elbow more this time. The muscles tremble, but it bends easier with each motion, mending itself in long, aching strokes. As Dejean stands, I jerk away, lifting my arm to protect my face. My hand smacks into my face from the force of my motion, and I stiffen in shock.

Smiling weakly, Dejean edges around the tub toward the port side. “You don’t have to go knocking yourself out to get me to slow down.”

“I could eat you, you know!” It rises as a growl at first, but the words become a whine, the air contorting my beautiful noises into something almost as ugly and rough as the human’s tongue. “I will someday, when I’m stronger.”

Dejean’s eyes sparkle. “That didn’t sound very friendly,” he chides, slipping the key into the lock of my other wrist restraint.

“I’m not friendly.”

The metal clicks open, and I draw out my other hand, carefully bending my arm a few times to work out the tightness. I drop them both into the water, but the foul stuff stings my dry scales. Drawing in a breath through my teeth, I yank them back out. I want to murder Kian, each of her crew members, and everyone who ever set foot on this terrible ship. Instead, I hiss at the liquid and cross my arms over my chest.

“I’ll be back soon.” Dejean stands. He heads for the door, taking the rest of the liver with him.

I twist to face him, gripping the tub with my hands, and scream, “Mine!”

He stops. The metal lances my chest as I throw myself against the side of the tub, grabbing for the rest of the liver. I can’t quite reach it.

With a dramatic sigh, he cuts off a large chunk of the meat and tosses it at me. “Go slowly. I don’t want you getting sick in here.” He waves the remaining half. “You can have the rest later.”

Then he vanishes, leaving the door to my room open. Kian’s cabin shuts tight and the lock clicks. Simone must have found the spare key to that, too.

I gnaw on the liver, trying my hardest to savor it. Some of the warmth is gone, but it’s still juicy and tangy, and I yearn for more. Out the port window, Dejean’s ship floats a fair number of dinghy lengths away. The nearest wing dangles, tilting the vessel slightly, and the steam stacks flicker with an odd light. They must be broken.

The glimpse of sea to either side of the ship stretches endlessly, tugging at me in a way not even the tastiest morsel can. If not for the weight pinning me to the tub, I could attempt an escape. But at least one door and two flights of stairs stand between me and freedom. With my arms so weak, I doubt my tail will be any better. If I stay where I am, Dejean may keep feeding me, and perhaps bandage my sores.

I huff to myself. What’s he playing at? He can’t be doing this for my sake. Maybe he means to sell me.

A shiver runs down my spine. At least as a captive on a ship, I can see the ocean, feel it rock beneath me, smell it in the breeze that comes through Kian’s cabin door. If these humans bring me onto land, I won’t survive.

The door thuds as it’s flung open. Dejean’s arm comes into view, but he turns away, dropping something off to the side as a new set of footsteps approach. Most of the light vanishes as he closes the door on me.

“I thought said I was not to be disturbed.” His voice shifts away from the playfulness he takes with Simone and the thoughtful, soothing emphasis he uses on me. This new tone holds none of Kian’s harsh cruelty, but it sounds forced, as though he pulls his joy from beneath layers of wet sand, the emotion coming through blunted and coarse. “What do you need, Chauncey?”

“Just a report, Captain.” The crew member makes no mention of Dejean’s stiffness. “We finished the search of the ship.”

“And did you find them?”

“Not yet, but there are locked chests in the hull we’re still opening. We’ve also cataloged enough provisions to last a full crew two weeks. The damages along the port are nearly patched, and we’ve pulled the wings up. What would you have us do with Kian’s crew?”

“I’ll deal with them later,” Dejean says gruffly, even for a human. “You may return to the search.”

“Aye, captain.” Receding footsteps follow the words and Kian’s door closes once more.

I try to make sense of the conversation, but a missing piece seems to drift too far out to sea. Dejean has more sides to him than Kian. And he’s searching for something.

He opens my sliding door and enters, carrying a long tube, a stack of buckets, and absolutely no liver. He hands me one end of the tube.

“I can’t eat this.” I glare at him, but he only smiles in reply.

“Put it in the tub. I’ll bring you the liver once we’re finished.”

I lower the end of the tube into the water, slowly, waiting for something terrible to happen. Nothing does.

Scooting closer, Dejean spreads out the buckets in a row. He pauses. “How long can you survive without water?”

“How long can you survive without air!” I shove the tube back at him.

Dejean scrambles to catch it. “Not long, I get it.” He scowls at the tube, but the expression fades when he looks back at me. “I just need to know how quickly I’ll have to refill the tub after the bad water’s been drained.”

Suddenly, I feel very small. Creeping my fingers over the side of the tub, I snatch the tube and shove it into my filthy muck.

“I guess that’s my answer?”

I nod, sinking away from him with a scowl. If I had any dignity left, I would try to maintain it, but Kian bled mine out, every last blistering tear.

Dejean sticks his end of the tube in his mouth, sucking on it until water siphons up. He drops it into the bucket, hacking out a mouthful of revolting liquid. “That is foul stuff.”

Humans are so strange. Though I suppose the way he holds his chest as he coughs and the wrinkles that form around his nose aren’t all that different from a siren. I focus on the water draining instead, listening as he shifts the tube to a new bucket in steady intervals.

Despite the rancidity of the water, it still feels wrong to draw it away. Prickles run across my scales, up to the point where the weight presses down on me and I feel nothing at all. The little translucent fins along the side of my tail droop as the water drops beneath them, matching the state of my largest fanning fin where it slumps over the tub’s edge.

I flinch as Simone sets down two fresh buckets of seawater. The fresh, salty smell floods my senses. I coo at it in adoration.

“Noisy creature,” Simone mutters.

“I’m not opposed to eating you, too,” I mutter in return.

A small smile tugs at Dejean’s lips, but he shakes his head. “They’re just talkative.”

“Be glad they can’t serenade you right now.” Simone picks up two of the dirty buckets and carries them out.

The tube gurgles as the last of the old water siphons up, and Dejean sets it to the side. He pours the fresh bucket in. I want to sing, but I only manage a weak moan. Cupping the water in my hands, I splash it onto my face, letting it drip down my chin and across my clamped gills. Bliss.

Dejean fills the tub until it reaches the center of my chest, leaving just enough space that it won’t slosh out as the ship rocks. After the muck I had before, I prefer the fresh water to any meal. I can’t cover myself in it as I wish to, but it saturates my tail and my lower torso, relieving the itching that’s cursed me for months. I pour it over as much of my shoulders and arms as I can, letting my body soak.

As Dejean wraps my elbows in his mystical bandages, I avoid looking at him, avoid flinching every time his hands move too suddenly. If nothing else, the weird white skins seem to work as a decent padding against the metal. He finishes up the second one and moves toward my back.

Twisting, I snarl at him, my sharp teeth bared.

“I haven’t hurt you yet, have I?” He points out softly.

“Maybe not, but you will.” If I don’t eat him first. His aid only means he wants me healthy for whatever he’s planning. The healthier I am, though, the easier it will be to escape.

When he tries to edge around me once more, I give him a pointed look, tightening my round eyes. Very slowly, I lean forward. He slips as far as he can into the small space between the back of the tub and the wall, until I can see nothing but the fringe of his curls. My instincts send me mixed signals: scramble away or attack, hide my face or bite his off. But I ignore them. Staring at my fingers, I run them through the water. They glide, long and spindly in a lovely, deadly sort of way, pointed nails drawing no resistance.

Dejean pauses from his work. “Why can’t you sing?”

Curling away from him, I growl a warning. He must want to keep me mute. He’s afraid that if I could sing, I’d soothe him with my voice and eat him while he’s mesmerized.

I would, but that’s not the point.

“Did Kian do this?” A mournful tone seeps into his softened voice, distant and pensive: the sound of a somber memory. “Did she remove something of yours? Some kind of vocal cords?”

The sincerity in his reply stuns me and my brain goes numb. I shake my head. His melancholy still echoing through me, I reach up and brush my fingers over the gills on my neck, sealed tight from being exposed to the air for far too long. The flaps themselves hold no hypnotic ability; that power lies in the oscillating chamber they open to. No siren knows how it works, only that with it, we make a vibration that subdues any land creature. A beautiful sound; the song of the ocean.

I yearn to create that melody, but with the chamber hidden beneath locked gills, I can do nothing but growl and click and whine. I yank my hand down, hissing at Dejean for good measure.

He hums under his breath. “I understand, it’s very personal.” His fingers brush my shoulder as he wraps the bandage around my upper back. I scowl, but again, he catches me off guard with his words. “Maybe we can get them working again, once you trust me enough.”

He can’t know what he’s offering me.

Simone appears in the doorway to my little room. “Excuse my saying it, Captain, but you’re as dumb as they come. You shouldn’t be giving a siren any advantages. That creature will eat you the moment they can sing again.”

She’s not wrong.

Dejean chuckles, finishing with the bandage and standing. “Just as many humans want to stab me through—should I live in fear of adding to that list? At least Perle isn’t planning to dump me overboard for the minnows.”

“Crabs, not minnows.” I mimic a pair of crab pincers with my hands, baring my pointed teeth at Dejean.

He returns the motion, baring his own teeth in a way far more annoyingly friendly than I had. “Does that mean something? A lobster?”

With a scoff, I make the pincers less rounded.

“Crabs?” Dejean looks at me with so much elation that I barely manage to hide my amusement. After a nod from me, he repeats it louder, testing out the hand motion once more. “Crabs!”

Sighing, Simone shakes her head. “You’ll need to watch out for Kian.” She leaves the doorway, vanishing into the farther reaches of Kian’s cabin. “Especially since you’re playing with her pet.”

“This siren isn’t Kian’s anymore,” he snaps, though his bitterness seems directed elsewhere. “That monster’s not touching Perle again.”

“I’m not yours either,” I object. The thought of a future without Kian brings me some comfort though, as terrible and misplaced as Dejean’s beliefs about me may be.

Simone reappears, nudging around the puzzle of connected metal shapes Kian would spend hours detaching and then reconstructing in the dead of night. “They’re more intelligent than I anticipated.”

“It’s reasonable, isn’t it?” Dejean bobs his head, as though agreeing with himself. “Sirens are very similar to humans, physically.”

“They’re like an ocean monkey then?”

“A very bright ocean monkey, I think.”

I cross my arms over my chest, grumbling a noise between a hiss and a gurgle. “If you humans were any smarter than a bright monkey you’d know how dumb you are to believe that!” At least they seem to be learning, though. If they keep this up maybe they’ll be halfway intelligent someday. Dejean grins at me, and I snort. “As though you have any idea what I’m saying.”

He clearly doesn’t, but he continues smiling anyway, the expression only fading when Simone asks another question.

“Why are you doing this, Gayle?” Her brows crease and she stares at him in a way far too siren-like, with genuine worry and affection where gruff, selfish human nature should be.

Dejean avoids her gaze. When he speaks, his words come out in a hush. “I’m passing down my debt.”

“You know the sort of compassion you owe is lost on animals, even bright ones.”

“I like them better than people.” He cuts the rest of the liver in two, tossing me half of it.

“We agree on something!” Taking small bites, I savor it, the growl of my stomach mellowed somewhat.

Simone barks a laugh. “That murderous creature will eat your liver just as soon as the one you’re offering. Your debt is wasted on them.”

Again, she’s not wrong. Though with the weight still pinning me down, I would rather be handed free liver by Dejean than eat his only to have Simone starve me as punishment.

Dejean shakes his head in response. He leaves for a moment, but when he returns, he carries what looks like a big square sponge.

“Do you think you can lift your hips into the air for me?” he asks.

I figure he means to put the weird sponge under me—at least, the part of me not weighed down by a hunk of metal. I would prefer sand, but anything is better than the harsh grinding of the tub. Gripping its sides, I push myself up as far as I can, straining against the weight.

Dejean slips the sponge into the tub. It takes time for him to ease it into place. Having his filthy human hands in my water does not make me the least bit happy, but for this, it might be worth it.

“Hurry up,” I yowl at him. “I bet I could eat a little of you and get away with it.”

He makes that ridiculous cheerful laugh he seems so fond of. “Almost—there!” He pulls away.

The sponge stays in place as I sink onto it. Where I can feel it, the soft, squishy material cushions me nicely. Not like sand, but a worthy alternative.

Dejean hands over the last piece of liver. I savor it, sad for the loss. If there are any other viable livers on this ship, I hope he brings me them soon. He’s not like Kian; he seems to enjoy the aid he provides. Though why he would bother still troubles me.

He joins Simone in Kian’s cabin, but again, he leaves the door open. Out the large starboard window, the sun sinks into view. Both humans move deeper into the cabin, out of my line of sight.

“Did you find them?” Dejean asks, his voice low and grim.

“I broke open every damn chest in here, and the crew has searched the rest of the ship, but they haven’t turned up,” Simone replies, just as harsh. “They may not be here at all.”

“No schematics either?”

Silence follows, which must have included a head shake from Simone, because Dejean groans. The ship creaks, and far above someone shouts a command across the top deck. The stacks roar to life, and smoke trails into both windows for a moment before the vessel surges forward. Out the port side, some of Dejean’s crew still stand on his ship, waving us off.

“What if there are no blockers to stop the effects of a siren’s song?” Simone asks. “What if Kian was lucky, and found a way to catch them without making direct contact?”

“I don’t think so. As far as I can tell, Perle believes they can’t sing as a side effect of something wrong with their gills. I doubt Kian could have known that going into the hunt.”

“Then she took whatever blockers she had with her.” She leaves Kian’s cabin, Dejean following in her wake. “This attack has been for nothing.”

“We found Perle, and we took the ship intact.”

“One siren and a ship.” Simone snorts. “Perle is a prize on their own, but with the cost of repairing the Tsunami ’s shield and Kian out there, likely vengeful . . . What good does one siren and a ship do us in the long run?”

“Maybe none.” Dejean’s next words are lost as he locks the cabin door.

He’s just looking for investments. Of course, that is the way his kind function. No honor, only greed and cruelty. I can’t trust the humans. But as I’m left alone with my thoughts, relaxed against the funny sponge, licking the last traces of liver off my nails, I realize something.

The pain is nearly gone.

* * *

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2

The Steel Discord

Ryan Howse

Zarachius Skie is presumed dead.

His mentor, the Arcanist Mordekai Gethsemane, had been arrested for conspiracy to commit regicide. Zarachius knew it was false. He did what had to, and snuck onto a military train to break Mordekai out.

But now, the Ancien Legion, vengeful anarchists, and Mordekai's old co-conspirators are doing whatever it takes to bring Zarachius out of hiding. They need to know what he knows.

They need to know the secret he uncovered on that train.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

The rain fell, cold and hard as a corpse’s knucklebones. Zarachius and Kyran dashed through the streets of Delecot towards their manor house. Zarachius leapt over a puddle running through the gutters.

“You look like a prancing fool when you do that,” Kyran said.

Zarachius shrugged. “Drier, though.”

Kyran walked through the puddle and looked at his damp pant legs. “Right. How will I ever survive?”

They came to the cold metal gate that led up to their master’s home. The gatekeeper for the evening was René, a middle-aged man with a short square beard. He seemed pale. Must be the cold, Zarachius thought.

“Good evening, Monsieur Skie. Monsieur D’Allaire.”

“Evening, René,” Kyran said, tipping his hat briefly. The man was unfailingly polite to anyone besides Zarachius.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Monsieur Skie is worried he’ll catch his death out here,” Kyran said with a scoff. They walked past him, and up the stone walkway leading to the manor. The foyer was well-lit, and cast a burnished yellow light upon the grounds outside.

The light also cast bronze against Kyran, illuminating the man’s oddly yellow-tinted skin, a remnant of childhood illness.

The only other light Zarachius could see in the window was on the third floor, in Mordekai’s study, and that was a simple flickering candle in the darkness. Not even an alchemical lamp.

There was scurrying in the foyer, and the sound of exerted wheezing. As the two of them got closer, they realized why. Bags upon bags were thrown haphazardly around the room by Mordekai’s butler, Claude Malavoy. Several of them lay, caught under the classical pre-Ragnarian architrave.

“What are you doing?” Zarachius asked.

“What does it look like?” Claude grumbled. He was an older man, halfway between Zarachius’s youth and Mordekai’s age. Despite that, and the nature of his work, he had corded muscle and calloused hands. “Monsieur Gethsemane has finally reached his end with the lot of you. You’re gone. Out. Enjoy the rain.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The manor house is no longer yours, lads. No more fancy meals. No more poor overworked butler to clean up after you. You’re on your own.”

“We’ve heard nothing about this,” Zarachius said. “Come, now. We’re his apprentices. We deserve to—”

Claude waved a ha nd dismissively. “You were his apprentice. Now you’re vagabonds. Drifters. Transients. Beggars.”

Kyran crossed his arms. “I prefer wayfarer.”

“Fortunately, I am no longer required to care about what you would like to be called. I shall stick with tramps. Enjoy your, ah, graduation and do avoid the poor quarters. I hear there’s a dreadful wasting disease going around.”

“I’m going to talk to Mordekai,” Zarachius said.

“That’s Monsieur Gethsemane to you, from now on,” Claude responded, stepping in Zarachius’s path. “And he is currently indisposed and wishes to speak to no one.”

“Fine,” Kyran said. He put a big hand on Zarachius’s back. “Let’s just go, Zarachius. We can sort this out later.”

“No,” Zarachius said. “I’m speaking with Mordekai.”

“He has left specific instructions—”

“Do you really think you’re going to stop me?” Zarachius interrupted, voice louder than he had meant. A glare from the gigantic Kyran was enough to make Claude step to the side.

Claude sighed. “Very well. Intentionally ignore instructions from Mordant’s most infamous occult expert and Arcanist. True wisdom, that.”

Zarachius passed by Claude and began climbing the twelve large stairs of the first floor of the manor house. Always symbols with Mordekai. Three floors for the three Adversaries who lurked in the Nexus: the Insect Prophet, the Skin That Walks as a Man, and the Scapegoat Martyr. Twelve steps between floors for the twelve ancient gods felled, and humanity’s ascent. Even the way his rooms were set up and the placement of the walls matched Mordekai’s personal sigil.

As always, the second step creaked. He’d lived here for so many years. A full decade, now. Why was this changing all of a sudden? Was this even Mordekai’s doing? Was Claude trying some strange ploy? Claude had always seemed a loyal servant, though an arse to both Kyran and Zarachius, but Mordekai was constantly in the midst of some controversy or another. It wouldn’t be hard for someone unscrupulous to apply pressure to the butler to get to the occultist.

There was conspiracy at work. Layers, always.

On the second floor, out of Claude’s sight, he walked into Mordekai’s study. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now. He saw the faint outline of the famous Gustave Canto painting, a classically-rendered acrylic piece depicting Uther Apollinaire defeating Imperator Belisario in the Nerodrakh Pass. It was a famous piece of pro-Mordantian propaganda.

But with whispers of revolution in the air, the idea of a nation of people rising up against a corrupt empire and forging their own destiny took on a meaning distinct from its original intent. It was no longer only a symbol of an adored past, but a guideline for casting off the shackles of the modern age. And that was something Mordekai was very interested in.

He reached the top of the second flight of stairs. Chanting came down from the hall. Zarachius began walking towards it. He recognized his master’s voice. Even with his advanced age, Mordekai’s voice boomed like rusty bellows. Everything was dark, but that was of no consequence. Zarachius was an occultist. The darkness could hide nothing from him.

Finally, he reached the door. A threshold. Used in rituals of initiation, and adulthood. He knew, as his hand touched the cold handle, that nothing would be the same. He opened it up and looked inside.

Mordekai and a strange woman close to his mentor’s age stared at him. Her clothing consisted of thick layers of black with a white thread laced through it in patterns of large stitches.

Candles in a dual-hexagon gave off the sole light in the room. Wisps of smoke rose from each of them and lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of burnt wax. In the flickering of the candlelight, Zarachius saw Mordekai’s face flash red with anger, and his veins become visible on his elderly skin.

And, in the midst of the candlesmoke, a creature smiled. A caitiff, one of the creatures of the Nexus, brought into the mortal realm. It appeared as smoke and teeth. It lunged towards Zarachius, pressing its incorporeal hand against the wards. A glowing symbol, the white of extreme heat, was on the creature’s palm as a brand.

“Get out,” Mordekai said.

“We need to—”

“Get out,” Mordekai repeated, and as he spoke, the door in front of him and all others on the floor slammed shut.

Zarachius put his hands back down and stepped back. Failed initiation. An interrupted ritual. He didn’t recognize the precise nature of whatever it was they were summoning, though the brand would make it fairly easy to determine, if he had the right books. Which he wouldn’t, as he no longer had access to Mordekai’s library.

“I warned you,” came Claude’s needling voice from the first floor.

He wanted to pound on the door, tear up floorboards. What was happening? He read the symbols of the world like text, had been trained to for nearly a decade, and he hadn’t seen any of this coming.

Zarachius returned down the stairs quickly. Kyran already had his bags, and several of Zarachius’s, thrown over his back. The Arcanist just had one to throw over his back, and one to carry. He took a deep breath. A lifetime’s wor th of possessions on his back, and nowhere to live.

They stepped back into the rain outside, and Claude slammed the door the moment they were gone. Then, they heard a series of locks clicking.

“What an arse-licker.”

They walked back towards René, who was holding up a piece of oilskin over his head to keep himself as dry as possible. He gave an awkward half-wave and went for the keys. Small w o nde r he was so awkward earlier. He knew. And I did not.

René opened up the gates again. “Uh, good evening, Monsieurs,” he said, trying too hard for a polite tone. In its own way, Claude’s outright scorn was easier to deal with.

He refused to lash out at René, or even Claude. Only one man deserved that.

Kyran silently stared at René, as the man awkwardly opened the gate. They headed through the steel arches and onto the street. The constant drizzle of the rain against nearby roofs made it hard to see or hear others nearby. They stood as if they were alone in the world.

There was nothing cleansing about this rain. It clung to him like the past, weighing him down.

“So. Where now?” Kyran asked.

“If we’re going to be out on the street, there are worse cities than Delecot,” Zarachius said. “Certainly Apollinaire has terrified someone out of their home in the last week.”

“How much coin do you have on you?”

Zarachius looked through the coins. One bore the face of Henri Apollinaire, Fourth of His Name, two bore the crown, and the rest were copper coins with the sunflower, the national flower of Mordant, upon it. Simple symbols. “One Apollyon, two royale, forty fleur or so. You?”

“Three apollyons, six fleur. Better than plenty of folk in this city.”

“We certainly have enough to go have some calm and studious reflection.”

“By calm and studious reflection, you mean drink until we can’t feel?”

“Of course.”

They walked down the road, cobblestones grinding under their feet. In the distance, the sound of a horse trotting and a hansom cab being pulled behind it, and the slicing of water as wheels ran across rivulets. Neither spoke for much of the way.

Many of the homes they walked past were empty. Some houses had white-painted latticework with interlaced ivy that had grown wild, bending and snapping the wood. Gemgrass grew without being tended, patches of alchemically-treated blue and white grass crossing into each other. A Mordantian flag design in one overgrown home had patches of weeds bursting through, as if nature were devouring politics.

Even some of the well-groomed houses were abandoned, save for a solitary caretaker left behind by the owners to watch over them.

The reason for so many empty homes in the capital city of an empire was the same reason every home was coated in white and blue paint. No one wanted to be near King Apollinaire, because no one knew what would infuriate him next.

Only a few months ago, Tanisti in the Wisp Forest were routed, possessions burned, and the survivors had their hands arcanely sealed into ancient stone monoliths. They were trapped there, hands atrophied and stuck in stone, until they died of starvation or thirst or necrosis. This was the punishment starving folk deserved for poaching in the King’s Forest.

Others had been punished for far lesser crimes. An ambassador’s wife wore a red dress with a yellow shawl, the colors of Terund, to a ball. The ambassador’s new posting was for Aeschwold, a bleak land of endless tundra and cinder-snow and Zarachius’s own birthplace.

A group of merchants had set up a discussion with Apollinaire and some advisers about taxation and tariffs. He’d agreed willingly. But he was known for leaping from euphoria to mania, and by the time the meeting was supposed to be, he had declared them traitors and conspirators and had all of the merchants executed, their holdings to be owned by the kingdom, and their family turned into indentured servants.

His own advisers had to be wary. He’d had three new trade councillors in the past two years. None of them had particularly pleasant retirements.

Too many citizens of Delecot hoped to be away from him. Much of the average citizenry could hope to keep their heads down, but those who interacted with him on a regular basis were constantly anxious. There were fortunes to be made elsewhere—in New Everard, in Aeon, in Menneren or Vollein. Anywhere outside of his gaze.

Zarachius tightened his coat around himself as the rain began to beat down faster. It was surprising, he thought, how Mordekai had lasted as long as he had. The man was a well-known occultist and darling rogue of the court, but that kind of notoriety could have serious repercussions.

In the distance, the light of an alchemical lantern hung over a build ing, illuminating it with a green luminescence. The sign above it said Polly’s.

Kyran opened the door and Zarachius stepped inside. Considering the rain of the night, Polly’s remained fairly busy. Zarachius’s hands itched as he saw folk playing cards, though not for enough money to be worth the time. Other people were drinking and arguing politics. In the corner, two people were passionately kissing.

The floor was covered, just slightly, in sawdust, the better easily sweep up potential vomit. They grabbed a table near the door.

The stench of ignusweed and nexus-smoke stung Zarachius's eyes. “This place stinks like a golem made of arseholes,” Kyran muttered.

Zarachius coughed. “I am forced to concur wit h your assessment. I will note, however, that choosing this establishment was your idea.”

“No one cares who you are at Polly’s,” Kyran said. “That’s the point. So what the bloody shit do we do?”

The barmaid came by. “What can I get for you?”

“Brandy. Lots. The stronger the better.”

“Mulled wine,” Zarachius said. At Kyran’s raised eyebrow, he said, “It’s cold and wet outside.” He turned back to the barmaid. “And we’ll require a room for the night as well.”

She brought them their drinks and a key, and Zarachius slipped her a few fleur and a royale for it. “You’ll be in the corner room,” she said.

Kyran looked at the brandy in his glass. “Too small,” he said, then turned to the bottle, and drank straight from that. When he finished, he slammed it down on the table. “First, we drink an excessive amount. That part's finished. Then, we hate existence. I'm definitely on my way there.”

Zarachius tilted the wine back. With Mordekai, he had been to some of the fanciest balls and masquerades. Nobility were always tittering about his abilities, and getting him to host a séance or a summoning was treated as a coup. He drank the finest wines, from Vollein and Remparenon and Albierni. He could discuss everything from taste to terroir: their origins, varieties, the weather and earth and processes that made each vintage unique.

Polly’s was hardly classy, and their mulled red wine tasted like someone had mingled that swept-up sawdust with a handful of cinnamon and dumped it in.

He no longer had the support of the infamous occultist. He was on limited funds. So, Polly’s it was. And something was nagging at him anyhow.

“How could I not have know this was coming? Have I been too busy with everything to notice portents staring me in the face?”

“Surprised me too. Drink more. It helps.”

“You don’t do what I do, Kyran. I analyze symbols and use what I’ve gleaned to solve problems. I missed something. Something big.”

Kyran finished his brandy, then flagged the barmaid down for a second. “If anyone can hide the symbols, it’s the man who taught you how to find them.”

“Maybe it was part of a test, and I failed.”

“You’re taking this hard.”

Zarachius swirled the wine, then took another sip. “This may be a chugging wine.” He set it aside. “I have no place to live, Kyran.”

“As you said, we’re better off than many others in Delecot. And we can talk to people here. There are always people coming through Polly’s looking for freelance muscle. As an Arcanist, you can charge plenty. Plus, all those rich fops Mordekai introduced you to.”

“Why would he do this without warning?”

Kyran shrugged. “Remember who you’re speaking to. Being evicted from home because your father’s an arse is hardly a shock to me.”

“We’re not talking about your father, Kyran. Mordekai—”

“Mordekai took me in so he could piss off my father. Let’s not bandy about words of praise for the man. I ate his food and slept in that creepy room, but I always remembered why.”

The voice was crueler than Zarachius had expected, but he knew the brandy didn’t explain it. Kyran had been expelled from his noble father’s house at a young age. A childhood illness had permanently discolored and pocked his skin, and his younger brother had been considered a more appropriate heir. So, Kyran ‘succumbed’ to his illness and disappeared.

Mordekai had discovered him two and a half seasons prior. He’d taken Kyran in, fed and clothed and educated him. Kyran wanted nothing to do with his parentage, but Mordekai had let the threat of the true heir’s return linger in the air around Francois d’Allaire, keeping the secret in exchange for numerous favors. To the nobility, Mordekai claimed Kyran had been the strongman at a carnival he’d decided to hire as a porter.

The one thing Mordekai hadn’t truly anticipated was the bond between the two younger men. The low-born peasant raised above his station and educated in the mysteries of Arcanum was an odd match for the vulgar, discolored, and disgraced noble.

The next time the barmaid came by, he simply asked for a full bottle of Keshemassan Red. “Drink?” he asked Kyran.

“Any good?” Kyran asked, looking at the bottle.

“Sweet as cyanide. But it makes a day like today a lot more tolerable,” Zarachius said, pouring himself another.

“But I’m right. You’re viewing this as a father throwing you out. He’s not. He never was. Not to me. Not to you. He was just a teacher, a landlord, and a famously creepy man.”

Zarachius paused. The drink was suddenly sloshing in both his head and gut. The thought of more made him painfully nauseous, very quickly.

“Look. Nothing will change tonight. Likely tomorrow as well, the way this wine’s going down. But I’d like a chance to talk to him, and see what’s going on. What harm is there?”

“Plenty,” Kyran said with all the measured determination of a man who knows that speaking is becoming an increasingly hazardous sport. “And on that note, I have to piss like a dog...that also has to piss.” Kyran got up and wandered off to the washroom.

Zarachius sat back in his chair, letting a few more drinks slide into him. The red wine was obviously a too-sweet port, commonly used as medicine. Lemon aided longevity. Star anise symbolically stood for the firmament above. He closed his eyes a moment and relaxed. The scent of wood-smoke, the low murmur of the other patrons. The rain outside ran across windows, its constant stream comforting, like a blanket swaddling a babe. It was enough to make one somnolent.

The door opened and a young woman entered, damp, in an oilskin cloak, and carrying a large black case. Sawdust stuck to her wet boots. She went up to Polly herself and talked to her briefly, then went into another room. She came out in a few minutes, wearing a different, dry outfit. She had a wide-brimmed purple hat to match her clothing.

His occultist eye was drawn to the gold-trimmed embroidered patterns running up and down the arms and legs of the clothing in a double chain pattern. The pattern was almost identical to what the old woman who had been with Mordekai had worn.

The woman started by diving straight into an Aeonic drinking song called “Landing the Serpent,” that had nothing to do with sea serpents. Most of the patrons cheered and raised their tankards and mugs.

While the first song played, Polly walked up to him. “Where’s Kyran?” she asked.

“Pissing.”

She bit her lip, just slightly. “How is he?”

“Mordekai just evicted us both,” Zarachius said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can put you up free for a few nights if you need.”

“Thank you, but no. We have more money than a lot of other folk in the city. We can pay.”

“I’m always looking for barmaids. You think you could do that?” She grinned, the unburned side of her mouth lifting upwards.

“Oh, no. They have far more stamina than I.”

She chuckled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “When I asked about Kyran, I meant, how’s he doing with the pain?”

“What pain?”

“Oh? He didn’t tell you?” She paused. She was perhaps more sensitive to such things than most. Her own face had teeth exposed on the left side, remnants of fire damage from years ago. It would have been easy enough to fix with Arcanum, but she’d refused. She wore it as a badge of pride.

He could respect that. It was a sign of who she was.

“Come, now. Tell me, please,” he said.

“He’s often aching. Stress on his muscles, his joints, his bones. He’s a big man, and that puts strain everywhere on him. Combine that with his pox, and it’s a recipe for constant pain.”

The singer finished up the drinking song to the cheers of the crowd, and started into a new one on piano.

“Why did he never tell me?”

“Because you don’t offer the same sympathy that I do.”

Zarachius couldn’t argue with that. Kyran’s unabashed interest in Polly had been a constant throughout the years Zarachius had known both of them. Kyran had gone through several short-term flings and Polly had gotten married and divorced in the interim, but still Kyran pursued. Much like a dog chasing a horse, Zarachius had no idea what Kyran would do if he ever caught her.

The song now was a repetitious dancehall libretto that felt like a fugue as the riffs continued cycling without ever being able to break free of their pattern. She sang endless new stanzas to an old, old song.

The song continued its refrain. A slight deviation on the keys at the end of the concluding melody of the refrain hooked it back in.

“Is she ever going to finish the song?” Zarachius asked.

“For all I know, we’ll be here tomorrow listening,” Polly responded.

“She must run out of verses eventually,” Zarachius added.

“Unless she’s making it all up as she goes along.”

“Who is she?” Zarachius asked. He could see hints of long light brown hair spilling out from underneath a wide-brimmed purple hat. Her clothing, too, was the same hue of purple, with gold trimming on the cuffs and seams. Tall black boots made of fine leather sat next to her. She had taken them off while she played for ease of using the pedal.

“Nicola Maronovich. Quite good, and well-traveled. You’d like her. She’s played in Aeon, Clymnestrada, Ravaillac, Swordspoint, even Aeschwold.”

“Huh. My people usually like their music a little more operatic.”

Polly shrugged. “This is only one song, long as it is. She’s diverse, apparently.”

The song cycled through yet again, and Zarachius found himself focusing on the words. The music was a structure designed to mimic the lyrics: the song could not break free of the cycle because neither could the man the song was about. He was bound by it.

Yet the lyrics she sang, separate from the ones he knew—it was an old, old song—suggested that it wasn’t mere magic that bound one. It was not simply a declaration from on high, for after all, with the gods dead or vanished, there were no one to determine such a thing. No, fate was bound within you through your blood, through your family, your heritage, your history. Fate bound you through society and the expectations of civilization. The nudgings of the wyrd were little more than reminders of one’s place.

Zarachius shook his head. He’d crawled his way out of a harsh lifestyle the only way he knew how, and he’d done it while having to support his mother and younger brother. It had been rough. It had involved some questionable moral choices. But he’d done it, because he’d had no other real choice.

He hadn’t been bound by fate, in any guise. He’d refuted the bleak future promised to him when his father had died. He’d even given his brother Aran a chance to sort out his own future, though Aran had used his money to make mistake after mistake.

So why did this song unnerve him so? Was it merely her haunting voice, and the high-pitched octaves being run together?

“She’s Tanisti, isn’t she?” Zarachius asked Polly. “Purple and gold are their emblematic colors.”

“Good eye,” Polly responded. “One of the traveling minstrels.”

So what did that have to do with the woman in black and white he’d seen earlier? How did she fit in? He could not believe two similar sets of symbols would both appear in his life on the same day without a deeper meaning. Coincidence was a word for fools who ignored the deeper movements of the world.

Suddenly, her repetitious melody switched. Harsher, cacophonic sounds erupted from the piano. Her left hand slammed again and again against the keys, while her voice uttered strange, ephemeral sounds as a counterpoint. Her right hand ran up the entire set of keys, rapid arpeggio, as contrast. No, not contrast, Zarachius realized. Pleading. The right hand was pleading for fate, and the left hand sent forth loud discord, a claim of refutation that ended the song as a cacophonic coda.

Claps came from around the room, and several hoots and hollers and slamming on tables. Nicola stood up, turned to the audience, and bowed.

Zarachius nodded, fearing any words he might speak might give away just how the song had moved him, and how much it unnerved him.

One of the barmaids came forward and poured Nicola a small snifter of liqueur. She sniffed first, then knocked the drink back. “This next song I heard the last time I was in Delecot. It took a while to find a way to make it my own. It should be a happier drinking song, and not quite as long.”

She stared directly at Zarachius as she spoke. He looked back at his own drink, unnerved.

Someone came up and said a few hushed whispers to Polly. She laughed in delight, and then said, “Sorry, Zarachius. Business calls me elsewhere.”

But Zarachius barely noticed, still enraptured by that song.

The door opened, and two men Zarachius knew well entered. Marioch Manteia and Holst. They moved towards his table.

Holst was Terravian, a weapon forged for the battle that slew the gods and, afterwards, given no purpose save self-determination. Rock-like skin and strength like a piston mixed with knowledge gained over centuries of life. The Terravian's skin was the color of feldspar, with igneous veins. Holst was wearing a full suit, obviously cut by a tailor used to Terravian physiognomy. There weren't many Terravians who cared about clothing or fashion, but Holst was an exception. The suit’s color was only slightly darker than the rock-skin, and the tie was a deep burgundy.

Marioch Manteia always seemed to be leaning to the left, and he scratched at his thin moustache incessantly. He wore a brown coat so long it nearly touched the ground. Scars from flame were easy to see, from the burned tips of his fingers to a fleshy pink blister surrounding his left eye. On top of his obsessive pyromancy, the man was an ignusweed addict. His irises burst bloodshot red.

“Zarachius Skie,” Manteia said, and his voice was raspy, throat raw from smoke.

“What do we have here.” Holst’s voice made it a flat statement.

“I hear you’re no longer with Gethsemane,” Manteia said. “Such a pity.”

Zarachius straightened himself. “How do you know that?”

Polly walked over towards them. “We don’t need fighting in here,” she said. Her body language screamed to the rest of her staff to prepare for the worst.

“Oh, we don’t mean to fight, Madame,” Holst said. “We’re just talking to our friend Skie.” The Terravian sat, and the wooden chair splintered under the weight. “My apologies. I hope I don’t do anything so foolish again.”

“What do you want?” Skie asked.

“Obviously, now that Gethsemane’s separated himself from you, we hoped he might take on Marioch here as apprentice. What do you think?”

“So much sawdust. Such a small spark,” the pyromancer said.

Zarachius read the symbols of Polly’s, but all of them sided with him losing. The building was made of wood, and could ignite far too easily. The thought of being caught in such an inferno made a wave of childhood fear come over him. Sweat beaded his face.

“No answer? Fine,” Holst said. “Ask yourself this. Do you think it’s a coincidence that Gethsemane is separating himself from you now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Or perhaps he’s been keeping things from you for a time now. Have you found him growing distant? Did you fail him somehow?”

Of course, Zarachius thought, though he didn’t speak it aloud. All men failed. But he would not give either of them the satisfaction of admitting so.

“Marioch, if Zarachius had failed you, what would you do?”

“Burn him for his failure,” Manteia said.

“Simple and direct. A harsh, irrevocable punishment. Did you know, Skie, that in my culture, failures are punishable by living burial?”

“I’ve spent the last ten years of my life living with Mordant’s foremost occult expert. Do you think I wouldn’t know about strange death rituals?” Zarachius asked, trying to add nonchalance and bravado into his voice.

“You’re not with him now. That’s good for you.”

“Bad for him,” Manteia rasped. The pair looked back at the audience they had gained. Everyone in Polly’s stared at them, wondering when violence would break.

Kyran stumbled back towards Zarachius, and immediately stepped up to both of them. He was drunk and unarmed, angrily staring down both a powerful Arcanist and a Terravian formed for a war of humanity against gods. Despite all of that, not the slightest hint of fear crossed his face.

“Ah, Kyran. How delightful to see you emerging from your—”

Kyran’s voice was a garrotte cutting through Holst’s words. “I don’t know who would win in a fight between us, Holst. But I guarantee I can take your friend here. I can break every one of his fingers. Snap his wrists. Whatever it takes. He wouldn’t be using Arcanum for a long, long time. I could have done it as soon as I saw him. Instead, I give you warning. Leave now.”

Marioch’s eyes widened, but he seemed more willing to test than Holst, who said, “We have what we came for. Let’s leave him to mull.”

The pair walked out into the night. Zarachius sat down, finished his mulled wine with one shot, and then demanded a full bottle of Terret Noir from Vollein.

Kyran glanced at the door and crossed his arms. “Why did those arse-lickers show up?”

Zarachius sighed. “I don’t believe Mordekai meant for this to happen. I think he needs help.”

* * *

Ryan Howse lives in Regina, Canada, with his wife, two children, and two cats.

You can follow him on twitter at @RyanHowse

The Steel Discord is available at Amazon and Kobo. The sequel, The Alchemy Dirge is also available at both.

3

A Quiet Rebellion: Guilt

M.H. Thaung

What if paranormal powers were transmissible, but their recipients deemed cursed and a danger to society?

Convoy captain Jonathan has a guilty secret: he killed a traveller who was cursed while under his protection. The killing wasn't to defend the innocent, but to hide governmental employment of curse victims—like Jonathan—who have developed paranormal powers.

To assuage his guilt, he bends the rules to help another, younger victim. His growing fatherly affection for her leaves him vulnerable to pressure from an unethical researcher. Can he navigate the bureaucratic web, do his duty and still keep his conscience intact?

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 2

* * *

Chapter 1

Jonathan’s weary gaze touched on the exhausted travellers while he paced around the campsite. They lay scattered around the small clearing in bedrolls and blankets. The few civilians bold enough to travel were in the middle, close to the handcarts. Off-duty guards were arrayed around them. At the edge of the camp stood the guards on duty, scanning the forested darkness for threats. Jonathan would rest soon, but as the captain he could never fully relax. He’d be held to account for the old man’s death. I won’t be caught out again .

After the beast attack five days ago, the civilians had clustered together during rest breaks and jumped at each noise from the undergrowth. Repeated assurances over the next few days had settled their unease, but the victim’s death had dealt another blow to morale. All Jonathan could do now was ensure the remaining travellers arrived safely at their destination, whatever it took.

His route took him past the campfire where a trader sorted packets of spices. Such an experienced traveller would shrug off the events of the journey soon enough. So would his regular companions—another trader, a scholar and an artist—whether motivated by profit or the desire to spread knowledge.

Jonathan’s brow furrowed as he regarded the remaining civilians: a young woman and an orphan boy. They’d joined the convoy at the previous village, seeking escort for the week-long journey to the town of Maldon. The woman had treated the old man following the beast attack, but her skills and dressings couldn’t save him from the consequences of his injuries. Poor woman. She couldn’t know the man had had no chance. Maybe Jonathan could—

“Sir!”

His head jerked round at the hissed alert, and he hurried to within whispering distance of the guard. This young man was on his first tour of duty, keen and alert, his grey uniform free from patches.

“What goes, Manni?” Jonathan kept his voice low.

“Scuffling, sir, over there to the left.” Manni pointed into the forest, where the dim outline of trees and bushes hunched as if in ambush. “Possibly a glint of eyes. Shall I take Opal and investigate?”

Jonathan considered. It would be good experience for the lad, but after the recent attack... “No.”

“But—”

“No. I shall go myself. The group’s safety is my responsibility.”

Manni’s eyes widened. “Then take one of us with you.”

“No.” I’m not risking anyone else.

“This is unwise! Ah, with respect, sir.”

The heads of the other guards swung round at Manni’s protest, but Jonathan’s glare scattered their gazes in other directions.

He held a hand up. “This is not a debate. Though if you hear me screaming, do feel free to intervene.”

Jonathan moved to the edge of the clearing then looked back. Manni wore a frown but remained at his post. Good.

After drawing his flechette gun, Jonathan squinted at its indicator in the moon’s dim light. The power cell’s charge remained over half full, despite its use in the recent attack. His left hand hovered over his sabre then moved to the sheath on his belt to pull out his flashlight. The incandescent bulbs produced in Ascar’s factories were dim, unreliable and prone to breakage, but safer than naked flames while among the trees. Fortune was with him as he flicked the switch—thank the Settlers— and a pale yellow beam spilled onto the ground.

He stepped into the concealment of the forest, out of sight of the guards. The smell of campfire smoke followed him, overlaid with that of damp soil. After a few more paces he stopped, barely breathing, to listen.

Only the soft rustle of leaves met his ears, then he detected a subtle scratching, ahead and to his left. He swung the flashlight around, scanning the ground inch by careful inch, his flechette gun tracking the movement of the light. If he needed to use it, his one shot would have to count: his target wouldn’t wait for the weapon to recharge. His grip on the flashlight’s ridged handle tightened to discomfort just short of pain.

Eyes . A pair of red circles flickered back at him above the flashlight’s wavering beam. He eased the beam upwards, taking in pale grey fur, a rounded face and pointed ears that contributed to the animal’s stature as it sat up on its hind legs. It reached no higher than his knee. As the light hit its eyes, the animal chittered, batted a tiny paw in the air and scampered off.

Jonathan’s grip relaxed, and he eased out a breath. A harmless animal, not a beast. All four-legged animals were decreed hazardous. But decades of experience, first as guard and then captain, allowed Jonathan to exercise his judgement. Only beasts, with their sharp teeth and claws, were a threat. Only beasts, that fed on flesh, were truly dangerous. Only beasts, that carried the curse, warranted killing.

Still, distinguishing beasts from other animals was troublesome. He wouldn’t encourage anyone else to even try. Circling the camp in a wider sweep, he spotted nothing else untoward. By the time he returned to the clearing, the guards had changed over.

Manni still waited, peering in his direction. “Sir, I’m glad to see you safe.”

“Your diligence does you credit.” Jonathan inclined his head. “You were right. I did find an animal, but fortunately it was harmless and departed quietly. Go and sleep. You’ve earned it. For the safety of all.”

“For the safety of all,” echoed Manni before walking away.

Jonathan moved to his own sleeping area and eased himself down on his bedroll. His old bones protested as he stretched out on the cold ground. He considered tomorrow’s luxuries: sleeping safely indoors, fresh food, maybe even a shave. But sleep eluded him. Thoughts of the dead man intruded, and guilt over what he could have done differently. I had no choice . He’d tell the family the death had been natural to spare them further pain. Or was he trying to avoid blame? Events from the last few days played repeatedly in his head until soft footsteps signalled the guards’ changeover.

At a touch on his shoulder, he flinched awake, blinking at the dark face above him. A snatch of birdsong reached his ears, and dawn’s light crept over the camp.

“Sir,” came a whisper, “we’ll wake the others in an hour.” At Jonathan’s nod of acknowledgement, the guard went back to his post.

Jonathan picked up his bag and stumbled towards the stream, ignoring his guards’ glances. They should be used to his foibles by now. The captain’s morning preparation was the only exception to the rule that nobody, guard or civilian, should venture out of sight and earshot while travelling with the convoy. This time of total privacy was an indulgence he allowed himself, a short break from his concerns and responsibilities. As for the risks... he could look after himself.

He brought his sabre but left his flechette gun behind. Its power cells didn’t like water, or so the techne people in Ascar claimed. Not being technologically minded, he could only take their word for it.

The stream had a pool, and he dropped his bag and weapon at the water’s edge. As he stripped off his clothing, his fingers brushed his right thigh with its puckered scar. He shivered.

His teeth chattered as he waded into the water, immersing himself fully to bathe. A convoy captain represented Crown authority over the settlements. He owed it to his position to arrive at Maldon clean and tidy, not grubby and in rumpled clothing. Especially today.

He donned a fresh uniform, taking a moment to relish the feel of sliding into clean fabric. Heavyweave trousers and lightly padded jacket, in a shade of grey darker than his guards wore. And a darker grey than my hair now. His custom-made boots were also of grey heavyweave, with hard-wearing rubber soles built to endure the long distances he travelled on foot.

When Jonathan returned to the camp, the others were eating a breakfast of dried fruit and hard bread. He gnawed on a piece while he supervised the loading of the handcarts. If the packing was less than meticulous, he wasn’t going to comment. Maldon was only a short morning’s walk away. Bedrolls, blankets, waterproofed ground sheets and sundry items were tossed in wherever there was space.

Jonathan hefted his official satchel, which was heavier than usual. Today, in addition to his papers, it contained an urn of ashes. I killed him.

* * *

Chapter 2

Annetta winced at the hubbub in Maldon’s town square while she removed her and Samuel’s bags from the handcart. Cheerful greetings rang between the other travellers and the townsfolk who’d turned out to welcome them. What did you expect, silly? You said you wanted to move somewhere bigger than Keighley .

“So many people!” Samuel scuffed his tatty sandals on the unfamiliar cobblestones. His bright blue eyes widened as he stood on tiptoes and craned his neck. “So much noise! The whole town must be here.”

She sighed, peering at the bottom of the handcart in case she had overlooked some small possession, or a dangerous remedy had fallen from her bag. “Well, at least a couple of hundred.” Certainly more than Keighley’s entire population. Hopefully they’d be friendly.

At least after a week’s travel together the guards were familiar faces, their grey-clad figures reassuring islands in the seething mass. They’ll be here for a week before moving on. Ample time for us to settle in. Franka, Manni and the others... and Captain Shelley, of course. Annetta’s gaze travelled past Samuel and the row of handcarts and lit on the compact form of the captain. He stood with his arms folded, shaking his head at a balding man in a red cloak.

Straightening up, she directed her attention back to Samuel. She’d better see her young charge to his destination and hand him over. “I hope Adrian Pavey’s house isn’t too far. Can you carry your own bag?”

“Sure I can.” With a gap-toothed smile, he accepted the sack she handed him. He swung it over a skinny shoulder, just as the man in red bustled up behind him. The bag hit the man’s arm, and he jerked to the side with an exclamation.

Samuel turned and blinked up at the man. “Oops, sorry, mister.”

“So you should be!” The man scowled at Samuel as he smoothed down his cloak. His gaze landed on Annetta. “Are you supposed to be looking after this brat?”

“You’re the one who walked up—” She bit her lip. “Yes, the boy is in my care. I’m so very sorry, but we didn’t see you. It was an accident. Really. Sorry.”

“Hmph. You’re not completely lacking in manners.” The lines on the man’s pinched face eased, and he stroked the heavy golden chain and pendant that hung round his neck. “I’m Mayor Sutcliff. Where are you from?”

“Keighley—”

“That explains things. I suppose you’ve come to civilisation to seek your fortune?”

Her grip tightened on her bags. “Samuel is apprenticing with Adrian Pavey, and I plan to set up as a herbalist here.” She lifted the bags. “Could you please—”

“Excuse me.” His lips scrunched. “I must see some people.”

He walked away towards one of the traders, leaving Annetta with her mouth still open. Couldn’t she even ask for directions? Just because her walking trousers were a bit grubby—whose wouldn’t be, after a week’s journey? —that was no excuse for bad manners. Well, maybe the mayor was having a bad day. Maybe he wasn’t really a jerk.

A wail arose over the sound of the crowd, which paused briefly, as if in respect. The cry came from a middle-aged woman who, hands clasped to her chest, faced Captain Shelley at the edge of the square. Two young men flanked her. Their hair was curly like hers, though red rather than grey. The captain held out an urn to her.

Gerald’s ashes. Annetta slumped as she remembered her attempts to save the man. He was old and frail, but he might have survived, had she been more skilled. So unfair. We were only a few days from his family.

A dark-haired young man approached her. “Welcome to Maldon, ma’am. I’m Thomas. Do you need any help?”

She gaped. Ma’am? True enough, her hair wasn’t completely dark any more. “Ah... hello. Can you please direct me to Adrian Pavey’s house?”

“The craftsman? Sure, it’s easy to find.” Thomas pointed across the square. “Leave the square by that path opposite, and his house is on the right. Built over two floors, so it’s taller than the other buildings. You’re lucky, his daughter’s a great cook. Do you need a hand with your bags?”

Did he think she was moving in with the man? “No, thank you. We don’t have much with us. I’m sure I can carry my bags to the guesthouse from there.”

“In that case, have a happy stay. I hope you’ll come to the feast tonight.” He extended an arm and indicated a long stone building on the left. “It’s in the town hall. I’ll be telling the children stories. Your young friend is welcome to join us.” With that, Thomas waved and disappeared back into the crowd.

Her shoulders drooped. Of course there would be a feast. Why should Maldon differ from Keighley? The convoy’s arrival every few months made for a break in routine life, bringing new faces, exotic goods and news. This time though, she was one of the newcomers: a target for curiosity. Lucky me. They’d be disappointed at their unprepossessing skinny new neighbour.

Well, she’d just have to face that later. “Come on, Samuel. We’ll head over to Adrian’s.”

“Stories sound fun!” Samuel grinned and fell into step beside Annetta as she started round the periphery of the square, where the crowd was thinner.

They had just reached the town hall when a hand clutched her arm. She yelped and dropped her bags, wrenching herself round. Facing her was the bereaved woman, whose wrinkled face worked as she grasped Annetta’s hands and shook them.

The woman took in a great gulping breath. “You!” she shrieked, in a voice that surely could have been heard back in Keighley. “You killed him!”

Her words ended in a huge moan. Her hands slipped out of Annetta’s to cover her face as she sank to her knees, embroidered skirts spreading out in the dust beneath.

The two young men hurried towards them, pushing through the crowd.

A mutter of “... incompetent woman...” floated from a red-clad figure.

Annetta stepped backwards, only to bump into Samuel. One of the men knelt beside the woman, putting an arm round her shoulders and murmuring in her ear. The other approached Annetta, one arm outstretched, the other cradling the urn to his chest. Sweat prickled her neck, and she retreated until her back collided with a wall. Her breathing became rapid. How could she explain herself in front of all these people?

The man stopped in front of her. “I’m sorry. Ma’s really upset. Captain Shelley was telling us how you looked after Grandpa, and she wasn’t really taking it in. She’d waited so long to see her Pa again. This should have been a special day... and turned into a huge shock.”

Why did Captain Shelley have to drag me into this? Annetta sneaked a glance at the captain. He stood some distance away, watching with a grim expression. It’s all very well for him. “Quite understandable. I’m sorry I couldn’t have helped more. Now, if you’ll please excuse us?”

She scooped up her bags and escaped, with only a brief look to check that Samuel followed. The buzz of the crowd and the curious eyes were an additional burden. This was really not how she’d wanted her first day to be. Of course I didn’t kill Gerald. But she hadn’t saved him either.

* * *

Annetta paid scant attention to the rest of the town as she hurried towards the craftsman’s house. It was as Thomas described, with external stairs leading to an upper floor about half the size of the ground floor.

“I’ll introduce you, then be on my way,” she told Samuel while knocking on the door.

While Samuel craned his neck to look at the stairs, Annetta turned her mind to her next task, that of finding somewhere to sleep tonight... Footsteps approached the door, which opened.

“You must be Annetta Benedict, with Samuel,” said the figure in the dim doorway. “I’m Adrian Pavey.”

The rough voice belonged to a man, but she couldn’t make out much detail of his appearance. Stop staring! Where are your manners? “Yes, this is Samuel, your new apprentice. So here he is. I’ll just, um, leave him with you...”

“Come on in. I’m sure you could do with some refreshments after your journey.” The man beckoned them in.

More attention? “Wouldn’t you rather spend the time getting to know Samuel? I don’t want to intrude.”

In response, Adrian stepped out into the sunshine and surveyed the crowd in the square. He was plump with fair hair, ruddy cheeks and a square jaw, resembling a farmer more than an craftsman.

He smiled at Samuel, then at Annetta. “We enjoy having visitors. And you might find a quiet seat and some tea a restful change from the chaos over there.”

Following his gaze, Annetta reconsidered the crowd she’d just escaped. There wasn’t really any hurry, was there? Gerald’s family might still be around, and her stomach twinged at the thought of encountering them again. “I see what you mean. In that case, I’d be delighted.”

The craftsman stepped back into the doorway and beckoned them inside.

* * *

Samuel wasn’t sure what to make of Adrian’s daughter, Lisa, as she showed him Adrian’s workshop. True, she’d first let him eat his fill of scones and jam, and given him a glass of honey water. But she was like a bossy big sister, with her clean smock, braided blonde hair and plump, well-scrubbed face. Not that he had any sisters himself, but some of the other boys in Keighley did. Girls who ruffled his hair and laughed, and told him what to do. He was glad to be away from them.

Coming to Maldon had sounded like a fun escape from boring old Keighley. But the journey hadn’t been fun, and it looked like being Adrian’s apprentice mightn’t be fun either. Lisa spent far too long pointing out stuff like buckets of sand and alarm bells. What use were they?

She opened a tiny window high on the side wall. “There! I can’t stand the smell of rotten eggs. Pa never notices it—all the chemicals dulled his sense of smell—though the sawdust still makes him sneeze. Anyway, he can’t make everything he needs, and the convoy has to bring items specially from Ascar.” She studied him and sniffed. “So, some things you’re not allowed to touch.”

Samuel’s heart sank. His hands itched to mix the carefully labelled chemicals. I could make people’s eyes water with the stink! He wanted to make holes in the wall with the wind-up drills and peek at the other side. Maybe scrawl drawings on the drafting board, then use those funny glasses to see them bigger. But Lisa wouldn’t allow him to play with anything. She instead asked him what he’d done in Keighley.

When he told her how he’d spent the last year, her brow wrinkled. “You carried on living in your Ma’s old house after she went to Settlers’ Rest? And they just fed you from the guest-tithe? Nobody looked after you or invited you to stay with them?”

“I got enough to eat, and I could do what I wanted!” He’d got over his upset after his friends stopped keeping him company. He’d learned to keep himself amused.

She folded her arms. “And just what did you do with your time, young man? I hope you weren’t playing pranks on your hard-working neighbours.”

“Erm... only a little,” he mumbled. “Mostly I followed people around if they were doing something interesting. Some liked to talk. See, I wrote the interesting things in this notebook.”

From his pocket he pulled out a grubby bundle of paper scraps attached together with a piece of twine.

She leafed through the half-full notebook, pausing to study a couple of the pages. When she handed it back, she grinned. “Pa writes like that too, mixing notes and random drawings. Maybe you’ll be useful after all. I’ve been on at him to get an apprentice for ages, but all the other children here decided to train up in their family trades.”

Samuel scowled at her doubts over his usefulness, but then he caught on to her last words. “Family trades?”

“Yes, though they don’t have to stick to their own family’s. When they’re your age or a little younger, they decide what they’d like to do, like carpentry or weaving. Then they start working with someone experienced in that trade, so they can learn. Isn’t it like that in Keighley?”

Now it was Samuel’s brow that wrinkled. Was that why his friends had stopped playing? Maybe they hadn’t been avoiding him. “I guess so. I, uh, just hadn’t noticed it like that. So how come you’re not an apprentice craftsman?”

Lisa sighed. “I’ve no interest in wood or metal, or inventing things. I prefer making food and clothes to techne . Less risk of accident too. Ma taught me here until I was twelve, and I still go over to help her out when she’s busy in the guesthouse.”

Samuel looked at Lisa with new respect. Those scones had been good, and the jams even better.

“Don’t get me wrong,” continued Lisa. “I like living here. Pa lets me use his equipment, so I can grind ingredients in bulk. And he’s more easygoing than Ma, who gets irritated at the slightest thing out of place. At least they still get along well, not like—” She coughed. “Anyway, what was the journey like? Scary? Did you see any cursed mounds?”

She hopped up to sit on a workbench, between a pile of clay discs and the weighing scales, then gave him an expectant look.

Thinking over his adventure, Samuel stuck out his chest. “Lots of walking. We didn’t travel very fast. Captain Shelley said our route would be safely away from any cursed mounds, so I didn’t get to see any. Some of the guards told stories while we walked. That was fun. The artist drew a couple of people for me. The trip wasn’t too scary, apart from the night that old guy got attacked. That was pretty bad.”

He swallowed. “It was the second night we stopped.” On seeing Lisa’s rapt face, he took a deep breath and continued. “I heard him shuffling past. Going to take a—to relieve himself, I guess. Then he shouted real loud. There was another noise, like someone going ‘Grrrarrr’ but scarier.” He shivered. “Everyone woke up, and the guards ran towards him, shouting. A couple of them ran back to the camp carrying the guy. The rest came back later and threw things on the fire. They poured stuff from a flask on to the fire, so it burned really hot. It smelled pretty bad. Then, even though it was the middle of the night, they went to wash in the river.”

Remembering his own contribution, he perked up. “I helped Annetta treat the guy’s leg. She put stuff on it and bandaged it. Captain Shelley checked up on him a few times too, over the next few days, though it was Annetta who did most of the work. She was upset when he died.” Samuel shrugged. Old people died. It hadn’t been as bad as his own Ma’s death last year, and even that had grown distant with time.

Lisa screwed up her face. “Ugh. I bet you’re glad that’s over.”

The workshop door opened to reveal Adrian. “Annetta’s just leaving, so come and say goodbye to her. Then we’ll get you settled in.”

* * *

Chapter 3

Despite a stomach full of good food, Annetta could barely maintain her smile until she stepped into the afternoon sunshine. She’d relaxed over a mug of tea and enjoyed Adrian’s stories about Maldon and his inventions, but he then enquired about her journey. What must he think, that her last patient didn’t even survive?

Samuel—Settlers bless him —had handed her a drawing he’d made of her on the way, as a thank-you gift. She looked resolute and adventurous, not at all like her real self. Still, maybe she could try to live up to his image.

When she reached the town square, the crowd had dispersed, allowing her to explore without everyone’s eyes on her. Twice the size of Keighley’s, it boasted cobblestones rather than packed earth. At one corner stood a well although the dry wooden bucket suggested it wasn’t in use. Ah, Adrian had mentioned plumbing for the houses. Between two benches outside the town hall was a notice board. She’d need to check it later, to get a feel for how Maldon was governed.

A few convoy guards remained in the square, unpacking and inspecting equipment from their handcarts. Swords were laid out alongside tubes with angled handles. More weapons, probably? One guard shook an arm-length metal canister, head cocked as he listened to whatever was inside. Captain Shelley supervised two others unrolling a sizeable sheet of fabric with cables attached at various points. She craned her neck as she passed but couldn’t imagine its purpose. The captain glanced towards her and frowned. Stop being so nosy, Annetta. She ducked her head and hurried on.

Franka, a large, muscular guard with a broad face, sorted dirty grey uniforms at the last handcart. She grinned at Annetta. “Boring job, but it’s my turn. And better than us trying to mend tears while we’re on the move.”

As Annetta opened her mouth to respond, a mark on a pair of trousers caught her eye. A bloodstain. The words shrivelled in her throat, her thoughts hauled back to Gerald’s injuries. Franka was waiting for a reply, so she pushed out some words. “How do you keep going, from place to place? Doesn’t the danger put you off?”

Franka shrugged. “Our trips aren’t usually dangerous. I’ve fought off, let’s see... eight beast attacks in a dozen years as a guard. I can’t say we get used to them, but we’re well trained on what to do. It was bad luck about Gerald, real bad luck. And poor you, having to cope with it. And Samuel. Whoops, here comes the captain. I’d better get a move on.” She picked up another uniform.

Annetta stepped away to let them speak, but Captain Shelley directed his steps towards her, a slight unevenness in his gait. He was of no more than average height, and she had never heard him raise his voice in anger. Still, she fidgeted under his regard.

Bracing herself for a reprimand or complaint, she gaped when he stopped and bowed. True, it was only a slight inclination of his head, but done with deliberation.

A faint frown crossed his serious face. “I apologise for the difficulty earlier, with Mr Mander’s daughter.”

She stared. “Mr Mander? Gerald?” Why does he have to remind me I panicked? No, not really panicked. Just, well, her composure was rattled by everyone watching. That was all. Her ears heated at the memory of the attention. “It wasn’t your fault. I mean, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Although... I wish I could have saved him.” She studied his frown. “Oh, will you have trouble when you return to Ascar because of everything that happened?”

The captain’s head jerked up. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No, I will not have trouble, nor will my guards. We did what we should, and the Council are aware that the journey has many hazards. I will provide them with a full report on my return.”

Annetta’s lip trembled. The man was taking Gerald’s death harder than Franka had done. Maybe he held himself more responsible, being captain. Was there any consolation she could offer? “For what it’s worth, I appreciate how you all looked after Samuel and me. Thank you.”

He blinked. “You’re welcome. We do our duty as best we can.”

The captain returned to the handcart, and she walked on while pondering his unexpected apology. It wasn’t as if he could have done anything differently, either on the journey or when speaking with Gerald’s family. Seems like I’m not the only one with regrets.

On entering Maldon’s guesthouse from the town square, she squinted in the reduced light. Once her eyes adjusted, she made out a long open room with another door at the far end. Benches ran along the side walls, and a couple of small tables were positioned near the entrance where she stood. Partway along one wall was a third external door which presumably led to outhouses. A half-drawn curtain divided the room, a bed visible beyond it. A sickbay, maybe? That would be familiar territory.

Judging from the bedrolls and other belongings scattered round, everyone else had already checked in. Two dozen guards could take up a lot of space. At least indoor accommodation, no matter how cramped, was preferable to the rough ground she’d been sleeping on for the past week.

One of the guards directed her towards Giselle Weaver, the logistician. A severe-looking woman wearing a faded black dress and headscarf, she sat at a table, muttering as she scribbled on a slate. Sheaves of papers surrounded her, and there was an abacus within easy reach.

The woman drew a line across the slate and looked up. “Yes?”

Annetta swallowed. “I’m Annetta Benedict, originally from Keighley, and intending to settle here. I’d like to request accommodation, please.” She reached into her general bag and pulled out a cloth-wrapped parcel. “Adrian asked me to bring this over as his contribution to the guest-tithe.”

Giselle took the parcel and inspected the scones inside, giving a sharp sniff. “Lisa’s cooking, of course. Good. I see you don’t have much baggage. There’s a space by the infirmary area.” She consulted a second slate. “Can you clean in return?”

“Yes. Or, if you have sick folk to look after, I specialise in plant preparations and remedies.” She removed from her herbalist’s bag a few neatly labelled sachets and vials.

After Giselle scrutinised the labels, her expression thawed a little. “A decent range of herbs, and well packaged. How long have you been a herbalist?”

“Over ten years now.” She’s a born organiser. I can cope with that. “I can prepare remedies for all common conditions.”

“I see. And have you made the full range of those remedies recently?”

“Not quite all of them.” She wrinkled her nose. Test me, will you? “The lands around Keighley yield little heart sage or dareth leaf. So I’ve not been able to make the best anti-infective and calming remedies.”

“Hmm.” Giselle lowered her voice. “And do you know of treatments for less common conditions? The sort that might need unconventional management? We want to be prepared in case of any, ah, dangerous events.”

“What?” Annetta flinched. Did Giselle know about herbalists’ secrets, or was she guessing? “Um, maybe. Depends on what the condition is.”

“Well, good, I suppose. Hopefully the issue won’t arise, but best to be prepared.” The older woman sat back and tucked an errant lock of auburn hair under her scarf. “Won’t they miss you in Keighley?”

Annetta fumbled for a reply that sounded neither petty nor pretentious. At least Giselle hadn’t probed further about her remedies. “I shouldn’t think so. Keighley has another herbalist, so I’m not leaving them short.”

“There were two of you? A luxury indeed. Lucky for us too, since our previous herbalist left with the last convoy. Were you trained by the other one?”

Despite her weariness, Annetta’s spine straightened as she looked Giselle square in the eye. “No. I trained her, in fact.” She clamped her lips tight, fists clenched as she pushed the memory away.

Giselle quirked an eyebrow. “Good to make your own way in the world. I did that too. Once Lisa and Adrian could look after themselves, I moved out to run this place. Good challenge here. Now, put your stuff away, have a bath—through that door—take an hour’s nap, then come help me set out tonight’s food next door.”

Annetta moved to obey the directions. But even the indulgence of soaking in warm water didn’t wash away her deep-buried resentment. Sparked off by Giselle’s questions, it rose again to gnaw at her gut. She shouldn’t have had to give up her workshop and leave the village where she’d been born. Now here she was, a stranger to Maldon, having to start again.

* * *

Standing in the town square, Jonathan watched the two guards finishing off their final task: refolding the emergency blimp’s balloon. His stomach rumbled. “Are you done there?”

“Just about, sir.” Opal remained on all fours, pushing down on her half of the fabric. “It’s difficult to... compress it small enough.”

“I have every confidence in you. I’ve seen you lift weights in the gymnasium.”

“She’s certainly strong, sir.” Kneeling on his half of the balloon, Manni snorted. “I wouldn’t want to bet on the outcome if we arm wrestled.”

“But...” Opal pushed harder, her arms quivering. “Strength isn’t enough. I’m not heavy enough to expel all the air.”

Jonathan’s brow wrinkled. Was that how it worked? He’d better assign someone else next time. “Well, do your best.”

“Don’t I always?” With Manni sitting on the package, Opal pulled the binding ropes tight and tied them. “Why do we have to check this each time we stop? It’s a lot of work for something we never use.”

Why did they? Because they’d been told to. “Safety. Anyway, we did use it on my last convoy tour.”

“Ah, I heard about that.” Opal flexed her fingers. “I wouldn’t have minded having a go myself.”

Jonathan frowned. “It wasn’t for fun, Opal. I’m sure the guards I sent to escort that poor cursed girl back to the Keep didn’t enjoy being stuck in a basket with her for hours.”

Eyes wide, Manni stood. “They made it back to Ascar, didn’t they? And it took only hours rather than a week?”

“Yes.” He nodded at the folded and tied balloon. “But that’s another reason you should check the balloon each time. Imagine if it failed... Being trapped that high up with someone dangerous and then falling...” His voice trembled. Steady on, Shelley.

“Phew.” Opal shook her head. “Sounds pretty scary when you talk about it. I see what you mean.” She grinned. “Maybe we’d better unroll it again, just to recheck.”

Manni groaned. “No way. Are you strong enough to help me lift this back into the handcart?”

The two guards bickered as Jonathan walked towards the notice board with its list of current officials. On the way, Franka approached, and he waved at the brawny guard. Maybe she could check the blimp next time. “Everyone sorted?”

She nodded. “The washerfolk got started on our laundry right away. All our personal stuff is in the guesthouse. Giselle invited you to use the guest room in her house, so I accepted on your behalf.”

“And... no problems with the civilians? They don’t need help?”

She flapped a hand. “The traders, artist and historian are regulars. Samuel... well, we got the kid here intact, which is a fair achievement.” Franka mirrored Jonathan’s smirk then sobered. “Annetta’s still frazzled about poor Gerald. Of course his death wasn’t her fault.”

The back of his neck prickled. No, it was my fault. “At least she’s no need to travel further. I imagine she’ll settle in well here.”

Franka’s eyebrows rose. “You’re only responsible for them while travelling, remember? Left to yourself you’d spend the whole week here working, not taking the rest days you’re allowed.”

“You know me too well, Franka.”

“But you’ll at least attend the arrival party, won’t you? Maybe make some new friends?” She winked.

He sighed. “Of course, just for a short while.”

* * *

Chapter 4

Annetta’s stomach churned when she arrived at the town hall that night, though the throng was no surprise. She’d spent the afternoon helping Giselle arrange food and drink on tables that extended the full length of the hall.

She slid along the periphery of the room. Guards mingled with townsfolk, chattering, laughing, eating and drinking. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. How could she push into a conversation?

A flash of red across the room caught her eye. Through the shifting mass of bodies, she glimpsed the balding head and red robes of Mayor Sutcliff. Despite the crush, he stood alone, a plate in his hand and a scowl on his face. Annetta’s lips quirked. There were worse things to be than a stranger... such as disliked. She reappraised the crowd, picking out individual faces. Her reward included smiles and waves, which she returned. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the wall.

She eyed the food, but her anxious gut vetoed the idea. Maybe later . Arming herself with a mug of cider instead, she wandered from group to group. Most revellers chatted in small clusters, but some entertained a larger audience. She smiled at a trio of singers, but when the audience joined in the chorus, banging on the table with their mugs and singing out of tune, she moved on.

At the far end of the hall, Samuel sat on the floor with a dozen other children. Wide-eyed, they listened to the young man who’d welcomed Annetta. Thomas .

“... Geoffrey crept closer to the cursed mound but tripped on a root and nearly fell over. The beasts immediately stopped digging and started to chase him! He knew they’d catch him because they ran faster on four legs than he did on two.”

A little girl gasped. “If they caught him, would he have become cursed?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, Rosie, he was so small that they would have eaten him, boots and all.”

Once the chorus of “Ewwwww!” and “That’s horrible!” died down, he continued. “Although Geoffrey was too nosy for his own good, he now found out he was also very brave. If he ran back to the camp, his family would be attacked. So he ran in the opposite direction, leading the beasts away. He spotted a tree he could climb. Up he scrambled, hoping the beasts couldn’t follow. And he was right! They snarled and scratched at the tree trunk. They jumped up but couldn’t reach him. He stayed perched in the tree until they gave up and left. Then he carefully crept down and back to the camp, where his mother gave him a right spanking!”

There were sighs of relief, winces and groans.

“And that’s why you should never travel without the convoy to protect you.” He clapped his hands. “Enough stories for the moment. Off you go and get some sweets before they’re gone.”

The children stampeded off while Thomas sprang to his feet, lightly dusting off his trousers. He grinned at Annetta. “The children love their scary stories.”

No more beasts please. That’s not my idea of fun at all . “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier, but I was a bit stressed. I’m Annetta.”

“Nice to meet you properly,” said Thomas. “Samuel said you patch people up.”

But not always successfully . She washed down a lump in her throat with a gulp from her mug. “I’m a herbalist, so I mainly make infusions, remedies and salves. But I’ve picked up some bone-setting and midwifery too, with Keighley being so small.”

“That’s a valuable craft. I’m sure you’ll fit right in. Or are you thinking of travelling further?” He tipped his head to the side and regarded her.

She had to laugh. “Not at all, moving here from Keighley was quite enough adventure! So much for my childhood dreams of seeking my fortune in Ascar. I’d hate to move again. And what do you do, Thomas?”

“I teach the youngsters writing and arithmetic. They enjoy my stories, and I try to slip in some history too. Since this convoy includes a historian, I’ll learn what I can while he’s here. It must be fascinating piecing together what happened in the old days. We’ve lost so much.” His smile slipped for a moment. “Now come, I see your mug is empty. I recommend the ale, we’ve a particularly fine batch this time.” He winked and led her to one of the drinks tables.

She sipped and drifted round some more. The partygoers topped up her mug while sharing stories and news. This ale is certainly fine . She chattered and laughed with the others, carried along by the camaraderie. And everyone’s so friendly . She listened in a haze to gossip about people she’d never heard of, and chatted with a weaver about dyeing techniques. And interesting too . She hiccuped and stifled a giggle on seeing Mayor Sutcliff with company. With his back against the wall, he held up both hands as Giselle jabbed a finger at him. That’s right, put him in his place!

Annetta eventually found herself beside Marcus, a farmer around her age.

“Do let me top up your mug, Annetta.” He clinked his mug against hers. “This cider’s from my apples. I grow sweet ones too...”

“Delicious,” she murmured.

He stroked his goatee, light glinting off a gold earring. “Poppy and Rosie have been quite a handful since their mother left...”

The cider fizzed pleasantly on her tongue.

“... As I was saying, it would do them good to have a female role model...”

Her lids started to droop.

“But what of your own plans, Annetta?”

“Mmmm? Oh!” Her gaze darted around. “Ah... I’m not sure, it would really depend...” Anyone? Yes! Adrian’s coming this way!

As Marcus drew breath to continue, Adrian arrived beside them. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m borrowing Annetta. Need to discuss a few things.”

Marcus closed his mouth and glanced at Annetta, who shuffled a little closer to Adrian. “I see.” He scowled at Adrian then nodded at Annetta. “But please do let me know if you’d like my help.” With that, the farmer stalked off.

Adrian took her hand and led her through the room. Her face heated. Was everyone watching them?

But at least he rescued me . “Thank you for that,” she murmured.

His callused fingers twitched, and he led her out into the square. “You’re welcome. Marcus is, er, reliable, but once he develops an interest in something... or someone, he can be quite single-minded.”

She lifted her face up to the cool evening air. For once, the world seemed full of promise and mystery. Such a beautiful evening. Clouds passed over the moon’s face. What secrets did they carry, and what would they would reveal? “Are you interested in me too?”

Adrian dropped her hand as if it were poisonous. “Why, no! I didn’t mean to...” He broke off as she started to giggle. “If you can sit on this bench, shall I go back inside and bring you something to eat?”

* * *

Adrian really could have done without all the knowing smirks as he selected delicacies from the tables. Everyone wanted to intercept him and have a little chat. Gossip traders, all of them. They knew that much as he enjoyed eating, his palate wasn’t refined. Years of working with solvents and smoke had largely destroyed his senses of taste and smell.

After a quarter hour of nodding, smiling and gritting his teeth, he escaped the building with a plate of food and a mug of water. Being unsure what Annetta would like, he brought a little of everything: flatbread, a peppery salad, roasted tubers, smoked fish and grilled honey chicken wrapped in pastry.

“Thank you.” Annetta’s voice quavered as he passed her the plate. A few more giggles escaped her, but soon she was concentrating on the food as if she hadn’t touched Lisa’s good scones earlier. “This is delicious! Sorry if I embarrassed you earlier, but I don’t drink very often. I think it got the better of me.”

He smiled, relishing the memory of Marcus’ expression. That’ll make up for any amount of embarrassment . “Think nothing of it. Not everyone drinks, after all. Captain Shelley doesn’t, for example.”

“Really? Never?” She paused to look at Adrian, her fork wavering in the air.

“I’ve never seen him drink, and he’s been here several times. He once told Giselle that alcohol makes him ill. One or two of the other captains have been like that too, though not the regular guards.”

“Interesting. Some of my remedies work best if made up with alcohol, so I’ll bear that in mind.” She returned to her food.

I wonder what kind of sweet she’d like. “Are all your remedies infusions, or powders that need to be dissolved?”

“No, some are pastes, and I’m experimenting with pellets.” She set her knife down and picked up a soft piece of tuber, rolling it between her fingers. “See, I can turn a paste into a batch of pellets and dry them for long-term use. Though my hand cramps if I try to make too many at once.” She popped the tuber in her mouth and licked her fingers.

He cleared his throat. “You were saying you want to settle here?”

She sipped her water, spilling a little down her front. “Giselle—is she really your ex-wife? You’re so different!—told me Maldon doesn’t have a herbalist any more. I can work in the infirmary for now and also get to know the local plants. In the long term, I’ll need a workshop.”

Hmm. Someone else can tell her our last herbalist was Marcus’ wife. Adrian sat beside Annetta. “I suppose you had your own workshop in Keighley? Did its design include—”

She put her plate down with a thump. Her jaw worked, and she swallowed. “I had a lovely workshop. Everything positioned exactly where I wanted it. I dare say my replacement is making use of it now.”

What had he said? “It can’t be that bad—”

Her voice grew strident. “Three years I spent training Cecily up as my apprentice, even giving her my special recipes. She planned to move on afterwards, since Keighley doesn’t need two herbalists, and then what happens? She gets pregnant by some convoy guard, and everyone says it would be unkind if she had to travel with a young baby in tow. So, I end up leaving instead!”

She fell silent, fists clenched by her sides.

Adrian dared to pat her shoulder. “Well, you’re here now. I’m, er, glad to have you as a new neighbour.” I hope.

A movement in the doorway caught his eye: the dark figure of Giselle, watching them. She shook her head and disappeared back inside.

* * *

Book and author information

Enjoy this extract? A Quiet Rebellion: Guilt is available for purchase here . You can find out more about M.H. Thaung and her books here .

4

Skies of the Empire

Vincent E.M. Thorn

In the Skies of the Empire, there are only two things more terrifying than dragons: the attentions of the gods, and the machinations of the Fae. Airship pilot Cassidy Durant finds herself entangled with both when a Faerie named Hymn saves her life in exchange for protection against unknown enemies. This complicates her simple life of cargo trading, since affiliating with the Fae is a death sentence in the Empire.

Meanwhile, reluctant mercenary Zayne Balthine is tasked by his employer, a devout worshiper of the Desert Goddess, to break into the Imperial Palace. It's not his first suicide mission, but this time, things are different. That he'll die should he fail is nothing new. But if he succeeds, he will be responsible for unfathomable death and devastation. Skies of the Empire is a high fantasy adventure set in a steampunk environment.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter One

“Get that thing out of my sky!” the captain’s voice boomed through the pipeline. She sounded angry rather than frightened, and Cassidy wished she could feel the same in that moment. Sailing during a storm was no easy task on its own, with the winds pushing them in every direction at once. The thick clouds and rain made navigation a nightmare. But having to fight a dragon in such conditions was just insane. Cassidy’s body trembled as she aimed the harpoon gun, the ship occasionally buckling in the wind and giving her a discomforting glimpse of the distant ground below. Usually, the sight would not bother her — one could hardly be afraid of heights after ten years of living in an airship — but at that moment, she couldn't help but worry she would soon have an intimate meeting with the jagged rocks below, which left her heart sinking into her stomach.

She had a difficult time keeping the gun steady in the heavy wind. She managed, however, despite how sore it made her arms. The dragon's resurgence was met with a flash of lightning that illuminated its scales, revealing them not to be black as Cassidy had first suspected, but a deep green. The sudden roar of thunder that followed caused the entire ship to shake worse than the winds, though only for a moment. The beast charged the ship along the port flank, directly toward her. Once she had the shot lined up, she pulled the heavy trigger beneath her fingers, hoping to fire down the monster's open throat. Instead, the harpoon sailed through the air and grazed the face of the beast, taking with it a few scales and cutting its skin, but not penetrating or dealing any permanent damage.

The creature roared in pain, and a bright, reddish-orange glow emanated from its cavernous maw as it drew nearer. Cassidy whispered a curse that was swallowed by the winds, but before the beast could reach the ship or loose its flames, cannon fire blasted from above. The beast was struck broadside, and it roared again as the sudden impact sent it falling.

Cassidy took the opportunity to rearm the grapnel, first loosing the cable from the failed harpoon, then setting a new one in place. She rearmed it. The dragon climbed and caught up with them. She fired the second harpoon, seeking its heart. The dragon's own attack knocked the projectile out of the way as it struck the ship with its massive tail, giving it a violent rock. Cassidy pulled the lever to once more release the cord and reloaded the weapon as two more cannon shots — one missing, the other hitting its hind leg — forced the beast to retreat again.

Cassidy waited. The wind continued to batter them about. She heard a series of shots from the rotary gun on the starboard side. She heard the engines cut and go into reverse and the ship turned hard, nearly causing her to slip from her seat. The dragon was far faster and more maneuverable than the ship, but it did not seem to care which side of the vessel it was attacking, giving the crew the advantage of being able to position freely. Once it was back in Cassidy's sight, she lined up the shot. Her arms were sore and weary from holding the gun against the gale, and her palms were sweaty inside her gloves. Her heart beat faster and harder than any drum she had ever heard. The dragon's maw glowed again. It fired, and so did she.

The harpoon sailed through the jet of fire, and just as the flames splashed against the hull, briefly transforming the frigid, wet air into a sauna, the hooked blade struck its mark, lodging deep in the dragon's shoulder. The monster's blast was cut off prematurely as it let out another cry of pain, this one far louder yet less rage-filled than the previous outbursts. The line pulled taught, bucking the ship, as the dragon tried to fly away.

Despite its superior size, the ship was towed by the dragon even as the engines chugged in vain to pull the other way. The captain's voice rang out in the pipeline again, only this time, anger was replaced with excitement. "Damn good shot, Cassy! Get up here and make sure it doesn't break away!"

Cassidy didn't reply. Instead, she hopped from the gunner seat and bolted to the ladder. She gave a quick, mock salute to Lierre, the engineer, who nodded as she put out the last of the fires. Once on the main deck, she darted to the helm. The captain only relinquished her position when Cassidy physically had her hands on it, and she quickly discovered why; in the wind, the wheel pulled heavy, and she nearly lost control of it.

“Keep that rope slack as you can,” the captain called over the gale. “We want to stop that thing from getting out of range, but it will rip that anchor right off the ship if you fight it."

“Aye, aye, Captain!”

The captain left. Cassidy turned the ship from full astern to full ahead and cranked the wheel hard to port until the ship aligned with direction as the dragon. She released some of the air from the balloon and dropped until they were sailing at its level. The dragon swerved and tackled the ship, nearly knocking her from the wheel, but she held her ground.

Kek called over the pipeline. “It’s out of cannon range,” he informed her. “Turn further to port.”

As she began to make the turn, the wheel fighting her for every inch, Cassidy shouted back into the copper pipe, “I know where the damn cannon is, you ground-dweller!” It took throwing her entire weight on the wheel to get it to turn as far as she needed, and it nearly wrenched itself back when she tried to straighten her hold.

“I love you, too,” he replied, his words punctuated with a loud cannon blast and another roar of the dragon. The dragon dived under the ship and flew up the starboard side, only to get snagged and immediately shot by Nieves and the rotary gun, causing it to retreat to the underside.

A bell rang in the lower deck, signaling another fire. “Nieves,” Cassidy called over her shoulder, “go help put that fire out!” Nieves did not hesitate to follow the order.

The dragon started to pull the ship down, so Cassidy released more air from the balloon to keep as close to level as she dared. It was only when she did so that she realized how dangerous that would be; the dragon was leading them into the mountains.

She dropped the engines to standard speed and turned the wheel hard to port, narrowly avoiding a rock wall. The dragon pulled the ship through a narrow passage between two mountains, clearly hoping to elude them. Cassidy noticed its wings were beating harder; it was desperate. That meant it was almost beat, but it also meant it was more dangerous.

With the winds less chaotic — though by no means calm — in the pass, Cassidy brought the engines to hold, leaving their propulsion to their target so she could focus on steering clear of the mountains. The monstrosity turned around, diving at the ship. The talons at the top of the dragon's bat-like wings griped the beak-head and the railing, its snout right in Cassidy’s face. She looked up in terror, releasing the wheel. She felt its hot breath wash over her and noticed that the creature’s teeth were each half as tall as she was. She tried to run, but the rain had battered the ship and the floorboards beneath her boots were slick, and she fell.

Panic enveloped her as she looked around in vain for shelter or cover. Blight and damnation, she thought. The dragon’s maw opened, bright embers glowing in the back of its throat, the light reflecting on the water and obscuring her goggles until all she could see was bright orange. Then, a gunshot rang out from above, and the dragon's eye exploded in blood and smoke, causing the creature to panic and thrash about. The fire in its maw released in short bursts rather than a solid jet, catching fire to a several patches of the deck. Cassidy scrambled to her feet and looked up to see the captain dropping down from the balloon, pistol in one hand, sword in the other, her purple coattails flapping like a banner behind her. She landed on the dragon’s head, one foot on each massive horn and her sword skewering the dragon’s other eye, before jumping down to the bridge.

The dragon broke off from the ship, trying to flee to safety, but it remained snagged by the grapnel and thus in range. “Full ahead,” the captain ordered, standing next to the pilot.

“Aye, aye,” Cassidy said breathily as she slammed the telegraph to full ahead.

The captain shouted into the pipeline, “We’ve almost got her now! Let’s show that overgrown lizard who the real queen of the skies is!” Once they cleared the canyon, Cassidy turned hard to starboard, giving the cannon a clear line of sight. Kek fired three consecutive shots, and one tore through the dragon’s wing, another punching its side. It beat its wings more fiercely than before, but it didn’t matter; it was done for. It began to plummet to the ground, threatening to either drag the ship with it or rip out the harpoon gun.

“Release the cable!” the captain ordered into the pipeline. Someone obeyed, and the ship reoriented itself. “Let her down gently, Cassy,” she said afterward. Cassidy cut the engines and began letting the air out of the balloon in slow, short bursts. The wind caused them to drift, but the closer to the ground they floated the less severe it became.

Kek climbed down from the cannons with an ice canister to help put out the fires. Once Nieves and Lierre arrived with their own, the flames were quickly doused, with only a few char marks suggested there was ever an issue.

“Alright, gather ’round,” the captain ordered, waving everyone to where she and Cassidy stood. “Kek, you’re on scales.”

“Aye, aye,” he answered, combing his blond hair back with his fingers.

“Nieves, you get teeth.”

She merely nodded.

“Cassy, you’re on stomach duty.”

Cassidy sighed and accidentally increased the speed of descent for a moment, but she quickly corrected it. “Aye, Captain.”

“It’s your turn, don’t kill us over it,” Nieves replied, a smirk tugging her lips, though she tried in vain to keep her face straight.

“She’s right,” the captain reminded her before turning to the engineer. “Lierre, how bad was the damage?"

"Superficial, mostly," she said. "Won't even slow us down."

"In that case, you can help Cassy.”

“Aye, aye,” Lierre said, forcing a smile.

“And, as always, everyone pitches in on the hide,” the captain finished.

With about thirty meters of space between the ship and the ground, Cassidy stopped the descent. Kek was the first to the ladder, Nieves behind him — Cassidy caught her muttering something to Kek about looking at her ass before following. As Lierre followed her, Cassidy supposed Kek might have preferred the view she had.

The engine deck smelled of charcoal, and Cassidy was a little sad to know that once they started flying again — because the deck was open to the winds — the scent would not be noticeable for long. Scorch marks covered the inner walls and floor of the port side, but Lierre was right; there was no permanent damage.

Lierre lead everyone into a small room that had metal railings forming a box inside the walls. A set of levers and a wench sat on the floor on the edge of the room. The engineer grabbed several harnesses from the wall, passing them around. Cassidy latched hers to the wench, as did the others. From a shelf, each crew member grabbed a large, leather sack.

"Everyone secure?" Cassidy asked.

"I am," Kek answered. He added, "If you're worried about it, though, you can always hold me tight the whole way down."

"Thanks, but no," she replied dryly. "You two ready?"

Nieves nodded, and Lierre gave the all clear sign. Cassidy pulled a lever on the inner part of the room and the railed section began to descend with a loud hiss of steam and turning of the motor. They came out under the deck. Beneath them they could see the dragon that had earlier terrorized them, now a broken mess cast against the rocks, red-black stains of its blood contrasting against the mud and the grass and stones below. Once the platform came to a halt, still another twenty-five meters from the ground, Cassidy grabbed hold of the harness, giving herself plenty of slack to work with, and jumped from the ship. Her body jolted when she stopped, but she held on. She looked down, then loosened her grip to descend at a steady pace.

She was the first to touch down, mere feet from the dragon. The splash of mud was unpleasant, but worse was the feeling of solid ground beneath her feet. It was a surreal and uncomfortable feeling, standing static, the wind holding no sway on how she moved. The heat was also stifling, and after the heavy rain the air was sticky as well. She'd always hated it on the ground, from the first time her foot had ever touched solid rock. How could anyone ever have lived down here? She wondered as she approached the fallen beast.

Kek landed atop the dragon itself and gave a long, low whistle. "I am a damn good shot," he boasted, looking to Cassidy.

"Sorry, I'm not going to stroke your ego, Kek," Cassidy replied, but she couldn't help her giggle. "We got to get to work."

"Right, right," he said with a sigh. He pulled a knife from his boot and started to pick the scales off, tossing them in his sack.

Cassidy unsheathed her own, much larger knife from her belt, and took a deep breath as she approached the dragon's belly. Lierre landed beside her just as she plunged the blade to the hilt into the body. Blood dribbled out along with the smell of rotten meat, which earned a groan from everyone. Cassidy gagged as she cut the corpse wide open, intestines and other viscera spilling onto the ground at her feet and intensifying the stench. "I hate this part," she said quietly as she knelt down, the black-red and pink and purple lumps of flesh and guts fouling her air.

Lierre got on her knees beside her and together they began to rummage through the insides. Even through the thick leather of her gloves, Cassidy could feel the hot, slimy coating of what she was running her hands through. She found the first lump, cutting it open to reveal partially burned woods, a few bones, and what looked to be partially digested meat.

"Good thing I missed breakfast this morning," Lierre commented, her Castilyn accent making even so simple a statement sound almost lyrical.

Cassidy's eyes watered as she felt bile rising up her chest. "I wish I had," she muttered once she forced it back down. She tossed the useless pile away, sifting through more. She found a half-chewed pair of pants connected to a charred boot by way of leg. She searched the pockets, finding several wet pieces of paper, two partially melted gold coins, a wrench, and a busted pocket watch. The papers were damaged beyond legibility, but the rest of the contents she placed in her bag before continuing.

"Daen's tits!" Lierre shouted, throwing a substantial lump to the side before shivering. "I just found a head ."

"A human head?" Kek called down.

"No, a lettuce head," Lierre answered angrily. "Of course it’s a human head!"

Cassidy nearly laughed but discovering more partly digested something killed her desire to do so. When she had exhausted her current pile, she stood up, approached the giant corpse once more, and — holding her breath —plunged her hands into the wound, gathering what she could from the insides and yanking them out to the ground. Most everything hit the mud with an audible squelch , but the secondary stomach — which was larger than she was — dangled off the lip of the entrance, still held by its connective tubes, and the primary one was still inside.

She groaned.

Kek must have wanted to distract himself from the fact that he was directly above the rancid mess, because he called up toward the head, asking Nieves how tooth pulling was going.

"It's fine," she called back, her voice strained as she tried to persuade the teeth to budge.

"I was really hoping you'd say, 'it's like pulling teeth'," Kek said, his voice rife with mock disappointment.

It was Lierre's turn to groan. “That joke stopped being funny the third time,” she told him, throwing a what looked like a large bone she’d pulled out of the pile at him, barely missing his head.

“I don’t think it was ever that funny to begin with,” Nieves replied.

“You laughed just like everyone else,” Kek protested.

“Sure, but it wasn’t that funny.”

Cassidy held her breath again as she cut the secondary stomach open, the acids and juices pouring onto the ground.

“Ugh, that smells even worse than before,” Kek whined. Cassidy let loose her breath when she felt she could hold it no longer, and had to inhale the foul air.

“At least your face isn’t in it,” she told him. She reached her hand into the fleshy sack, opting to simply push everything out and pick out the valuables as she saw them. Hunks of meat and bone piled up, and eventually her attention started to drift.

After a minute or so, she was brought back to attention when a piece of shattered cannonball landed on her foot. She cursed incoherently in all three languages as she hopped around, the pain almost blinding. The more rational side of her mind tried to calm her by reminding her that her boots were sturdy enough to prevent any serious damage. But that side of her mind was of little comfort to the fact that, serious damage or no, it still hurt, a lot.

Eventually the pain subsided and she limped back to her work.

“I didn’t know you spoke Rivien,” Kek said, seemingly impressed by her profanity.

Cassidy blinked the tears from her eyes, wishing she had clean hands to take her goggles off. After a moment, she answered, “I can also ask where the head is, and order lunch.”

“Eh,” Kek replied. “The cursing is much more useful.”

“Also, your Castilyn is way off,” Lierre said, playing up her already thick, musical accent. “It’s merde, not ‘marry-day’. Chatte was right, though,” she added after a pause.

“Thanks,” Cassidy replied sardonically. She returned to work.

The rain stopped and the clouds dispersed, making way for the sun to warm the already too-hot surface, which did nothing to help the rancid stench.

Digging her way deeper into the dragon’s insides, Cassidy found what she was looking for. “Finally!” She exclaimed, extracting a glassy gem with swirling red and gold patterns along it. The matching firegland was still fixed into the stomach lining, but it came free with a vicious tug. Stepping back from the dragon and her crew, she struck one of the stones against the other. A marvelous jet of golden red sparks sailed out and created a thin arc of fire that flew nearly as high as the ship before sailing down, striking the mud and fading out.

Nieves came from the front of the dragon and tossed her sack full of dragon teeth on the ground. “Good work. Just remember to keep them away from Kek, or he’ll put them both in the same pocket,” She said, eying the blond man with a sly smirk.

“It was one time!” Kek shouted defensively. "It's been ten years, let it go!" This time the smell and viscera were not enough to keep Cassidy from laughing. That was cut short, however, when she felt her harness begin to pull. That wasn’t good.

A call from above confirmed that. “Trouble inbound. Gather what you got, we leave now!” Cassidy shoved the fire glands in separate pockets of her trousers and tied her salvage pack shut as the wench above reeled the harness in. Once she was halfway to the ship, she saw what they were fleeing; from around a nearby hillside came a mass of briars that grew across the land at several meters a second, small wisps of light spiraling between the thorns.

Cassidy's harness snagged, stopping her ascent. She heard the captain issuing orders, but she couldn't quite make them out. She tried to climb up her rope, but with her baggage she had trouble, and her gloves were still slick with dragon guts. She tossed the sack up to the platform to free her hands, but was unable to climb when she felt something grab her right ankle.

She looked down and saw the briars had reached up and ensnared her. She shook her foot violently trying to dislodge them, but their thorns sank in, tearing through the leather of her boot like parchment and cutting into her skin. She screamed in pain as the unnatural plant wrapped her leg, sending wispy fingers reaching out at her from within. The thorns dug into her calf as the stalk climbed toward her thigh. She reached into her pockets, pulling the fireglands back out. She struck one against the other; the sparks cast off from the gems ignited the briars, causing them to recoil as though they were living, thinking creatures. With her free foot she scraped the tendrils from her leg and struck the stones together again, burning more of the assaulting plants.

A vine of thorns shot out from the mass, gripping her left wrist, forcing her to open her hand and causing the fire gland to fall. "No!" she screamed, reaching out in vain. Struggling against the briars pulling her back, she forced her hand back to her leg, extracting a small knife from one of her pockets and twisting her wrist to cut the demonic limb that had seized her. It took some sawing but finally released her as her blade snapped through the last fibers.

She tucked the remaining firegland in the front of her shirt and took to climbing while she was still free, seeing her friends above pulling the ropes to help her along. Despite the assistance, she was struggling. Her heart beat faster than she ever felt possible. Sweat ran down her face in rivers. Her leg began to grow numb and burn all at once. Each pull that made her climb felt an hour apart.

She finally placed her hands on the platform and was immediately pulled up by the others, all working together. Once she was safely aboard, someone hit the lever to pull the platform up. Her head was spinning. She heard discussion, but it was so distant and muffled she could not determine who was saying what, only that they sounded like they were panicking.

She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling as though she hadn't slept in weeks.

When she opened them, she was faced with a swirling sky above her. It was made of overwhelming color and filled with stars of bright silver. She stood. She had no difficulty with that. Distantly she heard music, sweet music that seemed to mask lament. She looked at her surroundings; she was on the Dreamscape Voyager 's deck, but there was no balloon keeping her in the air. She heard no engines. She walked to the edge, seeing that despite those facts, she was indeed sailing far above the ground.

The ship floated above an almost familiar forest of red and yellow leaves, but the stars and unfamiliar clouds of shifting colors killed any feeling of recognition in the landscape. The sky shifted between various combinations of gold and red and purple, but neither the blue or green or gray of the skies familiar to Cassidy. Clouds and stars formed unrecognizable constellations and patterns, and strange celestial bodies filled the sky between them, leaving no emptiness in the sky.

She heard a voice, small and gentle, whisper in her ear. "You smell as the other," it said. It sounded feminine. "But you are not her. You are not the one who sails the Dreamscape. Who are you?"

"My name is Cassidy," she answered, looking for the source of the voice.

"You lie." The voice sounded intrigued, rather than offended.

"It's a nickname, not a lie," Cassidy argued, looking around.

"How is it not? You said it was your name when it is not. That is a lie."

"It is not a lie, because it's what I choose to call myself."

"So you lie to yourself, too?"

"It's not a lie," Cassidy insisted. Why was she arguing with a disembodied voice? "If anything, it's more like an abbreviation."

"But what you said was 'my name is Cassidy'. That is untrue, isn't it?"

Cassidy sighed. "If I say 'yes', will you stop harassing me?"

"The only thing I did is ask who you were," the voice countered. "It was you who lied."

"Fine. My name is Cassandra. But please, call me Cassidy."

"I shall consider it."

"I guess that's good enough," Cassidy conceded. "So, who are you , and what do you want from me?"

"You may call me Hymn," the voice answered.

"Hymn? Like a song?"

"That is correct."

"So, Hymn," Cassidy asked, looking around, "just who are you?"

"I gave you a name," her disembodied voice replied. "If that means nothing to you, perhaps a better question to ask is what I am."

Cassidy paused as she stalked the deck, looking out beyond it. She had heard tales of a place like, she was sure. It was the dreamscape, the namesake of her ship. The motherland of sirens, of wisps, of nightmares. And most terrifyingly of all, home of the Fae. That the voice spoke narrowed the possibilities already, but its aversion to lies was a damning indicator.

Cassidy's hand darted to her trouser pocket to pull out a piece of iron, be it a wrench or knife or coin, but she discovered then that she was naked as the day she was born. Reflexively she covered herself with her hands. "What do you want from me?"

"I find you interesting," Hymn answered casually, as though that were all the answer she would need. Cassidy looked up and down and to all sides and still could not find the source of her voice. The helm of the ship creaked as it turned hard to starboard, back the way it had come.

"I'm interesting?"

There was no answer.

"Hymn?"

Silence.

The wheel straightened itself up, sailing out into an inky black void in the sky that sounded of roaring thunder and smelled of static and rain. The void extended around the world, surrounded the ship, and consumed it.

* * *

Released May 2019, Skies of the Empire was the publishing debut of Vincent E. M. Thorn. The novel is the first in a trilogy set in a world of danger, intrigue, and magic.

5

Riwenne & the Mechanical Beasts

Kristen S. Walker

A clumsy school girl with the magic of a goddess. Mechanical beasts attacking her friends. Can she become a divine warrior and save the floating city?

Fifteen-year-old Riwenne is bad at school, chronically late, and lost in a daydream, but she has help from her best friend, Nexita—until the two of them get separated. During the mysterious test on Choosing Day, they both wanted to become priestesses, an important job in the sky city. But only Riwenne became a novice, and Nexita was chosen by the engineers. Now she’s on her own for the first time in her life.

When a talking bird tells her that her best friend is under attack, Riwenne faces her worst fear. She must become a divine warrior and save her best friend from mechanical beasts!

As she juggles warrior training and priestess duties, Riwenne can’t let herself get distracted. She must recruit other warriors and lead the quest to find out the mystery behind the mechanical beasts, but most of all, she must follow her heart.

If she fails, the gods will judge her.

Riwenne & the Mechanical Beasts is the first book in a steampunk fantasy series for teens. If you like magical girls, monstrous machines, and high-flying adventures, then you’ll love Kristen S. Walker’s series of guns and gears.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 3

* * *

1. Choosing Day

I waded forward into the surf, ignoring the cold water rushing into my boots and soaking my stockings. Something had called me here. I squinted against the setting sun and searched the empty ocean for any sign of life.

"Riwenne…”

I heard my name, but there was no one there. The disembodied voice sounded like the sighing of the wind.

"Who's there?" I shouted over the pounding waves. "What do you want from me?"

An enormous wave rose up from the sea, and I took a step back, afraid of being knocked down and dragged away by the tide. But as the wave rushed toward me, the sea foam transformed into flowing hair, and an impossibly tall woman stepped out of the water.

She was inhumanly beautiful, with an ageless face and a dress that rippled like the ocean surface. She smiled down at me, and the expression filled me both with joy and terror. This must be Sawycha, the sea goddess.

I fell to my knees, soaking my dress up to my waist, and clasped my hands above my head. "O Divine One!" The prayer slipped out before I realized what I was saying. "Did you call on me?"

The goddess nodded silently. I found myself staring into her eyes. They shifted colors like the restless sea, one moment a warm blue, the next a steely gray. I trembled at the thought of making her angry.

But she said nothing, so I took a deep breath and risked speaking to her again. "Please, tell me what you want from me. I'm your humble servant."

Her eyes flashed a brilliant silver, but she said nothing. She lifted her long, slender arm and pointed at the shore behind me.

I struggled to get back to my feet on wet sand, and turned to look.

A mechanical beast stood just above the waterline. The contraption was shaped like a wolf, but it towered over me larger than any animal I'd ever seen, and it was entirely made out of metal. Gears whirred and clanked as the wolf crouched on jointed legs, preparing to jump at me. A menacing growl came from its throat.

I gasped and stumbled backward, but my feet splashed in the water and I realized that I couldn't go any farther. "Help me!" I said, looking around for the goddess—but a huge wave struck me. I fell face-forward into the water, and the salty brine filled my mouth and lungs.

* * *

I sat straight up, my heart pounding from fear of drowning. Water! There was no water. My blanket covered my legs and the feathers inside my mattress poked up into my backside. I blinked into the gray gloom. I was safe in my own room. I'd been fooled by a dream.

"Riwenne!"

I heard my name again, but this time I recognized my roommate Nexita's voice calling to me. She was standing at the door, already dressed with her blue hair neatly braided. She also looked very annoyed.

Outside the window, the sky was turning gray with the approaching light. I'd overslept again. I groaned and forced myself to get up.

My clothes were laid out from the night before: a long, shapeless gray frock with a black sash at the waist. Today was the last day I'd have to wear that hideous thing. I tugged the frock on over my white slip and ran my fingers through my hair.

I rushed to the door and grabbed both of Nexita's hands. "I just had the weirdest dream, but I think it was important."

She grimaced and pulled me down the hall. "We don't have time to talk right now, Wen. Hurry or we're going to miss breakfast.”

I stopped short and opened my mouth to protest. "It'll just take a minute—”

"We don't have a minute!" She cut me off with another hard pull. "If you don't eat, you'll be cranky all morning, and I can't handle that today."

I gave in and let her drag me downstairs to the dining hall. Nexita knew me better than anyone else. We’d been roommates for five years, but she was more like my sister. I didn’t know what I’d do without her.

We were the last students for breakfast at St. Jenatta’s Secondary School. We both stood on tiptoes and craned our necks to see if any of the tables still had food left. Students on server duty were bustling back and forth to take the empty dishes away, and some of the others were already standing up and leaving. There, in a corner, I spotted a few plates of food that were only half empty. With Nexita in tow, I wove my way through the crowded room.

I plopped down onto the last empty bench and grabbed a maize flatbread with each hand. Not a moment too soon, because the teacher at the table glared at me and nodded to the girl sitting on her left, who was on server duty for the meal.

"Breakfast is over," she said coldly. "Please take the food away."

The serving girl licked her lips and stood up. But she hesitated long enough for me to grab some more flatbread and a dragonfruit before she picked up the plate. I gave her a grateful smile before she left.

Nexita sighed with relief when I handed her half the food. "Thank you, but can you stop making goo-goo eyes at every girl in school?” she whispered.

“I wasn’t making goo-goo eyes, I was just being friendly. I mean, she’s cute, but she’s not my type. You know I like tall, dark, and mysterious.”

The image of the sea goddess flashed into my mind. Sawycha was all three of those, she was a lesbian, and she had taken human lovers before. Could that be what she wanted from me?

“Your type is anything in a skirt!” Nexita said, interrupting my train of thought.

The teacher rapped the table. “Since we are short on time, I suggest less gossip and more eating.”

I stuffed most of one flatbread into my mouth and swallowed it dry. "Can I at least get some juice?"

She scowled. "There's no juice left, but you may pour yourself a glass of water." She held up her hand when I tried to reach across the table. "Ask someone to pass it to you. Late or not, you still need to use your manners."

A younger boy handed me the water pitcher before I asked. Since the cranky old teacher was glaring at me, I sipped the water politely and forced myself to take smaller bites of the food.

The cute girl finished clearing the dishes away, and the other students around the table started to stand up, but the teacher shook her head. "We're not leaving until everyone has finished eating," she said, looking at us pointedly.

Nexita glanced over her shoulder. Almost all of the other tables were empty. At this rate, we'd be the last ones out.

My mind wandered while I ate. Today was the biggest day of my life. I had to make sure I didn’t screw up anything else.

Finally, we managed to eat the rest of our food, and were allowed to stand up. We lined up behind the teacher and followed her out.

By now, the rest of the school was deserted. The shoe room had nothing but empty shelves. I slipped on my flats and hurried to follow the others.

Our shoes clicked as we hurried down the cobbled street to the corner, then climbed up the rickety stairs of the cable car stop. We made it to the top of the small tower, where only a few groups of stragglers waited. The rest of the neighborhood had already left.

My eye caught a brightly-colored bulletin pasted on another building. A picture of Amena, my favorite singer, with her bright yellow hair and huge smile. She was wearing her signature copper five-pointed star with the word 'Freedom' written in big letters. The rest of the announcement was too small for me to read.

I tugged on Nexita's arm and pointed. "Look, there's Amena's concert! When is she gonna be here?”

Nexita pushed her glasses up higher on her nose and squinted, then shook her head. "I can't make out the date from here, and we don't have time. Here comes the car."

With barely a squeak of its well-oiled gears, the half-full cable car came sliding down the suspended cable. The lamps hanging around the outside were still lit, making the brass fixtures of the vehicle glow in the darkness. The car glided to a stop in front of our platform with a hiss of steam from the engine.

I shot one last hopeful glance at the bulletin, but I still couldn’t see. I'd have to read it later. We'd both followed Amena during the Star Search competition for months, when she competed against dozens of other singers. Now she was on her victory concert tour through all the cities. I had to make sure Nexita and I both got tickets to finally see her in person.

Nexita grabbed my hand and squeezed us through to a couple of empty seats in the back. She sat down with a sigh of relief. "We can't be late now," she said. "I have no idea what would happen if we weren't there for our own Choosing. Would they send us down to the mainland?"

I shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Besides, we still have to get through the dawn ceremony. We're late to that all the time."

She elbowed me sharply in the ribs. "We're not outside this time!" she said. "We'll be inside the temple. Lots of people will notice us, including how messy your hair is, Wen. Here, turn around and let me braid it for you."

I turned obediently in my seat and braced myself by holding onto the back of the seat in front of me. Nexita didn't have the patience to be gentle, and I winced as she yanked a comb through the tangles, stinging my scalp. I stared out the window to distract myself and gritted my teeth against the pain.

Buildings rushed by underneath the cable car. The city's streets were narrow and crowded with traffic during most of the day. The fastest way to get anywhere was on a car, suspended above the city on a network of cables. I could dimly see the street in the gray light of predawn, but there were no people bustling below us now. Everyone was on their way to Damon Temple for the morning ritual.

We rarely got inside the temple, and my excitement mounted the closer we got. Space was at a premium in the floating capital city, with even the enormous temple able to hold a fraction of the residents, so only a few sat inside while most people prayed in the square. We only went inside on a few special occasions, like our commencement from nursery school to primary, and later to secondary.

That reminded me of my dream that morning, and what I hoped it meant. I whirled around in my seat, pulling the half-finished braid out of Nexita's hands.

“Wen!” She grabbed my head and firmly pushed me around again so she could reach my hair. "Hold still."

I tried to hold my head still. If she was almost done, I might as well let her finish. "But I have to tell you about my dream last night, Nex. I have a good feeling about it."

She tied off the end of the braid and finally let me go. I shifted in my seat to face her and described the whole dream in detail.

Nexita was frowning in disgust before I'd finished. "That sounds really freaky. Why would you tell me all that when we're about to face The Choosing?"

I shook my head. "That's not why I told you. I mean, yeah, the wolf thing was scary. But I think the point of it was, Sawycha was trying to tell me something. If a goddess is trying to contact me, doesn't that mean I'm about to become a priestess?"

"That sounds like wishful thinking to me," she said with a shake of her head. "You've been totally obsessed with Sawycha forever, so it's no surprise that she'd show up in your dream."

I shook my head again. I couldn't let anything destroy my hope this morning. "I'm just saying that I've got a really good feeling about today. We're both going to make it, Nex. I promise you."

The cable car lurched to a stop at its final destination—the street across from the temple complex. I bounced to my feet and offered her a hand up.

Nexita sighed and took my hand with a reassuring squeeze. "Well, we're going to find out soon enough."

* * *

Usually when we were running late, we stayed at the back of the crowd and couldn’t see anything past the sea of heads. But today we met with the headmaster from St. Jenatta’s to check in. He pushed us through the crowd and up the wide steps into the temple itself.

He stopped inside the door and pointed to the rows where we were supposed to sit. "Only a few seats left," he said in a low voice. "Find a place quietly, but first I have something for you.”

The headmaster reached into a satchel and pulled out several small objects wrapped in plain white tissue paper. Students' names were written on each packet. With only a few left, he quickly found one for each of us. "Hold onto this, but don't open it until you're told to," he said sternly.

Through the thin paper, I could feel a hard, lumpy shape. Nexita and I looked at each other, but she looked just as confused as me. I slipped mine in my pocket and hurried to sit.

Damon Temple, the heart of Lyndamon City, was an impressive sight. Everywhere I turned, there was something new to marvel at. The walls were made of pure white marble, carved with sun glyphs and icons of the sun goddess, Chysa, shining with gold gilt. Huge glass windows stretched up to the vaulted ceiling. Luxurious fabrics draped over the rows of seats where all the fifteen-year-olds sat. We waited for the priestesses to appear.

The altar stood on a dais in front of an enormous window that faced east. I watched the sky lighten from lavender to peach on the horizon. As the light grew stronger, so did my excitement, and I tried not to bounce in my seat. Everyone else was solemn. How could they stay calm?

Music swelled from the steam-powered organ at the northern wall. I stood up with the rest of the worshippers and bowed my head respectfully as the priestesses filed out onto the dais. They all moved gracefully with slow, even steps, clad in their long flowing robes with their hair hanging loose down their backs. A blazing red sun was embroidered on the front of each robe. Novices in their white robes came out first, all of them teenagers, followed by the red-robed junior priestesses. Then were the seniors, old women in dark gray robes that matched their graying hair.

I held my breath in anticipation of the head priestess: Mother Lyda herself, the leader of the entire Central Province. Everyone turned to the aisle for her entrance. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of her. She stood out in her multicolored robes that were bleached white at her neck, flowed down into red and finally ended in black at her feet. She was in her late forties, but she still seemed young, with smooth skin and beautiful dark red hair that hung in heavy curls past her waist.

Watching her glide up the steps to the altar, I wondered how she felt at my age. On her Choosing Day, did the gods tell her that someday she would rule in their name?

Lyda went behind the altar and turned to face us, then lifted her arms in front of the eastern window. The growing light framed her perfectly. The organ music ended. The head priestess, flanked by eight black-robed high priestesses, began a low, droning chant in mysterious Old Ursan that only they understood.

At the climax, Lyda reached down to the altar and picked up a clear crystal the size of her fist, and lifted it over her head. The first sun's rays hit the crystal and split apart in the prism, sending little rainbows dancing all over the temple.

When Lyda lowered the crystal again, it glowed with its own golden light: she'd channeled the energy of the sun into it, creating a sunstone. She beckoned to a man standing in the front row of the crowd.

When he stepped up onto the dais, I recognized Minister Rennu, the head of the Ministry of Research and Development, by his icy blue hair. He accepted a square of cloth from a priestess attendant and held it open for Lyda to hand him the sunstone—protection for his hands, because sunstones burned with heat. The magic in the crystal could power any engine by heating the water to create steam. Rennu bowed his head and went back to his place.

When the exchange was completed between the most powerful woman and man in the city, the dawn ritual went on. Other priestesses held up smaller crystals to the window to create more sunstones. The organ started up again, and we lifted our voices in the morning prayer.

O Beautiful Chysa, shine your guiding light

Onto our daily work and devotion

Brilliant Chysa, the highest of the gods,

We ask for your blessing and guidance

So many voices, echoing up to the temple's high ceilings. Outside, more people sang the prayer. The swell of emotion took away my nervousness about what would come after.

All too soon, the ritual came to an end. Most of the priestesses turned and glided out again. The elite in the front rows emptied out, except for the few leaders who stayed behind for our Choosing. Behind us, the crowd in the courtyard was also leaving, going off to their jobs for the day. Our teachers would be leading the rest of the students back to our school, where classes would go on as usual.

For a moment, I felt a pang of longing. As much as I hated school, it would be so much easier to go back and sit through a dry history lesson than to face the ceremony ahead of us. But there was no turning back now. Today was Choosing Day, and every fifteen-year-old in the city would be assigned to their new apprenticeships. We were growing up.

To my surprise, I realized that more people were coming into the temple, and not all of them were the head of a ministry or a business. They looked like ordinary men and women, mostly middle-aged, and they were eyeing us curiously.

I nudged Nexita and pointed to them. "What do you think they're doing? Did you know we were going to have an audience?"

Nexita shrugged. "I don't know. It's really weird."

The ordinary people weren't allowed to sit in any of the seats, so they lined up standing in the back of the temple, hovering behind the students. It was uncomfortable to have them staring at the back of my head. I kept twisting around, trying to figure out what was going on.

Nexita tapped my shoulder. "Pay attention, it's starting!" she said in my ear.

I turned back and tried to focus. Mother Lyda was standing up to speak again.

* * *

2. The Trial

The imposing head priestess raised one hand for attention, pausing while the echoing chamber calmed down. "Thank you for coming here today," she said in a rich voice that filled the space. “It is always a grand occasion to celebrate the future citizens of the Arqan Empire. We welcome the new young adults on their day of Choosing, along with those leaders who will train them in their next stage, and the people who were blessed by the gods to give them life."

I glanced at Nexita, then we both turned and stared at the people behind us. "Those are our parents!" I whispered excitedly.

"No way," Nexita whispered back, but she was scanning the crowd just like me. "Do you think they know who we are? Will we get to talk to them?"

By tradition, the gods were the ones who gave us life and the only family that deserved our loyalty. All children were raised in the schools by the teachers, taught to praise Chysa as our Divine Mother. But when we learned the facts of life, everyone got curious about who their biological parents might be. Maybe some people could figure out who their kids were.

We scanned through the crowd for some sign of recognition among the adults. I met a nearby man's seeking gaze and his face lit up hopefully when he saw me, but he didn't look like me at all. At least, I hoped my nose wasn't anything like his giant honker! After a long stare, he turned away again.

As he turned, a glint of metal reflected the sunlight and caught my eye. He had a brooch pinned to his jacket, shaped like a dragonfly, the sign of House Chysaja. Actually, everyone standing behind us had dragonflies. I glanced at the next row over and saw all albatrosses, Sawycha's herald. They belonged to House Sawyrama.

"They're grouped by their Houses," I said to Nexita.

She frowned. "But we don't know what House we belong to yet. How long until they tell us?"

The Houses were the only way of tracing our parentage. Our mother's House was recorded when we were born. Usually, people didn't bother wearing their House pins, except at festivals. But we had to know where we belonged, because it was taboo to take a lover from the same House. Forbidden romances in the same House were a popular subject in romance novels, the kind we had to hide from our teachers.

"Your House will be your guide into the larger community, and being a loyal member to your House is another responsibility of adulthood," Mother Lyda's voice echoed across the chamber, interrupting my thoughts.

I snapped my head up to watch the priestess and nudged Nexita to pay attention, too. We couldn't miss learning what House we belonged to.

"Each of you has a package given to you by your teachers," Mother Lyda continued. "Now is the time to open them and reveal who you are."

The echoing temple chamber was suddenly filled by the sound of tearing paper and muffled exclamations of surprise. Metal brooches glinted all around us.

I swallowed my nervousness and reached into my pocket. Through the thin paper, I felt for the outline of the lumpy shape of the metal. That curve could be a wing. My heart beat faster. Maybe the bird in my dream last night had truly been a sign! But I hesitated, and glanced over at Nexita. This could confirm our long-time hope that we were secretly related.

“Okay, sister.” She grinned at me and held up her unopened package. "On three?"

I nodded.

"One, two, three," she counted, and ripped it open.

I tore the paper at the same moment. A dragonfly lay in my hand. I frowned. Had I misremembered the dream somehow? I'd never felt a strong connection to Chysa, the sun goddess. The ball of fire in the sky always seemed so distant.

Nexita held up a tortoise. "Chelynitsa," she said, the House of the earth goddess. She saw my dragonfly and her face fell. "I guess we aren't related, after all."

I threw my arm around her shoulders. "You'll always be my sister, no matter what House we belong to. Besides, this is less important than where we get assigned. I'm sure we'll end up as priestesses in the same temple." That's what my dream had meant last night. I was more sure now that I knew it had nothing to do with my House.

Mother Lyda droned on for a while longer about the duties required of all young adults and the rules regulating our behavior. I struggled to pay attention, but it was nothing I hadn't heard before. The entire past year of school had been spent preparing us for this moment, and I could recite the rules by heart.

At last, the Mother stepped to the side of the dais and raised her arms. The sound of clanking gears echoed in the high chamber. I craned my neck to see what was happening.

Part of the dais slid back, revealing a staircase leading down into the floor. My eyes widened. Buildings in the floating city had no basements. We were told that beneath street level was nothing but sewers and the Synthetic Ethereal Apparatus that kept us all in the air. Only qualified engineers were allowed down below. Was there something else under the temple?

Nexita also leaned forward to get a better look. "Wow. I know this whole ceremony is supposed to be a surprise, but how'd they manage to keep that a secret? You think we'd have heard something about a hidden passage under the temple before now."

Lyda lowered her arms and stared out at us again. "One by one, you will enter the proving chamber to be tested. The gods themselves shall decide your path to your chosen profession."

Nexita and I exchanged a look. We took exams in school all the time, but she scored near the top of our class, while I struggled to get a passing grade. Thankfully, this seemed like a different kind of test, but the unknown made me more nervous. I'd never spoken to a god before. How would they judge me?

Suddenly, things moved too fast. Students began lining up and walking down the stairs into that mysterious passage. There were a few hundred ahead of us, but there was barely a pause between each one as they filed in, so the line moved fast.

Nexita helped me pin my dragonfly brooch on the front of my frock, and I did the same for her. Then we stood up and followed the rest of our row toward the front of the chamber.

We stayed together, holding hands, until we got to the front of a line. An elderly priestess held up her hand to stop us.

"One at a time," the priestess said in a bored tone. She glanced down at five openings at the bottom of the stairs, then at our brooches. "Chysaja, you're in the first door. Chelynitsa to four."

I gave Nexita's hand one final squeeze before letting her go. "I'll find you," I promised. "We'll be together again soon."

She gave me a brave smile and stepped through her opening. I turned and went my own way.

* * *

The opening was an arch in the wall. It was dark at first, but when I stepped inside, lights flickered on in the ceiling. Sunstones gave off a warm glow almost as bright as natural sunlight. Plain walls of gray stone that had been carved into the foundation of the temple. The passage turned sharply to the left ahead, so I could not see where it led.

I took a deep breath and walked farther in. As soon as I turned the corner, the walls blocked out the sounds of the crowded chamber I'd left. I glanced back over my shoulder to see if someone else was following behind me, but to my horror, the wall had closed behind me.

I whirled around and ran my hands over the stone, looking for some way to open it again. The walls joined seamlessly, yet I'd walked through this spot only a moment before. How had they moved so fast with no sound? This had to be some kind of illusion. I poked and prodded every inch of the walls, but I didn't find a way back through.

Panic washed over me. I was trapped down here! I sucked at the air desperately, but it already smelled stale to me. Who knows how long I had before it ran out?

No. I had to pull myself together. There was still the hallway ahead of me, and maybe this was all part of the test. Nexita was in here somewhere, facing this exact same terror. I had to get out and find her again.

I straightened up and forced my breathing to slow. The stone passage stayed open as I walked toward it. The hallway twisted back to the right, then opened up into a fork. I would have to choose which way to go.

Nexita's entrance had been to the right of mine, so I went down the right side of the fork. A few steps later, there was another branch in the tunnel, this one with three choices. Again, I chose the right, but when I got closer, I heard a noise.

From the right passage, I heard mechanical gears clanking and grinding. To my left, I caught a whiff of tantalizing pastries. I hesitated. Would Nexita be distracted by the food if she could smell it? No, she had more self-control than me. But if she was looking for me, too, the pastries would be the first place she'd go. Oh, great, now I was second-guessing myself. I'd never get through this horrible test.

But then, from the center opening, I heard the faint sound of someone crying. I took off running.

The sobbing led me through several more twists and turns, then ended abruptly as I stepped into a room. There was a bundle of rags on the floor. I knelt down to pick it up, and found myself holding my childhood doll.

I smiled at her faded face, touching the button eyes that I'd sewn back on many times. But how had she gotten here? I looked up with a flash of anger. Someone must have put her down here on purpose. We weren't supposed to bring any personal belongings to our new homes, but they'd stolen her from my old room and left her for me to find as a painful reminder.

I stood up and scanned the walls for some kind of spy hole. "What kind of sick joke is this?" I demanded. The priestesses or someone else was watching me, I was sure of it. "Do I have to leave her behind to prove that I'm all grown up now? That's the stupidest test I've ever heard of, and I'm not playing any games. I want to find my friend."

Part of the wall slid away soundlessly, opening a new door for me. So there was some kind of mechanical trickery behind the labyrinth, and someone was watching to control it. I stuffed the doll into my pocket and marched out of the room.

But instead of Nexita, there was an enormous room filled with elaborate machinery. I jumped back, afraid of getting caught in the cogs. But nothing moved. I smiled to myself at my own nervousness, and entered the room.

I searched for another door and found one at the far end. But when I turned the handle, the door wouldn't budge. It felt like there was something heavy blocking it.

My eyes drifted up to the top of the door. There was something blocking the door, alright—a huge metal bar that was somehow connected to the rest of the machine. That made no sense. This entire thing was made just to open a single door?

I walked slowly around the machinery, looking for some kind of button or lever. It seemed very complicated. But I was never very good at figuring out how things worked, so without an obvious control, I had no idea how to approach the strange contraption.

This was hopeless. If only I had Nexita or someone else to help me. She always knew what to do in situations like this. Bile started to rise in my throat and I fought it back down. I was going to stay calm and figure out a way to handle the problem.

There had to be another way. After making a full circle around the machine and finding nothing, I went back to the open doorway I'd come in.

And walked smack into something solid. My feet slipped out from under me and I fell to the floor.

"Whoa! Are you okay?"

The most handsome boy I'd ever seen was bending over me, holding out his hand. He was tall, with short blue-black curls framing his round face, and the plain black jacket showed off his broad shoulders. But the most striking feature was his piercing blue eyes, like the color of the sky on a clear day. I could fall into that endless blue.

His eyes narrowed with concern. "You look dazed. Did you hit your head?"

I shook my head quickly. "I'm sorry, you just surprised me. I didn't think I would see anyone else in here."

I reached for his hand, but his touch was strangely hot on my skin. I let him pull me up but took my hand back quickly, looking down and pretending to dust myself off to hide my embarrassment. If he was a girl, he would have been perfect.

"It was my fault, sorry," he said, taking a step back. "I was staring up at that machine and I didn't see you. Everything looks so big and strange up here. Is that thing part of the test?"

I looked back over my shoulder at the baffling machine. "I have no idea. I think it's blocking the door, but I can't figure out how to turn it on. I was going back to find another way."

The boy stepped around me. "Let me take a look at it, and maybe I can figure it out."

"Sure." I moved out of the way, then snuck a sidelong glance at him again. He was scanning the workings as if he knew what he was doing. I was lucky that he showed up—almost like he'd answered my silent cry for help. Would the gods judge me harshly for relying on someone else?

I peered closer at his clothes, but I didn't recognize the school uniform at all. It was a rougher cloth than any I'd ever seen and covered in worn patches. "Who are you, anyway? I don't think you go to my school." That didn’t bode well for me. Probably by now my schoolmates had already made it through, and I was straggling behind everyone else. It was possible to fail so miserably at the Choosing that no ministry would take you at all. Please tell me that wasn't what was happening to me now!

He flinched like I'd insulted him. "Sorry, I forgot my manners. My name's Deryt."

"I'm Riwenne," I responded, taking a step closer. "Can you see how this thing works?"

Deryt pointed at a spot in the machine. "It looks like some of the gears slipped out of alignment. Do you think you could help me fix it?"

I climbed up into the machine with him, and he showed me how to adjust the gears so their teeth lined up and they turned together. I was nervous to put my fingers in, afraid that they would get crushed. But Deryt reassured me that nothing would move until the machine was turned on. As much as I hated the work, I forced myself to keep going. There was no way I was failing this test.

By the time we were finished, both of us had hands black with grease. Deryt pulled a couple rags out of his pocket and offered one to me.

As we wiped our hands clean, I glanced down to the brooch pinned to his chest. It was some kind of lizard, with bugged-out eyes and a curly tail. "Which House is that?" I said, pointing to it. "I've never seen that one before."

"Tamaran," he muttered quietly. That didn't sound familiar, either. He fidgeted with the greasy rag. "It's not from around here."

I took a second look at him and realized why he seemed so different from everyone else: his uniform was worn, his skin was tanned and leathery from being out in the sun all day, and he had the defined muscles of someone used to hard work. I'd never seen a mud dweller up close before. "You're from… the mainland?" I said, trying to be polite.

Deryt nodded. "I've never been to the capital before. I only found out last week that I'd been chosen to transfer up here. I know it's a blessing from the gods, but I don't really know what I'm doing."

I laughed nervously. "I don't know what I'm doing, either. The gods are supposed to judge us here, but I haven't seen any sign from them." I gestured up to the machine. "At least you understand this thing. You must be very smart, to come up to our Choosing."

He shrugged. "I do well on exams, I guess." He nodded at me. "You grew up around here?"

"St. Jenatta's," I said, then laughed again at his blank look. "That's the name of my school. It’s in the neighborhood. We did study mechanics, but I guess the lessons never really clicked with me. My friend's better at this kind of thing."

He smiled and reached for a series of levers. "I guess the only thing left to do is turn it on." He pulled one confidently and took a step back.

But nothing happened. He tried a second lever, and a third, without any luck. He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "It's like there's nothing to power this thing."

I pointed to the silent boiler on the far side of the room. "Shouldn't there be steam coming out of that?"

Deryt smacked his forehead. "Of course!" He rummaged through his pockets and came up empty. "Do you have a flint or something to start a fire with?"

Now this part I understood. I turned and started walking for the nearest wall. "Fire is an inefficient and messy way to heat the water," I called back over my shoulder. "That's why we have these."

I unlatched the glass cover on a lighting fixture. The grease rag let me grab hold of the sunstone and pop it out of the sockets without the heat burning my fingers. "These are pretty small, but they can work together to get the reaction we need. For a boiler that size, four should do the trick."

Deryt watched with wide eyes as I collected several stones and placed them in a compartment at the bottom of the boiler. "I didn't realize they were all over the place in here." He shook his head. "How much money does the temple have to just leave these stones in the open where anyone can take them?"

I shot him a questioning look. "Money? The temple can just make as many as they need. But everyone uses these for light. They're all over the city."

He walked over and stared as the pressure gauge on the boiler began to rise. "They heat the water so fast," he murmured in awe. "On the mainland, sunstones are precious. Most of them are reserved for the factories. Any machines that we have on the farms, we have to heat the water with fire, which takes a lot of work. You're always hauling the fuel, watching the fire to keep it from going out, venting the smoke…” He sighed. "Sometimes, it's less trouble to just do something the old-fashioned way instead of fussing with a gadget. In the capital, you have it easy."

That sounded wrong. Of course people on the mainland had to work harder than those of us up in the floating capital, but that was because of the division of labor. People who were good with their minds worked in the capital to create new ideas, and people who were good with their hands made those ideas reality in the factories and farms on the mainland. Everyone was placed according to their strengths and their work was valued equally. So why would we have more money than them?

I threw my shoulders back and tried to remember my lessons from school to correct him. "Up here, fire is a luxury,” I began. "Fuel like wood and coal is expensive in the city because it has to shipped in. Wood is too precious to burn, except for special occasions. It's not easier, just different—”

"I'd rather have things work without chopping logs all day," Deryt interrupted me. "Don't say what it's like until you've tried it."

Why did he have to be so rude? I took a step back from him and folded my arms. "You don't know what it's like up here yet, either. And you have your wish now—all the sunstones you can get your hands on." I glanced at the pressure gauge. Steam was building inside the boiler. "Looks like the machine should work now."

I walked back to the controls and reached for a lever at random, but Deryt put his hand out to stop me.

"Let me do it. It should be the one on the left," he said flatly.

I stepped back and let him take over the controls. Soon enough, the gears were turning, pulling the metal bar away from the top of the door.

Deryt strode over to the door and held it open for me. "After you."

"Thank you," I said, and walked past with my head held high.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

Part IX

Urban fantasy

Contents

1. Guild of Tokens

2. Rogue Arcanist

3. Hero Forged

4. Ten Thousand Days

5. Hound and Key

6. Mirror Bound

7. Hell of a Deal

8. The Shadow Rises

9. Living in Times of Dragons

10. Weird Theology

11. The Narrows

12. Nite Fire: Flash Point

13. Silvertongue

14. The City Screams

15. Monster City

1

Guild of Tokens

Jon Auerbach

“A thrilling and highly imaginative urban fantasy tale of adventure, secrets, magic, and betrayal.” - Whispers & Wonder

She wants to level up her humdrum existence. But her next quest could spell life or death.

Jen Jacobs's nights are spent traversing a strange city finding hidden objects, slaying dragons, and tangling with a host of fellow adventurers. And her days are spent counting down the seconds until she can return to the grind and continue racking up tokens and leveling up.

Except Jen isn't playing a video game.

It's all real and happening right in New York City.

After a particularly harrowing quest pairs her up with Beatrice Taylor, a no-nonsense and ambitious mentor, Jen hopes she’s on the path to becoming a big-time player. But as she dives deeper into the game’s hidden agenda, she realizes Beatrice has her sights set on the Guild, the centuries-old organization that runs the Questing game. And the quests Jen loves are about to put both of them in grave danger.

Who cares about levels when the stakes are life-and-death?

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

Prologue: Wait Three Days Between Quests

The first Quest was simple.

I went to Chelsea Market during lunch, bought a handful of blueberries, a tillandsia, an apple popsicle, and three pounds of 90/10 ground beef. I left the goods in the windowsill of a brownstone on West 9th Street and then headed to Central Park, where the Requester had taped a plain, white envelope under a random bench. Inside was a wooden token, the size of a half dollar, with the number one intricately carved in the middle. I quickly hid it in one of my desk drawers, then proceeded to get absolutely no work done for the rest of the day.

The second Quest was slightly more taxing. I waited the required three days before checking the Quest Board again. There didn’t seem to be any enforcement mechanism of the waiting time, but not wanting to upset anyone, I did as instructed. When I logged onto the Quest Board, the screen flooded with fresh Quests waiting to be undertaken. I soon found myself perched over the Hudson River, trying to fish out five small stones without falling in the disgusting brown water. My footing was sure, so I didn’t have to explain to my co-workers why I smelled like rotten garbage. The stones I placed in a brown leather pouch, which I left next to a fire hydrant in Chinatown. This time, I had to fetch my reward out of an unlocked mailbox up in the Bronx. I secreted away the token in the bottom of an old pair of shoes so that my nosy roommate wouldn’t find it and began the countdown again.

The third Quest was another straightforward one. The headline was misleading-a promise to visit a quirky, forgotten shop-but when the full instructions arrived in my inbox, I sulked. A quick trip into Grand Central was all it took to find the cheap plastic bracelet, which I deposited in a garbage can on Track 18. This time, the token was close by, stuck between the pages of an issue of Nintendo Power .

The fourth Quest was nostalgic. I again gathered up another weird menagerie of items and went back to the brownstone on West 9th Street. The items from the first Quest were gone, save for the popsicle stick, and I hoped that whoever had fetched them had gotten there before the popsicle had turned into a pile of mush. Or maybe they wanted the mush. Who knows. Another envelope awaited me when I returned to the same Central Park bench. Later, I pulled out the first token and set it aside the new one. The craftsmanship was undeniable. Maybe at some point, I would get to meet their creator.

The fifth Quest was the most challenging by far. The instructions were multi-tiered and required precise timing. First, I had to board the last car of a downtown 6 train at 51st Street at 9:47 AM. I then had to exit the train at 33rd Street and re-enter the third car of that same train. Needless to say, I drew a multitude of stares when I burst through the closing doors of the third car. Second, I needed to exit the train at 14th Street and board a crosstown bus going west, standing in the middle of the bus without holding a handrail. Third, I had to exit the bus at 7th Avenue through the front door and take the first available taxi all the way down to Battery Park. These steps needed to be completed in no more than 47 minutes door-to-door. I arrived at Battery Park with minutes to spare, only to realize that the original instructions had stopped after this step. Dejected, I almost left to go home, but a small, intricately painted arrow on a sign caught the corner of my eye. I walked in the direction of the arrow, only to find another arrow on a second sign. That arrow led to several more (I lost count after the 11th one), as I zigzagged across the park. The final arrow pointed me to a set of stairs leading down underground. At the bottom was an imposing wooden door sporting a large iron knocker. I hesitated slightly before banging the knocker three times. Nothing happened. I waited. Still nothing. After several minutes of contemplating the exact number of knocks needed, a small portion of the door slid aside to reveal a pair of piercing, golden eyes.

“You’re late.” The voice was raspy and deep-toned.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tokens, please.”

The Quest made no mention of bringing my tokens with me, but on a hunch, I had collected them from their various hiding places. I drew them out and a small, sooty hand reached through the slot and grabbed them from me. Before I could say anything, the slot closed suddenly with a thud. I stared at the door. Was this all some kind of stupid trick by a crazy person with too much time on their hands? Before my anger could get the best of me, the slot opened again and the hand reached out to give me something small and round. Another token I realized. But it was iron, not wood. The same number one was in the middle, etched elegantly into the metal. I grabbed the token greedily and without another word, the man’s hand withdrew back into the door and the slot closed again. Tucking the token away into my jacket, I danced happily up the stairs and into the mid-morning sun.

When I logged onto the Quest Board again three days later, a new section had appeared. “Epic Quests,” it said. “Requires 185 gold tokens.”

* * *

1. In which I discover the world of Questing

“We traveled across the ocean in search of a new beginning. What we found was something entirely different. ”

- Rita van Asch, January 1, 1777

I didn’t click the link at first.

You wouldn’t have blamed me if I’d ignored it.

The email looked spammy: every word was misspelled, the sender’s name sounded Eastern European, and it ended with an exhortation to “klik hear!”

I had left the office just after midnight, after an exhausting 48-hour sprint cleaning up code that my jerk-of-a-co-worker Russ dumped on my lap so he could take a four-day weekend. The perils of being the only female programmer at a startup, I guess.

And a pushover.

Well, I’d show him, I thought.

I’d do such an amazing job that it would force my boss, who was so used to Russ’s crap code, to marvel at my elegant functions. Or, more likely, he’d compliment Russ for taking time to rejuvenate himself so he could come back to work refreshed and ready to kick butt. Or he’d pat Russ on the back for giving someone like me the chance to do some “important” work. Maybe both.

Anyway, I was flipping through my work email on the cab ride home when I saw it. “Epic quests 4 u!” the subject said. Probably one of those MMORPG ripoffs, I thought, but I opened it anyway, only so I could relegate the sender to the spam bin forever. With that accomplished, I drifted off as the cab sped down the FDR.

Three weeks later, it showed up again.

Unsurprisingly, Russ had taken all the credit for my hard work and then announced that he’d accepted a new job at our biggest rival in Silicon Valley. I worked through his goodbye party, documenting all of Russ’s code from the three pages of handwritten chicken scratch he had given me so we wouldn’t be flying blind once Russ the Great departed.

“Epic Questers wanted!” this one said. Well, at least their spelling improved this time. I opened it and read on.

“Adventurous individuals needed. Complete Quests for treasure and glory. Click here!”

In college, when no one was looking, I became obsessed with Warriors of Olympus , an online role-playing game where you fought for your chosen Greek god or goddess, completing quests, killing legendary monsters, collecting loot, that sort of thing. I fought for love. That is, the goddess of love, Aphrodite. It was exhausting. Not just because of the late nights I spent holed up in my room building my standing in the Aphrodite Guild, but also because I had to take great pains to make sure I never, ever, ever said anything about this nerdy passion to my friends, who wouldn’t be caught in the same state with such a game.

I read the email over again for some clue as to why this mysterious game was worthy of my (virtual) blood, sweat, and tears, and my real time, money, and sanity, but no such clue was forthcoming. Off to the Mines of Moria with you then, foul email.

It was another three months before the final email arrived.

We were now in perpetual crunch mode, working around the clock, seven days a week, to ship a game months behind schedule that was lacking 60% of the features we promised in our Kickstarter campaign. But no worries, because all of our backers had gotten their t-shirts and posters and other crap that we had wasted 20% of our funds on. Money that could have been used to pay me, as I was now doing both my job and Russ’s job. Or to buy snacks for the office. Really, I would have settled for supermarket-brand bottled water.

I had fallen asleep at my desk, the keys of my mechanical keyboard pressed into my face, when the ping of a new email roused me from my coma. It was 3:43 on a Sunday morning.

“This is your final chance, Jen.”

Great, now they know my name.

“This is not a game. The Quests are real. The rewards are real. The glory is real. Do you have what it takes?”

These jerks were relentless. They must only follow-up with the people who opened the earlier emails. Clever bastards. Well, now they finally had my attention.

I clicked the link.

My screens went dark. So did the ones to my left, the ones to my right, and all the ones in the row in front of me. If anyone else had been in the office, they would be losing their minds right now. Of course it was the girl who clicked on the ransomware email, they would say. Of course it was the girl who willingly pushed millions of lines of code into an encrypted lockbox that would cost the rest of the company’s cash to retrieve because she was so tired one night and got distracted by an email. An email of all things! I stared at my screens, waiting in the pitch black room for something to happen. Anything. But the gentle whirring of the computer fans had gone silent, leaving me utterly alone.

It was then that the Quests appeared.

The blinking cursor materialized first on my screen. Then rows of random characters whizzed by, as they moved up the black screen and out of sight. Finally, a set of letters formed. It looked like the beginning of one of those old school text-adventure games, before actual computer graphics, where everything had to be made out of ASCII characters.

It said:

“Welcome to the Quest Board, new Quester!

There are three rules.

1. Wait three days between Quests.

2. Finish what you start.

3. Always Quest alone.

May the light of adventure guide you.

Happy Questing,

The Council”

I blinked, and the message was gone, and in its place was a prompt.

“Enter your handle:”

I paused to think of something appropriate. In my Warriors of Olympus days, I was JadePhoenix42. I rose quickly through the ranks and pretty soon was running the whole shebang. Then one day, a new player came along and turned the whole guild against me, got me kicked me out, and tried to get me banned from the game for good measure. After that, I retired the handle and stopped gaming altogether. But that was seven years ago, and maybe it was time to bring back the phoenix.

I hit enter and then a list with ten numbered entries formed. I read the first one:

“1. Wanted: a MetroCard receipt from the West 4th St station. Not your own. Leave on the top step. Reward: One wood”

Then the next:

“2. Pls give me some red leaves from Prospect Park. Reward: Eight wood”

Then the next:

“3. A Polaroid shot of the Raging Bull statue. Tape it on the construction wall at 1571 Second Avenue at exactly 5:32 PM tomorrow. Reward: One iron”

Then finally:

“4. Hi! Could you be a dear, and fetch me a handful of blueberries, a tillandsia, an orange popsicle, and three pounds of 80/20 ground beef from Chelsea Market? Leave in the windowsill of 194 West 9th Street. Thanks! Reward: One wood”

I moved the cursor down until I reached the bottom of the list, where further instructions awaited.

“Select your Quest, or press A for the next page, B to submit your own, C for Q-mail or Esc to quit.”

That MetroCard receipt Quest seemed easy, so I went to hit 1, but before I could, it blinked out of existence and everything moved up one slot. The old number two seemed stupid and the new number two too precise, so I quickly hit 3 and pressed enter, as I wanted to go to the Market anyway to get some vegan sushi. The Quest list faded, except for my selection, and a new message appeared:

“Remember your Quest. Skylarose101 is counting on you, JadePhoenix42!”

With that exhortation, the Quest Board dissolved and I was left alone again in the dark. But only for a moment. In another blink, all the screens were back on and my stupid company wasn’t going to kill me after all. I put a reminder in my phone for tomorrow’s trip-sorry, Quest!-to Chelsea Market, grabbed my bag, and headed home, a new skip in my step, ready to grind my way to the top of whatever this crazy thing was. I was JadePhoenix42, reborn again.

2. Girls who Quest

“The natives called this island ‘Manna-hatta,’ the Island of Many Hills. A more appropriate name would have been the Island of Many Secrets .”

The dragon bowed before my might, the sword an extension of myself. I moved it with the fluidity of a dancer, the swiftness of a hummingbird, and the strength of an ox. The sword tore into the dragon’s flesh, yellow blood bursting out, drenching the stone floor of the castle tower. The blood-stained weapon fell from my hands, and it clanged against the cold stones. I felt my knees go weak as I too fell to the ground.

When I opened my eyes, the rat was dead and the blood-smeared shovel next to it. I didn’t want to look at what I had wrought in the alleyway, the carnage I had unleashed for the sake of a few tokens. No, I wanted to leave the shovel and the dead rat and retreat back upstairs to the comfort of my railroad apartment. But I knew I couldn’t. It would be a waste.

* * *

I regretted taking the Quest immediately.

“Kill a rat with a shovel,” it said. “Reward: three wood tokens, but make sure you bring the rat to Washington Square Park within 15 minutes after you kill it or I don’t want it.”

The first time I read it, it seemed like a win-win. There was a rat that lived in the alleyway next to my building and there was a shovel that the super usually left in the lobby. I would throw some leftovers into the alley, lure the rat out into the open, and then smash its stupid head open, ridding me of the anxiety that surfaced every time I heard that clash of claws on concrete and earning me some tokens in the process.

Then I accepted the Quest and everything changed. I suddenly remembered that I went running the other way when I saw so much as an ant and had the athletic skills and coordination of a manatee to boot. There was no way I was going to stare down a disgusting rat and kill it with a shovel and carry it to Washington Square Park within 15 minutes.

Maybe Duncan could do it. I mean, that’s what boyfriends are for, right? But he was in Hong Kong (again) raising money for his boss’s newest fund. As he had been for much of our relationship.

We met at work actually. He and one of the fund’s senior partners had come to the office two years ago to meet the engineering team as the initial part of their due diligence. There were only three engineers on the team then: me, Russ, and Andrew, who earned a PhD in comp sci from CalTech at 21. What he was doing at our rinky-dink startup I still wasn’t sure.

Duncan and the senior partner impressed upon us that they made a point of investing in “diverse” companies and I was going to say that one white girl and nine white dudes hardly constituted diversity, but thought better of it and kept my mouth shut. As they made their rounds through the three rows of desks, Duncan kept turning his head back at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I proceeded to look away so that our eyes wouldn’t meet, then eventually ran off to the bathroom to avoid further interaction.

When I emerged 30 minutes later, Duncan was gone. He had, however, left his business card under my keyboard, with a short note scrawled at the bottom:

“Going to be a pass, sorry, but ditching Bret to grab a drink tonight at Rigby’s if you’re not inclined to pass on me ;)”

As far as pick-up lines went, it was pretty terrible. But I hadn’t had a date in months and we were just out of another crunch period, so I wasn’t surprised later when my feet carried me west on that rainy evening to Chelsea instead of east to the subway.

The bar was packed when I arrived, and by the time I weaved my way through the thronging masses to Duncan, there was a drink waiting in front of the empty stool next to him.

“Macallan 12, neat,” he said, gesturing to the drink.

I locked eyes with him and then at the drink, before picking it up and swirling the brown liquid around counterclockwise.

“Trying to see if I poisoned you?”

I stopped the glass, the scotch cresting against the side and spilling slightly over the breech.

“No, just pondering why I am here, in this bar, contemplating a sip of a scotch that I absolutely hate, with you, who seemed more interested in doing due diligence on what’s underneath my sweater. Honestly, did you spend your entire time at RPGLab staring at me?”

I put the glass down and slid it toward the bar, waving over the bartender.

“Laphroaig 25, on the rocks, and put it on his tab, please.”

The bartender obliged, and a few moments later, I sipped my new cold scotch.

“You know,” said Duncan with a grin, “it’s rude to drink without cheers-ing first.”

I stared at him, debating whether to chew him out again or to go along with the banter. I chose the latter.

“You’re right, how rude of me. What should we toast to?”

Duncan thought for a minute before he raised his glass towards mine.

“To not missing out on a promising investment,” he said.

Our glasses clinked and I took a sip. The whiskey burned my throat as it went down, enough to make me forget for a second Duncan’s second lame attempt at a pick-up line. I began to reply and that was when a cab drove right through a huge puddle behind me, the resulting wake drenching me from head to toe.

I was still outside the bar. Duncan, inside.

Our conversation: within the confines of my head.

I had not actually gone in, but had stopped to look through the window of the bar, trying to work up the courage to walk in and make the bold entrance that had just played out in my mind.

Duncan turned toward the window and I darted out of his view. Whatever courage remained had been washed away by the dirty rain water wave. And so I retreated.

The next day, I was in the middle of debugging the new inventory APIs when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I swiveled to see Duncan, who had grabbed a chair and was sitting directly behind me. I yelped.

“W-what are you doing here?” I stammered out. “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on someone?”

Duncan chuckled.

“And don’t you know it’s rude to stand someone up? I had to cook up a really good explanation for my boss as to why I couldn’t take the early flight out this morning.”

I stood up and stared down at Duncan, trying to gain control by talking down to him as so many men had done to me.

“It doesn’t count as standing someone up if the invitation was unsolicited and not accepted. You’re the one who chose to wait there, not knowing if I was going to come. Which I couldn’t, because I was here last night until 12:30 making up the work I could have been doing if we didn’t have to spend three days getting a build ready for you and Bret. For all the good that did anyway, seeing as how you’re more interested in me than my code.”

I cringed at that last line. Not only because it made me sound like a 16-year-old, but also because my boss would be furious if he found out I told off a potential investor.

There was a silence between us for only a few moments, but it dragged on for what seemed like ages. Then Duncan got up from his chair and we stood, facing each other eye to eye.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have presumed anything and it was wrong of me to come back here after you clearly weren’t interested in me.” His eyes shifted from mine to the floor, and then back again. I considered him again during this moment of vulnerability. He was cute in a used-to-be-dorky-in-high-school-but-then-became-an-investment-banker-sort-of-way. His dirty blond hair was an unkempt mess and I didn’t really like the sweater-vest/button-down combo he was rocking, but he had done what a lot of guys would never do: admit that he had made a mistake. I decided to relieve him of some of his guilt.

“Well,” I said. “You weren’t completely wrong.”

Our actual first date did not go down like I had imagined it. He insisted on buying me a proper dinner and we ended up closing the place down. Then, the next day, in what would be an annoying pattern that still persisted to this day, Duncan left town. He did come back, but never for more than a week or two at a time. He even convinced his boss to throw in a bit of money in the end. And so our relationship had proceeded at a glacial pace, despite it being a year and a half that we’d “officially” been together.

So he was not there when I (eventually) decided to confront the dragon. I took the leftovers from my fridge, grabbed the shovel from the lobby, and then waited in the alley for the beast to appear. It did, and my first attempts were not pretty. The rat was quicker than I expected, it ignored the food, and the super’s shovel was too heavy, so that every time I swung, the little bastard just scurried away. I discarded my coat for added mobility, leaving me in the alley with nothing but a ratty old t-shirt, but the increased speed was not enough. Eventually I just chucked the shovel blindly, hoping that the vermin wouldn’t expect a flying projectile attack, but the shovel just skirted harmlessly across the pavement. This Quest was going to get the best of me, it seemed.

I collapsed to the ground, exhausted. As I did though, the locket around my neck fell free from my t-shirt. It had been my mother’s and she had given it to me for my 11th birthday as my sole present. At the time I thought it was a pretty terrible gift, but now she was gone and I just had the locket.

That’s when it hit me. You couldn’t just give the dragon some crappy food and expect it to turn away so you could stab it in the back. No, it wanted something valuable, something special. And suddenly I realized what I had to do.

I unclasped the locket from around my neck and held it in my hands. It was silver, the size of a dollar coin, and the clasp had long since rusted over. I don’t remember if I opened it at the time my mother gave it to me and if I had, its contents were now lost in my memory along with the rest of my childhood.

The rat’s squeak interrupted my reminiscing and I refocused on the task at hand. It was now or never. I skipped the locket down the alley like a stone on a lake. The sound it made bouncing against the pavement made me cringe. Was this even worth it?

My opponent didn’t care about my moral crisis and finally emerged from the shadows. It studied the locket for a few seconds before deciding that it was more appetizing than the actual food offering I had made earlier and sunk its teeth into the silver.

With cat-like stealth, I crept along the alley walls to my discarded shovel, grabbed it in-stride, and with one last lunge brought the head down into the rodent’s flesh. It was over.

But not really. The rat corpse needed transporting, and there was the matter of retrieving my locket from the jaws of the dead creature. So I did what any normal 27-year old woman did on a Tuesday night: I stuck my hand in a rat’s mouth and pulled.

3. Kansas City Shuffle

“We bought the island for the equivalent of 60 guilders, an absolute bargain.”

There was not enough silver polish in the world to remove the rat essence from my mother’s locket and after the 14th time I had buffed every arc and curve, I contemplated shutting it away in a drawer with the three stupid tokens it had earned me.

But I couldn’t and back it went around my neck. One day soon I hoped not to remember in crystal-clear detail what I had gone through to get it back, but that day had not yet come.

The momentary burst of courage I felt when I faced down the rat hadn’t taken root and so I was skittish in my selection of the next few Quests, staying within the safe parameters of fetching tchotchkes from random stores around town. It was boring and I knew it, but I couldn’t bring myself to venture outside of my Questing comfort zone.

Besides, what was the point of this whole exercise? I was still half-convinced that this was an elaborate marketing campaign for some new game (maybe even my own company’s) and if so, I probably wouldn’t even have cared. Any game that spent this much on advertising was probably going to be something incredible. Or a PR nightmare. “Woman sues gaming company after catching rabies from rat.” Heh.

But I was growing tired of the fetch Quests for random junk. And I was tired of watching my stack of wooden and iron tokens grow taller bit by bit with absolutely no idea of what to do with them. Fortunately, good things come to those who wait, because one night when I went to check the Quests, there was a new section:

“D. Quester Profile”

I hit D and a new screen appeared:

“Quester: JadePhoenix42

Quests completed: 11

Tokens earned: 23 wood, 2 iron

Level: 1

Token experience: 27

Level up: 30”

Now we’re talking! If there’s one thing that will get someone to keep playing a game, it’s the sense of making progress. It doesn’t matter if it’s steps on an endless, meaningless ladder, people will continue to climb even after their fingers are numb and their wallets are empty. It’s one of the directives we received from the higher-ups at work: keep the fish coming back for more.

And now they had a hook in me too. As much as I wanted to think that I was immune to such tactics, in truth it activated the same dopamine trigger in my brain like everyone else. Show me that I’m three experience away from the next level and I’ll play all night to get there.

I clicked from the profile screen to the Quest list to look for something that would get me there in one hit: either a three wood for three experience or a two iron for four. I scrolled through several pages, looking for the perfect Quest that would elevate me. Finally, on the fifth page, I found one that stood apart from all the others:

“Testing out a new shell game in Times Square. If you win, or even if you don’t, I’ll give you two iron. Come by the northwest corner of 47th and Broadway tomorrow at 2 PM.”

I clicked quickly to accept. Two iron for losing at an obvious con game was a no-brainer, and I didn’t want anyone to grab it first. Plus, I would actually get to meet a fellow Quester in the flesh.

Eleven Quests in and I still hadn’t made contact with the people whose Quests I had completed, or Requesters, as I had dubbed them. My standard operating procedure was to have the token sent to the front desk of my office building, which was 70 stories tall and afforded me anonymity from potentially crazy Requesters.

I had to sweet talk the security guy to be on the lookout for envelopes addressed to JadePhoenix42. It took a bunch of cups of coffee, plus some borderline flirting, but he finally agreed. I’m sure he thought the whole thing was a poor attempt at covering up a pot delivery, but thankfully he never opened any of the envelopes. And, after all, this was Manhattan, the land where people hired other people to do every menial task they couldn’t be bothered with.

Now I know the Quest said that win or lose, I would still get the two iron, but that didn’t stop me from looking up all ways to win the shell game or its cousin, three-card monte.

You could just refuse to play the game, knowing that you were going to be cheated, but that didn’t seem appropriate. You could delusionally convince yourself that you could follow the correct shell all the way to the end, but somewhere along the way you would miss the trick and lose everything. Or, you could just trust your fate to the goddess of chance and guess a shell at random. That seemed to be the best option at the end of the day.

I sat at my desk all morning, watching the minutes tick by, until finally it was 1:30, and I darted out to the subway. When I got to the Times Square station, I bounded up the stairs and into the madness of thousands of people looking up at giant billboards while walking very slowly. Finally, I arrived at the designated corner. Which was empty. I looked at my watch and then at my phone to make sure I wasn’t late. I wasn’t. In fact, it was precisely 2:00 on the dot. I pulled out my phone again, trying to access the Quest Board to see if I had misread the Quest when I suddenly felt something sharp push into my back.

I turned and looked down, half expecting to see a bloody knife sticking out of me, but it was just a cardboard box. A sharp box at that, but still only a box. Phew. I stepped back as the box was lowered to the ground by its owner, who I could now see was a young girl who couldn’t have been more than 12.

“Oh, hey! Sorry about that! Are you Jade?” the girl asked cheerfully. She was on the shorter side, with blond hair done up in pigtails, big gold hoops in her ears, and a denim knapsack on her back.

“Umm, yeah, that’s me, and you are?”

“I’m Polly!”

The girl stuck out her hand, which I reluctantly took, and she gave me a vigorous handshake.

“Of course you are,” I said. “Aren’t you a little, err, young to be trying to scam people out here? I was expecting someone who looked a little more like your typical grifter. You know, worn face, missing teeth, poorly made leather jacket.”

She frowned, and let go of my hand.

“I’m not so young, I’ll be 11 next week!”

“OK, OK, sorry I asked. And happy birthday I guess. So, are you going to show me this trick of yours, or what? I need to head back to work soon.”

Polly bent down to push the box toward the Starbucks near the corner and I walked with her as she positioned it just so.

“Yes, yes, have a little patience, lady. I need a few minutes to set up.”

Polly plopped down her backpack on the box and began rummaging inside. I tried to look away to avoid the passing judgment of the Starbucks patrons filtering in and out of the store, but no one seemed to pay any attention to us.

“So, Polly. You been Questing long?”

The girl looked up at me as if I was her grandma asking how to use an iPhone.

“Whatever gave you the idea that I was that desperate?”

“Well, uh, because you’re posting Quests on the Board?”

“Right, exactly. I’m paying you. Not the other way around. If one day we ran out of money then I gueesssss I would have to start from the bottom like you. But if that ever happens, shoot me. Can you imagine, me, a Janssen, Questing? Ridiculous.”

Ohhh-kay then. Obviously what I thought was a simple question was actually laced with insulting underpinnings. This girl’s family was evidently a big deal in the Questing social circle, but what that circle even was, I had no clue, and was a tiny bit scared to ask more. I didn’t get the chance though, as Polly had finished setting up, and on the cardboard box were three identical shells, painted in bright pink. In front of them was a little blue ball that I guessed fit under the shells.

“All right, Jade. Time to play. Now, I’m not sure if I got all the kinks out, so that’s why I’m giving you two iron even if you lose. Which you probably will, just going to warn you.”

“I know, don’t worry about my ego. So how do I play?”

Polly smiled.

“Easy. I’m going to put the ball under one of these shells, like so.” She covered the ball with the leftmost shell. “Then I’ll shuffle all the shells around.” Her hands deftly swapped the leftmost and rightmost shells, then further swapped the rightmost shell, which had the ball, with the middle shell. “And now you guess under which shell the ball is hiding. This first one’s easy, so you should get it ... if you’re not a total idiot.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. The middle one.” I tapped it twice with my index finger for extra emphasis and she turned it over, revealing the ball.

“Very good! Well, not really. That’s the warm-up, the one you do to show the mar-errr, contestant that they have a chance. Now I’ll speed it up a bit, to see what you’ve got.”

Polly put the ball back under the middle shell and then began swapping at random with blazing speed. Sometimes she would move the shell to a different spot; other times, she would move it right back to where it was. Luckily my years of gaming had trained my eyes well and I spotted all of her feints and swaps with relative ease. So when the shells stopped and I pointed to the left one, I wasn’t surprised to see the ball underneath.

“Well done, lady. Most people usually can’t follow me that quickly. I think it’s time, though, for the real game to begin.”

The ball disappeared back under the left shell and off it went. The speed was even greater and I felt myself losing the ball several times. It was then that I noticed the tell. To move the shell with the ball required just a little more energy, which Polly’s hand betrayed ever so slightly. With that piece of intel, I stopped watching the shells and focused only on Polly’s hands. But when I confidently tapped the rightmost shell at the end of the round, it was empty.

“Ooh, so close. Care to go again?”

I cursed under my breath. I was not going to let this little punk best me so easily.

“Yes, let’s do it.”

This time I had the benefit of my hidden edge the whole round and, again, I felt sure that I had tapped the correct shell, only to come up empty-handed a second time.

“Again,” I said.

Polly just smiled as the shells began their dance anew.

Finally, after countless more rounds, I relented.

“Enough, enough. You are something else.”

“Why thank you Jade,” said Polly with a smile dripping in condescension. “You were watching my hands, weren’t you? That’s smart, but it won’t do you any good with these particular shells.”

“And why’s that?”

“Oh come now. If I told you that, I’d have to kill you, now wouldn’t I?”

I stared at her as she made her pronouncement with a matter-of-fact tone.

“Just kidding. Geez, can’t you take a joke? Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. If you can win the next round, I’ll not only show you how the shells work, but I’ll double your tokens. If you lose, you get nothing, plus you’ll owe me a favor. Do we have a deal?”

I didn’t give it a second thought.

“Done.”

4. The ties that bind

“Then the English sailed four ships into the harbor and took it from us. We crushed their navy in response, but let them keep the island anyway in exchange for some nutmeg trees halfway around the world. You tell me who got the better deal. ”

I read too many stories growing up about naive would-be heroes, who think they can outwit a demigod or a mischievous dwarf or some other creature but only end up indebted and forced into their service. Even knowing that, I still agreed to Polly’s terms.

“Ooh, I like your style, Jade. Most people would at least ask what the favor is first before agreeing, but you’re bold. Anyway, here we go.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but Polly’s hands moved even faster this time and I could barely keep up as the shells whirled around and around. I tried looking at her hands and the shells at the same time to keep track, but it was no use, and I resigned myself to owing this little girl what was hopefully a minor favor, like pretending to be her older sister to get her out of school early. As the shells slowed though, I noticed a new pattern in her hands. I could still see the extra exertion in one hand, but as the shells swapped places, so too did the tell. It was as if she was throwing the ball between shells, the receiving hand straining just a bit as the other hand relaxed. I watched the pattern repeat itself until finally Polly stopped and the shells were displayed in front of me to choose.

“The middle one,” I said.

Polly’s cheerful demeanor faded in an instant, as she uncovered the shell to reveal the ball.

“Well, I’ll be darned. You won. I don’t believe it.”

I smiled.

“Neither do I. Now pay up, please.”

Polly bent down to dig something out of her backpack and then set two iron tokens on the box.

“Where are the other two?”

“See, the thing is, I never expected you to win the double-or-nothing and so I don’t have the other two.”

“Well then, I think that you are now in the position of owing me a favor.”

Polly frowned.

“I don’t give out favors willy nilly, especially not for this small a debt. Come back here tomorrow and I’ll have your tokens.”

“No, I don’t think so. How about this: I’ll forgive the debt, but after you show me how your little game works, I get to ask you one question and you have to answer it truthfully.”

We stared at each other while Polly considered my offer. Several times she opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, only to stop short. I was half-expecting a lucrative offer to play the game again, but I think she was scared that I had actually deduced the secret. Finally, she sighed and started flipping over the shells.

“The thing about you noobs-you’re a noob, aren’t you?-is that you think this is all a game out of some Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale. Well, it’s not. And ordinarily, there’s no way I’d agree to answer your question. But I’m a Janssen and we keep our word. Plus, I still can’t believe you won, so I’ll indulge you. Now, watch closely.”

Polly tapped the two outer shells together, and then took the ball and dropped it in the left shell. She stood back with her hands in her pockets. I bent forward and looked into it, only to find nothing there.

“Try the right one,” said Polly.

I looked in that one and there was the ball.

“But, you didn’t … how?”

“Watch again.” Polly took the ball out of the right shell, tapped the center and right shells together, and then put the ball back in the right shell. I peered into the right shell and it was now empty. Instead, the middle one held the ball.

“It’s some sort of false bottom, right? You tap the shells together to open it?”

Polly shook her head.

“Any ol’ person could do that, Jade. You should know better than… oh. I see.”

“What?”

“What level are you?”

“Umm, err.”

I didn’t want to admit that the girl was right and that I was a noob. Nothing was more embarrassing than being that player who had no idea what they’re doing and who stumbled around like a fool, playing the game so poorly that their own teammates try to off them so they didn’t get in the way. But I knew so little as it was and if I tried to pass myself off as someone more experienced, I was certain that Polly would not tell me anything at all.

“So, I’m about to be level two, once you give me the tokens. I’ve only been Questing for a few weeks though.”

Polly hit her forehead with her palm.

“Unbelievable. Lost to a friggin’ baby noob.” The girl shook her head, and a look of disgust formed on her face. “Look, I’m still going to show you how the trick actually works, but just tell me how you won. Tell me it was blind luck and I’ll sleep a little better tonight.”

I told her how I noticed the muscles in her hand flex and relax as the ball moved from one shell to the other and she nodded, a slight smile on her face.

“All right, I’m sorry I called you a noob. You clearly have some clue what you’re doing and next time I do this, I definitely need to wear gloves. And, you’re not entirely wrong about the false bottom. But, there’s only one ball. Here, hold these.”

Polly handed me the middle and right shells after fishing the ball out first. I looked inside them but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“Tap them together.”

I did, and felt a tingling sensation in my hands, as if the shells were now connected with an invisible tether.

“Now, here comes the important part.”

Polly flicked the ball into middle shell with a graceful throw and I caught it, only it never arrived at the bottom of the shell. Instead, I looked down into the right shell to see the ball rolling lazily around the bottom.

“Impossible. How … you couldn’t have … I mean, I saw the ball go into the middle shell.”

I held the shells in my hand, the tension between them gone. Without asking first, I quickly tapped them together, and the tension returned but just as quickly faded.

“Look in the middle shell again.”

I did and there was the ball. I tapped them together again and the ball went to the other shell. To an outside observer, I must have looked like a crazy person, tapping shells together next to a middle schooler.

“You done or do you want to wear a hole in them? Those weren’t cheap, you know.”

I handed the shells back to Polly, who put them back on the box.

“I give up,” I said. “How does it work?”

“Well,” said Polly, “not sure I should actually be telling you, given your level. I mean, the Council came up with those for a reason. But, a promise is a promise, I guess.”

She turned the shells on their side so the insides faced me, and then tapped two of them together. The formerly opaque bottoms had changed somehow, a silvery circle in their place.

“Promise you won’t scream?” she asked me. I nodded quickly, not wanting to miss out on what she was about to show me.

“OK then. Stick your finger in one all the way to the bottom.”

I stuck my index finger into the bottom of one shell, only to see it emerge from the other one several inches away. As if not believing what I was seeing, my brain told my finger to move, and the floating finger tip obliged.

I broke my promise and screamed.

* * *

Thanks for reading the Guild of Tokens preview!

To get the rest of the story, click here to buy Guild of Tokens book on Amazon. It’s also free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers.

Happy Questing,

Jon

JON AUERBACH’S love of fantasy began at the tender age of six, when his parents bought him the classic 1977 animated version of The Hobbit (the less said about the recent trilogy, the better).

Jon hopes to pass on his stories to the next generation, including his kids, who have their own copy of The Hobbit that they lovingly call "the Bilbo book."

Visit www. jonauerbach. com/ newsletter to get the short story Guild of Tokens: Trainee for free!

2

Rogue Arcanist

Alan Brenik

Book One of the Nick Teller urban fantasy series

You don’t know who you are until you’re threatened.

Arcanists are born with the ability to manipulate reality with their spellcraft, their existence a closely guarded secret; they're among the most dangerous people on the planet, and rogues some of the worst.

Nick Teller isn’t a rogue arcanist by choice; he’d been born to it. But he understands the death sentence that carries if the totalitarian Society of Arcanists ever find him. That’s why he left that life to become a lecturer at King’s College London. Staying hidden, staying safe.

But nothing lasts forever.

When Nick interrupts the ritual murder of a student at the hands of another rogue, he finds himself fighting to keep his head firmly attached to his shoulders, not to mention protect the life he’s built. With the Society’s Blackcloak enforcers on the prowl, Nick knows he has to stay one step ahead of them, the London Metropolitan Police and the homicidal rogue.

But when that rogue’s plans involve something lurking beyond our reality, in the black vastness of Elsewhere, Nick might just find himself out of his league. He’ll need all of his spells, skill and wit to make it out alive, but at what cost? Nick will have to ask himself just how far he's willing to go to survive.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 7

* * *

Chapter One

Not my best work , I thought, staring at the metal dragonfly as it rose unsteadily from my desk. I could feel the arcane energy thrumming through the glyphs I’d etched along its body and glass wings. I leaned in, elbows propped on my desk, chin resting on laced hands; the dragonfly bobbed from side to side as if drunk.

My mobile rang, buzzing against the wood of my desk. I faltered and the dragonfly veered off, hurtling through a stack of unmarked assignments and scattering them in a cloud of paper. I whipped my senses out and brushed its deactivation glyph, sighing as the dragonfly clattered to the floor of my office, scraping to a stop.

I snatched up my mobile just as it started to blare Hendrix’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’, answering it with a swipe of my thumb.

‘Hello?’

‘You better not still be at the university,’ said Ana, half out of breath, the sounds of London traffic loud in the background. Of all the staff at King’s College, Ana had been the only one stubborn enough to befriend me.

I smiled, resting my neck on the back of my worn leather chair. ‘I know, I know. It’s Christmas break; I should go home.’

The rain that had been plaguing London for two days hadn’t let up, and the glass-panelled roof and walls of my office were vibrating with the thunder of it. Lightning flashed beyond the rain-patterned glass, streaking through the evening sky and revealing the Thames. I closed my eyes. There were definite benefits to having a rooftop office, even if it was a glorified shed.

‘Home?’ There was a warning in Ana’s voice that made me sit up. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

‘Forgot w—’ then it hit me. ‘Oh, date, date . I remember. I’m leaving right now.’

Ana sighed theatrically. ‘Honestly, Teller. If you’re late meeting Kelly, I swear—’ the sound of a car horn blasted over the line. ‘Eugh... just don’t be late, okay?’

I was already scrabbling out of my chair, hastily gathering up the scattered assignments from the floor. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on my way. Honest. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah.’

‘Bright and early. And Nick,’ said Ana, a smile in her voice.

‘Yeah?’

‘Remember to just relax. Be yourself. Have fun.’

‘Have fun,’ I parroted back. ‘Sure.’

‘See you tomorrow.’ She hung up.

I slipped my phone into my jeans pocket, the reality of going on a date with one of Ana’s friends – a stranger – squirming to life in the pit of my stomach. I’d put it off a handful of times already, but my well of excuses had finally run dry.

‘Come on, Teller,’ I whispered to myself, ‘it’s one date. You can do this.’

I left the unmarked assignments in an untidy pile on my desk and shoved my dragonfly construct into the top drawer. I switched off my desk lamp and all but ran from my office onto the stretch of flat roof leading back to the university proper. I hunched my shoulders against the rain and jogged to the maintenance door leading inside.

I stepped into the stairwell and froze, gooseflesh sweeping my arms and neck – a heartbeat of paralysis as my senses brushed against rising tendrils of arcane energy, and then I was moving, taking the stairs four at a time and keeping a loose grip on the railing, knees jolting on impact.

I almost tripped on the last flight, stumbling against the railing as I hit the ground floor – just hard enough to make me pause.

What the hell am I doing?

I knew the natural currents of arcane energy flowing through the campus like the back of my hand, but what I’d sensed wasn’t at all familiar and that meant only one thing: danger.

I slicked a thin sheen of rainwater from my face and dried my palm on my jeans. My mother had spent my childhood tuning my fight-or-flight response firmly toward fight, and no matter how much I’d tried to temper that in the years since, my first instinct was still violence. But she’d also taught me that the mind should be swifter than instinct. Action without thought was how arcanists ended up dead.

I stood straight, breathed out, and took stock. The stairs had opened onto a wide corridor. A series of lecture rooms trailed off to my right; halfway down the corridor to my left, facing the foyer leading out of King’s Building, stood the doors to the Great Hall. The faint smell of disinfectant tickled my nostrils, the floor patterned in mop strokes where the cleaners had already passed by. I didn’t need to guess which direction to take. The air was taut with power, grating against my senses – and it was coming from the Great Hall.

I had a better sense of that energy, too. It was strong, with an undercurrent of otherness that reminded me of takeaway grease and the sharp-slick aftertaste of vomit.

It’s a gateway , I thought, just a gateway. But the lie wouldn’t take; I knew the feeling of a spell being worked – a ritual, judging by the amount of power I could sense – and this was undoubtedly structured, guided. It had to be the work of another arcanist, and that felt infinitely worse than some chance gateway to Elsewhere springing up.

Fingers of ice feathered down my spine. I looked to find my hands trembling. That familiar fear lurking just beneath my skin was stirring, the fear that my perfect, anonymous life was about to come crashing down around me. Hell, part of the reason I’d chosen to become a lecturer at King’s College was because it was as far removed from my previous life as I could get. I was positive there were no other arcanists among the staff or students, so whoever was gearing up the ritual was an unknown quantity – and that fact alone had me itching to run.

I balled my fists and took another step. I’d be damned if I ran from the life I’d built without even knowing what I was running from. I’d been living as Nicholas Teller for nine years – my entire adult life – and I wasn’t ready to abandon that, not yet.

I kept walking toward the Great Hall, ignoring how cold and alien the university suddenly felt. A quiet part of me whispered to turn back, that whatever was happening ahead didn’t concern me, but I wasn’t about to mistake cowardice for caution.

Still, with another arcanist up ahead, my future was looking a few shades darker than bleak. I knew there were only two possibilities: the mystery arcanist was either a vassal of the Society or they were a rogue like me. I didn’t know which scared me more.

I’d been raised on stories about the ruthless efficiency of the Society and their Blackcloaks. I’d even crossed paths with some of those sword-wielding zealots once; it wasn’t an experience I was keen to repeat. And any rogues who survived outside the Society’s control were often as skilled as they were unscrupulous – practised at evading Blackcloaks and prone to flouting the Society’s mandates. Either way, it didn’t bode well for me.

I swallowed a lump in my throat and placed each foot forward heel to toe. I couldn’t hear anything except the distant patter of falling rain and, beneath that, those half-heard, phantom sounds that haunt all empty buildings after hours. I eased my mobile out of my jeans and switched it to silent before slipping it back into my pocket.

The arcane energy clouding the air thickened with each step, an invisible friction nettling the skin of my hands and face. It was hard not to imagine it clinging to my skin and clothes. I brushed my hair back over one ear, feeling as though my fingers belonged to somebody else.

I’d been as deadly as a sword edge once, but in that moment I felt as blunt as a butter knife.

I paused to the side of the Great Hall. It had two sets of doors directly across from the foyer entrance, and the faint glow of electric light was staining the floor before them. I knew the cleaners turned the lights off when they left around six, and it had been just after seven-thirty when I put my phone on silent. It wasn’t them, then. And it couldn’t have been Charlie, the campus security guard, either. He wasn’t due on shift for another half hour.

I leaned over to the right-hand doors closest to me and pressed my ear to the wood. Nothing, at first. The only signs of activity were the light within the hall and the ritual’s building momentum.

Then I heard it, muffled by the door but still just audible over the drumbeat of my heart: a voice. Young, and male – a student? After a few strained moments, I picked out the words please and don’t repeated every few breaths as if on a loop.

My first thought was to storm through the doors and bring my power to bear against whoever was responsible. I’d felt weak and at the mercy of those stronger than me before, and the white-hot need to step forward and help shocked me with its intensity. But quick on its heels was fear, an arctic terror that burrowed into my bones and stole the breath from my lungs.

Arcanists are among the most dangerous people on the planet, and rogues some of the worst. I needed to know more if I was going to open that door, before I let whatever was on the other side infect the life I’d built. I screwed my eyes shut, forcefully bringing my thoughts to heel. A well-trained arcanist’s mental control borders on the inhuman, and I’d been practising ever since I could remember. My breathing steadied almost immediately.

I unleashed my second sight and colour flooded my vision: a matrix of light, scarlet and silver and green, each shade a current of power concentrated beyond the doors in the centre of the hall. I could still remember how overwhelming that flood of sensory information had been the first time I’d used my third eye, the energies infusing reality suddenly made visible. I’d been awed, terrified, utterly convinced of my own insignificance, and then I’d passed out. It had taken years of meticulous practice to use my second sight without running a high risk of brain damage, and even then the danger was only mitigated. But it allowed me to get a better sense of the ritual in the Great Hall, and it allowed me to see the sinuous threads of black light marbling its energy.

The hairs on my neck and cheeks rose, a shiver unfolding in my chest. The ritual was nearing completion. I closed my third eye with an effort of will, the world around me spinning for a split second as my vision readjusted; I pressed my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes as I marshalled my thoughts.

I had to decide, do I walk away and let whatever happens unfold or do I get involved? I knew what my mother would have counselled: leave, run, and kill anything that follows. But my mother wasn’t built for polite society. Besides, I had to assume someone inside was in real danger – I didn’t know the exact nature of the ritual, but the black light meant it was connecting with Elsewhere and not a particularly nice part by the feel of it. That alone meant trouble for the university and anyone unfortunate enough to be on its grounds. Like the voice on the other side of the doors. And me.

My chest tightened as I started connecting the dots. The mystery arcanist had to be a rogue… only a rogue would conduct a ritual touching Elsewhere, especially since the Society’s mandate on the matter warranted a swift execution. I didn’t want to go toe-to-toe with anyone who would willingly spit in the eye of the Society’s Blackcloaks, but the consequences of doing nothing could be even worse.

Thoughts of the ritual’s purpose didn’t bear thinking about, and I wasn’t sure I could live with myself if I turned my back on a person begging for their life when I could help, not when it could be one of my students. Besides, my mother had been preparing me for dangerous situations since I was a child. As much as I’d tried to leave my past behind, the truth was I was far from helpless.

Keeping a tight rein on the fear desperate to erode my conviction from the belly up, I carefully pushed open the doors by no more than three or four hand spans and slipped inside.

* * *

The Great Hall was one of the largest rooms in King’s Building, dominating the ground floor and jutting from the rest of the building like a proud chin to overlook the university grounds. It was a rough square, the side and back walls punctured with towering windows that brushed the ceiling. Four Corinthian columns provided support and decoration on either side. The hall’s rear windows were hidden behind plush navy curtains, and a step-high wooden stage topped with a modest podium was stationed before them. Since the university’s final exams had concluded prior to the Christmas break, the hall’s usual felt-backed metal chairs had been stacked in the narrow spaces between the columns and walls.

I squeezed through the doors, easing them closed behind me and thinking cat-like thoughts as I sidled to my right. I crouched behind the nearest column and peeked around it. The hall was lit by a single row of halogen lights suspended over the centre of the room. Within seconds I had managed to take in the bizarre tableau framed in their white-yellow light.

There were two people. I picked out the rogue immediately: a kneeling figure in a large black hoody. They had their head bowed and hood raised, rocking in concentration as they worked the ritual. I couldn’t even pick out the suggestion of a face, almost as if the hood was some sort of macabre inflatable. I found every reason to look away.

The voice I’d heard from outside belonged to the second person: a young man lying semi-foetal on the floor. He was wearing a black t-shirt with the university letters KCL emblazoned across the chest in white – definitely a student, then. His feet had been secured with a plastic tie and his arms were bound behind his back, biceps and forearms like knotted wood as he strained to break free from what I assumed was another tie. He was good-looking in a brutish sort of way – blonde, with the makings of a beard clinging to his neck – and he was still reciting his desperate plea for mercy. Blood had streamed in twin rivulets from a broken nose to crust his chin and cheek, his eyes red and puffy.

He looks so young, I thought, before reminding myself that sentiment wasn’t going to help him. I needed clarity, focus.

The floor of the Great Hall had been vandalised with swirling sequences of glyphs in a circle roughly four metres across, scant few of which I recognised from my own knowledge of the Arcana. There was something about those glyphs that made me feel uneasy, nauseous, and all of them had been drawn in what appeared to be blood. I’d used my own blood to craft spells before, but this was something else. I knew only too well how much power human blood could channel; things weren’t looking good for that kid.

I forced myself to consider the ritual academically. It wasn’t the most complex I’d ever seen, but it wasn’t anything to sniff at either. The glyphs had been woven into over a dozen spells, in turn knitted into a handful of spell-chains, and all of it channelling the rogue’s power. Both rogue and student were positioned in the centre within free-circles, two spaces unmarked by glyphs. They were opposite one another, little more than a foot apart, and both evidently a focal point for the ritual nearing its crescendo.

My mind raced, rapidly devising and discounting possible courses of action with equanimity. How best to help the student? I could attempt to disrupt the ritual by damaging one of the glyphs, but the whole thing might explode and take us all with it.

I could try to shatter the rogue’s concentration and hopefully the ritual with it, but then the ritual might backfire on the student as well as the rogue.

I could even try to suppress the rogue’s power if I thought myself stronger, but that would not only tie up my own power but demand near total focus: I’d be physically defenceless. Even my mother hadn’t been able to suppress another arcanist while fighting – not to mention what the effect would be on the ritual itself.

Or I could attempt to siphon the ritual: divine a power glyph being used to anchor some of those spells and drain the energy out and away, all the while trying to keep the ritual stable and no doubt fighting the rogue for dominance every step of the way. It still ran the risk of unbalancing the ritual and killing us all, but I’d have a degree of control my other options lacked.

Not ideal, but I had to do something. I ran my hands through my thick black hair, sweeping it back and away from my face. My hands came away damp with sweat. I took a shaky breath.

Siphoning it is.

I gathered my will, allowing my power to unwind and flood my body. My temperature jumped a couple of degrees, limbs overcome with a pins-and-needles sensation halfway between pleasure and pain. I wasn’t at full strength, not after tinkering with my dragonfly construct on and off throughout the day, but it would have to do.

I blinked, allowing my third eye to spring open once more; it was risky, but I needed all the advantages I could get. The symbols of the Arcana littering the floor were abruptly wreathed in eldritch fire, sickly crimson energy flowing through their graceful curves and rigid lines. I prepared to fling my consciousness like an arrow toward the nearest sequence of glyphs, ready to hijack the ritual.

Then the rogue stopped rocking. They threw their head back, spine arching impossibly, and SCREAMED . The sound raked my ears, striking me as if I were a tuning fork and setting my whole body shuddering. It was a sound no human throat was designed to make, too raw and kinetic and wrong .

It cut off as sharply as it had begun, quiet reasserting itself over the hall with painful clarity. The rogue’s body slumped, head dropping against their chest. The light from the glyphs darkened to a simmering orange, the air in the hall ratcheting into something unbearably tight and volatile. I needed to act but wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know what had just happened.

The rogue’s head swept left to right, right to left, like a bloodhound searching for a scent. I held my breath, balanced on a needlepoint of uncertainty.

The rogue’s head snapped up to face me. I still couldn’t make out their face within their hood, but I felt the weight of their gaze pin me with an almost physical pressure. I suddenly understood how a mouse feels before a snake. There was something predatory in that stare, something merciless.

And its attention was fixed solely on me.

* * *

Chapter Two

Time seemed to pass at a glacial pace, seconds dilating into minutes as adrenaline finally hit my system with the force of a shotgun blast. As a child I’d been taught how to ride the wave of it, to act rather than hesitate, and my body didn’t let me down. The muscles in my arms, shoulders, and legs contracted as I adjusted the power I’d gathered, repurposing it for a head-on collision with the rogue. I made to stand, teeth bared, fists clenched.

I wasn’t fast enough.

Time caught up as if someone hit fast-forward. The rogue moved, rolling the student onto his back and snatching a sickle-bladed knife from the floor. I shouted something, words or just noise, tasting the futility of it as the rogue plunged the sickle’s tip into the young man’s throat and ripped it sideways. Skin tore like paper and blood geysered into the air, more black than red as it splashed across the boy’s face and into his open mouth.

His eyes looked impossibly round, until they didn’t.

The arcane light dancing along the glyphs flared magnesium-white and I reeled back, blinking away spots, the halogen bulbs flickering overhead. My ears popped and my stomach backflipped as gravity surrendered its grip on the Great Hall.

We all rose a few feet into the air along with the stacks of chairs to either side of the hall. I twisted, leaning forward and spreading my arms and legs out for balance, eyes searching and finding the rogue airborne next to the student’s corpse. The rogue was thrashing like a beached shark as the power of the ritual savaged their body, the black light I’d seen earlier now a maelstrom spinning erratically around and through their body. To my senses it felt like I’d been submerged in a vat of rancid oil that was so toxic my stomach cramped, bile rising in my throat and forcing me to swallow it back with a cough. I shut down my second sight instinctively, desperate to dampen the sensation in any way.

Then gravity reasserted itself. Painfully.

I crashed back to the ground, catching myself on my hands and feet and feeling as if I’d just been swatted with a giant shovel. A stack of nearby chairs teetered as they landed and fell to the floor only inches from my head. I flinched and rolled sideways, the impact echoing in my ears.

I struggled to my feet and saw the rogue doing the same, one hand clutching their head. I blinked; the rogue was smaller than I’d expected – maybe as short as me. Black jeans, black trainers, and I still couldn’t make out a face within their hood… it wasn’t much to go on, but my brain seized on the most important fact: they were exposed.

Arcanists can be incredibly dangerous, but there are limits to what we can do without preparation – unless one has an elemental affinity. They always come in the same pairs: fire and earth, air and water. My mother had forced me to undergo the necessary ritual when I was only ten years old, and I still woke up some nights wracked by the muscle-memory of that power coursing through me, carving and splicing. I’d always considered myself lucky to survive – not everyone does – and the changes had been immediate, like growing an extra limb and discovering a new corner of my brain all at once. It would be alien to imagine my life now without that constant awareness of the air around me or the natural ease with which I could reach out and grasp it. I’d never manifested even a passing affinity with water, of course – I must have been digging past the bottom of the spectrum there – but I’d come to terms with my mother turning me into an aeromancer.

And right then, facing the rogue who had just murdered a student in front of me, without any of my enchanted trinkets or my short sword, I’d never been more grateful for it.

I called the wind, pouring my power and intent into my cupped hands. The air began to solidify, swelling from the size of a fist to a grapefruit to a basketball in the span of seconds, driving my hands further apart. Sweat trickled across my ribs as I made the ball titanium-hard.

I thrust my hands out with a wordless shout and released the ball of air. An ear-splitting shriek rent the air as my invisible missile rocketed toward the rogue, heading straight for the largest target area, their chest.

My knees trembled. Any sort of wizardry, aeromantic or otherwise, takes its toll, and I wasn’t at full strength to begin with. Even though I was powerful for my age, I was still just a pup by arcanist standards, and I’d slammed a lot of power into my air-ball in very little time. But if there was one thing my mother had taught me as a child, it was how to hit hard.

So imagine my disappointment when it completely missed.

As soon as I threw the air-ball the rogue snapped to attention, one foot forward, head extended before arched shoulders. A strange sub-vocal scream rippled from the rogue’s hood, laced with enough power to distort the air, and my missile veered off to their left and crashed into the podium, wood exploding and splinters peppering the floor like rainfall. My air-ball continued through the podium barely fazed and smashed through the window behind, ripping a navy curtain from its rail and trailing it like a comet into the university grounds. The window fell in three torso-sized shards, shattering against the sill with an almighty crash, and the din of the wind and rain outside flooded the hall.

I closed my mouth, teeth snapping together audibly. I didn’t know what that was, but it sure as hell wasn’t aeromancy. It didn’t appear to be wizardry of any kind.

The rogue knelt to retrieve their sickle. It made a vulgar sucking sound sliding free of the dead student’s neck, then they were walking toward me, blood pitter-pattering from the blade.

My stomach lurched as I realised I was standing between this thing and the hall’s doors. Not a position conducive to my good health. I suppressed the panic attempting to steal over my thoughts with the ruthlessness of long practice. As is tempting with wizardry, I’d opted for a linear approach to the fight, spending a lot of power in a direct strike. With no payoff.

I cast my eyes left then right. Think, damn it!

Then it hit me. Don’t hit hard, hit smart.

I called on my power once more, but this time I had more than just my own reserves to work with. Cold, rain-charged air was howling into the hall through the broken window, and I seized its energy. It isn’t something that works with spellcraft, but an arcanist with a strong enough affinity can sometimes draw on those elements around them. And my affinity with air ran deep.

I guzzled the energy from outside as I thrust my palms out to both sides, sending twin currents of power-born wind snaking out to opposite sides of the hall. I poured more and more power into both currents and wrapped each one around a handful of stacked chairs to either side of the rogue. Only a few seconds had passed but I was starting to feel light-headed. I gritted my teeth, clenched my fists, and pulled .

The stacked chairs tore across the hall. The rogue reacted quickly, diving forward to avoid being crushed – unable to employ their strange vocal defence in both directions at once. Most of the chairs collided above and behind them, but two were flying lower than the others, spinning just inches from the floor. The rogue sensed them coming and tried to twist away, but in mid-air they didn’t stand a chance. One of the chairs hit them square in the ribs, flinging them face-first to the floor where they rolled uncontrollably to the left of the hall, leaving behind a thin trail of blood. From the impact, I assumed a broken nose or busted mouth.

There was no time to celebrate though; the rogue wasn’t down and out yet. They made a furious noise halfway between a groan and a scream, and I knew I’d only gained a momentary advantage. So what next? Try to subdue them and call the police? I wasn’t sure I wanted to inflict a rogue on the London Metropolitan Police – by morning there’d be a body count. The only other authority capable of holding them would be the Society, but one rogue turning in another? They’d probably give us neighbouring cells, or back-to-back executions. I knew the next logical answer, the one my mother would have advocated: kill them.

I shied away from the thought immediately.

I could run, of course, just leave them breathing and never look back, but I’d have to kiss my life as I knew it goodbye: the rogue had seen my face, my abilities. And so my thoughts circled back… end the problem, take a life.

But I wasn’t a killer. It had been one of the many points of contention between me and mother dearest.

I was saved from making the decision by the intervention of fate in the form of Charlie the security guard. Charlie had once played professional football in his native Nigeria, and now in his mid-fifties he still struck an impressive figure: broad shoulders, thick arms, and a stomach only just starting to stretch the buttons of his shirt. He was halfway through the leftmost doors, swinging the light from his heavy torch between the knife-wielding rogue, the corpse sprawled in a pool of blood, and me.

‘Nick?’ he said, his face a mask of confusion.

‘Charlie!’ I shouted. ‘Go, get help!’ It was all I could think of to get Charlie out of harm’s way.

He continued to stare, uncomprehending, but my words seemed to galvanise the rogue. They sprang up from the floor and backpedalled, turning to run full-tilt at the broken window at the back of the hall. Charlie finally reacted and made to follow, shouldering his way through the doors and into the hall. The rogue ducked their head behind raised arms and leaped through the window, sailing between the glass teeth clinging to its frame. Charlie was halfway across the hall in pursuit when he slipped in the student’s blood, arms wind-milling. His shoulder and head smacked off the wooden floor and his flashlight went spinning.

I looked to the window. The rogue had already been swallowed by the night.

I tried to get up, worried that Charlie had seriously hurt himself in the fall, but the power I’d expended must have taken more of a toll than I’d thought. I collapsed to my knees, barely stopping myself from face-planting the floor.

After a minute my head cleared enough for me to crawl over to Charlie. He was conscious, huffing shallow breaths of air. The hem of his shirt had escaped from under his belt and his hands were sticky with the student’s blood.

I asked him if he was okay but he didn’t seem to hear. Instead he whispered: ‘Lord, is he…?’

‘Dead. Yeah.’ I clambered to my feet, only swaying once before steadying myself.

Charlie’s eyes were riveted to the student’s corpse, his mouth moving without sound. Clearly a man in need of distraction. I hooked one arm under his own and heaved him to his feet, both of us leaning against the other.

‘In early again?’ I asked. I had to repeat myself before he heard me and tore his eyes away from the body.

‘Yeah… I mean, yeah. Lucky for you, man.’

I couldn’t agree more. My life had just been turned upside down in less than half an hour. And it was about to get worse. ‘Best call the police, Charlie.’

* * *

The Nick Teller Series

Bad Luck Hunting

(prequel short story)

1. Rogue Arcanist

2. Deadliest Bidder

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ALAN BRENIK is a fantasy storyteller living in the North West of England. He believes in the wisdom of dogs, the superiority of winter, and the power of stories. Rogue Arcanist (2018) was his first novel, followed by the sequel Deadliest Bidder in 2019.

Website: www. alanbrenik.com

Twitter: @AlanBrenik

3

Hero Forged

Josh Erikson

He thought he had covered all the angles, but it’s tough to plan a contingency for accidentally trapping an evil god in your brain.

Gabriel Delling might call himself a professional con artist, but when walking superstitions start trying to bite his face off, his charm is shockingly unhelpful. It turns out living nightmares almost never appreciate a good joke. Together with a succubus who insists on constantly saving his life, Gabe desperately tries to survive a new reality that suddenly features demons, legends, and a giant locust named Dale—all of whom pretty much hate his guts.

And when an ancient horror comes hunting for the spirit locked in his head, Gabe finds himself faced with the excruciating choice between death...or becoming some kind of freaking  hero.

Hero Forged  is the first book in the new series,  Ethereal Earth , a modern fantasy adventure that challenges the natures of myth, humanity, and what it means to be the good guy.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 8

* * *

Prologue

Haley wasn't sure when the night had gone off the rails, but the feel of cold ground beneath her back made her realize it must have. The sky was dark through the curtain of leaves above, and the wind cutting through the trees bit at her bare arms and face. She idly wondered when she'd lost her jacket, and the question suddenly lit a series of unfamiliar memories that unfolded in stuttering images like movie stills of a stranger's life. She watched in growing horror as she went places she'd never been and did things she'd never done—until finally stumbling out of a house to fall there to the grass. It was like a different person had been driving her body for the night. Like she'd been drugged.

A dozen questions and fears tried to roll through Haley at once, each one shouting for their own explanations or actions, but it all quickly gelled into a general panic that left her only with the single need to run. Her mind flashed ahead to envision standing, then to finding help, then to finding answers. But when she tried to sit up, something cut into her neck and yanked her painfully back down. She tried to reach up and grab it, but couldn't move her hands either—nor her feet. The cords were tight and drawn taut to the ground. Struggling did nothing but hurt.

“You shouldn't be awake yet,” a man said.

Haley sucked in a terrified breath and tried to wrench her head around to find the speaker, but he saved her the effort and casually moved to where she could see. He was tall and slim with expensive-looking clothes and slate gray hair slicked back against his head. He almost looked “normal” despite the circumstances, and she enjoyed a flicker of hope that this might be some weird mistake or terrible joke she could talk her way out of. But then she noticed his bare and dirty feet, and the livid purple bruise darkening under his right eye...and that he was holding a big, shiny hammer.

The man crouched next to her and let the hammer thump to the dirt a few inches from her mouth. “That makes it harder,” he said. “Though I did want a special one. The process needs a sturdy constitution, and anyone able to fight through my geas certainly must be sturdy .” He reached up and gingerly touched his bruise, then shook his head and laughed lightly.

She remembered giving it to him. This wasn't a joke. She was in trouble. Haley could feel the scream waiting there in her chest, ready to burst out and loose some of the pressure of her panic. But it wouldn't come. The terror in her gut and the cord at her neck had already conspired to close her throat, and it took all her concentration just to keep breathing. She wouldn't get much more than that.

The man's laugh settled into a smile. “It didn't have to be this uncomfortable,” he said, then gestured with the hammer back to a massive house in a clearing beyond the trees. The front door was standing open, and a little light spilled out across the threshold into the night. “I could have firmed up the geas for you and marched you back inside. Finished this on a comfy bed.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then sighed long and loud. “But now that we're out here, I can feel how much latent power the land has stored. Always a new surprise with magic. So I hope you don't mind if I save some work and skip straight to the main event.”

Haley barely heard the words. She swallowed hard and sucked in a breath that burned all the way down, then tried to force herself to speak. She wanted to beg or cry or curse or do anything that might help, but all she managed was a weak sob that scarcely splashed across the man's amusement. He was going to kill her, she realized. This was what a murderer looked like. The man watched her for a moment as she struggled with herself and her bonds, studying her like a project. Then, inexplicably, he began to sing.

Haley felt tears spring from her eyes as she strained desperately against the cords, but even as the panic built, the music wormed its way in. There was no tune or words or even rhythm that she could follow, but it was loud, and it seemed to cut directly into her like nothing ever had. It sounded too rigid and layered for a human voice to produce, yet it flowed from the man like a clockwork lullaby, pulling her in and wrapping her up in its sharp edges.

And the more she listened, the more she wanted to. She knew she was still in terrible danger, but the sound seemed to wedge in the cracks of her brain and spread the solid blocks of logic wide to let new thoughts grow up like weeds. Suddenly she wanted to stop fighting and listen. She wanted to stop being so unreasonable. She wanted to obey. A warm, pleasant fog was falling over her, and she wanted to sink into it and relax. There was no trouble. Everything was fine.

Haley felt her muscles go slack as the slow drip of music spread through her. Her throat opened to let the breath come easier, and the hard ground suddenly softened like a cradle. All her thoughts drifted apart and frayed away until there was nothing for her to hold onto and she was floating free within herself. She was coming undone, she knew, but that was good. Her consciousness was dissolving, but it was supposed to. It was the only way to make enough room for the door that had appeared in her mind, and for the new thing trying to get through it.

When it finally came, the rupturing was barely noticeable. The music filled Haley until it burst the seams of her psyche and cracked her whole self wide like an overripe fruit. And through that wound—that door—a dark worm slithered in. It began gathering up her memories as it entered, and she felt bits of her life and knowledge vanish from her grasp as it munched merrily to her core. But she didn't care at all. The pain and fear and worry were gone, and that was a fair trade. And there was a door open now.

The new thing settled in her brain with tentacles and barbed hooks and an alien weight of intelligence, and Haley let it. She was done with her body. There was a way out through that open door, on to something vast and glorious beyond anything she'd ever dreamed. It was white and peaceful and calling to her. It was a light to go toward. So she did. Haley Schram passed from reality and into the Ether, leaving her body behind. In her place, something much larger and much older remained.

The music stopped and Gwendal took a deep breath. She struggled briefly with the sensation of flesh after so long apart from it, but that first bite of air—cold and painful and gloriously real—filled her with a pleasure unlike anything else.

“Now, succubus, we can have some fun,” a man said nearby.

A binding spell brushed across her, and Gwendal looked to find its source even as she shattered it with the barest portion of her strength. The man—a sorcerer—fell back with eyes gone hard and bright before gathering himself to try again. This time Gwendal let the spell linger for a moment before shredding it, and the recoil of the snapped magic slammed into the man to throw him back with a screech of pain. She laid her paralyzing geas on him to keep him there, then pulled herself up, yanking on the ropes to easily tear the foot-long stakes from the ground. She ripped the cords from her wrists and dropped them in pieces to either side, then stepped forward to loom over her prize.

A look of utter shock bloomed on the man's face, only to be smothered by horrified realization. He was smart enough to understand that he'd drawn much deeper into the Ether than he'd intended, if not so smart as to avoid doing so. He'd wanted something minor to dominate, but had used far too much power and found her instead. No simple succubus. Not even close.

His fear was intoxicatingly thick, and she considered taking him right there to slake her new hunger. But souls were much easier to come by than sorcerers. And pitiful though his power might be, it could prove useful for what she'd come to do. She needed to stay focused on the greater goals. She couldn't let her hunger dominate as it had before. She laid her own binding spell on the man, breathing him in until he was hers.

Gwendal lifted a pale hand to her face and studied it. It was good: young, and firm, and strong. She would shape this body, of course, but that would come. The important thing was that, after hundreds of years in the quiet dark of the Ether, she finally had flesh again.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Gabe drained his hot chocolate and scrolled back to the top of the page. He wasn't all that proud of what he'd written so far, but he knew he didn't need to be. It just had to be compelling enough to sell. He frowned and read the intro again:

“CONscience: A Shepherd's Guide to Sheep

I’m a conman. In fact, I already have some of your money...assuming you actually bought this book like a sucker.

My name is Gabriel Delling, and I've been running scams on people just like you for fifteen years. I'm one of the best, but now I've decided to put all that behind me and give you, the “marks”, a look behind the scenes. Some of my life may shock you, and it should. But most of it, I hope, will help keep you safe from people exactly like me. I'll give you the tricks to…”

His phone rang and he closed his laptop, leaving the sentence unfinished. He'd have to remember to revise “the best” to “the best in the world”. He'd read somewhere that you were supposed to hook people on the first page, and the latter sounded more epic. And it wasn't like there was a con artist regulatory board to dispute the claim. “Most Profitable Fraud” was a tough category to give out trophies for. He also made a mental note to somehow work nudity and violence into the intro. He figured he might as well pull out all the stops while he was shamelessly selling out anyway.

“This is Tony. What can I do for you?” He hadn't recognized the number, so he'd defaulted to his good-guy persona. Tony was Southern, and likeable, and nice for dealing with the bill collectors that always seemed to find his number. Plus he said fun things like “reckon” and “sure's shootin”. People love a good stereotype.

“Hey, it's me,” the caller said.

Gabe sighed and dropped the Southern accent. “James, come on, man. Are you calling me from a burner phone? I thought we were best buddies?”

James chuckled without any humor. “You get me the money you owe and sure, we'll be chums. We'll talk about cute boys, eat raspberry sherbet, and frolic through flowers and shit. 'Till then, I use a burner to call people who make me want to check my wallet several times a day.”

Gabe slid his computer into his bag. “You're hurting my feelings here, brother. I'd never stoop so low as picking pockets. I have standards.”

“Don't call me brother,” James said. “It sounds weird when you say it. And I didn't call to talk about our relationship. You know you're not my type. I'm giving you a chance to earn.”

Gabe sat back and lowered his voice. The coffee shop was relatively empty this time of day and the music would probably cover him, but caution never hurt. “Well, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. How much?”

“Ah, now he's serious. About twice what you owe me. Maybe more if you're smart.”

“You know I am, J. How much in numbers?”

“They're offering five, but I bet you could get seven. Minus what you owe, obviously. Plus my regular fee for delivering this to you on a silver damned platter.”

“That's not bad,” Gabe said, thinking it was actually great. He picked up his hot chocolate and found it empty except for some syrup on the bottom. He grimaced and glanced at the other patrons, finding only three loud teens who should probably be in school, and an older woman who had been sitting by herself for some time. “And that would make my take...” He paused. “Carry the one...”

James made a disgusted noise. “Man, I am not your accountant. You owe me two-and-a-half. I take ten percent off the top so that leaves you with just under four. That'll pay all those bills of yours for another couple months, plus get you some of that disgusting cherry shit you're eating all the time.”

“Pie, J. It's called pie. And I eat it in perfectly normal, human amounts.” He stopped and ran his free hand across his stubble as if deliberating. After a moment, he realized that nobody was watching the fake body language, so he dropped it with a silent curse. Sometimes it was hard to turn off.

He did need the cash, James wasn't wrong about that. His latest scam was a tell-all book about his seedy criminal past, but he was quickly learning how much legitimate effort went into writing. Every day it seemed less like a con and more like a job. He'd only managed about ten mediocre chapters so far, and even those were getting away from him. In the meantime, he needed to keep all his plates spinning.

But it never paid to seem too eager, so he injected a little skepticism and bored superiority into his voice as he responded. He was still an artist after all. “Huh. That sounds okay. But a pay rate like that for a few hours of work makes me itchy. There's a catch, right?”

James made a sound like a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe. But you know how this works: I just bring clients and vendors together. You bid out the job. If there's a trap, I'm sure a smart guy like you will be able to figure it out.”

Gabe allowed himself a laugh which he hoped could be taken as either agreement or doubt. “Well if I can't, you don't get paid. And for all I know, this might be how the Lincoln Serial Killer lures his victims. How about some details before I jump face-first into this mysterious brown liquid?”

James hesitated a moment longer than Gabe was comfortable with. In that pause, the older woman rose and went toward the bathroom, leaving her food and drink behind. She also left her purse. The Midwest never failed to amaze him.

“Hey, I admit it's a weird one,” James replied, “but those murders were, like, two months ago. You gotta figure that psycho moved on by now. There are only so many handsome young hunks you can kill in Lincoln, Nebraska before things get too hot. Also, you're not young or that handsome. I think you'll be fine.”

“Ouch,” Gabe replied. “Thirty-two is still young...relatively. And don't dodge the question.”

James sighed. “Okay, it rang alarm bells for me too. You'd want to keep your eyes open. Head on a swivel.”

Gabe rose and pulled out his pocket knife, palming it. “Super. You know how much I like vague warnings and opaque platitudes when my life is at stake. Let me just put these two birds back in the bush so I can light some midnight oil and stitch something in time.”

“Man, if you shut up for a second I'll explain,” James said. “A rich dude needs stuff stolen from a house. Basic B and E. In and out.”

Gabe glanced at the baristas as James spoke, but they were both engrossed in their phones. He moved toward the condiment bar and slipped six packages of liquid creamer into his jacket pocket, then he casually grabbed a few napkins, using them to cover the knife in his hand. As he passed the glass water carafe, he rubbed the cuff of his sleeve against the condensation beaded on the outside, soaking the fabric. “I'm sorry,” he said, “the number you have reached is no longer in service. Please hang up and call a petty thief. This is not a recording.”

James waited an extra beat. “You are obnoxious as shit sometimes.”

“I work at it,” Gabe replied. He thumbed open the knife in the napkins and drifted back to his table

“Yes, your majesty,” James said, “I am aware that your shit is of the finest quality and scent, but this is more than just a smash and grab. Easier, even. Apparently the guy behind the job is some rich bitch who wants to keep his wife from getting a bunch of expensive art in the divorce. It's his house. To screw over his own wife. Not how I'd do it, but then I'm not stupid enough to get married either.”

As he passed the woman's table, Gabe glanced down at her unattended purse. He couldn't believe she'd left it there. Some people were almost too naivé to live. Then he lowered the blade to her cup and pierced it just along the seam before moving back to his own seat. “And a little insurance fraud as a bonus, I bet.”

“I don't think so,” James said, thoughtfully. “He doesn't need the money. He just wants to keep his wife from getting the art. A real bitter marriage, I guess.”

Gabe grunted and sat back down. “Not a bad plan, actually. The art disappears and insurance pays out. The divorce is settled in the meantime. Our guy hires an investigator, and a year or so later the P.I. magically turns up a line on the collection—maybe from an art dealer who's happy to return the lot for a small finder's fee and the warm fuzzies of doing a good deed. The ex presumably took the settlement, so the guy gets back his unicorn watercolors. It's not entirely stupid.”

“Uh huh,” James said, “that sounds about right.”

Gabe picked up his receipt, then started pouring the creamers into his empty cup. “You also said this job rang alarm bells.”

James sighed. “Every damn job rings alarms for me. That's what I do. I don't like working for rich amateurs, is all. Something goes wrong and they hire a fancy lawyer. Let us take the fall. Fucking rich people.”

“I happen to agree,” Gabe said. He swirled the creamer around until it picked up the leftover syrup, then he poured it all onto his tray.

He used his pocket knife to punch a hole in the paper cup just along the seam, then he folded the blade and put it away. James was clearly waiting for more, but Gabe let him listen to dead air while he worked.

As expected, James grumbled a moment later. “Hey, you don't want it, that's fine. But you still owe me. Rich amateur this guy may be, but 'rich' is the operative word. Another easy one might not come along so quickly, so I hope you've got something else cooking.”

Gabe put the cup down on the tray. He'd pushed James as far as he dared, and he wasn't likely to annoy any more details out of him. “When's the job? Can I think about it?”

James's phone beeped with an incoming call. “Nope. That's the other thing: It might be as soon as tonight. In or out, I gotta know in the next hour. I'm gonna answer this other call, and then I'm picking up a sandwich. Call me back before my post-lunch guilt sets in and the job is yours.”

The line went dead and Gabe saved the number. James usually only kept a phone for a month at a time, but it would likely still be good for the day. He watched the woman come back to her table and find that her cup had leaked most of its contents. She went up to the counter and loudly complained until they gave her a free replacement drink. Gabe rose immediately after.

There was no helping it. He hadn't pulled off anything significant in months and he was running low on cash. He owed money to more people than James, and he had been hoping for some kind of hook-up to fall into his lap. The job being weird didn't make it any less worthwhile. The only other downside was that it would completely clear his debt with James, giving the man less incentive to throw him plum gigs. He'd need to find a way to accrue a little more debt to keep that relationship mutually profitable.

Gabe slammed his tray down on the counter in front of the young barista, sloshing some of the chocolate creamer in the process. He showed her his wet shirt cuff and the little slit in the side of his cup—the one that matched the woman's. He handed over his receipt and got back a fresh hot chocolate free of charge. Four dollars and seventy-nine cents. He was a real criminal mastermind.

He sighed and pulled out his phone as he shouldered open the door. There were quite a few benefits to his leisurely lifestyle, but one thing remained constant no matter how you lived: sometimes you just had to go to work.

* * *

TWO MONTHS AGO

Gwendal was already settling in to the human body after one night, but bits of Haley were still intertwined within the years of memories that had come with it. The actual human soul was gone of course—cast into the Ether and likely annihilated—but the shadow of it was impossible to ever fully scrub away. It was a fact of flesh that the soul left an indelible imprint. Taking on the memories of a human would always leave an Umbra's spirit altered, no matter how strong it was, but she didn't have to like it any more than she had during her previous manifestations over the centuries. Regaining her true form would help.

She sighed and glanced down at the body of the handsome young man. His blood was already congealing in a wide puddle that almost covered his dorm room floor, but the sight of it did nothing to cheer her. He should have been her first sacrifice, her first drink of power in this new form, but something had gone wrong. Instead, his life had faded away uselessly and she'd gained nothing. Her will had faltered, or she wasn't yet seated as firmly as she thought. She didn't know.

“You will complete the next ritual,” she said to her pet sorcerer, “as is fitting for my servant.”

The man barely grunted his reply from where he sat crouched in the corner, but Gwendal didn't bother chastising him. Her priests would have done this for her, had she any left, but they were long dead and dust. A leashed and broken sorcerer was no replacement for the truly devoted, but it was better than failing again. She was starving, and the clock was running on her mission.

“I could serve you in better ways, mistress,” the sorcerer said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I could prepare my plan to—”

Gwendal forced him to silence with a thought. They'd only been bonded for a day, but already she could pull his strings like a marionette. However, she did prefer willing obedience. She had explained her plans to him once he had calmed down, and he'd been only too willing to strike a deal with her in exchange for his own petty desires. Whether he believed her story didn't seem to matter. Sorcerers were basically human and blinded by the same base lusts. He would help her perform the ritual to summon another Umbra from the Ether, and all he wanted in return was access to the carnal magics. A succubus or qarinah would do, and one would be easy enough to deliver once she had the strength.

She'd forgotten how rigid the physics of reality were, and her power was taking much more effort to manifest than it should have. She'd expected to have a group of believers ready and waiting the next time she emerged, but much had changed about the physical world since she'd last walked it. She'd been born a goddess, but felt much less now.

The sacrifices would help. If nothing else, they would feel good. A few hundred years might have dulled her power, but they had done nothing to quiet her hunger. And once she was back to her old self, she could begin in earnest. There was much to prepare if she was to serve her purpose, and she only hoped the world had enough time left to wait.

Gwendal frowned down at the body again. It was still early in the day, and if one idiot man had agreed to take her back to his room, surely another would. This flesh was quite pretty, after all, and it would only get better as her shaping took hold. Everything would get easier.

She snapped out a quick mental command and the sorcerer jumped to his feet. “Time to try again,” she said. “Tell me if you spot a lonely or frightened one. They break quickest.”

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

“All things considered, Lincoln, Nebraska is a fine place to live. Nice even. It doesn't have the nightlife of the larger cities, but then it doesn't have the crime either. For someone like me it's essentially a wash. Fewer opportunities but less competition. I might have chosen something a little more romantic like New York or Chicago, but it isn't my call. And while part of me hopes I won't need to make that decision anytime soon, there's always that small selfish piece that resents being tied here. But even though he wasn't anything close to the best father in the world, he stuck around for a while. Better than my mom. So I have to stick around too.”

-Excerpt from Chapter One, CONscience

Gabe stepped into the gravel lot and surveyed the weird little industrial complex. Fast Frank's Food Ferry was doing its usual brisk business in sandwiches and salads at its location of the day, and it wasn't hard to spot James on the hood of his car, eyes glued to his phone and mouth working to dismantle what looked like a reuben sandwich.

“Gross,” Gabe said as he approached. “Do you know how they make sauerkraut?”

James barely glanced up as he swallowed. “Yep, they bury mouthy little dudes in a pit for six months, then dig up whatever's left over. Been thinking about making some homemade, actually.” He took another bite and smiled around it.

James Jackson was a handsome guy, and even the act of eating a smelly sandwich on the hood of a Lexus in a warehouse parking lot was somehow stylish when he did it. Today he was wearing a lavender button-down with the sleeves rolled up to avoid potential stains, and the color offset his dark complexion in a way that had to have been intentional. Put Gabe in that color and he'd look like a package of bread dough, but on James it was striking. The man just knew how to dress well and make it look like an accident that happened every day.

“Eh, clever-ish,” Gabe said, waggling his hand from side to side.

“Did you order anything for me?”

James shrugged and swallowed. “Didn't know you were coming. Also, we're not friends.”

Gabe glanced over at the truck and saw that the menu for the day had some kind of German and Indian fusion theme. He waffled for a bit, but the thought of curried liverwurst made him decide to go hungry. “Still not serving hot dogs. I swear the guy's missing a golden opportunity with that name.”

James snorted. “The day he takes your culinary advice is the day I stop following him around the damned city. What do you want, Gabe? You got an answer?”

Gabe moved to sit next to him on the car, but stopped at a warning look. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

James took a swallow of what looked like lemonade, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go for it.”

“Okay, first, why the rush? Shouldn't there be some plan time?”

“Already done,” James replied. “You're just a body on this one, not the brains—luckily for them. The dude requested six people, and the professional crew is only three-strong. They need three more and asked me to round them up. Two guys and one girl. Very specific. Besides, not everyone takes a year to come up with a viable plan, Gabey-boy. Some people have lives.”

Gabe shrugged. “I'm not going to apologize for being thorough. The client specifically requested the number? And the genders?”

James nodded. “Couple of other weird requests too. But I've had weirder, and the job basically checks out.”

“Huh. Who else is on the crew?” Gabe asked. “Anyone I know?”

James lowered his sandwich and gave him a reproachful look. “Does that mean you're in? Because you know we don't talk details until you're committed. And I know you wouldn't try to sneak info out of me like some kind of amateur. So that leads me to believe—” He cut off abruptly as he glanced at something over Gabe's shoulder.

Gabe took the cue and invented a conversation on the fly for the benefit of the person approaching, just in case. “...uh, probably shouldn't be green, man. I mean, I'm no urologist, but I'd have it looked at.”

James turned back to him with narrowed eyes, and Gabe took the opportunity to pretend to notice the new arrival. “Hey, we're trying to have a conver...” he began, but stopped when he recognized the woman.

He only knew her by Heather. It was probably an alias, but it was one she'd used often enough for it to stick. She was roughly his age—thirty or so—and smallish without being delicate. She dressed like she had a desk job, and her dark hair was almost always back in a tight ponytail. Along with her thick-rimmed glasses and vague air of intellectual superiority, the whole thing gave her the unmistakable and obviously intentional aspect of a sexy librarian. He suspected that she was a con like him, and had to admit that the persona worked well. It was simplicity balanced against a hint of something much deeper, and though he could spot the manipulation from a mile away, it still worked.

“Am I that predictable to you damned people?” James asked as he wrapped his sandwich back into its paper.

Heather sidled up to the car and leaned against it, getting no warning look of her own. “It's the job,” she said. “It makes you numb to social niceties like pretending not to notice your preference for a sexy culinary artiste named Frank. Lots of sausage on the menu today, I see.”

James gave her a wry smile, and she accepted the scored point with a wink. Then she turned to meet Gabe's eyes with something that landed exactly between interest and annoyance. “Hi,” she said.

Gabe wavered between several of his personae before finally settling on just being himself—or the closest approximation he could ever recall. “Hi,” he replied. “Thanks for stopping by. We weren't having a private conversation or anything. I just like to stand here and watch him eat.”

Heather only smirked and looked back to James. “Can we talk?”

“That depends.” James said, turning to Gabe with a raised eyebrow.

It was decision time. Gabe didn't like the feel of it, but the job paid well and was about as low-risk as it ever got. Yes, the entire situation had a sticky film over it like a movie theater floor, but it came down to necessity. While he preferred to follow his gut, his wallet almost always got the final vote. And Heather possibly being involved made it twice as intriguing.

“Sure,” he said. “I'm in.” He'd had worse feelings about jobs and come out fine on the other side. There was no reason to think this one was any different. Also, no ominous thunderclaps followed that thought, which was nice.

Heather glanced at Gabe and seemed to size him up, then gave a small shrug. “Me too. Give me the details.”

James grinned and pulled out a small notebook embossed with his initials: JJ. “Two-for-one. I feel efficient as hell today. Let's see… It's clear north of town. The meeting point is a little row of tin buildings with a welding shop and assorted other blue-collar shit.” He turned his notebook to them and waited until they each nodded that they had memorized the address. “The pros are out of Omaha. They'll meet you there to go over specifics. Once I call them with your names, the job could happen any time. A guy named Paul will complete your trio of subcontractors. He's weird, but okay. Full disclosure: he used to be a dealer.”

Heather groaned, and Gabe barely stopped himself from following suit. Common opinion around the criminal watercooler was that drug dealers were among the lowest in the professional food chain. The majority were unpredictable amateurs at best and violent morons at worst, and Gabe normally did everything he could to separate himself from them and the Jimenez Cartel most of them worked for. But while it certainly did nothing to ease his reservations, he knew it was already too late to back out. Nice guy that James might be, he hadn't carved out his little niche by letting people walk away with sensitive information unless they had ample incentive to keep quiet. James might let him loose for old time's sake, but his future prospects would be shot—and he'd count himself lucky that nothing else was. It took a special kind of ignorance to believe that a man who wears fancy clothes and gets regular manicures can't also be terribly dangerous.

Heather apparently didn't have the same fears. “I thought you told me that this was a professional—”

“Stop,” James said, cutting her off with an upraised hand. “I told you this would be easy. I didn't say it would be a trip to candyland. Are you really backing out because of one dude?”

Heather met James's stare for a long time before clicking her tongue in annoyance and then waving the last few moments away like a swarm of gnats. “Keep going.”

“Gee, thanks,” James said. “As far as I know, you're leaving from there, so prepare accordingly. The meeting point is supposed to be secure, so you can use your own vehicle to get there. Questions?”

Heather shook her head and Gabe did the same.

“How about names?” James asked. “You using an alias?”

Heather shrugged, apparently unconcerned, but Gabe took longer to consider. He had a whole list of fake identities and personalities he could use, but most were tailored for specific cons. For something as ambiguous and potentially dangerous as this, his best bet was to use one that was fully fleshed out and easy to wear. “Viktor,” he said.

James smirked and shook his head. He'd seen the character a few times. “Nice. I'll warn the neighborhood watch.” He slid from the hood and snatched up his food. “I'll text the go-time once I have it, but they're moving fast. Could be tonight.”

With that, James got in his car and pulled away, leaving Gabe and Heather standing there together in the settling dust. He searched for something clever to say, but Heather spoke before he could make a fool of himself.

“Does this seem weird to you?” she asked.

He almost made a quip about his whole life seeming weird to him, but he throttled it just in time. “Yeah,” he said, then surprised himself. “Do you want to get lunch and talk about it?”

Heather looked him over and seemed to honestly consider the invitation, then she cracked a smile and slipped her professional demeanor back on. “Thank you, but no. I have some important things to do before this starts. Can't leave loose threads hanging.” She dropped him a quick parting wink. “See you later, Gabe.”

He shook his head as he watched her walk away. The words had been simple, but they'd still left him feeling like she had just promised something that hadn't really been there. He ratcheted up his respect for her by another notch. A man could make dangerous assumptions with just that tiny bit of inflection. Probably expensive assumptions. Heather was good, and he'd have to watch out for that. Interesting and beautiful though she may be, he held no illusions that her wholesome, honest facade extended any deeper than his own. She wasn't a woman to cross lightly, let alone to casually take out for lunch.

He glanced once more at the food truck menu, almost considering the bratwurst and chutney, but came to his senses and got in his car. He had important things to do too, and he was already overdue for the biggest by a few days. Putting it off anymore wouldn't make it go away. It was time to deliver groceries.

* * *

SEVEN WEEKS AGO

“Please! I swear I won't tell anyone!” the man whined as he struggled uselessly against the paralyzing geas.

In answer, Gwendal drew her index finger across his throat and let her nail bite deep enough to open the artery. She stepped back fastidiously to spare her shoes, then watched for the full minute it took for him to stop thrashing. She felt the body weaken and fade as the blood drained, then let the moment linger as she tried to find the exact instant the spirit began to slip free.

At her gesture, the sorcerer stepped forward to weave his spell song. “Taken, spilled, and gifted soul,” he intoned over the body. “Worthless life made worthy. Sup of strength and make you whole. Worthless life made worthy. Be you more with pittance paid. Worthless life made worthy. May you never be unmade! Worthless life made worthy!”

The words were a translation of a translation pulled from memories a thousand years old, but with the weird musical power behind them Gwendal felt the connection actually form this time. She took up the offered spirit and breathed deeply, and was elated to feel the old familiar pulse of energy enter her like a lover. It wasn't perfect yet, but it filled the empty spaces in her, and she inhaled until she had every bit.

Then she collapsed back onto the bed to bathe in the afterglow as the power burned through her like an inferno in an abandoned mine. It cleared cobwebs from corners and shed light in the dark places, and suddenly it was so much easier to think and remember. Flashes of her true self came crawling back from where they'd been scattered through millennia of dispersion in the Ether, and she took each shard of herself up in a delicate mental grasp to piece it all back together.

Her homes came first, beginning with the last and moving back. A dark altar, soaked in terror and blood, hidden beneath a Christian church. Then a grand castle built in her honor by a beloved who promised more than he could give and had died for it. A small village in the mountains where her name was spoken with lust and reverence and pain. A cave on an island now lost beneath the waves. A mud hole in the savannah. A dark desperate place in a mother's fear. A glimmer of hatred. A whispered curse.

But her true home, the one which had never crumbled or burned, was still there in the noise of emotion that filled the city. It wasn't as thick here as it had been in less enlightened times, but what it lacked in potency it more than made up for in sheer quantity. There was more than she would have guessed possible, and it seemed now to come in many unimagined flavors. The humans, for all their new wonders, had not yet learned to conquer fear. They had only invented new ways to distract themselves from how deeply in it they were buried.

The old power sparked within her again, and her oldest names returned. Dread Wife. Night Mother. Fearling, Wail Witch, Womb Stalker. All of it was still out there, waiting for her, and she breathed the surfeit of it in as the last of the dead man's life curled lazily into her nostrils. She was still worshiped, in a way. The humans just didn't remember how to name her.

She used her new strength to part the veil between reality and the Ether for an instant, then sent a brief brush of her presence skirting past the wall of the precept bindings. The protections were weaker now that the old gods who had placed them had fled the physical realm, and that would help when the time came. But she still needed more power to pry it all open.

“I am coming,” she said into the mists.

The reply came back only as an impression of his fierce hunger and vast power, but it was enough. He was ready and waiting. All she had to do was loose him, and together they could fulfill their grand purpose. Side-by-side, they could save this universe.

The clarity faded and her thoughts settled back to the plodding human pace. She had been gone from the solid world for too long, and she needed a better way to gather power. The foolish sorcerer had spent every scrap of magic within the old fairy circle at the mansion when he'd inadvertently loosed her, and even that much wouldn't have been enough for her purpose. The veil was still thinly drawn there, but she would need to bring more power to tear it and break past the precepts. Sacrifices would be needed. Enough blood to wrench forth a god.

* * *

Thanks for reading this sample of Hero Forged! It’s the first book in the ongoing series Ethereal Earth, available in print, ebook, and audio narrated by the author. You can get updates on news and upcoming releases by following Josh on Facebook and Twitter . Or you can join his mailing list to get access to exclusive short stories!

4

Ten Thousand Days

C.D. Gallant-King

They say love hurts and time heals all wounds.

Sometimes the reverse is true.

Isaac was very good at wasting time. Video games, a mindless job, no responsibilities - he had a simple life and few wants. Despite being hopelessly average, unassuming and kind of useless, he had somehow married the most beautiful, wonderful woman in the world.

He had no idea how good he had it - until it was all taken away.

Time does not like being wasted. It is mercurial, inexorable and carries a wicked grudge. And sometimes, just sometimes, it enjoys playing games with people's lives. To be perfectly honest, Time is a bit of a jerk.

Isaac had never learned to appreciate what little time he had, and now he must travel to the ends of the universe and face unspeakable evils in a cat-and-mouse game with Time itself for the slim chance to win back a few fleeting seconds of happiness. The price of failure? Only the end of all existence.

Ten Thousand Days is a fairy tale set in the modern day, a fantastic journey of desperate love and horror with a twisted sense of humour. It's a story of exactly how far a young man will go for love...

SPFBO 2017

Grit level: 6

* * *

Chapter 1

The Anniversary

Isaac was awakened from his nightmare by the sound of the cat scratching at the door. He tried to ignore it, knowing that it was a wasted effort, but just wishing for once that the damn thing would give up and let him sleep an extra few minutes. When the scratching persisted, he turned over and checked his phone on the bedside table. He still had six minutes before the alarm went off, but it was obvious the cat was not going to give it to him.

He rolled out of bed in only his white boxer shorts, threw open the door, and the orange striped tabby bounded across the laminate floor away from his wrath. You would swear he beat the animal from the terrified way it fled from him every morning. But no, he was the one who fed it, and brushed it, and cleaned its litter box, and yet the feline still treated him like he was some horrific monster with whom it was forced to share the house. On the other hand, the cat loved Clementine. All animals loved Clementine. She was like some kind of horse/dog/cat/shark-whisperer. She had fallen into the penguin enclosure at the zoo once and the weird little birds had helped her back out. She had a way with animals that bordered on supernatural. Now that he thought about it, why was he the one feeding the stupid cat?

Isaac opened the bag of cat food lying next to the animal’s small white ceramic dish and threw a handful of kibble into the bowl. He never understood why the cat never figured out how to just knock the bag over and steal the food on its own. The tabby jumped upon it with glee, probably pretending it was some prey it stalked in the jungle. Isaac stumbled back into the bedroom and curled up under the blankets just in time for the alarm to go off.

“Wake up sleepy-head!” There was an excited voice speaking far too loud directly into his ear. “Do you know what today is?”

Isaac forced his eyelids open and saw a huge pair of blue eyes just centimetres before his face. “Uh, Saturday?” he said.

“Well, that too.” Clementine yanked the blankets off of him. “But it’s also our anniversary. So get up!”

“I don’t have to be to work for three hours.” Isaac rolled away from her and clutched weakly at the blankets she held in her hand. Finally he gave up and just hugged himself instead. He knew he was the one who had set the alarm but he still didn’t understand why. “Why are we getting up now?”

“Because you promised to go to breakfast with me before you went to work. And if you don’t get up right now I’m going to whine and complain until we go to bed tonight and completely ruin your day.”

“I guess that would mean I wouldn’t get any anniversary sex, huh?” Isaac looked at her through one open eye. His messy-haired wife in her tight white tank top and pink panties, and the thought of fooling around with her later made him snap awake almost instantly.

“Not a chance.” Clem folded her arms across her breasts.

“No fooling around at all?”

“Nope.”

“Okay fine, I’m up!” He grabbed her and pulled her back down beside him. She squealed, and giggled, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. His morning breath, however, was not the most beautiful taste, and when he kissed her she squirmed and pulled away.

“Ew, gross!” She wiped her tongue on Isaac’s pillow. “You taste like ass.” She wriggled away from him and got out of bed, disappearing through the bedroom door. “Gotta pee.”

“What if I brush my teeth?” Isaac called after her. “Will you make out with me then?”

“No, we have to go!” The toilet flushed. “Get washed and dressed. You promised me breakfast.”

That he had, and Isaac knew better than to renege against his promises when Clem had her mind set on something. He did, however, get to make out with her in the tiny, mildew-stained shower, which was his favourite time to make out with her anyway. She was the perfect blend of naked and wet and soapy. She had to basically push him off of her when they stepped out of the tub.

“Later.” She pushed him away when he tried to pull her still wet and dripping into the bedroom. “Tonight.” She moved to him, pressed her body against his. “Besides, if you think about it all day it will make you want it more.” She reached down and squeezed him, then flitted off to get dressed, leaving Isaac standing naked and frustrated in the pale-blue tiled bathroom.

Shortly they were outside, walking down a narrow residential street framed with heavy, drooping elm trees on a beautiful Saturday morning in early September. They lived in the basement apartment of an old townhouse just off of Roncesvalles in the Polish West End of Toronto. Clementine appreciated the close-knit community and distinct identity that Roncesvalles held onto against the homogenizing gentrification of the rest of the city. Isaac just mostly appreciated their sausages.

Kids would be starting school this coming week, as would Clementine, though she could hardly be considered a kid anymore. She would be going into the last year of her Masters degree, or what was supposed to be the last year. They had said the same thing for the past three years, and yet there was still no diploma on their wall. There was always another course or co-op to take, or some new information that required her to completely re-write her thesis. Isaac often teased her that she planned to stay in school forever so she never have to pay back her student loans. But she was brilliant, and dedicated to her studies, and Isaac would never deny her the learning that she truly loved.

Despite being September it was still very warm, and Clem was dressed in a dark blue sweatshirt and jean shorts that showed off her lovely legs. Isaac wore slacks and a button-up shirt, dressed to go straight to work after breakfast. They held hands, Clem’s right in Isaac’s left, and she swung them as she half-skipped down the sidewalk.

A pair of squirrels approached the couple, stopping just in front of them. The animals sat and watched them pass and Clementine gave them a friendly smile. Most people would probably assume they were looking for food, but in truth, squirrels always did that with Clementine. It was eerie.

“So how long has it been?” she asked. Her husband, not the squirrel.

“How long what?” he teased.

“You know.”

“Two days, eight hours and seventeen minutes,” he replied.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“That’s how long it’s been since we had sex.”

Clementine punched him in the arm. “No, you git. How long has it been since you walked me home from school for the first time?”

“Ah. Twenty years.”

They both knew how long it had been, but saying it aloud still sounded impressive. Twenty years ago to the day, Clem and Isaac had walked home together from the bus stop for the first time. Well, if truth be told, they did not really walk together . Clem held onto Isaac’s Ninja Turtle book bag and he was forced to drag her most of the way. In his defence, he had been only seven at the time, and girls were gross and disgusting and this particular goofy blonde chick had been really annoying. “Wanna be my friend?” she had whistled, missing two front teeth.

“No,” he answered, and so began their beautiful relationship. In fairness, they had hardly spoken for ten years after that, not hooking up again until high school, but they still recognized that moment as the beginning of their relationship and celebrated it every year.

“Did you want to marry me?” Clementine asked, putting her head on Isaac’s shoulder. Her short, spiky blond hair tickled his nose, and he loved it.

“Excuse me?”

“Did you want to marry me, when you first met me?”

“I was seven!”

“So? You’ve always been so serious and mature. I figured you had a prenup ready since you were out of diapers.”

“I was seven. I thought girls were icky. And you know I’ve always been terrible with money. As soon as I got an allowance I started blowing it on video games and trading cards.”

“Well that’s why you needed a prenup. To make sure I didn’t get your nerd toys.”

“And you knew we were going to get married?” Isaac asked.

“I wrote your name all over my notebook: ‘Mrs. Isaac,’ I wrote, over and over again in big, pink letters. Of course, I didn’t know how to spell ‘Isaac.’ I think I wrote it ‘I-S-O-K.’”

“Do you know how to spell it now?”

She punched him in the arm. “I’m not going to answer that. Anyway, I knew we were meant to be together right from the start.”

They walked quietly for a while, holding hands and lost in thought. Clementine eventually spoke first. She always did. “I wonder if our kids will be so young when they find the person they’re supposed to be with.”

Isaac was taken aback. “Our kids? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“I’m not pregnant, stupid. But maybe one day.”

“Really?”

“Really. Maybe.”

They had arrived at their destination. It was a little local neighbourhood diner, decorated with garbage scrounged from the street corners on trash days. A queen-sized bed frame, springs and all, was spray-painted fluorescent green and hung above the door. Several hundred old Coke bottles were crazy-glued to the West side of the building pointing outward, so that it looked like hundreds of small round eyes staring at you, and if you looked at it for too long you started to get dizzy. Three bicycles, painted entirely white right down to the rubber of the tires, hung from trees nearby. The place was called “Shelli’s Open Donut” because those three words, in bright ugly neon, had been recovered from three entirely unrelated signs. They hung mismatched and flickering just to the right of the bed frame.

“Why do we come here again?” Isaac asked. “It looks like a garbage truck exploded on the street and they just left the shit where it landed and built a restaurant out of it.”

“It’s kitschy!” Clem answered. “I think it’s awesome. And the food is great.”

Isaac could not argue there, and honestly he didn’t really care that the place looked like it had been decorated by blind performance artists. That was just what was cool in Toronto right now, and you just kinda had to go with the flow. It was either Shelli’s or Coffee Time, and at least at Shelli’s they wouldn’t be propositioned by crack whores over their breakfast.

They went in and ordered from menus that looked like they were drawn in crayon by three-year olds. Their food came on chipped, mismatched dishes, and they ate off of a table that had one leg several centimetres shorter than the other three. But that was why Clementine loved it, because it was different, and it was weird, and it was special.

This, coincidentally, was also exactly why Isaac loved Clementine, though Isaac would never admit it. She was smart, funny, and possessed of a chaotic energy and passion he had never encountered in anyone else, and Isaac had no idea how lucky he was to have her in his life. No two days had ever been alike in all the years they had known each other, and no moment he could recall had ever been boring. She was a primal force of nature, mercurial and ever-changing. Not every moment was fun and happy—do not think for a second that everything was perfect. They had fights and arguments that shook the walls, and smashed dishes and sent the poor cat scrambling to hide under the sink. But they also had moments of screaming, child-like joy and passionate, philosophical debates, and wild, toe-curling sex that was even louder than their arguments. They did everything in their lives with their knobs on eleven. Well, Clem was always on eleven. Isaac was lucky when he got past seven and a half. He sometimes thought that he would be overwhelmed by her, but he also suspected without her energy in his life he would be a boring and miserable nobody, and the last twenty years would have been an utter and complete waste.

Isaac wasn’t entirely sure what Clementine saw in him. Sometimes he wondered if she had just been messing with him all this time.

They finished up their meal. “It won’t be long before someone buys this place and franchises it,” Isaac said. “Then we’ll have brightly-painted garbage dumps all over Ontario, then the country, and then… who knows? The sky is the limit.”

“Hey maybe we should buy it!” Clementine suggested.

“Do you really want to own ‘Shelli’s Open Donut?’ What would your corporate logo be?”

“A penguin.”

They laughed, before Isaac suddenly looked serious and glanced around the walls, looking for a clock. “Do you know what time it is?” He asked.

“Funny,” Clem smirked, and Isaac shrugged. She shook her left arm at him and the watch on her wrist rattled. It was a very old and probably expensive ladies’ gold watch, and it had not worked in fifteen years. It had been a gift from her great-aunt, bequeathed to her in her will, and it had worked fine before Clem put it on. But the moment the twelve-year-old Clementine had placed the fancy silver and gold watch on her wrist it had stopped working, and the hands on the face had not moved since. She had tried other watches over the years, both digital and analog, but it seemed that no timepiece that came in contact with her body for more than a few minutes would ever be the same. Someone had suggested once that Clem must have had some sort of strange magnetic field that disrupted the mechanisms of the watches. Although that sounded cool they had never been able to prove it, and the doctors they had asked thought she was crazy. Why she continued to wear the silly old thing Isaac never knew, but that was Clem for you—she marched to the beat of her own drum, or floated to the charge of her own magnetic field, or whatever.

Isaac pulled out his cell phone and looked at the time. “Crap, I’m going to be late,” he mumbled. “Where does the time go?”

“In the closet,” she answered, by rote.

“Someday we’ll have to find that closet, and get that time back.” He replied, the same way they always did. It was their little exchange that they had been saying together for years. It was automatic, unconscious. He was more comfortable with Clementine than anyone he had ever known.

He put some money down on the table. “Are you coming with me?”

“No, I think I’ll go over to the market for some strawberries.” She leaned across the remains of breakfast toward him. The lopsided table tipped ominously. “But I will see you at seven. Don’t be late or I might have to find another man to go home with.”

He knew she would never actually do that, but he still did not want to keep her waiting. He leaned in and kissed her and the table buckled under the weight of all their elbows. Plates slid around, a mug fell over.

“Just go, I’ll take care of it,” Clem smiled. Isaac stood to leave, and Clem caught him by the hand one more time. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.” He bent down and kissed her once again, and he tasted the maple syrup from her pancakes and smelled her shampoo and felt the warmth of the blood in her cheeks.

“Don’t be late!” She warned, as he pulled his hand away and slipped out the door with a long backward glance.

* * *

Chapter 2

Frank Ogilvie

Isaac walked about a half-block, then stood on a busy residential street alongside a tiny sign advertising the Toronto Transit Commission bus stop. He waited for a bus to take him to the subway. It was Saturday so at least the underground steel snake was running, unlike tomorrow morning when he would have to take the overnight streetcar and buses and ride with the smelly drunks on their way home from the night before. He passed a newspaper box, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a headline that read something about “World Ends after Twenty Seven Years, One Hundred Thirty...”

Isaac took a double take and looked at the box again. It said something about a vote in Provincial Parliament. Weird. He was suddenly struck with a sickening feeling in his stomach and a strange sense of déjà vu.

The morning was beautiful and warm and Isaac was feeling great and light and happy. He pulled his GameBoy out of his bag and started Final Fantasy, but only played half-heartedly. Usually when he picked up a game he would be drawn into it completely—more than once he had missed a bus while playing something on his GameBoy, PSP or iPhone. But today something kept tugging on the edges of his consciousness. His stomach was unsettled and he wondered if something from breakfast didn’t agree with him.

Trying to clear his head, he found his attention drawn to the birds building a nest across the street in the eave of an old green house. He watched with fascination as the small brown birds would flit out and land in the mound of garbage and lawn waste piled by the side of the road, pull out some piece of straw or string or wire three times longer than the bird, and fly awkwardly back up to the eave with it. There were two birds, each repeating this process every thirty or forty seconds. After ten minutes Isaac was really getting curious as to what that nest was going to look like. He could not see it from where he was standing.

After thirteen minutes a small pickup truck screeched to a halt in front of the garbage pile. More correctly, it had once been a pickup truck. The bed had been replaced with a wooden shack so that the whole contraption reminded Isaac of a fish shed on wheels. The shack had once been covered with tar paper to weatherproof it, but that was a long time ago and the weather had proved to be much tougher than the paper. The black material hung off the vehicle like flayed flesh. The boards underneath were grey, and rotting in places. The cab, once cherry red, was now nearly entirely rust orange, and various fluids dripped and leaked from the undercarriage onto the asphalt below.

The engine died and the door opened, revealing a freakishly tall man who did not step out of the truck so much as unfold himself, like one of those collapsible bed-in-a-bags. He looked old but Isaac could not place his age exactly; he could have been forty, he could have been seventy. His face was more weather-beaten than the shack on the back of his truck, the colour of the rust on the cab and deeply lined like the rotten wood. He had a stained green baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes and a soggy unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He was dressed in a long tan coat that was frayed at the edges.

“Hey buddy!” The old man cried out from across the street. “You got a light?”

“Sorry, no.” Isaac tried to look away.

A few cars passed, and Isaac pretended to ignore the strange man and his truck. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that once the street was clear the old man started to cross toward him. He was tempted to run, but felt kind of silly and decided to hold off for a moment before fleeing like an idiot (a live idiot, he reasoned, but a cowardly one nonetheless).

“I said, ‘Got a light?’” The old man asked again, towering over Isaac. He must have been at least two metres tall, maybe more. He was easily the tallest human Isaac had ever seen, and instantly regretted his choice not to run when he had the chance.

“I said no.” Isaac swallowed hard.

“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Got a bad ear.” The old man cocked his head and pointed to the lump of blistered flesh on the side of his face where his right ear should have been. There was not even a hole—just a scaly pink mound of flesh and pus and hair. Isaac was fascinated in a sick sort of way and wondered if he had been born like that or if it was the result of some terrible accident. Either way he was too afraid to ask.

“What’re you playing?” The one-eared man leaned over his shoulder to watch.

Caught totally unprepared for that question, Isaac answered honestly. “Final Fantasy ,” he said.

“Which one?”

“Uh, the third one,” Isaac said.

“American Third or Japanese Third?”

“Japanese.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Totally confused by that exchange and surprised by the weird old guy’s familiarity with Japanese RPGs, Isaac just stood silently for a moment. He waited and prayed that the bus would come and take him away from this awkward situation.

“Look, can you give me a hand?” The old man asked.

“With what?” Isaac watched him cautiously.

“There’s something over there I want to load into my truck, and I could use a young set of arms like yours to give me a hand.”

Isaac wanted to say no. A part of him knew he should say no. The old man was probably going to stab him or club him over the head and toss him into the back of his truck and drag him off somewhere to rape him, kill him and eat his body, and he was not even certain it would all be in that order. He was afraid Clem would never find out what happened to him, would be totally heartbroken and run off to a convent to mourn. He would ruin her life and condemn her to a future of frustrated celibacy, all because of a giant disfigured redneck freak.

“Come on.” The old man placed a huge, bony hand on Isaac’s arm and dragged him across the street. Isaac, too afraid to do anything else, followed.

The old man pointed to a twisted bicycle frame sticking out of the mound of garbage from which the birds were building their nest. “I collect scrap metal,” he said. “That looks like good steel. Gimme a hand, will ya?”

He opened the back door of the truck, releasing a horrible, ungodly stench of dead and dying things, and things that were dead for so long that the mould and bugs growing in it were also dead and dying and stinking up the place. The inside of the shack was stacked from floor to ceiling with twisted pieces of metal and wire, sharp and pointy rusty bits that looked to Isaac like some sort of torture chamber. He pulled his eyes away, back to where the old man was yanking on a piece of the frame sticking out the garbage.

“Here, grab this,” the old man said. Isaac slipped his GameBoy into his pocket and did as he was told. The old man walked around to the other side and grabbed another pipe. On a count of three they pulled, and together, yanked a huge skeletal metal frame out of the pile.

It was not a bicycle at all. As the grass and weeds and other trash fell away, Isaac realized the metal was shaped like a giant bird. It was articulated on the joints, and looked very anatomically correct for as much as Isaac knew about bird skeletons. It was surprisingly light for something that likely had a six-metre wingspan if it was fully extended, but then again he had always heard bird bones were really light.

“This would be great for Shelli’s,” said Isaac.

“What?” The old man sniffed and scratched his nose. “Who’s Shelli?”

“Nothing.” Isaac laughed softly. “But I bet you would like her place.”

“She into Feng Shui?” He spat a gob of black crud onto the curb. “I’ve always appreciated a well-balanced living space.”

Somehow they got the massive bird into the truck, though Isaac could not figure out how. The shack looked too small to hold it, and even though it was full to bursting with other junk the metal skeleton slipped in with ease. When they were done Isaac realized his hands were covered with grease. He looked for something to wipe them on and the old man handed him a dirty old rag. It looked even grimier than his hands, but Isaac took it politely and wiped his fingers as best he could. It smelled of gasoline and Big Turk candy bars.

“My name is Ogilvie, by the way,” said the old man. “Frank Ogilvie.” He wiped his own hands on the rag and extended one for Isaac to shake. Isaac accepted and nearly had every bone in his hand crushed. Frank’s grip was monstrously strong. Why the hell did he need Isaac’s help to load the bird?

“Isaac.” Isaac tried to rub the feeling back into his fingers without drawing too much attention. He noticed that his bus was finally approaching, just a few blocks down the street. “I have to run. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too. And if you ever need a hand, with anything, you just give Frank a call, eh?” And Frank gave Isaac a thunderous slap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling to the ground. He was certain he had at the very least cracked a couple of ribs.

Isaac stumbled across the street just in time for the bus to pull up at the stop. He dragged himself on, breathing hard, and slumped into the first available seat near the front. He took a few minutes to collect himself, to assure himself that there was in fact nothing actually broken and that he was just overreacting. Still, Frank had been strong in a frightening way. The whole encounter had been exceedingly odd, and for the first time in a long time he was actually glad to finally be on his way to work. Clem would have gotten a kick out of the whole situation—she loved talking to strangers, especially weird ones with odd stories to tell, and he was certain Frank would have had some odd stories. She was going to laugh and want to know why he didn’t ask the old man about his ear.

Tired and sore, Isaac reached into his pocket for his GameBoy and pulled out a battered old orange-handled screwdriver. He stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out how it got there. The only explanation was that Frank had put it there, though he could not imagine why. It was a Robertson square-tip and was spotted with rust. The orange rubber handle was pocked and worn from extensive use. He was not entirely certain how it even fit in his pocket, because he could not get it back in there now when he tried.

Suddenly Isaac became worried. He started going through his other pockets and his bag, but there was no sign of his GameBoy anywhere. He might have dropped it, but he thought it far more likely that Frank had “traded” it for the damn screwdriver. What the hell was wrong with that guy? And how did he do that without Isaac noticing? He was sure Clem would love this story now, now that it was even weirder, and exciting, and memorable, except all Isaac could think was that he was out a $150 GameBoy DS. He thrust the screwdriver into his bag with disgust, and threw himself back against the bus seat.

Forty minutes and two steel underground snakes later, Isaac arrived outside the copy shop. He was twenty three minutes late. He knew what was coming, and had to take a moment to gather himself before stepping in. He reminded himself that no matter what happened, they would not, could not fire him. His IQ was higher than that of the rest of the employees combined, and he was the only person in the place who could be trusted to turn the computers on, let alone run the machines or even talk to customers. They needed him—whether they liked it or not—though he could not fathom why he felt like he still needed them. Too lazy to find something else, he supposed.

The glass door opened as he approached, and a cute smiling face greeted him. A short, cross-eyed Vietnamese woman held the door for him with a bottle of Windex in her other hand.

“Morning, Isaac!” she said, her voice piercing and way too loud. She was always too loud. Isaac thought part of her brain that controlled vocal volume must have been damaged as a child. It was the only explanation as to how anyone could be that loud.

“Morning Julia.” Despite the loudness, Julia was the only person here he even remotely liked. It was unfortunate that the only thing she knew how to do was wash the windows. And that her voice sounded like she was screaming all the time. That was unfortunate, too.

“Don’t get any fingerprints on the glass!” She yelled at him, smiling, as he entered.

Isaac stepped into the customer self-serve area, where a handful of people were busy at the store’s many photocopiers and computer terminals, copying or printing whatever the hell was important enough to copy or print on a Saturday morning. On the other side of the counter were the larger production machines where employees could run bigger print jobs. It was the only business he could think of where one customer could spend ten cents on a photocopy of a newspaper clipping, while the next could drop five or ten grand on an order of books.

“You late!” Another voice screamed at him from the back of the store. Isaac almost turned around and walked back out. He really wished he had.

Flying across the store like a little brown tornado came Isaac’s boss, Mr. Suhrawardy. Mr. Suhrawardy was not from India, Isaac knew, but he could never remember where exactly he was from. Pakistan? Bangladesh? He found himself wondering if not remembering made him racist. His boss stormed up to him waving his finger like it was a club.

“You late!” Mr. Suhrawardy was right in his face, so close Isaac could smell the coffee on his breath. “Why are you late again? This is unacceptable! What kind of business you think we run here?”

Isaac was dimly aware of a half-dozen customers standing beside copiers and computers all around them, trying to be discreet but actually staring at him like he was drunken Lindsay Lohan at a nightclub. Isaac was not sure if he was more embarrassed for himself, for his boss or for the customers.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Suhrawardy,” said Isaac. Why was he taking this?

“You sorry! How many times you be sorry before you show up on time? What kind of business you think we run here?”

Isaac realized that his boss was two heads shorter than he and Isaac could have kicked Suhrawardy in the nose without even raising his foot above his waist, but admitted that it would not solve anything. It would make him feel good, but that would only be temporary. Most pleasure was fleeting, and the kind where you dropkick your boss in the face was the most fleeting of all.

Isaac noticed that Suhrawardy had grown quiet and he wondered if he was waiting for him to say something. He glanced around, and he realized he had completely zoned out while his boss was still talking. Now Suhrawardy’s eyes were burning into him like little black lasers. Julia was still cleaning the windows. What the hell was this guy doing here on a Saturday morning, anyway? Shouldn’t he have better things to do than come in and harass his employees on the weekend?

“Uh, yes, sir.” Isaac hoped it was a good enough answer for whatever it was Suhrawardy had asked him.

Suhrawardy’s brown skin took on a reddish tone, and he turned and stormed off. Isaac let out a deep breath, and nodded sheepishly at the embarrassed customers around him. Another employee, an annoying little twerp named Kevin (who was wearing his stupid little Wiccan necklace even though Suhrawardy repeatedly told him not to), waddled his fat ass over to Isaac and grinned at him like a fool. “You’re such an idiot,” Kevin grunted. Isaac could see the little bits of cheese twists stuck in his teeth. Isaac felt his fist clench in preparation for punching out the ugly warlock, but held back. He had never actually punched anyone before. Today it was quiet tempting to give it his first go, but Kevin certainly was not worth his first time. Isaac took a deep breath and walked away.

In just eight hours, he would meet Clem at the corner of Queen and John. For the next eight hours the world would be hell, and frustrating, and a void of meaningless garbage without her. But then he would see her again, and they would laugh, and have dinner, and go to a movie, and all would be right in the world again. Just eight more hours of this, before he could go back to the real world. If only he could jam some of that time into the closet as easily as they had jammed the bird into the back of the truck.

* * *

Chapter 3

Apartments and Bookshelves

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Well, at the time it had all seemed important, like the woman yelling in his face because the pages of her dog-picture calendar had been printed out of order, but he was trying to get over it. Normally those kinds of interactions would ruin his day, but tonight, since it was their anniversary, Isaac was trying very hard to let it go. He was walking down Queen Street toward his rendezvous with Clementine, and for the first time in his life he was on time.

He held Frank’s screwdriver in his hand and his mind was wandering. The screwdriver reminded him of the first time he and Clem had tried to put up book shelves in their apartment—not this apartment, but the first one, seven years ago. They had collected so many books between them, through University and just their regular compulsive collecting of anything made of paper, that the first piece of furniture they had needed to acquire was a bookshelf. Before a dining table, before a proper bed (they had a mattress but it was sitting directly on the floor), they had to have bookshelves for their hundreds and hundreds of tomes. A trip to Ikea proved they could not even afford the most basic bookcase, so they had settled for plain wooden planks and wall brackets. Of course, this required screwing the brackets into the wall, which led to the adventure of finding studs and beams behind the drywall and using those funny plastic mounts for holding the screws. The first shelf fell down four times and destroyed at least seven books before Isaac mastered how to get the damn thing to stay up properly. This skill proved useful, and over the course of the next few years he mastered the Ancient Art of Bookshelf Installation as they moved a dozen times, and those damn shelves and brackets went up and down with every move. Every time they moved Clem would swear it would be the last time, and promise him that the new place would be better, and bigger, and cheaper, and they would have the time of their lives and it would be wonderful. She promised they would paint (which they did, usually in bright yellows, oranges or purples), they would have room for Isaac to write (which they sometimes did, but he rarely made use of it and was no closer to completing any of his three half-finished novels) and they would get to know the neighbourhood (which they did, and discovered that every single one was worse than the last). Then, in eight months she would get bored and want to move on. It was frustrating, but that was life with Clem. It was exciting, constantly-evolving, and involved hefty U-Haul bills. It was shitty and miserable to move all the time, but now that he thought about it, Isaac really could not complain. If it wasn’t for Clementine he was convinced he would still be living in his parents’ basement, hanging out with his old stoner friends and playing video games and working at his old job in the stock room at Wal-Mart. He would never have gotten to Toronto, would never have gone to university, would never have learned who Alfred Jarry was, and would never have worked at the stupid copy shop (actually that wouldn’t have been so bad). Most importantly, he would not have known and loved and lived with Clementine, and he would have been less of a person for it.

Some tourists with cameras and maps were so caught up with staring at the Toronto-iness around them that they nearly walked into him. He wiggled past them but they still did not notice him. He and Clem had been like that when they first got here. They spent every free moment of their first year in Toronto hanging out at Yonge and Dundas, the most commercial and commoditised tourist trap in the city. At the time they really had been tourists. Where they came from they did not have big flashy billboards and street performers and all that good stuff. So they were allowed to indulge, and spend way too much time and money at the Eaton Centre and the Hard Rock Café.

It was not until much later they began to expand their horizons and discover the rest of the city—the less tourist-heavy areas and the parts that actually made it a tolerable place to live. The theatres, galleries, markets, museums—so much life and vitality, spread across so many different races and cultures, all living together here in one city. They had grown up in and explored this city together, and they had both learned much in the process. They had developed as people, individuals, but they were also inexorably grown together like the roots of two trees, side by side and intertwined. Forever.

Isaac wasn’t actually thinking about all these details, of course. After the bookshelf, he had mostly just dwelled on how even if he bought another GameBoy, he would still be out the eighty-plus hours he had put into Final Fantasy III .

He was so caught up in his thoughts that it was now Isaac’s turn to run into somebody. The man Isaac hit was of medium height and was dressed in a fine grey overcoat and hat, under which appeared to be a three-piece suit or tuxedo. Running into him felt like hitting a brick wall. He turned, glared at Isaac, then looked away in disdain.

Isaac rubbed his shoulder where he had collided. The guy had been so solid it actually hurt. “I’m sorry,” said Isaac.

The man in the overcoat glanced back at him and flashed his teeth like an aggressive dog. Isaac started. Though the man seemed clean and well kept on the outside—so much so even his black moustache was meticulously groomed—his teeth were black and rotting and grotesque, like a picture a dentist might show to a child to scare them.

This time when the man turned away Isaac followed his lead and did his best to ignore him. He scanned the opposite corner and sure enough, there was Clementine waiting for him looking lovely in her little blue skirt and a white frilly top. She saw him and waved, her lips turning into a huge smile that Isaac could not help but return. He waved back at her, and the world ended.

* * *

Chapter 4

Clementine Dies

Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac saw the blue BMW coming up John Street. It had run the red light at Richmond, but in his haste the driver did not see the construction immediately on the other side of the intersection. He swerved, skidded, and the car rolled just as Clementine stepped onto the crosswalk.

A heartbeat later she was gone.

As traffic skidded to a halt around him, Isaac rushed out into the street. Around him people were screaming, car horns were blaring and there was a struggle of bodies around the BMW a little farther up the street. Some people were trying to get closer to the wreck; others were trying to get away from it and pull their friends and loved ones with them. Isaac saw none of it. There was only Clementine, in the centre of the intersection where she had landed, still and unmoving.

She was staring up at the sky, which was blue-grey in the waning light, the exact same colour as her unblinking eyes. As Isaac fell to her side, he saw that there was a trickle of blood running down from her ear, but miraculously she otherwise looked fine.

“Clem,” he said, his heart so far up in his chest it was choking his words. “Clem, speak to me.”

There was no response, and she continued to stare blankly.

“Please Clem, say something.” Isaac found it difficult to draw his own breath. He leaned in and listened for her breathing. Nothing. He placed a finger on her neck, the other hand on her chest, searching for a heartbeat, a pulse, anything. He was suddenly having difficulty seeing. Huge dark spots were growing into his field of vision and blocking out the world. He realized he was about to black out and his heart was pounding so hard it was going to jump out of his chest. He told himself he needed to remain calm. He tried to will himself to keep a level head, but failed. He had to remember how to do CPR, to try and get her breathing again, to try and start her heart. He wanted to pull out his own heart, give it to her somehow. He found himself clutching at his shirt buttons, and knew he was lost. He was crying now, and screaming. He had to stop, had to do the CPR, had to do something. He was begging someone to call 911, to get help, to do something. He knew there were dozens of people around them but he could not see them.

There was a crack of thunder, and it began to rain.

He had to get her out of the rain. He could not leave her out here in the street to get wet. That was wrong, that was horrible. He could not just leave her here. He grabbed her arm and was about to pull her, was going to get her somewhere warm and dry and safe where she could get better, and she would be okay.

He touched her wrist and felt vibrations. A pulse? Something throbbed next to his fingers. He lifted her hand to his face and felt her wrist with his lips, just as he had kissed her so many times. The soft, sensitive flesh beneath the palm of her hand was cooling rapidly, and now instead of pleasure he was just looking for life—any feeble, pathetic sign of life.

It was not her pulse he felt. It was her great-aunt’s watch. The hands were askew, knocked out of alignment, nonsensical. But it began to tick for the first time in fifteen years.

Isaac screamed, and he felt hands pull him away, and he heard sirens, and he felt the rain pounding on his face as lightning flashed across the sky.

* * *

Writer, tabletop gamer, pro-wrestling aficionado. Dad.

C.D. Gallant-King is an independent writer originally from Newfoundland, Canada, though he's not fond of fishing and hates boats. He moved to Toronto to study theatre, and then later moved to Ottawa where he does absolutely nothing related to theatre.

Links:

http:// cdgallantking.ca

https:// www. facebook. com/ cdgallantking/

https:// twitter. com/ cdgallantking

https:// www. amazon. com/ C- D- Gallant- King/ e/ B00XAZHYGA

5

Hound and Key

Rhiannon Held

From ancient tales rises all-too-present danger…

Key has lived her entire life in captivity, forced to use her magic to kill the enemies of Ariadne, an ageless woman with powerful magic of her own. Key knows she and Ariadne are both members of the Hand of the Gods, five souls reborn through the ages, but Key remembers none of her past lives. She chafes against Ariadne's control, and longs to escape to lead a life of her own.

Eric has worked for Ariadne for years in ignorance of her secrets, but now coincidences and bad luck are piling up. When he talks his way into the compound that houses Key and the other members of the Hand, he learns the truth about Ariadne's magic—and the murders she's committed with it. Together, Eric and Key escape and set out to find Lantern, the one member of the Hand Ariadne has never managed to capture—and who may know how to stop her for good.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 6

* * *

Prologue

In the before times

When the youngest of the gods was lost

Map found her waypoint

Hound followed her trail

Key opened the gates

Lantern lit their steps

And Breath brought her back to life

Around the time their shared appetizer was cleared away, Eric started cursing himself for not having told his date the truth about where he’d first seen her. Maybe not when he asked her out, but certainly before any of their food arrived. Listening to the ebb and swell of unvoiced laughter below the surface of her anecdotes, he already knew he wanted to ask her on a second date. He needed to admit the truth as soon as possible, no matter how awkward. No sense breaking the current conversational thread, though. “So you work for TendarisHerron?”

Patricia threaded a hand under her fine black hair to cup the side of her neck. “I guess you could say I’m scientist support and official paperwork wrangler.” She paused for laughter he was happy to provide. “I don’t deal with our drug trials, but I make sure the scientists follow proper procedure and keep good notes in the research stages before then.” She launched into a story about shaking down people for paperwork before they left for the weekend. Eric caught himself reading her hands and the small lifts at the corners of her mouth, tracking the minutia of her mood to see if she was interested or bored, content or anxious.

He made himself stop. He was off duty. He didn’t need to read her; he could simply enjoy her story. He listened while looking out the window instead. West facing, so for dinner they probably would need the shades unfurled, but now at lunch the expansive glass allowed spring light to flood in. A deck stretched away outside, green wildness below. Eric guessed they’d made lemonade out of mandated wetland-area lemons, but that didn’t diminish the feeling of looking out over nature.

Maybe he could laugh off how he’d first seen her. Funny thing, my boss is so worried about her boyfriend, your CEO, she has me photograph his female employees. Don’t worry, though, I haven’t found anything. My boss is just paranoid. It didn’t sound very humorous when he laid it out in his mind. It sounded like a stalker trying to cover his tracks.

“And you? You said you were an assistant?” Patricia sipped her water, tilted her head into her bracing hand.

“I’ve actually been friends with my boss since college.” For a given value of friend. “So assistant’s probably not quite the word, but I can’t think of anything better. The duties end up being pretty eclectic. Scheduling a venue for one of her parties or chasing one of her guest’s favored esoteric brand of whiskey all over town.” Eric smiled to hide the glancing path his explanation took to the vicinity of the truth. He knew he was only piling on later awkwardness, but he couldn’t help himself.

He had actually done both of those things once for Ariadne, but the bulk of his duties for her were the strange, semilegal ones he couldn’t admit to anyone: the keys lifted, the people tailed, the long-distance photos snapped. Even if Patricia hadn’t been the subject of one of those photos, he’d have had a hard time spinning his job to sound normal. He was reminded powerfully why he rarely dated anymore.

Patricia lifted her brows, teasing. “And the rest of the time? Unless she has a party every night of the week . . .”

Eric hadn’t expected her to call him on the evasion. Another reason to want her to stick around: people got boring fast when you could read them and predict them too well. A woman who could surprise him—but now he’d missed his rhythm slightly. “Well, I—” The pause was getting too long. Shit. “You know Ariadne inherited her fortune, so she uses it to fund her hobby of genealogical research?”

Patricia sat back. There, the first flicker of awkwardness. “I heard that. When she first started her business partnership with TendarisHerron so we can use her data to help genetically tailor our treatments.”

“‘Business partnership.’” Eric exaggerated the air quotes to try to recapture a note of humor, but it earned him only a smile, not a laugh.

Patricia looked down at the empty space before her on the tablecloth that awaited her entree plate and shook her head. “Anyway, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry about your work.”

Eric spoke quickly, determined not to miss his moment this time. Damn Ariadne, not only for suspecting this innocent woman, but for indirectly spoiling his chances with her. Not that Ariadne could have spoiled anything if he hadn’t agreed to work for her, of his own free will. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had to explain it in a while, that’s all. Honestly, I take care of everything organizational Ariadne doesn’t feel like doing herself.”

Patricia nodded but couldn’t seem to find any particular response to that. Eric realized he needed to disclose something else important to him, and fast, even if it made her dismiss him for another reason. “My avocation is stage magic, though.” Eric braced for her reaction. Would she be one of the people who considered his calling juvenile, or assumed it was all a con to fleece tourists on street corners?

Wonder of wonders, Patricia returned to her position leaning on her elbow and angled her body toward him. A very good sign. “Literally on a stage, you mean?”

“My hours with Ariadne are flexible, so I perform at renaissance faires and other summer festivals. You know how the local cheese or pickle fest will often have a stage for live music? Sometimes they invite other local acts.”

“That’s great.” Warmth broke into her tone, paralleling a smile’s spread across her lips. “Sawing pretty women in half?”

“Sawing my sister in half, if anyone,” Eric said, dry. “But usually she’s the audience plant instead. I do close-up magic, more intimate sleight-of-hand tricks than showy chains and water tank stuff.” He made an ironic “ooh magical” twirled-fingers gesture with one hand to keep her attention while with the other he palmed a dried grain stalk, heavy with golden kernels at the top, from the table’s small flower arrangement. At this point, even if they thought magic was silly, most people couldn’t help but ask—

“Can you show me something here?” Patricia exhaled on a laughing note and leaned in to examine his apparently empty hands, presented palm up, then palm down.

Eric shifted his gaze to the side of her head, as if distracted from his coming trick. “Oh, here, you’ve got something caught . . .” He pulled the stalk from her hair, showed it to her, then tucked it behind her ear so she could wear it like a flower.

Patricia pushed his hands away, laughing, but he noticed that she didn’t remove the stalk. Instead, she kept his hands trapped under hers on the tabletop. “Mr. Smooth.”

Then she frowned. “Oh.” Her tone dropped away, like she suddenly felt ill. “I—” Her pupils snapped open, black swallowing brown until she looked alien and blind.

“Patricia?” She didn’t respond. What—?

Her pupils snapped down to pinpricks, and she slumped sideways in her chair, boneless. Eric lunged, bumping knees on the table in his rush, but couldn’t reach her before she tumbled to the floor with the splayed indignity of unconsciousness or death. He knelt, shoved her chair aside, helped her onto her back. He searched her face for some reaction, shook her shoulders. She couldn’t be—be—she had to just be unconscious. “Patricia?”

Someone gasped and chairs scraped across the whole room. It wasn’t until someone behind him shouted, “Call 911!” that Eric realized he should have done that himself. All right. Check if she was breathing. He could do that. That CPR class had been a while back, but he had to do something.

She wasn’t breathing. Start compressions. He had enough muscle memory to get his fingers laced, his body weight over his locked elbows. The resistance, the unexpectedly solid thud of a blow needed to get the chest down, he’d forgotten that, but he remembered it from the dummy now. He was doing the compressions correctly, then.

Counting. He was supposed to be counting compressions until he gave two breaths. He remembered that part: two. In a haze, Eric did another compression, checked her breathing. Nothing. She was so still. Another cycle. Keep going until the paramedics got here.

Eric kept going. Then between compressions and breaths, someone grabbed his shoulders, pulled him away. The world rushed back in: servers herding gawking diners away, beginning at the clear path they’d already carved for the EMTs and their gurney. A comfortingly uniformed man and woman already knelt over Patricia while a second man was the one who’d pulled Eric back.

“Sir? Are you her boyfriend?” he asked, tone kind. “What happened? Does she have any allergies, health problems you know of?”

Eric shook his head, kept shaking it until he finally found words again. “It’s our first date. I don’t know much about her at all. She was just talking normally, she wasn’t even eating to choke on anything, then she fell—” He craned around the EMT. The others were busy over Patricia, models of efficient action, but something was missing about their body language. Some sense of—hope. “Will she—?”

The EMT grimaced, more than enough for an answer from someone of his training and experience. “We’ll do our very best, sir.”

Dead. She couldn’t possibly be dead. She was young. She’d seemed healthy. Eric gave the EMT her full name, hardly heard anything else. There must not have been any other questions, though, because the EMT turned away and Eric found himself herded out of the way by the restaurant manager, toward the crowd of other diners.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear the idea of joining the crowd in staring at her unmoving body. He pushed outward through the gawkers, movements getting increasingly rough. He needed air. You never expected someone to just die in front of you. What had even happened? “Heart attack” caught at his attention from the surrounding murmur of frightened conversation, though he lost the rest of the sentence in the muddle.

He reached the deck, clenched his hands around the nearest railing, new pressure-treated wood. She was too young for a heart attack. But that—that was familiar. Someone else he’d heard about recently had been too young. As a mental exercise to make his thoughts move in one direction, rather than spinning everywhere at once, Eric tracked the thought until he dragged up a name. It had been a young man whose keys he’d stolen. Part of the prep for getting close enough to lift someone’s keys or tail them without being noticed was getting to know them, their daily routine, and what part an undistinguished man should briefly play in it. So when he’d recognized the name later in the news, he’d known how strange it truly was, how apparently healthy the man had been. Heart failure. Too young.

Now he’d found the connection, Eric couldn’t get it out of his head. Two people whose lives he’d intersected, for his boss. Two people dead. He twisted to look over his shoulder into the dining room. He couldn’t see Patricia through the crowd, but their energy was souring from hope into shock. The paramedics pushed into view, leaving through the front doors, but the body on the gurney was very still.

With shaking hands, Eric pulled out his phone and searched the Internet for every name he could remember that Ariadne had pointed him at, over the four years he’d worked for her.

Obituaries. Memorial notices. Every one. And he knew there were names he wasn’t remembering. Eric shoved his phone away, like that would change the search results.

She’d told him his job was to help her compile her genealogical data even when sources were reluctant. That explanation had been lame enough to insult them both, so Eric had thought—that seemed like such a thin excuse now, but how could he have guessed something like this—he’d truly thought Ariadne had wanted to check up on her boyfriend and his employees. A few of the names had been directly connected to TendarisHerron, more had been people in the industry, regulators. So it had made a sort of sense on the surface, to assume the photos of female employees were to catch infidelity in progress, the other photos and keys to check for stolen trade secrets, either in a handoff or in people’s apartments, but he hadn’t found anything compromising. His photos, his sessions of tailing, showed only mundane activities, if no one was perfectly innocent. After his initial wariness, he’d justified the job to himself with that fact. If Ariadne wanted to dig up dirt on people with nothing to hide, Eric didn’t mind the generous paycheck. Maybe it gave her a sense of control, to know she could find dirt when she wanted it.

He should have guessed that there had to be more to it. He longed to cling to the idea of failed surveillance and coincidental death, but the surveillance excuse made too little sense. Not that a hit list made any more.

This close, the greenery below the restaurant’s deck lost its illusion and looked ragged, weedy, and swampy. So everyone he followed for Ariadne ended up dead. How? Patricia was too young and too obviously healthy for a real heart attack. Poison? No one had touched her, they’d shared the same appetizer, and their water had been poured from the same pitcher into crystal-clean glasses. He’d touched her chair. She hadn’t visited the restroom . . .

Eric leaned forward until his forehead touched his hands so he didn’t have to look at the weeds anymore. A conspiracy theorist could still posit a tasteless, odorless, invisible poison coating the inside of her water glass, but he doubted those kinds of poisons existed in reality. Nor did he see how she could have been exposed to something before arriving that would show no effect for hours, then kill in instants.

And that left . . . what?

Eric pushed himself up and forced himself to turn back to the dining room. Even with Patricia’s body gone, a representative of officialdom might want to talk to him. He should stay findable. And someone official would inform her family, right? Should he—but he hardly even knew her. He didn’t know anything about her family, or if she even had any she was close to. The contradiction of death so close to him, yet not touching him, made Eric’s stomach twist, acid.

But it had touched him. He wasn’t going to go back to his lame excuses and justifications. Something was going on here, and he was going to find out what the hell Ariadne was doing. And how.

And stop her.

* * *

Chapter 1

Being late but not too late required careful calculation. Normally on a job, Eric was always early and included in his plans a point where he could watch and wait for his moment without being observed. But Ariadne wasn’t stupid, and turning his skills back on her took more finesse. A month had passed after Patricia’s death before Ariadne had given him his next assignment, and he’d spent every minute of it researching, thinking, planning, so he could play the next fifteen minutes perfectly.

He parked, off-kilter in his hurry, beside the garages at the side of the house where employees were supposed to pull their vehicles. The garages themselves had undoubtedly been intended for boats and ATVs and other rich adults’ playthings, but Ariadne had filled them instead with her sleek luxury cars, inexplicably numerous flavors of transportation for someone who never drove herself.

Eric slammed his door and sprinted for the front of the house. Her chauffeur had opened the door of a silver BMW, and Eric was indeed late but not too late because Ariadne was striding toward it, not driving away out of reach.

“Got them.” He raised his voice to carry across the remaining stretch of curved gravel drive and held up his hand, key ring over his middle finger and bunch of keys splayed over his palm. From here, she wouldn’t be able to see he’d removed the house key, preventing a break-in and presumably neutering the worst harm the rest could do in another’s possession. She’d said to have the keys to her by today, and so he had, though he hoped she wouldn’t examine them herself or reflect that in the four years he’d worked for her, he’d never shaved a deadline so close before.

Ariadne paused with her hand on the car door. For once, with the car for scale, she looked as short as she really was, barely five feet tall. The recent daylight saving jump couldn’t help her this late in the evening, so her skin was merely sandy in the splashed porch and window light from the house, without the ephemeral glow sunlight could give it, like sand heated not quite far enough for glass. Her black hair was loose around her shoulders, sumptuous. He supposed she was off to late dinner or drinks with her “business partner,” Clive Herron, CEO of TendarisHerron. Eric always thought of him with his full title, since that was how news articles invariably referred to him when reporting how the local company had made it to the big leagues.

Ariadne was quiet for several beats, eyes on Eric’s face, not on the keys as he would have expected. He didn’t want her digging into his motives, even if he was certain all that showed on his face was the exertion of his sprint. He didn’t look guilty, and besides, what could she possibly guess he’d be guilty about? The one brief footnote of a report on Patricia’s death hadn’t mentioned anyone eating with her at the restaurant.

Then Ariadne’s lips curved. “Next time, don’t be so late.” She withdrew her phone from a highly fashionable clutch purse and ostentatiously checked the time. “It has to be done tonight. Get Hank to let you in at the cottages.” She slid elegantly into the car and let her chauffeur shut the door.

Eric returned the keys to his pocket and drew a deep breath to counteract both the panting and his relief. You could nudge, control as many elements in a situation as you could touch to remove other options, study past behavior until predictions zeroed in, but you could never be absolutely certain someone would make the choice you wanted them to. But she had. And now he had an in, tracking someone’s lifted keys into the inner layer of Ariadne’s empire. Or her web, perhaps, with Ariadne standing as a spider in the center of it all, attention on each thread-twitch.

He knew now that inner layer had to be something more than a server farm or office park space for more researchers. Something to do with how she accomplished all those deaths, because Eric had no doubt by now that she’d accomplished them. With any luck, the fact that the house key was gone wouldn’t stop the process until after he got a few hints as to why people had had to die, as well.

Eric jogged back to his car. He watched his speed along the twisting roads among the houses—perhaps better called estates—along Lake Washington out of habit, but impatience got the better of him as he headed north on the freeway. After a month spent with the knowledge of what he’d been party to, he was so close to a few answers. Foolish, perhaps, but Ariadne could make tickets disappear as easily as sneezing if she was in the right mood and you could make a case for having acquired them in the line of duty.

And maybe he could do something with those answers when he got them. Eric couldn’t plan any farther than that, not knowing what Ariadne hid at the cottages, but in the weeks since Patricia’s death, he’d become increasingly certain that was what he needed to do to live with himself. Stop the deaths.

“Compound” would have been a better name than “cottages.” Or “subdivision,” maybe, tucked as it was among other raw, new developments in Woodinville. They all had coy names like “Evergreen Glen.” Ariadne’s cottages were only distinguished by being a gated community among open subdivisions that kept their own restrictions invisible as homeowners’ association regulations.

Eric eased up to the gatehouse beside a ridiculous “Arbor Cottages” brick sign. He wouldn’t be surprised if the locals assumed it was an Alzheimer’s care facility, with walls and a name like that. The lights around the gatehouse were bright but aimed to pool close and not disrupt the soft darkness beyond among the houses, dotted only with standard suburban streetlights.

Eric rolled down his window to speak to the man on duty in the small booth, someone he didn’t recognize. “Hank should be expecting me.” Eric found the most obvious camera and faced it straight on. Hank knew him, after years of pleasantries over coffee as they passed each other outside Ariadne’s home office, Hank giving security reports and Eric receiving assignments. Easier to let Hank identify him directly on a monitor now than to fuss with ID to make it up through the lower ranks to reach him. It wasn’t like Eric had a badge for “hit list support.”

He wondered idly how much Hank knew of the hit list. This plan—and frankly, good sense—didn’t call for trying to drag the information out of him, though. This was the time for smooth smiles and playing along, Eric’s real motives locked farther below the surface than usual.

The man in the booth listened to his walkie-talkie and punched the button so the steel gate, black paint not really succeeding in making it appear cast-iron, rolled aside with stately speed. Eric drove in at a similar speed and, as he’d expected, met Hank coming out of the nearest house. It was the one with the grandest landscaping and a water feature, undoubtedly built to serve as the sales office until it was sold last. The black man had a bit of a gut, but honest muscles showed in the bulk of his arms under the security uniform sleeves.

Hank waved Eric toward a visitor parking lot with a fence and gate worthy of a police impound lot. Eric tried to imagine why. To make sure anyone who entered and caused trouble had to escape on foot? Did they have people imprisoned here?

Hank strolled in after him. By the time Eric had parked and walked over to join him, Hank was waiting in the driver’s seat of a golf cart. Eric weighed how well he knew Hank, then risked an honest opinion as he swung into the passenger seat. “You’re shitting me.”

Hank barked a laugh and scrubbed a hand over his buzzed-short hair. “Murder on the dignity, I know. But Key bribed someone into teaching her to drive about a year back and there’s obviously nothing we can do to keep her out of any vehicle she wants to get into. So the best we can do is keep everything in sight of the gatehouse except things that aren’t enough fun to tempt her to joyride.”

Eric’s mental brows rose at the unexpected flow of information. It was what he wanted, yes, to know what the hell was going on in here. That was exactly why he didn’t trust it when it came too easy.

And Hank must know that as well. Eric cast him a sideways glance and let the merest trickle of his real thoughts onto his face. Hank barked with laughter again. “The Boss said if you’re determined to stick your nose into a higher security clearance, as it were, I don’t need to stop you. I’m well aware that if I decide I want out of this job before I’m literally too infirm to continue, my severance package is a personalized, untraceable heart attack. I assume you know the same, so I won’t insult your intelligence.”

Eric had to admit to himself he hadn’t considered it in quite those terms, but maybe he should have. The same way he should have considered “illegal” and “invasion of privacy” in those terms way back when Ariadne had offered him the job. And “complicit” and “murder” now. “I believe aneurism is also a common diagnosis.” Patricia’s death had been called an undiagnosed heart defect. Too young for a heart attack.

“Anyway, I don’t mind my job. They’re good kids, even if you could make the case for the Hound never having been much of a kid.” The way Hank’s expression softened made Eric wonder about opportunities for a family lost to long hours, safety paranoia, and living inside the compound simply because it saved on commuting.

Hank twisted in his seat to check a canvas grocery store bag of books was settled securely on the floor of the back seat, then set off at a brisk—for a golf cart—clip. “If you don’t mind—” his tone suggested Eric better not, “we’ll do the library run for the Hound before I take you to Key.”

“Humanizing them?” Eric said. He didn’t know who “they” were, other than kids with codenames, apparently, somehow connected to untraceable deaths. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but kids sure hadn’t been it. He’d been—still was—so angry at himself, he supposed he’d been hoping for a more righteous target to transfer the anger to.

“The opposite, in a way.” Hank shook his head. “You’ll see.” He zoomed up the gently curving street. With no one parked on either side, it was ridiculously wide for only a golf cart. The March air hadn’t been too bad to walk around in, but even at golf cart speeds, it bit hard.

They pulled up in the driveway of one of the neutrally painted houses, no different than any other. Hank snagged the bag of books and knocked perfunctorily on the front door before letting himself in. Another anonymous man in the same security uniform looked up from watching a game at low volume on a tablet at the kitchen table and nodded.

“Got a job?” A teen boy of fourteen or fifteen laid his arm over the back of the couch so he could twist to face them better. He’d gotten his height, but his face still showed obvious baby fat over what would probably be a strong jaw line eventually. He reminded Eric of a couple of his cousins at that age, in an undistinguished teen boy way, muddy brown eyes and golden brown hair.

“No job. New books.” Hank thumped the bag of books on the kitchen table. The boy looked at them expressionlessly for a beat or two before closing the book on his lap with a snap. He set it on the coffee table, walked over, and unpacked the grocery bag into a single towering pile so carefully, Eric started to wonder if he had OCD.

But that wasn’t it, either. When his pile of books shifted, glossy cover slipping on glossy cover, he didn’t stop and straighten it. He apparently was simply so unexcited about the books that he didn’t feel inclined to pause and examine or open any of them before he’d unloaded the whole bag.

They were all travel books, united only in that and their glossy pictures. The wine country of France settled on top of ghost tours of Chicago with no visible reaction from the boy. When the grocery bag was empty, the boy lifted the stack and turned for the hall. A beat late again, he spoke, uninflected. “I’ll take these upstairs and read before bed.” He sounded like he’d been taught he had to tell someone where he was going, but didn’t understand that some destinations were unimportant or obvious.

When the boy was gone, Eric realized he was more than a little creeped out. Sullen silence and resistance to interaction, he would have understood, but this kid had been so . . . emotionless, Eric supposed.

“Quiet day?” Hank asked the guy at the kitchen table, who shrugged.

“He worked out for about two hours in the morning, spent some of the afternoon tracking a crow around the yards. Same old.” He waited for further questions. When Hank nodded and headed for the front door instead, he turned the volume up on his game and went back to watching.

On the walk to the golf cart and the drive to the next house, Eric considered and discarded a number of possible comments. Definitely not particularly humanizing, as Hank had said, and with no clear connection to the deaths. Asking outright who the boy was felt beneath them both, so in the end Eric kept his mouth shut and waited to see what kind of kid had the codename “Key.”

“I’m surprised we haven’t seen you out here before now.” Hank’s easy-going tone didn’t even bother concealing that he was digging. “Rumor says you were sleeping with the boss, back in the day.”

“Way back in the day.” It was such a ridiculous situation, Eric’s only real option was to laugh it off. “When we were in college and I was just a punk kid, undeclared because I still thought I might have an actual career in stage magic.” Then he’d grown up, and she had gone on being the same focused, driven person she’d always been. She hadn’t even needed to dump him; he’d seen the writing on the wall two years into the relationship.

And yet. Since she didn’t have any living family, he’d stayed on as her emergency contact, and she’d helped him when his teen cousin got pregnant and he didn’t know the first thing about adoption procedures. Somehow an ex relationship had become a surrogate family one, like when she asked him to be the executor for her will—but not so strong a relationship that she left him anything in that will. And then when he’d quit his office drone job to do his magic show full time and that crashed and burned, she’d offered him this job and proved to have no trouble with a relationship where she treated him like just another underling.

He’d gotten inured to just how weird the relationship really was over time, he supposed. Examined now, it was deeply dysfunctional. But none of that was Hank’s business. Eric purposefully continued with a light tone. “I actually wondered if Ariadne was Mormon at first, given the obsession with genealogy. Asked her where her fancy underwear was.”

Hank slapped his knee in appreciation and let out a laugh. “Listen to you with her first name and all. Living dangerously. Maybe you’re getting a promotion.”

Eric doubted it. The longer that “determined to stick your nose into a higher security clearance” floated at the back of his mind, the more it worried him. Ariadne had seen part of the way through his act—how far? What assumption of his motives was she operating on? Whatever it was, he needed to get as much information as possible in this visit, in case she moved against him soon. But he’d known that already.

“You’ll want to leave your personal keys in the cart, by the way.” Hank leaned over and tapped a small recessed shelf in the golf cart’s dash, clearly meant for storing assorted small crap in lieu of a glove box. Eric dug them out without protest. It made no sense, but neither did a number of the security measures here. Being without his keys didn’t seem likely to put Eric in any more danger than he already was.

They turned into another driveway in front of yet another house. Hank left the golf cart key in the ignition and led the way. The first sign of individuality was the welcome mat. It read, “Welcome, pardner,” in old-timey script over a line drawing of a stagecoach. This time, after knocking and opening the door, Hank called ahead before going in. “Got a job, Key.”

Inside the front hall, Eric felt a bit assaulted by the decorating scheme, or at least what he could see of it from oblique views into the first couple of rooms. It looked like one he privately thought of as “online shopping.” No one piece of furniture or art was bad, necessarily, but no two items in the place matched, as if they had been purchased one by one without any means to gauge scale or blend with other items. They were also too new to be the “thrift shop and family hand-me-downs” style. The rooms were fairly cluttered, but at least that gave the house a comfortable feeling, like someone human lived here. He hadn’t realized how stark the boy’s house had been until he had this for contrast.

“A job or a target? I told Her Majesty I wasn’t going to take another target so soon,” a woman’s voice called from farther inside the house. A moment later, the speaker stepped in stockinged feet into the hallway.

Her hair was . . . well, it was red. Eric supposed it would normally have been called fire engine red, but for him it instead evoked Clifford, favorite of his sister’s story times when they were children. It was utterly the wrong color for the woman’s skin tone, Middle Eastern like Ariadne’s. He supposed in a way it matched her features, which were similarly too strong for conventional beauty. Having her hair back in a messy ponytail only accentuated them.

“You didn’t say you were bringing someone new.” The young woman—Key, Eric supposed he might as well call her for lack of anything else—lengthened her strides down the hall and stopped in front of him. Her expression held unapologetic evaluation, or possibly she was untrained in the social art of softening and hiding emotions. She looked a bit older than he might have expected for that kind of innocence, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.

“This is Eric Davis, Boss’s assistant,” Hank said. Eric suppressed a grimace at hearing the ill-fitting job title once more.

“So, Eric Davis, what’s the key to your heart?” Key reached for his chest. Like any beginner, she was a bit clumsy with the rest of her body, which clued him to look hard at her hand. He caught a glimpse of the small object she was transferring from palm to fingertips to make it “appear” as she plucked it from thin air.

“Interesting.” Key held the ornate brass key out on her palm. “I’d have expected something more modern.” Hank leaned over and looked impressed.

“That came right out of your pocket.” Eric made his voice a little strident to further tie up her attention and leaned to tap her front hip pocket. Probably not precisely where she’d gotten it, but that wasn’t the point. He smoothly swiped the key with his other hand while she was distracted.

He transferred it hand to hand while she was staring at her empty palm in consternation, then flipped the key up right under her nose. He probably shouldn’t play, but it was fun and she’d started it.

Standing right up close like that, he got an intimate view of the realization dawning in her expression. Far from being annoyed, her whole face lit up. Something in Eric lit up in response. Her body was nearly touching his in several places, and the curve at her waist looked just right to rest a hand on.

And she knew sleight of hand. Yow.

“Finding the keys to people’s hearts was a trick all along?” Hank’s easy-going face settled into a glare, and his hand went up to his own chest.

Eric remembered himself and hastily backed a step away from Key. What the hell was he doing, letting himself get distracted like that? He was here to investigate, not pick up women.

More immediately, should he out Key to Hank or not? He had no idea of the underlying currents. He did tuck the key away in his pocket, since “out of sight, out of mind” worked more often than people realized.

Hank didn’t seem to need an answer from him, though. “We talked about this, Key. No misleading anyone about your powers.”

“I believe what the Ice Queen said was ‘for purposes of intimidation.’” Key made her air quotes into emphatic, jerky motions.

Hank sighed. Deeply, almost parentally. “If we can get this target taken care of without fuss, I won’t say anything to her.”

A muscle jumped in Key’s jaw. To Eric’s read, it was the tip of an iceberg of frustration and helplessness. “No deal. I told her no more targets for a while. But I suppose that doesn’t matter.” She held out her wrists pressed together, a classic “so arrest me” gesture. “And just so you know, never mind avoiding intimidation, someday I’d like a little credit for not running off to Canada or something every other week to make you all drag me back. You know Hound would enjoy it.”

To Eric’s surprise, Hank actually took her up on her gesture. He drew a zip tie from a bunch tucked into his belt beside his walkie-talkie holster and bound her wrists with a smooth, efficient movement.

“What I keep telling her is that when she acts up or refuses a target, one of us gets it from the Boss.” Hank sighed like a parent with a wayward child, dropped his hands, and gestured in invitation from Eric to Key.

Eric checked Key’s face for a reaction to being talked about like she wasn’t there . . . and found no one at home. At least, not that he could see. A last flash or flicker of something flared as her tendons stood out, twisting against the tie, then died. It was like looking at the Hound’s expression had been. “What . . . ?” Eric asked, unable to form a better question.

“It’s a purely mechanical binding. She can’t unlock it.” Hank put one hand under the loop of plastic, one over, and for a moment it looked like he was simply clasping her wrists, fatherly. “But she tries so hard, it trips her into a kind of . . . focus state. Give her the target.”

Eric took the lifted key ring out of his pocket, but held it tightly in a closed hand, undoubtedly imprinting zigzag lines into his skin. This wasn’t anything like what he’d expected—even though he’d come into this thinking he didn’t know what he expected. Not this. What was she going to even do with the keys? But this was what he’d wanted to find out. He couldn’t choke now.

Key’s gaze followed his movement, tracking normally. When he opened his fingers, her attention fastened onto the keys. Hank seemed to notice Eric’s hesitation. He squeezed Key’s wrists once and let go. “Don’t worry; it’s not hurting her. She’s not human.”

She could be human and an actress—she wouldn’t even have to be particularly stellar, just competent. Only one way to tell. Eric nudged her hands ninety degrees until he could place the keys in her flat palm, and she clamshelled her other hand on top. “That’s the target,” he said, because it seemed like something formal was needed.

Key tilted her head slightly to the side, like something was interesting. Her already large pupils dilated even more, until the thin line of her iris was hardly visible, dark brown against black. “Done,” she said calmly.

All thoughts of actresses, human, not human fled. Eric knew. The sight of Patricia’s huge, black pupils was branded into his mind. Somehow these kids—kid and woman—were killing people.

As easy as that. Done. Removing the house key hadn’t mattered. He’d just delivered another person to death. The weight on his conscience pressed in, making it hard to breathe for a second, but he shoved it back to its earlier position, merely looming. He was here to stop this. That hadn’t changed.

Key twisted and opened her hands to let the key ring fall onto a decorative half-circle table along the wall, ironically probably designed as somewhere for a homeowner to drop their keys. Then she waited, passive. Hank glanced at Eric, but he must have read Eric’s expression of iron control over shock as Eric being finished with Key. Hank took a utility tool off his belt and flipped open a blade. He popped it through the tie, cutting upward like he’d done it hundreds of times before.

“Can I talk to her?” Eric grimaced when Hank gave an “it’s a free country” shrug. “Alone, I mean.”

Key rubbed her wrists and shook her head once, again, like a dog shaking off anesthetic. By the time he could get a direct look at her eyes again, the pupils were normal. “I’ll behave.” He couldn’t tell if it was an instinctive protest, like “Five more minutes,” on waking disoriented, or if Key was reassuring her guard about leaving her alone with the newcomer.

Hank considered. “Don’t promise to give her anything or teach her anything.”

“I get to keep the keys, though.” Key snatched the key ring she’d dumped so recently on the table, clearly meaning to get her nine-tenths of the law ready.

“She does,” Hank said, relaxing fractionally. Eric wondered if Hank’s read of Key, familiar as he was with her, told him that she wouldn’t cause any more trouble tonight. “I’ll head back to the gatehouse. Robert’s stationed inside this house today, so just yell if you need anything.” He hesitated on something more, facing Key’s way, then didn’t say anything. With a nod to Eric, he let himself out.

Eric and Key looked each other over in silence. “The zoo’s open eleven to six p.m.,” she said finally, tone sharp, and turned to walk back into the house. An inadvertent sock-slip step spoiled her air of self-possession. Eric counted to thirty under his breath as an interval for her to gather herself and feel more balanced, then followed.

* * *

Buy the full book .

Like werewolves and archaeology-based world-building?

You should also check out Rhiannon Held’s SILVER series .

Find Rhiannon Held online at her website and on Twitter as @rhiannonheld .

6

Mirror Bound

Rhiannon Held

Why would a monster want to help a monster-fighting team?

She doesn’t

Verity is a phantom, a being of the mirror realm who can change her face—or she could before she was bound by a mage of the grounded realm. Now she’s trapped in a human form, forced to tell the truth and obey the one who holds her binding: Dakota, a hunter who, with her team of other mages, keeps the world safe from the more monstrous creatures of the mirror realm. But Verity’s binding is weakening. Every time she teleports the team to safety, she gets a little closer to freedom.

Except the number of monsters coming from the mirror realm is increasing and the mages’ governing body, the Quorum, can’t figure out why. With monsters killing humans and all eyes on Verity, she’s fast running out of time to free herself—especially when she discovers that unless she can stop them from gaining access to the mirror realm, the Quorum’s plans for her realm and her people are far more dangerous than anything they might do to her.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 7

* * *

CHAPTER 1

When Verity and Dakota approached the small park, Verity spotted three mantas immediately. To Verity’s eyes, as a creature of the mirror realm herself, the mantas looked like spun glass, shimmering like liquid in the middle and refracting into rainbows at the edges. One manta spotted them and left the floating group to bank in their direction. It swerved off at the last moment, the tips of its long, flat wings rippling in a way that evoked the ocean-going animal it had been nicknamed for.

“Three,” Verity called after Dakota as the woman jogged for the edge of the park where lawn met sidewalk along the road. They’d found a good location for this hunt: a patch of tall, urban forest abutted the park on two sides, and the back of a library formed the third, leaving only the sidewalk for Dakota to block off with an illusion.

The lazy orange cast to the sunlight, this late in the day, made Dakota look especially golden. It wasn’t just the tint of her hair, but the confidence of her movements as she lifted one hand in acknowledgment of Verity’s count. She paced along the concrete, dragging the glow of an illusion spell behind her. It would show caution tape, or something similar, Verity assumed, to keep people out as well as hiding the coming light show.

Verity planted herself on the lawn near the library and did a quick scan for innocent bystanders as Dakota worked. No one so far, after the library’s closing time and in the middle of the dinner hour on a chill fall day. Good. Mantas could kill a human, in theory, if they caught one sufficiently unaware. The mantas who made it through to this realm tended to only bumble around, disoriented, and Dakota was paid to hunt them mostly to prevent panic from people encountering invisible monsters, but it never hurt to be careful.

The group of three mantas roiled as three more zipped in from the trees to join them. Six? There couldn’t possibly be that many. In the mirror realm, the mantas traveled in flocks of up to ten, but only a few could slip through the boundary between realms at any time. Before tonight, the most Dakota had ever fought at once had been three. The anxious movement of the flock kept increasing until one broke free and buzzed right for Dakota’s head as she returned from setting the illusion.

Her reactions were good enough that she sensed something was wrong and ducked what was to her an invisible presence before Verity finished shouting her warning. Dakota jerked out her modified paintball pistol as the manta swerved off. She settled into a looser stance, paintball pistol up, ready to burst into motion at the right moment.

When the manta curved back around toward her, she shot, missing it by only a narrow margin. The creature’s dodge dipped it into a beam of the day’s last sunlight that lanced between the shadows of two great evergreens. The light caught the manta, refracting into a flash visible even to human eyes. Dakota nailed the creature with a blue splotch square on the centerline of its body. The electricity spell bound to the paintball exploded with an audible pop and a singed smell. The manta dropped. One down.

Verity tucked her hands into the pockets of her hand-me-down fleece jacket and returned to her regular hunt role, keeping half an eye on the mantas, and another half out for approaching bystanders. Maybe she could convince Dakota to let her teleport them home after this hunt. It would save time, after all. None of the new team members Dakota had been accumulating lately could offer anything like it, either.

And the binding spell that kept her human, kept her under Dakota’s control—however reluctant that control was—would shred just a tiny bit more in the act of teleporting. Verity glanced sideways at the library building. With the sun so low, one of the windows might provide the flawless reflection she needed.

She shouldn’t let herself get distracted, though. Verity refocused on the mantas, which were twisting in an even tighter knot. Not only were there too many, but they were behaving strangely. They should have been floating in lazy arcs, senses disrupted by being outside the mirror realm. They’d adjust eventually, but the process took days for less intelligent monsters. These ones seemed riled up. Frightened?

Dakota brought an explosion spell into being in her hand. She tossed it up, and the bodies of the three closest mantas exploded briefly with bluish light, like shining a bright beam into a faceted crystal. Dakota squeezed off shots as fast as she could, trying to tag each one with paint even if she couldn’t get the electricity burst central enough to drop them. Three went down in succession, and Verity called out to confirm the kills.

Shimmering movement in the trees caught Verity’s attention. She shifted her position to try to get a better angle on it. Had she lost track of one of the mantas? No, four on the ground, two in the air. But there was something there.

Verity broke into a run toward the trees. A jogging path revealed itself fully between two bushes as she approached it straight on. A woman, dressed in the blinding colors of fashionable athletic-wear, folded silently to the ground. A manta was spread across her face and upper body, another at her side, fouling whatever instinctive defense she might have attempted with her arms.

“No—” Verity wasn’t sure why she shouted. The human couldn’t hear her. The woman’s brain was dark, the manta having eaten her living electricity even if she could have come back from the suffocation. But that wasn’t right . In the mirror realm, mantas were a danger to those of her people who slept outdoors without precautions, but if one attacked you while you were aware, you could generally fight it off.

Then again, attacked by an invisible monster she didn’t know existed, the human wouldn’t have been very aware, Verity realized with a sick feeling.

Dakota whirled when Verity yelled and arrived a few steps behind her. The manta on the human’s side took to the air, but Dakota shot the manta on the woman’s face before it could rise off its prey, twice, three times. She fell to her knees and hauled the limp corpse off, pounded the woman’s chest in a motion Verity vaguely recognized from television. Something to do with the heart, but of course the heart wasn’t the problem. “Dakota, she’s dead, you have to—”

Dakota gasped something inarticulately negative. Verity hauled at Dakota’s shoulder, but the woman was apparently too much in shock to hear her. She kept pounding.

Verity fumbled out her own paintball gun from the back of her jeans and pointed it at the roiling flock as a whole. If only she wasn’t such a terrible shot, hadn’t relied on Dakota so much. She whistled a keep-away call, as she would have done at home. Rather than scattering them, it only seemed to rile the mantas more. They swerved away, gathered themselves, then bore down on her and Dakota.

Verity tried to steady her breathing, failed, and aimed as best she could. One, two, three shots in close succession and none of them hit. She didn’t have enough time to aim, she didn’t have enough paintballs to not aim. She could do this. She’d practiced with Dakota before, for the hell of it. Another shot—there, a wing. And then the mantas were on top of her and she had no more time.

Forget breathing. She emptied the rest of the clip, two for each manta. She aimed, hoped against hope at least one of the two paintballs had hit, and aimed at the next. And the three mantas fell and she realized she’d been holding her breath only when her next inhalation made it mostly possible to think again.

Verity stomped each manta several times to make sure they didn’t move. Silvery blood from her bootprints on the fragile wings oozed out into liquid-metallic pools between grass blades still wet from the day’s earlier drizzle. If only she hadn’t been bound human, she’d have consumed their lifeforce to make sure they were fully gone. But who knew what the electricity that powered a creature’s neurons would taste like after being zapped, anyway.

A car door slammed in the library parking lot. A man and a woman were wrangling their luggage beside a taxi. Verity checked Dakota to find her searching for the dead woman’s pulse as if it would have spontaneously reappeared in the last few minutes. All right. Up to her, then. She shoved her gun away, made sure the hem of her fleece hid it, pulled out her cheap phone, and switched it to video camera mode for their backup cover story. If only her damn binding didn’t prevent her from lying along with everything else, this would have been so much easier. Oh, sorry, did we scare you? It’s our college film project, weren’t those special effects great?

But if she tried to say that, the binding would stop her, and she’d be left stuttering or silent, looking even more suspicious as she tried to find something she could say. The only solution she’d found was to think up something misleading but true ahead of time, and she had little enough time for that now. Verity practiced lines in her head as she jogged across the wet lawn to meet the newcomers. Think of the hits it would get if I were to upload this footage...

“Hello?” the woman called out as the taxi pulled away. The man followed her to the sidewalk along the edge of the park, where they left their wheeled suitcases before continuing toward Verity. They both had pale skin and red hair too orange in tone to be fashionable, so Verity presumed it was natural. Siblings? Related, almost certainly.

Verity set her teeth and tried an insincere smile. Her binding didn’t prevent that, at least. “Can I help you guys?”

The woman, the younger of the two, held out a hand soothingly. A rain jacket disguised her shape, but her hair was short, in a cut that managed to look sharp and confident, rather than cutesy, with her delicate features. “Don’t worry. Power is knowledge. We’re looking for Dakota. Archivist Khare sent us. And the young woman who answered the phone at the house said we should come straight here in case you needed help?” Her voice trailed upward at the last minute and she peered past Verity.

Mages, then, if they knew the passphrase. Verity wished there was a way to distinguish mages from regular humans simply by looking. Though the mention of an Archivist was a giveaway as well. The mages of the Archives might have kept their titles from when they were merely information collectors, but they’d been using that information to act as a de facto governing body for centuries. “Dakota’s kind of busy at the moment—”

To say the least. Verity had no idea why these mages were here, but someone needed to get rid of them, and Dakota clearly wasn’t currently up to the job. At least they didn’t seem to know who she was—when mages realized she wasn’t human, they almost always lapsed into a type of covert stare she’d become intimately familiar with.

Verity focused on Dakota herself, gauging if the situation was obvious from this distance. The dead woman’s running pants and shoes were clear, but why Dakota knelt with head bowed over her was less so. Verity supposed Dakota would have to come clean to the Archivists soon enough about what had happened, as they were her bosses, but it was no business of random mages.

Running interference for Dakota was way beyond her job description, though. Especially since that job description was “bound against her will, and helping out the woman holding the leash for lack of anything better to do.” Because at least Dakota treated her like a person, when almost no one else did.

And of course Verity was also helping because, in an abstract sense, if regular humans discovered they were in danger from invisible mirror realm monsters and panicked, that was good for neither the mages, nor Verity now she was living with them.

Though that situation was suddenly much less abstract.

“Look, now’s a terrible time,” she said, refocusing on the strangers. “Can you come back later?” She strode back to Dakota, and of course they followed. She ignored them.

“Dakota.” Verity dragged the woman bodily to her feet, turned her to face her. “We’ve got to deal with the dead mantas before anyone else shows up.”

The new woman gasped, maybe when the jogger’s unnatural stillness dawned on her. She pointed to the shapes probably vaguely visible to her as silvery blood, crushed grass, and paintball spatters. “God, were those...phantoms?”

“Mirror realm creatures. Or just monsters, if you prefer. Phantoms are from the mirror realm, but they’re something else,” Verity snapped. Something like her. She should be used to mistakes like that by now, she supposed. Except for the most powerful Archivists who formed the Quorum and their researchers and hunters, a lot of mages didn’t have any contact with mirror realm creatures.

Dakota shook herself, some sense coming back into her face. “We need to call...an ambulance or something...”

“There would be nothing they could do.” Verity supposed she sounded cold. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about human lives, but she’d been a lot closer to deaths from mirror realm creatures than Dakota had ever been. Creatures’ victims couldn’t be saved. “We need to get out of here, let someone else find her, and let them determine it was natural. Right?” She appealed to the strangers. They said they’d come under orders from an Archivist, maybe they knew the Quorum’s policy for dealing with situations like this.

“She’s right.” The man spoke for the first time, and Verity felt Dakota metaphorically sit up and take notice. Verity supposed he was fairly attractive. If Dakota had a type, Verity had never been able to determine it, unless it was “passionate and generally lacks basic judgment.”

His cheekbones were as delicate as his—sister’s?—but his jaw was plenty strong, even clean-shaven. Out of habit, Verity searched for his asymmetries. She found one corner of his mouth that tucked a bit higher in irony when he noticed her attention and a long-healed-over piercing disrupting the outer edge of one brow. Both ears were pierced, without anything in them.

Dakota drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and some of the poise she’d begun the fight with came back. She took out her phone and started texting. “Lucy says the others have taken care of the second group of monsters—they had only two, apparently—and Gabe’s on the way back with the car to pick us up.” She slotted her phone away. “I’ll put up an illusion to hide...the body now, so it will fade once we’re gone.”

“And we’ll take these along to burn later so no one stumbles over invisible corpses,” Verity explained for the newcomers. She grabbed a manta by the wingtip to start dragging it to the sidewalk by the parking lot, then stopped. She didn’t want to leave drag-trails in the grass around the dead woman. The strangers seemed to come to the same conclusion. The woman helped her lift the manta while the man bent over another and felt out its shape before settling it over his shoulder.

Gabe arrived as Verity was turning away from her second load, so she stayed to meet him when he slammed the door to his Prius and sprinted over. “We took care of all the mantas, but one of them got a jogger before we could stop it,” Verity told him.

“Thanks,” Gabe said, granting her a brief nod before he kept going for Dakota. Verity was too far to hear their words, but Dakota gestured emphatically, probably an explanation of the fight, before he enfolded her into an embrace. They made a nice picture, the two of them, her golden head—though Verity was well aware that perfect shade had help—on his shoulder. Gabe’s skin was deep brown, fading into the gathering night, but his regal curves still stood clear: biceps, skull under his close-cropped hair, and lips. He pulled back to kiss Dakota quickly, then embraced her again.

Verity looked around for a distraction from all the charming reassurance going on. Being useful to Dakota gave her the chance to teleport, and if nothing else it was better than pure imprisonment. But with the numbers of monsters rising, and Dakota accepting others’ help on hunts, Verity was starting to wonder how long before Dakota decided Verity was more troublesome than useful. Especially when the alternative included one of the hot guys she was banging on and off.

Verity gritted her teeth. The way to address that was to continue to be noticeably useful. If she popped the car’s trunk from inside she could start loading. The strangers forestalled her, though. With all the mantas piled up, the woman approached Verity again, the man following once more. “I’m Siobhan Dubois, this is my brother Davin. I wish we could have met in better circumstances.”

Verity was at a loss, briefly. Mages didn’t usually introduce themselves to her. But of course they were still treating her as a human. “I’m Verity.” She let her hands fall open at her sides, an invitation to examine her that Davin took her up on. Six years bound into human form had introduced asymmetries into her own face, but she knew she still flummoxed people when they tried to place her. With very light brown skin and black hair with just a hint of wave, was she a mixture including Mediterranean? Middle Eastern? Hispanic, Indian? Less African, or more Native American? Around here near the liberal big city, people rarely pushed after “where are you from?” yielded a “Seattle,” but she could tell from the length of their stares they wanted to.

Davin cast a speaking glance up to the illusion covering the jogger. “Is this the first time—?”

“Yes.” That came out too fast and defensive, so Verity tried again. “Dakota handled the monsters around here on her own easily for years. It’s only in the last few months, there’ve been so many more and she’s needed a team. And then this is only the second time we’ve had to split the team because there were two clumps of monsters spotted at once. We don’t know what’s causing it—and now they’re behaving weird—”

Siobhan’s brows rose. “Dakota took all these down on her own?”

“Well, three were my kills this time.” Maybe it was a moment of weakness from the sour adrenaline, but Verity let herself bask in Siobhan’s impressed expression. She could almost imagine herself meeting these new mages as the person she’d been in her youth, when the grounded realm was somewhere exciting to explore, and her curiosity had drawn her here to interact with humans for the fun of it. When she’d been the phantom most experienced with the grounded realm in her whole town, before that experience had gotten her offered a mission. Before that mission had gotten her discovered. And then bound. “Lucky shots. Plural. Since I needed so many of them.”

Siobhan laughed and Verity joined her, knowing the stress had made her punchy and not caring. Dakota looked at them both funny as she and Gabe arrived.

Verity introduced the siblings, pausing over Siobhan’s name. “And...Shuh-vahn?” Verity glanced over at the woman and got a nod of confirmation. “The Archivists sent them. And then Lucy sent them here, I presume.” She couldn’t think of any other young woman who would be answering the house phone.

“Archivist Khare sent us to—” Siobhan began.

Gabe stepped past Verity, offering his hand to Siobhan. “To help? Good. We need it.” He shook Davin’s hand next. “The number of monsters coming through from the mirror realm has been going off the charts.”

Rather than try to break back into the conversation, Verity turned to the car again. Davin’s voice stopped her, low enough not to disrupt the parallel conversation among the others. “Are you doing okay?”

She frowned at him. “What?”

“A woman died. I just wanted to make sure you’re—”

Apparently Davin hadn’t been quiet enough, because Gabe turned away from Siobhan. “But Verity’s not human.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, just surprised that Davin would even consider asking the question. That didn’t really make it sting less.

Dakota, predictably, stumbled in with what were presumably the best of intentions. “Well, yes, she’s a phantom, but you don’t need to worry. She’s not—a monster or anything. Phantoms versus monsters like those—” She indicated the pile of mantas. “In the mirror realm, they’re like humans versus animals here.”

Verity lifted her wrist. An embossed leather cuff bracelet hid the stainless steel chain that held the binding spell, since that was too tight to be fashionable and she didn’t like one more odd note about her appearance among regular humans. “Bound up all safe, don’t worry.” The siblings were apparently too polite to draw back, but she caught Davin’s attention sharpening. It wasn’t quite the look she’d been expecting, but close enough. Now they’d start to fear or dismiss her.

Just so long as they didn’t shoot her in the back.

Rather than listen to any further verbal flailing on Dakota’s part, Verity grabbed a manta corpse and dragged it to the car, since she didn’t have to worry about marks on the pavement. She’d had longer to enjoy the newcomers assuming she was a person than usual, she supposed. So be it. If it hadn’t been Gabe now, Dakota would have clued them in soon enough, out of some kind of misplaced impulse to warn them not to treat Verity any differently. Which was the supreme irony that was Dakota all over.

The manta corpses from the second fight were piled on a tarp inside the trunk. A long, cheap mirror was tucked out of harm’s way against the back of the backseat, a placement Verity was glad to see. For her to use them, they had to be flawless and big enough an adult could technically squeeze through, and while the modern age was full of flawless mirrors, it got expensive to buy new ones if people let them get cracked all the time.

The mirror gave her an idea. Rather than wrestle her corpse up, Verity drew the mirror out, averted her gaze so as not to be taunted with a connection to home, and set it reflective side down against the side of the car. At least some small use could come out of tonight, even if Verity would never have chosen to make that trade for a human life. She hurried back to Dakota and jumped into the next pause in the conversation. “We could probably fit everyone into the car, but we could never manage the luggage. I should teleport someone home.”

Siobhan winced, embarrassed. “We can call another taxi—”

Dakota waved that away. “No, she’s right. I’ll go home with her, and that will leave room. Gabe, as the last one out, would you do a sweep to make sure nothing looks weird around here before you leave?” When he nodded, Dakota joined Verity.

“I’ll go with you.” Davin seemed to startle his sister as much as everyone else with his words. He nodded to their luggage. “So no one gets squished.” He twisted his sister’s suitcase to roll it over to the car’s back door in tandem with his own.

“The screwed-up visual input makes some people feel sick on their first couple times through,” Verity warned him, while the others seemed to still be trying to decide if he was serious. She figured he probably wanted to start early with making a favorable impression on the famous Dakota in case he wanted to turn suitor later on.

“I think it’s actually kind of exciting, in a roller-coaster kind of way.” Dakota grinned and gestured Davin over to the mirror. She flipped it over for them. Verity forced herself to look at the reflection long enough to check for cracks.

She extended an arm toward Davin. “Hand.” When he complied and clasped hers, his grip—just a bit too tight—gave the lie to his nonchalance. Verity wasn’t sure what he would consider reassuring, or if he’d accept reassurance from the phantom, but she could at least give him an idea of what to expect. “Two steps in a straight line. One in, one out. You can make it on one breath, or even close your eyes if you need to. I’m the one guiding us.”

Dakota took Verity’s other hand without being directed. Verity kept her gaze on Davin. “Ready?” He dipped his chin in a minimal nod.

“One...” Verity stepped forward. To her eyes, it seemed as if her foot landed on something that moved so quickly, so unpredictably, that it was impossible to see their surroundings as more than a blur. Or maybe they stepped onto the only stable patch in a chaotic, swirling world. The fading-toward-twilight colors of the parking lot, their own reflected faces, darted away so quickly that they stretched into lines, only these were lines that shivered in the peripheral vision, like something was there that couldn’t quite be seen. Or a nothing was there that shouldn’t be seen.

And it wasn’t home. Verity didn’t know if she was grateful to not be taunted with glimpses, or if her homesickness could have been assuaged with tiny sips now and then. If she’d been traveling home, the colors would have solidified, settled into a new pattern, more self-contained than the grounded realm where everything was connected to everything else. She’d have left this formless stuff and stepped into her town. But she wasn’t traveling home.

Second step. Lucy, with her talent for unusual connections, had said once it was like climbing an escalator. Verity had immediately gone to the mall with that in mind to test it. Lucy had been right. Stepping out of a teleport was like climbing with the escalator and not noticing when you reached the top. You strode out onto nothing and the place you’d left spat you out even farther, and you stumbled. Always.

Verity knew how to roll with it, though. “Two,” she said as they emerged into the living room of Dakota’s house. She caught her balance in time to pull against the jerk Davin’s stumble put on her grip. Dakota caught herself without help and dropped Verity’s hand.

After that, she lingered, seeming to have lost her sense of purpose. Verity wondered if she was seeing the dead woman’s face in her mind. “You could go update the map,” Verity suggested. Dakota started, nodded, then strode away.

Verity had to flex her fingers before Davin let go. Even then, he kept staring at the mirror over the mantel above the absurdly shallow little gas fireplace with the 2-D ceramic logs. She presumed he was wondering why they were standing on the floor rather than clambering down out of the mirror. “Don’t be so literal.”

That got his attention. He shifted his stare to her, question in his expression. She didn’t make him articulate it. “You’re wondering why we didn’t have to wiggle through the physical frame of the mirror? It’s a connection, not a door. A larger mirror is a stronger connection, but we’re not actually stepping into it , we’re stepping into the universe next door.” Verity fidgeted with her cuff. The stress on the binding spell always made her feel like the metal chain was cutting into her skin hard enough to bruise. She knew if she looked she wouldn’t see anything, though.

She frowned at Davin when he remained silent. “You okay? Bathroom’s that way.” She pointed down the hall. “First door to the east.”

Davin shook his head and some life came back into his expression, though not enough for a smile. “I’m fine. That was...interesting.” He focused on her face for a second. “Thanks.” Then he did head for the bathroom.

Now Verity found herself lingering without a purpose as well. She supposed that when the others got back, they’d do some kind of debrief—more informal than not, given that Dakota still wasn’t used to hunting with anyone else and probably wouldn’t think to lead one properly. No one would care about Verity’s opinions, but she could at least remind them how useful her teleporting had turned out to be. If this pace of monsters kept up, and she teleported to even half the hunts, her binding would be worn away in no time. And she’d be free.

Verity strode in the direction Dakota had gone. No need to get ahead of herself.

* * *

Buy the full book .

Like werewolves and archaeology-based world-building?

You should also check out Rhiannon Held’s SILVER series .

Find Rhiannon Held online at her website and on Twitter as @rhiannonheld .

7

Hell of a Deal

Mark Huntley-James

“Everyone has their demons, but I buy mine wholesale…”

Paul Moore, shopkeeper, Master of the Dark Arts and demonic broker, has just met the hottest witch who ever tried to kill him. A date is surely out of the question - she serves the demons of the Babylonian Triad, and no-one defies them... almost no one.

Paul thought he was the best, until the Babylonian Triad launched a turf war. Rival demons, competing traders, an explosive spice and ruthless church factions... Paul only wants to keep his home town safe and get the girl. He knows that being a Master of the Dark Arts involves sacrifice, but really doesn't want to be the one dragged to the altar.

Hell Of A Deal is a fight through life, death, demons and trying to survive a first date. It's not the end of the world, just the start of a new corner of hell.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter 1

Everyone has their demons, but I buy mine wholesale.

I run Moore Magic from the old family shop, down the end of Blunt’s Alley amid the flat conversions – a tasteless emporium of gothic, new-age, wiccan and other accessories. It used to be a hardware store, but that died a slow death at the hands of the big DIY chain on the Lower Barrow retail park. I deal in evil incarnate; they use cut-throat pricing.

Business has been good in retail magic. I employ a tall, skinny Goth called Stacy, who is convinced that draping herself in black lace curtains counts as being dressed, and she flogs my black candles, occult jewellery and other tat. I also have to employ some particularly aggressive acne demons in an effort to stop the shop being over-run with adolescent boys – always just looking, never buying. I don’t use anything stronger because adolescent boys grow up, hormones settle, wallets get juicier, infatuated magic-nerds evolve, and they start buying candles in the forlorn hope of a dinner date.

I would get rid of Stacy, but she has a gift for unloading tat to tourists and wannabes, and knowing the serious customers when they come in. On a further practical note, job adverts for semi-naked shop assistants do not fly well in the staid community of Barrowhurst. A history of agriculture and light industry forged Little England and Middle England into a resolute pocket of tradition where the local Conservative Club activities are often regarded as dangerously avant-garde.

The point is that Stacy is just a front (a particularly lovely front in black lacy stuff) for the real business. I do demonic possessions. I can offer you deals on anything – by the day, week, month or all eternity. The most important thing is that I’m a middle-man, a re-seller. Think of me as a demonic stock broker. If you go direct, so to speak, and cut your deal with one of the infernal creatures of the pit, then you lose flexibility. They set the timescale and the tariff, which is usually your soul, in its entirety, forever. I offer much more reasonable, flexible and affordable terms.

The DIY chains put the family out of business, but I learned from their example – stock the basics that everyone wants, for a good price, with good quality, and a no-quibble returns policy. Almost. In this business there are always things you can’t take back.

If you want to spend the night with the woman of your dreams, I can arrange it. If you want to be lucky or wealthy or just look absolutely stunning for the all-important date tonight, I can arrange it. And there is no ‘small print’. Those old-fashioned deals with the devil were meant to ensure you never got something for nothing, and if possible, got nothing for everything you had. Now, the Lords of the Pits have woken up to modern commercial reality and they work through third parties like me.

Don’t get me wrong – demons and their kin are not cute, fluffy creatures. They can create the illusion, but underneath are bubbling pools of hate and evil. What matters are the terms of the bargain, and knowing it comes from a reputable outfit like mine.

You could try my old pal Mickey Twitch down at the Dream Palace, but he uses some really dodgy spirits and cuts corners with a chain-saw. Your hour of being the babe-magnet with the libido of a rhino can over-run. I’ve sorted out a few of Mickey’s messes – the industrial-strength hard-on that won’t go away, and when it does the punter is left with something nasty that even modern antibiotics can’t touch. My advice, don’t pinch the pennies for your supernatural experience.

“Paul. Mate. Hi.” Mickey has a particular way of starting a conversation that means trouble. A tone that says fuck-up . “Do me a small one…”

Mickey likes favours, because they cost him nothing, he never settles accounts and never does them himself.

“Paul. Mate. Got this client…” A perfectly nice girl who wanted an exceptionally full figure and men queued around the block. “I mean. Paul. Mate. She was satisfied. Lots of times.” Mickey smirks, even when he’s asking for someone to fix a fuck-up. “It’s just things went a bit south.”

Mickey, master of the understatement and the short-cut. Her arse was wide enough to take both seats on the bus and I spent a month coaxing her nipples back up to where they belonged. I’d normally charge a grand or more for that sort of work. But this was a Mickey special – owe you one, mate . If I ever collect on what Mickey owes me, I’ll be knee-deep in something .

The point is, I do deals at a good price. Not a stupid one. When size matters, whether it is an iron-clad pile-driver cock or self-supporting Zeppelin tits, take my guarantee – no mess, no fuss, no pain and no stretch-marks. And please remember, there is no such thing as safe sex with a demon.

* * *

I’m good at what I do and my business is on the up, which attracts trouble of its own. There are a few competitors like Mickey Twitch who know that they are bargain-basement and are happy with it. Then there are the shysters who want to match my prices with Mickey’s standards. I know most of the troublemakers, I take precautions and I protect my stock – just part of the price of doing business. If only my newest troubles were that simple. Even those of us who don’t cut corners can be caught out by the unexpected.

Stacy went down with the flu, something bad. Something demonic, as it turned out. She phoned in – her mate Simi would stand in for her. Simi was OK, trustworthy, and all the rest. I was snowed under with a couple of business conventions where the organisers wanted some exotic talent for the entertainment. Nothing like a bunch of possessed, low-rent working girls to look the part, act the part and pick secrets out of minds – all for a fraction of the cost of the top-end au-naturel girls. In my defence, I would point out that there are perks for the girls I employ. I pay over their usual rates, and those body upgrades never entirely fade.

I met Simi briefly – short and sort of cute, and a leather skirt and a thin shirt which made it obvious she had enough metalwork in her body to crash an airport security scanner. If Stacy hadn’t vouched for her…

“Stacy said like just sit there and like take the money. Like.” I listened, I tried to understand – if I were to imagine Stacy’s friends, none of them would sound like Simi. Although, frankly, I’m not sure how she even managed to speak past the array of rings and studs around her mouth. Eating or blowing her nose had to be major and risky exercises. “And anything else I, like, say you’re back tomorrow.”

“Yes. That’s fine.” I had no real choice – I was already running late. Stylised pewter dragons and scented peace candles do not bring in the money. Or not the real money. “Best to stay away from the stock room – some dangerous stuff in there.” The tattoos on her arms were open runic invitations to possess and enjoy. If she went anywhere near the stock room, she would explode. “If you need anything just ask…” I was going to say ask Billy . “Here’s my mobile number.”

Billy is about thirty, good-looking chap, a gay illiterate deaf-mute. When I met him, he was possessed by a particularly vile demon, and it was not his fault as there was no attendant bargain – pure trespass, not a failure to read the fine print. I don’t do exorcism – it would be about as safe as being a paid up member of the Mafia and then dropping by the local nick for a long chat about what you’ve been doing lately. What I can do, is negotiate a sort of hostage-release. Billy was already deaf and illiterate, and getting rid of the demon cost him his voice, but that was his choice. There were alternative penalties the demon was prepared to consider. After some very strange negotiations, Billy made it clear he would be happy so long as he came away able to fuck, and see what he was fucking. Billy was very clear about his priorities.

He has an arrangement with Mister Stevenson two doors down – any time Mrs Stevenson is out. Sometimes even when she is in. Mrs Stevenson has, once or twice, wistfully commented on her wonderful husband and tireless lover, although she clearly doesn’t know that he plays both sides. Frankly, I wonder where he gets the energy for both Billy and his wife.

Now, Billy lives in the flat over the shop, does the cleaning and helps me move the heavy items around. Stacy also signs and can usually follow Billy-sign which has unique characteristics. Even if Simi were fluent, Billy would be beyond her.

“OK? Back about fourish…”

“Yeah. Sure. So I like… sit there…”

Stacy is elegant and articulate, with a gift for selling anything to anyone. Her pal Simi was so obviously the opposite. Takings would be down for the next few days…

I was wrong about almost everything.

When I got back at the end of the day, Billy was there, holding up Simi’s skin. He handed it to me to sign a quick précis of the day, heavy on the things to be inserted into bodily orifices.

“Thanks, Billy…” The extensive metal stud-work was not decoration, but fixings to keep a disguise on. When I studied all the tattoos, there were things there which would have hidden a major possession from the spirits who guard the door. “Oh. Fuck.” This stuff does not happen by accident.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Billy’s hands danced like he had just taken up seventies’ disco, alternating between emphatic statement and sarcastic query. No shit, shithead.

I went over what Simi had done. According to Billy, she went through the stockroom completely unharmed. When I checked, she had lifted samples of my more effective kit, even coaxing out a couple of my resident demons and getting them to spill the details of their contracts. Serious stuff. Forget takings being down – thievings were up.

Simi was probably human, most certainly possessed, and up to something really bad. Billy showed me where he had found the discarded skin, over in the rubbish bin out the back.

“Right. Billy.” I spoke slowly – Billy reads lips fast, but I wanted to sign as well because he often regards that as more truthful, and that needs thinking time. “Stay here. Stay… sharp. I need to check on Stacy.”

Too fucking right.

I walked straight round to where Stacy lived, a poky little attic flat a couple of streets away. Shivering and snuffling, she invited me in. Within the comfort and safety of her own home, she was as Goth as a rose-pattern tea service. The cramped little bed-sit was clean and cosy, with floral drapes and a scattering of nineteenth century ceramic figurines. Stacy herself was wrapped up in thermal leggings, t-shirt, bulky pullovers and a knitted scarf – nothing like my near-naked shop girl.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Snuffle, snuffle, cough. “You wouldn’t have hired me like this.”

“Right…” I looked at her in a new light. “Suppose not…” The girl who knew who to sell the rubbish to, had known what I needed as well. The way she dressed for work was pretty eye-popping and maintained a healthy cash-flow into the shop that I would have otherwise thought impossible. I could hardly bitch about her private life.

“Tell me about Simi?” I prompted.

“Who?”

“When we spoke this morning…”

Stacy shook her head. “I left you a message.” Cough. Snuffle.

“Shit.” I had been done over properly. Someone was playing hard, with Stacy as collateral damage. “I’ll send Billy round with something for the cough.” I had a pretty good idea what they had used on her. There is a simple herbal concoction – tastes foul, but lifts these transient curses over night.

“I’ll be fine.” Cough, sniffle, cough.

“No problem. Billy won’t mind.”

She shook her head wearily. “Haven’t got the strength for Billy.” Sniffle, sniffle. “Randy little sod.”

I was shocked on several levels. “I didn’t realise Billy had been bothering you…”

“Not bothering…” Cough, cough, snuffle, hic. “Knows how to give a girl a good time…” I think my mouth was hanging open. She shrugged and coughed again. “And how to give a boy a good time. It’s fine. I know about Mister Stevenson. I know it’s not a serious relationship.”

I managed to close my mouth and revised my estimate of Billy. Deaf, mute, illiterate and bisexual. Basically a general-purpose fucking machine that said nothing, didn’t care what you said to him and would never write embarrassing love letters. All of his communication was sign and touch. All of it.

Another disturbing chain of thought passed through my mind. Mrs Stevenson referred to her wonderful husband and her tireless lover – I now suspected that only one of those was Mr Stevenson and that Billy had his arrangements with both of them. Some people will shag anything in trousers and/or a skirt. When I first met Billy, I really misunderstood his scope. I suddenly saw clearly that for him it was anything with a pulse. I even wondered if a pulse was needed – the sort of demonic possession he had suffered from could easily have been the result of an exotic sexual misadventure.

“I’ll bring it round myself.” It was easier than trying to deal with the detail of Billy.

“Someone…” Cough, cough, hack, cough. “Someone sicked one of those bloody demons on me, didn’t they?”

The other important thing about the hired-help was that I don’t mention the demons. Billy knows anyway, but that’s different. The girl before Stacy knew nothing, but she did give me odd looks. Stacy had worked it out – elegant, eloquent and smart , but then I knew that as well. It takes brains as well as a pretty pair of breasts to triple my sales of tarot cards.

“Just a minor curse, really. Easy enough to shift. Be gone by morning.”

Stacy turned bright red, shook her head desperately and then coughed as if she was trying to get her ankles up through her throat.

“Shit. I know you don’t do a health plan…” Her eyes bulged before another deep-rooted cough burst out. “Do you do cut-rate retaliation for employees?”

“Just breathe…” Her condition was worsening. There was no mistaking the basic curse, but someone had applied it good and hard, and now it was putting on a spurt to get to the finish line. Stacy had hours at the most. “I’ll go and get something for that cough… and the retaliation is on the house. Just as soon as I find out who did it.”

I grabbed her keys, slammed the door and half ran back to the shop where I picked packages out of my unnatural emergency medical kit. Billy hovered and then drew an accurate and somewhat erotic outline of Stacy. I knew enough basic sign to tell him she would be fine. He called me a lying sack of shit, but without so much restraint. I didn’t have time for our usual banter and just told him it would be fine, which worried him more. Another side-effect of associating with Billy – I knew more obscene and slang sign than anything else.

As I was leaving, I told him to meet me at Stacy’s later. It took several goes – Billy was tense, pushing me to repeat so he could check my lips, and querying every bit of my incompetent signing until he was sure he knew what I meant. Signing might be more truthful, but not necessarily more accurate from the physically inarticulate like myself.

I walked as fast I could – definitely no running with what I was carrying. I had a few heavy-duty items in my pockets just in case Stacy was worse than I thought. I climbed the stairs without any thought beyond helping Stacy, and there was a slight figure trying to pick her lock. The face was different, but I knew it was Simi. She was petite, attractive, sexy, and her face had a scattering of deep pock-marks – the places where she screwed on her false skin.

I reacted without thinking.

“OK, you thieving bitch, I want…”

She stabbed me with a short silver dagger, aiming up under my ribs towards my heart. Another day, and I would have died. The blade was not very long, but more than adequate to kill, and the way she used it spoke of regular prior experience. Fortunately, I had not yet changed my clothes from working with over two dozen possessed women. I had a light-weight stab-vest under my shirt – you would be surprised how often I have to shove a demon into a working girl, and how often the girls come back at the end, spitting mad and inclined to use any weapon that comes to hand. I get a bit peeved about that – they know what they’re getting in to. Most of them are regulars. I tell myself they have to exorcise their frustrations once the demons have gone, and so I use armoured underwear.

I was also wearing a few charms to ward off disgruntled demons – the feisty little buggers can be as put out as the girls if you get them in the wrong mood, and I always pick my protection a few notches better than I need.

The dagger met kevlar, the silver encountered a blocking charm. My breath flew out from the punch in the belly, and her arm lit up like it was doused in petrol. Simi screamed, let go of the knife and scrambled past me whilst hellish napalm ate her flesh. There would be scars from that one.

Stacy opened the door. She had crawled all the way and now could barely kneel. I picked her up – not easy after that thump in the belly – and carried her back inside. She would be fine for a few more seconds so I went back for the scorched and pitted dagger. Something of Simi’s. Something which could be traced back to her.

I stirred a double-dose of my herbal curse purgative into a mug of water and coaxed it down Stacy’s throat. She was barely conscious and still fought like hell to avoid the vile-tasting stuff. By the time I had stopped her spitting out the last sip, some of the racking cough had eased so that she could breathe. I tucked her up in her bed and settled in to keep watch overnight. Simi was hurt, but I had no doubt that she had been there to make sure Stacy never woke up. Loose ends being tidied for some reason – a strong hint that I was the target of something serious.

Just after midnight, there was a knock on the door, a distinctive pattern I knew well. Billy was there. He gave me look when I opened the door, pushed past to check Stacy was well, and then started to describe his evening. Billy is fluent, aggressive and intense when he starts signing. There is a deaf girl who lives nearby, eight or nine years old – her mother came to complain about the language she was learning from Billy.

I got him to slow down, to repeat and simplify. It took a while, but the gist was simple – someone had tried to break in. Two intruders had got past the guardians on the door with no trouble, but Billy knew what they were. If his demon had thought to drive a harder bargain, I’m sure Billy would have cheerfully given up his sense of smell as well. As it was, he could catch the scent of a demon two days old.

He described the peace candles very precisely – the proper ones. I have all manner of scented candles, and the peace candle is supposed to create an atmosphere of calm, free of malign spirits. I have the cheap ones that Stacy sells to tourists, and the proper ones that are like a small, localised exorcism. They don’t banish demons or spirits, but they do make them keep a respectful distance.

Billy enacted a pair of savage upward thrusts. The candles were for external use only, but I don’t think he cared about that. He still resents demons with a hot anger that could melt granite. Somewhere out in the night were two possessed mortals, each with a huge wax suppository up their arse, with just the right ingredients that their demons would be screaming to be let out.

It doesn’t often show, it is not very nice, but Billy does have a sense of humour.

I checked which size he had used and winced at the reply. Twenty quid each, and it would have taken a lot of force… but like I told Stacy, retaliation was on the house. I gave Billy a decisive thumbs-up. Someone was trying to put me out of business. If it only took forty quid’s worth of peace-candle up a couple of arses to put them off, then it was money well spent.

Billy tugged his collar open – he was wearing one of the high-end protective charms I keep locked in the depths of the stock room. I gave him another thumbs-up and showed him the dagger, and the hole in my shirt.

We both sat a while, letting the seriousness of the situation sink in, then he went and put the kettle on. Billy knew his way around the little flat.

We drank tea and then I dozed for a few hours while Billy kept watch. He woke me at three and I took over. To ease the boredom, I contemplated how to protect the bedsit properly, because I doubted that those two candles would really be enough, no matter how hard or far Billy had shoved them in. The most it would do was make it easy to identify the two intruders, if I came across them in the next few days. Unless they were very, very lucky they would need medical assistance just to get the things back out, and I have no idea what might happen to a possessed body with a peace-candle lodged up the anal sphincter. It probably wouldn’t be fatal, but possibly permanently crippling.

Hell, having a plain, innocuous candle that size shoved up the arse would leave anyone walking funny for a long while.

I woke Billy at six and caught another hour’s sleep. Stacy’s alarm woke me – she was already up and making breakfast. Not bad for a girl at death’s door the night before. Billy was nowhere to be seen.

Stacy caught me looking round the place. “He’s gone to check on the shop. Just to look and come back.”

“You feeling better?” Somehow, I wasn’t worried about Billy. He knew how to look after himself, and he knew someone was playing rough. Knife-in-the-chest rough. “You were pretty bad last night.”

“Yeah. Fine.” She ate on the move, gathering her work-clothes together. There was not a lot of gathering to do. “Thanks.”

“I’m not opening today,” I decided firmly. “We’ll put a notice on the door – closed due to illness or something like that. Your flat is vulnerable and they broke into the shop last night. I need to sort out some serious protection. And I want to trace the owner of this…” I showed her the dagger.

“Shit…” Stacy reached out a tentative finger and touched the blade. “Anything missing from the shop?”

“Two really big peace candles…” I gave her the short version and got a hard, sharp grunt of approval. “Retaliation is on the house,” I reminded her, although I now realised that this was the start of a war. “They probably won’t come after you again.” That was hope rather than certainty – I couldn’t see why Simi had come for Stacy at all. “Not for now…” Unless it was to erase the curse so that I wouldn’t realise what was going on. “Whatever’s happening, I want to make sure you and Billy are properly defended.”

Billy tapped on the door at that moment and gave a fast assessment of the outside of the shop. I couldn’t follow it, but Stacy could speed-read Billy and translated, omitting most of the expletives and other means of emphasis that I know Billy uses as a matter of course. The shop was clear with no sign of trouble and no-one hanging around. I wasn’t so sure, but said nothing. There were all sorts of things that Simi could have done while she had the run of the place. With ample of time to work, she could have hidden a whole collection of nasty tricks and traps.

Somehow, someone had known I would be busy. Either they had seen my bookings diary, or the business conventions had been faked for the purpose of getting me out. Both of those would require serious effort. I don’t let even the house demons know the forward schedule. You can’t trust them.

Lots of questions and no answers.

This was getting me into tricky territory. Some people claim to know what motivates a demon, but at best they are just guessing and applying human psychology to something which is not, and never has been, human. Demons are not like us, not in any way. Any emotion they appear to exhibit is just poor old humans trying to interpret something which makes no sense to us.

So, you have to wonder why they make these bargains with us, and why they stick to the deal. So far as I can tell, there is no higher power to enforce it. Whether or not there is a single, almighty God is outside of my expertise, but there is certainly no one over-arching devil. There are all manner of Lords of the infernal Pit, although you also have to know which of the many infernal Pits. Demons have hierarchies, although they lack any consistency to a human mind, because demons don’t think like us. Perhaps it is peer-pressure which keeps them honest, but I doubt it. Demons do what they do for their own reasons, and the attacks on me needed some serious talent behind it. My deals with the more potent Lords of the various infernal Pits were supposed to preclude an assault like this, but who knows why demons do what they do? Or why they suddenly change their minds.

I had a plan for the day. Firstly, beef up the guardians on the shop, secondly track down Simi and see what I could learn and finally, summon an infernal being or two. That was dangerous. I am a re-seller, I have major and terrible bargains with the forces of darkness, but they are not renown for their after-sales care. I can’t ask much without entering into some new contract, and I was already considering the possibility that this attack was just a re-alignment of the infernal business model.

Those Lords of the Pits have been learning fast. They like the old ways, the hard bargains, the unfair deals, and they are quite capable of using the new ways to drag us back to the old.

* * *

Chapter 2

The important thing to remember about demonic possession is that whilst it can give the possessee supernatural powers, it rarely gives super-strength or the sudden and inexplicable ability to kick the crap out of massed ranks of kung-fu masters. Possession is just someone else in the driving seat, or with the more subtle, a back-seat driver. There can be a bit of reality-bending, unlikely events go in favour of the possessee, a little faster on the reflexes perhaps – but nothing really wild. The most you get is someone who can perform what the uninitiated would call serious magic, or the strength to punch through walls and only notice much, much later than every bone in their hand is shattered.

Encounter anything more than that and all bets are off, get your head down, whisper the last fond farewells to your arse and enjoy the apocalypse.

I left Billy a safe distance back, watching over Stacy. I doubted that my new-found enemy could muster anything tough enough to take Billy and still have its genitals residing in the same postcode. If there was a bad surprise waiting, my bet was that it would be inside the shop. That was my responsibility to tackle.

The door unlocked fine, the guardian spirits stirred long enough to recognise me. They are barely sentient, so I couldn’t really give them a rollicking for not spotting Simi, or stopping last night’s visitors. Besides, I hadn’t spotted Simi, and I should have done.

The shop looked fine – candles of every shape, colour and scent, tarot cards and pentagram jewellery, glossy-covered guides to the occult, including Rosanna Felt’s hugely popular easy-step guides to seances, astral projection and the like, a ton of cheap crystals at eye-popping prices, and every imaginable essential oil – the tourist and wannabe tat in all its glory. I walked around slowly, checking everything, took a particularly long and careful tour of the stockroom and then went out to give Billy the all-clear. There was nothing immediately threatening in the shop, but that was all I knew so far. If Simi had done anything clever, it would not be easy to find.

I opened my consulting room. I was pretty certain Simi would not have made it this far. There are protective charms on the door which make the stockroom look like an open invitation. Still, I checked. Simi had tried, and hard, but she had failed.

There is something no one seems to expect a guy like me to use – CCTV. The cameras are well hidden, and all the gear is in my consulting room. I have it because there are things that can fool the human eye, mostly by messing with the mind, but can’t influence a camera. Trouble like that really stands out, and I get slo-mo replay.

“Wait…” Stacy was just behind me. “You have cameras ?” She turned to Billy to tell him, and I knew enough to catch that she added a summary of my sexual perversions. “Cameras. And recording !”

Billy shrugged – he already knew about the cameras.

“Security,” I offered.

“What about employee rights to privacy? What about my rights to privacy?”

“It’s just CCTV, Stacy. It’s not like I’m…” I had no idea whether she actually had any legal grounds, and that was not the moment to point out that anyone who normally worked almost naked had probably given up any right to privacy. “Look… just watch, OK?”

She got very quiet when Simi started stripping for the camera, dumping her clothes in a heap, and then peeling off her false skin. Underneath was the petite beauty who had tried to kill me at the top of Stacy’s stairs, revealed in all her glory with pockmarks extending over her whole body.

“How can she do that?”

“Cheap shape-shifter,” I said casually. I had actually seen this before, although it still freaks me out. And what I had seen previously was tame compared to Simi. She was something out of a very unusual book I happen to own. “Real shape-shifters are rare. Plenty of demons can create a shape-shift illusion, but if you need the real thing…” I waved at the screen. Simi’s appearance was real enough to fool the cameras. “Sometimes infra-red will show up the fake skin – so I am told. She’s something special, though. Just look at her…”

“Bitch…”

All Stacy was seeing was the utterly perfect body. I was looking at the fine detail of anchoring holes and runic infrastructure. Something more sophisticated than tattoos – perhaps embossing with surgical scars or even embedded gold wires. Simi was a walking demonic something, more runes on that body than anyone had a right to. Work like that does not come cheap, and one soul would not cover it. Simi was the business and no mistake.

I have met a few witches over the years. I might just as well say I’ve met a few weekend joggers in the park. This Simi was a gold-medal winning Olympic runner. No one does this by accident, or without a good reason. It was just possible that Simi was behind everything, but gut-reaction was that she was a hired hand, and my true enemy was recruiting the very best.

We watched her ransack the stockroom, fail to get in to the consulting room, and then put her false skin back on to walk out the door. Even leaving, the guardians should have gone mental with unshielded runes like hers coming close. Really, her only mistake was dumping the fake skin where Billy found it, and I desperately hoped that it was a real error and not a clever trap for me.

“Is this bad?” Stacy wondered as I back-tracked over what Simi had done in the stock-room. There was something odd and I couldn’t make out what it was. “Or what?”

“Bad. Very bad.” I pointed to the naked Simi on the screen. “Witch. Mega-powerful. Very dangerous.” But I had hurt her last night, and had a possession to track her with. “Oh. Shit.” I already had the fake skin. She left it on purpose. I was supposed to try to track her through the discard. “The little bitch…”

Now I knew what to look for, I ran back to the stock room and found the minute tricks she had left behind. The skin was a trap. There are plenty of ways to find the owner of a charmed object, and she had to expect me to use my well-protected consulting room, adjacent to the stockroom. The skin was primed, ready for me. Half of my high-end inventory would have gone mental, or more precisely psychic shrapnel, the moment I started. There wouldn’t be enough left of me to make a bolognaise sauce for two.

Now, she might have pulled a complicated multiple-bluff, but I really don’t think she planned for me to have the silver dagger. Since I knew she had been so damn sneaky, and was obviously trying to kill me, I would have to find somewhere completely new to perform the seeking. Before that, it was more important to know why someone wanted me dead – the who could wait a little longer. With the why, I might have a better chance of staying alive, and there were people I could ask about that.

I went back to the consulting room and picked up the phone. Mickey Twitch is not on my speed-dial so I had to look up his number. I dialled it twice to confirm it really was unobtainable.

“Stacy… Ask Billy to go and see Mickey Twitch for me. Tell him to be really, really careful. Mickey’s not answering the phone.” She nodded, understanding, and I dialled another number. “Rog… how are you?”

Roger Watson and I never really get on, but we’re in the same business, we bump into each other from time to time. I even send some clients to him – there are things Rog simply does better than I do, and he does the job properly. I would never, ever refer someone to Mickey. Not unless I had a major grudge with them.

“Can’t talk. Bit busy…” There was no mistaking the sound of stress.

“Anyone tried to kill you recently?”

There was a long silence, so I was on the mark. “What do you know about it?”

“Mickey’s not answering the phone. I’m still alive. Just. I was wearing kevlar at the right moment.”

“Shit… got to go, Paul. Bastards left something behind. We’re starting a seeking.”

“Shut it down, Rog. Now. They left me a trail to follow. Booby trap.”

“Shit. Talk later. Noon. The old haunt.”

I held my breath for a moment – an unconscious reaction. The old haunt is just a silly name for a pub back room where some of us demon traders used to get together. Times have changed and whenever someone uses the name these days, it’s a recognition of real trouble.

“I’ll be there. Got some more calls to make.”

There were only five other serious demon traders in Barrowhurst. One more wasn’t answering, two had troubles like mine, one was just triggering their booby trap when I rang. The last one told me to fuck off. A little courtesy costs nothing, giving offence might cost your life. I decided they could take their chances.

The wannabes, shysters and others were on their own. I had only rung Mickey out of a stupid childhood loyalty that was totally unwarranted.

Billy returned breathless and exchanged sign with Stacy at blinding speed, but even I could catch the ones that would make a sergeant-major blush. Stacy translated the fine detail – Mickey’s place was a smoking hole in the ground. The police had it taped off, gas officials were investigating. I knew for a fact that Mickey had infernal horrors in his basement that would make it safer to go hunting for the gas leak with a box of matches.

If Simi, or someone of the same mould, had rigged his place it was amazing that the street was still there. Mickey ran a cheap gourmet service on the side. There is a very dangerous and supernatural spice known as Ground Zero. It used to have other names. In trusted and daring company it was called things like Apocalypse or Hellfire. In wider circles it was called soft-salt, little ginger, grey pepper, but that was because the church was strong and everywhere, and had some very brutal ideas about food hygiene when it came to the demonic. I have been told that being burnt at the stake was exceptionally horrendous if you had much Ground Zero in your system. The demons who make the stuff do not intend it for mortal pleasure. I may have mentioned that demons are not nice beings.

As an aside, there is one truly terrifying thing about Ground Zero, beyond the explosive nature. I have never heard or read of anyone who knows what it does, just wild and contradictory bullshit. The Lords of the Pits would not make something so dangerous and exciting without a hidden purpose. I have met people who claim it lets them see the future, others who use it to see the past. Rog claims it helps when attempting to summon the more powerful Lords. To me, it sounds like a trap primed and ready to catch the careless or the naïve.

I just like the taste. One or two grains in a mug of strong coffee – nothing to beat it. If you can survive actually getting it into the coffee. Ground Zero and water is one way to live short and die fast, mostly as shrapnel.

Mickey is the only person I know who keeps it in kilo tubs. Sane people never put more than a gram in the same packet, but Mickey got a special deal on a bulk purchase, some years ago. The thing about Ground Zero is that it lasts a long time. It just doesn’t go off, unless you jog it a bit too hard. It has a ‘best before’ designation – it’s the short time of calm in the trajectory just after the explosion, best before you hit the ground.

I had a final and very disturbing thought. Billy was quite clear – the buildings to either side were damaged, probably beyond repair, but that was it. If Mickey’s stock of Ground Zero had been there, the police would have been looking for Semtex residue, and the rest of the street, not a gas leak. Either Mickey had moved the stuff, or someone had stolen it before torching the place.

Actually, if Mickey’s stockpile had gone up, government officials would be looking into a hole in the ground where Barrowhurst used to be.

Simi and friends had targeted the bigger, respectable operations. Mickey was big, but at the cowboy end of the business. If this was just about taking a short-cut to increased market share, it made no sense to bump off Mickey. Unless what you wanted was to hide the theft of twenty-odd kilos of Ground Zero.

In the natural world, this is on a par with a small nuke going missing. Ground Zero looks like a finely powdered salt, with minute black flecks in it. It tastes like your tongue went straight to heaven, and your genitals straight to hell. Some people have likened it to an orgasm at the back of your nose while a ruthless orthodontist rips out your teeth, one by one. It is potent, excruciating, enlightening and there is a take-away about two miles from my shop where they will slip a little into the vindaloo to jazz it up for discerning customers. There is a heavy surcharge – it covers the funeral costs when they lose another chef. Mickey offers a similar service, but I would rather eat week-old lettuce leaves used to wipe out a toilet pan.

On the plus side, it is not addictive. On the negative, only Mickey would keep such a massive overdose waiting to happen.

The bell rang and Stacy went to see who was there, shouting back that the post had just come. I was too busy worrying to worry about the right things – almost my last mistake.

“Don’t open anything!” A moment of panicky insight.

Nigel, the postie, almost tripped over the step when I shouted. I gave him my best cheery wave, and studied the pile of post. There was a parcel, a small one, no bigger than a few matchboxes – anyone jumping to conclusions would know it contained a devastating quantity of Ground Zero.

I knew better and sniffed each envelope carefully. There was a letter from the council, a perfect forgery. I could just detect the sweet, tangy burn of Little Ginger. Nigel was lucky it hadn’t gone off in his bag.

“This is very bad stuff,” I said, trying to be calm. I could hear my own voice, strangled with terror. A witch like Simi would know tricks to make it even less stable than usual. “Enough here to kill us all.”

“Drugs?” Stacy suggested and I shook my head. “Anthrax?”

“Cooking spice.”

“You are not joking, are you…?”

“Demonic cooking spice.”

Somehow she didn’t laugh. “Dangerous? Like those puffer-fish things?”

If I had known what a puffer fish was back then, it might have helped. “Once upon a time, they used gun-powder as a spice. I’m sure it was very nice, but not if anyone smoked at the table…”

“So this is like gun-powder?” Stacy pointed at the envelope, being very careful not to touch it.

“More like Semtex.” Her finger drew back further. “But worse.”

Very slowly and carefully, making no sudden movements, Stacy told Billy and even he slowed his signing down to something I could almost follow. I didn’t bother to explain that loud noises and sudden movements were not enough to detonate Ground Zero. I was more concerned with how to get rid of it.

“Stacy… Go and get on the phone… All the people I called earlier. Top ones on my speed-dial. Tell them all that someone has sent us some Ground Zero through the post.” If they had targeted me, then perhaps they were using a belt-and-braces approach on everyone. “And then put the kettle on.”

The trouble with Ground Zero is there is no such thing as a controlled explosion. You can not make it safe, must not flush it down the toilet or rinse it down the sink. Absolutely nothing involving straight water. I had no idea just how much was in the envelope, but I was prepared to bet that a second or so after pulling the toilet flush, people would be dying from ceramic shrapnel five hundred yards away.

Ground Zero – death with a sense of humour. Normally a light mist would make it explode, but it has been known to just sit there. You can stir it into a glass of water and nothing happens. It waits until you turn your back, or sigh with relief.

It’s like the instructions on the fireworks we had when I was a kid. Light the blue touch-paper and stay the hell away.

“Stacy…” There is only one reliable way to dispose of Ground Zero – eat it. “Just as soon as you’re done with the phone, boil some rice. A pound… no two pounds will be enough.” I hoped.

Billy and Stacy were about to enjoy a rare gastronomic delight – rice flavoured with way too much Ground Zero. I would do the mixing, it was far too dangerous to ask anyone else, but there was no way I could eat the lot on my own. Split between five, it might be bearable.

I signed to Billy – are the Stevensons in?

I had something new for them to try.

I put the Ground Zero in the kitchen, in an empty biscuit tin, at the back of the work-surface – away from water, accidental falls, knocks or anything else that might kill us all.

That was the moment I thought that the day could not get worse. Just as Billy went out, a dead guy walked in and the guardian spirits went ape-shit. The dead guy reeled around, trying to fend off my supernatural attack fiends, got tangled in the occult jewellery, and then stumbled towards the shelves against the wall. I stared, trying to make sense of it all as candles and crystals scattered in all directions.

There is a simple and practical reason why you do not meet demons walking down the street. They can not exist in our world for long – just like a fish out of water. Likewise, mortals can not endure long in the demonic realm – how long can you hold your breath? As a twist, the more powerful the demon, the shorter the survival time and the louder the bang when they expire. The only real solution is possession. They need something to hide in – an object, a body, although that all takes time and effort to arrange.

Demons, when they need a pair of hands in a hurry, will possess a dead body, but you have to understand the practicalities. There are not so many ownership arguments with the dead – vacant possession, so to speak, move in immediately. The point is, meat has a limited shelf-life. Muscles cease to function, joints seize up – demons need the very recently dead, but even they can only hold off the worst of post-mortem degradation for a while. So what I had there, was a very determined demon walking in my front door, wearing a guy who had just died. And struggling to hold on, because however they get into our realm, demonic possession seriously does need proper preparation. This was a dodgy rush job.

Imagine someone who has never been behind the wheel before, jumping into a Porsche and trying to drive.

“Need to talk,” dead-guy told me. “Your problem is my problem.”

“Which is?” I was in no hurry to call off the dogs, given what had happened recently.

“Think business,” dead-guy replied, struggling to make those dead lungs work. “Think hostile take-over. New business model coming… shit…”

Dead-guy dropped as the demon gave up – I don’t think that one was used to handling meat at all. Just what I needed – cryptic, last-gasp message of a dying man from an actual corpse. There had to have been a better way. Burning a message into the lino on the shop floor would have done it for me. Or sudden, mystic graffiti on the wall in the yard out back.

These Lords of the Pits do have a sense of humour. I had an unknown quantity of Ground Zero on the premises, guests coming to a very startling lunch, and now a dead body on the floor.

If I were a betting man, I would have laid odds on a visit from the police within the hour.

* * *

About the Author

Mark Huntley-James started writing in his teens - just because he likes stories, reading them, telling them, writing them...

He writes science-fiction, space opera, fantasy and any odd thing that appeals to him. Some of his short stories, and anecdotes about the animals on the farm, can be found on his blog.

He trained as a physicist and worked in R&D for a number of years before moving to commercial software development and now lives on a smallholding on the edge of Bodmin Moor with his partner, multiple cats, chickens, and a flock of rare-breed sheep.

In between all of that he learned to clog dance, spent weekends as a pikeman in 17th century battle re-enactments and kept bees for several years.

In 2013 he won first place in the British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition.

He blogs every month or so on whatever amuses or entertains him and tries to put in a monthly contribution to #BlogBattle at https:// markhuntleyjames. wordpress. com/ demon- trader- series/

He also blogs for the One Million Project at https:// theonemillionprojectcom. wordpress.com/

8

The Shadow Rises

K.S. Marsden

When a new witch threat rises, only Hunter Astley can stop them…

In the face of dark magic and evil witches, a secret witch-hunting society works tirelessly to keep them at bay. The Malleus Maleficarum Council have strict rules and practises for eradicating magic.

Due to their work, witches have been almost forgotten, relegated to myth; but rumours are starting to emerge of a new power that will throw the world into chaos.

As the only 7th generation witch-hunter, Hunter Astley is the best the MMC has to offer. With the help of his colleagues, it’s a race to track down this new threat and stop them… in any way he can.

Part one of the Witch-Hunter trilogy.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

One

Hunter knocked back his cold, expensive beer. He was sitting alone at an open-air bar in the middle of Venice. It was late in the night, or at least it felt late - the days and nights seemed to take forever to tick past. The dark canal flickered with yellow lamp-light, along with new fragments of colour.

Hunter eyed the fairy lights that the new owner had strewn across the trellis beams, a cheap way to create a “youthful” environment. He didn’t approve.

He looked around again, his gaze deadened as though he saw through the thin veil of these mortal amusements, and was not impressed.

Hunter Astley appeared to be a very normal guy, though one could never call him average. He ticked every box for the traditional English gent; in his mid-twenties, tall with black hair and classic good looks; he held an aura of charm and intelligence that was woven so appealingly about him; he had a confidence that was only partly to do with a large family fortune to his name.

Yet all this helped to distract people from looking too closely, to stop them noticing that scrutinising gaze and apathy to the mundane facts of life. Because under the veil, there were darker things to fear.

Hunter Astley was a witch-hunter.

Under the guidance of the Malleus Maleficarum Council, alongside other witch-hunters, Hunter worked tirelessly to eradicate witches and witchcraft, to prevent curses and black magic and to stop the witchkind gaining the hold and power over the unaware, ignorant world. The witches never stopped in their pursuit of power, so neither did Hunter and his fellow witch-hunters.

Except for now. Hunter was on holiday - against his own will, one might add. But the question was, when you know that evil magic is threatening everywhere beneath the surface, what does a witch-hunter do for a holiday?

Oh, he was bored. And in his bad mood, Hunter knew who to blame: James. Good old, annoying, interfering James Bennett. His colleague, who considered himself the brains of the operation, and was as loyal as he was irritating. The two of them had been working overtime since a big coop last hallowe’en, and last winter had been the busiest they had ever known the witchkind. The increased activity had taken more of a toll on Hunter of course. When considering the two of them, it was Hunter that was the man of action and James was his back-up, his background researcher.

James had taken it upon himself to insist that Hunter needed a break now that it was spring. Ok, things were calmer now, and ok, the last job had nearly killed him. But only nearly, he was still alive. But his arguments had been ignored and Hunter had finally agreed to take a week’s holiday, especially as James threatened to lock up all the open cases and divert current issues to the others.

Although, when Hunter agreed to stop work for a whole week, that didn’t stop him sneaking into his own office to slip all the Venetian files into his suitcase before he left. Not that it had been much use. The damn files hadn’t been kept up-to-date and he was chasing ghosts. And no, ghosts didn’t exist.

A trio of young women sauntering past dragged his attention back to the present. They were all beautiful, but the tallest of the three was particularly striking.

Hunter noticed that his weren’t the only eyes that watched them cross the room, so he was an average guy after all. He smiled at the idea, maybe James was right, maybe he could enjoy a holiday.

When he raised his gaze again, the girls had gone. Hunter drained the last of his beer and made his way over to the bar. He leant against it and waited for the barman. He noticed her perfume first, a fresh scent that contrasted sharply against the alcohol.

Hunter looked up to see one of the girls standing a few feet away. With her heels on, she was almost as tall as Hunter. Her dark brown hair was tied back, and there was a proud tilt to her jaw. Hunter appreciatively inventoried the slim waist and long legs.

As though sensing his inspection, the girl turned on her heels to face him. Her hazel eyes locked onto him, coolly assessing him in return. Apparently dissatisfied, the girl turned away again.

Hunter inwardly laughed, not even a word passed between them and he had been shunned. His poor ego. He ordered a drink, and as he waited for his beer to come, he caught a male voice – one whose accent didn’t hide the waver of uncertainty.

“… let me buy you a drink.”

Hunter turned to see a very smart, suited type, leaning in to the girl. His smile did nothing to disguise the fact his suggestion had been half a question. It almost reminded Hunter of how James was when he had to talk to beautiful girls. Honestly, Hunter felt a little sorry for men that floundered so easily.

He paid for his beer and found himself watching as the girl looked uncomfortable as the suit got closer. Her painted lips somehow managed to convey a pout and a sneer that spoke volumes against her silence.

The guy grew increasingly unsure at her stony silence and eventually slunk off.

Hunter smiled to himself, keen for the challenge. He moved towards her and finally spoke. “Scusi, signorina..”

Her eyes suddenly snapped onto him again, her frown increasing. “Scusa, non parlo l'italiano.” She replied in perfect Italian.

Hunter smirked at her avoidance. “Great, neither do I! But it’s good to know that you talk at all.” He couldn’t help but notice that she was even more beautiful close up. If one got past the fixed haughty glare, of course.

There was a twitch in her lips as though she fought down a smile. The woman turned to her friends. “Let’s go.” They obediently shifted away from the bar. “Good night.” She said to Hunter and, making no excuses, left.

Hunter watched her retreating figure. What a strange, beautiful girl.

Hunter stood nursing his beer for a quarter an hour, before giving in to his dull mood and heading home. He weighed up the desire for company tonight, there had been enough female eyes turned in his direction this evening, including the waitress at the restaurant earlier. But it felt like too much effort. No, he’d much rather go back to his apartment, have a night cap, and see when the next flight back to London was.

Although it was spring, it wasn’t cold. The late night walk was actually pleasant as he moved away from the youthful hub and into the quieter streets. It was then that he heard a scuffle in the distance, followed by silence.

Hunter stopped, looking in the direction of the brief disturbance. It was most probably a cat, or something equally innocent. But that niggling feeling in his gut grew, calling to him. Damn it, was he getting withdrawal symptoms from work? Looking for trouble where there was none to be found? The utter silence made his senses tingle and his instincts kicked in and took over. He made his way quietly in the direction of the noise. Down a shadowed path to where a heavy door was ajar. Hunter stood against the gap and heard people moving inside, he began to see the weak light of candles as they were lit by two flitting figures.

Hunter reflexively lifted his hand to his throat, closing his fingers around the comfortable weight of the protective amulet. Next he knelt down and retrieved the small gun strapped to his calf, thankful that he had gone against his colleague’s advice, that he had decided to remain armed.

Standing tall again, he slipped inside, pressing the door shut behind him. The large room was lit by a hundred candles - some witches were overly keen on the traditional touches. There was a makeshift altar, a long table covered with black silk, and a young woman strapped to it. She struggled sluggishly against her bonds, her breath fast and frightened. She was probably drugged, but at least she was alive. For now.

Hunter shifted around the edge of the room, keeping to the shadows. His eyes widened as he recognised the victim – the girl from the bar…

Her identity was confirmed when her two friends entered the circle of candlelight, bristling with excitement.

“P-please… please, you can’t…”

Hunter could hear the girl’s slurred pleas, her focus strengthening as those she considered friends came closer.

Hunter kept his own breathing low and steady, his gaze moving to a tall man with greying hair, although his face was unlined. He carried the knife, holding it up with reverence.

As he drew up to the altar, Hunter knew he had to act. There was no time to assess hidden dangers. He stepped into the light, trying to look as confident as possible. “Stop! Fermo!”

They all turned, shocked at the unwelcome man that had interrupted their ritual. Hunter rushed to speak before they caught up with the situation. “I charge you to stop. I am Hunter Astley, by the Malleus Constitution you will surrender now to my authority to be bound and registered. If you refuse to come quietly, I am empowered to take any means necessary.”

Oh, it all sounded quite grand and official, and if he had had back up they might have turned themselves in harmlessly; but one Hunter against three put the odds in their favour.

“Assalire.” Get him. The man ordered. “Subito!” Now! He barked as the two girls hesitated.

Ah, perhaps they were new to this game, Hunter thought, briefly giving him hope. But hope and desperation were put out of his mind as his body moved almost instinctively into action. He felt the charm about his neck heat up as it absorbed attacks from all three. He took aim with his gun and fired a single shot...

* * *

The brown-haired girl woke up in a large bed with soft sheets, an early morning breeze rippling through the white cotton curtains and filling the room with cool and pleasant air.

“Good morning.” Hunter said gently as he stood in the doorway, waiting for his guest to wake up. “How are you feeling?”

The girl sat up sharply, but then groaned, pressing her hand to her aching head. “Where am I?”

“Still in Venice, in my apartment. My name’s Hunter by the way.” He smiled politely. This was usually the part where people thanked him.

She frowned, a certain intelligent harshness returning now that she was fully awake. “Why? You had no right to take me anywhere. What did you do, drug me?”

Hunter waited patiently for her to finish, a slight smirk at how easily people forget what was hard to believe. “It’s nice to feel appreciated for saving your life,” he replied calmly and innocently. “I’ll put on some coffee, come on through when you’re ready.”

He walked into the main room, smiling as he did so.

The girl sat dazed for a moment, then slowly slid out of the covers and stood up. She was still in last night’s clothes, the smell of smoke and alcohol clinging to them. She didn’t hesitate for long and Hunter heard her bare feet padding into the very luxurious open plan apartment. She stood next to the sofa, watching Hunter suspiciously in the small kitchen.

“So last night was real? I mean, what happened, and why?”

Hunter didn’t reply immediately, but brought through two cups of steaming coffee and invited his guest to sit down. “If you don’t mind me asking, had you known those girls long?”

The girl shrugged, “A few days, they were at the same hotel as me. I was on holiday alone and they were friendly, inviting me out day and night. I thought they were ok.”

“It was their job, to gain your confidence. But they were going to kill you, to sacrifice you, last night. They were witches.” Hunter glanced up as he finished speaking, watching her carefully after this revelation.

“Witches?! As in ‘fire burn and cauldron bubble’? You’ve got to be joking.”

“No, I am completely serious,” he replied with an apologetic smile. “Witches are real, and to be blunt, they’re all black-hearted, evil… I’m sorry you got involved. If we were in England I could offer you something to erase the memory - but as it is…”

“Are there a lot of witches?”

Hunter shrugged. “Depends on what you mean by lots? There are too many in my opinion. If I tried to put a number on them, perhaps ten thousand worldwide.” He paused to drink his coffee. “Does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know; it’s not something I’ve previously considered.” The girl replied quickly and rather sharply. “But I suppose if you count all the fortune tellers and-”

“No.” Hunter broke in with a rue smile. “All those harmless, normal people that play with the idea of using magic - they aren’t witches. Witches are an entirely different breed of human, at least one parent has to be a witch; you can’t become one by wanting it. And they don’t waste their power telling fortunes at fairs either. Instead, they create illnesses and plagues; they torment victims with illusions and nightmares; they can bring storms, fires and floods. They do all this and more, for their own gain, or sometimes just because they enjoy it.

“Their powers are only limited by their strength - they gain a temporary boost from draining the life from victims; that is why they perform sacrifices, their thirst for power is insatiable. Sorry, I don‘t mean to frighten you.”

The girl sat there quietly for quite a while, naturally taking time to comprehend all this. Finally she spoke with an obvious scepticism. “So… if those girls are witches, and I was the sacrifice - what does that make you?”

“A witch-hunter.”

She raised a brow. “A witch-hunter named ‘Hunter’? How very original.”

Hunter sighed. “You’re a very pleasant, friendly character, aren’t you? So, you know about me, do I get to learn your name?”

“Sophie Murphy.” She replied without hesitation. “What… what happened to the girls - I mean, the witches?”

Hunter paused. “The two female witches weren’t very powerful creatures. They agreed to be bound. But the male witch that was in charge was executed on site.”

“You killed him?” Sophie’s voice shook.

It sounded bad, but people just didn’t understand. “He wasn’t willing to cooperate, I hope you don’t mind.” Hunter replied with a certain bite. Oh yes, he could act the hero and save her and get away unscathed, but he must do it without killing violent witches? Sure.

“So… bound? What does that mean?” Sophie asked more quietly, helpfully shifting the focus.

“Oh, it means they submitted to arrest. Then their powers are ‘bound’, effectively removed so they can never use them again. Then the witch serves time in prison, same as any convict.” Hunter replied, giving the brief version of binding. The witch-hunter’s handbook devoted about three dreary chapters on the subject. “You’ve got nothing to worry about from those girls, they’re powerless and it may be a lifetime before they’re free.”

They were interrupted as the door flew open. A young man entered, slamming the door behind him before turning to glare at Hunter.

“You couldn’t do it, could you? You couldn’t go even two bloody days without looking for trouble?” A thick Yorkshire accent shouted out as he turned to throw down his coat and two bags in the kitchenette. “You call me up at 3 in the mornin’, and it’s me that’s gotta fly out and clean up. I’ve already rang the Italian branch of the Council, we’ve got a meeting with ‘em this afternoon - they’re not happy, Hunter - you know the rules. You notify them if you’re operating or hand it over to one of theirs.”

Hunter sat back, appearing unfazed by this little outburst. When the young man had finished, he spoke quite coolly. “Sophie, this is my colleague, James Bennett. James, this is Sophie, the girl that would have been sacrificed by the time I had followed the proper lines of authority.” Although he spoke calmly enough, there was a hardness in his tone.

James reined back his frustration as he held out his hand to shake Sophie’s, while giving her an appraising glance. “Sure, spurred on by a bonny face.” He muttered to no one in particular.

There was no denying the warning in Hunter’s voice this time. “Just take her statement, Mr Bennett.”

It took half an hour for James to take down everything Sophie had to say, then a further hour for her to answer his unending questions into every tiny detail. Finally he sat back, closing his notebook. “Right, thank you, Miss Murphy. I’ll get this all typed and copied for the Council… ah, there’s just one more thing.”

He reached into his briefcase, and after ruffling through many stuffed-in papers he pulled out some sheets and handed them to Sophie. She took them hesitantly, glancing down at the thick paper covered in text.

“It’s a non-disclosure contract,” he explained, leaning over so that he could see the writing he already knew by heart. “I’m sure you can understand, it’s to protect you and us from… well, other witches finding out, or idiot interference.”

“He means the media and general stupidity of the human race,” Hunter added as he hovered about the formal conversation.

Sophie looked between the two of them and back down to the contract. “So signing a piece of paper is supposed to guarantee my silence. I can see some flaws there.”

“It legally and, ah, otherwise binds you to silence over the subject,” James said seriously. “You will be unable to speak of it to anyone outside of the Malleus Maleficarum Council. Speaking of which, we’ll organise you a contact for when you get back to England in case you want help, memory modification or the like.”

Sophie continued to stare at the contract with an emotion resembling disgust. “And if I didn’t sign it?”

Hunter leaned in, deadly serious. “We make sure you don’t talk. As we said, it’s for your own protection. I suggest you sign.”

Sophie slowly picked up a pen and scrawled her name at the bottom of the page. James swiftly snatched it away from her and stuffed back in his briefcase. The three sat in silence for a few minutes before Hunter stepped up. “I’ll see you out, Miss Murphy.”

As he opened the front door for her, Sophie gazed up at him questioningly. “When do I see you again?”

“If everything goes to plan?” Hunter replied, leaning against the open door. “Never.”

* * *

Two

Spring was warming to summer.

Amongst the rolling hills and the green pastures of the English countryside in the picturesque village of Little Hanting life went on as normal. It was a quiet, sleepy place, with fields of cows and rattling tractors. There were old stone houses built in clusters. The grandest of which was Astley Manor, set in a large estate. No one could remember a time when there wasn’t the quiet, unobtrusive Astley family. George “Young” Astley VI had died unexpectedly five years ago, leaving the manor and the care of his widow in the hands of his then 20 year old son, known to all as Hunter.

And at this very moment, Hunter was seated in one of the large rooms, reading over a report written up by the ever-present James. Hunter sighed, even witch-hunting required paperwork in this crazy modern world - but thankfully Hunter could shift all that onto James’ workload. He preferred the more active part of his job than this paperwork. And James did a tediously good and thorough job of it. James hovered over him, waiting for his response.

“Yes, that’s all in order. Send a copy to the MMC.” Hunter passed the thick sheaf of papers back.

The Malleus Maleficarum Council, the secret branch of witch-hunters under the pay of the crown; or MMC for short. All witch-hunters reported to them and were bound by their laws.

Hunter stood up and walked over to an old cabinet, one of those numerous antiques that filled his family’s sprawling homestead. With a clink of glass he filled two glasses and passed one to James. “Here’s to the end of that, then.”

James took the drink. It had been an easy one this time, a single male witch in the East Midlands causing very localised trouble. He was comparatively weak and, faced with Hunter and James, he had succumbed to be bound from his magic and be registered with the MMC, to live quietly from now on. After the necessary jail time, of course.

“Excuse me, sir. There is a young lady here to see you.” The mild voice came from the doorway. The family’s long-serving butler waited for Hunter’s attention. “A Miss Murphy. She is waiting in the sitting room.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Hunter replied, quite perplexed. Murphy? It sounded familiar. He exchanged a confused glance with James, before they rose together to meet the unknown guest.

A woman sat straight-backed on the settee, her long, dark brown hair casually tied back. She turned her head at their entrance and met them with a defiant stare.

“Mr Astley, Mr Bennett. I am Sophie Murphy. You may not remember me, but you came to my aid a couple of months ago - in Venice.” The young woman spoke calmly and confidently and remained seated.

“Ah, Miss Murphy, of course.” But Hunter frowned. “Forgive me, why are you here? The Council provided you with a contact?”

“Yes,” Sophie replied. “But I didn’t want to speak to a low-level pen-pusher. This won’t take long, why don’t you sit down.”

Hunter gaped, speechless. He couldn’t believe the girl’s bloody cheek; inviting to sit down in his own home. On the other hand, he was curious about what the determined-looking girl could wish to say to him. Both he and James took their seats.

“I’m sure you can understand, after what happened, after I returned home it jarred with all the - the normality of the world. I had to learn more. And what I learnt was terrible. I want to be of use to you, to the Council, I want to join the witch-hunters.”

Hunter sighed. To be honest, it wasn’t uncommon for those rescued from the witches to feel in debt to the witch-hunters. And there was a perfect place for these untrained post-victims…

“Well, the Malleus Maleficarum Council always needs to employ people for its offices. There’s lots of ways to help,” Hunter replied. Yes, lots of ways to help, stuck in four walls organising counselling for victims, processing artifacts from raids, registering bound witches… More than a little bit dull.

Sophie seemed aware of that, and she shook her head. “No. I want to join the witch-hunters. I want to do something, Mr Astley.”

Hunter grew uncomfortable at this, he did not enjoy recruiting witch-hunters. “It’s not that simple, Miss Murphy, are you sure you won’t consider an office position?”

It wasn’t something to be taken lightly, everyone with the MMC put their lives on the line just by associating with witch-hunters. But to be a witch-hunter, to enter a world of darkness and fear, to never be off duty from revenge and persecution, to gamble with your life every day until a guaranteed early death. No, Hunter did not enjoy recruiting naïve people to join this hard life. But one glance at Sophie told him that she wouldn‘t be easily dissuaded.

“Miss Murphy, I understand how you feel, but the best witch-hunters are born, you can’t just become one by choice. No, don’t interrupt. My father was a witch-hunter, and his before him and so on, over the generations I have gained a certain… protection. A protection that you don’t have.”

Sophie sat quietly, then rounded on James. “And what about you? Are you a predestined witch hunter?”

James looked uncomfortably towards Hunter. “Ah, no. I’m like you. New to this. What’s called a first generation. Even though I’ve been at this for five years now and I’m fully trained - or as much as any can claim t’ be, I’m dependent on Hunter here for my safety, and I’m seen as nowt more than a lowly assistant t’ MMC.”

“Then I have made up my mind. I’ll become a witch hunter, whether it is with your Council or not.” Sophie replied quickly, a clear challenge in her voice. “It’s up to you now, Mr Astley, are you going to help me?”

Hunter sat back, regarding the girl. She had guts enough, but he didn’t like new people, besides the guilt, they couldn’t handle things as well as he could. “James, a private word, please.” He said quietly, then stood up, leading the way out into the corridor, aware of Sophie’s eyes following them.

James closed the door behind him and shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, but she’s got the right attitude. Why don’t we get in touch wi’ MMC and give her a go. After all, we always need to build our numbers…”

Build our numbers. Or in other words replace those lost.

Hunter sighed, the decision would technically lie with the Council, but both he and James knew that his opinion would weigh heavily on the outcome. “Sure, let her throw her life away. Get in touch with the MMC, James. Suggest putting her with Brian Lloyd - he doesn’t currently have an assistant.”

James pulled his mobile out of his pocket and wandered down the empty corridor; while Hunter turned and re-entered the sitting room.

“James is talking to the Council now. Can I get you a drink while we wait?” Hunter asked as he closed the door gently behind him.

Sophie nodded, knowing she‘d won her case. “Tea, please.”

Hunter pressed the intercom and shortly asked Charles to bring up some tea. Sitting back down again he stared towards Sophie. She was bloody stubborn, maybe she’d be one of the few first generations to survive this career. “You’ll be joining Brian Lloyd as an assistant-”

“Not you?” Sophie broke in.

Hunter frowned, not happy to be interrupted. “No.” He replied abruptly. He didn’t want the trouble of taking on an untrained assistant. “Mr Lloyd is a good man, he’s been hunting for years and he’ll teach you a lot. He’s a fifth generation and can protect you while you learn, then you’ll work under him.”

There was a light knock on the door and Charles walked in, carrying a large tray. “Anything else sir?”

“No, thank you.” Hunter replied, lightly dismissing him as he leaned forward to serve the tea. How very British; having a nice cup of tea whilst conversing about witches.

“You keep talking about generations, what do you mean?” Sophie asked, accepting her cup.

“Exactly what I say.” Hunter replied, sipping at the hot drink. “People like you, and James, are referred to as first generations, because that’s what you are. If you live long enough to have children and they continue witch hunting, they’re second generations. Mr Lloyd is a fifth gen, meaning that his father, grandfather, great- and great-great-grandfather all worked for the MMC. Which means that he is highly regarded at the Council.”

“And what are you, then?” Sophie asked quickly.

“I’m a seventh generation.”

“So you’re even more ‘highly regarded’?”

Hunter paused, staring down into his hot tea. When he continued, it was more haltingly. “Yes. For two reasons. First, I mentioned protection - it turns out that when the parent fights witchcraft, the children gain a certain resistance to it. It’s like evolution in fast forward. By the third generation, they can perceive magic being used, they can deflect minor curses. By the fifth generation, they are stronger, faster…”

Sophie waited, but it seemed Hunter intended to leave the sentence hanging. “And? What about when a family gets to seven generations? What about you?”

Hunter now avoided her gaze. “Obviously I’m even better equipped… You have to understand that we don’t know much about the skills of sixth and seventh gens. There are so few of us. Which brings me onto my second point - there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of first gens. Only about half of these survive long enough to even have families. And those of us that become a well-known witch-hunting family become a target for all witches.” He now looked up to gauge her reaction. “You didn’t think this would be a nine to five, did you? So many families utterly destroyed by witches to prevent the next generation of hunters. And then you have to start from scratch.”

“I am not naïve, Mr Astley, I can boast to be somewhat aware of the risk of it all.” She sipped the hot tea, then gazed with that constant frosty defiance at Hunter. “Besides, your family seems to have survived these dangers - even prospered.”

It was clear that she assessed Astley success with the luxurious, sprawling manor. Hunter smiled at her confidence, but was a little unnerved at how cold Sophie was. Oh well, at least she was strong, who knew, perhaps she’d be ok. “Ah, well, over the generations we’ve learnt how best to protect ourselves. Astley Manor, for instance, has its own protection.”

He paused and looked at her carefully, gauging the girl’s potential, before suddenly deciding why not. “Come, I’d like to show you something.”

Hunter led the way into the back of the house. He took out a key and unlocked a heavy door. It was dark inside the room, heavy curtains drawn across every window. Hunter clicked on a light and walked in.

“This is one of the best libraries in Britain - witch related libraries, of course.” Hunter gestured to the rows of shelves, the room was stuffed with books, papers, files… “It’s one of the perks of 200 years of Astley family witch hunting.”

He moved over to a large glass case, looking down at it with a smile. “My personal favourite.”

Sophie went over, peering curiously at the large yellowed sheets, bound with what looked like leather straps. Faded ink was shaped in medieval handwriting that looked familiar, assumedly Latin. “What does it say?”

“Malleus Maleficarum, maleficas ut earum hæresim, ut phramea potentissima conterens. Which roughly translates as ‘The Hammer of Witches which destroyeth Witches and their heresy like a most powerful spear’.” Hunter read out the first couple of lines, his fingers tracing above the words. “It’s from the-”

“Malleus Maleficarum: ‘The Hammer of Witches’ or ‘Witch-hunter’s Handbook’. Published 1487. You have an original printing, impressive.” Sophie suddenly recited.

Hunter looked at her in surprise.

“As I said, I’ve been doing my own research.” Sophie added with an off-handed shrug. “You can find out about anything on Google.”

“Yes, well.” Hunter walked over to a bureau and picked up another book, relatively new compared to the rest. “This is something you won’t see on the net. The Malleus Maleficarum - 37th Edition. The Handbook gets updated every thirty years or so. This was brought out four years ago.” He handed her the book. It was small, only A5, but thick. And when she opened it and flicked through the pages, the text was small and dense.

“These are given to witch-hunters only.” Hunter said, reclaiming his copy. “The Council will give you one when you are ready. I’m sure you’ll find it as interesting as reading the Bible, but it’s a sorry necessity to know it well. In the meantime, there is something I’d like to give you.”

Hunter turned to a little dark door and another key was taken out. It was cold on the other side and as a pale light flickered on, Sophie followed down a set of stone steps. As she reached the bottom she shivered. It was a large stone room, which had originally been designed as a wine cellar.

Now it was like a private museum for the occult. One case displayed a score of knives and daggers, all remarkably designed. A long shelf held a bizarre collection of bottles - containing what Sophie dare not guess. Everywhere there was the glitter of silver bowls, the gleam of bronze bands.

“What is this stuff?” Sophie asked, still gazing about in amazement.

“Just stuff collected over the years. Things my family have confiscated from the witchkind. Some of it is quite useful.” He pulled at the chain around his neck and lifted out a soldier’s dog tags. “This, for example. We think it was originally used for protection during World War Two. It’s served me very well when I’ve gone up against witches. It deflects all sorts of spells and attacks - it must’ve been a very strong witch that made it.”

Sophie looked disgusted. “You horde dead witches’ stuff? And then use it?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Well, ok, maybe it is. But we’re not going to turn down extra protection. Anyway, it’s safe. Dangerous stuff is disposed by the Council. Everything else is analysed, then returned to the witch-hunter. Most of us have an amulet of some sort.”

Hunter turned to a cabinet and took out a silver necklace with a cloudy stone hanging from it. “Look, I’d like you to take this with you.”

Sophie reached out and took it, then turned it over carefully in her hand. “I don’t know what to say.” She replied quietly, her eyes lowered.

Hunter shrugged. He wasn’t one to throw gifts at relative strangers, especially not when the gift came from his own collection, but he felt incredibly guilty about setting Sophie up for a dangerous life.

“HUNTER!” James did insist on shouting in Hunter’s house, even though Astley Manor was equipped with a state-of-the-art intercom system.

Hunter traipsed up the stairs again, followed closely by Sophie.

“Hey, it’s sorted.” James said quickly, “Sophie’s gotta go straight to Brian Lloyd. He’s his usual grumbling, unhappy self about it, but he’s expectin’ her.”

“Right! That’s great.” Hunter turned to Sophie and shook her hand briefly, “Nice meeting you again, Miss Murphy. Brian will give you a good start, you’ll learn a lot. James will give you directions and see you out.”

And that was it; Hunter turned and left for the second time expecting not to have to see Sophie Murphy again.

* * *

Three

Despite his promise to keep his distance, to let the girl get on with her training, business carried Hunter to Brian Lloyd’s door. James was visiting family up north, and Hunter decided to use the time to go see Brian. The fact that he could discretely check on Sophie’s progress had of course never occurred to him.

As he strolled up the driveway, he looked up at the familiar house. It was detached and roomy, though nothing compared to Astley Manor. Still, Hunter had spent a lot of time here. After his father had died – or more correctly, been killed – Brian had stepped in. The MMC were desperate for the 7th gen Hunter to reach his full potential, preferably while keeping him tethered to the Council. So they had sent 5th gen Brian Lloyd, to continue his training.

There weren’t many people that Hunter was scared of, but Brian was one of them. Tall, stocky, with close-shorn hair, he looked tough and was an unforgiving bastard. But he was good at what he did and in Hunter’s opinion, he was always right. So it was with some nerves that he knocked on Brian’s front door.

“Don’t stand there gawping, boy. You coming in or not?” Without waiting for an answer, Brian went back into the house.

Hunter sighed, things obviously hadn’t changed. He stepped through into a large study where Sophie sat, deep in reading a musty old volume.

“Oi, be useful, put the kettle on.” Brian barked at her.

Sophie shot Hunter a cold look and took herself out of the room.

“So, how are things going?” Hunter asked with a smile. He’d had some equally pleasant experiences of training with Brian. It was almost satisfying to see that the old man was treating his next trainee with the same courtesy.

“I don’t like you throwing your weight with the Council, boy. Sending me a bloody girl. What use are girls?”

Hunter gave his old mentor a sideways glance. Ah yes, Brian was set in the old ways, and at 62 years old, he wasn’t about to change.

“Brian-”

“Oh aye, I know all about your modern, pc equality crap. But if she wants to help the MMC, why didn’t you stick her in an office - registering bound witches, or filing cases.”

“Because no one wants to do that boring shit.” Hunter replied, then grinned, “So I take it it’s not going well?”

“Ah well, I wouldn’t say that. She seems to be coping, picking it up well enough. Took her along to a raid, she kept her head, didn’t even throw up at all the blood.”

Hunter found himself gazing in the direction of the kitchen where there was the clatter of mugs. What do you know, maybe Sophie would make a witch-hunter after all, and he wouldn’t have to feel guilty.

“Ugh, you do like to try me, George,” Brian grumbled.

“Who’s George?” Sophie appeared in the doorway, three mugs in hand.

“Ahm.” Hunter shifted uncomfortably, trying to work out if he could get a cup of tea without giving an answer.

“You didn’t think Hunter was his actual name, girl?” Brian guffawed, blowing everything. “George Astley the Seventh, that’s him. Only he insists on adopting that daft moniker and have everyone call him it. Just egotistical, if you ask me.”

Sophie turned to Hunter, her eyes glittering.

“Look, I’ll have you know my friends started that nickname - and it had nothing to do with witches. Besides, do I look like a ‘George’? Only my mother insists on calling me it - well, and you, Mr Lloyd.”

They sat drinking tea and chatting about insignificant things for another half hour. With a meaningful look from Brian, Sophie picked up some books and excused herself.

“You didn’t just come for a chit-chat?” Brian asked suspiciously.

“No,” Hunter replied, then fell silent. There was something else that had been making him increasingly uneasy, especially after a recent event.

“A police contact got in touch recently. He had something he thought I might be interested in. A couple of months ago six teenage girls died in a suspected arson attack.”

“And why should that concern us?” Brian asked, not sure where this was going.

“Well, it turns out they were all wiccans.”

The two men sat in silence. Wiccans. Whereas witches were a whole different breed, wiccans were normal humans (normal in perspective) that treated ‘magick’ as a religion. They were generally harmless individuals, bored housewives and teens that wore too much black. They played with their candles and foretold wobbly futures through cards and the like and were a bit of a running joke amongst the witch-hunters. After all, who’d be scared of a cat after facing lions!

Eventually Brian shrugged. “Sometimes wiccans die. It could have been an accident; it could have been arson, but mundane normal people arson. If witches were involved, the MMC would have found the traces.”

“There’s more.” Hunter sighed. “And I don’t know what to make of it. Last week, we took on a small coven, four witches. Three were killed, one bound. But as soon as the binding was complete, she burst into tears, saying crazy things: that she didn’t know what she was agreeing to. Then she committed suicide a day later. Something didn’t feel right so I had James do a background check. Turns out she was a wiccan.”

Ok. That was enough to get Brian’s attention.

“But… wiccans cannot gain anything from witchcraft.”

“I know,” Hunter muttered.

“What proud witch would allow one to join them. They think wiccans are scum.”

“I know.”

“And the binding, a wiccan would have no powers to be bound from, so why would she agree to be bound?”

“I know.”

“So… are they taking on wiccans as servants? Or using them to swell their ranks? It’s unheard of.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Hunter agreed. It didn’t seem to fit, but he was scrabbling to make sense of it.

Brian sat, idly scratching his chin as he stared into space. He was a living legend, one of the oldest, longest-running witch-hunters. He’d faced every threat out there and never backed down. If he couldn’t find an answer, who could?

“Aye, leave this to me, boy. I’ll look into it. Now, why don’t you bugger off so I can get some work done.”

Hunter smiled again and shook hands with his old mentor. Yes, time to leave, there were other sources he could get working too.

As he left he passed Sophie who was sitting in the front garden, a book on her lap. She looked up as he said goodbye and there was the briefest smile on her lips. “See you, George.”

* * *

His next stop was Oxford.

Possibly one of the most beautiful cities in England. The way it clung onto tradition, and the studious air that came from the abundance of intelligent young minds. Oh, the memories Hunter had of this place. The slightly dilapidated rooms at his old college, the great hall that awed all newcomers, the underground bar where he used to drink with James and Charlotte.

It had been in his first year of university that he received the news that his father had been killed. Hunter joined the witch-hunters then and there and he’d dragged his friends into his dangerous world. Now they all had their parts to play. James was a 1st gen witch-hunter and Charlotte, dear sweet Charlotte, was a very important member of the Council: she had easily switched from law student to liaison in the office of bound witches.

So who better to ask about bound witches. Hunter rolled up to her door early the next morning. But the person that answered wasn’t the black-skinned beauty, it was a tall, lanky bloke with glasses.

“Ah, morning, Steve. Is Lottie in?”

Steve King, the gormless bugger that had married the most important woman in Hunter’s life. Steve King, who now looked with intense dislike towards Hunter.

“Charlotte, you’ve got a visitor!” Steve called, and then stepped aside so Hunter could squeeze into the hall. “She’s in the kitchen.”

Hunter nodded humbly and went through the familiar house, Steve close behind him. Something about that guy always made Hunter feel like he’d done something wrong. But then, Hunter always did go out of his way to antagonise him.

“Ah, my favourite lady, just how I like to see her!” Hunter greeted with a fierce hug.

Charlotte gave him a sceptical look when he let go. She was sat at the breakfast table with a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of her. Her unbrushed black hair was tied messily back and she was still in her dressing gown.

“I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”

“I’m not working today Hunter. You could have phoned ahead.” Charlotte glanced at the clock. “Oh, darling, you’re going to be late.” Her big brown eyes fell on her husband. “Go to work, we’ll be fine.”

“Yes, go to work, darling. I’ll look after Lottie.” Hunter added, enjoying the opportunity to wind him up.

Charlotte jumped up to see Steve out the front door, hitting Hunter as she passed him.

Ignoring the loving farewell that echoed up the corridor, Hunter helped himself to the fresh coffee.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Charlotte said as she came back, “Every time you visit, he’s in a mood for a week.”

“Then you shouldn’t have married such a grumpy sod. Why you settled for such a boring-”

“Quiet, kind, caring and RELIABLE.” Charlotte cut in, repeating what she had said a hundred times before. “Why are you here, Hunter? Apart from driving my husband mad.”

Hunter repeated everything he’d told Brian. Told her everything.

“And you want me to look if we have any similar cases, and check out the backgrounds of any unusual cases?”

God she caught on fast.

Charlotte regarded him carefully. “That’s a lot of extra work, Hunter. Do you know how many cases my office has processed?”

Hunter sighed. “I know, and I hate to ask, but I have a weird feeling there’s something bigger here.”

“Ok. I’ll do it, of course,” Charlotte replied with a sorry smile. “I learnt long ago to trust your weird feelings.”

“Thanks, Lottie.” Hunter gazed at her with friendly affection. But then frowned. “Where’s your bracelet? You know you shouldn’t take it off.”

He was speaking of Charlotte’s amulet, a delicate gold bracelet with small rubies, a beautiful way to protect oneself.

Charlotte reached into her dressing gown pocket and pulled out the offending piece of jewellery, her fingers gently playing over the links and stones. “Steve doesn’t like me wearing it too often, no matter how I explain it he still sees it purely as an expensive gift from you that he can’t compete with. But don’t worry, I always have it close by.”

Hunter frowned at this news, disliking dear Steve even more. “What if it doesn’t work like that, Charlotte? You shouldn’t take the risk.”

“I’m a full-grown woman, Mr Astley, it’s my choice.”

Ok, so Hunter felt like the petulant little boy whenever Charlotte got like this, but he couldn’t help caring. “Ok, but please tell me Steve hasn’t removed the protection over the house?”

“No, he sees that as a dividend of working at the MMC. If you don’t believe me, you can go inspect it.” Charlotte said, looking carefully at Hunter. “Can we talk about something else? How’s James?”

“Reliably annoying,” Hunter replied swiftly. “He’s gone home for a few days, which means he will come back with that unbearable over-the-top accent again. He might as well wear a bloody badge saying ‘I’m from Yorkshire’.”

Charlotte laughed, she knew that Hunter was as fond of James as she was, but that didn’t stop these two southerners enjoying the peculiarities of their friend from oop north.

“And how’s - what’s her name - Leanne? All going well?” Charlotte asked, unconvincingly ‘forgetting’ the name of Hunter’s girlfriend.

“Leanne?” Hunter asked vaguely. “Oh, her. She got too clingy. It’s Marie now, but it’s not going anywhere. Then there’s Natalie of course, the girl from my mother’s tennis club.”

Charlotte laughed at the ever-changing women in his life. “Lord, I can’t keep track of you, Hunter. What are you trying to do, work your way through the alphabet before New Year? Will it be Olivia next, then Patrice? Aren’t you ever just going to settle down?”

Hunter shrugged. “What can I say? The best girl in the world is already taken, so I’m just enjoying the rest.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Hunter wondered if he’d tripped over that invisible line of conduct they kept for their friendship. They both knew that he had been in love with her since their days at University. Charlotte was beautiful and intelligent, she had been so caring and supportive when Hunter’s father had died. She had also been immune to his charms.

Charlotte had never returned his love, and their relationship had been awkwardly platonic. Some days it was more awkward than others.

Hunter was uncomfortably aware that today was going to be one of those days. He glanced at his watch, anxious for an excuse to leave. “Look, Lottie, I should be going. I promise I’ll ring before I come round next time!”

* * *

Thank you for reading this sample of

The Shadow Rises (Witch-Hunter #1).

Continue with Hunter’s story:

www. ksmarsden.com

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9

Living in Times of Dragons

John Pretorius

“…as with everything in my life all this began with dreams…”

American ex-pat, father and widower, Roger Rommel, did not believe in dragons. Unfortunately they did not return the sentiment.

After returning from a self-imposed exile to his adopted country of South Africa, Roger is confronted by these legendary fire-breathing reptiles who risked exposing their hidden world simply to hunt him. Gifted with the ability to create and enter dreams, as well as to see the future, he tries to survive and protect his son from enemies he does not understand.

But the past is alive, and he finds himself linked to a conflict thousands of years old. The world he knew is now stranger, more fantastic and terrifying than he truly knew, especially when everyone is out to get you.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

First Addenda

More and more humans fell through the gaps into our world. Some we managed to convince that we meant no harm and wanted to help. Others acted more violently towards us. The more aggressive ones, confused, lonely, angry, feared us on sight and thus gave into grave impulses. With humans the act of killing came to our lands and settled in it like a weed. We suffered no casualties but in some ways we had already lost when we had to defend ourselves too violently.

Unfortunate as this beginning was, humans fascinated us. Some humans had a paler pigment while others were dark brown and others lighter, all with numerous differences parcelled out between them. Hair and eye-colour were fascinating as we were of one race back then and we surmised that the human world was harsher than ours.

These first visitors were outside their natural world and the gaps they passed through were difficult to manage. Most of these gates were random gaps that closed like wounds while others were permanent fissures that could be tamed with time. With some effort we constructed a stable, controllable gate and send out some explorers, both humans and dragon, to see what was on the other side. When the first expedition returned, they said they had stepped out in a vast desert and needed supplies to proceed further. The second expedition never returned. I chose to lead the third.

Not far from the gate we found the remains of our human friends. Then we found all the dragons, caught in traps and murdered as well. This sight was horrific to us for we had never seen any of our kind murdered. From the looks of it their tails were cut off first to paralyse them with pain before being killed by special blades strong enough to pierce a dragon’s skull. What shocked us about this, other than friends being slaughtered so carelessly, was the pointless malice of it.

One of our human companions, a man named Enoch, said bandits sometimes attack humans, but insisted this was different. The humans had valuables with them, and these were left with their bodies. We did not understand at first, but it became clear that we were the targets as the tools were made for us.

How did they know where the gate would open? How did they know to kill us? We could not answer that. All we knew then was that something saw us as prey.

Excerpts from The Last Tale of Xeprax (written approx. 1240 AD), translated from Tamasheq by Professor Hussain Daher, reproduced from Lesser Known Lizards: A Compendium of Obscure Dragon Myths , published in 1999 by the New Edgestow University Press.

NOTE: The original document these excerpts were taken from was housed in the Ahmed Baba Institute in Timbuktu, but was destroyed by Ansar Dine in January 2013. Numerous facsimiles still exist worldwide.

* * *

Chapter One: Half a Lifetime at my Back

I

My past is leaving me. I have been sensing it for some time. My recollections are fading like a tail of smoke rising from an extinguished candle. I still retain these memories, but my emotional connection dims with each passing year, as if I’m walling up some part of my soul in my own mind. My greatest fear is that at some point these memories will be of little consequence to me. Memories define us and this is the only reason I'm putting my experiences down on paper. Certainly not to defend any of my choices, if that is possible. I just don’t want to forget or stop caring. It would be easier just to let them fade. But I'm not that kind of guy.

The roots of my experiences reach further back into time than my own birth, but it would be safe to say that, as with everything in my life, all this began with dreams. Through my life I've been haunted by dreams and it makes sense to me to start here.

The old man sat on his throne, resting his fragile weight on a brass sceptre as worn and tarnished as he, a strange contrast considering his regal clothes. His skin was soft, loose, stained, and wrinkled; all badges earned by a long, hard life. Age spots dotted his balding head like the pelt of a half-formed leopard. At the forks of his long fingers I saw the yellow stains of nicotine against pale skin. I also noticed the scars; these were scratched on the back of the hand and didn’t seem self-inflicted. Glancing at his face I could make out several more. I imagine there were other scars as well, lost in the mass of wrinkles. No crown decorated his head, but he required no formal signs of power as the sceptre served as only a cane for a weary man. In spite of his feebleness the man radiated authority. You could sense he was a king or an emperor, though I felt no real desire to show him any reverence. An earthly king was something so distant to my world that I held no fascination with the concept. And I knew what he was capable of.

This man has haunted my dreams since I was young. At the age of five I saw him kill a man begging for his life, then kill the deceased’s son without batting an eye. I've seen him commit several other brutal acts, and though I seldom gave them much thought in the waking world, I considered them acts of an unusually cruel man. You can hardly blame me for fearing this man so long. When our paths crossed during these dreams I made a point of avoiding him, though not all the visions were of slaughter. Once I saw him play with a grandchild, and in another he held court and listened to the pleas of peasants. The kindly acts, though, did not change my opinion of him.

This particular dream of him, a lone figure on a throne, was all the more noteworthy because of the tragedies that befell me on what would have been a fairly normal birthday. My men were charged with protecting a client. She hired us, R&S Security Consultants, to keep her safe, and we had failed. An hour before the dream I stepped out of UNITAS Hospital in Centurion where I had seen her die, along with one of my best men, despite the efforts of the doctors. I was angry when I sat down behind my desk, but had to keep it in. I made calls to their families and felt drained by the time I had to deal with the insurance for their loved ones.

I didn’t get halfway with Josiah’s insurance form when the dream took me to the ruined hall of the king. Decorated stone pillars towered into the air and giant windows without glass bathed everything in sharp sunlight. In earlier dreams it was nothing but rubble, but now it was slowly acquiring a pathetic air of opulence. The hall was being rebuilt and, as expected, there I found the king.

The dream came at the wrong time and that day the king was just a nuisance to me. I approached, but he barely noticed me and kept staring at the slate floor. His eyes were dark and sunken as if he was on the brink of death. I needed someone to vent on and began to tell him what I thought of him, even if I believed him no more than a figment of my imagination. I don’t think my words reached his ears. He just kept staring into space with unseen burdens weighing him down.

I calmed down and stared at the king, frustrated that my rant went unheard, but not really bothered as I saw him as just a product of my mind. But I took a step forward, and I think some part of me must have edged into his view because he sat up. For the first time he looked straight at me.

The king steadied himself and rose. The banged-up sceptre propped him up until he could face me to-the-eye. Even in bent age he was taller than me, but then again most people used to be back then. Like an ancient machine moving back into motion life came to his face. It was an instant and immediate anger that made him look younger. Caught in rage, the king moved forward. There was no joy in face, not even some sort of sadistic glee. He was coming for me. He had seen me.

All my old childhood fears of the man washed over me. I stepped back and the dream ended as bluntly as it began.

My office in Hatfield, Pretoria, was well furnished with a large wooden desk, so magnificently polished that I must have slipped off easily during my little episode. I woke on the floor, my chin smarting from knocking the side of the desk. No one in my firm had noticed. Damned Venetian blinds.

Feeling sick, I crawled to my office’s private bathroom where my stomach quickly proceeded to rid itself of the cheap gas-station pie I had for lunch. After flushing it away, I returned to my chair and tried to focus on the policies. But I did not feel better. Usually I prefer doing this myself but I delegated this task to Nkosi Sibaya, my partner, who in turn urged me to go see my doctor, just in case I had a concussion.

My doctor signed me up for all sorts of expensive medical tests over the next few days, no doubt because he felt I was overall too healthy and needed to sap some of my medical aid. On that Friday he said I only had a light bruise on my head coupled with what was probably a stomach bug and had nothing to worry about. I spent the weekend attempting to catch up on some reading, most notably John Le Carré’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy , which I failed to finish for the fourth time as I was too preoccupied. My mind turned to the people in the morgue rather than the dream. The dream was branded into my soul like no normal dream ever could be, but the failed job weighed heavier.

More dreams came in the period that passed between that summer day and what some refer to as “The Emergence”, but none of them had any significance. The two years that passed were eventful, but no dreams prepared me for what came.

A better heads-up would have been appreciated.

II

“A dragon,” I said more than asked. Ian, my son, was looking out the window to the wing of the Boeing. I could not see his face because his hoodie concealed it. His voice was slightly uncomfortable. The other passengers were asleep and I did not raise my voice too high in fear of waking them. He turned to me and gave me a smile I found difficult to read.

“Yes, a dragon,” he said and dropped down the hood and rolled up his sleeve. With his right thumb and forefinger he gestured to his upper left arm. “The body will be here with its tail curling around my arm down to just above my wrist, right here, with lots of flames. Only black ink. No colours.”

Tattoos, I thought with disgust. “A dragon. You might as well get a heart with ‘mom’ written on it.”

I studied my son’s face to discern whether he was serious or just trying to wind me up. He had short-cropped brown hair and a scruffy beard that did nothing for him. Did this idea of a tattoo come from his visits to the gym? It was an in-thing with bodybuilders and athletes these days, but I never saw the appeal. “You’ve spent too much time working out,” I said, finally.

“I was keeping busy,” he said and picked up his scotch. “There wasn’t much else to do.”

Despite the friendly tone I began to sort through his words. Anything Ian says has to be autopsied delicately for trace-amounts of passive aggression. He was, in a veiled fashion, asking me to be okay with the tattoo. Maybe there was something else, but I could not discern it.

“You’re old enough to get one,” I said. “But don’t kid yourself into thinking I’ll approve.”

“I wasn’t asking for your approval,” he said, his voice emotionless.

“Only criminals have tattoos, and it might make it difficult for you to find a job,” I said.

“You don’t strip during a job interview. Not the kind where tattoos might matter.”

“Fair enough, but my feelings still dip towards the negative.”

“Oh, what will the neighbours say,” he said in a sarcastic falsetto. I’ll admit, that made me smile. “Tatts are becoming more ubiquitous, dad. Twenty years from now it won’t be frowned upon.”

“Then get one in twenty years when I’m dead or senile.” A stewardess passed with a trolley with small plastic bottles of Nederburg wine. I stopped her and pointed to it.

“Am I driving you to drink?” he asked.

“Always,” I said. The stewardess poured it for me but left the bottle on the fold-out tray in front of me. “Look, I know a lot of people are getting them. Sports stars, actors, politicians, pastors. I don’t see them as a sin or some sort of crazy taboo that’ll gets you defenestrated by hysterical mobs. I just don’t like them. Don’t expect me to. Don’t expect your godfather to either.”

“I’m still going through with it,” Ian said.

“They’re expensive. See about getting a job first.”

“Until there is another emergency, and we need to hide again,” he said, choosing to show some disdain openly.

“The way things are going this may be the last time,” I said. “I don’t foresee myself getting involved in anything big from now on. You seem a bit moody tonight.”

“As opposed to just brooding silently like you?”

I said nothing to that, not wanting to escalate things. Eventually he looked away and spoke. “I’m worried about finding a job again,” he said. “Keeps me up at night.”

He had done a lot of jogging over the past few weeks, getting up at 3am when he could have comfortably remained in bed. No doubt our exile bred a lot of frustration for him.

“I thought that was just part of your fitness regime.”

“Not by choice”.

We said nothing further, and after a few minutes he dozed off as people tend to on plane journeys. I began to doze myself, the slow rhythmic hum of the plane acting like a lullaby.

Then a new vision gripped me as violently as if a dog had suddenly clenched its jaws around my neck. It soaked through my mind like blood through cloth. I did not want it but could not resist it. I never could.

When I woke from this vision, the plane was experiencing turbulence and the sign insisting that we keep our seatbelts on flickered in a way that brought comfort to no one. I felt my stomach turn and I sensed the vegetarian meal, which I ironically took to avoid eating turned meat, was going to come up again.

“Oh please,” I more or less prayed, “oh please, not now!”

I didn’t care about what the sign said; I stumbled from my seat towards the bathroom, which was mercifully unoccupied. I slumped over the bowl and relieved myself of my dinner. When it was done I slumped into the corner of the cubicle, sweat dripping down my head, the smell of wine and vomit filling my nostrils.

I can’t be sick now, I thought. Not now! I have places to be. I have to deliver a testimony. If I did not, the last four months of hiding would have been just an absurd waste of time and the delay could mean we go into hiding again.

I hadn’t locked the door of the cubicle. A man opened the door and peered in. He was dressed in a Polo shirt and looked and spoke like a Boer. “You okay, bru?” he asked.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I stammered. My palms were sweaty, my brow felt wet and cold, but I managed to push myself up. I didn’t dare look and flushed my meal down with my eyes closed; all I heard was a high-pressure sucking sound. After wiping my mouth with a tissue, I returned to my seat to suffer further. OR Tambo International was still hours away, and I still had to travel to whatever safe house my associates arranged for me. The next few hours were going to be tough.

I must backtrack a little, and get this out of the way, because I will not dwell on it later. By a strange coincidence (albeit meaningless in the larger chain of events) the murder of my men and the young woman was the case I was returning to. My son and I had been in hiding for the past few months. We hid in the United States under assumed names. In New Hampshire I masqueraded as an eccentric, retired bookkeeper with a silly goatee (a horrible thing long shaved off before heading for JFK airport) and Ian as his layabout son. I dyed my hair a silver grey and my son shaved his head and mostly stayed at the gym to work on the bodybuilding persona he assumed for the trip. Unfortunately, I think that character was less of an act than I assumed. When queried about his accent (a slight mix between American and South African) he would claim his mother was Australian.

I’ve always been indifferent towards my given name, but when I got to customs I felt relieved to call myself Roger Rommel again. Out of necessity I had taken on the persona of Frederick Ealing. Living mostly on cash I changed at the airport we managed more or less to scrape by. Thanks to exchange rates, I lost a huge chunk of my savings, but I tend to value my life more highly than a comfortable retirement.

The New Hampshire days were nerve-wracking because both of us became somewhat paranoid. I don’t think anyone ever followed us to the US, but we kept glancing over our shoulders and around corners. I was glad it was over and it was a relief to board the BA Boeing at JFK International.

And my return was going to be an event. I was returning to my adopted country something of a household name, but I was not looking forward to being one again. There was also the risk of death. The National Prosecuting Authority had been building their case for a long time and I was a key witness. I was no stranger to trials and suspected it would go like always, despite being nervous.

These were the realities the dreams invaded on the plane, and I refused to pay attention to them.

III

The sour smell of vomit was still in my nose when I slumped back in my seat. I wanted to rest but the dream was still on my mind. I did not put any esoteric stock in dreams; I was convinced they could no more tell the future than my left toe could. Whatever relations they had to my cases was only my subconscious. Or at least that’s the story I pieced together for myself from half-read magazine articles on psychology in order to push this issue to the back of my mind. But there was something different about this dream. It did not feel real but it did not feel like a vision either. It still drew from my strength, regardless of its intent.

The vision began with me standing in Church Square in Pretoria, not far from the Supreme Court where I would testify in two days. On a normal day, Church Square would be packed with commuters caring only about their end-destination, hawkers caring about their next sale and tourists looking carefully at the statues and friezes collected in the centre, or taking photos of the quaint nineteenth and early 20th century stone buildings that surrounded them. It is also the central terminus for Pretoria’s bus service, and every piece of tarmac is usually clogged by busses. Pigeons spend much of their day on the lawns or in the trees maybe to be chased away by a bored bystander or a wayward child. In my dream there was only fire.

Trees were charcoal husks. Upturned busses were strewn around and the historic buildings were only gutted, hollow shells. A hellish red reflected on the clouds above me, painting everything in an infernal hue. It was the glow of a city in flames.

But at the centre of the square, where on a normal day you’d most likely see the statue of former Transvaal Republic President Paul Kruger glowering towards the north, there stood a giant dragon. At first I mistook it for a bronze statue but when it cocked its head and looked at me, almost bird-like, I knew it was a living creature. Its head had several short horns around the top, a configuration that reminded me of a crooked crown. It had a long, strange neck with dorsal blades running from its head to tail. The body was as big as a bus and its head so large that it should swallow me in one bite. In the red glow of the vision, it was hard to tell what colour its scales were, but I knew it was red. It could only be red. The scales on its belly looked smooth but thick; the scales around its shoulders and sides, however, looked jagged and sharper. On its back was a massive set of wings that began to spread out towards the sky, as if it was preparing to either fly or give a blessing.

The dragon folded in its wings and bent its neck down to level its amber eyes with mine. Its gaze felt like it cut through me, or at least at first it did. After a short time it began to annoy me and, like with the king, I stepped forward. I was getting angry.

“Did you do this to the city?” I asked. “Who do you think you are?”

I then heard its words in my head. We are coming for you, Atuor , it said. The words felt wrong. It did not feel like a simple voice or feeling but like a large wave knocking into my mind. Don’t make it hard on yourself and try to run away.

I turned my back on the dragon and began to walk away. “This is just a dream,” I said to myself.

Then I heard a hissing sound. I turned and saw the dragon had thrown its head up to the heavens, shaking. It was laughing at me. You’re going to help us bring forth the Empire of the Dragon, eel , the voice droned in my head. You will lend us a hand yourself.

The words imprinted on me a feeling of despair. I suddenly felt small and finite, like a dandelion bracing for a hurricane. As this fear struck fire began to rain down upon the city. Around me everything began to sink down into what could have passed for hell. Isolated balls of fire began to fall, sending sparks flying into the air. Tudor Arms, a red building to the East of the square, collapsed when a falling rock crushed it. I looked up at the laughing dragon which was a black figure now against the inferno.

The dragon stopped laughing but the edges of it mouth twitched in a way that reminded me of an unreadable smile. I was, strangely, not afraid of it. This amused it more. A moment later the rain of fire engulfed me, and I woke.

It was difficult not be affected by what I saw in the dream, but it was also too nightmarish for me to take seriously. I began disconnecting myself from vision, ignoring any implications that came with it.

IV

A jolt from the plane woke Ian. Without acknowledging me, he yawned and turned on the in-flight entertainment screen. While he was surfing channels, he glanced at me and I could see he his eyes suddenly widen.

“Dad, are you okay?” his concern was genuine, even if he had seen this a thousand times before.

“I’m feeling a bit off, I’ll admit. Like an early Elvis I'm all shook up.”

“You can’t be too sick if you’re making jokes like that.”

“Don’t worry, Ian, I’ll be okay. I’ll just try and get some sleep. This one’s mild.”

“Did you throw up?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Then how is that mild?” he asked.

“It’s mild in that I don’t feel like vomiting some more,” I said.

“Oh yeah, that’s comforting.”

He didn’t say anything more. I suspect he must have been thinking exactly the same thing I was - if it gets worse I won’t make it to court. The prosecutor would not be too happy about that.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or just me feeling ill but I managed to sleep for a few hours. The rising African sun woke me when it shone through the pigeon-hole windows and practically blinded me. I felt better and was thankful for it. I skipped the breakfast and only drank weak tea with neither milk nor sugar. I didn’t want to push my digestive system too far.

We landed at OR Tambo somewhere before nine. When we left the whole country was brown and withered but now it was the middle of spring, and October has always been a special month for me. It was a good time to return.

Ten men waited for us at the International Arrivals Terminal, all of whom I recognised as employees of my firm. Some smiled to see me, but on the whole they had their business faces on and my senior partners only acknowledged me with a nod.

We left through a supply dock, got into a bulletproof can and began our drive north where Nkosi Sibaya informed me about my sleeping arrangements.

“De Jonge Ridder Hotel,” he said, then smiled when my eyes widened.

“Can we afford it?” I asked. “How were the last four months, fiscally?”

“We did well enough. We don't need your name to attract customers, you know,” Nkosi said. “But the bill was footed by your old friend. He gave us enough for extra guards at the hotel. Men we can trust.”

“For once I don't mind him meddling a bit,” I said. I didn’t want my finances more messed up then they already were.

I'd been to De Jonge Ridder Hotel before; you can't deal with rich customers or attend a function without getting to know it one way or the other. Situated on a small hill close to the border of the Tshwane Municipality and Ekhuruleni, it is comfortably located within twenty minutes of the busiest airport in Africa. The oldest part of the compound faced east and was designed by Sir Herbert Baker, but so many additions have been made that few add this chimera to lists of his works. We were booked into a wing of the building that did not border the main road and proved easy to guard.

The rooms opened up onto a small, warm garden with neatly trimmed hedges and green kikuyu grass. When I felt a bit better, I sought out this small garden. Most of my American exile was spent in summer, yet I stood in the sun and let its warmth enfold me like the embrace of an old friend. The very same sun shone on me in New Hampshire but here it felt different, as if it had an extra sting to its flavour. I hated to say it, but I felt more at home here. The dream of the evening before was now out of my mind and barely registered. Resolve had set in and I was set on doing my duty as a citizen, even if it killed me.

It was a Monday. Tomorrow would be the 10th of October 2006.

From here onward exact dates begin to blur.

* * *

Chapter Two: High Court Battle

I

Nicknaming Pretoria the Jacaranda City was not a particular stroke of creativity, but if anything it was apt. As we drove into the city, my mind tense, I noticed the purple blossoms fall down as if to greet me. It was impossible to miss as I always considered October a fine month, one I would always associate with change. Everywhere I looked I could see the blooms blow in the wind or spiral to the ground. Pedestrians are used to them and do not care about the flowers they trample black on the pavement. With the car window open I could smell their sickly sweet scent and it made me remember my Elisabet. We met one October when the rain began to fall. It’s strange how a city gets its nickname from such a short occurrence but it makes an impression on anyone who sees it.

Despite experiencing the edges of nostalgia, my mind remained on the trial. I was recalling to myself the events that led up to the death of Helen Sithole. They were simple enough; she came into my office and asked for protection. Normally I don't deal with clients off the street, but I was close to reception when she came. I could see she was distressed and I knew most of my operators were out, so I called her into my office. She worked for the municipality and discovered corruption involving the Mayor and Maximillian Mogale, one of the few people the media could reasonably imply to be a crime kingpin. Mogale tried to forge a name for himself and wanted his ‘associates’ to call him ‘the Rand Lord’. The newspapers, however, settled on 'Mad Max' instead, inspired by his terrific temper. This temper caused him to send a hit squad to a block of flats called Oval Gardens in Centurion. They waited in the parking bays beneath the flats and sprayed the contents of an AK-47 into Sithole and three of my men. She and Josiah Mangope died two hours later. Johan Schreck survived but only as a paraplegic. James Mabena was hospitalized. Despite surviving he changed careers, which is a reasonable response.

Financially, my agency did not suffer from the incident. We had insurance on the agents and the R45 000 Helen Sithole gave us to protect her covered our expenses. But when you fail in such a basic job, when you gave your word to the client personally, and when you lose personnel in such a sudden and cold way, you tend to take it personally. Many in my firm, myself included, have met Schreck's family at the Christmas party, had dined with Mangope's fiancée (for whom he had been saving to pay lobola), so we knew them. We all felt compelled, in some way, to respond, so in our spare time we began to lean on the Rand Lord.

It was the ‘untraceable’ AK-47 that lead us to Mogale. Many AK-47s flooded into South Africa after the end of the Mozambique Civil War in the '90s. This AK crossed the border around that time and sat in the private stash of a weapons collector where it took up its place with a Volcanic Pistol from the Old West and a Mauser Broomhandle from the Boer War. When the collector died, his son sold most of the weapons and handed the AK in for destruction during a guns amnesty. It was marked and scheduled for destruction and on police records said as much, but it was sold by a corrupt cop to a band of killers. Mogale did what all criminals do: exploit the system. We managed to find the AK and its owner, and passed the latter’s information the Scorpions, who eventually matched it to the scene of the crime. The new owner of the gun said he was paid by Mogale’s ‘associate’. The Scorpions leaned on the associate, who, in turn, was to testify in the trial. At the trial, I was to explain how we found the AK, and verify the chain of custody. Simple enough.

There was a crowd of reporters outside of the High Court as well as a crowd of people protesting about the Mayor's connection to a known criminal. They did not recognise me initially as our little group passed the modernist marble entrance, past the click stiles, eventually making our way to the office of the prosecutor. He was a man in his late 40s, most of his hair shaved off, and dressed in a black robe. I only caught a glimpse of him as he stormed out of the office and disappeared in the throngs of lawyers and police.

I met with the Prosecutor’s assistant, a man named Shaka Nqakula whose name was the only thing he shared with the fabled Zulu emperor. He was thin, sickly and shorter even than me. After exchanging greetings he informed me that I should expect a brutal cross-examination. “The Prosecutor knows you don’t have any greasy spots on your record, so the defence won’t try to discredit you directly with something from your past. They will, however, try to make you look unreliable by taking things out of context. They may even make your agency look reckless. There is also the issue of where you got the AK.”

“This isn’t my first dance, Mister Nqakula. I can handle myself,” I said with a grimace. I hated giving testimonies. It was a particularly brutal testimony that ended my police career in New York, though more by choice. That felt like a different life on a different planet now, much like the Rand Lord court proceedings would a few days later.

Shaka was not dumb, and must have wondered why I downplayed the big case; his face told as much. “Just be careful, Rommel. Expect attacks from everywhere. Even America is not too popular these days; they might even fixate on that.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about a jury. Character attacks are nothing new against me…” I began, but could not finish the sentence. My right hand began to burn. The pain shot through my veins, my bones, and I slammed all of my energy into not screaming like a little girl. I staggered backwards, and leaned against the marble wall. My face felt numb and cold, and I must have looked like the dead. I looked down and saw I was clutching my arm and a few people staring at me. Then it began to fade.

“Are you… feeling okay?” Shaka asked.

“I... I’m fine,” I said, and swabbed my head with my sleeve. I took a deep breath and steadied myself. The arm was still in pain, but the feeling soon dissipated as the fire in my vein was smouldering. I began rolling up my sleeve to see if it was right.

“I’ve been sick these past few days,” I said. The arm seemed fine on the outside.

“Don’t drop dead on us now,” Shaka said. “If you get sick I’ll bliksem you.”

He escorted me to the courtroom. Its roof was high; the panelling on the walls was wooden. There were no windows, no doubt to spare us the sight of a bare wall. Several members of the press were in the seats, and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Helen Sithole’s mother, wearing black. She looked older than she should have been.

Eventually the judge entered, dressed in a red robe. The Rand Lord was led up from a hole in the ground. He glanced at me and his eyes narrowed. After the usual openings, the trial began. I readied myself to give the testimony.

II

My testimony should have been the second of the morning and it could possibly take much of the day to work through. I had to tread carefully. Anything I said or simply phrased badly could be used against me, and even if I made no mistake, Mogale’s attorney would phrase his questions to try and make me concede something. A tedious exercise, but I knew I had to keep my cool, lest my actions or words discredit me as a witness.

My past is mostly spotless. I have been involved in no scandals or investigations in a negative sense but there was a series of dots in my career that could be connected. It happens in this business. Yet, there is the Big One.

Years ago in New York I got involved in the kind of case where even the lowliest participant would appear in footnotes in most books that followed in its wake. My role was more definitive. I declined interviews in the years that followed as the ordeal remained painful for me and my lack of availability led true-crime authors into excavating my old NYPD performance reviews. These reports clearly stated I was capable but ‘lacked respect for authority’, ‘disliked taking hard orders from superiors’ and had a history of ‘deliberate insubordination’. An attorney did not have to go to New York to get this information; a library card would suffice. These reviews have been reprinted verbatim in books about the Porter case. No doubt that would be the most obvious line of attack.

The court’s first witness was a forensic pathologist who started and ended every statement to the judge with 'My Lady'. Only when Helen Sithole’s name was mentioned did my ears prick up, but that was only for a second before my attention waned again. After roughly forty-five minutes of architectural fixture admiring, I began to realise the defence was wrapping up his questions to the pathologist.

I sat up and began to straighten my tie when the pain returned to my arm. Though not as painful as before, it still hurt like hell and I bit down, hoping I would not attract attention. The few seconds it lasted felt like hours. I felt relief and prayed that this would not return while I’m giving testimony. The judge might postpone the case and send me to hospital for a medical exam. I wanted to get this over with...

I heard screams. We all did.

The judge lifted her head. The defence lawyer stopped for a second and glanced over his shoulder, then reiterated his question to the witness. I glanced at the prosecutor and saw him bite his finger in a nervous gesture.

More screams from outside.

The defence stopped and the judge rose from her perch, her face fixed towards the door behind us, as if expecting a mob to burst through.

For a moment the judge stood there, looking at Mogale, no doubt making a decision. Then the walls of the court began to shake. Dust fell from fixtures, metal rails quivered and at least one light flickered out. This was followed by another quake. More dust fell down and a roof tile came loose. It fell onto a table right in front of the accused. Mogale scurried away, frantic and terrified.

My first thought was that it was an earthquake, but I doubted it. Earthquakes do not come in short, regular bursts. I remember seeing a movie once where an army knocked open a castle gate with a battering ram and the idea that the courthouse may be under siege whimsically sprang to mind. Then the third quake came. The space of time between it was longer than the first two, indicating that whatever it was took longer strides to build up momentum. A noticeable crack spread across the wall. We stared at it as if it had been drawn by a giant hand.

The judge began to speak rapidly. “It is my decision that the court must temporarily adjourn until a new date is set in lieu of the sudden and inexplicable interruption...”

The objection to her announcement came with the fourth knock. The crack spread out further and more radiated from it, like a spider’s web. Many people, including the Prosecutor and Maximilian Mogale, began to run out of the courtroom. I only caught a glimpse of Mogale, who looked at me with a surprisingly large amount of contempt.

Shaka came next to me and grabbed my arm. “We must go!”

I did not move. I remained in my seat, filled with several different feelings. One was anger in the fact that I did not do what I came here to do. Another was horror; something very big was trying to get into the courtroom and for a second I wondered if it wasn’t after me. But lastly there was a perverse sense of wonder; I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but this? I wanted to see this, even though I was terrified. So did many others who lingered.

With the fifth knock something crashed through the wall; in an instant it looked like a wave of grey powder and debris. When it hit a ground another wave of powdered stone exploded around it, making everything in the courtroom a pale grey, including my suit. The dust lingered around the debris, but rising above this haze, also covered in the same powder, was the long neck of a dragon. At first it looked like a stone sculpture, but as the air began to clear, we saw red scales beneath the dust. It was no statue.

The dream came back to me. The words of the dragon.

We are coming to get you...

The dragon spread its wings and began to shake the excess concrete off its scales, like it was vain and wanted to look its best.

When it was satisfied, its neck snapped in my direction. The amber eyes fixed on me, and it felt like it was staring into my soul. Its mouth bent in a way that was unmistakably similar to a smile.

I looked left. No one. I looked right. Everyone had fled. I was the only person left at that section of the court. It was looking at me. My mouth dried and a sharp cold shot up my spine, to my neck, my arms. The dragon was after me. Not anyone else. It was here to hunt.

We are coming to get you...

The creature’s mouth moved and I saw all of its teeth, as sharp as knives. It was amused by my terror. It was not the same dragon as in the dream. Different, but still unmistakably something that should not exist.

In shock, I took a deep breath and I ran. Behind me I heard the scrape of claws and scales against the ceramic tiles, the screams from other people.

As I jumped through the door, I felt its claws brush against my back for a moment. It did not penetrate my jacket or skin; I was only barely out of its reach.

To my left I saw the exit. I turned as fast as I could, every groan in my joints reminding me that I was not a young man anymore. I glanced back and saw that the dragon was snaking its way through the structure like a worm might through an apple. The hallway, the columns, everything broke and began to collapse, but that did not stop it. It was going through the High Court as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

At the gates of the court a wall of policemen stood, their automatic rifles trained at me. I raised my hands to show that I was not armed. One of them stepped out of my way without a word and relief washed over me as I passed the line, past palisade gates and dashed across the now eerily empty street. At the old Palace of Justice on the other side I waited to catch my breath. Sweat poured from my head and I breathed in loud puffs. Then I heard a rumble behind me.

The creature crashed through the doors. The dust cleared and it noticed the police, stopping in its tracks. It looked annoyed. In the daylight, I managed to get a good look at it. Its body was as large as a bus and its neck long and slender. With each movement I could see muscles work beneath the scales. Even that head, I realised, must hold incredible strength.

The dragon gazed down at us. It understood that guns are dangerous. It amber eyes scanned over police, then locked onto me.

With a sweep of its leg, or arm, it pushed the officers away. One fired his rifle. The bullets bounced off the scales. The dragon raised his hand and whacked several policemen out of the way. More bullets erupted to counter this move, stopping the dragon in its tracks. I took this opportunity to run in the direction of Church Square.

“Roger!” someone called. Nkosi, covered in dust with bits of rubble on his coat, grabbed hold of me. “Roger! You’re safe!”

“Glad you’re safe too. Where’s the car?” I said.

“Destroyed,” he said and began to look around. He pointed to a minibus taxi across the street next to the Old Reserve Bank. It faced Church Square and the occupants had abandoned it in terror. “I can see the keys in the ignition,” he said.

From behind came a deafening roar. I turned to face the court. The main facade was visibly damaged and policemen scattered in all directions. One of them, who looked like he lied about his age before joining the force, dropped a rifle near me. It was an R4 automatic. I glanced to my left and right. All of the police were retreating despite the wail of approaching sirens.

I reached for the R4. It was about as long as an AK and felt lighter than I imagined. The scent of gun smoke wafted from it and I hoped it had rounds left. I was too inexperienced with it to know how to check.

The dragon broke free of the palisade gates, scattering the remaining policemen as it did. It went straight for me, their shots bouncing off its scales. I lifted the rifle, aimed for the head and fired.

The kickback unsteadied me but I kept my finger on the trigger. The dragon flinched as if I was spiting watermelon seeds at it. It was now in the middle of the street. It kept coming.

I stopped firing and considered running. Instead I focused, lifting the rifle carefully to take aim. The dragon’s speed increased. It was close to us now.

I fired off a single shot. A burst of bright red blood exploded in its left eye. It hissed in pain and swerved to the left, past me and crashed through the fence of the old Palace of Justice. Like a gecko trapped beneath a finger it writhed and rolled; the sound it made in pain sounded like the hiss of a snake.

I shot a dragon, I thought with a strange sense of pride flooding me.

“Roger!” Nkosi called. I glanced at him. He had stopped near me and opened the passenger door of the taxi. I dropped the rifle and climbed into the front passenger seat. “You should have kept it,” he screamed as we sped away.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

10

Weird Theology

Alex Raizman

The end of the world is non-negotiable. How it happens is still up in the air.

Every god has a nanoverse, but only one will give its wielder the ability to end the world. After years of searching, it has finally been found, with the power to kick start the apocalypse.

They never thought to look in a gift store's box of Knick-knacks.

Ryan Smith didn't expect anything interesting to happen to him. He was a boring guy. The only remotely interesting thing about him was the man in a suit that no one else could see. Always watching, always taking notes. Ryan didn't know it meant he was one of the candidates to find the last nanoverse. Now that he has it, he has the power of a god, and it’s up to Ryan to try and save humanity, even though he can’t save the world.

At least things have stopped being boring.

Now Ryan finds himself in a fast paced adventure, caught in the power struggle between gods as he is forced to battle for his life against forces he can barely comprehend as gods try to stop him from fulfilling his duty. Foremost among them is Enki, a villain so terrible he...wants to save the world.

A high octane battle between good and evil ensues, where the heroes’ best hope is a kinder, gentler Armageddon.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

Prologue: The Man in the Suit

“You have ruined my life,” Ryan Smith said sourly.

The man in the suit didn’t reply.

“Seriously,” Ryan said, spinning his barstool around so he could look directly at the other man. “I know I haven’t talked to you in a while, but I think that’s the last thing I told you a few years back, and now I’m saying it again. You have ruined. My. Life.”

The man in the suit didn’t reply.

“Bartender,” Ryan called over his shoulder. “How about one for my friend here?” He laughed and looked back at the man in the suit. “Wait, you don’t drink, right? Guess I’ll have to drink yours.”

The man in the suit didn’t reply.

“It’s not about Karen, if that’s what you’re thinking. I didn’t even like Karen that much. I mean, maybe I would have, if I’d gotten a chance to get past the worst second date ever.”

“Hey, buddy,” the bartender said. “I think you need to slow down.”

Ryan turned back around. “I’m not drunk,” he protested.

“You’re definitely something,” the bartender shot back.

“What? What did I do?”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “You’ve spent half an hour talking to your imaginary friend.”

* * *

“Is the man in the suit here now?” Dr. Blankenship asked.

“Yes,” twelve year old Ryan answered. “He’s always here. What part of that is hard to understand? He was here when you asked last time, too, and will be here if you ask again in five minutes.”

“What is he doing?”

“He’s taking notes. That’s all he ever does.”

Dr. Blankenship scribbled a note of his own, which was almost funny. Everyone in the room, it seemed, found Ryan fascinating.

“Does he ever talk to you?”

“No. I wish he would. I really wish he’d just disappear, but if he’s going to stick around, he could at least say ‘hello’ or ‘you doing all right’. You know?”

“And how long have you been seeing him?”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “You know you’re like my fifth shrink, right? Isn’t there like a file or something that gets passed to the next guy?”

“I need to hear what’s going on from you directly, Ryan,” Dr. Blankenship said soothingly.

“Fine. My whole life. He’s been there every second of my entire life.”

* * *

Ryan looked back at the man in the suit, who scribbled in his notebook and said nothing. “Right, there’s no one there.” He laughed again. “That’s my fucking life, man…”

“Uh-huh,” the bartender replied, scanning the room, probably wishing he could summon more customers.

“What’s your name?” Ryan asked.

“Mike.”

Ryan wasn’t at all surprised that Mike hadn’t asked for his name in return. Don’t talk to the crazies. “Can I have another one?”

* * *

“I made it up,” fifteen year old Ryan said quietly. He stared at the table, unable to meet his parents’ eyes. “I’m sorry.” He had practiced this dozens of times, but actually doing it was hard. “I think I was jealous of all the attention Isabel was getting, so I made up someone to pay attention to me. An imaginary friend, just like you thought. Then when I got older and kept talking about him, you started paying attention to me, and...I liked that. For a while. Then I couldn’t figure out how to tell you the truth.”

Ryan forced himself to look up, taking in his mother’s tears, his father’s furious expression, and his sister’s utter bewilderment. There, he thought grimly. I’m not crazy. I’m just a lying, attention starved asshole.

In the corner of the kitchen, the man in the suit wrote it all down.

* * *

“You know what’s funny?” Ryan asked Mike. “People don’t know something’s weird until someone tells you it’s weird. If we were all just smart enough to keep things to ourselves, we’d be able to ignore all the crazy shit that happens. That’s my advice, man. If something strange is going on, just shut up about it. You’ll be happier. Trust me.”

* * *

“You should buckle up,” Ryan said to his passenger. As always, the man in the suit did not respond except to write more notes. “Yeah, guess you don’t have to,” Ryan muttered, “you’d just float right through the dashboard, wouldn’t you?”

The man in the suit didn’t reply.

“What would happen if I ever beat you to the car? Can you run at seventy miles an hour? Would you just be waiting for me wherever I was going? What if the car was full? Would you, like, float on top of people?”

Ryan dropped his attempts at conversation-not that they ever mattered anyway. With his driver’s license less than a year old, he didn’t feel very comfortable with the slick roads and rapidly increasing snow. I should have left before it started, he thought. Well, too late now.

A few minutes later, the snow was blinding. Ryan gripped the wheel with both hands, leaning forward with his chest almost pressed into the steering column, like that would somehow improve his control, like it would somehow allow him to navigate the slick roads better.

It did not.

Ryan felt the wheel go wild in his hands as his car began to spin out of control. He forgot everything he’d learned in driver’s ed and fought the skid.

Later, he wouldn’t remember the accident clearly, but he would never forget what came next.

“Hey,” he croaked. “Hey, man. I think I’m hurt pretty bad. Do you think I’m gonna die?”

The man in the suit didn’t reply.

“Hey, could you say something? Anything? Please?”

The man in the suit scribbled busily in his notebook, and Ryan closed his eyes to wait for help. Or death. Or whatever came next.

* * *

“Have you ever had sex in front of somebody else?” Ryan blurted.

Mike sighed. “Seriously?”

“Oh, come on. That can’t be the strangest question you’ve been asked in here.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a question I feel like answering.”

“Got it,” Ryan said. “So the answer’s yes.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m not into that.”

A flush had begun creeping up Mike’s neck, so Ryan quickly handed him a twenty. “Here. That’s for putting up with me. So we’re cool, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m not into that either,” Ryan said. “That’s also been a problem for me.”

* * *

“What did I do this time?” Jacqueline snapped.

Ryan winced. “You didn’t do anything, I swear.”

“Then what is it, Ryan? I try to be patient. I try to be understanding. But...honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t into women.”

“It’s not that,” Ryan protested.

“We’re not in high school anymore, Ryan. We’ve been together for three years. I wouldn’t care if you didn’t want to, or you wanted to wait or something. But you don’t. You keep making moves and then freezing and I don’t get why!”

Ryan looked at the man in the suit, standing in the corner of the bedroom and calmly taking notes. “I...can’t.”

Jacqueline had started to cry. “Why the hell not? What’s the problem? And why aren’t you looking at me?”

Ryan snapped his head back, but now Jacqueline was looking at the corner.

“You always do that, too,” she said. “You stop, and then you look over there. Are you worried about hidden cameras? The government in your teeth? Just give me a reason.”

Ryan took a deep breath. He couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. I see a man in a suit, taking notes on everything I do. But how do you say that? How do you tell someone you love that you’re being haunted by someone no one else can see, and that you hid it from them for years? How do you make that seem anything but crazy?

“I...can’t.”

Jacqueline looked at him, sighed, and stood up. “Then neither can I.”

* * *

“You probably think I’m crazy.”

“Yep,” Mike said.

“I probably am. Doesn’t matter,” Ryan drained his beer and threw some more money on the bar, then turned back to the man in the suit. “Let’s go.”

Ryan could feel Mike watching him as he left the bar. He didn’t care. He was used to being watched.

“You know,” he said to the man in the suit, “people always talk about finding happiness. They want to know what the secret is. Funny thing is that I know. For me, it’s simple. I would be happy if you just went away. Forever. Then my life would be normal.”

Later, Ryan would remember that and laugh. Because when the man in the suit finally did walk away, that was when things really got weird.

* * *

Chapter 1: Departure

Ryan Smith was not a huge fan of souvenir shops. When he travelled - which was rare - he liked to see things and do things, and he liked to take pictures, but he had never understood people’s compulsion to drag home shot glasses and snow globes and other random clutter. His sister Isabel, however, loved that kind of crap. When they were kids, even their thousandth trip to a local amusement park would inspire her to come home with a commemorative plate or tacky picture frame.

God, he missed her. He hadn’t been surprised when Isabel had moved to California a few years back-she hated cold weather and considered rivers a miserable substitute for an ocean-but it had been a blow, especially coming so close to their parents’ deaths. She had been a welcome constant in his life, unlike the decidedly unwelcome man in the suit.

The important thing was that Isabel was happy, and living the life she had always wanted...unlike Ryan who, at thirty, still wasn’t sure what he wanted to be when he grew up.

He was in the middle of another mind-numbing morning of data entry when she texted “I miss Saint Louis”. Glancing around to make sure his boss wasn’t near his cube, he typed, “Yeah, the mosquitos miss you, too” and fired it back to her. She responded with a grossed out emoji.

She was in the land of beautiful beaches and year-round warmth and sun and pretty much everything she loved, but home was home. I should send her a gift or something, Ryan thought. Something to remind her of home .

That was all it took to encourage Ryan to stop taking work seriously. It really never took much-his job sucked, and if he actually gave it his full attention he’d blow his quota out of the water...and then his boss would probably increase it. By lunchtime, he claimed a stomach ache and headed out to go shopping.

Leaving the building, Ryan gave the man in the suit a sideways glance. After thirty years of being constantly followed by a silent, note-taking asshole that no one else could see, Ryan could actually forget about him every once in a while...but not for long. Every time Ryan heard someone complain about a hovering boss, spouse, parent, etc., he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. They had no idea.

Tourist traps weren’t common in Saint Louis - not the way they were in New York or Chicago or LA or other cities that had the kind of places that were big draws. Missouri, being in the middle of flyover country, had very little that was a major tourist haven. One exception was the Gateway Arch, a testimony to America’s westward expansion. Knick-knack stores were able to survive close by, funneling tourists off the attraction so they could pick up miscellaneous items to remind them of their visit.

So Ryan found a suitably tacky store in the shadow of the huge monument and was soon wrist deep in a collection of random tat. He considered a marble with a model of the Arch in it, but it was too small, too easy to lose, and if he could find something flatter it would be cheaper to mail. The same went for the snow globes, although they were tempting because of Isabel’s hatred of winter. It might be worth the extra money, he thought, but the decided against it. He didn’t want to run the risk of it breaking in transit.

For a perverse moment, he considered asking his companion for his opinion. Sure, he’d say nothing, and just write it down in that damn notebook like he always did, but sometimes it amused Ryan to pretend the man in the suit would interact with him for once. C’mon, Ryan, all you’ll do is freak out everyone else in here. For some reason, people got uncomfortable with someone talking to a person they couldn’t see.

Imagine that.

Ryan had just about settled on a tacky key ring that said, “Show Me State” on it, but was still rummaging in the bin, when he heard a soft voice say, “Thank you.”

Ryan turned, looking for the source of the voice, but there was no one near him. No one except the man in the suit, who was…

Who was walking away. He had his back to Ryan and was heading for the front of the store.

Ryan froze, looking at the man’s back, which he had never actually seen. His silent companion had always been facing him, or right beside him, writing notes and refusing to give any answers.

And there will never be any answers if I just let him leave.

The man was already walking through the wall at the front of the store, and Ryan bolted after him.

"Wait, come back!"

A few people on the street turned to look, but Ryan ignored them and kept running. The man in the suit wasn't running away, just walking through the crowd at a relaxed pace that took him among and through every person who crossed his path. Literally through them - people passed through him without noticing he was there. Ryan, however, was a fully corporal human, and so he found himself shoving up against the crowd.

This man had put Ryan through thirty years of hell. People thought he was weird because he was always glancing at something none of them could see - cute when a cat did it, creepy when an adult did. Sleeping under that watchful gaze was a nightmare.

Ryan would be damned if the bastard was going to walk off after all of that without an explanation.

The man turned into an alley, and Ryan was grateful to duck out of the crowd, pushing past a pair of young women who shouted obscenities at him. Ryan felt a surge of relief. If the man in the suit had ducked through a wall, the chase would have been over in that instant. It had always seemed to Ryan that the man preferred to avoid walking through matter when he could, and this held true now.

"Stop! Just...stop! Please!"

The man...hesitated. He didn’t turn around to look at Ryan, didn’t speak, but he stopped walking and stared ahead at the brick wall.

"So you can hear me! Please, what's going on? Who are you? Why...why are you leaving?" Suddenly, the idea of the man leaving was every bit as bad as him staying. Now, Ryan could admit that there had actually been times when the man in the suit’s presence had been a comfort. Ryan had never been alone in in his life, not in the way other people understood being alone. He’d had moments where he had no one to talk to, no one to interact with, but the man in the suit had been there, watching, writing. It was something.

When walking down a dark alley, heart pounding in fear that some murderer was going to hop out and stab him, he had at least known that someone would notice and write it down. When feeling alone and depressed, wondering if he even mattered and if anyone would notice if he was gone, the man in the suit had been there, letting him know that at least one person would.

On the whole it had been a nightmare, but nightmares still were dreams, and even though he had fervently wished to be alone, now that it might be happening the idea of losing his constant companion terrified him.

"I shouldn't be talking to you. I can't imagine how hard this has been." He paused and saw the fury in Ryan’s face, and sighed. "Or...actually, I guess I can, I've seen it."

"Yeah, you have. Every day, for thirty years. I need something, man. You don’t get to fuck up my life and then just walk away without saying anything! I have questions, damnit."

"You're going to have to be okay with not getting answers to most of these questions, Ryan. I'll give you this - one question, one answer. That's all you get."

"Only one question." Ryan made sure to keep his voice flat, so that last word couldn't be construed as a question, and to prevent himself from shrieking at the man. All this time, all this hell, and he only got one question? The first one that came to mind was asking him who the hell he thought he was.

"Yes,” the man said. “More than most people get."

There was a finality to that tone, something that told Ryan it would be pointless to argue or vent his frustrations. So instead, question after question began to race through Ryan's mind. But he needed to ask the right question, if he was only going to get one. After a minute, maybe two, of standing there frowning in furious thought, it occurred to him. The question that would get him the most answers, and really, at this point, the only one that mattered.

"Why are you leaving?"

The man in the suit smiled. "Good question. And the answer is because my prediction was right - you were the one to find it." He saw Ryan's face, saw the confusion on it, and actually laughed. "Sorry for being vague. It's been awhile since I have spoken to anyone. You're one of over a thousand people who match some of our criteria as likely candidates. And...well, check your left pocket."

With a trembling hand, Ryan reached down into his pocket. His heart started pounding when he felt something in there. A couple somethings. He hadn't bought anything at the store...what was in his pocket? He fished it out.

One of them was the keychain that he had been intending to buy for Isabel, slipped into his pocket without thought when the man started running. Gotta go back and pay for that. The other object was a black marble flecked with glitter, something he vaguely remembered picking up to get to the “Show Me State” keychain. Great, he thought wildly, more unconscious theft . It didn’t take any immense deduction to realize the keychain probably wasn’t what the man in the suit meant.

"A marble?" It was a stupid thing to ask, and the man in the suit chuckled.

"Look closer."

So he did. He stared at the marble, and suddenly it seemed to expand, filling his entire field of vision. What he had thought were flecks of glitter in there were...stars. The swirl pattern in the center? A galaxy. It kept expanding, giving him an immense feeling of vertigo, like he was falling into the star field.

The man’s voice seemed to come from far away. "You found a nanoverse. The last one of this Era, left behind by the Creator. We were watching to see who found it, to figure out who would be next. And now that it's been found...now that you’re the one...my work is done."

Overwhelmed, Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on his breathing. This is too much. This can’t be happening. I’m going crazy. Crazier.

After a few seconds he opened his eyes and was relieved to see the alley instead of the impossible field of stars.

“What…” he gasped. “What was that?”

The man in the suit turned to walk away. "I told you, only one question. But I'll give you some free advice."

Ryan took another deep breath to steady himself. "Okay."

"Don't put it in a drawer and forget about it. You've got a pretty amazing thing there, Ryan. And in spite of the fact that I unintentionally turned you into a nervous wreck...I think you're going to do some pretty amazing things with it." The man in the suit smiled. “I’ve watched you your entire life, Ryan. I have faith you’ll be able to pull this off.”

Before Ryan could ask more questions that the man in the suit would not answer - what was a nanoverse, what he was supposed to do with it, what was he supposed to pull off, what the hell was going on - the man turned and walked through a wall. This time, there was no way around, no way for Ryan to follow. He was gone, and Ryan was, for the first time in his life, truly alone.

His mind was spinning. None of this made any sense, and Ryan felt like he needed a million years to process what was going on. Instead, he got seven seconds. Seven seconds where no one was looking at him, no one was writing down what he did, no one was watching him.

Then a gun cocked behind him, and a voice growled, "Put down the nanoverse, and you might get out of this alive."

* * *

Ryan Smith was the most boring human Enki had ever encountered. And that’s saying something for their kind. Enki had spent most of his time watching interesting people. Warriors, conquerors, men and women who would shape history. Which Ryan Smith only had a tiny chance of ever managing. Hell, if things went the way Enki wanted them to, Ryan would only be a footnote in history. The man who’d found the nanoverse that had given Enki what he needed to escape the shackles of destiny.

The man who had given Enki what he needed to save the world.

The past year had been slow, dull work, following the Curator who was following the boring human. He couldn’t risk being seen by either of them. No sane individual challenged a Curator directly, and one of the few things that could get them to act was trying to follow them.

But Enki had been sure that Nabu was worth following. This particular Curator had a great track record. Throughout the ages, he had consistently honed in on people who would find a nanoverse. With only one nanoverse left in this age, finding it before some dumbass human picked it up and stared into it was vital, so Enki had put his faith in Nabu, and he had been rewarded.

He’d waited almost ten thousand years for this.

This is it, Ishtar, he thought. I know it is.

Ishtar. Even after millennia, Enki’s rage sometimes felt as hot as it had the day she had betrayed him. The lying traitor had been his friend, his ally, his trusted companion. He had forgiven her first lies, when she had claimed to be just like him, instead of admitting from the first that she’d hailed from a distant past, a time before humanity had even been a gleam in Earth’s eye. When there were different continents, different lands.

She had told him of the death of her people, and his heart had broken for her. When she told him that it would happen again, he had believed her. One day, she had said, there will only be one nanoverse left, and when it is found, the end will be near. He had trusted her to know what to do when that time came. He had imagined that they would stand together.

Then had come Lamashtu, and the deluge needed to defeat her. Those horrors had opened Enki’s eyes, and he had sworn he’d never let it get that bad again.

He had gone to Ishtar, and she’d betrayed him. They had all betrayed him.

Enki had accepted that he was alone, and that he was the only one who understood what needed to be done. He had made it his life’s work to be the one to find that nanoverse. He would control destiny, and he would make the right choices.

His hands went down to his pocket, thumbing his own nanoverse. It was supposed to be impossible to command two of the things, but Enki had found a way. And it’s a hell of a lot easier if I beat this punk to claiming it.

Loitering outside the souvenir shop, grimly reflecting on the past, Enki almost didn’t notice Nabu strolling out through the wall. When Ryan bolted after the Curator, it took a second for Enki to process that Ryan was following Nabu, instead of the other way around.

He has the nanoverse! That was the only explanation for why the Curator would have left his subject. But if Ryan had looked into it, he would have been too shocked to chase. He has it, but he hasn’t claimed it. There’s still time to get it before that fool ruins everything.

Still time before I have to kill him.

Enki pulled out his gun and joined the chase. He was old fashioned and preferred swords and axes and weapons of a bygone age. But he’d brought a gun, because sometimes impressions mattered, and in this day and age people were more likely to respond to a gun than someone nutjob with an anachronistic armament. A guy with a sword was a lunatic, a guy with a gun was a threat. And I sure as hell am not a damn lunatic, thought the man who had spent a year following a boring bureaucrat following a human who might, only might, be able to get him what he wanted.

Enki began to draw on his power, preparing gusts of wind, storms, maybe even a fireball for effect. No, he thought. That will spook him, and I don’t want him to run. If he does, I’ll probably be forced to kill him. If he gives me the nanoverse, I can spare him. If he doesn’t, I can just take it from him.

If he’s claimed it, I’ll definitely have to kill him. But no killing innocents unless you have to.

The only downside to a gun was that it wasn’t part of Enki. Not like his clothes, or like a weapon he’d pulled out of the air. It was a physical object. It got stuck on things, on people. It slowed him down. It meant he missed whatever transpired between Ryan and the Curator in the alley.

But it also meant Ryan couldn’t ignore it when Enki pressed it against the back of his skull.

* * *

Chapter 2: New Friends

Ryan's heart was pounding, and he turned around, every motion as careful as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was startle the brute into shooting him. To compare the man behind him to a gorilla would be an insult to the majestic apes. He was huge, the very definition of hulking, easily six and half feet and almost that broad at the shoulders. His brow jutted over his eyes, casting the little beads in a deep shadow. You couldn't compare tree trunks to his arms, because tree trunks weren't pale and bulging with muscle, and they didn't hold the largest handgun Ryan had ever seen, something so massive it looked like it had been drawn out of a cartoon or an over the top video game.

"Ohgodpleasedon'tkillme." Ryan's hands instinctively shot up in a “reach for the sky” gesture, and his knees threatened to buckle. Ryan had never seen a gun in person before, not a real one, much less found himself in a staring contest with the black pit of the barrel. This was a terror unlike anything Ryan could imagine.

The brute grunted at that. People passing the alley turned and gave odd looks at the exclamation, glancing at Ryan like he had lost his mind. He’d gotten such looks fairly often in his life, and as always, everyone was more than happy to ignore the obviously crazy man standing there. An unsettling realization built up in the small part of Ryan's brain not focused entirely on the gun.

"They can't see you, can they? I'm...I'm holding my hands up in an empty alley, as far as they can see."

"Yup."

"So...you'll pass through matter, too? If you shoot me, the bullet...it'll just pass right through me?"

Again, a grunt of "Yup." For a moment, Ryan felt a wave of relief, then noticed the evil gleam in the man's eyes.

He gulped, his mouth once again going bone dry as he realized that there were multiple ways to interpret that last question. "It'll just pass harmlessly through me?" Ryan asked, knowing a hopeful note was creeping into his voice, a note that didn’t belong there with a man pointing a gun at his face.

That gleam in the man's eyes brightened, and Ryan began to recognize that in spite of his caveman appearance, there was intelligence in those eyes. "Nope."

"I...okay, you can have it."

"Good lad. Most of your kind isn’t so reasonable. Just give it over here, nice and slow like, yeah?"

Ryan reached out, his hand clutching the nanoverse so hard his knuckles were turning white. The brutish man took one of his hands off the gun and held it out...and some perverse urge overtook Ryan. He was going to give it over, he really was...but then the last thirty years would have been for nothing. He'd probably be shot anyway, but even if he wasn't, he'd never know what it was all about.

So he took a gamble, and while the man was still reaching out, Ryan darted forward, straight at the brute. The best case was unlikely. The worse case was to smack into a small mountain of flesh and go tumbling to the ground. The worst case was for that horrible gun to go off, which would also send Ryan tumbling to the ground, but not in a way he would be getting up from.

Instead, as he hoped, he passed right through his mugger. The brute roared in anger and turned around. The whirling motion brought his hand in contact with the wall. He seemed startled when the gun clanged against the brick. It wasn’t much, but it gave Ryan a chance to get a bit more distance between them before gunfire rang out.

Something tugged at Ryan’s collar, and he knew with absolute certainty that he’d find a perfect hole inches from his neck. He ducked right after the tug, an entirely instinctive reaction that saved his life as another bullet parted his hair.

Adrenaline kicked in, and Ryan ran further into the crowd with a speed he didn't know he had. People were starting to scream and scatter as well - even if nothing else about the brute could be seen or heard by anyone else, the sound of gunshots was very real.

For a terrible moment, Ryan wondered if he was about to get some innocent people killed. He'd be relieved to learn later the first bullet had buried itself in a street light, and the second had in fact blown the head off of a mannequin in a store window across the street. Once he was fully into the crowd, however, the gunshots stopped. It seemed his attacker wasn’t interested in collateral, and he was able to escape into the crowd.

* * *

Several blocks later, Ryan was in another alley, panting with fear. Without a direct threat, the panic of earlier was starting to fade, replaced by a bone deep fear and the gradual swell of the sea of questions.

He pushed them down. He was very strongly getting the feeling that, no matter what happened, he'd never get all the answers. And right now, only one mattered - had he been followed?

It didn't seem that way. Either the brute couldn't move all that fast, or hadn't known which way Ryan had gone. Glancing around again, and taking a deep breath, Ryan pulled out the nanoverse and held it up to his face again.

It was hypnotic. An entire galaxy spinning in a black sphere the size of a golf ball. It was much easier to see clearly than it had been earlier.

It's the size of a golf ball.

It had been a marble when he'd found it, right? He kicked his jumbled brain into going over the last few minutes. Yes, when he'd been talking to the man in the suit, it had been a marble. The fact that it was growing somehow was one more bit of unreality, just one more oddity in a day full of them.

Another realization followed that first one, this one slower but more inexorable. The man in the suit was gone. No one was watching Ryan. For the first time in his life, he had privacy. He’d realized it in the first alley, sure, but that thought had been interrupted by the sudden threat. No one was watching him right now, something he’d wanted his entire life, even as he dreaded it.

And he'd never wanted it less. He slipped the nanoverse into his pocket and got back onto the street, joining the crowd, drawing strength in numbers. His attacker wasn’t looking to kill bystanders, and if he decided to follow Ryan, Ryan wanted a chance to survive.

But the questions still burned at him, and the brute had given him another clue. He pulled out his phone and did a search for "nanoverse". The first couple results were some toy line, then some links to something from comics, then a company working on nanomachines. It wasn't until the second page of Google results, the home of the truly desperate, that he found something that looked relevant.

What Is the Nanoverse?

He tapped the link. The page it brought up did not inspire confidence. It looked like something that had been slapped together by a high schooler back in the Geocities days, and the last update to the page had been in 2006. He was about to hit the back arrow and check other pages when a photo loaded.

It was Egyptian, or something like it. The man it depicted evoked the brute from earlier. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on it at first, since this man looked proud and regal, not like some sort of borderline ape-like killer. It was a very impressionistic work, like most early art. It wasn’t until he looked at it for a bit longer that it started to make sense. The shape of the nose, the gleam in the eyes, the overall impression of the art just echoed that man. The caption labelled it as being from ancient Sumeria, and the figure as Enki, one of the chief deities of the region. The idea, crazy as it seemed, that he’d been attacked by someone who looked like an ancient drawing of a god would have been the focus of Ryan’s attention in any other picture. However, one detail managed to outshine even that and fully captivate his attention.

The man was holding a small sphere, carved with smaller, starlike dots.

The crowd faded into the background. Ryan began reading.

The article was long, rambling, and poorly edited. It referred to Curators, mythological monsters, the Labyrinth, and Pantheons, and connected all of that to the Hollow Earth, Illuminati, chemtrails, Lemuria, the Bermuda triangle...it was a mess of random crap, but Ryan read it all, hoping for a nugget of truth in there. It took almost a half hour to read, and Ryan was all but done with the page.

And then he got to the last line.

"Of course, the only way someone could stand to read all that rubbish was if they actually found something. Click HERE to contact the website's admin."

He pressed it, out of desperation more than anything else. Instead of bringing up an email form like he expected, it gave him a phone number. More modern than the page seemed.

Hoping against hope that this would mean something , he hit call.

After a few rings, a voice on the other end answered. A woman's voice, sounding like she had just dashed across the room. "'ello?"

"Uh...hi. I'm calling about...the nanoverse?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Oh hell. Now? Of all times, now ?" The broad sound to her vowels sounded to Ryan’s American ears like a British accent.

The sheer irritation in her voice shocked Ryan. "Uh...sorry."

"I was just getting settled into this country. Fine, fine, it's not your fault love."

"Uhhh...what?"

Another pause, then a swear. "You're a local, aren't you?"

Ryan cut off yet another "Uh" from his response. "I think so?"

"Got the number off that bloody website, didn't you?"

"Yes." This one, at least, he could say with confidence.

"Scared half out of your mind and on the run from forces you can't understand?"

"Oh God, yes. Can you make sense of all of this for me?"

"Oh, oh dear. I can maybe help some.” A pause during which he heard some tapping sounds, someone with long nails typing at a touchscreen. "Have you gazed into it yet? Rushing sensation, nanoverse filled your entire vision?"

"Yeah!" Relief. Finally, someone who could help him.

"Great, great." Her tone didn't sound like she thought it was all that great, but Ryan was still just ecstatic to have someone who was talking to him. "Turn left into the store, there's a dear."

He did. The door he stepped into belonged to some upscale clothing boutique.

The room, however, looked like a planetarium on steroids, a platform that was surrounded by open, starry sky. A tall woman, dark hair falling almost to her waist, stood in front of a bank of keyboards and monitors. She turned, and Ryan saw that despite the accent she didn’t look British-not that British people all look alike, but her skin tone and bone structure suggested a Middle Eastern ancestry.

Then she glanced up at him through a few wisps of stray hairs that hung in front of her forehead, and Ryan saw her eyes. They were the oldest eyes he had ever seen, eyes that seemed to stare right through him and to the stars beyond. He didn’t even register that she was frowning. "Do me a favor, love? When the view overwhelms you and you need to puke, stick your head out the door, yeah?"

Reeling from the shock of what he was seeing, Ryan did exactly that.

People tend to shy away from someone throwing up in the street, but he was still drawing stares. He pulled his head back into the door - and back into the strange room that seemed to stretch into infinity. It still made his head spin looking at it, but he fought back the nausea this time. He glanced out into the door behind him again, still seeing the normal city, before turning his eyes back into the room and seeing a field of stars and galaxies further than his eyes could process.

"There now, feel better?" The woman asked, her voice overly chipper.

"Ugh." Not the wittiest response in history, but everything was happening so fast that Ryan had not really had a chance to process everything. His brain was running a thousand miles a minute and he was holding on for dear life.

"Right, fair enough I suppose.” The woman gave him a knowing smile, and Ryan wondered how many other people she had seen get sick at the sight of another universe inside a building. “What's your name?"

"Ryan Smith." He felt a bit bad for giving such short responses, but right now he felt proud he could manage to speak at all. His anxiety began to worm its way up his spine to settle into his brain. You can’t handle this. No one can handle this, but especially not you , it whispered to him.

She gave him an encouraging nod, and if his brusque replies bothered her, it didn’t show on her face. "Ryan Smith. Doesn’t get much more generic than that, does it, love? Well, Ryan, your world’s gone straight to bollocks today, hasn’t it? You can call me Crystal, that’s what I go by these days." The accent was starting to sound more and more like a bad impersonation. It was like something out of a film set in England but with American actors who had never actually spoken to a British person. A caricature, a fake.

And in the grand scheme of things, a totally irrelevant detail.

Even with the affectation, getting a name for one of these people was a huge relief. It made things real, made things anchored. She was not the mysterious woman with the British accent anymore, she was Crystal, a person with a name. The growing anxiety attack slunk away to crouch in the back of Ryan’s mind. Without the bracing effect of the fear, he started to sink down to the floor.

Or at least, he would have, but the floor rose up to meet him, silvery liquid ooze that formed a chair under him. It might have been the most comfortable chair he’d ever sat in, perfectly molded to fit him. For a moment the anxiety tried to claw its way back in, but he was able to push it aside. When your day included talking to a mysterious man who had followed you your entire life, someone trying to shoot you to steal the pocket universe you were holding, and stepping into another universe in a storefront...the floor becoming a chair seemed much more manageable.

"Crystal.” He clutched the name like every remaining bit of his sanity depended on it. “Thank you."

"I haven't done anything yet. At least let me help before you thank me." She flashed another quick smile and tapped on the computer screens a few more times. "There. That should give us at least a bit of time without interruption." She motioned, and the chair he was sitting on slid across the floor to where a table and another chair were forming. She took a seat in the new chair, practically flopping into it. "So...you, love, look like you've been having a hell of a day. Probably a hell of a life. Why don't you tell me about it, yeah?"

Despite his own questions building at the back of his mind, words came spilling out of Ryan's mouth. The man in the suit. The strange conversation. The nanoverse. The brute. Running. All of it, up until…

"So I googled nanoverse and I found your site and I clicked the link and a phone number came up, so I gave it a call and then you answered and you said-"

Crystal, who had been quiet throughout the entire thing, finally interrupted him with a soft and concerned tone, "Yeah, yeah, I remember that bit, was there for it."

Gentle tone or not, Ryan snapped his mouth shut, and felt himself blushing. "Right, of course. Sorry."

"No worries. Honestly, I'm shocked that looking into the nanoverse didn't completely fry your brain. As little as you understand..." She shrugged.

"Can I ask some questions?"

She nodded. "I'm sure you're just full to the brim with them. But before you do...a lot of the answers involve words your language doesn't even have concepts for. I'll do my best to explain, but I'll need to - no offense - dumb it down for you."

"No offense taken.” Ryan had never felt dumber in his life, which after all the confusion of today was saying something. His life had been a steady barrage of weirdness, which helped some with accepting what was going on, but Ryan had never felt more lost. The one thing he was sure of was that he had almost been killed earlier today, and a smart man put survival in front of erecting a veneer of intelligence. He decided to start with one of the questions that was pressing on his mind the most. “What is a nanoverse?"

She smiled. "Exactly what it says on the tin. An entire universe, but in a little bubble you can stick in your pocket and carry around."

Ryan instinctively reached out to touch his pocket. The nanoverse was there, and as near as he could tell was bigger now, about the size of a pool ball.

"What...what do you do with it?"

For some reason that seemed to be the funniest thing Crystal had heard in quite some time. She laughed so hard she snorted. "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but...oh God, you humans! Found an entire universe big enough to fit in your pocket, and first thing you ask is 'what do you do with it?' Completely brilliant. I love you lot."

"You're not human?"

"Oh, no, of course not. 'What do you do with it?' Priceless!"

He frowned. "Why's that so funny?"

She let out a few more laughs, followed by a long, amused sigh. "Because it's just so...practical. Skips over the hows and the whys and the whos and just straight to the 'what do I do with it?'"

Ryan shrugged, looking at the floor. "Well...I don't mean to be rude, but you said we only had a bit of time?"

"Too right, sorry. You become a god is what you do. Ryan Smith, not the most divine name ever conceived, but give it a couple thousand years and it'll be up there."

"I'm sorry, become a what?"

"A god. Same as me, and that brute. That was likely Enki, by the way. Nasty piece of work, that one. You can even get some friends together, form a pantheon...and that nanoverse, that'll form the seat of your power. Your divine spark."

Ryan leaned forward, resting his head on his hands. It was good to have confirmation for the name of that trigger-happy bastard that had tried to steal his nanoverse. It made him seem less monstrous, more human, and therefore less oppressive.

Of course, it was marred by the idea that he literally was holding another universe in his pocket. The idea was several orders of magnitude more outlandish than being followed by an incorporeal notetaker. “I’m sorry, it’s an entire universe? That...how is that even possible?”

Crystal shrugged. “How is it possible gravity curves both space and time, love? Roll with it, yeah?”

“I don’t know if I can just roll with that.”

“Look,” Crystal sighed. “You’ve had someone no one else could see following you around your entire life, yeah? So, you already had a choice to make: you had to believe you were mad, or accept that there was magic in the world. Great news, love: I’m telling you it’s the second.”

That hit home. The relief rolled over him like a wave, almost bringing him to tears. He wasn’t crazy.

When he was able to think about anything besides that, it finally sunk in that Crystal had also said there was a ticking clock over this whole affair. "Okay, fine. There’s a universe in my pocket. So I...what, shape it, somehow? Get worshippers?"

Crystal was shaking her head. "Language is really difficult here. No worshippers, not anymore. We don't get power from that - most people are too bloody scientific these days for it to be much good anyway - but you do shape the nanoverse. Give it life."

"How?"

"You already are. Which is kind of bad, since you're full of panic and fear and confusion, so that's gonna be pouring into it." She gave him a concerned look. "Look, all of this is a metaphor for what's really going on. It'd be equally accurate to say you becoming an alien force working in the shadows, or a number of other things."

Ryan took a deep breath. "Crystal? Not helping."

"Right.” Crystal shook her head. “Saying you’re a god is what pretty much what everyone does these days anyway, so it should be fine. Take a bit to catch your breath. But, and not to put pressure on you, you don't have a lot of time to sort this out."

Ryan groaned into his hands. "Why not?"

"Most of us? We got centuries to work through all of it. Hell, I wasn't even human - my people predated you lot by a good million years. But that thing you got there?" She motioned towards his pocket. "It's the last nanoverse. This means that whatever else you are, and you could become, you’re the Eschaton. Which means as you go through your personal apotheosis, you're also going to need to manage the end of the world."

“I’ll need...what?” The anxiety came back now, stronger than ever. “You want me to end the world?”

“Oh, no, love. I don’t want you to end the world.” Crystal waved her hands as if she was trying to brush the thought away. “I’m just saying you are going to end the world, no matter what you want.”

“I…” Ryan took a few deep breaths, but his heart was pounding. Despite being in a room the size of a universe, it felt like the walls were closing in.

The human brain is an interesting thing. It was designed for apes that wandered the beach and picked up food, did some hunting, maybe managed some interesting vocalizations. It was an adaptable tool, to be sure, one that was able to navigate cars far faster than the little apes could have ever imagined going, it could process all the information of the modern age, and it could even take the apes beyond the atmosphere and to the nearest space rock.

But sometimes, it was over capacity. Sometimes, events were too much, too weird, too mind blowing for it to keep running the way it was supposed to. In such cases, it had a number of defense mechanisms available to it. Ryan’s brain flipped through the available options like they were a flipbook of possible breakdowns. In an instant it considered tears, denial, turning into a complete nervous wreck, and ultimately decided it would be best served by just shutting down for a bit.

As Ryan fainted, the chair shifted so he wouldn’t land too hard on the floor.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

11

The Narrows

Travis M. Riddle

The following is a sample of The Narrows by Travis M. Riddle. It is a contemporary horror/fantasy novel.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 10

“Riddle’s intricate worldbuilding and familiar but strong narrative arc sustain fear throughout. ... Fans of eerie tales will easily fall into this one.”  - Publishers Weekly

"I can show you how to enter the Narrows to find what you seek."

Oliver and his friends have returned to their hometown of Shumard, Texas for the funeral of their close friend Noah. They each grapple with the loss in their own ways, trying to understand the strange circumstances of their friend's unexpected death.

While visiting the site where the body was found, Oliver stumbles across a chilling discovery that he knows must be related to what happened to Noah. Wanting to protect his friends from these newfound horrors, Oliver takes it upon himself to venture into the grotesque otherworld known as the Narrows to learn what happened to his friend and find a way to bring him back.

Entering the Narrows is one thing, but will whatever he finds there allow him to leave?

* * *

chapter one: The Neighborhood

[Friday, 12/28/18]

They had circled back around twice now. Maybe the third time really would be the charm. Given how early they’d arrived, they could have easily gone around five or six times if not for the holiday traffic causing the pick-up line to slow to a crawl.

As they approached the doors again, Oliver checked his phone to see if Sophia had texted him. “Nothing,” he told Davontae, thankful that it was his friend who was driving rather than himself.

Oliver had mostly outgrown the general driving anxiety he’d felt since high school, which was when Davontae had been unofficially deemed the group’s chauffeur (a fact which he had, surprisingly, never grown resentful of), but airports still stressed him out. Really, it was parking in busy areas that stressed him out, but there wasn’t anywhere to park at airport pick-ups or drop-offs anyway, so the anxiety didn’t particularly align with the fear. Perhaps it was the fact that it felt like constantly looking for a parking spot, or that everyone at an airport was already stressed or irritable or both, so he did not want to interact with them.

Whatever the reason, he was glad Davontae had agreed to drive when Sophia told them she didn’t want to pay what would surely be an exorbitant fee to take a Lyft from the airport all the way back to their hometown of Shumard, which would have cost around sixty dollars, a sum that she could certainly afford but did not want to pay.

Christmas music still populated the airwaves but would soon wear out its welcome. Oliver surpassed his limit several weeks earlier, but Davontae had always possessed more holiday cheer than him, and so he hummed along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to the tune.

Oliver stared out the front windshield, his eyes lost in the taillights ahead of them, shimmering and blurring as he looked further and further down the row of cars toward “Curb Zone 2.” He clasped his eyes shut and the blurry orbs still danced across the blackness.

“I love me some Bublé,” Davontae said.

Oliver was shaken out of his stupor. He opened his eyes and glanced at his friend, then to the radio. “Is that who this is?”

Davontae was affronted by the question. “Of course it is!” he said. “Ain’t no one better around Christmastime than my pal Mike.”

“I prefer the rendition by Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

His phone finally lit up with a text from Sophia, which simply read: “Outside .”

“Finally,” Oliver muttered. “She’s here.” He typed up a reply, saying they were in line and would be there shortly.

Twenty minutes and an excruciating “Silent Night” later, Davontae pulled the car to a stop in front of their childhood friend Sophia Won, dressed in a tightly-fit black sweater, a red plaid skirt, and dark leggings. Her jet black hair was in a single braid, trailing over her right shoulder. She had packed light as always, with no luggage except for a ratty backpack slung over her back.

“Helloooo,” she greeted them with chattering teeth, slamming the door shut as she settled into the back seat.

“You sound cold,” Oliver said.

“It’s cold out.”

“I thought you said Texas doesn’t actually get cold. Doesn’t it only get cold in New York?” he teased.

“Shut up.”

“That’s just what I heard.”

Sophia scoffed. “It was less than forty degrees when I left,” she said.

“You poor thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, rubbing her arms to warm up. “I’m hungry. Are either of you hungry?”

They had picked up some fast food on their way to the airport, the evidence of which was crumpled up at Oliver’s feet. “Not really,” he answered, “but I would go somewhere.”

“Where you wanna go?” Davontae asked, pulling back out into the line of traffic, inching toward the exit.

She did not need to mull it over long. “Waffle House,” she answered predictably. It had been their hangout spot back in high school, with many late weekend nights spent crammed in a booth with the bright, bulbous lights hanging overhead and their table covered in messy, half-eaten plates of breakfast food. Back then, it was rare that they’d show up before midnight, but nowadays Oliver couldn’t remember when he had last been awake that late. He had gotten into a routine of being asleep by eleven.

The drive was largely spent talking about trivialities: movie and music news they’d read online, jokes they’d seen on social media. There was no reminiscing to partake in, as Sophia chatted online with them every day. Oliver had even briefly spoken to her that morning before her flight. They deftly avoided broaching the subject that had brought them all together. For the moment.

Sophia was only just now arriving in town, but Oliver had already been there a little over a week, and Davontae even longer. Davontae was self-employed and could therefore take as much time “off” for the holidays as he wanted, but Oliver and Sophia were still stuck working their desk jobs. Sophia had used up all her vacation time earlier in the year going on an impromptu trip with her family, and therefore didn’t have anything left over for Christmas. Circumstances had landed her back in Shumard in the end, though. Her parents would be happy to see her.

Oliver leapt at the opportunity to use up as many vacation days as possible, to escape for a little while, to be unburdened by any responsibilities. No job to check in with, no chores to do, no meals to cook. After having moved out to attend college eight years prior, his mother was now positively thrilled every time he came home to visit, even though he only lived a couple hours away.

She had prepared a huge welcoming meal for him, comprised of fried shrimp (with both tartar and cocktail sauce for dipping), french fries, and ice cream for dessert. He felt horrible afterwards, like his stomach was trying to fight its way out through his abdomen, but the food tasted amazing.

It took around forty minutes to reach the suburbs. As the familiar streets and sights came into view, Davontae said, “Oh, shit, I almost forgot! My ma told me they opened up a new location over in the Food Town lot.”

“What the fuck?” Oliver said, genuinely shocked by the news. In high school, when they had wanted to cruise down to their favorite diner, it was a thirty-minute drive minimum to the closest location, which contributed to the late-night nature of their visits. “Is it, like…standalone? Or is it part of that strip? I can’t imagine it’s in the strip, but I also can’t picture a standalone Waffle House in the middle of that parking lot.”

“Yup,” Davontae nodded. “It’s by itself, just right there in the middle of the lot. I drove by the other day and almost crashed into another car. I was transfixed. I forgot to text y’all about it.”

Oliver’s family hadn’t lived on that side of town in nearly a decade, so he hadn’t seen the parking lot in question any time he’d come home over the past year. He probably would have had a similar reaction.

“That’s fucking weird,” Sophia said. “We definitely should check that out.”

With that, Davontae took the next exit off the highway.

After a few minutes, they made a left turn into the Food Town parking lot where, sure enough, they were illuminated by the fluorescent golden glow of a new, untarnished Waffle House.

It was utterly bizarre, seeing the establishment plopped down into the middle of an area that Oliver had grown up in and spent so much of his time driving around. Food Town was where he had gone every year to renew his car registration, being only minutes away from his childhood home. It wasn’t the only change to his hometown in the intervening years since moving away; every time he came back, it felt like there was a new row of stores and restaurants just off the highway, with more and more land being flattened to make way for bigger and bigger parking lots. He didn’t necessarily feel like it was a bad change, but it was odd how different everything looked. How unfamiliar it all was.

The clock neared nine o’clock as Davontae parked the car. It might have been the earliest they had ever eaten there.

Sophia was rummaging through her backpack as Oliver and Davontae clicked their seatbelts off. “One sec,” she told them. “Looking for my card.”

“I can get it, it’s all good,” Davontae told her.

“You sure?” she asked, glancing up at him in the front seat. She was elbow-deep in the purple sack. Davontae nodded, and she removed her arm to zip the bag closed.

The three stepped out of the car and Oliver asked Sophia, “How do you pack for an entire trip in just that tiny backpack?”

“I mean, there isn’t much I need,” she shrugged. “Just my clothes, maybe a book, and my earplugs. My parents have a toothbrush and all that at the house I can use, so that’s convenient. No toiletry bag for me.”

“Earplugs?”

“Yeah,” Sophia said. “I’ve gotten in the habit of plugging up every night when I go to bed. I don’t know what it is, but my hearing’s gotten so sensitive the past few months. Every little creak or car door slamming or cat meowing or whatever the hell else wakes me up. I need my plugs!”

The sky was dark and starless, obscured by clouds, as they made their way into the restaurant. Normally they were the only people there, aside from one or two individuals at the counter, but either the place drew larger crowds earlier in the evening or the novelty of the new establishment had not yet worn off. Either way, it was nearly full when they entered.

Luckily there were still two open booths, one of which was at the back of the diner, which they opted for despite the left-behind crumbs. Oliver wiped them onto the floor as the trio sat.

A bubbly waitress named Marie took their drink order, which was a round of coffees and waters as well as an orange juice for Sophia. It took her two trips to bring everything to the table. As Marie stepped away to allow them time to peruse the menu, Sophia pierced the surface of her juice with a straw and sucked up a fourth of it in one gulp.

Oliver bounced his leg up and down underneath the table. The buzz of the overhead lights filled his head like tiny insects invading his skull. He remembered a story he’d heard from a classmate once years ago, about the classmate’s cousin, who had gone to sleep one night and awoke with a live cockroach stuck so far in her ear, she had to go to the emergency room to get it removed. He shuddered at the thought, wondering if it was even remotely true, or just some urban legend perpetuated by a dumb teen.

“So,” Sophia said with her eyes locked onto the menu. Avoiding eye contact. The tension between the three of them was palpable.

A knot tied itself in Oliver’s stomach. He’d known they would eventually talk about it, but he really did not want to. His leg was going to go out of control, knock against the table, spill their drinks everywhere. He looked from Sophia to his own menu, not even registering what any of it said. His eyes ran down the list of additions one could add to their hashbrowns, then jumped back up to the top of the list as he finished, over and over.

“Yeah,” Davontae said, contributing nothing.

“Guess I ended up here anyway,” Sophia said. “Shout out to bereavement days.” They let it linger in the air a moment before she asked, “Do you guys know what happened?”

“Uh…” Davontae looked to Oliver, who was still enraptured by the hashbrown menu and gave him no support. “I don’t know exactly,” he went on. “I know he was found in his car over in Shumard Springs.”

Sophia did not entirely understand. “He was just…in his car? Doing what?”

“I dunno.”

“And why would he be in Shumard Springs?”

“I dunno.”

“He overdosed,” Oliver said. Sophia looked at him from across the table, but he did not look up from his menu. He continued to read the inane words over again. Smothered. Covered. Chunked. Diced. Peppered.

“Overdosed?” Sophia repeated.

“I didn’t hear that part,” said Davontae. His voice was frail.

“He overdosed on his medication,” Oliver said. Capped. Topped. Country.

Sophia took a sip of her coffee while Davontae leaned back. “Was it an accident?” Davontae asked, perplexed. “Did he—”

“I don’t know,” Oliver blurted out, finally tearing his gaze away from the laminated menu. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, in rhythm with his untamed leg.

Assuming this action conveyed that they had chosen what they wanted to eat, Marie returned to the booth with a smile plastered on her face. “Y’all ready?”

The innocuous buzzing was irritating Oliver. He had never noticed it before, and he did not know why he was now.

“I think so,” Davontae answered for the table.

He and Sophia ordered their plates, and then Marie turned her attention toward Oliver. “How about you, sweetie?” she asked in her southern twang.

Any minimal appetite he’d had was now totally gone. He hadn’t even touched his coffee yet. “Just some hashbrowns,” he answered softly.

“Anything on ’em?”

“No.”

* * *

Even when there were people around to hang out with, there was nothing to actually do in Shumard, Texas aside from eating food and watching movies, so Oliver had been doing the latter on Christmas Eve when he learned the news about Noah.

He was in a dimly-lit auditorium, in one of the theater’s new leather recliners, leaned back as far as the chair would allow. He scrolled through his phone as the minutes ticked by, waiting for the trailers to begin. He caught up on all the new content in one app then opened up the next. Then the next. Then back to the first to refresh to see if there had been at least one new post since checking three minutes earlier. The standard routine while waiting for a movie.

As he opened up Facebook, the top post on his timeline was a news article shared by a high school acquaintance named Tim Villareal, who Oliver had not spoken to at all since graduating.

The headline read: Man Found Dead in Car, Suspected Suicide

Tim, of course, had a caption to accompany the article. “Can’t believe Noah Cooper is gone. We had such fun times together. You’ll be missed, dude.”

He wasn’t sure why he did it, he knew it had to be the same Noah—there was no other Noah Cooper that he knew, and it would’ve been a wild coincidence if Tim had known two—but regardless, Oliver clicked the hyperlinked name “Noah Cooper” just to be sure.

The app switched over to the profile page, displaying the photograph confirming it was his friend. Weirdly, what jumped out to him was that the profile picture was new. He had never seen it before. It must have been taken sometime after Noah had moved the previous summer.

Oliver then tapped back to the timeline and hesitantly pressed his thumb to the linked article. It opened up in his web browser with huge, bolded text screaming the headline at him.

His eyes glazed over as he read the report. He couldn’t process what he was reading.

—found dead earlier this evening—

—appears to have overdosed—

—mother, local kindergarten teacher Sarah Cooper, says—

After reading it, he skimmed through again, and picked up on a detail he had somehow skipped over the first time.

Noah had died in Shumard.

Oliver hadn’t even known he was in town. He was only finding out because he was dead.

The lights in the auditorium began to dim as Oliver stared stupefied by the news article on his phone. An image of Noah’s smiling face at his college graduation stared back.

A green background set with white text filled the movie screen in front of him and Oliver was jolted, suddenly realizing where he was. He turned the phone’s screen off and slipped it back into his pocket, gazing ahead as the first trailer began to play. He did not make it to the second before exiting the theater and driving back home.

* * *

Less than ten minutes after ordering, Marie delivered bountiful plates of food to their table and topped off their mugs of coffee.

“Anything else?” she asked the group.

“Just some strawberry jelly, please,” Sophia requested. She hated the grape jelly they always brought out by default with the toast. After Marie returned with the requested fruit spread, they resumed their conversation.

They had moved on from the subject of Noah’s funeral after discussing the specifics such as what time it was taking place on Sunday, where it was, and who they knew would be attending. The latter had steered the conversation in the direction of old school acquaintances and what they were up to now. Before the food arrived, they had been chronicling Jose Aritza’s journey from class clown to pothead to marching band drum major to police officer. It was quite the trajectory.

Davontae had the most to say on the topic. “His Facebook only has one purpose, which is sharing videos or news articles every time a cop gets killed on duty. Or, well, two purposes, really. The other is posting multiple paragraphs defending them any time there’s any controversy about a police officer actin’ like a piece of shit on duty. So those ones come up often.”

“I had to delete that shithead a long time ago,” Sophia said, spreading a thin layer of jelly on the piece of toast with her water-spotted knife. Three plates full of steaming breakfast food sat before her. “I couldn’t handle it.”

“Me too,” Oliver chimed in. “But this motherfucker”—he pointed at Davontae with his fork—“for some reason feels an innate desire to comment on every single post Jose makes. Every single one.”

Davontae and Sophia both chuckled at this. “I just have to,” Davontae shrugged. “I can’t resist. It’s a curse. I gotta bear this burden, I gotta call out idiots posting bullshit on my timeline.”

“Just delete him,” Oliver said. “End the cycle. Free yourself.”

“Without fulfilling my duty? Nah.”

“Muting is the best tool ever invented for social media,” Oliver said. “So much awkwardness has been avoided by me muting people rather than unfollowing them. So many idiots from college that I feel obligated to be ‘friends’ with but that I do not want to see a shred of content from. It’s so freeing.”

“Nah,” Sophia shook her head. “What’s really freeing is just deleting them. Fuck ’em. Never look back.”

“Unfriending Jose was definitely satisfying,” Oliver agreed. “But I would love to accept friend requests from old-as-shit relatives that I barely even know and then mute them so I can forget I ever added them. Right now I’ve got, like, two great aunts sitting in Friend Request Purgatory, pretending I never saw the requests so that they won’t know I don’t want to see their bullshit. I think my grandma is in there, too.”

Davontae shrugged again. “I ain’t gotta mute nobody. I’m just gonna keep talkin’ shit.”

Throughout the course of the meal, they went through the usual roster of people from high school. After Jose Aritza there was Caitlin Williams (whose daughter just turned four), Grant Harrison (who was still enlisted in the army and loved posting videos of himself shooting guns), Erika Somoza (who had a job that, they all had to assume, just entailed traveling to exotic locales and posting about them on social media), and countless others, a majority of whom had never left their hometown.

They paid their bills at the register, Davontae fulfilling his promise to cover Sophia’s, then headed out to drop her off at her parents’ house. They wrapped up their conversation in the car on the way, speeding past the neighborhood where Noah’s body was found.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, opening up the car door as they idled in her driveway. Winter air rushed in. “Y’all wanna do something tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Davontae said, so Oliver agreed as well.

“Dope. We can text tomorrow and figure it out.”

They said their goodbyes and Oliver watched as she trudged to the front door, wrapped up in her own embrace to combat the cold. She was digging through her backpack for the house key while Davontae switched the music to something less loud and aggressive than the hip-hop they’d been listening to, some indie rock band Oliver couldn’t readily identify.

“It’s just a bad movie, where there’s no crying,” a man with a warbling voice crooned from the speakers. Oliver couldn’t stop himself from nodding his head along to the beat when the drums and piano kicked in a few lines later.

The ride back to Oliver’s house was quieter. They’d spent most of the day together, and it had been a long day, so there wasn’t much left to say. They simply enjoyed the music as they coursed through the darkened streets. The moon was finally peeking out from behind a large, gray cloud. The suburbs felt otherworldly.

Oliver stood in his mother’s driveway for a moment after Davontae drove off, looking up at the moon. He checked his phone and saw that it was nearing eleven o’clock. His usual bedtime. His mother was probably still awake, as she was often up later than him, but she was definitely already in her bed by now with her television on.

So he decided to take a drive.

* * *

The roads were familiar yet unfamiliar. So much had changed while so much had stayed the same. Oliver was no longer totally sure what had been around when he was growing up. After almost a decade away, the place only somewhat felt like home anymore. It was more like a family lake house visited every summer; it’s nice, it feels like it’s yours , but only kind of. Never around long enough to truly settle in.

A Kendrick Lamar album played through his car’s speakers, with his phone plugged into the stereo to provide the music. The volume was up loud, and he could feel the bass rattling in his old, shitty car, but none of the words or sounds were leaving an impression. He was in a fog, with no thoughts or feelings floating through his mind at all as he drove through the twists and turns of the town that were deeply embedded in his brain. It was refreshing.

This was the fourth night in a row he’d made the drive to Shumard Springs. The neighborhood was ten minutes from his mother’s house, and it was pretty close to his childhood home, so he had no trouble navigating there. An old coworker of his from his high school pizza-slinging days, a girl a year younger named Ashlyn Coombs, had moved into the neighborhood shortly after she graduated high school. He’d known she had a fraught relationship with her mom, so it made sense when she told him she was moving into a small house she was renting with her boyfriend.

As he turned into the entrance of the neighborhood, his headlights shone on the stone sign proclaiming you were entering Shumard Springs. He wondered if Ash still lived there. They had been pretty good friends when they worked together, and once he moved away for college they had kept in touch a little bit, but it did not take long for that to fade.

Oliver turned onto the first street and slowed his car to park. He shut off the ignition and stared ahead, his eyes trailing up the sidewalk that curved into a cul-de-sac. He knew the place where Noah had died was a few blocks away, but it didn’t feel right parking his car in the same spot his friend had. He would walk.

He got out of the car and returned to the main street of the neighborhood, walking down the sidewalk past neatly-built brick two-story houses that he had envied when he was a teen and they were brand new. He tried to imagine what the cost was to rent one of these places. He couldn’t fathom how much it would cost to rent a house in Austin. His paycheck couldn’t bear it.

Oliver turned onto the second street he passed, wanting to take the long route. The chilly air felt good on his skin. He noticed he had begun sweating on the way over, which had been a recurrence over the past few nights.

He followed down the sidewalk, curving to the right down a straight path. At the end of the road was where Noah had been that night. Oliver still couldn’t figure out why he had been there in the first place. No one came to mind that Noah could have been visiting. Even if Ash still lived here, Noah had never met her. None of Oliver’s friends had.

After Christmas dinner with his mom and grandparents (as well as a few episodes of whatever generic show they had wanted to watch, which he already could not remember the title of days later), Oliver walked his grandparents to their car and then told his mom he was going out to see Davontae for a while.

Instead, he had driven here.

The lie had been a deflection. He had no idea if his mother had heard about the tragedy yet. Realistically, there was no way she wouldn’t have had a long discussion with him about it if she’d heard, so he assumed she hadn’t been told yet and wanted to avoid the topic for the time being. Maybe the next day he’d be able to get through it.

There hadn’t really been a plan for when he arrived.

That first night he visited, he had parked a few blocks away and walked to the spot in the photographs, passing by the rows of houses with Christmas trees lit up in their windows. Tiny white and large multicolored lights flickered through the glass panes.

By the time Oliver arrived at the spot that night, Noah’s mom’s car had been towed, and there was no evidence whatsoever that his friend had ever been there. Had ever died there.

“Died” was still a strange verb to associate with someone he’d grown up with. Someone he had spent so much of his life with. Oliver thought the weirdest friend-related verb he would ever encounter was going to be “impregnated,” when he found out Caitlin Williams was going to have someone’s baby. He never expected something like this to happen.

The spot that had previously been occupied by the car seemed so empty now. Although, it had seemed empty even in photographs with the car sitting there, parked against the curb, facing the wrong way down the street. A detail Oliver wasn’t sure why he noticed.

Another detail: a slight dent in the front fender. Maybe a tiny accident in a grocery store parking lot that Noah’s mother hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet. Another detail: the driver’s side window was rolled down, just an inch or two. Letting the cold air in as Noah sat there. As he faded.

On that Christmas night, Oliver had sat down in the emptiness. He placed himself on the curb, looking down at an oil spot left behind by the car. A leak that needed to be fixed. Maybe related to the fender incident.

As he sat there, watching the oil stain on the pavement, he had thought about the multitude of things he would never get to say to Noah. All the questions that would never be answered. All the anger that would stay bottled up, boiling, overflowing.

He imagined Noah sitting there on the curb beside him, his eyes locked onto that same oil spot. Both of them just watching, not saying a word to each other. Waiting for the other to make the first move, but neither giving an inch. Too proud, or too scared, or too angry. Blending into a murky mess, each indistinguishable from the rest. It didn’t particularly matter anymore, anyway. He looked over at Noah, but Noah did not look back. It made his chest tighten.

Tonight would likely be much of the same. Sitting down on the curb, watching the oil spot, which was fading with each passing day. Doing nothing, saying nothing. Much like how the two of them had spent the past year and a half. Fading from each other’s lives.

In the distance, Oliver could see the spot where he knew Noah had parked, directly under the streetlight. But tonight, someone was there.

A man was hunched over in the street on all fours, staring at the pavement. He was wearing nothing but skinny jeans and a tight white t-shirt, no jacket or gloves or anything. He had to be freezing cold.

As Oliver apprehensively grew closer, the man began to wheeze. His palms dragged against the concrete as if he was trying to crawl away but couldn’t move. His left leg shot backward, scraping his knee and tearing his pants.

Oliver’s first thought was that this was a drug addict who was going through something he couldn’t comprehend, and that going near him would end badly. He stopped walking, and even took a step or two back. His instincts to flee and to help sparred with each other.

Finally, he let out a meek, “Are you okay?” His voice was so soft, so wavering, he almost wasn’t sure he had said anything aloud at all. The guy looked somewhat familiar, but Oliver couldn’t place him.

The man’s head tilted, his eyes widening as they locked on to Oliver. His mouth opened and closed in tiny spurts of movement as if to say something, to plead for help, but nothing came out. He blinked and coughed again, spitting out a glob of a glowing, orange substance onto the ground.

Oliver took another step back.

The thick liquid glowed in the darkness of the street, illuminating the man’s features that had previously been hidden in shadow. He had a patchy beard and vibrant red hair that hung down in curtains on either side of his gaunt face. There was a sickly youthfulness to him. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old. The luminescent ichor dribbled from his lips, down his chin, into the small puddle that he had thrown up. It pooled together on the street, congealing, radiant.

“Fuck,” Oliver muttered, at a loss for any other words.

The man reached a hand over, running his fingertips through the orange puddle. “Stop,” he seemed to whisper.

Oliver couldn’t move. He stood petrified, watching the man fall apart, repeating “stop” whenever he actually managed to choke a word out. The glow of the liquid pulsated beneath him, and it seemed to wrap itself around his fingers. Or was his hand just submerged? It was hard to tell the difference. The difference didn’t really matter.

It sounded as if the man’s throat was ripping whenever he coughed, a shriek that tore through the empty neighborhood streets. More of the orange substance poured out of his mouth, spraying onto his own hand, splashing back up onto his face and chest.

As the orange bloomed brighter, more details came into focus. Oliver was horrified to discover that a fungus was growing on the man’s face, partially shielded by his greasy red hair. What appeared to be orange and green morels protruded from his left cheek, dripping the orange fluid from their ridges. More fungi had ripped through the man’s white t-shirt, starting at his collarbone and snaking down to at least his chest, from what Oliver could make out.

“Please,” the man sputtered. “Stop.” Each word was distorted, like each syllable was a fork scraping against a plate. Oliver’s spine tingled as the man said again, “Stop.” It sounded like his mouth was full, the words barely brushing past his tongue.

There was obviously something wrong with the guy. This was not some typical drug withdrawal or a bad trip. Oliver’s old friend Jez had dabbled in his fair share of drugs back in high school, and as far as he could recall, none of them made a person sprout mushrooms from their body.

He needed to help. He reached into his pocket, and a chill came over him when he realized his phone was not there. It was several blocks away, still stupidly plugged into his car’s stereo. “Fuck,” he swore again. There was a faint buzzing in his ears, gradually growing louder. His arms felt numb.

The distortions of the man’s voice intensified, nearly ear-splitting now. “Stop,” he begged, reaching his hand farther out, accomplishing nothing but sliding his arm through the orange muck, toppling off-balance. He crashed face-first onto the concrete, the fungus on his face dipping into the goo.

Oliver backed away, feeling like he should help the man, but not wanting to be too close. If whatever ailed him was contagious, Oliver certainly did not want to succumb to it.

He had no idea if the man could understand anything he said, but Oliver spoke regardless. “Just wait. I need to get my phone. My phone is in my car,” he needlessly explained, a stutter in his voice, still too stunned to move. “I need to go get it to call for help,” he murmured, stalling, filling the air with useless words to compensate for the fact that he could not force his legs to walk.

The man attempted to prop himself up with his left arm again, but the moment he put any weight on it, half of it suddenly shot into the ground like an umbrella pole in the sand. His body jerked with the movement, jostling more orange gunk from his lips, which he spit out onto his arm.

But Oliver realized the man’s arm had not disappeared into the concrete—that was impossible, it made no sense, and yet it felt more probable than what had actually occurred. The man’s limb was now simply gone. In its place was a pile of orange mush, which the stump of his arm now gently sunk into.

The man whispered something, but his voice was utterly incomprehensible. His lips, caked in the glowing substance, began to melt away like his upper arm had. His lips slid down his chin, dripping into the puddle below his face, followed shortly by the fungi on his cheek, which popped off easily and plopped down into the orange. It bloomed intensely at the mushroom’s touch.

The rest of his face continued to burn a bright orange as it slid away, twisting all his features, dripping down into the mush that his body was becoming. His knees gave way to the substance, then his torso began to trickle, pustules bubbling up then bursting, and the fungi on his chest plummeted into the puddle.

Oliver saw what appeared to be movement on the maimed face, but no words could escape. There was nothing left anymore. A blank canvas.

Soon, the man’s body was no more than a puddle of glowing orange fluid, boiling and swirling, seeping into the tattered clothing left behind. The distortions of the man’s voice rang out through the air, intermingling with the hiss in Oliver’s ears, until suddenly they both stopped.

Silence.

The pool of orange glowed brighter, and brighter, until all at once it dimmed completely. It still bubbled and murmured on its surface, but there was no luminescence to it anymore. The fungi churned and was caught in the white, stained shirt, vanishing into its folds. The fabric began to corrode, or it began to morph into the goo, Oliver couldn’t be sure which. There was an odor in the air like rancid offal.

Oliver stumbled backward and gasped in a huge breath of air. He realized he hadn’t been breathing for the past thirty seconds. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground, still staring ahead at the substance that only moments before had been a human being.

Several thoughts raced through his head, none of them coherent. One image kept pounding itself into his brain: his phone. He should get back to his phone.

It took a minute or two of effort, but he finally stood with a wobble and staggered through the neighborhood back to where he had parked. The sight of his car sitting there, patiently awaiting his return, was an unbelievable relief. He unlocked the door and slid into the seat, the door hanging open and the night breeze pawing at his face while he sat and attempted to compose himself.

He kept returning to the same thought: the man choking out, “Stop.”

He then unplugged his phone and the screen lit up, nearly blinding him. The clock read 11:23 p.m.

With a swipe of his finger the screen was unlocked, and he tapped the Phone icon, pulling up the dial pad. He stared at the screen, knowing he should dial 9-1-1, but he felt a reluctance.

What the fuck would I even say? he wondered. A man just turned into orange goo in front of me? Come quick?

He wasn’t even sure if what he’d seen was real. A terrible headache was setting in, and he suspected that maybe the stress of the entire week was getting to him. Perhaps he’d hallucinated the whole thing. The man had been practically screaming at some point, and yet no one had come outside to investigate.

But it had been so visceral .

He plugged his phone back in and turned on the car. Kendrick Lamar blared from his speakers and he quickly shut off the audio.

A light rain began to descend over the neighborhood, illuminated by the streetlights. He shivered, suddenly aware of how cold he was, and he slammed the car door shut. He watched the rain fall for a minute, wishing it was snow, then drove away.

* * *

If you enjoyed this sample, please check out the full book at Travis’s website or on Amazon .

There, you can sign up for his newsletter and find more info about The Narrows as well as other standalone fantasy novels: Balam, Spring and Spit and Song .

12

Nite Fire: Flash Point

Cynthia Schneider

Slated for execution, shapeshifting assassin, Dahlia Nite, flees her world to hide in the human realm. As payment for the shelter they unknowingly provide, Dahlia dedicates herself to protecting humans from what truly lives in the shadows. Moving from town to town, she hunts the creatures that threaten an unsuspecting human race; burying the truth that could destroy them all.

But the shadows are shifting. The lies are adding up. And when Sentinel City is threatened by a series of bizarre brutal murders, light is shed on what should never be seen. The secrets that have kept humanity in the dark for centuries are in danger of being exposed.

Wrestling with a lifetime of her own deceptions, Dahlia investigates the killings while simultaneously working to conceal their circumstances. But with each new murder, the little bit of peace she has found in this world begins to crumble. Each new clue leads her to the one place she thought to never go again. Home.

Flash Point is the award-winning first book in the Nite Fire Series.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 9

* * *

Prologue

I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be afraid. I’d outgrown the nightmares of my youth long ago. Burying the events that sparked them, locking away the images, I’d dismissed the power they held over me. But I still remembered…

Waking in my dark den, throat raw, fire spitting from my fingertips; in those first few moments before sleep released me from its clutches, I’d sworn the creatures’ hot breath was still on me, their barbed tongues darting out, smelling my fear on the air. In every shadow, I saw the black blur of their shifted forms, circling me. Every heartbeat bore the promise of pain as the razor-like teeth of the savage nageun shredded the meat from my bones. Every night, I waited for the creatures’ bites to penetrate, for their venom to flow in and my blood to spill out.

Those moments were far behind me. The nightmares were gone. Experience had made me stronger and wiser. Determination and training had pushed my fear of their slender, stunted reptilian forms to the depths of my mind.

Now they were crawling out.

They were stepping from my past.

The dark swarm was closing in, and the nageun’s pursuit of me was as real as the cold fear burning in my veins; twisting like a frozen blade with each pump of my legs as I ran.

Shifting out of my human form, crimson scales erupted to spread beneath the malleable confines of my uniform, covering breasts, stomach, thighs, and back. Muscles increased in size as my slender nose widened. Rounded jaw hardened. Cheekbones and forehead became more distinct as my full lips darkened. I dropped to all fours, back arched slightly, and the forest floor sunk beneath my weight. Claw tips extended, digging in, releasing the aroma of damp soil and moldy undergrowth. With a rustle of leaves, I pushed off.

Night birds scattered in haste at my swift trespass. Woodland creatures stirred and scurried. My unmistakable smell, an arousing amalgam of human female and dragon, had them skittish as I dove headlong into the clog of downed boughs and scrub. My agile hybrid form slipped through the labyrinth of timber with minimal effort. Arcs of fire crackled off the ends of my hair as it fluttered out behind me.

I was too conspicuous. I needed to blend.

Without breaking stride, I shifted the strands and their composition changed. From scalp to ends, human hair emerged, and doused the visible fiery heat wafting off the lengthy red waves. It wasn’t camouflage even close to what my pursuers were capable of creating. Their ability to shift into shadow, nearly erasing the edges of their bodies—little more than whip-like tails, long flat jaws, and serrated teeth to begin with—was one of the creatures’ greatest weapons.

It wasn’t easy to kill my kind. Death by nageun was a long, tortuous mutilation there was no coming back from. Picturing it, I tore deeper into the forest.

I tried to run and not think. But my mind was spinning, desperately seeking to understand, to conceive how a normal assignment on a normal day had landed me on the wrong end of an execution. With a single hesitation, my hopes, my future—my life—was over. The Guild was all I’d ever known. They’d plucked me from my den-mates, sheltered, fed, and trained me; promoted me to the coveted role of Executioner. They’d shown me the rewards of a life in service to our dragon elders. Dahlia Nite was a name respected in the ranks. I was known to all the tribes, decorated for fealty and bravery. Now, all had turned against me.

I carried the order through . I did as I was told. I’d just needed more time.

If the child hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t…

What? I thought bitterly. I still didn’t know what happened. Only that her emotions had been strong beyond explanation. They’d been tangible, slithering over and in me, affecting me in an impossible way. I hadn’t been merely sympathetic to the human child’s terror. Her panic had brought me to my knees. I’d felt the violence of the moment, the violence I’d been sent to inflict, in a way I never had: as a victim. I’d seen it, growing around her ankles like a black wet fog. Stunned, I’d lost hold of my fire and faltered. Pausing, even just a moment, had created a memory; a record of my uncertainty, and, therefore, a death sentence.

In a society where not even our thoughts were private, no mistake was overlooked. No performance could be embellished or hidden. Our mission reports, our kills, were pulled straight from our minds by the highest authority: Naalish, the Exalted One; mother of all firedrakes and Queen of the Elder Dragon Tribes of Drimera.

Telepathy was common in female elders, but Naalish was said to possess a superior mind. It was also rumored she’d ripped the heart from her predecessor and ate it, consuming her soul to gain her power. I’d never believed it. Naalish was the most beautiful and majestic of all the dragons. Even hours ago, standing before her wrapped in chains, I’d been in awe of her presence. Deference and pride had kept me silent as she ordered my execution. I hadn’t even thought to plead for mercy. I was better than that. I was a hybrid, a shifter, a lyrriken. The product of a human female and an elder male in human form, both human and dragon existed within me. It was by the grace of the elders alone that I lived. They had every right to judge and punish me.

It didn’t matter that I’d gone before the Queen confused, that I’d needed help and she’d called for my arrest. Mercy was a not a common dragon trait, and I would never have shamed either of us by begging. I took her condemnation with my head held high.

It was after when my outlook changed. After, as I sat in my cell, with the blood of that human child drying on my hands, as I dissected my actions and tried to comprehend—I watched the walls go inexplicably fluid and gray. And I saw her. I saw it all again: the clearing where her home sat, the woods surrounding it, the charred body of her headless father on the ground. Stretching out like a hand from the grave, the child’s terror, stronger than anything I’d felt before, had gripped me anew. It dominated everything. My status, my honor, my duty to die as commanded, had no value. My squad, not even my lover mattered. Suddenly and inexplicably, I cared for one thing.

Survival.

No one had challenged my escape. They had no reason to expect such a bold move. Even facing execution, no Guild-trained lyrriken would dare defy the Queen. We would stay and take the death that was given us.

Yet something had crawled inside me that didn’t want to die.

Something that wanted to live more than it wanted to obey.

Now the coin had flipped, and I was the target. I was the one striving to outrun the oncoming death on my heels, clinging to life even knowing the odds of surviving. Fleeing was foolish. My impulse to do so was puzzling, but I couldn’t stop. Even now, with my cell in the depths of the Citadel far behind me, with the lights from the City of Spires dim in the distance, the sounds of the child’s scream rang as strong as the wind in my ears.

I’d left her alive too long. Her noise had brought the nageun out of the forest. My hesitation, my compromised aim when I recovered, had left her not quite dead when the horde descended. She’d watched them swarming. Felt their teeth puncture and tear. I’d backed quietly away, out of their view, listening to the foul crescendo of the cracking of bones and the slurping of organs as soft human bodies were reduced to strips of meat and puddles of viscous matter.

They were to die, anyway. It had been my duty to kill them .

But not like that.

I’d botched the entire job, and I still couldn’t fathom how. How could one little human melt away my years of training, one mistake label me weak and untrustworthy?

Now, in fleeing, I’d earned another brand. Traitor.

Stilling my breath, I glanced back into the murk of the forest. My vision had long since adjusted, and through the lattice of branches, dark scales glimmered. Flashes of teeth and bobbing yellow eyes caught the sporadic flash of the twin moons’ brilliance. I counted the sets of eyes as they approached. I stopped at fifteen and ran faster.

Instinct screamed for me to stop, to fight, to kill them.

Fear screamed louder.

Ending up in one of their burrows, pumped full of venom, drifting between peaceful ignorance and agony as my body was slowly depleted—my blood and tissue becoming nourishment for their suckling young—I’d lived through that hell once. Never again.

Limbs slapped against my face, snagging the edges of my scales. My shoulder blades itched. Wings wanted to burst forth and unfold, but the scrub was too thick. Even if I burned it away, I wouldn’t gain clearance fast enough to escape their reach. The nageun had no wings, but their lightweight bodies could scale the tallest trees as swiftly as any rodent.

At a snap in the branches above my head, I froze. Glancing up, I spotted the form of a small, scaled lyrriken perched within the green. She was squatting on a sturdy limb, clutching its bark with her clawed feet. I recognized her immediately. Brynne was one of several novices recently assigned to my squad for apprenticeship. Immature, barely passing her lessons, this one had yet to be given a position, or even tested. Being caught with me would ensure she never did.

Anger pushed my whispered words out fast. “What are you doing here?”

“Dahlia,” she whispered back in relief. “I saw you leave the city. I wanted to…”

“What were you thinking, following me? You need to go home now .”

“Come back with me,” she begged.

“I can’t.” I glanced behind me. There was no time for this. “Focus on your training,” I said sharply, trying to get rid of her. “Work hard. Obey the elders. They will teach you well.”

“You were meant to teach me.”

“They’ll assign another.”

“But the retrievers will hunt you. They’ll bring you back. Naalish will—”

“Do what she feels is right. Just as I am. Now hush,” I whispered with force, “they’ll hear you.”

Before she could speak again, I was gone.

Pushing my muscles faster, I scanned the terrain ahead. I needed to remain deep within the tangle. It was my only hope of staying alive, of someday returning home and changing the Queen’s mind. Hope, I thought, cursing my human side for entertaining such madness. Forgiveness was not found often among my kind. Once earned, a stigma was rarely lifted.

Dead, it would never be lifted at all.

I took a sharp left and headed toward the cliff at the edge of the woods. I knew what was there, far below in the ravine. I’d discovered it not a day before. On my way to kill the human, I’d skirted the gorge, and the air stung my nostrils. It was a telltale sign of a nearby exit. Unaware of any off-world activity in the area, I’d stopped to investigate. Glancing down had revealed a strange dark mist hovering over the lake at the bottom. Flashing within the black fog, were spinning flecks of color. The peculiar prisms of light were an anomaly I knew only from the elders’ descriptions. Though, coupled, with the acrid smell, I realized quickly what I’d found: a passage between worlds.

What baffled me was how. Such ‘visible tears in the invisible’ existed on a plane only a true dragon could see. The inferior eyes and mind of a lyrriken weren’t built to visually comprehend such a complex phenomenon. Yet, somehow, mine had.

I’d felt it, too. A strange force had emanated from the exit as I stared into its depth. The sudden explosion of sensations had knocked me to the ground. I’d thought it some sort of energy discharge. Now, after the human girl, I understood.

What filtered out from the passage was similar to what I’d felt filtering out of her. Misery, trauma, pain, human pain; it all lie on the other side of the exit. So did their world.

The passage must have been newly formed. All exits were guarded. Unauthorized off-world travel was forbidden. I’d planned to report the exit’s birth when I returned to the Citadel. New discoveries had to be mapped and explored, their destination and danger level verified by a Guild scout. But I didn’t need this one verified. I knew exactly where it led: to the only other world where I had a hope of blending in.

Abruptly, the tree cover thinned. The space between trunks widened. Able to travel more quickly, soil and shredded leaves scattered as my hands and feet stirred up the forest floor. I refused to look back at the shadows on my tail. The volume of their slobbering snarls told me what little lead I had was dwindling.

Jumping a small stream, I spied the edge of the foliage. Beyond was darkness and empty air. Below was the ravine. Within the mist-covered water was refuge, the unknown—the coward’s path. I’d never walked it before. I’d never defied the wishes of the elders. Not once had I chosen my own desires above theirs. Until now.

Bursting from the trees, I pushed my wings out from the slender slits in my uniform. Unfolding in an instant, fire smoldered along their variegated edges as I skidded to a halt at the rocky lip of the bluff. Searching for the lights in the heavy fog blanketing the ravine, I caught a single colored twinkle. It was enough to gauge the exit’s position.

My target in sight, I paused. I had never taken a mission to the human world. Still, I wasn’t ignorant of their ways. All lyrriken were taught their primary languages and a degree of their culture. We were half human, after all. Naalish once said humans were superior in what they build and create. Their weakness was of the soul, a lack of enlightenment. She said: It’s what makes them dangerous. It’s why we follow their progress so closely. Why we continue to keep the truth of our existence hidden. For if they were to learn of the riches of our worlds, or the power we possess, they would seek to make it their own. And no worlds would escape such an undertaking unscathed.

Naalish also spoke of great wonder and beauty in the human world. She insisted it was there if you knew where to look, if you wanted to find it. And I did.

I have to. There’s nothing left for me here.

I took one final glance at the twin moons high above, fearing I would never again glimpse their beauty. I poised to jump—and shadow descended. Searing pain cut across the back of my legs. Blood spewed as nageun teeth ripped through my scales. Whipping my head around, I released a blaze with my defiant scream. I had no idea if I hit them. Flames clung to the trees and I dove off the cliff’s edge, parting the mist as I fell.

* * *

Ninety-seven years later…

* * *

Chapter 1

Fire dripped like rain from my scaled fingers. Gliding past my jean-covered thighs, then boots, the flaming beads breached the puddle beside me with a hiss . A last stubborn burst of light flared bright, illuminating the red pool for a breath before it sputtered out.

The pattern repeated: drip, flare, hiss, sputter, drip, flare, hiss, sputter , as I stood in the abandoned train depot; counting the circles of blood that overran the pockmarks on the fractured concrete floor. Each bloody puddle corresponded to a body hanging upside down from the rafters above my head.

Thick ropes bound their ankles. Their flaccid arms dangled toward me, as if reaching down in hopeless supplication. But their death throe pleas were illusion. The six had died long before they were dragged in, stripped of their clothing and skin, and hung like a side of beef in a slaughterhouse. If they’d died here, I would have felt an imprint of their trauma on the room. Instead, all I sensed was their ripe stench drifting with the breeze as it blew in through the rotted holes in the ceiling.

“Looks like a full hunt,” I said, glancing up with a frown as moisture landed on my head. The color got lost in the red of my hair as the blood slid down into the curls. “And you’re fresh. Dammit…” I muttered, stepping to the left to avoid another drop escaping the corpse above me. I waited then, to see if it would be enough, if one little bead would trigger a flood inside me; ambushing me with the images and emotions of the victim’s last moments.

Not now , I thought. The last thing I needed was an unsolicited, untimely death-glimpse. Experiencing the terror of being skinned alive would definitely lower my guard.

Trying to stave it off, I busied my mind. I studied the dilapidated building, the architecture, and the faded peeling murals that graced the wide walls. I thought back to when it had all looked fresh and new. Opening day, the ticket counters had been bustling, handing out adventure and opportunity with every ticket. So many lives had passed through the front door. All that came through now were the rats.

And the monsters.

Sensing no extraneous rush of emotions, I went back to rooting out my prey. “Guess that means you’re ready to pack up and head home.” I raised my voice higher. “Except you can’t yet, can you? You’re stuck for now. You’re ineffective. Vulnerable.”

Just the way I like it.

Moving farther into the vacant building, swarms of buzzing flies scattered at my intrusion. My low-heeled boots clicked softly on the wooden planks covering a broken section of floor. My steps were leisurely. It was a nice change, not having to run. The creature was in no shape for such dexterous moves. It wouldn’t be for hours. Hiding was another matter. Sentinel City’s original depot had been vacated long ago in favor of a bright, shiny new building on the other end of the train yard. Here, amid the debris of a forgotten time, were cracks and crevices, and lots of shadows.

“You can’t leave this world until you digest,” I said, keeping my voice loud. “Until your pathetically slow stomach consumes all that delicious human skin you’ve been gorging on.”

Getting no response, I pushed the crimson scales out over more of my body. They ran like water beneath my black halter, affording extra protection to my upper half. As they reached my face, I shifted my eyes. Sockets enlarged. Pupils widened and elongated. Their reddish hazel-brown color deepened to warm amber, and my vision amplified. Sweeping the room, I peered into nooks and crannies, studying the fallen beams, broken signs, piles of busted chairs and rows of dusty benches; fallen light fixtures and detached stair railings barely hanging on by a thread.

“You should’ve added some brains to your diet,” I said, scanning for movement as I walked. “Maybe they would have made you smarter. Because I’ve already warned you once—this isn’t a buffet ,” I said with force. “There are no free refills here. No all you can eat. The human world is off limits to the del-yun. It’s off limits to everyone.”

His voice came out of the dark. “You have no right,” he blustered, scratchy and dry like sandpaper on a chalkboard. “No authority to enforce the elders’ rules. You no longer hold position in the dragon ranks, pretty shifter. The Guild tossed you out so very, very long ago.”

“Ninety-seven years, two months, and three days. But who’s counting?” Bristling, I tossed back my hair. “And they didn’t fire me. I quit.”

“You ran…like those cowardly small ones with the perfect skin…so soft and supple.”

Understanding him, I frowned. “Children?”

“Yes, you fled like a child.” His laugh was stilted and wobbly. “And now you’re a maid.”

“I prefer the term ‘contract cleaner’. Scrubbing away those stubborn off-world assholes is my specialty.” I lifted a hand. Fire dribbled down the side. “How about I give you a free demo?”

Belligerent, he spat, “You can’t blame me. This world is so beautifully curious, so dangerous. It’s why all the other worlds are drawn here. It’s why we watch. Why we learn to speak their sounds.”

“Why you eat them?”

“No. We eat them because they’re tasty. And their skin comes in so many varieties. It’s not our fault they can’t live without it. It’s a…structural flaw.”

“You’re not a del-yun,” I scoffed, keeping him talking. “You’re a pig. A fat, greedy, gluttonous pig who doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Oh, pretty shifter,” he cooed. “So noble. So brave. So…insulting . I’ve never tasted the skin of a lyrriken before. I imagine it would be tough.”

“I hear it tastes like chicken. Not that you’ll have a chance to know.”

“You assume I can’t kill you,” he chuckled, low and gravely. I followed the sound as his threats continued. “You think I won’t feast on your scales and sell your parts? Everyone wants the dragon pieces, the power they gather. Everyone wants a taste.”

“I’m only part dragon, del-yun. Your buyers might notice the difference.”

“Half…full…you all have worth. And,” the delight in his voice was unmistakable, “smaller bones make such a wonderful snap . You’ll see. I’ll show you soon. Nothing compares to the exquisite sound of peeling flesh from a shattered bone.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Movement streaked behind the rusted bars of the ticket counter.

Gotcha .

Drawing out more of my fire, it seeped between the scales on the palm of my left hand. I lifted my arm and it merged into a single blaze. With a push, the flame burst out over the distance. It lit the darkness of the depot, silhouetting the gray rocky form bolting out from behind the graffiti-splattered counter—seconds before it burst apart. In the resulting spew of fire and wood, I spied the del-yun scampering across the floor.

Standing well over my own six-foot frame, the coarse-skinned creature’s body was humanoid in shape, but it was all harsh edges and corners, like a Picasso painting come to life. His wrinkled forehead was heavy and sloped. His boxlike jaw was narrow and long. Sharp-angled, fibrous wings lay pressed in tight against his back.

A del-yun’s wingspan was much larger than mine. He’d need a lot more room than he had inside the depot to take flight. But if he got out…

The front door behind me was wide open. If he made it past me, the four days I’d spent searching for the creature would be for nothing. And when he was done digesting, he’d hunt again.

Adjusting my aim, I added more force, and my fire exploded the concrete in front of him. A hiss of alarm fled the del-yun’s thick-toothed maw, and he changed directions.

I cut him off again.

Stopping, he faced me. With a better view, it was clear he’d grown since our previous run-in. His stone-gray arms and legs were bursting with sinew and muscle. His glossy black eyes, wide as my fists, bulged in anger. But I was more interested in his stomach. It wasn’t as distended as I’d expected or counted on.

Capable of expanding to accommodate a week’s worth of meals at a time, a del-yun’s fully enlarged stomach sac didn’t just look ridiculous, it slowed the creature down to a crawl. More importantly, the normally hard outer layer of skin (a natural shell of armor) would stretch and thin like an overfilled balloon; offering me a nice, large, weak target.

Not tonight, though . My timing was off. He’d stripped the skin from his victims, but I must have interrupted before he could burrow in somewhere and gorge. Meaning, I was going to have to work harder than I’d planned. Unless compromised by a recent feed, a del-yun’s stone-like flesh was as resistant to fire as a lyrriken’s scales. Underneath their skin, though, was another matter.

With insides as flammable as a bottle of lighter fluid, all it took was one spark.

I just had to get close enough to cut him.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” I said. “You know the rules against travel here.”

“The dragon’s rules are not ours,” he argued. “Not anymore. Not when we are starving.”

“Can the drama, del-yun. It’s Friday night. This is the last place I want to be. And your kind are always starving.”

“You think I lie? Drimera-born such as you merely open their mouths and lies rain out. I speak only truth.”

“You speak bullshit. I was on your world once. I couldn’t go five feet without stepping on one four-legged thing or another.”

“That was long ago, shifter girl. Lands wither. Skin…dries.” He screwed up his face, extending his jaw impossibly far and sticking out his long, gray tongue in disgust. He wagged the organ and saliva slid off the end. One green, sticky drop touched down on the floor with a hiss and a sizzle .

“Gross.”

Insulted, the del-yun pushed out an angry high-pitched screech. Holding position, his black eyes regarded me with malice. “You, Nite, make a mockery of all dragon-kind. Parading around in the human’s wrappings, eating their food, living in their shelters. If only they knew what you were, where you come from.”

“That’s what myths and legends are for. As long as humans continue to believe dragons never existed, then they don’t. We don’t.”

“You fool yourself, believing stories can hide us much longer. This world is ripe for an awakening.”

“You’re right. The blinders slide out of place a little more every year—which is why you can’t come here and eat their skin! You have any idea how quickly something like this will go viral? How fast the human armies would invade your world? And once you’re defeated, the other worlds wouldn’t be far behind. Unless…you want to be dissected.” Ten feet away, I reached to the small of my back and pulled the hunting knife from the sheath on my belt. “Because I’m happy to make that dream come true right now.”

His roar blew the hair back from my face. His oddly pliable jaw opened with a wet crack of cartilage. Dropping, extending past throat, then chest, the square edge of his jaw came to rest even with the center of his abdomen. Outlined by fleshy lips, the dark maw within held an inner ring of uneven teeth, all stained with a deep red grime. Pushing out from their center, the del-yun’s gray tongue ejected like a whip. A heavy discharge of green followed. Hitting the floor in front of me with a moist splat, the glop of saliva gurgled and smoked as it devoured the concrete. A smaller rivulet of smoke curled up from the front of my left boot, where tiny beads of the creature’s spit were eating through the laces.

“Come on,” I groaned, “not the boots…” Bending, I slid my knife in behind the black crisscross. In the corner of my eye, I saw his tongue emerging again.

I broke the lace with a quick yank.

Flinging off the still-bubbling piece as I straightened, I flung the knife next. My throw was directed at his tongue, hoping to sever the bit wagging down over his teeth. But at the last second, he moved. My weapon sailed past his tongue, in through his wide mouth, and impaled his left cheek. The tip of the blade pushed out with a spill of yellowish blood and sliced tissue.

I raised a finger. Fire trickled from my nail. It slid off the side of my hand and onto the floor. Watching its journey, the del-yun knew: one little touch was all it would take. His blood would catch like kindling, and my fire would follow it down inside him like a flame on a fuse.

Panting, the creature eyed me in defiance. With another, lengthy crack , he widened his jaw three more inches. Reaching a chunky hand inside, he gripped the handle, and ripped the blade from his cheek. Pulling the knife back out through his cavernous mouth, he dropped it with a shaky hand. Copious amounts of yellow blood fled the hole in his face. It brightened his drab skin and dripped like a leaky faucet from the del-yun’s mouth as his stony face contorted in a pain.

Mindful of his caustic drool, I moved closer. I inched up and reached a slow hand toward his face. Surprisingly, he held still. “No more fight, del-yun?”

Fluid sputtered out with his words. “Go ahead. Burn me. I would rather die in a world that’s alive…than live in one that’s dead.”

The startling wistfulness in his tone struck me, stirring something deep in my chest. It was no more than a hiccup of a moment, a half-second, internal jolt of warning.

I was about to feel something I didn’t want to feel.

Experiencing the del-yun’s pain wouldn’t stop me from killing him. But my momentary distraction would give him a chance to flee. I couldn’t let it get that far.

Before my empathy could interfere, I placed my finger against the wound on his cheek.

Resigned, he didn’t flinch. “You should know, pretty shifter…you were wrong.” Grimacing as his wound ignited, the del-yun’s large eyes held mine. He choked on a wet, anguished laugh. “I wasn’t hunting for one.”

His revelation was like a switch, as the planks covering the floor suddenly fractured and burst. Fragmented wood splintered and soared, colliding with the six bodies hanging above. As the skinless corpses swung back and forth on their ropes, another five male del-yun sprung up from a newly exposed ditch in the ground. Hay clung to their coarse skin. Eerie sounds of rage left their throats. Finding no room to extend their wings, the previously nesting creatures landed on the depot floor with jaws wagging and a unanimous, severely pissed off gleam in their black eyes.

My brow scrunched, watching them posture and hiss. Del-yun males were known to journey alone or with a single mate. I’d never seen so many travel together before.

I stepped away from their friend—burning beside me from the inside out—and brought my fire to bear. Raising a hand above my head, flames fled my scales in a wide, high, left to right arc; cutting through the ropes and dropping all six bodies down on top of the del-yun’s blocky heads.

As the startled creatures stumbled to right themselves, I rushed them.

Pushing nails out, sharpening, widening, and strengthening them as I ran, flecks of black polish chipped off and fluttered down. I picked a target and jumped on him. Scaling his angled form, crawling up over his shoulder, as I landed behind him, I pulled his body over my head and slammed it down. As his back hit the floor, I dropped to one knee and punched my claws into his thick throat. Three points broke off. Two stabbed in.

I bent my submerged clawtips, yanked, and ripped off a patch of skin. Awash in the creature’s fluids, I set him aflame as I stood.

As I bent for my knife, sticky gray tongues shot out and curled around my ankles.

“Shit.”

The word had barely left my mouth when the del-yun heaved. A searing pain shot through my skull as it smacked the floor. Smoke rose with a whisper and the scent of burning leather.

In a handful of seconds, the del-yun’s saliva would eat through my boots. It would take even less to devour my skin.

Buying time, I swapped the human flesh on my legs for scales. As the seams on my jeans strained and ripped to accommodate, I sat up and seized the acid tongues around my ankles. Gritting teeth against the discomfort, I forced all the heat I had through my scaled hands. My flame billowed violently. The fleshy ropes in my grip caught and carried the fire back along their lengths, melting lips and searing off the bottom half of the creatures’ lengthy jaws.

Kicking off my ruined boots, I hopped up and thrust one hand each into the charred flapping cavities that remained. Jaw and teeth smoldering, it stunk like burned plastic. Wrinkling my nose, I shoved fists of fire through the backs of their heads. Charred skull, fluid and ash spewed out in a wet cloud.

Withdrawing my hands, I kicked their wavering bodies down. As I brushed the pieces of their skin from my shirt, the last moved in to flank me. Throwing a scaled fist into the angled face of one, I pivoted and struck the other in the chest. It was like punching stone. There was a good chance I’d broken something, but I didn’t have time to find out. Grabbing a neck, I threw one down and stomped on his groin—such as it was. Until mating season, Del-yun kept their parts inside behind a thick membrane. My stomp forced an early, unplanned ejection, giving me a better target for my second kick.

Turning from the resulting whimper, I caught the movement of unfolding wings. As they moved to embrace me from behind, I spun, put my hands flat against their wide surface, and drove a stream of fire straight through. The del-yun squawked out an uncanny wail as his wings blackened and burned.

Stronger than a human in either form, I’d given the del-yun more pain than any of their victims could have managed. It still wasn’t enough. Not to deter them, and certainly not to kill them. And I had to. For so many to have come through at once, this wasn’t a joy ride. It wasn’t a daring hunt for forbidden fruit. If the del-yun were truly looking for a new food source, I had to make them understand: it wasn’t going to be here.

Snatching up a broken piece of railing, I stepped and swung. Metal cracked across their drooped jaws. It bounced off one. The other shattered in a rain of bone and green saliva. As the splatters singed the ends of my hair, I exploded his broken face with a hail of fire.

Pivoting, ducking the spit of the last one, I bashed the railing into his thick-kneed legs. Heavier than the others, the del-yun merely worked his hard-lined jaw into an alarming smile—and punched me. My vision went white, then black. I dropped in a pile of del-yun ash and skinless human corpses.

Blinking to correct my sight, I found my piece of railing. I dragged it up with me as I pushed to my knees. My jeans had enough holes in them to be designer. The scales on my face were torn and bleeding. My knuckles were worse. I straightened with a groan, and a deep twinge swept my lower back. None of it would last long. Blessed with the rapid healing of my dragon blood, my body was already repairing itself. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the pain.

Breathing through it, I studied my opponent. The del-yun was looking confident and annoyingly eager, and I steeled myself for a fight.

Then I saw the cut on his left leg. Yellow blood was dribbling out over the sharp edge of his knee. My strike had cut him.

Grinning, I moved forward. “How did you get here, del-yun?”

Advancing as well, he answered with impatience. “Beneath.”

“Beneath where? Here ? There’s an exit under the depot?”

Five feet apart, his stare was unwavering. “You may kill me, shifter, but more will come. They have to,” he said, desperate and raspy. “It is…necessity.”

“Yeah, you’re starving. I heard. I don’t care.” I pitched the railing at his face. As the del-yun turned his head to avoid the blow, I drew up my fire, dropped to a crouch, and slammed both hands, palms down, onto his blood trail. As the fluid ignited, I reached through the fire and gripped his legs. Pulling him into the burning stream, I dropped the creature with a thud and a surge of blinding flame.

Scrambling back, I sat a moment and caught my breath. I watched his body blister and his gray skin char and peel away. When the stench of his burning flesh became too much, I stood and moved off. It was time to clean up.

I burned the bodies of the del-yun’s human victims one at a time; cremating them with a high heat. Then I moved the few remaining planks covering the hole in the floor and peered into the basement. It looked like an old maintenance room, but it smelled like an overflowing outhouse. The floor was crowded with busted machinery, rusted containers, dusty bottles, old paint cans, and del-yun waste. Their nest was in the center. Gathering what they could find, they’d built their temporary den from grass and garbage, and decorated it with half-chewed ribbons of human skin.

I dropped a shower of fire onto the nest. Another onto the paint cans. Whatever trace amounts of accelerants remained in the room sped things along, and the flames feasted quickly.

Moving on, walking the length of the old depot, I torched whatever junk and debris would burn the evidence fastest. I found my knife in a puddle of bubbling green. I wiped it off on a torn chair cushion, put the blade away, and set fire to the cushion. I couldn’t leave anything to be identified, any trace. The abandoned structure going up in flames needed to be an accident. The six had to forever remain missing persons.

I put my scales away as I walked outside. The summer night was hot and breezy on my human skin. It cooled some as I left the fire behind and veered off the tracks. Mindful of my bare feet, I jogged up a slight incline to the road. I’d left my jeep parked on the shoulder, far from the nearest streetlamp. Having left the top off (in preparation for a quick getaway), I hopped up onto the running board and climbed inside. The second I hit the seat, my back pocket vibrated.

Lifting up, I pulled my phone out. I didn’t bother looking at who was calling. I’d been back in the city six weeks. It was a new phone, and only one person had the number.

“Oren,” I answered. “It’s done.”

“Excellent,” he replied, a slight smile in his voice. “Discreet, I hope.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the depot, blazing bright against the night sky. “Always.”

“Uh huh,” was all he said. But Oren knew better. The only one of my kind I kept in contact with, Oren Parish was my confidant, my mentor, and the unofficial source of my off-the-record, subcontracted assignments. He was also a centuries-old shifter who hadn’t established himself as an important figure in two worlds by shining light on his every move.

My actions weren’t that conspicuous, but he’d still lecture me later.

“I’m fine, by the way,” I said. “If that’s why you’re calling.”

“It’s not. You had one engorged del-yun to deal with. What’s there to worry about?”

“Right,” I muttered, frowning at my dirty feet and tattered jeans as I reached under the seat for my keys.

“Now go home, wash up, and change. I have something different for you.”

“Tonight?” It had been well after midnight when I walked into the depot. After the fight and the clean-up, all I wanted was a hot shower and a cold beer.

“I know it’s late,” he said, sensing my frustration. “And I know it puts a strain on your ability, going from one stain of violence to the next. If you don’t think you can handle it…”

Oren knew I wouldn’t say no. He also understood that being exposed to a succession of traumas didn’t lower the effectiveness of my empathic ability. What it wore down was my capacity for blocking it out. And what it gave me was headaches. “What’s the job?”

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Go home, take those pills I gave you, and get some rest.”

“The pills won’t help.”

“How do you know if you don’t take one? We’ve talked about this, Dahl. You have issues ,” he said delicately.

“Thanks for pointing that out. Now tell me what the damn job is.”

Oren relented with a sigh. “I just hung up with the Chief of Police. He’s looking for an arson specialist to consult on a murder investigation.”

“Arson consultant? Interesting. I haven’t been one of those for a while.”

“He requested someone outside the department with discretion and an open mind. You have at least one of those qualifications,” he added dryly. “This isn’t a single consult. They want you on the case until it’s done. So you’ll have to play nice for a few days. Credentials are taken care of. I trust you have the equipment?”

Sirens were approaching. I started the engine and pulled onto the road. “Of course.”

“There might be some press around this one, Dahl. Treat it as a standard catch, clean, and cover, and get it done fast. I’ll text you the address.”

“Any details?”

“Only that it’s gruesome and unexplainable.”

I hung up and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. “Perfect.”

* * *

Chapter 2

We all have ghosts. Not the floating specters that rise from lonely gravestones on a moonlit night. Not the mischievous spirits that rattle chains or stomp their invisible feet across attic floors. Sparked by emotion, bred by trauma, these shadowy phantoms attach with sticky grips and a heavy weight, and they’re damn hard to shake. Dragging on every step, cleaving to souls like a stubborn wad of gum; they cling, embrace, pollute.

It took me a long time to understand that, to grasp the nature of what truly haunted the human race, and so many others: the remnants of their own pain. Longer, to accept that it wasn’t visible to anyone but me. That the faded wisps trailing like burnt breadcrumbs off their footsteps were the half-digested stress of past trauma. The slicks of oily sludge I saw fouling the ground were the scars their violence had left on the land.

Only, I didn’t merely see humanity’s ghosts. I felt them.

When the residue of violence was fresh, it was a flash flood of emotion that struck with little to no warning. At other times, I could stand in a puddle of blood and get nothing. I could push it away, if I had to. I’d gotten good at that over the years, since my empathy first reared its head in a sudden, inexplicable, life-altering moment. Being suddenly steeped in the cruelty, depravity, and suffering of others—without warning or explanation—could have easily broken me. Instead, I learned to use it and to find a use for it.

Being empathic gave me an edge. It was an effective means of gathering evidence in hunting and disposing of the various off-world species that crossed illegally through the exits. Few who wandered into the human realm were simply innocent strays. Most were blatant rule-breakers who believed it was acceptable to use someone else’s home as their playground or dinner table. And that really pissed me off.

I didn’t care what crimes they committed on their own worlds. And though I hadn’t been back in nearly a hundred years, I never worried for Drimera. My homeland had been cared for by the dragons for eons. Only once, long before I was born, when the exits first opened and the reality of what was out there poured through, had Drimera faced a serious threat.

But here was different. Here was fragile.

Unlike so many other species, humans were still innocent of the truth. They didn’t know what lurked in the dark, or how much they owed their safety to the vigilance of the elders. They were unaware monsters walked among them, including me.

A monster they’d unknowingly harbored when I had nowhere else to go.

The least I could do for their unknown kindness was help keep the worst of us in check. Of course, by doing so, I was protecting Drimera anyway. Because once the truth was revealed and humans discovered the plethora of diverse worlds to explore, worlds lush with untapped resources, begging to be raped and pillaged and conquered—they would do just that.

I didn’t blame them. It was in their nature. As was the elders’ obligation to fight back. Once they did, or perhaps even before, other worlds would join in. I didn’t want to know what any of them would look like when it was done. So I did what I could to keep the lie in place and the monsters in their place.

This time, though, I was too late. The monsters have already come and gone, I thought, scanning the residential neighborhood where Oren had sent me. It was one of the few outlying sections of the city that had managed to escape being over-developed. The homes were all at least seventy years old, some were pushing a hundred. All were in decent shape, though, with caring owners and fenced in yards. It was a quiet and charming community, vastly different from the densely populated urban sprawl of commerce and industry that lay only ten miles away: Sentinel City’s downtown district.

Filled with the staggeringly rich, the staggeringly poor, and the staggeringly crooked, long-term residents referred to it simply as ‘the Sentinel’. Anything outside that small nucleus was considered exactly that: outside. Including the sleepy cul-de-sac where I was standing—on the wrong side of the police barricade, staring at a street awash in newborn waves of black emotion. It hung like a low-lying fog, shiny and fresh on top, with a lighter, misty layer underneath.

New pain was overlapping the old.

Violence had come here before.

Not that I knew what had happened then or now to leave such an impact. Having arrived way before dawn, I’d bullied my way through a small gauntlet of uniformed officers only to watch the detectives, and the entire forensics department, come and go. It had been hours, and I still had no idea why I was here.

One more try , I thought, catching the eye of a young SCPD officer headed in my direction. The only one to even glance my way in the last fifteen minutes, as his scrutiny lingered, I took advantage of his curiosity and waved him over.

In his mid-twenties (a couple years younger than my apparent human age), his clean shaven, classic boy next door features fell flat as he approached. Sizing me up with brown eyes and a pensive frown, I could almost see his synapses firing as the officer made assumptions based on my appearance and body language. On the outside, I made it easy for him. A leggy red head in white coveralls and no makeup, I stood with a black duffle bag on my shoulder and a hand of annoyance on my hip. Dark circles of exhaustion ringed my eyes. Clearly, I wasn’t a spectator, and I wasn’t press. Still, he slid a reflexive hand to his belt in case whatever he’d surmised about me was wrong—which it was. If only he knew how wrong.

* * *

Thank you for reading the sample of Flash Point , Book #1 in the Nite Fire Series. I hope you enjoyed it. Please visit my Amazon Author Page http:// author. to/ clschneideramazonpg or my website http:// www. clschneiderauthor.com for more information about my work. Sign up for my newsletter http:// bit. ly/ 2EgLFfrSUB for advance notice of sales, sneak peeks, new releases and cover reveals, as well as upcoming online and in-person events.

13

Silvertongue

Casey White

After another long day at work, all Jon Christensen wanted was a cheap burger and some peace and quiet.

When he pulled into the McDonald’s, Jon only had the usual cares on his mind. His sister. The bills. A career with seemingly nowhere to go.

But after a confusing encounter at the cash register triggers a violent episode in the parking lot, he’s quickly pulled into a world he doesn’t understand. His few careless sentences - and the odd gift of languages he’s kept hidden for years - wind up thrusting him right into the middle of a chaotic magical free-for-all, a battle taking place in the shadows of society. Entangled in an increasingly complex web of violence and lies, he's left with a choice: adapt, or die.

Surrounded by strangers, Jon must struggle to survive, searching out friends amidst a sea of foes. If he can get his group of strays and rejects to work together, there’s a chance they might just make it out alive.

Should he fail, the consequences will be dire - not only for Jon, but also for those he loves.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Be careful what you choose.

Generally, people are expected to ponder their decisions carefully. We spend months working through the important moments in our lives. Years. We’re expected to be thoughtful when we pick a job, when we decide who to date, when we find a place to live.

I wasn’t any different. I’d thought that I was a pretty cautious person, overall. Not exactly the high-risk type, you might say. Others would probably have just called me boring and been done with it.

But sometimes, sneaking in when you least expect it, a single decision can change everything.

“I already told you, Keira. I’m tired. I just want to come home. Today sucked.”

“Yeah, I get that. But I don’t want pizza. It’s right on the way, so why’s it a big deal? Just swing through and pick us up something.” My sister’s voice had all the smug confidence I’d long since come to expect, even over the phone.

I swallowed a groan. The road flew past under my tires, leading me from the run-down office I worked at back towards home. I gripped my cell phone a little tighter, scowling. “I don’t want McDonald’s. I just want to sit on the couch and have dinner brought to me for once, okay?”

“That’s lazy.”

“So?”

“So I want a burger. You should bring me home something.”

I rolled my eyes, feeling my teeth grind together. She’d win. She knew she was going to win, which was why she sounded so damn happy with herself.

Fine. So be it. It was just food, after all, and if I didn’t bring anything home I knew she’d just whine and complain for the rest of the night. Shutting her up was worth the hassle, I decided.

“Whatever. Okay.”

“Great. Don’t forget the fries.” She didn’t even wait for me to say goodbye before she hung up.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket, muttering darkly to myself. The plaintive chirp of the low-battery warning fell quiet under the thick layers of fabric. Hitting the brakes, I turned back towards the few restaurants clinging to life along the edge of town.

It was just food . If I’d have known the mess it’d make, maybe I’d have decided differently. Maybe I’d have put up with the complaining and gone home, settling in with the box of delivery pizza I so desperately wanted. Maybe I’d have approached the whole situation with a little more care. But I didn’t know - and there was no way that I could have ever guessed the chain of events that we’d set into motion.

My mind was a blur as I slid out into the cold, walking towards the front door. Drive-through would have been faster, almost certainly. But if my sister was going to make me play personal chauffeur, then it was my obligation to at least make it painful for her. She could wait while I ate my dinner. Fair was fair.

Chuckling to myself, I made my way through the motions of ordering, operating entirely on automatic. My head ached. It had been a long day. There had been not one but two irate clients, all demanding total reworks on their projects. I hadn’t spent years in school so that I could deal with assholes all day. Reality didn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

“What did you say?”

I paused, my card already jammed into the receptacle and deducting the bill from my bank account. The world spun around me as I blinked myself back to awareness. “What?”

The clerk stared at me, his green eyes narrowed. I drew half a step back almost unconsciously, trying to remember exactly what I’d been doing or what I’d said that somehow had set the man off. “Uh. I asked if I could have my drink cup. You guys keep making us wait and it’s kind of annoying.”

The man was still glaring, his lips pressed into a thin line. “What are you doing?”

All right, the guy was clearly crazy. I tore my debit card free, shoving it back into my wallet. “I’m trying to get a Big Mac. Is that a problem?”

“Are you insane?” he hissed, leaning forward across the counter. “What are you doing ?”

“Greg?” someone called from across the store. A manager, judging by the color of their uniform. Their voice was carefully cheerful. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Just helping this gentleman out,” Greg said, his face snapping back to carefully neutral as he smiled at me. The cashier shoved a plastic cup into my hands, along with the paper slip of my receipt. “Look - don’t be an idiot,” he said, his voice dropping low enough I had to lean in to hear him. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but you can’t walk in here talking gibberish. Leave me alone.”

I stared at him, my mind racing, but the customers behind me were already pushing forward. I stepped back to join the others waiting for their food, my mind churning.

I had a bit of a gift. Well, that’s how I liked to think about it. It had taken a few years to figure out - all languages sounded exactly the same to me. No matter if I was speaking to someone blabbering on in French or chattering in Italian, it all came across as plain old English.

My parents had been freaked out, understandably. It had taken a bit of doing to convince them I wasn’t just crazy. And as soon as we’d pieced together what was going on, we’d begun hiding whatever it was I was doing. It wasn’t as though I could suddenly start spouting off Spanish and German, after all. We couldn’t even just leave copies of Rosetta Stone lying around meaningfully. The instant someone I actually knew called me on it, the secret would be up. I kind of valued living a normal life too much to allow something like that to happen.

Tray in hand and my mediocre food steaming, I filed back to my seat. I could feel Greg’s eyes on me the whole way - staring.

What was his problem? Had I stuttered? And what had he meant, gibberish? Maybe he spoke a different language, sure, but why would that be a problem? He should be happy that I’d spoken Polish or Swahili or who-gives-a-fuck. Maybe a bit surprised, but not angry . His reaction wasn’t normal at all.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Normally I would have lingered, taking my time in eating. With the feeling of Clerk Asshat’s glare boring holes in the back of my neck, I just wanted to leave. I shoveled my meal down as quickly as I could, hardly tasting it. My phone lit up with notifications, friends and family blabbering away in text messages and group chats. All of them wanted to know where I was. When I’d be finished with the day’s chores. Keira pinged me again, still asking after her damn burger.

I ignored all of them. The wrapper crumpled instantly in my hand as I pushed myself upright, dumping the whole lot of it in the trash. Grabbing the to-go bag with her food, I turned for the door.

The guy wasn’t at the counter anymore. A sigh of relief slipped out of me as I saw his station replaced by a tiny, grinning brunette. Good. Maybe his manager had finally taken him down a notch.

The lights on my sedan blinked across the parking lot at me as I stepped out of the store. The cold air snapped me awake, back to reality in an instant. I was letting that guy creep me out for no reason. He was just a jerk, that was all - trapped in his minimum wage job. Probably just a crazy, when I thought about it. He was probably just-

I yelped, flinching as fingers buried themselves in my hair. The bag of food fell to the pavement. Someone had me. There was something cold at my throat - cold and sharp .

“Ok, asshole,” Greg hissed in my ear, his voice wild. “We’re going to go for a walk.”

“What the fuck are you-”

“Shut up.”

The blade dug into my neck. I could feel a hot line of blood dripping down my skin. My mind raced - this was insane. He really was crazy. A lunatic. He was-

There was nothing I could do to fight him as he turned me, forcing me towards the rear of the store. A dingy, beat-up station wagon waited in the back corner, the lot unlit and dismally dark. I scanned the scene even still, ready to bellow for help at a moment’s notice.

It was useless. There was no one around. No one was going to hear.

He slammed me into the back of the car, my face pressed painfully against the glass.

“How stupid do you think I am?” he spat.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I cried. My fingers trembled.

“What, you think you’re being subtle? You’ll just walk in, talking the old tongue like you were born to it, and I’ll roll over for you?”

“Look, dude, there’s been some mistake,” I moaned. “It’s-It’s just something that I can do, all right? It’s not-”

“Right,” he said with a laugh, his fingers still pulling painfully at my hair. “Like I’m going to believe that .”

“I speak a lot of languages, all right?” I said, craning my head until I could look at him. “That’s all. I don’t know what you heard. All I know is-”

“How long until they get here?”

Confusion bubbled up in my mind. “What?”

“I’m not stupid ,” he spat. “I’m not going to sit idly until they come to finish the job. How long until the rest of them show up?”

“The rest of who ?” I said, trying desperately to keep from crying.

“You know damn well who-” he started, but stopped abruptly.

I blinked, my breath catching in my throat.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens were approaching.

My heart leapt. Police. Yes . Someone must have seen him, someone must have called the cops. I was saved. He’d-

He let go of my hair in an instant, leaping away. Abandoning the car and me, he vanished into the underbrush of the woods behind the McDonald’s. I fell in a crumpled heap, my heart still pounding in my ears.

Tires screeched as the cop car pulled up moments later, a pair of officers piling out.

“Sir! Sir, are you all right?” one yelled, racing over to me. His dark hair was in disarray, in contrast to his short-trimmed beard. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“There was- a man,” I said, glancing back at the woods. “H-He had a knife. He was crazy. Thought I was speaking some funny language or something.”

“Why would he think that?” the cop’s partner said, his brow furrowing. He stared at me, leaning closer like he could see straight into my soul.

“I-I don’t know,” I said, instinctively clamping down. The cops paused, eerily quiet.

“What, that’s it?” the first said.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, unable to meet their eyes. My gaze drifted, needing to find something, anything else to look at. The flashing lights of their cars drew me in, holding my gaze.

I froze.

“Well, look. I’m sure this has been a traumatic event. Why don’t you come back with us, and we’ll talk about it?” the second said, smiling blankly at me. One hand dropped to his belt. He was a heavy-set man, short and broad. I wouldn’t have expected an officer to look like him, the thoughts in the back of my head whispered.

Neither of them was wearing a radio. There was nothing hanging off his waist but a gun and a pair of handcuffs. The details of it stuck out like a lightning flash in my mind.

I took a step back.

“Don’t worry, all right?” the first said, beaming at me. “You’re safe now.”

The insignia on their car was wrong. I’d lived in the town my entire life, and it was wrong . It didn’t even have the right name on it. It just looked…

Generic.

I took another step back.

The smiles were beginning to fade from their faces.

“Come on,” the first said. “Just take it easy, ok? We’ll just go for a ride.”

His hand reached out, grabbing for my elbow. I skittered away before he could touch me, suddenly sure of two things.

Whoever those two were, they were not police officers.

And I was in a mess of trouble.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

I took another step back, my eyes snapping back and forth between the two officers.

“Would you just calm down?” the bearded cop said, smiling at me as he stepped forward. “No one’s going to hurt you, all right? What’s your name?”

The sound of a door shutting drew my attention back to their car. A third officer - a third man in an officer’s uniform climbed out, his eyes fixed on me.

“Look, I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. “I just want to go home. Sorry to- I didn’t mean to waste your time. Thanks. Bye.”

“Just slow down,” the newcomer said, chuckling. “Why don’t we just talk a minute, then you can go?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want,” the first said, sliding his hands into his pockets. That dumb smile was still spread across his face “We just want to know what happened.”

“What happened? ” I said, spitting the words out. “That asshole pulled a knife on me, that’s what.”

“Who?” the third man said. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue behind his glasses as he looked at his friends, as though seeking confirmation.

“Why would he do something like that?” the second said, leaning back against the car as he yawned. “Do you know where he went?”

I glared at them, still feeling the cold ice of adrenaline in my veins. This was wrong. This was all wrong, and the fact that I didn’t know any of the rules they were playing by made it all the worse. “I have no fucking idea why he’d do something like that. He probably wanted my wallet.”

The bearded man shook his head, stepping closer. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

I could feel the last of the blood drain from my face. “I-I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on, all right? Just- stay back.”

They stopped obediently, although I saw them exchange tolerant smiles.

“So where’d he go?” Blue-eyes said. He was laughing, too. “Where’d he run off to?”

A bit of the tension slipped out of me as the trio of men relaxed imperceptibly. Something had changed. I’d passed some test, clearly. Said the right words, had just the right amount of fear in my voice. Whatever had convinced them to leave off, I didn’t care.

“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “He took off back there.” I pointed quickly, gesturing back towards the dark woods. It was a small town, nothing to write home about, and you didn’t have to go more than a few blocks in any direction to wind up outside the city. “If you hurry, you can probably still-”

A harsh, strident ring cut me off. I stopped almost by habit, falling still as the bearded man dug in his coat pocket. “Yeah, it’s Matt,” he said, rolling his eyes as he lifted the phone to his ear. “What do you need?”

I stayed right where I was, resisting the urge to kick the pebbles covering the asphalt parking lot as the silence dragged on.

“Uh-huh.”

Whoever he was talking to, I wished they would hurry up. I just wanted to go home, to be done with this already.

“You’re sure?”

It was cold, too, halfway through fall and too frigid to be standing out in the night air. There were a few people passing by, sliding out of the McDonald’s and looking towards the lights of the police car, but the wind was too brisk for them to do more than cast a curious glance our way.

Swallowing a sigh, I turned back towards the three men. “Is this going to take-”

I blinked, shocked into silence. They’d already crossed half the narrow distance separating us, eyes fixed on me and accelerating rapidly. I didn’t even have the time to cry for help before their meaty hands were wrapped around my arms, pulling me forward.

For the second time that night, I hit the glass window of the car with a grunt. “W-What the-”

“Where is it?” Matt said, his tone all business. Not smiling anymore, I noticed through the haze of terror sweeping across my mind.

Squirming desperately, I shook my head. “I have absolutely no idea what you-”

An arm slammed into the back of my neck, pinning me in place. “Search him. It’s on him somewhere - it wasn’t Aedan. Recon’s sure.”

“What do you mean, sear-” I gasped, my words dying as the one of them punched me in the eye. Dots flew across my vision.

Someone was pawing at my ears, like they were looking for earrings I didn’t have. Rough hands tugged at my jacket, my sweatshirt, the pockets of my jeans. I twitched, unsure if I should struggle for all I was worth or let them look. I didn’t even have anything. They could rifle through my pockets all day, it wasn’t going to change the outcome.

The pudgy one made an irritated noise in the back of his throat, clearly reaching the same conclusion. I managed a smile, relief coursing through my veins.

His hand grabbed mine a moment later, settling around my little finger. I froze.

“Where is it? Stop playing games, kid.”

I shook my head desperately, straining against the man even then holding me down. “I-I don’t even know what you want .”

The crack of bone snapping echoed in the frigid night air. I screamed. One of them had my mouth covered a second later, muffling the sound. My hand was on fire, my finger pulsating with heat.

Where were the people, dammit? There had to be someone around, someone to come and help. They couldn’t all have vanished. Something like that wouldn’t-

“It’ll be easier if you just tell us,” Matt murmured, his voice low. “No one wants to drag this out.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, still gasping from the waves of agony radiating off my broken finger. What the fuck was happening?

“There’s no time, Matt,” the heavyset man gripping me said. “There’s only so long I can hold the barrier.”

“Fine,” Matt said, sighing. Whoever was holding me eased up enough that I could straighten, looking around.

Matt was staring at me, his face long. One hand slid down to the gun holstered at his side.

“We don’t have it yet,” the one holding me said. “Checking the body will take time, and we won’t know . Recon won’t like it. And hiding a gunshot is going to tire me out.”

“He was resisting arrest,” Matt said, looking at his partner with a twisted grin. “That’s all anyone will see. Isn’t that how it works? The rest is just noise. It’ll be fine.”

I flinched, my breath freezing in my lungs as the barrel of his pistol swung up. It was too dark for the weapon to be more than a black mass of metal, but that was plenty.

“Recon’ll still be mad.”

“Recon’s mad at everything , Dan,” Blue-eyes said, turning back to us with a chuckle. “Doesn’t mean a whole lot anymore.” He’d been staring off into the woods, letting his friends do their thing. I stared at them, feeling my hands shake.

“I don’t want to transport him still fighting us if we don’t know what he is,” Matt said, stepping closer. His eyes flicked down to mine. “Sorry, kid.”

I should have kicked the man holding me - Dan. I should have tried to pull free, to fight, to throw him off and get clear. But all of the common-sense options I might have had drifted away, evaporating in the face of the pistol still pointed at me.

Shit.

With my pulse thundering in my ears, adrenaline shooting through my system, I saw it all happen in slow motion.

I saw Greg come running out of the woods, still wearing his red and black crew member uniform. His teeth were gritted, his eyes wide with fear, but the knife in his hand was steady as he swept it out to the side.

I saw Matt flinch, half-turning despite himself as the blue-eyed man bellowed something completely inaudible. The barrel of his pistol dipped, turning away from me at last.

I saw Dan move, following behind his two friends as Greg launched himself at the trio of police officers. The arm pinning my neck slipped free. Dan’s hand fell away.

Reality returned in a flash as Greg slashed down hard, catching the blue-eyed man across the face. The not-officer shrieked, slapping a hand up as blood dripped down from the fresh cut on his cheek.

“No! Get him- Don’t let him-” Matt yelled, stumbling over his words as Dan grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him backward as easily as he’d manhandled me. Greg’s knife split the air where he’d stood.

I could hear Greg mutter something dark and foul from across the fight. And then his green eyes fixed on mine, red hair flying.

“Run.”

One word - that was all. And it was a good word. Running was a good plan, really. But with as much adrenaline flooding my veins as there was, running just sounded...cheap. There were three of them, and only one of Greg. And Greg had a knife, while they had guns. If I left, if I ran, Greg was going to die.

The guy was an asshole. I still had absolutely no idea what his problem was. But right in that moment, he was fighting the guys who’d been about to shoot me. If that didn’t make him an ally, it came pretty damn close.

I straightened, squaring off against the three faux policemen just in time to see one of them take a swing at Greg. He ducked the blow like a championship prizefighter, rising again with a lunge and a stab that sent Dan stumbling away.

Matt’s eyes were on me, though. I could feel it, could see him staring at me from the corner of my eye. I faltered, seeing the determination there - a determination I had no rational explanation for.

His arm dropped, the gun sliding down to his side as he leapt for me again. I shuddered, my arms coming up to a ready stance. I’d never fought a day in my life, but if he was going to start one, I’d-

Greg’s fist slammed into Matt’s cheek, hard enough that I saw blood and spittle spray from his mouth. Matt stumbled, on the verge of losing his balance. The crazed man twisted around in the same motion, bringing his knife to bear. Matt was expecting the follow-up, though. He swiveled just in time, robbing Greg of the solid blow he clearly wanted. Even still, his arm erupted in red from where the knife had torn a gash from bicep to wrist.

Greg’s fist buried itself in my sweatshirt a moment later. He pulled me close enough that all I could see were his eyes, burning green and furious. “Did I ask for your help, asshole?” he hissed. “The longer you hang around the more likely you get shot . Run. The fuck. Away.”

When he pushed me, his lip curling in a sneer, I didn’t wait. I’d seen enough. I was done. It wasn’t like I could help, anyway.

My shoes slapped hard against the pavement as I took off running, heading straight for where Greg had vanished mere minutes before. The woods. Whatever was going on, the three imposters didn’t seem to be worried about people interfering - people who had mysteriously vanished, anyway. I needed distance, I needed somewhere to hide. I was safer out there than hoping they wouldn’t find me cowering in the gas station bathroom.

As I turned, I saw Matt’s eyes fix on mine. His mouth opened, like he was yelling something to his colleagues. Greg was there to cut him off, his foot sliding out just as casual as could be. Matt went flying, tumbling to the asphalt.

The pavement under my feet vanished, giving way to hard-packed dirt and dead leaves. I grinned, hearing my breath come ragged in my ears. Nearly there.

They were still bellowing. I could see Dan and his blue-eyed friend staring after me, making as if to follow, but my new ally was relentless. None of the fake officers seemed badly hurt, but even still, his knife glistened red.

I smiled over my shoulder when the trees began flying past me. I was well out of the dim glow of the street lights by then - completely invisible to them, I knew. Nearly there.

My steps slowed as I glanced back. Greg was still fighting. He was holding his own, and he’d certainly been firm enough that he wanted no part of my help, but even still-

A low chuckle rippled through my form as I saw him duck again and again, pressing in ever-closer on Matt. The fake officer looked terrified. Good.

I blinked. No. He didn’t look terrified. He looked like he was trying to wave someone off.

My eyes widened as I saw Blue-eyes rise up behind Greg - a gun in his hand. My feet were frozen, pinned in place. Maybe if I ran, I could- I could do something . Maybe I could-

The crack of the gunshot echoed across the block, loud enough to make me flinch. I stared, open-mouthed.

Greg fell, streaming red from his- from where his head had-

My stomach churning, I turned and ran. All of my earlier hesitation had disappeared. Fuck. Fuck that. They shot him. I wasn’t looking to see if they were following, or if they were lingering to clean up the person they’d just killed. I had no idea where I was going - I just needed to get away. Anywhere.

The sound of twigs breaking underfoot rang in my ears. It was pitch black, away from the lights of town. More than once I stumbled, falling headlong as a log or stump caught my leg. Here and there I could see the distant outline of a house, a glimmer of light peering from a window. I didn’t care.

I ran. I ran, feeling blisters form with every step as I pushed my feet far beyond what they’d experienced in years. I ignored the screaming complaint of my legs, pure terror keeping me going long after my strength had worn itself out.

When I could go no further, I collapsed, dragging myself over to hide behind the broad, sturdy trunk of an oak.

And I waited.

The seconds ticked as I gasped for breath, a hand pressed over my mouth to dull the noise. My other hand hung limp in my lap, white-hot with agony from the mess they’d made of my finger. I strained for the slightest bit of noise, the faintest indication that someone was following me.

I heard only silence and the distant sound of a bird crying in the night.

The seconds melted away into minutes. I had no idea how long I sat in the cold, trembling and listening for the tiniest sound of pursuit. As the excitement dwindled, the pain in my hand somehow managed to ramp up further. It was like my broken finger was screaming extra-loud to make up for the time it had been quiet. My legs were blocks of lead, my muscles completely frozen as I closed my eyes and waited, teeth gritted.

I should call the police. I should tell them what was happening. Someone probably already had, but even still, maybe they could come get me .

The screen lit up bright enough to blind me. I shoved it back down into my pocket, swallowing a curse. Again I waited, listening. I was an idiot. If someone saw, if they were looking, I’d just made myself a beacon in the darkness.

More carefully, I tabbed the screen on once I was confident I was alone.

A heartbeat after I turned it on, though, I was greeted by the familiar sight of an empty battery.

Fuck. I was supposed to charge the damn thing while I ate. I’d-

I sighed. I’d been so distracted by the asshole staring at me that I’d totally forgotten.

Sliding it away, I glanced around carefully. I’d lived here for years. The woods on the edge of town were laced with trails, forming a network of paths that’d take you most anywhere you wanted to go in the park, if you were patient. I’d been in the forest hundreds of times. Even if I’d gotten myself a little bit lost, I’d probably find a landmark if I just kept going.

My legs had stopped their shaking enough that I could stand, if a bit unsteadily. Bracing myself against the tree with my good hand, I gave one last furtive glance around.

And then I started walking.

My confidence grew with every step. With the cold night air on my face and the stillness of the woods around me, it was almost like being in a different world. Everything that had happened back at the McDonalds - it was just a bad dream. Something like that. Yes. I’d just head back, and everything would be fine. I’d head to the emergency room, get a cast or something, and-

The sight of Greg falling hard to the asphalt rose up in my mind, bringing me back down to reality in a single sickening heartbeat.

Nothing was fine.

My head hanging a little lower, I trudged onward. Somewhere around here, I’d find the way out, and I’d find my way home - and then I’d have to explain. Would they still be looking for me? Would they know where to find me? What were they looking for in the first place - and why did they think I had it? Why had-

Lost in thoughts, I didn’t hear the footsteps in the leaves behind me until it was too late. My head snapped up at the sound of someone crashing towards me, but every muscle in my body ached. I couldn’t run. I could barely walk .

A pair of hands latched around my shoulders as someone launched themselves into me. The start of a yell slipped from between my lips- right up until a hand slapped over my mouth. I twisted, fighting, but they wouldn’t let go.

“Fucking stop already.”

I froze, the blood draining from my face. I knew that voice, even if I’d only heard it a few times before. They leaned closer, until their face was just a dark mass in front of my own.

“I swear to god, if you say a single word, I’m going to kill you myself,” Greg said.

* * *

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More from Casey White

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The Flameweaver Saga

Chosen

Charred

Nightsworn

Ascendant

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Reverie

—————

Remnants of Magic

Silvertongue

Wanderer

Legion

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Halfway to Home

Unknown Horizons

14

The City Screams

Phil Williams

You’re about to step into a different world that looks very much like our own. The City Screams follows Tova Nokes, a profoundly deaf woman from Ordshaw, as she undergoes experimental ear surgery, alone and far from home. The people and forces surrounding her life-changing experience ensure dark results that she never could have predicted.

The City Screams is a standalone novel from the world of Ordshaw, sparking off a new arc that complements the existing Sunken City trilogy. Included here are the first two chapters to give you a taste for the action to come.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

1

A pair of men stood either side of a doorway with an elderly resident between them, all staring at Tova. One was a triangle of over-exercised upper-body in a faded red bodywarmer, the other thin with a shiny green shell suit and the half-dark glasses of a serial killer. Tova had been getting suspicious looks all day, a young Westerner in Tokyo, weirdly taller than the locals, but these men were different. Their stares didn’t accuse her of otherness – they said she was interrupting. Not the best welcome to her home for the next two weeks.

Tova mumbled an apology and hurried past, eyes on the carpet. She focused on the pattern: deeply faded yellow cross-hatched lines on a background of vomit-beige. A burnt patch by the skirting; a foot wide, that must’ve been some accident.

Reaching number 58, Tova shook the key in the lock, nervous, aware the men’s eyes hadn’t left her. Had she got the wrong door? The wrong key safe? The lock turned and she rushed into the apartment, closing the door immediately behind her. She shot a look out through the spyhole. The men were talking to the old woman now. They were leaning over her, and her arms were bunched close to her body. Did she look frightened?

Rubbing her eyes, Tova imagined Ethan grimacing smugly at this confirmation that one of Tokyo’s dodgiest neighbourhoods was, indeed, populated by thugs. She shoved that thought away by imagining her best friend Ren’s likely response: Hey, Mr Shell Suit, how do you do? Quite well, indeed, let me tell you. I’m standing up to Granny at long last. We’re not feeding your cats no more without pay.

The combined exhaustion and excitement drew a smile to Tova’s face. If the men weren’t grumpily visiting a relative, there were a thousand other possibilities. So what. Tova had won an unlikely lottery for an impossible surgery, with a bonus opportunity to meet a celebrity, and she’d paid her own way to the Land of the Rising Sun to claim it. Alone. A couple of unwelcome looks weren’t going to bring her down.

Tova crossed the room – tiny, with a single bed, kitchen bar, three-foot-wide bathroom partition – and took in the view. A wall of digital adverts flashed madly across the road: Japanese script, black on white, red, yellow, blue – a giant can of soda and a grinning young lady inviting you to BUY NOW! The image blinked and disappeared, replaced by a cartoon lion selling doughnuts. Eight storeys up, at the heart of a neon canyon, Tova appreciated the stillness of the room. She could practically see the air buffeted about by the crowds and cars below. Even between the taxi and the apartment entrance she’d been assaulted by wafts of garbage and stale cigarette smoke. This room had only the gentle tingle of an air-conditioning unit. The grim smells below replaced by the woodchip and straw of the soft, simple mats underfoot.

A quiet farm pen in a sea of ever-flowing trash.

Tova imagined the relentless noise below. Under the dazzling adverts, the colourfully dressed people were packed in tight. The din must’ve been why this place was so cheap. Not because gangsters roamed the halls. She’d made that case to Ethan herself, when he gave her the big-strong-boyfriend act about selling his car to come act as her bodyguard. Never mind that the old Volvo wouldn’t cover fixing the blinking screen on his laptop, let alone a trip to Japan.

With his complaining face creeping to mind, Tova was glad Ethan wasn’t there. Less so that Ren couldn’t make it, but she wouldn’t let that bring her down either. Now that she’d left all semblance of support back in Ordshaw, she could finally shut up the voice that scolded her for the hundred adventures she’d missed out on. Should’ve gone to university, should’ve gone travelling, anything but studying balance sheets in the Ripton Council offices. Now, she was finally living. Forget the grotty apartment – there was a life-size Godzilla poking over a building down the road, and in a matter of days Tova might be able to hear the surrounding madness.

Tova checked her phone, wanting to share that elated feeling. Still no messages. She’d had no signal since arriving. Mum would be waiting for her to check in, and the hospital would probably want to know she’d arrived safely. But until she connected to the Wi-Fi, she was totally alone. Her gut churned. The same thoughts had been swimming through her head during the flight. When Ren’s job offer had come through, should she have refunded her own ticket, too? The surgery was a fantasy that wouldn’t – couldn’t – work. She was alone and wouldn’t be able to buy food and would die shrivelled in an alleyway.

The lights across the street blinked again, the adverts bathing the room in a disco array.

The cartoon lion gave way to a familiar image. The giant face of Natalie Reid, the superstar from the estates of Ordshaw, The Concrete Princess . The woman Tova might meet, might actually hear , if Mogami Industries delivered on their promises. And Natalie had appeared right on time to say The world’s too small for you to ever be far from home. With a little extra attitude from her moody expression: And who cares, you’re a trooper.

Tova smiled back.

It was true, she was doing it, and had survived so far. The flight attendants had been unfaltering in their attention. She’d got through the airport to a taxi here without trouble. The surly driver might not have even realised she was deaf, since he lost interest in conversation once she showed him the apartment’s address. And the city through the car windows looked infinitely cleaner and better organised than Ordshaw. This building, and those strange men, were nothing. The only real danger, the thing she was avoiding thinking about, was the surgery. Mogami Industries promised to achieve the impossible. It wasn’t scary because it might fry her brain; it was terrifying to think it might work.

Ho hum.

In the street below, a wide man in a suit started gesticulating with short, sharp arm movements, arguing with an African in loose rags. Ren would’ve narrated this pantomime: You sold me bad mojo – I told you it was only jam – take back your kitten!

The big guy shoved the African hard. Tova found it difficult to maintain her uneasy smile as other pedestrians gave the men space. Would she be so calm if she could hear their shouts?

* * *

Once the goof was out of the room, Ki let himself in.

He thought she’d never leave, the way she repeatedly stopped to stare out of the window. But her stomach kept growling and eventually she overcame her indecision to creep back outside, giving him his chance to check out her things.

With the stories Ki had heard of Ordshaw, he’d hoped for someone more impressive, but goof was right. She was big, even for one of them – thick limbs, big nose, a whole train of black hair. And the clothes she’d pulled out of her bag were strange to say the least: shapeless trousers covered in checks, bright illustrated t-shirts (cartoon dragons on one), even a waistcoat. She’d gone out in an oversized sweater, bedazzled Converse and striped trousers. Not a lick of it matched. A patchwork girl.

Style wasn’t a requirement, but her lack of it stung Ki nevertheless. He needed to leave her something nice. Make her pretty himself. As pretty as they could be, at least.

Standing on the kitchen bar, staring at the mess, he knew Mei would be furious at him for even considering it. He could hear her voice: Keep contact to the very minimum, the girl will do, however she looks. Don’t take chances; this isn’t Ordshaw.

Ki’s eyes fixed on a pair of patterned socks hanging half out of the girl’s bag. Blue and pink, thick cotton. He jumped off the counter. What did Mei know – he was here to make a bang, wasn’t he?

* * *

2

“And how are you settling in?” Dr Eguchi asked, his exaggerated enunciation punctuated by a wider-than-necessary smile, both of which made it more difficult for Tova to read his lips. The intention was obvious enough anyway, from the condescending way he stooped over her. She smiled and nodded, as he said something about Kabukicho – not number one for most tourists. Ah ha. Ha.

He actually said the laugh, that was clear.

It hadn’t been a great start, though he didn’t seem to notice. Eguchi called himself the best ear surgeon in the world, but had a stilted, uncomfortable manner. The hospital was unwelcoming, sharing the same coldness Tova had experienced during her initial tests in Mogami Industries’ Ordshaw office. No one met her eye, no one explained things in detail or took the time to see if she was comfortable. She got an impatient glare when she asked for the Wi-Fi code.

There was an air of coldness to it all, like the company resented Tova for winning their lottery. Tova Nokes: a contrary girl who wore bright clothing because she wasn’t wealthy or important enough to be noticed otherwise. She could see their reluctance clearly enough in the way their lips curled with vague disgust. Let’s get this charity case out of the way so we can get back to our paying clients.

The general attitude at Deaf Club was that Mogami were more interested in securing valuable patents than really helping anyone, and their prize was just a way to curry favour. Tova’s family and Ren were behind her 100%, but Ethan had made his opinion clear enough before she’d entered the contest. “They’re only giving it away so they can experiment on someone,” Ethan signed. “And risking your body, to be like them, is disgusting.”

He hadn’t said anything when she got the confirmation letter, but his countenance changed. It strained his willpower not to make scathing remarks about Mogami’s research, and to avoid joining in with the Deaf Club banter about it. Others were less subtle, laughing at her willingness to pay her own way over here, staying in a Kabukicho hovel, in exchange for pipe-dream surgery and a potential concert ticket. Ren stood up for her, though, insisting it was worth the airfare just for the opportunity to meet Natalie Reid, seldom seen in Ordshaw now she was famous. That was how Mogami had sold it, too. We won’t cover your flight and accommodation, but we might be able to get you a meeting with a pop star; a showstopping way to celebrate Tova’s restored hearing. They hadn’t actually guaranteed the meeting, and it would probably come free anyway, as Natalie was one of these megastars known for Giving Back.

Eguchi moved around Tova and kept talking as she lost sight of his lips. She shifted to keep track but he turned her head – roughly – forward, a light shining on her face. Saying please keep still , maybe. Or maybe not bothering to explain.

The nurse, Hamada, watched from the side. Her expression was glass, partly hidden behind a paper mask. Though she was proficient in British Sign Language, which must’ve made her a rare asset for Mogami, she wasn’t translating. The doctor had been peacocking for twenty minutes, reciting things Tova had already read about Mogami’s research. There would be an incision, an implant and an injection. The state-of-the-art VHR-38 processor would come later. The operation combined an implant that amplified what futile capacity for hearing she had left with hormones that, by some miracle, could stimulate new cochlear hairs. The stuff of fairy tales, and a technique that would leave cochlear implant technology in the dust. It was completely unique to this hospital. Possibly because it was dangerous. The jokes in Deaf Club said they were experimenting with non-human hormones. But laughter aside, the Mogami website boasted dozens of success stories, albeit mostly Japanese children, possibly actors.

Eguchi stood in front of Tova again, his mouth moving, something about how long the surgery would take. She knew that too: a few hours under anaesthetic, a few hours under observation, then back home to rest for two days before they plugged in the VHR-38. If it worked, they’d repeat the process with the right ear.

If it worked. Tova was afraid to get her hopes up, but she tried to plan positively. Never mind the big dream of the concert and Natalie Reid; not far from her apartment was Shinjuku Gyoen, an oasis of parkland within the city. With even the barest hearing, she could listen to something approaching nature there. Birds, moving water, the rustling of leaves. Beautiful Sounds. She supposed. It had been fifteen years since she’d lost those experiences, and the memories had been supplanted by what she’d read in books.

Eguchi paraded back in front of her and waved a hand before her face to get her attention. He announced, clearer on his lips now he wasn’t trying so hard, “I will see you on the operating table. Ah ha. Ha.”

With a flourish of his lab coat, the Great Dr Eguchi marched out of the room.

Better a confident doctor than a likeable one, right?

Hamada (first name or second?), politely signed, “Be careful, at night.”

Referring to Tova’s neighbourhood again. Rubbing it in, that they were all a little bitter working with this pauper? What the hell, Tova told herself. She was going to own it. She signed, “It’s lively, I like it there. And locals don’t cause trouble with foreigners. Right?”

Hamada’s eyes lightened, a little amused. She replied, “Not unless they want to.”

Great.

“Are you ready?” the nurse signed.

Tova took a breath. She checked the clock on the wall. The UK was ten hours back, so it’d be coming on 2am at home. Her parents would be asleep, expecting news when they woke. Hopefully Ren was still up, not just Ethan.

* * *

TOVA: I’ve got about ten minutes, they said.

REN: And you’re feeling?

TOVA: About as scared and mad as you’d expect.

REN: Well you’re a damned hero and everyone would say the same. I’m having a party for you, sipping Bacardi and lemonade. On my own, seeing as it’s a school night and that’s Too Much for Ethan. He’s rolling his eyes.

TOVA: What if he’s right, and I’m taking a stupid risk?

REN: Stupid is taking anything he says seriously. The man’s insisting on staying up nights while you’re out there but won’t drink, too? Come on. Wait till you can hear his voice, it’ll be like a chicken being strangled.

TOVA: Oh Ren. I wish you were here.

REN: I am in spirit, believe that. We’ll be here the whole time.

TOVA: You should sleep. But please don’t.

REN: Relax, I’m going nowhere, still two days till production begins, and this is the way to spend that time. You’ll be fine. Tova the Trooper. You pioneer it and next time we’ll go out there together, for me. Did you see Godzilla yet?

TOVA: I actually did. And you know who else? Your princess.

REN: Oh hell. You ran into Natalie Reid!? Did Mogami deliver ahead of time? The show’s not for five days!

TOVA: Wow, you’re counting.

REN: You’re not? So, tell me everything, spill!

TOVA: Ha. It’s nothing. Just her face is all over the walls here.

REN: Rightly so. Have they at least given you your ticket?

TOVA: No, but it’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Not because I might hear again or anything.

REN: It’s one to fulfil the other, Tova. You will be able to hear her. In person. In Tokyo. You know how special that is?

TOVA: If I can hear a toilet flush, that’ll be special enough.

REN: You –

TOVA: They’re here. Sorry. Some ten minutes. Speak to you when my ears work!

REN: Don’t die!

* * *

Tova came around groggily, not sure where she was except that it was bright again. Everything in this country was bright. Pure white, this time. Oh – heaven? She had died on the operating table? Ha!

She twisted on the bed. Hamada came in wearing her paper mask, lips moving behind it. Was Tova supposed to be able to hear her? Had it gone wrong –

Tova’s panic passed as Hamada held up an elegant plastic device. The sound processor, the VHR-38. Her thoughts clearing, Tova recalled she required a couple of days’ rest before they would attach it. Quicker by weeks than the next best surgery, but an impossible amount of time to wait now.

Hamada placed the device aside, signing that it would be Tova’s soon enough.

Eguchi entered lazily, performed a series of minor tests and gave a speech about his own success. Then she was sent away in a taxi. Back to stew in grimy Kabukicho.

Tova returned to her studio apartment and double-checked the stock of the supplies she’d gathered from the 7-Eleven last night. Enough for three days. Mostly egg sandwiches, and a few foodstuffs she’d convinced herself were adventurous with the least likelihood of unwanted bowel evacuation. There were triangular rice things wrapped in seaweed, milky-hued soft drinks and bags of what she hoped were potato crisps and not dried fish. Or – worse – banana.

She collapsed on the bed and distracted herself with her phone, fielding questions from Ren and Ethan. Can you tune in to the radio now? Does it hurt? Do you think it worked? Mum’s platitudes were more one-sided: Remember I love you my brave little girl!

Little nothing. At the traffic lights, Tova could have used a Japanese man as an armrest.

Eventually, she abandoned the well-wishing in favour of Japanese TV. There was nothing but talk shows and something that looked like a family drama, instead of the violent cartoons and cruel game shows she’d expected. And besides, the subtitles were all in Japanese. Tova gave up to watch Netflix on her Samsung tablet. Enough adventuring for one day.

* * *

Ki watched her sleeping.

For all the fear and hatred they inspired, you couldn’t deny her people looked harmless, especially at rest, like this. The fools in Mount Rishiri were wrong to fear them, with their old world mentalities.

Lying half-covered by a thin sheet, the girl had one leg hanging out of the bed. Her Western pyjamas, top and trousers, were a suit for children. The colourful pattern did her no favours. Were there unicorns on there?

As Ki studied her carefully, he steeled his determination. Someone like this, a little unusual, in need of guidance, was exactly why he was here. He studied her bandaged head, partly shaved on one side. Maybe she’d consider doing something different with her hair, now she was forced to. Her whole thing could change.

She had potential.

Ki could help her realise it. He was going to help all of them see the light, to hell with Mei’s caution. How dangerous could interaction be?

* * *

Tova woke and blinked against the dark. She shifted onto her elbows, checking the deep shadows of the room. Nothing out of place, but an uneasy feeling nonetheless. When the VHR-38 was active, she wondered, would these night-time worries go away? The assurance of sound telling her there were no alarms, no distant screams, no stranger’s footsteps in the room.

Who was she kidding. Sound would offer the opposite extreme, only making it harder to sleep. And she wouldn’t wear the VHR at night, anyway. She couldn’t , in case her big head flattened thousands of pounds’ worth of Japanese technology.

Ruing the fact that she’d now stirred her brain into wakefulness, Tova watched the light under the door for shadows as people passed. No one there. Nothing wrong. The door was locked.

She found herself up, then, checking the door handle.

Dammit, this was Ethan coming through. That neighbourhood’s not safe. Those people are talking about us. Will you stop loving me when you can hear? Give it a rest!

As Tova lay down again, she couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.

Then it struck her – a subtle throb in her head – near her ear, like a vibration of sound. An actual sound? She sat bolt upright.

Nothing followed. Daft imagination playing –

It came again. A low, muffled thump, like the vibrations of a speaker. It came again. Not in her head, not a vibration – boom – she heard it. Again, a low, bass pulse. Again! It came in a succession of three beats, repeating. Boom boom boom. A gap. Boom boom boom.

She looked around quickly, unable to pinpoint where it was coming from. She wasn’t supposed to hear anything without the VHR-38 clipped in, what was happening? She spun on the bed as the beat came again, quieter, then cut off.

A ring. High-pitched, chiming – where was it coming from?!

Then a voice. An actual voice. A man, speaking rapid Japanese. She couldn’t make sense of the words – until they changed tone for something clearly enunciated. A letter and number, more important than the rest? Key Zero.

More rambling Japanese, the speech fading. Back into nothing.

Tova stared into the shadows, breathing deeply. She focused all her attention on her ear, trying to pick out something else in the abyss.

Nothing.

* * *

Enjoyed reading?

If you enjoyed this introduction to The City Screams , pick up the full novel here . You can also learn more about the author, Phil Williams, and the Ordshaw series, on his website here .

15

Monster City

Kevin Wright

“JESUS CHRIST! This city is infested with f*@#ing monsters!”

Peter Reynolds was having a bad first night working on the ambulance. The worst night, in point of fact. And it was due to monsters, junky-sucking vampires, to be specific. One bit him. And it bit him bad.

Peter took the job to help people. Now he can’t even help himself.

Detective Joshua Winters works for the government. It’s his job to clandestinely hunt down and slaughter creatures of the night: werewolves, shoggoths, ghouls, and people bitten by ghouls.

Detective Winters is good at his job. He enjoys his job. It’s possible he enjoys it too much.

Read Monster City. Watch the nuclear train-wreck explosion when the paths of these two men collide amid the worst monster outbreak in history. Will either survive the fallout? Will you?

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 8

* * *

Chapter 1.

THE CANVAS BAGS banged against his hip and legs as he clambered up the last flight of stairs. At the top, he paused, huffing, staring down a dark hallway. Behind, red lights spun flashing away the dark. Ahead, the long hallway, rows of doors, and at the end, a window. A crescent moon shown through, casting black bars across the floor and walls. He hustled on as clouds engulfed the moon and was left in the flashing-red dark.

Peter clicked on his flashlight and read the door numbers. 690, 692, 694, 696. Okay, this is it. Chill out, relax. He turned, “Carmine, this is it. Should we—?” He looked around. Shit. His partner wasn’t there. Where the hell? Peter was alone, on his first call.

“Carmine…?” His voice echoed.

Nothing.

“Screw it.”

He pounded the door.

“Hello, ambulance!”

He waited. Nothing.

“Hello! Cavalier Ambulance!” He pounded again. “Did someone call 911?” No answer. He glanced at the address he’d written on his blue nitrile glove. It’s the right number .

Peter tested the doorknob; it turned smoothly. He pushed it ajar, paused, looked back down the hall. Should wait for Carmine . Then he glanced inside, and reason was washed away in a torrent of adrenaline. “Oh, fuck,” he said, and he meant it. Both canvas bags thumped to the floor.

A man lay half-naked, bloated, sallow, face-up across a sofa, emaciated legs and arms lifeless-askew. From the crimson gash that was his mouth, blood trickled. It stained his chest and distended abdomen below.

Shattered syringes and bent needles infected the floor, glistening constellations in the half-glow of the single bulb swaying on its cord. Shadows spun.

Okay, okay, what do I do? He looked at the half-naked guy then back at the stairwell, trying to will his partner to suddenly appear.

“Carmine!” he yelled. “Get up here!”

Carmine did not suddenly appear.

Fumbling to the man’s head, syringes crunched underfoot. “Jesus.” He kicked clear a spot and knelt. “Hey, sir! SIR! You alright!?” Tubes tumbled to the floor when he opened the portable suction kit. “Sir, you okay?”

Stupid fucking question: what do I do? Overdose, okay, relax, deep breath, another deep breath, ABC’s, airway first, then breathing, then something, then something else.

In the distance, in the back of his mind, Peter might have heard the leaden thwomp of Carmine stomping his way up the stairs. “Hurry up, Carmine!”

Okay, guy’s not breathing .

Peter pried open the man’s mouth. Blood, pooled to the brim of his lips, spilled out. “Jesus.” With crimsoned fingers he felt for a carotid pulse, wondering if he couldn’t feel it because it wasn’t there, or because his skills sucked. Shit. He’s dead. Defib, where? He looked around. Carmine’s got it. Shit. Suction, guy needs suction. Still warm. Fucking reeks.

The suction unit chugged to life when Peter switched it on. It slurped and hissed and gurgled as he dipped the catheter into the guy’s mouth, making all those nasty sounds from the dentist’s office just before he says, “Spit!” Red twisted and twirled up the tubing towards the collection container. “Hey, Carmine!”

Feet stomped, somewhere, the stairs?

Peter pushed the catheter deeper, gurgling violently, and the man convulsed. Peter sprung back ninja-quick, saving his uniform and boots from the stream of crimson vomit.

The suction chugged.

Sputtering and coughing, hacking, the man gagged up a mouthful of blood and vomit and other stuff.

“Sir, you okay?” Peter reached out. “Just hang on a second. We’re gonna get you to the hospital.”

The man doubled over, sputtering, hacking.

“Sir? Maybe you should sit down?”

Clambering up, swaying drunk, the man pounced somehow forward and latched onto Peter’s jacket and throat.

“What the—” Peter staggered back, swinging, missing, as the man bulled forward, squeezing, squeezing. Peter slammed against the wall, and the man leaped onto him, latching onto his shoulder. “Jesus!” With his teeth!

“Goddamn!” Peter tore his shoulder free but not his throat.

The man hurled him to the floor, shattering syringes, and pounced atop him.

Peter gurgled, fought, pinned by the throat, punching, kicking, wriggling.

Growling, the man bore his full weight on Peter’s neck. The twin vises squeezed tight, tighter, and Peter’s vision squeezed dark, darker. His arms flailed spaghetti limp, then his legs, his body. Before darkness consumed him, head lolling back, he saw the man’s horrible pink grimace, his orange teeth bared, the viper’s smile descending.

The suction unit chugged on.

* * *

Darkness … voices muttering … incomprehensibabble … “Hey, kid” … Mmmm smells like barbecue … Schluck !

“Hey, kid … kid, wake up!” a voice called.

More pain.

“Don’t like that much do ya, kid?” the voice said. “Wake up, kid, and I won’t do it again”

Carmine…? Man, my shoulder hurts .

“Good. You alright, kid?”

Carmine?

“Easy now, sit up slow. Yeah, that’s it. Nice, deep breath, Pete. There you go. Another one.”

“What the … huh?”

“Shhhh. Low.”

“What happened?” Peter sat up with someone’s, Carmine’s, help. The room reeked of acrid smoke. “Uhhg.”

“Feel better?” Carmine glanced over his shoulder.

“Hmmm? What?” Peter leaned back against Carmine’s pudgy hand.

“Easy.” Carmine’s breath was close and reeked of garlic.

Peter almost gagged.

“You okay?”

“HHHHLLLLLLLAAAH!” Peter puked, and then he puked some more. “Urrg…” He wiped his chin. “God.” Blaring light from a flashlight glared in his eyes. Peter blocked it with his hand.

Men chattered in the dark.

“What happened?” Peter rubbed his right shoulder.

“You almost bought it, kid,” Carmine said. “If it wasn’t for the five-oh,” he thumbed over his shoulder, “you’d be toast.” Carmine groaned to his feet and turned towards the glare, “He’s okay, guys, you can take off.”

“He clean?”

Peter couldn’t see a face for the light.

“Yeah, spotless, Sarge,” Carmine said. “Just bumped his head a bit.”

“I’ll need a 69-A on him, anyways, Carmine.” Papers rustled in the dark. The sarge held out a thick sheaf.

“What’s a 69—?” Peter started, but Carmine punched him in the arm.

“Sure thing, Sarge.” Carmine took the papers. “Checked him head to toe, though. Not a scratch. Could save yourself some paperwork. Almost shift change.”

The sergeant lowered the sheaf and glared at his watch. “You’re absolutely sure?” He nodded to his partner, silent in the doorway. “Okay, Carmine, we’re out. Tell him to watch it next time, though. This ain’t a fucking kid’s game, and he sure as hell ain’t ready for the big-boy league.”

“I’ll talk with him.”

“Building’s clean, squad three’s out,” the sergeant barked into the mike at his shoulder. Then he was gone.

“What the hell happened?” Peter glanced round the room. With the flashlight out of his eyes, he could see again. The room, something was different about it. The dead guy, or not-so-dead guy, was gone along with the couch, the ceiling, parts of the floors, the walls, most of them.

It was as though he sat within the vulture-gleaned ribcage of some long-dead giant. Wall studs like bones lay bare, charred, cracked, jutting from floor to ceiling. The skin of drywall and plaster was blasted mostly away. “Jesus.” Soot stained everything. Looking out past the charred bricks, Peter could see the river, buildings, the red lights of his ambulance whirling below.

“Police Line Do Not Cross” tape spiderwebbed from wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

“Jeeze, who were those guys?” Peter rubbed his shoulder. “Cops? SWAT team?”

“Containment squad.”

“Containment? What happened to the dead guy?” Peter asked. “He grabbed me. He wasn’t dead. Not even close. I thought, I mean he wasn’t breathing, had no pulse, I thought.”

“Well, he’s dead now, kid, don’t you worry. Cops cooked him good.” Carmine held out a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Easy.”

“Cops torched this place pretty good, huh?” Peter steadied himself on Carmine’s shoulder. “For one guy — huh?” Something moved in the next room. What it was he couldn’t see. It was dark in there, too, darker.

“The Padre.” Carmine followed his gaze.

Peter stepped involuntarily in that direction, but Carmine stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Easy, kid. You don’t need to see that.”

“But what—?”

“Last rites, kid,” Carmine whispered.

“On the what? The dead guy?” His shoulder was throbbing. There was something soft and bulky beneath his shirt.

“No, he got his a long time ago,” Carmine said. “Bunch of junkies. Got what was coming to them. Should’ve known better. Stupid bastards.” Carmine frowned. “Let’s go, kid, grab the bags and the stair-chair, I’ll take the suction.”

“Sure, okay.” Peter’s craned his neck. Within the room, a man knelt over something, muttering words, dark words Peter couldn’t make out.

Garbed in black, a wide-brimmed preacher’s hat on his brow, the man rose. He was tall, very tall; the ceiling seemed too low to contain him. In his hand, he bore a cane. With a swift jerk he stabbed down, thunk , skewering something on the floor and in one clean motion whisked free a blade from within the cane, an arc of light in the darkness and swept downward, schluck! He doffed his hat and bowed his head.

“Ashes to ashes,” the Padre donned his hat, “they all fall down.”

The Padre, face wreathed in shadow, turned. Through a blown-out section of the wall, ducking, he stepped, boots sloshing with each step. Laying a hand on Peter’s shoulder, the Padre moved past. “Do not go in there, my son,” rumbled a voice from the depths of the shadow of the preacher’s hat. Then he was gone, out the door, glistening footsteps trailing in his wake.

“What’d you—?”

“C’mon Pete.” Carmine pulled him around. “We gotta go. Grab the bags.”

“But, I want to see.”

“Grab the bags.”

“Fine, whatever.” Peter grabbed the first-in bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Ahhh! What the hell?” He collapsed to a knee. “Jeeze.” He pulled his collar down and peered inside.

“Not here, Pete.” Carmine yanked Peter’s collar back up.

Peter jerked away and examined his shoulder; it was bandaged.

“You got bit, Pete.” His dark glance lingered on Peter’s shoulder.

“Huh?”

“I said,” Carmine snatched a glance into the hallway, his voice constricting to a whisper, “you got bit, by the dead guy.”

* * *

Buy the full book here .

Part X

Sword & Sorcery

Contents

1. A Tale of Stars and Shadow

2. The Pact

3. Never Die

4. Broken Crossroads

5. Sorcerous Rivalry

6. Banebringer

7. Lords of Asylum

1

A Tale of Stars and Shadow

Lisa Cassidy

…’Burn bright and true’…

Dumnorix princess and born warrior, Talyn Dynan was the finest fighter of her generation. With her Callanan partner at her side, she was invincible, reckless, a death-knell to their enemies. But after her partner is torn away from her, Talyn is left broken, wracked with guilt and unable to regain the confidence she once had. Could an unexpected mission to the mysterious country of Mithranar, home of the magical winged folk, be the thing that saves her? Or will the danger and secrets she finds there finally break her completely?

The Shadowhawk lives a life in the shadows. Constantly hunted for his criminal exploits, yet desperate to help the human folk of Mithranar who are oppressed by their winged folk rulers, he haunts the streets of Dock City. The arrival of a foreign warrior threatens to upset the carefully balanced life he leads, but when she begins to offer a hope for the humans he’s only ever dreamed of, can he risk trusting her?

And unbeknownst to both, a mysterious foe stalks the dark corners of Dock City. One that answers to a single purpose…

Vengeance.

SPBFO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 7

* * *

Chapter 1

It was the deepest hour of the night.

Rain and wind lashed at Feather Bay, turning its usually tranquil surface into a turmoil of white-capped waves. Merchant ships anchored in the seething waters listed heavily, pulling up hard against their anchors, spray soaking their open decks.

The Shadowhawk stood still, hands folded loosely before him, voluminous cloak hiding his form. His attention focused on one ship amongst the many. Having arrived earlier in the afternoon with barely enough time to anchor before the storm hit, it had yet to unload.

Anticipation kindled in his stomach with a slow burn that he savoured like fine wine. As the sensation unfurled and spread through his body, he remained outwardly still, ignoring the rain driving into his masked and hooded face and the wind tearing and clawing at his cloak.

His gaze narrowed, tracking a moving pinprick of light on the deck—likely the handheld lantern of a crew member with the unenviable duty of checking everything remained locked down in the storm.

Abruptly the Shadowhawk shifted attention, warned by a flickering in the shadows of the narrow alley to his left. His hand slid to the narrow blade he wore tucked into the small of his back.

A man emerged. Familiar. Offering a slight nod as he came to stand at the Shadowhawk’s side.

The Shadowhawk moved his hand away from the blade and slid his gaze back to the ship.

“We’ve been watching the docks since The Merry Raven berthed. Two Falcons on board, with a shift change every four hours. Next shift change should be dawn.” The man’s voice was pitched above the sound of the wind and held no trace of nervousness or uncertainty.

The Shadowhawk’s lip curled. Only two Falcons. “And your group is in position?”

It was always a different group, each led by a different man or woman who knew nothing about the other groups. Each had a different way of communicating with him.

And none of them knew the Shadowhawk’s face.

“Awaiting your word.”

The Shadowhawk nodded. “Wait a half-turn then follow me out. Make for the cargo hatch at the stern.”

* * *

It was too dark, the weather too wild, for anyone to notice the shadow slipping over the starboard railing of The Merry Raven and making straight for the main hatch leading inside. It lifted easily, a faint light glimmering from below, but nobody shouted or called the alarm.

The Shadowhawk dropped inside, crouching on the top step and securing the hatch behind him. Immediately the driving rain was cut off and he was left with only the roar of the wind and waves hurling themselves at the ship.

At the bottom of the ladder, two narrow passageways led in different directions. The light was coming from under the door of a cabin at the end of the passageway leading straight ahead—probably the captain’s room.

The Shadowhawk turned left.

Darkness was his friend, and as he moved, he gathered the shadows around him, allowing them to shroud his cloaked form. He padded quickly through the ship, moving with the lurching of the floor under his feet. One lit cabin at deck level held a handful of sailors playing cards—presumably those on watch—but the rest of the crew should be below trying to sleep through the storm.

He turned away. He needed to find the sleeping crew. They would likely be positioned close to the cargo hold, and despite the sound the storm was making, he couldn’t take the risk that they might hear him.

He’d done this many times before, and it didn’t take him long to make his way down into the bowels of the ship and find the sleeping berth. Keeping the shadows close—anyone watching would see only moving darkness—he pulled the door closed and latched it.

At the quiet snick of the latch falling into place he waited, breathing to stay calm. But nobody inside roused.

He thought about going back up, locking in the captain and the sailors playing cards. But they were awake. If one of them heard him doing it or tried to leave… but the storm was loud. It was unlikely they’d hear anything happening down in the cargo hold. And if they did, well, merchant sailors weren’t soldiers.

Decision made, he moved down the narrow passageway leading to the cargo hold. It was there he found his first obstacle—two armed Falcons standing guard on either side of the hatch.

Not that either of them would strike fear into anyone trying to get in.

The Shadowhawk couldn’t help the sharp smile of amusement that spread over his face at the sight. One was half-leaning against the wall, his skin a green hue almost matching the colour of his wings, his left hand clutching his stomach. The other just looked bored. Their immaculate teal uniforms and silken wings contrasted sharply with the rough wood of the ship’s interior and the dim light from two flickering torches further down the passageway, making them seem horribly out of place.

Briefly he considered sneaking past them in the shadows. He discarded the idea the moment he thought it. The seasick one was practically standing on the hatch and the lamplight was strong enough to make the shadows surrounding him look unnatural if he stepped into it.

A single steadying breath, and he summoned the deep, husky voice of the Shadowhawk. “I’ve got an arrow drawn and pointed at your heart. One move and I let loose.”

He was unarmed apart from the knife at his back, the knife he never used, but they didn’t know that—he was utterly hidden by the darkness beyond the pool of lamplight. The two Falcons jumped, the seasick one adding a shade of yellow to the green tinge of his skin. The other one’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but the Shadowhawk barked, “Don’t! There’s no need for either of you to die tonight. You know who I am. Do as I say and you live. Start walking backwards. Slowly. Arms up.”

They shared a glance, neither willing to attack with the threat of an arrow coming out of the darkness at them, but still reluctant to leave their post.

“My patience is running out.” His voice turned edgy, dark. “Start walking, or I loose this arrow. The second will follow before the remaining one of you can get anywhere near me.”

His glance fell on the face of the seasick Falcon—a young man surely no older than twenty—and for a moment guilt tried to flicker. He squashed it ruthlessly.

After sharing another glance, the two Falcons began inching backwards up the passageway, hands in the air, their wings making their usually graceful movements awkward and clumsy in the confined space.

He moved them back until they reached a hold he’d spotted earlier, on his way from the sleeping berth. “Inside. Not a sound. Shut the door behind you. Go.”

They hesitated only a moment longer, the seasick one swaying, clutching his stomach harder. The second one opened the door and shoved his comrade in before following suit. Once the door swung shut, the Shadowhawk moved quickly, dropping the bar over the doorway.

The sharp scent of penned sheep had hit him earlier as he passed the doorway—the hold where livestock were kept would be one that could be barred from the outside, holding back any panicked animal herd trying to flee. A perfect place to trap someone.

Besides, there was no small satisfaction in sticking the pretty winged Falcons in with stinking sheep.

Mouth curling in contempt at their uselessness, the Shadowhawk returned to the hatch leading to the cargo hold, listening hard through the rain drumming on the deck above. Nothing else loomed out of the darkness, so he opened the hatch and dropped through before pulling it closed and securing it from the inside. It should prove a good enough obstacle if the crew on watch worked out what was happening.

The two Falcons wouldn’t be missed until shift change at dawn, still at least two full-turns away. Once that happened, he wouldn’t have long before many more Falcons descended on The Merry Raven.

The sheer number of crates stacked in the hold gave him pause—but his informants on the docks had told him they were all full of supplies of wheat from Montagn. His eyes tracked the dim interior of the hold until landing on the unloading door at the stern.

He winched it open, ignoring its loud screech and the icy wind rushing in as the door splashed down into roiling ocean. Several two-man rowboats were waiting, rocking wildly on the storm-tossed waves. At the sight of the opening door, one of the boats came in closer.

It unloaded four men into the hold. Seasoned sailors all of them, with the way they easily jumped the gap from boat to hold, not even a glance at the raging ocean below their feet. At a nod from the Shadowhawk they began working, dragging crates over to be loaded onto the waiting boats.

By the time the third boat was full, shoulders and arms ached, but he gritted his teeth and increased his pace, forcing the pain to the back of his mind. When all the boats were filled with crates, he looked up at the sky. The rain and low clouds made it difficult to tell the time, but they couldn’t have longer than a half-turn before dawn.

The first three boats were already almost back to shore as the fourth one turned and began following. The Shadowhawk straightened his aching back and looked up towards the citadel.

It was time to go. Any longer and he’d risk getting caught. And he was too smart for that.

Casting a regretful look at the remaining crates, he reached inside his cloak and drew out a carved wooden arrow, fletched in black. After carefully placing it on the floor by the hatch entry, he headed over to the cargo door and leaped across into the final boat. “Go, get out of here,” he barked at the rowers. “We need to make it to shore before light or the Falcons coming for shift change will spot us.”

The wind was bitingly cold and the water hadn’t calmed. The two men at the oars struggled for what felt like ages against the strong current, the work made harder by how heavily laden they were. An edge of anxiety tugged incessantly at him despite his physical weariness—Falcons would be searching the water and shoreline relentlessly once they reached The Merry Raven at dawn and saw what had been stolen. And though he’d done this many times before, he never took for granted that one day he might be caught.

Dawn was a faint pink glow on the horizon when they finally dragged the boat up onto the sand of a beach on the western headland of Feather Bay. Panting, aching, and stiff with cold, they all clambered out and joined the hive of activity around the other boats already ashore. They’d been pulled up high onto the sand, and more helpers were there to unload them and carry crates away.

He recognised one of the rowers—a kahvi brewer in another life—and a handful of the others helping unload crates. It had been a while since he’d worked with this group, but they were well-practised and efficient.

Apart from leaders of each group, he didn’t even know their names. And they had no more idea who he was than any other man, woman or child on the streets of Dock City. It was safer for all of them that way.

As each boat was unloaded, its crew pushed them back out into the water and rowed south. Once the sun rose, they’d be nothing more than one of the myriad fishing vessels out to get the morning’s catch.

None spoke to the Shadowhawk as he began helping to move the crates from the fourth boat into the backs of two large wagons. Dawn began inching across the sky, and the wind lost some of its strength, the pounding rain dropping to a light drizzle. They were tying down the load on the second wagon when a familiar figure appeared, stalking towards him with her customary confident gait.

“You got my message.” He stepped away from the wagon to speak with her, not wanting any of the workers to overhear.

“You would have been shit out of luck if I hadn’t,” she observed.

True, but letting her know too long in advance… that was risky. He shrugged. “You know why I don’t give you more notice.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She lifted a hand from where it had rested on the hilt of the dagger she always wore on her belt, dark skin blending with the dim light as she dismissed his words with a sharp gesture. Even soaking wet from the rain she was calm and collected. “The first wagon is already sorted, and we’ll have the rest away by midday. After I’ve taken the cut for my people, we’ll get the rest up north to Mair-land for you.”

That was the usual arrangement. He used his people to identify the ships to hit and steal the supplies from. Saniya’s network hid and distributed the goods to those who needed it.

“You never have told me how your ‘people’ are different to the rest of Dock City or Mair-land,” he said casually.

“And I never will.”

He barked a laugh. Fair enough. “And that’s why I’ll never give you advance notice. I don’t trust you.”

It was her turn to laugh. “I don’t give a flying flea’s shit about your trust, Shadowhawk. It’s enough to know that neither of us could operate without the other.”

“Shadowhawk!”

He turned—the kahvi brewer was pointing southeast, where two winged figures were outlined against the ever-lightening sky, making directly for The Merry Raven . Scorn simmered in his gut—they’d clearly waited for the storm to calm before risking flight and completing their shift change.

“Didn’t want to sprain a wing, I suppose.” Saniya’s voice mirrored his contempt.

He turned away, gaze following one of the wagons as it trundled away. Satisfaction displaced the scorn and the lingering cold and exhaustion. There had been enough wheat in those crates to replace the yield destroyed in a recent avalanche that had badly affected several villages who relied heavily on farming for survival.

But quick on the heels of his satisfaction came a burning shame. It wasn’t enough. He should be able do more, and hated that he didn’t have the courage for it. Sighing, he rubbed at the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples. Always the same argument with himself. It got old, and tiring.

“Go, get out of here.” Saniya’s sharp voice dragged him from his thoughts. “I’ll make sure the last wagon is sorted before the Falcons start searching the beaches.”

He nodded, taking a final glance at the remaining wagon before setting off with quick strides along the beach. Once out of sight of Saniya and the wagons he tugged off his mask, shoved it deep inside his tunic then shrugged out of the cloak and balled it up, tucking it under his arm.

By the time he reached the waking streets of Dock City, he was just one of the crowd.

An average, unremarkable human.

* * *

Chapter 2

She’d allowed herself to keep one good memory from before . It was nothing special, and she rarely let herself do it, but sometimes, in her worst moments, remembering it would lift her depression just enough to allow her to breathe. To put one foot in front of the other. To get out of bed.

The other memories she’d wrapped up and buried—as far away as she could push them—in the back of her mind. Those had the power to leave her gasping on the floor, unable to think under an overwhelming tide of grief.

But this memory…

It had been a perfectly ordinary summer afternoon. She’d walked into her Callanan partner’s house, through the back door and without knocking, as she’d done a million times before. Sari had been sprawled on the small, brightly coloured couch, one eye on her little son playing by the window and the other on a long sheet of parchment. Warm sunlight shone through the windows and the house smelled of tomatoes and salty sea air.

Sari was already looking up with a grin before Talyn stepped through the doorway, warned of her arrival by their instinctive awareness of each other’s presence. Her pleasure at Talyn’s arrival was clear despite the fact they’d only seen each other late the day before, arriving back in the city after their latest assignment. An echoing pleasure had beat through her. Always like that. In perfect rhythm.

“Ta!” Tarquin had heaved himself off the floor to wrap his chubby arms around her leg in greeting before going to join his father in the kitchen. A moment later, his voice drifted back, high-pitched with excitement, as he’d asked if he could help.

Roan was cooking dinner—the source of the tomato smell. “Staying for dinner, Tal?” he’d asked, waving a wooden spoon around and sending sauce splattering to the floor when she ducked into the kitchen to say hello. Tarquin had shrieked with laughter. Sari had rolled her eyes, Talyn’s presence probably saving Roan from a sharp word.

She had stayed for dinner. They’d talked and laughed over the food, then while Roan put their son to bed, she and Sari had sipped glasses of wine out in the garden, enjoying the balmy night. It had been easy, and warm and home.

Her Callanan partner had died two months later.

* * *

A sharp sideways step from the restless mare beneath her brought Talyn crashing back to the present. The mournful howl of baying hounds faded into the distance as the hunting pack reached the other side of the valley and entered thick forest. She touched the reins lightly, holding her copper mare in check.

“FireFlare looks eager to run.”

Talyn looked up at the man riding his grey stallion towards her, hoping he hadn’t noticed her drifting off. She gave a casual shrug, summoning a teasing tone of voice. “She’s the fastest here and she knows it. Greylord is going to have to get used to second place today.”

There had once been joy—and smugness too—in having one of the finest pureblood Aimsir mares in the country, but that was gone along with everything else. It was hard to remember what those things had felt like.

Ariar Dumnorix threw back his head and laughed. “Remember your place, Cousin. I am Horselord, and several years older than you.”

His laughter eased something inside her. The ruling Dumnorix blood were a close-knit, powerful brood of whom much was expected, but there was something magical in the way they gave each other strength. She’d needed that desperately when she left Port Lathilly for Ryathl a year earlier—not that they had any idea.

Ariar’s shock of golden hair, glinting with red highlights in the sun, wasn’t typically Dumnorix, but his unusually luminous blue eyes marked him clearly as one of them. Bright as starlight in a clear night sky. All Dumnorix had those bright eyes, a physical manifestation of that hint of magic that ran through all their veins.

“You wouldn’t want me to let you win, now would you?” Talyn’s gaze roamed over the assembled nobility gathered on the plains outside Ryathl, waiting for the hounds to get the scent of a fox. “Uncle wouldn’t like that.”

“I can’t believe he’s managed to drag himself out of that draughty palace for the afternoon.” Ariar’s incredulousness was exaggerated, but a smile still curled at Talyn’s mouth as they both glanced towards Aethain Dumnorix, ruler of the Twin Thrones. It was impossible to be completely depressed with Ariar around. She’d once been just like him.

The king was in his mid-fifties, his curling black hair still showing no signs of grey, his amber eyes sharp and intelligent in a handsome, rugged face. Ariar constantly ribbed his elder cousin for his serious and reserved nature. Talyn was more forgiving—she shuddered at the thought of the heavy responsibility the king of the Twin Thrones must bear.

“Six thrices, Talyn, you’re not paying a jot of attention to what I’m saying, are you?” Ariar’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Please tell me you’re not mooning over Tarcos Hadvezer.”

Talyn started, cursing herself again. She had to stop drifting off. Ariar’s gaze was far too knowing for her comfort. She took his jibe and ran with it, summoning an irritated scowl. Tarcos was sitting his horse near the king. “I do not moon. Ever. End of story.”

The distant baying of the hounds cut across Ariar’s response, and FireFlare leapt into a gallop before Talyn could even dig in her heels. She settled down in the saddle without thought, doing her best to give in to the momentary freedom of her mare’s speed and the wind whipping past her face.

The Twin Thrones Aimsir were legendary for their riding prowess and the speed and agility of the horses they rode—used as a mobile archer force in battle, they spent peacetime hunting to supply the northern villages of Calumnia during the long, rugged winters when they were mostly cut off from the rest of the country. It was in tracking, chasing down and killing the dangerous kharfa—massive animals with thick hides used for clothing and meat that could supply an entire family for a week—that Aimsir had developed their skills in horsemanship and archery.

Growing up in the north, it had been inevitable that Talyn would become Aimsir, and now it was impossible to remember a time when she hadn’t been one, even though she’d left home and the unending plains in the north that were the Aimsir heartland to join the Callanan the moment she was old enough.

Ariar—who’d never left the Aimsir and had commanded them as Horselord for three years now—passed Talyn on Greylord within moments and took the lead as they raced across the open plains towards the forest in the distance. Aethain was in between Talyn and Ariar on his own Aimsir stallion, two of his Kingshield guards keeping close, their focus on their charge, not the hunt.

But FireFlare was rapidly closing the distance.

Talyn edged the mare out to the left, the wind tearing through her raven hair and bringing tears to her eyes. They gained steadily on the king until FireFlare was flying past him and closing in on Ariar. An echo of the old Talyn came rising to the surface, and she whipped her knife out from her belt, flipped it neatly, and tapped Ariar on the back of the head with the hilt as FireFlare raced by.

Greylord had the faster acceleration but FireFlare was swifter than anything alive over longer distances.

“Cheat!” Ariar roared good-naturedly at her, the wind ripping his words to shreds.

FireFlare edged ahead of the pack, with Ariar closest behind, followed by Aethain and the handful of his Kingshield guard that could keep up as they hit the forest and pushed through.

The nobles were left far behind.

The baying hounds had a fox cornered in a wide clearing not far beyond the tree line. Talyn reached back for her bow, Ariar barely three strides behind her. Dropping the reins and controlling FireFlare with knees alone, she yanked an arrow from the quiver on her back, knocked the bow, and…

The hiss from behind froze her mid-draw.

Panic sprawled up through her chest in a torrent so forceful she literally couldn’t think. Then her logical brain caught up.

Ariar had fired in the second before Talyn could. It was just his arrow flying through the air behind her.

It hit the fox cleanly, two breaths before Talyn loosed her arrow, which buried itself in the fox’s side inches away from Ariar’s. Talyn guided her mare around in a wide circle, slinging the bow back across her saddle and trying to return her breathing to normal before her cousin noticed. Fortunately he was too busy letting out a loud whoop of triumph to do so.

That was when the ruler of the Twin Thrones burst into the clearing, reining his horse in with easy skill once he saw the fox was already dead.

“What was with the hesitation?” Ariar complained. “I thought you weren’t going to let me win.”

Her heart plummeted when she realised he’d noticed. The panic threatened to return. She cleared her throat and lifted her left hand. “My wrist is still a little sore. Besides, I did win, FireFlare beat you here.”

“Liar .”

Talyn resolutely shoved the voice away. She was currently in a phase of pretending it didn’t exist.

“But Ariar’s arrow landed first. He takes the win,” Aethain said, approval in his voice as he nodded at Ariar. Her cousin grinned in delight.

“Thank you both for the outing,” Aethain continued. “Can you join me for lunch tomorrow?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, uncle,” Talyn apologised. He wasn’t technically her uncle—her mother was his first cousin—but the diminutive was easy. Those of Dumnorix blood never used titles when speaking to each other, even if one of them did sit on a throne with two countries under its rule. “I won’t have another day off for a while.”

“Of course. The next posting assignments are decided next week.” Aethain’s amber eyes brightened. “I’m sure Lark will put you somewhere important given your background. You must be excited.”

She wasn’t. In fact, the very idea terrified her. The Kingshield posted new recruits to guard details every six months. A broken wrist in sparring practice had gotten her out of the last one—the first since she’d left the Callanan and joined the Kingshield—but that excuse wasn’t going to work again.

“I can’t come either. I’m off back to the mountains.” Ariar looked cheerful at the idea. “More brigands to slay, that sort of thing. We’ll do dinner when I get back though.”

Aethain frowned. “Nothing too serious I hope?”

“Not at all,” Ariar assured him. “In fact, we’re planning an assault on one of their main supply bases near Port Lathilly.” A sideways glance at Talyn. “One of the Callanan informants there came through in a big way.”

She gritted her teeth. Ariar’s look told her the informant was one she and Sari had developed before her partner’s death. She tried to be glad their hard work in finding him had paid off, but she failed miserably. Her hands had tightened unconsciously on the reins, the leather cutting into her skin. She almost welcomed the pain.

Aethain’s amber eyes settled on her a moment, as if he sensed some of her distress despite the mask she wore. But eventually he nodded. “Good work. Keep me apprised of the outcome.”

With that, he wheeled his horse around to turn back for the castle.

“Talyn?” Ariar asked, looking concerned. He knew the story, they all did, but after a year she’d developed a good enough pretence that they thought she’d moved on. The last thing she wanted was for them to realise how broken she actually was.

“Try not to get hit by a poorly-aimed brigand arrow,” she said lightly. “Ryathl can be a drag without you around to liven things up.”

“Don’t I know it! You just stay here and polish your pretty Kingshield sword like a good little guard and I’ll be back quicker than you think.” Lightly meant, there was still a hint of confusion in her cousin’s tone. Ariar would never understand why she’d left the life of an Aimsir to be a Callanan, and now a Kingshield. With a wink, he wheeled his horse and galloped away after the king. Soon after he was surrounded by his own Kingshield guard, who’d been left trailing valiantly in his wake.

Talyn let out a breath. Being amongst her relatives made her stronger, calmer. But it also meant having to summon the effort to maintain a semblance of what she’d been before. Now, left alone in the clearing, she was both relieved and tired.

Sighing, she turned FireFlare back towards the city. She had just enough time to wash off the smell of horse and change before a promised meet up with friends in the city.

And somewhere between now and then she’d need to summon the strength for more pretending….

* * *

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Living in Australia’s capital, I’m a self-published author who mostly sticks to novel-length fantasy but occasionally likes to break out with short stories on random things like unicorns and ninjas. When I’m not writing, you might catch me enthusiastically spectating a basketball game (#NewYorkKnick for life!), reading a tonne of books, or…who am I kidding? I spend a lot of time writing!

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2

The Pact

Adam Craig

Betrayal tore Liatrix from her life as a succubus, leaving her scarred and trapped in a realm where discovery of what she is means death. Until a chance encounter with an elf named Alvar offers her an opportunity to gain an ally and take revenge.

After forcing him to choose between a life of service to her in exchange for the life of his sister he forms a pact that will alter both their lives forever.

Her obsession for revenge sets them on a path filled with danger and bloodshed. Leading each to question the decisions that brought them here and the feelings they have begun to develop for one another.

Along the way Liatrix discovers the change she wanted from her life in the Lower Realm she may have already received and her obsession with revenge may be slowly turning her into one of the things she hated most.

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 7

* * *

Chapter 1

Liatrix hated tithing it always left her exhausted until she regained her magic and today was going to be no different.

Liatrix sat on of the soft cushions that were scattered about her room. Turning the sword over in her hands examining the blade wondering where best to mark it as hers. Liatrix took the quill and pricked her finger. Starting next to the hilt she began inscribing the metal with her sigil. The blood corroding itself into the blade as she spoke the words of magic. When finished she straightened up stretching her back, eyeing the blade that lay across her legs.

The time was once again upon her. She hid the red steel blade and set out from her small home to the Queen's chamber. Liatrix hated her life in the Lower Realm, unlike her sisters whom would feed on those from the Mid Realm and were left with magic aplenty. She refused to feed. The thought of how they would lay there letting whomever ram their cocks in and out of them like stabbing an animal they were trying to kill just to steal a little extra magical made her sick. Although that was the life she was supposed to live, it was not the life she chose to live. The magic wasn't worth it to her. So each tithing she would make the dreaded journey to the palace of Queen Estore to tithe. Then spend the next few days trying to regain her strength.

Queen Estore was the queen of all succubus and incubi. She was the most powerful of her race and as far as anyone knew she was the first succubus and the mother of all of them. Her children were a half breed race, born from the Queen and a mid realmer. The Queen always kept mid realmer’s around for breeding stock or skilled laborers. Some of her most devout worshipers would be brought to her court as a reward. There they would serve to appease the sexual desires of the incubi and others that lived in the realm or as general laborers to the Queen.

The palace stood well above the surrounding buildings. On top of a small hill with trees dotting the landscape, their pink buddings coloring their branches. The winding stone paved road ran its way through the homes of the city towards the large palace. The pillars forming the outside of the palace were as thick as tree trunks and could be seen from where Liatrix walked.

On her way past the small coliseum that housed the proving grounds Liatrix could hear the sounds of the fights taking place within. The round open air arena had seating for any who wanted to watch the battles of the incubi warriors proving their worth.

Incubi were born sterile and without magic. They were used as the Queen's guards after they had proven themselves in battle against the narlatch beast. Though they were her brothers, they shared very little in appearance or temperament with their sisters. The warriors usually stood over six feet in height. Heavy muscled with deep red skin, large leathery wings grew from their shoulders. Small horns and their sinuous tail were the only things they shared with their sisters. Once an Incubi had proven themselves they were given their sword engraved with the emblem of the Queen, a sign of their worth to her. Behind the thick wooden entrance gate of the coliseum one of her brothers was testing himself against the narlatch beast. She wondered if he would be warrior, slave or dead when it was over.

Liatrix continued her trek pushing the thoughts from her mind. That was their lot in life just as this was hers. As she approached the palace she thought to herself it was more temple than palace. No walls surround it; none were needed as no one would dare to attack the Queen. Its columns were decorated with carvings of pleasures of the flesh. The smooth stone floor of the open courtyard was lined with braziers burning sweet smelling incense. A large fountain depicting the Queen lay in its center, pillowed benches to either side. Occupying a bench was one of the chosen ones.

Servants of the Queen, originally inhabitants from the Mid Realm. They had been worshipers of the Harlot Queen. That would gather magic for her in hopes of reward and service in her court.

Liatrix didn't know her name and didn't care her long black hair obscured her face. She was completely nude on her hands and knees atop a pillowed bench behind her an incubi warrior violently rammed his cock in and out of her. Liatrix tried to ignore her cries of pain as she approached the steps leading from the open courtyard to inner chambers of the palace.

At the top of the steps large red drapes hung from goldenrods near the top of each the pillars. The drapes forming the billowing walls of the palace. An incubi guard stood on either side of the drapery in front of her.

As Liatrix stepped through into the inner sanctum the main hall was alight with a multitude of candles. The floor here was decorated with tiled murals of Queen Estore performing every sexual act imaginable in graphic detail. The room was a large open space. Pink silk draperies separated the throne room from smaller lesser used rooms. Round pillowed seats were placed around the room where one could indulge in any number of pleasures. Lounging upon one was Carling, one of her sisters.

Carling was what most would consider to have been the ideal form of sexual desire sprung to life. She wore a light pink silk chiton a simple rectangle wrap that clasped only over her right shoulder held at her waist by a silk red rope. The entire side open and free to flow in the breeze allowing a careful observer the sight of the red thatch of hair between her legs and large breast. She smelled of alluring perfumes and wore red dyed leather sandals. Carling let her blood red hair fall free around her shoulders. She had large breast and a shapely bottom that gave her curves that Mid Realm males seemed to crave. She always carried herself with absolute certainty. She was everything Liatrix was not which was one of the reasons Liatrix disliked her so much.

Liatrix hated to admit it but she was jealous of her sisters. With her small breast, long legs and athletic build, what curves she had, were not what most considered appealing. Today, as most days, she wore her cloth chiton wrapped completely around her body. Pinned at both shoulders fastened with her belt at the waist its length hanging only to her knee. Liatrix’s most prominent feature was her purple hair the color of lilacs. No other succubus had hair the color of hers. It gave her a sense of individuality that she enjoyed.

“Tithing today Lia?” Carling asked.

Liatrix glared at her, “Yes I am, I thought that would be obvious. Why else would I be here?”

“Testy today are we? It’s not that bad you know, I am headed there myself.”, she said, “Queen Estore only takes a little it’s not like we are limited as to how much magic we have. That is unless you don’t feed then it could be hard,” Carling said.

“I guess it’s a small amount when you're always under someone,” Liatrix retorted.

Carling slid off the pedestal and walked briskly to catch up with Liatrix. “You always act so high and mighty about feeding Lia. It makes me wonder why the Queen even bothers with you,” she said.

Liatrix tried to pick up her pace. Carling was always this way with her. Her other sisters mostly just ignored her, but Carling seemed to take pleasure in taunting her. Liatrix tried to not let Carlings words get to her. Carling let their conversation drop as they entered the Queen’s audience chamber.

There, atop the raised dais, sat Queen Estore upon her throne. Queen Estore was beautiful even for a succubus her beauty was above all others. Her long black hair flowed down her back. Her round face and fair skin and voluptuous body were in stark contrast to the black leathery wings that sprouted from her back and the slender pointed horns that grew from her head. At her feet her latest plaything sat nude, his eyes blank staring into nothing. Her sinuous tail stroking his cock him keeping him erect. She wore almost nothing, golden strands wrapped around her neck and her back holding in place two round golden disks that covered each nipple of her large breast. Her lower half covered with a gossamer like loin cloth that could be seen through. An incubi warrior stood at each corner of the room ignoring the scene on the dais.

Liatrix and Carling walked towards the Queen.

“You summoned us, “Carling said as she approached the throne.

“Your tithe is due my daughter's,” Queen Estore said.

“Of course my Queen,“ Carling said, approaching the Queen and kneeling before her. Queen Estore took Carling’s chin in her hand lifting her face so she could see her clearly. Then gently kissing Carling. Carling felt the strong pull as the magic was drained from her. When the Queen had finished Carling stood and backed away.

“Now Liatrix your tithe,” she said.

Liatrix slowly stepped forward kneeling before the Queen. Queen Estore took Liatrix’s face in her hand. Gazing into her eyes as she said, “you haven't feed have you Liatrix.”

Liatrix tried to turn her face away from the Queen but she held her face tight.

“Why do you refuse to feed? It's your nature, its part of being a succubus. Refusing what you are won’t change it,” she said.

Queen Estore pulled Liatrix face close and pressed her lips to hers. Liatrix felt the harsh pull as the Queen drained the magic from her. It was as if someone were tugging on your very soul. When the queen released her from her embrace the exhaustion began to creep over her.

“If you would feed you would not feel this way,“ Queen Estore said. A wicked grin crept over the Queen's face.

“I am a generous Queen and mother to all of my daughters. How about this, I will let you have this one. He has just a little magic left in him but I think it would be enough for you to feed on. You won't have to go to the Mid Realm to find prey you can have him,” She said. Placing her hand on the nude human sitting next to the throne guiding him to his back.

“Well Liatrix would you care to have the last of this one?“ Queen Estore asked indicating the man now laying on the floor.

“No my Queen I will feed in my own time,“ Liatrix replied.

The Queen frowned at Liatrix as she moved to stand astride the man.

“As you wish,“ she said.

The Queen lowered herself onto to him and began to slowly feed upon him gliding up and down his cock as he lay motionless a blank stare on his face.

“You know Liatrix if you do not feed nothing will change for you. I don't understand why you're so reluctant to feed. They can be rough at first. But once you steal enough of their magic you can drain them of their life force like this one, then they become quite docile,” She said.

Liatrix cast her eyes downward not wanting to watch the scene before her.

Queen Estore sighed “Very well, when I have finished with this one you will take him to the feeding pit for the narlatch,” she said to Liatrix. “I will have to have another brought to me this one was quite full of energy.” she said.

As the Queen finished she rose slowly as she drained the last of his life force from him. The man’s eyes never changed from that blank stare he had worn the entire time Liatrix had been present.

“There,” she said. As Queen Estore slowly walked back to the throne. “Now take this to the narlatch pit,” she said.

Liatrix flushed with embarrassment and anger as she replied “Yes my Queen.“

Liatrix moved over to the nude body of the man. Taking him by the wrist she began to drag him from the palace, down the steps of the dais towards the opening leading out of the main room. As she struggled with the man's weight she could feel the Queens eyes upon her. This wasn't the first time she had had to perform this task or watch the scene she had just witnessed and she thought it won't be the last either.

When Liatrix reached the fountain in the courtyard she stopped to catch her breath. Stretching her back as she gazed around. The servant from earlier was finished and lay face down on the bench sweat glistened on her mostly nude body. The male incubi nowhere to be seen having done his business and left. This was a sight she had seen all too often before. Liatrix again took the man by the wrist and began to drag his body across the open courtyard towards the feeding pit. While Liatrix exited the courtyard Carling sauntered past flashing Liatrix an evil grin as she walked past her and down the path that lead to the proving grounds.

”Bitch,“ Liatrix muttered as she struggled with the man’s weight.

The trek down to the feeding pit was made twice as long by the weight of the dead slave. By the time she had reached it every muscle in her body ached her back felt as if she would never straighten up again. Finally, she arrived at the gate that sealed the narlatch in their pen.

The narlatch had noticed the meal being brought to them but didn't move. They were strangely intelligent almost on a human level. They were the size of a small bear with large square heads. Their oversized mouth filled with yellow serrated dagger like teeth. Their skin a thick leathery brown with paws that ended in large hooked claws for grabbing and tearing flesh. One of the worst things about the narlatch was their venom they could spit in a short stream from their mouth. The venom was not fatal but quickly numbed the body making a kill easier. During proving fights one of the incubi warriors would be pitted against a narlatch in battle. Although sometimes the fights were to the death, other times only until one acknowledged the loss.

Liatrix raised the gate leading into the pen. Each narlatch had its own den attached to the walls surrounding the pen. Most were scared from the trials. It always made her nervous when she brought food for them. The way they watched her was unnerving. Their eyes never left her even to gaze at the meal she had brought. Liatrix made a conscious effort to never have her back to one of the narlatch. After shoving the body in Liatrix quickly lowered the gate. She slumped down pressing her back against the cool stone. She was feeling a little light headed and needed to rest a moment before heading home. It was a short walk from here she just had to find the energy to get there.

Liatrix stood after a few moments rest and began the slow walk home. When she finally made it to the small stone building that was her home she brushed aside the drape that served as her door and fell into her bed asleep.

* * *

Carling left the Queen's chamber and headed to Liatrix’s home. She knew it would take her a good bit of time to get the body of the Queen's latest toy to the narlatch pit. Afterwards she would probably go home and pass out in her bed. That’s what she had done the last few times when Carling had followed her after tithing. Carling had decided this was the time to put into play her plan.

Carling wanted a change from her life as a succubus. Everything in the Queen’s domain was paid for in sexual acts. Gold and silver coins mattered not here. The only exception was the succubi and their tithing. As long as they tithed their wants and needs were provided, for the most part. To Carling it still amounted to the same thing. Whether she had to fuck some mid realmer for magic to tithe with or fuck one of the Lower Realm inhabitants for everyday things she still had to fuck her way through life. As long as she was going to have to do it, she might as well be able to enjoy the act. That meant she need to change the way she fed.

It was not chance that she had found that crazy wizard Hurley. It had taken her many a night spent with old sagging men from the Mid Realm that could no longer get stiff for their time worn wives, or had spent their youth in the temples to the gods shunning their youthful desires in exchange for knowledge. Found him she had and struck the bargain that would give her what she sought.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

3

Never Die

Rob J. Hayes

Ein is on a mission from God. A God of Death.

Time is up for the Emperor of Ten Kings and it falls to a murdered eight year old boy to render the judgement of a God. Ein knows he can't do it alone, but the empire is rife with heroes. The only problem; in order to serve, they must first die.

Ein has four legendary heroes in mind, names from story books read to him by his father. Now he must find them and kill them, so he can bring them back to fight the Reaper's war.

SPFBO 2019 (Finalist)

Grit level: 5

* * *

Some fight for honour, and some for reward.

Some for glory, and others for a cause.

Some fight for freedom, from tyranny and hate.

And some fight for love, not for a person but a name.

With death as their guide, their companion and goal.

They cross all Hosa, spirit, flesh, and soul.

Hounded by demons, from the pages of lore.

What starts with a whisper, must end with a roar.

Chapter 1

The walls of Kaishi had fallen before the first wave of bandits reached the gates. It was clear from the outset that Flaming Fist had sent men in the day before. They hid in the dark places, alleys and sewers, and waited for the signal to climb the walls from the inside and kill the city defenders before opening the gates. No one suspected the attack to come so soon. Cho hadn't expected it to come at all. Flaming Fist was little more than a bandit with a following, preying off small villages and those who couldn't defend themselves. He simply didn't have the numbers to assault a city as large as Kaishi, no matter what recent reports had said. Cho re-evaluated that opinion as soon as the first cries went up.

They rushed from the wine house into a dark street thick with fleeing citizens. Rich and poor alike were shoving each other aside in an attempt to get to the sanctuary; some carrying the most valuable things they owned, some carrying nought but their own lives. They flowed around Cho and her comrades like a river before an island.

Oong, Cho's comrade, known as the Red Bull of Fades, grabbed at one of the fleeing citizens, pulling the panic-stricken fellow from the crowd. "What's happening?" the Red Bull slurred. He was already well into his third jug of wine and he wasn't the only one. Even Cho was feeling a little lightheaded from the drinking.

"The gates are down," the terrified man shouted. "They're in the city. The Flaming Fist has come for his daughter!"

The Red Bull let the man go and leaned upon his great iron-shod staff. "Daughter? No one said anything about a daughter."

Cho shrugged. "We have been paid to defend Kaishi. What does it matter why Flaming Fist is here?"

Qing, often called Hundred Cuts, pouted. "It matters to me," she said. "I like to know which side of the fight I am on."

"The side that is paying us," Oong said.

Cho shook her head. "The side of innocence and justice. Not the side of slavering bandits." No matter what his reasons for attacki ng, Flaming Fist was attacking, and Cho would defend the city and its people.

"But they are paying us?" Oong asked to no reply.

The sounds of battle were close; the clash of steel, the crackle of fire, the screams of the dying. Cho pushed her way into the crowd towards those sounds, forcing the people of Kaishi to move around her. One man caught at her yukata, trying to pull her away from the fight. Cho brushed him away with a flick of her wrist, but not before she heard a rip. She glanced down to find a small tear in the hem, splitting one of the sunflower designs in half. She counted it a shame, it was her favourite yukata.

Kaishi was a rarity of squat buildings and cobbled streets, the roads were wide and the houses far apart, no doubt to stop fire from spreading. Of course, that didn't account for a band of pillaging bandits purposefully torching everything. The first of Flaming Fist's soldiers they came across were busy slaying the city's guards as they tried to intervene. Cho wasted no time in rushing to their aid. Her slippers breezed across the cobbled streets and her robe fluttered. Her first katana, Peace, slid from its saya with barely a hiss, cutting a silent bloody arc. Two more Flaming Fist bandits went down before they realised they were beset, each one dying from a single strike. Precision was as important as strength when it came to battle. Often more so.

The Red Bull of Fades charged past Cho with a bellow of rage, flailing his staff left and right, caring nothing for precision. The iron rings on either end of his staff made each blow a killing one. Qing held back, her steel fans ready should any of the soldiers make it past the Red Bull and Cho. None did.

Even as the last of the Flaming Fist bandits fell, Cho let out a deep breath and wiped down Peace before sliding it back into its saya next to its partner. It was a cleansing ritual following the kill, as much for Cho's soul, as for her swords. She whispered a prayer for those she had slain, knowing full well the stars were deaf, and those men didn't deserve it anyway.

The surviving soldiers stammered their appreciation. They were not eager to stay, fleeing towards the sanctuary with those they were employed to protect. She couldn't blame them; they were poorly trained and just as likely to get in the way. They needed as much protecting as the townsfolk.

"We should go," Cho said, turning with the fleeing soldiers.

"What about all of those left in the city?" Hundred Cuts had a reputation for lost causes and Cho could now see why.

"They will either hide, flee to the sanctuary, or die. We cannot save everyone. Our efforts are best spent in protection of the sanctuary." It was a reasoned argument; they could not save everyone. Cho chose not to add that they had yet to be paid in full and the men with the coin would be cowering in the dark corners where it was safest. The difference between the rich and the powerful was always made so much clearer by walls. The rich hid behind them, the powerful tore them down.

Hundred Cuts hesitated, still chewing over the idea of leaving so many people to their own fate. Cho felt a tug of her conscience; it had not been so long ago that she might have thrown herself into the city to protect everyone she could. It was, after all, the mantra of a Shintei to protect the weak and to honour any oath sworn, no matter the cost. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this was one oath she would finally keep. Good sense won out and Cho turned towards the sanctuary. The Red Bull fell in line straight away, Hundred Cuts was not far behind. Some were born to follow, not lead. They rushed through dark streets, ignoring the bright embers floating up into the night sky as the town burned around them.

The sanctuary, as the people of Kaishi called it, was actually a temple dedicated to the stars. From the outside it was a tall pagoda of several floors, with a commanding view of the city around it. Inside, however, there was a hidden basement containing a network of tunnels that led out to the nearby cliff side, emerging behind the Fury Falls. A secret passage hidden behind a waterfall seemed a little obvious to Cho, but the city officials claimed it had never once been discovered.

The steps leading up to the sanctuary from the city were already littered with bodies, some of Kaishi's citizens, but many more of Flaming Fist's men. Amid the corpses stood Murai, the Century Blade, the greatest living swordsman in all Hosa.

Despite his ancient body, the Century Blade moved as slowly and deliberately as oil over stone. Cho recognised one of the corpses; Wandering Spear, one of Flaming Fist's greatest captains lay dead at the sandaled feet of the Century Blade who bore not a scratch to show for such a memorable kill.

Cho bowed as the Century Blade descended the steps toward her. He was not her master now, nor had he ever been, but he deserved respect and she gave it freely.

"You do this all yourself, old man?" The Red Bull of Fades asked. Cho winced at the disrespect.

The Century Blade smiled and ignored the Red Bull. His wrinkled skin and wispy white beard made him appear kind, almost gentle, though the bleeding bodies nearby said otherwise. Cho wondered how he could have achieved such a feat without a single spot of blood on his white robes.

Flakes of ash were drifting into the clearing in front of the sanctuary. Kaishi was burning. Flaming Fist loved to burn things, most notably his own hands. The Century Blade stopped before Cho and bowed low, ever humble despite his age and experience.

"Whispering Blade," he said in a voice like cracked leather. "Can you hold here while I escort those inside to safety?"

Cho nodded. "Why not help me fight Flaming Fist?"

The Century Blade bowed again and turned toward the sanctuary. "The truer test is to do nothing when called to action. Though the reward is often thankless. I will protect those in need of it, and leave the glory to those more suited to it. Good luck, Itami." He stopped at the foot of the first step and turned back for a moment. "He favours his left side. An old injury given by an older opponent."

There was a still a trickling stream of citizens flowing towards the sanctuary, and Cho let them through. Hundred Cuts even half carried an old man up the steps. As the fires grew higher and hotter, the sounds of battle receded, eventually vanishing all together. Cho waited upon the second step, sitting with her saya pulled across her lap, her hand on the hilt of her first sword, Peace.

The first few Flaming Fist soldiers dashed into the courtyard and made a poor attempt to gain the first step. The Red Bull threw them back with his staff, breaking bones and silencing cries of pain. Still Cho waited. Only when Flaming Fist himself appeared, did she rise from the second step.

He was a large man with not a single hair on his head. He rode into the square astride a horse that seemed ill-equipped to carry his weight. Each of his hands was a mess of puckered scars, and weeping wounds. Such is the price a man pays when they regularly light their own fists on fire.

Bandits emerged from dark streets and alleys, following Fist toward the sanctuary and surrounding the three defenders. So many flowed into the clearing that Cho was certain her eyes were playing tricks on her. Hundred Cuts cursed and backed up to the fourth step. Cho smiled and walked down to meet them head on. Even the Red Bull seemed unusually quiet.

"Where is my daughter?" Flaming Fist's voice was a booming thunderclap. Despite the city burning around him, and all the death carried out in his name, he seemed bored.

"I don't know." Cho refused to raise her voice.

Flaming Fist drew in a deep breath, his face curdling as though he smelled something unpleasant. "Kill them."

The soldiers came forward in a wave, some with spears, some with swords, closing in from all directions. There were no tactics to give, no special orders that could turn the tide of the battle, so Cho gave none. She drew Peace into both hands and charged into the oncoming wave, crashing against them, and weaving into their ranks. She dodged, ducked, twirled, and even jumped. Each stroke of Peace was a death, each counterstroke just as deadly. A circle of bodies quickly formed around her, and others rushed in to take their place. She couldn't allow the spears to stab at her from range, so she kept advancing, always closing in on her enemies. Steel fell towards her, clumsy and hacking; she stepped away from some, and brushed others aside. The cobbled streets ran crimson, soaking her sandals and staining her yukata.

The Red Bull of Fades held just beyond the first step, his staff a whirling bludgeon that made corpses almost as easily as Peace. Hundred Cuts danced around the edges of the attacking swarm using her steel fans to injure rather than kill. Injured enemies were often even more useful than dead ones, but not in Flaming Fist's warband. They were not so much soldiers, as bandits drawn together by a strong will and murderous purpose. They didn't stop to give their injured comrades aid but stepped over the wounded to join the fight.

Cho knew the Red Bull had gone down when the first cheer went up. There was no fighting to his aid, and between sword strokes and bodies dropped, she glimpsed Hundred Cuts die in the attempt. One moment the woman was dancing around steel, flipping over her enemies and leaving slashed faces in her wake, the next she had a spear erupt from her throat. Cho saw the look of horror on Hundred Cuts' face. It was a vision that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

There seemed no end to the bandits crowding in to kill her, and no relent to the crazed blood lust, no matter how many she killed. Through it all Flaming Fist sat atop his horse and watched, his face a picture of scarred boredom.

Cho brought Peace close to her face and spoke to it, a whispered word none other could hear. The blade hummed in response. Her next strikes cut through swords and armour both, shearing them apart as though they were rice paper. Men died grasping at gushing wounds, falling beneath a shimmering, whispering sword they couldn't block, wielded by a master whose skill they couldn't match. But numbers, Cho knew, counted for much, and she was hopelessly outnumbered. As each man fell to her hissing blade, another rushed in to take his place, clambering over the dead bodies to get to her.

It seemed an inevitability when Cho took a glancing sword thrust to the leg. She slashed out at the swordsman, rending his face in two, but the damage was done. Cho could feel herself slowing down. Peace no longer cut through flesh so easily, the edge dull with so much killing. She backed away, parrying and thrusting, as she cut a path towards the sanctuary. Another strike took Cho in the side, the blade tangling in her yukata, but scoring her ribs and pulling a shout of pain from her. Then she was free of the crowd and staggering towards the steps of the sanctuary. Her foot hit that first step and she turned to find the soldiers weren't following. They waited; a bristling thicket of sharped steel pointed her way. There were bodies littering the clearing, flames rising high from the city behind them into the night, ash falling all around like black snow.

Flaming Fist slipped from his horse and pushed aside his warriors as he made his way toward Cho until there was nothing but charged air between them. Each of his fists was wrapped in an oily chain, but he had yet to set fire to them. "Is this the way you wish to die, Whispering Blade?"

Cho drew herself up, standing straighter again despite the pain. Her breathing was laboured, and her leg was wet with blood. She glanced down at her second sword, bound into its saya, but she wouldn't draw it. Not even with death staring her in the face. She had sworn an oath never to draw that sword, and it was one oath she intended to keep. Perhaps the only one she had ever kept. She tightened her grip on Peace, and set her stance, ready to repel a stronger attacker.

Flaming Fist snorted and threw his chained hands up. "Kill her."

His men flowed around him like a wave and crashed upon Cho. She took down two of them before the first sword slid between her ribs. The wielder hit the ground before she did, Peace lodged in his neck. The second cut took the fight from her, the pain as it pierced something vital inside beyond maddening. Two more swords thrust into her chest and Whispering Blade died with a scream.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

4

Broken Crossroads

Patrick LeClerc

The city of Laimrig, once a mighty hub of commerce and a seat of power sinks into corruption and decay. Slavers, crime lords and corrupt officials hold sway while the ruling nobility wallow in decadence. War rages beyond the borders, while within rebellion simmers and sinister plots unfold.

Trilisean is an acrobat turned burglar. Conn is a jaded former mercenary. Against the background of deadly blades, subtle schemes, glittering treasures, dark sorceries and fell servants of forgotten gods, fate has thrown them together.

Fate has a sense of humor.

Broken Crossroads is a fast paced, witty, swashbuckling modern pulp fantasy adventure in the tradition of Fritz Leiber and Robert E Howard.

SPBFO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

Sergeant Niath of the City Watch strode into the dank, smoky alehouse, ducking his shaven head under the lintel. He crossed the room casually, acting as though he belonged there. As he passed, the conversations trailed off, leaving a spreading wake of silence behind him.

The watchman moved with confidence through the crowd of dangerous men. Cutthroats, thieves, pimps and enforcers made a point to study their mugs. He wore a steel buckler on his belt, the polished surface scratched and dented. It was balanced on the other hip by a heavy oaken truncheon, gouged and chipped at the business end. He made no move towards the weapons on his belt, however, confident that the cold gleam in his narrowed eyes would be more than armament enough to keep him safe. In other parts of town the blue tabard with the silhouette of the Sollych emblazoned in white might have been enough. Here he put more faith in his carriage.

The sergeant walked quietly toward a table where a thin, agitated man bent low over his cup, muttering to some colleagues. As the aura of silence that surrounded the sergeant reached the group, one of the others nudged the small man, who looked up with shifty eyes under lowered brows, saw the watchman and cursed.

Sergeant Niath stopped before the table and scratched his head.

“Fingers!” He beamed, as though seeing the weasely man was an unadulterated joy. “Just the man I was looking for. I think you could help me in a small matter.”

The man squirmed under the watchman's gaze, his eyes darting around the room. “Always happy to help the Watch, Sergeant. You know me.”

As he finished speaking, he heaved the table over, rolled backward off his stool and darted towards the door to the back room, weaving through the crowd.

Fingers raced through the kitchen and out the back door into a narrow alley, turned right and sprinted toward the main road. As he burst into the daylight of the main thoroughfare, a blinding pain exploded from his right knee and he pitched forward, raising his hand to protect his face from the cobbles.

A rough hand dragged him up by the back of his shirt and tossed him against a wall. His knee buckled and he slid down the wall, slumping to the cobbles. He leaned forward to clutch his throbbing knee, but the end of a truncheon against his breastbone pressed him back against the wall.

“Now, Fingers,” said the sergeant soothingly. “That wasn't very nice. You went and got wine on my uniform. You know how hard that is to get out. Not that you ever worry about wine stains.”

Fingers' only reply was a groan. The sergeant went on.

“You sold some jewelry. Jewelry that was taken from a murder victim. That kind of evidence could have you dancing the hemp jig by week's end.”

“I never killed nobody,” Fingers protested between moans.

“That I don't doubt.” Niath squatted on his haunches, lifting the thief's chin with the end of his club. “Not your style. But I can't have the wives of prominent merchants turning up dead. Looks bad. We need to hang somebody, just to show we care. Restore faith in the Watch. You know how it is.” He smiled. “Help me make up my mind who gets to hang.”

“I don't know nothin',” Fingers replied, trying to tear his eyes away.

“You don't know enough to steer clear of trouble, that's for certain.” The sergeant frowned in contemplation for a moment. “Why do they call you ‘Fingers,' I wonder? Could it be because you need them for your work?” He seized the man's right hand in his left, isolating the thief's last finger and slowly pressing it backwards with his thumb, “I wonder what they'd call you if you couldn't use them so well…”

“Ahh! Wait, wait!” the thief said. “Don't do this. I'm paid up with the Watch.”

“Not with me.”

“I can tell you who! Sergeant Vorrick– “

“Fingers, I know this may come as a shock to someone in your line of work, but I don't care about anybody else's scams. You know what I want. I know that you know. And I know that you are a rat coward with a low pain threshold. Save us both some time and talk. Or don't.” He increased the pressure on the man's finger. “Your call.”

* * *

Conn set the kettle on the stove for tea. He had a few hours to kill before his evening class. They'd be working with staves tonight. He liked staves. You couldn't get much simpler, but they had reach and speed and were so versatile.

Even better, the evening classes were filled with working class students. The mercenary felt much more at ease there. During the day, when these people labored, he taught wealthy sons of nobles– and merchants aspiring to be nobles– how to use swords, generally dueling swords. It was refreshing to teach laborers and longshoremen how to use clubs, knives and staves. The pay wasn't as good, but he felt a few nights a week helped keep his fighting focus sharp, as opposed to his dueling focus. It also kept Ioresh, his apprentice, interested, which was a good thing, since if the boy got bored, he'd run off and join a mercenary band, which would be unhealthy for him, and irritating for Conn since he'd have to break in a replacement.

“I've decided you may buy me a drink.”

Conn turned at the voice. He was sure he had locked the door, not that it mattered. Trilisean paused just inside the hall. She wore a new outfit, all in muted, dark tones, the better to fade into the shadows, but all of costly fabric, well made and carefully tailored.

“In fact, I'll even buy you one back.”

“Business been good then, lass?” asked Conn.

“Very. Lots of contract jobs.” She pirouetted to display her new clothes, then hopped up, sat on his table and extended her legs, crossed at the ankle, to showcase her boots.

“Found a new cobbler,” she grinned, eyes sparkling. “Leather soft as butter. Like walking on a cloud. Treated with beeswax to keep your feet dry, and you can hardly see the dagger I hid in each one.”

“Good to know,” Conn replied, truly interested. He had spent enough time in the infantry to know the value of a really good pair of boots.

“And how've you been doing?” she asked. “You still seeing that barmaid?”

“Depends. Which was the last barmaid you remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, at least you've found your type.”

“And you? Still hanging around with that minstrel?”

“Ah, no,” she sighed. “He was…less than faithful. Pity, really. Man had a silver tongue.”

“Knew he played the lute,” said Conn, fetching his cloak. “Never heard him sing.”

“Never said he did,” she replied. “How's business?”

“Very good,” he replied. “Plenty of folks signing up to learn the arts of defense. Must be from all the lawlessness on the streets these days.”

“You see,” she arched an eyebrow. “I'm looking out for you. Actually, it's good to see a nice crime spree that benefits us both.”

“Come to think on it, why are you still doing jobs?” asked Conn. “I’d’ve thought you’d still be living high from the loot we got from that temple last year.”

“You know how it goes,” she said. “Money works by some kind of magic. One moment there’s all the money in the world, then a few pair of good boots, well tailored clothes, good food, good wine, and suddenly there’s none. There’s never just a little.”

“I’ve heard of that. Like frost. It’s everywhere, then the sun rises and it’s gone.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “I did get to take the winter off and stay nice and warm. Clinging to windows and picking locks with frozen fingers is something I’ll lose a fortune to avoid. And what about you? Why don’t you have an empire of schools and a dozen apprentices doing all the work?”

He shrugged. “As you say, wealth is tricky. I bought a pub. Figured I’d spent enough time in ‘em to know how they work.”

“What happened? You didn’t let yourself drink on credit, did you?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “It turns out there’s a lot that goes into running a place. And the man I bought it from had debts. I figured they couldn’t be so bad. I was mistaken.” He took a cloak from its peg. “Jarving invaders and armed bandits and sorcerers and even that bloody monster temple guardian were easy. You can fight them. And worst they can do is kill you. Moneylenders use uncanny arithmetic to fight you, and no matter what you pay, you owe more than you did before you paid. And you can’t just stab them.”

“Shocking.”

“I know. You’d think a civilized society would let you cut a man who tried to pull that on you, and even cheer you for making the world a better and fairer place. But no.” He shook his head. “Seems they’ve worked their wicked magic on the law as well.”

* * *

Sergeant Niath was about to go home from the night watch when he was summoned to the Commander's office. He was a bit surprised. The Commander and he generally moved in mutually exclusive circles. The sergeant had no concern for politics, glory or promotion. He just liked getting scum off the streets.

His idealism, if it had ever really existed, was long gone. He knew that you couldn't really fix a city like Laimrig. He managed to go to work each night by dividing crimes into two categories: those he didn't care about and those he did. Small crimes that didn't really hurt anybody he ignored. Large crimes by powerful, untouchable people he ignored. Violent, ruthless crimes that struck fear into the populace, added to the general burden of despair that the average citizen carried from day to day, perpetrated by people he could reach with a truncheon, those he cared about.

That wasn't strictly true. He did care about those other crimes. He just didn't obsess about what he couldn't fix. He remembered the details, saved them for leverage, and if he needed to threaten the low or blackmail the powerful to get closer to some vermin he could hit with a stick, those details came in useful.

He knocked at the door to the Commander's office, waited to be called in.

“You wanted to see me,” he stated. It wasn't really a question.

The Commander took a long look at the sergeant. He didn't quite know what to make of the man. Niath's lack of ambition confused him. A man without convenient handles to twist made the Commander uncomfortable. Not a man to promote, or to trust with power, until you knew what he wanted to do with that power.

There was no arguing that the man was effective. The sergeant knew the streets, the gangs, and individual miscreants better than any of his other men. He could get information that most of the Watch couldn't, and while he shielded his informants, as far as the Commander knew, he wasn't beholden to any of them.

“Just got back from the palace,” said the Commander. “It seems someone broke in and kidnapped the Baron's brand new slave girl late last night. He wants her recovered. No effort spared.”

The sergeant blinked twice. “His new slave girl.”

“Yes.”

“And he wants us to track down those responsible.”

“Yes.”

The sergeant chewed the thought over for a moment. “That's not going to help his popularity.”

“I tried to explain that, Sergeant,” said the Commander. “His Lordship seemed unimpressed.”

“I'll see if my sources have anything. Where did he get her?”

The Commander shoved a stack of parchment across the desk. “That's her description, name, bill of sale and so on. Let's try to wrap this up quickly and quietly.”

Sergeant Niath scooped up the parchment, nodded and walked out, thinking.

Probably the girl just ran away, he thought. But running away from the palace was difficult. She could have charmed some guard and he smuggled her out. If that was the case, this should be easy enough.

So easy the Commander and his favorites, or the Baron’s own guards, should have been able to solve it by now. If they were calling him in, that meant the high and mighty couldn’t find her and they suspected something elaborate. Something that extended down to the street level. The level where the eyes of the palace seldom looked.

He examined the documents. The girl had been at the palace for three months. Bought from Constantine, a reputable slave dealer. Reputable within the confines of the profession, at least. No known connections to the big crime bosses, no allegations of kidnapping or extorting families into selling their children to him. His business did pick up after Paisleigh died a year or two ago, but that man was a rat and a smuggler and Nuad knew what else, so it’s not like he was going to live to see old age anyway. Not too likely a legitimate business rival had him killed.

Worth looking into, though. Always look for connections. Even when there shouldn’t be connections. He credited the city its ability to continue to surprise even his cynical mind with its twisted workings.

Niath thought about the timeline. Crime had begun to get worse just under three months back. And to spread from the slums where it was simply a fact of life, to the middle class areas, where it was …what did they call it? Oh, right, an unacceptable travesty of which the Watch should be ashamed . Can’t have street crime in the good parts of town. The merchants don’t like competition.

The Baron wasn't popular with the merchants as things were. Taxes were high with the war, neither the Baron nor the King was putting any effort into repairing the road or dredging the harbor, crime was rampant, most of the watchmen were corrupt and bought off, and now with crimes over the last few months targeting the merchants in the wealthy sections of town, and the Watch tied up restoring his lordship's latest piece of tail…

By Nuad. Was that it?

Could this all be connected? A push by the most rebellious to sway the wealthy against the lord of the city?

That, decided the sergeant, could get messy.

He disliked messy.

* * *

Moread lurked in the narrow alley, his axe handle held close against his leg, waiting for a mark.

This was moving up in the world, he told himself. It clearly was in the geographic sense, since this was better than the usual neighborhoods he worked. He was also moving up as far as vocation, at least according to his boss. If you mugged somebody, you got all his stuff, and it only took a second. The three card shuffle and rigged dice scams he had been running earned poorly, and you had to put some time in to charm and wheedle the silver out of people. You spent a long time winning and losing farthings and pence before they'd throw a few real coins in. Lots of time reeling in the fish. This should be quick and profitable.

He worked to control his breathing, to will himself invisible, to blend into the shadows. The neighborhood made him nervous, but expanding was part of Smiley's new strategy. The underboss, with the characteristic impatient snarl which projected a sense that he was only barely restraining himself from killing you, explained that this was a “vast untapped vein” of wealth. The poor areas where they normally worked offered small return for the effort, and the prey were wary, furtive. The wealthy side of town was too full of hired muscle. This, Smiley had assured Moread through clenched teeth, a district of merchants and tradesmen, was where the profit was.

Moread repeated this line of reasoning to himself over and over, and in the moments where that wasn't enough, he remembered Smiley's expression and decided that nobody out here could possibly be worse than that.

After too long, as the shadows lengthened to evening, he heard a pair of voices approaching. A man and a woman

Perfect, he thought, the man will be distracted, his mind in his trousers instead of on his surroundings, and the girl will be no problem.

He waited, listening to their approach, breathing deeply and quietly, flexing his hand on the grip of his axe handle. The man was nearer to him. Good. He held his breath as they came abreast of his hiding place, then stepped out, swinging at the back of the man's head with the axe handle, all the fear and tension of waiting channeled into the blow.

Moread almost overbalanced as his weapon struck nothing. The man dodged. While the would-be waylayer wondered for a moment how that was even possible, a boot slammed into his midriff, driving the breath from his body, and an elbow crashed into the side of his head.

Things became hazy for a moment as Moread's world dissolved in a crimson swirl of pain and vertigo. There was a twisting sensation, a drifting moment of disconnect, then things swam slowly back into focus. The general pain resolved into a splitting headache, the feel of cobbles digging into his back and a heavy weight on his chest.

The weight seemed to be a boot. The man Moread hadn't hit was judiciously resting his weight on the heel of his right foot, which was on Moread's breastbone. He became aware that the toe of the boot rested lightly on his windpipe, and had the feeling that it was only curiosity that kept the man from rolling his weight forward. Far above the boot, a face considered him blandly, as though wondering just what was on the bottom of his shoe this time. Moread thought he could possibly twist free, but decided against trying. The man moved like lightning and had a kick like a mule. He would take his chances on the lack of hostility in the man's face, and the fact that the fellow hadn't killed him yet.

“Moread?”

He became aware of a second shape above him. Focusing on it, he saw a woman crouching nearby. She was very pretty, in an unobtrusive way, dark hair pulled back loosely and tied with a black band. Her mouth couldn't seem to decide between a smirk and a smile, but her eyes held a hint of sympathy. He didn't recognize her, which was odd, since she knew him, and she was certainly worth remembering.

“Who are you working for now?” she asked, her voice full of sincere concern. “Not Speedy still? How's his wooden leg?”

“No,” his voice rasped, surprising him. He didn't remember giving it any instructions. “Smiley's crew offered a bigger haul.” Why had he told her that?

“Oh, Moread.” She shook her head. “No. You don't want that. You accept those conditions, you may as well get an honest job.” She reached down and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze, “Go back to card games. You had quick hands. Keep going this way and somebody'll break ‘em for you.”

He could only nod. Who was this? How did she know so much?

“So working closer to the Heights was Smiley's idea? You didn't think this up on your own, did you?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Working this side is a different world. Stick with what you're good at.” She stood up. “Take care.” She glanced at her companion, who removed his foot from Moread's chest. They walked away without a look back.

The robber slowly struggled to his knees, gently massaging the lump on his head and reached for his axe handle. A regulation City Watch boot came down on it.

“Now then, lad,” said Sergeant Niath. “Why don't we have a little chat?”

Moread looked up into the grinning face of the guardsman and reflected that maybe his new profession wasn't the step up he'd hoped.

* * *

An enforcer led Fingers through the florist shop sparsely filled with a few plants well beyond their prime, and knocked on the door to the back office.

“What?” demanded a gruff voice.

“Got that guy here, boss. The one you wanted to see. About that thing.”

“Good. Bring him in.”

The muscle indicated the door with a barely perceptible movement of his chin. The thief shuffled into the darkened room. He fidgeted nervously and twisted his hat in his hands. Getting called to see the boss wasn't something that boded well.

It wasn't something you refused, either, he told himself as he sensed two meaty enforcers take positions behind him.

“You sent for me, boss?”

The figure behind the desk watched him for a moment from beneath lowered brows, his fingers steepled before him.

“I hear disturbing things, Fingers,” said the man. “Things that disappoint me.”

“Like what, boss?”

The man behind the desk sighed, shook his head sadly. “You been telling stories. Talking to our friends in blue.” He stopped and fixed the man with an icy stare. “You know how much we value discretion. It hurts me that you don't show concern for the value I place on discretion.”

Fingers began to feel the world dropping away beneath him. “It's not like that, boss,” he pleaded. “It's that bald sergeant. He was gonna break my fingers. He don't respect the rules. The Watch is supposed to respect our arrangement. I paid my dues. They're supposed to lay off. You tole me they'd--” He stopped short as the boss’ eyes narrowed, sure he gone too far. He frantically tried to backpedal but found nothing beneath his feet.

“Maybe I misjudged you, Fingers. Maybe it's my fault for not explaining how important discretion is.” The boss waved down the thief's attempts to protest, “No, no. It's presumptuous of me to assume you know stuff without explaining it.

“So. Here's how it works. This sergeant comes to you and asks about some loot. You tell him enough that he goes and talks to the guy you got the loot from. So he maybe roughs that guy up and finds out where some pickpocket got the idea to go into strongarm stuff. So then he goes up the chain. Maybe some guy sells out his boss to save his own miserable skin. Or maybe he makes a deal, figuring that if this copper takes out the boss, that'll leave what we call a power vacancy that he could step in to. You see where I'm going with all this?”

Fingers, beginning to feel that he may just be allowed to walk out of this office, nodded dumbly. After all, why would the boss lecture him if he were just going to have him killed?

“You see? All it took was a little communication on my part. Now I can trust you not to talk again, right?”

“Absolutely, boss.”

“Good. I believe you, Fingers. I really do.”

A rope whipped around his neck, twisting tight against his windpipe. As the world before his eyes went red, then bled out to grey and dimmed toward black, he wondered if perhaps the lesson hadn’t been for him.

* * *

Trilisean led the way into a small, dark restaurant. A southern place, run by immigrants from…well, Conn didn't really remember. Some place the bloody Jarvings had overrun. But they supposedly made decent food.

They took a small table and the waiter brought them a plate of bread and cheese and a small dish of some kind of oil with spices floating in it. Trilisean ordered a wine with some flowery, foreign sounding name and Conn ordered a pint of bitter. He was impressed when the waiter didn't explain that they didn't serve decent, local beer. You had to watch for that kind of thing in foreign places. Wine was all well and good. It'd get you drunk, but it just wasn't the same.

He ripped off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the oil and ate it. It was pretty good, more interesting than butter or bacon grease. The ale was decent.

Watching Trilisean eat, however, was the most interesting thing.

Conn had grown up on simple food. Bread, oatmeal, potatoes and turnips, and meat that was cheap and slow to spoil, like bacon, salt pork or sausages of whatever the butcher couldn't sell to the wealthier customers ground up with some oatmeal and cheap spices and stuffed into a casing. Often the meat course at supper was an illusion created by frying the potatoes in yesterday's bacon grease. Food in the army was even plainer, and often older, and he'd learned to scrounge and use spices as a disguise more than a garnish. He could appreciate a good meal, fresh ingredients cooked and seasoned properly, but to him it was an interesting diversion, a moment of enjoyment in a life of stale bread and dripping.

Trilisean was different. She was truly enthusiastic about good food. She would take a sip of wine or a bite of cheese and close her eyes for a moment and savor it before chewing and swallowing. She lingered over each taste, as though trying to extract every iota of flavor.

Come to think of it, she approached most things that way, from her new boots to a challenging puzzle or lock, or the thrill of not quite getting them both killed to the sound of somebody else's money jingling in her purse.

For some reason, he found the wide-eyed, infectious wonder and joy made up for the almost getting him killed thing.

“So,” he asked over the rim of his mug, “who was your friend with the table leg?”

“Hmm? Oh, that was Moread. Small time hustler. I think it was an axe handle though.”

“Ah. I didn't really notice with it swiftly approaching my skull.” He tore off another piece of bread. “You seemed awful friendly to a man who was trying to put a dent in me.”

She shrugged. “If you can't outfight a two farthing card cheat trying his hand at mugging, I'll need to swap you out for a new companion. It was nice of you not to hurt him too much.”

“What inspired his new calling, you think?”

“It's not something he'd come up with on his own,” she said between bites. “He's not that ambitious. He's being set up, or ordered to make more money.”

“Seems there's a lot of that going on. Plenty of average laborers and tradesmen are coming to learn fighting. Lot's of people worrying about crime that weren't a few months back.”

“Well, crime is up, and spreading. Some merchant's wife got stabbed to death in a robbery a week ago, there've been more muggings, shops have been broken into, and a few of the homes of the high and mighty have been relieved of their burden of excess.” She paused and took a bow. “Not that I had anything to do with the muggings. Or the shops. That's small-time smash-and-grab work. Won't stoop to it.”

“I suppose a woman needs to have her standards.”

“Exactly. And word is the Baron's latest addition to his harem has run off or been kidnapped, and he has the Watch tracking her own, not trying to stamp out this latest crime wave. That's upset people. I mean, the kind of people who aren't always upset and victimized. The merchants and tradesmen. This is new and exciting for them.”

“So he's got the Watch off chasing this missing girl?” asked Conn. “Who's collecting the bribes for them while they're doing that?”

She laughed. “I expect they'll fit that in to their busy schedules.”

“I wonder,” he said grimly, “if people will be quite as happy to be shaken down, what with the attention of the city guard so diverted?”

“I'm sure things will change,” she said. “One way or another. But just take advantage of this time right now. The clouds never obscure the moon long. Strike while they do.”

“Such colorful sayings you get in the city, don't you?” he smiled. “Back home we'd say ‘make hay while the sun shines’.”

“Is that what it's good for?” she asked. “I had wondered.”

* * *

“Problem, Sarge?” the watchman asked.

Sergeant Niath stared down at the corpse formerly known as Fingers. He wasn't exactly overcome with guilt, but he did have to admit that the man was likely dead because he'd made him talk. The note pinned to his tunic and the position of the body told him that much.

“Slow Learner ,” read the watchman. “What's that mean? And what's that in his hand? Looks like raw meat.”

“It means old Fingers has finally learned to hold his tongue,” replied the sergeant. He looked at the other watchman, noticing how pale the man had become. “That's what we call a subtle message to the troops.”

After this, the sergeant knew his informants would suddenly forget things, or not see things. Or just go into hiding. He'd need to find some other way of getting his information.

* * *

A dozen hooded figures sat around a table in an abandoned building on the outskirts of town. A cold wind off the harbor blew in through gaps in the boarded windows and made the flames of the few dim candles flicker wildly.

As they shifted uneasily in their seats, wondering who exactly the others were, a voice from the dancing shadows called them to attention.

“Gentlemen,” said the figure, gliding to a seat at the head of the table. “It seems our plan is proceeding well.”

A portly man adjusted an oversized hood and timidly wondered, “But what next? We have the merchants upset, the common people frightened and the Watch paralyzed. What's left to do?”

“The nobility,” stated the leader. “While the Baron sends his men scurrying after this missing girl, and ignores the pleas of the guilds, the nobles still support his right to rule by blood. We need to expand our programs into their backyard.”

There was an uneasy silence as the men looked from one hooded face to another. Some of these people were nobles, a fact made obvious by their accents, if not their faces. Some were merchants, some crime bosses, and some men of influence with the ruler. The fact that none of them were supposed to know the identity of any others was a matter of security, but also of concern. Each time an attack, its order handed down through a dozen layers of insulating hierarchy, struck at a target, one could never be sure of sparing one's co-conspirators. While each man wished dearly he knew the identity of the others in the room, each feared losing his own anonymity.

“And when the nobles lose faith in the Baron?”

The figure at the head of the table leaned back, steepled gloved fingers and placed a pair of expensive boots on the table, crossed at the ankles.

“A suitable candidate will emerge from the shadows. And that candidate will understand his obligations to the guilds and the nobility…And to us.”

* * *

Sergeant Niath stalked through the streets in a cold rage. Crowds parted unnoticed before his glare. More lead come to nothing. The girl had vanished. He knew in his bones that he wouldn’t find her, but he had to keep trying for the look of the thing.

People weren't talking to him. To him . He had taken years to build his network of informers, shielded them, kept them out of harm’s way, didn't hurt them any more than he had to– and much, much less than they deserved– and now they were avoiding him, clamming up around him.

He stopped as he neared the banks of the river, took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, think before plunging onward. He'd had to stop looking for his rats, for fear he'd choke the next one to death. No, no. Can't do that. Waste a resource and poison the well for the rest.

Kidnapping her for any of the usual reasons made no damn sense. There hadn’t been any ransom demand. She hadn’t shown up in any of the brothels, which would have been a good place for her, given her talents, but a suicidally stupid place to try to hide a girl that the baron was looking for. Either she’d run away, which would have required help, or someone had taken her just to throw the palace into confusion and make the baron’s rule look even worse than it was. But however she had vanished, she had needed help, help that was more cunning and professional that the rats he dealt with. And smart enough to outwit the Commander and the palace guard, which wasn’t a high bar, really, but…

Where else could he get the facts he needed? The facts he knew people were keeping from him? Who would be able to tease out secrets that he couldn’t get by intimidation?

He stopped in his tracks. Maybe that could work.

His lip curled in a grim smile. It would be…interesting to talk to her again.

* * *

Conn and Trilisean turned at the sound of footsteps approaching the table. Not the soft, unobtrusive glide of the waiter, come to refill their glasses, but the steady, self-assured stride of a man who didn't know if he were welcome, but didn't give a toss.

“Evening, all,” he said.

“And to you, Sergeant,” the mercenary replied, noticing the copper badge of rank. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“I'd like a word with the lady.”

“How can I assist the Watch?” Trilisean asked, smiling sweetly.

“The real answer to that would be find honest work, but that's not why I've come,” said the man, hooking a chair close with his boot and sitting. “Been a while since we talked, but I imagine you're still a thief. I could use a thief.”

“Such a loaded word, thief, ” Trilisean smiled. “What does that word mean to you?”

“Means you take what doesn't belong to you, from the people who've earned it.”

“If I did that with an axe handle in an alley, I'd be a thug. If I did it with armed men at my back I'd be a brigand. If those men could march in step I'd be a warlord. If they wore matching tabards with arms blazoned on, I'd be a duke. And if I did it by flashing a badge at the powerless, I'd be a watchman.” She smiled as innocently as she knew how. “Since I do it by wits and skills I've worked years to hone, you call me a thief.” She paused for a sip of wine. “If you like, we can discuss the word ‘earned’ for a bit.”

“No need, lass,” he smiled back. “Our paths haven't crossed in a long time. No reason they should have. But we know enough of the same people, and if half what I've heard is true, and that might be generous, given the sources, then you may be able to help me solve a little problem.”

“What problem would that be?” she asked. “I must admit, I'm intrigued.”

“This city was never safe, or fair, or well run. That's the truth. But now somebody is trying to kick the whole house of cards over, and the chaos will make the squalor of this day look like midwinter’s feast.”

“And what makes you think I'd want to hold back the tide?”

“First off, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and appeal to your civic virtue. This is your city as well as mine, and whatever it is, it's better than the anarchy that will follow if what I think is going on turns out to be true.”

“And what's the rate for the job? Whatever you've heard about me, I doubt it was that I work for free.”

“Not for free, maybe, but for freedom itself? There's no treasure so precious, so I'm told.”

“And how is my freedom yours to offer?”

“You help me and I forget things I've heard. Your crimes don't mean a thing to me, as such. You haven't stolen from anyone who didn't probably deserve to lose what you've taken, but I have the authority to drag you before a magistrate and present enough evidence to see you in chains, even if I have to dangle a few witnesses over the canal until they remember things.”

Conn studied the man as he spoke. The Watch sergeant was broad shouldered, tall and so heavily muscled as to seem stocky, his head shaven to deprive a foe of a handhold. His face was scarred and his nose had been broken a few times, and set indifferently. His hands were big and calloused, the knuckles scarred and roughened.

The Aeransman had fought armed soldiers as a boy. He had fought sorcerers and champions and the avatar of an ancient god who bled liquid fire. So he wasn't afraid of the sergeant. He did, however, see something that made him pause.

In the man's eyes, behind the bantering, was a cold, hard, implacable gleam that said this was not just a hard man used to violence. This was a force of nature wrapped in mortal flesh. If the sergeant decided to come for you, he would not be stopped by bribes or threats or pain. To stop the man, you'd have to kill him, and he looked like he'd take a lot of killing.

Conn instinctively liked him.

“I'm sure you've heard how the Baron's latest concubine has vanished,” said the sergeant. “He wants no effort spared in finding her. This is on top of the recent crime wave, which is now affecting those who were previously untouchable. Confidence in the rule of the city is being eroded, among those who've never had reason to question it before. If we can't keep even the rich safe, but we can have the Watch swarming after His Lordship's lost trollop, how long until somebody decides that it's time for a change?”

Trilisean nodded behind her wineglass. “And you need me to help, how, exactly?”

“Whether she ran off or was taken by force, pulling a job at the palace would need a professional. Not many people could do that, or could keep it quiet. Somebody knows something. But maybe not lowlife street rats who'll talk to a humble officer like myself. Maybe a thief who could pull that off would know some people that you know.”

She nodded again. “Maybe I'll ask around.”

“And maybe I'll forget some things,” the sergeant replied. He took a hunk of bread from the platter, swiped it through the oil and popped it in his mouth. “Not bad, for foreign grub. A pleasant evening to you both.” He stood and walked out.

“So you're thinking of working for this watchman?” Conn asked when the man had gone.

“Until I can think of a way not to,” Trilisean replied. “I'll have to keep it secret at any rate.”

“Why? Why not do the job, make him happy and lay up some favors?”

She froze, the wineglass halfway to her lips. Slowly she placed it on the table, then leaned forward, spearing him with a chilly glare. “First of all, I do not need any favors from the Watch. Amateurs who get caught need favors. Second, I have my reputation to think of.”

“Don't want to be seen working for the right side of the law?” he grinned.

“Not if I can help it. Worse than that, I don't want to be seen working for free. If people think they can threaten me instead of paying me, where does that leave me?”

“Hmm. So we need to find a way to save the city and avoid any credit for it.”

“That would be best.”

Conn thought for a moment. “How likely is it you can turn this on him?”

“Niath? He's a watchman, but there are some things he won't stoop to. If I can point him in the right direction, he'll keep his word and back off us. But if I call his bluff…” she let the sentence hang.

“You know him well?”

“Well enough,” she said. “I had an encounter with him a while back. Before I met you. He was trying to break a kidnapping ring. His investigation extended to some fences, and may have wandered into some information on targeted burglaries.”

“So he actually caught you?” Conn grinned.

“I was young and arrogant,” she said. “I was a bit too cocky in my carefree youth.”

“So what happened?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t a big target for him. He didn’t see much point in running me in. I think he figured I’d turn informant. So, he let me off with a warning not to mess up again.”

“How’d he feel about you not keeping up your end?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like you’ve given up thievery for honest work,” said Conn.

“I chose to interpret his warning as ‘don’t get caught again.’ and that,” she said, “is a promise I’ve kept.”

* * *

Niath’s smile faded as he left the restaurant. The girl was a criminal, no question, but she had a sense of…well, of style if not of honor. There were depths she wouldn’t stoop to. And she wouldn’t run. The city ran through her blood as much as it did his. She’d stay. And she’d probably come around to realizing the danger, and she’d want to stop it.

But she’d want to do it her way. The only damn way she ever did anything.

The sergeant grunted, reluctantly accepting that he couldn’t press those two the way he normally did his sources. Had to keep a light hand and let them work.

While they looked for information he couldn’t find, he had to decide how to keep the city on an even keel. To see the ripples below the surface that told of the jagged rocks and steer around them.

He had to think. Not act.

He really hated that. When every instinct screamed for him to throw some filthy drunken street rat against a wall and hit him, then keep on hitting far past the point where it was productive, it was hard to maintain his composure, keep his head.

He had to, though. The city really was depending on him this time. Nobody else was committed. The people who could fix this mess were all chasing their own petty goals, ignoring the fact that the whole place was teetering on the edge of the abyss. Letting it slide for short term gain had become so ingrained, so second nature to people that they didn't even think about it.

But it had slid too far. Laimrig didn't have space to slide any more. Once, when it had been high, and there had been room to fall without crashing, the people who should have known better began skimming the till more than minding the store, and they'd never been able to kick the habit. The Baron was focused on his tarts, the Commander of the Watch on currying favor with the palace, trying to edge his way into a title, the merchants were all striving to get contracts to supply the war, because it was easy to overcharge the Crown. All fighting over the top places on a sinking ship and nobody lifting a bucket to bail.

The nobility alone propped up the Baron's rule out of respect for blood, but that could only go on…

…until they felt the sting of misrule. When the nobs saw the Baron failing them, he'd have to go. And now all the manpower of the Watch was off chasing what Niath knew in his bones to be bad leads. Looking for a bit of kidnapped crumpet in the slave districts. Far, far from the noble quarter.

Normally, that wouldn't matter. The nobs all had their own hired swords, and there never was any street crime there.

But now. If the high and mighty felt the sting of disorder, while the Watch was on this doxy hunt…

He swore and spun on his heel, heading toward the Heights. He'd collect watchmen on the way, the Commander be damned.

* * *

Buy the full book here .

5

Sorcerous Rivalry

Kayleigh Nicol

In the peace following the Great Mage Hunt, the king’s long-time mistress is revealed as a sorceress. Locked away for the safety of the kingdom, bounties are placed upon the heads of the seven children she birthed. Mage hunters now scour the kingdom for four years, searching for the seven scattered mage-born bastards.

After growing up in an orphanage, Reshi discovers his parentage and learns to hide his magic, living peacefully in a remote village with an unusual friend. But when an alluring mage hunter comes to town, his secret is revealed, forcing Reshi to reach out to his brothers and sisters for help. A family reunion might be Reshi’s only hope for survival—or it might become a spell-slinging battle royale.

Who can Reshi rely on when his own family turns against him?

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 6

* * *

Excerpt from Chapter 1

I followed Kestral, the inn’s mysterious guest, back to the stable where he checked his horse’s hooves, teeth, and eyes before giving his mount a thorough brushing, even untangling his mane and tail. Afterwards, he tied the horse to a post outside and cleaned the stall before setting out fresh hay. Bored, I stretched out on top of the hay stack, rolling on my back and letting my head loll over the edge. After putting his horse back in his stall, Kestral stared up at me.

“What?”

“What is it that you actually do?” Kestral asked. He seemed puzzled, even though his expression and tone didn’t change from their usual neutrality.

Shrugging while upside down was a difficult maneuver; as such, I nearly shrugged myself off the hay bale. “You’re looking at it.”

“You simply freeload off the villagers and Miss Chesawick?”

I rolled over to my stomach, grimacing as the blood rushed out of my head. “What’s wrong with that? No one here seems to mind.”

“Even when you’re flirting with all the young people in the village?” He cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Especially not then.” I smirked. “You may not have noticed, but I’m very pretty.”

Kestral shook his head and looked away. Dust. I had been hoping to make him laugh with that comment.

“So, what do you do?” If it was fair for him to ask me, it must be okay for me to ask. “You were pretty mysterious this morning about your journey being your own. Where are you going? Where did you come from?”

“Beramin.”

“Beramin?” I hadn’t really expected an answer. It took me a moment to remember which direction that city was in. “You didn’t just ride here from Beramin. That would have taken you—”

“It’s been a long time since I was in Beramin.” Kestral stared off into the distance, as if envisioning the journey. “I’ve been traveling the kingdom since I left.”

Beramin was one of the military capitals of the kingdom. “Were you with the army there?”

He fingered the pommel of his sword unconsciously. “Yes.”

Wow, such elaborate and telling answers! I couldn’t be too upset, though; he didn’t have to answer at all. “Are you traveling on army business now?”

“No.”

“So where are you going?”

Those bright blue eyes snapped to mine so suddenly my breath caught. “Here.”

“Wha—whoa!” I had tried to stand, lost my balance and tumbled backwards off the hay bale, pulling it on top of me in the process. Not my most graceful move ever. Kestral lifted the hay bale off me as I coughed and brushed hay from my clothes, trying to recover my dignity.

“I’m going hunting,” Kestral said after restacking the hay bale. “Do you want to come?”

“No,” I wheezed, still coughing up hay dust. “I just injured myself in a barn. What do you think I would do to myself around actual weapons?”

Kestral laughed. It wasn’t the long, loud laugh he had yesterday, but it was an honest laugh. And the barn was made of what Wix considered “respectable wood”, so I had just earned my next few days of food. Suddenly, my little tumble was worth it.

“All right. Instead of hunting, can you show me to the nearest stream? I may as well wash out my clothes before I head out again.”

“Oh, that’s actually a good idea.”

Kestral raised an eyebrow at me.

“I have washing I’ve been putting off, too. I’ll see if Wi—Chesawick will let us use her soap.”

We walked back to the inn, Kestral heading upstairs to gather his clothes and me to the kitchen to find Wix. She made a face at me as I sauntered in, feeling more than a little cocky.

“Did you hear that I made him laugh?”

“Yes, you made him laugh.” Wix pouted. “But you haven’t made him sleepy. Isn’t that the root of our agreement?”

“I drew pretty deeply last night. He should be falling over his own feet by now.” I shrugged. “I found out he used to be a soldier. Maybe he just knows how to hide fatigue.”

Wix puffed up her cheeks and balled her fists, clearly unsatisfied with my explanation. “You had better make him sleepy tomorrow.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “Tomorrow, he’ll feel like he hasn’t slept in three nights. Believe me, he’ll be tired. Oh, I need soap. For my clothes. I don’t want to keep upsetting oak.”

Wix tilted her head to the side. “Just for you?”

“I’m borrowing it for me and for Kestral.”

“You’re not borrowing it, you’re using it,” Wix clarified. “I suppose I could trade out one of the laughter-meals for soap.”

“A whole meal for some soap?” I rolled my eyes. “Unfair, Wix. Soap should only be worth the cost of a buttered roll.”

“For one person, maybe.” Wix held up a finger to stop me from protesting. “If you’re paying his cost too, then it’s a half meal: meat and vegetables only.”

I huffed at her. “With seasonings.”

Wix nodded. “With seasonings.” She handed me a small pouch of powdered soap. I took it with a shake of my head. Arguing with Wix was like reasoning with a chicken. After quickly gathering my clothes and stuffing them into a sack, I met up with Kestral in the bar.

“There’s a stream I like to use not far from here,” I told him, leading the way back outside. “There is a washer well in town, but I hate paying to use it.”

Kestral nodded as he followed, his own sack of clothes slung over one shoulder. He still wore his sword at his belt and I now noticed a small crossbow hooked on the opposite hip. Perhaps he intended to catch another waterbird for lunch today.

“What made you leave the army?” I asked, trying to continue our earlier conversation.

He shrugged, eyes distant.

“How long have you been a mage hunter? Have you collected any notable bounties?”

He glanced sidelong at me. “There are only seven bounties in the whole kingdom right now. As far as I know, they’re all still alive.”

“Oh, so you weren’t part of the Great Mage Hunt, then?”

“The Great Hunt was over by the time I enlisted. I did help take down a few small-time mages, though.”

“So, you’re about my age,” I surmised. “Around twenty?”

“You don’t seem too sure of that.”

I gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “Orphanage, remember? They didn’t exactly keep great records.”

He nodded. We had taken a turn out of town and were following a well-worn path down to the creek I liked for washing and sometimes bathing. The grass grew high along the sides of the path, waving rhythmically in the breeze and hiding the stream from view, although I could hear it as we drew closer. The forest that secluded the tiny village from its neighbors and gave us our good hunting grounds rose on the far side of the stream. Not that I did anything as strenuous as hunting, of course. Sometimes I would go fishing upstream where the river widened. There was almost nothing I loved more than fresh fish.

I led Kestral off the beaten path towards my favorite washing spot along the stream, where a large shale shelf extended out over the water. The grass was tall enough that it reached my thighs, making it difficult to see where my footfalls landed. When Kestral stopped behind me, I looked back to see if he had tripped.

“Are you okay?” I asked as he peered into the depths of the tall grass.

Kestral stooped down and plucked something from the ground. He held up a bright orange flower. “We’re walking over shura flowers.”

“Oh, yeah, those are everywhere near the stream.” I looked down and found a few of the sticky, orange petals stuck to my boots. Ugh, Wix was sure to make me take my boots off before she let me back in the inn. “They don’t make you itch, do they? I should have asked earlier.”

“No.” Kestral frowned at the tiny flower, then at me. “I thought . . .”

“Hm?” I looked around. “They’re not that uncommon here. Did Beramin not have shura flowers?”

Kestral shook his head, dropping the flower back into the depths of the grass. Then he did the most unexpected thing ever: he smiled at me. I grinned back, not quite certain what had just happened. I pointed out the shale overhang just ahead. We each sat down at one end of the shelf and dumped out our clothes sacks. I set the soap powder between us to share and we each set to work.

Silently.

I hated silence.

“What do mage hunters do now that almost all the kingdom’s mages are dead?” I asked as I wrung out a shirt.

“Mages aren’t the only magical forces in the kingdom,” Kestral replied. “I mostly deal with magical beasts near villages and cities. Centaurs, griffons, elementals, fairies. Killed a slag once.”

I shuddered. Meeting a slag was not something many people walked away from.

“We don’t have many of those around here.” I dunked a small handful of clothes in the water and swirled them around. “Occasionally, a krupper will waylay a hunter, but that’s about it.”

“Hm.”

I felt him staring at me, but didn’t meet his gaze. I ground some soap into my clothes and gave them another swish in the water.

“Usually when a small village isn’t being bothered by supernatural forces, it’s because something is keeping them away.” He spoke softly, but the words sent a chill up my spine.

“Well, we have a lot of really good hunters here,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light. “That’s good enough to keep some monsters away, at least.”

Kestral wrung out his last shirt, folded it and placed it back in his bag. He leaned back on one arm and turned to face me. “I came to this village because I thought it might have a mage protecting it.”

I laughed, hoping it didn’t sound too forced. I kept my golden eyes turned down as I finished up washing my clothes. “I’m pretty sure I would have heard about it if we had a mage in town.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kestral smile. “Once I got here I realized I was wrong. I thought—”

A loud, snarling grunt pealed out from the forest across the stream. Kestral and I both froze, watching as the grass waved wildly before parting to reveal a beast on four legs, narrow in the chest and shoulders, wide in the gut, with pointed ears, a pig-like snout and long tusks.

Pigoblin.

And not just one. Behind the first was a herd of at least ten more of the beasts.

The first pigoblin stopped as it saw us watching it from across the stream. It rose up on its hind legs to a height just below my shoulders. Its tiny eyes darted over us, snout snuffling as it checked our scent. After a moment, it dropped back to all fours and continued along the stream away from us.

“Too bad I didn’t bring my longbow,” Kestral commented, watching them go. “I don’t have time to salt the meat anyway, but—what’s wrong? Are you shaking?”

I was rooted in place, hands trembling over the forgotten laundry. This was the biggest group of pigoblins I had ever seen, and they were already so close to the village. My sense of self-preservation went to war with my more sentimental side. I knew what the right choice was, but if I made it, everything would change.

“Hey.”

I found myself staring into concerned blue eyes.

“They look scary, but pigoblins are cowards. They won’t go into the village.”

“They will,” I rasped. My throat had gone dry. I swallowed and tried to find my voice.

Kestral shook his head. “Except for when they’re defending their young, pigoblins never attack humans.”

“No.” I took a breath to steel myself. “But they kill fairies.”

“But you’re not—” Kestral’s eyes widened. “The Broken Wing. Chesawick.”

I nodded. “Her glen kicked her out. She’s all on her own. She doesn’t cause the villagers any trouble, you have to believe me.”

Kestral swore quietly under his breath. He turned to look back at the trail of trampled grass behind the troop of pigoblins. They had crossed the stream a-ways up from us. From the waving of the grass, they were headed straight for Wix’s inn. Kestral stood up, leaving his bag of wet clothes on the ground.

“I can turn the pigoblins back. After that, I’ll deal with the fairy.” He glanced back at me. “Try to beat them to the inn so she knows they’re coming.”

I nodded, climbing shakily to my feet. Before I could take a breath, Kestral exploded into motion, loosening his sword and racing after the pigoblins. I ran for the trail, hoping Kestral could slow the troop down before they reached the inn. My mind raced faster than my feet as I worried about what might happen to Wix. The pigoblins would eat her if they got to her, but what would Kestral do to her? Fairies could be terrible to humans, but Wix was a kind soul who enjoyed living among us. Would the villagers who had known her for years protect her, or would they turn on her when they learned the truth? I owed Wix so much more than she could ever know, but I wouldn’t be able to protect her. Not if I wanted to keep my own skin intact.

Villagers stared at me as I pelted along the main avenue. I didn’t bother trying to explain; it would have taken time and a horde of pigoblins wasn’t normally a threat anyway. Distantly, I could hear the screaming snarls of the beasts. Hoping that Kestral had slowed them down, I leapt up the front steps of the Broken Wing and burst into the bar. Wix stood in the doorway of the kitchen, frozen in the act of drying her hands on a cloth.

“Reshi, what—”

“Seal it up, Wix!” I panted, leaning on a table to catch my breath. “Seal it all up. There’s a huge group of pigoblins coming this way.”

Wix cried out, dropping the cloth. She placed one hand against the doorframe causing the wood to instantly spring to life, sprouting leaves and growing thicker. All around me doors and shutters snapped closed, the wood growing together to form a seal.

“I had to tell Kestral.” I put a hand on the front door, preventing it from shutting me inside. “I’m sorry. He knows you’re a fairy. He says he’s going to deal with you after.”

“Reshi . . .” Wix trembled. She looked so tiny, so helpless, in that moment. I shook my head; fairies were most definitely not helpless, no matter how they appeared.

“Try to run after we kill the pigoblins,” I told her. “I’ll do my best to protect you.”

Wix nodded, still shaking. I ducked out the door before it could seal itself shut. Kestral and the pigoblins had reached the street just in front of the inn. Most of the beasts were bleeding—a few lay injured or dead. The trouble with pigoblins was that they were faster than they looked and their skin was tough; an injury that would kill a human often just enraged a pigoblin.

Kestral moved through the pack of monsters like a scythe through wheat. His sword moved like liquid steel, carving a path of blood and flesh. No move was wasted, each step was sure and solid. He was a perfect warrior, beautiful and terrible all at once.

There was no way I could stand against this man.

Two pigoblins broke free of the massacre, heading straight for Wix’s inn. I might be no match for Kestral, nor for such a large group of pigoblin all at once, but I’m not completely useless. I fell back into a familiar stance, one leg behind me for support, the other ahead for balance. I tucked my hands behind my back and as the pigoblins charged, I surged forward, drawing twin daggers from hidden sheaths. The blades bit deeply through the beasts’ necks, spraying blood impossibly high on the inn’s outer wall. A few quick steps brought me within reach of another pigoblin. I feinted with my right dagger, then plunged the left through its piggy eye. The beast screamed and whipped its head, trying to gore me with its tusks. I leaned back to avoid the swipe, kicked it down and sliced through its windpipe. Another came charging at me from the side and I had to kick off the thrashing body of the one in the dirt to leap out of the way. A sword whistled past me, striking the pigoblin from behind and biting deeply through its spine. I turned, putting my back to Kestral’s, before reversing my blades with a flourish and taking a balanced stance.

“I didn’t pick you for a fighter,” Kestral said, his voice controlled if slightly breathless.

“I’m not, when I can avoid it.” I tried counting the remaining pigoblins as they regrouped a short distance away. “How many are there?”

“There were almost twenty.” I felt him shift to a new stance behind me. “Have you turned pigoblins away before?”

“At least once a month.” The pigoblins were grunting to each other and spreading out. A new charge was coming. “Never a group this big before.”

“They must have spread the word. It’s not usual to find a single fairy without a glen to protect it.” Kestral paused, then added, “I thought you were the fairy.”

“What? But I—Oh.” My eye color, the talk of ‘debts,’ his examination of the wood in the inn. “A lot of things just started making sense.”

“I was only sure after the shura flowers. We’re going to talk after this.” I could hear the threat in his voice. I didn’t expect I would enjoy the coming conversation.

“Well, we gotta live first.”

A group of pigoblins charged at me on all fours. I tossed my right dagger to my left hand, shook my right wrist and flipped a long, thin throwing blade into my palm. Holding it at the tip of the blade, I threw it end-over-end into the center of the leading pigoblin’s forehead. It went down with a crash, knocking another pigoblin off course. I spun neatly out of the way of the remaining pigoblin as I tossed my heavy dagger back to my right hand and slammed it into the base of its skull. I used my other dagger to deflect a tusk that would have ripped my stomach open. The pigoblin staggered a step before his head recoiled violently on his thick, piggy neck. I spun to the side, narrowly avoiding the ball of flying saliva pigoblins used to shoot fairies out of the air. It wasn’t all that dangerous, but the impact could have knocked me off balance even if I didn’t consider how gross it would be to be covered in pigoblin spit. Before the spitter could run, I darted towards him, driving a dagger deep between his ribs.

I couldn’t keep track of Kestral’s movements as I fought. His sword was little more than a red and silver blur as it cut down the pigoblins. I moved away, giving him the space he needed for those powerful swings. No way did I want to find myself between him and a pigoblin with that sword bearing down on me. At least this battle had come at a good time for me; my wellspring of power was full, giving me an edge against the hardy pigoblins.

I spun as a grunt and a clatter of steel on stone sounded behind me. Kestral had slipped in a gob of pigoblin spit and a lucky tusk ripped his sword from his grasp, tossing it several paces away. I couldn’t tell if the blood on his clothes was from the pigoblins or from an injury. I didn’t have long to look as a pigoblin reared up behind him, intent on crushing him.

Icy panic gripped my chest. This was my fault. Kestral was clearly a seasoned warrior; killing a few pigoblins should be nothing at all to him, but I had drained his energy the past two nights. He had to be feeling the effects of lost sleep now, at the worst possible moment. It was all my fault.

In that moment, the world seemed to spin a little slower. Everything came into sharp focus. Heat blossomed in my chest as my mind cooled. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been so full of magic, I’m sure of it. But I couldn’t control what happened next, even if I had had the presence of mind to try.

Golden light flashed around me, giving me a thread to the consciousness of each pigoblin still fighting. Their minds were consumed with hunger and rage, but in a tiny corner of each of their minds, I found fear. The golden light seemed to hum as I nurtured that fear into terror, and from terror into a blind panic. The sounds of screams and the pounding of cloven feet surrounded me as the light faded. As the pigoblins fled, the world regained its normal speed and color.

Kestral stared up at me from one knee, one arm wrapped around his midsection. I held my breath as those blue eyes froze me in place.

“You’re a son of Laurana.” His voice held the promise of death. “Jereshin.”

Could I talk my way out of this? Could he be convinced to let me live? As my mind struggled to find the right words to keep myself alive, I realized Kestral wasn’t holding a wound—he was holding the small crossbow from his belt.

I can’t honestly say what happened first. Did he fire first, or did I shapeshift first? I doubt even he could say. But quick as a shrug, I dropped into my cat form, a crossbow bolt zipping through the space where my head had been moments before. I leapt through the collar of my shirt as it dropped around me and ran toward Kestral, who was now on his feet, snapping a new bolt into place. I darted between his legs, racing for Wix’s inn. A bolt shattered against the fence as I leapt through it, jumping to the rain barrel, to the gutter and in through the broken upstairs window. I didn’t chance a look back, but I heard boots pounding the street below; I didn’t have much time.

“Wix!” I shouted as soon as my shapeshifting was complete. “Wix? Where are—oof!”

She popped out of the wall, crashing into me, causing me stagger backwards. Her human veil was gone, revealing her true fairy form—short, curling hair and bright eyes, both the color of new growth in spring. Her ears were slightly pointed and the features of her face exaggerated. Her limbs appeared to be too long, too thin and she wore only a petal-pink sheath dress from her chest to her thighs. On her back, there were a pair of torn and broken wings, translucent like a dragonfly’s. Her glen had broken them when they banished her.

“Reshi, what happened?” Wix’s eyes were wide with fear and she gripped my arms tightly, her entire body trembling. “Did they hurt you? Is he coming for me?”

“He’s coming for me.” I pushed her away from me. My transformation had left me naked, as always, and I felt vulnerable in front of the magical being. She followed me as I ran for my room, where I hoped I had left some clothes. “Wix, you owe me a life debt. Can you get rid of him?”

Wix said nothing. She stood meekly in my doorway, shaking like a leaf.

“I don’t have time for games and trades, Wix!” I flipped my mattress, revealing a tunic and a single sock. We both jumped as a fist pounded on the front door. It felt like the inn shook all around me. “Get rid of him! Turn him into a tree or pond scum or whatever fairies turn people into.”

“Reshi, I can’t.” Tears streamed down Wix’s face.

“You have to!” I pulled the shirt over my head, then gripped Wix’s shoulders. “Wix, he’s going to kill us both.”

“I know, but . . . but . . .” Wix stared back at me, her mouth moving without sound.

“I’m calling in a life debt. I just saved—” I stopped, my mind finally catching up. “You owe him a life debt, too, don’t you? We both saved you from the pigoblins.”

Wix nodded.

Grind all fairies and their debts to dust! I dropped onto my tumbled mattress, putting my head into my hands. The pounding at the door grew louder. What now?

“Reshi?” Wix knelt in front of me. “Why is he after you? Is it the reason you’ve been hiding here for so long?”

I took a breath, trying to steady myself. I reached out and gripped Wix’s hand, just for something to hold on to. “Wix, I’m . . . I’m one of the mistress mage’s children.”

She tilted her head to the side. “I don’t know what that means. I always knew you were a mage, but you’re not very strong.”

How could I explain it in a way a fairy would understand? The pounding at the front door stopped suddenly, and I imagined Kestral circling the building, trying to find a way in.

“Wix, you remember the Great Mage Hunt, right? It should have happened before you lost your wings.”

She shrugged. “Only a little. Humans killing humans aren’t exactly something we take notice of. I remember the glens grew quite large, though, since there were so few magical humans to kill us.”

“Right. A long time ago, the king decided the realm would be safer without mages and he ordered the army to find and kill everyone who could use magic. What he didn’t know was that his long-time mistress, a woman named Laurana, was a very powerful sorceress. She had seven children with the king, all with minor magical abilities. When the king found out she was a sorceress, he locked her up and put bounties on all seven of his children by her.” I took a shaky breath. “I’m the youngest. That’s why I’ve been hiding. And that’s why he’s going to kill me.”

“But why?” Wix asked. “You’ve never hurt anyone with your magic. You’re not even very strong. Why even go to the trouble of killing all the magical humans in the first place?”

“I don’t know, Wix. That all happened before I was born. I didn’t even know I was one of Laurana’s children until a few years ago when she was locked up.” I looked up into Wix’s eyes. “I need to escape, Wix. If you can’t kill him, what can you do for me?”

Wix glanced away, her unnaturally thin shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. She met my eyes, then looked away again. “Does he know much about fairies?”

“I think so. He said he’d fought them before. Why?”

Wix hesitated, drawing her hand away from me. I took a deep breath and held it to keep from yelling at her. It wasn’t her fault that she had to follow the rules of fairies.

“If he knows about fairies . . .” I turned my thoughts over, trying to follow the gnarled logic of the fae. “He might know he can call in a life debt. If he does, you would have to tell him where I am.”

Wix nodded, fresh tears running down her cheeks.

“So, anything you do for me won’t help me, will it?”

Wix shook her head. “I can buy time. I can give you any provisions you need. Food, clothes, anything you can take with you.”

“No.” I stood up, pulling my tunic off. “I won’t be able to take anything with me.”

“Reshi, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I tried to smile, but my chin trembled, betraying my fear. “Buy as much time as you can, please, Wix. I’ll leave through the window upstairs.”

“Where will you go?” Wix gripped my arm with both hands. She trailed along behind me as I walked back up the stairs. Somewhere outside I heard thumping. Was Kestral pounding on the back door?

“I can’t tell you, but I’m sure you’ll know when I get there.” I peeled her fingers off my arm. “Stay safe, Wix. Thank you for hiding me all this time.”

“I’m the one in your debt, Reshi.” Wix hung her head. “If you—if you live, I will repay you. I swear it by silver.”

“Thanks.” I was able to force a small smile this time. “I’ll do my best.”

“Farewell, Reshi.”

My throat closed up, so all I could do was nod. I looked to the open window and felt my body shift into a new form. I perched just inside the window frame, taking a careful look around. When Kestral didn’t appear like a streaking star of justice, I leapt out the window.

Black wings caught the air and carried me aloft. I chanced only one look back. Sure enough, those piercing blue eyes followed me, but I was too far out of range for the tiny crossbow. I wheeled north, heading straight for my destination as the crow flies.

It was time to finally meet my family.

* * *

If this sample intrigued you, please consider picking up a copy of this book on Amazon .

For short stories, works in progress and my blog, please visit my website at: www. KayleighNicol.com

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6

Banebringer

Carol A. Park

BANEBRINGERS. Source of the bloodbane who stalk the land. Cause of a thousand wrongs. Despised. Cast out. Hunted.

Vaughn never asked for the powers of a long-forgotten moon goddess. But rarely do the gods give humans a choice when using them in their machinations. Now Vaughn is a Banebringer, loathed by all who discover his true identity—even his father, a man obsessed with his own power and bent on destroying Vaughn's miserable life.

Vaughn is desperate to end his father before the madman ends him. But to do so he'll need the skills of Ivana, a vindictive assassin with her own scores to settle. The only question is whether Vaughn can keep himself from becoming another of her targets long enough to see his father eliminated.

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 6

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

The Hunter

The tree limb Vaughn thought he had stepped onto dissolved into a puff of red mist. He lurched forward at the unexpected step, slipped on the damp undergrowth, and swore as the deadweight of the bloodhawk he was dragging behind him tugged out of his grasp.

The mist dissipated, though he knew the bothersome creatures the mist represented were still there. They flitted about in his peripheral vision, attaching to trees as random branches here or taking the shape of a butterfly there. He had counted at least a half-dozen following him—and making a general nuisance of themselves—since the bloodhawk had fallen from the sky with his arrow in its heart.

Since there was nothing else to glare at, he glared at the carcass of the bloodhawk, as though the misstep were its fault, and hefted it by its neck again.

He scanned the thinning forest ahead of him, his eyes involuntarily adjusting for the dying light. Smoke rose from the village chimneys above the trees. Almost there . And thank Rhianah for that. He had needed to range farther than before in hunting this one, and the bird—longer than he was tall—was getting heavy.

The things he did for a few coins, a real bed, and a good meal every once in a while—and if he had a woman to warm the bed for a night, all the better.

Or two nights. Two nights was all right, every once in a while, as long as he didn’t make a habit of it. A well-deserved reward for the community service he provided freely, right?

He grinned, the memory of the soft skin of the farmer’s daughter still fresh in his mind from the previous night.

He gave the bloodhawk an extra tug and continued on more carefully, determined not to let a bloodsprite trick him again.

The wind changed and the smoke he had seen tickled his nostrils instead.

He halted and squinted out of instinct rather than necessity. That wasn’t chimney smoke.

He dropped the bird, dipped his hand into the pouch sewn into the inside of his vest, and used his index finger and thumb to crush one of the silvery droplets of hardened aether he kept there.

He crept forward, leaving the monster he had slain behind, wishing, when twigs kept popping under his feet, that he was as good at moving silently as he was at moving invisibly—with the aid of the aether, of course.

The forest petered out and he crested the rise that would allow him to look out over the quaint, sprawling village.

He sucked air through his teeth. Burning skies.

A blackened husk was all that remained. Charred timbers still smoldered, producing the smoke he had seen a few minutes ago, and on the far side of the village, flames were licking up the last of the village proper. Beyond, even the farms had been burned, including the crops in the fields and the barns that housed the cattle that the bloodhawks had been ravaging. Nothing moved save the scavenger birds that had descended, already hunting for flesh to pick at.

The fallen buildings made it easy for Vaughn to see directly into the village center, which the hard-working villagers had paved in stone over the years to create a more hospitable place for market day. A symbol encircled the well, proclaiming to anyone who would pass by that the town had been condemned by the Conclave for heresy. To his eyes, the symbol had an unmistakable luminescent sheen. Blood—and fresh, by the color.

Vaughn hardly dared to breathe. He wanted to close his eyes but was unable to tear them away from that sight.

There was no need to paint the symbol in blood. It wasn’t standard practice. It was blood because someone knew a Banebringer—the only type of person who would be able to tell from this distance what it was—would see it. Blood always looked like this to Vaughn and those like him, even in daylight. And his extra-sensitive vision made it even more noticeable in lessened light. Someone also knew that.

He finally closed his eyes. No. Rhianah, no .

He ought to run—now. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave without seeing if there were any survivors. Perhaps the villagers had been allowed to flee. Perhaps their homes had been the only price they had paid.

He knew his hopes were in vain even as he approached and began walking through the ruins, as silently as he could. Too many birds had found purchase in too many spots around town.

He turned his eyes away from the birds, sickened, only to be looking in the right direction to see a figure step out from one of the more intact buildings. “So. I was right. You simply couldn’t resist coming to see the damage you inflicted.”

Vaughn froze. Had his invisibility failed? But the moon was nearly new, and it was daytime; it should be nigh on perfect right now.

“I know you’re there. Your boots are already blackened with soot.”

Vaughn glanced behind him. Footprints in the ashes led right to where he stood.

The ashes had adhered to his boots, damp from his trek through the woods. He was such an idiot. Why couldn’t he have just run? He turned to look for a place to hide—for some way to flee without the footprints following him.

But it was as though a volcano had erupted. Had Gildas done this on purpose? Scattered the ashes so evenly, so that Vaughn could be tracked walking into the town?

He unhooked his bow from his back, reached into another pocket on his pouch, and started stringing it.

The figure walked closer. “Preparing your bow?” He spread his arms out to the side, palms open. “Come. Why don’t you show yourself? My hands are empty.”

Right. Vaughn knew from experience how fast Gildas could produce his hand crossbow. And he didn’t have to be accurate. If a bolt treated with the right substance grazed Vaughn’s skin, he would be too delirious to even know he was about to be Sedated.

He eased back a few steps and then darted behind the nearest half-burned wall and crouched down.

Footsteps moved closer to his position, but Gildas was taking his time. Toying with him.

“If you’re wondering why I did this, I thought perhaps a more powerful lesson was in order.”

Monster. Vaughn half-stood to be able to sight Gildas with his arrow over the wall. He was looking in Vaughn’s direction, but his eyes roved from side to side, no doubt searching for some sign of Vaughn’s precise location.

Vaughn shifted, causing his bow to dip and scrape against the top of the wall. He jerked it back up, but a hand-sized chunk of wood crumbled into ash anyway. Vaughn ducked down in time to hear the thwack of a crossbow, and a moment later, the tip of a bolt had lodged itself in the disintegrating wood right in front of Vaughn’s nose.

He shuffled backwards. As always, Gildas was playing a dangerous game. If he were unlucky, and one of those bolts killed Vaughn…

Then again, Vaughn had never been certain if Gildas cared.

The effects of the aether he had crushed earlier had almost worn off, and his supply was running low. Still, he was loathe to burn it from his own blood unless it became necessary…

He almost laughed. This wouldn’t be a good example of necessary? He transferred his mental grasp from the aether he had crushed to the aether in his blood, and the crossbow thwacked again. The bolt flew over his head this time.

He must have flickered into visibility in the transfer. He ducked down farther and crept a few more paces down the wall, which was fast coming to an end.

This was bad. He could make a run for it, but his footprints would give him away. And the ground directly behind him rose steeply as it gave way to the woods. Knowing himself, he would slip as soon as he reached the wet grass and roll back down the hill and right to Gildas’ feet.

He peeked around the edge of the wall and sighted Gildas once more. Do it. Just do it, Vaughn. He was standing right in the open, not even making an attempt to shield himself. Making a mockery of Vaughn’s own cowardice.

“If there is blood on anyone’s hands here, it’s yours, Teyrnon. Treating with demons is a serious crime.”

The use of his given name, that of the third son of the Ri of Ferehar, finally tore a snarl from his throat. He was no longer that man. “The only demon I’m treating with is you.” He gestured with his bow, though no one could see it but him. “These people were innocent. They had no knowledge of what I am. I was hunting bloodhawks that had been harassing their livestock, and they showed me hospitality in return.”

Gildas’ smile grew grim. “I know what you were doing. It’s what you always do. Flitting from town to town, seeking refuge in exchange for hunting bloodbane. You just can’t resist trying to make atonement for your crimes.”

Vaughn wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in his throat. Crimes? No. He didn’t believe he or any other Banebringer had done anything warranting the notice of the heretic gods. They were capricious, if they existed at all. But atonement?

Yes. He wanted to believe he did what he did solely out of the goodness of his heart. He demanded no payment—only accepted what often poor villagers offered in return. Knowing he was helping to quell the plague upon the land that his existence—and that of other Banebringers—brought was reward enough. That, and a night or two of peace and safety, though it be a mere illusion of the normalcy he craved. But it also diminished, if temporarily, the ache caused by what had been lost on his account.

Gildas moved in his direction, still talking. “But there is no atonement. You’re cursed. And those you associate with will pay the price for harboring a demonspawn.”

Vaughn glanced behind himself again. Wet grass. Wet. Surely he could do something with that.

He chewed on his lower lip. He rarely used that part of his powers. He wasn’t good at it, so it took more out of him. Could he handle staying invisible and harnessing the water from the grass at the same time? And what would he do with it once he had it?

Gildas had almost reached where he crouched. Much closer, and he wouldn’t need the crossbow. He could reach out and stab him with the needle.

“You won’t escape me this time, Teyrnon.”

Just release the arrow .

His hand started to tremble. He tried to will it into submission—to will himself just to let go of the string…

But like every other time he had been handed this opportunity, he couldn’t do it. He simply could not kill his own father.

He was wasting time on this. He knew he wouldn’t do it. Frustrated, he secured the bow on his back and began to retreat. If he was going to attempt an escape, now was the time.

Gildas stopped moving and cocked his head to the side, listening to Vaughn’s footsteps, which would soon become visible to him from over the remnant of the wall.

Vaughn concentrated on the droplets of water that sprinkled the grass and the dampness in the dirt. He gathered it together up on the rise and began pulling it closer, hoping Gildas wouldn’t see the trickle as it came.

Gildas’ eyes lit on a spot at Vaughn’s feet, and he smiled.

Vaughn hurled the water at his crossbow and started running.

The thump on the ground and Gildas’ curse came simultaneously.

Vaughn had been aiming merely to startle Gildas, thus gaining himself a few precious moments to scramble up the rise. If he had managed to knock the crossbow out of his hand, even better.

Unfortunately, his concentration on the water caused him to lose control of his invisibility, as he had feared. He slipped halfway up the rise and lost half the ground he had gained. It turned out to be in his favor, because a bolt hit the spot where he would have been standing had he kept moving in that direction.

He regained control of the aether to fade out of visibility again and weaved back and forth up the rise, hoping Gildas wouldn’t be able to predict his next location. He only had to make the tree line.

Bolts flew far too close to him several times, but, finally, he reached the top and hurtled into the woods.

Gildas let loose a torrent of curses from behind him. “There will no longer be refuge for you, Teyrnon!”

In other words, the same fate would befall any town he tried to seek safety in from now on, if Gildas found out. Hundreds of innocents to prove a point. Gildas had been cruel in his hunt for Vaughn over the years, but this atrocity topped them all.

He stopped and leaned against a tree to catch his breath and closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of the burned town in his mind. If there is blood on anyone’s hands…

He gritted his teeth and denied himself guilt. He wasn’t the criminal here. And he would never know peace until his father—his own, personal Hunter—was dead. And if he couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it…

He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times. Perhaps it was time to spend that stolen fortune.

* * *

Ivana held herself still as the eyes of the eunuch in charge of Gan Pywell’s personal stash of so-called companions slid over the lounging women. Almost all of the women—girls, really, most barely of age—followed his gaze: some anxious, some bored, some resigned, and a small few downright terrified.

The last were the girls Ivana had come in with. None of them, including Ivana, had been broken in yet, though they had been there three weeks.

The girl closest to Ivana shrank back as the eunuch paced to where the three of them sat. Ivana lowered her eyes, as was proper, and waited.

She hoped he chose her this time. She was tiring of this place.

“You.” The eunuch’s voice was rich and commanding; he had obviously been castrated later in life.

She looked up to see which of the three of them he was speaking to, and found his eyes resting on her.

Excellent.

“The Gan is in the mood for something different,” the eunuch said. There was neither pity nor enmity there. It was a statement of fact. He was a servant, as they all were. His eyes roved over her. “Fereharian?”

She nodded, though he hardly needed to ask. Her bronze skin was enough confirmation.

His skin, on the other hand, was the deep brown of southern Donia, yet had cool jewel undertones that pointed to Fuilyn heritage a few generations back. Ivana had puzzled over that as a way of entertaining herself upon arriving, since Donia and Fuilyn were on opposite ends of the Setanan Empire. It was an unusual mix.

“Good enough.” He gestured to another of the eunuchs. “Prepare her.”

While they saw to the cosmetic preferences of Gan Pywell, she considered the lot of the girls housed here. It was better than being in a whore-house in the city, she supposed. They were well-cared for, after all: kept in good health, fed choice food, and were expected to do nothing more than sit around and wait for Pywell’s attention and convenience.

Then again, the same could have been said of the Pywell’s pet dog. Perhaps Pywell should have turned to bestiality instead. It would certainly be less expensive to keep a collection of dogs than women.

She was forced to set aside such amusing speculations, however, as, perfumed and attired appropriately, she was ushered into Pywell’s bedchamber via a side entrance.

She suppressed a grimace when she saw him. He sat at a small square table set up in front of an open window on one side of the room, finishing dinner. He wore a robe, but it was untied and he wore nothing underneath. She had only seen the Gan himself twice, once on an investigatory mission, and again when he had chosen the latest crop of companions. He was no better sight to behold unclothed than clothed, that was certain. His skin was saggy and spotted with age, but it wouldn’t be the first time she had suffered a decaying old man.

No, it was the nearly-empty tumbler of amber liquid at his right hand and the dilated eyes as he turned to look at her that made her fight the shudder. It was a confirmation of the information she had, which was satisfying, but his breath surely stank of liquor.

Ugh. She hated that.

On second thought, maybe the dog had it better.

She lowered her eyes before he could catch her own for long, awaiting his command.

* * *

Ivana waited until Pywell’s breathing became regular and steady before slipping out of his bed. She halted with one foot on the plush rug beneath, listening. Satisfied no one was coming, she stole across the room and bent down to wriggle two fingers between his writing desk and the wall. At first, she felt nothing, and she frowned. Aleena had never failed her before…

Ah. There we are . She pried a tiny packet of paper loose and then sat down at the table to unwrap it. She spared one moment to admire the clear, finger-nail sized disc that lay innocently on the paper. It was one of her more ingenious concoctions. Tasteless. Colorless. Odorless. And, most importantly, near instantaneous once ingested.

She set aside the disc, burned the slip of paper in the candle on the table, and swept the ashes onto the floor.

She then picked up the disc—gently, gently —she didn’t want to compromise the gummy protective layer—and took it back over to the bed.

Pywell made it too easy. His mouth had lolled open to allow his half-grunts, half-snores out. She slid the disc under his tongue, waited a moment until she was sure it would have dissolved, and then pressed his jaw shut.

He snorted and shook his head, but she held his jaw firm and then massaged his throat firmly, forcing him to swallow a few times. His eyes flew open, and he stared at her in confusion and some indignation for all of ten seconds before his body went rigid, spasmed twice, and then lay still.

She could tell by the blankness in his eyes that he was dead, but she put two fingers to his throat anyway. In her profession, she had to be certain about the demise of a target.

The main door to the room opened, and a tiny eep and a soft whump issued from that direction.

Ivana jerked her hand away and whirled to face the door. A maid stood there, a pile of laundered linens lying at her feet. She stared at Ivana with wide eyes. “I thought—I didn’t think he was here—”

Ivana’s mind sifted through her options and went for the best possible scenario first: that she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. “He just—he just fell limp,” she said in response, feigning fear. “I was—I think he might be dead.”

The maid was silent. She chewed her lip, and her eyes went back and forth between Pywell’s corpse and Ivana several times.

She wasn’t buying it. She was thinking too quickly. Whatever she had seen…

Had it been the expression on Ivana’s face upon entering—too calm? Or had she hesitated too long before spinning the lie? Whatever it was, the maid’s dark face had taken on a greyish pallor, too pale to be simply horror that she may have walked in on Pywell in the middle of his carnal pleasures, or horror that he was dead.

Frankly, from what she had heard, most of his servants would be relieved.

But that didn’t mean they didn’t have consciences.

“You—” the maid stammered. “Did you—who are you?”

Ivana surged up and shut the door. The maid backed away from her as she approached, which confirmed Ivana’s guess that she had made the conclusion Ivana didn’t want her to make. Ivana advanced on her, shoved one palm against her mouth before she could scream and the other against her throat, and pushed her back into the wall.

The maid thrashed against her, but Ivana held her firm, increasing the pressure against her throat.

The maid bit her hand.

Ivana cursed and instinctively pulled away, and as soon as she was free, the maid screamed.

Damn you, girl! Ivana shoved her across the room and then flung herself at her. Ivana wrestled the maid’s flailing arms and legs until she had her in the right spot and then pushed her out the open window.

The maid screamed again as she fell to the ground below and then was silent. Ivana looked out. Her broken form left little doubt as to her state.

She gnashed her teeth in frustration. The maid’s screams would bring guards sooner than she had anticipated, and she needed a revised plan, fast.

Ivana screamed herself and then hurried to the bed and pulled the corpse of Pywell out of his bed. He landed on the floor with a heavy thud, and Ivana lugged him as close to the window as she could before the sound of running and shouting floated down the hall.

She let go of Pywell, picked up the flimsy robe that had passed for a garment to cover her with, and held it to her chest just as the door was flung open and guards stormed in.

She cowered against the wall, feigning hysterics. “He killed her!” She gasped and shuddered and sank to her knees. “Threw her out the window, oh, Rhianah, help me…” She wished, not for the first time, that she could manage to whip up tears, but she had never been able to fake that particular reaction.

One of the guards went to her and took her robe from her hands. She shrank away, but he knelt and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her up as well as such a garment could. “There now,” he said. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened?”

“He’s dead,” another guard said, bending over Pywell. “I don’t see any injuries.”

The guard’s face went grim, and he raised an eyebrow at Ivana.

“She—she—the maid—she walked in—” Ivana squeezed her eyes shut. “The Gan became angry. He didn’t even say a word. Just leapt out of the bed and shoved her. She went right out the window…oh blessed Rhianah, I don’t know if he meant it to happen. He was drunk, oh gods, oh gods…” She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face there.

“All right, all right,” the guard said. “But how did he die?”

Ivana shook her head and squeezed her arms around her knees tighter. “I can’t. Oh gods…”

The guard stood. “Someone get the eunuch. He might be able to get her to talk.”

There was movement in the room. Ivana remained trembling against the wall, calculating her options in response to the possibilities of what would happen next.

The guard hadn’t even questioned her story about Gan Pywell throwing the maid out the window. Everyone knew his temper was vile, especially when drunk. As rumor had it, she wouldn’t be the first servant to die in a fit of his rage. But he was nobility. He could get away with an awful lot before the law would be forced to deal with him.

“What happened, girl?”

The eunuch now stood above her. His voice was tight and face grim—almost too grim. Was he worried this would mean repercussions for him?

“I told them—” She choked out, and then shook her head.

“Girl, you need to tell me what happened,” the eunuch said, his voice bordering on dangerous. Interesting .

“After he threw her out the window, I screamed…” she said. “And then he came for me, too.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think he realized he would have witnesses. And then just as he got to me…he collapsed.” She shook her head. “That’s it. Just collapsed.”

“Old bastard,” one of the guards put in. “Heart probably gave out. Too much drink. Knew it would happen someday.”

Another guard snorted. “Surprised it didn’t happen while he was riding the whore. The gods only know how he had the energy left for that.”

“Certainly had enough of them. Maybe now that he’s gone we’ll get the spoils…”

The guards laughed, and Ivana gritted her teeth against the hot flame that flared in her chest.

“Stuff it, boys.” The firm voice of the chief of the guards entered the conversation. “Back to your posts, and keep your mouths shut about this until we have a chance to debrief.”

The guards left, and the chief guard and the eunuch held a brief, hushed conversation, and then the eunuch excused himself. The chief guard turned to contemplate Ivana.

“Gave you a fright, eh?”

Ivana was now painfully aware that she was alone and unarmed with a large and heavily armed and armored man. She couldn’t win an outright fight against this man, not with current resources.

But she nodded and eyed the guard warily. Was she to be a scapegoat? She might be able to run, if she could get past him—perhaps through the companion’s door.

But he made no move to assault or apprehend her. He just stood at the door, regarding her with pity in his eyes. “All right,” he said quietly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Whatever happened in this room is going to stay in this room. Understand? The guards will be talked to as well. You—you’re to be released, effective immediately. Mental instability from the shock, made you useless for further service, understand?”

She stared at him, feigning confusion, and shook her head.

“You’ve heard the rumors. She isn’t the first girl to go out the window, figuratively speaking. But with his death—” He stopped and shook his head. “It’ll be a blemish on the house, and that can’t be tolerated. There’ll be rumors, but that’s where it’ll stop. Understand?”

Finally, she nodded.

“Count yourself lucky. You could have been down there with the maid.”

* * *

Scarcely a half hour later, Ivana had been deposited at the edge of the estate grounds, with nothing but a satchel holding enough food for one meal and the clothes on her back—which thankfully now consisted of more than that robe.

Gan Pywell’s lands were at the edges of Setanan civilization, pressed up against the desert to the west and the Cadmyrian mountains to the north. He was a minor noble, but his holdings were of important strategic value in keeping watch over the western pass that led to the pagan nation of Xambria, and he carried out his duties well. It was why no one would be interested in prosecuting him for petty crimes such as the murder of servants.

It was also why, had she actually been a slave released in such a manner, chances were better than not that she would die or be gang-pressed into worse conditions before finding adequate food or shelter. She was sure that was their hope.

Fortunately, she was neither a helpless slave-whore set free in sparsely populated lands at night nor without resource. She only needed to make it to the nearest safe-house before a roaming bloodbane found her first. Frankly, she couldn’t have asked for a better resolution.

She glanced back through the gates to the manor house. Torchlight illuminated one side, and while she couldn’t see what was happening, she was certain they were removing the body of the hapless maid.

She slung the satchel over her shoulder and turned toward home.

* * *

Chapter Two

Blood Money

3 months later

Vaughn crouched in an alleyway between two abandoned warehouses. He was watching a derelict pier, trying to summon the courage to walk out onto it as instructed. His contact wouldn’t show himself if he didn’t go out there, but he hated this part of the exchange. Three times before, he had done something similar. They always wanted him to expose himself first, which he supposed was appropriate when dealing with people who spent their lives in shadows, but that didn’t make it any less nerve-wracking.

He took a deep breath, stood, and walked out onto the pier, avoiding places where the boards had rotted away and hoping he didn’t take a wrong step and fall through. He stood motionless for a moment when he reached the end and then removed a wrapped sweet from his pocket and set it down on the pier. He turned to look toward land, waiting for his contact to join him.

“Honeyed date?” a feminine voice said from behind him. From the end of the pier, toward the water. He whirled around. Sure enough, a figure stood there, all but eyes covered in a dark cloak, holding the sweet in a—her?—gloved hand.

How in the abyss had she appeared there without his knowing? Had she been treading in the water beneath him? But she wasn’t wet.

As if his nerves weren’t already wrung out enough.

“I prefer chocolate,” the voice—yes, definitely a woman—continued. “But this will do.”

He gaped at her. “Do you know how expensive chocolate is?” he spluttered, without thinking. It had to be imported from the pagans across the sea—already an expensive enough treat, even without the Conclave’s current choke-hold on foreign trade.

She tilted her head, and her eyes glittered in the moonlight. “So are assassins,” she said flatly, and then she turned away. When she turned back, the date was gone.

He swallowed, now thoroughly disconcerted. It wasn’t unusual for him to have to produce some sort of symbol to show that he was the person the contact was supposed to meet. A particular flower pinned to his cloak. A certain feather in his hat.

This was the first time he had been asked to bring a sweet. He figured it was because the assassin he was attempting to hire was called Sweetblade.

“Was that—some sort of test?”

“No,” she said. “I just like sweets.” She brushed some of the honey crystals off her gloves. “Now. You’ve managed to buy your way into this meeting, so you can’t be destitute. Who is the target?”

Please, please, please, don’t be like everyone else . “A Hunter from Ferehar named—”

“A Hunter?”

Damn . “Yes.”

“We don’t deal with Conclave targets. Looks like you wasted your money.” She turned to go.

“But—”

She didn’t even turn around to consider him. She simply walked away. And his fourth meeting was over, just like that.

His shoulders slumped. He could no longer afford this. The bribes merely to get to this point, four times with four different assassins, had emptied his pockets faster than he had thought possible, and he had yet to actually hire an assassin. This had been his last chance. The entire venture had cost him a fortune. Literally.

The contact disappeared into the same alley he had hidden in earlier, and he gritted his teeth. No . There had to be a way to convince one of them.

He walked back down the street, ducked into the doorway of another abandoned warehouse, and crushed a flake of aether between his thumb and forefinger. He would have his meeting with an assassin, one way or another.

* * *

The dining room of Ivana’s inn was long empty of customers when Aleena finally returned. Ivana looked up from the table she had been wiping down and caught the other woman’s eyes.

Aleena flicked her eyes to Ohtli, who had the night shift and was folding table linens behind the bar, and headed down the hall without a word.

Ivana finished wiping off the tables before tossing her rag on the bar and nodding to Ohtli. “I’m turning in. The floors need mopped tonight, please.”

“Yes, Da,” Ohtli said.

Aleena was already waiting for Ivana in her study.

Waiting was too kind. It was more like lounging . She had her feet up on Ivana’s desk and was leaning back on the rear legs of her chair with arms crossed behind her head. Ivana shoved her feet off the desk as she walked by. “Manners, Aleena.”

Aleena just grinned at her as the chair came down on all four legs with a heavy thump.

Ivana settled into her chair, and Aleena tossed a leather purse onto the desk. It landed with a satisfying thud.

“No problems?”

Aleena shook her head. “That should be the balance.”

That was a relief. Ivana had been concerned that the rumors surrounding the death of Gan Pywell might negatively impact her contract, since it was supposed to look natural, but so far, she had heard nothing about murder. At least, not murder of Pywell.

She poured the contents of the purse on her desk and started counting. “Good. What about the potential?”

“The target was a Hunter. I turned him down.” Aleena’s voice held a question, as if to confirm Ivana’s standing orders on refusing targets associated with the Conclave.

Ivana didn’t look up; she merely nodded. It was standard practice. No assassin wanted to chance bringing the wrath of the Conclave down on them, and Ivana had her own reasons for wanting to avoid their gaze.

She frowned at the coins and started counting again. There were too many; she must have miscounted.

“Is it short?” Aleena asked.

“No. It’s over.”

“Really? I thought he was jesting.”

Ivana looked up at Aleena. “Jesting?”

“Said he included a bonus for the…” She looked at the ceiling and tapped her chin. “‘Delightful scandal that accompanied the Gan’s unfortunate demise.’” Aleena shrugged. “You know how Xambrians talk.”

He could only have meant the rumors about the maid’s death. Typical Xambrian. But the maid had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time; Ivana hadn’t planned it.

Aleena’s eyes were on her, but she knew better than to ask about the details of a job.

Ivana pushed the extra coins toward Aleena. “Deposit it into the charity fund.”

Aleena swept the offered coins into her palm without a word, and Ivana pushed the remaining coins back into the purse. “Anything else of note?”

“Ri Gildas of Ferehar issued a matching contract yesterday.”

The last coin landed on the floor instead of the purse, and Ivana bent down to retrieve it, irritated at the involuntary betrayal of her hand, despite years of practiced self-control.

Ri Gildas. She hadn’t heard that name in years. She would have preferred never to hear it again.

She had left Ferehar twelve years ago and had never returned, not for any job. Had even turned down a few simply because she had no desire to see that place again.

Control. She shoved the unwanted memories away and focused instead on the unlikeliness of Aleena’s words. “Really? Isn’t he the Ri that became a Hunter a few years back?” she asked as she came back up and placed the last coin in the purse.

It had caused quite a scandal, as she recalled. Though there were always back room alliances, the Ri technically served the king, so it was a bold move for a Ri to openly wed himself to the Conclave.

Still, Ferehar’s political favor had decreased over the years in direct proportion to the Conclave’s increase in power. The natives of the region had been worshipping the heretic gods when Setana claimed the land for its own, and while most of those natives had been fully assimilated into Setanan culture, rumors—rumors she knew to be true, having grown up there—abounded that worship of the old gods continued in Ferehar, which cast constant suspicion on the region by the Conclave. Becoming a Hunter might actually have improved the Ri’s political standing in this case.

Aleena had paused to consider. “I do believe you are correct,” she said at last.

Interesting . Apparently Gildas thought there was an active threat to his well-being. It seemed unlikely, not because he was a Ri—there were certainly enough people who would like to see a Ri dead—but because he was a Hunter. And as she had just been reminded, there weren’t many assassins who would risk such a target. Nonetheless, by issuing a matching contract, the Ri had essentially announced that he had a strong suspicion someone was after him.

She tilted her head to the side. “Aleena,” she said. “Did the potential client from tonight tell you the name of the target?”

“We didn’t get that far.” Aleena went on before Ivana could speak. “But I just had the same thought.”

“It seems too coincidental, doesn’t it?”

Aleena nodded.

“What are the terms of the contract?”

“Quadruple on proof of death.”

Ivana blinked. Quadruple? Burning skies .

Aleena studied her. “You want me to try to find him?” she asked softly.

Ivana hesitated. “Tell me your impressions of the potential client.”

“Nervous, obviously not used to this sort of thing. If I didn’t know the target was a Hunter—and potentially a Ri—I’d say he didn’t have enough money anyway.”

An expensive proposition, indeed. Hunter aside, to go after a Ri…

The regional lords of Setana were collectively second in power only to the king. One didn’t hire an assassin to kill a Ri casually, not least because of the repercussions. Though collectively powerful, individually there was a great disparity between Ri. The jostling for position and influence with the king—and more recently, the Conclave—was a constant give and take that sometimes turned bloody.

In theory, Ri were elected by the literate population of the region. In practice, the title was often passed down from father to son, or sometimes to a brother or cousin. But if the political climate of a region was unstable—or if the subjects had a particular distaste for the family of their Ri—the untimely death of a Ri could mean a fast, bloody succession war at best, and all out civil war between nearby regions at worst.

Ri were aware of all of this. They didn’t leave easily exploited gaps in their security, and they were high-risk targets.

The potential must have known that would be expensive.

Which meant that quadruple would be all the more lucrative for any assassin lucky enough to be approached by the client while the contract was in force. If it weren’t the Ri of Ferehar, she would have discarded the contract as wishful thinking. However, while Ferehar itself was a backwater region on the other side of the desert, it produced a disproportionate amount of the wealth of Setana compared to the other six regions.

The reason the region had been claimed by Setana in the first place had everything to do with the valuable cualli deposits at the edges of the rocky wilderness that defined most of the region’s borders to the south. What the Ri of Ferehar lacked in political power, he made up for in wealth.

Yes, if anyone could afford quadruple the cost of hiring an assassin to murder a Ri, it would be the Ri of Ferehar.

Ivana closed her eyes. No. No amount of money could tempt her to take blood money from that man.

“If you’re going to attempt to turn in the contract, you’d better do it quickly,” Aleena said, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s already been several hours since I left him.”

Ivana shook her head. “No. Not worth it. It’s still dealing with the Conclave, however you look at it.”

Aleena shrugged, and then nodded.

“Anything else?”

Ivana had trouble concentrating as Aleena related the latest news from the king’s court—political alliances and betrayals, and the like—most of which Ivana had little patience for. When Aleena finally left her, she remained at her desk, staring down at the purse of coins.

She almost called Aleena back to have her find the potential client—not so she could take Gildas’ blood money, but to take the contract for his death. The prospect of being paid to murder him was tempting. But it wasn’t worth the risk—either the risk of tangling with the Conclave, or the risk of opening herself up to everything she had put behind her. It was why she had never gone back to do it for herself, once she had the means to do so. She wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. She didn’t appreciate him intruding on her well-maintained fantasy by inserting himself, in whatever small way, into her world again.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a heavy thud outside her study. She lifted her head and focused on the gap between the door and its frame. Aleena had left it open a handspan, and Ivana hadn’t closed it.

“Aleena?” she asked softly. When there was no response, she rose silently from her chair and padded to the door, one hand sliding a dagger out of its hiding spot under her desk as she passed by. She held it point down behind her back; there was no reason to startle someone who wouldn’t expect her to have it.

The door opened farther of its own accord just as she reached it, and she stepped back, hand tightening on the dagger instinctively.

Beidah, her cat, slipped into her study. The cat paused to look up at her, as if questioning why she was standing motionless at the door.

Ivana leaned down to scratch the cat behind her ears. “Damn cat,” she muttered, but Beidah merely bumped her head against Ivana’s hand a few times, accepted the token of affection with an obligatory purr, and then stalked away, leapt up onto Ivana’s desk, and settled herself down on top of the coin purse without a second glance at her mistress.

Still, Ivana would feel better if she knew what had made the sound.

* * *

Vaughn tried to peel himself off the wall, but he was shaking so hard that he only succeeded in jerking his head a little. He had plastered himself there after a flying orange fur ball with claws had landed without warning on his head, giving him such a scare that he had skittered backward into the coat rack and knocked it over, which had scared him even more.

As far as he knew, his invisibility worked against animals and people alike, and other than the fact that the vicious beast had landed on him, he had no reason to believe that this cat was an exception. Indeed, once he managed to fling the fiend off his face, it hadn’t given him a second glance. It had merely sniffed, as though offended by its arrested flight, and sat to smooth its ruffled fur before slinking into another room.

He managed to calm his tremors enough to rub a hand lightly over the gouges the cat had left in his cheek. He had had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out earlier, and the wounds were bleeding; at least, they had been bleeding. When his hand came away, all that transferred to his fingers was a dusting of silver: the blood-turned-aether that was the telltale mark of a Banebringer.

He picked at the dried aether on his cheek absently and then pressed a crushed sliver of bindblood aether into the wounds to heal them faster.

This might have been taking things a bit too far. Following an assassin’s henchman—or henchwoman in this case—was insane enough; following her into a room without any idea of who might be in it, if he would have any place to hide, and if there would be a way of easy escape?

Had he become so desperate?

Yes. Absolutely, yes.

The door to the room the cat had entered opened wider, and Vaughn froze again.

A woman stepped out, and Vaughn recognized her as the woman who had followed the assassin’s contact a few minutes after the contact herself had passed through. The two had then cloistered themselves in the other room, door firmly shut, and so little sound came from within that the room had to have been soundproofed.

The wooden plaque hanging on the outer door had proclaimed these the private rooms of the innkeeper; if that were the case—and given the dagger the woman in front of him held in her hand—Vaughn suspected that the “innkeeper” was none other than Sweetblade herself.

And looking for him. He tried not to contemplate what she might do if he were caught here.

So, unable to do anything more useful than pray to whatever god was listening, he watched as she spotted the coat rack lying on the floor and moved to set it aright. He hardly dared move, but he had to edge away from her, or she would come too close to him for comfort.

He took one careful step to the side, and his back brushed the wall with a barely audible rustle.

Audible enough, apparently. She turned to look in his direction.

Damn. He had never been good at sneaking.

He held his breath, hoping she couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest as well.

She moved closer to his position and finally stopped right in front of him, so close he could see the intricate metalwork on a rose-shaped pendant she wore on a chain around her neck, just brushing the low neckline of her dress.

He had thought assassins were supposed to be small and wiry. She was on the shorter side, to be sure, but that generous bosom was anything but wiry.

Burning skies—not now, Vaughn . He could only hope his invisibility didn’t choose that moment to ghost. With the moon being almost full, it could, at times, flicker, shimmer, or even show a brief outline. Usually that was while moving, however. As long as he stayed still…

Thankfully, she looked right through him and then around the room again, before shaking her head and re-entering the side room.

She left the door open a handswidth, and when he felt calm enough to move, he tiptoed over to the door and peered through the gap.

She was running her hand along the back of the orange terror, murmuring to it. He could have sworn the phrase “damn cat” was included in her words.

Well, at least he wasn’t alone in that assessment.

She nudged the cat to the side and picked up a coin purse that it had been sitting on. The cat furiously licked an imaginary spot on the fur Sweetblade had disturbed before settling back down again.

Sweetblade, on the other hand, pushed aside a painting that was hanging on the wall behind her desk, revealing a safe. She unlocked the safe with the pendant—some sort of key, apparently—and deposited the purse inside.

She set the painting back into place and then sat down in the chair, absently stroking the cat again while she stared off into the distance. It closed its eyes halfway and purred so loudly Vaughn could hear it from across the room.

If he had come here hoping to find information he could use to blackmail the assassin into helping him, he had succeeded, in the worst sort of way, since the information was useless to him. He could hardly confront her about her secret identity, as that would probably get him killed. And while the thought of trying to seduce an assassin so he could steal her key was a bit thrilling, he judged the odds of success to be slim.

And also likely to get him killed.

There had to be something else, something a little less dangerous for him, something he could use…

He shook his head. For now, he had tempted Temoth enough. He carefully backed away from the door, pausing every few steps to be sure she hadn’t heard a noise and decided to investigate again. He unbolted and opened the hall door with one long cringe, waiting for it to squeak or give some other telltale sign of its movement, and waiting then to be confronted with someone outside in the hall, wondering how a door was opening of its own accord.

He was lucky on both counts; the door moved silently, and the hall was empty. He closed the door as quietly as he could, but his luck ran out, as it still made a soft snick as it latched shut. He gave up on sneaking and fled down the hall, not waiting to see if she had heard.

* * *

Beidah lifted her head, ears erect, and looked toward Ivana’s study door. Ivana followed her gaze. She hadn’t heard anything, but Beidah had better hearing than she did. After a moment, Beidah apparently decided it was nothing and settled her head back down on her paws.

Ivana could take no such chances. She rose yet again to investigate; the earlier incident, while having a plausible explanation—Beidah like to haunt the ledge above the door, and she could have jumped down onto the coat rack and then knocked it over—still had Ivana on edge.

As before, she found nothing out in the main living area. A mouse skittering in the walls, perhaps? Ivana hoped not, or she might have to recruit some of Beidah’s friends. She prided herself on the cleanliness of her inn. No bugs or vermin at The Red Rose.

She had just begun to turn to go back to her study, when she spied a peculiarity in the pattern of the rug. No, not in the pattern—it was a foreign object. She picked it up and laid it flat against her palm. A thin length of a silvery material shimmered in the lamplight. She frowned. She had nothing among her possessions this could have come from, so unless she or Aleena had tracked it in on their shoes…

She glanced at the door. The bolt was open, yet she was sure she had latched it earlier.

Someone had been here.

She crumbled the substance between her thumb and forefinger, watching as it turned to powder and drifted back to the rug.

There was something familiar about the substance, in as much as she ought to have known what it was. The answer niggled at the back of her mind, and long-forgotten tirades surfaced, diatribes from the mouths of the so-very pious priests of Yathyn, blasting Yathyn’s worst enemies, the Banebringers, and their unnatural blood…

She spun on her heel and went back into her study. Much to the protest of the dozing cat, Ivana picked her up and forced the claws from the sheaths on one of her paws. She stared at the claws. They were streaked with the same silvery substance.

Beidah wriggled from Ivana’s grasp, jumped down from the desk, and gave Ivana a perfectly understandable glare before stalking out of the room.

Flecks of the silvery substance still clung to Ivana’s fingers, and she rubbed them together, entertaining one of the worst possibilities someone in her position could have.

Someone had most certainly been here, and that someone knew who she was.

* * *

Enjoyed this sample? Banebringer is available in e-book, paperback, and audio .

Also by Carol A. Park:

The Heretic Gods

Cursebreaker (The Heretic Gods #2) – Dec 2019

Sweetblade (A Stand-Alone Heretic Gods Novel) – Dec 2018

Chronicles of the Lady Sar

A World Broken (Chronicles of the Lady Sar #1) – Forthcoming May 2020

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7

Lords of Asylum

Kevin Wright

Plague howls through Europe, war rages across the land, and Asylum City wavers in the grip of an arcane killer.

Amidst the maelstrom churning, enter Sir Luther Slythe Krait: a knight long bled dry of chivalry, a fallen lawman whose sole desire is to slink along unnoticed, unneeded, forgotten.

But Krait is a man who gets what he deserves, not what he desires.

Lord Raachwald rules half of the ruin that is Asylum City, and he intends to rule all. But his heir was murdered in a dark rite and Raachwald’s legacy and purpose lie shattered. And with his son’s killer still at-large, revenge, too, lies beyond his reach.

But Lord Raachwald has not forgotten Krait. The two have history and, in point of fact, Raachwald hates him. And with good reason. But he also knows Krait has his uses.

Plunged into Asylum’s civil war and tasked into Raachwald’s service, Krait must hunt the heir’s killer. But it’s a labyrinthine trail fraught with dark sorcery and peril. Can Krait navigate Asylum’s maze of power-ravenous lords long enough to unmask the truth? Hunt down the killer? Bring him to justice?

Or will he die trying?

SPFBO 2018

Grit level: 10

* * *

It came in this darkest of years, this winter of bitterest cold, when dire wolves loped marauding through the city, laying drek and slaughter upon man, woman, and child. When finally they retreated, it was believed a miracle from God. It was not.

—Journal of Sir Myron Chalstain

Chapter 1.

IN THE COLD dark lands, I dreamt of death and black murder.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

“Jesus Christ —” I snorted awake to the hammer-slam of a gauntleted fist pounding against the wagon. Fast. Metallic. Urgent. I lurched up from my wagon-bed, groping blind for my sword but smashing my head against one of the stacked crates instead, nearly knocking myself senseless. At first, I thought we were under attack. Again. With my blade fumbled into hand, I poked my head out the rear of the wagon, looked around, trying to focus, and met only cold winter silence.

Wincing, I felt at the ragged stitches along my forehead. Still intact.

Nothing moved in our little camp. The lion’s share of snow we’d dug out from the ruins of an old Roman way station built atop a small rise. A thousand years old. A thousand years dead. Only two walls still stood intact, forming a corner eight feet high, the rest just a ghost, a shell. A cozy little camp, except for the carnage, a God damned raven-feast come sunup. Long slashes of black splatter fouled the winter white. Tents lay torn, the ground strewn with arrows and weapons. Bodies lay next to my wagon. Five. All lined up in a neat row. A small cooking fire smoldered by the wall. I made to settle back into my makeshift bed, pull my blanket over my head and die when I noticed him standing there in the dark, a shadow, gazing off east.

Karl.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Get up, asshole,” Karl rumbled low. Shorter than me by at least a head, he was a squat, grizzled bulldog of a man. The kind of bulldog you hide from the book-men and bettors, so he doesn’t screw the odds. Ruin the bets. The one the pit-bear looks at with a kind of fear in his war-weary eyes, knows that maybe this is the one. “We’ve visitors.” He pointed off down the road. “Wolves. The two-legged sort.”

The night was old, the air dead, dead and cold and dead. The kind of cold that just sits there and latches on, soaking into your bones, your soul, becoming part of you. Hot soup and grog and August sun might stave it off, but they’re far off, long gone. Always. I pushed the crates back into some semblance of order, rubbed my pounding head. I could barely see straight.

“You alright?” Karl peered in. “Reckoned you for a goner.”

I shifted. “Nothing broken.” Just everything hurt.

“Hrrrm…” He squinted close at my stitched forehead.

“Am I still pretty?”

Karl stifled a chuckle.

“Is it Stephan?” I nodded toward the road.

“Don’t know.” Karl reached in, setting a bulls-eye lantern on the wagon-bed. “Got it?”

“Yeah.” I took up the lantern, my fingers enwrapping the warm tin. Pressed it against my cheek. Let loose a soft groan.

“Maybe I should leave you two alone.” Karl pulled out his flask. “Here.” He set it atop a crate. “I’ll take a gander.”

He disappeared into the dark while I scrambled ravenous for his flask. I tore the stopper free, took a pull, relaxed almost instantly, reflexively, and felt it, that delicious burn searing all the way down. But then something went wrong. Nausea. Torqueing my guts. I waited for it to pass, head swirling, pounding, gorge rising. I couldn’t hold it and let loose a torrent of puke. Fierce. Prolonged. Homeric.

Dangling half out of the wagon, soiled, senseless, useless, I remained for a piece, the hanged man of some pathetic tarot stack. I blinked. Our horse lay beneath, feathered shafts sticking out of its neck, its flank, its eye. “Fine shot.” Beside the horse carcass laid the five human ones. My men. Michael. Riddled with arrows. Aaron, a spear sticking out of his chest, butt-end aimed up at the heavens. The others had been smashed, hacked with axes or swords. It didn’t matter. Not now. And not ever again.

“Sorry fellas.” Wasn’t much else to say. I wiped my mouth on the corner of my cloak and hauled myself back up. Bones creaking like rusted hinges. I collapsed against the stacked boxes of Flanders wool, the best on the continent, and waited for Karl.

That flask, though, glimmered in the lantern-light. And it was still nearly full. “If at first you don’t succeed…” I bent it back, feeling the cool smooth against my lips, and drank my venom, my mass, my sacrament. It stayed down this time. Victory .

Beyond, the Hellwood lay silent. No wind. No sounds. No nothing. Even the wolves, the four-legged ones dogging our heels the past few days, twin amber moons flashing in the dark, were silent. I reached for my blade, Yolanda, her ugly brass hilt worn, pitted, her ragged sharkskin grip rough but reassuring. Comfortable. Mine. Sheathed, she ain’t so pretty, it’s true. But you draw her out, all that crucible Damascus steel singing sad and slow, revealing all that’s gleaming, cold, and merciless sharp? Beauty incarnate.

I wrestled my mail shirt on, tightened my belt and leaned back, settling in. Pulling my blanket up over my shoulders, I took another swig, felt the warmth from within spread out from my belly, down my arms and legs to my fingers and toes.

Karl came trudging back, mail shirt rustling, weapons clinking, breath steaming heavy. “Riders.” He yanked a slender tree branch from out the top of his hobnail boot, tossed it aside with a grimace. “Coming up the road. Some afoot, too.”

“See who it is?”

“Naw. Too fucking dark.”

“How many?”

“More than two fists. One’s leading a draft horse.” Karl nodded down at our own draft horse lying dead in the snow. “And there’s a woman.”

“Oh?” I brushed my hair down and smoothed my goatee reflexively.

Karl muttered profanities unfit to repeat. “Scouts coming up first. On foot. Pair of ‘em.” He pointed with the head of that thane-axe. “North side of the road. Uphill. Through thick underbrush. Deep snow. We’ve a moment or two.”

“Moving to flank?”

“Flank ?” A grin split his face, fierce, wicked as a knife. “Well, look at you, using that trove of war-words.” He slapped me on the back. I nearly died. Right there. Karl paused, stiffened, sniffed. “You puke?”

“You’re standing in it.”

“Odin’s teeth—” Karl scraped the sole of his boot on the frozen horse carcass. “Rrrg. What in hell’s the play?”

I glared down at the dead, all five staring back up at me, all five blue as ice. In my furor, after he’d stitched my wounds, I’d argued with Stephan, my baby brother, telling him it was a waste of time, a fool’s errand, him riding off into the old night on some quest to save them, to save me. Somehow. But I’d never stopped him before. So why now? And where the hell was he? “I want to live.”

“Run-live? Or fight-live?”

“Too drunk to run-live.” I shook my head. “Too sober to fight-live.”

“You ain’t never been too sober to do nothing.”

“I don’t know what that means.” From between snowdrifts, a section of tiled fresco peeked up from the ground, untouched by fresh murder, a Roman cavalryman in full regalia down on one knee, offering a rose to a red-haired maiden of somber beauty. “Where’d you stash the bad guys?”

“We’re the bad guys,” Karl sneered.

“Right. Where’d you stash those dumb dead fuckers tried killing us?”

Karl grunted, nodding in the direction of a drift of snow where the two intact sections of wall met. The snow was deeper there. What before I’d taken as a gnarled stick I now made out as a hand crippled into a rictus poking out of the snow. “Sick of looking at them.”

“Any get away?”

“Yar.”

“How many, you hazard?”

“Hrrm,” Karl counted on his fingers, “some.”

“Great.” I crawled like a palsied dog out of the wagon, barely, and managed not to fall, surprisingly. Staggering to the wall for support, I looked out over the Hellwood. Trees lay for leagues every which way except north. North lay the sea. The road paralleled it, west to east. I imagined I could see a glow, coming up it. Far away. Just not far enough. Eleven men. Eleven fighting men. At least. A lady, though? And a draft horse? Strange . “Alright.” My gears were turning. “You go. Hide. Keep watch, yeah? Take the crossbow. I’ll stay. Suss them out. Put this silver tongue to good use.”

“Licking boots or arse?”

“Whatever it takes.” I nodded to myself. “We ain’t losing the goods.” My head was clearing, by necessity. “Sound sharp?”

“They ain’t coming to dice at hazard, lad.”

“It has to be Stephan.” Probably true. It was too late for someone to be coming for anything on the level. That was plain. But highwaymen? Twice in one night? Even my luck’s not that bad. Usually. Or was I wrong? Was it indeed them? Come back to finish us? No. It was a different group. They had a woman with them which was strange enough, and they were coming openly. They knew we were here. Knew we were stuck. “It has to.”

“Ain’t have to be no one, lad,” Karl cautioned.

“They had the wherewithal to bring a draft horse.” My decision was made. “I’ll signal if I need you.”

“How?”

“I’ll scream like a little girl.”

“And then?” he asked. “Gonna take the rest on yourself?”

“Alright, so maybe we are gonna lose the goods,” I conceded. “Still, I ain’t leaving.”

“Your funeral.” He hefted his crossbow, loaded it, set it on the wall.

Somewhere to the west, the deep woods, a lone wolf howled, breaking the long silence.

“Always a good omen,” I said.

These old woods, a thousand years ago the Romans had come here with their centurions and scorpions. Thousands of them. To conquer. To take. Karl’s pagan ancestors had stopped them. The Roman war machine, slaughtered to a man.

“Still can’t see shit.” I squinted.

“There.”

“Yeah.” Beyond the skeletal cover of a bare-branched copse of wood, I caught a glimmer of light. Distant. Disappearing. Flickering. A torch. Then another. They slid in and out from behind the trees, glowing, floating, beckoning, will o’ the wisps fishing for souls. Lucky me, I pawned mine ages ago.

“Ain’t Stephan,” Karl spat. “Stephan’d warn us. Knowed he might get shot.”

I grunted, noncommittally. “Can you make them out?”

“Naw.” Karl watched like a hawk, his eyesight comparable. “Got to be one of them knights. Or a lord. Horses, men, armor, the ruckus and all.”

“Hell,” I didn’t even have to think, “the Cyclops, then.”

“Naw, even Stephan wouldn’t trust that prick.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” But a sliver of doubt swelled in my rock of resolve. “But he’s the only one has a keep between here and the city. Only one that’s near.” Shit. “Got the men. The means.” I white-knuckled Yolanda tight. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough.” The entourage rounded a bend in the road. “Ain’t exactly sneaking. That’s a good sign, yeah?”

They came in a line, three astride horses, seven walking, trudging, the last one leading a draft horse. As they neared, I saw the woman, slender, cloaked, poised, an elegant figure upright riding side-saddle. Except for her and the man leading the draft horse, they were all armed.

“Scouts.” Karl glared at something beyond the road.

“Best get moving.”

Karl hung there for a moment. “Sure a wagon of wool’s worth it?”

I clenched a fist to my mouth as a tidal wave of nausea crashed. “It ain’t,” I took a deep breath, “but this ain’t about a wagonload of wool, now is it?”

* * *

…too late for such measures to prove effective. The city-guard has been decimated, nay, more than decimated, and food has grown ever scarce in the eastern half of the city. People are starving there, and yet the fools persist in killing one another…

—Journal of Sir Myron Chalstain

Chapter 2.

IN THE PULSATING DARK, I crouched by the campfire, adjusting to the forest silence, straining my ears, drawing back layers, reaching, hearing things I hadn’t before, the break of waves on shore, the soft rise of wind rustling through fir needles above, the clomp of hooves on the old Roman road. Close.

A shadow emerged from the woods to the crush of dead twigs, the clang of weapon and armor. He oozed like oil across the ruin’s north wall, his yellow eyes searching everywhere but somehow still always fixed on me. “Be dropping that sword, mate,” he grinned, “if ya know what’s good for ya.” In his gloved fists, he bore a wicked spear.

“Fuck off.” Using the wall on one side and Yolanda on the other, I managed to rise straight and tall, projecting a figure of haughty indifference, in control despite every evidence to the contrary. Breathe slow. Breathe deep. “Where’s your lord and master?” I gazed off beyond the Grinner, dismissing him as a horse clomped into camp.

A huge horse.

A giant rider.

I swallowed. Maintained. Ram horns curved down, sprouting from the giant’s helm, hiding his face behind a mask of cold iron. A hell-beast conglomerate the two were, steam pouring from the ventail of his helm, orange embers licking off his torch, the black iron chaffron forged skeletal, engulfing the hell-steed’s head.

“That’s close enough, good sir.” I steeled my voice to something approximating a man’s, but only just. “Your business. State it or be gone.” Imminent , a word that sprang to mind.

Dead silent, he just stared past me. Steel scraped, jangled. The warhorse snorted, blowing snot across the fresco, scuffing muck under shod hoof as he and rider circled, gaze focused outward to the surrounding wood.

“Sir, I am under the king’s protection.” Yolanda hung heavy in my hand.

The giant still said nothing. From the road, seven men loped like a pack of wolves into camp, spreading out. In the flickering torchlight, their armor shone dull brown and grey. They bore long swords. Shields. Spears. The monstrous giant barked in some foreign tongue and two crossbowmen took up position before me, one left and one right, bolts aimed at me. Bookends.

“Gentlemen—” I stuttered to a halt as another rider clomped in from the road. He dismounted smoothly, handing the reins off to one of his men. A lord, no mistaking that, by his fine fur-lined cloak. His craggy face was weathered raw by age, gnarled by life and by death, mangles of scar writhing up across the right half as though some beast had savaged him tooth and claw. His close-cropped beard was as white as his dead left eye.

I stifled a shudder. Fucked. I was that. It was the Cyclops, Lord Raachwald, the Gallows Lord. History, he and I shared a piece. And not the good kind.

“What have we?” Lord Raachwald asked in a near whisper, the sound of a blade drawn deliberately across whetstone.

The giant barked something, gesticulating toward the forest.

“Aye,” the lord answered, “see it done,” and that white eye, the clouded eye of a long-dead fish, turned back on me. “Which king was it you spoke of?” He cocked his head a mite.

“My lord…?” A bead of freezing sweat rolled down my back.

“You claimed protection under some king.” He glanced around in a mockery of search. “I merely wished to ascertain which king it was that offers you this … supposed protection?” That word ‘supposed ’ rang in my mind like a church bell tolling and not the wedding kind.

“Yeah, uh … I might have overplayed my hand there,” I admitted.

“Svaldrake is under the jurisdiction of no king.” He was old, but not weak, a gnarled tree only hardened by age. “We have no kings. We desire no kings. We suffer no kings.”

“Then, of course, it is you, my lord, whose aegis shields me.” I bowed low, just shy of true groveling by a hair. “Sir Luther Slythe Krait, at your—”

“Enough.” Lord Raachwald’s good eye gleamed a savage gold. “You know who I am. And I you. Games, I am not over-fond of them.” He drew in a long breath. “Did you truly believe it possible I would not know you?” He grasped a log from the woodpile and dropped it into the fire. “You are not presently dead. See that as a pleasant yet uncertain situation.”

I swallowed.

The giant growled something ferocious.

“No.” The lord glanced over. “That shan’t be necessary. Have Old Inglestahd construct another fire, and see to it the lady is brought up. Some hot wine would do. Or cider. Her choice. And bring the wheeler as well.” He studied the corpses lined up by the wagon. “You’ve no small measure of death upon your hands.”

“The lads drank a little too much,” I deadpanned. “Tripped and fell on their swords.”

One of the crossbowmen barked a laugh at that.

Lord Raachwald silenced him with a curious glance. “And what of the dead buried yonder?” He nodded toward the corner.

“Merchants,” I answered, as one of Lord Raachwald’s men cut a ringed finger from Aaron. “Ahem,” he tossed the finger, kept the ring, “interested in procuring our wool. They made an offer. It was low.”

“And yet still they paid a price.”

“Pardon, my lord,” I looked around as armed men took everything in the world that I owned, “are you here to aid me?” It wasn’t much, but… “You’ve a wheeler in tow? How … fortuitous.”

“Haefgrim,” Lord Raachwald said to his giant, “secure the area. We shall remain as long as necessity demands.” The lord scanned the dark forest. “Do what you deem necessary.”

The giant growled something, and he and mount disappeared into the darkness, six warriors in tow.

Lord Raachwald turned and bowed woodenly. “The Lady Narcissa Volkendorf.”

A lady strolled into the ruins, wrapped in a dark purple cloak dagged at the edges by ravens in flight. Black ermine lined the hood, her face lost in its shadow. My heart pounded. Gliding ethereal, with perfect composure, grace incarnate, she came by the fire, her gloved hand upon the arm of a fierce old codger guiding her.

Lord Raachwald dismissed the codger and waited until the lady sat before he did so himself. That lidless white eye found me again, after a long hungry gaze allotted to his companion. “Sit.”

“My lady.” I bowed and sat on a log. Lord Raachwald and Lady Volkendorf together…? Their houses were enemies. Ancestral enemies.

“Haefgrim says you have a man in the wood.” The lord studied me. “This wood is ancient. It is treacherous. It is mine. North to the sea. West to Flanders. East to Asylum. All of it. Your man had best practice caution. Wolves … and far worse than wolves dwell here.”

“Your man is mistaken,” I lied.

“As I said, I hold no fondness for games.” A scar hewn in an age gone long to dust bisected the lord’s golden eye, as though he’d been chopped with an axe just shy of hard enough. “One man lived.” Yggdrasil, the world tree, his house sigil, splayed out across his chest, black on a field of green, its branches reaching high, claw-like, rending the sky, its roots leviathan long, grasping deep the earth below. “That is truth. We do not deny truth.”

“I ordered him off.” I shrugged. “I thought you brigands come back to finish your work.”

Shadows slid across his face, the tangle of scar seeming to writhe, to dance. “And do you now not believe that?”

“Heh…” I chuffed a forced laugh, playing it off as a jest as my bowels dropped in my gut, through my gut. But it was no jest, no pretext to a jest. Jesus, if ever there was a man who did not jest.

“Haefgrim and his men are fond of the hunt,” Lord Raachwald said. “Proficient, they are. What odds on your man?”

“You claimed to dislike games,” I retorted reflexively, stupidly.

“A wager?” The edges of his coat-of-plate squealed softly against one another. “Nay. A curiosity. Professional.”

I rubbed my hands over the fire. “Then, I imagine I shall have to find another man.”

As I spoke, a stocky peasant emerged from the road, huffing, lugging a bulging work bag over his stooped shoulder, leading a draft horse. He knuckled his forehead and bowed then began inspecting the broken wagon wheel.

“What are you, Krait?” Lord Raachwald leaned forward. “A stalwart defender who sent his man off to live whilst he alone faced death?”

“Me?” I stifled a laugh. “Nay. Just a man. And barely that by most reckoning.”

“A coward, then? To remain? To offer surrender? To beg clemency?”

“You’re getting warmer.”

“So swiftly he concedes the point…?” His lips pursed. “You think you’re clever? I must warn you, I have always been deaf to silver-gilt tongues. A gamble. You think that cleverness and wit shall win you the day where steel or fear have not? That has not been my experience. I’ve met my share of clever men. Aye. Soft men.” He extended a mailed hand toward the lady. “In a room filled with women and wine they see themselves invincible. Indomitable. Strutting about like peacocks, babbling word-troves. Rattling jewel-hilted swords. But I’ve never known a man to spout cleverness as charred bones were drawn smoking from his blackened feet.” My toes scrunched up reflexively within my boots. “Yet I ken a true coward would have run or hid.”

“I was too drunk to run,” I explained. “And as for any success in me hiding—”

“It would have required a hunter devoid of sense of smell,” Lady Narcissa hissed.

The fire crackled in response, a log popping, embers jumping, me not daring to move. Or blink. Or breathe.

I dry-swallowed. Finally. “Forgive me, my lady.” I reeked of vomit; I could smell it now, again. “My appearance. My manners. I’ve been traveling for quite some time, and one forgets the niceties of civilized life when long ahorse. If I offend you, please, allow me a moment to clean up.”

Behind the lord and lady, the Grinner set to pulling the boots from Michael’s feet. They were new boots. Fine boots. From Stettin.

“A moment?” Her voice was harsh, lyrical, beautiful. “A week would do little to assuage it.”

“Again, my lady proves painfully accurate,” I admitted. “Might I inquire—”

The lord raised a hand. The wheeler had concluded his inspection and stood by patiently, gaze averted, crumpled hat clutched between shivering fists.

“Is it salvageable?”

“Aye, milord.” The wheeler looked down, away. “Two hours.”

Lord Raachwald glared, judging him, weighing his words, his worth. “On your word then, master wheeler.”

“Aye, milord.” He knuckled his forehead again and was back at the wagon.

“What think you of our knight errant, my lady?” Lord Raachwald asked.

Lady Narcissa settled back. I studied her, trying to garner a glimpse, but she was still hooded. I could smell her perfume, though, taste it, even, a soft flowery scent that put me in mind of a white wine I’d sampled in Troyes, years past, in the company of a young lady who was thankfully quite unladylike.

“Mother of mercy, Pyotr…” she muttered. “Must I?” She waited for an answer, got only dead air and empty silence. “Very well. For your kindness and,” she cleared her throat, “generosity of spirit.” Her eyes glinted in the shadow of her hood, appraising me. I felt naked. And not in the good way. She started at my muck-covered boots and worked her way up, as though I were a slave at auction. I half expected her to check my teeth. “First off, he looks like a rat. A rat drowned in a cesspit. Filthy, bloody, reeking of sick. A drunkard, no doubt.”

I forced a grin. She wasn’t wrong.

“And he’s stupid,” she continued her barrage, “yet doesn’t realize it. The worst kind. He labors under the misapprehension that he’s intelligent, charming, witty, when it is quite the opposite. He cannot even help himself.”

“My lady, please—”

“I thank you, Pyotr.” She cut me off, leaned in close to the lord, her hand lighting upon his shoulder. “Thank you for indulging me at such a late hour. But this venture is played out. I must admit, the travails of the past month have made me hopeful, weak. T’was but an idea, a sorrow-laden hope, I see now. There was no savior. There is no savior.” She held a hand out toward me. “There is but a vagabond.”

“I prefer the term knight errant .” I dabbed at the stitches across my forehead. “Reminiscent of the old songs. Roland and such.”

“Roland was a count and a hero and a martyr.” Lady Narcissa drew back her hood. A Gregorian choir of monks chanting had somehow invaded our campsite as raven hair spilled like liquid midnight, and I forgave all the awful things she’d said of me. The dichotomy of flame and shadow caressed her perfect face, a face young and serious and smooth, her vibrant eyes glimmering like twin indigo moons. “For you to draw comparison between the great count and yourself is a miscarriage of taste and culture if not outright justice.”

“Well put, my lady—”

“Mother of Mercy,” she hissed at the stars. “A fool, a rat, and a sycophant. An unholy triumvirate. Worthless. Witless. Spineless. As I said, I wash my hands of this venture. I am weary. I am cold.” Her hand had found the lord’s knee, now. “I wish to be warm.” Lord Raachwald turned his head, slowly, like some spring-driven automaton. “You say you know of him, Pyotr? Well, then, you judge him. But he possessed not even the wits to flee as his man obviously did. Spare him . He might prove some use. But this one? This one would be more suited to mucking latrines.”

“I’d gladly muck latrines. But,” I raised a hand, “my man did not flee, my lady.”

“And what of it?” She raised a perfectly wicked eyebrow.

“You’ll forgive me, but I feel it prudent to educate you in the manner of rats. Rats, whom I, you’ve most correctly noted, bear much in common with. Rats possess many traits worthy of note. They’re quick, my lady. Adaptable. And they’re cunning, too. Fierce in a pinch. But, above all, they are survivors.”

“I’ve most oft heard of them in reference to sinking ships.”

“Hear him.” Lord Raachwald laid a hand atop hers. “Speak swiftly, sir.”

I nodded. “My point is that even vile men such as myself have some use. My lady, you said to Lord Raachwald that ‘he cannot even help himself .’ You said ‘he ’ would be better suited to cleaning latrines. The implication being that you are in need of some form of service. Service a great man might find beneath him. Well, I am no great man,” I knelt on one knee before the two of them, fist over my heart, “and it is a service I would be most keen to provide.”

“You would swear an oath without hearing terms?” Her lips curled back in disgust. She was still beautiful.

“Considering the alternative?” I asked.

“What if he orders you to kill a king?” Lady Narcissa crossed her arms.

“Then the queen rejoices already.”

“A man of God?”

“I’ll send him to that which he prays to daily.”

“What,” her voice nearly faltered, “what of a child ?”

“I pray that it’s so, my lady.” I snatched up a stick from the woodpile. “Much easier to kill a child than a king.” I snapped the twig with a sudden jerk, opened my hands, let both halves fall into flame.

She stiffened at the crack and rose, lost, forlorn. “Please,” she offered a stilted bow, “excuse me.”

“Apologies for my crudeness…” I called after as she strode away.

If she heard, she gave no indication.

“T’is but a small matter.” Lord Raachwald waved a hand. “To the meat of it, now. At present, you are wondering why I have come to you in the darkest of woods, in the hours of dead-night. How I knew of you. How I knew you were here and in such straights?”

“No, my lord.” I shook my head. “I wonder none of those things. I’ll admit I’m selfish. Prideful. Lustful. Hell, even slovenly, but blatantly stupid? That has never been one of my charms, contrary to what the lady may believe. You learned all from my brother, Stephan. It was he who sent you.

“What am I wondering?” I rubbed my stubbled chin. “I’m wondering where he presently resides? How he got there? How he found you? Or you him? I’m wondering why he didn’t return with you? But mostly, I’m wondering if he’s still alive?”

“None matters but the last,” Lord Raachwald said.

“Yeah.” I considered it a moment. “And Stephan would not have surrendered the information easily. Not to you. Not to anyone. He’s stubborn in such matters. It’s a matter of pride for him, one of his legion of faults.”

“An impressive young man. Poise and grace tempered by wisdom and character. And nay, indeed, he would not divulge anything, and I was … persuasive. It is not often I am met with failure.” He stared into the fire. “The lady, however, proved a different matter.”

“Is he alive?” The word persuasive echoed in my mind.

Lord Raachwald nodded a mite, vacant, staring after the lady.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe a twitch of the head.” I pounded the log beneath me. “Is my brother alive ?”

“Aye,” Lord Raachwald whispered, “for now.”

“Prove it.”

“Who are you to question me?” He scowled. “To question my word?”

“The word of a lord ,” I scoffed.

“The word of a lord, aye.” His voice didn’t rise, but it grew coarser, sharper, rasping, ripping. “Kingdoms rise and fall upon such. Kings are made. Reigns ended. Armies slaughtered.” He glanced at the crossbowmen still at the ready. The Grinner, too, slick as oil, Michael’s boots on his feet now, Aaron’s short-hafted axe in hand, his fingers fluttering on the haft. Aaron kept that axe sharp. They waited on their lord’s word, or hoped, rather, hoped for the command that would set them to action, make them forget the cold, at least for a little while.

“Apologies, my lord.” I tucked my tail between my legs. Smartly. “Stephan is my youngest brother. I had more than a hand in raising him. He was my page, my squire. I…” My hands quivered. I stilled them, inhaling slow, deep, deliberate. “He’s a prisoner to be ransomed then?”

“Aye.”

“And what payment do you demand?” I glanced at my broken wagon, what was left of it, the ruin of the camp, a carcass gleaned clean. “What I could offer you already possess, it seems. I could offer my life. That would please you, I’m sure.”

“Your life?” Lord Raachwald squinted. “Do I not already possess it?” The crossbowmen took half-steps forward. Yolanda lay across my back now, scabbarded. I made no move for her. Two sticks to the chest would do me no good. “Truth. We have unfinished business, you and I. Bad blood. And I have made something of a study of you, these past years. It has become a passion of mine, doling out coin for scraps about you, whispers, legends. Whores in taverns. Court judgments. Justiciars. Outlaws. And here we are in the dark of the wild. I could murder you in this wood and nary a soul would know. Not your wife. Not your children. No one.” His balled fist quivered to a still. “But by the twin face of Hel, tonight my hatred proves your salvation, for I have need of a low man such as you, a man able to hold his head just high enough out of the filth he wallows through to seek his destination. As does the lady, though she may not yet ken it.” He turned to Lady Narcissa, staring off into darkness. “We wish you to hunt someone, Krait. We wish you to hunt a murderer.”

* * *

Buy the full book here .

Part XI

Young adult

Contents

1. Earthcore Book 1: RotoVegas

2. Princess of the Elves

1

Earthcore Book 1: RotoVegas

Grace Bridges

Superpowers from hot springs? Who knew!

Anira thinks her family’s trip to Rotorua will be a typical vacation. She’s prepared herself for a week of grudging participation as she fights off a latent phobia of volcanoes.

But this place has ancient secrets she could never have imagined. For its untamed geothermal forces hold a hidden power—one that transforms those gifted by the spirits of the land.

Now Anira finds herself gifted with abilities she has never known. And there are others like her—both good and evil…

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 2

* * *

The chapel emptied until Anira was alone. She listened to the waves lapping on the shore just outside, muffled slightly by the walls. Her gaze followed the nearby bank until she thought she spied the beach by their cabin. She let her eyes sweep across the water. What was going on with her?

She blinked. Rubbed her eyes. Looked again. Whispered, “Are you freakin’ serious?”

For there was a figure out there, running across the water—straight towards the church.

Anira shot to her feet. Stepped sideways to see around the etching of Jesus, then backed away, agape. Wove through the clusters of sightseers and pelted out the door, earning a frown from the guide.

Hugging the outer wall, she dashed around the side of the chapel until the lake opened before her.

There! A person ran full-tilt towards Ohinemutu.

Anira pressed herself against the corner of the church, hoping to remain unseen, unsure what to do. The figure was close now, so that she could make out wrinkled features, but only in a blur of movement. She waited until he—she?—had reached land and was toiling up the small slope towards her.

Finally, she called out. “Hello, uh…”

The figure looked up and froze, meeting her eyes for a moment. Anira thought the mouth fell open, but couldn’t be certain at this distance. Scared? Or just surprised? In any case, this was followed by sudden movement, whirling around and scuttling away, back onto the surface of the lake, sprinting this time as if life depended on it—leaving a wake of footprints on the still water.

Anira breathed hard and took a big step backwards—straight into the arms of someone who stunk of sweat and mānuka and minerals.

“Steady there,” said Tiger. “Lacy sent me to find you. You forgot these.” He pushed the water bottle and book at her.

“Oh, thank you.” Anira dropped her eyes.

Wait. He was right behind me. He must have seen too.

“That—” She didn’t know what to say. She waved a hand in the direction of the lake, where the person had vanished into the haze of distance.

“Yeah, um. I think I need to go reassure my…friend.” He tilted his head at the lake, then eyed her. “That is, if you can assure me you won’t tell anyone.”

“No, of course I won’t.” Folks would think her crazy.

“Good. I see the destination, I’ll ride round and make sure everything is okay.”

Anira spun back to the lake, completely empty to the limits of her vision, the footprints blown away in the gentle breeze. “You can see…?”

She turned again, but Tiger was gone at a run, grabbing his bike from the churchyard gate and sailing off down the road.

Anira stared after him, clutching the bottle and book. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. The most basic one might be a little awkward to pose…“Dude, why do you stink?”

* * *

Anira, still reeling from these developments, stumbled back towards the carpark. She sat on a wall and cracked open her bottle of water. At least this would be completely normal.

She sipped at it, oddly enjoying the fact that nothing happened when she drank it. It was just water, and nothing more. She contemplated the lake view, wondering how Tiger managed to see where that person had gone when her own sight was long insufficient to the task. Beyond the island lay the distant northern shore, and she smiled in spite of herself. That blogging kid’s grandma’s senior friend—what a mouthful, try saying that fast—had claimed to see fruit on trees all the way over there.

What if Tiger could see that fruit too? What if he was descended from that fruit-seeing guy? If so, then he could certainly see a human runner at half the distance.

Anira decided to ask him about it later, and she wouldn’t let him wiggle out of it, either. He had to know she would have questions. She’d save the one about his smell for last, though.

Mum and Quincy approached from the direction of the shop.

“What’s up with you?” asked Mum, while she bent to retie Quincy’s shoe. “Seen a ghost?”

Heh. “Not quite.” But she did need to recover herself. “Mum, I don’t feel so great. A bit carsick, I think. Can I walk back to the cabin?”

“You do look a bit pale. Will you find the way all right?”

“Yep, no problem.” If she had to, she’d return to the shore and make her way along the beach, or the nearest roads to it. Or something.

“There’s stuff for sandwiches if you get hungry. Eat some bickies at least. I won’t be too long—I’ll just look at the shops in town.”

“Right. Sure.” Anira watched as she climbed into the car and vanished.

Relief . With all the weirdness, it was easier to be alone.

And she didn’t have to head off straight away. She had a drink and some entertainment: the book of local legends. Time to flip it open.

The first story was about Hinemoa and Tūtānekai, a smitten young pair. Hinemoa’s father was a chief and considered Tūtānekai unworthy to marry his daughter. Tūtānekai’s people lived on Mokoia Island—the one in the middle of the lake whose shape Anira already knew so well—and Hinemoa’s on the lakeshore; finally, one night, the young woman had taken matters into her own hands and swum out to the island. She couldn’t have been a water-runner like Tiger’s mysterious friend…surely?

Anyway, Anira was pleased to read that the chief rewarded Hinemoa’s persistence by recognising their union.

It was a fitting story for such a strange island, a strange lake, a strange town where strange things happened. From Anira’s point of view, Hinemoa might easily have walked on the water instead of swimming. After all, no one had witnessed her crossing; she had simply left one place and arrived in another.

Anira briefly wondered if her mind had gone addled from the minerals, to consider tweaking the established legend like that. She took another swig from her bottle and sat there, all but motionless, as groups of tourists swept from the carpark to the church to the shop and back again—as black swans idled their way past on the water, tailed by a few black duck-like birds—as the sun emerged from clouds and the day became more than pleasantly warm.

Finally she roused herself to begin the walk back to the cabin. Exiting the village square, she turned right to follow the general line of the shore and find her way. But the streets curled around upon themselves, and Anira became disoriented. Unconcerned, she determined to keep going until she found a familiar road.

A few blocks of small houses later, she perked up. Something here was familiar. But what? And was she even headed in the right direction? She stopped at an intersection and turned to face each narrow branch in turn. If she could find either the lake or the main road, she would know where she was. Neither was in view.

Anira sniffed the air. There it was—the familiar thing—it was the aroma. If Tiger had come this way, she might be able to follow. She chose the direction where the scent was strongest, and set off at a good stride.

The scent grew as she went, so she knew she’d chosen correctly. Soon it was almost as overpowering as if Tiger was standing right in front of her.

Anira eyed the nearby houses and kept going. But after a few more paces, the fragrance, if she could call it that, had all but dissipated.

Tiger must have gone into one of these houses! That was the only explanation. Maybe the water-runner was here too. Anira didn’t want to disturb them, especially while Tiger was still making his “assurances” that Anira would maintain confidentiality.

She backtracked one or two houses and identified the one where the aroma of wood and rocks seemed to emanate from. Stepping into its unfenced section, she stayed under the trees at the edge and slipped down the side of the little home.

Anira came level with a window. Cupboards lined the wall opposite; a kitchen, then. She drew back as a girl hardly older than herself crossed in front of the window, carrying a baby which she jiggled to calm it. The girl paced a few more times, then, when the child was asleep on her shoulder, she vanished through a doorway and returned without it. She busied herself at the kitchen bench, unfastening the clip from a bag of bread and setting out a tub of butter from the fridge.

Anira felt peculiar watching like this, but the smell was so absolute that she was certain Tiger must soon appear. Maybe that was his girlfriend…his child?

The girl held up a bright white slice of bread by one corner, then raised the index finger of her other hand and stared at it. A light appeared and grew larger, like a flame on a candle, then like a blazing torch—except there was no fuel. The fire simply hung there, suspended above her hand.

Slowly, the girl brought the bread close to the flame. In moments, it became black and charred. She swore, the flame briefly growing to football size, and threw the burned toast down on the bench. But she wasn’t done yet—she gamely fetched another slice of bread and tried again. This time, her approach was so gradual that Anira could actually see the exact moment when the fire began to turn the bread from soft white to crunchy brown. The girl smiled, flipped the bread, and toasted the other side, then closed her fist and the flame extinguished. She reached for a knife and began to spread butter on her toast, then without warning, wandered to the window as she took a bite.

Anira froze. Don’t see me, don’t see me. Her breathing came sharp and hard, and she was unable to get it under control. The branch at her back shook with the motion, and all its leaves danced where they hung over in front of her.

The girl in the window paused, set down her food, and unlatched the window, then shoved the wooden frame open with some effort. “Who’s out there? Is that one of you kids? I’m gonna tell your mum on you!”

She turned away, and Anira took her chance to scoot back to the street. Once there, she ran far enough along that the girl would not see her without coming out of the house.

Anira turned back and looked one more time. Between breaths, she told herself: “So the smell—isn’t just Tiger—and that girl—can make fire!”

* * *

It was well after lunchtime when Anira passed between the trees of the driveway, and her stomach had been rumbling for a while already. But she had larger concerns than her next meal. She had to find Tiger, if he was back yet from his “reassurance” mission; surely he must have some clue what was going on here, since the water-runner was not news to him.

She summarised in her head: Tiger could see long distances (probably), someone else could run on the water, that girl could make fire, and she herself…could do whatever it was she was doing. Not sleeping. So weird.

If she’d been able to choose a new ability for herself, this would not have been it. And yet…she was almost ready to think about ways it could be useful. More in normal life than on holiday, to be sure. But useful.

She reached the carpark, finding several newly-arrived vehicles. Tiger and his mum would have their hands full showing everyone their cabins. That meant they’d be around here somewhere, and she was about ready to seize that boy and force some answers out of him.

However, it was his mother who emerged from the Reception shack, jingling a tagged keyring in her hand, a tourist couple following behind. Their khaki shorts, belt bags, and sunnies marked them as most likely Americans.

Anira moved to intercept the group. “Um, excuse me, Mrs…”

“McRae, love, but just call me Jody.” She paused and spun the key on her finger.

“Is Tiger around?”

“Yeah, in his room playing that blimmin’ video game, I think. Go on in.” Jody waved at the main house.

Right. Just go in a house alone with an almost-stranger. “Thanks, eh.”

Jody and the tourists vanished among the cabins. Anira watched them go. McRae. Why did that name sound familiar?

She crossed the gravel to the house, ascended the front steps, and pushed on the front door. It leaped away from her hand.

Mānuka and minerals. “Eek!”

Tiger stood in the hallway, one hand outstretched as if to pull the handle. He stepped back.

Anira laid a hand on her collarbone. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

“Fair’s fair, you snuck up on me this time.” He swung the door all the way open, his brow slightly furrowed. “You coming in?”

Anira glanced around outside. “I guess.”

Tiger led the way to the kitchen, whose fittings were even older than the cabin’s. Trees beyond the window undulated in the breeze. “Cuppa?”

“Sure.”

He filled the kettle from the tap—here comes more buzz, thought Anira—set it on its electric base and flipped the button, then deftly lined up two faded Royal Wedding mugs, chucking a teabag in each. He spooned the sugar into both before pausing to look at Anira.

She pulled half a smile. “It’s fine.”

The jug clicked off and Tiger poured the water under the watchful eye of the proverbial elephant in the room. As he creaked open the rust-streaked fridge, Anira thought she smelled minerals from the artificially heated steam. Interesting. Tiger returned with a battered plastic milk bottle and glopped an inch into each cup, then yanked at a resistant drawer and grabbed a couple of teaspoons. They landed in the mugs with a tink, tink .

“I, uh, guess we should sit down.” Tiger indicated the worn plastic-topped table.

Anira grasped her mug and slid into one of the vintage vinyl seats. Her fingers ran over the rivets that rimmed its edges.

Silence. Okay, if he wasn’t going to start, she sure as heck would.

“I touched your spring at the beach out here, and now I can’t go to sleep.”

She observed his face as he realised it wasn’t just about what she’d seen at Ohinemutu. His expression was confused, then shocked, then a sort of dawning came over him. “Bu…bu—”

Anira sipped the tea, and her mind became crystal clear as its warmth spread through her. She knew exactly what to say. “At first, it was the air. And I thought it made everyone more awake, especially when Mum went on about loving the smell here. Then, when I got my toes in your hot water beach thing yesterday, the effect multiplied so much I could hardly stand it. In a good way,” she added hurriedly.

“And then you couldn’t sleep.” He spoke it as a statement, but his tone was sceptical.

“Exactly. Today I discovered…” she paused. “This isn’t normal.”

Tiger gave a wry grin. “I can see how you thought it might be.”

“There’s more.” Where to start… “Well, when I couldn’t sleep, I went back out to the beach and I saw that crazy friend of yours running around out there—”

“Not crazy. And not really my friend, although I might be the nearest thing Harley’s got.”

Anira glanced up, waiting to hear more, but Tiger raised a palm towards her. “No, you finish.”

“Anyway, that’s why I panicked when I saw that paddle-wheeler—”

“The Queen.”

“The Queen was motoring right there where I thought your buddy Harley had been running on sandbars.”

“Gotcha. What else is new?” Tiger flicked his eyes to the door.

Bozo . “Don’t worry, I’ll let you get back to your game in a minute.” There was no way to phrase the next part delicately. “I’m really sorry, but you have a smell.”

Tiger gaped, slammed his mug down hard enough to spill a little tea, and tried to form a word.

“No you don’t. Let me explain.” Anira held up a hand to stop him, swigged more tea and thought fast. Maybe faster than ever before. “It’s not an unpleasant thing, and smell is maybe not quite the right word for it, but that’s my name for it in my head, okay? Okay. So the air around here is smelly, but for me it has weird effects.”

“You said that already.” Tiger glared into his drink, but made no move to get up.

“When you’re around, I smell—for want of a better word—something way stronger than the air, but somehow similar to it.” She took a deep breath and went on. “At first I thought all the locals stunk. But this morning, I noticed your mum doesn’t. Lacy doesn’t either, or the tour guide in the church.”

“But I do?” Tiger wrinkled his brow.

“You, and Harley, and—”

“Wait, you weren’t even that close to Harley, and you smelled something?”

“Sure. Even last night, all the way over here from near the island.”

“Mokoia.”

“Right. Then you were in such a hurry to go after Harley today. I begged off shopping with the fam, headed back here on foot, and smelled the same thing on the way. I thought I’d found you.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well, it wasn’t you or Harley. I found the house with the strongest smell”—she really must find a better word than that—“and peeked in the window.”

“Stalker.”

“You have to admit, I had a good reason. Plus I thought it was you.” Anira clapped her hands over her mouth as Tiger laughed out loud. She met his eyes, found only humour in them, and mustered the courage to finish her tale. “I saw this girl in there. With a baby. She held up a piece of bread, like this…and her opposite finger, like this…and poof, there was a flame and she burned her breakfast all to cinders.”

“With her fingers. With a baby.”

Wow. The sarcasm is strong with this one.

“No, she put the baby down to sleep first. When she tried the toast a second time she got it right.”

“Let me get this straight.” Tiger leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Not only have you received abilities, but you can, um, smell people who have received abilities?”

Anira blinked. “Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“So, uh.” He looked away. “You can smell me now.”

“It’s not an actual stink. Not like B.O. or poop or anything.”

“Great. Thanks. I don’t smell like poop.”

“Ya silly egg. No, it’s more like an atmosphere, like in the bathroom after a long shower and it’s all steamy. Or, um, like a sea breeze.”

“Like air humidity, then?”

Anira frowned. “Not quite.” How to explain? “The air, and the water, they mess with me and it’s like I can feel the minerals doing stuff in my brain, in my stomach. So with you and the others, maybe it’s like you radiate an extra concentration of minerals? And it’s a bit like mānuka wood as well.”

“Fascinating,” Tiger deadpanned, with a fake American accent. He returned to sipping his tea.

Anira wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “That’s my story. Now you tell me about what you can do. You and Harley.”

Tiger rubbed at a crack in the table’s laminated surface. “Hmm. Okay then.” He regarded her critically as if assessing what she could handle. She hoped he saw a strong, kick-ass girl and not the quivering mess she’d often felt like in the past 24 hours. Had it been a whole day already since she arrived in this unreal place? Probably.

“I reckon I was about nine when I noticed I could see better than other people. My mum used to brag about my vision to other parents until I begged her to lay off it. And I stopped mentioning it, but I didn’t stop using it. Of course. No way to turn my eyes off.” He grinned and rubbed a thumb across thin stubble on his chin. “I just sort of…knew things. From seeing them. I was careful not to tell too much and seem weird. Then one day my grandma caught me out—I told her Hōhepa the baker from Whakatāne was selling at the markets that day. She didn’t believe me, but when she came back from her shopping, she pestered me until I said I’d seen his van go by on the coast road at Owhata, across the lake and the fields.”

“What did she say?” Anira already had a creeping sense of déjà vu.

“She said she’d known a man once, when she was little, who could see the other side of the lake in detail.”

“McRae!” Anira almost shouted. “I knew I’d seen it before.”

“It’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Tiger’s not your real name, is it? You’re Lazar McRae.”

He made a face. “Wouldn’t you change it, too? Mum had some fad going for an actor when I was born.”

“Yes, but it was you who wrote that blog post.” She couldn’t remember the exact date on it, but it had been pretty old.

Tiger chuckled. “You found that?”

“At your beach. Around midnight. On my phone.”

He shook his head. “You are one smart cookie. Good on you.”

“That’s just it.” She had to make him understand. “I’m not clever. I think it’s the minerals doing this to me.”

“Wakefulness, cleverness, weird sense of smell. They all sort of run in the same direction, don’t they?”

Anira nodded. “Heightened awareness. That’s what it feels like to me. But it goes away a bit if I don’t touch local water.”

“It goes away? I never heard of that happening.”

“Have you lived here all your life? Maybe there’s just so much of the stuff inside you now that you can’t lose it.”

“Something to ask Harley, if we can coax a few words out.”

“Harley can walk on water.”

“Run. Too slow and there would be a sinking.”

“Goodness.”

Tiger turned his face to the window, dappled afternoon light now pouring in. He held a hand in the shifting patterns of leaf shadows. “Harley is…shy. And kind of old. But very fit, so…running is a useful skill if you don’t want to talk to people, right?”

Anira recalled Harley’s face when she’d called out her hello—horror, then the abrupt about-turn, leaving behind only footprints in the waves. “Right. And you know where Harley lives?”

“Actually, no. Too secretive. But Harley tends to stay close to the lakeshore, understandable really. All I have to do is go out to a beach and do a sweep—”

“With your Lazar eyes.” Anira formed finger-goggles and mimed using a pair of binoculars.

Tiger winced. “That was a bad one.”

“Sorry. I bet you’ve heard that a few times.”

“Nah…not since I shut up about my sight, and changed my name.”

“Isn’t your name just one huge pun anyway?”

“No, how?”

“Well, with your ability, we could call you The Eye.”

Tiger buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Save me from puns!”

“Another thing I’m not usually full of.”

They finished their tea in silence. “Was there anything else?” asked Tiger.

He seriously wanted to leave it at that? Anira bit back a sharp retort. “What say we grab the other two, hear their stories, and see if we can suss out anything else about the phenomenon?”

“You’re assuming this is all caused by one phenomenon. But the abilities are all different. What if they’re unrelated?”

“They are all related to Rotorua. It happens here. And I’m certain it’s got something to do with the minerals—seriously, I felt them spreading through my brain while I breathed the steam. While I drank this tea.”

Tiger stared into his empty cup. “The tea, huh? Local water. Giving you smarts. You’re a bit of a dag, y’know.”

“It’s not me. Truly.”

“Still, it’s your ability. There might be something to the idea. But we’ll be lucky to get Harley…”

“I know, I know. Shy.”

“Tell you what. You said the girl has a baby, right? Then she may not want to go out anywhere. You go ask her if we can come over at six-ish tonight.”

“Me?”

“You sniffed her out. I would have no idea how to find her. Besides, I have a much harder job.”

Anira nodded. “Convincing Harley to come.”

* * *

Anira stood again before the young mother’s house. The scent was strong; she hesitated and almost wished she’d thought to bring some tap water for enhanced logical skills.

As she surveyed her surroundings she spied a crack in the road that she had not noticed before. Probably had been too preoccupied with searching for Tiger, and then had needed to run away. In any case, the crack in the tarmac exuded a thin wisp of steam in the bright daylight. Perhaps she could get a bit of a brain-hit from there. And boy, did she ever need one, for courage if nothing else.

She drew close to the place and squatted over it, holding out her hands as if warming them at a fire. The condensation beaded on her fingers and rose between them to her face; she breathed it in.

Funny. This wasn’t like the other times at all. Sure, it was “getting into her”, and she felt it spreading through her body and mind, but it did not awaken her logic as she had hoped.

“Uh,” she grunted, as softness enwrapped her thoughts. I feel gooooooood. Somewhere far back she realised this would not be helpful, so she wobbled upright and backed away. Her tongue appeared to be seeking fresh air. Sheesh. Now she really felt stoned. She blinked at the house. What was she here for, again?

Oh yes. The girl needed to host her and Tiger tonight, and maybe Harley. She just needed to convince her of the necessity. No sweat, right?

Anira bowled up the path and rapped on the door, then clung to its frame to keep her balance. Steps sounded inside, and she braced herself.

The door creaked open. “What is it?”

Unimpressed didn’t even begin to cover the resident’s expression. This could be difficult. Anira opened her mouth, but the girl held up a shushing finger. “Wiremu’s asleep. Keep it down.”

Nod. “O—okay. Listen, do you have a moment? Your town is doing something weird to me.” Anira waved lamely at the crack in the road.

The girl glanced where she was pointing and huffed. “Not another stoner.”

“No! I’m serious. That steam’s made me go all la-la. And I think it lets you make fire.”

“What?” Eyes and mouth went round and hard. “You’ve been sneaking.”

Anira looked at her feet. “I’m sorry. I thought it was my friend.” Was Tiger her friend? Ally, certainly.

“So, what of it? If you tell on me, I’ll—”

“It’s under wraps. But there are others. One can see for ages. One can run on water. I think it’s the steam that does it. Or the spring water.”

“And you think I care.” The girl sneered and narrowed the gap in the door.

“I just think, um, now that we know there are four of us, we should maybe sit down together and see what we can find out from each other.” Anira thought she spied a spark of curiosity in the other girl’s eyes. “You’re not alone.”

The girl pressed her lips together and leaned heavily on the hallway’s wall. “Not alone…”

“That’s right. I’m Anira. Can I bring the others over here tonight?” Awkward much.

“Here?” She swept a gaze behind her. “I suppose…”

“Six-ish,” said Anira.

Pause. “Okay,” said the girl, and shut the door in her face.

Well. That didn’t go too horribly. Anira wove her way back to the street and picked up the old bike Tiger had lent her to get here faster. The way she was feeling right now, she’d better push it home or risk falling right off the saddle.

* * *

Six o’clock came and went. Anira sat at Tiger’s kitchen table again; he paced and glanced out the window from time to time. “Harley is meeting me here. It’s probably taking a great effort to get past the shyness. Why don’t you go on ahead?”

Anira grabbed a serviette and wrote down the address. “Okay. But don’t you pike out on me.”

Tiger nodded. “I’ll be there, even if Harley bails. I’ll just wait a bit longer.”

Outside, Anira went to take up the bike—the effects of the road-crack steam had worn off—then wondered if she could get help from the springs here. She fossicked in her bag and found the empty water bottle from earlier today. Could she? Maybe.

She ran through the cabins, past her own, and through the trees. Tap water had some benefits, but it would be best to use the most potent source. The boiling stream came into view. Anira unscrewed the cap and turned the open bottle mouth to face the oncoming current, then carefully dipped it into the flow, where it promptly sank beneath the searing surface.

“Blast it.” Anira backtracked a few steps and found a stick on the ground under a tree. Maybe she could lift up the bottle somehow. It was already puckering in the heat when she returned.

She poked the stick into the cavity under the horizontal bottle neck, and levered it upwards. The rim of the mouth rose out of the water; just a little more and she might be able to grab it.

Splish! It slipped off the stick and fell into a deeper part of the stream. Anira huffed and prepared to try again, this time poising her left hand over where the bottle would emerge, while her right operated the lever.

The depth made it trickier, but a few pokes got the stick where it needed to be. She gathered her remaining wits and applied pressure.

The bottle ascended, a shadow of its former self. Anira made a grab for it, but it was slipping again. No! Before she could stop herself, she’d reached into the steaming liquid and drew it out, shrunken and dripping. Dang. Now she’d have a burned hand to deal with.

She shifted the bottle to her right, and inspected her boiled left, expecting pain to kick in at any moment.

What…the…heck?

There was no redness. No pain. She rubbed her fingers together. Undamaged.

What just happened?

She eyed the stream. It was “her” stream, after all, the one that gave her extra smarts. She had to find out. “In for a penny…”

Kneeling, she immersed her hand in the bubbling current. Yes, it was hot, but all she felt was that immense clarity of mind, like when her feet were in the warm pool on the beach. But this time, it was entirely undiluted, zapping through her to her toes and other hand, running through her brain, flipping switches on and illuminating dark rooms she hadn’t even known were in there.

Anira gawked at her still-pale skin through the clear water. It was hot, very hot, but it did not burn her.

She did not think it had been long when she stood upright again, clutching her misshapen bottle. She squinted at it. This was the potent stuff. What would happen when she ingested it? It had cooled a little now, and she raised it to her mouth, a taste at first, then she couldn’t resist sculling it down.

More switches flipped on. More dark places lit up in her head. “This can’t be me,” she whispered. But it is, something told her. You’ve just never lived as the real you before.

She blinked, firing on all thrusters now. Refilled and capped the bottle and tucked it away, hoping its melted shape would still hold up without leaking. She strode back towards the houses, and came face to face with Mum at the cabin.

“There you are, dear! I was beginning to wonder. Are you ready for dinner? We brought a hot roast chicken from the supermarket and I’ve got salady stuff.”

Yeah, about that. “Mum, I’m…I’m going out.”

“For dinner?”

“I—I suppose.”

“Not by yourself.”

“Um…” This was going to sound wrong, but it couldn’t be helped. “With Tiger.”

Mum lit up. “Oh, a date! Wonderful! He does look like such a nice boy. Don’t get into any dodgy situations, all right?”

If she only knew. Anira managed a wearied grin and waved goodbye, running back out to the carpark.

How odd. She’d thought Tiger had left his bike beside the one he’d loaned her, but it was gone. Anira righted hers and set off into the golden light of early evening.

The streets were familiar to her now, since she’d traversed them a good few times today. It was only a few minutes until she made the final turn and drew up before the house with the scent of mānuka and sulphur. Even stronger now than before, if that were possible. But her senses were heightened far more this time, after all.

She leaned the bike against the front of the house, jumped up the concrete steps, and knocked.

There was shuffling inside. A latch clicked.

It was Tiger. “There you are! We’ve been waiting for ages. Trust you to get lost.”

“I didn’t though! What time—” Had she really dallied so long at the stream?

“Almost half past seven, ya egg.” He grinned. “But you’re here now, and just in time. Need your help.”

She shut the door behind her and followed him through to a cosy living room. She recognised Harley huddling in a corner seat; their host reclined in a large armchair, feeding her baby. Anira settled on a couch and smiled at Manaia.

Tiger took up the opposite end. “So, um.”

“Get on with it, so you can get out,” said the young mother. Apparently there would be no cups of tea tonight.

“Manaia says no one else knows of her ability. So we have to keep completely mum about all of this.”

“Totally.” Anira certainly didn’t want it going public.

“I’ve told them my story already,” said Tiger. “Will you tell yours?”

On the spot. “Sure.”

Anira related everything that had happened to her since arriving in Rotorua yesterday—just yesterday!—from the first whiff of air, to the “smell”, to the varying effects of touching or drinking from certain springs. How the one by the cabins enhanced everything; how Kuirau’s pools relaxed her; and how the crack by Manaia’s house was like a stoner’s high. She finished by telling what had happened with her bottle in the stream, and how it had not burned her although it had melted the plastic. Anira rummaged in her bag and brought it out as proof, and showed her hand, unhurt.

“Munted!” Tiger seemed impressed at the bottle’s state.

Her throat grew dry from all the talking and she unscrewed the lid. Time for another drink—and so much for sleeping tonight. No matter. She gulped some down and closed her eyes as her brain fizzed once more and fixed on the exact things she needed to know.

“Um, Manaia. Thanks for letting us come here.” Anira smiled at her, hoping for like in return, but the other remained stony-faced. “Have you noticed your ability is stronger when you are close to your steam vent out there?”

“Look, kid. I live here. I’m always close to it, and when I go away from it, I’m in public so I don’t really tend to show off.”

“It’s the lake for me,” said Harley suddenly, and Anira got a proper look for the first time. Wizened, ever so slightly stocky, and probably quite short when not curled up so tightly. Silver-grey hair hung past the ears and almost over bright blue eyes. “Just this lake. I tried it on Rotoiti once and sank. Good thing it was summer.”

“A single body of water, then.” Anira pondered. “What about you, Tiger? Any connection to a particular site?”

He hmmphed. “Not sure. I don’t remember any time when I couldn’t see so well. Maybe just from the air around here, built up in me for years.”

“You’ve never left town?”

“We couldn’t afford a holiday, or even the day trips my school arranged. Maybe someday I’ll go to Auckland.” His voice took on a wistful tone.

Heh. “Auckland’s okay, but maybe not as a life goal.”

Anira’s brain was running at maximum. There was a whole lot of evidence, but there was something missing. “All of this points to a root cause in the geothermal activity. We’ve all gotten different abilities from different sources, but we’re all very different people. Which makes us more alike than we seem.”

They were completely dissimilar just from looking at them: the Auckland schoolgirl, the mum, the buff biker, and the shy senior.

“Can I go now?” Harley crouched as if ready to flee.

“Yeah, I mean this is nice and all,” Manaia snarked, “but I need to put Wiremu to bed.”

Tiger stood up. Anira sighed. That was it, huh? Nothing more to learn. For now. But getting all four together was a good step, and maybe she could ask them more questions another time.

Harley zipped out in front of Tiger and was gone before anyone could take a breath. Manaia just glared at the other two until they broke eye contact. “Remember,” she said, holding one hand away from the baby, “I’ve got fire, and I’m not afraid to burn you if you spill.” A flame burst into life on her finger, small as a candle’s to begin with, then whooshing to the size of a car tyre before vanishing with a crackle as Manaia fisted her hand and eyeballed them. “Now naff off.”

A wave of dry heat reached Anira, and she backed off. She might be safe from water burns at the stream, but somehow she doubted that was universal. “You got it. See ya later, then.”

“Or not.” Manaia’s voice echoed down the hall after them. “Make sure that door locks behind you, eh?”

Tiger and Anira stepped outside, and he pulled on the doorhandle until it clicked into place. He rattled it to be certain. “You happy now?”

“Happy?”

“We did what you wanted. Got everyone together.”

“Yeah, thanks. They weren’t keen, were they?”

“You don’t think I’m keen, do you? Yeah-nah.” Tiger shook his head a little and reached for his bike. “Let’s head back. I want to do some gaming tonight.”

They mounted up in the dusk and pedalled off through quiet streets, occasionally broken by steam from drains, cracks, or vents behind fences.

Anira had always been a loner. But she’d never felt as alone as now.

* * *

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2

Princess of the Elves

R.L. Medina

Ren wants nothing more than to belong. To be a normal high schooler and not the weird, paranoid girl she’s been labeled.

If only her invisible stalkers would find someone else to torment.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she starts hearing others' thoughts and sensing their emotions. Just what a teen prone to panic attacks needs. When goblins abduct her mom, Ren must give up her dream of normalcy and embrace who she really is.

Or what she really is—a halfling, with ties to a fae court she never knew existed.

Can Ren survive the royal courts long enough to become the savior her mother needs? If she survives, will she still be human?

SPFBO 2019

Grit level: 6

* * *

Chapter 1

Something was watching me. Or some things . I swiped the towel across the table furiously, ready to retreat to the back. Maybe I could hide in the bathroom until they left. No. I shook my head. Don’t do it. Don’t freak . I glanced at my cell. Just one more hour and I could leave. Escape the city and return home. Home was the only safe place from the shadows that stalked me.

I felt exposed despite my layers. Early fall in Denver meant the weather couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to be warm or cool. I glanced up to scan the room. My shoulders relaxed. Gone. Who they were—or what they were, I didn’t know.

I didn’t want to know.

It was just this feeling I would get. When I was little, I thought it was my father watching me. My own guardian angel. Then more eyes began following me. Watching and listening, but they never showed themselves. In middle school I was labeled a paranoid freak, so I stopped talking about my invisible ‘friends.’ Tried to be normal. Now, I just had to get through junior and senior year without drawing attention.

I surveyed my work and headed for the next empty table. The Pixie Cafe was filled with students. People that I knew, but they didn’t know me. Not really. I locked eyes with Madison, behind the counter. Her brow furrowed in that familiar reminder. I wasn’t one of them .

“Hey, Ren. I didn’t know you worked here.” A familiar voice startled me.

I dropped the spray bottle. It hit the ground with a clang, making me wince. Bending down, I tried to calm my nerves. Relax. Smile. Say something. Don’t be awkward. I grabbed the cleaner and turned to face the bane of my existence. Axel Rivera.

“Uh...you okay?” Concern etched into his perfect face.

So much for smiling. I tore my eyes away from his.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I cringed at the squeakiness of my voice. I was keenly aware of everyone watching the whole embarrassing encounter.

Axel glanced at his two lattes and back to his group of friends. They watched us, grinning. My face flamed. It was no secret, no matter how much I denied it, how I felt about him. Had felt about him since first grade. Everyone knew about my crush. Even Ariana, his long-time girlfriend, who also watched us. Not grinning. Instead she gave me a pitying look. I would rather have seen her scowl. But she knew, everyone knew, I was no threat to her.

“Well... have a good weekend.” He flashed me a quick smile and mercifully turned back to his friends.

I watched him go, wondering what it would be like to be a part of their group. To belong. How did people find each other? The social code was a mystery to me. I never knew the right thing to say or do. Sammy, my only real friend, moved away nearly a year ago, leaving me to survive high school alone.

Ariana’s eyes met mine, and I turned away. Way to look like a creeper. I carried the spray and rag back toward the kitchen. Madison watched me as I passed the counter, a smirk on her face.

“That was embarrassing,” she called after me.

I ignored her. She followed me into the back, close on my heels. Her eyes lit up like a hawk, ready to swoop in for the kill.

“Ren? Well, what did he say?”

   I shrugged her off, not wanting to engage. It was the weekend, and I just wanted to go home and lick my wounds, not talk to her.

“Whatever.” She pulled out her phone and started typing.

I clocked out and grabbed my backpack from the locker. She ignored me as I walked out the back door.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced around the courtyard. Empty. Mostly. A guy sat alone at one of the tables, scowling at a pile of notes and his laptop. I scanned the bushes behind him for a familiar furry head. Leaves rustled, and a gray cat appeared. King Louis, I named him. For his rotund belly and fancy air.

I unzipped my backpack to pull out the treats I’d brought. He waddled up to me with a pleased meow. His eyes were trained on the package, his tail curling in anticipation.

“Look, I got you a new flavor. Savory salmon.”

He cocked his head and purred. As if to tell me my gift was acceptable. I opened the bag and held my breath as the fishy odor hit my nose.

“Savory… stinky salmon,” I muttered, offering him one to try.

His soft nose nuzzled my palm as he scarfed it down.

Meow , He looked at me expectantly, ready for another.

I smiled. Animals I understood, better than people. They didn’t care how dorky I dressed or how quiet I was. As much as I had begged for a pet, Mom never let me have one. It didn’t make sense because she was a vet’s assistant and loved animals as much as I did.

Grabbing a handful of the fish shaped delicacies, I laid them out for him. “So, what about you, King Louis? You have plans for the weekend?”

He ignored me, content with his goodies. I stroked his back as he ate.

I snorted. “Sorry, don’t mind me. Enjoy your snack.”

“Talking to a cat? Really? That’s just sad.” Madison’s voice startled me.

She clucked her tongue, feigning pity. Heat flooded my face. Why couldn’t my senses alert me when someone was actually there? I kept my eyes on the ground, willing her to go away. It was these moments I missed Sammy the most. She would have had a comeback ready.

Madison scoffed and walked past us. King Louis hissed at her, rubbing himself against my legs.

I sighed and patted his head. “Thanks, buddy.”

The guy at the table glanced up. I averted my eyes and adjusted my backpack. Time to go. I gave King Louis a few more strokes and treats and headed for the bus stop. His eyes followed me, and I got the sense he was worried about me. I almost laughed out loud. A cat was worried about me? Whatever weird sixth sense I had, I didn’t know how to turn it off. I learned early not to talk about it with others. Normal people couldn’t understand animals. Not the way I did.

I made my way through the crowd, heading for the bus stop. As I rounded the corner, I felt eyes on my back. I paused. My chest tightened as I tried to discreetly turn my head. No one was there. No one was ever there, but the feeling persisted. It’s nothing. Just keep walking.

People brushed by me, eager to make their way home. I shook my head, waiting for the shadows to leave. When they got their fill, they disappeared.

What was it about me that intrigued them? I was nothing special.

I kept my head down and continued walking.

A young couple sat on the bench. Typical, trendy college students. Wrapped completely in their own little bubble. They looked like the perfect North Face models with their outdoorsy clothes and dazzling smiles.  The guy was all over the girl and she was loving it. I blushed, looking away before they noticed me standing there like a creeper. Being a loner, I didn’t have any experience in romance. I wasn’t exactly on the school’s hottest list.

In high school there were rules to beauty. If you were big, you had to be big in the right places and have good lips, or eyes, or hair. You could be skinny as a stick and considered beautiful, if your face and hair made up for it. I was all elbows and knees and I had freckles. Not the cute kind. My face looked like a toddler’s attempt at dot art, and they didn’t stop there. There were freckles in places I’d never let anyone see. Makeup only made me break out, so I had to go natural. If I had been a redhead, maybe it would have been excused. I could pull off an Anne of Green Gables look, but my hair was straight and stringy, and a boring brown, that matched my eyes.

The bus approached, squealing to a halt. I shifted my backpack up higher and let the couple push past me. Avoiding the passengers’ eyes, I headed towards the empty seats in the back.

I watched the familiar shops and restaurants pass by, not really paying attention to them. As the buildings grew older, I pulled out my phone to let Mom know I was almost home. Eyes drilled into me. I paused. It wasn’t the same feeling I usually got. These eyes didn’t feel unfriendly or strange. Looking around, I found their source. A fluffy dog poking out of a lady’s bag. Its large, dark eyes blinked at me. He was anxious to get off the bus and return to his favorite spot on the big soft thing. An image of a sagging red couch popped into my mind and disappeared. I gasped. That had never happened before.

A man turned to look at me. He wasn’t the only one. The dog’s owner, a middle-aged blonde, frowned at me. I stared at the dog, waiting to see if more images would appear.

It cocked its little head at me. Rude.

My heart stopped. I looked around to see if anyone had heard what I had. The older man opposite me scowled. No one else was paying attention. What was wrong with me? I could talk to animals now? I hadn’t imagined it. I could still hear the word, spoken in a strange, small voice clear as day.

Uh... I’m sorry?

The dog stared at me. It's rude to read minds without so much as a sniff or a scratch first.

I nearly bolted from my seat. Before I could respond, I heard and felt what sounded like an invisible door slamming in my mind. A nervous chuckle erupted from me, drawing another glare from the man across from me. Crazy. The word, in my own voice, popped into my mind. I was going crazy. I shook my head. No. I didn’t want to hear voices. The shadows were bad enough, but now voices?

My chest tightened and my head spun. Oh, no. No, no, no. Hold it together.

Almost home. I grabbed my charm bracelet and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on breathing. The silver unicorn felt solid and smooth in my sweaty grip. I took a deep breath. In and out. Only seconds away from panic. My hands shook and my body tensed. Everything seemed to close in around me. I couldn’t breathe.

Home. I needed to get home. I wanted to bolt for the doors and rip them open. Instead, I hummed to myself, tuning everything out. The voices. The eyes. The pounding of my heart. They fell away as I focused on the soft notes of the song my mom had sung to me since birth. A folk song in her rural French dialect. My skin grew clammy as the panic subsided. Lost in my head, I barely registered that the eyes of my lifelong shadows fell on me once again. Only the blaring announcement of the bus driver brought me out of my song.

The shadows followed me as I grabbed my bag and hopped off. But they wouldn’t follow me home. For whatever reason, I couldn’t sense them there. Home. My favorite place. A chill set in as the sun lowered. My thoughts swirled as I made my way towards our block. What was happening to me? Would it stop?

* * *

Chapter 2

I rounded the corner, nearly colliding with someone. Mom. A storm of emotions played on her face. Surprise, relief, anger. Oops. I’d forgotten to text.

She grabbed my arms and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Renée! You didn’t text me.” Her accent was thick. A sure sign of her concern.

I winced. “Sorry... I forgot.”

Her forest green eyes searched mine, making me feel small. Already she could tell something was up. There were no secrets between us. She knew about the shadows that followed me, assuring me it was just my imagination. But this… talking to animals? I didn’t know how I would bring that up. Would she still say I was perfectly normal?

    Wordlessly, she led me down the street, a hand on my back as if I’d disappear if she let go. She was always overprotective of me, but this was something more. I scanned her face. Her brows furrowed, and her lips set in a thin line. Something was wrong. I willed my heart to slow down and pushed my dark thoughts away.

She caught me looking at her and her face softened into its usual smile. Her high cheekbones and upturned nose gave her an aristocratic look, but she was the most down-to-earth person I knew. Usually. I tried to find myself in her, but we looked nothing alike. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit her flawless beauty. Whoever my father was, he was the one I had to thank for my pale freckled face, and bony body. What had she seen in him?

“How was work?” Her accent was muted now, an effort to sound casual, but I could tell she was still worried.

I shrugged. “Fine. I survived my first week and they haven’t fired me yet.”

We fell silent as we walked past the graffitied buildings and rundown businesses. Our apartment loomed in the distance. I shivered as I pulled my plaid jacket tighter. It was too small and didn’t button, but my favorite hoodie was lost somewhere in the mess of my room.

Mom took off her cream-colored scarf and wrapped it around my neck. I gave her a grateful smile and touched the soft cotton material. It smelled like her. Vanilla and warm spices. The color highlighted her auburn hair, but on me it just looked drab.

Streetlights blinked on as we made our way past the parking lot of a long abandoned fast food place. A group of guys, slightly older than me, stood against the metal fence. They leered and called after us, making my cheeks burn in embarrassment. I shrank into Mom, wishing I could disappear into the sidewalk. There was no doubt, they wanted her attention, not mine. She held her head high and pushed me past them, without so much as a glance their way.

If only I had an ounce of her confidence. I tried to match her strong strides, but it felt awkward. Like a baby giraffe taking its first steps. I snorted at myself. Were they still watching us? I didn’t dare look back. I let out a breath as we climbed the stairs up to our apartment.

Finally, some peace .

A plate of freshly baked brownies greeted me as I opened the door. My senses flared to life. Sweets usually accompanied bad news. The better the treat, the worse the news and double fudge brownies were my favorite.

My head whipped towards Mom, waiting for an explanation. She gave me a bright smile, ignoring my silent question.

“What is that?” I sent her an accusing look.

Mom walked past me and sat down at the table. She motioned for me to sit.

I didn’t budge.

She cut two pieces out and slid them onto plates for us. “I made brownies.”

I set my backpack down by the door and pulled off my jacket to hang it against the chair. My palms grew sweaty as I sat down. Something was different. I could almost sense a shift in the air, and it terrified me.

“We’re going to Grandmere’s.”

I blinked. We always went to Grandmere’s for my birthday. Grandmere didn’t drive, so we made the two plus hours to her every birthday and holiday.

“Tonight.”

My jaw dropped. Tonight? My birthday was a month away. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. We haven’t visited in a while.”

“But we always go for my birthday. Why are we going now? What about work? I’m supposed to work Sunday.”

“You’ll have to call out for work.”

“I can’t call out! I just started this job.”

Mom squared her shoulders and stared at me, one eyebrow arched. My heart sank. There was no arguing with that look. It wasn’t fair. I took a bite of my brownie and swallowed it down with the lump in my throat. She touched my arm and gave me an apologetic smile. I sighed, letting go of my frustrations. If Mom needed this getaway, who was I to complain?

“It’s just for the weekend?”

Her smile faded.

“Mom?”

She shook her head. “Until your birthday.”

I shot up, banging the card table on my way. “A month? Why? What about your job? What is going on?”

Mom sighed and clasped her hands together. “Renée trust me. I think it would be best for both of us to get away from the city. Just for a little bit.”

I frowned. My thoughts darted back and forth. Was this about me? Me and my weirdness? Besides Mom, Grandmere was the only other person who knew about my paranoia, but what could she do?

“I don’t want to go.” My voice sounded small and weak. Pathetic.

Mom stood and walked over to me. She wrapped me in her arms, her vanilla and spice enveloping me. “It won’t be for too long. Everything will be waiting for you when we get back. School, work, friends.”

I scoffed at the last word. The only friend I had was miles away in California, forgetting me. A thought struck me. There was no coming back. Something big was happening. I could feel it in my bones. My life played out like a movie, and this was the part where it took a nasty turn and it wasn’t just my anxiety at work. No. There was a heaviness to this moment and whatever weird sixth sense I had was screaming at me—no coming back.

My heart pounded against my ribcage and my hands trembled. I squeezed my eyes shut and let Mom hold me until the tremors stopped. She pulled away and started packing up the rest of the brownies. I stood in the kitchen, watching her.

“Your suitcase is packed, but you might want to grab anything else you want.”

I glanced at the faded purple suitcase near the door, surprised to have missed it. How long had Mom been planning this trip? I pushed down the panic threatening to bubble up again. Deep breath. One step at a time. Heading for my room, I tried to tell myself I was being silly. It was just a trip to Grandmere’s, but that nagging feeling wouldn’t go away.

My room looked bare. Bed, dresser, closet. Everything in its place, but Mom had cleaned up my mess and packed all my belongings. The little trinkets and mementos that had made it mine. Old photos and flyers, candles, the little jewelry box Grandmere had bought me the previous year. My heart sank. This wasn’t a short a trip. We were leaving. Not coming back , the voice in my head whispered.

Mom’s shadow filled the doorway and I turned to shoot her an accusing look. She stared past me, eyes unfocused.

“There’s nothing left to pack,” I said quietly.

Ignoring me, she walked back to the kitchen. I gripped my unicorn charm as I followed her. How could we just leave like this? We grabbed our suitcases and when mom shut the door behind me, I didn’t look back. Tears threatened to break free. I blinked them away, not wanting to think of all the memories, or the things I was leaving behind.

Mom rolled her suitcase down easily with one hand and a big box in the other, but I struggled as mine tottered on its side with each step. We were leaving all the furniture, what little we had. It didn’t feel right. What would happen to our stuff? How could Mom just leave like this?

The sky had darkened as we loaded up the car. I shivered and grabbed my hoodie from the back before I got in. Mom climbed in after me and started up the car. Heat blasted, drowning the steady pounding of my heart. My stomach rumbled.

“Dinner? I packed sandwiches.” She tried to sound cheerful.

My stomach rumbled in response. I grudgingly took the PB&J sandwich she handed me.

I stared out the window as we made our way out of the city. Mom played her favorite CD of orchestral masterpieces. The familiar sounds of Chopin soothed my nerves as we ate in silence.

“One last stop,” Mom announced as she pulled into a gas station.

“Here. Get us some candy.”

My lips pursed as she handed me ten dollars. She smiled. I sighed and pulled my hood over my head as I left the car. Candy. As if that would make this impromptu road trip any better. My gut clenched as I waved away the dark thoughts.

The man at the counter glanced up at me as I walked in and turned back to his magazine. I made my way to the candy aisle and grabbed a bag of skittles.

“Good choice.” A soft, feminine voice startled me.

I looked up to see a purple haired girl grinning at me. She yanked a package of bubble gum down and threw it towards me.

Startled, I reached out and caught it before it fell.

She smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. “How old are you now?”

I blinked in confusion. Who was this girl and what did she want? Chills crawled up my spine. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d met before. More than once.

“Sorry? Have we met?”

She laughed. “Is it the hair? The clothes?”

I followed her sweeping hand down her purple hoodie dotted with skulls, black tights and giant combat boots. Her eyes narrowed and fear shot through me. Who was she? How did she know me?

“Hmm. Interesting. You should be able to see through the glamour by now.”

Her words pounded in my ears. Glamour? What did she mean?

My heart sped up as I tried to make sense of it. Something told me that the invisible shadows and hearing voices were only the beginning. The question was, the beginning of what?

She cocked her head and searched my face. “Take it easy, love. I didn’t mean to scare you. You’re clearly not ready. But you better steel yourself, Renée. Things are about to get real.”

With that she vanished into thin air. I jumped back, stifling a shout. My eyes raced across the aisle, looking for any sign of her. I gripped my charm bracelet and took a deep breath. Had I imagined her? What was happening to me?

“Renée? What’s taking so long?” Mom’s voice broke through my thoughts.

Concern etched into her features as she glanced around me.

“Sorry… I’m coming.”

I followed her to the counter to pay for our stuff. She stiffened as I placed the bubble gum down but said nothing. My mind raced. I hadn’t imagined it. Whatever was happening… it was real. A wave of panic rose, making my chest tighten. If I told her would she believe me? Or would she wave it away like she did with my stalkers?

Once back inside the car, I stared out the window. Mom drove in silence, leaving me alone with my dark thoughts. Things were not right. Something very real was wrong with me.

Soon mountains and forest replaced the city. My eyes grew heavy and my thoughts jumbled together as I fell asleep. Maybe it was all a dream. I’d wake up tomorrow in my own bed and there would be no more shadows. No talking animals. Things would be normal.

* * *

Hands ran along my face. Little hands. Poking and pulling. Fear seized me. My eyes flew open.

“Renée? What is it?” Mom’s voice startled me.

I blinked and pulled the mirror down. My freckled face stared back at me, my brown eyes wide in fear. The dream felt so real. I could still feel the warm, little touches on my skin.

“Renée?”

The guttural ‘r’ of my name made me cringe. I turned to her and nodded. Only she and Grandmere called me by real name. Everyone else called me Ren. I preferred it that way. If I couldn’t be a normal girl, at least I could have a somewhat normal name that people could pronounce.

“Just a bad dream.”

Mom gave me a long look. Something caught my eye ahead. A shimmering figure lit up the night sky and fell to the middle of the road.

“Mom, watch out!”

The car veered sharply. My seatbelt dug into my shoulder. I closed my eyes, bracing for impact. We came to a sudden stop off the road, barely missing a tree.

Mom turned the car off and grabbed my hand. “Stay here.”

She tried to keep her voice steady, but I could hear the fear. It chilled me to the core. Mom wasn’t afraid of anything.

I gaped at her. “What are you doing?”

Without an answer, she undid her belt and opened the door. I reached for her, but she yanked out of my grasp. The door slammed behind her.

I wanted to follow her, but my body wouldn’t budge. Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my nerves. I’d seen movies like this before. This was the part where something horrific happened. I couldn’t let Mom get attacked. My fingers trembled and my mind screamed. Stay in the car and be safe . Mom would be fine, my thoughts lied to me. I shook them off. Don’t be a coward.

One. Two. Three.

I snapped off my seatbelt and forced myself to open my door and step out. Shivers crawled down my spine. I glanced around the moonlit road and walked around the front of the car, squinting to see Mom. Her shadowy figure grew further away. Whatever the shimmer was, it was gone. Cold air pierced through my hoodie. I held my breath as I scanned the deserted road. Only mountains and forest surrounded us. We were alone.

Mom moved toward me and I sighed in relief. A light flashed behind her. More appeared. Big ones and small ones. People made of white flame. I shut my eyes, trying to clear my head. When I opened them again, they were still there. Then the white faded, revealing unnatural shadowy forms. Their bodies were too hunched, too tall, or too warbled to be human. A silent scream echoed in my head as I watched Mom whip around to face them. Run! But I knew it was too late. They surrounded her, blocking her from my view.

A gun fired. I screamed, my voice shrill, echoing through the mountains. Wolves howled in reply. One of the monsters fell. Mom stood in the middle, gun drawn. When had she bought a gun? The shadows moved away from her as the howling grew closer. I glanced at the forest behind us. The metal of my unicorn charm dug into my hand. Dark shapes leapt from the trees. I bolted for the car.

Get Mom and get the hell out of here .

Throwing myself into the driver’s seat, I searched for the keys. Gone. They were gone. I slammed my hand down on the wheel, cursing.

Howls surrounded us, striking my nerves like a gong. Wolves. Perfectly normal wolves. Not grotesquely shaped monsters. But why would they come towards a gunshot? To hunt us? To help us? My mouth dropped open as I watched them attack the monsters. Unearthly screams erupted echoed by the snarls and yelps of the wolves. Bodies, both wolf and shadow alike, thrown around in the frenzy. I honked the horn, trying to get Mom’s attention. Where was she?

Bright flame flashed. The monsters were disappearing. Bodies lay motionless on the road. Fear coiled inside of me. I shoved it down as far as I could. Now was not the time to lose it. I opened the door and scurried out. I ran towards the fray, my eyes scanning for Mom. The remaining wolves stood by their fallen comrades, howling in sorrow. A battle lament for the fallen. How I understood it, I had no idea, but it was something I could puzzle over later. I had to find Mom.

As I moved closer, I realized the other two bodies were not wolves. I avoided them, not wanting to see their features close up. The road behind was still deserted. Had Mom fled into the woods? I shook my head. She would never leave me like that. What if she was injured?

“Mom?” My voice bounced off the trees. “Mom!”

“Hello, Princess,” a voice hissed behind me.

* * *

Chapter 3

I spun around. A lean, black-clad figure stood eye to eye with me. Male, maybe, but definitely not human. His cat-like eyes glowed a bright yellow, his gaze sharp and penetrating. I glanced at the wolves. Would they protect me?

He followed my gaze and smiled. A horrible, sharp toothed smile. With a wave of his hand, the wolves retreated to the forest. I watched them go, my heart racing. Run. Run for the woods . But no matter how much I screamed at myself, my feet wouldn’t go.

He gave me a bow, pale hair, falling out of his hood. I backed up towards the car. Not that it mattered. It was too late to run now.

“Who are you?” My voice came out shaky and weak.

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mean what are you?”

I shuddered. No. I didn’t want to know what he was. His accent was the same as Mom’s and Grandmere’s and that terrified me the most. There was no way he was French. Worse was the feeling that I had met him before. He felt familiar.

All the odd things were finally making sense, but I didn’t want to face them. I just wanted to open my eyes and wake up from this nightmare. I clenched my eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay. Pathetic. Mom would be ashamed. Mom. What if she was out there wounded, waiting for me to find her?

“It’s time to go.” His chilly voice broke my thoughts.

I blinked. “Go?”

He gestured to the car. I stared at him. What was he talking about?

“You’re not going to kill me?” I asked, stupidly.

In one breath, he was in front of me, a knife pulled out of nowhere. The blade poised over my pounding heart.

“I could if you like.”

A roaring filled my ears and my body went numb. I don’t know how long I stood there or what he said next. My next conscious thought was how cold his hand was when he grabbed me. I could have fought back or at least tried to run, but no. Instead I let him lead me towards the car like the coward I was. But Mom was still out there.

“No.”

He paused and gave me a curious look. “No?”

“We can’t leave without my mom.”

He rolled his creepy yellow eyes. “She’s not coming back.”

My chest tightened. I shook my head, trying to keep myself calm. No coming back . Is that what those dark thoughts had meant? Had my subconscious known this was going to happen? And that girl in the gas station… she’d known.

“We have to leave now.”

I closed my eyes, gripping my charm with a trembling hand. No. No. No . The ground swayed beneath my feet. In the distance, wolves howled their misery. A full moon and a blanket of stars flashed in my view.

Then darkness.

* * *

Early morning rays greeted me as I woke. Memories fluttered through my mind. The shadows. Mom. The strange man. I bolted upright and searched my surroundings. An old cuckoo clock stared back at me. Grandmere’s house. I was in the room Mom and I had shared so many times.

Throwing off the heavy faded quilt, I swung my legs off the bed. The cold wooden floor bit through my socks. I glanced down at the jeans, long sleeve shirt, and hoodie I’d worn the day before. Why couldn’t I remember arriving? Guilt filled me. What kind of person sleeps like a baby when their mom is kidnapped by monsters? Had it all been a nightmare?

My gaze snagged on my purple suitcase, sitting next to Mom’s gray one in the corner of the room by the closet. The closet door stood ajar, and I spotted my clothes hanging up. Grandmere. She would give me answers.

The door opened.

“Renée,” Grandmere’s raspy voice called. Her tall, bony frame enveloped me, waves of coarse curls tickling my arms. I hugged her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of lemon and pine.

“Grandmere! Where is Mom?”

She held me at a distance, dark eyes searching my face. I couldn’t read the stony expression on hers. Not surprise though. A cold panic washed over me. Was it real then? Mom was gone. Tears sprang up at the thought. Grandmere took a handkerchief from her dress pocket and wiped my face. She was still as beautiful as ever, her dark skin wrinkled with age.  So different from Mom’s, but gorgeous just the same.

“There’s much to discuss. Clean yourself up and come down for breakfast. We’ll talk then.”

Without another word, she moved to the door, her long, flowing dress trailing behind her. She moved with all the grace of a ballerina. I took a deep breath as she closed the door.

My hands shook as I went to the closet for clean clothes. Moving as if in a trance. Even the lukewarm shower couldn’t snap me out of it. By the time I was dressed in some clean jeans and a cable-knit sweater, it felt like an eternity had passed. Nothing made sense anymore. Or if I wanted to be honest with myself, things were finally starting to make sense. The shadows that stalked me. That feeling of not belonging or not belonging where I was.

Part of me wanted those answers, but the other part of me—the bigger part of me—was terrified that once I faced the truth, I would never be the same. All I wanted was to be normal, but that dream was slipping further and further away. Where would the truth take me? Who was I, really? Was I even human? That question terrified me the most.

Voices drifted from the kitchen, dragging me out of my dark thoughts. Grandmere and the stranger from the night before. I paused by the door. Their voices were hushed, but urgent. Dread rolled inside of me like a wave ready to crash. I wasn’t ready to face them. To face what came next.

Shaking my head, I opened the door and entered the hall. The little cabin fell silent as I peered over the wooden railing. The smell of eggs cooking, and fresh herbs made my mouth water. Below me, the first floor looked unchanged from last year or any year, really.

The same old, red suede couch stood in the middle, looking much too fancy in the rustic sitting room. Grandmere lived simply. She spent more time outdoors than indoors, and her home always looked so bare to me. Incomplete. There were no pictures, nothing that hinted at her earthy personality. It always felt like I had stepped into the past when I visited. Grandmere didn’t use anything modern and besides the few store-bought items like cookware and sewing materials, she lived off her land. Independent.

I braced myself as I entered the kitchen. Grandmere stood by the sink, washing and drying plates. Her hands moved so elegantly, like she was conducting an orchestra. Our visitor sat, straight backed at the table, watching me from behind his tea cup. I blinked. His face was thin and gaunt, and his white hair spilled down past his back. What a strange sight to see. This beastly creature at my grandmere’s table, drinking tea. He set it down and gave me a knowing smirk. The weird sense of déjà vu hit me. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of familiarity.

“Do you need help, Grandmere?”

I gave the table a wide berth, trying to ignore the strange yellow eyes that watched me. A jolt of realization went through me. He was one of my shadows. Before I fell into panic mode, Grandmere handed me the plates and motioned me to the table. I followed her lead and sat across from my stalker, in mom’s seat, I realized with a stab of pain. His eyes watched me carefully as I rubbed my charm for comfort.

Grandmere took her place at the end of the small table. She pushed the steaming bowl of scrambled eggs toward us and waited for us to fill our plates before she served herself. I studied her as I turned the eggs over on my fork. Her eyes met mine and what I saw in them scared me. Fear. Grandmere didn’t scare easily, but I could see it plain as day. Mute terror behind her stony façade.

She cleared her throat. “Renée, this is Desfil’ombre.”

“Des,” he interjected.

I stared at him. Son of shadows. It fit him well but left so many questions.

“Are you French too?”

He snorted. Grandmere shifted uncomfortably.

“No. I am not. And neither are you,” he replied in the same accent as Mom. An accent I’d always attributed to her native tongue.

He glanced at Grandmere. “Are you going to tell her, or shall I?”

I squeezed my unicorn charm harder, bracing myself. Grandmere swallowed, avoiding my gaze.

When she looked up, the pain behind her dark eyes rooted me to the spot. This was it.

Her shoulders straightened. “Your mother wanted to be the one to tell you. She was… we were going to tell you.” Her voice faltered.

“Tell me what?” My voice came out a whisper.

“You’re a halfling,” Des cut in. “Half elf.”

Grandmere shot him a look. “Really? Is this the way to start?”

He shrugged and went back to devouring his eggs. His eyes continued to watch me, waiting for a reaction. Half elf. I didn’t know what to say. If I were a normal girl, I’d probably call them crazy, refuse to believe it. Maybe throw my fork down and storm out. But I wasn’t normal and now I had to accept that I would probably never be.

“Why?” I turned my eyes to Grandmere. “Why keep this from me?” My voice was shaky.

She flushed. “Your mother wanted the best for you. She thought it would be better if you grew up human, accepted.”

Wanted. She talked as if Mom was dead, not missing. Fear twisted my gut.

“But when the signs became clearer, she decided to tell you. We were going to tell you.”

I glanced at Des. “The signs?”

He waved his hand in the air. “Your magic.”

My body went numb. Magic? Was that what was happening to me? Was I going to turn into even more of a freak?

“I don’t have magic.”

He grinned, revealing his sharp predator teeth. “Don’t you?”

Grandmere nodded. “We didn’t know what traits you would inherit from your mother. She wanted to be sure before we told you. Your mom—”

“Where is she? Do you know where she is?” I cut her off.

“Feylin.”

I searched my mind for a clue. Mom never mentioned that name before. Mom never mentioned any of it before.

“She’s not in Feylin.” Des gave Grandmere an amused look.

“How do you know?” Grandmere shot back.

His eyes flashed from yellow to red. Grandmere sucked in a breath. My hand trembled. I didn’t know who or really what he was to my mother, but my body knew enough to be afraid. Maybe it was part of my humanity, that survival instinct kicking in. Although Grand-mere seemed more frightened, and that was enough of a warning. She knew him. I didn’t. Not really.

“The hobs took her. You think they hold court in Feylin?” He shook his head, his eyes returning to their feline yellow. “They’re taking her to their king.”

Grandmere paled. “Don’t...” her voice quavered.

A loud tap made me jump. I followed Grandmere’s gaze to the kitchen window, where a little lark bobbed its head. Seeds. It wanted seeds from the dryad. I blinked as Grandmere moved towards the bird. A sick realization filled me. If Grandmere was not elf or human, who was she, really? Not my grandmother.

My heart pounded loudly in my ears, drowning out everything. The familiar panic swirled, taking me with it. I stood up too fast, making my head spin and the table shake. Tea sloshed out of my cup. My chest tightened with every breath and the room closed in on me. This was happening. Really happening. Mom was gone. I was an elf. And Grandmere. I didn’t know who she really was. Her dark eyes watched me, concern shining through.

I ran.

“Renée!” she called after me, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I opened the front door and stumbled outside.

* * *

Chapter 4

The cold hit me like a wall. I counted my breaths puffing out into the air and it helped settle my racing heart. Think . I just needed time to think. To process everything that had happened. My feet started moving, as my thoughts spun around and around. I needed answers, but all I had was questions. I made a mental list. Where was Mom and how was I going to get her back? Where did Mom and I come from? Why did we come here? Who was Grandmere? Who was Des, and how had he brought me to Grandmere’s?

Birds called to each other with cheerful chirps, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced around at the sculpted hedges and stone path. Grandmere’s garden. The garden was alive with color and activity. A world of its own, unconcerned with me and my problems. Leaves and branches swayed to music only they could hear. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted between flowers and trees. It had never occurred to me before how bizarre the variety of plants were or the fact that they survived through the winter when it should have been impossible.

Dryad, the bird called her. I wasn’t sure what it meant, only that it meant Grandmere wasn’t human. She wasn’t even my real grandmother. Funny, I’d never been drawn to fairy tales or fantasy and now I was living in one. Elf . Better that than the alternative—losing my sanity. No. Instead I was losing my humanity. A shudder went through me.

The hair on the back of my neck pricked up, that familiar sense of being watched tingled through me. I turned, expecting to see no one there. A pair of yellow eyes stared back at me.

Des.

He still wore his black jeans and hoodie from before. From a quick glance, he looked normal. Human, but the more I stared at him, the more I saw. Long, pointed ears, a pale, gaunt face, and those terrible yellow eyes. Is this what Mom looked like too? Under the glamour? Nausea rolled inside my gut.

Des folded his arms across his chest and curled his lip. Annoyed? I huffed. Like it was my fault he’d been ordered to watch me. Whatever he’d done before, I doubted babysitting halflings was part of the job. A thought struck me. How much of my life had he seen?

He sighed. “Are you done with the…” He waved his arm in an arc. “Brooding?”

I bristled.

Ignoring my glare, he huffed. “When you’re ready to listen, we’ll be waiting. Princess .”

My nose crinkled. “You called me Princess. Back on the road.”

“Yes.”

“So, my mom is a queen. Are we in danger? Is that why we’ve been in hiding?”

He smiled. “Your mother is no queen.”

My eyes narrowed. His words were flat and confusing. How could I be a princess if my mother wasn’t queen? Had I been promised in some arranged marriage? Is that why we ran?

“What do you mean?”

“Go ask your grandmer e.”

I looked away. “She’s not my grandmere, is she?” It was a stupid question, one that I already knew the answer to.

He ignored it.

“And you. Who are you? How did we end up here?”

“I drove.”

His answer startled me. “You can drive?”

He shot me a dirty look. The idea of this strange elf man driving mom’s car shouldn’t have been the most unbelievable thing, but it was. Like some bizarre mash up of fantasy and reality. The line growing blurrier.

“Aren’t elves allergic to metal or something?”

“No.”

I waited for him to explain, but he ignored me. His eyes traveled along the garden. In the distance, the birds in Grandmere’s sanctuary chirped and squawked. The door always opened for them to come and go as they pleased. Another thought struck me.

I frowned. “But the keys… were with Mom.”

“Yes. She gave them to me.”

A vision of Mom popped into my mind. She stood, bravely facing her kidnappers and ordering Des to get me out. It played out like a movie in my mind. Her determined face. The shadowy creatures. Sacrificing herself to keep me from harm.

I turned to face him, hands trembling “And you left her. You could have helped her. You could have stopped them from taking her.”

He shrugged. “Yes.”

Anger rose inside me. How could he be so cold? Birds squawked overhead, echoing my thoughts.

Cold. Cold. Cold.

Des’s eyes snapped to them and back to me. “Your power is stronger.”

His words hit me like a hammer. Power. I didn’t want this power. This strangeness. My skin flushed and my chest tightened.

Breathe. Just breathe .

I turned to him. “You can hear them too?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s normal. For elves, I mean?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re scared.”

I met his penetrating gaze and nodded. Scared. Of course, I was scared. I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t scared.

“Poor little halfling. If only you could go back to believing we were just fairy tales. You see now, don’t you?” He stepped closer, eyes flashing. “Your sight is coming, and you can’t ignore it anymore. The shadows are getting closer and clearer. And you. You’re part of us, Renée.”

With that he turned on his heels, leaving me trembling. It was the most I’d heard him speak and his words cut me with precision. The truth in them pierced to the bone.

* * *

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